HauntedMTL Original – Immaculate Conception – Valter F. Machado
“Immaculate Conception” by Valter F. Machado
(transcription obtained from Catherine Hider’s audio diary)
The soul force I once had abandoned me at this fastidious hour, dragging my hope and persistence with it. Helplessly I pursue this demand until the end is accomplished, for the importance of perseverance supersedes mere intent, honors the family that I, Catherine Hider, had intended to raise with Joseph Hider, my late husband, that his soul may rest in peace.
We got married at the age of twenty, we worked hard for our careers, we laid the foundation for what our family should be, and, conscious of the stability that we considered essential, we desired to have childrens! «Five» He had insisted unaware of the burden that I now know perfectly well that it is being pregnant.
Don’t misunderstand my words, because this is a blessing that I carry proudly and every day I thank for it in my prayers. «Getting pregnant after the age of forty-five? My dear, everything in this life has a period.»Dr. Mitch Barker would tell me, labeling me for my age and repressing me, but I would recklessly pursue my intention: before my beloved departed with tuberculosis, last year, he had left three deposits of sperm in cryogenic conservation enabling my fertilization.
The abdominal pain is horrible. I understand that they are natural, but in my case they aren’t stings or impressions, nor localized… They’re the reason for another valiums…
The first two «attempts» to get pregnant failed poorly. Keeping myself convinced of my intentions I kept fate at what I knew in my heart to be the will of God, our Lord. I was meant to carry the seed of my lover, to perpetuate our family name, and now that I know you’re a boy, I decided to name you Joseph Jr Hider, in honor to your father.
As I was saying… God demanded so on the third and last opportunity the artificial insemination was successful.
I don’t have the strength to get up, I get weaker every day… Every hour that passes… When I started to develop the first symptoms resulting from the protective psychosis of you, I bought a cat: for company and to hunt the plump rats that invaded our house three months ago. People say they’re attracted to the odors and hormones of pregnant women, but I have another theory that based on their size of such specimens I would say they had come from Sundsvall, Sweden, where they recorded the proliferation of giant rats over five feet. However, and since I don’t want to wake up with one biting my toes or the tip of my nose, I got this faithful companion, to tell you the truth I kinda feel sorry for him because the poor thing is about the same size as the invaders. which makes it difficult.
Talking about him, I see that the food bowl is constantly empty, but I can’t remember when was the last time I saw…
This pain is a martyrdom, it seems you’re in such a frenzy.
My dearest, this record will be the inheritance that your dear father and your beloved mother will leave for you, along with this house, as well as the Corvette ZR1. However, I don’t know how long I can remain lucid and able to convey the legacy of this family of ours.
After having the good news about this pregnancy, I spread the word among our families so that they could celebrate this historic milestone, yet I never thought they were all, without exception, capable of such hostility. Their withered minds couldn’t understand this «obsession» with your father.
Do you believe this?
It was our dream to give you an united and welcoming family, as your father would wish, but to be honest with you, in this world we’ll be alone only having each other, nothing and no one will have meaning in our lives. Surely I can assure you that you will always have my eternal support…
If only you could ease, I could get some rest. I have never been pregnant, captive of inexperience I fear that something is very wrong, conditioned by the intensions of others I avoid from seeking help, whether from family or medics, that I foresee the resolute resolution to this agony: abortion, and this I reject in honor of your beloved father and by the word of our Lord.
I live in a dilemma between the need for peace and the sagacity of your will to live; you have been notoriously restless, agitated, so I put my hand on my belly to feel you kicking effusively. Splendid the determining umbilical relationship between a mother and her offspring. However, all this liveliness has had its consequences, chronic pain and permanent nausea that have been spewing acid spurts straight from the stomach. I woundn’t solely blame you, that with the blessing of pregnancy comes nauseas, of course, but I also think that it’s related to a stench that has been emanating from the kitchen since yesterday. I’d say it’s a rotten vegetable-like smell mixed with urine and putrid meat. If I had to guess, I’d say I left the fridge open, and it thawed and the contents went bad.
