by A. R. Wise
“Do you know what that is?” asked Juan. “A fire or something?”
“Not sure, but I saw something like this once. Back when I lived in Gary, Indiana, there was a junkyard that caught fire and all the tires burned up; sent a big cloud of green smoke over the whole damn place. Dollars to donuts the old Sanchez yard caught fire.”
A blast of green electricity rippled across the air outside, sticking to light poles and dancing along the edge of a UPS truck down the road. The fog billowed and puffed, encompassing more of the view every second.
Juan cursed and then said, “That’s no tire fire.”
Dogs barked and small shadows raced through the fog, as if children were running by. “What in the blazes?” asked Grace as she stared out into the thickening mist.
“Call the cops,” said Desmond as he walked with his son toward the front of the restaurant.
“Yeah,” said Grace. “Juan, get the police.”
“I don’t have no phone back here. You call from out there.”
“God dang it, Juan, the phone’s two feet from you.” Grace walked behind the counter to the white phone beside the door that led to the kitchen. Juan stayed in his window, staring at the bizarre scene on the street. She dialed 9-1-1 and then waved at Desmond and Raymond to come stand by her. “Get over here you two, behind the counter.”
“What do you think’s going on?” asked Desmond as he held his son’s hand and walked around the counter to join Grace. There was a black rubber matt on the ground that was perforated to keep the area behind the counter from getting slippery, but Desmond still slipped on its greasy surface as he walked over it. His palm thudded on the counter as he caught his balance.
Grace shrugged as she listened to the pre-recorded message from the Widowsfield Emergency Services. “Hell if I know. Probably just some prank or something.”
“Prank?” Juan’s skepticism came off as rude and demeaning. “Get real, girl. That’s no prank.”
“Well, darn it Juan, stop just standing around,” said Grace. “Do something to help.”
“Help with what?” he asked, still standing uselessly behind the window between the kitchen and front end.
“Lock the dang doors or something.”
“Shit,” he said as if she were being funny. “I’m not going near that door. Looks like the devil farted pure hell out there.”
“I’ll get it,” said Desmond.
Grace grinned at him and then turned to sneer at Juan. “Thanks, Dezy. At least we’ve got one man in here.”
Desmond let go of his son’s hand to head for the door, but heard Raymond begin to rustle the silverware beneath the counter. He saw his son rummaging through the steak knives.
“It’s all right, kiddo,” said Desmond. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”
Raymond held two knives, one in each hand, and looked up calmly at his father. “Yes there is.”
“Darling,” said Grace as she moved beside Raymond. “There’s nothing to be worried about.” She stood behind the boy and held him up against her waist with her hands crossed over his chest as she kept the phone perched between her shoulder and her ear. “I’m sure it’s just a freak storm or something. Nothing to be scared about. Okay? Nothing to be scared about.” She was clearly terrified.
“Then why lock the doors?” asked Raymond in a near whisper. They all knew there was something worth fearing in the mist. It was as if there was an innate knowledge bubbling to the surface in all of them.
Desmond spoke over his shoulder as he walked to the door, “Juan, if there’s a back door you should go lock it.”
“Yeah, Juan,” said Grace. “Stop being a useless turd and go lock the back door.”
Desmond turned the lock and Raymond pulled out of Grace’s arms as he screamed, “Dad, get down!”
“What?” Desmond turned, perplexed.
A brick flew at the front door from out of the fog. The glass shattered and the brick struck Desmond in the back of the head as shards crashed down around him. He staggered as Juan screamed. The cook’s voice was higher than a man of his girth should possess. Grace dropped the phone and tried to grab Raymond, but the boy was too fast for her. He bounded around the counter, still holding the steak knives, to save his father.
The brick had broken the upper half of the entrance, and the mist surged in through the hole. Shards of glass broke and fell as the mass moved in, as if the mist carried weight with it. Desmond was on his knees as the crackling green electricity zapped on the metal door behind him. The silhouettes of children in the mist focused on the Salt and Pepper Diner. Dogs barked and growled as the children rushed toward the restaurant.
“Ray!” Grace cried out for the boy, but didn’t know how else to react. She was dazed, terrified, and frozen in place. The phone at her feet continued to ask for her patience; her call would be answered in the order it was received.
Desmond crawled toward the counter, and held the back of his bloodied head. Raymond ran past him, into the surging mist. He swiped his knives through the incorporeal mass and the blades sparkled with green electricity.
“Ray,” said Desmond. “Get away from there.”
“Sorry, Daddy. I’m fighting back this time.” Raymond stood defiant in the mist, his knives held out at either side as the swirling vapor pooled at his feet.
The children on the street reached the windows, but the fog was too thick to see their faces. It looked as if the diner had been plunged into a tank of cloudy water. Grace saw mangled, bloody hands pressed against the glass. Blood smeared as the broken, twisted fingers scratched at the windows. She saw a dog’s snout appear where one of the children’s heads should be.
The shadows of children crowded in front of the diner, but one tall man stood among them. He was impossibly thin, and his arms draped longer than seemed natural. His head shuddered, and Grace could hear the chatter of teeth as he approached. He stood in front of the broken door, but Raymond blocked his entrance. Green light burned behind the crowd, and their shadows danced on the walls.
