The Year's Best Horror Stories XXII

ADROITLY WRAPPED by Mark McLaughlin

“So what’s in the sack?” Anthony said, eyeing the bundle that pale, leatherclad Punkin dragged along the path. A full moon brought a greenish-silver glow to the pebbles in the path and the chains on Punkin’s jacket.

“‘What’s in the Sack?’ Sounds like a game show.” Punkin’s nervous gait sped into a loping gallop, so that Anthony had to run to keep up with him. Odd slitherings and slappings issued from the burlap sack as it bounced in the dust. “I’ll give you three guesses,” the pale youth said.

“Is it…” Anthony flipped his long black bangs out of his face. “Is it a baby pterodactyl, flapping its membranous wings in the throes of death?”

“No… but you know, they taste just like chicken.” Punkin swung the sack over his shoulder. Startled, a flock of crystal birds flew out of the trees lining the path.

“Is it… An oversized jungle slug? A miniature sea-squid?” Anthony listened closely to the wet whisperings inside the sack. “The lymph glands of a dead Cyclops? Munchkin roadkill from the Yellow Brick Highway?”

“Wrong and wrong and wrong and wrong again, Contestant Number One.” Punkin flashed the gap-toothed Halloween smile that had earned him his nickname. “No new car, no trip to Tierra del Fuego. So sorry.”

Anthony glimpsed yellow eyes glowing in a shadowed treetop. Three…? Leaves rustled and the eyes disappeared. He stopped to peer into the shadows, searching for the dubious owner of the eyes. Then he noticed that Punkin, still running, was far ahead of him. He could hear the pale youth whistling a shrill, pointless tune. Anthony raced to catch up.

He was out of breath by the time they reached the long, low house of Athena Moth. He ran his fingers through his bangs and static crackled… no doubt his hair was standing on end. He spit onto his fingers and slicked his bangs into place.

Punkin rang the doorbell and a snippet of Verdi’s “Un Bel Di” echoed through the house. Athena answered the door wearing white face, a black wig, and a geisha costume.

“Oh, why, hello.” She always seemed surprised to see them, even when the visit was scheduled. “Come in, come in… but please, forgive the mess.”

With every visit, Anthony pondered the same riddle. Athena was a she… But was she a woman? Athena had a low voice and a large-boned build. She always wore heavy makeup—even on her hands. And, of course, there were the costumes… Still, there were other factors that clouded the issue. The delicacy of the mouth, the hands, the ears. The lack of both an Adam’s apple and a crotch bulge. The exciting way that she gazed at him through half-closed purple eyes (men are taught to stare down their world).

This time, Anthony decided to address the issue directly. “So, Athena. What’s under the kimono?”

“My body. What else—a diesel engine?” She led them to an overstuffed couch in a parlor lined with shelves. These shelves were filled with books, jar of herbs and animal hair, lipsticks and stone statuettes.

“He’s full of questions tonight,” Punkin said, plopping down onto the couch. “He also wanted to know what was in the sack.”

Anthony sat by the pale youth’s side. His hip sank down between the soft cushions. He hated this couch, this wicked, butt-eating couch.

“We have a surprise for you, Anthony,” Athena said, taking the sack from Punkin. “Did you think that we’d forget that tomorrow was your birthday?”

Anthony glanced at his cheap digital wristwatch—9:30 PM—then pressed the button that brought the date to the screen. 10-12. “God, you’re right. I’d forgotten myself.” He sighed. “Twenty-one and still living with my parents. Still flipping burgers at Fry-Pappy’s. Still…” He didn’t care to go on.

Athena nodded. “I understand.” She opened a door in a shadowed corner of the parlor. With one hand, she lifted a department store mannequin out of the closet and leaned it against a table in the center of the room. Was the mannequin quite light or was Athena quite strong?

“You’re lonely,” she said. “Lonely in that special way.” She then opened Punkin’s sack and pulled out a length of pink ribbon. Soft. Thick. Moist. And really, far too pink.

She proceeded to pull yards of ribbon from the sack. “Looks a bit like human skin, doesn’t it? Well, that’s just what it is. But don’t worry, Anthony, it doesn’t belong to anyone. Isn’t that right, Punkin?”

