Something Wicked SF and Horror Magazine #4, page 4
Picking up the scalpel, she brought it up to her numb flesh. She had planned to cut a fast x-shaped incision, but when she pulled the blade back the wound looked more like a bleeding cross.
She dabbed with the gauze until the flow of blood subsided, then she wiped away the sweat on her brow. Using the scalpel she severed membranes, peeling back the folds of flesh exposing her skull. Not much, just enough to ease the bit of the drill against bone.
No pain yet.
Lifting the drill she placed the bit in the small breach of her scalp. When the stainless-steel instrument tapped against her skull she felt the contact all the way down her spine. The sensation reverberated through her limbs, tapering off like outward-moving ripples on a liquid surface.
She breathed fast, forcing the air in and out. Her heart raced. She pressed her lips together hard, gritting her teeth. Liberation.
The sound of the drill coming to life startled her, but not enough to lose focus. She gently pushed the drill inward, keeping her hand steady. Thin bands of smoke laced with ground bone fragments drifted up from the point of contact. Perfectly normal, she told herself. Doing fine.
She could see the drill going deeper and knew she would have to just eyeball the depth, trying to avoid completely piercing the meninges—the three layers of membranes protecting the brain. She was amazed at the lack of pain but as the familiar burning smell filtered up her nostrils, a blinding white light exploded in her skull.
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Agony pulsed like a flash bulb from a camera going off in her brain. Each flash caused her knees to buckle a little more. She closed her eyes and screamed, reaching out for the mirror. Open your eyes god damn it, open your eyes. Fight through this.
She pushed away from the reflective glass, opening one eye. Then slowly opening the other. The drill bit wasn't moving. Her finger had come off the button. Damn it. But as she pushed the bit forward she realized nothing solid was pushing back. She had broken through. She backed the drill out and unfolded the surgical mirror rigged to the medicine cabinet.
A clear yellow-tinted liquid was dripping from the hole. Oh, shit. Cerebrospinal fluid. She had broken through the mid-meninge layer—the arachnoid. Images from her textbooks, depicting this area as a cobweb of thread-like strands attaching to the innermost region, filled her mind's eye. It was where she felt the spiders lived. But the appearance of cerebrospinal fluid meant she had gone below this into the subarachnoid layer. Caroline knew there was only a finite measure of the precious fluid protecting her brain. Losing a little was okay, most people did throughout their lifetime. But losing a lot was deadly.
She tilted the hole in her skull up, attempting to use gravity to quell the leak. She picked up a penlight and clicked it on, aiming the light into her exposed brain. The fluid seemed to be stabilizing. Thank god.
Her pain had tapered off dramatically, except in regions completely foreign to where all the action was. The muscles around her ribs ached enormously and pulsing pains seemed to anchor themselves in the bottom of her feet.
She took a deep breath and began to flick the penlight on and off, aiming the flickering beam into the hole in her skull. Up until this point her plan contained elements of familiar territory. As a surgical RN intern she had performed and assisted like procedures on dozens of people. But the next part was sheer guesswork.
She hoped that the brain spiders had evolved like other darkness-dwelling creatures on the planet. From the bottom-dwelling enigmas living in the deepest ocean trenches to the eyeless subterranean salamanders, they all shared a phototropic quality. Although none needed light to survive, they would be drawn to it by some instinctual curiosity. Even the creatures without eyes managed to turn toward the light, like a blind man knowing the exact moment someone else enters the room.
Caroline's thumb began to ache as she continued to flick the light on and off. Rotating the penlight in her hand she tried using her index finger to press the button, but found it difficult to aim the light that way. Then it occurred to Caroline that she could just leave the light on, waving in back and forth over the hole. From the spider's point of view it would look the same. Jeez, she scolded herself. Why don't these things occur to me sooner? Maybe the spiders feed on common sense as well. That would explain a lot.
Minutes went by. She was starting to feel dizzy. I can't do this much longer. “Come out, come out, wherever you are."
