Sam Williams - Tales from the Swollen Corpse

“You mother fuc…”

Tony shrugged, stood up, and left. Music filled the room while he opened and shut the door. The look of shame Tony had on his face replaced the anger I was feeling with a dire understanding. Looking over, I saw Emily was already up and talking to some new admirers. She was wearing a new outfit that was showing off an incredible body I would have remembered had it existed before.

What did you do ? I thought as I shook my head. No sooner had I thought it and she flashed me an uncomfortable glance. It was very brief but her eyes seemed cold and almost threatening.

I stood up and slipped the pills into my pocket. Without making eye contact with anyone, I slipped out the door to the party. Looking out into the crowd, I saw two stunning young ladies. They were dancing with each other in such a way that they were putting on a show of their own. Figuring I had all night to get to the dirty work, I thought, Why not have a little fun?

Walking towards them, some kid bumped into me. Whether it was the fried brain cells or the incredibly oversized pants that had caused him to stumble, was anyone’s guess. He asked me if I knew where to score some E, his slow words made me guess brain cells. Well , I thought, might as well get it done .

“How much you need?” I asked.

“For me and my girl.” He seemed elated.

“It’s your lucky day, my friend.” I said with a smile, while laying a hand on his shoulder.

The music thumped on.

It seems that somehow you are aware of, but don’t realize, your worst mistakes; not until the second after they’re committed. That’s how it was when I killed my older brother. It was Christmas Eve and I was seven. Richard had come dressed as the Krampus. I believed in all the stories. Expecting a visit, I prepared to protect myself. I had hidden a kitchen knife in my robe. When I opened the door and saw the beast before me, I didn’t hesitate and plunged the blade into its belly. Maybe it was the sound of poor Richard groaning, but I instantly knew I had done something terribly wrong.

The authorities declared it a tragic accident. Of course they and everyone else in town blamed my parents and their old world traditions. What those people, and later the therapist I was sent to, would never be able to understand is that the Krampus is real.

It’s been several years since that Christmas, the first Christmas he came for real. Each year after, I either escaped him, or he didn’t show. The years he didn’t come, I simply assumed I was a “good boy”. The others were a battle. The first was the worst. After the first incident, I was assured that he didn’t exist so I didn’t prepare, and he almost had me. Because of what had happened, I wasn’t going to sleep. I was up when he came.

Lying in my bed, hugging a tear soaked pillow, I heard something outside. The tragedy had removed any fear of monsters. To my parent’s dismay, sometimes deer would eat from the little planter outside my window. The thought of seeing one cheered me up a little. My window was fogged and I opened it just a crack. I was sure I had scared it away, but then I heard it again. I opened the window wider and fell back onto the floor when two hands gripped the window sill. The fingers were long and boney and came to a point; they resembled a bird’s talons. The arms were a pale flesh, covered in fine, almost-translucent white hair. A horrible face appeared out of the darkness. It was framed by two twisted horns on each side. As the creature raised itself slowly through my window, I saw the knobby end of my bat poking out from under my bed.

Little seven-year-old me didn’t put up much of a fight with my baseball bat, but it was enough to get my parents in the room. When they arrived it disappeared. After midnight, I was safe for the next year. But each year after, I prepared for him. Most years it was by finding a way to stay with my parents for the night. Other years, especially as I grew older, it was traps and fighting back.

This is my forty second year and it has been, by far, the worst in a lifetime of bad. My only good years were the last five, when my son David came into my life. But it was this year I had decided to drive Davey back from the fair after having one too many. Davey didn’t make it home. I did, albeit after a long hospital stay.

I now live in the mountains on a large parcel of land, far away from any neighbors. As I look out at the snow covered trees, the ever-growing shade tells me dusk is upon us. It’s Christmas Eve, and while most families have come together about this time around a dinner table or fireplace, I sit alone and watch the movement in the shadows. There is something out there. It’s something for which I have no fight left, something that with each inch of the setting sun gets closer.

Bill could not feel his wife’s hand embrace his. He could not know her dire need for the caress to be returned. He could not hear the beeps and hums of the machines keeping him alive. He couldn’t hear or feel anything, not since collapsing that morning in the kitchen. He also didn’t hear the beeps turn into a buzz or feel the cold gel of the paddles being pressed against his chest. He did see a flash of light followed by another, then a flicker and then darkness.

In the darkness Bill heard a something. First it was muffled, then as if waking from a deep sleep, it became clear. The sound he heard was of children playing and they were around him. He opened his eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping or if he had, he’d been doing it standing. In front of him was a wall of windows just above a short little toy filled shelf that stretched the length of the room. Outside he could see a sidewalk covered in shade; beyond that was a patch of grass enjoying the bright yellow sunshine.

Hesitantly he turned from the widow. The room before him was familiar. It had changed since he’d seen it last, but he recognized it. He was standing in his fourth grade classroom. Bill remembered his mom had decided to send him to this special school that year. It was called the Monarch Foundation, one of the area’s few private schools. The idea was to have a less rigid structure, allowing the kids to learn at their own pace. Bill’s mom had bought into this idea with a mother’s intentions of giving her son an advantage in life. Unfortunately his father, under impressed with the results compared to the price of tuition, pulled him after a year.

Things didn’t look that different from when Bill attended. The kids had changed more than the room itself and most were at the age their parents still picked out their outfits so they didn’t look all that different either. The room itself was an open environment approach, without the rows of desks one would see in a normal classroom.

Kids were scattered all around him. Some were reading, some playing and others sitting in groups working with the two teachers. None seemed to notice Bill except one little girl sitting on the floor. A little blond girl in pig tails with piercing pale blue eyes. The color of her skin and dress stuck out amongst the other children. She seemed to be a lighter hue than everyone else. She was like looking at superimposed image. She sat staring at Bill. When he moved to walk towards her, she stood shaking her head and gesturing for him to stop. Before he understood what she was trying to say, a boy ran by Bill barely striking him. The boy kept on as if Bill wasn’t there but Bill spun through the air as if he had been clipped by a car. He slammed into the shelf with bone breaking force. Nothing on the shelf moved.

Standing back up, he was surprised there was no pain. Looking around, no one seemed to notice the incident except the little girl who was silently shaking her head. He looked at three little wooden blocks stacked on each other on the shelf, they hadn’t moved. He tried to push them over but they didn’t budge, not the slightest. He tried to pick up a book and got the same result as if it was nailed down. He could see a ring in the dust were something had been moved. He ran his finger through it and nothing; he could feel a little grit as his finger moved over the dust but he couldn’t even produce a smudge.