“Maybe I oughta stop reading you these creepy stories before bed,” I said as I tousled Tate’s bowl cut. “You get too scared.” His eyes glistened with anxious anticipation.
“But dad, I think there really is something down there!” Tate held his red Pendleton blanket close to his chubby cheeks. His room was small, about ten by ten, and decorated by all his favorite things: action heroes, baseball players, comic books, you name it.
He was at that age that still demanded bedtime stories, but he was getting more curious about my knack for horror. For the past two weeks I’d read him stories that scared me as a kid. They scared me, but also excited me, made my mind race, and create different worlds.
“Okay, okay. I’ll check for you. You say it’s under the bed?” I asked, chewing on my last bit of beef jerky. My arthritic knees were not forgiving as I made my way down to the laminate wood floor. I knocked over my reusable water bottle like the clumsy fool I am. Luckily, the cap was tight and none of the cucumber and electrolyte water mixture spilled out onto Tate’s bedroom floor. That would’ve been yet another headache.
Shoes, missing socks, and toys riddled the space beneath his bed. I already knew I wouldn’t find anything, so I pushed his stuff aside and acted like I was searching. “Nope, I don’t see a soul!” I exclaimed as I held onto his bed to lift myself up to see Tate. My lower back was aching, but I didn’t want to take any more of those damned pain meds.
“Dad, you barely checked! Can’t you look longer and really check for the monster under my bed?” Tate asked with puppy-dog eyes. A heavy sigh left my lips and my shoulders sank.
“Sure, Tatey. Why not? I’ll check again. Extra-good this time.” Went back to my hands and knees, but this time I lay out onto my stomach. It had been a while since my last pushup and getting down quickly like that felt like a doozy. I was still facing the floor and noticed a board where the laminate was peeling. Crap, I knew I shouldn’t have been a cheapskate with the goddamned flooring. The wife would never let me hear the end of it.
Looking up, I saw something new beneath the bed, some lump of mass. What in the world? A red blanket with the same patterns as Tate’s blanket covered the thing. I lay there frozen as it rolled my way and unwrapped itself. It was my son. Almost a replica except his eyes; they were two smoldering charcoal briquettes with ash falling away. My own eyes must’ve resembled two harvest moons and my open jaw a cavern. I couldn’t move. The boy was frightened and bit his lip the same way Tate had just a moment ago. He then moved his lips, but the words formed inside of my head. He told me something scary was above his mattress.
“Did you find anything?” Tate asked from atop his bed.
“Um, I don’t kn—” I tried to say as I crept back up to look at my son, but he and his blanket vanished. What the fuck? I immediately shot back down to look beneath Tate’s bed. Nothing.
“Goodnight, Daddy,” Tate said from the doorway, holding his red blanket and sucking on his thumb. He then closed the door. I scrambled to reach my feet, knees and lower back cracking as if I had driftwood for bones. Yelling, I swung the door open, but a dark, peaceful home said nothing back.
“Honey?” My wife, Meli, called out in confused worry. She jolted toward me and asked if everything was alright. The words wouldn’t come out. I yanked her arm toward Tate’s bedroom. Flicked the light switch. Tate was fast asleep.
“There was a clone, or something, of Tate underneath his bed just now!” I said, wiping sweat beads from my forehead. “He told me to look under his bed for a monster, you know, the scary bedtime stories. I knelt down and a carbon copy of Tate was under his bed, saying there was a monster on top of his bed.” I realized I must’ve sounded like a goddamn madman after seeing the look on my wife’s face.
“You using cactus again?” She asked as she leaned into me to examine my eyes. “Mm, dilated pupils, bloodshot whites. Please don’t tell me—”
“No, no. I haven’t in years. Scout’s honor.” My tongue-in-cheek mention of Boy Scouts didn’t fit the tone of this conversation. I hated the Boy Scouts and their Order of the Arrow. Wasn’t enough to steal our land, but the WASPs also tried to imitate our ceremonies, our regalia, and call it their own. My aging brain reminded me to return from my stupid mental tangent. My body tensed as I crossed my arms.
My wife raised an eyebrow, cocked her head, and rubbed her arm absently.