Then something moved. Just a tip at first. A white needle-like leg appeared.
Caroline stopped moving the penlight, holding her breath.
The thin pasty leg probed the lit area like a blind person's cane. It moved back and forth. Then suddenly it stopped. Motionless. It was as if it had suddenly become aware it was being watched.
Caroline reached down for the forceps. Her hand fell on empty counter. She wanted to look down at the countertop for the instrument but was afraid to take her eyes off the tiny leg's reflection in the mirror. It was irrational, she knew, but she felt that if she looked away it would disappear. So she locked her gaze on the arachnid, willing it to stay.
Her hand felt along the counter as the spider's leg began feeling the jagged edges of freshly cut bone. Another joined the lone leg. Then another.
Caroline's fingers grazed the forceps's handle. Thank god. She raised it up opening the needle-nose end. She eased the instrument forward, watching her movements in the surgical mirror.
Three legs, almost a half-inch long, protruded from her skull. Each one seemed determined to explore a different area of her scalp.
The open forceps hovered over the thickest point of two legs, and Caroline swallowed hard. She felt six years old again, playing that silly game, Operation. The similarities were uncanny. Use your tweezers to remove the ghost white plastic bones without touching the metal edge. A steady hand wins the game, but graze the edge and you lose your turn.
Caroline held her breath knowing that more was at stake than losing her turn. If the spider broke free or she just managed to tear its legs off, she would lose her only chance to get back her will.
Clamping the forceps around the spidery appendages with a touch so soft and accurate she could have picked up a grain of white rice with a pair of chopsticks, she began to pull.
The spider didn't come at first. Several other legs appeared and it looked as if they were searching for a way to anchor themselves. Then it began to slide. It slid quickly through the hole like a newborn calf descending toward the ground. Caroline flicked it into the sink, unclamping the forceps. She tried glancing down at it, but there was new movement in the mirror.
A second spider had found its way to the hole, its legs probing at the light. How many, she wondered. How many?
Less than ten minutes later she had her answer. There were three in all. The third seemed to almost climb through the hole of its own volition, needing very little encouragement from the forceps. Maybe the spiders sought a kind of liberation of their own.
She repaired the meninges and packed the hole in her skull with her body fat. This should have been surprisingly painful, but it wasn't. She knew that the body's pain receptors could turn themselves off in extreme conditions, but she didn't think that's what it was. As she began to suture her scalp, she glanced at her frame in the mirror. She remembered it being so small before, dwarfed in the ceiling-to-countertop glass. But now it looked as if the mirror could barely contain her frame. She was different. She felt different.
Liberated.
The last suture in, she clipped the excess stitching away. As she laid the scissors down, exhaustion hit her. She bent forward, bracing herself on the counter. Her head hung over the sink, hair dangling above the porcelain. She took slow, deep breaths and had her first opportunity to examine the parasites. Her eyes blinked a few times, not immediately registering what was wrong.
Gone.
The sink was empty.
She smiled as she pictured the watery arachnids scurrying down the drain, traversing the miles of plumbing under the city. Liberation, my friends. Liberation.
The air in the bathroom smelled foul so she staggered to the window. She wanted to draw the curtain open but she ended up pulling it off the rod. Pressing her forehead to the glass, she looked down at the women scurrying on the streets that spun out like a web from downtown. So many women, she told herself. There are more of us than there are men. She smiled as she saw women scurrying to jobs they didn't want, raising families they didn't want, hell even wearing shoes they didn't want.
There're so many of us. So many women needing liberation. I'm gonna’ need a lot more drill bits.
There was a tapping at the bathroom door. “Hey Caroline, it's me Wendy. I know I should have called before coming over like this."
Caroline pushed away from the window.
"Especially after how I left and all. I'm sorry about that. Anyway I just wanted to come by and pick up my pots and pans. I met this guy and he wants me to cook my famous Italian Casserole for him tonight. I know, I know I hate to cook, but I really like this guy."
