Meteorite by Dana Hammer
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Published
3 years agoon
By
Jim PhoenixI haven’t had a full night’s sleep in six months. Sure, I’ve slept twenty minutes here, an hour there, but not enough. Nowhere near enough. My eyes burn, bloodshot like a drunk’s, and I don’t drink. My bones are heavy, and everything’s hazy. It’s sort of like when you have jet-lag, but instead of delightful vacation memories, there’s only endless TV and phone scrolling.
I should take a vacation.
I’ve tried many, many things to sleep, including:
*meditation
*strenuous exercise
*gentle exercise
*coloring with crayons in a coloring book, like a child
*warm milk
*chamomile
*masturbation
*staying awake as long as I can, in a sort of “reverse psychology” ploy.
*eliminating blue light
*eliminating electronics
*listening to music
*earmuffs and sleeping masks
*fung shui
*sleeping pills
*weed
*masturbation
*heavy meals
*massage
*lavender scented everything
*warm bath
*hot shower
*self hypnosis
*therapy
My point is, I’m not one to ignore the situation. I’m trying my best, but it’s so far been an intractable problem.
So, tonight I’m trying something new. My buddy Zack recommended that I try “chow”. Technically, chow is an illegal drug, one that creepy men use to drug ladies in clubs. Like roofies, for the new generation. The etiology of the name “chow” is disputed. Some say it’s because the easiest way to use it is to put the drug in food or drink — it is an odorless and flavorless powder. Some say it was invented by a shadowy figure named “Mr. Chow”. Regardless, it is illegal as hell, but I’m going to take some tonight.
What can I say? I need sleep, and I’m desperate.
Zack brought the chow over to my studio apartment while I was at work, and left it on the counter for me, with a little note that said “Good luck!”. I don’t know where he got the drug, nor to do I care to know, but I’m grateful to have such a winningly sketchy friend. Frankly, if I don’t get some sleep soon, I’m going to be a danger to others and myself.
I take the powder, which is in a little plastic baggie, and I examine it, opening the bag and taking a sniff. The powder curls up into my nostrils, making my wheeze and cough. This is why no one inhales it.
Anyway, after my coughing fit, I settle down and decide to mix it into a mug of hot cocoa. Hot cocoa is an inherently soothing beverage, reminiscent of childhood snow days and fireplaces and Christmas.
I head to the stove and turn on the burner. I get out the ingredients: cocoa powder, heavy cream, sugar, cinnamon, marshmallows. The act of making cocoa is, in and of itself, meditative, and I enjoy it. I’m looking forward to sleep the way prisoners look forward to cheeseburgers and sex. My body aches for it. I am ready.
There’s no sense in doing this half-assed. I decide to add some sprinkles and whipped cream, and I get those out of the fridge and pantry, respectively. I get my bed all set up. I put on fresh, crisp sheets. I fluff the pillow. I dust, so everything is polished and perfect. By the time I’m done with this, my cocoa is boiling, and I pour it into a large, squat mug. I stir in the chow, topping it with the whipped cream and sprinkles.
I bring it with me and sit on the bed. I have a small end table next to the bed, and I set the mug on the table, and turn on some music. Soothing jazz, mellow and slow.
And just as I’m ready to take a drink, I hear it. A loud, ball-clenching scream, from outside.
Well, I can’t ignore a scream like that. It sounds like a lady scream. If I ignore it, I’ll never be able to sleep again, because every time I try, I’ll be thinking about the poor girl who got attacked outside my building, while I sat inside drinking hot cocoa with sprinkles.
I set down the mug and rush outside, forgetting a jacket, which I immediately regret, as it’s freezing-ass cold, everything coated in ice.
I recognize the girl immediately. She’s a teenager, fifteen or sixteen, and she lives in the building at the end of the street. She walks by my building every day almost, usually with a few friends, or her little sister. I think her name is Anna. Annie. Something like that.
But that doesn’t matter right now, because right now she’s bleeding profusely from the head. She’s stumbling around, holding her face.
“Hey, are you ok?”
That’s a stupid question, because obviously she is not ok; she’s bleeding from the head.
“I got hit in the head,” she moans.
