Connect with us

Published

on

“What you interested in?” the elderly owner of Lucky Lanes Bowling asked. “Mister…”

“Giddens. Call me Jeff.”

“Well, Jeff, I got Pac-Man, Ms. Pac-Man, Asteroids, Donkey Kong Junior. Think I even got Defender back here. They just need a few repairs.” 

He unlocked the door to a musty room crammed with broken bowling pins, chipped balls, and piles of tattered tacky shoes along with several dead arcade cabinets, pinball machines, and claw cranes draped in thick opaque plastic.

“I got all those too,” said Jeff. “Mind if I look around?”

“Knock yourself out. I’ll be right out there if you wanna make an offer. Not like you can stick one down your pants and take off, right?” 

The old man left. Jeff peeked under the plastic at cabinets he already had back home: the aforementioned Pac-Man, Ms. Pac-Man, Asteroids, Donkey Kong Junior, and Defender as well as Galaga, Popeye, Galaxian, and Rampage.

Then he laid eyes on an all-black cabinet with no artwork whatsoever except for the name in gold on the front in an ancient Latin font: LVCRVM. He’d never heard of it, and Jeff knew of practically every game, arcade or otherwise, in existence. He hunted for a manufacturer name, Atari or Namco or Konami, but couldn’t locate one.

On his phone he Googled “LVCRVM arcade” and “LVCRVM video game.” No results. Well, Google always spat back search results, though none of value in this case. He remembered learning at some point that Romans used the letter V instead of U, so he tried “Lucrum arcade” and “Lucrum video game.” Zilch.

Out front at a cubby shelf of bowling shoes, the owner was spraying disinfectant into a pair when Jeff cleared his throat.

“Any luck?” the man asked.

“Yeah. The one called… I think it’s pronounced ‘Lucrum.’”

“Lucrum?” The man set down the spray can and scratched his gray-stubbled chin.

Jeff had to be careful. If this guy figured out he had a machine even the internet didn’t know about, something potentially worth thousands or even tens of thousands of dollars, Jeff would walk away emptyhanded. 

“Yep,” said Jeff. “I’ve seen tons of them all over eBay, but I can never seem to snag one. I’ll be glad to take it off your hands for… $700. My pickup’s right outside. I’ve got hand trucks and everything.”

Jeff waited for him to whip out a phone or laptop and check online for the going price of a nonworking Lucrum cabinet, only to discover what a rare find he had. 

Instead, the man nodded. “Make it $900, and I’ll help you load it myself.” 

Jeff didn’t think the bowling alley owner could offer $200 worth of help loading anything into a truck, yet he didn’t want to risk the offer.

“Deal,” Jeff said, and the two shook hands.

* * *

That evening after putting in a new power supply, replacing a couple fuses, repairing a few frayed wires, and giving the whole cabinet a good cleaning, Jeff plugged it in, and Lucrum hummed to life. He stood back as the monitor blinked on, displaying “LVCRVM” in all capital block letters that resembled stony pillars. Below the title, “Insert Coin” appeared.

Jeff pushed the machine against the wall beside Galaga in the extra bedroom he’d designated as his arcade room. He fished a quarter from one of the coin cups he kept around and slipped it into the slot, and the game prompted him to enter his initials. Usually, a game asked you to do this only after you lost all your lives, not at the beginning. He almost entered the three letters he always had as a kid, ASS, but instead put in JMG.

His initials were replaced by “Level 1… Ready?” Without Jeff hitting any buttons, the text disappeared and a small pixelated character with a faceless white head, red shirt, blue pants, and red shoes walked into view in the lower left corner surrounded by blackness. Soon the setting began to form around him. Jeff expected something like ancient Rome, that he’d have to battle through mythological creatures like minotaurs and harpies and centaurs or perhaps face off against gladiators in a coliseum. Instead, the character stood in a modern nighttime cityscape: a starry sky and full moon, skyscrapers with lit windows, storefronts with neon signs, parked cars, sewer grates. Jeff was mesmerized, not because the 80’s graphics were so astounding but because this was a game he’d never seen—had never known existed. 

He snapped from his hypnosis when a gigantic green “GO!” flashed briefly on screen and sinister staccato synthesizer music began. Jeff grabbed the joystick and made the character run. Two round red buttons to the right of the joystick had nothing written above them to let the player know what they did. Having played video games for more than two decades, Jeff was certain that one button would make the character jump. He tapped the left button, and the character leapt over an open manhole. 

He dashed forward and hurdled deadly obstacles, from more manholes to speeding cars, rabid dogs, and mutant rats. As the ominous 8-bit music’s tempo increased, a pixelated man with a gun popped out from a skyscraper window and fired an oversized round bullet. Jeff tried the other button, and his character ducked safely under the projectile. So, one button was jump, the other duck. 

