The Hereafter

He walked amongst the dead, the dewy grass misting slightly. It was dark, the moon hidden in the billowing grey clouds. A shovel in hand, a flashlight in the other, he wandered the aisles of graves. He stumbled along, swaying slightly due to the amount of alcohol in his system. Although he was quite drunk, he easily navigated his way around the graveyard, being careful not to tread on those that lay beneath the earth in eternal rest.

Norman was the cemetery groundskeeper, but he spent so much time in the graveyard that most people assumed he lived there. It was not exactly an enviable reputation but it suited him just fine. Norman wasn’t squeamish in the slightest and the sight of a dead man would not, could not, ever faze him. The idea of burying a complete stranger actually comforted him, knowing that he was bringing that person to the afterlife. Who that person had been in life mattered not to Norman. Once you were dead and buried, it didn’t mean a thing anyways. That’s what was so beautiful about it…that everything you ever regretted wouldn’t mean a thing. It was peace, just peace forever.

His back bent heavy with age as he made his way towards her, his late wife. Her passing had hit him harder than he had ever anticipated, and he had anticipated it, for she had been very sick and didn’t have the will to live any longer. The cancer eating away inside of her was too much for her weakened old body to take, and Norman’s duties kept him from being a responsible husband. That’s what he told himself anyways. The truth was that having to sit in the cramped hospital room, holding her hand while she slowly edged closer to death, was more than he could bear. He couldn’t tell her it was going to be alright because he knew it wouldn’t. He had seen too many funerals, dug too many graves to believe in miracles. But many nights he would force himself to hold her hand and tell her it was going to be alright, for her sake. He loved her and wasn’t about to let his stubbornness or his pessimism ruin the precious time he had left with her. So he feigned hope, and in the end death had showed up with its ugly face and claimed her, just as he knew it would.

 

Oh the grief he had felt those next several years after her passing. He sat himself in that rotten armchair with a bottle of Jack night after night after night. All he could think of was the day Doctor Grimsby had first informed them about Myrtle’s cancer.
 

He had known Doctor Grimsby almost all his life. They had grown up together in the small town of Willows Bayou. Steve was his first name, but Norman often referred to him as Doc. What a pair of scoundrels they had been as boys! Cutting out of school to skip rocks on the water, fraternize with girls at the nearby Women’s University, skateboarding on the crumbling sidewalks of the park grounds where many young roughnecks could be found in the late afternoon. Of course, they couldn’t stay young and rebellious forever. It had taken Norman longer to realize that than Steve, and before Norman knew it his best friend skipped town to attend some fancy medical school. The years flew by for Norman without Steve. He bounced from job to job, just small time gigs that paid little but took up much of his time.

 

In fact, until he had first met Myrtle, he never learned to settle down at anything. When Steve finally came home and set up a medical office on the edge of town, Norman couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. What had he done with his life? Here was his best friend, all these years later, so successful and ambitious, while Norman felt as though the whole time he had been sitting on the bench, waiting for life to happen. What’s worse, he made his jealousy known to Steve almost immediately, and what probably should have been a much more pleasant conversation ended with a sense of isolation between the two of them. After that, he vowed only to refer to Steve as Doc which, childish as it seemed, served as a reminder to Norman that he had failed to seize control over his life as Steve had.

 

Then Myrtle came along and changed his whole outlook. Because of her, he had finally been able to settle on a profession. While being a graveyard keeper was hardly comparable to other lucrative avenues such as doctor or lawyer, for some reason Norman felt he had been born to tend graves. That, and drink and smoke and get into bar fights. But Myrtle had changed this too. Whenever he was around her, he felt less compelled to drink or do anything hazardous at all. How did she do it? He often wondered what would have become of him had this merciful angel not been sent down from Heaven to save his soul. A useless waste like him never deserved so wonderful a person. Whenever they strolled hand in hand through the town square, the looks of approval were always aimed at Myrtle and never at Norman.

“It’s not that they disapprove of us, dear,” Myrtle would say on such occasions. “They just don’t know you as I do.” And she would squeeze his hand and lay her shoulder upon his, and he would look towards Doc Grimsby’s place and think, you’ve got nothing on me.

But what had he ever done for her? All those happy years of marriage and he had given nothing in return. He took and took and took, while Myrtle kept on giving. She had aspirations too. She had wanted to be a good mother someday. He hadn’t given her children. She wanted him to be happy with himself. He wouldn’t be. When she got sick, she wanted him to stop worrying. He couldn’t. And when she lay on her deathbed, she wanted him not to cry. But he hadn’t been able to suppress the tears.

That’s why on this particular cold, lonely Hallows Eve he found himself wandering through the small graveyard with a flashlight and a shovel, whiskey on his breath, heading for his wife’s grave so that he could just dig a hole and fall in it and just lie there next to her. He would tell her how sorry he was for not being the husband she needed him to be.

 

He came upon her headstone, a marble white with black engraving:

 

Myrtle Elaine Ellsbury

1955 – 2010

 

He hadn’t been able to think of anything to label her that would in any way be accurate enough. Somehow “loving wife” didn’t really do her justice. He could think of a million great things she was when she was alive. She was the kindest person he had ever met, perhaps too forgiving in her nature. She was a saint among the neighbors, especially to the kids. She had always wanted children, a dream which was not shared by Norman. Who could blame him, for the kids always taunted him whenever they saw him in the grounds, pointing and ogling at him as if he were some kind of Frankenstein or something. Norman blamed the movies, while Myrtle always said it was “kids just being kids.” He guessed it was just the nature of the job.

