Necro Files: Two Decades of Extreme Horror

Quint grunts. Meggie bucks her head and shoulders and glances at him. He has opened his fly and has found his penis. It is yellowed and decaying, like a bloated fish on a riverbank. As he pulls, it rises slightly. The pre-cum is purpled.

Mama sucks gently and then with a fury, Meggie’s body arcs reflexively. Bile rushes a burning path up her throat and dribbles from the corners of her mouth. When Mama’s lips move away for a second, Meggie crashes back to the mattress. The acid rockets upward once more and Meggie gags. Mama brings her tongue to Meggie’s spot again, and then thrusts her thumb into the opening. Meggie feels the walls of her vagina gush, betraying her in her ultimate moment of revulsion and horror.

I shall not oh dear God Jesus I shall not!

“Good girl,” Mama says matter-of-factly.

Meggie writhes on the bed, enraged tears spilling from her eyes and soaking the mattress. Mama stands up.

Quint has a line of moisture on what is left of his upper lip. One side of his mouth twitches as if it would try to grin.

Mama gestures to her son. “Come now, Quint, Meggie can’t wait for you.” Quint stares, grunts, then stumbles forward. As he passes his mother, she says, “I’d really love a granddaughter.”

Meggie turns her face away. She closes her eyes and tries to remember last summer. Days of light and shadows and swimming and play, days of work and trials and promises of forever. But all she can do is smell the creature climbing onto her. All she can do is feel the slopping of the trout-tongue on her cheek and taste the running, blackened brain matter as it drips to the edge of her lips. He burrows clumsily; his body wriggles as his knees work between her knees, and his sore-covered penis reaches like a dazed, half-dead snake for her center.

Meggie bites her tongue until it bleeds to keep from feeling the cold explosion of semen. And as if in some insane answer to it all, her vaginal walls contract suddenly in a horrific, humiliating orgasm.

It is all over quickly. Mama pulls Quint off, then gives Meggie a kiss on the forehead and tells her to stay abed for at least an hour to give the seed time to find the soil.

Alone, with the door locked and the lunch tray balanced on the smelly chair seat, Meggie lies still, her dress still hunched up. She holds her left hand in her right, pretending the right one is that of a living, breathing Quint. She puts the hand to her face and feels the tender stroking. And then she lowers the hand to her abdomen, and presses firmly. There will be a new human in there soon, if Mama has her way. There could be one already. This could be Mama’s magic moment. Meggie wishes she could know. It is not knowing if or when that brings her mind to the edge of twisting inside out.

She looks at the window. There is no breeze now, only the persistent heat. The edge of sunlight stands on the carpet stain.

“S’different,” Mama Randolph had said. “Different world now. Just adjustin’ to cold water is all. Might not wanta do it, but sometimes just can’t be helped. Gotta survive, after all.”

Meggie holds herself and closes her eyes. She wonders about the different world. She wonders if there will be a baby to grow and use the playground outside her room. And she wonders if the baby, when it comes, will be cuddly and bouncy and take after his mother.

Or if it will be stillborn, and take after its father.

I am He that Liveth and was Dead … & Have the Keys of Hell & Death

Randy Chandler and t. Winter-Damon

“I am He that Liveth and was Dead … & Have the Keys of Hell & Death” was first published in Grue magazine No. 14, summer 1992. The story is an excerpt from their novel Duet for the Devil, published by Necro Publications in 2000.

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Randy Chandler is the author of Bad Juju, Hellz Bellz, Dead Juju, and various short stories. He is also the author of Daemon of the Dark Wood and Dime Detective, both coming soon from Comet Press. He lives in Georgia.

t. Winter-Damon was a writer and illustrator from Tucson, Arizona whose works of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry appeared in hundreds of magazines and anthologies. Tim passed away in 2009.

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Tim Winter-Damon would be pleased that this piece of Duet for the Devil is included in this book. I have the feeling that he is looking on from the Vast Beyond with a wicked grin on his mug.