The Catacombs: Tales of the Bizarre and Twisted (The Catacombes) (The Catacombs (The Catacombes) Book 1)
Page 5
The hours between directions gave time to search and analyze a proper, reverent location. In the woods behind Brian’s house, not quite the atmosphere of the poster, sprawled two miles of wilderness and one cabin, housing Boy Scout memories. Though Mud Man deserved no less than the Tongass Forest, a sparrow’s song kept in rhythm with ‘From the Halls of Montezuma’, the aroma of a musk rose pleasantly arrived like dew, and delectable morel mushrooms fed man and beast. In this squared, petite environment - snuggled between highways, subdivision, and factories - would be the epitome of sanctuary and protection. Small or spacious, enjoy. Mud Man went where needed. Indiscriminately, maintaining peace. No acre restrictions. No estate mandates.
Brian glided from his room. His gait light, the tension resting in his hands gripping the wire. Dragging a foot and seeking manual pressure; securing, but not disrupting fragile dirt particles and bristles of roots, especially from the underside, not an easy task.
Factoring in the mental scrabbling of caution and fervency, he cracked the dial of challenged. He’d faced challenges his whole life. This one he accepted.
Ten yards out his back door, the terrain changed. Ruts, deeper ruts, then a complete drop of three feet. Now balance took center stage. He couldn’t bear to remove one hand from the wire. The grip succeeding in lodging the wire against his chest and not jostling semi moist, yet loose soil. One wrong degree of thrust and it’d either plunge like a brick or spring up as if a flipped pancake. Nah, ah. Couldn’t risk either.
So when meeting the severe drop, he eased into a sitting position on the edge and slid downward using his back and legs as worthy conductors, and relinquished scraped elbows and a light blue striped T-shirt with already a grape juice stain. Minor sacrifice, considering the option. Now back to the devices of ruts, deeper ruts, and fallen and low hanging branches. His destination was nearly a half mile out. With arm muscles twitching, a foot as a separate entity, and the anxiety that one clumsy maneuver and Mud Man was relegated to mangled marsh, a half mile is the devil’s obstacle course of hell. Enter here. Food, gas, lodging, and peace of heart and soul a half mile away. The penalty of falling is never standing up. And neither does Mud Man.
Not wanting to feel rushed, Brian kept the stop watch at home. It had already served a vital purpose. But stuffed into the right front pocket of his jeans were the compass, lighter, pocket knife and flash light. The sky as blue as the artificial azure hair comb, his energy at a ‘pitching nine inning shut-out’ intensity, and the rubber ball wrapped in a hankie, tucked in his back pocket.
The drawer of uselessness on its first field trip. A jaunt overcoming the stigma of inadequacy. A true ‘never give up’ rebel yell.
Ahead, the rusted gutters, chipped brown paint, and beacon of years gone by came into view. Once Brian saw the old cabin, yards turned to feet. Treachery teetering on victory. But he wasn’t there yet. Ruts. Hidden-by-leaves ruts. Devil’s last spikes to flatten the tires.
And then he arrived at the spot. He expelled air equivalent to one lap underwater at the city pool. Easy way to monitor--- slight dizziness, bulging eyes, a hint of panic, inflamed ears and cheeks, and exhilaration incomparable and insurmountable. Suddenly, that exhilaration diminished, as Brian gazed at the location of honor.
An old oak tree, sturdy, tall, proud, displaying nature’s wisdom, longevity, and grandeur. How many storms had it defied? How many trapeze acts had it enjoyed? How many birds called it home? Multiple branches, all welcoming and lovingly conveying the warmth of a grandmother’s hug. Yes, Brian pictured Mud Man rising, if for nothing else, to extend a ‘thank you’.
Brian gave the sky a kiss disguised as a glance. The tree a hug disguised as a tap. And then planted the wire. Not disguising Mud Man’s residency.
Three hours and fifty-six minutes into attempting a night’s sleep, Brian fell asleep only to awaken by thunder twenty-two minutes later.
