Episode 008 - The Chase
June, 1989
Rich Williams ran like hell. There was nowhere he could hide. They knew him too well. Pete had been his best friend since they first got high together in 9th grade. He knew every secret spot in town where the two of them would go to smoke or drink. Rich had no option now, but to run. If he’d been smart he would have grabbed his keys before they started the lottery, but he didn’t think his number was up. He thought for sure that Mike was going to be the next one to go. Stupid, his luck had run out. Or Pete had screwed him.
The game started right after their last day of high school. Back then there had been seven of them. Rich, Pete, Ron, Dirt, Mark, Mooch, and Mike. Mooch was the first to fall. Ron took him out with a hunting knife. Of course he did. Ron was a total psycho. He took the game more seriously than the others did. It sounded like a joke at first when Mike had proposed it right there in Pete’s driveway.
“Hey, let’s play tag.” he had said, leaning on the hood of Rich’s ‘76 Mustang.
“Sure.” said Rich, not giving a fuck if Mike was serious or not.
“What’s the prize when I win?” said Ron.
“Isn’t bragging rights enough?” said Mike.
“No way. I’m not chasing you all around the neighborhood like a pansy unless I get something out of it once I catch you all.”
“Oh, not that kind of tag.” said Mike, “A real game, like, to the death.”
“That’s fucked up, man.” said Dirt. “Tag to the death. Heh. That would be awesome.”
“So you’re in?” said Mike.
“Yeah, but I’m with Ron,” said Dirt, “There ought to be a prize.”
“Well,” said Mike, “if a prize is needed, then what about this?”
He reached into his backpack and pulled out a small wooden box.
“What the fuck is that?” asked Pete, already sparking up a bowl, in the shotgun seat of the Mustang.
Mike held the box up for everyone to see. It was a three inch cube with a hinged lid and carved with arcane symbols all around it.
“It’s a second chance.” said Mike. “Whoever opens it gets a do-over.”
“Fuck you.” said Mark. “I’m not playing kill-tag with you nut-jobs for a magic box.”
“It’s not a joke.” said Mike. “My uncle Ted got it from Barry’s Occult Shop. It’s the real deal.”
“Come on. You had a magic box all this time and you never told us about it?” said Pete, incredulously.
The gang all laughed because it was silly. All of it. The idea of playing a kid’s game at their age, playing to the death, no less. Most of all, the nonchalant way that Mike suddenly claimed to have an honest-to-god magical artifact in his possession.
Then Ron got serious.
“Prove it.” He said, “Show us what your box can do and I’ll kill all of you for it.”
“Ok, but we need some ground rules before we start.” Mike said.
“Rules are for pussies.”
“Rules are what makes it a GAME.”
“Fine,” said Ron. “What kind of rules?”
“Well, for one, we pick one person to be It. Then we chase that person down. We can pick at random so it’s fair. Once that person is captured and taken out we wait twenty-four hours to pick the next person. That way we all have time to rest up between chases.”
“This sounds pretty brutal.” said Rich. “I like it.”
“Yeah. Murder tag.” said Pete as he took a long toke, “It could be the newest trend.”
Mooch pulled a cigarette out of Ron’s pack that was sitting on the hood of the car.
“What the fuck, you gonna ask for one?” said Ron.
“Why bother, you always say yes.” replied Mooch.
“I’m killing you first.”
“You can't, we haven't drawn straws yet or whatever.”
“Lemee see that magic box.” said Dirt, reaching for it.
“Oh naw.” said Mike. “I’ll be keeping it until the game is over.”
“What if someone takes you out?” asked Ron.
“Well, then that person gets to be the box keeper.”
“What if I kill someone and they’re not It?” asked Pete.
“Then you’re out of the game. It wouldn’t be fair to kill another hunter.” said Mike, but then he added, “Of course, if you’re It then you can kill the hunters without being disqualified. That should make it sporting.”
“Can we use weapons?” asked Mark.
“Sure. Whatever is at your disposal. And once we pick who’s It the rest of us have to hide our eyes and count for ten seconds.”
“That’s not a long time,” said Mark.
“No, but if we gave them any longer it wouldn’t be fun.”
“What if one of us goes to the cops?” Mark asked.
“Then that person is immediately It. As a matter of fact, anyone who talks about it outside of the group replaces the current target.”
“Sounds fair,” said Ron. “Now show us what the box does.”
Mike picked up a brick from the side of the driveway and approached the Mustang.
“What the fuck!” shouted Rich as Mike smashed the brick through the rear passenger window.
“Relax.” said Mike. “I’ve done this before.”
Mike reached into the broken glass and found a piece large enough to cut his finger on.
It wasn’t a big cut, just enough for a trickle of blood.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” spat Rich. His usual demeanor of not giving a fuck ended when it came to his car.
Mike opened the little box in his left hand and allowed a drop of blood from his right to drip into it.
There was a woosh of air as the brick flew out of the car and landed back where it had been in the driveway. With it, the glass instantly rushed back into the doorframe of the Mustang.
Everyone was silent.