With years of honed gaming reflexes, Jeff zipped through the rest of the level. Two minutes later, his character approached a large bag with a dollar sign. The character held it overhead, like Link acquiring the Master Sword in The Legend of Zelda, and “$100,000!!!” flickered in bright green above him. A victorious synth fanfare replaced the menacing music.

Then everything cut to black, and “Play Level 2 Tomorrow…” appeared.

“Tomorrow?” Jeff scoffed. He’d never seen a game that didn’t immediately start the next level. The point of arcade cabinets was to pilfer quarters from teenagers’ pockets. He inserted another quarter and hit both buttons. Nothing.  He plunked in five more quarters. Still nothing. Jeff pulled the machine’s cord from the wall, waited thirty seconds, and then plugged it back in.

Instead of the game restarting, the display still read “Play Level 2 Tomorrow…” 

“Okay, Lucrum,” Jeff said. “Tomorrow.”

* * *

The next morning as Jeff left for work, he tripped on something outside his front door. On his welcome mat sat a large canvas bag tied with black string. Printed on it was a dollar sign, like something from a cartoon—or a video game. He reached down apprehensively as though it might contain a rattlesnake, picked it up, and squeezed it. Whatever was inside felt like paper. Thick paper. 

Jeff didn’t open the bag outside. He went in, locked his front door, untied the string, and dumped the sack’s contents onto his den floor. Ten stacks of crisp $100 bills tumbled out, each wrapped in a yellow and white paper band with “$10,000” printed on it. There at his feet was $100,000.

It had to be counterfeit. He flicked through the bills of one bundle with his thumb. They seemed real enough, but what did he know? He’d never seen counterfeit money. It was supposed to look real. That was the whole point. He’d seen enough movies and TV shows where conmen would hand over a briefcase full of cash, and in it was a bunch of fake bills or even blank paper with a few real bills on top, so he flipped through each bundle. No blanks. All real-looking.

Jeff thought of the Quick Stop, the convenience store on the way to work. He stopped there sometimes for coffee and a donut, and he’d occasionally seen the cashier swipe a marker—one of those counterfeit detector pens—on customers’ money. He tugged a random bill from the middle of one stack to test. 

* * *

As Jeff pulled up to the Quick Stop, he crumpled the bill a little before leaving his truck. He went in and lurked the aisles until the two customers paid and left before approaching the counter and producing the wrinkled bill. 

“I found this on the street outside my house,” he said. “If you’ve got a counterfeit pen thing, would you mind checking it for me before I try spending it?”

The cashier, a short woman with curly salt-and-pepper hair, narrowed her eyes. “Take it to a bank, mister.”

“Ma’am, if it’s real, I’ll buy something and you keep fifty. If it’s fake, I’ll give you twenty for your trouble. Please.” Jeff showed the cashier the corner of a $20 bill in his wallet. “I know this one’s real.”

She continued to eye him suspiciously as she poked a button on her register and took out the pen. She swiped the $100 bill, then held the bill up to the light. 

“Your lucky day, honey,” she said. “It’s real.”

“You sure?” 

“I been working here ten years. I’ve seen fake money. This ain’t. Now what you gonna buy?”

“American Spirits,” Jeff said. “The bright green pack.”

The cashier stuck the hundred in the register and slid the cigarettes across the counter along with Jeff’s change, minus the $50 he promised her. 

Jeff took the cigarettes, leaving the money. “It’s your lucky day. Keep all the change. I feel like my day’s gonna get even luckier.”

“Well, bless you,” said the cashier, scooping the change off the counter before this weirdo decided he wanted it back.

Jeff left the store in a daze and sat in his truck staring through the windshield. Five minutes later, he cranked the engine and exited the parking lot in the direction of his house. 

At home, he called his supervisor in the IT department of DeKalb County Technical College and said he was too sick to come in. Jeff hung up before his supervisor could protest. He’d made $100,000 overnight. Well, $99,900 now. Almost twice his yearly salary. And he planned to make even more. 

He put on jeans and a T-shirt, then went to Lucrum. Its display had changed: “Play Level 2 Today… Insert Coin.” Jeff inserted a quarter. After “Level 2… Ready?” left the monitor, the character strolled into view. A storm now ravaged the city. Rain pelted the street, lightning cracked and temporarily turned everything white, and synthetic thunder rumbled from the speakers.

“GO!” flashed, and the ominous music began.

Jeff guided his character from left to right, hopping over potholes and cars and rabid dogs and giant rats. Level 2 had more of everything, all moving faster, yet Jeff’s reflexes kept him alive despite the frequent blinding lightning strikes. More gunmen shot from windows, two quick bullets in succession now instead of one. Still, Jeff ducked, jumped, and dodged his way down the tempestuous street without dying.

