Send to KindleTEA AND MRS. JENKINS
By Louis Baum
Working as a courier for Mr. Luppo, Jack had been sent to acquire many things, but this object must have been the strangest.
“Really, a cockroach?”
“Yeah,” one of Mr. Luppo’s hirelings, or — as Jack fancied them – goons.
Jack persisted. “Mr. Luppo is going to send me from New York to New Orleans to pick up a cockroach?”
“Yeah, it’s a rare specimen or something. Hey, you know better than to question his orders.”
Jack had ended it there. He did know better than to question his orders. What the boss wanted, the boss got, and Jack was often sent to acquire it. Whether the “It” in question happened to be diamonds, rare coins, rare stamps, or some of the stranger things; dolls, shrunken human heads, strange tinctures and medicines, various occult artifacts, bizarre items of supposed mystical power, but a single cockroach must take the cake as the oddest request so far. Shrunken heads Jack could understand, they had a history, a macabre air, and if Luppo’s assertions were correct, contained some level of preternatural power. Jack could not see the point of coming thousands of miles for a roach however, even a rare one.
Still, he supposed he should be thankful that Mr. Luppo had never used him to acquire anything out rightly illegal yet, as Jack had his suspicions that the boss had his fat fingers in many dirty pies. He, however, was good at putting such thoughts on Luppo’s possible, and only possible mind you, ties to organized crime out of his head. He got paid well, and the boss and he shared a knowledge of and connection to the occult, making Jack his man to send for the strange stuff.
* * *
It was after dusk when he approached Mrs. Jenkins house. The place was much bigger than he had expected, from what he was able to tell in the fading light. He assumed that the house came with a significant amount of grounds because he could not see any other houses, only an empty field surrounding it and some thick woods beyond that. The building had two tall stories and many long windows. Steps led up to a grand porch spanning the length of the front of the house flanked by Greco-Roman style columns. There was a large flower garden in front along either side of the steps. Jack noticed it was all painted a pristine white. He thought that overall the place was quite grand and beautiful, but could not say why specifically he thought so.
He passed by the flower garden which looked very well cared for and sported a large variety of shapes and colors, muted as they were in the rapidly approaching night. Here he realized he didn’t notice any lights on in the house or indeed anywhere around, and noticed that all the windows that he could see seemed covered in thick curtains or blocked somehow, and he could see nothing at all inside. He saw no car or vehicle, nor garage as well. He hoped that she was indeed there.
As he got to the porch he saw chairs and tables along its impressive length. This place must cost a fortune, Jack thought, with a tinge of envy and an equal tinge of disgust. He imagined the gatherings of socialites this porch must have seen, sipping tea and lemonade, fanning themselves in the hot Louisiana sun and chuckled a little to himself. This house was the stereotypical old-fashioned plantation house and Jack guessed it was probably standing here before the civil war.
He rang the doorbell. After a couple of minutes with no answer, he rang again and knocked for good measure. Shortly after, the door finally opened. A woman said in a southern accent without the usual pleasantries, “Are you the man I talked to about the specimen?” Even though no light came from within, Jack could see enough of the woman’s face to be shocked for a moment. This woman was, by any standard, far past what would be considered ugly and into the realm of the hideous. Her right lip had a scar running up the corner, as if her smile had been sliced at least an inch further up on that side, she had fleshy growths on her chin and her whole face itself looked stretched around her skull like a tightly pulled rubber band exposing the outline of said skull beneath. He suspected this last bit was the result of several plastic surgeries, performed by a doctor who probably got his degree online from an advertisement he found in the back of a comic book, though there was nothing comic about the botched result. As though to distract, the woman was covered in so much make-up she looked clownish. All she was missing in fact was a red nose.
With skin so stretched, Jack wondered, what might happen if a stress point were suddenly cut? Would the whole face fly off like a released balloon leaving only a smiling skull behind? His expression must have registered these thoughts because a look of hurt crossed over the woman’s countenance.
He composed himself, and smiled, “Yes, I am he. Mrs. Jenkins I take it?”
“That’s me,” she said unenthusiastically. “You better come in.”
When Jack stepped inside the house it was difficult to see anything because there was indeed no light anywhere from inside. This only got worse when Mrs. Jenkins closed the front door. He paused for a minute expecting her to turn on a light while his eyes tried to adjust to the dark. She didn’t, and only said, “Follow me,” as he could vaguely see her form moving further into the room. He bumped up against a piece of furniture as he tried to follow her.
“It is hard for me to see with no light in here,” he said frustrated.
“I am sorry,” she said, “but I prefer the dark. It makes me feel more comfortable. Sorry if it inconveniences you, but this is the way it needs to be.”