Punkin grinned and nodded. “Athena gave me the recipe. Anybody can make it.”

Anthony watched as Athena began to wrap the ribbon tightly around the left foot and ankle of the mannequin. “But—is it real skin? As real as mine or Punkin’s?”

“Of course it is,” Athena said. “I can make anything out of anything. You should know that by now. Look at me… I used to be a tiny Malaysian fellow. Before that I was an old woman in a nursing home. Skin? Skin can be made from silk ribbon, soaked for three weeks in a special solution.” The geisha wrapped faster and faster to the top of the thigh. “One must take great care in the winding. I allowed Punkin to prepare the skin—he wanted to help so badly—but the wrapping is my area of expertise. See how I’m folding the tissue between the legs? You’ll not have cause for complaint later, birthday boy.”

“What smells like vanilla?” Anthony said.

“The solution for the ribbon.” The geisha touched the pink strip with the equally pink tip of her tongue. Her purple eyes flashed. “It contains vanilla. And cinnamon.” The pink strip flew round and round the abdomen. “And oregano and ground quartz crystals and fish-eggs and white wine and—”

“White wine?” Punkin exclaimed. His eyes went wide. “You told me ‘wine.’ You didn’t say that it had to be white.”

“Oh.” Athena slowed in her wrapping. “Oh. Oh.” She paused, then continued to wrap at full speed. “Oh, well. Even the most precise recipes should allow for a degree of improvisation.”

She covered one arm, the head, the other arm, then shot back down to the right leg. When she had finished with the wrapping, she fished through a large jar of marbles on one of the shelves.

“Pretty green eyes for a pretty dolly,” she said, tucking two green marbles into the folds of the mannequin’s face. She then stepped back from her creation and pointed at it with the thumb and ring-finger of her left hand.

“Be as we will. Be what we wish,” she murmured. “What you should be you shall be. You shall be what we wish you to be…”

Anthony had seen Athena perform this sort of ritual before. One can actually hypnotize soulless but spiritually energized objects through the repetition of significant nonsense. Athena did not have wiring in her house, but all of her appliances worked.

“Now you must say a few words, Anthony,” she said. She grabbed him by the hands and pulled him from the soft jaws of the couch.

He stood before the dolly. The wrapped figure was an inch or two shorter than himself. “What should I say?”

“Tell it how long you wish it to live.” The geisha tapped him on the wrist. “And make the hand.”

Anthony thought for a long moment. Then he pointed the appropriate fingers at the mannequin and said, “Live until you’ve done what you’ve got to do.”

Slowly, the wrappings melded together, forming a smooth sheath of flesh. Openings appeared in the flesh—ears, nostrils, mouth and more. The sheen of life glowed in its eyes of solid green. The mannequin had no hair, nipples, or fingernails. The navel was shaped like a shallow clockwise swirl.

The mannequin had a sweet, small-featured face. It took Anthony by the hand and led him out of the house as Punkin and Athena sang “Happy Birthday.”

The mannequin tried to lead him into the very heart of the woods, but Anthony held back, keeping to the more familiar paths. He didn’t want to stray too far from the house. Athena was the eye of a magical hurricane… Perhaps the dolly would cease to function if allowed to walk beyond the boundaries of Athena’s influence.

“Can you speak?” Anthony asked.

The mannequin opened its mouth and moved its lips, but the only sound that came forth was a faint hiss. Just as well, Anthony thought. The dolly had been alive for less than fifteen minutes. What was there for it to talk about?

Soon they found a small open space where the ground was covered with moss. The mannequin settled down on this soft green bed.

Anthony was about to join his companion when he heard a shrill, distant whistling. Was Punkin going home without him? He stared into the shadows of the woods. The sound was fading. He turned and looked down at the dolly. It was lovely and petite—and utterly boring. He suddenly wished that the dolly could be clever, like Athena. And exotic, like Athena. And stylish and sexy and wise. Like Athena.

Rows of thin black lines began to slice across the dolly’s face and body, and Anthony leaned closer. Was this a trick of the moonlight? The effect resembled the shadow of Venetian blinds. Slowly he realized that the widening bands of blackness were not shadows at all.

