Authors: J Thorn
Preta's Realm (7 page)
Drew shook his head even though a response was not expected.
“There was no hair left on the head and the eyes sat deep in the skull like chunks of coal. There were two holes where a nose may have been, and then that slit for a mouth. The thing was shoving human shit into the maw on its face. I don’t know how I knew it was real shit, but it was. It stank like, well, like shit and death. Those are smells even the hardiest soldiers can’t forget. Breathing through my mouth didn’t make a damn bit of difference. The crazy thing was that the more shit this thing tried cramming in there, the less got in. Its sallow cheeks were smeared with feces and it had a low moan like a rat caught in a spring trap, but not quite dead yet. It would look at me and then wail. Two, maybe three dead gook soldiers sat against the wall. All of them had their pants at their ankles with a pile of shit inside. It was like they died after taking one, and this thing was busy trying to lap it up.”
Drew shuddered and the image painted for his dream shimmered and hissed like an unlit stream of natural gas. He felt a force draw his attention back to the cave, back in time, back in space.
“I can’t have ya waking up until I’m done here. You just keep it together now.”
Drew’s breathing regulated. A line of drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth.
“I brought my rifle up and placed the crosshairs right on that sonofabitch. Fucker never even hesitated. It had no use for me, no fear neither.
“‘What the hell are you?’ I asked, the end of my rifle shaking in my hands.
“The thing moaned and threw the contents of one hand against the wall of the cave. The shit splattered and oozed toward the ground. I felt my stomach crawling up into my throat.
“‘Gaki,’ it replied.
“That fucking slit on its face may have opened a bit, but if it did, I couldn’t tell. The voice came into my head like mine is in yours right now. The name felt guttural, ancient, cursed.
“‘What the fuck is a Gaki?’ I asked.
“The creature turned to face me. It sat perched on a rock and drew a long, slender finger from its mouth. It looked at the feces of the dead men and back to me. He crouched low like a junkyard dog.
“‘From Preta, the departed,’ it said inside my head.
“The words felt like the heaves you get from too much whiskey. It was like I could taste them, cold and greasy on my tongue.
“I dropped the rifle when I realized that it wouldn’t protect me from this thing. I was aware of bombs exploding outside the cave complete with screams and shouts of war. I turned my back on it.
“‘Cold,’ it said while the heat of the jungle tried to melt the flesh from my bones.
“I sat down and pulled a cigarette from the pack. Gaki, as I decided it must be named, watched me as my silver Zippo flashed to life with flame. The creature shrieked and hid its face behind the corpses on the floor of the cave. I put the flame to the end of the cigarette and inhaled the sweet taste of Virginia tobacco. I held my arm out feeling as though I had to offer one to Gaki because I could not watch him eat shit anymore. When he felt safe enough to remove his head, he did so but continued moaning while perched on the rock.
“‘Greed consumes you,’ it said. ‘Selfish. Hoarding.’
“I shook my head and blew smoke rings across the cave, savoring that smell over shit.
“‘Ain’t no other way,’ I responded. Somehow I felt the need to defend my survival in this Pacific shithole.
“‘You own it now.’
“I laughed and pulled a grenade from my belt. I yanked the pin from the top and cocked my arm back like Ty Cobb. The fucking thing didn’t move. It wasn’t scared of the weapons I brought to the palaver.
“‘Take it with you. Feed on it.’
“Gaki tilted his head back and wailed, which blinded my vision. A scene unfolded in my head like the old silent films of my youth. A grainy screen grew until it displayed my bedroom back home. My hurt lurched at a past life full of luxury and innocence. Then I saw her come into the room, my girl. She had not a stitch on her and the man in me took notice. But as the frames skipped forward, I noticed she was not alone. Several of my hometown buddies were there, and they were naked, too. She laid flat on the bed, her ample breasts sliding to the side. The boys wasted no time. One grabbed each ankle and thrust her legs apart. He moved closer and I saw her back arch. One slid underneath her body so that I saw the bottoms of six feet in my mind’s projector. The third grabbed hold of his manhood and placed it on her lips. The bodies tussled and maneuvered, dancing with lust, not forced coitus. My girl took the seed of each one. She brought them into her most profane places and smiled up into their eyes like a dutiful daughter.
“The vision snapped and I was left staring back at the shit-covered Gaki. I backed out of the cave and turned to face the ridge. The sun nearly blinded me. I felt the metallic object in my palm and realized I had not replaced the pin on the grenade. Without a second thought, I tossed it inside the cave. Ten seconds later, an explosion ripped the air and spread a fine layer of dirt and rock over the entrance. When the dust settled, I looked through the smoke for any sign of Gaki. I saw none. When I started towards the ridge to find my unit, I heard that greasy, filthy voice in my head again.
“‘Feed me,’ he said. ‘Sustain the greed.’
“Many years had passed since the end of the war, to a time when I convinced myself that my encounter with Gaki was nothing but a casualty of humanity, a way of coping with the atrocities I witnessed and committed. It wasn’t until I married, had my children, and reentered society that his sickly voice returned. He came to me in dreams that were more real than reality.”
