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Liquid Bones by Cassandra Zaruba ~ Horror Story ~ 1st Chapter
The Emperor of Ice Cream
Bones don’t burn as easily as they break. All Little Johnny has to do is
slip off the swing set the wrong way, and you hear the sickening snap of an
arm or leg breaking. But put those bones in a fire, and the flames will
probably die out before the bones are even charred. The flesh will burn
away fairly quickly, exposing white enamel like wrinkled skin peeling back
off an old man’s grin.
I discovered this during my first killing.
It was when I was living in Dresden, which isn’t far from the border of
Manitoba. A fierce blizzard had swept in from Canada and kept many
people inside their houses for days. And the astronomical accumulation
of snow in those few days was also responsible for causing part of the roof
of an old correctional center in Devil’s Lake to cave in. In all the chaos,
several inmates managed to escape, but within twenty-four hours, all were
caught and hauled off back to prison. Except for one.
The storm knocked out all the power lines, too. By nightfall, I had to
venture out back to the shed to gather up all the flashlights I owned. The
nights there were very, very dark.
In the shed, I could make out a shadowy figure hunkering down in the
corner, shivering. The wind blew the door open wider, and the remaining
light of day distinguished his features. The man was young, probably late
twenties. He had dark eyes and about a five-day’s beard. He almost
resembled a wolf. After the flash of fear had diminished, his jaw
tightened. He stared as if I had done something wrong by entering my
own shed. The folded tarp I kept on the shelf was now wrapped around
him.
“That can’t be too warm,” I observed.
His eyes narrowed suspiciously at first. “It isn’t.” He drew in the tarp
more tightly around his shoulders, exposing a patch of the floor
underneath one corner. Several of the tools from my toolbox were next to
him, including a hammer and wrench. It was a deliberate move, of course.
“This your shed?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you don’t mind if I stay here for a while.” It was a statement, not
a question. His eyes dropped down to the hammer for a split second, then
back up at me.
“Actually, I do,” I replied. His hand crept out from beneath the tarp,
snaking toward the tools. “You’ll freeze to death out here in the shed.
Come inside.” I moved quickly to the shelf where the flashlights were
kept, grabbing several. My back was to him; he didn’t take advantage of
it. I turned back around, handing him my heaviest flashlight. “Carry this
one inside, would you? We’re going to need all the light we can get. Who
knows how long the power will be out.”
I could read his thoughts by the look on his face. He took the object
from my hand, and when he did, the tarp slid off his shoulder, revealing
a dirty and tattered shirt.
“Don’t get me wrong now,” I added. “I may be generous, but I’m not
stupid. I know exactly where you came from.”
He sneered. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”
“Nope. Just making everything clear between us. I’m going to trust
you, and you’d be wise to trust me, because you would die otherwise in
this shed. But if it makes you feel better, you can even bring that hammer
or wrench inside the house with you.”
He gave me one last wary look, but left the tools behind, just as I
anticipated. He nervously glanced around in all directions during the
short trek to the house, but no one was outside. And why would they be?
He practically drooled seeing the fireplace. He absentmindedly placed
the flashlight on the table and plopped himself in front of the fire.
“So how did you get here all the way from Devil’s Lake?” I inquired
curiously.
“Quickly and carefully.”
I chuckled. How slick you think you are.
“So, I should have something to call you by.”
He paused. “Scott. My name is Scott.”
I waited for him to ask my name. He didn’t, so I offered it anyway.
“People call me Dr. T.”
His head swiveled with interest. “You’re a doctor?”
I paced the kitchen, my shoes tapping softly against the linoleum.
“Not the kind you’re thinking of, probably. I’m a psychiatrist.”
He smirked cynically. “I’ve had to deal with a few of those.”
“And did it ever help?”
“Nah. Hey, do you have any cigarettes, by chance?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, I don’t smoke.”
“Damn. Haven’t had a cigarette in years.”
“Since you’ve been in prison?”
“Yeah. Eight long years.”
I studied him thoughtfully. “May I ask what you were in for?”
He looked back at me, his eyes darkening. “Why?”
I shrugged lightly. “To satisfy my curiosity, is all.”
“I killed someone,” he stated bluntly.
“Was it worth it?”
He was taken aback by my unfazed reaction. “No,” he said after a
moment. “Death was too merciful for that bastard.”
Scott grimaced as he stretched his feet toward the fireplace, wiggling
his toes around. He had probably come very close to getting frostbite. I
suddenly was overcome by a vision of the grate not being there, and his
foot was right in the flames. His foot was so cold that he couldn’t even feel
the flesh sizzling.
