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So, I think it’s time for more creepy clown stories. Don’t you? At any rate, here’s Stage Fright by our very own, Jennifer Weigel…


It started with the squeaky shoes.  Not a shrill waning warble emitted by once-wet leather now taut and tired, sighing with weary pain at every step.  No, this was much more… the unhindered squall of a goose honking as it drove a would-be pedestrian from the sidewalk after they’d wandered too close to its secluded springtime sanctuary, goslings barely hidden in the underbrush.  Such a jarringly irreverent and discordant diversion, and at a poetry reading no less, wherein the self-righteously civilized members of the audience took extreme effort to present themselves in being as cultured as possible, snapping their fingers in lieu of cupped clapping as an orchestrated gesture of both being in the know of the current trends in fashionably avoiding faux pas and out of respectful reverence for one another’s pretentiousness.  A roomful of eyes glared over their half-sipped cups of craft coffee at the transgression, staring at the oversize yellow clogs from which the foul fracas emanated.

But it didn’t stop with the shoes.  The noise carried through a visual cacophony crawling up the legs as it splashed hideously contrasting colors in a web of horrific plaid parallels, ochre and mauve lines dissecting what would otherwise be reasonable trousers if not for the fact that they were that unbearable chartreuse color that leaves a residual stench on the cornea, burning itself into the retinas for posterity.  Surely the pant cuffs housed a pair of mismatched socks, probably pink or periwinkle argyle or the like, waiting to flash their fantastical finery at an unsuspecting stranger while engaged in some awkward careening and undignified gesture.  But for now, the socks’ unsightly status remained hidden in the dark recesses of the pant legs.

The plaid danced in awkward angular strokes upwards to a torso draped in a pink and purple polka dotted shirt strapped into place by a set of unaware green and gold striped suspenders, seemingly oblivious to their misuse and standing at attention holding all the odds and ends in place, as suspenders are trained to do.  Or at least they were trying to hold everything in place as best they could, and kudos to them for the effort as that was a hot mess in free-flow lava mode.  Atop the fashion nightmare wearer’s head was a green bowler crowned in faux flowers of all sorts, hearkening maybe to daisies and irises that had lost some of their luster after having been painstakingly assembled by some unfortunate third-world flower crafter who had never actually beheld an iris, the intricacies of its petals flailing in frayed and frantic folds.

The hat crowned a stand of strangely disheveled locks, haphazardly erupting to and fro from beneath its shallow brim as if trying to run in every direction simultaneously.  The stringy strands of hair cascaded across a harrowed face, revealing not a bright and boisterous smile but rather a looming sense of dread made manifest through trembling lips.  Terrified eyes wide as saucers glowed white and wild from within the drapery, staring in suspended animation at the judge, jury, and executioners amassed within the audience.  The fashion plate was topped off with a red bow tie, a gift ribbon bedecking a package that nobody had anticipated receiving and weren’t sure they wanted.

Someone coughed from a table near the back of the room.  The next poet stood ready to take her place at a vigil from the sidelines, fidgeting with her phone and pouting with pursed lips while she glared at the ungainly intrusion, batting her brooding heavily shadowed and mascaraed eyes.  Can you please sit? she posited in gesture without need to call forth words to speak what was on everyone’s minds.  Yes.  Please sit.  Preferably someplace further from the spotlight, where its faint glow cannot cast its judgment upon this interruption, and all can all go on about the business of losing themselves in heartsick hyperbole while sipping their overpriced triple grande vanilla chai lattes and contemplating their harrowing higher education existences.  Whispered words wandered through the meager crowd.

My eyes darted around the room from my slightly elevated vantage point; an alien creature left floundering in confusion at my own abrupt transformation.  Only moments prior I had taken to center stage, adjusted the microphone to better meet my mouth, and begun reciting my latest poem, a meager manifestation of a serendipitous sunset in contemplation of life looming after graduation.  Or was it sunrise?  But three words in, I could feel the change taking hold, and I could see the palpable demeanor of the room shift as I stuttered out some nebulous nonsense in lieu of my well-rehearsed verse.  I tripped over my own tongue-tied tableaux as the metamorphosis continued, watching in horror as my visage shifted to that of the bewildered buffoon.