What, she is not going to turn on a light at all? thought Jack, somewhat shocked. How very rude and strange making her guests fumble about in the dark. But with her face, he could see why she might feel more comfortable in dimmer light. Not that it was any excuse. He followed her vague form the best he could until she stopped.
“There’s a couch to your right. Sit down.”
Jack could make out the outline of a couch, and sat down. From what he could tell the woman sat down in a chair near to the couch. He tried to be polite. “You have a very nice house Mrs. Jenkins, from what I can see of it anyway,” he forced a little chuckle.
“My house is beautiful,” she said, missing the joke.” “Would you like some tea?”
Jack was a bit thirsty. “Ok. Thank you,” he said.
Mrs. Jenkins got up. He could hear china clinking and something being poured. Jack’s eyes were beginning to adjust better, but considering the extent of the dark, it didn’t do much good. The only light seemed to be the dim light coming from outside through the windows, but these seemed to be blocked off entirely with heavy, thick curtains. Jack also noticed something that had been bothering him from the moment he set foot in the place, the smell. It was very musty, moldy smelling, with a faint order of what seemed to be marzipan, strangely enough.
She finished pouring and handed him the tea. He could only vaguely tell its location well enough to grasp it because the cup was white. She then sat back down.
“So ole Luppo finally sent someone after my specimen, did he?” she chuckled to herself.
“Yeah, and you are getting a very good price, if I may say so Mrs. Jenkins.”
He tried to read her face and her reaction, but even with his eyes about adjusted now it was just a silhouette cloaked in shadow, its ugliness was veiled and its harsh lines smoothed by darkness’s kind caress. In a certain sense, mused Jack, isn’t that what Darkness was, a lover who embraces all and doesn’t judge? Who takes any, queen or pauper, under its benevolent vast cloak and makes everyone equal there in its gloom?
“Well then, I guess I should go and get your specimen,” she announced.
“Thanks,” said Jack.
He could dimly see her shamble across the room and down what he assumed was a nearby passageway, for she was soon lost entirely to view and he could no longer hear her softly creaking footfalls. “Left alone in the dark is it?” thought Jack. This was crazy; surely she would have to turn on some light for him to examine the specimen? If not, he sure the hell would, assuming any of them worked, assuming she even had electricity. He did not like this, in the dark, in a strange house with an admittedly strange woman. He saw no lights come on down the passageway nor heard any sound.
Yet, there was a noise. With her gone he noticed now the room was not entirely silent. He could hear now a soft strange scuttling sound. It was hard to place where it came from. The house acoustics made it sound like it could be from anywhere. Great, he thought grimly, this place has rats. Indeed in that moment he thought he felt something crawling on his jeans by his thigh. He brushed where he thought it was, but felt nothing. Now I am imagining things, he thought.
More minutes passed, his tea cooling in one hand. Where is she? After another couple minutes, the dusty, moldy smell and the thick dark really started to get to him, crawling and settling under his skin. He was there, sitting in the darkness, looking at the only things he could see, the shadowy outlines of the pieces of furniture all around him in what was apparently a large well-furnished room. As more minutes passed, what Jack assumed must be ordinary furniture in the cheery light seemed to be taking on a different character in the dark. They seemed to take on a sinister aspect. All around him and heavy with shadows, with some pieces nothing but silhouettes; he was surrounded by black hulking shapes. As he watched them, their outlines became more and more like creatures, squatting there in the darkness. He suddenly got an impossible sense that was what they indeed were, and he became awash with the cold irrational fear that had been building inside of him. They were odd creatures to be sure: large, carnival-like creatures, with strange legs just hidden from view in the shadows and strange bone snapping arms. They sat there, very still. They moved not even a muscle. Yet hidden in their seemingly statuesque stillness there seemed to be a tension; like runners ready for the gun shot to start the race. It was as if they were waiting. Waiting to spring into most violent action, if his impatience should get the better of him, and he should dare and try and make it for the door. With their misshapen, loping, but alarmingly quick legs and their steel embrace they would make sure he never reached the fresh air. Relax they seemed to whisper, sip your tea, you’re not leaving yet, she and we will not allow it.
Compose yourself Jack, he told himself. You’re letting your damned imagination run away with you. He tried to rein in his fear. He noticed the sound again. It was constant he now realized, just very faint, hard to hear if you weren’t focusing on it; a scuffling. It was hard to pin point where it was coming from, as it seemed it could be from any direction or from all directions. A house like this must do strange things to sound.
“Where was she?” he wondered again to the dark. Try to relax like the good couch said, he thought. Take a sip of tea. He realized that he hadn’t tasted it yet. The outside of the cup felt cool now, so feeling thirsty, he took a large gulp. As it washed down his throat, he felt things in it. Things that felt like small many-legged creatures slid across his tongue and tickled the back of his throat as they went down. They seemed little soft oval things with many appendages caught on a flume ride over his recoiling taste buds and washing down the tunnel of his esophagus. At least one of them was moving, struggling, its little legs dancing to find purchase as it went down in the mini flood of filthy tasting tea. He violently spit out what was left in his mouth, shouting “What the hell!?” His words seemed to echo through the house.
