My Eyes Are Nailed But Still I See Read online

  Table of Contents

  – Signature Page –

  – Title Page –

  – Copyright –

  INTRODUCTION [Seth Lindberg]

  MY EYES ARE NAILED, BUT STILL I SEE

  – About the Authors –

  MY EYES ARE

  NAILED, BUT

  STILL I SEE

  David Niall Wilson

  &

  Brett Alexander Savory

  Delirium Books

  FIRST EDITION

  My Eyes Are Nailed, But Still I See © 2005 by David Niall Wilson and Brett Alexander Savory

  Cover Artwork © 2005 by Dave Kendall

  Foil Stamp Design © 2005 by Colleen Crary

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DELIRIUM BOOKS

  P.O. Box 338

  North Webster, IN 46555

  [email protected]

  http://www.deliriumbooks.com

  Copy Editor: Lisa DuMond

  For more information on this book or other titles, please visit the Delirium Books official website at: http://www.deliriumbooks.com.

  INTRODUCTION

  by Seth Lindberg

  What you have in your hands—let there be no doubt—is a work of fiction. Let me make this point perfectly clear. I am sure there are those of you who, like myself, are followers of the Milhone tragedy. Indeed, you may know intimate details of the curious (to say the least) incident: you could have followed the newspaper accounts or read a few of the more turgid editorializations that were presented. You, like myself, may have been swindled by Mr. Savory and Mr. Wilson into believing that a whit of this is true.

  That is not to say as fiction that it does not work, and work well. As a tale and a yarn it does its duties quite marvelously. Indeed, these two are charmers, snake-oil salesmen of the highest caliber.

  But it is not the whole truth of the story. And it is my duty to inform you of the truth. Admittedly, I had a hand in all of this, having published several of the articles that make up this ‘account’ (and I do use that term lightly, with the light that has been put on this situation from my current source). I let the lies spread and infect the current account, until the tragic occurrences that make up the final chapter in the painful history of the Milhone family have been completely interwoven with the obsessions and—dare I say—the personal demons of the two writers in question.

  Put the book down, for the love of God, put it down! Go for a nice walk, enjoy the sunshine or gloomy night; it matters little. Do whatever you wish, other than read it. For I must tell you, current information has come to light to note that Mr. Savory and Mr. Wilson were... how shall I say... incomplete in their interviews, relying on one source primarily over others, to the detriment of other points of view.

  Believe me, I wish I could tell you more. I, personally, am horrified. But there are lawyers involved, naturally, who no doubt wish to bring things to right by depleting the fortunes of these scribes who have amassed their riches upon lies and distortion. The lawyers being what they are (necessary, but alas, somewhat untrustworthy defenders of justice and the rule of law), they have let me know that there are certain things I must keep silent about.

  But even as I counter slander with slander, I am not giving the authors of this document enough credit. The acts chronicled in this book represent a synthesis of troubles plaguing the Western family. The Milhone tragedy is a dark mirror to the problems festering in every household. It has its precedents in the ravings of serial murderers such as Edward Kemper, who stalked and dismembered female college students in the late ’60s, finally killing his mother. He was caught because his neighbors overheard him screaming at her severed head.

  Such reflections can be found in the atrocities committed by Jeffrey Dahmer, or a myriad of other killers who have stalked the highways and side streets of our cities. Whether there is some greater design apparent here is left to the good reader; though it is obvious how at least one of the writers feels about this in the end, with the allusion to the writings of Clive Barker. I leave the actual reference for the reader with the stalwart resolve to read through these diabolical ravings. (Though I wonder if Mr. Savory, an aficionado of Mr. Barker’s work, injected this reference into the prose. Whether this was something he felt would sneak past our expert gaze, you and I, or whether he simply couldn’t help himself... ah, that is a troublesome question indeed.)

