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Part 20 - Haley Come Home I pulled the cord on the little wall hanging music box just inside Haley's door and it began to tinkle out "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head". "I told you never to do that." "Why?" "I hate that song." "Then why--" "Out." "But I brought you something." "I don't care." "It's something you like. It's chocolate." "What is-- is that-- that's MINE you fucker." It was true. Haley had a box full of king sized candy bars she had to sell for, well, something. I didn't really listen to that part once I discovered what they were. She kept the box in a leather carry on at the end of her bed with a couple pair of socks, underwear, earrings, a V.C. Andrews paperback and her birth control. I went through the whole thing looking for more of those gummi bears she brought home last time, but found nothing else of interest. I took two figuring they wouldn't be missed and hid them under my pillow for later. "But it's your favorite." "I have to SELL THOSE. How many did you take?" It was a tricky question. "Umm, total?" "YOU TOOK MORE THAN ONE?" Oops. I dropped the rejected offering and scrambled for my room, running through a mental inventory of my misdeed and hoping I hadn't left any more clues. I had a habit of stuffing wrappers and other scraps between the mattress and frame in my bed where I was certain no one would find them. It was my secret trash can, where bad things-- or evidence-- could be forgotten. I heard Haley's door slam, cursing, unintelligible noises. I tried to decide how long it would be before she forgave me, even talk to me again. Two days. Tops. Our rooms were right next to each other and I could hear her through the shared heating duct. "Yeah, hey-- I'm-- oof, so pissed right now." I shut my door and sat down next to the air vent, legs crossed. "My little poo poo of a brother-- ugh-- he took some candy-- yes, those." She was talking about me. "Yeah-- I dunno-- he wouldn't tell me-- I guess." I hoped Haley wasn't in trouble and decided if I could throw the candy back up whole and unmolested, I'd do it. She might even decided to let me keep one for being so adult about it. "Just-- yeah-- I can't wait to get out of here, you know?" But coming home to see us was all she talked about. Well, that one time. "I just have to remind myself it will be over soon-- not soon enough, believe me." I thought she missed us. "I'll call Tuesday-- from the station-- ha, yeah-- I miss it too." Kissing noises. "Okay-- yeah, okay-- bye." She hung up the phone and I got up quick, trying to make myself look busy. Moments later she opened my door, arm extended and palm up. Her face was a stone. "How many." "I bought three tickets to see Santa. Bet you're excited, huh?" I grinned like a fool; Dad always knew how to get me to do that. Things were better now with Rita gone. She took a plane to see her family for the holidays, but not before keeping me up all night making animal noises with Dad in their bedroom. She yelled a lot in Spanish, but none of the words I recognized from class. All this I filed away to process later, more concerned with seeing Haley and then Santa. I had to come up with something new to ask for Christmas since my first wish was already coming true. It was something I'd have to really think about, but could wait until after breakfast at Denny's. Pigs in a blanket took up all my concentration. "I don't think I want to now." Mom and Dad and Haley stood with me in line behind a large woman and her equally large son with a rainbow ski hat. Every time he moved his head, the pom pom bounced like a hand puppet and only made my apprehension worse. This was the first time I wasn't sure I wanted to tell Santa what I wanted for Christmas, but I guess there's a first time for everything. I was close enough to Haley she felt something weird too, but she was miles away, which left me on my own. "Well that's just tough. We've been in line for over an hour so you're going." Mom was in no mood to suffer my acting the child. Lines weren't really her thing, especially with people crowded in close enough to share personal smells. The big kid in front of me smelled like Life Savers and butt, like he never wiped. Looking at him I wondered if he could even reach. "Santa looks-- scary." Dad gave my arm a reassuring squeeze. "It's okay, Son. He's probably just a little under the weather." This was news to me. "Santa gets sick?" "When he's away from Mrs Claus for too long, sure." Dad winked and that's how I knew things would be okay. Mom made one of her unhappy sounds. "Or a bottle." "I think we should get soft pretzels afterwards." Haley always knew how to appeal to the need for distraction. I was partial to the assortment of roasted nuts and chocolates at Woolworth's, but pretzels were a sensible alternative. Dad grunted his assent. "Sounds good to me. You want a pretzel, Mom?" Mom's eyes rolled over him like he sprouted a second head, but after a moment, something softened. "I suppose." And we were one big, happy family again. Butt Kid went ahead and took his turn with Santa who, judging from the way he leaned to the side-- no doubt searching for fresh air-- smelled it too. His mother hovered nearby, trying to snap a picture with her Instamatic. This made no sense to me; she already paid for a picture from the elves. It’s how Santa could afford all the brussels sprouts to feed the reindeer. Didn’t she know anything? In my consternation, I failed to realize it was my turn until Haley smacked my elbow and nodded toward Santa. “You’re up, Fanato.” I never did like that nickname. “I don’t want to.” I could tell Mom was on the verge of pissed, but that was nothing compared to the people behind us. They looked positively ready for murder. Haley was comforting in her own special way. “C'mon, you're too big to eat.” But this was Santa. He could do anything. Like the snoopy dog. I took a couple of steps before one of the elves, a short girl with brown hair and a mouth like a typewriter, intercepted and took my arm, guiding me. I tripped, but managed at the last second not to fall down. Then I was in front of Santa with his arms open wide, huge eyebrows and bright red Rudolph nose. His glasses looked like Grandpa’s. “Ho ho ho.” I wasn’t ready for this. Not then, not ever. Even so, I was resourceful, and in that moment of indecision, something came over me and I knew what I had to do. My mouth curled down, jaw slack, and I began to bawl my eyes out. “Get that loving kid outta there.” It was one of the murderous line waiters, one of the angry mob. Dad looked ready to leave, Mom’s face a pickle. Only Haley seemed at ease; smiling, even. “I’m on it.” Haley moved with purpose and nudged me out of the way before sitting on Santa's knee, hands on her own, looking me square. "C'mon. Tell Santa what you want so we can get outta here." Feeling a little better, I took a seat opposite my sister and studied the pained face Santa made. He smelled funny, like the medicine cabinet; a cross between rubbing alcohol and band aids. The closer I got to him the stronger it was and I perched myself as far away as possible while still technically being on his knee. It was one of the requirements of getting what you wanted for Christmas, sitting there. Santa let out a sigh. "What would either of you like for Christmas?" Haley went first. "A new pair of skis, a big tin full of gummi bears-- just the red ones-- and dinner with Madonna." She seemed pretty proud of herself judging from her smile. She looked like Mom, except happy. Santa flashed one of his own: a brief, crooked thing. From being so close, I could see how dirty his glasses were. "Uh huh. And what about you, little boy?" I swallowed. It was the moment I'd been waiting for, secretly, an appeal to a higher power I could both see and feel. Santa could do magic; he was one of the good guys. Haley tugged my sleeve, speaking through tight lips. "Just say it already." I looked Santa in the eye and saw how bloodshot they were. Something lived in there, something not very Santa. "Umm--" He grunted, bouncing his knee a couple of times and Haley started to get up, an apology. It was right there on the tip of my tongue, but the words kept slipping away, sliding back down my throat. Haley put her arms out, eyes somewhere else. "I'll take him." "N-no." Santa let out a long sigh and nodded toward Haley, ready to turn me over to the proper authorities. I could hear Mom from where she waited in the wings with Dad. "What's going on?" That was it. "NO." I grabbed Santa's collar, refusing to let go. Haley looked worried, but with her hand on sleeve, it was only a matter of time. Santa, on the other hand, looked like I was getting ready to bite, genuine fear in his eyes, sputtering obscenities through his frosty white beard. "Just tell me what you want." "NO. MORE. SNOOP--" My head snapped back as Haley yanked me away, my demand cut short, and Santa looked relieved if a little worse for wear. He waved at Mom and Dad. "Better keep a leash on that kid." That got him the pickle face and Mom corralled me to her side, leaving Dad and Haley to retrieve the picture. When they brought it over, I saw Haley's big smile, showing all her teeth, and my eyes locked on Santa with a face like I was mid poop. I took the picture from Dad and studied it closer. I realized I wasn't looking at Santa, but something on his collar, a pin of some sort. It was small and white and partially obscured by his beard, but I knew what it was and why I didn't want to go up there. Dad tugged on my earlobe the way he did when he wanted my attention. It barely registered. "Did you have fun with Santa?" I looked first to Haley, her smile saying everything's fine, eyes telling me to keep quiet; then to Dad, who looked concerned. I held out the picture. "Snoopy got him." It got so I started to enjoy the time went spent together after everyone else was asleep, Uncle Meldrick and I. He always had the bottle with him, but he’d pour me a glass of milk so I didn’t feel left out. I even had the idea to get some cookies, which he obliged, and what was left of the bag sat on the table nearby. I was plenty hungry seeing as I failed to consume very much of my rather expensive dinner earlier in the evening. It seemed Dad and Uncle Meldrick had a common interest in trying new and exotic places to eat. Mel suggested a Japanese steakhouse at the other end of town called Hibachi Tokyo. My only familiarity with Tokyo was through Saturday afternoon Godzilla movies, and the only Asian cuisine I’d tried was Chinese, but everyone thought it sounded good, even Rita, and the prospect of hidden adventure got the best of me. Mel sat in the back seat with me and he and Dad sang songs, some that Mel wrote, others from back when they played in the same band. They weren’t ones I knew so I just sat and listened while Rita make contented sounds. We arrived just as it started to get dark, the parking lot about half full. Dad sounded cheerful when he pulled into a space. “Looks like we picked the right time.” We shuffled into the long hall ahead of the waiting area, replete with decoration ranging from jade statuettes to rice paper wall scrolls. It felt like a shrine it was so quiet, and for a moment I thought maybe we had the wrong place. The path at the end of the walkway split into two directions; one toward the bathrooms, the other where a hostess waited to seat us. She was a small woman, Asian, impeccably dressed. Her smile made me think of kewpie dolls. There weren’t any open tables so we sat at the bar. After our drinks, they brought little wooden bowls of soup with things in them I didn’t recognize. There were soft chunks of something white and little curly green things I decided were snake tails. Whatever they were, everyone agreed they were tasty and I ate mine with such abandon I decided I had to hold the bowl to get a better angle with my spoon. With incredible finesse, I managed to spill the entire bowl all over the bar. No one seemed upset by this, the waitress even laughed as she sopped it with a rag, but the damage was done and I was ready to put the evening behind me the only way I knew how: by burying my face in my arms and refusing to budge until everyone was done and ready to leave. To my credit, I didn’t cry, but my embarrassment was such it wouldn’t have helped. I blocked out everything around me and waited, through the rest of the appetizer, more drinks, dinner and dessert. Dad came over and put his hand on my back to let me know it was time. I didn’t raise my face, watching the floor the entire way out and to the car. Even though we were leaving, I felt marginally better. It was an evening I wanted to remember for the fun we had in each other’s company, not my inability to keep from making a mess. Uncle Melrick was quiet when he climbed in the back seat next to me, a brown paper bag in his hand. Once we were on our way, I decided I was somewhat safe and gave Mel’s bag the eye. It was on the seat between us, and smelled fantastic. I nudged it with my elbow. “What’s that?” Uncle Meldrick leaned over, loosing his customary half grin. “That’s your din din.” Sitting with him at the table, both stomachs sated on cookies and milk, it was like the Hibachi Tokyo fiasco never happened, a bad dream. As far as Uncle Meldrick was concerned, it was a non issue. He was glad to have Dad and me and even Rita with him and that’s all that mattered. In some ways, he reminded me of me, and there were things in him I wanted to see in myself when I got to be his age. If I even did. “We’ll go somewhere tomorrow and get you a burger.” I nodded several times as Mel poured another drink. The bottle was almost empty, but I knew where he kept the others in the cupboard near the sink. He wouldn’t run out anytime soon. “Why do you drink so much?” It was an honest question, if lacking in manners. Uncle Meldrick didn’t seem upset, his eyebrows drifting high above the rims of his glasses, nudging the glass away from him with the back of his hand. His voice was scratchy. “After your Aunt Jean left, I had a lot of time to myself. Some of it good, most of it not.” I put my elbows on the table, cradling my chin in my palms. “I realized there were a lot of things I didn’t like about myself. Jeannie saw them too, but they weren’t what made her have to go.” He paused and I waited for him to continue, watching as his eyes lost focus and took on a far away quality. His lip sagged enough I could see his bottom teeth. Then his eyes found me and I saw something I felt I wasn’t meant to. “Said I loved this bottle more than her. Maybe more’n myself.” His eye quivered as he reached for the glass. “Only ever been good for one woman.” He tilted the glass toward me before knocking it back with one gulp. “And she’s still here.” His laugh sounded more like a hiccup and I extended my arm across the table, palm open. Uncle Mel gave it a glance before he looked me in the eye, a resigned smile, and placed his hand over mine. It was warm. “I’m sorry.” Mel shook his head, gritting his teeth, biting back laughter or tears I couldn’t tell. For some reason I knew I was the only person he ever told. