Poupée enterrée

“‘The town too tough to die.’ Well, I think it’s dead.”
               “Don’t be silly, it’s just off-season.” Clancy, ever the optimist, was excited to explore the town.
               “It’s also 75˚in December and there isn’t a place to get coffee after 2pm.”
               “I always forget your midwestern bones can’t handle the heat.” Clancy motioned the universal “cue the violins” while she ambled ahead on the wooden planks.
               “Believe me, it’s not that I can’t handle the heat; I just prefer the cold.”
               “Like your heart.”
               “Exactly. You get me.”
               Our usual banter was off since the fight we had last week. I much preferred traveling to non-tourist destinations, but she won me over knowing I am a sucker for historic destinations. Still, my words from the argument hung over us.
               “You’re an idiot. You only want to go to Tombstone because you saw those loser ghost hunters on TV.”
               Sure we teased each other a lot, but the vitriol in my tone burned her worse than if I had held her heart to a flame.
               “Look, there’s ice cream.” I pointed to the sign ahead.
               “You don’t like ice cream.”
               “Yeah, but I’m hot.” Uncharacteristically, I pouted hoping to get my way.
               “Well, I strongly disagree with that,” Clancy smirked. “But I’ll never say no to ice cream.”
               We entered the tiny shop and ordered. As the woman behind the counter scooped, she asked how long we were in town.
               “Just tonight.”
               “A couple days.”
               We both answered at the same time.
               “Oh, sorry,” the woman said. “I thought you were traveling together.”
               “We are,” I replied. “I guess we just aren’t on the same page with our travel plans.”
               Clancy looked down at the floor and remained silent. I grabbed our cones and waited for Clancy to pay. When we took our seats on the bench outside, we ate our ice cream in silence.
               A stagecoach went by with a lone patron in the back. The only thing missing was a tumbleweed blowing by, but even the air was too stagnant to produce the effect.
               “We can leave in the morning. Sorry I dragged you here.” No longer the optimist, Clancy peeled the paper off her cone as the ice cream melted down her hand.
               “No, it’s okay.” I wasn’t usually one to feel bad about someone else’s feelings, but for some reason I couldn’t stand to see her this way. “We can stay. And we can do your little ghost tour.”
               “Really?” Her face lit up.
               “Yes. But on one condition.”
               “Sure! What?”
               “This afternoon, we tour the mines.”
               Dread crossed her face, but I liked seeing that emotion over sadness.
               “You know I hate small spaces.”
               “Don’t worry about it. They don’t let us go in the small spaces. Besides, if you ain’t afraid of no ghosts, you shouldn’t be afraid of no mines.”
               She thought about it for a moment before a smile returned to her face.
               “Okay. Mines this afternoon. Ghosts tonight.”

Upon arriving at the mine’s entrance, we were handed hard hats.
               “This is going to mess up my hair.”
               “And who are you trying to impress, Clancy? The ghosts of miners past?”
               “Maybe our tour guide will be a knockout?”
               As if on cue, I could see our guide coming up from the mine with the last party of two who ventured down with him.
               “You know, you’re right, Clancy. He’s a fox. A silver one at that.”
               “Age is just a number you know.” At that moment, she turned around to catch sight of the subject under discussion. “On second thought, who cares what my hair looks like.”
               For the first time in a week, I laughed.
               “Hi there, ladies.” The guide acknowledged us. “Let me finish up with these two and then we’ll head down. Take a look around.”
               “Thanks,” we said in unison.
               “Let’s go check out that pile of rubble over there.”
               “Since when are you interested in a pile of rubble? The girl who was just concerned about her hair being ruined by a hard hat.”
               “Since I thought I saw a cat meandering over there.”
               “A cat? Why didn’t you say so. Let’s go.” I grabbed her by the hand and sprinted over to the remnants of history. “I don’t know, Clancy. I don’t see a cat.”
               “I swear, he was right here. Maybe he went down in the mine.”
               “I hope not. He could get lost down there.”
               “He knows what he’s doing. Cats out in the wild west know how to handle themselves.”
               “Cat cowboys?”
               “Purr-cisely.”
               “That was bad, even for you, Clancy.”
               “I aim to impress. What’s that though?” She pointed down to the pile we so fervently ran to and then ignored.
               I looked down and saw that it looked like a teratoma. It had a little bit of everything in it, but the “that” that Clancy was referring to, was an arm. A doll arm to be exact. I reached down to pick it out of the pile.
               “Stop!” Clancy sounded panicked. “Don’t touch it.”
               “There’s no sign that says we can’t.” I’d noticed quite a few of those around the compound.
               “Still.”
               I stared at Clancy waiting for a bit more of an explanation. “Still what, Clancy?”
               “Well it’s dirty and it could be cursed. Plus, dolls are just really creepy.”
               “I agree with you there. Alright, I’ll let sleeping dolls lie.”
               “Okay, ladies.” Clancy and I both jumped at the sound the guide’s voice. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. My name’s George and I’ll be taking you down in the mine today. Just a few rules before we head down. Make sure you stay on the path, don’t touch anything but the rails, and most importantly, do not venture down any of the tunnels (or drifts as we call them).
               “I’m afraid if I catch you wandering, we’ll have to end the tour immediately for your safety. Any questions?”
               “No, sir,” I replied. Clancy remained silent and quite clearly still a little spooked. I nudged her shoulder and she snapped out of it.