Then came a manhole larger than the others, and as Jeff attempted to clear it, a purple alligator head sprang up and gobbled his character in one chomp. 

“Dammit!” Jeff said.

In the monitor’s top right corner, “LIFE 3” became “LIFE 2.”

The game restarted him at a point a few seconds earlier. When his character neared the large manhole, Jeff was ready. With the joystick held to the right, he tapped the jump button, and as the character began to leap, Jeff flicked the joystick left. He switched directions midair and landed to the left of the manhole as the purple gator snapped its jaws on empty air. The alligator slowly lowered its head, and Jeff seized the opportunity to lunge across. 

Just beyond this were two money bags. The character lifted them both, one in each hand, as the victorious music erupted and “$200,000!!!” sparkled on screen. Jeff pumped his fist in the air. 

The victory song finished, and “Play Level 3 Tomorrow…” appeared. Jeff stepped back, his normally steady hands quivering like his aunt’s Chihuahuas. In four minutes, he’d made the equivalent of four years’ salary. At least, he hoped so. What if the whole ordeal had been a huge coincidence? Someone, maybe accidentally by a drug cartel or intentionally by an eccentric generous millionaire, had randomly dropped that money on his doorstep. Lucrum was just another ordinary arcade cabinet, albeit a rare one. He wouldn’t know for sure until the morning. 

In his bedroom, Jeff took several bills from one of the $10,000 bundles and returned the rest to the bag, which he stored under his mattress. At some point, he’d have to figure out what to do with this money as well as the cash he should receive in the morning. He didn’t want IRS agents to come knocking. For now, though, he was going to celebrate. 

He donned a coat and tie and drove to Bushnell’s, the most upscale steakhouse in town, and ordered a glass of their priciest bourbon and their largest T-bone plus a lobster tail. After dessert and a second bourbon, Jeff paid his bill and left the server a 300% tip. On the drive home, he smoked an American Spirit and blared Rush’s “The Big Money” while singing along at the top of his lungs.

At home, Jeff had another smoke outside. He couldn’t stop staring at his welcome mat. How had the money gotten there, and how was more, hopefully, going to arrive in the morning? Would it materialize from thin air? Was a black sedan going to swerve into his driveway, lower a tinted window, and its driver fling another bag at his door?

As Jeff considered sitting by the front window all night, he recalled what his mom once told him when he still believed in Santa Claus and wanted to wait up on Christmas Eve by the fireplace so he could see jolly old Saint Nicholas with his own eyes. She’d said, “Santa skips the houses of kids who try to stay up to catch him coming down the chimney. You don’t want that, do you?” Jeff had vigorously shaken his head and retreated to his bedroom, wondering if his mom was telling the truth and if he should sneak into the dark den to catch a glimpse of Santa anyway. He couldn’t muster the courage. He didn’t dare risk Santa skipping his house.

What if staying up all night to sneak a peek of Lucrum Claus, or whoever it was, would make him or her or it skip his house?

Jeff tossed the cigarette butt into the yard and went to bed.

* * *

Eight a.m. That was the time Jeff had decided on. He woke throughout the night, yet each time he somehow managed to go back to sleep. Around six, though, he lay awake watching the light through the slats in the blinds brighten from dark purple to pale blue to radiant yellow. Eyeing the digital clock on his nightstand, he gripped his sheets so he wouldn’t get up until the numbers read 8:00. The moment they did, Jeff skittered out of bed. 

At his door, he froze. When he opened it, there wouldn’t be anything except his welcome mat. He knew this with a sinking certainty in his gut. Jeff almost went back to bed, but he had to look. So, he opened his door.

There sat two canvas bags with dollar signs. 

Jeff poked them with his foot. They were real. He grabbed the sides of his head and bit his lower lip to keep from cackling like a madman. He had over a quarter of a million dollars. Inside the house, he glanced in them to be sure each bag held $100,000 and hid them under his mattress with the other. Then he called his supervisor and quit.

That day, he breezed through Level 3 without losing a single life. The street was swiss-cheesed with manholes and bombarded by a frenzy of cars, dogs, and rats. Gunmen, firing barrages of bullets, filled the building windows. Every ten seconds, lightning whited out the screen. Jeff utilized his jump-back strategy from the day before at the level’s end where there were not one, not two, but three huge manholes back-to-back-to-back hiding ravenous purple alligators.

The next morning, Jeff gathered the three canvas bags from his doorstep. He didn’t even open them. He added them to the collection, now totaling over half a million dollars.

