Toxoplasmosis

“Trouble, trouble… I’ve had it all my days…it seems like trouble… going to follow me to my grave …”

The truck smells a bit like a grave. I grab my Degree deodorant stick, untuck my tan shirt, and slather it against my armpits. Even with no doors, the truck turns into an oven in the summer. The heavy moisture plaguing Brentwood the past few weeks hasn’t been helping. Clouds keep rolling in from the west. But what do I know about the weather? Nothing that ain’t on the radio.

“I got the world in a jug… the stopper’s in my hand… I’m gonna hold it ‘til you… meet my demands…”

A line of sweat bubbles on my upper lip and I lick it away.

One last package to deliver – no name on it, just the address of the Brentwood Military Base. Ashley wants me home to catch the new Twin Peaks episode and I’m already running overtime, so I yank the gear shift and press on the gas, heading towards the edge of town.

The Bowie bobblehead on the dashboard rocks as I drive a bit too fast. I feel an itch on my neck thinking about delivering this package. No one just drives up to the military base, not even a UPS guy. They must have special people pick up their orders from undisclosed locations. I picture myself arriving at their big chain-link gate and being patted down, stripped, or worse.

Suddenly, something brown dashes into the road and I slam on the breaks.

My head nearly hits the windshield as I clutch the steering wheel, drive offroad, and roll to a bumpy stop.

I sit for a moment in shock, then get out to search for the poor animal. Tall red maples and pin oaks lining the ditch cast moving shadows on the asphalt, but I see no traces of blood.

I turn back towards the truck.

Suddenly, a familiar meow echoes at my feet.

“Holy moly – is that – Samson?”

My green-eyed, brown tabby that I haven’t seen in months lets out a long purr, coiling around my ankles. He’s a little rough around the edges, but he doesn’t look starved. Ashley’s going to scream when I show up with this sucker. She found him in a sewer when we were still dating and nursed him from death’s door, doing syringe feedings every two hours, combing the fleas out of his fur, warming him on her hot water bottle. Ashley’s a saint when it comes to animals. It was one of the many reasons I fell for her. Since Samson disappeared, she’s been quieter than usual, spending a lot of time in front of the TV.

“C’mere, buddy,” I say, reaching for him.

Samson twists around, hissing, and I jerk back. His pupils are thinner than a thread. Before I can soothe him, he sprints across the road, vanishing into the trees.

“Samson! Come here!”

Of course he ain’t going to come. He’s a cat.

I shove the truck keys in my pocket, retrieve the package, and trudge into the woods after him. I ain’t exactly built for hiking, but if I have a chance to bring Samson home, I have to go for it. I stomp through the bramble and curtains of kudzu, calling his name.

Finally I glimpse his glowing eyes in the distance. Quietly I follow, wondering if he’s leading me to his girlfriend and a litter of kittens.

The woods suddenly open up. Samson prowls across a wide yard and leaps onto the porch of a decrepit house, where empty bottles swing from the gables and colored pinwheels dot the overgrown front garden. All over the yard sit dozens upon dozens of cats. Forget about a girlfriend – he’s got a harem. The cats lounge and lick, watching me.

“Samson,” I call, my throat tightening.

He hops through a gap in an open window.

I get the urge to run back to my truck. Whatever this place is, Samson seems to be doing alright. And if it’s a hoarder situation, well… I’d have to involve the police. No good sneaking around without backup.

“Hang in there, buddy,” I whisper as I turn around.

“Oh, wait, sir! We’re home! You can bring the package!”

The screen door suddenly snaps open and an old couple rushes out onto the porch. They look strangely clean – not what I was expecting of the house’s owners. The old man is wearing overalls and a button-down shirt, and the old lady’s got on a flowery dress straight out of ’67. She smiles and waves.

“I, uh, was just –” I stammer. “Was just following my cat. I think you might’ve adopted him.”

“One of these fellas is yours?” asks the old man.

“Yeah, uh – the brown one that just went inside.”

“Oh, Gumby?” says the old lady. “We rescued him a while ago. We rescued all these little sugar pies. They love it here.” She pauses, shielding her eyes from the evening sun. “Is that package for us?”

“No, ma’am,” I say politely. “I parked out on the road and chased Samson here through the woods. But it’s okay, I’ll leave him. I’m sure you nice folks have everything under control.”