“Someone hit you?”
I look around. I’m not a small man, but I’m not a large one either, and I’m not armed. I’m sleep deprived. I enjoy whipped cream and sprinkles. If a terrifying thug is hanging around somewhere, I’ll do my best…but I’m not confident in my fist-fighting abilities.
“No, it was this…thing. Something fell on my head.”
She points at something on the ground.
I move closer and examine it. It’s a rock. Not a huge rock, about the size of a half-dollar, but not round. It’s an odd shape, with lots of dents and dimples. Still, it would hurt if it hit you in the head. I pick it up and examine it. It’s heavy for its size, very dense.
I know what it is immediately. It’s a meteorite. This girl got hit with a meteorite, outside my apartment, of all places.
I love meteorites. I put it in my pocket.
“It just, like, fell out of the sky.”
Anna or Annie stumbles and falls to the ground.
“Ok, hey, let me help you.”
I help Anna or Annie get to her feet.
“You want me to call your parents?”
“NO!”
Her shouting startles me.
“Ok.”
“I’m not supposed to be out of the house,” she explains. And I remember that it’s 1:30am, and a school night, and of course this child isn’t supposed to be wandering around the city by herself.
“Ok, well you’re bleeding pretty badly. You need to get that looked at. Can I call an ambulance?”
“NO! They’ll call my parents!”
“Ok.”
I think for a minute.
“Alright. Come inside. I’ll get you an ice pack or something, and you can figure out someone to call, who can come get you.”
She looks at me with such suspicion, I almost wonder if I AM a sexual predator.
“I’ll wait out here, it’s ok.”
“You have a head injury, and you can’t even walk straight, and it’s like ten degrees. I’m not leaving you out here by yourself. Just come inside. You can get cleaned up and wait for your ride.”
She looks at me for a moment, then nods.
Together we walk into my apartment, and I shudder, both from the cold, and from seeing the apartment through a pretty, vibrant young girl’s eyes. It’s a three-hundred-foot studio, shabby, and mostly undecorated. When I was a teenager, I would have judged a forty year old man who lived in a place like this. I would have wondered what shitty life choices he must have made that brought him to such a low state. I would have sworn to do better than this sad, sad guy.
I would have been a total asshole about it.
Anna or Annie doesn’t seem overly concerned about my living quarters though. Anna or Annie is clutching her head and moaning. Blood is dripping onto her thick winter coat.
“Ok, just have a seat,” I tell her.
“Where?” She asks, and I realize she has a point. The only furniture I have that can be sat upon is the bed. I do not want to tell a young girl to sit on my bed.
“Just…wherever. I’m getting you a towel.”
Anna or Annie takes off her coat, and I’m scandalized by what she’s wearing – or not wearing – underneath. Where the hell was this child going dressed like that? Not to sound like an old man, but Jesus Christ. What looked like ordinary leggings in the relative dark of the outdoors, are in fact made of some shiny vinyl material. Her top is basically just a bra. There is a half-nude child in my apartment, aaaaaand now she’s laying on my bed. She has covered herself with her coat, like it’s a blanket, making herself right at home, so at least she’s not exposed.
I hand her a bunch of napkins that came with the Thai takeout I’d ordered for dinner.
“Do you have someone you can call to come get you?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll call Carrie. She’s got a car.”
“Ok, great. Call Carrie.”
She fumbles around in her coat, looking for her phone.
“God I’m so dizzy. I can’t…”
“Here, let me help.”
I grab her coat and search through the pockets. There is no phone.
“There’s no phone in here,” I tell her. “Did you leave it somewhere?”
“Shit,” she says. “Maybe it fell out of my pocket.”
“Ok. No worries. You can use my phone.”
“I don’t know Carrie’s number.”
“Ok, who else can you call?”
“I don’t know anyone’s number!”
These Gen Z kids. Seriously. I wonder if she knows her social security number, or her blood type, or her home address. Is all that stored in her phone? Does she use her memory for anything at all?
I sigh.
“Alright, I’m gonna go outside and see if your phone fell out on the sidewalk when you got hit.”
It seems conceivable. She was stumbling around and falling a lot.
