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Writer's pictureJaime Grace

Won't Get Far On Foot

Updated: Aug 13, 2024





They were noir-colored creatures with caved-in eyes of brittle dirt and chipped emerald glass buried deep in the holes. From the top of their head, spouted two rail-road spikes and from their paws, the nails which skewered the ground. A gargoyle’s portrayal of a dog (a Dogoyle, if one is silly enough). These were the Illinois Night-Stokers; Est. 1964. The first reported incident had been from a well-off man who would not die—by Stoker’s luck—at the grimy nails of a small monster. Instead, Phillip Strickland would depart six years later as he smoked comfortably in his driveway, backed over by his own car. But 1964 saw Phillip pulled off the road, next to Hyde Woods in Painted Glade, IL. 


He’d lit a cigarette, close enough to burn the freckles right off his cheeks, and stared daggers into the flat tire as he thought. The sins had been committed discretely over the long days of their vacation. Nothing he couldn’t come back from but hopefully enough to calm the throbbing plots which had been brewing in his mind. This was not an unfamiliar struggle and with it came all the methods of coping that he’d learned from his Mother. But two weeks ago, as he filled the family car up with Sinclair gas, he began to fear for his sanity. 


The ideas began to feel more like wants and urges which would inevitably happen whenever he stopped restraining himself. He looked through the passenger side door at his wife that day and wondered when he began to hate her so much. 


Only, he truly didn’t hate her. That was what he told himself…or perhaps it was the flipped version. It was getting harder and harder to say while simultaneously dealing with the unbearable weight of derealization. But at the last rest stop there had been a gumball machine full of superballs that made Danaé stop crying for five minutes so who was he to complain? He expected the girls, one year apart, were going to have lost their voices by the time they reached the next hotel. The screeching and sobbing had been going on since they’d run over a speed bump about ten miles away from dinner. Danaé and Lydia’s voices vibrated endlessly in his head, sending him into a disgusting bit of nausea. So he’d done it. He remembered his trucker brother’s story about the ‘Scarlet Dog’ and gave them something real to cry about. The crumbly pink meat had mocked him but so long as he didn’t have to eat it, Phillip was fine feeding it to his children. 


The only shame was that Melinda skipped dinner too. She had been grinding his nerves with all the fucking talking. Places they just had to stop even though he was pretty sure he remembered to tell her that the way back was for him to decide. So when he caught her squinting and rubbing the back of her ear, he rejoiced…and now, he pulled the packet of Tylenol out from his pocket and heaved it into the woods. Not another business for several miles, he grinned. Headaches were just a part of life, she’d be fine, he reasoned as he hauled their spare tire to the gravel. Besides, the pain wasn’t halting her irritating obsession with the radio. 


Deep within the nightshade, a branch snapped not by chance but by purpose. The animal was stalking, paws curling in anticipation. Not much was on its mind apart from the carnal hunger which vibrated at its teeth. The man would be enough for now but its small body would be gurgling for more soon. 


‘Somebody bad stole de wedding bell…’ 


The radio echoed, loud enough to come clearly through the window, but the volume apparently didn’t strain Melinda’s migraine. Phillip grimaced, loosening the damn lug nuts as the irritating melody pierced his brain. 


 ‘Somebody bad stole de wedding bell

Somebody bad stole de wedding bell…’


He needed to be mad committed if the problem was going to be solved but the lyrics hammered in the rage that had been destined to screw him. 


‘Now, nobody can get married

Who's got the ding dong who's got the bell

Who's got the ding dong who's got the bell…’


“Jesus wept!” He cried, kicking the tools aside. Damn woman needed to turn that shit if she wanted to get home in time for—


The eruption of sound triggered the creature’s initial reaction, scampering from the bushes of sweet greens to sink its teeth into the meat which made such a lustrous sound. Phillip first felt its nasty death grip on his calf and the pain was instant. Its teeth were moist and steaming with heat, almost cauterizing each deep wound that it inflicted. He felt the squishing of his flesh squirting shots of blood against the car's subtle black glitter. “Fuck–!” He screamed, dazed from the agony, and slammed his fists onto the windows. Melinda was not good in a crisis. Never had been and this seemed to be no exception. She gaped, gasped, and clawed at the door handle. “It’s locked!” Smacking another wet first against the glass. ‘Damn idiot.’ 


After the words left his mouth, Melinda’s hand drifted away from the handle and he watched her eyes fall to the demon-dog on his leg. He saw the Mother in her as she realized her children were just behind her. ‘Fucking Bitch.’ He thought while his entire left leg seethed with pain. Kicking his leg out, he managed to slap the beastly little mutt against the car and showered the gravel with its disgusting fleas. Melinda jumped back and stretched a startled hand out to steady the shaking baby seats. 


“Open the Goddamn door, Melinda!” He threw himself at her door again, gurgling on the spit which rose in his throat. One of the smallest bug-sized shits which had fallen from its Mother’s fur climbed its way up Phillips's pant leg all the way to his fist. 


‘All day the people look at the steeple

But they don't see the bell…’


Melinda Strickland hopped over the console and into the back seat where her children, noncomprehensive about the situation, were beginning to scream. “I’m sorry, Phil.” Her bubbling tears only seized his body with more anger. “The girls—I can’t risk it.” 

Phillip’s next fist crunched against the window, shards of it flew down around the Mother and children. 


‘We got a very fine detective, Shiller Gun

And he's sure to question every man…’


One of the many flea-babies of the Night-Stoker seared itself through the hot glass, undetected and crawled into little Lydia’s car seat while its Mother howled in pain. 


So in the marketplace where people buy and sell

He's sure to arrest the one who sells the bell…’ 



  _____________________________________________________________________

[Summer, 1978] 


Five years before the Holiday season of 1983 and six days after Lydia Strickland accidentally backed over her father, Alan Spruce had been solemnly carrying an old, moist box of oranges out to his gathered family in the backyard. They were steaming in the hot sun, fevers pulsating at their temples and craving the kind of cool fruit which might bleed thick ropes of sweet juicy sweat down their skin. Drying quickly at their palms but spilling droplets along the trails of their blue veins. 


Only, little Alan left the oranges to roll around the linoleum kitchen tiles in his child’s panic. He’d neglected to consider his melting parents or how the company might be upset when instead of receiving a much-needed cooldown, they got a good peek at the simmering body of a long-dead gerbil in direct sunlight. 


He’d found Bobby-Sock hanging from the side of the blue cage, which he’d saved all of his change for, by his little paw. The limb had been stuck between bars and nearly all the way torn off. The old boy had tried desperately to live and Alan would never stop wondering ‘what for?’. What did his prize for winning the spelling bee have that was worth chewing his own appendage off? 