Putting the cup roughly down the table in front of him, he struggled to his feet, searching half-blindly for a lamp. Fear and nausea were rising in him with the bile in his throat. What the hell had he drunk? His hands groped what looked like a lamp, and searched around for the switch. The lamp clicked on and the room was bathed in its glow. As his eyes began to come into focus, at first he did not understand what he saw. The room seemed to be moving. Everything looked to be moving. As his eyes sharpened and he could focus, his mind reeled: roaches. There were roaches everywhere: big roaches, small roaches, crawling, scuttling across the antique furniture, their antenna waving, mandibles clicking softly and incessantly. Ever-searching for food, they were feeding: feeding on the rotting crumbs, feeding on the corpses of each other, swarming here or there, presumably over some morsel, leaving their tiny black shit specks over everything. Some had engorged egg sacks hanging half-way out of their bodies, filled with progeny waiting to burst out of the sack and spread, ravenous, over everything.
Jack’s gaze fell on his tea cup on the table. Floating in the remaining tea were unmoving roaches. Lying around the spill where he had slammed his cup, were more dead roaches. The nausea inside him rose to a crescendo, sweeping over him. He felt dizzy. He felt like he was going to throw up. Jack gagged, and bent over a spot on the wooden floor, but nothing was forth coming.
A voice broke through his disgust, shocking him. It sounded angry.
“Very rude! Very rude indeed. Cursing, shouting, and look you turned on the light. Didn’t I tell you I liked the dark?”
Jack lifted his head weakly. Mrs. Jenkins face was twisted into a disapproving glare, making it even more hideous. “You’re crazy,” Jack blurted out stunned. “I’m rude? Where the hell do you get off serving me a cup of tea full of roaches? Is that your idea of a joke?”
“I don’t like your tone firstly, and I don’t know what you are talking about. Roaches in the tea? I cannot conceive of how a roach could have gotten in your tea. I keep my house immaculate, and there are no traces of bugs. I am sure you must be mistaken,” she said indignantly.
“Immaculate? You must be joking,” shouted Jack. “Have you actually turned on the light and looked at your house lately? How can you possibly live like this? I mean they’re everywhere. It’s disgusting!”
“What? What are you talking about? What’s everywhere?” said Mrs. Jenkins, sounding genuinely surprised.
“What?” said Jack incredulous, “The damn roaches! What do you think I mean?”
“Roaches!? The only roaches here are the ones dead in my collection, in the study. What are you talking about? I keep a very clean house. I keep a very clean house. I…” she trailed off.
Jack was about to shout something else, but the tone of her voice gave him pause. She seemed to him to believe what she was saying and seemed genuinely surprised at his reaction: surprised and hurt. “If this is a joke it’s not funny. Honestly, Mrs. Jenkins, you do not see any roaches in here? Look at that tea cup; you don’t see any roaches there?”
Mrs. Jenkins looked at the tea cup. “I don’t take kindly to bad jokes, or to people on drugs. There is of course, nothing there. As far as that tea goes, it is a family recipe, and I pride myself on it. If you didn’t like it, you could have just said so.”
Jack just shook his head. He looked down at her feet, and saw the roaches scuttling by her shoes, all around her on the ground in fact. This was their house. They were on the floors, they were on the walls and in the walls and in all the dark places. They were a legion of hungry mouths, legions of dead black eyes. They were void of emotion, void of intellect, with no capacity to feel, learn or grow. What was a roach? Jack thought looking at them. Simply a robotic automation, bent on procreating as many spawn as possible, and for what purpose? Their purpose was to simply exist apparently, in a blank existence without any intelligence, consciousness or awareness, their lives simply some biological program that they act out. Jack could not understand what the point was of such an existence, what the point of them being was. In fact the only purpose they seem to have is to cause creatures that do think and feel suffering: contaminating their homes and their food stores, making the clean dirty with their shit, their eggs, and their carcasses, with their very selves, despoiling the beauty of hearth and home, and possibly the beauty of ourselves as well.
He looked at Mrs. Jenkins. He studied her; saw the confusion on her face, the oblivious look in her eyes. And now he noticed something else there, a strange glint. Like something that shouldn’t be there vaguely seen below the rippling water of a shallow pool; a glimmer of madness.
Jack decided to humor her. “I am sorry Mrs. Jenkins. It was dark, and I guess I imagined something that wasn’t there. I thought I saw a roach or two, but I guess I was wrong. The dark must have made me jumpy. Sorry if I have offended you.”
