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Short Tales of Horror

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The Reaper and the Reaper
Nick Nordlinger ------------------------------------------------------------ 3-11
Monday at Sequalmish State Hospital
Patrick Hanners ---------------------------------------------------------- 12-18
Dead Baby Sunrise
D.M. Creamer ------------------------------------------------------------ 19-25
The Serenity of Sister Maria
Jared Law ----------------------------------------------------------------- 26-33
Hypo
Matt Wong ----------------------------------------------------------------- 33-45
Not for sale
Panopticalm Press
October 31st, 2013
All rights belong to the original authors.
Contact jaredelaw@gmail.com with questions, feedback or if you want
to write with us.
The Reaper and the Reaper
Nick Nordlinger
I
It was late October when the sky turns grey in the baleful,
Samhain air. Donovan stepped out of his farmhouse, rapier in hand, and
walked into the embrace of the high corn. As he stepped through his
rows a grim realization set upon him. The rank smell and the wet feel of
the plants past his searching fngers told of the heavy, blue-grey mold
that had infested his crop. He spat and swore into the dirt. The sun hung
like a bloodshot eye over the distant foothills. In each stalk he read pen-
nies lost, dollars burnt. He felt the heat and dirt of labor in his knuckles
becoming mud with the cold sweat. He raised his scythe before him, like
a warrior might, and ventured forth into the stalks to seek out the culprit.
The mold itself could not be at fault for the bacteria were life, teeming,
thriving. He sought out the bringer.
Through the corn, swatting dead, wet, grey stalks aside with his rapier,
coughing and blinking against the rancid, wet dust, the musky, sharp hay
rain in his nostrils, Donovan came across a like fgure, dark, a similar
rapier in their hand.
His mouth made the words reaperoh dullahan. The great fgure rose
nine feet up, cowled in tattered black that was not cloth, but appeared
cloth, and was in fact dense air, foating in place. Worg, Donovans dog,
a large Komondor, was stretched out on the ground at the cloaked fg-
ures feet, as though reaching for something across the dirt, her tongue
aloll in her lax, open mouth. The fgure motioned outward with its tall
scythe, opening its cloak and offering the nebulous body within. Dono-
van screamed. A nearby murder of crows took fight from out the rotting
corn.
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II
A time later, after nightfall, the bright eyes of a tractor swam down the
long dirt road and blinked off beside Donovans farmhouse and ruined
crop. The old rusty red door of the tractor creaked open and Silver leapt
out, her dark boots crunching little rocks in the silent air. She walked to
Donovans door and knocked twice. No lights shone from the windows
either above or below, and she heard no body inside scuffe to greet her.
She turned to the corn. A cold, night wind blew through the stalks and
met her with a slap. She crinkled her nose at the sharp, rear-throat smell
of rot.
The autumn wind keened through the night, tossing up furries of
dead leaves and the husks of fallen insects. Donovan! she called out.
The continuing wind was the only reply. She glanced across the wide
feld of crop a moment, wary to enter for the wet mold, dense and perva-
sive. Soon she sat back in her red tractor and returned down the long dirt
road towards her own plot.
It was always foreboding driving home with only a few feet lit before
her, the headlights the only lights for miles. Every turn in the wood or
the feld was a revelation; a new scene of gnarled branches, dry grass and
dust alit. She always expected some fgure to appear as she rounded a
bend, twisted of face and wild smiling. Sometimes, for split seconds, she
did see such fgures shift into view and seized the steering wheel with
sudden, white-knuckled panic. But they were just peripheries of passing
fear. She drove ten minutes home through the black night.
She awoke in the morning and rolled over into the empty spot that
had once held Thiel, now six years on the road. She grabbed her rapier
from its spot under the bed and made out into the feld in grey, guarded
morning sun.

Her corn, golden and begging harvest just yesterday, now gleamed
blue and grey, complimentary of the sky. The same, rear-throated aroma
of rot swam towards her with a low mountain zephyr. Her eyes, confused
and shifting focus over the multi-layered rows of corn, sensed move-
ment, slow and purposeful and perpendicular to the wind and the crop.
Looking up she made atop the corn a rapier, larger than her own, swim-
ming above the stalks like a sharks dorsal fn.
She ran. Even as she neared the tractor she could feel the ice of its pres-
ence on her neck.

III

Lloyd was fercely drunk by noontime, and now rocking his rising nau-
sea in his old wicker chair affront his East facing porch. He heard his
wife bustling behind the screen door.
Edith, he called. Mind fetching another mug of cider dear?
There was no response from within the house, but he could hear cabinets
closing and drawers opening. She had been ignoring most of his requests
this morning.
Lloyd sipped the last of what was in his mug, the spice of the cinnamon
schnapps lingering a moment in the back of his throat, and then swiped
a match along the arm of his rocking chair and fared up a brown, hand-
rolled cigarette. It was just then, across his own crop of squash plants,
that he saw Silvers tractor rolling down the crude road towards him, a
cloud of dust erupting behind her.
Edith dear, looks like Silvers paying a visit. At this the screen door
creaked open behind him and his wifes small head peaked out.
Silver? said Edith. Idve imagined shed be reaping today. Corns last
harvest cant wait much longer lest the frost.
It was then Lloyd saw what was clung to the back of Silvers tractor and
4 5
bolted to his feet.
Edith look there! Lloyds chapped, crooked fnger reached toward the
fgure clinging to the vehicle, cloaked and bearing a long, vaulted rapier.
Its
Edith balked and covered her mouth. Now what sort of costume
But they could already tell it was no costume. The fgure on the back of
the tractor seemed a colored piece of wind. The boundaries of its form
tapered and faded into the air around it, like bits of cloud. Its general
black and blueness discolored in shifts and swells. Its rapier glimmered
like a gaseous planet, terminal in purpose. The tractor, traveling faster
than Lloyd knew it to, skidded and twirled a few feet from the house and
the driver side door swung open. Silver dropped out and rolled through
the dirt, spinning along roughly and yelping in pain. The truck kept on,
out off the road and into the forest where it dipped into a gorge. Silver
bolted to her feet and staggered towards Lloyd and Edith on the porch,
limping slightly.
Inside! she screamed. Inside now!
Behind Silvers approach Edith and Lloyd watched the dark fgure of the
Reaper rise from the forest gorge and the wreckage of the truck and glide
across the ground like shifting fog. Silver caught them by the shoulders
and pushed them inside, latching the door behind them.
Damn, said Lloyd, as he crouched and watched through the front
window. Thats all of it. Were ruined. The Reaper moved about his
large square of squash, glancing each fruit with the blade, turning them
each a sick, bacterial purple and grey.
Why has death come for us? asked Edith, pale with grief.
It followed me from Donovans, said Silver.
Death comes every year this time, said Lloyd. Its the season of death.
When the earth turns from the light of summer into the shade of winter.
When we reap our last harvest. Lloyds face brightened all the sudden.
Thats all it is dont you see? he said, turning from the window to face
the two women, a drunken smile on his face. Hes just a farmer like the
rest of us. Come to collect his crop. He motioned out at the fgure, now
hovering higher, appraising new harvest.
Maybe I can talk with him. Farmer to farmer. Lloyd stood and moved
toward the door.
No! called Edith, but he was already out. Silver went after him.

Excuse me, called Lloyd up at the fgure. The Reaper turned its head
and looked down at the wobbly, fat man. Silver fanked behind, her rapi-
er held tight in her hand, her eyes low and cautious.
Lloyd I dont think she began, but he interrupted.
Now I see youve come for harvesting time, said Lloyd. Just like the
rest of us.
The Reaper seemed to foat closer, as though to listen more attentively.
But I think youve gotten confused. This isnt your crop and even if it
were it isnt ft for harvesting until next week. Now Im a man of nature
like you and I understand the part you play in things. But its always
been that you take your fair share and we take ours. If us farmers start
getting greedy thenwellwell all be running each other off our plots
like the old, savage days.
The Reaper was quite close now and Silver could see it was not for bet-
ter listening.
Lloyd! she screamed and grabbed his arm.
Now, now, he said shaking her off, be reasonable, Im talking to you
farmer to farmer.
But Death was already upon him. He screamed. Silver leaped and swat-
ted The Reaper with her rapier in savage defense, warbling shrilly as she
beat back the fog.
Edith emerged from the house, her face glazed with tears. Sil-
6 7
ver stood over the pale, still body of Lloyd, smiling dead in the rotten
squash. She had felt the rapier come into contact with the body of Death,
but then it had been gone, dissipating into the air.
Why? called Edith. Why, all she could manage.
Silver dropped her rapier to the ground.
Death has become greedy, she said, then turned and began walking
down the dirt road, toward the town.
