New Fears 2: Brand New Horror Stories by Masters of the Macabre

RUT SEASONS Brian Hodge

It was somewhere between the tenth and twentieth heap of roadkill Casey passed that the irony of their demises declared itself to her. These heaps of meat and smears of blood were white-tailed deer, mostly, and deer most obviously. It was early November, the start of rut season, and they were on the move and on the make, so desperate to propagate the species they forgot to look both ways before crossing the street.

Did their mothers not teach them, or did they just not listen?

Simmer down, boys. I know what drives you. I know it’s all you can think about right now. It drove your father too, the horny old rogue. But take a little care, for buck’s sakes. You have to watch yourselves on these hard grey rivers. A little pause here and there isn’t going to hurt anything. You’ll be haunches-deep in some nice perky doe soon enough, but not if you’re a big splattered tangle of antlers and legs and—oh, god, not again, I can’t keep watching this happen.

They were distributed in wide clusters, bunched in the crossing regions where the woods and the lonelier fields edged close to the interstate. A few nauseating miles as messy as a deregulated slaughterhouse, then nothing for a long while, and then she’d be back in another kill zone.

It weighed on a person. It grew nerve-wracking. It made her more watchful, not a bad thing in itself, but driving a few hundred miles under that level of tension was exhausting. Things would be exhausting enough once she got there.

How many more Saturdays of this to look forward to? She really wanted to know, like right now, but dared not take a hand off the wheel to grab her phone from the console, much less take her eyes off the road. Plan B, then:

“Hey Siri, how long does rut season last this year?”

“Sorry, Casey, I don’t know the answer to that one.”

“Hey Siri, what the fuck good are you?”

“Your language!”

“Hey Siri, you sound like my mother.”

“You’re certainly entitled to that opinion.”

Brought that on herself, hadn’t she? The wiring was old and the roots went deep.

There was a time, when she’d left home twenty-odd years ago, that three hundred miles away sounded like the optimal distance. She could drive it in a few hours when she had to. Fly it in less, in case of emergency. Still far enough away, though. No drop-in visits, endured or expected. No “I was just in the neighbourhood.” Yet it was close enough that it didn’t look like she was trying too hard. It wasn’t a thousand miles. It wasn’t the nuclear option of clear across the country, on the coast. It wasn’t Seattle, or LA, I’d keep on going west but there’s this ocean in the way.

Now, though? Now it was starting to feel like a trap she’d set for herself without realizing it, one that didn’t snap shut until it was too late. Yes, three hundred miles was a haul. But it was a doable haul, so there really were no excuses.

If you’d get up early for a change, you could be here before lunchtime. That would give us most of the weekend. We don’t know how many more weekends we have left, do we?

No, Mom. We don’t.

Proof? Just ask the deer. These poor, single-minded deer.

As always, she stopped to see her father first, because it was on the way in, practically right there as soon as you took the off-ramp from the highway. When she’d moved away, after college, there was hardly anything out here, just gas and greasy food, but the town had gradually shed its oldest, northernmost skin and oozed south to straddle the interstate.

The place they’d moved him to was nice, as assisted-living facilities went, but even here he was under an extra degree of sequestration. The memory care unit was… not solitary confinement exactly; more like Death Row to a prison’s gen pop. Dementia, Alzheimer’s… nobody here was going to get parole. Just getting in to visit family took a staffer with keys. These were the folks at risk of wandering off, who might keep going until tragedy found them.

While they were under twenty-four-hour lockdown, they at least had TV. That kept some of them occupied. The rest contorted themselves into chairs, at strange angles for reasons even they wouldn’t know, staring into space without seeming to see a thing.

“How are you doing, Daddy?”

He was one of the occupieds, watching TV, sort of. He knew it was on but appeared not to care, knowing only that he was supposed to watch it. And he knew her, once it penetrated that Daddy meant him. As the recognition swam up to register in his eyes, he broke into a big, slow smile. Just the sweetest man, still, now that he’d run out of reasons for anger. Something about him had begun to look soft, sexless.

She hugged him, and he smelled okay, better than before he moved out here. They reminded him to wash and kept his clothes clean. They helped dress him, although he still looked like a ragamuffin, dishevelled and diminished, forty pounds lighter than the man who used to pilot the family car and yell for quiet from the back seat.

