Anthology - Dark Whispers Part 6

The surge was a powerful one, a roar that echoed from somewhere deep inside his gut and possibly beyond. It connected with the toilet water full force, sounding as if it parted the porcelain-held sea straight through to the cesspool. In an instant, discomfort seized Tony and provoked him to clutch his shrinking crotch, which along with his colon involuntarily cut him off.

Then another roar came, this one louder than the first, followed immediately by another torrent of puke.

Tony sat still, quiet. He closed his eyes tight and prayed it away, wishing it all wasn't happening. He heard the trickling and spitting of saliva amidst pained random gasps and wheezes. He listened to the man's shoes sc.r.a.ping the tiles. Every nuance was there. And as the man heaved a third time, a stench exploded from the stall, sending Tony's nostrils to an unexplored territory that reeked of hard-boiled eggs and Romano cheese stuffed into sweaty sneakers.

Tony began to sweat profusely. Eyes closed, he pulled a strip of toilet paper and wiped his brow. Meanwhile, the vomiter showed no signs of letting up, carrying onward, puking a forth, and then a fifth and sixth time. Each bellow seemed to increase in force, each extruding forth a voluminous amount of vomit that slapped the water as if the innards from a school of gutted dolphins were being shoveled into the toilet. Tony had never heard anything like it. His stomach clenched, his teeth too, and he had to force himself to gag back the contents in his own stomach.

He couldn't take it any longer. s.h.i.t or no s.h.i.t, it was time to get out of there before he began puking too.

And it was only as Tony stood to pull up his trousersa"he did so quietly as he wasn't sure if the vomiter was yet aware of his presence a"that things really started to get out of hand.

The vomiter purged again, this time with a sound that was not present in any of the previous releases. It was a ... gurgle, a low gutteral moan strangely similar to the wail of a cat in mid-o.r.g.a.s.m, only somewhat m.u.f.fled. Also different was the sound of contact, for the water in the toilet was obviously mistargeted, and splash! was now splat! as the tiles were layered.

Freaking out, Tony cowered back against the opposite wall of the stall, his growing fear and disgust causing him to breath in audible pants. At that moment the vomiter became very quiet, stopped spitting and gagging as if he became aware of Tony's presence.

Tony softly crouched down to pick up his bag, first twisting his head to peer into the shadows of the twelve inch s.p.a.ce at the bottom of the stall wall.

What happened then was something that he could not have foreseen.

An ebb of blood swelled from beyond the confines of the vomiter's stall. At first he did not know what was happening. It started slowly, filling in the cracks between the tiles on the floor. Watching curiously, he neglected to move his bag before the red puddle poured forth like a spilled can of paint, covering the floor, his bag, his shoes, all in its path.

He pushed frantically against the door with a cry, trying to escape. It squeaked, but didn't budge. He turned back, groaning, facing the stream of blood.

Now much more than blood was making its way over. At first glance it looked like streaks of wavering threads within the blood, but as he bent over in curious horror to contemplate it further, he could only stare in shock. Flowing amidst the blood in an almost sensual slowness were what appeared to be veins, dark blue and gray, slithering over like dead snakes floating upon the surface of a pond. Amidst the veins, small meaty chunks floated through like insects riding the surface of a rain puddle.

Tony stepped back in horror and revulsion, fumbling at the door, feeling the warmth of the blood through his shoes. He finally pulled it in and escaped the confines of the stall, leaving his bag behind in exchange for his freedom.

He moved to an area of the floor by the urinals that had not been tainted by the ebba"about three feet opposite the vomiter's stalla"and stopped there. Dropping to his knees he again peered under.

There weren't any feet.

He stood back up, confused, scared. He hesitantly called out: "H-h.e.l.lo?"

He waited, but no reply came. "You okay in there?" Absurd question. He walked slowly to the stall and after a moment of pause, knocked. "Hey in there, speak up." No reply, however he could still hear the breathing, a bit quieter than before. He looked to the restroom entrance, hoping someone, anyone would walk in, take over the responsibility of this frightening mess.

Then, a loud knock from inside the stall.