“Nonsense! You should have your sweet boy back! Why don’t you come in for some tea and Gumby – oh, I’m sorry, it’s Samson? He’ll warm up to you in no time. Smell is important to cats and I’m sure he’ll remember yours.”

“I can’t intrude on y’all.”

“Please do! We haven’t had visitors in so long, it’d be a nice treat. No grandchildren, you see. Just our sweet cats.”

The old man smiles and beckons me. He’s got a kind face, the sort that makes you think of your grandpa. He’s probably close to eighty by the looks of him and how jerkily he moves. The pressure of my upbringing starts taking hold: southern hospitality ain’t something you can just refuse.

“Alright then,” I say, stalking up to the house.

Inside, the strange eyes of the rescue cats continue to linger on me – there’s more huddled in groups on the old-fashioned furniture. I take a seat on the sofa and realize I haven’t introduced myself yet. Don’t be rude, Ashley’s voice rings in my head.

“I’m Jack Montgomery, by the way,” I say. “And no, my family ain’t from Alabama. That’s just a coinkydink.”

“A what, honey?” asks the old lady, as she smooths a piece of her permed hair.

“Coinkydink.”

“Is that what young people say? Well, just hold tight. I’ll get you some sweet tea. Mama’s recipe.”

“Sounds delicious.”

The old man sits stiffly in a leather recliner. He gives me a long look, as if remembering if he ever saw me somewhere. “I’m Walt and my wife’s Joyce,” he says. “Bellerman. We don’t get out much, what with all the cats.”

“Understandable.”

“You a man of faith, Jack?”

“Nope,” I admit. “But I ain’t got nothing against anyone who is.”

“Everyone’s got faith in something.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

He goes silent, so I glance around the living room. The walls are covered in peach wallpaper and landscape paintings; trinkets from the Bellermans’ life sit on every inch of surface area – model boats, ceramic figurines, medicine bottles, reading glasses. An odd smell lingers in the air. Maybe it’s from the cats, but there’s something else too, something dense and earthy beneath it.

“Here we are,” chirps Joyce, gliding in with a glass of ice tea. She hands it to me, smiling. A few of her teeth are missing.

I take a long drink. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it’s smooth as butter. Perfect ice-to-liquid ratio, perfect sugar volume, and the black tea steeped just right with a dash of baking soda to counteract the bitterness. Joyce’s mama knows what she’s doing. Or knew.

“Now, tell us all about your little boy Samson,” she says, sitting down. “You must’ve been missing him so much!”

“Yeah, we have. When I saw him run into the road, I had to try and catch him.”

“Of course you did. He’s your baby. You know,” she glances over at Walt, “we had our dear girl Muriel run away once. Cats do that sometimes. I think they just get the urge to go wild – to go see what’s out there. Muriel was a doll back then, wasn’t she, Walt? Just the sweetest girl. Cuddly as can be. And one day, out of the blue, gone! Just like that. It was hard, you know, because…” Her voice fades.

“You can tell him, dear,” murmurs Walt. “I know you need to talk about it.”

I sip the tea, worrying I’m being turned into a shrink. Strangers make the best listeners, no doubt about it; but time’s ticking.

Joyce seems to read my expression.

“Oh, no. I won’t bother you with all that,” she says. “What I will say is that our Muriel came back after a year. A year. Can you imagine what she was up to for that long? I mean, what a shock we suffered when she showed up on our doorstep looking healthy as ever! If only she could talk!”

“Where is Muriel? She still around?”

“Thirteen years old and still kicking,” says Walt.

“Yes, thirteen years this fall. I can’t believe it. She just refuses to give up.”

“Well,” I say, “when it is her time, you’ve got plenty of others to help fill the void.”

As soon as I’ve said it, Joyce straightens like a pole, eyes widening, and issues an eerie, tremulous growl from the back of her throat.

“No,” she sputters. “Muriel can never, ever be replaced.”

Tears start streaming down her cheeks. Walt scrambles out of his recliner, hunching over her and petting her shoulders. I stand up, feeling suddenly out of my depth.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve said that.”

“No one… nothing… can replace… her…”

“It’s alright,” Walt says to me. “Don’t worry about it. She’s sensitive to the idea of losing her. We’ve… had a difficult loss before.”

“I’m sorry. I really am.”