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that, but I didn’t feel bad or scared so I figured it was okay. Uncle Meldrick squeezed my hand. “It’s fine. Even big people have to learn.” I nodded. It made sense. More than what happened next. “I have something I wish would leave.” Mel let out a laugh that wheezed and sputtered like boiled over pasta. I pulled my hand away before I realized he wasn’t choking. “Rita’s not that bad.” I shook my head. “Uh uh. Worse.” And I told him things. Things that made me scared, that made me lose sleep. Things I wanted, things that were taken away. Even the letter from Mrs Greer; parts of it, anyway. When I was done I was shaking and Uncle Meldrick got a flannel shirt from a hook near the door which he wrapped around my arms. “That’s a, uhh-- quite a story.” I looked at the floor. “You don’t believe me.” “I don’t have to. I see it in your face.” “What do I do?” Uncle Mel sat back down, pouring himself another drink. “Tell an adult.” “But what about--” “If someone is hurting you, you need to tell your mom and dad, your teacher, a police man, even--” He took a long drink, refusing to look me in the eye, bottom lip on the glass. “Even me.” Hot Sam’s kept the pretzels warm so they stayed extra soft. Dad got his with mustard, Haley’s with fake cheddar cheese. Mom and I ate ours with just salt. It was Haley’s idea to share a pop. “One large Dr Pepper.” There was a little too much syrup, the drink so sweet it made my teeth ache. But Haley asked for an extra cupful of ice and poured some in that one for me. It helped, and I smiled my thanks. Dad decided we’d put the picture on the fridge when we got home, right under the advent calendar that counted down the days until Christmas. Today’s was a partridge in a pear tree, yesterday’s a toy train with a red bow on it. Neither left me excited. Dad seemed suddenly dissatisfied. “What we should have done was get one of those family portraits done, like the ones from--” I felt my ear pop, a steady whine fading in and out like those old sci fi movies. I tried to find the source, but everywhere I looked were people and kids and shopping bags overflowing. I rattled my finger around in there, even flexed my jaw, but nothing helped. I turned to Haley, about to ask if she heard it too when I saw him. He was taller somehow, hair blonde as corn silk, with a bright blue winter jacket. There was a man with him: rangy, balding, on the verge of famine, with squirrely facial hair. His glasses were tinted, not like sunglasses, just darker than normal ones. I could see his eyes, like a pair of eight balls. Damon walked straight toward me, the man just behind and to the left. His eyes were on mine, but I somehow knew he didn’t see me. He raised his arm, brushing loose hair from his face, and I noticed something strange about his hand. I looked closer, trying to figure it out, when it dawned on me. It only had two fingers and a thumb. Even part of the palm was missing, which made it look like a cross between a hook and a flipper. Scar tissue formed a web of red and pink. Gawking, I grabbing Haley's hand. The slender man turned his head, saying something I couldn’t hear, and as Damon passed, he looked right at me, smiling a toothless pit of rusty wire barbs, the leftover fingers of his ruined hand twitching the way frogs jumped. “OW.” Haley punched me in the arm and I spun around, mouth gaping. “Not so hard you little turd.” I turned to point at Damon and the weird tall man, to give them the first glimpse of my waking nightmare, but it was only more shopping bags in a sea of people and kids. My teeth still ached. "You're doing it wrong." Haley took my end of the red, fuzzy garland and wove it into the branches of the Christmas tree, adding the illusion of depth and movement. I thought you just draped it over the ones that stuck out the furthest. Haley knew about things like beauty and design whereas my expertise centered on cartoons and junk food. She would make the tree pretty in spite of my help. We had a lot in the way of decorations: strings of lights, tinsel, candy canes and ginger bread men and all kinds of ornaments; even an angel for on top of the tree. There was a pine branch garland that went across the mantle where we hung the stockings, red and green felt with our names on them. Dad strung the outside lights over the bushes in front earlier that week. Mom said they would be red and white only, but the ones on the tree inside could be every color we had. "Can I hang the candy canes?" I found a good spot for one, right in front, trying to visualize its majesty as I guided it into position, but Haley smacked my hand away. "Those go on last. Before the angel." I frowned and put it back with the others. "Who wants hot chocolate?" Dad just came from the kitchen through the swinging door, where Mom no doubt was hard at work baking thirteen kinds of cookies. "Yes, please." "ME TOO." "Marshmallows?" "Of course." "YES." "The tree looks nice." Haley took it personally since she did all the important work. "Thank you." "Why don't you come help so your sister can finish." "But I'm helping." "Then you can help me. C'mon." Haley stuck her tongue out at me; she was letting me know who's boss. I watched her butt the whole way into the kitchen, thinking about how much I'd like to kick it. It was a couple of weeks since last I spent any time with Marcia. Being near her again made me realize what separation anxiety really felt like and I made sure to hold her hand while we walked across the parking lot. I had the feeling this was a pretty big deal since Mom was with us, too, though I wasn't sure why. I didn't really even know what we were doing, except that we were involved and it was happening tonight. She and Mom talked for quite a while on the phone last night and I overheard just bits and pieces of the conversation since I was too busy playing in the bedroom. Whatever it was, Mom didn't seem too sure about it to hear her tone, but agreed. She drove since Marcia’s car seated just two. The drive felt like forever, down twisty two lane roads overgrown with weeds and droopy trees. It was after dark when we arrived, the only lights from inside the building. Mom parked next to a station wagon with faux wood paneling. It made me think of the Vacation movie. The room just inside the door was filled with coats and hats and gloves and boots of all sizes and colors. There was a narrow stairwell leading up and a short one down to a door with a sign stating it was for employees only. It had a small window that was blacked over, but I could see the light was on from one of the corners. Marcia placed her hand on my shoulder. "Leave your shoes here." We walked in our socks through a heavy metal door with no window down a short hallway into a large room filled with people. There was a small stage with a podium, a piano like the one at school off to one side. I saw men and women, old and young, fat and thin, kids my age and older and a couple that were just barely toddlers. The older woman at the piano reminded me of a bird with her oversized glasses and spindly features. Her smile was artificial. "Welcome, everyone, welcome. So wonderful to see you here tonight." Everyone stopped talking and turned to face the man on the stage. He was short, with a large stomach and matchstick legs. He was bald except for a strip of dark hair that started behind his ears and wrapped around the back of his head, tips curled up like pork rinds and just as greasy. His thin, wire-rimmed glasses gave him a Benjamin Franklin quality. “I see we have some old faces and some new.” His gaze fell on the little girl in a flower print dress a few feet from me. She was there with a man I assumed to be her father, his hands resting on her shoulders. She wore her hair in loose pigtails that hung down past her shoulders. She was probably half my age, with chubby cheeks and big eyes. She was still a baby. I stood closer to Marcia than Mom, who was near the back of the congregation. "So let me ask everyone here tonight--" The Fat Man spread his arms open wide, a smile spreading over his face like spilled soda. His head dipped forward, perspiration at this temples, and pinched his eyes shut tight as they could. His arms began to shake, then his big belly, followed by his shoulders and his head, shaking, shuddering, grinning teeth and gums and sweaty little glasses, greasy curls bobbing. "-- who wants JESUS to COME INTO YOUR LIFE." The piano exploded with something between George Strait and the Jeffersons theme, the Bird Lady banging away like a soul possessed. "Who wants JESUS to be in your HEART." Several people shouted "AMEN" and I felt myself backing away, bumping into Marcia, and she ruffled my hair, bending down to give me a kiss on the cheek. I looked for Mom, but there were too many people, all shouting and dancing and humming words to a tune I'd never heard. The Fat Man swayed back and forth, arms wide, face glistening. "Who wants JESUS to LIFT UP YOUR SOUL." Several people up front fell to their knees, wind up toys tottering toward the podium. There were several couples dancing together, the men behind the women, and while the women shook, the men raised their arms and lowered them and moved their hands over the women's legs and bellies and chests and they all cried out for Jesus and other things of that nature. It looked a lot like the couples on HBO who ended up having sex to me, but what did I know. Marcia was there, right with me, and Mom somewhere close. I was, by all accounts, safe. So why didn't it feel that way? Everyone began to sing some song about Jesus and the Divine Light. Bird Lady played for all she was worth, grinning like an idiot, while people danced by themselves or with each other, some with their eyes closed, some clapping, a couple of the moms and even an older sister holding the ones too little to dance on their own while they moved their hips back and forth. When the song was over, Marcia squeezed my shoulders, whispering in my ear. "Didn't that feel good?" Fat Man put his hands on the podium. Solemn. Overcome. "And we are gathered here tonight on this seventeenth day of December nineteen and eighty three exactly one WEEK before the birth of our Lord Jesus CHRIST." People nodding, children looking bored. "Christ the SAVIOR." A few peppered amens. "Christ the King." Fat Man's chin dropped to his chest. "Let us pray." I closed one eye and used the other one to watch. I'd seen funerals on tv, and this was one of them. Fat Man was grinning when he finished. "Show me the children of Christ our LORD." The toddlers went first, then some older kids; the girl with the one too little to dance. A couple cried. Then Marcia nudged me forward and legs not my own, I began to approached the line formed in front of the stage. I stood between the big sister and the flower print girl, who gave me a tv star smile. "Jesus loves me." Mouth hemmed, I nodded. Why wouldn't he? "Just as these young ones are gifts unto you, so are they gifts unto the Lord." Fat Man's voice was but a whisper. "The children, you see, I believe they are the future." I looked for Mom in the crowd. "We need to teach them well and-- let them lead the way." I still couldn't find her. But Marcia was right there in front, riveted. "We need to show them-- all the beauty they possess inside." I felt someone's hand on my shoulder, something big and soft against my back. "We need to-- give them a sense of pride." Everyone was nodding, words on their lips; words I couldn't make out. Fat Man's belly rubbed against me and I felt bad inside. I wanted to run, but knew I'd never get far in socks on the waxed floor. "Can you feel it? Can you feel the love?" I looked at Big Sister. There was something weird about her: the way she stood, the clothes she wore, the way she was thin all over except for her stomach. The little boy she held looked just like her. "Let us show the young ones here tonight what it is to know of love and divinity and Jesus son of the FATHER AMEN." Marcia's statue smile was little comfort as I prayed it would be over soon. Haley stroked my hair the way she used to, on the couch with my head in her lap. This time I was on the floor at her feet while she sat on the bed. There wasn't much left since Mom moved her things to the attic, and even though the floor was bare and most of the things that made it Haley's room gone, it felt pretty much the same. The raindrops music box still hung on the wall by the door. "Remember when I used to pull the string just to see you mad?" Haley's hand stopped. "Remember when you promised me you'd get rid of it?" I frowned. "I never promised to get rid of the--" "Snoopy dog." "Oh." Right. "Well, technically--" "Don't give me that." "Well, I did." I shrugged and scooted away from the bed, wrapping my arms around my knees. "You did what you wanted." "YOU never told me what would happen." "I told you what wouldn't happen." "It's not the same thing." "Don't get smart with me." I let out a sigh. "Do we have to argue?" "Only if you keep it up." "But they're gone." "Why do you care?" I turned to look at her, face pale underneath all the hair. "Marcia loved me." "The only thing she loved is between your legs." Lollipop. "I can do it again you know." "Screw it up you mean?" Yes. "NO. Fix it. Make it work. So I can have you back." Haley's face wasn't convinced. I can’t say I was either. Uncle Meldrick was just three shots in a new bottle when he brought out the playing cards. These weren’t brand new like the ones I was used to playing with, but old, worn, broken in. He shuffled them with skill and for a long time, splitting the deck several ways. I liked the way the cards sounded slapping together all fast. I used to make the same sound flipping through the unabridged dictionary at home, which usually got me yelled at. Once he finished, Uncle Meldrick dealt all the cards between us and proceeded to arrange his cards in a stack face down. I mimicked him and once I was done, he took another drink. “Ever play War?” I made my why kind of question is that face. There wasn’t a kid my age who didn’t know how; Dad taught me once he got tired of playing Go Fish. While I didn’t play all that many games of cards, when it came to War, I could hold my own. “Sure. Bunch of times.” “Capital.” He slapped the first card down -- a ten of club. Mine was a two of hearts, and since he won, Uncle Meldrick took the cards and added them to his pile. He won the next two rounds without blinking. “War isn’t just a game of chance.” I slapped down a jack of diamonds. His was a seven. “One of luck.” “It isn’t?” Uncle Mel shook his head as he laid out another card. A king. “It’s about knowing where your men are even when you can’t see them.” I looked at my pile of cards, perhaps half the size of Uncle Mel’s. In all the times I’d played, I’d never really put that much thought into it. I really only paid enough attention to make sure I knew who won each round. Most of the time it took forever and I ended up bored; a few I even gave up up before with finishing. “Think of the king as your general.” I gave him a funny look. “But that’s not the highest card. The ace is.” “Aha. And it’s the ace’s job to protect the king.” “Why?” “It’s the only card that can beat him.” I nodded to myself; it sort of made sense. “If you want to win, you need to not only have all the aces, but know where they are.” “But what if we each put down an ace and have to fight for it?” He gave me a little smirk. “Make sure you bring the right backup.” Uncle Meldrick won that game in record time; the next two even faster. I quickly grew bored with losing and after the fourth game, I decided it was time to throw in the towel. “I give up.” Uncle Mel rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “You give up you’re dead.” “Huh? “Life is a lot like War, Whisker. Sometimes you win, others you don’t. But you can do things that make sure you win more than you lose. Giving up doesn’t even enter into it. Giving up means you stop living.” I considered this, looking Uncle Mel square. “I haven’t given up.” Uncle Meldrick screwed the cap back on the bottle and put it on the floor under the table. “Neither have I.” I sat by myself on Christmas Eve, alone in the bedroom, wanting desperately for it to be tomorrow morning and doing none of the things I had every one before. No building a fire in the fireplace nor sneaking just frosted cookies from the kitchen. I didn't beg to open just one present early as become tradition. There were no fights over what to watch with Mom, groans when Dad brought out his guitar to sing John Denver nor any of my usual grade school antics. Instead, I waited, hoping what little magic was left in such a hallowed day would bring that which I most desired, make the impossible possible. What was supposed to happen three days ago. For some reason I didn't dare ask Mom why it hadn't happened. There was something about the way she moved around the house the past few days, the way she cleaned, the things she said, not to me, but just in general that gave me an impression it wasn't a subject she'd take easy. I even saw her crying in the bedroom with the door open but a crack, but I never asked what's wrong. That was Dad's job. When he was home. So caught up was I in my reverie, I didn't see Mom in the doorway until she cleared her throat. It was a thing she did when she wanted someone's-- anyone's-- attention for as long as it took to look her way and wonder what's wrong. After that brief moment, it was gone; replaced with indifference. It was a game she played, so much and for so long it was akin to reflex; her way of saying she's here, should anyone still care. It was the most a sad woman could ask for help in a world where there was none to give; one tailored for a specific condition of misery, built of stuff stronger than brick or steel. It's a world I saw on an every day basis, but the walls were still far enough away they blended in with the hills and the trees to the point they looked like they belonged. I'd spent half my life doing the same thing. Then I wondered how long it was for Mom. "There's still some cookies out there." She sat next to me on the bed, rubbing my back through my shirt. For once it wasn't perfunctory. "Not hungry." Second stomach lodged its protest with a gurgle. "Well, they'll be there if you change your mind." I nodded. It wouldn't be me changing it. "She's not coming, is she?" Mom inhaled long and slow, a drawn out, ominous thing I equated to that of dragons; the ones that preceeded a face full of fire. Mom's words were small. "Not this year." Nor any other. "What about Santa? Can't he bring her?" "I don't think there's enough room in his sleigh." "She could ride one of the reindeer." A choked up laugh from Mom quickly strangled. "Maybe." We sat there quiet with the wind blowing outside for company. It gave me a chill. "What about Dad?" Mom's body tensed. "He'll be here." With that, she rose and headed out purposeful. A moment later she paused in the doorway, clearing her throat. Once I'd summoned up the guts, my voice cracked. "I miss her." Mom wouldn't look at me; looking at me meant it was true. She left without a word. Haley's breath was the wind outside in my ear. Slender fingers through my hair left rivulets of ice down the back of my neck. It was how she showed me she still loved me, such a calculated despair. Bit by bit, piece by piece, the important parts inside me withered black, kissed their goodbyes, and I crawled inside the space they left behind where she draped me with a shroud of my skin. I felt her shushes shrivel my tears to stones, heard the windchime tinkle as they fell. I shuddered, from cold or grief I could not tell. My words were sand. "She lied." Haley's came out pulverized. "Told you." OneWhiteWhisker fucked around with this message at Jun 20, 2012 around 17:58 |
| # ? Jun 20, 2012 17:41 |
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| # ? May 25, 2013 17:38 |
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I love Whisker's story even though each post leaves me more confused and less sure of what is real or imagined.
