Carl relished the stunt he pulled that day, but some hardheaded people just couldn't take a hint. The crawls.p.a.ce spread before him about thirty feet to the sunken spot below the kitchen. It was a hard crawl for a man of his age even though working the boiler room at Tucker Paper kept him in shape. Dragging a hundred pounds of dead weight behind him didn't help. As he towed the dog forward, he kept watch for the spiders and scorpions that loved to winter in damp dark places.

For years, Carl kept up his little game of tormenting Pumpkinhead Johnny. Missy never guessed what went on when she wasn't looking. Every few days he came over and looked for the gold and silver that lay waiting. When Johnny wanted attention, Carl jabbed him with a pin. That soon grew old, so he got creative. Once he helped Johnny stick pennies up the misshapen nostrils of his pig-like snout. Three days later old Doc Simmons dug through all the jellied snot and snagged them with needle-nosed pliers.

Another time, the boys were out behind the barn. Thirteen now, he stood a head taller than Johnny. Johnny's misshapen mouth sucked noisily at a grape Popsicle. The racket he made so annoyed Carl that he took it away and teased Johnny with it. The laughing Pumpkinhead chased him all around the old hog lot to get it back. Grunting and grabbing after the Popsicle with his stumbling lope, Johnny soon tired. Carl stopped and brought what was left of it back. For once, he thought, Pumpkinhead might just cry. Johnny stood there out of breath and reaching. He opened and closed his mitts like crab claws, while grunting his animal noises, begging for the Popsicle.

Carl taunted Johnny with the melting Popsicle once more, then rubbed grape goop all over Johnny's bald head and threw the remains in the dust. For once, Carl thought he saw a spark of humanity in Johnny's face as the r.e.t.a.r.d looked down at the melting mess lying in the dust. Carl flew into a rage. He knew there was no way a monster like Johnny harbored a human spirit. Johnny Banks couldn't have a soul like him, like anyone else. Trash like the Banks' weren't real people. They were livestock, nothing more and lived only for the pleasure of others.

But, he saw that spark in Johnny's eyes. d.a.m.n him. Deep down it terrified Carl to think that Johnny might feel. Johnny might think that he was the same, as good as him and everyone else. He pushed Johnny down and sat on his back, holding the ogre face down in an anthill. Johnny struggled as the red swarm gnawed the flesh from his eyes and ears. Carl held him, hating him more than he ever had before. Johnny squalled like a pig in the slaughterhouse, choking on the dirt and stinging ants. He struggled, throwing dirt and hog s.h.i.t in all directions.

When Johnny's resistance faded, Carl let him up. He brushed the ants away and led Johnny to his mother. Once again, he played the dutiful, protective friend in her presence. The ants had done Johnny terrible. As Missy Banks ministered to her son, Carl realized how warm and caring she really was. She looked soft and attractive, but the widow hadn't allowed a man around the farm for years. For the first time, Carl felt something stir deep inside.

He had just about given up towing the dead dog when Digger tottered over the edge and fell into the depression. Carl had tired long before as the crawls.p.a.ce pressed in tight around him. He'd worked thirty years squirming into tight s.p.a.ces in the mill power plant without a hint of claustrophobia. Now, the surroundings closed in on him.

Could it be bad air? Carl blinked his eyes, but saw none of the little sparklies on his retina he knew as the telltale signs of poisoned air. He smelled no gas either. Probably just his imagination, but s.p.a.ce between the rock piers that supported the house looked smaller. The floor joists hugged closer to the ground than he remembered. He must have gained some weight in the last few weeks.

Carl knew he had taken too much time getting Digger under the house. He wormed his way around the depression until his head and shoulders pointed toward the exit hatch. Even the way out looked further from this direction. He couldn't be more than thirty feet away, but it looked more like a hundred.

He had to get out now. His perception was out of whack and every sense skewed wildly. He wanted escape, just like the night he first found the gold.

Carl stayed away from the Banks place for more than a week while Johnny healed from his ant stings. Doc Simmons said he didn't know how Johnny survived with so many bites and stings. Miracle. He used that word.