The wrappings were coming loose.

Anthony backed away. The mannequin stared curiously at him. A hard look crept into its eyes.

He turned and began to walk in the direction of the whistling. He heard a hiss—a hiss that grew steadily louder, angrier. Leaves crackled behind him and he began to run.

“Punkin!” he cried. “Help me, Punkin!”

Through the trees, Anthony saw the path. He broke through a tangle of weeds and landed in the dust. He scrambled to his feet and looked about. Which way to run? Surely Punkin couldn’t be too far away.

Suddenly, Anthony was grabbed fiercely by the shoulder. He glimpsed a loosely-fleshed hand out of the corner of his eye. Grabbing the dolly’s wrist, he fell to his knees and pulled the creature to the ground.

The mannequin’s hiss rose to an enraged squeal. Pale ribbons of its flesh hung down, revealing a pinkish-brown musculature that resembled wood grain.

“Where are you?” Punkin voice drifted out of the shadows. “What’s that noise? Is it a pig?”

One of the dolly’s eyes had fallen out—the other stared lividly at him. The creature tried to grab Anthony by the forearm, but he moved away just in time. He noticed a long loop of flesh trailing from the dolly’s knee. He seized the loop and pulled, ripping free a yard of skin. He dug the heel of a boot into the joint and the entire lower leg flew off.

Shrieking with pain, the mannequin pushed Anthony onto his back and climbed on top of him. Pink ribbons flailed through the air as it pounded madly at his chest. The creature’s other eye popped out. One of its hands broke off as it pummeled him. A pinkish froth dribbled from its writhing lips. Anthony stared into the black sockets of the mannequin’s face. These sockets were not empty. They were filled with horrible, insatiable hunger.

He was still staring when a hollow thump sounded and the face—disappeared.

Punkin was standing by his side. “I kicked its head off,” the pale youth said. “Was that okay?”

Anthony crawled out from under the mannequin. “Yes. That was fine, thank you,” he said tiredly. Punkin helped him to his feet.

They looked down at the dolly’s still-writhing body. Then Punkin searched the weeds along the path until he found the head. He held it at arm’s length by ribbons of its skin. “It’s going to keep living ’til it does what it’s got to do,” he said.

Anthony picked up the mannequin’s twitching hand. “Oh, how sad,” he said. “I weep big tears.” He threw the hand deep into the woods. Then he picked up the broken piece of leg and flung it in the opposite direction. He nodded to his friend.

Punkin swung the ragged head by its ribbons to gather momentum. Finally he let go, and it flew through the night like a fleshy comet.

Anthony entered Athena’s long, low house without knocking. He found her in the parlor.

“Oh. Why, why… hello,” she stammered.

Anthony regarded her with what he hoped was a smoldering stare. “I want you.”

“Oh. Oh.” Athena looked to the shelves—to the books, the jars, the statuettes. “Is Punkin with you?”

“No. I asked him to go on home without me. Didn’t you hear what I said? I want you, Athena.”

“I heard you.” Her eyes settled at last on a brown bottle nestled in a pile of yellow rags. “Do you realize what you are asking?”

Anthony shrugged. “I don’t care if you’re a guy or a lady or what.”

“‘Or what’ can cover quite a bit of ground.” She opened the bottle and poured a thin amber fluid onto one of the rags. “I’ve been many people over the years, Anthony. I’ve been old, young, large, small, male, female…” She rubbed the wet cloth over her face and hands. “It takes quite a while to prepare an acceptable—facade, I think, is a good word. Still, it takes only a moment to undo the illusion. Only a moment to reveal the real me.”

Athena’s thick makeup hid more than blemishes, more than even mere gender; this magical concoction hid the very contours of the flesh. Unleashed, her purple eyes crawled slowly over the surface of her opalescent face. A delicate lacework of gills fluttered at her jawline. Her shining claws fumbled at square black buttons, and the kimono dropped to the floor.

“So,” she whispered through the uppermost of the mouths. “Do you still want me?”

Anthony studied Athena Moth for a full minute. Then he took a step forward.

Then another.