Creepy - Day 18 - A Taste of Things to Come

Episode Date: October 18, 2021

You can never escape who you are...***Written by: Wil Dalphin***Bonus: "Friday the 13th" written by Angelique Fawns and narrated by Rissa M***Check out Sleep/Wake Cycle Podcast at: https://shows.acast.com/the-sleep-wake-cycle/episodes***Find our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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So I wanted to give a quick shout out to the Sleep Wake Cycle podcast, blending supernatural horror with noir. The Sleep Wake Cycle follows the strange twins Isaiah and Rosemary. Their mission? To fulfill a secret government agency's directive to bring the U.S. back from the brink of madness. Born with strange abilities, the twins investigate the wellness of a republic ravaged

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These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents The 31 Days of Horror, Day 18, A Taste of Things to Come, written by Will Delf. I spotted the first unmarked van as I walked my son down Lawrence Avenue through thongs of garrishly dressed ninjas, axe murders, ice princesses, and superheroes. It might have gone unnoticed by me, if not for the broad-shouldered man wearing a parcel delivery service uniform sitting in the driver's seat, looking out a place with his ray bands and the

coil of an earpiece in his ear. My first instinct was to draw my firearm and put two in the driver's head before he had a chance to pull his own. But there were too many children and neighbors in plain sight. I needed to be less instinctual, more tactical. They found me. Fifteen years at peace, but they'd come at last. And on Halloween of all days. I needed to get my family out, but before I could plan anything,

I needed to know how they tracked me down. Thomas squeezed my hand. You okay, Daddy? I pushed away the violent thoughts flying through my head and smiled down at him and his mummy costume. We'd work together to design, using sports bandages and novelty shop makeup. Here was my legacy.

The one thing in my 40-odd years that I could be proud of. My son. All the death and confidence. I'd rot before he was born was behind me. I was no longer that man. I'm fine champ, I told him. But it's starting to get dark. I think we've got enough candy, don't you?

You're going to make yourself sick for weeks on that hall. He looked in his plastic pumpkin bucket, half full of candy bars and jawbreakers, cheap plastic trinkets adorned with spiders and bats, lollipops and candy corn and sandwich pigs with homemade cookies that we'd end up throwing out for fear of razor blades or rat poison. To a child, it looked like the magical Willy Wonka's candy factory. But to an adult, it looked like nausea and heartburn.

God, how careless I've become. Married life, parenting. I'd let it bring my guard down. It's foolish to think that the horsemen would ever let me rest. Thomas and I walked home hand in hand. Maybe in ten years when he turned eighteen. I'd tell him a little of what my life was like before I met his mother, Rebecca, who was content to stay home and do a lot store-bought sweets from a large metal bowl

to all the little ghosts and goblins who rang the doorbell. I would never tell him everything. I couldn't. Maybe on my deathbed. After a lifetime of atoning for the evils I'd subjected others to. But not before then. I wanted him to grow up normal, live a happy life, strive to be the kind of man I was trying to be for him.

But now that meant leaving, packing lightly, driving without a destination, changing our identities. I wouldn't let the horsemen take me back. The second unmarked van pulled up as Thomas and I made our way back home. There's a raven-haired woman in this one. also wearing a delivery uniform, sunglasses, and earpiece. They really hadn't improved their standards on how to blend in. Something they were going to regret.

Our house was small and modest. When I'd first left the horsemen, I'd lived off the grid and a log cabin for months. I hunted for food and avoided contact with others, especially Rebecca. It hurt her to be abandoned by me, but I couldn't let them learn of her. or they had one more way to always be on my tail. I knew the pestilence had his eyes everywhere. I had to become completely inconspicuous. First thing to go was my beard.

