Magic Man Plus 15 Tales of Terror

by A. P. Fuchs

  Maybe it was that old clock that was making the ticking.

  Granddad wasn't one to be pushed around by anyone---except by Grandmama. She had Granddad wrapped around her old and wrinkled finger. I once asked Granddad why he cowered under her like a puppy in trouble with its master. He responded with a wink, "'Tis called love, kiddo. I may not like it, but let I be doomed if I don't make her smile by doin' what she wants now and again. You'll know what I mean when ya find yerself a cute little honey one day. I guarantee that. Jus' you wait and see, boy."

  Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I rolled over and tried to ignore the tick-tick-tick that seemed to have grown louder over the past ten seconds. I cleared my mind and waited for the drowsiness hanging over me to turn into full-fledged fatigue and whisk me away to La La Land, far away from the noise.

  I started to slip away, that good feeling of inevitable sleep setting in, when the ticking grew even louder. Granddad would surely be awake now. How could he not be? Forty bucks said he'd shut that clock up and in a minute or two he and I would be back asleep. In the morning, neither of us would remember waking.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  The ticking was too loud and I could only imagine how loud the ticking was on the other side of my closed door.

  Come on, Granddad, hurry it up, I thought. Turn that clock off!

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  I groaned and threw my blankets back, the cool breeze coming from my open window immediately attacking all the skin that wasn't covered by my boxer shorts. I took a moment and let the goosebumps seize me before getting out of bed.

  There was enough light in my room to help me find the door. Shivering, I stepped out, and crept through the dark gray of the cabin, the shapes of the furniture vaguely outlined in the subtle amount of available light.

  I was right, too, about the ticking being louder out here. Sounds always seemed louder in the dark, too. Who knew why.

  Granddad's door was partially open. He was asleep. I could hear his snoring, which was more like a garbled wheezing. Not wanting to disturb him, I followed the sound of the ticking. It got louder toward the back porch. Why the clock was back there, instead of out from where it was practical, I didn't know.

  The door to the back porch was closed. There was no lock. Only the door that led from the back porch to the back lot had a lock. Not that the lock would help anyway. It's one of those rinky-dink locks that all you had to do was push the knob then turn it to lock it from the inside. A burglar worth his loot would have no trouble getting through that "impenetrable" security.

  "I remember the day when we didn't have to lock our doors at night," Granddad once told me. He got a lock for the back door simply because all the neighboring cabins had one. And he had a lock on the front door, too, so might as well make them match, right?

  Anyway, I opened the door. The ticking doubled in volume. I glanced toward Granddad's room to see if he was awoken by it. He wasn't. He was still wheezing in his sleep.

  Flicking on the light, I stepped onto the porch, my eyes adjusting to the brightness. As they did, I scanned for the source of sound that had interrupted my sleep. It seemed to be coming from the back corner, beneath a box of historical romance novels that belonged to Grandmama.

  There was hordes of other junk in the porch, too---a couple of broken chairs, an old kitchen table, Granddad's tool box, blankets and other old-people antiquities that made you wonder why they even bought such things to begin with (like a faded porcelain ballerina that's missing a leg).

  As I made my way to the corner, I stepped carefully between boxes of more junk, tripping over a couple.

  The ticking was far louder here. It couldn't be a clock. Sounded more like a bomb (as if I'd ever heard a bomb tick before---only in the movies).

  I bent over and wrapped my hands around the back edges of the box of novels. With a mighty heave, I lifted the box and placed it on the vintage kitchen table beside me. I was right. There was something beneath the box of Grandmama's books. Another box, without a lid. On top of it was a well-worn orangey-red towel draped over a smaller box. With the tips of my forefinger and thumb, I picked off the towel.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  And there it was: a well-polished, antique wooden box. The box had a lid. The clock's inside. It better be because I didn't like the idea of the ticking coming from somewhere else in that cramped little porch. It'd be a lot of work to find it.

  I picked up the box---and opened its lid.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  It wasn't a clock. It wasn't a bomb, either. It was a metronome, secured in a blue velvet-mould. Its wooden cover was absent. I watched as its arm rocked back and forth across the ivory front, counting the beat to a song that wasn't playing.

  Since we had one of those things at home, I knew how to turn it off.

  Granddad's wheezing suddenly increased. It sounded like he was panicking in his sleep. A bad dream, perhaps. His wheezing got louder. I wondered if I should go and check on him, make sure he's all right. I didn't want him back in the I.C.U. He coughed and began wheezing again.

  I should go check on him. I suppressed the arm and replaced it under the bracket at the top of the unit. Then . . .

  Silence.

  Granddad's wheezing faded.

  * * * *

  The next morning I woke to the neighbor's dog barking and to the twittering of a small bird outside my window. Groggy, I checked my watch. It was close to 10 a.m. Knowing that if I slept in Granddad would have my head, I got up and went to the bathroom before going to the kitchen. We were supposed to go fishing today. Why didn't he wake me?

  My ears were expecting to be greeted by Granddad's congratulating me of joining the world of the living. "Look at what just rose from the grave," he usually said.

