Reception Read online

  RECEPTION

  Kenzie Jennings

  Copyright © 2019 by Kenzie Jennings

  All Rights Reserved

  9-759-7234850-3450345809

  www.deathsheadpress.com

  Cover art by Lynne Hansen

  For Lucy

  (We know it would never have gone down like this. I love you, little sis.)

  Foreword

  I met Kenzie Jennings while waiting in line to hear Bruce Campbell speak. It was at the Spooky Empire convention in Orlando; this was their smaller scale summer event, which had no author guests, and I was just there as a regular ol' horror fan. Kenzie had contacted me beforehand to ask if she could get a book signed, so I messaged her to let her know where I was. She showed up, stayed long enough for an inscription and a quick picture, thanked me, and then left so that she would not be taking up any more of my valuable time.

  Her thought process was: Gosh, it sure was nice of him to devote a couple minutes of his Spooky Empire experience to greeting a fan. My thought process was: OMG! Somebody brought one of my books to the convention and I'm not even a guest! OMG! OMG! OMG! Best con ever!

  That led to occasional social gatherings with Kenzie, her boyfriend, my wife, and I. Much sushi was consumed and many movies were watched, including an Edgar Wright theatrical triple feature of Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, and The World's End, which I'm just sharing here to make you jealous. We had deep-fried Mars bars (delicious) and jellyfish (less so). She went to my belly flop of a launch party for my second young adult novel. I spoke to her school's creative writing club.

  Then she finished her first novel: Jayne Juxtaposed. A superhero novel written as "chick lit." I offered to read it.

  This kind of thing can be a bit nerve-wracking. When you have sushi with somebody on a regular basis, and there's much discussion of writing during these meals, it makes things much less awkward if you actually like their work. I'm not saying that my thought process was: Oh, God, please, please, please, please, please, PLEASE let this book not suck!!! But I really hoped it was good.

  It was, in fact, damned good.

  She got a contract with a small publisher. She'd sold her first novel! How exciting! How thrilling! And because this business can be filled with disappointment...the book never came out.

  But Kenzie was already working on her second book, a horror novel called Reception that might sound familiar if you looked at the cover of the book you're reading now. I know the horror market way better than I know the chick-lit superhero market, so I was excited to be a fountain of advice when it was complete.

  She sent me the manuscript when it was done. I loved it.

  I told Kenzie that she needed to go to a horror writers' conference. Aside from writing a great book, attending a writers' conference is one of the most valuable things you can do for your career. Hell, sometimes it's more valuable than writing a great book! Anyway, that conference turned out to be KillerCon in Austin, Texas. "This won't directly lead to a book deal," I told her, "but you'll make contacts that will build a foundation that will eventually lead to a book deal."

  KillerCon directly led to a book deal.

  And, ooooh, you're in for a nasty treat, kiddies! Cannibals at a wedding reception? C'mon! How can you not want to read that? (Actually, I'm sure many people elect not to read such a thing, but they aren't reading this foreword, either.)

  Reception is grisly, weird, and a lot of fun, and here you are, lucky enough to be there at the start of the career of an exciting new voice in the horror genre! Keep your arms, legs, and head inside the ride at all times, so they don't get eaten, and prepare yourself for the bloody delight that is Reception.

  --Jeff Strand

  ABOUT THAT LITTLE DILEMMA…

  I wish I could remember the little things that seem necessary.

  Little things like quickly changing a flat tire, cooking perfectly fluffy scrambled eggs, replacing an old door lock, and getting tacky bloodstains out of formal wear.

  I wish I could just remember.

  Blotting with water is just making it worse. The stains keep spreading.

  (Was it salt? Hydrogen peroxide? Dish soap?)

  My whole face feels gummy with it. The clots have gelled over, growing itchy. It's streaked all over my arms, the bandage, my hands, the front of my dress; it's everywhere. The soap masks the metallic stench of it, that and the underlying sour tang of vomit, but only just. The label on the soap bottle reads "Havenhill Tea Rose," but it smells like discount store floral musk tangy with copper and pheromones.

