Aberrations (2 page)

Rumors were rampant.  What was the Mothman trying to tell them?  What disaster was going to befall the community this time?  Even the authorities had gotten into the game, with work crews sent out to examine the piling beneath the Silver Bridge, checking for any sign that there might be a repeat of the original disaster.

And still I didn’t see a thing.

I vowed that I would spend one more night watching the sky around the old TNT plant and then it was time for a new plan of attack.

It was the first moonless night since I’d arrived.  The lights of the town didn’t reach this far out and the sky around me was ablaze with stars.  I was looking up at them, trying to remember the names of the constellations just to pass the time, when a dark shadow blotted out the stars above me.  It was there for just a moment and then it was gone.

But there was no doubt in my mind what I had seen.

I brought my rifle to my shoulder and waited.

It would come back.

I was sure of it.

I watched that patch of sky for a full twenty minutes before admitting to myself that I had missed it for the night.  I was disappointed, but filled with a strange sense of exultation, too.  The damned thing really did exist!

I lowered the rifle and turned around, my thoughts whirling.

The Mothman stood less than a foot away, its wings stretched out above us, its red eyes glowing in the near darkness.

I knew I’d never make it, but I tried anyway.

I swung the rifle up, my finger reaching for the trigger.

The barrel wasn’t even halfway to my waist when the Mothman reached out and placed one clawed hand on my shoulder.

An explosion of color and sound filled my head.

*  *  *  *  *

I chose a patch of high ground roughly four hundred yards from where I knew my target would appear.  It was far enough away that I could get in and out again without being seen, but close enough that the wind and the natural curvature of the earth wouldn’t put too much stress on the shot.  I could hit a dime at four hundred yards; I wasn’t worried about hitting a target as big as this one from that distance.

I settled in to wait.

It didn’t take long. 

The target filled the frame of my scope.  Thanks to the optics, it looked close enough to touch.  I squeezed the slack out of the trigger.  Breathed in.  Breathed out.  Felt my heart beating.  Once.  Twice.  Three times.

In the space between heartbeats, I pulled the trigger.

The gun kicked and roared. 

The bullet entered Big Al’s head just in front of his ear and exited out the other side in an explosion of blood, brains, and skull fragments.  He was dead before his body hit the street.

As hell broke loose on the street below me, I calmly left position and returned to my vehicle.  The half-built parking garage had been a good choice.  I’d had an unlimited field of fire and easy access to and from my vehicle.  I was six blocks away before the first patrol car even made it to the scene.

Those who claimed the Mothman was a warning of disaster to come were right.  I knew it from first-hand experience.  I’d seen it all through the Mothman’s touch.

The shiny new hotel and casino complex, all eighty-eight stories of it.

The shoddy materials that were used in building the hotel’s foundation, because the owners refused to meet Big Al’s monetary demands and he intended to teach them a lesson in obedience.

The devastating collapse of the main tower that killed three hundred and twenty-nine individuals, including fifty-seven school children there for a spelling bee.

With one shot, I kept all that from happening.

Big Al had hired me to kill a monster.

And with the Mothman’s help, I’d done that very thing.

Bug House

by Lisa Tuttle

The house was a wreck, resting like some storm-shattered ship on a weedy headland overlooking the ocean. Ellen felt her heart sink at the sight of it.

“This it?” asked the taxi driver dubiously, squinting through his windshield and slowing the car.

“It must be,” Ellen said without conviction. She couldn’t believe her aunt—or anyone else—lived in this house.

The house had been built, after the local custom, out of wood, and then set upon cement blocks that raised it three or four feet off the ground. But floods seemed far less dangerous to the house now than the winds, or simply time. The house was crumbling on its blocks. The boards were weather-beaten and scabbed with flecks of ancient gray paint. Uncurtained windows glared blankly, and one shutter hung at a crazy angle. Between the boards of the sagging, second-story balcony, Ellen could see daylight.

“I’ll wait for you,” the driver said, pulling up at the end of an overgrown driveway. “In case there’s nobody here.”