“If you say so. I assume you didn’t get much sleep on the couch last night. Hopefully you get more shuteye tonight. I’m going to bed, Dak.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but my tongue wouldn’t cooperate. All I could do was watch her walk to our bedroom and click the door shut behind her. The couch would be my bed for the third night in a row. Before crashing, I peeked again into Tate’s room. There he was, sound asleep beneath the glow-in-the-dark stars strewn across his ceiling.
The sunrise peeked through the back patio door and filled the living room with its warm, soothing light. Well, soothing when you want to be awake. I regretted not sleeping on the other end to face west.
My wife was already off to work and didn’t leave a note for the third morning. Couldn’t blame her. I acknowledged my misstep, my mistake. Regret filled the crater in my chest, spilling off the sides, and I’d have to work extra hard to bandaid the situation. As soon as it could fade and be in our rearview, the sooner we could be a solid family again.
My unshaven face and unkempt hair glared back at me in the mirror next to the fridge. A reminder of how fucked I felt. Another wrinkle here, another gray hair there. More salt than pepper. I wondered what my dad would think of my choice of haircut. Wow, Dakota. Trying to imitate the white man? My hair was down to my ribs until my forties. After a while, I cut it all off to be more modern. But what was ‘modern?’ Was it erasing the richness of the past for the dullness of the future? A past filled with beautiful ornaments, character, and belonging traded for a future filled with grayscale details, imitations, and a different belonging? The thought of growing my hair out again became a serious consideration.
Grabbing the milk and Froot Loops, I made Tate some of his typical breakfast. Yes, he could have done it himself, but I was already awake.
“Tate, breakfast! Come get it while it’s hot!” I thought it was funny to make him think I slaved over some eggs, bacon, and toast when I just tossed some sugar-coated circles into a bowl of sugar-coated liquid.
Rubbing his eyes, Tate entered the kitchen in his Ninja Turtle pajamas, and offered a gigantic yawn. He then walked up to the counter and looked at the bowl of cereal.
“I don’t like cereal, dad.”
My expression was incredulous.
“You always eat this stuff, don’t you?” I asked, rubbing my stubbled chin.
“I don’t want Froot Loops. Can I have some of that?” Tate asked with his finger pointed in the coffee pot’s direction.
“Coffee? You’re nine!”
“Dad, I’m ten. I wanna try some coffee,” Tate said as he pushed the cereal bowl toward me and crossed his arms.
Math calculations came into my brain. Sure, I was the idiot.
“Yeah, ten, I knew that. Just messing with you, son,” I said as I ate a spoonful of Toucan Sam’s colorful rings. “I mean, yeah, I could let you try a cup. It’ll stunt your growth, though. Don’t you wanna be tall like me someday?”
Heck, I needed some caffeine myself. My headache felt like someone was slowly turning a corkscrew between my eyes.
Water, grounds, flipped the switch.
If the caffeine made Tate crazy, that would be his teachers’ problem. My wife changed her work schedule a week prior. She worked earlier to get home in time for Tate to come home on the bus. This meant I barely saw her as my shifts for Adam’s Pest Control were from noon until around eight o’clock.
Poured the coffee into two mugs and slid one over to Tate.
“Cream, sugar?” I asked.
“No, Daddy. Just black.”
It took me years to enjoy a fresh cup of joe with nothing added. This was too weird. I offered Tate a fake smile and narrowed my eyes as he sipped from his mug. After the first few test sips, he gulped the entire mug.
This is way too hot, even for me. What is wrong with this kid? I thought as only a half ounce of the scalding liquid entered my mouth at a time.
“That was good. So tasty. Can I have another cup, Dad?” Tate asked as he jingled his mug about as if asking for spare change downtown.
“Erm. Glad you liked it, Tate. But one cup is enough for a boy your size. And your age.”
“Okay, fine. Do we have any peanut butter in the cupboard, Daddy?” Tate asked, a smile slowly stretching across his face.
My chest tingled, and I wondered if my lack of sleep was affecting my senses, molding the world before me into something unrecognizable.