I’m so weak that I can barely reason and report this events to you my love.
Finally I had some sleep, after all it was three vallium in less than two hours. However I feel disappointed, because I wake up and see that I will have urinated in bed during my sleep, an unprecedented event on my part, especially since I have no memory of when this happened before and for the last time. But no smell at all of urine.
Now that I think about it, I wonder how it is to be where you are, surrounded by amniotic fluid in a sack, in fetal position, quiet, and under a blessed sleep.
I’m starting to get slightly worried about Gosby. I forgot about the formal introductions, the little cat I was talking about, do you remember? It’s Mr. Gosby, do you like it? I gave it that name in accordance with the name with which your father’s first dog was nicknamed.
Well then, I still don’t know anything about him, but since I woke up, I caught a couple of glimps from a slim silhouette, that I bet it was a rat. I immediately lit both lamps, both mine and your father’s.
I want these plague infected animals far away from us!
I don’t know if I should, but I’ll say it anyway. It was a week, if my memory doesn’t fails me, after Mr. Gosby came to live with us that I woke up one night at dawn, and there were two rats, no exaggeration of the size of our hosts, between my legs, between the covers and my nightdress, staring with those insanely evil red-eyed. Nervousness and stressed I kicked and screamed, immediately Mr. Gosby came to my salvation, you should have seen how wild he was with those disgusting things, so much so that he still managed to bite one, the weakest and slowest, that restricted to his jaws, struggled and wrestled him. tearing off part of his upper right lip. Poor thing, with a wound like that I had to disinfect and treat itgave him an anti-inflammatory that soothed his pain.
I was very proud of him, and most of all, confident that it was a good decision to get him to live with us and guarantee our safety.
It was a long time ago the last time since I listened, almost forgottening, how shrill the squeals of those rodents were. I don’t know if you can hear it on the tape, but here at home is a horrifying cacophony.
I feel that you are very active, I don’t know if it connect to the annoyance of these monstrosities, or by the intention of getting out of me. According to my calculations will be missing less than a week. I still have to get the energy to bring the phone to the bedside table in the case you want to get out, so I can call for an ambulance. It’s decided, it’ll be the first thing in the morning, as soon as the sun rises.
I don’t know how… What is…
Calm… breathe… breathe… breathe… breathe…
I came from the kitchen now, couldn’t reach the phone or the cell phone, returning back to my room with my soul tormented. I don’t know how I can… I have to tell you the truth, Mr. Gosby died, rather, was killed. Those creepy things were devouring him, or rather just gnawing at his bones because, except for the fur, little or nothing was left of him.
The smell actually came from there, from this disgusting scenario.
Before escaping I still managed to grab a knife.
Now that I’m more awake I suspect that something not right with me, or with you my dear Joseph Jr., for taht I smell a strange smell coming from my pubic area, something like urine and wet hair. No doubt something is very wrong, I see you moving incessantly inside me, several bulges in the belly moving at the same time.
After all these rats were bigger than I thought… Much bigger than the victim they devoured… They are on the bed, at my feet, motionless looking at me… I’m sprawled with my arm outstretched pointing the knife at ‘em… The other hand massaging you, but the pain is unbearable…
I feels like you are tearing me apart…
Dilatation started… or simply…
Finally I see you… Or what’s left of you… After all you weren’t alone… You were never alone, even without family, you had others who were your company… The brood is finally in the company of their parents… Damn rats, they had the affront of devouring your remains even at my feet… Most abominable animals… Now they chew the umbilical cord… Umbilical!
They’ll stop only when they finish what their youngs started inside me…!
(end of transcription)
My name is Valter F. Machado, a writer of novels and romances, short and flash stories, mostly named by me as “Creepie Stories”. Lurking through the swamp’s mysteries, the hopelessness of horror and the blackness of deep insanity suspense. Check out my social media to know more about me and my work.
What if ours weren’t the only reality? What if the past paths converged, if those moments that led to our current circumstances got tangled together with their alternates and we found ourselves caught up in the threads?