 

Their little house near the cemetery grounds was a huge attraction of sorts during Halloween. The “Graveyard House” as the kids called it would be the most decorated house in town, thanks to Myrtle. She would go crazy with hanging fake cobwebs and spiders and jack-o-lanterns everywhere. She even went as far as adding in some sound effects, which Norman always objected to.

 

“People already think we’re nuts living in a graveyard,” he said.

 

But she would just give him one of her smiles, the kind that in their twenty two years of marriage always made it hard for him to tell her no, and that would be that. The doorbell would ring off the hook all night with children lining up to get a peek inside the “Graveyard House”. Norman joked that they might want to think about charging for admittance, that the house was officially a haunted attraction.

 

He smiled at the memory as he sat his shovel down and stared at Myrtle’s grave. How different things were now for him, how lonely and full of silence the house now stood. Only one thing could bring it back to life, but she was dead. How he ached to sleep beside her in the ground, if only just to be near her.

 

Tears crawled down his bearded face but he didn’t bother to wipe them. He set his flashlight down and the shovel next to it, and began to speak aloud into the silence, not caring if he woke those sleeping in the ground.

 

“I’m so sorry, my love. I’m so sorry that I wasn’t there for you. Words can’t express it, Myrtle. I failed you. And now I can’t... I can’t fix it. So I will lie with you tonight. I will dig my own grave and drink myself to death, so that the hands of God can take me to you. I’m just so sorry.”

 

The words didn’t mean much now, but he felt an odd relief saying them, like they somehow made his sins go away. He picked up the shovel and began to dig into the soil next to Myrtle’s grave. It was his spot, which she had reserved for the both of them some time ago, before her sickness. He had been uneasy with her decision, quite sure that choosing a burial plot was surely tempting fate, especially one in this graveyard, his graveyard, which he so obsessively kept well maintained. But again she had given him that same smile that he could never resist.

 

He stopped after a while, his hands beginning to blister. He had forgotten to bring gloves thanks to the whiskey. As he sat there in the hole, he began to have second thoughts. If only Myrtle could see him now. How ashamed she would be of him, wanting to commit suicide just to resolve himself of his guilt. He didn’t know what had come over him. Maybe it was the fact that the house stood lonely and untouched by Myrtle’s decorative fingers. The neighborhood kids had all but forgotten about the “Graveyard House” now that she was gone.  

 

He stumbled back through the graveyard. He had left the shovel and the flashlight, not caring that he couldn’t see in the now denser fog curling up to his heels. Had he been in his right mind, he would have found the fog a rather odd phenomenon. Never had there been so much of it sin his twenty-odd years patrolling the grounds. But as it was, it may as well have been just normal air to his poisoned mind.

 

He turned his gaze towards the gated entrance and froze. It couldn’t be. A figure was hovering beyond the gate, standing in the middle of the empty street. It appeared to be a woman, but the glow off her skin and dress radiated vibrantly in the dark. A ghost? No, no. It was a mirage, his drunken mind playing tricks on him maybe.

“Norman, darling.”

 

The voice floated in the air, like the wind. He wasn’t sure he had even heard anything at all. But the ghostly figment had turned towards him, and he gasped. It was Myrtle, but not the sick, weak, dying Myrtle whom had grasped his hand in the hospital bed. This was Myrtle without the cancer, the one who had captured his heart all those years ago. She smiled widely at him as she called out his name.

“Norman, my darling. Don’t be afraid. Come to me.”
 

She held out a hand, and he saw that she had no wedding ring. But that face, that voice. So lovely that he couldn’t resist its calling. He made his way towards her, bumping into several headstones along the way but not caring. It was his wife. His Myrtle. Somehow she had lived. A miracle. A true miracle, staring at him now, making him believe it was real.

 

No. It couldn’t be. She was dead, for no one knew that better than Norman, who had for the longest time after her death been suffering a pain so deep that it was killing him inside. This… apparition… or whatever it was, it was truly what he had been praying for all those lonely nights he sat up in the house drinking his life away. And now she was here, reaching for him with that irresistible smile.

 

 “Myrtle, my dearest,” he said, almost choking from the shock of it all.

She smiled wider and her eyes, once a hazy blue but now seeming to sparkle brilliantly, held his gaze so that he couldn’t look away even if he had wanted to. She never dropped her hand as she spoke once more.

“Come, my love. Take my hand, and we can be together again.”

He put a hand over his chest absentmindedly. He knew he should be feeling the thumping of it, but where had it gone? His breath, had it somehow escaped his body? He couldn’t taste the air. Everything around him seemed to fade away from her presence as she walked (or was she gliding?) towards him, her hand steady, unwavering out in front of her.

 

“Take my hand, Norman. We can be together again.”

 

He had lost all ability to think, to breathe, to feel. He would go to her. She would heal him and they would be together again. No more pain. No more guilt. All he had to do was touch her again and it would all be over.

It was easy to reach out for her. Where he found the strength he didn’t know, but he stumbled his way to the gate. Myrtle, I’m coming, just stay there, he thought. He slid past the entrance, the gate creaking slowly shut behind him, reached out and touched her fingers. At first he felt nothing. Then he closed his hand around hers, and he felt his heart beat come back, the air come through his mouth and nostrils. He no longer tasted the whiskey on his breath.