I dyed my hair with a peppering of gray and let myself go physically, growing a bit of a gut. The man who walked out of the woods five months later was unrecognizable to the slick, chiseled monster that had disappeared among the trees before him. I was no longer war. I was... John? Rebecca touched my shoulder,

snapping me back to the present. I'm sorry. I told her, taking her hand and kissing her soft skin. She smelled like lavender and baked pumpkin seeds. I was just thinking about something. She looked at me curiously with those hazel eyes that had tamed a savage beast

and rescued from its jaws the man who had become lost inside it. Would that she never knew the millions of others she saved that day from my wicked hand. Thomas sat on the living room floor, sorting the candy from his bucket into piles of flavored and unflavored sections. He had a pension for sour items, often leaving the chocolates and sweet confections for Rebecca or I to enjoy, or to eventually be discarded after they were rediscovered months later during a ritualistic house cleaning. I padded my pockets in a performance piece I called, pretending to look for my keys. Oh, crap, I whispered to Rebecca so that Thomas wouldn't hear the word. I think my keys fell out of my pocket while we were trick-or-treating.

Her brow furrowed with concern. What are you going to do? I kissed her on the lips to try to quash any worries she might have. I'm going to go upstairs and grab a flashlight, then backtrack. I think I know where they might have fallen. Okay, she said, still looking troubled. But be careful. She had no idea how careful I was going to be.

Thomas tossed me a saltwater taffy from his pile of rejects. Here, Daddy, for the road. I tucked it into my shirt pocket. Thanks, champ. I retrieved the flashlight from a bedroom closet. If worse came to worse, it would make a good impromptu bludgeoning tool. But my go-to defensive measure was secreted away on a floor safe that neither Rebecca nor Thomas was aware of.

The gun, a modified Smith and Wesson he'd taken from the dead hands of a wannabe vigilante in Chicago, had been given to me by death himself, as a memento of our first successful mission together as the horseman. He had had it inlaid with gold in a gaudy manner and inscribed with my title. I hadn't fired the damn thing in almost 20 years, but from time to time when either my wife nor his son was home, something inside me drew to me retrieving it from its hideaway

and cleaning every part to ensure it remained functional. Pestilins had called it my sword of woe. The name stuck. As I waited in my hand, I prayed I wouldn't have to use it. The van with a woman in it hadn't moved from where I'd last seen it. With the approach of night, most of the young trick-or-treaters had ventured home with their parents, leaving just the occasional cluster of teenagers wandering the neighborhood with impish ideas as soaping car windows or toilet paper and houses.

I kept my head down, pretending to look for my keys like I told. herbeca. If the horsemen were closely monitoring me, they most likely overheard our conversation, and hopefully it appeared to them like I was unaware of their arrival. If famine was involved, though, my chances of catching them by surprise were slimmed to none. She was a brilliant tactician, and not one to let her guard down in the slightest. Somewhere nearby, a novelty Halloween prop was triggered, causing a girl to scream and then laugh with her friends. I passed the van with its one lone occupant on the far side of the street, scanning the sidewalk from my imaginary keys.

In my peripheral vision, I could see her turn her head ever so slightly in my direction. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, and I felt my heart started to race. But I had to keep my cool, or I'd have 20 more vans on me in a matter of minutes, and Thomas and Rebecca would be left wondering, why I never came home. Rounding the street corner, I turned off the flashlight, tossing it on the lawn and vanishing into the darkness of the October night. The moon was concealed by an overcast sky,

and though many houses were lit up with orange and purple lights and other manner of decorations, that particular piece of sidewalk was masked by a tall hedgerow. I sprinted then, my approach hidden by the sounds of celebratory merriment coming from nearby houses. Two seconds. Three. I reached to the back of the van

before the driver could notice me. Throw open the door, get him back, then put the gun to the back of her head and make her talk. Was this reconnaissance? And I'll out attack? How many of them were there? How much about me did they know? Get these answers,

then get Thomas and Rebecca and run. That was the plan. The plan changed the moment I opened the door to the back of the van. There sat pestilence in all his ugly glory He was still as gaunt as ever His gray face like dead flesh stretched across a polished skull But his features had aged his mind had

His blonde hair had gone silvery white And he tied it back in a ponytail He wore glasses now Something he swore long ago he would never do Time changes for all of us, it seemed What? He began to say, looking up from a large monitoring system he'd been hunched over. Rage reclaimed its grip on my soul at the sight of him, and my mind bled red with thoughts of murder.