“I’m sorry, Tate. Dad hasn’t been sleeping too good. Did you say you wanted peanut butter?” I asked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
Beep, beep. Tate’s school bus arrived. The microwave’s green digital clock agreed with the time the bus driver, Mr. Delphan, arrived each morning. Time had passed like a flash. I could’ve sworn the clock read 5:33AM when I first entered the kitchen.
Shook my damn head as if to knock something loose and told Tate to run and put on his school uniform. My wallet was on the floor beside the couch, and I grabbed a five-dollar bill from it for Tate’s lunch. As I looked up with the lunch money in hand, Tate was at the door, fully dressed and with combed hair. How could he have done that? I kissed the top of his head, handed him the bill, and walked him outside.
“Have a great day, son. I’ll see ya tonight!” Mr. Delphan shifted into drive despite Tate still walking back to an open seat. We exchanged our final waves goodbye.
I turned around and stared into the grass parallel to the cracked sidewalk while scratching my stubbled cheek. Tate was allergic to peanut butter.
Was I losing it? Does excessive use of cactus have long-term effects on the brain? I assumed the hallucinations were only temporary. The eeriness sent daddy longlegs down my arms. I spread my hands out on the kitchen’s island as I leaned downward and concentrated on my breath. Dr. Langston showed me these exercises for when my world was crushing inward.
Dakota, my tribe. Became my name, too. Always hated the Anglo name my mom gave me, Jabin. Supposed to mean “perceptive” or something. Assumed my dad always hated it too because he loved calling me Dak. I think he loved me more when I drank, but not too sure.
Spiced rum and peyote riddled my past. The drink I took up from my father and enjoyed it as early as my second year of high school. Well, until I dropped out the following year. I joined a small group of Dakota men who suffered from sauce addiction and wanted to go on spiritual journeys to find themselves again, their purpose. Peyote was a Native’s hallucinogen of choice. It was used to obtain ‘enlightenment,’ or have life-changing experiences with what they called greater spirits, entities.
My cucumber water went almost everywhere with me. Yeah, it was bitter, but I wanted to work on my health and fix a decade of dehydration. Work on it for Meli, for us. I drank rum like it was a fountain soda. Staying hydrated made me feel better overall, and I kicked the bottle down the stairway to hell. An actual battle won by an Indian? Something to celebrate.
However, it had been years since my last dosing of cactus. I still couldn’t grasp how I tripped enough the previous night to visualize two Tates, or at least one imitation. The hallucination was so vivid, so real. Sure, I was sleep deprived. The couch had annoying, firm bars in between each cushion to keep its structure. Didn’t help my chronic back pain. And I saw things in the past when I lacked sleep, but this?
And what the hell was up with Tate that next morning? Froot Loops were his favorite cereal. Coffee? Peanut butter? Maybe it was a subconscious rebellion against me and Meli’s doomed marriage. Maybe he knew what I did and was acting out.
“They call it a mischief,” Rogers said. Sweat beads were crowding his hairless upper lip.
“Call what a mis-chief?” I asked as I covered my mouth with my forearm.
“A damned group of rats. You know, like a group of crows is a ‘murder,’ an army of frogs, a gaggle of geese,” he responded with an appropriate air of intelligence. “Say, are you cool to handle this one yourself? We got double booked, and I’ve gotta get to the Henderson residence for squirrels in their attic. They said they’d tip me big under the table if I get it done fast.”
“No problem, bud.” I raised my hand toward his work truck to hint for him to leave. We often worked in teams, but it was okay. The job seemed easy. “Have fun with that,” I chuckled, remembering the Hendersons as a crazy family. The head of the household had a screw or two loose. He offered me a half-ass salute, which made me laugh even more. Rogers was in the U.S. Army for some time, and I suspected his sense of decorum faded along with his respect for war. As he walked away, the large red and yellow logo for Adam’s Pest Control on his coveralls bounced with each step.
I swigged my cucumber water and the back of my tongue picked up more bitterness than usual.
Blegh.
Maybe the rat nest’s musky stench in the air penetrated my taste buds at that exact moment. The rats smelled like death despite the piss and shit I assumed lined the entire crawlspace.
