Children of the Fog

by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

  And so has Harry. He's just lost one thousand dollars.

  He lets out a cry of frustration. "Goddamn losers!"

  Leaning over—which in itself is a huge undertaking of clumsy choreography, a few squats and grunting wheezes—Harry finally retrieves the remote control from the floor. He places a hand on the top of the television, to steady himself as he rises and at the same time he changes channels with the remote.

  In the barest blink he recognizes a documentary on the Arctic.

  The next nanosecond, icy water engulfs him and his head dips beneath a watery grave. Pushing to the surface, he flounders and screams. "Help me!"

  But there is no other sign of life, and his own is crawling out of him in an icy blue trail.

  Jesus Christ, I'm drowning!

  He almost opens his right hand. And then he remembers. The remote.

  Teeth chattering, he prays harder than he's ever prayed. "Please let this work. Please!"

  He can barely feel his death-tinged fingers, yet he manages to cradle the remote in one hand as he pokes at the memory button.

  He's instantly transported back to the safety of his living room and the clock on the wall tells him that the game ended about ten minutes ago. He could have shrugged this off as another 'zoning out' period except for two things—he is ice cold and dripping wet. Arctic water pools around his feet, while his teeth continue clattering loud enough to wake the living dead.

  Or Beatrice, at the very least.

  She appears on cue in the doorway, her weary eyes blinking to adjust to the light, her arms folded across her tattered gray housecoat. It was blue when he'd bought it for her last Christmas.

  He watches her, wondering how long it will take her to realize that all is not right.

  "Harry?" Blink…yawn…gasp! "What in God's name is going on here?"

  * * *

  Beatrice searches the room for the source of the water. There's no leak in the ceiling and the kitchen sink isn't overflowing. So where'd all that water come from?

  Her eyes narrow in suspicion as she steps closer to Harry. "Did you go outside?"

  It's the only thing that makes any sense to her, yet the rain had stopped about half an hour ago.

  Harry gives her his 'you're so dense' glare, then releases an exasperated sigh. "Of course I didn't go outside."

  "Then why are you standing in the living room soaking wet?"

  Ignoring her, he pushes past and waddles toward the bathroom.

  "Just like a man," she mutters. "Avoid the question and run away."

  While he's gone, Beatrice cleans up the water on the hardwood floor. She searches for the remote control so she can turn off the TV, but it's nowhere to be found.

  "Harry?" she calls out. "Where's the remote?"

  He appears beside her, the remote firmly grasped in one hand.

  She holds out her hand.

  "I'm not done watching TV," he says.

  "But it's almost eleven-thirty."

  He looks at her, raises his eyebrows. "And your point is?"

  "You always go to bed by eleven when you have a job in the morning."

  "I know." He glances at the television. "But I have a plan that is sure to make us rich."

  She rolls her eyes. Another one of Harry's 'plans'. Oh goodie.

  "I have an idea," he continues, "that'll make you wish you'd never doubted me."

  "What I wish," she snaps, "is that you'd stop all your wishing once and for all. I wish that you'd stop pressuring me to work more hours and figure out a way to fix this mess we're in. In fact, I wish that you'd just leave me alone!"

  Beatrice turns on one heel, but his portentous words follow her.

  "Be careful what you wish for, dear Bea."

  * * *

  Harry is desperately afraid. Afraid that he's imagined everything, that he's had a stroke or something and temporarily blacked out. Terrified in a way that makes his heart race with anticipation that maybe, just maybe, he hasn't dreamt it up after all.

  There's only one way to find out.

  It's now just past midnight and Harry has changed his clothes, toweled off his hair, and his skin has returned to its normal color of malnourishment. Leaning forward as far as his tire tube belly allows, he sits in his recliner and contemplates how he can use his new best friend to make all his wishes come true. His pudgy hands are glued to the remote, as if his life depends on its close proximity.

  "Okay, RC," he says. "Let's see what you can really do."

