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The Man With A Serpent In His System

written by Jane Marciano

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He darted into the alleyway as the thud of heavy boots clomped straight on past him up the road. Jordan panted for breath, chest heaving, eyes bulging. Only as his breathing returned to normal did he realize that he was still clutching the old woman’s bag. Collecting his wits, Jordan felt inside for the purse and chucked the bag over his shoulder into the road behind him.

Only sixty quid! It hadn’t really been worth the effort. It wasn’t compensation enough for the curses and clawing she’d given him before Jordan had finally knocked her down with a right that’d sent her head bouncing on the pavement. She’d lain there, bleeding and whimpering that if her husband had been alive, he’d have been sorted out. Huh! That was a laugh, he was a match for any man. Gingerly Jordan felt his torn cheek and his fingers came away bloody from the deep scratches. Bloody old hag! Still, he doubted the bitch’d last the night.

The footsteps were coming back his way at a gallop. The policeman must’ve realized the perp couldn’t have got that far so quickly and had retraced his steps. If Jordan was caught, he knew it would be a long, long stretch for him this time.

The alleyway was dim, poorly lit by yellowed, old-fashioned lamps. Not a soul about but equally empty of hiding places. He stared around, feeling a mounting sense of panic as the copper’s footsteps grew even closer. Sidling further along, it was then he saw the little shop opposite. Strange that he hadn’t noticed it before. Unlikely to be open at this time of the night but, still, worth a try. If he had to break down the door, he would. It was either that or prepare for another confrontation.

A bell jangled as Jordan pushed open the creaky door, and he hastily muffled its call. The windows of the door were draped with faded net curtains and, as he slid his eye to a slit in the tattered fabric, he saw he hadn’t been a moment too soon. A sturdy young cop dashed past the shop. Jordan cringed, but the policeman didn’t even bother to look at the shop as he went by. It was almost as if he hadn’t seen it. Jordan waited, feeling the sweat drip down his back.

Long moments passed before Jordan wiped his forehead and took a deep breath. All good. He was safe. He let the curtain fall and was just congratulating himself on his narrow escape when he heard a sound behind him. Jordan whipped round, his left hand fingering the flick knife in his pocket.

Across the room, a wizened old man was eyeing him curiously from behind the counter but although he looked harmless enough, Jordan was too keyed up to take any chances, and took a threatening step towards him.

The old man backed away. “Who are you? What do you want?” he croaked.

“Never you mind,” Jordan snarled back, taking a few steps closer. “Just keep quiet and you won’t get hurt!” He gazed around then glared menacingly at the old man. “You alone?”

The old man was trembling. “Yeah. Just me.”

“You’d better be telling the truth…”

“Just me. I swear it!” The man’s gaze suddenly dropped to the purse Jordan was still holding, and an odd expression crossed his face. He nodded slightly and looked somehow resigned. Seeing the direction of the old man’s gaze, Jordan quickly shoved the purse into an inside pocket of his jacket.

“You gonna behave yourself?” Jordan snapped threateningly, bunching and raising his fists.

The old man blinked rapidly, staring at Jordan’s hands as if mesmerised, and his Adam’s Apple bobbed up and down in his knotty neck like a yo-yo.

“I ain’t gonna give you no trouble, Mister,” he wheezed, and Jordan slowly unclenched his fists. The old geezer looked so frail a puff of wind could knock him over. He’d got nothing to fear from him, for sure.

“Well, that’s alright then.” Jordan decided his safest bet was to stay put for a while, at least until he was sure the coast was clear. He began to pace around the tiny room, the old man’s rheumy eyes following his progress.

Jordan stopped pacing and leered at him nastily, just enough to remind him that he could mean business if he chose.

“So, what d’you sell here then, eh?” Jordan asked. He was curious As far as he could make out, the shop was bare, although the shelves contained a few books but it didn’t look like a bookshop to him, or any kind of shop in fact. There was a cash register on the dirty counter and he thumbed the ‘no sale’. The till was empty of everything except dust. When the old man didn’t answer immediately, Jordan looked at him sharply. He wouldn’t hesitate to use violence if necessary, but he found himself staring instead at the old man’s face where the bulbous eyes, like pale beads, had a curious way of blinking. The eyelids would lower very slowly over his protruding pupils and then lift gently, leaving a semi-transparent gauze behind. Cataracts most likely, Jordan guessed, but it reminded him of some sort of reptile, particularly as the effect was enhanced by the old man’s bony skull over which the skin was tightly stretched until it looked sheer. Lumpy blue veins criss-crossed his hairless head and Jordan almost expected him to have a forked tongue when he opened his toothy wet mouth.

