Terror Mannequin

by Douglas Hackle

  “But after a month, I found myself still unable to exorcise the violent thoughts from my head. The retreat just wasn’t having its desired effect. I realized I needed a more effective method to rid myself of unchill thoughts, and I just so happened to stumble upon such a method in a book on Treetrap-Foofap-Glargarianism that I’d brought with me to Fallingwater.”

  “Treetrap…what?” Glont asked.

  “Treetrap-Foofap-Glargarianism. It’s a type of folk spirituality—essentially a hybrid of Tibetan Buddhist mysticism, Haitian voodoo, and Eastern Siberian shamanism. The Treetrap-Foofap-Glargarianism text I read spoke of something called tulpas, a concept originating in Tibetan Buddhist mysticism. Tulpas are sentient, willful beings created by concentrated thought. The text spoke of different types of tulpas and the proper mental techniques by which to create them. Of particular interest to me was a type of tulpa known as a slee-slaw. A slee-slaw is a physical manifestation of its maker’s own concentrated bad thoughts. They are created when a person wants to permanently rid themselves of such thoughts. If the creation of a slee-slaw is successful, the creator must destroy it at the moment of its birth. This way, the maker quite literally destroys his own evil thoughts.

  “You can imagine my excitement at my discovery, so I immediately followed the very detailed instructions on how to create a slee-slaw.” Chillington paused for a moment, his thin lips pulled into a somber straight line. He turned to the shaded windows, as if staring through them at something out in the woods. “And I…I was successful.”

  The Membrane signed at Chillington: So what all is involved with creating a slee-slaw, Chillonardo da Vinci?

  It’s “Chillington,” not “Chillonardo da Vinci,” Tom Two signed to correct him.

  “What’s involved with creating a slee-slaw?” Chillington said. “Man, you don’t even wanna know! Let’s just skip over that part.”

  But I do wanna know, The Membrane signed.

  “Why do you wanna know?” Chillington asked.

  Man, you don’t even wanna know why I wanna know! The Membrane signed.

  “Not true. I do wanna know why you wanna know,” Chillington said.

  Why do you wanna know why I wanna know? The Membrane signed.

  “Man, you don’t even wanna know why I wanna know why you wanna know!” Chillington said.

  On the contrary, Chillexander the Great. I do wanna know why you wanna know why I wanna know, The Membrane signed.

  “But why do you wanna know why you wanna know why I wanna know?” Chillington asked.

  Believe me, Baron von Chillster. You don’t even wanna know why I wanna know why you wanna know why I wanna know! The Membrane signed.

  This went on for a long time. In fact, it went on for decades and decades until everyone in this book fucking died and turned into dry white dogshit.

  THE END.

  Just kidding.

  Eventually, Chillington said, “Alright, alright. I’ll tell you guys how to make a slee-slaw. It’s complicated though. The first thing you have to do is visit a cemetery where a serial killer is buried, dig up the serial killer’s grave, dump the corpse, and steal the coffin. Then, after you bring the coffin to someplace private, you fill it with a bunch of items before reburying it exactly three nights before Halloween.”

  What sort of items, Chillmaster? Tom Two signed.

  “Well, first off, and most importantly, you have to put a heavy iron chain with a padlock in there. It will bind and immobilize the slee-slaw after it’s born so that you can swiftly destroy it before it ever has a chance to escape the coffin. As far as the other stuff goes, the list is really long, so I probably couldn’t tell you everything. But off the top of my head? Let’s see: a snippet of sage, a pinch of hemlock, a smidgeon of nightshade, a dash of mandrake root, a splash of rosewater. Oh, you also need some eye of newt, leg of lizard, tail of puppy, face of frog, wing of wasp, brain of bat, boner of bee, and swingin’ blue, low-slung nutsack of cockroach. Hm, what else? Oh, a Ouija board dipped in pig’s blood. Some of your own clothing, hair, nail clippings, vomit, and feces. You also need six evil dolls obtained from six haunted houses. Three malevolent marionettes. A fetal polar bear cub pickled in a jar of homemade clown tear-infused moonshine. A chimpanzee’s head, freshly severed and boiled in wolf piss. Hm, what else? Oh, sixty-nine Blockbuster video cards belonging to sixty-nine different people. And a photograph of Antoni Salieri (the Italian composer and conductor known primarily in modern times as the rumored rival of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, at least as he was depicted and popularized in the 1984 film Amadeus), but one that happens to be autographed by the lead singer of Soul Asylum.”