Tony jumped back, startled. He scrambled to his knees, again looking for feet, but still there were none. He pondered as to what his next move should be. Jesus, this was a health and safety issue now. The guy was obviously very ill, maybe about to pa.s.s out, maybe dying and in need of help. He could not leave him alone here. What if he did die? That was not an option. He couldn't live with himself if that happened.

With no alert to the occupant of the stall, he stood, took two big steps, and kicked in the door.

Shot with a bullet of terror, a staggering Tony struggled to bear the burden of his own weight as he attempted to a.s.similate the image before him.

Hunched atop the toilet seat was a man, a ... pilot. His uniform-clad body was splattered with blood from head to toe, a virtual puddle of gore saturating the chest through to his skin, the remainder of his body streaked in crimson like a finger painting. His face was a bloated visage that strained like an over-filled balloon about to burst, the veins at the forehead purple with pressure, both nostrils running thin trickles of blood over paled skin. The eyes, blackened underneath like two ripened prunes, bulged with dilated pupils that wavered atop the swelled whites like congealed drops of blood floating in yellowing pools of pus.

A sudden agonizing screech came from the pilot, startling Tony like a wicked alarm in the middle of the night. He jumped back unblinking, his sweaty fingers groping for the stainless steel of the sink behind him. He failed in this quest for support and slipped down hard on his back end. At that point, all attempts to move seemed impossible. Every muscle strained, trying desperately to as much as twitch.

Then the airman's teeth, previously clenched vice tight, started to quickly chatter as if mechanical; he looked like a ventriloquist's dummy possessed by some malevolent evil. Through this oral din, through all the blockage gurgling in the back of his throat, Tony heard the pilot growl one word. He wasn't sure he had heard him correctly, but he had to trust his ears for there would be no opportunity for the man to repeat himself.

Gremlins...

Shaking uncontrollably, Tony managed to get to his feet, trying desperately to break his astonished gaze from the gnarled pilot. He crossed his arms in front of him, holding in the memory of the word before it escaped him.

The teeth then stopped chattering as suddenly as they started, the mouth frozen in a wide open position. A little more blood trickled out down his chin. He made a short snorting sound and Tony staggered back against the tiled wall, trying to yell but unable to do so for fear stole his voice.

Something began crawling from the pilot's mouth.

His jaws had locked open because something was holding them that way: two little hands the size of dimes, each with four tiny fingers, prying the mouth open by the upper and lower jaws. A sucking noise sounded, similar to a dentist's mouth vacuum, and then a little ... man, drenched with blood and bile, began forcing its way out. A tiny bald head emerged, as round and smooth as a cue ball. Looking out, its lid-less eyes, each the color of dull pennies, bulged wildly like a deer's caught in the headlights of an speeding car. It looked like a mini-human with progeria, like a six inch mutant Uncle Fester.

Losing it, Tony lurched away as blood began bursting from the pores in the pilot's face. And upon finally exiting the bathroom, he repeated the word over and over and over.

Gremlins...

TONY WAS FREAKING, shaking in panic, his thoughts running amok as he took a first cla.s.s seat on the plane. He had run immediately from the bathroom to the gate where his plane had begun boarding. He counted the seconds as if they were hours, in sweaty prayer for his safe arrival home, or at the very least, away from the airport. He would concern himself with any mental therapy once he locked himself away in his apartment with a bottle of Tequila or Absolut.

Gremlins. He remembered watching a program, on the Discovery Channel he thought, about WWII pilots' stories of little men that inflicted havoc by tearing apart the planes as they were in flight. Many had claimed to have seen them. But these were just stories, weren't they? Could gremlins be real, now attacking the pilots of the planes?

The pa.s.sengersa"fifteen in total, all of them back in coacha"had finished boarding, and the doors to the plane were shut. With the plane in Taxi, Tony grew tired, mentally and perhaps physically drained from his experience, and closed his eyes. His mind, a serious mess, jumbled thoughts like an ocean wave churning the fine sands of a beach, mixing all reality with imagination and fabrication. And before Tony realized that he still hadn't completely relieved himself, he fell asleep.

