Tales from The Lake 1 Read online

  “Thank you,” I say, though it comes out more like “Hank you,” what with my whole mouth not working and all.

  Connie says, matter-of-factly, “Welcome. Now your eyes.”

  Something wet is streaked around my eye sockets. Connie says, “I messed up. Wait.” She rubs the wet off and starts again. Round the sockets with some kind of tiny brush. Then, “Well, I guess it’s okay.”

  I blink. Blurry, painful light bleeds into my eyes. I blink again and Connie comes into view.

  I cringe.

  She is perhaps eleven, maybe a little younger. She has thin brown hair and a thin sallow face. Bruises the shape of fingers are on her neck and there are scratches on her forehead. Her left eye is blackened.

  “I see you,” I manage.

  “I know,” says Connie. “Now I got to put you back. Mama said I better be down to fix supper before five o’clock. I’m going to fry some bologna.”

  “Okay.” I don’t know what else to say. I’d like to tell Connie to give her mother a swift kick in the ass for me, but I’m thinking that wouldn’t be a good idea.

  At least for now.

  Connie puts me back on the shelf between Bobby, a one-armed garishly-colored ventriloquist dummy and Princess Polly, some kind of GI Joe doll dressed in Barbie clothes.

  “Shut up,” says Princess Polly, even before I can poke fun.

  I can see Connie’s whole room now. What I’d imagined as a pink and lavender fairyland is a tiny, colorless cell with an unmade bed, tattered throw rug, and filthy walls. A picture of puppies hangs at a tilt from a nail. The happiness of this room pretty much matches the happiness of the far, weedy back lot at Concrete City.

  Connie sits on her bed and twists her hair around her fingers. She chews her lip. I can see that her fingernails are bitten down to stubs. Then her Mom screams and Connie is up and out of the door.

  “Her Mom do all that to her?” I ask Bobby.

  “Oh, you bet,” says Bobby. “Bitch is crazy, hateful crazy. Blames Connie for everything that goes wrong in her life. Her alcoholism. Connie’s dad up and leaving. The fact that she can’t hold a job. Smacks Connie around, treats her like a slave.”

  “Damn.”

  “She’s the ultimate liar, too,” says Princess Polly. “A master at it. Got a restraining order against Connie’s dad, and the dad’s the only good person ever in Connie’s life.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yep,” says Princess Polly.

  “You got a name, Newbie?” asks Bobby.

  “Guess not.”

  “Nobody ever owned you before, then? Where’d you come from?”

  “Connie stole me from Concrete City.”

  “Yeah, Connie,” says Princess Polly. “She steals stuff all the time. I think it fills gaps.”

  “Fills gaps,” says Bobby. “So you’re a psychiatrist now? Where’d you learn about filling gaps?”

  “Hear bits and pieces on one of Mom’s talk shows.”

  “Pfft.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Hey, Newbie, I’m going to suggest Connie name you Pointy,” says Bobby. “You got that stupid pointy hat.”

  “I don’t care what she names me,” I say, and at that moment I really don’t. I am thinking about Connie and the lying bitch downstairs and how something has to be done. While we puppets and dummies and dolls and gnomes can talk and see and hear and think, we can’t walk. Nope. Even though we have feet and legs, they aren’t taking us anywhere. I’d love to jump off the shelf with Bobby and Princess Polly, run downstairs, and stomp the shit out of the bitch.

  But we can’t.

  Still. Something has to be done.

  #

  Connie comes back upstairs after she fixes supper and her mother screams that the bologna is rancid, there is grease all over the stove, and to quit looking at her. Connie crawls under her bed and I can hear her counting. I think she has stolen some coins from her mother. When she comes back out, I see that yes, there are coins in her hand, some sweaty dimes, quarters. She puts them into a jar and hides the jar in a dresser drawer, under socks and underwear.

  “Connie,” I say. Stupid lips, only two-thirds working. I say it louder. “Connie!”

  Connie looks over at the shelf, her head tipped in curiosity, her stringy hair cupping her cheek. She comes over and leans in. The blackened bruise around her eye is beginning to go green.

  “What’s the money for?”

  “I’m saving it up to run away to my dad.”

  “You ever run away before?”

  Her eyes darken. “Yeah.”

  “Your mom caught you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, Connie, give this Newbie a name,” says Bobby.

  Connie sniffs, rubs what looks to be new, angry scratches up beside her ear. “I can’t think of names right now.”

  “Call him Pointy.”

  “That’s a stupid name.”

  “It’s perfect.”

  “Shut up, Bobby,” I say. Then I try to change the subject. “Connie, your mom’s angry a lot, isn’t she?”

  Connie nods.

  “She hurts you.”

  “Yeah. ‘Cause she hates me.”

  “You want her to stop hating you. You want to make her happy.”

  “Nothin’ makes Mama happy.”

  “I got an idea,” I say.

  “Pointy’s got an idea,” chides Bobby.

  “Everybody likes cuddles,” I say. Yeah, I’m grasping here, but just give me a minute, okay?

  “Mama doesn’t like cuddles.”

  “Sure she does,” I say. “She just doesn’t know it.” Man, does that sound like bullshit. I keep going.

