Author: Dr.Carl Cadaver

Categories
Archives Short Stories

Sparrow

The sparrow had disturbed Grandmother throughout the week.

She was living with us, and had been for some time. Grandmother had grown so frail that I insisted she move in. For her advanced age, Grandmother was healthy and content with only the faintest hits of senility. Her eyes were failing, we weren’t sure she heard half of what was said in the home, and she tired easily; a woman with nearly one hundred years on this planet will struggle with these things. Grandmother possessed a true joy of living. She had a peace and inner fullness that so many in their youth never find. Even when she was ill, and her body failed her, Grandmother rejoiced in life’s simple blessings; the presence of family, the satisfaction of a lovingly crafter meal, and the warmth of the sunlight shining in spite of the world’s collected strife.

It is for this reason that we became concerned at her agitation and sudden pallor.

We worried after her; who wouldn’t? For a soul of her age death is always lurking in the shadows. The reality of her diminishing days was perennially the elephant in the room. At first we ignored her anxiety, hoping to divert her by heaping love upon her and involving her with distracting activities. On the second night her sleep became troubled and the loss of rest robbed her of her cheer. It was then we knew something was truly amiss.

There was an understandable lack of comprehension at first. She tried to explain to us what had unsettled her. Grandmother’s words were always heavy with Hungarian accent and difficult to understand beyond the simplest of conversations. Now, with the weakest breath behind her words, communication was reduced to random words and short phrases, most of which unintelligible to us. It wasn’t until the third day that we finally understood the source of her stress.

It was the sparrow.

Grandmother loved to sleep with her window open, insisting that even the polluted air of our crowded city was a gift from God. She had always felt caged when confined indoors; going for long walks alone on the crowded, and notoriously unfriendly, city streets surrounding our humble neighborhood. We were concerned for her safety, of course. In an old warehouse, just blocks away, there had recently been a series of murders. The papers said that it was an isolated gang related incident, but for days afterward reports and rumors spoke of continued violence that did not reach newsprint. We begged her to relent from her walks, but she would not hear of it. Grandmother intended to use every faculty until the moment they failed. This included not only her legs that yearned to roam freely in the outdoors, but also the lungs that found joy in sour urban night air.

This desire to share the external atmosphere with all of God’s creation had allowed a sparrow to fly into her room. At first I assumed I was not interpreting her words correctly, for a sparrow is probably one of the least foul denizens of this filthy city. Indeed it was a sparrow. The small bird fluttered about her bed, circling without a hint of confusion or panic, and then settled upon the oval frame above her bed.

Above the faded sepia portrait of Grandmother as 17 year-old Hajnal, beautiful yet already appearing fully adult in her features and stoic expression, lingered the sparrow. It noted her presence with its cocking head and shallow flaps of its wings. With that small signal of recognition, the bird left as suddenly as it entered. For Grandmother to be disturbed by the appearance of such a small beast was one thing, but for her reaction to be so severe concerned us deeply.

Relaying the story to us, Grandmother sat immobile in her French library chair. She was reducing in stature and growing in frailty before our eyes. The image of her in that chair formed a strange juxtaposition that hinted at the oppressive volume of years that she carried. The mahogany chair was worn, older perhaps than Grandmother herself, but remained one of her few possessions originating from the old country.

We knew little of her life prior to emigrating from Hungary, but the anecdotes and fuzzy memories had always had a curious touch of nobility to them. While never rich, once they arrived in New York, Grandmother’s family carried themselves with a poise and reservation alluding to something greater than the near-poverty blue collar world they joyously struggled within. My father had once confided to me that they had left something great behind in the old country. Regretfully, the ignorance of youth and the tragedy of Father’s early departure from this Earth conspired to prevent me from inquiring deeper into what greatness he spoke of. Whatever Father knew of their life in old country went to the grave with him with the finality that only death offers.

Why had Grandmother’s family done this? It was one of those mysteries that would return fewer answers as time marched on. Why indeed would a family, possibly of ample means, abandon it all for a fresh start here in the United States? Based on stories told around the dinner table and over coffee, they were met with no graces, no opportunity, and no lucky breaks. Like so many who came to America, they scraped, starved, and smiled their way to contentment. They took pride in their labor, desired nothing they did not have, and they each pitched in equally to ensure no one went without. They were a true New York story if I had ever heard one.

And now it all was unraveling, because of a sparrow.

Staring down forty years of age, just ten shy of Father’s last birthday, I found myself the patriarch of our humble family. It fell on me to care for Grandmother, but I was happy to do so. Elise and I had never had children of our own, so having Grandmother join us helped us to feel like a family again. Her presence made our lives feel full for the first time since our marriage. Not once had she felt like an inconvenience.

Our love for Grandmother grew daily, even as we learned to ignore her quirks. In the beginning we would lie in bed and giggle about her strange mannerisms, and her eccentric superstitions. She often spoke of things taught to her by the taltos, which I assume was a type of Old Country holy man. More likely it was less of a righteous counselor and more an opportunistic carnie. She often spoke of the taltos in the same breath as luck, omens, spirits, and divination. There was always a glimmer of fearful reverence in her eyes when she spoke of these things.

Grandmother was no pagan, her devotion to God would not allow such a notion. To her the world was a complicated and mysterious amalgam of the natural, supernatural, and Holy. The earth itself had a way, and that way would impose itself on daily life. Everything was potentially an omen, from seating arrangements, winter’s severity, which foot hit the floor first upon waking, and the presence of various itches along one’s body. Our bedtime giggling soon dulled as the folksy mannerisms simple became part of our daily expectation. Grandmother was marvelously authentic, and for that we adored her.

On the second day following the bird’s visit she stopped sleeping. Grandmother prayed deep into the night, finally leaving her bended knees only to lie wide-eyed in bed, clutching a ragged iron cross and singing a haunting melody to herself, barely loud enough to escape her lips. Grandmother shivered convulsively on these troubled nights, and I feared for health. The trembling of her body would shake her bed, rattling the headboard against the wall. Fearing that she was falling into seizures I would check in to find her awake and singing. Her lips had a look of cyanosis, and her body was frigid to touch.

Yet she petulantly refused to close her window in the evening. When I first suggested it to her, because of her plummeting nocturnal body temperature, she spat toward the window and spoke rapidly in Hungarian. My linguistic skills were embarrassingly poor, having been the first generation of our family to “go native,” so I did not comprehend much of what she excitedly murmured into the darkness. From the aggravated words that Grandmother spoke that night, only the word “izcacus” stuck with me. Its meaning is unknown to me, but something told me not to dare ask Grandmother for definition.

It had been six days since the sparrow visited Grandmother, and she was now a wispy scrap of what she only a week prior. She was fading from us; she refused any mention of doctors, and denied our attempts to help. Grandmother would not take any food, save for a chicken stock heavy with garlic and a floral herb I am not familiar with. She would struggle to prepare this concoction every morning, chasing us from the kitchen if we tried to meddle. The broth’s bouquet still stalks our home like a fragrant ghost.

Strength was bleeding from her even as her breathing became more labored. My dear wife and I could do nothing but stand by and watch as my beloved Grandmother faced the coming finale. Our own consciences were comforted knowing that we were there for moral support as the end neared. She gave no sign that our companionship was appreciated, but given her deterioration we knew her mind and heart were preoccupied. With much guilt I prayed to God for a sudden and final end for her; she deserved eternal rest more than anyone I have ever known. Yet even as I prayed for her death, I could hear her in the next room, tenaciously battling to live.

My own sleep would not come. I listened to the rising and falling of her prayers, her songs, her breathing. Something was pushing her towards the Final Moment, but she was clinging to life. Perhaps she was expecting something, or someone, to appear to usher her from this world to the next. Maybe Grandmother was afraid to leave too soon, awaiting fulfillment of some scrap of taltos prophecy or another.

Then all fell silent in our apartment.

Gone were the mutterings, the melody, and the stilted breathing. Elise slept beside me, unaware of the change. All I could hear was the racing of my own heartbeat and the gentle lapping of Grandmother’s curtains against the window’s frame, ever billowing with breezy night air.

Motivated by some blend of morbid curiosity and true desperate concern I slid from my bed and hurried into Grandmother’s room. Once my still-adjusting eyes comprehended the tableau awaiting me, I reeled. Staggering back into the room I confirmed what my brain was struggling to fathom. Upon the window sill sat what at first appeared to be a fat, filthy gourd. It was instead a rat, large and greasy, standing on its hind legs and exploring the scent of the room with its twitching nose.

Opposite the window was Grandmother, sitting upright in her bed. She wore an indignant expression on her face, lower jaw clenched as she ground her teeth. With her left hand she clutched the crude iron cross, and as I looked on, she swiftly pulled her right hand from beneath her sheets. She was holding a glittering knife, more dagger than cutlery. Its pointed blade caught the low, lazy light of the candle sitting upon her night stand. Silvery reflections scattered across the walls, chasing shadows away only momentarily before darkness again reclaimed the room. I stood befuddled, perplexed by this unexpected scene.

The rat flinched as Grandmother leaned forward and began to exhale a whistling litany from between her teeth. Her throat raspy, her mouth dry, she continued to repeat a series of rhythmic phrases. My ears tried to tune into the syllables, hoping to find some meaning to her troubled monologue. All that my ears found was a hypnotic lullaby that froze me where I stood helpless to watch this standoff play out.

I saw tension form in Grandmother’s wrist, and it was clear that she was preparing to throw the knife. Time slowed and my eyes grew larger, wishing for all of this only to be a dream. My dear, sweet grandmother was gone, replaced with a wild, dementia-touched woman I did not recognize. I could not move, nor could I speak, so I cried. Large tears welled in my eyes and streamed down my face as this mad performance continued.

The dagger snapped forward and Grandmother’s bony fingers flung it towards the rodent. The flashing blade had just begun its flight when the oval portrait fell from the wall unprovoked. The visage of young Hajnal crashed onto the floor as the knife simultaneously glanced of the sill, low of its desired mark. The rat recoiled and escaped into the dark beyond.

By the time the knife clattered harmlessly to the floor, whatever emotional hex immobilized my body had faded. I moved across the room to find Grandmother had fainted, already lapsed into a steady sleep. I paced about her bedside, fretting of what to do. She seemed to be sleeping, but I feared that she had spent the last of her vitality in that bizarre display. Should I wake her? Should I wake Elise? Call the doctors? As I looked down at her face, removed of all tension and expression, it suddenly seemed like a betrayal to do anything but just let her be. If she was to slip into oblivion, so be it.

I returned to my bed and wept myself to sleep.

My wife was soon rousing me, having waked before I had. She couldn’t speak, yet she continued to choke on words that refused to come forth. She chewed on her knuckled and bloodshot eyes swam behind pools of tears. I nodded, and immediately decide not to tell her about the previous night’s commotion.

Assuming that I would find Grandmother as I left her, I was unprepared for the visual offered to me. Slung across Grandmother’s bed was a rigid and deflated equivalent of Grandmother. The body lying before me was more than gaunt; it appeared mummified. The corpse appeared to be nothing more than a sharp featured skeleton swaddled in loose, ashen casing. It didn’t look real, certainly not immediately recognizable as Grandmother, and my mind refused to grasp the horror of it all. Just hours before this had been a living, breathing human being. Grandmother. My heart broke as the sight this ghoulish cadaver, drained of all spark or sign of vitality, defiled my memories of her.

Elise appeared behind me, herself still sobbing and unable to speak. With great difficulty she pulled one hand from her mouth and pointed towards Grandmother’s pillow. More specifically, she drew my attention to Grandmother’s neck. Just below her ear and above her collar there was a terrible wound. While the rest of her form appeared to be drained of all color, this pair of swollen lacerations still held the angry crimson hue of injury.

