Ricky obeyed.
***
Hard linoleum caught Ricky as he blindly slid through the unlocked window and into darkness. The cold tiling pressing his cheek mixed with the faded smell of dirty bleach was enough to tell him that he was in the bathroom. Ricky scrambled to his feet, remembering what was promised if he wasn't quick. He feverishly felt along the slick walls for the door.
How the fuck did you get yourself into this? HOW??
Ricky had no time to think. All his efforts had to be focused on finding his way out of this room. He had to unlock the lobby doors and hope to fuck that the clown would still be there. Eyes bulging and hands shaking, he searched the featureless confines of the room. His tired eyes refused to focus against the heavy silkscreen that clogged his vision. Every step he took was bogged down by the accelerated passage of time. His tired mind stopped counting the seconds as they burned down like the lit fuse on a stick of dynamite; coils of dead ash held its previous shape.
Just when Ricky started to feel the sharp steel jaws of panic clamping down on his throat, choking his already labored breath, his hand touched on something that felt like a ball of cold brass. The faint rectangle outline of a break in the endless wall filled the blank space in front of him.
Twisting madly at the knob, the patch of wall fell outward. He had found the door. Slowly, he let it creak open. Its hinges squeaked loudly in his ears. The sound brought back not so distant memories of Pretzel's screams for mercy from where she lay just beyond the endless brick wall somewhere to his back.
Then, as he took one step forward towards the empty space, the door seemed to waver and bend like the reflection of a funhouse mirror. The long, empty hallway ahead of him stretched for miles, slithering from side to side like the gutted insides of a giant anaconda. The knob, once solid brass, corroded to pieces in his hand; rust colored sand sifting through cold, prosthetic fingers. Suddenly, he felt tremendously lighter, as if a thousand tiny helium balloons were just released from the soles of his feet. The darkness of the tiny room soon filled with speckled bursts of light that zipped and danced everywhere he looked. He was aware of his hand losing the knob; he clawed helplessly to regain his sense of control as he felt his body and mind spinning into darkness. Slowly, the break in the wall closed.
You can’t pass out, Ricky! You can’t do that, you selfish piece of shit! Keep it together and get out of here!
That was enough to snap him back. But he had no idea how long he had been standing there for. There was no way to conceptualize time in a state like that. It could have been seconds or minutes. Standing in total darkness, he had no idea which way he was facing. Desperately throwing himself in one direction, his body slammed against a flat surface that shuttered loosely. Praying it wasn’t a stall door, Ricky grabbed the handle and pulled.
Success. He once again found the way out.
Shadows ascended Ricky as he ran wildly down the dark halls, never looking back. He felt as if at any moment some saint, or maybe even Jesus himself, would pop his head up from around a distant corner to laugh at him.
He reached the lobby and quickly went for the large glass doors. A wave of panic washed over him when he didn't see anyone waiting outside. Heart nearly exploding under the strain, he caught his breath as the green haired man emerged from the pillar shadows of the dim archway.
“Good job,” the clown said as Ricky thumbed back the lock and opened the wide glass door. “You made it with just six seconds to spare. Now, turn around and walk slowly to the altar.” Gun raised, the clown walked inside from out of the light and latched the door behind him. He was careful to keep an unblinking eye on the trembling child, never turning his back or aim.
“Please, sir,” Ricky pleaded as the shadowy figure moved closer, “I swear I won’t tell anyone about what you did if you let me go right now. I don’t care what you wanna’ do in here. I’ll say that a rabid fox attacked my dog. Or a bear. Yeah. I’ll lie about everything if you let me—”
The rest of the words were knocked out of his mouth with the butt of the stranger’s gun. A sharp numbness followed by white-hot pain radiated from the whole left side of his face. Ricky felt his brain painfully jostle against the inside of his skull as he staggered backwards from the blow.
Lucky for him, something caught his fall.