  “She doesn’t cuddle me,” says Connie. “She hates me.”

  “Maybe she just needs some cuddle practice.”

  “What’s that?”

  Bobby and Princess Polly snort derisively.

  “When does your mom go to bed?”

  Connie shrugs, sniffs, tugs at her hair.

  “When, Connie?”

  “Whenever. I don’t know.”

  “Does she take naps?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Will she take a nap today?”

  “Probably.”

  I bet Bobby and Princess Polly will think the idea is crazy, but I don’t give a flying fuck what they think. If Connie agrees, they’ll have to go along with it. Since we can’t walk, where we go is up to humans.

  I say, “Listen close, Connie. When Mama is down for her nap, take Bobby, Princess Polly, and me and put us in her bed with her. Cuddle us up close to her, right up against her so when she wakes up, she will feel the love.”

  Bobby burst out laughing. “Feel the love? You been listening in to talk shows, too, Pointy?”

  I don’t remember where I heard that phrase but I’m using it. Like I said, I’m grasping. “Yes, she’ll feel the love, Connie. That will help her get used to cuddling. Then maybe she’ll know how to cuddle you.”

  Connie’s brows furrow. “I don’t know. What if putting you in her bed wakes her up?”

  “She snore when she’s sleeping?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That means she’s in deep. She’s sleeping hard. It won’t wake her.”

  “I dunno . . . ”

  “Connie, you picked me out of a weedy patch because you liked me, right? You said so.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So trust me.”

  She purses her lips, looks at her feet.

  Then she looks up again and says, “Okay, Pointy.”

  #

  Mama snores like a freight train tearing down a countryside. She’s lying in her bed, flat out on her back like a corpse, drool leaking from the corner of her mouth and her eyeballs flicking back and forth behind her lids. Every few seconds, the snoring causes her head to shudder. In one hand is a cigarette, snubbed out, thank goodness. One shoe is on her foot, the other is upside down on the floor.

  Connie holds all three of us—Bobby and m
e each under one arm, Princess Polly in Connie’s hand.

  “Tuck us up close,” I whisper.

  Connie moves silently across the floor, but I can feel the fear in her body. Don’t you dare wake up, bitch, I think. Stay there in stupor-land.

  Connie leans over the bed, gently places Bobby against the right side of Mama’s neck. Then Princess Polly is placed on the left side of Mama’s neck. I’m laid down right on top of her throat, so she can see me when she wakes up.

  Connie looks at us, uncertain, but then backs away. As she turns to leave, she scoops up a couple dollar bills on Mama’s bureau.

  Bobby, Princess Polly, and I lie there, alone with Mama. The doll and dummy know what to do; I explained it to them.

  “Hey, Bitch,” I say.

  Mama stirs, snores more loudly.

  “Bitch!”

  Mama’s eyes pop open. She snorts sluggishly and stares, rheumy red eyeball to painted concrete eyeball. It’s pretty clear she has no idea what’s going on. Maybe she thinks she’s having a nightmare. Just as well. “What the fuck? Don’t look at me, you ugly piece of shit! Get off me!”

  “Now, boys,” I say. And cuddled there with Mama, right up close as we can be, we open wide.

  Because, you see, not only can our painted mouths speak. They can also bite.

  And chew.

  And swallow.

  DEVIL DOLLS

  Blaze McRob

  Shadows on the wall so eerie, made the little girl grow teary,

  watching shapes of hideous evils casting their disturbing gloom.

  As she shuddered, nearly crying, all at once she heard a prying,

  much like someone trying, trying to get in the room.

  “T’was some evil thing,” she figured, prying to get in her room.

  “More than this, it’s bringing doom.”

  Oh, so clearly she remembered, all was safe when first she slumbered,

  yet ‘twas every scary trembler brought its fear into the room.

  Thus it went she longed for freedom, away from all the bad to come,

  in her spread, patchwork of welcome, welcome for the coming doom.

  But the scared and ominous youngster felt the wrath from evil’s womb.

  Much noise now within the room.

  Thus the sunken fears around her, tearing at the edge of horror

  scared her, brought her awful angst that ‘round her head did loom.

  So she took to calm the pounding in her chest; she tried retreating

  from the gruesome evil sounds, gaining entry to the room.

  Yes, the gruesome evil sounds, gaining entry to the room.

  This it was and so much doom.

  Thus her sweat poured ever faster as her heart became her master.

  Who is there, or what, she wondered, wanting now to enter room.

  But the fact was, she was frightened, feelings of her fears so heightened,

  that her heart was oh so tightened, tightened deep within her room.

  So deep inside her frightened mind, she tried to run from the doom.

  Deep angst there, inside the room.

  List’ning to the scary prying, as she shuddered, thinking, crying,

  fretting, fearing fears no children ever had to face in room.

  But the horrors were so eerie, and the darkness made her teary,

  and the only thing she wanted was a happy place, ‘naught doom.

  This she wanted, and her mind repeated of a place, ‘naught doom.

  Merely this, inside her room.

  She returned to blankets hiding, all the fears inside her chiding,

  but this time the sound was grating, closer, closer to her room.

