Hideous Faces, Beautiful Skulls: Tales of Horror and the Bizarre

by Mark McLaughlin

  “From this union shall spring Titans,” I cried, taking a swig of wine. “With their Father, they shall reign supreme throughout the universe. O Gaea, take from the magic televisions the mind-power of our gentlemen, our unknowing congregation…”

  Mr. Pash stood amidst the magic players, arms outstretched. The tops of the VHS players bulged into round pods which soon opened, spewing forth yard after yard of tape. The tapes coiled and writhed around Mr. Pash’s body, sliding through the fleshy grooves. Curling metal vines grew from the tops of the DVD players—vines dotted with spinning silver blossoms. The vines also slid through the grooves, side by side with the tapes.

  I continued to drink wine and rant. In retrospect, I believe I should have set the bottle aside. “Noble Earth Mother! Arise from death! It is at last time to meet you. What shall you be cooking for us, sweet Gaea? We have already eaten Mr. Spoon. Arise: your new husband awaits.”

  A cloud of ash rose from the players and formed itself into a translucent grey succubus. Sparks danced through the apparition as it lavished its affections on Mr. Pash.

  On the screens of the magic televisions, scenes from the movies played—but with a difference. The prodigious creatures now wandered from movie to movie. Hulking cannibals stormed the Atlantean city. Immense carnivorous plants tried to steal a cocooned victim from the Liquifier. Outsized winged goats trampled helpless villagers in the jungle dimension.

  Mr. Pash shuddered and groaned with ecstasy. Wires snaked up from the players and plunged into my employer’s heaving gut as he consummated the marriage ritual.

  The expression of rapture on Mr. Pash’s face was simply too ridiculous—or at least, so I thought at the time. Drink can turn the kindest man into an unfeeling Judas. “I’ve had a wonderful time,” I said, “but I’m afraid that I have overstayed my welcome. Where was my mind? What must you think of me, Mr. Pash? But then, what must I think of you? It’s dreadfully impolite to rut in front of guests.” So saying, I laughed and laughed and laughed like a mad boy.

  Poor Mr. Pash—scoffed by his own disciple! The rapture on his face was replaced by a look of terrified doubt. With a cry of triumph, the ash-temptress fled through a crack in the basement floor. Undone by his own momentary uncertainty, Mr. Pash was at the mercy of reality. I watched helplessly as the wires in his belly fried him alive. A horrid, oily steam rose from his body. I ran up the stairs and out of the house.

  Bottle in hand, I wandered the streets of a changed world.

  Mr. Pash had perished, yes; but not before he had consummated the union, passing the magic on to Mrs. Spoon. I’m sure that his sacrifice had only served to strengthen her.

  A winged goat larger than any ocean liner soared across the moon, bleating thunderously. A monstrous Venus flytrap shot up from the turf of a children’s playground and snuffled ravenously at the swings and slide.

  Screams of pain and horror echoed through the city. The earth thundered as impossible monstrosities lumbered through the night. From the shadows, I watched giant cannibals tear the heads from policemen at a doughnut shop. With great slurping noises they sucked the spinal cords from their victims. A few blocks down the road, a Liquifier slathered its web into a parked car and trapped a pair of lovemaking teenagers. Another Liquifier draw near to watch its sibling feast.

  * * * *

  The Titans are everywhere. Spider-demons, cannibals, winged goats, vile plant-things. They see me, but leave me be. In fact, they regard me with trepidation. And why not? I am the usurper of their father’s throne. In their eyes, I am capable of unspeakable devastation.

  I am writing this in a luxurious penthouse apartment. I had to walk up sixty floors. Mr. Pash, Mr. Pash—all of this should have been yours. I am sorry that I laughed. So terribly sorry. I had planned to throw myself off the balcony, but in the end, I could not.

  Just as I was about to jump, an enormous pair of snarling, oddly inviting lips opened up in the pavement below.

  BUCKTOOTHED BOY, BELOVED BY MILLIONS

  “Little Perky! Come home this minute!”

  Mommy’s calling for you, Little Perky, little bucktoothed, black-haired boy. Mommy found a firecracker in your room. Firecrackers are so very naughty! You could lose a finger if you’re not careful.

  Brush those heavy bangs out of your eyes and look around. Look around with those large round eyes, those shiny black eyes, those sweet mischievous eyes (beloved by millions!).

