It was her party, Jerry said. We gave her a doll, remember? That stupid doll she carried around from then on? She probably still has that thing on a shelf in her bedroom.
And suddenly—thanks to Jerry, or the Jerry in his imagination—Henry did remember.
Henry plopped his foot onto the coffee table and kicked over a pile of papers. One of those sheets held Jerry’s test results. They had looked over the results together when they got home from the doctor’s office, pretending to understand what they meant.
But they hadn’t really needed to understand the science; the doctor had laid it out in plain old English:
Jerry is going to die, he’d said, leaning forward in his leather chair and staring at them through his thick, Santa Claus glasses. Not today, and not tomorrow, and probably not in the next few months, but within the year for sure. And we need to start planning what we’re going to do.
There’d been no need to plan, of course. Not really. Jerry had already made his feelings perfectly clear.
I don’t want to suffer, he’d said. But I don’t think I have the guts to kill myself if that’s what it comes to.
Jerry hadn’t said that last part, but he hadn’t needed to say it outright. Brothers—really close brothers—have more than one kind of communication.
The doctor hadn’t said what he thought might happen to Henry, hadn’t even been willing to give them his best guess.
Henry knew now, however. He could feel himself weakening, could sense the world closing in around him like a big, warm blanket.
He turned to the last page of the photo album.
The picture showed him and Jerry on stage at one of the many carnivals they’d toured over the years. The banner above them said, in big white letters, MEET JERRY AND HENRY, THE AMAZING SIAMESE TWINS!
Political incorrectness aside, Henry thought it was a nice picture. It showed the two of them in mid-bow, smiling out at the audience with their twin grins.
He closed the album and laid his head on their conjoined shoulder. He hoped Mandy would be okay with this, that she’d get over it in time.
She will, Jerry said. She’s tough.
Henry smiled. In the end, he hadn’t gotten the peace and quiet he’d often longed for—not so much as a single minute of alone time in his entire life—but that was okay. He thought maybe isolation was overrated.
In the trees beyond the porch, a single bird woke and sang. It was still too early for so much as a hint of sunlight on the eastern horizon, but it would come soon enough.
Henry leaned his head into Jerry’s neck and ignored the stench of blood.
Night night, Bubby.
Henry kissed his brother’s cheek. “Night night,” he said and closed his eyes for the last time.
Daniel Pyle is the author of Dismember, Down the Drain, Freeze, the upcoming Man vs. Himself, and many short stories. He is also the editor of Unnatural Disasters and is an Active member of the Horror Writers Association. After studying creative writing at Amherst College, he moved back to his hometown of Springfield, Missouri, where he now lives with his wife and two daughters. You can visit him online at www.danielpyle.com.
DEAD THINGS
by Michael Crane
When he heard the doorbell, Dwight rubbed his face with his hands. A loud, disheartened sigh left his lips. He knew one of his least favorite people in the world would be at the door. He didn’t hate her, of course. He knew the woman had issues that were beyond her control, but after a few months of this it was becoming a tired trend.
After taking a breath, he finally went to the door and answered it. “Everything okay, Mrs. Hendrickson?”
The old woman wore a horrid pink robe decorated with blackbirds. She shook her wrinkly head while her mouth quivered. “Zombies, Mr. Jacobs! Zombies.”
He did his best to hold in a groan. For weeks Mrs. Hendrickson had been coming over, claiming zombies had invaded their cozy little town and was convinced it would only be a matter of time before they tracked her down. She even went into graphic detail about what zombies did to people, even though Dwight was quite aware of how they behaved due to many of the horror flicks he’d watched over the years. Of course, he didn’t believe her. She was probably off her meds again.
“Zombies?” Dwight asked. “Have you been watching scary movies again?”
Mrs. Hendrickson’s mouth hung agape and an offended gasp escaped her throat. She wagged her finger at him. “Don’t you go making fun of me, sonny boy. I’m trying to tell you something important here. Zombies are invading our neighborhood!”
He took a quick peek outside and threw his hands up. “I don’t see anything, Mrs. Hendrickson. Maybe you were dreaming?”
“Fine,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “Don’t believe me. Think I’m a wacko. I’m sure that’s what everyone thinks of me anyway.”
“Nobody thinks you’re a wacko,” Dwight said, although he damn well knew that was a lie. The whole neighborhood knew of Mrs. Hendrickson’s antics, though they never complained or confronted her about it. Everybody felt sorry for her after she lost her husband in a car accident two years ago. That was when she really started to go off the deep end. She would keep herself locked up in her house and do nothing but watch TV all day long. No wonder she came up with such outrageous stories.
Dwight began to rub his arms even though he wasn’t cold. “It’s getting late. If you see any zombies lurking about, you can come back and let me know.”
She waved him off, angrily shaking her head. “Whatever. I know you’re mocking me, but I’m gonna show you once and for all that there are zombies and I’m not off my rocker!” He watched her storm away while she continued to shake her head and mumble to herself. Dwight just stared in silence. He hoped she wouldn’t come back again, but he wasn’t that lucky of a guy. She always came back. After taking one last look outside, he closed the door.
“Was that Mrs. Hendrickson again?”
Dwight turned and saw his seven-year-old son, Jimmy, standing on the stairs. He wore his blue pajamas, his brown hair a feathery mess on the left side of his head.
“You should be in bed.”
“Is it true? Did she really see zombies?” Jimmy asked.
“No, she didn’t see any zombies.” Dwight ran his hand through his son’s hair and the two of them began to walk up the stairs. “You know she has problems.”
“What kind of problems?”
“She’s not really right in the head, you know? I mean, she lost her husband and she’s a bit on the old side.” He cringed at his own words, knowing that he wasn’t the best when it came to explaining things to his son or giving fatherly speeches.
“Old people have problems?” Jimmy asked while Dwight tucked him in.
“Some of them do. When something really bad happened, or when they get old, they start to act like a child. I think it’s a little bit of both when it comes to Mrs. Hendrickson.”
One of Jimmy’s eyes became big. “She’s turning into a kid?”
Dwight chuckled and shook his head. “Not like that. In her head, she’s thinking more and more like a kid.”
“And that’s bad?”
“When you’re a grownup like her it is. There’s nothing to be afraid of. She won’t hurt you or anything. It’s just that she’s a little out of it and she makes up stories. It’s her mind playing tricks on her. When she tells these stories, she thinks they’re true, but they really aren’t.”