Jackie Souther took one sneaky look after pushing through the crowd of adults, her arms brushing against their scratchy patches of leg hair. If it wasn’t the look of Socks, it was surely the smell that made the girl regurgitate the Birthday cake into her hands. Poor Bobby’s remaining feet curled inwards while the top right swung on a string of skin & dried blood clots. Alan suspected, with horror, that his friend had died more than three hours ago. After all, he’d only been in-&-out of his house since his sister’s party began…if only he’d checked on him sooner. 


Rays of golden hues, thick with overwhelming heat, boiled into Bobby’s up-turned, fluffy belly. He bloated the air further with the smell of stale urine, the puddle sizzled under the sun despite being several hours old. 


:::::::


[Winter, 1983] 


A carousel of a dozen small fires blazed behind various shades of blushed glass, capturing some sort of abstract summary of the Holidays. With each soft glisten against the pine branches, an internal choir sang dizzy carols deep in a child’s mind until they were blotted out by the distorted chiming of Holiday bells. Alan Spruce (who turned fifteen just last month), sat comfortably on the living room carpet, peering out of the crunchy glass window. He spotted his baby sister, trotting across the thinnest layer of snow in their yard. Barely a lick had come down and Nancy, in love with every snowman she’d ever seen, had been on the edge of a fit since September. 


“You’d better quit that scene, Nance. Tuck your lip.” Mrs. Spruce had chirped with her hand rubbing bacon grease down her Christmas apron. “You keep on sticking it out like that and the old lip-sitting bird will find ya and perch there on the pink for a week.” Her wooden spoon had twirled in the air and wafted the scent of cremated—‘Not cremated, Alan. Grilled. Never will you be caught saying that while I run this household—’ chicken which Pop had carried from the porch. 


“No such thing.” Nancy had continued to stick her lip out under her pug-nose and stomp around the island. 


As Alan considered Nancy pathetically trying to make a snow angel against the green lawn, he reminded himself to repeat the message back to her the next time he was rattled awake by her sweaty hands in the middle of the night. The ‘Garfield Goose’ nightmare hour took place in his cold bedroom every other night from 2-3 A.M.; narration was performed by Nancy Spruce & her toddler tears. 


But 3 o’clock in the afternoon? That was always the time for a re-run episode of ‘Ray Rayner and Friends’ to flash onto their television. Alan never missed a show. The Den, for the most part, was the prime watch spot. The soft white carpet was shaded to a faint gray by the always calming & mute light and the loudest sound that could ever breakthrough was only true & raw shouting. Which didn’t seem to occur unless Alan was an active participant. So between 3-4 P.M. On weeknights, the house was exceptionally quiet. “Alan?” 


‘So much for that.’ Alan dug deep into his chest, trying to resist the urge to complain. Mom was always telling him that running his mouth like that was vapid and arrogant. Considering he was about to huff about missing a kiddy show about a stuffed dog that had been off their air for 3 years, he’d have to agree. “Yeah?” Just taking a shot. 


No answer. Alan hopped up from the carpet, parting from the television’s fuzzy view of Mr. Raynor. The old man was still shining that sustainable grin down to his ol’ pal, Cuddly Dudley, a dog who looked over Alan since birth. Grandma Lucy was long gone now but the plush gift was still gripping tightly onto its life of eternal deterioration. The TV star version of Dudley was standing in front of the black doorway of his dog-house when Al turned away. “Hey, Mom.” 


The tall woman, looking frazzled as most every other adult Alan had ever seen in his observant years, swiveled her head around to get in a greeting. The long pigtails bounced against a sun that was already bleeding darker. “Al, how was school–?” A distant shout flushed her attention back out the door. “Nance, get inside because if he dares throw a snowball in here, I’ll have to chase him out!” 


A smile crept onto Alan’s face, forming the effortless dimples that became pools that cradled the afternoon’s tangerine light. 


All 4-feet & 2 inches of Nancy Spruce thumped back inside the house, looking cold and tired. Her skin, freshly bitten by Jack Frost, was covered in abstract bushels of red which popped against her lavender nylon bubble coat. Her thin round glasses had fogged over completely. Edie Spruce slouched to the floor and tended to the mess of a seven-year-old; wiping the dustings of snow from her hair & helping her to remove the boots that had once belonged to a younger version of their mother. 


He ignored this, stepping closer to the doorframe they were nearly blocking. “Everette?” The name rolled off his tongue with ease. 


“Yeah?” Came the radiant and youthful voice of the kid who’d spent an unhealthy amount of time last year trying to film a home movie. ‘For us to look back on in the future he’d explained so earnestly on the first day of the project, all the while his face shone in the ‘after-school glow’. 


Alan didn’t respond, otherwise meaning; ‘Get the Hell in here, please.’ 


Everette came lurking through the Spruce family’s front door, a gap-toothed grin almost splitting his face in half. An icy-blue knit winter hat, the kind with the fuzzy ball on top, sat on the bed of his wooly brown hair…nearly rich enough to be called crimson. He got attention ok, good & bad. But over the years, Alan noticed his friend might forever lay at the door of ‘Obliviousness’. “So much has changed…” He slapped his hand to his chest. 


Alan rolled his eyes but the amused feeling was hard to repress. “Big man goes on one vacation…” He was narrating to his family who was absolutely not listening. “To his Aunt’s house in Colorado for a week.” A giggle escaped him. 


Tearing the comfortable hat from his head, Everette smirked. Coming in further and shutting the door behind him, he relieved the house from the bitter-blue winter. “Make all your fun, Goose. You’re just jealous that you didn’t get to go skiing with me.” He began to shuck off his ill-fitting coat as he scuffed his shoes against the door-mat. “We also found a breakfast place you would’ve liked. They made your favorite kind of doughnut!” He struggled to pull the heavy coat from his back. 


“Oh yeah, and what would that be?” He reached out to help Everette, who’d managed to get stuck in his gigantic sleeve. The fabric of his thick sweater had bunched up at the end of his elbow, blocking what should have been an easy tug-off. 


“Vanilla–” He yanked himself free. “With crushed nuts!” Everette dipped forward and punched his friend in the crotch. 


“Ow, you fu–” 


“Language.” Edie cut her son off before he could even entertain finishing the insult. “Why don’t you boys go hang out in the den?” She escorted Nancy towards the stairs with the kind of subtle annoyance only a mother could manage and waved her hands dismissively. 


As they obediently moved & left the girls behind, Alan recalled his friend had left for the trip a good 2 hours early that day and intended to ask Everette about the byways Mr. King ended up driving down that week ago. They were a scenic kind of family and that was one of the earliest truths Alan had learned in their 5 years of friendship. 


