Dregs of Society Read online

  DREGS OF SOCIETY

  By Michael Laimo

  First Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press & Macabre Ink Digital

  Copy-edited by Erin Bailey and David Dodd

  Cover created by David Dodd

  Cover images courtesy of:

  http://ashensorrow.deviantart.com

  http://mihaell.deviantart.com/

  http://fallout75.deviantart.com/

  http://johnmkimmins.deviantart.com/

  Copyright 2011 by Michael Laimo

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  OTHER CROSSROAD TITLES BY MICHAEL LAIMO:

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  The Demonologist

  Sleepwalker

  COLLECTIONS:

  Demons, Freaks, and Other Abnormalities

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  A Matter of When

  Anxiety

  Big Bertha

  For the Infestation of Maggots

  George

  The Happiest Man Alive

  Milk

  Off the Hook

  One Last Breath

  The Smart Society

  Standing Silent, Without Heart

  Sweet Dreams

  Tapestry

  Urban Sabbatical

  The Water's Call

  Within the Darkness, Golden Eyes

  A Matter of When

  Dawn's first light tinted the sky as I walked across the back lawn to my home. The woods, set a hundred yards back, watched me with poisoned eyes as I stumbled past the bird fountain, through the doors into my study.

  I have not slept in bed with my wife for six months now; without question it is a miracle she has not attempted to abandon me, take our daughter away and isolate me within the walls of this infested house. Perhaps by subliminal or subconscious force, she realizes the option does not exist, that she cannot abscond, that something dreadful would happen to her or our daughter if the attempt were made.

  I only wish this to be true.

  This night, sleep remained alien to me, a situation not in the least bit unfamiliar. Yet now, with the opportunity for rest finally at my disposal, I find no possibility for success in even the shortest moments of slumber. The visions I beheld during the treacherous night were grotesque beyond any means of even the sickest imagination, and would haunt me further should I attempt to escape the waking world.

  It is hard to fathom that nearly eighteen months have passed since the first one, Fenal, had appeared at my window. In the time that has passed since that terrible night, my family has all but disowned me, my practice has suffered greatly, and my health, well, the appearance of many years have piled on so heavily that I fear as much as a subtle glance in the mirror, for fear that the monster staring back at me will be unrecognizable.

  So there is nothing left to do but remain stoic, stay true to my knowledge that only a life filled with dread—damnation—would spell out the lives of my wife and child should I confess my knowledge of the people with the golden eyes.

  But how am I to continue like this? Still keep myself sane? My wife no longer expresses any love for me, she truly believes that I have lost my mind to some disease I have no acceptance of—which of course is ludicrous given my expertise in the field. And my patients? They have dropped off slowly, unquestionably no longer trustworthy of my abilities due to the sheer appearance and lack of fortitude I exhibit. But—and how grateful I am—there are still those few who remain faithful, dedicated, their regard for my reputable distinction held true in their souls, God bless.

  God bless. Ha. Now that's a joke. An expression that, as far as I'm concerned, holds little integrity these days. If there is any good God on earth spreading his benedictions, then he is most assuredly letting evil cloak his way.

  Last night had been hellishly unequaled by any other suffering I've endured since this whole God-forsaken thing began eighteen months ago. It started at 9:00, three hours premature than any previous beckon. I was checking on my daughter, my princess, she a sleeping comma-shape beneath the quilted covers on her bed. Her tattered teddy-bear lay curled in her grasp, its one button-eye dangling from withered threads. I ran a hand through her deep brown hair—one of the simple pleasures I still have in life—gazing through the upstairs window alongside the headboard, into the dark of night.

  Staring into the woods—sometimes hours at a time—has become an obsession of mine, and although they never summon me more than once a week, I still find the urgency to repeatedly seek out their signal. My wife, a constant witness to my extreme apprehension, shares great pain with me, but adamantly blames my suffering on mental illness, paranoia, and it is with great frustration I can never reveal to her that I suffer only as a means for her safety, and the safety of our daughter. That I can never reveal to her the hideous secret about the woods and its inhabitants.

  With my hand tenderly caressing my daughter's hair, my gaze still pinned outside, I saw them, escaping the perimeter of the woods, approaching the house. Golden eyes, perhaps a dozen of them, floating like great fireflies from a child's fairy tale.

  The sight jolted me, my hand slipping from my child's head, mistakenly tearing the teddy bear from her grasp. It fell to the hardwood floor with a quiet, graceful thump, slightly stirring my five-year-old from her dreams, but thankfully not withdrawing her from her silence.

  Leaving the teddy bear on the floor, I quickly escaped her room, downstairs, scampering through the kitchen where my silent wife, as usual, had her thoughts lost in a book. Lately I feel as if she has accepted my odd behavior, learning to ignore me whenever my 'delusions' have command of me.

  Once in my study, I seized hold of my medical bag in which I have all the appropriate tools necessary for curing their ills: bandages, antibiotics, a variety of tools and scalpels (the latter having performed numerous amputations), and exited the floor-to-ceiling windowed doors in my study, into the night.

