The Sick Stuff by Ronald Kelly Page B

nose, mouth,
and ears. A steady stream coursed from both eyes, running down her
alabaster cheeks like crimson tears.
    "Did Trevor's letter not reveal to you the
shame and depravity that our dear parents cast upon this house?"
she asked. As she looked at him, her eyes widened. "Good God
Almighty... Quentin!"
    Isabella had glimpsed his own personal angst
before he himself had felt the burning sting in his nasal passages.
A long, black centipede exited from his left nostril, its multitude
of legs clawing for release. It dropped to the floor, covered with
blood and mucus. Quentin attempted to crush the offending insect
beneath the heel of his boot, but it escaped, skittering across the
dirt of the floor and vanishing into the dank shadows.
    Quentin wiped the bloody snot from his
nostrils... a gesture that was more habit now than from conscious
intention. "No, he said only that father was dead and that Mojo
Mama had placed a curse upon our family. He did not go into
details."
    Small, thin streams of blood squirted from
Isabella's nipples. Humiliated, she folded her slender arms across
her breasts and wept. "Then go and demand that he tell you all. I
cannot bare to speak of the awful business myself!"
    Quentin regarded his sister's pitiful form,
sitting in a bath of congealing gore. "Isabella... if I could only
reverse this horrid curse..."
    "Perhaps you can, brother," she said. "But
speak to Trevor first." She lowered her head. Blood pooled from the
openings around the follicles of her ebony hair, turning her lovely
mane into a nasty, purulent mess. "Now go. Abandon me to my own
wretchedness."
    Not knowing what to say to relieve her
distress, Quentin quietly closed the door to and turned toward the
house. Anger flared within him. He must confront Trevor and demand
to know the extent of the purgatory in which they had been
unwilling cast into.
    As he entered the rear door and made his way
toward the main hall, he thought of how he had found the Deveroux
mansion upon his return from war; rundown, deserted of their
trusted servants, and in a state of perpetual decay. His mother,
Rosealynda, had been alive then, but only in a physical sense. Her
mind -- once so sharp and full of good humor -- had retreated unto
itself. Quentin had found her in a stupor born of madness and
intoxicated with liquor and morphine. She had scarcely recognized
who he actually was. But, as far as he could tell, she had not been
touched by the Deveroux curse... not with the horrible aliments that
Quentin and his siblings suffered. No, her torment had come later...
several nights after his unexpected return.
    Quentin pushed the awful fate of his mother
from his thoughts. He had more urgent questions on his mind at the
moment. The young man pushed through the double doors of the grande
parlor. "Trevor!" he called. "Trevor, I must speak to you at
once!"
    When he stepped through the doorway of the
parlor, it felt as though he was entering the white-hot belly of a
blast furnace. Despite the humidity and heat of the summer
afternoon, Trevor kept the great marble fireplace stoked and
blazing. But, then, his older brother had reason to keep the fire
going from morning until night.
    Cloaked in a dark, woolen blanket, Trevor
turned and regarded him. "Then speak, brother. I am here... as I
always shall be."
    Quentin intended to approach his brother
boldly and with no hesitation.
    But the hideous stench of decay that filled
the room caused him to gag and consider retreat. He stood his
ground, however, and covered his nose with a handkerchief from his
vest pocket. As he crossed the fire-lit chamber, he found thick
mats of green flies and black gnats seething upon the velvet drapes
and the cushions of the furnishings... waiting, hungering, but
hesitant to approach the heat of the fire.
    When he came within six feet of the form
hunkered before the fire, Quentin stopped. He could draw no closer.
Even where he stood, the bile threatened to roll from his belly and
into his