The boys plopped onto the carpet, ignoring the scattered remains of Nancy’s toys. They were absent-minded for the time being. Stuck in the liminal space of satisfying freedom which only existed in the first moments after school let out. When the sky couldn’t make up its mind on color. It was a limited sensation that would surely burn out by 5 o’clock. 


“Has Micky been around?” Everett asked as he gestured towards the lunch box leaning against the wall. His eyes just skimmed over the lurid figure hidden behind the window. After all, the glass had gone over with pearlescent & murky patches of ice from the glacier-like weather. 


Alan followed his eye-line, meeting Batman’s jolly stare as the hero sat nestled into the shaggy floor. “For a while, I ate his lunch.” A shrug rolled off his shoulders, thinking back to their heated game of ‘Who’s stronger: Superman or Batman?; A game for bored children. “But he’s been grounded since he left here on Tuesday.” 


“Figures.” Everette pitched a penny into the air just to watch it fly. “What for?” 


Following the delightful ‘clink’ sound, the copper-plated coin spun madly into the atmosphere of the 4th house on Adler Street. Alan splayed his legs out & ignored the rubbing sensation on his pants, surely just asking for a devilish static shock. “His mom got all bunched up cause he told her Jesus wasn’t his hero.” The sentence chaotically descended into laughter. 


Everette’s chuckles were always hearty & full. “And who did he say was his hero–?” He waved his hand out as if that might stop the hiccupping. 


“Debbie Harry.” 


The boys keeled over, practically howling. At the time, laughing at their absent friend felt natural. There really was no way for either to know that Micky, who couldn’t bring himself to eat M&M’s because he liked their commercials personalities too much, was currently convulsing as he tried to hack up a boiling pool of blood in his throat…the panicked chortling sound eerily echoing the laughter of his distant friends. 


Alan found it hard to collect himself when his best friend sat just in front of the television, static light surrounding his head and sneezed into an intensely harder laugh. Yeah, he’d made one hell of a funny snorting noise but Everette flinging himself backward onto the floor was what made the moment. He was embarrassed. Sure he was still laughing madly but now it was behind the cupped hand he’d just smacked to his face. 


“---The blue? Henry, the blue?” From beyond the doorway, the sound of clicking heels woke the boys from their fit. Following the rush of swishing fabric, Mrs. Spruce popped back into view with bleary yet bright eyes. Stepping in as far into the den as she possibly could with the home phone’s cord trying to yank her back, she noticed the boys. “Everette, I almost forgot to ask. How was your trip?” She set her new purse on the ottoman. 


Alan could hear his dad muttering on the other end of the phone but Edie rested the poor man’s voice on her shoulder, muffled by her starry pajama shirt. 


“Bitchin’, Mrs. Spruce!” He beamed, ignoring his friend’s slap on his shoulder. 


Edie hummed, a dull version of her usual rhythmic laugh. “Your Father mentioned your big scare in Winter Park.” her voice dripped in the kind of sarcasm fairly amused parents used on exhausting children. The devilish man on her shoulder was still going through the motions of a conversation, all by himself. 


Oooh, what scare?’ His brow raised, deciding to ignore the way his Mother’s pajama pants were clipped under her shiny black heels. It had taken him till he was about eleven to understand why ‘Flooded pants’ referred to those which fell to the ankle. Ten-year-old Alan thought it made much more sense for that to be applied to pants that water-falled downwards and spilled loosely on the floor like flattened cupcake liners. 


Everette chuckled but his cheeks colorized in a matter of seconds. “It’s nothing. I was walking around with some guide while my dad was getting us some food, you know? But two minutes in, my nose started like…gushing with blood. High altitude, I guess.” He frowned, looking suddenly anxious. “Poor guy didn’t know how to continue the tour so I just pinched my nose and told him I was fine.” He felt the need to demonstrate. “But then the texture got all clotty and started dripping down my throat, so I coughed it up to spit…and let’s just say neither of us could handle the sight of me hiccupping blood onto the snow.” 


‘Gross’. “Gross.” Alan shivered. 


“I had like 6 nosebleeds in total but the rest were small.” Another shrug. “Hacked up like twelve bloody loogies–” 


A loud gag erupted from Alan’s throat just before his Mother made her full entrance into the den. “Your father and I have our Christmas party tonight so–”


“Ruth is babysitting for the Hunters tonight, remember?” Knowing already that Edie did not. Ruth had been babysitting them for the last few years and was perhaps the sweetest teenage girl that Alan ever met. Which is why he’d gotten so pissed at recess when Randy Hunter, two grades below, had crudely blabbered about how hot his babysitter was. 


She paused, muttering a quiet ‘Damn’ under her breath. Several shades of the Holiday season were beginning to break through their True Value blinds. Frozen red & green flames nestled deep in her curls while she tried to reshape the night. “I’d hate for her to cancel on such short notice. Marjorie’s boys are monsters—don’t spread that around boys.” That sentiment was a bit less threatening than she’d probably intended, as it was fogged over by her bumbling tone. 


“We can babysit Nancy, Mrs. Spruce.” Everette insisted, knowing very well that he was a boy condemned with an honest face. “We can handle her.” 


No–that was quite right. Sure, Everette could handle Nancy, who liked him well enough...maybe more than those friends she made in the snow. But in his entire life, Alan had only been responsible for one life besides his own & he didn’t want to end up burying his sister in their backyard too, ‘Haha.’ “We’ll do it for free.” 


‘After all, Nancy had a voice. She would definitely let us know if her arm was stuck in something.’ 


:::::::


Micky Silverman shivered himself awake, finding that a clot of blood had congealed into a jelly lump under his nose. Perhaps a thick cherry flavor, the kind his pal shoved into his mouth between lunch and recess. ‘Why, you could scrape a butter knife across the puckered wound and plop the blood on the nearest white bread’ Micky smiled, his first conscious expression changing. With a name like Smucker's, it has to be good!’


His sweat, which poured with a speed he hadn’t experienced since 5th-grade gym class, detoured around that mass of slime and cradled in his ear. ‘The Thing’ had been playing at the Partridge. Micky couldn’t recall why he was currently waking up outside but he did remember ‘The Thing’. Partially because Parker Curtis, whose job it was to spell out the shit on the board, left the slogan from last Friday's movie under the title. ‘The Thing: You'll never go in the water again.’.