I blinked the image away. At that moment, I thought, I could kill him. I
could murder him right here and right now, and who would miss an escaped prison inmate?
I looked at him differently from then on. The way I imagined a
laboratory worker looked at his little white mice. A project. An
experiment.
“Do you think I could borrow some sweats or something? And some
socks?”
Sure be nice and comfy when you die.
I obliged. Once he was all cozy in my clothes, he told me a little about
his childhood. I guess knowing that I was a psychiatrist made him think
I’d be interested.
“My family was really poor,” Scott was saying. “We had food stamps
and everything. But we hardly ever had real food in the house—just a loaf
of moldy bread and junk food. My mom would buy cheesecurls, eat a
couple, then leave the bag wide open. And you know how fast cheesecurls
get stale…”
His voice drilled in and out of my mind. I was thinking about other
things as I partially listened to my houseguest.
I was wondering if his whole body could fit in my fireplace.
And I was thinking about an old poem—“The Emperor of Ice
Cream.” It was a favorite of mine. The poem was all about Epicureanism
and indulgence. Sitting there listening to a murderer complain about his
childhood, riddled with tales of food stamps and such, I understood the
poem a little better. I was like the Emperor. It became one of my many
sobriquets—an alter ego, if you will.
“I didn’t know the meaning of stale…” Scott went on.
The poet is allowed to indulge as much as he wants. I became envious.
Why shouldn’t we all be given the opportunity to fulfill our desires,
entertain all our whims?
Scott’s face was illuminated by the beam of the flashlight I had
propped on the coffee table. “Do you have any cheesecurls, by chance?
All this talk about them has made me hungry.”
Why, of course. Silly me. Why hadn’t I offered before?
“So that’s basically my mother, summed up.” Scott’s vulpine features
became twisted. “Now, my father is a whole other story…”
Jiminy Crickets, how did I get myself into this?
“As a kid, I had this plastic sword and shield. I traded the sword for a
friend’s lunch one day. But the shield…I loved that thing. It was actually
called a scutcheon, because it had the knight’s emblem on it and
everything.” Scott sighed desolately. “But my father took it away from
me. To me, it was more than a toy. It was actually very fitting that it was
a shield, because I would use it to shield myself from my father’s temper,
you know?”
How very profound. I’m just so fucking amazed.
My mind went back to poetry. Sir Philip Sidney had some very
interesting things to say about the genre. The poet is free to range “within
the zodiac of his own wit.” Poetry is like a speaking picture. It is as worthy
of study—if not more—as the physical sciences, because poetry endorses
invention. The poet must be innovative.
And the poet must be indulgent.
Scott’s face had taken on a sickly pallor in talking about his father.
“So where is your father now?” I asked, giving the impression that I
had been listening the entire time.
“Dead,” he whispered. “He’s the one I killed.”
Well, that makes for an interesting ending.
“How about a game of chess?” I proposed, gesturing toward my
wooden chess set. “To pass the time more quickly, since there’s no
electricity.”
He snapped out of his nostalgic reverie. “Chess?”
“Yeah.” I took a seat at the table, motioning him to the place across
from mine.
“Okay,” he agreed, moving away from the fireplace. “I’ve got to say,
though, I’m pretty good at chess. So be prepared to get beaten.”
I smiled, straightening the pieces on the board. “That’s very unlikely.
I always win in chess.”
“Not against me, you won’t!”
“How about a little wager on that?”
Scott frowned. “I know you can’t be talking about money.”
“I’m not,” I replied mischievously. “I wouldn’t expect you to have any.
This is the bet: if you win, I’ll keep you hidden well here, for as long as you
want—what’s mine is yours. You can use anything I have here. But if I
win,” I went on, turning the King piece to face Scott, “you won’t have the
privilege of going back to prison.”
He was silent for a moment, then erupted in nervous laughter. “What’s
that supposed to mean?”
I cocked my head to the side. “I thought you said you were good.”
“Oh, I am! Believe me.”
“Then what more do you need to know? Confidence is the first
indicator of winning.”
He sure shut up then.
“Make your move,” I instructed.
It was a long game. Halfway through, one flashlight died, its batteries
needing replacement. But Scott wasn’t too bad a player. He just wasn’t
good enough to beat me. I could hear the fire crackling in the other room.
I didn’t bother putting on more wood.
Sliding my piece into its final location, I triumphantly said,
“Checkmate.” You’re dead. Good-bye.
He was rendered speechless. He stared at the board in confusion.
“What? How did…?”
He didn’t notice me rise from my seat. Didn’t notice me open the
drawer near the table. Didn’t notice me pull out my other hammer. The
one I kept inside the house.
