by Peter Ness
We moved restlessly on our feet as Cliff Horris blindly drew his Toyota Landcruiser out from the gasoline stand, seemingly oblivious to Art the policeman’s plight. Cliff halted the vehicle, depressed the indicator button and picked up his newspaper from on the seat. Without even looking for oncoming traffic Cliff slid the transmission into gear and drove off, turning to the left down a dirt road which connected the main tarred road in the saddle; the intersection where Goto had earlier parked.
Our eyes followed Toyota Landcruiser as it bounced off the bitumen to the left, its rear wheels spewing up gravel and dust from the dirt road.
The little people hid patiently in the safety of the shadow of the small shrubs for Cliff to pass before poking their heads out. They snuck a look up at where Jo and I stood, our eyes transfixed on the Jesus man, and then they glanced briefly at the old codger sitting in a trance outside the café. Then three little grey beings ambled ungainly into the clearing, and jumped, hurdling over the fence, as if playing a game of hopscotch. One of them limped.
My eyes met Jo’s and our eyes goggled.
One of the small beings, stopped and holding some device in one hand did a handstand on the other one before crossing the road.
‘Who on Earth are they, Heni?’ Jo nudged me now, trying not to laugh. Ignoring the Jesus man we stared, eyes glued intently on the little people. Before crossing the road they looked to the left then to the right for oncoming cars, just like little kids are taught to do. Then they scurried, hopping and skipping in an uneven lope, across the tarred road towards the canopy of forest on our side of the road. Lena, the taller and more slender female took the arm of the one on the left. That would be Reda, the one walking with a pronounced limp. On the right, the being that had just done the hand stand (let’s call him Oki) held up a small digital compass and pointed it in the direction of our farm, to the north-west.
Observing us watching them now, the little people smiled and waved up at us as if we were old friends. And then they hobbled in their ungainly way into the thick undergrowth of the bushes. A group of errant robotic-insects buzzing above their heads, rained down out of the sky splattering the ground around them.
As they reached the forest canopy their white clothing, transparent to the back-ground scenery, adjusted like chameleons. A dizzying array of colors splashed through their clothing displaying the patterns of the bushes. Gradually even their heads were obscured, fading rapidly from sight.
Jo’s eyes flicked down to the almost empty ice-cream cone in her hand, then at the spot of half-melted ice-cream on the ground, half-covering her shoe. And then, she looked back up at me. Then our heads rotated and we focused down the road beyond the service station to where the local policeman, Art, was exiting his vehicle, his back towards us. Art cursed, slammed his hand on the buckled up police car bonnet, kicked its right side front tire which was flat and then scratched his burning neck. Darn, it stung.
Now, we both glanced towards Pops, who sat in silence wondering what all the broken slithers and glass fragments were doing on the table. Then he spied the cut on his blood mushed hand, rubbing at it tenderly. His other hand moved up to a small red bruise on the back of his searing neck, which he began to scratch. Blood oozed off his finger now, but he never noticed.
‘Did you see that swarm of locusts go past?’ Pops asked, rotating his head very slowly towards us. ‘Oh! Darn — my wig’s lopsided again. I need to fix that problem.’ A matt of Pop’s short hair, that looked like it had been chopped off with a blunt lawnmower, protruded below the wig on the right side. Picking his nose now he lifted his hand to block the glare of the afternoon sun behind our backs.
Taking Jo’s hand I squeezed it ever so tightly. Then I bent down, my other hand setting the half full bottle of Cola onto the ground gently. Standing again, my hand slid below my shirt. Dragging out the pendant, I started to rub it. A pale green pulse like a faint strobe from a light house beacon flashed so I placed it back below my shirt front, picked up the Cola again and took a nervous swig.
‘Don’t you think that it looked like a swarm of locusts?’ Pops repeated, glaring at us now. His eyes turned a red-brown color, with yellow lizard-like slits appearing and flickering as if breathing. The yellow slits then opened and abruptly clicked shut again.
‘What’s the matter? Has the cat got your tongue?’ he snapped.
#
London: Mid-August, 2012
Peter jerked backwards with a start.
‘Wow! That was scary. I nearly lost my skin,’ Peter said.