  Now don't forget how smart Harry is. He's already thought this through. If everything that happened was real, then he has somehow found a kind of portal. And portals can be very useful—if one can figure out how to use them.

  "I was transported to the same hockey game I was watching on TV," he says. "I was actually there. Then I changed channels and went to the Arctic, just like the documentary." He shivers. "Bad move there."

  Needing something safe to test his theory on, he channel surfs.

  "There!"

  The screen shows dozens of digital cameras, flat screen TVs and laptops. Tonight's news is featuring a piece on the grand opening of a Best Buy store in southeast Edmonton. According to the reporter, the grand opening sale is on 'NOW'.

  "Then NOW is the best time," he says with a wry grin.

  He never stops to wonder what will happen if he selects a commercial that has been pre-recorded in a store that is now closed. But he does do two things. He wishes and waits.

  Nothing happens.

  "What the hell?"

  He holds the remote out in front, points and changes channels quickly, from a beer commercial back to the Best Buy ad, wishing with all his might for fame and fortune.

  Still nothing.

  He turns the television off, then on, and tries again. Point…wish…click channel button.

  Disappointed that he's still sitting in his chair, he says, "Why won't you work?"

  Scowling, he scratches his chins and replays previous actions in his head, thinking of everything he could have possibly done.

  Finally, he smiles. "Ah-ha! I touched the TV."

  Thankful he hadn't reclined his chair, he begins to rock. One…two…three! Up he goes.

  Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down.

  As a last thought, he grabs a hooded jacket he'd flung over the couch earlier that day. He doesn't bother to zip it up—he couldn't have even if he wanted to. But he does pull the hood over his head and fastens the top snap under his chins.

  He shuffles to the television and touches the faded black plastic. Making his wish, he switches back to the Best Buy commercial. In a single heartbeat, he sees his arm and hand disintegrate.

  Then Harry vanishes completely.

  * * *

  He's staring into a pitch-black cave. It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust, and when they do, he realizes that he's inside the Best Buy store—after closing. Not even a night janitor is around.

  "It works!" He jerks as his voice echoes through the cavernous building with its high, open ceiling.

  Harry is stunned. He's tempted to hit the memory button and return home to collect his thoughts. But then it hits him; he should be collecting something else. He's standing in a store filled with expensive electronic equipment. Stuff worth thousands of dollars. Per shelf. Stuff he could keep—or sell. And best of all, there's no sign of a break-in, and there'll be no evidence of his departure.

  He glances up, sees a security camera sweeping the area and pulls the hood tighter. "Security!"

  Chuckling at his brilliance, he stares at his good friend RC and strokes the small black box. "Can I take really something back with me?" He remembers something. "Well, I brought back some of the Arctic Ocean, didn't I?"

  Makes sense to him that objects can be transported just as easily as water.

  "This'll be a reconnaissance trip," he decides, thinking of the movie Ocean's Eleven with George Clooney and a host of other big name actors. "It'll be a dry run, and I'll be Clooney."


  He waddles down one aisle, grabs a Canon camera and wraps the strap around his neck. Then he shoves four small digital cameras into his jacket pockets, two per side. He grins. With a skip and a bounce in his step—well, as much as his three hundred and sixty pound frame will allow—he lumbers into a second aisle and scoops a laptop up with one hand.

  Then he sees it, the most wondrous thing in the store.

  A forty-two inch Panasonic flat-screen TV.

  Shuffling toward his treasure, he practically salivates at the sight, and he makes a decision that will make one of his routine wishes finally come true. He hugs the flat-screen, squeezes his eyes shut and says a quick prayer.

  "There's no place like home," he says.

  He tries to click his heels, but his marshmallow thighs won't let him.

  So he presses the memory button on the remote instead.

  * * *

  Harry stands motionless in his living room. His pockets are stuffed with stolen loot and the flat-screen he's holding makes his arms ache. He rests his new treasure on the couch and groans at the physical exertion. He stares at it and his jaw drops. A drip of drool slides from the corner of his mouth, down his chin and disappears into the unshaven folds of his face.

