“TWISTED: TALES TO ROT YOUR BRAIN is a fun collection of coiled and

contorted thoughts, brimming with black humor and playfully illustrated

experiments about haunted people, hairy eyeballs, and brains that don’t
quite stay where they ought to. Nora Thompson is one of those rare writers
who can make the sick seem endearingly sweet (and vice-versa), and her
artwork is distinctively bizarre and beautiful at the same time. I can’t wait
to read Volume 2!”

—MICHAEL ARNZEN,
author of 100 Jolts: Shockingly Short Stories
 Copyright
The stories in this book are works of fiction. Although the characters, the
situations they find themselves in and what they say out loud or to
themselves may sound familiar, trust me, I totally pulled them out of my
own rotty little brain. And I’ve got the scars to prove it.

Twisted: Tales to Rot Your Brain Vol. 1

Copyright © 2011 by Thompson Graphx

Copyright Registration No. Canada: 1088011
Copyright Registration No. United States: TXu 1-761-314

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without

written permission except in the case of brief quotations included in critical
articles and reviews, which would be totally cool.
For information please write to:
Thompson Graphx, PO Box 10, Whitney, PA 15693.

www.hairyeyeballspress.com

ISBNs
Hard cover: 978-0-9836699-0-6
Paperback: 978-0-9836699-1-3
pdf: 978-0-9836699-2-0
ePub: 978-0-9836699-3-7
mobi: 978-0-9836699-4-4
First Edition

Book site: www.hairyeyeballs.com

Book blog: www.hairy-eyeballs.blogspot.com
 Table of Contents

Allergy
Testophobia
That Smell
Garlic Toast
Insomniac
Shhh...
Bombs Away
Mouth Breather
Visitation Day
Dead Line
Hairy Eyeballs
Doodles
Granny’s Recipes
Headache
Keeper
Shadows
Chula
Lobotomy Pie
Cleaver Overachiever
Full Moon
Doc Chocolate
Three Strange Days
You Know What Else Children Don’t Know?
Security
Crow Quill
Past Tense
Eat Your Vegetables
The End
 Allergy

Well first of all, I don’t enjoy sneezing all day, and I don’t really care for
your mocking me. So when I’m sneezing, just back off, O.K.? I mean,
really. It’s not my fa—ah—ah…Oh! Excuse me. So sorry. Here…wipe that
off there. I’ve taken all the medicine in the package just this morning, even
though it said it was supposed to last all season—Ah—ah—Oh! Sorry
again. My bad. What is what? Huh. Funky. I’m not really sure what that is,
but I’m pretty sure it came out of my nose. I—I—phooey! Pardon, here let
me get that. Oh, wow. Mushy. I understand what it looks like, but I’m sure
it’s just mucous. Give me a break. Nobody’s ever sneezed that hard.
Sheesh! Besides, I’m sure if that’s what it was, there would be some
definite comse…consen…consequences. What do you mean, “Like what?”
Somethink like just spicking to you, I guess. Don’t you thimk I would have
sun difficutty? Thass not what I said. I’m spenking ravver plainly. Maybe
iss you—ah—ah—jenkees! Back off, man! I’m the one who hassa deal wiff
it, so don’ be selling me wha to do! I’ll jus’ shove it all backup innare an’
evertink will juss be hunky-dunky. Serrously. Are you laffung aa me?
Testophobia
 That Smell

The leftover parts were weeks ago bagged and buried, and yet the horrid,
rotting stench remained. Locked in our noses probably, but we weren’t
thinking like that. The first few days we just scrubbed the spot on the floor,
trying to get it clean with whatever we could find under the sink. But we
soon realized sleeping was difficult so we graduated to bleach. All that
managed to do was remove the wood stain and varnish on the hardwood
floor where it happened.
And our not sleeping hadn’t changed.
“Spray some of this.” Jeremy forced a rusted can in my face.
I read the label between my brother’s fingers. “I don’t think covering up
the smell will actually solve the problem,” I refused. “There must be
something somewhere we’re missing.”
“But we were careful,” he pleaded. “Just do something.”
“I am.” I threw the sponge in the bucket where it landed in a splash of
stinging peroxide.
“Why don’t you open some windows,” I growled and bumped his
shoulder on my way to the back door.
The waxing half moon floated ghostly behind a cloudy October sky. I
shivered and watched the vapors breathe across the faded glow and thought
how comforting the new moon sky had been only a week before. A lifetime
ago. We were so much younger then.
The moon wasn’t against us.
 The clouds drifted just then and enough light shone across the field
stretched out in front of me that the freshly turned earth more than fifty
yards west looked less private than it had in the earlier light of morning.
I swallowed hard as the clouds once again concealed our madness. My
nose flared. I knew what we had to do, and swung open the screeching
screen door.
“We gotta get out of here, boy. That moon ain’t stopping for nobody.” I
grabbed the back of Jeremy’s collar and pushed his skinny body out the
door.
“I’ll be getting hungry again soon enough.”
 Garlic Toast

