An Interview with JL Comeau, professional writer and short story writing instructor.

Moonlight Writings: Where do you get your ideas?

JL Comeau: I get my ideas from every facet of my life. Everything I experience is grist for my writing mill. For example, my short story "Firebird", which is presently my most anthologized story, came about after I read a story
about a SWAT team in the newspaper while watching the American Ballet Theater's production of "Swan Lake" on television. I kept thinking about the article and the ballet until the two became melded in my mind and a story formed in my mind.

Click here to read "Firebird" online.

MW: Why did you become a writer?

JLC: I was a very ill as a small child with chronic pneumonia and, therefore, spent the majority of my early years in bed with piles of books. I became very comfortable with the written word at a young age, so it seemed natural to create imaginary worlds of my own. When I was older, I was a big
daydreamer and was often kept after school for not paying attention in class. I didn't start publishing until I was 30 years old, though, because I thought there was some magic to being a writer that I probably didn't possess. I came across a copy of "Writers Digest Magazine" in my late twenties and discovered that the real magic of being a writer is loving to write and working hard at becoming a good writer. I started out in the small press (my first sale was to "Grue" in 1986), and gradually worked my way into the professional markets. Now I'm a professional writer as well as a short story writing instructor for Writers Digest School. Isn't life weird?

MW: What scares you?

JLC: Not getting my check for a story sale. Seriously though, I'm afraid of the same things that most people are: loss of loved ones, illness, etc. But what really, really scares me is the idea that some maniac is going to break into my house in the middle of the night. I've done some interviews with the police over the years to get procedural stuff right for my fiction, and they've always said the same thing: The best deterrent to a burglar is keeping the lights on outside at night--thieves will simply move on to a darker house to avoid detection. But if someone wants to get into your house just to harm you, there's really nothing you can do; they're going to get in. Remember what happened to George Harrison this summer? He lives in a high-security mansion surrounded with gates, alarms, dogs and guards yet some nut with a knife still got in. That's scary.

MW: Do you have a "ritual" you do every time when you sit down to write?

JLC: Not really. I usually do my best work in the early afternoon, but I write anytime I get the itch. I mostly use my computer, but sometimes I'll write a first draft on paper, then type it up later . I get bored with routine and get bogged down, so sometimes I go to the library and write, sometimes I go to a friendly little restaurant where they let you drink coffee until your molars float and write at the table. I have all sorts of cool pens and paper. Anything to make it fun, right? I'm heavily into the metallic gel ink pens with black paper at the moment. One thing I try to do is write a complete story beginning to end before I go back and edit it or else I tend to waste time fiddling with phrasing and editing before I've written the end, which often never gets written if I get sidetracked like that. I try to have my endings in mind when I begin so I'll have something to "shoot at" -- my
narratives tend to wander if I don't have a target. And I never EVER tell anyone anything about the project I'm currently working on or it gets "talked away" and I lose the urge to write it.

MW: What are some of your favorite websites for writers?

JLC: I think the very best website for horror writers is the Horror Writers Association site,

www.horror.org

plus they have a very comprehensive set of links available to darkscribes. My ultimate favorite website for everyone
in general is

www.countgore.com

where I'm the TombKeeper. I recommend great horror, science fiction and fantasy books every week on my webpage at

www.countgore.com/Tomb.htm

and my fiction appears there quite often. I'm always looking for TombKeeper's Apprentices to help me out and
everyone is welcome to apply for the job. You've been my Apprentice twice now; how did you like hanging out in the Tomb with me?

(NOTE from MW: Oh, JL, I enjoyed my time down in the Tomb. It was a deliciously dark, dank, and devilish experience)

MW: Who are some of your favorite authors?

