Free Ghouljaw and Other Stories by Clint Smith Page B

as he studied the pieces. At some point I glanced over at the coffee table, at a stack of magazines. The one on top was an issue of Scientific Frontiers; I slipped it off the table and flipped through the pages. An article caught my eye: “Dust In the Wind, Scientists Wonder What Will Happen.”
    I scanned the article, absent-mindedly mumbling one of the enlarged excerpts. “Common dust travels thousands of miles, over continents and oceans.” Silently, I continued reading about new research into how dust was altering the environment. Tons of the stuff—from smoke, soot, and soil—make “transport events” through the atmosphere which can even be seen from space. Pollutants like dust and smoke are evidently responsible for thousands of deaths in some countries.
    “Skin,” Uncle Jasper said abruptly, startling me, “is the body’s largest organ.”
    Wondering where he was going with this, I looked at him from over the top of the magazine. He was still scrutinizing the chessboard but was no longer scowling. “A while back I read something very interesting, Dennis.” Of course he had. Uncle Jasper—the consummate reader, the blue-collar scholar. He continued speaking without peering up at me. “The reason dust starts off light in color before turning darker, eventually turning black, is because so much of it is made up of cells . That is to say, decomposing skin cells.” I watched him watching the chessboard, wondering if he was trying to distract me or if he’d had too much to drink. “The cell that makes up skin—keratinocyte, I believe—is the same cell responsible for keratin, which forms nails and hair.”
    Now I knew this was some sort of distractive tactic. Nevertheless, I set down the magazine, picked up my beer, and let him continue. “We lose about one hundred hairs a day, Dennis.” He ran his arthritic fingers through his wiry tangle of gray hair. “Each week we lose about, oh, a gram of dead skin cells, and we lose tens of thousands of skin cells each passing minute.”
    Drunk or not, I smirked at him. “Why are you telling me this?”
    “Because skin, my dear nephew,” Uncle Jasper reached out and grasped his black bishop, “isn’t the only thing you’re losing at this moment. Check—and if I’m not mistaken—mate.”
    As I said, that conversation with Uncle Jasper took place months ago. I wish I’d remembered it sooner. But I’m not sure it would have done any good anyway.
    I was thinking about that dust-discussion when the vacuum began making an awful noise: a low, weepy moan. It occurred to me—too late, of course—that I had neglected to replace the dustbag. The whimpering din continued as I clicked the power button, which was stuck. So I grabbed the cord and yanked the plug. Now the mechanical noise from the machine died away, but was replaced by something else. Something worse. At first it sounded as if a cat or some other animal had been stitched up inside. The mewling grew louder. I pried off the plastic cover and stopped short of detaching the bag. Something was shifting and squirming inside—as if filled with writhing knots of irate snakes. I’m sure anyone witnessing my reaction would have described it as something preposterous—something from a movie: me, wide-eyed, slowly lifting my hand to cover my mouth and inching away.
    As the mewling grew louder and the squirming became more frantic, another sound emerged. And although I write this to maintain some sharpness in my sanity and to bring keener clarity to the thing I saw—the thing I know I experienced—there’s one thing of which I’m incontrovertibly certain: the voice. The voice that suddenly shaped itself from a ragged, nonsensical whisper. And that whisper-hiss said my name. “Den—niiiisssss . . .”
    A thin laceration appeared on the dustbag. From the slit emerged the tip of what looked like an ink-dipped porcupine’s quill. But now I have a more accurate description: a black widow’s leg, slender,