 

Suddenly there was a bright light. So overwhelmingly bright it was. It filled his whole universe, a sort of reverse blindness. A panic overcame him and for a moment as he became severely disoriented. Was he... floating? He looked down at his feet and found them kicking through the air, trying to find solid ground. What terrible trick was this? What deception? But he could still feel Myrtle’s hand clamped around his and that comforted him slightly.

 

An immense pain shot through his entire body. The pain coursed through him like fire. He was dying. My God, he was dying. He felt himself slipping away, and he weakly moved his hand through the brightness, trying to find his wife’s hand. But she wasn’t there, just like he hadn’t been there for her in her last moments. He began to realize what this was. It was his punishment.

He deserved to die for not being strong for Myrtle, for not telling her to fight the disease.

 

Footsteps. Somewhere close. Getting closer. He tried desperately to turn his head towards the sound.

 

“Oh Jesus fucking shit!” came a cry beside him.

 

Though a little blurry, he could just make out a thick figure kneeling over him. The shadowed face bore a thick beard, and the smell of alcohol blasted in Norman’s face as the man spoke once more.

 

“Jesus mister I didn’t see you. Oh fuck. Fuck!” The man frantically dug in his shirt pocket and pulled out his phone, trying to dial with shaking pudgy fingers.

 

“Yeah hello? Look I need an ambulance right fucking now! Out front of the old cemetery. Fucking hurry!”

 

He hung up and put the phone back in his pocket. He stared horrified at Norman’s broken and bloody body, unsure of how to proceed. Edging closer, the large man put a hand on Norman’s chest, feeling for a heartbeat. After a moment he stood back up.

 

“You’ll be okay, mister. Help’s coming.” He started backing away slowly. “You’ll be alright. You’ll be okay.”

 

He darted for his truck. When he threw open the door, a beer bottle fell out and rolled, stopping where Norman lay. The man stared a minute, then got in, revved the engine and sped away, the tires screeching into the still night air.

 

Norman could barely make out the truck as it sped off around a bend before the blackness overtook him completely and he felt the pain no more.

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Venom

“If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Amen.”

 

Little Lisa Grabets finished the prayer and graciously climbed into her big fluffy bed, helped by her mother, Ann. She tucked her daughter underneath the layers of sheets and blankets then turned the gas down on the lantern next to the bed. She tugged at the long braid of graying hair which hung over her shoulder and pecked a kiss on Lisa’s forehead.

“Sleep tight, okay? Need more covers? You warm enough?”

 

Lisa shook her head and settled into her pillow, comfortable and content as could be. A thump against the wall made Ann turn and stare out the window. An old tree, now bare of leaves, rattled against the house, its thin limbs shaking as if in protest to the bitter cold wind. The barren desert surrounding the battered farmhouse the Grabets called home whistled and whirled, making little dust devils. A stray tumbleweed skipped lightly but quickly across the dust. She turned her gaze back to Lisa. Lisa stared troubled out the window, her blankets up to her chin. Ann sighed.

 

“I’ll close the shutters tonight.”

 

She got up but a sound escaped from Lisa’s mouth that sounded somewhat like a mix between a grunt and a whine.

 

“No mommy. I won’t be able to see.”

 

“Sweetie, there’s nothing to see. Shut your eyes and go night-night.”

 

“But mommy…”

 

Ann let another sigh escape her lips. It had been like this every night since they moved out to the Nevada hill country a year ago. Away from the city lights, the car honks and loud party music, Ann actually considered the move a good deal. She just wasn’t cut out for the city life.

 

Unfortunately, being a single mom but wanting a fast track to a lucrative career, the tall skyscrapers and suits hadn’t been able to offer her much of anything but more stress and less time with Lisa. She felt her little angel had been resenting her for that.

 

But at least she had slept better in that apartment. Out here, where life was supposed to be calm and peaceful and quiet, so far it had been anything but. Night terrors, she called them. Lisa’s night terrors were not much of a thing before the move. Ann contributed them to being in a whole new place, isolated as could be, away from the car honks, the party music, the blinding Goddamn city lights. Perhaps they would go away as soon as Lisa got settled into homeschooling and no electricity and cold sandwiches for supper every night. Ann admitted several times a day to herself that it wasn’t a good decision, but the country was what she knew. She had been raised hard by her father on a pig farm in Montana. All the backbreaking chores which had come with it taught her self-discipline, how to work with her hands, how to work hard so that she could further appreciate the little time she had to play. Of course she had hated it and fought her father every step of the way. He beat her into submission. She forgave his hard hand, knowing now that it had actually been he who had sacrificed.

 

She often sat on the porch swing and wondered what it was going to be like for Lisa. She was not yet old enough to help around the farm, but one day she would have to. Ann often thought when that time came that it would be much like it had been for her and her farther. She could never be so rough on Lisa. She knew she wouldn’t be able to make the sacrifices her father had made for her. When thoughts like these crept into her mind, the tears welled in her eyes, but she would always be quick to wipe them away for Lisa’s sake. She had to be strong for her, not heavy-handed strong like her father but mentally strong. She had to make Lisa believe that everything would work out in the end.

“I won’t be able to see it,” Lisa whispered.

 

Ann snapped back from her thoughts and stared concerned at her little angel. She knew the “it” which her daughter spoke of. Something with huge green eyes with slits for pupils. Or hair coming out of the ears. Or huge slimy fangs. “It” was the boogey man, the monster that lies in wait underneath every child’s bed. A child’s imagination still amazed Ann even though she could relate to it, having seen her fair share of monsters and things in that stirred in the darkness of her own bedroom when she was little. She had cried and cried and cried for her daddy to chase them away, but he had never answered her. Many a sleepless night she had had, covers up to her chin, staring wide-eyed at the dark shadow in the corner, certain that she saw something there.