JLC: I order so many books each month that I believe I'm single-handedly responsible for keeping Amazon.com up and running. It's very difficult to narrow down favorite writers when I enjoy so many different kinds of work, ranging from down-'n-dirty splat horror to nonfiction to poetry, but I suppose my favorites are the ones I go back and read again and again. With that criterion in mind, my favorites in the dark fiction category are (in no particular order):

Short stories:
Richard Matheson
Algernon Blackwood
Dennis Etchison
Ramsey Campbell
Charles Grant
Poppy Z. Brite
Stephen King
Brian A. Hopkins
M. R. James


Novels:
Shirley Jackson, THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE (and everything else)
Bram Stoker, DRACULA
Stephen King, THE STAND, THE SHINING, PET SEMATARY
Thomas Tessier (everything)
Richard Matheson, I AM LEGEND, THE LEGEND OF HELL HOUSE
Patrick McGrath (everything)
Ramsey Campbell (everything)

There is one book that I think every horror fan must own and read: THE DARK DESCENT, edited by David G. Hartwell, which represents a full range of horror fiction.

This is a very incomplete list, but a complete one might be the only thing that would fit on the Internet.

MW: What projects are you currently working on?

JLC: I've written three novels that I'm presently giving a final polish, and I've got several short stories in the works. I have a couple of stories coming up at countgore.com, and if you sign up for the short weekly promotional emails that Count Gore sends out, you'll be notified in advance. Just send a note via one of the email links on the site to receive notification of what is going to appear on the site each Saturday.

MW: What do you see yourself doing five years from now?

JLC: Basking in the adulation and obscene wealth derived from my bestseller, what else? If that doesn't pan out, you'll find me hunched over my computer keypad making ticky-ticky-ticky, just like now. I'll just be older and uglier, I guess.

MW: Any advice for other writers?

JLC: Yes. Write. Edit. Polish. Submit. Repeat as necessary until published.

MW: Any last words?

Zymurgy. That's the last word in my dictionary, anyway. Also, I'd like to say that it's been a pleasure to have been the first interview on this wonderful new website (blush), and I thank you for inviting me to appear. And a final thought: If ya wanna be a writer, ya gotta keep writing. That's all folks!

While the sounds of thunderous applause echo across the Web, let me say a huge Thank You to JL Comeau, Writer Extraordinaire, for taking a moment from her busy schedule to let me bug her with my questions. Bravo!

Just added (12-22-00): JL Comeau's very first published short story! JL tells us:

"In 1986, I was dying to be published and I cannot tell you how thrilled I was to find an acceptance letter in my mailbox. Heaven! Nothing I sell will ever again come close to that elation. Looking at the story now I can see several beginner's errors that I would point out to my WDS students, but the damn thing got published. We all have to start somewhere, don't we?"

Moonlight Writings is pleased to present...

Stinkers
by
JL Comeau

Regina Scott's good mood vanished as if plunged through a trap door. The enchanting rural love-nest she had so lovingly envisioned had been brutally transformed by reality into a dilapidated American Gothic monstrosity. The angular wooden house jutted out of the colorless surrounding property like a neglected, sun-bleached fossil.

How absolutely typical, Regina thought sullenly as Richard unloaded suitcases from the hatch of their Subaru. She leaned against the car in the dusty driveway, arms clasped over her small breasts despite the shimmering July heat. Richard happily trotted their belongings up the rotted plank porch of the weatherblasted hulk which would be their home for the next six weeks. Regina watched as he wrestled the last of their gear out the car and clapped the hatch shut. Why do I stay with him? she wondered.

During the seven years of their marriage, Regina had stayed with Richard through his brief affairs with several other women and a period of compulsive gambling, among other less dramatic crimes. The other women are the worst.

But she knew why she stayed: no matter how bad things got between them, she didn't want to lose Richard. Regina recognized her own weak dependency on her husband and hated herself for it. She was hoping that the six-week vacation would do their relationship some good. Always hopeful, ever-loyal Regina.

Richard had the front door of the house open. "Hey!" he yelled, motioning for Regina to join him. "Our kingdom awaits us!"

It was a completely different house on the inside. The walls emanated a pungent tang of fresh paint and the furnishings, though old, were clean and in excellent condition. The kitchen was enormous and completely modern. The master bedroom was spacious and airy; so inviting, that Regina and Richard shut the door and didn't come out for a good, solid hour. After a pleasant soak together in the claw-footed tub in the bathroom, they dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen.

