Spider and I

"Spider and I" originally appeared in The Devil's Food

We leaned on a window ledge in our abandoned factory home while the full moon lit the streets below like little silver-grey arteries. An occasional car would skitter down one line like a dark insect. I did most of the watching because Spider was pretty much blind. He couldn’t hear well either, but he had this way of feeling. Spider could feel almost anything about you except maybe the color of your eyes. Sometimes things were harder at night with a full moon. I could see him better with a full moon. I could see just enough to make me want to stay awake all night.

“I’m hungry, Jackie,” Spider whined, “something for my belly, okay? Something crunchy and wet?” His long spindle-fingers flicked in front of his mouth, brushing across his jagged, mountain-range teeth. His black, almost lidless eyes shimmered like fat marbles in the moonlight under an angry patch of brush-bristle hair. He was one of those things parents lied to their kids about so they could sleep at night, one of those things that couldn’t exist in a sane world. Not my parents, of course. They were dead. Spider was just about the only parent I ever had.

“Jackie?”

“Quit moaning, all right?” I edged away from him, slipping toward the back window and fire escape. A breeze shuffled through the broken glass, floating through the darkness like a whisper. I grabbed an old burlap bag next to the window. “I’ll do my best. Bring you something as soon as I can.” My feet slipped over the window ledge as I hopped onto the creaking grate and rushed down the fire escape.

I climbed, silent and nimble as a cat, into the shadows around that factory. I don’t know what they used to make there, but that building was mostly empty now with nothing but bits of paper and trash, some graffiti, and broken bottles scattered on the floor. We’d been living in that hole for a couple of weeks, always moving to keep Spider fed and the both of us safe.

The building shielded a portion of the adjoining park from the moon, and I walked in the thick blue-black of midnight. During the day, giggling kids filled that park, little kids playing catch and swinging after school, but at night an eerie quiet spread across the grass. The air swam with a cold, moist smell; Spider was waiting, hungry, up in that building. I stopped at the edge of the big shadow for a moment and looked back at the factory like it was some big brick monument.

Standing out in that shaded playground, I heard a dog bark in the distance, clutched the bag in my hand, and turned to follow the sound. Spider was hungry, and the dog sounded like he might be just the right size.

_____

The morning light flooded through smudged glass. Scraps of Spider’s dinner lay about—a bit of blood sprayed on the square pillars and a few tiny snatches of fur. I never felt all that bad about the dogs. One of my foster homes had this little dog, Oscar, a little yipping thing that bit me once. Those folks worried more about the dog than me, took him to the vet, while I had to wrap my own hand with a t-shirt to stop the blood. That wasn’t even the worst of the homes.
Spider slept in the corner. Always in the corner. A light blanket covered him, something that would shield his nearly blind but sensitive eyes from the sun. The light bothered him—he had very thin eyelids, part of the “birth defect”. I felt at ease in the morning, pretty sure that Spider would never hurt me, but the way he ambled after his prey, skittering sideways and backwards on all fours, made my skin dance sometimes.

The little squeaks of children’s voices swelled from the playground. They weren’t at school, so I figured it was Saturday. I crept to the window, peering out at the little insects scurrying below. Spider always sought one of the highest buildings, and even as we hopped between these little towns, he seemed to find that one place that poked out of the prairie like a challenge to the sky.

Beyond the park, just across the street on the far side, was the town library. I liked to find the library wherever we traveled. Saturday meant reading, safe from anybody who’d want to know why I wasn’t at school. I’d been there last week, had overstuffed chairs tucked away in little nooks where I could hide all day and read. Where I could escape Spider for a while, escape the stench of our temporary home and imagine something different.

I crept out of the window, slinking down the fire escape into the grass below. As I started across the park, my eyes were fixed on the ground, scanning for loose change—quarters, dimes, and nickels that always fell out of the pockets of squirming children.

“Hey mister!”

The voice snapped my trance. I looked up and searched for its owner. A little girl, probably seven or eight with messy pigtails and dirty pink shirt—a brown puppy with sappy eyes on the front—trotted across the grass.

“Yeah,” I mumbled.

“Have you seen a little dog, a terrier? Her name is Patches.”

The smell of blood seemed to drift from the factory building. I shook my head and turned to walk away.

“Did you come from that building?” Her pudgy little finger poked toward the brown bricks.

“No,” I lied. I shrugged and played dumb. “That place? It looks dangerous—like it could fall down or something. I’d make sure to steer clear.” I winked and started walking again.

“Okay mister,” the little kid called after me.

_____

I was four, maybe five when my folks died. Their car smashed up pretty good, sending bent steel and broken plastic to rend and tear their bodies. They had no close relatives. After that, I bounced a bit—had a rough time. Five years old made me too old for most to adopt.
Five years old, and I was garbage tossed around to foster homes for the next few years.
I had mostly forgotten everything about my real parents except the books they’d read to me before bed. When I scrunched into one of those fat chairs in the library, I imagined being a little boy again, sitting next to my folks, reading bedtime stories. Strange, but libraries had always brought sanctuary, a place I could almost disappear—a place no one would think to look.