There was no doubt that the rat had returned. Perhaps the foul creature smelt impending death and sought a defenseless meal. Perhaps to these slinking rodents even human beings, the able masters of the animal kingdom, were just another option along the food chain when opportunity arose. Life feeds on life. “Nature red in tooth and claw,” as is said. My body shivered at the thought and my stomach knotted. Resigned that there was no other explanation for the source of the wound, I turned to my wife. Elise collapsed into my chest, now in hysterical mourning. Her grief was contagious and I too broke down anew.

Part-dragging and part-dancing my grieving spouse to the window, I slammed it down tight. I twisted the brass latch tight, thus sealing our home from the cruelness that seethes unseen beyond our sills and thresholds. My wife and I stood together before the window, bathing in the sun’s warm rays, and cried for most of the morning.

Things had changed.

 

Categories
Archives Short Stories

A Prelude

The sparrow had disturbed Grandmother throughout the week.

She was living with us, and had been for some time. Grandmother had grown so frail that I insisted she move in. For her advanced age, Grandmother was healthy and content with only the faintest hits of senility. Her eyes were failing, we weren’t sure she heard half of what was said in the home, and she tired easily; a woman with nearly one hundred years on this planet will struggle with these things.

Grandmother possessed a true joy of living. She had a peace and inner fullness that so many in their youth never find. Even when she was ill, and her body failed her, Grandmother rejoiced in life’s simple blessings; the presence of family, the satisfaction of a lovingly crafter meal, and the warmth of the sunlight shining in spite of the world’s collected strife.

It is for this reason that we became concerned at her agitation and sudden pallor.

We worried after her; who wouldn’t? For a soul of her age death is always lurking in the shadows. The reality of her diminishing days was perennially the elephant in the room. At first we ignored her anxiety, hoping to divert her by heaping love upon her and involving her with distracting activities. On the second night her sleep became troubled and the loss of rest robbed her of her cheer. It was then we knew something was truly amiss.

There was an understandable lack of comprehension at first. She tried to explain to us what had unsettled her. Grandmother’s words were always heavy with Hungarian accent and difficult to understand beyond the simplest of conversations. Now, with the weakest breath behind her words, communication was reduced to random words and short phrases, most of which unintelligible to us. It wasn’t until the third day that we finally understood the source of her stress.

It was the sparrow.

Grandmother loved to sleep with her window open, insisting that even the polluted air of our crowded city was a gift from God. She had always felt caged when confined indoors; going for long walks alone on the crowded, and notoriously unfriendly, city streets surrounding our humble neighborhood. We were concerned for her safety, of course. In an old warehouse, just blocks away, there had recently been a series of murders. The papers said that it was an isolated gang related incident, but for days afterward reports and rumors spoke of continued violence that did not reach newsprint. We begged her to relent from her walks, but she would not hear of it. Grandmother intended to use every faculty until the moment they failed. This included not only her legs that yearned to roam freely in the outdoors, but also the lungs that found joy in sour urban night air.

This desire to share the external atmosphere with all of God’s creation had allowed a sparrow to fly into her room. At first I assumed I was not interpreting her words correctly, for a sparrow is probably one of the least foul denizens of this filthy city. Indeed it was a sparrow. The small bird fluttered about her bed, circling without a hint of confusion or panic, and then settled upon the oval frame above her bed.

Above the faded sepia portrait of Grandmother as 17 year-old Hajnal, beautiful yet already appearing fully adult in her features and stoic expression, lingered the sparrow. It noted her presence with its cocking head and shallow flaps of its wings. With that small signal of recognition, the bird left as suddenly as it entered. For Grandmother to be disturbed by the appearance of such a small beast was one thing, but for her reaction to be so severe concerned us deeply.

Relaying the story to us, Grandmother sat immobile in her French library chair. She was reducing in stature and growing in frailty before our eyes. The image of her in that chair formed a strange juxtaposition that hinted at the oppressive volume of years that she carried. The mahogany chair was worn, older perhaps than Grandmother herself, but remained one of her few possessions originating from the old country.

We knew little of her life prior to emigrating from Hungary, but the anecdotes and fuzzy memories had always had a curious touch of nobility to them. While never rich, once they arrived in New York, Grandmother’s family carried themselves with a poise and reservation alluding to something greater than the near-poverty blue collar world they joyously struggled within. My father had once confided to me that they had left something great behind in the old country. Regretfully, the ignorance of youth and the tragedy of Father’s early departure from this Earth conspired to prevent me from inquiring deeper into what greatness he spoke of. Whatever Father knew of their life in old country went to the grave with him with the finality that only death offers.

Why had Grandmother’s family done this? It was one of those mysteries that would return fewer answers as time marched on. Why indeed would a family, possibly of ample means, abandon it all for a fresh start here in the United States? Based on stories told around the dinner table and over coffee, they were met with no graces, no opportunity, and no lucky breaks. Like so many who came to America, they scraped, starved, and smiled their way to contentment. They took pride in their labor, desired nothing they did not have, and they each pitched in equally to ensure no one went without. They were a true New York story if I had ever heard one.

And now it all was unraveling, because of a sparrow.

Staring down forty years of age, just ten shy of Father’s last birthday, I found myself the patriarch of our humble family. It fell on me to care for Grandmother, but I was happy to do so. Elise and I had never had children of our own, so having Grandmother join us helped us to feel like a family again. Her presence made our lives feel full for the first time since our marriage. Not once had she felt like an inconvenience.

Our love for Grandmother grew daily, even as we learned to ignore her quirks. In the beginning we would lie in bed and giggle about her strange mannerisms, and her eccentric superstitions. She often spoke of things taught to her by the taltos, which I assume was a type of Old Country holy man. More likely it was less of a righteous counselor and more an opportunistic carnie. She often spoke of the taltos in the same breath as luck, omens, spirits, and divination. There was always a glimmer of fearful reverence in her eyes when she spoke of these things.

Grandmother was no pagan, her devotion to God would not allow such a notion. To her the world was a complicated and mysterious amalgam of the natural, supernatural, and Holy. The earth itself had a way, and that way would impose itself on daily life. Everything was potentially an omen, from seating arrangements, winter’s severity, which foot hit the floor first upon waking, and the presence of various itches along one’s body. Our bedtime giggling soon dulled as the folksy mannerisms simple became part of our daily expectation. Grandmother was marvelously authentic, and for that we adored her.

On the second day following the bird’s visit she stopped sleeping. Grandmother prayed deep into the night, finally leaving her bended knees only to lie wide-eyed in bed, clutching a ragged iron cross and singing a haunting melody to herself, barely loud enough to escape her lips. Grandmother shivered convulsively on these troubled nights, and I feared for health. The trembling of her body would shake her bed, rattling the headboard against the wall. Fearing that she was falling into seizures I would check in to find her awake and singing. Her lips had a look of cyanosis, and her body was frigid to touch.

Yet she petulantly refused to close her window in the evening. When I first suggested it to her, because of her plummeting nocturnal body temperature, she spat toward the window and spoke rapidly in Hungarian. My linguistic skills were embarrassingly poor, having been the first generation of our family to “go native,” so I did not comprehend much of what she excitedly murmured into the darkness. From the aggravated words that Grandmother spoke that night, only the word “izcacus” stuck with me. Its meaning is unknown to me, but something told me not to dare ask Grandmother for definition.

It had been six days since the sparrow visited Grandmother, and she was now a wispy scrap of what she only a week prior. She was fading from us; she refused any mention of doctors, and denied our attempts to help. Grandmother would not take any food, save for a chicken stock heavy with garlic and a floral herb I am not familiar with. She would struggle to prepare this concoction every morning, chasing us from the kitchen if we tried to meddle. The broth’s bouquet still stalks our home like a fragrant ghost.

Strength was bleeding from her even as her breathing became more labored. My dear wife and I could do nothing but stand by and watch as my beloved Grandmother faced the coming finale. Our own consciences were comforted knowing that we were there for moral support as the end neared. She gave no sign that our companionship was appreciated, but given her deterioration we knew her mind and heart were preoccupied. With much guilt I prayed to God for a sudden and final end for her; she deserved eternal rest more than anyone I have ever known. Yet even as I prayed for her death, I could hear her in the next room, tenaciously battling to live.

My own sleep would not come. I listened to the rising and falling of her prayers, her songs, her breathing. Something was pushing her towards the Final Moment, but she was clinging to life. Perhaps she was expecting something, or someone, to appear to usher her from this world to the next. Maybe Grandmother was afraid to leave too soon, awaiting fulfillment of some scrap of taltos prophecy or another.

Then all fell silent in our apartment.

Gone were the mutterings, the melody, and the stilted breathing. Elise slept beside me, unaware of the change. All I could hear was the racing of my own heartbeat and the gentle lapping of Grandmother’s curtains against the window’s frame, ever billowing with breezy night air.

Motivated by some blend of morbid curiosity and true desperate concern I slid from my bed and hurried into Grandmother’s room. Once my still-adjusting eyes comprehended the tableau awaiting me, I reeled. Staggering back into the room I confirmed what my brain was struggling to fathom. Upon the window sill sat what at first appeared to be a fat, filthy gourd. It was instead a rat, large and greasy, standing on its hind legs and exploring the scent of the room with its twitching nose.

Opposite the window was Grandmother, sitting upright in her bed. She wore an indignant expression on her face, lower jaw clenched as she ground her teeth. With her left hand she clutched the crude iron cross, and as I looked on, she swiftly pulled her right hand from beneath her sheets. She was holding a glittering knife, more dagger than cutlery. Its pointed blade caught the low, lazy light of the candle sitting upon her night stand. Silvery reflections scattered across the walls, chasing shadows away only momentarily before darkness again reclaimed the room. I stood befuddled, perplexed by this unexpected scene.

The rat flinched as Grandmother leaned forward and began to exhale a whistling litany from between her teeth. Her throat raspy, her mouth dry, she continued to repeat a series of rhythmic phrases. My ears tried to tune into the syllables, hoping to find some meaning to her troubled monologue. All that my ears found was a hypnotic lullaby that froze me where I stood helpless to watch this standoff play out.

I saw tension form in Grandmother’s wrist, and it was clear that she was preparing to throw the knife.

Time slowed and my eyes grew larger, wishing for all of this only to be a dream. My dear, sweet grandmother was gone, replaced with a wild, dementia-touched woman I did not recognize. I could not move, nor could I speak, so I cried. Large tears welled in my eyes and streamed down my face as this mad performance continued.

The dagger snapped forward and Grandmother’s bony fingers flung it towards the rodent. The flashing blade had just begun its flight when the oval portrait fell from the wall unprovoked. The visage of young Hajnal crashed onto the floor as the knife simultaneously glanced of the sill, low of its desired mark. The rat recoiled and escaped into the dark beyond.

By the time the knife clattered harmlessly to the floor, whatever emotional hex immobilized my body had faded. I moved across the room to find Grandmother had fainted, already lapsed into a steady sleep. I paced about her bedside, fretting of what to do. She seemed to be sleeping, but I feared that she had spent the last of her vitality in that bizarre display. Should I wake her? Should I wake Elise? Call the doctors? As I looked down at her face, removed of all tension and expression, it suddenly seemed like a betrayal to do anything but just let her be. If she was to slip into oblivion, so be it.

I returned to my bed and wept myself to sleep.

My wife was soon rousing me, having waked before I had. She couldn’t speak, yet she continued to choke on words that refused to come forth. She chewed on her knuckled and bloodshot eyes swam behind pools of tears. I nodded, and immediately decide not to tell her about the previous night’s commotion.

Assuming that I would find Grandmother as I left her, I was unprepared for the visual offered to me.