Marla returned home after the funeral and wake. She drew the key in the lock and opened the door slowly, the looming dread of coming back to an empty house finally sinking in. Everyone else had gone home with their loved ones. They had all said, “goodbye,” and moved along.
Her daughter Misty and son-in-law Joel had caught a flight to Springfield so he could be at work the next day for the big meeting. Her brother Darcy was on his way back to Montreal. Emmett and Ruth were at home next door, probably washing dishes from the big meal they had helped to provide afterward, seeing as their kitchen light was on. Marla remembered there being food but couldn’t recall what exactly as she hadn’t felt like eating. Sandwiches probably… she’d have to thank them later.
Marla had felt supported up until she turned the key in the lock after the services, but then the realization sank deep in her throat like acid reflux, hanging heavy on her heart – everyone else had other lives to return to except for her. She sighed and stepped through the threshold onto the outdated beige linoleum tile and the braided rag rug that stretched across it. She closed the door behind herself and sighed again. She wiped her shoes reflexively on the mat before just kicking them off to land in a haphazard heap in the entryway.
The still silence of the house enveloped her, its oppressive emptiness palpable – she could feel it on her skin, taste it on her tongue. It was bitter. She sighed and walked purposefully to the living room, the large rust-orange sofa waiting to greet her. She flopped into its empty embrace, dropping her purse at her side as she did so.
A familiar, husky voice greeted her from deeper within the large, empty house. “Where have you been?”
Marla looked up and glanced around. Her husband Frank was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, drying a bowl. Marla gasped, her hand shooting to her mouth. Her clutched appendage took on a life of its own, slowly relinquishing itself of her gaping jaw and extending a first finger to point at the specter.
“Frank?” she spoke hesitantly.
“Yeah,” the man replied, holding the now-dry bowl nestled in the faded blue-and-white-checkered kitchen towel in both hands. “Who else would you expect?”
“But you’re dead,” Marla spat, the words falling limply from her mouth of their own accord.
The 66-year old man looked around confusedly and turned to face Marla, his silver hair sparkling in the light from the kitchen, illuminated from behind like a halo. “What are you talking about? I’m just here washing up after lunch. You were gone so I made myself some soup. Where have you been?”
“No, I just got home from your funeral,” Marla spoke quietly. “You are dead. After the boating accident… You drowned. I went along to the hospital – they pronounced you dead on arrival.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Frank said. “What boating accident?”
“The sailboat… You were going to take me out,” Marla coughed, her brown eyes glossed over with tears.
“We don’t own a sailboat,” Frank said bluntly. “Sure, I’d thought about it – it seems like a cool retirement hobby – but it’s just too expensive. We’ve talked about this, we can’t afford it.”
Marla glanced out the bay window towards the driveway where the small sailboat sat on its trailer, its orange hull reminiscent of the Florida citrus industry, and also of the life jacket Frank should have been wearing when he’d been pulled under. Marla cringed and turned back toward the kitchen. She sighed and spoke again, “But the boat’s out front. The guys at the marina helped to bring it back… after you… drowned.”
Frank had retreated to the kitchen to put away the bowl. Marla followed. She stood in the doorway and studied the man intently. He was unmistakably her husband, there was no denying it even despite her having just witnessed his waxen lifeless body in the coffin at the wake before the burial, though this Frank was a slight bit more overweight than she remembered.
“Well, that’s not possible. Because I’m still here,” Frank grumbled. He turned to face her, his blue eyes edged with worry. “There now, it was probably just a dream. You knew I wanted a boat and your anxiety just formulated the worst-case scenario…”
“See for yourself,” Marla said, her voice lilting with every syllable.
Frank strode into the living room and stared out the bay window. The driveway was vacant save for some bits of Spanish moss strewn over the concrete from the neighboring live oak tree. He turned towards his wife.
“But there’s no boat,” he sighed. “You must have had a bad dream. Did you fall asleep in the car in the garage again?” Concern was written all over his face, deepening every crease and wrinkle. “Is that where you were? The garage?”