He asked her how she was. He said he was doing well when she asked him. He spoke with a lisp now, four of his top front teeth gone, having darkened and chipped away after he started neglecting to brush.

“How’s David doing?” he asked.

Casey patted his hand. “David’s fine. He’s keeping as busy as ever.”

Daddy told her he was getting on well here, that there were friends to have coffee with in the morning but they were asleep now.

“How’s David doing?” he asked when the next commercials came on.

He remembered David, had always liked him. He never remembered the divorce.

“He’s doing great,” she said. “He’s training for another marathon.”

That made her father happy to hear.

It was easier, making this visit first, like a warm-up act. It came with fewer expectations. Daddy just seemed happy to see her, and while the past was all he had, he didn’t seem inclined to dig around in the worst of it. The past was all he had, but he lived in the moment, because the prior moments kept crumbling behind him.

“How’s David doing?”

He asked about David eight times while she was there, and each was like the first. Until she kissed him on the cheek and told him she’d see him again soon, and it made him happy to hear that, and when she left, the countdown started again, how long it would take to slip his mind that she’d been there at all.

That was what it was like now, with both of them. Her parents’ existence had become a series of loops. There was no such thing as forward motion any more. Their health had banked into a downward spiral, while the rest of their lives circled back and back again to the same territories whether they liked it there or not. Her father’s loops were smaller, tighter—that was all.

Her mother? Still in the house, under the same old roof, after a few brief detours. She’d tried the ACF route as well, three times, but it never lasted for longer than seventeen days. She had standards, you know, and once she got somewhere, always found reasons why the place didn’t measure up to them. The people weren’t nice. The food was bland. The apartment was too small. The shower curtain wasn’t pretty.

There was no place like home.

Casey had the keys so she could let herself in. Every time, it hit her anew that 3,500 square feet was a tremendous amount of house for one person. The atmosphere still felt as brittle as it ever did when Mom was getting around normally, able to infuse each room and hallway by direct contact. The vibe was a lesser version of wartime killing grounds: People once fought here.

Maybe it was sustained indefinitely by the same looping mechanism that regulated so much of what her mother had to say.

Innocuous Opening #1: “Hi, Mom. How are you getting along?”

“Ohhh… it just goes from bad to worse here.”

Thirty-eight times for that one, word-for-word, since Casey started keeping a tally. Phone calls counted.

Casey said she was sorry to hear that. She was always sorry to hear that.

Mom spent most of her waking hours in a single room now. As went the house, so went the family room, far more square footage than she needed. She interacted with the TV, the sofa, the coffee table… and that was about it. Everything else, from paintings to candle sconces, was just there, stored in place for some eventual estate sale.

Her mother struggled first to sit upright, then to get comfortable. She’d gained the weight Daddy had lost, and then some.

She’d never exercised. Casey couldn’t think of a single time she’d seen her mother exert herself for the sake of exertion. Some gardening, but even that was leisurely. She never so much as went for walks. A lady doesn’t sweat—that was her credo. She meant it, and lived by it. She’d drive around a parking lot for ten minutes to find a spot close enough to spare herself two minutes of walking. And that was when she was thirty-five. A lady didn’t sweat.

Well, now a lady could barely stand up straight. Now a lady was more bulbous than she’d ever been in her life—a neat trick for someone who claimed to go days without eating because there was never any food in the house.

“What would you say about getting you moving a little this weekend?” Casey asked, not for the first time. “Not far. Just to the end of the driveway.”

“And back,” Mom said, as if that was the deal-breaker. She put on her sceptical face, like: Why don’t you just ask me to climb Mount Everest? “And you’d expect the same thing tomorrow, I suppose?”

“Probably.”

From sceptical to dismissive, in one practised swipe. “Pssh. Are you trying to turn me into a crazy person like you? No thanks.” And, just as quickly, from dismissive to omniscient. “With that ring off your finger and you back on the market, maybe you’ll finally admit I was right all along. I kept telling you, ’til I was blue in the face, men don’t like girls who are muscly.”

