The Taylors

Last edited - 2018. Think: Gothic Stepford wives meets Gremlins+eating after midnight.

The pruning scissors navigated through the small flower bed neatly. Operated by the experienced Mrs. Taylor, they never missed a single browning leaf or bud past its prime.

Across the street, Mrs. Miller peered over her mailbox. It was an odd mailbox, the only one in the neighborhood like it, which boasted a small flower pot on top, built-in. Mrs. Miller preferred to keep one white daisy blooming as long as summer would allow, beckoning the mailman and bees alike. She waved toward Mrs. Taylor. Her smile plastered, white porcelain and gums. Mrs. Taylor obliged and waved back, although she always thought the Millers quite odd.

"Almost done, Mrs. Taylor?" Mr. Taylor asked, bumbling down the front steps with Mrs. Taylor's drink canister. They were the kind of couple so in love (or so out of love) that they skipped over first names: familiarity made them strangers once again.


"Thank you, Mr. Taylor." She replied, smiling up at him from her tiny, pink sunglasses, "I was just about to go inside to meet you."


From anyone onlooker's eyes, the look shared between them was casual, loving, and typical. In fact, it was no one other than Mr. and Mrs. Taylor who understood that this glance was an unspoken promise between them. Mr. Taylor leaned down and grabbed the water hose left running in the lawn, "Now, Ms. Taylor," he chastised, "wouldn't want to drown the grass," and his knuckles became white as he bent the hose in half to stop the water.


She clicked her teeth quietly, "Oh honey," she replied, and the undercurrent that cut slipped quietly between each word, "there isn't enough water in all of San Francisco to do that."


"Precisely why we shouldn't waste it." He took two steps over to the nozzle and turned it twice. "There. Now if you could only learn to..." He stopped, noticing the prickling under Mrs. Taylor's skin.


At his look, she held her arm to the light. Pulsating just below the surface of her peach-colored skin, small bumps began appearing. They rose like thorns, red and aching, threatening to slice through her flesh. He looked across the street in fear, relieved that Mrs. Miller had gone inside after watering her flowers. He motioned Mrs. Taylor inside of the house, and they descended into the basement.


The inside of the Taylor's was the vision of a catalog: so pristine that it hardly seemed usable. They only opened their doors during Halloween, their beaming faces blocking the entrance. They moved into the house six years ago, and, when asked, they claimed to have children, now grown and far away. Not quite retirement age, but great planning had gotten them a small house in a quiet neighborhood filled to the brim with trinkets and doilies that were never seen by anyone but Mrs. and Mr. Taylor.


The basement stairs creaked familiarly under the weight of Mr. Taylor practically carrying Mrs. Taylor downstairs. Every time his arms brushed hers in the darkness, he felt the spiny, leathery skin underneath the surface. His arm reacted: the hairs on his body stood straight up and small, leathery patches were revealed on his skin as well.


She was nearly incoherent when he placed her into a sturdy wooden chair in the basement. She flinched inwardly as he pulled the chain for one small, glowing lightbulb. As the room illuminated, he saw the bulging eyeballs of Mrs. Taylor. She was ghastly - covered in thorn-like spikes and moss colored skin. She had molted her outer layer and underneath nothing but rotting appeared. Her hair fell out in coiffed, blonde patches, and her jaw could hardly contain the canines that took the place of her usual, winning smile.


And Mr. Taylor could not help but smile in return, a smile he knew was raw, rough, and vile. He shed the suit and tie he had worn to work earlier that day and met the eyes of the woman he loved, ready to hurt her.


Mr. and Mrs. Taylor had a secret. Sometimes, it was once a year; sometimes, it stayed dormant longer. Everyone who ever met the couple said they were made for each other, too perfect for words. They never fought, never so much as fussed. Usually, they were in absolute agreement. Once, at an office party, Mr. Taylor's boss Dr. Marvin had asked, "What's the secret? The wife and I can't stop fighting!" and Mr. Taylor replied, "We get one big fight a year, and then it's out of our system."


Everyone laughed then, but it was closer to the truth than they knew. Their relationship had lasted because - whether it was a curse or a blessing - once a year, they could not hide themselves from each other.


Every human being is a monster. The monster lives somewhere between the bottom of the heart and the pit in the stomach. It stretches and occupies every square inch of a human's anatomy until it acts on its own accord. Most people never see their monster. It either is dormant or secret or both. To reveal one's monster to someone else, one must trust that someone to contain all of the horror of a human soul. And to do that, they must do something monstrous together.


Mr. and Mrs. Taylor loved each other almost instantly. Sixteen years earlier, when they first met, she was a lovely but crazy girl, willing to believe in the impossibility of love building something from brokenness. In her mind, Mr. Taylor - strong, warm, with a timbre to his voice that felt like an embrace - could save her. And Mr. Taylor reveled in being a savior. The two spiraled into the kind of love that tangles up, all-encompassing and overpowering, infinite and terrifying. When she had her first child, the world seemed to make sense. They were so happy.


She saw the monster first. On her way home early, baby Emily in tow, she stopped into the store to buy a few groceries. She passed two mannequins depicting a mother and child in their Sunday best and she wondered how she would dress Emily this Easter. In searching the display she noted that the size two ensemble on the mother would no longer fit her like it used to. The thoughts began to spiral then: what size was she now? And did Mr. Taylor notice that her waistline increased even after the baby was born? She calmed herself with memories: his hand on her huge stomach, humming a song she didn't recognize as their wedding dance to the unborn child.


