Horrid Tales of Wister Town
Matthew Sawyer
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Horrid Tales of Wister Town by Matthew Sawyer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
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The stories in the collection titled Horrid Tales of Wister Town are fictional. All characters, names and locations are the creations of Matthew Sawyer. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.
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Horrid Tales of Wister Town
Matthew Sawyer
These are stories from Wister Town. As Wister Town is a small ingrown toenail in southern Wisconsin, the characters are intertwined - but everyone has a creepy, and often noxious, story. Three stories reveal the Cult of Hathor in Wister Town. All the other stories begin once the demon, Baphomet, visits Darren in the short story “Truthful Consequence."
Darren's social life and career are limited because his is obsessed with honesty, telling the truth and revealing the secrets of others. The only high point of Darren Peters life is seeing his truthful niece and nephews. Otherwise, his obsessive-compulsive disorder makes him a depressed single man in a dead-end job, living in a nondescript apartment.
Devon Kolbenstecker reveals blood in the water pan beneath the Christmas tree. His father instantly accuses him of playing a prank, but they have to hurry to pick up Devon's sister, Jan, from high school basketball practice.
Terry Bringer returns to Wister Town to fulfill a vow; to spit on the graves of the committee members of the restaurant that fired him. The president of the Ratskeller's operation committee, Mr. Brodman, has just died. Convenient, as Terry also needs to pick up his W2 from to do his taxes.
Terry Bringer had returned to his hometown to pick up a W2 form from an old employer, only to be chased from town by a cult trying to kill him. In his flight, Terry remembers he left his mother behind. He now returns, in the snow and cold of a brewing winter storm, to rescue his mother from cultists.
Teenage friends, Jamie and Tiffany, look for a turkey Jamie spotted yesterday. They hunt in the woods, next to a suburban subdivision. Instead of turkeys, the girls find puppies. The black dogs are attentive and attracted to the girls, but they stink and won't eat or drink. Before Jamie and Tiff can sell the puppies at a pet store, on consignment, the animals first need a bath.
Devon and Lee have a fleeting opportunity to see the inside of the abandoned house the boys have nicknamed the "Witch's house." The boys go inside and despite the mysterious cold they go straight to the widow's watch on top of the house.
The middle-aged Richard Reichberger takes his crew of teenagers to cut down trees in the woods adjacent to a subdivision west of Wister Town, Wisconsin. He is unintentionally badgered by an old grammar schoolmate, Jon Oldendick.
Frustrated, because she is teased at school, Karen posts a “hit list” on a social media web site. Karen's online friends scold the girl, but the post of a new friend catches her attention. Apparently, her dead father has made contact – and has given instructions to cast a spell.
The topic of April's ecumenical meeting, between the local churches of Wister Town, is the supposed manifestation of the Egyptian goddess Hathor Cult members have bred a mutated calf for the body of the goddess.
A deformed stranger, Mr. Moth, stops at Ted Stephansky's farm to ask for directions. Missy, Ted's daughter, inquires about Mr. Moth's deformities. They resemble basketballs stuck beneath the emaciated man's wind jacket.
Kenny, a busboy, argues with the waitress, Tracey, about the hundred dollar tip the friends of a violently ill old woman gave the waitress when they paid the bill. Kenny feels entitled to the money, because he has to clean away the vomit.
Jean, a junior in high school, fends off her oversexed boyfriend, Aaron, and convinces him to visit Wister Springs, a mile out of town. The young woman plans to break-up with her childhood friend after announcing she will go to an out-of-state college.
Patty's got a great job, making deliveries for a wealthy cryptozoologist. There are only a couple things she doesn't like; her turnover of partners and the unseen animals she picks up for her employer. Doyle, Patty's current and retiring partner, seems to resolve both of her issues.
A not-wholly-true story illustrating the experience of trick-or-treat in the “wild,” opposed against kids, corralled and celebrating Halloween in parking lots or the basements of churches. “The Best Halloween, Ever” is a short story about the hidden spirit of Halloween – bring a black light!
"The Best Halloween, Ever, Again" is the sequel to the tale begun in the short story "Best Halloween, Ever." After a disappointing evening of trick-or-treat, Stan and Max continue their Halloween festivities with a monster hunt!
“All right, Darren. It's good to see you again,” said Rich, Darren's brother-in-law. Darren knew the man lied.
If not for his sister, Jessica, Darren would never have seen his niece and nephews today.
“Bye-bye, Darren,” Jessica said hugging her older brother. “Hey, I just want to say, telling your other niece she is adopted was not cool.”
“I didn't know it's still a family secret. She's twenty-five years old and just had a girl of her own,” Darren justified. “She needs to know her heredity, because color blindness doesn't run on our side of the family.”
“Her mother promised to tell her when she needs to know,” Jessica stated. Darren's sister, both sisters actually, didn't understand secrets and white lies are always revealed at the worst times. The best policy is honesty, now matter how brutal and immediate. Hoping secrets stayed buried only taunts fate to deliver consequences, with untimely and tardy revelations.
“Yeah, I know,” Darren said in defense then softened his tone. “I told her by mistake, a slip of the tongue. The girl is going to pay out-of-pocket for more vision tests, her mother only has to tell her.”
“You know those two fight,” Jessica reminded Darren as she stepped out the door Her kids followed the young woman out of the dingy, first-floor studio apartment.
The kids, Tammy, Nicholas and Jimmy, joined their parents in the parking lot, right outside Darren's front door. The kids said goodbye to their only, and consequently, favorite uncle. Jessica expressed to her brother “I'm less leery about bringing the kids to see their uncle.”
Darren told her “At least, you come right out and tell me, instead of skirting around the issue.” That kind of silent evasiveness automatically turned Darren into a crusader for truth.
She said “Something like that must run in the family.”
As a teenager, twenty years ago, Darren received his clinical diagnosis. The psychologist said the boy suffered an obsessive-compulsive disorder - Darren always told the truth. Although, way back then, Darren himself insisted he was not obsessed or compelled. He simply grew up honest. A few years later, he felt everyone should be truthful. That's when Darren lost all his lying and unrepentant friends.