 

As she got older, she gained the courage to finally close her eyes and never open them, never look at that thing in the shadow ever again. A few nights of successful sleep had cured her of her night terrors, because there wasn’t ever anything there in the first place.

 

“There’s nothing to see, honey.”

 

She put her hand over Lisa’s eyes, forcing them closed.

 

“Remember? There’s nothing to see if you keep your eyes closed.”

 

“I know…” Lisa said softly. She didn’t sound convinced.

 

Ann pecked her a kiss on the forehead once more. She got up and before exiting the room, looked back at Lisa. She was forcing her eyes to stay shut, trying not to peek. Ann held back a smile, praying inside that Lisa would get a good night’s rest for once. As she shut the bedroom door, she was plunged into an inky blackness which didn’t faze her in the slightest. The ancient farmhouse hadn’t had electricity for quite some time, and even when the power did manage to surge back on it was only for a little while. The incessant blinking had annoyed Ann so much that she had taken out all the bulbs in the house. She thought it better for things to be consistent, reliable and stable.

 

She felt her way to the master bedroom and immediately stole underneath the covers to knock the chill from her back. Her teeth chattered underneath her tightly shut mouth and she shut her eyes tight, trying hard to keep them closed. But thoughts kept drifting back and forth rapidly across her mind and she gave up trying to sleep, sitting up and staring blankly out the large double windows. She took great comfort in knowing how cold it was on the outside and how warm and cozy she felt in her bed. She let the calmness and warmth drift over her and within minutes was fast asleep.

 

*         *        *

 

A shriek filled the house. Ann bolted upright from her pillow and immediately made her way to Lisa’s room. The night terrors. The God damn night terrors! She burst open the bedroom door only to find the bed completely empty. She suppressed a thought dwelling within her that something had come and taken Lisa and stole off into the night. Oh dear God, please no. But out of the corner of her eye she spotted her.

Lisa sat trembling in the corner furthest away from the window, her hands on her knees, staring petrified at something outside. Ann hurried over to her and brought her into a tight hug, rubbing her back and trying to stop the shaking.

 

“It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay,” she repeated over and over.

 

“I saw it, mommy, I saw it,” Lisa moaned into Ann’s shoulder.

 

Ann instinctively followed her child’s frightened gaze towards the window. The wind had died down a bit and the clouds had drifted past the moon, allowing its light to penetrate inside the bedroom and cast long shadows everywhere. But she could detect nothing other than the barren desert.

 

“Don’t let it get me, mommy.”

 

“Calm down, sweetie, just calm right down,” she said as she rocked Lisa gently.

 

Ann stared at the shadows on the floor. A stray cloud drifted past the moon, transforming the shadows into odd, grotesque shapes. Ann shuddered. It was easy to see what had scared her little angel so. Hard as she tried, Ann couldn’t help but see monsters in those shadowy shapes. A hand with long, bony fingers and sharp claws. A face with slanting eyes and a wicked grin. She shook her head, fighting off the nightmares in her mind. Yes, Lisa had probably seen the shadows and got scared.

 

Ann slowly lifted Lisa back into her bed and tucked her in. Lisa clutched at her arm, pulling her close.

 

“I wanna sleep in your room, mommy. Please?” She looked into Ann’s eyes with her own big blue ones.

 

“Sweetheart, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

 

“Please mommy pleeeaaaase?”

 

It was so difficult to say no to her sweet, innocent little angel. Had she ever appeared this irresistible to her father? No, no it was impossible to ever break a man that rugged.

 

“Just shut your eyes… and keep them closed, okay? Remember? Nothing can get you if you close your eyes.”

 

“But I can’t.” There was a longing, almost pleading tone in her voice that irked Ann a little. She sounded desperate, something Ann hadn’t ever heard in her child’s voice.

 

“Why not, sweetie?”

 

Lisa stole another scared glance towards the window.

 

“It won’t let me,” she whispered.

 

“What do you mean?” Ann was beginning to feel a tad annoyed, more so at herself than at Lisa. Why hadn’t she just let Lisa sleep in her room?

 

“When it stares at me, I can’t move,” Lisa said.

 

“Okay, honey, listen.” Ann took Lisa by the hands. “It’s all in your mind. You see it because you want to. That’s all. Come, now, come with mommy. You can sleep with me tonight, okay?”

 

“But it’s still out there mommy.”

 

“Enough, Lisa. Now come.”

 

Lisa ducked underneath the covers. Ann put a hand on her hip and the other to her forehead. Not again, she thought. I’m much too tired for this tonight.

 

“Lisa… ”

 

“Noooooo,” she moaned quietly.

 

Ann heaved a huge sigh and decided to let her curiosity get the better of her. She shuffled over to the window, pulled up hard to open it and poke her head out.

 

“No mommy!” Lisa cried.

 

An instant blast of freezing, dusty wind hit Ann’s face, causing her to cough violently. She peered out into the night, craning her head in a wide sweep. If not for the wind, the farm would have been eerily silent. Ann turned back towards Lisa.

 

“See? Nothing.” She closed the shutters and pushed down on the window to seal it tight, enclosing the room in total darkness.

 

“Mommy!” Lisa said in a panic.

 

Ann, a bit more used to finding her way in the dark than Lisa, picked up Lisa and held her, rubbing her back, trying to calm her as she made her way slowly towards her bedroom.

 

“Shhh, it’s okay,” she whispered.

