PodCastle 874: The Husband
* Author : P.C. Verrone * Narrator : Eric Valdes * Host : Matt Dovey * Audio Producer : Eric Valdes * Discuss on Forums PodCastle 874: The Husband is a PodCastle original. Content warnings for sex, violence, and references to the death of a spouse Rated R The Husband By P.C. Verrone He has never taken a man for a wife before. This becomes clear as he introduces me to his other wives. The youngest wife bristles and the wife with the long, dark hair avoids meeting my eye. The tallest wife just looks from him to me and nods. Her face betrays no hint of hospitality. They are aware that he and I have exchanged vows, exchanged fluids. However they may feel, nothing can be done about it now. He has chosen me. He wants a feast to celebrate. We order delivery. When the driver arrives, the youngest wife invites him into the house. She is beautiful and coy, and the driver is stupid. As soon as he steps inside, our husband sinks his teeth into the man’s neck. At the sight of blood, my eyes fill with red. I leap at the body in our husband’s arms, but a sharp jab in my rib sends me tumbling to the floor. The youngest wife tucks her elbow back against her side as she devours our victim’s clavicle. I reach for a wrist, a thigh, but the wife with long, dark hair kicks me away. The tallest wife glowers at me, lapping at the driver’s neck, inches from our husband’s lips. I can only suck the capillaries from the man’s toes. If our husband notices, he does nothing. As the sunrise approaches, all five of us descend into the cellar. Four pine boxes glimmer in the scant moonlight. The other wives climb into their own, but he invites me to sleep in his. My fingers dig into the silty soil of his homeland spread across the bottom. In the tight space, he undresses me with ease as I nip at the last vestiges of the delivery boy’s blood on his lips. The sex only partly quenches the starvation in my belly. Afterwards, he snores gently against my back. My nerves are so giddy, I can hardly sleep. It was meant to be a routine inspection. Some young couple had purchased the old Anderson widow’s place, so I was sent to assess the property. It had lain empty for sixty years, but lately any listing with four walls and a roof was getting snatched up. The agency notified me that they hadn’t located the key for the cellar, so they’d be sending somebody to get me in. The only access to the house was a mile-long unpaved road off the highway, which eventually led to the state park. As I turned onto the dirt road, the roar of traffic hushed beneath rustling leaves and chittering birds. Under the heavy tree cover, I could hardly tell that the sun was setting. Just when I worried that I had somehow taken a wrong turn, the trees opened up to unveil a small workman’s cottage. Taking in the sturdy wood walls and pre-war pragmatism of its design, I was struck by a pang of envy. This house had some history to it, nothing like my prefab “dream home” cluttered with trendy appliances. From the outside, the house seemed shockingly well kept. The new homeowners would be pleased to hear that. When I met him inside, I assumed he was the locksmith the agency had sent, though his formal suit made it seem like he was showing the house rather than unlocking a basement. Dark, slick hair, pale skin, and those eyes. When I shook his hand, something skittered around my ribcage. I don’t remember a thing about the assessment.