Mooch examined the brick.
Rich felt the window on his car.
Mark, Dirt, and Ron stood with mouths agape.
Pete set down his bowl and turned toward the back seat. “What the fuck just happened? Did somebody break a window?”
“You honestly didn’t see what just happened?” asked Rich. “Jesus Christ. I never thought I’d say this but maybe you smoke too much.”
“Yeah.” laughed Pete. “Should be doing shrooms more often.”
Everyone chuckled, but they were still in shock. Mike wasn’t making it up. He had in his possession a thing that broke all of their understanding of how the world worked. Ron went to grab it out of his hand, but Mike was swift.
“Nuh-uh!” said Mike, “One more rule. Anyone who tries to steal the box is subject to the same penalties as someone who rats us out. You immediately become It.”
They all nodded in agreement. Except it wasn’t just agreement. It was compulsion. Every rule that Mike spoke felt like a bond that they could not break even if they wanted to. Each and every one of them knew that they would adhere to these rules and therefore had to take what originally felt like a joke as something deadly serious.
Rich popped open his trunk and pulled out a bingo set with a pouch full of tiles.
“Why do you have bingo in your car?” asked Mooch.
“I stole it when I was doing community service at the church.”
“Why?”
“Because it was there.”
Rich held out the pouch of tiles and said, “Each of you pick a number from one to...seventy-five.” he said, “I call sixty-nine!”
They all groused about him choosing the most desirable integer, but each called out a number. Pete chose forty-two. Ron called one. Mark went with twenty-three. Mike called seventy-five. Dirt tried to choose zero in an attempt at cleverness, but the group shot it down and so he went with fifty-seven. Mooch went last and called lucky number seven.
They tossed all of the other tiles out of the pouch. Mike waved his hand over the bag dramatically and pulled one out. As it turned out, seven was not such a lucky number after all.
“Well, fuck me.” said Mooch as the others covered their eyes and began to count out loud.
“TEN!” said the group in unison.
“Are we really doing this?” Mooch asked, nervously.
“NINE!” they chanted.
“You fucking-”
“EIGHT!”
Mooch ran. He was by far the least physically fit of the gang and didn’t stand a chance out in the open, so he dashed into Pete’s backyard and hid behind the shed.
When the countdown ended the hunters looked around. Rich got into his car and started the engine. Mike glanced around the neighborhood. Pete put his bowl away. Dirt, Mark, and Ron started beating the bushes that lined Pete’s yard.
Rich drove off in search of Mooch with Pete in the passenger seat.
“He must be hiding,” said Mark. “He’s too fat to run.”
Ron was the one who found him. Cowering between the toolshed and the chain link fence. He’d tried to scale it but was not athletic enough.
“Aww fuck.” said Mooch. “You caught me. Game over now, right?”
Ron grabbed him by his shirt collar and dragged Mooch out into the backyard.
“Lemme go, dick.” Mooch said to his captor. “Game over. You win. I’m going home now.”
“That’s not the rule,” said Mike. “You lose, you die.”
“Yeah, but. I didn’t know we were being serious.” said Mooch.
“We were,” said Mark. “And you know it. I don’t know why, but we all know it. We’re locked into this somehow. This shit is real.”
Ron pinned Mooch down on the ground and pulled a massive knife out of god knows where.
“I told you I’d kill you first.” he said as he plunged the knife into Mooch’s chest.
“No-no!” was all the poor bastard could say before his life was cut off.
The yard was immensely silent for a long while.
“Umm.” said Dirt. “What do we do with his body?”
“Leave it.” Mike said.
“We’re going to get the electric chair if anyone sees it.” said Mark.
“Don’t worry,” said Mike. “Arrangements have been made.”
They all regarded Mike with a bit of fear. This wasn’t just some spur-of-the-moment thing. He’d been planning this. He had made...arrangements.
“We have twenty-four hours to rest up. We can meet here again tomorrow at this time to draw another tile.”
They all went home for the night, except Mike who stayed behind to inform Rich and Pete when they got back from their fruitless search.
The next day they reconvened at Pete’s house. They examined the yard and saw no sign of Mooch’s corpse.
“How did you get rid of him?” asked Mark.
“Don’t worry about that. Just know that as long as none of us talks there is no way to trace it back to us.” said Mike.
“Is that a band-aid on your finger?” asked Rich.
“Yeah,” Mike said. “I cut it on the glass yesterday, during my demonstration.”
“What?” Rich asked. “Your magic box didn’t fix it?”
“It doesn’t rewind time. Not exactly.” It just undoes one event. Fixing the window didn’t change the fact that I cut my finger.
“But you couldn’t cut your finger without the glass.”
“Try not to think about it too hard. It will break your brain if you get too into it.”
“Whatever.” said Rich, reverting to his usual uncaring stance.
“So I guess, we gotta do another one?” asked Pete.
“Yeah.” said Ron, “Let’s get this over with.”
Mike laid the tiles out on the concrete in front of the shed and removed the number seven before tossing the other six tiles into the bag.