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| # ? Jun 20, 2012 21:59 |
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Not a ghost story, but here's a weird thing that happened a while ago. I had a nightmare that I can only sort of remember now. I was running away from something, I think through a deserted city, at night. I remember yelling for help but my voice coming out as a croak. And I remember being knocked to the ground from behind and having the distinct understanding that I was about to be torn apart. When I woke up, I was bleeding from a number of long, shallow, and very narrow scratches in my neck. I checked my nails; they were all pared down, no hangnails or anything that could have caused them. I'd slept in a t-shirt, and the scratches extended way under its collar. There wasn't anything around my bed that I could have somehow repeatedly rubbed my face against in the night. I took a picture the next morning, after the bleeding has stopped. They were deeper than they look here:  The weirdest thing was just how narrow they were. My nails didn't seem anywhere near sharp enough to do that. End Of Worlds fucked around with this message at Jun 22, 2012 around 23:15 |
| # ? Jun 22, 2012 23:11 |
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Are you a lefty? Did you upset your cat?
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| # ? Jun 22, 2012 23:21 |
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End Of Worlds posted:The weirdest thing was just how narrow they were. My nails didn't seem anywhere near sharp enough to do that. You can get narrow scratches like that from scratching sideways. They can also be deeper scratching sideways because less surface area in contact with the skin means less resistance. I've always had short thin nails, but for a while as a kid I was filing them wrong, and accidentally drew blood on other kids a couple times. Or a ghost cat tried to use you as a litter box. 
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| # ? Jun 22, 2012 23:43 |
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My mom's oldest friend, "Ellen" lost her husband "David" several years ago, after a long bout with diabetes and multiple sclerosis. David and Ellen are/were like extended family to us. They were more generous to my siblings and I (both timewise and moneywise) than our biological aunts and uncles. A few years before David started losing his health, he found someone on the internet, had an affair and spent a lot of time and money on the other woman. "And when Ellen says "a lot", you know its a big number," my mom said. Despite his transgressions, they stayed married. After David's health really started to decline, he ended the affair with the other woman and Ellen started taking care of him in shifts with their daughters, who were in their early and mid 30s. Ellen loved David, but never completely forgave or forgot his transgressions. Her sense of betrayal was equal to her love for him. A few weeks after David passed away, my mom got a phone call. It was Ellen. "I'm having a problem. I think David is haunting me. For the last few weeks, I feel someone get in to bed with me, and I hear breathing. My faith doesn't believe in ghosts. What should I do?" My mom offered the advice to talk to him like he was there. Tell him what you want him to know or what you think he needs to hear to be at peace. A few weeks later Ellen called back. "It worked. I told David I love him and I forgive him. I heard the breathing and the weight of an arm across me and I fell asleep. It hasn't happened again since I did what you suggested." As a footnote, Ellen is one of those people who has had both a tragic and blessed life. She was born in a relocation camp in Poland after WWII. She married David around 1969, and they built a prosperous business until selling it upon his retirement. She recently retired from a upper management position in a department of the state. They had 2 daughters, "Maddie" and "Briana". Maddie was 18 months older than me - I had literally known her my entire life. Unfortunately, Maddie died in a car crash in January of this year. Please slow down when the conditions warrant it and wear your seat belts, guys
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| # ? Jun 23, 2012 08:24 |
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I can't remember if it was in last year's thread or the one before that, but I remember several goons sharing similar stories about a smiling man dressed in all black who would keep popping up. I believe he usually wore a hat or his face was concealed in some manner in every story. These stories creeped me out more than anything.
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| # ? Jun 25, 2012 17:12 |
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You know, my girlfriend does this sometimes.
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| # ? Jun 25, 2012 18:35 |
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Does anyone still have that massive PDF collection of stories that someone (Noodle Incident, maybe?) uploaded in the previous thread? The file site it was on went down but I'd love to have it again.
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| # ? Jun 28, 2012 02:17 |
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Akaadji posted:Does anyone still have that massive PDF collection of stories that someone (Noodle Incident, maybe?) uploaded in the previous thread? The file site it was on went down but I'd love to have it again. I read that as Noodle Incident was one of the stories. Actually, that would make a very good basis for a ghost story, kind of the elephant in the room that never gets explained, though always referenced.
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| # ? Jun 28, 2012 02:22 |
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Boneitis posted:I read that as Noodle Incident was one of the stories. Actually, that would make a very good basis for a ghost story, kind of the elephant in the room that never gets explained, though always referenced. I'd be thrilled to see someone take a stab at this.
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| # ? Jun 28, 2012 04:23 |
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Jesus Shaves posted:I can't remember if it was in last year's thread or the one before that, but I remember several goons sharing similar stories about a smiling man dressed in all black who would keep popping up. I believe he usually wore a hat or his face was concealed in some manner in every story. These stories creeped me out more than anything. Sounds like Slenderman. Oh, god. I shouldn't have mentioned him...
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| # ? Jun 28, 2012 12:20 |
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Zombie Boat posted:Sounds like Slenderman. Oh, god. I shouldn't have mentioned him...
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| # ? Jun 28, 2012 12:54 |
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LobsterTick posted:Either this or those two stories about a black man that kept appearing before car crashes. Can't find those too. You mean the Allstate commercial? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c9Rd-xQgU-g
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| # ? Jun 28, 2012 15:07 |
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Who wants to read about my haunted car insurance?
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| # ? Jun 28, 2012 15:11 |
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[gruff voice]I'm the ghost that's going to appear in the middle of the road while you're driving down a long lonely road on a dark night...[/gruff voice]
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| # ? Jun 28, 2012 15:33 |
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Akaadji posted:Does anyone still have that massive PDF collection of stories that someone (Noodle Incident, maybe?) uploaded in the previous thread? The file site it was on went down but I'd love to have it again. http://www.mediafire.com/?epfa0747jn5v27x
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| # ? Jun 28, 2012 20:08 |
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Hey! I'm the Goonette who made the huuuge .pdf compilation that some people mentioned earlier in the thread. The one that's hosted on the "notbutspicy" site-thingy isn't complete. I could upload the original file on another site than megaupload, I just don't know which one to use. I could also email it to someone who'd upload it to their server. Sorry if it has already been posted, I haven't caught up with the thread yet. Edit: ^^^^^^ GODDAMNIT. Beaten.
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| # ? Jun 28, 2012 21:48 |
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Whiskers stories should really be a book
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| # ? Jun 28, 2012 21:48 |
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LobsterTick posted:Either this or those two stories about a black man that kept appearing before car crashes. Can't find those too. It's definitely not Slenderman, and I don't recall any of the stories where the man shows up before car accidents. I sort of remember three stories from three different posters who had weird encounters with a man who they all described almost identically. In all three stories, they encountered a tall, skinny man dressed in a black suit (I think he had a black overcoat as well), with a black brimmed hat. His face is always partially concealed by the hat or shadows, but each story described his mouth being visible with the creepiest smile plastered on his face. Not surprisingly, he was from then on referenced as "the smiling man" for the rest of the thread. I will do my best to summarize the stories from what I remember. Hopefully, someone reading this will recall these and post them. Also, sorry for the lovely summaries, it's been a while since I read these stories and I'm sure I am missing a lot of details. In one of them, the person telling the story is walking down the street when the smiling man walks out of an alley or from around a corner about 30 feet ahead. The man then stops, turns, and just stares directly at the storyteller as he approached, wearing his terrifying smile the entire time. I believe once the storyteller got within five or so feet, the smiling man extended his hand for a handshake, and after shaking his hand, told the storyteller to have a nice day. As the storyteller walked by the smiling man, he turned around for one last look, but the smiling man had vanished. In another, a different poster was walking down a street on a hot summer night. He was the only person on the street until he noticed the smiling man walking towards him some distance away. The smiling man stuck out to the storyteller because he was completely covered with black clothing on such a hot night, and because he had an unsettling smile that would not leave his face. The storyteller eventually walks past the smiling man, but after walking about ten more feet, I think he sensed the man stopping and turning around behind him. I can't remember if he said the smiling man started following him or not, and unfortunately that's as far as I remember, but I this story creeped me the hell out. In the last story, I believe the storyteller sees the smiling man on the street and feels very unsettled by him for some reason. Later on in the day, I believe she is getting off of a bus when she gets a phone call from a mysterious number. Answering it, the voice tells her to turn around. When she does, she sees the smiling man on the bus in the seat where she was previously sitting, staring right at her as he talked to her on the phone. The smiling man told her to have a nice day, then he continued to smile and nod at her until the bus drove off. I loved these stories not only for the creepiness of the smiling man himself, but also because many posters seemed to have encounters with him. If I remember correctly, I think there may have been a couple of other stories about him but I don't recall any of the details. Does anyone else remember this creepy mofo?
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| # ? Jun 28, 2012 22:32 |
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Awesome, thanks! And thanks for putting it together in the first place, Noodle Incident!
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| # ? Jun 29, 2012 03:24 |
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Jesus Shaves posted:Smiling Man Those stories were from a goon named Mr Graves; at least, most of them were, but if I recall correctly, there have been a small number of other goons who experienced similar encounters. Sadly, Mr Graves has been hinting at having a huge story to tell several times, going as far as asking us devoted readers with archives to search through older threads in order to find some of his posts, but he never told us anything. He's been "teasing" these threads multiple times and has always disappeared after 1-2 posts. Every. Goddamn. Time. Basically, I don't think that we can expect to hear much more about the smiling man. (Mr Graves, if you're reading this, I'M DARING YOU TO POST!!!!)
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| # ? Jun 29, 2012 03:57 |
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Jesus Shaves posted:Smiling Man Yes and yes, they are absolutely some of the creepiest stories I've read in these threads. I recall one story that involved the woods, where a guy gets separated from his buddy and winds up trapped under something -- his four-wheeler, I think? -- and is eventually approached by the smiling man. The smiling man offers him help, the guy declines, and the smiling man rather ominously replies that he'll be back after sundown. The guy freaks the hell out and manages to free himself, but it was such a chilling story, especially since the other smiling man accounts place him in urban environments. I think there might actually be another woods-related story featuring the smiling man, but I can't remember more about it.
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| # ? Jun 29, 2012 04:03 |
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Would anyone with archives be willing to search Mr. Graves' posts and share his smiling man stories? Those are too good not to post in this thread.
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| # ? Jun 29, 2012 06:41 |
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RumbleFish posted:Yes and yes, they are absolutely some of the creepiest stories I've read in these threads. I recall one story that involved the woods, where a guy gets separated from his buddy and winds up trapped under something -- his four-wheeler, I think? -- and is eventually approached by the smiling man. The smiling man offers him help, the guy declines, and the smiling man rather ominously replies that he'll be back after sundown. The guy freaks the hell out and manages to free himself, but it was such a chilling story, especially since the other smiling man accounts place him in urban environments. I think there might actually be another woods-related story featuring the smiling man, but I can't remember more about it. I think this is it but don't have an attribution for it. quote:So just to check with everyone else who has seen the smiling man does he ever wear period clothing. I have somewhat seen a man about 4 or 5 times throughout my life( i only got into ghost stories and the occult after seeing him about 3 times) and every time the encounter creeps me out.
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| # ? Jun 29, 2012 14:56 |
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Jesus Shaves posted:It's definitely not Slenderman, and I don't recall any of the stories where the man shows up before car accidents. I remember him, because I also shared an experience that I had as well as the fact that my aunt and brother have had similar experiences as well (they are not goons and they told me about their's before I read the thread). I think our family is haunted by the (...a?) smiling man. cuntvalet fucked around with this message at Jun 30, 2012 around 14:10 |
| # ? Jun 30, 2012 14:06 |
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I always love these threads, they are one of the reasons I frequently visited SA. I have some paranormal events that happened to me but I will be sharing some my dad told me while we were casually talking one afternoon. Me and my dad spent some time chatting about things of the past, relating to his growing up in mexico. This story was experienced and told by my grandmother to my father, so although I can't verify details, it is still an interesting story. I have to give a bit of background information on the location where these stories take place. The town where my dad grew up in has a population of maybe 500 these days and was about the same when he was a young man. Literally everyone knows each other. About a mile to the south sits a larger town with an even larger population. To the north of the main town of our story (about 20miles) is a large city. Surrounding the towns are fields that go on for miles, which are used for growing crops. Now in the town the majority of the residents were poor. My dad had a friend growing up whose name is Vincente. Vincente was very poor and as a result he went to my grandmothers house and had breakfast and dinner there everyday. So him and my dad were very close. My dad worked taking care of some goats that belonged to the family (grazing, milking, etc) and Vincente would accompany my dad. This went on for many years until Vincente finally came to the US. Years later my dad made the migration to the US also. One day he ran into Vincente and began talking to him, he noticed Vincente had a limp and looked like he wasn't doing to good. He asked him what was wrong and he said he something wrong with him and he was going to the doctors office to see what could be done. One day he came to my dad and asked to borrow a hundred dollars to pay for his medical visit. My dad immediately gave him the money. A couple of days later Vincente came to my father to repay him the money he borrowed. My dad told him that if he needed any money he would gladly help him out. Vincente acknowledged him, thanked him and went on his way. Time passed without my dad seeing Vincente, so one day he went to visit him at his home. Once there he met with Vincente's newphews who told my dad that Vincente went back to mexico. My dad thinking it was just a small vacation, asked when he was to return. The nephews answered that he wasn't coming back. The doctor told Vincente that he had prostate cancer and that it was too far advaced for treatment, so he went back to Mexico to live out the remainder of his life. Vincente spent a lot of time bedridden and suffering from his cancer. Many of the townspeople would pay him a visit asking how he was doing and if he needed anything. One night some of his friends paid him a visit. They asked him if there was anything he needed and he responded with: "I don't need anything, but could you get rid of that animal by the window? It just stands there and looks at me." Confused, his friends assured him that there was nothing at the window and he insisted that there was. His friends asked him if he would like a priest to pay him a visit so that he could confess his sins. Vincente declined but asked them to get rid of the animal at the window. Worried they contacted my grandmother, and asked her to pay Vincente a visit and say some prayers for him. She agreed and visited him soon after. When she got there she asked how he was doing, he replied: "Not too good, that animal at the window won't go away." My grandmother asked "What animal? I don't see anything at the window." "He's not there right now but he's always there just staring at me." My grandmother pleaded with him to allow a priest to visit him so that he may confess his sins, and just like before he only asked for someone to get rid of the animal at the window. Eventually he agreed if only because of her, she was always good to him. Immediately they sent for a priest to visit him and almost immediately the priest came and spoke with Vincente. Soon after he slept through the whole night undisturbed. The next day my grandmother visited him and asked how he was doing and he replied that he was doing better, and that the animal that stood outside his window hasn't returned. A few days later he passed away.