Lord of the Flies captured me that morning, took me to a little island. I meandered through the pages for a couple of hours before a little stiffness crawled into my legs. As I set the book down to stretch, I saw the girl from the park—the pink shirt with pigtails. Her little hand intertwined with the long, white fingers of another girl, older though, and my eyes couldn’t help but rest on her for a few moments. The older one had hair like coffee—the kind that truckers fired out of convenience store machines, sparkling and shimmering in the light. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders in these curls, and she caught me looking with her dark eyes—green and thick. My neck burned, and I tried to remember the last time I snuck into truck stop for a shower. Such a stupid thing to worry about.

“Hi.” The tall one smiled. “Amanda told me you were in the park this morning.”

I looked at the little one and tried to smile in return. “Yeah.”

“Are you new here? Going to school?” She tilted her head and sort of thrust it around to take a look at my reading material. “I’m Meghan.” Her hand stuck out like I needed to touch it or something. I pushed my own hand out, and my head suddenly felt lopsided and awkward, like it was stuffed with wet paper. Her long fingers brushed my palm as she took my hand and gave it a little shake.

“Jack,” I whispered. We were in the library, and I always wanted to fly a bit under the radar, so I kept my voice low. “Just moved here. I’m done with school though—nineteen.” I tried to straighten my back and look like a convincing nineteen-year-old.

“Right. Do you live near the park, or just out for a stroll on a Saturday morning?”

I shifted on my feet. “I just like the weather, that’s all.” I glanced down and spotted this little brown spider skittering across the dented hardwood.

“You like the weather.” She kept smiling, but I felt like some hobbled mouse that an alley cat would bat around for hours. “That’s why you’ve holed up in here reading, Lord of the Flies.” Her hands rested on her hips.

“Yeah.” This heavy feeling, like three pairs of eyes boring into my chest, grabbed me. Maybe it was because of the grand inquisition Meghan laid on me. I snatched the book and started for the counter. “I lost track of time.”

“See you around, Jack,” she called after me. I waved one hand without looking, dropped the book at the desk, and hurried down the stairs.

_____

The kids played below while I listened to Spider breathe all afternoon. I thought about killing him sometimes, how I’d do it. He didn’t exactly hold me hostage, but I didn’t know any other life. He started mumbling, mostly incoherent ramblings, when the sun crawled really close to the horizon. I looked a my bag, this old army duffle with everything I owned—three shirts, another pair of jeans, some underwear, a pair of dull scissors that I used to hack off my hair every couple months, some other stuff. Mostly junk I’d lifted from various stores while we drifted.

“Jackie, mmmm,” Spider called, waking. “So tasty.” Spider stretched in the dim light, casting the old wool blanket to the ground. His long, leg-like fingers danced toward the gray ceiling. My skin shifted, not quite a shiver; I could never quite swallow the parts of him that weren’t human.

I’d cleaned up the bits of dried blood as best I could, but now that he mentioned it, the smell came back, swimming around the empty building and driving into my nose. My stomach cried out. I hadn’t eaten anything all day.

“Look, I’m going to go find some grub, for me. I’m hungry.”

Spider lurched toward me, the waning daylight slicing across his pale face in bands as he moved across the floor. “Jackie, so lonely when you go.” His breath hissed from his mouth and I caught a face full of the awful, stale-blood smell. Spider usually reeked of that smell.

“I’ll be back, promise.” I backpedalled to the window and slipped down.

_____

The park below our building stretched out blackly, tucked in the shadow again. But across the street—away from the library—a convenience store glowed like its own little sun. Some people, kids I figured, milled around their cars, crawling around the lot like insects.

The soft lights in the library were kind; those humming things inside the store accused me, scrutinized my face and the dark lines under my eyes. I jiggled the change in my pocket, counting my scavenged wages from the park by the feel of the coins. The lady at the counter, this little buzzard with swept-back grey hair and a vicious beak, zeroed on me the whole time, right up until I dumped my change on the counter and scooped away a pile of candy bars and peanuts, making for the exit.

I pushed on one side and the door yanked out in front of me. Startled, I dropped my loot, the plastic wrappers crinkling when they hit the sidewalk. Two giggling girls brushed past, trailing a sweet smell of something alive. I pushed my eyes to the ground, away from them.

“Jack?” Meghan’s voice stabbed me in the ear.
I burned again, flayed open under the nighttime sun of the bright parking lot. “Hey,” I muttered, kneeling to gather my food.

“Looks like…um, a nutritious dinner.”

When I looked at her, she smiled. I wanted to run, crawl into the shadows under the building. “Yeah,” I said as I stood up. My hands shook slightly, rattling the wrappers.

“Some friends and I are just, you know, hanging out.” Her head nodded toward the others inside. “Not much to do in Springdale, right? You’ve probably already figured that out. Look, you haven’t seen a little dog, have you? Our dog ran away. Amanda—my sister—she’s really worried.”