This time Mark’s number was up. They repeated the ritual covering of the eyes and the chanting countdown.
Mark ran much faster than Mooch and made it out of the house and took off on a bike he’d stashed just for that purpose. None of them saw him again for three days.
They checked his house of course, several times, but his mom said he hadn’t been home for days. They searched all of the usual haunts including the alley behind Discount Gary’s, the trestle, and the pit. All had come up empty.
On Friday, Pete was working a shift at the Burger King when his co-worker, Marie, told him that some weird guy was creeping in the men’s room. Pete went in to investigate and found Mark hiding in the stall.
Pete was overcome with rage. His eyes bulged out of his head as he spasmed. Mark tried to get away but was cornered. Pete smashed the stall door against Mark’s head repeatedly. Mark fell to the ground. Pete picked him up and bashed his head into the toilet over and over in a burst of violence. After a long while it was done. Mark’s body lay motionless on the bathroom floor, blood pooling on the tile.
When he came to his senses Pete began to panic. He spun around to make sure Marie nor anyone else had heard or seen anything.
The dining area of the Burger King was empty. When Pete checked the bathroom stall once more, it was empty too. No blood. No brains splattered. No sign of Mark.
He left work early. Just walked home and called Rich.
The two of them sat in the Mustang for a long while.
“I don’t know what came over me.” Pete said, “I was like a beast.”
“Mike did something to us,” said Rich. “That box of his or something is controlling us all. He turned us all into killers.”
“I don’t know though.” Pete countered. “It’s not like I haven’t ever wanted to kill someone before. This is just the first time I’ve acted on it. Like, that rage is always there. This game just brought it up.”
“Well, the way this is going, only one of us can survive,” said Rich. “ I don’t believe we really thought this all the way through.”
“Yeah,” said Pete, pulling out a pack of smokes and searching for a lighter. Unable to find one on his person he opened Rich’s glove compartment.
Out popped a bingo tile. Number sixty-nine.
“What the fuck, man?” Pete said. “You’ve been fucking cheating!”
Rich flashed his knife-like smile. “Well, duh. Do you think I wanted to end up like Mooch and Mark?”
“Well, fuck. Now we have to make you It, don’t we?”
“No way. There’s no rule against cheating. He laid all of it out on the first day. We pick a person to be It. We chase that person. If anyone goes to the authorities they’re immediately It. Nowhere did Mike say anything about calling a number that isn’t in the bag.”
“Son of a bitch.” said Pete. “You see what this puts me in? Either I lie to everyone else to protect your sorry ass or I rat you out to them and they’ll all want you dead right then and there.”
“No. It doesn’t matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“I pulled the sixty-nine out of the bingo kit long before we even talked about this stupid game. It was never in the bag. That’s why I called it, sure. I knew I would never have to be It that way.”
“Son of a bitch.” said Pete.
“But that’s the thing,” said Rich. “When Mike was counting the tiles after he tossed out Mooch’s there was a sixty-nine in the pouch.”
“So there’s more than one sixty-nine tile?”
“No. I looked when I first got the bingo kit. I went through all of the numbers, one through seventy-five. There was only one sixty-nine.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because man, sixty-nine!”
“So...” started Pete. “Mike planted another bingo tile?”
“Or something else is going on. Either way we’re cursed. No matter what we do our number will be up soon. I don’t know if Mike rigged the game in his favor or if it’s fucking magic or some shit. We don’t know how Mike is getting rid of the bodies. You said Mark just disappeared. Maybe Mike’s fucking with us. Maybe it’s not even him controlling the game. I don’t know. All I know is it’s just a matter of time until we’re all dead.”
“Well ok,” said Pete. “This time I’ll do the drawing.”
“What difference will that make?” Rich asked.
“The seventy-five tile had a crack in it. That was Mike’s. When I reach into the bag I’ll feel around for the one with the crack and that will be the one I draw. If he’s the one doing this then at least we can take him out. Maybe after that we can quit this stupid game.”
“Are you sure Ron won’t just stab us all for fun? Prize or no prize?”
“Yeah, but he’s always like that.” chortled Pete. “Better the devil we know.”
The next night they met up in Pete’s backyard once more. Mike repeated the action of pulling out the tiles and removing number twenty-three before replacing the other five into the pouch.
Before he could pull one out Pete stepped in.
“Hey, just to make it fair, maybe one of us should pull from the bag this time.”
Mike paused for a moment then said, “Yeah, of course.” before handing the bag to Pete.
Pete didn’t have the dramatic flare that Mike did, but he reached in the bag and fished around for several seconds. A quick smirk appeared on his face when he grasped the tile with the crack in it.
“Ok! Here it is! “ He said, “Number...sixty-nine?”
“What the fuck!” shouted Rich.
But the rest had already covered their eyes and started counting.
“Ten!”
Rich ran to the Mustang.
“Nine!”
He reached for his keys, but they weren’t in his pocket. Shit. He thought. He’d left them in his jean vest back in the yard with his smokes. Stupid. Fucking Idiot. He thought.
