dreadcrumbs

"Family Inheritance"

Emily dropped her luggage in the hallway.
"Kevin!" she called out. "Kevin, I'm back!"
She had needed to leave on a business trip only a month after her wedding, and was excited to be reunited with her husband.
Peeking into the master bedroom, she found the bed empty.
It was seven o'clock on a Saturday morning, and she could think of no reason why Kevin wouldn't be home, much less not still in bed.
"Kevin?" she called again. "Where are you?"
As she checked the master bathroom, she heard the glass door facing their backyard slide open.
She walked silently back to the bedroom door and peered around it. While she was reasonably sure it was Kevin coming in from outside, she didn't want to announce her presence to any early-morning sneak thieves if she was mistaken.
It was Kevin, and he was standing on the doormat just outside, stamping his feet. He was covered in dirt. It looked as if he had been digging trenches using every free limb as a spade.
"Kevin!" she called, and he looked up. She hadn't known him long, but the "caught red handed" look on his face was unmistakable. She just wasn't sure what she caught him at.
She crossed the remaining distance to him and smiled. "You're filthy!" she said.
Having regained some control over his features, Kevin smiled sheepishly and moved to give her a hug, trying to close the door behind him.
"Oh no you don't, Pigpen," she said. "You need a shower first."
She craned around him to look in the backyard. "What were you doing out there?" she asked. "Digging us a pool, I hope."
"I..." he started, trying to block her way, but she risked the cleanliness of her blouse and pushed past him to get a better look.
Three rectangular mounds of dirt were lined up at the far end of the yard. They looked to be about four feet wide by seven feet long, and had the unmistakable appearance of freshly dug graves.
She looked back at Kevin, and saw he had grown quite serious. Unbidden, a chill ran down her spine.
"What..." she started. "What have you done?"
Kevin sighed and slid the door shut.
"I can explain," he said, stepping toward her.
She backed up, and he stopped, holding up his hands.
"It's okay," he said. "I won't hurt you."
"You...you won't hurt me?" she stammered. "But what, you will hurt other people? This is insane, Kevin!"
"Yes, I, I mean, no, I won't hurt..." he started, clearly flustered. He took several steps toward the mounds. "Just come over here. Let me show you."
"Show me?" she blurted. "Show me what? The dismembered corpses?"
He stared at her, uncomprehending for several seconds, and then started to laugh.
"Why are you laughing?" she asked. "Kevin. Stop."
Holding up his hands, he stifled his laughter, and a tear fell down his face, leaving a short trail of clean skin before falling to the ground.
"Okay, okay," he said. "I'm sorry. I can see how this looks now."
Emily waited, staring at him.
"Right," he said. "Just watch."
Taking a deep breath, Kevin ran toward the leftmost mound, jumping high several feet before it, arching his back, and diving straight into the mound of fresh dirt, burying himself headfirst up to his shoulders.
Emily's mouth opened in shocked confusion as she stared at Kevin's flailing legs poking up out of the soft earth.
His whole body was wriggling spasmodically, and she ran to him, intent on dragging him out before he suffocated, but just as she reached the mound, his body took three sharp jerks downward, and he was gone.
She stared at the hole where he had been, now filling up with the surrounding soil.
"Kevin?" she whispered.
After several seconds, she heard a strange vomiting sound behind her. She turned to see Kevin, halfway out of the third mound, spitting out dirt.
"Hey," he said, smiling at her with dirty teeth.
"You..." she started, pointing at the hole he recently vacated.
"I know," he said, squirming a little and rising a few inches. "I thought you'd be freaked out about my having earthworm blood, but after you thought I was a serial murderer, this must be a pleasant surprise."
Her finger still pointing at the first mound, she swiveled it around to the third that Kevin had nearly wriggled out of. "So these...are..." she started.
"Burrowing mounds, right," he said. "Except for the second one there, but that was self defense."

Five answers you can give friends when they ask you why they don't recognize themselves in the mirror

1. "Maybe someone broke into your house and replaced all your mirrors with portraits of Elton John, because you look the same to me."
2. "I think that's how the tight ball of Evil inside you says 'Hello.' You probably want to ignore it."
3. "You're wearing glasses, and really, you look completely different when you've got glasses on."
4. "Look, if you want attention, there are better ways than wearing a mask of human skin. Gross."
5. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Trouble at Home"

