The Sick Stuff (3 page)

The next few days passed without incident. It
was the nocturnal hours spent in the old house, however, that kept
Chuck from the creature comfort of a single good night's sleep.

He would awake in the early hours of the
morning, peering alertly into pitch darkness, his ears straining
for the least little sound. He often thought he could hear the
minute scrambling of thousands of tiny legs as they skittered
somewhere beneath him. He could almost sense the movement en masse.
But when he took his flashlight from the nightstand and shone it
upon the floor beneath his bed, there would be nothing but shadow
and dust bunnies. No milling multitude of venomous arachnids... only
emptiness.

The following morning found him, with
flashlight and insecticide, thoroughly searching the entire house,
from attic to the cramped crawlspace of the foundation. As always,
he found nothing. Rather than dispelling his suspicions, his
fruitless inspections only caused the feeling of unease to grow
even stronger.

He could not understand it. All the neighbors
he had talked to had confirmed Aunt Millie's story. According to
them, the little house had been hopelessly invaded by brown recluse
spiders. Yet, he had found no evidence of there ever having been a
single one in the vicinity. None of the tell-tale signs were
revealed; tatters of old webbing, dried bugs who had fallen prey,
not even a single, shriveled husk of a long-dead fiddleback.

Still, Chuck could not shake that unnerving
sensation that they were there somewhere, luring just beyond the
reach of prying eyes. Such a vast nest of the horrid pests could
not have disappeared so completely and left no lingering trace at
all.

The utilities were back on by Friday and, on
Saturday morning, Chuck recruited some friends to help him move. A
U-Haul and five trips transferred all his earthly belongings from
the excessively expensive apartment to the drafty bungalow halfway
across town.

They had most of the stuff unpacked and put
away by nightfall and, during the hectic process, Chuck had
mentioned several times for everyone to "watch out for spiders". It
soon became an inside joke with the gang. One of the girls would
let out a squeal and Chuck would come running with a fly-swatter
and a can of spider spray. Everyone would break up laughing. Chuck
didn't think it was so damned funny at first, but soon he joined
in, feeling foolish and a little peeved at himself for being so
nervous over a creature no larger than his thumb.

That night they had a party to celebrate
Chuck's new residence. He pulled out all the stops and told his
friends to cut loose and enjoy themselves. There was some coke and
grass, plenty of booze, and, after hooking up the stereo system,
they cranked up the volume and jammed to everything from Led
Zepplin to Lynyrd Skynyrd. Chuck's blatant disregard for restraint
was not so much directed at his new neighbors than it was directed
at Aunt Millie herself. The rock & roll orgy was his final
rebellion; thumbing his nose at her stifling, puritanical ways and
her last-ditch effort to put him down with that silly story of
wholesale spider infestation.

Chuck was half bombed and just starting to
loosen up, when his girlfriend, Bonnie, let out a shriek and
bounded off the couch, rubbing the back of her arm.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" he asked in
sudden, sober concern.

"I don't know," she pouted. "Felt like
something bit me."

"Better break out the Raid, Chuck!" some
joker yelled and started an uproar. Only Chuck and Bonnie didn't
laugh. He examined the welt on her arm and found it red and
inflamed. Almost instantly he knew exactly what had bitten her.

"Grab your jacket," he told her. "I'm taking
you to the emergency room. You've got a bad spider bite there."

That brought a few giggles from the
half-stoned crowd. "Oooh, there he goes with those freaking spiders
again!" snorted his best friend, Ted Downes, who was taking a
Metallica CD from its case.

Chuck's face grew livid with sudden rage.
"Just shut the hell up, will you?" His words sent the whole group
into stunned silence. "Listen up! This party is officially over.
I'm taking Bonnie to the hospital and when I get back I want to see
this place vacant... comprede?"

Everyone nodded and mumbled their agreement.
"What about your bed?" asked Ted. "I thought we were gonna set it
up for you tonight?"

"I'll get it myself tomorrow." Chuck had
calmed down a little and felt like a complete ass for flying off
the handle. "Really, I appreciate everyone's help today. It's just
been a very tiring day for me with the move and all."

