Excerpt:
Seoul, South Korea.
There it is again. Scratching in the walls. Harold sat up in the queen bed he shared with
Silvio, his grey-haired miniature Schnauzer. He stared out into the darkness of
his room, turning his head to the wall. What was that sound? Scratching…was it
rats? Now it sounded like it was above him, that nails against wood kind of
sound. But that didn’t make sense. He lived on the first floor of a two-story
apartment building in one of the quieter neighborhoods in the Yongsan-gu area.
Nothing ever happened here. While in the past, he’d had his share of crappy
neighbors, Mrs. Kim was farthest from what one would consider to be a rowdy
neighbor. Kim was a sweet little old lady with poorly dyed hair that gave her thinning
white a touch of blue. She wore large red framed glasses and never made much of
a sound, even during the day. The only complaint he would have would be the
smell of kimchee that permeated through the walls whenever she cooked the awful
stuff.
Still, the scratching persisted.
Silvio whimpered, turning his head upward at the sound, and then burying himself under
the comforter.
Harold looked to his quivering dog and back to the ceiling. Now there was something else. Was
that…moaning? Christ, what if Mrs. Kim fell and hurt herself. She could be
dying up there. I should probably call someone, emergency services…anyone. But
would they get here in time to help her? What if she’s really hurt? I need to
do something.
He flung off his warm blanket and hopped out of bed. Harold slid on his slippers and went for
the door. The hallway outside was empty, not very surprising considering most
of the residents here at Yongsan-gu were nearing or past retirement. The very
reason why he wanted to rent here was the quiet; nothing out of the ordinary
ever happened here. A sudden cold breeze tickled his neck and arms. Pulling his
robe closer to his chest, his skin breaking out in goosebumps, he quickly
shuffled to the stairs.
Hoping Silvio would be okay on his own, Harold climbed the short steps to the second floor.
Silvio will be okay, he promised himself.
It’ll only be for a few minutes.
Mrs. Kim’s apartment was at the end, just above his own. Passing the door before hers he
thought he’d heard the tenants arguing inside.
Odd, he thought, tempted to press his ear against their door.
In all the years that Harold had lived here, he had never once heard or
seen Fred and Marcy fight. Not once. They were the picture perfect boring
couple, and the only other Americans living in the complex. Teachers, at some
private school. Not that Harold would know much about that; he taught at the
public institution, and had so for years now. As the saying goes, he was a
professional bachelor and had little to nothing keeping him from wanting to
return to the States. And besides, he liked it here. The culture, the food, the
purposefulness, and the discipline of the students were far advanced from what
he’d dealt with back in Kentucky.
Harold took a step and stopped, thought better of it, and continued to Mrs. Kim’s.
He knocked on the red door.
“Mrs. Kim, you in there?”
No answer.
“Is everything okay? I thought I heard— “
The door to Fred and Marcy’s apartment flung open.
Harold jumped back, pulling tighter on his robes.
Someone ran out. A blur. Down the hallway to the stairs. Turning back, he stared at Harold.
“Fred? What’s going on?”
Fred, who was normally tan with tidily kept clothes, looked disheveled and ghostly. He’d
obviously been sweating, his hair ruffled and sticking up in areas. And on his
clothes, there were red stains, dark red, covering most of his untucked shirt
and pant legs. On his neck, an aggravated wound, crimson and purplish, oozing
down and soaking into his collar.
“Fred, are you okay? Are you hurt?” Harold took a step forward.
Wide eyed, Fred turned and darted down the steps.
Harold watched, silent and unmoving.
He eyed the open door to their apartment.
No sounds came from within.
He glanced at Mrs. Kim’s door and then back to Fred and Marcy’s.
Swallowing hard, he moved toward the open door. With his slipper foot, he slowly nudged it open.
The door creaked and stopped. No lights inside, just a dim glow coming from a
lamp in the living room. Chairs were turned over, dishes smashed and broken on
the floor in the kitchen.
“Hello?” he called. “Marcy? It’s me, Harold, from downstairs.”
Nothing.
