by Alan Spencer
Andy rubbed his tired eyes. It was past one o’clock, and after a day filled with traveling and hashing things out with his uncle about the house, he was exhausted. Everything happened so fast after graduation. His parents threw him a party with all his relatives in Iowa—minus Ned, who waited for him in Anderson Mills—and now he was here.
After the last reel of the film ended, the sense of loneliness was unavoidable. The large house was so empty, and Ned didn’t waste any time wandering back to his house in Hayden City. Ned was confident his guilt-trips would work to dump off the house on him that quickly.
You should be more grateful. He’s offering you a place to stay for free.
He let the concern go for the meantime. It was time for bed. Andy gathered up a toothbrush and toothpaste and walked to the upstairs bathroom. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and when he was ready to sleep, he realized there wasn’t a bed in the house.
“Great.”
The only place to lie down was on the leather chair in the living room.
He gathered a sweatshirt and sat back down on the chair, satisfied to rest here. He closed his eyes, but after he couldn’t sleep, he decided to put another movie on. The background noise would drown out the random creaks of the foundation settling, he decided.
He pawed through the reels and chose: Death Hawk.
It started with a man wearing a large leather glove in an empty field. He placed a dead mouse on top of a wooden post and backed away. The man spoke to the gray and white hawk: “Get the mouse—use those predator skills, Willis.”
Willis sprung to the post and devoured the mouse with two pokes of its beak and a hearty swallow. The man raised his gloved hand and the bird returned to him. The trainer handed Willis another dead mouse, and the bird ate it voraciously. “We’ll have you trained for the zoo in no time. You’ll perform for children, and even adults will take enjoyment from your antics. I can’t see why anybody would be afraid of birds, especially a handsome white-crested hawk like you.”
Two men lurked nearby behind a copse of trees and watched the man talk to the bird. They both wore black leather jackets and shared a bottle of hard liquor housed within a paper bag. One of the punks produced a switchblade knife. “Weirdo is talking to a damn bird.”
The other waved a baseball bat. “Yeah, let’s take his wallet.”
The two stalked the bird trainer from behind. The punk with the bat swung it upon the handler’s back, the blow taking the man down to his knees.
The handler cried out, “What do you want from me? Stop hurting me, I’m begging you!”
Willis shot up to the sky, scared off.
“I wish I had a gun so I could shoot that bird,” the punk with the switchblade threatened. “I hate those squawking things. All birds do is shit on us.”
The other punk rummaged through the trainer’s vest and pockets. “He’s not carrying anything except for dead mice. The loser doesn’t have a penny on him.”
“You mean the dead loser. We’ll show him!”
The trainer was stabbed in the stomach, one sick sounding jab. After the trainer writhed and died on his back, the shot panned up to the sky. The hawk watched, turning its beady eyes down to the scene. The footage itself was of stock quality, and even the bird looked different than Willis.
The punk swung his bat at the sky, inviting the bird to die next. “Come down, birdie! Squawk—squawk—squawk!”
The music bleated in foreboding horror as the bird touched down on the man’s face. With three pecks and a steal, Willis gobbled an eye from the switchblade holder. The punk cupped his eye and shrieked, the camera spinning around him to create a frenzied effect. The other punk retreated. The bird took flight again, and in no time, it angled down on the criminal. It took one peck on his cheek with the sound of carpet tearing. The punk tripped over himself, crashing to the ground. With the man on his back now, the bird attacked again, the camera shaking violently. This time, a fake bird pecked at his face dozens of times until the man’s cheeks were serrated to skin and bone. Then the bird flew back into the sky, the tops of trees soon thinning out and leading into a small town.
Andy had fallen asleep by then, but the film kept playing on until the end.