Rich ran across the street and into the neighbor’s yard. He ran through to the fence at the rear of the yard and jumped it into the adjoining property.
Hoping to lose them by hiding in the endless suburbs, Rich zigged and zagged throughout the neighborhood until he found an unlocked shed to hold out through the night.
He found an old tarp to sleep on and tried his best to get comfortable. He really wished he’d brought his smokes. Eventually the exhaustion took over and Rich collapsed into unconsciousness.
He had no clue how long he’d slept, but he was awakened very late by the sound of the shed door opening.
Reaching for a pair of garden shears in the darkness, Rich prepared to pounce on whoever entered his hiding spot.
A flashlight shined on him.
“Motherfucker!” yelled Rich as he thrust the shears at the intruder.
“Gahh!” screamed the old woman that he slashed with the tool. He’d caught her in the shoulder and she bled.
“Why?” she gasped as she fell to her knees.
Rich dropped the shears and leapt around the bleeding woman.
Running out into the street, Rich paused to catch his breath.
He was terrified by a familiar sight.
His Mustang silhouetted in the moonlight. The headlights staring directly at him. The engine revved.
Rich tried to run, but it was too late.
The car accelerated, devouring the road like a beast as it roared toward him.
Rich dashed down the sidewalk, but the Mustang slammed into him and threw him into the air. He hit the ground with a sickening thud, and everything went black.
He awoke to blurred vision and a world of pain. Rich tried to sit up but both of his legs were bent at odd angles to one another.
The grill of his car was smashed in. It had hit him hard. The four remaining hunters clambered out of the vehicle and ran to surround Rich’s broken form.
“Is he dead?” he heard Pete ask.
“No.” said Ron. “He’s still twitchin’”
“Aw man.” said Dirt. “This ain’t right. We should just shoot him or something. Put him out of his misery.”
“Do you have a gun?” asked Mike.
“No.”
“I’ll do it.” said Ron, leaning in close with his knife out. “One more kill for me.”
Rich could barely remain conscious as the tip of Ron’s knife poked at his chest.
“Sorry, dude.” said Ron, “Them’s the rules.”
Rich shouted in pain as the knife slowly pierced his chest. His arms thrashed about, trying to stop Ron from killing him, but the larger teen swatted them away and continued his grisly work.
Rich’s flailing arm brushed against something hard and square. He grasped it in his hand and in a last ditch effort to save himself smashed it against Ron’s head.
“Ow! You dick.” said Ron. “That fucking hurt.”
“How the fuck did he get that!” said Mike, regarding the object in Rich’s hand.
“It must have fallen out of your jacket when you got out of the car,” said Dirt.
Realizing what he was holding, Rich closed his eyes and focused.
He thought about the Mustang and his broken legs, about the knife entering him. About Mooch, and Mark. He flicked the box open with his thumb. When Mike had done it, he offered blood to the artifact. Rich had plenty of that to give. Dipping his bleeding fingers into the box Rich pictured his car missing him on the street and smashing into a tree.
There was another woosh as the figures around him were violently pulled back into the car by an unseen force. The Mustang reversed thirty feet down the road then paused for a split second before speeding forward into a massive oak.
The car wrapped itself around the trunk of the tree. None of his friends had been wearing seatbelts. Pete and Ron were thrown through the windshield, their skulls bashed on the sidewalk next to Rich. Mike and Dirt were in the back seat, their bodies battered by the impact, their heads lolling.
Rich breathed a sigh of relief before realizing that the power of the box had only reversed the action of the car, killing all of his friends. It did nothing to repair his shattered body.
By the time the neighbors from the surrounding houses made it outside, all five teens were dead on the street.
Episode Seven,
The Recruit
July, 1962
Caroline Evans finished her third year as teacher’s aid at Amon Heights Elementary. She’d moved to the town from Philadelphia after college and rented a room from her older cousin. Both of her younger sisters were married with children, but Caroline intended to take her time before settling down. She was never the type to rush into things. At twenty-five her family spoke rumors of her descent into spinsterhood, but Caroline didn’t worry. She was content with her job and didn’t need a large space for herself. With each passing year she felt more comfortable in the possibility that she may never marry. Caroline valued her alone time and the freedom that not being attached brought her.
One afternoon she took a bus into the city and watched a small theater production of Pagliacci. She’d never been to the opera before and had nothing to judge it by, but was able to gather that this stage and this troupe were not the ideal situation for such a grand show. Nevertheless, she was entertained by the performance in spite of not understanding a word of it.
After the show, as she rose from her seat, the strap on her purse snapped and spilled its contents onto the theater floor. A man knelt instantly before her to gather her scattered belongings and place them in the purse.
“Oh, thank you, sir.” she said as she regarded the man. He was of average height, and had a ruddy complexion and rather a long nose. He wore a well-tailored, dark red suit, with a checkered handkerchief in the breast pocket.
He handed her the purse and said, “You’re welcome.” in an accent she couldn’t quite place.
He did not step aside but held her gaze for an uncomfortable amount of time. Not knowing what else to do she extended her hand, while clutching the purse in the other.