After an initial inspection, I discovered two backfills and three burrows. I filled them with soil from the homeowner’s failed garden. To remove the breeding nests, I first had to scare the rats with bright light because they’re nocturnal. I twisted two high-beam lamps and threw them into the crawlspace. Nothing skittered. No sign of rats scurrying away.
Went back to my truck to place heavy-duty welding gloves on both of my hands. I figured if I crawled under that house and got ambushed by rats they’d have a hard time biting through the gloves. Slung my work sack over my shoulder, which carried traps, bait, and thick plastic baggies for critter corpses.
With body aches from my feet through my torso and up to my neck, I knelt down to enter the crawlspace. If I’d still been drinking, there’s no way I’d be able to fit into that skinny stretch under the house with my gut. By this time, I’d sloughed off all excess weight.
For my protection, I also put on some safety glasses and a head covering. Cobwebs, random nails, and loosened splinters populated these tight spaces. Didn’t want my coveralls to get too jacked up, so I used a small tarp under my chest to separate me from the grime.
My eyes caught small spirals swirling in the home’s foundation. At that moment, I figured the heat was getting to me and I regretted not taking an extra swig of my cucumber water before crawling inward to avoid any dehydration. I also should have worn something to protect my nose from the awful smells. The stench was overwhelming and forced me to gag only minutes into the crawlspace.
An echoing screech pierced my ears and didn’t sound too far off. The screech was atypical for the rats I’d exterminated in the past. Imaginary spiders once again crawled up my arms.
The lamps I tossed into the crawlspace covered much of the area, but left some corners dark. Those corners radiated the type of darkness so black your eyes see patterns and figures that aren’t really there. Or were they? I saw more of those tiny spirals in one particular corner. Some spirals emitted a faint green light that grew stronger with my every movement.
With my limited space, I moved onto my back and fumbled in my pocket for my mini flashlight. Clicked the flashlight and tilted my head backward. My gaped mouth let out a shrill scream. I flipped back onto my stomach.
Convulsing. Bubbling. Popping. There were seven, maybe eight, rats all melted together. Their mouths opened in unison and another deep-toned screech infiltrated my eardrums. All three of my lights went out and a resonant humming filled my head. My body didn’t thrash about and I didn’t make for the exit. I lay there on my stomach in an all-consuming stupor.
The melted pile of half-dead rats gave off a fetid stench of death which strong-armed my nostrils. I dealt with rat carcasses often, but the stinging scent was overpowering. Remnants of my breakfast shot out of my throat with little effort. With bile coating my lips, a forced smile grew and my eyes became lost in the shifting spirals of various colors.
There was a large movement at the center of the rat pile. It was pulsating much more than before, but jutting out toward me. It wriggled and let out somber cries. A creature broke through the melted rats.
It was my son.
He was squeezing out of the sickly mess of rats. A jelly-like substance smeared across his face. Could only guess it was a mixture of the rats’ innards. By the time he was halfway out of the rats, I scooted my body that much further to the exit. I wondered if my coworker sprayed chemical compounds in there before he left. Was I suffering brain damage and hallucinating? Dread flooded my veins and wormed its way into my brain, paralyzing me in a state pinned between fight or flight.
“Daddy. It hurts…” Tate said. Or the thing that looked like Tate. It was as if he was crawling through a glue trap I often set for rats. So slow. The colored spirals were dancing around him and in an instant, fell away, vanished. Steam came off his body like the morning coffee pot we shared.
Then his skin.
It was as if his old skin got caught on a nail, stretched out, and reached its ultimate point of tension before ripping away.
I remembered seeing a time-lapse video showing a tarantula leaving its old skin behind for a new set of furry feelers. It was simultaneously captivating and revolting. But this, this was only revolting. Dry heaves developed into more vomiting up my breakfast. The Tate-thing crawled through it, anyway.
With every move it made, I slid back an equal distance.
The new skin was an older Tate, a teenaged Tate. Still slim, but with long, dark hair and peach fuzz across his upper lip.
“Dad, just let me go. You can’t save me.” His voice was deeper, more pronounced. He coughed and black slime spilled from his mouth.