"Sure, man, we understand," assured Ted. "You
go on and take your lady to the doctor. We'll stick around long
enough to clean up and we'll lock the door when we leave."

Chuck offered an appreciative smile. "Thanks.
We'll see you guys later."

Everyone sat in silence until they heard
Chuck's Corvette pull out of the drive. "Now let's do some serious
partying!" shouted Ted. He pushed the volume control to the limit
and, with a girl on each arm, proceeded to open a fresh keg.

Chuck was in a foul mood when he returned
home later that night. It was not because he found the place in
worse shape than when he had left. He had expected as much from
reliable ol' Ted. No, it was the hassle he had gone through at the
hospital that lay heavily on his thoughts.

He had a hard time convincing the attending
physician in the ER that Bonnie had been bitten by a brown recluse.
"Are you absolutely sure?" the young doctor had asked. "Did you
kill the spider? Did you even see it?" Chuck had answered no and,
when the doctor first refused to treat the wound as a spider bite,
he had nearly decked the guy, he was so keyed up.

Finally, Bonnie's injury had been treated as
such and Chuck had driven her home. She had wanted to stay the
night at his place, despite the possibility of another spider bite.
After some heated discussion, Chuck had given in. He told her to
come over around midnight. That would give him plenty of time to
check out the house before she showed up, although he had a sinking
feeling that he knew what he would find, or rather, not find when
his search was complete.

The first thing he did when he got there was
tear the cushions from the sofa and pull it away from the wall. He
examined it thoroughly, but found nothing. In frustration and total
disgust, he retired to the bedroom.

He lay in bed and watched television, waiting
until the hour of twelve rolled around. The nightly news first,
then an old Gunsmoke rerun. He was drifting off, when something
caught his attention and made his heart pound in excitement. A
tiny, star-shaped shadow darted across the TV screen, settled on
Matt Dillon's face for a second, then disappeared into the dark
border of the picture tube.

Chuck was up in a flash, the lights on, a
rolled up TV Guide clutched in one hand. He crossed the floor to
the set and searched it, front and back. He found no sign of the
fleeting intruder. "Where are you, you little bastard?" he
grumbled.

He pulled the TV stand away from the wall.
There was a small crack in the baseboard, just large enough for a
spider to squeeze through. His awful obsession came to a head at
that moment, turning him a little crazy. He stepped into the
hallway and found the toolbox he had brought to do some carpentry
work. He took a claw hammer back into the bedroom with him and set
to work.

After ten minutes, he finally ran out of
steam and stared dumbly at his destructive handiwork. He had torn
away the oaken baseboard along the bottom and battered several
large craters in the plastered drywall. His violent mutilation had
revealed only aged insulation and a few random mouse turds
abandoned along the studs and crossbeams. And guess what? That's
right. Not one freaking spider!

Chuck stumbled into the bathroom and downed a
couple of Tylenol for his blinding headache. "Chill out, man," he
told himself. "You're getting all worked up over nothing." He
glared into the mirror and saw the face of a haunted man.
I bet
Aunt Millie is really getting a kick out of this. I bet she's
laughing her ass off up there in the great hereafter. Well, screw
you, dear auntie! This is my place now; lock, stock, and barrel.
Your little head game with the spider story isn't going to work
anymore. I'm here to stay, you old bitch, and there's nothing you
can do about it!

Wearily, he prepared for bed. He stripped
down and, naked, climbed into bed and switched off the nightstand
lamp. He did not feel like waiting up for Bonnie any longer. She
would likely wake him up at midnight anyway, with that wicked
little way of hers. Not that he would feel much like accommodating
her affections tonight. The day's activities had pretty much wasted
him.

He sighed deeply and settled between the cool
sheets, hoping that sleep would come soon. He had left the side
window open. It was cool that night, but comfortably so. The sound
of crickets and a southbound train lulled him into a light
slumber.

