Joel Arnold - Fetal Bait Apocalypse - 3 Collections in 1

Gerta’s face beamed. “Tonight is the night that Christoph comes to us.”

I said to Hastings, “Why do you let this go on?”

Hastings stood and took two steps back. His hand disappeared into a crack of the cave wall and reappeared holding a thin book bound in goatskin. A look of joy spread across his face. “ I can bring him back to you.”

“What?” I cried. “Stop this madness!”

Hastings nodded at the other patients, who stood by in silence. “These people give their lives for you, for your son. All of them were suicidal, Brahm, but I talked them into giving their lives so that someone else might live.”

Their malignancies pulsed with newfound vigor. Faster and faster they beat, as if each contained its own heart.

I feared for my sanity. I struggled within the straightjacket. “Do you use your patients as laboratory rats? You’re all mad!”

Gerta kneeled at my side. “Listen to him, Brahm. Christoph will soon be with us.”

I tried to bite her, but only managed to dash my head against the cave wall. A trickle of blood ran over my left eye, down my cheek, and into my mouth. I spat it onto the dirt floor. “I will not watch this!”

I squeezed my eyes shut, then heard Hastings in front of me. “I’ve waited years to perform such a miracle, studying, learning, practicing. And ever since Gerta arrived, she’s prayed to give your son back to you.”

I thrashed within my restraints.

“Surely, you wish to witness the rebirth of your son.”

Gerta took hold of my head. I tried to keep my eyes shut, but Hastings’ fingers dug into them, prying them apart. Pain pierced the soft, baggy flesh beneath each eye, and in both eyelids. Something now kept my eyes propped open. I could not help but see. I gasped when I realized the objects forcing my eyes open were two of the crucifixes pulled from Gerta’s necklace.

“An asylum is a wonderful place,” Hastings mused. “So many people wanting love and attention. And they’re willing to give so much in return.”

Hastings stepped from patient to patient with his ugly dagger. He opened his book and read aloud words I did not understand. He sliced open the tumors one by one.

From each freshly opened wound, something spilled.

They were appendages. Small body parts.

Each had grown to its present size within the protective ooze of the tumors.

I cried out. I raved incoherently.

Gerta gathered the pieces in front of me as the patients fell dead one by one.

The pieces of flesh pulsed in the maddening torchlight.

As the last patient fell dead to the ground, Hastings turned to me. Again, he lifted his dagger.

“It needs you, Brahm. It needs the life-force of your blood to complete the miracle.”

“What miracle ?” I rasped.

“The mad know many truths. So many delusions are but images sent from God. So many mad ramblings are but His words, His voice speaking through these poor, wretched vessels. I am their translator. Through them, I hear God’s wishes. Be glad, my friend, for He wishes your son to be reborn.”

He drew the dagger swiftly across my forehead. Blood stung my eyes. Hastings cupped his hands beneath my chin to catch it.

I had screamed so much that no more sound came from my throat. I fell limp against the cave wall as Gerta lovingly stroked my blood-matted hair.

Hastings dribbled my blood on the pile of appendages. They writhed together, coalescing into one unit of flesh and blood. How much time passed, I do not know. But time ceased to matter when all sanity had left the world.

I remember Gerta gasping, then clapping with delight. “Oh, Brahm,” she said.

I remember hearing the wet, desperate cry of a newborn babe.

Here is the last of it. Here is where I write about what had to be done. Here is where I write what a sane man had to do, what a moral man must do.

After they unbound me, after they led me back to Gerta’s room, after I slept for many hours, I at last awoke to the sound of crying.

I was alone in the room with — with that thing.

I wasted no time.

There was a creek outside, frozen over with a rind of ice. I set the thing in the snow, and with a large rock, chipped through the ice until there was running water.

I took it — I took the child — and held it beneath the icy water.

But Christoph; you know that I have always loved you.

I am a sentimental, foolish man.

Mr. Krenshaw;

That’s the end of them. Crazy shit, huh? But just because the letters end, doesn’t mean the story is over.

Let’s just imagine that the paternal side of Brahm Zwick took over. Perhaps as he held the child-thing in the freezing water, he felt it struggle and kick, and he could not go through with it.

Just imagine that.

And imagine that he lifted the child-thing from the water, wrapped it in his coat and brought it back to Gerta’s room. He fed it. Stroked its face. Perhaps kissed it on the forehead, held it, felt it warm in his arms. Imagine…

Imagine Gerta and Hastings raising the child in the privacy of the institution, the patients treating it as one of their own, playing with him, teaching him the things they knew.

And imagine that one day, when the boy was a young man, his mother took his hand and they walked from the asylum’s grounds, never to return.

And imagine that young man had a child, and that child had a child, who bore another child.

One generation translating into the next.

And that last child grew up to be me.

Gerta found the letters not long after Brahm Zwick left. He’d gone back to the cave and left them crumpled on the cave floor. Gerta saved the letters and eventually gave them to Christoph, and they were passed down from generation to generation.

Stuvey was Gerta’s maiden name.

So do with the letters what you choose. I still have the originals. And if you think this a hoax, well—

I’ll always know the truth.

Sincerely,

Jim Stuvey

“I saw her. I swear to you, I saw her.”

— from the suicide note pried from the hand of John Paris.

From the managing editor of American Highways Magazine :

From: Doherty, Arlene

Sent: Thursday, July 24, 2008 2:58 PM

To: Paris, John

CC: Doherty, Arlene

Subject: Old Faithful Inn Ghost Anniversary Query

John,

I love it! Let’s schedule this. Yes, weave the legend of the headless bride through interviews with the Inn’s employees and guests. Perhaps some can join you to observe the anniversary of this event? Bring the Inn to life as much as possible — figure about 2800 words, due December 1. As far as photos, take lots, particularly of the Inn — I hear it’s beautiful — the people, the amazing scenery. Remember, we need at least 300 dpi. I’ve got a contact with the WY Dept. of Tourism, so can possibly get you a few nights comped.

Any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.

Arlene

From the Wyoming Department of Tourism:

From: Lemon, Cynthia

Sent: Tuesday, August 12, 2008 10:34 AM

To: Paris, John; Doherty, Arlene

Subject: Old Faithful Inn lodging request

Dear Mr. Paris:

I’ve arranged a room in the old house of the Old Faithful Inn for the nights of September 4 thand 5 th. The Inn’s manager, Dale Shroud, is a great guy, and it might behoove you to shake his hand and tell him thanks for putting you up gratis. I also recommend talking to Craig Vetter from Bozeman, cell # 406-555-3281. He’s the one to talk to regarding your ghost. He knows the place like the back of his hand and was interviewed for some show on the Travel Channel about it. He came off as quite the colorful character.