I round the curb. A trolley rolls by, bells ringing. I count five passengers, each of them snapping pictures with cheap plastic cameras that only a tourist would carry. The last cruise ship party, I bet, making another round for souvenirs they passed over or coming ashore after spending the day on their cabin balcony, tipsy on sea air, with no intention of leaving the ship but twenty minutes before it leaves port deciding what the hell, let’s risk it, they can’t all be wasted or queer.
People have no sense of adventure.
Duval Street is bustling as usual. I pause to admire my reflection in a window and smirk at the expression on the shopkeeper’s face. Whether it’s my presence or not, something sends him round the counter and out of sight. What’s the matter, doll? Never seen a widower before? I sigh and move on, snatching an orange from a produce cart. It joins the lighter in my coat pocket. The cart caddy doesn’t so much as look up from the paper he’s so keen on finishing. The light here is angrier, if you can believe it, harsher. I can feel it tearing through the layers of black rayon and supple leather to gnaw at my war-torn skin. My body is a battleground, an old one, yet I don’t wear protection. Never have. I think it’s cruel to tell people that slathering themselves with SPF-whatever will protect them from the sky’s burning asshole. Look at my Nana. Wore sunscreen every day of her life. Wore long sleeves most of the year. She even started carrying one of those cute, frilly parasols (got some stares for that one, she did, but we were quite used to them by then). Dead at 28. Skin cancer. Genetics, they had said. So what good does the suckscreen do, besides leaving you smelling like a plastic houseplant?
Still pale as milk when she went, though. I guess I can give it that.
Everything around me is a blur, a spin cycle of brilliant colors—red, sky blue, sea blue, lime, vermillion, yellow—against stark white (the suckscreen at work), orange, and brown skin. Here is the gaggle of parrots I heard before, some pruning, some strutting about the sidewalk. No sign of the children with their hands full of chip crumbs and pieces of soggy burger buns. Across the street stands a hunchbacked man in more stereotypical pirate regalia, posing for snapshots. I can’t tell whether the hump is fake or not. I have no doubt his teeth are. Walking two steps in front of me is a young blonde, baked, her halter revealing black angel-wings faded blue stamped across her shoulder blades, a cell phone pressed to her ear. “No, I don’t like the lobster. Can’t we get the buffet, instead? No, I’m on Duval. Where is that again? A left? Wait a minute, something’s going on...”
The girl’s pace slows and I slow behind her. A crowd has formed about five yards ahead, just past a sign that proclaims “Fresh Fish! Live Music! Open Late!” in smudged pink chalk. Must be some good fish, I think, and I almost plow into the blonde who has come to a complete stop. “Sheena,” she’s saying, “I’ll have to call you back.”
I move around the blonde, now nervously twisting her ponytail through her fingers, and join the crowd which is quickly becoming a mob of sweaty hands on shoulders and bony elbows in ribs. Even in six inch heels, I can’t see what the fuss is all about. I straighten my veil and prepare to turn away when a woman steps out onto the balcony directly above us, looks down, and screams. Their collective daze broken, most of them step back to crane their heads in the woman’s direction. I take the opportunity to squeeze my way through to stand at the center of their circle. I’m just as confused as I had been seconds before.
A deer lays crumpled on its side, its head turned away, its neck broken. Its hind legs have been replaced with those of a man. Its front legs are human arms. Caucasian. Toned. Undoubtedly from the same body. But whose? I’m more fascinated by the wind-up device protruding from the poor beast’s back, huge, gold-plated. Definitely handmade. I have never seen a mechanism that size, like something that should be attached to Big Ben. I lift my skirt and step over the body to examine it from the other side, careful not to trip over what appears to be the remnants of a gator tail sewn haphazardly to the buck’s rear. A stained shot glass stares back at me. The other socket is hidden behind a felt eyepatch. My fingers itch to peel it away, but I resist and dig my nails further into my palm. I run the toe of my boot over the stitches that run the length of its belly. Gutted, too. Just another person’s fucked up idea of a science project.
The mob is growing larger and more vocal.