Way, way too much garlic on your bread tonight. You wake with parched
lips and a tongue that can’t stand what you’ve done. You need a drink to
dilute that after-dinner taste lingering there so you toss off the sheets and
head for the kitchen. Your eyes strain in the darkness. What was that? Your
head snaps toward the scratching across the linoleum behind you. What was
that? Your ears perk up, but discern nothing more than silence. Your eyes
struggle to catch movement, but still, nothing. Slowly, you resume your
path toward the sink. Whoa! There it is again. You glance behind you. It’s
got to be right there. Where? It moves. Behind you. Its skin reeks of sulfur
and burns the lining of your nose. Your hair tries to shoot itself from the
follicles of your arms. The stench becomes stronger. You can feel its foul
breath against your body. Your feet are frozen but know they must run.
Where to go? Get out of the house. Outside. To the car. The keys. Where
are Mom’s keys? Behind the visor. You slam the car door and lock it.
You’re fumbling through the keys for the right one. House. Garage.
Mailbox. Car, car. Car! Can’t drive? Time to learn! You glimpse toward the
house. It’s right there. It’s coming. You drop the keys. Crap! It’s here now,
at the door. Pounding the window. The keys are lost in the darkness. It
keeps pounding. The window cracks. It breaks. Oily fingers grab at your
throat. You slide out the passenger side. The ground is rocky. You lose your
footing. You jump back to your feet. You recognize the cool wetness
running from the gashes on your legs and hands. You leave some of it with
every drag of your foot. You hope it can’t smell you, but you’re sure it can.
Around the corner. You find a building. Front door. Stairs. Find the stairs.
They groan with each slam of your feet. It hears them. It knows where you
are. It’s already there, waiting for you. It reaches through from the back of
the open stairs and seizes your ankle. Its grasp is cold and greasy. You can’t
pull away. You trip. You slide backwards. It releases. It’s coming around the
stairs now. You begin again, this time on all fours. At the top, through the
door, but it’s swollen and refuses to latch behind you. You ram all your
weight to jam it. Block it with a chair. You’re breathing even heavier now.
The phone. It’s on the stand. The chair twists with each thump at the door.
Quickly. Quickly. The receiver falls from your hand. The numbers. How
hard can it be? Your fingers hit two at a time. Try again. The gap at the door
is getting wider. Focus. Focus. Numbers. The wrong ones. The chair is
smashed. You head for a door. But you’re on the roof. The roof! Nowhere to
go but down. It’s right behind you. You have to jump. Falling. Falling. You
grasp at the air. Anything to stop your fall. Your arms windmill. The
sidewalk! Your body jerks on impact. Your eyes spring open. Your room.
The moonlight through your window, your ceiling. Your breathing slows.
Slowly now. Slowly. You wipe the sweat from your forehead. Rolling to
your side, you pull the covers to your chin. You close your eyes and smile.
You hope the next one is just as good.
 Insomniac

Ted has had about enough. Since his friends were over last Thursday, he
hasn’t been sleeping at all well.
Well…At all.
He knows he should be tired. He knows he needs to get some rest, but he
just can’t get the z’s he knows he needs. And he can’t figure out why. He
stays up with the remote. He surfs the Web. He goes for walks.
He doesn’t remember much, but he’s pretty sure he’s been doing all
those things. It’s just lack of sleep, he keeps telling himself. Remembering is
such a chore since this happen…what were we talking about?
And the munchies. His appetite has his head in the refrigerator
continually. But he never seems to find anything to satisfy the cravings, so
he just keeps searching. Sometimes, since he’s up in the middle of the night
anyway, he has his head in the refrigerators at the corner 24-hour grocery.
Their selection isn’t much better than what he’s found at home, but the clerk
is looking pretty good.
She tends to run away from him though, for reasons he’s not entirely
certain.
He’s noticed the lack of sleep catching up with him. He drags himself out
of bed after not having slept a wink. He drags his heavy head around like
it’s a bowling ball. He drags his feet when he walks. Annunciating becomes
an issue. Not that anybody has been hanging around to hear anything he has
to say anyway. His vision grows cloudier by the minute. To get anywhere,
he has to feel his way.
People aren’t seeming to like the new Ted all that much. The grabby
hands. The inarticulation. The appetite.
What’s with all the running? he moans. The running actually makes them
even more appetizing, he tries to verbalize in the direction of the other
appetite-driven insomniacs.
Their brains look all the nummier because they’re not sharing.
At least that’s what he’s trying to say. What he’s actually saying sounds
an awful lot like, “Mosmelabelm brummundalm.”
He’s just needing some shut eye is all.
 Shhh...

Rebinding a dear old book could easily have been the most relaxing
process of this battered librarian’s tiresome day. With frail and gloved
hands, she manipulated the brittle pages into submission with expertise, and
carefully, anxiously sewed their edges using sinew so as to prevent further
deterioration.
The quiet relaxed her. She could hear her own breathing, which was nice.
The children weren’t as fond of the lack of ruckus, apparently. She would
sew all their mouths shut if she could. She chuckled at the thought. The
clock ticked off hours past midnight, but she persisted with stiff
determination.
A library should be a place of reverence, she muttered to herself. These
books need peace. Can’t those kids just pipe down?
Eventually, though, things should be under control. Library cards would
need to be revoked, of course, but it would all be for the greater good. No
point in following the proper sluggish channels; circumvention would
clearly produce speedier results.
The carapace she had decided to use to encase the tome’s new spine had
been boiling since shortly after the closing hour, and experience told her the
lot of it should be ready. She raised it from its cloudy slurry and allowed it
to drip. Gently and precisely, she sliced the raw material down its length
and collected in a pan as much oral mucosa as possible.
 Threading another needle, she stitched the slippery portions into a size
and shape suitable for more reading and less talking. She brushed adhesive
across the surface of backing boards and enveloped the board’s form with
her meticulously stitched membrane, papillae facing outward, naturally. She
caressed her work and shelved it on the work table to dry.
Now the only tongue wagging, she smiled, will be the flapping of a silent
book covering.
Bombs Away
“Wait ’til he looks up.
They hate that.”
 Mouth Breather

they told me i a mouth breather. i dunno. i guess it true.

they say that problem.
i know i don’t think so good. i know that. you no have to explain that. i
can think real hard on thing that i doing, and i have troubles with other
stuff.
but kids, they spot. they make fun. they point and laugh, point and laugh.
i no get angry. i just do job. it hurt sometimes, it do. but i chin up. i try
make brain chin up.
i try think brain chin up positive. maybe mouth breath just push oxygen
where need most, i try think. maybe brain? more oxygen to brain? i be
problems thinking on more than one thing at time, like said. so maybe
oxygen not going for brain.
was it lungs i thinking? no, me jaws. fingernails? one of those, i pretty
sure.
i think more oxygen make blood redder and more oomph for we all-
nighters. so why problem?
maybe extra oxygen is for me lungs. since ’cause when i run after stuff, i
need breathe that way. with me mouth open.
oh. everybody run with mouth open, huh.
if not lungs, then me jaws can definitely use the extra red. you know, for
grabbing on and chewing bone and gristle.
 but me fingernails! oh! that must be what oxygen for! how else could
grabbing and slashing and shredding if no tough, sharp clawings to stop you
when you trying to run away from me?
but you shuffling around up there again. i hold breath. i thinking problem
must be how you can hear me under bed.
breathing.
because, i guess i a mouth breather.
 Visitation Day