I opened my mouth, but caught a glimpse of something trying to move across the road before the words came out. Spider, trying to cross the street. My heart scraped against my ribs, swelling like a balloon in my chest. I glanced at Meghan, the artificial sun showing her green eyes, and then shifted back to Spider. He staggered into the street, holding his long hands in front of his face, shielding his eyes from the headlights. The cars moved so quickly, one—

I ran. Meghan shouted something behind me, but I ran. I hit Spider at full sprint; we were close enough to the curb that the impact sent us tumbling to the grass. I rarely touched him—I can’t remember touching him. His body felt so bent and brittle. The car honked, and the driver poked out a finger and yelled “assholes” as he sped away.

“Jackie,” Spider muttered.

I scrambled to my feet, glanced back at the convenience store. Meghan was inside now, looking this way but talking to her friends. When I looked at Spider on the ground, those black orb eyes poking out of his pale head and his wiry body sheathed in old military fatigues, I just saw an old man.

“C’mon, you should stay hidden,” I said.

_____

Spider and I sat up most of the night, regarding each other in darkness and silence. I hovered on the ledge, dividing my attention between the window and his odd expression. He fidgeted nervously, weaving invisible thread with his long, needle-fingers. The sky started changing, started moving slowly toward the new day, when he spoke.

“Jackie?” He didn’t move from his shadows.

I looked at him, thinking about the last few years. Spider never really expected much, just a little something to eat and my company. Moments of real freedom drifted through that time, but everything else floated beneath the surface. I missed my parents. I didn’t have much choice when they died, I didn’t have much choice in those foster homes, and I didn’t have much choice when Spider came to get me in the night. I could have let that car crush him on the highway.

“Jackie, the car tonight. Thank you.” His voice sputtered slowly, hissing between his crooked lips.

“You’re welcome, all right?” My knuckles whitened as I grasped the ledge. I glanced at Spider. “Couldn’t have you splatted, could I?”

We sat in silence again, until Spider looked at me. “You were so little when your parents died.” His body jerked, snapped forward as he leaned on his grabbing hands and started crawling. He stopped the advance, dropping to the floor at rest. “Jackie...” His head tilted from side to side as he spoke, and the waning moonlight sparkled off his black eyes. Then he stopped, resting on his haunches.

Cold washed over me; I turned my attention to the window and then quickly back him. My eyes flicked to the bag on the floor and back to the window. Spider remained motionless. My body went numb, full of nothing, like a bag of dust. We sat in that empty, silent space until the silence grew monstrous and nearly swallowed me.

“Jackie?” More silence. “Jackie, I’m hungry.”

My parents—I couldn’t help them, but I saved this thing. What was I now? What had I been most of my fifteen years? The memories burned. I burned. Spider’s stench—the smell of decay and rot—grew into an obscene thing. I leapt from the window, stumbled down the fire escape, and ran across the grass in the dark.

_____

I walked the rest of the night, past the dawn, and into the morning. Spider was hungry. I was hungry. I shed tears for my parents, but could I hate him? Last night, he was so helpless—just an old man stumbling in the road. The air felt colder, inviting winter. The weather would work against us soon; we needed to find a spot to hold up for the long, dark months. I wove through rows of little houses—little bungalows tucked behind fading trees. Eventually I had to go back, and I was empty-handed.

Once I found the highway, I turned toward the park. Our world usually slept on Sunday mornings. A car flashed behind me, zipped past, but stopped abruptly just in front of me. I kept my head down as I walked beside the car.

“Jack?” Meghan’s voice shot from the car. “What are you doing out here?”

I shrugged. “Just walking.”

“Jack,” she said and her voice wavered, “have you seen Amanda?”

I bent to see inside the car. Her eyes looked dark, rimmed with red. “Your sister? No.” I shook my head, trying to shake out the thoughts that materialized inside.

“She ran away…Amanda was so upset, must’ve slipped out of bed in the dark, looking for Patches. She wasn’t home when we got up. I think she left early this morning.” Meghan leaned over and pushed the passenger door open. “Get in; I can take you home.”

My stomach flipped. “No thanks, really. I just want some air. I tell your sister to hurry home if I see her around.” I stepped to the car and slammed the door shut. “Thanks though.”

Meghan nodded, and with a quick growl the car was gone. I hesitated for a moment, frozen inside, but quickly ran toward the park, the old factory, and Spider.

_____
I slipped through the window and scanned the floor. Dark gouts of fresh blood streaked the nearest pillar. My stomach sank under the weight of Spider’s last meal. He slept in his corner, covered with the blanket. I took a few furtive steps toward the glistening, fresh blood. Behind the pillar, I found her shirt—the little pink one with a puppy on it—drunk with blood. Spider and I had scavenged around the building when we first came to town, and I remembered the broken concrete walls with exposed rebar below. I crept down the stairs into the deeper layers of the old building. Something sharp, I thought, something that would do the job quickly.

