3vil

  3VIL

  Volume I

  by Mike Miller

  Cover and Illustrations also by Mike Miller

  mail@MikeMillerVerse.com

  www.MikeMillerVerse.com

  http://www.facebook.com/MikeMillerVerse

  Second Edition

  All Text and Images ©MMXIV Mike Miller

  All Rights Reserved

  CONTENTS

  1 BABY’S BEAST

  2 BLACK SCIENCE

  3 SAMHAIN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

  Baby’s Beast

  “He’s so precious I could just eat him up!” Grandma’s bracelets clink together as she juggles her infant grandson with glee. When she hugs him, a swath of red blush smears across the boy’s head. “How you two do this, huh? Tell me.”

  I wince at the paint on my kid, but laugh at her dumb joke. “I dunno, Grandma.”

  “Come on, tell me,” she prods. “It’s me you tell, family.”

  Is she for real? Her strange accent is often difficult to decipher, but it’s a damn rhetorical question.

  “Magic,” my wife interjects, sparing me from answering.

  “Ah. I knew this,” says Grandma. She winks slyly while bouncing the kid on her knee like a ball. He looks a little ill, though he almost always does at this age.

  For that matter, Grandma always looks a little bit ill herself. While she may be smiling brightly now, it’s easy to see that she’s clearly depreciated since the last time she graced us with a rare visit. Only her mascara is new and fresh, hiding a pale and wrinkled mask that might be almost a century old.

  I once asked my wife how old this odd lady was, but the missus said no one knew. Evidently there weren’t any birth records in that impoverished part of the world back in the Dark Ages. I replied if something that was never born would be able to die. Wifey didn’t appreciate that one.

  To look at her now, Grandma’s gaudy medallions and jewelry seem to be dragging her hunched shoulders down into a grave.

  “You two have very special magic. And together, with this one…” Then she smells him. She actually smells his tush, which makes my wife and I cringe. “I can tell he has an even more special magic.”

  The boy can have a pleasant baby-powder-fresh aroma sometimes. But right now, it’s just classic eau d’ dirty diaper.

  The old woman grows more somber as her inspection continues. “Indeed, any one would be lucky to have this magic.”

  “Thank you, Grandma,” says my wife respectfully.

  “Before I am going,” she says while finally returning the child back to my wife. If the kid is grateful to be freed of her talons, he doesn’t appear to be. “I know you do not see me so much, so I want to give you special gift.”

  The bracelets clink down into her purse. God-knows-what rattles and clatters about in the hidden depths of her giant handbag.

  I quietly hope she will give us some money and not another useless piece of junk that won’t fit in our apartment like so many others have.

  “Ah-ha!” she proclaims.

  Her hand rises up from the bag. It clutches a small figurine in her dark red fingernails. Her claws wrap around the token before I can study it. But I am already disappointed it is not money. Maybe I can hock it for something though.

  “This gift is for your child.” She places it into Mom’s palm, then wraps the present up again in both of her hands. “This is very important to keep with the boy. At all times.”

  “Of course, Grandma,” says my wife. “We will.”

  “Don’t ‘of course’ me!” shouts Grandma loudly.

  The screech startles the baby into crying. I almost want to slap the crazy hag for the outburst.

  She continues coldly, “This is real very serious. You must keep this with the child in his room. At all times by him. You must.”

  I can see my wife squirming with the truth.

  “Is it like a good-luck charm?” I offer.

  When she turns her attention to me, her eyes are wild with anger and fear. Her pupils have never looked so black.

  I want to run screaming out of the apartment, but I keep smiling politely.

  Then she calmly answers, “Yes. This is like good luck.”

  Grandma then turns back to the boy and whispers something softly as she kisses his forehead twice. His bald head gets further marked with her bloody makeup.

  Finally, she gets up to go. I couldn’t be happier.

  We’ve had a parade of visitors ever since the boy’s birth to pay their respects. But with this last one, we can go back to learning how to be parents.