Before, Carl wouldn't have cared. He would even have welcomed Johnny's death, but that att.i.tude changed after the hog lot. When he went back, Carl gave little thought to torturing Johnny, even less to treasure. He had a new fascination.

Missy Banks.

All Carl could think about was Johnny's mother. She prowled his dreams at night and consumed his thoughts by day. Missy was in her mid thirties. She was at least twenty years older than Carl, but in his mind, that didn't matter.

One day, while Johnny played in the hayloft, Carl spied on Missy through cracks in the siding as she hung out the wash. The evening sun shone through her simple cotton housedress revealing the silhouette of her slender shape. Autumn light set her auburn hair afire with colors that rivaled the changing leaves.

Sitting there under Missy's spell, it occurred to him that he hadn't thought of treasure in weeks. Treasure could wait. Carl had already found the gold he wanted. He would have it, too. His fourteenth birthday was in four weeks, so he had plenty of time to plan. He would hold the only gold he cared for.

The golden hair and flesh of Missy Banks would be his own.

Carl stopped crawling, out of breath again. Halfway to the doorway, the hip pocket of his overalls had snagged on a nail hanging from one of the floor joists. He reached back with his left hand and wrenched it free. The nail bit into the back of his hand.

"s.h.i.t."

Blood streamed from the wound. He bit his lip and struggled forward. Splinters from the rough sawn joists tore into the back of his neck and down his back. They left his jacket in shreds.

Now Carl saw the sparklies. Bad air hid under the house after all, and it sapped his strength. He could feel the life seeping from his body. He had to hurry. There wasn't far to crawl. When he reached the door, he would breathe.

A shadow perched in the small door opening now. Sutton's terrier looked in at him and wagged its tail. Good. He'd wring that fuzzy little neck and toss it under here with Digger. The more stink the better.

Carl struggled forward to the door. This wasn't his imagination. It was tighter under the house. With his hands, he scooped the dirt from in front of him, pushed it away to the side, and squeezed his way forward. He had to hurry. The kids were coming over for his birthday supper.

Now, he smelled something more than bad air. Something dead.

Two days before his fourteenth birthday, Carl's family relented and gave him his present. The .22 rifle was just what he wanted. He treasured it and fondled the blued steel. That evening he took it over to Johnny's house and proudly showed it to Missy. The deadly eye staring from the end of the muzzle impressed her so much that she did everything Carl told her to do.

First, he had her lock Johnny in the closet. Carl propped a chair against the doork.n.o.b for extra security. Then, he had Missy strip naked and tied her to the bed. He savored the sight of her soft flesh, so white and creamy. It almost glowed sky blue in the dark room except where the sun had caressed Missy's arms and face to gold. Carl used her off and on all night.

He returned from school the next day, removed the gag from Missy's mouth, and tried to kiss her. She responded with curses and a wicked bite instead of the affection he craved. Carl put the gag back and resumed the previous night's game.

Before, he had been timid and cautious, but now he felt so free. He worked more confident, more brutal.

By the third night, it all began to bore him. He let Johnny out of the closet and tied him to the foot of the bed looking down at his mother. He placed a plastic bag over Johnny's head and raped his mother again as Johnny watched and suffocated.

That ch.o.r.e out of the way, Carl unbagged and untied Johnny. He cleaned him up, dressed him in his pajamas, and placed Johnny in bed so people would think he died in his sleep. Then, Carl took a bath, set an alarm clock, and crawled into bed beside Missy. She lay there in shock, dehydrated, and catatonic with grief while he got a quick nap.

It was midnight when the alarm rang. Missy lay quiet beside Carl. Drugged with shock, she no longer even wept. He could tell she just didn't care anymore. This was no fun. He untied her and held her at gunpoint as he made her bathe, fix her hair, and put on make up. Then, Carl guided her back to the bedroom and ordered her into the old black dress she wore to funerals. No underwear. No stockings. Just the dress.

Carl tied Missy's hands again, but loose this time. He knew she wouldn't resist even if she could. As she staggered ahead of him toward the barn, he couldn't help appreciating her quiet beauty. He wished this could go on forever, but it couldn't. Carl had used Missy up just like every other possession he ever had. He hated that it had to end, but now she was just another broken toy with sharp edges he had to destroy for safety's sake.

