Modern Merlin

by Jason Paul Rice

  She slinked all the way into the store. “Of course, thank you. Sorry about that.”

  Relief cascaded through her body. Coffee had always made her sick, but she needed artificial energy. She walked past the potato chips, donuts and snack cakes to get to the cooler. She hadn’t slept in the two days since she had seen that—that thing.

  No.

  Wait.

  She hadn’t seen any image.

  At least, that was what she tried to convince herself.

  She hadn’t seen anything.

  It was too dark in the basement of that tarot reading place.

  The lamp had been knocked off the table.

  The light coming from it was making queer shadows.

  Surely that explained it all.

  Frantic thoughts flurried down like a blizzard, freezing her mind and conscience.

  Emily reached out to grab the biggest cans she could find. She unsteadily carried six 32-ounce cans up to the counter and dropped them harder than she had anticipated. The clerk grabbed a rolling black cylinder before it fell to the ground. He pulled in the beverages and used his pinky finger to count them three times before scanning one can’s UPC six times.

  Emily Rodgers was past the delirious stage in her sleeplessness. Her current confusion was causing a staring contest between her and Coke-bottle Willie.

  The clerk broke the silence. “Ten dolla’ and twenty-seven cent. Cash or charge?”

  Emily came out of her haze and asked, “You take checks?” She tried to smile but her lips wouldn’t quite acquiesce.

  He stroked the hair on his chin with his thumb and index finger. “Used ta. Not no more since too many deadbeats mest it all up for e’ryone. Now she’s just cash or charge.”

  Emily reached into her pocket and felt over the stack of credit cards. Most of them were worth more in plastic than the balance of the account. Hell, six cards out of the baker’s dozen she owed money on.

  She dove deeper for the bills in the bottom of the pocket and shaped her hand like a shovel to scoop out the money, throwing the wrinkled bills onto the white counter.

  “How much was it?” She looked up with desperation in her eyes and sweat building above her brows.

  “Ten twenty-seven, young lady.”

  She started unraveling and laying out the notes.

  $1

  $1

  $1

  $5

  $1

  She flattened out the last bill and stared at the face of George Washington.

  Shit.

  She ruffled every bill with her thumbs and fingers, hoping that two notes had gotten stuck together.

  No luck.

  She checked her other three pockets for paper money or coins.

  No luck.

  Her eyes darted to the Give A Penny—Take A Penny box near the register. It still applied for give 27 pennies, take 27 pennies, right? Unfortunately, it only held about ten cents.

  No luck there. She thought about running to her car to look for change.

  Emily tried to put on a sympathetic face, not realizing that she looked like a strung-out vampire, especially with the smeared mascara. She stared into the clerk’s thick lenses and distorted gray eyes that reminded her of the wacky mirrors at the carnivals.

  He appeared to still be looking off to the right, and her hopes faded.

  He adjusted his glasses. “What is it ya got there? Is ‘at ten? Just gimme that an’ let me make sure it looks OK, an’ we’ll get ya all fixed up.”

  “Thank you. Thank you.” She shoved the bills over with her forearm, that was covered with red scratches.

  “Thank you again,” she said, and this time she could smile.

  She snatched the handles of the plastic bag.

  The older clerk pushed his glasses up. “Don’t be doin’ nothin’ stupit an’ try drinkin’ em all in one shot now.”

  She shook her head. “No, no, nothing like that.”

  Emily opened the screen door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She hit the remote unlock button and nothing happened. She had to wait until she was almost on top of the Jeep Grand Cherokee before the locks finally clicked.

  Her vehicle looked great from the outside. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Emily Rodgers right now. She had heavy black shaded bags under her yellowish, glossy eyes.

  She turned the key and silently said an atheist-style, “Oh, please, Great God in the sky help my car start.” kind of prayer. The slow rumble of a neglected engine attempted to gain traction. She pressed the gas a couple of times, not really knowing why. Perhaps she had seen it on TV or in a movie.

  Chugga...

  Chugga...

  Chugga...

  The vehicle finally caught, and Emily patted the steering wheel as if it were a good dog. She checked the rearview mirror in hopes of seeing the big plume of black smoke that confirmed the SUV was running.

  Oh, shit.

  Quickly, she glanced away. She had forgotten she wasn’t supposed to look in mirrors. Instead, she focused on her expired inspection tags on the windshield.

  Emily tried to corral her nervous breathing and put two hands on the wheel.

  She lived right down the street.

  It should have been a simple exercise.

  Her mashed, sleepless thoughts tried to coalesce into a coherent plan for turning this car around without using the mirrors. Unfortunately, those thoughts collided with each other, thrusting her into deeper confusion.

  She closed her eyes and the image appeared.

  Oh, shit.

  Her eyelids flickered open as she shook her head from side to side. She slapped her left cheek a few times, then buried that same hand into the plastic bag on the passenger’s seat and pulled out a huge can. She stared at it like it were a trophy fish before cracking it open.

  The audible release of carbonation coupled with the aromatic burst of cherries and cinnamon widened her eyes. She took a greedy gulp too soon and choked. Fizzy purple foam spilled out the sides of her mouth and joined the other stains on her green tank top.