 

“It was there outside my window mommy, I swear,” Lisa said.

 

“I didn’t see anything, sweetie.”

 

“That’s cuz it hides, underneath the house.”

 

Ann decided to play along.

 

“And why does it hide?”

 

Lisa’s answer didn’t come right away. Ann found the doorknob to her room and opened it. She lay Lisa down on her bed, feeling for the covers to tuck her in.

 

“I think cuz it doesn’t like grown-ups,” Lisa said.

 

Ann tucked herself in next to her, holding Lisa tight to her body. She knew she shouldn’t keep placating her, but somehow she just couldn’t hold back her inner child. Lisa’s excited imagination had won her over.

 

“What is it exactly?” The question escaped her lips before she could stifle it.

 

“It’s huge and has lotsa colors on its head and scary red eyes and fangs as big as my whole body!” Lisa said excitedly. “It’s got a slimy fork tongue that it always hisses at me with!”

Perfect. Now she had done it. With Lisa this ecstatic she would never get to sleep. But more importantly, Lisa was bringing back the old night terrors from her childhood. As Ann stared into the pitch black of her room she began to see long, bony fingers with razor claws, faces with red eyes and large fangs. She shut her eyes, trying to keep them closed.

 

“Shut your eyes, Lisa. Just calm down and shut your eyes now.”

 

She gently scratched Lisa’s back until she felt her little angel grow calmer as she drew closer to sleep. Soon she could hear her daughter’s soft breathing. Sure that she was now asleep, Ann climbed quietly out of the bed and felt her way to the window. The dark was beginning to overwhelm her. She would open the shutters and let some of the moonlight come in. Then and only then could she fall asleep.

 

She heaved up on the window. The cold had it stuck tight, so that she had to try several times before she finally got the window up. She felt for the shutter latch, unhooked it and pushed out. And then she saw it.

 

It was just like her daughter had described. It’s gigantic, oval-shaped head bore shades of yellow, maroon, and emerald. The head was attached to a black, thick body. Large scales glistened from the moonlight barely penetrating the blackness of it. Ann couldn’t tell just how long the body stretched, for much of it was hidden beneath the house.

 

Large fangs opened wide for a thin red fork tongue which hissed viciously at Ann. But what were most terrifying were the eyes. Blood-red, with vertical slits for pupils, they captivated her, horrified her, kept her from breathing or even blinking.

 

The large head swayed slightly from side to side. The vibrant colors hypnotized her. The tongue darted in and out, sometimes coming within inches of her face. Ann stood rigid to the spot. She couldn’t move if she tried. The monster had her. It would surely eat her. All those night terrors she had as a child had all boiled down to this moment. She thought her father’s tough love had saved her from them, but she knew now that her end had only been postponed.

 

Take me, she thought. Take me. Lisa, shut your eyes. Keep them closed. Nothing can get you if you close your eyes. Close your eyes!

 

Ann forced her eyes shut. This is it, she thought. Any moment and the monster will take me. I’m sorry, Lisa, my little angel. You deserved better, much better.

 

She opened her eyes and was greeted by nothing but the cold wind in her face. It was gone. Vanished. Ann stood breathing heavily, staring wide-eyed at the now vacant spot in the air where that monstrous head had just been.

 

Had it been another night terror after all? So real, so very real it had felt. Ann turned back towards Lisa, who slumbered peacefully, her tiny thumb in her mouth. So innocent, so safe.

 

Ann fell back into bed, putting her arms around Lisa, stroking her hair.

 

Keep those eyes closed, Lisa, she thought. You’re safe now. She drifted off into a deep sleep, free from the terrors of the night.

 

Outside, the wind ripped across the sand, and mingled with its whistles came the faint sound of hissing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

The Suicide Swamp

“Aw, that’s bullshit!”

Fred wasn’t yelling at his overweight wife or even his young, hotshot, halfwit boss. He was plopped in front of the small ancient television, the kind you couldn’t find in any electronic store nowadays if you tried. The game was on: a local high school affair between two rivals nearest his hometown of Weeping Springs, Florida. And the ref had just blown it all for the Cougars.

“Pass interference my ass,” Fred muttered and threw several kernels of popcorn from a lap-sized bowl at the screen. Static waves rolled, then completely covered the screen.

“Fucking reception,” he grumbled as he got up and banged three times on the television’s side. Still nothing but static and noise.

Fred looked down at the butter stains on his white muscle shirt and shook his head. He took the giant bowl still half full of popcorn and chunked it out the screen door into the water below. He gazed across the dark swampland, feeling moody.

He shuffled his way to the small fridge and, upon opening it, felt his terrible mood grow bitterer. There were the peanut M&M’s –HIS peanut M&M’s—the wrapper torn, rolled down to seal the freshness. Three fourths gone.

“I’m gonna kill her.” He tried to keep the anger out of voice. A loud snore sounded from the room behind him.

Margerie. You fat bitch.

Feeling like he could take his sawn-off out of the tool shed out back and do some murdering, he yanked the junk drawer open, shuffled loudly to find his cigarettes, and nicked himself on something sharp. Blood dribbled lightly down his ring finger.

“Motherfuck.”

Pulling a cig from the pack, he went outside, shutting the door a little too loudly, not caring if he woke her.

He stood out on the dock, a pudgy hand stuffed in his sweats pocket, and took a long drag. The smoke felt like shit going down his lungs and he coughed a couple of times. No wonder he was trying to quit.

