The Thing Outside

Two warriors circled one another, each wielding a mighty battle axe. Neither wished to surrender ground, nor draw so close that he might feel the cut of the other man’s blade. As most melees do, this one ended as quick as it began. One warrior sensed that his latitude was jeopardized by the rampart nearby. He also knew that the doorway to succor stood behind him, yet he would not retreat inside. Instead he moved to attack.

“You’re gonna screw around until one of you gets hurt,” came the drone of Jack’s voice. Jack was the senior custodian working at the community center this Halloween. At nineteen he was a full year older than us. He was growing annoyed by the antics of Dave and me.

We were two cousins, also custodians, charged with the task of assisting him. Dave had landed me a job there two years prior. Tonight, we were to clean up the aftermath of an event long over.

Many children had spent their Halloween playing games and collecting treats from all over the facility. Hayrides, balloons, popcorn, and all manner of fun could be found just an hour before. Now three semi-motivated teenagers were all that remained.

Dave and I laughed at Jack’s complaints. Such was our custom. Dave, who was moving to attack, kicked a chair at me, hoping to distract. I, ever the nimble one, leapt up and over the chair and toward my enemy. My plastic, prop battle-axe held high overhead, I would end this contest with a single chop. I would have, had I not fallen for Dave’s clever laid trap. I failed to bring my mighty plastic to bear in time. My cousin’s weapon slashed up across my face, where it found more purchase than either of us had estimated.

“You had to keep screwin’ around.”

Dave and I still laughed at Jack’s admonishment, because to not laugh would be an admission of our foolishness. We listened to our co-worker’s voice fade, as the locker room door drifted shut. We could still hear unintelligible complaining, as we struggled to suppress the small but stubborn flow of blood trickling from my right nostril. At last succeeding, we shared a final giggle before going out to face Jack’s stoic wrath.

“Hey Jack, do you want another beer?” Dave added a nervous chuckle to the gesture.

Jack returned a bothered glance. After one of his signature, conversational lags, he answered, “Yeah. Hwaaah… hwaaah… hwaaah…”  His slow, guttural laugh told us that all was well between us; that his admonishments were over, for the time being.

Most of the tables had been put on their carts and the chairs stacked, save one. The floors still needed to be tended and the trash cans emptied. These and a few other tasks remained, before we, young men, could retire to finishing our beer, free of our onus.

Dave was the strongest of us— a wrestler, soccer jock, and hockey player. Although, Jack came from a family of champion soccer players and was no slouch; Dave was the most well rounded athlete among us and the stoutest. Dave opened the double doors to the darkness beyond. The cold October air gusted into the gymnasium, bringing with it leaves and a few liberated pieces of straw left over from the hayride. Dave and I mused as Jack rebuked everyone and no one at all for bringing about the tiny burden of shooing the debris back outside. Dave hefted two bulging fifty-five gallon trash bags off the ground, one in each hand. I watched with envy. I knew I could do it too, but I would strain to keep them from dragging. Should I attempt the feat, they would drift to the ground as my arms fatigued and finish their trip with worn bottoms.

As the form of Dave and his burden became one with the darkness, I took on the tedium of sweeping the gym, taking care to swerve around spills and sticky spots. The wide dust-mops would make short work of the gymnasium; but moisture on the floor, including beer as we discovered long ago, would bring the dusters to an instant halt.

Jack busied himself with prepping the floor scrubber. I watched him with each pass of my dust-mop, thinking how often I’d been alone in the building and forgotten that I was filling that machine. I couldn’t count the times I’d happened by later to discover my error along with tens of gallons of water covering the gymnasium floor. I laughed at the notion.

In a reverie shattering moment, like a pivotal scene in a cheap, horror movie, Dave burst back inside the gymnasium. “There’s something in the dumpster!” he screeched, running full sprint. This not only roused my curiosity, but managed to break Jack’s sober façade.

The three of us gathered at the double doors and gazed toward the dumpster. The container was resting atop the crest of the asphalt hill, on the far side of a drive that half circled the building. Partway up were the two bags Dave had been carrying. There was a single flickering street lamp above the doorway that did little to demystify the darkness around the trash container or its backdrop of unholy looking woods.

