horror - Tapping Away in the Middle of the Night

Posts tagged with "horror"

Written in the Sand (A Short Story)

Monday, 11. August 2008, 06:05:53

short story, dry, horror, Short Stories ...

Though his beard sprang forth from his face and fell across his chest, it did nothing to keep the cold from him. The desert sands carried that cold in every particle, and those sands filled everywhere they could.

Ridiculously, the man marvelled at how cold the desert could be, thinking it a place of endless sun, despite the fact that this was his fortieth night wandering after forty days. At times he felt more a creature of the sand, shambling on paths made of the same substance as himself, and – when his eyes sought solace from this – they were rewarded only with more sand.

Until it came to pass that the man spied in the distance through the grit and the dry a house made of stone. Knowing it for nothing more than illusion, he nevertheless found himself moving toward it, hoping instinctively that illusory shelter might prove better than none.

No bigger than a single room, the house was made of stone seemingly cut from the sand and hardened. A worn wooden door showed the evidence that trees once existed, though the man could not remember what trees once looked like until – pushing the door open – splinters bit hands as weathered as itself.

Expecting nobody to be home, the man was rewarded with that as his reality. The darkness inside seemed empty with no sand swirling through it, though the cold still commanded his attention.

A bare stone floor he could feel under his feet, the contrast to the sand of the past weeks almost overwhelming. Moving with the momentum of his travels, the man continued to place one foot after another, until the splinters of yet another door – this one in the floor – attacked his feet.

Needing to get out of the cold – desperate now that he knew he had a chance to – the man felt through the splinters the rough-hewn wood for something resembling a handle and was rewarded when a metal ring – colder even than the desert – drew his fingers to it.

He tugged and the door in the floor opened.

The man could not see inside, but he knew there were stairs. He placed his feet over the edge into the darkest abyss and felt more stone in the familiar shape of descent.

And he moved down into the room under the desert.

Reaching the floor of the room, the man started as the door in the floor above him slammed shut, blocking out all noise of wind and sand outside. Eyes full of grit blinked – presuming hallucination – when the walls gave a wan glow, like that of a phosphorescent mould.

In the middle of the room, with this weak illumination and the concentration only complete solitude could bring, the man spied the vague shape of a scroll. Beside it were stained bottles of some dark substance – presumably ink – and a feather. Near the scroll, a pile of sand, into which the man sat.

Somehow knowing this might be the only way to transport himself somewhere warmer …

… the man began to write.

The man wrote of his surprise that the ink in the bottles had not dried. He wrote of the surprising volume given out by the feather as he dipped it in the ink and scratched it across the emptiness of the scroll. He wrote of how he could just see what he was writing.

And writing of seeing what he was writing, he saw all the more clearly.

The man wrote of the phosphor walls producing not only light but heat, and the room brightened and hove detail into view with its newfound warmth. Alone in this world of the room under the desert, the man soon wrote a companion to instruct him in its ways.

His companion grew from the shadows and proved to be a thing of sand. The face of his companion was strong and – in the holes where eyes should have been – the man knew there was an ancient wisdom.

Writing his conversation with the Golem, the man brimmed with questions. He asked what his new world was. He asked how writing could bring anything to life, let alone heat and a fellow traveller. He asked how such a place could come to be when the desert was nowhere, everywhere, nothing and all. He asked who created this world of the room under the desert.

Whether his answers were of his own making as they ran from his hands onto the paper, the man did not know. He only knew that he was beginning to feel further away from the desert than he could possibly understand.

Writing the answers without meaning to, the man heard the Golem speak with a voice dry as the sands he’d left behind.

“You create worlds when you write”, his companion said, “and they create you”.

The man pondered this for some time. Then …

“And if I were to stop writing … ?”

But the words trailed off into the air and were lost among the whisper of pen and paper.

Feeling warm and comfortable in his new world in the room under the desert, the man nevertheless wondered why an answer to his question was not forthcoming, then knew there was only one way to find out.

And he tried …

… but he could not stop writing.

Fear lurched in his mind, trying desperately to claw his muscles back away from the paper, to let go of the feather …

… but they would not.

The man’s eyes cast about in a frenzy for a means to escape, for the warmth of his new world in the room under the desert had suddenly transformed into a prison. Spying the door he’d entered by, he nevertheless knew that, as a prisoner of an unresponsive body – a body that could not stop writing – he could not leave!

Terrified, the man’s eyes pleaded with the Golem, but the Golem was now nothing more than sand, dust on the stone floor. The phosphor of the walls turned cold once more and the glow dimmed.

Unable to control his actions, the man took the quill and stabbed it in the artery of his opposite wrist. The blood that jetted forth when he removed it was the same dark colour as the ink in the bottles, and he realized then that was exactly what it was.

Knowing he was dying, the man’s body – of a volition not his own – picked up the bottles and held them to his gushing wound. When the blood filled one, he would reach for another, all the while silently pleading for himself to stop, to get out, to live.

Only when the last bottle had been filled were the man’s despairing entreaties seemingly answered. But by then it was too late.

As the glow of the walls faded and faded, the man’s body – still covered with the sand of the desert above – seemed to take on more and more of that texture. Shrinking upon itself, all moisture was wicked away into the cold night air …

… and where the man had been, a pile of sand sat in front of the now-blank paper.

And the room under the desert was patient and waited, knowing more travellers would come this way …

Copyright © 2008 by David Scott Aubrey
All Rights Reserved
1,212 Words

This short story is a work of fiction. Any and all names, characters and/or incidents are either products of my imagination or are used fictitiously. Where any such resemblance may exist to actual persons (living or dead), actual events or locales, it is purely coincidental.

Please don't assume that my characters speak for me or carry my own opinions on various matters in any way, shape or form (though some might - you never can tell).

28 Comments

Headlines (A Short Story)

Monday, 28. July 2008, 08:55:41

resuscitation, short story, head, horror ...

Hmm … ?

Oh … what’s that on the TV, there … ?

Good God … !

‘ … first successful resuscitation of a cryogenically-preserved head!’

My God … what an age we live in!

‘ … not releasing the name of the head until the descendants have been notified … ’

‘ … currently in a nutrient tank … ’

‘ … expected to regain consciousness at any time … ’

‘ … ultimately clone a new body … ’

Amazing!

I wonder if cryogenic preservation is something I should look into … ? What, with the cancer and everything.

Mmm … nah. Bit late now, anyway … already in the hospital …

Although … Miranda mentioned something about that once. Seem to recall she wanted to look into it in case …

… well …

But … nah. Think she’d need my permission, in any event.

Still … maybe I should talk to her about it. I wonder where she …

What’s that … ?

‘ … Nature’s Fist … ’

What a stupid name for a group of terrorists!

Mm-hmm ...

Uh-huh ...

Oh, I don’t believe it.

Bunch of radicals who think reanimating people from cryogenic preservation is against ‘God’s law’, or some such rubbish.

Wait …

‘ … currently attacking the facility where the head is stored … ’

My God, I hope they have guards there, or something!

Probably staffed with a bunch of scientists and doctors. Wouldn’t have expected anything of the kind to …

… hope the head’s okay …

What on Earth is that … ?

Hey … ! This is a hospital … ! Who are …

Wh … why can’t I … talk … ?

God … !

Oh, God … I’ve fallen … !

But … I was lying in a bed, wasn’t I … ?

Can’t … turn around …

Who’s …

… that boot … !

No … ! Don’t stomp on my …

… oh, God …

… I’m the … !

Copyright © 2008 by David Scott Aubrey
All Rights Reserved
337 Words

This short story is a work of fiction. Any and all names, characters and/or incidents are either products of my imagination or are used fictitiously. Where any such resemblance may exist to actual persons (living or dead), actual events or locales, it is purely coincidental.

Please don't assume that my characters speak for me or carry my own opinions on various matters in any way, shape or form (though some might - you never can tell).

21 Comments

At Present (A Short Story)

Monday, 21. July 2008, 19:05:02

short story, horror, anniversary, present ...

Early evening was the time Norm felt most refreshed. After a bit of a sleep, and when the air had cooled somewhat, he felt more awake and alert than at any other time of the day.

Which wasn’t saying much, of course, at his age.

Still, whenever he saw Carol, he felt years younger. His love for her lifted his heart and bolstered his resolve to outlive her – by sheer force of will, if necessary – regardless of the aches, pains and infirmity that came with age. Damned if he’d go first and make her suffer through such a loss.

Of course, he couldn’t imagine what it would be like for him once Carol went, but he’d rather suffer the pain of outliving her, than leave her to deal with the pain his death would bring.

No doubt she harboured the same sort of unspoken resolution.

Of course, the ideal thing, he knew, would be if they went together, peacefully in their sleep. But that wasn’t likely to happen, and that was just the way of things.

It wasn’t anything to be feared, of course; death was a natural part of life. And they both had a firm belief in the afterlife and knew they’d see each other again in the next world. It was just that they’d be devastated until they met again, after so many living years where they were never apart.

He mentally shook his head. Thoughts like that had been coming more and more, and it was a rare day when the subject didn’t occur to him at least once.

Carol heard him shuffling. The tread on the slippers he got for his eighty-seventh last month was thick enough to rasp the carpet as he moved up the hall, easily heard in the quiet of their house.

Turning from the dining room table where she was enjoying a cup of tea and a good read, she took the box off the sideboard and met him as arrived in the room.

Although a little tremulous with age, her voice was, nevertheless, strong.

“Happy Anniversary, Dad”, she beamed, holding the present out.

