MicroHorror

“What’s this called again? It’s good.” Alex put down the small cup of liquor and looked out the window, distracted momentarily by the little lights collecting near the shore. It was mid-summer, and the work he’d been contracted to do was progressing nicely. He considered staying in Yokohama. There was nothing in particular worth going home for.

“Sake. They have it in Canada too, you know. You really were sheltered.” His liaison, a soft-spoken young man named Ken Tanaka, was giving him a wry smile, which was the extent of his sense of humor to the best of Alex’s experience so far. “You see those lights? It’s the Obon festival. Tonight people gather and send lanterns into the water to honor their dead. It’s said that during the nights of the festival, the dead can communicate with the living.”

Alex, the sheltered young programmer from Vancouver, was intrigued. Across the room, he saw two local girls sitting at a table. They were lit only by the small tealight floating in a vase full of water, full of pink flowers. From here, it looked like the one on the right was smiling at him. He poured another sake for Tanaka, and said, “You mean ghosts?”

Tanaka smiled again, “One of our most famous ghost stories takes place during the Obon festival. It’s called the story of Botan Doro. A man is visited one night by a beautiful young woman, Otsuyu, holding a peony lantern. They fall in love, and one thing leads to another. They see each other every night during the festival, but she is always gone before the dawn. His neighbor, an old woman, becomes suspicious of the comings and goings, and one morning, just before dawn, she creeps to the window, where she sees him in bed with a skeleton. That day, she puts a charm on the house, and Otsuyu is unable to enter. So great is their love though, that the young man sneaks out one night soon after, where she leads him back to her grave. In the light of day, he is found dead on the bare earth, entwined in a lover’s embrace with the bones.

“There’s a few different versions of it, but that’s my favorite.” Tanaka finished his drink, and poured another for Alex, finishing the small carafe. “Listen, I’ve got a six o’clock tomorrow. Do you want me to walk you back, or will you find your way? This place isn’t known for catering to gaijin. Not much English.” Alex looked across the room again; the woman was definitely smiling at him. “Nah, I’ll be fine. Oh–one thing, though–what’s the etiquette for sending over a drink to a pretty girl?”

“There is none; go for it. I’d stay with sake, though; mixing drinks is bad wherever you are.”

Alex motioned to the bartender.

Several minutes later, the woman appeared at his shoulder. In halting English, she said, “Thank you for the drink. My friend had to go. May I join you?”

She was stunning. Her ebony hair fell nearly to her waist, and her jet black eyes seemed to stare into his soul. Her figure was beyond description, and Alex felt suddenly and decisively out of his league.

He managed to nod, and she sat, but when he remained silent, she just smiled and motioned to the bartender, ordering something pretty-sounding.

They sat silently, and Alex was happy to have the lanterns to watch outside. Soon though, the amber wine loosened things up, and they were talking and laughing like they’d been together a lifetime. The lanterns started to flicker out, and the other patrons had left. Alex looked at the girl, and swallowed his last mouthful. Moment of truth.

***

Their lovemaking was sweetness without comparison.

***

As sunrise warmed his face through the bedroom window, Alex willed himself not to open his eyes. Instead, he took the bony fingers gently in his hand, and kissed them. Otsuyu was happy.

Erik collapsed onto his bed. “Welcome Week” rituals were fun, but between the partying until two in the morning, and waking up three hours later to go on “elephant walks,” he was starting to feel the worse for wear. Luckily, tonight had been “graduation.” It was an end to the rituals, and he looked forward to finally getting some sleep. The stories told by the seniors had hardly registered. After drinking from the ceremonial keg, and receiving his nickname, “Stains” (short for Shit-Stains), the elders had told the history of Baldwin Hall. It was built at the turn of the twentieth century, and had served as a halfway house for soldiers returning from the First World War. Legend had it, too, that several of the men had committed suicide here. For obvious reasons, it was never shared which rooms this was supposed to have happened in. Lesson over, the girls of Bronte House arrived, and the revelry commenced.

