You Are My Everything
Author: Edward Lee
Date: 2009-12-15 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: Product Description From the master of hardcore horror comes a new tale of love and revenge. And revenge is always better when it involves a Header. Easter Cutler's Ole Grandpop Orne used to always say, All men re the same when you git right down to it. All silly n ever-lovin HORNY. Cain t control their urges fer the life of em... And Easter has sure learned that the hard way. But she's got a way fix things with her husband. And Noot is sure gonna find out just how much his wife loves him. Because Easter's Old Grandpop had some secrets himself and hidden within the ancient pages, kept in a bea
Publisher: Necro Publications

first edition numbered chapbook

YOU ARE MY EVERYTHING "You Are My Everything" © 2009 by Edward Lee

cover art © 2009 by Erik Wilson

this edition September 2009 © Necro Publications

YOU ARE MY EVERYTHING is offered as a 500-copy signed and numbered limited edition softcover chapbook as well as a 52-copy signed and lettered limited edition hardcover.

First Edition Chapbook

ISBN: 978-1-889186-86-3

book design & typesetting:

David G. Barnett

Fat Cat Design

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a Necro Publication

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Carol Stream, IL

Your name is Easter Cutler. You are fifty years old and you've lived in the hills your entire life. You've lived right, you've lived honest, and you've always treated others as you'd want them to treat you. You live off the land and make your own clothes, you cook for your family on a wood stove, and you've always had a smile. A smile of gratitude. Ever dang day we'se still walkin' and talkin', Easter...now THAT'S a day ta be grateful fer, Grandpop Orne had always said, and you believed him.

Until now.

Until you looked through that crack in your own bedroom door.

You have a unique way of re-issuing your rage and your heartbreak via rationalization and, you suppose, Grandpop Orne's very edict; and though there's a tear in your eye when you look through that crack, you think, All men're the same when you git right down to it. All silly'n ever-lovin' HORNY. Cain't control their urges fer the life of 'em...

What you see is this: your forty-two-year-old husband, Noot, engaged in aggressive intercourse with your twenty-year-old daughter, Linette, but, quite uncannily, you find something positive to observe. Well at least he ain't low-down enough ta fuck her in our own bed. Instead, he's standing at the end of the hand-made dresser while the twenty-year-old lay back trim, sweating, and nude on the dresser-top. Her ankles are locked behind Noot's back, and for a full minute, you watch his brute, rhythmic strokes. What bothers you more than the blaring incest are the greedy grins on their faces—that and the cyclic wet slapping, the sound of his balls slapping the bottom of your daughter's vagina.

Oh, Noot, you think, again re-issuing your despair into something like a scold. You are my everything, honey. Don't'cha know that? And now lookit what'cher doin'. Fuckin' yer own daughter just 'cos you always been so dag-blasted HOT fer a nut. See? See what the evil world's got you doin'?

"Gawd, Daddy," Linette seethes through her gritted teeth as the over-large penis bangs in and out. "I just love you, like, so much..."

"Yeah, baby, yeah," the sweating man grunts.

slap-slap-slap

"That dang cooter on you feels a hunnert times better'n yer Mama's..."

Another tear wells.

"How'se many fellas you blow at the 'Waller today?" Noot asks amidst the rhythm.

"Twenny-six."

"Good, that's enough fer two hits—

slap-slap-slap

—you swaller it all?"

A lewd grin as her eyes close and her back arches. "Uh-huh..."

"Why you li'l fuck-face, you," and then he chuckles. "That's my girl. Like I'se always teached ya, if'n yer gonna do something? Ya do it right. And I'se like the idea, ya know?"

"The idea? What'cha mean?"

"The idea'a all them fellas' cum in yer gut, and all'a my cum in yer pussy..."

"Oh, Daddy! Yer so silly!"

More slapping, more grunts. Noot's rhythm picks up.

"But ya better hurry, Daddy," Linette advises, concentrating more deeply upon the sensations. "Mama could walk in any minute."

slap-slap-slap

"Naw, won't be home fer a few more hours, she tolt me so. We'se'll have time ta do a hit and problee even fuck again. Yer Mama's up at Dory Ann Slate's makin' doilies or some shit, she say."

Linette chirps out a laugh. "Doilies?"

"Yeah, like I believe that," Noot chuckles. "What they'se really doin' problee is lickin' each other's big ole wored out pussies, and I hope they'se got clothespins on their nose while they'se doin' it."

"Daddy!"

slap-slap-slap

Linette giggles. "What'cha...what'cha think she'd do if...ya know... If she found out?"

"Aw, I'se wouldn't worry 'bout it none. Yer Mama's a very understandin' gal, and she so fuckin' up'n love with me, she'd likely not say a word. Shit, I been fuckin' her over twenny years now. She know full well a fella's gotta have some new pussy on occasion, 'specially now that she's gittin'old'n startin' ta sag. It's just the way things is..."

slap-slap-slap

Now the tears begin rolling down your face, but even as you watch, you know that it's true, and you even smile. I love him more'n life itself. He's my everything...

The rhythm turns frenetic. Noot's trim, well-muscled body shines with sweat. "I'se gittin' ready ta git it, baby! Come on, sit up now like ya do..."

"No," she says haughtily. "Not till you say it."

Noot's lust-twisted face frowns. "Say what?"

"Say ya love me."

"Aw, shee-it, Linette, you know I love you..."

"Say ya love me more'n ya love my Mama!"

Noot heaves an exerted sigh. "Well, fuck, girl, okay! I up'n love ya more'n I love yer Mama!"

"That's better!" and then she sits up.

"Yeah, yeah, baby... Now reach 'round like ya do'n git yer finger up my butt so's I'se can come real good..."

Linette giggles, spits on her finger, reaches around—

"Yeah, yeah... Like that... Git it up'n there deep— shee-it, I'se gonna fill yer li'l pussy up, I am..."

slap-slap-slap

And that's when you walk in, raise the pistol, and—

"I-I...yeah! There it goes!"

BAM!

The room thuds. Linette shrieks high and loud at the same moment half of Noot's cranial volume blows out the right side of his head and hits the wall like a handful of Sloppy Joe. The nude man collapses to the floor, eyes staring, lips still moving. His incestuous erection ejects strings of sperm even as more blood-marbled brains pour out of his head. Then his eyes slowly close.

Linette's screams switch off and on like a motor revving, as your well-toned muscles easily drag her slender body off the dresser to the bed. She fights with all her might, but all her might is all for nothing. In only a matter of moments, you've sufficiently wrestled her down and hog-tied her.

"Mama, please! Don't shoot me!"

In spite of everything, you still smile. "Honey, I'll admit, I ain't the happiest woman around right now, but—gracious! Shoot you? Linette, I love you. Fer land's sake, girl! I ain't gonna shoot you."

The girl bawled outright. "I'se sorry, Mama! I'se sorry, but-but, see? He made me do it!"

You smirk gently, and walk around the bed. She's your flesh and blood, and, yes, you do love her. But you also know that in all of life's convolutions... Sometimes love ain't enough. You root through Linette's trampy cut-off shorts and find precisely what you already know is there. "So this is it here? This li'l thing?" A small glass pipe.

Linette's eyes go frightfully wide.

"This what'choo use ta smoke that evil stuff you got Noot 'dicted to?"

"No, no, Mama! It's him who got me hooked on it, I'se swear!"

From the shorts you've also withdrawn a wad of crumpled bills which you flip through now. You can't read, but you can definitely count. "Fifty-six dollars, hmm. So that's what'cha get fer suckin' off all them boys?"

"No, Mama!"

"You're doin' it ever dang day's what I hear. Blowin' whole room-fulls'a fellas—"

"I do it only 'cuz Noot makes me! That's what he use ta buy the crystal!"

You don't hear her. "So that's what'cher whole life's come to. This—" you wag the bills at her. "Whorin' yerself."

"It was Noot! It was Noot!"

You sit down on the bed next to her. "Honey, relax. Ever-one got problems in this world. Now Noot, I know full well he had some misgivin's, and that big dick'a his been gettin' him inta mischief fer even longer'n we'se been married. But that's just their natures, Linette. That's just how fellas're made. And deep down in his heart, 'fore he got 'dicted ta that stuff, Noot was a good person." You look right at your trussed and straining daughter. "You, on the other hand, ain't never been a good person, and that's just how it is sometimes. Ain't no reason fer it. Don't got nothin' ta do with how you was raised or where ya lived or who ya been exposed to, you's're just a bad person. It's how you was born—

"No, Mama!"

"I loved Noot more'n all else on this earth, dear. He was my everything..." You continue to smile warmly at her. "And now you go'n muss it all up—

"Aw, Mama, please! I'se sorry!"

You pat her cheek. "Don't worry, baby. I ain't blamin' you—like I said, the way people is ain't always their fault..."

The bed jerks from Linette's hitching sobs.

You turn to the door. "Blubber? Why'n'choo come on in now?"

Slow steady thuds thunk into the room, and with those thuds come a pungent stench, like armpits, unwashed crotches, urine, feces-smeared underpants, the clefts of dirty butt-cracks—all those odors distilled down to one.

Blubber Smitts stands in the doorway, mouth open as if waiting for something. He's barefoot, cockeyed, and bald. He's possessed of numerous congenital defects, while some glandular disorder has made him obese, with a mammoth belly pushing out beneath the overalls he has likely never changed. Satchels of fat on his chest look like a slovenly woman's breasts; more satchels dangle under his arms, and there's even a staircase of fat rolls climbing up his neck. One iris is red, the other brown. He has no body hair at all, and his lower lip sags fat as a piece of kielbasa.

"Hi, there, Blubber," you say. "Thanks fer doin' that work fer me."

Blubber stares at Linette, and utters something like, "Gug-gug-gurrrrwwwwww'l come..."

Linette wails, "Mama! What you bring that big dirty retart in here for? He stinks ta high Heaven! He ain't warshed ever in his life!"