They climbed to the hayloft and Carl ordered her to kneel. Missy obeyed and moaned the Lord's Prayer.

"Our Father, Who art in-"

"Stop!"

The words burned in his head. She kept up in a whisper that filled the barn with a wail of deafening loudness.

"-deliver us from evil-"

The barn creaked and shuddered. It leaned as if it would fall any minute.

"Quit it!"

Missy kept praying. He noticed that, just like her son, she wouldn't cry. How touching. Carl told Missy he loved her and kissed her cheek. He placed the same plastic bag he used on Johnny over her head. She didn't struggle. She just waited and prayed in a plastic-m.u.f.fled whisper. Carl held her close until she died.

After removing the bag and the rope from her wrists, Carl went to the house and tidied up. He came back to the barn, tied a gra.s.s rope noose around Missy's neck, and tied the other end to a rafter. As he shoved her body out the hayloft door, Carl smiled and sang Happy Birthday to himself.

The rope grew taut and Missy's lifeless neck snapped. Three days pa.s.sed before a neighbor found her hanging there. The whole of Lovely County thought Missy had hanged herself after finding her Johnny dead. That was fifty years ago today.

Sutton's little black mutt stared at Carl struggling toward the crawl s.p.a.ce door for almost an hour. The terrier stood just out of reach. Carl struggled with each breath and sucked in only the stench of whatever was decomposing behind him. He knew it wasn't Digger, but he didn't have time to care.

With one more surge forward, he grasped the doorframe leading out of the crawl s.p.a.ce and pulled himself forward. His face almost at the opening, Carl inhaled deep of the fresh air until his head cleared. He glanced back over his shoulder. Now, everything looked normal. The floor joists loomed with two feet of room between them and the ground. A man could crawl on his hands and knees let alone slither on his belly as he had just done.

Carl hated that place.

He pulled himself further toward the door. Scott's terrier bounced and wagged its tail, wanting to play. Carl grabbed for it, but the little dog leapt away from his grasp.

"You think you're sharp. Just wait till you see what I do to your family."

The image of Scott bound and helpless while he had his way with Brenda struck him as a most desirable outcome. He hoped they stayed. She could use a good boogerin'.

Carl felt the sudden clasp of cold hands on his ankles, jerking him backwards. He struggled and regained his grip on the doorframe. He glanced back over his shoulder. The stench of rotting flesh took his breath. The sight tore a scream from his lips, but with no wind in his lungs, he made no sound.

This couldn't be happening. Pumpkinhead Johnny Banks was alive, pulling him backwards and laughing that snot-slinging r.e.t.a.r.d laugh. Carl pulled to the door as hard as he could and gained some ground. His body levitated on his strength, suspended clear of the ground between his grip on the doorframe and Johnny's grasp on his ankles.

Carl doubled his efforts, surged toward the doorway, and felt Johnny's grasp slip. Almost free, he would win again. Carl watched as the door to the crawls.p.a.ce slammed in his face. Stars burst in his eyes. His fingers sheared away with a searing pain. Johnny dragged him backwards as he clawed at the ground with the b.l.o.o.d.y stubs of severed fingers. No use. Johnny pulled him back toward the sunken spot, laughing all the way. Carl looked back again and saw Johnny descend into the depression.

The earth swallowed him as he went. The laughter stopped as Johnny's head went under, still tugging his ankles. Carl felt a burning heat as his feet and then his legs disappeared into the earth. His flesh seared and he felt his b.a.l.l.s boil as he struggled to free himself.

Carl stopped struggling only when he saw Missy Banks sitting, perched on the side of the hole. She wore the same black dress. Her red hair glowed aflame and her eyes burned through him. Carl's clothes smoldered as he struggled and caught enough breath to shriek like a little girl.

Missy grabbed Carl by the hair and jerked his face close to hers. In her other hand, she held a jagged sliver of bone to his eye. She smiled and her lips rolled back to reveal the rot that lay beneath. She jerked back on Carl's hair, tilting his head back until it almost snapped.