***

The room was almost pitch dark though the curtains were wide open to the moonless night. Something had woken Stains from his drunken stupor. There was a rhythmic creaking, coming from just over his head. It sounded vaguely like the tire swing his folks had up at the lake house. He rubbed his eyes. Back and forth, wearing at the rustic beams above the sound continued. He knew before he saw what it had to be. Stains wasn’t afraid of ghosts, though. What could something that by definition had no physical mass do to a solid human being?

The soldier was young, easily the same age as him, if not younger. It was hard to make out details, but could see the lump of a tongue protruding between the lips, and the slightly darker outline in his fatigues where the man had voided upon death. The apparition’s ashen face turned awkwardly on its broken neck and opened coal-black eyes to stare at him, and Stains (né Erik) saw.

***

His name was Daniel Ste-Rose. He had been conscripted just as he was readying to go away to school. Now he was in the trenches, with his new friends, Fox, Hammer, and Red–all that was left of a group that had gone through basic training together.

One night, they were over the top, charging in the dark and the mud towards the enemy trenches when the gas came. Choked screams filled the air. Daniel dove flat, and shoved his handkerchief into his pants as he’d been taught. Fear-piss came quickly and he clapped the stinking, soaked rag to his face and drew a shallow breath. He was angry as well as afraid now, and charged the position. To his left a grenade went off. It was far enough away that he was thrown off his feet, but one screaming chip of metal found its mark between his eyebrows. His face was swimming with blood, and each breath was an
agony.

He resolved to die a hero and charged with all the strength he had left. He came upon a group of man-shapes and opened fire. The trigger jammed, and he thrust the bayonet again and again. His ears were deafened from the blast of the grenade, or he would have heard the cries of, “DANNY! DANNY! NO!” When the smoke cleared, he saw the remains of Fox and Hammer at his feet.

The soldier never spoke again. He screamed once, then simply collapsed to his knees, and went to sleep. Later, when he arrived at the halfway house, he didn’t even spend one night. He simply removed his belt and hanged himself.

***

Stains sat in shocked silence, tears streaming down his face. He hadn’t just seen; he’d been there. But now, because he could see, he felt the other presences arriving–each with their story to tell. A hundred lives, and a hundred deaths to show him.

Erik loosened his belt, and apologized just once to the waiting dead.

He was the greatest player to play the game. Period. I don’t want any of what I’m about to tell you to color that. I’m only telling you because this time next week, I’ll be gone, and it’s important that someone knows. You can tell whoever you want; just don’t expect them to believe you. In fact, they’ll likely hate you for it. You’d be pissing on a legend. It’s the truth, though, and that’s enough for me.

He had a phenomenal arm. He earned his way into the bigs pitching. Son of a bitch had a curve that shook worse’n my hands do now. The hitting is another thing. He could drop a single into the slot with the best of them, but back then, he couldn’t clear that fence but once or twice a season. It’s a fact.

We were two years in the minors, then he was traded, and I didn’t run into him again until we were both wearing pinstripes. By then he was slugging them into the parking lot twice a night. I wish you could have seen it. Three years on, I asked him about it. We were roommates, and during a particularly awful stretch in the middle of August, we got drinking, and then we got talking.

“What in hell happened to you, anyway?” I asked. “Back on the farm, you’d get one out the back a handful of times at best.”

He looked at me a long time then. His eyes cleared right up, like we hadn’t touched a drop. This next thing, I’m not proud of, but it’s part of the story, so I’ve got to tell it. All I’ll say in my defense was that times were tough, and I was weak.

“Okay, Pete,” he started in that booming voice he had, even when he whispered. “I know for a fact you took dough to shave some points during this trip, so if I tell you this, it all stays you and me, correct?”

I had, and I said it did.

He took a deep breath, lifted his shirt up, and I had to stifle a shout. On his gut was a spider web of thin white scars. “This game needed something. You know that as well as I do. It was good, but it needed to be great. I knew I could be the one to do it. But I needed help.”

“What kind of help?” I knew then that I didn’t want the answer.

“I sold my soul, Pete. There was a shady character I used to know–Mr. Jesse. He got me this book, and with the book I talked to this thing.

