Late Night Snack

by L. S. Engler

Plagued by another sleepless night, Paul slipped out of bed, taking great care not to disturb Natalie beside him. His mind was such a whirling mess that he couldn’t believe anyone could sleep as soundly as she did that night, as though she hadn’t a care in the world, like none of it really mattered. He tried not to think of it as he headed to the kitchen, hoping that a late-night snack might soothe him. If he could not feed the beast of his problems, he could at least feed the pit in his stomach, which growled and murmured, joining the long list of things keeping him up, from his stressful career, his impossibly staggering mortgage, his determined wife.

When he opened the door of the refrigerator, a comforting blast of cool air hit his face, and he perused the meager offerings inside, yet another reminder of his desperation. Leftover spaghetti, strawberry jam, a bottle of ketchup, never anything substantial, not anymore, not these days. How in the world did Natalie think they were ready for a child? They could barely support themselves, much less a tiny, dependent little person. If he had to listen to her grand schemes about starting their family one more time, he would scream so loud, it would put the wild, desperate cries of his dreams to shame. And she’d been spending so much time with her strange friends, the ones who believed in all that holistic mumbo-jumbo that had her twisting into a pretzel after they had sex to increase the chance of conception or making him suck down kale smoothies for his potency. Kale! As if they could afford all that crap.

He thought he saw a jar of pickles glowing green in the florescent light, salty and briny and just the thing to hit the spot, so he reached for it, wishing he had some turkey slices and bread to go along with it. Once he had the jar in his hand, though, he realized he had been mistaken. There were no pickles inside, only one thick, gelatinous blob. A closer inspection revealed that the blob had appendages like limbs, small, grasping fingers at the end, clutching at nothing. The vague swell of a head, and a small slit of an opening like a gasping, toothless mouth.

“What the hell?”

Compelled by his confusion, Paul leaned in closer. Was this some weird experiment of Natalie’s friends? Some bizarre fertility fruit?

No. This was something else entirely, something that may have once been alive. That was an eye right there. And it suddenly burst open.

Paul dropped the jar, shattering it into a thousand glittering pieces at his feet. He backed away to avoid being cut by the shards of glass, and a piercing wail rose up from the blob in the puddle of strange, green liquid.

The sound filled the kitchen, filled the whole house, and Natalie came tearing in from the bedroom, every step as frantic as her wide eyes. She paused in the open doorway, leaning on the frame for support, but it didn’t take her long to find the disaster. A low wail of her own joined the keening screams from the malformed creature, and she swooped in to pick it up, clutching it protectively to her chest.

“What have you done?” she cried, gaping up at Paul in betrayal and shock. The green sludge soaked into her nightgown, spreading like a bloodstain. “Our baby, our poor, sweet baby!”

Paul took another step back, the shrieks stabbing sharply into his brain. These were the cries from his dreams, he realized, staring at his wife in horror. She ignored him, fawning and fussing over the creature, stroking its soft head, whispering reassurances that it would be okay, it would all be okay, there, there, sweetheart.

    “No,” he muttered, finding the wall at his back. He lacked the ability to run, frozen with terror, though every inch of him wanted to flee. “What have you done, Natalie? What have you done? We don’t have a baby!”

    “We do now, Paul,” she said, as the creature settled with a gurgling, inhuman coo, its features even more distorted than Paul had realized. It clutched at her with its twisted little hands, ripping open her gown, comforting itself by suckling, kneading into her until she bled. But she didn’t notice. She just smiled down happily at the little monster, holding it closer still, tears streaking down her face. “We do now.”

“Late-Night Snack” previously appeared in Dark Fuse, 2017.

L.S. Engler writes from outside of Chicago, though she grew up weaving tales in the farmlands of Michigan. Her work has appeared in a wide variety of journals and anthologies, including Bards and Sages Quarterly, the Tishman Review, and the Saturday Evening Post. She tends to dabble in all things nerdy, probably a little too much.