Creature Feature Library

Craig Hartley stood at the tiny hospital room window, sweating. It was summer and eighty degrees and here he was, stuck in a room with no air conditioning. Nothing he could do, of course, but stand and sweat and hate hospitals in general.

He watched townspeople scuttle along the sidewalks and smirked. Look at them, running around in the shadow of the place that'll kill them someday. Idiots. That’s why he’d left, of course. So he wouldn’t become one of them.

His smirk faded. He'd carved out a good life for himself, dammit – but now it felt like he’d never left. He still felt nineteen. Still defiant, reckless, insecure, scared of his father’s bullshit. Still haunted by...

He turned to inspect the room, avoiding the burnt thing in its middle. He ignored the gurgling tubes and wheezing respirator that jiggled the charred thing; the burnt thing...the thing that used to be his brother.

Tubes breathed for him, IVs flushed and drained him, and the itchy patch on Craig's scalp burned. He couldn’t ignore it, or push it away. According to Pop, it bore testament to Buddy’s sacrifice, long ago. So Pop had always claimed, anyway, before disappearing in the swamps on a trapping run three years ago. Drowned, most likely. God rest, Pop. Awful that he couldn't muster more, but that's all he had.

His stomach twisted. Every inch not wrapped in blood-stained gauze was burnt gut-red. Cracked skin had congealed into molten, oblong globs. Buddy looked half his size; the fire having burnt most his muscle away. A thin layer of gristle coated his charred frame.

An insistent cardiac monitor sounded Buddy's heartbeat with a rhythmic ping. Somehow, his heart still beat strong. Layers of gauze hid Buddy’s face. If Craig didn’t know better, he’d think Buddy was a badly done movie prop. Small bumps rose where ears should be. The mouth – intubated with a plastic air tube – a burnt hole. The crisped remains of Buddy’s nose peeked from underneath the gauze.

Craig glanced over his shoulder. Dr. Stanley Jeffers, chief resident. Tall, gaunt, with bloodless lips. A black widow's peak. He looked like a flesh-eating ghoul. Craig shivered. Dr. Jeffers had freaked them all out as kids, and Craig imagined that no matter how many peppermints he distributed, Dr. Jeffers still freaked kids out.

Craig's scalp burned. He thought he smelled Old Spice, Pop’s favorite. Dammit. Man’s dead and drowned, out in the swamps. He shoved the scent away. “How long?”
The doctor frowned. “A few days. We’ve done all we can. The trauma is too severe. His body is breaking down.”

“After your father disappeared and the farm sold, Buddy boarded at Miss Walpole’s and worked the landfill. It was burning night. A load of burning garbage shifted, fell, pinned Buddy to the ground.” Coal-black eyes stared at him. “It’s fortunate you came. He needs your help.”

Something twitched in Craig's belly. Shame? Or despair? He ignored it. “I can’t do anything about this. Nothing anyone can do.”

“Not necessarily.” Craig turned and studied the doctor’s pinched face. “Measures can be taken. Your father left explicit instructions in his will regarding either of your deaths, as well as a healthy trust fund. He left specific instructions regarding efforts to save Buddy’s life, particularly.”

Craig snorted. “I’ll never understand why you let Pop peddle his medicine magic here. Surprised no one ever sued your ass off.”

Dr. Jeffers shrugged. “This is a research hospital. We’ve an open mind.” A heavy pause. “Your father healed many over the years.”
Craig glanced away, cheeks burning. “Placebo-effect. Healing power of the human mind. Trick people into feeling better, they heal.”

Craig looked everywhere but at the doctor’s intense gaze and Buddy. “Don’t understand how Pop could’ve saved that much money. He did fine on the farm, conned lots of hill folk with his hoodoo.” He glanced at Dr. Jeffers, suspicious. “Not enough to set up a trust fund, though.”

So that’s how the old man paid for his tuition. And to think, he'd let Craig think it had been Buddy slaving away on the farm. He shook his head. “No way. He's burnt to hell, and I’m too old to believe in Pop’s hoodoo.”