  “Wow,” Glont said. “You really got the lead singer of Soul Asylum to autograph a picture of Salieri for you?”

  “Yes. I had to. But that was actually relatively easy to acquire compared to some of the other stuff on the list. Like, for example, a live adult great white shark.”

  “What the?” Glont said. “How the hell did you get a live adult great white shark and get it to fit inside a coffin with all that other stuff?”

  “Well, luckily the spell stipulates that if you don’t have access to an adult great white shark and/or the mechanical means to stuff and compress an adult great white shark into a space as small as an already crowded coffin, then it’s okay to substitute a goldfish for the shark. Anyhow, lastly, you have to add some of your own blood, urine, and semen to the mix, along with a few more bee boners, I think. Then you shut the lid and bury the coffin six feet deep. When you return three nights later on Halloween night, you must stand above the grave and chant the word “slee-slaw” 69 times before you dig up the coffin. If you followed the instructions correctly, when you open the lid, you’ll gaze upon your chained up slee-slaw as it struggles in vain to free itself. In this way, the coffin is as much a tomb for the thing as it is a womb.

  “Every slee-slaw has a unique appearance, one that usually reflects the fears of its maker. The form mine took reflected my own greatest childhood fears. Namely mannequins, ventriloquist dummies, evil dolls, voodoo dolls, and jack-in-the-boxes.

  “Anyway, before a newly birthed, chained-bound slee-slaw gets a chance to escape its coffin, its creator must use a weapon—an ax or a sledge hammer is recommended—to smash its head without delay, thereby dispatching the evil thing and all the bad thoughts it embodies for good. Then, the coffin can be sealed and reburied. Unfortunately, despite my best efforts to follow all the instructions to the letter, I sorta forgot to put one of the required items in the coffin. A very, er, important item.”

  The Chain! The Membrane signed.

  His lips pursed in a grimace, Chillington shook his head in frustration and self-reproach. “Yeah, the friggin’ chain, man! And if there’s a lesson to be learned here, my chillbros, it is this: if you ever find you need to employ some fucked-up, crazy voodoo shit to create an evil, sentient manifestation of your own homicidal thoughts, don’t do it when you’re high as a mofo!

  “Anyhow, on Halloween night in 1989, just as I was stooping down in that grave to open the coffin to destroy my slee-slaw, the coffin lid flew off, whacked me in the forehead, sent me flying into the dirt wall behind me. The moment before I lost consciousness and crumpled to my knees, I saw the terrible thing stand up in the coffin. When I came to about an hour later, I was lying on my side in the otherwise-empty grave. The slee-slaw was gone. I climbed out to the sight of flashing red and blue emergency lights in the woods back in the direction of Fallingwater. I knew then that I was too late: something terrible had already happened.

  “I stole back to the house via the secret passage, where I consulted my book forthwith and learned that a slee-slaw’s creator must immediately make another type of tulpa if their slee-slaw escapes them—a sort of counter slee-slaw called a cree-craw. Whereas a slee-slaw is a materialization of bad thoughts, a cree-craw is a manifestation of chill thoughts. When done correctly, the very act of creating a cree-craw automatically destroys the analogous slee-slaw mer
e moments later, even if the evil thing has fled to the other side of the world. The two beings just sort of cancel each other out like matter and antimatter, both withering away within seconds.

  “Wow,” Glont said. “So did you have to gather a bunch of weird crap together and bury it in a coffin again?”

  “No. The creation of a cree-craw is considerably less complicated than that of a slee-slaw. To create a cree-craw, you just have to light a candle in an otherwise darkened bathroom, flush a couple bee boners down the toilet, and recite the word “cree-craw” sixty-nine times while staring into the mirror, at which point your cree-craw will climb out of it. A cree-craw physically resembles the slee-slaw that it was summoned to counter, but only as a chill parody. Hence, although Aw-Yeah’s physical form is similar to TERROR MANNEQUIN’s, his jack-in-the-box contains a harmless, rather unterrifying Chicken McNugget on a spring, whereas TERROR MANNEQUIN’s jack-in-the-box holds some sort of great evil that kills anyone who looks at it. And while the mannequin part of TERROR MANNEQUIN is the intelligence that controls the smaller parts, with Aw-Yeah, the Chicken McNugget is the brain.”