Caroline moved over to the counter.
"Are you in there?” Wendy tapped on the door again.
Caroline grinned at her tall and free image in the mirror. She picked up the drill. Time to start the liberation.
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Kevin Anderson has worked as a marketing professional for fifteen years, writing award-winning copy for TV and radio. His fiction has appeared in speculative anthologies and publications such as Dark Wisdom #10, Surreal Magazine, Deathgrip: Exit Laughing (Hellbound Press) and Darkness Rising 2005 (Prime Books). He lives and writes in Menifee California, with his wife Hope, daughter Avalon and new son Ronin.
This is Kevin's first story for Something Wicked.
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A FILM FEST TO DIE FOR by Paul Blom
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The South African HORRORFEST Bleeds Onto The Screen
(26—31 October 2007)
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Shadow Realm inc. & Flamedrop Production's brings you the third annual S.A. HORROR FESTACULAR and once again they are set to thrill local audiences with a range of scary, thrilling and grisly cinematic morsels. Even more so than before, the HORRORFEST will take the viewer on a world tour of chills.
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From older classics and favourites like White Zombie (with Bela Lugosi), and Dario Argento's Tenebrae aka Unsane (Italy), to new independent productions you're unlikely to see anywhere else—including Witches Hammer (UK), Tales From Beyond (USA), Zibahkhana: Hell's Ground (the first gore movie from Pakistan!) and several more unconfirmed at the time of going to press (for the full line-up and details, head down to www.HORRORFEST.info and www.MySpace.com/SAhorrorfest ).
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This year also sees the screening of exciting horror-related documentaries.
The American made Horror Business takes the viewer through the grueling, exciting, funny and tragic process of making horror movies, while Hanging Shadows from Italy takes a look at the history of that country's lead players in the genre, past and present.
From Switzerland comes the documentary HR Giger's Sanctuary, looking at the renowned biomechanics artist (who won an Oscar for his original design for Ridley Scott's Alien).
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Another pending title at time of press is the epic real-life horror/factual war drama/documentary by Russian Andrey Iskanov, dealing with WWII atrocities of Unit 731 (Japan's brutal secret chemical warfare research programme), and the subsequent Khabarosk war crimes trials. The main dilemma with this shocker is the practicality of screening this intense 4-hour movie! See website for details.
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The HORRORFEST short-film competition is again in full swing with both foreign and local entries compiled into one hell of a collection, Shadow Realm Vol. III, veering from the beaten path into darker territory.
One locally produced short will walk off with a R10 000—R15 000 prize from Visual Impact and the HDhub, which consists of a five-day High Definition camera & lighting rental package, as well as a 5-day session with a Macbook to cut your new project on Final Cut Pro.
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As is customary, the festival will close off with a live, original soundtrack performance to the screening of a silent classic—this year, the incredible Cabinet Of Dr. Caligari. The musical collaboration will include among others, members of Terminatryx and Lark.
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There will be audience prizes and give-aways, a PlayStation presence, Halloween dress-up (sponsored by Party Tricks), horror clothing and DVDs on sale, a few surprises, and of course, Something Wicked will be there.
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Pre-events are also being planned.
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The S.A. HORRORFEST: 26—31 October 2007 at The Labia Theatre, Orange Street, Gardens, Cape Town, South Africa.
www.HORRORFEST.info www.MySpace.com/SAhorrorfest
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AN EYE FOR AN EYE by Sarah Lotz
illustrated by Pierre Smit
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By lunchtime we still haven't decided what to do. We're sitting round the kitchen table, watching our coffee get colder.
"I still think we should phone the cops,” I say.
Kevin peers up at me blearily. He looks worse than usual. His face is sweaty and haggard; his eyes red-rimmed. The fag he's trying to smoke jitters in his trembling fingers. Since we made our grisly discovery this morning, he's puffed his way through at least half a pack of Camels.
"Did you hear me, Kev?"
