Brain Matter



  Brain Matter

  original tales of

  horror and suspense

  from Clive Carpenter

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the publisher.

  Cover art & design by J. Brian

  © copyright 2015 Scorpios Media, LLC. All rights reserved.

  For You...

  lover of horror fiction.

  STORIES

  CONFESSION

  LUNATIC

  THE BITE

  THE DEFIANT SEED

  STOWAWAYS

  THIRSTY BITCH

  confession

  I was dying and I knew that today would be my last day in this pathetic world. I needed to tell someone my story before I died. So, I had the paper send a reporter, a bright young man named Charles Fain.

  I actually asked for him by name. His stories of local life were always the highlight of the Sunday paper and I was a fan. “Bring a voice recorder,” I said. “I don't want you to miss a single word.”

  In his late 20's, nicely dressed and handsome, Fain came in at around one o'clock, just after my lunch: bland chicken, dry mashed potatoes, some kind of shitty, mixed veggie side dish and that nasty cube of orange Jello that always has more color than flavor. Sad that this plate of dog shit would be my last meal. But the appearance of this bright young man more than made up for it.

  “Ms. Marris?” he said as he entered my room at the Silver Acres Retirement Home.

  I nodded.

  “Hi, I'm Charlie Fain, from the paper. I was told you asked for me by name.”

  My voice was a little strained as I said, “I've read your stories in the local life section. I love your work.” I smiled weakly. I tried to sit up a bit in my bed to get a better look at him.

  Charlie smiled, dimples and all, as he walked over and helped prop a pillow behind me. Then, he helped adjust the oxygen tube under my nose. Such a polite and kind young man.

  “Well, thank you, ma'am. I'm very flattered,” his voice was so smooth and soothing. “I brought a recorder. I know you asked for one, but it's my standard practice, anyway. So it's a win-win.” He smiled again as he placed recorder next to me on my bedside table. “Well, I won't ask any questions. Just tell me your story.” He pushed the 'record' button.

  I looked at him and began, in a weak voice:

  “My name is Mavis Elizabeth Gordon-Marris. I was born in nineteen forty-two and I'm dying from a brain tumor. I've been married twice... outlived them both. And I've had six children, five of which are dead.” Charlie's expression was sympathetic, until I said: “I want to confess to their deaths.”

  Charlie sat forward, jaw agape, at my last statement. He looked a bit uncomfortable and confused and I could see it in his eyes: the sweet little old lady before him had just died. But, to his credit, he didn't say a word as I continued to give him the story of his career:

  “It was in nineteen fifty-eight that I had my first child, I was sixteen and the father was just some punk I knew from another school. There was no fanfare, no cigars... not even a proud father at my bedside. Just me and Hazel. I named her that only because I remembered my mother had a bottle of witch hazel in her bathroom cabinet and it was the only name I could think of at the time. I was too young to have a baby and I really didn't want one. My parents weren't going to let me keep her, anyway.

  “So, that night, while she slept in a crib in my hospital room, I put a pillow over her face. It actually covered her whole body. I could barely feel her struggle. Then, she stopped and was quiet and I lay back down and slept.”

  Charlie nearly stood from his chair, “Okay, Ms. Marris. This interview is over.” He reached for the recorder.

  “Don't you dare shut that fucking thing off!” It took almost all of my strength to get that out as strongly as it came and I was nearly sitting straight up at that point. “You will sit your little ass in that chair and listen to my confession.”

  “If you think I'm printing this, you've lost your mind, lady. If this is a true story, how about you tell it to the police?” He went for his phone.

  “Put that thing away, Charlie,” I settled back a bit. “After I've told you everything, you can go to the police, the FBI, the KGB. I don't give a shit, but, I suspect the first place you'll want to go is to one of the biggest papers in the country. I'm giving you a story that will make your career, you idiot,” My chest began to hurt. I drank some water and settled back into my pillow as I caught Charlie silencing his phone before putting it back in his pocket.

