D.O.A. Extreme Horror Anthology (16 page)

“This is yours,” the old man had said the last time Clark visited. The heavy air of the nursing home, filled with the stench of cabbage and old people, had pressed down on Clark, while the withered face stared up. His father coughed into a tissue. “You can use it to enter the dreamworld. Just don’t let them get control.” His father’s watery blue eyes skipped about the room, looking anywhere but Clark’s face.

Weight clamped down on Clark’s chest, the familiar feeling of a hot shame he couldn’t control, from dreams he knew weren’t the truth, but had constrained him just the same. Because they were always, always, about his father, who had hardly ever touched him, certainly not like that, during the day.

He’d woken from those dreams with the taste of stale water in his mouth and memories of snakes surrounding and penetrating him, as his father caressed his skin.

And then the old man had finished explaining. The words drove into his head, his father’s voice cracked and thin, but clear. Clark’s breathing rate increased and each gasp for air brought the smell of shit concealed by bleach into his lungs. He took the key though, and left.

Clark had blundered down the pale yellow hallways, stumbled past the women and their walkers. The somnambulant slept like old cats in front of the televisions. He exited out the door in a rush of white heat, while static roared in his ears. He never returned, not even for the funeral.

But now it was night, and Clark’s dilapidated Honda drove itself home. Where dinner awaited, and then, he could have Melissa in her sleep, just like his father had had him. All fantasies, all of it, and dreams meant nothing.

That night, and many nights after, Clark did everything he’d ever wanted to do. He hunted Melissa through the treacherous terrain of her dreams, as they grew ever darker. He had her in school, bent over a desk with the smell of chalk dust. He made her take him in her mouth in the parking lot of the school prom, while her two best friends in their purple velvet dresses watched.

He woke each morning with a bitter taste in his mouth and a vow he wouldn’t do it again.

But he did.

Clark found that he didn’t care if she enjoyed it or not. Now when she screamed, he let her. Pushing him away excited him more, made him harder, propelled him to push deeper.

Her expression during the day grew more haunted; her hair fell slack in unwashed strings around her oval face. She changed her clothing to black shapeless garments reeking of cigarettes and a sharper, sweeter smell Clark knew was pot. When she saw him in the mornings, she flinched away, ate her cereal mechanically, and averted her face as she ran out the door.

Clark tried to fight his urge, but every night he found himself outside her door.

The school counselor urged them to get her counseling. Fearing discovery, he did, and Clark watched with a pit burning in his stomach as she went to session after session with a therapist, but it didn’t stop him from creeping down the quiet hallway at night, into her room.

***

Clark fell once again into Melissa’s dream under the baleful glare of the stuffed bear trio.

He found himself, not on the bright soccer field, nor the parking lot of school, but in a deep wood, heavy with rotting vegetation. Decaying leaves slid under his feet and seeped in between his toes, so he conjured a pair of shoes, along with a sweatshirt to cut the chill. Spiked vines swayed from branches and grabbed at him as he searched for Melissa. He didn’t have any particular plans for the evening—this forest with its mossy carpet would serve as well as any other place.

A slim shadow cut across the path in front of him. Melissa darted to the right. Clark could see the white of her bare feet as she slipped round a large oak. He hardened as he picked up his pace. Tonight, he’d play the hunter. Acorns peppered down around him, bouncing against the loam.

When he got to the tree, though, Melissa wasn’t there. Clark paused for a second. His breath formed small smoke clouds, white against the ebony green growth.

The ground hissed at him. Clark’s chest pounded. Pressure dug at the top of his shoe. Clark looked down to see the mottled cream and brown argyle pattern of a copperhead snake. They’re attracted to warmth, he remembered. Just stay still. The snake curled around his ankle, finding the flesh between his jeans and shoe, squeezing him with a ripple motion.

Sweat broke out on the back of his neck. In the distance, an owl hooted twice, sharp against the throbbing of blood in his ears.

“Oh, you idiot.” He was in control here, this was his world.

The snake burst into charcoal, falling from its coil into dust. He kicked the remains away from him and leaned against the tree for a moment, hands in his pockets to still their trembling.