Time for Level 4. Jeff dropped in a quarter, cracked his knuckles, and waited for Lucrum to give him the “GO!” command. The ensuing onslaught was nearly seizure-inducing. Lightning, dogs, thunder, bullets, rats, gunmen in the skyscrapers, gunmen in the cars, manholes aplenty with purple gators in all of them. Only a minute in and Jeff’s heart was pounding as furiously as the music’s frantic beats.

The moment after he vaulted over a careening car while simultaneously ducking in the air to avoid bullets fired by a man in the back seat, a lightning bolt struck him. His character collapsed on the street with pixelated smoke rising from his charred remains.

Jeff pounded the cabinet. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

A lifetime of playing arcade games had taught him they all eventually became unfair, some unbeatable, at a certain point. The aim, of course, was to keep you pumping in quarters. Why would Lucrum be any different?

The number next to “LIFE” changed to 1. The game restarted. Jeff grasped the joystick and poised his right forefinger and middle finger over the two buttons. 

It was real. He’d gotten real money for each level. Now he was down to one life. What would happen if he died again?

Jeff yanked the cabinet’s plug from the wall. He had plenty of money to last him the next several years. Why test his luck? He should quit while he was ahead, right?

He ventured back to Bushnell’s where his server from before, eyes lighting up, shoved the hostess aside and dragged Jeff by the hand to a table in his section. This time Jeff ordered the filet mignon with a side of three bourbons. He left an even more generous tip and drove home so tipsy he nearly ran over someone in his driveway. Jeff spotted the person at the last second and cursed as he stomped his brakes. His pickup jerked to a stop inches from whoever it was.

With three bourbons in him, Jeff couldn’t seem to focus his eyes on the tall figure in the headlights. Jeff cut the engine and got out. His truck’s automatic lights stayed on. 

“Hey, buddy,” he said. “You shouldn’t go standing in people’s driveways at night.”

JMG?” the silhouette said in a buzzing, monotone voice that didn’t sound quite human. 

The closest thing Jeff had ever heard to it was an uncle of his he met only once at a wedding when Jeff was eight. This uncle had lost his larynx to throat cancer and used a device like an electric razor, which he held up to his throat, to speak. When the uncle had tried talking to him, the robotic voice sent Jeff running away crying.

Arrre yyyou JMG?” the silhouette asked.

“I’m calling the cops, so you better get outta here, all right?”

Yyyou ssstoppped ppplayyying.

“I, uh…”

Yyyou cannnot ssstop ppplayyying.

Jeff took out his cell and dropped it. He found it and was about to dial 911, but the man was gone. The vehicle headlights had gone dark, so Jeff shined his phone’s flashlight around the driveway. He circled his pickup as well as the entire yard, even peering behind the bushes.

His front door was unlocked. Jeff couldn’t remember if he’d locked it when he left. He removed the coat and tie he’d put on for the steakhouse and crept from room to room, but the stranger wasn’t hiding anywhere. In the arcade room, Lucrum was plugged in. Not only that, the power cord itself had been replaced. Now, instead of a regular rubber-covered cord, there was a shiny metal one. The new plug had also been soldered to the wall socket. Whoever had done this—the silhouette man, he supposed—wanted to ensure Jeff couldn’t unplug Lucrum again. 

He didn’t want to look, yet he knew he had to. On the monitor was “JMG, you CANNOT stop playing until you have 0 lives. Ready to continue?”

“Screw this,” Jeff said. 

His toolbox was still nearby from when he’d repaired the cabinet. He grabbed the hammer, dropped to his knees, and started hacking the claw end into the drywall around the socket. He got in five good whacks before a long-fingered hand fell on his shoulder and his entire right arm went limp. The hammer thumped to the floor.

Jeff knew it was the same person from the driveway even before he spoke in that dreadful voice. In the room’s light, Jeff could see him more clearly. At well over seven feet tall, he wore a crimson trench coat that stretched to the floor, and his arms were much longer than a normal person’s, his gloved hands hanging well past where his knees would be. The coat’s collar was flipped up and he wore a wide-brimmed crimson fedora, so most of his face was hidden. What Jeff could see was black and featureless, the face still a silhouette even in the light—like a blank arcade screen.

Yyyou mmmusttt ppplayyy, JMG,” said Silhouette Man.

“And if I don’t?” 

Thennn yyyou wwwill fffeel painnn withouttt dyinggg. Pppain beyyyond cccomprehensssion.

Silhouette Man reached out a spindly arm and touched Jeff’s forehead with a seven-inch gloved forefinger. Immediate and immense pain shot through Jeff’s entire body, as though his every muscle, organ, bone, nerve, blood cell, and molecule were doused in kerosene and roasted with a blowtorch. Jeff crumpled into a fetal position. 