  Aw-Yeah’s Chicken McNugget rocked up and down in agreement.

  “But again, the biggest difference,” Chillington said, “is that while TERROR MANNEQUIN is unchill, Aw-Yeah is chill as hell.”

  Glont asked, “But if the chill cree-craw and the evil slee-slaw were supposed to cancel each other out, then how come Aw-Yeah is still around?”

  “Well, I screwed up again. When I was reciting the word ‘cree-craw’ while looking in the bathroom mirror, I lost count of how many times I’d said it. I think maybe I only said it sixty-eight times. Or maybe seventy-two. What can I say? I fucked it up. Apparently, I suck a big, fat, sweet, spiked blue dick when it comes to black magic and incantations and shit like that. I’m a Chillmaster, my dudes. That sort of thing is just not in my wheelhouse. Anyhow, I inherited Fallingwater after Old Man Cruthers’ death.”

  “No friggin’ way!” Glont said. “You’re the unknown beneficiary of Old Man Cruthers’ estate?”

  “I am. But I never intended to move here permanently. However, in the aftermath of the tragedy, I just couldn’t stand the guilt. See, all those children who fell to their deaths—they died because of me—because of my errors. So I holed myself up here and had the barbed wire fence put in and all those NO TRESPASSING signs put up. I began to drink and smoke weed more or less all day long to keep the terrible guilt at bay. That’s what I’ve been doing here for the last thirty years. It’s only been in the last few weeks that I finally began to sober up a little. During all this time, Aw-Yeah has cooked, cleaned, and run errands for me. To protect my privacy, I also have Aw-Yeah sit in front of the windows and creep around in the woods from time to time so that some trespassers get the occasional glimpse of what they assume is TERROR MANNEQUIN, sending them running away in terror. This helps keep the legend of TERROR MANNEQUIN alive, which helps keep the number of trespassers around here in check.”

  So was the real TERROR MANNEQUIN destroyed? The Membrane signed.

  “Of that, I am virtually certain. It’s been thirty years since I made Aw-Yeah, and not once have I come across any evidence that TERROR MANNEQUIN still exists on the grounds of Fallingwater or anywhere else in the world.”

  Perhaps to express his approval of the Chillmaster’s incredible story, Aw-Yeah was all, “Awwwwwwwwwwww yeah!”

  Chapter 20

  “W

  ell, hey, man,” Glont said, now fairly buzzed. “I’m glad you’re starting to put all that negative shit behind you and sobering up after all this time, healing and whatnot. So are you planning to go back to Chillville?”

  Chillington sighed. “I’d love to go back.”

  “That’s great. Shit, those folks are gonna freak when they see you. It’ll be a joyous occasion. Probably a big media event, too, I’d think.” Glont held his beer up. “Here’s to the triumphant, imminent return and joyous homecoming of Chillington, the motherfuckin’ goddamn Chillmaster of Chillville!”

  The Membrane raised its beer and Tom Two his apple cider, and the three toasted their host.

  “Thank you, my friends. But although I’d love to go back, I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  Why? Tom Two signed.

  “Because I still have those unchill thoughts.”

  “The same ones?” Glont asked. “Like, thoughts about killing people?”

  “Yes. And now I realize that the only way I’ll ever purge them from my mind is to…to act on them. Well, not literally. I mean, I wouldn’t want to actually kill anyone. But if I could just inflict a little pain on some assholes who really deserved it—if I could kick a few asses for once in my life, I think I could rid myself of the unchill thoughts. Like those assholes in town you’ve been talking about. I’m pretty certain I could free myself of my maddening thoughts if I slapped a few of them around a little, maybe doled out some black eyes and a few busted lips, or a few broken bones at the worst. In fact, I feel it is my destiny to do so. And I believe our destinies are integrally intertwined—that your visit here tonight was not by mere chance.”

  “But if you physically hurt people, even if they’re the biggest fucking assholes on the planet and, like, totally deserve it, won’t you have to give up your Chillmaster title?”