He gives me a weak smile of thanks, and turns back to Joyce, encompassing her in his arms. I shift on my heels. If I could be anywhere else right now…

“Where’s the, uh, toilet?”

“Upstairs. First door on the right.”

I set down the empty tea glass and hurry towards the staircase, dodging cats left and right. I try not to step on any tails or paws. They just watch me, their heads turning in unison.

The stairs creak as I take them two at a time and I’m relieved to hear Joyce’s sobs start to quieten down. I enter a dark shiplap hallway. It's overflowing with photographs, all hung at different heights. A large photo in an ornate brass frame catches my eye. I get closer, hoping to learn a little something more about the Bellermans. The photo shows three people standing in front of a weeping willow, their arms gently placed around each other’s waists. I recognize Joyce and Walt immediately – they’re about fifteen years younger, their faces beaming with happiness and pride. Between them is a twenty-something-year-old guy who looks like them mixed together. He’s wearing an army uniform. And he ain’t smiling.

I glance around at the other photos: the young man as a baby, peering up from a pram; as a middle schooler with a Jaws bookbag; as a teen with sad eyes and bushy hair, sitting glumly behind a birthday cake.

For some reason, my blood runs a little cold. I move down the hall towards the last photos. The darkness seems to vibrate around me as if electrified, but I chock it up to bad wiring. My eyes roam the wall until I suddenly stop dead. A glowering face is staring back at me, a face completely changed and withered. Something happened to him. An illness, a disease… His sallow skin reflects no light, like he was on his deathbed.

What a sad thing. I can’t imagine losing a kid. I’d probably go mad with despair. It makes sense why the Bellermans are obsessed with rescuing stray cats. It gives them purpose; something to live for.

As if on cue, a meow pulls me from my grim thoughts. I look down and see Samson circling my legs. Something limp dangles from his mouth.

“Whatcha got there? An anchovy?”

Samson chirps and runs into a room off the hall. It’s so dark, as if all the curtains on this floor are drawn, so I tread carefully, brushing my fingers along the peeling wallpaper. I reach the doorway and squint into the room. I don’t want to overstep my welcome, but I’m getting weary of Samson running away.

“Pssspsss,” I murmur. “Hey, buddy… come on out…”

By the sound of it, he’s already nibbling something tasty. Squinting, I can make out the silhouette of a king size bed. An odd mass shifts on top of it.

“Samson?”

I feel for a switch. The room floods with pale yellow light. The mass on the bed stops moving, and I slowly realize what I’m looking at.

Cats with crimson blood spattered over their faces, their jaws scarfing down mouthfuls of meat, glare at me from atop a mound of severed human arms. Blood dribbles off the side of the bed and onto the carpeted floor, while flies whirl around the hot, putrid air. Samson, my Samson, creeps to the edge, showing me the gray, bloody finger clenched in his teeth.

The stench hits me. My stomach flips, my body fizzling into shock.

That smell… that sight…

Spinning around, I dash back down the hallway, my shadow splayed across what I now see is a floor violently stained with blood.

A figure looms at the top of the stairs. I nearly collide with Walt and grab the wall for stability. My heart pounds harder and harder, blurring my vision. I stare at Walt. He stares at me.

“She’s going to like the taste of you,” he drones.

He rises a foot taller, straightening his back, transforming into another man. His shoulders arch and flex with broad muscles, and veins protrude from his thick neck. His eyes, black like a crow’s, bore into mine as he lifts his arm to strike.

Instinct takes over. I duck under his left arm, but he catches me, as if he knew what I was going to do. With unbelievable force, he twists me around and shoves me against the wall. The photos rattle and one falls down. Walt hulks over me, breathing like an animal, and I lunge for the photo – grabbing it just as Walt yanks me back by the ankle.

As hard as I can, I jam the corner of the photo frame into Walt’s thigh. He lets out a low howl, then grabs me by the shoulders, heaves me up, and holds me in his left hand while he swings back his right fist.

I feel my mind sharpen. I ain’t going to go out like this. No way. I won’t do that to Ashley.

I strike him where it hurts most. Eyes bulging, he stumbles backwards. His hands try to grasp the stair rail as he goes, but he finds empty air. I see the panic in his face and I rush forward, thinking I’ll tug him back into the hallway; and then the floor vanishes from under my feet.