A breeze blew against his face and chilled the sweat. With the peaty smell of a swamp, it brought the sound of a girl crying. Melissa sounded as though she choked on the sobs.

Clark chuckled. He followed the wails through the dimness, making no attempt to hide the crunching of his feet on the twigs and branches littering the forest floor. Soon the sound changed to sloshing as the world around him altered, became filled with brackish water. He didn’t mind. His heart beat with the chase, the thrill of the look he imagined was on Melissa’s face—heartbroken brown eyes, the crease of her forehead, and the twist of down-turned lips.

He stumbled over a submerged root. It caught his foot. He wrenched his ankle free and stepped forward into water as deep as his knees. The sudden shock of the chill stopped him. Anger boiled in his chest.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.” His words shocked the silence and echoed through the swamp. A ripple lapped at him as something moved in the distance. His hand went to his penis and stroked it both in anticipation and to revive it from the effects of the cold. The water surged, its oily surface reflecting the light of a waning moon in rainbow swirls.

Enough, Clark thought. He focused his attention. The cypress and cedar trees wavered around him, but did not change. He pursed his lips in irritation. He was the master here; this was his world. His key opened the door.

He closed his eyes, the better to envision a more pleasant surrounding. Perhaps a girl’s locker room, or better yet, the communal shower.

Snap
. Teeth closed on his ankle. Clark fell into the swamp. He flailed for purchase. The jaws of the alligator tightened. Pinpricks of pain swarmed through his head. As his head broke the surface, the taste of rot on his tongue, the scaly back of the beast presented itself. His shoulder knocked against a tree. His hands beat at the alligator, to no effect.

He had to concentrate. This was only a dream. Clark took a deep breath. The grip on his ankle relaxed. Water drained away. The swamp melted around him as he regained control. He stood and dried himself, shedding the brackish water. He waited a moment to gain control of his senses.

“Ready or not, here I come.” Silly girl, there was no way for her to evade him.

He caught a glimpse of the edge of Melissa’s nightgown, glowing white and pure in the dark. His ankle ached, but he forced himself forward, quiet now, as the edges of the swamp faded into the high school’s soccer field. Halogen lights rose up from the ground and bathed the grass, leaving no place for Melissa to hide, no shadows left for her to crouch in.

He’d take her as he had the first time, on the grass where she’d thought to be strong, like her idol, Mia.

She cut in front of him, running like a deer across the green, lithe and supple. The nightgown flapped against her white calves as she ran.

Clark took it from her.

Melissa stopped. Her buttocks clenched as she faced him.

Clark smiled. His cock throbbed, filling him with dark need. An image of his father flickered before him. He shoved it aside, but swore he could hear the old man’s cackle.

Melissa stood, head bowed, shoulders slumped in defeat. She didn’t even bother to cover herself. The peaks of her nipples stood taut and high, the curve of her waist lured him closer.

“Here I am,” Clark said.

Melissa swung her hair back. “No. I won’t.” 

Clark giggled, he couldn’t help it. She was defying him—so futile, so useless.

“Here I come, ready or not.” His ankle throbbing, he stepped nearer, so close he could smell the strawberry scent of her sweat.

“My therapist says it’s my dreams. I can control them.” Her voice wavered, sounding small to Clark in the enormity of the field.

“But they aren’t your dreams, now are they? Unless this is what you’ve really wanted all along.” 

Her cheeks flushed. Could it be, Clark thought, could it be she had wanted him, some part of her, hidden away in the day? Perhaps this time, he would be tender. He placed a hand on her shoulder, felt the tremble of her body as she shivered.

“You’re cold,” he said. “I can warm you up.”

When she made no response, he slid his other hand over her breasts. They warmed his palm. Melissa swayed under his grasp.

“I’ve done my research,” she said.

His belly expanded back to its normal paunch.

“Shh,” he said. He gathered her to his chest and pressed his face in her hair. Melissa nestled into him. Her arms reached around his waist. Clark pressed himself against her. With a brief thought, he let his jeans fade away so he could feel the warmth of her skin, so she could feel the heat of his desire.

She tightened her arms around his waist. He rubbed his face against her head. His acne scars caught her fine hair. The smoothness of her skin contrasted with his scabrous lips.

Her knee caught him square.