Chapter Three
1
Ned Ryerson finished his third round of Jack Daniels and Coke. He sat alone on a barstool in Hank’s Sports Pub. He stared up at the television to view the local ten o’clock news report, but after a few minutes, he didn’t listen anymore. His tipsiness wasn’t enjoyable tonight. He was glad to escape the house, but for how long, he wondered. Andy wouldn’t live there. He read it on the young man’s face that he didn’t want to take on such a project. The house had been on the market for almost nine months. The property could be up for purchase for years and no one would bite.
He wanted to be rid of it now.
No time was soon enough.
It didn’t help that his brother, James, lived and breathed in that house. Even after Ned finished burning the remains of the late magician’s items—without the police knowing—James’s memory lived on in that property. He could feel him. Ned would be watching television in the living room, and he’d hear footsteps pound back and forth upstairs in his brother’s old room, as if his ghost was pacing. He had invited Andy to stay in the house to consider living in it, but also to confirm if he really was hearing things.
Two weeks was plenty of time for Andy to figure that out.
The scuff of a barstool warned of Chuck Anthony’s approach. Chuck was an old co-worker at the same textile factory Ned retired from. The man’s upbeat voice matched the level of his inebriation. “I haven’t seen you here for a while, old pal. How’s retirement treating you? Aren’t you practicing your golf swing with the five-iron you got as a retirement gift? I’d spend hours on the green if I was in your position. I’m jealous of you.”
“I haven’t had the time,” Ned complained. “My brother’s legacy has kept me screwing with that infernal house. It has a hold over me.”
“The one in Anderson Mills?” Chuck’s pallor glowed neon, being near the Pabst Blue Ribbon sign. “What a heap of junk. I’m surprised the place hasn’t caved in on itself. Your brother didn’t take very good care of it. Why don’t you tear the damn place down if it’s keeping you from enjoying retirement?”
“Ah, I could still get a decent buck from it,” he lied. “I’ve put enough worry into it. I should get some form of compensation.”
The truth was he wanted to talk to his brother again if his spirit was alive. There were so many things left unanswered at his death. Why did he want his stage items burned? What caused his body to go poof in a cloud of black ash that night in the fire? The police didn’t see it for reasons he didn’t understand, and no one believed his explanation. He had to know the truth. Was he crazy, or was his brother’s spirit alive in that house?
He suddenly had an idea. There was a psychic reader down on 13th Street, but he wasn’t sure if it was hoopla-babble or a person who could actually reach the spirits. James told him Houdini spent a good portion of his life trying to find a legitimate medium to contact his deceased mother and always failed. The mediums’ lies were obvious. None of them spoke in his mother’s German tongue when speaking on her behalf.
“I’m sorry about what happened with your brother,” Chuck said. “You caught the brunt of his actions. The police interrogated you for weeks about it. Jesus, they’re crazy for thinking you had anything to do with it. I never believed it for a second. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so sad.”
“They’re crazy for thinking James killed those people. James couldn’t have switched people’s heads or make anyone disappear forever. It’s insane. No magician is that good.”
“The whole thing isn’t right,” Chuck commiserated. “But James was a little troubled, wasn’t he? He came here all the time to drink. Never spoke to anyone, and when he did, it was to badger the bartender about watering down his scotch and sodas.”
&nbs
p; “Whatever it was that was wrong, he locked me out of it. I tried everything to help him. That man ended my marriage. Angie didn’t want anything to do with the police’s heat, and then everyone talked about us like we were murderers or co-conspirators. The police had her in tears after the interrogation sessions. The bastards were desperate because they weren’t finding the answers they wanted. Now Angie’s at her parents’ in Tennessee, and we’re divorced. Finalized through the fucking mail.”
“That’s rough.” Chuck frowned. “Man, I know women who would love a guy like you, and not old bags either. They’re very attractive and have juices left in their libido. Hear what I’m sayin’?”
“My head’s in all directions. I can’t focus on a woman right now.” He decided not to order another drink and set a ten dollar bill on the counter. “A nephew of mine is staying at James’s house. Hopefully, he’ll snatch it up from under me. He’s a film student, though, and I’m not sure if he’s up for being sedentary.”