Honesty became a real problem and people got mad. Darren lacked discretion when he revealed secrets and lies. His nagging impulse to uncover truth made finding friends and holding a job impossible. Darren's integrity became a burden, one he could not willfully drop with any ease .
There was so much deceit in the world that Darren seriously thought about carrying signs and hanging revelations outside his apartment. He controlled himself, despite the dictates of his common sense and ethics. Causing trouble would only get him evicted from his apartment, not that he particularly cared about losing his hovel.
Listening with his heart made Darren keenly aware of other people's violations and misjudgments. A perfect example was Rich, Darren's brother-in-law. Darren ignored the stench of the man's rotting soul - buried beneath fibs, exaggerations and half-truths - every time they spoke.
Jessica called from the mini-van carrying her family today. “And thanks for not teaching our kids anymore dirty words.”
The vehicle passed slowly, with all the windows down. Rich grunted a chuckle, but no one had to be psychic to see the man pretended his wife's comment was funny. Darren waved farewell to his sister and her family. The mini-van disappeared once it turned down a driveway that lead to the street in front of more apartment buildings.
The profanity had nothing to do with Darren's erroneous OCD diagnosis- he had just gotten used not watching his language. If his sister wanted Darren to stop swearing, she just needed to visit with the kids more often. A little practice and live drills would only improve his vocabulary. He would appreciate the company too. Darren's nephews and niece were honest kids.
Standing outside his apartment, Darren watched storm clouds roll in fast. The weather on the news and the Web reported another killer-tornado on the way, thanks to global warming. Darren decided he would ride-out the wind again. The apartment complex contained no underground shelters - everyone worried for their own neck must go to the community center a couple blocks away. As far as Darren was concerned, the apartment complex had never been hit and stood a good mile from the street recently nicknamed “tornado highway.” Tornadoes weren't like lightning, and their habitual paths were mapped once they struck.
If Darren did make the wrong assumption about the sanctuary of his apartment building, then he only will pay the cost. He has never been married, nor had a girlfriend. His “compulsive honesty” usually subverted any chance of starting a relationship, right at the moment Darren invited the poor woman on a date.
The same perception, a sense of desolation in the ethics and morals of others, also prevented Darren from ever finding a roommate. Darren has, so far, lived his entire adult life alone. His job as a janitor, at a nearby nursing home, paid for rent, food and utilities. Everything else was scrounged together month to month. His poor soul had always believed something waited for him when he got older. So far, he has only faced disappointment.
The hope and delusional promise of deliverance into an abundant life seemed shared by a lot of people. Darren occasionally joined a fellow that cried into a beer at the bars. The drunks repeated the same dreams aloud and Darren mourned. Their dreary self-loathing eventually drove him to drink alone at home, which was actually better for everyone. A little alcohol turned patrons into raving liars and loosened Darren's self-control.
Though storm clouds spared the late afternoon sun, Darren closed the vertical blinds on the picture window facing a sparse parking lot. He touched a burning match to the wick of a candle - because he enjoyed the ambiance. The feeble and flickering illumination made him feel as if he sat in an eighteenth century courtroom. Darren had no idea how his mind manufactured the connection between courtrooms and candlelight, but his brain honestly did and that's why he lit the candle. If he was not so much a righteous Christian man, Darren might have merited the vision was a memory from a past life.
As a single man, he never kept much of anything edible. Corn chips and booze became his supper tonight. Darren knew the moment he got drunk - when he believed his brother-in-law was right for not bringing the kids around more often. A clear conscious was not enough to justify a moral life, scraped out alone. Darren knew he presented a horrible role model.
Outside, the wind blew fierce. Sunlight engulfed the glow cast by the candle as the vertical slats on the blinds swung open and closed like unsynchronized pendulums. A draft forced itself between the window's glass and wooden frame. The blinds swung as the sky outside darkened, leaving only the candlelight inside Darren's apartment.
Darren tried the light switch, but the bulb refused to glow. The computer, television and microwave were also uncooperative. He thought the winds appeared to have already claimed power lines. Darren hoped Jessica and her family got home safe. They probably drove along tornado highway after leaving his apartment.
The city would not restore electricity until after the storm, so Darren sat down with his bottle for a game of solitaire. He anticipated the night would be monotonous, filled with the dull company of himself. Darren anxiously listened for the sound of rain to overtake the howling wind.
As soon as the storm passed and the power was fixed, Darren planned to turn on the TV and enjoy the scripted lies of virtual guests. Plays, movies, sitcoms and dramas were okay. The media seldom made Darren anxious because he recognized the characters and events were pretend. Still, sports, documentaries and the Evening News drove him mad.
The door rattled as if caught by the wind. He believed the storm must have passed, because Darren heard nothing else blowing around. The rattling continued as if the door held a hurricane at bay. Someone knocked with mad urgency, like Emergency Medical Technicians responding to a medical crisis at the wrong apartment number. That's happened before. The exterior of all the apartments in the building looked alike. The apartment numbers can be difficult to find, unless a visitor knew where to find them.
Anyone standing outside his front door was visible from the picture window. Darren pulled a single slat aside and spied his visitor. A huge man stood in front of the closed door. Either water wet his shining black hair or the man had used some grease to slick his coif flat against his skull. Only the man's big head remained unconcealed. An enormous black raincoat engulfed the rest of him. Its cut, as discerned on the visitor's immense and rounded shoulders, made the garment appear from a military surplus store.
Darren could never imagine the military enlisted someone so obese, let alone provide the unconventional wardrobe. The raincoat covered the man's feet, hovering an inch above the ground. The coat cast darkness, as impenetrable as the concrete its shadow painted. The man noticed Darren lurking behind the window. He thrust his big head toward the gap in the blinds.
“Darren Peters,” the man said. The glass muffled his low voice. In turn, the window vibrated with the growl. “Darren!”
Whoever the stranger was, the shrouded man knew Darren. He obviously knew where Darren lived. Darren briefly worried a repo man came for something else, though there was nothing the man could take. Everything in the apartment and the car outside belonged wholly to Darren. Anything else he once owned had been already repossessed.