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| # ? Jul 1, 2012 03:04 |
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Part 21 - Almost Dear Haley, This isn't the letter I want to write. I want it to be the one that says things are good at home and at school, I'm keeping myself out of trouble and I can't wait for the weather to get warm again. I want it to show you how good I feel, how happy I am, so you can be happy for me. That's what letters are supposed to do. I am none of these things. It's my fault you can't come back, my fault I haven't kept my promise. My fault you're miserable. I'm miserable too. And I'm sorry I-- I crumpled up the pice of paper and threw it across the room, where it bounced off the wall and landed near my shoes. Since it was the letter I didn't want to write, it was better left unwritten. I'm pretty sure Haley knew how I felt even if she wouldn't admit it. It wasn't a relationship of shared feelings with us, but they were understood. At least, I thought they were. It's complicated. After the first of the year, there was snow. It was light, the powdery kind and grew in intensity over several days. By the second week of January, the ground and trees were covered and everything looked like pillows, adding an illusion of softness. But, like life, it only hid what lay underneath; things better left that way. I spent a lot of my free time outside where things were simpler. The walls were still far enough out on the horizon they were easy to ignore. Grandma and Grandpa Schiller lived just off the interstate, on one of the two intersecting roads that dead ended at the same field. One end was the creek that ran behind the house, the other at a pile of rocks and leftover concrete. There was a small outcrop of trees behind it, which gave just enough shade to make it a good place to waste a summer afternoon hunting snakes. It sat past the gravel driveway that led to a kid named Jack's house; he was a couple years older than me, went to the public grade school. Now it was a giant pile of half melted and refrozen snow and ice, a fortress of quasi linear wonder to my mind and a death trap to Mom's. She forbade me to play there, but what I did outside in the snow was for me to know as long as I came back safe and sound. I walked along the edge of the road where the snow mixed with stones. I listened to the crunches under my shoes and thought of cereal. The air was cold, dry. My eyes filled with tears to keep them wet. I wore a hat when Mom told me even though my hair stood up stupid when I took it off. Someone might see. Someone might understand how strange I was to look so different from everyone else; the way people did when they were foolish and weak. Physically? I was a number two pencil, a wildflower. Still, there were things I'd seen, felt, been party to that could melt mountains. There must be some way of measuring such things in the eyes of a stranger. The tears froze halfway down my cheeks: my memory of Haley. No smiles, no stolen candy bars, no warm goodbyes. Nothing soft was left. The space under my mattress was running out. Unlike at home, Mom couldn't clean all the things she wanted to at Grandma and Grandpa's and that made her surly. Grandma put up with it for about a week before she told Mom to just sit down and relax, but cleaning was the part of Mom's routine that had to happen or bad things might. What kind of bad things? It was anyone's guess. Maybe if I cleaned more it would make things so Bedbugs and Someone Else's Stockings never happened, but that was ridiculous. There was life, the things you dreamed, and profound forever evil like the snoopy dog. Everything else was fiction. Still, it meant I had a semi safe place to put things I didn't want anyone else to see. It's where I stashed my bad grades, pictures of girls I drew in various states of undress, half eaten candy and other sundry pants pocket fill at one end and what I got from Santa at the other. To my credit, it was an expert tactic in that it hadn't moved since I put it there. I checked it every night before I went to sleep, slipping my hand into the crevice until I felt the cool, polished skin, fully anticipating a bloody stump upon withdrawal. I think it was, in its own way, happy to be there. So close to me. Maybe it was once a little boy too. The past Christmas was an exercise in pinpoint focus on a poorly constructed lie. A trimmed plastic tree, naught for lights except over the archway going from the living room into the abrupt foyer and, most disheartening, not at home, made for poor celebration. Everyone opened presents as might hobos picking through yet another tin of beans. Great gifts became common, good ones dismissed. Socks and underwear and ties went out with the garbage. There was nothing of cheer. Aunt Ky and Uncle Gerry both stopped in, but didn't stay. There was only enough oxygen for those of us with the forethought to order ahead. I made the mistake of mentioning Haley; you could frost a cake with the tension. Mom made a noise caught between a cough and a sneeze and went to the kitchen. Grandma was there, too; where it was safe. Once it was done-- the damage, that is-- I traipsed up to my bedroom to accept defeat. It wasn't a story for children though there were none present. The sun slithered through the blinds and cast itself upon the floor, a beached whale. The door wasn't as I left it. There was something other than the bed on it. A box. It was wide but not tall, wrapped by a strung out addict's hand. The paper was colors, cartoons, wrinkles, wreckage; one corner crumpled in on itself, what's left of a ribbon holding everything in. The writing on the tag felt like a threat. To: Little Boy From: Santa I was talked into opening it. No. Compelled to. It wasn’t curiosity or desire or greed that made me do it. I don’t think there’s a name for it, really. I’ll call it an accident. There are no accidents. The paper came off a patch of dead skin, revealing a box like the ones they used at Woolworth’s. I’m not sure how I even knew seeing as it was a plain and white. It smelled just enough of roasted nuts to feel like a yesterday. When I pulled the top off I didn’t cry or yell or run away. I sat down, like a man, picked it up, felt it in my hands, against my flesh. It wanted to love me. I’d never really noticed how it wasn’t so much white as pearl. Scrimshaw. There was the tiniest crack in the cap, the dark pleather scuffed café au lait in spots, worn down along the edges. Smoothe all over. Curves that defied time. A beautiful girl’s body. It felt so right against me I couldn’t fathom wrong. Half the world just washed away. I slipped it under the end of the mattress closest to the door, where it could sleep. And dream little doggie dreams. I’m not sure when Mom decided to start smoking, but I remember the day I found out. It was insufferably hot for the end of March, almost shorts weather, and I left my jacket at home. Mom insisted I wear something long sleeved so I didn’t catch cold, but the only thing I had any real threat of catching was Mom’s ire. I don’t know if she woke up on the wrong side of the bed or what, but she’d been on a tear the whole morning and once she’d laid sufficient waste to the house, she set her sights on me. “It’s too hot.” “Don’t you dare open that window.” “I’m sweating.” “Well don’t sweat in those clean clothes and get them all smelly.” “But I don’t stink when I sweat.” “Everyone stinks when they sweat. You’re just too young to notice.” "Do you stink when you sweat?" Mom shot me a look. I was treading on thin ice. "Women don't sweat. Get in the car." We had errands to run, Mom and I. Really, it was just part of the routine. She needed someone to be there with her, see all the wrong, bear witness. Even a little liar like me. The Chevette didn't leave much room for, well, anything. I asked to sit up front. "Wear your seatbelt. Last thing I need is some cop pulling us over." There was something in the air that day. Maybe it was just the heat making people's brains a little crazy, making them see things, feel things that were only sort of there. That's how it was for me, anyway. "Can I roll the window down?" Mom's mouth strapped on steel toed boots. "Just a crack. It's still winter." I put my hand on the crank, wrapped my fingers around the handle, and rolled it counterclockwise. Halfway through the third revolution it fell on the floor and I had an epiphany of personal harm. "Umm." "What?" "Uhh. The window." "What? What about it?" "I think I broke it." It was a feeble old man noise she made. "WHAT DID YOU DO." I held the broken handle up and she snatched it away, looked at it like it might start breathing again. "WHY DO YOU RUIN EVERYTHING." It was a valid question, one I sometimes asked myself. So far, I couldn't come up with much that didn't tailspin into academic fantasy. If I had too many muscles, there'd be a tv show about it. If my brains were popping out my ears, I might get to work at some university developing military weapons. As it was, I was just some boy with a disproportionate amount of personal trauma. I suppose it's only natural it would find its way out, if unintentionally. There were no such things as accidents, only actions and reactions. I felt bad for the window crank. It didn't put up much of a fight. She put the crank in the console and rummaged through her purse, one hand on the wheel, cursing without passion. I inventoried the words, reviewed the meanings, mentally bookmarked their associations. Each one of them had a special place and when I looked at Mom I saw them as name tags on her face, her arms and chest, legs and stomach. They were who she was, while I was what she pointed them at. It was its own kind of love, a giving of herself to me, except it was sometimes the kind of love people didn't want, the forced upon them kind. Sometimes I had trouble telling the difference. Sometimes not being able to tell made me feel stupid. Sometimes I couldn't feel the love at all. Mom calmed herself down enough to pray. "You're just lucky I don't drink." She slipped the cigarette between her lips and lunged for the car lighter under the panel that explained how to make the car warm. We didn't need any help with that. The first curls of smoke were yellow, banana balloons, then white like Santa's beard. A thousand lifetimes of snow. The smell made me cough. "You hadn't broken it, I'd let you roll that window down some more." Thanks, Mom. We rolled into town, heading for the grocery store. It was close to the edge, with a bowling alley at the back of the parking lot. Dad told me they used to live in a house right next to it, but that was before I was born. Haley's favorite thing was to tell me about what happened before I was born, maybe to make me feel sorry for missing it. It wasn't meant to be mean, it's just how she was, and I loved her anyway. Even so, it worked. I missed all the things I didn't know happened. Mom lit another cigarette like it was a competition. It was her third since we left Grandma and Grandpa's and though it was all I could smell, it became like the trees and houses that went by. West Whitney Avenue had a way of going from pleasant to spooky in the width of a cross street. I had an idea what street that was, but it didn’t much matter since the unfortunate fact was our grocery store lived on the spooky part. Mom flipped the turn signal and waited for a pickup to pass before she went. She was most of the way through the turn when the other car darted out from behind a station wagon, clipping our front driver’s side corner. Both cars stopped, Mom’s face a wreck of its own. I didn’t want to move, taking in the silence. It was lovely. A car door. Then another. Mom got out and I followed suit, walking around the front to survey the damage. It wasn’t bad, to my mind, but my only comparison was from tv and movies, where crashes normally resolved with an explosion. The headlight was cracked, signal light smashed, a rumpled fender and a cool purple streak of paint left behind; a tattoo. I traced it with my finger until Mom smacked my hand away. “Don’t touch that.” The other driver was a woman younger than Mom, but you wouldn’t know it to look at her. She was thin, somewhat tall, withdrawn. Her dark hair fell to her shoulders, limp and mousy. Her eyes were dull and glassy, convalescent. She looked like she needed something. Sleep. A hug. A way out. Mom hugged the woman with her mouth. “Jesus, did you even look?” The woman’s reaction was careful. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.” It was an honest mistake. “I have a kid in the car. He could have been killed.” “I thought it was clear.” “Well it most certainly wasn’t. You’re lucky he’s okay. You’re okay, aren’t you?” I nodded, hands in my pockets. My body was fine. “Can we just-- forget it? I’ll give you money.” This seemed to trip some internal switch for Mom. Her eyes flashed, a pinball table. “Money isn’t the issue. The car can be fixed. What you did was--” I faded Mom to static, a car starting, a dog barking halfway down the block. There were birds and I concentrated on them, watched them fly across the lot, over the houses across the street, into the future. “Your mom’s kind of a bitch.” Spoken like an expert. She was right next to me, just a bit taller but built the same. Her hair was dark like the woman in the car, off her shoulders but past her ears. Full. I saw red in there, underneath loose curls;undulating, controlled flames. The way she was turned I couldn’t see much of her face, but the sun was pretty bright for winter. “Yeah. She’s having a day.” “I’ve seen you before. Next door.” I could only imagine what that meant. “Next door?” “At Yanya’s. You know, on Henna.” “I live on Henna.” “Duh. That’s what I mean.” “Sorry. Yeah, okay.” She was waiting; it was in the way she stood there. “Well?” “Umm, what?” She faced me, rolling her eyes to tell me I was being obtuse. I watched the way they danced over round cheeks, a perfect little mouth smiling diamonds. They were green, but deep, like a Christmas tree. There were things in there I wanted to find, protected things, hidden around short corners at the tips of my fingers. She kicked my knee. “Ow.” “Did you see me too?” “You kicked me.” “You deserved it.” I rubbed the spot through my jeans and felt the warmth spreading through my leg. It wasn’t the bad kind. I considered her question, knew the answer, and decided to give her a different one. One that wouldn’t end with another kick. “Yeah. I think so.” Her face was fireworks. “Really? When?” poo poo. This was getting sticky. “Umm.” She looked into me, didn’t mind what she saw; maybe even liked it. My clothes felt thin. “Well, the one day, I guess. When you were outside.” It was probably true. “What was I wearing?” I was in so much trouble. “You know. Shorts.” “What else?” “A tee shirt?” “The one with the puppy?” “I dunno. Yes.” “That one’s my favorite. I wanted to wear it today but it’s got ketchup on it.” “Yeah.” Her shoulders were up, almost to her ears, cheeks flushed. She twisted, hugging herself almost. Happiness. I made her happy. “Do you have a name?” I have a hundred: Pest. poo poo. Goddam You. “I’m Whisker.” Something twinkled in her eye. A birthday card. “Like a kitty cat?” “Sure.” “Hey Whisker Like a Kitty Cat.” A smile forced its way out. “Hi.” “WHISKER.” It was Mom. All caps meant it was time to leave. “I gotta go.” “Okay. Bye.” She turned and skipped back to her mom who was standing next to their purple car. It was a Gremlin. Mom made me get back in and buckle up before she turned the car on. The engine made a racket before it settled into its usual four cylinder chug. The little black car that could. Something itched in the back of my head as we started to pull away, something under the skull. It felt like I was forgetting something the way it dug around in there. I watched out the window, saw the mom opening the car door, looked for the girl who was nearby. Then it hit me. I didn't get her name. I went to roll down the window but my hand felt door. Broken. I pawed at the window, put my nose to the crack in the window like a canine. I saw her wave as we passed by, saw the little bumps under her sun white shirt, finally read the letters. I hadn’t seen them under the rainbow, stitched into a cartoon cloud, but the name rolled over silent lips and all down the front of me as we passed. Melinda. We sat across from one another at the kitchen table, eyeing each other up. I didn’t like his haircut, the way he smiled. Taking into account his funny polo shirt -- a frog with a sombrero over the left breast-- didn’t help either. Everything about him screamed used car salesman, but Dr Benjamin Coker spent all day appraising used brains. “How are you feeling today, Whisker?” “Umm, tired mostly.” “Would you say you’ve been getting enough sleep?” I shrugged. “I guess so.” “What about school?” “What about it?” “How are things going with your classes?” “Good.” “And your friends?” “Brett’s fine. We play a lot of Star Wars.” “What about your other friends?” “There, umm. There aren’t any.” “I see. Would you say Brett is your best friend?” “Yeah, I guess so. It used to be Chaz.” “Used to be?” “We had a, umm, fight. We don’t talk anymore.” Ben wrote something down, then looked at me, smiling. “Tell me about Chaz.” My mouth was an asterisk and I shook my head. Ben made this little noise that sounded like “mmm hmm”. It was this thing he did. “So you told me you were friends and that you had a fight. What else can you tell me?” “His mom died.” “And how does that make you feel?” Ugly inside. “I dunno.” “Do you ever think about it?” Whenever I’m awake. “Sometimes.” “And what do you think about?” “Stuff. Umm, how sad he