“But I never lose,” he was blabbering. “My king was right here, for
God’s sake—!”
The hammer came down on his skull. There was a similar sickening
thud as Little Johnny falling off the swing set.
“You should have taken my advice when I told you to bring in the
hammer or wrench,” I chided Scott’s body falling off the chair. “But you
should not have listened when I said to trust me. Even a so-called bad-ass
like yourself shouldn’t trust strangers.”
I dragged his body to the living room, then flung away the grate of the
fireplace using the poker.
This is my indulgence, I thought wildly. Killers have many faces, you
know, and I was the Emperor right then.
“Scotty, get your scutcheon,” I told him. “Call the roller of big cigars,
and bid him whip!”
I shoved him into the fiery pit, letting the flames and embers take him.
It was near-surreal.
Since Scott was the first victim, I hadn’t known how long it took for
the bones to burn. And I hadn’t known that once the bones were brittle
enough, they snapped open like a hollow chocolate Easter bunny thrown
on a hard floor. But bones aren’t completely hollow. Some liquid comes
out, and the rest has to be scraped out, like getting the milk out of a
coconut.
I had dug Scott’s bones back out of the fire. I saw something in
them…and suddenly I didn’t want them smoldered to ashes like the rest
of him.
Scott was the first murder, but he wasn’t the last by far. There have
been several more since, and those more recent ones have had an order
about them. I’ve been going by the book—literally. I laugh at my own
little joke.
There’s something satisfying about going to the grocery store, and no
one has a clue about what I’ve done. I killed the well-trained runner who
bought his protein bars and milkshakes at that very store. I can shop there
too, and no one suspects a thing. I also killed the hooker named Julia, who
wore a silky blue dress. I took much pleasure out of strangling her, but
never have my intentions been based on prurience.
Now back to the present. My most recent victim is the lovely Lauren,
the one girl at the boys’ party.
About the Author:
Bones don’t burn as easily as they break. All Little Johnny has to do is
slip off the swing set the wrong way, and you hear the sickening snap of an
arm or leg breaking. But put those bones in a fire, and the flames will
probably die out before the bones are even charred. The flesh will burn
away fairly quickly, exposing white enamel like wrinkled skin peeling back
off an old man’s grin.
I discovered this during my first killing.
It was when I was living in Dresden, which isn’t far from the border of
Manitoba. A fierce blizzard had swept in from Canada and kept many
people inside their houses for days. And the astronomical accumulation
of snow in those few days was also responsible for causing part of the roof
of an old correctional center in Devil’s Lake to cave in. In all the chaos,
several inmates managed to escape, but within twenty-four hours, all were
caught and hauled off back to prison. Except for one.
The storm knocked out all the power lines, too. By nightfall, I had to
venture out back to the shed to gather up all the flashlights I owned. The
nights there were very, very dark.
In the shed, I could make out a shadowy figure hunkering down in the
corner, shivering. The wind blew the door open wider, and the remaining
light of day distinguished his features. The man was young, probably late
twenties. He had dark eyes and about a five-day’s beard. He almost
resembled a wolf. After the flash of fear had diminished, his jaw
tightened. He stared as if I had done something wrong by entering my
own shed. The folded tarp I kept on the shelf was now wrapped around
him.
“That can’t be too warm,” I observed.
His eyes narrowed suspiciously at first. “It isn’t.” He drew in the tarp
more tightly around his shoulders, exposing a patch of the floor
underneath one corner. Several of the tools from my toolbox were next to
him, including a hammer and wrench. It was a deliberate move, of course.
“This your shed?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you don’t mind if I stay here for a while.” It was a statement, not
a question. His eyes dropped down to the hammer for a split second, then
back up at me.
“Actually, I do,” I replied. His hand crept out from beneath the tarp,
snaking toward the tools. “You’ll freeze to death out here in the shed.
Come inside.” I moved quickly to the shelf where the flashlights were
kept, grabbing several. My back was to him; he didn’t take advantage of
it. I turned back around, handing him my heaviest flashlight. “Carry this
one inside, would you? We’re going to need all the light we can get. Who
knows how long the power will be out.”
I could read his thoughts by the look on his face. He took the object
from my hand, and when he did, the tarp slid off his shoulder, revealing
a dirty and tattered shirt.
“Don’t get me wrong now,” I added. “I may be generous, but I’m not
stupid. I know exactly where you came from.”
He sneered. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”
“Nope. Just making everything clear between us. I’m going to trust
you, and you’d be wise to trust me, because you would die otherwise in
this shed. But if it makes you feel better, you can even bring that hammer
or wrench inside the house with you.”