  Certainly it was the grotesque trophy that was the centerpiece of the Milhone incident that drew the attention of one of the writers: Mr. Savory has always had, shall we say, an unhealthy fascination with pigs. I shall say no more on this subject, as I am aware that mothers and children may (gasp!) pick up and gaze upon the contents of this book. (And I grow faint thinking of the shudder running through such pure souls, perhaps a squeak or cry as their eyes gaze upon the corrupting text laid out before you.) Far be it for me to further sully the minds of the youth of today.

  But I am most disappointed with Mr. Wilson, a world-weary fighting man who has spent much of his life traveling the world in defense of his country, and who has now settled into a life of writing and music appreciation. He has always struck me as honorable and stalwart. Perhaps I should have realized when I gazed upon the article included herein (previously titled “Twelve Great Black Pigs, and One Red One”) that Wilson, an avid antiquarian, may have stretched the facts to inject the old writer of the weird tale, Angus Griswold, into the narrative. It struck me as a strange literary device at the time, nothing more. How I wish I knew what I know now: so much would have been changed. Perhaps the two writers would not have been encouraged to write such distortions.

  It is very possible that you have picked up this book without the knowledge of the Milhone family tragedy: If so, none of this matters. Read it for what it is: a deranged story for a society that has been dipped in madness and served on a fork, with little droplets of lunacy dripping off, as if the story was some kind of horrible fondue. And that is fine. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that it is advisable to not know, and the best of all worlds.

  But take care, gentle reader: Do not be lured into the grasp of these two formidable writers, no matter how seductive said enticements are. If all books are colors, this one shimmers: at first it is as black as the darkest of night, then a book of spilled red ink, flowing from an opening in the pages, then the pages open to a misty woods dominated by the cool and empty color of gray (gris wold = gray woods) then as white and empty as death. But the final color is left, yet again, up to the reader. Take heed, and read on with caution.

  MY EYES ARE

  NAILED, BUT

  STILL I SEE

  Through slatted blinds and crisscrossed panes, the late afternoon sunlight forms a web of dark lines behind the man’s back. In the center of that web-work his shadow sits, a dark blob, shapeless, full of dread. Johnson concentrates on that. Absolutely. There is the drone of a voice, and the occasional sound of passing footsteps, but they are backdrop to the shadows, and Johnson pays them no mind.

  Johnson holds a crayon. Nothing too sharp. Nothing threatening, or dangerous. Soft, blunt, and so rounded on the end that the images he is trying to transfer to the paper are blunted as well. Blurred. Everything is blurred, and he wonders briefly why the voice continues to drone and intrude.

  He wishes for another color: Red. It is impossible to draw black blood with any hint of clarity, and Johnson wishes, m
ore than anything, for a quick moment of that. Blood and clarity are synonymous in that instant—one unattainable, the other dependent on that attainment. Stalemate, and the blob in the shadow-web nods and murmurs as the voice rises and falls in some distant cadence.

  Echoing the memory of words.

  • • •

  Dr. Wagner watches his patient—patiently. On his desk are several colored folders. They represent stages, what he calls a path, a trail to “recovery.” Dr. Wagner has only known Johnson Milhone for about a year, so he has no real concept of to what, or where, recovery may lead. He is buoyed by the knowledge of his correctness, empowered by the experience of centuries of learned men, packed rock-solid in the books lining the shelves to the left and right of his desk. He is unaware of the web at his back, and only vaguely aware of the too-fat, clumsy lines on the paper where Johnson scribbles.

  The folder that presently lies open on the desktop is older than the others. Dr. Wagner has been reading it aloud to his patient, ignoring the blank stare he receives when he tries to look too deeply into those flat, emotionless eyes. He has been reading a story, his voice trained and sonorous, low and melodic, glancing up from time to time to gauge the reaction to his words.

  As far as he can tell, he might as well be in Jerusalem, bowing his head and yammering to the Wailing Wall. He stops for a moment, just to see if his silence will engender a stronger reaction than his words. But the crayon continues to bob and weave over the paper, the design shielded by Johnson’s hand, and by the shadow of the stack of folders.