  “I’m scared,” said she, “I’m scared about the things that lurk inside this place,

  what could there be the fear to chase, and so much more ‘tis gloom?”

  Why could her soul be yet so torn, and drawn to fears of doom?

  ‘Tis the angst, inside the room.

  And no more fear could she handle, her heart aflame just like a candle.

  Inside the room a scream so loud, brought her mother to the room,

  and when the lights were turned on full, Demonic Dolls did on her pull.

  With the force of dolls so awful, so many now inside the room,

  sat upon a floor so shiny, in the middle of the room.

  Sat and sat, in room of doom.

  Twins on toybox top were sitting, evil faces, twisted smiling,

  blond haired boy with knife so handy welcomed Mom into the room.

  His bright white eyes were rimmed in black, and stared at her, all set to hack.

  Her body not would he let back, for now this room would be her tomb.

  And so the boy advanced to her, and blood tipped knife t’was spelling doom.

  Said the child, “This is your tomb.”

  She tried to run but was stopped short, for other dolls came to abort

  her effort now turned to failing, dolls swept o’er her like a broom.

  Dolls with her were not agreeing with her plan of capture fleeing

  and now from her was much weeping, as she faced her final doom.

  Many dolls did come to anchor her to floor of daughter’s room.

  Anchor her in her new tomb.

  And so the boy did end her life, no more for her to feel its strife.

  With one move, he finished her, and no more would she feel the boom

  of all hardships she had suffered, and no more pain need be buffered,

  For all the dolls ‘round her muttered, “No more will you feel the gloom,

  Your life upon the floor will stay, incumbent not on the gloom.

  Welcome now in to your tomb.”

  And so more dolls from toybox came, involved for now, in their new game.

  Former playmate now did hover, close to entry of her room.

  Trapped by those now giddy dollies, intent upon newfound follies,

  licking lips ahead of jollies, thinking of the young girl’s doom.

  Thinking of what lay ahead, thinking of the young girl’s doom.

  Time it was now for her gloom.

  Thus the dollies’ lips were smiling, inside their minds so beguiling,

  Set upon the girl so fragile, blocking her from leaving room.

  And before her eyes were blinking, the dolls had all started thinking,

  others on the floor were drinking, her mother’s blood inside the room.

  All this now, unholy, ghastly, scant and horrible place of doom.

  ‘Twas the horror in the room.

  As they came intent on stopping all the effort from her leaving,

  knowing now their thoughts had changed concerning changes in the room.

  So now they planned on her having, a life in here everlasting,

  as their playmate, keen on staying, lightened mood inside the room,

  Yes their playmate, keen on staying, lightened mood inside the room.

  Change from doom, though still a tomb.

  They dragged her next to teddy bears; upon the floor they had no cares,

  though their innards had been torn by knife of evil boy in room.

  Twin girl did jump from off her perch; on top of toybox did

  she lurch. Horror—horror and regret from the girl t’was trapped in gloom.

  Damn, oh damn this harsh regret, still within this horrid room.

  Place of gloom, and still a tomb.

  Twin girl in white upon the child, did force her face down mean and wild,

  into the blood of her dead mother, the evil girl with blood did groom.

  And twin’s white dress, once so flaunted, dripped with blood, now undaunted.

  In this place of horror haunted, much was kept within this room.

  Nothing—nothing more of horror—kept here—kept here in this room.

  Place of gloom, and still a tomb.

  “A part of us you now will be, and never more will you be free.

  Demonic D
olls surround you now, and all of us will share this room.

  Become a part of what we are, and never will we wander far.

  And so embrace what now you are, forget about impending doom.

  For you will never go too far, forget about impending doom.”

  Place of gloom, and still a tomb.

  “Heed you now our words of greeting, friend or foe can be so fleeting.

  So stay with us and be our friend, and we will have fun in this room.

  And those against us, who will come, will feel our wrath much more than some.

  And all who rail that we are one, shall feel the strength within the room.

  Together we shall conquer all, and ’round the rest our hate will bloom.”

  Place of gloom, and still a tomb.

  And so the girl, now is sitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,

  on the shiny floor of horror, deep inside the room of gloom.

  And her eyes have all the knowing of the dolls around her showing,

  and the knowledge still is growing, deep within this eerie room.

  And her mind becomes as eerie as the others in the room.

  No place of gloom, or a tomb.

  DEAD PULL

  Taylor Grant

  Every animal fell silent the moment Brennan stepped inside the pet store. A modest brass bell above the door clanged dully.

  He surveyed his animal kingdom, satisfied with the respect his subjects paid him. It bordered on reverence, which, Brennan felt, was fully his due. The puppies roughhousing playfully only moments before suddenly slinked back to the corners of their cages. The kittens leapt behind their scratching posts and into the hollows of barrels and other playthings. The tropical birds watched him intently, none daring to caw. Even the rodents and the fish had stopped all activity, as if they sensed a storm gathering on the horizon.

  The insects didn’t seem to notice Brennan, but of course he realized they were too stupid to know any better. He was still working on that.

  Fear pervaded the store, strong enough to taste.

  Brennan was pleased.