MicroHorror

Sarah ran into her house, took off her clothes, and jumped into the bubbly bath prepared earlier. Although the water had chilled, it didn’t matter. She just wanted to feel clean. She had splashed into the swamp, and had covered her body in furry moss, thick vines, and thorny branches. Green muck, which didn’t stay on her outfit, touched her skin; her husband’s hands had left equal imprints before she left him.

Only now she knew that Jerry, who had blackened her eyes and broken her nose, wouldn’t hold her anymore. As her lips yanked in opposite ways, she sighed happily. Sarah would live like everyone should, without pain and abuse, in her family, at her job, and between her ears.

After she left the bath, she flipped on the TV like her husband always would. Quickly, the room filled with voices. They broke her eardrums; bloody rivers bounced off her shoulders, but Sarah had always had delicate eardrums. It’d hurt for hours when music would play too loudly, but would quit eventually. On the screen, a black woman in a yellow sweater talked about traffic. She spoke about thunderclouds that’d approach like blankets over the town. It filled Sarah with joy; her husband shouldn’t be able to find her in the sleet. Finally, the black lady spoke about moss that’d climb houses, which could kill people if it slunk into anyone’s throat. In sports, the football team for the local high school had won their final game, which had ended the season successfully.

Sarah washed blood off the pointy shovel. While she stood by the sink, she shook with the breeze that whipped through the window. On TV, the black woman had talked about vines and moss that could blanket houses. With lengthy spells of rain and humidity that had hurt Sarah’s summer, the levels of moss could easily lift beyond control. Sarah should’ve listened with or without her bloody ears. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt her anyhow, yet what if it could?

Her window had blackened while she had bathed, but could it truly kill anyone? Slivers of yellow broke through the screen, yet the black had already begun to climb through the pane as slowly as six hairy hands lifting beyond their graves. Did nighttime just come quicker than usual? Or would nature really kill everyone inside her little town?

One person should and would die by Sarah’s hands. Somehow, she could actually hear Jerry in the box below the water with his heart as rhythmic as the pendulum clock by the door. When Sarah walked to the kitchen, she popped the top off a milk bottle and drank like a vampire below a virginal neck. Walking back to the main room, she bumped her knee on a tabletop as if her calf had gone dead. While she had inhaled the drink, the room had become blacker still yet sunlight shouldn’t fade for thirty minutes yet. Quickly, she ran through the yard. Only the chimney hadn’t disappeared, with prickly vines and bushy weeds that had come from nowhere. Would she, like her husband, die before her natural time?

She bounced down to the swamp and pulled the handles off the coffin. Lifting the box, she unhooked the latches. Yelling at Jerry’s bloody face, she said, “Breathe–please breathe!” His body wouldn’t tremble in the least; it looked like a rubber mannequin about to ship to a big department store. With vines about to end her life, she shook her husband, and said, “I apologize; truly, I do.” While Jerry batted his eyelids, his wife lifted her head with eyes wet and shiny. Sarah spoke in the same manner that she would to a lonely child. “No one will die because of me.”

Sarah’s husband didn’t die, and neither did Sarah–by the moss or by the courts which could’ve put her on the lethal injection table as easily as any career criminal.

Like a master chef, I put the roast on the table, threw my arms out proudly in a new display of triumph, and sat by my wife. Although we didn’t have a lot of money, we’d eat well, finally, like everyone should. Covered in a thick honey sauce, the meat sat in the silver pan with its body curled over pudgy legs, which had a nice yellow tint, and frontal limbs that were equally plump. A bushel of celery lay by its feet, like the carrots that blanketed the entire tray. Carefully, I scooped the food out, onto two plates.

My wife inquired, “Should we have another baby?” Before I filled her glass with wine, I splashed purple liquid into my goblet. The cheap bouquet smelled earthy, with just a light sting of alcohol. We both licked our lips in anticipation.

“Was that a question or a comment?” With the knife, I sliced the rump, and laid a tender piece onto her plate, to join the vegetables below her eyes. A dabble of honey finished the meal. While I began to eat, my bride told me what she meant.