IV
The children were out, of course, each festooned in their garb of
fright. Their bags swung heavy by their sides, laden with sweets. A cho-
rus of doorbells swelled through the night, accompanied by chortles of
fright and unison trick or treats. Among the costumed masses a dark
cloud settled and aparated into a short, shrouded fgure. The fgure made
its way to a front door and rang the doorbell. A man answered. The small
shrouded fgure tried to say trick or treat, but what came out of its
mouth sounded only like the turning wind before a storm.
Hours later when Silver arrived on the paved road of Main Street,
she could smell that she was too late. Far away she heard a pained, be-
reaved wailing, but most telling was the pervasive quiet. And little bod-
ies lying everywhere, their agonized fnal faces mercifully hidden be-
neath masks or cloth or makeup.
Squat and gluttonous The Reaper hunched in the church steeple,
withering candy through its ravenous, amorphously skeletal hands. Oc-
casionally it would fy about the high tower and pass through the great,
iron bell, ringing it with the force of its inconstant corpse. The hun-
ger knew no bounds, for there were no innards to be flled. The hunger
wrang Deaths body without purpose or cure.
If only one were strong enough to come and bring it
Reaper! The call echoed sonorous and harmonic alongside the bell,
still clanging ominously. It was the woman, pressed in the steeple win-
dow having somehow scaled the outer wall, her fngernails bleeding and
her long, sharp tool of harvest shining with the moon, slung over her
small shoulders and tucked in the crook of her arm.
Death looked her straight on and tried to exhale. The wind from off it
sounded much like reaper, whispered in response.
Indeed both ft for harvest faced the other. As Death moved closer to Sil-
ver the bodies of the shrouded, slaughtered children expanded into view,
dappling the backdrop of the wet, black street below her.
She lunged forward and Death did not resist.
V
But it was no use. It felt itself foating up and away from her blows, into
the sky, turning with the at once broiling and then stilling air as the sea-
sons turned, its time come round again. It felt the sky whip it about and
settle again in another place in another time. Fading behind, it heard the
cry of the woman slashing at the stone blocks of the church steeple foor.
After a while it drifted down into another feld of high crop and began its
work, calmly this time, dutifully turning only an ear here or there blue,
leaving the majority to thrive and recycle in the harvest.
To The Reaper it felt like a night had passed, but by the look of
the woman coming towards it across the dry feld, it knew that what the
mortals called decades must have passed. It was the woman from yester-
day, now silver-haired and silver-feshed to match her name. She had the
same eyes beneath the old fesh, burning low and vengeful. She walked
quickly, strongly. He presumed it was her time to go with him. Few came
so readily, so punctually.
8 9
But when she arrived by its side she did not reach forth graciously, we
can be like they are, come on baby,
I saw what you did that night, she uttered in low, eternally practiced
words. Answer for what you did.
And the Reaper could not answer, lost voice of shrouded wind, hollow
stomach of empty air. It was, of course, not the frst time, that night, in
that town yesterday, that Death had grown what seemed greedy and was
in fact restless, but it had been a sacrilege to act so on the day the mor-
tals had as dignifedly chosen to worship its own nature. No matter, she
could not do it then and she would not do it now. None could do it, none
but it, for it was it.
It swiped out to end her with its touch, to reap her into the bounty of this
new days Fall. She did not fall; she stopped the blade with her blade. It
felt her force against its intention.
They met solid for a moment, like icebergs colliding.
VI
The Reaper awoke in bed full-feshed. It did not know itself to be
man or woman, but it knew itself to be alive. For a moment it was ter-
rifed. Then it was achy, and groggy, and sore from eons on the job. It
curled from its cot and stepped through a wooden room, saturated with
light and smelling of pine and sun.
The Reaper stepped out a front door, clad in overalls, and examined
a bright crop of corn, its own crop, ready for harvest and screaming no
protest, no guttural, pathetic fnal pleas, only a bounty-laden droop. In
the feld a silver-haired woman was already reaping, her short scythe in
hand. By her side a wicker basket was overfowing with hearty ears of
corn.
Good crop this year? it called out, its frst words.
She seemed to stiffen a moment and then turned around slowly. Her face
was still and furious.
Its ripe, she said. The rapier rose in her arm, and turned towards the
new fesh.
But now there was life to live for. Give me just one more moment! it
begged, its hands raised before its face.
She raised her cloak over her shoulders, the hood hanging low over her
eyes, and swooped towards it with a diving gust of mountain air.
10 11
Monday at Sequalmish State Hospital
Patrick Hanners
Uncaffeinated, I walked dully through the thick door after gently press-
ing my ID badge to the reader. The door yielded to me with a click and I
trudged into work. The cold outside air was shooed away by the hot blast
from the brief corridor. Even with the kids all in their rooms for shift
change I could hear young voices and some loud music in the corners of
the building. I decided Id check on my cohort once I was clocked in, no
sooner. If Im not clocked in I dont count, and says the state, neither do
the injuries I might incur.
I avoided the radio on my long drive to work, not wanting to add any-
thing to the stress Id be hitting there. On a Monday, something bad is
bound to happen. Mondays are third only to full moons and horrible days
without break or coffee. Im sure some of the diffculty is in my head,
but with the noise seeping through the thick walls separating me and ev-
erything else, it felt damn true.
We took an extra ten minutes in transition to talk about Chinas bad out-
ing. He had been green all week, clear to go out. Then today hes out
at the store, completely fne, and out of nowhere he jumps on this guy.
Some random from the community, not his staff or his peers. I mean, re-
ally, we can deal with that. That happens. Kid aggressed on some fucker
out there! This is not good. Weirder still, the man didnt do anything. he
barely acted surprised. Ya never really know what youll do when some-
one attacks you, until it happens. Weve got pretty high turnover because
of that. Some people dont last more than a week.
Through the brief update, and on the clock, I went to pull my cohort out
of their rooms. The loud noises Id been hearing didnt stop in the half
hour of transition. Soaringeagle had managed to learn the sound made
by his namesake. after bedtime Id joke he should have been named
Screechingeagle. Mostly I just wondered who the fuck would name their
kid Soaringeagle. I said something frm and fatherly, avoiding the word
dude. Eagle Chiled.
Meanwhile I convinced Logan and Carter to clean the small common
area clustered around their rooms, mostly by reminding them we werent
doing anything until shit was clean. Given, clean, was a kind word for
the job these kids were doing.
By the time ten minutes had passed, I had given at least 50 different di-
rections. wipe it twice, you missed a spot Dont spray the cleaner at
your peers unless you want to do two tasks. we dont play guns here
The redirective litany fowed out of my mouth at an even volume, none
of my periodic annoyance showing. Out in the dayroom I heard some
relatively ordinary yelling. fuck you, youre just being so fucking stu-
pid, Like, I dont even understand why youre doing this to me! It was
almost comical due to the high pitch of the little boys voice. None the
less, I kept my boys down their hall, waiting to see if it would grow into
anything bigger.
The chubby little yeller, China, called out in the dayroom. I kept my kids
entertained while China Shrieked. China was white. Maybe as white as
your mothers china, but I always thought it was funny, cause this kid was
damn fragile. His immediate tirade was over a fucking ball. Kids 14 for
gods sake. Eventually someone called emergency quiet time. As per usu-
al I rushed my kids into their rooms, unlocking each door in quick suc-
cession, and giving the look of death to anyone who didnt get in their
rooms pronto.
I walked out of the hall to fnd the plump juggernaut rushing towards me.
I got wide and blocked him from running down my hallway. I felt him
12 13
bounce off of my chest. After backing up and shaking off some confu-
sion, china swung his little fst at me and missed by an inch or two as I
jumped back.
John rushed over made quick eye contact with me and we each grabbed
an arm. China found himself scarecrowed on the foor, the fuid motion
from standing to prone passing silently. China yelled and bucked, held
tight by me and John. He tried to bite my near hand, but got only air.
China started banging his face down on the rough carpet. Blood began
pouring out of his nose. He turned his head as far as it would go and
lobbed a wad of spit and blood toward me. It landed on my hand, and I
tried to not let go of his feshy wrist.
after a few more fusillades of spitting, and some more kicking and
screaming, China was calm enough to move to the quiet room. After
locking the bolts and posting someone on the video screen, I cleaned the
blood off the faded bristly carpet. Faint yelling still leaked through the
thick concrete wall of the ironically named quiet room. I summoned my
children from their rooms and went on with chores and dinner, guiding
through each step in a completely neutral tone.
A kid at the other table, Morris, began yelling. In his least manageable
state he looked like he was being given an exorcism by a pentecostal
preacher. Nearly speaking in tongues, waving arms, and walking with
an awkward bowed over shuffe. at the table, yelling Fuck, Fuck, Err-
rrrr, ha hahaha, Fuck, Eat a potato, Smoke some wine, fuck, errrrr. He
looked like an angry old man. This being normal, we thought little of it.