“Well? You deaf or something?”

“I…I sell tattoos,” the old man finally answered shakily.

“Tattoos, eh?” Jordan was proud of the two he’d gained during his short and dishonourable spell with the Navy. He had a luscious-looking heart tattooed on his right shoulder, and just below it a pair of pouting red lips. He’d never gone in for the usual skulls, symbols and “I love mum”. Maybe it was about time he added a new attraction to his body.

Jordan eyed the old man. “Show me what you got,” he demanded.

Nodding, the old man ambled over to a shelf and brought back a large book that he laid reverently on the counter. Silently he flipped over the pages but all Jordan could see were various pictures of snakes, and he grunted in disgust.

“Jeeze, is that all you can do?”

The old man gave a sly grin. “That’s all, mate, but I reckon a beautiful boa constrictor or python would look really good coiled around those big biceps of yours.”

Pursing his lips, Jordan considered. The idea appealed to him. Beautiful and deadly, pythons and boa constrictors devour their victims whole after crushing them to death.

“Why not. Okay. Let’s go for it.”

“It may take some time,” the old man said softly, staring down at the ground as if he didn’t want to meet Jordan’s eyes.

“I got all evening, mate,” Jordan replied carelessly. “Get on with it before I change my mind.”

Shuffling, the old man led the way behind the counter and Jordan followed him through a curtain of beads into a small, dingy room which stunk of stale tobacco and damp. As he made himself as comfortable as he could on the only chair in the room, the old man arranged his tools, giving Jordan a last wary look, which Jordan countered with an encouraging grin… just to show him he’d do the old guy no harm – unless he botched the job, of course.

The tiny pin pricks seemed to hurt a little more than Jordan remembered from the previous time but after a while he relaxed and let the old geezer get on with it. He didn’t bother to watch – his ears were alert for the sound of returning footsteps, but he couldn’t hear a thing, not even the noise of the occasional passing car. Only the tattooist’s raspy wheezing broken by the odd cough broke the silence. Time passed and Jordan found himself concentrating on the wall opposite where hung a framed photograph of a smiling young bride and groom. He could see that the groom was obviously the old guy now needling him, but he also had a vague impression that he’d seen the woman in the photograph somewhere before – but he couldn’t place her, not that it mattered, the photograph was so ancient. Just something in the eyes…

Jordan was bored. The guy was taking too long. “Get many customers?” he asked.

“Very few,” came the response.

Jordan didn’t doubt it. From the looks of things, the shop hadn’t had any customers for his services for years. The place looked as knackered as its owner.

At last he finished and Jordan stood, flexed his arm and looked down at his new tattoo. He had to admit, the old fella had made a great job of it. The snake looked practically real and when he bunched his muscles, the eyes seemed to glitter in a most realistic manner.

“Not bad, not bad at all,” Jordan said admiringly. “How much?” he asked, putting on his shirt and jacket. After all, he had the sixty quid from the mugging earlier, and he was feeling generous for once. The old man was a good artist; his talents were wasted in that place no-one visited.

“No charge,” the tattooist said quickly, not even stopping to consider the offer.

“Really? You sure?” Jordan took out the old woman’s purse with a flourish and brandished it in front of the old man’s face. “I got the readies. Get yourself a take-out or somethin’.”

The tattooist threw up his arm, pushing Jordan’s hand aside. “No! I don’t want your money!”

Jordan blinked in surprise. Here was a bloke who looked as if he was on his last legs, and he didn’t want payment? Shrugging, he returned the purse to his pocket. “Suit yourself.”

The old man’s voice turned pleading. “Look, I just want you to go. Please, Mister, just leave.”

Jordan’s eyes narrowed. Why was the creepy old guy getting so jittery and jumpy? He leaned forward, hauling the old man towards him so that the toes of his slippers scraped along the lino. “I’ll go, mate, don’t you worry, but don’t you go phoning anyone after I’ve gone. No cops. No-one. Understand me?” He gave him a little shake so that the intentions were crystal.

“Yeah, I understand. I don’t have a phone anyway.”

