"Infestation" (standard:horror, 1940 words)
Author: Gerald Sheagren	Added: Dec 20 2003	Views/Reads: 3363/2354	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Carl Dahlgren has always had a fear of weeds, even the most tiny of them. Not long after purchasing a new house, his fear will turn into a horror that will ultimately take his life.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

everything in between!  It was a goddamn, frigging jungle!  He leapt 
from the Porsche, staggering like a drunk, his legs nearly buckling out 
from under him.  He was going to file a complaint with the weed killer 
company!  Oh, yes, indeed!  And, then, maybe even a multi-million 
dollar lawsuit! 

“Charlotte!” 

His wife rushed onto the porch, stumbling over the welcome mat.  “Carl,
what in the world is it?  What's wrong?” 

“What's wrong?  Look at this lawn, woman!  Just look at it!” 

Charlotte stared, her eyes growing as big as saucers. 

“How could you ever have let this happen?  What were you doing; watching
those goddamn soap operas all day?” 

“And what do you propose I could have done, Carl?  Maybe I should have
patrolled the lawn, whacking the little stinkers as soon as they showed 
their heads.” 

“This is no time to get smart-alecky with me, Charlotte!” 

“It's just one of those problems that we're going to have to deal with. 
Maybe we have inferior soil.” 

Weeds kept popping up as they watched, like the heads of cobras darting
from some underbrush. 

“Come on in to eat and we can discuss our options.  Maybe we can hire a
professional lawn service.” 

“No bumbling strangers are going to touch my lawn.  And how can I
possibly eat with this mess?” 

An hour later, Charlotte parted the curtains and watched as Carl tackled
the multiplying infestation with his weed-whacker.  He looked totally 
foolish, having donned a pair of her latex dishwashing gloves, as well 
as the rubber waders that he used for throat fishing.  Good Lord, you 
would have thought that the weeds were carrying some sort of lethal 
virus!  He crazily went about his work, chopping weeds down as quickly 
as they sprouted, his lips moving with a stream of muted curses.  When 
it became dark, he continued by the outside spotlights, back and forth 
and back and forth and back and forth.  She began to fret over his 
sanity.  When she got into bed at one in the morning, he was still hard 
at his task. 

*** ** *** ** *** ** 

Carl started out for home late the next afternoon, his Porsche riding
low under a trunk crammed with a new type of weed killer.  When he 
rounded the last bend of the drive, he stared at his house in horror, 
the Porsche plowing down a whole row of his prize rose bushes.  His 
house, his entire house, from the cellar clear to its roof, was totally 
green!  The weeds in the front yard had spread like a fungus, and 
joined by creepers and ivy and all sorts of other horrendous plant 
life, had infested his porch and every inch of the two-storied house's 
brick siding!  He could only stare in shock, his mouth working like a 
fish out of water.  Finally, regaining part of his senses, he snatched 
up his cell phone, fumbled it and grabbed it again from his lap.  
Calling his number, he waited impatiently for an answer. 

“Hello?” 

“Charlotte!  Are you all right?” 

‘Well, of course I am, Carl.  Why wouldn't I be?  Where are you calling
from?” 

“I'm right out front.” 

“Why are you calling me from out front?  Supper's getting cold, you're
late.” 

“Are you absolutely crazy?  I'm not going into that jungle!” 

Carl started to hyperventilate and he had to pause for a few moments in
order to catch his breath. 

“Are you still there, Carl?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm still here.  Charlotte, get your ass out here, right
now!  Have you seen the outside of the house?  It's ----- It's 
completely overgrown with creepers and ivy and God only knows what 
else!  It's the frigging Twilight Zone, Charlotte.  It's the house in 
Amityville!” 

“Honestly, Carl; why must you always make such a big fuss over things? 
Maybe you should go to a shrink and get some valium or something.  
You've really got to learn to calm down.” 