“Happy Anniversary, Mother”, he smiled back. He knew he’d forgotten it again. And he knew – as always – that she didn’t mind.

They’d met almost seventy years ago, finding themselves with eyes only for one another very soon after. Married at eighteen (their birthdays surprisingly close together), it was a marriage that had lasted longer than a lot of people they’d known had stayed alive. Certainly, they’d outlived all their friends. And, sadly, one or two of their children.

Still, the love they had for one another had been enough to see them through the bad times as well as the good. And tantamount to that was the fact that Carol had never held any ill will at the fact that Norm always forgot their anniversary, despite the fact she never had.

Their eyes met as Norm began unwrapping his gift …

… until something inside it …

… shuddered.

They both froze.

With the near-telepathy that comes from two people sharing a lifetime together, they both knew that Carol was not responsible for …

… whatever it was.

Nevertheless:

“That … that’s that pewter tankard you had your eye on … ”.

Norm set the box down on the kitchen table.

They backed away.

Their hands met and – though cold with age and fright – they found solace and strength in that simple touch.

It was needed.

The box shuddered once more.

Norm knew that to wonder aloud what could be making such a skin-crawling sound would be redundant; Carol was wondering that as well. However, before they could consider a course of action …

… whatever it was inside the box thumped against the lid.

Instinctively, Norm moved between Carol and the box as the thumping from within grew louder and more violent. Whatever it was in there – whatever it was that shouldn’t have been in there – was coming out, and Norm wasn’t about to leave Carol in harm’s way.

Moving as fast as he could manage, he guided Carol further away from the table as the shuddering inside the box began making it jump and tip.

With Carol in front of him, they moved down the hall towards the front door. Norm had no idea what was in the box, but he knew in the pit of his stomach that they didn’t want to be around when whatever it was got out.

As they shuffled out of the hall and into the foyer, something behind them exploded with a crack of thunder as whatever it was in the box broke loose, an inexplicable increase in mass slamming into the table below – splintering it – as it leapt free.

Somehow knowing they’d never make it to the front door in time, Norm herded Carol towards the closer bathroom. Like all the doors in their old house, it was thick, and Norm desperately hoped it would keep whatever it was out.

No less worse than due to the fact it was in his mind, Norm’s skin tightened with the expectation of razor-sharp talons raking his back as whatever it was gained on them.

Carol went in ahead of him …

… then Norm, slamming the door behind him.

As quickly as he could, he turned and flipped the lock. The adrenalin that had enabled him to get them both up the hall had left him, and he sagged against the door, exhausted.

Whatever it was slammed against the door hard enough to bend it inwards, savagely knocking Norm back onto the tiled floor. Carol screamed as she heard the distinct snap of breaking bones on impact, then screamed again as another impact sent a vicious crack down the middle of the door.

In the seconds before whatever it was came upon them, Norm – through a haze of pain – realized that although it wasn’t in their sleep as he’d hoped …

… they would die together.

Copyright © 2008 by David Scott Aubrey
All Rights Reserved
996 Words

This short story is a work of fiction. Any and all names, characters and/or incidents are either products of my imagination or are used fictitiously. Where any such resemblance may exist to actual persons (living or dead), actual events or locales, it is purely coincidental.

Please don't assume that my characters speak for me or carry my own opinions on various matters in any way, shape or form (though some might - you never can tell).

29 Comments

Sympathetic Ears (A Short Story)

Monday, 14. July 2008, 12:59:17

sympathetic ears, flesh, ears, earl ...

“There ya go. First one’s on the house … you look like you could use it”.

The haggard man blinked and shook his head, as if coming up for air from somewhere deep within himself. After looking at the beer for a long time as if it was the most welcome thing he’d ever seen, he looked up at Earl.

Earl was an innocuous sight at a little under five feet, though weighing in at nearly three hundred pounds. Santa Clause hair spilled out of his face and ran up to hide under a worn, woolen beanie. Like jolly old Saint Nick, Earl also had a kind twinkle in his eye.

“What’s the problem, stranger?”

The haggard man leaned back on his stool as if to get his brain around just why this man was being so kind to him. After all that had happened to him lately, he wondered what possible interest the bartender could have in …

… but then he managed a half-hearted smile and realized he was in the place to talk about his problems. Hell, the man behind the bar probably did nothing but listen to people’s problems, day in, day out; strangers pouring out their sorry tales to him.

It maybe even helped a little.

So the haggard man began, thankful the bar was empty, with the exception of himself and Earl; thankful it was so far off the main road that nobody was likely to come in while he let it all out, for that matter.

During it all, Earl merely listened, nodding occasionally as if he had, indeed, heard it all before. The haggard man took solace in this: If his problems weren’t as unique as he thought, he didn’t feel quite so alone with ‘em.

The beer flowed for a good hour or so, and the haggard man – though still haggard – felt at least a little less burdened, having unloaded his woes; no closer to a solution, but a little better.

The beer was obviously going some way towards that. And it awoke a hunger in the haggard man.

“Say, Earl”, for they were now on a first-name basis, “you got anything stronger than beer?”

The corner of Earl’s mouth moved towards the twinkle in his eye, and he began nodding again.

“Yep … I reckon there’s something stronger out the back …

… you wanna come out and help me look for it?”

As if it were the best offer he’d had in a long while, the haggard man climbed down none-too-steadily from his stool and headed for the doorway Earl was gesturing towards.

“Through here?”

Earl just nodded, moving towards the door himself, though pausing until the haggard man had gone through.

The room was dark – a pokey little storeroom – and Earl made no effort to find a light switch. What little light fell through from the bar illuminated only kegs of beer, shelves of something in glass bottles and wooden boxes …

… wooden boxes of something possibly better than beer … ?

“Look over the back there”.

Earl’s voice seemed close.

“What am I looking for?”

In a movie, the haggard man would have heard Earl say something like, “You’ll know it when you see it”, before he saw what he saw. Truth be told, even if Earl had shouted something like that at him, the haggard man wouldn’t have heard it: Blood was pounding in his ears in time to his heartbeat like some sort of wet bass drum.

A sudden inhalation stopped the tattoo as something stabbed into the space between the haggard man’s third and fourth vertebrae. An instant later, he was on the floor.

Knowing nobody would be by, Earl set to work. As he began cutting away, he looked up at the bottles, to the last thing the haggard man had seen ...

… and spoke.

“Yep … another Sad Sack tonight. Whining to me like he’s the only one in the world with problems. As if I’m supposed to listen to everyone else’s problems when there’s nobody to listen to mine … ”

As he settled in for a long night of talking about his problems to the only ones who would listen, Earl finished his grisly job and rinsed his trophies under the sink, before adding the haggard man’s ears to his collection.

Copyright © 2008 by David Scott Aubrey
All Rights Reserved
723 Words

This short story is a work of fiction. Any and all names, characters and/or incidents are either products of my imagination or are used fictitiously. Where any such resemblance may exist to actual persons (living or dead), actual events or locales, it is purely coincidental.

Please don't assume that my characters speak for me or carry my own opinions on various matters in any way, shape or form (though some might - you never can tell).

8 Comments

A Close Shave (A Short Story)

Thursday, 28. February 2008, 14:27:27

burp, suspense, licking blood, cut ...

In the quiet of the bathroom, the packet seemed to crinkle like overhead thunder as Peter opened it. As can happen with such things, though, the disposable razor fell out and clattered onto the small tiles of the bathroom floor, accompanied by Peter’s muted curse.

As he bent to pick it up, the now discarded plastic packet swept itself off the edge of the sink and followed Peter down, falling past his eyes.

“While I’m down here … ”, he thought, picking it up as well.

As he put it down on the edge of the sink and rinsed the inevitable dust from the razor, Peter once again noticed the attention-getting lettering which had made him buy the razor in the first place, despite the fact that it had come from a company he’d never heard of;

“A new type of shaving experience!”

“Let’s hope so”, he thought, continuing his preparations.

He mused on the fact that the packet had contained only one disposable razor as he rinsed a face-washer under the hot water then put it over the lower half of his face. Most packets of disposable razors contained more than one – sometimes as many as ten! But not this one. In fact, under the attention-getting lettering, Peter remembered reading, “You’ll never need another razor!”

He wondered at the curious copy the company had decided to use as a slogan as he shook the can of low-irritant, specially-formulated moisturizing foaming shaving gel.

“You guys”, he addressed the packet, “are doing yourselves out of further profits, aren’t you?”

Of course, the packet – even though it did represent the company – said nothing. Not even while Peter lathered the foam into his face.

When he lifted the razor and swept its edge down the side of his face, though …

… Peter wasn’t quiet.

“God damn that’s sharp!”

He looked down at the razor in his hand. Along the quadruple blades sat a bright smearing of blood from the sudden gash on the side of his face.

Peter was about to rinse the blood off and continue shaving (with a good deal more care, this time), when he noticed the impossible …

… a little tongue coming out from between the middle of the four blades and licking the blood away, as quickly as a man might lick milk off his moustache.

For a second, he just stood there, wondering what the hell he’d just seen …

… and then the razor burped.

Peter’s eyes flew open even as he dropped the razor …

Well, even as he thought about dropping the razor; because - even though - he’d commanded his hand to let go of the razor …

… it hadn’t.

“Surely”, he thought, “any second now, the signal from my brain will reach my fingers … ”

But it didn’t happen.

What did happen was that his hand froze, still gripping the handle of the razor … even when the four blades inexplicably lifted ninety degrees of their own volition until their very edges were facing Peter’s throat …

… before launching themselves out of the razor’s plastic housing and into Peter’s jugular vein with a speed that nearly severed his head from his neck.

