THROUGH THE GUTS OF A BEGGAR

by Robert Swartwood

“Through the Guts of a Beggar” copyright © 2010 Robert Swartwood
Cover art and design copyright © 2010 Wyatt Perko
Smashwords Edition

This E-Book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Robert Swartwood.

Introduction

In high school I’d written a horror short story called “In the Tall Grass.” As is the case with almost all of my early work, it evolved through the years and was expanded into a 10,000-word novelette called “Through the Guts of a Beggar.” It was eventually accepted for the pulpy monster horror anthology Tooth & Claw, edited by J. F. Gonzalez and Garrett Peck. The response to the anthology was greater than the editors had at first anticipated, and so they decided to split the anthology into two volumes. The first was released in 2002, with the idea that the second volume—containing my novelette—would be released the next year. 
Unfortunately, the publisher folded before the second volume could be released. At the time there was talk the second volume might see the light of day elsewhere, but then more years passed and it became clear my novelette was now homeless. And as I was working on other projects and placed the novelette on a backburner, it remained homeless until now, where I’m presenting it as a free e-book. However, there is a special edition of this e-book, which contains an alternate ending (3,000 words long) and two bonus short stories (5,000 words combined) that can be downloaded for 99 cents. 
Thank you for downloading “Through the Guts of a Beggar.” I hope you enjoy it. If you do, please mention it to someone else you think might enjoy it too. 

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THROUGH THE GUTS OF A BEGGAR

Here’s how it starts: the phone rings and I answer. 
“You’re grounded.” 
I can tell by the static on my father’s end that he’s on his cell. Lying in bed, I glance at my alarm clock and see it’s almost 11:00 AM. Four extra hours of sleep on a Friday; thank God for whoever invented parent-teacher conferences. 
I yawn. “Say what?” 
“Goddamn it, Josh. I knew you weren’t doing well in school, but this ... this just isn’t acceptable.” 
I can hear Mom in the background, telling him to settle down, to watch his language. He mutters something to her, then says, “This is your senior year, Josh, and—and you might not graduate.” 
Slowly I sit up in bed. My room’s a mess: papers all over my desk, clothes all over the floor. How many times have I been told to clean everything up? Way too many, that’s all I know. Dad even told me to clean it up this weekend, and I had nodded and said sure, I’ll try, but it’s all become a charade. 
“Do you hear me?” 
“Yes,” I say quietly. 
“Then what’d I say?” 
Seems like the only person you can never BS is your old man. I try to think of something smart to say, but I just woke up thirty second ago and I’m still pretty much dead to the world.  
“God, Josh, would you listen to me? I said you’re ground. That means no friends allowed over. Not even Amanda. And don’t leave the house. Just ... get your room cleaned.” 
“Okay,” I mutter, because really, what else am I supposed to say? 
“Okay what?” In the background, Mom tells him to ease off, to not be so hard. He tells her to stay out of it, that he knows what he’s doing. Then: “Are you there?” 
“I’m here.” 
“You better mind me, son. I’m very disappointed in you.” 
“Sorry, Dad.” 
And then he says it. No hesitation, no reluctance at all in his voice. He just comes out and says it. And truthfully, it doesn’t surprise me. Not one bit. 
“God,” he says, “sometimes I wonder why we even—” 
So I’m adopted. Big deal. The same goes for Tyler—only I look more like our parents. Ty’s Korean, has the tan skin and black hair. But he’s my brother, and I’ve known him nearly all ten years of his life, and I love the kid. 
For one quick moment, I wonder if Dad would have said the same thing to Ty just now. 
The phone starts beeping in my ear. Dad must have hung up. Pity, I think—I wanted to wish him and Mom a happy anniversary. Tell them to have a good ol’ time up in the Poconos for the weekend. 
Yeah, right. 
I hang up the phone and throw on a pair of shorts and undershirt from off the floor. Then I’m heading down the stairs and walking into the kitchen for something to drink, and it’s as I reach the fridge that I realize just how quiet the house is. The TV in the living room isn’t on; there’s no radio blaring music anywhere in the house. Ty probably went out to a friend’s or took Laddie for a walk. Either way, I’m alone. 
Right now the last thing I want to think about is everything my father was bitching about, especially what he said before he hung up, but I can’t help it; it all keeps racing through my head. 
I pull out a carton of orange juice and slam the fridge door, thinking maybe that will make everything better. It doesn’t. What it does, for some strange reason, is makes me think about Amanda, and what we’re planning on doing tomorrow. 
Or at least what we were planning. 
Remember: I’m grounded. 
I go to grab a glass from the cabinet but then think screw it and drink straight from the carton. I stand there by the sink, staring out the window into the backyard. 
I think about Dad again. I knew what my teachers were going to tell my parents even before they went to school today, but I hadn’t warned them. My hope was that maybe it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. 
I keep staring out the window. 
Amanda is stopping by later. We’re supposed to call and confirm tomorrow’s appointment, and she wants us to do it together. What am I going to tell her when she shows? 
I keep staring out the window. 
Maybe I’ll give Ralph a call. I’m sure he’ll know what to do. Sure, the guy’s almost seventy, but he knows me better than my parents. Hell, probably better than myself. Just our next-door neighbor, yes, but he’s pretty much been a part of the family since I was first brought home. He’s like our surrogate-grandfather. 
I keep staring out the window, and this time I’m able to blink, to realize where I am and what I’m doing. Standing in the kitchen, tightly gripping the Tropicana carton, I’d been wrapped up in my thoughts, but I’d been conscious too, watching what was going on in the backyard. 
Ty, my little brother, is out there with a shovel. He’s wearing his khaki shorts and one of his white T-shirts. Only now his shirt’s not so white. I can see the dirt even from where I stand. 
It looks like he’s just finished digging something up. Or filling something in—I can’t tell. 
He doesn’t notice me, which is probably best, because he’s crying. The sky is clear, the sun is shining, and I can see the tears as they streak down his small round face. 
Then I notice something else. 
The place where he’s standing, smoothing out the dirt, used to be nice and even with green grass. Now it’s completely torn up, like a dog was digging up a bone, and I suddenly realize just what it looks like, how long the dirt mound is, how narrow. 
It looks like a grave. 

