SLClimer - Rumours of the Grotesque

by Rumours of the Grotesque (v1. 0) [lit]

  Ed took a drag on his cigarette. They helped him focus—Scotch helped him forget. In front of him, a small pile of paperwork beckoned. But his most pressing matter, outside of smoking his cigarette, was the file in his hands. Mrs. Althea Waymouth, 51, Memphis, Tennessee: the only person who tried to make a claim against her policy in the five years he'd been with the shady outfit calling itself an insurance company.

  Mostly, his day consisted of a pot of coffee before lunch, a few sports magazines, a pack of Camels and a pint of Scotch, lunch at some barbecue shack (extra onions, please), followed by afternoon visits to policyholders who needed adjusting. Staring at the boob, he couldn't believe this was his lot in life after 37 years. His eyes wandered out of his office window, resting momentarily in the distance. Just beyond the high-rises and riverside warehouses, he could see glimpses of the Mighty Mississippi cutting a path toward New Orleans. God, how he wished he was a barge going downstream.

  The beeping of the phone's hold feature brought him back from the fantasy. Ed quickly poured over the adjustment claim form before picking up the impatient Mrs. Waymouth. The actual policy was not taken out on Althea, but on her daughter Vera. Vera Waymouth, 33, unemployed, unmarried, possessed. He hated adjusting cases of possession. Usually it consisted of bad acting, theatrical makeup, and if he was lucky, some entertaining home wiring.

  Reluctantly, Ed picked up the phone. “Mrs. Waymouth, this is Ed Cooper. Yeah, I'm the adjuster."

  He paused, trying to answer her rapid-fire questions. There was no way Mystical Insurance Corporation was going to pay this claim. They never paid any claims. If people were stupid enough to buy paranormal insurance, they deserved to be ripped off. It didn't matter if Big Foot smashed their Winnebago or if a UFO made off with their case of beer, no one was going to get paid. Except him, of course. That was Ed's philosophy.

  And the more claims he could deny, the bigger the bonus. It was hard enough finding a job after being blackballed by Mutual—even in other industries. He was lucky Mystical needed a liar and shyster at the time he was at the peak of his craft.

  "Look, I can't...” He listened. “I'll have to come for a visit.” Again, he paused to listen.

  She rambled on, and Ed lit another cigarette. He put the phone on the desk and poured some Scotch into his coffee cup. In between sips, he offered nondescript responses in the direction of the phone ... really ... wow.... that's unbelievable ... huh?

  "Are you listenin'?” Mrs. Waymouth suddenly blurted loudly.

  Ed scrambled for the phone, nearly spilling his beloved Glenlivet on his smoldering Camel. “Mrs. Waymouth, I can't process your claim unless you've had clerical diagnosis by a recognized clergy member."

  "What?” She didn't seem to understand.

  "You need to have a priest come and diagnose your daughter as possessed."

  "Our minister was here already, says it's possession."

  "Your policy states that any non-Catholic clergy that makes a diagnosis of possession must have it verified by a Catholic priest."

  "We're not catholic."

  Ed suddenly saw the possibility of closing this case right over the phone. “I'm sorry, the Catholics are experts on possession, and we rely on their word to process a claim."

  "Really, well I'll get one over here, directly. My sister-in-law's catholic."

  "Oh.” Ed sucked on his cigarette, knowing in his heart he'd have to see Mrs. Waymouth eventually. “Okay, I'll come to your house this afternoon. I have to ask a few questions before I can deny ... I mean ... process your claim. See you later, Mrs. Waymouth."

  Ed hung up the phone, tapped his ashes into the ashtray, and thought about what to do next. He reached into his drawer and pulled out a copy of the Mystical Insurance Paranormal Adjustment Manual, then turned to the page concerning Satan.

  * * * *

  He liked to arrive unannounced to investigate a claim. In his briefcase, he had a few items that were supposed to determine true possession from fraudulent inhabitation.