Snap. Light blinked at the darkness of his window, and then thumped and hit the roof in waves. Bold waves, crashing then subsiding, as the wind decided the course and Mother Nature pitched the fever. She was in a sickly moody tonight. Dribbles plinking the metal and glass, only to be replaced by plump rain with the force of pebbles. What did this mean for Mud Man’s first night of propagation?
Insomnia joined the orchestra of weather and worry. Was it possible for Mud Man to be swept away? Drown if not rooted? Why, oh why, hadn’t Brian researched botany? Biology? For heaven’s sake, he’d researched cannons and the history of bottle caps, for meaningless school jargon, which would be forgotten in weeks and added no value to his life. But this, the most prized undertaking and event, able to change the course of environmental preservation and human suffrage, he neglected. Moron! He hadn’t even listened to a weather forecast. He had one shot and he blew it. Put the items back in the drawer, shut it, and return to your useless life.
Or wait, maybe the deluge was a blessing. A burst of water to pack in a miracle.
The edge of the bed touched the window frame. Brian scooted to the end of his bed, curled his legs underneath him, peeled the Venetian blind, and gazed outside helpless. He had diligently followed instructions to Number Nine. No going back, starting over, or revising the directions. No second-guessing the benefits or demise of rainfall. Seven minutes and five seconds later he fell asleep sitting up, nose peeking out from the blind.
His mom drove him to school. The windshield wipers on, pendulum shift, fast speed. Mother’s Nature’s moodiness, stalled at angry. A charcoal grey suffocating cloud cover reinforced the sentiment.
Normally, when the rain ended, Brian donned the yellow slicker from the closet and placed his red/blue/ white plastic boat in the puddle at the end of the drive way envisioning a wayward cruise on Lake Michigan.
Now, he’d have to up the scale. Pacific Ocean. The boat wasn’t equipped for sea water. What did it matter? Today, cruise ships and choppy waves ranked non- existent to the survival of Mud Man. Once out of school, rain or shine, monsoon or tornado, he’d be at the oak surveying the damage. Or deciphering otherwise.
Recess was indoors. Even Doug refrained from blatant belittling in front of teachers. Instead quick elbows were thrown. Bruises replaced jeering, but the verbal stuff hurt more. Left scars. Imprints on the brain do more damage than on the skin.
When Brian arrived home, the rain softened to a mist. Mother Nature’s nap time. Such an influx gets tiring.
Before he could grab a jacket, Brian spotted Doug coming down the sidewalk. Cage in hand, and by the menial expression on his face, whistling. Content to trap and terrorize. The very notion sickened Brian.
Knowing Doug would be in the vicinity of weakened Mud Man caused a fury Brian suspected existed, but hadn’t scratched. A boil of an itch mounted.
Even forgoing the jacket, Doug had several steps on him. But he’d be in his line of vision. What Brian lacked in physicality, he’d make up for in familiarity and sheer contempt. Don’t underestimate determination coated in myrmidon. Many wars have been won by such motivation.
Doug’s ignorance and cockiness bounced off his yellow baseball cap as he paraded into the thicker brush. Brian had movement and a ball of light to follow. He was slightly losing ground, but Brian had him dead on. There’d be a confrontation before Doug violated land or animal. Or worse.
Jumping down off the ledge, Brian produced a gallop, shaking his bum foot and closing the gap. Ruts be gone, he feared them no longer. When Doug got to the oak, Brian had the element of surprise to halt further encroachment.
Doug slowed five feet from Mud Man, wiped the thick gunk from his rubber boots on a rock, and pondered where to place the cage, unaware of Brian’s approach.
And he called himself a Boy Scout?
“You’re not leaving that cage anymore.” Hands on his hips, tone assertive, both eyes squinting directly at Doug.
“What are you doing here, cripple?”
“You’re not leaving the cage.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m thinking I am and y
ou’d be smart not to stop me.” Doug chuckled. “But then, you ain’t so smart are you, freak? Go limp on out of here before you get hurt.”
“You can’t come in here and do damage anymore.”
Doug ignored him, lowered the rim of his hat, and eyed a spot. Not a spot, the spot. “Oh, I think right here by this Oak tree would work.” Doug took a step.
Brian took two. The swiftness, at first, paralyzed Doug. Mouth and feet.
“No.” Brian said, firm and controlled.
