by Pete Kahle
As the gate rolled back on its rattling chain, there was the weird little boy. Even in the low light of dusk, those beady little black eyes of his glittered with a mean, nasty glee. The teeth in his tiny little mouth sparkled in the parking lot lamps.
All Chuck wanted to do was go home, smoke a bowl, drink a beer, eat his tacos, and play some games.
"Whatcha doing?" the boy sang in a voice like sea birds alerting their cronies to the presence of carrion.
"Going home. Go away."
"Let's play. Close your eyes."
"No. Get out of my way. I want to eat my food before it gets cold."
"It won't get cold. Close your eyes."
"No. Move."
"I will when you close your eyes."
The two of them stood alone among the parked cars, eyes locked. Chuck knew from previous experience that any attempt at escape would be seen as play. He pondered his short list of options.
"Fine." He closed his eyes.
In a matter of seconds he heard a rip, and the weight in his hand was gone. By the time his eyelids opened, the weird little kid was already halfway to the street, Chuck's tacos in hand.
"Come back here, you little turd! Give me back my food!"
It was too late. The little boy--and his dinner--were long gone.
Chuck stood, alone and hungry, torn bag in hand. He could have gone back to the drive-thru. The next batch of tacos would probably meet the same fate anyway. With a last, feeble glace for any hint of the weird little kid, Chuck sulked up to his apartment for a dinner of cold cereal and defeat.
As angry as he was at the kid, he was somewhat impressed the kid ran as fast as he could on his crippled little feet. Hell, he was shocked the kid could even stand like that, with his feet looking like they were put on backwards.
# # #
The next day, the weird little kid was waiting for him again.
"Hey, you little taco thief. Guess what? I ate in the car. No cheeseburger for you, you turd."
"That's okay. I'm not hungry. I just want to play."
"I don't. I want to go home."
"Whatcha gonna do when you get home?"
Chuck thought about the latest quest waiting to be downloaded. "Nothing."
"Then how come you won't play?"
"Because you're a little thief, and I don't like you."
"I like you. Let's play."
"Go home."
"I don't have a home. Can I come to your home to play?"
For a moment, Chuck felt bad for the kid. But there was no way the kid didn't have a home. He was a jerk, a thief, and weird, but he didn't look like some street kid.
Probably another trick. And that made him even madder.
"Hey, kid, what happened to your feet?" It came out as mean as he meant it to.
"What happened to your face?"
"Spent too much time looking at you."
The kid laughed. His tiny, misshapen teeth took over his face. Charlie was glad to not look into those black eyes, despite his teeth being even creepier. "You're funny. I want to play with you."
Chuck rolled his eyes, and pushed past the kid. At least, he thought he did. The kid was standing on the first step, laughing his evil little laugh. "Play!"
"Fine!" Chuck picked up a tiny pebble from the ground. "Get ready to catch this!"
The kid grinned and outstretched his hands.
"No, I need more room. Go, like, under that tree over there."
He did. Chuck beaned him with the pebble, square above the right eye. That was the first time Chuck saw the kid not smiling. He was rubbing where the pebble hit.
"That wasn't very nice. You're mean."
"Yes, yes I am." Chuck laughed as he climbed the steps, a few feet from home. He knew he should feel bad for throwing rocks at a kid. But this kid was mean and deserved it. That self-congratulatory mood was killed when he went to unlock his door, and found his apartment key missing from his ring.
"I know what you're looking for!" sang that screechy little voice from downstairs. Chuck turned just in time to see the kid running off, a small piece of metal in his hand, shining back at him.
The only thing Chuck hated more than dealing with that kid was dealing with the building manager. He had no choice, not if he wanted to go inside his home. Ever. With a mental curse of resignation, Chuck went to the manager's place. The guy's doorbell still played "O Tannenbaum" four months past Christmas.
"I need a new key. Some kid stole mine."