"Now don't'cha go bad-mouthin'," you say. "Blubber's just diffurnt, honey, 'cos what nature deal him were a tad less than it deal ta most'a us. See, his mama were a alkee and drunk all the time she were pregnant with the boy, so it buggered him all up. But he's a nice boy—

Linette rocks in her bonds. "He's a big dirty fat cracker, Mama! He's a white-trash retart who lives in a old out-house! He eats skunks'n bullfrogs raw—I seen him! I even seen him eat possum shit! And he walk 'round in the woods all day'n night playin' with hisself! He eats his own nut, Mama! Why you bring him here?"

You keep smiling in spite of her rancor. Yes, Linette is such an awful person to harbor all this ill-will against someone so unfortunate. "I hired Blubber ta do some work fer me, is all."

"Work!" your daughter bellows. "That don't make no sense! What work? He's too retarded to do work!"

You tisk. It's so sad. "You're just so full up with hate, Linette. I cain't imagine where I went so wrong bringin' ya up. All that hate is just smolderin' off yer face..." You pat Blubber's shoulder. "Linette, I don't imagine you 'member Grandpop Orne 'cos he die when you was just a tiddler. But Grandpop, he were as full'a wisdom'n goodness as you's full'a hatred'n lies. One time he say ta me, he say, 'Easter, sometimes a bad person can redeem theirself by doin' somethin' generous fer a good person in need. Tis a way of turnin' a curse inta a blessing.."'

Tendons in Linette's neck stand out like wires as she glares. "What'choo talkin' 'bout!"

"And it's true Blubber have ta beat hisself off a lot but that's only 'cos he got the natural urges like any fella but on account'a the way nature made him, gals won't be with him in the sexual way." You turn to Blubber who remains standing there automaton-like, staring at Linette's straining, naked body. "Blubber, you ain't never got on with a gal before—you know—in this way? By puttin' yer peter in here?" and then you pat Linette's furred sex. "Never, right?"

Blubber's bald head is popping beads of sweat. "Nuh-nuh-nuh-nuguh-ngnnnnnoooo," comes the twisted grunt.

"Would ya like to?"

The hulking body jiggles up and down as his filthy bare feet thud the floor. "Yuk-yuk-yuk-yuk-YES!"

Outrage contorts Linette's face to something like a mask. "Mama! You mean...that's my punishment? You gonna let that dirty creeker thing fuck yer own daughter?"

Your smile radiates. "All I'se gonna do, hon, is turn a curse inta a blessing" and you look again to Blubber and say, "Just you go outside now'n pull the cord on the generator like I showed ya the other day, okay, Blubber?"

Ropes of spit wag as he vigorously nods yes.

"Then ya come right back in."

Mewling, Blubber thunks briskly out of the room, his fat hands pawing the air before him.

"Mama, what is going on? Don't you dare let that stinkin' retart fuck me! And what the hail you need the generator fer?"

But you can already hear the generator's steady chugging outside. The one electric lamp in the room fades on, and in a moment, Blubber thunks back into the room. He's rubbing at the crusty crotch of his overalls.

"You's're gonna do something nice fer this poor unfortunate boy, Linette." You reach under the bed. "Then maybe, just maybe, you'll be redeemed," and what you remove from under the bed is a power drill whose chuck is fitted with a four-inch hole-saw blade.

Linette screams louder than any scream you've ever heard.

"Aw, yeah, you know what a header is, hon. We all do. Tis just something no one ever admit ta knowin' about. And there ain't no better way'a cleansin' a horrible sin... Like the sin you committed by first gettin' my Noot 'dicted ta yer body'n then 'dicted ta that stuff, all so's you can control him."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

"And, see, what every fella ever tolt me 'bout headers is...it's the best feelin' a man can 'sperience. Better'n any proper fuckin'. No one know why, just 'tis." She's shrieking as you speak, and as you tear off a length of duct tape. "One time Wynchell Conner tell me somethin'. 'Member that time that awful man who busted out'a the county prison come through here'n rape them li'l girls? Well, Wynchell'n his friends catched that guy and, a'course, they throwed a header. Must'a had ten men over his place ta fuck that scoundrel's head, but anyway, Wynchell say there just somethin' 'bout a brain that makes it good ta fuck, like maybe there's special juices in the brain that a fella's peter soak up, and that's what makes it the best nut a man can have. Better'n any cooter, they say, better'n any blowjob... Blubber, why'n'cha pick Linette up now'n put her down on the dresser...same dresser she was fuckin' my husband on..."

Linette screams and screams and screams as the obese lummox easily picks her up and sets her back down. You jam her mouth shut by palming her chin closed, then you slap the tape across her lips. Then— "Keep her held down, okay, Blubber, while I'se drill the hole..."

He leans over to compress Linette's lashed body down hard on the dresser-top, just as you press your left hand down on her face, and with your right hand—

Now it's the power drill that's screaming.

Linette convulses as you ease the hole-saw blade forward, and after a lot of flying bits of bone and scalp, you cut a perfect circle into the center of the crown of her head. The drill dies. You pick the circle of skull out and toss it to the floor.

"There. Why, I think I did it just right..."

Surprisingly little blood effuses from the insult. Linette is shuddering now; the white of her eyes hemorrhage with tiny red dots.

"Blubber? Why'n'choo git ready now, okay? Drop yer overalls'n play with yerself til yer hard."

The body odor trebles when Blubber does; it's so offensive but, again, you simply smile. Poor boy cain't help it. Don't know how ta warsh hisself... "My! That's quite a manly endowment, Blubber!" you tell him. You want to give him confidence but it's no lie, either. It's a stout, long penis indeed pointing out from the reeking flesh-nightmare that is his groin. A smegma-packed foreskin looks like a snout. No manual manipulation is necessary to instigate erection; the mere anticipation in Blubber's dim mind takes care of that. Lust distorts the boy's face as his crossed eyes jerk back and forth between the hole in Linette's head and her bound, shivering body.

"Guh-guh-guh-guh!" he utters. His knees areknocking.

"This gonna feel real good fer ya," you promise him and pick up an old knife. "Best part is she's still alive." You slide the knife-blade in and out of the hole quickly. "Now, baby! Come on! Git'cher peter in there quick so's it's in her 'fore she dies!" and then you guide his hulking form over, take his atrocious erection in your hand, and help him slide it in.

"Theeeeeeere ya go, baby. Theeeeeere ya go..."

Instinct takes over when his huge hands vise Linette's head—

And he begins to hump.

The most indescribable sounds escape Blubber's throat.

"Yeah, Blubber, that's it," you urge. "Just you go ahead and hump that dirty girl's head..."

Linette's eyes widen with each stroke. Her belly's sucked in. Every muscle in her body tenses up. Then she falls limp.

pap-pap-pap, comes the sound of Blubber's coitus.

You stare at your daughter's gagged face as she goes from dying to dead.

"That feel good, Blubber? Huh? You like that?"

"Gyuh-gyuh-gyuh-gyuh-gyesss!" he snorts.

"Well you just go on now'n have yerself a nice cum right in there..."

Blubber's huge hips locomote faster, then his spine jerks backward, and he hollers in a meld of grunts, snorts, and gibbers. Then—

THUNK!

—he falls on the floor, his orgasm having been so intense, his knees had gone out. The impact of his obese body to the wood floor cause several pictures to fall off the wall.

"There ya go, Blubber! You'se a real man now, now that you've finally gotten yer peter off proper in a gal."

He mewls, curled up in the most grotesque mockery of the fetal position, blindly fondling his spent penis. Your smile veers from Blubber to Linette. She's sidled over in her bonds now. Her eyes stare upward at nothing. Then she releases a death-rattle.

You tilt her head down a bit. It's fascinating to watch the ropy mixture of blood and sperm ooze out of the hole.

With some difficulty, you help Blubber stand back up and re-fasten his overalls.

"Blubber, I hope ya understand that by fuckin' my daughter in the head as ya did, ya sort'a helped her redeem herself from the error of her ways, so's I thank you."

The retarded boy stands mute, dizzy.

"I bet that felt real good, huh? Bet it were the best nut ya ever had. Am I right?"

He nods slowly, still dazed, his hand still pawing blindly at his crotch. A long string of saliva rolls off his depending lower lip.

"And you'll remember it fer the rest'ayer life." You place your hands on his shoulders and guide him toward the dresser. "But it's all over now, so's we gotta finish up."

More drool spills as he nods.

You slip your rucksack on. "All right, pick her up now'n foller me."

You lead the way out of the house as Blubber hulks behind with Linette's agog corpse in his arms. It is deep into the woods that your next plight takes you. Sunlight streams through gaps in heavy branches; an owl hoots.

"Hey, there, Mr. Owl!"

You trod several hundred yards amid the forest until you come to the result of your previous task. Yes, this is where you really were when Noot believed you to be at Dory Ann's. You'd been out here, in fact, for hours this morning, with Blubber.

You look down and, again, smile.

You're looking at the hole, the very deep hole that Blubber had dug for you.

"Okay, Blubber, just throw her in'n bury her, then yer done till tonight."

But Blubber's eyes beseech you; his head tilts and he jiggles up and down in an agitated frenzy. "Pun-puh-puh-puh-leeeeeeeese!"

"Aw, I'se sorry, Blubber, I weren't thinkin'. You wanna fuck Linette's head some more first?"

He jiggles more intently, while the corpse in his arms jiggles along with him. "Gyuh-gyuh-gyesss!"

"Well then just you go right ahead," but you point a stern finger, "so long as ya bury her 'fore sundown, okay?"

The misfit squeals in glee as he nods vigorously and—

FLUMP!

—drops the dead body on the ground. His overalls are down and he's on his knees in a single second, and a second after that... He's desperately humping the hole in Linette's head.

pap-pap-pap-pap-pap!

His vocal delight sounds like, "Eeeeeeee! Eeeeeeee!" something akin to a squealing sow.

Boys will be boys, you think. "'Member ta bury her after, right, Blubber?"

Mewling, he nods.

"Then meet me back the house tonight."

pap-pap-pap-pap-pap!

Horny as that poor boy is? you muse. He'll likely fuck Linette's head half a dozen more times 'fore he gits tuckered out. Then you turn.

You smile.

You begin to walk.

