Last week I received word that Frank had
died in a bar fight, his throat cut by another man. Frank wasn’t a friend, not for a long time
now, but when we were twelve years old, we had been best buddies. I was overdue to visit a few relatives, so
I came down for the funeral, and now, with the burial over, I decided to take a
walk down here, to the little hideaway we used to visit. When we were middle
school friends, this little patch had been a refuge, a place to play hooky,
sneak a little chewing tobacco, and play cards.
But that was before Frank murdered his kid brother Joe. It was this awful patch of ground that had
changed Frank.
I’m not going any closer. This is far enough. It smells rotten here, the air heavy and
putrid. I’m convinced now this is truly
an evil place. It’s really just an ugly
pimple of dirt and bushes, no bigger than the backyards I remember from
childhood. Frank’s death brought me back
here. I came because I needed to know if
my memories were false memories, or the real thing. Now I know, because I’m not twelve years old
anymore, but a highly functioning 25 year old, and this cesspool still feels
like a crypt of demons.
I remember Frank telling me he had a
“cool” place for us to hang out after school one day.
“Nobody knows about this spot,” said
Frank. “It’s behind the subdivision,
going towards the warehouses, where they keep all the rusty pipes. When the ground slopes down, the place is
invisible from all sides. A crazy
optical illusion, man.” And he was right, it was a private place, ignored by
most people. Happy, bright eyed, normal
people would no doubt just go around this place, without even thinking about
it, the way you step around dog poop, instead of stepping right into it.
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“But it stinks here,” I had said. “Smells like dead rats or dog crap.”
Yet, he was so proud of the hideaway that
I said okay, and we started going there to play hooky or just to hang out. One day it really reeked, and I walked up to
the spot gagging. But there was Frank, laying
on his side, reading a MAD magazine and eating a Snickers bar. It was then that I noticed the dead possum,
only about ten feet from Frank. It was
covered with buzzing green flies, the flies that only show up when something is
dead.
“Jesus, Frank!” I called, covering my
mouth and nose with my shirt collar.
“What the hell, man. It smells
horrible.”
“He looked up, continuing to chew his
Snickers bar, and started sniffing the air.
Sniffing! Like he was trying to
catch the subtle odor of distant wood smoke.
“I guess so,” he said skeptically, then
kept reading his magazine.
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That’s how it started. The place was a stinking, festering hole, but
Frank didn’t seem to notice, and slowly he began to change. Instead of shooting soda cans with his BB
gun, Frank began shooting birds. One day
he started torturing a large box turtle we had caught. I told him to stop and we argued, shoved each
other, and then he killed the turtle. I
left in disgust. His cesspool (a crazy
optical illusion man) seemed satisfied somehow.
It buzzed with flies and pukey little green shimmering beetles. Looking back, I think the diseased little
pimple of dirt and bushes infected Frank with something dark and ugly.
That summer between seventh and eighth
grade, I didn’t hang out much with Frank.
But sometimes I saw him walking back to his house from the old
hangout. I couldn’t understand why he
would go there alone, to that haunted, boil of a place. Two events convinced me that Frank killed
Little Joe that summer, although everyone else thought it was a terrible
accident. Joe was a 6 year old, snotty
nosed little brat, and I loved him.
Everyone loved Little Joe – everyone except his big brother. I visited Frank’s house the day before it
happened, because Frank had called me on the phone and invited me over to see
the new color television his dad had bought.
So I was there when Frank’s dad put the old TV up on the hallway shelf. I saw him
carefully tape the electrical cord into a coil and tuck it away. So how come the police and neighbors all said
that Little Joe had pulled the cord and caused the TV to fall on his sweet
little head. Everyone wondered how anyone wouldn’t know better than to
create such a safety hazard. There was a
lot of anger directed at Little Joe’s dad.
But I saw something else the morning it happened. I saw Frank climb out of his bedroom window
and run towards his cesspool of a hideaway.
Soon after, there had been frantic movement around the house, police
sirens, a fire rescue unit. Little Joe
was dead, his skull fractured by a falling Zenith television.
Why did Frank climb out the window? Why not use the door? And the look on his face as he started
running for the hideaway, it was the look of a thing that enjoyed death –
tongue sticking out from one corner, eyes too bright and lustful. I don’t know if Frank just unwound the
electrical cord and hung it so Little Joe could reach it (here little buddy,
want to play? Pull the pretty rope
Little Joe) or if he pulled down the TV himself. But I know he did it.
Suddenly, I feel like a dumbass for coming here. What did it matter anyway? So what that my best friend had turned out to be a sadistic monster. Or more likely, it was just a freak accident, because that careless, screw-up of a dad put a busted television on a high shelf. Maybe if I see Frank’s and Little Joe’s screw up of a dad in town, I’ll bust his face before I leave. Yeah, I’m a dumbass for coming back here, just wasting time and money. I wasted my money on that flea bag of a motel where I rented a room. If that arrogant little punk of a clerk is on the desk when I get back, I think I’ll slam his head on the counter bell – just bounce his face up and down so the bell rings again and again and again!
Bryan has written short stories, now and then, during the past ten years, and is working on a longer story. His favorite book is “The Pickwick Papers”, but also enjoys mysteries, science fiction, and lots of horror stories. He lives near San Antonio, Texas.