Slung across Grandmother’s bed was a rigid and deflated equivalent of Grandmother. The body lying before me was more than gaunt; it appeared mummified. The corpse appeared to be nothing more than a sharp featured skeleton swaddled in loose, ashen casing. It didn’t look real, certainly not immediately recognizable as Grandmother, and my mind refused to grasp the horror of it all. Just hours before this had been a living, breathing human being. Grandmother. My heart broke as the sight this ghoulish cadaver, drained of all spark or sign of vitality, defiled my memories of her.

Elise appeared behind me, herself still sobbing and unable to speak. With great difficulty she pulled one hand from her mouth and pointed towards Grandmother’s pillow. More specifically, she drew my attention to Grandmother’s neck. Just below her ear and above her collar there was a terrible wound.

While the rest of her form appeared to be drained of all color, this pair of swollen lacerations still held the angry crimson hue of injury.

There was no doubt that the rat had returned. Perhaps the foul creature smelt impending death and sought a defenseless meal. Perhaps to these slinking rodents even human beings, the able masters of the animal kingdom, were just another option along the food chain when opportunity arose. Life feeds on life. “Nature red in tooth and claw,” as is said. My body shivered at the thought and my stomach knotted. Resigned that there was no other explanation for the source of the wound, I turned to my wife.

Elise collapsed into my chest, now in hysterical mourning. Her grief was contagious and I too broke down anew.

Part-dragging and part-dancing my grieving spouse to the window, I slammed it down tight. I twisted the brass latch tight, thus sealing our home from the cruelness that seethes unseen beyond our sills and thresholds. My wife and I stood together before the window, bathing in the sun’s warm rays, and cried for most of the morning.

Things had changed.

Categories
Archives Posts Short Stories

Attractive Nuisance

The worn brickwork and exposed pipes adorning Legendary Comics and Coffee’s interior miraculously succeeded in making the long, narrow café feel homey instead of dank and dingy. The atmosphere was equal parts historical renovation and intentional steampunk design. This atmosphere was welcoming to the faithful customers who saw the shop more as a clubhouse than a lair for outsiders; just one of the many triumphs of planning and execution by the owners.

On nights such as this, when the monthly Awesomely Open Mic Nite event was in full swing, the room was stuffed with relaxed patrons sipping coffee. There were some who chose to stand towards the back. Their cluster spilled through the narrow ramped portal that led into the comic shop. Line of sight wasn’t of big importance to this crowd; most of those in attendance would eventually take the stage and very few came to play the role of spectator alone.

The stage was actually a cleared corner near the counter, underneath a framed image of a rampaging Hulk and situated next to a stack of mismatched PA equipment. Hovering above the solitary mic stand and utilitarian bar stool were two small directional lights. These cellophane filtered lamps were clamped to the exposed pipes overhead. The stage lights succeeded in effectively blinding the participant from the crowd’s visual reactions, as well as slow roasting them while they delivered their performance.

Behind the stage was the coffee bar, from which co-owner Wendy directed traffic and concocted java drinks of local renown. Assisted by a gaggle of hardworking baristas, Wendy rolled up her sleeves and made sure every customer left the café with only the highest impression. Seated at her counter was David, another of the shop’s three co-owners and emcee of the various event nights. From his seat of honor, David would play maestro by orchestrating the best order and variety of acts.

As the bodies arrived fashionably late to fill in any people sized holes in the room, the early shift was finishing up their ironic acoustic covers of eighties pop songs and slam poetry. The night was now in full swing, and David couldn’t have been happier. He had lobbied hard for this particular event. His partners were used to indulging his flights of fancy, but after Saturday Morning Cereal Bar and Ye Olde Tyme Pub Trivia Night failed to generate a satisfactory crowd they were hesitant to comply.

To David’s credit, the event was a smash hit from the first night. Open mic nights were nothing new to the city’s coffee shops, bars, and hookah dens but Legendary was the only successful one. One of the contributing factors to the monthly event’s success was a pair of reoccurring shticks that the crowd just adored. That is to say, that the crowd adored almost as much as hearing their own voices through the battered Peavey PA system.

These audience participation routines developed organically, evolving from the same tired routine of troubadours and stand-up comedians that littered the usual open mic. The first bit was a sing-a-long, where co-owner Jason, himself a talented guitarist, would lead a group karaoke session. Originating from a night where Jason’s laryngitis threatened to ruin the three song set he had prepared. Refusing to postpone the debut of his new Les Paul, he roused the crowd to sing for him.

The beauty of this wasn’t in the shared joy of alcohol-free chorus of strangers reading projected lyrics off the brick wall. No, what made these group karaoke sessions so fun was the fact Jason would hand pick sing-able songs from the hallowed halls of college radio, and teach the songs to the crowd. An army of hip strangers would at first stumble together then swell to stadium strength renditions of Celebrated Summer, California Uber Alles, Kiss Me on the Bus, Kiss Off, and Academy Fight Song. Those were undeniable moments of brilliance and brotherhood.

The other act, however, was wholly unique to Legendary. It was so beloved that there were nights where the entire three hours were spent only playing the game, much to the dismay of tortured poets and would-be idols. David had named the game “BS or Boss.” It involved an audience member telling some form of self-centered story, attempting to tell fantastic elements with straight faces or expose an unexpected deep secret.

Once the tale was told, the participant would walk back to their seat, basking in the glorious attention cast upon them and enjoying the tittering whispers. While they sat, David would approach the mic, throw his arms out to the side and yell “who thinks that was BS?” Depending on the audible feedback he would raise one arm like a needle on an analog meter. Satisfied the crowd had said its peace, he would then yell “now who thinks that was boss?”

The appeal of the game was that the participant was never expected to confirm or deny the result. For some it was a chance to practice creative communication. For others it was a cathartic release; bleeding a pressure valve without fear of judgment. For all who played, it resulted in three minutes of sweet notoriety.

On this particular night no one had invoked the “BS or Boss” game yet. The crowd was patiently listening as a young man finished a clumsy rap over a tired Dr. Dre instrumental. They had seen three amateur rappers; remarkable considering it had been a year since the last self-styled fire-spitter had bothered to take the mic. While rarely loved, most in attendance would admit rappers were preferable to the inevitable visits from soggy marijuana legalization proponents, opinionated armchair politicians, and cracked conspiracy theorists.

Eager hands flew into the air as soon as the last thump ended, and David motioned to a spectacled man in a black duster. He was not unknown to the crowd; he was a generally well-liked comic book fan who was a little perturbed that his Fortress of Solitude was hijacked once a month by nonbelievers. He would prepare short sermonettes praising one comic or another, attempting to make converts among the hoi polloi. This week he was selling the virtue of a particularly literary run of She-Hulk comics.

Next up was the first off-kilter appearance of the night. It was no secret that David was a big fan of kitsch, so whenever the crowd offered up an audience member that was more Let’s Make a Deal contestant than artsy hipster, he was quick to whisk them onstage. Tonight’s fruitcake was an enormous man, nearly seven feet tall and built like a nose guard. Unlike most nose guards, he carried a set of bagpipes.

The audience groaned and chuckled in equal measures as he franticly belted out Smoke on the Water, his face as red as a tomato as he struggled to stay oxygenated. The performance was filled with frantic squeaks and squawks, assaulting the audience with the volume. It was indeed a spectacle, but it was far from the most bizarre thing to ever take the stage. In fact, the access to a captive audience and the unspoken acceptance they offered attract strange pilgrims from the fringes of normalcy.

Once there was the kid who modified his Gameboy DS to belt out Kraftwerk-like tunes through a mini Marshall amp. His energetic robotic dancing was an odd contrast to what was effectively a boy standing in front of a crowd playing a handheld video game. On another night there was a woman who put on a one act play about menstruating. It was the closest David had ever come to pulling the plug on a participant for reasons other than violating the 3 minute courtesy limit.

Perhaps none of the outliers could compare to the man who was assumed to be a prop comedian, but in all actuality was having a series of laxative-fueled bowel movements into an enormous costume diaper, which matched his bib, bonnet, and oversized pacifier. It turned out he just liked to have an audience.

David was a showman at heart, and knew when he needed to cleanse the crowd’s palate. Once the bagpipe playing giant had finished, David pointed to a woman with a model’s figure and a metal guitarist’s tattoos. As she made her self-aware catwalk towards the mic, the throng’s respectful millennial males fought the urge to cat-call her, but still managed to grow a little hot under their fedoras.

She grabbed the microphone and the stand like a young Tina Turner; gingerly one finger at a time and with both hands. Not overly tall, she still bent forward seductively to speak into the mic, “BS or Boss.” The crowd exploded in hoots, allowing blessed release for polite men and women interested in more than her coming soliloquy.

“So last summer I decided I would make a conscious effort to cop to adult life,” her intro was met with a few playful boos, “Now, now, boys. I set a deadline for myself, a ‘quit date’ if you will. I decided on my 28th birthday, next May, I would turn over a new leaf.”

She stood upright slowly in a controlled display of sensual yoga. She knew all eyes were on her as she casually smoothed out every wrinkle from the front of her skin-tight Rat Queens shirt with her right hand. She exhaled then momentarily biting the left corner of her lower lip before continuing.

“So I decided to use the coming year to visit every desire and taboo my little heart desires. Here is one particularly unbelievable experience I’ve already had this summer…”

She continued with her steamy tale, and it was moments after she exited the staging area before anyone thought to clap. It wasn’t an impolite delay as much as one born from self-preservation. Around the room, girls and guys shot dagger glances at their significant others for enjoying her tale too much. Thankfully, for those poor souls, David stepped to the microphone.

“Okay everyone! Who thinks that was BS?!”

The seal had been broken and the majority of the next hour treated the crowd to three-minute fantasies. Stories swirled about stolen kisses, experimentation with chemicals of ill repute, and pranks that bordered on first degree vandalism. Over the PA system hearts were opened, relationships were skewered, regrets exposed, and lost opportunities mourned. There was an element of one-upsmanship that existed during BS or Boss, and the recitations’ moods could burden the room with the weight of their tone.

The stories had not followed a particularly dark path but there was a sameness which needed David to moderate. During these times he would call Jason up front to lead a couple songs. Afterwards there would be a short intermission during which patrons would order more of Wendy’s amazing drinks, stand in line for powder room visits, and mingle with the night’s celebrities. Fifteen minutes later, it would all begin anew.

On this particular night the crowd seemed eager in its self-indulgence. One by one they continued to file to the microphone and spill their (potentially fictitious) guts, propelled forward by a palpable sense of permissive encouragement. As ten o’clock arrived there was no sign of crowd dispersal.

Across the partition the lights flicked off as Joe, the manager and resident expert in fictional lore, proceed to close the comic shop for the evening. Someone handed Joe a frosty plastic cup, no doubt a fresh banana crème soda with blue food coloring; a drink Wendy created for his particular taste and known as “the Gleek.”

Joe and a few of the store regulars exchanged fist bumps and friendly words before he pulled the accordion-style gate shut. Those standing on the ramp between were forced back into the coffee shop proper, which filled in gaps by the few bodies that had left, creating once again a shoulder-to-shoulder intimacy. Now that passage between the two entities was blocked, the room felt cozier, even a little claustrophobic in its overpopulation.

David, with no impetus to chase everyone home, allowed the night to continue. The crowd was determined to take turns until each soul present had shared. This continued for well an hour past the scheduled end, it seemed like the raw materials of tale-telling were finally exhausted. David cleared his throat to chase off hoarseness for one last benediction before ending.

“Excuse me, David? Do you have patience for one more?”

From the back of the room, the timbre of a man’s voice halted everyone mid thought. Perfectly plain and otherwise unremarkable compared to the sea of vintage dresses and impressive beards, a man stood at the rear of the crowd patiently awaiting David’s reply.

The man was personally unknown to David but something about him made the emcee hesitate. As he searched his memory, he realized the man looked quite familiar. He had never spoken to him and he had never taken the mic, but he had been present in the past. The more he thought about it, the more he recalled seeing the average-looking man. Something within him nagged caution, but the inner showman saw a potential opportunity for spectacle.