Morris just yelled and whooped, and waved his hands in front of staffs
faces, sometimes getting within an inch of your face before yelling the
next expletive or wordless yawp.
He walked out of the noisy dining room with his staff while I tried to
direct the conversation away from drugs and the best places to sleep in
Spokane if you have no where to go toward something productive.
Normally Morris could be placated. A reminder of what we were eating
later, reminder of when hes going home next. Today was not the day.
I heard Morris in the hallway, and kept my kids talking while the foat
staff rushed out of the room. I heard the hubbub of a kid being taken to
the ground. I turned my radio down low while staff checked with the
three other units for open quiet room space. All three of the nearest QRs
were full. It was a Monday, go fucking fgure. After a few minutes of
keeping everyone eating, and keeping everyone calm, Redirecting the
occasional Thats right, fuck you Morris, Morris was taken out toward
the school to the next nearest QR.
The radio yelped, Show of support building 2 and someone got up to see
if we had anyone to send. Then again, Show of support, building 1. Then
in our hallway the bustle of three people pushing back inside. Morris was
still with my co workers, hanging his head like Jesus on the cross. Both
arms splayed out by the men holding them. He had stopped his yelling
and looked at me with fat affect. No expression. The only time Id ever
seen him this quiet was during a Petit mal seizure.
We had him sit in the empty bedroom, and without fnding out why
theyd come back, we got all the other kids back to their rooms for yet
another emergency quiet time.
While Daves on the phone with security, Ill fll you in. Something
weird is going on. Halfway to the school a crowd of people started walk-
ing out towards us from the main building. A lot of people. I didnt see
a single security guard. Unless the main hospital has had a mass break
out, somethings up. Dave said to come back so we did. Frankly I was
glad. Until further notice, no one is going outside. Treat it like a bomb
threat. Lockdown until we know more. The kids stay in their cohorts for
a while, until we know we have quiet rooms again. Alright, pull em out.
14 15
As I got my kids out of their rooms once again and came up with ways to
entertain them in the small common area, I kept my ear out on the rest of
the building. I double checked the external door, thankful it was locked
from both sides, no kids out, no creeps in. My kids cursed at each other,
and I redirected them, got them to focus on a game of cards. Outside the
rain poured.
The supe pulled each of us aside to let us know the phones were out.
Best to keep the kids calm. I dont know how long we sat playing games,
at least until the sun went down. the rain whipped into the windows. If I
looked out toward the school I could see shadows of people illuminated
by the lampposts dotting the campus. I still didnt know if security was
coming. My supervisor still leaned over the phone trying to get through
to someone. It had been at least an hour since Morris had been brought
back silent. China still yelled away, at two hours he should have been
getting processed out.
With no phone, and him slamming his head against the wall repeated-
ly, our nurse made the call to keep him in there. Normally two hours is
enough to calm anyone down. Usually China too. The weird thing wasnt
that he hadnt calmed down, but that he wasnt talking. usually if you
came to check on him through the small reinforced window, hed give
you a fuck you or ramble How could you do this to me. I trusted you.
I hate you Bishop, Fuck you, Just fuck you. Eat a dick and die mother-
fucker. I dont like you anymore.
Instead of that, or the reconciliation that usually followed and hour or so
later, China Yelled in incomprehensible fury. Inchoate rage spilling out
in wordless torrents. Ahhh, Errr, Ehh, Ahh, Ahhh, Err, Ehh, Ahh. It
speaks to my profession that the worst anyone looked was stressed out.
A kid yelling out random syllables in the background and creepy fucks
a few buildings away, and no one looked worried or frightened, just an-
noyed.
That all changed when I heard the Ahhh Errr, Ehh, Ahh, Ahhh, Errr,
Ehh, Ahh shift directions. The sound still came from the quiet room, but
outside mixed with the wind other voices joined it. The sound got louder
as the Ahhh, Errr, Ehh, Ahh, Ahhh, Errr, Ehh, Ahh moved closer and
closer.
Never freak out over radio. Its rule one of having a god damn radio. And
yet another unit comes in over the walkies Are you guys seeing this,
Everyone lock down, now.
the supe yelled out in the day room, Do it, EQT
My cohort went quietly to their rooms. Sometimes when crazy shit hap-
pens the kids calm down. but sometimes shit builds without you know-
ing it.
We met in the dayroom, our kids in their rooms stewing. those people
are moving our way Meanwhile the wide windows on the wall toward
the parking lot darkened. Faces staring in at us. Our little fshbowl more
confning now. The claustrophobia avoided by having keys to every-
thing, rushed back in.
We faced away from the windows, ignoring them the best we could,
and discussed what the fuck to do. #1, are the kids windows reinforced
enough. #2, if they arent, what is. #3, if they get in, what then.
Somewhere around there we fgured we were fucked. there were no
weapons anywhere near this place. I emptied my pockets entirely be-
fore coming on shift. No one had anything. We couldnt keep dangerous
things on the foor either, lest they be used against us. We were shit out
of luck.
16 17
Thankfully the crowd just sang and stared outside our building. Thats
when I heard Moris for the frst time in a few hours.
Ahhh, Errr, Ehhh, Ahh, Ahhh, Errr, Ehhh, Ahh. Moris slowly walked
out of the room, and toward the window. I was never more thankful for
locked doors. He sang peircingly at the window, nearly touching it. Chi-
na got louder. We stood around Moris, one foot forward, side pointed at
him providing a small target.
And the syllables got louder again.
Out of my cohort, Soaringeagle sang out Ahhh, Errr, Ehhh, Ahh, Ahhh,
Errr, Ehhh, Ahh
Out of each of the cohorts a kid came shouting the wordless chant. We
were surrounded now. This was quite near the point where the restraint
handbook goes out the window. But Id had riots, how bad could it be.
The chanting went on. I shivered a little, and more kids began to come
out chanting. In the middle the six of us still stood, no longer made safe
by our locked doors. A few coherent kids came out of their rooms, star-
ing forward at us, hiding behind furniture, or making weapons out of
clothing and writing utensils. We all gave them cowing looks.
The rain beat on the windows as the crowd began to do the same. We
stood in a loop, with time slowly loosing reference as the beating be-
gan to sound tinny and fragile. The thick glass shattered, and the people
slowly walked through the fallen shards in toward us trailing blood. I felt
calm at the centre, prepared for crisis, but when I payed attention to my-
self, my lips had begun chanting
Ahhh, Errr, Ehhh, Ahh, Ahhh, Errr, Ehhh, Ahh.
Dead Baby Sunrise
D.M.Creamer
What?
Dead baby..
What?!
Like I said.
Where?
Out there.
He pointed a feshy hand with a missin pinkie. The gold ring around the
third fnger hung exposed to the space where the pinkie woulda been.
He pointed out behind the shack into the dark a the wood. As he point-
ed, the tremor in his fannel covered arm lingered in the abstract like the
wondering about a fuorescent light out of the corner of your eye. His
mouth was pinched in focus; his gaze was through the shack and all
the way to the object he was pointin at.
Afternoons we sat on the porch here and talked. It wasnt bad. The still
was an old copper job from the turn of the century. Jimbo inherited it
from his grampa and the knowledge that came with it. The water was
good in the spring and the whiskey was better. Hershel sold it for us at
swap meet parking lots offering free tastes from a jug regardless of the
time of day. You could tell who to talk to. The law didnt care much. It
was good product and they bought from us time to time as well. Scratch
a back..
Waylon wailed about a good-hearted woman from the radio inside. I
18 19
waited for a mosquito to drown in my glass before takin another pull.
The ash on Jareds cigarette was frozen in time and bowed into an S
curve from twistin it once as it grew. Hershel just kept damn poin-
tin It pissed me off a little. What the fuck were we sposed to do?
If the baby was there it was as Hershel had said, dead. It didnt need
our fuckin help. I didnt want to consider it. Who or what.. I had oth-
er things on my mind. It looked like a rat had gotten into the rye stor-
age. The cat werent doin her job and thered be hell to pay if it spoiled
any of our grain. I wasnt sure how long it had been in there Could
be a fuckin family of the bastards. Norway.. Rats come from Norway.
Well.. the troublesome ones anyway.. Rattus Norvegicus. Know that?
Followed humans across this fuckin planet. And these cigarettes we
been smokin lately. I dont know.. Seem undercured for my tastes. We
do a trade with the Johnson boys, but I dont think they had these leaves
on the pile a week. Bastards. My coughs gotten worse..