The anguish was gone as quickly as it had been inflicted on him, yet Jeff lay on the floor for a minute, his eyes clamped shut and his mouth open in a silent scream. 

Nnnow are yyyou rrreadyyy to cccontinnnue, JMG?” 

To make sure Silhouette Man didn’t give him another agonizing jolt, he croaked, “Yeah… Okay… I’ll play.” Jeff clung to the cabinet and pulled himself to his feet.

Rrreadddy?” said Silhouette Man.

“Ready,” Jeff said, inserting a coin. His hand trembled slightly, but between Silhouette Man’s nightmarish voice and presence, not to mention the excruciation he’d just endured, Jeff was sober. He was ready to play his character’s last life, to play for his own life. 

The game started his character at the exact spot in the stormy cityscape where Jeff had left him. Instead of Lucrum telling him to go, Silhouette Man said, “Gggo.

Jeff leapt over the speeding car, dodging the gunman’s bullets and the lightning bolt. Level 4 threw everything at him: cars, bullets, manholes, rats, lightning, alligators. He evaded it all, even as Silhouette Man loomed behind him making a low churring that grew louder, as though he were feeding on Jeff’s adrenaline, until it sounded like a nest of irate hornets.

The last thing he faced was a version of Silhouette Man himself, complete with a black face and crimson fedora and trench coat. The pixelated Silhouette Man swiped at Jeff’s character with long arms that ended in neon green claws. After a few feigned attempts, Jeff pounced past him, where his character hoisted a briefcase with a gold dollar sign on it as the fanfare chimed and “$400,000!!!” shimmered on screen. 

Sweating profusely, Jeff steadied himself by clutching the cabinet.

Vvverrry gooddd,” said Silhouette Man. “I tttrussst I wwwill nnnot havvve to vvvisittt yyyou againnn, JMG. Yyyou mmmust kkkeep ppplayyying.

“Until I have zero lives,” Jeff said.

Yyyesss. Zzzerrro.

Jeff stared at “Play Level 5 Tomorrow…” for a full minute waiting for Silhouette Man to say something else, but the room was silent. Silhouette Man was gone. In his place was a briefcase with a gold dollar sign. In it was $400,000. Jeff had a million dollars now, minus his two trips to the steakhouse. He emptied the briefcase into a duffel bag, then threw in the cash from under his mattress. He didn’t pack clothes. He could buy a new wardrobe wherever he ended up. He was driving straight to Atlanta and taking a redeye flight to… Well, he’d decide where when he got to the airport. The most important thing now was to leave his house.

He shouldered the duffel, grabbed his truck keys, opened the front door, and came face to black, blank face with Silhouette Man. He considered lying—he was simply going for a late-night fast food run or something, but who made a late-night fast food run carrying a fortune in a duffel bag? Plus, even if he wasn’t holding the duffel, he was sure Silhouette Man would know he was lying.

Yyyou wwwill ppplayyy Levvvelll 5 tommorrowww, JMG. Yyyou wwwill ppplayyy untilll yyyou hhhavvve zerrro livvvesss.

“How many levels are there?” Jeff asked. “Is there an end, or is it one of those games that’s impossible to beat?”

Ittt is nnnottt impppossibllle,” said Silhouette Man. “Therrre are fffifty levvvellls.

“Fifty,” Jeff whimpered. “How far… How far has anyone ever gotten?”

A mmman onnnce maddde it ttto Levvvelll 13. Tommorrowww yyyou wwwill ppplayyy Levvvelll 5. Gggoodddnighttt, JMG.

Jeff closed the door and dropped the duffel. So, he would play Level 5 tomorrow. He had no choice. The question was, would he play to win or to lose? If Silhouette Man was telling the truth, Jeff needed to beat forty-six more levels, each exponentially harder than the last, and he had to do it with only one remaining life. Or he could start Level 5 tomorrow and dive into the first alligator’s jaws or in front of the first car or in the path of the first bullet. Get to zero. See the words gamers normally dreaded: Game Over.

Scott Hughes’s fiction, poetry, and essays have appeared in Crazyhorse, One Sentence Poems, Entropy, Deep Magic, Carbon Culture Review, Redivider, Redheaded Stepchild, PopMatters, Strange Horizons, Chantwood Magazine, Odd Tales of Wonder, The Haunted Traveler, Exquisite Corpse, Pure Slush, Word Riot, and Compaso: Journal of Comparative Research in Anthropology and Sociology. His short story collection, The Last Book You’ll Ever Read, is forthcoming from Weasel Press in early 2019. For more information, visit writescott.com.