*  *  *

“Ty?” 
He’d turned away when the patio door opened. I can’t see his face, but I can hear him sobbing, and I can see his shoulders hitch. He’s holding the shovel in front of him, as if hiding it, like I’m not supposed to know he has it. 
“Ty, man, you all right?” 
When he doesn’t answer or even acknowledge my presence, I walk up to him and place my hand on his shoulder. He jumps, startled, as if he hadn’t been expecting it. His shoulders continue to hitch, and now that I’m closer to him and the mound of dirt, I smell it. Not the early autumn air or the grass mowed two days earlier, but something under all of those smells. Something that just doesn’t smell right. 
“Tyler,” I say, and force him to turn around. He does so stubbornly, his face lowered. “What’s wrong?” 
He slowly looks up at me, blinks. Says nothing. Then his mouth opens and he whispers a single word. A name. “Laddie.” 
Laddie. Ty’s dog. Our parents brought the collie puppy home when Tyler was just two years old. Ty and Laddie grew up together, did everything together. They were close. Best friends. 
Ty’s eyes shift back down to the mound of dirt, and I look down there too. I remember what I first thought. 
“What about him?” 
Again, a whisper: “He’s ... dead.” 
My hand is still on my brother’s shoulder, and it’s unintentional, I swear, but it squeezes when he speaks those two words. His shoulder stiffens and his face screws up in silent pain. 
“Dead?” I ask, releasing my grip. “How?” 
“I ... I need your help, Josh.” 
“What happened to Laddie?” 
“There’s something in the woods,” Ty says, his voice small and weak. 
“And it killed Laddie?” 
He shakes his head. “No. I did.” 
At that moment I tell myself I’m dreaming. This is just some fucked up dream, that’s all. In real life, Ty would never do anything to harm Laddie. He didn’t even punish him when the dog bit him last year for trying to take away his chew-toy; Ty only hugged him and told him it was okay, he wouldn’t like people taking away his chew-toy either. 
But I know I’m not dreaming, so I ask, “But ... why?” 
“Because—” His eyes shift back up to meet mine. He clears his throat. “Because he was different.” 
I notice something then I wish I didn’t. There’s more than just dirt on Tyler’s T-shirt. Something that looks like dried mud. 
“Different how?” 
Ty shakes his head, stares back down at the dirt mound. “I can’t tell you,” he whispers. He sniffs and for the first time wipes the tears from his eyes. “But I can show you.”

*  *  *

Behind our house there’s this trail that snakes through the woods, one almost everyone in town uses for their walks and biking. It’s the main reason Ty and I both own mountain bikes, and it’s these bikes we now use to ride farther and farther away from home. Under the trees, over the rocks and vines, I follow my brother as best as I can. He’s at least twenty yards ahead of me, pedaling as if he’s in a race. 
I tried asking him questions before we left but got nothing out of him. All he would say was there was something in the woods. Nothing else, but my mind played out the rest: something in the woods—something that changed Laddie. Something that forced Ty to kill his beloved dog.  
We ride for maybe five more minutes, going up and down slopes, until suddenly Ty veers off the path. He stops at a wall of bushes and sets down his bike. 
“Through here,” he says, and starts right into the brush. I want him to explain more about what’s going on, but instead I follow. The brush claws at my hair, my skin and clothes, and a thorn somehow gets lodged into my left palm. I curse, try to pull it out as I continue through, and then manage to dislodge it just as I come out on the other side. 
It’s a small grove, enclosed by more bushes and trees. In the middle is a hole in the ground, almost like a gofer’s hole. Only this one’s much bigger. A wide, thick board that looks like it’s been decaying for years lies to the side, flattening a clump of wildflowers. 
Ty, staring at it, clears his throat again. “I don’t know what happened, Josh. I’ve taken Lad way out here a bunch of times, and I never had a problem before. He’d follow me, run around and do his business and all that stuff. But today something must have caught his attention. Before I knew it, he started barking and took off into here. I thought maybe it was a squirrel or something, you know? But when I caught up with him, I found him clawing at that board.” 
He walks forward until he’s standing right over the board. He kicks it as if it’s the cause of all this trouble. 
“I should never have taken this off the hole. Once I did”—Ty shakes his head—“he went straight down there. I called after him, but he didn’t listen. Can you believe that, Josh? Lad always listened to me.” 
I say nothing. I hadn’t realized it, but the forest sounds I’d always taken for granted—the birds chirping, the insects calling—have gone silent. 
“So I went down after him,” Ty tells me, and I can almost picture it in my mind—my fearless brother, who has more than once stood up to bullies and has never hesitated to speak his mind, as he lowers himself down the hole after his dog. 
“And?” I say, because the picture ends there with Tyler disappearing down the hole, and even though a part of me knows it’s a bad idea, I ask, “What’s down there?” 
My brother looks at the hole and shakes his head. He says nothing. This is so unlike him, it scares me. But what also scares me is how pale his face is, how drained his eyes have become. The idea of what’s down in that hole terrifies me more than anything else, because my eyes keep returning to his shirt. 
Ty could just tell me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he picks up a stick lying on the ground and says, “I’ll show you.” 

