BLOOD BITCH

  C. DENNIS MOORE

  BLOOD BITCH

  C. DENNIS MOORE

  Copyright © 2011, Charles Moore

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited. The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read his work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling a friend, to help spread the word.

  Thank you for supporting this work.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  “Blood Bitch” first appeared in the collection Dancing on a Razorblade.

  Cover photo by houchi

  www.cdennismoore.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  BLOOD BITCH

  What next, you ask!

  FREE FICTION!

  BLOOD BITCH

  JASON WOKE IN THE MIDDLE of the night to see a shadow looming over him. The shadow brought cold, and it brought a darkness like forever. Before he could react, it was on him, covering his mouth and nose, pressing itself tight over his face. He thrashed, but the thing was stronger, and his struggles proved futile. Terror brought him awake. He kicked and punched, but he found nothing to connect with, the thing being made of shadow. The pressure on his face increased and what air he'd drawn was gone. He felt his eyes water and the veins in his neck throbbed. The life slipped from him. The darkness growing within overshadowed the darkness around him as blood pounded in his head, threatening to boil up through his skin. His chest burned like coals and his throat yearned to scream. As he gave in to the ease of defeat, his arm flailed. He knocked something by his bed. It fell and shattered on the floor. The noise provided the key, as the force on Jason's face vanished, followed in seconds by the light and his father asking, "What's wrong?"

  Jason lay on his side, clutching himself and crying. His father came over, put a hand on his son's shoulder, and asked again, "What's wrong?"

  Jason could only cry, breathe and be glad he was alive, while Allen looked around the room and found nothing wrong, other than the broken lamp.

  "Did you cut yourself?" he asked, taking Jason's hands and looking them over.

  Jason took his hands away and put them around his father. He hugged him tight and let loose a new wave of crying.

  When Jason calmed Allen asked for the third time, "What's wrong?"

  Jason stopped crying, took a deep breath, swallowed—his throat burned—and said, "There was something in here."

  "What do you mean? Like an animal?"

  "No," Jason said. Now that he could breathe again and his crying had stopped, he found himself shaking, from nerves, fear, he didn't know. Maybe it was the sweat that covered him going cold, but he couldn't stop it. "There was someone in here. Something. It covered my face, and I couldn't breathe and I," here he broke out in a fresh round of tears, "was gonna die 'cause it tried to kill me and I couldn't breathe, and I couldn't yell for you . . ." He trailed off, leaving Allen staring and showing his helplessness on his face. How could he come back from that? It's an old scenario; the child crying about "something", and the parent knowing it's not real, but knowing there's no honest way to convince them. He hadn't known what to say when Jason was five and he didn't know what to say now at twelve.

  "What’s this?"

  He leaned over and picked up Jason's pillow from the floor. The center was pressed in, and the fabric wet. "Is this what was on you?" he asked.

  Jason looked up, his eyes a question. When he saw the pillow, his face changed.

  It couldn't have been this, could it? No, there'd been something on his face, something that pressed down, something that wanted to kill him.

  "No," Jason said. "It couldn't have been this. I saw it."

  "What did it look like?"

  Jason moved his lips, but nothing came out. He tried to say, "A shadow," but with the overhead light on and the pillow in his hands now, was that what it looked like?

  "I don't know," he said. "I woke up and it was there. It was pushing something over my face. I couldn't breathe."

  "Maybe you dreamed that?" Allen asked. "And when you woke up you had your face buried in the pillow? Or maybe you'd dreamed it because your face was in the pillow? You need to be careful when you sleep," Allen said. "But I think that's more likely what it was, and you'll be okay now. Why don't you leave the pillow on the floor, and go back to sleep?"

  He hugged his son and kissed his head. "You okay now? Hmm?"

  Jason sat with his legs drawn up, staring at the wet, crumpled pillow. He was trying to make sense of it in his head. He'd been so sure it was something in his room, not a dream. He'd been awake, he knew it, but what his dad said made sense.

  "Why don't you get a drink, then go back to bed. You'll be okay now. There's nothing in here." He picked up the pieces of the broken lamp, then dumped them in Jason's trash can. "Good night," he said as he left the room, turning off the light.

  Jason sat in the dark with the pillow and the shadows, wondering how he would get back to sleep now. His father's logic aside, the fear still lingered and no matter what had really happened, fear is an eye-opener.

  He lay down, pulled the cover up to his shoulder and turned on his side.

  His eyes were open, but he saw nothing. He listened for a footstep or the creak of bones in motion. There was breath in his lungs and blood in his head, but nothing moved outside himself. Without seeing them, he watched shadows across the wall, highlighted and made translucent by the occasional headlight.

  What had he been dreaming before he woke up? Had it been smothering, or was there another dream, about school or softball, something real? He couldn't remember. He glanced toward the floor and saw his pillow laying there, a dull patch of white in the dark. Was that the monster? If he could remember, he could sleep. Maybe, unless he remembered a dream about something safe and convinced himself the monster had been real. Was it easier to say he'd dreamed it just so he could rest easy and go to sleep? He knew in the light of morning this would all seem ridiculous, something he would never tell his friends about, but how did he convince himself it was ridiculous now?

