Post by Mouse on Dec 21, 2008 9:11:50 GMT
I wrote this for one of my english subjects during the semester just gone, as a bit of a change of pace from my usual first-person cyberpunk (I'm still chugging away at Technical Bleed, after a bit of a hiatus it's now about 2/3 done and I'm hopeful of having a manuscript worth spruiking next year). I've thought about trying to spruik this one about, but I'm not sure... horror isn't my usual genre, and I think it might be a bit too obvious or cliche. Feedback pls? 
It was a stranger’s corpse that sat on the couch next to Marcus. Still early in the stages of decomposition, its lifeless eyes flickered only with light from the muted television.
Marcus’s eyes barely showed any greater sign of life. He stared at the TV blankly, clutching his beer, letting the darkness of the tiny room and the sickly scent of the cadaver wrap around him in a protective layer.
He couldn’t remember where he had found this one, or how many had rotted beside him before. Doubtless an examination of the bones that littered the cottage would provide an answer.
But he didn’t care. None of them had fulfilled his wish, no voodoo or prayer or arcane ritual had been able to coax even the slightest glimmer of life from beyond the grave.
One more time. He’d try just one more time.
On the grimy, effluent-stained carpet at his feet lay a steel toolbox. He kicked it open, taking a last swig of his beer and focusing on the dead eyes of the corpse.
It wasn’t raining. Too many movies had given Monica the idea that it always rained at funerals. But the sun was shining, fluffy white clouds chasing each other lazily across the flawless blue sky. It was the stereotypical opposite of rain.
She sniffed back another bout of tears as she adjusted her dark glasses. She’d already cried enough, without letting something so stupid as the fact the weather didn’t have the decency to match her feelings set her off. The other mourners were already drifting away… her father, so staunch throughout the preparations but so broken now it was all over, his arm linked with her aunt’s. Her mother’s friends from the scrapbooking club, all with crumpled tissues and red eyes. Even her mother’s boss had made an appearance to give his condolences.
Monica’s hands balled into fists, her nails digging into her palms.
It was all her brother’s fault, and the bastard didn’t even bother showing his face. Not that he would have been terribly welcome anyway, but Monica would have given him some credit for making an effort. Even if he did scare the shit out of her.
She closed her eyes, mind drifting. Eight years old, clinging her bloody pet rabbit and screaming. Twelve, the first time she’d seen him kill an animal. Fifteen, when he’d returned from the special hospital. He’d been different then, ‘cured’, or so they said, but even more of a loner than before.
Monica wasn’t so sure they’d changed him at all. Not anymore.
She bent down and traced her fingers across the lettering on her mother’s headstone. “Goodbye, mum,” she said.
Then she pulled her keys out of her pocket and headed for her car.
She was shaking when she finally pulled on the handbrake outside the little cottage. Night had fallen during the long drive, and the darkness fed her fear. There was no illumination except for a motion light designed to look like an old-fashioned lamp mounted next to the door, the light casting even more shadows across the weatherboard walls and timber patio.
Monica wiped her hands on her pants once she had locked the car, and looked over the cottage. It was in a dismal state of disrepair; rusted screen door propped against the wall beside the door, louvers cracked and dusty. If not for the old green Barina parked beside it, the same one Marcus had bought just before he disappeared, Monica wouldn’t have believed anyone lived there.
She walked slowly up the three steps to the patio, winced when the timber creaked painfully with every move she made.
She smelt it when she reached the door… the smell of road kill, almost. She held her breath as long as she could, hand on the door knob, before releasing it and opening the door.
It was mostly dark inside, only the intermittent light from a soundless television breaking the gloom. Monica gagged on the stink that assaulted her senses.
Somewhere, flies buzzed.
“Mark?” She called, hand over her mouth and nose. It didn’t help. “Are you here?”
She didn’t want to move while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. There was a shape sitting on a moth-eaten lounge on the other side of the room, a human shape. Monica took a step towards it and the carpet squished.
“Monica? What the hell are you doing here?”
It felt like an electric shock running through her, the sound of his voice so suddenly. But it didn’t come from the lounge. She turned her head slowly, to the doorway across the room and the figure silhouetted there.
Her eyes were adjusting. She recognised her brother, even dirty and unshaven. “Mum’s dead. Did you even know?”
Marcus moved into the room and rested his hand on the back of the lounge. “No.”
Monica felt tears welling in her eyes. The light of the tv was enough to see by now. She knew what the shape on the lounge was. She willed herself not to look at it, not to think about it, because she knew she’d lose it completely if she did. “It was you,” she said softly.
There was nothing but the faint buzzing sound for a long minute.
“None of you could ever understand my work,” he said finally. He stroked the matted hair of the thing on the lounge.
Monica felt a scream welling up in her chest, threatening to explode and break her into the same shattered pieces her mother must have been in when she put the shotgun under her chin. “It’s not real, Mark!” She shouted, voice rising in desperation. “None of it was ever real! You can’t do it! You can’t…” her voice tripped and she almost glanced at the thing her brother was touching like a favoured pet.
He spoke. “But I can. It’s taken me all this time, but I finally did it.”
Monica lost control over her eyes, finally looking at the thing. At the dead thing, the soapy flesh shrunken onto the bones, goopy eyes staring fruitlessly at the television. Bile rose in her throat, and she doubled over as the vomit filled her mouth. She was sure nothing was left in her stomach when it stopped, and she spat, unwilling to clear her mouth by swallowing.
She straightened up, and froze.