***

Westmore thought, Thank God! when he spotted the unlikely Best Buy. He wasn't even sure, but he thought he was in the town of Pulaski, Virginia, after the long rental-car drive from D.C. Spring turning to summer had brought an untimely heat, which he noticed with a frown after he'd parked the car and got out. Just as he closed the door, however, an unbidden impulse drew his glance to the windshield. Oh, fuck, that's not a bee, is it? he thought of the corpulent insect he now saw scrabbling. Westmore was allergic to bee stings. But when he looked closer, the insect turned out to be a mere fly, albeit, one of those big, hairy blue-bottle kind. Fuck it, I'll swat it when I'm done inside.

The big store's doors parted at his approach and seemed to suck him into its expanse of welcome cool air. He needed a simple flash-drive, and was amazed to find the leap in technology from his last one. What he purchased was less than twenty dollars and boasted fifty times the storage space. He dawdled some, an excuse to relish the air-conditioning, then made his purchase, and went back out.

Nondescript I guess you'd call this town. He remained out front, smoking. The town seemed sedate and full of ordinary people who said hello when they passed. Traffic traversed without a single honk, shout, or middle finger. No rat-race here. Yeah, I'm a long way from D.C.

A brisk snapping sound turned his head. How curious. Marching across the sun-baked lot was a tall, shoddily attired woman with lank black hair and a beaming smile. She looked weathered yet healthy simultaneously. Flip-flops snapped asphalt as her long, sturdy legs propelled her toward the store. Westmore tried not to peer too overtly, but the closer she got, the harder it was. A faded-blue smock was all that covered her physique, which itself seemed exotically feminine while also robust and honed by hard work. A redneck, Westmore presumed, but a real one. One from the boondocks.

She was walking straight toward him.

"Howdy!" came a spirited greeting that was higher-pitched than he would've thought. That weatheredness blended with her curves made her age impossible to discern. She stopped and grinned right at Westmore.

"This here the 'lectric store?"

Westmore found the hillbilly accent fascinating. "Electronics store, yes. TV's, computers, stereos, stuff like that."

She sighed, then her smile turned frustrated. "Gosh, I come all this way'n now here I am, feelin' like a perfect ninny."

Westmore laughed. "Why do you say that?" but as he addressed her, his eyes kept dragging to her bosom—quite an ample bosom. The smock's going-threadbare fabric made no secret that, one, she wore no bra and, two, her nipples were over two inches wide. He even got a ghost of a sexual twinge when a momentary glance downward revealed the shadow of a formidable pubic tuft.

"Oh, hail, I ain't never been in a store like this, and don't know nothin' 'bout it." Then she caught herself. "Dang, I'se sorry! My name's Easter!" and she extended her hand.

"Hi, Easter, I'm Westmore," but as he shook her hand, he found another twinging dichotomy. The hand was hot and moist, its palm callused from labor, yet the top graceful, elegant, alabaster-white. Eventually, he asked, "So, I presume you need something in the store?"

"Oh, yeah, what I need is, I need a tape recorder. I think they'se called cassettes."

"They probably still have them."

She peered, concerned. "What'cha mean—still?"

"Cassette recorders are kind of antiquated these days. Everything's digital. Ipods, music downloads, digital Walkmans..."

"Aw, my. I just don't know from such things. I'se from the hills, as ya could probably guess." Now her look showed utter confusion. "Why, Westmore, if'n I cain't get me a tape recorder, I'm in a fix."

"It has to be a cassette?" he asked, incredulous.

"Well, I don't rightly know. Just sumpin' that'll record a li'l bit of talking."

Westmore struggled against his captivation. Sweat sheened her cleavage like a glaze of honey, and the ghosts of her nipples were flat-out killing him. He thought of something a writer might think. This woman is...unrepresentatively attractive. From his breast pocket he removed his memo-corder. "Maybe something like this will do," and he held the cellphone-sized device up. "It's just a little thing for reminders."

"Re-mind-ers?"

"See, when you want to record, you just press this little red button and talk"—he held it closer to her face. "Say something, Easter."

She stared, cogs churning. "Uh, uh, well, um—hi! My name's Easter!"

"All right. When you're done recording what you want, you let go of the little red button, and when you want to play it back, you press the bigger black button that says play," and then he did it.

The memo-corder issued: "Uh, uh, well, um—hi! My name's Easter!"

Easter squealed as if she'd just witnessed a superior magic trick, and when she did so, she lifted herself off her heels in delight. It was Westmore's delight, too, to see the way her breasts bounced from the action. Holy SHIT. This hayseed is ADORABLE.

"That li'l machine there is just what I need," she giggled. "You reckon they have one just like it in the store?"

"I'm sure they do—"

"Oh-oh, and"—she reached awkwardly behind her, leaning over slightly. That's when Westmore noticed a very old rucksack on her back. But he could've wilted because as she'd leaned, he caught a raving glimpse of her bare breasts and edges of dark, pink-mocha nipples. Oh, man...

She'd extracted a fold of disarranged bills. "Do you reckon fifty-six dollars is enough ta buy me one?"

Westmore laughed. "They're way cheaper than that, Easter. Maybe ten bucks including batteries," but then he just shrugged. What the hell? "Save your money. You can have this one."

"Oh, I simply couldn't?'

"No, take it. I have lots of these things." He urged it toward her, and with a long hesitation, she took it.

"Well I just cain't thank you enough!" she exclaimed. "But lemme pay ya..."

"No. Just take it. Believe me, Easter. I'll bet I have three more just in the car."

She stared amazed at the simple little device. "My goodness, what a nice man you are, Westmore. And now I don't even have ta go inta this store, where I'd likely as not make a blammed fool'a myself. Thank you very much!"

"You're quite welcome."

Her eyes radiated at him. "At least let me buy ya a coffee."

Westmore's senses seemed to fuse. You've got the hots for her, you idiot. Don't do it!

"Sure," he said.

***

They sat outside at the Starbucks right across the street, Westmore with half of a ludicrous erection in his pants. The day's heat demanded iced-coffees, and more of Westmore's lust-tainted fascination itched at him as he watched her suck individual ice cubes as though they were ambrosial.

"This is so good," she twanged. "We don't hardly never get ice."

We, came his despondent thought, and then he cast a verifying glance at her ring finger. She's married. But what the hell could he be thinking?

"If'n we want it, we gots ta go ta Hull's and buy it by the bag. Hull's is the general store, not a mile from where we live."

He asked the ordinate question before thinking. "You mean you don't have a refrigerator or freezer?"

"Oh, goodness, no," she replied, amused. "Hillfolk don't have need fer such modern things. We smoke our meat, jar our fruit'n vegetables, pickle whatnot, and don't hardly never have ta spend cash money at the store."

"I guess there's a lot to be said for that," he suggested, and semi-longed for a simpler life. But it was her body he longed for more. The lambent white skin of her face, her cleavage and her bare shoulders—it all coalesced to something like an aura. Now the sweat misting on her bosom made her breasts and nipples even more apparent.

"'N'fact, just yesterday we'se smoked some muskrat'n squirrel. My husband, Noot, he built the smokehouse."

"That's quite an art." He paused. "But...you don't have electricity?"

"Oh, shore, when we'se need it, which ain't much." Her elegant fingers picked up a plastic card advertising a plethora of lattes and frappes to fan herself. "We gots a wood-gas generator ta watch the old TV sometimes, or when my husband Noot need ta run his tools."

"A wood-gas generator?"

"Ain't never heard of "em?" Each stroke of the make-shift fan caused black tendrils of hair to puff as she leaned back in the chair with her legs crossed, A flip-flop hung off the foot of her crossed leg; she wagged it back and forth. "Noot built it hisself from my Grandpop's 'nstructions. He just take a old hot water-heater, then put two more littler metal drums in it, which ya fix with copper tubing'n set over a wood fire, but first ya fill that heater full up with wood chips'n seal the lid. Instead'a burnin', the heat turn the wood chips inta gas, and then through the tubes the gas go to a little pull-motor which runs the generator. S'how folks droved their cars in the War, Grandpop Orne say, 'cos they had somethin' back then calt gas rationing."

World War II, Westmore guessed. "That's fascinating," he said, but thought, YOU'RE fascinating... "Modernity definitely makes people"—he chuckled— "especially people like me, take things for granted." But, next, he nearly moaned aloud when she plucked a single cube from her drink and daintily glided it over the hollow of her throat, then...lower.

"This ice just feel so dandy on a day hot as this. See, it don't get too hot where's we live on account'a the shade from all the trees..."

Westmore stalled, watching the ice-water trickle down her cleavage in shining rivulets. Is she trying to seduce me? GOD, I hope so, but he knew it was folly. She was just a simple woman from a simple life.

"But tell me sumpin', Westmore, if'n a'course, ya don't mind my askin'." She picked up the memo-corder and smiled at it. "You say you have a bunch'a these machines, but...why?"

"For my job." The ice cube had melted away, leaving her upper bosom gleaming. "In case I think of something when it's not convenient to write it down, I just whip out the memo-corder and say whatever it is I'd thought of. I'm a writer."

Her brows rose. "A writer? Like...a book writer?"

"Yeah," he answered rather sheepishly. "Get ready to laugh, but I write non-fiction books about...haunted houses."

She sat up straighten keen on what he'd said. "Ya don't say? Why...I never met a book writer before!"

"It's no big deal. I got lucky, had a bestseller several years ago"—he chuckled once more—"called The Hildreth House of Horrors. It was about a mansion in Florida supposedly haunted. It did well, so now my publisher wants the same sort of stuff, Amityville for the new millennium, my editor said."

She squinted, still fanning. "I don't know no Amityville, but I once knew a gal named Amity, Amity Pierce...but she die, poor thing, from drinkin' bad moonshine. Evil stuff, that 'shine. Lotta folks swear it was Amity's husband, Delany, who put sumpin' in it so's ta kill her—varnish, maybe. See, Delany had his-self a lover on the side, and, well"—she leaned over and whispered—"his lover? It were a fella, not a gal."

Westmore could summon no response.

"But there's more'n a peck of bad houses 'round here," she went on. Her eyes found his, and her smile sharpened. "You believe in such things? Ghosts'n such?" Westmore might've blushed. "Let me just say that I don't disbelieve anything that hasn't been confuted by my own eyes."

She laughed. "Well that's a fancy way'a puttin' it!"