As he gurgled to the floor, his life spurting away in front of him and running down the walls, Peter had a ridiculous thought;

“The packet had been right …

… I won’t be needing another razor”.

Copyright © 2008 by David Scott Aubrey
All Rights Reserved
570 Words

This short story is a work of fiction. Any and all names, characters and/or incidents are either products of my imagination or are used fictitiously. Where any such resemblance may exist to actual persons (living or dead), actual events or locales, it is purely coincidental.

Please don't assume that my characters speak for me or carry my own opinions on various matters in any way, shape or form (though some might - you never can tell).

9 Comments

All the Days of Our Lives (A Short Story)

Tuesday, 8. January 2008, 04:47:44

short story, wedding, psychosis, horror ...

“ … love, honour and cherish one another … all the days of your lives”.

The priest said that. When he performed the ceremony.

The day we were married was … well, ‘busy’ isn’t a word that really captures it, but … busy … and so much of it is a blur … now.

But I do remember, “All the days of your lives”.

I also remember how happy you were in this dress …

Of course … it isn’t sitting on you like it used to …

Hmm …

Some people have been told, “You have a body like a coat hanger”.

Well …

Well … when you had meat on you, it was different. But … these shoulder bones are kind of putting you into that category … now …

“All the days of your lives … ”

… while I’m still alive, I’ll never stop looking after you …

Copyright © 2008 by David Scott Aubrey
All Rights Reserved
152 Words

This short story is a work of fiction. Any and all names, characters and/or incidents are either products of my imagination or are used fictitiously. Where any such resemblance may exist to actual persons (living or dead), actual events or locales, it is purely coincidental.

Please don't assume that my characters speak for me or carry my own opinions on various matters in any way, shape or form (though some might - you never can tell).

11 Comments

It Shouldn't Have Happened To A Vet (A Short Story)

Friday, 14. December 2007, 09:12:42

birth, flesh, farmer, bone ...

^{With Apologies to James Herriot.}

“Ahh … the new bloke. Murphy, wasn’t it? Come on in”.

“Tea … ?”

“Yeah … I don’t take sugar, either … the milk hereabouts makes it sweet enough”.

“Through here … take a seat … ”

“You’ll have to excuse the mess … I know the place looks like a tornado’s hit it, but I haven’t felt much like cleaning up since … ”

“Ahh … it’s all right … no need to walk on eggshells about it. This is just an informal chat, I know; the new bloke seeing if the previous guy has anything to tell him about the job, the region … the people. But I figured we’d get around to that subject, sooner or later. Might as well be sooner … ”

“I figure you’ve probably read all in the papers about it. ‘Journalists’. Huh … ! Couldn’t spell the word ‘truth’, let alone write about it. All sorts of rumours flying around at the college, too, I’ll bet, hmm … ?”

“Ah, well … bear with me …

… and I’ll tell you what really happened”.

“She’s strugglin’”.

“Yeah, mate … I knew you wouldn’t have called me if it was just a normal birth”.

And I did know. For Jim McGrove – and every other farmer in the area – a cow giving birth was nothing to ring the vet about. Even if the cow was having trouble – the unborn calf not having turned properly, for instance – most farmers (and I’m talking third- and fourth-generation folks, out here) think nothing of getting in there and turning it themselves.
I was only called out when there was something they couldn’t handle ... and that was rare enough that I hadn’t done an outcall since I first moved here and started my practice, going around to introduce myself to everyone; a fair while previous …

Anyway … as I knelt down beside the cow, for some strange reason my mind flashed back to when I was first learning my skills. Our job for an entire semester was to dissect a horse.

(You’d remember that … wasn’t that long ago for you, was it?)

Funny thing … in the cold of the dissection room, the horse’s coat always looked wet, somehow. And McGrove’s cow had that same sheen to her.

I put my bag down with my 100 watt lamp so I could glove up. It was late enough (or early enough depending on how you looked at it) that the field we were in had already started to dew up, and stray blades of grass used that moisture to stick to the sides of my bag.

I don’t know why I notice little things like that. The way my mind works, I suppose. Still, times like this – even when I’m about to stuff my arm up a cow – I’m glad I do. It was about ten past two in the morning, the sky was so black the stars almost seemed to provide more than enough light on their own. The Milky Way was more than a dusting of stars above us – it was a storm of them. The air was crisp and hard in my lungs, but I like it brisk.

We were so far out from McGrove’s farmhouse I couldn’t even see the light he still had on back in the kitchen, where he’d sat waiting for me after he’d called. When I arrived, he’d been standing outside the door, though, so – even if he hadn’t told me anything about how hard a time his cow was having trying to give birth – I could’ve guessed, because he didn’t even offer me a cuppa.

(You’re from the city, originally, right? Anyone living in the country would know that – unless something is really wrong – you offer a guest a cuppa before anything else).

Anyway, all this went through my mind as I gloved up and got into it.

My hand was about halfway up when I felt the calf …

…

… or so I thought.

Normally, you find the head, check the umbilical hasn’t wrapped around its neck, then work your way back from there and find the back legs. You know the rest: You grab ‘em and muscle the calf around so it’s turned properly. Watch the hooves don’t tear the placenta … all that. And then you let nature take care of the rest.

But when I tried to identify the head – feeling for the umbilical – I couldn’t feel what I was expecting …

Even through the gloves, you get a sense of the animal waiting to be born. You can feel the shape through the placenta of the ears, the nose …

I felt …

… I felt this …

… dome ...

If McGrove’s cow hadn’t been on her side, nearly exhausted, with low vitals, she might’ve bolted – calving or not – when I jumped back.

At first I thought, “This must be something artificial … !” Thoughts bounced around making me wonder if some other vet had been doing some sort of experiment – implanting some sort of sensor, or something. But three things chased those thoughts away:

One, I knew that McGrove wouldn’t have allowed any such thing.

Two, I knew I was the only vet in the area.

And, Three, I’d never heard of any such thing! Implants in cows … ?

But … that’s what it felt like to me … something …

… artificial … !

I should mention that – yes – there’s often times when unborn calves are deformed – you’ll feel odd bumps and lumps. But … you can identify them …

… I had no idea what this was.

McGrove couldn’t see my face from his angle – he was just behind and to my left, holding the lantern. And he must have figured that my ‘jump’ when I touched the thing was probably just me trying to turn the calf.

Still … his presence served to remind me … in front of these lifelong farmers, you don’t show any sense that you don’t know what’s going on. Even if you’re the only vet around, if you make a mistake, or seem as though you don’t know what’s going on … word gets around. Some farmers in the area would rather lose stock than subject their animals to a vet they didn’t think was what they deserved.

So …

… I didn’t withdraw my hand.

By this time, the cow was moaning. Yes, it’s normal …

… but not like this.

In the couple of seconds that I was there trying to figure out what to do next, the cow’s moans grew louder and louder …

… and turned into screams.

I don’t know if anyone else had heard a cow scream, but I’ve … I mean … I was a vet for over a decade, and I’ve never heard anything like it. Couple that with the fact that it was just me and McGrove out there – seemingly in the middle of nowhere – and you can understand why the hairs on the back of my neck stood up straight enough to push against my collar.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Just hold the lamp still … there’s … ”

I was about to say, “Something … ”, but I didn’t have to.

McGrove got to see it all for himself …

That poor cow …

Sorry …

It’s just …

… nothing should have to suffer like that …

Anyway …

… I fell back. All in one go, my arm was out and I was suddenly on my arse. And just as well, too, because that’s what saved my life.

That poor cow kicked like she was having a seizure. I’d never seen anything as violent, though. I remember seeing McGrove out of the corner of my eye jumping as I scrambled back, too, fast as I could.

Didn’t save him, though. But it did save me.

The … legs, I guess you’d call ‘em … the legs tore out through that poor cow’s side, instead of coming out through the birth canal. McGrove was nearest that side, and I was where I was expecting a calf to be delivered, so that’s why he got …

… sorry …

… all right … I’m all right …

… it’s just … I’ve never seen anything like …

… sip o’ me tea, here …

… anyway …

… those … legs … they tore her open like … like meat going through a grinder … ! You know those hand-winding meat grinders … ? Just like that. Only this was bone, tendons … flesh! And it all happened instantly. It was like whatever was inside her just … flexed.

Chunks of that poor cow hit me and I ended up flat on my back. I was trying to wipe the blood and meat out of my eyes when I saw this shadow … six or eight legs … some sort of dome shape for a head … rise up out of what was left of that poor cow …

… next thing I know, McGrove was screaming.

I thought the cow’s screams were bad …

It didn’t last long, and when I finally wiped enough bits of the Bessie out of my face to see properly, that … thing … had disappeared. And all that was left of McGrove was … ribbons, I guess. Ribbons of meat. Ribbons of bone.

The blood … the bits … the cow’s and McGrove’s … on me, it felt like they were as warm as if I’d poured kerosine on myself.

I don’t know what it was. I can’t even remember what happened in the next couple of hours, actually. Doctors said shock. Police said a neighbour had heard the screams even from a couple of hundred acres away! Thought them chilling enough to ring the coppers. Coppers found me and what was left of McGrove … and that poor cow … up on that hill. I was in shock, or something, like I said …

Took a couple of days before the coroner determined that I couldn’t have done what had been done to McGrove. No … human could have …

During that time, I was in custody in the hospital … doped up on something for the shock.

