Southern Legitimacy Statement: Growing up in South Carolina we whispered ghost stories about the Gray Man, plateyes, or the Lovely Lady when we snuck past crooked iron gates into grave yards covered with kudzu and ancient oaks dripping with Spanish moss. With my southern delight in the bizarre, it was the Flabbyman who fascinated me most.
The Flabbyman
Arthur tidied the room to his mother’s exacting standards and backed out of the silenced kitchen. Stripping the gloves off, he did one last sweep. His gaze snagged on the purpled face resting against the bread board, and he nodded, satisfied every trace of sneering arrogance had been smothered.
Euphoria faded. Sounds of the city began working their way back into his consciousness alongside the yeasty smell of rising dough and the acrid scent of death
Soon the news media would report the Kitchen Killer had struck again. He didn’t care for the name. He considered himself more of a freedom fighter. Call it what you would, he’d found his vocation teaching mockers and scoffers the error of their ways. The proof of his special talent sprawled there, demanding the respect he’d been denied.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Time to move on.
#
Fourteen hours later, Arthur swung off the paved road, headlights illuminating trees dripping Spanish moss and the occasional red glow from the eyes of something scuttling away from the car. Swinging around a bend in the marshy track, his high beams lit up a cabin squatting in the clearing like a malevolent toad. The place was as ugly as homemade sin but remote and hard to find, sufficiently distanced from that last incident. He smiled, his heart speeding up at the recollection of what he’d left behind after hundreds of miles of back roads and small towns.
He’d be safe here for a while, isolated in this backwoods burg where no one would imagine him. The natives’ speech patterns, intonations, and folksy place names might seem almost incomprehensible to him, but fears and faults were the same everywhere. No matter what locals called them. This place, divorced from his usual haunts, provided the perfect hideaway to await his next appointment.
He pulled the rental behind a tangle of overgrown vines, swatting at mosquitoes in the dark humidity. The weak yellow glow from one lone bulb dangling over the derelict porch struggled against the darkness of the surrounding trees. He’d never experienced a New York street as dark as these woods. The puny light didn’t help much, just proved the electricity was on like he’d insisted. After hauling his gear out of the trunk, he switched on his headlights to position the security cameras, one over each door and window of the cabin, eight in all. There was zero chance he’d been followed, but as famous as he was getting, he couldn’t be too careful.
Exploring the back of the overgrown yard, he located a dented metal trash can in the tangle of bushes and disposed of the empty KFC bucket. His father taught him the hard way to always take out the trash. Security set, his presence hidden, he trudged inside to check out the interior and find a bed. His expectations were pretty low. He was a NYC boy, rural South Carolina was bound to be a disappointment. He’d manage as long as there was electricity and running water, though.
Banging the screen door behind him, he explored the shotgun cabin. The oldsters at the country store claimed the name meant the hall was wide enough to shoot a shotgun from front to back without hitting anything. He measured with his eyes. Maybe. He wasn’t much for firearms, he preferred working with his hands, but the width seemed about right. Two rooms lurked on each side; kitchen, den, on one side, bathroom, bedroom on the other. That was it. More than he needed. He checked that the cameras were working, then went to bed to the sound of strange insects and unfamiliar rustlings.
Something jerked him awake, alerting him to new noises. What was that? He strained his ears to decipher the source. Nothing. He settled back down.
He heard it again and concentrated, trying to catalog the noise. Sort of a thwap, then a sucking sound, then another thwap. Or more of a flomp? Strange house, every sound is peculiar, he calmed himself. This house was sturdy, though, not the sort of place where old boards creaked for no reason. Not branches scraping against the flaking siding either. This noise was different. Weird. There it was again. More of a squelch. It reminded him of something.
He was back in Dad’s kitchen, a pair of hairy forearms sprouting from rolled up sleeves, meaty hands slapping dough down on a counter. A kid transfixed by the string of curses that sounded in rhythm with the turning and kneading watching. His old man had always kneaded dough with a vengeance. But not anymore.
The muffled sounds grew louder. Like they were in this kitchen. He didn’t have good memories of his father’s kitchen, until he’d found a way to erase that gnawing dread. He focused on his success at silencing those sounds. No more kitchens. At least for a while.
Nowadays he ate all his meals out. How was he was going to do that in this podunk town? It was barely a village, more like a crossroads, tiny, whatever it was, and backward. But he was stuck until the coast was clear. Didn’t matter. He’d find a way. He’d move the microwave into the bedroom and heat a cup of noodles every single day before he’d eat in a kitchen again.
He flinched. A new noise sounded more like a side of beef being thrown down on the worktop, the thwap like the thud of a cleaver cutting steaks. Funny how that racket never bothered him like the noise of kneading. Or the slap of bare hands on dough right before Dad tossed a wad of it in his face.
“Catch, boy!” His old man swore he was aiming for his mouth, that he never meant for the thud of warm dampness to seal his eyes and airways.
Arthur tore and clawed at the sticky mass covering his face, but he could never get it off before he passed out. Every time, he’d wake up to the old man laughing his ass off while Arthur fought free of the stringy globs adhering to his mouth and nose. Every single time.
“Whatsa matter, kid? It’s just dough. Can’t you take a joke?” followed by more raucous laughter.