Only the smallest glimmer of humanity still clinging to my medulla oblongata kept me from unloading on him and his female assistant right then and there. Instead, I stepped into the van. My sword of woe aimed at his miserable face. and drove my fist into his nose, feeling cartilage crunch against my knuckles. Before the woman in the front could respond, I pointed at her and heard the words coming out of my mouth in my old voice. The voice of war. Don't move. Pestolins pinched his nose shut in the spat blood into his hand before looking me in the eyes again.

His next words took me by surprise. What the fuck are you? Did he really not recognize me? No. He was messing with my head. He knew. He had to know. Why else would they be here in my neighborhood, monitoring me and my family?

Yes. Of course he knew. Even as I stood there, looming over him with my gun that he himself had christened. The brunette in the front seat was holding her hand to her ear, relaying my presence to the rest of the team, telling them to move in, to bring me. down. He was stalling. Nevertheless, I turned the gun slightly, letting him see the glimmer of its gold inlay. You know me, Morris. I said in my voice it had sent shivers through the heart of soldiers as easily as it stopped the hearts of the elderly. Pestulence blinked, looking at the sword of woe, the gears in his head swiftly grinding back through fifteen years. My God!

He said looking up at me again. Roland? I get my finger pointed his assistant. Tell your minions to back off, or I will kill you both and then them. Unlike death, who always had a clever quip before things turned violent, I never minced words when it came to ending someone's life. He raised a finger, gesturing to the woman watching things unfold in the rearview mirror. I could hear her hushed commands to everyone else on the comms.

High command says stand down, but be ready. Jesus Christ, Roland. Pastilence's mouth curled up into a grin. His teeth slicked red with his own blood. Look at you. You've gotten so fat and old. You look like some average homeowner, not the personification of violent conflict.

Don't try to pretend you didn't come here because of me. I snarled. My lizard brain clawed at its chains, eager to break free and wash itself crimson with the blood of the van's occupants. Just tell me how you found me. I was gone, Morris. You should have let me stay gone. My trigger finger twitched with anticipation. He laughed, spraying the ear.

air with a mist of blood droplets. Find you? He almost choked the words out. We found you when you waltzed into this van, Roland. We were looking for you. We moved on. Bullshit! I spat.

Pestulence put his arms up dramatically, showcasing the contents of the van to me. Look around you, man. Do you think I'd have coming from? person if I'd know you were here? That's a veritable death sentence. A round-us monitor show cameras with heat signature technology tracking multiple households. Their occupants oblivious to the spying eyes parked outside.

A computer with satellite imagery pinged softly as dozens of unknown targets were tracked. On the laptop in front of him, I could see what appeared to be conversations being transcribed in real time. We moved on, war. Pestulin said, pointing to the infrared monitors, "'We've already replaced you with a woman.' "'You cackled at that. Mind you, she's not as cold as you were. Between you and me, I think she takes a more hedonistic approach to her task.

I lowered my gun. Pestilence's expression changed on a curiosity. Do you actually live in this shit-hole suburb?' He looked at one of the screens and back at me, "' Imagine if your neighbors ever learned what you are!' The woman in the front seat turned her head, looking out the window as a couple walked past, leaning against each other in a show of affection.

She touched her ear and said something I couldn't hear to the rest of their team. "'I'm nothing,' I said softly, feeling my heart rate slow back down to a call finally. "'Just a man, trying to me. make a good life for his family. Pestulence bit his lip to stifle a laugh. Holy shit. You have a family?

Then he cocked his head and muttered. Oh, no. In a mocking tone, I glared at him. I'd never liked pestilence. Of the four of us, he'd always taken the most pleasure in making others suffer. To me, it was a job. I caused strife and kill because of the world in order.

According to death, he did it as a kindness. I always thought that was bullshit, but never argued with him. Famine outright refused to kill, but she worked in tandem with pestilence to cause misery, expecting those who suffered from her to become stronger for it. But pestilence, he was a sadistic bastard. Why are you here? I asked. It was a question I should have asked at the very beginning.