The night air felt decent, breezy even. The problem was that no matter how good the air felt it always smelt like fungus and tasted like rotten fish. Nonetheless, it was as good as it was ever gonna get around here, dead in the middle of fucking nowhere Florida swampland.

Giggling? Was that what he heard? Rubbed a finger through his ear. Maybe just the wind playing tricks--

There it was again. Some high-pitched sound. He gazed out into thick grove of twisted trees. Probably just some dumbfuck frog trying to get laid.

He noticed a sharp pain coming from his hand and glanced down to see that he had clinched his fist and one of his fingernails was digging into the wound on his finger.

“Did you have to be so Goddamn loud, Fred?”

He didn’t have to turn to know it was Margerie.

“What, you trying to catch up on your beauty sleep?” he jeered.

“Fuck you,” was all she replied. He smiled a little. He loved getting on his wife’s bad side.

He turned and saw the massive shape in the doorway. Margerie had on a nightgown that had long since given up trying to fit her and now clutched for dear life to her breasts and hips. Her short hair lay disheveled on one side of her head, flat on the other.

“Surprised you didn’t wake yourself up with that snoring,” he said, and then added a little apologetically, “The wind slammed the door.”

“You mean you didn’t hear those noises just then?” she asked.

He instantly looked out again towards the trees.

“It just them stupid frogs. Nothing to lose sleep over,” he said.

“But it sounded like a child. Like some kid laughing,” she said.

“Nope. Just frogs,” he said, but he couldn’t say it with any real conviction. In fact, he could’ve sworn he had heard it again just now.

“See?” she urged, creeping closer to him, her eyes also on the trees. “What is that?”

Fred rolled his eyes and took another drag. Margerie tore her gaze away from the dark swamp and looked accusingly at Fred’s cigarette. He saw that look in her eyes, like she was about to start nagging. He decided to put a stop to it right then and there. Nothing was worse than her nagging.

“Now don’t start,” he said, shaking his head. “Damn TV went out on me.”

He glanced at the airboat tied to the dock. Tossing the cigarette aside, he headed back inside.

“Where you off to?” she asked, only half-interested. She couldn’t keep her eyes off the trees.

“None of your business, but I’m going down to The Fish Stick to see if I can’t catch the end of that game.”

He threw on a coat, some jeans and a Weeping Springs Cougars cap and got the old boat started. Margerie snapped out of her trance.

“Say, where the hell you going, Fred?”

He shrugged.

“Nowhere,” he said and before she could protest any further he was flying across the water towards town.

She snorted. “Fine then, be that way,” she muttered to herself as she made her way back inside, to the comfort and safety of her bed. She couldn’t resist a last uneasy look behind her before the door shut.

*             *           *

In Weeping Springs, there were only four roads throughout the entire town, all of which were near impossible to drive on due to the amount of potholes. In Weeping Springs, you either traveled by foot or by boat.

A few diners and bars were just about the only businesses in town and you didn’t have to go very far to find them. The four roads made a double cross of sorts and right at the intersection where they made a square sat The Fish Stick, the oldest bar for miles.

It looked more like a shack than a place of business, with its old rotting wood and shingles. Fishnets hung all up and down the walls, some with bones still stuck in them. But you couldn’t beat $2 beer on Friday nights. And despite its raggedy appearance, the little place packed quite an atmosphere. Live banjo music could be heard blaring and drunks could be heard quarrelling and local singles could be heard dancing. It was quite the hubbub.

Fred wandered in and made his way past a couple of women wearing too much makeup with cigarettes hanging from their too-red lips on the dance floor and found a seat on the corner, and the bartender immediately sat a cold one on the coaster next to him.

“Freddy, you goddamn hermit how’s it going?” the bartender said.

Fred stared at Jole a while and almost choked on his beer. It was hard not to look at the man and laugh. His eyebrows were always arced high on his forehead and a goofy grin was always plastered on his pimply face. He also had a shock of curly orange-red hair.

“Just dandy, Carrottop,” Fred said. “Game still on?” He indicated the small television tacked up in a mangle of fishnets in the corner.

“No signal, sorry,” Jole said, grinning stupidly. “Dunno what’s wrong with the thing.”

“For fuck sakes,” Fred muttered under his breath. He stared at the two women on the dance floor. Jole leaned in close.

“The blonde one, she’s from Georgia. That’s her cousin from Iowa. Guess what? They say they know Joey.”

This time Fred nearly soaked the tabletop as he spat his beer out.

“Joey? You talking about my boss Joey?” Fred asked.

Jole promptly wiped the counter with a rag as he nodded, apparently pleased by Fred’s reaction.

“No way. That little punk never had a woman in his life.” He watched the blonde woman twirl her cousin, and they both laughed drunkenly.

“Know what else?” Jole asked, eager to impress Fred with more gossip. “He’s here with them. They’re staying at his place.”

“You’re shitting me?”

Jole grinned wider, showing his yellow crooked teeth.

Fred turned back toward the two women and saw Joey come up and hug the blonde. He was short, and his face almost planted itself in her cleavage. He kissed the cheek of the other.

Fred’s shock quickly turned into disgust as he shifted in his seat. How did a two-timing little runt like Joey get that kind of action? For all the years he had worked under Joey at the Blackwater Airboats, never once had he begun to imagine him as a ladies man. From the first day he had set foot in Weeping Springs and took control of the business and started barking orders left and right and hollering out corporate nonsense in that nerdy whiny nasal voice of his, Fred had assumed that Joey was a loner who always did things by the book, was in bed by nine every night and never liked to party.

