Canned nosleep

I stayed with Aunt Evelyn every summer. Momma needed a break from my rambunctious ways. I needed a break from her constant worrying. Three weeks with my aunt allowed us to miss each other enough to make the remaining forty-nine weeks of the year bearable.

My visits had started when I was a wee one, old enough to walk but too young to form full sentences. I had basically grown up at my aunt and uncle’s farm, learning to enjoy the outdoors while gaining a sense of responsibility by taking care of the various animals that lived on their acres.

At home, I wasn’t allowed to get dirty or look unkempt. Momma was very strict about my upbringing and she didn’t want the neighbors looking down on her for any reason. Being a single mom meant she put extra pressure on herself to be the best parent she could, and part of that was ensuring that I looked well taken care of at all times. I didn’t mind being clean, but the pressure to look perfect occasionally got on my nerves.

But, during my summer visits to the farm, I was free to be a wild child—to roll in the mud with the dogs or jump on the fence posts with the chickens. I showered in the hose and only came inside when I heard my aunt calling for dinner. It was glorious to just be, to bask in the earthy smells that coated my clothes and emanated from my skin.

While my other friends worked or hung out with their significant others during their break from school, I had yet to outgrow the allure of being outside. I no longer played hide and seek with the barn cats or made mud pies for my outdoor picnics like I did in my younger years. I just enjoyed connecting with the land and with each of the critters who were housed on the farm.

During the first ten years of visits, my uncle had been a loving part of each stay. Whenever he got up to milk the cows and gather eggs from the coop, he would always stop in my room to gently rustle me awake.

“Pssst. Hey, sweet pea. The sun’s a rising and so should we. Get on up and come help your Uncle Garret with his chores.”

I would bounce out of bed, ready to take on the day. My boots and socks were always stored near the foot of the bed for easy access, and I would put them on with haste.

“Can I milk Audee today? Please, Uncle Garret.”

“Of course, sugar. I know she’s your favorite. But, let’s get moving before your auntie gets on our tails!”

I’d grab his hand, and we’d walk to the barn together, telling each other funny jokes as we went.

“How many tickles does it take to make an octopus laugh, Uncle Garret?”

“Hmmmmm . . . I’m not sure I’ve ever met an octopus who was as ticklish as you are! And it only takes one good tickle to make you laugh. So is one the right answer?”

I giggled and shook my head.

“Ten tickles, Uncle Garret! Get it? Tentacles?”

His hearty chuckle rang out through the air. I didn’t think my smile could get any bigger, but somehow it always grew at the sound of his laughter.

“You’re pretty funny there, short stuff. Keep it up. A good sense of humor will get you through anything.”

I never saw our morning activities as chores. They were just something we did to gather the ingredients Auntie Evelyn needed for breakfast. I associated chore time with making my bed and folding the laundry and helping Momma grocery shop. I did those out of obligation and a sense of duty. Momma needed help, so I helped. But Uncle Garret never needed help, he enjoyed my company and I enjoyed his. Together we made the early morning delightful.

Collecting breakfast materials wasn’t the only way I helped around the farm. My aunt and uncle had a large garden that supplied them with fresh fruits and vegetables throughout the summer and fall and preserved goods throughout the remainder of the year.

I loved being between the rows of leafy vegetables and colorful fruits. Knowing that the plants had grown from seed, and that they would feed my aunt and uncle for the entire year, seemed magical somehow. Life was so straightforward on the farm. You grew your own sustenance and didn’t have to depend on the goods of other to survive. It was so different than the life I knew in the city. The slow pace and the charming simplicity eased my young mind of any anxiety that I brought from home.

Uncle Garret had an accident when I was 11. He had been moving a pile of feed bags on the barn’s second story, when he had lost his balance and fell to the packed earth floor.

Human beings are tough, and there was no one tougher than my uncle. His humor didn’t mean that he was weak in any way. I’d seem him face down a snarling wolf that had attempted to steal away a newly birthed foal. And that was just one example of his fortitude.