“Well, loyal Legendary Legionnaires, you are in for a treat! History is about to be made! Come on up, mysterious stranger!” The crowd politely ceased preparing to leave as David waved the man to the stage.

Buffeted by a playful of deltoid punches and back slaps, the man slithered through the crowd. As he stepped beneath the lights, he exuded a dark charisma that vexed the audience from front to back. As the slow wave of hushed curiosity rolled over the gathering, the man surveyed the crowd. There was a quiet moment spent meeting glances with a smile and mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

The room was pregnant with expectation. He soaked in their anticipation, relishing the power of holding a group’s undivided attention. Goosebumps were raised among the excited crowd as the temperature slowly dropped, and the lights dimmed. The man began to speak.

“Good evening, fellow narcissists. BS or Boss?”

The audience exploded, the uproar shaking the framed original comic art that hung along the walls. Impressed with their own spectacle, the applause lasted several beats longer than reasonable. The man motioned with his hands to bring it down.

“My name is Bezaliel, Bez for short. And… well, I am the devil.”

The group’s giggles were punctuated by a singular outburst of “Bullshit!” which brought with it outright laughter. David scrambled to a low bookcase holding used trade paperbacks and discounted Elementals shot glasses to produce a long, pump-action water gun. The crowd cheered with approval as David doused the disruptive patron. It was David’s night; there are rules to follow and there will be order.

Over Bez’s head soared a white towel, knotted at one end to help it fly; a peace offering from Wendy to the moistened customer. David rolled his cupped right hand as he bowed, signaling apology and permission to continue.

“That is to say, I am a devil. One of many, wandering among you daily; helping to nudge and bait you into all sorts of fun. Or, as the guy who lives on the floor above me calls it,” he said as he pointed to the ceiling for exaggerated comedic effect, ‘sin.’

“You see, that’s just it. There’s no shortage of sin, err, I mean fun being had. To the contrary, fun is enjoying an epochal peak in popularity!” he paused to receive a round of celebratory whoops and whistles.

“The problem is this; you people are doing it all wrong. Fun works best when its complicated; when there are questions, delusions, shame, betrayals… oh to Hell with it, I’ll just say it. Sin is supposed to have variety. Spice of life and all that, no?

“All of you have mastered vanity. I mean, you’ve really made an art of it. You have found ways to innovate and codify it into something so pure that it diminishes all other fun occurring in its vicinity. No matter what monkey business arises, it somehow circles around until it unmistakably points right back to you.

“There’s no secretive desperation, no fear of being caught. It’s just out there, displayed for all to see on a new technological platform every year. You use it as a beacon then dare others to judge you. You know that old trope of a kid finding out that his mother used to be a real hell-raiser when her overly-chatty filterless college roommate visits? Dead. Lost to the ages. Because impressionable little Suzie has wi-fi access and as you all know, the internet is forever. At any time she can piece together ‘the descent of Mom.’”

His tone was both sweet and salty; a mix of observational comedy and outright judgmental mockery. The laughter offered up by the audience was real, but a good portion of it was nervous. Bez continued to smile, shyly blinking if caught in someone’s stare to let them off the hook. Inside he was savoring their unease; using it as a barometer to pace his act.

Bez continued, “And it doesn’t stop there, because as my nosey neighbor,” again pointing upwards, “would agree, I love pride and ego as much as anyone. The problem is that you find a way to carry this vanity into every aspect of life.

“Everything for you is personal. As in ‘regarding only to one’s self.’ You have coffee in tiny selfish cups that brew just enough for you. We have miraculous technological devices that you demand be shrunk and customizable. You can’t even be troubled to hear the same music as other people; you make personal playlists that you carry with you, forever available in the cloud, and shot directly into your precious eardrums for only you to smugly enjoy. Radio stations are dead and DJ’s are no longer beloved public personalities and tastemakers, but fashion conscious attention whores.

“Communication advancements have become more and more one-sided; technological bullhorns for you to tell the world what you think at all times about anything. You even take pictures of your goddamned food! Oops, sorry,” he covered his mouth in mock embarrassment as he motioned to the ceiling with a dismissive thumb.

“Even your hobbies are vain. You curate and collect artifacts of some art form or another, and pile them in a manicured museum that no one will ever see. You jealously correct people who misspeak or show ignorance to your pursuit; not because your heart is serves that flavor of mammon but because you want to show how damn smart you are.

“Your sin is DULL, people, and it is bumming me out. I mean like, whoa.”

The last line was just enough to let the squirming crowd off the hook, drawing some chuckles. Many were starting to feel lectured, and many were already several Tweets in to complaining about the “judgmental loudmouth comedian at the coffee shop.” It was dangerous comedy to some, verging on spoiling what was previously a fantastic night.

“Can we talk about your tattoos? I love tattoos. Nothing upsets my upstairs neighbor more than people who can’t leave their bodies well enough alone. I, however, delight in it. Body modifications are so much fun! They are like a spitball shot into the eye of creation. You’re wresting the steering wheel away from the driver, veering the bus from the pre-planned route, and enjoying your own trip. Glorious rebellion!

“Ah yes, tattoos. The middle finger to community standards, open disdain for those that look only at book covers, and a statement that the stock model of human is inferior and generic. They are anarchic on a metaphysical level, really. Tattoos used to break harmony, encourage others to judge, and often were in and of themselves offensive and rude. Oh, tattoos… now there was something that paid sin forward!

“But look at what’s on you. Most of you might as well tattoo the words “look at me” or “I dare you to” across your foreheads. Or better yet, tattoo a chip on your shoulder. Hey, no one could knock it off! But guess what, no one would bother to try. It’s not there for them, it’s for you. You, you, you, you!”

Bez mimicked wiping sweat from his forehead although none was present. He seemed undeterred by the lights above. The room was silent this time, hanging on his every word; reserving the right to decide if they were offended based upon what he said next. No one wanted to cry foul, least of all Jason who seemed to be truly enjoying Bez’s rant.

“You’ve taken the joy from sin, that’s all I am saying. Instead of a nation of sinners living fast and loose, we’ve filtered our insubordination. Everything is out in the open, and we nod at one another’s admissions. Thousands of individuals living without the threat of chaos or surprise. That needs to change. It needs to change because, like you, I care greatly about me. And I refuse to be bored at my job until a generation arises that once again appreciates true fun.

“So here’s what I’ve been doing; I decided to be the change I wanted to see, and I chose this particular city. Because, as you know, it’s better to keep business local and small. I’ve been attending in relative anonymity from the very beginning of this little braggers’ support group. And, I have kept close notes. I have cracked the code and without a doubt,  I can say that I have truly discerned the BS from the Boss.”

Awesomely Open Mic Nite regulars turned to look at one another. They wondered questioned each other silently if this man had indeed been present at past recitations, secretly taking notes. Emotions swelled within the room as many wished the act would stop. A few grew preemptively angry or embarrassed.

“Now I’m feeling it! There’s that shame; that desire to hide our pleasures behind a facade! Good job! See? You are all still redeemable. But not today. It’s too little too late. We are so doing this.”

David slyly reached over and pulled the microphone’s XLR plug from the amp. Many in the crowd saw David’s ruse, and sighed in relief, which he answered with a finger pressed to his lips. Seemingly oblivious to the cloak and dagger operations happening behind him, Bez scanned the crowd with an accusatory finger.

Not a soul in the room expected his voice to come through loud and clear without the PA’s assistance, “You people make attractive nuisances of yourselves. Your lives are stuck in attract mode. Well, I’m stepping up to play. Let’s have some fun, shall we?”

He gave the crowd a sneer that chilled them to the bone. A few indignant patrons stood to leave. Bez waved towards the door with a sharp flick of his wrist. Those trying to retire early found that the door would not budge. After a few tried to muscle the door free from its latch, it became obvious that no one was going anywhere. This was amplified when Bez motioned his pointed finger downward, buckling the knees of all who were standing. It was then that panic visited the hearts of all present at Legendary Comics and Coffee. Bez pointed again into the audience, this time singling out a beautiful redheaded girl near the front.

“Miss Megan,” he hissed, “No, not you in the back, this other girl named Megan. You said that you had eight one-hundred dollar bills hidden under your mattress, saved away for an emergency plane ticket. To jump the moment your beloved ex Patrick called and wanted you back. You said that your fiancé James might have a problem with this, so it’s just a secret among all of us here. Is all of right?

The “other girl named Megan” blanched and weakly nodded her quivering chin as Bez continued, “Well I am happy to report that her story was indeed Boss.”

Bez held his arms out motioning for applause. Only a few reports of half-hearted claps sounded, which Bez dismissed them with a gesture, “Don’t tell me that all of you figured this out already? Well, I can confirm that there is a Patrick. There is a James. And there is indeed eight-hundred dollars under her queen-sized Serta mattress at 1805 Vine Street! And, right now there is an anonymous text to James with directions to the money and Patrick’s phone number.”

This declaration was received only by a few involuntary laughs which were immediately shamed silent by those who rightly assumed that Bez was not joking. Then the harsh rumble of Megan’s phone thrashing about in vibrate mode drew audible gasps. In Megan’s case it drew tears. She politely pressed to silence the notification that “Bae James” was calling, and flipped the phone face down. She shot a wet look of betrayal at Bez, who shrugged.

“Where was I? Let’s keep the theme of love. Here we are. You. Pete,” Bez’s attention was unwelcome to the man shaking his head.

“Be a sport, will you? It’s all a game! Remember Nora? That sweet, red-headed girl that is never far from your mind? Nora, who you work with every day? The one you have the most detailed and well-recollected dreams about? I believe that you admitted here, publically, it’s only lust, but that it is a lust so pure and intense that you fear that if you ever befriended her that you’d be overcome by it?

“You stood here in February of last year and told us that any relationship that you’d pursue with her would be passionate and tantric, but in the end only serve as an opportunity to experience your twisted erotic fantasies. After which, you’d surely leave her, breaking her heart and stealing her trust in all mankind, right? Actually, for a while there I was really pulling for you!

“Well, it was nice that you restrained. Not so much because it’s noble of you to rather live in desperate self-denial than break her heart, but because… You see, audience, it’s complicated. In a way Pete fed you BS, and was totally Boss. There is a Nora, but she doesn’t work with him. She’s his supervisor’s daughter. Here name is really Chelsea, and she’s sixteen years old.

“A little lie with a lot of truth; I love your style, brother! So much so that I wrote your act down word-for-word and emailed it to Chelsea, but accidentally sent it to her dad’s account. Oops! I bet your face is red! If it isn’t, it may be when you realize I attached a few choice snapshots to the email. While not really your penis, it is indiscernible enough that you’d never be able to convince an angry father differently! Or a jury of your peers…”

Bez was laughing now, but no one else joined him. Jason tried to rise from his chair, intending to physically remove Bez. Without even turning to look, Bez made a flicking motion with his fingers in Jason’s direction, causing some unknown force to cement him where he sat and silence his angry protest. David too was frozen, stuck in a perpetual casual lean.

As Jason continued to struggle against being contained, Wendy had stepped into the kitchen to call the police. The phone did not yield the expected dial tone, but instead carried the voice of Bez directly into her ears. She dropped the receiver and retrieved the billy club she kept for emergencies. As she started her stormy return to the bar, meeting a solid invisible wall in the doorway. In frustration she lashed out with the club; each of the flurry of blows was stopped cold. Sharp spikes of concussive pain shot up her forearm, illustrating the futility of her attempt.

It was a strange tableau to behold; an angry man struggling in futility to stand and next to him a worried man lounging in a carefree manner. Wendy was trapped in the kitchen, pacing like a caged tiger, wishing for a chance to rumble with this intruder. The three of them had worked unceasingly to create a community rather than a business, so it was cruel and unusual punishment for them to watch this stranger attack their customers.

