I’m not normally
evil. I don’t make a habit of cackling with glee at other’s
misfortune, or rubbing my fingers together with excitement
at perpetrating some new horror. No, I’m rather nice; that’s
what my friends say. However, as I sit here in the dark,
lurking, waiting to strike, I know that I never had a choice.
I knew as soon as I saw them that something had to be done.
Fluffles has
a tendency to jerk his leg with reckless doggie abandon whenever
his ear is scratched, and he was doing just that in response
to my ministrations when I heard their vehicle approaching;
an unhealthy diesel cough coupled with the dry rustle of
autumn leaves under tires. It looked like one of those traveling
Winnebago’s that the unwashed youth sometimes use to run
away from their responsibilities for a while. A tall man,
hair like spun gold and a shirt as white as winter, emerged
from the van. As the wind passed through the bare trees that
filled the wood around my home, he tightened what looked
like a red cravat around his neck against the cold.
I’ll never
forget his first word, the tone of which dripped with naiveté and
obliviousness. I am not a violent man, but I had an unexpected
urge to give him a good kidney punch.
“Golly!” he
decried.
I watched as
the others disembarked from the vehicle: its color was orange
and green, but the make and model of that strange contraption
is still a mystery. It was certainly large, as it disgorged
a sizable party:
The stramineous
driver; a tall redhead, whose figure was as attractive as
her eyes were vacuous; a shorter woman with trimmed hair
that framed her bespectacled face and a body that could stop
traffic, not with her figure, which was very plain, but with
the garish orange with which she was covered head to toe;
a lanky man who looked as if he was just emerging from an
unsuccessful stint in rehab, and a large Great Dane who seemed
to exude an air of stupidity. That’s why I did it. I couldn’t
help myself. They were all so…stupid.
They stood
in the drive for a moment, gaping and exchanging inane exclamations.
Already I knew what had to be done. As they approached the
door, I made preparations.
I remember
thinking that I really must oil those hinges, as they gave
an awful creak when I opened the door to find the tall blonde
with his hand raised, ready to knock. He stood agape, but
recovered, and introduced himself and his friends, explaining
that their van had broken down and that he had hoped to use
my telephone.
“Of course!” I
said, summoning the friendliest of smiles.
It took great
effort not to jab his solar plexus then and there, but I
had plans for these unfortunate wastes of space. I bowed
low, and bid them enter.
“Jinkies. This
is an awfully nice place you have here, Mister…” said the
orange abomination.
I self-consciously
dusted aside some cobwebs as she peered about at my spacious
abode. Though it has been in the family for generations,
it is now a seasonal home, and Maria Martinez was not due
to tidy up the place for another few weeks.
“Wetherby.
Wetherby Crabbe. It is a bit unwieldy, so you can do what
everyone else does and call me by my middle name.”
“Like, what’s
that, Mr. Crabbe?” said the lanky loser, his bloodshot eyes
blinking in the dim light.
“Ebenezer” I
replied.
“Well, Mr.
Ebenezer, sir, we’d sure like to use your phone,” said the
fair-haired fellow.
“Yes, yes,
walk this way.”
As I made my
way into the study, I felt that an oncoming bout of inclement
weather was making my bad knee ache, as it so often does.
They followed behind, with the temerity to mimic my distinctive
limp! I glared at them, but said nothing. Making fun of an
old man? How childish! I realized, as I looked at their young
fresh faces, that they were not only stupid, but terribly
young. Just kids. This would be too easy.
As they entered
the study, I pointed them to the phone by the reading chair.
They thanked me, and I left, closing and locking the door
behind them. I ran to one of the other extensions in the
kitchen, and as I picked it up, I could hear the blonde one
beginning his conversation with Charles Harrow, the mechanic
in the next town. Before he could finish relating my address,
I began my plan…
“WooooOOOOoooOOOoooooooOOooooo!” I
said into the receiver.
I pulled the
main plug from the wall, to which all the phones in the house
were connected. The line went dead.
A moment later,
the malnourished one and the dog ran to the kitchen at a
frantic pace. They began rifling through the refrigerator,
the pantry, and cupboards. The dog bit slobbery chunks of
whatever he could find. The man had assembled a large sandwich,
at impossible speed. Before I could object to his rudeness,
he had finished the monstrosity with two disgusting bites.