is I guess. And angry.” More writing. “Anything else?” “What happened.” “What do you mean?” “What happened when she, umm-- died.” Writing. “Can you be more specific?” “I dunno. What parts she hurt, I guess.” “The injuries she suffered?” I thought long and hard on that one, wanting to be sure I got it right. “Where the blood came out.” I could think of a hundred things I’d rather be doing than standing in the bathroom with the door shut. I already did my business and it smelled like it, but Kalliope insisted it was important, something I needed to stay for. She stood in the back of the bathtub, behind the edge of the sliding glass door, with the fingers of one hand curled around the edge like she might jump out at any moment. The mirror started to fog at the corners even though it wasn’t any warmer in there than the rest of the house. I watched Kalliope in the reflection: a long bunch of blonde hair and the rusty eye, the marks on her neck that ran over the line of her jaw angry bright. Grandpa was there, in just his pajama bottoms. They were a faded green checkered affair, worn and loose at the waistband, the ties frayed at the ends. They’d been through the war, those pajamas, the kind fought on the homefront; I could almost taste the arguments, inappropriate touches and beer piss. He muttered things to himself. “Goodfernothin stinkin whores.” There was lather on his face, thick and marshmallowed. I didn't get to see him much without his glasses and I never noticed how small his eyes were; little ones, hard and dark like marbles. The razor sat on the edge of the sink near his hand while he studied himself, moving his lower face around the jaw. I saw the things in his heart through the reflection; dark, squirming things. Things without compunction. Things I saw in me. Grandpa's words wound up like a car wreck. "Which oneayou thievin shits TOOK MY GODDAM COMB." He leaned over the sink, heaving, arms of lumber. His breath became the steam and with it filled the room until all that was left was his shadow. Something grabbed my collar, pulling me back, and I nearly fell into the tub. Scrambling, arms and hands a search party, cold fingers over the mouth clipping my shout. Kalliope's face was next to mine, a second head, the one with enough sense to stay hidden. Her lips tickled my ear and an exhaled syllable slithered down the hole. "Watch." I moved my head to let her know I understood, felt familiar parts of her against my back. My eyes were wide and I watched, waited. Inhale. Exhale. Great, billowing, seething oaths. I could hear my heart beating with them, urging them on. The door slid open with a shush. Kalliope hovered into the room, eyes wide, mouth hyphenated. Her hair was almost to her waist, long and straight, a bright blue comb in her hand offered up like some ancient sacrifice. The door slammed behind her without anyone touching it. Then Grandpa turned, but a hair, and snatched the thing from her grasp. He began to comb. “Told you this weren't to be touched.” Kalliope looked at the floor. “I could not find my brush.” “Ain’t my fault your head don’t screw on right.” Her face made more punctuation. “I am just--” Grandpa looked at her sidelong. “Just what.” I could feel the words clogging her throat. Dead leaves. Oatmeal. Hair in the drain. “I am slow. It is what Momma says.” Grandpa’s mouth hinked. “Your momma made you that way.” “No. I-- I’m slow. I am not s-stupid.” “Well--” Grandpa put down the comb and took up the razor, drawing the first plow. “I suppose that doctor was wrong, you bein the expert and all.” Her hands went into fits as her sides. “Doctor?” “One that came to the house. Way back when.” “I do not r-remember.” “Guess you wouldn’t.” Grandpa’s razor clanked on the edge of the sink, foam splattering. He started on the other cheek. “Don’t really matter none long as you act a lady.” Another clank. Only neck and chin remained. Kalliope looked everywhere, eyes bouncing, but all the exits were walls. I could taste it, her desperation. It tasted like chocolate. “poo poo’s all a sudden sideways with you, girl.” One stroke up the neck. Clank. “Forget your drat name it weren’t stitched on your collar.” Another stroke. Clank. “Work all day with the mutts and them half friend of the family whatsits always sittin around with the cigarettes and dice on the goddam clock.” Clank. “And for what? Come home to beer turned warm and supper gone cold.” Clank. “Can’t even get this cock sucked without knockin around that mom a yours.” Grandpa’s face was a lemon, squinting eyes the seeds. The last stroke caught on the curve of his jaw, drew blood. “Mother gently caress.” The razor landed in the basin, a bright red scar behind it. It looked like a fish gill flapping on his neck before he clamped his hand down on it, grabbing a towel mere inches from where I cowered in the clutches of a different monster. She pulled me back further, lips all over my face. They felt like snake skins. I tried to see the other Kalliope, the one in trouble. She backed away, the way a statue might; her heart was in it but nothing else. Grandpa’s voice spat a porcupine. “Lookit YOU MADE ME DO.” He grabbed her under the chin, pinching her mouth open, head bobbing goosey. He just held her like that, but she didn’t struggle so much as teeter; an almost suicide half off the straight back chair. I held my breath even though I was out of practice. I hoped it would make things better, or at least make them go away. I tried to ignore the hands all over me, rough lips, little girl sighs. My spine felt like a creepy crawly. Grandpa released his daughter and she windmilled into the door, fell, arms and legs jumbled up every which way. Only her face was composed. A mask. I tried to see what wriggled underneath, but it was too far down, too far to dig. "Breaks my heart how much a your momma's in that face." He started toward her. "And next to nothin a me." She pulled her legs up, compacting. "Almost as if--" He pawed at the drawstring, loosened the waist. "As if you ain't even mine. Heh." I watched through the mirror, whispers seeping into my pores while grunts buffeted my eardrums. This was no Bedbugs. This was something I couldn't find a name for, something better left in a hole a hundred miles away. Covered with dirt. With buildings. When he finished, Grandpa stood over her, glistening like some profane athlete, the spot on his neck a leftover kiss that spoke nothing of love. He went back to the sink, opened the cabinet; all the little bottles and tubes and implements. He reached for the top, took it from the shelf and unscrewed the cap. I shuddered when it upended. Splash. Splish. He patted his face and neck and chest, rubbed them. Massaged them. Cool hands mimicked the same on me. Then he put it down, sucked in his breath seeing his kiss in the mirror. It was a bottle. White. Slim. A little dog. A smiling little snoopy dog. The rumbling in my ears was from oceans falling. Hurling. Slapping me down. The bathtub became a tomb: my forever hiding place. Still, she who was with me held me tight, promised. Made me see. Fingers. A crooked girl hand. Reaching. Grasping. Grandpa smiled in the mirror, appraising his reflection. Testing the weight. The purity. The girl hand fluttered over the vanity, knocked away the comb. Smack. "Eh?" Grandpa turned as the dog bottle crashed over the side, glugged liquid nightmare. Kalliope's mouth split wide in triumph before his hands closed around her neck. Shaking. The line of her nose. Wisps of blonde hair. And an eye once blue rimmed red gasped murder, and transformed. Into a tiny orange sun. It wasn’t the first time I’d wet the bed, but I sure hoped it was the last. It hurt a little bit extra because it was at Marcia’s and even though she just laughed and told me it was no trouble as she put the blanket with my clothes in the washer and scrubbed the spot on the couch with a bristle brush, I knew I’d done something irreversible. Something I might not ever make right. Marcia was worried I might be sick, and that scared me even more so I told her I had a big glass of water before I went to sleep and that must have been what did it. She didn’t seem so sure, but I promised not to drink anything before bed from then on and that seemed to do the trick. It was a tiny lie, even though a part of me figured it could be true. We’d done a fair amount of that between us of late, between the secrets we kept from Mom and Dad and trying to comfort each other. I tried to tell her about other things, but it mostly just ended with us praying together. Right before the kisses and fondling. It became its own sort of ritual. It got so I tried to admit things just to get to the other parts, like eating my vegetables to I could have dessert. If she knew, she didn’t seem to mind. After the incident, Marcia led me to the bathroom so I could make myself clean. She ran the water the way I liked-- not too hot-- and got out her own special wash cloth. When the robe fell away and she climbed into the tub behind me, it felt like the way things should be. I spent a lot of time doing things that I didn’t want to, went against what I thought was right. Being with Marcia in the tub while she scrubbed me clean was so far away from that I had trouble putting it in perspective. She felt good with me there, between her legs, against her body. Natural. Maybe I was meant to be there. She toweled me off when we were done, even let me do the same for her. It took a long time, but I wanted to make sure I did it right. I might have lingered over certain parts, but I couldn’t be roasted on the spit for exercising diligence. She giggled a lot, said I was tickling even though I wasn’t; at first. The power of suggestion. I had a change of clothes, but they were down in the basement, so I ran out of the bathroom in my birthday suit. It felt good, free. I wanted to be like that all the time, like Mickey in the Night Kitchen. Marcia called for me, but didn’t immediately give chase. I imagined myself as like the girl in the Rio video. Desired. Pursued. I had my underwear and one sock on by the time Marcia found me. She had her hair pulled up, wore her favorite robe-- a pink, silky thing-- white panties peeking from the vee it made under her belt. “There you are.” There I was. She knelt down beside me, put her hands on me, turned me toward her, weighed me solemn. “I want you to come with me to see Pastor Raoul. Just you and me.” Who's Pastor Raoul? “Okay. When?” Marcia’s face got smaller. She was thinking. “Well, the next service won’t be until Wednesday. I guess it will have to be then.” I thought it over. “If you want me to.” She gripped my arms, made my back straight. “Oh I do. I really do.” “Okay.” “Super.” I felt the question coming. It waited in line for quite some time. “Do you-- like it?” Her eyes glimmered. “Like what, honey?” “When we’re, you know. Like this.” “Together you mean?” “Alone together. So we can be like we’re married.” “You know I do.” “Do you like the way I feel?” The smile admitted more than I’d hoped. “I do. You’re magnificent.” “I like how you feel too.” Giggles. A little girl again. “Can we?” Her bottom lip stuck to its sister for a second before it fell away and a soft, pink tongue brushed it moist. I knew what that felt like. It was all I ever wanted to feel again. “I think we can. Now sit on the couch so you can watch.” She made a show of it, revealing herself to me. And while she didn't have far to go, it was done in such a way it took just long enough to make me squirm. It felt like something she'd done before, practiced, and made me glad I was in just my Underoos. If I'd had real clothes on I might be frustrated past the ability to do things for myself. Maybe that was the point. One of them, anyway. When she finished, she sat next to me on the couch, putting her hand on the small of my back. She left the robe on, open, leaving some of the work for me. My hand hovered over the edge where it formed the curve over her breast. That's when she put her hand on my wrist. "We have to decide." I was still trying I liked them both so much. She shook my hand, once, moved so her eyes could see into mine. "What to call it?" "Umm, huh?" "So your Mom and Dad won't make us stop?" "Does it need a name?" Her eyes were liquid. Her face was earnest. "Oh yes. Every love needs a name. Especially one as strong and deep as ours." It made sense. About as much as anything could in my condition. I searched through the fog, remembered things. "I, umm, well. I sometimes call it Someone Else's Stockings. In my head." Marcia's smile was quick, meant to be reassuring, but it said something different. It said I wasn't scoring so well. "That's nice, honey, but I was thinking it should be more, you know, happy sounding." "Like how?" "My youngest used to call it pizza party, but he's just about grown up now." Pizza party. I liked pizza. "So you want to call it pizza party?" A quick shake of her head. One two. "We need a name for just us. Only we share." I drew a blank. This was algebra, missile science. Too much and too hard. "Let me give you some help." She pulled her robe aside, placed my hand on her breast like she'd done before, and I became awash with need, fevered and fitful. I moved my hand like she showed me, massaged the nipple with my palm until it made diamonds seem like marshmallows. It's what I thought about when it was supposed to be numbers with decimals. Action and linking verbs. I made all kinds of verbs. "How does that feel, sweetie?" Awesome. "Good." "What else?" "Great." Giggles. "HOW does it make you feel? WHAT does it make you think of?" All kinds of things. Late nights watching HBO. Mrs. Switt's daughter, Kimberlea. That time in the woods with Bashika even though it was scary too. Even Someone Else's Stockings. Even though I didn't want to think about that. "Good things. Things I like." "Like what?" "The first time-- you know." Marcia's cheeks flushed. She was still a little girl. "What else." "Star Wars." "And?" "Dessert." "What kind of dessert?" I thought of the watermelon roll she got me special. Chocolate chip seeds. "Ice cream cake." Marcia's eye lit up, lips made ready to receive. "Ice cream and cake. Perfect." She smiled, this time approving, and moved my hand away so she could kiss it. "We'll call it ice cream and--" "Marcia? WHISKER." Mom. Marcia shot up from the couch, pulled her robe together, tying crazy with one hand. Her voice was hushed, frantic. "Stay there. Stay. Right. There. Don't move. I'll be right back." She hurried across the room, a funny, straight legged prance, to the short steps. She turned to me just before she went up, shaking, mouthing something. All kinds of words. The same thing maybe three times. PUT YOUR CLOTHES ON. I couldn't tell what she meant, but it made me want to smile. Maybe even laugh. Marcia was funny. One more thing we kept just between us. I did what she said and stayed put. Even though my between my legs place felt like a headache. I heard them talking upstairs and that wasn't unusual. Mom was early, by maybe two hours. I tried to think if there was anything special I had to do that day, but couldn't figure it out. I was a little angry the way she barged in when I was so close. Maybe I'd tell her on the car ride home about the mother/girlfriend puzzle, about how I figured it out, and how I loved Marcia and Marcia loved me and that's just how things were going to be. They were close to the stairs. "-- know how it is, but he was a perfect angel." "I should hope so. He's always so well behaved with you. I wish I could say the same when he's at home." Mom came down the steps, stopped halfway, stared at me. The words made me jump. "WHISKER. Where are your clothes?" My pants and shirt and one sock were on the couch nearby and I grabbed them, holding them up so she could see. All here. No harm done. "Put those on this instant. Marcia? What's going on?" Marcia stayed at the edge of the kitchen. I could see just her feet. I heard the way her words quavered. "Whisker had a little accident, but he's f-fine. I put his clothes in the laundry." "But why isn't he dressed? It's two o'clock in the afternoon." "He took a long bath. I think he fell asleep. He was in there quite a while." "You left him in there alone? Why weren't his clothes with him?" "I- I guess he just forgot. I didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable." Mom closed the gap between us, held my shirt while I put my pants and sock on. Handed it to me when I was done. Mom was having a day. "What you should be worried about, Marcia, is making me uncomfortable." Marcia was in the room now, by the stairs, legs pinched together. She looked afraid, small. She looked like a little girl. "I'm sorry, Kathryn. It was a mistake." "You're drat right it was." When I finished putting my shoes on, Mom took my hand none too gentle and marched us across the room, up the stairs, to the front door. Marcia followed behind, stopping and starting, pleading. Mom pushed me out the front door, forgot to get my clothes from the dryer. She turned to Marcia. "Don't call me, I'll call you." I stole a quick glance at Marcia, saw how the mascara pooled under her eyes, made them blurry. She tottered inside the front door, cracked open enough I caught a peek of the vee between her legs. Dark, swirling hair. She smiled, waved, tried to get my attention as I climbed into the car, put my seatbelt on, adjusted myself. Mom shot out of the driveway and tore down the road while I tugged mutely at the front of my pants. She was halfway past the sign when the car finally stopped, but there weren't any cars coming. Lucky for us. Unlucky for me, my between the legs place still hurt. I was holding it when she came to me, from