  This woman is not even my son’s real grandmother, meaning she is not my wife’s mother. I’m not entirely sure what oddball connection is there, but I think this lunatic is more like my wife’s great-grandmother’s cousin or something. To me, she might as well be a bag lady from under a bridge. They have the same sense in fashion and offensive smell. Yet she insists we all call her “Grandma.”

  At the door, old Grandma turns around and says, “And also this too.”

  My wife and I wait breathlessly, praying that whatever it is will not prolong her stay.

  “Please pick name for him. Please. It is very embarrassing you do not. This would never happen where I come from. Without names, we have no souls.”

  My wife smiles and waves, “We will, Grandma.”

  Her many medallions and necklaces clinking along with each step, Grandma finally, mercifully takes the stairs to leave our complex.

  “Whew,” I sigh heavily.

  “Shh!” hisses my wife.

  “She can’t hear us,” I defend. “Besides, aren’t you relieved?”

  “Yes. Of course.” My wife slides up on me and wraps her slender arms around my neck. “You’re the best. Thank you.” She gives me a light kiss of thanks.

  “I know, I know,” I say. “So seriously, doesn’t she creep you out?”

  She playfully slaps me. “Maybe a little,” she confesses. “But I’ve gotten used to it.”

  “Maybe if she showed up more than once a decade, I guess I’d get used to it too.”

  The baby gurgles as we return back through the living room together.

  Mom cradles him, while I snatch up a butt wipe to clean the marks of Grandma from his crown.

  “So, what the hell did she give you anyway?” I ask.

  “It wasn’t for me, it’s for Bradley,” she replies.

  “No,” I laugh and shake my head. “I think you mean Ryan.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  She fetches the curio from the coffee table. With one hand under the boy, her free hand displays the artifact in the middle of our circle for a closer examination.

  It is indeed a small figure. Only a few inches in size, the crimson character resembles both a bird and a man. It has a large, oversized beak curled into a strange snarl, and its large white eyes are tall ovals. Its wings have clawed hands at the tips which curl downwards over its crouching, naked torso. Crude feet and phallus form the statue’s base. Perhaps it is more like an insect.

  “Beautiful,” I remark. “It’s very age appropriate.” When I take it in my hand, it is quite light and feels like painted wood.

  I hold it before the kid. “What do you think, Bosco?”

  “Yuck,” groans my wife. “Bosco? Seriously?”

  The boy plucks the minute figure from my hand and jams it in his mouth.

  “No, no, no!” My wife and I flip out while calmly extracting the choking hazard.

  “Do you think this can go in recycling?” I ask coyly.

  She laughs and slaps my shoulder. “Silence.” Then she takes it and walks away with our son. “I’ll put it on his nightstand.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Once she
disappears down the hallway, I hear her ask, “Why not?”

  “Because it’s some deranged and fiendish monstrosity that could horrifically traumatize our boy.”

  I hear her softly chuckle in the baby’s room. “There’s no way this thing will do anything wrong.”

  Then she screams.

  I leap to my feet, then race around the corner into the hallway. A few galloping steps, and I’m in the kid’s room.

  “What? What is it?” I demand.

  My wife’s face is deformed with terror. She staggers slowly away from the changing table while a trembling hand points.

  Atop the waist-high dresser where we change the boy’s diapers is our son lying on his back. Although the child is bright and merry, I can see why my wife is aghast.

  Perched atop the baby’s head is a cockroach. The dark brown pest is poised like it has triumphantly conquered my son.

  My first instinct is to smash it to hell. Thankfully I remember that doing so would mean crushing the boy as well.

  “Shoo!” I feel like a feeble old lady. When I go to flick it away, the thing scampers off out of sight.

  My wife quickly snatches the baby back into her bosom. The boy’s eyes seem to bulge from the force of the frightened love.