Quiet, angry curse words swam under my breath as I struggled to keep my distance and get the hell out of there.
I reached the entryway of the crawlspace and sprang to my feet, knee joints cracking like thunder. The moonless night startled me. I started this job around three o’clock. How long was I inside there? It felt like minutes. I watched the entryway for the Tate creature to follow. It didn’t.
“Whoa, buddy! Easy there,” Rogers warned as I spun around and almost knocked him over. “Did ya finish up the house?”
Though it was a brisk night, sweat seeped from my armpits and forehead. A quick swipe of my brow only got a small portion of it. I must have looked manic, though, I attempted my best to keep it cool.
“Yeah, yep. Caught about seven or eight rats. Pretty beat. Ready to go home.”
“Well, you’ve gotta get your lights and equipment all packed up.” Rogers pointed toward the crawlspace illuminated by jaundiced light.
Thanked Rogers and waved him off to have a good night.
Frayed nerves. An empty stomach. A throbbing migraine. Was time to get the hell home and unwind. Eat dinner and erase the day with some rest.
“What do ya wanna drink?” I asked while face deep in the fridge.
“Apple juice,” Tate said with marked enthusiasm.
“Apple ju—what?” I semi-closed the fridge door to question his choice. Was it happening again? Tate despised apple juice.
Our eyes met. He held a determined expression and gave a languid tilt to his head. There were those eyes again. Two burning discs of charcoal, this time twisting beneath creased brows. My neck hair stiffened as a chill swam up my spine.
“I said what I said, Daddy.”
His articulate emphasis made me swallow a gulp of air. Down went reality and up came fantasy. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t real.
“Say, Meli, what would you like to drink, honey?” I called out, eyes still staring into the Tate-thing’s scorched black discs. An awkward silence stilted the air. As I repeated myself, her voice rang out.
“Already got my wine. Come on, you two. Let’s go.” There was a clear tone of irritation on her tongue.
My body resembled a marble statue as I gazed into the hypnotic green swirls floating around the Tate-thing’s face.
“What’s taking you so long?” Meli asked.
His eyes shifting interrupted the mesmeric reverie. Those beautiful brown halos I cherished since the day he was born returned to his face.
“Let’s eat, Dad,” Tate said as he pulled my hand, leading me away from the fridge and toward the dining room table.
At the table, forks and knives sawed through meat, scraping against the plates. We always put a good helping of greens on Tate’s plate to entice him to like vegetables. It was always a battle to get him to enjoy anything with nutrition. Tonight, he was eating the steamed broccoli without a complaint or shoving it to the side far away from the venison.
“I’m impressed, baby. Normally, you hate broccoli!” Meli said with a smirk. She leaned in to tousle his hair and added, “My boy is growing up, he’s changing.”
Tate turned toward her and smiled while chewing. As Meli looked down at her plate for her next bite, Tate swung his head toward me. His innocent smile stretched out into a wide grin. The ends of his mouth almost reached the smoldering black circles, exposing his crooked baby teeth. A millipede poked out of his mouth, tiny legs churning about.
I slammed my palm on the table with so much force, my water bottle fell over.
“Goddammit! I’m sick of your shit!” Unchewed venison flung from my lips. “Who are you? What have you done with my son?” My heart was thumping, blood rushed through my arms and neck. The Tate-thing’s eyes went back to normal, no millipede in sight. His face twisted into a shallow cry, then a wail.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Dak? Come here, honey.” Meli reached out for the Tate-thing and it joined in her arms for a motherly embrace. She was hugging and consoling that… thing. Disgusting.
I opened and closed my mouth without a word. My fingers repeatedly curled into fists. With trembling hands, I rubbed the back of my neck as if trying to get a stain out of it.
“I’m taking him to bed. Dak, you need to calm the fuc—Sorry, baby. Mommy doesn’t mean to curse. Come on.” As she got up to leave, the Tate-thing looked to me. It lifted its chin and covered its mouth to conceal a giggle. Its eyes were black holes, two collapsed stars pulling me into its event horizon. At that moment, all hope escaped me. The only thing I could sense was an impending doom. After I had shut it out for so long, the darkness was creeping back in again.