Pestolins leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head in a relaxing pose. Do you remember that signal from space that got picked up back in 1999? He asked. You god damn well that I did. Just before the turn of the century, a small collection of amateur astronomers detected a signal from deep space that appeared to be getting closer with time. They gathered for a conference to discuss revealing. their find of the rest of the world, which is where death and I dealt with them. Pestulence and famine worked the other end,

collecting all the evidence and locking it away, then covering up our massacre. It was an extensive cleaning. We tracked down anyone they talked to about it as well, and assured that they either conveniently forgot or weren't given the chance to spread the information further. Only a single death ever reached the news. We were good at what we did. I nodded at pestilence grimly. Yeah, I remember.

Well, the source of that signal finally reached Earth four years ago. He said as casually as a history teacher telling the students about the Civil War for the umpteenth time, landed in the middle of the Pacific conveniently. Most of it burned up in the atmosphere, but there was some, shall I say, alien matter retrieved. I could feel my senses tingling again. My fight or flight response, long trained into just a fight response, starting to churn back up. Get to the point, I said through gritted teeth. Right.

He swiveled in his chair and tapped on his keyboard for a few seconds while talking. The matter turned out to be organic, and there was enough of it for me to have some fun with. So I played around with the chemistry of it and managed to incorporate the latest in CRISPR technology to turn into something that could be used to retranslate the DNA in rats. I didn't like where this was going. I started to lift a sort of woe again, hesitantly. Pestulence noticed and sped up his typing. In seconds, a video came on the screen of a small,

a brown lab rat racing around in an otherwise empty cage. A pair of gloved hands appeared, picking up the rodent and injecting it with a syringe of clear fluid before setting it back down. This stuff bonds like crazy. Pestolence whispered in a reverent tone, struggling to hide the giddiness in his voice as we watch the video of his experiment together. The rat just, just, well, watch what happens. pay particularly close attention to the limbs and the skull.

It's fascinating. He didn't need to tell me to watch. I couldn't look away. With increasing horror, I stood there in the van, transfixed on the scene unfolding on the monitor. The sound was cut off, but I could see the rats' muted screams as pestilence's home-brewed alien concoction twisted its features into an unrecognizable mass of fur and limbs,

reshaping it into a horror-beaution. beyond description. After a few more seconds, one of the creature's dozen new appendages lashed out in the direction of the nearby camera documenting everything, and the video ended abruptly. I grabbed pestilence by his bloodied shirt collar with my free hand and hoisted him physically out of his chair, slamming him up against the nearest set of monitors. What did you do, you fucking maniac! I shouted, spitting the words into his face. It was a rhetorical question.

I knew exactly what he did. The female driver in the front swiveled around in her seat, a standard-issue pistol in her hands. She said one word. Stop. Before I angled the sword of woe and silenced her with a single shot straight between her teeth, spider webbing the windshield and painting at a glossy, deep red as a bullet exit at the back of her skull. Pestulin smiled broadly at me,

His eyes as wide as saucer plates. Human trials roll into my old friend. The latest and discretionary tactics. Imagine a populace driven into submission out of fear of itself. We can pit neighbors against neighbors. And who will save them? We will. He laughed then,

and in saying cackling like the mad scientist that I was taking him for, just a small injection into every piece of candy handed out. then sit back and watch the show. It's as easy as counting how many looks it takes to get to the center of a titsy pop. As if on cue, the van became a cacophony of noise. Morris had turned the sound on for all the surveillance they were doing in the neighborhood, and I heard it then. The calm conversations and laughter of the surrounding households,

as one by one they were replaced with shouts of alarm and screams of horror, I could only breathe one word. Thomas. Before I let pestilence fall from my grasp and, kicking open the back door to the van, sprinted for home down the dark street. In a matter of seconds, the entire neighborhood descended into chaos.

I tried not to see what was happening around me, knowing I'd be unable to help anyone. But like a slow-motion train wreck, I could not look away. The front door of a nearby house, flew open. I knew the family, though their last name alluded me in the heat of the moment. Chester, that was the name of the short stocky man who ran outside, with what once had been his young daughter latched onto his neck like some sort of overgrown leech. I knew her. She was a grade behind Thomas in school. What was her name again? It didn't matter. She wasn't human anymore.

