Leech
The most ghastly sound a man can hear is the sound of a voice in an empty house. That is what Todd Wessen heard on an early summer morning in his remote cottage on the edge of a tall wood in New Salem, Massachusetts. He woke before he knew what woke him, woke with a start and a chill that ran from his throat to his bowel and back again.
Then he heard it again, heard it awake, a guttural sing-song, a wavering creak. Up and out from the sheets, he lit every light as he passed from bedroom to sitting room, sitting room to hall, hall to parlor. As he entered the parlor, his foot stepped in wet. There, before him in a patch of moonlight, teetered a tall figure, bloated and awkwardly posed. Its face was a black silhouette.
Todd stepped to his left and hit the switch on the lamp, and at what he saw he could only gasp a long and despairing and doomed, whistling gasp, as though he was set to pull all the humid air through his throat until it swelled his lungs to bursting.
The man was purple, blue, black. His eyes were swollen shut; his nose a gray, pimpled stone; his lips a blue ball bisected by a black blister of a tongue. A gray knot of a bone jutted from his leg at the knee. He raised to the ceiling in an unfathomable gesture gnarled hands with fingers fused together with mold and rot. "We live deep down in the underwater towns," the figure burbled. "Our screams are bubbles, our features frowns."
Then the abomination slowly opened a gummed eyelid. The white of the eye was red and harbored a cloudy cataract that searched the room and found Tom's own eyes.
"I'm terribly sorry," the thing belched. "Can you point me toward the road to Prescott?"
Todd started to take a step backward, but something on the bottom of his foot prevented it reaching the floor. His foot flew out from under him, his left leg kicked up, and for a fleeting moment he was hanging in space. He landed on his back, hard.
Presently he regained his breath and propped himself up on his elbows. His back spasmed and he retched and fainted. Then he was awake. The room was blush with dawn light, the visitor gone, the floor dry.
A movement at his feet caught his attention, and he arched his knee to look at his foot. A hideous thing clung to it, a slimy, purple, bloated leech. It humped obscenely at the arch of his foot slowly, foully. It would shrink and then pull, puffing up like the throat of a frog. He felt nothing at his foot, but he swore he could feel all the blood in his body pulsing towards his legs.
The next thrust pulled down his love, the next his memories, the last his mind.
He detached himself from the thin white man and inched along the floor, fat and round and deliriously full. The spines of his books loomed large above him like buildings in a cramped city, each letter too massive to read. He wept and he pulled himself forward and forward and forward and then a shadow fell over him. He reared back his flat head and saw a pale foot descending. The thin, translucent membrane that was his skin burst and everything went red.
The pale thing in the house gibbered and shook and trembled. It rose and opened the door and shambled down the walk.
Then he heard it again, heard it awake, a guttural sing-song, a wavering creak. Up and out from the sheets, he lit every light as he passed from bedroom to sitting room, sitting room to hall, hall to parlor. As he entered the parlor, his foot stepped in wet. There, before him in a patch of moonlight, teetered a tall figure, bloated and awkwardly posed. Its face was a black silhouette.
Todd stepped to his left and hit the switch on the lamp, and at what he saw he could only gasp a long and despairing and doomed, whistling gasp, as though he was set to pull all the humid air through his throat until it swelled his lungs to bursting.
The man was purple, blue, black. His eyes were swollen shut; his nose a gray, pimpled stone; his lips a blue ball bisected by a black blister of a tongue. A gray knot of a bone jutted from his leg at the knee. He raised to the ceiling in an unfathomable gesture gnarled hands with fingers fused together with mold and rot. "We live deep down in the underwater towns," the figure burbled. "Our screams are bubbles, our features frowns."
Then the abomination slowly opened a gummed eyelid. The white of the eye was red and harbored a cloudy cataract that searched the room and found Tom's own eyes.
"I'm terribly sorry," the thing belched. "Can you point me toward the road to Prescott?"
Todd started to take a step backward, but something on the bottom of his foot prevented it reaching the floor. His foot flew out from under him, his left leg kicked up, and for a fleeting moment he was hanging in space. He landed on his back, hard.
Presently he regained his breath and propped himself up on his elbows. His back spasmed and he retched and fainted. Then he was awake. The room was blush with dawn light, the visitor gone, the floor dry.
A movement at his feet caught his attention, and he arched his knee to look at his foot. A hideous thing clung to it, a slimy, purple, bloated leech. It humped obscenely at the arch of his foot slowly, foully. It would shrink and then pull, puffing up like the throat of a frog. He felt nothing at his foot, but he swore he could feel all the blood in his body pulsing towards his legs.
The next thrust pulled down his love, the next his memories, the last his mind.
He detached himself from the thin white man and inched along the floor, fat and round and deliriously full. The spines of his books loomed large above him like buildings in a cramped city, each letter too massive to read. He wept and he pulled himself forward and forward and forward and then a shadow fell over him. He reared back his flat head and saw a pale foot descending. The thin, translucent membrane that was his skin burst and everything went red.
The pale thing in the house gibbered and shook and trembled. It rose and opened the door and shambled down the walk.