the corner where stood a plastic plant Mom still watered. She pulled the hair back from my face, curled it over the lip of my ear, sighed. I could hear the way her tongue poked at the hole where the tooth used to be, where the barb moved in, a tiny snake fang. It’s the only place she touched me; she wasn’t like the other one. She understood boundaries. “It wants to stay.” “Well it can’t.” “It asked nice.” “It doesn’t know the meaning.” “But--” “We don’t have time for this.” Her hand was a one of those tools used to core an apple the way it went through my back, grasped the place where my heart was and held it like a baby bird fallen fresh from the nest. I listened for the chirp while my arms and legs and everything else fitted. Cold. Intense, relentless cold. I’d died before, but never like this. Never having felt such abandon. When she pulled out, I collapsed against the bed. “Now you know.” My teeth clacked together, wind up plastic dentures. “W-w-w-whu--” “It lasts forever, little brother. And it’s always tomorrow.” Warmth returned, fingers and toes first. My words were little frogs. “I l-love you. M-miss you.” Haley’s look became stone. “Show me.” Haley followed me to the basement, down the creaky, shuddering steps. It was dark but I knew where the light was and ran to it before anything worse could get me. The naked bulb flickered, blinked, and blazed to life, casting light into everything but the farthest end. I caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye, remembered when she told me that’s where she lived when she couldn’t be with me. It was the same clothes from in the bathroom, eye glowing like a cigar butt. She was too tired to move after having been up all night playing with me, but she’d come again. She always did. Haley ignored her while I rummaged through Grandpa’s things. He had all kinds of tools and other junk down there along with Grandma’s stuff she painted on a table in the middle of the room. The washer and dryer were there, a stand up shower with a plastic curtain to one side. The freezer where they kept the extra meat and ice cream. Fruit pops. This wasn't it. I pushed on the door that led to the room before the garage and a gust of cold air knocked me back. The one at the other end was closed, but still felt a breeze. It was where Grandpa kept the extra things, like lumber, things he didn't care if they got stolen. It was also where I saw the hammer. It wasn't special, not his favorite or even one have gave half a drat about. It was old, worn down, the wood lost its color and the head caked with rust. Blunt and ugly was what I knew, was just what I needed. Haley stood over my shoulder as I placed it on the floor, got down on my knees, held the hammer with both hands. When I raised it over my head, it stopped. I felt Haley's hand on mine. "No." She took it from me, tossed it on the table. Bang. "This isn't the way." "But why?" Her lips curled back from her teeth, the ones that were left. "Make it feel what I do-- what I made you." Forgotten. My brains felt like a cinder block sitting up there. A cinder block on a rake handle, ready to topple. "How?" A long, agonizing inhale followed by a just as withering exhale. "Must you make me do everything." The outer door flung open with a shower of glass, chill air smacking me back to sense. The garage door was up. "Put your coat on." We walked along the edge of the road where the snow mixed with slush. I listened to the crunches under my shoes and thought of packing peanuts. The air was cold, dry. My eyes tried to make tears to keep them wet. I didn't wear a hat because I didn't tell Mom I was going outside and my hair blew across my face; all over the place. No one would see. No one could understand how one little boy might carry such a burden of meted pain and suffering for so long and look like everyone else; the way kids did when nothing affected them. Physically? I was a pretzel stick, a soap bubble. Still, there were things I'd seen, felt, been party to what made nightmares the things that were my every waking day. There must be some way of measuring such things in the eyes of the ones I loved. The were no tears to freeze when Haley was with me. No smiles, no hugs, no murmurs of joy. Nothing soft was left. It looked almost pitiful in my hands with its floppy ears and that simple, insipid smile. My fingers were fast becoming claws in the cold, but I was so completely far from caring. I was warm inside, boiling in fact. A dragon's belly. Main stomach, second stomach, even that lovely little black thing that lived in my gut, they were packing, locking up tight. This wasn't a storm they could ride out with the neighbors and the family dog. They needed to find a way out. Higher ground. I felt Haley's hand on my shoulder. It told me she approved. "Finally-- the ballllls drop." I was past hearing her at that point, so great was the thud of my heart. It was the badger legion, only this time they were with me. I saw Brett and Uncle Meldrick, Chaz and Mrs Greer, like the time we vanquished Baht Daog and its infernal canish horde. Now I had it where I wanted it. Where Haley wanted it. It shivered in my grasp, trying to make itself small. "You knew this was coming." "I never wanted anything else." "This isn't goodbye." It trembled. "Goodbye means I'll remember." "But I just want to see you happy." What's happy? "You're a liar." "I learned from the best." "Shut up." "It won't stop." "It will when I forget." Its eyes got so big, the snoopy dog. Full moons. It played cute like one of those cartoon kittens with eyes so full of love and innocence and something else. Fear. I knew that look well. I wore it every day under the costume of a little boy. Every day was Halloween. The spot where I left the snoopy dog was perhaps seven miles from my house as the crow flies. It was cold that day, record temperatures as I recall. The city had problems with frozen water lines and several neighborhoods were without power for days. Snow fell, drifted, covered the roads. Most were stuck in their homes, cut off from their neighbors, with no one but each other and the family dog. Of those who lost heat-- mostly older folks-- a handful died. It was sad, tragic even, but to be expected. When extreme weather left the civilized without electricity, the elderly were always the first ones to perish. It was nature's way of clearing out the dead wood, or so I'd been told. What a heartless way to see it. The other parts, well, they're still a bit fuzzy. Mom was frantic, couldn't find me. When I rang the doorbell she pulled me into the house off my feet and cried while she beat me. Well, spanked is more like it. With my clothes still on. I barely even felt it. We still had power, but were snowed in for two days before the plows could get to us. Dad came by the next day. Or was it the one after that? Funny thing about electricity is it does all kinds of things to your head. Some good. Some not so good. The important thing was the overall benefit. I got so I could sleep through the night again. Even looked forward to it. I tried to write the things down as I remembered them, keep a running dialogue as they called it. Sometimes writing one thing down triggered something else, and that triggered two more things, like a string of firecrackers. I thought about how good this chocolate tastes and POP POP POP I remembered that time I stole my sister's candy bars she had to sell for, well, something. It made me smile. Sometimes in a sad way. Dad had to remind me about Haley when I looked at the pictures. They were part of my recovery, along with a bunch of books on animals and dinosaurs and all kinds of things. They said the effects were meant to be a measure of improvement, not a cure. The more I talked with Mom and Dad about her, the more things started to fall into place. Pieces of a puzzle. Scattered, but coming together. One thing I like to think about is when it finally made sense to me. It was this time where I was under all the pants at some department store that smelled like roasted nuts. I mean, it was all you could smell. So I was under the pants with this girl who, well, I dunno what you'd call her. She was kinda-- creepy, really. But I just couldn't get over how I somehow knew her even though she didn't look familiar. She had this awful hair, all wet and stringy and, well, like seaweed I guess. Anyway, that's not the important part. The important, the really important part, is what she told me to do. And what I said to her. So I told these things to Mom and Dad and even though they kept giving me funny looks, they knew it would help me get better and just let me go. I went on and on, about the little dog and Bedbugs and the weird thing at Aunt Ky's. Then I told them about the letter Mrs Greer sent and how it smelled just like her vagina and about Rita and Ganice and the blonde lady, whatshername-- oh, it doesn't really matter. What matters is she gave Dad a killer blowjob, like in pornos, and that really got Mom going. The best part was when I told them how Haley helped me be a man for once and even though Dad looked like he wanted to run screaming from the room I knew in my heart of hearts it just meant he was proud of me. They said I had one more session and I should be okay to go home. It meant I might forget some things, but they'd come back one day. No worries. It made me happy to know they were taking such good care of me and wanted to see me get better. When I went to sleep that night, I went through all the things I remembered, all the things that happened, even the ones I didn't tell Mom and Dad. I decided there was one thing I should take away, focus on, think about so hard there was no way I could forget even if I was made to. And when I woke up, even if everything else was a barrel of monkeys and I didn't know a number two pencil from a wildflower, I'd remember what I did the time Haley hugged me so hard her love hurt me inside and out. I could still feel it, that hug, when I coughed. Sometimes I wondered why she picked that moment, that particular point in time to show me the things I was never good enough to see before. Every chance I remember it's like the first. I kept my promise. End Book One OneWhiteWhisker fucked around with this message at Jul 2, 2012 around 03:33 |
| # ? Jul 1, 2012 17:51 |
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Well, Whisker, that was quite a ride. Looking forward to what you come up with next.
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| # ? Jul 1, 2012 23:38 |
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This story happened when I was a kid in Bisbee Arizona. It was, and perhaps still is, a tiny town near Nogales. The town is divided into two halves, each on one side of a huge open pit copper mine. Through the streets of Bisbee run large deep channels for water in the rainy season, great and ancient ravines with walls twenty feet high in places. Tunnels run under many houses and streets, some so narrow a kid could barely turn around in them. Others had sheer drops into eternal mud pits which sometimes were deep enough to drown animals in them. I lived on one of the higher streets, at the beginning of the whole system. We kids called it simply "The Ditch", and our group claimed mastery over it. We spent our summers eating wild pomegranites from a tree which grew in the ravine, and exploring the town's various abandoned buildings. Our most famous expedition took place one bright summer day. Our leader, Jeff had called us to the meeting place to unveil a special plan. Our meeting hall was the tunnel just between the old Canyon Store and the park. There in the cool shadows, Jeff told us about his idea. He said that he'd found a way into the famous Pine View Manor building, and wanted to explore it. We'd all heard the stories about that place, and no one wanted to go at first. Pine View itself was a large three story brick building set on the third tier up from the street. It had been abandoned for at least thirty years, maybe more. We all knew better than to ask any adults about it, so all we had were the stories passed down from older kids. The most interesting tale held that it had been a sanitarium, and one evening a patient had gotten out. He'd butchered three nurses and horribly violated their bodies before venturing into the Ditch and hiding in one of the tunnels. The rope he hung himself with was still there, wrapped around an old rusted pipe. No matter what season, there was always a pool of water under that rope, and none of us kids dared step in it. Jeff took a vote, and we reluctantly agreed to brave whatever horrors Pine View might hold. We decided to meet back at the Hall about noon, to give ourselves time to write our wills and pack supplies. When noon rolled around, only four of us had the balls to show up. We vowed to devise a fitting punishment for such cowardice if and when we returned from our mission. As we followed Jeff up the hill, we told filthy jokes and tossed a tennis ball around, but fell silent as we reached the building itself. We shivered as we passed into its shadow, feeling invisible eyes on our backs. Around the corner and behind a shaggy bush was a broken window. Jeff carefully eased inside and dropped to the floor, followed by the rest of us. There was plenty of light from the summer sun, and the air inside seemed freshened by the breeze outside. This room was rather cheery for being abandoned so long. The walls had been painted bright Baker's pink and pale yellow, with a light green trim. There were two beds against the wall, each with its own hand-knitted cover of dingy white yarn. On the far wall, a table and chairs were laid for tea. All of the furnishings in this room were child-sized, and looked oddly untouched by time. It was eerie how perfect it was, as if the children might return at any moment. As we made our way out into the first floor hall, we heard it. (drag...drag...squeeeak) The sound seemed to come from the upper floor, moving down to the staircase at the other end of the hall. (drag...drag...squeeak) Moving as silently as we could, we moved into the room across the hall. This seemed to be the kitchen. It too was frozen in time, with rusted cans on the shelves and boxes of rice and oatmeal in the glassed in cupboards. (drag...drag...sqeeeak) This time the sound was right outside the door we had come through. Holding our breath, we waited for the shambling horror which surely was about to kill us. (drag...drag...squeeak) The noise moved on into the next room down the hall. We were spared for the moment. Jeff peered around the corner into hall as we prepared to leave. We saw his body tense up and he started shaking as the sound came again from the further room. (drag...drag...squeeak) It crossed the hall and seemed to enter the room beside our entry point. It was now or never. Dragging Jeff, we all hustled as quietly as a pack of terrified kids could back to the pink room and piled out into the warm sun. Just we pulled Jeff out, the sound came from the doorway of the room. (drag...drag...squeeak) We ran like hell and never went back. We all knew that Jeff had seen whatever it was that made that horrible noise, but he never told us anything or spoke about that adventure ever again. all he would say was "It wasn't a guard." Shortly after that summer, I moved away from the town and have never returned. Latex Bill fucked around with this message at Jul 16, 2012 around 16:55 |
| # ? Jul 16, 2012 16:52 |
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Jesus Shaves posted:It's definitely not Slenderman, and I don't recall any of the stories where the man shows up before car accidents. The goon and some other kid (a sibling maybe?) were sitting in the backseat of the goon's father's car. The father was doing shopping and they were waiting for him. So, they are sitting there doing some random kids things when a man suddenly approaches the car and seats in the passenger seat. He just sits there staring at the road for some time. He was described as a "black man", but I don't know whether the goon was referring to the man's clothes or his skin. His face was also completely wrapped in some clothes. Kids are freaked out. They start planning an escape, but a man stands and walks away just as suddenly as he appeared. A car crash happens at exact the same spot of the road he was looking at a minute later. Fast forward 10+ years. The goon is driving somewhere when he notices the black man sitting in a parked car (scared kids included) and staring at him. He remembers the first encounter with him and thus stops dead in his tracks and refuses to drive. Two cars pass by. The third bumps into his car. This post was followed by a response from another goon. He claims that he had seen the black man a few times too. He also suggests that the man is always somewhere watching the roads, but only those who had a direct encounter with him in past can notice him. LobsterTick fucked around with this message at Jul 16, 2012 around 18:59 |
| # ? Jul 16, 2012 18:54 |
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^^This might be it. No attribution or follow-up though. As always speak up.quote:Wrapped In Black
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| # ? Jul 16, 2012 20:01 |
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Erghh posted:^^This might be it. No attribution or follow-up though. As always speak up. Yes, that's it! You are my favourite goon for today. LobsterTick fucked around with this message at Jul 16, 2012 around 20:12 |
| # ? Jul 16, 2012 20:10 |
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OneWhiteWhisker posted:End Book One Where's the first half? I only see chapter 15 on.