“Thanks,” Ellen said, getting out of the back seat and tugging her suitcase after her. She counted the fare out into his hand and glanced up at the house. No sign of life. Her shoulders slumped. “Just wait to be sure someone answers the door,” she told the driver.

Trudging up the broken cement path to the front door, Ellen was startled by a glimpse of something moving beneath the house. She stopped short and peered ahead at the dark space. Had it been a dog? A child playing? Something large and dark, moving quickly—but it was gone now or in hiding. Behind her, Ellen could hear the taxi idling. For a brief moment she considered going back. Back to Danny. Back to all their problems. Back to his lies and promises.

She walked forward again, and when she reached the porch she set her knuckles against the warped, gray door and rapped sharply, twice.

An old, old woman, stick-thin and obviously ailing, opened the door. Ellen and the woman gazed at each other in silence.

“Aunt May?”

The old woman’s eyes cleared with recognition, and she nodded slightly. “Ellen, of course!”

But when had her aunt grown so old?

“Come in, dear.” The old woman stretched out a parchment claw. At her back, Ellen felt the wind. The house creaked, and for a moment Ellen thought she felt the porch floor give beneath her feet. She stumbled forward, into the house. The old woman—her aunt, she reminded herself—closed the door behind her.

“Surely you don’t live here all alone,” Ellen began. “If I’d known—if Dad had known—we would have…”

“If I’d needed help I would’ve asked for it,” Aunt May said with a sharpness that reminded Ellen of her father.

“But this house,” Ellen said. “It’s too much for one person. It looks like it might fall down at any minute, and if something should happen to you here, all alone...”

The old woman laughed, a dry, papery rustle. “Nonsense. This house will outlast me. And appearances can be deceiving. Look around you—I’m quite cozy here.”

Ellen saw the hall for the first time. A wide, high-ceilinged room with a brass chandelier and a rich oriental carpet. The walls were painted cream, and the grand staircase looked in no danger of collapse.

“It does look a lot better inside,” Ellen said. “It looked deserted from the road. The taxi driver couldn’t believe anyone lived here.”

“The inside is all that matters to me,” said the old woman. “I have let it all go rather badly. The house is honeycombed with dry rot and eaten by insects, but even so it’s in nowhere near as bad shape as I am. It will still be standing when I’m underground, and that’s enough for me.”

“But, Aunt May…” Ellen took hold of her aunt’s bony shoulders. “Don’t talk like that. You’re not dying.”

That laugh again. “My dear, look at me. I am. I’m long past saving. I’m all eaten up inside. There’s barely enough of me left to welcome you here.”

Ellen looked into her aunt’s eyes, and what she saw there made her vision blur with tears.  “But doctors…”

“Doctors don’t know everything. There comes a time, my dear, for everyone. A time to leave this life for another one. Let’s go in and sit down. Would you like some lunch? You must be hungry after that long trip.”

Feeling dazed, Ellen followed her aunt into the kitchen, a narrow room decorated in greens and gold. She sat at the table and stared at the wallpaper, a pattern of fish and frying pans.

Her aunt was dying. It was totally unexpected. Her father’s older sister—but only eight years older, Ellen remembered. And her father was a vigorously healthy man, a man still in the prime of life. She looked at her aunt, saw her moving painfully slowly from cupboard to counter to shelf, preparing a lunch.

Ellen rose. “Let me do it, Aunt May.”

“No, no, dear. I know where everything is, you see. You don’t. I can still get around all right.”

“Does Dad know about you? When was the last time you saw him?”

“Oh, dear me, I didn’t want to burden him with my problems. We haven’t been close for years, you know. I suppose I last saw him—why, it was at your wedding, dear.”

Ellen remembered. That had been the last time she had seen Aunt May. She could hardly believe that woman and the one speaking to her now were the same. What had happened to age her so in only three years?

May set a plate on the table before Ellen. A pile of tuna and mayonnaise was surrounded by sesame crackers.

“I don’t keep much fresh food on hand,” she said. “Mostly canned goods. I find it difficult to get out shopping much anymore, but then I haven’t much appetite lately, either. So it doesn’t much matter what I eat. Would you like some coffee? Or tea?”

