Mrs. Rahlo's Closet and Other Mad Tales

by R. E. Klein

“Charlie,” from Doll. “I hear the siren. Do it quick and let’s go.” Charlie’s hands moved to her face.

  “Now tell me that you love me and that you love Doll,” he whispered.

  The siren got loud, and then stopped. She heard a banging of doors.

  Doll had her head out the window.

  “Charlie, they’re coming in with a stretcher.”

  Charlie’s hand came down hard on Lucy’s mouth. He held her firmly with his big hand. Doll remained at the window.

  “They’re bringing the doc out, Charlie. They’re loading him aboard the ambulance. Jack is helping.”

  Jack.

  “I lied about the poison, Edna. Jack is still alive. I’m going to tell him you begged me for sex. Then I’ll cut his throat.” There was a slamming of doors. The siren sounded, diminished in volume, and faded out.

  “They’re gone, Charlie.”

  The hand came off the mouth and onto her body. His big lips moved close to her face.

  “Charlie,” said Doll. “The police are outside.”

  Charlie stood up.

  “Don’t say anything to embarrass me, Edna,” he whispered.

  She took a breath. She would tell them everything. She would not be afraid. Any moment now. She breathed out slowly and took another breath.

  Heavy footsteps pounded up the staircase. Two policemen burst into the room—and Jack—Jack was with them.

  But they were the same policemen who were at the bus stop.

  “Is this the man?” the first policeman asked.

  “Yes,” Jack shouted. “Arrest him. Get him out of here.”

  They were the same policemen.

  Charlie pulled out his red bandanna.

  “Officers”—he smiled—“Jack here tried to rape Edna.”

  “Well, ain’t he naughty,” exclaimed the first policeman.

  “Oh, bad Jackie,” said the second.

  “You may want to take him downstairs and hurt him,” said Charlie.

  Jack fought hard as they dragged him outside. He shouted and screamed all the way downstairs. She could still hear his voice dimly from a far part of the house. Then she couldn’t hear it anymore.

  “It’s good to see old friends.” Charlie winked at Lucy.

  A shrill cry of pain momentarily welled up from the floor below.

  Doll began to whistle.

  Then the house grew silent again.

  “I’m going to cut you now, Edna. You watching, Doll? Here follows dolorous pain, Edna, attended by a sordid and meaningless extinction—you’ll like that, won’t you? It is a digladiation that to oppugn were feckless, to resist were vain. First abrogation of conspectuity, next consopiation, followed by cessation of viability and adscititious conspurcation. Fetch me a large kitchen knife, Doll.”

  Doll stopped whistling. “You ain’t going to pull out her intestines, or something like that, are you, Charlie?” She looked worried as she left the room.

  Charlie sat down once more on the bed.

  “There are two things you should know, Edna. One is that I met your husband at an entrepreneur’s convention in Phoenix. I made friends with him, told him I would invest in his business. I followed him home, and I followed you.” He smiled down at her.

  Doll returned, handing a butcher knife to Charlie.

  “Oh,” he beamed, “this is the knife I’ve seen advertised; the blade is almost supernaturally sharp.”

  He licked his lips.

  “The other thing you should know is that our two official friends downstairs are members of the coven.”

  “Maybe she don’t know what that is, Charlie.”

  “I’ll put it simply. Pain and fear. As much as possible.” He smiled. “It’s for Satan, Edna. It’s all for Satan.”

  Charlie bound his red bandanna around Lucy’s eyes.

  “I might cut the eye or perforate the belly. Maybe right away, maybe not. That’s the fun of it, Edna, not knowing where or when it’s coming. Be alert now and see what happens.”

  She screamed, but the scream stayed inside her, echoing through all the dark passages of her body.

  Her body lurched spasmodically.

  “Wrong, Edna. That was only the tip of my ballpoint pen. Stimulating, huh? The next time it might be the knife.”

  She screamed silently till her consciousness became one torment of sound.

  Again her body wrenched.

  “Nope,” said Charlie’s voice. “Only the earpiece of my glasses. Gave you a turn, didn’t it? Maybe it’ll be the knife next time.”

  The screams stopped. She did not have even them anymore.