  I try to muster some pleasantness with a brave smile. My wife sniffles some tears back into her skull. Her eyes are bright with anger.

  Her odd expression spawns a similarly strange feeling within myself. I am proud to have defended my family, yet ashamed that I allowed them to be attacked in the first place.

  “This is your grandmother’s fault you know.”

  My wife gets even angrier.

  We had a serious infestation about ten months ago, but I thought I had conquered them for good.

  Finally I let the rage consume me. If I see the insect again, I vow to inflict an extreme and ungodly punishment upon it.

  * * *

  I awake to a stench. It’s so powerful that I instantly retch. A small bubble of bile tickles the base of my throat. It tastes like death.

  “Do you--?” I go to wake the wife, but since she’s sound asleep, I spare her the punishment. She goes through enough sleepless bullshit dealing with the kid’s midnight whining.

  But the boy is completely silent now. Still, it smells like a dozen of his greatest shits are inside my nostrils.

  Time for Dad to investigate.

  First, I check the baby monitor. In the grainy black-and-white screen, junior is fast asleep with no signs of commotion. Considering I’ve often seen the kid howling wild-eyed like a rabid animal at this hour, things are already off to a good start.

  I roll out of bed and groggily enter the hallway. The reek doesn’t seem as foul as before, but maybe because I’ve grown more used to it now.

  Our home is strangely cold. This is not the cold season. I shiver while I hug myself for warmth.

  When I get to the light, I flick it on and find a little visitor in our hallway. A tiny roach scurries for the darkness in the living room.

  “You son of a bitch,” I mumble as I give pursuit.

  Once the living room light is turned on, I see the pest scamper now into the kitchen. The thing is astoundingly fast.

  Searching quickly for a weapon to destroy it, I scoop up a toy firetruck. The long metal bar fits nicely in my hand. It is ready to squash.

  I turn into the kitchen, and the bug is right there before me. It stands proudly in the middle of a square of moonlight from the window, as if it were waiting for me to catch up. I cannot let my prey escape again.

  When I advance, the insect dashes away again. The creature hides in the dark shadows at the rear of the kitchen. My eyes cannot find it in the blackness.

  As I get closer, I notice a figure standing in the darkness.

  “Holy--!” I stumble backwards. The metal toy crashes against the tile floor.

  When I retrieve the truck to smash this intruder, the person is no longer there. Perhaps I had imagined it.

  My eyes strain to unravel the shadows at the back of the room. My eyes invent swirling shapes in the perfect blackness.

  The stench returns with a vengeance, more powerful than ever now. “Oh, God!” I crush my nostrils with my forearm.

  Then I see him again.

  But maybe this is not a person. The silhouette is somewhat shaped like a human, but is much taller. From the shoulders down, its outline drapes outwards to the ground like a sweeping cloak. It remains motionless, now resembling more a mountain than a man.

  The shape slowly begins to shimmer. Dull reflections shine across its form like rippling water on a dark night. The contours begin to move faster and faster.

  Now I hear a sound softly emanating from the shape. It is a gentle clicking and chittering noise, like dead reeds scratching in the wind. The noise begins to swell in volume.

  I reach for the light switch to turn it on. I’m not sure why, but I feel compelled to do so. I feel I may regret seeing what is there.

  The figure lunges forward at me. It grows in size like a wide, black net cast to entrap me.

  The lights come on, and the figure is a mass of cockroaches. There are thousands of them, seemingly woven together like a sheet.

  The mound of dark beetles collapses to the ground at my feet. Some even splash off the floor onto my legs.

  They all immediately scurry for cover. Their broken wave buries my feet to above the ankles.

  The swirling legs and antennae scampering and crawling over my skin are nauseating.

  I instinctively raise one knee, then swiftly stomp my foot into their midst. Their brittle shells pop and crack underfoot. Their blood makes my sole sticky with juice.

  Then a force pulls my feet out from beneath me. I cannot believe these puny things could possess such power. But like the undertow of the ocean, I am violently dragged down to the ground.