Yet here he was with two gorgeous women, two beers in his hands, and his tie slightly undone. And here Fred was, alone at a bar with no game to watch and no pretty women clinging to him.

“Pretty amazing, huh?” Jole said, sliding another beer at Fred. “Never seen him come in here once until tonight. Now he’s acting like he owns the place.”

“Fuck him,” Fred said, now staring bitterly at the bar top.

He glanced hopefully up at the TV. Still nothing but waves of static, rolling on and on and on…

“I’ll think we’ll be lucky to get a signal tonight, Freddie,” said Jole. “Yep. Another beer?”

“Naw, I think I’ll just head back home and crash.” He checked outside the little bar window. “Don’t get it. I just don’t get it. The weather’s not acting up any. The lights are still on. Geez.”

“I know, technology, right? Never works when you need it.”

But Fred was already almost out the door, giving a small wave and trying not to gain Joey’s attention. The last thing in the world he wanted right now was to converse with that corporate brown-nose prick.

*           *           *

Margerie sat on the front porch rocker, smoking a cigarette and praying to never see her good-for-nothing husband again. Sales, ha. He was no more a salesman than she was an athlete. She smiled as she reminisced about the old days at the track, back when she could run a mile in under six minutes easy. All the guys would play grab ass around her because she was little miss hot stuff with just a little junk in the trunk.

She took a long, slow drag, swallowing most of the smoke. She knew that was worse than actually letting it all out but this was reflection time. You let the smoke come in on the good memories. That was good smoke, to be kept inside with all the good times.

Her mind turned to Frank and she took another drag, this time releasing it all. Smoke on the wind, never to be seen again. Just like the good old days.

You’ll never be pretty.

She heard it whispered almost as if someone had leaned in close. She shivered, glanced behind her. Nothing.

I’m just going stir crazy. That’s all I’ve ever been seen he moved us out here.

She stamped out the cigarette, wrapped her night gown around her tighter, suddenly cold. She thought about going back inside but something was keeping her here. She couldn’t quite put a finger on it but she felt glued to that rocking chair.

Your good days are behind you.

There it was again. Like a whisper in the night breeze. She gazed out into the swamps, rubbing her ears.  What the hell was that?

Weak-willed. Powerless. Your life is over.

This time she sat up, listening closely. Those whispers felt almost as if they were coming out of her head, from someone else’s lips.

Do it now. End your misery. Join us.

And then she saw it. A face, bright and ghostly, in the murky darkness of the swamp. It hovered over the marsh like a firefly, bobbing slightly. But where on Earth was the neck? And why was it smiling like that? The more she stared, the less like a face it appeared to her. More like a mask. It reminded her of one of those creepy porcelain dolls her mother always kept laying around the house in her youth.

Another face materialized out of the darkness to join the other. Margerie forgot how to breathe.  She was on her feet but didn’t remember ever moving at all. Another face…  and another…  and another. They came into view as if they had been there all along in the dark and someone had just shined a light upon them.

Join us. End your miserable life.

They spoke in unison, barely above a whisper. Or were they speaking at all? She hadn’t seen their mouths move. They just floated there, smiling. Waiting. Waiting for her to join them.  Those whispers… she couldn’t get them out of her head.

Join… End it… miserable life…

They jumbled up her thoughts, getting louder so that she had to cover her ears. Except that now they echoed inside her. Her mind suddenly felt numb, until her only thought was how to stop those voices.  She headed frantically for the shed out back, looking back at the faces. Could it be possible that there were even more of them? She couldn’t see the swamp anymore, just the horrible, shining faces.

The shed was bolted. Dammit. Margerie headed back inside the house, still with her hands over her ears as the voices kept echoing in her head, egging her on.

The shed, Margerie… it’s the only way.

She searched frantically for the shed key inside one of the junk drawers. Why the hell hadn’t Fred cleaned all this shit out?

He’s a terrible man, Margerie. We can make you happier.

Almost to the point of crying, she finally felt the small brass object that was the shed key. Suddenly she no longer felt anger towards the whispers or those things out in the swamp. She felt nothing but numbness, depression.

The meander back to the shed (for that’s what it became, Margerie no longer frantic) only helped confirm her negative feelings and reinforce what the whispers were telling her. When she unlocked the bolt she felt a strange sense of accomplishment, as if her whole life had lead up to this point and she had stepped up and done the deed. Now all there was left was to finish it.

She fumbled in the darkness. The air in here reeked of salt and fungus, the air heavy and warm. Where was it?

The toolbox, Margerie. Behind the toolbox.

She wasn’t sure why, but she no longer tried to block out those voices. She listened, and almost as if she knew they were going to be right, she searched in the dark for Fred’s precious toolbox. It had to be within reach, for Fred cherished the damn thing like it was his life support. Besides, neither he nor Margerie could stand being inside the shed longer than a few minutes, so the toolbox had to be somewhere right near the door.

There. She felt her foot brush against the rusty metal and tried to lift it out of the way. Too heavy. She cursed under her breath as she dragged the box out. Huffing and puffing, she could just make out the shape of Fred’s shotgun tucked neatly in the corner, a box of shells lying near it.

That’s it. You know what to do.

The voices were almost giggling with anticipation as Margerie reached for the gun.

 

*            *           *

The ride back did nothing to shake the disappointment coursing through Fred. Negative thoughts rushed through his head, thick and fast. The bills were piling up. His wife was on the verge of packing her things and getting as far away from him as possible. Then again, so was he. His finger had stopped bleeding, but still stung painfully. A newcomer to Weeping Springs, Joey was now painting the town red with chicks in high heels and short skirts.