“Tea, please. Aunt May, shouldn’t you be in a hospital? Where someone would care for you?”

“I can care for myself right here.”

“I’m sure Dad and Mom would love to have you visit…”

May shook her head firmly.

“In a hospital they might be able to find a cure.”

“There’s no cure for dying except death, Ellen.”

The kettle began to whistle, and May poured boiling water over a teabag in a cup.

Ellen leaned back in her chair, resting the right side of her head against the wall. She could hear a tiny, persistent, crunching sound from within the wall—termites?

“Sugar in your tea?”

“Please,” Ellen responded automatically. She had not touched her food, and felt no desire for anything to eat or drink.

“Oh, dear,” sighed Aunt May. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to drink it plain. It must have been a very long time since I used this—there are more ants here than sugar grains.”

Ellen watched her aunt drop the whole canister into the garbage can.

“Aunt May, is money a problem? I mean, if you’re staying here because you can’t afford—”

“Bless you, no.” May sat down at the table beside her niece. “I have some investments and enough money in the bank for my own needs. And this house is my own, too. I bought it when Victor retired, but he didn’t stay long enough to help me enjoy it.”

In a sudden rush of sympathy, Ellen leaned over and would have taken her frail aunt in her arms, but May fluttered her hand in a go-away motion, and Ellen drew back.

“With Victor dead, some of the joy went out of fixing it up. Which is why it still looks much the same old wreck it was when I bought it. This property was a real steal because nobody wanted the house. Nobody but me and Victor.” May cocked her head suddenly and smiled. “And maybe you? What would you say if I left this house to you when I die?”

“Aunt May, please don’t—”

“Nonsense. Who better? Unless you can’t stand the sight of it, but I’m telling you the property is worth something, at least. If the house is too far gone with bugs and rot you can pull it down and put up something you and Danny like better.”

“It’s very generous of you, Aunt May. I just don’t like to hear you talk about dying.”

“No? It doesn’t bother me. But if it disturbs you, then we’ll say no more about it. Shall I show you your room?”

Leading the way slowly up the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister and pausing often in her climb, May explained, “I don’t go upstairs anymore. I moved my bedroom downstairs because the climb was too much trouble.”

The second floor smelled strongly of sea-damp and mold.

“This room has a nice view of the sea,” May said. “I thought you might like it.” She paused in the doorway, gesturing to Ellen to follow. “There are clean linens in the hall closet.”

Ellen looked into the room. It was sparely furnished with bed, dressing table, and straight-backed chair. The walls were an institutional green and without decoration. The mattress was bare, and there were no curtains at the French doors.

“Don’t go out on the balcony—I’m afraid parts of it have quite rotted away,” May cautioned.

“I noticed,” Ellen said.

“Well, some parts go first, you know. I’ll leave you alone now, dear. I’m feeling a bit tired myself. Why don’t we both just nap until dinner time?”

Ellen looked at her aunt and felt her heart twist with sorrow at the weariness on that pale, wrinkled face. The small exertion of climbing upstairs had told on her. Her arms trembled slightly, and she looked gray with weariness.

Ellen hugged her. “Oh, Aunt May,” she said softly. “I’m going to be a help to you, I promise. You just take it easy. I’ll look after you.”

May pulled away from her niece’s arms, nodding. “Yes, dear, it’s very nice to have you here. We welcome you.” She turned and walked away down the hall.

Alone, Ellen suddenly realized her own exhaustion. She sank down on the bare mattress and surveyed her bleak little room, her mind a jumble of problems old and new.

She had never known her Aunt May well enough to become close to her—this sudden visit was a move born of desperation. Wanting to get away from her husband for a while, wanting to punish him for a recently discovered infidelity, she had cast about for a place she could escape to—a place she could afford, and a place where Danny would not be able to find her. Aunt May’s lonely house on the coast had seemed the best possibility for a week’s hiding. She had expected peace, boredom, regret—but she had never expected to find a dying woman. It was a whole new problem that almost cast her problems with Danny into insignificance.

Suddenly she felt very lonely. She wished Danny were with her, to comfort her. She wished she had not sworn to herself not to call him for at least a week.