C. LaSart - Ad Nauseam - 13 Tales of Extreme Horror

“It’s okay, boy.” William said, grabbing the bloody rock that had left a dent in his skull. It was heavy and sharp in his hand as he lifted it over his head to smash the squirrel, but he froze in position. His head thumped and swam, his thoughts a jumble of confusion surrounded by a red mist of agony. He couldn’t do it. He knew it would even be a kindness at this point, to put the creature out of its obvious misery, but he found himself admiring its spirit. Crippled and dying it still came, dedicated to its cause.

William dropped the rock as bitter tears ran down his face. He thought about how he must appear from the outside. Thought about what he was on the inside.

I’m useless and old. And I’m losing my mind. I can’t even vanquish a squirrel. I’m just an old man with an old dog, weeping in my yard. William wished more than anything that he had died in the fall. He was an embarrassment to his family. A burden on his children and wife.

Guilt gave way to anger in a flash. It was Kristi who had caused all of this, Kristi who forced him to hurt the squirrel.

It’s her constant nagging that’s driven me crazy. The stress of putting up with her harping all those years had caused a nervous breakdown of some sort. I’m not demented, just plain fed-up! She has even turned my son against me. William thought about the way Max had spoken to him. His harsh, accusatory tone. He thought about his job. Never gone a single day due to illness, and they pushed him out the second something started to go wrong with his mind. But not Kristi, her mind was just fine.

Something tugged at the hem of his robe and he looked down, watching as the squirrel bit the terry cloth.

The stubborn little bastard made it. He felt an overwhelming sympathy for the beast roll through his chest, constricting his lungs so he couldn’t draw a breath. The anger flared anew, almost crippling in its intensity. In that moment he knew what he should do. His head was fuzzy again and he was having trouble keeping his thoughts straight as memories and emotions warred with darker images he didn’t want to see. He knew what he could do to make it all better for him and the squirrel.

Rising to a painful crouch, William cupped his hands around the squirrel, wincing only slightly when the rodent sunk its large, yellow teeth into the pad of flesh at the base of the thumb. He cradled it to his body and slowly climbed the porch steps, each step making his head and ribs sing out a duet of agony. At the back door he stopped and turned towards Devon.

“You coming, old dog?”

The hound looked at his owner, then at the half-dead creature still cradled in his hands. He whined and sat down.

“Suit yourself. I’m going in.”

Devon whined again in indecision, then bolted up the steps and slunk through the door before it closed.

“Oh Damnit, William.” Kristi walked across the lawn to where the ladder still leaned against the back of the house for the second day in a row. “I guess I will have to put it away myself. And what’s this?”

The shattered remains of her favorite lawn ornament lay in the grass and she felt her irritation ramp up another notch, until she noticed the pool of sticky blood. A crimson- smeared rock lay close by, as well.

Oh no! William.

She had feared this day would come. For months Kristi had left for work every morning wondering if it was safe to leave William alone. She had fought with her oldest son for months about whether they should tell him what was going on, but William had some pride and she couldn’t bring herself to hurt him. Now she may be too late.

Her high heels caught on the steps and she fell forward in her haste to get into the house, tearing her panty hose and skinning one knee. Climbing back to her feet, she flung open the door, calling out to her husband in a panic-stricken voice.

“William!” The lights were off and all the blinds closed, casting the interior of the kitchen in gloomy shadow. Kristi smelled the dogshit a second before she stepped in it and slid, her hand grabbing the counter to keep from falling.

“Ouch!” Something jabbed her palm. A sewing needle had pierced the flesh of her palm and she could see her sewing kit open on the counter. A small cry escaped her as she pulled it out with her teeth. The cry was echoed by a whine from across the room.

“Devon?”

The dog whined again but didn’t approach. Kristi reached for the light switch, freezing when William’s voice broke the silence.

“Don’t. The light hurts his eyes.” His voice sounded strange, groggy.

“William? Are you okay? What’s wrong with Devon?” She reached for the switch again.

“I said don’t!”

Kristi recoiled as if struck. She could see William’s silhouette in the doorway but little else. Something cold and wet touched her hand and she screamed, realizing belatedly that it was just Devon. He sat in front of her, whining and growling low in his throat, though William ignored him.

“I always wondered why you had so many spools of goddamned thread in your sewing kit. Who the hell needs all that thread?”

Kristi flicked the light switch, bathing the kitchen in a glow from the chandelier. She winced when she saw her husband, his hair matted with gore and the side of his blue robe dark with blood.

“Oh William. What happened to you?” She took one step toward him, then stopped when his lip turned up in a sneer, his eyes wild and darting.

“You wanted that goddamned squirrel gone.”

“William, you’re hurt. Let me call someone. Your head wound looks really bad.”

“Great idea. Why don’t you call that doctor that you’re probably fucking. Or better yet, call my son so you two can talk about how crazy I am.”

As he took slow steps towards her, his robe fell open and Kristi saw something on his side wiggle. Her mouth opened for a scream that wouldn’t come when she saw the atrocity sticking out from his side. Mangled and burned, its eyes scorched blind and milky, a squirrel jutted from his ribs. The thing squealed at her and she felt her bladder let loose, warm urine running down her legs. Thick, dark stitches held the creature to William’s skin, haphazard sutures still weeping blood. The thing struggled to be free, its teeth clicking shut as it cried out, straining the thread and tearing its own flesh in the process.

“Oh Jesus, William! What have you done?”

“Oh dear. Did you just piss yourself? Who’s old now? It’s okay, Kristi.” He took another step towards her and she realized he held something dark and sharp in his other hand. The poker from the fireplace. “I almost killed him because of you. You animal-hating bitch. But’s it’s okay. I fixed him. My body is still strong. It will heal him.”

William raised the poker over his head, his eyes bright with insanity as the dog growled and his wife shrieked.

“Shhhhhh, it’s okay, babe. I know there’s something wrong with my head. But it’s going to be all right. I mean, you have enough brains for both of us. And we have plenty of thread…”

Micah had all but given up on his dream of becoming a writer on the day that he met Muse. When he graduated from school with his Bachelor’s Degree in Creative Writing, he’d been filled with fantasies of becoming a best-selling horror author. Despite his professor’s constant harping that he should not write genre fiction, he still loved horror and planned to make his writing career with scary novels. He knew he’d have to start somewhere else first, so he took a position at the newspaper as a copy editor, telling himself it was just until he landed his first contract with a major publisher. Five years later, long years filled with writer’s block, interrupted by inconsistent streaks of stories that led to stacks of rejection letters so tall they fell to the floor every time he sat at his desk, Micah still worked at the paper, editing articles written by other people.