  She waited for the carbonation to settle and chugged it in small intervals, stopping to burp in between. Her mind churned, trying to put everything together, ultimately ending in confusion. Logic and reality were conspiring to betray her mind.

  What was going on?

  Right. She needed to turn this car around and get home.

  Emily turned the key and let go immediately because of the harsh grinding sound. She had forgotten the car was already running.

  This shouldn’t be that hard.

  She had so many other things to be focused on.

  Next Thursday, she had a make-or-break meeting to secure financing to save her failing business. She had inherited the role of CEO from her father right after he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. He had lost his memory soon after and hadn’t found out that Emily had thrust the company into a dire situation.

  There was the other offer. Was the tarot card reader really going to pay Emily $50,000 to dig something up from Houlihan’s Circle? She had trouble believing that a tarot card reader who worked out of his house would have that kind of money. That bag of cash in the basement had to be counterfeit. But it looked so real.

  She had only wanted the tarot reader to find something good in her future. Anything. She just wanted a little reassurance.

  Why had he taken her into the basement? All this confusion swirled around when she should have been focused.

  Her hands-on approach as a complete amateur in the Lumber Distribution Market had proceeded to dig a hole and bury the company in debt. That was all over now. What’s done is done and can never be undone.

  Right now, she should be concentrating on the meeting that could save her company. Instead, she struggled to figure out what she was doing sitting in her SUV outside the convenience store. She glanced in the rearview mirror.

  Oh, shit.

  Chapter 3

  Prince’s Mountain

  PRINCE’S MOUNTAIN
WAS a small town, in a small state, in a small country, on a small continent, on a small planet. The residents wished it were forgotten like most small towns or perhaps known for something like having the World’s Biggest Ball of Yarn. For a small town, it screamed a loud, scary story that had spread across most of the country.

  Most small towns don’t carry the dark secrets that Prince’s Mountain did.

  The name Prince’s Mountain did injustice to the area it described. There was nothing regal about it. The mountain part wasn’t even true. It was more like a small hill.

  Residents called it Prince Mount or the Prince for short. It was hot in the summer and cold in the winter, not the preternatural chill zone that all the movies had made it out to be.

  Summer was here but the livin’ was never easy in Prince’s Mountain. Since the downturn in the economy ten years before, this small town had been one of the first to be left behind.

  Big bank bailouts?

  Sure! How much?

  Relief for small town salt-of-the-earth?

  Hell no. The government can fix that by using an eraser on the map. No more Prince’s Mountain. Problem solved.

  Prince’s Mountain was mainly a run-down small town. If you were from a major city, it would be like stepping into a time machine and going back five to ten years.

  Little bit of a city, so a family could get supplies, but nothing fancy. At one time, the area had been known for beet growing, red specifically, among other things. Prince’s Mountain had enjoyed some incredible successes in its existence but all everyone wanted to talk about was Houlihan’s Circle.

  Nobody still knew exactly what was in those woods.

  No survivors. No stories.

  The big events had come in ’33, ’71 and ’99. Many people over the years had reported seeing it. Police reports included descriptions detailing the following:

  The devil.

  A vampire.

  A werewolf.

  A rabid boar.

  The Grim Reaper.

  Aliens.

  Paranormal prowler.

  George.

  One constant theme was borne out from the stories. Whatever IT was, he or she worked alone. All the reports only talked about one beast.

  People had hoped there would never be any new stories about George Houlihan. If there were more secrets to be told, the whispers had already started.

  Chapter 4

  Mike

  MIKE’S FEMALE GUEST finally left his apartment, and he climbed down from the pine tree. He glanced around, expecting to see Alayna, and went back inside. He couldn’t get his mind off one thing.

  Immediately, he trekked to the wastebasket in his room and pulled the packet of papers out. He tried his best to wipe off the drying vomit and flatten out the papers, then laid the pages out on his black dresser.

  They might as well have been written in a different language. Mike had never been a spelling bee champion, or even paid attention in English class, for that matter.

  He struggled as he went through the packet until he got to a page about holistic treatments. The doctor had known that Mike didn’t have any insurance so he gave him a few alternatives for treatment. Mike looked down at the bottom of the page.

  Initial Down Payment: $3750.

  Mike didn’t know what the word initial meant but he knew he needed about four grand just to get in the door of the holistic healing center. Crumpling the papers back up, he threw them at the wastebasket. He missed, and the uneven ball rolled to the side and joined the mess on his floor.

  Back in the kitchen, Mike rolled a joint on the counter. Mike twisted up both ends and tucked it behind his ear. He gathered an old gray and black radio from the 70s, two rods leaning against the corner of the wall and the fish scaler from next to the sink.

  Hands full, Mike kicked the entrance to his house open, then walked into the sunny day. Using his shoulder, he slammed the door closed.

  Mike walked into the woods next to his house and peeked over his right shoulder. A black and white car with blue and red lights on top drifted up to the end of his road. Mike ducked behind some brush.

  An officer got out of the passenger side and walked up to Mike’s door.

