He tried to speak but a hand reached through the ambling silt and placed something cool on his tongue, halting his words. It felt like a pile of broken straight razors. Their flavor made him hungry, so he rolled them around his mouth, ignoring the way they cut into his flesh. The blood made them taste even better.
A voice squeezed through the pressure of the deep: “They are the seeds. They are the brood.”
His esophagus felt like a split bamboo shaft and his stomach divided in wobbling partitions. The digestive acid cooked his lower organs.
Yes! The hand in the watery dark that grazed his cheek had slender, female fingers. He swallowed more razors and had his fill. He squirmed inside the flower as the strain built at his sides. Bubbles poured from his mouth as he screamed at the possibility of the pressure never stopping.
Sam woke up to a fading pain in his gut. Barbara was pounding the bathroom door with her puny wrist. Slowly, he realized he was on the toilet, just like every other day this week.
Barbara’d been talking, but he only noticed her just now. “Hold your horses,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Disgust touched her voice. “Yeah? You gonna go all the way this time?”
“Shut up.”
“I’m leaving, Sam.” Her voice held no conviction.
“You’ll just come back like they all do. Stop pulling my dick.”
“Creep!”
“Yeah, maybe I am.” Sam grabbed some toilet paper, wiped himself and pulled up his boxers. When he turned to flush, he saw something that alarmed him more than the dream. Past the toilet seat, he saw a scarlet stew of shit and blood.
He flushed. The sludge coiled into a gory cyclone and burped up clear—thankfully clear—water. It might not mean a thing. Sitting on his ass and writing nine hours a day could have baked up a nice batch of hemorrhoids, but that didn’t make him feel any better.
He went back and turned Barbara on her stomach. She didn’t look happy at all, but she also didn’t object.
Ten minutes later, he’d sweated away his frustration, but, just like earlier, there’d been no climax. He hadn’t had one since he’d written that damned story.
Barbara soon drifted off and he lay beside her, not daring to shut his eyes. An hour later he heard something outside. The noise had made his teeth click. A hollow, booming sound, loud and heavy.
Like something massive striking down on the ocean floor.
The B-porn on cable had too much plot and Sam’s legs started twitching. He thought about writing but gave up the notion for fear of more delusions. Constance hadn’t called in two weeks now. But calling her, or calling Barbara, that was showing weakness.
His hardness eventually got the better of him, so he punched in Constance’s number. She was the freakiest of his steadies: nipple-biting, hair-pulling, and an occasional finger up his asshole. He never felt right with her, never felt right without her. It was an old feeling.
He was twelve. Driving to the theater. Upholstery smelled of sex and malt liquor. Pat Benatar sang on the radio. The greatest moment of his life had been a blink before the Cadillac wrapped around the telephone pole and everything tore away. But as his mother sucked on her boyfriend, Sam saw something vital in her eyes; she was content, at ease with her pains. Had her mouth not been occupied, it may have worked up a smile.
Later, watching the sheeted bodies roll away on their gurneys and listening to a stammering, although well-meaning, police officer, Sam Ruthers decided to find that happiness his mother had. Maybe he’d have it longer than the single moment she’d be given.
Call him sick, but remembering his mother blowing a guy was a fond memory, the greatest memory.
The phone rang for a fifth time.
Another ring, but this one cut short as a watery recording played. He slammed down the phone.
Constance called around lunch time the next day. Hearing her voice almost made him choke on his cheeseburger. He was too tired to deal with freaks this early. Hot freak, but freak nonetheless.
“You called yesterday?”
“Your voice’s echoing.”
She hesitated. “Parking structure outside the library.”
“You haven’t called in like two weeks.”
“Sorry.” It was a small sounding word. “Want some company this weekend?”
Weekend? He couldn’t sound desperate and ask why she didn’t come over sooner. Weak.
“Maybe I will, but I have to finish some editing. I’ll give you a call later. I gotta run.”
“I do love you. You love me, right?”
The words tickled his lips. “Yes, of course I do.”
And an hour later he told Barbara: “Are you nuts? I love you more than television. Take some time off and come over tonight.”
“It’s been a shitty day,” Barbara answered, too languidly to expect an explanation. “So what about all your other little tramps? They on the disabled list?”
“There’s only one tramp for me. Hey, I gotta run. See you tonight. There’s some kid at my door.”
“Don’t be mean. Love ya.”
“Love ya more.”
A frail kid stood outside, holding a cardboard box full of candy bars. Obviously none of the candy had been filched. “Good afternoon, Sir. I’m selling these delicious treats. They were donated to the South Malden Middle School fundraiser, which helps the—”
“Save it, partner.” Sam took out a loose twenty from his back pocket. “Give them to your friends or something. Better yet, eat ‘em yourself.”
The kid walked off, swinging his box. Sam’s eyes darted out to the street. Something moved. The manhole cover had lowered.
“Kid?”
The boy turned with a frown.
“Is there something out in the street?”
The middle-schooler examined the street with more attention than it warranted. The boy shrugged. “There’s a smashed paper cup.”
Sam closed the door.
He might still be tired from all the tossing and turning last night. But the manhole moved. Two or three times, he crept to the window for another look. In between those times he lounged, watching TV, eating cold mushroom pizza.
When night fell, the neighborhood became a collection of floating rooftops. Sam had to convince himself bubbles weren’t wandering skyward in the racing blue shadows. His uneasiness was chased off when Barbara’s corvette bumped into the driveway. The brake lights flowed out behind like iodine wash.
He waved. She didn’t see him. God, she was gorgeous. Not as smoking-hot as Constance, but few were. He waved harder to get her attention, then froze.
Out in the street, in the iodine sea, a face peered from under the manhole lid. Long webbed fingers wrapped around the lid and its iridescent knuckles bent in a rancorous rainbow. The Nightlid had no hair on its head or face. When Barbara turned off the ignition, the red color drained from the creature’s skin, leaving behind flesh the color of marrow.
Sam leaned closer to the window, trembling. The Nightlid’s eyes were diamond-shaped stones, black as the emotionless gelatin orbs of a shark. It looked just like what he’d written.
He tried to open the window. Barbara bent inside to retrieve her purse. The manhole lifted higher and fog blanketed the street. Sam wrenched at the latch, pulling with both hands. What the hell was wrong with it? He shoved with his entire body. The window slid over.