  The kitchen was empty. I took a quick glance around. The living room was empty, too. The blinds were open. So was Granddad's bedroom door. I walked over, knowing he wouldn't be in there (I just sensed it), but went to check on him anyway, just in case he wasn't feeling too well. He was, however, lying peacefully when I went to his room last night after being in the porch, so he should be up now.

  He wasn't there. His bed was neatly made, blankets drawn tight then folded in on an angle at the corners of the mattress, military-styled.

  I went back to my room, threw on a Megadeath T-shirt and a pair of ripped jean shorts, and returned to the kitchen.

  Something suddenly didn't feel right. I gazed out the window above the sink, expecting to see Granddad's truck. I didn't. Instead there was my car, a half-rusted, silver Toyota Camry, parked askew on the graveled driveway.

  "What the . . ." I raked my fingers through my hair. The taste of morning-breath suddenly seemed stronger. I looked at my car again, this time noticing the dashboard littered with burger wrappers and beer labels.

  "Granddad?" I called into the cabin.

  Without putting on my shoes, I went out to my car, shouting for him all the way.

  I ran my hand along the hood of the car and reached the driver-side door. The door was unlocked. I opened the door. My keys dangled from the ignition in the on position. Plopping myself down in the driver's seat, I turned the key back in the ignition and turned the car off. Then I tried to start the car. No go. Dead. Drained the battery.

  Confused, my eyes roamed over the messy dashboard, the passenger seat that had a case of beer on it, the cigarette butts that had spilled from the ashtray, the butts of two joints stubbed out in the cup holder.

  How did my car get here? Did someone drive it here last night? How did all the booze get in here? Certainly not from anyone in my family. My dad gave up drinking, even socially. My mom never touched a drink in her life. My sister, Stephanie, was too young to drink let alone drive a car.

  Granddad? No. Even if he did decide to be reckless and booze it up on the way back here, say, if fo
r whatever reason, he drove his truck back to the city and came back here in my car early this morning, it still didn't explain the joints in the cup holder. I didn't think Granddad even knew what a joint was. And who would he get one from, anyway?

  My thoughts were distracted when I heard the telephone ring from inside the cabin. Knowing I should answer it or get in trouble from Granddad if it was an important call, I got out of the car, closed the door, and walked to the cabin. My feet were suddenly sensitive to the prickly grass between the cabin and the car.

  As I passed the outhouse, I considered the possibility of Granddad being in there. About to go to the outhouse instead of answering the phone, I stopped, reconsidered, then headed over to the cabin, picking up my pace. The phone had rang over eight times. Whoever was calling hadn't given up yet. It had to be important.

  Inside, I picked up the old rotary phone mounted next to the refrigerator. "Hello?"

  "What are you doing there?" my mom asked.

  "What do you mean what am I doing here?" I leaned up against the counter. "Granddad invited me up here yesterday."

  She cleared her throat. When she spoke her voice was weak, concerned. "Robert, Granddad was in the hospital yesterday. He died last night."

  My insides suddenly felt empty. What was she talking about? Last night Granddad and I . . .

  The ashtrays were gone from the table. I placed my palm on the countertop and pulled it away, feeling something dirty on my skin. My hand had a thin film of dust on it. I looked around the cabin. The couch in the living room, the chair, the TV stand, and the coffee table all had white blankets draped over them. Why I hadn't noticed them when I got up . . .

  "Are you okay?" my mother asked. "Why are you out there?"

  I didn't respond, but instead looked out the window, past my car and to the For Sale sign staked into the ground beside the mailbox near the edge of the driveway.

  "Mom, I . . ." But I couldn't finish. My head felt as if my thoughts and memories were scattered like a filing cabinet ransacked by an intruder, the files dumped on the floor.

  My disbelief of my mother's claim of Granddad being dead faded a little and was replaced by the hollow pain of heartache.

  "Listen," Mom said, "just stay there and Dad and I will come and get you."

  "O-okay," I said. My legs wobbled as if they were made of rubber, so I sat down at the table.

  About to say good-bye, I heard a ticking in the background, on the other end of the line.

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "What's what?"

  "That ticking."

  "It's Granddad's metronome, back when he played the piano."

  Granddad? Piano?

  Mom went on. "Stephanie's going to play a song for Granddad's funeral. Grandmama insisted she practiced with Granddad's metronome instead of her own, making it more special."

  I couldn't believe what was going on.

  "Granddad had that metronome beside his hospital bed during his last days," my mother said. "He said the rhythm from it calmed him down and made him less apprehensive about death. I'm surprised it still works, though. It's real old."

  "Why?" I asked not really knowing why I asked.

  "Because," she said, "it stopped its beat when Granddad died, as if the beat was keeping him alive and someone then decided it was time for him to go."

  I flashed back to the night before and how I stopped the metronome from ticking. Granddad's garbled wheezing stopped then, too. How could I have . . . if I did . . . . I wasn't sure what I was thinking. I didn't kill him. But given last night, maybe I was somehow in a place outside of time, out of reality.

  Needing to be alone, I said good-bye to Mom. She said she and Dad would be out here this afternoon. I told her that was fine and hung up.

  I went back to my room, grabbed a cigarette and lit up.

