PEDDLER'S BARGAIN Page 4
The room spun slightly; he passed out.
Sixteen
Later, he awoke from a stupor. Brad’s face itched madly. He lay in bed staring up at the old floorboards and joists.
A recurrent jingle echoed in his head, ebbing back and forth, with the vacillation of extreme itching on his cheeks. He clawed at his skin with both hands.
The torment abated momentarily, and then the little song was back.
Scabie face, scabie face
Little bugs crawling all over the place.
Scabie face, scabie face
Wayne the pain is such a disgrace…
Brad sat up rubbing at his face. Panic swept over him as he sensed bumps all over his skin. He wondered if the old cot had bed bugs.
Making his way to the washroom, Brad stepped around the grey wall dividing the basement. He stammered for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the poor lighting. Then, he felt his face burn with insatiable itching.
He rushed to the mirror hanging above the little basement sink.
Considering the dusty and tarnished glass, a horrific visage peered back at him. Reddish bumps covered his face. Some of them had risen into little crevices with black dots in the center. A multitude of bugs evacuated from the filthy little holes. They pinched at his skin, scouring his pores for new ingress points.
Brad screamed at the hideous image. Terrorized by the sight of what had become of his pretty face.
His mind raced. Brad swayed from the wine and tried to reason. A cackling kept breaking the silence. He wondered if he was losing it. The itching returned, more furious than ever. He couldn’t stand the irritation any longer. And the bugs continued to meander from the tiny craters.
Reaching for a coat hanger, resting on top of the clothes dryer, Brad bent it into a makeshift scalpel. Then, he pierced his face with the pointed tip, carving into the buggy nesting grounds.
Slowly excoriating his skin, bit by bit, he watched gleefully as bugs and larvae dropped from the striations.
The mad itching was replaced with burning pinpricks. Pain was more palatable than the incessant itching. Brad cackled as he conquered the menacing bugs. Then, he watched in dread as a tiny crater on his face expanded a full centimeter.
A good-sized bug popped out, feelers rapidly whisking around. Threatening pincers snapped open and shut.
Brad snickered at the bug’s feeble attempt to overcome him. He jabbed the coat hanger, skewering the little beast. It squirmed, and the head, almost glanced at Brad, while nodules crimped and weaved, and feelers relentlessly wriggled about.
“I’ve got you,” Brad screamed, joyfully. He held the bug like a marshmallow on a stick, and took a big bite.
Catching a glance in the mirror, striations of cleaved meat on his cheeks ran deep. Deep enough that glimpses of bone and ligaments poked through the fissures.
“You won’t survive this,” he yelled at the bugs. Then he cackled, peering into the mirror, and assaulted a few more.
Brad leaned closer, inspecting for survivors. Brushing back his hair, a massive bump came into view; it spread three inches wide. The lump was bright red. Something undulated beneath the surface of his skin.
More formidable than the other bugs, Brad gulped nervously. He grew crazed with outrage. “This one’s the mother-load!”
Shuffling to the tool bench, Brad fumbled around in the dark, seeking the proper instrument, and then found purchase. He walked back to the mirror.
The lump had grown larger, and still larger. Resembling a crater like the others, only this one appeared immense. A giant slug wiggled from beneath his skin, tearing flesh apart. Excruciating pain dazed him, as the slug pressed forward, shredding his forehead into flaps of skin. Blood streaked down his face, running along both cheeks, and over his nose.
Brad stood motionless, watching in horror, as the slug wormed its way out.
He wanted the pest completely extracted before meeting the challenge. Brad tightened his grip on the handle of the instrument that would bring its demise. The slug paused, sensing; its antennae twitched ever so slightly.
Crawling out from the ravaged crater, the bug froze, as though it sensed danger.
Brad quickly made his move.
He swung a dull hatchet, planting it into the slug. Thwack. An oozing sound followed, as the hatchet cleaved through the slug, spurting brown juicy fluid everywhere. The dull blade imbedded into Brad’s skull with a resounding crack, splattering streams of blood onto the soiled mirror.
“Got you,” Brad screamed. “You bastard!”
Then, he heard floorboards above creak.
He’d woken Mary.
Seventeen
A moment later, he heard the basement door creak, and sensed a hesitation at the top of the stairs. Brad canted his head, listening intently.
The person stood still. Mary.
Glancing into the splattered mirror, Brad inspected his mutilated visage. The hatchet remained lodged in his skull, and gashes oscillated over his face, revealing skull and jaw bone. Turning away, he caught Wayne staring at him, grinning wildly.
The small craters and black dots were gone. No sign of the slightest blemish. Brad discerned a flap of skin, flipped up, at the back of Wayne’s head, matted, oozing blood and flecks of brain matter.
