A Slithering Offer

My body and soul—the feast on which it would satisfy its cold, unbiased nature. It would make me a brittle husk in no less than six months. I contemplated the Kevorkian way, but could never garnish the result with enough good reason to commit suicide. Besides, I didn’t want to die.

I received the news only three weeks ago. Considering the good doctor’s estimate, it was a significant portion of my remaining life. But not enough time to come to terms. Fantasies of futures never to come, crushed repeatedly by the forceful hammer of reality. The dreamer could dream, but ultimately his awakening was inevitable.

I wondered how I’d face the reaper alone. Would I possess the courage? Without Eileen’s warm touch, without her kind words, I was devoid of human nourishment. My inner-self was bad company.

Our marriage had once been a vibrant green leaf on a tree, swaying gently in the breeze, taking in the sun’s light. I played the parts of autumn and winter; the leaf fell, all color disappeared, and its surface became pockmarked with decay.

I was left with a shameful legacy—a divorcee with five hundred bucks in the bank, no offspring, no siblings, and my parents’ ashes on a shelf in my closet. I’d be mourned only for the loss of tips I gave Old Johnny at my preferred watering hole.

I had to get out of my apartment. Out of my head. Just out.

The quiet streets tamed the circling vultures of self-awareness. The city streets can be peaceful if you know when to go for a walk. Summer nights—always the best.

“Hey guy.”

The voice came from an alley.

Shit. Why did I stop? I should have fucking kept going.

“Listen here,” the raspy voice spoke with a lisp. “I can help you out.”

“Sorry man, not looking to cop anything.” I figured he was trying to sell me drugs.

“I’m not selling anything, you fool. I’m making an offer. For trade, I can cure your cancer.”

I stepped back, took my hands out of my pockets. “What?”

“You don’t have to die.”

I squinted, tried to see the man, but darkness hid him well.

My heart told me to run, to hightail it out of there—make myself a ghost. But curiosity, no matter how many animals it killed, kept me standing at the mouth of that dark recess between the two buildings.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I like to make deals, and I have a lot to offer.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Do you want your cancer cured or not?”

The voice wrenched my guts with instinctual warning. But the hook had been set. What did I have to lose? I was going to die anyway.

“Who the fuck wouldn’t? But there is no cure for cancer.”

“That’s what they want you to think.”

“What are you, a conspiracy nut?”

Mock laughter emanated from the inky tunnel. It had the tone of a man, but what disturbed me was that it was trying to sound human. “No. I really can stop your cancer. I know how.”

“How, then?”

“I’m not just going to tell you. How do I know you’ll keep your part of the bargain?”

The bargain. I didn’t even think to ask what this mysterious voice wanted in return for the miracle it offered.

“What is it you want? I’m not rich or anything…”

“I don’t want money.”

My legs wanted to run. But the possibility of a cure enticed me to stay. “What is it you want?”

A heavy breath wafted from the shadows—musty, it reminded me of the damp cellar I’d claimed as my playroom in childhood. “I just need a favor.”

“How do I know you’re not some nutcase?”

“How did I know you had cancer, Marcus? And how do I know your name?”

“Well, Christ, that’s a good one…”

“So what’s your answer? You want the cure or not?”

Now he sounded like a drug dealer.

“Fuck it. Got nothing to lose. You gonna come outta that alley or what? Because I’m not going in there.”

“Don’t worry about that, Marcus. All you have to do is say the word and the contract is, how you say, signed.”

I questioned the choice. I never believed in God, but it sounded like striking a deal with the Devil. The thought of Hell seemed much worse than dying of cancer. I was never a church-goer but I’d read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

Another laugh echoed in the alley. No attempt to sound human was made; it came out coarse, like sandpaper against concrete.

“Your peers have misled you,” the voice said. “There is no Heaven. No Hell. Things are as they are. There is nothing more. Only things you don’t know.”

“What things?”

“Never mind, boy. Just perform the task I require, and you shall have your cure.”

“What do I have to do?”

“There’s a guy. I want you to deliver this package to him.”

A box wrapped in brown paper skidded from the shadows and stopped at my feet. A name and address were crudely scrawled on the top in black marker.

“You want me to deliver a package? That’s it? This is bullshit.”

“I promise you it’s not. Oh, there’s one more thing. There’s another guy. He hangs out in front of the building you’ll be delivering that to. Bump into him on your way in.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I said. Just bump into him. Like it was an accident.”

“I don’t get it. What for?”

“I don’t like him.”

“Whatever, man.”

Walking nine blocks to reach my destination didn’t feel like a chore, more a respite from the horrors of my diagnosis. A brief lull from the routine of life and the slope of oncoming oblivion, just beyond which lies a bottomless pit. With the hope of a cure, I had to avoid falling in.

I came to the address, and there he was, ‘the guy.’ He stood outside the door, leaning against the railing of the staircase, taking long drags from his cigarette. I watched him from the corner of my eye as I neared. He didn’t pay me any heed. At the last step, I pretended to trip—my shoulder brushed against his arm.

