Nightmare Yearnings, page 12
No, don’t get up. She always throws things when I provoke her. Never anything breakable—just magazines and shit. The one time she hit me, it was with a Bass Pro Shop catalog. Harmless.
Oh, the footage? Yeah, of course. Most of the time she stays out of sight, but I’ve been lucky enough to catch her on the camera stationed in the nur—uh, that room.
On second thought, can we skip this clip? It’s not that interesting, really. Just a little mist is all.
ONE—CAN YOU HEAR HER?
I don’t hear a goddamn thing.
THREE—JOSIE HOWARD
Okay, okay, sorry. Let me get it together . . . all right. I’m good.
Let me ask you this: is it wrong to be turned on by a ghost? Hell, your face says it all. What should I expect, asking such a weird question? But hold up, I’ll show you the footage.
She’s a babe, right? Not some Hollywood ghost bitch in a white nightgown. Fucking black leather booty shorts, see-through crop top, and a face that’d make an Instagram model cry. That’s why I said Number Five might be creeping on her. I mean, who wouldn’t?
Huh? Oh yeah, she OD’d. Got big into opioids after her mom choked to death. She came back from the bar trashed one night, shot up some fentanyl on the toilet, and never woke up. At least she gets to be with her mom here. It’s funny, though; I’m not sure they’re aware of each other’s presence. I’ve never seen them appear together. Or maybe they’re fighting. Yeah, I bet that’s it. Given how batshit Cadence was, I don’t imagine Josie paid her many visits. Cadence is probably pissed and—
Hey, quit—not the plates! Jesus, I’ve pissed her off now. Don’t walk through the kitchen when you leave unless you want stitches in your feet.
Where were we? Oh, yeah. I guess it’s just good Cadence died first. It’s hard losing a parent—I know from experience—but it’s even harder losing, well . . .
Hm, I need another beer. You know what, let’s take five. I’ll just clean the kitchen while I’m in there.
ONE—YOU HAVE TO
. . . I can’t. I won’t.
TWO—RAHI PAREKH
My stomach hurts. Why don’t we call it day? . . . no? What do you mean we have to do it now? Can’t you—
Okay. All right. Rahi Parekh. Thank God I barely knew the kid. His death would’ve broken my heart even more than it already did. I saw him at the skate park a couple times, and damn, that boy could tear up the ramp. He was, what, eight, nine years old? I called him “Tiny Hawk.” He called me “old weird asshole.” Little shit. What’s wrong with a thirty-two-year-old man going to the skate park? I just wanted to see if I could still shred. I couldn’t, but—
Oh, no, I have no idea why his ghost comes to my house. I mean, skaters love trespassing, so that might be it. Wouldn’t be surprised if he ghost-skates through the neighbors’ hallways too. I just hope he visits his dad, at least. Poor guy. If my heart hurts for anyone, it’s for him. In fact, he and I met once at a parents’—well, never mind. It’s not important.
Point is, give your kid a helmet and tell them to watch out for cars.
ONE—IT’S TIME
You should leave now. Like I said, I’m coming down with something. Could be contagious, you never know. And if Cadence starts acting up again . . . well, yes, I know I said she’s harmless, but I lied to make you feel comfortable. She could sneak up behind you and—
Okay, okay, Jesus—let go of my arm. Goddamn. You’re not going to leave, are you? Not until I tell you?
Give me a second to fuckin’ breathe.
. . .
All right, here we go.
ONE—LAURA
We had her for five months before she . . . you know. Really, I lost Laura and Maggie both that night. Maggie couldn’t accept my side of the story. Can’t say I blame her, though. She was working third shift stocking shelves at the grocery store, so it was my job to look after Laura five nights a week. I’d sit on the couch and play Call of Duty until Laura started crying, then I’d check to see if she needed a diaper change or a bottle. Maggie pumped before work, so there was always milk in the fridge. As long as Laura had a clean diaper and a full stomach, she’d chill out and I could keep gaming. So, yeah. Pretty easy job, right? Impossible to fuck up?