“Thanks,” she says.
And then she rolls over and vomits. All over my carpet. The carpet isn’t exceptionally clean anyway, but still.
“Sorry,” she says, and starts to cry.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, worried about it.
I head outside, remembering my jacket this time. The street lights provide enough illumination for me to see, and I carefully examine the sidewalk, walking around until I find it! A shiny pink case, with rhinestones all over it. YES!
I grab the phone and head back inside.
And see Anna or Annie. Drinking my mug of drug-laced cocoa.
“NO!”
I grab the mug from her, but it’s obviously too late. She’s already downed over half of it.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I say.
“Sorry. My mouth tasted gross,” she said.
“So you just pick up a drink and drink it? Don’t they teach you kids these days about not drinking drinks poured by strangers?”
She starts to look properly alarmed.
“Did you drug this?”
“I mean.”
Here’s the tricky part. Should I tell this girl that I drugged a mug of cocoa? What if she runs out the door before I can fully explain? She’ll tell everyone about the creepy dude who lives down the street from her, and how he lured her into his apartment and gave her drugged cocoa.
But she’s gonna find out anyway, one way or another.
“Ok, yes. But I wasn’t planning on you drinking it. It wasn’t for you.”
She gets up off the bed, angry.
“Well who was it for, you sicko?”
She falls onto the floor, on her hands and knees.
“OH god, everything’s spinning.”
“I’m calling an ambulance,” I say. “Enough is enough.”
“NO!”
She screams so loudly I’m sure my neighbor, Jen, hears. She hears a half-naked child screaming in my room, and she’s gonna call the cops, and they’re gonna find a half-naked child in my room, bleeding from the head, drugged on chow. They’ll make the appropriate big deal about it, and I’ll go to prison for a very long time. They will not feel sorry for me because I’m an insomniac.
“SHHH!” I shush. “Be quiet, ok? The thing is, we need you to puke that cocoa up.”
“Ok,” she says. Her words are slurred. That’s not a good sign.
“I’ll get you a bowl.”
I get her a bowl from the cupboard and set it down next to her.
“Ok, just puke up as much as you can.”
She sticks a finger down her throat and tries. She tries so hard to vomit, and nothing comes out.
“Try harder!” I screech, and I can hear how high-pitched and panicky I sound, and I hate it. “You just puked all over my carpet. Do that again! Do it!”
But it’s too late. I watch, and it’s the worst moment of my life. Her eyes close. Her hand falls out of her mouth. She pitches forward, her head landing in the perfectly clean bowl, her butt stuck up in the air, shiny in her vinyl pants. She’s like a giant toddler giving in to a nap, after fighting it all afternoon. A giant toddler sent here to ruin my goddamn life.
I pick up my phone, prepared to call an ambulance. After all, this does seem like a medically important situation. I can’t imagine the chow is good for her head injury. That’s what I should do.
But.
Images of myself flash in my mind. Handcuffed. Beaten by giant criminals. Forced to shit in front of those same criminals. Losing the only good thing I have going in my life; my relative freedom.
And when I get out of prison, if I ever get out, it’s not like I’ll have an awesome life to look forward to. I’ll always be the creep who drugged an innocent young girl. No will will hire me. No one will be friends with me. No one will date me. My life, if the cops get involved, will be over.
There’s only one thing I can do. I contact Zack.
###
Zack is here in a flash, bursting through the door in a haze of cigarette smoke and cold winter air. He examines Anna or Annie, as if he’s a doctor or something, which he most definitely is not. He crawls around on the floor, listening to her back, opening her eyelids with his thick, pokey fingers.
“She’s breathing. She’s ok, for now.”
“Good.”
“Let’s get her on the bed.”
“The bed?”
“Do you wanna leave her like this? Face down in a motherfucking bowl, her ass up in the air?”
He makes a good point. I’m not a monster. Together we manage to get her up onto the bed. She’s a tiny thing, but she’s unconscious, which makes it harder to maneuver.
“What the hell happened?” Zack asks, sitting on the floor, breathing heavily. He’s wearing his black leather jacket, and that strange air of authority he has. Immediately, I feel a little calmer, just having him here. He’ll know what to do.