"Christ," Richard said, rummaging through the cabinets. "The cupboard's bare. Let's go into town for dinner and pick up a few groceries."

"Town" turned out to be a grimy tarpaper shack with a little market tacked onto one side and an ancient gas pump out front. Quite a bit different from what the Scotts were used to back at home in Washington, D.C., just thirty miles to the northeast. The bar and grill inside the shack was
actually very cozy, so Regina and Richard gobbled down greasy burgers and fries with some cold beer, then picked up their groceries before gassing up the Subaru on their way back to the house. The same tired-looking old fellow served them their meal, bagged their groceries and acted as gaspump jockey.

The Scotts laughingly speculated whether or not the old guy washed his hands between duties.

On the drive home, Richard sang along with a truly mediocre hillbilly band, which was all they were able to pick up on the radio. They were both a little buzzed on beer and Richard was, perhaps, driving a bit too fast when he pulled onto the long, dusty drive leading to the house.

Something flashed momentarily in the headlight beams, then there was a thunking noise, like they'd smacked a bag of wet cement.

Richard braked the car to a sliding halt. He and Regina sat frozen and shadowy in the dim lights of the dashboard, staring at each other with wide eyes.

"God, Richard! What was that?"

"Not sure," Richard replied, opening his door and climbing out. "Maybe a deer or something."

Regina got out on her side of the car and was immediately swallowed by the utter darkness of the nightshrouded countryside. As her eyes began to adjust to the blackness, she heard Richard moan. Her heart started to hammer.

"Richard! I can't see you! Where are you?"

"Over here. Oh Jesus, I'm over here."

Was Richard crying? Regina had never known Richard to cry before. The thought terrified her. She picked her way slowly to where she thought Richard's voice had come from. As she got closer, she could see he was cradling something in his arms. When she recognized what Richard was holding, she thought she might faint -- her head got all muzzy and her limbs went cold.

Richard hadn't hit a deer.

Regina knelt next to Richard and saw that the figure was that of a young girl. In the shadowy moonlight, Regina could see Richard's tear-streaked face as he held the girl.

"Honey," Regina said softly, touching Richard's arm. "Is she going to be all right?"

Richard began to sob.

"Richard." Louder this time. "We've got to get this girl to a hospital right away. Do you understand?"

No answer.

"God damn it, Richard!"

He looked up at her as if he were coming out of a dream. "I don't know what to do, Regina," he said, sniffling.

"Let's get her up to the house and make some phone calls." Gently, gently. Richard looked like might come apart right there in the dark driveway. And if Richard couldn't keep his head together, Regina knew she wouldn't be able to handle both him and the girl. "Now, come on...Pick her
up. Real easy, hon. Good. That's right."

The girl was still unconscious when Richard laid her gingerly upon the high-backed sofa in the front room of their house. While Regina went looking for a telephone, Richard stepped back and inspected his charge.

Fortunately, she was big-boned and sturdy-looking. A formless shift of coarse brown fabric lay loosely around her thick body. The lank, reddish hair which clung to her substantial skull like an oily cap did nothing to enhance her plain, ungracefully-featured face.

But there was something about her...something very attractive to Richard.

He closed his eyes and breathed in an exotic, earthy perfume the girl wore; it was the most intoxicating aroma he'd ever inhaled. Clouds of the seductive scent poured off her. Richard leaned closer.

Regina rushed into the room. "There's no phone, and--" When she noticed that the girl was staring at her husband, Regina's brain switched to automatic pilot and began compiling and evaluating data, sizing up her potential sexual competition. Within seconds, information was returned indicating that the young girl posed no significant threat. Alert status was canceled. Regina smiled. "How are you feeling, honey?"

The girl's eyes reluctantly left Richard and moved to Regina. "This man's eyes are blue," she stated. "So blue."

"She may have a concussion," Richard said. "Go find a flashlight, will you? I want to see if her pupils are dilating properly."

He sure as hell rallied fast, Regina thought sourly. She found a flashlight in the kitchen and took it to Richard.

