The faint sound of plucking guitar strings drew her eyes to the booth across from her. A man with charcoal skin and gray hair strung a tune on his guitar. He locked eyes with Meryl and smiled.
She glanced away and went back to sipping her hot chocolate.
“Why would a groovy cat such as yourself have cause for singing the blues?” asked the Musician as he took the seat directly across from her.
Meryl’s gaze rose to meet his. She opened her mouth to protest, to tell this stranger to take a hike, but something else came out instead. “It’s complicated. Life’s complicated. That’s why it sucks.”
“Ah, life ain’t so complicated,” said the Musician as he plucked his guitar strings, fiddling with a tune. “A cow goes moo, the sun comes and goes every day, and sugar always tastes sweet. Life is simple, people are the complicated ones.”
“Either way, it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”
“If it doesn’t matter why are you only stringing the low cords?”
“Tonight’s my last night. How could I not sing the blues? I worked so hard and got nowhere.” Meryl gave her cream pyramid a little push and the packets tumbled over. “I feel like a hamster in a wheel, trying desperately to get out, but to no avail.”
The Musician smiled. “People worry too much—they worry to the grave. You just gotta have a little faith that things will turn out alright in the end. And if it doesn’t, well, at least you didn’t waste all your time worrying. After all, you only get one song from the jukebox, my fly honeybee, might as well dance to it.”
A flush of a toilet stole Meryl’s gaze from the mysterious Musician.
Doug exited the bathroom, tightening his belt and adjusting himself as he smiled her direction. “I have given an offering to the porcelain gods. Expect rain, for it was a large offering.”
“Hey, Doug, I want you to meet someone. I’m sorry, but I didn’t...” But when Meryl turned back the Musician was gone. “…get your name?” She turned back to Doug.
“So, what now?” he asked.
She smiled as her gaze rose out the window to the twinkling stars above. “Thanks, mysterious inspirational and wise old black man.”
Meryl got up from her seat, took Doug by the hand, and rushed out the diner with him.
***
So, Meryl and Doug spent her last night, Christmas Eve, among the living… well, living. They chucked eggs at Christmas carolers and played holiday themed miniature golf, hitting bystanders and parked cars with red and green golf balls. They sang bad karaoke Christmas songs with drunk Japanese business men and flamboyant drag queens. They toured the finest art museums, contemplating the meaning of life and drawing obscene doodles on priceless sculptures and historic paintings. They rode around in shopping carts decorated with blinking lights, jousting with two-by-fours and throwing toilet paper bombs and chucking ornaments.
Somehow, during the end of their adventure, they made it to the park, exhausted and drained. They found a bench and, before they both knew it, they fell asleep.
***
Meryl was the first to wake to witness her final sunrise. She turned to Doug who was fast asleep, leaning his head against her shoulder, drooling a trail of saliva over her winter jacket. She pushed him off of her in time to hear the invisible digital clock’s alarm go off above her head.
“Times up, I’m afraid,” boomed a dark ominous voice.
Her gaze rose to meet the Grim Reaper standing before her, casting her in his dark snaking shadow.
She wiped the sleep from her eyes. “Already?”
“I’m a little early. I thought you might want to do the whole goodbye routine.”
She turned back to Doug, he was sleeping so peacefully. “I don’t have the heart to wake him.” She stood up and stepped over to the Grim Reaper. “I’m ready.”
The Grim Reaper snapped his boney fingers and a large black door rose from beneath the earth, decorated with gargoyle statues and slithering serpents. “Well then, shall we proceed?” He gestured to the door with a slight bow of his head. “Ladies first.”
Meryl stepped forward and grabbed hold of the doorknob shaped as a screaming goblin. “It was nice while it lasted.”
“Hey, dirty girl,” said a familiar voice behind her.
She turned to spot Doug standing before her.
“You weren’t gonna leave without saying goodbye to your best friend in the whole world, were you?”
Meryl ran up and hugged him.
“Will you at least write?” Doug asked, wrapping his arms around her.
“I don’t think there’s a post office in the afterlife, buddy.”