It took conscious force not to stare outright at her bosom, whose moistness had traceably darkened the fabric of her smock. The size of her papillae were surely the size of his pinkie-tips. "But it's one house in particular my editor wants me to write about—the problem is, there's virtually no records or documentation of its existence. It was some eccentric guy who owned it: no birth records, no tax records, no financial trail, no house title—it's all based on hearsay. Evidently this guy had some kind of holding fund that always paid the property tax, like he didn't want anyone to be able to find him. His name was Crafter—"

Easter interrupted with a deliberate nod. "Aw, yeah. Ole Crafter, I 'member him-"

Westmore gagged, lurching forward, and actually hacked out a mouthful of ice-coffee. He began to cough. Half-alarmed, half-amused, Easter leaned over. "Why, Westmore! What ever is wrong?"

"Ice-coffee down the wrong pipe," he gagged, recovering. "You took me by surprise—"

"Huh?"

Dizzy in exuberance, Westmore re-harnessed his composure. He was shaking. Too good to be true, too good— "Easter. This means a great deal to me. I've been trying to trace Crafter for six months, and there's nothing on him. All I have are little bits of conjecture from antiquarian book collectors and antique dealers. But you're telling me that"—he gulped—"you know something about Crafter?"

"Why, shore. Ain't no big deal." She rolled an ice cube around on her tongue. "He was a old coot'n weirdo, pretty much. Had a funny first name, some-thin' like...Eff-ree-ham..."

Westmore trembled. "Ephriam, yes. When did he disappear?"

Her head cocked. "He didn't disser-peer. He up'n die, that's all, guess 'bout fifteen years ago. Only place he disser-peer to is six feet under."

"He died? How did he die? Mysteriously? Was it murder?"

Now her bemusement was plain. "Naw. Nothin' but a blammed heart attack. Must'a been inta his seventies."

Damn. Well, I can work with that. Westmore's blood raced. Without thinking he reached across the table and touched Easter's hand. "Easter. Please." He took a deep breath. "Do you know where Crafter's house is?"

"Shore," she said in utter nonchalance. "It just off Governor Bridge Road. Even got the mailbox still standin' plain as day, but ya know? Crafter ain't never got mail delivered there. Got it someplace else. Since you so hot fer his house, it ain't no trouble fer me ta show it to ya if ya like. Ain't but five're six miles away from where we'se sittin'."

Westmore could've hemorrhaged. In a matter of minutes, he'd hit pay-dirt, all because of meeting this unlikely backwoods woman at a Best Buy! "You may have just saved my career..."

"Oh, I'm so glad I'se can be of help, 'specially since you've helped me so," she said and indicated the memo-corder.

"Did you actually know Ephriam Crafter?"

"Well, in a sense. We'd all see him around once in a while. What we heard was he mostly traveled, like, overseas. He were rich. I only knowed him enough ta say hello, but he hardly ever say hello back. Not a very nice man, and Lord knows what he were really up to in that house'a his. What'cha need ta understand is, Crafter... He were what they call...a nekker-manser." Her big eyes batted. "You know what that is, Westmore?"

"Necromancy, sure. He was a sorcerer."

"Right! But, if truth be tolt he was just more of a dabbler...I think the word is...novice."

I don't care. I'm being paid to write a book about him, and you're giving me more information in five minutes than I've gotten in six months!

A pause hung over the table, then Easter looked at his hand, which was still on hers, and smiled.

Westmore had been oblivious. He pulled it away and removed his pen and notepad. "Let me write some of this down. Governor Bridge Road is where the house is? And what town?"

"Luntville, sort of. Out off the back roads, things get kind'a mushed together."

Westmore scribbled, frantic. "And you say he died of a heart attack roughly fifteen years ago... Can that be verified? His name never came up on the Social Security Death Index."

She gave a casual laugh, still fanning herself. "Westmore? There ain't no Social Security nothin' 'round these parts. If'n someone die, they'se get buried. But I know the boy who buried him—Waldo Parkins— er, well, he ain't a boy no more, more likely closer ta my age now. See, he worked for Crafter, drove him 'round in his big fancy car, did the yard-work, run errands..."

Pay dirt, pay dirt, pay dirt! Westmore kept scribbling.

"And I'se good friends with Waldo's Aunt Ida-Waldo live with her near Crick City. Just you tell Waldo you'se a friend'a mine, they'd be happy to talk ta ya all about Crafter. It's Waldo who found Crafter dead'n buried him. Buried him right on his grounds, even made a little wood plaque fer a tombstone, he tolt me."

Perfect! Perfect! Westmore couldn't write fast enough. He could take a picture of that plaque! "Now, now, uh," he stammered. "How do I reach this Waldo Parkins?"

"Just call him up. I gots his aunt's phone number written down at the house."

Westmore could've swooned. "Easter! You really are a Godsend! His phone number?"

"Uh-huh. We ain't got a phone ourselfs but if'n we need ta make a call, we use the pay phone down at Hull's. But after I show ya where Crafter's house is? You'll'se need ta drive me back ta my shack 'cos that's where the phone list is. And you'll have ta find it yer-self off the list—it was Grandpop'n Noot who keep the list'a neighbor's numbers. See, I cain't read myself."

"That's no problem, Easter, no problem at all," but then he realized, Shit, I'll have to meet her husband. Oh, well... "I look forward to meeting your husband."

"Aw, well, that cain't happen 'cos my wonderful husband Noot—he died."

Westmore froze up. "Easter, I'm very sorry to hear that—"

She flipped her hand. "Don't be, Westmore. Like my Grandpop Orne used ta say, death ain't nothin' but the spirit movin' on ta someplace else."

"Yes," he replied for lack of anything else. Then he thought of something, and took out his cellphone. "If the Parkins number is listed, I might be able to find it here..."

Her eyes thinned in curiosity. "What's— Oh, that one of them cellphones I keep hearin' "bout."

Westmore nodded. "And I can go onto the internet with it." He pulled up AOL white pages, then typed in the name Parkins. "And what town do Waldo and his aunt live in?"

"Crick City."

GREAT name for a town. In a few seconds he found it. "Parkins, Ida. That's got to be it."

"Amazin', all this teck-noller-gee these days."

"It's a great convenience and a great pain in the butt," he said but in the stasis, he realized that the sheer excitement of her revelations, along with his dense attraction to her, had left his penis painfully erect and leaking. I've got a loke for the house, a phone number, witnesses... It's the motherlode! Grinning, he set his pen down to take another sip of coffee, but—

click

—his pen rolled off the table.

When he stooped over to retrieve it, Easter, in a motion almost mechanical, uncrossed her legs and parted her thighs.

Westmore stared.

A plenteous black nest of hair sprawled at her crotch. The parted thighs looked creamy-white. Westmore stalled on a breath in his chest; he could just make out the delectable twist of flesh hidden in the fur, and in a fantasy he saw himself crawling over there beneath the table and burying his face between her legs...

Get up!

He grabbed the pen and retook his seat. Had she done it on purpose? No, that was just more gutter-minded fantasy. Easter immediately kept talking as though completely unmindful...

"And when yer talkin' ta Waldo? Be shore'n ask him 'bout Crafter's basement. All kinds'a nekker-manser stuff down there, he say. Get him after he have a couple'a nips and, believe you me—he'll tell ya some things."

"I-I will," Westmore said. He felt half out-of-breath from the private glance. Were his hands still shaking? "Easter, I can't tell you how much you've helped me—

Another dismissive laugh. "I say, you act like I just tolt ya where the end'a the rainbow is. Crafter weren't nothin' but a nutty ole man—"

"This info is better than the end of a rainbow. Look, let me pay you a consulting fee—"

"Oh, you hush now, Westmore; I don't take money from friends," but just then her eyes drilled into his, and then she reached over and touched his hand. "Ya been so nice givin' me this here li'I machine but... could I ask ya to do me one more favor?"

"Name it," he said.

"See, like I just tolt ya, I cain't read, but I need someone ta read somethin' for me. I mean, I'se could get someone else ifn it's too much of a imper-zishun..."

Westmore didn't quite get it but he said, "I'll read you anything you want, Easter."

"It's, well, it's somethin' special, 'n'fact it's what I need this li'l recorder for in the first place. I got these words I need ya ta read, but I need ya ta read 'em out loud"—she touched the memo-coder again—"into this."

Westmore shrugged. "I'd be happy to. But...what is it, exactly?"

"Oh, I guess you could call it a prayer, like, a good-luck prayer."

"Fine. I'll do it right now if you like."

Her lips thinned. "I thank it'd be a sight better if ya do it someplace more private, like maybe in yer car..."

***

From the old rucksack, Easter produced an equally old cloth-covered binder whose tarnished rings secured typical lined paper filled with scrawl. "This were Grandpop Orne's special book." she informed him from the passenger seat. Westmore's eyes flicked from the book to her bosom, the book to her thighs settled in the seat, the book to her radiant white legs. Even the barely perceptible veins in her thighs he found exotic and attractive. Fuck, came the abrupt thought. He could only hope she hadn't noticed the arousal in his pants. The woman seemed rapt on the book, bearing that constant gentle smile; Westmore thought of a mother flipping through a photo album of her babies.

He'd turned the car on at once, to run the a/c, and when he did so, he took a stray glance at the dashboard and saw that the sizeable blue-bottle fly that had been buzzing around earlier now lay dead. No doubt, the heat had killed it. Good riddance...

"Grandpop Orne were such a fine man. I just miss him so..."

Westmore noticed some loose and oddly hued sheets beneath those bound. "What are," he began but then she pulled one out.

"This is it here," she said. "Be careful now."

Holy smokes, he thought, knowing immediately by its look and feel what it was. "Easter, this is parchment or maybe even vellum."

"Huh?"

"It's got to be very old. This is what they used for paper before paper was invented. It's actually animal skin shaved and cured a special way."

"Oh, I know it's old. It come from way back my side'a the family. Them sheets come from Europe; my Grandpop's rellertives're actually part'a the first colony ta come here, someplace called...somethin' Choo-sit's bay." She winced. "Well, I cain't remember it all."

