Marionette Man

I didn’t know that his mother’s house was supposedly haunted. I didn’t know that my buddy, Dave’s friend was a demonologist. I certainly didn’t know what would transpire after that night. All I knew was that I was not fucking touching that Ouija Board.

“Come on, man,” Dave urged. “You scared?”

My fingers fiddled with the cold metal of the silver cross hanging from a flimsy chain around my neck. Beads of sweat slowly began to form on my forehead as an uneasy laugh escaped my lips.

“Y’all are dumbasses. If you want to go have a Parker Brothers séance and call up Casper, be my guest.  Me and Pyro will be kickin’ it over here, on the couch, knocking back a few.”

I launched my large, awkward frame down upon Dave’s mother’s 1970’s style divan, plunging elbow first into the burnt orange cushions. Pyro, the sleek, ebony housecat who had occupied the cushion adjacent to my elbow, let out a loud, menacing hiss.

“Yeah. Good luck with that,” Dave scoffed. “That fucking cat hates everyone.”

As if on cue, the surly feline darted across the living room, disappearing behind the kitchen doorway.

Dave flicked his lighter and walked around the room, lighting candles, as his friend, Mikhail, set up the Ouija board.

“Normally, I work with more sophisticated equipment than this,” Mikhail said with a half-smirk, removing the cheap, wooden board from its cardboard box, still wrapped in plastic. The smiling children on the front of the packaging put a serious damper on any mystical ambiance that they were attempting to create. He carefully placed the board and planchette on the coffee table as he and Dave took their seats on opposite sides.

Before they began, Mikhail leaned forward and whispered something to Dave. I could only make out the words, “It’s a good thing your friend.” When he finished, they both glanced in my direction.

Okay, then.

“Are there any spirits who wish to speak with us?” Mikhail and Dave seemed to swirl the planchette forever before landing on “Yes.”

I had to laugh to myself. My mother had taught me from the day that I was old enough to understand, never to play with a Ouija board. I’d seen the Exorcist and shit. No way was I going to get anywhere near that thing. Yet, here these two douchebags were, making complete asses out of themselves, and nothing was really “happening.” I couldn’t believe I’d ever been scared of such a stupid, sissy little toy. I was convinced, in that moment, that people just used those things to freak each other out, more than anything, and to see how gullible their friends were.

I sipped my beer and thumbed through the TV Guide that was sitting on the end table.  Occasionally, I glanced up to see what the pause in murmuring was about, but I found the description of Wednesday’s episode of MASH to be infinitely more interesting than what those morons were doing. I had just gotten to the crossword section when the lights began to flicker.

“Uh, Dave . . .” I started.

“Shut up, Waylon.”

The lights continued to flicker for several seconds before the bulbs seemed to be burning white hot, the brightness in the room almost overwhelming. Dave and Mikhail’s eyes met across the table. They appeared to be sharing an “Oh shit” moment that I was, somehow, not privy to.

“You guys, what the fuck is up with this wiring?” I stood up and looked around, noticing that several lights were suddenly on that had been shut off before. The realization of what was happening was slow to hit me. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was denial. Whatever it was, it took at least a full 60 seconds to slap me in the face.

Mikhail quickly and robotically rose up off of the floor. His head spun to look at me and the speed with which he did it caused an instant adrenaline rush to course throughout my body. His face contorted into a condescending grin.

“Waaaaaylon the whaaaaale,” he teased, in a high-pitched, sing-song voice.

I felt the blood draining from my face. No one had called me that since I was an overweight second-grader at Piedmont Elementary. I had wanted to die every fucking day.

“Waaaaaylon the whaaaaale,” he continued.

“Shut the fuck up,” I yelled.

My eyes darted over to Dave in desperation. He had backed himself against the wall, his heartbeat visible through his A-Team t-shirt. A dark streak formed on the front of his stonewashed jeans, trickling onto the floor.

The tips of Mikhail’s white high-top sneakers were barely touching the green shag carpet, dragging across it with a thick, thumping rumble, directly towards yours truly. I froze as his marionette-like body came to a stiff halt about half an inch in front of my face. His breath felt cold upon my skin and smelled of rancid animal carcass.

As though someone had cut the puppet strings, I watched his body fall, limp, to the floor in front of me. The thud vibrated through the top of my head, clacking my teeth against each other.

That was when I felt it. The iciness – it slithered up my leg like a boa constrictor, squeezing me, contorting me, consuming me. I turned my gaze back to Dave who was still gibbering against the wall. I felt my face twisting into an unnatural smile.

That was the last thing I could remember.

I read the headlines, from my prison cell. Double homicide. Dismemberment. Cannibalism. The worst crime in the history of the state of Ohio. I hadn’t remembered being arrested, naked, covered in the blood of my compadres, eating my friend’s housecat on the porch. The press said that I was rabid and, by all accounts, I must have been.

I don’t remember much.

All I know is that my mother was right. Parker Brothers are some evil motherfuckers. And, I can’t sleep for the cold.



Word Count: 999