. . . What’s that look for? You want me to relive this nightmare, but you’re here sneering at me every step of—
Me, projecting? No, listen. Keep that fucking look off your face or I swear to God I’ll—
Yes, yes. I’m breathing. I’m calm. No need for that.
It happened last October. Laura was lying underneath one of those baby activity gyms. You know what I’m talking about; it’s shaped like a tent and has a bunch of plastic shit hanging from it that lights up and makes noise. This one was animal themed. Of course, I couldn’t wait for the day we’d get rid of it—got sick of hearing “I’m Leo the Lion! Rawr!” two million times a day. Now, I’d fucking kill to hear that.
Oof. Give me a sec . . .
Okay, so Laura was playing with Leo the Lion, and I was playing Call of Duty, racking up a phenomenal kill streak. No one could touch me. Ten or so kills in, Laura started crying behind me. I didn’t do anything about it right away, figuring her shit wasn’t going anywhere and could wait until the end of the match. She wouldn’t starve, either, if that’s what she was crying about.
You’ve got that look again. Don’t . . .
Yeah, so I kept killing these guys, and then Laura’s crying turned to gurgling. I called out to her, all sweet-like, saying, “It’s okay, baby. Daddy’s coming. Just give him a minute.” And then I went back to kicking ass, right on the precipice of victory. Then these guys started fucking mobbing me. After a couple minutes, I took them out—headshots, all of them—and things started to cool down again. The match clock was just about out, and my lead was big enough that I figured I could turn away without sacrificing my win. Only, sometime between those guys mobbing me and that moment of rest, Laura stopped making sounds. No crying. No gurgling. No “I’m Leo the Lion! Rawr!”
And, God, you’re probably thinking I should have taken that as a sign to—you know what? Fuck retrospect. The point is, I didn’t do anything. She was quiet, so I kept playing. And I played and played and played until Maggie got home. And then Maggie kissed Laura’s cold, limp little head. And then Maggie screamed and screamed and screamed until her throat bled.
And now we’re fucking here.
What? Yes, of course I hear her gurgling in the living room. I hear it every goddamn day of my life. I’ll never not hear it. Not until I put a fucking bullet in my skull.
Is that what you wanted to hear? Are we done?
Remi Rook the Cannibal Cook
My sisters called me “Doorstep” growing up. Sure, there are nastier names they could’ve given me, but this one was personal. See, the doorstep is where my parents found me bundled in a Loony Tunes blanket, jaundiced as all hell and screaming my head off at two in the morning. Our night-owl neighbor, Mrs. Ainsley—the kind who sat on her porch with a pair of binoculars and jotted down license plate numbers—never saw anyone come or go that evening. All she remembered was my screech suddenly cutting through the hiss of prairie grass. Maybe she was dozing at her post when my deliverer came, but I doubt it. The old widow kept a vampire’s sleep schedule. So it’s a mystery who abandoned me. I used to entertain the idea that it was no one at all—that I simply sprung into existence out of a great nothing. But that couldn’t be it. I must have come from someone.
When my parents adopted me—because what other choice did they have?—they already had children of their own. Brittany and Brooke were twins, and even though we were around the same age, we rarely played together. They came up with my nickname after our parents told them how I joined the family. And I’m not sure if it was Brittany or Brooke who said it first, but soon they were both laughing, pointing at me and chanting the name in that eerie unison only twins can achieve. Our dad sighed and left the room, while our mom stared at the girls, open-mouthed and stammering.
“Stop it!” she said. “Evan was a gift to this family, and I won’t have you treating him—”
But I stopped listening; the glazed look in her eyes told me all I needed to know. I was the reason she worked overtime to put enough food on the table. I was the reason school kept calling with “concerns about your son’s social development.” I was the reason Mom and Dad whisper-shouted at each other long after they thought I was asleep. So yes, I was quite the “gift.”