The corpse was looking at her. Directly at her. She was sure… a few seconds ago it had been facing the television screen.
As she watched it turned its head further, its rotting lips open in a rictus that mirrored her brother’s satisfied smile.
She screamed. And kept screaming.
Life and Death in a Dirty Toolbox
by Narelle Bailey
It was a stranger’s corpse that sat on the couch next to Marcus. Still early in the stages of decomposition, its lifeless eyes flickered only with light from the muted television.
Marcus’s eyes barely showed any greater sign of life. He stared at the TV blankly, clutching his beer, letting the darkness of the tiny room and the sickly scent of the cadaver wrap around him in a protective layer.
He couldn’t remember where he had found this one, or how many had rotted beside him before. Doubtless an examination of the bones that littered the cottage would provide an answer.
But he didn’t care. None of them had fulfilled his wish, no voodoo or prayer or arcane ritual had been able to coax even the slightest glimmer of life from beyond the grave.
One more time. He’d try just one more time.
On the grimy, effluent-stained carpet at his feet lay a steel toolbox. He kicked it open, taking a last swig of his beer and focusing on the dead eyes of the corpse.
****
It wasn’t raining. Too many movies had given Monica the idea that it always rained at funerals. But the sun was shining, fluffy white clouds chasing each other lazily across the flawless blue sky. It was the stereotypical opposite of rain.
She sniffed back another bout of tears as she adjusted her dark glasses. She’d already cried enough, without letting something so stupid as the fact the weather didn’t have the decency to match her feelings set her off. The other mourners were already drifting away… her father, so staunch throughout the preparations but so broken now it was all over, his arm linked with her aunt’s. Her mother’s friends from the scrapbooking club, all with crumpled tissues and red eyes. Even her mother’s boss had made an appearance to give his condolences.
Monica’s hands balled into fists, her nails digging into her palms.
It was all her brother’s fault, and the bastard didn’t even bother showing his face. Not that he would have been terribly welcome anyway, but Monica would have given him some credit for making an effort. Even if he did scare the shit out of her.
She closed her eyes, mind drifting. Eight years old, clinging her bloody pet rabbit and screaming. Twelve, the first time she’d seen him kill an animal. Fifteen, when he’d returned from the special hospital. He’d been different then, ‘cured’, or so they said, but even more of a loner than before.
Monica wasn’t so sure they’d changed him at all. Not anymore.
She bent down and traced her fingers across the lettering on her mother’s headstone. “Goodbye, mum,” she said.
Then she pulled her keys out of her pocket and headed for her car.
*****
She was shaking when she finally pulled on the handbrake outside the little cottage. Night had fallen during the long drive, and the darkness fed her fear. There was no illumination except for a motion light designed to look like an old-fashioned lamp mounted next to the door, the light casting even more shadows across the weatherboard walls and timber patio.
Monica wiped her hands on her pants once she had locked the car, and looked over the cottage. It was in a dismal state of disrepair; rusted screen door propped against the wall beside the door, louvers cracked and dusty. If not for the old green Barina parked beside it, the same one Marcus had bought just before he disappeared, Monica wouldn’t have believed anyone lived there.
She walked slowly up the three steps to the patio, winced when the timber creaked painfully with every move she made.
She smelt it when she reached the door… the smell of road kill, almost. She held her breath as long as she could, hand on the door knob, before releasing it and opening the door.
It was mostly dark inside, only the intermittent light from a soundless television breaking the gloom. Monica gagged on the stink that assaulted her senses.
Somewhere, flies buzzed.
“Mark?” She called, hand over her mouth and nose. It didn’t help. “Are you here?”
She didn’t want to move while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. There was a shape sitting on a moth-eaten lounge on the other side of the room, a human shape. Monica took a step towards it and the carpet squished.
“Monica? What the hell are you doing here?”
It felt like an electric shock running through her, the sound of his voice so suddenly. But it didn’t come from the lounge. She turned her head slowly, to the doorway across the room and the figure silhouetted there.
Her eyes were adjusting. She recognised her brother, even dirty and unshaven. “Mum’s dead. Did you even know?”
Marcus moved into the room and rested his hand on the back of the lounge. “No.”
Monica felt tears welling in her eyes. The light of the tv was enough to see by now. She knew what the shape on the lounge was. She willed herself not to look at it, not to think about it, because she knew she’d lose it completely if she did. “It was you,” she said softly.
There was nothing but the faint buzzing sound for a long minute.
“None of you could ever understand my work,” he said finally. He stroked the matted hair of the thing on the lounge.
Monica felt a scream welling up in her chest, threatening to explode and break her into the same shattered pieces her mother must have been in when she put the shotgun under her chin. “It’s not real, Mark!” She shouted, voice rising in desperation. “None of it was ever real! You can’t do it! You can’t…” her voice tripped and she almost glanced at the thing her brother was touching like a favoured pet.
He spoke. “But I can. It’s taken me all this time, but I finally did it.”
Monica lost control over her eyes, finally looking at the thing. At the dead thing, the soapy flesh shrunken onto the bones, goopy eyes staring fruitlessly at the television. Bile rose in her throat, and she doubled over as the vomit filled her mouth. She was sure nothing was left in her stomach when it stopped, and she spat, unwilling to clear her mouth by swallowing.
She straightened up, and froze.
The corpse was looking at her. Directly at her. She was sure… a few seconds ago it had been facing the television screen.
As she watched it turned its head further, its rotting lips open in a rictus that mirrored her brother’s satisfied smile.
She screamed. And kept screaming.
You should totally send this out.