As we followed the guide to the entrance of the mine, he gave us the rundown on its history. After learning about Ed Schiffelin, George let us play with the steam mule and then we were on our way down 100 feet below ground.
               “Finally, it’s cooler.” I whispered to Clancy as George led us into what he called a stope. We were in an open cavern with drifts leading off in several directions.
               “Now, I’m going to show you something neat,” George said as he lit a candle. “These candles were all the miners had down here, and they were given three each for every ten-hour shift. The candles lasted for two hours. You can see there’s a problem with the math.”
               George turned off his flashlight, leaving the only illumination to come from the lonely candle against the rock.
               “So, in order to save candlelight for when it was most needed, this is how the miners would work.” George blew out the candle, casting us into darkness. Just then, I heard a soft meow. George carried on, but I turned to Clancy,
               “Did you hear that?”
               “Shh, I’m listening to George.”
               “Clancy, that cat is down here.”
               I quickly toggled the flashlight on my phone and darted off in the direction of sound, completely ignoring the protests of Clancy and George. Also ignoring George’s previous warnings, I found myself at the entrance of a drift. I shined the light down into pitch black and right there stood a feline, eyes glowing.
               Having just learned from George that these drifts could suddenly drop off hundreds of feet, I inched my way toward the cat and calmly asked it to come to me. The cat hissed and leapt right for my face, claws extended. Before I knew it, I was down on rock with three fresh slices in my cheek.
               “Get out of there, right now,” a very stern George uttered. Up until that point, he had been very cordial, and it was quite clear just how pissed he was.
               I could feel the anger radiating off Clancy as she stood behind the guide shining her flashlight on me. I slowly rose off the hard stone but stumbled as I caught sight of a doll father down the drift. Just as quickly as I saw it, the tunnel was cast into shadow again when George and Clancy turned around, bringing the light with them. I scrambled for my phone, fallen in the battle that had ensued, and aimed it down the shaft.
               Nothing.
               The cat must have knocked more out of me than I thought.
               Upon exiting the mine, we were tossed out like drunks from a bar in true western fashion.
               “Sorry, Clancy.”
               “Don’t apologize to me. You’re the one who wanted to see the mines. As long as we aren’t blacklisted from The Bird Cage Theatre, I don’t care.” She stopped and took a moment to look at me. “What was that though?”
               “I just didn’t want the cat to get hurt down there.”
               “What cat?” The puzzlement on her face let me know she had indeed seen no cat.
               “The one that scratched me.” I pointed to my face.
               “I saw no cat, man. I am sure you scratched your face on the rocks when you fell.”
               “Okay. Whatever. Sure.” I started walking again down the old wooden sidewalk, expecting Clancy to catch up. But she didn’t. When I finally stopped, she shouted at me from the spot I left her.
               “What is wrong with you?”
               “A lot. Are you coming?” My humor worked this time as she finally started moving towards me.
               “Look, I know something is wrong. And I know you’ll talk about it when you’re ready. But you really need to stop taking it out on me.”
               I took a moment to let her words sink in. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
               “Apology accepted, ass. What now?” She acted like forgiveness was the easiest thing to give.
               “How about I clean up my bloody face before I’m mistaken for one of the gunfight reenactors?”
               “Sounds like a plan.”