Showing a lot of teeth, she said, “What would you do if I got pregnant, and we–you and I–had another baby?” She poked her meat playfully. “Neither of us liked the tantrums that our first baby threw, but we did like the presence of the baby.” With eyebrows lifted, she said, “Didn’t we?”

Chewing heartily, I said as though I’d hoped she’d get pregnant like she’d gotten thirteen months ago, “Sure we did–we both did.” I swallowed loudly, enjoying our feast. “Besides,” I added, “our next baby should taste just as delicious as this one does.” My lovely bride nodded happily; so did I.

When I first met her, she looked as lovely as a baby after baptism. Only she had curves that’d cause God to pant and hair as yellow as what drooped off Aphrodite. A lot of men like blondes, but I really like blondes. Or at least, I did before she came to me. She kind of cured my obsession, yet I still look at yellow hair, and still fantasize about yellow hair around my region. I just don’t indulge my fantasies anymore.

What happened was I beckoned her into the tub. After I closed the health spa that had employed me, she and I sat like Adam and Eve, without anyone else on the planet. We had each other to ourselves. She could’ve had whatever she wanted–I wouldn’t have resisted, and truthfully, I didn’t. What man would resist? She sat in the hot tub eagerly, like a lot of women wouldn’t, I need not tell you. After thirty minutes of talk that I can’t remember, she nuzzled me like a baby to her father. Understand when I tell you that a lot of fathers won’t teach their babies what I taught her, or what she taught me. I didn’t resist–why should I? I fantasize about women like that; I always will.

Anyhow, her voluptuous breasts bobbed around my chest (I wonder if they liked what they touched), and her hands raked my hair, as messy and wet as it became. Her fiery nails itched my scalp, yet I still didn’t resist. Who would? Finally, she kissed me, and I kissed back, as sensuously as her voluptuous lips touched mine. Minutes passed that seemed like hours; before I knew her name, she pulled off my shorts, below the bubbly liquid, and her blonde hairdo spread evenly over the top. Her yellow hair curled wetly over my middle. I stood erectly, yet my knees would just bend–understand?

Maybe you won’t believe it yet she still bobbed her head like an animal that couldn’t control itself. My head tossed back, onto the rubber liner like a pillow just for me, and I yelled loudly with pleasure. Subconsciously, I held her head below the bubbly surf. I took her head and forced it to bob quicker, until finally, I yelled too loudly, and her rear, clad in a black bikini, curled. Her back arched like a playful kitten’s. It took a moment before her body went limp. With a lot of adrenaline, I couldn’t control my fluids anymore; I shot prematurely, like I never will again. I didn’t know what to do–what should I have done? Like a jackrabbit, I bounded for the shower and left her alone in the tub. What would you do?

Early the next day, the janitor found a rubbery torso with four disjointed limbs. How could I attend her funeral, after I read the local paper? I didn’t ask her last name; I found her picture in the Obituary. Sure, I cried–wouldn’t you? I bawled as loudly as I had yelled, with her below the water. I tell you what–I still sit in that tub, like I did the night she joined me; I tell you what–every time I do, I can’t feel the warmth. Somehow, I just can’t. Whatever her body did to me, her soul does the opposite. Whenever I sit in our tub, I feel chilly water throb my groin. Oddly, I enjoy myself, yet somehow, paralysis always hits me. Lying in our tub, my knees before me, I wonder if I truly needed her pleasure–I wonder a lot. How could I argue those painful urges? Any man would sell his soul for a body like hers. Mostly, though, if you want the truth, I wonder if that water will ever feel warm again–to me or to anyone. I wonder about that a lot. Personally, I doubt it will, if you want my opinion.

“Sure,” I said, “I have novels in my head. I have notes and dialogue too, yet somehow I don’t have images behind my eyes anymore. I just wrote three outlines that probably will sell eventually, but I can’t find inspiration to write. My mind feels as empty as a school in summertime, without purpose. Nobody wants to visit a school in July. My mind feels like high school did after the final bell. I have no idea what to do.”