  He sat up, put his back against the headboard and looked around his room.

  Not much to see in the dark. His father had left the door open, but the hall was dark, too. Light from outside shone only against one wall. Looking at it the room held nothing evil, nothing that might threaten him. He saw his room, and nothing more.

  He'd dreamed it, he decided. Of course it seemed real enough, most dreams did. That's what made nightmares so frightening, bad dreams that seemed real and who wants bad things? So with that he could rest without worry. He could sleep.

  He closed his eyes and let his comfort take him down while his mind covered the next day, Saturday. That meant plans with Cory and Denver. If this was Aaron's weekend with his mother, he may be around for a basketball game. Whatever they did it would be bright, cool, and free. Before he knew it, Jason had slipped past that final barrier and into sleep again.

  How long that lasted he wouldn't know. He would remember that he didn't wake up to sunshine and birds, but blackness and heat.

  There was no dream and no safety in rationale; the thing that came earlier was back and smothering him. This time it was pressing on his face, his chest, holding his body tight together to keep it from flailing and waking someone again.

  Jason felt the life in his chest tighten, solidify, expand like concrete inside his body. He struggled against the force holding him still, trying to kick his legs, but the thing was too heavy. He tried to pull his arms free, but the thing was too strong. He tried to move his head, but the thing was too determined.

  He wondered, just before everything left him, how his father could have been so wrong. How could the man who'd taught him to tie his shoes, ride a bike and how to swim—how could that man not teach him about monsters?

  The blackness over him faded to dirty grey. Breathing didn't seem quite so important anymore. His head pounded.

  Jason's body went limp. A hot stinging breath struggled its way into his lungs, a small, insignificant breath. A light appeared over him, a shadow of sound, like something desperate. And the pressure around him eased.

  If he'd had time to form another thought, it would have been that his next conscious vision would be of Heaven, and the light when he opened his eyes convinced him that's where he was. But in Heaven no one would be slapping his face and telling him, "Wake up, Jason. Wake up. Please be okay! Please, God, let him be okay!"

  Jason blinked and struggled for another breath and this time it came, filling his body like hope. He looked up and saw his mother's face.

  Her face shone red and she’d been crying. She leaned over him, looking down. The shadows made her look like someone had painted her face in rouge.

  "I told him there was something in here," Jason said. He tried to sit up, but a head rush kept him down. He rolled over instead, closed his eyes and breathed.

  "Are you okay?" his mother asked.

  "I think so," he said. "I told him."

  "Can you get up?"

  "Yes."

  "Get my phone. I want to stay here."

  Phone? Was he still dreaming? The past minute had been like that, with his mother's rouge-covered face, the monster, and now this request. The phone?

  "Um. Okay."

  She grabbed his hand and helped him up. He squeezed his eyes shut again. He shook his head, regained his balance and looked down. He asked, "Why do you want the phone?" This was a dream. It had to be, simple as that.

  "I'm going to call the police," she said.

  Jason stepped over his father's unconscious body on the floor, noted the pillow clutched in Allen's hand and went for the phone. He tried to wake himself up, but when that failed, he resigned himself to a truth worse than the monster in his room.

  * * *

  Stephanie sat on the edge of Jason's bed. The phone rested in her lap, with one hand covering it, ready to pick it up and dial. The other hand clutched a knife.

  Allen hadn't moved in ten minutes. She hoped she hadn't killed him. No, he was breathing. And if she had, she'd have a hard time feeling guilty about it. He'd been straddling Jason, pressing a pillow over their son's face. Why?

  Jason sat behind her. His back was against the headboard, knees up and feet pulled against him. His arms were wrapped around his legs and every few minutes he asked, "What are you gonna do?" or "What's gonna happen?"

  She always answered the same: "I don't know."

  It was 11:30 when she came in. She didn’t start nudging him with her foot until midnight. "Wake up, Allen. Allen, wake up. Wake up before I kick your face in, you sorry piece of shit."

  He groaned, moved and opened his eyes. The knife loomed near his face, hiding Stephanie, but he heard her voice, "What the hell were you doing in here?"

  Allen sat up. He glanced over and saw Jason looking at him and turned back to Stephanie, his face going red. The room temperature jumped ten degrees for him.

  "Answer me," she said.

  He looked down and mumbled something.

  She moved the blade closer to his face and said, "What?"

  "You don't want me to do that," he said.

  "I don't? No, I think I do."

  Allen rubbed his head. What had she hit him with? It didn't feel like he was bleeding, but he’d be lying with his head turned for a while. He sat up and Stephanie stood, putting herself more between Allen and Jason. Allen moved to rest against the wall. He rubbed his eyes, his head again, and sighed.

  "If I tell you, Stephanie, you won't believe me."

  "You tried to smother our son, Allen. Are you out of your mind?"

  "I'm not sure how to explain myself," he said. "Not without sounding crazy."