He gave me one last wary look, but left the tools behind, just as I
anticipated. He nervously glanced around in all directions during the
short trek to the house, but no one was outside. And why would they be?
He practically drooled seeing the fireplace. He absentmindedly placed
the flashlight on the table and plopped himself in front of the fire.
“So how did you get here all the way from Devil’s Lake?” I inquired
curiously.
“Quickly and carefully.”
I chuckled. How slick you think you are.
“So, I should have something to call you by.”
He paused. “Scott. My name is Scott.”
I waited for him to ask my name. He didn’t, so I offered it anyway.
“People call me Dr. T.”
His head swiveled with interest. “You’re a doctor?”
I paced the kitchen, my shoes tapping softly against the linoleum.
“Not the kind you’re thinking of, probably. I’m a psychiatrist.”
He smirked cynically. “I’ve had to deal with a few of those.”
“And did it ever help?”
“Nah. Hey, do you have any cigarettes, by chance?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, I don’t smoke.”
“Damn. Haven’t had a cigarette in years.”
“Since you’ve been in prison?”
“Yeah. Eight long years.”
I studied him thoughtfully. “May I ask what you were in for?”
He looked back at me, his eyes darkening. “Why?”
I shrugged lightly. “To satisfy my curiosity, is all.”
“I killed someone,” he stated bluntly.
“Was it worth it?”
He was taken aback by my unfazed reaction. “No,” he said after a
moment. “Death was too merciful for that bastard.”
Scott grimaced as he stretched his feet toward the fireplace, wiggling
his toes around. He had probably come very close to getting frostbite. I
suddenly was overcome by a vision of the grate not being there, and his
foot was right in the flames. His foot was so cold that he couldn’t even feel
the flesh sizzling.
I blinked the image away. At that moment, I thought, I could kill him. I
could murder him right here and right now, and who would miss an escaped prison inmate?
I looked at him differently from then on. The way I imagined a
laboratory worker looked at his little white mice. A project. An
experiment.
“Do you think I could borrow some sweats or something? And some
socks?”
Sure be nice and comfy when you die.
I obliged. Once he was all cozy in my clothes, he told me a little about
his childhood. I guess knowing that I was a psychiatrist made him think
I’d be interested.
“My family was really poor,” Scott was saying. “We had food stamps
and everything. But we hardly ever had real food in the house—just a loaf
of moldy bread and junk food. My mom would buy cheesecurls, eat a
couple, then leave the bag wide open. And you know how fast cheesecurls
get stale…”
His voice drilled in and out of my mind. I was thinking about other
things as I partially listened to my houseguest.
I was wondering if his whole body could fit in my fireplace.
And I was thinking about an old poem—“The Emperor of Ice
Cream.” It was a favorite of mine. The poem was all about Epicureanism
and indulgence. Sitting there listening to a murderer complain about his
childhood, riddled with tales of food stamps and such, I understood the
poem a little better. I was like the Emperor. It became one of my many
sobriquets—an alter ego, if you will.
“I didn’t know the meaning of stale…” Scott went on.
The poet is allowed to indulge as much as he wants. I became envious.
Why shouldn’t we all be given the opportunity to fulfill our desires,
entertain all our whims?
Scott’s face was illuminated by the beam of the flashlight I had
propped on the coffee table. “Do you have any cheesecurls, by chance?
All this talk about them has made me hungry.”
Why, of course. Silly me. Why hadn’t I offered before?
“So that’s basically my mother, summed up.” Scott’s vulpine features
became twisted. “Now, my father is a whole other story…”
Jiminy Crickets, how did I get myself into this?
“As a kid, I had this plastic sword and shield. I traded the sword for a
friend’s lunch one day. But the shield…I loved that thing. It was actually
called a scutcheon, because it had the knight’s emblem on it and
everything.” Scott sighed desolately. “But my father took it away from
me. To me, it was more than a toy. It was actually very fitting that it was
a shield, because I would use it to shield myself from my father’s temper,
you know?”
How very profound. I’m just so fucking amazed.
My mind went back to poetry. Sir Philip Sidney had some very
interesting things to say about the genre. The poet is free to range “within
the zodiac of his own wit.” Poetry is like a speaking picture. It is as worthy
of study—if not more—as the physical sciences, because poetry endorses
invention. The poet must be innovative.
And the poet must be indulgent.
Scott’s face had taken on a sickly pallor in talking about his father.
“So where is your father now?” I asked, giving the impression that I
had been listening the entire time.
“Dead,” he whispered. “He’s the one I killed.”
