Tales of Misery and Imagination Read online

  The down payment came from the sale of my comic book collection, if you can believe it. Spider-Man, The Justice League, Uncanny X-Men... I loved them when I was a kid, but when I flipped through a few before I sold them, I was just embarrassed. What the hell did I ever see in the stupid things? As I say, we all grow up, and now they were just beef on the hoof. The house had done wonders for my state of mind, giving me a quiet place to retreat to, escape from the plethora of bastards in the outside world.

  Lately, though, I’d been suffering what seemed like an endless series of monumental pains in the ass – the electrical system in my car had inexplicably gone haywire, sending every light on the thing into seizure-inducing fits of flashing; the overtaxed sewer system chose my house to expel most of its contents into, flooding the insides of my bathroom walls with reeking human waste; and the entire corner of my adobe storage shed had crumbled, dropping a mountainous pile of mud and rotting straw onto the path to my front door. Any one of these disasters I could’ve dealt with, but all three within the same week? And now some little bastard was scrawling disparaging graffiti on my mailbox.

  I stood at the edge of the road glowering at my vandalized property until my sort-of friend and sure-as-shit co-worker Ethan drove up. He’d been driving me to and from work since my car went in the shop, and his dull attempts at conversation were wearing me down. Hard enough to drag your butt out of bed in the morning without having to face someone like that. At least I could avoid him once we were in the office.

  His car rolled to a stop directly in front of the mailbox and Ethan leaned across the seat, jabbing his glasses back up on his nose in the classic one-fingered nerd move. "What happened, kids get ya?" he said, as if the whole thing was a big joke.

  That’s when I realized he shouldn’t have seen it, not from the direction he came from. I’d been so infuriated that I hadn’t even looked at the other side of the damn box yet. I quickly circled the post, and sure as hell, there was more of it. Only here, it just said Stedman in huge, shaky letters, as if a retard or an old man had written it, then realized there wasn’t enough space to get to the good stuff. A first draft.

  As I settled into the car, Ethan made another lame joke about the mailbox, then veered off into an endless commentary on some goddamn TV show he’d watched the night before. I didn’t see it, I wanted to say: I was busy shoveling someone else’s shit off of my bathroom floor.

  My workday was spent processing very important documents no one would ever bother to look at – a mindless, soul-sucking, unrewarding and incredibly high-paying monkeyjob, made worse by my inability to stop picking at the scabs in my head. Stedman eats it. Kids in school used to write it on my locker – not out of meanness, but as a sort of shared joke. We all picked on each other like that. All in fun, back then. Now it just meant hassles and wasted time. Who would pull that shit? Why? Hell, I never spoke to my neighbors, and besides, the closest one was a half-mile away. There was no reason for it.

  I wasn’t even aware the hours had passed when Ethan showed up at my desk, grinning like an ape, car keys jangling in his hand. The sight inspired me to call the garage again, on the off chance they’d figured out what was wrong with my car. Anything to be rid of this guy’s company morning and night.

  You can imagine the relief I felt to be behind the wheel of my own vehicle once again, waving to Ethan as he pulled out of the garage parking lot ahead of me. Adios, halfwit. I flicked the turn signal on, relishing the hollow click-click as the little arrow flashed. A loose ground wire, the mechanic said it was. And it took them three days to find this? Correct me if I’m wrong, but – open hood, look around, see loose wire, fix problem, yes?

  Stopping at a hardware store, I picked up a few things I’d need to deal with the wreckage of my bathroom (a small port-a-potty, for one, since anything I put into my toilet would only resurface later in the wall) and a can of spray paint. Dinner was a Lotaburger with green chili, wolfed down as I drove home. The stench in my house wasn’t conducive to fine dining, I can assure you.

  I pulled off the road into my driveway and got out of the car, listening to the metal ball rattle in the can of spray paint as I shook it. A quick coat of gloss black eliminated the offending graffiti on the mailbox.

  Satisfied, I returned to the car and drove the fifty yards or so to my house, where my jaw fell into my lap.

  The screen door was hanging by one hinge, like a loose tooth begging to be torn free. Scrawled across the front door was what looked like the name Ray, written in that same shaky hand that had defaced my mailbox.

