Sam Williams - Tales from the Swollen Corpse

William’s Grandpa had gotten home later than usual and went straight to bed. In the morning, when he didn’t find William in the guest room, he figured he got an early start. After finding no trace of him at any of the normal jobs, he became worried and jumped into his pickup. He drove all the field service roads but when he got to the end of the south field by the old fence, something caught his eye. Looking up on the hill, it was the old scarecrow. Even though he couldn’t see it very well, he had been looking at it for thirty years. In that time it had always looked one breeze away from dust. This morning however, it seemed as if someone had just put it up there. The scarecrow’s shirt wasn’t flapping in the wind any more. Now it had the appearance of a belly, like it had just been stuffed.

William’s grandpa got in his truck and headed back to the farm house. Inside, he went to the kitchen and grabbed a beer. He took a seat at a little kitchen table beside the window. Maybe he went hiking or to town , he thought. Sipping his beer, he contemplated how long to wait before calling the boy’s mom. Looking out the window, his thoughts changed for moment. His focus was on the plants and trees. The leaves were starting to change, autumn was coming. The year had gone by too fast and it hadn’t been a good one. He was losing hope for the farm. Largely because of this feeling he had that had grown stronger today. It was a fear that, like the old Wilson place, his soil was going bad.

When I was a child, I was afraid of the devil. Sometime during my teenage years I became aware of mortality in the way you only can by getting older. Something, for good reason, keeps you from that understanding in youth. After that, death became my biggest fear. But now I am pressing sixty and I can say for certain there are far worse things to be afraid of then death or damnation.

I am not sorry for what I have become, nor do I fear the consequences. What I do fear is how much longer I will suffer. Something else I have come to know is that all things are equal and nowhere does that hold more true than with pain and pleasure. The old lore is wrong. A simple diet of blood will not suffice. We need suffering. Suffering is our sustenance. The suffering of our like is good, of the acquaintances we make fine, of the innocent divine.

I was thirty five when it all began. I had been married to poor Shannon for ten years. She had given me two beautiful daughters, twin girls that were turning five that year. My job paid well, we had no debt with the exception of a mortgage. The house was decent, three bedrooms and a big backyard complete with a golden retriever. On the surface it was a good life.

In my twenties I had developed a taste for inappropriate things. During the later part of my marriage my sex life with Shannon turned from monotonous to nonexistent. Then, as if I was starving, the taste for those “things” became cravings. There was no way for me to be open to Shannon about the things I was doing. Fearing my depravity would utterly destroy her, I lived a double life. Living this way, out of view, gave me the illusion my actions were devoid of consequences. I was tragically mistaken.

One day, while I was wasting time at work in one of my favorite chat rooms, I was contacted by a new member. The members handle, “Flesh_Lover”, sparked my interest to say the least. We hit it off and private messaged each other the rest of the afternoon. Just as I was about to log off to go home, I got an invitation to a party that very night. Party favors (I was hoping blow) and group sex was all I needed to hear. Within seconds, I was on the phone with Shannon giving a lame excuse for working late. When I received the time and directions, out the door I flew. It hadn’t occurred strange to me the ease at which I received the invitation/address from this complete stranger.

The directions led me to a seedy apartment complex. Always preserving my privacy, I parked a block away and walked back. The complex was two stories with a gated courtyard. Apartments were on the left and right, at the opposite end was another gate probably leading to an alley. It was already dark as I walked through the dimly lit courtyard. The place was probably something to behold when it was built. Now it consisted of patches of crabgrass surrounding a concrete fountain. The fountain’s base was full of dirt; it probably hadn’t had water in it for over twenty years.

Most of the porch lights were off so it was hard to read the numbers on the door. The unit I was looking for sat just to my left under the stairs. As I knocked I felt a rush of excitement, not knowing who was going to answer the door thrilled me. The woman who opened the door was less then stimulating but somewhat expected. She was on the other side of middle age. Her hair was bleached, thin and frizzy with dark black roots. Her face had that “older than it should” look. She wore a tattered robe with purposely exposed low hanging cleavage. The worn looking woman invited me in.

She introduced herself as Sarah. I lied and said my name was John. Since she looked like a hooker, using that name struck me as funny. The apartment was dark and sparsely furnished. The carpet was dingy and covered in stains. A pungent odor hung in the air, a very bad odor. I should have turned then but it was the dirtiness that I liked. “You’re the first here, I’m sure the others should be showing up soon.” Sarah said.

She was playing with her robe with one hand showing me how lose it was. Her teasing was working, any hesitation I had was disappearing. “How about an appetizer while you wait?” Sarah then turned and walked down a hall towards the bedroom.

Looking back, I can’t believe I was so stupid, but a different lust blinds me now. She was waiting for me at the end of the hall by the bedroom door. When I got there she put out a hand gesturing for me to go first. As soon as I opened the door, that smell became rancid and overpowered me. I turned to ask what was going on. I was speechless when I saw the face before me had changed. Her eyes had become completely black, her jaw elongated. A wicked grin exposed needle sharp teeth with serpent like fangs on each side.

I tried to push past her but she threw me into the room like a child tossing their teddy. I landed hard against the wall, knocking the wind out of me. In the room, I saw where the smell had been coming from. The closet doors were missing. Inside the closet stacked on top of each other were the remains of her previous meals. She was on me before I could move, her talon like fingers puncturing the flesh of my biceps as she held me down. Then she raised her head presenting that ghastly smile, ready to tear into my neck.

I begged for my life, going on about my wife and kids who I thought I’d never see again. This is what both saved and ended my life as I know it. Not because she had mercy, but because she was a sick demon bitch and she craved suffering. She would make me like she was and then send me home.

I eventually did go home and my sleep is still filled with nightmares of the screams of my loved ones. I hear the children innocently calling for help the name of the person killing them. I also eventually killed that demon bitch. It’s in our nature; she had to have been expecting it, probably part of her hoped for it.

That was many years ago, though I don’t look a day older. I have moved and changed my name twice since those events. I always end up in the suburbs; there I can fit in unnoticed. Some of the legends were true. I do sleep most days but the sun doesn’t hurt me. Now, with more control, I even maintain normal jobs and a little bit of a social life. It cracks me up though when I see my kind portrayed on the late night TV movies. I can recognize my kind and trust me, you shouldn’t think Lugosi. Now Dahmer, Gein and Gacy, those were vampires.