The man took her hand. For a moment she feared that he was going to kiss it like she had seen European men do in movies.
She sighed in relief when he merely shook it and said, “Greetings madam, my name is Alec.”
“Well, hello Alec. I’m Caroline. Pleased to meet you.”
“”What did you think of the production?”
“Oh, the-the opera? I’m not exactly a connoisseur. It was nice. I liked the singing.”
“They didn’t get the story quite right, but Signor Leoncavallo wasn’t actually there, so we can hardly fault him.”
“So, you’ve seen other versions of Pagliacci?”
“I am very intimate with Pagliacci.”
“I see. Well, it’s been nice meeting you, but I’m afraid I have a bus to catch.”
“I shall not keep you, madam.” said Alec, as he stepped aside.
Caroline left the theater and was immediately assaulted by the sunlight. Reaching into her purse to retrieve a pair of Foster Grants, she found instead an unfamiliar pair of sunglasses. They were black and quite stylish. The brand on the frame read “Balatron”. Realizing that Alec must have dropped his glasses into her purse she spun around to return them, but the man was nowhere to be seen. He had been behind her in the theater when she left, so it made no sense for her to not see him leave. She checked with the usher who remembered no one fitting Alec’s description.
Having exhausted her attempts to find the man to no avail, Caroline had no choice but to head home. The sun was bright so she decided it only fitting that she use the Balatron sunglasses as Alec had apparently lifted hers presumably by mistake. It would make no sense to steal the cheap glasses she’d picked up the week before on the Wildwood boardwalk in exchange for what appeared to be luxurious Italian designer frames.
They worked exceptionally well and were quite comfortable to wear. Even when she entered the dim interior of the bus Caroline could see clearly. Somehow she was able to read her Agatha Christie novel with them on.
Walking from the bus depot to her home on 42nd street, Caroline saw a man in a clown suit walking toward her. His white overalls with multi-colored polka dots stood out amidst the greenery of the suburban landscape as he strode nonchalantly into Bernardo’s Shoe Repair on the corner of 43rd and Westfield, his enormous shoes flopping all the way.
Caroline wondered if Bernardo charged extra for clown shoe repairs.
The next day Caroline stopped for lunch at Fresco’s Pizza on 48th street. As she sat down she noticed a pair of clowns in one corner, engaging in conversation. She found it odd to see so many clowns in one 24-hour period and asked the server, a young woman, if the circus was in town. When the girl gave her a blank stare Caroline gestured at the clowns. The server said she didn’t care what people got up to in the privacy of their own homes and walked away.
Caroline decided to catch a matinee of The Music Man at the local theater. The box office operator was also dressed as a clown.
“Is there some sort of special event today?” she asked the clown.
“No, you pay the standard 75 cents like everybody else.” said the woman with a painted frown and a droopy flower in her hat.
“I mean...the outfits.”
The woman looked up at Caroline. “Where did you get those glasses?” she asked her.
“These? Oh...an...acquaintance gave them to me.” Caroline was not one to lie, and this was not entirely untrue, but she was taken off guard by the accusatory manner in which the ticket-woman spoke.
“They are not for you.”
“Well, I think they look quite nice on my face.” said Caroline with indignation as she sauntered into the theater.
She could see easily enough in the dark theater with the sunglasses on, but thought it strange to watch a movie in them, so Caroline dropped them into her purse.
The film was delightful. Caroline as always stayed through the credits out of respect for the filmmakers. When the theater lights were turned on she was approached by a young usher.
“Excuse me miss,” said the pimply young man, “the manager would like a word with you.”
“You must be mistaken, young man. There were some hooligans in the back of the theater. I saw them when I entered. Surely-”
“No ma’am. He was specifically clear that I would talk to you.”
“What for?”
“This way, ma’am.” said the usher as he led Caroline to the theater office.
It was a cluttered room infused with the dry smell of old nicotine and whiskey. Stacks of film reels covered every surface. On one side of a small desk sat a pale man in a dark suit, with a charcoal colored hat and prominent black eyebrows. Across from him sat a frumpy woman wearing a flower-patterned blouse and an unfashionable hat.
“That’s her.” said the woman. “She had the glasses.”
“I beg your pardon,” spoke Caroline, “What is this regarding?”
“My dear,” said the man, “our employee suspects you to be in the possession of property that is not yours.”
“Oh...” said Caroline, looking at the woman, “You’re the ticket operator. I didn’t recognize you without your get-up.”
“See?” said the woman to the man.
“Yes. Her get-up, of course.” said the man.
“What am I being accused of stealing, actually?”
“Our employee says you were seen wearing a pair of sunglasses that belong to someone else.”
“Oh come now!” said Caroline. “This is all over a pair of glasses? I told her, ``I received them from an acquaintance when I was in Philly.”
“And who,” asked the man, “would this acquaintance be?”
“His name is Alec, I don’t know his last name. We aren’t very close.”
“But close enough that he would just GIVE you a valuable-” began the woman, but the man interrupted.
“ALEC, you say? Can you describe this benefactor?”