"Stole it, or lost it while you were drunk or stoned off somewhere. I can give you a replacement. It's going to cost you five dollars. Cash."
"Fine. Whatever. I just want to go home. Hey, you know if some weird little kid that lives here? He's got a teensy-tiny, scrunched-up face, and his feet are all messed up."
"We only have three kids in this building. Two are girls, and the other is Jackson's boy, and he runs track. Whoever that kid is, he isn't our fault. You sure you aren't seeing things? You know, a little too much 'puff, puff, pass'?"
"I wasn't stoned. That kid took my food, and he took my key. Keep your eyes out for that little turd. He's trouble."
Chuck went back to his apartment with a new key, five dollars less in his wallet, and a need for revenge.
# # #
Two days later, Chuck made the trek across the parking lot, proudly swinging his bag from Tito's Tacos, whistling a songless tune. Sure enough, the weird little kid popped up in front of him.
"Want to play?"
Chuck smiled. "No can do, twerp. I've got something delicious for dinner, and I can't wait to sink my teeth into it. See you later."
"Wait! Just one little game."
With a forced sigh, Chuck agreed.
"Now, just close your eyes and count to twenty. Don't open them until you get all the way to twenty, okay?"
"Sure, kid. But then I have to get back to my delicious food. I can't wait to sink my teeth into the best tacos ever."
Chuck hadn't gotten past four before he felt the weight of the bag leave his hand. Still, he counted to twenty.
"Oh. My goodness. My dinner is gone. Hey kid. You took my dinner."
Sure enough, the weird little kid was already running down the sidewalk with Chuck's extra-spicy, XXX-Heat Habanero tacos. The tacos he drove fifteen minutes out of his way specifically to get. "No. Stop. Come back," he said, not even trying to pretend.
The weird kid long gone, Chuck leisurely went to his apartment, turned on the radio, and opened a magazine. He was in sheer bliss. Somewhere in the city there was a weird little kid sobbing his eyes out because his mouth felt like fire. All was well with the world.
"Can we play again? You're fun. I like you!"
That weird voice was calling from the walkway just outside Chuck's door. When he looked out the peephole, sure enough there was the weird little kid, bits of salsa flaked onto his cheeks. That was the only hint that this kid had consumed two of the spiciest tacos known to man, and he looked no different than if he'd had a lollipop. Something was seriously wrong with that kid.
"Did you eat those tacos."
"Yep. They were yummy! Got any more?"
"No. Nothing more today."
"Want to play?"
"I'm done playing today. Go away."
He crawled into bed. He didn't check to see if the weird kid has left, but he might have heard a small whimper from outside later on that evening. Either that whimper was from the kid, or from himself.
# # #
"Are we going to play today?" the weird kid asked as Chuck walked past him. He didn't even look in the kid's eyes.
"What's wrong, mister? Don't you want to play?"
Chuck was silent, walking ahead, eyes looking somewhere past his front door.
The weird little kid stopped and watched as Chuck went home.
He didn't turn on his computer, his television, or even open the refrigerator. He just laid down on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Although miserable, there was at least a calm, almo
st meditative peace.
Then came the scratching at the window.
"Come on, play with me."
There was no escape. Driving the kid away wasn't going to work. Ignoring him sure didn't work. Chuck had run out of things to hope for.
Scratch, scratch. "Play with me. Please."
Chuck thought, if I ignore him, maybe he'll go away. He had a few seconds of peace, then:
Scratch, scratch. "Please. I miss you."
Any other day, any other time, Chuck would have felt the pitifulness in the weird kid's voice. It would have slapped him across the face and knocked a hole in his chest. Not that night. That night Chuck was empty. There were no emotions inside him to be affected.
Chuck managed to pull two words from somewhere deep inside. "Go away."
Miraculously, the weird little kid did.
Chuck could have stayed in bed all day. In fact, that was his plan. He was tired. He was drained. His bed was comfortable. But eventually he got hungry. He got bored. And he had no desire to start the game all over again.
