Seed of Evil by Greig Beck (great reads .txt) 📕

dry weather of late meant the dirt road was solid—rutted, but solid.

On his way, he passed a single figure, a Native American, with long, dark hair shining like a raven’s wing in the sunshine and held back by a cloth headband. He slowed and the man turned toward him. Wainright didn’t recognize him from town and guessed he must have been just passing through.

Wainright slowed; the young man must have been no more than mid-twenties, with a blanket roll over one shoulder and a cloth satchel bag under his arm. The pair of men stared at each other for a while until Wainright felt he couldn’t meet the youth’s gaze anymore as it seemed to burn right into his soul and pluck the thoughts straight from his head.

Wainright accelerated away and in the rear-view mirror saw the man still staring after his car. Strange, he thought and made a mental note to mention it to the sheriff.

Only another mile down the road, he pulled up out front of a small, well-kept home and tapped the horn twice.

Ben Wainright got out and stretched his back, feeling the wet shirt unglue from his body. He was a tall man and regarded as being quite dashing. He’d come unannounced so he waited a moment in the sunshine, expecting Mary to appear on the front deck and forgive him for his unexpected intrusion.

After another moment, still no one had appeared, so he walked briskly up the front steps, twisted the bell twice, and heard it ring loudly inside the house.

He gave it another minute and then peered in through the glass panel and saw Mary coming slowly down the hallway. She wiped her hands on a cloth and tucked it into the waistline of her skirt before opening the door.

The pretty young mother looked drained of color, and her eyes were red-rimmed from either lack of sleep or crying. Ben guessed both.

“Ben.” She made his name sound like a lament.

“Mary?” He stared for a moment. “Ah, I came to check on Billy. Is everything okay?”

After a moment, she shook her head, and her voice was little more than a squeak. “Not really.”

“May I come in?” He stepped closer.

“Um…” Her head was down and she wrung her hands for a moment, but eventually she nodded and shuffled aside.

Ben stepped inside the doorway and pointed to a closed door from memory. “Second on the right?”

She nodded again and he proceeded down the hallway to Billy’s room. But Mary stayed put.

“Follow me, please,” he said over his shoulder.

As he neared the door, he slowed and reached out a hand. But for some reason, there was a tingling in his stomach that hinted at a strange nervousness that shouldn’t be there. He shook it away, twisted the knob, and pushed the door inward.

The first thing that hit him was the smell—fish, rotting vegetation, methane, and excrement. He’d never actually smelled what a fish shit out of its body, but he bet it smelled like this.

“He had an accident,” Mary whispered.

It was dark inside, and he reached for the light.

“Don’t,” she said, voice quivering.

He paused with his hand hanging in the air and half-turned. “I need to see what I’m doing. I’m sorry.” He flicked the light on.

The scream that came from the mess of soiled bedcovers made the hair on his neck rise—it was an animalistic screech of pain and torment, hardly had any human notes in it at all. It continued to fill the small room.

“Billy,” Wainright yelled forcefully.

The boy immediately quietened but had burrowed down below the covers. Wainright glanced around the small room. On the bedside table were numerous plates, many still piled with spoiling food. A few looked to have been at least nibbled at, but just the meat he noticed.

There was also a bedpan tucked under the bed that had a few tiny logs of dry feces piled inside. It probably doesn’t help the smell in the bedroom, he thought. He nudged it to the side so he could approach the bed and then sat on its edge.

He looked up at Mary. “I’m going to examine him now, is that okay?”

She just stared, not at him, but at the rumpled mound of blankets.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Wainright reached out. “Billy.” He laid a hand on the mound. “Billy.” He felt the hardness below and was surprised by the sharpness of some of the edges on his body. Rather than a ten-year-old boy under the covers, it felt like someone had thrown a blanket over a tree stump.

“I’m going to have to pull the covers back now, Billy.”

The mound shook violently for a few seconds, so he paused.

“Does the light hurt your eyes?” he asked.

There came something like a nod from the top end of the mound.

Wainright sighed, determined to press on. “I need to examine you, so just keep your eyes shut.”

The mound jiggled violently again, and there came a sound like a hoarse exhalation that devolved into a sibilant hiss.

Wainright had had enough. “Sorry, Billy, I’m just here to help.” He yanked the blankets back.

He sucked in a breath and leaped to his feet. The boy was naked, but from his head to his groin the skin was totally grown over by some sort of hardened growth. From his back, there extended things like branches, but that spread wide, giving the impression of wings.

The boy looked up at him with a face that was as horrifying as it was pitiful. Small, yellow eyes glared, and the mouth opened, showing a rim of needle-like teeth that seemed to ring the entire mouth and would have been more at home on some deep-sea predatory fish.

Billy mewled and placed hands over his face that were encrusted claws. Wainright swallowed in a dry throat and steeled himself as he carefully sat back down. He lifted a hand and reached out to place it on the boy, but froze—infection, his mind screamed.

Wainright drew his hand back, stood up again, and leaned forward. He licked his