“She got hit in the head with a rock. I invited her in, to call someone to come get her, and she drank all my cocoa.”
“You put the chow in cocoa? That’s fucking adorable.”
“Shut up.”
“Well, why’d you let her drink it, man?”
“I didn’t! I went outside to look for her phone, and when I came back, she’d drank it.”
Zack takes out a cigarette and lights it. I don’t bother telling him not to smoke in here. It’s not the time.
“That’s fucked up, buddy.”
“I’m aware of that, yes.”
“Where’s her phone?”
The question takes me aback for a moment.
“Her phone?”
“Yes, her motherfucking phone.”
I find it, where I’d dropped it on the floor,. I hand it to him.
He sets it on the ground and smashes it.
“Whoa! What the hell?”
“What? If her parents are looking for her, they’re gonna track her phone. Then they’ll find her here. You want that?”
Shit. I hadn’t thought of that. I’m so glad Zack is here. I take a deep breath.
“No.”
“Right.”
“Now we gotta film this.”
“Film it? Film what?”
“Film us sitting here, just like this. We’re gonna record her on the bed, and us here on the ground, and us not touching her. At all. That way when she wakes up, we can show it to her, so she knows we didn’t fuck with her.”
Zack is a genius.
I get my phone and set it up to record her. I plug it into the charger, so it’ll record as long as necessary. I set the camera on the end table, aimed at Anna or Annie’s sleeping body.
“Now we’re gonna watch her. If her breathing gets weird, or she starts puking or whatever…we’re gonna have to call an ambulance.”
Zack looks at me closely, gauging my reaction.
I nod.
“I really hope it doesn’t come to that,” I say.
“No. Me neither. But if it does…you’re not gonna tell them where you got the chow, right?”
“No! Of course not.”
Zack watches me for a few beats, then nods, satisfied, I guess.
“You’re a good guy. But Jesus, you get yourself into some weird situations,” he says, dragging on his cigarette.
“I know,” I say. And all of a sudden, I’m exhausted. Bone-deep, real exhaustion, the kind you get from working hard and vanquishing your enemies.
“Zack?”
“What?”
“I think…I think I’m tired.”
“Really? NOW you’re tired?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit, I don’t think I’m gonna sleep for days. But…ok, I guess. Go to sleep.”
“Is it ok with you? You’ll keep watch?”
“Yeah, man, I’ll keep watch.”
I grab a pillow from the bed, and lay it on the ground. I’m gonna savor this. It’s gonna be the best sleep I’ve ever had. My head is fluffily numb, and full of fatigue.
I lay down. And am promptly annoyed by the lump in my pocket. What is it? Right. The meteorite.
I take it out of my pocket and set it down next to me.
Zack picks it up and looks at it. I don’t care. I close my eyes.
“Why is there blood on this?”
I open my eyes.
“Oh. That’s the rock that hit Anna. Or Annie. Her,” I say, gesturing toward the girl.
“This is your meteorite.”
“It’s a meteorite yeah.
“No, this is YOUR meteorite.”
I’m awake now.
“What are you talking about? It fell from the sky and hit her in the head.”
“Dude. This is the exact meteorite you showed me when I was here last week. You said you bought it on eBay.”
“What? I’ve never bought anything on eBay in my life.”
Zack peers at me with narrowed eyes.
“Are you fucking with me right now?”
“No, I’m not fucking with you! I don’t shop on eBay. And I wouldn’t buy a meteorite.”
“A week ago. I was here. You showed me this exact rock. You said ‘look at this crater. It’s the exact shape of a star’. I remember that shit.”
There is a star shaped crater on the meteorite. I hadn’t noticed until he said something.
“Zack. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I think you’re mixed up.”
Zack is on his feet.
“I gotta get outta here.”
“What? Why?”
He spins and looks at me.
“I don’t know man. This is fucked up.”
“What’s fucked up? This?” I gesture to Anna. Or Annie. “It’s not my fault. This is all a huge mishap. Like Three’s Company or something. We’ll laugh about it later.”
He holds the meteorite in his hand.
“Why is there blood on your meteorite?”