  At once the golden orbs signaled me (in actuality the eyes themselves did not gesture, but the impetuous movement of their bodies induced a flurry of luminous activity) and I followed their lead into the dark woods.

  For a full year they did not allow me knowledge of the location of their lair, as part, I assume, of their intense precautions and matters of privacy. Now, after numerous attacks against me, and more formidable threats, I have chosen not to lead anyone there, much less reveal their existence, fearing not for my safety, but for the protection of those others who may share the misfortunate knowledge of this evil breed.

  At first the initial appearance of the people with the golden eyes had been enough to swoon me; later a self-administered anesthetic became a necessity. I would find myself awakened within their underground den, a great number of them groping me with filthy elongated fingers, their giant eyes slightly dulled from either sickness or fatigue. Mouths rife with gnarled, brown teeth would implore me in a language consisting of half English utterances, half undecipherable commands, their message always the same: help.

  I stumbled upon the locale of their great subterranean den by accident, really, on a day when though
ts of these evil night dwellers had faded from the forefront of my mind. It had been nearly five weeks since their last nightly manifestation in my back yard, and I started to believe that perhaps they had fled, had gone on to terrorize the lives of others, someplace far, far away. My daughter and I were in the backyard, playing, laughing (something I had not done for months, and I was positive my wife had felt I escaped my 'affliction'), when she suddenly fled into the woods, arms wide, yelling some nonsensical, gamesome gibberish. The feelings of horror that grasped me at that very moment she disappeared into the woods hurdled my susceptibility to fear far, far beyond even that of my initial experience acquainting me with these demonic beasts. I pursued, calling her, thoughts of her coming face-to-face with one the demons torturing my mind. Her laughs guided me deep into the woods, its canopy blanketing me in shadows as I yelled and yelled her name.

  Then I heard her scream. Whether it was playful or fearful, I could not tell.

  I sped, sidestepping reaching roots and scattered brush. I finally found her, standing within a circle of ivy-shrouded oaks, knee-deep in a blanket of dead leaves.

  Then, it hit me, like a great rush of hot air. The smell, the familiar foulness of decaying leaves and excrement and putridness and all things gone to rot, rising up from an unseen source.

  I had found it. Somewhere beneath her gentle footsteps was the dwelling place of the people with the golden eyes. I shouted, pleaded with her to return to me, utter cowardice freezing my legs from taking me any further than the outer perimeter of the trees.

  Then I saw them.

  The image behind my daughter, Jesus, it seemed so nightmarishly surreal, so weirdly feigned, it felt as if I were looking at some hoaxed up image from a book of nineteenth-century ghost photographs. But it was real, mere feet from me, embodied within a small drift of twigs, leaves, and soil. A face, staring at me, its eyes—usually aglow at night—dulled to a drab shade of brown. The gnarled, knobby head, appeared as if it were a strange piece of nature, shifting ever so slightly, gently jostling the dead woodland camouflaging it—like an anglerfish nestled in the sand awaiting its prey at sea bottom.

  As my eyes adjusted to the entire surroundings, more came into view. Perhaps a dozen demons, masterfully camouflaged within the brown earth-toned environs, hideous, gnarled faces with downcast brows, staring at me, stirring ever so slightly as if to alert me to their presence, but not so much as to make themselves apparent to my daughter.

  She laughed, waved at me, unaware of the threat only feet behind her.

  Then, from the corners of my pained eyes, I saw something, a burrowing-like ripple below the leaves, approaching her from behind. It stopped at her heels and I froze, paralyzed by fear, heart pounding, my breaths short and stagnant. Then, like a worm unearthing itself, a brownish face appeared, a hideous mask squirming out from the layer of brush and tangle. A single clawed limb rooted out alongside it, reaching for her ankle.

  It had to have been sheer mental will (it certainly wasn't my bravery), but she ran to me at that moment, as if my mental pleas somehow coerced her to bring her body forward. She rushed into my arms and I quickly embraced her and ran to the house, holding her tightly the entire way, locking the doors and shuttering the windows immediately upon our hasty arrival.

  I could feel the utter frustration and disappointment on my wife's part as I sped around like a raving lunatic, she standing there agape, undoubtedly in assumption that I had 'relapsed' to my former state of mental discontent. Now looking back, I feel that she had been correct to assume that I had lost my mind.

  I finally reached the circle of oaks, the beasts aggressively clutching at my clothes, hissing reptile-like alarms in indication that I had arrived. Two hidden doorways popped up from beneath the brush on the forest floor, each constructed of mud and thatch, leaves and twigs intricately woven on and around them to permanently disguise their existence.

  I was abruptly forced through one of the entranceways, into a steep narrow passage. Practically falling forward, I stretched my arms out in front of me, feeling my way as my shoulders scraped along the walls, my head against the low ceiling. The passage twisted and turned; in some places it widened, other times thinned out. Sections broke off every so often into branched corridors. I felt bodies scampering by as I stumbled further into the earth, hooting louder and louder, limbs groping me—guiding me, only their golden, bulbous irises floating four feet from the ground visible in the blackness.