As we rise to the sun-set
waning weary motion of our un-be-coming
beckoning reckoning,
graduation looming stranger-danger,
like wet and bewildered Beagles
unsure of when/how/if
they became thusly domesticated
and wondering where/what/who
the wolves wandered off to ward…

I shifted my weight ever so slightly, pooling my cartoonish mass over my left foot, and my shoe honked.  Everyone in the room was aghast, their blank condescending stares drilling further into my psyche.  After several seeming minutes of stoic silence, the Goth girl waiting her turn in line edged a chair towards the forefront, its wooden form grating against the faux plank flooring with a long droning whine, fingernails to a chalkboard.  Sit.  I raced to its sweet salvation, sloppily surrendering the circumstance to she the next reader and taking account of my own misbegotten musings.  Upon returning to the shadows, my ridiculous and outlandish adornments subdued, losing the honking clopping clogs, unseen argyle socks, plaid pantaloons, polka-dotted blouse, suspenders, green garden bowler, and red bow tie to my regular simple black shirt and slacks performance getup.

At least I wasn’t naked this time…

Creepy Clown Self-Portraits from my Reversals series
Creepy Clown Self-Portraits from my Reversals series

Maybe that wasn’t the sort of creepy clown story you had in mind. So check out this found junk store post from before. And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.

Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.
Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.

Jennifer Weigel is a multi-disciplinary mixed media conceptual artist residing in Kansas USA. Weigel utilizes a wide range of media to convey her ideas, including assemblage, drawing, fibers, installation, jewelry, painting, performance, photography, sculpture, video and writing. You can find more of her work at: https://www.jenniferweigelart.com/

Original Creations

Food Prep with Baba Yaga, Nail Polish Art Fig from Jennifer Weigel

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I must just want to keep breathing those fumes – call me Doctor Orin Scrivello DDS… Anyway, here’s another porcelain figurine repaint with nail polish accents. This time we’ll join Baba Yaga herself as she embarks on a food prep journey – I hear she’s making pie! This time I’m only going to post one figurine because I want to get the down low on all the dirty details. And just what sort of food prep does that entail? Let’s find out…

Baba Yaga food prep team
Food prep is a must!

Yeah it’s a boring chore but necessary. Cause you can’t eat without food, and you can’t have food without food prep.

Baba Yaga hard at work
It’s a dirty job but someone’s gotta do it.

Are you up to the task? Because heads will roll. In fact, one’s trying to get away now.

Baba Yaga food prep: paring and coring before the pie
Paring and coring before the pie

A dull blade is nobody’s friend, so make sure to keep all your knives sharpened for the task at hand.

And then we puts it in the basket...
And then we puts it in the basket…

One down, a dozen or so more to go!

Feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.

Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.
Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.

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Familiar Faces – A Chilling Tale of Predatory Transformation by Tinamarie Cox

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Familiar Faces

By Tinamarie Cox

For the past three months, Maggie had planted herself on the same bench in the northwestern quadrant of Central Park at six a.m. every morning. Placed beside her were always a brown paper bag and a paper coffee cup, both clean and empty. She did not require food and drink in the same manner as humans but needed to keep up appearances and maintain the illusion. Sitting here like this, Maggie appeared to be like any other New Yorker enjoying the cooler hours of the early summer mornings and a deli-bought breakfast.

As the joggers on the Great Hill Track passed by, Maggie studied their skin. She looked each perspiring body up and down carefully, determining collagen levels and the elasticity of their dermal layers. There was a wide range in age, but younger was preferred. She favored flesh in its prime and in good health. The better condition of the hide meant the tissues would last longer. More time for enjoyment and less time spent hunting.

Maggie, the name that had belonged to the skin she was currently in, had given her a long and pleasurable five years. But her stolen flesh had begun to pucker as of late, thinning and loosening, and starting to droop on its harsh frame. It was time for a change in coverings. Maggie’s delicate apricot coating was nearly spent.

