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James Meeks

The October Featured Writer is James Meeks

Please feel free to contact James at: jamiemeeks23@yahoo.ca

James Meeks

SHE LIKES IT FRESH

by James Meeks

My basement stinks.

No, its not because of the Aerosmith poster tacked on the door lovingly with cheap masking tape. It's not because of the overwhelming collection of 80's through 90's hair band LP's I have stacked in an ever growing pile of milk crates down there. And don't even say it's because of the six foot cut-outs of Dio and Sammy Hagar that greet you as you open the door leading down. Don't you dare even go there!

No...

It's because of her.

It's because she feeds in my basement. Hiding in the dark, hugging the shadows, with the repulsive sounds of bones crunching. Flesh being torn into wet strips and swallowed with loud smacking noises. She squats down there in the dark giggling like an elated school girl, tearing into bodies like skin covered presents. Eating every morsel of flesh until all that is left are neat piles of white bone.

*****

It all started when I woke up one morning and there she was in my bed. Her elbow was propped on my pillow. Her hand resting on her cheek. Brushing my hair out my eyes tenderly and smiling at me, almost knowingly.

I think I screamed when I first saw her. I remember her laughing long and hard. Her black silky hair dancing around her face, silently appraising me with her cold dark eyes. She rolled off the bed, her bare feet pattering across the floor. She drew back the sheets; ignoring my stained underwear, grabbed my hand and lead me down the stairs to my living room. I don't even know why I followed her, but I did.

She squeezed my hand tightly, pulling me through the living room and brought me so close to the large window behind my couch that I could taste the dirt. Reminds me I should really spend more time cleaning. She pulled aside the heavy curtains, lifted my chin up with her soft hands, staring deeply into my eyes and pointed out the window.

Pat...Pat...Pat...

Her fingers drummed gently on the glass.

I felt drained, my body weak and willing. Mesmerized by those eyes that drew me into them like a ship lost in a whirlpool.

I looked out the window.

Out on the sidewalk, near my mailbox was Mr. Benson walking his dog.

Retired.

Fat.

A nosey twit. A neighborly pain in my ass.

I watched him as he nonchalantly ignored his dog's previous turds that speckled my browning lawn. Watched as the dog got to work sniffing out a place to deposit a fresh pile.

I looked at her and shrugged and tried to smile not knowing why she was so interested in him.

She made strange noises in the back of her throat, jabbing her finger at Benson, through the window, pleading with me, her eyes enlarging and drawing me deeper down.

I don't know how I knew it, but I did. It hit me like train derailing.

She was hungry.

I grabbed my house coat, pulling it on hastily as I went out the front door. At some point I had unconsciously grabbed my mostly unused aluminum baseball bat. I hid it behind my back, passing it back and forth between my hands as I walked slowly across my lawn lost in a sudden intensity of purpose.

Mr. Benson looked tired. The Dog was dropping a meager little turd that wafted towards me on the warm morning breeze. Ah! Alpo! When Benson finally noticed me he smiled and tugged at the leash. Hurry up...he whispered. He nodded a morning greeting. I could see his anxious eyes, his irritation as he pulled at the leash with greater determination.

Yeah, anything not to pick up that turd, eh, Benson.

Benson tugged harder.

I moved quickly, feeling like warrior holding the bat firmly with both my hands. Sensing the power residing within its aluminum form.

Gripped tighter.

Ready for the swing.

Knuckles turning white.

For some reason I liked the look on his face. Reddening from the rise in blood pressure. Splotches of panic red that made him look like an alcoholic Santa. His fat convulsing as his instincts were yelling at him to run. I realized I wanted to do this. I wanted this moment to happen for years.

I ran the last few steps, raising the bat high, screaming an incoherent war cry as I brought the bat down full but missed.

Benson tugged at his dog and they both ran off.

"Little motherfucker, shit on my lawn will ya'." I grunted.

Later, I heard sounds from the basement. The sounds disgusted me. A mixture of someone eating with their mouth open and a cow chewing its cud. I went down to discover that Benson hadn't been able to run very far.

She ripped and tore at him, throwing her head back savagely as Benson's hot blood flowed across her face. I saw a dark red vein lodged between her teeth snap with a wet smack, shooting his blood in an arch up the white walls.

His throat lay wide open.

He was still alive.

Barely.

The blood gurgled in the opening, roiling over the tattered teeth chewed edges. Benson lifted his hand, Help me...he silently asked.

That was all I could take.

I guess I fainted.

