'Cracks' 
by James R. Cain 
A	
nd she tripped, pumpkin ass in the air, forearm striking the pavement, and her face nose-dived into the path. A resounding snick of splintering bone, and the wrist became a right angle; the hand spun out to the side. Groceries flew across the grass.

I watched all this out the kitchen window while sipping my tea; the tassels of my pyjama pants dangled on the unwashed dishes in the sink.

I smiled. Unlucky bitch. That must have hurt.

Enthralled, my toes burrowed through the holes in my slippers into the kitchen floor, and I rubbed the side of the mug against the stubble on my chin, relishing its warmth. Delighted as the old lady twitched in spasm on my drive. She must be floundering into unconsciousness, poor broken sparrow beyond my gate, - she lay with eyes clenched shut, mouth gasping. And her perm jiggled in the autumn breeze.

I suppose I could have gone outdoors and helped her. In retrospect I probably should have. If I'd done that, things might have turned out differently. Different for me. But I was dumbfounded and bored. An old lady falling - not a sight you see every day. Teach the bitch to invest in some glasses.

Then I saw it. Rising from the cement to creep across the path like an impossible shadow, small, inky tendrils - the roots of a tar-baby plant. It came to the woman as she lay there on her back, licked her skin, tasted her sweat, and wrapped her up in lover's embrace, slithered around her body, black ropes, and embalmed that rag doll wrist. A lump of roots pulled out of the crack en mass, from beneath the ground, and flowed over to smother the wound with dirty bandages; suck that skin with soil-ink tongues.

I blinked and rubbed my eyes. Pressed my eyelids with my thumbs. And then I looked again.

The tentacles pulsated on the wound.

This disturbed me greatly.

I imagined this lascivious thing was the undiluted essence of humanity, suckling grief and pain. Imagined and knew, and in knowing became mighty pissed off.

What right did the essence of human evil have to go squatting beneath my path! 
"Son of a bitch!" I punched the bench, absent-mindedly dropping my mug in the process. It shattered on the basin, and sprayed hot tea on my crotch.

"Fuck!" I screamed and doubled over, clipping the edge of the Formica with my face on the way to the floor. Lay there with my cheek on the Linoleum, watching a cockroach sucking a pea.

Twenty-five minutes later, the ambulance arrived and took the casualty away. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the lounge-room, watching the scene unravel through the blinds. Some charitable neighbour must have witnessed the fall and called Emergency. Certainly wasn't me. The thing beneath the path had withdrawn, and the busybodies at my gate were ignorant of its visitation.

What ever did it want? What purpose did it serve? 
I sat and thought on the thing, that monster beneath my path. The evil creature that fed off pain. I fondled my balls, massaged my scrotum, and replayed the incident in my mind. Man, the lady falling was funnier than a clown slipping on a banana peel. Funnier because it was real, no show or act.

And I laughed at the memory.

The ambulance departed, and the crowd dispersed. I furiously scrutinized each neighbour as they glanced at my house before meandering away: the overgrown lawn, bedraggled flowerbeds, Fred the headless gnome decapitated by the door. I bet they were wondering what went on inside? Behind my doors - them with curious minds. But curiosity killed the canary, or didn't they know? 
And the canary always has to pay. 
The morning sunlight was a bitch, grass-prickling the nape of my neck. I suppose I could have worn a hat, but I couldn't be bothered going indoors to find one.

I stood on the road and inspected the path, leaning over: a web of cracks, uneven ruptures in the cement. I was in a good mood still, as I had this morning's entertainment replaying as a tight loop in my brain. The old bitch kept a rictus smile on my lips, and humour in turn kept fear at bay.

The thought of those tentacles was unnerving though I had to admit. How long had it been there, festering beneath my street, spawning beneath the city? And why here? Were there more? I had no idea, but I'd hardly be able to sleep now, knowing evil slept outside my door. Those black tentacles, cold like space beyond the stars, stygian black like Satan's abyss. Maybe it was dark matter; scientists loved to theorise about that shit? Absent reality with a mind - solid nothing groping for torment.

And I saw: Cracks - millions of cracks in this path.

I mounted the curb and fell to my knees on the nature strip, a little too hard, and struck my left kneecap on a stone. A friggin' rock half-buried in the dirt! I rolled onto my ass cursing, holding my leg, and then I saw it reappear out of the path.

A slender shoot of black rose from a thumbnail-crack. A malignant runner of buffalo grass lifted its tip from the dust, swayed, sniffed the air then reached toward me. That dreadful aberration unravelled my way, and reached up to touch my trouser leg. Tentatively stroked my shoe. I gasped, and my eyes rolled involuntarily back in their sockets, peering for the sun. That awful feeler speared up into my trouser leg with a chilled-sewerage feel. Numbed the skin in its passing, found my wound, that aching kneecap and with a snow-tip lick, took away the pain.