A long segment of bent and rusted rebar jutted from a half-smashed wall, and I wrapped my hands around it. It wiggled with pressure, and I leaned against the iron bar and twisted. The metal squeaked and groaned, and a long segment, about two and a half feet, broke from the wall. I held up the bar and examined the broken end, a sharp, shiny point.

Spider slept soundly, especially after feeding. He always slept so soundly, almost peacefully save for the carcass and blood. I knew I had to finish it quickly…for me and Spider. For years, he was my only family. Now, I forced myself to see the monster. I forced myself to see that he was mortal, just like me—frail and weak, or I wouldn’t have pushed him away from the car last night. If I hadn’t saved him, that little girl…

I yanked back his blanket, exposing those naked eyes, and he flinched—woken by the bright daylight, I’m sure. Maybe he knew—maybe he saw me. I hope not. His awful hands flashed to his face and covered his glassy eyes. I held my breath and pushed the point to his chest.

“Jackie?” he mumbled. My stomach lurched. My heart cried—for Spider. For Amanda.

I leaned on the rebar, forcing it through his chest and to the floor, pushing all my weight behind it. An arterial spray caught me in the face as Spider lurched, snatching at the bar with his long fingers. I stumbled backward, across the room, while the heavy blood leapt from his chest, swelling into a pool and soaking his old blanket. He made some noises, gibbering and squeaking like a monkey, stumbled a few times, and collapsed with one hand spread toward me.

“Jackie…” His voice was weak, fading. My own lips trembled as the tears broke free. I sank against the wall, sobbing.

His body twitched for a while before I moved. Eventually, I stood, stripped off my bloody shirt and pants, rubbed the tears and blood from my face, and stuffed the rags in the old burlap sack. I slept for the rest of the day—a black sleep void of dreams.

When dusk came, I gathered my filthy clothes. Behind the old building, just around the corner from the park, there were some old barrels—the steel kind for fuel or grease. I pushed the soiled clothes inside an empty barrel and mixed in a few handfuls of dry leaves. Fishing out the matches, I struck one and ignited the trash; it took a while, but soon the flames licked at the top of the barrel. I stood there, watching the fire and wondering why Spider never killed me. What was I to him?

Maybe I should have attempted a prayer. My mouth opened, but no words would come.

The night grew cold, and I turned away. Shouldering my duffle, I returned to the highway. There really wasn’t any traffic on a Sunday night, so I turned south and walked down the silent road.

The Ox-Cart Man: A Ghost Story Podcast

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A video teaser for my short story, "The Ox-Cart Man".

Spider and I (Video)

A video teaser for my short story, "Spider and I".

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Empty

by Aaron Polson

They schemed in Jack’s small two man tent one clear and chilly night in late September. Jack, as owner of the tent, held the flashlight as they studied the small hand-scribbled map—the map that his friend created through a blend of his own imagination and the layout of windows on the exterior. Max, the map maker, still burdened with too much baby fat on his preteen frame, pinched the center of his small wire-framed glasses.

“I don’t know, Jack,” he said, his voice high and clear, farther from puberty than Jack’s own occasional squeak.

“C’mon Max. We haven’t seen anybody around there in months—not since the old coot had a heart-attack. Aren’t you the least bit curious what’s in that place?” Jack brought the flashlight underneath his chin, casting grotesque shadows around his eyes, mouth, and nose. “Or are you frightened?” he asked, mocking Max with a ghoulish moan.

Max studied him, unwilling to yield to Jack’s ridicule. “No, I’m not scared. It’s just, well—this is breaking and entering we’re talking about.”

“What did you think we were going to do when I had you draw up those maps? What is it your buddy Ellis always says about that place?” Just then, something struck the canvas wall of the tent with a dull thump. “What the hell was that?”

Max pinched his glasses and said, “I dunno, but it was probably attracted by the light. Did you know there are living things, mostly insects and single-celled organisms that move only…”

“Stuff the science lesson, okay.” Jack clicked off the light and sat in silence and darkness for a few moments. He knew Max pouted without looking at his face. They’d been friends and neighbors since kindergarten, and Max always turned red and puffed his cheeks when he felt slighted or abused. Now in the sixth grade, Jack felt too old to be playing straight man to Max’s tantrums, but Jack needed an ally to search that house—to bolster his courage if nothing else, and both boys lived in the neighborhood.

Jack snapped the flashlight back to life. “Okay, so what do they call this thing—whatever you’re talking about.”

“They call it taxis—positive phototaxis when the bugs or whatever move toward the light—they can’t even help it—no voluntary control. I guess even creepy-crawlies like the light.” Max smiled, self-satisfied at his display of knowledge and ready to carry on with arrangements. Small insects gathered outside the tent, attracted by the light within.

__________

Later, after agreeing to sneak out of their respective houses at ten on Friday and meet in the tent, Jack and Max went their separate ways. Jack merely scrambled out of the tent and to his back door only twenty yards away. Before he slipped into his house, he looked across his next-door neighbor’s backyard and toward the black mass that was the abandoned house. In the daylight, the place just looked sad—peeling paint, loose, graying boards, even one window with a small crack where he had thrown a rock on a dare two weeks ago. Jack designed this adventure to cure his fear of the dark, a private shame no one but his mother knew as he always hid the nightlight in his dresser before friends were invited.