Mrs. Jenkins considered for a moment, “Apology accepted.” She looked down at the spilled tea with distaste, “I make really good tea. Shall I get you another cup?”
“I’m still a bit jittery, maybe later,” was all Jack could think of to say.
Mrs. Jenkins walked over to a chair and sat down. Roaches scattered when she did, some crawling over her arms and legs in their flight. She seemed not to notice. “Sit down,” she said and motioned him to the couch. Jack looked at it, his lips in a grimace of disgust. Roaches climbed along its back and around in the imprint he had left. He needed to go along with it until he got what he came for though, and didn’t want to further put off this disturbed woman by refusing to sit. He brushed the roaches off the couch. One was quick and went running up his arm. He felt its spindly legs dancing on his flesh. He recoiled instinctively, and batted it off quickly, then sat down with distaste. The roaches still nearby went and scattered, seeking the darkness under the couch. He looked at Mrs. Jenkins who didn’t seem to notice anything unusual about his movements. That same strange glint in her eyes, shining there as she watched him, dancing like fires lit by giggling pyromaniac children. Jack wanted to leave as soon as possible. He wanted to get out of this pestilence, to quit sucking down this stifling air.
He said, “To business now Mrs. Jenkins, if you please, do you have the specimen?”
Mrs. Jenkins smiled. Her scarred lip made it seem like the right side of the smile was far too wide producing an unsettling effect. “Isn’t my house beautiful?” she simply said.
Here Jack did take the time to look around. Not at the roaches, which were the most obvious feature, but this time at what they clung to. The room was very large with a high ceiling. Thick drapes hung completely over the windows. The furniture was antique, looked very expensive, and there was, as Jack had perceived earlier, quite a lot of it. In this room was a chandelier, its crystal sparkling in the light from the lamp. In the shadows lay passageways to other rooms. On the walls were several paintings. The tendrils of light from the lamp barely reached these. One thing that struck his eye was a large black and white photo on the wall of a beautiful woman. As Jack looked, he realized that this woman was really stunning, perhaps some 50’s model by the look. He noticed there was another smaller photo of her on the table beside the couch, in a different pose, but beautiful as the first.
“Admiring me I see,” said Mrs. Jenkins smiling.
“That’s you?” said Jack, taken aback.”
“Is that so hard to believe?” said Mrs. Jenkins with some offense in her tone.
Yeah, it is, Jack thought. He wanted to ask what happened but restrained himself. She would probably take more offense, so he said nothing.
She closed her eyes, “Well, I was beautiful once. Ha, you would have been brought to your knees to look at me.” She gave him a hard glare “Every man used to want to be my lover then. They would shower me with attention like I was some kind of ancient goddess. Vie with each other like schoolboys to catch my eye. I was successful, wealthy and beautiful. People wanted to be around me, wanted to bask in my radiance. So beautiful, but then he…” here she trailed off and a change came alarmingly over her face. Her eyes grew wide, like she was seeing the remains of a car accident, and were staring blankly into the distance. Her smugness was quickly replaced by horror, and her voice dropped into a whisper, “They, they…” She looked at him suddenly, franticness and desperation in her face, her voice almost a plea; a secret spoken to him she hoped was not overheard, “They are the despoilers. They are the despoilers of beauty, you know. Don’t let anybody tell you different. Don’t let them trick you.” She looked around, “They tricked me, you know.” Her voice now rose until it was a low pitiful wail. It seemed to echo tones of deep sorrow and black fear, “I don’t even care if they hear! Look what they did to me! Despoilers! Despoilers! Sneaks! Sneaky. But, oh sweet Jesus, they have gotten in my house. They are in my house,” her voice dwindled to a whimper of fear. “They are in my house.”
Jack felt a chill, like something light brushed along the hairs of his neck. He could keenly sense her suffering and his heart went out to her, even as he wondered and recoiled at the power that kept her this way; her own broken psychology, and or perhaps something to do with influence of “Them.” Moved by her anguish, Jack scooted across the couch to be as close as possible to Mrs. Jenkins chair. He put his hand out and touched hers. All he could think to say was, “I am sorry you are suffering.”
A mask seemed to come up over her face, the lines of fear and worry gone, sucked back down into the cracks of the soul. Her voice was now brisk, “My suffering? What on earth do you mean by that? I am beautiful, rich, successful. Everybody loves me and wants to know me. Who are you, some nobody? Do you honestly think I’m suffering?” He felt some shock at her abrupt change of demeanor, and took his hand off hers. “Not sure why you had that there but I don’t mind,” she gave him, what Jack assumed, was a flirtatious wink, and flashed him her too wide smile, her skin stretched to breaking point across her cheekbones. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like any more tea? I think the pot may still be warm.”