Time seems to slow as Walt wraps his arms around me. He’s taking me down with him. Our faces are so close I can smell his acrid breath, see the wrinkles around his black eyes. The stair rail skids out of my hand and the first crash sends sparks of pain up my legs and back. I land on Walt as we crash again, and again, each stair connecting to different parts. I close my eyes against the pain.

The back of my head hits the floor. Whirring geometric patterns flash in front of me, but I try to look around – to see what’s coming. Beside me, Walt lies motionless, eyes agape, his neck cranked much too far. Then I see Joyce kneel next to me. She gazes placidly at Walt, then at me, brushing the hair from my forehead as I succumb to the blackness.

***

“Some of these days… you’ll miss your honey… some of these days… you’ll feel so lonely...”

Radio music. Deep, throbbing pain. Somehow, I curl my fingers and flutter my eyes open, though they sting. I cough. Sharp stabs hit my chest. I must have broken a rib – not a great thing to happen in a place like this. Wherever this is.

I’m somewhere dark and damp. Strange mist floats in front of a bar of light near the ground, which looks like the opening underneath a door. Beyond it, sounds of movement echo amid the old-timey music from a radio. A kind of fast shuffling mixed with metallic clanks.

“I feel so lonely, just for you only… for you know, honey… you’ve had your way…”

Trying not to strain, I roll onto my side and heave up. Hot air gushes from my mouth as I hold in a cry of pain. I need to get out of here. I need to get home to Ashley.

I stumble around. The light provides just enough of a glow for me to see I’m in a kind of cellar room. Discarded piles of clothes, shoes, and random knick-knacks litter the floor.

“My mama says I’m reckless… my daddy says I’m wild… I ain’t good looking, no… but I’m somebody’s angel child…”

Clank. Brrrrrm. Brrrrrm. BRRRRRRRM.

The sudden roar of a chainsaw sends icy shockwaves up my limbs.

Horrible wet crackling fills the air. The chainsaw stutters, then flares back to life.

I start grasping at the clothes and knick-knacks, searching for something I could use as a weapon. But all I find are remnants of people. Lost people. I.D.s from Idaho, California, Canada, and other places far away from here; credit cards; chap sticks; wedding rings; headphones; baseball cards; Strawberry Shortcake hair scrunchies. All moldy and left to rot.

Something shines from underneath a leather wallet. I pick it up and flinch at the face that greets me in the silvery glass. My face, my eyes purpled, my mouth hanging open like a Halloween mask.

Brrrrrrrrm, brrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmm.

I shake myself and crawl over to the bar of light under the door. Then I slide the mirror underneath.

An upside-down figure twitches in the reflection; a figure with gray permed hair. The impossibility of it grips my heart in a frigid vise. Joyce, her back bent, is carving something with the chainsaw just a few feet away. I watch her buckle and wipe her face. Bright red blood shimmers on her hands and forearms.

Suddenly, she turns around.

I jerk backwards. I can’t hear anything above the incessant, horrible roar, but I glimpse a shadow move in front of the bar of light.

The room goes even darker. I’m coming home, Ash, I’m coming home. Don’t worry.

I stand up and position myself so that the door will cover me when it opens. Because I know it’s about to open. She’s noticed I’m awake.

A rectangle of light floods in. I blink, planting my feet firmly on the soft ground. The door hides her as she creeps inside. The chainsaw’s screech is louder than I can take, but I keep still, waiting. I see its jagged hooked teeth, churning and smeared in blood. It emerges inch by inch. I hold my breath. Not yet… not yet…

It’s so close to my face that tears bubble in my eyes. One wrong move and I’m mincemeat in someone’s cellar.

Not yet…

I see the tip of Joyce’s nose.

No.

Using all my weight, I crash against the door. Joyce cries out and tumbles, the chainsaw swishing wildly by my ankles as I jump over her.

“No! You can’t – leave!” she shrieks.

Too bad, I think, an explosion of courage propelling me to safety. I rush through the open door and into an underground hallway. Pendant lights hang from the ceiling. At one end, a sawhorse table blocks the path. It’s drenched in blood and sinew, which pours from a misshapen, carved-up corpse – a corpse with Walt’s head.

Nausea tugs at my stomach. Joyce was cutting up her own husband. While ragtime jazz plays on the radio.

For a moment, I wonder if all this is some kind of a prank, a terrible stunt put on for hidden cameras.

But then a breeze hits my arm and I turn just in time to save it from the chainsaw.