God have mercy on my wretched soul if this didn't excite me sexually! It made my penis throb like a hotdog balloon on a pump. I panicked as an erection inflated in my pants, and I abhorred the thing more than ever. I gurgled a cry as I ejaculated, and scuttled backwards on my ass, kicked my feet, punched my leg, the denim of my jeans where the tentacle was beneath. I rolled onto the road, and then I ran.

As I bounded across the porch, I knew it had to be stopped.

I knew there was no one to stop it but me.

You can't exactly dig up a footpath in Bodie without getting into strife, especially when your neighbour is a total ass-wipe and will surely dob you in. I knew I'd have to be careful, and tunnel under the path from my garden. Circumspect and sneaky would become my middle names. I was in trouble enough with the council already; in fact, I had a court summons trapped with magnets on my fridge.

I had to appear in court for chopping down a blue gum in my back yard. Now, the tree was half-eaten by white ants, and was a menace to my house and safety. It had to come down before it killed someone - namely me. I was feeling slack at the time, and couldn't be bothered getting a permit. You know how long it takes to get one of those things? The council employs lazy buggers, and by the time I'd gotten authorisation, I might well be dead. All it'd take would be one decent storm, and Bodie has an abundance of storms this time of year. Anyway, I thought no one would know or care. I thought people would understand, especially as Bodie is a mountain town, surrounded by bush.

I thought wrong.

I was in a harness, up the tree with my chainsaw, lopping branches, when this red-bearded ranger turned up in a jeep. He got out and held an Infringement notice in the air. I had to cease work immediately of course until the case was heard, and that tree's in my backyard still. Denuded of leaves. Waiting for its kamikaze storm. And me? I lay awake on windy nights waiting for that trunk to fall.

My old buddy, my neighbour Mr Green called the council. I know it. Him with his monocle, grey hair and skin yellowed with age. Always asking questions, peering through the blinds. Likes to walk his dog each afternoon, a fat Labrador, and trots along with a walking cane with an eagle head. Usually wore a tweed jacket, thinking he's all refined and superior, puffing on a curvy pipe, like he's Sherlock Up-himself-Holmes and the dog is raggedy-ass Watson.

I was in my garden digging, removing the flowerbed with a shovel, and flipping away dirt with its blade. The hole was getting deeper, long and shallow-like, but still reaching a decent depth - two-feet down and sinking. I was excavating a pit right against the front fence so I couldn't be questioned. Angling towards the road to see what I'd unearth. I figured, if I dug deep enough - say eight feet - and tunnelled across, I'd find the thing in the crack sleeping. If not, a thin burrow beneath the path would finish the job, and wouldn't do any harm. No damage - no council trouble. I'd find the creature easy, or so I thought, after all, it'd seemed fairly large when its tentacles had cocooned the wounded lady. Such a thing would certainly need space and should be easy to find. And I'd see what it's like without protective cement on its head - some slug-thing that I could maybe dismember with a shovel.

By now, my mind had rationalised what I'd seen, and experienced. I thought of it as a prehistoric lawn grub that had evolved tentacles and nested outside my house. It was probably nurtured on sewerage from the sullage pit out back. A sick-fuck parasite that had a propensity for eating misery, and lay waiting for accidents to happen. Maybe I could capture it? Get some cash from the Discovery Channel and go on a holiday. This thing was unique. But, grub-baby didn't count on me; it'd grown in the wrong neighbourhood that's for sure. Didn't gather I'd watched it from my sink, inspecting it like David Attenborough on the moors. Thought it could discretely feed. Well, not on my bloody watch. Not near my house.

So, I dug and dug and was getting mighty hot. My arm muscles ached, and the sweat was thick on my forehead and neck, glutinous like slime, and the skin on my forearms was speckled with dirt and fragments of grass. I'd taken off my shirt and discarded it on the lawn behind me, and I was feeling uncomfortable in the sun. My jeans were stiff at the crotch where my fluids had dried into a dark patch in the denim, but I wasn't getting changed - these are my good pants.

Then along came ol' monocle-eye from his house, peering my way. His fat dog tagged along at his heels, swaggering that flea-bitten ass. The dog snuffled a bush and sniffed a tree, trotted across its owner's immaculate lawn, wandered out the gate and peed on a weed.

"Afternoon." Mr. Green nodded his head and puffed his pipe. Tilted his face slightly sideways; looked my way like an inquisitive bird. Wondered what I was up to. Then meandered in my direction, slowly tapping the path with his stick, whacking the cracks with his cane, waking the perversity that dozed beneath the dirt.

Bastard.