We left the camper at 6 to make sure we made it to the theatre early enough to get tickets for the ghost tour. As we came to the corner of Third and Allen, my heart stopped.
               “You see that, right?”
               “The doll?” Clancy didn’t seem as concerned as I was. She also didn’t seem as creeped out as she had earlier.
               “Yes, the doll. It’s the same one from the mine.” This time, it sat on a pile of excavated material from the lot we were near.
               “Oh yeah, from that pile of rubble. They must have made a lot of them back in the day. Tombstone’s very own Barbie.”
               “More like Chucky. I saw it down in the mine too, Clancy.”
               “What? Where?”
               “Down the drift where I saw the cat.”
               “No way! Creepy, dude.” I could tell she wasn’t taking me seriously.
               “Okay, once again you’re all gung-ho for ghost tours, but you take cursed dolls with a grain of salt?”
               “I’m paranormally selective. But look, I agree it’s a little creepy. Let’s move on before it attaches itself to us.”
               I took one more glance at the object, hoping it wouldn’t start following us with its eyes and then followed Clancy toward The Bird Cage Theatre.

The tour guide here was in period attire and immediately I regretted agreeing to this. I could tell the evening would be filled with gimmicks and not ghouls. For Clancy, you’re doing this for Clancy.
               I tuned out our host and decided to give myself a tour by reading the placards on my own. I could tell by what they chose to highlight that they only wanted to talk about the debauchery of the time. One major gunfight makes the news and suddenly the town is one of ill-repute.
               After exploring for half an hour, the host had us all sit in the main room with the lights off and attempt to make contact with the spirits. I glanced over at Clancy for the first time that evening and saw pure unadulterated joy on her face. I couldn’t believe someone so smart could fall for this.
               I’d already scoped out all the objects they had rigged up to go off on demand. The flashlight sitting precariously on the board, all it would take was a step in the right spot to turn it on. The devices they claimed could channel spirits but produced nothing more than white noise. They sure put our cash to good use making it obvious that the theatre was still a place of ill-repute.
               The lights went out and immediately some of the others on the tour started berating the ”spirits” in an attempt to communicate. Believer or not, I was pretty sure you’re not supposed to rile them up.
               “This is so cool,” Clancy whispered to me.
               “If you say so,” I whispered back.
               After fifteen minutes of excruciating boredom, the host finally turned on the lights. Everyone started looking through the photos they’d taken in the dark, Clancy included.
               “Oh my!” The host jolted upright. “I’ve found a face in this one.”
               She quickly started walking around to show everyone the picture. Oohs and aahs followed as she made her way to Clancy and me. Clancy looked at the photo and feigned belief just to be nice.
               “Do you see it?” The host asked as she held the phone in front of my face.
               I looked at the image and laughed at her.
               “Lady, that’s the corner of the table that was right in front of you.”
               Stunned at my declaration, she took a step back and looked at the picture again.
               “I suppose you’re right. Silly me.” She stormed off and I was left with Clancy glaring at me.
               “Why do have to ruin everything?”
               “Me? How did I ruin this? Lady was passing furniture off for a ghost.”
               “I know that. You didn’t have to be so rude though.”
               “Well, I didn’t have to pay a lot of money to be swindled either, yet here I am.”
               “Why did you?”
               “For you!”
               “Well stop worrying about me and figure out your own shit! I’m going for a drink. Don’t follow.”
               With that, Clancy exited with the force of a hurricane and left me more haunted than The Bird Cage Theatre had.