Landing on a cheap potted fern set to one side of the lobby, Ricky’s body momentarily went limp. Feeling the moist dirt against the exposed skin of his lower back, he sat stunned. The excruciating pain in his face was the only thing keeping him conscious. Seated on his dirt throne, the room before him swayed and blurred together. He felt the dirt start to sink under his weight, draping the lofty fern over his eyes. Suddenly blinded, he pushed himself over the curved ceramic lip and scrambled into the nearest corner for safety. Wrapped up like a big rubber ball, Ricky sobbed uncontrollably, too scared to process what was happening.
He stared wearily at the champagne-colored carpet through cold, knitted fingers listening in agony to the man's shuffling footsteps draw ever closer. The hollow thud of each heavy step rattled through the creaky floorboards under Ricky's body. The soles of his still numbed feet felt the sonic vibration. It was as if a giant were stomping towards him in the distant night. His mile-wide steps crashing through trees and flattening the rolling hills between them. Just as the thundering quakes became almost unbearable to withstand, they stopped.
Silence.
An impatient voice broke through the whooshing sounds of Ricky's harsh, mucus-filled breaths. “I’ll only say this one more time. You either get up and do what I say, or else. Comprende?” In one swift motion, the clown went to punt Ricky like his head was being set up for a kickoff. Ricky flinched and caught most of the blow to his chest, an explosive pain that completely deflated him. Crumpling back to the floor, the clown stood grimacing down at him. His cracked frown twitching between heated words. “I’m so sick of having to say the same shit over and over again. Every time I do this, it’s the same goddamn thing. You fuckin' kids…” A heavy sigh punctuated his obvious inconvenience.
Not wanting to endure any more abuse, Ricky shakily propped himself up using the wall at his back. The clown allowed this, leaving just enough space between them for proper wiggle room in case Ricky decided to get brave. He wouldn’t be the first kid to try to escape fate; in one way or another, they all had. Watching Ricky walk ahead of him, head down and hands glued to his sides, he got an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. How many children had he led to their deaths like tiny prisoners of war? The number meant nothing to him now. The only thing that mattered was ending the madness that swelled inside him so he could go back to being normal.
Becoming impatient with Ricky’s sluggish pace, the clown shoved him forward through the wide awning doors. “Hurry the fuck up,” the clown said as he stalked at Ricky's back. Assisting him, he jabbed the muzzle of the gun between Ricky’s shoulder blades and got an immediate response.
For the second time today against his will, Ricky re-entered the nave. Each long sand-weighted step brought him unknowingly closer to his death. Once at the altar, the clown told Ricky to stop and turn around.
When he did, he noticed the clown looking around, mapping the contours of the room. He paced back and forth, sometimes turning abruptly to look up at the life size crucifix hanging above the altar. Ricky could hear the clown muttering something to himself, but not well. His discordant whispers lingered in the high roof before wafting back. They looped into themselves over repeatedly until the volume started to increase.
After about a minute of this, the clown suddenly stopped and turned to Ricky, who was still standing at the lip of the altar. “Not what I had in mind but… oh well. Beggars can’t be choosers, right?” The question wasn’t really meant for Ricky, but he answered anyway.
“I just wanna’ go home. Oh my god, please, sir, let me go…” He trailed off into another fit of snot-filled tears. The clown then sternly posed him a question from across the aisle.
“N… no…”
The authoritative tone fell from the man's voice and was replaced with one of speculative wonder.
“Halloween used to be November first back in the long, long ago. The Pagans called it Samhain, and it was meant to be a yearly celebration of the dead as they passed through to the Otherworld. They believed that every year around this time the metaphysical barriers that separate our planes of reality grow exceptionally thin. Something about the seasons bleeding together or… something. I dunno. Anyway, the Pagans did this every year until Christianity came along and wanted a piece. Well, as you might guess, they didn’t like the Pagans so much, so they made up new holidays to mask over Samhain. Basically tricking the Pagans into worshiping Christ. Fucked up, huh?”