  She had only Jack’s face to think about. And Dr. Jim. No, they did something to him. She couldn’t remember what. But he was gone. Jack, too.

  “Blindfold off. What? Don’t you like my handsome face? Look at me, Edna.”

  There was nothing left now.

  “Look at my face, Edna.”

  Not even fear.

  “She’s gone, Charlie. Her mind’s gone.”

  “Oh, bad Edna. No use then for the bad old knife.” He laid it on her bosom.

  No, there was something. On her chest.

  Something screeched outside.

  “Charlie, there’s another squad car pulled up,” Doll said at the window.

  “Pain and fear.” Charlie smiled.

  “Charlie, I don’t know these cops. Look, the doctor’s with them.”

  “We had fun, didn’t we, Edna?” Charlie said.

  “Charlie, we got to get out.”

  Charlie shook his head. “Good-bye, Edna.” She was left alone. Except for the knife on her chest. He would be back for that. He would miss his knife.

  A lot of noise. Even now he was coming back for his knife. Someone bent over her.

  “Lucy. Jack, up here! She’s all right. They got them, Lucy. They got the bad cops. They got them all.”

  “Lucy?” another man burst into the room.

  “All right,” said Dr. Jim.

  “Thank God.” Jack hugged her. “Thank God, Lucy.”

  She blinked as the room filled with uniformed men.

  “My name is Edna,” she said.

  The Apprenticeship of Alan Patch

  I

  It was cold inside. And dark. The boy shivered, but not because of the cold, damp stone surrounding him. There was a faint odor of ash and rancid fat.

  “Mr. Corson,” the boy pleaded.

  No answer.

  “Mr. Corson!”

  The boy was alone. Mr. Corson had retired into the house, or hitched up the team and driven to town.

  “It’s cold in here.” He giggled nervously. His palms groped along the cold stone, coated with frozen grease. “And it hadn’t oughta be.”

  He bent to feel the perforations in the stone floor, beneath which ran the icy furnace pipes. The disturbed air wafted an acrid taste of ashes though no fires had burned for weeks.

  “There’s no way out,” he whispered. “I have to wait for Mr. Corson to unlock the door; maybe he won’t come till morning.

  “Mr. Corson,” he screamed. “I’m so afraid!”

  Silence.

  “Please, please let me out. I won’t run away anymore.” He leaped to bang his fists against the iron door, then collapsed to the floor, huddling himself against the greasy wall.

  It had all happened so suddenly. He never had time to consider it. Till now. Till on a bitterly chill November night he crouched, terrified and whimpering, locked inside the black vault of the crematorium.

  • • •

  “Alan, ya got ta do it.”

  “Please, Pa.”

  “The money’s been paid.”

  “Pa, no. Let me be a farmer like you.”

  “They ain’t much use fer farmers no more. Ya got ta think o’ yer future.”

  “Then make me a blacksmith, Pa. I’ll work hard, I promise.”

  “Ya ain’t got the strength, son. Yer too little.”

  “Then anything, anything but
that.”

  “Mr. Corson’s a successful man—not like yer pa. ’Sides”—he scratched the stubble on his lean cheek—“he’s taken on yer ’prenticeship fer next t’ nothin’.”

  “Pa, I don’t want to be an undertaker. I’m scared of dead folk.”

  “I paid the money, son.” He stared at the boy. “Yer fourteen now. In seven years y’ll be out o’ yer indenture. Someday y’ll have yer own business.”

  “Pa, don’t send me to Mr. Corson.”

  The old farmer laid a skinny arm across the boy’s shoulders.

  “It’s only forty mile away, son. Maybe, now ’n’ then, if Mr. Corson says it’s all right, one of us c’n visit t’other.”

  “Sure, Pa.” The boy wept. The lean farmer turned to repair a broken washtub. Tears rimmed his tired gray eyes.

  • • •

  It took two days to walk the forty miles to Mr. Corson’s undertaking establishment. A mile past town it was, a freshly whitewashed pine house adjacent to the graveyard; behind it clustered half a dozen shacks. The stone one farthest away looked vaguely like a smokehouse. No neighboring houses stood nearby. Only this house, the outbuildings, and a nearly empty graveyard full of weeds. He arrived in late afternoon.