Jack shook his head no. At the mention of tea, Jack remembered what he had drunk, and anger and revulsion festered in him. At the same time he felt a roach crawling on his arm. He wanted to see if Mrs. Jenkins would react, and also just wanted to do the bastard in, so he brushed it on to the couch arm and crushed it with his fist. Its guts wetted his hand. Mrs. Jenkins seemed to take no notice, and yet something around, it seemed, did. Immediately he got the sense that he was being watched. Ten thousand little eyes suddenly turned to him. He felt them keenly, watching him now, with a kind of alien malice. And something deep inside of him told him, that this was their house, that they were the masters here. He must be careful, the deeper part of himself warned, but he knew he had already been careless. Ever since he drank the tea he had felt an increasing feeling which rose rapidly now to surpass even his feeling of revulsion and anger. He felt a powerful sense of violation. Those roaches he drank, entering his body, had violated in some small way the sanctity of his being. They dirtied him somehow, brought their filth inside of him. He felt himself contaminated in some small way by their dirt. After all that’s what they were, thought Jack, filth. Crawling, swarming, breeding, shitting, devouring, eating their own, despoiling the sanctity and beauty of the house, just as he felt despoiled. They were nothing but filth. He felt dizzy again, felt them closing in, pressing in from all directions. Thousands of little wills one mass will, utterly alien to mammal kind, pressing in on his mind. He was finding it hard to breathe. He was suffocating in the stifling air.
“Are you all right?” Mrs. Jenkins said. He felt the assault suddenly stop. He no longer felt their awareness at all. “You look quite pale, handsome. Would you like to lie down?”
Jack tried to compose himself, clear his senses, and rein in his panic. He would rather cut off his pinky finger than lay down in a place like this. Jack shook his head no.
The attack had shaken him. How did he ever get involved in this strange world of being able to sense things beyond that of an ordinary person?
***
His brother’s calls.
He had only been seven when his twin brother was kidnapped. He had never had a trace of anything peculiar happen to him before that. While the police were on their search, he began to have dreams of his brother calling to him, trying to get Jack to help him. The police found Jack’s brother murdered three days later. He was murdered as Jack discovered later, in a place which matched the location in his dreams. After that, Jack did not need to dream to have insights into the nature of things behind the material veil. His visions would sometime punctuate waking life. Throughout his life they had been for him a small blessing but a larger curse, and made sure he tread on the roads less traveled.
As he got older, he decided to become a private detective. Eventually as his reputation spread, he began to get the cases that were unexplained, paranormal; cases that could make use of his unique talents. Then he got the attention of Mr. Luppo. Working for Mr. Luppo was not only more lucrative, it gave him access to things to further his quest for understanding that he would not have otherwise. The understanding he sought was more on his own abilities, on how to walk further down the path he was already treading, and on how to deeper understand the nature of the reality that his visions showed him without getting killed. Through Luppo he had access to writings, artifacts and people that helped him do this.
***
“Well you did come here for some business didn’t you? Not just to flirt with some ole’ southern belle?” Mrs. Jenkins interrupted his reverie. “Not that I mind your flirtations. It’s nice to know I still have it, even though I must be half again your age. Whoops, I let loose a secret,” she put her hand to her mouth. “Ladies are never supposed to tell their ages are they? You’ll forgive me won’t you darling?”
Jack felt taken aback by her flirtations, and the way she was projecting them upon him. It made him feel even more uneasy. He returned to business as best he could, “Of course. Yes, Mrs. Jenkins, I am here to purchase your specimen.”
Mrs. Jenkins brought out a small plastic container from her pocket and showed it to Jack. Jack saw an unusual looking roach within it. “The price has gone up,” said Mrs. Jenkins laughing. The sound was husky and unpleasant.
Jacks heart sunk, and anger arose, “But we agreed.”
“As I said,” said Mrs. Jenkins, “the price has gone up. I want something extra.” She slipped it back in her pocket.
Jack didn’t like the sound of this, “What do you want?”
“Oh, nothing much,” said Mrs. Jenkins, “It’s something men have in fact dreamed of getting from me in the past,” she smiled at this. “It’s just a little kiss.”
Jack felt surprised, and almost laughed. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I am serious. I don’t want some little boy peck either. I want a nice wet one on the lips.”
Jack considered this turn of events. Mr. Luppo would be very displeased if he came back empty handed, particularly if it was simply because he refused a little kiss. Jack had heard rumors of what happens to people that Mr. Luppo gets very displeased with. These rumors told of the stereotypical broken bones and sometimes broken skulls. Though he would like to believe that he was too valuable and too much of a kindred soul in the occult for Luppo to resort to such base measures with him, Jack still had no desire to test the truth of these stories, nor did he have a desire to bite the hand that fed. And yet the thought of actually doing it, kissing those scarred lips, pressing against that growth ridden face, perhaps the scent of roaches on her breath, made the bile rise in his throat.