*****

When I woke up I was back in bed, still in my dirty underwear. My head felt heavy, my tongue thick and dry and I could hear my stereo blaring Silk Toxik. Filling the entirety of my tired mind with loopy noise.

I loved that song.

White Lies, Black Truth...

And like a flash of summer lightening I recalled what happened.

Fuck!

As I leapt from my bed¾guess she put me there¾I raced down the stairs afraid to see Benson's body laying rigid on the floor of my landing. But when I hit the bottom step, my socked feet slipped on the immaculate cleaned linoleum. I landed with a whump hard on my ass as the stereo's volume was dropped low.

She rounded the corner.

What the fuck!

She looked completely different.

A entirely new person.

And she was naked.

I sat there bewildered, my ass throbbing transfixed by her nude beauty. She ran a hand up her left breast, stopping to squeeze her large pink nipple hard. She massaged them furiously, the nipples stood out moist with sweat and want.

All I could do was sit there my mouth hanging open. My ass throbbing in pain. My manhood throbbing with a different enjoyable pain as it strained against the rough unwashed underwear I still wore.

She gracefully lowered herself down. Holding those delicious breasts in her hands. One hand reached behind my head and pulled me into their abundance of warm softness. My mouth opened sucking at the pink jutting hardness of her.

Erect.

Beautiful.

I sat there sucking, manipulating, tweaking her perfect breasts for what seemed hours, before I realized we were in my bed.

It was the best sex I ever had.

Ever...

And I forgot all about Benson.

*****

For a few weeks this is all we did. Every night an unbelievable sexually release. And during the day she disappeared.

She didn't leave.

The first day I sort of panicked thinking it was over. Thinking more likely it was a weird dream brought on by junk food and an overabundance late night TV. But I heard some rustling down in my basement. And hiding in the shadows I found her sleeping soundly. I brought down a few blankets to cover her as she was still naked and I felt a little ashamed for standing there staring at her. I sat there in the dark watching her by striking up my Zippo. Holding her cold hand in mine. Wondering when she would wake up.
Now that I think about it, I'm pretty damned surprised I didn't wonder more. Didn't question what she was or why this was happening.

I mean who wakes up to find a strange women in there bed. Feeds them a neighbor, kills the neighbors dog, faints and then has sex with them.

Who?

Not to mention the fact that she changed form and sleeps in the basement during the day.

Well, I didn't.

Now don't laugh too much, but as single male who listened to 80's hair bands. Liked having their hair in a permed mullet. Still enjoyed a routine fantasy world of Dungeons and Dragons. And had a yearly subscription to Hustler that was paid six years in advance, sure as hell looked the other way. It wasn't like any other women were pounding on my door for a piece of me.

Come on, you should see her rack for christsakes!

So I didn't question anything. I didn't care what she was. I just let the good times roll.

*****

But all good times in fact have a period when they don't roll. In other words, when the shit hits the fan.

Think it was a Tuesday when I came to realize what I had gotten myself into. It was one of them nice sunny afternoons, when the birds sing and it doesn't piss you off. I woke late in the day after a tiring night trying to outdo my previous attempts at being Casanova. I lazily went downstairs expecting her to be tucked away in the dark of the basement. Instead, she was once again behind my couch. Crouched down with her nose pressed against the glass of the large living room window, making strange clucking sounds.
She most have sensed me standing there watching her, as she quickly turned to face me. Have to say she had the most bizarre expression I'd ever seen. Her face seemed like it was pulled tighter than before, making the skin shiny like a diabetics feet. Her brows were furrowed making large rippled wrinkles in her forehead. Her eyes squinting almost closed in their concentration.

I laughed.

It pissed her off.

She leapt up from behind the couch so fast I felt the air she dispersed rushing past me is she dragged me backwards towards the window. She threw me over the couch hard onto the floor. Leapt over and landing on my chest. The air rushed from my lungs and as I gasped, straining for a breath, she ripped my head up by the hair. She smashed my face into the window trying to turn the clucks into words.

"moaa...mii...moee...mori...ree....eia..."

I looked through the window, blood trickling from my busted nose and I saw a kid out on the sidewalk with his bike. The kid had obviously snapped the chain and was doing his best to fix it for his trek back home.

She kept trying to form words, jamming her finger back and forth between me and the kid.

Didn't take a rocket scientist to understand her.

She was hungry.

As with Benson¾I do wonder what happened to his body­¾I quickly donned my housecoat. Grabbed my bat. And went out to get her what she wanted.

Everything went pretty much the same, except at least kids are a damn mite lighter then fat retirees. Add to that, this time I didn't faint. Instead I made a bologna sandwich and watched some Springer.