But … like I said … I don’t know what it was. I do know it was enough to make me retire. Even though I’ve got a good couple of decades ahead of me in this job, I don’t want it anymore ... not if there’s ever the chance I’ll see anything like what I saw that night …

Of course, I’ve done some research since then. Trying to figure out what was going on. What the hell was in that poor cow. How it got there. I’ve got some loose theories. You know those stories about cattle mutilations? What if they really were caused by aliens? But what if the aliens weren’t trying to kill the cows, but study them … work out how to breed with ‘em, or something … ?

Anyway …

"Huh … ! Lookin’ a bit pale, there, Murphy. Drink yer tea … "

… plenty of good cow’s milk in it … !”

Copyright © 2007 by David Scott Aubrey
All Rights Reserved
1,872 Words

This short story is a work of fiction. Any and all names, characters and/or incidents are either products of my imagination or are used fictitiously. Where any such resemblance may exist to actual persons (living or dead), actual events or locales, it is purely coincidental.

Please don't assume that my characters speak for me or carry my own opinions on various matters in any way, shape or form (though some might - you never can tell).

8 Comments

Zoo (A Short Story)

Wednesday, 22. August 2007, 13:01:27

crocodile hunter, short story, zoo, horror ...

It was only meant to be a quick stopover on his way up north, really. But the snap strike by the Transport Worker's Union meant that the bus wouldn't be in until well after six.

Which meant that Don had a little over seven hours to kill.

He moaned about it all a little, but soon decided that – since he was in town, anyway – he'd make his way to the Zoo.

After all, it was virtually an icon, and at least the taxi drivers were still on the job.

It wasn't more than five minutes by cab from the station in any case, and he soon found himself lining up at the huge gates.

He'd seen the place loads of times on TV. You couldn't miss the host if you tried. Still, after following the group on some of the tours, it seemed he had. There was no sign of him.

Don figured that he must've been in America, filming another one of his series.

Still, it wasn't like he was a major fan, or anything.

It just would've been interesting to have seen him.

All the series and the ads made you think he was there, after all.

In any case, he couldn't complain about the Zoo itself.

It was magnificent!

No expense had been spared to provide the animals with environments perfectly suited to them. And he couldn't believe the size of some of the habitats! The Zoo itself was on hundreds of acres, with over fifty separate habitats – some housing only three or four animals!

There was a huge staff there, each team specializing in the care of the particular animals they were looking after. There were on-site vets trained in the treatment of each type of animal, too. Regular health checks. And the best food was provided for them …

Even the animals' emotional needs were provided for. The carers said in their presentations that mental stimuli was vital for the animals.

Take the lions, for instance. When the carers would put food out for them (food which – apparently – cost prodigious amounts per year) it was in a different place in the habitat each time. Sometimes inside a log, or under some overhanging rocks. Other times up a tree. It wasn't just hurled into the same part of their enclosures. The animals would grow fat and lazy. They had to work for it a little, which kept them from getting bored.

Don learned about the atrocious conditions in which animals used to be kept in zoos of the past. Little concrete cages and bars, where the poor things could only pace up and down all day. A lot of them ultimately died of madness, essentially.

Don tried to imagine what it would have been like for them – how people used to treat them. Trapping them. Confining them. How the poor beasts would have felt – stuck in a concrete cage for the rest of their lives, never able to touch the ground again, or run through the grass of their homelands.

It made him almost feel ashamed to be human.

But a look around at the incredible job that had been done at the Zoo – at how far people's understanding and treatment of animals had come, at the compassion and genuine concern for the welfare and wellbeing of the animals shown by the dedicated people who worked there – filled him with a sense of hope and pride.

Even though the big man himself wasn't there, Don still learned a lot from the people delivering the presentations. He had thought that he knew a fair bit about the wildlife in this country, and a reasonable amount about some of the animals outside it, but he felt that he'd learnt more in the couple of hours since he'd walked through the front gate than he had in a long time.

For instance, he'd learned that the animals that scientists knew about weren't all that could exist. New species were being found all the time, all over the world. Even locally. It was extreme hubris to think that people had discovered every type of creature on the planet.

The Zoo was an amazing place … and a magnificent experience.

After a mouth-watering (but late) lunch, Don felt like breaking away from the main group, and so – as the crowd headed off for other presentations – he found himself following a tidy walkway into a beautiful rainforest.

The canopy grew thicker and thicker and the path changed from neatly-raked pebbles to bare dirt track as he strolled, and it was a good hour or so before he noticed that he was alone.

Figuring that he'd wandered onto a private path somewhere – perhaps for staff use only (he must have missed seeing the signs, or something, while looking at the rainforest) – Don stopped and checked his watch.

It was a bit later than he'd thought.

He thought he'd better start finding his way back so that he could get his stuff from the hotel and get down to the station to be ready for when the bus showed up.

He started back along the path the way he'd come, but soon realized that none of it looked at all familiar.

He shook his head in bewilderment.

He must have been looking up at the rainforest and just enjoying it so much that he hadn't even noticed where his feet were taking him.

Still, he envisioned that – if he just stuck to the path (and kept his eyes on it, this time) – he'd find his way back to the main parts of the Zoo sooner or later.

So … he started walking.

The gentle trilling of birds accompanied him as he walked. Shafts of sunlight fell through the trees from low on the horizon. The heavy canopy made it difficult to see, and Don was a bit concerned about how late it was getting.

But not too concerned.

The environment was very soothing.

Which made it all the more jarring when he saw the leg sticking out of the bushes up ahead.

He stopped and shook his head.

It couldn't be.

But it sure looked like it.

A leg. A woman's bare leg – about thirty metres ahead of him – sticking out of the low bushes that ran alongside the path. The heel of her foot was just lying on the dirt of the track.

Head tilted back a bit as though something were going to bite him, Don nevertheless moved forward, wondering if it was – perhaps – someone who'd had a turn of some kind. Perhaps an epileptic. Or someone who'd had a stroke, or something.

He noticed that the canopy was darker than at any other part of the track he'd been on.

He looked around.

Nobody was around to help him.

Even calling out – first to anyone that might be around who could come running to help, then to the woman herself – didn't help.

There was definitely nobody around.

The leg was barely ten metres away now, and Don was surprised that he still couldn't see the rest of the woman's body. He put it down to th fact that the bushes were so thick where her leg was pushing through them, and hoped that she was still alive.

He had to blink a few times because it was getting so dark. Either the canopy of the rainforest was cutting off really large parts of the light, or it was closer to sunset that he'd thought.

Or both.

The path narrowed a lot as he got closer, the bushes on either side seeming to reach out to hem him in.

But he pressed on.

When he was about a metre away, Don crouched down and reached out a hand. The combination of bushes and canopy and fading sunlight was really making it difficult for him to make out any detail, so he couldn't be one hundred percent sure when he thought he detected something strange-looking about the woman's leg.

He reached out, just to try to tap her on the shoe, to see if he could wake her up that way. If he couldn't, he figured that he'd have to try to get under the bushes and maybe drag her out.

But … what if she had internal injuries, somehow? He knew he wouldn't be able to move her, then. It'd just make things worse.

Then … her foot twitched.

Sweating – despite the fact that the afternoon was cooling down considerably – Don backed up a little.

The woman's foot …

When it twitched … it didn't look quite … right … somehow.

“Hello … ?”, he said, reaching out for her once again …

… as something reached out for him.

The woman's leg had been some sort of tail – camouflaged to resemble a woman's leg and lying out on the path to attract him, like a rattlesnake would use the rattle of its tail to attract prey.

As whatever it was came for him – all teeth and claws – Don thought of something he'd heard during one of the presentations.

It was about lions.

About people who'd been attacked by them and lived to tell of it.

He'd learned that – somehow – these people reported a feeling of extraordinary calm as the lion attacked them. They also reported a lack of pain as the lions inflicted heinous injuries.

Don hoped for that.

Prayed for it.

But it didn't happen.

Without even the ability to scream because whatever it was had savaged his vocal chords by digging either its claws or teeth into his throat, Don felt every slice and laceration – every puncture and wound as they happened.

He could feel great strips of himself being torn off and cast to either side of his body as whatever it was sought his insides. His own blood sprayed into his face with the pressure of a garden hose.

“Artery”, he figured …

… before his wounds became too much for his mind – his life – to bear …

… and he gave up the ghost.

The creature – having killed its prey – began its meal in earnest. Unbelievably powerful jaws split bone and sought out first the liver and then the kidneys. A rough tongue lapped the blood that had all but covered Don's body. Deadly incisors gouged strips from his torso, his neck.

Sitting in what those in the business call a 'high hide' – a secure platform high in a tree where watchers can observe animals without interfering with their behaviour – two people moved.

The man's eyes were wide open and the look on his face was one of pure rapture.

His wife's voice – as strongly accented as his, though as different from it as chalk and cheese – was hushed as she leaned over to speak to him.

“It's amazing! I've never seen anything like it! And you first saw it yesterday? Where did it come from?”

Pushing his blonde hair out of his face and adjusting his khaki shorts so he could change position and get a closer look at the beast, the man – who hadn't been at any of the Zoo's public displays that day, but had been there (in the high-hide all day) – shook his head in wonderment.

“Crikey! I dunno, darlin' … ”

" … but I do know that it's gonna be real cheap t' feed the little beauty!"

This short story is a work of fiction. Any and all names, characters and/or incidents are either products of my imagination or are used fictitiously. Where any such resemblance may exist to actual persons (living or dead), actual events or locales, it is purely coincidental.

Please don't assume that my characters speak for me or carry my own opinions on various matters in any way, shape or form (though some might … you never can tell).