He called his old friend, Marcus. "Marc, it's me. Chuck. What're you up to tonight? Want to come by and play some games? Any time, friend. I'll be here. By the way, can you bring by some food? I don't care as long as it's remotely hot and you didn't cook it. Yeah, I'll give you cash when you get here, but I can't go out and get it myself. Crazy story. I'll tell you when you get here."
Half hour later, Marcus was at the door. Before Chuck saw his face he could smell the onions from the cheeseburgers in the air seeping in through his cracked window. Onions never smelled so good. He opened the door before Marcus knocked. "Thanks, man. I owe you big time," and was diving into his burger before Marcus sat down.
"Dude, what's going on? You ain't got no food in this house?"
"It's that creepy kid. He keeps stealing my food. You see him in the parking lot?"
"No, I parked over on the street."
"Well, best I can figure is he lives in that parking lot or something. Every time I come home with food he steals it. Weird little turd, too. Always wants to play with me, but I think the little freeloader just wants to take my food."
"How old is this kid?"
"Seven, eight maybe."
"So, Chuck, let me get this straight--I had to bring over food because some little kid is jacking you? What's he do, flick boogers at you?"
"It's not like that, man. This kid is a devious little bastard. I can't put anything past him. It's like he's got my whole game figured out."
"You now saying you're being outsmarted by a seven year old?"
The men said nothing while the sound of a siren passed by his apartment window.
"Screw you."
"I'm just messing with you. Ain't nothing wrong with letting a little kid win now and then. You're a nice guy."
Chuck said nothing about the Tito's Tacos incident.
"I got something that'll make you forget about that for a little while." He took two joints from his pocket and handed one to Chuck. The two of them happily got stoned, ate dinner, and played games. It was a good night and, for the first time in a long time, Chuck felt like he was his normal self, that the world was a normal place, and there wasn't anything crazy waiting outside his door.
And then they heard him.
"You want to come play with me?"
Chuck put a finger to his lips and motioned to the window with his head. He cringed when Marcus said a bit too loud, "That the kid?" He nodded, but before he could say anything else, Marcus was yanking back the curtain.
"Hey, why you stealing my friend's food?"
Chuck heard the familiar squeak of the little weird kid, then the smack of feet running away.
"Holy fuck!" Marcus stumbled back to the couch, where he flopped back, his hands holding onto his forehead for dear life. He kicked his joint off the table. "I don't know what this shit is, but I am never buying from him again. I just saw the weirdest shit. That kid, looked like his feet were put on backwards."
"Oh yeah, that's the weird little kid. I'm kind of amazed he can run so fast with those crippled little feet."
"He has backwards feet, screws with you, and is always calling for you to come play with him? This is gonna sound weird, but what's his mouth like?"
"It's like, small. But not a normal small. More like a ferret."
# # #
"You've met my folks. What do you think?"
"I think you're screwed is what I think. My grandma used to tell me about these demon things back in Trinidad called 'Douen.' Kind of like Boogeymen, but they're the ghosts of kids who died before being baptized. If you didn't behave, grandmas would threaten to send you off with them. Sometimes they took kids who weren't baptized and lead them into the forests." He put his joint onto the table and took a few steps away. "I think I've been smoking too much, and you've been smoking way too much if you're seeing what I'm seeing. Douen aren't real, man. They're stories old people tell the kids to keep them in line. They're stories told to scare parents into going to church. They're stories. And if you and I are seeing one, I ain't buying weed from Fred ever again, and I suggest you do the same."
They ate and played games until a little past midnight. Nothing more was spoken of Douen, or of the weird little kid somewhere outside the window. Nothing was spoken, but Chuck never stopped thinking of him. Monsters didn't exist, but if the kid was one, then that would explain how he was always one step ahead.