“Oh… Then I guess this goodbye for good, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“It was great knowing you and stuff.”
“Yeah.”
The Grim Reaper impatiently checked his nonexistent watch. “I don’t have all day! I’ve got lots of people to reap, you know.”
Meryl let go of Doug and walked back to the Grim Reaper.
He held out his skeleton hand.
She raised her hand to take his but hesitated halfway. She locked eyes with the Grim Reaper and smiled. “Screw it! You only live once.” She ran back to Doug.
“Wait!” The Grim Reaper yelled, but she did not hear.
Meryl dove into Doug’s arms. “Merry Christmas, Doug.” She kissed him.
“The greatest deed of all—love,” said the Grim Reaper. He threw up his arms and screamed. “Noooo!” He exploded in a ball of hellfire, leaving nothing but ash in his wake.
Meryl stared back in awe. “He’s gone… does that mean I get to live? Ha! Take that, you creepy boney bastard!” She jumped for joy. “Who’s number one? Meryl, that’s who! And don’t you forget it.” She turned back to see Doug’s smug face. “Ummm, Doug about that kiss. You know I only did that because…”
“Because you’re crazy about me?” he teased. “I know. It was only a matter of time before you fell for my romantic charm and rugged good looks.”
“Wait a minute.”
“Just admit it. You’re hopelessly in love with me. Too late to deny, the cat’s already out of the bag.”
“There is no cat or bag.”
“I have witnesses.”
“Old skull and bones doesn’t count,” she protested. “He’s not even alive!”
Doug started down the park path. “So, you want to get married today or tomorrow?”
Meryl trailed after him, red in the face. “How about breakfast first, your treat? A bottle of scotch to wash down my eggs and toast—and vodka and regrets—sounds nice right about now.”
“I get to name our first kid. I’m thinking Optimus Prime.”
“What?!”
The Voice of the Beyond
AT FIRST THERE WAS ONLY BLACK. Empty void accompanied by his random trailing thoughts. Then consciousness came and, cruelly, pain with it. Justin forced his eyelids open and the sickening light flashed in, filtered through the thick dust that hung in the air like a million eye floaters swimming around inside his eyeballs. Willing back control of his body from the dreamtime Justin awoke with a violent gasp of air, jolting himself up to a sitting position. He rolled off the dirty, weathered mattress in a convulsive wheezing cough and dry heave, his whole body shaking with sickness. Nothing but saliva and dirt coated spit came out.
Justin tried to focus his eyes, but he was visibly disorientated, the shadow infested basement blurring, pulsing in and out of darkness. He patted himself down and, to his horror, he discovered he was stripped down to only his boxers, socks, and a wife-beater.
Someone did this to me, but who?
He scanned his surroundings. A dark figure shifted in the corner of his vision. He panicked, scooting backward, pressing his back flat against the brick wall, his heart racing into a full-fledged anxiety attack.
A clown stared back, standing in the shadows of the doorway. He was a large man, tall and husky, in a full-body red and white costume, wearing expertly applied face
paint. Though there was a grin painted across his lips the Clown did not smile.
“You’re very pretty,” said the Clown as he swallowed nervously. “You know that?”
Justin just stared back, frozen in silence.
“Oh, I’m sorry, handsome,” the Clown corrected himself. “Boys are handsome.”
The Clown took a step forward. Justin braced himself in response, flexing all his muscles in complete unison.
“I thought we could be friends, Justin.”
Justin’s expression changed at the sound of his name. How does the Clown know my name? He got his answer when the Clown pulled out his school ID card.
The Clown smiled proudly down at the white plastic card, like it was a trophy. “Justin Wesley from Northwood Elementary, fourth grade, age ten. Would you like to be friends, Justin Wesley?” His question hung uncomfortably in the stale mildew laced air.
Justin refused to give an answer with a tightening of his lips. He thought about screaming, yelling out at the top of his lungs until they burst like water balloons filled with blood. But he didn’t. Somewhere deep inside Justin knew the Clown wouldn’t allow it. He’d be dead before help arrived.