***
The key felt loose in the lock, like an old prostitute. The image forced a smile across Ravna’s face as the door to his apartment swung open on creaky hinges. A single floor lamp stood like a lone sentry in the far corner of the one-room efficiency. Male undergarments fouled with yellowing underarm stains clung to the shade, positioned as they were thrown by their owner. Next to the lamp and lining the adjacent wall, from floor to ceiling, stood stacked crates of records. LPs from the fifties, sixties, and seventies filled every space, with some jutting out where the sleeve had become crinkled or folded. Pizza boxes and coffee cups covered the floor, except for an oasis of beige plush carpet turned gray underneath a recliner. The fifty-two-inch flat-screen television above the mantle flickered to life as Ravna punched a button on the remote. The local news anchor’s mouth sped along silently until the sound output reached the speakers mounted on each side of the screen. Several horror movie posters clung to the pitted dry wall, frames tilted and Plexiglas bowing outward from decades of gravity’s unrelenting pull.
“ . . . Until further investigation is complete. Residents are reluctant to consider the recent event the work of a serial killer, although those we spoke to have begun locking their doors at night, a first for this community.”
Ravna shook his head and scrolled through the channel menu until he landed on Arena Rock Rampage, SoundSystem station number 302. The info on the screen identified the artist as Leaf Hound, but Ravna knew from the first chord of that most righteous riff that it had to be them. He fell backwards into the recliner. His thumb fell into the worn depression of the volume button and he pushed the level up as far as he could before Ms. Winkerhausen in 4C would call the police.
Sweet riff rock from the 1970s always made Ravna horny. His encounter with the goth princess at his favorite coffee house added fuel to the fire. She worked him like a stripper, eye contact and personal questions with no interest in an answer. Get them to leave their paycheck and then return next week with another.
He reached into his messenger bag and removed the company-issue laptop computer he felt obliged to transport like an undeserving child.
Slasher Dasher was founded by two college kids in 1979. With a love for horror films and a witty way with movie reviews, the pamphlet turned into a full-blown enterprise. With offices in various cities and a network of full-time writers and stringers, Slasher Dasher employed the hippest of the hipsters. They armed their staff with the newest technology and sent them in search of the best horror films, those created by the major studios and those born in the basements of suburbia. Ravna took the job three years ago when he became fed up with life in the cubicle. His divorce was finalized and the house was sold. Needing very little money to live, the staff writer position at Slasher Dasher was the perfect opportunity. Ravna wrote like a fiend and wrote constantly. Getting his reviews done for the magazine left him with hours each day to write and drink coffee.
The laptop came to life as the proto-Plant vocal stylings of Leaf Hound filled the room. Ravna waited for the operating system to load those mystic lines of code that made the modern world possible. His clock widget appeared first, followed by a barrage of sticky notes clinging to every icon on the desktop. They made a virtual mess the same way their paper counterparts made a physical one. Ravna launched his web browser and dismissed his usual page of news feeds, seeing that very few new headlines were added since the last time he glanced at them an hour or two before. He pulled the search box down from the file menu and hesitated.
Ravna set the laptop on the arm of the recliner and walked to the kitchenette area of his efficiency. He pulled the stainless-steel handle of the refrigerator and spied two bottles of beer on the bottom shelf, lodged between a box of baking soda and an unidentified black lump sealed in a plastic baggie.
“Gotta calm that espresso down,” he said to the first bottle as he tucked the cap underneath his T-shirt and twisted until he heard the familiar sigh. Ravna took a swig and relished the bitter sharpness of the import. He shut the door and tapped the bubble-topped 1959 FrigAir unit.
“Keep on keepin’ on, my good buddy.”
The refrigerator did not reply.
Ravna returned to his recliner as the album approached “Stray,” one of his favorite songs. He chugged half of the beer and let his body fall deep into the molded cushions. With the click of a few buttons, Ravna dispelled the other applications and their incessantly nagging messages. He returned to the web browser’s search box with no digital procrastinations remaining.
“Preta, Gaki,” he typed in the box.
“Preta, or Peta. Name for a ghost of human suffering originating from Buddhist, Hindu, Sikh, and Jain texts. Known as “hungry ghosts” in English. Pretas were jealous or greedy people and now their karma gives them an insatiable hunger for repugnant things, such as human corpses or feces.”
Ravna whistled out loud, clicked the scroll-down arrow, and continued taking notes.
“Pretas are invisible, but some can see them in states of distress. They have sunken eyes, mummified skin, narrow limbs, enormously distended bellies and long, thin necks. The metaphor suggests enormous appetites that cannot be fulfilled. In Japan,
preta
is translated as
gakiI,
and the word is often used to mean a spoiled child. To Hindus, the creatures are very real.”
Ravna shut the lid without bothering to power down the computer. His mouth was dry and the rest of his beer did nothing to quench the thirst. He fumbled for the messenger bag and pulled the old book from inside. With trembling fingers, he revisited the pages he had marked with Post-it notes.
Chapter 7
