Tansy Undercrypt

Terry smiled. She could hear “Uncle” Pat losing his shit downstairs, tripping and falling around furniture that’d been in the same arrangements in the same rooms since time began. “Too little intelligence and too much beer,” she told herself. “It must be Saturday night.” Terry’s mom was hiding in the bathroom and she knew it wouldn’t be much longer before Pat began the slow, teetering stumble upstairs. Having a very brief moment of panic, Terry’s eyes scanned her dresser to make sure the bottled imp her cousin Brenda had sent her was still there. It was, its tiny eyes hellfire red, its tiny teeth razor sharp and set in a perpetual smile from ear to ear. She’d followed Brenda’s directions to the letter; the bargain had been made and accepted. Footsteps on the stairs – the first (and the last) of many. She swung her feet off of the bed and retrieved the bottle, ready to remove the stopper. Afterwards, she’d walk to the bus station and head to Des Moines to live with Brenda. It would be a good life. Terry smiled again and waited.

“Let’s go swimming at the quarry, not the lake,” Morgan said, getting on his bike. “Afraid of the lake monster?” Robbie teased. “No way,” Morgan replied casually while adjusting his backpack. “The lake monster did me a solid drowning my stepdad last summer, so I’ve been feeding him from time to time. It’s just more of a business arrangement, you know? I don’t know if I’d try to play with him.” Morgan pedaled off, leaving Robbie silent and stunned.

The bean waited, first at the market, then in the boy’s pocket, for a chance to unleash its magic. It was able to seize opportunity later on and amaze the child with its tremendous powers of growth, but the whole Jack/Giant thing was little more than a distraction. Beneath the ground, its roots pushed deep into vast caverns, ancient burial sites, and the realms of Still Older Things trapped in darkness and dreaming. He would wake them. He would wake them all.

“An’ he did, you know,” Auntie Luella said in her high drawl, “he done winked at her and pinched her ‘cross the room at the church social.” “Uh huh, yes he did,” Auntie Dorita added. “An’ she slap his face across the room right back. That’s how they knowed.” Both women laughed with delight as they sat on the front porch dressing green beans. Roberta listened at their feet; she loved it when they talked about family magic most of all.

Professor Paulsen had left urgent notes on several lockers, basically commanding the underachievers in his class to see him in his office immediately if they wanted to graduate; these were the slackers, the bullies, the screw-ups who made it harder for everyone else to hear and concentrate with their ridiculous antics. Turning into a zombie was not an elegant process; he had been ill for some time and the progressive virus was causing almost unimaginable pain. Now that the end was near, however, Paulsen had devised a plan to “go out in style” as they say … and make the world a better place in the process.

They caught Stan before he took off and told him to give blood and plasma at Bathory House instead. “They pay tons more,” Craig said, telling him how much more, “and the nurses are totally hot.” Brenda nudged him hard in the ribs. “Hotness aside,” she shared, “they know their stuff; they have all of the latest tech, and there’s never so much as a bruise afterwards.” “I’ve never even heard of it,” Stan replied. “Private stockpile,” the two said in almost perfect sync. “Weird,” he whispered. “Don’t lie about being a virgin, though,” Craig said as a brief shadow of fright moved across his face. “It may be weird, man, but don’t lie about that.” Brenda nodded, looking quickly away.

The boy emerged from the shallow surf screaming uncontrollably and pointing to his leg; a jellyfish or small octopus had attached itself there, causing more alarm than discomfort. His mother and grandmother ran to the rescue, prying the creature off, and soothing the child by various means for hours afterwards. “Such a reaction!” Grandmum fussed at the changing kiosk as they prepared to leave. “You know he’s a sensitive boy,” Mother hissed, calling out to him in the next breath: “Howard Phillips Lovecraft, you’d best be out and ready in 3 minutes!” “Sensitive? I should say. Let’s hope the poor thing isn’t scarred for life!” Grandmum retorted, looking at the ocean briefly before turning towards the road.

The girls’ voices grew louder; the fight was escalating. Sneaking down the hallway to eavesdrop, Mrs Lowe heard Soshaya huff, “Whatever, Matchstick! You gonna bend over in your quarters an’ the trash vent gonna suck you in thinking two straws been throwed away! You gonna be spaced while, the whole damn time, these Uhura thighs gonna be standing strong. Hell, yes.” Mrs Lowe sprinted back to the kitchen before she could burst into laughter. She was going to get a call from Tamra’s mother later, but it was worth it.

“Just once,” his mother began, “I would like you to come home clean!” Taking in the forest dirt that seemed to cover him from head to toe, she sighed. “It’s like you’re permanently gray,” she continued, picking a leaf from his hair. “Just once, I’d like your white clothes to stay white!” Gandalf looked up at his mom with a knowing expression of love and sadness.

Buffy left school and rushed to the bay when she heard there’d been a beaching. It had been another long day of being publicly humiliated because she didn’t look anything like her television slayer counterpart; not blonde, not pretty, not even in the same world as thin. Two young adults and one calf lay half in the surf and half on the shore. She ran to the baby and looked into its eye, trying not to cry. “C’mon,” Buffy whispered. “They say it gets better. I won’t give up if you don’t.” And she began to push, gently at first – and then with everything she had.