Terror Mannequin

by Douglas Hackle

  Glont stooped down, grasped Tom Two under his arms, lifted him up like a baby. Cradled in the arms of his uncle, Tom Two’s shivers began to subside.

  “What scary movies did you guys watch, Tom Two?” Glont asked.

  Tom Two’s stubby arms, little hands, and nubby fingers gesticulated rapidly as he responded in sign language.

  “You guys watched Taken 26?” Glont asked, his voice edged with admonishment.

  Though Liam Neeson had passed away years ago—in fact, only days after the U.S. release of Taken 12—Taken movies had continued to be released ever since. However, beginning with Taken 13, every subsequent Taken film consisted of 90 minutes of continuous, unchanging, murky green video footage recorded by a night vision camera installed inside Liam Neeson’s actual coffin, so that the posthumous-Liam Neeson era of the Taken franchise was essentially a chronicle of the actor’s real-life decay in his actual grave. By the time you got to Taken 24, you were basically just staring at a skeleton for an hour and half.

  “I told you not to watch those Taken movies,” Glont scolded him. “At least not anything after Taken 12. You’re gonna have nightmares tonight.”

  “And they was watchin’ dirty movies, too!” Ma Ruth tattled.

  Glont smirked. “How did they get access to dirty movies?”

  “The rascals ordered Hustler TV!”

  Glont lowered Tom Two to the floor. The diminutive figure took a couple steps backward, craned his neck back to regard his uncle. Again, he gesticulated animatedly: It was The Membrane’s idea. I tried to stop him.

  “Oh, I bet you tried to stop him,” Glont said.

  Tom Two’s elongated wraithlike face blushed as he continued to sign at him.

  “You guys watched She Chomps Dad-Ass Like Pac-Man Chomps Dots - Part 8?” Glont said, wide-eyed. “C’mon, Double T. You know you’re not allowed to watch those kind of movies. Christ, you’re only two years old.”

  Just then, a slithering, slinking, skulking, sneaking, snaking sound—something like a wet towel dragging itself down the staircase—reached Glont’s ears, prompting him to turn toward the doorway. And what should appear there a beat later?

  Why it was none other than The Membrane itself!

  Chapter 4

  T he Membrane was, well, a membrane. And if you think Tom Two was creepy with the whole simultaneously-ancient-while-being-perpetually-two-years-old thing and the whole looking-like-the-screamer-from-the-Munch-painting thing, well, The Membrane—or ’Brane, as Glont sometimes called him—was fifty times creepier.

  While Tom Two was always vague and inconsistent about any memories of his potentially ancient past, he remembered when he first met The Membrane with great clarity. Although he couldn’t put an exact date on the occasion, Tom Two had discovered the slimy thing back when the Lamont house was still new, back when the house sat on a dirt road miles away from any other human settlement, surrounded by hundreds of acres of farm fields.

  It first appeared in the corner of the cellar, initially as a greasy, silver dollar-sized spot on the field-stone wall, twitching every ten minutes or so as if of its own volition. Over a period of weeks, Tom Two watched the strange organism slowly secrete from the wall, expanding from that small blotch into an ellipse roughly four feet high before peeling itself from the wall and dropping to the floor. At that point, Tom Two went to Ezekiel and Martha Lamont—Glont’s great-great-great-great grandparents—and told them about the strange thing he’d found in the cellar.

  Understandably, these pioneering God-fearin’ Christian folk were repulsed by the creature and wanted to remove the thing from their house. But Tom Two wanted to keep it—he wanted the damned thing to be his little brother. After he threw a shit fit, the Lamonts reluctantly agreed. Tom Two named the thing The Membrane.

  For a biological entity that was essentially a pale, translucent sheet of skin-like tissue marbled through with spidery blue veins and often glazed in a clear, watery mucus, The Membrane got around pretty well by pulling, pushing, creeping, crawling, and dragging itself around like some sort of deflated blob. Despite lacking any obvious sense organs, The Membrane could see, hear, and smell as well as most people. Highly intelligent to boot, it was able to do things like add sums, subtract differences, read books, play chess, and order Hustler TV.