Joyce swings again – the chain clips my hair as I duck.

I bolt down the hallway without thinking, towards a door at the end. My mind pounds with cold fear, but I know I can’t give up yet. I see myself opening the door and feeling the sun spill over my beat-up body. I can almost feel it. An intense, arterial kind of warmth, folding around me and embracing me like a child.

At last, I fling open the door and slam it shut behind me.

I start to exhale, but it catches.

Wait a minute…

I’m not outside. Not even close. There’s no sunlight, no warmth.

“Mmmnnnngghhhhhhh…”

Before me lies a heaping, rumbling, deformed creature, something larger than a bear, with fur that’s slick and oozing and a long tail twisting like a snake. Its torso and limbs bulge and tremble, cast in sickly green light that emanates seemingly from inside its own body, like an opaque glass lantern. Two pointed ears stretch from its head, which is made up of tooth-riddled folds of flesh and protruding reptilian eyes. At its belly, six grown cats are kneading and suckling, taking in whatever filth this creature would call its milk. As soon as they realize I’m here, they snap away and growl. The creature stirs, moaning.

“Mmmmmmmnnngggghhhhhhhh!”

I want to avert my eyes, but I can’t.

The creature’s head cracks open – unhinging its jaw. The gaping hole swims with green ooze. Teeth are scattered all down its throat. It flicks out what looks like a carpeted tongue.

A tongue like a cat, I think.

They start to surround me, the six cats. As they gaze at me, I feel waves of numbness wash over my mind, like I’m being dipped underwater. . . like I should give up, or let myself finally be at peace. Their eyes flash with knowing. I wonder if they can hear my thoughts, feel my emotions…

I edge around the room. If I can just distance myself, make them break eye contact –

Brrrrrrrrrrmm, brrrrrrrrmmm, brrrmmmmmmmm.

Just as I press into the corner, Joyce busts in, chainsaw veering in every direction. The cats hiss and scatter. I feel a pulse of energy as Joyce spots me; she grins and races towards me in a greenish blur.

The chainsaw swings horizontally at my head, and I duck at the last moment, scampering on all fours back to the door.

“Oh no you don’t,” Joyce shouts. “She’s hungry.”

“Get away from me!”

“Muriel wants her dinner, Jack. Don’t you want her to eat?”

“M - Muriel?”

Jaw slackening, I look at the enormous, deformed creature. Somewhere hidden deep inside the nightmare are the faint features of a beloved house cat.

Joyce starts to advance.

“What is she?” I shout, clamoring to my feet. “What happened to her?”

“No time for chit-chat.”

Defying her age, Joyce springs forward and issues an ear-splitting shriek. My legs work backwards, but not fast enough. The chainsaw blade shreds my shirt at the shoulder and digs viciously into my skin. Pain like I’ve never felt jolts me like lightning. I scream and dash across the room, barely managing to jump over Muriel’s tail. Joyce’s laughter rings shrilly over the noise.

Careening into a stack of wooden pallets, I feel pain and rage engulf my senses. I ain’t myself any longer. Something in the thick air seems to pull at my mind, hardening it, encouraging me to keep fighting, no matter the outcome.

An idea surfaces: the pallets.

Joyce prepares to spring again.

In one movement, I grab the nearest pallet on its edges and rise up. There’s a loud, grinding crack as the chainsaw hits the wooden planks in the middle. I thrust the pallet towards Joyce. She skids backwards a few feet and tries to slash my hands, my head – anything she can reach.

Brrrmmmm, brm, brm, brrrmm, brrrrrrrrrmmmmm.

A fountain of sawdust clouds my vision, but then I feel it: the blade breaks through between the planks, diving towards my chest.

I immediately twist the pallet one-hundred-eighty degrees to the right. Sputtering, the chainsaw twists along with it and yanks violently out of Joyce’s hand. I toss it to the ground – the chainsaw stuck inside. Without it, this old lady ain’t got nothing.

Now it’s my turn to be a maniac. Baring my teeth, I start to bark. Joyce flinches, her face stricken with anger.

“Come on, kitty, kitty,” I say, raising my fists. “Let’s do this the southern way.”

Before she can reply, I throw the hardest punch I’ve ever thrown at that sickly mug.