  Mike decided he had seen enough so he walked deeper into the woods. He gradually moved downhill toward the rushing sounds of the Tanzano River that hummed in the humid afternoon air.

  Mike walked down one last hill and set his rods and radio down at his favorite fishing spot. This was one of the few spots of the Tanzano where you could eat the fish you caught. The muddy riverbank extended out about ten feet before merging into a steep incline of patchy wild grass. He and Kyle kept some supplies under a small blue tarp in the high grass.

  Mike knelt at the base of the hill and started digging for worms. He pulled the clear green lighter out of his pocket, grabbed the joint from behind his ear. Then he used his yellow teeth to bite off one edge and untwisted the other side before firing it up.

  He almost lit his eyebrows up before moving the flaming joint away from his face. He blew out the lingering flame and took a few more hits. His phone buzzed in his left pocket, and he snatched it out. It was a third call from the Prince Mountain Police.

  A voice came from the top of the hill, “Whoa, there, Cheech. What time is it?”

  Mike responded, “It’s I-don’t-give-a-shit o’clock. The best time of all.”

  His best friend Kyle moved sideways down the hill, and picked up a little too much speed as he got to the bottom and almost ran into the river. He turned around and threw a roll of foil next to the black rectangular radio.

  “Fire up the Bucco game,” Mike suggested.

  Kyle grabbed the foil and ripped off a small piece. “Hells yeah.” He worked the radio dial with the index finger of his right hand, applying the foil to the antenna and moving it around with his left.

  Mike tried to help him out. “No, back a little. Move the foil down and bend the tip of the antenna. That worked last time.”

  Kyle finally zoned in, and they could hear the announcers over a slight buzz of static in the background.

  “Bingo, bitches,” Kyle said, and pretended to spike a football with his right arm. He was a mammoth of a man, with shaggy black hair and acne on his cheeks and forehead. He flexed his right arm and pointed his chin up, exposing the ‘hot dog roll’ on the back of his neck.

  “So why are the cops blowin’ me up?”

  Kyle’s jaw widened. “You ain’t remember what went down last night?”

  Mike handed Kyle his rod and set down a Styrofoam cup with dirt and worms in it. Kyle put the bait on his hook first, and Mike followed.

  As Mike cast into the relatively calm river, he said, “I don’t remember much. I woke up next to a big girl, though. I didn’t remember that.”

  “Come on, Ace, you can’t be serious. You were all over that girl at the bar and at the party. But that’s not the important stuff. It’s the stuff about Gary that we need to figure out.”

  The still water rippled around Mike’s line, but his rod remained still. “Oh, are you talking about tipping over those gravestones? I do have a hazy memory of that.”

  Kyle shook his head. “No, asshole, I’m talking about when we went to Houlihan’s Circle.”

  Mike closed one eye in confusion. “Why the hell would we do that?”

  Kyle explained, “It was you and Gary, man. You kept chirping about how you didn’t give a shit if you died, and life was bullshit or something, and Gary suggested we go to the graveyard. I just went along so you two pansies wouldn’t do nothin’ stupid.”

  Mike smirked. “Yeah right. You just didn’t want to be called a sissy. I know you. You don’t care nothin’ about us.”

  “You should be saying thank you. Anyway, that wasn’t enough for you two maniacs, and Gary dared you to go to Houlihan’s Circle. You remember any of this?”

  Mike scratched his shaved blond hair and squinted. “Not ringing a bell yet.”

  “You dumbass. We g
ot separated from Gary, and then that roar what sounded like a 350 engine rumblin’ scared the shit out of you. I swear I heard Gary screamin’ like a girl. I know I did. And then, that thing. I mean, I never believed in that bullshit about George, but I don’t know now.”

  Now it was ringing a bell. “That’s what those visions were. Shit, I do remember that ugly, hairy face with blood smeared all over it. The moon lit it up like a spotlight. Shit.”

  Kyle cast out into the middle of the river. “Shit is right, man. That smell, too. I can’t get that smell outta my nose. I’d rather smell your nasty beer farts right now.”

  Mike’s memories started to kick in. “I don’t remember the smell. I remember looking back when we were driving away in your truck and George was standing under that streetlight.”

  “Wait. So you believe in that shit?”

  Mike wasn’t sure what to believe. “We’ve all heard all the stories. Probably seen all the movies, too. That shit was like they said.”

  Kyle disagreed. “Man, it’s prolly just some nitwit in a ghillie suit that’s gone crazy. I ain’t trying to believe that this thing is like two hundred years old or whatever.”

  “So you think different people pop up over the years to kill in the same exact way and they all look the same?”

  “Look man, I don’t know what I believe right now. I know I wasn’t scared last night, but that shit was really weird. I really don’t need this right now, with the kid, and my girl is all over my case. I should be playing in the NFL right now.”

  Mike agreed with Kyle. He had been the best offensive lineman in school history, and had secured a scholarship to one of the top college football programs. Their high school coach had claimed that Kyle was a shoe-in for the National Football League.

  Unfortunately, Kyle tore several major ligaments in his knee in his final high school game and the doctors said he would never return to full strength in that knee.