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The Nightly Disease - Max Booth

Well that was a wild ride!

First book I've read by Max, I tweeted a couple of days ago asking which of his books to read first - the top result wasn't this but this was the 2nd and I already owned it so I went with this one.

This is kinda horror, kinda comedy, mostly bizarro I guess cause it is weird as fuck, but I really enjoyed it and finished it really quite quick.

I kinda loved the main character Isaac, and also quite like Kia as well despite the fact I'm not sure if I was supposed too! Hoot hoot!

#books #max booth #the nightly disease #horror #biazzro #comedy #owls #hoot hoot

MOURNING THE DEAD

MAX BOOTH III

Originally from Indiana, Max now lives in Texas to support his illegal gecko fighting ring. He is the Editor-in-Chief of Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing and the Assistant Editor for Dark Moon Digest, as well as a member of the Horror Writers Association.

He is the co-founder and publisher of Revolt Daily.

His debut book, True Stories Told By a Liar, was released by Numen Books in 2012.

His next book, They Might Be Demons, will be released this June from Dark Moon Books.

He also believes penguins are the best animal, and is prepared to fight you if you disagree.

Where. St. Mary's Hospital.

When. Christmas morning.

Why. Because I'm a monster.

Because we're all monsters.

Debs is in bed, the white hospital sheet covered up to her neck. She hasn't moved since the nurse left on the last vital rounds. I know she won't move ever again. At least, not voluntarily.

The hoarse, violent breathing has ceased. Her hand hasn't reached out for my hand in hours. I know if I touch her now, she'll be cold. The hospital staff don't know yet, they haven't a clue. The tools that once monitored her heart and pulses are now plugged into myself. The truth is, that's where they belong. Because I'm the one that's really sick. That's truly, completely fucked up. Debs here, she wasn't sick, she was just dying. And now she's dead. Gone.

Many will be blamed. The staff for not paying better attention. The scientist who failed to cure cancer. God for His faulty designing. And me, I'll be blamed too. They have every right to blame me.

I glance outside the window. We're on the eighth floor. It's snowing—hard. Hasn't snowed like this in years. The roads down below are jampacked of anxious people trying to get to who the hell knows where. None of them give any thought to Debs, up here cold as the snow outside. I'm the only one who truly cares about her, the only one who really loves her.

And that's why I had to kill her.

It hadn't been difficult. Actually, it was way too easy. The human life is as fragile as a glass rolling down a busy intersection. All it takes is one little bump in the road, one careless driver, and everything shatters.

It took both of my hands to kill her. One to cover her mouth, and the other to hold her nostrils close. Then my lips to kiss her goodbye, and that was it. Debs was dead, and I was free.

Outside, on the sidewalk, I see a homeless man sitting on a bench. He is covered in snow, but it doesn't seem to faze him. I wonder if he's dead. I wonder if we're all dead.

I look back at Debs. I had shut her eyes earlier—the way they kept looking at me, lifeless and accusing, I couldn't take it; it was driving me mad. Now her face is calm, is peaceful. I brush my finger across her cheek. Cold. Oh, Debs. It didn't have to end this way. Ten years ago, when I proposed, neither of us saw it going this way. Who would? We thought we'd live happily ever after, with kids and a dog and the works.

Nothing we think will happen ever happens.

Unless what we think is evil, then it is guaranteed to be true.

I remember the first time I met Debs. She had been in a Starbucks, typing away on her Macbook, working on her college thesis. I was sitting down at the table next to her, sipping from my coffee and reading some pretentious novel penned by a Russian philosopher. We were just kids then, but from the very instance I laid eyes on her, I knew that I would love her forever. That I would do whatever it took to protect her.

Now, sitting next to her cold lifeless body, I know that I had been right, that I have been true to my word. I've done what it took to protect Debs, to protect her from the truth. To protect her from everything. The cancer had been bad enough to put her in the hospital; I can't imagine what the rest would have done.

But I've put an end to the torture, to the pain. Debs will be all right now. My poor little angel, she's safe again.

My cell phone goes off in my pocket, and I have to let go of Debs's cold hand to answer it.

It's a woman, a woman I recognize.

"Is it done?" she says. "Is the bitch dead?"

I tell the woman that my wife is dead, that we have nothing to worry about now. I tell her there's nothing blocking us from being happy anymore. We can finally live the life we have always wanted.

I almost hear her smiling on the other end of the phone. It's sickening and, at the same time, erotic. We have a mutual appreciation for the macabre.

"Tell me how you did it," she whispers in my ear, "tell me how you killed her."

I know the truth would bore her. She doesn't really want the truth, she wants something really juicy to continue this demented fantasy of ours.

So I lie, I make something up. I tell her that I used a knife, that I licked the blood off the blade. I tell her things that I know will make her wet, and I can hear her gasp as I continue. The sound of her heavy breath is enough to send my free hand down my trousers, and the heart monitor hooked to my chest begins to show more life.

This is what I've always wanted, what I've always dreamed.

Oh Debs, be thankful I've spared you the real me.

The real monster.

The snow outside has gotten so bad that I can't even see the sky now. I look out the window and all that's there is a blank sheet of white. She's still on the phone, but neither of us are saying anything, just enjoying the silence of the aftermath. All the times we'd fantasized about such freedom, and now it's finally come to fruition! I can't help but grin like a fool.

And Debs, she's still just laying here, cold, lifeless. She is also free.

Soon the nurse will be returning for another round of vitals. I know I must make myself scarce before that time comes. I've hung around this empty room long enough. It's time to kiss my dead wife goodbye and begin a new, much more fulfilling life.

"I gotta go," I tell the woman on the phone.

"See you soon, lover," she whispers.

I return the cellular to my pocket, stare back at Debs. She's never looked more content than she does right now, without a heartbeat. I've saved the day, saved the year, saved our lives. I am a hero.

Her eyes are open, staring back at me, and I swear I’ve closed them already, but maybe I’m just losing it.

I lean forward to give her one final kiss goodbye, but pause right as my lips make contact with hers.

Something isn't right.

A sound, like a growl.

Debs's lips open before I know what's happening, and her teeth grind down on my dumbstruck tongue, severing it in half.

The blood pours from my screaming mouth as I stare into Debs's cold, lifeless dead eyes and I know, I know she is much more than just dead.

Oh God, what have I done?

The heart monitor on the side of the bed goes flat.

And then . . . and then nothing.

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