“Nevertheless, Buddy is fading quickly. He needs blood. As his brother, you’re compatible.”

Craig looked away. What the hell am I supposed to do?
As if reading his thoughts, Dr. Jeffers whispered, “Save his life.” A pause. “Also...repay a debt, if I understand your father’s will correctly.”

So many words he had for the man, if he were still alive. So many words, bundled tight with bitter, bottled up things. Bastard. Even when you’re dead, you can’t stop, can you? If only you were still alive. I'd take those words, shove 'em down your damn throat.

“All we need is blood, son. That’s all.”
Craig faced the doctor and smiled stiffly. “What the hell? I pay my ‘debt’, you get some blood, I go back to my life. Why not?”

Craig sat in a small, featureless room. Several racks of empty blood bags stood next to him. He knew nothing about transfusions, but there seemed too many.

Seated, shirt rolled to the elbow, Craig felt something prick the inside of his forearm, as painless as the wide-hipped, dour-faced nurse had promised. As Dr. Jeffers entered and the nurse exited, Craig tasted many emotions. Surprisingly, one was pride. Finally, he was doing something for Buddy. He may not believe Pop’s hoodoo, but it felt good to give something back to Buddy.

Dr. Jeffers smiled. He checked the IV lines. “This is a good thing you’re doing. Not many would sacrifice so much.”

Craig offered Dr. Jeffers a wan look. “It's only a few pints. Haven't given to the Red Cross lately. Got some karma to redeem.”

Dr. Jeffers' smile grew. He withdrew a syringe from his jacket pocket. “Yes. A few pints. So modest.” He paused. “‘Karma to redeem’. Apt words. Tell me, Craig – did you truly disbelieve your father’s faith?”

Craig did his best not to scowl. “You mean his crazy hoodoo magic? Don’t get me wrong. Pop raised us best he could, hard but fair. Never laid a wrong hand on us. He provided.”

Dr. Jeffers tapped the syringe, then secured it in the IV's port. “But you didn’t approve of his practices.” A statement, not a question.

Craig blinked. A warm fuzziness filled him. “C’mon, doc. Casting spells, binding spirits, mixing herbs, researching arcane incantations? That's no way to raise kids, especially one like...Buddy.”

“You turned out fine. Good college degree, high-paying job...fancy car, even?”

“I got the hell out. If it’d been up to Pop, I would've stayed forever, working the farm with Buddy.”

Vertigo hit him, tugged down his eyelids. Looking up at the syringe jutting from the IV port, he mumbled, “Lissen...Doc...what’s in that syringe? I’m losin' it, here.”

The doctor smiled again, and looked almost...hungry. “We need to get you prepped, Craig. You’ve quite a procedure ahead.”

Whatever was in the syringe, it was acting fast. Craig's tongue felt heavy, numb. “Boy – you guys take blood transfusions seriously, yeah?”

Dr. Jeffers knelt next to him, his smile melting into something somber. “I’m afraid I've misled you. This is much more than a blood transfusion. We’re going to save your brother’s life, and pay back your Weirguild to him.”

Something cold stabbed Craig’s heart. He knew that word. “Waitaminute. Whatdidja say?”

The sedative slammed Craig, finally. His head swayed and his tongue flopped as he gurgled. He searched Jeffers’ face...and saw a glittering pendent hanging around the doctor’s neck, under his open-collared shirt.

It was simple, yet ornate. In pewter, braided by gold, hung an inverted ‘Y’ in a circle. It was similar to one his father used to wear. Craig jerked, only to find his arms and torso restrained. When had that happened?
A line of cold drool leaked from the corner of his mouth, down his cheek. Dr. Jeffers fingered the pendent while he talked. “Your father was a great man. His knowledge of the netherworld was vast. He taught me much before he died. You can’t imagine how many lives I’ve saved because of him.”

“Believe it or not, he was proud of you. But he was prouder of Buddy. I was the attending physician when you and Buddy were born, the night of your mother’s death. You were conjoined. At the head. Impossible to make a clean severance.”

loss was going to cause irreparable brain damage to the twin I cut nearest to.”