And here he was, Fred the hermit, who tried to get out tonight and found nothing to stymie the lonely, I’m-such-a-low-life-loser feeling.

When he arrived at the dock, he sensed a change. Something wasn’t right and it might have had something to do with the fact that it was unusually quiet, or that the near constant breeze had stopped, or that his front door was partially open.

No, on second glance the screen door was cracked, but the actual front door was shut. He tied up the boat and stood a bit, unsure of how to proceed. He didn’t like the fact that his self-pity had been almost forcefully butted out of him, to be replaced by an intense uneasiness. He didn’t like being scared. His mind went to the 12 gage he kept out back in the tool shed.

Get a fucking grip on yourself, he thought. Margerie just forgot to close the screen door. That’s all. The forgetful woman.

The thought built up enough courage in him to block out the plan he had been formulating in his mind, requiring him to go unlock the shed, search in the piles of tools for the shotgun which was no doubt buried way deep in the back somewhere, find ammunition, and burst in the house with conviction demanding the intruder to get the fuck out of the house or get blown the fuck away.

When his hand touched the handle, the moon just peaked out of the clouds enough to illuminate the pattern etched in the screen’s mesh.

He stepped back, squinting to see it. A face. Or at least it looked like a face, except the forehead was a little cut off. The eyes had been made as thin straight line, the mouth carved into a wide melon-shaped grin.

Fred ran his fingers along the scratched screen surface, following the pattern. As he did so, he began to realize that whoever had done this had the precision of a surgeon. The cuts were faint, and he thought had it been broad daylight he probably wouldn’t have even noticed them at all.

He tried the front door. Unlocked.

What the fuck is going on?

There it was again. That sound. That unnerving giggling sound. He searched the swamps again, this time really, really thinking about his shotgun.

Fuck it.

He scrambled around the side of the house, almost forgetting to skip the fifth board in the deck, the one that was cracked so badly. He glanced nervously out at the dark shed some distance away. At that moment, he had never seen something so ominous in his whole life.

He crept his way to the shed, feeling the sweat drip from his arm pits, but stopped when he saw the bolt. Someone had unlocked it, which meant that whoever it was had his gun. He nudged the door open and peeked inside. Oh shit! The tool box had been drug out. Yep, the gun was surely gone.

Sweating bullets, Fred thought hard about running for the boat and into town to get help. Maybe tell Jole what was going on.

No. He was being a coward. He had to man up. This was his home, for God’s sake, and if that fucker had his gun he would get it back. He crept up to the back door, reached up for the key, and as quietly as he could turned the lock. He glanced once more out into the swamp before he slipped inside.

God it was dark. Why couldn’t he hear Margerie snoring? What he wouldn’t give right now to hear something normal, see something familiar. But the house… in the quiet darkness he didn’t recognize it. He snuck into the kitchen and took a look out the screen door. Nothing.

“Margerie?” he whispered, but his voice was so weak he could barely hear the word leave his lips. As he stepped back his boot found something on the floor. He peered down at the butcher knife, then back at the screen door.

This was it. The knife had been used to cut that crude smiley face in the screen. And were those Margerie’s slippers? Had she done that? Was she playing some kind of sick prank? Damn that woman.

A giggling sound wafted through the air. That damn giggling. She was laughing at him.

Margerie you fat bitch if you’ve touched my shotgun I swear to God…

He grabbed the knife and held it at the ready before proceeding to the bedroom. He stood in front of the door, debating whether he should knock or just bust in. The silence made him uneasy, and he wasn’t quite sure this was a joke anymore. He decided to go the cautious route and slowly turned the knob, knife held out in front waiting to jab at the first sign of trouble.

The first thing he noticed was the blood. So much blood. It puddled around his shoes and made him almost slip. Then he saw the source of it all: Margerie, slumped in the rocker next to the bed, her face half gone, his shotgun on the floor next to her corpse.

He didn’t know whether to scream or take off running. All he could do was stare wide-eyed at the gruesome scene as the giggling noises came back again.

She’s with us now, Fred. She’s waiting for you.

What were those whispers, penetrating his mind and scrambling his thoughts like a blender. He slumped down, right in the blood bath, unaware of his actions or what he was seeing. All he could do was shake his head in dismay, in denial.

Margerie, his wife of 25 years…  gone. He could think of nothing except all the awful things he had ever said to her or done to her. And there were a lot. He let a tear slide down his face.

“I’m sorry, Margerie.” He let the words flow out of him easily. “I’m sorry I brought you out here. I let you down.” He broke down, weeping hard.

She forgives you. She loves you, Fred. She’s waiting.

The voices broke his sadness momentarily. He listened, holding the knife ready.

Do it, Fred. Join us, join her in eternal happiness.

The words were so mellow, yet commanding. He suddenly felt the need to follow them, to do what they said. He looked down at the knife in his hands.

Yes. End your suffering forever.

“Yes. I… I will… join her,” he mumbled. He didn’t know why but as he rolled up his sleeves he felt proud, a great sense of accomplishment coursing through him. And when he put the knife to his wrists and watched the blood flow freely from them, he almost smiled.

A stray thunder cloud rolled over the moon. The air was heavy, the water calm, and the trees still. Yet the screen door to Fred and Margerie’s house swung back and forth in its frame. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The swamp showed no signs of life, no croaking frogs, no hissing snakes, and no floating, smiling faces whispering for the end of suffering and the beginning of a better life.