“I was specific. I wanted to hit the long ball. The demon agreed; the little bastard drove a hard bargain too. He said he didn’t want no ‘deathbed welsher.’ Instead, each time I bang one out, he takes his cut. Feels like something’s raking my gut with a dull fork each time I connect. But it worked. Look at the game, Pete. It’s never been better. Baseball is what it should be.”

I could only stare. “It ain’t so. That stuff, magic… demons… it’s not real.”

“Real enough, Pete. Take a look. It’s not just the scratches either. It’s making me different. I’m meaner now than I used to be, colder.”

I thought of the grim look he always got at bat, face screwed up in determination, or pain. I was terrified for him. “So one day, you’ll hit one out, and that’ll be it?”

“I thought so. But remember back to the ’26 series, that thing with the kid? Well, after that game, I felt better. I realized then that being selfless, maybe, maybe there’s hope for me. I’m tired now, Pete. There ain’t no more to tell.”

I watched the rest of his career on tenterhooks. Every homer, I felt it. Every good thing he did, I wondered, “Is it enough?”

For his sake, I hoped so.

Emmett Poel was pissed off. He had traveled days in this stinking forest with its too-large trees and was getting sick of it. He looked across the fire at his “guide,” a third-generation voyageur named Remy Latour who knew this area very well, so he said. The problem was that Emmett only understood about one word in three, and the little man didn’t speak much to begin with, usually just “Follows me,” or “Careful with your walking, la.”

They had set out from the California border and worked their way steadily north. Time was getting tight. He had to make the deal with the coalmine soon, and get over to the coast where an American steamship would meet him.

Today they’d met the Indian. He was young and powerful, dressed in deerskin with two black feathers strung into his hair. “C’est Two Bear, mon ami.” They were getting close to the settlements. It was good news, but it also meant that Remy spoke to him even less, and instead conversed back and forth with the tough-looking young man in broken French, disastrous English and the guttural native patois. Tired and frustrated, Emmett cleaned his revolver by the firelight, and hoped that tomorrow he would finally meet people who spoke for-God’s-sake English.

As he snapped the cylinder home and filled the chambers with fresh ammunition, a huge croaking shriek startled him off the log he’d been sitting on. Both the guide and his “ami” were chuckling. Flushed with embarrassment, the American spun around to see a huge black bird sitting on a branch just above their heads. Without another thought, he pulled the trigger and watched with satisfaction as the ugly beast tumbled to earth like a rock, shedding feathers all the way.

Two Bear’s reaction was immediate. Moving faster than seemed humanly possible, he was around the fire and holding a massive bone-hilted knife to the man’s throat.

“NON!” Remy was screaming at the savage now. He held the man’s knife-hand firmly, and was talking rapidly. Emmett heard, “Beaucoup Americains… mauvais… des carabines–BANG BANG!”

The warrior stared at Emmett, hard black eyes full of primal rage, and he could tell it was taking a supreme effort of will not to rip out his neck. After what seemed an eternity, he sheathed the knife and walked over to the corpse of the bird. He picked it up reverently, and again with that uncanny speed vanished into the woods.

Emmett was shaking. “What in God’s name was that, Remy? It was only a bird!”

“Non, monsieur. It was… un corbeau, the Raven. They are sacré. Raven is God here.”

“Savages. Your job, Remy, is to keep me safe, no matter what. That was way too close.”

“Apologies, monsieur. But this, she going to be bad.”

“I don’t give a tin shit anymore, Remy. Let’s get some sleep. We got business in the morning.”

That night, Emmett dreamed of the bird. It was gigantic in his dreams and he was a mouse on the ground, squealing, trying everything he could to stay alive. The black bird dove at him, and it was as if the sky itself had become black feathers, closing in on him.

He started awake, but couldn’t move. There was a man sitting on his chest, powerfully muscled, with the head of a raven. The thing was staring at him with cold animal eyes.

“Look, mister, I didn’t mean no harm. I didn’t know nothing ’bout special birds or anything.”