Crossing my ankles, I sat on my bed. Only a pair of boxers and black socks covered my body. A slight chill blew steadily through the window; it didn’t bother me enough to put clothes on my frame. On my chest, a mess of hairs stood yet they didn’t because of the breeze. A hint of perfume, like fruit and flower pedals, didn’t prick my skin, either. I couldn’t place my apprehension.

Closing my eyes, I tried to dream about vampires, sewer rats, and killer clowns. Somehow, it brought no light to my mind; the projector behind my eyelids just wouldn’t play. My wife spoke; it took me away from the illusions, as it should.

“Perhaps I will inspire you.” She whipped her blouse into my face. I peeled the silk off my nose and looked at her body. A shapely figure put a shadow on my abdomen. Below her hands, her breasts jiggled. Without panties, her hips offered a little black patch that required a male body to complete, to feel the ecstasy that always came to me in bed. I shook my head. Whatever she tried, it just didn’t inspire me; she had before but she couldn’t anymore. Sexuality couldn’t break down the door.

“I will inspire you; you just don’t realize it yet.” While she spoke, her hands left her breasts and pulled her ears. She took her fiery nails and yanked her hair. A large fluffy clump fell off her head. Only a bloody bald head looked at me, with a face that appeared waxy. Clasping both cheeks in her fingers, she took flesh off her bones. Gruesomely, maroon trails dribbled off her eyes onto her chalky skull. Below the skin, a white mask hid the creature that her personality had led my friends to believe would never belong to her. Above her brows, two horns poked through filthy layers of flesh. Her lips drooped below pointy teeth, which would bite me if I didn’t act quickly.

What could I do?

I could die painfully, like a lot of people, in a place of safety. Whoever stood before me would go to the lake of fire and never stand before a judge. None of the monsters of my fiction had ever dealt with the legal system. If they did land in jail, they’d probably kill the prisoners viciously, as a pack of hungry lions would, and walk out of jail into the black of night.

Finally, she spoke through the chirpy tone that she alone created. She spoke as playfully as anyone could. “I told you I’d inspire you.” With my heart quick and my breath wheezy, I shut my eyes; my throat dried and liquid cooled my chest. As I looked at her, with eyes wide suddenly, my wife sat on the bed, her body jiggling slightly; that alone brought flames into my nether region. Leaning towards her, I took her in my arms in a way I hadn’t since high school. A kiss followed, passionately; her face brightened like it always did after my kisses.

“I’ll always love you,” I said. With her chin pointed upward, I kissed her neck. “Baby, you’ll always inspire me.”

On the table, I took off the blanket that covered my body. Quietly, I stood by the table. A set of bulbs lit the room to where I could look at the floor and find proper clothes. No shirt or jeans were wrapped around my frame. I couldn’t remember if I had worn them earlier. Sweats and boots sat by the door, into which I slid. With pinpricks in my thighs and biceps, I winced. Someone had poked me to take blood out, or perhaps to put a little back. With the fact that I indeed lived, I just wished to leave. And I did, through the window, into the forest, towards the highway.

Above me, the trees rustled loudly. Animals poked their eyes through the leaves and back to the safety of their homes. I walked cautiously; I could fall easily on the leafy field, which crackled like ceramics below my feet. A slight patter of rain dribbled onto my head. My sloppy hair matted tightly to my skull. I walked into darkness, with the lowly cries of birds and the throaty bellows of other animals about which I chose not to think. A furry mouse, or what I perceived as a mouse, dropped from the skeletal branches and collapsed onto my back.

A thick talon bit my arm; it broke my artery and kept fluid from my hand. Like my fingertips, my palms weakened. A blue shade swept over my hands, on the tops that I could see. My veins bulged in ways they never had before. Only, a rat didn’t land on my back. I turned, looked through slit eyes, and found a male of at least thirty on my pelvis. He pinned my arms to the muck and put my face in the slippery pile of what could’ve come from any number of animals. If I could’ve pinched my nose, I would’ve; a thick and foul smell brought waves of bile into my throat. When the person spoke, the sickness subsided briefly.