  I scrub until my hands are raw and burning. Bloody crust under my fingernails, rimming my cuticles. The makeshift bandage around my forearm had grown so saturated with blood and dirt, it’s useless. My arm still burns. I want to scratch it wide open, scratch it away.

  These sorts of little things, noticeable.

  My sister Shay softly cries from her space on the floor.

  These sorts of little things, unimportant right now.

  Shay is slumped against the wall in a fluffy heap of crinoline, satin and gore-spattered beaded brocade. Her ballerina bun that she'd spent a good couple of hours and plenty of money getting into a perfectly rounded knot is partially undone with its bobby pins dangling limply. Matted, stringy clumps of hair are glued to one side of her grimy face. She snorts back a burble of snot. Tears run down her cheeks, twin rivers in a ruddy landscape. Her breath comes in sporadic, tight hitches, kind of like she's hiccupping but she's forgotten how to.

  "I spent so much on this dress. I mean, I know it was on sale, so it's not like it's a big deal or anything," she says in-between breathy hiccups, "but it is kind of a big deal when you've paid several bills already, and it's this dress you want. You know?"

  "Did it come with spot removal instructions?" My lame attempt at humor doesn't register. It's Shay. She never gets it. Then again, levity isn't exactly the order of the day, not with everything happening right now, not with what's out there.

  So it's understandable.

  "I just wanted—" Shay's train of thought is interrupted by a stray burp, which then forms into a warbling sob, something she's probably practiced for future meltdowns. This just isn't the time for it.

  While I let her finish her thought, oh those thoughts that have been unraveling wildly over the past few hours, I dampen a hand towel under the faucet and then use it to blot at my hands, my dress. Then I toss it just before I get to ripping up one of the resort’s thin towels, creating raggedy strips from it.

  Sniffling, Shay watches me work. I briefly stop unwinding the bloody tablecloth bandage I’d hurriedly crafted and had wrapped around my damaged forearm, and I glance down at her, offering her a sad smile.

  She grimly returns the smile, pats down her ruined gown, and plucks her sticky strands from her cheeks, grimacing as she does. "I wanted to get married, Ans. That's all," she says softly. "Just wanted to be a bride, a wife, all of it. I mean, I know it's so overdone, with all the planning out all the details, the expectations and timing. Everything always has to be perfect and orderly. There's just no room for things out of place. And no time for plan B's or second chances. But, Ans, I wanted to do it right. To do it right."

  "For Mom and Dad," I add, nodding. I know how it is. I wince at the sight of my shredded arm beneath the last layer of tablecloth-bandage. Just the mere thought of picking it from the raw wound, prising it from nerves and meat, makes me gag. Still, have to do what I have to do, and I start peeling it away from the wound slowly, carefully, and it’s excruciating.

  "For Mom and Dad, " she says with a sigh. "You know it. I'm the one who can't disappoint them, right?"

  My skin prickles, itching. The ache behind my eyes thrums. I’ll allow myself to believe I’m not angry, I’m not. But I don't like it,
even if it is true—the implication that I'm the daughter who can and will routinely disappoint them. This isn’t my fault. This isn’t my fault. This isn’t my fault.

  "For what it’s worth, I don't think it’s all that important anymore, considering," I say. Our terrible reminder. That. I suck in my breath as I gently tug the last bit of bandage away and examine the damage. I keep having to remind myself that it wasn’t—it isn’t as bad as I’d pictured when it happened, but it looks pretty awful close up in all of its meaty, oozing glory. I run the tap, and hold my arm under the cool water, gritting my teeth at the burn of it, all those exposed layers and nerves…and those germs. Those germs. I’d poured alcohol onto it earlier, not too long after all of it went down. Even still, it wouldn’t have done much good on the wound, as it’s not a run-of-the-mill scrape of flesh here. There’s no antiseptic anywhere from what I’ve seen, not like I had the time or ability to scour the place for a halfway decent first aid kit. Still, I think there’s probably one in someone’s car. While we’re not exactly able to use a car to get out of here at this moment, at least I can hope my arm won’t get so infected I’d have to amputate.