“No,” said Raymond.
Grace felt her throat tighten as the mist began to fill the diner. It was cold and dry. When it brushed against her skin it felt like a bed sheet was covering her. She swiped at it, but it thickened and wrapped around her limbs. She glanced back at Juan, but didn’t see the cook through the divide.
“I won’t do it,” said Raymond as if conversing with the thin man in the mist, though Grace didn’t hear any response.
The thin man came closer, and his shoulders rose as his arms bent. She couldn’t see anything more than his silhouette, but knew he was threatening the boy. Raymond turned, tears in his eyes, and stared at his father.
“The Skeleton Man wants your eyes, Daddy.”
Desmond croaked, but Grace couldn’t see him. She was trapped behind the counter as the mist thickened around her. She tried to break free, but it constricted her from all angles. When she tried to speak, her voice was lost, just like Desmond’s.
Juan’s high pitched screams erupted from the back room. He never did lock the back door, and Grace listened to the sound of dogs growling as they tore him apart. She didn’t have to see to understand what was happening as the dogs fought over his flesh.
Raymond’s knives reflected the green, electric light as he knelt down, out of Grace’s view, to slaughter his father. She could see Raymond’s face, crying and whimpering, as he dug the knife in. Desmond’s legs twitched, but the fog held him down.
“I’m so sorry,” said Raymond over and over as the blood squirted from the incisions. He stood up and tried to wipe his brow clean on his arm, but just smeared the blood worse. He set his knives on the counter and walked around as Grace watched, helplessly restrained by the tendrils of mist.
Raymond glanced at her, but then looked away as if ashamed. He took a spoon from the silverware cup under the counter and then returned to his father. Grace didn’t understand what he was doing until she heard the grotesque sound of Raymond s
cooping his father’s eyes out of his skull. The wet sound was bad enough, but when the spoon collided with the back of Desmond’s eye socket it caused a scraping sound that sent reverberations of fear through Grace. She convulsed, her knees weakened, and she flopped into the mist as if passing out, but was still held aloft.
Raymond tossed two fleshy lumps into the mist and The Skeleton Man greedily bent to search the ground for them. The monster laughed as he retrieved the eyeballs, and his chattering teeth quickened their pace.
“That doesn’t make you my Daddy,” said Raymond under his breath. His hands were shaking as he set the spoon on the counter, beside the two bloody knives.
Then the boy hung his head as his shoulders slunk. He turned, regretfully, and breathed deep when he looked up at Grace. “He’ll let me make it quick.”
Grace couldn’t respond.
Raymond seemed to be apologizing by the way he looked at her, forlorn and saddened. “It’ll only hurt for a minute.” He picked up the steak knife and walked around the counter.
16 Years Later
March 9th, 2012
“What did I do?” asked Paul.
“Just, don’t,” said Alma as she headed for the door. She held her hand up to keep Paul from touching her as she looked away from him. The sight of him sickened her.
“For Christ’s sake, Alma, two minutes ago you were all smiles. Now you’re treating me like a jerk. What’d I do?”
“More like who’d you do?” she said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She glared at him and then flipped him off. “Learn to flush the toilet, asshole.”
That helped him understand why she was angry. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Fucking low pressure toilet.”
“Have a good life.” Alma opened the door.
Paul walked behind her and put his hand on the door to stop it from opening all the way. “Hold up, Alma. You don’t have the right to be mad at me for this.”
“Excuse me?” She was furious with him for trying to defend himself.
“You’re the one that walked out on me.”
“Yeah, and I’m about to do it again. Go ahead and call up your bar sluts. Tell them the party’s back on.” She forced the door open and a gust of cold air stung her eyes, drawing forth tears that had been threatening to come anyhow.
“Alma, what about your dad? Are you going home? Come on, babe, don’t be like this.” He walked onto the deck with her as she rushed to leave. “God damn it.”
She heard him go back inside and then come out again before shutting the door. He was barefoot and wore only a thin t-shirt, jeans, and no coat as he chased her into the gravel parking lot behind the tattoo parlor.
“What are you doing?” asked Alma. “Go back inside. I’m not going to talk to you anymore.”
“Fine,” he said from several steps behind. “I’m just going to follow you home to make sure your dad isn’t there.”
She stopped and glared at him in disapproval. “Oh sure, you’re going to ride your bike with no shoes on. Go back inside and stop being an idiot.”
“I’m not letting you go home alone. If I let something bad happen to you, I’d never forgive myself.”
He stood ten feet away from her as they faced off in the lonely lot. The wind gusted again and she saw him shudder, looking pathetic as he stood in the sharp gravel, arms crossed over his thin shirt.
“Stop it, Paul. You’re being ridiculous. You can’t ride your bike without shoes on, let alone without a coat or helmet. You’re going to get pulled over.”
He shrugged.
“Stop it.”
“I’m not letting you go home alone.”
She groaned. “Fine. Go get some shoes on at least.”
“You promise to wait for me?”
“Yes, for crying out loud, you giant dork. I’ll wait.”
“Give me your keys.”