  A flickering of lights appeared in a room ahead. Once there, I saw a familiar sight: an immense subterranean dwelling, hundreds of burning torches lining the soil walls, igniting the chamber to a ghostly golden hue. Hovels, dug out in the muddy walls, sat at various heights and distances, glowing eyes peering at me from within their depths. And, as always, that ceaseless snarling of accusatory whispers.

  The hub. Their dwelling.

  Fenal leaped from the advancing crowd, positioned his wiry body three feet in front of me, limbs swaying as if he were dancing. His grin was brown and rancid, brimming. "Savior." A sudden hush of whispers overcame the crowd.

  If usual circumstances had resumed, I would have been marauded by a mob running three deep, each suffering some sickening ailment; broken limbs, parasites, complicated child-birthings, infection. I would have been guided by Fenal into a separate antechamber to the left where I have an 'office', where, one by sickening one, I would be forced to treat them, bind their broken parts, seal their wounds, administer antibiotics. Same terrible, fatiguing thing each and every God-damned time.

  But not this time.

  Fenal held his arms high; a black beetle nesting in his armpit skittered down the side of his mangy torso. "Katah!" he screamed. The hundreds of golden-eyed night dwellers squealed and screeched in a roaring frenzy, waving their broomstick arms in all directions.

  Something seemed...wrong, and I truly felt at the moment that my existence would come to an inglorious end right here, that my last breathing moments would take place now, in this den of hell.

  A flurry of activity arose behind Fenal, a jostling of bodies. Then, a scream.

  A human scream.

  Deep, guttural, exhausted, pained, most assuredly that of a man. I craned my neck in attempt to peer past Fenal and those few imps crouching menacingly alongside him, but a number of the breed held me firmly by the arms and legs, keeping me in place, and I could not make out the cause of the commotion, or the source of the moan.

  Fenal gazed at me, his eyes now glowing as bright as the torches providing light to this hellish pit. Those hunkering near him suddenly darted away like frightened cats, their squeals echoing about the chamber.

  I stared back, waiting, never imagining for even the slightest moment that any worse nightmare could exist beyond all I had endured for the past eighteen months. I was wrong. It did.

  Through the tops of my eyes I saw something move, and I did my best to focus on the continuing activity just behind Fenal. The head-demon then stepped aside and in his place I saw a figure loom, that of a man, hunched, obviously wearied. I could not see his face at first, but I recognized the dark denim jeans and flannel jacket he wore.

  Suddenly two demons pounced on the man, digging their fingered and toed claws into his clothes and skin. He screamed and they grasped him by the hair, mocking his screams with wild howls of their own. They pulled him to his knees and a shroud of flickering torch-light washed across his trembling face, badly beaten, bloodied, bruised.

  My nearest neighbor. Len Deighton.

  Seeing Len here, like this, introduced me to a powerful new emotion, one which pooled all my sentiments, all my perceptions, and submerged them deep into a sea of devastation, creating a feeling that I could only interpret as dreadfully stagnant, and lifeless.

  It was my worst nightmare, and it had come true, a punishment for me even worse than death itself: another human being, here, in the realm of the people with the golden eyes.

  Fenal approached me, cracked bulbous lips inches away from my
face. He whispered, "Savior." His dirty breath stank of decay. "Maltor..."

  The entire clan repeated the foreign gesture, hushed, yet deep and caustic. Hundreds of golden lights glowed in the distance. Confusion beset my tortured mind.

  Maltor?

  Len's eyes, what little life remained in them, pleaded with me, seeking an explanation for his suffering.

  But there would be no explanation. Only an end.

  Fenal slithered over, forcibly handed me a club of wood which had been crudely carved from a woodland tree. I grasped it, suddenly aware of their dreadful intentions for myself and for Len.

  Maltor. Kill. They wanted me to kill Len Deighton.

  I held the wood club, sweat pouring from my palm, my mind circling in vain attempt to find the logic behind their perverse request. But I could not. A thing such as logic does not exist down here. The golden-eyed breed are pure evil, ungracious and malevolent, unknowing of such a philosophy. When they required my aid, when they had been sick and lame with injury and disease, they virtually kidnapped me, held me and my family hostage until I cured each and every God-damned one. Thinking back, back to day one, to the moment when Fenal first appeared at my study window, I should have fought them right there and then, when they were weak and vulnerable and my prospects for escape were within reason. But now with their health back, they are strong, they are what they once used to be. Evil beings, God's impropriety of creation, here, now revived and brimming and anxious to live life again as they once did, as they only know how.

  Savior. Yes, that's what they call me. Now I understand why. I saved their race from extinction. And now, from what I can fathom, they're done with me.

  Maltor! Fenal screamed. The breed repeated his demand, the roar of it deafening.