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  Hug Chickenpenny: The Panegyric of an Anomalous Child

  BY S. CRAIG ZAHLER

  Praise for Hug Chickenpenny: The Panegyric of an Anomalous Child

  “S. Craig Zahler is certain to become one of the great imaginers of our time.”

  —Clive Barker

  “[A]n exceptional, original, and inherently fascinating read from beginning to end, Hug Chickenpenny is unreservedly recommended for personal reading lists, and would be an especially impressive addition to both community and academic library General Fiction/Literary Fiction collections.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “[A] sharp look at family, deformity, community, and belonging. At once moving and merciless, this is a chronicle of a hapless but still altogether human life.”

  —Brian Evenson

  “I was intrigued (and still am) by the cover art on this new book. Detailed and beautiful, the cover is a good segue into what to expect from the story. Learn about Hug’s life by venturing into this aptly written wonder of fiction. You won’t regret it.”

  —Michael Rodriguez, bookseller, Harvard Book Store (Staff Pick)

  Other Books Available From S. Craig Zahler

  A Congregation of Jackals

  Corpus Chrome, Inc.

  Mean Business on North Ganson Street

  Wraiths of the Broken Land

  Hug Chickenpenny: The Panegyric of an Anomalous Child

  Copyright © 2018 by S. Craig Zahler

  ISBN 9781946487001 (paperback)

  ISBN 9781946487018 (e-book)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017930370

  Published by Cinestate

  Cover & Frontispiece: Matt Brinkman

  Design & Layout: Ashley Detmering

  Typesetter: Kirby Gann

  Copyeditors: Molly Wolchansky and Kayleigh Fassel

  Distributor: Consortium Book Sales & Distribution

  Editor: Will Evans

  Producer & Publisher: Dallas Sonnier

  Author: S. Craig Zahler

  First Edition January 2018

  Printed in the United States of America

  

  Table of Contents

  

  I | An Assortment of Creepers

  II | George’s Cups

  III | They Crawled Away from Him

  IV | The End of His First Orbit

  V | The Amenable Doctor (of Teratology)

  VI | (The Coercion of) Soft Hands

  VII | The Antagonist’s Reward

  VIII | A Tour of the Hannersby Collection

  IX | The Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences

  X | The Mushroom Hunters

  XI | Two Sleepers

  XII | Unwanted Again

  XIII | Other Children

  XIV | Cold Coffee and Old Obituaries

  XV | Clandestine Crafts

  XVI | The Instructor’s Lesson

  XVII | Wishes Realized

  XVIII | Television Tutelage

  XIX | An Artistic Survey

  XX | Unsupervised Nights

  XXI | Brotherhood

  XXII | Sidereal, Ethereal, and Corporeal

  XXIII | Why?

  XXIV | Drafty Hearths

  XXV | Miscellaneous Junk

  XXVI | The Voyager

  I | An Assortment of Creepers

  The sun crested a distant mountain range and shone upon suburban rooftops that had chimneys, television antennas, and lost model airplanes. Away from these pastel homes and atop a weedy hill stood an anomalous mansion, the facade of which was covered with creepers. A hot summer wind sent ripples of light across these tall walls of vegetation, and a phone rang somewhere deep within the overgrowth.

  Tires skidded. A maroon sports car materialized at the edge of a long steep driveway, angled toward the mansion, and ascended. Gravel crackled beneath grinding wheels.

  Again, the phone rang.

  The vehicle stopped sharply. Behind the steering wheel sat Abigail Westinghouse, a slender and angular forty-year-old woman who had an upturned nose, a high forehead, and dark brown hair that was twined with silver. Her hazel eyes surveyed the overgrown mansion, and her right hand held the receiver of a car phone against the side of her head.

  In her ear and within the home that she observed, the connection rang. Nobody answered.

  Abigail slammed the receiver into the cradle. Fearful thoughts multiplied inside of her unclear mind.

  Decided, the brunette flung the gear into park, opened the driver’s door, and exited the vehicle. Morning sunlight lanced her eyes, and she squinted.

  With an elbow, Abigail slammed the door. The improperly engaged gear upon the steering column was jarred by this action from park to neutral, which she might have noticed had she not been impaired by sunlight and her morning cocktails.

  Tightening the belt of her black robe, the brunette hastened toward the front door. The soles of her untied tennis shoes scuffed the pathway stones as she proceeded.

  “Meredith!” cried Abigail.

  The owner of the neglected mansion did not offer a response nor did anybody else.

  Fears chattered inside of Abigail as she climbed the front steps.

  Morning sunshine cast her shadow upon an elaborate wind chime, which was comprised of violescent and viridescent crystals that Meredith had claimed originated in outer space.

  The brunette reached the front door, made a fist, and pounded thrice. This tattoo echoed within the mansion.

  Nobody responded.

  Unnoticed by its owner, the maroon sports car began to roll back down the driveway and toward the road.

  Abigail hammered her clenched right hand against the wood until she felt pain.

  The sound of her efforts echoed and vanished.

  “Meredith . . . are you in there? I passed out early last night and just got your message.”