“I hate church, too,” Ricky sniffled. He saw a slim chance of getting out of this alive. Possibly his only chance. If Ricky could get this guy to feel any kind of sympathy, just a little, he might be able to bide enough time to escape. It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the only plan he could think of. But if he was going to try his luck, he had to act fast. “I can’t stand all the stupid shit that they make me read in here.” He paused to reel back and hawk a loogie on the reverend’s podium to his right. “Fucking waste of my time.”
The clown immediately stopped pacing and turned towards Ricky. In several large steps, they were at eye level.
“What did you say?” His ringed eyes blazed in deep sockets of cracked paint. Ricky could see the pressure fluctuations behind the clown's multi-layered face. Neck veins pulsated and throbbed like blue earthworms wriggling against his snare drum skin.
“I… don’t like church either… It’s stupid like you were sayin’—”
Ricky’s mouth exploded as the butt of the clown’s gun once again kissed him hard on the right cheek. Fireworks flashed behind his swollen eyes as pools of blood started to gush from a deep cut in his mouth. The hot, metallic taste trickled down his throat as he fell backward. His descent felt graceful, as if he were being dropped into a pool of tepid water. Crashing into the podium to his left, the clown charged over and grabbed Ricky by the slack of his jacket, pinning him on his back. The weight of the man tackling him strangled any strength that was left in his bruised and beaten body. Feebly, Ricky tried to squirm free, but the man sat solidly on top of him; a horror movie monster materialized directly from the silver screen. He gasped and wheezed for air, unable to fight back. Their faces nearly touched now under the purple light creeping in from outside the stained windows.
For the first time, he noticed the rank odor of the clown. An added sense that only intensified his fear. The clown’s rancid breath filled his lungs like methane gas. Steaming in the air, each breath plumed outward toward Ricky, trying to invade every orifice of his wide terror-stricken face. Stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey fumed from his open pores. His yellow teeth, like shucked corn, gnashed together under the drool-smeared makeup glistening around his mouth. Hard fingers pushed into the soft tissue of Ricky’s shoulders, sending a current of pain to his already useless arms.
“You fuckin' scab,” the clown growled at him. “I see what you are. You can talk the talk, but I know your true identity. You’re a sleeper agent. You all are. Programmed and conditioned for holy warfare.” He spat in Ricky’s face. The acidic gob hit his left eye in mid-blink. “The wall is crumbling, and it’s YOUR fault. If your people only knew how right the ancient Pagans were. They knew all about the Otherworld and all the parasitic phantasms and creatures that live there. The Pagans were the ones who came up with the whole idea of dressing up in scary costumes to scare those alien motherfucker’s back to their own dimension.”
The clown’s voice grew quiet. A harsh whisper that slithered through the dark, empty pews.
“The thing no one knows, even the Pagans, is that these aren't the souls of the previously dead coming back for one more nightly jog. These are a completely different entity. Monsters. Aliens. Yog-Sothoth. Whatever name we give those… things, it doesn’t matter.
“THEY exist.
“An entire universe of Them. And the only thing that keeps Them out is an ever-thinning wall of cosmic radiation that separates our dimensions. That radiation directly aligns with the harmonic waves that we as a consciousness operate on. The waves are not produced by us, but are merely picked up by our pre-tuned harmonic receptors. Once linked, the two waves roll together. Kinda' like how there are certain radio stations that come in better when there's a thunderstorm nearby.
“That’s why the ancient Pagans took the rituals so seriously. The invisible force field weakens more and more every year. And just like us, They eat. They seek nourishment where it is plentiful. And what is plentiful are our souls. Those… fuckin' THINGS come here undetected and hollow us out like human-shaped Cadbury Eggs!”
The panic in the clown’s voice was reaching a fever pitch. His gloved hands violently shook Ricky with every third or fourth syllable.
“The ancient Celtic people tried to help fix the gate, but your kind had to go and fuck everything up! Way to go! Only now can I see that it’s Christianity's fault that I’m a slave to Them! You did this to me! Look at what you DID!”
His voice boomed out, a choir of off-key voices cascaded all around them. The arched ceiling and empty corners amplified his screams. They chanted from unseen spaces and crevices before echoing back into silence.