  Jesus H. Amputate. That’s an awful possibility. I sneak a glance at my sister while I rinse my wound.

  Shay’s body sags, and her eyes have watered over. Her hands are fluttery, fidgety in her lap. She doesn’t know what to do with them.

  I shut off the faucet, wrap my arm in fresh towel strips, and then settle down right beside Shay on the chilly tile floor, picking at the bloody crust from my eyelashes and strands of hair as I do. I flick the crumbs from my thumb and then wipe the stickier bits on my dress. So much for that waste of money, too.

  “You reek,” she says, wrinkling her nose at me.

  “Well, thanks. You don’t exactly smell like violets and pink hearts yourself.”

  “Pink hearts have a scent? How did I not know this?”

  “It’s Bath and Body Works’ new fragrance. You should try the body cream. So good for the skin.”

  “I would, but I’m allergic to shea.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since I was old enough to shop for body butter only to find out this little factoid.”

  “Pity. Your skin could use that extra glow like all the real brides have.”

  “Fuck off. I was a beautiful bride.”

  “Yeah, you were. Shame it didn’t last long.”

  “You’re one to talk.”

  “I can be done talking, if requested.”

  “Does it hurt?” she suddenly asks, breaking the empty banter and staring at my arm. “Because we’re not gonna be able to go to a hospital anytime soon.”

  “Queen Obvious states the obvious.”

  “Just wondering. That’s all. Hate to think it’ll get infected.”

  “It probably will unless we can get to Mom’s car. I think the first aid kit in there has something to clean it with.”

  “Hey, just a thought. I might have some Neosporin in my suitcase,” she says after a minute.

  I chuckle at the thought of it. “It’s funny how your suitcase is probably only about… what, twenty feet away from us, but there’s no way in hell either of us will gamble and scramble to get it.”

  She laughs, clamps a hand over her mouth. Not like it matters. They’ll hear us anyway. They’re everywhere. The thunk-thunk-thunking out there may have momentarily stopped, but like everything happening here, we tended to trust “momentarily” more than anything else.

  “Gamble and scramble,” she says. “You made a rhyme. A-plus, gold star, extra recess time for you, Pretty McTitty.”

  “Awww. Thanks, Regina Vagina. I love getting gold stars.”

  “Anytime, anywhere.”

  We hold hands and laugh until it forms into tears. Our heads press, and we cry softly together. Shay's grip on my hand tightens. I squeeze back. Then I hug her to me, and she weeps against my neck. My head hurts so badly behind my eyes, the searing pressure alone may cause them to burst or catch fire. And wouldn't that be something? As they are now, it’s painful enough to bring the hot tears.

  “We took vows, Ansley,” Shay says. “We took vows.”

  “I know you did.”

  “Are they meaningless now? What am I supposed to do?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “What are we supposed to do?”

  I can’t answer her.

  Hell, it's just how it is right now.

  It’ll be better once we figure out what's next. It has to be. God, my head hurts.

  Shay looks at me, her expression somber, her eyes red and lined with worry, mascara still holding surprisingly strong, just gelling a little in the corners of her eyes. "So how are we gonna get out of here?"

  Good. Fucking. Question.

  Suddenly, there’s a hard rap on the bathroom door, one that rattles it against the frame of the chair braced against it. It makes us both jump.

  They made it in.

  I squeeze Shay closer to me, both of us jolted by the noise. Shay’s trembling. I am, too. Nausea burns the back of my throat. My heart rate isn’t helping matters either. It’s hyper, out of control.

  A masculine voice comes from the bedroom, right at the bathroom door. It’s so low and sultry, it’s practically purring in its heat. “Little woman, you can’t stay in there forever.” Another hard knock, a shimmy of the door, then a loud smack against it, rattling the chair as well. “Shay, stop being a bitch. Open the goddamn door. You hit me so hard with that thing, I think you cracked some of my teeth here. ”

  “Please,” she murmurs against my shoulder. “Make him stop. He needs to stop.”

  Nathan thumps his hand against the door, and the chair braced against it under the handle rocks. “Shaaaay? Oh, Shaaaay? Shay Ellen! Baby, open up!”

