By Ben Wrangler and Eve Blaack
He was in the morgue as usual, his favorite place, his sanctum, only him and the bodies, the smell of decay, of death. He was examining a female corpse, his eyes taking in her beauty, as his hand touched her body, caressing her, feeling the coldness of her pale skin. His urges were rising, he wanted to take her in death, as he had done before with so many others. He was about to give in to his urges, when a noise interrupted his plans. It was Eve. She knew of his aberrant behavior, but she let it slide. She walked in a hurry, anxious and eager to get what she wanted, her fetish, her hunger for the flesh, but not to touch it, hers was to feast upon it, the warm insides, how she craved it. She would come to him, he always knew how to get the choicest cuts. They talked of death as usual. They were old friends, knew all about each other, knew each other’s secrets, perversions, shared in them, helped each other get what they wanted.
He handed her the box, a meaty stench wafting from it. She noticed a twitch in his face, the muscles constricting slightly. His smile suddenly turned into a look of pain. She grew concerned for her dearest friend. His hand went to his stomach, as if to cover a wound. She dropped the box in fear of what she saw next. He grabbed the table, clutching with one hand. He slowly went down to the floor, pulling the corpse down with him. He cried out in pain as his body convulsed, writhing, the veins swelling, his body distorting in violent spasms as he gasped and choked. She was horrified, she knew something was wrong, that he was not playing around this time. She rushed to his side in panic, wanting to help him somehow, but to no avail. With a pained, horrid look in his eyes, he reached out to her. She clutched his hand. Then, he collapsed, withering, on the cold floor. She sat with him, as she felt him pass away in her arms, her bloody tears slowly dripping down her cheeks as she whispered her good-byes. She sat there for a while, holding his lifeless body, then regained her composure. She went to work, knowing what she must do. She grabbed a body bag and laid it on the slab, lifted his lifeless form and placed it in the bag. She straightened up his clothing and brushed his hair. She slowly zipped up the bag, saying a good-bye, a final adieu, a lone tear in her eye. With a sigh, she sealed the bag. She would leave him there, the place he loved most, as a sign of her love for him. She would take care of his body later but, for now, would give him one more night in the morgue, his home.
She turned to leave, then heard a low shrieking sound. She turned in surprise. Could it be? Was he still alive? Her heart raced. She ran to the slab, reached to unzip the bag. It was moving. Oh, my God, she thought. Halfway open, she stopped. His body was shaking and swelling, as the screeching grew louder. She just stared, unable to move. With the screeching came a scraping sound, then, ribs cracking, a ripping of flesh. To her shock and horror, the chest burst open, blood spraying upwards, splashing all over her, and she saw it, ripping out of him. It was a bat, covered in blood, internal organs greedily clutched in its mouth. It stared at her, stared with burning little eyes. She grabbed at the guts clenched in its mouth. It screeched at her, swiped at her with its claws, knocking her back a few feet. She stammered, "What the fuck?" It dug its claws into the corpse, leaving its mark. Another screech at her, loud and painful, and it spread its wings, ready to take flight. Now she was concerned it was suffering. If this creature was somehow part of him, she thought, let it not suffer. She approached the bat, hoping to calm it, but it screeched and snarled at her. But this was her friend, she reasoned. She felt there was some way she could talk to it. She slowly reached out her hand, touching a wing, trying to get the bat to understand, trying to see if it remembered. The bat looked at her with its beady eyes, searching for recognition. A sense of familiarity came to the it.. Her scent, he knew it, the scent of her blood, and he remembered. He knew she would do him no harm. But he knew what he had now become. The bat looked into her eyes again, then lunged at her neck. She leaned her head sideways, knowing that he needed desperately to feed. The creature bit into her savagely, drawing blood and leaving her with his mark. She felt the sting, the rush, the pleasure, caressing
him, all too briefly, before he finished tasting her fluids. Then, with another screech, the bat took to the air, flying out the open door, leaving her there with a bleeding neck, her fingers tracing the wound. She whispered, "Good-bye, my old friend..."
Somewhere in the dark, a screeching sound could be heard.
^V^
(©) 2000 Hacker's Source
Ben Wrangler is a talented writer and friend of Eve Blaack’s who writes only for pleasure. One dark evening they got together just to see what they could do, knowing their writing styles worked well together, they took turns each writing a line and this piece is what they came up with.
Eve Blaack owns her own publishing company Eve Blaack Publications featuring her magazine; The Hacker’s Source: Gateway to Independent Horror. Besides conducting interviews, she also writes film and book reviews. She considers herself a horror geek, doing her part to contribute to the horror genre. You can find her on the web http://hackerssource.cjb.net