The Last Horror Novel in the History of the World (4 page)

The new wife’s depression does not abate. She stays hunkered down in misery, breaking from her woes only long enough to endeavor to conceive again. Each time becomes more wretched—mechanical sex where no one opens their eyes, and afterwards she sits in odd positions that she’s discovered in books, because these unique postures are supposed to aid with conception. They do not.

Long is the season of their sadness, and the man schemes a longshot.

He goes to the new wife in her nest of sorrow.

“Do you love me?” he asks.

“More than anything,” she tells him.

“Will you always?” he says. “No matter what?”

She becomes curious. “You know I will,” she says. “I don’t understand?”

“Promise me,” the man says. “No matter what.”

“I promise,” she says, “no matter what,” she says, “I always will.”

Then comes the confession along with the scheme, “I can go for them,” the man says, “I will bring them here,” he says, “they will be our children,” he tells her, “yours and mine.”

Joy glows in the new wife’s eyes. “What are you waiting for?” she asks, and the man goes.

Again the legend leaves us to assume. We know nothing of the specifics beyond this—the man travels to his neglected abode. Perhaps, on seeing his return, the old wife goes wild with hope, “Has he returned? Will he stay forever?”

Imagine then the pendulum of her emotion when he professes his purpose, “I’ve only come for the children.”

She breaks in the ache of those words.

Miraculously, she  escapes the ex-husband, grabs up her children, flees with one in each arm.

The man gives chase.

Through brush, thorny trees, barbed grasses and crags, he pursues her to the river bank where the two were united in marriage. There, in that horrible hour, darkness of night upon them like a curse, the moon casting shadows with its pale yellow light, the woman decides that if she cannot have her children, no one can.

She looks at them, one last time. At their eyes, confused. Their cheeks tight with fear. Mouths open, panicked breathing. Children perceive everything. How could it turn to this?

Once

upon a time

cradled and sung to

now .  .  .

They say that drowning does not hurt, but you wouldn’t know by the scene.

The woman clinches a handful of hair, from each child, a fist of hair, and buries their faces in the river.

Wild must be the thoughts. Facedown in the water, screaming for Mommy. But Mommy is there. Mommy is holding you. Mommy is holding you down.

Breathe.

Eventually your body makes you.

Breathe.

There is no option.

It thinks it’s doing the right thing.

Pulling the brackish water deep in the lungs.

The flavor of river bottom flooding the senses.

Sometimes bad choices keep lasting forever.

Mindy’s head buzzes in the drone. She staggers, winces, clambers to her feet.

The scream comes again, “Where are my children?” And again the world seems jolted with the wail, and Mindy’s on her knees again, her hands hotly scraped on the cement, bleeding. 

From behind the counter, Tessa watches Mindy through the cracked window, sees her rise, fall.

The disturbed world shows grainy, and Tessa’s ears hiss, echo. She screams for Mindy, but can’t hear herself screaming. The sensation is she’s lost somehow, but Tessa knows just where she is. Shock hits her, her ribs shake and rattle like she’s a kicked dog in fear of being kicked again, and she doesn’t want to be alone.

She emerges from behind the counter confusedly, hoping to catch Mindy who has staggered and fallen, risen from the street several times and is now walking with fingers in her ears.

Tessa follows.

Out into the dark of night, shadowed queerly by the transformed moon, she watches Mindy moving forward in a broken gait, her motions staggering.

In the street, debris drifts. Scraps of paper, plastic bags, empty cans scatter on robust winds. Dust is heaved about giving coarse texture to each breath Tessa takes.

Tessa screams, “Mindy,” but Tessa can’t hear it, Mindy can’t hear, or doesn’t care to turn.

They continue on, Mindy in the lead, Tessa nearly crying, trying to catch up but unable to hurry her advance—both girls sort of wandering forward.

“Mindy,” Tessa says, “Mindy.”

But Mindy stays with fingers buried in ears, only removing them briefly to swipe away bits of magazine pages that blow against her.

“Mindy,” Tessa says, and this time she sort of hears it, though her own voice seems far away. “Mindy,” again, and now the words are clearer. “Mindy,” she calls, and Mindy turns.

Their stares reflect each others’ terror. Then, again, loud as destruction, “Where are my children?” And again their sense of sound is muted, hidden, but they go to each other, clutch each other in embrace, cower together in the center of the road.