  There’s Mr. Finkle’s house. Mr. Finkle is so funny when he’s mad. The veins stand out on his face and neck like big icky worms.

  Way down the block—that’s where the Widow Prim lives. That noisy old crow! Her long nose is just like a beak. She always yells at you whenever you walk on her grass. “Get those big clodhopper feet off my grass, Little Perky, or I’ll tell your Daddy!”—that’s just what she yells.

  Finkle, Prim, Finkle, Prim… Yes, visit Mr. Finkle today. A good long visit. You should wait a while before going home. Daddy teaches school to big kids, and he’s got some pretty old-fashioned ideas about discipline. That firecracker might have made him mad enough to get out the Board of Education (yee-ow!).

  Mr. Finkle is working in his garden this afternoon. Oh, it’s a nasty garden, all weed-choked and silly. The tomatoes are tiny and hard! The cucumbers look like green bite-sized snack sausages! The lettuce is wormy and wilted (just like his face!). His garden was a lot better last year. Remember? You used his watermelons for slingshot practice.

  “Well, if it isn’t Little Perky.” Mr. Finkle harrumphs at you as he hoes at the soggy clay. “In trouble again, I’ll wager. Didn’t I hear your mother calling?”

  “Gee, Mr. Finkle—I don’t think so!” Your big eyes roll with glee. “That was Mrs. Finkle calling for you!”

  “Oh, dear! Coming, Bitsy!” Mr. Finkle drops the hoe and trots off toward his tidy little pink-with-blue-trim house.

  Dig deep in your pockets, Little Perky. You’ve got lots of firecrackers—might as well put them to good use. Wouldn’t the Finkles like a nice tossed salad…?

  Run, Little Perky! Outrun the flying dirtclods and chunks of tomato!

  Time for a commercial break, Little Perky. Koala Kough Drops are eucalypti-licious! Australian nights can get mighty cold, and when Kippy Kangaroo gets a scratchy throat, he turns to Koala Kough Drops for oh-so-fast relief.

  Oh, what a day! What a sunny, wonderful day! You skip down the sidewalk, happy as a big, goofy dog. Your bangs bounce up and down as you skip. Time to peek in on Widow Prim…

  Up to her little yellow house you creep. Peek through every green-trimmed window, Little Perky. Now where’s that Widow? She has to be home—she never goes anywhere.

  Oh, goody! The back door is unlocked. You creep into the Widow’s kitchen and—what’s this? Pots and pans are scattered everywhere. She’s making pudding! The greedy old thing! Whipping up a big batch of butterscotch pudding all for herself!

  On the windowsill you spy a vial of pills. The Widow’s heart medicine! Quick as a bunny, you pop the pills into your hanky, grind them under your heel, and pour all the white powder into the sugar bowl.

  Suddenly you hear the flush of a toilet. It’s funny to think that Widow Prim actually goes to the bathroom. You mix the powder into the sugar with your finger. Then you slink out of the kitchen, easing the back door shut behind you.

  You pick up a sturdy twig and rattle it against a picket fence as you stroll down the street. What to do now? Suddenly, someone steps in front of you. Mr. Finkle! His face is as red as a beet. The veins look just like thick, pulsy nightcrawlers! Now you’re in for it, Little Perky!

  “You awful child! You’ve ruined my garden!” Mr. Finkle’s hands clench and clench. “I’m going to spank your bottom, you little vandal!”

  Mr. Finkle reaches out for you, then stops as a scream erupts from Widow Prim’s house. The back door
flies open and out shoots Widow Prim, clutching at her chest. Her face sure looks funny. All pale and twisty. Mr. Finkle pushes you aside and runs to help the Widow.

  Now the sky’s all full of words. That’s weird, ain’t it? They’re all backwards, but you can figure some of them out. Ronald something, Ingrid Pretty… The words are getting smaller. What’s a producer? Does he sell produce to Mr. Furgeson’s grocery store? Those words sure go by fast!

  “Little Perky! Little Perky, come home this minute!”

  Uh-oh, the show’s starting again and you’re in trouble deep. Why did you leave your roller skates on the stairs? Poor, poor Daddy. How come he’s not getting up? You skip out of the house and down the street—

  Suddenly you stop. There’s Mr. Finkle, walking down the sidewalk. He’s turned from you, but you can tell it’s him ’cause his head is so big. The back of his head reminds you of a ripe melon! You check your back pocket—yep, you’ve got your slingshot handy. You find a big old rock, load up and let fly.

