Shock Totem Part 4

Dorian straightened up, threw one leg over the girl, and dragged the blade across the smooth flesh of her neck. The skin parted and blood poured out, spraying a little, glazing his red coat in an even darker shade. His knees pinned down her arms as her eyes widened. She thrashed, the strength of her movements remarkably vital, almost throwing him off her. He kept his hand over her mouth the whole time, smothering her cries, even after her body fell still. Then he climbed off the corpse, took a rag from his sack, and wiped the blood from his blade.

It had been too late for Grace. She was too old for the Purge, and he refused to soil little Bethany with the blood of the tainted.

He stepped away from the body, letting it bleed out on the throw rug. On the way out of the room he walked with less care. There was no one left to avoid, after all, not with older sister dead. He pa.s.sed the family Christmas tree, a cheap store-purchased fake, and stared at it, feeling a moment of sadness. It was all lit up with white lights, but no ornaments hung from its aluminum branches, no tinsel rested on the green vinyl needles. Perhaps they were waiting for the next afternoon to decorate it.

No matter. Too late now.

Up the stairs he went, listening to the swoos.h.i.+ng of his thick pants with each swing of his legs. At the top he veered to the left, down a hallway lit by a single nightlight. He gazed at the walls as he pa.s.sed, looking for the telltale family portraits, pictures that showed Grace and Bethany on their march through time, but there were none to be seen. Shrugging, he stopped at a door festooned with a child's drawings. One of the sketches seemed to show a happy unicorn feeding a carrot to an impoverished teddy bear; another presented a school of fish circling a chest of gold. He pushed open the door.

Moonlight streamed in through gaps in the curtains, casting the bed in the center of the room in an eerie cobalt radiance. Little Bethany sat up in bed, very much awake, dark hair dandling in front of her face, holding the blankets to her chest. Her eyes were wide, twinkling in the moonlight. Dorian strode into the room and slung the empty sack from over his shoulder. He smiled, and the fake beard itched against his cheek, making him twitch.

"Santa Claus?" said Bethany.

"Yes, dear," replied Dorian. "It is me."

The little girl visibly relaxed. "You bring presents?"

His tools jangled in his pockets. "I have. Many presents."

"Can I see them?"

"Have you been a good little girl?"

"Uh-huh."

"Are you sure?"

"Uh-huh."

Dorian shook his head. "I am not so sure of that, Bethany Baker."

"Why not?"

He sauntered along the side of the bed and sat down on the edge. Bethany retreated the tiniest bit, but not as much as a little girl should when a stranger entered their room. Dorian silently praised himself for the idea of donning the Santa suit. That decision had come about almost twenty years ago, and it was the smartest one he'd ever made.

His hand drifted to Bethany's knee. Once more she recoiled, but again the curiosity showing in her eyes won out. She actually inched closer to him, and allowed her tiny fingers to touch the soft fabric of his gloves. Her mouth dropped into a frown.

"Santa, your suit's wet."

Dorian nodded. "That happens."

"Did you see my sister?"

"Yes."

"Was she good?"

"No."

"Did you give her a present anyway?"

"Of course."

Her eyes drifted to his empty sack. "Was it the last one?"

"Not at all, my child," he replied. "Not at all."

With his free hand, Dorian shoved the little girl flat on the bed. A puff of surprised air escaped her rosebud lips, and she grabbed hold of his wrist, trying to free herself. Just like her sister, she seemed strong for her age, but Dorian was a large man. He held her down easily, and then climbed on top of her. She whimpered and cried. He took his spool of gaffer tape from his pocket, ripped off a piece, and fastened it over her mouth. With another piece he bound her thras.h.i.+ng wrists together over her head. He wrapped a third around her ankles.

Bethany flogged about on the bed like a snake on hot concrete. Dorian leaned over her, staring into those wide, panicky eyes. They seemed so shocked, so betrayed. He almost felt sorry for her.

Almost.