“Jesus, where did it come from?”
“Somebody call the cops!”
“Mommy? It smells.”
A gentleman in a suit vomits into his hands, spraying his shoes and the bare feet of the woman beside him. She shrieks in disgust and bats him with her purse. “Sick!” As if walking the streets of Old Town sans shoes is the epitome of good hygiene.
“Did anyone see anything?” A man is scribbling something down in a notepad. His glasses, which are far too large for his face, have slid dangerously close to the tip of his nose and he pushes them back with one finger. “How do you imagine it got here?”
“Don’t know, man.”
“Well, it certainly didn’t walk...”
“Where’s the rest of the body?”
Which one?
Too many people. Too many questions. Too much interest in this mad scientist’s experiment gone awry. I feel bad for the chap. Days, maybe weeks spent measuring and sawing and stitching, draining and ditching. I can’t imagine investing that kind of time and energy and expecting no credit in return. They will probably mount the fucker and display it in a museum, a preserved piece of creativity conceivable only by that small demographic of mortals that includes cannibals, serial killers, and momma’s boys. The hand-crafted wind-up says it all. Real love went into this thing, this caricature of how Dali may have pictured Santa’s reindeer. I wonder if he’s watching us. I wonder if his art will ever get the recognition it deserves.
An ambulance pulls up in silence, one wheel parked on the sidewalk. The driver shouts from the window for everyone to go home. Nobody moves. It will be another hour before the mob begins to thin. Young men in starched white uniforms are bringing round a stretcher.
This is where I draw the line.
I retreat the way I came, past the parrots and the neon signs, past the waxed porch where Sandra Bullock may or may not have stood that morning, coffee in hand. I walk past all the bleached teeth, fried hair, and through the side door of the bed-and-breakfast where I’m booked until Friday. The air conditioning is a welcome change. I remove my veil, my wig, my boots. I toss everything onto the bed and pour myself a drink.
There’s always Miami Beach.
Mekenzie Larsen lives in a hole that she dug herself in the northern Mississippi backwoods. She has the dirt under her nails to prove it. Her free time is spent concocting potions, detangling her hair, and teaching feral cats to walk a tight rope.
MR. MANY FACES
by S. Clayton Rhodes
-1-
If there was one thing Eric Forshey knew, it was that there weren’t any bug-eyed bugaboos in Audra’s room. Not lurking behind the curtains or squeezed beneath her bed.
Rubbing the predawn sand from his eyes, he opened the walk-in closet door. “Nothing. See?” Audra’s school jumpers, sweaters, and jeans dangled from hangers. On the shelves overhead, stuffed animals—pandas, ducks and sock monkeys—looked down with fixed, glassy expressions. But there were no slavering ghouls with steely fangs.
Audra had her comforter pulled taut to her chin. “But he was there, Daddy,” she insisted. “He was.”
Eric nodded. “Okay. Suppose you tell me what this thing looked like.”
Audra shivered. “He was dark and wrinkled...and wore necklaces of human teeth. You wouldn’t believe how many teeth were on those necklaces! And his eyes were all runny. Like when you don’t cook our eggs all the way.”
Eric didn’t care for the critique on his cooking but knew what she meant. “Anything else?”
Audra let her covers drop a bit. “Uh-huh. He smelled like dead fish, made squishy sounds when he moved, and...oh, yeah, he had lots of
faces.”
Eric furrowed his brow at this new twist. “Lots of faces? You mean all over his body?”
“No, he kept the extras in this bag around his shoulder. Like a purse.”
“All right, I think we’re getting somewhere. Did this guy show you these extra faces? Did he tell you about them?”
“No, I started yelling for you the second he opened the door.”
Eric rose and flicked off the overhead light, which caused instant shrieks from Audra.
“Turn it back on, Daddy! Turn it back on!”
He flipped the switch again. “Don’t worry, kiddo. I’m still here. Just wanted to prove something.”
Audra looked doubtful.
Eric sent the room back into blackness once more. “Now,” he said, “how many fingers am I holding up?”