Visitation days are always stressful. But it is family, and you feel obligated.
But even family can creep you out when they get in a place like this.
Sometimes it’s hard to recognize them when they get that way. But you
learn to ignore it, and you tolerate the visit, and you go back home when it’s
over. Hopefully what you see doesn’t stay in your head for too long
afterwards. Hopefully they don’t. You don’t want them swimming around in
there. But before they even bring them in, you’ll notice what the room does
to you. All the white around makes even the smallest splash of color
vibrate. Skin. Hair. Eyes. When they stare at you, at first you wonder why,
but eventually you figure it out. Everything else is sanitized, and you’re the
only thing in the room that is not. The hard visits are when they stare and
don’t say much, so you don’t say much back. Awkward. Even more
awkward are the times they try to tell you about some unknown person who
did some ridiculous thing some god-knows-where, and you try to follow
along, but, really...huh? Who are these people? Am I really expected to
care? I’ll give up a half smile and stare a little more at their clothes. Their
clothes vibrate with all the white around. My eye twitches a little sometimes
from all the vibrations. Sometimes I can feel my brain vibrating a little, too,
and I made the mistake of saying so once. Lots of questions. Lots and lots
of questions. They want to get in there with the vibrations, but I won’t let
them, and they don’t like it. You don’t want them in there. If it feels like
they’re getting in there, just look somewhere else. Or close your eyes real
tight, like this. And even if you get scared, try to remember that, no matter
what happens, they always bring you back home when it’s over. Try to stay
as still as you can. Don’t show them that you’re scared or that you’re angry
or that you’re anything but good, or they’ll strap you down. You’ll do fine.
They’ll bring you back home when it’s over, and I’ll be here. You’ll do just
fine.
Dead Line
 Hairy Eyeballs

As if Tommy the Terrorizer chasing you through the halls to class wasn’t
embarrassing enough, a single strand of stiff, black hair is now growing out
of your mouth.

Yeah. Your mouth.

It comes from the back of your throat, and at first you think it’s just a hair in
your mouth. Gross. But when you try to get it out of there, you realize it’s
attached.

Attached? In your mouth?

You think, “What the…,” and between classes you sneak to the bathroom to
take a look in the mirror. Yep. It’s coming from the back of your throat, and
it’s too dark back there and too far around the bend to really see what it’s
attached to, and it’s pointing straight out of your pie hole. You grab it
between your fingers and brace yourself before you pull because you know
this is going to hurt.

But it doesn’t.

You raise an eyebrow and give yourself a what-the-crap-was-that look in

the mirror. Looking at the strand of hair, you realize it’s pretty freakin’ long.

Too long to be coming from the back of your throat.

You drop it tentatively in the trash and watch it fall to the bottom. You look
around to see if anybody else was watching and wipe your hands on your
jeans. You back your way out of the bathroom.

That was weird.

The next day during class, you feel the hair in your mouth again.

You’ve got to be kidding me. Again?

You try to swallow, but the thing won’t budge. You can feel it in there with
your fingers, and you try to pull it out without being noticed. Your eyes
scan the rest of the room as you cover your mouth and jerk. But it’s too
long, so you crunch it in a ball in your hand as you pull it out. After class
you deposit it in the nearest trash receptacle without looking down.

The next day it’s back, of course, but this time it’s stiff enough to poke the
inside of your lips. It’s stiff enough that you can’t keep it from pushing
through to the outside.

You’re a little disgusted at this point, so again, you give it a yank.

Again, no pain.

But this time, you’ve pulled two. You look at the wiry strands standing up
between your fingers and swallow hard. The next time, you’re certain, it’ll
be four.

And then eight.

And so it goes.
Next week you’ll wake up and head straight for the bathroom mirror to do
your daily hair-plucking, but when you open your mouth you’ll see several
tiny red eyes staring back at you at the ends of the hairs. You’ll spring back
and fall over the toilet. You’ll begin feeling nauseous and lift the lid to stick
your head in.

Remember that bug you accidently swallowed last week when you were
sucking wind running from Tommy the Terrorizer?

Yeah. Tommy’s the least of your worries.

That cute little bug’s all grown up now.

And he’s made himself some friends.

Doodles
Doodles was starting to believe rumors that the ringmaster had decided to
liven up the show.
 Granny’s Recipes

The peppermint stench pursues me from every corner of this lonesome,

one-roomed address. Cigarette smoke seems to be the only thing that keeps
it from burning the lining of my nose and, torturous as it is, my sense of
smell is indispensable. But don’t get me wrong, it is very peaceful here.
Secluded. Just perfect. Besides, this home has been in the family for
generations. Yes, it is in constant need of repair, but I’ve gotten pretty good
at cooking up some pretty unorthodox mending materials to keep it up, I
must say. I do get lonely from time to time, but the children always visit and
bring my necessities, and they leave me with a contented heart.
I run my withered hands over Granny’s recipes. Some of the ingredients
have become a little hard to come by, not like in the olden days. The
gingerbread one in particular has been hundreds of years in the making, but
my weary eyes can see it distinctly without even holding it all too closely in
front of them. I exhale wearily, allow the tattered slip of paper to drop to the
table with the others and lean my weakened body forward. The wood grain
beneath my hands has become ridged from so many years in operation here,
but I wouldn’t dream of replacing it. Not for a minute.
My eyes search the room for a piece of myself that hasn’t been handed
down, and they find not a single speck. One mustn’t forget to include the
countless crumpled bags of homespun candy piled high in the corner; one
more consequence of proud hand-me-down living.
 I must admit, I do allow myself a nibble or two of my sweetened
concoctions from time to time. Sometimes the sugar high helps me forget
my churning belly. But sweetened gumdrops can only be a temporary fix.
It’s unfortunate, but one cannot subsist on sugar alone.
I’m afraid I may be down another dress size. Even when I push my
stomach out as far as I have the strength, it barely touches the innards of my
dressing gown. I’ve yearned all too often for more sustenance over many a
cursed pot of simply boiling water.
I glimpse through the greasy door window toward the path. I hope the
children get here soon. They are so small; they may have trouble finding the
way. But they have yet to let me down in all my years, and they do always
seem to renew my spirits, those little ones.
I pull back the window curtains and breathe a heavy sigh.
Where could they be?
I focus down the window glass toward my reflection, which confirms my
fears. Turned sideways, I can see my stunning roundness has vanished. I
wrap my face in my hands.
My hands. Their former beauty evaporates before my eyes. My dazzling
emerald complexion of younger days has faded to pale sea green. Spells and
potions do nothing.
And my wart. It’s deflating along with the rest of me.
Oh, where are those children?
They’re so small.
And tender.
I hope they’ll be enough.
 Headache

This headache. Aaaagh! It’s been pressing my brains for way too long. At
least a week now. Hard to remember when the thing got started. Easy to let
it take over. Forcing out the temples, the jaw joint, the forehead. My right
eye waters constantly from the pressure.

