Richard Laymon - Flesh

Helen must’ve been burning incense. In spite of the breeze coming in through the open windows, a faint pine odor still hung in the air.

No light came from the crack beneath Helen’s bedroom door.

Alison had expected Helen to be waiting up, eager for an account of the night’s events. It must be after eleven, though. With an eight o’clock class in the morning, she had probably decided to forget her curiosity and turn in.

By the dim light from the windows, Alison made her way into the corridor and entered the bathroom. She washed her face. She brushed her teeth. She used the toilet.

Standing in the bathroom doorway for a moment, she got her bearings then switched off the light and angled across the dark hall to the staircase. She climbed the stairs slowly, gliding a hand up the banister.

Her room at the top, illuminated by a gray glow from its single window, seemed almost bright after the blackness of the staircase. Its open curtains trembled slightly in the breeze.

At this distance, Alison couldn’t feel the breeze at all. The room felt stifling, even worse than she had expected.

No middle ground, she thought. You’re either shivering or sweating.

She lowered her purse to the floor, out of the way so she wouldn’t trip over it if she needed to make a late trip to the toilet.

Then she took off her blouse and dropped it to the floor. She unfastened her shorts. She drew them down, along with her panties, and stepped out of them.

The room was still uncomfortably hot, but she could feel a hint of the breeze on her bare skin.

With a glance over her shoulder, she stepped backward to the door of her closet and leaned against it. The door banged shut. She flinched and caught her breath, shocked as much by the support giving way behind her as by the sharp noise.

She took a deep, trembling breath.

She bumped the door with her buttocks. Now it was shut all the way.

The smooth, painted wood felt cool on her skin. Braced against it, she raised one leg and pulled off her shoe and sock. Then the other.

At the dresser, she opened a drawer and moved her hand across the clothing. Her fingers slipped over the filmy fabric of the new negligee. It was lighter than the others, and would feel fine on a night such as this. She took it out, carried it past the end of her bed, and stood in front of the window.

The faint breeze drifted in, roaming her skin. Not long ago, the cool air had chilled her to the bone. Now, it felt wonderful. It curled around Alison’s thighs, slipped between her legs, caressed her belly, slid over her breasts and beneath her arms. She dropped the negligee. She placed her hands high on the window frame and spread her legs and closed her eyes.

The soft touch of the breeze moved over her.

After hearing the toilet flush, Roland counted slowly to sixty. He made the count again and again. Then his mind wandered. He pictured Alison in her attic room taking off her clothes, getting into bed. In his fantasy, she wasn’t covered by a sheet. She wore only a pajama shirt. He saw himself standing over her, carefully unfastening the buttons as she slept, spreading open the shirt. Her skin looked like ivory in the dim light from the window. He reached down to touch her and suddenly she was obese, she was Helen and she was dead, and she grinned up at him. He lurched, bumping his forehead against the boxsprings.

He lowered his head to the floor.

And held his breath, listening, half expecting Helen to moan or turn on the mattress above him, awakened by the jolt.

Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. She’s dead as shit.

But I’m right under her.

He listened and heard nothing. Helen’s eyes were open, though. He could see them open. She knew he was under her bed.

Roland must’ve spent hours in the narrow space only a couple of feet beneath her corpse. It seemed unfair that his mind should start turning against him now, when he was almost done with the wait.

He still heard nothing.

But Helen was listening as she gazed with dead eyes at the ceiling, and she could hear Roland under the bed—his quick heartbeat and shaky breath.

“You’re dead,” he whispered.

Helen rolled over, got to her hands and knees, ripped open the mattress with crooked fingers and tore out great clumps of stuffing. Then she was staring down at him through the mattress tunnel. She bared her teeth. She snarled and thrust her hand down the hole, clawing toward his face.

It isn’t happening, he told himself.

But he trembled and gasped. He had to get out. He felt as if spiders were scurrying over his body. He scooted sideways over the carpet, but stopped just beneath the side of the bed frame. Helen was waiting up there. Waiting to grab him when he emerged.

With a stifled whimper, he thrust himself into the open and rolled clear. He sat up. In the dim light from the window, Helen was a motionless mound beneath the covers of her bed.

Watching her, Roland got to his feet. He kept his eyes on her as he sidestepped to the bedroom door. He opened the door, stepped out, and pulled it shut. He backed away from it.

No longer in the presence of the body, his fear slowly subsided. He felt angry and embarrassed for letting his imagination torment him.

Why, he wondered, had his friend allowed him to lose control that way? Certainly, it could’ve stopped the horrid thoughts—given him a nice zap to remind him of Alison. Did it enjoy his suffering? Or did it simply not care?

He touched the bulge at the back of his neck.

I’m doing it all for you, he thought.

Then he felt ashamed. This was his friend, who had turned his secret fantasies into reality, who had led him into a new life even more bizarre and thrilling than his most lurid dreams. The fear was his own fault. He had no right to blame his friend.

As if stirred by the reassurance, or perhaps only to remind him of what lay ahead, his friend sent a small tremor of pleasure through Roland.

Had enough time gone by? He wanted Alison to be asleep before he went up to her. Otherwise, she might cry out. Her window had been open when Roland went exploring after he’d finished cleaning the mess in the living room. She wouldn’t have closed it; the house was still too hot. With the window open, a scream might be heard by someone outside or even by the people who lived downstairs.

Roland needed to catch her asleep. Then, there would be no scream or struggle.

He went to the sofa, sat down, and waited.

He savored the waiting. Last night with Celia had been incredible. But Alison had stunning beauty along with an innocent, alluring quality that Celia lacked. She would be…overwhelming.

It would be like a dream.

All night with her.

But he needed to wait. Settling back on the sofa, he folded his hands behind his head and stared at the dark screen of the television. He called up an image of Alison in the mall wearing the jumpsuit with the zipper down the front that he longed to slide down. She’d had a bag in her hand. So had Celia. He wondered what they had bought that day.

Roland grinned. Whatever they’d bought, it cost plenty. It cost their lives and Helen’s too. If he hadn’t seen them at the mall…

He would’ve chosen someone else, not the Three Musketeers.

Big enough to share with a friend.

His stomach growled.

Desire pulsed through him. Roland writhed, gasping, until it faded.

Okay, he thought. I get the message.

Leaning forward, he pulled off his shoes and socks. He pulled off his shirt and spread it on the top of the table. Standing, he slipped the knife from its case and placed it on the shirt. He removed his handcuffs from a front pocket of his jeans. Digging into the other front pocket, he took out a smashed and flattened roll of duct tape.