Marla glanced again at the boat, plain as day, and turned to face Frank. Her voice grew stubborn. “It’s right here. How can you miss it?” she said, pointing at the orange behemoth.
“Honey, there’s nothing there,” Frank exclaimed, exasperation creeping into his voice.
Marla huffed and strode to the entryway, gathering her shoes from where they waited in their haphazard heap alongside the braided rag run on the worn linoleum floor. She marched out the door as Frank took vigil in its open frame, still staring at her. She stomped out to the boat and slapped her hand on the fiberglass surface with a resounding smack. The boat was warm to the touch, having baked in the Florida sun. She turned back towards the front door.
“See!” she bellowed.
The door stood open, empty. No one was there, watching. Marla sighed again and walked back inside. The vacant house once again enveloped her in its oppressive emptiness. Frank was nowhere to be found.
So I guess it’s goodbye for now. Feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
Today on Nightmarish Nature we’re gonna revisit The Blob and jiggle our way to terror. Why? ‘Cause we’re just jellies – looking at those gelatinous denizens of the deep, as well as some snot-like land-bound monstrosities, and wishing we could ooze on down for some snoozy booze schmoozing action. Or something.
Honestly, I don’t know what exactly it is that jellyfish and slime molds do but whatever it is they do it well, which is why they’re still around despite being among the more ancient organism templates still in common use.
Jellyfish are on the rise.
Yeah, yeah, some species like moon jellies will hang out in huge blooms near the surface feeding, but that’s not what I meant. Jellyfish populations are up. They’re honing in on the open over-fished ocean and making themselves at home. Again.
And, although this makes the sea turtles happy since jellies are a favorite food staple of theirs, not much else is excited about the development. Except for those fish that like to hide out inside of their bells, assuming they don’t accidentally get eaten hanging out in there. But that’s a risk you gotta take when you’re trying to escape predation by surrounding yourself in a bubble of danger that itself wants to eat you. Be eaten or be eaten. Oh, wait…
So what makes jellies so scary?
Jellyfish pack some mighty venom. Despite obvious differences in mobility, they are related to anemones and corals. But not the Man o’ War which looks similar but is actually a community of microorganisms that function together as a whole, not one creature. Not that it matters when you’re on the wrong end of a nematocyst, really. Because regardless what it’s attached to, that stings.
Box jellies are among the most venomous creatures in the world and can move of their own accord rather than just drifting about like many smaller jellyfish do. And even if they aren’t deadly, the venom from many jellyfish species will cause blisters and lesions that can take a long time to heal. So even if they do resemble free-floating plastic grocery bags, you’d do best to steer clear. Because those are some dangerous curves.
But what does this have to do with slime molds?
Absolutely nothing. I honestly don’t know enough about jellyfish or slime molds to devote the whole of a Nightmarish Nature segment to either, so they had to share. Essentially, this bit is what happened when I decided to toast a bagel before coming up with something to write about and spent a tad too much time in contemplation of my breakfast. I guess we’re lucky I didn’t have any cream cheese or clotted cream…
Oh, and also thinking about gelatinous cubes and oozes in the role-playing game sense – because those sort of seem like a weird hybrid between jellies and slime molds, as does The Blob. Any of those amoeba influenced creatures are horrific by their very nature – they don’t even need to be souped up, just ask anyone who’s had dysentery.
And one of the most interesting thing about slime molds is that they can take the shortest path to food even when confronted with very complex barriers. They are maze masterminds and would give the Minotaur more than a run for his money, especially if he had or was food. They have even proven capable of determining the most efficient paths for water lines or railways in metropolitan regions, which is kind of crazy when you really think about it. Check it out in Scientific American here. So, if we assume that this is essentially the model upon which The Blob was built, then it’s kind of a miracle anything got away. And slime molds are coming under closer scrutiny and study as alternative means of creating computer components are being explored.
Jellies are the Wave of the Future.