"Sir?"

Tony felt a hand lightly jarring him. He looked up. An attractive womana"a flight attendanta"stood over him. She had blond hair, blue eyes, and a pleasant smile white with teeth.

"I'm very sorry to wake you sir. We're circling Logan and I need you to fasten your seat belt."

Tony looked down, bleary eyed, still half asleep. He fastened his belt. The flight attendant thanked him and walked through the curtains to check on the other pa.s.sengers.

He looked to the lavatory door, and like a bell, the pounding returned. He still had to go.

Then, he remembered.

Gremlins.

It had to be a dream. He sat up in his seat, at once agitated. Think, think, was it a dream? It had to be...

He unbuckled and rose from his seat, prepared to give in and use the lavatory when the door to the c.o.c.kpit opened and the Captain emerged. He was white as a ghost. He forced a smile in Tony's direction, and rushed into the bathroom ahead of Tony, shutting the door behind. A click of the latch inside was heard, and the OCCUPIED light illuminated.

Tony had not smiled back. He instead diverted his gaze to the ground, to his shoes.

His b.l.o.o.d.y shoes.

Sweat poured forth from his brow in panic, and as if a metal fork were being sc.r.a.ped across a chalky blackboard, he cringed as he heard the m.u.f.fled sound of vomiting emanating from behind the sterile white of the lavatory door.

What Turns You Onby David Niall Wilson One thing that's certain when reading David Niall Wilson, is that you can never be sure to what dark corner you might be taken. To what hideous thing might be lurking there, waiting to pouncea"but once you've completed the journey, you're glad to have been invited along. He's appeared in several e-zines all over the place including, "Cemetery Dance," "Deathrealm," and recently had a story in the "Psychos" anthology edited by Robert Bloch. He has also had over seven novels published to date, including his latest "This Is My Blood," which will appear in 1999 by Terminal Fright Publications.

"SO," GRETCHEN BREATHED in Toby's ear, "why do you write that stuff?"

"What do you mean," he returned, twisting his head to the side as her tongue slipped past his earlobe to the tender skin inside, "that stuff?"

"You know," she breathed, "killers, monsters, vampires. Why not write about what's real?"

"And what would that be?" he asked, pulling back and turning to gaze into her eyes. "What is real? What should I write about? Everyone is always telling me what not to write; suppose you do the honors?"

"I don't know," she said, turning her face away from him just slowly enough for him to catch the expression that told him she knew all-too-well. "Why don't you write about what turns you on?"

"You want me to write about you?" he grinned, reaching for her playfully. "You want me to write p.o.r.n?"

"No," she said, her face a mask of seriousness, "I mean what really turns you on, you know? What's inside here." She tapped his forehead with a long, lacquered nail. "Write about what takes you away, what opens the doors. Write about what really matters to you."

"And what if it doesn't matter to anyone else?" he asked. "What if I empty it all out and n.o.body will read it, or worse yet, n.o.body even wants me around? Have you thought of that?"

"Have you?" she countered, her eyes narrowing a bit. "I'd read it."

"Would you still want me around, though?" he asked, suddenly as serious as she was. "What if I'm not who I seem to be? What if you hate me?"

"Oh, like you're the first to think of that one," she teased. "What did that old poet say, what's his name ... uh," all that we say or seem, is but a dream within a dream?"

"Poe. The poet's name was Poe. He wrote a lot of stuff that n.o.body read until after he died, and most everyone agrees he was mental. Maybe that's what happens when you write about what's important. Maybe it's not meant to be written."

"Maybe it's the only thing that is. Maybe he died because, once it was all out, his mission was complete. He was empty."

The conversation ended abruptly as Gretchen either lost interest or changed tactics, moving forward to plunge her tongue between his lips and to press him back against the couch roughly. She never fooled around; even s.e.x was seriousa"never triviala"never without some hidden, subliminal meaning.

As her fingers and tongue began to march across his skin, sending the world about him twisting away in waves of pleasure that insinuated themselves into his thoughts, then slammed through him like a battering ram, his mind detached itself, whirling off onto a tangent of its owna"or was it another of hers? He left his body, her body, all of it behind, left it all in her eager, capable hands, and he took off.

