Carver Pike - Scalp

“All right, keep it down. Keep it down.” He was grumpy, and it wasn’t a show. He really did despise most people and detest most things. At some point in his life, Pa stopped giving a shit what everyone else thought. He ate what he wanted, drank what he wanted, and he smoked cigarettes like he wanted, regardless of what Dr. Vince said.

Vince. What a stupid name for a doctor. Sounds like some Italian out of New York City.

Pa pulled his pack out of his pocket, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and lit the end. This was his favorite part of the day. After work, when he had no more responsibilities, he could inhale that warm heat and blow away his worries. That’s how he felt about it and why he liked smoking so much. It purified him. Each inhale grabbed a few more of his problems and tossed them out on the breeze. He held up his cigarette and looked at the cherry on the end.

They taste like shit. But I love ‘em.

He’d kick the boy’s ass if he ever caught him with one, but it was his guilty pleasure, and he didn’t feel guilty at all about it.

Moses stopped barking when he saw Pa, and when Pa sat down on his favorite wooden crate to relax, the black Labrador meandered over to him and sat back on his haunches. It stared at Pa with its tongue lolling out. He was begging for food, and Pa didn’t have any. Not yet. Supper would be on the table in a few minutes, but even then, he wouldn’t give this dumb dog any.

“What you barking at, boy?” Pa asked.

The dog didn’t answer. Of course, he wouldn’t, but sometimes he’d at least turn and run toward whatever was bothering him. Once, he’d cornered a copperhead and the snake, for some reason, refused to pounce. Moses got lucky that time. If it had been a rattlesnake, there’d be no barking tonight. There’d be no barking for any other night either. That would be one dead dog.

Tonight, Moses sat still and watched the old man. Pa took another drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke at the dog’s face. He loved doing that. Usually, Moses would back up and bark at him once. Only once. Like it was the dog’s way of saying, “Fuck you, too.” This time, he didn’t budge.

Moses was quiet. Too quiet. In fact, the whole forest was silent. Pa spent so much time in this holler he never even noticed all the little sounds around him, but he knew they were there, like one big outdoor orchestra. Right now, the conductor had allowed the musicians to set down their instruments.

All was silent. Pa became suddenly aware of all those noises he usually ignored because none of them were making a peep. This wasn’t natural. Even in the winter, there were sounds in these woods.

Pa didn’t even realize he’d been holding in the smoke from the last drag on his cigarette. He’d been sitting there with his lips pressed together tightly, straining his ears for any sound out there. He might have even been satisfied with noise from inside the house, but Colleen must have been calmly plating dinner.

Finally, Pa blew out the smoke and blasted it in the dog’s direction. The mutt only sat up straighter, appalled by the gesture, and Pa thought he might have seen the dog’s hair move ever so slightly. Like a stiff wind raking over its hide or a hand petting its fur.

A death rattle sounded off. That’s what it sounded like to Pa. Like a giant letting out its final breath.

No, it was skittering, like a bucket of beetles had been set down beside him and they were all crawling over each other to get out. The clicking sound made his jaw clench tight, and he nearly severed the cigarette butt from the rest of the stick.

The sound was unnatural.

“What is that, boy?” he asked the dog.

Moses didn’t answer. He only sat still and watched him from his seated position a couple of feet away.

“Well you’re good for nothin’, ain’t ya?”

The dog didn’t budge.

Pa took one more drag off his cigarette.

He leaned forward and blew another cloud of smoke, but this time, as soon as it hit the dog’s snout, its eyes shot open wider than Pa had ever seen a dog’s eyes open. Something, a whole lot of something, leaped from the animal’s fur and landed on the top of Pa’s head.

His initial reaction was to claw at it, to rake at whatever had landed on him. He didn’t even scream. Real men didn’t do that. He was a real man, and he would never allow himself to—

Pa screamed as what felt like tiny dentist drills cut through his scalp.

A race of miniature piranhas burrowing into his skull, chomping at his flesh.

No, they had to be worms.

Parasites.

Pa screeched and clawed at his roots, digging in where the hair follicles met skin. He picked, pawed, and tried to peel back his scalp. Blood trickled down around his head as whatever was up there fought to eat its way through the bone and into his brain.

Hot coals burned at him.

His skin sizzled, but only he could hear the crackling of invisible flames.

Pa hit his knees and begged silently for the pain to end.

So many holes being drilled into his skull.

Then, at a spot close to the crown of his head, one of the tiny razor-toothed lice succeeded. Like the one sperm to win the race to the woman’s egg, it ate its way through the skull and dropped onto the brain, burning into his mind like radio-controlled battery acid.

Pa’s eyes shot open and a moan emitted from his gut. He couldn’t control it. The pain was so immense he pissed himself.

His fingers curled up into claws and locked that way.

A white milky substance ran over his eyes and blurred his vision. Tears mixed with them and landed on his cheeks.

He was only a passenger now.

Scorching hot blades raked at the insides of his arms and legs as tentacles reached into his extremities, taking control of them, and forcing his legs to move and his arms to lift and wobble around.

It was inside him, and it hated him. Its rage was so thick. Its hunger to kill so strong.

Pa was no longer in control.

They were. It was.

Only the rest of them were still lodged in his scalp, waiting for him to get close enough to another lifeform so they could pounce. Only one could win each race. Only one could control the body. The others would wait. The process would repeat until they were satisfied.

It would find another lifeforce.

But where?

Those that remained on the dog’s fur would wait too. The dog ran off into the woods. It was on the hunt.

Which way should it move? Where should it go?

“Pa, I can smell that smoke!” a voice called out. “Hurry up and get in here for supper.”

There. The source of that sound. That was where it needed to go.

The folks inside the Cloud 9 Trailer Park always knew how to have a good time. Most of the people living there were in their early to late forties. They were the stable ones anyway. Those younger than that were typically meth heads or hooked on pain pills. They partied too. Those older had been around so long they typically liked to watch TV during the day and then join the others outside at night to sip wine and smoke weed. Marijuana was illegal in the state, but that didn’t stop people from getting their hands on it.

Peter and Kev were a gay couple living in Cloud 9 and loving the free-spirited ways of their neighbors. They’d driven down from Trenton, New Jersey because Peter’s mom wasn’t doing so well on her own. She was an alcoholic who spent more time in the hospital than she did at home. This left her little terrier, Kit Kat, to fend for himself quite often.

Now that the guys had purchased their own trailer and were only a few lots away from Peter’s mom, they could take care of the dog whenever she went away.