Original Creations

Food Prep with Baba Yaga, Nail Polish Art Fig from Jennifer Weigel

Published

on

I must just want to keep breathing those fumes – call me Doctor Orin Scrivello DDS… Anyway, here’s another porcelain figurine repaint with nail polish accents. This time we’ll join Baba Yaga herself as she embarks on a food prep journey – I hear she’s making pie! This time I’m only going to post one figurine because I want to get the down low on all the dirty details. And just what sort of food prep does that entail? Let’s find out…

Baba Yaga food prep team
Food prep is a must!

Yeah it’s a boring chore but necessary. Cause you can’t eat without food, and you can’t have food without food prep.

Baba Yaga hard at work
It’s a dirty job but someone’s gotta do it.

Are you up to the task? Because heads will roll. In fact, one’s trying to get away now.

Baba Yaga food prep: paring and coring before the pie
Paring and coring before the pie

A dull blade is nobody’s friend, so make sure to keep all your knives sharpened for the task at hand.

And then we puts it in the basket...
And then we puts it in the basket…

One down, a dozen or so more to go!

Feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.

Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.
Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.

Continue Reading

Original Creations

Familiar Faces – A Chilling Tale of Predatory Transformation by Tinamarie Cox

Published

on

Familiar Faces

By Tinamarie Cox

For the past three months, Maggie had planted herself on the same bench in the northwestern quadrant of Central Park at six a.m. every morning. Placed beside her were always a brown paper bag and a paper coffee cup, both clean and empty. She did not require food and drink in the same manner as humans but needed to keep up appearances and maintain the illusion. Sitting here like this, Maggie appeared to be like any other New Yorker enjoying the cooler hours of the early summer mornings and a deli-bought breakfast.

As the joggers on the Great Hill Track passed by, Maggie studied their skin. She looked each perspiring body up and down carefully, determining collagen levels and the elasticity of their dermal layers. There was a wide range in age, but younger was preferred. She favored flesh in its prime and in good health. The better condition of the hide meant the tissues would last longer. More time for enjoyment and less time spent hunting.

Maggie, the name that had belonged to the skin she was currently in, had given her a long and pleasurable five years. But her stolen flesh had begun to pucker as of late, thinning and loosening, and starting to droop on its harsh frame. It was time for a change in coverings. Maggie’s delicate apricot coating was nearly spent.

New York City was the perfect place to acquire new skins. Becoming someone new and blending in was effortless in the twenty-first century. There were millions of hosts to choose from and all in different colors. The variety drew her, and the ease of attaining a human casing kept her lingering. A hundred years of stalking and acquisition in this city, and she hadn’t felt any exigency to leave it. One person missing out of millions was a drop of water in Earth’s ocean. She drew no suspicions.

Time had only made the process simpler for Maggie.

Naturally, her skills improved as she moved from body to body. She had made mistakes in the beginning. Been too violent with the first few when she should have been more clever. She hadn’t expected such a mess. Hadn’t known there was so much blood and viscera inside a human body.

But she had been so eager to try. So excited to keep going. To test her limits. Go beyond what she had once thought she was capable of.

Practice made perfect. Switching bodies became seamless.

And there were other factors, too, that allowed Maggie an inconspicuous lifestyle. Population growth was major, inevitable with the humans’ devotion to sexual pleasure. Humans seemed challenged when it came to controlling their desires, much less their reproductive abilities. She felt it was the greatest disadvantage of the species. To be so tightly bound to sex and rearing the inevitable offspring.

She couldn’t consider using a human during their infancy or adolescent years. Children were too helpless. Despite the soft suppleness of their skin, being commanded by another adult was unappealing. Maggie was fully grown and had left her nest ages ago.

The way society chose to isolate itself behind its technology also benefited Maggie. Whatever flashed on their handheld screens determined the next fad and the newest trend, which consumed their attention. It seemed humans could not be without their electronic devices, as if they were an extension of themselves. An enthusiastically consumed distraction from the realities of the drudgery of the human world.

Maggie had spent the last several weeks on her perch in Central Park keeping up to date on the latest social interests by watching TikTok videos on her cell phone. Many of the clips were centered around humorous topics, which she hated to admit she found entertaining. And some of the video creators poured their life stories and struggles into the camera for the whole world to see. Maggie liked these videos best. She adopted the histories and backgrounds of the TikTok users for the real-life conversations she participated in.

With the recorded stories committed to memory, she could stir up feelings of pity, compassion, or even lust in her listener. Their emotional responses made her feel more human. Continued the deception. Ultimately, it distracted her conversation partner from asking other, more troublesome questions. Like why the alcohol they were drinking wasn’t making her tipsy.

Maggie toggled between the app and observed the passing joggers. She stealthily snapped pictures of potential skin donors for later deliberation. She had noted their schedules and made her friendly face visible during their routines. She looked up, met their gaze, smiled, and angled her head cordially. Every few minutes, she reached into the paper bag standing upright by her lap and brought an empty fist to her mouth, pretending to eat breakfast and drink coffee.