Chuck was awakened abruptly an hour later
when a spring poked him square in the lower back. "Damned
mattress!" he rasped. He managed to find a more comfortable
position, but not for long. Two more springs jutted upward,
prodding him the left shoulder blade and right buttock. "Now what
the hell is going on here?" he asked the darkness, then suddenly
held his breath.

He could feel the mattress moving slightly
beneath his weight, could sense something vibrant and alive
stirring against his body, separated only by thin foam padding and
cloth. Goosebumps prickled his naked flesh and he nearly cried out
as the loud ripping of rotten mattress ticking echoed from beneath
the bedcovers.

Almost afraid to move, Chuck reached for the
flashlight that sat on the nightstand. He snapped on the light,
lifted the covers, and, in horror, shone its beam at the foot of
the bed.

A great gorge of writing, brown spiders
spewed from the split in the old mattress. He wanted to scream,
wanted to leap from the cool bed linen, but dared not. He dared not
whimper a sound or move a muscle. He dropped the flashlight and
endured the awful sensation of those tiny abominations as they
danced across his ankles.

Like an incoming tide, the spiders advanced
upon him in brown ripples, covering his legs, groin, the flat of
his stomach. He could only lie there and shudder as they covered
him completely, taking up every available inch of bare flesh, each
one claiming its own private spot.

When the maddening tickle of tiny legs ceased
to cross his skin, Chuck laid there in rigid suspense.
What the
hell are they doing?
screamed his mind.
In God's name, what
are they waiting for?

A signal. That was what they were waiting
for. When the last fiddleback had taken its proper place, the link
was complete. As if on cue from some higher state of consciousness,
they all began to bite, pumping every pore with the vile poison of
their glands. Chuck's body lurched violently, racked in agony, his
nervous system pierced by a thousand white-hot needles. But it was
only for a second. The deadening effect of the venom acted fast,
plunging him into merciful paralysis.

Then they were on the move once again.
Scampering through his hair, invading every orifice of his body;
his ears, his nasal passages, the gaping cave of his mouth, frozen
in a final silent scream. They squeezed past the loosening muscles
of his rectum and made a mad dash through the twisting maze of his
bowels. A platoon of baby spiders entered the opening at the tip of
his penis and traveled through the channel of the shaft, marching
their way toward the warm nursery of his bladder.

Slowly, one by one, they began to settle into
their newfound home.

The fleeting wash of headlights passed the
bedroom window as a car pulled into the driveway outside. The
suddenly glow revealed a picture hanging on the far wall... a picture
that Chuck swore had not been hanging there before. It was the smug
and self-righteous face of Aunt Millie. A faded black-and-white
photograph wreathed in a squirming frame of brown recluse
spiders.

Abruptly, fiddlebacks settled on his
unflinching eyeballs and he laid there in total darkness. He
listened torturously for the sound of Bonnie's key in the front
door lock, the sound of her footsteps in the hallway, the rustle of
her clothing as she disrobed and climbed into bed next to him.

And he knew there would be nothing he could
possibly do to warn her.

Monday night, Billy dreamed that he had been
invited to a special birthday party.

The invitation was written in Romanian and
penned in the rust red ink of which the human body was so
plentiful. Although he couldn't read Romanian -- after all, he was
only eight years old -- he somehow understood where and when the
celebration would take place. Exactly who the party was to be
thrown for was still a mystery in his youthful mind.

He found himself riding in a carriage drawn
by six, jet black horses. Billy wasn't the only occupant of the
carriage. His basset hound, Ringo, was on the satin seat beside
him. Billy was dressed as he usually was; t-shirt, denim jeans,
Nikes, and the Atlanta Braves baseball cap his father had bought
him at the stadium last season. He held one of his mother's
homemade cakes in a Tupperware container on his lap.

The journey was long and tiring. They
traveled along barren roads, surrounded by dark forest and
overshadowed by the distant peaks of the Carpathian Mountains.

By evening, they had crossed the Danube River
and were entering the city of Bucharest. They passed through town,
eliciting fearful stares from peasants hidden behind locked doors
and shuttered windows. Then the carriage ascended a winding road to
a great, stone castle that towered like the shadow of an angry
bully over the picturesque, European village.