FICTION BY SU LIERZ

Su Lierz is a horror writer in the Land of Enchantment. Her short work can be found in anthologies and several publications including The Horror Zine and Grey Sparrow Journal. She lives in Corrales, New Mexico, with her husband Dennis.

DEATH RATTLE
by Su Lierz

Angela rolled onto her side, facing the center of the bed, and sank into the promise of a good night’s sleep—something she hadn’t had since the onset of Zach’s illness. But now, just days after his death, she still couldn’t find slumber.

She’d tried sleeping in the middle, taking ownership of the spacious mattress; she wanted to recall happier times. All that came to mind were intrusive thoughts and the reverb of Zach’s labored breathing, the images of his too-big tee shirts rising and falling on his skeletal chest. Phantom sounds of his raspy, irregular breathing—the death rattle that came at the end—haunted her, keeping her on guard. But on guard for what? His final moment here on earth had passed.

Relief flooded her body, but the feeling was fleeting.

Angela stared at the vacant space on the opposite side of the bed. Could Zach make good on his word? She reprimanded herself for such an absurd thought. Dead is dead, and Zach was gone. His explosive and indiscriminate threats—the angry spews of a man in his forties, plagued by tumors on his brain and spine—would hopefully fade with time.

*****

The words: for better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness, in health, till death…had meant something to Angela. She’d thought about the consecration of their marriage and their fractured vows, in particular Zach’s failure to forsake all others…for as long as we both shall live.

His increasing need for control, his biting tongue and piercing accusations—a projection of his own guilt—filled Angela with doubt. Doubts about her ability to forgive, about their marriage…doubts about herself. Even her sanity.

Zach had ignored his own symptoms and that had somehow become her fault.

The diagnosis of stage four glioblastoma, a brain cancer, aggressive and out of control, set a different trajectory for their relationship.

“Home is where I want to die—where I need to die,” he had told her.

During his ambulatory days, Zach had tested Angela’s patience and resilience. Western medicine had failed him, and he ruminated over his choices. They went from doctor to doctor, appointment after appointment, meeting with homeopaths, naturopaths, astrologists, numerologists, even an alchemist, anyone or any remedy that fell under the guise of alternative medicine. None had offered a cure.

Money and options dwindled. Despite the financial strain, Angela reluctantly went along with one more request. Something Zach had read about online in a chat.

A man and woman visited their home. Zach sat in his recliner as they laid hands upon his head, anointing him with oils, exchanging unintelligible words, maybe prayers. Perhaps speaking in tongues.

The man opened a black bag at his side. Slowly, deliberately he reached inside, and swiftly extracted a large snake.

The living room seemed to pitch and teeter as Angela watched from a distance, taking refuge in a chair situated in the corner.

The man gripped the head of the serpent. The snake thrashed around, eventually losing its will. He pressed its fangs firmly against the rim of a glass, forcing the release of blood and venom and placed it in Zach’s mouth.

Angela tried to speak. To stop them, but she was unable to move.

After they left—her nerves frayed—she moved Zach to their bed. He lay there chanting things that made no sense.

But his health continued to decline.

Desperate not to leave this world, Zach made his own incantation to Angela, an oath, one not in the eyes of God. With a grip on her wrists, he summoned what strength remained and pulled her close. His breath, hot and rank, matched the vicious delivery of his words. “I will never leave you.”

*****

The days were long, the nights longer. Angela, ravaged by fatigue, prayed for an end to his suffering…and to hers. But her thirst for Zach’s death only shamed her, and she cringed with each new hope for his passing. Each time the end seemed near, he would rally, demanding her time, testing her devotion, challenging her will.

The evening before his passing, he lay shrunken, the sheets knotted around his legs. She had lain in the night fighting to sleep, when he pushed himself toward her and said, “I will always be with you.”

They weren’t the loving words of a spouse; his voice was hoarse, dark, and threatening.

She’d had enough. Angela had made good on her promise. Kept Zach home. Cared for him. Guilt would no longer be part of the equation by which she measured her commitment. She had a plan, so she made a decision.

She had continued to collect vials of morphine despite Zach refusing his medication. He moaned, sweated out his pain, taking Angela along on his journey.

When morning came, she quietly entered their bedroom. Zach lay supine, his eyes closed, mouth agape, with blankets twisted around his frail, thin body. The rattle in his throat—more pronounced—filtered through mucous with every breath. He had declined the Do Not Resuscitate paperwork the nurse had given them.

Death would have to work for him.

Mixing a double dose of morphine with cherry syrup, Angela dipped a plastic syringe into the liquid concoction and drew it up. As he dozed, she quickly inserted the tube into Zach’s throat, releasing the elixir, catching him off guard.

He gagged. Startled, he feebly reached for her, and she backed away.

“What are you doing?” The words drowning in his phlegm. “What’d you give me?” Rivulets of red syrup ran from the corners of his mouth as he choked out the words.

“Something to help your pain.”

Relieved her plan was in motion, she would up the dosage to keep him sedated. Angela paced the room, watching the clock. Zach fought to get up, but she pushed him back onto the bed.