Her body was still transforming, even as she wrapped herself around her father's neck like a snake. He looked at me in a panic, two runners passing each other in this new nightmare, and before I could even give him the glimmer of hope of salvation. I heard the sickening sound like someone twisting a turkey leg off the bird at Thanksgiving. His once beloved child, now a monster beyond imagining. pulled his head up with frightening strength. The flesh of his neck tore as it's a limit. Dark blood gushed forth, covering them both, and his body collapsed to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

His darling daughter slithered off his corpse, dragging his head behind her. As I watched, fighting back the bile rising in my throat, my mouth continued to move slowly, pleading with me silently for help. This all happened in a matter of seconds. It was pure chance that we chose your neighborhood. I heard pestilence call after me from the safety of his fucking van.

Carefully selected for how quiet and remote it was. Wouldn't you know, the very things you would choose it for to hide in? I cursed him under my breath. The lights of our home brought little comfort. to me as I leapt the steps up the front porch and bounded inside, knocking over the coat rack and the metal bowl of unclean treats my wife had set on the table by the door. Rebecca! I yelled. Thomas!

Please be okay, I prayed. Though I had long since stopped believing in the power of prayer, countless deaths in my hand and told me that nobody is there to answer them. The gurgling zone from the living room where I had left them brought a swift end to any hope I had mustered for their safety. I entered the room. I'll prepare for the horror I was about to witness. There lay my sweet, lovely wife.

Her face pale and speckled with blood as she turned her head slowly to look at me one last time. Thomas sat beside her, holding her right arm, ripped from its socket at the shoulder, with a pair of limbs that now resembled the claws of a crab. What had once been my beautiful boy? boy's hat was now a ruined mess of chestnut hair and numerous mouths full of teeth like needles. As I stood there in the doorway watching, he bit into Rebecca's arm and a man are not unlike how he used to bite into a hamburger, tearing a chunk of meat from her torn limb and smacking

as many lips with delight as he chewed it. I finally vomited that, unable to hold back anymore. The stink of her corpse and my own sick filled my mind. nostrils. My love, my legacy, both gone in an instant. My hands shook, something they hadn't done as far back as I could remember. I squeezed my gun, my sword of woe, steadying myself. The Thomas thing dropped his mother's arm, gurgling a single coherent, then leaned over her corpse. Before I could react, his son. His son. He said, central mouth opened wide and its needle teeth slid into the flesh of her face, removing it with a sickening sound. He leaned back. My wife's features hanging in ribbons from his maw and slowly chewed

them with casual delight while her body twitched and convulsed beneath him. The sound of the gun startled me. I had shot him without even realizing I was doing it. The bullet penetrated the throbbing mass of Mao's with a nauseating squelch. Thomas' head region snapped backwards as a green alien slime sprayed from the wound, and he collapsed in a heap beside Rebecca's defiled body. I shot him again. Once, twice, three times for good measure. The third shot almost missed as my vision was so badly blurred by the tears stinging my eyes.

Outside the neighborhood was a hellscape of suicide. screaming and unearthly sounds of children turning into monsters by pestilence's formula. Shots rang out up and down the street as some with guns of their own fought back against their transformed kin. I knew the ones things had settled down. Even those brave individuals will be silenced by the cleanup crew death always sent in afterward. Some probably tried calling for help. Phone lines were down, of course. No contact was going to be allowed with anyone outside the localized zone. We had always been brutally efficient.

I sat on the floor beside Thomas and Rebecca, unable to hold either of them. I made myself look, remembering what they had once been and let the grief wash over me. Let those assholes in the unmarked vans watch me cry. I didn't care. For a moment, I even considered putting the sword of woe

in my own head and joining my wife and son. just for a moment. Ten minutes later, the front door of our home was kicked in by one of the horsemen's cleanup team. He wore a yellow hazmat suit that concealed his identity, but I just imagined that it was Morris' pale, sleazy face underneath and shot him from where I was sitting. Smiling as a blossom of red splattered the inside of his helmet, and he fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Had pestilence sent a single man in to deal with me?