Now that the man saw Darren at home, he obviously would not go away. Darren dropped the slat and let the blind rock itself back in place. His refusing to answer the door did not discourage the man either. Darren saw his visitor's unmoving shadow cast by the setting sun against the back of blinds inside the apartment.
After several minutes, Darren pulled open the slat and looked out the window again. The man still stood there, grinning. Feeling a little frightened, Darren opened his door.
“Yes?” Darren asked the humongous man.
The visitor dwarfed Darren, not a small feat. Besides fear, Darren instantly became suspicious of the stranger. He automatically knew every word the man would say was a lie, but that was harsh criticism. The man merely uttered Darren's name, which felt like a “white lie” when the stranger said it.
“I knew you were inside,” the smiling stranger said as he stepped into the apartment. The man had perfect, if not overly large teeth.
The man never asked Darren for permission to enter, he just walked into the apartment. Darren stepped backwards to avoid the man's huge belly pressed against him. The cascading raincoat momentarily snagged on a screw in the door jamb. The stranger leaned against the frame, wrapping either side of the doorway in his raincoat-shrouded shape, before he suddenly became free. The monstrous man forced entry with his sheer bulk.
“Now, who in Hell are you?” Darren shouted.
“Certainly not in Hell,” the man answered.
“Now what's that supposed to mean?” Darren asked, wondering if the answer was an evasion or a lie. He perceived nothing, other than a general distrust and dislike of the man.
With the stranger in the room, filling a quarter of it, Darren spotted the sunset through the open door. A big red orb sunk between two waves of storm clouds. The wind pushed the clouds along in gale force. More wind and rain were coming this way.
Darren wanted to watch this storm come in, now that he had poured himself a nice buzz this evening. But the stranger, who had barged into Darren's home, spoiled the show and the mellow feeling Darren had conjured on occasion and in the midst of storms. Regrettably, the mellowness devolved into depression.
“Well?” Darren prompted his unwelcome visitor for an answer. “What's your name?”
“I am an elemental, but that means nothing to you,” the man said. “I am Baphomet.”
“What is that, a superhero?”
“I can't lie to you, Darren, or hide any malevolence. I know that,” the man answered Darren. “That skill makes you valuable to me.”
“What are you talking about?” Darren asked confused. He could not distinguish if Baphomet told a lie. Darren thought the man might be lying, but he felt honesty in the stranger's answers.
Darren suddenly knew the man's name was indeed Baphomet – now - but the name seemed false in the past. The sharp clarity and definition of the impression were unusual. Yet certainty energized Darren.
“I see you've set the mood. It feels like old days, like the eighteenth century, inside during a tornado,” Baphomet described.
“The electricity is out,” Darren stated.
“That is alright,” Baphomet said. “I think the atmosphere is fine.”
“What's this about?”
“I've told you, your skill to know and divine honesty.”
“Are you some kind of door-to-door recruiter or something?” asked Darren. “I'm a janitor, because I don't get along with people and you want me to be like a salesman?”
“The job isn't so personable and really only entails telling me who you see as liars,” Baphomet explained. “I am confronted by endless lies.”
“Well, I can do that,” Darren asserted in confidence. “How much is the pay?”
“Boundless, although you will travel with me,” stated Baphomet.
“No, I mean money. The travel is fine. I'm OK with that because a tent is better than this garbage heap - there will be beds, right?”
“You'll have no need of money when you're with me,” Baphomet promised.
“That sounds like a blast, but obviously a temporary scenario. I'm better off keeping the job I have now. They put up with me,” Darren replied.
“After tonight, that won't be a concern of yours,” Baphomet said. “You won't survive this storm.”
“What are you talking about?” Darren asked, disturbed by the truth in the man's voice.
“I'm telling you that I am your salvation,” Baphomet said believing every word. “There is no Heaven for you Darren. You are left with Hell or oblivion. I offer you preservation from the tornado, sent here for you.”
“Me?” Darren asked surprised, although he perceived the truth in the statement. “I'm going to die here in a tornado.”
“In seven minutes,” Baphomet said not looking at a clock or a watch. His hands remained buried in his pockets the entire discussion. In fact, Darren had never glimpsed his visitor's hands and feet.
“I'm going to die in seven minutes,” Darren stated. He knew the revelation as true. When Baphomet was near, Darren felt so sure of his perceptions, as if the man amplified every telltale sign.
“Or you can come with me,” Baphomet proposed.
“What if I run someplace like the community center? I can make that in three minutes even in my bad shape,” Darren asked Baphomet. Despite his plan to seek safety, Darren lingered with his visitor.
“If you try, I will hold you here,” Baphomet threatened, pulling his hands from the pockets of his raincoat. The man's arms ended in three-toed hooves. The three hooves curved toward each other like crossed sabers.
“Christ!” Darren shouted shocked.
“He is gone, Darren. There are only the New Gods. They are not from our world. Now you've got a minute to outrun a tornado. I will hold you no longer.”
“You'll die too,” Darren predicted.
Baphomet only smiled at the overweight man. His stare gave Darren a headache. If Darren believed his visitor, and he absolutely knew Baphomet told the truth, time ran out.
“Fuh, man!” Darren shouted. “All right, I'll work for you. What happens, does my apartment get crushed?”
“Yes,” Baphomet said. He thrust his hooves back into the pockets of the raincoat.
“Then let's go!” Darren implored walking toward the front door.
“Wait a second,” Baphomet said. He stood a moment before the open door. The screen door had shut but the latch failed to catch. The wind swung the meshed frame wide open. The girth of the man seemed to have sealed the apartment.
“All right,” said Baphomet.
“What was that about?” Darren asked. The visitor had done nothing.
“Your death,” Baphomet revealed. “We have an agreement.”
“What?” Darren asked feeling fine. He sensed his visitor was not lying to him, but his own perceptions disputed the claim. “Are you the devil?”
“Some believe so, but think of me as a saint. Your death here will have been slow and miserable. I've spared you that dire fate.”