But Westmore remained fixed on that first sheet of vellum. Nothing at all semblant of an alphabet could be found on the cramped lines of whatever ink its author had access to. The gradients in each stroke told him that a stylus rather than a primal pen had been used Just...a bunch of odd characters, like pictographs and logograms. Interspersed within were other, stranger characters—wedgelike but not cuneiformic— that seemed more like geometric diagrams. Each diagram had been inscribed with great precision, and each angle of each wedge was unequal in a manner he felt sure was deliberate. Anti-epicyclic, he thought. Angles in place of numerals? But then he winced at a passage that had clearly been highlighted in modern magic marker. Vandalism, he thought. A collector would howl...

Nevertheless, he'd never seen anything like it. "Easter, I know a bit about ancient writing systems, but"—he shook his head. "I couldn't tell you in a million years what this is."

"Oh, I know that. Grandpop said this writin' here, is writin' that existered, well, a long time before folks learnt ta write themselves."

Westmore let the ballyhoo pass; of course, her grandfather would be given to tall tales. "What I mean is, I can't read this for you—"

She laughed as if amused. "Oh, Westmore, no one could who don't know it! Only Grandpop could read it; but what he did, see, is he wrote down somethin' ta go along with that there page. A... tranzer-lay-shun."

Westmore looked at her. "Really?"

"And the way he write it is so—well there's a word fer it but I cain't remember. He write it down the way it sounds."

"Phonetically."

"Yeah! That's it." Now she ruffled through the bound sheets of normal paper. "He got scraps from a lotta old books'n such but that un there he always say's the most important." Her fingers isolated a sheet, but she paused and looked outward. "Manner-somethin'. Manner-skrit..."

"Manuscript," Westmore corrected.

"Uh-huh, and it was the-the..." She chewed her bottom lip. "Mot-ik, er, krotik, er, puh-not-ik." Her bare shoulders stumped. "Dang, I don't know the actual name he calt it."

Westmore reached forward as if eager. "I'd like to see that phonetic translation, Easter."

She unsnapped the metal rings and withdrew a single leaf.

He couldn't imagine what this could be. And why would she be so intent on Westmore reading it? The tape recorder, he remembered. Something about a good-luck prayer... Only a few lines comprised the phonetic rendering. Simple. He picked up the memo-corder. "Okay, Easter. Here goes," and he pressed the record button, trained his eyes on the transcribed lines, and read aloud, "Guh'narl'ebb, druh'nug lee eye snub negg add'uk zynn...ee'uh, ee'uh, fuh'tay'gun, nem'blud duv...yog'saw'thoth..."

He released the record button. "There ya go, Easter. Anytime you want to hear the good-luck prayer"—he pointed—"just press this bigger black button."

Her eyes widened, fascinated, as he played the strange muttering back for her. A tear rolled down her cheek; the simple and rather absurd task left her choked up. "This means more ta me than ya can know, Westmore—" suddenly her hand was on his thigh, then she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

Fuck, Westmore thought again. Just the feel of her hand so harmlessly on his thigh made his penis cringe. "No problem at all," he said, trying to act unaffected. After I take her home...I'm jerking off. Big time. He looked at the vellum once more before he returned it to her. "This is really very interesting, Easter. If you like, I can give you the name and number of an antique book dealer. He'd probably pay a lot of money for that sheet, as well as whatever else you've got in that book."

She looked taken aback. "Oh, but—my! I could never sell it. It's what my Grandpop left me, been in the family fer hunnerts'a years, from even before they come here."

Westmore smiled. "Easter, you and your world are so enviable. In my world, everything's about money. People do anything for it; money's their god. That's all they live there lives for. It's so refreshing to meet someone like you; you act like you don't even care about money."

She replaced the sheets, then put the binder back into the rucksack. "Ain't never had much use fer money. Wouldn't never wanna have ta rely on it. The more folks get ta needin' money...the less real they is."

"Well said."

"Among hillfolk, if anything, money's like a disease, and it's the things folks want it fer that messes 'em all up or even destroys 'em." Did she gulp? "'S'what happen ta my fine husband, Noot." She was staring out as she spoke. "I got me a daughter— Linette's her name—and I'se afraid Linette's one'a them people who were just born bad..."

Kind of an odd thing to say about your daughter, Westmore mused.

"Noot were a wonderful man, and I'se loved him so much. Married over twennie years, we was. He was everything ta me... But then it was Linette who got herself all inta this stuff they call meth. Lotta folks gettin' inta that. Used ta be it were the moonshine that turn folks lives inside-out, but fer the younger ones? It's the meth."

"It's stuff like that that's ruining the whole country, I'm afraid."

She nodded blankly. "And it were Linette, mine'n Noot's flesh'n blood, who got Noot 'dicted to it too. Then, see, all of a sudden-like, they start ta needin' money to buy it. And the meth? It's that damn stuff made my own husband up'n fall in love with my daughter..."

Holy SHIT! This is getting real heavy, real fast!

"It's the way it make 'em feel Westmore, that make 'em turn bad. So, Noot, he start sellin' stuff 'round the house, solt a lot'a the gold things Grandpop left, and jewels been in my family fer ages, and Linette, it were far worse things she do fer the money. Thing's I'd be ashamed ta tell ya..."

Westmore didn't have to wonder. He struggled for some consoling words but all he managed was, "Easter, don't dredge up things that upset you."

There, again, she smiled oh-so-gently. "Aw, I ain't upset. Noot, like I tolt ya, he's dead now 'cos of her, but like Grandpop say, death is just the spirit movin' on ta the next place it's s'posed ta be..."

"Of course," Westmore blabbered.

"Ever mornin' of ever day I wake up, I'd say ta Noot, 'You are my everything,' and I'd have done anything for him. Anything. And it were true, and he knowed that. And then..." The long pause was worse than if she'd sobbed. "I lost it all."

This was tragic. Westmore barely knew her but he couldn't help feeling for her. However, even after all she'd let out, she still had that tiny smile.

It was the worst part of all: the smile was all she had now to counter her life-upheaving loss.

She was looking at him; not out of self-pity but something as simple as curiosity. "You ever love someone that much, Westmore? So much ya'd do anything fer 'em?"

Westmore felt staggered; he could scarcely answer, and with this he found that he envied her even more. He answered rigidly, and in a tone that he hoped sounded only half-serious: "I'm afraid the avenues of love are something I've never found room for in my life..."

"Aw. That's too bad. 'cos when it's real, like me'n Noot—it's the most wonderful thing." Her voice lowered. "Guess I got as 'dicted to my love fer him as he got ta that meth...and Linette..."

Westmore put the car in gear, desperate for a subject-change. "Well, now that your prayer's recorded, you can show me the Crafter house, then I'll drive you home." He pulled out of the lot, then followed some preliminary instructions from Easter, and then they were off.

The one thing he would never notice was this: the tiny carcass of the blue-bottle fly was no longer on the dash. Instead, the insect was walking around now on one of the rear windows.

***

Only minutes had lapsed before they were out of Pulaski and on some main semi-rural road. Pastures and farmland passed by as the late-afternoon sun threatened to bring on early evening. "Now just take this next turn here," she said, "onto the Tick Neck Road—"

Westmore laughed. "Now that's a name for a road, Easter."

She seemed not to hear him, instead relaxing back into the rental's plush seat. That gentle smile had never left her face. She seemed to be reflecting inner thoughts, and Westmore could only presume they were nice thoughts in spite of what she'd implied earlier. Incest, he thought. Was it a cliche, or something more?

Just another tainted facet of humanity. Not just rednecks, not just backwoods people and trailer parks. It's everywhere—the pursuit of the forbidden. Addiction, lust, lies, incest, greed... None of it picks favorites, we just PRETEND it does.

It was forcible mental insistence that ordered him to keep his eyes off her body, yet all the while, his penis stayed three-quarters erect.

When the a/c was too much, he turned it off and lowered the windows. His next cigarette felt euphoric.

"Been a spell since I'se rode in a car," she said. Her black hair sifted in the breeze.

"I wish I didn't have to own one. Flat tires, insurance, road rage, traffic jams." He shook his head. "I almost wish I lived out here."

She chuckled. "Depends on how's yer made up. Hill-life ain't fer all folks, but I'm fine by it."

"You've lived in the area your whole life?"

"Oh, yeah, an so's my whole family since just after that war they calt, I think, the Civil War. But the land's given us dang near everything we ever need."

His eyes looked through her window, partly to gaze at the sweeping farmland but also to steal a cringing glance at the formidable nipples printing against her top. "It's really a treat for me to see all this: farms, pastures, graze land."

"Well, enjoy it while'se ya can 'cos it'll be behind us shortly, and we'll be in the deep woods. In fact"—she leaned forward, squinting. "This next turn comin' up, but be careful."

More excitement of the non-sexual variety stirred in Westmore. He was about to see the Crafter house. He turned into the narrow lane which seemed compressed by centuries-old trees on either side.

"This here's the Governor's Bridge Road..." She was leaning forward again. "And...and—here! This turn."

The car slowed into the opening of what appeared to be a long, dirt-paved driveway that proceeded up. E. CRAFTER, read the large metal mailbox, but time and weather had reduced the letters to near invisibility. Gotta snap a pic of that too. Westmore's palms were sweating. "How much farther?" he asked, but the next blink answered his question. At the top of the incline, the house loomed.

"And that there," she said, "is the Crafter house."

The tree-walled road emptied into a tree-walled clearing in which the house sat. Classic semi-Georgian and Edwardian architecture struggled to stand out from sheer dilapidation. Great bow windows swelled from the first story, garrets studded the second, while the higher turret on the north wing seemed somehow to invite inspection. Oddly, though, no windows had been broken, and the great stained-glass tympanum remained intact as well. Was the house actually leaning? Westmore studied the second-story and thought he spied a face in one of the dreary panes.

Ridiculous...

At the rim of trees, the sun began to sink.

"I can't believe it," Westmore muttered. "Thank you..."

She smiled.

He was about to get out with his camera when a chill caught him. Were the hairs on the back of his neck sticking up? The facade of the cryptic house, for only a second, seemed to have transformed into a collapsed, screaming face.

"Um..." He fidgeted. "I think I'll wait til tomorrow to take pictures and have a look around. It's...getting dark."

"Ain't nothin' wrong admittin' you ain't keen on goin' up there at dark. Me? I wouldn't go up there fer nothin', night or day."