Now, I knew my neighbour's customs, and he never walked past my door. He goes the other direction, down the road, toward the town and shops. Usually returned with a paper, and three litres of milk. Sometimes biscuits or bread. So, I was suspicious, and squinted upward at him from the pit, half-blinded by the sun. There's nothing up the road, down my end of the street - this I knew. Nothing past my house except the park and some swings, and dogs are definitely not allowed in the park. There's a sign and all, painted in red with an illustration of a canine with a damn red line through it - obvious. Monocle or not, he's not fucking blind! No way he's going to the park, he's just having a gander this curious canary, and if he's a canary, I'm a tabby cat.

I remembered then, this was the prick that had dobbed me in. I grated teeth in this knowledge. Slowly began chewing my lower lip. I stood in the pit, waist deep, watching him watching me, watched his dog as it slowly sniffed my way. Tried to look innocent, as I wanted to unearth old squiddy without a fuss. My neighbour waved, and swung at a fly, and then his brow furrowed.

"What yer doin' Joe?" 
As if he didn't know.

"Nice one for a walk," I commented, trying to change the subject. Tried to restrain my anger. Tried to keep my cool.

He looked baffled and somehow offended inspecting my pit, as if I'd bent over, dropped my pants and flashed him my sack. "Doin' a bit of gardening?" he said as way of explanation not really believing it himself. He put his weight on my little white fence for support as he spoke, and all the while wondered why I'd dig such a thing as a pit? He eased in over the dead daisies.

"Maybe I'll plant a tree," I reply caustically, then paused for effect, "a gum tree in fact. Get those roots in deep so the wind won't blow it down."
He was visibly taken aback, and withdrew to the path. Shifted the pipe to the other side of his mouth. Didn't reply. Just looked meek and innocent, and slowly blinked his one watery eye. Looked mighty flushed too, red with just the hint of a blush.

Hello, my mind said in a singsong voice. I've got you now you asshole. Feeling a tad guilty? I have my proof.

The old man adjusted his monocle, and whistled to the dog. But the Labrador was occupied crapping on the path, shitting on my driveway if you want to be exact, just down from the crack where the old lady fell. It hunched over straining; whimpering like it's laying a half-dozen eggs. This embarrassed the old man, and he tried to divert my attention: "Are they geraniums?" He pointed stupidly at some bulbs in the heaped dirt behind me.

As if I'd know.

"No." I say keeping my eyes on him. "They're dead. Who knows what they were?"
"Goin' anywhere this summer?" And Mr Green tugged at his collar nervous like. Huffed his pipe.

I knew what he was up to. He was trying to distract me while his dog completes its crime, and defecated on my property. I knew what was up, but played along anyway. Pretended I didn't see the hunchback dog hopping around on its back legs, turning around in a slow circle trying to do its dump. I smiled glibly and wiped the sweat from my eyes with the back of my wrist; blinked away dirt. But I was constantly watching, peering out the corner of my eye, face turned to the front, a dispassionate mask for the old man. Watched that dog dance, all the time wondering, listening to its plaintive whine. It was constipated you see, and that turd did not coming easy, but slowly come it did.

Willowy shoots of black arose from the crack - towards the dog's ass. The dog gave a sharp yip as the feeler touched its blind eye, then grizzled in relief. The tentacle felt around the dog's anus, inserted its tip inside, and seeing this, I became enraged.

This is sick shit. This thing's evil, and must be stopped! 
The octopus fed, and it repulsed me to witness the dog getting horny while old squiddy had a snack. Then the dog yelped, and trotted away, wagging its tail, freeing itself in the process, a dangleberry in its fur.

My neighbour sensed the dog's departure and blew a smoke ring into the air. Wandered towards my drive always eyeing the pit, towards the crack, not seeing the creature at his feet. I was hoping he 'd step in his dog's mess - that would be a laugh. That maybe, he'd stumble on the path instead, like the fat lady, or perhaps those inky shoots would deliberately trip him up? There were lots of possibilities, lots of cracks you see - that path was severely fractured and in bad need of repair. Being an imbecile, Mr Green would probably tumble straight face-first to the cement. Fall and hurt himself, break a hip or some other bone - old people are fragile - and my neighbour the asshole was the undisputed king of fools.

But he didn't.

I had to stop him.

I leapt from the pit. Bolted towards the gate, shovel in hand. "Wait!"
He was almost at the crack, where the monster lay. Shadowy feelers were oozing from the ground, unfurling into the air.

I bounded over the fence - swung my shovel in an arc. Connected with asshole's face with a resounding crack of bone - shattered his nose, and sent his dentures flying, scarlet ivory to the path. He toppled backward with a grunt - a clothes peg kicked by a mule - bounced and went sideways onto the nature strip, mashed his lips into the grass.