Jordan slowly lowered the old man to his feet, and he patted the top of his head. “Good. That’s all right then. ‘Cos I can come back any time, you get me?”

When the old man stared at him fearfully, Jordan was satisfied he’d got the message.

Pushing the old man aside, Jordan made his way to the door, opened it carefully, looking to his right down the alley. Only a few yards along was the main road. He stepped out of the shop cautiously. He heard the old man slam and bolt the door behind him. Jordan started to walk up the alleyway, away from the road. The dark shadows of the high walls were a better cover than the bright neon lights that were to be found in the main streets. Jordan knew his way around the district quite well and was sure he could find a quiet route back to his lodgings from the bottom end of the alley.

He couldn’t hear a thing, it was strangely quiet – somehow too noiseless. He glanced up at the walls on either side and considered but they were much too high to scale, even for him. No matter, there had to be an end soon.

He crept along stealthily, his sneakers making no sound on the gravel. The night air wasn’t cold but oddly Jordan felt a chill inside even though his jacket was warm and snug. As he walked he became aware that his arm was aching and that the tattoo had begun to itch. He scratched it absently. He’d been walking for about ten minutes before he realised that he just wasn’t getting anywhere. It made no sense, but the alley seemed to be never ending. Turning abruptly, he began to make his way back the way he’d come, walking a little quicker this time, with more urgency in his step. He wouldn’t have minded the long trek but for the fact that with each step his arm was really beginning to hurt. It felt somehow heavier, and Jordan wondered if perhaps the old guy’s needle had been rusty and he’d got infected. Swearing under his breath, Jordan started to jog, and he could’ve sworn he’d got back to where the shop should’ve been at the start of the alley, but when he looked around, there was no sign of the shop, or of the main road. Just an endless length of pathway ahead and behind, with the walls hemming him in from both sides. This was ridiculous. No way. He knew he couldn’t have passed the shop – the moon was bright, white and full and he could see easily.

He stumbled along a little further, all the time his nails nipping unconsciously at his arm through the sleeve of his jacket. He began to run. Faster and faster. The itching sensation now driving him almost wild. His chest throbbed, and after a few minutes he couldn’t even run any more. He stopped, panting, again looking in front and then behind him, but all he could see was the continuing narrow path and the few stars which peeped at him so freely over the top of the walls.

The breath rasped in his throat. It was getting harder to breathe. It was as if the air was being squeezed out of his lungs. He rubbed at his chest and arms and looked down at his hand. It was covered in ink!

Trembling with fear, he pulled off his jacket and clawed at his shirt, ripping it to shreds. The tattooed snake had swelled in size and now covered his chest completely. Its tail was wrapped around his waist, and the head had circled around his stomach, moving slowly towards his neck. As Jordan stared in disbelief and horror, it grew even larger before his eyes. Dropping heavily to his knees, he frantically dug his fingers into his flesh, but the serpent was under his skin – ingrained into his very essence, enveloping him slowly – sliding where he couldn’t reach it, even when his nails tore through the soft tissue of his flesh it still continued its relentless, remorseless journey.

Fighting for air, Jordan rolled on to the cold ground but couldn’t even scream as the creature’s coils tightened inexorably around his shuddering body and its huge fangs opened wide.

Jordan’s last memory was of a photograph hanging on the wall of an old tattooist’s shop, and now he realised who the woman was!

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Host Commentary

PseudoPod, Episode 932 for August 9th, 2024. 

 The Man With a Serpent in his System, by Jane Marciano 

Narrated by Tiernan Douieb; hosted by Kat Day audio by Chelsea Davis 

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Hey everyone, hope you’re all doing okay. I’m Kat, Assistant Editor at PseudoPod, your host for this week, and I’m excited to tell you that for this week we have The Man With a Serpent in his System by Jane Marciano. This story first appeared in the London Mystery Magazine Selection (No. 99), in November 1973.  

Author bio:
Jane is an English singer, writer and actress. Over the course of her long career she’s published three novels and organised major fundraising events, including one for Children in Need. She was raised on horror stories written by the likes of Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov and E. M. Forster and adored Hammer Horror Films and, as a girl, she desperately wanted to be an actress, but her father forbade it. So instead she went to secretarial college. But she got her way in the end – our British audience might recognise her face: she’s been in EastEnders, Holby City and Midsomer Murders among others. She lives with her very practical husband, who’s her complete opposite and thinks she should take life easier, and has three grown-up children and eleven grandchildren. She doesn’t really do social media. Probably very wise.