Angela studied him, waiting to hear his next complaint. Knowing something more always followed everything he said.

“I know what you’re doing,” his words strained and weak. “You’re killing me!”

“No,” she said. “You’re killing me.”

His thin frame twitched. Bones cracked as he swung his legs to the side, attempting to stand. She crawled onto the bed behind him, sliding her arms around his ribcage. She easily pulled him back, where he collapsed onto pillows. A living cadaver.

She looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand. Six minutes had passed since the double dose. The medication was kicking in. But she had another at the ready. And another. And another.

He died in the middle of the night.

*****

The quiet roared inside her head. After the coroner left and Zack’s body was removed, she stood at the foot of their bed…her bed now. “This has to go.”

She wanted a new mattress, one they had not shared, without the stench of decay, ammonia, or excrement that lingered beneath the covers and embedded in the fabric.

She thought, Maybe if the mattress goes and another put in its place, that will nullify Zach’s promise. Revoke the not-so-veiled insults and threats he had handed her over so many sleepless nights. But is a simple mattress change enough?

She’d shop: A new bed. New pillows. New linens. She’d wait to dispose of Zach’s clothing, just a week…maybe two, long enough to show proper respect.

But nothing can stop me from packing his things…immediately.

She stayed in the guest room, the closet door open, the light on inside…just enough to tamp down her fear.

After splintered sleep, she awoke before dawn, haggard. The closet door was closed, and the light was off. Heart racing, mouth dry, she tried to swallow but couldn’t. She was positive she had left the door open, using the light to comfort her, so she wouldn’t be alone in the dark with her thoughts…and his words.

The bulb probably burned out. Angela flicked the switch and the light came on. She thought back to her evening—her fragmented sleep. Exhaustion, along with her withered state of mind, had compromised her memory, causing her to forget she’d turned it off in the middle of the night. That was the logical answer.

*****

The sudden time on her hands since Zach’s death made it hard for her to know where to begin her day. She started at the mattress store. After making her purchase and expediting its delivery, she left the store in search of boxes to pack Zach’s things.

Photos of the two of them littered their living room walls. Zach’s eyes seemed to follow her, taking note of her actions, reactions, keeping track of her every move. She wanted to scream, wanted to throw a fit, but the neighbors might hear. So instead, she went through the house taking down pictures, stripping them from their frames.

Her cell phone rang. She picked it up and silenced the ringer. Though people were well-meaning, listening to the same commiserations had begun to weigh on her. It wasn’t pity she needed; it was sleep.

Evening arrived. She scrolled through her texts. She would send a few replies, nothing lengthy. Just a short comment of gratitude, letting people know she was fine, and to please give her time. She wasn’t ready to talk to anyone.

She sat on the sofa, resting her cell on her lap, then scrolled through the recent calls she had made and received. Four, seven, nine…fifteen missed calls, all from Zach’s cell.

She fought to make sense of what she was seeing. Someone has Zach’s old number? No. That can’t be. I haven’t canceled his service yet. She wasn’t even sure where his phone was.

“This is a prank. A hateful…hateful prank!”

She played the first voice message. Liquid tremors accompanied garbled words, but there was no mistaking the rattle in his voice: “…never, ever leave you.”

Angela’s vision blurred. “You son-of-a-bitch!” She threw her phone onto the carpet. She stared at it for a long moment, then reluctantly picked it back up. Her finger hovered over the second message. She hit play. There was no static. Nothing garbled. Only the clear, distinct message: “Oh Angela. You cannot get rid of me that easily.”

He found a way to prerecord messages. Schedule calls to be sent after his death. “That mother…!”

Frantically, she searched through the house, finding Zach’s cell in the bottom drawer of his nightstand. The battery was low. She glanced around, again feeling eyes on her, then plugged in his phone and looked through his recent calls. Fifteen…all from today and all of them to her number. Angela quivered. She fought from running out of the house.

Instead, she stripped the battery from Zach’s phone and forcefully threw it into the trash. She checked every room, every closet until satisfied she was alone. Then Angela brewed a pot of strong coffee and finished packing Zach’s things. She shoved the boxes into the garage and locked the door.

The strange incidents of Zach’s messages and missed phone calls left her frightened, feeling displaced in her own home, her own thoughts. She was afraid to turn a corner, open a door, or stand in front of a mirror.

Subtle noises made her flinch: the onset of air flowing through a vent, the house settling, or the ice maker dropping cubes into the bin. Every little nuance, every sound the house made sent her looking for the origin.

To ease her mind, she called a security company whose ad offered next-day service. She’d have them install security cameras. Motion-activated sensors in the corners of each room near the ceiling to capture any movement.

It was almost certainly irrational, but she needed to feel secure.

*****

The following morning, the new mattress arrived on the heels of the security company. Angela arranged the bedding until there was nothing left that she and Zach had shared. The movers hauled away the old mattress, something she hadn’t planned on but was grateful for.

That virgin bed dominated her thoughts. When evening came, she turned on the closet light and lay in the stillness, relishing the changes. For the first time in months, she felt calm, at peace, and she drifted off to sleep.