“The house is some kind of rain forest and you want me to calm down?” 
Carl began to pace, cursing and running his fingers through his hair.  
“I'm coming in there and getting you out, even if I have to sling you 
over my shoulder!” 

“Over my dead body you will.” 

“Keep it up and I just might oblige you!” 

Carl took a deep breath, trying to settle his nerves, and started out
for the house, walking gingerly over weeds as though they were a bed of 
hot coals.  Reaching the front door, he paused for a few seconds, 
before tearing away a thick growth of creepers and ivy.  His mouth was 
dry, his heart pounding a mile-a-minute.  Opening the door, he took one 
wobbly step after another, heading cautiously toward the living room. 

The lights were all on and the thermostat felt as though it had been
jacked up to a hundred degrees.  Creepers and vines, ivy and moss and 
all sorts of strange-looking lichens totally covered the walls, and 
there were weeds and dandelions, by the hundreds, sprouting from the 
goddamn floor!  How, in the name of Jehovah, could they be flourishing 
and multiplying on wood?  The moist air smelled of chlorophyll and 
decaying undergrowth, as though he was winding his way through a 
steaming jungle.  The floor felt soft under his feet and he looked down 
to see a carpet of moss that very much resembled broccoli florets.  A 
butterfly flitted under his nose. 

“Charlotte.  Charlotte, where are you?” 

Her voice came form the direction of the kitchen.  “I'm in here, Carl. 
And don't even think about slinging me over your shoulder.” 

“One way or the other, I'm getting you out of here!” 

A vine fell, dangling over his shoulder, and he yelped, brushing it off.


Charlotte appeared in the doorway, beaming from ear-to-ear, a piece of
crystal stemware in her hand.  “Well, Carl; how do you like my little 
Garden of Eden.  I bet you can find a snake if you looked hard enough.” 


“Are you crazy, Charlotte?  Have you gone totally out of your gourd?” 

The plant life began to stir as if he had somehow injured their
feelings.  The heat was unbearable, his shirt taking on the feeling of 
soggy tissue paper.  The moss began to shift restlessly under his feet. 


“What the hell do you have the heat up to?” 

“Ninety degrees.  My little garden needs heat and moisture in order to
thrive.”  Charlotte held up her crystal glass.  “I've opened up that 
bottle of dandelion wine your father made for us.  Quite befitting, 
isn't it.”  She took a sip, smacking her lips with relish.  “Would you 
care for some, Carl?” 

“Jesus H.!” he shouted, reaching for her.  “And you think I need a
shrink?  Come on!  I'm getting you out of this freaking hellhole!” 

“You most certainly are not!” she responded, yanking her arm free of his
grasp. 

Cursing, he lunged forward to grab her again, but she squealed with
delight, scampering out of reach, stopping for a few moments to stroke 
the fronds of a giant fern. 

“I will not leave these premises without you.  And the first phone call
I make will be to the Department of Environmental Protection!” 

“Oh no you won't!” 

“Oh yes I will!” 

As he prepared to make another rush for her, a creeper shot out,
wrapping its leafy tentacles around him and yanking him back hard 
against the wall!  Before he could realize or react to what was 
happening, another creeper reached down, coiled itself tightly around 
his neck and lifted him clear off the floor as if he was nothing but an 
oversized rag doll!  Tighter and tighter it squeezed, causing his eyes 
to bug, his lungs struggling for precious air! 

Charlotte watched, unconcerned, taking another sip of wine.  “Now see,
Carl, you got my babies all upset.  You really need that psychiatrist, 
you know.”  She giggled.  “Or maybe I should say ‘botanist'.” 

Carl tried to claw the creeper from his neck, but it was much too
strong.  After a good minute of wiggling and twisting and kicking, he 
finally grew still, his face turning a sickly shade of blue, eyes 
nearly popping from their sockets.  He hung there, swaying gently, like 
a cattle thief at the end of a hangman's rope. 

*** THE END *** 


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