New York City was the perfect place to acquire new skins. Becoming someone new and blending in was effortless in the twenty-first century. There were millions of hosts to choose from and all in different colors. The variety drew her, and the ease of attaining a human casing kept her lingering. A hundred years of stalking and acquisition in this city, and she hadn’t felt any exigency to leave it. One person missing out of millions was a drop of water in Earth’s ocean. She drew no suspicions.

Time had only made the process simpler for Maggie.

Naturally, her skills improved as she moved from body to body. She had made mistakes in the beginning. Been too violent with the first few when she should have been more clever. She hadn’t expected such a mess. Hadn’t known there was so much blood and viscera inside a human body.

But she had been so eager to try. So excited to keep going. To test her limits. Go beyond what she had once thought she was capable of.

Practice made perfect. Switching bodies became seamless.

And there were other factors, too, that allowed Maggie an inconspicuous lifestyle. Population growth was major, inevitable with the humans’ devotion to sexual pleasure. Humans seemed challenged when it came to controlling their desires, much less their reproductive abilities. She felt it was the greatest disadvantage of the species. To be so tightly bound to sex and rearing the inevitable offspring.

She couldn’t consider using a human during their infancy or adolescent years. Children were too helpless. Despite the soft suppleness of their skin, being commanded by another adult was unappealing. Maggie was fully grown and had left her nest ages ago.

The way society chose to isolate itself behind its technology also benefited Maggie. Whatever flashed on their handheld screens determined the next fad and the newest trend, which consumed their attention. It seemed humans could not be without their electronic devices, as if they were an extension of themselves. An enthusiastically consumed distraction from the realities of the drudgery of the human world.

Maggie had spent the last several weeks on her perch in Central Park keeping up to date on the latest social interests by watching TikTok videos on her cell phone. Many of the clips were centered around humorous topics, which she hated to admit she found entertaining. And some of the video creators poured their life stories and struggles into the camera for the whole world to see. Maggie liked these videos best. She adopted the histories and backgrounds of the TikTok users for the real-life conversations she participated in.

With the recorded stories committed to memory, she could stir up feelings of pity, compassion, or even lust in her listener. Their emotional responses made her feel more human. Continued the deception. Ultimately, it distracted her conversation partner from asking other, more troublesome questions. Like why the alcohol they were drinking wasn’t making her tipsy.

Maggie toggled between the app and observed the passing joggers. She stealthily snapped pictures of potential skin donors for later deliberation. She had noted their schedules and made her friendly face visible during their routines. She looked up, met their gaze, smiled, and angled her head cordially. Every few minutes, she reached into the paper bag standing upright by her lap and brought an empty fist to her mouth, pretending to eat breakfast and drink coffee.

Some mornings, she’d daydream about the first days in a fresh costume, how silky and soft the flesh was. She liked to run fingers along the new skin, feel how well it hugged the bones. The sensation made the human lungs feel heavy, the heart race, and the mouth water.

No part of her donor went to waste.

Once fitted into a new disguise and acclimated to its nervous system, the previous host served as a first meal. Consciousness didn’t return to the shell. The brain was ruined by her invading connectors and the gray matter disintegrated with the disentanglement. Like pulling a weed out of the ground after it had infiltrated and rooted deep into a garden bed.

The defunct flesh made an exponential shift into the decomposition process after being evacuated. Technically, the carcass had started decaying the moment it was put on. Be it delayed or negligible so long as the body’s systems remained minimally active.

The putrid smell that accompanied a rotting body drew attention. Evidence caused questions and investigation. And even this creature had to eat sometimes. Of all the mammals, the taste of human was second to none. Without a doubt, human surpassed in flavor compared to her littermates.

On other observation days, Maggie thought about the instances when young, hormone-driven bodies ensnared her in conversation with the single goal of engaging in mating rituals. She found these human practices amusing, not sharing the same desire or need for such companionship.