Some mornings, she’d daydream about the first days in a fresh costume, how silky and soft the flesh was. She liked to run fingers along the new skin, feel how well it hugged the bones. The sensation made the human lungs feel heavy, the heart race, and the mouth water.

No part of her donor went to waste.

Once fitted into a new disguise and acclimated to its nervous system, the previous host served as a first meal. Consciousness didn’t return to the shell. The brain was ruined by her invading connectors and the gray matter disintegrated with the disentanglement. Like pulling a weed out of the ground after it had infiltrated and rooted deep into a garden bed.

The defunct flesh made an exponential shift into the decomposition process after being evacuated. Technically, the carcass had started decaying the moment it was put on. Be it delayed or negligible so long as the body’s systems remained minimally active.

The putrid smell that accompanied a rotting body drew attention. Evidence caused questions and investigation. And even this creature had to eat sometimes. Of all the mammals, the taste of human was second to none. Without a doubt, human surpassed in flavor compared to her littermates.

On other observation days, Maggie thought about the instances when young, hormone-driven bodies ensnared her in conversation with the single goal of engaging in mating rituals. She found these human practices amusing, not sharing the same desire or need for such companionship.

Coupled bodies pounding genital areas, sharing fluids, and flesh becoming hot and sticky from the exertion was overall, unappealing. However, Maggie learned the importance and the rules of these games during her adventures among the humans. Though, she did not gain the same level of satisfaction from sexual acts.

Her top priority was to remain innocuous. She paid no favor to a particular gender. Or lack thereof. She appreciated the modern sense of fluidity between sexes. The notions of male and female and fulfilling sexual needs had changed greatly in the last hundred years she had spent amidst people. She had learned that bodies fit together in multiple ways. And Maggie knew how to please any partner no matter the skin she wore.

She had gotten better at determining if a mate would become too attached and return to her with more serious intentions. Relationships complicated her lifestyle. Partners asked too many questions and wanted to be involved with everything. She could not explain to a human how slowly rotting, sagging flesh walked amongst the population. Being solitary and independent was required.

Maggie preferred to migrate across the boroughs only when necessary, like when she adopted a new disguise. Previous acquaintances noticed the change. Memories and personality were lost when she implanted herself. But after a few hours of investigating the old life, she knew who needed a goodbye to be satisfied. And which places not to haunt. These lessons had been learned the hard way at the beginning.

It wasn’t difficult to find a new apartment when she needed one. Some neighbors were nosier than others. Maggie didn’t have much on hand to pack and move. She kept enough belongings to make an apartment look lived in. And the keepsakes she was genuinely fond of remained in a storage unit.

She learned to save certain items after discovering antique shops. Some humans were willing to pay puzzling sums of money for old things that no longer served anything more than an aesthetic purpose. A lengthy existence inhabiting many lives had allowed her to accumulate a monetary cushion.

As the freshness of Maggie’s skin wore out, she felt like antiquity. Something shabby and spent, and only admired as what it used to be. The lingering memory of something gone and nearly forgotten. A word on the tip of your tongue. She didn’t like to feel as though she was fading.

Each morning, she studied the creases deepening on her hands and around her eyes. She pulled at the lines circling her throat. It took more effort to keep her mouth from frowning. She found her reflection off-putting. It hadn’t surprised Maggie why flirtations and pleasure seekers had decreased over the last several weeks. Her body looked disgusting.

Humans were shallow creatures. Wrinkling and dulling skin combined with thinning and lifeless hair was unattractive and deterred their mating drive. And it was this decrease in attention that brought Maggie a sense of urgency to find replacement tissue. She had grown to enjoy being noticed for her beauty and sexual appeal. But adamantly denied she possessed human vanity. She just wanted to feel good about herself. There wasn’t much else to her drive.

Beautiful skin made Maggie feel powerful.

Maggie was eyeing male flesh for this hunt. The last twenty years had been spent in female coverings. Before that, her costumes were alternated between the sexes. When IT first began acquiring human skins in New York City, it had sought males exclusively. Back in those early days, you had to be male to do what you wanted. No one questioned a man’s late hours or odd habits. A hundred years ago– when IT had still been something crawling and slithering and observing the human species in the shadows– it seemed a woman was more of a thing than a person. And IT had been tired of being a thing.

Before IT was Maggie, there was Ananda, and before her was Shyla. She only remembered Molly because of how short a time her skin had lasted, a mere year. She had judged Molly’s skin all wrong, or rather, it had deceived her. A century of lives and dozens of names had blended together in parts. What IT had originally been called escaped its memory. The point was to experience life, not remember the vehicle.