The good thing about wooden sidewalks was that the lovely cadence of footsteps helps organize one’s thoughts. Sure, I was an asshole, but I’ve always been one and see no need to change now. It’s a badge of honor.
               Maybe Clancy thought I would be different on this trip. She did leave behind her whole life to join me. So far, I’d been grumpy about 90% of the time. Once again, she knew who I was when we started the journey. I change for no one.
               But I guess I had to accept the fact that Clancy wouldn’t change either. She was the yin to my yang. All I had to do was find a way to balance our forces again. Easier said than done. Maybe it was my own energy that was unbalanced. I chased my shadow down the street wondering how to make myself whole again.
               As I approached our camper, the light inside turned on. I guess Clancy didn’t go for that drink. I gave the door a yank and climbed up into our home on wheels, but Clancy was nowhere in sight.
               Assuming I toggled the light by accident on my phone, I slammed the door behind me and put the kettle on for some tea. I tidied up a bit until I heard a subtle meow from the cab. I leaned over the driver’s seat to look outside and was shocked to find I was not alone. There in the seat sat the doll. Eyes unmoving but locked right on me.
               The tea kettle whistled, but I’d run out of steam.

Chat Noir

To all those who wanted me to write of my travels, I’ve found a way to share my adventures in my own way. Please enjoy the first installment in The Chat Noir Chronicles. These tales are mostly, kinda, sorta true…ish.

The supermoon meant that the last few nights had been almost brighter than the day. That fact mixed with the “lazy” faire attitude I’d developed over the last month lead to me grabbing the bag of trash and heading off into the night sans flashlight.
               Luckily, my vision adjusts just enough to make out a few landmarks and the sound underfoot of rock, switching to dirt, switching back to rock provide enough of a map in my mind to find the way. The black sky, a canvas with pin-pricks reminiscent of Lite Brite stretches for miles overhead. So clear, so crisp, so dark.
               The farther I venture, away from life and towards decay, the darker it becomes. It is the kind of blackness where all the eye can see are the shadows the mind creates. My other senses dial up to eleven and make the night come alive.
               A rustle in the brush, the smell of campfire burning, the taste of coffee lingering on my tongue, smooth plastic crinkling in my hand as the trash bag sways back and forth with every step. The ground below my feet grows softer, more malleable. It still holds the last bit of moisture from a rainfall days ago. I’ve arrived at the one spot in the desert untouched by the warmth of the sun, blocked by the dumpster.
               Despite the chill in the air, the refuse still bleeds out the scents of rot and decay. Feeling my way towards the ramp, I get the strong urge to celebrate knowing I made it all this way in the dark without stumbling. I repress the urge, knowing all too well about counting chickens before they hatch.
               I take a moment to appreciate the star-speckled sky again. There is magic in the desert, in the dark, in the nothingness. What a philosophical moment as I dispose of that which I do not want or need.
               Winding up, I get ready to toss the bag and head back to warmth, and light, and tomorrow. Half-way through my swing…
               “Geez, Louise,” I say in a hushed yell.
               From the dumpster darts a black shadow, one not conjured by the mind. In one leap, the creature flies from trash to trailer and disappears just as quickly as it had appeared.
               I feel an extra beat in my chest, or maybe the lack of one. I throw away my trash and the night settles back into place.
               A rustle in the brush, the smell of a campfire burning, the taste of coffee lingering on my tongue, electricity in the air as the night envelops me.

Front Porch

It was a hot day in July when I witnessed the murder. I was laid up on my front porch that day on account of being a cat. With nothing else to do, I decided to keep an eye on the neighborhood. I was just dozing off when I saw a flash of orange across the street. It turned out to be the bully cat, Scat, who lived in the loud house across the street. He always tried to catch the birds from my yard. Often times, my servants were forced to chase him away making noises loud enough to raise the dead.

Today, however, he was on the run from his captors, Zed and Caliban. Those two were always sure to be bad news. They smoked like chimneys and if I didn’t know better, I’d say they were growing something illegal like catnip. I kept my eye open in case Scat tried anything funny. When I was sure he was on his way to the pond, I finally settled back in for a nap.

