Skulls in the Stars

It’s time for Weird Fiction Monday, when I post stories that I’ve written — both new and old — for the entertainment (hopefully) of my readers!  As always, I note that I haven’t done extensive editing of the tales here, so don’t be surprised to find the writing a little rough.

This particular story was written in 2001, less than a month after the September 11 attacks.  I don’t know if that has any significance.

The Voice of the City

I knew I was fucked when I saw the cream-colored Cadillac coming down the street towards me. I immediately turned and ran the other way. With a roar, though, the car charged forward, swerved across the other lane of traffic, and cut me off, knocking over a newspaper vending machine in the process. Albert Dell’s goons, big, tree trunk looking guys, lurched out of the passenger side of the car and rushed me. I tried to punch and kick my way away from them, but it was like trying to fight a pair of refrigerators. The two goons grabbed me and, with little ceremony or pomp, stuffed me in the back seat of the Cadillac between them. Once the door closed, the car juddered back off the curb, and down the street we went.

There had, of course, been other people on the street that witnessed all of this commotion. It was late in the day, and the sun was setting, but the lanes were still filled with the usual weeknight urban traffic. Nobody bothered to try and help me, though, or to call for help. This was the sort of neighborhood in the city where it was safer to mind your business.

Albert Dell was driving the Cadillac, and he grinned at me through the rearview mirror. He had plenty of cronies who could do the driving for him, but somehow I think he felt he wouldn’t be a man if he didn’t do it himself.

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It’s time for Weird Fiction Monday, when I post stories that I’ve written — both new and old — for the entertainment (hopefully) of my readers!  As always, I note that I haven’t done extensive editing of the tales here, so don’t be surprised to find the writing a little rough.

This particular story was written in 2003.  I’ll say a little more about it at the end of the post.

The Toybox

When Jennifer saw the truck pull up outside the house, she was all smiles and excitement. Daddy was home! She left her room and rushed down the stairs as fast as she was allowed, chasing her cat Snickers before her.

“Mom! Mom! He’s here!” she called out. Mom was sitting at the kitchen counter, working on her house selling, and didn’t look up when Jennifer came in. Snickers fled out through his kitty door.

“It’s about time,” Mom said, shuffling some papers. “Why don’t you go out and greet him?”

Jennifer needed no further encouragement. But when she got outside, she could see that Daddy had brought two of his friends with him — and she knew what that meant.

“Hey, my little sprout,” Daddy said, holding his arms out.  Jennifer went to him, though her enthusiasm was dimmed. Daddy’s friends waited by the truck.

“Hi, Daddy.”

He held her out at arm’s length.

“Look at you — you’re sprouting more all the time. Pretty soon I’ll have to wear stilts to hug you.”

Jennifer giggled, in spite of her changing mood.

“Where’s your mother?” Daddy asked.

“Inside, working.”

Daddy swept his arm towards the door.  “Well, let’s go say hi to her.”

He took Jennifer’s hand and led her towards the house. Before getting there, he turned once to his friends waiting by the truck.

“I’ll be out in a couple of minutes,” he told them.

“No worries,” one of them said. He was holding a softball.

Daddy rapped on the screen door before going inside.

“Knock, knock,” he said. Mom’s voice answered from inside the house.

“Come on in, Mark,” she said. Daddy led Jennifer back inside by her hand, and together they went into the kitchen.

“Hi Andie,” Daddy greeted her. “Look, I hate to do this to you, but I can’t stay long today –”

“Why don’t you go get the pictures you’ve been drawing to show to your father?” Mom suddenly said to Jennifer. Jennifer looked at the two of them, looking at each other, and then she nodded and went out into the hallway.

She didn’t go all the way upstairs right away, though; she waited on the first flight, out of sight of the kitchen, and listened.

“Anyway,” Daddy was saying, “I really can’t stay today. The catcher caught the flu last night, and the guys really need me to fill in.”

“Jesus, Mark,” Mom said. “Can’t you spend one goddamned Sunday a month with your daughter?”

“But the guys,” Daddy protested.

“And don’t you think I need some time to myself, too?” Mom was saying, but Jennifer went to her room and didn’t listen any more.

She didn’t get her pictures, like her mom had suggested; she picked up one of her dolls, lay down on her bed, and fidgeted with the doll restlessly. A little later her bedroom door opened.

“Hey, kiddo kid,” Daddy said. Jennifer didn’t look at him, but he came over to the bed and scratched her head.

“I really can’t stay today, sprout; important stuff’s come up, and I need to go.”

“I know.”

“I brought you something, though; why don’t you come downstairs and I’ll show you.”

Jennifer allowed herself to be led back downstairs and outside. Daddy’s two friends were pulling a big, fat thing out of the back of his truck, swearing as they did so.

It was horrible.

“Jesus, Mark, what the hell is that?” Mom asked. She had come outside behind them.

“It’s a toybox,” Daddy answered.

It looked like a big frog made of wood. It was big and round and brown, with four little legs, and rough skin. It had two white little eyes that stuck out and looked like they were looking at you wherever you were.

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