Every nerve screamed. Craig slumped further down. He felt a small tug on his arm. Unable to turn his head, from the corner of his eyes he glimpsed tiny red streams flowing upwards, away from him.

“I watched, amazed, as your father touched your souls, even in the womb.” His eyes flickered. “In Buddy, he found such a willing spirit. In you – not so much.”

Craig’s head rolled back. The white, blurry ceiling filled his vision. His extremities cooled as blood drained from him.

Dr. Jeffers must have leaned close, because as Craig faded, warm breath tickled his ear. “Everything you’ve achieved is because of Buddy. It’s time to repay the Weirguild, Craig. It was your father’s last wish.”

There were no more words, only darkness...and a breath of Old Spice, sharp on the air.

He lay on his back. Above him, a rectangular mirror reflected his naked torso. A white blanket covered the rest. He tried to move his head, found it secured. He squinted in the excruciating glare. Bone-white forms drifted by.

A masked face leaned close. Piercing eyes, the bridge of an aquiline nose. Dr. Jeffers. Craig tried to push against the restraints, but his brain fired blanks. Tenderly, Dr. Jeffers gave his brow a rubbery caress. “Good news. The transfusion was successful. Buddy has several more days. We’ve got room to work, now.”

As if sensing his anger, Dr. Jeffers chuckled. “You may wonder why we’ve woken you. We’ve adjusted the anesthesia so you will feel pain, but not unbearably so. We’re simply following your father’s last request. He felt your Weirguild would be more meaningful if you were awake for the procedure, to create balance. All these years Buddy suffered, watched you live a life forbidden him. Never did he blame you. Ever. It hurt him, though. Badly. I saw it in his eyes, every day.”

A white wraith floated near. Craig recognized the gray eyes of the big-hipped nurse. Dr. Jeffers turned, accepted from her a silver scalpel without a word, then faced him.

He felt it. A sting first. Then, a sharp stab. A line of fire, then worse...pressure. As the cut lengthened, his insides pushed against flesh and muscle.

“For thirty-three years, your brother suffered. Never once did he complain.”

“Your father hoped someday you'd understand what Buddy gave up for you. As a physician, it’s my charge to fulfill that hope.”

“There.” Dr. Jeffers probed the incision. Fire streaked along Craig’s abdomen. Jeffers reached up, adjusted the mirror’s angle. “You may watch, of course. In fact, your father insisted upon it.”

Craig tried to shut his eyes and hide in the darkness...and found he couldn’t. They'd taped his eyelid open. No matter how he strained, they remained so. He sobbed silently. The mirror above reflected his mouth sagging in a lopsided O.

“He wanted you to see everything taken away. Just as Buddy watched you grow, you must watch yourself diminish.”

Unable to stop himself, Craig looked into the mirror. The incision in his abdomen was perfect. Straight. The organs inside pulsed and quivered. It was almost....

Blood pooled to the incision’s edge, but didn’t run over. Dr. Jeffers’ hand descended again. Craig stared. Though there was still pain, it felt far way.

“Unfortunately, though the blood transfusion helped, Buddy’s kidneys and liver are failing.” Dr. Jeffers turned and gazed into his eyes. “This will be your first repayment to him.”

He resumed cutting, skillfully parting flesh. The incision spread. As Jeffers made three identical incisions across his stomach, Craig marveled at their symmetry, balance, order.

The blood flowed. He lost himself in its red, shining brilliance. It swirled into little whorls and spirals. As Jeffers cut, tendrils of crimson ivy crept across Craig's skin. Craig was reminded of those plastic spirographs he and Buddy drew pretty little designs with as kids.

Something broke inside him. His rapture vanished, replaced by something Craig hadn’t screamed in years.

Dr. Jeffers peeled the skin back. Craig glimpsed squirting organs – purple, pink, smooth and rubbery and turgid, sliding around his guts – before it overwhelmed him. His mind shut down. He saw no more, open eyes regardless, as blackness came.

Black spotted to gray. Gradually, white dissolved the gray, wavered, coalesced into a reflection of Craig's opened chest. Ribs had been sawed and pulled back, revealing two white, shivering lungs. They throbbed with breath in time and rhythm.