Yeah, this is...a little too unnerving for sundown...

He backed up and proceeded back down the drive, ecstatic yet subdued. What would he find when he did look around?

"Take this turn here. Then it ain't much farther."

Westmore drove on. The high trees allowed only a smidgen of light. Part of his consciousness remained advertent on the woman, the other part on the house. My work's laid out for me now...thanks to her. He noticed then that a quick glance into the passenger-side rearview showed her bosom. Damn it... Eventually she'd get wise if he didn't stop. He felt like a cad: using her knowledge to forward his career, and using her body for masturbation-fodder. Man of the Year, yes sir. That's me.

Ten minutes later, they turned onto a road with another howler of a name—HOG NECK ROAD— and not long after she guided him up a very narrow dirt lane that was scarcely more than a foot path. Darkness nearly swallowed them.

"Here we is," she announced. "Don't mind the dark. I never leave candles burnin' if'n no one's there."

"Oh, so your daughter isn't home now?"

She shook her head.

Westmore's headlights lit a long, L-shaped shack with strips of tin for a roof. Wooden planks composed the walls, darkened by some crude varnish; it made the structure look black. Westmore knew then that he'd truly penetrated another world.

For some reason, the moment felt awkward, "Again, I can't thank you enough for giving me all this information about Crafter."

"Why, it was my pleasure, Westmore."

"Say, are there any motels nearby?"

"Well, shore. A lot on the highway, but closer"—she touched her chin—"yeah, there's the Gilman House in Luntville. It ain't fancy but it's cheap."

"Sounds perfect—"

"And I'se sorry I cain't be more hospitter-bull. Only reason I don't offer ta let'cha stay the night here is 'cos, well, I still got some chores ta tend to."

"That's quite all right. I'd never want to impose and, besides, you've already helped me in big way."

Was it him, or did Easter, too, seem afflicted by some sudden, ineffable awkwardness?

"Just let me grab my sack, and I'll git..." She turned rather cumbersomely to reach into the back seat where she'd stowed her bag. Then: "Aw, fer goodness sake!"

"What's wrong?"

"My dang sack fall over'n half the stuff in it plumb slid under the seat..." She strained, reaching back farther.

"I'll get it," Westmore said. The dome light popped on when he got out and opened the back door. In the footwell he could see the disarranged items: some of the loose sheets, a rabbit's foot, an apple, some matches, an old pocket watch. He leaned over to pick it all up...

His eyes flicked briefly upward. Easter was still leaning between the seats...

Her pose was such that her smock's loose bustline hung low via gravity, allowing Westmore a near-perfect view of her bare breasts.

That one-second glance seemed to last minutes. Here, that shared awkwardness collided, fusing the moment. Her breasts were so perfectly white they could've been luminous, contrasted by the large brown-pink nipples which seemed swollen. The image affected him like a shout.

Westmore forced his eyes back down, to pick up her things.

Damn, I hope she didn't catch that. It was with some clumsiness that he returned to the front seat with her articles in his arms.

His heart actually shimmied. "You're a dear," she said, and began transferring the things back into her rucksack.

That image of her caused him to think in slow-motion, a visual undertow, dragging him. He knew he should say something, otherwise the awkwardness would only intensify. "So...all those loose sheets are from old manuscripts?"

"Oh, shore. Handed down through the family since olden times." Her graceful hands busied themselves in re-sorting the sheets of vellum. One sheet was filled with carefully drawn planetary signs, a pentangle, trines and sectiles, a divination chart.

Without forethought, Westmore said, "Easter? Was that passage I read into the recorder...was it really a good-luck prayer?"

The questioned startled her but only in an amused way. "It's all a matter'a terp-uh-tay-shun..."

She laxed back in the seat now that her items were properly stowed. "Folks see diffurnt things diffurnt ways."

Westmore listened intently to her words while looking intently at her monumental bosom.

"'Tis funny..."

"What?" he droned.

"'Bout how hot yer interest is in ole Crafter"—she was cradling the rucksack like something prized—

"but you should'a heard how Grandpop Orne laugh about him."

"About Crafter? I'm not following you."

"Like I tolt ya, Crafter were just a dabbler—

"Right. A novice necromancer. I think the better word is probably mountebank. He fancied himself a sorcerer but he was really just a..."

He laughed softly. "A nutty old man."

"'Zactly! But, see, my Grandpop Orne?" She patted the rucksack, then her big crystalline eyes re-found Westmore's. "He weren't no novice, no sir."

"So you're saying...your grandfather was a real warlock?" Westmore asked in a surprisingly neutral tone.

"Yeah." Now her eyes drilled into his. Her smile beamed. "You believe that, Westmore?"

"Why not?"

"But it's like anything—there's black'n white, good'n bad. Grandpop use what he know in a good way, Crafter didn't. Makes ya wonder, don't it? I was thinkin' 'bout that earlier when I was walkin' ta that 'lectric store..."

Whatever the mesmerization was that had been going on...it suddenly snapped. "Wait a minute. You walked all the way from here to the Best Buy?"

"Oh, shore."

Westmore eyed the odometer. "It's probably fifteen miles!"

"Naw, ain't but eight're nine cuttin' 'cross," she dismissed. "Workin' and walkin' is somethin' I'se used to. It's good fer the soul'n good fer the body." Were her eyes suddenly more intent on him? "Nice long walk ever day's the best way ta keep fit." A downward glance appraised her abdomen. "Ain't gone ta fat yet like a lotta gals my age," and then she shook her head. "Fastest way ta lose yer man is go ta fat but, a'course, bein' in good shape still didn't help me none..."

"You're a very beautiful woman, Easter," Westmore said spontaneously, then nearly gagged. What am I saying! She'll think I'm making a play for her just after she tells me her husband's DEAD!

Her voice softened. "That's nice'a ya ta say. You really are a nice man, Westmore, and I'se in debt ta you fer more than you can know."

Westmore was still recovering from the gaff. "What?"

Yes, her eyes were more intent on him, and her smile too.

Uh-oh, he thought when her hand opened on his thigh.

"You made me feel so good today..."

"By reading the prayer into the recorder?"

"Naw, you know what I mean, Westmore," and that's when—

Oh, my God...

—she dropped the straps of her gown. In a single instant, with no warning nor inkling, Westmore was looking at those large, perfect breasts, their nipples pointing right at him.

Her hand rubbed his thigh.

"What make me feel so good, Westmore, is the way you been lookin' at me all day..."

Westmore could've howled. His face turned hot as a car hood in the sun.

Easter squealed a laugh. "Why, Westmore, you're blushin' somethin' fierce!"

"I-I—," was all he could stammer. His face collapsed into his hands—he'd been caught, red-faced, red-eyed, and red-handed, using her for a visual scratching-post. "Holy shit, Easter. I'm so embarrassed. I... I just don't know what to say..." and what could he say? The humiliation made his face seem to beat like a heart.

She kept laughing; she was getting a real kick out of this. Her fingers touched his chin, raising his gaze back up, and there they were again, those magnificent breasts, pucker-nippled. Her abdomen displayed essentially no fat, only fine creases caused by her pose. The vision of all that perfect white skin seemed hallucinotic to Westmore. In her years, her skin had lost some elasticity but even that was attractive.

Eventually, he croaked, "I'm sorry, Easter. I have been eyeballing you all day—it's no excuse to say I couldn't help it, but—shit..." He gulped. "You're just...so...beautiful..."

"Hush, now," she enthused, and then her left arm was about his shoulder and she was pulling his face to her breasts. Her voice declined to a whisper. "That's a lovely thing fer you ta say. My husband Noot, he used ta say it all the time. Just you now...go on ahead'n suck these..."

She guided his mouth directly to a swollen areola. Westmore felt mindless; he sucked desperately and found that once he began he didn't ever want to stop.

"Yeah, just like that," the spirited whisper returned. "All fellas like ta suck a gal tits—takes 'em back ta their babyin' days"—now her left hand stroked his hair—"when they didn't have a care in the world. No stresses, no hardships, no worryin'..."

Westmore kept sucking, indeed, like a baby seeking safety and comfort the only way it knew how. The faint musk coming off her skin intoxicated him; his erection squirmed in his pants.

"Umm-hmm," she uttered when her right hand began to smooth circles over his crotch. "I'se thought so...," and then, "Ummmmm. I like that..."

Westmore was sucking harder, engrossed in the nipple's dense texture, marveled by the way it swelled even more.

Now, as she rubbed his crotch, she whispered very pointedly, "Like I was sayin'. It made me feel good knowin' how'se you were lookin' at me. When most fellas look at me, well, I just don't like it at all, but you? You're so diffurnt, Westmore. The older a gal gits, the easier she can tell. In a manner'a speakin', lust is like nekker-mancy—there's good...and there's bad. Your lust ain't all hateful'n selfish like that'a most men. That's what I'se talkin' 'bout. The hankerin' you have fer my body, it's a nice thing. It's good. And I say that's so refreshin' in this day'n age..."

But Westmore barely heard her. He just kept sucking, his eyes closed, his arms around her as if he were clinging to the only post over an abyss.

Her whisper kept descending, "See, part'a me'd shore as hail like ta take ya in my mouth or just up'n fuck the daylights out'a ya—

The word fuck in his ears nearly caused him to orgasm.

"—but odd as it sounds... I'd feel like I were cheatin' on Noot." Her flesh jiggled when she uttered a chuckle. "A silly notion, I know. Even though he cheated on me all the time, and even though he's dead now, I'd feel I were bein'... unfaithful. That make any sense ta you, Westmore?"

Westmore nodded in his daze. He was lost in her flesh and her scent and her lilting voice and of course her hand rubbing him into a slow frenzy.

The hand rose, unbuckled his pants, pulled down his fly. Now her whisper could barely be heard; it was a ghost of a whisper, an apparition: "But I don't reckon this'd be unfaithful," and then her lips moved right against his ear. "Hitch these down now." Another chuckle. "And judgin' by what's goin' on in yer pants, I don't figure you got any objection..."

Without ever taking his mouth off her nipples, Westmore pulled his pants down.