12 Comments

The Message (A Short Story)

Sunday, 19. August 2007, 04:37:12

agony, email, virus, writing ...

I CAN'T …

Oh, God … where do I … ?

If it wasn't for my voice software, I wouldn't be able to even post this. I can't … I can't type anymore …

All right.

Focus.

This is it.

My last blog posting.

How long has it been, now?

Is it three days?

Four?

I can't remember.

It's all such a blur …

I've been … I've been in a … I've been having this constant anxiety attack!

For three days!

Haven't slept.

Haven't been able to sleep!

They won't let me!

They won't let me do anything but get the message out!

I can't believe that I forgot all about my own blog!

I've been so tired!

It's horrible how exhausted constant panic makes you feel …

My blog …

It's only just occurred to me!

I've only just remembered it!

It's not a very big blog … it's not very important.

Still … to the few hundred of you who visit regularly … well, I know you're expecting me to talk about chrysanthemums or gladioli or roses …

It's why you're here.

But … you're a few hundred more people I can get the message out to.

When I … when it first happened …

When it first happened, I tried posting on whatever forums I could get to. Whatever forums I could find.

I started trolling for them … on Google? Trying to find lists of forums.

I applied for membership to as many as I could … it didn't matter what they were about, I posted the message there, anyway!

But … the forums were too slow … the constant application process … waiting for an email back before I could log on to them and post the message …

… too slow …

And then it hit me!

Email!

I mean, this all started with email, right?

So, I hit Google again and tried to scrounge up as many email addresses as I possibly could!

…

Oh, God … ! I just thought … !

My ISP … !

Oh, God … please let me have enough time …!

What if they cut off my access?

They must think I'm a spammer, or something! I mean, I've been sending thousands of the things in the last couple of days! That's gotta be a violation of their Terms of Service, or something! If they …

There's always the library, I suppose.

Though … not at this time of night …

What about an Internet Café? They might …

… no.

Not in my condition.

They'd want to call an ambulance and I couldn't let them. Then they'd call the police! Then there'd be no way I could …

But I've got to get the message out!

What was I … ?

Oh …

Email.

It all started with email.

I looked on the Internet for email addresses and found some sites with lists! Thousands of them!

Still … even that only took me so far.

I started looking for freeware … open source … programs that would harvest email addresses for me! I had to find as many as I could!

And I did.

But … then I had …

… problems …

I tried copying and pasting this huge list of addresses en masse once I found them, but my computer seized so many times once I hit 'send' that I had to resort to copying an individual address and pasting it into the 'to' field then sending the message … copying an individual address and pasting it into the 'to' field then sending the message …

… copying an individual address and pasting it into the 'to' field then sending the message …

Three days I've been doing that!

I don't know …

I don't remember even getting up from the computer!

Not in three days!

I mean, I must've gotten a drink or gone to the toilet, or something. But I can't remember …

It's just been panic! Panic and …

… and pain …

Oh, God …

I have to get the message out!

I don't know why I'm explaining all this … I mean, I've got to get the message out … but …
I guess I just thought that … well, since this is my last post …

I've got nothing left. No more ideas on where to post.

My blog is it!

I figure that … if … if people knew the story … the story behind the story … I guess they might find it more believable, somehow. I mean …

You'll all find out soon enough …!

I just … I just wanted people to know that I'd done as much as I could.

I …

I don't remember where I …

Oh …

See, I'd never tried finding masses of email addresses before! I'd never needed to! I mean, when I started having to do all this, I just tried typing random words into Google, clicking the link on whatever result came up. Then I just looked on the page for an email address! After all, searching on the page for '@' was easy enough …

It … it occurred to me to try some hacking sites, too.

Surely, I thought, surely they'd have a way of harvesting email addresses! That way I could get the message out to as many people as possible!

But … I don't know … I couldn't figure them out.

There was mention of some programs, but I couldn't find them. And I didn't know how to go looking for them.

I guess I wasn't 'in' enough to the 'culture', or something.

I thought there'd just be some easy links, you know … ?

I remember this massive panic attack just hitting me, though, because I suddenly thought, 'Oh, God … what if I pick up a virus from one of these sites?'

What if it ruined my computer?

I couldn't afford that!

I had to get the message out!

I went … I mean, initially … I tried ringing the media!

But none of them were interested!

Can you believe it?

Not talkback radio, not the TV stations … the newspapers wouldn't even put me through to someone to talk to! Just the secretary, or whatever, on the front desk!

I even tried some of the magazines that would have been used to this kind of stuff, but even they weren't interested! I thought sure the conspiracy one would be, but the guy I talked to treated me like I was a lunatic!

Can you believe that I actually tried calling the police?

They just told me to stop wasting their time!

Fine, I thought …

I've got the Internet.

This all started with the Internet.

That's the way I'll do it …

That didn't make sense … I'm sorry.

I'm just … it's just … I'm so tired!

But, God … my heart's racing, I haven't stopped sweating … and I can't slow down my breathing! Three days …

And then there's the … the r-reason I … the reason I cuh-can't … tuh-type …

And the …

… the other stuff …

Sorry … I just …

Sorry.

It's just …

… the pain …

They contacted me, you see?

I know …

I sound like a lunatic …

But it's true!

I don't know why it was me! Don't have any idea!

I mean, I'm not important! I'm just an ordinary guy! No wife … no girlfriend, for that matter. No kids. I live alone! I mean, I only even know a handful of people … and I don't even talk to them all that often.

I'm … quiet!

I'm a clerk, for crying out loud!

I don't know why they contacted me …

But they did.

And the way they did it … !

I don't know how …

Hang on …

I've gotta calm down. I sound like …

God … I just thought …

How can people believe me if I don't have some sort of … of evidence …

This isn't making sense.

And it won't make any sense!

I have no evidence!

Well … aside from what's …

… what's happened to …

… muh … me …

I can't show the original emails.

I can't show the original emails because they deleted them!

They're gone!

There's no trace that they were ever there!

I mean, I've gone and looked! Each time, it was just there long enough for me to read it, then …

… gone!

And why do they want us to know, anyway? What kind of sadists let us know they're coming and don't care because they know we can't stop them?!

God …

So tired …

Aaahhhh!!!

Oh, God …

God …

That hurt so much …

I shouldn't have done that …

But …

… it woke me up …

I just pushed my fingers … clawed my face with my fingers …

I figured the pain would wake me up …

I never knew there could be such pain from having no fingernails …

God … I have to tell …

Okay, then.

Okay …

From the beginning …

It was … it must've been …

It must've been about three days ago …

I was … contacted.

By computer …

It was an email … an email where the 'From' field was blank …

I remember wondering why my anti-spam program hadn't picked it up – hadn't filtered it – until I took a closer look at it.

Of course it wouldn't pick it up.

Like I said, the 'From' field was blank.

There was nothing in the 'Subject' field, either.

Without anything in either field, my spam-blocker probably couldn't have registered that there was even an email on my system.

But … it was there.

The date and time were clear as a bell.

Even though the message is gone now – even if I don't remember exactly when all this started … I do remember that the date and the time were there …

I remember thinking, 'How could anyone send an email without a return address, let alone anything in the subject line?' Because there was no return address, either. I mean, didn't email programs disallow that kind of thing?

I don't know.

How would I know?

I'd never even tried sending an email with a blank subject line, let alone tried figuring out how I could mask my return address.

I figured it was just some new way the spammers had figured out of getting around spam-blockers, or something.

Anyway …

I opened it …

Now, I've gotten some spam in my time. I mean, who hasn't? And most of 'em were the same kind of thing. Porn. Drugs. Finance tips.

The usual crap.

But I've also gotten ones that had nothing but weird text in 'em. Just words strung together. The words were recognizable enough, but they didn't make any sense. They weren't a coherent sentence.

At first, I thought this was one of those …

I skimmed over it. I remember wondering what the hell it was all about. I remember thinking that it wasn't one of those 'weird text' messages, after all. There were sentences, but what they were saying was just …

Anyway … I deleted it.

Whatever it was, I wanted to make sure it was gone, so I clicked on my 'Trash' folder and emptied that.

It's funny … although I can't remember exactly how long ago this all started (three days or four), I do remember all these little details.

I remember swearing because I emptied my trash before I'd had the presence of mind to see if there was anything in the email I could have used to add to my spam filter.

Still … too late.

It was gone.

I was all set to go back to what I was doing (updating my blog), when I heard the chime again.

New email.

And there it was again …

The same message.

The same lack of 'Subject' or 'From'.

Okay … so … I knew there was a message there. And this time I decided to add it to my spam filter.

But the computer wouldn't let me.

It kept asking me to 'Please Select a Message'.

I remember getting a little annoyed at it all. I mean, it was taking me away from updating my blog. I'd spent the week in the library studying up on the latest in valid propagation techniques for chrysanthemums and was all set to write it up and post it. Whatever this email business was, it was stopping me from doing that.

Then I thought about my spam filter's blacklist. I figured, 'If I can't automatically add it to my filter … I'll manually add it'.

But that didn't work, either.

I didn't really know what I was doing.

Then it occurred to me that I might have a virus. I mean, my computer was acting weird. Emails with nothing in the 'From' or 'Subject' fields. The same email popping back up after I'd deleted it. I'd knew enough about computers to know that if my machine was acting weird, then it could be a virus.

So I looked on Google.

But, no matter how many search terms I typed in, though, no matter what pages they took me to, I just couldn't find anything even remotely similar to the email I'd received.

