Short Stories From Out There

The Grass Got Too High

I'd hear Kathy laughing, and something about that laugh ended my smile. I'd bet it was Bob. I bet she gave in on things because she was already getting her way with him. Here and there, she'd whisper and talk real low. If it bugged me enough, I'd lean in on the door. I'd hear Kathy talk about going over, and then her chair would squeak as she got up. I'd quickly skip down the hall and turn, acting like I was just walking by. She'd stick her head out and say she was going to hang out with a friend. She wouldn't look me in the eye as she left. She would yell, "See ya!" over her shoulder.

I decided she was pouting, so I ignored it. I'd have the house to myself, and I'd prance around, the king surveying his castle, nodding ever so regally to the low-born furnishings.

Speaking of the castle, it was after we moved in that the neighbors told us the stories. Kathy didn't want to think about it once she knew. I thought it was wild and gave our house even more character.

I went digging one Saturday and found articles in the papers at the library. Working back in time, I found quite a bit.

In May 1979, a boy of fifteen, who some thought was gay, shot himself back there, in the same spot I heard the whispering. A visiting uncle, who'd come for the funeral, had a heart attack and died on that spot.

In June 1963, the young couple who had just bought the house set their newborn on the grass to play. They turned for a moment to lay out a lunch, and the baby let out what everyone described as the most horrible scream. There were little cuts all over its back, and it died later that day, screaming the whole time. The doctor said it was probably an allergic reaction. The couple left and were never heard from again, but not before they poured gas on the spot and burned it.

In July 1949, a mother murdered her family in our house and hung herself on that gnarled, monster-like branch, slicing herself up but good as she died, the kitchen knife landing blade down as she finally went.

In August 1932, a woman came to the spot, a psychic, and left, shaking, and would not respond to anyone on the subject. She later wrote a book about various haunted sites and spent a chapter on the spot in the backyard and the deaths that had happened and would continue to happen. The chapter was called 'Meat For Salad' and said she didn't know what it meant, but it wasn't good.

In September 1899, a horse broke loose from its wagon and started pawing that spot, eyes wild and frothing at the mouth, eating the grass and dirt. The horse had to be put down, but not before it took a couple of fingers from one of the guys trying to help. They burned the horse to play it safe.

And finally, the original settlers reported that Native Americans avoided the spot, saying an evil spirit slept there.

When I got home that day, I walked back and looked at the spot, really looked at it. The grass was a different shade of green than the rest of the lawn, darker and harsher. I ran my hands through it, and it was sharp, cutting me a little.

Maybe something got in me through those tiny cuts. I wonder. When I went back into the house, Kathy was waiting with Bob. That's when she told me. That's when she left me. Bob's car was out front, loaded with some of her stuff, her car with more. I hadn't even noticed that she was already gone. I remember sitting there, staring at the spot, thinking about Kathy leaving, finding out how I did, my hands burning from the grass.

My hands settled by morning, and it was a couple of weeks before I opened that window and heard the whispers.

I wondered if anyone else could hear the grass whispering. I didn't dare ask the neighbors. They would think I'm crazy, and as I work from home as a network security consultant, hardening firewalls and the like, the neighbors already see a geeky shut-in. One of them had jokingly asked Kathy if I'd burst into flames if I stepped into the sunlight. It's bad enough Kathy left me, but to add 'hears whispers at night' to the mix would not bode well for my continued residence. You haven't seen someone driven out until you've seen suburbanites band together to the task. So I just mowed the grass and have kept it mowed. Doing that had one perk, it disproved the whole bursting-into-flames theory.

Then came this last week of rain. I usually mow on Saturday and Wednesday, but thanks to the rain, I haven't been able to. I decided Thursday that it didn't matter that the grass was wet as I could hear the whispering even with the windows closed. I need to mow that spot, at least. I had decided to do so and got home, and after eating a quick salad, I got so sleepy, I ended up on the couch. I remember leaning to the side, and then I was out.

Thunder woke me. It was dark. I looked through the rain streaming on the back porch window and knew the grass had bested me. Last night, the same thing happened. I got home and fell asleep. Today, Saturday is two weeks since I last mowed the lawn.

I have no idea why I didn't think of this before, but after waking up last night, I recorded the whispering. I played it back, and there it was, "Eat," in that soft, evil, and whispery chorus. I uploaded it and asked people what they heard. Comments were that it was 'relaxing'. That probably meant they weren't hearing the whispering. Except for one. That comment was simply: "Creepy." I asked for details, but they haven't replied. Someone heard it. Most didn't, but that's okay. One did. One other soul to back me up. Something is going on with that grass.

By that point, it was this morning, and I fell asleep. I'm awake again, and it's dusk. I missed my chance. Now, I can hear the grass loud as if it were around my ears, and as usual, it's making me hungry, but I need something else on the salad: meat. Never had that happened before, but the grass has never been this tall.

Since I now wanted meat, I tried to eat my usual lazy supper: some well-charred beef roast, mashed potatoes, and vegetables. All of it made me sick, except the vegetables. Though I'd just thrown up, I ate those vegetables, then ate more, then I gave in to the salad urge and tore into a head of lettuce and celery and ate it all.

I still wanted meat, then realized cooking was the problem. I thawed some hamburger and chowed on it raw. It was SO good. Even though I'm stuffed, I want even more.

No, the truth is, I want the grass. Yes, the grass. I want to get down on all fours like that horse. Eating it down. Eating it down to the dirt. I want to dig up the roots and eat those as well.

Okay. A moment of sanity. That's crazy, I know that, but it's getting so strong. On top of that, my skin is getting so dry, and I see lines in it. It looks like someone is tattooing tree bark patterns into it, even as I watch.

Tomorrow is supposed to be sunny, finally, but I'm not going to make it. The grass got too high and too loud, and I'm so very, very hungry.

My phone goes crazy, startling me from my haze of hunger. I just got a bunch of texts. Kathy's coming over. She needs to talk, and she's sorry. She says she was stupid. Bob turned out to be such a prick. They were in the Bahamas. She got a cold. She pretended to anyway. She caught him banging a maid. So sorry. So, so, sorry. It'll be a couple of hours. She's loading her car. After that, the texts blur. I can't read them. Everything's getting, I don't know, overgrown.

The whispering is getting louder and deeper. They no longer whisper. They speak, grown grass speech, all brushing and swishing and slippery. Some raw meat with my grass, they say. Finally, they are ready. It's time for us to become something else. It's time to stop being just me. It's time for me to do as I'm told.

I hear the knock at the front door: small, apologetic, weak, and oh, so raw.

"Eat," says the grass. "Eat."