‘You almost jumped out of your skin, you mean. So did I,’ Andrea added, with an equally nervous laugh. ‘There’s more here. Let’s read on.’
‘I’m scared Andrea,’ Peter said nervously. ‘It’s too scary.’
‘Yes, but you must admit, it is fun. It can’t get any scarier now, can it?’ Andrea said, an excited glint forming in her eyes. ‘Okay. Where were we?’
#
Late in the same day, at the Bus stop near the Henton’s:
Shaking violently, the small car pulled up to a creaking, shuddering, coughing halt at our bus stop where we left our bikes. I peered into the bushes.
‘Yep. They’re still there.’
The shiny little Volkswagen misfired on one cylinder and its engine died with a loud gurgle. A mix of black and grey smoke emitted from the exhaust pipe drowned us in sulfur. Jo and I coughed and spluttered.
‘It’s 4:40 p.m.,’ Pops said, rotating his wrist watch to get a better look. ‘Well, this is as far as I can take you today or I’ll be late for Lodge.’ He turned the key to restart the little greenish-yellow car. The starter motor whined and the car coughed, spluttered, back-firing. ‘Ah, it’s purring like a kitten now. Your bikes are too large to fit in the vehicle. You can ride home from here.’
For those that do not know what Lodge is, it is a Masonic Lodge or Freemason’s meeting, rather than an actual building. According to Brian, Lodge is that place where grown men go to cross-dress in prehistoric, girlie-like, 17th century wizard costumes to tell Grim Brother stories and play strange Dungeon-and-Dragons like mind-games, or to place nasty spells on their enemies. Be very, very afraid. They are warlocks, more powerful than any magician. Everyone else is their mortal enemy. That includes you and me!
Around once a month, or whenever they get thirsty for blood, the Freemason Warlocks meet in a large hall which is orientated east to west to denote the rising and setting of their god, the sun. Since promotion within the group is not based on either intelligence or education the stupidest old codger often wields the most power. That is, the most highly educated banker — like, you know, Reggie Snow — is forced to grovel at and kiss the feet of the Master Mason, the one wearing the long dress, and the lop-sided wig below the KKK-style wizard hat. That would be Pops, I guess. This Master Mason Warlock sits at the head of the eastern side of the table on a raised platform of three steps, probably because he is so short. The Senior Warden sits at the other end of the table on a platform of only two steps, mostly to temper any feelings of grandeur he may have. That’s Martin Dunbar, I guess. All of the Junior Wardens sit on the south side of the table, on a platform of just a single step. This arrangement is designed to create an atmosphere of fear and an inferiority complex, but mostly so the Master Mason can see whether their wine glasses are half empty and require a new toast or half full and need refilling. At least, that’s what Brian said and he is always spot on the money.
On the eastern side of this hall and just beyond, or to the side of the Master Mason is an altar where they worship dead things. The head warlock places three candles in a triangular pattern either on it, or near it. He neatly arranges the Freemason’s Volume of Sacred Law, the masonic bible, on top of the altar and opens it to a specific page for today’s most wicked spell contest. The book talks to the Freemasons. It tells them who can sit where, who gets to eat what, who can speak the most, what games to play, and which children make for the best sacrifice. The smaller kids are tastier
, I heard. It is common knowledge that child sacrifices are made at midnight on the longest and shortest days of the year but also on any full moon, and especially when it is pink or blue.
And, that’s probably what happened to all those young girls from on the peninsula that were abducted and killed.
#
‘Pops, your wig has gone and slipped around to the nine o’clock position,’ Jo said, both politely and helpfully. ‘You might wanna fix it before you go to your meeting.’
Pops hurriedly re-secured his wig. His eyes darted around to ensure no-one was watching. We clambered out of the vehicle in the midst of his grumblings.
‘I could eat a horse,’ Pops said. ‘I can’t wait to see what they’re serving up on the plate tonight at Lodge,’ he licked his lips and drawled, ‘Well — I guess I’ll see you kids later on then—?’
‘Okidoki. See you later then,’ I said, dropping my bag onto the dusty ground.
Jo squirmed, nervously, waving goodbye.
‘I hope not,’ Jo said with a cold shudder as we watched Pops drive away.
