Disquieting Experimenters

Witch blood. Populace disgrace. Decay where conclaves. Unhallowed be pillars grow? Gray seed boy to the exhibit.

Bones along kitchen?

Terror out! Flamboyant, alone, called unexplainable. Some grinned! His that three hills and poor countryfolk.

Thought something outside.

Cheap in discovering monstrous gate! Earth’s truest sight.

Obscenely still.

Horror them! Village and show God. Born three mountains! August outcome. Third, roused from scream!

The of, indeed, for unmistakably, for back with whine sounds among shrubbery!

Summoned aloud! Trembling, when fallen the instrument.

Undecayed much, than wholly voices.

Something horrible to lead?

Expectancy to revelation?

Morning, where distant of human useless bar. Horror, and that wilder away cease! It seen and tortured room?

Disquieting experimenters.

Blood there.

Death found that countryside.

Death.

Horror somewhere?

There's a Clown at the Door

“Dad, there’s a clown at the door.”

Ted sighed at the declaration by his 6-year-old son, Bradley, who’d been telling a lot of whoppers lately. Ted sat up straight on the couch, ready to upbraid his son for lying and interrupting the football game when he heard his wife’s voice echo in his skull.

It’s just a phase. Don’t get so upset. Just humor him until it goes away.

“A clown, huh?” he asked, his voice straining to maintain a patient tone.

“Yup.” Bradley’s voice had not a hint of humor.

The front door stood to the left of his son, beyond a small patio. To his right, the stairs and the hallway to the kitchen. Behind him, the dining room. He faced into the living room, where his father tried to watch the television. Ted could not see the front door from where he sat.

“What does he want?”

“He wants to take Molly for a ride.”

Molly, Bradley’s 2-year-old sister. Ted rolled his eyes.

That kid. He considered a lecture about the dangers of constantly telling fibs, even in jest. However, the sounds of a roaring stadium crowd from the television caught his attention, and he eased back down onto the couch.

“Okay, fine. Let him take Molly for a ride.”

He heard Bradley’s pajama-covered feet quickly thump up the stairs. By the time they came thumping back down—his footsteps a little slower— Ted was once again oblivious to everything but down and yardage.

It remained silent for the rest of the first half, but not two minutes into the third quarter, Ted’s lazy Monday night was interrupted again.

“Dad, the clown’s back.”

Fully willing to play along now in the interest of getting rid of his pest of a son, he amiably said, “What does he want now?”

“He wants to take Patrick for a ride, too.”

“Patrick, eh?”

“Yup.”

“First your little sister, and now your little brother?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Where is the clown going to take them?”

“I don’t know. Just for a ride.”

“When is he bringing them back?”

“He isn’t.”

Ted sat up, looking back over the couch at his son with bemused curiosity. “You mean he’s going to keep them?”

“I guess.”

“Well, why don’t you go ask the clown what he is going to do with your brother and sister if he isn’t bringing them back.”

“Okay.”

Before Ted could say another word, Bradley padded off toward the front door. He heard his son scamper through the patio, heard the creak of the front door opening and heard Bradley’s voice. He listened with small concern for another voice, but heard no one else. He chuckled to himself as Bradley came trotting back into the living room.

“Well?”

“He said he isn’t bringing them back because he’s hungry.”

Ted’s face drew into an offended scowl. “Bradley, that’s not a very nice joke to make.”

“Sorry,” Bradley said with the voice of someone unfairly accused.

Ted rubbed his temple, his wife’s words ringing in his conscious.

“Can Patrick go too?” his son prodded.

“Yes,” Ted almost barked. Bradley ran off again.

Ted returned to his game, and threw his arms up in frustration as the replay showed the trick play paying off big. He quaffed the last warm swallow of his beer, and considered going for another when he heard soft footsteps again. He decided to lay low until his son finally decided to retire to his room for awhile.

It was peaceful for almost another hour. Ted moaned and squeezed his eyes shut when he heard Bradley coming into the living room again.

“Dad—“

“What does the clown want now?”

“He wants mom to go with him now.”

“Well, you don’t have to ask me for that. Go ask her.”

Prepare to take your own medicine, Honey.

“She’s asleep.”

“In that case, don’t wake her up.”

“But, what should I tell the clown?”

Ted felt himself on the very edge of sanity. When would this kid tire of his relentless fantasizing?

“Tell the clown to go wake your mother up and ask her himself.”

Ted chuckled as Bradley jogged off.

He woke with a flinch as the crowd erupted in cheers again. He glanced at the VCR clock. He’d dosed off for nearly twenty minutes. A loud thump sounded from upstairs, and Ted sat up.

“Bradley?”

Bradley ran into the living room. “Yeah?”

“What was that noise?”

“Oh, that’s just the clown. He’s up in your bedroom getting mom.”

Ted sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Bradley, that’s enough. It’s time for bed. Now, I want you to stop all of this. It’s late, and I don’t want you waking up your mother. You know she has to get up early every day.”

“What should I tell the clown?”

At that moment, Ted thought he might very well explode, but he somehow found a way to cap off the steam.

“Bradley,” he said very patiently, “I want you to tell the clown to bring everyone back and go home. It’s time for you to go to bed.

“But, mom’s just leaving for her ride with the clown!”

Ted didn’t know how much longer he could play along. The escalating crowd noise told him he was missing another amazing play. He gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “Fine. Let mom take her ride. You go to bed.”

“Okay.”

Ted sighed with relief as Bradley left. He had never seen such an active imagination, not even in himself when he was that age. He had just resettled himself into the couch when Bradley came into the living room again.

“Dad? Can I ask you one more thing?”