  Mrs. Waymouth lived on a small cul-de-sac in one of the historic districts of Memphis. Historic, what bullshit, Ed thought. That was a fancy way of her saying her house was a piece of shit you couldn't tear down because some slave or soldier got laid in the upstairs bedroom. The quiet little neighborhood was a study in dichotomy: home to a major university and surrounded by working class neighborhoods. If the devil was going to visit, Memphis would be the armpit in which to nestle.

  The southern heat had started early this year. Ed parked nearly a block away from the Waymouth house—and around the corner. As he passed by, he noticed the bright sunshine failed to illuminate their front yard even though glorious late-spring beams bathed the neighbors on either side.

  Loosening his tie, Ed hoped to catch a breeze to dry some of the sweat pooling in his shirt. “I hate the heat,” Ed grunted as he walked the broken concrete to the lot directly behind the Waymouth house.

  Through the back yard of a neighbor's house, Ed could see into the lot of Mrs. Waymouth. The two-story house was indeed shrouded in darkness. Leaf-bare trees rose like dead fingers around white clapboard siding as if reaching up to pull the house hell-bound, and a dog whined in an unseen backyard pen. The trees in all the surrounding lots were bursting with new growth, and buttercups could be seen in nearly every garden except for hers.

  Skeptical to the last, Ed pulled out his binoculars and focused on the upstairs room. The curtains of one room stood out with sheers bathed in red light. Ed lowered his binoculars, reached into a pocket on his briefcase, and took out the Mystical Insurance Paranormal Adjustment Manual. He thumbed through the pages until he came to the information he sought.

  Ed read aloud from the book: “Absence of sunlight onto subject property on a cloudless, sunny day ... Okay, I'll give her that one.” He flipped again. “Hounds of Hell howling.... “Ed looked and saw a tiny white poodle in the pen. “No Hell hound.” He closed the book and held it tightly. “Well, let's get a look inside."

  Ed heard a gentle roll of thunder as he turned and walked around the block toward the Waymouth house. The winds grew chilly and brisk, catching him in the face like a fist. He walked past the neighbors on the left; a FOR RENT sign hung in the window. Damn, he thought, no neighbors to talk to. His mind again wandered to the meandering river just west of this stinking neighborhood. He dreamed of floating downstream to New Orleans, a hurricane in his hand. That would be his big lottery win; it was just around the corner.

  As he stood at the gate leading up to the house, icy rain began to fall. Suddenly, something slippery hit him hard on top of the head. Looking down, Ed saw a frog squirming on the ground. Others began to splat, squish, and squash on the sidewalk. Three more hit him in the head. Then, a downpour of frogs and toads rained. They croaked and their bodies crunched under Ed's feet as he walked. Spots of frog blood and body juices began to coat the sidewalk.

  "Shower of frogs, hmm.” Ed thumbed through the book. “Damn, I'll have to give her this one, too."

  Climbing onto the front porch, Ed tossed a couple of writhing amphibians back into the yard. He didn't even have to knock on the door, for Mrs. Waymouth was there—fear blazing in her eyes and her apron covered with some foul-smelling yellow gelatin.

  "I saw you comin’ up the walk and knew you'd get a shower,” she said through a mouthful of discolored teeth. “Better get in before the lizards start to fall."

  "Lizards?” Ed made a mental note to check for them in the book. “You're Mrs. Waymouth, right?"

  "Yeah, that's me.” She shut the door behind them.

  "Hopefully, this won't take too long,” he said aloud while finishing the sentence in his mind ... and I can get the hell outa here and get a drink.

  "Believe me, I just want it to end,” she said while leading him into a small, grim parlor in the front of the house. “I want to get my money so I can get some help for my poor baby upstairs."

  There was an uneasy silence as Ed followed her trailing eyes to a commotion co
ming from the upper level. Something was bumping and grinding, and a low growl penetrated the walls.