  With a sigh, Dr. Wagner continues reading. Without breaking the sequence of the words—not his words, Johnson’s own words—that he is reading from the folder, he reaches down to the lower-left drawer of his desk and pulls it slowly open. He reaches inside, touches what he has sought, cringes, then closes his fingers over it firmly and draws it forth. As he tells the story, he places the grotesque thing on the desk in front of Johnson. The relief of releasing his touch on the object is palpable, and he nearly lets the shudder that slips up his spine interrupt the flow of words. Nearly, but not quite.

  The cocked, warped pig, leather-skinned and mutilated by nails and God only knew what else, cants to one side and stares up at Johnson. Just for a moment—a very short moment—the crayon pauses... then scrawls on.

  “Let me try again,” Dr. Wagner says, sliding the bottom sheet of what he holds in his hand back to the top. “Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?”

  Johnson looks up, meets the doctor’s gaze, and spits on the desk.

  “Fucking pig,” he whispers.

  The doctor drops his eyes to the paper and reads.

  • • •

  “Quit staring at me, you fucking pig.”

  Johnson Milhone was in his basement, lying on a metal table, his arms and legs tied down with thick rope, a single light bulb swinging nonchalantly over his head. The light was caught in the breeze from the open window to his left... just above the bottled kidneys, livers, and other assorted human organs that were stacked three-high along the shelf, nearly touching the window’s frame.

  A fat black spider skittered along the top stack of the tightly packed bottles, losing its balance occasionally, then scuttling back up just to do it all over again a few more bottles down.

  “Fucking pig,” Johnson said again. “You don’t quit lookin’ at me, I’m gonna get up and stick those nails in my own eyes!” Johnson coughed once... lightly. “Then we’ll never see her again—you or me! Wouldn’t that just suit brother fine, huh?”

  The stuffed leather pig sat on the shelf next to the bottles and ignored Johnson. Pig had heard it all before. He knew Johnson wouldn’t get up and remove the sewing needles that jutted from Pig’s eyes and stab them into his own. These were idle threats, made by an idle boy. Besides, he was in no position to carry out his threat, even if he’d had the balls.

  The spider scampered over near Pig and Pig watched it, kept a close eye on it. You come any closer and I’ll scream, goddamnit, Pig thought, mentally shifting his weight onto his opposite two hooves, away from the spider. He glanced at the black furry shape as it trundled closer. Pig shifted again, farther away... or thought he did. Pig couldn’t really move at all, ‘cause he was a stuffed toy, but he liked to think he could move, liked to imagine it sometimes when creepy things like spiders and cockroaches came near.

  Still glaring at Pig, Johnson tested the security of the ropes binding him to the cold metal table. There was no way he was getting out of this. He felt a sneeze coming on, but knew that wouldn’t be a good idea. Not in his present condition...

  Johnson’s intestines rested in a loose pile on his lap, carefully contained in a large green baggie, packed with Jell-O. Green Jell-O. His abdomen had been carefully cut open, the skin folded back and his large intestines unraveled like a bad tapestry, coiled and tucked away with only cursory care. The gelatin was to keep him from drying out, and to make sure his temperature stayed relatively normal. The incision was then sewn up, leaving room, of course, for the proper plumbing to keep Johnson alive.

  Though Pig wondered why Johnson’s brother, Morgan, even wanted to keep his useless, dumb-as-a-stump sibling alive any longer than was completely necessary. Pig thought time had easily come and gone.

  No, Pig wasn’t a fan of the younger of the two brothers, but he certainly did like Morgan. Over the years they’d become very close... or at least so Pig liked to think. Johnson was another story—always lookin’ down on Pig like he was dirt, always stickin’ nails in his eyes or up his ass, just to prove that he was better than Pig. Just to prove that he didn’t care about Pig anymore. As if.