The Clown knelt down and scooped up a plastic bottle of water next to his feet. The label had been torn off, a jagged piece of white paper still clung to the remaining glue residue. He held up the bottle for Justin to see.
“I got you some water in case you got thirsty,” the Clown spoke softly. “It gets awfully hot down here.”
The Clown raised his leg to take another step forward. Justin shuffled toward the far corner of the room. The Clown stopped mid-stride, taking his foot back to its original position. He placed the bottle down and rolled it over to Justin. The bottle stopped as it hit Justin’s feet, the water inside sloshing back and forth violently before settling down.
The Clown stood motionless, waiting for Justin to drink. But when Justin didn’t the Clown got anxious.
“I’ve got some things I need to take care of first before we can play,” the Clown said, his fingers fidgeting relentlessly inside his pockets. “So, I’ll be back to visit you later. If you get bored there are some toys in the chest.” He pointed over to a large dirty toy chest resting against the side of the basement wall opposite of Justin.
“Bye Justin,” the Clown said as he walked out of the basement, closing the door behind him and locking it with an audible click and shake of the doorknob.
Justin moved on sheer adrenalin, the venom pumping through his body—compelling him to act. He was a rabbit caught in a tunnel with no way out and he could hear the wolf digging. Dig, he had to dig. Dig his way out. Dig, dig, for-god’s-sakes dig!
Justin flipped over the mattress and hunted the floors and walls for anything that might help him escape: loose nails, screws, wire, hell a paperclip, but he found nothing. The place was stripped bare. He slammed his full weight against the basement door hoping to bust it open. All he did was bruise his shoulder. As he gazed up at a small slither of a window high up against the wall the wheels in Justin’s mind began to turn. At around eight feet from the floor the window was far too high for him to reach. He needed a boost. He needed the chest.
Justin pressed his weight against the chest, scooting it across the basement floor to the opposite wall. He climbed on top of the chest and, using it as a stool, he was able to jump and reach the ledge of the window. He pounded against the window with his fist, but it wouldn’t pop open. The window was rusted tight and coated with so much dirt and filth Justin couldn’t see out. But some light was visible, daylight pouring in from the cracks of dried mud.
It’s still early. I haven’t been out for long. My mom probably just started looking for me. She would’ve panicked and called the police once she couldn’t find me at the park where I had soccer practice. Maybe someone saw the strange Clown take me. Do they even know where to look?
Justin opened the chest. Various toys and two board games lay inside, an Ouija board and Candy Land. He took out the board games and tossed them to the ground, their contents scattering across the floor. No game was going to help him escape. He continued to empty the chest, chucking out rubber balls, plastic dinosaurs, stuffed animals, and… a naked doll caught his attention. There was a name written across its exposed gut, Sarah, spelled out in black marker ink. He picked up a T-Rex with a missing jaw, turned it upside down and found another name sketched on the bottom of its foot, Kevin. He checked the others. Everyone had signatures, names etched on them with faded markers. These toys used to belong to other children, missing children.
Like me, Justin thought, just like me. Does the Clown have my soccer ball? Is he going to add my name to his collection?
Justin’s pace quickened as he got to the bottom of the chest. Only a plastic tool set remained. Some comical over-sized screws, a squeaking hammer that was too soft to break the window, and a fake screwdriver that was too big to undo real metal screws. He threw them across the room in frustration.
A strange muffled noise leaked out from the cracks of the basement walls quelling Justin’s temper. He rushed to the wall toward the interior of the house, pressed his ear against the brick, and listened. A squeaking chair, cartoon sounds, and a muffled laugh followed. The Clown was watching TV.
He lied. He didn’t have anything he needed to do. That creepy son-of-a-bitch is waiting, but for what?
Precious time ticked by as Justin paced nervously around the basement. An hour, maybe more for all he knew. Finally, he plopped down on the mattress in defeat. Tired and thirsty Justin turned to the water bottle. He picked it up and unscrewed the top. Just as he was about to drink movement caught his attention.