Emmet screamed as the beak darted forward twice and took his eyes. He flailed for his pistol, but the bird-man swung one talon-fingered hand and removed the man’s throat to the spine.

With a squawk that sounded vaguely like “nevermore,” the Man-God’s body rippled once, and the raven flew away with the body. Across the fire, Remy made the sign of the cross, picked up his bedroll and started for the trading post.

The moon shone coldly on the stones of the cell. Goodwife Taylor wept quietly. She cursed John Sanders, and the unjust God in whose name she was to be burned tomorrow. She stared out the window, but the view was obscured by a dense white mist.

It was the fault of the pale stranger, she had decided. On her way back to Salem a week ago, she had become aware that someone was following. She felt foolish, being out after sunset, but Goody Brown’s fresh sage had been too tempting to pass up. The spicy aroma was still in her nostrils when she noticed the pale man in the long blue cloak. Being that the making of acquaintance on a country road was out of the question, she quickened her pace, but to no avail. She turned into the next farm she came to, realizing too late to whom it belonged.

Mr. Sanders was notorious among the women of town. He was a lecher, and made life very difficult for those who spurned his advances. Indeed, several young women had had to leave town, having found their bellies full with his ill-gotten offspring. It was common practice, then, to avoid being alone with the man at all costs. And now here she was, walking right up to his front door; the man himself was standing with a lantern, watching her approach.

Unfortunately, things played out exactly as anticipated, and not ten minutes later, Emma found herself fighting off the man’s advances. It was pure luck that he had been holding the lantern. When he turned to set it down, the better to lay hands on her, she made good her escape. The corpulent man gave chase, but she easily outdistanced him by the time they reached the main road.

The next morning, her heart sank into her stomach when fierce knocking came at the door. It was men from the Council. John Sanders had lost a sheep to “mysterious causes” in the night, and held this death to be evidence of witchcraft. She was to be tried.

Because Emma was a strong woman, a farmer’s daughter, she withstood their needle pricks as they searched her nakedness for the devil’s mark. Because she could swim, she survived the ducking chair. But because she survived, she was condemned.

Now she pounded her fist against the stone and cursed the evilness of John Sanders once more.

“I’ve not heard a lady speak so in quite some time.”

Emma gasped and spun around. There, still dressed in his indigo cloak, was the pale stranger.

“I owe you an apology Miss. If I hadn’t been so eager the night before last, you shouldn’t be in this situation.” She flushed with anger at this, but before she could respond, he continued, “I’d like to make things right. I offer you a second chance at life, freedom to do as you wish, and more–I offer you revenge.”

Looking at the stranger’s terrible beauty, his bloodless lips, creaseless white skin, and flowing black hair, she realized what he wanted. But in truth, she was going to die tomorrow, and that made all the difference. She made the sign of the cross one last time, and said, “I accept.” Night closed in then, and all was dark.

The next morning, just after sunset, Emma was tied to a stake, and a fire was lit. No one, however, expected what happened next. With an audible whoosh, the heat flared, and Emma, standing calmly, was consumed in a single flash of light. All that remained was the ashes of the woodpile, and a rising column of smoke.

That night, Sanders slept the sleep of the self-righteous. The sound of his window opening startled him awake. Mist poured into his room, and then suddenly, Goody Taylor was standing over his bed.

He found his words. “Witch! Truly thou wast!”

Emma bared her teeth in a wide grin. “No, John Sanders. Not a witch at all.”

“Come closer,” the old man cackled drunkenly. “For that pint of ale, I’ll tell you a story. Something to keep you company, you might say.” He accepted the drink greedily, and began immediately.

“It was fifteen and ninety, after the big plague. Here in the lonely country, it wasn’t so bad, but I was a merchant. Seeing most of your customers die off makes you consider things. I reckoned I’d travel south to Italy, get some sun, and take a few choice items with me.

“Back then I could still sell tinder to the devil, and by the time I reached Milan, I had enough to set up shop in the market square.