Happy holidays! Where has this year gone??? Santa and I can’t believe it’s Christmas already, but I did manage to make you all a card again… Gotta keep with tradition or something. (Santa says I’m not thinking big enough…)
And to everyone celebrating other holidays and the solstice, may you have a blessed and wonderful season as well, I’m sorry I don’t do cards for that but I tend come from what I know, which appears to be inappropriate Christmas kitsch. Just like you’ve come to expect from me, I’m sure. Since that seems to make the rounds of all the holidays. 😉
Card reads Happy Holidays jingle bell jingle bell jingle bell rock!!! From You-Can-Jingle-My-Bell Santa and Jennifer Weigel here at HauntedMTL.
Image features a vintage doll (probably Merlin or Gandalf or the like) now dressed as Santa in a handmade Victorian style cloak with matching hat. He is holding his coat open to flash the viewer with a jingle bell ribbon hanging intentionally at his crotch.
This Santa was from a series of altered dolls I did back in the day, exploring different less appropriate takes on Jolly Old St. Nick.
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As gifts, I present the other three…
Happy holidays and have a wonderful winter!
If you want to check out more of my altered dolls, I have posted several to Haunted MTL here:
So, now that it’s getting cold, here on Nightmarish Nature we’re going to talk about a different kind of terror – the starvation diet. It’s winter, and food is becoming ever scarcer, so many creatures will slow down to conserve energy. Let’s take this a step further to the sleep of the damned… But I’m not talking hibernation, or settling in for a sort of long winter nap version of seasonal affective disorder on steroids. No, I’m talking hummingbirds.
Sugar Rush
Hummingbirds are about the polar opposite of what you’d think of when you talk about inactivity. They’re more the picture-perfect speed demons. And yet, due to their crazy high metabolisms and constant need to refuel by consuming all the nectar and insects they can get their little beaks in or on, they have near death experiences on a regular basis. Even during the summer at night whenever the temperature falls too low. It’s like all their systems have to go offline for a bit just so they can survive.
Zzz
Energy Suck
Essentially a hummingbird burns so much energy that he can die in less than eight hours of not eating. The little sugar daddy needs another fix just to keep going. This lifestyle is a far cry from the Energizer bunny. Essentially he has to enter a torpor state in sleep so he doesn’t succumb to his own starvation diet. Not every time, but when the temperature drops or food is scarce.
A hummingbird in torpor may, by all accounts, appear dead. He can be frozen in place, his tiny feet clasped rigidly around a branch as if rigor mortis has sunk in. He can be cold to the touch and unresponsive. He can face upwards, unmoving, breathing and heart rate slowed to near indiscernibility. He can even be hanging upside down, oblivious to the world. In fact, the hummer’s heart rate can reduce to almost one tenth of his waking state, and his temperature can drop by ~5o degrees Fahrenheit (~ 30 degrees Celsius).
Dead to the world
Miracle Mavericks
Honestly, as shown in this article on Journey North, this ability to exercise such fine control over metabolic rate on a nightly cycle makes the hummingbirds more marvelous than terrifying, switching between cold- and warm-blooded. And they are very well-adapted to their eating regimens, especially given their diminutive size. But such is the cost of burning so much energy to keep going without much room to store fuel. Like I said, a strict starvation diet.
If you’ve enjoyed this segment of Nightmarish Nature, feel free to check out some previous here:
A serene mountain landscape yawns; monumental evergreen trees fingering a brilliant azure sky stroked with wispy clouds. The air is crisper and fresher here, wafting its piney fragrance along the meandering deer path that bends and swerves down the gradual slope…
-Reset-
-City-
A bustling urban environment beckons, its diverse, brightly-clothed denizens laughing with one another, casually parting as you stroll through their midst. Sunlight dances through the crowd, reflecting off of towering buildings, cars, and bicycles. Sounds swell together as though breathing life into all interconnected within this rich tapestry of time and space. The street is a cacophony of alluring smells, and the savory scent of kosher all-beef hot dogs…
-Vegetarian-
Fragrant cumin zing of vegetable samosas…
-European-
Perfume of freshly baked baguettes embraces you in a warm hug as you sit at a small metal café table, savoring an espresso…
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-Caffeine Free-
Lavender cremosa…
-Non-Carbonated-
Limonade…
-Reset-
-Beach-
The warm sand squishes between your bare toes as the soft ocean waves lap at your feet, beckoning you to wade further into the cool water…
-No Swimming-
The woven rope hammock stretched between two perfectly-spaced palm trees sways slowly as you lounge in its cradle, sipping a Mai Tai…
-Non-Alcoholic-
Iced lemonade in a highball glass through a red plastic straw…
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-Eco-Conscientious-
Paper straw, the citrusy elixir providing respite from the steamy…
-Less Hot-
Warm breezy summer…
-Spring-
Spring air, children…
-Nature-
Birds…
-Silence-
You close your eyes, hammock gently rocking you to slumber.
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We here at My Universe wish to thank you again for choosing our services. We know that there are many post-cataclysmic alternative realities available, and we appreciate your business. Please enjoy your respite from the societal collapse, and remember us next time you need to unwind.
Pineapple getting away from it all
And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website. And if you really feel like getting away and helping clean up the beach a bit, check out this relaxing video from Dylan Clark titled Seagrass. Or maybe that wasn’t so relaxing after all… 😉
Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.
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