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| # ? Jul 16, 2012 21:35 |
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I don't typically dream. Has always been like this for as long as I remember. I go to bed, fall asleep, wake. But when I do dream it's bizarre, frightening, and sometimes I worry about my sanity. I tend to write these dreams down, so I don't forget them. I've had a "series" of dreams over the past two years. By series, I mean these dreams coincide with each other. Whether or not it's my subconsciousness building out a story, or a cryptic message from beyond is well... beyond me. May 29th, 2011 - Beginning Vibrantly green hills roll out before me. A gentle wind rustles the grass in flowing waves of green and yellows. It's quiet. Something feels familiar about this place. A oak tree crowns a hill about 400 yards away, it's foliage reaches eagerly into the sky. The sound of shifting earth fills the air suddenly, yet the landscape remains unchanged. I wake up. October 2nd, 2011 - Blood I'm back on the hills. A large, perfectly round, almost sculpted Hill rests before me. There is no sound, all is quiet. The Hill is bleeding from it's base. I wake. December 29th, 2011 - Change I was in the Hills. The colors are all skewed. The grass is duller, it's vibrant greens seem muted, the sky is a deeper navy blue. The sun is as bright as ever, but seems to be losing it's golden flair. I spot a figure of a man, he stands between me and the . I open my mouth to hail him, and I wake. March 4th, 2012 - Black and White The land is drained of all colors. The grass has turned white, the soil underneath a pitch black. The sky, is grey and the sun a blank white. The Oak tree is blackened, and twisted. It looks like a tangled mass of gnarled fingers, searching for something to grasp and hold on to. It now stands much closer to me. As is the man I saw in my last dream. Standing closer to him, he wears a suit. Something feels "jagged" about him. I yell out to him. It doesn't seem to register with him. I start to yell out again, when the sun implodes and the world around me plunges into darkness. I hear something rustle in the grass. I wake up. I haven't had a dream since this last one. I don't know when the next one will be. Could be my head, playing games with me. Or maybe something else...
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| # ? Jul 17, 2012 01:34 |
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Dr. MonkeyThunder posted:Where's the first half? I only see chapter 15 on. The rest is in the last ghost story thread (Spring/Summer 2011?) which at this point I believe is archived. I don't have archives, nor hosting, but perhaps some kind goon might be willing to do so. Pleased to see others are sharing. I knew ya'll out there were haunted.
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| # ? Jul 17, 2012 03:38 |
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This isn't much of a story, at least not yet, but it's my only personal experience. I recently moved into my late grandparent's house. It's an old house, dating from the 40s or 50s. Nothing too unusual, overall. Except in the shower. Most times when I take a shower, I swear I can hear voices elsewhere in the house, and sometimes the front door opening and closing. I'm sure it's just the pipes, and I've never made out the words, but it really does sound like conversation downstairs, and people coming and going. My grandfather did die in the house, bringing groceries down the basement steps--well, he had a massive brain hemorrhage, leaving him brain dead before he hit the bottom of the steps, but the sounds don't remind me of him. Sometimes they seem to be calling me, but they disappear once I get out of the shower. They don't sound hostile. In fact, they often make me think my family has stopped by unexpectedly. But there's never anybody there. Esser-Z fucked around with this message at Jul 17, 2012 around 17:17 |
| # ? Jul 17, 2012 17:07 |
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Since these were so popular in previous threads, here is a new translated story from the family! [Brackets are translations, where I wanted to leave the original words for effect, or insight to the world at the time. For those of you who speak it, the journals are written in a mixture of true Irish Gaelic, Scottish Gaelic, Manx, and very awful version of English, depending on when they were written. There are also words and phrases, especially sayings or prayers, in Regional Goidelic, which is specific to where he grew up, and is mostly beyond translation.] ------------ A'Ceither [The Four] There, on the southern stretches of our great island, lay the mountains. A virgin place, free of mans sin and greed. It is a land of rock and pine, where the salt-cold winds blow from the Aran Sea, unchecked by hickory burning chimneys. The very ground brings strength to you as you walk slowly, and you are reminded of how perfect creation is, and how meaningless a part we play in it. In this place, you may find my father and I, our donkey. He is in ill health, and like all men in ill health and humors, desires to be among mountains and sea. So we find ourselves in Bally Baile [play on words, Baile is ‘town’, Bally is a name, they can be pronounced the same], a small town at the base of the Ash Mountains [now the western edge of Killarney Park], stopped while the snow bars our pass through the crags south. It makes for an easy rest- the people from Bally’s fields and farms are not often visited by healers, and were generous-without regard or thought-for our services. I will digress to speak of the southern people – strong and kind, unbarred happiness. Such a capacity for greatness exists in all of them, that one is awed by their presence. The women are beautiful and quick, the men nimble and strong – deep in both runs the blood of the warrior, pure and hot. An old man, much older than my father, was brought to us. He was pulled on a cart by some young relative. He had dark eyes, grey like a fish, he breathed slowly. Father saw him coming, “Another funeral preparation,” winced my father. But, we were taken by surprise when he stepped out (though weakly), and spoke to us – “Lia, I am not a well man. My heart tires – even now I feel it, but I cannot let myself rest. I cannot die.” Started the man, and paused for breath. “Meas’il [literally, ‘respected’, slang for old], it must come to all of us. Whatever waits past it.” The man cringed, “I know what lay past mine, Lia, it is revenge. A cold revenge, 30 years waiting and spoiling in the darkest places. A revenge four-fold. Listen to my story Lia, and help!’ ‘I confess, I lived a life of sin when I was young. The life of a thief, a simple highway bandit. A part of five, myself and four others. Our leader was Tuern, a born rodent, but respectable in some degree. He made sure us four received our fare share, and took a fare share equal. Not like some masters who take half, and leave the rest to the rats to kill over.’ ‘We were made aware, through black lines, that a great treasure would be traveling soon – a single cart, protected by three fools, holding a small fortune. Some inheritance that a son was too lazy to get.’ ‘ “Five men could live well on such a chest” Said Tuern.’ ‘Not as well as one, said a demon inside me.’” The man coughed gently, disturbing to me in that my father was beginning to cough in the same manner. A dry, short cough – the cough of a man too weak to cough. “So the damned day came. Sure as fire, the cart approached, pulled by two fine horses (prizes in themselves). We took our places. I was dressed in peasants’ clothes, and dirtied up a fair bit. The three began to pretend to beat me. I winced at their kicks, and punches that never hit.’ ‘The coach of the cart saw this and sped towards us, his two friends leaning out of each window. “You there! Fellows! What is this?” he yelled as he approached. He slowed and jumped out of the cart, his two did the same. “What is the meaning of this? Did the man take something?” he cried, his last words on earth. From the wheat along the road, an arrow flew into his throat. He let out a noise like bird hit by a stone, and fell, grasping aimlessly at the post. His friends turned to the rock, foolishly, and were ended by daggers in their sides. The deed was done, as professional as any journeyman who takes pride in his work.’ ‘Tuern opened the door to the cart, and vanished inside. A short gasp of breath emerged, and a well dressed noble fell sideways onto the road, dead. Shortly after, a heavy chest was dropped beside him. Tuern emerged, wiping his dagger. “Perhaps the wrong cart to travel in, sir” he said to the new corpse.’ We opened the chest, and it was glorious. Filled with silver plates and cups, the floor of it speckled with coins and stones – some of them glimmered clear red and green. Among five, it would be a brief fortune…but among one, you could live like a nobleman, I thought (though hopefully than the nobleman that traveled with it!) We tacked East, away from the chests destination and origin, and made a good way before night. A quick fire and talk came before we slept. They slept. In the night…” The old man paused. He sighed. “In the night I slit their throats. Tuern was last, but awoke as the blade touched his skin. Such a look of anger and terror, I could not believe. I have told myself over the years, it was fate righting things – these men had killed, now I was to kill them. The treasure was just fates way of paying me for bringing them justice.” “You have seen them.” Said my father abruptly. The old man blinked. “Yes, Lia, yes. I see them at night. They wait outside my window. They are corpses now, though vapors, and they wait. They do not speak, but I know they wait. Tuern’s look of terror has gone, now his face is stern, eyeless, and I can feel him hoping that every sunrise will be my last. They are patient, what else is there to be in a restless death? I do not blame them, but…I do not wish to humor them.” The man spoke gravely, though the panic in his throat was clear. “You have few choices,” spoke my father, “In the end, they belong to neither of us. But there is a chance, a minute chance. What happened to this fortune?” The old man reached his frail hand into a pocket that hung from his waste, and emerged holding a small silver weight. “This is the last of it. All but this has been spent. I thought, when I took the treasure, that it would last me a lifetime. How neatly does fate weave, that it would run out with me?” Father reached out and took it from him gently, rotating it and inspecting it closely. “How far is your home?” He spoke. “Nearly two days travel, I am staying in a small inn down the path.” “The inn…” Father looked outside. In the time the man had told the story, the sun had fallen low against the mountains; their blue shadows were sliding gently across the town. “Return there quickly, we will be after you shortly. Tonight, you must sleep.” The old man began to speak up, but was interrupted, “You must sleep, old father. I must speak to these wraiths, and you must draw them to yourself.” The sun set, a narrow moon rose. It pooled in places upon the path, bringing a grim light to my father and I who sat outside the inn. It was a cold night, and I wished dearly to be inside the warm inn, which was casting a careful red light across its entry. The last mountain crickets chirped to keep warm in the bitter night. Before us was a trail of seven candles, each three paces from the next, down the walkway of the inn. They flickered gently in the still night, a tidy line of flames leading away from us. The crickets stopped. Far, far down the path – the seventh candle went out. “They come” whispered my father, firmly gripping my shoulder and moving me behind him. The sixth candle went out. An unnatural cold descended upon my feet, like poured water from a bucket. The fifth went out. The stars seemed to have failed, and deep in the darkness, I thought I could hear padded footsteps. So grew my terror as the fourth, the third, and the second extinguished. Only two pools of light were left in the world, it felt, the entry to the inn where my father and I stood, and the candle before us. All else was black, the inn was a ship alone on an ink sea. A quiet whisper, no louder than wind across grass, rose from the black. “Tuern, no doubt” quietly spoke my father to the darkness, “You have come, exactly as I awaited you to. Show yourself to me, or be the coward that you were in life.” Challenged my father, stepping to the edge of the porch. The candle before us quivered, and rose. My father seemed to falter for a moment. It rose, and rose, until it was met with a face. A face, almost wax, bare sockets as eyes – two holes of black, pooled behind them. Its lips were pulled, leaving it unable to hide its bare teeth, which reflected no light from the candle – only the liquid white of the moon. A thought formed in my head – revenge. “And perhaps you deserve it,” spoke my father, nearly shaking me from a dream, “But you lie to yourself. You want the treasure; your own greed is what brings you. You would have done the same, Tuern! The old man thinks he awoke you with the knife, but we both know – you were lying awake, planning on delivering the same fate.” The corpses stood emotionless– three dark shapes moved behind it. Shapeless, the betrayed three. Somehow, more sinister and terrifying than the living wraith before me. Horrific thoughts formed in my mind, picturing Tuern reaching his cold hand into a hell beyond, and emerging with the three coiled in his fists, speaking their wish and curse – revenge. The shadows drew close, but closer to Tuern than us. “The treasure is spent, fool. Here is all that is left!” Father opened his fist, displaying the weight. “So take your treasure, sin, and let the living be!” He told as he threw the weight onto the path under the candle. Time hung, as an eyeless consciousness turned heavily to the weight, which shone in the moonlight. “Choose, and be done with it.” Father whispered. The corpse stepped forward, carrying the candle. Father pushed me away, and stepped to the other side of the doorway as we both made way for Tuern. With each step, he merged closer to the light, revealing more of his terrible form. A leather shirt had been caved in, bearing teeth marks of some wild, hungry animal. His ivory legs, clothed in skin boots, landed softly on the stairs. A smell, rank of meat, drifted in the cold night as he passed, through the door with no sound but the candle bumping the frame, and falling lifeless before me. I expected cries of shock from within the inn, for voices could still be heard behind the door, but none came – perhaps the only sign he left was a passing cold across a guest. Then came the three, feelingless caves in the air. As they passed between my father and I, their black form was real – nothing could be seen through them. The last paused, and I could feel it turn towards me. My skin tingled cold as I felt something worse than death look towards me. Tuern still had his humanity, he still clung to his wordly form. These three had left life behind completely, and were nothing but greed and revenge now. As the blackness vanished into the inn, I drew a deep breath, unaware that I had been holding it, but praising that I still had breath to take. “The trade was refused” said father, standing and helping me up. “We must go now, quickly. Take care not to touch the weight.” He said, pulling me down the stairs. The crickets were as loud as ever, the moon strangely brighter than it was before. Behind us, a weak scream rang out, ending in a hoarse cry, as the old man met his end, and Tuern claimed his revenge. Through all of my travels with him, and those of my own, nothing has been so terrible as the thing that looked at me that night. Me thoir are a’hert ei. [I am still drawn to it.]