  “I will. Along with all the privileges that come with it, including the ability to return to my beloved home. In other words, regardless of whether I act on my thoughts or not, I can never go back. So if I must live the rest of my days outside of Chillville, I might as well do so without having to live with the tormenting thoughts.”

  And teach a few punk-ass suckas a lesson or two in the process! The Membrane signed, undulating with excitement.

  Yeah, teach a few punk-ass, whack-ass, uncouth, untoward, uncivil, basic-ass, tiny-dicked motherfuckers a motherfuckin’ lesson or two, Tom Two signed, jumping up and down on the sofa.

  “Language, Double T!” Glont scolded before turning to Chillington. “Hey, if you’re thinking about paying Lance Montgomery a visit, it might not be such a great idea. He and his meathead buddies would kick our drunk, stoned asses.”

  “Not Aw-Yeah’s ass. Remember, Aw-Yeah wasn’t even supposed to survive for more than a few minutes beyond his birth. But because I screwed up the cree-craw incantation that brought him here, not only did he survive, but as an unexpected side effect, he possesses superhuman strength. He’s kinda like Jason Vorhees or Michael Myers. He also has insane telekinetic powers that render him nearly invincible. Believe me, my chillbros—with Aw-Yeah on our side, no one’s kickin’ our asses.

  “So whaddaya say, guys? I think we have a party to crash, huh? But the night is young. It’s only twelve fifteen. Can you think of any other mean assholes in town that deserve a little surprise visit from my boy, Aw-motherfucking-Yeah?”

  Glont smiled, glancing from Chillington to Tom Two to The Membrane to Aw-Yeah, then back to Chillington. “Well, yeah, that basically describes the whole damned town. But, sure, I can definitely think of a few to start with.”

  But what if some of them are sorry for being mean to us? Tom Two signed. What if some of them promise to be kind people from now on?

  “Pfft,” Glont said. “I wouldn’t hold your breath, Tom Two.”

  “But he brings up a good point,” Chillington said. “It would be unchill of us if we didn’t at least offer people a chance to apologize and atone for their past behavior. And who knows? Maybe merely presenting assholes with the threat of physical punishment will be sufficient to purge me of my unchill thoughts.”

  And then Aw-Yeah was all, “Awwwwwwwwwww yeah!”

  Chapter 21

  A cross the street from the Lamont house, Mr. and Mrs. Brown were reading in bed and just minutes away from turning off their bedside light for the night—Mr. Brown reading Fuck Everybody Except You: Brutally Cutthroat Tactics to Becoming a Successful Entrepreneur in Late-Capitalist America while Mrs. Brown was reading Fifty Shades for t
he umpteenth time—when their doorbell rang at 12:30 AM.

  Mrs. Brown’s hardcover dropped from her face. She turned to her husband, fear in her eyes.

  “Damn kids,” Mr. Brown said. “It’s a little late for ding dong ditch though.”

  The doorbell rang again several seconds later.

  “Damn it!’ Mr. Brown said as he slammed his book on the bed and swung his legs out over the floor. In his pajamas, he stomped out of the bedroom and into the hall, where he flicked on the hall light. Mrs. Brown got out of bed and followed him in her nightgown.

  When he reached the front vestibule, he turned the porch light on and looked through the peephole. That Glont Lamont asshole from across the street was outside on the front walk with his two freak nephews and some older, long-haired man wearing red-orange sunglasses.

  “What the hell?” he grumbled as he turned the deadbolt and released the door chain. He opened the door a crack, his wife peeking over his shoulder. “It’s 12:30 in the morning, you morons! You already stopped here for reverse trick-or-treat. Don’t ya remember?”

  “Hello, friend,” Chillington said, taking a step forward, his hands folded at his midriff.

  “I’m not your friend, pal. Who the fuck are you?”

  “I am Chillington, the Chillmaster of Chillville. I’ve come here tonight to help right a wrong. And if it is possible for me to do so without violence, then I will. For he who is truly chill always pursues the most peaceful resolution first.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m offering you and your wife a chance to make amends for the years of cruel treatment you’ve shown my friends here—your neighbors from across the street. All you have to do is apologize to them, right here and now, and promise to treat them with common courtesy and neighborly goodwill from here on out.”