He quaked at the feel of her hot hand immediately squeezing his genitals. The ooze of pre-ejaculant was constant now, and it was this that she used for lubricant. She ringed her thumb and index finger and, in excruciating slowness, began to stroke him. His legs tensed, his buttocks was rising off the seat. He wanted to just keep sucking but when she sensed his moment, she nudged him away and whispered, "Just lean back now so's I can watch. I love ta watch a fella come..."

And come Westmore did—spontaneously. He gasped, neck craned, and when his orgasm was triggered, it felt like his cock was heaving semen out, jettisoning it. The conduction of every nerve in his body went awry, and his erection just pumped and pumped and pumped. Easter squealed a laugh at each bumper-crop spurt, the first of which hit him in the chin, the second in the hollow of the throat, the third all over his shirt at the solar plexus, then the rest on his belly. He just lay there, stupefied, as the dozen-plus spasms finally abated. His groin buzzed. He couldn't move.

"My word, Westmore!" she exclaimed like a mother playfully scolding a child. "Just look at this mess you make," and she moved her face closer to his splattered shirt. The shirt was sopped. "You must'a been all pent up judgin' by all'a this cum,.."

Her words titillated him. His eyes rolled when her hand diddled with his spent testicles. He noticed that her eyes were sharp now, her face alight in some indulgence. She moved even closer to the seminal mess and moaned, "Just you let me clean all this up but— mmmmm, I just so much love the smell of a man's nut...and the taste too. Cain't imagine why, all yucky'n slimy as it is, but... It just jangles my bells," and then—

Oh, this is just too hardcore, Westmore thought through his crushed post-orgasmic daze, because now her lips were sucking the globs of sperm off his chin and throat, then lowering to suck all the mucoid splotches out of his shirt fabric. Well, he thought, this definitely takes the cake for Middle-Aged Male Sex Fantasy Come True.

After several minutes, the shirt had been sucked clean. Easter's ever-present smile turned slightly lewd now; the click of her throat as she swallowed made Westmore's penis cringe.

"That was...shit. Just great," he uttered, parched. "Thank you..."

She laughed, helping him pull his pants back up and re-fasten them. "Ain't no need ta thank me fer jerkin' ya off. It ain't no big deal..."

Speak for yourself... He looked at her one more longing time as she pulled her smock back up and, more than anything, it was unconscious when he grated, "You really are beautiful, Easter..."

Her smile beamed as a tear glittered in her eye. "That just makes me feel heavenly 'cos it reminds me of what Noot used ta tell me all the time, and the way you been lookin' at me all day? Same way Noot used ta look at me..."

Westmore was stifled. The entire ordeal—and the entire day—seemed so odd, unlikely, and fascinating.

She rechecked her rucksack, making sure the memo-corder was there, and then some sadness seeped into her smile. "It's time fer us ta part, Westmore. We won't be seein' each other again, but...thank you fer all ya done."

Westmore stared at her. "I'd like to stop by sometime. I could...take you to dinner or something," but then he winced at the ludicrousness of what he'd said.

"Naw, see, with Noot dead now, I'll be movin' on— movin' out the area I'se mean..."

He didn't know why, but her response seemed either stilted or ominous. He wanted to ask her where she'd be moving to but then he realized that would be futile. It would put her on the spot, so all he said was, "You have my best wishes."

"And you got mine!" the spirit of her voice returned. She gave him the tiniest peck on the lips. "And good luck with yer book 'bout Crafter..."

He laughed despondently. "The only reason I'll be able to write the damn thing is because of you."

But her eyes narrowed suddenly as if through some reflection. "Well, wait a sec. Now's that I think of it..." She rummaged through the rucksack and from the binder slid out the loose manuscript sheets and her grandfather's phonetic translations. "It just now come ta my mind that I don't need any'a this, so..." She offered him the loose—and possibly priceless-sheets. "I want you ta have 'em."

Westmore was waylaid. "Easter, there's no way I can accept those sheets. They're your most valued family possessions; they're your heirlooms."

"Naw. Please make me happy'n take 'em. What I need 'em for? But, you, you got a interest in 'em, and smart as you is—a book-writer—you can study 'em and one day find out what they'se all about."

"I can't take them," Westmore said as much as he would like to.

"You can, Westmore. It's only 'cos of the way you are, that's how I trust ya with 'em. It's best that you have 'em, and Grandpop Orne'd shorely want ya ta have 'em. I trust in my heart that a good person like you'd never use none'a this fer somethin' bad."

She put the sheets in his lap.

As he stared at them, he could hear his own watch tick. I can't! his thoughts thundered, but when he looked up to object, Easter was already out of the car. She closed the door and smiled in through the window.

'"Bye, Westmore. May all yer dreams come true..."

He opened his mouth to speak but she was already fading away, blending into the moon-tinseled dark that cloaked her ramshackle abode. She waved briefly at the front door, then was gone.

Westmore let out the longest sigh of his life. He started the car, gave the house a final glance, and drove away.

***

You're beaming when you come back into your shack. The after-taste of Westmore's jism seems to hum in your mouth. You feel light on your feet, not because you gave a man an orgasm but because he wanted you to. You're determined now, and confident, that you can make Noot want you to as well.

Because, even after all of this heartbreak, he is your everything.

Blubber thunks into the front room, his warped, corpulent face glowing faintly from the candle he holds. "Hi, Blubber. I'se back like I said I'd be."

The boy stares, drooling.

"You put Linette in the ground?"

He nods jerkily, and snorts, "Gyuh-gyuh-gyesss."

"Thank you, Blubber. What a fine boy you are." You set down the rucksack on the table Noot built with his own hands. You remove the little recorder, and also the fifty-six dollars that your daughter had earned so filthily. "Oh, I'se plumb fergot. Take this money'n buy yerself somethin' tomorrow. It's fer all ya done fer me," and then you give it to him.

His grimly hand takes it; his crossed eyes register some aspect of explosive acknowledgment. Bits of spittle fly off his swollen lips when he attempts: "Thhhhyak-thhyak...thhyank you."

"Why, you're quite welcome," but your eyes turn more serious. "A'course, there's still a few things I need ya to do fer me 'fore ya earned that money proper. Like I 'splained the other day?"

He nods again.

"And ya gots ta do these things 'zackly like I say, 'cos if'n ya don't... Why, that'd just mess me all up, and you wouldn't want that, would ya?"

The question stirs an obvious frenzy in the bed-immed mind. "Nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nnnnnnno!"

You smile, and pat his flinty cheek. "I know ya wouldn't, Blubber. Now go outside'n pull the cord on the gas generator like ya did earlier, then come back inta the bedroom."

Blubber hands you the candle and staggers out the front door.

You seem to glide to the bedroom. It's a good thing you'd left the door and window closed because Noot's collapsed corpse shows no signs yet of insect infestation. The room smells sour, however, sour and pissy and rank, but that's no matter. Soon such things will mean nothing. You drop the straps on your garment and it slides down your body. The faint yellowy candlelight illumines your reflection in the old mirror, and your image smiles back at you, soft and sedate and nude. Your nipples and sex tingle.

You kneel at Noot's body and push him over on his back. The fan of gore on the wall and floor have congealed. Noot's mouth hangs open while his eyes remained closed. The hole in the side of his head looks like a crater full of chunks of meat but even in the visual atrocity, your smile fixes on his serene face and enticing body.

Your hand plays with the dead genitals. It's such an odd notion but you simply can't abide the knowledge of what's on it, so you lower your face and begin to suck it, limp and shriveled as it is. You suck it clean because you don't want any of Linette's private juices on it. The very idea offends you.

To anyone else that act would be unspeakable: you're sucking a corpse's cock. But to you...

You're giving succor to the man you love.

The room's single lamp flickers several times, but then the bulb glows steadily bright. Outside, you hear the chugging of the generator.

You're standing when Blubber fumbles into the room. His heavy lower lip hangs, showing ruined teeth. He snorts a whine in the surprise that you're naked now; he rubs his crotch.

"None'a that now, hon. You can do that later, after you're back home, okay?"

He nods dumbly.

"'Cos right now? Ya still got a few things ta do." You walk to the nightstand where you've placed the recorder, and as you address Blubber, you choose your words wisely. "What'cher gonna see now, Blubber, is somethin' ya ain't gonna be able ta understand. All ya need ta know is it's, well, it's magic." Your eyes look at him more deeply. "So's don't be alarmed by what'cha see," and then...

Then you press the small button on the recorder, and Westmore's words begin to issue out...

***

Westmore drove wide-eyed down dark, winding roads. Some of his daze lingered. Did any of that really happen? he wondered, but then his damp, semen-redolent shirt told him yes.

So did the evidence of the manuscript pages on the front seat.

"Jesus," he muttered.

But now his work was more than cut out for him. Who knew what was on those sheets? With any luck, he'd get another book out of it. The prospect made him almost giddy.

But he was also exhausted.

The tires hummed over old asphalt. Gotta find that motel, he thought. The Gilman House. What town did she say? then, he remembered, Luntville.

The name rang a bell from his brief geographical research but he didn't know exactly where the town was. Map, he thought at once and reached under the passenger seat.

His hand landed on the map but...something else, too.

What the... His fingers pulled out an oblong locket— silver-dollar sized—on a chain. Where had it come from? Probably something left accidentally by the person who rented the car before me, he reasoned. He pulled onto the shoulder and turned on the inside light.

Oh, no...

A cursive inscription on the locket's back read: FOR EASTER, HAPPY ANNIVERSARY - LOVE, NOOT, and then a date: Feb. 2, 1991. Westmore opened it to find a tiny photo of a much younger Easter, smiling radiantly, and a lean, dark-haired, roughneck-looking man. Cradled in Easter's arms was a baby.

Shit, he thought. Obviously the locket had slid out of Easter's rucksack, and he'd missed it when he'd retrieved the other things that had slid out.

I'll have to take it back, he knew, tired as he was. Clearly, the locket was something she held near and dear, and after giving him the manuscript pages, he'd be a perfect scumbag if he didn't return it simply because of the inconvenience.

Westmore sputtered, lit a cigarette, and turned the car around.

The dark road seemed to conjure him back the way he came. One turn, then another, then the trees appeared to lean inward, making an arcane tunnel of the crude roadway. Stars struggled to flash through laden boughs. He had to squint as the car slowed before the barely visible access. He turned slowly and made his way up the dirt-paved drive.

