Haunted Jelly Beans [short story]

 

Horror writer and previous Brophisticate interview guest D.B. Tarpley shares with us a short story perfect for this month of creep. So turn out the lights, take off your pants and leave the hatch open on your spider aquarium so you can enjoy Mr. Tarpley’s tale at maximum ickyness. 

 

                                                                     HAUNTED JELLYBEANS

Time has a way of erasing the parts of the day we need the most. At least, that has been my experience.

There is a fire in my chest from the gaseous resurgence of a bologna sandwich I ate for lunch. I swore I would bring my antacid today then I walked out the door without it. I am drinking plain water. I hate plain water. Plain water makes it worse.
Dreaming of things not related to work. I sit, close my eyes, and notice that 15 minutes have passed.

This is extremely disconcerting to me and I find it happening more and more lately. When my eyes close, his open. His eyes see much clearer than my own. But his will is bent towards a different end.

Just lost 10 more minutes.

Like that.

Ccccccccccccccccccccccccccccc

I vow as I have a thousand times before to get my life in order but at this point I know it is only a game, a looping circle which stuffs my brain full of false hope and lollypops. It is only a matter of time before I can see him in control full time. I do not know him very well but I fear him completely. I would probably be afraid of anyone who controlled my body to a certain extent. But him…

I know what he is capable of.

A nineteen year old kid draws a skeletal warrior-king sitting on a jagged bloody throne. He is alone and he is scared. Beneath the picture the words, ‘The Beast’ are drawn in jagged bloody letters. The detail is many. The detail is exquisite. The detail is jagged and the detail is bloody. There is a crest on the wall behind the king bearing words around a symbol like a ring. The words read, ‘And the Beast Came Out to Play.’

The kid doesn’t know why but those words inspire fear.

When will the beast for to have done came?

Later…

The Federal Bureau of Investigation will have occult experts analyze the drawing.

They will determine that it is haggard and that it is smudgy.

Later…

5 minutes.

I feel pathetic. I am trudging through my day as if

00—0oooooooooooooooooooooo[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[

Not good to look up at the screen and see that. But such is my life.
There is a point to all of this. Surely there is that. There must be some cosmic… no, age and poor health decisions have taken their toll on my body and it is simple as that. There is no special purpose behind this aberrant behavior. This is not a sign from some sort of intergalactic consortium telling me to get a move on with my life.

No.

I am just f%#ked.

I see my judgment everywhere. I sincerely do. Panels of eyes taking clandestine notes around every bend, waiting for me to make the wrong decision. (Just erased 3 lines of V’s – enough is enough.) The computer just beeped at me.

It knows.

They all know.

I am losing my mind with no hope of redemption in sight. The first thoughts of suicide in years crossed my mind the other day. Do I really want to live the rest of my life in a dilapidated state? Or, will someone come along at the end of my movie and save me? Every movie has a moment of redemption or self-discovery, usually tucked away in the fourth quarter right before the happy ending.

Is this the fourth quarter? Is this a movie?

Is this HIS time?

It might be. It might be time for him to come out and see just what, exactly he is made of. I have been suppressing him for so long. He is dangerous, at least that is what I have been telling myself. But maybe this is all some grandiose gesture in my head. Maybe ‘dangerous’ is sexy. Maybe ‘dangerous’ is desired. Maybe ‘dangerous’ is a lie.

No.

He hurts people.

I do not like people.

Still, no reason to allow him that privilege. If I let him hurt them then I am as bad as they are. Just nod if that makes sense.

Sense?

Why does everything have to make sense? Why does everything have to possess a sense of purpose?

Why does everything have to fit? Why can’t I stand outside the fire?

This morning as I brushed my teeth I did a double take. Did I see him out of the corner of my eye, standing on the other side of the glass with a huge foamy smirk on his lips? Smirking at me as whipped up water and toothpaste fell from his crooked lips like so many tiny little baby fingers and toes.

Pepsi satisfies for a moment and then it beckons another swig… then another, and another until the bottle is gone and you are wishing for more. The company which makes this knows this. The company which makes this loves this.

There are lines; lines you do not cross. Or which once crossed can never be retraced. The first time a puppy licks your face… your first sexual experience… the first time you kill a man… the first time you see that squirrel waterskiing. Things like these.