“Yuck,” Micky whined, coughing like he was vomiting pennies. He felt the dew of wet grass kiss his dirty jacket goodbye. Mouth tasting of copper and head fuzzing his vision from deep pain, Micky raised himself from the ground and spit the tooth he’d knocked out onto the grass. “Call it growing pains.” He chuckled, feeling a bit like his funny bone was hit too hard when he realized just where he’d landed. 


‘Glory Graveyard’ 


Micky, who’d once spent his friend’s allowance on a lunch that later gave him food poisoning, had bonked himself off his bike in a cemetery...trying to avoid what he thought had been a dog. Only about a half-block from Alan Spruce’s place. ‘And cuddled against…’ he cocked his stiff-neck down as he stood ‘George Boulder: Loving brother.’


“Very sorry, sir.” Did he bow his head? Maybe say a little prayer? He wasn’t sure so he just started to pull his bike back up. “I’ll be ok, George. God owes me a favor anyway.” The tires caught on the thin weeds. “I’ll cash that in and ask for forgiveness for sleeping on your grave.”


Micky looked across the way, dragging his eyes carefully over the grass just in case the dog showed up again. Through the curling metal posts, he found The Partridge. It was hard to look past the shimmering glow of what had to be thousands of bulbs strung up. The theater had truly gone the extra mile for the Holidays, practically broadcasting a headache to everyone in town. But he could still make out the image of MacReady as he stood on the poster, drowning in all the light. “You see–” He tipped his chin towards ‘George’. “It’s a film about this like…parasite that takes over this research place in—” 


George’s grave stood as any other nearby but in its minuscule ‘front lawn’, sat a damp remembrance gift. “Maybe you don’t care about the movie.” He shrugged, crouching back down and reaching for the tiny gift. “But you probably care about this…” He pulled what seemed to be a tiny rose made from the kind of mesh used for onion bags or perhaps oranges. The bud slid from the slick mud which was covered in the dustings of the day's tiny snowfall. 


He twirled the flower from its stem and sighed, unaware of the tiny creature holding on for dear life. “This is yours, right?” George didn’t answer. He supposed it could’ve blown over from any of the nearby graves…glancing around he spotted what appeared to be a stone gargoyle of some sort far ahead, the face permanently carved in anger. Or maybe it belonged to none of the dead. Had just wound up here in the dirt paste. “I just think it’s really neat.” Again, nothing from George. “You wouldn’t mind if I took it, would you?” 


The stone remained silent but he listened for George anyway. How awful it was to think those who returned as spirits felt the heartbreak of eternal anonymity. ‘Always be courteous and kind’, his mother taught him. Micky figured that should apply to those beyond physical existence too. The rose stem squished under his fingertips, bouncing back into shape pleasingly. “You know what–?” 


Micky tapped the tombstone gently. “I can bring something back for you in return.” That seemed fair enough in his mind. He scooted closer, not minding a little dirt on his jeans. “My friend Alan—he’s the kind of guy that’s tried to jump off his roof like three times, you know? Well, he lives real close and he still has my lunchbox. It’s a really cool Batman one…I could give you that?” He wanted George to know he was going to receive something of great value but he really did love that thing.  


George didn’t answer. “That’s probably a no, huh?” He chuckled. “It was a dumb idea. I mean you were—” He paused until he registered the date of death. “Thirty-six. Too grown for that, maybe.” His own mother despised the winged character and she was thirty-five. 


A leaf crunched under his leg as he turned his head back down to George. Looking down into the mush, he spots an opalescent twinkle between the dark foliage. “My tooth!” He’d almost forgotten. His mother was most definitely going to be upset about that. He poked his tongue into that pulpy hole, feeling that odd satisfaction when his spit & stringy blood clicked. The broken tooth, a jagged treasure from the frost, rolled in his fingers. “I don’t think I’ll be able to think of an exchange out here in the cold, George. But I could leave you with my tooth. Just so you know I’ll be back to cough up my end of the deal.” He shifted on the dirt, making complete eye contact with the carved name. 


A gentle breeze past his curled elbow, igniting a light coat of goosebumps. “Yeah–?” A stirring of pride twirled around his stomach. “And you won’t have to worry cause I’ll have to come back and get it or my mom will kill me–” He stopped in his tracks as he was overcome with the same sense of shame he’d had years before when he told his Aunt that her cooking tasted like cremated dog-shit. 


Shit, George. Was that insensitive? It probably was. I’m sorry.” An absurd amount of disappointment made him a little sick. He smacked his palm to his forehead a few times, trying to beat the ‘ignorance’ out. “I ruin a lot of things that way.” Another laugh but far more restrained. 


The ground felt icy beneath him as a chill ran up & down his spine. “I better get going.” A whisper felt much more appropriate. Before standing, Micky set his small tooth onto the tiny ledge of stone. “Keep it safe, George.” Dusting off his jeans, he approached his bike and swung a leg over. 


From far behind him, the stone gargoyle twitched…moving to sniff around George Boulder. 


A car traveling down the busy street just to the side of the cemetery ran a red light, causing a light blue Ford Escort to skid into the dangerous stop which saved the passenger’s life. Only later would Alan Spruce wish the near-crash had been what killed his mother. 


:::::::


Alan knew he could quietly lock the bedroom door behind him—He’d practiced after school at times when his mom & pop were home, weakly pinching the dial and turning over & over again just to see if they could hear—But he also knew that if he were to do so now, he’d be locking Mrs. September in there with them. Hot shame ran down into his warm stomach like bile as he remembered the woman’s near-naked body just sitting there, under the bed, trying to contain her overflowing boobs with just her crossed arms. Something bubbled deep from his throat as Alan clenched his fists, hoping to keep his hands from shaking. “Hey, Ev?” 


Everette turned just before he sat on Al’s bed, sipping at a can of soda that Mrs. Spruce had offered. “Yeah?” 


“Wanna see something…weird?” Alan pinched the lock and strolled over, kneeling at the side of his bed. There was no question about it—Everette even perked up a little at the sound—his best friend knew they were truly going to be alone…so he nodded. 


Alan slid his palm across the carpet, cheek pressed against his quilt until he felt the shiny, crumpled paper. ‘Where on her body did my fingers land?’ He thought with a ferociously humiliating feeling as he man-handled the calendar. “I found it in my Dad’s closet…” Mrs. September appeared to them in character as a mechanic. 


“What is it?” Everette never could catch up to his mouth. “I mean, I know it’s a nudie calendar, I-uh can see that–” Hues of blushed red flourish beneath his freckles. “Why’d you take it?” 


Alan plopped down next to him, resting half the paper in his friend’s lap. “I dunno.” He shrugged, telling a half-lie. Mrs. September was still looking up at them with a steamy expression. “Maybe I’m curious.” He rubbed the corner of the book together but still did not flip…her eyes were something severe. 