How insulting. Outside, goons with flamethrowers were torching anything remotely inhuman. Anyone who was still alive was being ushered under the street and the guise of a rescue team coming to save them. I knew that once they were sure everyone was present in accountant for, they would disarm the whole lot of gullible fucks, and then get down to the real best of. business, making sure to burn the bodies afterward for safe measure.

Wouldn't want to risk contamination, after all. I may have once been the personification of war, one of the four horsemen. But now I was John, the slightly overweight, peppered hair former building contractor. My time for revenge would come, but not tonight. One of the child things got loose across the street attacking a member of the cleanup crew and chewed through their stupid yellow suit in a matter of seconds, spilling the poor schmuck streaming pink intestines onto the cold asphalt as his compatriots scramble to figure out what to do.

Eventually, both man and monster were lit up by a stream of burning napalm while a woman screamed and a man shouted obscenities in a desperate attempt to comprehend what was going on. A second goon entered the front door while my attention was turned to the chaos outside. His gun popped twice, catching me in the knees. I howled in anger and frustration, falling to the floor, crippled by the pain. I've taken a lot of damage in my time, but I'm not invincible. I hefted the sort of wall up with what strength I still had left,

and the fucker put his next round through my hand. The shot ricocheted off the handle of my gun, pocking the wall right by his own head. This asshole was a real sharpshooter. We always trained our people well. Don't kill him! I heard Pestchal and shout from just beyond the threshold of my home. He walked in with a confident stride of a complete douchebag.

The smug-satisfied expression on his face made me wish I'd ended him in the van before running home. What a sad, turn of events this has become. He started to monologue. The man who brought governments to their knees, now brought to his own. You could have been a part of this, you know? I'll never understand why you left.

Because I'm human. I spat. My legs were useless. My gun hand was useless. All I could do is hold myself up with the waning strength of the one remaining arm. Instead, I chose to lay down slowly, feeling woozy from the blood loss, resting my hands on my chest. Then I covered my face and sobbed slowly.

Oh, for fuck's sake, I heard pestilence. Can you believe this guy was so terrifying that even I had nightmares about him coming to get me? Pathetic. The sharpshooter grunted through his mask. I bit softly into the taffy I had slipped from my shirt pocket. The last thing, my son, my beautiful Thomas had given me. One for the road, I thought to myself, tasting the sugary sweetness mixing with the tart sting of hidden chemicals.

I let my body rack with another fake sob sound to hide the wet smack of my teeth sticking together as I chewed. Burn the house down. Pestulence said, dismissively. I watched through my fingers as he turned to walk away, leaving me to my fate. A second hazmat-suited goon brushed past him on the way out, this one carrying one of those heavy flamethrowers. The sharpshooter, cocky fuck that he was, knelt by me and peeled the sword of woe from my dead fingers. Only they weren't fingers anymore. I could feel and he could feel and

here my bones snap and re-articulate themselves, twisting like vines into something new, wrapping themselves around the man's wrist. My legs moved too, bending themselves into some nightmarish new shape. My flesh bubbling like liquid as the alien DNA went to work. The process was painful, even more than being knee-capped. Every muscle in my body felt like it was on fire. I uncovered my face to look into the shocked expression of the goon crouched over me, but my vision blurred red, and all I was left with was the crunching sound of his wrist shattering under my newfound strength, and an inhuman screech emanating from myself. I said in a gurgling guttural new tongue, and with that last coherent thought, I surrendered.

myself to the darkness of my new form. I had to give it up to O'O Morris. He sure didn't know his chemical warfare. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents Friday the 13th, written by Angelique Fons, and narrated by Rissa M. I died on Friday the 13th.