Besides, old houses always had rumors surrounding them, and if even one of the stories circulating at school rang true, they might find something very interesting inside. The old man had been anything from a gypsy to a retired mob enforcer to the kids at school, and no one had touched the place after his death. Jack smiled a little before slipping inside.

__________

On Friday night, air swirled fallen leaves about them as they crawled from Jack’s tent. After a brief review of the plan, the boys set off through darkened backyards, just enough of the child left in both of them to find thrill in each passing car—someone who might uncover their plot, but just enough adult to vaguely recognize the crime that they were about to commit. Jack carried a few simple tools, a screwdriver, pliers, and his old Swiss Army knife; Max held the map, and a flashlight smuggled in the cargo pocket of his pants. They had agreed to leave the flashlights behind for fear that any lights in the place might give them away, but Jack wasn’t the only boy who harbored a secretive fear of the dark. The night was clear, and the light from the stars and almost full moon would easily shine though the windows of the house, providing just enough light to see.

They approached the house through the shadows, and Jack quietly gestured toward the back door and then pointed at himself. Max nodded and kneeled in the cold grass. Jack crept to the back door, rattled the handle and pushed, but the door wouldn’t budge. He slipped back to the side where Max waited and shook his head.

Both boys then stalked toward the front of the house. Jack waited for a set of headlights to sway down Ninth Street, past the front of the house before he darted out, wrapped the front knob in his hand, turned, and pushed. He reeled with surprise when the door gave, opening into the dark dusty interior of the house, releasing an odor of dirt, moldy wood, and a faint hint of garbage that sat too long in the sun. His heart stopped momentarily, or it felt as though it had, because the inside of that place looked much darker than he had painted in his imagination. A new set of headlights in the distance forced him to shut the door quickly and scramble around the side where Max waited.

“The door is unlocked,” he panted.

“What?”

“Unlocked, I got a peek inside. Really dark.”

Max felt for the light in his pocket, harboring his own private fear of lightless places. “You want to stop?”

Jack’s breath returned, and he said, “No. Not unless you do.”

A moment passed. “No, I’m ready.”

They waited for another clear moment, and one after the other hurried to the door and pushed their way inside, struggling against the subtle stench, passing a threshold into the maw of the house. Both stood with wide eyes, waiting for pupils to dilate and help them see anything. Slowly, bit by bit, each could make out snatches of wood flooring, old wallpaper with split and peeling seams, and the black rectangle doorways leading to other rooms. The house held more than enough opaque shadows, thick ink poured into corners, along walls and the floor where the faint sliver glow from the windows couldn’t touch.

“Empty?” asked Max, pinching his glasses.

“Empty,” said Jack, his voice collapsing on the floor.

The boys stood just inside the entryway, stairs leading up into darkness on their right, a large empty room on the left with a two connecting doorways. The house was small, and they knew the adventure would be over before either felt it had begun. Their faces held twin expressions of hollow disappointment; they’d arrived for the circus only to find muddy elephant tracks and litter swirling in an empty field.

“Look, maybe we should just leave,” Max said.

The empty house strangely bolstered Jack’s courage as though he had expected to find the old man sitting in the middle of the room, waiting for him. He stood next to Max and slowly swept the room in his vision. “No…I think I’m going to look around.” Jack moved toward one of the doorways in the back of the main room. “Kitchen?”

“Yeah, I think so—the other room leads to the back door.”

Jack padded softly across the open floor, peering quickly into the open room on the left, and then stepped into the kitchen. Max followed, nervously fingering the outside of his pocket in which he carried the contraband flashlight. He watched from the doorway to the kitchen as Jack moved across the chipped linoleum, a bright blue white expanse in the dim moonlight. Then a sound, something faint like the blowing of leaves in the yard, stirred around them, almost as if from the walls—or below the floor.

“Jack…did you hear…”

“Just the leaves, no sweat.” Jack opened and slammed shut each cabinet door in the kitchen, finding nothing, not even a half-empty bottle of dish soap under the sink, a broken mug above the counter, or a few small cockroaches that scurried away when discovered. He moved to a door at the far end of the kitchen, opened it and gazed into the blackness below. The basement—Jack’s stomach twisted, caught by a cold fist—too dark down there. He really heard the noise now, a small scrabbling sound like tiny feet on the concrete floor below along with whispers that walked on the back of his neck. No, he would not go in the basement—he slammed the door shut and the noise seemed to stop. Jack paused, listening, and then pushed his way past the plump boy and into the main room.

“Hey,” Max protested.

“Your stupid friend—Ellis—he’s full of shit. There isn’t anything in this stupid house.” His anxious frustration found a target in his friend. Jack’s fear had dissipated with each empty cabinet, only to balloon again when he opened the door to the black basement.

