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The Carrier
by Jeanna Tendean
Changing the shitty depends and washing the dandruff-encrusted head, was like the other old-timers that Glenda had taken care of. However, the old man himself, was different. He laid on his back, in his foul smelling bed, never mouthing a word, or twitching a muscle. Not even a grunt -- only a fart or two an hour after Glenda spooned pureed cabbage and potatoes into his toothless, dumb mouth. Not like the others. The screamers, she called them. But the screamers had never disturbed her as the whisperers had. The whisperers are what beckon the spiders. However, as hours and certain moments crept by, Glenda realized the old man was an evil carrier like the others before him.
It began the day Glenda was lying on the cot outside the old mans bedroom, nursing her migraine. Him whispering. She stood up, walked over to the cracked door, and listened. Another whisper and a rustling sound. Goosebumps prickled down Glenda’s back. She knew what it was, and she pushed the door open. “Who are you whispering to?” The old man didn’t answer, nor did he move. The only movement Glenda saw was the minuscule, dust particles floating lazily through the slice of sunlight, stealing in from the bedroom window, highlighting the cracked, dry skin on the old mans lips. He peered into the corner at some invisible dancer, clown, or deer. Who cared? Glenda knew better. She knew he had whispered, though now he simply lay there like a corpse in his coffin. “You whispered -- you old rat, I know you did.” Glenda sat down in the chair beside his bed, and waited to hear him whisper once more. But his silence was deafening. She jumped up, wrung blood from his nose, and hurried from the bedroom…
That night, they woke up Glenda. The small, black spiders. Thousands of them. She felt them crawling across her body and face, in her ears, up in her nose. She slapped them off, as she dashed to the light switch. Light illuminated the living room, and she saw nothing. The light had forced them back to their burrows. Oh God, please, not again. With red popping in her brain, she stumbled to check the old man. She steadied herself beside his bed. He was asleep. She took a step back when the putrid smell of feces violated her nose. “You will wait until morning.” Glenda turned on every light in house, and laid back down on the cot outside the old mans bedroom door. The lights burned all night, while the red popped in Glenda’s brain.
She opened her eyes, when the grandfather clock coughed twelve p.m. And she remembered Mr. Shitty pants. Yawning, she retrieved a diaper, wipes, and a wet, warm towel. While scrubbing the old mans wrinkled buttocks, Glenda noticed them, and froze. Six, dime-sized craters. Some call them bedsores, but Glenda knows that they are the spiders’ burrows. And they creep out when darkness settles in. "Bastards,” She smacked the burrows with the soiled towel.
Night was uncurling impatiently, while Glenda was sipping a mug of tomato soup. This will be Glenda’s third time. The first time, she had used insect killer and cotton material, but after a month, they had returned. The second time, she tried gasoline and satin. Now, it has only been two weeks, and they are back. She doesn’t know what will kill them for eternity, but she hopes, this time, the red popping in the dark places of her brain will tell her right. Glenda sat the empty mug aside, and rested her aching head on the cool, cherry wood table. She waited for the red popping to give her instructions. And it did.
What can kill life, except for the living? “Yes.” Glenda sighed. And what better to kill, except for the enemy of the one that should be dead? “I understand,” she closed her eyes, and looked into its coal, black eyes. “Promise me this is the last time.” I swear, the red popped.
Sometime later, Glenda returned home, and carried the bag and small, plastic carrier into the old man’s room. He lay on the bed, staring off into that empty, entertaining corner of his. “I’m going cleanse you, Mr. Shit, of your evil disease.”
She stripped the old man naked, and washed him from his scaly head, to his shriveled toes. Glenda could not suppress a burst of laughter as she washed the burrows with the soapy washcloth. No more ooze, or stink, so she took the hot glue gun from the bag, and plugged it in. She rolled the old man onto his stomach and secured each wrist and each ankle to the bed rails with duct tape. She grabbed the hot glue gun and squeezed hot glue into each burrow. “Ummf!” “Ummf!” The old man blubbered. “Now you speak up,” Glenda sneered in disgust, “well, you’re too late.” Glenda glued the last one, left them to dry, and ate a bowl of chicken soup.
The glue was dry enough, but she still taped the burrows up for good measure. After maneuvering the old man onto his back, she re-taped his wrists and ankles to the bed. Glenda reached down, picked up the small, plastic container, opened the lid, and gently lifted it out. For the first time, the old man looked into her eyes, and then looked at it. “What do you see, Mr. Shit”? Glenda sneered. “Only the living can kill the living.” She slid her fingers between the old mans wet, slimy gums, and pried his mouth open wide. Glenda cautiously guided the small, brown snake down into his throat, and pushed his mouth closed. It was crooked, but she positioned it enough to begin sewing. “Mmnnggg!” “Mmnnggg!” The old man squirmed and wiggled, but finally gave up, like a fish on its hook. His eyes screamed with terror. Suddenly, he was still.
Glenda sat on the edge of the bed, trembling, her bloody fingers clasped together. She was tired and hungry again. Tonight, she’ll try golden mushroom soup.
After eating, Glenda lay on her cot and drifted off to sleep. It was night, and they woke up Glenda. The spiders. And the red started popping.
© Tendean, 2007
Jeanna Tendean resides in Gadsden Alabama. She's married, and a mother of two, rambunctious boys, and two, strange cats. By day, she's a stay at home mom, but by night, pen in hand, she travels many dark, winding roads that ultimately lead her into worlds of horror and insanity.