What turns you on?

The words took on shapes and substance all their own, pushing at him, nudging him, unwilling to release him without an answer. He didn't know the answer. He didn't know what it was that was important, and the sudden knowledge hurt worse than any physical blow, worse, even, than Gretchen's teeth, which he was vaguely aware of snapping at his nipples and tearing at his chest, more than her nails, which bit into his back and left little trails of plowed flesh and blood behind. Her mark. Her brand.

She had stimulated his mind, but she held him on a leash of the physicala"gripped him by the endings of nerves that could distract thought and dissipate the very answers she'd sent him in search of. She was like a witch, or a siren, dragging him ash.o.r.e with her body, by the beautiful, tinkling lilt of her laughter, which became the tearing, searing heat of her pa.s.sion when he drew too close. He knew that once her hands were on him, once their limbs were intertwined, everything he did or thought was attributable, in some way, to her influence.

Were his thoughts hers as well? Did she want him to write about what turned him on, or about what turned her on. Did she know the answers, or was she seeking them through him? Maybe his answer lay in her eyes, or in her heart? Maybe she was that answer. If so, could he write that down? Could he bring the essence of her to his fingertips, controlling her as she controlled him, and divert that essence into the firmament of words? If so, would she be trapped, revealed to the world, or would he? What would come loose if he opened up the gates of his mind? What turned him on?

If he set it all free, would it even be he who was writing, or would she control that too? If he attempted to grab and hold her, blending her reality with his words, would he pour himself out instead? Would she take that as easily as she took his body, sucking it down and leaving him a dried out, empty husk? Would it matter?

He was brought back to his senses by the haunting music of her cries, back into a sweltering inferno of flesh and sweat, twisting hair and animal groans. He saw her eyes for just an instant as they flashed past his own, and he grasped at that vision. As they climaxed together, their hearts pounding as one and their flesh as nearly fused as the physical world would allow, he held that image.

He held her for long, sweet moments, letting his thoughts settle, holding the image of her eyes. He felt her damp hair brush across his face, felt the scent and taste of her sweet, intoxicating breath insinuating itself into his own. He could not see, not with his eyes, but he had visions, clear visions. He drew them from the image he now cherished, the clear depths of her own eyes.

He found answers there, too, or at least he believed that he did. Already his fingers itched, aching for the keyboard. The gates in his mind were bowed from the weight of words that must be released or drive him mad.

"What turns you on?" she whispered once more, pulling back slightly and slipping to his side. They lay there, skin pressed to skin, his eyes on the ceiling and his mind far away, her eyes studying his profile and her fingers dancing idly over his body. He ignored those fingers as best he could. He was after her mind.

He did not see her for days. Her cla.s.s schedule and his own were so disparate that they seldom crossed paths. Too seldom, he thought, at timesa"at others far too often. He had not studied since she'd left him, had only been to one cla.s.sa"half a cla.s.s, to be honest.

What turns you on?

His dreams were surreal, fevered landscapes that drew him in and sent him back to his own world writhing in frustrated fear and bathed in sweat. What was he afraid of? The answers he sought wove themselves into tapestries he could never bring to life before their threads unraveled. Secrets whispered from the darkness into his ears and slipped back out, leaving him clutching at their trailing edgesa"biting his lips in frustration.

He had not eaten. He was not fasting, nor was he suffering for art's sake. The concept of food was lost to him. Coffee cups littered the floor at his feet. His chin was a small forest of grimy stubble. His eyes stared with fevered intensity, burning from too much usea"the smoke from too many half-smoked cigarettes, hunger.

Trying to hard, he told himself. He was seated once more before the glowing green eye of his word processor, mesmerized and mocked by the blinking cursor, which strobed like a solitary sentinel in neon garb.

The caffeine was replacing his blood. Thecrt was leaking it's mucous green glow out to engulf his world. It was slipping awaya" everything was slipping away. He did not feel as though he were in the same place at all.

Trying way too hard.