“What are you then, a demon?”
“No, Darren. I told you when I introduced myself.”
“Alien?” Darren asked, playing-along with the game.
“This is tedious,” said Baphomet.
“Well, I'm sorry,” Darren apologized. “I've never talked with priests about this sorta stuff. I got a problem talking with people.”
“It's hard to speak to you,” answered Baphomet. “Your mind is open, but you are watchful. You are not the sort of mortal that hides behind closed doors.”
“Thanks, I guess. But I don't know what you're talking about.”
“None of it matters,” Baphomet said. That statement allowed Darren to forget his caution and worry, his burdens were automatically lifted.
Baphomet stepped toward Darren. The floor sagged beneath Darren's new master. The walls and ceiling seemed to bend toward Baphomet until he became the only thing to see. Given the enormity of the man, the interior of Darren's apartment warped very little. Darren backed from the ominous figure.
“Wait, I'm dead?” Darren asked when he realized they no longer stood in his apartment. The child's bedroom looked familiar. Darren then realized they were in his niece's yellow-dotted room. Tammy was not there. Darren heard his sister, Jessica, and her boys downstairs.
“That is how you are able to travel with me,” Baphomet said. “Mortal conveyance is not suitable to this shape.”
“You are a demon,” Darren decided, but he knew his statement was a lie. The giant man with hoofed hands was certainly fiendish, but didn't quite fit into Christian mythology. This Baphomet was something that existed before creation.
“Ask your niece if she serves Pazuzu, the betrayer and renegade,” Baphomet commanded. “If she is a follower, then your nephews are as well.”
“What are you going to do to them if they are?”
“Nothing,” the demon promised.
Darren's conscience told him the demon lied, but his heart believed the promise without doubt. The disparate impressions refused resolution. Darren went with his heart. He had been raised to follow his feelings and they unerringly pursued the truth.
Baphomet vanished when Tammy entered her bedroom. She did not seem to notice her uncle standing in front of the dressing table the girl had inherited from her grandmother, Darren's mom. The furniture looked old was he was a kid. Tammy jumped on her neatly made bed, oblivious to her uncle standing over her.
“Tammy, I'm right here,” Darren said to his niece. “It's your uncle. We just saw each other this afternoon.”
Tammy propped herself up on her elbows. The girl looked in Darren's direction and still saw no one in her bedroom. Darren shouted her name loud enough to bring the entire family upstairs.
“Uncle Darren?” the girl finally asked. Tammy looked around as if she still did not see her uncle. She looked as if she doubted hearing him shout for her.
Darren pranced everywhere in the room, trying to stay in the girl's field of vision as she gazed at the walls and into corners. Tammy rolled off her bed and looked in her closet. That was when Darren noticed he cast no reflection in the mirror mounted on the old dressing table.
He could not help but accept the fact he had died. Baphomet had lied to him. The demon said Darren will be preserved. Darren wasn't certain how he might accept the grim realization he was now a ghost. Merciful, his death had been painless - personally unnoticed, in fact, and he had escaped a burning lake of fire.
“Uncle Darren?” Tammy asked her uncle directly to his face. The girl saw him! “You're dead, the sheriff just called.”
“I figured that out,” Darren said.
Tammy wasn't listening to her uncle, she instead summoned her parents upstairs. Darren felt compelled to ask Baphomet's question before his sister and her husband arrived.
“Tammy, have you heard anything about Pazuzu?” Darren asked hurried - his quick sister would soon arrive at her daughter's room.
“Uncle Darren, you died in the tornado. Didn't you hear the warning sirens?” Tammy asked. She heard her uncle and ignored him as usual, though he still liked the kid.
“Tammy, do you know Pa-zu-zu?” Darren yelled. She only seemed to hear him when he shouted.
“Yeah,” Tammy said looking guilty and a little ashamed.
“It's a demon,” he told her. “Stop talking to it and tell Nicholas and Jimmy. There is another demon looking for you.”
Darren and Baphomet suddenly appeared back at his demolished apartment building. The entire police force, fire trucks and ambulances lit the dark parking lot with strobes of red and blue light. Darren's apartment lay squashed flat. The top half of the building must have blown away.
The center of the building, about where Darren had lived, appeared charred and burned. The tornado had blown most of the apartment buildings off the block and decimated the tenant's vehicles. The wreckage trailed down the street toward the south - the tornado had unobstructed the view.
“You said I'd survive!” Darren shouted at Baphomet.
“I said nothing of the sort,” Baphomet countered. “I can only transport your soul anyway. A physical body is impossible, the costs are too great.”
“What do you mean?” Darren continued to yell at the demon.
“Taking my shape alone is expensive. The creation of my body birthed monsters in the place I took shape. They now die with the wild animals in the woods.”
“You let me die!” cried Darren.
“So you will give yourself to me,” Baphomet stated and grimaced. “Tell me what your treacherous niece said.”
“She never heard of the thing,” Darren lied and Baphomet knew it.
“I can see that treason also runs in your blood,” Baphomet said. “The children must be killed.”
“What? No! Why?” Darren shouted.
“They die for your deception and their congress with the enemy and deceiver. All threats to the New Gods will be scoured from this world,” Baphomet recited.
“I don't like that,” Darren said helpless.
“We have an agreement, Darren. You are bound to me and are but a ghost, a groundless soul in the refuse of winds,” Baphomet said before the pair vanished again.
Devon Kolbenstecker would rather not water the Christmas tree. Every time he did something for Mom or Dad, he screwed it up or got into trouble. At ten years old, the kid imagined his parents constantly tested him. At twelve, Devon believed they purposely tricked him into traps. He couldn't wait to attend high school, then graduate, so that he could move away from home. Devon anticipated never seeing his parents again once he got away.
“Come on, Devon,” Dad shouted. “Water the damn tree! We have to pick up your sister from her basketball game.”
“Yeah,” Devon yelled back. He carried the pitcher of water from the kitchen into the living room.