He sat beside her until she calmed down, though her chest continued to rise and fall like a revving engine. When she stilled he lifted her nights.h.i.+rt, festooned with images of dancing princesses, and traced his fingertips around her bellyb.u.t.ton. Her flesh was smooth and warm.

"You have been a bad girl, Bethany," said Dorian. "Do you know why?"

Her head shook violently from side to side.

"You have evil inside you, princess. Just like all little girls. You taunt men with your virtue, place dirty images in their heads. You turn men into monsters, because you are a monster yourself. But all is not lost. I can save you. I can purge the demon from your flesh. I can make you good."

Bethany whimpered.

He took out the knife and pressed it gently against her breastbone. The cutting edge drew blood, and the girl was thrown into another las.h.i.+ng spasm. Dragging the knife downward, he opened a tiny mouth in her flesh. With every breath, with every thrash, the mouth opened, spitting her life's fluids. It dribbled over her ribs, pooling on the flannel sheets.

"Quiet now," Dorian whispered. "It hurts more if you fight it."

He went to work, cutting off her clothes and opening tiny mouths all over her body, allowing them to air out the darkness within. Unlike most of his subjects, Bethany's struggles increased. She became harder to hold still. Her m.u.f.fled screams pierced his eardrums. I must have hit the mother lode, he thought, and couldn't help but smile.

He labored for more than an hour, until his beard, suit, and the entire surface of the bed was soaked with the child's blood. She finally stopped fighting. Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, blinking only occasionally. Satisfied, Dorian opened his bag. From it he removed a small, steel bone-saw. He needed it to cut through her ribcage and access the organs beneath.

"The hard part is over," he whispered into her ear. Bethany's sweat-coated hair smelled salty and sour, making him sneeze.

He placed the saw on the bed beside her, lifted his knife, and drove it into her stomach. It punched through her skin, and he slowly moved it upward, opening a much bigger mouth to match the tiny ones covering her. Her back arched and a pitiful moan echoed in her throat. Her intestines glistened in the moonlight, writhing as she did, like a pile of worms. More blood poured out as he worked. He always misjudged how much of it the human body held. He picked up the saw and got ready to cut in, to fill his sack with the source of little Bethany's evil.

Light suddenly filled his world. It emanated from behind him. In a moment of confusion he paused and dropped the saw. Fingers of cold steel wrapped around his shoulders before he could turn around, yanking him off the bed. He careened through the air and smacked into the wall. His head bounced off the plaster, cracking it. Blood-Bethany's blood-leapt from his clothes in a mist upon impact. Stars danced in his vision while the urge to vomit rose in his gut.

He craned his neck. Two figures stood above him, staring down with hatred in their eyes. Off to the side, standing in the doorway, was yet another, albeit smaller profile.

Dorian's eyes widened as his vision came into focus. It was Grace who stood in the doorway, looking pale and wearing a scarf, her dark hair pulled back, her eyes squinting. She held a phone in her hand, waving it at him, taunting him.

"What the h.e.l.l..." whispered Dorian.

Paul Baker reached down and grabbed Dorian by the furry lapel. The guy was so strong, lifting him to his feet with ease. His fists were large and meaty, his jaw firm. Spit flew from his lips as he bared his teeth. He ripped off Dorian's fake beard with one tug.

"What were you doing to my daughter, you sick f.u.c.k?"

Dorian didn't respond. He wished he had his knife.

Paul tossed him aside as if he weighed nothing. He fell again, once more smacked the back of his skull, and yelped. The pain was so great that when he tried to think of how to get out of this mess, he drew a complete blank.

Margaret Baker joined her husband. They hovered over Dorian, their facial muscles twitching. The wife stepped forward and got on one knee before him. She shook her head.

"They won't leave us alone," she said.

"Of course, they can't," replied Paul.

"But we've been trying."

"That doesn't matter."

Dorian's eyes danced back and forth, following the chatting couple. He watched Grace sneak up, moving like a jungle cat. Upon seeing her again, his brain froze. He'd sliced her from ear to ear. There was no way she could be alive.

"He needs to pay," the girl hissed. She removed the scarf from around her neck, revealing a festering, open sore that belched blood and pus when she tilted her chin back.