“You!” Brad screamed. “You’re behind this. All of this!”
The expression changed, from an entertaining grin, to pride.
“Why, I’ll get you for this!” Brad yelled, madly.
A sardonic grin returned, condescending. Brad seemed to hear him say: No, you won’t. But nothing was spoken.
Brad smashed the mirror with his fist. Shards of goopy glass cascaded to the floor. He heard someone rush down the stairs. Unmistakable, Mary treaded her way down into the basement, sounding alarmed at the commotion.
He scuffled across the floor toward his cot. When Mary reached the basement floor, Brad lingered in the shadows. Streetlight reflected into his living area, allowing him to see her, but he remained a silhouette in the darkness, obscure.
“Brad, what in the world is going on down here?” she gasped.
“Nothing dear,” he replied coolly. “I was just doing a little extermination.”
“In the middle of the night?” Mary chided him. “This hardly seems the time for that. And besides, it sounded like you were arguing.”
“Just rebuking the little bastards, that’s all.”
“Well, I have to say, you’ve given me quite a scare.” She sounded exasperated. “Maybe this arrangement isn’t going to work out, after all.”
“Mary, don’t say that,” Brad insisted, stepping closer. His foot knocked the wine bottle; it rattled and sloshed on the floor.
“My god, Brad. What has become of you?”
“Just a little nightcap,” he said, smirking.
“This isn’t funny,” she replied, sobbing. “I thought that we had things worked out. And then you didn’t come home last night. Where have you been? Out drinking, squandering what little money we have? Running around with another floozy?”
Brad gulped. Had it all worked out?
She started crying. “Why couldn’t I have been enough?”
“Oh, Mary,” he said, taking a step closer. “It’s not like that, not like that at all. I’ve made some mistakes, but we’ll work it out.”
“You’re not going to manipulate your way back into my life again.” She cringed. “This was your last chance, and you blew it.”
“Mary, don’t say that,” he muttered, softly. “You know I love you. We can work things out.”
“No never! You’ve had your chance.”
Brad shuffled forward. Tacky blood on the floor stuck to the soles of his shoes. Her face reflected in the light, streaked with tears, wrought in sorrow.
“You don’t have any idea… what you put me through.” She huffed for breath. “You’re a monster!”
“That’s a shame…” He stepped closer, moving from the shadows. “My, what an aw
ful shame, we can’t work it out.”
“What’s that sticking from your head?” she asked, frightened, taking a step back.
“Come here and I’ll show you.” Brad sneered, pulling the hatched from its resting place. He reached back and let it fly.
The assault was swift. Mary stood frozen, paralyzed by fear. As the dull blade split her head, blood spurted, soiling his face. Then Brad heard the familiar voice, mocking him.
Wayne had gotten his revenge.
Eighteen
Brad watched with amusement as Suzanne stood in front of the bathroom mirror. She’d recently made Partner and wore a new suit. Her hair and makeup were perfect, but she doted on herself none-the-less.
Her eyes suddenly went wide. Dreadful.
She reached for the object reflecting above her head in the glass. Her hand swiped at air. Nothing. Then, she wiped at her hairline, as though something were dribbling down her forehead, like melting ice cream, only crimson.
“What’s happening?” she cried out, leaning closer.
Suzanne’s chest heaved from anxiety; fear registered in her twitching eyes.
Touching the glass, her countenance shifted to curiosity, but only for a moment. She recoiled from the mirror. Horrified.
Suzanne gasped for breath.
“What the hell is this?” she screamed, putting her hands under the faucet. Suzanne reached for a paper towel, patting her face dry, settling herself. She shook her head. “Need a vacation,” she muttered. “Too many all-nighters.”
Turning to leave, she glanced back at the mirror. “Brad?”
He smirked at her, nodding. The hatchet was lodged into his skull, and blood oozed down his face.
Brad was in hell, but it felt good.
She bolted for the door.
He called out to her as she fled: Schmuck.
About the Author
John W. Dennehy is a writer of Suspense, Horror, and Thrillers. His first novel Clockwork Universe is out now from Severed Press. He has two more novels expected from Severed Press in 2017, including Pacific Rising and Deepwater Drift. His stories have appeared in SQ Mag, Disturbed Digest, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Beyond Science Fiction, and in anthologies such as Winter Shivers, Bones III, and SNAFU: Wolves at the Door, and many others. Currently, he is working on a Supernatural Thriller novel.
After graduating from Pinkerton Academy, he enlisted in the U.S. Marines. Then, John earned a degree in English/Creative Writing at UNC Wilmington. John is a member of Horror Writers Association and Mystery Writers of America. He lives in New England, and can be found at his website: http://johnwdennehy.com/