  I stared at the dangling screen wavering in the evening breeze. Taunting me.

  Erupting from the car, I stomped to the front door, grabbing the loose screen to examine the damage. The screws holding the screen’s hinge had been torn out of the doorframe, leaving jagged splinters of wood in their wake.

  Then I saw the footprints.

  At least two sets of small tracks – bare feet – trailed through the mud left behind from the storage shed collapse.

  Leading back and forth to my front door.

  The screen’s remaining hinge whimpered beneath its burden as I released the door. Bent over like a cartoon detective peering through a magnifying glass, I followed the footprints. They were distorted, misshapen, as if the feet that left them had slid a little to the side with every step.

  I never thought I’d be the type to say it, but: Goddamn kids. Stay offa my lawn.

  The footprints faded away at the edge of the mud. I straightened, gazing out across my land, as if I’d spot the culprits hiding behind a tree, struggling to contain their laughter. Nothing but shadows strewn by the retreating sun.

  Turning, I crouched to get a closer look at the nearest print. Whoever the bastards were, they sure had messed-up feet. Didn’t look like enough toes. No arches, either. Flat, weird little feet. Looking back over my shoulder at the darkening yard once again, I found myself wishing for closer neighbors.

  Emergency or not, the plumber wasn’t coming until the following day. I spent a couple hours half-heartedly making whatever repairs I could in the bathroom, accompanied by the small mammal that was gnawing a hole through my guts. The sick feeling that my house had been targeted – first the mailbox, then the front door – was duking it out with the even sicker feeling that it probably wasn’t over yet.

  And those footprints...

  Wrong. They were just wrong.

  As I tore out the last chunks of sewage-soaked wallboard and tossed them into a garbage bag, I stared at my reflection in the curtainless bathroom window. I saw my hand inch upward towards the light switch, wanting to stop it but unable to, like I was watching someone in a horror movie.

  Then I flicked the light off.

  Something darted away outside the window, escaping into the darkness.

  Instantly, I slammed the bathroom window open, my face almost pressed against the screen. "Get the hell out of there, you fuckers!"

  Wait a minute. That wasn’t —

  "I’m calling the cops," I muttered weakly. Hurriedly, I closed the window and backed away, flipping the light on again.

  Your mind plays tricks, right? Has to. Because that wasn’t any kid out there. Kids don’t usually run around naked.

  And they don’t have translucent skin.

  I left the bathroom, locking the door and closing it behind me. The lock was on the inside, so I don’t know what I hoped to gain. Extra seconds, maybe. If I needed them.

  The small mammal in my belly had become a large ape. Perhaps a little TV was called for here – a hundred-fifty channels, digital satellite, definitely what the doctor ordered. I sat on the couch, thumbed the remote.

  Static.

  I flipped through a few channels. They were all gone. I don’t think I’d ever felt so alone.

  In the silence, I heard the screen door creak on its single hinge. Sweet Jesus. I hadn’t locked the front door.

  Bang went the remote as I jumped to my feet and strode – didn’
t run, nothing so unseemly as running – towards the door. As I approached, the knob suddenly jiggled.

  Then I ran.

  The doorknob was beginning to turn when I reached the door. For an instant, I actually considered flinging the door open, scaring the shit out of the little bastards. The memory of the bluish veins visibly pumping away beneath that doughy skin jarred me back to my senses and I threw the deadbolt instead.

  The doorknob turned. Whatever was out there pushed against the door. Then a wet, whispering, childlike voice: "Come out..." Pleading.

  The inside of my mouth turned to cotton. The door banged against the deadbolt, sending me scrambling back towards the center of the room, where I stood, eyes wide, sweat trickling down my forehead.

  A noise from above jerked my gaze upward. Something small was scrabbling across the roof.

  Jesus, the cops, call the cops, stupid!

  I dashed to the phone, but there was no point. Dead. They’d cut the satellite, the phone... lights would be next.

  I’d never believed in owning a gun, and I was kicking myself for it. I believed in cooking, though, and thanks to that I had a good assortment of kitchen knives.