He stood up from his barstool. He was so tipsy he had to slow his steps so he wouldn’t tumble over.
Chuck waved goodbye to him on his way out. “Well, whatever happens with the house—sell it, topple it, whatever—you need to be rid of that burden.”
“I agree.”
Ned walked two blocks south of the bar back toward his house. He was in eyeshot of 13th Street and studied the purple neon sign in the woman’s bay window: PRICILLA’S TAROT CARD READER AND MEDIUM. Maybe he’d meet Pricilla tomorrow and find out what exactly she was capable of doing. He felt ridiculous, but until he satisfied the urge, the thought wouldn’t exit his mind.
Black clouds choked the sky, and on his way home it poured rain. He hurried along and wondered how Andy was doing in James’s house alone.
Cal Unger worked the late shift at Anderson Mills Cemetery. Most of his shifts were morning to mid-afternoon, but in this case, two funerals were scheduled to take place the day after tomorrow, and time was short to complete the ceremony preparations. He had to dig out the holes for two graves and set up the catafalque. It took hours to clear the dirt, so it had to be done a day ahead of time, if not sooner. He’d finished the first hole two hours ago and was working on the second when Cal decided to take a short break. The fifth of gin in his back pocket would ease the kink in his back and his back liked the sound of a rest.
He tasted rain in the air. The moisture and acid levels in the winds promised a storm. As he sat back for a time, the alcohol on his empty stomach immediately made him relaxed. Fifteen minutes later, he clutched the shovel and renewed his efforts.
“Funeral might be cancelled tomorrow. Not that the dead are in a hurry to be buried, huh guys? Your agenda’s wide the fuck open.”
An arc of white lightening branched overhead. “Give it another fifteen minutes, and I’ll be digging in the rain.” Feeling a light spatter of rain on his back, he blathered, “Ah, screw this! I need another drink.”
Cal leaned up against the headstone of Philip West for a short nap. Twenty minutes would do it, he thought. He set his watch’s alarm. He was careful not to forget to wake himself up.
He didn’t relax for long. The shuffle of nearby footsteps startled him. “Hey, who’s there?”
Cal blushed, his skin warm at being caught. Another pair of feet joined in, trudging at a limp’s pace. He’d encountered nightwalkers at the cemetery before. It was usually local kids who were drunk or wanted to initiate other kids into gangs or to scare the hell out of each other. He once came upon a girl with jet black hair and a dark trench coat reading “The Crucible” by the illumination of candlelight. She was sitting on the Henderson’s mausoleum steps entrenched in her read. She was one of those gothic girls wearing all black and safety pins. The girl simply said, “Can I have a taste of what you’re drinking? You smell like gin.”
Cal didn’t hear any more steps.
They abruptly stopped.
They must’ve turned back the way they came, he thought, or they saw me and booked it.
Worked up, he continued his job. The light from the propane lantern illuminated the area in a circle of bluish-white. After shoveling for a bit, he rested. When he looked around he noticed something was missing.
“Where did my shovel go?”
A moving shadow.
He was pushed onto the ground from behind.
Whoosh!
The u-shaped steel head was driven into his hands where they met the fingers. The shovel severed bone, the fingers separating after a wild dismount. Shadows all around him crawled on their haunches and shoved each other aside to retrieve the severed digits. The propane’s beam caught one of their faces, the sockets black, the skin dried out and showing through to bone, the bodies stooped and suffering rigor mortis. Earthworms writhed within the ocular tissue and edged out from between broken teeth and loose flesh. One flensed the skin from Cal’s fingers, blood wetting its lips and coloring its leathery tongue. He gawked at his fingerless hand as each notch spurted a fresh dose of crimson.
