The Wife Of B Grant

Short horror story written on a wet night

There are some men who have pupils that fester with all the maggoting decay of decades of hatred. They sit there, the black apples of those leering eyes seeming to spit forth the rotting larvae of their chauvinism, suckled on the sight of women they could never have, women that loathed them, women that dared to exist in their smooth untouched refusal of their disgusting, creeping hands.

I will tell you the story, then, of one such man, one such bloated that swaggered his grotesque limbs around this reeking Eden we must share with these serpents. A man so repulsive that the stench of his gaze left you reaching for carbolic and scrubbing at your skin as though you had been waist deep in a sewer. His name, of course, was Mr B. Amos Grant.

B. Grant resembled a body that had swollen up the banks of the Hudson. A great lumbering mass of a man, he swung his long arms as he walked with great thumping steps. The old barbarians of the old country had stories they would tell around fires in midwinter about men like him, corpses that wandered the earth at night, ripe and festering with disease and lice, ready to chew on the limbs of children and livestock that came under the yellow glower of those rotting, disgusting eyes. They weren’t human, not anymore, just there to devour, destroy, disgust, and…