Out in the café the room continued to grow colder, and the people within began to shiver. These involuntary quakes were aggravated by the adrenaline pumping through their bodies. Many had tried to lean their bodies or scoot their chairs out of Bez’s direct line of sight. Bez smiled as watched them squirm, now noticeably taller and broader than when he meekly approached the stage.

“How about you, Miss Phuong? Are you here tonight?” Bez held his hand over his brow and pretended to search the horizon, “I hope so, because I especially loved your moving confession. You said your grandmother’s dementia had become a tremendous burden on your family and that while you love and cherish her, she is ruining your social life. So much so, in fact, that there are times that you catch yourself wishing she was dead. Guess what? Boss! And as of 4 minutes ago, your wish came true!”

Even over Megan’s continued sobs you could hear the sound of a twenty-year-old Vietnamese woman hit the ground. No one moved to help her, lest they drew attention to themselves and became Bez’s next target.

“How about nasty ol’ Rhonda? Is that you back there in your Wizard of Gore shirt? I remember you for the nasty things you said you’d do to your ‘unnamed internet rival’ if you were ever in the same room. Would you really carry out all of those violent things to that woman? The one that used to work for your little publishing house, but left to find success and adoration while you became a glorified blogger?

“You are such a meaty stew of self-destructive personality disorders that it was hard for me to figure out if you were telling us the truth or not. You shocked us all for sure, and felt pretty good about it. However, unlike you, I have a pretty good handle of what is real and what isn’t. It’s all about vantage points, my dear, and from where I stand your story is pure BS.

“Instead of the unhinged dirtball you costume yourself in, you are really just an insanely jealous underachiever. Her success angered you, but mostly because you were more devastated about the loss of what may have been your first actual friend. You’d never had a girlfriend. Well, you’ve had girlfriends but not a Thelma and Louise kind of girlfriend. She was going to be your first dear friend, the one you let within your grody walls. The closeness you fantasized about never materialized, and never would have truthfully. Guess what? Goodbye mean-girl clout in the indie music scene and hello restraining order!

“Everyone be sure to surf to Rhonda’s site tonight. The latest post is tender and heartwarming. A real baring of her soul; and so brave of her to admit that all she has ever written was stolen from or inspired by her number one girl crush! And the self-depreciating humor and destructive behavior? All an attempt to get her true love’s attention. Awwwww, how precious.

“Look at her you guys. I know she looks hurt but it’s okay, not many people read her site. Well, until tonight. Anyone in the United States searching for music, porn, movies, weather, or directions are going to experience the same glitch that leads their browser to her page. Don’t worry, the browsers will only freeze long enough for the first two or three paragraphs to be read. I’m not some malicious hacker. Those guys are evil.”

The gloves were off. Bez continued his assault. Workplace embezzlements and diversions were exposed, even if they were false. A young Romeo worried about how his family would receive a Juliet of another race was assured that it would be best to not pursue love; primarily because racist epithets would be appearing in both current and retrospective feeds of his online accounts.

“So, as you see, it’s really for the best that you never let her know how much you love her.”

A self-avowed straight man had shared his lingering curiosity of what being with a man would be like. It was a common act on Awesomely Open Mic Nite, but Bez called out one man in particular for his revelation.

“Boss, Steve! And the homophobic college boys in the frat you are rushing have been notified to not let their guard down. See, honesty is the best policy; I’ve helped you maintain your heterosexuality. You’re welcome.”

“While we are on the topic, how about Greg? You feel weird around your homosexual brother because you are deathly afraid of AIDS? How ironic. Remember that girl from your macroeconomics class? All I am saying is get HIV tested soon. And it wouldn’t kill you to give her a call afterwards.”

On and on it went, Bez meticulously eviscerating anyone who had ever stepped behind the microphone and hoped to draw a moment’s attention to themselves through their staged admissions and flash fictions.

“Bradley. You secretly loathe your girlfriend for her immaturity? You’re regretful that you tried so hard to keep that high school flame lit well into your twenties? You’re so sweet that can’t bring yourself to break up with her because you know she has no ambition and no future without you. Wow, that’s awkward now that she’s pregnant!”

“Diane likes to fantasize that she has inoperable cancer. She likes to picture herself handling it publicly and nobly to the respect and love of all who hear her brave story. Those fantasies of admiration and inspiration may no longer just exist in your mind, Diane. Get that pancreas looked at. It’s rarer in women, you know. It’ll be all the more tragic and high profile. Congrats, you are finally a human interest celebrity!”

“LeRoy’s story was not only BS but was a desperate attempt at a cover story! He doesn’t wander graveyards because he can sometimes hear whispers of the dead. He hides behind tombstones and masturbates while watching mourners from afar!”

“Single mom Annie, crushed by the burden of raising twin boys she had too young. Forced to grow up and miss the experiences of the usual American college girl as she sacrificed and raised two kids alone. Shunned from her family and abandoned by the deadbeat dad, Annie hates that she resents the little tykes in her darker moments.

“In her heart she’s still a great mother though, you guys. On nights like tonight, when she lines up a sitter, she feels guilt for having fun. As she should! The sitter she hired tonight snuck a boy in, and let’s just say no one was minding the till. The boys went outside to play several hours ago and no one even knows where they are! Spoiler alert: a nice man in a van was tipped off to pick them up. Oh, you guys, don’t look so sickened. It was okay. Their mom told him to pick them up. Hahahahahahaha!”

Bez was lost in a maniacal guffaw as the entire room squirmed and cried out tearful requests for him to stop. He heard them all, each and every tortured request to end his terrorism. He fed off them, drew their raw terror to himself and fed upon it.

“It’s funny, April. It might finally be easier to move to Denver. You’ll be happy roaming the mountains now that your house here in town has burnt down!”

“It was BS that you secretly hate pharmacy school now that you are in your final year, Juan. What did you say you wish you had done? Acting? Well, act surprised when you show up tomorrow and face charges of academic misconduct and falsification spanning all the way back to your admission application!”

“Kirk, it was BS when you said that the only reason you are so obsessed with your skin, spending so much money on product and time on care, was because you are deathly afraid of getting old. But I have good news; you won’t live to see a single wrinkle or liver spot!”

“Don’t worry about that suicidal friend of yours, Mandy. The one who you are pretty sure has only stayed alive because of your 24-7 availability to her and the long nights of listening to her depressed ramblings? She is indirectly costing you friends and hurting your performance at work, no? What has it been now, four months since her breakup? Well, it’s time to call ‘Boss’ and let you in on a secret that is equally boss; tonight she has become aware that you have unfriended and blocked her, and changed your phone number!”

The air in the coffee shop was now so chilly that frost was forming on the inside of the picture windows that flanked the locked door. The helpless congregation huddled inside their folded arms and rubbed briskly at their skin. Small puffs of visible breath rose to the ceiling only to dissipate as if they never existed.

“Your secret desire has always been to see a horrific car wreck? Boss! And you will! Double boss! I’ll save the surprise for who will be in the car for you. I’m no monster after all!”

“That’s noble that you have been cheerfully loyal since your wife had her accident, and it really tugs at the heartstrings the way you have been such a noble martyr when it comes to forced celibacy; what with you rather live without sex than live a life without the woman you truly love. All women should be so lucky to find a man like you. And so lucky to find out how much you are spending on escorts and ‘massages.’”

“You really aren’t tired of the noisy girls that live in the apartment next door. BS bro. But they may want to move when they realize you’ve strung a spy camera through the adjoining wall, loading your hard drive with video of them in the bathroom. So weird, really. But who am I to judge? After all, it worked for Chuck Berry!”

In rapid fire succession Bez continued to detail the secret lives of all in the room, and added new twists endings to them all. Some among the crowd started to drop off; unconscious or dead, no one could tell. All eyes were trained forward and all minds saying silent prayers to whatever was listening to deliver them from this nightmare. The problem with these calls for rescue is that they were all rerouted to Bez, who grew in stature and power as each soul surrendered hope. Guilt, shame, fear, sadness, covetousness, murderous intent, lust… the colors of sin began to separate again and reveal themselves through the prism of Bez’s words.

The laughter continued as Bez enjoyed his handiwork, now nearly tall enough to strike his forehead on the stage lights. He spread his arms out in a sign of triumph; his hands started to look like movie-monster claws, and his face elongated and protruded into a bestial snout. His eyes turned ruby red and he roared until the walls shook violently. Comics fell from shelves, coffee cups tumbled and shattered, and chunks of ceiling fell from above.

One by one the lights exploded, plunging Legendary Comics and Coffee into a frozen darkness followed by complete and utter silence. No one moved, even though their faculties were now completely restored to them. They sat together; some of them crying, some praying, others murmuring, but none of them acknowledging one another.

When daylight broke, the sun’s rays intruded through the frosted windows. The door flew open under its own power, and one by one the moribund crowd stood and filed out alone into an uncertain world. Meeting them outside the café’s door was a message written across the sidewalk in what appeared to be blood. It read, “See you next month?”

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Ambrus Sanguine’s Final Show

It was an elaborate set, as far as small television stations go. For over thirty years this faux Old World dungeon laboratory nestled within Studio 6 had been host to the Midwest’s longest running weekly hosted B-movie matinee. Antiquated beakers, cages, and sparking contraptions sat revealed by the stark brightness of house lighting; some of the magic was lost. The show’s lone curator during its historic run was Dr. Ambrus Sanguine, an aged Hungarian who never broke character.

Sanguine, looking part wizard and part undertaker, stared at three decades of precisely arranged clutter being displaced by careless strangers. For the first time in the lab’s existence, cardboard boxes and rolls of packaging tape outnumbered bubbling beakers and rubber rats. The end had come. The realization of this finality made Sanguine feel the weariness of time weigh upon his body. However, he looked no more or less advanced in age than he did on the first broadcast, so many years ago.

Fans relished that Sanguine never appeared to age. This fact had been perennially debated at conventions, in fanzines, and more currently, online. Had the tiny television station hired a stage makeup savant? Were the episodes filmed and stockpiled, perhaps even being aired posthumously? Or, as a small fringe of wild-eyed fans claimed, had Sanguine made an unholy bargain with the things that lurk beneath beds and in darkened closets? Regardless of the source, Sanguine was indeed an ageless icon of horror television.

Of course his age wasn’t the only feature of the show that invoked mystery. Easily evident to any clever viewer was the fact that the set looked too functional. Where rival “monster matinee” shows around the Midwest had fog machines, bats on strings, stuffed ravens, and prop coffins, Sanguine’s lab looked quite authentic. Its elaborate system flasks and condensers moved effervescent liquids from one end of the set to the other. Racks of test tubes displayed colorful contents and utensils of unknown intent littered benches and shelves.

Among these mysteries Sanguine sat dejected, flicking a long fingernail against one of the petri dishes growing rainbow-colored fur. Around him men in matching navy blue uniforms moved about, breaking as much equipment as they preserved. His patience too had broken.

“Can you orangutans manage anything without obliterating my possessions?”

“Shove it grandpa,” said Tate, obviously the brains of the moving company.

Stephen, Tate’s toady, continued for him, “Yeah, this ain’t your stuff no more anyways. Mr. Fitch said. He’s paying us to box it all and stick it in storage, or maybe the dump.”

Not content to miss out on the chorus, Lou chimed in with, “I got a box you’d fit in pops, you wanna be hauled off with the rest of this worthless junk?”

The four movers laughed while Sanguine fumed.  He stood to his feet and swung his cane over his head with deadly intent. Luckily for the moving crew, the sculpted iron raven that made up the cane’s handle didn’t connect with anyone.

“Get out, get out! Leave me in peace, you simpletons!”