Upon crawling under the tree, the boy spotted something unusual. The water in the pan attached to the tree stand looked discolored. Devon thought the discoloration might be rust, but could not be certain. The dim illumination of colored bulbs distorted the hue of anything beneath the short needled tree branches. No white light shone under the branches. Still, Devon had no time to fetch a flashlight or even unplug the lights on the tree.
He used his hands and cupped his palm a couple red bulbs closest the green plastic water pan. He looked again, but the contents of the pan still appeared reddish. The discolored water looked so dark that the severed trunk of the tree disappeared into the murky stagnation. Devon stuck his hand in the suspect water then wiggled from beneath the tree. Slick and sticky blood covered his hand.
“There's blood in the pan,” Devon shouted for his parents.
His Dad impatiently paced between the kitchen and attached two-car garage. Devon didn't know where his mother had gone, either upstairs or the basement.
“What the hell?” Devon's Dad grumbled before he entered the living room.
Devon showed his wet hand to his father.
“Dammit, Devon,” cursed Dad. His Dad dropped onto his hands and knees and crawled under the tree. The grown man backed out on all-fours and stood on his knees. He matched the height of his son. Blood also covered his hand.
“Is this one of your pranks?”
“No, Dad,” Devon denied. “You told me to water the tree.”
“Wash your hands, we gotta go,” said Dad. His knees popped when he stood up.
“I didn't do nothing,” Devon protested.
“Exactly,” Devon,” Dad answered, although the sarcasm went wasted on his son.
Devon raced out of the room, primarily so he might spend less time alone with his father - the ride to the high school was already long enough. At least, Jan will be in the car for the ride home. Dad will undoubtedly focus his curses and criticism upon her.
While Devon washed his hands he heard his Dad tell his mother “Check the water beneath the tree.”
His Dad went further. “You can blame out only son.”
The possibility never occurred to either parent that Jan might have messed around with the water before she left with Devon for school that morning.
“I think the tree is bleeding,” Devon said when he joined his father in the garage. The boy rode in the backseat, diagonal his father in the driver's seat.
“Shut up,” Dad said and backed-out of the garage. After pulling from the driveway, Dad steered toward the high school.
The silent ride to the school felt much longer than the trip actually took. Jan waited outside bundled in her winter jacket, but wore satin sweat pants. The cold wind tonight froze her legs numbs. Her teeth chattered as she jumped into the rear seat with her little brother. Devon leaned over so he could speak with his sister privately.
“Did you put blood in the pan under the tree?” the boy asked his older sister.
“What? No, why?” Jan answered. Her normally pale face had faded to a tint even more white.
“There's blood coming out of the Christmas Tree and Dad thinks I did it,” Devon reported.
“Did you?”
“No!”
“Don't try and talk your sister into taking the blame for the tree,” the father of the two kids said from the lonely front seat.
“I see what you mean,” Jan told her brother.
Their father brought Jan and Devon home. Jan ran to her room so she could change her clothes, and Dad caught Devon before the boy got away. Dad directed his son into the living room.
He told the boy “We will assess the damage to the tree.” Mom waited on the couch, watching shirtless guys on television.
“Well, Helen,” Dad said to Devon's mother. “Did you find out what he did?”
“Dennis, the tree is bleeding,” Devon's mother repeated.
“What did he do to it?”
Helen answered “Nothing, I think it's the sap. I think the tree we got this year is just too young.”
“I've never heard of such a thing,” Dennis argued. “Are you sure Devon didn't inject it with something?”
“Hardly, Dennis, look for yourself,” Helen said. “Stop thinking of reasons that make you want to punish your son. He's going to grow up and hate us.”
“All right,” Dennis relented. “Did you put new water in the pan?”
“Yes, and don't start with me,” answered Helen.
Devon stood next to his father the entire conversation. The three of them stared at the decorated tree, not so much admiring the ornaments of paper crosses, angels and clothe orbs printed with more crosses, but rather ruling out anything else they might blame on the poor boy. Having found nothing more, Dennis sent his son upstairs.
“Go,” he said and pointed upward. Devon went upstairs and straight to his sister's bedroom.
“How was your practice?” he asked his sister while he stood in the doorway of her bedroom. The whole room, including the ceiling, had been painted a girlish pink. The color was the principle reason why Devon refused to enter. The room felt as if it dulled his fledgling sense of manhood.
Jan told him “It was a game.”
“Oh, sorry,” Devon apologized. “Did Mom and Dad know?”
“I stopped telling them,” Jan said. “They don't come anyways.”
“Well, I would have come if I knew you had a game tonight,” Devon said. “And we didn't live out here with the farmers.”
“Thanks, I know,” Jan told her brother. “What's happened to the tree?”
“Mom told Dad it wasn't my fault. The tree oozed sap.”
“Is that what it really is?” Jan asked as if she shared a secret with her brother.
“I told you, it wasn't me. That's why I thought you did it.”
“I don't do jokes and pranks,” Jan replied. She stuck her nose into the air and posed aloof.
“I believe you,” Devon said. “As much as nobody believes me.”
“Oh, Dev, I believe you,” Jan added before her little brother left her doorway. Devon went to his room.
That night, everybody fell asleep soon after the house went dark, including the Christmas tree. A screeching smoke alarm somewhere downstairs woke everyone up. Dennis raced into the hall from the master bedroom, opposite of the rooms that belonged to his children.
Jan and Devon followed in their pajamas. Jan took a moment and put on padded slippers and a flannel bathrobe. She came down the stairs behind Devon, after their father shouted her brother's name.
The lamps in the living room snapped on and spilled light throughout the lower floor. A tail of smoke waved beneath the doorway. Dev smelled burned paper and automatically assumed his father summoned him to cast blame upon. The boy was correct.
“This is just stupid, Devon,” Dennis shouted, holding the scant remains of a paper tree ornament. Ashes blackened his fingers.
All the paper angels on the tree appeared burned. The other ornaments made of paper looked fine, but they were coated in paint and glue. The decorative angels were made out of paper as thin as tissue, but stiffer.
“What did I do?” Devon asked sleepy, but quickly woke. For a moment, the boy thought he dreamed he got blamed for something he didn't do.