  “Fuck off!” Like I’d let him get the last word in.

  Then all goes quiet beyond the door. Shay straightens, her hand gripping mine tightly. When I look at her, she has her eyes squeezed shut, her other hand over her mouth, as if that’ll make a difference. We keep our hands bound, fingers locked. Our breathing is synchronous, coming in sharp and steady. Inhaling, exhaling, inhaling.

  The silence though, that stillness beyond the door, it’s unnerving.

  It’s just like them to play.

  ONE

  My memories come in linked fragments out of sequence, like anyone else’s I guess.

  They’re in bright Technicolor scenes, like they’d been painted in, and while the color schemes are somewhat correct—the sky is blue, purple, black, or a purple mixed with black, like a bruise; the sun is a dusky yellow; the dead grass is a sandy brown— I often wonder if the brightness, the starkness of the colors, is another withdrawal side effect.

  My assigned counselor at the center, Leon, among other things, gave me a giant checklist several pages long on my first day there. He gave one to my mother, too, during the center’s weekly visitors’ day. Mom had since excused every single behavioral tick and “invisible” condition on my part, claiming “it’s probably on the list because (fill in the blank with what I’m experiencing or displaying to her) is a symptom of (fill in the blank with the withdrawal effect), and her counselor has instructed that we must…we must be patient and help with whatever she may need.” I mean, I could’ve probably twitched through a robbery followed by a mad killing spree, and my mother would’ve still brought that up. I think she kind of enjoyed it in a way. It got the conversation going, and she liked the attention for a change.

  In hindsight, my “condition” only served to open up the slightest possibility of Munchausen by proxy. Still, she loved me. I wish I could’ve let her hear and see that from me more often, just little acts of kindness, a hug or two more often, consistent visits to see her and Dad.

  My dad though, he didn’t accept much. That’s just how he was.

  I remember that last day at the center. Faces, familiar habits, splashes of color, the tense body language. Leon and my mom chatting on the steps
to the front entrance. She’d just signed me out, but not before the on-duty receptionist and the one nurse I couldn’t stand gave her the rundown, all the legalese, the firm warnings “out of professional courtesy” that this weekend away wasn’t a good idea.

  I never once thought it was, either, but Mom was firm with them and the head of the center, Paul or Paulo, I forget his name. He wasn’t particularly memorable anyway, not if you were on the outside looking in as I often was. He only came out of the office area of the center if there was a problem involving billing and insurance or if one of his “clients” (the center’s term for “patient”) was being released midway through court-mandated treatment, like I was. Leon once told me the guy had been one of the best therapists in the state, and he was also pivotal in getting anti-opioid legislation on the ballots with an expansion on mental health facilities and substance abuse therapy. That said, you’d never know it by his obvious apathy at what was happening in his own center.

  I was ready to go. Just rip off the Band-Aid. Get it done with. My sister wanted me there by her side, and I still couldn’t entirely process it. Me, the family embarrassment. I kept thinking about her and our last outing when I was being fitted for the dress. She’d grown all soft and moony ever since she met Nathan. I didn’t mind it up until she’d stopped treating me as a sister and started treating me with flashes of doubt and with what I suspect was a touch of scorn.

  My stomach kept performing cartwheels and flips as I popped the trunk of the SUV and set my suitcase inside. The agreement was that I’d have enough clothes for just two nights, but the idea of sharing that amount of time with people I didn’t care for kept me from packing in excess as I usually did before a trip. Shay though. I had to remind myself it was all for Shay and no one else, not even Mom and Dad.

  Especially not Mom and Dad.

  It was promising to be a hot, sticky weekend. The downtown air was a heady stew thick with exhaust fumes, cooking grease, and damp soil. Sweat trickled down my back, and my bra itched. I’d need my second, wasteful shower of the day by the time we reached Hill Country. Mom wasn’t in the mood to be hurried along. If there was new information she could wrangle out of Leon, anything involving the state of her eldest and most troublesome, she’d have us leave when she was damned good and ready.