Tessa sees her first.

A woman in white, her flesh unnatural, and behind her, with her, moving with mirrored steps, multitudes of craggy children dawdle, their countenances suggesting an un-deadness, withered things as though plucked from graves, made animate.

Tessa taps Mindy, makes her look, needs to know if she’s dropped off into insanity or if others perceive the horror advancing toward her.

And Mindy screams, Tessa can tell by her face, she can’t hear it, but she knows Mindy’s screaming, so she knows, that which is before her is really there. A kind of army of oddities. Pale figures in disturbed and dated clothing.

And then the woman in white is screaming again. Tessa can’t make out the words, but the words are, “Where are my children?”

Old Burt picks up the dropped guns, grabs a few more from a duffle, distributes them to Manny and Tyler, motions them to follow.

The three move through the mess of Scrape, the litter swirling, the world seemingly undone.

Down the streets they hobble, their gun barrels wandering from side to side in anticipation.

“Can you hear me?” Old Burt screams.

There are dead animals lumped about their feet, and Tyler kicks at a squirrel, says, “What killed ’em?” But no one hears it, because all their ears are ringing.

Then Manny says, “La Llorona,” because he sees the woman in white.

How did she move?

As a boy I had a toy soldier with a key in its back. When turned, the key wound gears. You would set the thing on a flat surface, and the unwinding of the key began—a tiny, machine noise preached from the critter—and it labored forward robotically.

This jerky, near inanimate ambulation, was akin to the woman’s stroll. Clipped movements tugged her forward, and the children amassed behind her followed accordingly.

Inside the sleeping bag, Teddy tries again, “Can you hear me.”

This time Scarlett answers, “Yes,” then, “me?”

“Yeah,” Teddy says.

“What is it?”

Teddy laughs, “I have no idea.”

“Should you check?”

“I’d rather not.”

Scarlett giggles. “Don’t worry,” she says, “I’ll keep you safe.”

The two are still sticky from lovemaking, but again they go at it, because they’ve nothing else to do.

Blue Parson pulls the last beer from the water and opens it. “What the fuck was that?” he asks.

Manny, Tyler and old Burt stand back to back to back, their guns aimed at the children whose blueness is repulsive.

“What the shit?” says Tyler. “What do we do?”

Old Burt shakes his head. “Was there something silly in that blunt?” he asks.

“Not besides weed,” says Tyler.

“What’d you call her again?” says Old Burt.

“La Llorona,” says Manny, “gotta be,” he spits, “I always thought it was bullshit.”

“What’s she do again?” asks Tyler.

“Nothing, I don’t think,” says Manny, “just looks for her babies,” he says, “dead ones.”

“Well she fucking-A found ’em didn’t she?” says Old Burt. Hundreds of the children wander around them, headed, seemingly, toward the bay.

Tyler sighs. “Should we shoot any of ’em?” Tyler asks.

It’s quiet a bit. All that can be heard is the daffy steps of the children passing by. One of them is picking its nose. “Well they ain’t really doing anything is they,” says Burt, “to deserve it?”

“Nah,” says Tyler, “I don’t guess.”

“I wanna shoot one,” says Manny.

“I don’t know,” says Burt, “what if they retaliate.”

“With what?” asks Manny. “They ain’t got no weapons.”

“Yeah,” says Tyler, “but there’s lots of ’em.”

The woman in white screams again, and the three wince in pain.

“Fuck,” says Old Burt, “can we shoot her?” But he’s not certain if anyone can hear. She screams again and Old Burt raises his .38. He aims at her back, pulls the trigger twice. He can’t hear it, but the pistol kicks twice, and two rounds plunge into her pale dress and black blood purges from the spots the shots sink, and thick rivers of the stuff drips from her, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

One of the dead boys walks by Burt, and Burt places the .38 to his head, fires, and his little head explodes across the shirt of the girl walking beside him—brain grit and skull splinters—and the headless boy droops to the dirt, but the boy following him reaches down, grabs his wrist, and drags him along, the dead boy’s blood leaving a trail in their wake. Other than that, they move along unbothered by it.

Burt looks at Manny, Manny looks at Tyler, they all look at each other. Burt shrugs, says, “Fuck it, they’re dead anyway,” and, yes, the murders ensue.