“I watched you leave the hospital,” he said. When I tried to talk, he pushed my mouth into the smelly mess with his pistol. “I keep people locked inside the hospital. I do bad things to people who escape. I enjoy my work immensely.” He bent down to speak to me or to smell me. For all I knew, he tried to kiss me. “I like male blood a lot. No blood tastes like blood from a male body.” With his pointy teeth, he bit my neck.

As if electrocuted, he reeled, spat bitterly, and leaped off my back. Gagging, he said, “I want male blood. Obviously, you just look manly. Maybe the animals will enjoy you.” With those words, he put two bullets below my shoulders, by my spine, yet not in my head.

As he walked back to the hospital, I turned my head. “My blood would taste like male blood if I had blood in me.” I remembered that I had fallen asleep in my girlfriend’s house with a lump of lead in my belly, and had apparently died by a jealous husband–only to have other fluid pumped into me for the funeral. “My body doesn’t have blood in it, male or otherwise. I live with embalming fluid in me. Thankfully, my type doesn’t mix with yours.” With a laugh, I said finally, “Nobody’s bullet will keep me down anymore. Any revenge will suffice–and I know where you work!”

To quiet my mind, I punched the wall until my knuckles bled. Finally, I sat in the small stool jutting from the blocks and began to write. As honestly as possible, I had to tell the family of my bride that I apologized for her murder. I hadn’t wanted to hold that blanket around her neck until her lips had turned purple and her body had quivered erratically, but I couldn’t help myself. She had bedded a friend of mine, like a hooker who had very little regard for any particular male. I had worked with Cameron for years and should’ve for many more. Would any married man have behaved differently?

My “friend” talked about the birthmark around Stacy’s milky thigh. He spoke like an athlete who never practiced but had still won a major trophy. She always refused to show her legs publicly; she always wore swimwear infrequently. Although she always denied it, her mark always wobbled my knees and pumped my blood; apparently, they had to Cameron’s, as well.

Looking at the bloody hunks of knuckle on the wall, I formed words like a small child would; apologies didn’t blurt easily. Somehow, they’d always come in court; before a judge, I’d speak like a juvenile delinquent who’d confess at Christmastime. In jail, I squinted a lot and shook my fists.

With the pencil between my lips, I looked at the stool beside me. When the cell had housed upper and lower bunks, two had been built. Alone, I didn’t need it, but I still became happy for it. When light blew through the cloudy window into my room, I looked at a mess of silky black strands. They shone brilliantly. They billowed as they would off a lovely angel. Statically, they lifted off a blue egg, with a bumpy nose jutting between two empty eyeholes; pulled by wires, the flower-petal mouth belonged to one person alone. Grown off her nape, the orb grew into an ugly image of Stacy.

I believed in tricks, not apparitions. When Stacy addressed me, I hesitated. My eyebrows lifted numbly. She looked at the paper and pen on the small table. “Everyone’ll read that letter. It won’t be mailed; it won’t have to be mailed. My family will realize that you just blew your top like a baby with a broken toy. Probably, they’ll forgive, like me.” Onto the ratty blanket she put her feet and tied her black shoes. “They’ll read your letter in the local paper with photos of you and me.” Confused, I pricked my head and rubbed my eyes with sweaty palms.

Quickly, I dove into an empty black ocean that had no shoreline. Worse, I couldn’t swim. A voice echoed inside my head; the chirpy tone didn’t belong to Stacy yet still did. “People always find ways to die.” A chilly breeze drove my body back. My soul toppled towards the fiery realm that nobody should visit. Once there, I found people who hurt for thrills, hourly. Only, time didn’t exist; just endless abuse did. Before I looked at those evil black eyes (a spirit I hoped my wife would never meet), Stacy spoke. “Somehow, they always do.”

I never heard another female voice. People had always used the proper word when they spoke about this place. I dropped into Hell, and I would never leave.

