Read Two Worlds and In Between: The Best of Caitlin R. Kiernan (Volume One) for Free Online Page A

the grannybitch of all wakes, mourning the late and great and the soon to be sinking fast in their finest blacks, in silk and lace and lips so red that eyes would bleed in sympathy. Thirty or forty people wedged into the little apartment like sardines canned alive, writhing to goth and techno and industrial remix. No AC because their wheezy-ass window unit hadn’t survived last August; sweat and body odor and the freshly-turned dirt reek of patchouli. Tea rose and clove cigarettes. 
    Sometime after midnight, Twila realized how badly she needed to piss, had entirely lost track of the tequila and cans of someone else’s beer she’d drunk, and threaded her way through the dancers to the bathroom. And really, she’d thought that Arlene had just passed out, had speedballed herself a first-class, round-trip ticket to see Mr. Sandman; leave her alone, she’ll be fine in the morning.
    “You’re lookin’ a little green, Arlene,” and she laughed and rolled Arlene away from the toilet bowl, flushed and watched the dark vomit turn its Charybdis trick. Arlene lay slumped against the tub, eyes rolled back to whites, lips the slightest touch of blue. Twila, drunk and off-balance, wrestled her leather mini-skirt up and pantyhose down around knee-high Doc Martens, was sitting on the crapper before she noticed the urine pool covering half the bathroom floor. Through the piss-sheen, the powder blue linoleum looked turquoise.
    She’d left the door standing wide open and someone looked in, Dougie and his spiky orange buzz cut. He held his nose and made gagging sounds until she gave him the finger. A moment later, she heard him laughing, cracking golden-shower jokes. “Sure,” Twila told him, “just get in line.”
    Then Arlene opened her mouth and belched, an ugly, rattling sound, and her whole body shuddered like maybe a possum had walked across her grave.
    “Hey bitch, you pissed on my floor,” Twila said. 
    Arlene blinked, reptile slow. Milky irises washed almost grey, a watery blind-girl stare, the barest hint of recognition, and then that shudder again.
    “Arlene, if you’re gonna puke, be a dear and do it in the tub, pretty please.” Twila tore off a big wad of their cheap, scratchy toilet paper and wiped herself.
    Then Arlene lurched forward, marionette jerky spasms and her teeth clack-clacking together like some idiot Halloween toy. She sprawled face down into Twila’s lap, nuzzling her way between thighs, and for a heartbeat Twila was too astounded to move. Then Arlene snarled, Christ, snarled , and the ripping that Twila heard and felt was the mouthful of blonde pubic hair clenched between the Arlene’s cigarette-yellowed teeth.
    The clouded eyes sparked and sputtered, all pupil, barely the slimmest iris rind; the light they swallowed was just fucking gone. 
    Twila screamed, never in her life had she filled her lungs and screamed, screeched like some slasher-movie bimbo. She tried to push the girl away, twined her fingers in hennaed tangle, but Arlene wrapped her long arms tightly around the porcelain bowl and hung on. 
    And then Dougie was back at the door, stupid grin and stoned glaze, right hand gripping a beer bottle like it was his dick. 
    “Jesus, Dougie! Get her off me!” And no way had that been her voice, not that frightened, brittle thing leapfrogging octaves. 
    Arlene strained against the hair leash, snapping and spittle-flecking Twila’s exposed legs.
    “You girls are some mighty sick puppies,” Dougie said and swigged at his beer. 
    Arlene lunged, velcro shrrrip as she tore herself free, and Twila was left holding a useless fistful of hair. Arlene’s head whirled, lips stretched so far back the teeth seemed to reach out as her mouth closed around Twila’s hand. Teeth punching through skin and muscle. Crushing teeth, grinding bones like twigs wrapped in meat, and the pain was something almost alive, dragging itself up her arm like fire or a stranded jellyfish or when they were eight and