You couldn’t get too irritated with her, not when that tremor in her jaw was getting worse.

“Mom. That isn’t what happens ninety-nine per cent of the time.” And if it did, then, yes, actually there were men who went for that sort of look. Not a thing Mom would ever let herself understand. “Most women don’t get big muscles. We mostly get really fit-looking.”

“Pssh. I never had to put myself through that. It came naturally to me. I didn’t have to work at it. I just had to be. I used to be pretty. As pretty as you.”

Prettier, she figured her mother was thinking, but for the moment her diplomacy gyroscope was operational. Until it wasn’t. What a difference eight seconds could make.

Start loop.

Mom stared at her as if they hadn’t seen each other for years, and what the hell happened, anyway.

“You used to be so pretty,” she said.

End loop. Running tally, nineteen.

She’d added a new one to the playlist in the past months. It would usually take her awhile to get to it, something she held in reserve for later.

“I’m at that age where I don’t know why I’m alive anymore,” she said. “I wish I wasn’t.”

It would’ve been callous to tell her that a lot of people felt the same, and it didn’t take all those birthdays to bring it on. Purpose could abandon you at any age. You were never too young for the future to look meaningless. But maybe after a certain point in life this outlook was a guarantee. You crossed it like a finish line that was nothing of the sort, a cruel hoax, because there was so much left to go. So Casey said nothing.

“I wish a heart attack or a stroke would come along and finish me off. I go to bed and pray for that every night. God never answers.”

The good news was he was bound to eventually. She couldn’t say that either.

Now, though, finally, something new: “You could help me. Would you help me? Just get me some pills. They won’t give them to me anymore, not the good kind. All the doctors around here know me from when…”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.

“I’m not getting you pills, Mom.”

“I could tell you what to say. It would be easy for you. You were always a good liar anyway, it came so natural you hardly had to put your mind to it.”

“Mom! I am not getting you pills! If you were to do something bad with them, they’re going to know somebody else had to bring them to you. Who do you think the first person they’re going to come looking for is?”

Her mother sat a little straighter and swapped faces again: the poor-me face.

“Isn’t that just typical,” she said. “Never thinking about anybody but yourself.”

Her old bike was still in the garage and the hand-pump still on a shelf, and for now the tyres held air, so she went for it. The last thing that mattered was how silly she felt, a middle-aged woman astride a dorky-looking relic from another era, painted a mauve that only a teenage girl could love. Ten minutes of good, hard riding—that’s all she asked of it.

Maybe fifteen.

Twenty, tops.

The reasons why could change but the therapeutics didn’t, and if a lady didn’t sweat, then let it be known—she was no lady.

She whizzed along the streets of her childhood, then the roads of her youth, the old byways along the edges of town where she and her friends had learned to drink and smoke and barf and fumble under one another’s clothes. Most of it looked remarkably unchanged, as if she might round one of the more dangerous curves and collide with an old ghost, stuck in the amber of time.

Here, where a carful of friends she’d almost joined had steered into a massive oak that had become known as Dead Man’s Tree.

Here, where she’d met to engage in single combat with another girl over some slight that seemed gargantuan at the time, both of them backed by teams of jeering friends, and prevailed, because only one of them had a father who’d taught her how to fight.

Here, the turnoff to the cemetery where young immortals once gathered to look at the night sky and confess their worst fears, how maybe they weren’t immortal after all.

It was early November but she’d worked up a sweat worthy of August when the front tyre gave out. Maybe this was it, the real reason she drove herself so hard. She’d always thought it was the most direct thing she could do to not be like her mother, but maybe the truth was more fundamental than that.

When the time came, this was how she wanted to go: like a tyre blowing out. No lingering, no hobbling, no complaining and no warning… just whup-whup-whup over to the side of the road.

Mid-November was peak rut season and the highway all the worse for it—that much bloodier, that much chunkier. That much more relentless striving for life jumping straight to the messy end. Casey navigated the carnage and considered it a small victory that she didn’t add to it, as she again looped back to where she had begun and hit Play one more time.

“How’s David doing?”

“He’s fine. He found a co-worker he really, really likes. They’re spending a lot of time together, so I don’t see him as much.”