“Good news.” Dr. Jeffers’ face eased into view. “Buddy’s immune system accepted the transplants. No signs of infection or rejection.”

He felt down Craig’s open chest to his abdomen, which had been stitched up. Bright, throbbing red muscle gleamed in the mirror. “Nearly 70 percent of Buddy's skin was burnt beyond saving. We took some grafts from your stomach to close over his abdominal incisions. He'll need more, of course.” He passed a strangely comforting hand over Craig’s brow. “That will be later. Our final step. For now...”

He turned, accepted again the scalpel from the dour-eyed nurse, and descended into Craig’s chest cavity. “As you can imagine, Buddy’s lungs were badly damaged by smoke inhalation. One was recoverable, the other, however...”

In the mirror, Craig watched Dr. Jeffers cut into the bronchi. A great slash of pain exploded in his chest, powerful enough to make him jerk, in spite of the anesthesia. He moaned and spit up blood, panicked as it filled his nose, choked off his breath.

“Don’t want be alarmed. Blood and mucus flooding the trachea and nasal cavities is expected. The naso-gastric tubes will suction it out. We’ll intubate just to make sure, of course.” He paused, shifted his hands so the nurse could assist holding Craig’s lung as it fell slack from its bronchi.

The pain dulled. True to Jeffers’ word, two red lines suctioned away blood and mucus from his nose. The blood on his lips, however – it glimmered like fantastic lipstick on a mime or clown. He stared at his reflection as the doctor and the nurse pulled away the quivering, gore-spotted lung. He was a clown, with shining red lips, red rivers running from his nose, and a glistening, wet belly.

He was still imagining himself as Bobo the Gibbering Clown in Dr. Jeffers’ Traveling Weirguild Roadshow when the room went away.

They took parts of his intestines next. “We don't need everything, of course,” Dr. Jeffers had said pleasantly. “Just enough to patch Buddy up. His stomach burned badly, buried beneath all that smoldering garbage.”

Dr. Jeffers and his nurse gently coiled slick, gray yards of his intestines into a great bin. “Perhaps you're wondering how all this is possible?” Dr. Jeffers extracted another length of slippery intestine from Craig's gut, which pulled free with a sucking sound. He threaded it to the nurse, then returned to Craig’s side.

“Of course, procedures like these are not possible using conventional medicine.” Craig eyes were still taped open. He’d no choice but meet the doctor’s gaze. “This is all due to your father's knowledge. Without it, both you and Buddy would bleed out instantly; die of shock, or the transplants wouldn’t knit together properly.”

He looked about to say something else, but stopped. Instead, he laid a hand on Craig’s shoulder. “Rest. The last – and hardest – follows.”

“We'll increase the sedation for this, just a bit. It'll be the most painful step, your final repayment to Buddy.”

They started at his feet, cut through skin and muscle, slashing tendons and ligaments with looping, circular cuts. Then...they peeled.

Pain. Oh, God...the pain. Craig wailed silently as nerves blazed like fireworks until they died, ripped away in the skin and muscle torn from him. As they pulled away thick, corded tissue from around his thighs, a writhing, kicking stick-figure emerged. This awful thing jigged and jittered as gentle hands cut, lifted, and folded. Spiny red limbs dripped with gossamer threads.

They cut first, under the chin. Even full of drugs, he felt pressure swell from that point around his neck, a phantom noose pulled tight in the scalpel's wake. Then, gloved fingers dug under the edge and slowly peeled the skin up and away from his face, taking greater care here to snip all the strands and bits connecting skin to muscle and fat.

Finally, it pulled free. His skull popped out of its skin and hair cap with a plop and thumped wetly onto the table. He stared with horrified fascination into the mirror above at the reflection of his new face; the bald, gristle-spotted pate, cavernous eyes and cheekbones, looming nose-hole and grinning-death teeth. It was the last thing he saw before...

Craig woke. Something was different. He sat upright. The light was dimmed. Though he still felt enveloped in a warm blanket that deadened the pain across his face, things were clearer. He didn’t feel any restraints...but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t close his eyes, either, and he realized with a cold rush that was because he didn’t have eyelids to close, anymore.