So much pressure.

Streams of salty tears squeeze out of my bloodshot eye socket. Hard to

think. Hard to react.

Hard to look at them.

Just, please, make it stop, I beg them.

Closing my eyes, I still feel pained. I rock. I’m rocking. Back and front.
Back and front. They want me to talk it through. Maybe the expulsion of
words will ease the pressure. I agree. But no, it isn’t working. Talking only
leads to more screaming. And rocking. And convulsion.

I run and shout in random spurts around the room. They grab me and hold
me still, and I try to calm.

I gulp the air.

My exhale clouds the freezing space in front of me. The light is blinding.
Turn it off! Please, just turn it off! I collapse to the floor. I hold my head
with both hands and moan and rock. I scream. Still the pressure. Dull
butcher knives. Deep from in my skull.

From the inside out. Splitting the skull.

Splitting my skull.

But it’s not me. It’s not me. It’s somebody…else. Something else. In the
head.

In my head.

In my head.

It wants out.

I want it out. Get it out! I scream.

And then the vomiting. The clawing. The clawing! From inside my skull!
The clawing to get out! I would help if I knew how.

If I knew how I would help!

No more questions! No more talking! I can’t answer for it. I can only
answer for me.

For me!

IT WANTS OUT!

I WANT IT OUT!
I want out. I have to get out. The claustrophobia, claustrophobia. I can’t
move. The pressure holding me in here. It’s dark. So dark. And crammed.
So constricting. Hard to breathe.

I’m afraid. I’m so, so afraid.

Blazing hot. Please, please let me out. Why won’t they let me out? I’m
scratching, scraping, pushing.

I’m trapped.

But then a light. It pokes through. Through beside my head. I force all of
me towards it. I push and claw and scratch until it feels like my fingers
bleed. The light gets bigger. And the puncture, it’s getting bigger, too. I
squeeze my fingers through and spread them.

Ripping, screaming, cracking. I spread my hands.

Splintering, snapping.

I push my head through. The air! The air! At last I can breathe! I gulp it in.
My exhale clouds the freezing space in front of me. The light blinds. The
brightness burns my watering eyes, and I squint. I breathe deeply and rest
for a moment, wet, bloody, drained.

Faded shadowy figures appear and surround me. I don’t understand their
tongue, and I don’t care.

I collect my energy and squeeze the rest of me through the small fracture.
Slowly, painfully. Sliding away from the lifeless shell that entombed me,
my exhausted body crumples to the floor.
And I breathe.
 Keeper

Everything lives quiet down here. That’s a good thing. All I really take
notice of are the birds. Although it’s mostly the crows that seem to gather
up there in the trees.

They sure like their carrion.

Dog comes about now and then. Sniffing ’round. Digging. Wimpering
sometimes. Sometimes the hounds get it; sometimes they don’t. When they
get it, they tear off. They can’t get out of here fast enough. Tail between
their legs. Yelping. That sort of thing. When they don’t get it, well, I have a
companion for a short time.

But mostly it’s just quiet.

The breeze catches your attention sometimes. And they still come ’round
with deliveries, but not like they used to. We’re a little too full to include
many more.

No…Usually it’s just me.

They do speak to me—in my head, I mean. I don’t want you thinking I’m
actually hearing voices! That would be just too…I don’t know.

No. Not out loud, but they do have ways of telling their stories. Oh, I give
them the attention I think they need. Or deserve. Some of them, well, they
mightn’t be so worthy. I tend to slip on past those.
They don’t like that. And they know.

Oh, they know.

They know more than you might think. You need to spend some time with
them before you get a feel for the subtlety of their characters. What they
like. What they don’t.

What they’ll do about it.

Besides you, that’s why I’m out here now. Bit of a disruption in the flow.
Nothing I did, of course, but I’m the one has to tend to it. Usually the job’s
just surveying the grounds. Making sure everybody’s where they belong.
Getting the fresh ones—when we get ’em—settled in. But not this time.

Not tonight.

The moon’s a full one, and that tends to cause a bit of a stirring now and
again. Hands grasping at the air. Gates opening. Howling and wailing. That
sort of thing.

Probably best if you stay put. I wouldn’t be wandering ’round out there if
I’s you.

No. You just sit tight.

I’ll get you settled in later.

 Shadows

Shh. Listen.
Did you hear that?
I know they’re here, in the room. I can feel it. They give me the creeps.
Just stay back here in this corner, out of sight. I’m not sure if they can see
us, even if we can’t see them, but we shouldn’t take any chances.
Just whisper.
Are you O.K.? I know, it’s cold down here. The dankness just makes
everything even creepier, doesn’t it? It will be O.K. We’ll be O.K. I’m right
here with you. That chill sure doesn’t help the icky feeling of something
else in the room with you, huh? You can just feel their presence, even if you
can’t see them. Just keep your back to the wall, and stick together. It kind of
feels like, if you turned your back, something might grab you from behind.
It’s O.K., we all know how that feels.
If you’re too afraid to look, you don’t have to. I don’t want to look either,
so I keep my head down. Just make sure you stay in the shadows and move
as slowly as you can. Even if you heard a noise, you probably wouldn’t see
anything anyway. They’re out of sight before you can turn to see where the
noise was even coming from. You can’t be sure what’s lurking around,
creeping in when we aren’t looking, finding a spot where they can jump out
at us.
Shh. It’s O.K. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Those are just stories. Nothing’s ever
jumped out at me. It’s O.K.
 We just have to try and not let them find out we’re here, and we should
be O.K. Who knows what they might do if they knew we were here. They
would creep around here at all hours, and if they caught us off guard, we
would be hard-pressed to find enough spaces to hide. There just aren’t
enough dark corners. I’m sorry if I’m scaring you, but I’ve heard stories
where they’ve taken others.
It’s O.K. We just have to be so, so quiet, and stay back here in the
shadows.
And just keep whispering.
I know how scary they can be when they turn the lights on in every room
they move into. It’s O.K. It’s O.K. Stay in the shadows and keep
whispering. Close your eyes if you have to. But be careful. They carry
weapons and swing at anything that moves. I think they only make such
loud noises to scare us. Just to intimidate. And they know how the
brightness of the lights burns the yellows of our eyes.
They want to make us wail.
It’s O.K. Shh. I won’t leave you. It’s safe down here in the dark.
We’ll be O.K.
Stay with me back here in the shadows.
 Chula