When Richard tried to track the flashlight beam across her pale brown eyes, the girl jerked her head aside and squinted as if in pain. She grasped Richard's wrist and pushed the flashlight roughly aside.

"Okay, okay," Richard murmured soothingly. "It's all right." He turned to Regina. "Did you get hold of a doctor?"

"No phone, pal."

The girl on the sofa parted her broad lips, revealing a row of badly stained and crooked teeth. "I don't need a doctor. Really. I'm just a little sore, that's all. I could tell if I was really hurt bad."

"You should definitely be looked over by a doctor," Richard said. "How about your family? We need to get in touch with them, too."

"Please don't call my father!" The girl crouched into the sofa. "He gets drunk and beats me. The reason I was out on the road tonight is because I ran away from home."

"How old are you?" Regina asked.

"Seventeen. But, please don't call my father."

The girl's anxiety touched off a sympathetic response in Regina. "Isn't there someone else we could call?"

"No."

"But where were you going to go?"

"I don't know. I just had to get away."

"I understand," Regina said, and looked at Richard.

"Well," Richard said, "there's an extra bedroom upstairs just sitting empty. Why don't you stay here tonight and we'll get everything straightened out tomorrow."

Richard's statement shocked Regina. He knew perfectly well that the girl should see a doctor immediately, no matter how uninjured she might appear.

"Richard, I think we should get a doctor tonight, just in case."

"Regina," Richard snapped. "It's settled. We'll take care of everything tomorrow." He smiled at the girl. "Right?"

The homely girl smiled back at him bovinely.

When she smiled, Richard was caught off guard by a rush of intense desire that arced through him like heat lightning. He had to look away to regain his composure.

"My name is Daphne," the girl stated abruptly.

"Well, Daphne," Regina said cordially, "I'm Regina Scott and this is my husband, Richard." Isn't he acting weird? "I can't tell you how happy we both are that you're not badly injured. God, it could have been a tragedy."

Why is Richard staring at the floor like that?

Daphne looked dumbly at Regina. "I'd like to go to bed now."

Regina loaned Daphne a nightgown and got her settled in the extra bedroom. Moments after she lay down, the girl was soundly asleep. Regina noticed an odd odor. Musky. Mildly repulsive. She made a mental note to politely encourage Daphne to bathe the first thing the next day. Regina eased the door closed and joined Richard in their own room.

"Sweet girl," Regina said as she slipped out of her cutoffs and cotton tank shirt. "She certainly seems to like you."

Richard was lying on his back staring up at the daintily wallpapered ceiling. "Not much to look at, but she wears some wonderful perfume, doesn't she?" He rolled over onto his stomach. "Come on, get in bed. I'm exhausted."

Regina removed several hairpins and let her thick, onyx hair fall across her slim back. She brushed it away from her delicate face, then got into bed with her husband.

"You really like the way Daphne smells?"

"Yup," Richard replied groggily.

"There's no accounting for taste, I guess."

Richard grunted.

Before she slept, Regina promised herself she would get up during the night to check on Daphne, but the next time she opened her eyes it was light.

She rolled over to cuddle Richard, but found his side of the bed empty. As her head cleared of sleep, she noticed the aromas of coffee and bacon rising from downstairs.

When she arrived in the kitchen, Regina fond Richard sitting at the big oak table while Daphne stood at the counter preparing breakfast. Regina thought for a moment that Richard had been leering lasciviously at Daphne, who was still wearing the ample borrowed gown and appeared rather homely to Regina. Not Richard's type at all. I'm just being paranoid, Regina chided herself as she sat down beside Richard.

"Well, good morning, sleepyhead," Richard said cheerfully. "Want some breakfast?"

"What time is it?"

"Oh, around six-thirty, seven o'clock."

"Since when did you become such an early riser?"

Richard leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. "Must be the country air."

"Oh yes," Daphne agreed as she brought Richard a plate laden with bacon, eggs, sliced tomatoes and biscuits.

Regina watched Daphne lean close to Richard and slide the plate slowly in front of him. She deliberately brushed Richard's arm with her breast! I'm sure of it!