Whenever I was home I tried to stay invisible. I played with Legos in my bedroom, which used to be Dad’s music room. Most often I built the houses I imagined my biological parents lived in, castle-high with fountains out front and fairy forests out back. Sometimes I’d act out scenes with Lego people, making my imagined parents’ voices sound soft, kind, and delighted to see me. But I kept my volume low, convinced that if my adoptive family barged in on one of these moments, the magic would dissipate and never return.
There was only one time a week when my adoptive family felt exactly like my Lego family. Each Friday at dinner, we’d watch Remi Rook the Cannibal Cook on public access television, and for thirty minutes we’d all smile, laugh, and gasp together. None of us had a taste for human flesh, but Remi had a way of making cannibalism entertaining and even a little appetizing. Every adult in town had applied to be a meal on his show—willing to donate any body part that wouldn’t be missed—but only a lucky few were chosen. Had the show been broadcast outside of Western Nebraska, it probably would’ve matched the popularity of shows like Cheers or The Golden Girls. But our little patch of flyover country was happy to keep Remi’s show a proud and secret piece of our cultural heritage.
I remember my ninth-grade biology teacher, Mrs. Schultz, being on an episode and returning to school Monday with a chunk of her arm missing. She beamed as she spoke of Remi, gesturing wildly even as her stitches popped loose, blood spilling through the broken seam. She didn’t seem to notice; Remi had the power to make people forget about their pain. But more important than forgetting the pain was the love that came to the show’s guests. After Mrs. Schultz’s TV appearance, students focused when she lectured, crowded her desk to chat with her after class, and even bought her Christmas presents. Being on Remi’s show elevated her from the teacher whose name students forgot by senior year to the teacher whose class every student wanted to take. If going on the show had done this much for Mrs. Schultz, I had to wonder what it could do for me. Would it make my sisters less likely to call me “Doorstep” and my parents more likely to smile when I walked through the door? The idea was worth a shot.
Of course, as a fifteen-year-old, I couldn’t put my name in Remi’s hat just yet; the state of Nebraska frowned on cannibalizing minors. But not willing to wait that long, I scraped together seven months’ worth of allowance to buy a fake ID. Jacob Masters, the junior who sold that sort of thing, was even less inclined than my other classmates to talk to me, but as soon as he saw my stack of cash, he grinned like a hyena and rubbed his hands together. It was easy as that.
While my family attended church regularly, I had never felt any special affinity with God. Still, I spent the next few weeks praying I’d get the call from Remi. I checked the answering machine every day after school to see if he’d left a message, but the only messages we ever got were from teachers complaining about my sliding grades. I erased those ones, not concerned about my parents yelling at me so much as the answering machine filling up before Remi could leave a message. Had I missed his call, I’m not sure if I would’ve discovered the truth about myself.
The call came on a Saturday, six days before the next live show. I’d just gotten home after rollerblading around the neighborhood. While I’d intended to be out longer, crashing after hitting a curb cut my blade time short. My skinned knee wasn’t bloody, but it sure as hell hurt, so I tried to take my rollerblades off without causing further injury. Across the living room, my mom shredded junk mail and my dad folded laundry. When the phone rang, neither of them got up. Immediately nervous, I froze in place, one rollerblade strapped on and the other still resting on the shoe rack. Dad called for Brittany or Brooke to get the phone. The twins didn’t appear after four rings, which was when my dad remembered his third child.
“Evan,” he said, not even looking at me. “Could you get that?”
I lurched across the carpet, dragging my single rollerblade behind me, and sprung for the phone. In my haste to pull it off the wall, I thought I accidentally hit the switch hook and hung up. But when I lifted the phone to my ear I heard soft static instead of a dial tone.
“Hello?” I said, my voice cracking. I cleared my throat.
It was silent for a moment before a familiar voice rumbled into being. The man sounded Southern and exuded down-home hospitality.
Strangely, I don’t remember what Remi said other than that I’d been selected for his show. What I remember was the feeling of hot, ecstatic pressure in my skull. It took tremendous effort not to scream and jump and probably break my rollerblade-bound ankle. I hadn’t told my parents about my show application, and they didn’t pay enough attention to notice my behavior changes—pacing, jumpiness, insomnia—leading up to Remi’s call. Little did they know, they were living under the same roof as a superstar, and I wasn’t about to let the secret out yet. They’d find out when the episode aired live.