Tales of people who had survived tumbles from penthouse apartments bolstered my hope when Momma and I went to visit the farm. If a normal person could live after plummeting onto a concrete sidewalk, Uncle Garret could handle a fall from just 20 feet up. This wasn’t going to be his demise.

But it was. While me, Aunt Evelyn, and Momma sat by his side, Uncle Garret left the earthly realm. His eyes never opened, there were no loving last words; my uncle just blinked out of existence after a shuddering exhale.

The keening wail that leapt from my aunt’s throat summed up the feelings in the room. It was a wail that permeated the atmosphere, making it heavy with heartbreak.

Eventually, Momma shook off her grief enough to call the doctor and report the passing. I’m not sure how much time expired before she had gathered the strength to stumble into the living room and make the call. Time had ceased to matter at that point. If there was any measure of the day draining by, it was counted in tears rather than seconds. Thousands of droplets made the journey from my eyes to the tan sheet that covered my uncle, staining the fabric with their aquatic misery.

It took four hundred tears for Dr. Welling to respond to the phone call. Only fifty more to certify that he was dead. And twenty more to express his condolences. With a bow of his head, the doctor left us alone with our sorrow.

In the small town that my aunt and uncle lived in, the process of death was handled informally. Families buried their own, which meant that funeral homes were not a thriving business in the area. The closest hospital was a two-hour drive away, so the local doctor was the person summoned when you were anything from ill to catatonic.

Dr. Welling knew my aunt and uncle, knew that they were good people, and knew that no foul play had occurred to cause my uncle’s death. He was simply called as a formality, and his quick departure meant that he understood this completely.

Momma and I stayed on the farm for a week and comforted my aunt as best we could. Twenty years of marriage had forged a bond that had been erased by an unexpected misstep. Something so ordinary had stolen away the person my aunt had loved most in this world. It was unfair and she knew it, but processing her anguish was less simple. Crying helped. Screaming did as well. But neither of those things made up for the loneliness. Or the lips that would never again receive a good morning kiss. Or the hands that would never again feel the gentle pat that meant I love you. The little acts that represented the connection between my aunt and uncle were the things that she was going to miss most.

Funeral arrangements were kept to a minimum. While Uncle Garret had been well liked, he hadn’t been a frivolous man. Drawing attention to himself was never something he did in life and we kept that in mind when we made plans for the public acknowledgement of his death. A simple pine casket and memorial picture were the only items that decorated the front parlor. I made a few dozen of Auntie Evelyn’s shortbread cookies and set out a pitcher of lemonade—both Uncle Garret’s favorites. But other than those small touches, Momma and I left the house intact.

As guests streamed by the memorial, Auntie Evelyn greeted them mechanically, nodding in response to condolences but never fully connecting with the words. Her eyes were bloodshot and she had lost enough weight to look sickly.

“Momma.” I whispered.

“Keep your voice down, Sara.” She hissed.

“I’m sorry. I’m trying to be quiet. It’s just that, Auntie Evelyn doesn’t look so good. Do you think she’s going to be okay?”

Her no-nonsense glare softened as she answered.

“Sweetheart, it might take a little bit of time for your aunt to be okay. She lost someone who she loved dearly, and that takes a lot out of a person. It’s very nice of you to be worried, but for right now, we need to give Evelyn her space and let her grieve the way that she sees fit. Do you understand?”

I nodded. “I do, Momma. I’m just so sad for her.”

“I know you are. And I am, too. But we’ll make sure that Evelyn gets through this when she’s ready.”

And I was prepared to give Aunt Evelyn as much time as she needed. For me, that meant not going to the farm for my yearly visit, which was scheduled only two months after my uncle’s death. If my aunt needed space and time, I was going to give it to her.

