All Too Surreal Page 19

  Ronald stepped out of the car. He felt numb, distant, as if he were a disembodied observer watching this happen to someone else. He knew he was in shock, though he couldn’t summon the mental energy to care much at the moment. He wondered if his legs would support him, was mildly surprised to find they did. He looked to the ice cream truck, saw the stag-head had completed his transaction and was returning to the house. In his arms, he carried a naked child with a lamb’s head. Boy or girl, Ronald couldn’t tell, and he supposed it didn’t really matter which sex it was. The child bleated nervously, and the bestial partygoers ceased copulating and turned their heads as one toward the child, tracking it, nostrils flaring, drinking in the air, tasting its fear scent and finding it sweet. One by one, they fell into line behind the stag. Licking lips, rubbing hands, fondling themselves in anticipation.

  The wolf woman gave him a final look, as if she were considering where to sink her teeth first. But instead she pointed at the ice cream truck, then loped across the lawn to join her half-breed brethren. Ronald watched as they filed into the Tudor house to continue their revels, the wolf woman entering last, and the door slammed closed behind them, the noise echoing in the night’s silence.

  Silence. Ronald realized the truck’s music had finally stopped. It was such a relief that he nearly cried. But he didn’t; he started toward the sidewalk, reached it, turned and headed toward the ice cream truck. He knew he didn’t have to do this. The animal heads had gone inside to partake of their “treat,” and there was no one now to stop him from fleeing. Yet he continued.

  He walked up to the truck. The surface above, below and to the sides of the serving window was decorated with stickers that displayed Neat Treats wares — kaboom pops, fudgecicles, ice cream sandwiches, rooty-toots, a dozen more. But then, this truck didn’t really sell ice cream, did it? It sold something else entirely.

  The serving window was open, but only shadow was visible beyond the counter. It wasn’t merely that the inside light wasn’t on, or that the moonlight couldn’t reach inside due to the angle at which the truck was parked. This was an intentional darkness, thick and solid as chocolate syrup and far colder than any ice cream could ever hope to be.

  The darkness rippled, as if a wind played across its surface, though Ronald felt no disturbance in the air. He waited, trembling and sweating, for Mr. Neat Treats to finally put in an appearance. Moments passed, and the darkness beyond the serving window remained unbroken, though it continued to occasionally roil and shift.

  “Hello? Is there … is there anyone in there?” His voice sounded small and weak in his own ears, not at all unlike the pathetic bleating of the sheep-child as it was carried into the house.

  He waited some more, but no response came.

  And then he understood. Mr. Treats wasn’t coming because there was no driver. This truck — or rather this thing which mimicked the outward shape and appearance of an ice cream truck — was alive.

  A thought flickered through his mind then, an insubstantial whisper drifting on a cold, ancient wind. Not truly certain he had heard it, Ronald nevertheless replied.

  “Yes, I’ve been following you.”

  Another whisper.

  “My daughter came to you this afternoon. You … did something to her. She’s … not right.”

  Whisper.

  “I want to know what you did. I want you to show me.”

  The darkness hesitated for a long moment, and then it parted like a stage curtain, and Ronald saw.

  When he walked into the house, he found Marie sitting at the dining table. She was drenched in blood. What was left of Bridgett lay sprawled on the kitchen floor. On the table lay Katie. She was naked and still twitching, but her movements were already diminishing. In her right hand, Marie held a hammer smeared with gore and bits of matted hair. In her left hand, she held a carving knife.

  She turned to look at her father and smiled with blood-stained teeth. “You know now, don’t you?”

  Ronald nodded, numb. He had thought he’d understood, had learned his mother’s lesson well. But the world wasn’t merely a dangerous place; it was much worse than that. Worse than the living darkness within the Neat Treats truck, because when that darkness drew back, you could see that beyond it was … nothing. Absolute and total. And in the end, no amount of caution, of foresight and planning could protect you from that. One might as well take a hammer to the skulls of his family, slice them up, swallow them down. In the long run, it was kinder.