And at home, the old home, the once-and-dear-god-please-not-future home, the fourteenth occurrence of some variant of this: The young woman from the home care agency was in, not one of Natalia’s usual days. She’d swapped Thursday for Saturday because of a paediatrician appointment. But one day was about as good as another when $22 an hour was buying you all the shopping, cooking, cleaning, and light nursing needed to keep you living at home.

Which made today floor day, but as soon as Natalia made some quip about mopping away the scuffs from all the dancing, Casey knew it was a terrible mistake.

“Did you hear that?” her mother said. “Do you hear how she talks to me?”

“It was just a joke, Mom. It sounded pretty light-hearted to me.”

Now came the face of wrath and condemnation. “Pay attention, clean your ears out if you can’t hear any better than that. She talks that way to me all the time. I’m supposed to sit here and take it? No ma’am. I won’t.”

Mom looked to make sure there was no eavesdropping going on, and switched to her conspirators face.

“You tell her to not come back. You’ll have to find somebody else. What kind of home did she come from? We brought you up better than that.”

“We’re not firing another one, Mom. Not for a harmless joke. If you keep this up you’re going to end up on a blacklist, and you won’t be able to get anybody in.”

The funny thing? Casey didn’t mind this one. Instead of being wearying, it was… validating. Every so often something like this popped up, another saving grace about being here, that reframed more of the past and put it into a context that made a reconfigured sense.

It wasn’t age, it wasn’t the Parkinson’s, nor anything else in her mother’s mind that had degenerated to bring this on. It was her. Just her. She’d always been this way, only by this point she was off her game, no longer the least bit convincing in prosecuting her case.

So think of all those whippings that hadn’t needed to be administered after all. Casey had never counted, but by the time she’d advanced to middle school—too big to spank now, and needing to be punished in other ways, because privileges had come to mean more than pain—it must have happened two hundred times or more. A conversation going off the rails and she hadn’t even known how, other than that she must not have rolled over in complete submission like a dog baring her throat to the alpha bitch. Maybe she’d asked to do some chore later, rather than sooner. Maybe she’d protested some minor domestic injustice. Even if she had been a smart-mouthed kid at the very beginning, she was a quick learner, and figured out how to neutralize her voice for the sake of peacekeeping.

For all the good that did. Matters always ended up at the same go-to: “Just wait until your father gets home.”

Protests and seeking clarification—What? What did I say?—only made things worse. Okay, she’d been slow to learn that.

“It wasn’t what you said,” her mother would tell her, “it’s how you said it.”

Come evening, though, the replay never sounded anything like the original. As for Dad, well, who was he going to believe, beyond his belief in the power of the belt to set things right?

So thanks, Mom. Thanks for teaching me dread. Thanks for showing me how a master works, to really sell the lie. Thanks for teaching me self-doubt, that no matter how much care I’d taken with each and every syllable, decibel and inflection, I still got it all wrong, but surely that was to be expected from somebody who couldn’t do anything right. That’s how we roll.

And thanks, most of all, for teaching me to mistrust my own memory, my reality.

You can’t imagine what an asset that’s been over the years.

Occurrence tally, only four, but emerging as the hot new trend: “I don’t know why I’ve made it this far. Nobody needs to make it this far.”

She might have had a valid point there, actually. Maybe the human species wasn’t supposed to, and medical science had gotten overzealous to the point of godhood. All that hardy pioneer stock you heard about, from whom they supposedly descended? Those folks were done in long before now:

Maybe cholera and bear attacks were overdue for a big comeback.

Mom was wearing her pleading face. “Why can’t you help me with this? Just hold a pillow over my face. They do it on TV all the time. It shouldn’t take long. I won’t fight it.”

“I’m not smothering you, Mom.” Casey huffed a sigh. “It won’t look like you died in your sleep. Can you promise me you won’t rupture the capillaries in your eyes?”

“Yourself yourself yourself, that’s all you ever think about.”

“You’re goddamn right I’m thinking of myself! It’s called matricide. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in prison for it. But if I did, I’d have a lot of friends there, because ninety per cent of the other women on the cell block would understand.”

Of course she hated herself for it, and would for the rest of the night. Maybe all day tomorrow too. Self-loathing was a strange way to keep yourself sane, but better the verbal outbursts than an aneurysm on the inside.