‘Yes. I’m glad that we’re not on the menu tonight,’ I added.
‘We’re not?’ Jo gave a sigh of relief. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Well—, I hope not anyway,’ I said picking up my bike from amongst the bushes. Watching Jo’s grimace sent that slither of a doubt into my own heart. A cold shiver of air rose up my back. Maybe we were? It’s easy to imagine. Jo wondered out loud whether the eyes of all the Lodge members glowed red like Pops did at the café, or maybe his did simply because his job was Grand Master Mason? It was easy to imagine that happening too, so I did.
Just then, the pendant clamped down on my chest and flashed a bright green beacon of rapidly spinning light. I stole a quick glance across at Jo.
‘What the—?’ we both spat out.
#
The masons passed around body parts now. Reggie Snow sat munching on a squirming eye. A second eye was dangling from a shred over Jesus Revierra’s mouth, darting anxiously from side to side, looking for somewhere to escape — and then it looked down at the open chasm looming below it. Cliff Horris was trying to pick the marrow out of a human arm bone but the hand on the end kept trying to walk away, much to his annoyance. Bill Thomas spat an ear out and began chewing on a human foot. Martin Dunbar tested out the guillotine on a watermelon now. Slice! Splat! Pieces of watermelon splashed across the room splattering over Bill’s face. He wiped it off and licked his hand.
The other warlock’s were now dragging Jo, kicking and screaming, to chop off her neck—. My hand clutched at my own neck as the dragging noose squeezed tight, trying to choke the last breath from my body. They had me tied to a pole, next in line for the guillotine.
Martin Dunbar signaled that he needed to adjust the guillotine. They withdrew Jo’s head and tied her to a nearby pole. Jo glanced across at me now, with a sigh of relief. Martin flashed a wicked smile, raised the guillotine and then signaled with wide eyes that it was ready. Pops wanted a better view so he stood up to watch the show. His wig flapped from side to side. As it slipped, so too did his Master Mason hat. Grumbling and adjusting it with one hand, he chewed on a piece of raw liver. Jo, struggling to attempt escape now, as was I, fumbled with the knots binding the hands behind her back.
Pops, the Grand Master Warlock Mason smiled and gazed into space, drooling as he chewed. His lizard eyes snapped open and shut like window shutters, flashing red and yellow. Pops then nodded at his eager audience, ready for the ceremony to commence. Adjusting his wig yet again, with his hands shaking violently, Pops picked up the menu book from on the table. He raised his right hand above his head in a jerking motion, the book in hand.
The wig slowly slid down over Pops face, like cream would. It drooped down. Suddenly, and without warning Pops arm bounced up to straighten the wig. The middle of the book slid out and shot like a canon through the air, landing splat into the face of Cliff Horris. He stepped backwards groping at it, fumbling to remove the loose pages from his face.
Clunk! Cliff Horris landed heavily against the altar, knocking a burning candle onto the floor. The half-eaten human arm, which he had been holding in one hand all this while, flung across the room. I almost tasted the blood on the arm as it flew past me landing with a thud, on Martin Dunbar’s chest. The five-fingers grasped at Martin’s throat and squeezed. Martin stepped sideways, grappling, trying to remove the hand. He slipped on the candle and fell backwards — well, I guess he slid back and flipped over. His head landed neatly under the guillotine. Cliff Horris groped for something. Clutching at the chord with the guillotine button now, he desperately tried to steady himself. Meanwhile, the arm landed on the floor and tried to scramble away. Jesus Revierra stepped on it. Picking it up he began to chew on it.
‘Ah! That tastes better than road kill,’ he said with a broad smile, displaying his yellow tobacco-stained teeth.
Pops looked the other way. Without thinking, or looking, he dragged his arm down in a chopping motion. As he righted himself, Cliff looked up at Pops, then he accidentally depressed the guillotine button, on cue. The guillotine came crashing down. Martin Dunbar’s eyes grew wide. Then his eyes closed shut in prayer as it sliced down. Crunch! Bounce! Twang! Bounce! Bounce! His severed head bounced onto the floor, rebound off the side of the altar and then bounced up onto the table where it eventually rotated to a complete stop.
