Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales by Fran Friel

popped open and her sweaty hands slipped down the razor edge of the blade, slicing deep into the flesh of her palms and fingers. With the shock of the wounds, Samantha dropped the bloodied knife, leaving it to fall into the open drawer; her warm blood mingled with the spindly roots that had emerged.
    The old terror rose as the maddening wormy feeling rushed under the skin of her sliced palm, then crept up the length of her arm. The allergic reaction left her breathless; her chest tightened with fear.
    Trailing blood behind her, she ran to the sink, cursing herself for being so careless. She turned the faucet on full blast and let the cold water run over the gaping wounds in her hands. The water spun red around the sink and down into the drain. Hot tears rolled down Samantha's cheeks as she washed the deep cuts with stinging soap. The allergic reaction intensified, the burning rash covering her skin. She mumbled self-recriminations and watched in horror as red hives crawled along her arm.
    "How could I be so careless? How could I be afraid of stupid potatoes? What in the hell is wrong with me?"
    She pulled a long strip of paper towels from the holder and wrapped a wad tightly around each hand—no doubt they would need stitches.
    "Damn it,” she said to herself. “What a fine thing to do on Cody's birthday!"
    The shock and loss of blood made her feel woozy. On shaky legs, she turned and grabbed the phone. As she dialed her husband's work number, she looked down, feeling something squeezing her ankles. Horrified, she saw slender white roots spreading across the kitchen floor, winding their way around her ankles and crawling up her bare legs.
    Screams pealed from deep in Samantha's throat.
    Her feet were yanked out from under her and blinding pain seared the back of her head as it slammed against the edge of the kitchen table. Her world became a slow-motion movie as somewhere from a distance she watched the birthday cake tumble from the table and splatter beside her on the floor; bits of frosting and shards of the shattered plate flew at her face.
    Samantha's eye welled with tears, gazing as if in a dream at the chocolate icing and the yellow innards of the ruined cake scattered across the floor. My poor, Cody , she thought. Feeling a tug at her wrist, she glanced down; a sharp pain shot through her head from the movement. She blinked hard to clear her vision and saw that the long, fingery roots had followed the trail of her blood from the open drawer. In a flash of clarity, she remembered the wormy fingers in the potato sack in the root cellar, the acid-like burning in the cut on her finger—her blood was tainted, dormant with the evil curse her brothers had thought was a joke. Her therapist had assured her that curses weren't real. The doctors said the crawling rash of her allergy was psychosomatic. As she lay paralyzed on the kitchen floor, feeling the slimy root fingers wrapping around her body, she finally knew they were all wrong.
    Samantha felt the fleshy roots roping around her, tugging and pulling at her body until she began to slide. Unable to resist, her back slipped across the smooth tiles of the kitchen floor, through the splattered icing, the chunks of broken birthday cake, and past the industrial strength gloves she wished she'd never taken off. Helpless to cry out, Samantha started to feel squishy, as if she were melting inside her own skin.
    The long white fingers continued to flow and creep around her body, squeezing and tightening until breathing became nearly impossible. Drifting in and out of consciousness, she felt the tangle of roots rustling over her face, searching for any skin left bare, until they blinded her. The searing pain jolted her to full awareness one last time. She cried out, and the roots slithered into her mouth and up her nose. In a final moment of horror, the disappearance of Samantha's brother was no longer a question—her flesh was dissolving, like she knew he had dissolved at the