“What does April look like?” Everette asked in a small voice, leaning in closer over his shoulder, maybe stealing some of the other boy's air.  


Obediently, Alan flipped. The woman of Spring was curvy, dressed in a cheerleader's uniform that was clearly too small. Finally, excitement streamed into Alan’s veins. This was good, great. ‘April, April, April.’ He grazed his eyes down from her bushels of cinnamon hair too—a twitch in his lower stomach alerted him, ‘This is it, isn’t it? I get it now-’ 


Only, Alan quickly realized that he did not, in fact, ‘get it’. Mrs. April’s adoring eyes watched him as another flicker of eagerness attacked. Everette was resting his hand on his thigh. ‘How long has his hand been there?’ His heart thumped, eyes widened and eyebrows twitched. His friend was only trying for a better look (‘B’ aggressive, ‘B-E’ aggressive).  “Ev?” 


When the boy turned, Alan couldn’t do much more than scrunch his nose. 


“Yeah?” 


The boy tilted his head, showing an earnest curiosity that triggered a thermal spring shower of sweat down Alan’s brow. Was he even capable of conscious thought at this moment? The air suddenly sharpened and cradled around him. The coziness bubbled under his skin and A desperate need to hold the joy in his hand as if it were something tangible, and maybe it was, possessed him. He leaned over—thinking he could hear Mrs. April’s cheer (‘B’ aggressive, ‘B-E’ aggressive) blaring in his ears. 


Their lips brushed together for less than a second and Alan wanted more. The shame was acidic, already beginning to burn his intestines but here it was, the gasp of his friend’s breath. He inhaled, nose pressed to Everette’s skin and mouth moving rhythmically. Everette did not stop him but instead brought his hands up to cradle Al’s chin. The touch of his fingers was tender, thumb circling gently. Alan surrendered to the giddiness until the calendar girls slipped off their jeans and onto the carpet. 


He snapped awake, his gut-wrenching as he pulled away. “F-fuck.” 


Figuring his friend needed a minute, Ev scooted back on the quilt. 


“I’m sorry.” Mumbling pathetically, Alan swiped his sleeve across his mouth but the guilt only continued to smother him as Everette merely observed him, big eyes full of light that stung like a sunburn. 


“I told you before–” 


“Yeah, yeah. I shouldn’t apologize.” A razor-thin tone spilled from him, shredding the comforting air. “But that…” He vaguely gestured. “That’s…well, it’s not the same as the other stuff.” He swallowed a thick lump of mucus in his throat or at least attempted to. He was still sweating, his face growing hotter and hotter. 


“You’re right…it’s not.” The other boy shrugged, looking strikingly dismissive until he met Alan’s eye line—with that look, the gravity of the situation floated between them. “But I like what we do, Al.” He dared to reach out and run his thumb down the line of Alan’s jaw, the boy leaned into the new touch. 


“I wish—” Alan began, mustering up the courage to look into Everette’s eyes. Staring into the green, he seemed to shutter. “Y’know what? Maybe I don’t…” Talking to himself, he shifted to curl his legs under his body, and for the brief moment in which he was taller on the bed, Ev’s hand never slipped. Instead, he simply moved with him. 


“What are you talking about, Al?” 


He laughed, half-embarrassed. “I was going to say that I wish you didn’t make it so easy to like you.” Clicking his tongue, he shook his head and smiled softly. “But if my only ‘consequences’ for my feelings are…” He trailed off, eyes uncharacteristically shy as he asked for something that Everette had no problem doing. Ev leaned closer and laid a small kiss on his dry lips. Alan, the boy who’d once punched a hole in his bedroom wall, giggled. “If those are my only ‘consequences’, then I’m glad to like you, Everette.” 


“It’s all about you, Al.” Everette hoped the depth of his sentiment came across. 


A sudden eruption of knocks alerted both boys to the fact that Nancy, probably bored, was intending to break down the door if it wasn’t opened. Alan heaved himself up with a reluctant expression and unbeknownst to him. 


On his own, Everette glanced at the dog who was suffering from a seasonal fatal disease. With a few sudden movements & the dog would sneeze out fluff from each seam. Alan would be more concerned if this were the type of good boy who wagged its tail for ‘walks’. But Dudley had barely moved in the past nine years. The most exercise he got was when Micky Silverman, a friend indeed, was over. 


“I think…somebody’s outside your window.” Nancy suddenly spoke from the doorway, slouching casually against it. Her face seemed perpetually young but Alan supposed he’d better get used to the idea that she was growing up fast. 


Everette harshly pulled his attention away from the dog sitting on the soft gray armchair and looked at Alan. 


“What do you mean? Who?” Alan shoved the comic he’d picked up on the way to the door onto the night table and stomped over to the window while Everette reached out and wrapped his entire body around his leg. Alan couldn’t decide if he was doing some bit or was legitimately scared but the extra weight was semi-annoying. 


Just as he reached for the latch, a figure popped up on the other side. “Holy fuck.” Everette jumped back, letting go of Alan who still couldn’t make out who was out there. Nancy’s delightful giggle sounded off in the background. “It’s hideous!”


 ‘Speak of the devil’. Alan thought as he popped the window open for Micky Silverman, who promptly rolled over the ledge and flopped to the carpet. 


“Hey, guys.” Micky’s smile was the greatest because he had something that most other fifteen-year-olds sadly lacked, magnetic joy or some shit. But tonight…


Nancy screamed, throat wobbling incessantly as tiny splashes of thickly red blood seeped from the corners of Micky’s mouth. 


Everette wasted no time in wiping his friend’s mouth clean with his sleeve. ‘What’s another bloody shirt, anyway?’ He chuckled to himself. 


“Nance, he’s ok. Mick just–” Alan turned for an explanation that he hoped wasn’t graphic, though he doubted it was. 


Micky blinked, looking completely comfortable curled next to Everette on the window ledge. “Oh, I knocked my tooth out at the cemetery. I left it there for a ghost in exchange for…” He paused, blindly reaching into his deep denim pocket, all the while grinning (mouth closed) at Nancy. “This!” The spongy rose sprung into its new life, twirling in his fingers as the kid slowly came over. “You like–?” 


Nancy swiped it like a tiny cat, Alan couldn’t help but smirk with a bit of pride. She took a few quick glances between the flower and her brother’s friend. “It’s fine, I guess. That ghost wasn’t much of a tooth fairy, huh?” She giggled and instead of handing it back, she joyfully laid it across Dudley’s nose. “I got at least a dollar for my tooth.” She walked off with a spring in her step. 

