I was hired immediately. And while many initially saw it as some sort of sick prank that I earn my living literally standing directly above the spot where Kyle Skinner was killed, there were others who came to understand (or thought they understood) that this was my duty, my way to mourn, my method of healing that allowed me to give something back to society.
And I did give back. The trusty low-risk savings account. I was never told exactly where the money was filtered off to after I took the weekly take in fifty-pound strongboxes and helped pack them onto the armored GM van they also used for prison transport, but I suppose a portion was put right back into the city. I never came up with the cure for cancer, but we erected a huge bandstand down in the Common back in '83. I never discovered a way to solve world hunger, but I would bet dollars to donuts that the war memorial they put in the grove behind the recreation center in '95 was sponsored at least in part by some cash that came from my strongboxes.
Of course this is all well and good, but I am not trying to fool anybody. If you are reading this you know exactly who I am, what I have done, and where it has left me. Working the booth has been no picnic, and I am not immune to the spirits that dwell there. I am forty-six years old and I feel like I'm in my seventies. I eat poorly, on purpose, and have been loading up on daily doses of F9 Blood Liquescence ever since it became possible buy your own smorgasbord of drugs on the Internet. As I said, I am a walking time-bomb, a guaranteed candidate, no, an elected official for a heart attack or stroke, but before I pass there are two more things I am obligated to disclose.
First, please know that my mother was always innocent of all this. For your information, she developed osteoporosis, broke a hip when she took a header off the stairway in front of the Staples on Willow Street, and died in the hospital of pneumonia last year. She was always ignorant of the breadth of my sins, and for that I am thankful.
Second, understand that it was not just the supernatural that targeted this booth. Through the years I was attacked a total of twenty-six times on the job. Most were drunk teens chucking empty bottles or rocks at the booth for a laugh, but there were some incidents born of more serious motivation. I was shot at three times. Two of the occurrences were random acts of hate by those in vehicles I could not identify, but the one in the winter of 1984 was anything but random.
I was reading an article in a teen magazine that discussed the differences between Eighties sleaze hair metal and New Wave, when I heard a vehicle screech up to the gate. By the time I looked out, Mr. Skinner had already exited his vehicle. His hair was matted with sweat and he was shirtless. He called something to me but the fierce wind swallowed the words. I was lucky he was so drunk. The other assaults I experienced during my tenure in the booth were drive-bys, but here he really wanted to get his hands dirty. There was a double-plated bulletproof sliding glass unit above the half-door I exchanged cash out of, but I had left it up. Skinner only needed to walk four feet to have a clear, frontal shot at me.
He didn't. He staggered, took a position at an angle to the booth, spread his feet, aimed, and fired his weapon. It smoked and banged louder than I thought it would have. I had covered my face, and now slowly brought away my hands. The bullet had dented the safety glass and glanced off into the roadway. Skinner was not visible.
I got out of my chair and opened the portal door. Skinner had slid down to his butt. He had on dirty overalls with the straps down. He had snot coming out of his nose, and the wind blew it away in threads. He was propped up, back against the front right tire. He had one leg splayed out straight and the other bent at the knee, untied boot against the bottom of the booth. He looked at me with squinting, tearing eyes. He smiled crookedly, and brought the gun to his temple.
I just watched, hands dangling at my sides, breath coming out in steady little puffs that made clouds on the night air.
He started laughing. He laughed as he brought the weapon down, and laughed as he pushed to his feet. He offered me the gun, butt first.
"Eh?" he coaxed.
I just cocked my head a bit to the side and stared.
He turned and tossed the thing into the woods beyond the edge of the concrete deck. He started laughing for the second time, and I could still hear it as he drove off into the darkness. I never saw him after that night. He moved out of state and no one I knew ever heard from him again.
And so that concludes my story. When I am gone, the booth will inevitably fail and Siegal/Tri State Industries will finally control that section of roadway. They may even go back to the fine print, bust the shit out of that dirt-and-concrete tombstone and finally exhume Maryanne McKusker. It will be poor closure for her. She will be remembered as a vengeful spirit and sensationalized as worse.
As for me, I suppose this story is my closure, but one must be human to feel that kind of thing. My soul was erased years ago. I was a boy with dreams and I made a horrible mistake. I do not for a minute think myself more innocent than Kyle Skinner because I only threw one of those nails, and do not consider myself pure because I was unaware of the baby. I do not even feel there was righteousness in bringing fatal consequences to an unfeeling hoodlum who threatened a defenseless animal, even though the law would disagree with me.
When you strip this down to its bare bones, I am the worst kind of sinner. From everything I read about her, Maryanne McKusker was a wonderful person. I turned her into a monster. I could have told somebody before now. I could have at least told somebody.
Maryanne, please forgive me. And in my last days, when I see you rise from the dead looking only to take back what is yours, please know that I understand.
For I have always been the horror here.
I have always been the horror.
MICHAEL ARONOVITZ is an author and English instructor with a Masters in Education and a Masters in Literature. He has published short fiction in Midnight Zoo, Slippery When Wet, The Leopard's Realm, Crimson and Gray, The Nighthawk Magazine, Philly Fiction, Scars Publications, Demonminds, Fiction on the Web, Metal Scratches, and Studies in the Fantastic. He teaches twelfth grade language arts in a Philadelphia charter school. He lives with his wife and son in Wynnewood, Pennsylvania.
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