Sometimes she could almost have fun with it, once she let herself start playing with the contradictions.

Loop tally, twenty-nine: “He’s trying to kill me,” her mother would confide. “You have to stop him.”

“Who?” Even though Casey knew damn well who. There was only one root of all evil under this roof.

“Your father. Who else? Your father’s trying to kill me.”

“Mom, you don’t have to worry about him. He’s been in the memory care unit for a year and a half. They don’t get out. So he can’t be trying to hurt you.”

The aggrieved face. “I know that. Don’t treat me like I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Mom directed her to the chair across the room and had her run her fingers along the back edge until, ow, she drew back with a slice gouged into the pad of her finger. She wrestled the chair around for a look and found the culprit: an upholstery staple that had worked itself loose.

“He set booby traps before he went. How am I supposed to sleep, not knowing what else he may have done around here? And if you think he doesn’t sneak out, you’re just being naive.”

Early on, Casey could never decide which would be the better way to handle things like this. To play along, so her mother felt heard? Or try to set the record straight so she wasn’t reinforcing the delusions? Eventually she realized it didn’t matter. Either way, her mother had achieved master level status in taking whatever was there and using it to paint everyone involved as the worst human beings in the world.

“Mom, he’s not trying to kill you. He’s always loved you. You’re going to have to trust me on this.”

“You don’t know your father. You’ve never known who he really is. He’s a liar and a cheat. Even if the truth would save his life, he’d lie just to see if he could get away with it. He’s cheated half this town. There are all kinds of things I could’ve told you, but I never did. I didn’t want to hurt you. But you should hear the truth for a change. He wants to kill me for what I know.”

Fun times? Why not: “Then why are you endangering me by bringing me in on this? What’s to stop him from coming after me, too?”

Wrong tone, as usual. It wasn’t what she’d said. Must’ve been how she said it.

“You’re doing it again. Treating me like I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Fun times, option two: “Listen, if you’re this tired of living, why not let him do it. Then you both get what you want.”

“I don’t want to let him win. My terms. I want to die on my terms.”

And who could argue with that? The sad thing was, there didn’t seem to be any such thing as my terms left anymore. She proved it every day.

“Mom… it’s not Dad. It’s the Parkinson’s. It’s just…” Delusions, she stopped short of saying. It was such a cruel word, a hard-edged word. “Remember the doctor telling you how it might put funny thoughts in your head?”

Mom sat with this awhile, staring straight ahead and down, seeming to try to process it, as though there was enough of a rational side in there to grapple with the matter, push back, assert some dominance. After a couple minutes, she turned back with a sidelong look that curdled into a sweet-and-sour smirk.

“Parkinson’s is hereditary,” she said.

At last the carnage along the highway began to wane. The end of rut season was near, plus maybe the stupid, reckless deer had all been killed off by now. Midway through the trip, Casey spotted a highway crew scraping up another godawful mess into the back of a truck, and wondered how the guys felt about the end of November. If they were relieved, sick of the blood, or if there was job security in it and they missed the overtime.

You could miss anything.

For sure, she missed making this trip in her own car. But in this instance it was safer to borrow from a friend, in case anyone checked later. Her license plate wouldn’t show up anywhere on surveillance video for the weekend, and with a big enough hat and sunglasses and coat, neither would her likeness. Whatever she bought, she would pay for with cash, so forget about a debit card trail.

You could miss anything. But she didn’t think she would.

There had been good times, too, beyond counting, but the longer this went on, the harder they got to recognize through the growing cataract of now.

The infinity loop: It always came down to not measuring up. There were so many ways to fail someone, so many iterations, it went on and on, and there was no outrunning it. You could drive until the tyres blew out, then discover you’d been carrying the baggage in your trunk all along.

Sometimes the reminders came from people who meant no harm.

“How’s David doing?”

“He’s got the world by the tail, Daddy. He’s got a new lease on life. It must feel amazing to be so admired by someone that much younger. It’s hard to compete with that.”

And sometimes the reminders came from people who knew exactly where to stick the daggers. Their aim would be the last thing they ever forgot.