“Nance! Wait. You gotta tell me what you want for dinner!” Alan stomped out after her, grabbing the door frame unnecessarily just for added force. 


Everette grabbed Micky’s chin just to check the hole as Micky continued to laugh. Wiping the flaky blood from his face, he frowned. “You didn’t knock it out on purpose, right?” Smothering down the true worry in his voice was extremely difficult. “If you don’t want to answer, that’s fine. Or if you don’t want to do it verbally-” 


Micky rolled his eyes, half-annoyed and half-disappointed as he shook his head. 


“I know I’m annoying.” Everette pushed his hand back out of his blue sleeve and wiggled his fingers, not noticing Micky mirroring the exact gesture with his own hand. “I just wanted to make sure.” 


“I know.” He nodded. “It was an accident. I fell off my bike at–”


“The cemetery, yeah.” Everette quirked his brow. “And why were you there?” 


The boy thought for a moment, tongue definitely back into the empty gum socket. In that second or minute—or whatever the hell it was—the background noises faded into obscurity and bounced in his ears; ‘Alan’s voice down the hall, Nancy’s play-princess shoes & what seemed like shuffling?’


“I went to see ‘The Thing’ at the Partridge for ‘Replay Night’, you should’ve seen it.” He trailed off, noticing for the first time that Everette sort of resembled a younger MacReady. “Then I remembered Miloh Palmer said he saw a ghost at Glory a few weeks ago and I had time to waste.” He shrugged. 


“When did you bonk your face?” Alan asked, swinging back into his room and breezing over. The three boys huddled together, two ‘Doctors’ and one ‘Patient’. “Right after you saw your ghost? Or after?” He tapped Mick’s nose affectionately. 


Mick scrunched his face and stuck out his bloody tongue. “I didn’t see him at all.” 


Both boys burst into laughter. “So you heard him?” 


“No. I felt his presence in the wind.” Simple as that. Mick didn’t really give a fuck what anyone might think but he wouldn’t blame them for calling bullshit either. “His name is George.” 


A synchronized sensation of static in the mind passed over each boy, feeling something like when you wake from trying to sleep off a headache or down a pop too fast, and the fizz just sort of creeps into your nose. But nobody halted the conversation of spooks & ghouls, who could resist the unknown? Just thinking about the creatures who may walk around the liminal space of cemeteries or abandoned woods made Alan a bit excited. 


Halloween was a kid’s goldmine. That was the time of year when all the good urban legends got passed down from all the snot-nosed brats. Everette, for one, enjoyed it far more than the time of year currently outside the window. He never really could forget the year he’d gone to the Christmas play at the church with Micky, he’d only gone over to get a grape juice for Ms. Silverman. But the image of the six-year-old angel, golden halo stuck on her head like a TV antenna, screaming at her mother behind the stage with slushy streaks of tears stuck to her cheeks…that haunted him more than any creature or ghost. He couldn’t enjoy a single minute of the girls' aria later that evening. That was also the evening Everette saw Micky smacking his head against the corner of a wall. The little cherub had forgotten his own solo. 


Alan strolled closer and pulled on Everette’s arm, to which the boy responded by resting his head against his friend’s stomach as he stood before them. “Does your mom know you were hanging out with George?” He asked carefully. 


Micky pursed his lips. “She let up on that whole ‘grounding’ thing.” 


“How’d you manage that?” 


Serving them both a mischievous smile, Micky shrugged and crossed the floor. “Does it really matter how–?” He spun out of his sneakers as he went on, tucking them underneath Alan’s bed. 


The sound wasn’t eruptive or sudden so it was easy for the boys to miss. It’d actually been steadily brewing over the last ten minutes. Something climbing…or maybe digging up the wood siding? It was the crunchy, stale piss smell when the animal crawled through the window and onto the armchair…which first alerted Alan. 


The boys instinctively swiveled around and prepared to exaggerate gags or some shit. But the twenty-eight-inch Cocker Spaniel in the corner of Alan’s bedroom had other plans. “What the fuck–?”Mick couldn’t finish, he was far too distracted. He couldn’t even imagine why he thought he could speak. 


Dudley's Silky orange fur bubbled erratically as if his intestines were boiling over & trying to burst. ‘We're off to Cuddly Dudley's house. He's cute as he can be. With his fur of gold and his nose so cold he's cuddly as can be.’ Alan’s brain tuned into WGN’s newest program; ‘What do Cuddly Dudley'sinsides look like?’


The dog's red tongue, which had remained in surprisingly good condition, punched out and flew across the room. Dudley sounded off a horrible hiccup. The stuffed dog was ripping at the seams in premature death. Alan half expected his childhood dog to chew his damn plush leg off. “My fucking dog! You guys look at my fuc–” Everette pulled Alan’s arm back, sending him back into their arms. 


Cuddly began to bleed his terribly old fluff out of every new & old hole. Something which had been deep before was now swimming close to the surface. Another shockingly loud rip and a few pops took up hot space in the bedroom. At the final blow, Alan actually expected pink snakes to spill acidic juice puddles onto the carpet. But Dudley, at his very best, was only ever full of stuffing. 


In one final burst, Cuddly Dudley lost all shape and innocence. The bedroom fell quiet as the boys just stared at the clots of white dotted the floor. Mick’s hand shook violently. “I think I just shit a brick.” He spoke, in low air. 


Everette clung miserably to them both, ashamed of the fear traveling painfully through his veins. 


To Alan, the room stunk like bloated flesh & sweaty fur. “Ok. That’s…that is fine.” He mumbled, drawing them all closer as he moved forward. “My dog just freaking exploded.” A shrug and a nervous laugh were not releasing enough of his shock. 


Nancy thumped her way back into the bedroom, running from across the hall in her mismatched socks. Micky & Everette glanced up and attempted to look normal even though they’d yet to process any of the shit which had just gone down. “Al, what’s going—?” 


Alan, the only eye remaining on Cuddly, was struck with a second wave of nausea as a rancid eye peeked through a cloud of fluff that was still halfway inside the family cocker spaniel. ‘He's got riddles and jokes and the fun that he pokes is never aimed at me.’ The wooly speedster scurried out from behind Ray Rayner's friend with a sick sense of concentration. “Oh, Jesus Christ!” He whined, bouncing backward again. 


Micky dry-heaved as the ball of dark hair perked up and explored the room on its meshy, thin legs. He pulled each boy’s arm, a little too hard, as he jumped onto the bed. 


“Nancy, go back to your room…a raccoon got in through the window.” Alan waved his hand desperately and forced some calm air into his body. 


The girl looked around, obviously still confused as hell. “Disgusting! Mom is going to freak—did it eat Cuddly!?” She gestured around the door at the fluff, Dudley took up the entire room now. She crouched down to reach for a tuft when the little fucker scampered over. 