Caroline told the man about her encounter with Alec at the show in the city. About the purse, and how he switched her glasses for his.
“So you admit it!” spat the woman, “THIEF!”
“Enough, Duckie.” said the man, “You are dismissed!”
Duckie got up to leave, pushing rudely past Caroline.
Once she was gone the man spoke, “I believe we got off on the wrong foot, Miss-”
“Evans.”
“Miss Evans. We do not mean to call you a thief. Certainly this is a simple misunderstanding.” as the man talked he pulled a cigar and a cigar cutter out of a pocket within his suit. He manipulated the items in his hands as if he were preparing to snip the cigar, but the process seemed more elaborate and deliberate than necessary. It was like watching a magician perform a trick, except nothing ever actually happened. The man deftly handled the objects in a fluent motion but nothing came of it. The effect was somehow mesmerizing.
He spoke for several minutes as his fingers danced before her. Caroline could not recall a word of what was spoken, but in the end was convinced that the man was her ally. Finally she agreed to place the sunglasses in his care so that he may return them to Alec. How this man was connected to Alec was unknown to her, but whatever he said to her must have been very convincing.
She removed the glasses from her purse, examining them one last time. As she held them in her hand she could see one of the film canisters through the lenses. The canister was made of polished aluminum and showed a reflection of the man across the desk. When she glanced at the reflection through the lenses, the man’s reflection was different.
Caroline’s breath caught in her throat as she looked up at the man whose reflection didn’t match his face. Realizing that the glasses were what made the difference, she immediately placed them over her eyes.
“Stop!” the man yelled, but it was too late.
With the sunglasses on she could see his true form. It was certainly still the same man that sat before her, but his pale face was shock white, his dark eyebrows distinctly painted on. The tie of his nice, charcoal colored suit was much wider than normal and covered in white polka-dots while the suit itself had broad white, vertical stripes. His black fedora now sported an oversized white flower.
“What are you?” she gasped as the man lunged over the desk at her.
Caroline shrieked and bolted out of the office. In the foyer she saw Duckie, the box-office operator, once more wearing the hat with the droopy flower and sad-clown face. The young usher was in the foyer as well, but he seemed perfectly normal. No makeup. No get-up. Just a pimple-faced boy in an usher uniform.
“Grab her!” yelled the man from the office.
Duckie reached into her hat and pulled out a comically long rod, curved at one end like a shepherd's crook. It was at least five feet longer than the hat out of which it came and painted with red and white stripes like a vaudeville hook.
Her exit was blocked so Caroline twisted around and ran into the theater which was already several minutes into a second showing of The Music Man. The lights were off, but with the glasses she could see clearly in the darkness.
“Help me! The clowns are after me!” she cried to the theater-goers, but the small audience ignored her, enthralled by the film.
Caroline ran toward the fire exit to the right of the big screen. The young usher had sped down the other aisle and cut her off just before she reached the door.
“Ma’am”, he said, “I don’t know what’s going on here, but please calm-oof!”
He never finished as Caroline whacked him in the head with her purse. The boy fell to his knees more from the shock than the pain.
Caroline stepped around him and opened the fire exit.
She stepped out into the bright sunlight of a summer day onto the parking lot of the theater. As she did so Caroline felt the wind knocked out of her. The vaudeville hook was wrapped around her midsection and yanked her back into the theater.
Duckie was a short woman, but surprisingly strong as she pulled Caroline to the floor.
The manager clown looked down upon her as he removed the glasses from Caroline’s face and said, “These are not for you.”
He crushed the glasses into Caroline’s purse and stuffed it into her mouth.
With Duckie still holding her down, the man in the charcoal suit began to paint Caroline’s face with greasepaint.
“Please!” she cried through the gag, but it only came out as muffled nonsense.
The man continued to paint her face white, with diamond red shapes around the eyes. He added exaggerated lips and rouge on her cheeks. As he worked his fingers became smeared with red and white grease.
“There.” said the clown as he stood back to admire his work. “Now you are one of us.”
Intro and outro theme
Music Provided By Mediacharger
www.youtube.com/user/MediaCharger
Artist: Darren Curtis
Track: Demented Nightmare
Credit https://bit.ly/3lvCtVS
Background Music Provided By Mediacharger
www.youtube.com/user/MediaCharger
Music Created By : Myuu
Song Title: Growing Shadows
Download: https://goo.gl/dSGD4F
Nothing Is Wrong is written and recorded in Haddonfield New Jersey on Lenapehoking territory.
Episode Six
The Growth
November, 1975
Jonathan Murphy was strong, brave, and clever. Jonathan stood up to bullies. Jonathan would be a hero when he grew up. He knew all of this in his heart. He didn’t know how it would happen, but Jonathan would be famous for how big and strong and brave he was some day. Jonathan would be like Neil Armstrong on the moon, or Mike Schmidt, or GI Joe. Jonathan was not afraid. He was not afraid of his dad. He was not afraid of the gigantic German shepherd on Browning Road that chased him when he rode his bike there. Most of all, Jonathan was not afraid of the tree outside his house. He just didn’t like to look at it. He didn’t like that it had a face.