  So Pig liked where Johnson was right now—strapped to that table, his guts in a bag of fucking green Jell-O, and two four-inch nails sticking out from his left set of ribs, to steer his thoughts away—should he begin to hyper-ventilate—from the fact that part of his insides were outside.

  After beating around the bush a little longer, the spider finally did what Pig knew it eventually would—climbed all over him, making his skin crawl off his bones (if he’d had any, that is) making him wish he could scream, making him wish he was a real pig and could just squash the little bugger. And while Pig’s brain squirmed uselessly, trapped in stuffing and stitching, Johnson counted the cracks in the cement above his head... waiting for Morgan to come downstairs and tell him that Mom was coming home soon, that Mom would be walking down the stairs with him any minute now and then everything would be okay again. No more fucking sentient stuffed pigs; no more goddamned nails in his ribs, in his collar bone, in his kneecaps; and no more stuffing his fucking insides into a sack of green Jell-O.

  Mom’s never coming home again, you dumb sack of shit, Pig jeered from his shelf, as though catching Johnson’s thought. The spider had begun making a web from Pig’s head to one of the bottles, spinning it around one of the nails that stuck out from Pig’s eyes. Trying to ignore this, Pig continued: And if she ever does, it won’t be for you, you know—it’ll be for Morgan.

  “Fuck you, Pig. Mom is so coming home, and she is too coming for me! You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about, anyhow. You’re just a dumb pig made outta stuffin’. You don’t know anything about Mom; you never did!”

  Yeah, you just keep tellin’ yourself that, Johnson, you fuckin’ loser. Look at ya—what are you good for? What did you ever do for her? Besides get into trouble with the McKorleys and the Franklins down the street, I mean. You only ever caused her heartache anyway. That’s how I know she ain’t comin’ back for you.

  Pig saw that Johnson’s eyes were tearing up and his bottom lip starting to quiver.

  You’re just a useless lump of shit, Pig said, his own tears now threatening as the spider crawled all over his face, obscuring his view of the twelve-year-old boy strapped to the table... twelve year-old boy.

  Or so he liked to think.

  Just a good for nothin’ waste offlesh that ruined his mother’s life and drove her away.
/>   Pig began to cry. The spider had moved around to his back now, and Pig could see into (his son’s) the kid’s eyes.

  Just like your old man, Pig finished, the spider now beginning to lay eggs in his stuffed ears.

  Just like me.

  • • •

  Morgan came stumbling down the stairs, alone, with his nose jammed tightly into a book. His glasses had slid down to the tip of his nose, and he was concentrating so hard that when he hit the bottom step he came to a jarring halt, nearly tripping and looking around the room wildly. He ignored Johnson completely, eyes scanning the corners, as if looking for something out of whack. He fixated on Pig, watching the spider scuttle about busily, then turned to the wall at his right and stopped.

  His gaze lit on a framed photograph, and his eyes glazed slightly. Morgan swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple sticking halfway down his throat, his breath catching. Johnson craned his neck for a better view, but could not bring his brother into focus. But Pig saw clearly. Saw the bulge growing in Morgan’s pants. Saw the way Morgan’s breath grew heavier, the way his hand shifted to press into his crotch. Saw the photograph of Mother.

  “Did she come?” The words wheezed out of Johnson’s mouth, barely more than a distorted whisper. At first Morgan didn’t even hear him. Then Johnson repeated himself, and the spell was broken.

  Morgan turned, glaring at Johnson, drawing his hand quickly from his pants and adjusting his glasses with a frown. The book flopped farther open, threatening to spill from his hand and he shifted his balance, taking a tripping step forward.

  “She did not come back to us yet, brother dear, but she will. I just have to get this right. Only one chance you know. One time deal. So good of you to lend an... entrail.”

  Johnson wanted badly to say “fuck you,” but knew better. Morgan was many things, but patient wasn’t one of them, and one good slap at the Jell-O bag on Johnson’s lap would end all speculation.

  He watched. Pig watched. Morgan stepped forward, dangling the book precariously before Johnson’s nose.