“Nance! Move!” Alan broke out of his friend’s death grip and attempted to jump toward his sister before the speed demon. 


Before he could launch himself, the bushel of gray fluff crawled up Nancy’s arm with the agility of a creature far smaller. The girl hadn’t an idea of what feeling to expect because at six years old, she’d never once been attacked by an animal, so the sucking pain evoked an awfully young scream. Its legs seared into her skin with each step, leaving what looked like cigarette burns behind. That wasn’t a freaking raccoon at all. Nancy shrieked as the dog-creature reared back, showing off its rows of Christmas light teeth. The look she managed was quick but the thing’s gums were lined in green cable and shards of pointed blushed glass erupted from each bloody hole. 


“Nancy, I’m so sorry.” Alan cried from her side just before something excruciatingly painful smacked into her, and then she was gone. 


:::::::



“How hard did you hit her, Al?” 


I don’t know! I was having a freaking breakdown, Micky!” Alan’s voice was screaming in her temples so Nancy slapped her hand in the direction she thought he might be. “Nancy?!” 


The youngest lifted herself from the floor, rubbing at her neck. She took in the concerned expressions from these boys she hardly knew yet had seen so much of in her life. Then, she saw the small yellow baby chair shucked next to her brother. Her eyes welled up with cold tears. "Did you hit me with the chair?"


Alan was punched with guilt. "I had to get it off of you! Would you rather that thing bite you or– " He broke off into vague gesturing, realizing he’d better keep those fears to himself. 


"I don't know!!" She wept. "I'm only seven, Alan!" She whimpered, rubbing hard into her skin. “Where did it go?” 


Everette hopped off the bed, the whites of his eyes appeared to be a grossly thick puddle of cream surrounding the dark roast brewing in the center. He held out a hand for Micky to grab as he followed. “I have no clue.” As he spoke, Micky joined them all on the floor but didn’t let go of his friend's hand. 


Alan, still crouched next to his little sister, grimaced as he attempted to get a peek outside the doorway. Though he wasn’t comprehending much. In his head, which now felt heavy and static, he wondered what Grandma Lucy would think of her gift now; shredded…entrails decorating his bedroom. Insatiable tears pooled along the bed of his waterline as he finally processed that his childhood companion–his 3 o’clock buddy–was dead; scraps of the Cocker Spaniel were all he had left. 


“Alan?” 


He turned, finding his sister's young eyes staring up at him & drowning in fear. “What’s a matter–?” Before he could even get an answer, A tall, almost hair-thin, leg broke through the goo of Nancy’s eye. It stuck out piercingly straight from the corner of her tear duct before curling over the green iris. “Stay still, Nance!” 


Please don’t hit me again.” 


The pleading just about killed Alan. Here was Nancy, who he already knew was a much better person than he would ever be, blubbering like the true baby she was—and deserved to be at her age—with some sort of shit-fuck flea bug trying to crawl out of her eye.  “Mick, get over here and hold her down. I’m gonna try and get this damn thing out of–” 


Nancy Spruce, with all the speed she had built up being the energetic child between the two of them, shot up and bent her leg with a startling crack. Good old big brother didn’t have any time to process before she grabbed his hair and slammed him—nose-first—onto her tensed knee. 


“Alan!” Everette shrieked, crawling across the carpet as he’d done as a baby and rolling the boy into his lap. The blood gushing from his best friend’s nose succeeded in clouding his mind over because there was no way in Hell that he’d just get up & leave Alan after that. No. Instead, he began to fiercely pinch at his nose. ‘This shirt will just have to be garbage now.’ 


Micky had taken this time to try and stop little Nancy from jumping at the boys. Instantly as he made the contact he needed to pull her back, the kid let out a guttural groan and slammed her fingernails down onto his scalp. Beads of blood spilled and slid down strands of his hair as she scraped from back to front. “Holy shit–!” He cried, real tears pouring down from the sheer pain. It was something close to getting a paper cut all the way down his head. 


The other two boys snapped away from each other as Alan quite literally slingshotted his body over to tackle his sister to the floor. It was instinctual….it was to stop the awful screams coming from his friend….but it felt like complete shit. 


“It’s the Thing man! Fuck—!” There was no energy left in Micky’s small body, he thumped back and bled onto the carpet. “We’ll never get back in the water again…” He mumbled, not making a lick of sense, trying to tip his chin up so he could cushion his hairline against the shag. 


“Shut up, Micky!” Alan shouted with a new burst of hot anger. “Ev? Please help me. I don’t—” He gulped for air, still wrestling the seven-year-old. “I don’t know what to do—” When their eyes met each other, both saw the other was more than a little shaken from the chaos. 


One call for help was enough for Everette to jump in, smoothing Nancy’s hair in a calming gesture while his free hand pushed her arm down. “I can see the leg…Al, you gotta pull it out.” 


“Fuck, okay.” 


Alan’s shaky hands missed it several times but on the fourth try, he managed to stick onto the skinny appendage and pull. The damn thing made a wet ‘pop’ as it squelched from Nancy’s burning eye. Alan felt like gagging as he whipped it back, hoping for it to thump against the open door. “Where is it, Ev?” 


“It went down the hall, I’m sure.” 


In perfect sync, both boys looked down at Nancy. Ill-looking and fairly sweaty, she began to openly sob into Alan’s lap. Beginning to cough up words, “I hated it. I hated it. I hated it—” her brother rubbed her back gently. 


“It’s over, Nance. Ok? I won’t let that happen again.” Alan whispered, not so sure he could even manage that. 


Nancy, in all her shock, pulled away and searched for something. “Where’s your rose, Micky?” 


She was aware of only the pain in her body, that much was obvious. But Alan could read from her wobbly tone that she was still asleep to her strangely brutal attacks. He felt the sudden urge to race over and shut Micky’s loud mouth before he could give it away but when the boy sat up, he covered his suffering like a professional. 


Micky ate up the distraction. “Oh, I don’t know…” He pulled himself up with tremendous effort and slowly stepped around. “Do you see it anywhere?” He began to kick gently at the remains. 


The sight repulsed Alan. “I don’t think George will care that much if you lost it, Micky.” Yeah, the tone was a little spiteful but there were more important things to be done. “Somebody get Bobby’s old cage from my closet.” He barked, putting his arms around his sister’s waist to lift her. 


“Nance, stay here ok? At least we know it’s not in here now.” Carried her over to the bed. Her eyes glistened with the kind of child's panic Alan was well-versed in. “It could be worse—” He chuckled. “It could’ve been Garfield Goose, huh?” 