He and the dog then lay in a heap on the ground, their stomachs
distended.
“Hey, Mr. Crabby.
Like, sorry man, but I eat when I’m scared,” he said. The
dog made a huffing noise that sounded strangely like an affirmation.
Patience, I
counseled myself. Another grocery run would be a small price
to pay for the service they will soon render to me.
“Not a problem,
sirs. However, I must confess, I don’t know why you should
be so frightened.”
“Oh, man. It’s
the phone! It’s haunted!” he said. A pungent musty smell
filled the room as he talked. It seemed familiar.
“Oh, you mean…THIS
phone,” I said, brandishing the receiver like a weapon.
The man’s bloodshot
eyes grew wide.
“Yoinks! That’s
it, man! It’s making spooky noises! Put it down! The ghost
might get out!”
I put down
the receiver and offered to help him off of the floor. As
he rose, I explained.
“Oh, surely
not. We haven’t had a haunting in some time. This house is
perfectly safe. Why, the rumored incident with the witch-doctor’s
fiendish phantom was ages ago! Besides, I’m sure that if
there were a ghost who removed the heads of hapless travelers,
he would have been appeased by the last bout of gruesome
beheadings that occurred in this very house.”
The man’s Adam’s
apple visibly climbed the length of this throat and descended
again in with a gulp.
“Be…be…be…beheadings!?” he
said. Even the hapless hound seemed to be hanging on my words.
“Oh, yes. As
the tale is told, a native medicine-man’s seething spirit
is none too happy that our family built this home on their
sacred burial ground. Of course, we have nothing to worry
about. He seeks his revenge every five years. It’s been ages
since we’ve had a beheading, at least four years and…oh…hmm…”
I trailed off
with a dramatic pause. This was too easy.
“Oh, dear,” I
said. “Well, maybe he’s collected enough heads to slake his
atrocious appetite. I wouldn’t worry.”
Man and dog
looked at each other. I would be lying if I said that the
look of terror on their faces did not fill me with a guilty
pleasure. As they turned to each other, I quickly tapped
the man on the shoulder farthest from me.
He turned,
looking to see what had touched him.
“Hey, um, Mr.
Ebenezer, sir…um…did you see someone tap me on the shoulder
just now?”
“Why, no, of
course not. There is no one there!” I smiled.
“That’s what
I was afraid of!” he said, and vacated the room with a speed
matched only by his loyal dog.
Though they
had gone, their smell remained. Hmmm…paranoia, a sudden appetite,
bloodshot eyes. I called to mind my college days, when I
had last smelled that noisome vapor.
I invited the
clueless cadre to stay the night, told them that surely the
phones would be repaired by morning, and that it was such
a long way to town on foot. They agreed, though it seems
they had to bribe the dog with foul-smelling treats: they
must have been home-made, because I detected a scent much
like the kind that now would not leave my kitchen. There
is no way they were legal.
The night has
been long, but I can confidently say that I’ve had more fun
tonight than I’ve had in years. All it took was a dip in
baking flour to convince them that Fluffles was an eldritch
hound bent on bloody revenge. I crept into one of their bedrooms,
her glasses on the nightstand and her phlegm-riddled snore
covering the sound of my footfalls. I left a little man made
of twine and twigs, filled with voodoo pins, next to her
head on the pillow. She looked rather larger under the blankets
than I remembered—perhaps orange is a slimming color?
She was sleeping fitfully, tossing and moaning in her sleep.
Later, I used my high-school Spanish to speak ominous spells
through the ventilation ducts; ghostly curses from the ether.
Now I am crouching
behind some crates in the attic. I am wearing a Polynesian
mask that I got at some yard sale, a costume grass hula skirt,
and a broom-handle with a dried apple on top that makes a
serviceable shrunken head. One more scare should set them
running away screaming, telling the tale of my “haunted manor” to
any who will listen.
What’s this?
The doped-duo are climbing the stairs. They are approaching!
Patience, patience.
They have sat
down on just the other side of these crates!