“Well, surely the decision can’t be that hard?” she said with some offense at his indecision.
This is crazy, thought Jack, but if it is going to get me this damn thing, I will go through with it, “One kiss and I get the specimen, correct?”
“Yes, just one tiny little kiss, sexy,” said the woman.
“Okay,” Jack agreed, feeling some nausea in his stomach. If he threw up in her mouth, he wondered, only half-jokingly, would that be considered a deal breaker?
The woman stood up and motioned Jack to do the same. He noticed a couple roaches scurry off her dress as she did so. Here we go, thought Jack. He steeled himself, and stood up. She approached him, trying to move seductively he thought, but the effect failed badly, and she put her arms upon his shoulders.
“Tell me I’m beautiful,” she said.
This wasn’t part of the bargain, Jack thought. He looked into her face, just over a foot away now. He saw her lips, which betrayed signs of a female moustache. He saw the scar that made the right side of her lip look like it continued on past any normal boundaries. Her growths, little full bubbles of flesh, two on her left cheek and one on her chin shown prominently, as did her shaved then penciled in eyebrows. And all over the package was a pound of garish make-up meant to conceal and beautify; but instead just accentuated the ugliness, making it buffoonish, turning it all into some sick joke.
“Tell me I am beautiful,” she repeated more forcefully. Jack felt her breath on his skin. It smelled stale, with a hint of rottenness. Jack did not know what to say. She stopped moving towards him, and waited. “Tell me I am beautiful or walk out that door with nothing!” she said angrily.
Damn, Jack thought, better tell this psycho what she wants so he could get the hell out of here, assuming she sticks to her end of the bargain. Besides, a part of him did indeed feel sorry for her: her apparent pain, her terrible dysfunction if not madness, and even her being so physically beautiful once, and now looking like this. He forced out the words. They sounded hollow and monotone, “You’re beautiful.”
Mrs. Jenkins eyes rolled in back of her head, as if she were savoring each syllable. “Say it again!” she said.
“You’re beautiful,” said Jack again unable to say it with anything other than total lack of enthusiasm.
“Yes!” she said nonetheless, “Oh once more, once more.”
Jack spat out the words once more like poison, “You’re beautiful.”
Mrs. Jenkins gave a little laugh, and leaned in for the kiss. Jack steeled himself and fought back his anger and revulsion, and met her lips with his. As they touched, he closed his eyes. Jack thought and hoped it would be a simple peck on the lips and be over. But after her lips touched his, hers lingered on, trying to kiss him in earnest. Jack felt disgusted and was going to pull away when he felt her tongue slip inside his mouth. It slipped nimbly and deftly before Jack and any chance to repel its eager invasion. He tried to jerk his head away, but found to his utter surprise that he could not. In fact, as he tried, he could not now move so much as a muscle, not so much as to even open his eyes. Cold panic griped him. He violently fought to move but was paralyzed. He could not even close his mouth to expel the unwelcome intruder, the tongue, which to his utter disgust now began to move all around in his mouth, probing into every corner. He felt nauseous and violated, shocked, wracked by disbelief. The tongue suddenly stopped. He heard a strange sound sort of like a low rumbling, and then something happened. The smell hit Jack first. It was the smell of a Palmetto bug roach, a smell like rotten marzipan, so strong that it was overpowering. The arms on Jack’s shoulders instantly were heavier and the skin much harder than before and he swore he could impossibly feel what seemed to be a second pair of appendages now beginning to caress his sides roughly. He felt something sliding in his hair and had the strangest sick feeling that they were large antenna, playing and probing. In his ears the barely audible sound of scuttling rose dramatically, so that he could hear it loudly all around him. But worst of all the tongue seemed to transform into a pair of mandibles wide enough to painfully stretch-out his cheeks. They were pressing hard up against his teeth and drawing blood from his gums. The mandibles were clicking excitedly inside his mouth. His blood went glacial with fear. He fought like hell to move, to extricate this thing from him, driven now by a raw animal panic, but his muscles simply would not respond. It was as if he were watching his body from a distance almost. To his absolute revulsion he felt the second pair of legs move from stroking his sides down to his crotch. Hard, seemingly exoskeleton-encased legs were trying to work as gently as possible over his crotch area now, trying to stimulate him, needless to say, quite unsuccessfully. Absurd yet horrific thoughts came unbidden to his mind; oh god, it wants to mate, create some kind of insect human hybrid. I wonder if my children will know me and call me ‘Daddy.’