Shit! My foot nearly broke through as I slammed it into the porch rail-
ing. Shit Hershel! Goddamit! What are you tryin to prove with this
fuckin story!! Youre really fuckin with my buzz goddamit!! Hershel
kept his fuckin hand up. Whole goddamn time. Same look in his eye
too. Fucker! Jared didnt say much. Never did. Up to me. Im the one
with the fuckin leadership position. Dick! I grabbed the big mag-
light from behind the door. Hershel kept fuckin pointin, so I grabbed
his 22 pump and stuffed it under his other arm. Jared was thinkin ahead
and grabbed the jug of whiskey and the rest of the Toasties cracker pack-
ages that were on the porch railing. I jammed another piece of wood in
the stove and called for Boss who was sleepin under the porch. He was
sure we were coon huntin. Had his nose in the air as he surfaced. Got a
good nose for a pit. Aint no hound, but hell fuck up anything he man-
ages to sniff down.
Naw.. Dead baby Boss. Try and sniff that one down fucker. Better
be the truth Hershel. Got me off the porch.. Asshole.. Be better if it
werent though. Fuck that! Who wants to deal with that?! Bury it. For-
get about it! No cops and shit!
The mag-light works pretty well. Not like one of them lithium LED jobs
or anything, but I dont use that shit. I twisted the lens ring and brought
a nice circle into the light of the hunt. Jared passed the jug. Hershel
took a piss. Boss too.. Cold.. Fuckin A cold. Should get my hat. Boss
sniffed somethin and took off barkin. NO! Boss!! Aint what were
after!! Dammit Hershel!! Hershel was quiet. He still had that look in
his eye. It made me want to soften. I didnt though. We headed into the
woods the way Hershel pointed. Out towards the spring. Well.. Dont
want that thing rottin in the spring anyway.. Good to get the little fuck-
er and bury it or somethin. No one said anything back. Hershel kept
lookin out the same fuckin way he had been, and Jared just dont talk
much anyway. Come on.. Come on boys.. I led the way toward the
spring with the light and Jared pulled up the rear. I swear Hershel would
have collapsed or somethin without us there to walk front and rear.
Dark fuckin woods. Im tellin you! Dark fuckin woods. No moon
and youre fuckin blind! Swallow you up they will! Heard many a tale
about that. Specially this time a year. Fuckin Halloween stories Dad
used to tell. My dad was a fuckin nut! Im tellin you what.. Anyway.
Aint a lot a things I wouldnt rather do instead a lookin for a dead baby
on Halloween night. I had thought about goin down to Jacks and shoo-
tin some pool. Lindas workin and she might show me her titties if I
buy her some shots.. Fuckin dead baby. Fuck this! Fuck this Hershel!
I dont know what the fuck Hershel was doin out there by the spring
anyway. Shoulda been with Wanda I thought.. Sgoin on with you and
Wanda Hershel? He didnt hear me so I said it louder. Then I yelled
it at him. He looked at me with his eyes kinda watery maybe. Hard to
tell in the light of the swingin fashlight. Pudgy cheeks, hide his eyes.
Coulda been the wind.. Anyway. I quit fuckin with him. Jared! Would
you pass that fuckin jug?! Persond think you brought it for your own
20 21
edifcation or some shit! I didnt think Hershel would acknowledge it
but he did and took a pull off of it besides. I handed him the fashlight
as I tipped the jug back for a nice healing fow down my cold, parched
throat. Hershel stepped on ahead. He swung the light slowly and then
advanced so I had to cut my pull short and hot step it after him. He
started walkin more surely now and pushed through some scrub oaks
ignorin the scratch a the leaves on his face. Boss pulled in behind him
sensin that it was Hershel in the lead. Bosss black body rippled though
with excitement and his tail and nose twitched in the moonlight.. Moon-
light.. Fuckin moon rose over the hill. Fuckin full moon too. Didnt
need the light as much I spose. Less you were lookin for somethin
specifc like a little dead baby on Halloween night half drunk in the dark
dark woods. Grab Boss.. I did, as I handed the jug back to Jared.
Hershel walked on alone. Jared and I stood there with Boss strainin a
little on his collar. Dammit Boss! Setttle down! I smacked his nose
hard. Ill punch the fucker if he dont quit fghtin me. Lord knows I
aint in a good mood..
Shit! SHIT! Hershel was yelling like a fuckin monkey gettin fucked
in the ass. Shit!! I let Boss go and Jared set the jug down while
we ran up ahead. Somethin shadowy moved past me on the right. It
werent Hershel neither. Fuck was THAT?! Hershel brought the 22
around and startin poppin off shots while Boss lit into somethin. Little
fames lept out of the gun. Damn shadows!! What the fuck?! I heard
Boss yelpin. Goddammit! Goddamit!! Get im Boss! Get im!!
Somethin bit Hershel.. I saw blood spurt from his fat face into the
moonlight. He went down hard on his fat fuckin knees and the shadowy
thing got on his back and dug in. Where the fuck was Boss?!! I jumped
but got hit hard in the gut and went down on my face. Somethin got on
me. I pulled up an oak branch that I felt on the ground and fuckin nailed
it whatever it was! I was fuckin pissed! I fuckin beat the shit out a
whatever that was until it didnt fuckin move no more! Then I went for
Hershel. I dont know where the fuck Jared was. I fuckin hit that god-
damn shadowy fuck off Hershels back like knockin one out a Sly park
when I was a kid! I fucked that mother fucker up! Goddammit, I was
pissed! Hershel went down on his face and started moanin. Jared was
dead in the fuckin moonlight and gettin drug away. I grabbed Hershels
22 and fred the last two rounds into whatever was draggin Jared. Jared
stopped slidin. My breath was like a fuckin freight train foggin and
chuggin.. Goddammit!! Goddammit!!! FUCK!! FUCK!!! FUCKK-
KKKKK!!!!!! Why the fuck was this happenin??!!! Goddammit!!! I
was gonna go to Jacks! GODDAMMIT!!!!! GODDAMMIT!!!! GOD-
DAMMITTTTT!!!!!
Hershel was coughin gently. I heard him in the space between my yel-
lin. He was coughin gently and he was sayin, Sorry Sorry Hank..
Shit.. Shit.. Im sorry Hank.. Shit Shit..
Sokay.. Sokay Hersh. Fuck.. Goddammit.. Fuck we gonna do?
I picked up the mag-light and stepped back from Hershel. I didnt want
to look at what the fuck it was that did this shit. It didnt look human. I
didnt want to see, but I had to. I waved the fashlight around. I found
Boss. He was pinned to a tree by a stob through his chest. Fuckin good
dog too. Fuck that! Fuck that!! I took the box a shells that I had forgot-
ten to give Hershel out of my pocket. I fumbled some into the gun and
dropped a few. I dont know what the fuck was goin on, but I didnt
like it! I stepped twards the fucker that jumped Hershel and poked
it with the barrel of my gun. Fuckin try me fuck!!! I put a couple
more rounds in it just to be sure. Watnt nothin there! Fuckin branches
and shit all twisted into a form like a body or somethin! Fuckin moss
and dirt and shit lookin like a cloak!! I ran over to the one I hit frst.
Same shit!! Fuckk!! Same shit with the oned been draggin Jared too..
FUCK IS GOIN ON HERE?!!!
I on know Hank... Hershel was coughin again. I on know Hank..
22 23
Im fuckin sorry.. Goddammit.. Im fuckin sorry.. I walked over
and pulled Boss down. Fuckin good dog too. Fuckin killed by god-
damn spirits or some shit! Fuckin didnt deserve that shit! I was gonna
fuckin stud him out to Lindas dog Pearl. Fuckin good pups theyd a
had.. Fuck.. FUCK!! Fuckin dead baby. FUCKIN DEAD BABY?!!
I walked up ahead a little and passed out. Woke up with the sunrise.
Fuckin Hershel was right too. Right there by the spring. Fuckin dead
baby. Right fuckin there.
The Serenity of Sister Maria
Jared Law
The sky hung over the pier like a great grey manta ray, obscuring
and diffusing what little moonlight there was. I could barely make out
the sea below, save for the amber refections of the ferrys lights. I found
my way to the boat by way of the fashlight that I keep in my medical
satchel. The pier was in a bad state of disrepair, and its wood creaked
sickeningly against the slow lapping of the waves.
Aboard the ferry, I spotted a few individuals lying down on bench-
es, coats and blankets drawn tightly around them, apparently sleeping.
I chose a bench on the second foor and pulled my shawl around me to
protect from the harsh winds that accosted the deck. Under normal cir-
cumstances, I would not be making this journey at such an hour, espe-
cially in late November. My arthritic hands ached. I was much more
vulnerable to exposure than I had been in my youth. Id received a call
from the convent on Esher Island-- Sister Maria, a long time patient,
prone to epileptic fts, had apparently experienced a massive nocturnal
seizure and gone semi-catatonic.