Ted summoned all his willpower. “Yes?”

“The clown wants to know if you’ll go for a ride, too.”

“No. I’m not getting up. Sorry. Tell him no.”

Ted waited for a few seconds. Bradley thumped to the front door and quickly thumped back.

“He said he’ll carry you. You don’t have to get up.”

Ted chuckled in helpless frustration. “Okay then. Tell the clown to get in here and carry me away.”

Bradley ran out of the room. Ted heard the front door open and shut with a thud. He heard Bradley making his way back to the living room. Only this time, something was different. He didn’t hear the soft pat of his son’s feet. These steps were much heavier, louder and spaced further apart. Ted giggled to himself as he imagined his overly creative son trying his best to mimic the long, heavy strides of an adult. Ted shook his head and grinned as the footsteps reached the couch.

That kid.

Tools

A small cottage stands in an isolated woodland. Within it, a young girl and her mother sit together in silence. Patrice figits on an upright chair, while her mother tries to read a book by the light of a candle that burns on a small table between them. They don't talk. They try not to move. If they could stop breathing, they would. Father likes silence.

To their left is a door. At the top right of the door frame is a small bell. A string runs from the bell through the crack in the door into Father's room. Patrice watches the bell, waiting for it to chime. Her mother tries to ignore it.

A ferocious wind rocks the tiny cottage. It has stripped the trees of their leaves, leaving them of little use other than to cast ominous shadows through the windows.

Mother begins to re-read the same page for the fifth time. It is useless to try to concentrate. She tries to avoid thinking about the night's task.

"Do you think he will require a feeding tonight?"”

The sound of Patrice's voice stabbing through the silence startles Mother enough that she nearly drops her book.

"Good Heavens!"” She tries to compose herself. "What kind of question is that?"” She lowers her voice. "Of course he will. He always does."

"He didn'’t use it all last night. It just made me wonder."”

"Well, that's no reason to hold anything back. You know what he might do."”

Patrice knows what Father would do. Her scars tingle.

They flinch when they hear the bell. To anyone else, it is a pleasant sound. To Patrice and her mother, it is the summons of evil. They look at the bell, then each other.

"We best not wait," her mother says as she stands and wraps her shawl around her head and shoulders.

Patrice sighs. "What will be my job tonight?"”

"I worked the tools last night. Tonight that will be your job."”

Patrice hates working the tools, but she's glad she will not have to venture out into the dark and the wind like her mother.

Patrice enters the converted kitchen and tugs at a heavy trunk under the large oak dining table. She opens the trunk and retrieves a bundle wrapped in dark blue velvet. She places the bundle on the table and spreads it out. There are saws of different sizes, knives of different lengths and piercing sharpness. She notices a spot of something dark and wet on one of the saws. Her mother failed to clean up properly last night. Father would not be pleased. She wets a washcloth and cleans the saw. Yes, Patrice hates to work the tools.
After the tools are ready, Patrice checks the restraints at either end of the table. The restraints are necessary——some people hate the tools more than Patrice.

Satisfied that the equipment is ready, Patrice takes her seat again. She picks up her mother'’s book, thinking it might be something interesting. Mother is not even past the first page.

Patrice hears footsteps outside the front door through the howling wind. She opens the front door. Her mother is dragging a large sack. Her face looks almost happy.

"It's a large one. Father will be pleased."”

Patrice smiles. Father might let them sleep tonight if things are done right.

"One of the saws was unclean," Patrice says.

Her mother'’s face goes pale. "Did you tell Father?"”

"No. I cleaned it."”

Her mother sighs in relief. "Well then, I'’ll help you work the tools tonight."”

They put it on the table and fasten the restraints. This one struggles mightily. It makes a lot of noise and causes a lot of mess. Patrice has never seen one who so hates the tools. They will be cleaning for most of the night. Patrice asks again why they don'’t just use the club on it. Her mother explains that Father likes it fresh. Eventually, it stops moving.

The clean up is even worse than anticipated. Father is fed, and soon they sit in their usual places again. Her mother hopes Father is satisfied. They are tired, but their beds have not been used in months. They never know when Father will ring for another feeding. Her mother bears horrible scars to show what happens when the bell goes unanswered.

They sit through the rest of the night and on into the next night, saying little. Her mother looks worried. The bell should have rung two or three times by now. Something must be wrong in Father'’s room.

"Patrice, you haven'’t heard the bell since last night, have you?"”

"“No, Mother."” Patrice didn'’t like that question. What is she? A fool who would ignore the bell?

"Something must be wrong."” Her mother stands up, unsure what to do.

She walks to the door. She places her hand on the door handle, takes it away. There are also scars from entering the room when she wasn'’t summoned, but what will be the price for ignoring Father?

Patrice sees the conflict on her mother'’s face. "I'll go," she says.

Her mother, feeling ashamed, stands to one side and lets Patrice enter the bedroom.

Her mother ignores her book and sits in a chair. There are no sounds coming from the bedroom. Her mother can'’t decide if that is good or bad. Soon, the knob turns and the door opens. Patrice stands in the doorway.

"“Well?"” Her mother is about beside herself with anxiety. "“Did you receive instructions?"’

Patrice shakes her head yes.

It is easier to subdue her mother than expected. Her mother is on the table, fastened to the restraints. Her mother thrashes against the leather straps. Patrice giggles to herself. Surely her mother knows the restraints never let anyone go. Her mother makes an awful noise when Patrice lays out the tools. After hearing the sounds of her mother's voice and the look in her eye, Patrice considers the club. She looks over to where the thick baton rests, but decides against it. After all, Father likes it fresh.