“I’m not the only one—you believed him too.” Max stood at the threshold to the kitchen wearing a chubby frown, the last vestige of childhood tantrum and protest.

“Yeah, well, I think he’s full of shit now.” Jack strode to the stairs, just inside the doorway. “Let’s check up here,” he said, taking two steps at a time, mocking courage but really seeking distance from that tiny noise, trying not to lose face in front of Max.

At the top of the stairs a small landing led to two small bedrooms and a bath. Jack fought involuntary shivers—shivers not born of the chilly night air, as he stepped into the bathroom. With not even a small window to spread starlight, the bathroom sat in near complete gloom. Jack stood just inside, felt the fear crawl from his stomach like something small with tiny scratching feet, and stepped away. His eyes caught the black shadows in the bathtub, multiplied by his own shadow blocking a bit of light from the hallway, and those shadows seemed to move slightly as he stepped away.

“Anything?” Max pinched his glasses as he stood on the landing behind Jack.

Jack jumped slightly, and replied with forced coolness, “no, just an empty bathroom.”

The floor creaked, protesting the trespass as the two boys crept into both rooms on the second floor of the house. They found nothing in either, save for a few dirty rags in the larger room. Well-positioned windows pulled in ample moonlight, chasing away all but the most stubborn shadows. Jack could see his own house out one of the windows, just over the roof of his neighbor’s single story. He thought of his bed, the warm quilt his grandmother had made, and how tired and foolish he’d been to think this house held anything but dark and vacant space. He thought of the nightlight, too, and how this venture into the empty house did anything but cure his fear of the dark. Then he heard it again. A small, scratching, almost clawing sound, seemingly echoing from the walls around them. Jack looked at Max.

“The leaves, remember—you said the leaves.” Max said.

Jack swallowed his fear, continuing his faux courage, but just feeling tired, cold, and scared. “Look, let’s get out. There isn’t a damn thing here. This old guy wasn’t a bank robber, or a killer, or whatever-else-crap Ellis tried to feed us.” The sound stopped as Jack spoke and now he hurried to fill the empty space. “I should have never listened to you,” he said, moving toward the stairs.

“Screw you Jack, I’m tired of you bossing me around.” Max pushed past his friend, making the stairs first and rushing down. Jack, stunned for a moment, followed after Max. As he rounded the bottom of the stairs he saw Max standing in the kitchen doorway.

“You didn’t check one place, Jack. Or were you scared?” Max vanished into the kitchen.

Jack closed his eyes, imagined Max in the dark cellar, and eventually followed into the kitchen. Upon entering the kitchen, he immediately saw the open door leading to the basement. A small light glowed from the doorway, seemed to bounce, and then grew still again. Other than the light click of the flashlight striking concrete, there was no sound.

Just Max playing a trick, Jack thought, this place is empty—nothing here to worry about. He wavered a moment before sighing and plunging through the basement door. His feet nearly slipped after the first few steps, but his sure hands caught the rail. Jack surveyed the room, catching sight of the discarded flashlight. Other than the light, the basement was empty—just a wide expanse of concrete. Not even a single spider web dotted the visible corners of the room.

Jack took a few cautious steps from the bottom step. “Max?” he called. “C’mon, buddy. Joke’s over, okay?” The cold crunch of his sneakers on the grey floor answered him but nothing else. He bent over and picked up the flashlight, its dull yellow beam the only shield between Jack and total darkness.

“Really…come out, okay?” Jack poked the weak beam in all four corners of the room, forcing the shadows to retreat. After he had rounded the room once, the sound, the dry rustling scratch of dead leaves, swelled around him, echoing from each wall. The stale smell rose again, ebbing from the dark corners, squeezing from the oily darkness outside of the flashlight beam. Jack glanced at the light; it had grown dim and flickered a few times. “Max,” Jack whimpered, his voice nearly dying in his throat.

The flashlight sputtered out. Jack tapped it with the palm of his free hand. It gave one last lance of tepid light, and disappeared. He held his breath for a moment, alone in the dark basement of an abandoned house. The flashlight fell to the ground with a hollow clatter as the emptiness—the black nothingness devoured its second boy of the evening.

(orginally appeared in Candlelight #1, Fall 2008)

A Most Unfortunate Gaffe

by Aaron Polson

“Whatever they bring, you eat it.”

Nick Renner swelled in the chest, and glared at Ambassador Jaffe. “Hell, I’ll eat just about anything to land this deal. We need the oil rights, and these guys need the legitimacy.”

The ambassador, a thin, pale man with a black brushstroke of hair, leaned closer to Renner and whispered again, “Some of the cuisine is just a little, different. But you can’t afford to offend Sinaga—the “chief”, got it?”

Renner nodded with a wink.

They sat at the end of a long table of rich, dark wood. Cushions surrounded the table on all sides; the highest ranking of Guntur Sinaga’s advisors sat on these pillows dressed in traditional clothing. All wore head scarves or turbans, sashes of rank, and most had at least a pistol resting in a leather holster at their side. A small mouse of a man wearing no sidearm slipped onto the cushion next to Renner.