In my late twenties, around the time that Sister Maria joined the
convent, I had diagnosed a benign tumor in her right hemisphere as the
cause of her epileptic fts. Although I recommended the tumors precau-
tionary removal, Maria wanted to keep it, claiming that her fts brought
her closer to God. She understood the risks associated with keeping
such a growth and duly suffered from them. Over the past thirty years I
had treated the Sister for innumerable wounds incurred during thrashing
fts. Sister Maria, ten years my junior, was nearly convalescent from a
long history of broken bones, head gashes and spinal trauma. Still, after
each ft, she insisted on keeping the growth. The other sisters claimed
that, in the throes of epilepsy, Maria would laugh, sing, speak in tongues
and emit what they considered a heavenly radiance. They believed that
sister Maria was blessed and regarded her with a sense of awe. Women
24 25
of faith are often immune to reason.
Esher Island was covered in a heavy fog, making it diffcult to see
past the waterfront. Mrs. Connolly, a widow who tended to the secular
affairs of the island, met me at the dock. She wore a coarse brown shawl
and held a gas burning lantern aloft, her long grey hair pulled back in a
hasty pony-tail. She ushered me towards a black sedan. I entered, prac-
tically drawn in by the comforting warmth that emanated from the cabin.
She explained that Sister Ellis had run down the hill from the convent to
tell her of Marias ft. The seizure had likely been very severe as Ellis,
usually of a lovely rosy complexion, had gone lily white and was sob-
bing uncontrollably.
We drove slowly towards the convent, jostling along on the grav-
el road, headlights illuminating the fog around us. We could see little
other than swirling vapor and a minuscule swath of road. The two of us
rode in near silence, and, looking towards her, I could swear that she had
grown paler during the trip. Despite the fact that I had supped with the
widow many times, I could now hardly recognize her face. Although she
was just within my reach, I felt as if she was impossibly far away, and
the silence within the vehicle grew maddening. I spoke out to break the
silence.
Has there been much activity on the island lately
Not much. She replied absently, eyes fxed on the road ahead of
her.
Is your nephew well? I asked.
At this Connolly let out a shriek and slammed on the brakes, snap-
ping me from my daze. I looked over at her in bewilderment and, al-
though her eyes were wild with fear, I recognized her face once more.
Oh my... she gasped I almost... I almost... she said, pointing out
of the window.
I looked ahead and at frst saw nothing but dust and fog. As the
dust cleared, however, I began to make out a fgure, radiant in the Se-
dans headlights.
She was dressed in the white undergarments of a nuns habit and
standing in the middle of the road. The mists around her were lit up like
a halo and her face was locked in an unconscious grin.
Maria!
I thought she was bedridden!
I opened the passenger door and stepped out of the car. Mrs. Con-
nolly remained inside, her hands turning bone white as she gripped the
steering wheel. She was shaking.
Maria? I asked what are you doing so far from the convent? You
know that it isnt safe for you to be about on your own right now.
She continued staring into the fog, deaf to my words.
Come now, lets get you into the car, its far to walk and you
shouldnt be on your feet.
With that she whipped her head towards the car, grin still fxed to
her face, and peered directly into the driver side window.
Mrs. Connolly let out another shriek and threw the sedan into re-
verse. The headlights receded, spun around and sped down the road.
I shouted for her to wait, but she was already too far away. It was
too dark to see the road underfoot, so I dug into my satchel and pulled
out my fashlight. I twisted its head and it emitted a column of light. I
found Maria and shined the light into her face. I moved the fashlight
towards her eyes and pulled it back again. As I expected, her pupils nei-
ther dilated nor contracted, whatever she was looking at had no bearing
in this physical plane.
Come sister, we need to get you home. I said, taking her by the
arm.
She complied and was easily led. We moved slowly, as she had a
severe hobble and my knees ached from the cold.
The wind battered us as we ascended the hill. Sister Maria began
mumbling a nondescript hymn. I asked her what she was singing, but
she was unresponsive.
Finally, the clean victorian outline of the convent emerged from
the fog. During the day the building was white with a gay blue trim, but
26
27
tonight it was an imposing shade of gray. Its great wooden doors were
closed to the elements, so I grasped one of the brass knockers and gave
it several pounds. A hollow knock sounded through the building, and we
waited for several minutes. No answer. Surely some of the sisters must
have stayed up to let me in. I tried again and then a third time, to no
avail. Finally, I resolved to enter on my own.
The inside of the convent was musty and lit with only a few can-
dles. I heard what sounded like distant footsteps and called out. Silence.
Well, Maria, lets get you to your bed. I can fnd your Sisters once
we get you off of your feet.
Maria continued grinning and humming as I led her to her room.
When we got there, I gently pushed her onto her cot and helped her low-
er her head to a resting position. As soon as I removed my hands, how-
ever, her torso shot violently upright.
Maria, youll hurt yourself, whipping about so. I said as I pushed
her back onto her cot.
This time I kept one of my hands on her, pinning her down. I
reached towards the side of her bed and grabbed at the leather straps, in-
stalled during a previous visit, and secured her to the cot. She slept like
this every night, otherwise she would hurt herself while thrashing.
Ill be back soon, I reassured her,I just need to fnd your sisters.
She wasnt listening.
I walked through the convents dim halls, stopping at each cham-
ber and peering inside, hoping to fnd signs of occupation. I made my
way to the mess hall and entered, fipping on the electrical lights. The
hall was abandoned, yet many of the nuns dinner trays remained on the
tables. Bits of uneaten fsh or gravy lay cold on the plates and the room
was swarming with fies. I was shocked that I had neither heard nor
smelled the mess before entering, as the buzzing of the fies was nearly
deafening and the room reeked of rotting fesh. It was unlike the usually
fastidious sisters to leave such a mess. Although dinner could not have
occurred more than eight hours earlier, it looked as if the room had lain
in such a state for a number of days.
At that moment, I heard a noise emanating from the walls, a creak-
ing sound, followed by a continuous mechanical pound. I had heard this
before, while visiting the convent, and I knew that it was the buildings
troubled internal plumbing-- someone nearby was running water. I ran
to the mess hall bathroom, hoping to fnd a sister who could tell me why
no one had stayed up to let me in or why the halls of the convent, as a
whole, seemed so abandoned.
Entering the lavatory, I could hear the gentle hiss of a recently
fushed toilet, its tank working to refll. I called out, but the lavatory was
empty. As if in response, the tank clanked shut and the hissing stopped.
It was then that I noticed the substance on the ground: small black drops,
rimmed in crimson, spanning from the loo to the sink.
It cant be... I thought.
I followed the trail into the empty stall. I opened the door and
gazed upon a ghastly scene. While the bowl of the toilet had been
cleansed by the fush, its seat and outer walls were soiled with blood,
turned black with the remains of millions of tiny infectious organ-
isms. The blood hung thick against the porcelain, and was in such great
amount that whoever had produced it should have lain lifeless on the tile.
You brought it here.
I tried to push the thought out of my head. How could I have? It
had been so many years, too many years.
But how else could it have gotten here, from nearly half a world
away. I knew most of the sisters. Few of them had ever traveled outside
of the isles, and even fewer received visitors. My heart pounded in my
throat and my forehead became unbearably hot. I could smell sickness
from within my nose. I rushed over to the sink and turned the hot water
on full blast, running my hands under its scalding stream and splashing it
up into my face, trying desperately to kill whatever germs may have got-
ten onto my person. I looked into the mirror, expecting to see my face
twisted with panic, but I could see nothing. My image was distorted in
steam on the glass; I was but a shadow.
I rushed out of the bathroom and began running towards Marias
28 29
room. We had to escape the convent. I could not hear my footsteps, due
to the pounding of my heart, and the windows seemed to be letting in
the mists from outside. Soon I could hardly see the hall in front of me,
and had to fumble at the walls in order to locate Marias door. I opened
the door to fnd her window open, frigid gusts whipping the chamber in
a violent frenzy. The restraints on the bed had been torn open, and Ma-
ria was standing silhouetted in dim light of the window. She seemed to
glow of her own accord as she stepped toward me, away from the light.
My knees, already aching, buckled, and I felt the atrophied muscles of
my legs give out. I fell to the foor-- the brief descent felt like thousands
of miles and, as I gulped in the fog of night, I tasted smoke. I hit the
foor and all went black.
~
I awoke on a small cot that had been pulled into Marias room. Sis-
ter Aileen stood over me, dabbing my forehead with a cool cloth. I could
see that the cloth was red with blood, and my head ached uncontrollably.
Maria lay on the cot beside me, she was singing quietly.
Aileen, I asked ...sickness... in the convent?
You, and Maria she replied. Other than that, all are well.
Where are they?
Most are in bed she replied It is nearly three in the morning.
