“Skippy, Mommy’s home!”

Marcie’s Beagle lay in the middle of the apartment as she stepped through the door. He rested his snout on his paws and did not move. An anxious stare seemed to emanate from the depths of his dark eyes. 
How odd, she thought. Skippy always hurried to the door when she returned home from work. 

Marcie called him again, wondering if perhaps he got into the garbage and ate something that made him sick. A quick glance at the waste basket dispelled that thought, though she did notice a few days of dirty dishes pied up on the sink had begun to grow mold on them.

When he still did not come, she walked over and knelt beside him. The Beagle pressed his trembling body against her leg, and whimpered.

“What’s the matter with my puppy?” she asked. “Are you mad at mommy for getting home so late?”

Marcie petted his snout and scratched behind his ears.  His nose felt wet and cold. The vet had told her a dog’s cold, wet nose is almost always an indication of health.

After petting him, she smelled her hand. His coat gave off an old, damp odor and she figured she better get him to the groomer.

Skippy then jumped up and ran to the door. He scratched feverishly as though wanting to get out.

“All right, I’ll take you for a walk after I change,” she said.

When Marcie walked Skippy to the park, he tugged at the leash, pulling her along. At the park, he rolled and scratched his back in the grass, panting with his tongue hanging out as though nothing had happened.

Upon returning to the apartment however, his demeanor changed and Skippy refused to step inside. She tugged hard on the leash.

“Skippy! Come, NOW!”

He continued to pull away and tried to twist free of the leash. Skippy squirmed as Marcie picked him up, and carried him inside. After setting him on the floor she stooped to retrieve his dog food from beneath the sink. Skippy pressed against the side of her legs, trembling once again.

She coughed at the cupboard’s musty, mildew odor. She then recalled smelling it in her bedroom shower that morning, and made a note to call the apartment manager.

After dinner, Marcie curled up on her couch, reading and sipping on a glass of Merlot. Skippy lay at her feet. She fell asleep in the chair, but was awakened around midnight. Skippy was whimpering and his eyes were fixed on the darkened hallway.

Marcie followed his stare, but saw nothing. She decided to be sure, and tip-toed into the kitchen to retrieve her cell phone from her purse, in case she needed to call 911.

“Aw damn it,” she said under her breath, remembering she had set the purse on her bedroom vanity.

Marcie grabbed a knife from the counter butcher block. She took slow, deliberate steps across the carpet, gripping the knife ready to slash at anything or anyone who might spring from the darkness. Upon reaching the edge of the hallway, she flipped the light switch.

Marcie exhaled, relieved by the empty, illuminated hallway. She turned back toward the living room. Skippy still lay by her chair.

“Oh all right, you big baby,” she said. “I’ll check the bedroom and bathroom.”

Marcie found nothing. Even though she lived on the second floor, she gave a cursory check of the windows and sliding glass door that led to the balcony. None showed signs of being jimmied open or tampered with.

There was no way Marcie thought, anyone could have entered the apartment without her knowing it. After showering, she climbed into bed. After tossing and turning for nearly an hour, she finally fell into a deep sleep.

Skippy’s incessant, but muffled yelping awakened her just before dawn. Flipping on the nightstand light, Marcie stared horrified and unable to cry out.

The Beagle thrashed about on the floor covered in a pulsating gob of greenish-gray mold. It appeared to be feeding on him. Within seconds, Skippy had been reduced to nothing more than his carcass and collar.
Marcie glanced around the room. Mold seeped through the air ducts, and squeezed through the walls. It slid onto the floor, undulating toward her in a slow-moving tsunami of gray-green fuzz. She jumped from bed and ran for the door, but slipped on thick thick, slimy mat of mold.

Marcie’s feet flew from beneath her and she hit the floor with a thud. She momentarily lay stunned with the wind knocked out of her. Catching her breath, she tried to scramble to her feet.

She found her movements sluggish, and her body felt wet and slimy. Marcie sobbed and screamed as she realized the fungus had begun to grow on her.

The mold had already snaked its way into her skin. She gagged as it coated her tongue and throat. Marcie twisted frantically, fighting to free herself.

Ivy-like tendrils grew out her skin however and had embedded themselves into the floor. As Marcie gasped for one last breath, she wished she would have heeded Skippy’s warning. 

_____________________________________

©2011 Hal Kempka

Harold ‘Hal’ Kempka’s short stories have appeared in Flashes in the Dark, Twisted Dreams, Black Lantern, 69 Flavors of Paranoia, Sex and Murder, Night to Dawn, Thrillers Killers and Chillers among numerous other magazines and Ezines. His published stories in Anthologies include Post Mortem Press: Shadow Play, Pill Hill Press: Rotting Tales, and Blood Bound Books: Seasons in the Abyss. He is a FlashXer flash fiction workshop member, and lives in Southern California.

Willie and Loretta spent the afternoon visiting the park arboretum and museums. They wandered toward an aging fountain in the Park Mercado, where a small crowd gathered.

 
A hand-painted sign read, “Giuseppe and Constantine.”  Giuseppe, tired-looking and bow-legged, slowly wound the organ handle with a wrinkled, bony hand. Constantine, his wide-eyed Capuchin monkey scooted along the front row of spectators on a long chain.

 
The monkey flashed the crowd an endearing, toothy smile. People threw in change and dollar bills into its pill box hat.