“See, I told,
ya. That wacky witch-doctor will never find us up here, pal.”
It sounds as
if he is speaking around a mouthful of food. I can smell
pickles, mustard, and strawberry jam underneath their usual
funk.
“Yep, just
wait it out up here, let the others figure out what’s up
with that goofy ghost. Want some snacks?”
I can hear
the dog crunching, and the sound of a lighter being struck.
Smoke is quickly filing the room, but by the smell I realize
that instead of a house fire, he has brought his own combustibles.
Hmm. It is
taking a great deal of effort not to cough. These two won’t
shut up, and they won’t go away. I can feel the smoke in
my lungs, heavy and pungent. He is laughing at his own joke
now. Is that the dog laughing, too? How can they laugh, when
their lives are so wasted? It is the laughter of idiots,
and it seems to mock me. Their presence is an insult, their
exhaust belching machine has carried them to my home and
ejected them here; not even that sad contraption could stand
their presence!
I feel…strange.
My head is woozy, my stomach growling. I can’t wait any longer.
I’ll teach them a lesson and remove their poisoned presence!
It is time!
I am rising
from my hiding place, and my shadow is looming over them.
They’re not laughing now, oh no. I see the fear in their
dilated pupils. I rise to my full height, my war mask in
place, and scream my curse!
“Oooga, Booga,
BOOOO!!!”
They rise with
speed born from the terror in their hearts. They fight to
find traction in the dust and for a moment look as if they
are running in place, before they disappear. I am giving
chase, and will do so until they run back from where they
came!
I descend the
stairs, and see the whole group of them, standing in the
foyer, slack-jawed like the witless mistakes of nature they
are. I am rushing them, brandishing the shrunken headed staff
and bellowing with my well-stoked rage.
Wait. Where
is that tangerine tinged trollop?
I am on my
back, the wind gone from my lungs. An orange shape topped
with spectacles is handling me, rolling me in the carpet
she has just yanked from under my feet. No!
“Zoinks! It’s
the gh…gh…gh…ghost!” said the rawboned ruffian. He is gripping
his dog in his arms, like a totem to ward off the evils of
his addled mind.
“It’s ok, it’s
not a ghost” said their carrot clad cohort.
“The first
clue was the telephone. At first I was scared, but then I
remembered that landlines like these are connected, and that
someone could have picked up any other phone in the house
and made that ghost noise!” said the man in white, oozing
with pride, his arms akimbo. The brunette broad stood behind,
rolling her eyes behind her glasses.
What? When
had they worked that out? They never said a thing!
“And when we
found that kooky twig doll, I saw him creeping away,” said
the shapely redhead.
What? That
was the room that four-eyes had settled into. She couldn’t
have seen me, unless she had been in the bed at the time, with…oh.
“Those ghostly
curses we heard? I found a cookbook next to the heating vent,
and I know a little Spanish. Those weren’t curses, those
were recipes for Paella!” said the four-eyed devil.
“Paella?” the
bony one is saying “Well, maybe this ghost isn’t all bad,
huh, puppy?”
The dog sneezes.
It sounds uncannily like the interrogatory form of the word “paella”.
“And masks
like the one this witch-doctor is wearing are native to the
Polynesian islands, not the Americas. In fact, this isn’t
a witch doctor at all, but someone who wanted us to tell
ghost stories about the house to drive down the property
value. Then he could afford to refinance his mortgage and
keep the house in his family, even though he is close to
broke!” said the blond blunderer.
No! They are
lifting the mask! The cold light of truth is shining upon
me! How could I have stooped so low! Now that I hear them
explain my plan, I know the truth of their words. Why did
I ever think this plan was going to work? It doesn’t make
any sense!
The mask is
off!
“Old man Wetherby
Ebenezer Crabbe!” they gasp in unison.
No, no, it
would have worked! This isn’t my fault, it should have! It
shouldn’t be this way!
“Yes, yes,
it was me!” I can hear myself shouting.
I am done with
these children. I hear the police sirens approaching. There
is only one thing I want, nay, MUST say, before I go to my
just desserts. One last curse to fling at their pale vacant
faces.
“I would have
gotten away with it, too, if it wasn’t for you blasted
kids!”
