Suzette's Dead Brother

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Erotic Horror  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

Suzette's brother comes back from the dead, and she must deal with his new appetites.

Suzette's Dead Brother

Suzette peeled the label from an empty bottle of sleeping pills, rolled off her mattress, and went to the living room.

Meanwhile, Ray crawled out of his grave.

She touched a match to the kindling in her fireplace, watching the flames grow and flicker in the darkened windows. Shiksa and Ben-Gurion, her two ocelots, came from the room's chilly corners to join her.

Ray staggered forward, sniffing the air with his rotting nostrils.

She shivered, pulling on a cardigan before going to a window, where she gazed out upon a moonlit night, a crush of stars, and the rippling surface of an irrigation pond. An October wind moaned through the roof flashing and whistled through the silage fields.

Drifting in memory, Suzette recalled an alfalfa field where she'd walked a fence line. She'd found a child's party balloon, shimmering in the windrows, tethered to alfalfa stubble. She'd brushed the soil from its surface, revealing a princess sitting in the window of a castle tower. She'd pressed the song button and listened as the princess decried the injustice of her imprisonment. The battery weakened, and the voice faded.

He caught her scent and followed the trail.

An ember exploded. A star streaked across the sky. She touched fingertips to the cool pane,  then whirled, going to the kitchen to complete a chore she'd started earlier that evening—sponging copper cream on cookware from the overhead racks.

She rinsed her hands, then walked a hallway, passing empty bedrooms before reaching a staircase leading to the lower level, an L-shaped expanse with a library at one end and a home theater at the other. She locked the French doors and drew the curtain. The ocelots came charging down. "Don't chase!" she yelled. They rolled into her legs.

"Oh, you little shitters!" she scolded. "Bad cats! Are those the kind of manners they teach in South America?" 

She grabbed a duster from a utility closet and started along the garden-level windowsills. She pulled a ceremonial opening ribbon off the theater door. There was a playbill: The Postman Always Rings Twice.

She slid the door open and rotated a dimmer switch. Sunset-colored light glowed in the recessed light fixtures. She sat in the back row in a luxurious leather chair, remembering her last conversation with her father, an interview she'd called the Silverman chronicles. She pressed a remote button, and Max's face appeared on the screen. "Tell me about yourself, dad."

But then she heard his tapping.

"What the fuck?" Ok, whatever this is, it's bad."  She glanced at her watch. It was 6:24 a.m. Her closest neighbor was a half-mile off. This isn't right.

She slipped past the theater's door, then stopped, listening, and watching.

Shiksa and Ben-Gurion crouched low and paced the room with wide eyes.

She started for the gun vault, slipping past the French doors and up the stairs taking two at a clip. She pulled her Desert Eagle from the vault, yanking the slide back and chambering a stupidly large round into the breach.

She hurried to a window and pulled back the shade.

A feather could've knocked her over. Ray was standing barefoot in the moonlight, wearing the suit he'd been buried in three months before.

She knew better than to accept it, but her heart swelled with momentary joy.

It'd all been a twisted mistake! She flew down the stairs, slapping up the patio light switch, throwing the bolt back, and pushing the doors open. The gun slipped from her hand, discharging as it hit the floor.

The undertaker's putty had come off Ray's face, revealing the gruesome injuries he'd suffered in the crash. She pushed down her revulsion, then stepped back, holding her ground while Ray moved stiffly past her and let out a horrifying wail, the sounds of a car crash, shattering windshields, and the clang of axles breaking apart. He stank horribly; his face was sunken.

She thought she'd puke. Ray was a fucking zombie! She had a problem.

He went to the library, to his baby grand piano, shutting the door behind him. Ok, thought Suzette.

She sat in a chair next to the library door and trembled as Ray played a sonata on the keyboard.

"Jesus, Ray, you're dead as fuck, but you're still family." 

She pushed the library door open.

"Can I do anything for you?" 

Ray snapped his jaws as an annoyed dog might do at flies.

"I don't know what that means, Ray." 

He pushed a fist into his mouth and started grunting.

"Oh, it's about food. I get it. We've still got those emotional support rabbits you used to raise. They're out in the hutch."

After tossing Ray a rabbit and listening to the racket he made chasing it around, Suzette decided she needed a bath.

"Stay put, Ray; we'll figure this out tomorrow, ok?"