I wasn't superstitious before, but I sure am now. The omens were, all there, a full harvest moon in October, and it was Friday the 13th. Clearly not an auspicious time to be undergoing emergency gallbladder surgery. I was helping my boys dress up as characters from the Walking Dead when the first pang hit me. A sharp piercing pain deep in my gut. I applied the last of their ghoulish makeup and asked my husband Louis to take them trigger-treating in the closest subdivision. We lived on a country road about a half hour from town, so I wouldn't have to worry

about little visitors demanding candy, too remote for the goblins and ghouls. Figuring a little lie down would help my stomach. I grabbed a textbook to continue studying for my master's degree in psychology. I was a stay-at-home mom with an honors university degree, but had left my program 10 years ago when I got pregnant with the twins. Now Liam and Levi were getting older and it was time to start a new chapter. Preferably one where I could help people. I was making a few life changes, going back to school and finally tackling the baby fat I'd put on and never managed to get rid of. The high-fat low-carb diet was working wonders. Imagine losing 40 pounds by consuming fat, fat and more fat

butter, bacon, cheese and I was almost back in my high school jeans. 30 was definitely the new 20 for me. Instead of cooking, we had a large pepperoni pizza delivered and we all picked out. The oozy, gooey,

mozzarella paired with spicy meat was hot and delicious, even if it did burn the roof of my mouth. My sons complained ruckously because I ate just the toppings off of it, leaving the carbby crust. Lena, that is so wasteful, Louis said. Rushing to finish their pizza, the boys bundled up and zombie walked their way to the car.

Louis laughed at them. Good job dressing them in white. At least they are highly visible, Louis said, following them out. That greasy pizza must have been the last straw from my overtak skullbladder. As soon as the guys left, I was over the toilet puking like a frat girl. The searing hot burning in my gut, torture. After about an hour or so, my family returned, laughing and arguing loudly over who had the biggest sugar hall. I felt too weak to even call out.

The bathroom floor was cool on my fevered cheek, and I figured someone would have to use the washroom shortly. Levi was the first one to finally walk in and see me on the floor. Liam, Dad, mom's laying on the floor. Louis took one look at me and immediately called 911 on a cell phone. Liam, the more sensitive of my boys, grabbed a face cloth and soaked it in cold water. He laid it on the back of my neck. Mom? Are you okay? Mom? He asked. Oh my God, Mom, what happened to you? The flu? Levi also asked, peeking from behind his brother. I wanted to reassure them and tell them to go back to counting their candy, but I could hardly breathe with the pain. It was taking everything I had just to remain conscious.

Forget the ambulance. I'm taking you myself. Louis scooped me up off the floor and ran to his car, the twins trailing after us. Boys, Stay here and mind the fort. I'll call you as soon as I know what's wrong with your. Louis's voice faded as the intense agony of the jostling made me pass out. When I came to consciousness, faces and masks were all I could see. I was being wheeled on a stretcher into surgery. The walls were blurry and the acid burning in my stomach was overwhelming. I could smell that peculiar odor that is unique to hospitals.

antiseptic mixed with the faint smell of urine. It's okay. We are going to take good care of you. A nurse with kind blue eye said. Your gallbladder needs to be removed. It's full of stones and leaking bile. As soon as they had me in surgery, the anesthesiologist knocked me out again.

Then I was in the hands of the surgeon, Dr. Weinstein. And he wasn't having a good day. The man shouldn't have been. making a sandwich, much less operating on someone. He had just been served with divorce papers an hour ago. His wife caught him cheating with their nanny. Instead of being focused on my laparoscopic colistectomy, he was completely distracted. Dr. Weinstein was furious he got caught. Was he envisioning his wife with every slice he performed in my guts? Because he was a little too enthusiastic. He cut through my liver. He cut.

into my spleen. And he removed my gallbladder, along with my cystic duct, and my hepatic duct. Those he should have left alone. Though I was supposed to be under anesthesia, I could hear the beep, beep, beep of medical monitors. Then the beeping stopped. We're losing her. Get the crash cart. Whomp. Again.

Whomp. Then, then. peace and warmth. This dark place with light on the fringes. My life actually did flash before my eyes. The smile of my mother. My heart skipping a beat when I met Louis. The amazing smell of my twin boys the first time I held them.

Then a pain ripped through my chest and the warmth was gone. I heard the beeping again. She's back. We've got her back. She's opening her eyes. Oh my God. What's wrong with her eyes? I tried to make it back to that warm place, but no luck.

I hovered in and out of consciousness with a new feeling in my stomach. The burning had been replaced. I was hungry, intensely, ravenously hungry. Lena, honey, it's Louis. Please talk to me. My husband leant away. over, his sweaty hand gripping my cold one. I slowly opened my eyes and saw his blurry handsome face. He gasped. Your eyes are white! I wanted to ask him to explain, but my vocal cords weren't working.