  Remember how a carload of government agents took Tom Two away to study him for five years? Well, those same agents also got word of the existence of Tom Two’s even weirder “brother,” which they abducted shortly after apprehending Tom Two. As in the case of Tom Two, years of testing and intensive research left the scientists with no clue as to what the fuck The Membrane was, though they observed that The Membrane’s cells were not perpetually two years old like those of Tom Two. But how the bizarre organism displayed a high degree of intelligence, had a functioning circulatory system, and possessed complex motor skills without the benefits of having a brain, heart, or muscular skeletal system remained a baffling mystery.

  So, as in the case of its brother, after years of The Membrane getting poked and prodded by the white coats, a government car eventually pulled up to the Lamont residence one morning and dropped the thing off.

  The conclusion of the government’s final peer-reviewed, publicized report on The Membrane read as follows:

  “Conclusion: Therefore, we can only assume that The Membrane is some sort of fucking weird-ass, unholy, witchcraft- or voodoo-spawned ABOMINATION OF NATURE like its brother, Tom Two! WTF!!!!! Now get this thing the hell out of here already!!! And while you’re up, go pour me a stiff drink!”

  ***

  “Just the membrane I wanted to see,” Glont said as The Membrane crawled into the living room. “Is it true that you ordered Hustler TV today and watched She Chomps Dad-Ass Like Pac-Man Chomps Dots - Part 8?”

  The Membrane slid next to Tom Two, reshaping itself so that two arm-like appendages rose from its bulk. The limbs themselves grew hands, which sprouted plump fingers that waved about in the air, gesticulating in proficient sign language.

  “Oh, so it was Tom Two’s idea, huh?” Glont asked, interpreting. “Tom Two forced you to watch it? Yeah, right. Hey, listen. Ma Ruth and I don’t really care what you watch on TV. You’re legit hundreds of years old or something. But Tom Two’s only two. So the next time you want to watch porn, do it in private.”

  Tom Two signed at him to object: I might be eons old.

  “Well, whether you like it or not,” Glont said, “you’re also two years old. But never mind that. Now, listen. Halloween is in two days, and I was just thinking that since you’re such a big boy now, Tom Two—and possibly even eons old, as you just pointed out—maybe you and ’Brane can go reverse trick-or-treating without adult supervision this year, eh? Just the two of you. All by yourselves. Whaddaya guys think?”

  Tom Two immediately shook his head before signing: You have to take us reverse trick-or-treating ‘cause I’m only two.

  “Hey, what happened to being eons old?” Glont said. “C’mon, man. At least be consistent.”

  Tom Two rushed forward, latched onto Glont’s leg again.

  “Aw, look, he’s a-skeered!” Ma Ruth said. “Put yerself in his shoes. Would ya wanna go reverse trick-or-treatin’ without an adult, what with all dem mean people starin’ atcha and sayin’ awful things to ya all night long?”

  “It’s perfectly safe, Ma,” Glont said.

  “Even if it is, that doesn’t mean it’s not skeery for him.”

  “But he’ll have The Membrane to protect him.”

  That’s when The Membrane sprang forward and latched onto Glont’s other leg, trembling in fear worse than Tom Two.

  Glont sighed heavily, rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue in protest of the situation. “Alright, alright,” he said grudgingly, patting the crown of Tom Two’s sombrero with one hand and the slimy back of The Membrane with the other. “Guess I’m taking you guys reverse trick-or-treating again this year.”

  He cast a gimlet eye at his mother. “But t
he way things are going, Ma Ruth is never going to get any friggin’ grandkids.”

  Chapter 5

  A fter Tom Two and The Membrane let go of his legs, Tom Two signed up at Glont: I want to go regular trick-or-treating this year.

  “Sorry, big man,” Glont said as he crouched down to Tom Two’s level, “but that’s impossible.”

  Tom Two continued to sign at him. It was the same scene every Halloween: Tom Two would object to not being allowed to go regular trick-or-treating like all the other kids, and Glont would have to remind him of the great importance of reverse trick-or-treating.

  The tradition of reverse trick-or-treating went back hundreds of years, back further than anyone in town could remember. In fact, Selohssa’s collective memory of the time Tom Two had resided in their town was inseparable from the tradition of reverse trick-or-treating itself. For the townspeople had always feared and hated Tom Two, whom they regarded as a monster. Later on, they felt the same way when they learned of the existence of The Membrane. And although the two weird beings did not pose any sort of threat to the town like, say, a homicidal monster such as TERROR MANNEQUIN, the townspeople despised Tom Two and The Membrane just as much as they feared the fabled, diabolical boogeyman that purportedly lurked around Fallingwater.