“Sorry, man. Missed that last step there.”

He didn’t say a word. Only took another puff and blew smoke in my face.

As I opened the door and entered the filthy apartment building something tugged at my memory. Synapses fired, but shot blanks. Something irked me about bumping into the guy on the stairs. Something familiar.

I went to the third floor, found the apartment, and knocked.

A muffled voice answered. “Who is it?”

“Package delivery.”

Footsteps came to the door and stopped. Self-conscious discomfort traveled along the back of my neck knowing he could see me through the peephole. The lock clicked and the door opened.

The look on his face told me he wasn’t expecting a delivery.

“What is it?” he asked.

“How the hell should I know? I just deliver them.”

He took the box, looked it over, and slammed the door.

Mission complete. What came next, I was unsure. My throat tightened as I neared the exit, wondering if the smoking man was still outside. Be pretty fucking awkward running into him again. But he wasn’t there.

Relieved, I headed back to the alley where the stranger offered a cure. It was only during my walk back that I questioned the situation. What the hell was I doing? Was some fucking guy in an alley going to cure my cancer? When I thought about it, I couldn’t understand why I went with it in the first place. What compelled me? Was it hope? Desperation? Either way, I was already into it, might as well see it through.

When I got to the alley a hissing came from the darkness. “I see you’ve completed your task.”

“Yeah. Bumped into that guy and everything. Who was he, anyway?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

The slithering monstrosity reached out and wrapped its snake-like tentacles around my body. It drew me toward its gaping, ebon maw filled with rows of fleshy suction cups. The orifice closed behind me as foul smelling enzymes coated my body. As my flesh dissolved, my consciousness drifted from my mind. The creature assimilated my being; I became part of it, and it part of me. All of us. Together. As one.

And soon, I’d get to know the guy I bumped into very well. He would also develop terminal cancer. No doubt he’d take the deal, just as I had, same as the man who bumped into me…

~ Lee A. Forman

© Copyright 2017 Lee A. Forman. All Rights Reserved

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About Lee Andrew Forman

Lee Forman is a fiction writer from the Hudson Valley, NY. His fascination with the macabre began in childhood, watching old movies and reading everything he could get his hands on. He’s a third generation horror fanatic, starting with his grandfather who was a fan of the classic Hollywood Monsters. His work has been published in horror magazines, anthologies, and podcasts. In October 2014 he won 3rd place in the Writer’s Carnival Short Story Contest hosted by Sanitarium Magazine. In 2015 he was a competitor in David Wellington’s Fear Project. When he’s not crafting horrifying creatures and tales of terror he spends time playing guitar with his band, Eternity of Sorrow. For more information and a list of publications go to www.leeformanauthor.com

28 responses to “A Slithering Offer”

  1. Brian Moreland says :

    Great story, Lee. I enjoyed the vivid ending.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. aspend says :

    Creepy

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Lucy Brazier says :

    This is fantastic. I especially like the reference to Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Great work.

    Liked by 2 people

  4. afstewart says :

    Most delightfully creepy.

    Liked by 2 people

  5. adeleulnais says :

    Reblogged this on firefly465 and commented:
    an excellent tale.

    Liked by 2 people

  6. adeleulnais says :

    wow, loved this one.

    Liked by 2 people

  7. Joseph Pinto says :

    Lee, I really enjoyed your story this week! One rooted in darkness and desperation – what lengths would an individual go to sway the hands of the inevitable..? This is definitely a tale that stays in your head after it has been read. Well done!

    Liked by 1 person

  8. Veronica Magenta Nero says :

    great work Lee, you really put your heart into this one, very vivd and convincing, well written.

    Liked by 1 person

  9. Brian Moreland says :

    Reblogged this on THE CRYPT OF HORROR and commented:
    Here’s a new creepy short story from author Lee Andrew Forman – read “A Slithering Offer” for free at Pen of the Damned’s blog.

    Liked by 2 people

  10. Hunter Shea says :

    Excellent story, Lee. As always. 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

  11. jonolsonauthor says :

    Loved this one, Lee! Kept me guessing up until the end! You can never go wrong with tentacles…

    Liked by 1 person

  12. jonolsonauthor says :

    Reblogged this on Jon Olson and commented:
    A SLITHERING OFFER by Pen of the Damned’s Lee Forman

    Like

  13. John Potts Jr says :

    Horrific! I enjoyed the tone of desperation and how the monster took on the persona of a “drug dealer”, zeroing in on Marcus with impatient vernacular. Great job, Lee! And to piggyback with what Jon said, yes, you always win with tentacles.

    Liked by 1 person

  14. Christopher A Liccardi says :

    Good work, Lee. I like the way this played out. The imagery was real! The next person that bumps into me in the city may get a burst of laughter in the face as I replay this tale over in my head 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

Trackbacks / Pingbacks

  1. A Slithering Offer – Pen of the Damned - March 7, 2017
  2. A Slithering Offer | THE CRYPT OF HORROR - March 7, 2017

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