Coupled bodies pounding genital areas, sharing fluids, and flesh becoming hot and sticky from the exertion was overall, unappealing. However, Maggie learned the importance and the rules of these games during her adventures among the humans. Though, she did not gain the same level of satisfaction from sexual acts.

Her top priority was to remain innocuous. She paid no favor to a particular gender. Or lack thereof. She appreciated the modern sense of fluidity between sexes. The notions of male and female and fulfilling sexual needs had changed greatly in the last hundred years she had spent amidst people. She had learned that bodies fit together in multiple ways. And Maggie knew how to please any partner no matter the skin she wore.

She had gotten better at determining if a mate would become too attached and return to her with more serious intentions. Relationships complicated her lifestyle. Partners asked too many questions and wanted to be involved with everything. She could not explain to a human how slowly rotting, sagging flesh walked amongst the population. Being solitary and independent was required.

Maggie preferred to migrate across the boroughs only when necessary, like when she adopted a new disguise. Previous acquaintances noticed the change. Memories and personality were lost when she implanted herself. But after a few hours of investigating the old life, she knew who needed a goodbye to be satisfied. And which places not to haunt. These lessons had been learned the hard way at the beginning.

It wasn’t difficult to find a new apartment when she needed one. Some neighbors were nosier than others. Maggie didn’t have much on hand to pack and move. She kept enough belongings to make an apartment look lived in. And the keepsakes she was genuinely fond of remained in a storage unit.

She learned to save certain items after discovering antique shops. Some humans were willing to pay puzzling sums of money for old things that no longer served anything more than an aesthetic purpose. A lengthy existence inhabiting many lives had allowed her to accumulate a monetary cushion.

As the freshness of Maggie’s skin wore out, she felt like antiquity. Something shabby and spent, and only admired as what it used to be. The lingering memory of something gone and nearly forgotten. A word on the tip of your tongue. She didn’t like to feel as though she was fading.

Each morning, she studied the creases deepening on her hands and around her eyes. She pulled at the lines circling her throat. It took more effort to keep her mouth from frowning. She found her reflection off-putting. It hadn’t surprised Maggie why flirtations and pleasure seekers had decreased over the last several weeks. Her body looked disgusting.

Humans were shallow creatures. Wrinkling and dulling skin combined with thinning and lifeless hair was unattractive and deterred their mating drive. And it was this decrease in attention that brought Maggie a sense of urgency to find replacement tissue. She had grown to enjoy being noticed for her beauty and sexual appeal. But adamantly denied she possessed human vanity. She just wanted to feel good about herself. There wasn’t much else to her drive.

Beautiful skin made Maggie feel powerful.

Maggie was eyeing male flesh for this hunt. The last twenty years had been spent in female coverings. Before that, her costumes were alternated between the sexes. When IT first began acquiring human skins in New York City, it had sought males exclusively. Back in those early days, you had to be male to do what you wanted. No one questioned a man’s late hours or odd habits. A hundred years ago– when IT had still been something crawling and slithering and observing the human species in the shadows– it seemed a woman was more of a thing than a person. And IT had been tired of being a thing.

Before IT was Maggie, there was Ananda, and before her was Shyla. She only remembered Molly because of how short a time her skin had lasted, a mere year. She had judged Molly’s skin all wrong, or rather, it had deceived her. A century of lives and dozens of names had blended together in parts. What IT had originally been called escaped its memory. The point was to experience life, not remember the vehicle.

Christopher passed her bench for a fourth time that morning. Maggie gave her next potential covering a small smile. He had finally taken notice of her earlier in the week, stealing brief glances at her during each of his eight daily laps around the loop. He looked young enough for her predilection, and in satisfactory health.

She loved the way his tanned epidermis stretched over his pronounced cheekbones. How taut it was across his firm abdominal cavity. And how the flesh around his defined biceps glistened with perspiration in the morning sunlight. He was a fine human specimen. She was fairly certain Christopher was the one.