My Dad and I are eating breakfast when a man with a gun comes to the sliding glass door that faces our backyard. My Dad sees him first.
"Call the police, Jake," he says, standing slowly.
I turn to find out what my father is looking at in time to see the sliding glass door shatter. The noise is deafening, and I can only assume the man shattered the glass by firing the gun at it.
The next part I don't hear, my ears still ringing from the sound of the gun and glass. I see my father with his hands up, saying something. The gunman is pointing the gun directly at my father's face, and I want to yell, "Back up! Back up! He'll shoot you in the head!"
Then the man does just that, and my father goes down.
Before I know it, I've launched myself at the shooter, not even sure I'm in conscious control of my body until I have the intruder on the ground, my knee on his throat, struggling to free the gun from his hand. With a powerful twist, he wrenches me off, and I go tumbling. When I come to myself, I discover I am now holding the gun. I point the pistol at the intruder and fire.
I've never fired a gun before. Only intending to pull the trigger once, I end up firing several shots, my arm bouncing erratically with the recoil of each one. I open my eyes, not sure when I closed them, and see my father's killer crumpled on the ground supporting himself with his hands. One of his legs now ends with a clumpy red fountain, and I suspect the only bullets that reached him ended up in that foot.
Suddenly, the intruder lurches forward on his leg and a half. Spooked, I jerk backwards, slipping on blood and falling hard to the ground. It's just when I realize I've dropped the gun that I hear the sharp report of it being fired, and I'm sure I'm dead.
Except I'm not.
Getting up, I see the gunman had turned the pistol on himself, liberating his brain from his head.
I stand, staring at his body in silence. I am shocked and relieved, but I'm also furious. I am enraged at this psychopath who has broken into my home, killed my Dad, and denied me any revenge by shooting himself in the head. Every profane word I know suddenly collides in my mouth and I end up awkwardly screaming "FROGGA!" at the corpse on my kitchen floor.
I aggressively wipe a bit of spittle from my face and taste a coppery tang. Realizing my hands are covered in the killer's blood and I've just smeared my mouth with it, I start spitting and shaking, yelling "Gah!" at irregular intervals, ultimately slipping on the gore again and falling to the floor.
Groaning, I slump against the wall, energy spent. I should really call the police, but I'm just too exhausted from being spastic that I can't be bothered. My one consolation was that no one was here to see my ridiculous performance, but then I hear someone clear their throat.
I look up to see my Father looking at me, now sitting up where he'd been shot dead. There is a ragged hole in his forehead where the intruder shot him, but otherwise looks in pretty good shape.
"I know this seems like an odd time," he says. "But I think you should know that I'm not your biological father."

The Five Places in Which I'm Sick and Tired of Finding Fingernails of Unknown Origin

1. On my front porch
2. On salads (those are NOT almond slivers)
3. In my pockets
4. Inside my mail
5. On my fingers

"...And Women Are From Venus"

Jennifer sat the popcorn down on the couch next between them.
It looked over and down at the popcorn, and then back at the screen.
"Thanks, Jen," It said, taking a handful.
She pushed herself back and slightly away from It, drawing her legs up, feigning comfort.
"What are we watching?" She asked.
"Patriots," It said, still watching the screen, impassive. "Fourth quarter."
She watched It chew the popcorn.
"Hm," she noised, trying to keep her gaze hovering between It and the screen, just in case It turned to look at her.
She watched as It's eyes moved across the screen, expressionless. She was pretty sure this wasn't the Michael she married. In the past year, something had happened to the real Michael, her Michael, and this Thing had taken his place.
It never smiled. It never asked her questions. It never really did anything with her. It just left in the mornings and came back at night, smelling vaguely of sweat and...something else.
"Gah!" It shouted suddenly and Jennifer jumped, narrowly missing the popcorn bowl with a flailing limb.
It looked at her with an unreadable expression.
"Sorry," It said. It pointed to the screen. "He missed a pass."
Her heart was still thumping when a commercial came on screen and It muted the sound.
"I've been thinking," It said, turning toward her. "I'd like to go on a trip."
"Oh," Jennifer said. "Where would you go?"
There was a pause, and then He laughed. She hadn't heard that laugh in months.
"A trip for US," he said, smiling at her. Michael's smile. That warm half-smile that showed no teeth but melted her heart the first time she saw it.
"Dumbhead," he said, and flicked her foot playfully with a finger.
She laughed, and felt a wave of relief wash over her.
"That would be a great idea," she said.
"C'mere you," he said, and put the popcorn bowl on the floor, pulling her toward him. She let herself settle into the crook of his arm, that warm comfortable place she felt like she hadn't visited for months.
"Where do you want to go?" he asked. "I was thinking Italy."
"Really?" she asked, looking up at Michael's face. "So you're talking a serious trip here? Not just a drive to Vermont or something?"
"Definitely," he said. "We need something special. I've been working a lot and we haven't had much time together."
The game came back on screen.
"Let's talk details tomorrow," she said.
"Sweet," he said, and switched the sound back on with the remote.
Jennifer sighed. She'd been ridiculous. These phases happen to all couples, she thought. It's how relationships grow. She settled back into his arms and closed her eyes. Within minutes, she was asleep.
It stared at the screen.
And It smiled.

Rebranding Apathy: Five alternate designations for those of us afflicted with pervasive lassitude

1. Possessed of A Balanced Personality
2. Child of Entropy
3. Dream Free
4. Broadly Abstinent
5. Suffering from Existential Palsy

Militants Of Limited Eyesight

I suspect that the toilet paper in the stalls at my workplace was designed by a cadre of angry blind people. After all the properly marked pits they've stumbled into and silica gel they've eaten, they're ready to get revenge on the sighted world by sabotaging the peaceful world of corporate defecation.