Eye contact in the animal world would never have played this long. Fight or flight, most likely a lock of horn or jaw to neck and then death and dinner for one. Eat or be eaten. But an extreme amount of silence hung in honor of confusion on how to proceed.
Doug finally spoke. “Have you lost your stupid mind? I’ll jam you in this cage!”
Doug took another step. Brian took two. A space of two feet, give or take a foot, separated them. Talking--- what they had for lunch could be smelled. Or fear. Oddly, Doug breathed fear. He didn’t know why.
“Take the cage home. Smash it. And don’t come into these woods again. I’m telling you.”
A snout, snicker, sigh, emitted along with a shake of the head. How could this freak stand up to him? Why was he even afraid? “Ain’t gonna happen, cripple.” A voice said ‘put the cage where you want it’. Another voice, a stranger yet viable, screamed ‘heed the warning.’ Was this the voice of reason? Or cowardice? Neither had been tested extensively.
Willing to jump the fence, Doug turned to set the cage down. Only inches from Mud Man.
“I said, no!” Brian grabbed the cage and spun Doug from the area. Even with the force and strength behind Brian’s rage, Doug only budged a couple inches, refusing to drop the cage. He’d bring it down on Brian’s head if pushed, but letting go of the cage wasn’t going to happen. His fingers clung to the tiny metal as if soldered.
Doug raised the cage in an attempt to hit Brian. Brian ducked, jetted his hip and nudged him in defense. The impact caused more of a stir than the prior enraged spin. Doug stumbled backward, cage still high in the air, and both his feet landed inside the wire. An immediate look of despair crossed his face. Brian had seen the expression before on TV. The movie Jaws. A bite of a shark. A leg floating to the bottom. Severed at the waist. Wow, big, big trouble.
Doug began to sink. In seconds his ankles were covered and the knots in his knees absorbed the last swish of air. “Oh, no. I’m sinking. Get me out of here.”
Keeping the cage high, he attempted to move his legs. It was futile. No, detrimental. Cement set up around his feet and thighs. He twirled his waist. The descent hastened. Hadn’t Doug read that fighting quick sand only quickened your death?
Stunned, Brian watched, frozen. “Cripple! Do something.”
Even slipping into oblivion, hoping for assistance, Doug spewed hate. Niceness, not in his make-up.
The ground hit his shoulders. Cage still high above him. Maybe a bird would fly in and whisk him from the ground. Once the grit reached his mouth, no fluke of survival wondered abroad for help. In fact, the birds chirped loudly. In code. Brian didn’t know the code, but he got the gist.
The last of the wire cage sank. Eerily, Doug didn’t scream and Brian didn’t move. A weird transference jolted over the area. ‘A reap what you sow’ mentality.
Mud Man at work. Always taking on different forms. Communication. Yet, heavy rain had the potential to turn mail order mud to quick sand.
At home, Brian read number ten.
Number Ten: Water. Wait. Hope.
He’d followed the instruction best as he could, but then he noticed fine print down at the bottom. Moving the paper inches from his nose, he read.
NOT FOR USE BY CHILDREN.
Oh, well. He didn’t always follow directions.
Kates Baloons
by Norma Jean Lipert
I always thought that it was best to tell the truth at all times. Now I’m not so sure. Here I sit, in a sparse and dreary jail cell, contemplating my future. Time is running out. I need to make a decision and I need to make it quickly. The rest of my life depends upon it. Do I tell the truth and end up spending the rest of my days among the lunatics in a mental institution or do I lie and falsely admit to killing my wife and spend them in prison surrounded by criminals? Which is the lesser of two evils? Regardless of my choice, I don’t see myself living as a free man in the future. My story is so far-fetched that no one will ever believe it. Heck, I wouldn’t believe it either. Not in a million years.
For the record, I did not kill my wife. I loved her. She was my best friend. We were married for almost 36 years and had two beautiful children and three lovely grandchildren. She was the best thing that ever happened to me. Sure, we had a few problems early on in our marriage; all couples do. Over time we managed to work things out and now our marriage was envied by most of our friends.