I sit in my chair rolling the maraschino cherry around in my mouth trying to convince myself that it counts as a full serving of fruit. I close my eyes and it feels as if the top part of my head is being pulled slowly away from the bottom part of my head in a languid, lazy stretchy way and that warm light is bathing out from amidst the crack spilling out over everything and everyone. Terminal sleep apnea… it can hit anywhere, anytime. Not good in any line of work but all you can do is play the cards you have. That or go-fish.

I had a sleep study done. An ‘apnea’ is defined as an inability to breath which starts the body back to a waking state as a means of survival. You only need to clock in at 5 an hour to qualify for a sleep machine which forces oxygen down your throat. My test only lasted 45 minutes and I was clocked at 137 apneas. Even the nurse, a jaded middle aged woman who smelled of potatoes covered in lavender hand soap, seemed amazed at my results.

“How do you sleep?” she asked.

“On my side mostly.”

“No, I mean how do you…”

“I know what you mean, and the simple answer is that I don’t” which wasn’t exactly true. I catch 2 minute catnaps at random times during the day. Any time will do actually. I can be standing in line and suddenly I am walking out the door with my groceries. I sleep-live so to speak.

As it turns out the machine does not work on me. It gives me the sensation of being water-boarded, and I would rather take a chance on night death than have to go through that. But the good news is that a woman who smells like a sack of potatoes covered in lavender hand soap actually kisses much like you would expect a sack of potatoes to kiss.

Re-reading that just now I realize it doesn’t actually qualify as ‘good news.’

So what if I randomly black out from time to time? So what if I hallucinate like I’m tripping balls mostof the live long day. In the end I recognize it for what it is and make what has to happen do just that. When your brain is deprived of that much sleep it reinvents itself second to second. You learn to appreciate the catfish and move on.
The kitten.

I remember its screams sounding like those of a baby man-child.

Why am I talking like a character from ‘The Jungle Book’?

Perhaps because when faced with the truly horrific, all you can do is laugh.

I can still hear that sound in my head.

Plain as day.

Pretty Woman.

I hate that movie.

It makes whoring look glamorous. Then there’s the scene where Jason Alexander’s character dares to presume he can ask the whore for a date. But of course he can’t because he is pudgy, and balding and by nature of those very two traits an unacceptable human being devoid of all character and tact. So here comes Richard Gere, supposedly handsome Richard Gere, who punches out nasty vile Jason Alexander for daring to besmirch this fine lady’s character when he himself has bought every orifice on her body to do with as he pleases for the entire week. The man has a shit circle around his elbow is what I am saying. And somehow this is O.K.?

I hate that movie.

The game is a foot.

What a stupid thing to say… that the game is in fact a foot. What kind of anatomilogical reference is that? Is ‘anatomilogical’ a word? And if not, why not? I support the right of any word to exist which makes sense to me. It serves a valid purpose and that fulfills the requirements of necessary existence.

EXISTeNz.

Good movie.

What am I doing?

I mean I have a sense of the why. I know the end desire, but what on the front end of things created my need to do this? Simple existence? Sour re-fried grapes? A mysterious suit with a cape I found in a suitcase?

I guess the world will never know.

HOW CAN A GAME BE A FOOT?

That is going to bother me for a while.

I can let him out.

I swear I can.

I can set him free. It is what he wants anyway. It is my destiny. Fight your destiny and you end up in the muck and the mire wondering how you got there to begin with. It is the path I am headed down.
But with him, maybe vice. Maybe a life of pure joy, short though it may be. Maybe a sense of true freedom. Maybe a chance to show the people of the world a thing or two. Maybe it’s Maybelline.

Maybe.

Fame and fortune?

Only in the most twisted versions of the endings in my head. Most likely an early death. An early violent death. And mass misunderstanding. We all condemn the guilty while secretly wishing we could get away with what they got caught at. Secretly making the necessary adjustments in our heads.
I could be that man.

The perfect man.

The free man.

The switch, it can be flipped. I can load a few things in my car and just point it in a random direction. I can drive until I find some nice driveway to park in.

And I will be standing there on your stoop, in front of the door with the wreath on it… hammer behind my back.

When it did for hath done came.

Jellybean.

THE END