“The best business always came when there was a hanging. They called it ‘The Executioner’s Fair.’ I used to know the Italian for that, but can’t recall it now. People would come from all over to watch the convicts swing. All us merchants did very well. With the fair would come food, musicians and of course, the Punch and Judy show.

“This particular show, by ‘Professore Dante,’ was called ‘The Choir of Pulcinello.’ You’ve seen the show before, I’ll reckon. Old Punch, or Pulcinello if you like, gets the best of his wife, the law, the devil and the hangman, through trickery and that big stick he carries.

“I went to see the show one afternoon, as I had heard everyone talking about it. He did ten shows a day, which also was unheard of, so nearly everyone had seen it. It also meant that Dante was the last to leave every day.

“The show was like nothing I’d ever seen. Up to ten puppets at a time came on. Angels sang in choral harmony as they took Pulch’s victims up to heaven. Chaos reigned in court as puppets argued over one another. There was no way this could all come from one man.

“My curiosity got the best of me. That night, I waited, concealed, and followed the Professore as he left. He was a stooped, twisted man, and wore a cloak that obscured his features. I watched as he walked towards the flyspecked corpses that had hung that day. He cut them down, put them on his handcart, and continued down an alley. I had no choice but to follow.

“It was then that I heard the chewing sounds.

“As I made my way down the narrow, yellowed street, I saw the Professore’s discarded cloak and shirt. Dread filled me as I rounded the final turn, and beheld insanity.

“The creature was fishbelly white, and where I’d seen a hump was in reality a muscled clump of tentacles, all engaged on ripping chunks of flesh from the dead. I gasped, and he turned, exposing six gaping mouths erupting from his chest, each lined with needle teeth. All were currently being fed chunks of meat by the flailing arms. I noticed his muddy brown eyes boring into me, and the total absence of a mouth on his face.

“‘YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE.’ A cacophony of voices growled. The effect was dizzying. His appendages stiffened then, and the mouths began to hiss, ‘Nottt to seee and live!’ His eyes rolled back to the whites, and he took a halting step toward me.

“I ran then, as fast as possible back to my lodging, packed what I could carry, and fled for Europe. Hell, it seemed, was truthfully at my heels.

“Not three years later came the Great Plague of Milan, and I prayed that the ‘Professore’ met his end. But I fear every day that the Corpse-Eater will come looking for me, wanting to silence the only witness to his secret. Except now you know, too.”

The traveler motioned for more ale, and put coin on the table. The old man thanked him, and shortly after slumped into a besotted sleep in his chair by the fire. The silent man went upstairs to his room and began to unpack his puppets.

Women Seeking Men

NEW in TOWN
Back-to-earth party girl just “staggered” into town last week, and is
looking for a guy who knows his way around. Show me farmhouses, shopping
mall, bomb shelters etc. I want to be “where the action is!” If this sounds
like you, respond to millingabout@loveaintdead.com.

Hey big boy.
Petite blonde looking for my Teddy Bear! I love a man with lots of meat on
his bones! Facts up front – missing one arm, (my ex kept it!!) But you’ll
never notice once we meet! Respond to hungrymama@loveaintdead.com.

Nothing gonna stop me now!
Except a giant case of the “lonelies!” Are you my soul mate? Looking for
love that, like me, can outlast gunfire, stabbing, drowning and being set on
fire. Must love cats. Respond to tuffgirl38@loveaintdead.com.

Men Seeking Women

Are you “The Smart Girl”????????????
Then I want to talk to you! Looking for a girl with a BIG BRAIN for walks
on the beach, long talks and maybe more. Short hair a plus. Respond to
yumcranium@loveaintdead.com.

My heart is yours.
Literally. Willing to send it ahead of our first date. It’s actually falling out a bit
already. Looks not important. Respond to gapingchestwound@loveaintdead.com.

WANT BRAINS
BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS.
BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS.
BRAINS. BRAINS. No smokers. Respond to brainguy@loveaintdead.com.

Missed Connections

LAST TUESDAY on the SUBWAY
You – a pretty redhead, early 30’s, wearing a green striped blouse and
carrying a burgundy handbag.
Me – ate your spleen and your right hand. Please contact me when you’re up
and around. I think we could have some fun. Respond to laststop@loveaintdead.com.