Pain lanced through his groin. It radiated up through his stomach. Nausea curdled him to the grass. He cradled his hands around balls swelling into watermelons.

“I found your father.”

Through wavering vision, Clark looked up. The man stood there, as he had long ago, tall and proud. One hand jerked on his penis, readying the flaccid member.

Melissa drew her foot back, and kicked again.

“Goal,” she said, her face split by a wide grin. “Score for the team.” She held up her hand, as if to stop him as he struggled to rise. A green stain marked her palm in a familiar butterfly pattern. “Ever wonder what would happen if I woke up during the dream?”

She darted back and ran forward.

His chin snapped back.

“My dreams. You fucking pervert.”

Clark heard a hiss. He forced his eyes open. The copperhead stared back, malevolent yellow eyes fixated on him. He rolled away, still cradling his balls. The movement took effort; his stomach had expanded even further, burying his penis underneath its pendulous weight.

The alligator hissed. Fetid warmth swept over his face.

His father stepped forward. Clark smelled his sour breath. A tide of humiliation made him crinkle his eyes against the tears.

Through the mist of red and the overwhelming urge to vomit, Clark retreated, rolling his bulk with a grunt. The lesions on his skin caught at the skeleton ribs of rotted leaves.

Melissa’s foot blasted into his chest. Clark heard a pop and felt something bubble in his throat.

“I wonder what happens if
you
die in your dreams,” Melissa said. Her voice echoed through the slamming in his head. “Or perhaps I’ll just leave you here with them.” 

Stoners and Saviors

Quinn Hernandez

So here’s the deal: last Thursday night while I was minding my own business, asleep, Jesus Christ spoke to me.

Ok, ok, now don’t look at me like that. I know what you’re thinking. And no, this is not a joke. This is
not
an attempt at payback for you posting my truck for sale in the paper. That was funny though. The guy on the phone was like, ‘
what’s wrong with it
?’ Anyway, this has nothing to do with that. I swear. I’m not crazy, either. And no, I wasn’t drunk and I wasn’t high that night. Matter of fact, I had just smoked the last of my green last Tuesday with you. 

What? No, I didn’t dream it! Yeah, I said I was asleep when he came, but he woke me up. Look, I understand it’s human nature to be skeptical. Shit man, if you were telling me you talked to Jesus Christ last Thursday night, I’d think you were full of shit, too. But I have proof. All I ask is that you hear me out, and when I show you what I have to show, you have to promise me you won’t freak out, ok? Promise me you’ll stay cool. We’re boys, right? I’m only telling you all of this ‘cause I love you like a brother, man. I’m trusting you with this, ok? So, please don’t get all weird on me. I’m counting on you, alright? I’m not crazy!

Alright?

Alright! Cool! Well, here goes nothing. As I said before, I was asleep minding my own business when I was awakened by the sound of trumpets. Can you believe that? Trumpets! The Son of God, the savior of man’s soul, the guy people call on to help them through the toughest times of their lives, comes floating down through my ceiling on a trumpet train like he’s James fucking Brown taking the stage in Vegas. I mean, what’s that say about the guy’s ego? I know he’s the Son of God and all, but does he have to act like a total douche and announce his presence with trumpets? 

Anyway, he floats down through my ceiling and takes a seat at the foot of my bed. He looks like he does in all of his pictures: like a hippy in a wool robe wearing Birkenstock sandals. Well, maybe they weren’t Birkenstocks but you get the idea. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me with a shit-eating grin and tries not to laugh at me in my pee stained boxers and the tent my morning wood was poppin’. He then asks me if I wouldn’t mind helping him out. First let me say, the dude didn’t sound like I’d imagined he would. I was expecting him to sound British or some shit. Kinda like that Charlton Heston dude in that
Ten Commandments
movie, but no. He sounded just like you and me, dude. I swear. It was a trip.

So anyway, I’m like, what does the Son of God need from me? Some good weed? Can’t he just wave his hand or something and weed will just fall out of the sky?  He was like, I’m not here to get high, I’m here because I need your help to return to Earth. And I was like, uh, dude, you’re already here. He rolled his eyes at me and seemed to get a little pissy, then began telling me his whole life story like I was his A&E biographer.