  The only way the townspeople permitted Tom Two and The Membrane to live in their midst—even confined to the Lamont house 364 days a year as they were—was if the pair set out on Halloween night every year with overfilled sacks of candy to pass out to all the town’s inhabitants in a practice that was as much a form of ritualistic tribute as it was a cruel walk of shame.

  Should the pair ever fail to bring candy to even one inhabited house in Selohssa on Halloween night, then the people had permission to kill Tom Two and The Membrane, or at least drive them out of town.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know you want people to put candy in your bag instead,” Glont said. “And I know you want to dress up in a Halloween costume like all the other kids, but that’s against the rules. We’ll have our own little Halloween party back here after you guys finish—just like we always do—with lots of candy and treats. And you can dress up as whatever you want. We’ll watch a scary movie, too. How’s that sound, Double T?”

  Tom Two’s ghostly, oblong face wore a crestfallen expression. He did not reply.

  “C’mon, my dude. Cheer up. Hey, what scary movie do you want to watch on Halloween?”

  Taken 27, Tom Two signed in reply.

  “Sure, we can watch that,” Glont said. “And what do you want to dress up as for our Halloween party?”

  Tom Two signed, Liam Neeson as seen in Taken 27.

  “Well, that’s should be pretty easy. All we have to do is get you a black suit and a skull mask. How about you, The Membrane? What do you want to be for Halloween?”

  The Membrane flailed its appendages in response: A goddamn, motherfuckin’, pussy- demolishin’ hustla!

  “Eh, I don’t think so, ’Brane. How about Harry Potter? Or Iron Man? Or a ghost or a pirate or something?”

  How about you go choke to death on a big, blue, molasses-sweet, spiked dick? was the Membrane’s signed response.

  “Why you!” But before Glont could reprimand the thing further, The Membrane pulled from one of its loose membranous folds a pie container filled with rotting animal guts. The creature then shoved the “roadkill pie” (one of The Membrane’s favorite pranks) into Glont’s face.

  Glont wiped away the jellied blood, sticky squirrel and raccoon intestines, and wriggling maggots from his mug, flinging the offal onto the floor. As he did so, the Membrane scuttled out of the living room, into the hall, and up the stairs, inciting laughter from both Tom Two and Ma Ruth. Though soundless, Tom Two’s mute laughter was gut-busting nevertheless. For her part, Ma Ruth convulsed with the labored, dry, croaking cackle of a veteran heavy smoker, her hacking guffaws accompanied by a steady, unchecked trickle of brown sputum flecked with cherry-red, oozing freely down her pointy chin to pool in her lap.

  Glont shook his head. “Man, who the heck needs enemies?”

  Chapter 6

  A fter Glont cleaned himself up, he prepared dinner for the family. The only thing Tom Two ever ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner was SpaghettiOs with meatballs. The Membrane was the same way, but with Totino’s Party Pizzas. This was a good thing, as money was tight; the Lamont home was heavily mortgaged and taxed, and Ma Ruth’s leprosy and bubonic plague medicines were outrageously expensive.

  Tom Two was a SpaghettiO-eating machine, his spoon dipping into his bowl just as rapidly as it ascended to shovel the o-shaped pasta into his oval-shaped mouth in a continuous loop until the bowl was empty. The little dude could finish off a family-sized can by himself in under a minute. For its part, The Membrane completely enveloped its Totino’s Party Pizzas, liquefying them with a secreted digestive acid and completely absorbing the resultant goo. It was pretty grody to watch. That evening, Glont got the usual for his nephews and reheated some leftover Chinese takeout for Ma Ruth and himself.

  “Phone ring much today?” Glont asked as he chowed down on his chicken chow mein at the kitchen table.

  “’bout a dozen pranksters,” Ma Ruth said.

  It was that time of year again: the time when some of Selohssa’s more impatient residents called the Lamont household to harass Tom Two and The Membrane in overeager anticipation of the yearly reverse trick-or-treating spectacle. For that reason, Ma Ruth and Glont didn’t answer the phone much at all during the month of October.

  “Well, why were you answering the phone?”