Dazed but not helpless, Cal peered behind him to catch one in coffin garb approach him. The lurker was hidden by the shadows, but he knew it was another one of them. He scampered from the scene, scared enough to put one foot in front of the other. He dodged headstones but the real battle was maintaining his senses after the blood loss. He wandered in darkness, confused and forgetting the way to safety.
He was far enough from the attackers that he dared to turn around and survey the area. Every inch of the cemetery was blind to him except where the propane lamp glowed.
The silhouette of six bodies ambled toward him in steady pursuit.
He was out of breath and couldn’t see straight. Everything spun. His ears tingled, going in and out of hearing. He was about to vomit when a surge of blood rushed to his head.
Their advances couldn’t be heard over the roar of the storm. Rain pelted him hard when the sky opened up on him. He shivered in the cold, chilled from the inside and out. Nothing could be seen within three feet of him now. He was looking for the funeral hall and doubled his efforts to flee to the shelter. Moving, turning, studying his surroundings, he slammed into a fence at the edge of the cemetery. It wasn’t the way to the funeral hall. He’d taken a wrong turn.
The voice of reason spoke in his head, “Trace around the perimeter, and the gate will lead you to the way out.”
Lightening forked again, and this time he caught the group lurking at a sprint’s distance. He kept his good hand propped against the iron slats and limped to evade the attackers. The funeral hall was adjacent to where he stood, a long straightaway. He charged full-force along the headstones, determined to live. This was his only chance to call the police and hide.
He made good progress until he lost his footing—there was nothing underneath his feet to touch! He batted the air, tilting to the side, suddenly weightless. Cal reeled at the confusing change of events and was thrown downward, a clop of cold mud and a splash of water marking his fall. Cal grappled with one arm to prop himself up, but he kept slipping and losing balance, flopping onto his back. He stared up at the darkness clueless as to what he’d fallen into and what he’d do to escape.
Six heads peered down at him along the perimeter of a rectangular hole. He’d fallen into the grave he’d dug hours ago.
He couldn’t climb out.
He was cornered.
“Stay away from me!” He clutched his damaged hand. “I’ll bleed to death if you don’t get help. Call an ambulance. I won’t press charges—I don’t even know who you are!”
His frantic words encouraged their next move.
They crawled in after him.
2
Andy woke to the film projector clicking. The screen was the color of blaring white light. Then the screen suddenly changed to a close-up of a man’s face. It magnified tight to show beady and glistening pores. The scene returned to normal and focused on a man’s face. He was bleeding from the nose, his face bent in torture. “Please—no! Don’t do it. Whateve
r you want, I’ll pay you double your wages. I’m sorry for firing you. I’ve been the overseer of those carnies for ten years, David. You have to understand, when someone slips up, I have to fire them. It’s nothing personal, David. David? David!”
The frame didn’t flinch from the man’s terrified face.
A garbled voice informed, “My name isn’t David. It’s Mallet!”
The next moment, the head of an oversized mallet was rendered upon the writhing man’s face. WHOMP! Jets of blood sprayed from all sides of the bludgeon. The violent scene cut to the opening credits as carnival theme music played.
Andy rubbed his eyes. It was still dark outside. The rain had stopped. Did he place a new reel into the projector before going to sleep? The last film was Death Hawk. How did a different reel reach the projector? He didn’t change them, but now that he was watching another film—The Mallet Killer—he questioned his memory.
“Maybe I left the damn thing on and put another movie in,” he thought aloud. “Jesus, this place is creeping me out.”
He flipped on the light switch, the film becoming a washed out blotch. He made out a faded frame of a busy carnival and a man in a large top hat, white undershirt and tan bellbottoms around a device named “THE POUND-O-METER.” The carnie talked up the game. “Strike the mallet and test your strength. Kids and adults, step right up. You hit the top of the scale, you win a prize. How strong are you, sir? Young man, you want to impress the gal locking arms with you? Come on, forty cents for a turn, seventy-five cents for two tries! Step right up, step right up, try the amazing pound-o-meter!”
