Shane ed. - A Hacked-Up Holiday Massacre - Halloween Is Going to Be Jealous

“I can’t test a live specimen.”

“Look, it’s probably just muscle reflex. You were the only thing moving in the room and her eyes responded to the stimuli. Jaw spasms are normal as well. You know this.”

“I don’t think I can go back in there.”

“That’s fine. Your contractual obligations have been met. You’ve tested her reflexes and the results were more than we had hoped for. I’ll send someone up tomorrow to clean up, and you can get back to the university.”

“Thanks, Sands.”

Dick hung up the phone and looked out past the garden to the greenhouse where the suicide victim’s head rested in a large plastic dish. He thought about the eyes, a deep green clouded with death, reverberating with fear. A few days earlier, he imagined she would have stirred something in him long since gone, a rekindled sense of purpose, of youth perhaps. But now she was incapable of inspiring anything but fear. He shuddered as a wave of cold washed over his back and trailed down his spine like a slug scrolling down the leaf of a maple. Sleep wouldn’t come easily for him, and the nearest liquor store was over twenty miles away. The neighbor had been watching his movements closely during the past few evenings, and leaving the greenhouse out of range seemed like too great a risk for a bottle of scotch. So he decided to go through the motions, the ritual to prepare for sleep that would never come.

As he opened the toothpaste on the bathroom sink and squeezed the innards onto his brush, he thought about the girl in the greenhouse opening a bottle of prescription tranquilizers and filling her stomach with them. He spit, let himself fall into bed, and writhed beneath the blankets, thinking of the aging woman doing the same, only uncovered on her bathroom floor. The paramedics had found her naked, completely exposed to the world.

He wished Sands had left her veiled in anonymity when he delivered the head. At the same time, he found himself wondering what her body looked like. Did she groom herself for the suicide, knowing she’d inevitably be found by someone, or had a plant-like mesh of hair rested between her legs when the EMT walked in? That was something he dared not ask Sands, nor think about until now, though the thought of her naked body had chipped away at his conscience. He hadn’t been with a woman in almost three years, so long that sexualizing the bodiless head of a woman was not beyond him. He wondered where her body was now, and the idea of her headless corpse sickened him. Strangely, though he had always considered himself an ‘ass man,’ it was the face that allowed thoughts of her body to blossom, and not a headless body that brought his arousal to peak.

It was about that time that his panic diminished enough to allow him a few hours of sleep. His dreams were not so kind. Since he was young, sleep paralysis had gripped him from time to time. But the fear of asphyxiation always manifested as something else within, a dead body with its arms wrapped tight around him, a heavy beast crushing him underfoot, or sucking the breath from his lungs. Tonight it was the head, staring into him from atop his chest. He woke swatting at the woman’s face until he realized he had been dreaming, and then ran to the window to make sure the greenhouse door was closed. He had left the lights on.

Reluctantly, he put on his slippers and walked to the greenhouse. That familiar chill ran through him again as he stepped inside. He avoided looking at the head on the table and turned the lights off, rushing back out and closing the door behind him. As he walked back to the house, the sound of shattered glass echoed in the distance. He turned and walked cautiously back to the door. In the moonlight, the head seemed less foreboding. He could see just enough to confirm that it was still on the table. He edged closer, noticing something large atop the table near the head. He grabbed a hoe in the corner and gripped it tightly, taking a hand off it quickly to turn the lights on.

He expected to see a cat, or a feral dog perhaps. Instead, he saw the root system he had used to sustain the woman’s head. It had sprouted a mass of foliage so thick that it had knocked a beaker from the table. And it was moving.

The woman’s head turned towards him. Again, it mouthed the words, “Where am I?” Only this time he swore he could hear her.

He tried to swallow the fear that welled up inside him, but could not. “Vermont,” he replied.

“What happened to me?”

He took a step closer. “You’re…you tried to take your own life. I’ve managed to keep you alive.”

He was close enough now to see the plant life attached to her heaving. She began to cry. “Is this hell?”

“No.” He put his hand on the tangle of leaves and small branches, pulling away as quickly as he touched it. There, under the surface, he felt a heartbeat, or plant life emulating a heartbeat. He inspected the plant closer. It was forming a torso. Thick branches sprouted from where the shoulders would be. Somehow, the plant was attempting to reproduce her body. “Is… is there anything I can do to make this easier on you?” he asked.

She closed her eyes. “Kill me,” she said. “I don’t want to live like this.”

He turned for the door. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’m sorry.”

“Then stay with me,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“I…” he now longed for the comfort of his bed more than ever before, not to sleep, but for a semblance of safety. “Okay.” He pulled a chair towards her and sat down, careful not to look her in the eye. “Do you want to hear more about why you’re here?”

“I don’t want to think about it anymore tonight.” She closed her eyes. “Just don’t leave me alone.”

THE NEXT MORNING HE woke tangled in a myriad of branches obscuring the daylight. He tore at them until he realized he was not confined, but simply covered. Her body had grown significantly over night. Her arms were now almost completely developed, with thick veined limbs extending into five separate digits. Her legs were beginning to sprout. She moaned and the body began to move. What he recognized as a crude rendering of hands moved towards him. “Thank you,” she said. “For staying with me.”

He pulled away. “You’re welcome.”

“And fuck you for doing this to me.”

“What?”

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Look at me.”

He turned away until she sat up and turned his face to meet hers. She stared into him. “What kind of sick shit are you doing up here in the mountains? Am I the first?”

He nodded. “A firm paid me. I didn’t know you’d end up like this. You were clinically dead.”

“You should have left me that way. Look at my body.” She looked at the hand that cradled his chin. “I want to see my face.”

He walked to the far corner of the room and brought back a small mirror plate. “Your head was the only thing the firm gave me. They asked me to reproduce the results of my thesis experiment. I thought they’d bring a finger, or a hand at the most. I never thought they’d ask me to do this.”

She looked at herself in the mirror. “I want to be alone.”

“Can I bring you anything?”

“Go.”

He complied, returning to the house to check his messages. Sands had called. Dick played the message:

“Dick, I’ll have someone up there this evening. It’s the best I could do. They’ll bring a ticket for your flight back to Indiana and clean up for you. Hope you’re holding up all right.”

He deleted the message and tried to wash himself of everything in the shower, the evidence and the memories of the last few days. In less than twenty-four hours it would be over. The head would be in Sands’s custody and he would be on his way home. He rinsed the soap from his scalp, holding his eyes shut to let the water run over his face. Then the shower curtain opened.