by Fawn Bonning
He staggered over to it, giggling like a lunatic.
He knew he was out of control, that he was displaying very unbecoming behavior for a future psychologist to be. Would anyone hold it against him, though? He had, after all, just completed hand to hand combat with the neighborhood goblin. He had every right to this perfectly reasonable outlet, didn’t he? Giggling was good. It let off tension. A body might explode if it didn’t let off of a little steam now and then, right? Nothing wrong with that. Nervous laughter, wasn’t that what they called it? Perfectly sane reaction to intense pressure. Any good psychologist could tell you that.
Giggling giddily, he lifted the bat over his head and gave it an extra blow over the head, just for good measure, and there was a satisfying splat as goo sprayed out, stippling his sole Air-Jordan.
“TAKE THAT, YOU FRIGGIN’ PUG-NOSED, FROG-FINGERED, FRIGGIN’ POINTY-EARED, HAIRY-ASSED, SNOOP-EATIN’, BUTT-FACED, FRIGGIN’…
He could see one eye hanging by a stringy strand halfway down its repulsive face. It was still glowing faintly. He swung again.
“EAT MY FRIGGIN’ DOG AN’ FRIGGIN’ LAUGH AT ME, YOU FRIGGIN’…”
Tossing the bat aside, he lifted the knife over his head.
~~~~
The call came in at 2:45 A.M. from a concerned neighbor. Possible robbery in progress. She was certain it was a robbery because the owner’s car wasn’t there and her son was spending the night at a friend’s.
The officers responded promptly, arriving at the scene at exactly 2:51 to a dark house and the sound of shattering glass and shouting from within the premises.
They deemed it wise to wait for backup.
At 2:57, backup arrived and the four officers surrounded the home.
Officers Lewis and Riley approached the front door with caution, their guns drawn. Lewis took the lead, creeping up the steps. “Ready?”
Riley nodded. “Careful. Sounds like a damn battle zone in there.”
Lewis stood back and, putting all of his solid two-hundred and thirty pounds behind it, kicked in the front door. He was well trained and his reaction automatic. There was no hesitation. No second thoughts. When he saw the dark figure spin toward him with an upraised blade in his hand, he fired.
~~~~
As Liza Kelsey was pulling into the trailer park, an ambulance was pulling out, its sirens blaring.
Oh god, she thought. Probably poor old Mr. Zieman again. That bad ticker of his probably gave out for good this time.
It was bound to happen, a man of his age taking a girlfriend almost forty years his junior. But, hey, at least his last years were good ones, right?
Yawning loudly, she rubbed her dry and bleary eyes. It had been a rough night. Not only was she an hour late getting out of work after a double shift, but then she ran out of gas and had to walk two miles to the nearest gas station and back. Quite a harrowing endeavor for a woman by herself at night. But she’d managed. She was realizing now that she was capable of managing quite a few things she never would have dreamed. Jack had always made it a point to let her know how totally ‘useless’ and ‘brain-dead’ she was. But she was the breadwinner now and doing a pretty decent job of it, if she did say so herself. She and Ted were managing just fine. And she’d even remembered to pick up half a gallon of milk for Ted’s cereal. Yep. The two of them were fine and dandy. She’d had her doubts as to whether she’d be capable of raising him as a single mom. She’d never really worked before. Not unless you counted the few months here and there while she was still in high school. But that had been over twelve years ago, before she’d gotten pregnant and married Jack.
But she wasn’t worried anymore. She was working hard and loving every minute of it. Sure, she was beat, but the weariness in her bones was so very different from the weariness she used to experience after a day of working around the house, cleaning and cooking and doing things she knew would go unappreciated. No, this weariness was coupled with a sense of accomplishment that was very gratifying. She was doing it on her own. She felt strong, self-sufficient, capable, content.
She turned on to her street and her heart stopped.
There were at least eight squad cars positioned around her home, blue lights flashing.
Someone broke in! Someone robbed me! Thank God Ted wasn’t home.