Yard work was always tiring. Hated digging ditches. Used to on the rez for pennies on the dollar. Thank the Wakan deities I escaped that place and settled down here in Anoka. The smell of moist earth comforted me. Reminded me of my mom. She’d make pottery from clay. Made beaded jewelry by hand, too, and sold it at the powwows. The monotony of yard work often drove my mind into those distant memories. Those ghosts.
The darkness bled back in, and thoughts of her dying of diabetes plagued my mind. Those deep regrets of not visiting her, not calling. Was old enough to be out on my own, have my own problems. She always rubbed that worry stone for me, but I never returned the favor. I was a shit son. A shit husband.
Knew Meli went to her sister’s house when I read her note that next morning. She didn’t spell it out, but I knew. Said she couldn’t handle me now, especially with everything involving that blonde woman. What we did. What I did. Was like carrying around a bison on my shoulders, the guilt.
My back could only break so much. Had weak knees and all. If a coroner splayed me open, right here, right now, he’d find minimal connective tissue. Where’s all the sinew? You got bone against bone here, my friend. Yeah, yeah. Should’ve been healthier, should’ve stayed fit. All of life’s ‘should haves’ and ‘could haves’ filling that guilt bison strapped to my shoulders.
My drifting mind allowed me to dig deeper and deeper and ignore all the energy I was using up. Swigged my water bottle; the electrolytes coated my esophagus and spread out to my limbs. A rejuvenation. I aimed for six feet.
First the birdshot, then the slug. Could fit more shells in there, but I only wanted two. Pumped my Mossberg to load the birdshot shell. Was the dangling dreamcatcher charm on my shotgun corny? Probably, yeah. But I knew my boomstick sent whatever was on the receiving end to a dream state somewhere. Most of the time it was a deer.
Oh, yeah, it was squirming alright. That was no son of mine. It cried and cried. I drove four stakes into the earth, one for each limb. Tied each down with a Palomar knot. Learned that one from the Scouts.
Wasn’t in the mood to have perfect trigger discipline. Held the barrel between the thing’s eyes, slid it down to its throat, then its torso. My finger teased us both by twitching.
Do it. Do it. Do it.
Big, black saucer eyes stared up at me. It writhed in anger as the shotgun barrel explored its alien body.
Planted my feet, firmed my shoulder, and released.
The tiny lead balls tore holes across its chest and face. The craters revealed a stringy black interior. The substance that made up its body composition was akin to a black, melted mozzarella. A collective of minuscule, sticky strands created a strong individual entity.
Those green spirals danced around its head. It was putting on a show. It was trying to distract me from what I set out to do.
Next was the slug shell.
The thing immediately went slack, all taut muscle fibers released.
I created a cavity within its chest cavity. It was beautiful. There was no heart, no vital organs blown to smithereens. Just a black mucus, thick as molasses. It oozed out of the hollowed basin. This was not desecration. This creation was far from holy, far from sacred. It was unknowable. An altered version of my son, Tate. It was demonic, or something of the sort.
Ripped out the stakes, which held it down to the loam soil, and tossed the knotted ropes aside. Does it deserve a proper burial like us? It was not of this world, yet here I was giving it a proper burial. Was I burying the idea of my son? This monster took him over and killed him. Was it my duty to remove him from this planet? To throw him into that hole and salt the earth? I’d banish this evil entity from my life.
Packed the earth down, a mixture of wet, heavy clay, and light topsoil. Threw in shovelfuls of deadened leaves from the black maples for good measure.
Sudden emotion inundated me like a monstrous tidal wave. I was heaving. Then I was whimpering. Then I leapt in anger and smashed the shovel on the burial mound. Smashed and smashed until my back gave out and rolled over sobbing.
Why? Why did it take my son? Fatherhood kept me going. It was one of the few things that made me get out of bed, to not wish for that darkness to take me.
The back patio door creaked.
Wiped my tears and the snot trailing down my nose.
It was Tate.
And he had those awful, black eyes.
“Killed the real son?” it asked.
The darkness emitting from his eyes drew me in. Swallowed me.