“I don’t mean to intrude, but I saw Fred. He looks hurt. Is everything okay?” Harold stopped
short of coming into the kitchen completely. He saw legs and feet sticking out
around the corner, lifeless on the floor.
Harold gasped, covering his mouth with his cold trembling hand.
“Oh no,” he whispered.
He moved to the body. Marcy lay face down on the kitchen tile. Blood pooled underneath,
staining her yellow polka dot dress, wet in a gamey orange.
“Marcy?” Harold called out. He bent down and reached to check for a pulse.
He jerked back.
Marcy stirred.
“Oh, God, you startled me. Marcy, are you alright?” Harold shuddered, his breath coming too
fast, heart pounding against his chest.
Strangely, in odd twitching movements, Marcy got to her knees and turned.
“Oh no, Marcy…what…what happened? How can— “Harold wanted to scream, his breath and his
heart pumping too hard to allow him. She
ground chunks of pink flesh between red stained teeth… Fred’s flesh, he was
sure.
Marcy groaned and lunged for him.
Harold moved back just in time.! He watched as Marcy fell face first onto the kitchen tile,
inching away as she began moving again, crawling, reaching out with reddened
fingers, clawing at his slippered feet.
“Marcy, what’s happened? What’s going?” he begged, again taking another step back out into the
living room, back towards the open apartment door.
Marcy groaned, annoyed and hungry, still in pursuit, still crawling.
Unable to watch anymore, wanting nothing more than to run back downstairs to his own apartment,
to lock and deadbolt the door, to hug close Silvio, his miniature Schnauzer,
wanting nothing more than to be somewhere else, somewhere not here with this
bloodied crazed woman who was no longer the Marcy he thought he knew.
She’s drunk… Or on drugs, has to be.
She’s not herself.
Harold turned and started for the open door.
He yelped.
Mrs. Kim stood in the entryway. Her bluish white hair ruffled and torn. Red swollen teeth-like
wounds on her arms. And her eyes, a creamy yellow white, but not a sunny
yellow, rather much more like decay that reminded him of rotting things eking
some measure of existence at the bottom of dumpsters. She shuffled toward him,
quickly grabbing on his robe and pulling herself to him.
Harold slapped at her. Hard.
But her hold was strong, manically strong.
“Stop, Mrs. Kim, please— “
She angled down and bit his exposed wrist. Blood pooled around her lips as she gnawed and
suckled, grunting with a sort of pleasurable ecstasy.
Harold screamed and fought to dislodge her, but he could not remove her bite.
Nails scraped his shins.
He glared down.
Marcy was clawing at his legs, nipping at his flesh.
He kicked away, but she held fast. With a quick sneer, she bit into his calf.
Harold shrieked, toppling over the couch. He rolled and hit the floor on the other side hard,
knocking his head against the coffee table. Dazed, he lay there, unsure if what
was happening was even real. Maybe he was still in his own apartment, fast
asleep with Silvio by his side.
Shuffling over, moaning deeply, Mrs. Kim reappeared, her lips wet and scarlet, dribbling down
onto her white ruffle blouse.
He watched, frozen, his body refusing to move.
“Please…stop…don’t— “he begged.
Another moaning, gurgling above him.
Harold angled and watched as Marcy crawled towards him from the other side of the couch. As
if driven by the smell of his wounds, she quickened her pace, scrapping along
the floor. Reaching his face, she thrust her sneering teeth clamping down on
his cheek, ripping, shredding loose flesh and tissue and fat, pulling back to
enjoy the chunky red and purplish glob.
Harold squirmed and squealed.
He stared in horror as Mrs. Kim kneeled beside him, reaching with greedy claws for his now
exposed belly. She tore into his flesh, bleeding him, reaching, wiggling her
fingers deep inside.
Harold lost his voice, whimpering and gnashing his gums as he watched in disbelief, watched as
Mrs. Kim ripped out a rubbery looking hose like noddle what he could only
assume to be part of his intestines. Dripping wet, she suckled and chewed
hastily and dug some more.
What about Silvio, he wondered, shuddering at the molten touch of Mrs. Kim digging farther
into him, pulling out more of his stomach, licking, eating him alive.
My dog, what’ll happen to my Silvio…
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