But that’s not what ended up happening. At Auntie Evelyn’s request, I went to her house that summer, and every summer thereafter. When I arrived for my stay, my aunt’s demeanor was surprisingly chipper for a recent widower, but I took this as a sign that she was coping well with the death of my uncle. Boy, was I wrong.

This summer, five years after my uncle’s passing, was the first summer that I had been uneasy at the farm. Everything started out normally enough, but it progressed from normal to strange very quickly.

My aunt had hired someone to help with the chores after Uncle Garret’s death, but when I came to visit the farm, the ranch hand took a lovely three-week vacation. During my stays, it was just me and Auntie Evelyn taking care of the property.

I would wake up in the mornings, and gather the eggs and milk that Aunt Evelyn would whip into fluffy omelets. After I gorged myself on breakfast I would pull or pick whatever fruits and vegetables were needed for dinner or canning. It was hard work, but I loved it.

When Uncle Garret was alive, I would occasionally help my aunt prepare dinner. The two of us would wear matching aprons and laugh while we chopped, sautéed, and baked. Each meal would come out smelling as good as it tasted. Auntie Evelyn said everything so delicious because of all the love that went into making it. Cheesy, sure. But I treasured those times. They reminded me of my uncle and the happiness that we shared at the farm.

For the past five years, I hadn’t been allowed to help with mealtime preparations. I had never been given an explanation for the sudden halting of our cooking duo, but I felt like it had something to do with the grief process. Maybe Aunt Evelyn associated cooking with Uncle Garret, and she wanted to keep it to herself. I wasn’t mad about being excluded, I was just happy my aunt was doing well.

During dinner prep-time, Auntie Evelyn would send me outside or to my room, and she would holler my name when everything was ready.

“Saraaaaaa, it’s dinner time. Come and get it!”

And I would come and get it! Each dish that my aunt served was hearty and filled with subtle flavors that belied their simple ingredients. She certainly knew what she was doing in the kitchen. Everything that came to the table was consumed quickly by a growing teenager. I had never tasted anything I didn’t like at my aunt’s house.

That was, never until tonight.

The meal was cornbread, collard greens, and pot roast—and old standby that frequently made its way out to the table. I was always hungry after a day of farm life, so I greedily piled my plate high and started eating.

The greens and the meat were divine, but something was off about the cornbread. I had slopped some strawberry jelly and butter on my muffin, like I normally did, but it just didn’t taste right. There was a rancid, oily flavor that I couldn’t pinpoint.

“Aunt Evelyn, I think something might be wrong with the bread.”

She was chewing a piece as I spoke, and didn’t seem bothered by what she was eating.

“Are you sure, dear? It tastes fine to me. Why don’t you grab another piece?”

I did as my aunt suggested and grabbed a different slice of bread. I slathered a layer of butter on and was about to do the same with the jelly, when a putrid odor wafted up. I raised the jar to my nose in an attempt to verify the source of the smell.

When the scent filled my nostrils, I almost lost the contents of my stomach on top of the table. The dry heaving wouldn’t stop even as I jerked the jar away from my face. I kept remembering the rotten, meaty scent. It had made its way up my nose and into my brain and my mind didn’t want to forget the putrescent smell.

I heard my aunt’s voice between retches.

“Sara! What’s happening?! Let’s get you to the bathroom.”

Cool hands grabbed me by the shoulders and guided me from my chair to the nearest toilet. I was finally able to release the gorge that had been building. The food that exited from my innards didn’t smell nearly as bad as the jar of preserves, so I was able to stop the purge almost as quickly as it had begun. The memory of the scent gradually faded from my memory banks, and for that I was grateful.

Aunt Evelyn’s voice diverted my attention away from the intestinal misery.

“Is everything okay? I’ve never seen food poisoning take ahold of someone so fast. Do you think you’re stable enough to make it to your room?”

I nodded and we began the journey to my bed. I was able to respond to her first question once I was off my feet and lying down

“I don’t think that was food poisoning, Auntie Evelyn. And it wasn’t the muffins that had something wrong with them, it was the jelly.”