 
“Look Willie, how cute,” Loretta said. “He makes faces just like a person.”
 
“Yeah, but look at the cash,” Willie said nodding toward a tip box at the grinder’s feet. “I’ll bet the old fart drives his monkey home at night in a Mercedes and lives in a mansion.”
 
Constantine’s mischievous antics delighted the dwindling late afternoon crowd.  He ran along the front row as though looking up at their faces. When the monkey suddenly snatched Willie’s wallet the applause and appreciative laughter turned tentative. 
 
Giuseppe stopped the organ and grunted a few commands. Constantine returned the wallet and glanced at Willie before scooting across the sidewalk. It climbed onto Giuseppe’s shoulder and chattered in his ear.

 
“I ‘m sorry folks,” he said, feeding the monkey a piece of banana, “but Constantine says he’s tired, so I gotta take him home.”
 
After packing his equipment on a small wagon the organ grinder removed the longer chain. Before he could attach a shorter one Constantine jumped to the ground, and scampered into the crowd. Panicking parents swept their children into their arms.

 
Willie grabbed Constantine by the tail as it ran past.  The monkey wheeled around and sunk his teeth into the loose skin between Willie’s thumb and forefinger.

 
“Ouch! Let go!” Willie hollered, trying to shake the monkey free. Then, he grabbed its throat with his other hand. Willie tightened the grip on Constantine’s neck, and held on until Giuseppe ran over. The organ grinder attached the chain to its collar and Constantine climbed up onto his master’s shoulder. The monkey screeched at Willie and flashed its mischievous smile. The animal slid a hand behind the grinder’s neck. 
 
“Thank you,” the old man said in a flat monotone. “Let me see your hand; did he draw blood?”

 
“It’s not too bad.”
 
Willie held up his hand, and Giuseppe inspected it. Constantine’s teeth had
punched through the webbing in several places.

 
 “Please, you go to the doctor and then bring me the bill,” Giuseppe giving him a card. “I am very sorry. Constantine is good monkey. He doesn’t usually do this.”
 
After examining and cleaning Willie’s hand the urgent care doctor gave him a tetanus shot. When the bill arrived a week later however, Willie stared at the five hundred dollars in charges, and shook his head.
 
“I’m glad I’m not paying this. I’m going to take the bill to the organ grinder.”
 
“Willie.” Loretta said, “You better go see the doctor first. Just to make sure you don’t have an infection.”
 
“Nah, don’t worry. Everything will be fine. It’s not even red anymore.”
 
A few days later, Willie drove to the address on the card. As he pulled to a stop, the dilapidated house and weed strewn yard surprised him. There was no Mercedes and he certainly did not live in a mansion. After double checking the address, Willie knocked on the screen door.
 
“Hello, anybody here?” he hollered.
 
“Come in! It’s open,” someone yelled from inside.
 
Upon stepping inside the darkened room Willie gagged from a sickly odor resembling a zoo pen. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed food, dirty clothes and animal feces scattered all over.
 
 “I just stopped by to drop off the doctor bill,” he said. “You remember, after your monkey bit me in the park several weeks ago.”
 
“I was wondering when you’d finally get here.”
 
Willie spotted Giuseppe’s frail form in a chair across the room. He was outlined in the dim light from a filmy, yellowed window with Constantine sitting on his shoulder.  When Willie approached, the monkey jumped from the old man’s shoulder and scampered into the dark.

 
“I would have come sooner, but I wanted to make sure there was no infection.”
 
When Giuseppe didn’t reply, Willie leaned forward, thinking he might not have heard him. He bumped Giuseppe’s leg, and the old man’s decaying corpse fell forward.  As Willie jumped back startled, he spotted a hole punched through the back of his skull.

 
“Giuseppe was old and tired,” a voice in the darkness resembling Giuseppe’s said, “You know, he was your age when I chose him as a master.”
 
Constantine suddenly sprang from the darkness, wild-eyed and screeching. Before Willie could react, the monkey landed on his back, and jammed its hand into the base of his skull. Willie stood rigid with an expressionless stare. Then he jerked for several seconds and stopped with his arms hanging limp.

 
The monkey peeled back the tip of its tail like a banana. He inserted it into the hole punched in Willie’s skull, and an umbilical-like cord of fibrous nerves emerged/ They snaked their way along the segmental rifts of Willie’s brain, and imbedded themselves in the gray and white matter axons. Sparking synapses erased Willie’s memory.
 
Constantine then guided Willie across the room and stood him hunched over in front the organ. Willie slowly began to crank it while Constantine set the timer on a tripod mounted camera. The monkey perched on Willie’s shoulder with a mischievous grin as the flash lit up the room.

 
Framed photos of a smiling Constantine perched on the shoulders of organ grinders from different eras, sat on the fireplace mantle. An empty space on the end awaited Willie’s photo.

_______________________

 ©2011 Hal Kempka

Hal Kempka, a former marine who lives in California, has been published in numerous magazines and ezines including :  Flashes in the Dark, House of Horror UK, Black Petals, Blood Moon Rising, Dark Valentine, Dark and Dreary, Night to Dawn, Sex and Murder, Thrillers Killers and Chillers, The New Flesh, and Twisted Dreams, among others. Anthology credits include Pill Hill Press, Blood Bound Books, and Post Mortem Press.