I just sort of growled. Sort of like how my stomach was growling. This hunger was so intense. A nurse walked in. How are you feeling? The doctor successfully removed your gallbladder, but we had some complications during surgery. What kind of complications? Where is the doctor? Louie asked. I could see his face was pinched with worry, but he looked blurry, hard to focus on. His hand was gripping mind tightly. She died on the table when her liver got punctured, and she went into toxic shock. Officially, she was gone for 15 minutes, but we brought her back. She's very lucky to be alive, the nurse said, checking my ivy bag. Dr. Weinstein should be in shortly. I could hear rage in Louis' voice.

The doctor punctured her liver. Also, why are her eyes white? She somehow grew tergium, a mucus membrane that covers the cornea, during her time non-responsive on the table. It's not a common side effect, the nurse said. She took a look at the heart monitor and tapped it in frustration. Rather than showing the steady peaks of a beating heart, it was flat. This equipment is always malfunctioning. Let me go get you another monitor. She left the room quickly.

I knew I should be in agony after having my inside stirred up like a chopped salad, but all I could feel was hunger. I had to eat something now. I opened my mouth to ask for a snack. I said. Sitting up, I ripped the IV out of my hand. Lena, what are you doing? Louis tried to gently push me back into the bed.

I grabbed his head with surprising strength and pulled him to me. I should have felt weak, with a deep intake of breath, I put my nose to his ear and inhaled. I didn't want food. I wanted something else. I sniffed his earlobe again, one hand on his mouth to stop him from crying out. Nothing.

Empty. I couldn't smell anything I wanted. Shoving him aside, I stumbled out of the room, ignoring his gas behind me. All my limbs felt stiff. I walked with a strange, shambling gate. I had to eat. I could vaguely tell that people in the hall were talking to me.

Miss, where are you going? You shouldn't be out here. Ignoring them, I kept smelling the air. There was something tasty. Like a bloodhound, I was on a great scent. Getting to a door that said staff only, I pushed it open. There he was. Dr. Weinstein.

The surgeon that performed my surgery, sitting in front of a computer, typing furiously. Bingo. My stomach growled, and my salivary glands went into overdrive. He was so involved with typing up his report he didn't even turn to see who entered, probably concocting some excuse for the botched surgery. I shambled over and grabbed his head and placed one hand over his hand over his mouth. Pressing my nose to his ear, the most appealing smell leaked out. Like a damp chocolate cake. This is what I wanted. What I was hungry for. Sucking as hard as I could, a black haze filtered

out of his ear. I gulped it greedily. So tasty, this man's evil thoughts were decadent and filling. When there was nothing left, I let him fall back down into his chair. A dazed look on his face. I feel so good. Like someone took a huge weight off my shoulders. How could I have cheated on my beautiful wife? I am not going to contest this divorce, he said.

I said. In fact, I'll give her everything and volunteer for Doctors Without Borders. You have given me a gift. Thank you. Louis was standing in the doorway, watching with very wide eyes. Honey? Did you just suck out that man's head? I answered.

Turning around, I stiff-legged towards the door, and Louis jumped out of the way. I was feeling a bit hungry again. Going down a flight of stairs and into the emergency. emergency waiting room, I could see a young man with a bullet wound being pushed in a wheelchair by an orderly. He was wearing gang colors, tear-drop tattoos on his face, and red seeping through the bandage on his arm. I stepped in front of them and stopped the wheelchair. Before the orderly could react, I grabbed the man's head and sucked out the black haze from his ear. They were scrumptious. The dark, devious thoughts. Satisfying. When I pulled back, he looked at me in wonder,

I think I'm going to start a youth at risk program. I stumbled out the emergency room doors into the parking lot. I was getting peckish again. And couldn't the world use fewer nasty people? This wasn't how I envisioned my role as a therapist. But sometimes your path chooses you. So many delicious, nasty thoughts in the world. And I was so hungry. For even more from creepy, including how to submit your own story for consideration,

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