This weekend I was camping in a cabin in the Poconos. While I was there I found a book in one of the closets. It was an unsettling book called Dark Entrails. I think it might have been by D. F. Lewis, but I'm not sure.
It starts out on a rainy night with a girl giving birth in her basement. She is ten years old. The rain seeps through the walls and floods the basement, carrying the baby away. The baby is just a conglomeration of bones and skin. It is more of a flesh boat than a human.
There isn't so much of a plot as a series of snapshots like a jaded news reporter taking photographs in the wake of some hideous and inconceivable crime.
The girl crawls through a sewer pipe dragging her teddy bear that she talks to. The bear has a soul and a broken leg. Meanwhile, her parents ravage the girl's bedroom, tearing the wallpaper off the walls, pulling out drawers from her bureau, taking the clothes off of dolls. They put their hands inside of her shoes.
A car drives on the highway, slickened with rain. Medical operations are performed amateurishly in back alleys. Teeth are found where they have no right being. Darkness chafes, scraping off skin. Fires rage, the sky breaks, packs of dogs roam inside hotel buildings, a woman wakes up to find her arm replaced by chicken wire. On and on like drunk nightmares with the thread of the dead floating baby stitching rotten meat onto flayed skin.
It is horrible and beautiful. It is brutal. It is unreal and yet true.
The thing about it is, I don't know how it ends. I had every intention on taking the book with me when I hiked out on Sunday morning. But when I unloaded my pack at home, I discovered I had forgotten it. And now when I Google the title or D. F. Lewis, I can't seem to find it. It's one of those bizarre mysteries.