*  *  *

Tyler heads into the hole first. He doesn’t seem scared, not at all, which is good for me, because if my little ten-year-old brother knows what’s down there and isn’t scared, then maybe I shouldn’t be scared either. Except that’s wishful thinking, because I know he’s terrified. The thought of whatever happened to Laddie is still fresh in my mind, and I can’t help it, I keep thinking about the dried blood on Ty’s shirt. 
The hole is tight for a couple of feet, then expands. When my feet touch the ground, I turn and look around. It’s some kind of cave, not too big, but not too small either. Being five-foot-ten, I have to crouch to stand. 
“Ty,” I say, wrinkling my nose because the scent of something rotten it heavy, “how did—” 
Then I see it. 
The cave is circular, almost ten feet across, and the entire floor is dirt. There’s not much light, as the only source is the sun shining in through the hole, but still I clearly see the spot of tall grass. Two, maybe three feet high, it sways slowly back and forth, as if to some soft breeze that’s there but can’t be felt. 
I look at Ty standing beside me—he’s short enough that he doesn’t have to crouch—and frown at him. “What the hell is that?” 
My brother doesn’t answer. Instead he takes a deep breath, holds it in a few seconds, then exhales. He slowly walks toward the grass, as if toward some dangerous beast. He extends the stick as far away from his body as possible, keeping the tip toward the middle of the swaying blades. 
For an instant I wonder just what the hell he’s doing. Lost his mind, I think, but then it happens. 
All of a sudden a few of those blades reach out and grab the stick. Ty doesn’t even put up a fight. He simply lets go and backpedals to where I am, watching as the stick is quickly pulled into the center of the grass. 
I watch this with open mouth and wide eyes. I’m reminded of a special I saw on Wild Kingdom, of a cobra snatching at an unsuspecting bird. This has got to be my imagination, it has to be, but for a second I hear a low growling coming from somewhere in the grass. 
Ty stands beside me, panting. 
“What the fuck,” I say, staring ahead. The grass is no longer swaying; now all the blades are standing still. 
“When I got down here, Laddie was barking at it,” Ty whispers. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want the grass to hear him. 
“But … you said you killed Laddie.” 
He’s staring at the grass, which has begun to sway again. Tears have resurfaced in his eyes. He nods and says, “Yeah, that’s right. I—I did. It got him first—it pulled him in just like that stick—and then … then I had to kill him.” 
Ty explains how it took him awhile before he got home. He walked his bike most of the way, encountering no one on the trail, which he was thankful for because he was crying like a baby. He didn’t know what to do. He thought maybe when he got home he’d wake me up, see if his big brother had any ideas. 
Then he returned home. 
Laddie was waiting in the backyard, sitting on his hunches. If anything, the lifeless stare Laddie gave his master should have worried Ty, but it didn’t. Instead, the fact that the dog’s tail wasn’t wagging was what bothered him. Because—as anyone who knows anything about Laddie knows—his tail was always wagging. This was probably what saved Ty’s life, because his first instinct was to rush forward and give Laddie a hug. 
He only took a few steps forward before his dog attacked. 
“So he attacked me, and I—I broke his neck. I mean, there was nothing else I could do. He did manage to bite me a little here”—he points at his chest—“but it was nothing. And I changed my mind about telling you, so I ... buried him myself.” 
For the longest time there is silence. Like my brother thought after Laddie was sucked into the grass, this all seems so crazy, so surreal. Yet now I’m seeing it with my own eyes, I’m watching the grass, and I know Tyler is the last person in the world who would lie to me. Sure, he jokes, but this is no joke. 
And that’s why I believe him. 
“Okay,” I say, keeping an open mind, “so now what?” 
“I don’t know.” The tears have stopped for now, and he stares at the grass. Really, it’s hypnotizing, and I wonder just how long I could stand here watching it. 
“Ty, you said there was a board over the hole. That means somebody else has to know about this thing. We’re not the only ones.” 
My little brother looks up at me and nods, and I can see the sudden courage in his eyes. “You’re probably right, but that doesn’t matter anymore. We’re on our own, and we’ve gotta stop this thing. We gotta stop this thing before ... ” 
“Before what?” 
Slowly the grass sways back and forth, beckoning. 
Tyler whispers, “Before it spreads.” 

*  *  *

I’m first out of the cave, and once I’m no longer crouching, I look around at the trees, the brush, the sky. Everything’s so real up here I want to disbelieve what I’ve just seen and heard. Because down in the hole, that was a different world. Now I’m back in my own world, my own time, where shit like this doesn’t happen, where shit like school shootings and terrorist bombings are simply a way of life, and tall grass that sways and sucks dogs in with its long blades doesn’t exist. 
Ty’s out of the hole. He heads for the open space in the brush. I watch him dumbly, then glance again at the hole. 
“Hey,” I say, my voice cracking on that one stupid word. 
He looks back. 
“Shouldn’t we replace the board?” 
I don’t know why, but it seems like the most obvious thing to do. Why I don’t go and do it myself, I have no idea. I’m asking my ten-year-old brother if we should do something, which is so unlike me, but in a way our roles have switched. Tyler at least knows a little about what’s going on here. 
He only glances at the board like he’s been seeing it all his life. He frowns at me and says, “What’s the point? We’re just going to have to take it off once we come back.” 
And there it is. It hits me like a hammer to the head, the sudden realization that we’re coming back here, we’re going to go back down that hole and deal with that ... that thing. 
“Right,” I say, because it’s the only word I’m able to speak. 
Ty starts to climb through the brush. I find myself walking forward too. But before I reach the brush, I glance back at the oversized gofer hole, and I wonder. 
I wonder if the grass knows we’ll be back. 
I wonder if it’s waiting. 

