‘Til Death Do Us Bind

Horror, Humor, Writing

So… I’ve never seen any of The Twilight “Saga” movies (don’t you be calling it a saga without hulking Norsemen.) And though I did watch some of its first season, I don’t have much interest in The Walking Dead or its fairly exhausted sub-genre.

I do, however, enjoy speculation and parody, and about four years ago I sat down with an old friend from college and his wife around a kitchen table in Philly, PA and created a hybrid genre I will now call eroto-horror.

I think it’s a lucrative and yet untapped market. Combine elements of the dime-store romance novel and the gore of the zombie apocalypse, and Bob’s yer uncle. We’re just gonna crank the Twilight “aesthetic” up to eleven.

Here’s a ludicrous piece the three of us came up with over some brewskis and alot of chuckles. Strangely, I think there are some folks out there who might be turned on by this kind of thing.

You’ve been warned. It’s so bad it’s good.

 

Shelia Corndike lay on her bed, stifling her sobs. The night around her; around the house seemed to close in like a dark presence seeking to sap her strength and leave her gasping for breath.

Sheila missed her husband, Ernie.

She conjured up images of his thick, railway-worker’s hands reassuringly spanning the fleshly gaps of her body, his hot laborer’s breath on her soft neck. The pain of loss was intense; emotional spasms of loneliness and grief swelled and crashed over her psyche like ocean waves now, leaving her gasping for breath on the shores of forlornness.

An owl sighed in the branches beyond her window, and Sheila Corndike rolled over in her bed. It had been exactly a year since Ernie had passed, and their marital quarters: this, their bedroom, remained a mausoleum of memories; a graveyard of desolate groans.

Sheila’s friends had tried to help her move on, to LIVE, but she could not find the strength to do so. In the weeks following Ernie’s tragic death beneath a coal-hauler, many of his co-workers (well-known to Sheila) had approached her, removing their hard-hats, and had expressed their sorrow and their willingness to comfort her, if needed.

Most were offered with a gesture only of affectionate friendship, while others, Sheila knew, might grow into something more, at least on the part of the men. These rough-and-ready men stood in her doorway, breathing in deep breaths, their barrel-chests rising and falling as they expressed their care. Sheila would be lying not to admit she didn’t, in her loneliest moments, imagine inviting them in… but the thought of Ernie and his dear face… chiselled features and cleft chin, the twinkling and dancing eyes… these brought her back to her living requiem, her undying hope that she might yet again see him in her dreams at night, which was enough sweet sorrow to have her desire not to yet lose these phastasmic visions.

 

The boards in the old house creaked.

Ernie and Sheila had planned to renovate the old, Victorian home once owned by a sharecropper, but Ernie’s death beneath a coal-hauler had left the unused paint buckets and brushes to gather dust at the foot of the basement stairs.

Sheila turned over in her bed. In her mind’s eye, she imagined Ernie coming home at this late hour as he once did, before his passing, fitting his key into the front lock, tossing his heavy workman’s boots into the corner and mounting the steps to their second-story nest.

She shuddered, imagining yet the scent of him—musky and sweaty from the coalyards, a dank and dark sexuality hovering above her in the inky blackness of the room.

 

And then, suddenly, she heard a noise from below that made her freeze.

The back door had opened on its rusted hinges, and boots had clumped into the rear entryway. Had she left the door ajar? Unlocked? The boots shuffled slowly, deliberately to the steps and began to mount them, one at a time.

Sheila felt the air in her chest come in starts, her breasts becoming tight and tender in her fright. The boots clambered up the stairs and found their way to the door of the bedroom. Beyond, she could hear the sound of heavy breathing, and the scent of coal and dirt reached her nostrils, flaring them and setting the hair on the back of her neck a-tingle.

The door was violently thrown open, and there in the moonlight washing through the bay window stood Ernie’s fetid corpse, dressed in the clothing he had been buried in: workboots and railyard overalls. His reddened eyes looked down upon Sheila’s naked body which glistened in the moonlight.

“Sheila…” he moaned, his vocal chords shattered from the gruesome coal-hauler accident which had ended his life.

“Ernie…” she breathed, drawing herself up onto her delicate elbows.

Ernie staggered forward, one hip shattered from the impact of the coal-hauler and one sleeve hanging empty. Sheila helped him unfasten his overalls and unbutton his flannel shirt as the smell of decaying flesh filled her senses and threw her into a delirium of ecstasy.

“Oh Sheils…” Ernie’s undead corpse wheezed.

His rotting hands found their way along the familiar terrain of her soft, receiving body and she realized now, more than ever that their love would rage eternal, for having died once, her putrid, festering husband would no longer leave her.

 

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