Before all this happened today, Chula was my baby.

I held her gently in my hands, away from the noise of the living room,
which seemed to aggravate her. They didn’t really understand her the way I
did. Mom never liked the idea of keeping her in the house, but as long as I
was careful, I figured she would never know the difference.
I slid her gently to the bed and lay down on my side beside her. She
didn’t try to run off. She knew me, and she just didn’t try. I stroked her back
with my fingertips and she pushed up with her legs to meet my touch. I
continued my stroke down her leg, following the direction of her chocolate-
colored whisker hairs.
She turned to face me, and I could have sworn she was looking right into
my eyes. Why doesn’t anybody else see this? I continued brushing her hair
with my fingers, and she rolled onto her back so I could reach her belly. Her
skinny legs circled in the air in gratification.
Except for our little moment right then, she had seemed irritated lately in
a way, I don’t know, that would be hard to explain if you didn’t know her.
She just wasn’t herself.
I heaved a sigh and shook my head. Why did Bobby let that stupid
mouse out anyway? I whispered. I leaned toward Chula as I spoke, but
avoided getting my face too close to those annoying hairs. I feed you
enough, don’t I? I know she didn’t mean any harm. People just need to be
more careful is all. She rolled from her back and headed off in a direction
away from me.
That was our last quality time together.
After the first couple of days, I was worried about where she might have
gone. I looked everywhere I could think of. Behind things. Under things.
Inside things. She’s gone, I thought. Just like that. But worse, I swallowed
hard...what if Mom finds her? The scenario ran through my head. She’d kill
her. I squeezed my eyes closed. And then she’d come after me.
After a few months I had given up all hope of finding her, and luckily no
one else was in the hunt. I was sure she was already lying dead somewhere,
her little legs curled into a ball, wondering why I wasn’t there to save her. I
loved her, and she loved me back. I was her protector. She needed me.
That was how I thought.
Until today.
Today I wake up to tiny claws clambering through my hair. Before I
realize what I’m doing (I’m still half asleep; give me a break.), I sit straight
up in bed and swipe my hands frantically at my head. Chula drops and skids
across the floor and, without a second thought, scrambles toward the door.
Whoa, I say, jumping from the bed just in time to grab her by a back leg
before she turns the corner to the hall.
Where do you think you’re going?
I let her leg drop, but keep my hands cradled around her space. But right
about then she stands erect on her hind legs and swats her front legs in the
air. She spreads and extends her fangs and hisses at me! She’s hissing at
me! I jump back. She’s never behaved this way with me before.
 She scrambles out of the room, and I turn the corner just in time to see
her squeeze in that hole along the baseboard that Dad keeps saying he needs
to fix. I kneel beside it and get my eyes as close to the crack as I can,
straining to see through the darkness.
That’s when I become aware of the humming. Not loud humming. Not
yet. But a few seconds can change all that. I straighten myself and back
slowly away from the activity on the other side of the wall. I watch the
darkness of the baseboard cavity with my breath held.
A tiny spider emerges. It heads down the hall toward Mom and Dad’s
room.
Another appears and stops in the light the dawn casts across the floor.
Number three is followed by number four and then five. Almost
instantaneously, a swarm gushes from the chasm and materializes at my
feet.
Thousands of tiny tarantula feet pad urgently across the hardwood floor
and each other. They blanket the floorboards and scatter in every direction,
including down the hall, up my legs and under my PJs.
I guess Chula doesn’t need me anymore. I struggle to take this in. She
has her own babies now. I watch the brigade scuttle down the hall.
I guess it’s highly likely Mom is about to find out.
Lobotomy Pie
 Cleaver Overachiever

Sharpened cleaver, straightened hat

Apron tied in back
and front, in fact

Slice and dice

head lice on mice
Maybe they won’t notice and
they’ll pay the price
I’ve posted

Eyes whole, tongue sliced

Mystery meat
that might be nice
to eat

Mealy toes, lean cut gut

Choose your butt
Hold your nose

Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails

and entrails
splattered here and there
hanging from nails
swinging slowly in the air
I cut and chop and slice and slop
Blood squirts
I never mop

Pulverizer
Bloody geysers
“Would you like that on a Kaiser
bun?”

Stowaway filet, puppies, guppies

Our special today:
Wood-smoked yuppies

Baby-back bunny ribs

Free-range brains
Slimy squids and chip-chopped kids

Borborygmi? You must be kidding me!

With all these choices
what’s with the noises?
Have you ever tried Australian pygmy?

Complain? Are you insane?

Do you realize what goes on in back?
Who gets hacked? Dried on the rack?
Disengaged from his face?
Displayed in the case?