He asks it calmly.
“It hit her in the head.”
“And how did it hit her in the head?”
An images flashes in my head. Me standing on the roof, shivering.
I immediately banish the image. That wasn’t me. That was my imagination. I would never.
“It fell from the sky. She said so herself.”
Zack nods.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know why you asked me to come here. I don’t know what you’re trying to get me…involved in. But I’m out. I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head sadly and turns to leave.
“Zack.”
He stops.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say. I can hear the pleading in my voice, and I would do anything to make myself sound confident and brave. Like Zack.
“Ok,” he says. But he leaves, taking the meteorite with him.
Shit. I take a deep breath and sit on the ground. The delicious fatigue that blessed me earlier is now gone. My best friend suspects me of…what, exactly? Why would I drug a girl on purpose and then invite him over? What kind of plan is that? Does he think I bludgeoned her? Does he think I’m crazy?
I’ve never bought anything on eBay in my life. Maybe he’s the crazy one.
On impulse, I grab my phone. I need to look up my search history. I need to prove, to myself if not to Zack, that the meteorite isn’t mine, that I never bought it, that it fell from the sky and hurt this child. It was an act of God. Not an act of me.
Sirens wail in the distance.
I bring up eBay, and am surprised to see that it logs me in immediately.
I have an eBay account.
All my blood drains into my feet, and I break out in a sweat. What the hell is going on?
I click on the purchase history.
There is a knock on the door.
“Police, open up.”
I scroll. There are a number of purchases, all for things I don’t recognize. Did someone create an account in my name? I’ve never seen any of these things. There is a paint set, the kind a child might use, with bold primary colors, in a plastic case. A “No Soliciting” sign, printed on light-colored wood. I don’t have a sign like that. My neighbor Jen does. She put one up recently, right under her front window.
The door bursts open and two police officers enter my apartment.
I look up at them, knowing this is the end for me.
“I didn’t hurt her. I have insomnia. None of this was on purpose.”
On the bed, Anna or Annie moans.
The cops, who are a men a little older than I am, see the girl and then glare at me, eyes full of hate. They have daughters, I’m sure, the same age as Anna or Annie. They are protective of their girls, and if any guy lured them into his apartment, and drugged her with sprinkle-and-chow-laced-cocoa, that guy would be dead.
In their eyes, that guy is me.
I hold out my hands, and wait for the inevitable.
Dana Hammer is the author of several short stories and novellas which have been published in various journals, magazines, and anthologies. She recently signed a book deal with Cinnabar Moth Publishing for her adult novel, The Cannibal’s Guide to Fasting. The novel will be released in 2022. She has won numerous awards for her screenwriting and playwriting, and one one of her screenplays has been optioned by EMA Films. You can find links to some of her writing at www.danahammer.com.
Real skull. Don't ask. You wouldn't believe it if I told you.
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Original Creations
Food Prep with Baba Yaga, Nail Polish Art Fig from Jennifer Weigel
Published
3 days agoon
February 9, 2025I 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…
Yeah it’s a boring chore but necessary. Cause you can’t eat without food, and you can’t have food without food prep.
Are you up to the task? Because heads will roll. In fact, one’s trying to get away now.
A dull blade is nobody’s friend, so make sure to keep all your knives sharpened for the task at hand.
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.
Original Creations
Familiar Faces – A Chilling Tale of Predatory Transformation by Tinamarie Cox
Published
6 days agoon
February 6, 2025By
Jim PhoenixFamiliar 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.
Original Creations
Womb, Revisited: a Graveside Poem by Jennifer Weigel
Published
1 week agoon
February 2, 2025Here’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.
Ok so that graveside poem was maybe a little more in than out, but whatever. We all go back to the Earth Mother eventually… 😉
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.
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Jennifer Weigel
September 8, 2021 at 4:11 am
Brilliant, like a star-studded leather jacket. Ah, my nemesis eBay is at it again, the plight of insomniacs everywhere since the home shopping channel went the way of the dodo. Those were the nights, I seriously needed that As Seen on TV hard-boiled eggstractor. But what to do now that it’s 3:00 AM and I’m banned from eBay?…