Your screams woke me.
blood, mess hall bathroom... was all that I could manage as I was
hit with the recollection of what I had just seen.
did you fall there too?
check I said ...mask, gloves I motioned towards my satchel.
If you so insist she replied and thank you for coming at such an
hour, I am sorry that your journey has been so rough.
She took a mask and a pair of latex gloves from my bag and left for
the bathroom. While she was gone I focused on Marias hymn. I rec-
ognized it, although I had never heard the hymn sung on this island. I
couldnt quite place the melody. Aileen returned in a matter of minutes,
with neither the mask nor the gloves.
Good news! No blood. she said cheerily.
Could I have been imaging it? I had seen the blood with my very
eyes.
The mess hall? I asked.
And what about it? she replied it seemed fne at dinner tonight.
By this time Marias singing had grown louder, and I found it hard
to bear. Something in its somber melody dredged a long forgotten sense
of dread from within the murkiest depths of my soul.
Sister... I implored what tune is Maria humming?
Oh, dear... I am afraid that fall was worse than I had thought. Ma-
ria isnt singing anything at all. She has neither stirred nor made a sound
since the seizure. You had better lay still for a while before examining
her.
My mind flled with paranoid thoughts. Were the nuns deceiving
me? And for what purpose? Maria had been walking earlier that night, I
knew for a fact that I had taken her arm while walking to the convent. I
had Mrs. Connolly as a witness. I also knew that she was singing. Her
voice had now become clear and sonorous, she was ecstatically chanting
the horrid melody. The singing resonated throughout my entire body,
shaking me from my throat to my bowels. I could see her mouthing the
words, face still smiling fxedly, in my peripheral vision. I dare not look
at her directly.
Aileen wiped my forehead, placed a swatch of gauze on my wound,
and applied direct pressure.
Give yourself a minute, Doctor she insisted, perhaps noticing
the cold sweat that had begun running down my brow. Youll come to
soon.
Although her words were sweet, her face began to twist unbear-
ably. I balked, averting my eyes from the disgusting transformation. I
couldnt just lay there helpless-- I forced myself to gaze upon her again.
She was horrifying demonic even. Her face had gone bone white, her
30 31
brow curled into a hideous scowl, and her mouth reddened with blood.
Her eyes were two vague hollows that seemed to foat a few inches in
front of her face. The room behind her grew dim, illuminated only by
a faint blue light coming from the direction of Marias cot. The small
chamber seemed incredibly vast, and I saw shadowy fgures scurrying
along the walls. They were wearing what appeared to be large cloaks
and bulky masks. I had seen such fgures in the past, in the same place
as the black blood. Marias singing flled my ears, and I understood its
signifcance.
It was a low hymn, sung in Spanish, rather than latin, and endemic
to a single mission in Timor. I knew, as a fact, that Maria had never been
to this mission. It was nearly impossible that she could have known the
hymn, as all mouths who had ever issued forth its utterance had burned
in the containment fres. The few surviving members of the HMHS As-
clepiuss crew, of which I was one, called it the hymn of plague.
It was absolutely impossible that she could have known it, and yet
here she was, lying on the cot beside me, singing it aloud. In panic, I
leapt from my cot, pushing the now-demonic Aileen aside, and fell to the
foor.
Doctor! You mustnt Aileen taunted, her voice mockingly saccha-
rine.
I didnt turn back, the shadows-- men in containment suits-- were
already readying their torches. I got onto my legs, feeble as they were,
and ran the interminable distance toward the door. The world around me
was spinning, and a thick smoke, rank with the scent of fesh, had al-
ready begun flling the chamber.
I spilled out into the hall and slipped on the stone foor, falling face-
frst into a warm and viscous substance. I tasted iron as my mouth flled
with putrid black blood. The foors and walls of the convent were cov-
ered in blood, and it was multiplying. This place would soon be fooded.
I scrambled on my hands and knees until I found a door to the outside. I
opened the door and gulped in cool, fresh air, still thick with fog.
My ears rang as I ran down the muddy road, away from the con-
vent. I lost the path several times in the fog, and suffered as many
falls. The ringing in my ears began to take shape and individual sounds
emerged.
The squealing of pigs?
Wild and enraged pigs?
I could hear them squealing in the distance and, as I drew in air, I
smelt seared pork.
I wasnt running through fog at all. With every breath, smoke flled
my lungs. Thorough the smoke I could see bursts of fame, growing
larger as they engulfed the islanders huts and cottages. I knew that the
men in their bulky suits were lurking just beyond the veil, torching the
island. Despair flled my heart, but I forced myself onward, towards the
pier.
After what seemed like hours of tortured running, I reached the
dock. The ferrys amber light pierced the smoke like a beacon of hope. I
scrambled aboard the ship and fell to the deck in relief. The sounds re-
verberating in my ears, however, did not fade. I placed my ears against
the deck and recognized that they were coming from within the ship. It
was not the squealing of pigs, but the enraged and frightened screams
of the patients aboard the Asclepius. They were burning in the fres that
had engulfed the vessel.
I cant be here I assured myself this ship sank over thirty years
ago.
Nonetheless, smoke, fueled in part by the burning feshed of the dis-
eased, poured from the slats in the deck. As hard as I tried, as much as
I told myself that this was a vision from the past, and not reality, I could
not get the smoke to clear. As the burning ship sank, the sea came to
meet me. The freezing water rose, frst engulfng my feet, then my torso,
and then my neck.
I felt an ice cold hand close around my shoulder, and I turned my
head to gaze into Marias face: a smile, a mask, of perfect serenity.
32 33
Hypo
Matt Wong
He was on the verge of death. If, in the fnal moments, a tempera-
ture probe had been placed several centimeters below his chest into
the esophageal cavity, it would have read, slowly, spaced apart in min-
utes, 98.8 (Fahrenheit), 95, 89, 83, and, falling off, in the very last
moments, 72. Then a fat-line for a heart rate. No doubt, all scientifc
criteria indicated he was going into an icy coma, right in the center of
the provincial townhouse he had grown up in. It was during an unusually
warm spell, with highs in the 90s, that he decided to try his luck with ice
baths. The manthe familys son, the athletehad fnished a sole-blis-
tering brick activity. He was new to triathlons, but in a very short amount
of time, hardly surprising anyone, he proven profcient with the foot, the
pedal, and the stroke. It matched his fondness for activities that burst-
ed his gut, literally taking him over the edge, and, on many occasions,
breaking bones and tearing apart various soft tissues, disrupting what-
ever version of a perfectly suitable, pain-free upbringing that his parents
and modern society were expected to provide. It was his uncle Tim who
frst remarked, and it is now frequently quoted, that the sons predispo-
sition for breaking limbs was a way of tacking important milestones. Is
was true that his tibia came apart on the third day of Kindergarten; the
left clavicle during a BMX mishap the third week of sixth grade, fol-
lowed by innumerable wrist fractures, sprained ankles, shin splints, and
even a concussion during an ice-skating incident in which he lost a full
weeks worth of memory (retrograde amnesia; he was moving in the re-
verse direction, they would later say). The parental fgures had hardly the
energy to keep up. On a particularly grim evening, the parents realized
that their son could be suicidal, and that he was trying with great con-
viction to end his own life by means physical self-endangerment. Who
is born to be so reckless? Does he not feel pain like the rest of us? they
wondered. If he was possessed, then there had to be a possessor out
there, and, folklorish as it may seem, his parents believed that the moral-
ity of their behavior was Karmalogically-related to their sons frequent
incidents of trauma, for ill-luck it was not.
His parents were extremely religious. They attended mass every Satur-
day and convened for supplemental worship on Sundays, belonging to a
rare and highly-adherent denomination of Christianity known as Datat-
ism. For many years, their son was also highly observant. He forbade
alcohol and adult literature until his 23rd birthday. He started on marijua-
na in high school only because he so desperately wished to be accepted
by his classmates, as well as to be in direct provocation to his teachers
and the school administration. Even then, it did his conscience wrong
to smoke as he did, out of habit, every week in a car overlooking the
cold shores of Laguna Beach. After, in board-shorts and a short-board,
he went out from the beach into the unharrowing swell where the Cali-
fornian nights were brewing something truly intoxicating for the young
mans soul.