Thirty years ago, I walked into jail with a life sentence for murder–I killed my husband and his lover. With rifle in hand, I shot through the blankets they slept below. A spatter of blood shot like juice exploded by their pillows and the white cotton dyed into dark maroon. The lumps that carried their names settled; they became just limp flesh and brittle hair. Quickly, I put the rifle back. When nobody arrested me, I skipped around the house until I realized how silly I looked. Finally, I got in my BMW and drove to my friend’s house. She lived in the hilly part of town that looked down upon the lake; my husband and I lived by the water. We shared similar mortgages; we never complained. Our houses impressed friends and enemies alike.

Looking back on Henry, I could barely recall his murder at all. I could just remember we’d take trips to Las Vegas; he’d impress everyone (especially me) with large bets he couldn’t afford. “We only live once,” he told me. “Nobody knows when God will punch the ticket.” I didn’t think I’d punch his ticket, not God. People and God move in mysterious ways. Still, I wouldn’t have considered another woman in our bed. He never dealt with that insult. Of that, I learned not to regret, slowly yet eventually.

Anyhow, I stood in the cell and looked at the body in the bunk. A shapely woman of sixty lay with black hair and a pudgy nose visible above the ratty blanket. She wore an undershirt below her jumpsuit. Her breasts didn’t heave yet she slept. Somehow, she slept peacefully. I shook my head slowly, tightly. With her face lined by age and stress, she still looked lovely in ways I rarely found in jail. Without any sexual attraction, I liked her looks, as statuesque as they were.

Uncontrollably, I walked towards her, looking at her nose and thick eyelashes. They looked odd for someone her age. Downwardly, I kissed her cheek, and put a little smooch of respect and, somehow, love onto her lips. Only a slight exhale came from her little mouth, like the puff off an empty Zippo. A chill ran through me; nobody of such beauty should land in jail. When the door buzzed, I walked into the upper level of the dayroom.

Walking down the steel stairway, I looked at the TV. A flicker accompanied the static–the unit would always live. The bulbs brightened yet still appeared dull. Only, the lights burned brilliantly, suddenly; the walls burst into flames as crematoriums do. Strangely, the roof billowed into black smoke. Almost endlessly, the stairway continued. Squirming from anxiety, I walked slower and slower. My strides became hesitant, until finally, I dropped off the final rail and fell through a celestial manhole. As I tried to control my twirls, I plummeted quickly, helplessly. Somehow, my head drooped around my feet, my body like a pretzel, until finally, I landed on rock.

On the bottom, my husband touched my hand. With eyes wide, I heard him say, “I don’t love you anymore. And you won’t love anybody, either, after your time here.” As he stated, I didn’t. After what felt like eternity, I forgot about love. Occasionally, I looked at my husband. Whips pelted his body continually, as they did mine. I didn’t love him anymore. Worse, I didn’t love myself anymore. And I couldn’t blame anyone.

I sat on the dock every day. I enjoyed the breezes off the lake, like the solitude of the water. My pole and my tackle box sat beside me. Inside the plastic container, I kept a school of minnows; also, I brought a small container into which I planned to put worms when the bucket emptied. With the water warm below me, I took off my shoes and put them by the yellow bait box. My feet fell into the liquid. They chilled immediately, and I wiggled them quickly and happily.

I took a minnow from the plastic container. Like my feet, it wiggled like it wished to flap in the water and stay there. A blot of blood oozed from the fish when I hooked it. The minnow didn’t fight as badly as I thought. Truthfully, it didn’t fight as badly as I hoped. Casting a lengthy line, I threw it into the lake. It landed as far from me as I could hurl it. Soundlessly, it plopped into the liquid. A bite jabbed the line. Another took my ankle; it nearly pulled me into the water.

Recently, my mother had offered a gift to my friends and me. She had taken everyone to the water park. One problem had existed which my mother hadn’t planned. I had never learned to swim. My brother had understood it at the park. With a slimy hand on my ankle, I had stood painfully; I couldn’t break the hold. With the pressure of his fist, I had jumped off the small platform into the shallow end. Then he had laughed while I had paddled helplessly. Finally, I had stood upright, with my face red and my limbs sore.