“Daddy, it’s so dark in here I can’t tell.”
“Exactly, Audra. It’s too dark to say.” The light came back on. “You must have been waking up from a bad dream, honey. How else could you see something in the dark, even if it had been here? And how could you know what this thing had in his bag?”
“I just knew,” she said with quiet insistence.
“Sure. You just knew because that’s the way it is in dreams.”
Because she didn’t appear entirely convinced, Eric got one of the animals down from the closet shelf—a dopey stuffed rabbit with matted ears. Now that Audra was eight, it rarely saw the light of day.
“Why don’t you sleep with this guy tonight? Might make you feel better.”
Audra accepted the rabbit and clutched it close. “Can I leave a light on?”
“Oh, Audra, I don’t think you’d get much sleep—”
“Please, Daddy. I’ll sleep. Just don’t make me sleep in the dark.”
“Okay, hang on a sec.” He went out to the hall closet, rummaging until finding a lower wattage bulb to use in her Barbie lamp.
“How’s that?”
Audra grinned. “Perfect!”
-2-
Downstairs, Eric poured a few fingers of sloe gin into something resembling a clean glass. He knocked it back with purpose then poured another for good measure.
Jesus, why did Audra have to scream that way? It was hard enough getting to sleep now that he and Meredith had split. A year later and he still couldn’t get used to a half-empty bed.
He supposed he’d deserved everything he got, though. He hadn’t been much of a husband, so it wasn’t surprising when Meredith asked him for a divorce. Ultimately, their life had been anything but perfect, and parting ways seemed the only answer.
Then the fight for Audra had begun. Funny, but Eric hadn’t realized how much the little rugrat meant to him until he faced losing her.
After nine tense months, he’d wound up with joint custody. Meredith kept the house, while Eric had taken up residence in a duplex near the railroad tracks on the west side—all he could afford, given lawyer fees and child support while waiting on the final decision. He ended up staying on there. It could use a woman’s touch, but then he wasn’t likely to meet anyone new, employed as he was as a shift worker across the river.
Speaking of which, he really should be getting some sleep instead of staying up, trying to make some sort of sense of the world through the bottom of a gin glass.
He set the glass in the sink, a new friend for the unwashed dishes, then trudged back upstairs.
-3-
Eric made it back to town at a quarter past five, but instead of going straight home, he stopped in at the Langtree Tavern. He couldn’t believe it, but he’d muffed yet another job today, and a cold mug or two would do wonders in taking away the edge. As for Audra, Mrs. Mayhew from next door would feed her some supper if he didn’t show soon. Audra was practically the granddaughter Mrs. Mayhew had never known, and they both looked for excuses to spend time together anyhow.
So he knocked back a few and shot some pool. When he looked at the neon clock on the wall above the bar, he was surprised to see it was 7:05. How the hell had it gotten so late?
-4-
There weren’t any lights on downstairs, so he supposed Audra was still next door. He was about to knock on the Mayhews’ door when he heard water running upstairs. Audra must be getting ready for bed. Probably brushing her teeth before her final TV session and twenty minutes of reading.
The kitchen counter was littered with breadcrumbs, and smears of peanut butter from where Audra had made her supper. Apparently she hadn’t eaten next door.
Eventually, Audra came down, wearing a unicorn nightie and smelling of strawberry shampoo.
“Hi, Daddy.” She took one of his hands in hers and leaned into the armrest of the recliner.
Eric muted the sitcom rerun he’d been looking at but not really watching. “Hey, sweetheart. D’you do your homework?”
She nodded. “A little math and some spelling words we had to put into sentences. How was work?”
He laughed. “How is it ever? Rotten.”“Do you want me to fix you something to eat, Daddy? I’m learning to cook.”
He smiled at the offer, thinking of the peanut butter sandwich she’d made earlier. “No thanks, baby. Daddy had a sandwich already.” The last two hours were admittedly a bit of a blur, but he had vague memories of eating something at the Langtree.
“Okay,” she said, and curled up on the edge of the couch, watching him going back to not really watching the show.