Despite his terror, he almost laughed at this absurdity; and yet as he didn’t wake up from this mad scenario in a nice cozy bed somewhere, alone. The horror of his situation returned all too quickly and with greater strength. His head reeled with panic and fear, mingled still with the shock of disbelief, but somehow above all was the incredible sense of violation. He keenly felt the integrity of the energy of his self being breeched and was starting to become sullied by this filth that was now embracing him. As if he were a pool of clean water and a small stream of sewage had broken through and was filtering in, slowly contaminating and despoiling the pool. He knew with cold certainty he had to break free. He had to end this and soon, if he did not, it would somehow be over for him.
Some images now flashed clearly into his mind, blocking out everything else that was happening to him. They were things that he had seen in the past: roaches swarming over and eating the corpses of their own, pouring a bowl of cereal at a friend’s house and watching the roaches crawl out from under the flakes, a bloated roach with a large egg sack hanging half way out her body. This image suddenly became very clear in his mind. The roach suddenly seemed impossibly large, and he could clearly see every detail: the dead black eyes, the waving antennae, the feelers on the long stalks of the legs, the brownish egg sack close to bursting, filled with a legion of her spawn. There was something sickly regal about its appearance. Twisted and alien to mammal-kind, but somehow darkly royal. Queen Roach, the words came to his mind. Queen Roach, Queen Roach. And then he noticed the scuttling again, but this time it seemed not to come from thousands of feet but from billions upon billions. The cacophony of Her progeny, planet wide; their collective chaotic symphony. The sound, oh god, that sound. It was a soul killing sound. It was a noise that stole your air and left you to suffocate, a song that dragged you under its waves to drown, a dirge that marched over you and buried you far under it; blocking out all light, leaving you deep in the earth, clawing at the walls of your tomb.
It was a sound which drained all hope.
Jack felt himself slipping away, drowning in an invading filth-ridden ocean, fighting just to move his arms enough to keep afloat. What hope was there against such a vast tide? There was no hope he realized. Better to just give up. Better to just to stop this tiring fighting and let himself relax, and sink under those dark hungry waves.
“Wake up!” a voice raged from the deepest part of him, “Wake up and fight.”
“But it is hopeless to fight such a force,” another part of him said. “Just relax and be taken under.”
“Shut up. Shut the hell up, and find something to use. Find a weapon against her, against them. There has got to be a weapon. What do they fear? What do roaches fear?”
His mind searched for an answer, but he was drawing a blank. He felt himself starting to go under the invading tide. If he did he would never come back up again, he knew somehow, at least not as the same man.
Then, in his mind’s eye he saw flash a seemingly random image of a piece of Egyptian scarab beetle jewelry. Scarab beetles had always reminded him of roaches somehow. Next flashed an image of the Egyptian goddess Isis he had seen. He remembered his mythology then; she was married to the god Ra. An image of a man stepping for the first time on the moon flashed next, but somehow he knew it was the lander he came from that was important. What was its name? He was about to go under. His arms were too tired and would no longer move to tread the water. He was sinking. His mind fought desperately not to panic and to focus. Apollo 13 was the Lander, and yet Apollo was also another god, like Ra, but Greek. Ra and Apollo, what was the connection, the connection… They were both gods of the sun.
Suddenly he saw an image of a meadow, covered in sunlight. With a small glimmer of triumph he somehow knew the he had it. Just at that moment he went under, and started to drown, diseased water rapidly flooding his mind and choking his lungs. With a last bit of strength, he held on to his image of light, grasping it tight like a floating life preserver as he sank beneath the dark waters. What roaches fear is the noonday sun! It makes them run and scatter for the darkness. He summoned all his remaining will and focused on the meadow, trying to block out all else. He concentrated on the light coming down from the sky from the sun at its zenith. He felt himself bathed in it; felt its brightness and radiance. Its purity and its cleanliness were surrounding him, shining all around him. The sun’s light and heat started to purify then evaporate the invading sea just as he was about to lose his last strength and sink and succumb. The raging sound of the billions upon billions of progeny, became thousands, then hundreds, then one. He had an image of himself upon a stretch of land filed with piles of salt that was all that was left of the now evaporated and defeated invading sea. There was just a lone roach left crawling frantically along its surface; trying to escape from the light of the noonday sun overhead, trying to find darkness and shadow. Unable to find any, the sun started to burn the roach away. The roach burned away until it was just ashes. As this occurred, his former deep hopelessness was quickly replaced by a strengthening of his will and a renewed sense of vigor. He felt a sublime warmth radiating through his sinews as the sun poured down and a growing sense of triumph. As the very last vestiges of the roach burned away, he felt something withdraw from him as if stung. When it did, he knew that his paralysis was gone.
He opened his eyes. Mrs. Jenkins was there, her arms still around his neck, but she was no longer kissing him. Her face was contorted in a frown. Jack’s first reaction was to take her arms and pull them off him. She didn’t resist. He didn’t want her to have any more contact with him. Then he took a couple wary steps back from her.