Holding the dock, I fought until my ankle lifted. Without the light of daytime anymore, I went down to the shoreline, and tried to look for the intruder who broke my solitude. Waving the flashlight, I found nobody. My brother probably took my leg and pulled it, like he had below the bridge at the park. With my light, I looked but I couldn’t find any footprints. Only animals had pressed their feet near the edge–a lot of animals, actually, had left tracks, which had already filled with black liquid.

Walking back to the dock, I tripped on a knotty vine and fell into the lake. My head submerged; liquid filled my nose and mouth. As a fish would on land, my body flopped inside the wide spirals of water that surrounded it. Weeds floated by my eyes, and I could feel my stomach fill with muck. An ugly sight warned me that I didn’t struggle alone. Although my brother hadn’t, someone had indeed pulled my calf.

A blurry blue spot looked like a fish eye. Only, it stared steadily; it didn’t swim or bob. Naturally, fish didn’t get that big by my house. A fluffy bushel of hair waved below the water. Around the shoreline, the brush looked sticky, bloody. Small flies jumped off the mud and buzzed loudly; a mess of insects bounced off the shiny surface.

Grabbing a root, I pulled myself back. I found a foothold and a place for my hands to yank my body to the surface. Although I didn’t die, I could have; briefly, I believed I did. As I walked home, with my body jittery and my throat scratchy (I still coughed loudly), I realized that I should take lessons on how to swim properly. With the lake by my house, it could keep me alive.

In my haste, I forgot my pole. When the sunlight shone, I went back to retrieve it. When I did, I found a smelly sunfish hooked to my line. Like the body below the dock, it too had lost its fleshy meat and had decomposed to its empty bones. I took the bait box, ran quickly, and never enjoyed the solitude again.

Vito sat on his couch in his small house, in the rural countryside, in the middle of a chilly Minnesota winter. When he looked outside, the frozen cornstalks billowed softly, almost playfully, in the light breeze that rattled the windows. Inside his hand, he held a yellow flower, which bent by the stem as though a heavy weight rested in the middle of its fluffy petals. With his palm, he brushed his hair back, and licked his lips in anticipation of his bride’s arrival. Married three years, he could still feel adrenaline because of her. Thus, he wished to look presentable for her everyday.

As she always had before, Mina walked through the doorway, patted her thick boots on the mat, and put her jacket on the rack. She slithered from her simple clothes slowly and smoothly, in a way that brought heat to Vito’s face. After she folded her flannel blouse and oozed out of her jeans, she walked towards her husband in her black bra and panties. Her body jiggled lightly, with just the proper amount of perkiness. While still youthful, her breasts had lost just a hint of firmness; they flopped somewhat, yet her husband barely noticed. In her black wool socks, she crept silently, as a kitten would by the tail of a mouse. Touching the thick pad, with lust in his eyes, Vito invited her to sit on the cushion by his side.

Openly as a three-year-old child to a happy parent, she could talk about her night; she always could before. Vito could listen to her chirpy voice for hours and never feel boredom. She would always spend the nights looking for pleasure. As lovely as she looked, it would take just a few hours to satisfy her needs. Usually. Whether Vito approved mattered very little anymore.

“Could you bait the hook without any trouble?” On the couch, Vito talked about his job and his life, but brought the conversation back to hers. She sat by his side, looking at the fire. Crackling loudly, it ruptured another hefty log. “Did those animals take your bait?” Despite her silence, he understood by her forlorn expression. He said, “I’d be surprised if they didn’t.” Surprise opened his eyes widely.

Instead of talk, Mina hugged her husband tightly. Curling her supple arms around his body, with her head on his shoulder, she shook her head. Vito didn’t believe her; how could he? When she flipped her blonde hair and jiggled her voluptuous body, most men wouldn’t be able to resist; at least, they never had before. She looked for ordinary men; usually, she found plenty.

From her body, Vito heard the sound of metal crumpling slowly, completely; her body cried for the food that it needed for survival. Mina had yet to eat; she seemed to need it badly. Growing behind her upper lip, her pointy teeth touched her husband’s neck lightly, and then sharply, without viciousness. Caressing his thick neck with its tongue, an animal played with Vito. Without concern for anyone, it bit instinctively, with frustration rather than aggression. As an animal would, Mina jabbed her teeth into his body. Only blood seemed to quench her thirst, and thus, heal the inner pain that broke their bond of matrimony. Her husband found just one way to offer it.