Jonathan lived in the house on Cooperton Avenue, across the street from Amon Heights Elementary with his mom, his dad who worked at the Beauchamp soup factory, his three-year old brother, Christopher, and baby sister, Marie. It was a large red house, partially enclosed in hedges with a plum tree in the yard. One time Jonathan tried to eat a plum right off the tree, but after a single bite he dropped it when he saw a pink worm wriggling around in the fruit. Following that he didn't eat plums any more.
Aside from the worms he didn't mind the plum tree. At least it didn't look at him.
Along the easement between the street and sidewalk stood a great oak tree, almost as large as the one on Westfield Avenue. Jonathan liked the Westfield tree. It had a face too, but it had a jolly face, like a joyful infant. It didn’t bother him at all and he enjoyed passing it on his way to the five and dime store.
The face on the tree by his house was another matter entirely. It appeared large, bulbous, and threatening. It looked to Jonathan like a mean and hungry gorilla, like King Kong. He even asked an adult once, a lunch lady at his school, why the tree looked like King Kong, but she didn’t know. After that he never saw her again.
He hated walking home from school because he had to pass the monstrous face. Jonathan tried to create excuses so that he could walk the long way home and avoid the gaze of the freakish gorilla, but his house was directly across the street from school. There was no easy way to get around without seeing it. He made sure to remind himself each time he turned his eyes downward at the beastly visage that he wasn’t afraid. He just hated that ugly, roaring ape.
One Wednesday Jonathan was tossing a baseball in the yard with Kenny from around the corner. A tiny black car pulled up beside the tree.
“Is that your dad?” asked Kenny.
“No.” said Jonathan, dropping his glove and ball. “I don’t know who that is.”
A man climbed out of the driver’s seat and walked around to the passenger side. He was a little man in a charcoal gray suit. He wore a black fedora and had dark, prominent eyebrows.
He walked in a deliberate and exaggerated manner as if he were performing for an audience. Each step was grandiose and elaborate. When he reached the passenger door the man pulled out a rainbow colored umbrella. It stood out prominently considering the monochrome look of the man and his vehicle. Opening the umbrella, the man then opened the car door and a tall, thin woman exited. She had red hair, a white face, and wore a long white coat. She unfolded out of the tiny car that hardly seemed large enough to hold her. The man held the umbrella over her head as if to protect her from the rain, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The man escorted his companion to the tree.
The strange pair eyed the growth on the trunk.
“It is nearly a meter in diameter,” said the woman.
“Yes, and highly corrupted.” said the man. “Do you think this is an accident?”
“They don’t have accidents.”
“Then what has happened here? The others have never burgeoned so rapidly. If this is an intentional distortion on their part, then to what purpose?” the man asked her.
“I don’t know.” she said. “Perhaps they intend to get our attention.”
“Well, they have it. What now?”
“You haven’t spoken to Mister Chino?”
“My dear, your ex is quite frightening, even to me. I avoid him as much as possible.”
“That is wise of you, but he will find out about this and I am certain it will be worse if you don’t tell him sooner.”
“As you wish, madame.”
Jonathan realized that he and Kenny had been standing in shock listening to the couple speak. This didn’t feel very brave, so he spoke up.
“Hi.” his voice cracked. “Are you here about the tree?”
“Children,” said the woman, “Make them go away.”
“I think this is their home.” the man said, “Not much I can do without raising attention.”
“Fine.” she said, as she compressed herself back into the vehicle and closed the door.
The man shut his colorful umbrella and started to walk back to the driver’s seat, but Jonathan caught him by the sleeve.
“Hey mister.” said the kid.
“I beg your pardon, child.” said the man in an annoyed voice.
“Are you doing something about it or what?”
“About the teratoma?”
“The what?” asked Jonathan.
“The growth on the side of your tree. That is what concerns you, correct?”
“Yeah. What is it.”
“It...” began the man, “It is a distortion, possibly a portal. An ingress, if you will.”
“Do you know any kid words for it?”
“Children. Why am I even bothering?” the man said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s a doorway, little boy. A doorway to a realm outside of our perception. A doorway that was opened by our voiceless adversary so that it may be born unto our world and wreak havoc.”
“What?”
“Nevermind. Run along and play with your ball.”
“The tree is bad, isn’t it?”
“YES. It is very bad.”
“And you and that lady...you’re good? You’re here to stop it?”
“No.”
The man climbed down into his car and drove away.
“Did you see that?” Jonathan asked Kenny.
“See what?”
“That man and his lady. He knows the King Kong tree is bad. And he isn’t even going to do anything about it.”
“What is he supposed to do? Does he work for the township?”
“I don’t know. He said the tree was a door.”
Kenny laughed.
“A door. Ha.”
“What’s so funny?”
“A tree ain’t a door. That man was funny.”
“I don’t think it was funny.”
Kenny went home and Jonathan went in for dinner.