"Oh, he will," replied her father.

The three of them formed a line, and Dorian watched in horror as the air around them shuddered. Their faces twisted, gyrating like putty. Their brows crumpled and their noses scrunched, becoming almost batlike. Teeth exploded from their mouths, rows of razor-sharp tusks that jutted from now-ruined lips. Their eyes became yellow, glowing in the darkness. They opened their jaws wider than humanly possible, and from their maws slithered long, snake-like black tongues.

"Yes," said the creature who had once been Paul. "For centuries we have tried to be good, have tried to behave. But people like you keep dragging us back in. Tell me, do you like what you've unleashed?"

Dorian screamed, and the three monsters charged.

Pain filled him as jagged teeth pierced through his thick Santa suit and his flesh. Chunks were ripped out of him, and his blood poured onto the carpet. He tried to yell out for help, but more teeth punched into his jugular, severing it from his neck. He gurgled and choked on his own life's essence. It flowed from his nose, his mouth, from every gaping wound.

"Wait," a voice stated.

Paul looked normal again, though his lips were frayed. The man stood up and backed away from the frenzy. He considered Dorian with a c.o.c.keyed glance and then leaned over the bed. Dorian watched as he tore the binds from Bethany's wrists and ankles. He didn't have to remove the tape from her mouth, however. The girl had grown tusks, just like the rest of her family, ripping through the tape. She clicked her oversized teeth together and crept across the bed. The remnants of the tape flapped on either side of her mouth. The cavernous hole in her stomach opened and closed along with her jaws. She held in her intestines with one hand.

Paul grabbed the knife off the bed and tossed it to his wife. Margaret held it in front of Dorian's eyes. His vision was going hazy on him as he bled out, but the fear was still very, very real.

"One good turn deserves another," the mother said, the corners of her tattered lips curling in a smile.

She plunged the knife into Dorian's stomach, echoing the wound he'd given her daughter. Then the family stepped aside, allowing little Bethany to enter the fray. Her glowing yellow eyes glared at him, her ma.s.sive teeth clacked together, her long tongue slithered in and out.

Bethany sank her face into the gash her mother had opened up. Her head thrashed like a shark, ripping at his entrails, puncturing his kidney, severing his spine. Blood cascaded around her.

"Just take enough to heal yourself," said Paul as Dorian's world went black. "We still need something to decorate the tree with, after all."

Robert J. Duperre, who lives in Connecticut with his wife, the artist Jessica Torrant, his three wonderful children, and an insatiable one-eyed yellow lab named Leo, is the founder of TRO Publis.h.i.+ng. As an author, he penned the post-apocalyptic series The Rift, of which the first two books, The Fall and Dead of Winter, are now available. The third book in the series, Death Springs Eternal, is due out this January. He has also written the standalone novel Silas, the story of a man and his dog as they travel across h.e.l.lish dimensions, and many of his short stories can be found in the anthology The Gate: 13 Dark and Odd Tales. He is also editing the second Gate book, which will include stories by ten established and up-and-coming authors, due to be released in February 2012. In his free time away from writing, Robert reviews books and (occasionally) films for both Shock Totem and his blog, www.journalofalways.blogspot.com.

To learn more about Robert and his creations and quirks, visit www.theriftonline.com.

What is your best, funniest, or darkest holiday-season memory?

The year was 1969. My mother had gone to bed early, leaving a friend and I to handle decorating the tree-and we were profoundly stoned. For what it's worth, I wrote a poem about it.

CHRISTMAS DAY, 1969.

Finally Christmas was all right.

and I think it was because of the tree which was all plastic needles and coiled wire limbs with just the very tips painted different colors so you knew where to stick them and it was something on the whole with Band-Aids dangling from white threads and a bottle of downs potato chips chessp.a.w.ns a chew-stick and hash pipe all hanging from back loops and red connecting tree to watermelon rind cookie decongestant toothbrush fork and Day-Glo fangs pantyhose clothespins Nytol and in the center up top to the left of one ugly duckling dangling limb misplaced (electric blue tip notwithstanding) a photo of me in beard and gla.s.ses looking up and tired but up telling somebody or other I wasn't having any my mother gasped and said what and the rest was pure joy.