“Hello, senator is it? How was your arrival?” the man asked.

Renner glanced at Jaffe. “Fine. Roads are a bit, rough. Could probably use some TLC.”

“Senator Nicholas Renner, allow me to introduce Pramana Kitishe. He’s our contact for Sinaga’s organization.”

“Please to meet you, Mr. Renner.” The small man bowed his head in slow reverence. “Would you mind, what is TLC?”

“Tender-loving-care, looks like—”

“—what the senator is saying, Pramana,” Jaffe interrupted, “is that he thinks Uncle Sam might be able to offer some assistance in the way of infrastructure improvements. Roads, bridges, hospitals, schools. Yes?”

Pramana’s lips curled into a little wiry smile. “Ah, yes. The Americans are ever so helpful with their…what is it?” He touched one thin finger to his lips. “Deep pockets.”

__________

Servants clad in brown hovered like mute bees, ferrying loaded plates to the table and then empty plates away with no sound. Guntur Sinaga sat at one end of the table, laughing and talking heartily, but watching Renner with one eye the entire time—at least Renner felt as though he was stuck and wriggling on Sinaga’s pin-hole gaze.

Once the servants floated the last of the dishes from the room, Sinaga motioned for quiet around the table. Pramana stood from his pillow next to Senator Renner, and dutifully floated to his leader’s side. Sinaga was a lined man, his face set with deep, black cracks and rimmed with a hoary beard. When he smiled, his teeth showed in three distinct colorings: a dead brown, stained yellow, and bright gold. He carried the look of someone who had seen much in his life. He motioned Pramana to his side, and the little man obliged.

Pramana nodded and turned to Renner. “Sinaga would like to know what the distinguished gentleman thinks of the dinner thus far?”

At this point, Renner pushed back from the table and pulled at his waist. “Delicious. I must complement the cooks,” he said, adding, “and his Excellency for the hospitality.” Renner nodded toward Sinaga.

Pramana smiled broadly, “Yes, wonderful. You should know that desert will be even more special. A true…delicacy.”

Renner leaned toward the small man. “When can we discuss—”

“Ah,” Pramana interrupted, “we will have plenty of time. For now, simply enjoy.”

Before the senator from Missouri could respond, the servants returned with covered silver platters. They moved in concert, filing in from the palace kitchens and taking positions around the guest at the table. Each servant slipped his right hand around the handle on his platter’s cover, and they snapped these off with a quick and uniform motion.

On each platter, a collection of five large tobacco-hued roaches lay drizzled with a translucent red sauce in the middle of a bed of green leaves. Renner flinched slightly, but returned to a certain stoicism when Jaffe nudged him under the table.

“I’m not eating a god-damn bug,” Renner whispered.

Jaffe flushed white. “Please, Nick. This is important.”

“I’m not eating that shit.” Renner spoke louder this time.

Without calling attention to himself, Pramana slipped from Sinaga’s side to the space next to both men. “Gentlemen, is there a problem?”

Renner’s face deepened a few shades of red. “Thanks for the offer and all, but I think I’ll pass on…um, dessert.”

“Sir, this is a fine…delicacy. Our intention is not to offend.” Pramana took a slight bow after speaking.

Jaffe leaned closer to the large man and whispered, “C’mon Nick.”

Pramana looked at Sinaga, and then back at Renner. “Sir?”

Sinaga’s voice sounded, this time in plain, but clear English. “Do you not eat…how is it…decay in your country?”

“He intends the word, mushrooms,” Pramana said.

Renner turned to Jaffe. The ambassador nodded, raising his eyebrows. “Well, yes. Where I’m from—well, when I was a boy we’d hunt for Morel’s, these big mushrooms that would spring up overnight. We’d fill a bag, bring them home, fry them in butter…” His eyes shimmered with the memory.

Sinaga, still unsmiling, said, “In my country, one would not eat the decay—mushrooms. It seems we have some differences in cuisine.” He nodded then, like a slight bow—an acknowledgement of his guests, but not necessarily an act of respect.

Pramana watched the old leader for a moment, the room hovering in dense silence. Finally he rose, looked at the Americans, and said, “Simply a cultural misunderstanding. Gentlemen, perhaps we should retire for the evening.”

__________

Jaffe paced the floor in Senator Renner’s room, a spacious stone cavern lined with beautiful tapestries. Renner now without his jacket and with his tie hanging loose about his neck, sat on the king-sized bed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. Both men exchanged a number of nervous looks before one broke the quiet.

“Look Bill, what did you want me to do? Suck down some prehistoric-sized cockroach just to please a two-bit tribal chief—”

Jaffe stopped in mid-pace, turned to face Renner, and shook his head. “Yes, actually. I thought that was exactly what you planned to do. Remember—‘I’ll eat just about anything’?”

Renner’s fat fingers pushed through his grey hair. “Hell, that was before the kook’s brought me a bug to eat. A god-damn bug. Besides, we smoothed it over, everything will be fine. God these people are like parasites on this country.”

