Authors: Ryan C. Thomas
“
Go away,
”
it breathed again.
The boys remained frozen, terrified and mesmerized.
“
Get…out…now
”
“
Who are you?
”
Nicky asked, his legs shaking.
“
Get…out…
”
“
Fuck this,
”
Willy said,
“
I
’
m outta here.
”
He tore through the door.
Fighting his paralysis, Nicky approached the black thing under the table. It breathed heavily, as if trying to speak, as if forming words was taking every ounce of its energy.
“
Um…Nick…
”
Greg was backpedaling toward the door now, too.
Nicky bent down and ran a finger across the black scab that was the man
’
s face. In fact, the whole body was one giant black scab. Nicky held up his arm, comparing his scab to the man-thing on the floor.
“
He pinched me. Did he pinch you?
”
The man looked at Nicky
’
s scab, closed his eyes and sighed.
“
Nick, I don
’
t like this.
”
Greg was
half out the
door.
“
Hang on.
”
Then, to the man:
“
He pinched me too. What is it? How do you stop it?
”
The human scab slithered out toward the center of the floor, the dried skin crunching and cracking like Pop Rocks. In the shadows, the whites of his eyes were about t
he only things visible. Greg stepped completely out the door
, his knees vibrating.
“
Wife and I,
”
the man droned, rigid once again, sucking in labored breath,
“
tried for years. Drugs…herbs…whatever bullshit theories were…in news,
we
tried it. But couldn
’
t…get pregnant. Figured…what the hell, pray to God…ask him for help. But…no answer.
”
Blood was running down the man
’
s hard, cracked skin. Greg couldn
’
t look at him, but
Nicky bent down closer.
“
Can
’
t blame me,
”
the man continued.
“
Can
’
t
—too young understand anyway. God wouldn
’
t…give us child. Our future. So…who…what was left? Devil ain
’
t real. Devil…is for comic books…movies. But…I asked, and nine months later. No eye…but swore to love him. No eye…should have seen it. Just skin…smelled bad. No eye...no soul. Could tell.
”
“
Please,
”
Nicky said,
“
How do you fix it? Wake up.
”
“
Look at me! You think…I
’
d be like this…if I knew how stop it. He was…such good boy until…sixth birthday. Then stopped talking. Phases, they said. But no. Phase is when…wife stops fucking you…when you go
to
church again. He pinched…the dog. We took it to vet…couldn
’
t do anything. Died big black scab. Disintegrated…black ash. And even when he pinched me…I thought…dog must have got disease…because…boys can
’
t do such things. Look at me! I
’
ve been…inside house for…weeks. Doctor
’
s couldn
’
t figure out…even specialists. Left hospital…couldn
’
t help me. Sit here rotting. Wife left…took the boy. Doesn
’
t believe me…he
’
s evil. No eye…but always see
s
you. Always find
s
you. Wife…doesn
’
t…believe… Thinks I chase her…hurt boy.
She…right. Evil. Devil heard
me, heard my prayers. He’s real. He
—
”
Tears rolled down the man
’
s scabby
cheeks as his breath gave out. And like that, h
e was dead. The tips of his fingers fell away into a pile of ash on the floor, scattered in the breeze coming through the doorway.
“
Nicky,
”
Greg said,
“
is he…?
”
“
I think so.
”
“
We gotta go get help, it
’
s almost noon.
”
Nicky backed up slowly through the door, stepped into the yard with Greg. He held up his hand in the sunlight. It was
all
black. As was the side of his neck. Lifting his shirt, he touched the black scab that was working its way down his ribs. Try as he might to speak, he couldn
’
t find the words. Breathing was beginning to hurt.
Something inside his body felt like it was hardening. The pain was slowly taking over.
“
Nick,
”
Greg asked,
“
what
’
s the hell
’
s going on? It
’
s all over you.
”
Tears cut from the corners of Nicky
’
s eyes, just like they
’
d done from the dead man in the kitchen.
Willy was beside Greg now, wa
tching Nicky cry, watching as the boy
stared in disbelief at his own body. They stood there for a long time as a cloud of black ash blew out from the kitchen door.
BLEEDING ON THE RUG
“
He
’
s bleeding on the rug, on the rug on the rug…
”
Two days of lifting heavy boxes for the move to the new house had sucked the ever-loving life out of Dane. He should have been able to sleep through an elephant stampede. But the sound of Matti
’
s frantic whispering shocked him out of his dream like a hooked fish yanked from a pond. There was something about his wife
’
s voice that had the power to weave through his fatigues and mental blocks
and grasp him
.
“
…bleeding on the rug on the rug…
”
S
leeptal
king was not uncommon for Matti; it
was in fact a trait of hers Dane found endearing. On several occasions over the years he
’
d listened with a smile as she conversed with the denizens of he
r dream worlds. Sometimes
a conversation with him, sometimes a chat with friends, sometimes just pure nonsense that made him giggle. But from the sound of her voice now, she was
engaged in
a nightmare. He decided he would give her a reassuring squeeze and tell her she was just dreaming.
“
…on the rug, on the rug…
”
“
Roll over.
”
He rubbed her side
Shadows hung heavy in front of him as his eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness of the bedroom. The clock be
side the bed threw sanguine
light onto the nightstand in the form of digital numbers. One rule Dane had while sleeping was to never look at the time; counting the hours until work always gave him anxiety.
Too late. He saw it was 3:45 and compulsively did the math until he had to get up.
“
Matti,
”
he grumbled again.
“
...bleeding on the rug on the rug on the rug…
”
His wife lay on her back
, auburn hair in waves across her face, not a typical sleeping position for her. She was a fetal sleeper, often cradling one of the many teddy bears Dane had given her on birthdays and anniversaries. This p
osition looked too rigid
, almost forced, like she
’
d been tied to a board. And there was something about the way she was repeating the words that didn
’
t feel right
. Her voice was hushed, the words fast and sharp, like she was trying to say it as many times as she could in under a minute.
“
Honey, wake up, you
’
re dreaming.
”
He g
r
abbed her upper arm and gave it a little shake. Usually, this method resulted in angry instructions not to wake her up for no good reason. He
’
d recount the episode to her in the morning, like he always did, and she
’
d tell him he was crazy and out to sabotage her sleep. Such was their little joke.
But she didn
’
t stir as he touched her, just kept on repeating the sentence, which was beginning to creep Dane out. Who in her dream was bleeding on the rug?
“
Honey, you
’
re having a nightmare. C
’
mon, roll over.
”
“
He
’
s bleeding on the rug bleeding on the rug…
”
He shook her again, this time harder, hoping some subliminal part of her mind would
sense
it and she
’
d at least roll over angrily.