Not laughing anymore, huh Dad?
A new sound squelched, closer now. Maybe like it was out in the hall. Couldn’t be. Everything was locked and barred. He cut his eyes to the monitor. Nothing showed up on the cameras. Must be getting paranoid. Nothing could get inside undetected, one reason he rented this place even after hearing it was haunted. Or maybe cursed, if you listened to local gossip.
Those old codgers at the country store went bug-eyed when they guessed where he was staying. Warned him of an ancient legend about a hometown monster that was supposed to hang out here. Hadn’t been listening, not really. Some kind of Southern ghost. No, not a ghost, something with a different name, a pathetic name. Oh, yeah, the Flabbyman. Arthur snickered. He’d never been afraid of ghosts, especially the home-grown, redneck variety. He’d ignored their scare tactics and bought his supplies. How could anyone take ignorant tales of a spook like that seriously?
Those old dudes did though. He’d laughed them to scorn. Especially when they warned him how their ridiculous excuse for a fiend would squelch into the cabin in the middle of the night to torment him; looking for vengeance. He wasn’t worried. He’d made sure everyone who wanted revenge on him was dead and gone. These days he meted out his brand of justice to anyone who needed it.
There it went again! Was that a squishing sound outside the bedroom door? Which was locked tight.
The old-timers said this flabbyman—he forced a grin at that monicker—would ooze right under the door like raw dough through a pasta roller. But that was just a kid’s story, right? About a floppy, boneless beast making spongy splats as it slinks and slithers toward its victim. How was that even supposed to be scary?
The skinnier wrinkled gomer this morning had whispered that once in the room, the thing would reform, then flop and waddle nearer like an evil Pillsbury doughboy.
“He’ll pounce when you open your eyes.”
The snicker the old coot deserved got cut off by the memory of raw pizza crust sealing his eyes and mouth shut, blinding him, cutting off his air. That sensation hadn’t returned as often once he’d followed his mom’s advice and shared his solution with his dad. Before she left, she gave him the best advice ever, “A problem shared is a problem halved.” That worked with fear, too. Seeing that terror on Dad’s face soothed his spirit and his fear disappeared. For a while.
He knew how to handle it now. Whenever the twist of dread ambushed him, he’d find some arrogant SOB who deserved to share it and away it went. Until next time.
The wrinkled redneck was dead serious when warning him, “Feeds on vengeance. Don’t let him see your soul. Never open your eyes.”
Yeah. No. He’d keep his eyes peeled. Nothing worse than feeling blind, that panic when he couldn’t see because his eyes felt glued shut, never to open again. Besides, he wasn’t scared of Poppin’ Fresh.
Those old guys wouldn’t shut up. “He’ll ooze nearer. Those sucking sounds movin’ closer’ll make you want to look. But don’t open your eyes. Never open your eyes.”
He’d had a hard laugh at that and told them what he thought of their advice. Added a few of his own curses.
The local yokel shook his head and squinted. He wasn’t finished. With unwavering intensity, he added, “Suspense gets too much? You finally peek? Thing’ll fling hisself on your face, smother the life outta you. Then…suck out your eyeballs.”
Memories of formless weight on his face, overwhelming him, stealing his senses, smothering him with dough as he tried to gulp in a breath. How’d they know? Blind fury consumed Arthur. Didn’t matter. He’d destroy this monster, just like he’d destroyed all his monsters, starting in that first kitchen. He’d stare this one down, just like he’d stared at the life leaving his father’s eyes. And all the others like him. He’d proven he wasn’t some helpless, scared kid anymore. In fact, tomorrow he’d take care of those two hicks for mocking him. Show them what a real monster looked like.
He stiffened at a new noise. Their claims were ridiculous, but that choking sound had his heart racing and a cold sweat soaking the sheets.
Something rustled and slithered on the other side of the bedroom door. He had to look.
A familiar gooey weight pressed down on him, obliterating his view, sealing his airways as he fought and clawed, wheezing curses, gasping for air.
#
“Morning, Oscar, Ollie.”
“You’re early this morning, Officer Hill.”
“Had a call. Need some strong coffee.”
“Uh-oh. Out at the Morgan place?” The two old-timers shared a nod. “Warned him,” one muttered.
“How’d you know?” Officer Hill pushed his hat back. “You see the fellow who rented it?”
“Met him yesterday.” Ollie shook his head. “No manners. Warned him anyway.”
“What happened, Officer? Same as last time?”
“Yep. Lifeless body, face all froze up like he was seeing something horrible. Guess we won’t ever know what.”
“We told ‘em. Won’t nobody never believe us, Officer,” croaked Ollie.
Oscar sniffed. “Eyeballs?”
“Gone. Just like last time. Looked to be sucked right out the sockets.”
Oscar chewed his biscuit. “Wanted man, was he?”
“Might could be, by the looks of things. FBI spotted that ‘Kitchen Killer’ somewhere in these parts.”
“Figures.” Oscar scowled. “Like calls to like. Tried to tell him.”
“Totin’ your own vengeance’ll do you in ever’ time.”
“Reckon he won’t make that mistake again.” Ollie cackled.
“Guess not.” Officer Hill took his coffee, then tipped his hat. “Best be off. Have a good one, boys.”