*  *  *

When we return home, Ralph’s sitting on our back porch smoking a pipe. He’s wearing brown corduroys and a long-sleeved flannel shirt, and when he sees us riding into the backyard he gets up at the slow rate his arthritis allows. We’ve never called Ralph Grandpa but always think it, and now he’s standing there with his arms crossed, that stupid pipe clenched between his lips. 
“And where have you two been?” he asks. His old voice is raspy, and it’s a surprise he hasn’t yet fallen victim to lung cancer. “I’ve been waiting almost an hour.” 
This makes me pause, and I can’t help glancing at Laddie’s grave near the back of the yard. Has Ralph noticed it? 
“An hour?” I hear myself say. “What time is it?” 
“Almost one.” 
I glance at Ty, but my brother’s not paying attention; instead he’s staring straight back at Ralph. And why not? Right now the only thing on his mind is revenge, and the old man standing in front of us is only going to complicate the situation. 
“We were out riding,” Ty says, his voice normal and flat. “What’s up?” 
Ralph smiles. “Oh, nothing. Just wanted to come by and see if you’d like some lunch. Your parents told me to watch after you boys, and while I know you both can handle yourselves, I still felt I should play the role of babysitter.” 
Ty shakes his head. “We ate already.” 
Ralph shrugs. “That’s fine, that’s fine. No worries here.” He pauses, glances around the yard (how hasn’t he noticed the grave?) and says, “Say, where’s Laddie? I haven’t seen him around all day. Isn’t he with you?” 
And those two questions, I realize, are what is going to set my brother off the edge. Just the mention of his best canine friend will release more tears, and Ty will start sobbing, and then Ralph with know something’s wrong. He’ll ask, he’ll try to find out just what it is, and then everything will come out. 
For a moment, I really do wish for my brother to cry. 
But Ty doesn’t. He frowns, looks like he’s trying to think, and then shakes his head. “You know, I haven’t seen him all day either. I don’t know, maybe he’s out in the woods or something.” 
I can do nothing but stand there shocked, amazed that my little brother is able to lie so easily. Maybe under different circumstances I’d feel proud to call him my kin, but not now. For some reason the idea that Ty can act this way makes me sick to my stomach. 
Ralph seems content with this answer, though it really makes no sense, because he has to know that Laddie is always around, he never goes off on his own. But the old man just nods and tells us to have a good day, to stay out of trouble. Then, with a parting grin, he starts off next door. 
We watch him until he’s gone, and I turn and look at Tyler. He looks at me. He sighs, and there’s something in that sigh that seems to add another ten years to his body. 
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s hurry.” 

*  *  *

While Ty goes off into the garage to get things in order—he’s planning on taking out gasoline, hedge clippers, anything he thinks will work—I head inside to take a piss. Only when I see the caller ID blinking do I stop and check, and would you believe it, Amanda’s called. Three times. I have to stop myself and wonder if I should call her back, if—
The phone rings. 
It’s my father. I know it’s him, checking in to make sure I’m home, to tell me I’m still grounded, no matter how bad he might feel for saying what he did. 
But the caller ID’s telling me it’s Amanda, so I answer. 
“Josh, stay right there.” 
It’s good hearing her voice—especially with everything that’s happened—but at the moment it sounds rushed. 
“Amanda?” 
“Stay right there. I need to see you.” 
“But—” 
There’s a click, and I’m left standing with the phone dead in my hand. 

*  *  *

So I’m waiting out on the front porch for almost ten minutes when her Corolla pulls into the driveway. I can see her pretty, smiling face behind the wheel. Even though she’s wearing sunglasses, I know she’s staring right at me. I want to return the smile, but I only stare back. 
Somewhere in the house, Ty is packing up what we need. I told him about Amanda coming over, but he said nothing, only kept on packing the gasoline and clippers. He even managed to find our old Super Soakers, and after a moment’s thought I realized what they were for. Not water, of course, but gas. 
Now here I am, and what am I going to say? I’ve been with Amanda for almost two years, and yes, I do tell her everything, but there’s always a limit to how much. Besides, I don’t even know where to begin. 
As she gets out of the car I notice she’s wearing these tight gray sweatpants, the one that has LOVE stitched on the rear, and the idea of telling her to leave is the last thing on my mind. She’s wearing a light jacket too, even though it’s warm out, and it makes me wonder if she’s trying to hide her belly. 
She walks toward me, and as she does, I think about the baby growing inside her. We only found out two months ago she was pregnant. We’re both seniors, we’ve both got college ahead of us, so we discussed our options. I was actually more willing to raise the child than Amanda, but in the end we decided abortion was the best plan. Well, she decided. 
And now here she is. 
Less than ten feet away from me. 
Smiling. 
“Josh,” she says, coming up the steps. “I know I said last night I was coming over, but I figured I’d let you sleep in. That’s why I called.” She opens her arms and hugs me tight, kisses me on the lips—I can taste her familiar cherry gloss. She only does this for maybe a second or two before she realizes I’m not kissing her back. “What’s wrong?” 
“You have to leave.” 
“Bullshit,” she says, then smiles again. “Josh, you don’t understand. I changed my mind. I don’t want to—” 
“I’m sorry,” I say, and it’s the hardest thing in the world, because I know exactly what her smile is about, and it literally crushes my heart to push her away like this. “But you have to leave.” 
“Why? I don’t under—” 
I simply shake my head and turn around and walk inside. I ignore her as she calls out, telling me to wait, to just listen. 
I shut the door. 
Lock it. 
Ty’s in the living room holding two duffel bags that look much too heavy for his small arms. But I see the determination on his face, and I realize that he’s now stronger than I ever will be. This entire thing has changed him, has allowed him to mature in a matter of hours. 
And the worst part is we haven’t even started yet. 
He’s watching me, his eyes dark and sad, and he asks one question: “Ready?” 
I don’t hesitate, I just nod, and we’re on our way. 