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| # ? Jul 18, 2012 01:54 |
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I can't speak for the others, but they're still a hit with me, Tewbrainer. Post more when you can, please! I don't really have any ghost stories for the thread. Any real ghostly activity would probably leave me a gibbering mess, for my overactive imagination supplies plenty of frightening images all on its own. Me and some friends went to a small graveyard one Halloween (well, near Halloween) after a local ghost tour, and while I didn't see any glowing orbs or hear whispers of the dead as we roamed around that sad, unattended place with only our flashlights and what light the moon gave as guidance, my own mind gave me plenty to work with. As we were driving in I imagined, illuminated in the headlights, some creature darting across the road in front of our headlights, moving in a way completely wrong of the creatures on earth; or I looked to the treeline thick with pines and imagined some spindly thin alien, taller than the trees with glowing eyes and impossible limbs. If I actually saw any of the things I imagined, without the comfort of explanation, the world would be a far more frightening place than it already is.
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| # ? Jul 18, 2012 02:41 |
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| # ? May 25, 2013 17:38 |
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gently caress yeah, Tewbrainer! Book 2: Seven Miles Home Part 22: Little Lies Recovery was surprising. It was sort of like having another birthday. While I wasn't showered with gifts, I did get a few and a whole bunch of cards. So many, in fact, I got a little tired of reading them. I didn't realize I had so many aunts, uncles and cousins, nor the vast number of people who seemed to know all about me when I had no idea who they were. I had to ask Mom and Dad-- Dad mostly-- about some of them, and came to find out they were friends of the family, former neighbors, people he worked with or knew from work. It was a little unnerving to find out there were so many people who knew me I'd never even met, but those feelings passed. I was pretty sure I'd felt worse. It also netted me a month off school, which was almost as good. The only thing that sucked is I still had homework even though it wasn't due until I came back. Dad helped me with it most of the time while Mom's help was less calculations and more warnings. On account of my condition, I had to spend a lot of time in bed where she could keep an eye on me, or at least always know where I was. I think that's how she preferred me: immobile. Functionally, anyway. It got so I was tired of reading, reviewing my words, finishing lessons. It got so I felt like a prisoner. One thing that broke up the day, however, was the sheer number of visitors I received. Some were kids I went to school with, and, of course, relatives. Brett came by with his mom and left his favorite Han Solo figure with me, said I could bring it when I came back to school. I didn't really know what to do with myself, never having been given so much attention. I tried to be stoic, nonchalant, grateful yet cool, like it was something that happened all the time, every day. Inside, I was coming apart. Not in the way things were before, with other things, but not knowing how long I could keep it up-- the illusion. I played along, you see, and when people said I looked better, sounded better, I did what I could to live up to those impressions, expectations. Then there were the things that happened I didn't want to believe; strange noises, missing time, others I can't really explain. They weren't often enough for me to make any real sense of, but they left an impression. With all the other things going on, and once a week sessions with Dr Coker, they weren't difficult to ignore. I packed them away, like when my sleeping bag went up in the attic until the next stayover. Sometimes I even forgot about them, and that was nice. My head was full enough already. I was in my room working on times tables, which meant my homework was sitting somewhere nearby and I was instead flipping through and reading the best parts of The Lord of the Rings, when there was a knock on my door. I was so accustomed to people just coming in I didn't even bother to answer. My right to privacy was waived, not that I'd had much to begin with, along with daily doses of "for my own good". On their own, either one never amounted to much more than an annoyance. Together, it was more like they were planning a funeral; one I hoped I wouldn't attend for quite some time. When the door opened, I smelled something familiar, something I'd dreamt about since I came home. Her clothes were smart, hair frosty and feathered, eyes secretive. The race car red lipstick she wore was a stop sign. She put her hand on my forehead, brushed the hair from my eyes, encouraged me to smile with but a touch. Marcia. "How you feeling, Honey? "Better. "Oh, so good to hear." They intoxicated me, the lines and curves of her face, made me forget things. Her skin burned me, in a good way. It made me want to be closer. "Your mom said you were busy with schoolwork. I won't be too long." "No. Please stay." "I'm afraid I have plans this afternoon, but I'll be back to visit. Maybe take you and your mom out for lunch if you're feeling up to it." This was different. "Why can't we go. Just the two of us?" Her response was puzzled, questioning. "Because your mom's my friend." Things were coming back; images and scenes. One of life and love, like fairy tales. "But what about us?" She felt my forehead; lingered there. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?" I nodded just enough she wouldn't have to move her hand. "I'm sure." "I think I better let your mom know." I frowned. "I thought that's why we had to, you know." "What, Honey?" "Call it something special." Her face betrayed her thoughts among other things. For some reason, I couldn't make myself say it. "Urrm, nevermind." Her face blossomed with concern, the kind a mother would have for her young. The kind I only half wanted. "I'll go. Let you have your rest." Her smiled was meant to be reassuring, but I could tell something else lurked underneath. Something I didn't want to give name. It left grit in my mouth, in my heart, curdled what was in my stomachs. I couldn’t watch as she left the room. "OUTRAGE. I FEEL OUTRAGE." He puffed himself up to look bigger than he was, the way cats do. I watched and couldn't help but wonder what I'd done to deserve him. "I guess so." "Well do you or don't you, Whisker?" "I don't know." He blew air from puffed cheeks, sounding like a bellows. I wasn't scoring so hot on his test, unless you count the one on his patience. It wasn't meant to be mean, it was just this thing I did. “You need to realize I can’t do this for you. The things you remember, what you feel inside, while they’re certainly a part of you, they don’t need to make you feel bad.” “Okay.” “But if you don’t share them, well, there’s no way you can own them.” “What if I don’t want them?” “Once you own them you can decide you’re done with them.” I thought about them, the things he said. They made sense, just not the kind I cared about. Ben saw what he wanted to see, where I saw what I was made to. I was made to see Ben for what he was: a fraud. But I decided to play his game for as long as it took to get back to normal. Or at least back to life. “I kissed Brett.” It looked like Ben’s eyes might pop from the sockets like slinky glasses. He flipped open his little notebook, grabbed his pen, wrote with fury. His mouth made different shapes, none of which prevented him from drooling. “How did you feel about that?” “Like it wasn’t me doing it.” “But what did that make you feel?” “Scared.” “And?” “Umm, confused.” “Anything else?” “Sorry.” “That’s good, Whisker. That’s very good.” He wrote and wrote and flipped over new pages so he could write more. He wrote so much I got bored and went to get up. “Whoa there. Our time isn’t up yet.” “I think I’m done.” “Not when we’re finally making progress. We’ll be done soon, I promise.” “Okay.” I stayed put. "What can you tell me about kissing, Whisker." That was a strange question. One I didn't know how to answer. "Nothing really." "But you kissed your best friend." "I was made to kiss him." "Yes, well, that's something I'd like to get into later, but for right now, I want you to explain to me what kissing means to you." I shrugged my shoulders the way I'd seen other kids my age do when it was time to start telling the truth. "Lots of things." "Tell me." There were plenty of things I could say, plenty more I thought about. None of them, however, were what Ben wanted to hear. He wanted the answers that were just enough not little boy to be incredible, just enough not normal to be warped. Just enough lie to still be truth. It was part of the game, I figured. The one where he came out the hero. “It’s how people show they love each other.” “Good. Very good.” He wrote more things, mad things. “What else?” I knotted my fingers up like a spider web. “Friends and family.” Ben nodded, kept writing. “Married people.” Writing. “Ones who just want sex.” That’s when Ben stopped. “And which one of those were you, Whisker?” He waited for my answer, mouth open just enough to take a bite. I could tell by his eyes he expected something juicy. “I don’t know.” “What did you feel before you kissed Brett?” “Like I wasn’t myself.” Ben wrote like he wanted to kiss me, so happy he was with my response. It was mostly true, so I didn’t feel too bad in telling him. “I think that’s all for today. Why don’t you go to your room while I talk with your mom and dad.” I waited there with the door open just enough I could hear them talking. Ben seemed unsure. “Whisker hasn’t been as forthcoming as I’d hoped, but we’re still early in the process. I’d like to say I have some sort of window in mind-- how long this will take, I mean-- but with a situation like this, at his age-- I just don’t know.” Mom was decidedly less unsure. “All I need to know is if he’s lying about all-- this. You can find that out, right?” Dad filled the role of referee. “I think we should worry more about his progress than the amount of truth to his stories.” “Of course you’d say that. The lies with you in them are probably true.” Ben attempted to change tactics. “As it is, I’m still trying to assess the extent of your son’s trauma, but whether or not he decides to tell the truth is up to him. I can guide the ship, but he has to be the one to pull up anchor and make it sail.” “What a load of horseshit. We’re not paying you to let him run the show. You’re supposed to evaluate, tell us whether or not he’s going to be okay. And if he isn’t-- God forbid-- where we'll need to put him.” Mom always knew how to show she cared. “You know what I mean.” “One thing I can assure you of, Mrs White, is Whisker is in no immediate danger to himself or to others. However, the extent of his emotional and psychological distress-- it’s left him pretty raw, and that makes him--” “A time bomb.” It wasn’t so much an accusation as a statement of fact. “I prefer to think of him as fragile. With some work, support and encouragement to open up, he’ll bounce back quickly, be back on track. Back to managing his life.” “But-- he's a little boy. Aren’t we supposed to be the ones managing his life?” I heard a car door slam somewhere outside, so great was the silence. “I’d like to start meeting with Whisker twice a week. At my office. I’ll have my receptionist call and work out a schedule.” “Just like that?” I stayed in my room until I heard Ben’s car pull out of the driveway. When I think back on my recovery, I have to say I liked the visits from the little dog the best. I've never been much of a fan, dogs, but this one was nice and friendly, not like the other ones I'd come in contact with. It liked to jump up on my bed and lick my face and lay with me while I napped then nip at my nose when it was time to wake up. Its breath smelled like candy bars, chocolate ones, and I sometimes wondered if it used to live in the factory before it came to stay with me. I was allergic to a lot of things at a young age: grass, mold, dead leaves, all kinds of weeds and flowers, oats, kitties and puppies-- anything with fur-- yes, even chocolate. It was the red, itchy eyes and sneezy, drippy nose kind of allergies, hay fever they called it, which meant I couldn't have pets and if I wanted chocolate milk-- I had to use powdered carob. Let me be clear. Carob is pure, unapologetic evil. I'd sooner take a kick to the nuts than eat that demon dirt. It wasn't like it was an acquired taste, like coffee, something I'd grow into as I got older. I'm pretty sure it originated as some sort of military purposing for an all weather sealer or biological agent before some poor sap discovered you could eat it. If I could go back in time, I'd kick that guy in the nuts. Twice. Point is, I couldn't have pets; not the kind I wanted anyway. Where the kids at school had new puppies and kittens to play with, I was relegated to the likes of goldfish and other disposable companions. I agreed to fish so I'd have something to take care of, something that depended on me, not because I actually wanted to do it, if that makes sense. There's a degree of power and of personal gain in knowing something looks up to you and relies on your ability to give it comfort and shelter. Not subservience, but dependence; something incapable of caring for itself. For most of us, I think it's the closest we'll ever get to becoming God. Having the little dog around made up for all the failed companions from before and helped make the long, boring days not so long and boring. Except he mostly came at night and wouldn’t stay when someone else came to my room. Still, it was more fun than I imagined having a dog could be and I tried to savor his company when I could. I guess I should come clean about about the point where things got a little, I dunno, weird. Not that I was an expert or anything. It stormed that night; heavy, relentless rain that beat the roof and windows and make the bushes outside smack the side of the house. No thunder, no lightning; just a wall of weather. I laid in bed with the lights off, listening to mother nature and the song in my head. It was something I’d heard on the radio a while back, maybe during a ride to or from school. I think the guy who sang it was a rabbit, or, that was his name. I didn’t know the words-- just the melody-- and began to hum, hoping that might help me remember more of it. The little dog jumped up on the bed from the floor and laid next to me, wagging its tail while I hummed and stroked the spot between its ears. After passing through the chorus a dozen times without progress, I gave up. It wasn't all that great a song to begin with. "I've missed you." The words weren't mine, though something like what was already in my head. I listened to the way its tail thumped on the bed. "Me too." "How much?" I showed with my hands, like all those fish people caught. "This much." Its giggle was a high pitched, whining thing, like hydraulics. Puppy giggles. Soon thereafter was an onslaught of licks, all over my face, but mostly around the mouth, lips. Puppy kisses. They were wet and a little slobbery and I never cared much for that sensation, so I licked them away, as kids are wont to do, dried them with my tongue, and my mouth lit up with with sugary sweet deliciousness. A taste I'd grown to love. "You're not so bad for a little boy." My heart swelled with pride. "Much better than the ones before. Even with that broken little head of yours." I felt myself grinning. I liked when it rhymed. "You're special." I felt the tear trying to squirm its way out of my eye, so great was my joy. I held onto it, as long as I could. "I think it's time." Time. What's time? "Time I help you." The little dog's words bounced around that broken thing I called a brain, little fireflies, but fast, bright and tricky, too fast for my hands to grasp. They twinkled and buzzed and my eyes flashed with their memory. My words were whispers. "Help me what?" The little dog's came out cinders. "Remember."
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| # ? Jul 18, 2012 04:32 |
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