  Harry's eyes widen in comprehension. "I did it."

  He realizes something and puffs up his already expansive girth. He's no longer just Harold Fielding, plumber extraordinaire. Now he's a thief, a criminal, a wanted man.

  He grins and holds himself more erect. It feels good to be wanted, to be somebody special. A tingle of anticipation gives him a delicious shiver as he thinks of the police investigation that will follow. They'll wonder how someone got in and out without touching the doors or windows.

  They'll think I'm amazing.

  He empties his pockets. "And I am amazing."

  He can't believe he made away with it all. And he didn't even set off the Best Buy's alarm.

  Harry gasps. Maybe the press will give me a special nickname.

  "Maybe they'll call me The Disappearing TV Thief."

  Laughter escapes from his mouth, his bulky belly doing 'the wave' as it ripples with each laugh.

  He covers his mouth with fat fingers.

  What to do now…

  He must have an excuse for having all this state-of-the-art equipment. Now what can he tell Beatrice? Maybe an uncle passed away and left him—no, that wouldn't do. Beatrice knows he doesn't have an uncle.

  He snaps his fingers as an idea hits him.

  Harry grins. "I'll tell her I won everything. In a lottery."

  She'll never know the truth. She'd never approve of it.

  Suddenly, Harry hears a sound that makes his heart stop.

  Footsteps.

  Good God, Beatrice is awake!

  * * *

  You can read the rest of REMOTE CONTROL at Amazon or Smashwords.

  Visit Cheryl Kaye Tardif's site: http://www.cherylktardif.com

  Most families have deep, dark secrets and...

  Skeletons in the Closet

  SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET & OTHER CREEPY STORIES

  by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

  A Grave Error

  (Myrtle Murphy Mystery #1)

  Myrtle Murphy had everything she wanted out of life—a dead husband, a grown son who'd moved to the opposite coast and neighbors who minded their own business. But what she didn't have was money. She needed a job. At sixty-one and living off a pittance of an early retirement pension, she had no skills to fall back on.

  Unless you could call slipping your husband small doses of rat poison in his evening tea for over a month a skill. Yet, on the other hand, it had taken a certain amount of talent to flavor the tea—just so—to avoid being caught. And it had definitely taken a particular cleverness to dispose of Norman's body.

  Norm.

  Now there was a waste of space.

  Ever since he decided to have a midlife crisis at forty-eight, the man had been virtually useless. And yes, he decided. That's exactly what he told her after he came home with a brand new sports car that they couldn't afford.

  "I'm having a midlife crisis, Myrt, and you better get used to it."

  After that he started going out with the 'boys'.

  Boys! Yeah, right!

  The 'boys' were three semi-retired old coots, like Norm, who had nothing better to do than sit around Farley's Pub and get drunk, while spending their paychecks at the slot machines. Sometimes she'd find one of boys passed out on her couch the next morning. Often there was a mess of vomit on the floor.

  And who do you suppose cleaned that up?

  Myrtle, of course.

  For a while, she considered having her own midlife crisis, maybe buy herself a sports car, or go to a club for ladies' night. But she knew she was well past all that nonsense.

  Myrtle was having a Norman crisis instead.

  Her husband of thirty odd years was always complaining about how his life could have been better if he had done this. Or become that. Or lived there. He had practically driven her around the bend with his constant complaining.

  "I should've gone into computers," he muttered one day while they were dining at Denny's. "That's where the money is."

  "That's what you said last week about banking," she said dryly. "Why can't you just be happy with being a plumber? Some of your friends make more than enough." She paused, stroking her chin in mock thoughtfulness. "Course, they work twice as much as you do, and they don't turn down jobs because their thumb hurts."

  "Well, it did," he argued.

  She rolled her eyes. "And what about the time you said no to the townhouse complex, just because you wanted to go to the races with your boys?"