There was no mention of it on virus alert Websites, nothing in hoax alert Websites …

… just … nothing.

I'd finally gotten curious enough about it all that I decided to forego my blog entry for a while. I mean, this email business was annoying, sure. But it was also intriguing … in an annoying sort of way.

So … I looked on Google to try and see if I could figure out how to determine where an email came from.

I found some interesting articles about 'spam headers'. Apparently, spammers can fake 'From' addresses, so that people can't track them down (which is actually pretty gutless).

I learned that I could get my email program to display the message headers of an email. I mean, I'd probably know that already if I'd bothered to read the manual.

But I hadn't.

Anyway, I clicked around a bit and my email program was now showing headers.

I learned that – apparently – the 'Received' lines could tell me where a message came from.

'Apparently' being the operative word, because there was nothing in the 'Received' lines.

My own email address was in the 'To' section, but there was absolutely nothing in any line underneath that. All that was there was 'Received' … and the rest was a blank. Not even any information about what 'routers' the email may have passed through (whatever they were).

Just a blank.

And … when I looked a little closer … even most of the sections after that were all blank.

The 'Message ID'.

The 'X-Mailer'.

The 'Date' was correct.

And so was the 'Time'.

But the 'From' section was (of course) empty.

The 'To' section had my email address (like I said) … but the 'Subject' line was blank.

There was information in the 'Type' section, but this looked to me like nothing more than information to the computer on how to display the message, because it had the word 'text' buried among everything else there.

And I didn't even know what 'Content-Transfer-Encoding' was all about.

I remember getting tired of the whole thing, then. Curious or not, I really just wanted to work on my blog entry.

So (once again) I deleted the message and emptied the trash.

I decided to run a virus scan, too. And I figured I could do that while I went down the road to get some tea.

When I got back, the test had finished.

No Virus Has Been Detected.

'Good', I thought, and sat back down to get to work.

And the email was back.

I growled at it and deleted it, same as before.

I emptied the trash and sat back to look at the screen …

… and it returned.

So I deleted it again.

Then emptied the trash.

Again.

And again the chime informed me that I had email!

'God', I thought.

'Fine … I'll just print the thing out and show it to the tech guys at work. See what they think of it'.

Which was good in theory, except for the fact that nothing printed.

The computer said it was printing the message. And I looked in the 'Printer Properties' information, which told me that there was a document printing …

… but nothing was coming through the printer but blank paper.

'Fine', I thought.

'I'll reply'.

Now, all the Websites I'd looked at about spam and emails and such said to never reply to spam, because it only lets the spammer know that your email address is active. But this was really starting to annoy me, and a sarcastic reply to whoever it was might just make me feel better. If nothing else.

Of course, I didn't think that it would send (what, with no return address and suchlike).

Still, I fired off a quick, sarcastic reply, and was surprised when the computer told me that it had been sent successfully!

Nevertheless, I expected to later get an email back from my ISP's mail 'daemon' saying that the mail could not be delivered.

In any case, I felt a little better because of my act of petty revenge.

Even if it probably wouldn't work.

And then …

… and then the fish happened …

That doesn't make sense …

What happened was …

I remember this sound …

This small hissing noise.

I was trying to work out where it was coming from …

It was only this small hissing noise … but it was getting louder.

And then there were these … bubbling sounds.

Just a few at first, but then really getting going. Like water boiling in a saucepan … but louder …

… like more water than would fit in a saucepan …

Then the smell hit me …

I knew then that it was something to do with the fish tank. It was this smell of … of salt, somehow (even though it wasn't a saltwater tank) … of boiled plant-matter and rocks …

… and something else.

I got up and went into the lounge room, but I stopped before I managed to get too near the fish tank …

There was no reason for it … there was no heater in the tank (goldfish don't really need one).

But still …

… my goldfish was being boiled alive right in front of me.

I didn't relate the two events – the spam and my goldfish being boiled alive – until later.

My feet started shuffling forward again, even though I could see just fine what was happening without the need to get any closer, really. The water was outright boiling in front of me as I approached, and I knew that it wasn't some sort of malfunction with the air stone (not that that could account for the mass of bubbles in the tank), because I could feel the heat growing as I moved closer.

When I'd nearly reached the tank, the boiling suddenly stopped. Not petered out. Just stopped. As though someone had lifted a pot of boiling water from the stove.

The water was full of … particulate matter … whirling about in the eddies caused by the boiling. But through it I could see something else …

Scales floating around the tank and sinking …

… and what was left of my goldfish.

Waterlogged flesh that seemed somehow whiter than before.

I recognized cooked fish when I saw it.

I was reasonably upset. I mean, Rex was just a goldfish, but I'd had him for nearly ten years.

Gingerly, I reached down to poke at Rex's remains, but I stopped just before I could touch the still-steaming water.

Thinking there had been some sort of electrical problem with the light above the tank somehow, I turned it off at the wall.

There was this huge bang as the tank cracked with the heat all of a sudden and boiling water, the remains of Rex, cooked aquarium plants and hot sand all burst onto the floor, sending this steaming wave of heat and smell throughout the house.

If I hadn't been off to the side turning off the switch at the wall …

For … I don't know … half a minute, or something … I just stood there, looking at it all. The heat and the smell and the humidity all pushed up at me. My eyes were watering from it. But also because I was looking at this little boiled lump on the carpet that used to be Rex.

And then I heard the computer.

The chime again.

More email.

But this one was different.

Oh … same lack of information about who it was from …

… but the content was different.

Do as we say.

"I've got neither the time nor the inclination to deal with this crap", I told the sender (well, the computer screen, anyway), and turned around to head back into the lounge to see what I could do about cleaning up …

… see what I could do about figuring out just why it happened, too. How …

I hadn't gone more than two steps when the computer chimed again.

The water was an example.

Do as we say.

Spread the message.

Of course, now I saw a connection. I didn't understand it, but I saw a connection. Somehow, the email and what had just happened with Rex …

I felt the first twinge of fear …

But I felt angry, too. Was this some sort of some sort of hoax?

But … how could anyone do that? How could anyone …

It was like one of those movies where there's a person on the phone and he knows what the girl in the house is doing because he's in there with her …

I started looking through my house …

The lounge and dining room and kitchen are all open plan, so it was easy to see there was nobody there. I looked in one bedroom, then the other, then the laundry and the bathroom. Then the toilet.

Nothing.

My only clue was the email …

The water was an example.

Do as we say.

Spread the message.

I got a response before, despite the fact that there was no return address. So I send a reply back again. And this time, my language was a bit more … colourful.

I don't normally use such heavy language, but I was beginning to feel a bit stressed.

Almost instantly, whoever it was sent a reply back …

Spread the message!

I replied with two words that weren't very nice …

… and every houseplant I owned burst into flame.

I don't know how it happened, but I had more than a few, in most of the rooms in the house. Fortunately, I've also got a fire extinguisher, and I grabbed it and ran around madly putting them all out.

With smoke and steam and clouds of foam or dust or whatever from the extinguisher all over the place, I stood there wondering just what the hell was happening.

It wasn't some sort of electrical fault. It wasn't some sort of spontaneous combustion. I mean, I've heard of potting mix that can do that, but I didn't use that kind. There simply wasn't any logical reason why every single plant I owned would just …

An email chime …

Spread the message.

I dropped the extinguisher and stepped over to the computer. I'd read descriptions in novels before about people walking with 'wooden steps' because they were afraid.

Now I knew what the writers had meant.

I reached over and started tapping the keys with shaking hands.

"Please … who is this?"

I hit send.

You have been told. Our message must be sent out.

I spoke at the monitor, then – at the computer.

Of course, I didn't expect an answer …

… but I got one.

"But … why pick me? Why … "

And I felt … I felt my insides heat up …

The pain …

I'd never felt anything like it.

I fell on the floor and just shook with the pain. I was convulsing. Frothy spit was throwing itself out of my mouth.

I couldn't even scream.

And then …

… just as suddenly as it had happened …

… it stopped.

Now, this was all happening so fast – everything was such a blur – that I was … well, I was overwhelmed.

But I'm not a fool.

I could see the connection for sure now. The connection between … between the … the worsening events …and the demand for me to get their message out.

So …

… I tried to leave.

Dreading another attack of whatever it was that had caused that agony, I shuffled over to the front door.

I reached out …

… and the door handle melted just as my hand touched it.

I can't describe just how much …

… just how much it hurt …

In a panic – without knowing what I was doing – I headed for the front window, looking as I did so at the bubbling globs of flesh being flung from my hand to the carpet by the shaking of my hand that the pain caused.

With my other hand, I tried to open the window …

… but the lock didn't seem to work.

I didn't know what I was doing – I was moving on autopilot – as I picked up the small side-table near my recliner in one hand and tried to smash the window with it.

The table bounced off the window and smashed me right in the mouth, instead.

And there was nothing – not so much as a mark – on the window.

It wasn't 'special' glass. I knew that. I'd paid for it.

It was just glass.

It should have broken and I should have been able to get out.

But it hadn't …

… and I couldn't.

The police …

I tried to call the police.

When I picked up the phone, there was a normal dial tone once I'd held the receiver up to my ear …

… for about a second and a half.

Then the most ear-splitting (I realize how that sounds but it's true) sound I'd ever heard came through the line.

I fell to the floor, shaking.

What was happening?!

My ear felt wet.

With the hand that wasn't burned, I reached up to my ear …

My fingers came away covered with blood.

I wasn't game to use my mobile.