*  *  *

Tyler and I stand motionless beside each other in the cave. We watch the grass. It’s later in the day, so the light’s even dimmer, but still we can see it swaying, beckoning us. 
“Do you feel it?” Ty asks. 
“Yes,” I whisper, nodding, and it’s true, I do feel something coming from the grass. It’s a strange feeling, some kind of power, and it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I didn’t feel it before—at least not this strong—but now I realize what it is. It feels wrong, like it shouldn’t be here, like it shouldn’t even exist. 
“Let’s do this,” my brother whispers. He aims his Super Soaker. All pumped and ready to go, his finger caresses the plastic trigger. 
I look down at the water gun in my own hands. I take aim too, ready to fire when given the order (the matches are in my pocket too, almost burning a hole there), but right then I hear movement and breathing behind us, as someone’s making his way down the hole. 
Making her way, actually, because when I turn I see it’s Amanda. She’s no longer wearing her sunglasses. She’s staring at me with wide confused eyes. Then I realize it’s not me she’s staring at, but at what’s behind me. Her eyes become cloudy and a sudden calm crosses her face, and without any hesitation, she starts forward. 
“Don’t!” Ty shouts. She’s moving fast and has already somehow passed me, and he steps back, tries to get between her and the grass. 
And right then is when it happens. 
I don’t know how—he’s standing far enough away—but a dozen or more blades of grass reach out and wrap around my brother’s ankle. They jerk his foot out from under him. He flails his arms. His water gun hits the dirt a second before he does, the brightly-colored tube cracking and spilling pungent gasoline. It mixes quickly with that already rotten scent. 
“NO!” I shout, dropping my own gun and lurching forward. 
Then I stop. 
In less than five seconds the grass has dragged Ty toward the other waving blades. Now they too reach for him, grip his other ankle. My brother is staring up at me, his eyes wide with terror, his face pale. His mouth is open but no scream comes out. He’s fighting with all his strength, clawing the dirt with his fingers, but it’s no use. He’s sucked right into the grass’s center. 
And he’s gone. 
In that instant. 
Fucking swallowed. 
I feel something on my back. It’s Amanda’s hand, and at that moment all I want to do is hit her. I want to slap her across the face, because this is all her fault. But when I do turn she’s crying and shaking her head. Once I’m turned around enough, she steps forward and hugs me, holds me tight, and I can feel just how much her body’s trembling. 
“What—what happened?” she asks, her voice muffled against my chest. 
What am I supposed to say now? Just what am I supposed to fucking tell her? 
I have no idea, so I stare at the grass. It’s stopped swaying, gone completely still. And somewhere in the tall blades, I hear the same low growling noise I heard before. I think of everything Ty told me; I think of Laddie and know just what’s going to happen next. 
“We have to go,” I whisper. “Amanda, we have to leave.” 
She doesn’t answer me, just keeps on crying. I grab her and shake her. 
“Now!” I shout into her face. “We must go now!” 
I don’t think she even hears me, because she’s still crying, completely hysterical. And why not? She followed me out here because I was acting weird and pushed her away at the one time I should have been holding her close. Now she just witnessed something no sane person should. 
She’s crying, and there’s nothing I can do about it, even though I know we can’t stay here much longer. I have no choice but to pull her toward me again, hold her tight, wait for her to calm down. And as I do, I look back at the grass. 
The growling has stopped. The blades are waving again, slowly, as if to some mellow music. Every time they wave our way they reach out, extending themselves as far as they can. Searching for more prey. 

*  *  *

A sense of déjà vu hits me when I open the front door and push Amanda out onto the porch. 
“Leave,” I tell her. “Get in your car and just drive. Drive as far away as you can.” 
“Josh.” She’s not sobbing anymore, but tears are still in her eyes. I’ve told her everything there was to tell on the way back here, though our pace wasn’t as fast as I would have liked. “Please, don’t make me leave.” 
I glance over my shoulder, through the living room to the back patio door. From where I’m standing I have a pretty good view of the backyard. If Ty—or what’s become of Ty—is able to make it back in good time, I’ll at least have some warning that he’s near. 
“Josh,” Amanda says again. She grabs my hand, squeezes it. “I’m not going to leave you. We—we need to call the police.” 
“And what are they going to do?” 
She says nothing, but I can see she’s hurt, scared, confused and doesn’t know what to do. And what bugs me the most is I have the same feelings. I have no fucking clue what to do next, though an idea lingers near the edge of my mind. It’s the worst idea in the world, something I wish I could erase, but it’s the only thing I have left. 
“Go,” I say, glancing over my shoulder again. There’s movement outside, near the edge of the yard. 
I hear Amanda’s voice, a thousand miles away: “Josh?” 
I hear my own voice, sounding even farther: “Leave.” 
“But—” 
I’m suddenly able to take my eyes away from the child in the backyard. Without even looking I push Amanda as gently as possible out onto the porch. Slam the door and lock it. At once she starts yelling, starts banging on the door. I ignore it all and glance through the living room at the back patio door again. 
Ty’s there. He’s walking slowly, his body carrying no emotion. 
“Josh!” Amanda calls from outside, banging the door again, but I ignore her. 
The time has come. I hate to take my eyes away from my brother, but I have no choice. My dad’s hunting rifles are in the basement. 

*  *  *

Moments later I’m downstairs, trying to find the key that unlocks my dad’s gun cabinet. It’s not in the lock, but I know he keeps it down here among the piles of old magazines, calendars and other junk, mostly stuff that’s resting on an old decaying shelf that was here before my parents ever moved in. 
A few seconds pass before I realize what I’m doing. With everything that’s happened so far today, I’m worried about breaking into my old man’s gun cabinet instead of worrying how much farther my brother’s gotten. 
Without thinking I grab one of my dad’s football trophies. I throw it at the glass pane, shattering it. Then I’m stepping forward and grabbing one of the rifles and a box of shells, loading the cartridge as fast as I can. And as I’m doing this, I’m trying to track how many seconds are ticking by ... when I realize I’ve lost track. 
“Shit,” I mutter. With the rifle loaded, I break for the stairs, taking them two at a time. I reach the landing, head straight for the patio window—
Ty’s gone. 
I stop dead, my body shaking, and survey the backyard. Nothing. I can’t see him anywhere. I can’t—
There’s a sound then, coming from my right. I turn immediately, raising the rifle, but there’s nothing there. Still, that sound persists, and I realize where it’s coming from now, what it is. 
It’s from the garage, the sound of the hinges squeaking as someone’s opening the door from the backyard. 
“Please,” I whisper to a God I’ve never really believed in, “don’t let me die.” 
I start forward. 