-Jack Ketchum.

www.jackketchum.net.

What is your best, funniest, or darkest holiday-season memory?

IRONY IS A CRUEL MISTRESS.

Bad luck has been a staple in my life. From the day I was born till this very moment as I write this holiday-inspired memory. Bad luck clings to me like a dingleberry to a bear's a.s.s. And this Christmas Memory is no exception.

I was eight and already a latchkey kid. I carried a house key in my sock, which always ended up beneath my foot, nestled under its arch. Figured I'd never lose it this way.

This Christmas, in particular, was going to be the best. I knew this because I was already given a puppy-that my mom named Missy-a few weeks prior. A Rottweiler mix. And it was my duty to walk it and clean up after it when it messed in the house or yard, which it did often.

Seemed like I was always picking up s.h.i.+t.

On a December night I took Missy outside to do her business. Like a good boy I shut the door behind me and like a good boy I had left all the lights on in the place. Without a care I plopped Missy down onto the small patch of gra.s.s that sat before the duplex I lived in. The house was split down the middle. One side the landlord, the other side, us.

The only one home was me.

Missy sniffed and rolled around in the gra.s.s. She wouldn't go, and I was s.h.i.+vering. I wore nothing more than a T-s.h.i.+rt, pants, and socks. It was the kind of December that didn't receive snow until after Christmas, the kind that gave many starry nights and continuous days of ice cold temps. Besides, I was a kid and standing mere feet from the porch and front door. Shoes and a jacket? Didn't need them.

As I coaxed the pup into using the yard as her toilet, something coaxed my stomach into doing the same. At first this didn't bother me. No worries. I could hold it.

Since Missy didn't care to attempt to release herself, I picked her up and tried to open the front door. Locked. c.r.a.p! Again, no worries. I sat on the porch steps and took off my shoe, my sock, and emptied my sock into my hand. Out of it came two pieces of metal. My key was broken in half.

Now, to this day I can't explain how this happened, how a house key that was snuggled beneath my foot came out in halves. I can only surmise that the stench of an eight-year-old boy's foot ate right through the metal like acid burning holes into iron beams.

While putting my sock and shoe back on I panicked. My tummy tightened. My bowels churned. It was a cold night in December, and I was locked out. I stood on my porch with a puppy in my arms and c.r.a.p pressing at the gates. Do I find a bush and go behind it? I wondered. Sounds like a good plan, doesn't it? Only problem is that, at that moment in time, I didn't think of it. The same thing goes for knocking on anyone else's door around me. I was shy kid then and I didn't talk to anyone except to friends or family.

Nonetheless, my solution to this problem was much better.

The bulbous moon shone silver across the yard and street, casting long shadows from the bare maple trees. Christmas lights twinkled in windows. I sank back onto the porch and merged into the shadow. Even though I had left the majority of the lights on in the house I had never turned the porch light on. And right then I was glad of it.

This eight-year-old boy went into survival mode. No, I didn't eat Missy and use her stomach as mittens. I did something better, I released my bowels-squeezed, pushed, and out came something that felt like a rock-while standing right there on the front porch. With the stars above watching every detail.

And I still had my pants on.

I remember looking around, watching to see if anyone was watching me. Paranoid that someone knew what I was doing. Missy didn't care. She chewed on my hand as I held her. Once I finished that business and I drew a sigh of relief, the second act followed, quickly.

I peed myself.

At first the warmth felt nice but soon after it became freezing. I put Missy down and while holding on to her leash I pulled my soaked pants and underwear away from my legs and b.u.t.t. Missy began licking from the pool that surrounded my feet and I pushed her away. She returned again but I did nothing. Instead, I began shaking my right leg, trying to get it to roll down and out. After a few moments, it tumbled out. A marble in size. I then kicked it off the porch into the gra.s.s.