  A shiny new sign hung over the door:

  J. W. CORSON

  UNDERTAKER

  COFFINMAKER

  A violent urge seized him to turn back. It was futile. He knocked on the door.

  No answer.

  He waited, then knocked again.

  Nothing.

  I can still go back, he told himself. But he knocked a third time, and it was too late. The door opened.

  A burly, hearty-grinning man in rolled-up shirtsleeves opened the door. His brawny hands were wet, and he was rubbing them together to dry them.

  “Mr. Corson, sir, I’m Alan Patch.”

  The undertaker continued to rub his hands. “Come in, boy,” he boomed. “Let’s have a clear look at you.” He ushered the boy into a chintz-covered parlor.

  “This here’s the waitin’ room”—he beamed proudly—“where the grief-stricken call on their dead. Sit down.” Alan sat. The undertaker took both of Alan’s small hands in his own powerful ones.

  “You’re a little thing, ain’t you?” He laughed. “Oh well, it don’t take much strength to pump chemicals into a corpse.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “Of course, you’ll be digging graves; that takes a heap of strength. You ever dig a grave, boy?”

  “No, sir, but I’ve done lots of digging—helping Pa on the farm.”

  “I see. Good, good.” His large, handsome face shone with pleasure.

  “Say, you hungry?”

  The undertaker took him to a kitchen and sat nodding and smiling as the boy bolted pork and beans.

  “I live upstairs,” Mr. Corson said. “You’ll sleep in a little shed I’ve fixed up for you outside.” He pulled out a massive pocket watch. “It’s late now. I’ll show you where your shed is.” He smiled happily. “I’m goin’ to town. Tomorrow I’ll start schoolin’ you in the business.”

  Alan nodded sleepily.

  The shed was old and musty-timbered—and too near the graveyard. But the bed was soft. Before he knew it he slept.

  The sunlight woke him.

  “Morning,” he mumbled. “Time to help Pa.” Then he remembered. He washed up from the pitcher and tin basin on the table next his bed, then climbed into his pants. Leaving the shed, he timidly knocked on the back door of the pine house.

  “You don’t need to knock,” said Mr. Corson, opening the door. “Just come in, make up the fire, and feed us our breakfast.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Corson seemed pleased with himself.

  “I just come back from town.” He winked slyly. “I ain’t been to bed yet.” They ate in silence. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad, Alan thought. The bright sun glowed behind the chintz curtains. Mr. Corson sat and beamed as Alan finished the dishes.

  “Come into the workroom,” Mr. Corson said. “I want to show you something.”

  Alan followed him into a big, semidarkened room, shielded with thick linen curtains. Metal tables occupied the workspace, all empty except for the ones bearing objects draped in black blankets. Mr. Corson walked over to one of the laden tables.

  “Come here, boy.”

  Alan hung back.

  “Come here, I say. You paralyzed?”

  Alan found himself standing next to the table.

  “Now what do you suppose is under this blanket? A couple of suitcases? Maybe some cabbages. Or a lot of old meat!” He tore off the blanket.

  The boy froze at the sight of the old lady. She was so white and wrinkled. She was so still.

  “Used to be a woman, Alan, jus’ like your ma—my ma; she was someone’s ma—someone’s grandma. Ain’t much of her, is there? She’s wrinkled all down to nothin’. Our job is to make her look pretty—where you goin’?”

  “Her eyes are open. They’re supposed to be closed.”

  “We close ’em; and we’ll paint her, too. Come over here.”

  Alan backed away. Mr. Corson grabbed him.

  Mr. Corson shoved Alan’s face against the wrinkled dead one.

  “That’s a corpse, boy. You’re going to live with them things.” He released his hold. Alan retreated to the wall. “There ain’t nothing to be a-scared of.” He laughed. “Sometimes they’re real funny. See that door? Open it. It’s only a closet. Open the door. Nothin’s goin’ to rush out and grab you.”

  “Please, Mr. Corson, I’ve—I’ve seen enough for one day.” The undertaker laughed loud and clapped him on the back.

  “Boy, you can’t be a mortician if you’re scared o’ cadavers. That’s a joke. Come on, you got to get used to the carcasses. You’ll be handlin’ ’em every day. Open that closet door. No, here, I’ll do it. See? There ain’t nothin’ inside but a big old iron coffin, and it’s sealed.”