She drove up, slowly pulling to a halt, eyeing Mrs. Putney, her next door neighbor, who stood next to one of the squad cars in her robe and slippers, a stunned, grief-stricken look on her blue-tinged face.
Something wasn’t right.
A stocky policeman was hunched over in the backseat of one of the squad cars, and she could see his linebacker shoulders quaking. Another officer knelt at the door beside him, his hand resting on his back as if to comfort him.
He stood as she pulled in, his face grim, and began to move toward her, but slowly.
Way too slowly.
Slow motion. Like in the movies, one footstep taking an eternity to fall before the other followed.
She put the car in park and sat stunned, trying to swallow. But there was a huge lump in her throat that refused to go down.
Something was wrong! All the other milling officers had turned to watch him, every face flashing an eerie blue.
She felt the blood drain from her face, felt her bladder threaten to let loose.
Something was wrong.
▪
Part II
Leaning into the mirror, she fastened the silver snowflake to her lobe. It was Saturday. Double shift day.
Leaning against the sink, she dropped her chin to her chest, pulling in deep breaths. She loathed double shifts. Her son had been shot in the chest while she was working a double shift, after all. She had every reason to loathe them, didn’t she?
Lifting her chin, she peered into the mirror, blinking back tears. It was a night that would haunt her always.
She’d accepted the fact that she might never know what had truly transpired that fateful night, what had driven her son to destroy their home. The police had gone over it with a fine-toothed comb and had found no evidence of anyone other than Teddy being there. It was difficult for her to accept, but it seemed Teddy, her well-mannered, never an ounce of trouble son, had committed all the destruction himself, slashing beds, overturning furniture and smashing everything in sight. A regular rampage. The investigation uncovered no clues that could explain such bizarre behavior. His blood had been tested for drugs and alcohol, but none had been found. Nothing out of ordinary on the premises that they could find.
So they said.
But there were several things she found peculiar. Small things, like the huge, hairy spider she’d found on the floor of her bedroom. Just a common wood spider, they said. No poisonous venom that might cause him to flip out. But what was it doing there, and why had it been neatly cleaved in two?
And the musty smell, like someone had left dirty laundry sitting around for about ten years. A smell which no amount of room deodorizer seemed capable of masking. It had taken a good three weeks for it to fade away. Sometimes she could still smell it, like it was seeping through the vents or something.
And speaking of vents, why had the living-room vent on the other side of the lounge chair looked like he’d stuck it down the garbage disposal?
And then there were those strange spots, the green goop smeared throughout the house, the largest of which had been located on the living room carpet.
She didn’t have to worry about that spot any longer, though. The first thing she did after coming home from the hospital was to rip that blood-soaked carpet up by the nails. By herself too, with only her bare hands and a pair of shears.
But none of that really mattered, she supposed. What truly mattered was that she still had her son. And, considering the magnitude of his injuries, he was doing amazingly well.
A bullet to the chest was nothing to scoff at. Everyone had been amazed that he’d pulled through and was recovering so quickly. Everyone except for her. She knew her son. He was a tou
gh kid. A real fighter.
Two months after the shooting, he was almost totally back to normal. Oh, he had some cool scars to show off to his buddies. But other than that, he was the same smart, levelheaded kid he’d always been, joking around with Ricky and his new buddy Kenny, and doing well in school.
She wasn’t really concerned that most of that night had been erased from his memory. They said traumatic events could bring on amnesia. It was a defense mechanism. It might come back to him slowly, but then again, it might not.
He remembered spending the night at the fort. And that Snoop had run off and he’d gone searching. Everything after that was a blank.
Snoop never did come home.
~~~~
Two and a half months after the shooting, Ted got a few visitors. The police officer who’d shot him came to check up on him, he, along with his partner and four other officers who’d been there on that fateful night. They arrived wearing embarrassed grins and bearing gifts, one of which was a tiny, scroungy puppy that looked nothing at all like Snoop.