  "Well you'd better give it one hell of a shot," she said. She held up the phone. "Because if you don't tell me you're going to tell the police."

  Jason shifted on the bed. When he came back with the phone, she sent him back again for a knife. When he came back with that, he saw his bat lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. He picked it up and it rested next to him now. He kept it by the door, not at the foot of his bed. It must be what his mother used on his dad.

  "Believe me," Allen said. "It won't put you at ease."

  "I'm going to tell you one more time," she said. "Explain to me what the hell you were doing. Because if you don't, I swear to God . . . " She raised the knife.

  "Fine," he said. "But don't say I didn't try. The Blood Bitch came." He stopped and looked at her, as if this alone should have explained it.

  "And?" she said. "What does that mean?"

  Behind her Jason swallowed. His fingers touched the bat.

  "It means she was coming for him. I had to stop her."

  "By smothering him? What the hell is a blood bitch anyway?"

  "The Blood Bitch is what comes out of the shadows. Hers is the hand you keep your feet under the covers to avoid. She's the monster under the bed and in the closet."

  Stephanie didn't have a response. How did you reply to insanity? She didn't know. What she did know, however, was that if Allen didn't make his point soon, she was calling the police and letting them deal with it—yes, yes, she'd call them anyway because he'd tried to kill their son, but before she called she had to know why.

  "The Blood Bitch was coming for him, but I knew if I beat her to it I could ease things for him. Believe me; my way was much better than what she would do."

  Stephanie put her hand to her face and rubbed her eyes. She sighed.

  "You've got three seconds to start making some fucking sense before you're so sorry."

  "What do you want me to do, make something up? I'm telling you the Blood Bitch was coming for Jason. She would have done worse things to him than a pillow over his face. It was mercy that brought me in here; it was love for my son. I can't stop her, you can't stop her, the most anyone can do is make it easier on him."

  Allen's voice rose with every sentence. He sounded almost panicked.

  Stephanie looked back at Jason. "You okay?" she asked. Jason nodded his head and looked back at Allen, desperate to know what his father knew.

  "So," Stephanie said, turning back to Allen. "Blood Bitch is a monster. Tell me."

  Allen told her what he knew.

  * * *

  Earliest mention of the Blood Bitch says she was born from an egg like a reptile. There's no mention of a parent or some cosmic event to lead to her birth, there's just the egg. Her story says she fell bloody and screaming to the rocks and that she lay there whining and trying to move, weak from the effort of birth. She couldn't cry out and give voice to her pain because the Blood Bitch was born with no mouth on her face. But she did have a mouth on her stomach, a mute one that opened wide and had many tongues. After a time, the bugs came to see what the still thing was. A cricket was too slow, and the Blood Bitch's stomach opened, and her tongues lashed out, grabbing the insect. The Blood Bitch ate her first meal and sat up. She found more insects and she swallowed as many as she could grab, wrapping her tongues around them and pulling them into her stomach. She lived like that for years, decades, apart from the world.

  "There are accounts of her in a half dozen books if you don't believe me," Allen said.

  As she grew, so did her food. She went from bugs to small animals, squirrels and birds. In the woods there were wild pigs and eventually she was eating them.

  "She'd chase and catch one and just," he shrugged, "pull it into her stomach."

  Stephanie stared at him, not sure if he was trying to be clever or if he believed everything he'd said.

  "So, this thing comes into people's houses now and . . . eats their children?"

  "Something like that."

  "And there are stories about her in books, yet she's never been on the news, no one's ever woken up to find their kid gone from their room and said, 'Oh, the Blood Bitch must have gotten 'em.'" She squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head and frowned. "Do you have any idea how stupid that is? Do you think anyone in the world is going to buy that? You came in here to put a pillow over your son's face, and this is what you come up with to explain it?"

  "I'm not making it up," he said. "Stephanie, please, I was only trying to make it better for him. She's coming no matter what. See, you don't have to believe in her, because I do. These things don't live in the world we live in. They move through shadows and come and go where they want. They live on fear and myth. They want people to think they're made up; it allows them freedom. If no one believes in them then no one can stop them."

  * * *

  She looked at him, fuming at his persistence with this stupidity. This wasn't his attempt at explaining himself. This wasn't the best he could come up with. It was stupid, that's all. And then she saw something in his face, a twitch or a set in the jaw, something she couldn't pin down, but something sure enough that made her think, He believes this. And that, for her, made it more impossible to believe. Not that Allen believed it, but that she believed he believed. She'd been ready fifteen minutes ago to condemn him no matter what he said, but he told his story with such conviction she couldn't help but wonder.

  If no one believes in them, then no one can stop them.

  "Jason, can you get me a bottle of water?" she asked.

  When he left, she leaned close so she could keep her voice down and still be heard.

  "So where is she? If she's coming, I don't see her."

  "She won't come into the light. I told you, they live in darkness."

  "Who's 'they'?"

  "All the things you ever thought were under your bed or in your closet. All the things you feel in the dark."

  "So if she won't come out in the light, we'll just keep the light on all night and in the morning everything will be fine."

 

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