If a set of behaviors and attributes associated with risk-taking, or
excitement-seeking, have genetic components, then those genes had
managed to lay dormant in the family for many generations. The Hewett
family was known to be the Hewett family for their conservative habits,
characterized by the way their descendants have always lived close to
each other, worked with one another (the shipping business), and attend-
ed the same Mass and worship. In marriage, they consistently married
out to the Mascone family, which practiced a similar religion, and thus
they swapped family members each generation, whereupon the families
never stood too far apart from each other. The qualities of risk-taking
invariably work best for those who abound with great personal energy
and charisma. This makes sense, since risk-taking entails tremendous
self-sacrifce, and it takes someone who can endure the periods of little
or no return before any benefts can be sustained and proftable. Without
great personal energy, risk-taking could be disastrous. There is always
34 35
the possibility that people with less conviction will run out of steam and
turn around, negating any initial investments. With the correct strategy,
an initial investment could lead to something new and benefcial to the
risk-taker, something not offered to a more conservative-minded indi-
vidual. Therefore, the genes for risk-taking pass down from the most
energetic, successful and enterprising individualsthose capable making
sacrifces and staying in the heat when necessaryor from those who
have sacrifced greatly and gained nothing.
Risk-taking and recklessness are not entirely different from each other.
Genetically, due to their similarity, they most likely share allelic vari-
ations and are found on the same chromosomes. In fact, recklessness
is just one step down from risk-taking. There is always some degree of
recklessness in entrepreneurship. What one see as an opportunity, others
may see as risk, or recklessness, and often, the risk-adverse will quietly
agree that nothing can be done to change it. Without recklessness as a in-
herent quality, we would all probably suffer. There is no great institution
in this country that has not advanced because of the risks taken byor
some might say the recklessness ofthe founders. No great company
would, in fact, have succeeded in this country without someone frst ap-
preciating the risk in recklessness and then disregarding it. Society has
always benefted greatly from the genetic contribution of risk-taking, in
which discrete individuals have made incredible changes, despite great
possibility of self-endangerment or failure. We as a society value these
people, as they are the likes of Steve Jobs, or Larry Ellison or Bill Gates,
who create a great number of jobs for the rest of us. However, it must be
stated that risk-taking is largely cultural; an intolerant environment will
force risk-takers to retreat and lose ambition. It is therefore highly un-
usual to see a risk-taker express in an otherwise inexpressible communi-
ty of non-risk-takers.
While sitting in an icy bath, the sons body temperature began to sink
until he fell into cold shock. The human thermostat is set to 98.6, Fahr-
enheit, which remains unwaveringly so due to the essential properties
shared by warm-blooded mammal collectively known as thermal ho-
meostasis. We also know that once the body contacts cold water, a few
dozen heat-conversation regulatory mechanisms kick into action, the
most dominant at the preoptic area of the hypothalamus, which promotes
various evolutionarily ancient methods of heat conservation and produc-
tion. We know a priori that when the son frst stepped into the ice bath,
all the blood vessels in his legs constricted to slow the fow of blood to
the skin and extremities, in an attempt to minimize heat loss. Any phys-
ical movement would have been reduced to a languid pace. Stimulation
of the sympathetic nervous system would have released epinephrine and
norepinephrine, wildly accelerating the metabolic rate of all cells by up
to 500%, producing the emergency heat needed for cell survival and to
ward off hypothermia.
Despite all of our adaptations, with enough ice and water, the human
core temperature plummets. Breathing rate diminishes, the heart rate
cuts into half, and the extreme shivering that begins at around 97.8 will
cease at around 87.8. The brain suffers a 6-7% reduction in metabolism
per each 2F drop in internal temperature. These are disastrous conse-
quences for people who are buried alive in avalanches, or found in icy
lakes in the frostiest winters. On this particular day, the son had created
his own calamity, all contained in his parents well-stocked powder room.
It was the promise of ice therapy that prompted and excited their son to
take it up. While it has been claimed to alleviate the soreness and tension
in my legs, these claims are wildly contested to the point that there is no
medically established basis for taking ice baths. However, their reputed
ability to speed recovery and lessen infammation is overwhelming. It
was his nature to be totally aware of the risks of certain procedures, and
it was also his will that exercised the fnal decision. Beginning earlier
in the year, he started work-outs that involved a combinations of run-
ning, swimming, or cycling. Gradually, the distance and duration of his
36 37
workouts increased, which, by this late month, went often in excess of
three hours. He demanded an equally amazing recovery from his body,
and his body was by no means a slow poke. Yet the temptation of ice
baths proved too much. With surfers ability to thermoregulate and an
un-Hewettian sense of risk-taking, he gave it a go. He purchased three
bags of ice from the local Tomms Market, only realizing later that two
suffciently covered the top of his bath tub (he left the third in the kitch-
en freezer, for future use). By the time things were set and done, it was
4:45 PM. He planed to stay in bath from 5:00 till 5:15, about twice the
amount of time recommended on his favorite triathlete online forum.
As he flled up the tub with water and ice, he had to fnd the red, rub-
ber plug out of the sink cabinet and stick it in the water-emptying hole,
its thin metal chain quietly fagellating in the water. Then, he found a
sturdy wood chair, moved it next to the bathtub and took a generously
thick pinkish-red towel from the washroom onto the chair. He striped
(the clothes went down next to the chair). He opened the shower curtains
completely, which shook metallic with the sound of steel the hooks, and
turned off the lights. The tub itself was greatly dimmed, the remaining
space now lit in translucent colors from the light coming the glass roof
and refecting off the pastel walls. He found an old mechanical alarm
clock, one that had a metallic tic like a metronome, rotated it completely,
and left the timer to read ffteen minutes. Then, he went in, left leg frst,
then his ass, and up. The ice foated about, like phospholipid heads of a
membrane, the water level surged up and waved, letting some water out
and wetting his clothes. He plunged his head underwater.
He was an unusually large person. His parents were both above-average,
his mom being fve-eight. Even in an American bathtub, he had to curl
his legs when he lay down, so much so that the entire region of his knee-
cap down to the top of his shin were exposed to the air, the geometry of
the tub tapering at the far end. Therefore, he made several attempts to
get prone, or to assume a more-embryonic shape. The water was cold,
interestingly jarring, but not altogether new. He was familiar with a cold
surf. He took up wetsuits only in the winter, and even then, he found
them constrictive and uninteresting. Once, during a date, he wore shorts
and a torn t-shirt to a windy overlook, and his date asked if he was cold,
to which he responded, I do not feel the cold. The girl didnt know
whether to interpret it as a strange back-hand boast or the evidence of a
supernatural physique.
The way we experience sensations, intense cold is more akin to a burn-
ing feeling than it is to an extreme of what we normally perceive as
cold. The young athlete found himself shivering and burning at the
same time, but he concluded that it was his will that made him shiver,
not the temperature of the water itself. In controlling his shivering, he
felt immense confdence in the icy waters of the bathtub.
It is astounding how much thinking we can do in a short amount of time.
The Russian composer Sergei Prokofev was able to write music faster
than his contemporaries could produce it at a concert level. Our percep-
tion of passing time is as fckle as the music that is being heard. To the
average listener, what is one minute in largo is, say, approximately 55
seconds allegro, or 50 seconds, allegretto, or perhaps even 40 seconds
prestissimo. So to say that we can be in an intensely fruitful state of
mind during a period as short as a 15 minute bath is no exaggeration. We
like to think that the human mind does not prescribe to the same physi-
ological constants as, say, our muscles or skin, but time and time again,
the work of great scientists have shown that the mind is intensely curious
and never simple. During his concussion, his parents quizzed him on all
the thing he had done prior to his traumatic event. He remembered none
of his interactions, despite spending days thinking it over to himself.
It was at that moment that he realized that his mind was like any other
organ in his body, capable of damage, and unable to produce under dis-
tress.
He was studying at a community college, in addition to working at a lo-
38 39
cal supermarket. When he took an introductory course to economics, he
describe some of the material as was mesmerizing, which his parents
and religious community saw as a good sign of academic achievement to
come. But there was also no doubt that he felt thoroughly embarrassed
by his friends who had attended 4-year universities. He felt as if they had
out-done him; fnally, the achievement difference being completely seri-
ous, honest, and visible. He had friends who had moved out and attended
colleges across the state or country, doing great things, and if not great
things, having a great time. This was what he thought about when an
isolated moment caught him. He would be out with friends, then sudden-
ly feel a calculated drop in mood, which brought about both a brooding
and earnest disposition at the same time. It was frightening to his friends,
who had neither his size nor the energy to match him.
The chills had caught up to him after he fnished resolving the problem
of his knees. It was better knees upright, like an iceberg, for now. He
would later redo the icy procedure for his calves. He drifted a little bit,
played with his buoyancy. He felt the ice blocks when his eyes were
shut. Each passing minute, the ice blocks were diminishing in size. He
was gradually heating the water. That made him feel completely in con-
trol. His mind drifted, his thoughts and imagination repeating from ear-
lier at the local community college, earlier during the workouts, perhaps
even earlier, as if lodged in his subconscious, something of the quality
of sleep, but this time, they were even stronger and more promising. Of
course he thought about the girls he dated and those he didnt. He felt
the clash of new and old anxieties; how he managed to butch the basics
the way that a drunkard gaffs the blackjack table. In fact, he knew that
he was remarkable to the opposite sex, which made the fall from grace
that much worse, producing a paradox from which he had no respite.