Alrighty then, if you insist

Why resist? Don’t be yelly
We must remove the smelly jelly
before we add you to the list
of Dominic’s Exotic Full Belly Deli.
 Full Moon

I sense you there, in the shadows, hiding. From what? From me? Poor
boy. Your situation has little to do with me or my current state. These events
would occur even in my absence, although I do enjoy the show. I watch you
on these nights, the unbearable agony of your transformations. You curse
me, as if I have a stake in your dilemma. Although I only observe you from
a distance, I’m well aware of your misdeeds, you and your kind. I witness
your hunger and the crimes committed to satisfy it.
Others know as well. They’re coming after you, and they’ll find you.
They seem to always find you. And yet you hide, prolonging the inevitable.
Their fires burn brightly, even from this distance. They burn with anger and
fear. Nothing burns brighter than fear. Yours is burning even now. They
can’t see it yet, but it’s there. It’s how they’ll find you.
Their fires move briskly through the leafless woods, dogs ahead,
sniffing, running, panting. Just like you. You’re more like the dogs now
than the humans, although fear runs the same through all the beasts.
Your running slows despite your distressed efforts against it. Your feet
are bare and dry leaves crackle with every heavy lunge. Still, they’re
closing in. You can feel their hatred burning down the woods behind you.
Within minutes they’re upon you. You dare to turn and steal one last
look, throw one last slash into the air as they take you down.
A man shouts panicked orders. Dogs bark, yelp, and then back away. The
man raises his arm. One silver bullet sinks leisurely into your brain, but not
before you defiantly sink your teeth through the flesh of the man barking
the orders.
They gather around your shrinking body, hushed. The dogs brave the
threat and sniff your face, your bloody skin. Attention turns gradually to the
man pressing his side, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. He looks up
and begs for help, stretching a bloody hand toward his comrades who
instead retreat in horror. A man at the heart of the commotion motions the
others aside and they instinctively obey.
Slowly, he raises his weapon. He aims.
One more silver bullet. It sinks slowly. Even more slowly through the
brain of your father than it did through yours.
Do you still blame me? I wonder if your father blames me.
They stand momentarily over father and son until a wolf’s distant howl
breaks the moment. They leave both of you to stare, unblinking, at a full,
silent moon.
They call the dogs from lingering too long.
 Doc Chocolate

Patients are like a box of chocolates: you never know what you’re gonna
get. Also, they ooze when they break open, so you have to be careful when
you lick your fingers.
 Three Strange Days

Things have been a bit strange for the last few days. First, I really haven’t
slept much. Well, now that I think about it, I haven’t really slept at all. And
somehow I got here in this place, and I’m having a heck of a time trying to
retrace my steps. How was it that I got here again? I walked here from—no,
actually I think somebody drove me here. Man! I need some sleep! I think I
do remember them driving me here, but I’m not sure why they did that
without asking me first. Did I tell them I wanted a ride? I don’t think I even
knew those guys. But the ride was first-class. Black limo. Stretch, I think.
Well. It was black, I’m pretty sure. And it was longer than other cars I’ve
been in, so maybe a stretch. But I’m not sure I really wanted to go, now that
I think about it. Did they force me into that freakin’ car? No, I’m pretty sure
it wasn’t that radical. I think I just didn’t want to go with them. I must have
wanted to stay somewhere. With friends, I think. Oh, yeah! The friends
thing! And there was a bunch of family there, too. It must have been a great
party or something. Yeah! That’s right! It was a party for me! No wonder I
haven’t been able to get any sleep. That thing went on for, like, days!
People were in and out constantly. Stopping to see me, talking to each other.
It must have been my birthday, I think. Maybe my birthday. I don’t know.
Maybe not. A bunch of people even sent me some flowers. Not exactly
what I would have asked for personally, but they were family so, you know.
What can you do. And I was dressed a little stiffer than I would have
preferred, but again, family involved, so…Now that I think about it, I didn’t
actually pick out the clothes. Don’t remember who did, either. But the guy
who did the fitting was a little weird. He was really into the poking and
prodding stuff. I don’t think clothes fittings were really his specialty
though, from the looks of the place. Looked more like chemistry class, if
you ask me. Remind me never to go back to that guy. Sheesh! I didn’t even
know him all that well, and I’m not entirely sure who sent me to him—oh,
wait. There were these other people I got to know really well. They were
the ones who sent me there. That’s right. But before they did, we hung out
together for a while. What an awesome place they had! Anything you
wanted, all you had to do was ask. Well, I never really had to ask. They
were terribly excited to do stuff for me without me even asking! We hung
together, but not too, too long. They seemed to be losing interest in me by
the end, but when I first got there they were really excited to see me! And
the people who brought me there in the first place were crazy that way, too.
What more could you ask for? Those people did seem in a hurry to drop me
off though, so I guess they worked extra quickly to pay me all that attention
before then. That’s fine. I don’t really mind. The ride in their van was pretty
exciting, so that kind of made up for the shortness of the whole relationship
we had going. When they first picked me up, I wasn’t really sure what to
expect, the way they were looking at me and trying to calm me down, as if
they thought I needed that for some reason. And, well, I guess I did kind of
need that considering all the blood everywhere. They didn’t seem to mind
all the blood, but I think they must have thought I did. Oh! Maybe that’s
what I felt that was so warm on my face! It was just the blood. Silly me.
With all this excitement, is it any wonder I’m having so much trouble
sleeping? Even after they’ve given me this soft, cozy bed. I guess maybe
it’s a little smallish, maybe a little too cozy. That could be the problem right
there. But this place seems peaceful enough. Really quiet. Not a living soul
around. And look! They dug this spot fresh just for me! I think it’s time I
should be catching up on a few zzzs, if you know what I mean. See you
around.
 You Know What Else Children
Don’t Know?

Chapter 3:
The Things Children Do Not Know

You could fill a book with the things children don’t know, but the topic
will be addressed in this chapter only. Please refer to the late Edward
Thomas’ adolescent treatise The Things They Aren’t Telling Us for a more
in-depth examination.

Many aspects of the adult world remain a mystery to a child. Children

slog through their days ignorant of even the possibility of the existence of
an unknown, and remain happy to do so (See Fig. 3.1). They don’t know
certain things because adults do know these things, and adults own the
world.

Fig. 3.1 See? Children are blissfully ignorant.

 That’s rule #1. That adults own the world. Rule #2 is that adults know
things and children do not. As an addendum, Rule #3 was added in the late
13th century to clarify for those who could not connect the dots: Adults do
not share the things they know with the children who, by default, do not
know.
The Rules:
1. Adults own the world
2. Adults know stuff, and kids don’t
3. Adults aren’t sharing

Those are the rules. Those have been the rules for thousands of years.
Evolution created the rules. No amount of information sharing can change
the rules. Children have tried, but those children no longer exist.
(Please see Rule #1 and the essay, How Edward Thomas Almost Changed
the World, now available in paperback.)