"YOU DON'T," whack, "GO," whack, "THIS WAY!" whack, whack! "AND I KNOW YOU DOBBED ME IN!" I pound the flat of the shovel on his head as I ranted. "There's something beneath," whack, "the path you see?" whack, whack! "Something a one-eyed bugger like you wouldn't understand!" And I hit him once more.

The dog charged, barking, bit my leg. Growled like fucking White Fang in the fighting pit.

Elephant-snout tentacles tore loose from the earth shedding chunks of path. Liquid flesh swayed around me, bubbling out the cracks like piss-treacle through a sieve, forming appendages to flay about, whipping the air around and behind the hound. I swung the shovel, but they were quick; dodged and I missed. The dog bit down hard, ripped my jeans and calf. My neighbour groaned and attempted to crawl away, so I sprung at him, and struck him savagely, pinning him to the grass with the shovel blade on his spine. Pressed his head with my boot. The dog was ravaging my other leg, snapping and growling, shredding denim, and I could see blood entering my boot. Tentacles flayed my back and legs, suckers groped Mr Green. I grunted and pushed down on the shovel, trying to end the old man's pain; stop the monster's feast. One thick root quivered through the dirt and suckered Green's head, pulled his face into the grass. I swung at it, but all I succeeded in doing was clipping off my neighbour's ear and a ragged chunk of scalp.

I was roped in tentacles and brawling, when the dog yelped, put its tail between its legs and scampered toward home. I swung at it of course - mongrel wrecked me jeans - but missed, and the cheeky beggar escaped.

Squiddy congealed into an inky cloud hovering above the ground, stinking of fungal earth, writhing with worms, dangling feelers that dripped ichor onto Mr Green. The old man's body twitched, and he rolled on his back, unseeing of the abomination feeding above. Black patches on his cheeks were like jigsaw pieces of a night sky. Javelins of putrescence violated his nose, and forced themselves into his mouth, widening his jaws to do it. One blind stump fondled the hole that was once an ear, and a mass of thin stems entwined his neck, rose over his chin and covered his face.

I'd made a mistake.

My neighbour twitched and shuddering.

Alive?

I had to finish the job; abort the feast. This amorphous entity was already bloated with pain, but I was betting it liked its food fresh and feeling. Maybe if the canary was dead, ol' tentacles wouldn't be so eager to feed?

That's when I killed him, Mr Green, although the memory's now little more than a blur. I recall bellowing and leaping into a cloud of eels, landing on the old man's chest, amid a sea of midnight vines. Ripped at his face, freed his eyes. Grabbed his throat and squeezed that scrawny neck, throttling until the monocle eye bulged. He struggled slightly beneath me, not much, not near enough, and then he breathed his last.

I buried the corpse beneath the garden in that hole I'd dug. It was conveniently the length of a grave, a shallow grave, but practical none-the-less. I covered the old man with dirt, and smiled as his ashen eyes disappeared beneath the soil.

The creature squealed when my neighbour died - I remember that too. Squealed like a lobster tossed into a cooking pot. I guess it somehow tasted death and that's what caused it to retreat, slithering away beneath the ground.

The police arrived and investigated. Dug up my garden after three days of inquiry, the garden I'd meticulously replanted. They'd found the monocle beneath my letterbox you see. My torn and bloody jeans on the clothes line. Bloodstains in the grass. Put one and two together and came up with six-six-six. The number of the beast, but the wrong beast, and arrested me instead.

I got institutionalised in an asylum, and the judge in condemnation threw away the key. I tried to warn them that there were creatures spawning in the cracks beneath the city, hiding beneath our footpaths and roads, but the prosecution made slight of my testimony. Said the only thing beneath my path was black ants, and not of a dangerous variety. All ants eat are dead insects and crumbs, not neighbours, and certainly don't kill with spades.

Ants don't need spades, I thought. They have pinchers and jaws, and if they were just a little bigger . . .

And now, I sit cross-legged in a padded cell, staring at the moon watching me watching it from behind a shred of cloud. I don't have a bed, only a mattress on the floor. I'm not allowed anything metal since I took out an orderly's left eye with a spoon. They think I'm dangerous, but I'm not. Just protective. I'm the victim here. And, I'm staring into the dark, wondering . . .

Because there's a crack in the wall, just above the door, and I can't reach it, but I know it's there, a crooked rupture in the plaster. On nights like tonight, when it's dark and creepy, when I'm hurting inside, and feeling sorry for myself, depressed and in pain - it crawls forth into shadow. A little baby crack beast that lowers its roots to the floor. Slithering tendrils towards me in a numbing embrace. Feelers like so much black cotton, finding my shirt, past the buttons on my back, licks my skin, and breast, knowing the beat of my heart . . .

And when I'm feeling bad, really, really awful, it has mercy and takes away my pain.