Тим Леббон - New Fears 2 - Brand New Horror Stories by Masters of the Macabre

It looked at him and perhaps smiled. Moved its face anyway in a way that frightened him.

“Back for more?” it said.

“I was just leaving,” said Lars.

The creature ignored him. “You wanted another story?” it said. “Is that what you came for?” And it reached out toward his face.

It didn’t touch him, but his face still felt warm. He could not, he suddenly found, move.

It reached down and wormed further into the sheath. What had not been a hand became a hand. It flexed the fingers experimentally, settling the skin deeper around them.

“No story,” it said. “I haven’t eaten.”

Lars felt the flashlight slip from his fingers. It struck the floor with a clunk, then began to roll away, the sound abruptly cut off as if, suddenly, it was no longer there.

“Well,” it said. “What am I to do with you?”

The fire roared and then suddenly fell silent, the rest of the room too. In the silence, the creature came closer. First it touched Lars with its hand, then with the thing that was not a hand, and finally it wrapped what remained of the loose, empty skin around him and drew him in.

The limitless sky outside Andrew’s bedroom window was the hue of soured milk and mushrooms. It wasn’t an unusual sky for a cold, late autumn day, with the fallen leaves dark and shredded, streaking the lawns, turned into a decaying filth encrusting the edges of things.

Last night someone had turned over the trashcans put out for this morning’s collection. Up and down the street the large green cans lay on their sides, garbage spilling over the sidewalks and out into the lanes. He wondered who could have been so angry, or in these times was it a sign of the carefree? Everyone would think a gang of young people did it, but sightings of sick raccoons had been reported in the neighbourhood the past few weeks. Wasn’t it more likely to be one of them? A flyer stuck in his door had provided a phone number to call in case of a sighting, and a warning not to approach, as raccoons were known carriers of rabies.

To make matters worse, vehicles had driven through this cold variegated sludge and dragged the trash everywhere. Some of his neighbours were already out there vigorously trying to make things right. He’d neglected to put his own trash out; it slipped his mind regularly. Still, he needed to lend a hand.

But he hadn’t talked to any of these people since his wife’s passing. And now, several years later, how could he even begin? There was far too much that should have been said.

On such days he longed for snow to cover everything, to provide some semblance that the world had been made fresh. But more often than not the snow did not come, and he’d choose to close the curtains rather than look outside. Which he did now, in case one of his neighbours looked up at the window and saw him spying on all their efforts.

From inside his body came a soft noise like something breaking. He could feel his deadened flesh falling away, bones slipping and sour organs spilling out. Still, he managed to move forward despite his demise.

It bothered him, how sensitive he was to changes in the weather, to colours, to atmosphere and mood. It was hard to say how he really felt about anything.

He’d rearranged his bedroom several times in the years since Marge’s death. He’d first gotten rid of the bed and all the bedding. He’d given their daughters the chest of drawers, the twin nightstands, her armoire, her clothes and jewellery. They’d been happy to receive them, although they didn’t understand why he’d wanted to let her things go so quickly. He didn’t know how to explain, but he felt his life depended on it.

Later he’d removed key pieces from the living and dining rooms—the ones she’d liked the most—and given them to various thrift shops. He and his wife had had similar tastes so it was necessary to replace some of the furniture with styles not at all to his liking. He wanted no reminders. As a result, some mornings it felt as if he had awakened in a random hotel. Who had chosen such bland artwork? He must have ordered it online, although he couldn’t remember actually doing so. Desert scenes, mostly, a fried-egg sun over plains of crumbling whites. The American Southwest, or perhaps Australia, or some alien world.

Andrew went over to his dresser and sorted his prescriptions and supplements. He re-read the yellowing paper specifying the proper amounts. He had no idea why he couldn’t remember them, but he could not. He dutifully consumed his pills with three full glasses of water. He had no idea what might happen if he neglected to take them. He doubted that there would be anything dramatic, but he wouldn’t take the chance. His primary focus of late was to avoid suffering. His ancient physician had told him, “You’re actually pretty healthy, considering. Hell, you’re in better shape than me!”

His eyes began their involuntary flutter. He clutched the edges of the dresser as anxiety grabbed onto him and shook. Several bottles fell over, a half-empty glass. He would have a mess to clean up. “Nerves,” the physician called it. One of these bottles was supposed to take care of his nerves, but often did not. Of course, Andrew had never revealed to his doctor all his symptoms.

His hands appeared claw-like, the skin stretched. When had his wrists gotten so skinny? He’d been trying to lose weight, but feared that some of his weight loss might be involuntary. How could you tell the difference? He supposed if he suddenly died he would have his answer.

His vision blurred slightly. Great hunks of flesh began to disappear from his arms and legs. They looked like partially eaten chicken wings and drumsticks. It was enough to put one off meat, but he figured he needed the protein. He gazed down at his naked body. Numerous bits were missing, others dripping. He felt the beginnings of nausea, made his hands let go of the dresser, and ran to the bathroom.

Once he’d emptied his system sufficiently the visions disappeared. He stared at himself in the mirror. Mirrors had become largely useless. They rarely showed him anyone he could recognize.

He went back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. He’d have to do something about the smell. He hated how his body smelled even at the best of times. He was tempted to crawl back under the covers but would not allow himself that escape. Again, he sensed that his life depended on it.

He should eat something, although he couldn’t think of anything he was hungry for. Something pre-packaged perhaps. Something processed to the point that it was no longer recognizable. Anything that didn’t look as if it had once been alive.

Marge had been unable to eat the last month of her life. Not crackers, not even gelatine. She’d put something in her mouth and chew but her throat would not permit her to swallow it down. She had simply lost all desire for it. Similarly, she lost all desire for his touches, his stories, his speech, their daughters’ speech. Marge could no longer bear to listen, and eventually, to talk. She began to live in a world where such activities no longer had meaning.

He struggled to understand and accept. They’d always talked things through, and when he’d promised to be with her until the very end, he’d assumed he would do so as they talked about this, about everything.

In the hospital they fed her this cream-coloured liquid in plastic bags through a tube leading into a vein above her heart. They’d sent her home with a supply of these refrigerated bags and shown him how to prepare and administer them once daily, how to attach the tubing and how to disinfect. They told him the bags contained a mixture of nutrients and chemicals. It filled their bedroom with a grainy smell. He recalled a similar smell when he’d been a young man working near a dog food factory.