She shook her head.

“It couldn’t be the jelly. I brought that jar up from storage just this morning. It should be extra fresh.”

“But it was the jelly! It was rotten! If only you had smelled it.”

I shuddered when I thought about my body’s response to the overpowering odor.

“Now dear, you’re just imagining things. Let’s not talk about this anymore. Why don’t you close your eyes and get some rest? It will make you feel better.”

And without waiting for a response, Aunt Evelyn hurried out the room.

I didn’t have time to process her strange behavior because my eyes were getting heavier by the second. She had been right, some rest might help. I gave in to the drowsiness, and fell into a deep sleep.

I’m not sure how much time passed before a creaking noise yanked me out of my slumber. When the creaking was followed by a light thump, I knew that the bedroom door had just closed. My aunt must have been checking on me.

I raised my hands above my head, stretching the sleepiness out of my body. I felt surprisingly good for having been sick not too long ago. The only symptom that hinted at the food exodus was an extremely parched mouth. But that was nothing a glass of water couldn’t fix. I rolled out of bed and made my way toward the kitchen.

My eyes were adjusted to the darkness, and I dodged furniture obstacles with ease. The kitchen was at the opposite end of the house, so I passed Aunt Evelyn’s room during the trek. The warm glow of light peeked out from underneath her door. I must not have slept for too long if she was still up.

My aunt was the “early to bed, early to rise” type of person. She started preparing feed for the horses and pigs well before sunrise and usually went to bed shortly after dinner. Her schedule was perfectly in-tune to the farm. My sudden illness might have caused a slight interruption to her bedtime routine, but I knew it couldn’t be past ten.

I crept by her room, holding my breath to avoid making any noise, and crossed the threshold into the kitchen. There was always a jug of cold water in the refrigerator, waiting to slake the thirst of the parched. I filled and drained two cup-fulls from the container before my mouth was returned to a less arid state.

Despite my best efforts to be quiet, the sound of glass hitting metal rang out when I placed my cup in the sink. I listened for a few seconds, heart pounding, hoping that my aunt hadn’t heard my clumsiness. When nothing but silence met my ears, I assumed I was safe from detection. I silently berated my oafish ways as I turned to head back to my room.

As I passed the dining room table, my foot stepped on what felt like a piece of paper. I reached down and peeled the item from my clammy skin. The dark made it difficult to see what I was holding, so I brought the small rectangle close to my face.

It was thicker than paper, more like cardstock, and it had the phrase Let’s Get Cooking!, printed in a swirly font at the top. One of my aunt’s recipe cards must have fallen out of its box. I knew she would hate to lose even a single card, as some of the recipes had been passed down through generations. And while the ink on this one looked bright and fresh, I knew that the words contained on the sheet were precious to Aunt Evelyn.

From the long ago cooking experiences I had with my aunt, I knew that the recipe box was kept in the basement, next to the storage cellar. Instead of heading back to bed, I walked toward the steps leading below the house.

The basement had never been my favorite place to go. When I was younger, I would ask my Uncle to accompany my whenever I was sent down to grab a can of vegetables or a bag of flour. He would hold my hand, wordlessly knowing I needed the comfort, and fill the hot, dry atmosphere with his jovial voice. I hadn’t had to make any journeys into the space since his death, but the trepidation my smaller-self had viewed the basement with still remained. And I had no one to call on to ease the fear.

A few measured breaths gave me the push of courage I needed to open the door at the top of the stairs. My forward momentum was halted by frantic words coming from below me.

“Oh, Garret, I know I’ve already apologized a hundred times, but let me say it again. I’m so sorry I tarnished your memory. I never meant to, and I’ll make sure it won’t happen again. It’s the new recipe that threw me off.”

It was Aunt Evelyn. And it sounded like she was talking to Uncle Garret. But of course that couldn’t be right. Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe I had only thought I had heard my uncle’s name.