We are learning that there may be a myriad of uses for jellyfish from foodstuffs to cosmetic products as we rethink how we interact with them. They are even proving useful in cleaning up plastic pollution. I don’t know how I feel about the foodstuff angle for all that they’ve been a part of various recipes for a long time. From what I’ve seen of the jellyfish cookbook recipes, they just don’t look that appealing. But then again I hate boba with a passion, so I’m probably not the best candidate to consider the possibility.
So it seems that jellies are kind of the wave of the future as we find that they can help solve our problems. That’s pretty impressive for some brainless millions of years old critter condiments. Past – present – perpetuity! Who knows what else we’d have found if evolution hadn’t cleaned out the fridge every so often?
Feel free to check out more Nightmarish Nature here.
Continuing our junkyard dawg werewolf story from the previous St. Patrick’s Days… though technically he’s more of a wolfwere but wolfwhatever. Anyway, here are Part 1 from 2022, Part 2 from 2023 and Part 3 from 2024 if you want to catch up.
Yeah I don’t know how you managed to find me after all this time. We haven’t been the easiest to track down, Monty and I, and we like it that way. Though actually, you’ve managed to find me every St. Patrick’s Day since 2022 despite me being someplace else every single time. It’s a little disconcerting, like I’m starting to wonder if I was microchipped way back in the day in 2021 when I was out lollygagging around and blacked out behind that taco hut…
Anyway as I’d mentioned before, that Scratchers was a winner. And I’d already moved in with Monty come last St. Patrick’s Day. Hell, he’d already begun the process of cashing in the Scratchers, and what a process that was. It made my head spin, like too many squirrels chirping at you from three different trees at once. We did get the money eventually though.
Since I saw you last, we were kicked out of Monty’s crap apartment and had gone to live with his parents while we sorted things out. Thank goodness that was short-lived; his mother is a nosy one for sure, and Monty didn’t want to let on he was sitting on a gold mine as he knew they’d want a cut even though they had it made already. She did make a mean brisket though, and it sure beat living with Sal. Just sayin.
Anyway, we finally got a better beater car and headed west. I was livin’ the dream. We were seeing the country, driving out along old Route 66, for the most part. At least until our car broke down just outside of Roswell near the mountains and we decided to just shack it up there. (Boy, Monty sure can pick ‘em. It’s like he has radar for bad cars. Calling them lemons would be generous. At least it’s not high maintenance women who won’t toss you table scraps or let you up on the sofa.)
We found ourselves the perfect little cabin in the woods. And it turns out we were in the heart of Bigfoot Country, depending on who you ask. I wouldn’t know, I’ve never seen one. But it seems that Monty was all into all of those supernatural things: aliens, Bigfoot, even werewolves. And finding out his instincts on me were legit only added fuel to that fire. So now he sees himself as some sort of paranormal investigator.
Whatever. I keep telling him this werewolf gig isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, and it doesn’t work like in the movies. I wasn’t bitten, and I generally don’t bite unless provoked. He says technically I’m a wolfwere, to which I just reply “Where?” and smile. Whatever. It’s the little things I guess. I just wish everything didn’t come out as a bark most of the time, though Monty’s gotten pretty good at interpreting… As long as he doesn’t get the government involved, and considering his take on the government himself that would seem to be a long stretch. We both prefer the down low.
So here we are, still livin’ the dream. There aren’t all that many rabbits out here but it’s quiet and the locals don’t seem to notice me all that much. And Monty can run around and make like he’s gonna have some kind of sighting of Bigfoot or aliens or the like. As long as the pantry’s stocked it’s no hair off my back. Sure, there are scads of tourists, but they can be fun to mess around with, especially at that time of the month if I happen to catch them out and about.
Speaking of tourists, I even ran into that misspent youth from way back in 2021 at the convenience store; I spotted him at the Quickie Mart along the highway here. I guess he and his girlfriend were apparently on walkabout (or car-about) perhaps making their way to California or something. He even bought me another cookie. Small world. But we all knew that already…
If you enjoyed this werewolf wolfwere wolfwhatever saga, feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