The moving crew exited laughing. The tantrum, while brief, had exhausted the old man. He slumped back onto his lab stool and let out a defeated sigh. Scanning the set, he could barely believe that the end had come for his precious show. It seems his entire life was spent finding the right horror movie to air, writing informative and entertaining bits, last minute editing the good parts when regulatory received angry letters, and most importantly, responding to every piece of fan mail.

No one would ever accuse Sanguine as being famous, but to the show’s small dedicated viewership he was idolized and revered. In the years before cable television, word of his show somehow spread from coast to coast. Monster magazines sought to interview him and tiny fan conventions begged him to visit their meager gatherings as the guest of honor. By the time poor quality video tapes were being traded by fans, Sanguine found himself known in faraway lands. When the internet arrived, his show again gained new life and soon he found himself syndicated.

Despite his niche stardom, he remained a mystery to all who sought to know him beyond the show. In the history of the show there as but one incident where the enigmatic Hungarian let a fan cross into his world. In the early 1990’s, middle-aged Inoue Tadao had flown to America for the sole purpose of meeting Sanguine. The host was surprised to find him standing on set an hour before broadcast, yet Sanguine remained patiently gracious.

Tadao radiated absolute joy on-screen. The Japanese fan merrily suffered the playfully grumpy host’s abuse, even when subjected to numerous on-screen gags.  During the episode’s penultimate segment, Tadao was seemingly murdered; pulled through the widely spaced bars and into the dark cell; the home to the great beast Igor. Tadao was never mentioned, or seen, on the show again. Fans raved about the episode, and it became a cult classic. “Where’s Tadao?” became an instant in-joke among the dedicated viewership, as bumper stickers, t-shirts, and hashtags continue to demonstrate.

As for the cage, even in the harsh house lights the stage-right set piece was impossibly black. Igor was fabled to be part werewolf and part Frankenstein’s monster. The beast was only revealed by growls, glowing red eyes deep within the cell, and the occasional appearance of his massive clawed arm. In the 1980’s an Illinois toymaker labored to make Igor dolls; only, the host refused to cooperate with what the monster might look like. Igor remained a large part of the show’s legacy. One of the most common uses of Igor on-air was when Sanguine would throw things through the rusty bars, only to have them return in slobbery shreds. It seems that Igor had no fondness for disco records, Cabbage Patch Kids, celebrity biographies, fedoras, or iPads.

One devoted fan who didn’t need to travel internationally to visit the set was Joel B. Weinstein. Weinstein was the host of the science fiction based comedy show on the area’s only other TV station and had grown up watching Theater Macabre. Weinstein and his talent team of writers fashioned their show as homage to the legendary program. However, Space Station Torgo was filled with slacker humor and pop culture references; where Theater Macabre delivered sardonic humor, the other was played for sophomoric laughs. Weinstein had always been afraid that Sanguine saw his endeavor as mockery, and continually fretted about his reception. Still, seeing his favorite childhood program come to an end was weighing heavily on Weinstein’s mind, so he decided to ignore his apprehension and peek in one last time to say his goodbyes.

“Umm, Mr. Sanguine?”

“Joel, my son, please do come in! It is nice to see you again,” Sanguine said as he rose to meet Weinstein with an enthusiastic two-handed handshake.

Put at ease by his genuine warmth, Weinstein wondered how Sanguine was handling the cancellation. The selling of the small local station was small news, but the new owner fashioned himself to be an up and coming media mogul. Fueled by GQ magazine and cocaine, Van Coffey tore through the halls of the station yelling into his cell phone, stopping only to deliver grim news about “the numbers.” Coffey had a particular dislike for Theater Macabre, and was bent on eliminating it from the programming.

Weinstein’s own show had been a surprise hit, and was being syndicated in major markets. The lucrative success for the rival station burned at Coffey’s mind. Rumors swirled that he planned a hostile buyout of the rival station. The plan was replace his own station’s horror show with a rebranded Space Station Torgo, one with his name front and center as producer.

Rumors gave way to likelihoods when the cancellation notice was made. News was delivered abruptly a week before, right after that week’s broadcast. In effect, this robbed Sanguine of a farewell episode. This had been a source of stress for the team at Space Station Torgo, who hated to be involved with negative energy, let alone any affecting Theater Macabre.

“I just came from shooting, I… uh… I’m… I’m really sorry about this,” he said as he motioned to his sparkling silver jumpsuit. Outside of the show’s context, Weinstein’s jumpsuit looked terribly chintzy.

“Never apologize,” Sanguine’s voice was stern and full of correction, “the audience relies on you to create reality. When you question the magic you cast, you’ve exposed yourself as a fraud and have let normalcy strangle the art from life. Live by your premise.”

Stunned silence followed the chastisement. Weinstein dug his toe into the ground, suddenly feeling small and self-conscious. Sanguine let the moment linger so that the lesson would take root, then broke the silence.

“How have you been, son?”

“I just find this end, um, your end… upsetting, sir. We’re all so shocked and saddened by the news.”

“These things happen, it’s a rough business my boy. I’m surprised I’ve avoided the guillotine this long. How is your show doing?”

Weinstein swelled with pride that Sanguine would inquire about his show as a peer. The two men chatted like old friends, sharing a few laughs and grim observations. It was hard to imagine that Sanguine was anything but the detached, contemptuous fiend that hosted the weekly show. Fifty-two shows a year and he rarely broke from his character on-screen. Yet now he was a kindly grandfather, appreciative and humble. Weinstein could sense that the Hungarian was special; something charismatic and enchanting lurked beneath his haughty exterior. Sanguine harbored within him qualities that seemed almost inhuman.

“It really bothers me how they handled you, after all these years. I mean, this Thursday is Thanksgiving! Your live holiday special is a tradition, right up there with football and can-shaped cranberry sauce! They couldn’t have let you go out with a bang?”

To this Sanguine offered only a sad smile. His wet eyes sparkled for a moment, and he reached over to pat Weinstein upon the shoulder. Left without words, the two just sighed and shook their heads in the silence until Sanguine spoke.

“It’s yours, boy. Take the torch and run with it. Do it for me, Joel. Keep the Turkey Day tradition alive. I know it may be hard to imagine, but even I own a television. I enjoy your show. There is a spirit that needs to exist in this world, and in many ways you are helping to preserve it. We must remind the masses to not be too enamored with their faulty understanding of reality.”

Weinstein opened his mouth to reply just as a great commotion drew the men’s attention off set. Coffey had arrived with the four movers in tow. He was rapidly shouting commands into his cellphone, and did not stop to look up until he was mere inches from the two men. From behind the movers came two security guards, looking apologetic and holding long looped zip-ties.

“I want this man off my property before I have him arrested for trespassing!” Coffey shouted as he pointed an accusatory finger at Weinstein.

Weinstein threw both hands in mock surrender, “Loud and clear, mein fuhrer!” He stopped to clasp Sanguine’s elbow and to say, “I’ll do it. I promise. You’re going to be missed.” As Weinstein left, threats and lewd accusations followed from the team of surly movers. He could scarcely hear them over the zip zot sound made by his sparkling silver jumpsuit.

“You disgusting Philistines, I have the mind to…” started Sanguine, only to be interrupted by a violent outburst.

“Shut up! You stupid, ancient nobody! Get out of my station, and never come back! OUT!”

A tense moment passed before Sanguine stood slowly, unintimidated by the rage Coffey was in. Unshaken and dignified, he stared hard into the station manager’s eyes. Something stirred within the old man, something animal and unpredictable. There was no mistaking the intensity behind Sanguine’s eyes, something that shut the mouths of the movers and caused Coffey to take a full step back in retreat.

Sanguine took a deep breath, and with full composure, straightened his jacket. The mob’s eyes followed him as he moved without comment to the end of the table to where a strange engraved rock was held suspended between two electromagnets. One of the favorite props of the show’s younger viewers, the stone spun and bobbed; sometimes increasing its activity parallel to the tension of the movie or skits. It was a wonderful stage effect, and one that many similar shows had unsuccessfully tried to mimic. One Kansas City show had tried to spin a stone fixed to a thin fiberglass rod, itself attached to a router. It worked too, for half of the broadcast. The rod broke, the rock flew, and Uncle Eddie wore a patch until he was eventually fired.

With his eyes holding Coffey’s own stare, he extended one long, skeletal finger and flicked an aluminum toggle switch at the base of the contraption. Immediately its pleasant humming ceased and the stone fell to the baseplate with a clank! The noise of the crashing rock startled the men who intruding upon the set. The startle caused Coffey to fumble his cell phone, retrieving it quickly with a curse. In one demure motion, Sanguine scooped the rock into his palm and placed it within his pants pocket.

“Good day,” and with that Sanguine left the studio through the darkened artists’ corridor, never to return.

Embarrassed that he was just cowed by an elderly man, Coffey exploded into a flurry of commands for the rest of his subordinates. He swung at a stack of cardboard boxes and threw a roll of tape into the rafters. The crew was instructed to dismantle the set by morning, and to leave no one stone atop another.

“I have a huge merger meeting tomorrow so I don’t have time to oversee you morons in person! Get it done, and be done with it before dawn. I don’t care about overtime, just do it! When I get back into town there had better be nothing here but an empty soundstage and the fresh scent of Pine-Sol. Do you understand me?!”

Coffey stormed off the set while checking his precious cell phone for damage. The security guards had already slunk out of the room, never fully committed to the task to start with. They had grown up watching the icon, and did not relish having to forcibly remove a legend from his fabled lab. That left four men standing before the disheveled laboratory. The studio remained quiet for a spell as the movers looked around at the work before them.

Everything in the lab was functional; only the electromagnet had been shut down. Liquids representing every wavelength of the visible spectrum bubbled and dripped; some spirits, some viscous sludge. Gauges and meters twitched and hummed, precisely measuring unknown data. Stacks of sample plates, racks of test tubes, corked flasks, and many mysterious containers populated the counter tops. Tongues of flame licked at the air as burners idled, waiting for their next task. Vacuum pumps hissed their disapproval at the encroaching movers.

“Everything goes in the dumpsters. We’ll never get it cleared out if we take time to pack it. This place is weird anyway.”

Having delivered that poetic speech to rally his men, Tate left then returned dragging a large wheeled receptacle. To model expected behavior, he started chucking anything he could lift into the bin. Soon the men were working in teams of two, engaged in the synchronized but careless disassembly of the beloved set. Piles of bound papers, some cracked and brittle with age, were dropped into the containers then saturated fluids spilling from discarded lab ware. Each glass cylinder and beaker was spiked into the bin, with hopes of a noisy report as it shattered. The movers had made a game of it.

“Guys there’s a real coffin back here, check it out!” cried Gaylen with a child’s glee.

Indeed there was a real coffin; it was situated next to an overstuffed bookshelf and leaning against the back wall. In front of the coffin was a skeleton hanging from a tall pole bolted to a wheeled base. Propping the coffin upright on its left side was a huge was a bulky wooden pedestal, atop of which sat an ornate bronze sculpture of a cat. The feline was bejeweled and looked fit for a pharaoh’s tomb. Inset for eyes were opaque black gems that locked the statue’s face in a menacing, soulless stare.

Casters squeeked as Gaylen pushed the skeleton towards the dumpsters. He passed Lou, who didn’t bother to look after him. Lou was busy throwing chemicals into the aluminum trashcan he drug behind him. He had developed a methodical rhythm to his labor and made a game of it; lift the container, open the container, smell the container, then slam the container into the receptacle. Scents of grape, compost, tannin, bleach, iodine, and rot tickled Lou’s overgrown nose hairs.

It was remarkable how many containers had amassed atop lab tables. Reagents, acids, diluents, emulsifiers, buffers and solvents lined the two rows of tabletops; all brandishing timeworn labels. Like all of the props, the chemicals appeared looked functional; their placement either the work of an obsessive mind or of one intending to actually to utilize the lab.