The wait until Friday felt like a decade. I napped in class to make time go faster, and the second I got home I rewatched the episodes of Remi’s show my parents had recorded to VHS. I took notes on how guests introduced themselves in order to prepare my own introduction, and when Remi’s “Rate My Flesh” segment came on, I prayed that he’d rate mine highly. It was rare for him to dislike a person’s taste, but when it happened, locals treated that person like they were cursed, rotting from the inside out.
When Friday finally came, I told my parents I had a study group. If Brittany or Brooke had said the same, Dad might’ve asked where they were going, who would be there, and what time they’d be back, but for me, he gave a grunt in the affirmative without looking up from his book.
I left the house dressed in my Sunday best: white button-up, blue tie, and gray slacks. Maybe not the ideal outfit to be cannibalized in, but I wouldn’t dare dress down. Since I had no car I biked the ten miles to the TV station, flying down darkening dirt roads, past cornfields and rusted-out mailboxes askew in their posts. The TV station was a monolith on the horizon, broadcast tower jutting into the pink autumn dusk. By the time I reached it I was soaked in sweat, and I cursed myself for putting nice clothes on before the ride instead of after. I pushed through the station’s glass door anyway, my heartrate escalating despite the bike ride being over.
Inside the station, half the fluorescent lights were off, and I couldn’t tell if it was to save electricity or because they were dead. The gray carpet was frayed and pilling, but even with its wear, it soaked up all sound, leaving an eerie silence. I shuffled up to the reception desk, and seeing no one around, took a second to tame my sweat-plastered hair.
At that moment, a light went on above a doorway down the hall. Bright red, it said On Air. My breath caught inside me, and I didn’t know what to do. Was Remi starting the recording without me? Had I arrived too late and been replaced by the missing reception desk worker? Just as I was starting to spiral, Remi opened the studio door and walked out, seven feet tall and tanned as leather. I exhaled, and it must have been loud, because the man chuckled and held out his hand to me.
“No need to be nervous, young man,” he said, his voice sounding just as it did on TV but so much fuller in person—even the muffling carpet couldn’t steal its richness. “Evan, right?”
“That’s right,” I said, my throat dry and palm wet as I shook his hand.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you . . . and eat you.”
He laughed at his own joke like a dad would. It filled me with calm, and for a moment I pictured Remi as my father. I didn’t have long to entertain the thought before the man led me to the studio, his giant, gentle hand cupping my shoulder.
“Here’s where the magic happens,” he said, opening the studio door. “I know it’s musty, but it’s a second home. I don’t cook for myself at my actual home, if you can believe it. Just toss a frozen dinner in the microwave or pour a bowl of cereal.”
I couldn’t tell if he was kidding, but if he was he didn’t laugh at the joke this time. Instead he pointed to the camerawoman cleaning a lens.
“That’s Barbara,” Remi said. “She’s great. Been with me these seven years.”
I wanted to ask what he meant by “been with”—I had a hard time picturing a married cannibal—but he kept going before I could ask.
“Not only is she great behind a camera, she’ll also stitch you up once she’s done filming. You’re not allowed to quit, Barb. Too damn useful!”
She looked up from polishing the lens and smiled at Remi, folding her fists into a heart across her chest. Then she walked over to me and cradled my hand between hers. A tingle traveled up my spine.
“You won’t bleed out on my watch,” Barbara said, her eyes wide and serious. “No one ever has, and no one ever will.”
I nodded, letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding in.
“Okay, Evan—what are we eating tonight?” Remi asked, taking his Stetson hat off a hook on the wall and placing it on his head. “Finger? Toe? Bicep? Nothing obscene, of course. Station won’t even let me make rump roast.”
“Uh, arm,” I said, a tremble in my voice—it was happening, really happening.
“All right, all right—whole arm? Left one?”