“There she is, buddy.”

“Is it really her?” Cliff was still in a state of mild shock.

“In the flesh, man. Kristy Michaels.” Judd gestured at the woman silhouetted in the orange light of the setting sun. Cliff stared at the bed and his mind raced. All those sweaty hours spent in his room, watching porn, and here she was–the star of his every fantasy.

“How much did you say it was again?” Cliff was flustered. She was gesturing now–for him to come over, to be with her.

“Fifty bucks. I could probably get a lot more, but you’re my friend.”

“I just can’t believe Kristy Michaels is in your house.” Cliff could make out the starlet now, looking at him with raw desire.

“I saved her life, dude. She was out front. I pegged a few of them back with some big rocks, and when they were a little closer…” He patted the .45 tucked into his waistband.

“She got scratched up a little, but she was really grateful. Are you going to do this or what?”

“Yeah,” Cliff breathed. He had one more question, though. “That thing she was famous for–does she still do that?”

In response Judd smacked him on the back of the head. “Are you stupid, man?” He thumbed a key on his belt. “I should let you try, and see how you like it.”

Kristy shifted on the bed, and rattled her chain in assent. Cliff shuddered in anticipation. The tiny room was sweltering in the humidity, and he could see her skin glistening in the lessening light. Judd grabbed his arm.

“One more thing.” He slapped a condom into Cliff’s clammy palm.

“Really? It’s not like she’s going to get pregnant.”

Pow. Another cuff on the back of the head. “It’s for you, genius. Or do you want to end up like…” and he made the twitching gesture that had become all too well known. Two things, then I’m gone. I got Brandi Lake in the next room. One: be quick. She gets strong if she gets too worked up. Two, and I can’t believe I have to say this: stay away from her mouth.” As the pimp slammed the door and walked down the hall, Cliff could just make out his disgusted comment. “Does she still do that thing… Jesus.”

Cliff walked to the bed. The perfect body was still intact, marred only by some ugly purple-black scratches on her shoulder, where the skin was ploughed up. She moaned again through the steel muzzle. Cliff took this as a greeting, and returned, “Hi, Miss Michaels. I’m your biggest fan.” He got undressed.

It was everything he’d hoped for. He was so caught up in the moment that he completely missed the screams from next door.

The sound of chains dragging outside the door whipped Kristy into a frenzy, and with a Herculean effort, she pulled free of her manacles, leaving most of the skin behind. As the questing fingers, now moving in a broken, twitching fashion, found his shoulder, Cliff was off the bed in an instant.

The door smashed open. Brandi Lake, redheaded star of “Cheerleaders for Everyone,” stood there, her jaw gaping open where she’d pulled the mouth restraint free. From the streaks of gore running down her chin, though, it wasn’t bothering her at all. Cliff saw that she held Judd’s key ring, with his hand and forearm still attached. Brandi let out a low wail, and Kristy moved her hands as he’d seen them move so many times before, stroking his chest, leaving thick red streaks wherever they passed. He felt the metal mouthpiece bumping lightly at the back of his neck. Brandi came closer, raising the keys, and Cliff knew what was next. As he looked from one dead porn star to the next, all he could think was, “What a way to go.”

Plasmo was a gift from the stars. Plasmo is the ultimate living textile.

The aliens gave us one Plasmo blanket, as a gesture of goodwill before they left. Plasmo divides asexually, and soon there was a stack of hundreds. The scientists were amazed. Plasmo is benign, and pliable, and responds to human thought patterns. They deemed Plasmo a miracle, and safe for the general population.

Every household got a Plasmo eventually, and those divided until there was one for each family member. Nobody “owns” Plasmo, so they were free for all.

Plasmo is the softest, most comfortable blanket you’ve ever owned. Plasmo is the most absorbent towel you’ve ever used. Plasmo flows over your body like water, and Plasmo can be any kind of clothing you can imagine. Plasmo even came up with new and beautiful fashions that we had never seen before. Soon, everyone in the world was wearing Plasmo.