One particularly interesting specimen was revealed after Lou removed several pungent flasks. In a squatty glass jar, not unlike a miniature cookie jar, was a violet-blue substance that seemed to be pulsating and moving on its own. The jar’s lid fit snug into the flared opening, and was further sealed tight by some sort of grease applied around the lip. With no apparent access for air or wires, it was a wonder to see the substance breathing and shifting in the jar under its own motivation.

Lou’s voice betrayed honest bewilderment as he hoisted the jar to eye-level and said, “Well, would you look at that…”

Stephen and Tate were making short work of the set, not hesitating to demolish anything offering resistance. Together they had hoisted a roll top desk and dropped it into a cart; its contents exploded into the air as the impact obliterated the furniture. Lithographs of vivisections, sheets of calculations in alien mathematics, and handwritten journals fluttered about the room like autumn leaves. Each man gathered armfuls of paper and dumped them into the bin, and together pushed the full cart outside to be emptied.

“Lou, check this out,” called Gaylen, who had cleared the clutter that obscured the coffin’s face.

The coffin itself looked beyond antiquated. The box looked unfit for modern interment, even appeared used. Its coarse wood was stained an oily black and pocked with chips and splinters. Rugged exposed nails, a brass latch, and a pair of crude mismatched hinges were its only ornaments. Gaylen held his breath, fumbled with the latch, and then swung the coffin lid wide open.

The casket protested with a scraping creak that caused both men to wince and shiver. Lou began a halfhearted mosey over to the coffin, subconsciously timid of what might be revealed within. The lid swung wide to reveal… nothing. The coffin was empty but for its disintegrating cloth lining, whose original color was lost to the currents of time. Both men snorted and shook their heads at the sight.

“I got a great idea! Lou, I am going to hide in here. Play stupid when the boss comes back and make them come this way. I’ll give them a scare for sure!”

“The boss’ll kick your butt,” said the smarter of the two men, “if you don’t give him a heart attack first.”

Lou’s protest managed to strengthen Gaylen’s resolve for his ornery plot. Clumsily he turned and backed into the standing casket, ripping what fabric remained attached within and disturbing eons of grey dust. He leaned back; the coffin seemed to fit him quite well.

With a child’s glee, Gaylen crossed his arms over his chest and chuckled, “Lou, shut the door. Hurry!”

The laborer was more than willing to comply. Again, the hinges screeched as the lid closed. The coffin seemed to suck the lid into place, sealing it shut as if magnetized. Lou, eager to make Gaylen to look like an even larger ass in front of the boss, fashioned the latch together, trapping his coworker within. Smiling as he heard his friend’s clueless giggling within, Lou returned to the laboratory bench to fiddle with the blob in the jar.

The gelatinous curiosity continued to churn within its container, which now seemed a tighter fit than before. Lou noticed that the color of the blob had changed to soft, inviting lavender. It continued to churn, but with a rhythmic ebb and flow against the jar’s sides. The oscillation caught ambient light and revealed a translucent sparkle; colors changed and swirled in a wondrous visual display. Soon Lou found himself transfixed, unable to form even a simple thought beyond the dancing goo before him. His fingers were gingerly feeling the rim of the jar and wandering to explore the spherical knob atop the lid.

Lou’s mesmerized gaze was broken by an echoing belch, sounding as if a dozen bullfrogs croaked in unison. Tate had returned, and now stood in front of the producer’s office. Old habits die hard; the movers still superstitiously entered and exited through the light trap rather than the artist corridor. This brought them through the gutted production booths; past the ancient monitors, enormous tube amplifiers, nicotine stained mixing boards, and finally out onto the now-empty studio floor.

Already the deconstruction was erasing the enchantment from the set. For decades the set had been untouched by any living thing, save Sanguine himself. When the floodlights bore down from the lighting bridge and Camera One was prowling the floor, hanging on Sanguine’s every cue, it was difficult to believe the tiny cluttered set was anything but on-location. Now after being invaded and battered by Coffey’s goons, it looked like a dilapidated theme park attraction.

Stephen erupted through the door, chasing a free rolling trash bin. The noisome entrance succeeded in startling both Lou and Tate, which drew a laugh from Stephen. Lou had nearly dropped his jar, a fact that made him inwardly furious. He could feel his cheeks redden and ears burn with anger. Clutching the jar safely to his chest with two hands, he partially turned as if to shield his treasure from burglars.

“Whatchyu got there, Lou?” asked Tate with a measure of covetousness.

“Nuh-nothing. Just some, uh, goo I found. Didn’t want to have to find a MSDS binder in this dump if it broke… that idiot couldn’t have made more noise.”

The ruse paid off, and the attention was diverted momentarily away from the glass jar and back on Stephen. Tate crossed back onto the cement floor to harass Stephen whilst Lou retreated. He moved to the rear of the set, near the false window that peered into an eternally dark and stormy night. Crude effect rigs, unchanged from the earliest days of the show, still functioned to create rain and the illusion of lightning in front of a painted countryside. In Sanguine’s world, life just outside the lab was in perpetual autumn; besieged by the things that go bump in the night.

Lou sat on the sill, which was a convincing approximation of sturdy stonework, and reached behind the set to flick the lightning effect on. Like most locals, Lou had watched the show as a kid. While he had little nostalgia for the Theater Macabre, Lou had always loved the lightning illusion. After activation a muffled hum rose from below, and soon intermittent strobes of blue-white light harried the static Old World countryside.

The bright flashes also illuminated the contents of the glass jar, which Lou had raised in front of his face to study. The colors had changed again, this time to a royal purple. The motion of the blob heightened with each flare of light, feeding off the loosed energy and dancing to its beat. A smile crept across Lou’s face as he sat, absorbed once again by the show within the jar.

Sheepishly returning to disposing of the set after being scolded, Stephen worked his way up stage left. Murmuring protests as he chucked black candles, a human skull, frail dusty books, and assorted metal contraptions, he soon found himself in the back corner at the foot of the coffin. Off to its side sat the pedestal, its feline denizen staring silent threats in Stephen’s direction. A sense of unease swept over him, encouraging him to break the tension with conversation.

“Um, wasn’t Gaylen going to throw this crap away? Where is that loafer?”

Tate looked up from sweeping a lab bench’s clutter into a trashcan with his arm to reply with an insightful, “What’d you just say?”

Once the question was rephrased, the foreman was on a mission.  He stood tall and peered about as if he might have just overlooked the presence of Gaylen. His search took a moment or two longer than what would seem prudent. Unable to decipher the riddle on his own, he shot a dissecting glare at Lou. Now completely vexed by the kaleidoscopic treasure he had found, Lou gave Tate a disinterested brush off in the general direction of the coffin.

Seething with rage, Tate stomped thunderously across the wooden floor to where Stephen stood slack-jawed. The two minds were going down similar paths yet each was failing to reach the destination as they faced the casket. A faint gurgle rose in Stephen’s throat which seemed to signal a victorious end to the mental race, only for it to die out; the two men twin obelisks of blunted cognitive ability. Validating his role as team leader, it was Tate who reached the finish line first.

“Gaylen, I swear to God if you are hiding in that coffin I am going to beat you to a bloody pulp! I’m opening this door on the count of three. If you come out on your own before I hit three, I might not kill you.”

Nothing stirred from within the narrow wooden box. The only noises within the lab were the electric buzz of the lightning effect, Stephen’s throaty gurgles, and the bull’s snort that rushed from Tate’s flared nostrils as he prepared to raise his voice and speak.

“Awright dammit. One…”he was answered with nothing but stillness.

“Two,” Tate growled more than spoke.

“Three!!!”

The enraged foreman waited a full extra beat before swiping at the coffin lid. The wood jerked into motion, then just as suddenly ceased to advance and snapped back shut. The metal latch halted the lid from opening, leaving Tate to ball his fists until his nails dug into his palms. His chest rose and fell heavily, not unlike a steam locomotive preparing to mount a hill. Tate refused to acknowledge the latch, and instead doubled his effort. The fastener broke and sprung into pieces as Tate’s left hand ripped the lid wide open. The latch pieces were still in flight as his right shot into the coffin to strangle the life from the hiding Gaylen.

His thick fingers were wrapped around something unexpectedly solid and narrow. Tate realized it was not Gaylen he was choking, but instead a yellowed skeleton; its jaw hanging open in either a mocking laugh or hellish scream. The skeleton appeared to be of a cadaver long passed and picked clean, yet it was wearing a navy blue Dickie’s shirt; an American flag patch sewn over the left breast pocket and “Gaylen” embroidered in red over the right.

The dry bones clattered together as Tate tore the skeleton from the coffin and pitched it over the two rows of countertops. After a comical display of aerial acrobatics, the twisted clump of cloth and bones landed on the cement floor. The skull rolled in a semicircle and finally rested upright. It’s eyes were trained on Tate and its jaw was still locked wide open.

Tate’s exploded, “Where is that jackass? Stephen, move this statute out of the way!”

Lou chimed in, “He was in there. I even locked him in as a joke.”

Tate paused to consider this new mystery, but anger had already set his course. He screamed at the other men as he leaned into the coffin, pushing at the interior and peeling back the remaining lining, “There has got to be a false door or something. When I find that moron I’m going to rip him limb from limb! Stephen! Move! This! Statue!”

Fearing for his own wellbeing, Stephen jumped into action. He squatted to wrap his arms around the pedestal and found it heavier than he anticipated. After a long tug the display failed to move. Stephen stood and scratched absentmindedly at his belly, surveying the possibility the prop was bolted to the floor. The feline’s black eyes stared down at him, its face still wearing a sinister grin. The mover knew better than concede defeat when his supervisor was in this mood, so he decided to give it one more attempt.

This time circling around behind the pedestal, Stephen leaned in tight and gave the wooden podium his patented bear hug and counted off three. Bearing into it like a tackling dummy, Stephen strained with all his might before it budged. The pedestal did not scoot as planned, but instead toppled forward. The laborer looked up to see the statue falling down upon him, twisting as it dropped. As it neared the off-balance mover, the cat licked its lips, bared its front claws, and hissed.

The idol fell upon Stephen, whose reverse scramble was too slow to avoid the blow. Stephen screamed and thrashed about while the pedestal landed with an authoritative smash. Tate pulled his head out of the coffin and Lou turned to face the scene. Stephen’s hands were clamped over his face as he continued to scream and writhe.

“Stephen! What’s wrong! What happened?” Lou shouted after his partner.

Muffled from behind his palms, Stephen replied, “The cat bit me! Bit my face! It attacked me!”

Tate couldn’t help an involuntary chuckle, “What the hell are you talking about? Get up.”

Lifting Stephen to his feet by his elbows, Tate stood the worker up in front of him. Lou craned from his sill perch to see what was going on, but only had a view of Stephen’s back and Tate’s beefy face. Tate reached in, impatient with the shameful display, and pried Stephen’s hands away. All the blood left Tate’s face, which twisted into a look of revulsion as he stepped back and released Stephen’s hands. Lou stood and stepped forward, propelled with morbid curiosity.

“What? What’s wrong? How bad is it?!” pleaded Stephen.

All Tate could do to answer him is shake his head and raise a hand to ward the injured man away. Stephen felt blood running down his forehead and over his lips, his entire head screaming with pain from the crushing impact. Remembering the statue, he looked down to see it lying on its side but appearing to be spying him from the corner of its eyes. In its sneering maw was most of a human nose.

Stephen’s hands returned to his face and frantically sought to take inventory of expected landmarks. What he found seemed impossible; so much so that he continued to prod and knead in spite of the searing protest of the raw nasal cavity. Indeed, his nose had been torn from his face, leaving a gory, sputtering wound that completely drew attention from the four deep parallel slashes that ran from brow to chin, rendering one eye useless and likely unsalvageable.