When she entered the room, he hardly noticed. Her perfume wisped past his face, imbedded itself into the patterns of his thoughts, wound around and through him. Her arms twined across his shoulders, which were trembling with denied fatigue. Her hair dangled, tickling his skin and caressing him with an electric field of sensual intrusion. He fought it. He saw her presence in that moment for what it wasa"an interruptiona" a distraction.

d.a.m.n her, it was her fault. He was creating. He was writing what was important. He was doing nothing.

"Interesting plot," she observed, gazing at the screen over his shoulder and nipping playfully at his earlobe. "I foresee laurels; your fame will spread far and wide. You need a shower."

All true. He let her drag him to his feet, leaving the screen and the cursor to keep one another company as he dragged his sweat-drenched shirt and grubby jeans off in a daze. He staggered down the hallway in her wake, following the distant, jarring hiss of water steaming through pipes. She was waiting, naked in the steam, smiling at him with everything but her eyes.

He did not want this. His head was swimming with visionsa"the threads were weaving themselves together once more, taunting him. Once his keyboard was beyond his reach, he ached for ita"yearned for it. Once the screen no longer faced off with him, holding him at a creative impa.s.sea"blocking the stream of his thoughtsa"he could picture it filing, dribbling from the top down to cover its green surface with letters and phrases and syntax of literary perfection. Important.

She dragged him into the tub, sliding the shower curtain closed behind him and drawing him close. Her skin was coated with a slick sheen of soap, and her lips were parted. She appeared hungry, needy a"empty. He pulled away, trying to reorient his whirling thoughts. Failed.

She opened here eyes to him then, just for a second, just long enough. He met those eyes head on, forced his knees not to buckle and ignored the pull of her flesh on his mind. On his soul. He caught a glimpse of something in that instant, something that ran and hid, scurrying to the back of her mind and twisting from the a.s.sault of his eyesa"fear. He was sure of it. Fear, and something more. Then it was gone, twisting away to kneel against the side of the tub and draw him down to her.

The water washed over them. He could feel it streaming down, washing away his resolve, melting the tapestry. It was like rain across the beach, unable to quench the heat, misting to steam as it streamed across their joined flesh. He fought it. He reached backa"only seconds, seconds that stretched like yearsa"reached for that glimpse into her eyes.

What turns you on?

Not this, he thought. "Not this," he murmured. She did not hear him. She did not listen. His thoughts swam, whirled. He grasped at them, struggled to free himselfa"failed. His thoughts broke free, sloughing off and slipping away, joining the soapy water as it swirled on downward and pa.s.sed through the drain.

This time he clawed at her. This time it was his nails that bit, his teeth that found purchase in soft skin. It was her blood that flowed, her pain. He had no focus. He could not remember what he wanteda" what was important. She sucked at him, drew him in, mocked him with the memory of her wordsa"of her eyes.

It ended in a flash. He was therea"joined with hera"yet he was not. His mind floated, pleasure shimmering through and over him, and the heat that pa.s.sed between them was incrediblea"blinding. He tried to speak her name, tried to call out to her to pull her closera"to push her away. He heard her voicea"laughter? Tears? Then nothing. Nothing.

HE WOKE WITH a start. She was therea"beside him. He was still in the tub, but now it was filled with warm, bubbling water. Her hands splashed idly, running over his flesh with the soap, twisting in the hairs on his chest. She watched him as if from far away, watched him with deep, hollow eyes, eyes that begged to be filled, eyes that s.n.a.t.c.hed at his innermost being hungrily.

He closed his own eyes, freeing them for a moment.

"What turns you on?" she asked. He did not answer, only laid back against the cool porcelain and the warm water, drooping, letting himself slip down until he was all but immersed. He did not open his eyes.

What turns you on?

NIGHTS CAME AND went, and finally he slept. It was not good sleep. He tossed and turned in the throes of dreams that would dance out of his grasp, fleeing the confines of his memory each time he shook himself to groggy wakefulness, only to return if he let his mind slip back into the darkness. At last he gave it up, returning to his vigil in front of the monitor screen.

What turns you on?