  Gee. The inside of his head looks like a melon, too!

  You’d better run, Little Perky! Run as fast as you can! Down the street, past Mr. Finkle’s house, past the school, the fire station (wouldn’t it be nice to slide down the pole?), Mr. Furgeson’s grocery store, the hardware store, the pet shop (too bad Daddy wouldn’t let you buy that talking bird…still, Daddy knows best!), the barber shop, oh, your feet barely touch the ground, you’re running so fast!

  Oh no, Little Perky! You ran too far! You’ve actually left Smartville behind. And now—why, this won’t do! You’re wandering in a big smelly city (smells just like doggy doo) and is that your reflection in that pawnshop window?

  No, no, no—that’s some greasy-haired baggy-pants, some no-good drifter, some boozy old has-been with a saggy booze face. The kind Daddy used to warn you about.

  Better run back, Perky! Back to Smartville and all its wacky citizens. Back to Smartville, where every housewife wears her hair in a flip and every husband does important work in a big office. No one is homeless in Smartville. No one ever goes hungry. Oh, it’s good to be back.

  Time to play in the treehouse!

  You shimmy up the old oak behind the house and scoot into your little plywood hidey-hole. You love all your little treehouse treasures. Baseball cards, bugs stuck on pins, neat candy wrappers, an old squirrel skull, and—a bottle of whiskey? What’s that doing here? For a second the treehouse seems—Yucky. Cold. Like the inside of one of those metal boxes behind fancy restaurants. No, surely that’s not booze! That’s a bottle of Koala Kough Syrup! Kippy Kangaroo takes a swig whenever his throat gets a tricky tickle! Koala Kough Syrup—ask for it by name!

  Oh, but what’s happening? The top of the treehouse is being lifted up! A Nice Officer looks down on you and smiles.

  This must be a dream.

  Yes, you must have fallen asleep in the treehouse. What an exciting dream! The Nice Officer takes you to the station and starts talking about The Show. He says he used to watch The Show back when he was a kid. He also says your old costars are dying off and thats pretty weird ’cause they’re scattered all over the country. Gee whiz!

  Martha Fine (who’s that?) died of an overdose of heart medicine. Some people are so careless. Ronald Bain (that name rings a little bell) somehow broke his back while he was sleeping! Imagine that. Conrad Elmore (who’s that?) got his skull bashed in today while he was taking a shower. Well, most accidents do happen in the bathroom. They’ve left a message on Nancy Verrick’s answering machine—the Nice Officer reminds you that she’s the one who played Mrs. Finkle.

  The Nice Officer tells you that Ingrid Pretty (that name rings a BIG bell) was the lucky one. She died peacefully in some nursing home just before this whole mess began.

  The Nice Officer says, do you know anything? Sure, you know that vinegar and baking soda and modeling clay make a neat volcano!

  He says he’s going to let you Sleep It Off. What does that mean? You’re already asleep! He leads you to a shadowy room with a nice soft cot.

  “Little Perky! Come home this minute!”

  You find yourself hiding in the attic, eating yummy, gooey chocolate chip cookies (snatched from the cookie jar!). Oh, they’re so good, so good. You like the attic—Mommy has all her old clothes up here and they smell like perfume.

  Suddenly you remember—you’re in trouble on the double! Why did you get Mrs. Finkle all wet? Sure, she smokes an awful lot, but if you wanted to put out her cigarette, you should have filled that balloon with water—not gasoline! You’d better stay in the attic for a good long time, Little Perky!

  You look out the window. From here you can see the Smartville Cemetery. Some of those graves look mighty fresh…

  Listen!

  What was that? A creaking door? Is it the boogeyman, Little Perky?

  Listen to that soft padding on the stairs…

  Listen to this soft voice in your head…

  A shadow looms before you, but it’s not the boogeyman. It’s—it’s—

  Why, it’s me! Your loving Mommy!

  I’ve brought you a glass of milk, Little Perky. Nice and cold—just the thing to wash down those cookies. A little later, we’ll go down to the pet shop and buy that talking bird. Oh, I know Daddy said it would cause a lot of commotion, but Daddy can’t hear it from underground!