Please note: it is widely agreed that parents fall under the category of
“adults,” and therefore adhere to the rules of that category. These two
terms will be used interchangeably throughout this chapter.
Something children do not know
Something the first:
Why parents put their kids to bed.

Putting someone somewhere should be a red flag, but red flags are not
something that children know. When you put something, it’s a thing. It’s
put-able. It does not have the ability or the wherewithal to put itself, so
someone needs to do the putting for it. And so, adults put, and children are
put.
Once children are put and en route to a dream state, they are generally
considered taken care of. Doors must be closed at this time to avoid
confusion and questioning by the child at a later date (See Fig. 3.2). If the
child inadvertently witnesses things they do not know, the child must be
dealt with without delay. (Please see Appendix D for information on
“Utilizing Closet and Under-bed Monsters,” “Chasing Children” and
“Inventing Believable Monster Explanations on the Spot.”)

Fig. 3.2 Unacceptable door gap

Something else children do not know
Something the second:
What is really under the bed.
 Closet and under-bed monsters must be confined to their working areas
in order for parental units to maintain credibility (See Fig. 3.3). A parent
who has lost credibility has lost authority, which violates Rule #1. In the
case of a Rule #1 violation, a child shall be held accountable and their
punishment swift.

Fig. 3.3 Eating facilities are generally not considered acceptable as part of
a designated work area.

Monsters observed outside their work zones could lead to disbelief of

parental monsterial explanations and, in turn, an inquiring child. Inquiring
children shall be promptly tortured. (Please see Appendix B, “Are We
There Yet?”)
Handy Hint
 Monsters need a healthy working environment, so avoid unnecessary
vacuuming or cleaning in designated work areas.
You know what else children do not know?
Something the third:
What parents really are when they remove their parent suits.

What happens to a parent after a child has been put to bed? Do canines
grow?
Maybe. But children will never know.

Does wooly hair sprout from their skin?

Maybe. But children will never know.
(Please refer to the “Handy Hints” in Chapter 5, “How to avoid body
dandruff,” if you find you are prone to such things.)

Are they attracted to the smell of clean skin and warm milk breath?
Maybe. But, again, children will never know.

Remember, only adults know what’s beneath a parent suit, as dictated by

Rule #2.
Adults must appreciate that, when removing parental suits, children
should be confined to areas unavailable for viewing removals (See Figs. 3.2
and 3.4). Children observing parental suit removal are violating both Rule
#2 and Rule #3 and must be tortured (please see Appendix B). If bogus
parental rationalization and customary torture procedures fail to appease the
child, or in the case of chronic witnessing, immediate termination is in
order. (Please see Appendix M: “Feeding Your Monster” and Appendix N:
“Feeding Your Monster Within.”)

Fig. 3.4 Chronic witnessing will require immediate termination.

 Always remember, keeping under-bed and closet monster memberships
in good standing requires co-op participation on everyone’s part. If you
accept the generosity of other members allowing you into their homes, your
time as a parental unit and allowing others to torture in your home is
expected. Eating another member’s child remains an added benefit, but
remember, it takes both monsters and parents to make this work. Your
participation as a parental unit is essential to a healthy and unlimited
manipulation of adult authority.
 Security

Master tells me I do my job well.

He lets me growl but not bark. Growling comes from deep in my belly,
which I’ll be filling tomorrow after our work is finished.

I growl to let the creepers know they’ll be finished soon.

I growl as long as they fight.

I don’t growl to warn them to leave. I don’t want them to leave. If they hear
my growl, it’s already too late, and they’ll never leave.

So they run, and I chase, but I don’t growl. Not yet.

It’s important work, and Master says I do it well. Because I do, he lets me
sleep on the terraces in the sun. They don’t usually creep around here when
there’s sun. They wait until the sky is dark, then they creep around.

So in the sun, I can sleep.

The stones on the terraces keep me cool. The water does, too. Sometimes
Master will take me down to the waterfall, and I can splash and play. All the
playing and splashing and exploring in the woods makes me tired and
hungry.

But I know we must wait. We have work to finish first, and then we can eat
and rest.
I sniff the ground hard.

They’re here. I can smell them.

They try to sneak, but I can smell them.

Master takes the leash off my collar and pats my head. I run, but I don’t
bark.

I can smell their sweat.

They’re running now, and I chase.

I wait to growl. I won’t growl until my teeth hit bone, and then it’s too late,
and they’ll never leave. I only growl until they stop moving, and then I fall
back and catch my breath.

Master knows what to do now, and pats my head.

The creepers are heavy, and I help Master drag them in.

By morning, our work will be done and finally, we’ll eat.

Master will cook his meal and toss some of the flesh to me. He’ll save me
the bones.

Master will pat my head, and I’ll sit at his feet. He will stoke the fire in the
great room with the shoes and clothes and leftovers, and I’ll lick the blood
from his fingers.

It’s important work, and Master rewards me for doing my job well.
 Crow Quill

She dipped her crow quill pen and continued.

she began, trying not to swirl the tails of the letters

“Ugh!” She dipped her pen.

She grinned.
“Pity.”

She lifted the candlestick from its holder until the body lying on the table in
front of her reflected the flickering blaze. The figure released a muffled
whimper when she dipped her pen into it once more. Her tail flicked. She
returned the candle to its holder and continued.
She dipped her pen.
She dipped her pen a little deeper this time.
 Past Tense

If I remember correctly—and I don’t know why I wouldn’t—I remember

she was a bit creepy.

Was being the critical word here. Was.

Past tense.

Somebody thought up the “death warmed over” expression just for her.
Seriously. A knife thrower probably couldn’t slice through all the layers of
that scary, scary makeup she heaped on. Maybe she was sparing us from
what was decaying undernea…sheesh! I think something creeped up my
back just now! Goose bumps!

Ha!