  Ronald might’ve said, “I hope you saved some for me.”

  He might’ve asked Marie, “Are you still hungry, sweetie?” and then she might’ve come for him, grinning, hammer and knife held high.

  She might’ve said, “You should’ve kept a sharp eye out, Daddy. Should’ve kept two.”

  But neither of them said anything. They just looked at each other, tears of blood running down their cheeks.

  Mr. Punch

  Mr. Punch swung the bat one more time, just to be sure the Judy was dead, then stepped back to admire his handiwork.

  “Well, I declare now, that very pretty!” he said in a jolly voice. The Judy’s head was nothing more than red and gray jelly and matted blonde hair now, her once beautiful face a memory. But Mr. Punch hadn’t been fooled by her exterior. She was a Judy, all right. Inside, they all were.

  Applause rang through his mind and he bowed to the right, then the left, and then to the middle, so low that the corners of his dark gray trench coat swept the floor. Tonight had been an especially wonderful performance, and it took some time for the applause to die down.

  When the audience had finally finished, Mr. Punch went into the bathroom and turned on the light. He set his bat in the corner and checked himself in the mirror.

  Blood speckled his grotesque features. He pursed his thick, bloated lips in distaste and turned on the water. He sang as he washed.

  “Mr. Punch is one jolly good fellow,

  His dress is all scarlet and yellow,

  And if now and then he gets mellow,

  It’s only among his good friends.”

  Mr. Punch washed his thick brow, hook nose, and jutting chin, then grinned at himself in the mirror.

  “You one handsome fellow, Punch!”

  His reflection winked in agreement.

  He toweled his face dry, then wiped the gore off his bat. He didn’t worry about his clothes; he always wore his trench coat and a black shirt underneath. At night, they didn’t show the blood, if he was careful to keep to the shadows. And he always was.

  He would’ve preferred the traditional scarlet and yellow, but sometimes tradition had to give way for convenience.

  Mr. Punch was returning to the Judy’s living room to bid her a fond farewell (and perhaps do a curtain call or two) when he heard a scritch-scritch-scratching at the door.

  He froze, gripping his bat tight.

  Scritch-scritch-scratch. Scritch-scritch-scratch.

  A dark, muffled giggle drifted through the door and Punch knew who was on the other side.

  It was the Devil, come for him at last.

  Once, Mr. Punch had been an ugly little boy whose mother took him to a Renaissance festival at the county fairgrounds. He hadn’t wanted to go, but she insisted it would be ed-u-ca-tion-al for him. She was forever searching for ed-u-ca- tion-al activities and events to take him to. He’d asked her why once, and she said because he wasn’t going to get anywhere in life on his looks. He didn’t like going out in public, didn’t like the way people stared at him, how other kids would laugh and point, how parents would whisper things to each other like “How could such a pretty woman have such an ugly child?” and “Maybe he’s adopted.” He’d much rather stay home and watch cartoons, but ever since his dad left his mother was the boss and he did what she said. Or else. So he went, kept his face down as they walked, and was bored out of his mind.

  That is, until his mother dragged him over to where a group of people sat before a large, brightly painted box with a bi
g square cut out in the middle.

  They settled down on the grass. “Sit up straight,” his mother hissed, even though they were sitting cross-legged and everyone else was slouching. She never punished him in public. But when they got home…

  He did as she ordered.

  Then the Funny Man stepped out from behind the box. He was dressed old- fashioned, like the other performers at the festival. He was all beard and bony angles, with a gap-toothed grin and wide, wild eyes that were more than a little scary.

  “Good day, t’ye, little ones! And welcome to Bright’s Puppet Show!”

  The Funny Man swooped down to execute a deep bow and nearly fell over. The people laughed, including his mother, so he knew it was okay and joined in.

  The Funny Man straightened and continued his spiel. “On this fine day, we have for ye the story that’s been the favorite of folk both little and big for centuries: the saga of Mr. Punch.”