*  *  *

When I open the door it makes this eerie creaking noise, which is the last thing I need right now, but I keep at it until it opens the entire way. I keep the rifle aimed inside, ready for any movement. But after a moment of looking inside the garage, I see no trouble and enter. 
My heart pounds heavily inside my head as I pan the rifle barrel back and forth. Light shines through the three windows and the slightly opened door, but it’s not enough. Even less here than there was in the cave. Besides, with my mom’s Acura already parked at the far end and the riding mower and snow plow and everything else, Ty could be anywhere. 
“Tyler?” I whisper, not certain whether I should say anything at all. “Tyler, are you there?” 
I expect no answer, so after a few seconds I’m not surprised to hear none. But then I do hear something, very soft, coming from the cold shadows. 
“Jah-sshh.” 
I turn toward the back of the garage. Again, the hair on the back of my neck is standing on end. I can’t place where the voice came from, so I call out my brother’s name again. 
“Jah-sshh.” 
The reply is like a whisper, only very different, very wrong. It sounds like my name, slurred on a dead tongue. 
“Come out, Tyler.” I walk toward the corner where I heard my brother’s dead voice, my rifle aimed. My father’s aluminum canoe leans against the wall. “Please, Ty, just come—” 
The garage door opens. 
Not the two large car doors, but the one Ty used to slip inside. Sunlight pours in. A fresh whiff of air hits my nostrils. 
I raise the rifle at once, my finger touching the trigger. 
Amanda stands in the doorway. She’s looking at me, a mixture of fear and uncertainty spread across her face. “Josh?” she says. “What are you doing with—” 
I want to tell her to stop, to leave, but I suddenly have no voice. It doesn’t matter. She takes only three steps inside, her hands held open at her sides as if I might shoot her. It’s all Ty needs. A low moan sounds out from behind the canoe, and then it’s pushed forward on top of me. I nearly drop the rifle as I jump out of the way but manage to keep hold of it and turn to watch just as Ty throws himself on Amanda. 
Her screams are loud and piercing, contesting with the growls of my brother. He seems to be hugging her, his arms wrapped tightly around her, but I can see his eyes and the blood as he takes a bite out of the side of her face. She screams again, her eyes meeting mine, and whatever it is that’s been keeping me locked in place for the last few seconds finally breaks. 
Keeping the rifle aimed, I rush forward. I grab my brother’s shoulder and try to pull him away, but he snaps at me, like a rabid dog. For a moment I think of Laddie and then shout “GET OFF HER!” as I pull my brother away. He opens himself up only a little, but it’s all I need. 
I fire the rifle. 
Ty’s chest explodes. His body jerks and he hits the wall, then slides down to the ground. 
Amanda has fallen to her knees, crying. She holds her face, which is pouring dark blood. I go immediately to comfort her. 
Then I see them. 
Two things are wiggling out of the wound in Ty’s chest. At first I think they’re just part of him, like one of his intestines, but then I realize they’re not. Coated in my brother’s blood, they’re thin, maybe one foot long, and once they manage to crawl free of his stomach, they move fast. 
Amanda must see them too, because her sobbing turns back into screaming. I don’t know what to do, and in my hesitation those things have moved across the floor toward Amanda. They jump at her, attaching themselves to her skin—one to her leg, the other to her neck. Then she’s up, screaming, trying to shake them off her body. All I can do is stand staring at the shredded skin falling off her face. 
“Help me!” she shrieks. 
I drop the rifle and go to her. Try to grab the things as they attempt to burrow themselves into her skin. They don’t want to come at first, so I pull harder. She screams even more, and finally I have them in my hands, wiggling crazily. 
I stand there for a moment, uncertain what do next. Then a thought comes to me and I turn, start back into the house. As I hurry these two slimy worms continue wiggling in my grasp. I can’t see their features at all, but I can tell they have small, sharp teeth, because I feel them biting into my skin. 
I head for the kitchen, straight for the microwave. Once I’m there I open it and throw in the worms, slam the door shut and then turn the knob all the way to the right.  
“Smart,” says a voice behind me. I cry out, turning around. Ralph stands in the doorway. He’s in his corduroys and flannel shirt, just like before, except now he’s holding something in each hand. 
In one is a handgun; in the other, an ax. 
“That’s one way to dispose of them, I guess. But you weren’t smart enough. If you were smarter, you would have told me the truth earlier.” 
I stare at him, speechless. Behind me, the microwave hums. I can hear the worms sizzling inside; I can smell their slimy, disgusting flesh. 
“And Tyler would still be alive.” There’s a sadness in his voice I’ve never heard before. 
“What are you talking about?” I ask, and it’s stupid, it really is, because I seriously think I can act like nothing’s happened. 
“The grass,” Ralph says. “You were out there.” 
“Amanda,” I whisper, but it has nothing to do with the conversation now; it’s the realization that she’s still in the garage, possibly dying from blood loss. 
 Ralph nods. “She told me, but I knew before. I knew because of Laddie. I had to kill him for good.” 
At once the thought of Amanda dying on the cement floor of the garage is the farthest thing from my mind. I find myself trying to think over Ralph’s words, and none of if makes sense. 
“Once the creature’s gotten them, they can’t be killed unless you cut off their head.” He speaks slowly, deliberately, like he’s the fucking expert on whatever the hell’s going on. “You have to understand that. Without the head, the body cannot work, and without a working body, the worms need to find a new host.” 
“A new host? Just what does that mea—” 
Then suddenly the world explodes in a burst of light and pain, and the only thing I know besides the sudden terror of today is darkness. 