  The house went dark as I ran to the kitchen. In the sudden black, I collided with a chair, going ass-over-teakettle and cracking my skull against the edge of the counter. Amidst the spasms of pain shooting through my head, I heard glass breaking somewhere in the house.

  Hurriedly, I regained my feet and fumbled my way to the knife rack. Selecting a big chef’s knife with the most imposing blade I could find, I spun to face the darkness. A ribbon of blood mingled with the sweat on my face.

  They were in. I could hear their bare feet slapping the hardwood floor as they moved through the house, the occasional sound of something being tipped over – a chair here, a useless lamp there.

  The half-moon provided a meager spotlight for what was being played out, illuminating the kitchen doorway and part of the living room beyond. Glancing out the window, I saw the car, its hood raised, wires torn free. They’d done it all – the clogged sewer line, the wrecked storage shed.

  Something hit the floor in the living room, shattering. I whirled towards the sound in time to see shards of broken glass skitter through the shaft of moonlight. Sweat oozed through my fingers as their grip tightened on the handle of the knife. These things – whatever they were – were tearing down everything I’d worked for, sweated for, and by Christ, they’d suffer for the effort.

  I jerked sharply, breath catching in my throat, as the first one stepped into the light just beyond the kitchen doorway. A second shuffled into view behind it, broad, flat feet softly padding across the floor. Foolishly, I brandished the knife before me, the blade quavering in my trembling hands.

  The things stood there watching me, considering, tiny hearts thudding away in cellophane chests, blood swirling through a filigree of veins and arteries. A third creature appeared in the doorway, falling into place with the others.

  I was struck by a thought: they weren’t horrible. Disturbing, freakish, just plain wrong, yes – but not the monsters I’d first imagined. They were almost waif-like, damaged. And damned if I knew why, but for some reason, the sight of the things inspired a rush of aching sadness within me.

  The closest one took a step forward, wet eyes peering up at me. "Come out," it whispered, thick and drippy, like a child with a bad cold. The thing cocked its head at a funny angle, like one dog watching another on television – recognizing, yet perplexed. Thin lids closed in a slow blink, then slid back again as the moist, pale eyes fixed on mine. "Come out..."

  I sensed somehow that it wasn’t talking to me; it was talking beyond me, within me. As the creature drew closer, I kept the point of the knife aimed at the filmy torso, drawing a bead on the pulsing organs inside. The other two began to move towards me, slowly, feet awkwardly slapping the floor.

  "Play..." the closest thing slurred.

  I struck out with the knife, driving the tip into the thing’s soft belly. The flesh gave way like warm butter. Wheezing, the creature flailed backwards, toppling into the arms of the one behind it. Its hand went to the wound I’d made, blood pulsing across waxen fingers.

  The thing looked up at me then, colorless eyes glistening in the moonlight, but it wasn’t an expression of hate or anger. The thing was ashamed. Not for itself, but for me.

  I knew then what they wanted, who they were pleading with. I tried to speak, tell them the person they were looking for was no longer home, lost a long time ago, but my tongue was thick and dry and the only sound I made was a rasping croak. Drop the knife, let go! something in me screamed, but my fingers wouldn’t respond, continuing to hold the weapon at arms’ length, tip thrust at the things.

  One by one, the creatures were lost in the darkness. The last one to go – the one I’d stabbed – looked up at me sadly before finally withdrawing from the splinter of moonlight. I listened as the sound of their tiny feet faded from the house, then I collapsed on the kitchen floor, the blood-slicked knife clattering on the tile.

  The repairs on the house took several weeks and most of my savings, but the bathroom is back to serving its various functions, the screen door swings beautifully upon two hinges, and I have even more channels on the satellite than I did before. The first job was refinishing the front door, though – when I realized what was actually written there. The P and the L bleeding together to look like an R.

  The things never returned. Sometimes, when I awaken in the middle of the night, I find myself staring out the window into the dark, half-hoping to see a message scrawled on my shiny new shed... and I wonder what it would be like to really wake up.

  When Bob Vardeman told me about an anthology of carnival-themed stories that was looking for submissions, I banged out Uncertain Times at Uncle Fatty’s.