  "I needed a couple of days off," he said belligerently. "I worked hard that week."

  She snorted.

  "What?" he demanded. "What do you do all day? Watch soap operas is my guess."

  Her eyes narrowed. "You mean, what do I do after I've cleaned the house, washed all the laundry, paid our bills, checked the mail, gone shopping and made dinner? Hmm, well since you've been getting home around three each day, that doesn't leave me much time to watch soap operas, now does it?"

  The waitress interrupted them with their meals, a chicken salad for Myrtle and a bacon cheeseburger with fries for Norm. The girl plopped a bottle of ketchup on the table, then asked if they needed anything else.

  How about a cattle prod? Myrtle was tempted to say.

  "Oh, by the way," Norm said when the girl had left. "I'm gonna take back that vest you bought me."

  Her brow arched. "Really."

  He was talking about the green plaid vest she'd gotten him for his birthday last week. The one he had practically begged her for, that she'd traipsed three malls to find.

  "Yeah," he continued. "The boys said it washed me out, made me look old. Said I'd look better in red."

  She was about to make a sarcastic remark when Norm got to his feet.

  "Be right back," he said, before disappearing into the washroom.

  She picked up her fork, but her gaze came to rest on the ketchup bottle. It was the glass kind, the one with the little twist-off cap. The kind that was always temperamental, that wouldn't release the ketchup, forcing you to—

  A monsoon of an idea washed over her.

  She covertly glanced around the restaurant, then eyed the bathroom door. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she loosened the cap on the ketchup bottle. Then she slid the bottle toward her husband's plate, knowing that he wouldn't resist having ketchup with his fries.

  Sure enough, as soon as he sat down, he gripped the bottle in one hand.

  She held her breath, waiting to see him upend it all over his meal.

  But that's not exactly what happened.

  What did happen was far more rewarding.

  Norm shook the bottle. Vigorously.

  The cap flew off and ketchup exploded everywhere. It coated his gray hair, his grizzled face, then slid down his throat and under the collar of
his white shirt. The shocked look in his eyes swiftly turned to embarrassment.

  Myrtle passed him a napkin. "You should always check the lid first."

  A dribble of red goo oozed down Norm's shirt and plopped into his lap.

  "I'll go clean up in the bathroom," he mumbled.

  When he was almost at the bathroom door, she couldn't resist a last dig.

  "The boys were right," she hollered.

  Heads turned. People gasped, pointed and laughed.

  "About what?" Norm snapped.

  She grinned. "You do look better in red."

  That night, her husband went on a rampage. He didn't outright accuse her of loosening the ketchup cap, but she could see it in his eyes. He suspected her.

  "You better wash my shirt right away," he insisted. "I don't want it to stain."

  "Wash it yourself," she said with a scowl.

  "I can't. My back hurts."

  Her mouth thinned in anger.

  If it wasn't his back bothering him, it was his leg. Or he had indigestion, or his eye was twitching, or his ear was itchy.

  "If it gets worse I won't be able to go to work tomorrow," he said slyly.

  She washed the shirt. And left out the fabric softener.

  * * *

  The next night, Norm continued his little game. This time he had a migraine.

  That was the moment she snapped.

  "You're giving me a migraine!" she yelled.

  "Shh," Norm moaned, cringing and squinting up at her. "Make me some tea, will ya." It wasn't a request.

  She glared at him, hands on hips, fuming. Sometimes you're such a pest, Norm.

  A slow smile emerged. "Sure thing…dear."

  The rat poison was tucked under the kitchen sink, way in the back. She'd found it the other day when she was looking for a scrub brush. She had no idea where the box had come from. She hadn't even known they had a rat problem.

  "One half teaspoon," she murmured, carefully measuring out the fine white powder.

  A sprinkle of cinnamon and a spoonful of honey made Norm's tea just right. At least she hoped so. She certainly wasn't going to taste it to make sure.

  "Here," she said, plopping the cup down on the coffee table. "And here's a wedge of lemon."