  “In case Old Crub called for me, stupid.”

  Glont rolled his eyes.

  After the boys helped Glont clear the table and wash the dishes, everyone migrated to the living room. Ma Ruth settled back into her rocker and said, “How’s about a song from Tom Two?” As she spoke, Tom Two’s weird, wobbly eyes widened in excitement, and he shuffled off to the hallway closet to fetch his tuba.

  Seated on the sofa, Glont faked a yawn and a stretch. “Ya know what? I’m getting pretty tired. Think I’m gonna go up to bed now. Had a long day at work, ya know.”

  “Long day at work, my bony old butt!” Ma Ruth said. “What do you know about long days at work? What, did ya have a long day playin’ yer video games, drinkin’ beer, smokin’ dope, stranglin’ yer little snake, and bein’ lazy and takin’ naps? Now, you stay down here and listen to Tom Two play a song for us!”

  Glont groaned.

  Tom Two dragged his tuba to the center of the room. Dwarfed by the thing and standing behind it, he positioned the instrument so its bottom bend rested on the thinly carpeted floor, the bell pointing up at the ceiling.

  “What are ya gonna for play fer us, sweetie?” Ma Ruth said.

  Tom Two’s arms and hands wagged in response: “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

  “Let’s hear it!”

  Before Tom Two pressed his lipless mouth to the mouthpiece to blow the first note, Glont clamped his hands over his ears. The Membrane, who had spread itself out on the floor not far from Glont’s feet like some throw rug from hell, did the equivalent by crumbling itself into a ball. They both knew what was coming.

  The slow, lumbering succession of booming, fart-like tones Tom played was intended to be “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” but was more like a very rough rhythmic approximation of the song, each harsh note blown wincingly out of key. After mangling the simple melody a few times, he launched into an improvised solo, pumping those valves as fast as his little fingers would go, producing something that sounded like an elephant causing a multi-car pileup on a freeway.

  The only one present who enjoyed the music was Ma Ruth, but only because she was nuthouse-bugshit insane. She rocked back and forth, cackling and clapping her splayed hands in a furor, mouth agape, tongue wagging around like a big pink maggot as a mixture of sputum, blood, bile, diarrhea, and Bulgarian clown jizz bubbled out of her mouth.

  (Not sure where the Bulgarian clown jizz came from—well,
from a Bulgarian clown, obviously, or else it wouldn’t be “Bulgarian clown jizz,” but that’s about all I know about that.)

  The corded phone mounted on the wall in the kitchen rang: BRRRINNNNNNNGGGGGGG!

  Tom Two stopped playing as Glont withdrew his hands from his ears. “I’ll get it,” he said a little too enthusiastically as he rose from the sofa. Anything to get away from that tuba.

  “Oh, I bet it’s just another prank caller,” Ma Ruth said.

  “It could be Old Crub callin’ for ya, Ma.” Glont went into the kitchen, grabbed the phone from its base. “Yellllow,” he said into the mouthpiece.

  “Is Tom Two there?” an older adult male voice said.

  “Yes, he is. But he’s not taking any calls right now. Can I take a message? Who may I ask is calling?” Glont’s tone was overly cheerful.

  “Is The Membrane there?”

  “Yes. But The Membrane’s not taking any calls either. Mr. Peterson, is that you?”

  There was a short pause on the other end. “Yep, it’s Bill Peterson.” Mr. Peterson owned the barbershop in the square downtown. The only barber in town, the old man had cut Glont’s hair ever since Glont was a boy.

  “Yeah, if you’d leave ’em a message from me, I’d sure appreciate it, son,” he said, before clearing his throat. “Tell Tom Two and The Membrane that I said FUCK YOU!”

  Glont heard people laughing in the background.

  “And tell those two freaks I HATE ’EM! And tell ’em I said THEY SHOULD JUST FUCKIN’ KILL THEMSELVES ALREADY! Heh-heh-heh.”

  “Well, fuck you too, Mr. Peterson, ya old-ass, Wilford Brimley-lookin’ motherfucker.”

  Glont slammed the phone back on the base. He grabbed a can of beer from the fridge, cracked it open, and went back into the living room.

  “I told ya,” Ma Ruth said.

  “Well, I think I’m gonna head on up now,” Glont said, prompting Tom Two to sign at him.