Marcus wanted to forget about the Douen, and wouldn't say anything more, so Chuck waited until he went home, then Googled like crazy. Sure enough, every picture he saw looked just like that little weird kid: tiny mouth, small dark eyes, and those crazy backwards feet.
He wasn't as angry at the kid, more justified. He was up against some crazy supernatural force, not being bettered by a little twerp. And, as the night went on, he got ready to sleep and face another day of work, home, video games, and attempts to get cheap food in his mouth, he felt a little sorry for the weird little kid. If what he read was right, there wasn't a horde of these kids trolling the area. It was just that kid. Alone. Out there in the dark.
# # #
The next day went like any other day. Wake up. Get ready to work. Do his job, watching the clock first for his break, then for clock out time. He tried his best to make it a day just like any other. He didn't want it to be unusual. He didn't want thoughts of the weird little demon kid creeping into his consciousness. No matter how many times he chased them away, though, thoughts kept coming.
That little kid. That little monster. Alone in the world. Kidnapping children to do god-knows-what to. And then he'd remind himself how demons weren't real. His more sober mind reminded him that the kid wasn't an evil creature, but an obnoxious, annoying little turd. Human, just like him. But more of a jerk. But those eyes, the little mouth. The feet--how could it be such an easy coincidence of having those messed-up, backwards, crippled feet.
Chuck wanted a day like every other day. He was not going to let thoughts of demons and tiny unbaptized souls crawl into his brain.
When he parked his car, he could see the weird little kid hiding in the bushes, those black eyes staring at him, hungry, like he'd been waiting.
"Want to play a game?"
Yeah, the kid had a really weird voice. But was it 'otherworldly'?
"What do you have in mind?"
"Close your eyes."
It should have been so easy to not fall for it again. That was only if Chuck didn't. He closed his eyes. The bag of food was snatched.
The kid ran off in his usual way. This time Chuck only yelled one word to him. "Douen!"
The kid stopped as if he'd hit an invisible wall. Haltingly, he turned. "Yes?"
"Where are you going?"
"...Somewhere."
"By yourself? There's two burgers in there."
The Douen stared unblinking at Chuck. "You want to come with me and eat one of them?"
"Yeah, I'm hungry."
The weird little kid
held a hand out to Chuck. This was his last chance to turn around and go home, to treat this like the normal day he wanted to have. But what was waiting for him behind that apartment door? Some video games he either beat over and over again or would never actually win. A lack of a girlfriend. His uniform for a job he neither wanted nor cared about.
And in front of him?
Maybe death. Maybe torture.
Maybe nothing more than sharing food with an obnoxious, weird, crippled little kid.
He read about the children lured away by the Douen. He read nothing about adults. Chuck walked forward, took the weird little kid's hand, and followed him to the unknown.
Jenny Orosel has written a number of short stories, some of which have been published (in DUELING MINDS from Cemetery Dance and DAMNED NATION from Hellbound Books, to name a couple). She has written a few reviews and essays for Cinema Knife Fight, Insidious Reflections, and others. She currently lives in Dallas with her husband, Bill and her Tiny Human, Coraline.
BEMPTON
by Richard Farren Barber
There was nothing they could do except stand and watch and hope that they weren’t next. Phil knew it, and he sensed that the others had already come to the same conclusion. He wanted to look away but was transfixed. The five of them had been laughing as George had rushed ahead into the middle of the field, when out of the golden wheat had come…
Had come…
Phil turned to his side and vomited into the long grass. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and avoided looking at anyone. He wanted to tell the others that his reaction wasn’t a sign of weakness, it was just humanity.
Ahead of him the narrow path cut through the tall, golden grass. The same path they had taken a few hours earlier and a lifetime ago. It was a canyon – a passage no wider than an arm’s span. Underfoot the stalks of wheat were crushed, but up ahead, where George had been standing and singing and shouting, the wheat was stained ruby, running to black.
Phil felt the muscles in his stomach convulse again and acid burned the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down before he embarrassed himself further.