Daphne looked blankly at Regina. "Breakfast?"

"No thanks. I'm not much of a morning person. I'll get some coffee in a minute."

Richard wolfed down his enormous breakfast with a lusty appetite Regina couldn't recall ever having seem before noon. When he finished his first helping, he asked for a refill.

"Yuck," Regina thought, grabbing herself a cup of coffee before leaving the room.

From where she stood on the dried-out wooden porch that hugged the front of the house, Regina could see a moving trail of dust in the air approaching the house. A battered pickup truck emerged from the dusty cloud and rattled to a stop ten feet from the house. The driver's door of the old, primer-spotted heap shrieked open and a whiskery elderly man wearing faded overalls spat on the ground and clumped heavily up to the porch. Regina could see he was carrying something. She shielded her eyes from the blasting sunlight and saw it was a formidable-looking shotgun carried broken across the man's right forearm.

"So how're you folks enjoyin your stay here?"

Regina eyeballed the shotgun. It was the first firearm she had ever seen outside of prime-time TV. "I...uh, I beg your pardon?" Flickers of the film Deliverance tumbled into her mind.

"I'm Charles Henderson. You rented this house from me. Everything okay here? Everything workin proper?"

"Oh!" Relief poured over her. "Yes! The house is just wonderful! Won't you come in for a cup of coffee?" No, I'm not paranoid, am I?

"I'd sure appreciate a glass of water. Damn dust gits stuck in my craw this time of year. Hotter'n blazes, ain't it?"

"It certainly is," Regina said, leading Mr. Henderson into the house. "My name is Regina Scott. My husband, Richard, responded to your rental ad in The Washington Post."

"I'm sure glad he did, too," Henderson said, shaking his bristly white head. "I sure can use the money. Last couple of years been terrible for my crops. Bugs, you know. Damned crop-eatin bugs. No matter what I spray,
they keep on comin like a plague. Never seen em as bad as this year. Next season I'm gonna try them new 'stinkers' on em."

"Stinkers?"

"Yeah. New bug traps baited with chemicals called pheromones that make bugs think they're smellin a mate. Draws em in and wham, they get stuck in the trap and die. High-tech stuff, you see."

When Regina and Henderson arrived in the kitchen, Richard and Daphne were standing closely at the sink, heads together.

A hot pinprick of jealousy stabbed Regina. More sharply than she intended, she said, "Richard. Our landlord, Mr. Henderson, is here."

Daphne and Richard whirled to face them. The front of Daphne's gown was soaked through with blood and clung wetly to her. Her left hand dripped crimson. Richard's face was ashen and he seemed disoriented, his eyes oddly unfocused.

Regina rushed over to inspect Daphne's injured hand. "Oh boy," she said. "You've slashed your thumb to the bone. Let's get upstairs and do something about this. There's a big stash of first aid stuff in the bathroom."

Daphne acted strangely disinterested in anything but Richard, whose expression still held and odd, dreamy quality. Each seemed reluctant to be parted from the other; Regina had to tug gently on Daphne to make her leave Richard's side.

The bathroom cabinet was filled with so many first aid items that Regina remarked that it looked like Johnson & Johnson's advance stock for World War III. Upon closer inspection of Daphne's wound, Regina was puzzled that it
didn't seem nearly as serious as she'd believed it to be downstairs. After applying antiseptic and plenty of gauze, Regina took away the stained nightgown and gave Daphne a yellow sundress to wear.

"Why don't you take a nice hot bath, Daphne? You must be awfully sore from last night, aren't you?"

"Not really," Daphne replied lightly, then pushed past Regina into the hallway.

Regina grimaced, wrinkling her nose. She supposed Daphne didn't realize how badly she smelled.

Richard and Mr. Henderson were outside, hunkered down near the foundation of the house when Regina found them.

"...and the damn things are everywhere this year," Mr. Henderson was saying. He shifted the shotgun to his left arm and picked up a small stick.

"See em all?" He riffled the soil with the stick. Both men leaned forward.

"Just nests of em all over."