At once, the oddity struck him: lights glowed bright in all of the windows in Easter's shack—no doubt electric lights. He thought sure she'd hear the car pull up, but when he doused his own lights and cut the engine, he heard a steady chugging, like a lawn-mower motor. I guess that explains the electricity and why she didn't hear me pull up... Earlier, she'd mentioned some kind of generator, which obviously ran now.

God, I hope I'm not disturbing her, he thought and got out. Backwoods people were known to be very private people.

Locket in hand, Westmore approached the primitive porch and front door. At the corner of the house, he spotted the modest generator sitting next to an altered hot-water heater.

Something seized him then, not something physical but...something arcane. He winced, scratched his head. A drone seemed to enter his mind so profoundly that it dimmed the sound of the generator. He would never know why but instead of knocking on the front door...

He walked over to the window.

When he looked in, it was madness that looked back at him.

His thoughts stilled, and his mouth fell open.

Easter stood nude and sweat-glazed in glaring incandescent light. The image instantly made Westmore's libido shout. She was talking but the drone in Westmore's head, plus the generator noise, precluded any chance of hearing her words. However...

Who was she talking to?

Very carefully, Westmore took one step back, then one to the side.

Yes. Madness.

A young, bald, and very obese man in overalls stood in front of a bed. He was staring cockeyed at Easter as she talked to him. His lower lip was so heavy it nearly folded over to his chin, and from the maw of a mouth, ropes of drool dangled. A retardate, Westmore thought. Inbred or defected or something. Fat bulged from the stained overalls.

What the fuck is going on?

It was then that Westmore took another gingerly step to the side, to see who else might be in the room, and, indeed, there was someone else.

The guy in the locket...Noot, he Knew immediately. The man was naked.

Yes. It was Noot.

The man Easter had told him was dead. Half of his head was blown out from one side, yet still, he stood there, much like the retarded man, listening to Easter.

Easter's flesh shined as she then walked over to this man—yes, this man with half his head gone—and embraced him and kissed him on the mouth...

***

Your name is Blubber, and you think your last name is Smitts. For as long as you can remember, your head has felt like a bucket stuffed with garbage, but at least as you've gotten older, you're able to understand more things. You don't know exactly what death is, for instance, but you're pretty sure when a person stops moving for a long time, that means he's dead. That's why you're confused now because the other man there was dead a little while ago, but after Miss Easter pushed the button on the little black machine, and those funny words came out, the man got up again.

You're not that worried about it, though, because Miss Easter had said exactly that just a minute ago. She'd said, "Don't worry none, Blubber. You'll be seein' things ya can't reckon but that's okay," and you trust Miss Easter very much so if she says not to worry, then you won't worry.

Instead, you listen, or at least listen the best you can. Miss Easter's naked body is making your peter throb, and it's hard to concentrate on what she's saying. She's so beautiful. You wish she could be your mother but that could never be because you already have a mother, and she doesn't like you. She makes you live in a box in the woods.

You would like to fuck Miss Easter but that can never be either, because Miss Easter is your only friend. She's the only person ever who's been nice to you. And when she let you fuck the skinny blond girl in the head today...well, that was the nicest thing to ever happen in your life. Miss Easter surely was a wonderful person to let you fuck the blond girl in the head. It felt better than anything you'd ever felt. In fact, you fucked the skinny blond girl in the head four more times in the woods, because Miss Easter said you could. Then you put her in the hole and covered her over with dirt like Miss Easter told you.

Yes. Miss Easter is so nice. That's why you do everything she says.

"—magic," she's saying to you and the man named Noot who you thought was dead. "Magic from way on back," but then her attention focuses more on the man named Noot, and suddenly she's crying but still has that great big smile she always has, and then she hugs Noot and kisses him. "I just love you so much, honey."

She's on her knees now and she's got the man's peter in her mouth with her head going back and forth. Noot's mouth opens and it looks like he's trying to talk but for some reason no words come out.

She does it awhile until Noot's peter is sticking up.

"You're my everything, darlin'. And I'm gonna prove that to ya in a sec..."

You keep standing there, looking at her, waiting, because you know there's more she wants you to do.

She comes over. She looks closer at you, still smiling. "I'm gonna die now, Blubber...but it's okay. It's what's supposed ta be. Ya hear me?"

You nod.

"Don't be alarmed by anything, okay?"

You nod. No, you don't understand, but when Miss Easter says everything will be okay then you know everything will be okay. Miss Easter has never lied to you.

Her face moves very close, right to your ear. She whispers, "I want ya to do 'zactly like I did ta Linette today with the drill, and I mean 'zactly, Blubber. Don't do no more'n don't do no less. And when yer done?" She shows you the little machine where the funny words came out a minute ago, and she points to the large button in the middle. "I want ya ta push this here button. Then set the machine down. And then go on home. Okay?"

You nod.

"And then ya go live yer life'n ferget'cha was ever here."

You stare, and make a noise in your throat.

She rubs your shoulder. "It's the way it's supposed ta be, Blubber. And it's okay." Her smile glows at you. "So...yer gonna do it fer me, right?"

You nod.

"Thank you, Blubber," and then she kisses you on the cheek.

As she walks to the dresser, she says to the man named Noot, "We all go astray sometimes, honey—like with you and Linette—but I understand, and I forgive ya. And right now, ta prove how much I love ya, I'm gonna give ya somethin' that no other woman ever could," and then she kisses Noot again. And then...

She lays down on her back, on the dresser.

"I'm ready, Blubber."

You pause for a moment because you're confused but then you know that it's all right. Miss Easter said so. You don't understand but it's all right.

And you will do exactly what she asked you to do.

The loud noise from the hole-saw doesn't bother you at all. You press it against the top of Miss Easter's head like she did to the skinny blond girl today. Bits of stuff fly out from where the saw is turning, and Miss Easter is shaking on the dresser-top, all tensed up but still, still-

She's smiling.

"That's it, Blubber, just like that!" she says even as her teeth chatter. "Push a little more and—

You know. You push the saw a little more until it begins to turn easier, and then you take it out. The circle of bone falls out and hits the floor, and you can see that whitish pink stuff inside Miss Easter's skull. She's still shaking and tense, and her voice sounds a little jaggy now when she says, "The knife, blubber! The knife!"

Yes. The knife.

You pick up the knife. When you stick it in the hole, Miss Easter's back arches, and her bare heels drum the dresser.

Red stuff comes out of the hole.

You step back and look at what you've done. Something bothers you about it but then you know it shouldn't because it's what Miss Easter wanted.

The man named Noot's eyes widen. His peter is throbbing. You can see a bunch of yucky stuff in the crater at the side of his head but you figure there must not be anything wrong with him because his peter is throbbing. His hand shakes a little when he grabs his peter and begins to stroke it.

Miss Easter is still shuddering on the dresser, her big beautiful breasts going up and down real fast from the way she breathes. But then—

Her breasts stop going up and down. She stops shuddering.

You're looking at the hole in her head, and part of you is even thinking how much you'd like to put your peter in it and fuck it like you did with the skinny blond girl.

But—no! You know you can't do that! Miss Easter didn't say you could!

You look at her a little more, then something kind of clicks in what little mind you have. Was there something else she wanted you to do?

Yes!

Your feet thunk the wood floor when you walk to the stand by the bed. You push the big button on the little machine, and set it back down.

For the second time tonight, those funny words come out: "Guh'narl'ebb, druh'nug lee eye shub negg add'uk zynn...ee'uh, ee'uh, fuh'tay'gun, nem'blud duv...yog'saw'thoth..."

Suddenly Miss Easter is moving again, and that makes you happy. Her hands run up and down her body, and she stretches out and curls her toes and smiles.

Her voice sounds different now, kind of scratchy and stuttery when she says, "Thank you so much, Blubber."

"Gug-gug-gurrrrwwwwwwelcome," you say.

"You'se can go on home now..."

"Bub-bub-bub-bub-bbbbbbye!"

You're about to leave the room but then you stop and turn because you want to look at Miss Easter one last time.

The man named Noot with half his head gone has already stuck his peter into the hole. He begins to hump, and as he does so, Miss Easter smiles and says, "This'll make you ferget all 'bout that dirty li'l daughter'a ours, honey. And ya wanna know the best part?"

The man named Noot starts fucking Miss Easter's head hard.

"Best part is cuzza the way we are now, we'll be with each other forever, and you can do this ta me any time ya want. Forever and ever. You like that idea, honey?"

The man named Noot keeps humping Miss Easter's head, but while he's doing it, he nods rapidly.

Miss Easter is playing with her cooter while the man keeps humping her head, and she says, "It's 'cos you are my everything, baby, and now I hope ya know that."

The man named Noot keeps humping and keeps nodding.

You walk out of the room, down the hall, and leave the house out the back door. The night greets you with cricket noises and peepers, and it's a sound you've always liked. But you can also hear that machine on the side of the house that you pulled the cord on, the machine Miss Easter called a generator. You wonder if you should go turn it off, but then you decide not to because, well, Miss Easter didn't tell you to turn it off.

You walk out into the woods in the direction of the box you live in. You're rubbing your crotch now because your peter is all hard from seeing the man fucking Miss Easter in the head. You're whining a little because your peter is feeling like you need to make that white stuff come out, and then you whine a little more when you think back to earlier when you were fucking the skinny blond girl in the head.

It felt... real good.

After more walking, you just can't stand it anymore; you know you're going to have to stop and play with yourself, and that's when you realize—

You realize where you are.

You're now at the self-same spot where you'd put the skinny blond girl in the hole and covered her over with dirt.

The first constructive thought you've ever had in your life comes into your mind...

You liked fucking the skinny girl in the head, so why not dig her back up right now and fuck her in the head some more? Why, you could even take her back to your box and fuck her in the head all the time...

You stare for several moments, thinking. At first you think you shouldn't do that because Miss Easter didn't say you could.

But then...

But then...

She didn't say you couldn't either, did she?

No! She didn't!

Gibbering, drooling, ecstatic, you grab the shovel and begin to dig.

***

Westmore's mouth and eyes were locked open when he was finally able to drag himself away from the horror in the window. He staggered back to the car, got in, and drove away.