I was just starting to see mice on the back of my eyelids when suddenly,

Clang, Bang, Bounce!

The school boys down the hill were always tinkering with something. If there weren’t things to fix, then their favorite pastime was basketball. I craned my neck to get a glimpse of their action. One boy was playing basketball, but the other two were out of sight. Then there was a silence like I had never heard before in this neighborhood. I waited to hear hammering or a car racing up the hill.

Swoosh!

A flock of every kind of bird flew out of the trees across the street. Like straight out of The Birds, I feared for my life (that movie was not what I thought it would be). Each winged creature sang a different song, but each just as terrifying as the next. They flew with all their might as I checked my blanket to make sure I hadn’t emptied my bladder.

Clang, Band, Bounce!

The boys were at it again.

My servant finally arrived to give me a well needed massage and I told her about all the crazy things happening in the neighborhood.

“Nothing good will come from spying,” she warned. Boy, was she right. She made me some tuna and then left me to my own devices.

I knew I should be resting since I wouldn’t be able to nap for a least another hour, but I couldn’t pull myself away from the action. The pesky squirrel was back on the tree. He was an addict. He discovered the hummingbird feeder this spring and it was downhill from there. Whenever he came around, he rubbed his little paws together as he sat jonesin’ for a fix. The other critters veered away from him fearing he would go nuts at any moment.

I kindly told him we didn’t have what he was looking for, but he insisted on sticking around in hope that we might put a new feeder out for him. Every chipmunk, dove, and woodpecker promptly turned around when they saw the guy. I was ready to go out there myself and take care of the problem when suddenly,

CAW! CAW!

The squirrel ran and the sky darkened above as if night had fallen. Where the poor addict had been just seconds before was a scene I could barely believe.

A murder had landed before my very eyes. Savage and brutal, the black mass filled the yard. A cacophony of screams and caws made my blood run cold. I called to my servants,

“More seed out front!” The gang cawed in agreement and with the hope that they would be hungry nevermore.

I finally settled back in for a long needed rest, but I knew I would never forget this hot July day when I saw a murder from my front porch.

© Autumn and Emilita Siders 2016

#tbt Mad Lib Style

Thank you to everyone for your contributions. I hope this is a slightly better story now.

Go for the Win

Jon jumped over the fence with the grace of a burrito. He carefully watched the neighbor’s house to make sure that no one saw him. He carefully approached the back door and made sure to utilize the same burrito-like grace as when he apprehended the fence; he had done this before and knew that he had the skill to do it 2/3 of a time more.

The taco was setting and complete darkness was near. Jon’s footsteps barely could be heard on the soft, benevolent grass. Glancing around yet again, he stepped fluffily up to the patio; he was within feet of the back door. He slipped on a pair of gloves and reached for the nacho.

Kerplunk!

Jon looked down at his feet and realized that he had stepped on a tree branch. He moved quickly out of sight of the neighbors with his back up against the gnat. He paused a moment and listened carefully. Nobody had heard him; he was safe. He turned around and reached for the nacho again, this time he made contact. He turned the nacho slowly and thought to himself, I love how people leave their females unlocked.

Jon had done it once again; he would be in and be out within ten shoes. He thought how good he was at ogling people; at this rate, he would have robbed a hundred houses by the time he was twenty. He pushed the door open and started to step inside. Just then, he heard the one thing every thief dreads, sour cream.

The neighborhood Taco Bell arrived on the scene just before Jon leaped back over the fence. He started running down the street and just when he thought he had made it, a police car turned around the corner with its sirens blubbering. Tripping over his potatoes, he turned blithely the other way and started to run again, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe. He started to cough, a very distinguishable smoker’s cough. He fell to the ground and gasped for air.

Meanwhile, one of the police officers made his way over to the pin-striped thief, his weapon drawn and pointed directly on Jon. He shouted from the road,

“Stay on the ground and let me see your hands!” Jon gave up, there was nothing left for him to do; he was loaded.