"Sam, you can't be fucking serious,” he groans. “You know we can't call the cops."
"Yeah, but Kev—"
"I can just see you now,” he purses his lips, which he always does when he's imitating me. “Hello officer,” he says in a falsetto voice, “Thanks for coming so soon, officer. Oh, and by the way, please ignore the six hundred dope plants in the spare room while you're here.” He stubs his cigarette out on the top of a discarded can of Black Label.
"Okay, okay. Very funny.” I pause for a second. I lick my finger and smear one of his tubes of dropped ash into an ‘X'. “But where could it have come from, Kev? How could it have got here?"
"God knows.” He burps, and I'm hit with a sickening blast of last night's alcohol.
"Nice, Kev,” I snap.
"Sorry, man."
"Look. There're only two of us in the flat,” I say, picking up his Zippo and flicking it into action. “One of us must've put it there. How could it have got there otherwise?"
"Well don't look at me,” he says. “I was completely wasted last night. Hey ... maybe the flat's haunted, Sam. That would be cool, eh?"
"Kev, this is serious. I swear to God, sometimes I can't believe we're actually related."
He flicks his fingers in front of his face like a talk show diva and says, “Whatever!"
I look at him in disbelief. I can't believe he's not freaked out by this.
"Maybe you should go back in there and make sure it's real,” I say abruptly.
"You what? My head's killing me!"
"Think about it, Kev. Maybe it was a whatdoyoucallit—a hallucination!"
"Why should I go?” he says. “Why not you?"
"You're the eldest, that's why. And you're a boy.” Albeit a thirty-year-old boy who reeks of whiskey sweat and stale dope.
"Sexist!"
"Yeah, well—It was you that got us mixed up with VeeJay and the dope, so it's your fault we can't call the cops."
I sit back. Kevin snatches his lighter back and automatically fires up another cigarette.
"Jislaik, Sam. Do I have to?” he whines. “I'm not well."
"Go and check, Kev. Don't be such a pussy.” I fold my arms across my chest and give him one of my stares.
He sighs, chucks his fag in the full coffee cup and hauls himself to his feet.
I follow him at a safe distance. As we head down the corridor towards the tiny bathroom there's a click as the timer switches on and the hydroponics flare into action. The too-bright light seeps from under the spare room door, and the corridor is bathed in an eerie, unnatural glow. In contrast, the entrance to the bathroom seems densely dark and creepy, and I'm glad it's not me who's going in there. I shudder. This doesn't seem to bother Kevin, though. He switches on the light and staggers into the tiny toilet cubicle. Leaning a grubby hand on the wall, he peers into the toilet bowl.
"Man, that is seriously gross,” he says.
"Well?” I say, still keeping my distance. “Is it still there?"
"'Course it fucking is."
"And is it what I think it is?"
"Yes, Sam,” he sighs dramatically. “It's an eye all right."
"Is it real, though? I mean—could it be one of those trick ones or something?"
He picks up the toilet brush and gingerly pokes it into the toilet bowl.
"Looks real to me,” he says.
"But it could be like from an animal or something, couldn't it?"
"Not really, Sam, no."
"Why's that then?"
He turns to face me, still holding the dripping toilet brush.
"Because it's blue,” he says.
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We head back to the safety of the kitchen table. I sit back down, but I can't help squirming and fidgeting in my chair. Thank God I couldn't stomach the coffee—that would only have made matters worse. I watch as Kevin adds to the hazy fog of fag smoke that's curling and dancing above our heads.
"Oh for fuck sakes!” he groans, breaking the silence. “This is a nightmare!"
"I know, Kev. It's totally freaky—it's making me sick just thinking about it."
"It's not that.” He holds up his crumpled cigarette packet and waves it mournfully. “I've only got one fag left."
"I can't believe you!” I clench my teeth to stop myself screaming in frustration. I think about storming out of the kitchen, but I don't want to be on my own. I stand up and switch on the kettle for something to do. “How can you not take this seriously?"