  "The priest will be here in about ten minutes,” she said.

  "Good, that'll give us a little time to go over your case. I'm pretty familiar with it, but I need to ask you and your daughter about ten questions. That will give me a good idea on where your claim stands.” He pulled out a form with ten questions written upon it. “Can we go upstairs now?"

  Gripping her silver cross necklace tightly, Mrs. Waymouth hesitated. “If you're sure you want to. We can just settle it down here."

  Ed's skeptical core and unflinching stomach lit again. He was sure they were faking it. No one in all his years had ever been possessed or kidnapped by UFOs. Surely, one glance at Vera, possibly bathed in animal blood for effect, and Ed would see through their charade.

  "No, let's go upstairs,” he said while offering her the lead. “You first, Mrs. Waymouth."

  Without further words, she led him back through the front room, past the front door, and to the dramatic stairway going up. The wallpaper, a hideous stripe of pink, yellow, and umber, seemed to bar their passage. Ed looked at the paper; it had to be the work of the devil, for no one had taste that garish. He rethought that, however, as he noticed a collection of velvet unicorns and Elvis paintings displayed with overhead lighting. This is what was probably keeping the demon contained in the room upstairs; Old Nick couldn't bear to pass it.

  "These are Vera's,” Mrs. Waymouth said, glancing backward. “She's so proud of these. Elvis was her favorite.” They continued to climb the stairs. “When she was just one year old, he picked her up and kissed her. That was it; Vera was his for life."

  Ed made a mental note about Vera's art. “When did all of this start?"

  They made it to the top of the stairs and paused. At the far end of the hall, red light slobbered from beneath a scarred, paint-chipped door. The foul stench of bananas stung Ed's nose. Mrs. Waymouth whispered a quiet prayer to herself before answering Ed.

  "When did what start?"

  "When did your daughter show signs of alleged possession?"

  "Four months ago, why?"

  Ed jotted down the information on the document. “I need to know for the claim. When did you buy the policy?"

  "Seven years ago when her daddy got possessed."

  "So, possession is a family condition?” Ed tried to remember if there was a clause about pre-existing demon possession in the contract.

  "No, he just got it and killed himself.” She reached into a pocket of her apron. “I've got a copy of my policy right here. I'm pretty smart about these kinds of things."

  "Hmm.” Ed sighed. He hated an informed consumer. “Well, let's go in and see her."

  Mrs. Waymouth went to the door and turned the shiny, cut-glass knob typical of old homes in the South. It was icy and dripped with condensation. Ed followed her across the threshold; the smell of rotting bananas was now accompanied by body odor and peanuts. For him, though, years of smoking Camels had damaged his sense of smell so significantly the nausea barely registered. But he knew how bad it must be simply from the look of complete vehement illness on Mrs. Waymouth's face.

  After entering the small bedroom with cranberry carpet and pink wallpaper, Ed turned to a figure resting in an ornate rocking chair. Vera slowly glided back and forth, letting her considerable girth provide the momentum. She was a filthy, disgusting mess. Her brown hair hung like tired strings soaked with grime and sweat.

  "How long since she's had a bath?” Ed said frankly.

  But it was Vera who answered in a decidedly German accent: “Four weeks. I saw you coming up the walk."

  "Who are you?” Ed asked.

  "Who should I be?” she replied, the skin of her face pock-marked and ripe with open sores.

  "I need to know for my paperwork.” Ed held up the form. “I'm the insurance adjuster."

  "I'm Lily Marlene,” Vera replied.

  "Lily Marlene, huh?” He noted it. “Isn't that a song by Marlene Dietrich?"

  Vera laughed, only this time the voice was that of an old gentleman. “You got me, I knew you were a smart one. Anyone who could do insurance has to be my kinda guy."

  "Look, sir, can I speak to Vera?” Ed wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.