Narrator bio:
Tiernan is a writer and comedian.  As a writer, he’s most recently scripted episodes of Hey Duggee on Cbeebies. In his stand-up for adults, he’s performed comedy all over the world, working with and writing for several well-known acts.

Tiernan also co-runs the Comedy Club 4 Kids, performing and writing comedy for children and their families.  And he writes and co-hosts childrens’ mystery podcast Bust or Trust, as well as his own Radio Nonsense podcast with over 18k listeners a month. He also likes crisps, finding good excuses to avoid socialising and singing all the wrong words to songs.

 

And now we have a story for you, and we promise you, it’s true. 

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ENDCAP

Well done, you’ve survived another story. What did you think of The Man With a Serpent in his System by Jane Marciano? If you’re a Patreon subscriber, we encourage you to pop over to our Discord channel and tell us. 

 

When Jane originally sent us this story, she told us this:
Years ago, back in the 1970s when I was in my twenties, I wrote and had this story published in the London Mystery Magazine Selection (No. 99).  No idea what happened to the paperback copies I had, they’ve vanished in the fullness of time, rather like some people I used to know. Anyway, so now, an elderly English lady aged 72, I would like others to hear and enjoy it and, if possible, make some money to buy the grandchildren some sweets.  Or me some sweets.  

How could we say no to that? We just couldn’t. Plus, we don’t often get the chance to run stories from around the 1970s – we run older public domain stories, of course, and they’ve occasionally led us to something as late as the 1950s or so, but other than that, we very rarely see a reprint that’s more than ten years old. 

And there was a lot of glorious pulpy horror in the 1970s and 80s. I myself grew up reading Dean Koontz, James Herbert and, of course, Stephen King. Not to mention all the classic, original horror movies that came out: Friday the 13th, Poltergeist, The Omen, The Exorcist. Ludicrous special effects but still, for my money, a million times better than over-shiny computer generated nonsense. Get off my lawn. Ahem. 

So, it was lovely to see a 1970s story, and even more so from a female author. Fellow editor Shawn Garrett said to me that it read like a classic story you’d read in a code-approved horror comic book of the day – House Of Mystery, The Witching Hour – just desserts and all that. And honestly, I rather like the cut-and-driedness of this: the main character is an irredeemable rotter, and he gets his horrible comeuppance. Good! Life is almost never that simple, sadly, but it would be nice if it was sometimes, wouldn’t it? As a little treat? I can think of a couple of men who could do with a trip to a mysterious tattoo artist. 

Anyway, I hope the snake went on to live happily ever after. 

Enjoy your sweets, Jane!

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Onto the subject of subscribing and support: PseudoPod is funded by you, our listeners, and we’re formally a non-profit. One-time donations are gratefully received and much appreciated, but what really makes a difference is subscribing. A $5 monthly Patreon donation gives us more than just money; it gives us stability, reliability, dependability and a well-maintained tower from which to operate, and trust us, you want that as much as we do. 

If you can, please go to pseudopod.org and sign up by clicking on “feed the pod”. If you have any questions about how to support EA and ways to give, please reach out to us at donations@escapeartists.net.

 If you can’t afford to support us financially, then please consider leaving reviews of our episodes, or generally talking about them on whichever form of social media you… can’t stay away from this week. We now have a Bluesky account and we’d love to see you there: find us at @pseudopod.org. If you like merch, you can also support us by buying hoodies, t-shirts and other bits and pieces from the Escape Artists Voidmerch store. The link is in various places, including our latest social media episode posts. 

PseudoPod is part of the Escape Artists Foundation, a 501(c)(3) non-profit, and this episode is distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International license. Download and listen to the episode on any device you like, but don’t change it or sell it. Theme music is by permission of Anders Manga.

Next week it’s PseudoPod’s 18th birthday! Yes, your favourite horror podcast is finally old enough to vote! That sounds like something we all want, doesn’t it?

To celebrate, we have a special three-parter coming up for you: The Hollow Temple by Dashiell Hammett, narrated by Mr Buttery Man-Voice himself, Dave Robison. The first part will be hosted by Alex Hofelich with, as always, audio production from Chelsea Davis.  

And finally, PseudoPod, and The Doctor, recommend that you…. 

“Have a jelly baby! And don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

See you soon, folks, take care, stay safe.