*  *  *

Just how long I’m in darkness God only knows. Intense pain streaks through my body. Something touches me. It’s a hand, shaking me. In the darkness, I hear this voice, a mile away, saying: 
“Josh. Wake up, son.” 
I open my eyes. I’m lying on the kitchen floor. Ralph stares down at me. I notice his eyes are fresh with tears. 
“What ... happened?” I ask. I try to get up, but can’t; there’s too much pain. I glance at my left leg. It’s wrapped in a blood-soaked towel. 
“Tyler,” Ralph says quietly, motioning with his head behind me. When I look I see my brother lying on the floor a few yards away. The place I shot him is still fresh, but now there’s another dark hole just below his throat. 
“He came back,” Ralph says. “Just like Laddie did. I was afraid he would, but I ... I didn’t know you had left your rifle there too. It’s all right, though” — he nods at my leg — “I don’t think the bullet hit the bone. I’ve wrapped it and set a splint, so you should be fine. But we will have to get you to a hospital. And ... ” His eyes shift away from mine. 
“What?” I try moving again before quickly giving up. “What is it?” 
“It’s Amanda. Tyler ... he tore her apart. There isn’t much left of her.” 
I stare at him, and it’s like I can’t see him, like I can’t even hear him. So much, all at once, it’s hard to get over. Especially now. 
Ralph pulls up a chair and sits down. “I think all the worms are out of him now. But still, he could come back.” He pauses, reaches down to pick up the gun and ax off the floor. He hands me the ax. “That’s why you need to take his head.” 
I’ve become more focused, so I stare at the ax. After a moment, I shake my head. “Fuck you.” 
“Josh, you don’t understand. This is the only way to free his soul. The only way to ensure our safety.” 
“Then why don’t you do it?” 
He sighs, shaking his head. “I wish I could, Josh, I do. But I can’t. Tyler ... he’s like my grandson. You both are. I just ... I can’t.” 
“And he’s my brother. So that makes it okay for me?” 
He lowers his eyes. Fresh tears course down his face. He coughs, and for the first time I realize that stupid pipe of his is nowhere near his mouth. This is the first time I’ve seen him without it, and boy how I wish he had it back between his lips, because then the two of us wouldn’t be here now, debating over the fate of my already dead brother. 
Ralph sighs again. 
Looks back at me. 
Says: 
“Decades ago, when I was about your age, me and a couple of my friends happened upon what’s out in the woods. I don’t even remember how, exactly, but we were fascinated by it. We were scared, too. We decided to keep it a secret. Our own little secret. We wouldn’t tell our parents, not even our girlfriends.” 
He shakes his head, staring down at the weapons in his lap. 
“Somehow it cast its spell over us. We just ... wanted it for our own. Sometimes we’d even fight over who got to spend more time staring at it. It became an obsession. Then ... then William got caught.” 
Ralph wipes at his eyes. 
“Sometimes, in my dreams, I can still hear him screaming. We were all there, and we watched ... but we did nothing to help him. Absolutely nothing.” 
Images of those thin blades reaching out and grabbing my brother’s leg, his helpless eyes as he was dragged into the grass, flood my mind. 
“We knew then we needed to destroy it,” Ralph says. “We couldn’t tell anyone, not even the constable, because then we knew we’d be blamed for William’s death. So we tried to do away with it on our own, but ... but it was no use. So we placed a board over the hole and swore to keep it a secret forever.” His eyes shift to meet mine. “But I guess that was our worst mistake, wasn’t it?” 
Instead of answering him, I ask, “So what the hell is that thing?” 
Ralph leans back, stares at the ceiling. “I don’t know. None of us know, at least those still alive. But whatever it is, it’s not grass. On the outside, yes, it looks like grass, but on the inside ... it’s some kind of creature. My theory is that it’s a massive worm. It lures its prey in with those waving blades, then sucks it in and takes its life. Replaces it with its ... its babies.” 
“Its babies? What do you mean its — ” 
Somewhere behind me, I hear this moaning grunt, and before I can even turn my head to see, Ralph raises the gun and fires. The sound is deafening, and just hearing it makes more pain streak up my leg. 
When I turn my head the entire way, I see another bloody hole in Tyler’s body. 
“I don’t want to do that again,” Ralph whispers. “I’ve called James. Besides me, he’s the only one of us five who’s still alive. I told him what’s happened. He doesn’t want to, but he’s coming here. He should be here within the hour. We’re going to try to stop it once and for all, if it’s possible. But please, Josh, for the good of Tyler’s soul, finish this.” He extends the ax to me again. “Set him free.” 
So what am I supposed to say? All of a sudden this huge burden has been placed on my shoulders, and the person who’s done that is just going to stand by and watch? The person I once considered my grandfather, the person I loved deep down in my heart more than my own parents? 
I hate him for it; I fucking hate him. 
But I know I have no choice. 
“All right,” I say after a long moment, as I realize that everything I’ve done before, everything I thought was the hardest thing in the world, was nothing compared to this. Because right now I have to close my eyes — I can’t look at anything — as I say these four fucking words: “Give me the ax.” 