But I did know that I could send out a call for help with email …

I ran over to the computer and typed as fast as the pain would let me …

As soon as I touched the mouse to hit 'send' I found myself flat on my back.

I'd felt jolts of electricity before. In school there was some sort of generator that you could wind that produced electricity. I'd also touched an electric fence (for cattle) back when I was young and stupid.

I knew what electricity felt like.

I remember I just lay there, whimpering. I was looking around wildly …

… waiting for something else to happen.

I was racked with more pain than I'd ever known, and it had come in less that two or three minutes …!

But I noticed above it all the aches in my fingers …

And in my mouth.

With the hand that wasn't burnt, I dry washed my face, running it up into my hair in fear and exasperation …

… and pulled out some clumps.

It was while I was looking at these that I noticed my fingernails …

They were coming off.

When I started to speak – to say, "What the … ?" – I could feel …

… I could feel a looseness in my mouth …

Wisps of bloody hair between my shaking fingers, fingernails dropping off before my eyes, I nevertheless reached up to my mouth …

… and when I pushed against it …

… I felt some of my teeth plop back onto my tongue.

I opened my mouth to scream …

… but all that came out was a wheeze …

… and blood …

… and teeth.

I don't remember standing up and running to the bathroom, but I do remember suddenly seeing myself in the mirror.

Blood was coming from my mouth, my ears, my nose.

From the corners of my eyes.

Instinctively, I reached out to turn on the tap. Somehow, some part of me figured that water would cool the pain …

… but all I got for my trouble was another email chime.

Spread the message.

Or it will grow worse for you.

"Worse?", I screamed at the computer. "How can it possible get any worse?!"

And it answered me … by email … without me having sent a reply email.

Truly scared now in the face of the unknown – more frightened that I'd ever felt in my life, actually – like a robot, I sat at the computer …

…and did as they told me to.

And now – three days later … three days of mopping blood from every orifice when I had to go to the toilet – three days of swallowing blood along with the few sips of water I'd somehow managed to keep down – three days of vomiting blood, losing all my hair, feeling blood cake on me, watching my fingernails completely drop off and the remainder of my teeth fall out – three days of panic and terror and anxiety and fear and desperation and …

I came to the last thing I could think of to do …

My blog.

And now … now I can barely speak, my throat's so raw.

Now … now I'm having trouble even seeing the screen …

Now … I'm having trouble even breathing …

The message:

They said that they were the original creators of humanity.

That mankind began as an experiment.

But enough time had gone by.

And now the experiment was over.

And it was time to collect the results.

They'd arrive in a little over three days, they said, to collect such specimens of humanity as they deemed fit.

Thousands – perhaps millions – would be collected from all over the planet for vivisection.

There would be no pattern to the collections – mothers would be taken from children, husbands from wives, sisters from brothers, children from parents – at random – from all corners of the globe.

Those chosen would simply appear to disappear.

I don't know why they told me to spread the message. I don't know why they decided to even send a message in the first place. I don't even know who they are.

But I do know that they must be more sadistic that I can possibly imagine …

… and more powerful.

They're telling us this … they're letting us know …

… and they don't care if we're prepared for them or not …

… because they know that nothing we can do will stop them.

God …

I'm amazed that I can still think now … now that my body – my mind – is failing me … like it's been steadily doing – I realize now – since I'd received the first email …

Nevertheless, now that the message is finally out …

… I can try and figure out just how long it's been since everything started …

… but …

… but now I can hear …

… distantly …

… through my impossibly unbreakable windows and my inexplicably sealed doors …

… the screaming begin outside.

14 Comments

Come In, Spinner (A Short Story)

Wednesday, 8. August 2007, 13:28:01

spider, horror, snot, spider web ...

THERE WAS ONCE a little boy.

No great surprise there. There were always little boys, and there always will be.

Little boys and all the things that little boys like:

Puppies, die-cast metal toy cars and trucks, plastic robot-shaped things that could convert – with a few clicks – into weapons, or animals, or transport devices. Go-karts, chocolate, tents, imaginary worlds where they are soldiers fighting in a post-apocalyptic war. Red cordial and cartoons. Digging in the dirt. Playing in the mud with their moveable muscular action-figures. Bugs, lizards …

… and spiders.

In this, little Jimmy was no different than any other little boy. He liked all of the above-mentioned things, and more besides.

But he liked spiders most of all.

Not the big, hairy ones, mind you. The way they skittered all over the place, he knew they'd be too fast for him to stop if they ever attacked him.

No, he didn't like them at all.

Ah, but the ones that simply hung serenely in their webs, motionless …

… he did like them!

All day he could just sit and watch them, and all day they could just sit there, motionless.

Unless …

… unless, of course, some unfortunate insect found its unsuspecting way into the web!

At which point the spider would suddenly shudder – with excitement or surprise, little Jimmy didn't know – but then, it would dart at the trapped creature! Bite it! Then proceed to web it up into a ball … which it could eat from later.

The insect – usually a moth, or a fly, or a mosquito – would usually emit little buzzes of pain and fear as the spider sunk its fangs in and pushed venom through its helpless victim's system.

Such spiders were always to be found in his backyard … in bushes, in corners of the fence, along the undersides of the guttering, on the house, or … best of all …

… in the backyard toilet.

The backyard toilet was a small, wooden, shack-like edifice, two metres tall, two long, and one wide, with a triangular corrugated iron roof, a door which left a good thirty centimetre gap above the ground, and which wore patches of some unnamed ivy on its walls, causing what was left of the dull, brown paint it had once been coated in to peel off here and there, exposing the weathered timber beneath.

The backyard toilet was little Jimmy's favourite place, because, inside – up in the top right-hand corner of the room, just above the door – sat his favourite spider!

Endlessly fascinated, little Jimmy would often go into the tiny room, put the seat down on the old, old toilet, and just stand upon it, watching the spider.

It was only about the size of a one cent piece (the measurement including leg-span), and was coloured jet black, with small silver lines on its back and legs.

Its web wasn't like any of the other ones that little Jimmy could find in the backyard, or in bushes, in corners of the fence, along the undersides of the guttering, on the house, or around the fence, or near the house … or anywhere else at all … and this is probably what made it little Jimmy's favourite.

The web wasn't all nice and geometrically-shaped, you see, with a spider plunked neatly in the middle. Instead, it was a rough mish-mash of spun silk, placed as if the spider hadn't really known what it was doing when it had constructed it. And little Jimmy – judging by how often he saw the odd web empty of 'food' – figured that this was probably the case, and that the poor spider in the corner of the web must be pretty darn hungry.

So …

… he decided to feed it.

Oh, he wouldn't reach up from his standing-position on top of the toilet, lean over and reach out, holding food to its mouth, or anything like that. He knew enough not to touch it. Not to let it bite him.

He was a little kid, adventurous and absolutely rapt in spiders (no pun intended), but he'd listened to his well-meaning (but vastly overprotective) parents well enough to understand:

“If you ever touch spiders”, they had told him, “they'll BITE you, and YOU'LL GET TAKEN AWAY to the HOSPITAL, and it'll HURT, and you'll DIE … and YOU WON'T SEE US ANYMORE”, drawing the last four words out for emphasis.

“WON'T … SEE … US … ANYMORE!”

The very thought of this (as is perfectly normal so far as a little boy was concerned) scared the hell out of little Jimmy, so terrible were its implications.

However, his love for things creepy and crawly remained … with spiders foremost. And so, while he was always happy to look, he wouldn't … ever … touch.

Just look.

And feed his favourite spider.

At first, he tried the bits of meat he'd brought down from the kitchen upstairs, standing there on the toilet seat and tossing them up into the web.

But this didn't work.

At first, the spider would just shudder, as if angry at the savoury intruder which had invaded its web. Then it would suddenly dart down towards the small slivers, whereupon it would bite the web around them … and just let them drop to the floor.

Little Jimmy would let them stay there, of course, because they'd been IN CONTACT with the spider, and he didn't want to risk touching anything that the spider had … just in case he DIED.

Little Jimmy sensed, after a few tries, that throwing pieces of meat into the web was something that annoyed the spider … and he didn't want to do that, because the spider was his friend.

He decided that he needed something smaller than the chunks of meat he could only rip from the long cylindrical roll of processed ham (he couldn't – was NOT ALLOWED to – TOUCH THE KNIVES) …

… but what?

In an attempt to ponder this question, little Jimmy climbed down from the closed toilet seat and sat on it, leaned back on the cistern, and began contemplating in the time-honoured way that most every little boy has practiced since humans first came down from the trees.

He picked his nose.

Picking your nose was an interesting business. You couldn't actually see what was up there, which only made it all the more fascinating to look at what you pulled out.

Sometimes, the snot was long, stretchy and nothing but mucous, like what he sometimes coughed up when he had a cold. But on other occasions, it came out of his nose and sat on his finger in a chunky, tough little blob, dirty-coloured and mean-looking.

You could eat it.

He knew that.

But …

“Heyyy”, he said aloud, his voice that of one upon whom the ultimate answers to all the questions of the universe had been bestowed.

“If I can eat it”, he thought, “maybe the spider can, too”.

Certainly, the sticky little mound on the end of his finger was far smaller than the chunks of meat he'd ripped from the roll upstairs, and – therefore – much more likely (he hoped) to be eaten by the spider.

Instinctively, little Jimmy rolled the amorphous mass up onto his palm. He had to scrape it off his finger first, then roll it 'round his palm until most of the moisture in it had gone. But then it was just like a tiny, grimy, mottled little ball, no bigger than the head of a pin.