  The brunette stepped back and examined the creeper-adorned facade of the mansion.

  All of the windows were shut, excepting one that was located on the second floor.

  Hazel eyes flickered to the lone tree that stretched out a solitary branch toward this opening, and an unsafe plan was conceived.

  Suppressing a fear of heights and many other things, Abigail hastened across the yard. She arrived at the sycamore and immediately saw that the trunk was too broad and smooth for her to scale directly.

  Looking up, the brunette reached her hands toward the lowest perpendicular branch. The nails of her two longest fingers scratched across the wood, but even on her tiptoes, she was unable to grab the limb. Teeth gritted, she bent her knees and jumped. Her palms impacted the branch, and she clenched her hands.

  Abigail dangled from the tree. Loose shoelaces skimmed the tops of the tallest weeds as she swayed.

  The brunette tightened her arms and tried to pull herself up to the branch, but instead sweated, raised her heart rate, and felt pains in her shoulders. Undertakings such as this had been far easier when she was a kid or sober. Jaw clenched, she swung her legs toward the trunk, where her tennis shoes gained a foothold on the surface.

  Abigail climbed.

  Her simian enterprise brought her feet to the lowermost branch and her hands to a higher limb, which was the one that stretched toward the mansion. Dappled sunlight shone in her eyes as she looked through the open window.

  Beyond the rippling curtain was a library that contained mountains of books. Much of this room was hidden in darkness.

  “Meredith!” shouted Abigail. “Are you in th—” Her voice cracked fearfully. “It’s Abigail. I’m outside. In the tree!”

  There was no response to these solicitations.

  The brunette inhaled deeply and made her decision. Hand over hand, she traversed the outs
tretched branch, which creaked and drooped as she proceeded. She soon reached the terminus, where a yard of emptiness hung between her and the open window.

  Abigail glanced into the dark library from her closer vantage.

  More books and three strange chairs were now visible as was the fact that the area was vacant.

  The brunette needed to get inside and find her friend.

  Tightly gripping the branch, she swung her legs back and forth, repeated this action, and stabbed her left foot at the open window. The tip of this sneaker scraped across bottom of the sill but did not hold.

  Momentum carried her away from the house and the image of an orangutan that she had once seen at the zoo came to mind.

  Clasping the branch with raw hands, Abigail swung herself back and forth, again and again, increasing the velocity of her pendulous endeavor. Wind tussled her hair as the building lunged and retreated from her face.

  She stabbed her left foot forward, and the rubber sole of her tennis shoe landed squarely upon the windowsill.

  The brunette stopped swinging. At present, her forward leg diagonally and tenuously attached her to the mansion. Perspiration beaded upon her red face and dropped fifteen feet to the weeds. Her hands ached.

  Abigail shifted her weight, stuffed air into her lungs, and launched herself through the open window. Curtains rustled, and the darkness enveloped her.

  A protruding nail ripped her robe, and her left shoulder whacked a pile of books, which turned into a storm of fluttering, yellowing paper.

  Floorboards slammed into her left hip and outstretched palms. For a moment, the dull thud of her arrival echoed throughout the library.

  Abigail was inside the Chickenpenny Mansion.

  She stood. Sweat poured down her face as she discarded her robe and adjusted her maroon nightgown. Scratches glowed upon her right arm and the shin of her left leg.

  Abigail kicked aside a tome that was entitled The Hidden Constellations and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim environment.

  “Meredith? Are you still home?”

  The words echoed throughout the room and in the dark spaces that lay beyond.

  Nobody responded.

  The brunette exited the library and found herself in a hallway, which was dimly illuminated by two distant windows. Floorboards creaked as she walked past an ancient family portrait, a padded chair, and a chandelier, which lay in a glittering pile upon the ground. The smells of old books and dust filled the air.

  Abigail never understood why Meredith lived in this place. It was part of her inheritance, but that did not make it any less dreadful.

  The brunette looked around for some clue as to where her pregnant friend might be located, but the old house told her nothing. Floorboards creaked beneath her tennis shoes as she neared the stairwell that led to the first floor.

  A gust blew.

  Abigail smelled something, paused, and sniffed the air.

  The odors of blood and excrement blossomed within her head. Turning around, the brunette looked toward the source of these smells.

  Standing at the far end of the hallway was an open door. Beyond this portal lay darkness.

  “Are you in there?” inquired Abigail, whose throat was dry. “Meredith . . . ?”

  This hoarse inquiry echoed and was succeeded by silence. For a few seconds, the brunette monitored the dark doorway.

  There was no choice for her but to investigate the source of these terrible smells.

  At present, she walked. Foul smells intruded upon her senses, and she covered her nose with her left hand. The doorway drew near.

  Abigail passed through the portal and into darkness. Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting.

  This room in which she stood had floral wallpaper, a sofa, and a weird vase that contained black flowers. The next object that materialized from the darkness was the large lump that lay upon the floor.

  Abigail paled.

  Prostrate and still on the ground was Meredith Chickenpenny, a woman of thirty-nine years who had wavy blonde hair and very long fingernails. Blood covered the floor underneath the inert woman.