  It didn’t make it in (not enough of a horror story), but the editor said an awful lot of nice things about it. The characters are from a screenplay I co-wrote with my buddy John Howard.

  UNCERTAIN TIMES AT

  UNCLE FATTY'S

  "It’s comin’ to an end, folks," Lester Masoncup announced. "Hell, some shows ain’t even doin’ the headless girl no more."

  "I don’t understand," Comet Kahoutek said, her chin bobbling amongst many chins.

  Screw Boy stretched out on the couch, enjoying the opportunity to extend his gangly form to its full length. "It’s because you’re big and fat," he sniped.

  Comet pouted.

  "You watch-a you mouth," Maestro MacCorkindale said.

  Screw Boy shot the finger at the little fellow.

  "Screw Boy’s right, Comet," Masoncup said, voice furry from the liquor he’d been swilling since before the carnival closed for the night. He managed Uncle Fatty’s Traveling Show, and for weeks had been dreading the thought of calling this meeting of the sideshow performers. "A big fat lady? That might offend some poor dieter. And a contortionist?" He fixed Screw Boy with a stern gaze. "Some folks ain’t even got limbs to twist up – don’t wanna hurt their feelings."

  Screw Boy’s middle finger lifted once again. "They can spin on it."

  "It’s called Political Correctness," Masoncup continued. "And it’s the enemy of each and every sideshow act."

  "But people gotta work," Comet said. "Some of us can only do this one thing."

  "How can anybody have a complaint with a farting Italian midget?" Screw Boy asked.

  Maestro MacCorkindale leaned back on one leg and fired a kick into the side of Screw Boy’s head.

  "Damn it," Screw Boy hissed, making a lazy grab for MacCorkindale. The midget darted away, stubby arms wobbling. A muted honk escaped his rear.

  "Not in the trailer, please," Masoncup sighed.

  Embarrassed, MacCorkindale winced, his hand over his butt. "Sorry."

  "How’d a spaghetti-bender come to choose a Scottish stage name, anyway?" Screw Boy asked MacCorkindale.

  "You know I don’t-a discuss such things-a," the Maestro replied.
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  Comet shifted her 600-pound bulk, rocking the customized trailer she called home. "I’m serious," she said. "What are we supposed to do for a living if Uncle Fatty drops the sideshow?"

  The Geek, normally not one for conversation, spoke up then. "I can always go back to the pot farm. Hell, sometimes I think that’d be easier than geekin’ anyway. Political correctness ain’t shit – at least the rest of you don’t have PETA on your asses all the damn time. What am I s’posed to do, bite the head off tofu?"

  The others looked at the Geek, surprised by this veritable onslaught of words.

  Abashed, the Geek suddenly found something very interesting about his tattered sneakers. "It’s always somethin’, that’s all I’m sayin’," he muttered.

  "It’s not even like-a we have any real-a freaks," MacCorkindale pointed out. "Not since Arturo the Reptile-a moved to France."

  "That guy was a quitter," Screw Boy said, stroking his goatee. "Tell me somethin’ – how does a guy none of us have ever seen have this kinda control over our lives?"

  "He’s your Uncle Fatty," Masoncup said. "And he signs the checks."

  "Yeah, well, he decides to send us all packin’, I say we go into the cuttin’-the-balls-off-Uncle-Fatty business."

  Before Screw Boy could rally anyone to his new cause, the oversized double-doors opened and Colonel Tapeworm, eater of light bulbs and razor blades, entered the trailer. He carried a narrow paper sack and a bag of ice. His arrival went unacknowledged by the gloomy performers.

  "If you ain’t gonna salute the Colonel," Tapeworm huffed, "At least salute the Captain." He slid a fifth of Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum from the paper sack.

  Screw Boy held up a beckoning hand. "Toss that old bastard over here."

  Aghast, Tapeworm sourly pursed his lips. "We drink like gentlemen, my friend."

  Masoncup quickly withdrew his own bottle of Early Times from between his lips and sheepishly wiped the rim. Colonel Tapeworm moved into the tiny kitchen and began mixing rum-and-Cokes in glasses of assorted size.