  It wasn't a question of whether he believed in possession or not; it simply wasn't interesting to him. The bottom line was money: if he could legally deny the claim he'd get his bonus. So, the best thing for him to do was ignore the devil if that was in fact who Vera was.

  "This is Vera.” Her eyes changed; they softened and tears began to flow.

  "Vera Waymouth,” he wrote the name down. “I need to ask you a few questions before I can settle your claim of possession. Now, I have some information about spectral events—the shower of frogs, icy winds in Spring—and so forth."

  "I am the Devil,” a frightfully different voice erupted from the woman's mouth. “You dare doubt me?"

  "It's not that I doubt you personally, my life's been nothing but hell, but I got to prove it for insurance purposes."

  "Here is your proof."

  The last word hadn't even dripped from her lip when it was followed by an issuance of putrid yellow slime. Ducking aside just in time, Ed avoided the majority of the vomit. The bulk of it smashed against the dresser, knocking over a mirror and tiny music box, before dripping down the veneer. The stench was of bananas and peanuts. Mrs. Waymouth couldn't contain her disgust any longer and bent over to wretch herself. Ed simply removed his coat, laid it on the bed, and continued. He noted the projectile vomit on the form.

  "Have you ever seen the movieThe Exorcist ?” commented Ed.

  Whatever was inside Vera ignored the question. “I am Satan. I'll eat you alive."

  Ed remained calm although his insides quivered just a little. Vera Waymouth spooked him in a way like never before. Perhaps, this was the devil. Still, that was no reason to honor the policy and give up his bonus. He'd be scared later.

  "Mrs. Waymouth?” Ed asked. “Is the priest coming soon?"

  She looked up from her own pile of puke. “He should be here any minute, why?"

  "I need him to verify the identity of the devil for me. Your policy is for possession by the devil."

  Before she could answer, the front door chimes echoed through the house.

  "Must be the priest,” the deep, scowling voice inside Vera said.

  Mrs. Waymouth opened the bedroom door. “I'll go get him."

  "Thanks, that will give Vera and me a little time alone.” Mrs. Waymouth shut the door, and Ed turned to the repellent hag in the rocking chair. “Mind if I smoke?” Ed took out a Camel.

  "Not at all.” The smile was sinister.

  Ed lit the cigarette, inhaled the pungent smoke that delighted him so, and exhaled while talking: “So, what's that shitty smell?"

  "Peanut butter and ‘nana sandwiches—fried.” Vera spoke with yet another male dialect. She sounded like a bad Elvis imitator playing a second-rate Vegas dive. “Muh little girl married that freak. That's why I'm back."

  "Are you saying you're Elvis Presley?"

  "Mind if I have a puff on your cigarette?"

  Ed thought about those sickening lips on his butt and declined. “I'll give you one, how about that?"

  "Don't need to."

  Suddenly, Ed felt his lips lock around the cigarette. He was unable to control his mouth and tongue; Vera grinned with slyness as she watched. Slowly, an unseen force caused Ed's diaphragm to distend, pulling air through the cigarette and into his lungs. Smoke rushed in, quickly filling him to capacity.

  Vera then exhaled, spewing cigarette smoke from between her teeth. “Ah, Camels."

  The vice-like grip on Ed's body released and he exhaled also. But his air was free of smoke; only clear breath poured from his nose and mouth. What ever his doubt was before, Ed was convinced he had finally come upon someone with a valid claim against Mystical Insurance. Fear that he'd never known befor
e inched up his spine like a crab. Before now, the devil and Satan were just talk. Evil was an intangible thing that nested in the hearts’ of men, borne of mankind. That's what he believed no matter how much he saw as an insurance adjuster and categorical non-believer. Now, though, he felt the grip of evil on him; it was in this very room.

  Above all else, Ed had to keep calm and in control. In the face of true terror for the first time in his life, Ed knew it would be a contest of wills. Calmness and brilliance was the only thing to keep the devil from getting inside of him, too. Vera grinned, knowing Ed now believed.