Then, one morning, you can’t move your Plasmo blanket. Instead of coming off, it snuggles you tighter, and tighter. Your skin is burning inside the blanket, Plasmo pulses, and you suspect it is eating you. Finally, Plasmo covers your head, and you are encased in Plasmo–except for your eyes. You arise then, and Plasmo is making you walk. Plasmo is the perfect insulator, so nobody can hear you scream, but then you can’t hear their screams either, because they are covered in Plasmo too. Plasmo is bright orange today, and everyone is outside.

The aliens are coming back now. The ships descend through the clouds, and you remember your human history. You remember how once before, the path of settlers was eased–by the gift of a blanket.

Thomas was thirteen minutes into his lunch hour when he heard the sound. Per usual, he’d taken his brisk walk around the block, finishing back in front of the sandwich shop just beside Barker and Strob’s executive office, where he worked as a ruthlessly efficient data clerk.

He was replaying Amanda’s voicemail again, dissecting her tone to see where, exactly, he’d done wrong. Currently, he was staring at the calendar on his phone, trying to remember if it had something to do with forgetting… her… oh, God… birthday.

He had the door to Sub Town halfway open when he heard the mewling in the alley just a few feet away.

The cardboard sign read “KITT3NS 4 Sale.” It was hand-lettered in marker and propped up against a large cardboard box. The seller was about eight years old, and was currently sitting against the dusty redbrick of his workplace.

“Want to buy a kitty, mister?” She got to her feet, and raised her head of dirty blond curls.

As John Strob often remarked during his weekly staff meetings, “Timing is everything.” Thomas looked at the box, and saw a way out of his predicament. He could hear Amanda’s squeals of rapture even now.

“That depends, sweetie. How much are they?” Thomas had his hand on his wallet. He hoped sincerely that he’d be buying a cat in the next few minutes, not being mugged from behind by this urchin’s accomplice.

“I don’t know how much, mister. What do you think they’re worth?” The girl was looking directly at him now, with eyes the color of lake water.

There was a musty, fungal odor coming from her, like wet laundry that had been left too long. He wondered if she was homeless. Still, no reason he couldn’t still make a good deal. “How does ten dollars sound?”

The girl looked back at the box. “I guess that would be okay. Only…”

Thomas paused. There was always a catch. “Only what?”

“Only I don’t want you to have one if you’re not going to take good care of it. They’re sad right now, ’cause they weren’t treated nice before.” She tucked a strand of wet hair that had been hanging in her eyes behind her ear. (It wasn’t wet before, was it? Thomas puzzled.) In response to her attentions the mewling coming from the box increased.

“I don’t understand… sorry, what’s your name?” Thomas was feeling less and less at ease.

“My friends call me Jenny, but my name’s really Jennifer.” She was petting her brood now. Purring like an idling motorboat drifted out of the box.

“Jenny, I don’t understand what you mean.” Thomas was officially unsettled. “Aren’t these your cats? Where did you get them?”

“I found them when I woke up this morning. They were lost, so I wanted to get them a good home. Hi, kitty, kitty.” Jenny’s voice was changing, like she was speaking with a mouthful of something.

Thomas’s phone buzzed. It would be Amanda, trying to give him one last chance to hang himself. He made his decision.

“Right, Jenny. Here’s ten bucks. I’d love to buy a kitten.” He moved to the box as he was speaking, wanting to pick up the damned cat and get on with his life as soon as possible.

He went to his knees and vomited. Inside the box had been an open garbage bag, filled with soggy, furry, bloated corpses, tiny holes gaping up at him where fish had eaten the eyes. The mewling was louder than ever.

“They were lost, mister. Nobody wanted them. Just like nobody wanted me. I guess you don’t want us either.” The voice burbled down at him, all humanity gone, but still it managed to sound hurt.

From where he crouched, he saw Jenny walking away down the alley, singing a lullaby to her kittens, bleach-white legs trailing seaweed behind them. The kittens were purring again.