The impact sends Joyce stumbling. Her body curves and she lands flat on her stomach on the moistened dirt. She groans. A six-foot bouncer would be knocked out by what I just did, but I watch her lift up at the elbows, shaking like a leaf, and spit blood from her mouth.

“You… will… hnnnkkkk!”

She doesn’t finish.

A slimy, elongated paw lashes out, the claws piercing into Joyce’s back like steak knives into a fresh ribeye. She screams, swiping at the floor. But the arm of Muriel, large as a Grizzly bear’s, drags her along steadily, right to the creature’s gaping jaw.

I can’t look away at the disturbing image; it’s like a snake gulping down a goose egg. Joyce’s bloody screams and gurgles echo less and less the farther in she goes. First her head, then her neck and shoulders, then her torso. Muriel’s throat seems to expand as she devours. Her red eyes shift towards me.

Alarm bells ring in my head. I turn from the horrific scene and fix my gaze on the pallet and chainsaw.

This needs to end – whatever Muriel has become, it’s now over.

Brrrrrrm, brrrrrrrrrrmmmmm.

Thank God it’s still working.

Muriel slurps down Joyce’s feet, shoes and all, and moans.

I move around to her back, where she can’t reach me, and start shredding. Green and crimson liquids gush from the flesh as I dig little by little, careful not to snag the chain on the warped muscles and fascia. Muriel tries to flop but she’s too big to move. Guess a steady diet of people hasn’t done her any favors.

I keep digging, and digging, and digging, until I hit something hard.

With a screech, the abomination seizes and falls still. I must’ve hit her spinal cord or whatever kind of alien core that was holding her together.

I shut off the chainsaw and let out a long breath. But rest doesn’t last long. Like a chorus of mourners, dozens of agonizing meows start to echo from above. My heart chills. The meowing shifts, growing louder and rougher, each voice splitting off into different disharmonic pitches, until the wails reverberate like cyclone winds, like a storm ripping the trees from the ground. It’s unnatural, vile – I can’t hear anything else – the din makes my veins shrink, my wounds sting

I have to get out of here.

In a few strides I’m in the hallway, skirting around the table with Walt’s carved-up body; through a small curtained opening I find a narrow pull-down staircase.

The menacing wails grow even louder. They’re coming from the floor above.

Revving the chainsaw, I shut my eyes and pray – not to God, but the universe itself. Don’t let this thing die. Please don’t let it die.

Ascending the stairs, I emerge into a storage room with shelves of food. Hundreds of claws are scratching forcibly at the door, which shakes on its hinges.

I don’t wait for it to burst.

Instead, I kick it open, and swing the chainsaw for dear life.

Blood hits my face as dozens of elongated, monstrous beasts lunge at me. Their eyes are red like Muriel’s, whiskers like taut eels sprout from their lumpy, slick heads, their paws are stretched beyond nature with claws as dense as talons, and their bodies curl into shapes no normal cat could manage without snapping its bones.

I kick and scream and whip the chainsaw left and right to hold them off. Hunkering low, I rush straight into the writhing horde, beating them back farther and farther. Sparks of heat – claws scraping – burning acidic liquid; I have no idea what’s happening to me as I shove forward like a battering ram, all the way through the kitchen and then the living room. The front door is just yards ahead.

The beasts climb onto each other to reach my legs; others scuttle up my back like demonic spiders.

I spin, the chainsaw ricocheting off their body parts as they fly. Blood spills onto the floor, sprays across the peach wallpaper – I don’t know if it’s mine or theirs, but I keep swinging, turning in mad circles, until I sense that Muriel’s offspring are starting to falter.

This is my chance.

“Fuck off!” I scream, heaving towards the front door.

Something is blocking it. A brown form with a patchy tail and greasy fangs dripping with phlegm.

“Samson –”

My former house cat cocks his elongated head and stands on thin back legs, looking completely alien. Hatred radiates from his red eyes. He doesn’t recognize me. He never will.

“I’m – sorry – buddy.”

The chainsaw rips into Samson.

Seconds later, I tear open the door and run for the forest. Trees and ivy and bramble whirr past. The hellish howling starts to fade behind me, and after what feels like hours, I make it to the road. The truck is still there.

I rifle in my pockets – still got my keys.

My heart doesn’t begin to slow until I’m speeding far away from that cursed hellhole.