That night he had strange dreams where he was being chased around a supermarket by a man in a gorilla suit. He ran down all of the aisles but everywhere he turned the gorilla was waiting for him. When he was finally cornered his pursuer fell down in front of him, with a rainbow umbrella sticking out of its back as if it had been stabbed. Dark red blood pooled around the creature’s body. Looking up Jonathan saw a man in a colorful outfit made of stitched-together cloth, his face painted like a clown. At first he was relieved to see that the beast had been defeated, but when the clown-man lunged toward him, Jonathan woke up, screaming.
He looked over at his brother, Christopher, asleep in his toddler bed. Christopher didn’t know about the monsters that lived in the tree. He was just a baby. Jonathan knew that the weird people with the colorful umbrella weren’t going to do anything to help. He couldn’t tell his parents either. If he tried to wake them up dad would be mad. That was almost as scary a thought as a monster face growing out of a tree.
Jonathan would have to do it himself. He tiptoed down the stairs in his pajamas and slipped on his shoes. He knew exactly which steps to avoid so he wouldn’t wake up dad. He quietly opened the door to the porch and crept outside, stopping only to grab a hatchet and a flashlight from dad’s toolbox.
The tree was dark, but there was a full moon and Jonathan could see just fine. He walked to the tree and put his hand on the bark. It was warm, like the skin of a living thing. Jonathan felt like the tree was breathing. He was afraid, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. He was Jonathan Murphy, the bravest boy in the world. He was going to chop down the King Kong tree. He raised the hatchet over his head and brought it down with all his might, but the blade only bounced off, leaving a small dent in the bark. Jonathan tried again, harder this time, but the result was the same. He tried a third time, putting all of his weight into the swing, but the hatchet just wouldn’t bite. It was as if the tree was made of steel. Jonathan was exhausted. He leaned against the tree, resting his head on the rough bark. He felt the tree pulse beneath him, like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant. And then he felt something else, something slimy. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his flashlight.
The tree was covered in fat, writhing maggots, each one was nearly a half-inch long.
Jonathan backed away and nearly fell on the sidewalk. The gorilla face opened its mouth and Jonathan could swear he heard a groan as millions of disgusting larvae spilled out of it and onto the ground, worming their way toward him. The hatchet clanked on the pavement as he ran back to the house and shut the door tight behind him.
He didn’t even try to be quiet when he ran back to the bed and pulled the covers over his head. Christopher stirred in his bed, but fell back asleep.
Jonathan could still see the maggots writhing in his vision, even in the pitch black under the blanket. He remembered he had the flashlight and switched it on.
Three maggots were crawling on him.
He yelped as he smashed them in his bare hands and jumped up to run into the bathroom and run a bath.
“What the hell is going on out there?” dad grumbled from his bedroom.
“I need to take a bath.”
“Well, be quiet for frick’s sake.”
Jonathan stripped and got into the tub. He washed all of the maggot goo off himself and sat in the hot water for a few minutes.
When he got up to towel off he thought to check his pajamas for any bugs he might have missed.
He nearly convulsed when he found one, nearly three times the size of all the rest, fat and white. That was when Jonathan realized it was not a maggot.
Jonathan had seen maggots before in the garbage can. His dad blamed him for not taking the trash out fast enough and letting it sit and attract them.
The maggots he’d seen were plump, and pale, and wriggly, but this one was different. This maggot had a mouth.
A mouth with sharp little teeth.
He covered it and his pajamas with the towel and stomped on it as hard as he could.
Then he ran downstairs without even stopping to put clothes on and tossed the maggot infested bundle into the garbage. He tied up the bag and tossed it out the kitchen door.
Realizing he was naked Jonathan tiptoed back upstairs. As he reached the landing that led to the second floor he saw the door to his parent’s room was open. The bathroom was shut, but the light shined through the crack under the door.
Not wanting to be caught running around naked and get the belt, Jonathan slipped back into his bed and hid under the covers until morning.
Before school he ate his cornflakes and tried to forget what he’d seen the night before.
Mom was feeding Marie and Christopher was sitting in his highchair with a pile of Cheerios.
Everything felt normal.
When he left to go to school dad was headed to his car for work.
He passed the tree as he walked to the crossing guard. He scanned the area for maggots but didn’t see any. Gathering his nerves Jonathan looked up at the face.
IT WAS GONE.
There was just a gaping black hole where the gorilla face had been. Jonathan stood up straight and smiled. He’d done it! Somehow he’d vanquished the King Kong tree! He sprung up and down as he strode along the pavement and smiled at Kenny who had just arrived at the crosswalk.
He looked over as his dad drove by and waved.
As the car took off down Cooperton avenue Jonathan could have sworn he saw a maggot the size of an orange clinging onto the bumper.
Intro and outro theme
Music Provided By Mediacharger
www.youtube.com/user/MediaCharger
Artist: Darren Curtis
Track: Demented Nightmare
Credit https://bit.ly/3lvCtVS
Background Music Provided By Mediacharger
www.youtube.com/user/MediaCharger
Music Created By : Myuu
Song Title: Growing Shadows
Download: https://goo.gl/dSGD4F
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