Her hearts synced into a quick rhythm with her sudden excitement. She fidgeted on the bench as she envisioned slipping into new skin. Shedding this expired hull and feeling the brief freedom from a body’s weight. Severing the aged links that bound her to a moribund marionette. She licked her lips as she thought about making a satisfying meal out of this faithful body she was currently in.

Maggie wanted to wear the Christopher costume as soon as possible. She imagined the strength in his well-maintained and robust body. What the ripples in his muscles must feel like when his feet pounded against the asphalt during his run. How easily she would be able to command adoration with his coy smile. The way lovers would worship the powerful way she’d use his hips.

Decision finalized, Maggie hid her phone away in the back pocket of her shorts. She put the unused coffee cup in the empty brown bag and crumpled them together for the trash can. The wait for Christopher to make his next lap was almost too long. She leaned forward on her bench, staring down the jogging path. Eyes only for him as others passed her by.

When Christopher returned to view, Maggie grinned and angled her head at him. She shifted on her perch, impatient for him to meet her gaze. When their eyes locked, Maggie felt her nerve endings pulse and the human heart lurch. This level of anticipation was better than sex. The barbs holding her inside Maggie tingled.

It was time to seize the moment.

She gave him a little wave with a shaky hand. Then, she patted the place on the bench beside her that was vacated by the fake breakfast.

Christopher slowed his pace, his interest engaged, and paused his morning jogging routine through Central Park to speak to a familiar face. He sat beside Maggie, his mouth open and catching his breath, and rested his arm along the top of the bench.

“Finished your breakfast fast today?” He stretched his long legs out in front of him and Maggie traced them with her eyes.

“I have a confession to make,” she began, flapping her eyelashes at him.

“Do tell.”

He leaned in closer and she could smell the salty trails of sweat dripping down his perfect skin and mixing with his pheromones. He was easily hooked. His scent made her mouth water. Made her buzz inside Maggie. He was a fine choice.

“I was too nervous to eat it this morning. I was hoping to meet you more formally today.” Maggie pressed her pink lips into a crooked smile and raised one of her shoulders aiming to convey shyness in her flirtation.

She formulated a new plan. The details arrived like lightning in her head. She’d do things a little differently this time. She’d play all her cards right and take him to bed first. Part of her ached to feel him inside this body before putting him on. She didn’t understand where the urge had come from, but she decided to obey it.

What was the point of living if not for a few indulgences here and there? Experiment once in a while? Evolve the methods? A hundred years of slipping from body to body needed to stay interesting.

She wasn’t becoming more human.

IT could never be human.

“Well,” he held out his hand to her, “I’m Christopher. It’s nice to meet you…?”

“You can call me Maggie,” she answered and accepted his handshake. His skin felt better than she imagined. A wave of delight coursed through her. A wide grin crept across her face.

Christopher was hers for the taking.

Predator and prey were united at last.

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Womb, Revisited: a Graveside Poem by Jennifer Weigel

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Here’s a graveside pantoum poem from Jennifer Weigel…

The earth enfolds me in her embrace.
I can smell the dirt and water and decay.
This homecoming is a welcome change.
I am wholly surrounded by teeming life.
 
I can smell the dirt and water and decay.
All smells of mold, mushrooms, and musk.
I am wholly surrounded by teeming life.
Microscopic organisms abound all around.
 
All smells of mold, mushrooms, and musk.
This is both comforting and disconcerting.
Microscopic organisms abound all around.
I am becoming one with their still energy.
 
This is both comforting and disconcerting.
For it is the natural progression of things.
I am becoming one with their still energy.
Here within my grave, I shall rot away.
 
For it is the natural progression of things.
This homecoming is a welcome change.
Here within my grave, I shall rot away.
The earth enfolds me in her embrace.

Moving On black and white graveside photo by Jennifer Weigel
Moving On black and white graveside photo by Jennifer Weigel

Ok so that graveside poem was maybe a little more in than out, but whatever. We all go back to the Earth Mother eventually… 😉

Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.
Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.

Here are a couple more posts of graveside photography: Part 1 and Part 2… and another poem + photo combo.  And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.

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