  Once we were both settled, I continued:

  “In the winter of nineteen sixty-five, I was six months pregnant when my first husband, William, got sent to Vietnam. The baby came a few months later... William Baines, Jr., we called him.

  “He was only eight months old when his father was killed in a foxhole. We lived... well, I lived in a small mobile home on the outskirts of a small Missouri town. There was hardly any insulation and it snowed for several days. In my grief, I put William, Jr. in the room at the opposite end of the trailer and left the window open that night. I couldn't bear to raise a child with no father. I never heard him cry that night; he froze in his sleep. That was a damned rough winter.”

  By now, Charlie was disgusted. “You're fucking insane. I can't believe I'm listening to this shit.” He stood. “I need some air.”

  “Want me to open a window?” It was a very disturbing remark, I know, but I couldn't help myself.

  “Fuck you.” He turned off the recorder but left it on the table. “I'm stepping out for a moment. Is there a vending machine close by? I need something to drink.”

  He walked out and returned in less than five minutes with a bottle of lemonade. Bullshit or not, there was something about my confession that grabbed Charlie and wouldn't let go. He just had to hear the rest. He sat in the chair and guzzled the lemonade.

  “How much longer will this take?” He was visibly shaken.

  “That depends,” I said between breaths. “Do you need to pee after drinking your lemonade? Or can I continue uninterrupted?”

  He looked at me and cocked his head to the side, “Are you for real or just some old lady who's full of shit and wants to leave a mark after she's gone?”

  I smiled. “I like you, Charlie,” I said with a bit of rasp in my voice. “It's good to know you have doubt,” I breathed deeply. “I'd hate to leave this world thinking that you believe everything you hear. Your stories in the paper are always so vibrant and full of life. But I sense some bullshit in all of them. They seem a bit contrived and a little too mushy to be true. I'm sure there's some embellishment here and there.”

  That didn't sit well with Charlie.

  “I don't embellish a damned thing,” he snapped. “Everything I print is as true and accurate as the stories I'm told by the people I interview.”

  “Good, then keep that in mind as I continue my story.”

  He turned the recorder back on and settled back into his chair, arms crossed. He took a deep breath, looked to the ceiling for moment then turned his gaze to me. “Well?”

  I took a deep breath, myself. “Nineteen seventy-one, I was a cocktail waitress at a shit hole strip club just outside of Detroit. The bartender was a real prick, but real good looking, too. We had a little fling late one night after a big bar brawl. I got pregnant and he found another bar to tend, never came back. Later that year, Chloe came along... named her after one of the dancers.

  “Late one night, after working a double shift, I bathed her for the last time... she was about two. I was exhausted and
Chloe wasn't sleeping very much at night. In fact, this was night number 5 or 6... maybe 10. I don't recall.”

  My heart began to ache as I told Charlie about Chloe's death; I had grown quite fond of her. But, I held back my tears as I continued:

  “I washed her face... she had spaghetti earlier that night. Then, as I washed her hair, something happened. It was like a veil came over me and I held her under the water until she stopped splashing.”

  I stared at the ceiling, but out of the corner of my eye I could see Charlie looking at the floor and wiping a tear.

  “I wrapped her in a towel,” I continued. “Put her in a suitcase. Packed a few things and left Michigan the next morning. I'm sure that suitcase is still somewhere at the bottom of Lake Erie.”

  Charlie couldn't contain himself, “Are you fucking kidding me? 'A veil' came over you? The first two babies you...” He took a deep breath, gained his composure. “The first two times, you try to give reasons for... murdering your children. You were too young, your parents wouldn't let you keep it, your husband was dead, you were distraught. But this last one... Chloe... you just did it. No reason.” He looked me right in the eyes, “You're evil. Pure evil.”

  I broke the gaze between us and looked at the faded watercolor floral print that hung on the wall across the room near the foot of my bed. That piece of shit... I hated that damned picture.

  “You