They evaded him, so much that he blamed his physique for the prob-
lem (which was, by general consensus, the least of his shortcomings).
This bath exercise was, in a small way, going to change that. And thus,
twisting in the cold, his thoughts drifted. The water faucet dripped cold
water droplets on his forehead, which stung in isolation as he stared up
it like the nostrils of a demigod. Change is addictive. Now he was no
longer effeminate: change the way you dress, change up the dinner-table
discussion, ditch the conversation starters. He was tired of the verbiage
that the online world was buzzing with. Bullshit is the worst, he thought.
Belief in the self is the most important belief above to all other concerns,
which, at this particular movement, seized him like a man deeply in wor-
ship.
By the time that the 15-minute alarm, loud and metallic, went off, we
begin to lose details about the course and condition of the young man
bathing in the icy waters. What we do know is that he did not walk out.
We know that something kept him in the bath long enough to run up the
course of irreversible brain damage due to hypothermia. While his thick
legs and arms still had enough heat in them to function, the rest of the
body musclesneck, feet, fngers, everything elsewere most defnitely
too stiff to move freely. There is a high possibility that his mental state
was highly altered. If the ice bath did its job properly, and if everything
about the experiment was conducted properly, then the sons brain, sit-
ting in the ice for ffteen minutes, would have lost anywhere between
an eighth to even half his initial cognitive ability. If he could still hear
and think, then he should have noticed that the time for the ice bath
(twice the amount that was originally recommended) was over and that
its purpose was served. At this point, if he immersed himself in ice as a
demonstration of his pain tolerance, theres no doubt that he had already
succeeded. At the ffteen-minute mark, he may have felt like a sprinter in
the limelight of victory. Perhaps after hearing the alarm, the son couldnt
fnd the spark needed to initiate motion, the way a shy student cant fnd
the right moment or opening during lecture to ask a question. Perhaps
now, he was considering the real challenge of how to get up. Its likely,
he relied on his elbows to push himself off the tub. Maybe he couldnt
fnd the strength to get up. Or, perhaps the cold had left him completely
paralyzed, legs and arms stiff like bones. This would be the frst sign of
40 41
an life-threatening emergency.
Or, perhaps, he enjoyed it too much to get up. Autoerotic asphyxiation
is not a rare amongst men and women. Unfortunately, because of the
inherent danger, there is the unintended consequence of serious bodily
injury or death. Take, for instance, the fact that autoeroticism sometimes
includes mild suffocation while having sex. It is not the desire to truly
suffocate and die, which would be considered a form of suicidal ideation
and classifed as a psychiatric illness. Instead, in autoerotic asphyxiation,
one fnds pleasure in the threat offered by extreme scenarios: a noose
tied around the neck, being buried in a mound of dirt, and, in many in-
stances, the possibility of death by drowning.
If, in fact, the son of the Hewett family was fulflling a morbid sexual
fantasy, then he was fulflling two of the major criteria: he was in ex-
treme cold, which was undoubtably paralytic, and he was surrounded by
water. And, a third: he was completely naked. He may have passed all
ffteen minutes with his head over the water, or, he may have plunged
head frst, holding his breath, exposing his sinuses to the same freezing
ice as his genitals and buttocks. Such was a far more likely situation.
While surfng, his friends recounted that he enjoyed being underwater
while waiting for waves. He was oddly comfortable in the ocean and its
cold. If he dipped his head underwater, then he would have had to get up
approximately ffteen times for breath. Each time, he must have looked
over and, seeing that the clock was counting down, perhaps thinking
about when to get out of the bath. Even if he only got up seven times,
that was seven times alerted by the timer that the bath was flled with ice
and that he was not in the ocean. Perhaps the sensation of being under-
water, unable to move, was a form of autoeroticism he could not resist,
just too pleasurable to let go.
He was bare naked when he came out, the way he went in. If he had
gotten up, then the frst thing he would have reached for was his towel.
He would have used it for drying himself and generating fction needed
to warm his cold body. Since he had clothes, he would have worn the
clothes and the towel, and walked straight out of the bathroom, out of the
bedroom, and probably into the sun, which would have warmed him.
Or, he was bare naked, and, suffering from early signs of hypothermia,
unable to get out of the bath tub. All attempts were futile. After the alarm
went off, he progressively got weaker, his brain going into more and
more of a coma state, unable to function. He would had lost conscious-
ness well before death. The death would have been of unspeakable pain.
Hypothermia survivors describe their state prior to rescue as one of the
most painful experiences in their lives. Oddly, hypothermia can be used
in conjunction with life-saving procedures. For people who had lost irre-
coverable body heat, it might be benefcial to keep their bodies immersed
in the icy cold. Only by staying cold, the mechanism of death, or the
metabolism of death, is slowed. In the proper supervision of doctors, the
body may be slowly heated.
Its certain that the Hewettian son heard, and possibly ignored, his self-
set alarm. We are not certain how he got out of the tub. He may have got-
ten up on his own, dressed, and returned to daily life; or he could have
spent his last minutes suffering a grizzly death and icy coma. Yet, there
is another possibility: it was his parents that rescued him from his hell-
ish pool of ice. If they were reading in the patio, then they would have
easily heard their son yell, or shriek, for help. The Hewett family re-
sponds quickly to shrieks, since shrieks are uncommon to the family and
very rare in their household. If the son had locked the door, the parents,
particularly the square-shouldered dad, would have come right in and
barged through, making quick work of the door hinges. Seeing their son
in the icy pool, they would have immediately grabbed and hoisted him
out of the dangerous waters, thrown a few dozen towels over his way,
brought in the winter heater, perhaps even light a campfre right there on
the bathroom titles, if it meant offering all the protective measures need-
42 43
ed save their son. They would have acted fast and swiftly. They were not
ones to beat around the bushes, not in a particularly perilous situation
like this.
Could the son scream? Can one scream while in hypothermia? Yes, and
no. The screaming that occurs in the mind is one thing, and the physical
act of air pushing out at the right part in the throat, another. If he wished
to scream, he would have forced himself to do so. And his parents, in all
likelihood, would have heard those utterances, even if they were small,
which would have led to the situation described above in which anything
and everything would be unleashed to protect and save their sons health,
including razing the locked door. But, by our records, no door handle in
the Hewett family was ever mishandled. The family went about its busi-
ness that evening not unlike any other. Ironic as it might seem, the par-
ents, in fact, were never even alerted once about their sons life-threat-
ening condition. If fact, they had been in the house that very evening,
reading in the patio, discussing, most likely, the hand in marriage of the
Mascones youngest daughter, and were not once alerted of their sons
strange disposition. The swift rescue would have been the easiest solu-
tion to the nightmare at hand. The son, in fact, sensed his parents that
evening. He knew that the slightest utterance could have saved him from
the icy danger.
If he knew that, if he knew that it would have ended his nightmare, why
didnt get do it? Why didnt he just end his misery, which he later de-
scribed to his classmates as the most painful experience of my life (his
life was already more full of pain than the average). Well, how exactly
did he prevented himself from death by hypothermia? Well, we dont
know exactly what he did, but in all likelihood, he rescued himself. As
we said, we dont know how long it took. If he fnished in ffteen, he
would have gotten right up and shock off the cold. If he waited longer,
then more dangerous things would have happened. As stated earlier, if he
had the strength left, he may have lifted himself with his elbows. He may
have ejected himself with his legs, rolling over onto the tiles and bruising
something on the way. He might have even been forced to grab and pull
the foating metal chain of the rubber stopper plug, allowing the water to
sink, leaving a layer of ice to form on the bottom of the tub. Then, get-
ting up, if he managed to, he would have dried himself, put his clothes
on, and walked out into the summer warmth, which, at 6:30, still would
have still been generous enough to warm his organs back to homeostatic
temperature.
Although the question about how he got up is a mystery to those who
have read and heard his story, the greater tragedy is why he subjected
himself to such immense pain in the frst place, and how he managed to
do so without the help of those around him. If he had even barely lifted
his voice, which is one of the functions that goes last in a chilly death,
then he may have halfway ended the journey to a frozen hell. But, he
was stark naked. And being naked, he couldnt stand the thought of his
parents seeing him in his most natural, embryonic state. That was what
he feared most. When asked what he feared most about the ice bath, he
would respond by saying that it was his nakedness that he feared most.
And nothing more. It was a contest between physical pain and shame,
the greatest shame for him. The thought of his mother, or father, seeing
him in a naked state would be so abominable that he risked everything to
avoid that catastrophe from happening. Was is his religion? Or was it just
a mistaken sense of modern male identity? What was it? Perhaps we will
never know from the young male.
44 45