“I hope everything will be fine. Nick, parasites or not, these guys have the power. Whatever you do, make sure not to offend him again. We need—” A sharp knock on the door interrupted Jaffe’s words.

Renner quickly held up one hand and mumbled, “Scout’s honor” before turning to the door.

Pramana entered followed by a servant carrying a silver platter. “Mr. Renner, our esteemed leader would like to make amends, so to speak.” He snapped at the servant who promptly brought the platter forward. “I hope you find this a little more to your liking.”

Renner and Jaffe exchanged a quick glance. The servant held a tray with small strips of a grey substance that looked like worms doused in a sauce similar to the one from the roaches earlier that evening.

“The senator would be happy to try this.” Jaffe nodded at Renner. Pramana remained at the door. “Nick?” Jaffe prodded.

The big man pushed off the bed and approached the tray. He pinched a strip of grey between two fingers, held it for a moment, and slipped it into his mouth. His ruddy face had faded to a faint pink, but the hint of a smile shaded his mouth as his usual color returned. “Delicious, what is it?”

“Sir, our esteemed leader wants you to feel at home. This is our version of the…how did you say…Morel.”

“Well, my compliments. Thank you.
Pramana bowed, snapping once more to the servant who left the tray on a small table before leaving. Pramana then looked at both men, and said, “I will let our esteemed leader know you are ready to discuss negotiations in the morning,” before slipping out after the servant.

__________

Renner woke with a subtle dizziness in the quiet darkness of the confiscated palace. He lurched into a sitting position, and his head swelled and throbbed with the motion. Thoughts tried to form in his brain, but his skull seemed stuffed with foam—light yet dense. Groping for the side of the bed, Renner squirmed onto the floor.

“Bill…” he muttered, calling for Jaffe, “Bill…I…uh!” Renner struck the side of his head with the heel of his hand, trying to knock loose the growing pain. He managed to rest for a minute, doubled over on the floor with his naked feet and hands pressed onto the stone. Usually the cold on his toes would fire a shiver through his body, but Renner began to sweat, convulsing with sharp kicks in his stomach.

He crawled on hands and knees, helpless like a child, toward the heavy wooden door of his room. His fingers caught the edge of the dark wood and crawled up toward the metal latch, but his body convulsed again, and Renner dropped to the stone tile. After the waves of cramps passed, Renner struggled to his knees, pushed up the latch and pulled the heavy door, dragging it as his body flopped backward.

With the door just open, Renner wrenched through the gap, staggered into the hallway, and stumbled toward Jaffe’s room. His mouth tried to form words, but the sounds slowed to muted mumbles in his throat. Renner raised the chapped knuckles of his right hand to rap on the ambassador’s door, but another spasm seized his body. He collapsed in a crooked pile on the plush corridor rug.

The big senator from Missouri was finished with pain now. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the growing fungus began to break through any open orifice in the large man’s skull. His eyeballs began to push from their sockets—two wide orbs like golf balls thrust from their homes by a yellow-grey foam. The dingy fungus also crept through the man’s sinus cavities and through his nostrils, ears, and mouth like little fingers punching and stretching from any space they could find to grow up and out. Slowly, over the course of the next few hours, the parasitic fungus devoured most of what made Nicholas Renner—his brain, organs, everything.

__________

In the morning, Ambassador William Jaffe opened his bedroom door and gasped. Senator Nick Renner’s body, now nothing more than a vessel for the parasitic infestation, lay in a motionless heap on the hallway carpet. The fungus that began its work in the night now stretched toward the walls and ceiling in long, graceful ribbons of grey. To Jaffe, the whole scene was unreal—just a strange sculpture mocking the Missouri senator with alien adeptness. Jaffe found himself transfixed, locked in some repulsed curiosity, staring at the bizarre corpse.

“Ah, Mr. Jaffe,” Pramana called as he walked with deliberate but casual pace from the far end of the hall. “Oh, yes. The senator.” Pramana shook his head as he closed the last few feet to where Jaffe stood in front of the abomination.

“Good lord…” Jaffe whispered.

“A most unfortunate accident.”

Stunned, Jaffe eyed the small man. “Accident?”

“I’m afraid so. Our local mushrooms can be ever-so-dangerous when no prepared properly. Poor Mr. Renner must have fallen victim to an underdone bit of mushroom—I believe you would call this one Cordyceps—one with intact spores. They will, unfortunately, grow quite quickly to a mature fungus, devouring the host from the inside out.” Pramana shook his head slightly as he looked at the body and then Jaffe. “This, Mr. Jaffe, is why we rarely eat the mushrooms of our country.” His mouth grew into a smile that made Jaffe’s skin quiver. “I will report this, make arrangements and all apologies,” he said as he turned to leave. “Oh, and Mr. Jaffe, our esteemed leader says he is ready to discuss matters. Should I tell him the senator is unwell?”

(originally appeared in Morpheus Tales #1, Summer 2008)