Regina bent down to see. A tangled mound of fat, writhing white grubs twisted and whipped near her feet as they flailed desperately to escape the drying sunlight. A shiver iced along Regina's spine and she recoiled in disgust.

Noting Regina's revulsion, Mr. Henderson added, "Yep, they're sure nasty little devils, you bet. When they're grown, they're even worse. Turn into the most voracious crop-eatin bugs you ever saw. Big, ugly flyin things
that'll eat anything growin out of the ground." He pulled a dingy handkerchief from his rear pocket and swabbed his leathery, hatch-marked neck. "Grubs like these here'll start changin into adults as soon as the rain comes in again. First batch of adults liked to wiped me out, too. And they change some kinda fast the minute the ground gets moist. One day they're harmless little worms, next day they're monsters, tearin into my corn and soybeans. Hate em," he said fervently as he rose stiffly from his knees.

"Hate em like hell." He squinted into the sun. "Well, it's been nice meetin you folks, but I've gotta be goin now." He unceremoniously squashed the nest of larvae with one toe of his heavy workboots and ambled away through the gritty, weedfilled yard toward his truck.

As Henderson pulled the pickup's dented door shut, Regina ran up and poked her head through the open window. "By the way, Mr. Henderson, you know Daphne's father, don't you? From what she says, he's a heavy drinker and smacks her around."

Henderson leveled an appraising eye at the girl. Daphne had been standing off at a distance, but was walking over to where Richard was inspecting the ground along the base of the house.

"Don't know the girl. She from around here?"

Regina nodded. "I'm pretty sure she is."

"What's her daddy's name?"

Regina called the question to Daphne, who paused momentarily before calling back, "Johnson! Richard Johnson!"

Henderson shrugged his shoulders and fired up the Ford's thunderous engine. "No Johnsons around here I know of." He ground a gear and pulled off. As the truck bumped down the drive, he waved and yelled, "I'll check back with you folks tomorrow!"

Regina watched the superannuated vehicle and driver jolt and jounce down the drive until they both disappeared into the dust. When she turned, she found that Richard and Daphne had also vanished. She searched the house, then circled the yard several times calling their names. She called until she started to get hoarse and extremely angry.

Oh, screw them both, she thought malevolently, climbing the creaky wooden stairs to the front porch. God, that's exactly what I don't want them to do.

She slammed the flimsy screen door mightily behind her when she went into the house.

Nearly eleven hours later, at twilight, she heard Richard's voice outside. At first, she had been thoroughly incensed at him for taking of with Daphne and leaving her. Then, as daylight had waned, she become frightened and conjured up a thousand horrible scenarios, each ending with Richard's death. Now that she knew he was safe, a hot, churning rage rose up. When they came into the house, Richard and Daphne grinned at her sheepishly like a couple of naughty children with a secret. The notion trebled Regina's wrath.

Richard glanced at Daphne and back to Regina. "We, uh...well, we kind of got lost, honey. Sorry." He smirked and Daphne giggled behind her stubby fingers.

"You kind of got lost for eleven hours?"

"Yeah, see, Daphne wanted to show me a little creek that runs behind the property. We followed it a little ways and..." He made a feeble palms-up gesture.

"You kind of got lost."

"That is the situation at hand." He cocked his blue eyes at Daphne and they both snickered.

Regina was no longer as ired as she was stunned. True, Richard had not always been the perfect husband, but at least he'd always tried to appear contrite when caught in compromising straits in the past. His behavior was
exceedingly atypical.

"So what did you and Daphne do all day, Richard? Play primitive?"

Richard's silly smirk dropped into a sneer and his hands drew into tight fists at his sides. "And just what the hell do you mean by that?"

Regina took an involuntary step backward. She'd never seen Richard look so menacing.

Richard pointed a rigid finger at her. "I don't have to answer jackshit, sister! I said we were lost!"

He shouldered his way roughly past Regina to the kitchen and snatched the car keys from the table, then solicitously steered Daphne by her elbow to the front door.

"We're going out for dinner," he said, putting a protective arm around Daphne's broad shoulders. "I'm too tired and hungry to listen to any more of your crap."