The volume up as high as it would go.

*****

Things went this way for probably two years.

Nightly passionate sex.

Monthly feedings.

Cops knocking at the door a few days later after people went missing.

All routine and I was falling into a comfortable rut. Enjoying it more than anything else that had ever happened. Life was great and I couldn't have been happier.

*****

I started to ignore her while she slept. Ignored the basement completely because of the way she started acting. Sometime after I fed her the kid she began guarding it like it was her den, or something. If I went down there to fetch one of my records she would hiss and arch her back like she was ready to attack. After a few tries I just gave it up. Decided to grab some of my favorite records when she was showering and store them by the TV. Usually I just sat around watching crappy daytime shows, napping and waiting for her to flaunt that sweet body.

One afternoon I woke up from a nap to hear her freaking out.

She was screaming in the basement. Throwing what she could, smashing what she couldn't. I ran down the hallway and stood at the basement door, one hand on the knob, building the courage to see what I could do. I didn't want to end up on the wrong end of her claws, so I stood there for awhile, sweat beading on my forehead.

I made my way slowly down the stairs, pulling the light on, listening to the string pop back up and tink off the light bulb.

And I saw her.

And I saw most of my record collection broken into thousands of little black puzzle pieces.

Then I saw the bones.

Hundreds of them.

Ribs and jaws.

Fingers and pelvises.

All picked clean of the flesh.

Flesh that had once belonged to my neighbors.

Just nothing more then meat for her.            

She stood triumphantly holding a dead rat in her hand, shaking it happily at me when she saw I was there.

The hair on my neck stood on end and I felt my pulse quicken. Before I could stop it, before I knew it was happening. I freaked out myself.

"You fucking bitch! Look what you did to my fucking records! You dumb goddamn fucking slut! Do you know how much some of these are worth!? Can you comprehend how fucking long it took me to collect all of these!? Holy mother of shit! My damn signed Judas Priest!"

I screamed, thrashing about in my broken collection. Kicking out into empty air.

Then she cried.

Fucking cried! I should have been the one crying.

I stopped, sweat pouring down my face. My heart hammering in my chest. And I went to comfort her feeling a sudden guilt. Yep, I'm always a sucker for a crying lady.

And when I saw her I gasped. I literally gasped like some cliché in a story.

She had changed again.

She was now a little girl.

*****

Not much more I can say. She's still a little girl. And strangely I feel the need to care for her. I feel like a father, like I need to help her, to guide her and teach her everything that she doesn't know. Anyone would do the same if she looked at you with those big powerful eyes that could penetrate the depths of your meager pitiful souls. OK, honestly I'm hoping, praying she'll turn back into that hot woman and things can resume the way they were. I really miss the sex.

Fingers crossed!

I've spent the last few years teaching her how to talk. Showing her the ways of the world as we sit on my tattered couch throughout the night watching reruns. She loves Threes Company and Golden Girls. I can't stand those shows, give me the A-Team any day. But I sit and watch them anyways, chugging back beers as she picks at old flesh on the bones she saves. Giggling at the antics of Jack and Gang as she chews some neighbors kid like buttered popcorn.

Two years ago I started going to the library while she slept, I had nothing better to do and Springer was canceled. I think I read every tome on mythology, occultism and witchcraft I could get my hands on. I was tying to find out what she was. And hoping once again for some way to change her back into a woman.

Each time I thought I was close to knowing something I hit a dead end.

She wasn't a vampire, werewolf, alal, shape-shifter, succubi, aswang, lamia, alal, zaltys, shtriga, elemental force...the list is endless and after reading through close to two thousand books on this incredibly dull subject, I found nothing.

Not a fuckin' thing.

*****

Not much more to do but wait.

Wait for her to change back.

Wait for her hunger to build up.

Wait for the next meal to walk by the front of my house.

ding dong

Sorry, one second someone's at the door.

"Hi! I'm Judy. I'm selling cookies for my school."

Hmmm, with a bit of fattening up Judy will make a fine meal for her.

"Sure! Come on in. Close the screen door sweetie while I grab my wallet."

Now where did I put that bat...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

James Meeks has been writing for a few years for an audience of one, mostly horrific, bizarre and strange stories that he felt compelled to write. He currently lives in Toronto surrounded by way to many books, films and loved ones. This is his first published story and is currently working on a collection of stories with his brother Shaun Meeks (previously published on The Horror Zine, and his collection At The Gates of Madness) to be released winter of 2012.

He can be contacted at jamiemeeks23@yahoo.ca
or on Facebook for criticism or ridicule.