Vito didn’t resist; instead, he spoke a final line that told of his devotion to the beauty that had married him three years before. He said, “I’d be lonely without you.” Slowly yet without hesitation, Vito laid his head back. A mask of perspiration covered his hairy body, from the fire or from the hunger of his bride. Groaning, she nibbled his fleshy nape, and finally, took his blood. While she did, Vito looked at her with narrow eyes yet with a smile that wouldn’t leave his lips.

Sonny and Karen walked down the boulevard in the lovely glow of the yellow streetlamps that dotted the landscape. Mosquitoes didn’t bother them; those pesky bugs stayed in the sky, buzzing loudly around the bulbs on the metal poles. Occasionally, Karen slapped her arms, but just instinctively. Sonny held her hand tightly, waving their arms like pendulums. He smiled like a teenager who left his house after curfew with his nubile lover.

With a headshake, Sonny looked at his bride. “I invited my brother to live with us. I assumed that he would look for a job.” He said, “I didn’t think that I’d have to feed him for three months. Willy thinks about himself and nobody else. I shouldn’t have expected normal behavior.” He said, “He just doesn’t realize the burden that he puts on people. Willy couldn’t care less that everyone else lives independently. And they work like animals to live independently.”

Karen said, “We didn’t leave college so we could drink and oversleep; Willy did and he brought those problems to our house.” She said, “With him, small tremors grow into massive earthquakes. I just didn’t understand before.”

Sonny said, “I’d tell him to leave, but I have to repair holes in the drywall anyway. He could help. After all, he put them there.” He said, “How do we tell him to behave normally? Whatever we tell him, he misunderstands, just like a baby.”

Walking down the street, they stopped. Another person waddled past them. The burly body behind the black shadow appeared blind or mentally numb. He didn’t notice Sonny and Karen and probably wouldn’t have if they were walking without clothes. After he bumped Sonny absentmindedly, Sonny yelled. He said, “I think you just took my wallet. I want it back.”

With a shake, Sonny loosened his hold on the female hand until her arm pulled him back. “Please,” Karen said. “He didn’t hurt you, and he won’t hurt me, either.”

After they passed the corner, Sonny yelled to Karen. Instinctively, she jumped into her husband’s arms. With a push, he put her behind a truck. He looked at the body on the blacktop. It lay motionlessly, with massive legs dressed in bloody jeans. The corpse held its hairy arms over its head. The eyelids fluttered; a hefty wind touched them, but no life inside the body did. Sonny yelled at the man who had passed them. A lengthy shadow still oozed around the nearby trees. Splattered in blood, he had probably killed the man for money.

“When that man bumped us, did you recognize him?” Sonny said, “I think he recognized us. He walked by us too quickly.” Karen lifted a narrow eyebrow.

Karen said, “Shouldn’t we notify the police?” She shook like a chilly breeze just blew through her body. With a nod, Sonny agreed. When Karen dialed, she heard static on her phone. No police answered; her phone just bleated. Karen said, “We’ll find out the truth when we get back home.” Quickly, they traced their steps back to their small house.

On their porch, they lay like dolls dipped in paint. All of their possessions had vanished. Their house looked like a bankrupt museum without any artifacts. Sonny blinked; chrome sparkled below his spiritual body. Lifelessly, Sonny held his handgun tightly. Finally, it occurred to Sonny why the burly man had looked so familiar.

He said, “We lived with Willy for three months. We should’ve forced him to leave earlier.” He said, “Obviously, Willy killed us both before I could shoot back. I assume that he jumped into the road, before that truck.” He said, “He took his own life after he took ours. We just passed him on our way to eternity.”

On their porch, a jagged scrawl marred the rustic wood. I couldn’t live without help. Sonny didn’t argue. “He couldn’t survive without us.” Karen nodded slowly yet firmly.