Rick McQuiston
©2007
Blake noticed it first which seemed fitting since he was the foremost authority in the neighborhood on healthy grass. Only Jack Tameron next door could rival him for a showcase lawn.
He stared at the deep green patch in the middle of his front lawn trying mightily to wish it away. Normally he would have been thrilled to have such a lovely shade of green on his property; it would have meshed in nicely with the remainder of his lawn. But this seemed strange somehow, almost unnatural in not only its shade but its texture. The blades appeared to be more course than the surrounding grass.
He removed his worn Detroit Tigers cap and scratched his receding hairline. A problem with his sublime lawn was not what he needed at this time. His job was in jeopardy because they were restructuring the plant, laying off workers left and right in their endless desire for more profits regardless of the consequences.
The area was small, about the size of a basketball, and distinct in its contours. If one looked at it long enough one could make out the outline of a wolf’s head, complete with sharp ears and snout. But it also could be construed as a simple geometric shape of various angles and points.
Blake stood there on his porch, gazing his helpless stupidity at the unusual and downright absurd malady that was defacing his plush green carpet of grass.
Was it grubs? No, grubs would cause the grass to die.
A fungus perhaps? Probably not. He’d had the lawn sprayed twice this month alone. Bernie, his contact man at GG Sod and Sons, had given it a clean bill of health.
He pondered the possible causes. Maybe it was some type of Crabgrass or Nut Sedge or even Foxtail, he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it was a combination of problems. Who knows? The all- natural, slow- release fertilizer he paid for was supposed to take care of any potential problems including insects and disease. His blood pressure began to rise when he remembered what it had cost him. He stomped back into the house with steam coming out of his ears.
“Bernie? Yeah this is Blake Soufern.” He knew he must restrain himself, Bernie was a fine technician and an all- around nice guy, and he didn’t want to jeopardize a solid professional relationship due to his temper.
“Not so well I’m afraid. I’m having a problem with my front lawn. There’s a spot on it that’s a different color than the rest of the grass.” He hesitated for a moment. “Well…spot might be the wrong word.” The correct word eluded him like a galloping zebra just out of reach from a hungry lion.
“Discoloration, yeah, it’s darker than the rest of the sod.”
He listened intently as Bernie rattled out a host of possibilities none of which seemed to correctly address the situation. Finally, they agreed upon Bernie stopping by to look at the problem the next day.
Blake felt relieved, but was unable to relax. He walked back to the porch and focused his attention on his lawn. The spot was still there but it appeared slightly larger than before. Its perimeters were now nearly as large as an office desk and the shade was undeniably deeper.
Blake spewed a concoction of obscenities and immediately glanced around to make sure no one had heard him. After he was satisfied his outburst went unnoticed he approached the lawn. The razor sharp edging job he’d done the day before still stood at attention in perfect vertical lines. The quality of his work almost distracted him but the abnormality in his grass demanded his awareness. He wanted to venture out into the green sea but reminded himself of his number one rule…no one on the grass except to cut it or to treat it.
He stood at the border of the lawn staring at his new and frustrating problem with distain. The thought that he would have to wait until the following day before anything would be done was nearly unbearable, but what could he do? He sauntered back into the house to attempt to get his mind off his lawn.
* * * *
The dim light illuminated the face of the clock just enough to reveal the time. Blake rubbed his eyes and rolled over to face the timepiece. The minute hand was between the ten and the eleven and the hour hand rested slightly past the five.
Five fifty a.m.! Just what he needed, insomnia. It was still dark outside although the sun was just beginning to rise in the horizon. Birds were chirping their morning songs and an annoying dog was barking from a nearby backyard. Blake had given up on trying to fall back to sleep and instead sat up and pulled on his slippers and robe. He was still tired and even his caffeine craving hadn’t started yet but he crawled out of bed regardless, anxious to inspect his front lawn.
His surprise was matched only by his joy. The flashlight beam, in conjunction with the porch light, offered enough illumination for him to see that the dark spot was completely gone! Only a smooth layer of evenly colored green grass was visible.
He contented himself with a far-fetched explanation concerning some type of new fungus that had somehow evaporated during the course of the cool, damp night; although he did suspect a combination of too much thatch and weeds, possibly Chickweed or Clover. He flicked his light off and strolled back into the house.
The screen door clicked into place behind him. Early morning shadows created by the rising sun splashed against the front door temporarily dulling its gloss and darkening the smooth, mauve finish. The dark area in the lower corner by the hinges was not touched by any shadow however. It was considerably darker than the rest of the door and vaguely resembled a misshapen dog’s head.
Blake felt much better when he reached his third cup of coffee. The warm, caramel colored liquid sloshed back and forth in the faded blue cup. It wafted its strong aroma up into the room, enticing Blake all the more to partake of its contents. He settled down in his favorite chair in the living room and reached over for his morning paper, forgetting that he did not bring it in with him when he came back into the house. The inconvenience of having to get back up gnawed on his good mood but he forced himself to shrug it off and retrieved his paper.
The sun was spilling its warm rays through the front bay window casting shadows all about the room. Blake was totally immersed in his newspaper, grunting in disgust occasionally when he scanned an article about a killing or the rising cost of gasoline.
He did not notice the dark spot on the carpet near the front door.
It resembled a stain from a spilled cup of grape juice…but it was not. It appeared more like something deliberate in its shape, almost organic in some way.
Blake finished reading his paper and reclined back in his chair. The possibilities of the day’s activities swam in his head.
Golf? Maybe, but it might rain. Fishing? No, his tackle box was a mess. Pull the sixty-six Lincoln out and put a coat of wax on it? Yes, that would do. He leaned all the way back in the recliner and began to slip into a light sleep.
The strange feeling stirred him to consciousness. His arm felt like it was in a vise, both contracting and expanding simultaneously, a seemingly impossible contrast of sensations. He sat up and pushed his robe sleeve back. The dark spot on his arm was pulsating grotesquely, feeding on its host’s body fluids. Blake screamed as loud as he could and tumbled onto the floor. He scratched at his arm but to no avail, it was like trying to rub off a tattoo. He drew blood, which was immediately sucked up by the stain as it squirmed in some type of alien excitement. Oblivious to the suffering of its victim, it began to spread towards Blake’s torso in an attempt to extract greater quantities of nourishment.
Blake felt his head grow light and the room started to spin. Passing out was the last thing he wanted to do but he couldn’t help it. And then darkness overtook him.
* * * *
Jack Tameron sipped his cup of lemon-ginseng tea as he surveyed his front lawn. A smooth sheet of lush green grass stared back at him. A smile formed on his face, one that was full of pride and confidence. His lawn was as nice as his neighbor’s. The six application spray program he’d signed up for was already paying dividends. He looked over at Blake’s lawn. It was nice as well, as nice as his if not better, but he would take the crown soon, he was sure of it.
And then something caught his eye. Something that should not have been there but was nonetheless… a dark stain on his driveway near his Volvo. He was certain he didn’t get any oil on the cement when he changed it the day before but the stain was there, there was no doubt about it.
BACKGROUND
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Rick McQuiston is a 39 year-old father of two who loves to read,write and play drums. He has had 87 publications so far and is currently working on his second horror novella.