Officer Lewis gave Ted a big hug, embarrassing him when the big oaf started to cry like a little baby, refusing to turn him loose.
His mom seemed to dig it, though. She made him a cup of coffee and soon the two were at the kitchen table chatting like the best of chums.
She liked him. Ted could tell. She wouldn’t stop batting her lashes. It was so totally obvious. She might as well have thrown herself on the table moaning, ‘Take me, take me, you big hunk of a man, you.’ Man! It was embarrassing.
A week later, they went on their first date.
Ted spent that night at Ricky’s.
~~~~
Four months after he’d been shot, Ted went goblin hunting.
It had taken quite a bit of mental preparation to work up the courage, but he knew it had to be done. And so, armed with the same knife and bat which had done such a superb job during the previous encounter, he went searching. Of course, he left the scroungy mutt at home, and it was broad daylight this time, which swayed things a little more to his advantage. But even so, he was terrified beyond belief. But it all proved to be for naught. He found no trace of his little one-armed friend, though he searched every square inch of the area he believed the whole incident had started. No hole. No Chuckles. No nothing.
Well, except for his sneaker. He did find that, complete with a few extra lace holes.
He hadn’t really expected to find the little pug-nosed shit. He had seen its brains oozing out, after all. Fungus breath had evidently crawled away to die. Either that, or it had come to the realization that it had messed with the wrong Steady Teddy, and moved on to friendlier territory.
That was fine with him. Yes siree, Bob. Fine as wine. Let someone else draw goblin patrol. He’d done his fair share, hadn’t he? Put in his time? Let someone else take a whack at it for a while. It was pretty exhausting stuff, especially for a measly twelve-year-old kid. He needed a break. Deserved one, as McDonalds liked to say.
Yep, hadn’t slept good in months. Understandable, right? Anxiety, mixed with a generous dose of fear and a pinch of uncertainty thrown in, was a good recipe for insomnia. Any good psychologist could tell you that.
He would sleep well tonight though, he was sure of it. His fears had been laid to rest. Chuckles wasn’t coming back. He was gone. He took a hike. Hit the road, toad. Later, alligator. After a while, crocodile. Adios, amigos. Bio con dias, El Goblino.
Yep, nothin’ to worry about anymore.
With the bat thrown over his shoulder and the knife dangling from his hand, and one prominently punctured Air-Jordon dangling from where he’d tied it through a belt loop, he traveled down the path for the first time since the incident, whistling a merry tune as he headed toward home.
Man, this trip home sure is different from the last.
Just a tad. He wasn’t fleeing for his life. He was walking with a confident bounce. He felt strong. If he could take on a goblin and a bullet to the chest in the same night and live to tell about it, then he could take on the world.
But he’d be wary the whole while.
Damn right.
He’d learned the hard way that there was plenty to fear besides fear itself. More things than most people even imagined. In his opinion, that ridiculous adage had no validity to it whatsoever. Whoever said that had never been on goblin patrol, that was for damn sure.
But…fear could be a good thing.
It kept you on your toes.
Kept your eyes wide open.
Kept your mind wide open.
Heck, any good psychologist could tell you that.
▪
▪
Grace
(Thing in the Confessional Booth)
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
The hour was late, and the air in the cramped confessional was stale. Clearing his throat, Father Carmino kissed his rosary beads and placed the coveted strand over his head.
The man on the opposite side of the curtain had an interesting dichotomy of accents. Definitely Scandinavian, but with Spanish undertones. Cuban. Yes, the Canarreos Archipelago. And there was just a pinch of Cajun flavoring. Northern Louisiana. Monroe maybe, though he’d also lived in New Hampshire, Connecticut, Tennessee, and possibly Georgia for a short time. “How long has it been since your last confession, my son?”
Beyond the curtain, the man sighed heavily. “I don’t know, Father. A long time.”
Father Carmino shifted his weight on the stool. It would have to be repaired soon. One leg was beginning to wobble. And the seat cushion needed a little extra padding. He’d worn it out over the years. “Not to worry, my son. Confess all of your sins and the Lord will absolve them.”