  He’d never heard of Mr. Punch, but from the way the people in the audience applauded and his mother smiled he figured it was a good thing.

  “Now before we begin, I want to stress something for the little ones out there,” the Funny Man said. “Mr. Punch is a funny fellow, and it’s right fine to laugh at him. But always remember: we laugh at Mr. Punch because he’s a bad man who does bad things. We don’t want to be like Mr. Punch, do we?”

  A number of children shouted out, “NO!” He looked at his mother, but she didn’t give him an approving nod, so he kept quiet.

  The Funny Man clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously. “All right, then! Without further delay, let the show begin!”

  He ducked behind the box. Lively merry-go-round music started from somewhere back there, muffled and distorted.

  And then the song began.

  “Mr. Punch is one jolly good fellow…”

  As soon as the song was over, a tiny figure in scarlet and yellow appeared.

  Everyone cheered.

  When the little boy saw what the puppet looked like, he grinned in delighted surprise.

  Scritch-scritch-scratch. Scritch-scritch-scratch.

  Mr. Punch felt a line of cold sweat roll along his spine. He stood gripping his bat, trying to decide what to do.

  Scritch-scritch-scratch. Scritch-scritch-scratch.

  He went to the window. No fire escape. And the apartment was too high up for him to jump.

  He looked to the phone on a stand beside the couch. But there was no one he could call. No one who would help Mr. Punch, because Mr. Punch was a bad man.

  Scritch-scritch-scratch.

  Mr. Punch squeezed his bat tight and tip-toed around the Judy’s body to the door. He pressed a malformed ear to the wood and listened.

  No more scritch-scritch-scratchings.

  He imagined the Devil crouching on the other side, giggling silently to Himself over Mr. Punch’s dilemma.

  “Punch not like this,” he whispered. This was the moment he had dreaded for years, ever since the day he had first taken up his bat and taught his first Judy a good and proper lesson. And he had taught many more since. For was he not Mr. Punch, the Devil’s master? He screwed up his courage, took a deep breath, and threw open the door.

  The audience gasped in terror, then laughed in relief. The hallway was empty.

  He looked both ways, just to be sure. Then he grinned, flushed with triumph.

  “Devil so scared, he run away!”

  And speaking of away, it was time for him to be going. He had taken a terrible chance following this Judy all the way up to her apartment, but it had been too long and he couldn’t help himself. He managed to get the first blow in while they were still in the hallway, striking from behind while the Judy was fumbling with her keys.

  She had crumpled without a sound, and he’d dragged her into her apartment to finish the job.

  So far he had been lucky, but that was only to be expected. After all, he was Mr. Punch. Still, there was no sense pushing his luck. He tucked the bat in the special long pocket he had sewn into his trench coat and closed the door behind him.

  He took the stairs to avoid meeting anyone, whistling the Punch song as he took them two at a time, his shoes clanging on the metal, the sound echoing up and down the stairwell.

  But then there was another sound coming from below him. A distant, high-pitched giggle.

  He stopped so suddenly that he had to grab the railing to keep from falling. He listened and the giggle came again, a bit closer this time, followed by a sound that could only be a pair of hooves ringing off the stairs.

  The Devil hadn’t been so scared after all.

  The little boy enjoyed the play very much. Punch was a very funny fellow. He chuckled when Punch threw his baby toward the audience, and laughed out loud when he beat his wife Judy with his big stick until she died.

  But the best part came at the end.

  Everyone but Punch was either dead, wounded or driven away by the threat of his big stick. Punch was tra-la-lahing in victory when there was a POOF! followed by a puff of foul-smelling yellow smoke.

  It was the Devil.

  He was quite a sinister Devil, all fiery red skin and sharp black horns. And a leering smile full of sharp teeth.

  The little boy couldn’t take his eyes off that smile.

  “Oh, dear me!” Punch said, quivering in terror. “There he is, sure enough. Sweet, kind Devil, me never did you any wrong, but rather all the good that me could!”