She went upstairs to the main bedroom, filled the jet tub, went to the walk-in closet, and stripped in front of a full-length mirror. She turned sideways, admiring the heft of her tits and the rest of her toned, five-foot-eleven-inch body. Shiksa and Ben-Gurion pressed against her legs and touched their noses to her kneecaps. "No, you don't; that gives me goosebumps." She pinned up her red hair and then went to the tub.

A week went by.


She was out of support rabbits. Ray had also gobbled up twenty of her game hens. She was doing everything she could, but he was voracious. He devoured anything he could chew. Dead, alive, rotten, it didn't matter so long as he could sink his teeth into it. The cleanup was hell, primarily because of the zombie shit. A lumpy, decaying, undigested mash spilled out of him, often containing knots of hair and eyeballs that had missed mastication. She'd put plastic sheeting on the floor to catch the gore. Every couple of days, she'd gone in, first yelling him into a corner, then rolling up the plastic along with the feathers and fur, the roadkill paws. She'd replace the plastic sheeting, then use a shop vac for any overspill. "Get the fuck back, Ray, back!" she'd yell. But then she'd feel horrible for mistreating him. He didn't have language anymore; she wasn't sure he even understood her, but she spoke to him as though he did.

She tapped her nails on the granite counter. Where would she get Ray's next meal?

She went to the den, glancing at the one-hundred-yard driveway that intersected County Road 5. Haze lit on the asphalt, the fence lines, and the windstorm's tumbleweeds jammed along its length. She made a mental note to get a burn permit and then started through the front door on her way to the mailbox, but Cutie Niels was slowly walking along Road 5.

 Suzette changed directions, heading for the toolshed where she thought to hide until Cutie was down the road. But Cutie had already spotted her and was waving.

Let it play out. Suzette started down the driveway as Cutie leaned her fat body on the mailbox, scratching her ass and smacking her lips salaciously at the sway of Suzette's hips.

"Expecting a box today, Suzette? You get boxes almost every day, isn't that so? It's no wonder a pretty thing like you gets everything she wants."

Cutie's upper lip had wiry hairs. Her mouth was wet in the corners, and she had a skin disorder; little bumps just under the skin made Suzette think of spider eggs in barn corners.

"I don't know what you mean," said Suzette, stepping up to the mailbox and yanking the lid open.

"I'll bet those delivery boys get ideas about you." Cutie laughed and wheezed until a tear dripped from one of her eyes. "Oh, God," she coughed, "I wish I had your backside. You're built just like a young mare. I get warm as toast just from looking. I swing both ways, honeypot, but nobody wants me on account of my years."

"I have to go."

"Did I see you collecting roadkill a couple of days back? Strange."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Suzette, noticing that Cutie had stuffed her hands deep into the pockets of her overalls and was rubbing the tops of her thighs.

"You sure are pretty, Miss Suzette," said Cutie lasciviously. "I'd pay for it."

You'll pay for it, especially when you meet Ray, thought Suzette. "Are you propositioning me, Cutie? It's four hundred, and I don't do anything back."

"You've got yourself a deal, sugar tits. But for that kind of money, I get to take my time with it."


"Well, I don't have that on me."

"Not my problem. Go get it."

Suzette's doorbell rang an hour later.

Cutie showed her the cash. "I'm sorry if I've seemed unkind in the past, Suzette, and I'm sorry about your family."

 "Should I freshen up?" asked Suzette, plucking the cash out of Cutie's hand.

"I like it sticky, nail-cakes."

"Follow me," said Suzette, turning and heading for the stairs.

"Your bedroom's down there?" asked Cutie, suddenly suspicious.

"You don't want to now?"

"Whoa, I didn't say that. Lead the way."

Suzette turned, headed down the stairs ahead of Cutie, unbuttoned her jeans, and stepped out. Cutie followed, slowly making her way down the stairs. An expression of dumb adoration spread over her face as she reached the lower level and saw Suzette in her panties. Suzette backed seductively through the library door, smiling, saying,

"Come in here and be nice to me." 

The withering old bitch started clumsily forward. But then she stopped and trembled.

"Why, it smells down here, Sweetie. What is this? I think I should go now."

She tried to retreat. Suzette stepped forward quickly, striking Cutie with a head-stupifying punch. Cutie went down hard, and before she could cry out, Suzette put her weight behind a sledgehammer kick. The air rushed out of Cutie's lungs.

"Nobody can save you now!" 