"What's wrong, lover? You don't want that kiss anymore?"

Carl's mouth was wide, still screaming as she pressed her lips to his and spat rotting gall down his throat.

"Happy Birthday," she said.

Missy gouged at his eyes with the bone. Carl felt the corneas resist as she pressed the splinter until it broke through the surface of the first eye, then the other. The humor flowed down his cheeks as each eye popped like a squished grape. Carl's hair pulled out by the roots and his screams died as the earth swallowed him.

The Abortionists.

by Aaron J. French.

"Open your mouth," she said, "you baby-killing b.i.t.c.h."

The young girl did as she was told, gagging as the doll's head was shoved into her mouth, propping her jaw open.

"Now you." Karen moved to the Latina and fit the next doll head into position.

"That just leaves you, darky," she added, stepping to the black girl, who glared as she bit down on the plastic head. Karen leaned back to admire her work: three baby-killing s.l.u.ts, hands and feet bound, kneeling, half-clothed in tattered undergarments. Artfully done, she complemented herself. Let them sit there until their legs ache and their knees bruise.

Karen made a sweeping pa.s.s before the girls, heels clacking on the bas.e.m.e.nt floor. She smoothed her blond hair absently, saying, "I know how much you value your comfort. Abortions, themselves, are a convenience-which is why you chose to kill your babies. You're all smiles and giggles when it comes to spreading your legs, but when it comes to taking responsibility, well . . . that causes discomfort.

"How unglamorous it is to swell up like a cow, to give up partying for the sake of your baby. No boy will have s.e.x with you if you're prego. And then there's the excruciating delivery, and feeding the child, and changing diapers. Your b.r.e.a.s.t.s fatten, your a.s.s dimples, stretch marks cover your tummy. What an uncomfortable ordeal. Better to kill the child and be done, hm?"

She looked into their terrified faces stretched open by the doll heads. Their panting gasps and beseeching eyes. How pathetic. Bending toward the black girl, she twisted her partially exposed nipple. "Taking a child's life is murder!" she yelled. "It is contrary to the wishes of G.o.d. But you-you l.u.s.ting demon wh.o.r.e-you don't even consider that, do you? Oh, yum, s.e.x-boing, boing, boing-oh, a baby? Gee, I'm not ready for that. Let's just kill it."

She let go, righted herself, and, just for fun, struck the Latina across the face. A stream of blood leaked from her nose. The girl worked her mouth and wriggled her tongue trying to dislodge the plastic head.

"Perhaps you don't believe in Heaven or h.e.l.l, is that it?" She stared at the blonde, whose eyes remained downcast in fear. "So I suppose it's my job to show you they exist-which is why I collected you here: to show you a h.e.l.l in this very bas.e.m.e.nt."

Satisfied with her words, Karen switched off the light and headed upstairs to start dinner, bolting the metal door behind her and leaving the three baby-killing b.i.t.c.hes on their knees in the darkness.

As the water boiled, Karen threw in the pasta and added a dash of salt, setting the timer for fifteen minutes, then she sat down at the kitchen table to read this week's Victory Ministries newsletter.

Suddenly, her boys came barreling through the front door, shouting and pummeling each another.

"Knock it off, you two," she said, lowering the newsletter as they came into the kitchen. She smiled. "How was practice?"

Benny shoved his younger brother and opened the refrigerator to grab a can of c.o.ke. "It was okay. I tackled Jim Gaffers so hard he went home early. Coach said it was a topnotch hit."

"That's nice," Karen said.

"I caught a touchdown pa.s.s," Bobby added.

"I want you boys upstairs washing your hands now, please. Your father'll be home soon, and I don't want him waiting on supper."

"Yes, Mom," they said, disappearing up the stairwell.

The phone rang and Karen got up to answer it. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Hey, Karen. It's Jane Gaffers."

Karen rolled her eyes. Jane, the constant source of contention at PTA meetings. An ex-hippie G.o.dless Democrat who always defended the books Karen was trying to have banned. She was untrustworthy: any woman who wanted her children reading Kate Chopin's The Awakening had serious problems.

"Hi, Jane. What can I do for you?"