“Do?” Dennis asked indignant, principally because he happened to be the boy's father. “You burned all of your mother's angels!”
“I was sleeping,” Dev shouted at his father.
“Yeah, you were,” Dennis said calming himself. He still shot his son a stern look.
Helen joined the rest of her family in the living room. She gasped when she saw what had triggered the smoke alarm. Dennis shut off the screech and waved a pillow around the smoky room.
“My angels!” Helen finally hissed. The shock appeared to hold her again immediately and she froze.
“The kid didn't do it,” Dennis told his wife.
“Those cheap Christmas lights,” Helen spit at her husband. “Are you happy? You save some money and destroy my heirlooms!”
“The lights were off,” protested Dennis.
“I don't care,” shouted Helen. “Take them off!”
“All right, I'm not going to argue with you,” Dennis surrendered. “I'll put on the old ones.”
“Don't put any lights on the tree.”
“But your angels are burned already,” Dennis attempted to explain. His wife interrupted him.
“Dammit, Dennis,” she shouted before she turned around and stomped back up toward the master bedroom.
“That can wait until morning,” Dennis said to his kids and pointed at the dark tree.
Their father ducked behind the tree and verified he had removed the light plug from the wall socket. Satisfied, he followed Jan upstairs. Devon lingered downstairs and turned the lights on again in the living room. Nobody noticed he did not return to bed. The boy wanted to discover what had caused the spontaneous combustion. That and ghosts were two creepy things he really wanted to see.
The tree said something. The words were quite distinct, although hushed and slow. Even though Devon heard what the tree said, he snorted through his nostrils diffusing traces of smoke, and asked “What?”
“Take them off,” the tree said again, although the volume had fallen considerably.
“I don't know, man,” Devon sobbed frightened and shaking.
Nothing restrained him, so the boy turned around and raced back to his room. He hid, awake under his blankets until morning. After hours, the rest of the family finally woke and moved downstairs. Within minutes of the first stir of activity, Devon's father shouted for his guilty son again.
“Get your butt down here,” Dennis shouted up the stairs. “I'm going to kick it back up there after I talk to you.”
The tone of his father added another reason why Devon preferred not to go downstairs. The kid wished the tree talked to his father. He wished the tree beat up his Dad, and Mom too. Jan was cool, so Devon kept her from his hateful thoughts.
“Do I have to come up there and kick your butt downstairs?” Dennis threatened.
Devon had no choice but to see what his parents now accused him of doing. Dad will do exactly as he said. In fact, Devon thought that was why his father called for him in the first place. The dark thoughts suddenly surprised the boy. He never thought such terrible things before. Devon assumed his mind had become scrambled because lack of sleep, but he still needed to go downstairs.
The stairs creaked as Devon opened his bedroom door. Devon saw the top of his father's short, brunette haircut as Dennis pounded up the stairs.
“Well, get down here,” Dennis shouted. The grown man grabbed Devon's neck and thrust the boy toward the stairs. Dennis kept his son from falling with a firm grip on the back of the boy's skull.
“Ow,” Devon whimpered.
“Shut up! Why d'ya do it?” Dennis yelled when they reached the first floor.
Dennis pushed Devon into the living with the boy's mother and sister. They both appeared alarmed, but Mom looked like she had gone into shock.
“Why, Devon?” his mother asked deadpan.
“What?” Devon shouted.
“Look at the ornaments,” Jan said pointing at the balls and knick-knacks on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “All the God stuff is burned off.”
“What?” Devon asked again, in a less hostile, curious tone. “I didn't do that! The tree talked to me last night. I think the Devil is here.”
“And the devil needs light to burn Christmas tree ornaments?”
Devon hoped his father's question was rhetorical. The boy didn't know if the Devil could see in the dark. Probably, but Devon wouldn't know where to look in the Bible to prove it. He asked a safe question instead.
“Huh?”
“The lights were on this morning,” his father announced. “So somebody must have been downstairs last night. I didn't leave them on. That gets expensive.”
“Well, I was down here,” Devon admitted. “But that's when I heard the tree talking.”
“Get your breakfast, go to school and come right back home,” ordered his father. “You are grounded.”
“I'm grounded on Christmas?” Devon asked, not specifically meaning Christmas day, but the whole month preceding it.
Devon's father did not answer. Helen pushed Dennis into the kitchen where they began a heated discussion. Jan stayed in the living room with Devon. The boy stood near the doorway, leery of the tree. Things got worst between everyone in the family once the Christmas tree came into the house. Things were especially bad now between Devon and his father.
“You're not going anywhere anyway, it's Christmas,” Jan said attempting to console her brother. “There's nothing to do and it's too cold to go outside.”
“But Uncle Raul is coming over for dinner before Christmas Eve. That's why I what to go outside.”
“Respect your mother's brother,” Dennis yelled from the kitchen. “Now eat your breakfast and get dressed. You're going to be late for school.”
Dennis drove his children to school. Late that afternoon, Helen picked them up and took her kids home. Jan reminded her mother. “There won't be any sports until after the holidays – but I still needed a ride home from school tomorrow night.”
Her mother acknowledged her daughter with a grunt then asked “Why is your brother pouting?”
“Because he's grounded,” Jan answered her mother.
“No,” Devon lied. He paused and sulked a moment longer, then added more grievance onto his condition. “People are teasing me about seeing the Christmas ghost.”
“Oh, Dev,” Helen sighed. “You're not telling your classmates that story about the tree, are you?”
“It's not a ghost, it's the Devil!” Devon declared as the three of them pulled into the garage at home. He said “Mom, our tree is evil.”
Everyone went inside, where the family ate supper and watched TV. As part of his unjust punishment, Devon washed the dishes and started a load of laundry. The Kolbenstecker's owned a working dishwasher under the kitchen counter. Obviously, the dishes were tacked onto his prison sentence.
Stacking jobs on top of each other, and calling them part of Devon's penance, seemed unfair. The boy knew his Dad took advantage of him. Still, Devon had figured the tree brought the problems. The wicked thing must be destroyed. Despite Devon's extra work, the whole family went to bed before ten PM.
