Ad Nauseam - By C. W. LaSart Page 0,26
by, as well.
Oh no! William.
She had feared this day would come. For months Kristi had left for work every morning wondering if it was safe to leave William alone. She had fought with her oldest son for months about whether they should tell him what was going on, but William had some pride and she couldn’t bring herself to hurt him. Now she may be too late.
Her high heels caught on the steps and she fell forward in her haste to get into the house, tearing her panty hose and skinning one knee. Climbing back to her feet, she flung open the door, calling out to her husband in a panic-stricken voice.
“William!” The lights were off and all the blinds closed, casting the interior of the kitchen in gloomy shadow. Kristi smelled the dogshit a second before she stepped in it and slid, her hand grabbing the counter to keep from falling.
“Ouch!” Something jabbed her palm. A sewing needle had pierced the flesh of her palm and she could see her sewing kit open on the counter. A small cry escaped her as she pulled it out with her teeth. The cry was echoed by a whine from across the room.
“Devon?”
The dog whined again but didn’t approach. Kristi reached for the light switch, freezing when William’s voice broke the silence.
“Don’t. The light hurts his eyes.” His voice sounded strange, groggy.
“William? Are you okay? What’s wrong with Devon?” She reached for the switch again.
“I said don’t!”
Kristi recoiled as if struck. She could see William’s silhouette in the doorway but little else. Something cold and wet touched her hand and she screamed, realizing belatedly that it was just Devon. He sat in front of her, whining and growling low in his throat, though William ignored him.
“I always wondered why you had so many spools of goddamned thread in your sewing kit. Who the hell needs all that thread?”
Kristi flicked the light switch, bathing the kitchen in a glow from the chandelier. She winced when she saw her husband, his hair matted with gore and the side of his blue robe dark with blood.
“Oh William. What happened to you?” She took one step toward him, then stopped when his lip turned up in a sneer, his eyes wild and darting.
“You wanted that goddamned squirrel gone.”
“William, you’re hurt. Let me call someone. Your head wound looks really bad.”
“Great idea. Why don’t you call that doctor that you’re probably fucking. Or better yet, call my son so you two can talk about how crazy I am.”
As he took slow steps towards her, his robe fell open and Kristi saw something on his side wiggle. Her mouth opened for a scream that wouldn’t come when she saw the atrocity sticking out from his side. Mangled and burned, its eyes scorched blind and milky, a squirrel jutted from his ribs. The thing squealed at her and she felt her bladder let loose, warm urine running down her legs. Thick, dark stitches held the creature to William’s skin, haphazard sutures still weeping blood. The thing struggled to be free, its teeth clicking shut as it cried out, straining the thread and tearing its own flesh in the process.
“Oh Jesus, William! What have you done?”
“Oh dear. Did you just piss yourself? Who’s old now? It’s okay, Kristi.” He took another step towards her and she realized he held something dark and sharp in his other hand. The poker from the fireplace. “I almost killed him because of you. You animal-hating bitch. But’s it’s okay. I fixed him. My body is still strong. It will heal him.”
William raised the poker over his head, his eyes bright with insanity as the dog growled and his wife shrieked.
“Shhhhhh, it’s okay, babe. I know there’s something wrong with my head. But it’s going to be all right. I mean, you have enough brains for both of us. And we have plenty of thread . . . “
MICAH’S MUSE
Micah had all but given up on his dream of becoming a writer on the day that he met Muse. When he graduated from school with his Bachelor’s Degree in Creative Writing, he’d been filled with fantasies of becoming a best-selling horror author. Despite his professor’s constant harping that he should not write genre fiction, he still loved horror and planned to make his writing career with scary novels. He knew he’d have to start somewhere else first, so he took a position at the newspaper as a copy editor, telling himself it was just until