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

This collection is gratefully dedicated to all of my friends and family. Thank you to Stan Swanson and Dark Moon Books for taking a chance on me, and to Kacy Danek for being my personal coach, friend, and unpaid editor. Last but most certainly not least, thank you to my wonderful parents, precious children and beloved Lou. Without your love and support, I would achieve nothing in this life.

Many thanks as well to the Dark Moon crew including Araminta Star Matthews, Kurt Reichenbaugh and Max Booth III for all their hard work and Whendy Muchlis Effendy for his wonderful cover art.

Jimmy squatted by the garden, his elbows resting on dirty knees. He pushed back his ball cap to scratch his receding hairline, squinting in the early morning sunlight at the small pile of gleaming guts in the grass.

Hmmmmph! Now what the hell is that? Though it was only a thought, he still flinched, waiting for Mama to cuff his ear for cursing. Mama had been dead and buried for over a year, but he still felt her presence, hovering in anticipation of his next infraction.

Edna DeLeon hadn’t raised her only child to be a foul mouth.

The guts looked clean, not bloody like they’d been torn out by a cat or something. Jimmy thought they probably came from a rabbit or squirrel. A tiny, dark organ that may have been the liver was attached to the innards by a vessel no thicker than a thread. He poked at the pile with his index finger, wondering how it came to be in his yard, and where the rest of the unfortunate critter was. His finger began to tingle and he pulled it back in surprise. There was a faint odor around the pile he hadn’t noticed before, not the sort of nasty smell one associated with entrails, but a light, musky odor. It was almost pleasant. Jimmy inhaled deeply to breathe in more of the scent.

As the unusual smell flooded his senses, he regarded the pile of guts with more curiosity than distaste. James DeLeon was a lot of things, but squeamish was never one of them. He grabbed the squishy pile of guts in his bare hand, meaning to throw them on the compost heap at the edge of the garden, but one end of the intestines seemed stuck to the grass. He tugged slightly, the slimy rope stretching a bit before the resistance he felt became a pulling of its own. It slipped through his hand and disappeared into the ground, with a faint slurping noise that reminded him of eating his Mama’s spaghetti.

What on Earth?

The entire mess was gone; only a small, irregular hole in the ground marked where it had been. Jimmy blinked. Had that really just happened? Did the ground really just suck those guts up like pasta?

His whole hand tingled now and, though it had faded somewhat, the unusual scent lingered. Jimmy leaned forward, his nose pressed to the grass as he peered into the tiny hole left behind. It was hardly bigger than a drinking straw, the edges dark with raw soil. It actually looked like an earthworm burrow. The way the intestines had wriggled out of his hand was certainly worm-like.

Jimmy straightened up and wiped his hands on his overalls before heading down the path to the house. It was awfully warm this morning and he’d been working in the garden for a while. His back was sore from being hunched over so long and he accepted that he wasn’t a kid anymore. Maybe he should just go in and have himself a cool glass of water and a short nap. He decided it was a good idea and, resisting the urge to glance back at where the little pile had been, he mounted the steps and entered the house.

He had almost convinced himself the whole thing hadn’t happened, or that maybe it had been a big ol’ night crawler he’d gotten hold of, but one thing still troubled him. As he went about his daily chores, the same question kept returning to his mind.

Why would a pile of innards, or an earthworm for that matter, have given him half a hard-on?

Jimmy suffered fitful dreams that night and woke up early the next morning, feeling tired and a little hung-over.

When Mama had been alive, she never allowed beer in the house. The day he put her in the ground out at Shady Pines Cemetery, Jimmy brought home a twelve-pack and, in the year since, made a habit of keeping beer in the fridge at all times. It was no longer her house.

It still looked like her house, the same frilly drapes and matching hand-towels adorned the master bathroom.

He hadn’t touched anything in her bedroom. But he considered the place his now, to be ruled under his rules. The beer was the first change. Jimmy had never lived alone before; never left his mother’s nest. Initially, he feared he would be lonely, but found the absence of Mama’s constant harping and slapping refreshing. He did miss her cooking, though.

After a long shower (there was no one around to berate him for wasting water), Jimmy got dressed and checked the beer situation in the fridge.

Uh oh. Only two left. He decided to go into town. He thought maybe he’d stop by the café for breakfast and see Charlene. Though being in town caused him anxiety, he would do anything for the chance to exchange a few words with his favorite waitress. The thought of seeing Charlene’s smile (even if it was because she kind of had to) made up his mind. Grabbing his sweat-stained ball cap, Jimmy crammed it on his head to cover his bald spot and headed out the door.

The garage sat at the end of the walk, beyond the vegetable garden. Jimmy stopped abruptly, the sweat on his body cold despite the heat of the late June morning. The pile of guts was back, this time larger than before. Today it looked to have come from a cat or full grown rabbit. The smell was back too, much stronger this time. Jimmy could smell it from ten feet away, and became instantly erect.

All thoughts of beer and Charlene disappeared as he once again knelt in the grass.

The guts felt warm and sticky, once again clean of blood. He hefted them in his hand, careful not to pull at the section that disappeared into the ground like some strange umbilicus. A pleasant tingling permeated his flesh.

“ What the blue hell is going on here?” This time Jimmy didn’t flinch, ignoring his mother’s voice in his head as she berated him for cursing.

James Allen DeLeon! You will not cuss in my house!

“I’m not in the house, Mama. And you’re dead.”

At the sound of his voice arguing with his imagination, the guts once again slurped into the ground. Jimmy grabbed tight to the end, but it broke off in his hand, leaving him holding a scant inch of gleaming intestine. He wiped it on his jeans without thought, his eyes on the hole left behind.

It was larger this time, big enough to admit his sausage-like index finger. Before he could lose his nerve, he poked the finger in and wriggled it around inside the hole. The interior was warm and moist. And slimy . Again he thought of an earthworm. Strange. Just as he was about to pull his finger out, the hole began to move. Pulling gently at his finger, it began to make those slurping noises. Sucking noises.

Jimmy pulled back so violently that he fell onto his ass in the garden. A tomato plant broke his fall, the fruit squishing beneath his considerable weight and soaking through his jeans.

Great! Just Great! Now it’s gonna look like I got my period! He laughed despite himself. Edna DeLeon hadn’t allowed cursing in her house, but it was really forbidden for men to talk about lady stuff.

Jimmy sat on the remains of the tomato plant,staring at the grass. The dark hole in the ground stared back at him, exuding its seductive odor. He wondered where it had come from and what had caused it.