The boy crept back downstairs immediately after everyone turned off the lights in their bedrooms. Devon put on his boots and winter coat before he entered the living room. The boy came for the tree. He yanked over the demonic totem of yuletide, spilling the bloody water from the dish attached the stand. Two of the three metal legs on the stand dragged behind Devon as he hauled the evil thing toward the front door.
The shatter of glass ornaments woke Devon's family, but the legs on the stand also loudly dug into the linoleum at the front door. Devon rushed out the door, leaving deep trails ploughed into the newly fallen snow. The dozens of ornamental lights on his family's house, and the handful of houses of everyone else living in the semi-rural neighborhood, lit the street as if dusk refused making room for night.
“Bring that right back in here,” Devon's father shouted standing in the doorway, barefoot and in pajamas. “What the hell are you doing anyway?”
“Dad, the tree is evil,” Devon shouted. “It's the Devil.”
“Oh, honey, please don't ruin Christmas,” the boy's mother cried.
“Bring it in now, son,” Dennis demanded. He looked as intimidating as possible warming the back of one foot in the crook behind the knee of his opposite leg. Dennis changed which foot he warmed behind a knee every few seconds.
“Mom?” Devon implored his mother.
The light came on his sister's bedroom. Jan stood in the upstairs window, staring at her little brother. She appeared frozen against the frosted glass.
“If you don't want to celebrate Christmas, son, then you're not getting presents this year,” Dennis declared, but then went further with his frigid rage. “In fact, nobody gets presents because you took the tree.”
Devon's father turned around and yelled into the house, even though only Jan was absent from the group at the front door. She heard him fine from the top of the stairs, even when her father spoke normally. Dennis shouted anyway. His voice echoed behind him and into the street.
“You hear that everybody? Devon has stolen your presents - that damned turd-roller.”
“Hush, shut up, Dennis,” Helen shouted. “His crazy behavior comes from you. There's nothing wrong with my family.”
“Your family?” Dennis shouted in the open doorway. “This is it! Here's your family! Merry Christmas!”
“Honey, bring the tree indoors, please,” Devon's mother begged.
The boy succumb to the sad plea. Devon dragged what he honestly believed was the Devil incarnate back into his home. Dennis shoved his son when the kid came back into the house. Devon's father then slammed shut the front door.
“Can I hit him, Helen?” Dennis asked his wife. “I really want to do it and the kid has it coming.”
“No,” Helen insisted. “Devon is sick. I know that now. He's sick and so are you, Dennis. You both need help.”
“I'll do you a favor and not hit him, how's that?” Dennis proposed.
“That's fine,” Helen agreed. “Devon, just leave the tree upright in the living room and give it water.”
“Not blood,” added Dad.
“Mom?” Devon asked his mother again. He really did not care to handle the tree anymore. The Devil squirmed in the grasp of his mittens.
His mother stared at the boy, arms crossed, while he hesitated. Devon relented. “Fine, I'll get the water first.”
Mom and Dad went back upstairs while Devon filled a plastic water pitcher. He brought the container into the living room. The spilled blood painted a broad swath on the beige carpet. Devon felt infinitely grateful his parents had not looked at the extent of the mess. Fallout from the damage to the carpet will wait for tomorrow morning. The kid hoped he'd have the tree out of the house by then. Tonight was its last.
When Devon returned with the water, the evil tree stood in the center of the living room. The longer branches that grew at the base propped the dark and decorated tree upright. The tree appeared standing by-itself, although Devon had not even moved it into the room, or took the tree from its stand. The stand and the stained and empty water pan remained near the front door, where Devon remembered he left the tree.
The boy became even more afraid. He did not want to touch the tree. Not only was the fiendish thing possessed by the Devil and talked, but now moved on its own. Once Devon made the creepy realization, the branches at the bottom of the tree swept forward. Pine needles were shed and became embedded in the carpet. If not vacuumed up, they will feel like sharp caltrops against bare feet. Thinking so much, Devon watched the branches brush shards of broken ornaments deeper into the shag.
Devon thought to shout for his parents, the only thing he could do. He hollered for his Mom and Dad and added Jan. They all must see the moving devil-tree and save Dev before it killed him. The tree waited at the front door while the family came downstairs. It stood motionless and without its stand.
“Now what the hell is going on, Devon?” his father shouted. He stood further down the staircase than his wife and daughter. “Why is the tree back in the foyer?”
“I didn't put it here,” Devon claimed.
“So you're telling me it walked here all by itself,” Devon's father stated.
“Yeah, it did,” Devon said frankly.
“I could have told you he would say that,” Jan said to her father from furthest up the stairs.
Devon's mother directed her boy. “Honey, just put the tree back in the living room and go to bed.”
Devon leaned past the petrified tree and opened the front door. The tree then literally sprang to life and darted out the opening. Everyone but Devon stood hypnotized and motionless. Devon stepped backwards, away from the fleeing Devil. The running tree took the glittering, secular Christmas decorations with it.
“Holy,” Dennis said and stepped to the bottom of the stairs. “Devon, you're right, its walking by itself. I'm sorry, buddy.”
The Christmas tree took more with it when the Devil left. Devon suddenly liked his father again, and not just because of the apology. He looked at his parents in earnest.
“Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad,” announced Devon. “You too, Jan.”
I know - my home town sounds confusing and its details superfluous, but Wister Town Wisconsin is an old place, with lots of historic landmarks. The Rathskeller is one of them. The themed restaurant is actually in the basement of a historic two story building with a stage and genuine wood dance floor on its second level. On the outside, the whole place looks like a Swiss chateaus. The landmark is run by a locally elected committee.
Committee members used the entire second story of the chateaus for storing their belongings, instead hosting bands and dances. The garbage committee members kept at the Rathskeller looked better suited for a garage or landfill. I don't know why anyone hung-on to the junk - arms-length nostalgia, perhaps.
