The Sick Stuff by Ronald Kelly

mouth. But he dared not vomit. To do so would bring a new
nest of horrors from within him, and he was afraid such an
expulsion would dampen the indignation he now directed toward his
elder brother.
    "I demand that you tell me all concerning
this sordid business between the house of Deveroux and that witch
in the swamp," he said. "What sin did our parents commit to bring
such sorrow upon us?"
    "What would the telling of the story
resolve?" Trevor said sadly. "Best leave it in the darkness where
it belongs."
    "No!" snapped Quentin. "Tell me... if only for
my own peace of mind."
    Trevor laughed. "Peace of mind? That is
hilarious, little brother. Never again shall our namesake enjoy
such a luxury."
    Quentin watched in disgust as Trevor's right
hand emerged from beneath his cloak. The flesh of the appendage was
raw and decayed. Plump white maggots teamed within the bloody meat,
feeding, crawling along the jointless nubs of what had once been
his fingers. Trevor stuck his hand into the crackling flames of the
fireplace. Instantly, the larva sizzled and popped, and the exposed
meat of his failing flesh turned black with cauterization... but only
temporarily.
    That was the elder Deveroux's personal curse;
the constant decay of his outer skin and the muscle underneath.
Beneath the woolen blanket, Quentin sat naked, his fingers and
toes, even his manhood, rotted away, leaving gaping wounds. It was
the same with his head and torso. Within the dark, bloody cavity of
his chest and abdomen, his internal organs continued to function,
though turning gelatinous from gangrene and infested with parasites
and the eggs that would produce a thousand more.
    Quentin tightened the cloth upon his
nostrils. He felt the contents of his stomach threaten to rise,
with the assistance of the creatures that grew and generated within
the dark recesses of his own body. With much effort, he quelled the
sickness that threatened to overcome him.
    "Brother, I beg of you, tell me the truth,"
he said, his anger smoldering into despair. "Perhaps I can do
something. Perhaps I can reverse this damnation that we have been
subjected to."
    Haughtily, Trevor cast back the hood of his
cover. His face was a glistening red skull, devoid of hair or ears.
His lips had rotted away, revealing strong white teeth that had
once charmed the belles of the sugar district. It was true... Trevor
had once been a dashing and handsome gentleman. But that was no
longer evident, given his deteriorating condition.
    "All right! If you must know, then I shall
tell you!" His bloodshot eyes glared from the lidless pits of their
sockets. Several blue-bottle flies had grown bold and lit atop the
membrane-thin flesh of his skull. "It was all begat by adultery,
dear brother. Debauchery and unbridled lust."
    Quentin baulked. "But our father had no such
tendencies!"
    A look of disgust crossed Trevor's disfigured
face. "Oh, it wasn't he who performed the offending act.
Rather it was our dear, sweet mother."
    Quentin's rage resurfaced. "Liar!"
    "No, I speak the truth. It is a hard potion
to swallow to be sure, but genuine none the less." Trevor stretched
out his leg and laid it upon the blazing logs of the fireplace.
Soon, the stench of gangrene was replaced by the odor of rancid
meat, cooked to the bone.
    Heavily and with dread, Quentin sat on an
ottoman. "Then tell me all that you know."
    Trevor looked into the fire, as though seeing
all that had transpired within the ebb and tide of the flames.
"Unbeknownst to you, lovely and genteel Rosealynda Deveroux had a
dark passion... a carnal desire for pleasure other than what was
consummated in her marriage bed. She particularly hungered for the
attention of the male slaves that Father worked from daybreak to
dawn in the canebrake. One in particular held her fancy... a strong,
young buck named Jonathan. You remember him, don't you? Nearly
seven feet tall, strong as an oak and as black as pitch. And,
crudely put, rather well-endowed. That was how our mother