*  *  *

Two hours later, I’m sitting on the patio, my bandaged leg resting on a plastic footrest. I stare out at the backyard and the trees behind it. The rifle rests on my lap, fully loaded. The ax is beside me, washed clean of my brother’s blood. 
Ralph sits next to me, staring out at the backyard. James, his old friend, stands by the grave Tyler made earlier today. He just stands there and smokes, smokes and stands there. Waiting. 
It seems that’s all life is — just waiting. 
Finally I say what needs to be said: 
“It happened this morning.” 
Ralph glances at me. “What did?” 
So I tell him about how my father told me he sometimes wonders why he and Mom ever bothered to adopt me in the first place. I tell him about the secret Amanda and I were keeping from everyone, how we were going to the abortion clinic tomorrow. I begin to tell him more, about every bad thing I’ve ever done or said or even thought, but then realize that he doesn’t need to know this. This is just for my benefit. Like a confession before dying. Ralph will listen, of course he’ll listen, but he doesn’t need to hear the rest, so I stop, tell him I’m sorry. 
He shakes his head. He opens his mouth, takes a breath, and I’m almost afraid of what he might say next, how he intends to pass judgment on me. But what he says is, “‘A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that has fed of that worm.’” 
I just stare at him. 
“It’s from Hamlet,” he says, his smile grim. “I taught it every semester for twenty-six years, so no wonder I’ve got the blasted thing memorized. It’s from when the young prince tells his uncle how ‘a king may go a process through the guts of a beggar.’” He shakes his head. “Even Shakespeare knew it, way back then.” 
“Knew what?” 
“How nature works. The cycle of the food chain. Man thinks he’s at the top, that he’s untouchable. But he’s wrong. Because when he dies, what else eats away at his corpse except worms? They’ve always been there, feeding away on us. And now ... now they’ve gotten hungrier, and nature’s allowed them to grow.” 
He stops talking and just sits there, again looks out at the backyard and James standing by the grave. James, a shadow in the fading light, turns and says, “Ralph, it’s time.” 
Ralph nods, glances at me. And in that glance I see what he doesn’t want to say. He doesn’t want to say goodbye, because he’s afraid it’ll be his last. That’s why I’m here, after all, with the rifle in my lap and the ax beside me. In case he and James come back changed. 
He stands, sighs, and places his hand on my head. Without looking at me, he whispers, “About your old man, Josh. Don’t worry about a thing he said, all right? He doesn’t know who you are. You’re much stronger than he ever was, or ever will be.” He pauses, grins down at me, and whispers, “He doesn’t know a goddamn thing.” 
And then he walks away. Across the lawn to where he meets James. Both men look at each other, talk briefly, then turn and disappear into the woods. Neither one of them looks back. 

*  *  *

Here’s how it ends: the phone rings, but I don’t answer. 
I can’t answer. The closest phone is in the kitchen, and I’m not about to get up on my leg to answer it. So I just sit in the dark — it’s now almost ten o’clock, about five hours after Ralph and James left — and I wait for the machine to do its job. After two more rings it finally picks up, and I hear a voice I remember oh so well, a voice that sounds different from this morning. 
“Josh, I — I know you’re there, son, and you don’t want to talk to me. And I — I wish I could tell you this in person. What I said this morning ... I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. I love you and your brother very much, and I’m proud of you both. Josh? Are you there, son? Please, pick up. I ... okay, listen. We’ll talk when your mother and I get back. I love you guys.” 
A click, and he’s gone. 
I sit there then for a long time. Maybe it’s only a couple of minutes, maybe an hour, but I’m sitting there, thinking about everything that’s happened today. All the pain and suffering. All the sadness. 
And as each second passes, I foolishly realize this isn’t going to turn out well. I can count on seeing Ralph and James again, but they’re not going to be the same. No, they’re going to be changed, and it’s going to be up to me to make sure their souls are put to rest. 
I start thinking about my brother. About how he was so young, so innocent, and for something like this to happen is just — 
Behind me, somewhere in the house, the sound of footsteps. 
Faint, but growing louder. 
Closer. 
The rifle’s in my lap. I grab it but almost drop the thing, it’s so heavy. It’s slick too, and even though I know it’s sweat from my hands, I imagine it’s covered in blood. 
Before Ralph left, he turned off all the lights in the house except the ones in the living room, so anyone passing by would think someone was home. So there’s no light, which sucks, because if there is someone behind me, I can’t see their shadow, I can’t even — 
Breathing now. Faint, just like the footsteps, but growing even louder. Even closer. 
It’s a kind of wet wheeze, like something’s blocking the person’s airway, so I know that it’s Ralph who’s back, who’s changed. 
I grip the rifle again, start to turn around, but before I can even move an inch I hear a voice say my name, clearer than before. 
“Josh.” 
My body stiffens, but it’s more than just from the word, but rather the voice itself. 
The voice is so familiar, yet so strange, so different. 
And, like my brother, it slurred my name on a dead tongue. 
Behind me, the shuffling footsteps have stopped. Whatever’s there, it’s waiting. I squeeze the rifle tight, I feel the blood coating it, and the only thing I want to do, the only thing in the world, is scream like hell. 
But I can’t. 
I can only sit there and wait, because maybe, just maybe, if I don’t turn around and see what’s there, it won’t be real. Maybe if I close my eyes it will go away, because I know it’s not Ralph beside me, that’s changed, I know it’s not even James — 
“Josh.” 
So I do close my eyes, I do wish it all away. I wish to start over, to somehow go back in time and make myself a better life. But I can’t do any of that, because in the back of my mind I hear what Ralph told me after I came out of that darkness, I hear his voice and it’s saying: 
Tyler ... he tore her apart. 
And it’s saying: 
There isn’t much left of her. 
And with my eyes closed, I can almost picture what’s standing there behind me. The rifle in my hand starts to shake; it’s gotten so heavy I can hardly hold it anymore. 
Another sound then, accompanying the first. It’s a gurgling, like something that hasn’t been alive very long. 
Like something just born. 
Then the voice comes back, the wet wheezing one, only this time it doesn’t say my name, but rather something even more terrible. 
“Say ... hello ... to your son.” 
And that’s when my paralysis breaks, when I’m able to turn. 
That’s when the rifle falls off my lap and I see what’s standing behind me, the thing in its hands, looking up at me with dark, inhuman eyes. 
That’s when I finally begin to scream. 

<>  <>  <>  <>  <>

About the Author:
Robert Swartwood was born in 1981. His short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Postscripts, Chizine, Space and Time, elimae, Wigleaf, PANK, and The Los Angeles Review. He is the editor of Hint Fiction: An Anthology of Stories in 25 Words or Fewer, forthcoming from W. W. Norton & Company. Visit him online at www.robertswartwood.com