After the Subaru had taken off down the drive, Regina eased herself into an overstuffed chair and stared numbly at the floor. Her anger had evaporated and she was still too shocked by Richard's uncharacteristically aggressive outburst to feel anything at all.

It had been dark for almost an hour before Regina stood and snapped on a lamp. The room had begun to reek of Daphne's insidious odor. It suddenly seemed to Regina that the entire house had been permeated by the stench.

Something had to be done about it. Sure that Daphne's room was the source of the odor, Regina went upstairs with a can of Lysol she'd brought from the city and emptied the contents into Daphne's room. It might have been water
for all the good it did. If anything, the musky stench seemed to intensify.

Regina pulled the towels stacked neatly in the hallway linen closet, grabbed several, then stuffed them into the crack between Daphne's bedroom door and the carpet.

This is crazy! Regina thought, bewildered, while she retreated to the front porch for air. She couldn't imagine what stank so badly in Daphne's room, but was positive that she wouldn't be making any more personal attempts to eradicate it. An image conjured itself up in her head: her husband and Daphne laughing it up over a couple of beers at the bar and grill. God damn you, Richard!

Soon the Subaru's headlights cut a bright path up the drive and Regina stalked into the house, not wanting to face Richard outside in the darkness.

Maybe he'd taken Daphne home--she passionately wished it so. Regina stood next to the kitchen table praying that things would right themselves between Richard and her when the screen door slammed open and a familiar unpleasant odor rolled in. Daphne's odor.

Richard weaved drunkenly into the kitchen alone. He grinned stupidly at Regina with one side of his mouth, squinting with intoxication. "Hey, bitch," he said, drooling a string a saliva.

Daphne stepped boldly into the kitchen, her body odor stinging Regina's nostrils. Regina grabbed a dish towel and pressed it to her nose and mouth.

How could Richard stand it? Being in the same room was now too much for her.

Daphne ignored Regina's presence entirely, giving her full attention to Richard. She pressed herself into his back and encircled him brazenly with her arms.

He turned, reeling, and staggered into Daphne's embrace.

Daphne peered defiantly over Richard's shoulder at Regina and slowly probed his ear with her tongue.

Regina threw down the dish towel and sprinted for the staircase. Once in her room, she locked the door and hurled herself onto the bed. She lay motionless for hours, unable to cry, unable to feel anything. A drifting sense of disconnection from herself and what might be going on beyond her door left her hollow. In the morning, she promised herself, I'll take the car and go home. Before long, she was sleeping dreamlessly.

She was awakened by the sound of a heavy, soaking rain thudding against the wooden exterior of the house. Checking the bedside clock, she was amazed to see it was almost noon and hurriedly changed into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved top for warmth against the uncomfortably cool, damp air. When she opened the bedroom door and stepped unto the hallway, a blast of odor struck her. Her stomach lurched. She pinched her nostrils closed and rushed downstairs.

As she passed the kitchen she saw Daphne sitting at the oak table, head down, greasy hair spread over her crossedarms. Her smell was terrible. It seemed to leak from every pore of her body.

"Daphne?" Regina asked quietly, tentatively.

Daphne slowly raised her head.

Regina's mouth fell open when she saw the girl's face. It was horribly swollen and discolored. Daphne's lips had turned hideously blue and puffy, and her eyes were lost in the bloated flesh of her face.

"Oh, god," Regina whispered. "What's happened to you?"

Daphne's mouth gaped open but she couldn't speak. Her tongue, swollen and purplish, was too large to allow articulation. A series of garbled grunts and sputters was all she could manage.

Regina felt a grey wooziness swirl in her head and fought to stay conscious. The room swayed. Richard. "Where is Richard?" she asked groggily. Then she screamed, "Where is Richard?"

Daphne struggled to her feet. Ragged patches of her skin were peeling away and hanging by tatters of flesh. Shiny, dark areas that looked hard as bone showed beneath. Daphne's body ballooned; her arms and legs bulged so
that they hardly bent at the joints. Daphne grunted, pushed away from the table and lurched awkwardly, stiff-leggedly, toward Regina.