  It’s so good to be with you again, Little Perky. I was alone for so long! Forgotten by my friends, my family (my out there family), even my fans. Just another sicky in that terrible nursing home. Trapped in a cancerous old body, wasting away.

  I wrote to all my old co-stars but none of them wanted to visit. I couldn’t get in touch with you…Conrad was the one who called to tell me that—well, that your career was going poorly. The bastard (Oopsy! Pardon my French!)—he sounded so pleased.

  Oh, I despised the whole slimy lot of them. They wouldn’t visit me and they wouldn’t help you. What’s a mother to do?

  When I died and none of them came to the funeral…that was the last straw. Not all ghosts wear sheets, Little Perky. Some wear lovely lacy aprons that say KISS THE COOK. You’ve made a nice little world for yourself, Little Perky. I let you decide what to do about Daddy and Widow Prim and Mr. and Mrs. Finkle. Whatever you did to them in here, I did to them out there (my poor apron—some of these stains will never come out).

  You have no idea how much I’ve missed you. We’ll have so much fun! I’ll dress you and feed you and comb your lovely black hair (a ribbon will keep it out of your eyes). I’ll give you nice hot baths and make sure you wash behind your ears and everywhere else (little boys can get so dirty in all their little secret crannies), which reminds me, I’d better buy some cotton swabs. I’ll give you hugs and kisses morning, noon, and night. We’ll be so close. I’ll never let you out of my sight. You won’t know where you end and I begin. You and me, Little Perky, together in your mind for the rest of your days.

  You look ill…have a Koala Kough Drop. They’re eucalypti-licious! Kippy Kangaroo loves them because they pack a punch of Vitamin K to knock out those awful germs!

  Home is the loveliest word I know, Little Perky. It really is. Home. Home. Home. Home. Home.

  I’m home.

  THE FINAL BROADCAST OF SUGARVILLE’S CHANNEL 7 ACTION NEWS

  With a sweeping rush of majestic orchestra music, bright lights came up on the set of Sugarville’s CHANNEL 7 ACTION NEWS, 10 p.m. broadcast. The name of the program was emblazoned on the back wall of the set in bold italic, sans serif, purple letters edged with gold. Under the letters was a large monitor showing random scenes from the Sugarville metro area.

  The two anchorpeople chatted at the sky-blue news desk, their tanned faces set in expressions of cheery attentiveness. As the music faded, they turned simultaneously toward the camera.

  “Good evening, and welcome to Channel 7
Action News at ten! I’m Brett Bellamy!” The anchorman had green eyes, a square jaw and dark-brown hair with golden highlights.

  “And I’m Jessica Michaels!” The anchorwoman had bright blue eyes, an almond-shaped face and shoulder-length, moussed black hair with a long, ash-blonde forelock. “Tonight’s top story—Sugarville find itself locked in the icy grip of a cold snap!”

  The expressions of the anchorpeople turned deadly serious as the theme music blared, while on the monitor, a navy-blue and icy cyan logo sprang up that read, COLD SNAP! SUGARVILLE IN PERIL.

  “So far, we’ve been enjoying a fairly mild October,” Brett said, “with a daytime high of sixty-eight degrees, and a nighttime low of forty-seven. But this evening at 9 p.m., Sugarville citizens trembled as the mercury dropped to forty-four degrees! But that wasn’t the worst. Brisk winds combined with that frigid temperature to create a wind-chill factor of forty-one degrees. And since that time, the temperature has dropped even further—to an arctic thirty-nine degrees!”

  “Bone-chilling!” said Jessica, brushing her forelock, which was drooping a bit, away from her cheek. “We now have a live report from Chad Yamata, who is out in the community in our Channel 7 Action News Van, experiencing this sudden change in the weather firsthand.”

  On the monitor, a handsome Asian man in a suede jacket appeared. He wore blue contact lenses and his black hair was frosted golden-brown at the temples. At his side was a middle-aged, heavyset woman in an orange parka. “Thanks, Jessica!” Chad said. Curls of mist lightly billowed from his lips. “I’m on Lincoln Street, talking with Emily Randolph, who tells us her puppy, Mindy, ran out of the house when one of her children left the door open after coming home from a friend’s house. The puppy is now lost—outside—in these icy temperatures.”