She Likes It
By Patrick M. Tracy
Walt looked into the deep shadow of the old workshop. His mouth twisted. “What’s the point of looking in here?”
Marnie caught his hand and held it to the cleft of her ribs, just over her diaphram. “This is where it happened. I’ve dreamed of coming here for years.” Her voice sounded breathy, ragged. Up close, her vanilla perfume didn’t completely cover the scent of her arousal.
“So that guy Buxton killed all of those people, right in there?”
She smiled sweetly, letting the back of Walt’s hand trace upward, skimming one erect nipple. “Twelve people over the course of three years. He used the drill press, the band saw, the radial arm saw, a variety of hand tools. His last victim, a guy named Bart Whettle, got away from him and pushed him over the table saw. When that didn’t finish Buxton off, he shot him with a nail gun a bunch of times.” She sighed. “I would have loved to see it.”
“You’re fucked up, Marnie.”
She sighed. “Yeah. But you love me anyway.”
She pulled Walt into the workshop. Beside the wholesome smells of wood, glue, and machine oil, the lingering smell of blood and death hung thick and rank in the gloomy shed. Walt put a hand over his mouth, gagging. Marnie pulled the scent in, her back arched slightly, her eyes closed. The death rooms always did this to her. The stench of murder was like hot house roses for Marnie, Walt guessed.
“What happend to that Whettle guy, anyway?” He asked, if only to avoid thinking about what had gone on in this room.
“He told the cops what had happened, put a face to the whole thing. He got some kind of blood poisoning, though. Gangrene set in on his arm-stump and it went right to his heart. He was dead within three weeks. No one got out of here alive.” Marnie walked around, touching all the implements, avid as an art lover at a museum. Her eyes clouded with bliss as she ran the long-still drill press handle down and back up.
Walt watched her, a chill sweat on his brow. He tried to touch nothing but the floor, focusing his eyes on the door, the dusty crabgrass, the afternoon sun that promised that everthing was okay. The evil here had dissipated with the man. There was no metaphysical stain, no lingering horror beyond that which he created in his own mind. That’s what Walt believe. What he had to believe, anyway. The fact that Marnie loved these places wasn’t so sinister. Everyone had a hobby. Hers was strange, yes. It spooked him out. Still, the upside outweighed this one oddity. In every other way, she was fantastic.
Marnie put her arms around him and squeezed him tight, pushing the blades of her hips tight against his buttox, running her nimble hands across his torso. She wandered lower, unhitching his belt and popping the button of his jeans. Walt’s mind screamed, “No!” but his body paid no heed. Suddenly in front of him, Marnie pulled Walt’s face down to hers, kissing him furiously, until he tasted blood in his mouth and his lips threatened to burst.
Walt gasped for air, holding her at arm’s length. “You promised we’d stop. After we got caught in that lover’s lane where all the teenagers got massacred, you promised that we’d just look.”
Her eyes were huge orbs of liquid. Wordlessly, she implored him. His resolve melted. “Just this one last time,” he aquiesced.
“One last time,” she breathed. In a moment, she was on her knees before him, his jeans rolled down to his ankles. Marnie took him into her mouth, into her throat. The macabre surrounding melted. Walt leaned back, grasping the table saw where the last killing went down. He didn’t care. Before he could spend out the currency of his passion, Marnie took away the paradise of her mouth and turned about. With her cervical spine beneath the empty chuck of the drill press, she pushed free of her warm-ups and opened herself for Walt. Her scent now predominated, blocking out even old death. Walt grasped her hips and pushed in, dimly worried that he’d get her pregnant this time. It was far too late to stop now. They’d consecrate the evil ground, celebrating the life and the death inside everyone. Just this last time.
“Press it against me. Make it feel like I’m dying,” she gasped.
Walt understood. As he rocked forward against her, every nerve alive, he ran the drill press lever down, pressing the open chuck hard against her, hard enough to bruise. She writhed, mouth open in a silent scream. In no time, Walt felt the splash of her orgasm, that special sort of climax that she could only have at times like these. Belly tight, his own crescendo came only a minute later. He groaned and thrust his final spasms, his cheek against the old and sinful iron of the killing instrument.
Walt let her free, and for a long time, she hung against the press, pretending to be dead. The final act in their murder play, the effigy of death. At last, her breath finally normal, she straightened. They held each other in sweat. She buried her face into his chest and wept silently. She always wept after, but Walt had never had the guts to ask why. Marnie pulled her pants back up and Walt followed suit. She kissed him tenderly. “I love you, Walt.”
He touched her hair, now hanging limp and slack from exertion. “Likewise.”
“Stay here, babe. I just want to take a final look around.”
Walt stood at the door, looking out into the dust of late summer, the dry grass, the drooping trees. He could hear Marnie’s little waffle-tread sneakers squeak on the raw old concrete. Let her say goodbye to the place. Let her say goodbye to all of this, as hot as it gets her. We’ll find another kink. That, or we’ll have to content ourselves with the run-of-the-mill great sex we normally have. Just not…not this. For a moment, Walt was sad, as much as this sort of thing gave him the spooks.
Something cold and firm pressed against the back of his head. “Marnie? What’s that?”
“It’s a power nailer, Walt. You made me promise that this was the last time for us, after all.”
Three pops like .22 reports filled the shed. Walt’s vision skewed, filling with streaks of red and gold, then went dark. An impulse of pain shot through him. He produced a wet, slobbery interrogative as he fell to the floor, already twitching with death. In the way of myth, the last of one tale bled its life out to begin the next.