Regina spun and ran from the kitchen. She screamed for Richard as she dashed up the stairway, hurdling over two and three stairs at a time.

Heavy, plodding steps followed.

Daphne was coming.

If Richard was in the house at all, there was only one place he could be.

Regina thrust open the door to Daphne's room and found Richard sprawled naked across the stinking bed, sleeping soundly.

"Bastard!" Regina shrieked. She ran to Richard and tried to rouse him, pushing and yanking at him frantically. He refused to awaken and lay there, inert and immovable.

"Get up, get up! She's coming!" Regina sobbed.

Richard slept on.

Daphne appeared in the doorway and moved forward.

Regina screamed and moved past the thing, escaping down the stairs. The car keys, she thought wildly. Where the hell are the car keys. She stood quivering at the bottom of the stairs trying to think. She had to have those keys. It struck her: they were in Richard's pants pocket. What am I going to do? She crouched miserably against the staircase and gulped air in short bursts. Squeezing her eyes shut and clenching her jaw tightly, she grappled with her terror, forcing back unreasoning panic. Her breathing had slowed somewhat when a thunderous, splintering crash from upstairs neatly severed her tenuous grip on rationality. Instinct kicked in, propelling her madly
through the outside doorway and away from the house.

When partial awareness returned to her, she was fifty yards away, ankle deep in mud, sobbing.

A sharp explosion erupted somewhere nearby.

Moments later, Henderson's pickup truck roared up the drive splattering mud in every direction. The truck jerked to a halt and Henderson climbed out, smoking shotgun in hand.

"Where's your husband, girl? What's going on here?"

Regina pointed dumbly at the house.

Henderson rammed two shells into the chambers of his gun and headed toward the door. Regina slogged through the mud after him.

Inside, they cautiously ascended the stairway and found the door to Daphne's bedroom standing ajar. Henderson gently toed the door open, shotgun poised.

Richard huddled on the sodden carpet next to a gaping, jagged hole in the wall where a small window should have been. Drizzle swirled into the room past the rupture, drenching Richard and drawing away the rank stench as the
room filled with fresh air.

Richard got shakily to his feet. "Whatever it was, it broke through the wall and got out. What the hell was that thing?"

"I just shot somethin down by the creek," Henderson said. "Saw it from the road on my way over here. Looked somethin like a huge grub. It was nearly six foot tall, headin out toward the cornfield. At first it moved upright, then it went down and started crawlin on its belly. Never saw anything to beat it. Scared the livin hell outta me. Blew it to pieces, sure enough."

"It was Daphne, Mr. Henderson," Regina said, and began to shiver uncontrollably.

Henderson cocked his head and eyed the door to the clothes closet. "You hear somethin in there?" he asked Richard.

Richard put his ear close to the door and jerked back. "Yes."

"Okay," Henderson said as he lifted his shotgun. "You throw that door open and jump back quick, son."

Richard grabbed the door handle, yanked the door open and dove out of range.

Instead of firing, Henderson let the barrel of his gun down. His eyes widened in disbelief.

Richard moved in for a look and began to scream like a badly injured animal. The sound carved itself permanently into Regina's memory.

The closet was filled with hundreds of shiny globular objects of some clear, jelly-like substance and were held together as a mass by a sticky, viscous liquid. Within each globe was a pink, tadpole-like creature the size of a large man's fist which flipped and spun within its glistening sphere, making the strange smacking sounds Henderson had noticed. Each of the creatures possessed a startling pair of embryonic eyes.

Bright blue eyes.

Just like Richard's.

"Holy God in Heaven," Henderson said. "Eggs."

Richard was still screaming when Henderson unloaded both barrels of his shotgun into the closet.

* * * * * * * *

Two years have passed since the incident at the Henderson house. During that time, the Scotts' marriage has strengthened and flourished. Regina is radiant with her first pregnancy and Richard has wholeheartedly embraced an entirely monogamous lifestyle.


Copyright 1986/2000 JL Comeau