She held the memories, humming to Emily as she shopped and walked home. She was blessed with a wonderful baby - everyone agreed that there couldn't be a more agreeable child. In these first months of motherhood, her patience was never tested. Emily giggled and laughed and followed her every move with large, sparkling eyes. Her daughter's hair was light and wispy - from a distance, it glittered - and today, it reminded her of the sand in Venice Beach. She made a face in Emily's direction and her daughter responded through mimicry, stretching her lips as though she had never thought to smile before.


The doorknob to her home jammed. She hadn't locked it when she left, and she wondered why it wouldn't move now. It was something she often reminded Mr. Taylor to take care of, but in their hectic daily lives. Balancing Emily on her right hip, she forced it open with a strong push from her left. The air inside felt heavy and she heard noises from her bedroom. She was ready to call the police when she recognized the voice of her husband and someone else. The giggles sounded like the laughs of surprise and happiness. The sounds made her dizzy as though she was dropped into a daydream.


"Sara, please!" he begged, "It was all a mistake!"


She nodded lifelessly as a woman she did not know dressed and quickly passed by her in the doorway. It felt like she was underwater, the way the noise warped and softened around her. She hardly looked away from her husband because she noticed something fascinating: his skin had tinted green and his skin seemed scaly.

And when she forgave him, the world retreated into normalcy.


The sharpest scream pierced from down the hallway. Mrs. Taylor couldn't sleep through it, even though it gave Mr. Taylor no trouble. Emily screeched the moment Mrs. Taylor started to fall asleep: every night for the last week, it seemed like the universe itself forbade her from rest. Her darling daughter, the baby who had never so much as cried, was constantly upset. All night, Emily would wake her with demands, and all day, the memory of her husband's betrayal kept her from existing and participating in her own life. That moment replayed in her head over and over: the scales revealing themselves as her disgust climbed higher and higher in her throat.


Her hands fumbled for the hallway light. She could never find it in the darkness, always bumping instead into the dark wood cabinet which held pictures of her family. This time, she knocked one over and heard the crunch of glass beneath her slipper. "Shit," she mumbled, decided to walk in the darkness, and found herself in Emily's room out of sheer muscle memory.


Sticky, brown vomit covered every inch of her daughter, drying like paint over her hair and eyes, cementing her to her sheets. Mrs. Taylor scooped up her baby without a second thought and headed to the bathroom.


The bathtub was yellow, a fact that Mrs. Taylor despised and blamed on fads of the seventies. She turned the knob carefully and tested the water lazily, almost immune to her daughter's nearly unwavering screams of discomfort. She placed Emily in the water, only two inches, and it began to lap against her gently. Emily's eyes still glued shut, she wailed in surprise and confusion. Mrs. Taylor lifted her hand to begin slowly washing the vomit away, and then she saw it: she wasn't sure if it was there, but small patches of green blossomed underneath her daughter's soft, well-fed stomach.

She sat back and closed her eyes, unable to un-see the wickedness of Mr. Taylor as he turned, smile fading to fear at being caught inside another woman. When she opened her eyes, she saw his face on Emily's. She rubbed her daughter's skin, but the color didn't fade or become clearer. She started seeing scales, too.

Her mind numbed and she felt heavy and dreamlike. If she wanted to, she could curl up on the bathmat and fall asleep to the water rushing into the tub. She saw herself lift her hand and let small drops of water flow from her fingertips to drip over Emily's face, could not hear but could see her daughter's wailing. She did nothing but sit back on her heels as the water got higher and higher, over Emily's ears and cheeks, until everything got even quieter and everything was still. She turned the knobs off one by one, feeling the vibrations of the faucet stop and the ringing in her ears begin.


Mr. Taylor's screams woke her the next morning. He had gone to check on Emily and panicked when he saw her missing. He checked the bathroom to find his child floating lifeless in the bathtub, now lukewarm in the morning. Her hair hovered in the water like a golden halo.


The cops ruled it a homicide, but no one suspected Mrs. Taylor. It was a robbery gone wrong: the robber drowning the child to avoid waking the parents. But Mr. Taylor never believed it, because he had to lie that money was gone to create the robbery in the first place. To him, it was no mystery: he knew the moment he woke Mrs. Taylor in the morning. He shook her from sleep in panic and that was the first time he saw them: red spikes, horns, and bulbous eyes that the cops seemed not to notice.


Now, Mr. Taylor eyes Mrs. Taylor in the chair at the center of the circle of light in their dank cellar. He lifts her chin and surveys how disgusting she has become: oozing from every pore, decaying right in front of him. "Hello again, Sara."


Now, it has become a routine. When they notice the changes, they go straight to the basement. It is an all-out war, clawing and scratching until blood splatters the walls and furniture. They cut the deepest parts of each other, horrified at who they married but equally as disgusted by their own reflection. They fight, fuck, spit and tear, and hate each other more than they've ever hated anything in their lives. And when it is over, their smiles return and their facades are back: no one knows what is inside of Mr. and Mrs. Taylor but he and she alone.


It is not clear what it takes to see monsters, just that the secret must be safe. It might be the greatest love or greatest hatred man ever knows.