  Shocked, the brunette gaped at the horrible tableau.

  A reflection of Meredith’s unblinking, blue eyes stared up from the puddle of blood.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Abigail. “I—”

  The brunette lost the ability to speak. Tears stung her eyes as she walked toward the body.

  It was then that she saw the glistening, ribbed, and pinkish-gray cord that lay upon the floor.

  Abigail observed this strange rope, which led from the far door all the way to the concealed belly of the prone woman.

  It was an umbilical cord.

  Gagging, the brunette fell to her knees. She wiped her clammy face on her arm and tried to remember how to breathe.

  It was then that she heard a faint scuffing sound.

  Abigail raised her head and looked in the direction of this noise. The umbilical cord was twitching.

  Tears poured down the brunette’s face. Horror and grief made her thoughts unclear. It seemed possible that this was all a dream and that she would wake up on her couch with enough food and vodka to get her through the day.

  The umbilical cord jittered a fraction of an inch.

  Shivering, Abigail rose to her feet and followed the twitching line through the doorway into an even darker enclosure. A stairwell that went up to the attic stood on the opposite side of this room.

  Upon those steps lay the umbilical cord.

  The brunette ascended, following the impossibly long lifeline. Stairs creaked noisily in the narrow space, and the smells of blood and excrement worsened. Eventually, the umbilical cord led her to a closed attic door.

  Abigail raised a trembling hand and twisted the brass knob. A latch clicked. Hinges creaked as she opened the door.

  Nauseated by the smells, the brunette held her breath and entered the attic.

  Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and located the twitching line, which she then followed to the far side of the room.

  Upon seeing what lay at the end of the umbilical cord, Abigail lost consciousness and collapsed.

  Outside the overgrown mansion, the maroon sports car rolled into the road. An oncoming van skidded, but could not avoid the empty vehicle.

  A thunderous boom resounded.

  Frightened by this sound, the motherless infant that lay within the attic shrieked. This cry was the most horrible sound that had ever been produced by a human being.

  II | George’s Cups

  Cheerful sunlight illuminated the polka-dotted curtains of a very neat kitchenette. Upon white tiles of linoleum stood a round table that was covered by a mint-green cloth, which was itself protected by plastic. Seated here was a seventy-eight-year-old woman, Gladys Dodgett.

  Turning from the stove was George Dodgett, a chubby forty-two-year-old man who had a neat red beard, bright green eyes, a blue shirt, matching slacks, and an emerald tie. Four plates were balanced upon his thick arms as he approached the table.

  “Good morning, Mom.”

  The sight of the caretaker and the meal that his limbs supported brightened Gladys. “Good morning, Georgie.”

  “Two-and-a-half eggs.”

  George set a plate upon a wicker placemat. This was done as gently as possible, so that the noise would not startle Gladys.

  The septuagenarian looked down at the dish, where lay two sunny-side-up eggs. Beside this symmetrical duo sat a hardboiled half that had been dusted with paprika.

  “Two English muffins—one buttered and one swirled.”

  Gently, George set down a plate with the described English muffins. One glistened with butter, and a spiral of orange and red jams colored the other.

  “Apricot and raspberry.”

  “My favorites,” remarked Gladys, who had no small amount of favorites.

  The caretaker set down the third plate. “Three bowties.”

  Upon this dish were three strips of bacon that had
each been tied into a neat and perfect bowtie.

  “And of course,” George said, “your special grapefruit.”

  “I was hoping that you’d made it . . .”

  The caretaker set down the final dish. Upon it was a pink grapefruit that had been peeled, sectioned, and reshaped into a budding flower. Mint leaves, confectioner’s sugar, and drizzled honey decorated this floral creation.

  “It’s so pretty,” remarked Gladys.

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  George did not make his living as an artist, but he believed that every person on Earth had some artistic potential.

  The septuagenarian closed her eyes, inhaled aromas, and nodded in approval. She smiled at her son and looked ten years younger.

  “Aren’t you going to have something?” asked Gladys.

  George shook his head. “I have to get to work early today.”

  “You’re welcome to have some of mine if you’d like—though not too much of the special grapefruit.”

  The caretaker gestured with his chubby hands. “It’s all for you, Mom. Every last bit of it.”

  “You spoil me, Georgie. Just like your father always did.”

  With a bittersweet grin, George walked over to Gladys and kissed her on a fuzzy cheek. “I’ll visit during my lunch break. Stay out of trouble.”

  The septuagenarian righted her posture and lifted her chin. “I’m staying faithful to your father—don’t you worry.”

  “I’m sure he appreciates your loyalty.”

  “Besides . . . the boys stopped pestering me long ago.” Gladys giggled.

  George chuckled. His laugh was warm and friendly.

  ———

  Sitting behind the wheel of a tiny green hatchback, the chubby caretaker looked to the left and to the right, repeated this sequence two more times, and thrice checked each mirror.

  Things looked safe.

  George pressed the gas pedal. His home shrank as he drove down the driveway, turned onto the street, and proceeded east. The suburban road that he traveled was lined with strong trees and pastel-colored houses.