Once the horrible truth was confirmed, Stephen let out a hellish scream that tore at the composure of his coworkers. Something deep within was triggered at the sound, urging them to run; to flee the danger without stalling to understand it. Tate did just that. Rather than escaping away from the screaming man, he charged head-on and shoved his way past him

In the span of nine heartbeats poetic chaos was unleashed with exceptional efficiency. Tate’s sweeping left-arm lifted the smaller Stephen just high enough, and with enough momentum, that the table’s edge acted like a fulcrum where it met just below his hip. The still-screaming man was upended and slammed hard onto the vials and implements that remained atop the bench.

Tate was still moving past, now reaching forward with a right armed swim move. His hand was just making contact with Lou’s chest, shoving him backwards into the false window as behind him a fireball ignited. The chance combination of unknown chemicals with the flames dancing atop unattended Bunsen burners engulfed the thrashing Stephen in a cloud of fire.

The sudden wave of heat emanating from the burning man caused Stephen’s body to involuntarily guard itself; the flinch causing just enough of an interruption to his running rhythm to cause a stumble. Lou was already midway through the window and trying to regain his balance with one hand when the expanding thermal blast singed at his face, burning his eyes with heat and fume. He reached to defend his face with his other hand. Falling parallel to the tripping foreman was his treasured glass jar.

Tate rolled his ankle trying to prevent his inevitable fall with a short step. The pain buckled his knee and forced him to land awkwardly on his side. The steel bars of the darkened cell stopped his slide with a clang. His ankle protested as he strained to push himself upright. Leaning against the bars he saw the nightmarish scene still unfolding before him.

Lou had prevented himself from falling behind the set, but had indeed dropped the jar. The glass shattered, and the gelatinous contents were splattered about floor. The color of the fluid had changed with the exposure to air, and it was now the devil’s crimson. The droplets and globs were pulling themselves slowly back into a singular mass. At the center of this regrouped mound the goo bopped and bubbled, growing with each pulse. Meanwhile, Stephen had stopped screaming and was lying motionless; the fire slowly receding to a low blue aura dancing around his charred corpse.

Suddenly a tremendous racket rose from every direction. Stuffed ravens in hanging cages came to life, cawing and screeching while trying to beat their way out of captivity. The few remaining clusters of glassware erupted into geysers of multicolored fluids while burners exploded into pillars of flame. Furniture rattled, utensils spun, and electronic equipment vomited showers of sparks. On the cement floor Gaylen’s skeleton was standing and dancing about, waving its limbs wildly to the symphony of pandemonium.

The scene had become so noisy, so anarchic, that Tate hadn’t realized that Lou had tried to scoop up the living fluid, only to have it encase both of his arms up to his elbows. The ooze was inching up his limbs and tugging him down into a growing puddle. Lou called for help and screamed as the blob ingested his flesh. Already within the deep red translucent slime Lou’s fingertips were eroded to raw bone and strands of ligament.

“Tate! Tate, Help me! Taayyyyaarrrgghhhh!” screamed Lou and he strained to free his arms, the puddle now inching over his boots.

“Lou… uh, Lou,” Tate stammered as he pushed with his remaining good foot to stand himself upright against the bars. He shook his head and rubbed fists into his eyes to erase the hallucination that refused to yield. Lou had fallen onto his rump, and his screams became more panicked and desperate. Only his head and shoulders remained free of the now enormous mass of pulsing red gel.

The cacophony rose to a crescendo and the entire set trembled, climaxing with the explosion of every bulb present in the studio. Then all fell quiet. The only light illuminating the lab was the strobe lightning rig, the imaginary storm still raging beyond the window.

The surrounding scene revealed itself in frozen tableaus with each strobe flash. The timpani bass of Tate’s racing heart beat filled his ears to the company of the whistling treble from his quick, uncoordinated breaths. The flickering light revealed Lou had been completely folded into the blob’s shimmying body. Fearful it had not quenched its appetite, Tate trained his eye on the mass.

So distracted by the would-be predator, it came as a tremendous shock when the next lightning strike unveiled not an advancing blob but Stephen’s body now sitting fully upright. On the subsequent flashes mortal terror gripped Tate when Stephen’s head rotated to face him, opened its mouth, and gurgled, “Taaaaaaaaate.”

“Nooooooooooooooooooo!” Tate screamed and made to run, only to fall headlong toward the ground.

Tate’s face never met the floor; he instead hung suspended, his clothes pulling tight against his chest and belly. His shirt and belt were snagged by something with enough strength to not only hold his weight, but also able to pull him back against the cage. The lightning ceased to fire, leaving Tate to only imagine at what horror had emitted the long guttural growl from beyond the iron bars. A strong, furry arm shot out, grabbed him by his lower jaw, and pulled him fiercely into the cage. Crunching, popping, and squishing noises punctuated by muffled grunts and yelps were all that echoed across the pitch black set…

Just before noon on Thanksgiving morning, Coffey burst into the empty television station. The day’s broadcast was being fed from satellites and managed by computers; a well-paid third party service that allowed the station’s skeleton crew to be home with their families for the holiday. It was an expensive concession that Coffey planned to remedy in the years to come.

Anxious to inspect if his wishes were executed, Coffey charged into Studio 6 and flicked the on the house lights. Engrossed in an inner dialog, planning his reprimand for the lazy movers, he forgot to enter through the light trap. Instead, he continued down the corridor to the artists’ entrance and swung the double doors wide open. He took two steps into the studio and stopped dead in his tracks. An involuntary loss of dignity and composure struck for a moment as his mouth dropped wide open.

His wide eyes drank in the set as he said to himself, “Oh my god.”

Before him was a completely empty studio, sparkling clean. There wasn’t a cobweb, mote of dust, paint chip, or floor scuff to be seen anywhere. Every nook and cranny was free of any evidence that it had once been the horror show set. He walked about in a short circle, filled with pleasure that he had inspired such a response from his subordinates.

He couldn’t help chucking to himself, “Ha ha, they actually did it!”

With a spring in his step he marched back towards double doors, only to be distracted by something behind the control booth glass. Rooms behind the windows were dark, but there seemed to be something glowing within. His shoes clip clopped on the cement floor as he stormed into the producer’s room, and pushed aside the dividing curtains to reveal an old TV set, broadcasting a live Thanksgiving themed episode of Space Station Torgo.

On the television’s tube Weinstein , in his sparkly jumpsuit, waved a rubber turkey about and said, “Happy Thanksgiving out there in tee vee land! It’s time to feast!” Coffey’s hand plunged into his inner suit pocket to retrieve his cell phone. The display flickered to life, and as angry fingers stabbed at the touchscreen; at first forceful and fast, then slowly and less intentional. In his jealous irritation he hadn’t realized that the television wasn’t sitting atop anything. Rather, it was being held; hoisted by something large and hairy, obscured by the velvety darkness. From somewhere behind the blinding brightness of the rival channel’s broadcast came a long guttural growl…

 

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Willow the Wisp – part ten of ten

(This fall my first published book will be arriving from the printers. It is called The Horror of Loon Lake and it is a horror anthology comic paying tribute to the classic horror magazines and comics that many of us loved. Included also is one prose tale, which will feature several illustrations by the talented Nicole Bresner. In ten installments, www.horror-writers.net will serialize this short story, entitled Willow the Wisp. For more information about the book, follow its page at www.facebook.com/horrorofloonlake  – Carl Smith, aka Dr. Carl Cadaver)

PART TEN

Her long graceful fingers fell upon the box lid and stroked the velveteen covering as she slowly closed the offering. The muted “snap” of the box closing tore something out from within of Jonathan’s chest as it echoed about the cemetery. His confidence was instantly replaced with fearful distress. The temperature seemed to drop suddenly bringing shivers to his chilled body.

Willow’s light dimmed noticeably as she reached out for him. She grabbed his arm and lifted him firmly to his feet. He forced himself to meet her searching gaze, which was an act that took more fortitude than anything he had ever done. Tears welled in his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. The salty drops followed his nose and jaw-line from which they fell in a somber rhythm as Willow spoke.

“Oh, Jonathan, what would you have of me? Why would you make me a ‘wife’ when I am as I am? I am bound by conditions you either have failed to consider or couldn’t possibly understand. Not the least of these is the fact that I am not unhappy as I am. The Willow you want is beneath your feet, fully decomposed into her most basic bits. Have you considered that? I am but the spiritual shadow of what you desire.

“My dear, I am a ghost. I barely exist in your world. I see and experience things that have no language to describe them. I am here but one hour a day, and that is by choice: even the departed can be nostalgic. But do not presume I am lost or incomplete. My experience is full.”

Willow’s words stung Jonathan, who raised his defenses as best he could. Her voice revealed that her message was born of pure conviction, yet her eyes reassured that she was not making a weapon of her opinion. There was a deep love and respect behind her answer, which made the weight of it harder for him to bear. He filled his chest with air and parted his lips to speak in rebuttal, but a single slender finger raised silently deflated his lungs and froze his tongue. Willow continued.

“I ask you again, Jonathan, why would you ask me to be your wife? To complete you, you say? I assure you, I would be quite unable to consummate a marital relationship or grant you a child, let alone serve you as trusted companion. To bring you joy? Do I not bring you joy now? A wedding ring will hardly change the quality of my company, my dear.

“I am what you see before you; a woman-shaped shell of light and static. Any touch you perceived between us was truly the work of your imagination. The bond between us, however, is quite real. I adore you. I cherish your friendship, and I do love you. In many ways I am richer for knowing you, but I refuse to squander my freedom. I cannot willingly haunt a home when I have been blessed with the gift of freely experiencing the true universe and all of its endless mysteries.”

Jonathan’s eyes fell to the ground. Willow pitied his heartache and paused for a moment to let silence allow for a small measure of healing. She reached forward with her hand and led his chin up until they again saw eye to eye. She smiled at him in a way that he was helpless not to mirror with a grin of his own although in his heart he knew “goodbye” was coming. Her words quieted to a kind whisper as she finished.

“Oh Jonathan… you do not know me as well as you think. You desire me to be your wife because you need to possess something. You wish to conquer this challenge and label it with your name. I do not doubt your love or your resolve, but please consider; what does your proposal offer me? Are you rescuing me? Will this complete me, fulfill me? Will it restore me?”

Already her light was fading enough that she was transparent. He could see her stone materializing behind her, its solid cold motionless form emphasizing her points. His mind started to accept that she was indeed a ghost. Though it was not yet midnight she was fading away. Jonathan broke into convulsive sobs as he began to swallow the truth of her words.

“In life I desired a husband and dreamed that I would someday find my soul mate. I prayed to the heavens and wished to the stars. I longed to find someone whose life would compliment my own without diminishing either of our identities. Even then I had no longing to be owned.

“That Willow is dead and I remain. I will be no man’s wife as I am; something that exists impossibly, without explanation. But you, Jonathan, you are a living man. I hope you understand what I am telling you. I have no doubts that your heart is true, but I am equally sure that its quest is misguided. I hope that after tonight you grow to understand that the proposal you have offered would make a ghost of any woman.”

And with her last words she moved to Jonathan. Her puckered lips travelled to Jonathan’s bowed forehead. He realized the small sensation he felt there was not touch, not truly a kiss. He slumped to the earth, falling back on his rump, casting one last gaze up at Willow’s fading image. There he saw the reassuring smile of a mother who had just corrected a child’s behavior, and with that ceased to exist. Resting back against a headstone he continued to watch where she had faded from sight. He continued to do so until the sun rose steadily over the lake.

Jonathan Kovac never returned to the world of the living. He would wake every morning, quietly perform his duties at work, and return home again. Then every night at eleven o’clock he would walk to St. John’s Cemetery and sit atop a gravestone engraved “Willow Breeland” with a small velveteen box in his hand, then walk home again an hour later. He did this every night without fail, regardless of season, until the day he died.