Suzette dragged her into the library, then slammed the door as Ray shambled forward, digging his fingers into Cutie's throat, eating the side of her face off. He tore a huge flap back. Cutie's jaws opened and closed like squashed spider's legs; her molars were exposed. Ray tore the face flap off and stuffed it into his dead mouth, swallowing and grunting while his gassy burps fouled the air. Pieces of bridgework fell out of Cutie's face tear. She drew a breath, arterial blood spraying. Suzette turned away to avoid the splatter. Cutie shat herself and died. "How do you like me now, Twatsy!" shouted Suzette. She glanced at Ray. He was sucking Cutie's gore off his fingers and staring greedily at Suzette's pussy. She didn't know her panties were shredded.

"Oh, no, you don't, Ray. I see what you're thinking." She attempted half-heartedly to get around him, but he grabbed her ass and stuck his decaying face in her cooze. She slapped the top of his head, saying, "Gross!" But she let him eat it and keep eating it until she'd cum three times. "I'm not sucking your dead cock, Ray, but you can fuck me, doggie." She later stood in the shower, washing Cutie pieces down the drain.

Several days passed. Suzette watched her soaps while Ray picked Cutie over. 

The air drifting from the lower level was disgusting, and when Suzette had had her fill, she marched down the stairs and pushed the library door open. Ben-Gurion rushed past her, swatted at Ray, and then scampered out. Ray didn't react; he stayed focused on the bits of meat still hanging on Cutie's ribcage.

"We gotta clean this up, Ray. Do you understand?" 

He didn't know how to get to Cutie's brain.

"Ok, Ray, do you need help with the brain?" 

Ray jumped up and performed a coltish jig at the mention of brains.

"Ok, Ray, so you can understand me. That's good. I can break her skull open if you want, but she must go after that. I'll need to get the sledgehammer and that eight-inch block of railway tie. After you've had your brain, I think it's time we got you cleaned up a little. I can hose you off on the patio." 

With the splitting of Cutie's skull, her brain tumbled out like blackened walnut meat. Ray grabbed it up but hesitated, extending a piece toward Suzette. She held up a hand.

"I'm all good, Ray. Have at it." 

He was eating slower than usual.

"How's it tasting, Ray?" He shrugged, then shook his head to say, "Don't ask." 

"Not so fresh, eh?"

Ray opened his mouth. Was he trying to speak? A screeching sound like tires on asphalt came out, but suddenly he burped up a consonant and then a vowel.

"T—T—Twaat!" he finally managed, crawling towards Suzette on all fours.

"Don't get playful, Ray. What is it with you? As soon as you get one thing, you want another. Ok, well, maybe later. But we need to dispose of Cutie. Here's the plan, I'll back the truck up to the patio doors when it's dark; we'll load her up and dump her someplace. I'll get you cleaned up, and then we'll see about the…."

"Cuuuunt!" moaned Ray.

"Jesus, Ray, hold it down."

Suzette went upstairs and watched Lost reruns until sunset. She backed the truck in and yelled for Ray. They piled Cutie's remains into the back of the truck, then dumped them in the Little Thompson River. 

They returned just after midnight. Suzette set the pressure washer up on the patio and instructed Ray to remove his clothing. "I'll have you sparkling clean in no time, Ray!" She set the pressure to low, but the water stream cut both of Ray's ears off on the first pass. She dropped the pressure wand and covered her mouth,

"Oh, my God, Ray, I'm so sorry." 

Ray held his hand up and motioned Suzette to follow him through the patio doors. He led her into the library, where he grabbed a music sheet and wrote on the back. He handed it to Suzette: Not your fault. I'm dying again. This time forever. Suzette looked up to see black tears streaming down Ray's cheeks.

"Oh, shit," said Suzette, now crying tears too. She removed her jeans and lay on the floor. Ray, already fading, crawled to her, and she guided his face to her pussy. But Ray's tongue worked only intermittently. Just a moment later, it wound to a stop. "I almost came, Ray…almost," whispered Suzette.

And then she slept, and she dreamed. In their last exhilarating moments together, Ray holds the reins of their chariot as it hurtles across eternity. She slides her arm inside his elbow and looks up with affection. "I love you, Ray Ray." 

But there is no such grandeur in the recesses of her unconscious. Lost within the confines of her sunken fortress, Suzette does not sense the sun-drenched landscapes or the Pacific sprays. There is immutable silence, the tiara she wears on her brow, a parchment with a poem rolled and tied and fallen from her hand. She is dressed in taffeta and does not dream of escape, nor will she ever.




Submitted: May 27, 2022

© Copyright 2022 Laird. All rights reserved.

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