But that face...she definitely lugged some serious bags under those eyes.
Not really sure what she collected in those bags. Bags baggy bagging.
Greasy, heavy, wretched baggage. I think the skin around her eyes even
sucked inwards a little. Made them awfully beady. Her eyes, I mean.
Nothing to see in those tiny eye socket gaps but shadows.

Empty, black eye socket shadows. Empty black eyes. Like oil. Oily, black,
greasy socket shadow eyes.

She couldn’t cover that part up with makeup.

But the disturbing way she spread that awful red lipstick way off her lips.
Ugh! Frightening, just...frightening. Her teeth were, too. And black. Well,
maybe they were more green and gray than black, and the black just
collected between the teeth.

And there was a lot of space between.

Kind of matched her skin, the greenish-gray bits. And paper thin. Probably
looked straight through the paper into her veins. Not entirely sure what was
running through those veins, but I had my theories. She did have a nice,
healthy glow—for an alien!

Ha! Ha! See? I can still laugh.

I’m wondering now if she heard what people said about her—what we said
about her. Do you think she heard? I’m thinking maybe yes. But I only said
those things because I needed to fit in, to be part of the crowd.

You know how that goes.

If I didn’t go along I would be next. I never really meant any of it. I hope
she knows that.

I mean, knew that. Knew that, of course. No way of her knowing now, right?

No way.

I did try to be nice to her…in my mind. That’s the part that matters, right?
My intentions? I made sure I stayed in the back and didn’t really involve
myself when the rest of the crowd did their thing. Just there in principle, but
not really participating. I think that’s important.
That’s the important part, that I didn’t participate.

But all that squealing…now there’s a sound you don’t hear every day. Did
her eyes look like black oil before, or did that squealing thing push her over
the…no matter. I didn’t take part. I was far, far in the back, and I really
didn’t see much of what was going on.

I did see some thrashing about, but that was happening way out front. Way
out of my personal space.

Of course I did see the…mess…when it was over. Also not something you
see every day. I’m actually talking to someone who is helping me deal with
the night terrors, so I’m hopeful about that. I’m trying to forget them. Her
eyes, I mean. But you can’t control your dreams now, can you.

Things creep into your dreams.

Black oil creeps in.

Black oil oozing from her eyes. Oozing black from her red, red lipsticked
mouth.

Oozed. Oozed. Past. Tense.

She’s constantly reminding me of that. In my head, yes, in my head she’s

reminding me.

Past tense past tense past tense.

It’s over. Done. Finished. Terminated. Eventually I’ll get it right. Eventually
she’ll let me go.
I’ll let her go, I mean. From my head. Out of my head. She will, she’ll go, I
know. But I have to earn it. Just don’t talk anymore about that night.

Out loud. Don’t talk anymore about it out loud. As if it never happened. It
never happened. Can’t let it sneak out of my head.

Or my mouth. My words. I’m good now, I am. Even if I do still see all those
things, here in the dark, they won’t come out of my mouth. Won’t come out
of my...out of my...red...lipsticked mouth.

My saliva feels so thick. In my mouth. Oily thick. Sometimes it’s just so

hard to swallow. Please…please could you loosen the buckles just a little?
Everything here is just so, so dark. Oily black thick baggy lipstick red dark.

But the screeching and the screaming and the squealing. The squealing! The
squealing streaks through my head and across the room like lightning. The
squealing brightens up the room like day!

Brightened. Brightened. Past. Tense.

Like day.

No more dark today. No more lipstick. No more baggy black oily red
lipstick today.

In the present.

No lipstick here today, in the present tense.

 Eat Your Vegetables

So I chew and chew. And chew. And they never go away. Still. I can’t
swallow.
“Eat your vegetables,” Mom says. But they won’t let me. They won’t let
me swallow. I just can’t swallow. I need to spit out the cud that’s collected
in my mouth, and I need to ditch the rest of the dung sitting cold on my
plate.
The same story as last night. And the night before. This time they’re
peas. Last night, corn. Tomorrow, broccoli. And so on.
Peas fit perfectly in that little crevasse, right there, in that space in the
wall beside my chair. Mom will never know. And I’ll never tell her, and
she’ll never know. All the little green balls disappear when she’s not
looking, and once I can’t see them, they don’t exist. Once they’re all in the
crevasse, I can’t see them, and they don’t exist.
And tomorrow night will be broccoli in the crevasse. I’ll chew and chew,
and I’ll drop one of those little trees in the little crevasse when she isn’t
looking. And then I’ll drop another one. And another.
And then the crevasse will open wider. And wider. And it will groan.
And everybody will stop what they’re doing to look at the crevasse.
“What did you do?” they will ask me.
“I didn’t do anything,” I will plead back.
And then the crevasse will growl a little. It will open wider. And wider.
“Was that always like that?” I’ll ask.
 Everybody else at the table will scoot their chairs away from me. From
the crevasse. But I’ll be mesmerized.
“Were those teeth in there before?” I’ll ask.
I’ll lean forward to look down in the crevasse. It smells bad in there.
Things are fuzzy. And growing. And green. It smells bad in there. I’ll put
my head in a little ways.
“It smells bad in there,” I’ll say. I’ll look at everyone. They won’t
answer. “It really does,” I’ll say.
They’ll look…surprised.
“What?” I’ll ask.
I’ll sit up at the table, but I’ll feel I’m sinking. And I’ll be mesmerized.
“Did I always sit in here?” I’ll ask, “In the crevasse?”
The crevasse will grow. Bigger. And wider.
“Veg. Ta. Bull,” it will say in its deep, resonating voice.
And I’ll sink and sink. Into the crevasse.
But then something will happen. I won’t be mesmerized anymore. I’ll
hold onto whatever I can. Mesmerization over and I’ll hold on.
I won’t let it swallow. It will chew and chew, and I’ll hold on, and I
won’t let it swallow.
I’ll never go away.
I will never let it swallow.
The End
 Colophon

The jacket image was rendered digitally in Corel Painter and Adobe
Photoshop. Interior images were rendered in graphite and Photoshop. Body
copy text in the first printed edition is set in Goudy Old Style, originally
designed by Frederic W. Goudy for American Type Founders in 1915.
Titles and page numbers in the first printed edition are set in VT Portable
Remington by Susan Townsend.