***

I turn the truck onto an empty road where I know there’s an outdoor payphone. I park where no one is going to see me. Brentwood is full of friendly folks who like to talk, and the last thing I need is for someone to approach and ask why I’m covered in blood and goo and why my eyes are wider than the Mississippi.

Ignoring the throb in my shoulder, I shut myself in the payphone booth and dig out a quarter from my pants pocket. It’s lucky the Bellermans didn’t strip me naked before dragging me to the cellar to die.

The dial tone in the smudged black receiver beeps and I press three numbers on the keypad.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

The female voice is calm. I have to keep myself from spurting it all out, from venting the horror I’ve seen like a madman. My eyes water and my sinuses grow moist.

“Um,” I say, swallowing. “There’s something very wrong going on at the Bellermans’ house. You need to send officers there ASAP. The address is… shit… it’s, uh…”

“What’s happening there, sir?”

“It’s – bad stuff. You need to send cops. Lots of cops.”

“Okay… what’s your name, sir?”

“I don’t know the address,” I say, dodging the question. “It's a long gravel driveway off Magnolia Pike. Close to the military base.”

“A house off Magnolia Pike, near the base. The Bellermans, you said?”

“Yeah. An old couple. You can find them in the yellow pages, I reckon.”

“Okay… can you hold for a minute, sir?”

“Are you sending the cops?”

“Yes, sir, they’re on their way now.”

“Good. Thanks.”

I hang up.

An involuntary sigh escapes my lips. No one’s going to know it was me who called. No one’s going to know I was there. Forensics will never manage to test all the blood covering that house. They’ll find no trace of me. Nothing except. . .

My teeth clench.

The package.

It was supposed to be delivered today, and now it’s sitting on the Bellermans sofa. The police are going to have questions.

Suddenly, the payphone rings.

I glare at it, then hurry back to my truck.

With resolve, I start up the engine. An odd, distorted film seems to cover my eyes. The real world alters all around me. The houses I drive past no longer sit like houses, but like quaint representations of what houses should be in the mind of a much larger being, a much less earthly being. The trees stand like sentient, tentacled creatures with brains encased in thick woody knots. The chicken wire fences, TV satellites, and garden tools are pieces of flying saucers fallen from the skies.

Numbness spreads over me. I stop the truck in someone’s field on Magnolia Pike, and slowly stalk along the road towards the Bellermans’ house. I keep myself hidden in the trees. Minutes go by and my feet start to prickle with dried blood that’s run down my wounded legs. My socks are stained red and visible through the flaps of brown fabric. But I keep stalking, keep moving, like I myself am the beast.

When the gravel driveway comes into view, I flinch.

Am I really going to go back there?

I take a step forward when a low, intense vibration hits the forest – the leaves quiver and squawking birds alight in droves.

This is the end. It has to be. My mind’s broken. Crumbling.

Then, through the trees, I make out a colossal, dark green vehicle traveling down the road from the opposite direction. It slows and then turns into the gravel driveway.

Another vehicle follows the first. Then another and another. They’re unmarked, but by the look of their massive tires and heavy metal exteriors, they belong to the military base.

They know. They must know.

A huge vehicle stamped with a radiation warning turns in last.

I sit back against a tree trunk. I need to think. I need to calm down and think.

Sunset blooms westward, casting the forest an eerie lilac as storm clouds swirl overhead. I wring my hands. Every excuse I come up with to tell Ashley falls short. A stray dog attack, a hit-and-run, a mugging… nothing like that ever happens in Brentwood.

Twigs snap to my right.

A long shadow spreads over them and I hear a metallic click.

“Stand up and turn around.”

My heart hammers as I do what the voice asks. When I turn, I see a figure dressed in a green uniform. He’s pointing a gun at my chest.

“Name?”

“Jack Montgomery.”

Cool wind brushes through the tears in my clothes. One by one, a group of uniformed figures materializes silently from between the trees, their guns forming the spokes of a wheel with me at its center.

“You look like hell, Jack Montgomery.”

“Yeah,” I answer, glancing into the woods. “Because I’ve seen it.”

***

Mar von Zellen is a writer living in Berlin. She’s worked in the gaming industry for ten years, creating worlds, characters, and scripts, but focuses primarily on mystery and historical fiction in her personal writing. She’s had work published in Anthropoid, Sweet Tree Review, Rogue Agent, Red Paint Hill and Big Bridge Press, among others. Find out more at https://marvonzellen.wordpress.com/.