  The Devil advanced, pitchfork held out before Him.

  The little boy bit the inside of his cheeks and silently urged Punch to run.

  “Me don’t want to keep you, Mr. Devil. Me know you have a great deal of business when you come to Londontown.”

  The Devil continued toward Punch.

  “Oh, dear, what will become of me?”

  “Run!” the little boy urged silently. But Punch just stood there trembling as the Devil drew near and then suddenly hit Punch on the head with his pitchfork with a solid CLACK!

  The audience laughed. But not the little boy.

  “Ow! Why you do that for, Mr. Devil? How ‘bout we be friends?”

  The Devil hit Punch again. CLACK!

  Punch was getting angry. “You must be one stupid devil not to recognize your best friend when you see him! Hit me, will you? Well, then, let us see who is the best man —Mr. Punch or the Devil!”

  Punch attacked the Devil with his great stick, and the Devil fought back with his pitchfork. At first it looked like the Devil would win, but Punch felled the Devil with a series of mighty blows. The Devil slumped lifeless over the edge of the box.

  The little boy clapped his hands and cheered, ignoring his mother’s disapproving scowl.

  Then Punch put his stick up inside the Devil puppet and twirled him around in the air.

  “Hurrah, hurrah!” Punch shouted. “The Devil’s dead! Now we can do as we please!”

  The music came up as the show ended and applause filled the air.

  The little boy grinned, drinking in the applause as if it were for him.

  His mother, frowning her Things-Have-Not-Gone-As-I-Planned frown, yanked him to his feet.

  “Time to go,” she said coldly.

  He wanted to go over to the box and see the puppets up close, maybe even ask the Funny Man if he could touch Punch. But he knew better than to argue with his mother, so he went.

  Mr. Punch reached into his coat and took out his bat. The tangy smell of dried blood filled the air, mingling with the growing stench of sulfur.

  The giggling rose up from beneath him, much closer now.

  “Oh, dear me,” Mr. Punch whispered.

  The sound of hoof on metal grew louder.

  He could feel the audience holding its breath in suspense.

  Mr. Punch had performed his play dozens of times, and although he had waited for Him, not once had the Devil shown up. It had gotten to the point where he had begun to think that maybe there was no Devil. Oh, how foolish of him to doubt!
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br />   Mr. Punch forced himself to lean over the edge and look down the stairwell. He thought he could make out a shadowy form below. The sulfur smell was so strong now that he had to keep swallowing to avoid gagging.

  Why had the Devil shown up now? And why here, in the stairwell, instead of on a proper stage?

  And then the answer came to him: because the Devil knew He couldn’t beat Punch fairly. The only way He could hope to win was to cheat.

  “You one sneaky Devil!” Punch called out. “But Mr. Punch more sneaky yet!”

  And he turned and hightailed it up the stairs. The Devil followed, hot on his heels.

  The audience burst into applause.

  On the way home, the little boy stared out the window at the passing scenery, replaying the final moments of the play over and over in his mind.

  “That last part was a lie,” his mother said after a time.

  He looked at her, because if he didn’t, she’d get mad.

  “That part about Punch killing the Devil. It wasn’t true. Nobody can kill the Devil.” She paused. “Except God, I suppose.”

  He nodded, because he knew she expected it. In his mind, he watched Punch hit the Devil again and again.

  “Do you understand?” She took her eyes off the road long enough to give him an I-Mean-Business look.

  “Yes, Mother.” He watched Punch twirling the dead Devil over his head, heard the audience clapping like thunder.

  She must have believed him because she didn’t punish him when they got home.

  Eventually he did do something wrong and was punished, but he didn’t mind. He took the insults and blows, all the while hearing the roar of laughter and applause instead of the sound of the hairbrush striking his flesh and the terrible awful sound of his own mother calling him names like freak and wretch.

  Then one year, when he was old enough and strong enough, he worked extra hard at being a good boy all year long so he could ask for something special for Christmas.