Little Heaven

1

THERE IS A SAYING THAT GOES: Evil never dies; it merely sleeps. And when that evil awakes, it can do so soundlessly—or almost so.

Even insects can scream.

The little aphid did, though at a register too high for any human ear to perceive. It toiled in the root system of a cactus plant growing on the edge of the New Mexico desert. An insect so small that it was practically invisible to the naked eye.

This was how it would begin again. The wheel coming around.

While the aphid fed on sugars deposited in the cactus roots, something curled up from the blackest recesses of the earth. It slipped inside the aphid’s body. If there was any pain—and yes, there would be—the insect was unable to articulate its agony beyond that thin scream.

The aphid trundled up the root stem, through the loose-packed sand, up onto one of the cactus’s fleshy leaves. There it encountered a honey ant, which fed on the honeydew that aphids produce.

Their antennae touched briefly. Whatever had stolen inside the aphid slipped soundlessly into the ant—something as inessential as the smoke billowing from the chimney of a charnel house.

The aphid erupted with a tiny pressurized hiss.

The ant returned to its hill, skittering through a fall of lemony afternoon sunlight. It disappeared down the hole. Shortly afterward, the hill emptied, ants pouring forth in furious multitudes.

The ants organized themselves in a skirmish line like soldiers on the march, and proceeded determinedly until they came to the burrow of a meadow mouse. They filed down the burrow, thousand upon thousand. There came an agonized squeal.

Presently the mouse emerged. It hopped and shook, its skin squirming. The mouse spun a few agitated circles before righting itself and dashing into the dry grass. It paused here and there to gnaw at its flesh, drawing blood. In time, it crossed paths with a desert shrew. Moments later there arose a high, mindless shriek.

The shrew encountered an opossum, which in turn encountered a black-tailed jackrabbit, which hurled itself screechingly into the jaws of a kit fox, which thrashed and gibbered and scurried into a den that housed a family of jaguarundis. More shrieks cresting across the arid expanse of sand.

Night fell over the desert. In the darkness, something shambled from the den. The moon touched upon its strange extrusions, its flesh shining wetly in the pale moonlight. It breathed through many mouths and gazed through a cluster of eyes lodged in a knot of fatted, blood-streaked fur. It locomoted on many legs, each of them foreshortened, compressed like the bellows of an accordion; the creature, whatever it was, scuttled in the manner of a crab. This abomination carried itself across the sands, moving stealthily, its quartet of snouts dilated to the breeze.

A solitary gray wolf sat on a rocky outcropping, scanning the mesa. An old wolf, much scarred, an ear torn off in some long-ago territorial battle. The wolf spotted movement. A shape shambled into view. This thing moved as though wounded, and yet the wolf’s predatory instincts said, No, no, no—this thing was not hurt. It was… something else.

The wolf loped off to investigate. It was wary but unafraid. If this other creature could bleed, the wolf would bleed it.

It had no fear. The wolf was apex. It had never encountered a creature that was its equal, not once in its long life.

HOURS LATER, the thing, now substantially larger, shuffled to a patch of sand. A patch dramatically darker than the surrounding earth. The trees sprouting from its black and oily surface were gnarled and stooped, yet grimly alive in a way that indicated suffering.

Diligently, the thing began to dig. The hole widened and grew deeper. The sand became darker until it was obsidian, as if it had been soaked in tar.

The creature encountered something buried in that unnatural blackness. Its many snouts snaffled, its mouths groaning and squealing.

Then: that something moved. A great shuddering exhale. The creature backpedaled madly, scrambling out of the pit.

From someplace in the vaulted sky came the screech of a bird of prey.

2

PETTY SHUGHRUE awoke in the still hours of night with her skin rashed in gooseflesh.

Pet. My sweet Pet.

She sat up. The wind hissed through chinks in the farmhouse walls, between the joists her father had imprecisely hammered home.

Come, my Pet. Come see, come see, come see…

The voice was inviting, honeyed. Yet something lurked behind its sweetness. Corrupted and lewd, like a dead man’s face staring up from the bottom of a shallow pool.

She swung her legs off the bed; the pine boards were cool on her bare feet. She wore the nightdress her mother had sewn for her before she was even big enough to wear it. Her mother had always been two steps ahead—it was in her nature to make Petty a new nightdress before she had outgrown the old one. Her mother wasn’t like that anymore, but Petty preferred to remember her that way.

Her throat itched with thirst. She walked into the kitchen, passing the support post where her father recorded her height every birthday, notching it with a Magic Marker. Petty’s feet whispered on the floor—odd, as usually the creaking timbers woke her father, who was such a light sleeper that the sound of a sparrow settling on a windowsill was enough to stir him.

From somewhere far away—like a musical voice from the edge of a dream—she heard the trilling notes of a flute.

She stepped outside. The night was cool, the grass silky under her bare feet. The moon was slit by a thin night cloud. She walked to the water pump and set the bucket under its spout. The pump squealed as she worked its handle. Water sloshed out, silvered by the moonlight as it splashed into the bucket… except it didn’t look like water. Too thick, with a coppery undernote.

My Pet, oh, my Pet, sweet as sun-warmed honey…

She dipped a ladle into the bucket and raised it to her lips, although something buried deep inside her fought the instinct. Heavy, salty, metallic, the way she imagined molten iron might taste. She drank more. It was good, though it did not slake her. If anything, her thirst intensified.

Scuttling movement to her left. She swung toward it, alarmed.

Something was standing there. Standing? No, it slumped. Huge and shapeless, like a heap of quarry stones covered in burlap. Its parts appeared to move independently of one another, the whole mass hissing and emitting thin squeals and murmurs. The head of a wolf hung off its flanks—it looked as if it had been killed and decapitated and slung on its side… but Petty sensed the wolf’s head was somehow a part of this thing, of a piece with the rest of its lunatic assembly.

This living nightmare shambled closer. Petty’s skin went cold all over.

Something else was standing behind that awful mass. A long weedy shape, more human than not, a twist of living smoke. It looked a little like a man’s body that had been melted and elongated like taffy.

This figure did not speak, but Petty could feel it. The thing gave off a brooding wickedness—yet it also struck her as somehow bored, as if it had grown weary of all the horrible things it had seen and done. Petty was filled with the sense that this thing was utterly, fundamentally malevolent—shot through to the core with it—and so, weary or not, it could only continue to be and to do what it had always been and done.

“My Pet,” it said. “Ooooh, my sweet morsel…”

It lifted something to its lips. A serrate-bone flute.

When it began to play, Petty had no choice but to follow it.