Christopher passed her bench for a fourth time that morning. Maggie gave her next potential covering a small smile. He had finally taken notice of her earlier in the week, stealing brief glances at her during each of his eight daily laps around the loop. He looked young enough for her predilection, and in satisfactory health.

She loved the way his tanned epidermis stretched over his pronounced cheekbones. How taut it was across his firm abdominal cavity. And how the flesh around his defined biceps glistened with perspiration in the morning sunlight. He was a fine human specimen. She was fairly certain Christopher was the one.

Her hearts synced into a quick rhythm with her sudden excitement. She fidgeted on the bench as she envisioned slipping into new skin. Shedding this expired hull and feeling the brief freedom from a body’s weight. Severing the aged links that bound her to a moribund marionette. She licked her lips as she thought about making a satisfying meal out of this faithful body she was currently in.

Maggie wanted to wear the Christopher costume as soon as possible. She imagined the strength in his well-maintained and robust body. What the ripples in his muscles must feel like when his feet pounded against the asphalt during his run. How easily she would be able to command adoration with his coy smile. The way lovers would worship the powerful way she’d use his hips.

Decision finalized, Maggie hid her phone away in the back pocket of her shorts. She put the unused coffee cup in the empty brown bag and crumpled them together for the trash can. The wait for Christopher to make his next lap was almost too long. She leaned forward on her bench, staring down the jogging path. Eyes only for him as others passed her by.

When Christopher returned to view, Maggie grinned and angled her head at him. She shifted on her perch, impatient for him to meet her gaze. When their eyes locked, Maggie felt her nerve endings pulse and the human heart lurch. This level of anticipation was better than sex. The barbs holding her inside Maggie tingled.

It was time to seize the moment.

She gave him a little wave with a shaky hand. Then, she patted the place on the bench beside her that was vacated by the fake breakfast.

Christopher slowed his pace, his interest engaged, and paused his morning jogging routine through Central Park to speak to a familiar face. He sat beside Maggie, his mouth open and catching his breath, and rested his arm along the top of the bench.

“Finished your breakfast fast today?” He stretched his long legs out in front of him and Maggie traced them with her eyes.

“I have a confession to make,” she began, flapping her eyelashes at him.

“Do tell.”

He leaned in closer and she could smell the salty trails of sweat dripping down his perfect skin and mixing with his pheromones. He was easily hooked. His scent made her mouth water. Made her buzz inside Maggie. He was a fine choice.

“I was too nervous to eat it this morning. I was hoping to meet you more formally today.” Maggie pressed her pink lips into a crooked smile and raised one of her shoulders aiming to convey shyness in her flirtation.

She formulated a new plan. The details arrived like lightning in her head. She’d do things a little differently this time. She’d play all her cards right and take him to bed first. Part of her ached to feel him inside this body before putting him on. She didn’t understand where the urge had come from, but she decided to obey it.

What was the point of living if not for a few indulgences here and there? Experiment once in a while? Evolve the methods? A hundred years of slipping from body to body needed to stay interesting.

She wasn’t becoming more human.

IT could never be human.

“Well,” he held out his hand to her, “I’m Christopher. It’s nice to meet you…?”

“You can call me Maggie,” she answered and accepted his handshake. His skin felt better than she imagined. A wave of delight coursed through her. A wide grin crept across her face.

Christopher was hers for the taking.

Predator and prey were united at last.

Continue Reading

Original Creations

Womb, Revisited: a Graveside Poem by Jennifer Weigel

Published

on

Here’s a graveside pantoum poem from Jennifer Weigel…

The earth enfolds me in her embrace.
I can smell the dirt and water and decay.
This homecoming is a welcome change.
I am wholly surrounded by teeming life.
 
I can smell the dirt and water and decay.
All smells of mold, mushrooms, and musk.
I am wholly surrounded by teeming life.
Microscopic organisms abound all around.
 
All smells of mold, mushrooms, and musk.
This is both comforting and disconcerting.
Microscopic organisms abound all around.
I am becoming one with their still energy.
 
This is both comforting and disconcerting.
For it is the natural progression of things.
I am becoming one with their still energy.
Here within my grave, I shall rot away.
 
For it is the natural progression of things.
This homecoming is a welcome change.
Here within my grave, I shall rot away.
The earth enfolds me in her embrace.

Moving On black and white graveside photo by Jennifer Weigel
Moving On black and white graveside photo by Jennifer Weigel

Ok so that graveside poem was maybe a little more in than out, but whatever. We all go back to the Earth Mother eventually… 😉

Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.
Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.

Here are a couple more posts of graveside photography: Part 1 and Part 2… and another poem + photo combo.  And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.

Continue Reading

Trending