Nancy rolled her eyes. “I’m not crazy about Cuddly Dudley now either...” She decided not to look at the exploded puppy anymore & Alan decided to stop looking at the circular burns blooming up her eyes. 


“Hey!” Micky spoke from inside the closet, shoving the old toys and junk around. “It’s not Cuddly’s fault. He’s a good boy, kid.” The blue cage flew from the doors and into Everette’s waiting arms. “He kept your brother safe all these years, didn’t he?” 


“Ev?” Alan, trying hard not to show the physical manifestations of grief. Dudley was just a stuffed animal. The boy kneeled down and handed over the cage, their hands briefly held contact. “Help me catch that thing. I want somebody here with Nancy–” He tipped his chin towards Micky, who was making his sister laugh. 


“No problem.”


Before they could even make the first move, a loud crash from the den rattled the entire home. Alan scooped up Bobby Sock’s old home in one arm and blindly grabbed Everette's hand. He rushed them out the door and slammed it shut behind them before Micky or Nancy could say anything else. “I never want to hear Nancy scream like that again.” 


Everette tightened his grip. “What the hell was that?” His voice trembled slightly into a nervous chuckle. 


“Maybe Bobby came back from the dead for revenge?” Alan playfully tugged his friend closer, feeling as though he might pass out. “Or maybe Micky pissed off his ghost friend.”


They shared another second of strained laughter, Everette reciprocating Al’s tug by curling his arm around his shoulders. “Ok, let’s get this over with.” He took the cage from his friend's arms and trudged carefully down the stairs.


Neither one of them truly understood what was going on but they were comforted by the fact that almost no one would know what to do in this situation. The little creepy-crawly moved with the grace of a spider, jumping back into the fur of its mother and together they slunk into the obscurity of the darkened den. “I have no clue how we’re gonna get this ugly thing in the cage,” Alan admitted. 


When Cuddly Dudley's flea fully disappeared that was when the front door unexpectedly tore open and let in the most freezing air. “Boys? You wouldn’t believe it, I forgot my purse around here somewhere.” Edie, dressed in her Holiday finest, stood in front of the doorway which was pitch-black apart from the occasional sprinkles of snow. Moving to the den,  she pawed around for the light switch but gave up in her hurry. 


“Mom! Wait a second.” Alan basically threw himself down the stairs. 


“What is it? I’m going to be late, sweetie—Oh, I think I found it.” She giggled, hand clasping around a soft handle. “What are you doing with the old cage? That thing is disgusting–” 


Dudley's murderer bustled its stone legs even faster than before, anxiously attempting to gnaw on Edie’s leg while its hot flea flung itself free from its Mother’s charcoal coat and darted straight for the boys. “Alan, look out–” Everette cried before being sent to the floor by his best friend. 


Those Christmas lights deep in his gums twinkled in a disturbingly cheerful manner. “Oh shit–” The force of its little bite shattered a few of his bulbs, and shards of broken glass flew (a few burrowing in Al’s arm). 


In all his fear, Everette just couldn’t find the strength to move and silently, he crumbled under the shame. Neither demon let up, still suckling as Alan shouted for his mother. 


Everything came to a head when Alan started to become so intensely horrified by the smell of his own baking flesh. A few times over, he would raise the blur of his free hand up to try & brush the creature off like a bug but it would only brush the moist strands of baby hair plastered to its skin. After a few terrifying seconds, the shaking caused him to spill. 


The sound of her boys' scared screams of pain gave Edie a rush of endurance, kicking the damn dog against the wall and throwing herself over to his side. She needed to take the boys away from whatever wild animals got inside the house. 


“Where did it go?” Everette finally sat up, shaking Alan in fear. He repeated the question two more times before Alan felt the twitch behind his eye. 


Edie Spruce knelt down and took her son’s hands into her own, the same hands she’d been holding since he was born. “Al, honey, are you ok?” 


Everette rolled his eyes from the dogoyle’s quivering body at the end of the staircase and back to his friend. There he would find stability, warmth, and… “Mrs. Spruce!” 


A thin leg broke from Alan’s tear duct. Thinking back to Nancy, Everette tried to jump into action. However, Edie had the unfortunate position of being in front of Alan. The young man squeezed her hands tight. 


“Alan, you’re hurting me–” She tried to pull away but found his little grip was hard to escape. If she even attempted to drag her hands away, her skin would curl and tenderize under his sharp nails. Before she could even think to question him, Alan pounced with all the energy of the damn animals. 


Al–!” Everette hopelessly called out, voice scratching like nails to a chalkboard. Now he would act. He shot up and attempted to pull Alan by the back of his shirt, not caring if he happened to claw his skin. “Hold still, please.” He begged. “Micky!! Help me!!”


Their friend was already beginning to tumble down the stairs, Nancy tried to follow but he shoved her back into the bedroom. “Holy shit…Mrs. Spruce!” The bright boy screamed, jumping from the middle of the staircase and tackling the three of them to the floor. For him, Everette would always be grateful. Her legs wobbled until the weight became too much and she fell face-first onto the cold carpet. Twisting and shouting into the fabric, she reached her hands up and clawed at her son’s eyes as softly as she could, the thin leg still stuck out grotesquely. 


“Come on sweetheart…” She mumbled, more miserable than she’d ever been in her life. 


Everette watched from the spot he’d been knocked onto and hoped to God or Debbie fucking Harry that she’d pop the flea from his eyes before shit hit the fan. But, as Micky struggled to pull his friend off his mother, he thought of that little girl-angel from the Christmas play and Micky’s head slamming into the church wall and wondered if blood tasted like grape juice. He swallowed and thought ‘maybe’.


Enticed by Alan’s knee slamming down, her stomach emptied. The burning pool sloshed underneath her, streaming in a sick streak of dribble that still hung from her agape mouth. Rolling her lips together, the bile string broke. She laid there, trembling in her green satin dress.


Micky and Everette fell to the floor either in intense horror or defeat. Not that it mattered.  



‘We're off to Cuddly Dudley's house. He's cute as he can be. With his fur of gold and his nose so cold he's cuddly as can be...’ 


The line of bile that had broken from his Mother’s mouth led like a small path to the pile of sickeningly yellow vomit where the Flea-Demon rested. Everette’s mind was in such a simplified state that he was reminded of the yellow brick road. He started tracing the ‘path’ with eyes that were glossed over. Coming to terms with the fact that he was basically unable to get up all on his own…he shook as Micky finally pounced.   


As Micky Silverman finally pulled the creature from behind Alan’s eye, somewhere deep in Glory Graveyard, his tooth began to rot. 




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