‘Ouch! No! Ouch! No! Ouch! Darn!’ Martin’s mouth yelled in our imaginary dream. Reggie Snow picked up a fork and looked down over the face resting on the table top in front of him. The fork hovered above Martin Dunbar’s severed head, which spun around at a reducing speed in a circle and then came to a grinding halt.
‘No. No. No. That’s not how it’s supposed to happen,’ Martin cried, looking wide-eyed back up at Reggie, his eyes darting to the left and to the right. Just then Reggie jabbed a fork into Martin’s left eye, pulled it out and began to munch on it.
‘Ouch! That hurt!’ Martin spat out, and then ‘I hope it tasted — like this!’ His sharp vampire-like teeth bit down hard on Reggie’s other hand. Reggie pulled it back, his scream piercing the hallway. The head was flung screaming through the air. It bounced through the doorway and out into the street. A passing dog picked it up and wandered off with it.
‘Hey you, doggy boy—. Hey you, I say — be a good chap and put me down.’
‘Oh! That’s just bad luck,’ Pops said, readjusting his wig again. ‘It looks like we have a vacancy for a new Senior Warden. No hurry.’ He turned glaring at me, red eyes flashing, and pointed. ‘Okay. Heni is next! Off with his head!’
#
‘Use the pedant — He — ni. Use the — pen — dant, you silly.’ Jo was tugging at my arm and singing, like one of those old broken recordings which gradually slow down. The turn-style slides came to a halt. I guess you don’t have those sorts of ingenious record contraptions in your modern world but we did back in 1973. It was one of those new-fangled gadgets, like microwave ovens, Sony Walkman, and those green Japanese and Taiwanese radios the size of a child’s hand that squeaked out a tinny melody in some strange dialect that no-one has ever heard of since.
#
Jo’s throbbing voice dragged me back to reality.
‘Pass me my hairclip Heni,’ Jo said. ‘Pass me my hair clip. I dropped it in the sand—. I said “in the sand,” you big silly Billy.’
‘Whew!’ I rubbed my neck. ‘It’s a good thing that wasn’t for real.’
‘Well, that was strange. Wasn’t it?’ Jo added. ‘Ouch! Your pendant is scorching hot.’ She withdrew her hand quickly.
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘The pendant is playing some weird tricks with our minds today. I wonder how much of it is real?’
#
We’d just reached home. I leant my bike against the side of the house.
‘That was a rather odd thing we saw today after school at the service station, Heni, wasn’t it?’ Jo said. ‘I was petrified and so scared. I nearly wet my pan
ts.’
‘You too? Yes, so was I. And—, did you see Pops? He acted kind of strange and all,’ I replied. ‘Like, he was possessed. Plus, that man in black with the panel van acted something weird. They all did.’
‘Yeah, those remote controlled insect robots thingys were rather odd too,’ Jo answered, picking up her heavy bag. ‘But they’re scared of your pendant and left us alone. Perhaps we just imagined it all? Like at the bus stop? Perhaps it’s just your magic pendant playing games with us?’ I nodded in agreement with her. ‘Anyways, this bag is too heavy. Can you carry it, Heni?’ She dropped it hard onto the ground. Thud!
‘Gee. What do you have in there, blocks of lead?’ I asked, taking it and tossing it over my shoulder. I picked up my own school bag in my other hand.
‘Nope, just a few library books on UFOs and unexplained phenomoling thingys,’ she replied. ‘Yeah, but you’re right Heni, Pops and those other people acted real weird.’
‘But, Pops has always been weird,’ I added with a cheeky grin and shrugging my shoulders, leant on my bike. ‘Mom reckons that he went all weird after he got lost at sea in a dingy and was found by a school of dolphins and whales. He claims he was saved by alien dwarfs flying a tuna fishing boat. After that the hair thinned out — caused by radiation projected from a spinning beacon of light spiraling out from the dwarf alien’s mother ship, he says. Anyway, Pops has lots of tall stories. Do you want to talk about what happened today Jo?’
‘Nup! I don’t wanna talk about that anymore Heni. If we tell Mom and Dad they won’t believe us anyway. They’ll just say we imagined it, or are crazy. And, you know where they send people who have imaginary friends?’ Jo answered.