  Alan had closed his eyes with the opening of the closet door. Now he saw that what Mr. Corson said was true, only a big black iron coffin.

  “Even I wouldn’t want to open this one.” The undertaker winked.

  “Last spring we had an awful flood. Lots of folks was drowned. A couple of men discovered a horse and rig hard by a big pool of water; they didn’t find the driver, so they brought the horse and rig back to town.

  “It took weeks for that pool to drain back into the river. Some boys was playin’ in a field one day, and they saw something left behind by the water. Him,” he said, pointing to the iron coffin.

  “The sheriff had a fella haul the remains over to me. I locked ’em in this thing. I’m keepin’ it here in case any heirs show up.” He contemplated the black iron.

  “Wow! All that time in the water. Wonder what he looks like. Want to open it and see?”

  Alan shook his head repeatedly.

  “I was only teasin’. But, say, if you lean way over, you can get a whiff of him. Wowee! Ugh! What do you say?”

  “No, sir, no. Please let me go outside for a while; I don’t feel well.”

  “Sure, boy, sure. You run around for a while. But you got to get over bein’ scared. I’m the one to help you do it.”

  • • •

  He knew Mr. Corson would be displeased with him for staying out so long. But he didn’t care—anything, if only temporarily, to leave the sick fear of that dreadful house. He roamed for hours, haunted by the white wrinkles on the dead lady’s face, conjuring unspeakable sights to picture the remains inside that iron coffin. He came to the graveyard; a slight breeze stirred the dead weeds. Even this place is better, he thought; here they’re all underground, and I can’t see ’em.

  Unlike the things beneath the blankets in Mr. Corson’s workroom. Who knows what grisly plan the undertaker might adopt to rid him of his fears. Then he remembered Pa—skinny old farmer, all alone—scratching a living in the eroded, worthless soil. He wept.

  • • •

  “You been away the whole day.”<
br />
  “I’m sorry, Mr. Corson. I . . . I just have to get used to things, that’s all.”

  “Of course”—the undertaker grinned—“that’s all. Them dead—they just take gettin’ used to. Now how’s about makin’ us some supper? I’m so hungry I could eat a corpse!” He seemed to find this a good joke and collapsed laughing while the boy carried a lamp into the darkened kitchen.

  The dead woman stood by the fire.

  Silence, a long silence. Then the boy screamed. When he came back to the sitting room, his face was white.

  “I couldn’t move,” he gasped. “Mr. Corson, I was that scared I couldn’t move. Why’d you do that, Mr. Corson? Why’d you dress her up in a hat and veil?”

  “You got to get used to them, boy; you got to.” He brought the corpse back to the sitting room. Alan shut his eyes.

  “If you close your eyes, I swear I’ll touch you with these here human remains.” Alan opened his eyes. “I’m a patient man, son, but this foolery has got to end. If folks knew my ’prentice was a coward, I’d be the laugh of the whole town. Now I’m a-carryin’ this back to the workroom, but you’ve got to do all like that from now on. What do you think I need a ’prentice for? Now go and make supper; no tricks this time, I promise you.”

  Alan was too ill to eat, but he made a pretense of doing so. After supper the two sat by the fireside in the parlor. Mr. Corson had a bottle of store-bought whiskey, from which he took occasional gulps.

  He was talking. Alan hoped he’d continue—despite the subject matter. He did not relish going out into the dark night to his shack that lay too near the graveyard.

  “That stone buildin’ yonder is the crematorium. I built it myself—though most folks prefer buryin’. There’s a little observation panel that lets you look inside. I tell you, sometimes them corpses is better than a circus. Once I had a deader whose whole body was frozen into a scream. I guess that’s the last thing he did in life—tried to scream, only he never finished ’cause he died. Well, when I turn the furnace up and he gets good and hot, he sits up sudden-like, spreads his eyes, and lets go with a horrible shriek.”

  “Please, Mr. Corson, please don’t tell me any more; I have to go outside and sleep in the shed.”

  “Boy, you gotta leave off bein’ scared, don’t you see? You gotta. Listen, here’s one about a skeleton with hair—.”