  Here's to you, Granddad. Here's to you.

  * * * *

  Rag-man

  Every time I come here I always wonder the same thing: what does it take to have your work hung in an art gallery?

  If you take the time to think about the amount of actual physical effort that was put into some of the work that decorates its walls, you come to realize that talent or skill has nothing to do with it.

  When I look at some of the paintings I try to imagine what the artist was doing while creating it. Were they painting with precision and care against a very expensive piece of canvas or were they sitting upon it, splashing about in child-like joy, seeing what happens when you combine blue with red?

  I've been walking through an area dedicated to more abstract paintings but most of the pieces were just a bunch of sprits and sprays of various colors on a solid-tone background.

  Disgusting.

  Being an artist myself I think it's rather shameful these untalented, crappy painters can sell their work, and the more prestigious and skillful artist gets completely overlooked. I'll never understand it, but that's not why I come here. I come here to look at the paintings that deserve credit. I come to get lost in the pictures and escape reality for an hour or two every week. I allow my creative and somewhat over-imaginative mind to take control of me and throw me into any circumstance it sees fit---adventure, horror, erotica, mystery---it doesn't matter. I just like getting away from the pressures of everyday life, and on my low income this is the only vacation I can afford. Yep, that's me, Peter Fox, starving artist.

  I still live with my parents even though I am twenty-three years old. I don't have a career or anything like that. My main area of expertise is wandering aimlessly from job to job and keeping a long yet diverse resume. Right now I've been dabbling in writing and hope to someday sell a short story or two to a science fiction or horror magazine. Maybe a publishing house like Tongue and Castle, if they are interested.

  Maybe.

  Even though my body and mind ached for a classic adventure starring myself and a couple of women with large chests, where I played the hero and they played the damsels-in-distress, I had to hold myself back because today I was keeping a different agenda. I came here to find an image that could inspire something to write about. So far, all of the pictures sucked even though I've seen those same images a thousand times before.

  On a nearby bench where elderly tourists came to sit and discuss the latest sore bones in their body or their most recent gut-wrenching bowel movement, I sat down and felt the life drain out of my legs. It felt so good after being on my feet all day. I sat there staring blankly into space at a picture of a mother cradling her newborn child.

  My mindless gaze was interrupted by a warm wind blowing in my ear. I turned swiftly to see if anyone I knew was next to me, but I found nothing, only the vacant seat beside me. It was probably my hyperactive imagination so I simply resumed my stare. The mother in the stained-glass painting looked on her child with care, her eyes expressing she knew she was holding somebody precious. All mothers felt that way about their kid, but this one knew her child was different from all the rest and, very bluntly, better than all of them as well.

  My eyes were about to shift to the cradled infant when that warm air caressed my ear again. This time it was a lot warmer, almost hot. I took another look around and, like before, found nothing. I got up slightly spooked and continued walking past the painting and stopped at a nearby sculpture encased in glass. Many have seen this image before, but everybody looks at it differently. It was a small statue of Christ on the cross, hanging by His wrists and welcoming death with open arms.

  For the past number of months I have been debating my faith. Is God real? Where is He, then? Why haven't I been touched like the tens of millions who have? These were questions that ran through my mind constantly and, as of late, I've been receiving some answers.

  Sort of.

  Now I'm able to feel a presence, something slightly tangible, something that wasn't there before. It wasn't there all the time but more often than not I felt as if someone was standing next to me. They stood next to me now as I looked at the cross. M
y heart almost wept as I looked upon the sculpted face of Christ, His eyes crying out "I love you," when that warm air that touched me moments ago gripped me again. Not just my ear this time but on my face and hands as well.

  I let out a yelp loud enough to create an echo in the large room. This soft blowing wind burned my skin and grew more and more intense. I looked around, hoping it was just the heat vents in the building blowing on me as if it was personal, but found none.

  I took a few steps back and the burning persisted. This could only mean one of two things: either I was getting violently ill or that I was going crazy.

  Just when I thought I could bear it no more the heat let up and my face and hands cooled. Taking a deep, soothing breath I walked briskly toward the exit. My inspirational painting could wait. It was time to go home to bed so if I was indeed coming down with something, I could sleep it off.

  Involuntarily my fast walking turned into a slow jog. Something was behind me.

  I debated whether I should glance back or not but stuck with the latter knowing that if someone was following me, looking back at them might make matters worse. Turning to my right I left the exhibit devoted to religious art and entered a vast and almost maze-like room with environmental-inspired paintings hanging on every wall. Even though I've been through here many times before I always find myself getting lost. Probably the same way parents got lost when they visit their child's school for a play.

  A knot formed in my left side and the signs I was a heavy smoker became evident. My jog turned into a walk then I stopped briefly for another satisfying gulp of air. Shortly after an announcement came over the intercom saying the gallery would be closing in five minutes and we should all conclude our viewing. The lights began to dim and I could already hear people starting to leave.

  I looked around. The paintings that hung over one-story high appeared to be taking on new life. The images that were supposed to express life's beauty suddenly became dead and grim. Even the mood of the paintings began to grower darker, like that one of the farmer bailing hay. Looked more like he was packing dismembered arms and legs instead.