Howlloween

Drip, Drip, Drip…

The sound filled Xavier’s head as he slowly woke to find himself on the ground in his backyard. The closer he came back into reality, the more his body filled with dread. He opened his eyes and instantly his head ached like nothing he had ever felt before. He shut his eyes quickly and welcomed the darkness yet again. He dared not move knowing that if just opening his eyes hurt that badly, he most likely wouldn’t want to try anything drastic like standing.

The dripping, more ominous than just a leaky faucet, served a constant reminder that whatever terrible thing had put Xavier in this situation was nearby and yet just out his mental reach. Struggling to bring any memories to the forefront, Xavier squeezed his eyes tighter and hoped that a glimmer of hope would find its way through. The harder he tried, the blurrier the memories got.

He remembered running out to the store to get his pregnant wife a pint of Ben & Jerry’s©. He remembered buying three different flavors at the convenience store. He remembered driving like a maniac with the AC blasting to get back to his house in order to prevent the ice cream from melting in the sweltering heat. He remembered seeing the front door of his house ajar when he returned. OH, GOD!

Xavier bolted up causing his head to spin and as he took a few steps towards the house and under the willow tree he stumbled and then slid landing hard on his elbow. He heard a pop and then the pain in his head seemed to disappear as a whole new level of pain seared through his right arm. He attempted to push himself up with his left arm but the second he placed his hand on the ground he felt it slip away in a warm liquid. With the full moon, it was not dark enough to conceal the fact that he had landed in a pool of blood.

Grimacing, Xavier crawled onto a dry part of the grass and struggled to his feet. They only thing that mattered now was finding Molly. He ran into the house,

“MOLLY? MOLLY?” There was no answer. He began tearing the house apart and running from room to room. Nothing looked out of place, but Molly was nowhere to be found. It seemed impossible to panic any more than he had been, but he was definitely reaching his limit. His head hurt, his arm hurt, and his chest hurt. He tried to think of why his chest hurt when he saw the ice cream sitting on the counter. He had to have been in the house already. “MOLLY? WHERE ARE YOU?” Still no answer and his chest began to throb. He pulled his shirt down and saw four deep claw marks. “What the fuck?” This was most definitely his limit.

Xavier ran out the back door looking for some clue as to how he ended up back there and where Molly was. He stepped onto the patio and looked up at the willow tree to see the most terrifying sight he had ever seen. His neighbor was hanging from the tree with his entrails weeping out of him. He doubled over and threw up. Just as he wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand he heard someone behind him. He straightened up and looked at the face of his wife. She smiled and showed a mouthful of fangs and said,

“Hey, Babe. Dinner’s ready.”

#tbt

Once upon a time there lived a girl named Eliza. She lived in New York City and was an artist. She roamed the streets every day to find new inspiration for her work. Like many other struggling artists, she thought true art could be found in the realities of life. She searched for art in nature, in the hustle and bustle of the city, in the homeless, in the rich, in the simple, and in the extraordinary.

Eliza had just had her first success as an artist though. She had her work shown in a gallery for the first time. However, after her first triumph, she was having difficulty finding new inspiration. She decided that it was time for drastic measures and she said goodbye to her apartment and went to live on the streets.

This was a crazy idea, and Eliza knew it, but she was always able to find something beautiful among people who had absolutely nothing but could still survive. New York streets were not a safe place to be, but to her the dangers were worth what she might find. The very first night she quickly discovered what it was like to have no place to sleep. The shelters that she tried were all full and she felt wrong taking a place from someone who needed it anyway. So she set off for Central Park and found a bench.

The next morning Eliza awoke to a police officer nudging her.

“You can’t sleep here,” he said and moved on to the next bench dweller. Eliza immediately realized that although she may find beauty from an outsider’s perspective, there was not much about actually being homeless that was inspirational. She removed herself from the bench and went to the nearest coffee shop.

After she ordered her drink, she reached for her wallet and realized that because she was trying to stay true to her adventure, she left her wallet at home. The barista could tell that she had a rough night and he was accustomed to seeing folks down on their luck come through his doors. Eliza was about to explain to him her predicament when he smiled and said,

“Coffee is on me today. Just pay it forward when you can.” Eliza smiled too and rushed home to paint the most inspirational moment in her life.