“Do you find me scary? Do I SCARE YOU!?” he screeched in Ricky’s face.
“Yes! Yes!” Ricky cried, his red-webbed eyes sore and dry.
“Well, don’t be. This is your one chance to serve a higher purpose. If I do this right, the gate will be fixed long enough for me to get my life back. That’s all I want. I just want things to be how they were before the accident.” The clown's dripping mouth hung low on his pain-stricken face. His left hand floated to his right temple and absently rubbed at his hairline. His inner thoughts were dominated by the memory that haunted him at that moment.
Self-pity was replaced by somber tones of motherly comfort. “Don’t worry. You’ll be at peace soon enough.”
Before Ricky could say another word, the clown removed a plastic Ziploc baggie from his back pocket. Still pointing the gun in Ricky’s face, the clown tugged open the seal with his teeth and dumped out a single wet rag into his free hand. Knowing too well what was happening, an intense feeling of doom washed over the boy as the dripping rag moved closer.
Seeing all this from far away, Ricky tried again to get on his feet, but couldn’t. All the energy had been beaten out of his body. His nerves snapped, disconnecting him from the physical restraint and mental torture. A small part of him was already accepting his fate. The very same part congratulated him for not sacrificing his family for his own safety.
He still has your address, moron! What’s stopping him from going by your house after he’s done playing with you??
With the tiny glimmer of hope squashed under the heavy boot of reality, he cried out into the night for the last time. His gargled screams joined the hellish echoes of the clown, becoming a soft tonal layer in his own death song. A song heard by no one.
As the rag was forced over Ricky’s face, a barrage of chemical fumes filled his lungs. The harsh vapors made way through microscopic alleyways throughout. Invading his thoughts and actions with dangerous speed. As his body slowly went lax and succumbed to the vapors, his mind screamed in molested terror. Like during Sunday mass, thoughts and memories flashed by him as his grip on reality loosened. Trips to Boston with his father to see the Red Sox play and sweet kisses from his mother flipped through his mind like a child’s picture book caught in a gust of wind. Once forgotten toys and stuffed animals appeared in those pages. Sad expressions formed their plastic faces as they waved goodbye, some with silicon tears rolling down their fur-matted cheeks. All the things he held to be of importance in his life filled those thin pages until the w
ind stopped and the book slammed shut. He knew then that his time had come.
Hanging over Ricky, his shadowy form doubling and tripling under the vapors, the man leaned in to whisper sweetly in the boy’s ear.
“I need you intact for this. Also, I’m sorry I had to kill your dog. You gotta' understand, this display has to be flawless or They won’t be pleased.”
Clawing feebly to regain his dwindling consciousness, Ricky was dragged quietly down into the merciless depths of everlasting sleep. Before cold blackness enveloped all that ever was, Ricky heard these words float to him from the departing physical realm.
“I will make you legend. I will give you purpose… just like the others.”
Chapter 7
April 4, 2006
12:10 pm
Hampden, Maine
A bubbling French bread pizza and a soapy pile of peas were all that occupied Kieffer's crusty prison style lunch tray. Nearing the end of the line, his stomach flipped and churned like an old water heater. The acidic burn of anxiety crept its way up his throat, leaving the bitter taste of alkaline batteries at the back of his tongue. He wasn’t hungry and knew he wasn’t going to eat any of the hot mess he blindly flopped onto his plate. Looking at the tombstone shaped brick of scab-riddled pizza and foamy pocket of peas made his gut stubbornly clench shut. He only got a lunch to bide himself more time. A last-ditch effort to come up with something reasonable to say to Ashley.
He had spent virtually every second, every moment, since yesterday’s encounter worrying. The cold fingers of impending awkwardness, like thin slivers of ice pushing through the thin folds of his brain, were only thawed by passing images of that first kiss.
But did you blow your one chance to get a girlfriend? A REAL girlfriend?
Ionic Relapse: Book One of The Doll Man Duology (Volume 1) Page 11