A mirror hung on the opposite wall. In it, his reflection. A pitifully thin figure, reclined, wrapped in gauze with eye, nose, and mouth holes. Wet redness seeped through in spots. Cardiac and respiration equipment loomed at his bedside. He swallowed and felt the plastic tube in his throat. He wasn’t breathing on his own.

The door opened. In walked Dr. Jeffers in his office clothes, followed by a handsome smiling young man dressed in khakis, a white polo shirt, leather jacket slung over his shoulder. Though his face looked slightly inflamed – like he was recovering from an allergic reaction to something – he bore a strong resemblance to...

Craig couldn’t scream. The escalating ping, ping, ping, PING! of his heart monitor did it for him.

Looking concerned, Dr. Jeffers moved to adjust one of the IV drips, presumably his sedation. His warm, heavy blanket pressed down harder, and the pinging slowed.

“That’s better.” Dr. Jeffers pulled up a chair, the man – the impossible man – following suit. “We almost lost you on the table after that last procedure. Would hate to lose you now.”

He paused, waved a hand at the young man sitting next to him. “Here he is. Alive, healed...in the flesh. Your flesh, as I suppose is more accurate.”

“The swelling has receded nicely.” Dr. Jeffers ran a finger down Buddy’s face. Buddy laughed and knocked it away. “Fortunately, most of that was done with rather pedestrian analgesics and anti-inflammatory creams. In a week’s time, he'll be completely healed.”

Dr. Jeffers turned back, looking regretful. “Unfortunately, there are limits even to your father’s knowledge. We weren’t able to repair Buddy’s vocal chords, and removing yours seemed too risky. Your father explicitly stated in his will you were to survive the procedure.”

Buddy smiled and nodded his head. He looked at Craig. Gratitude glimmered in his eyes. Confusion swirled into Craig's simmering hate.

“Also, his ears are completely cosmetic. He’s both deaf and mute, but he’s picked up sign language very well.” Dr. Jeffers paused, signed something that must’ve been joke. Buddy chuckled, his laughter strange, scratchy and mewling...but sound that could be heard, all the same.

“Of course there's much to do about Buddy’s mental limitations. However, your father DID set aside two sizable trust funds. One to fund your care, and another, larger one to see that Buddy never has to work again. That, and...” Dr. Jeffers glanced at Buddy with a grin. Signing as he talked, he said, “In a week, Buddy will be quite an attractive fellow. I don’t think he’ll lack for female companionship.”

Unbelievably, Dr. Jeffers mimed a generous hip thrust, at which Buddy broke out into scratchy peals of laughter.

Dr. Jeffers sobered and waved a hand. Buddy calmed down. “Most importantly, Buddy is immensely grateful. You have repaid your Weirguild, and more than that – you've acted liked a true brother.” He stopped signing and raised his eyebrows. “As far as he knows...you volunteered. We didn't transplant your vocal chords, but we did cut them. He'll never know.”

Dr. Jeffers looked at Buddy, who rose, approached them, and knelt next to the bed. Gently, he cupped Craig's head and stared with baby blue eyes Craig wasn’t sure he’d ever really seen before today. Buddy touched foreheads with him and grunted something that needed no translation.

Buddy nodded once, grunted again, and stood. Dr. Jeffers stood also. They walked for the door.

Buddy gave a big, friendly wave and a thankful smile that burned into Craig’s memory. Dr. Jeffers clapped him on the shoulder, and Buddy – now Craig – walked out the door.

Dr. Jeffers followed, but stopped in the doorway. Hands in his pockets, he turned and regarded Craig with a thin smile. “Don’t worry, Mr. Hartley. Our staff is caring and professional. We have fine equipment. You should live for a very long time. Thirty-three years, at the very least.”

He turned, walked out the door. Before he closed it, he said over his shoulder, “Also...you'll finally get to have those words with your father.”

Craig screamed silently as the room smelled of Old Spice and things of wet, dank, swamp rot.

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