We both had good jobs and were nearing retirement. Kate worked in the Human Resources Department at our local community college and I, Spencer Hoffman, was Vice Principal of Westwood Middle School. We both drove cars that were fairly new and we enjoyed dining out frequently. Our home was in a nice neighborhood and the mortgage was paid off a few years ago so we were financially secure. I had no complaints or regrets. We finally reached a point where life was really good and we were looking forward to traveling and experiencing new adventures after retirement.
It’s amazing how things can change so quickly and without warning.
It seems like only yesterday that Kate and I sat at the breakfast table, discussing her upcoming birthday while having our morning coffee. You could tell by the look on her face and the sound of her voice that she was facing it with a great deal of apprehension. Usually, she embraced each birthday with anticipation, like a child, filled with excitement at the thought of the celebration. This one was different. Over coffee she was telling me she felt so old.
Actually, she was whining. Kate doesn’t whine so I knew she felt strongly about this. This was a big birthday for her, her sixtieth, and she was dreading it with a trepidation I’d never seen in her before. For two weeks, she complained about it, as if she could somehow escape the inevitable. Even her coworkers knew how depressed she was over this one. “Fifty was bad enough,” she moaned, “but sixty is just plain old.”
“Nonsense,” I replied, trying to comfort her, “you know you look at least ten years younger. Kate, you’re not old. Besides, sixty is a new beginning. Soon we’ll both be retired. The kids are grown, and now it’s time for us to enjoy life and travel and do all the things we couldn’t do while we were raising the kids and working every day. I promise you, Kate, life will be good. You’ll see. It’ll be a new beginning for both of us.”
A new beginning...I can look back now and see clearly exactly when it all started. It was the beginning of the end; the end of us and our wonderful life together. It all started with Kate’s birthday. That morning she took extra care dressing for work, carefully choosing her outfit, making sure she didn’t look “old and frumpy,” as she put it. “I really dread going in to work today. I’m really not in the mood to celebrate, and I know the girls in the office will have a cake for me. I’ll probably start crying,” she said.
“Don’t be silly,” I replied, “just go and enjoy your day. I’ll see you when you get home, and we’ll go out to dinner. I’ll even take you to your favorite restaurant. Now go.”
I gave her a kiss and stood at the open door, watching heras she walked down the driveway and got into her car.Sitting behind the wheel, she glanced back at me with apained expression on her face. Wearing a forced smile, she backed the car out of the driveway, turned to me, and waved.
I blew her another kiss and waved back to her and watched her drive away. I knew her coworkers would cheer her up.
They were a wild group and never missed a birthday celebration. There would be cake and presents. Kate loved presents. I had no doubt that she would be fine once she got to the office.
When I saw the balloons I had to smile. They were two big heart-shaped helium balloons; one red and one pink. Each one sported a smiley face. The balloons were a reminder that today was also Valentine’s Day. Kate was born on Valentine’s Day. I thought back to past birthdays and how Kate always insisted on having two gifts. She did not want her birthday and Valentine’s Day combined into one celebration. She had me put the balloons in her office which was located near the front door, off the living room area, and she went into the bedroom to change her clothes for her birthday dinner date.
I decided to make her a nice before-dinner cocktail and while I was mixing her drink, she reappeared wearing a beautiful blue dress that accented her eyes. She was still smiling.
Suddenly, I noticed she was not alone. “Who’s your friend?” I asked, pointing behind her.
Directly behind her, the red balloon was slowly bobbing up and down as if it were nodding its head or laughing. The long ribbon streaming from the bottom almost appeared to be dancing to music. It was quite comical, but, at the same time it was eerie. It seemed almost human.
When Kate looked behind her, I could tell she didn’t find anything comical in it at all. “How did that get in here?” she asked.
“It must have followed you.” I didn’t see what the big deal was about the balloon being there, but apparently I was missing something.
“That’s impossible,” she said, “You put them in my office.”
“I did put them in your office. Maybe he was lonely,” I joked, making light of the situation.
She ignored my little joke and studied the balloon carefully. “I haven’t even been in the office since I got home. How could it just come out of the office by itself? It would have to duck down under two doorways, one in the office and the other in the living room. That’s just not possible. This is just plain creepy.”