“Do you think he will, Father?” The voice was weary, sad almost. “Do you think he’s listening?”
Father Carmino closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. The man was a pipe smoker, a blend of toasted Cavendish, Golden Virginia and aged Burley. Maybe a hint of Perique—rich, dark, woodsy, and with oriental undercurrents; sweet cherry, vanilla, prune. Such sweet memories. “Yes,” he replied wistfully. “He is watching over us always.”
The man on the other side chuckled. “Is he? And what of the thirty thousand who starved to death today, Father? Was he watching over them?”
Father Carmino took hold of the pendant hanging from his rosary, a gold cross. It was cold to the touch. “It is not my place to judge his will.”
“Over thirty thousand, Father. Another thirty thousand will starve to death tomorrow, and every day that follows, slow, agonizing deaths, and most of them children…babies. Do you know how many succumb to disease every day…excruciating, painful deaths? Fifteen thousand! Fifteen thousand, all praying for salvation, all begging for his mercy, and still you believe he’s watching?”
Father Carmino tightened his grasp on the cross and cleared a throat that was suddenly dry. “Yes. He is our creator. The Lord gave, and he hath taken—”
“A thousand more will be murdered today while he watches!” he sneered. “So I suppose he will watch as I murder a man today.”
Father Carmino pushed the air from his lungs in an audible rush. “My son,” he spoke in a breathless whisper, “you must reconsider. To take a life is a mortal sin!”
“But he has committed a sin even more heinous, Father. He has wasted a life.”
Father Carmino ran his tongue over dry lips. His grip on the cross was desperate, his fingers numb. “Whose life has he wasted?”
There was movement beyond the curtain. “His own, Father. He has spent his entire miserable life worshiping a God that doesn’t exist. It’s pathetic!”
An undignified squeal escaped Father Carmino when the curtain was snatched open, and he nearly toppled from the unsteady stool.
The pipe smoker was tall, his long hair so dark it was almost blue, and his skin so pale it was nearly translucent. He appeared distinguished dressed as he was in a silky white shirt and a flowing black cape draped upon h
is shoulders.
“Behold a real God!” he proclaimed, his dark eyes flashing. “Kneel before a true king. Kneel and confess. Confess that you have wasted your pathetic life,” he sneered, “and then maybe, maybe, I will absolve you!”
Father Camino gasped as the rosary snapped in his tight grip, the beads scattering loudly along the wooden floor.
The tall, distinguished man frowned. “Not to worry, my son,” he mocked. “I’m going to make you a better necklace, one more…personal.”
He grinned then, and Father Carmino caught sight of his teeth, the cuspids that were much too long, tapering to fine deadly points. Fangs.
Realizing that he still clutched the cross in his sweaty palm, Father Camino thrust it toward the towering figure with a trembling hand.
The pale-faced man rolled his dark eyes. “Have you not heard a word I’ve spoken, you pathetic imbecile? There is no one here to protect you,” he said, sweeping the room with his arms, bringing to mind a large bat as the cape spread wide. “I am going to rip your entrails free, am going to wrap them about your neck and use them to strangle the wretched life from you, and no one, no one is going to stop me.”
Pulling his shoulders back, he ran dark eyes disdainfully down the Father’s length. “Will you implore to your God for mercy, Father? Yes!” he answered, the word hissing through his teeth. “Your last words on this Earth will be screams to a God who owns no ears. Your prayers will go unheard, just like the prayers of a hundred thousand others every single day. Just like my Carmen’s,” he snarled, his lips curling back in a seething scowl.
His chest expanded as he pulled in breath, he seeming to grow taller still, his eyes seeming to grow darker. “Kneel before me, peon,” he commanded in a resonant timbre. “I have ears, as you can well see. I am mightier than any God you could conjure. I have been since the beginning of time and I will continue to be when time ends. Plead to me! Plead to me for mercy!”