“When your grandmother was going through this, I took care of her. I took care of my mother.”

Although Mom didn’t come right out and say so, the implied contrast couldn’t have been more apparent. It wasn’t what she didn’t say, it was how she didn’t say it.

“I did her laundry. I did the vacuuming and dusting once a week. I made sure she didn’t lack for anything. Anything. And I visited her. I sat with her like it wasn’t an imposition, unlike some people I know. And I was glad to do it, every time, because we never knew if that might be the last.”

So many answers, so many combinations. Like a slot machine, pull the lever and see what comes up.

[A] Yes, you did. You absolutely did, and I admire you for that. It can’t have been easy. It’s only now that I can appreciate how hard it must’ve been.

[B] Remember when you yelled at her and made her cry and said you hoped somebody would shoot you if you ever got like her? That time you didn’t sound very glad.

[C] Uh huh. Because you could. Because Daddy made sure you had the freedom to do it. He worked full-time in insurance with a side-gig in real estate to make sure you never had to work outside the home if you didn’t want to.

[D] The reason you could do that is because you pulled her out of her home and moved her seventy miles to an assisted living facility three miles from your garage door. And guess who won’t hear of that for herself?

[E] None of the above. Because sometimes, if you didn’t find a way to break the loop, get out of the rut, the loop would break you.

“Okay, I’ll help you,” Casey said instead. “What you’ve been asking for? I’ll help you. I just have to know one thing. Has it only been talk from you, all this time, or is it what you really want?”

For a change, her mother didn’t scurry back from being offered exactly what she said she wanted. So Casey told her how it had to be to work.

She’d once heard it said that success in life could be correlated with the number of uncomfortable conversations you were willing to have. Well, this was uncomfortable, profoundly uncomfortable, but nothing about it felt like success. A conversation like this reeked of failure. This was a conversation of last resort.

At least they’d only have to have it once.

What got to her most was hearing her mother murmur about being cold. A thing like that hurt to hear and nearly made her get them back in the car and turn around, because it didn’t arise from looking for something to complain about. A thing like that was real. It was primal. Because it was late November and the air promised winter, so of course her mother was cold. Anybody would be.

She’d worn her coat for as long as she could, for as long as Casey dared let her. But the town was never that big, so the drive was short, through the streets of her childhood and the roads of her youth, and the old byways along the edges where she and her friends had learned to live and lurk beneath the notice of adults.

She knew where to drive to. Knew where to park so the car would never be seen, not as long as it was night. The trees were thirty years taller, and the old woodland paths still the same. It just took longer to walk them this time.

“I have to take your coat now, Mom. I told you back at the house, it’ll look better if you’re not wearing a coat.”

She needed some coaxing, but finally complied. Housecoat, slippers… she looked the part. It would work. Tragic. This happened more than people realized.

“I can’t go with you past here, Mom. I’m sorry. But all you have to do is keep going a little farther. The walk isn’t that long. The highway’s right through there.”

And as Casey watched her go, she thought of the rumours she’d heard all her life, of women who enjoyed lifelong good relationships with their mothers. My mom’s my best friend. I want you to meet my daughter, the best thing that ever happened to me. She was pretty sure she had never encountered one.

Squabbles? Sure. Nattering? Naturally. Blow-ups? On occasion, but never bad, and five minutes later everything was forgotten.

These women had to exist, but there was a measure of relief in suspecting they didn’t. They were tricks of light and swamp gas. They were cryptids, creatures that had gone extinct fifty thousand years ago, that someone thought they’d seen. They were mythological, avatars of an ideal worth striving for, but impossible to attain in the real world.

She’d done the best she could. Maybe they both had.

What a horrible thought.

And as she drove back in the darkest depths of the night, to wait for the phone call in the morning, it went okay for an hour. Until she came to the first of the blood-smeared crossings where the last of the season’s deer had come to die.

Mile after mile, she thought she saw them from the corner of her eye, emerging from the darkness into the edge of her headlights, and she swerved to miss them. But there was always another one ahead, until she realized no, these weren’t deer, they were her mother, tottering out of the night, so in time she stopped swerving, because if she was ever going to get home, she’d have to keep driving through the woman, every chance she got.