The Ouija board’s heart-shaped glass-eye pointer, the planchette, was moving on its own, gliding over the cardboard play-set.
Justin had tossed the game aside to the middle of the room and had forgotten about it, believing it couldn’t help him. He was wrong. Justin stared back, dumbfounded as the planchette spelled out…
DON’T DRINK WATER.
The planchette stopped. Justin lifted up the bottle of water to the light of the hanging ceiling lamp. At the bottom of the bottle the water was murky, a floating cloud of some strange white substance, remnants of a dissolved tablet. He set the water bottle down, placed his hands over the planchette, and spelled out…
R-U-A GHOST?
Justin let go and the planchette moved to answer.
YES.
Justin asked another question.
WHO’S GHOST?
The planchette answered.
BURIED IN YARD.
Justin turned to the filthy, dirt smeared window. Maybe they’re all buried out there, the other missing children, hidden in plain sight under designer roses and lawn gnomes. Justin wondered what the Clown would plant over his corpse—tulips perhaps or run-of-the-mill daisies. The possibilities were endless.
The ceiling planks creaked and bent under the Clown’s weight. Dust sprinkled down on top of Justin’s hair. His eyes followed the sound of the Clown’s footsteps down the stairs and to the door.
The Clown opened the door.
Justin stood, fists clenched, bracing himself for the fight of his life.
The Clown stepped in. His facial expression was odd, one of surprise and confusion at the sight of Justin standing before him. His gaze immediately fell to the full water bottle. “Hey Justin, I see you haven’t been drinking your water.” The Clown’s voice was uneasy. “You need to drink your water.”
Justin just stared back, defiant in his glare.
“It’s very important that you drink your water. You’ll get dehydrated,” said the Clown. “You could die.”
Justin’s gaze rose from the bottle to the Clown. He picked up the water.
The Clown smiled. “Want to see a trick?” He yanked a long skinny balloon out from his sleeve and blew into it, inflating it to the size of a large banana. “You like wiener dogs?” He proceeded to twist the balloon into the shape of a dog. He barked
and yelped, making the balloon dance in his hands, imitating the mannerisms of a dog. His eyes met Justin’s and a sudden flash of explosive rage overtook the Clown. “Drink the fucking water,” he roared, popping the balloon in his fists.
Justin shrunk back.
The Clown steadied himself against the wall—his outburst shocking even himself—and took in deep breaths to subdue his swelling anxiety.
With the Clown distracted Justin took the opportunity to empty the water onto the floor.
As the Clown regained his composure his gaze fell to the puddle of water. “I thought we could be friends, Justin.” He frowned. “I was wrong. I’m going to get my tools now.” He turned from Justin and headed out the basement, locking the door behind him.
Justin ran to the Ouija board as fast as his small legs could be willed and frantically spelled out another question.
HOW I GET OUT?
The planchette answered, sliding across to the edge of the cardboard beyond the printed letters, pointing out to the plastic screwdriver lying on the floor. Justin picked it up. His face contorted in horror as the realization of what he must do to survive came flooding in.
The wooden roof cracked and ached as the Clown moved upstairs, as he searched for his tools. Justin, in a frantic daze, filed down the plastic screwdriver, rubbing the flat-head against the brick wall, grinding the tip to a point. The sounds of the Clown’s footsteps got louder. He was heading for the stairs. The planchette went crazy—continuously spelling out four letters.
K-I-L-L
Justin worked at a devil’s pace, tears falling from his cheeks as he whimpered and sobbed like a wounded puppy. The Clown’s footsteps echoed out as he descended the stairs.
K-I-L-L
Justin tested the screwdriver, pressing the end hard against the tip of his finger and drawing blood. It was a weapon now. He turned to the door, with weapon in hand, bracing himself for the coming fight for survival.
K-I-L-L
The horrid sound of a key entering a lock leaked out. The doorknob turned and slowly creaked open. Justin’s breaths became erratic, growing into full blown hyperventilation. The Clown stepped in. Justin let out a roar and charged.
The Devil, the Grim Reaper, and a Ghost Page 4