He pushed it onto the tip of his thumb, climbed back up on top of the closed toilet seat, reached out towards the web …

… and flicked it, hoping like blazes that the poor spider would – at last – get a good feed.

For a second, the spider just hung there … shocked.

Little Jimmy almost had time to have his emotions begin a steady downward swing, from hopefulness and elation, right over into disappointment and resentment for the spider …

… but suddenly …

… it shivered.

… it shivered for a few seconds, as if unsure of what to do …

… and then …

… then it skittered over the nearly invisible web, tentatively approaching the unmoving object caught firmly in its trap.

Little Jimmy let out a whispery squeal of delight and excitement as the spider reached out to the ball of snot, decided that it was, in fact, food after all, and not one of those horrible blobs of processed meat …

… and bit into it.

Watching with utter fascination (and a huge sense of happiness since he had managed to feed his friend), little Jimmy saw the spider begin wrapping the tiny ball up in its webbing.

His eyes widened when he saw the spider take the web-wrapped ball of snot back to the deepest corner of its web, burrow itself into a crack between the wall and the ceiling …

… and proceed to eat.

Jimmy was so very happy!

From then on, every single day, little Jimmy would go downstairs to the outdoor toilet, just to pick his nose, roll the snot up into a disgusting little ball, and lob it at the spider's web. And every single day, the spider would come down, bite into it, wrap it up, and carry it off to eat.

And because of this, each and every day, little Jimmy seemed to be floating on a cloud of happiness!

One morning, so happy and expectant was he in his rush to get downstairs and feed his friend (to make sure that his friend the spider wasn't going hungry anymore because the stupid bugs and moths wouldn't fly into its web and ha ha it didn't matter anymore, so there), that he didn't bother to close the door of the toilet.

He just went in, put the lid of the toilet down, climbed up on top of it, picked his nose, rolled it up, and flicked it at the web, then stood looking with glee towards the upper right corner of the room.

However, watching from the kitchen window was little Jimmy's mother, looking with love in her eyes as her son made his way from the back door to the toilet.

Quickly, though, the look of love was replaced with one of curiosity …

… which happened, because she didn't see the toilet door close.

As she continued to watch, her eyebrows raised and her eyes squinted when she saw little Jimmy climb up on top of the closed toilet seat. And then her brow furrowed in disgust as she saw little Jimmy picking his nose.

To explain the complex ripple of muscles in her face and the resulting expressions as she saw what he did next would be far too difficult.

Suffice to say, she was overcome with enough distaste to let out a muttered, “What the hell?” before marching out of the kitchen, out the back door, down the stairs and over towards the toilet, where she yelled, “Jimmy!”

Little Jimmy froze when his mother yelled.

She only used that tone of voice when she meant business – when he'd been A BAD BOY – and, apparently, that was right now.

But what had he done?

“Just what the hell are you doing, young man?”

'Young Man' was another nail in the coffin as far as little Jimmy was concerned.

He stammered out, “Whuah?” Then, “Buhh”. And finally managed to say, “But … I'm just feeding my friend! He's hungry!” And he pointed to the spider's web.

“What?” said his mother in an annoyed voice, as she followed his arm to where it was pointing.

She saw the spider in the process of webbing up the tiny ball of snot …

… and pieced it all together.

After all of her and her husband's warnings, little Jimmy was still playing with spiders … and now he was …

“Uugh”, little Jimmy's mother said in loathing, as she imagined what had been happening.

“Jimmy … that's dig-GUS-ting!”

She whirled on him.

“Do you know what'll happen if you keep this up?”

Little Jimmy just blinked at her, unable to see why she was so mad.

“That spider will decide that it likes what's up your nose”, she yelled, “and come along one night while you're asleep … and GET YOU!”

Little Jimmy could only blink, shocked.

“AND YOU'LL DIE!”

“AND YOU WON'T … SEE … US … ANYMORE!”

Some people's parents would, instead, tell their child (if they were to catch them in a similar situation) something along the lines of, “Well you shouldn't really go near the spider, because it's poisonous and could bite you. It'd make you sick. Not a good thing. Plus, picking your nose is not really very nice. In fact, it's quite unhygienic”.
Some parents.

But not little Jimmy's mother! In order to stop little Jimmy from doing something that she perceived as bad, it was her way to tell him that said action was likely to produce the worst possible result, little realizing the effect this had on little Jimmy; how little Jimmy's imagination would take such a statement as, “It'll decide that it likes what's up your nose, and come along one night, while you're asleep, and GET YOU … AND YOU'LL DIE … AND YOU WON'T … SEE … US … ANYMORE” …

… and blow it out of all proportion.

Which is strange, because she was a kid herself, once, and should have known better.

Little Jimmy didn't think of any of this, however.

He just blinked, because he didn't know how to take it.

He'd just been feeding his friend, the spider, because the stupid moths weren't flying into its web, and why would it hurt him by crawling up his nose, anyway?

But his mother wouldn't LIE to him, so he just said, “But … he didn't have enough moths!”

“What?” little Jimmy's mother screamed. “Ohhh … go to your room!”

Little Jimmy did as he was told, tears welling up in his befuddled eyes as he ran upstairs, crying at the fact that he had been betrayed by his friend the spider (because he'd gotten IN TROUBLE because of it), and also because of the fact that he'd been A BAD BOY.

He ran past his father in the kitchen, then into his room, where he closed the door and fell onto the bed, sobbing into his pillow.

His father glanced up from the newspaper and his breakfast while his wife walked in.

“Do you know what I just found your son doing?”

And then little Jimmy's mother proceeded to tell her husband of the spider, exactly what little Jimmy had been doing, and just how disgusting it all was.

“I want that spider gone, too”, she added.

“I'll take care of it before I go to work”, little Jimmy's father said, glancing up at the can of bug spray sitting on top of the 'fridge.

That night, little Jimmy lay on his bed, too frightened to even think of sleep.

He kept thinking of his ex-friend, the spider, and of how it would come up and GET HIM!

It would!

His mummy said so!

Besides, if people – or spiders, or any kind of friends – weren't your friends anymore, then they were your ENEMIES, little Jimmy knew.

And ENEMIES wanted to HURT you!

The bullies at kindergarten proved that.

And now … now he had another enemy.

Thus, frightened – his eyes wide open in the darkness of his room, his ears listening intently for any sound other than that of his father snoring in the next room after both he and his mother had gone to sleep – little Jimmy lay awake.

Terrified and exhausted …

… but awake.

It had been a long and busy day.

First off, he'd lost his friend and gained an ENEMY, and – at the same time – he'd been A BAD BOY!

Then, he'd sat and watched TV until it was time for him to go to kindergarten.

There, he'd sung songs, painted and read some books (well, enjoyed the pictures).

After that, he played in the sandbox.

However, despite all that, he'd found that he just couldn't sleep during afternoon nap …

… because he knew that he HAD to stay awake.

If he fell asleep, he KNEW that his ENEMY the spider would come along, trying to get at his snot, and that it would go into his nose and up into his brain …

… and he'd DIE!

And he WOULDN'T SEE MUMMY AND DADDY ANYMORE!

But … all through the afternoon and all through the evening, he grew more and more tired.

And now, lying in bed, his eyes were getting heavy, and he kept yawning, and all around his eyelashes stung.

But he HAD to stay awake!

It was very quiet for a while then, and little Jimmy was almost thinking that nothing was wrong, because he hadn't thought of the spider in a while. Hadn't thought of how he'd been A BAD BOY. Hadn't thought of anything, actually.

But he must've stayed awake, because he could now hear a sound …

… a disturbing sound.

A sound which sent chills along his back, and goosebumps up and down his arms.

He pulled the covers up further.

And, as he turned on his pillow …

… he saw it.

He didn't know how he saw it, because it was down at the end of his bed. But it was so large … like it was right in front of his face!

Right ON his face!

Crawling RIGHT UP HIS NOSE!

He could only stare in horror.

He couldn't do anything else.

It was too late.

Little Jimmy could only stare as the spider … his ENEMY … crawled up towards him …

… and, after a while, he couldn't even do that.

He shut his eyes tightly, pressed his mouth firmly closed, and lay motionless.

But he could still FEEL.

He could still feel as the spider inched its way along the bed … up over his blanketed form … slowly, ever so slowly, agonizingly slowly … but surely.

He could still feel and he could still hear.

Hear as it skittered, exactly the disturbing noise that little Jimmy had heard just before … a 'skitter', as it increased its speed upon reaching the skin of little Jimmy's neck, where his pyjama shirt went down in a 'V'.

It skittered up and over his exposed throat …

… and onto his chin …

… and there it sat for a while, it just sat … motionless … just like it did in its web … its eight tiny legs digging into the skin of little Jimmy's throat like tiny pinpricks …

Then suddenly … as if seeing what was in little Jimmy's nose …

… it shuddered.

It shuddered … and the shuddering was the most horrible sensation that little Jimmy had ever felt …

… it shuddered and shuddered and seemed to shudder forever …

… and then …

… the spider suddenly darted forward …

… darted right up over his lips …

… darted right up little Jimmy's nose!

Little Jimmy didn't feel anything then, other than the horrible pressure in his nose, as though he needed to sneeze, but couldn't.

He couldn't breathe!

And then …

… nothing.

When he woke up in the morning, the sun was shining through the window, the door of his room was open and he could hear the sizzling of his father's bacon being cooked out in the kitchen.

He sniffed to catch the aroma …

… and, for some unknown reason, felt disturbed by using his nose.

Before he could think on this further, he suddenly heard hi