“Mmm…tasty,” she said.
Jack looked at her. “What just happened?” he asked her with intensity; a mix of confusion, anger, and fear running through him.
“What do you mean?” she said, smiling at little.
Jack tried to read her face. He didn’t know how much she was aware of what happened or if she had any deliberate part of it. Jack knew he had fought with something, whether it had any material manifestation, or the battle took place somewhere else, on some other level, he did not know. This was the most intense but not the first time some strange “paranormal,” for lack of a better word, experience had happened to him. What he did know by now is that it was not simply imagination or hallucination, but was very real on the level in which it manifested, and, he sensed in that deep part of himself, very dangerous. He did not know what would have happened if he had not been able to end that seeming assault, but something deep inside him told him that he did not want to know. This woman was dangerous, whether she was somehow, on some level, the creature he experienced, or was merely possessed by it; it operated through her. Either way, she was someone to be wary of.
There was another question that was burning in the back of his mind. How much did his benefactor Mr. Luppo know about what Jack was getting into? Did he intentionally put him in harm’s way? For what purpose? To destroy him, or because he knew if anyone had, Jack might just possess the type of skills needed to deal with such an encounter? If this was the case though, why didn’t Luppo warn him? And what of this rare roach that Luppo wanted? Did he want it out of mere collector’s curiosity, or did he imagine it harbored some kind of occult power? He would have to deal with these issues later, however.
“You’re wondering if you rocked my world, aren’t you handsome? Sad to say, sigh, you didn’t. However, if you want to come back and try again sometime, with a little more enthusiasm, who knows. I see great potential,” she said seemingly amused.
It was obvious to Jack that if she was aware of what transpired she wasn’t going to admit it, playing some sick game.
“Well you have been a good sport though, and fulfilled your end of the bargain. So here’s your specimen.”
She reached in her pocket a brought out the container with the roach. She handed it to him. Jack, still shaken up from what happened, warily took it quickly from her hand and moved back away. He looked at the container and saw it was labeled. If he could believe the label it was the right roach, though he was no expert.
I’ve gone through a hell of a lot to get you little son-of-a-bitch, he thought, I hope it’s worth it, and slipped it into his pocket.
“Here’s your money.” Jack brought out the wad of cash she had specifically requested and placed it on a table. He didn’t want any more contact with her, and was loath to pay her at all after what she put him through.
She yawned, “I am feeling a bit tried and drained right now. You have what you came for, perhaps you should go now.”
He had wanted to get out of there the moment he set foot in the place, but as soon as he had slipped the container in his pocket, his goal achieved, it was hard to keep his legs still. He needed no further cue. Jack said “bye,” and without ceremony began to walk to the front door. He didn’t know whether Queen Roach would be upset by his discourteous exit; after all shouldn’t he bow before leaving the presence of royalty? As he walked to the door, he half expected to be stopped somehow, for there to be some sort of trap; her, or the roaches, even the furniture to suddenly grow monstrous and rise up against him. But he was unchallenged. The roaches even strangely parted before his feet to allow him exit.
As he opened the front door into the night, the fresh air on his face felt like a balm to his soul. It was liberating to be away from the smell and that suffocating feeling. He turned back around. She was sitting on the couch, staring off into space. He saw some roaches on the floor on the inside of the door, though not a one seemed to dare the outside of its threshold. He looked at her. He expected that she was beyond any help, particularly if she was somehow the source of his experience and not just a vehicle. She chuckled, eyes still staring straight ahead, and then reached up and clicked off the lamp. She disappeared as the interior of the house was instantly consumed in darkness. He closed the front door quickly, shutting all inside. He made his way to the car by the light of the moon, and felt a great sense of relief as he cranked up the engine and drove away without incident, the ordeal over.
And as he sped away down the road into the night with Luppo’s strange prize, he was feeling light and relieved, and did not even notice the little roach egg sack which had been laid and was clinging to the fabric of his jeans, the babies inside being gently rocked in their close to bursting cradle by the car’s movement, and sung a droning lullaby by its metallic engine.
© Louis Baum
Louis is a freelance writer and editor, rumored to have be raised by wolves, living currently in the wilds of rural Florida near an alligator infested swamp. He reportedly has delusions of world domination involving some combination of the words “army,” “gator,” and “ninja.” His work has appeared most recently in the Indiana Horror Anthology and Eschatology magazine, and will appear soon in the Techno-Goth Cthulhu Anthology, the premier online issue of Story Quest magazine as a second place contest winner, and Misfit Salon magazine. If you are interested in the
drivel that oozes forth from his worm-ridden brain, help populate his brand new Facebook page: Click Here