“What?” asked Alma.
“Give me your keys so I know you won’t take off before I get back.”
“Paul, just go get some damn shoes on. There’s broken glass all over out here.”
“Okay, fine, just give me your keys first.” He took a step towards her with his hand outstretched.
She glanced at the shards of glass mixed in with the gravel between them. She walked to Paul so he didn’t have to cross it. She slammed her keys into his hand. “Hurry up. It’s cold out here.”
He lifted the keys and tapped the teddy bear keychain. “Glad to see you kept him.”
“Only because I’m too lazy to get rid of him.”
Paul grinned. “Liar.”
“Whatever. Hurry up.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the side of her car. She wasn’t wearing a coat and shivered in the chilly night air.
Paul ran up the stairs two at a time and Alma took the opportunity to examine the damage on the side of her car. Stephen had slammed her father into the side door with enough force to leave a sizeable dent. She should’ve called her insurance immediately, but she didn’t want to be forced to be around her father any longer than she had to. She feared that if a police report was filed, her father would be given an opportunity to be a part of her life again. As silly as it sounded, even seeing his name on a police report was more contact with him than she wanted. It was better to keep him out of her life entirely.
Unfortunately, the car was leased, and she would have to get it fixed, which would be expensive. Her deductible was $500, and her bank account was already dangerously close to zero.
“Crap,” she said in frustration as she passed her palm over the damage. Then she caught sight of a girl standing on the corner, next to the tattoo parlor. She was smoking a cigarette and staring at Alma. She glanced away, pretending not to have been watching.
The girl was young, thin, and pretty. She had dark hair that was bobbed, and bright red lipstick. Her breasts were too large for her blouse, which was probably on purpose, and her jean skirt was short enough to reveal most of her long legs.
Alma didn’t need to ask to understand who she was. This was the girl Paul had just kicked out of his bed. Alma knew it by the look of jealousy in the girl’s eyes.
All of the hatred Alma felt for Paul was transferred to this innocent stranger. She hated the bitch.
Paul closed his door, drawing Alma’s attention away from the pretty stranger. He bounded down the stairs, his leather boots clopping on the wood, and then threw the keys to Alma. She caught them, which was a minor miracle, and got in her car as Paul got on his bike.
Alma’s radio was too loud, like always, and she quickly turned it down as she watched the pretty girl approach Paul. He was dismissive, and Alma watched while pretending not to. They spoke for a moment, but Paul started his bike to drown out what the girl was saying. It was an annoying move of his that he had done to Alma several times in the past when he didn’t want to argue anymore. The girl scowled and swiped a cigarette out of Paul’s mouth before walking away. Alma enjoyed a petty victory and couldn’t help but smile as she backed her car out of the lot.
Paul followed close behind as she headed home. Through the entire trip, Alma continued to look at Paul in her rearview. It seemed ridiculous that she’d driven to his apartment, only to return home with him behind her, planning to let him go back home again after. She thought about turning around, and going back to his apartment, but then she recalled the condom in the toilet. She couldn’t sleep in a bed that stank of sex, especially not after seeing the slut he’d been with.
The entire night was dizzying. The reporter’s interest in her past dragged her back into thoughts she’d been trying to forget. The confrontation with her father played out similar to how so many of their fights had before. And now the argument with Paul was happening just as it had so many times in the past. She felt like she was caught in a spiral, swirling around again and again, revisiting the mistakes of her past over and over. It was impossible to break free.
The last three digits of
the license plate on the car ahead of her were 314.
She stared at the number and her heart quickened. That damn number showed up everywhere. It haunted her.
Stephen had mentioned the number before she raced away from the restaurant. He knew about Chaos Magick, and she assumed he understood the significance of the number as a symbol or else he wouldn’t have brought it up.
Alma had been introduced to the belief system known as Chaos Magick by her mother. After Alma’s brother disappeared, her mother became obsessed with the date. She would hide the number, or the symbol for pi, around the house, claiming it was the only way they’d ever know the truth about what happened to her boy. Alma would wake up to find her mother drawing the number in permanent marker on Alma’s body. She would insist that they all focus on the symbol to help bring her son home.
The car ahead turned down a side street, and Alma was relieved that the number was out of her sight again. It brought pain with it, every time she saw it. When she could forget the number she was at peace, but then it would return, forcing her to recall the details of the worst day of her life. Not only did the number’s relation to pi represent a circle, but her emotions revolved around it in a cyclical manner as well. No matter how far she thought she could get from that date, it always returned.
Alma got home, with Paul behind her. It had only been a half hour since she left and she stared up at the bugs that gathered around the light outside of her apartment.
“Back again,” she said, feeling somewhat helpless.
The bugs swirled around the light, smacking into it and then retreating, sometimes stopping on the wall, but always returning; always smacking into the light and spinning around, like planets in orbit around the sun, over and over. The dance defined their lives. They couldn’t get away from it.
Paul tapped on her window with his keys, frightening her. She didn’t realize she’d been staring at the door long enough for him to get off his bike and approach.
“You scared the crap out of me,” she said as she got out.
“You all right?” he asked. “You’ve been sitting here staring at the door for awhile.”