I listened, paying closer attention to the words.

“I’m glad Sara caught my mistake before I ate anything contaminated. I guess there is that to be grateful for.”

Contaminated? Was she talking about dinner tonight? My aunt didn’t use jelly on her toast or biscuits. She only made a few container’s worth each year, just enough for me to slather it on everything I could.

She was right when she said that she hadn’t eaten any, since I was the only one who had taken a bite of the rotting spread. But I wondered what contaminated meant. I had only thought that the jelly may have been left in the cellar for too long, not that anything had tainted the jar. It appeared that assumption was incorrect.

“I just wish that there was more of your flesh to use. Living meat seems to spoil much quicker than the preserved kind.”

Flesh? Living meat? I couldn’t have heard the words accurately. There had to be some sort of mix up. Perhaps I was still feeling sick and this was all a dream.

But it wasn’t a dream at all. It was a horrifying reality.

When I walked down the flight of stairs, I could clearly see my aunt. There was no dreamlike quality distorting my stark observation of her naked body. Or the oozing wounds that covered her skin. Or the tears streaming down her face as she turned to meet my eyes.

“Sara? Did I wake you? I’m so sorry dear. I was just having a conversation with your uncle. I told him we should keep our voices down, but you know how excitable he gets sometimes.”

“Auntie Evelyn, are you okay? You’re bleeding everywhere.” My gaze marked the puddles under her feet. “You need a doctor!”

She tsk-tsked.

“There’s no need for that, at all. Me and Garret are just trying to figure out what we need to do make my body more compatible with the new process. We’ll have this mess cleaned up in no time.”

She smiled cheerily. I shuddered in response.

“What process are you talking about? Auntie Evelyn, you’re not making any sense.”

“When your uncle had his accident, the only way to keep him alive was to consume his earthly flesh. I couldn’t bear to lose my Garret, so I did it. I preserved him and picked at his meat, putting it into all my canned goods, adding his essence to each bite. I was able to talk to him the first night he joined me at the table for dinner! He was so pleased with me.”

Her voice was giddy, filled with an excitement that was mirrored in her eyes.

“I finally ran out of his skin this summer. It lasted so long, nourishing me through five years without my love. I stretched it as far as it would go, using only the tiniest bits in the last few containers, but eventually I had to face the truth.”

I had started backing out the room, slowing escaping from the madness that was radiating from my aunt. But I couldn’t resist finding out more. I had to know the full reach of what she had done.

“What truth, Aunt Evelyn?”

She spoke with a conviction that only the completely insane can muster.

“That it was my turn to sacrifice. To fully connect with my love, I had one more step to take. Now that Garret was a part of me, if I consumed my own flesh, I would also be eating his once again. His body would not just fulfill me once, but it would continue to do so until I ran out of places to pick from.”

She looked down at her bloody limbs and the chunks of flesh missing from her torso. Her shoulders slumped in defeat.

“I can’t quite get the process right, though. My flesh isn’t taking well to being canned.”

I started running and didn’t stop until I had reached the closest neighbor’s house. The call I placed to Dr. Welling didn’t convey the panic, disgust, and anguish I felt. I was remarkably calm for someone who had just been told that they had been dining on their beloved uncle for the past five years. Maybe I was in shock.

When my aunt was placed in a secure facility, I didn’t shed a tear. I’d had some time to process the situation and I had realized that the advice my Uncle Garret had given me as a child was perfectly apt—a good sense of humor will get you through anything.

Instead of crying, I laughed my way through each of my days.

“Hey sweet pea, got any jokes?”

“I sure do, Uncle Garret! You ready?”

“You know it kiddo.”

“What do you call a teenager who was forced to become a cannibal?”

“I don’t know, darling. What do you call them?”

You call them me.

Submitted October 25, 2017 at 12:19AM by laleighda http://ift.tt/2h5seJ0 nosleep