Well, that makes for an interesting ending.
“How about a game of chess?” I proposed, gesturing toward my
wooden chess set. “To pass the time more quickly, since there’s no
electricity.”
He snapped out of his nostalgic reverie. “Chess?”
“Yeah.” I took a seat at the table, motioning him to the place across
from mine.
“Okay,” he agreed, moving away from the fireplace. “I’ve got to say,
though, I’m pretty good at chess. So be prepared to get beaten.”
I smiled, straightening the pieces on the board. “That’s very unlikely.
I always win in chess.”
“Not against me, you won’t!”
“How about a little wager on that?”
Scott frowned. “I know you can’t be talking about money.”
“I’m not,” I replied mischievously. “I wouldn’t expect you to have any.
This is the bet: if you win, I’ll keep you hidden well here, for as long as you
want—what’s mine is yours. You can use anything I have here. But if I
win,” I went on, turning the King piece to face Scott, “you won’t have the
privilege of going back to prison.”
He was silent for a moment, then erupted in nervous laughter. “What’s
that supposed to mean?”
I cocked my head to the side. “I thought you said you were good.”
“Oh, I am! Believe me.”
“Then what more do you need to know? Confidence is the first
indicator of winning.”
He sure shut up then.
“Make your move,” I instructed.
It was a long game. Halfway through, one flashlight died, its batteries
needing replacement. But Scott wasn’t too bad a player. He just wasn’t
good enough to beat me. I could hear the fire crackling in the other room.
I didn’t bother putting on more wood.
Sliding my piece into its final location, I triumphantly said,
“Checkmate.” You’re dead. Good-bye.
He was rendered speechless. He stared at the board in confusion.
“What? How did…?”
He didn’t notice me rise from my seat. Didn’t notice me open the
drawer near the table. Didn’t notice me pull out my other hammer. The
one I kept inside the house.
“But I never lose,” he was blabbering. “My king was right here, for
God’s sake—!”
The hammer came down on his skull. There was a similar sickening
thud as Little Johnny falling off the swing set.
“You should have taken my advice when I told you to bring in the
hammer or wrench,” I chided Scott’s body falling off the chair. “But you
should not have listened when I said to trust me. Even a so-called bad-ass
like yourself shouldn’t trust strangers.”
I dragged his body to the living room, then flung away the grate of the
fireplace using the poker.
This is my indulgence, I thought wildly. Killers have many faces, you
know, and I was the Emperor right then.
“Scotty, get your scutcheon,” I told him. “Call the roller of big cigars,
and bid him whip!”
I shoved him into the fiery pit, letting the flames and embers take him.
It was near-surreal.
Since Scott was the first victim, I hadn’t known how long it took for
the bones to burn. And I hadn’t known that once the bones were brittle
enough, they snapped open like a hollow chocolate Easter bunny thrown
on a hard floor. But bones aren’t completely hollow. Some liquid comes
out, and the rest has to be scraped out, like getting the milk out of a
coconut.
I had dug Scott’s bones back out of the fire. I saw something in
them…and suddenly I didn’t want them smoldered to ashes like the rest
of him.
Scott was the first murder, but he wasn’t the last by far. There have
been several more since, and those more recent ones have had an order
about them. I’ve been going by the book—literally. I laugh at my own
little joke.
There’s something satisfying about going to the grocery store, and no
one has a clue about what I’ve done. I killed the well-trained runner who
bought his protein bars and milkshakes at that very store. I can shop there
too, and no one suspects a thing. I also killed the hooker named Julia, who
wore a silky blue dress. I took much pleasure out of strangling her, but
never have my intentions been based on prurience.
Now back to the present. My most recent victim is the lovely Lauren,
the one girl at the boys’ party.
About the Author:
Cassandra Zaruba grew up in Baltimore and received a BA in English
from the University of Maryland, Baltimore County. Her short story,
“Keeper of the Crows” won a Creative Writing prize from HoCoPoLitSo
in 2000. She lives in Laurel, Maryland, where she is at work on her
next novel.
Book Data:
a. Title of book: Liquid Bones
b. Author: Cassandra Zaruba
c. Author Website:http://www.cassandrazaruba.com
d. Publisher: PublishAmerica
e. Publisher’s Website:http://www.publishamerica.com
f. Genre: Fiction/Suspence/Thriller
g. Publication date: January 2006
h. ISBN: 1-4137-9962-0
i. Length: 288
j. Format: paperback
k. Link(s) where readers can buy book:
http://www.amazon.com
http://www.bn.com
http://www.publishamerica.com
http://www.cassandrazaruba.com
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