-5-
When 3:15 arrived, it came with the same screams from Audra as the night before. When Eric reached her doorway and flicked on the light, her breath came in ragged hitches as she pointed at the closet door. The door was closed, but this time a tiny purse hanging by its strap on the doorknob rocked from side to side.
“Mr. Many Faces!” she gasped. “Mr. Many Faces was here again, Daddy. And he said he was going to take me to a dark place where I’d never ever see you again!”
-6-
He considered calling Meredith to ask her if Audra had shown any similar problems at her house, but if he did, Meredith would press for details. Audra had to be doing this for attention and Meredith would demand to know why. Was he spending too much time playing pool with his buddies again? Ignoring his fatherly duties?
And of course now the creature from her closet had a name. Mr. Many Faces.
He had, according to Audra, invited her to try on one of his rubbery spare faces, having made it halfway to her bed this time just before threatening to take her away.
Instead of calling Meredith, after work the next night Eric stopped by a hardware store and picked up a hook-and-eye latch. He’d spend some extra one-on-one time with Audra, thinking if he did that she wouldn’t feel neglected, wouldn’t feel the need for attention in the middle of the night.
Audra wasn’t home when he got there, but she’d see his car and would be over any time. Eric cranked on the oven and brushed ice from a Banquet chicken dinner and, sure enough, Audra showed up as he was shoving supper onto the rack.
“You already eat?” he asked.
She nodded. “Mrs. Mayhew had beef stroganoff and rolls.”
“Sounds delish.” A sight better than what he was having, for sure.
While they were waiting on his meal, they went up to Audra’s room, where she watched in rapt attention as Eric installed the latch on the closet door.
“This,” Eric said, “will keep Mr. Many Faces right where he belongs.”
He made a point of asking how school was, and after he ate they played two hands of Old Maid. Then, instead of letting her read on her own for the last twenty minutes, Eric scooted onto the bed beside her and read to her while smoothing her wheat-colored hair.
Back downstairs, he cracked a Coors and thumbed through the mail—mostly bills. He must have been more tired than he imagined, because he drifted off in the recliner, ESPN buzzing in the background.
Awakened some hours later by Audra’s screams, he bounded up the stairs and threw open the door. Audra was out of bed and hugging
his waist before he was all the way in the room.
He saw what the problem was. She had pried the hook and eye latch off the closet door. Hard to believe she had that kind of strength, but of course that was what had happened. She’d gone that extra step in trying to prove Mr. Many Faces was a living, breathing thing. This time, what looked to be damp footprints trailed across the carpet.
Eric glanced around for whatever she’d used to lever off the latch. He didn’t spot a screwdriver or any sponge she might’ve used to create the watery tracks. What did attract his attention, though, was Audra’s stuffed bunny, Flopsy. Or, more accurately, the pieces of it. Its bucktoothed head rested against a Barbie Dream House, while the body leaked cotton batting from its stump of a neck.
There was an odd smell, too. Something like decaying fish and the kind of dark silt you’d find at the bottom of a stagnant pond, dim and gassy.
He wondered briefly if Audra hadn’t opened a can of tuna and left it to rot to further validate her story. Monsters always stank.
Audra didn’t try to convince him that Mr. Many Faces was real this go-round. She merely said, “Please, Daddy. Please can I sleep in your room tonight?”
He knew it wasn’t a good idea, a grown man letting his eight-year-old sleep with him. Meredith would have a field day if she found out, raising all the allegations she could. And on top of that, he was no psychologist but knew it might do more harm than good to give in.
In spite of everything, he heard himself say, “Okay, pumpkin, let’s go to Daddy’s room.”
-7-
Visitation exchanges occurred on Saturdays, whenever possible. The routine was to take Audra to the Lincoln County Library and leave her in the children’s section under the watch of one of the matronly librarians working that area who knew them. There was no danger in leaving her under their supervision. The arrangement was good since he and Meredith didn’t even have to cross paths.
Shock Totem 3: Curious Tales of the Macabre and Twisted Page 16