Jack and I assailed Dave with the likelihood he had seen a cat or a raccoon in the container, as was common. Dave would accept none of that. He challenged us to go out there ourselves, if we were so certain. He even grew angry at us when we mocked him.

I, being no monger for battle, decided to console my cousin by setting out to see for myself what the fuss at the dumpster was. I made it only a few paces before I saw something— two bright glowing eyes rose up out of the open dumpster and snaked from side to side, and then they lowered back out of view.

I marched back to the gym and informed my coworkers that Dave had seen a cat or some other animal. Dave was adamant that I was wrong. Jack remained without opinion, choosing for the time being to observe in silence. Our earlier foolishness and the threat of debris invading his gym were more preoccupying to him.

I dismissed Dave’s severe attitude about the animal and set back out to complete his failed mission. I would throw out the trash myself. Reaching the bags, I took advantage of the head start Dave provided me. Having just half the distance to cover, the bags would not be dragging when I arrived. I lifted them, one in each hand, and climbed farther up the asphalt. I was prepared for the thing to look out at me. I expected it to be startled by my closeness and flee into the woods. That was what I expected.

I had but a quarter of my trip to go when it emerged. I was much closer this time, and my perspective was distinct. I saw the glowing eyes. I saw the serpentine movements, zigzagging left to right. But, what I saw was neither cat nor raccoon, nor any other animal I recognized. What I saw made bumps rise on my skin and my blood chill. The eyes were not on an animal but upon the round shape of a human head.

I froze. As far as I could tell it was a man, but his face was wrong, like he was wearing a white stocking over his head. How was it that his eyes glowed blue-white like that? I was left with no choice. I followed Dave’s craven footsteps, dropped the bags, and fled inside.

From the shelter of the community center, we studied the head, watching it weave in eerie patterns. A man inside of the dumpster with a white stocking over his head was startling enough. Ghostly glowing eyes though, this was more than we could bear. Of course, we knew it was possible. Just an hour before hundreds of costumed visitors crowded inside and outside the facility. Was a costumed deviant haunting our dumpster?

As one, the three of us advanced upon the site. We froze, forcing ourselves not to flee each time the weaving head appeared. Finally, we arrived at the trash bags. If not for Dave’s brutish strength and Jack’s detached disbelief that there was anything of significance in the dumpster, I would have fled.

Dave yelped and my blood went colder as the thing materialized again. I couldn’t bring myself to advance or to retreat. Finding courage in self-preservation, I darted left, then right, and then back toward the building.  Feeling suddenly vulnerable, I charged back to Dave and Jack, opting to stand behind them.  With them as my shields and a clear path to the building, I conceded that this was the safest place for me in that terrible moment.  It was the sound of Jack’s odd, slow laughter that subdued my panic.

“You dumbasses,” he said. Jack picked up the trash bags and threw them into the dumpster. He looked over at the head and laughed again. His disregard counteracted my horror long enough for reason and curiosity to flourish. Just that one moment, distracted from terror, in the presence of the terrible head, allowed me to see it for what it was.

Again, it rose up, but not from inside the dumpster at all. No, the head came from behind. And, there were no glowing eyes at all, just the prismatic, double reflection of the street lamp over the gymnasium entrance. The fearsome man in the white stocking mask with glowing blue-white eyes was no more than a white balloon that had been discarded into the trash, never quite making it to its final resting place.

Half an hour later, as I walked past Jack he quipped, “It still kind of freaks you out when the thing pops up.”

I offered a smile and nodded. Neither Dave nor I were able to enjoy Jack’s jovial tolerance of the incident. We found ourselves too traumatized.

I carried more trash outside later, approaching the area without episode. The wind had lessened and the balloon had lost some of its helium. This only made it worse as the accursed thing grew less predictable.

Dave and I managed to finish our tasks that memorable Halloween. We locked the doors and drank our beers. We avoided each other’s gaze for the rest of the night. I shuddered each time Jack laughed at us with his slow, rasping chuckle. “Dumbasses, hwaaah… hwaaah… hwaaah…”

         
         

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