  Falling on my back, the tiny monsters begin to crawl all over me. The ones on my neck and thighs feel the worst. I really wish I had worn a bigger shirt to bed.

  I roar wildly as I hop back to my feet. Thrashing my arms about me to fend off their horde, I fight blindly because I cannot stand their grotesque sight. I can feel their wretched little bodies flying off of mine.

  When my own screaming finally dies down, I hear the boy wailing in the distance.

  When I open my eyes, the bugs have all vanished. There is not even a stain on the floor where I had surely crushed a dozen of the miserable pests. I do not see any on my body, nor can I feel them hiding beneath my clothes. It is a disorienting sensation similar to suddenly awaking from a vivid nightmare.

  But I know I am not dreaming.

  Then I see a lone roach waiting back at the entrance to the kitchen. Once I spy it, the creature flees back into our living room.

  The baby’s cries continue as I give chase.

  But now I do not care about the bugs, just the boy. I dash through the small labyrinth of rooms and halls in our place to reach his room in seconds.

  His light is on, and his sobbing has stopped. My wife is already there cradling him, so I sigh in relief.

  But as I come closer, I see her face is painted in distress. Her lovely features are wet with tears, and she is whispering softly to herself. I cannot hear the words.

  “What is it?” I ask as panic blossoms within me.

  “Something’s wrong,” she mutters with a sniffle.

  As if to counter the charge, I hear the child coo cheerfully.

  With the boy in her arms, her embrace jiggles the kid much faster and harder than usual. It is as if she will forcefully caress some peace into the boy.

  “What is it?”

  When I enter the room, I can see the boy is happy. A toothless grin even parts his lips in a broad smile.

  But his eyes are all wrong. They are bright red with a black ooze dripping down his cheeks.

  “What do we do?” she asks. “What’s wrong with him?”

  I am aghast. “I don’t know,” I finally mana
ge to reply.

  When I pat his forehead, the skin is smooth, but it is as cold as stone.

  “What’s wrong with him?!”

  My wife’s screech startles the boy. His pudgy face melts in sadness and he begins to wail loudly. His intense cries are harrowing and filled with pain. The volume of the baby’s bawling is typical, as he is only set to mourn at a certain decibel. But as I watch the black tears cover his cheeks, I know this is an unusual anguish.

  “We have to call a doctor,” I tell my wife.

  “Okay, okay,” she agrees, almost saying it to reassure herself. I can see reason starting to retake her troubled mind. “Go and--” she starts to say.

  But then her eyes go wide with fright as they stare past me. Her throat stammers soundlessly at first. Then she releases a fierce howl of terror.

  I wince in pain from the noise. The baby pauses in shock. But then he resumes his weeping once my wife ceases her abrupt scream.

  “What the--?” I ask angrily.

  “Behind you,” she stutters. “I just saw something.”

  I spin around. “Where?”

  The hallway is empty. Down the corridor are two doors on the right: one to a bathroom, the other to my office.

  “It… He?” She pauses to contemplate her choice of words. “It was at the end of the hall. It was coming closer to you from behind. But when I screamed, it…” Her free arm trembles with doubt. “He went away.”

  The baby coos, and I tremble when I see the boy’s ghoulish visage.

  I’m not sure what to tell her. I would easily ridicule her were it not for my own recent madness and hallucination. “I’m sure it was nothing. Right now, we should just leave--”

  “Please go check,” she pleads. “Please, I saw something.” When she grips my arm, her frantic fingernails dig into my flesh.

  “Okay, okay,” I say dismissively. I’m not sure how it will help. Bad things are happening, and the kid should be the priority.

  But still I enter the hallway and flick on its light. Save for the shelves to the side, it is completely barren.

  Next I arrive at the entrance to the bathroom. There is some moonlight flowing through an open window, but it is not enough illumination to adequately see.