The toilet paper in question, like everything in the world except the opinions of political pundits, is two-sided. One side is as you would expect it - a low grade paper hybrid of kleenex and newsprint. I'm used to this paper. It doesn't provide the most comfortable wiping experience, but I don't expect it to. I just want it to get the job done with a minimum of mess and fuss.

The other side of the paper, however, is sneaky. It looks pretty much the same, but each square is in fact made up of 150 raised iron dots which I believe spell out "BUM RAKER" in braille. Using this side to wipe with offers an experience equivalent to applying deodorant with a cheese grater. Not pleasant. Hurty, even. And woe be to those suffering from hemorrhoids or related afflictions.

So unless you are intimately familiar with braille or have inordinately sensitive fingertips, you are going to suffer a cruel personally applied assault by the BumRaker at least once. Assuming you wipe at all. (I know you're out there. Freaks.)

And I don't mean to mock the plight of the blind. There's nothing worse than being trapped in a dark pit with nothing to eat but the silica gel in your pockets. But there has got to be a better way to get revenge. It must have taken incredible engineering talent to hide thousands of tiny spikes in a roll of tissue paper and not have anyone notice until it was too late. Surely these same sightless geniuses could come up with a colorless gas that causes something like muscle necrosis or acute renal failure instead. I'm convinced it would be more humane.

Six Month Anniversary

I'm staring at my left hand when Emily wakes.
"What's wrong, honey?" she asks, still bleary with sleep.
"My hand is numb," I say.
She sits up, suddenly frantic. "Numb? Like you can't feel anything?" she asks. "Nothing?"
"Nope," I say, flexing my fingers slowly.
She jumps out of bed and pulls open the drawer of her bedside table.
"What's the problem?" I ask.
"She's found us!" she shouts, pulling a small cardboard box from the drawer.
"What?" I ask. "Who?"
She pulls a large pin from the box.
"The Bedwitch!" she hisses, and stabs my hand with the pin. It starts to bleed.
"Hey!" I shout, pulling my hand away.
"Did you feel it?" she asks.
"No," I say, "But it's bleeding."
She grabs the wrist of my hand and pulls it toward her.
"Not much," she says, and stabs the hand again.
I try to tug away, but she holds me tight.
"Did you feel that?" she asks.
"No," I say. "No pain, but I wish you'd stop."
"Gah!" she yells, and stabs me again.
After the sixth puncture, I feel it.
"Ow!" I yell. She pokes me again.
"I said Ow!" I yell again, pulling away. This time she lets me go.
"What is going on?" I ask.
"The Bedwitch," she says, and hands me a tissue for my increasingly painful hand.
"I've never heard of that," I say, dabbing at my tiny wounds.
"They say that in deepest night she steals the hands of the innocent," she whispers, settling back into bed. "And replaces them with unfeeling meat."
She turns toward me. "She uses the hands to commit black deeds, David. Black, black deeds."
I stare at her for several seconds, thinking she's lost her mind, and then she starts to snicker.
"Jerk," I say, laying back down, turning my back to her. "My hand is killing me."
"I can't believe you bought that," she says.
"Pheh!" I grumble, and close my eyes.
"I mean really," she says, and then her tone changes. "You? Innocent?"
My breathing catches in my throat at the realization.
She knows.

Five things I really wish I hadn't known when I was younger

1. I'm just as dumb as everyone else
2. If you put your mind to it, you can do just about anything
3. You can't trust men, women, or beasts
4. The Earth is a farm
5. Existential terror

"A Family Emergency"

Gwen couldn't fully open her front door when she let me in because of the inert figure in the yellow rain slicker on her floor. I squeezed in through the available space and looked at the body.
"Is he dead?" I ask.
"I think so," she says. "He stopped wheezing a little while ago."
I walk around the body, trying not to touch it. His left sleeve is rolled up, exposing a large bloody spot on his forearm.
"That couldn't have killed him," I say, nodding to the wound.
"No," she says. "I didn't stab him, Mike, I hit him with the broom handle."
"And it killed him?" I ask. "That's some broom."
"I'm pretty sure he suffocated," she says. "I think I hit him in the gills."
I pause, looking at her, and then close my eyes and groan.
"Look at him!" she shouts, pointing. "Look at his lips!"
I open my eyes and look. They were puffy, maybe larger than normal, and a little blue. Probably like the lips of someone who had suffocated.
I stare at the ground. "He's not a fish-man, Gwen," I say. "He's not."
"He is!" she yells. "I knew you wouldn't believe me! I knew it!"
She runs out of the room and into the kitchen, slamming the door on her way.
"Look, Gwen!" I call. "It doesn't matter what he is! We need to..."
There is a loud clang, and I'm pretty sure she's thrown a saucepan at the door.
I look back at the body, trying to figure out how I'm going to dispose of what looks like a 200 pound corpse, when the odor I'd thought was the residue of Gwen's dinner suddenly intensified. I turn to see Gwen standing in front of the kitchen door with plate of ham and a fork.
"I knew you'd do this," she says, walking toward me. "I knew it, so I took a piece."
"Gwen," I say. "What did you do?"
"Eat," she says, holding out the plate. I can see a few crispy hairs poking out from the surface of the meat. "Eat, and tell me it doesn't taste like fish."