Light flashed behind the thin skin of Angela’s closed eyes, and they popped open. She lay there waiting, listening to the sound of her own heavy breathing. Maybe she’d been in that strange state between wakefulness and REM, on the cusp of developing a dream.

Once, she had told Zach about the colorful images she’d seen while trying to sleep. He’d said they were called…what was the word? Hypna…Hypnagogia. Hallucinations while sleeping: patterns, shapes, and flashing lights. She learned to welcome them as a way of easing her into reverie. It had been so long since she’d had a deep sleep. She needed time to adjust to her new life, to get used to the idea of being alone…and free.

The sensor light came on again, but this time Angela’s eyes were open. The motion detector in the corner of the room near the ceiling lit up and stayed on. She held her breath, covers pulled around her head. She listened but heard nothing. Slowly, she peeled away the blanket and scoured the room. “I must have triggered the detector.”

During Zach’s illness, Angela had left nightlights on in the hall, the bathroom, and the kitchen to guide her steps in the dark. Zach would wake her, practically every hour on the hour, wanting something: water or the bedpan or company when he didn’t want to be awake by himself. As his condition worsened, he grew sensitive to the lights and insisted she keep them off.

Angela sat up in bed and defiantly proclaimed, “This is my house now, you bastard! So the lights stay on.”

She thought back to how Zach’s body would involuntarily spasm. His shriveled legs jerked as if he were running either from or after something. One evening she had slipped out of bed to sleep on the floor, hoping to rest in peace. As she fell unconscious, his voice entered her dreams, louder and louder. When she opened her eyes, Zach stared inches away from her face. He had dragged himself over to her side and flung his upper body over the edge. Her screams had provoked him to laughter, and his laughing reduced her to tears.

With this memory, she crawled out of her new bed and examined the room again. “Stop this! He’s gone.”

Chills ran through her. She questioned if she’d made a mistake, making too many changes so soon.

She pulled a blanket from the armoire. Following the path of light from her room, through the hall, past the kitchen and into the living room, Angela crawled into the recliner, leaned back, and drifted off to sleep.

Something stirred her. The house was pitch black. Angela looked around, then gingerly walked toward her bedroom. Every nightlight—the kitchen, the hall…her room—was off. Not just off but pulled from the plugs where they’d been mounted. She flicked on a light and entered her bedroom.

Angela choked back a scream.

The new blankets, sheets, and pillows lay strewn across the floor, and Zach lay in the bed. His phlegmy cough, mingled with laughter, echoed throughout the room.

Angela jerked awake, still in the recliner. Her breathing hitched. A dream? God, no. A nightmare. She had never entered her bedroom, had never left the chair.

Her eyes darted back and forth as she surveyed the open space. The nightlights were on.

She cupped the curvature of her shoulder, stretched, massaging a crimp in the back of her neck. After easing herself out of the chair, she walked into the kitchen. The clock on the microwave read 3:13 a.m. It wasn’t a lot of sleep, but it was straight sleep and more than she’d had in a while, enough rest for her to deem her behavior as nonsense.

Again, she admonished herself. This was her third night without Zach…or was it her fourth? She’d lost track of the days.

Time to take control. My new life begins today.

The new bed invited her in. And it was empty, very empty. There was nothing out of place.

She tossed pillows along the center of the headboard and added an extra blanket. She also allowed herself the luxury of her nightlights, as well as the closet light—a habit she didn’t see going away anytime soon.

To help ease her into slumber, she switched on the TV, set the timer, and muted the sound. She didn’t care if sleep came. The only thing she cared about now was taking possession of her space, her home, herself.

She slid into the comfort of the king bed—ample space on either side. As the minutes ticked by, sleep did come, and easily. She fell into a dream of the early days with Zach, healthy Zach, faithful Zach, and their time together.

A tram ride. A dinner cruise. A picnic. Their blanket spread across a grassy lawn. The sway of the treetops as they lay on their backs and looked skyward. Close by, the sound of a creek. Water burbled as it trickled over thirsty rocks and traveled a predestined path.

Angela turned on her side and craned her neck, searching for the babbling brook. A rattlesnake coiled on a boulder. She struggled to push herself from the blanket, but her body seized. The rattling grew closer as the serpent slithered from the rock.

Zach caressed her feet. His arms glided over her shins and around her calves and thighs. The rattling grew closer, more intense.

Zach snuggled; the length of his body pressing firmly against hers. Pressure increased against her lower extremities. Again, she labored to move.

Not Zach! Angela’s eyes shot open. No…Zach was dead! Her body quaked.

She fumbled the blankets and lifted the sheet. A snake writhed around her legs, growing as it made its way toward Angela’s upper body; its skin shedding along the way, exposing bloody flesh and trailing mucus membrane.

Its eyes, black, almost human, stared into hers. The serpent’s mouth seemed to grin as it wound its way up and over her abdomen, growing, squeezing the air from her lungs—its forked tongue tasting her fear.

The serpent’s head pulled back in striking motion, morphing into Zach’s face.

She wanted to scream. Make him go away. Plead for him to stop, but the air had left her lungs.

In a sibilant, raspy whisper, he said, “I…will never leave you.

Zach’s jaw widened.