Anyway, before I digress further, as I'm wont to do, let me explain the Rathskeller committee. The state of Wisconsin had designated the building a historic monument because it's original and inspired architecture. The Midwest state granted the Rathskeller restaurant a special tax status as long as a publicly elected committee maintained repairs and displayed the local flavor and folklore of Wister Town. When I arrived there for my interview at the restaurant, the local flavor meant keeping gross sausages no one ever ate on the menu. Pumping loud, non-stop polka music through the outdated and grainy speakers also constituted flavor.
The music CDs must have come from a bargain bin in a big department store outside Wister Town. I'm not a connoisseur of the accordion, and loathe yodeling, but even I knew the selection was shit. I grew up here in this town, after all. I know what decent Slavic folk dance music sounds like. What I didn't know were the names of the all the Swiss cantons shields residents displayed above their garages. Red was a prominent color in most placards.
The music that played for my interview was definitely not polka music. It sounded like a goddamn mariachi band. One of the reasons I left LA and came back home was to escape the crap – I guess I had forgotten its cacophony also clacked and wheezed here. Jesus, it seems wherever an accordion was used, the music turned to poo.
Whoever put on the CD that day either hoped tourists would not notice or they failed to distinguish Switzerland from Mexico. The Spanish lyrics should have given away the origin of the music, but the CD played until a background singer wailed “Ah, ha,” where a yodel should have gone - if the song had been a polka. I walked into the Rathskeller at that failure, and down concrete stairs into the dim basement restaurant.
Besides bad music torture, part of the process in establishing the Rathskeller a historic monument entailed the election of a committee. I said that, and their purpose was to maintain the operation and upkeep of the facility. As nobody wanted to manage the restaurant themselves, once committee members had pissed-off the last three managers, that job had opened-up. I had applied for that position - the only job posted in the local newspaper in weeks.
The day after I mailed my resume, someone from the Rathskeller operation committee called on the phone. I got a blessed interview! That day, I interviewed with Simon Ecker and Cheryl. Simon asked the only questions. He said things like “Your job as a Mental Health Manager works here.”
He made an analogy. “The work here is like the job duties you listed on your application.”
I had submitted my generic resume and had not completed an application. I only nodded my head, allowing my interviewer to talk in depth. He impressed Cheryl with his rather obvious assumptions. I surmised neither of them had any restaurant experience either.
Neither Cheryl nor Mr. Ecker had reason to be on the committee. They should be at home playing computer games. But I learned Cheryl couldn't figure out how to retrieve her email and Mr. Ecker became irrationally angry at any mention that the “modern adding machine now did spell checking.” I bet he had crossed out the lines on my resume citing my experience as a software quality analyst. I tried examine the paper he held with the name I had printed and sloppy rows of black bars.
Mr. Ecker had brought my original, folded resume to the interview. Cheryl held a thin photocopy of my life, with the same blocks drawn through my experience. In reflection, the fact Cheryl actually had a copy impressed me. Mr. Ecker is such a Luddite, I imagined, if he bothered to give my information to Cheryl, he had copied my resume by hand, and used chalk on a flat rock.
After the performance, I hoped for Cheryl's benefit, Mr. Ecker offered me the job and I accepted. I saw him twice more before they unceremoniously canned me. There had been an incident. I don't want to say more because I'm not a crybaby, but I'll say Cheryl came to the Rathskeller every week with her drunken and oversexed geriatric friend. You can think whatever you want and it was just as horrible. Afterward, I moved away and went back to California – the sunshine felt cleansing.
A year after the incident before I had been fired from the Rathskeller, I returned again to Wister Town. I first visited Mr. Brodman's grave. He was the chairman of the Rathskeller committee that had canned me. When he was alive, that man had handed me my walking-papers. I poured him a bottle of Wisconsin beer at his snowy graveside, through my bladder. I planned then that my mother would call me in Los Angeles whenever the graves of other Rathskeller operations committee members were ready for watering. Although, I had found-out about Mr. Brodman's demise on a social media website for high school and college class mates. When I had, I came right back home – for a weekend tops – and stayed with my Mom.
Feeling a bit relieved from my burden of vengeance, I navigated icy roads and drove to the Rathskeller. That afternoon, no committee members were present at the restaurant. Not surprising, no one at all appeared inside the restaurant, besides Paul, the cook, and Leanne, a waitress I never particularly liked.
“Terry,” Paul shouted from the kitchen, through the pickup window between the kitchen and dining area. He sounded excited to see me, even though we only casually knew each other. We saw one another only when I worked at the Rathskeller, and strictly on the premises of the restaurant. Leanne turned around and promptly disregarded me.
“I haven't seen you since before you got let go. How ya' doing?” asked Paul.
“I went back to California,” I answered honestly.
“That's not cheap,” he told me.
“I know,” I said. “After six months of looking for work in Wisconsin, I sold my house and spent the next seven unemployed in California. I had that money to live-on, although I expect the government will rape me on a capital gains tax. I owned the house in Wisconsin for only those six months I lived here. I got a little extra money from the sale.”
“Yeah?” Paul stated. The question actually signaled the conversation had come to an end. Paul returned to preparing for the trickle of customers expected for supper. Given the road conditions this late February, there was bound to be fewer hungry, and typically thirsty, patrons than last year – even with the pathetic Swiss Mardi Gras gimmick the Rathskeller most recently hosted annually.
“Hey, are the W2 forms in the office?” I interrupted Paul. He needed to unlock the office door and retrieve the forms, unless the Rathskeller operations committee had found another manager. I had to ask. The manager would be in the office, because he or she was not in the dining area. “Does the Rathskeller have a new manager yet?”
“Nah, to both your questions,” answered Paul as he chopped slabs of pork. “Chrissy ain't done with the W2 forms.”
Leanne turned up the volume of the skipping CD. The accordion actually sounded benign, in a jazzy sort of way, but the instrument still made a noise I rather not listen to. I planned to leave anyway. I told Paul goodbye and climbed the flight of concrete steps toward the front doors. Another flight of concrete steps, at the top of the wide landing, went to the warehouse of other people's private belongings. An elevator, no one used, went to the top and foot of each set of stairs. The conveyance remained perpetually locked.