Merchant of the Macabre

Merchant of the Macabre:
Curious About the Other Side?

By

S. Patrick McCully
3,600 words

"Good evening, Sir. I need to see your driver's license and insurance."

"Certainly, Officer. What did I do wrong?" Terry Milton dug through his wallet for his ID and insurance. He handed them to the New Deukalion, Alabama policeman standing just outside his driver's side door.

Terry looked up and saw Officer Alan Driscol squinting at the ID and studying Terry’s face. The ID photo was a few years old, so he tried his best to resemble the bright-eyed young man with flowing hair and a ponytail. The past few years had taken the fire from his eyes and more than a few hairs from his head.

"Mr. Milton, you were driving fifteen over. You in a hurry?" Officer Driscol was no longer looking at Terry, but scanning the inside of Terry’s car. The light from Officer Driscol's flashlight danced over Terry's shirt and pants, before darting through the interior of the car.

"I'm just trying to get to New Deukalion before it’s too late to find a room."

The bright beam settled on three boxes stacked one atop the other in the back seat. The bottom two were simple cardboard containers with cryptic writing on them. The third box, shifted slightly off-center atop the others, sparkled under the light. It was a carved wooden box, covered with jewels and beads imbedded into the lid. Terry noticed the officer's curiosity as the light settled on the gleaming box.

"Officer, you're welcome to look if you want. I have nothing to hide."

"Thank you, Mr. Milton. Do you mind stepping out of the car?"

Terry followed Officer Driscol’s directions and found himself sitting on the side of the road while the officer searched through the car. Driscol pulled the rear door open and lifted the lid of the beautiful wooden box. Inside was a dazzling assortment of crystals, gems, and glass bottles filled with colored liquids. Crucifixes, powder boxes and several decks of tarot cards filled the sides of the box.

"What is all this stuff? You some sort of witch doctor?"

"Not at all, sir." Terry pulled a business card from his left breast pocket and handed it to the officer. Bold metallic purple letters swept across the top of the card asking “Curious about the other side?”. The details at the bottom of the card read “Terry Milton, purveyor the supernatural and investigator of the unknown."

"Purveyor? I don’t know what that means, but investigator means you're some sort of detective?"

"Sometimes. I search the world helping people deal with strange phenomenon.”

"There's nothing like that around here."

"Well, according to the ‘New Deukalion Bugle’, a child was found dead under circumstances that I would certainly consider a phenomenon."

"The Tompkins’ boy?"

"Yes. The paper said he died from a snake bite in the woods.”

“That’s right.”

“I hear his parents saw him on their back porch a few days after he was buried. Said they called out to him but he didn’t say anything back.”
"Mr. Milton, we are simple people here. Many of the town folk are prone to exaggeration. Grief gives life to people’s wildest dreams. I’m sure they wanted to see him, so they saw him. That’s it. That boy died and was buried at the New Deukalion cemetery."

"Of course. I’m sure you’re right. Am I free to go?"

"Tell you what, you turn your car around and head back toward Birmingham and I'll forget about how fast you were driving. Otherwise, I'll have to write you a ticket."

"Are you threatening me?"

"No, Sir. I'm just trying to protect my little town. We’ve been through a lot lately."

"Well, I guess that's it then."

Driscol handed Terry his ID and walked back to his car. Terry's BMW roared into a u-turn and headed back towards Birmingham.

Fifteen miles down the road, Terry made a hard left turn onto a country road. It was a long detour, but it would still get him into New Deukalion before midnight. More important, it should take him around Officer Driscol's patrol.

As he pulled into town, the road shifted from poorly paved blacktop to intricately laid cobblestones. A giant fountain in the city square launched water over ten feet into the air. It was surrounded by a quartet of tall oak trees that provided a massive canopy of shade over the square.

Terry made two trips around the square, getting his bearings. He scribbled a few notes on his dash-mounted notepad, noting the people and atmosphere around the square. He then sped off toward the hotel that he had seen on his way into town.

He rose early and drove back to the square, parking near the edge of the fountain where he had seen a crowd milling the night before. He pulled a card table from the trunk and set it on the sidewalk. He then pulled the three boxes from the back seat, arranging them as a display and setting up shop on the curb beside his car. It took a few hours for the town to recognize the new face, but when they did, they came with a vengeance.

Several of the town's youth and some of the more fanatical citizens bought one of everything he was selling. Ouija boards and tarot cards sold fast, but the books on rituals and crystals to ward off evil spirits were his best sellers. He sold a dozen different books on the mystic arts that promised answers to mysterious events, maybe even the re-appearance of Jared Tompkins the week earlier. To even Terry’s amazement, he unloaded a handful of “Armenian wish stones”, freshly washed gravel he had found the night before outside his hotel.

That night, Terry made a quick inventory check. This town was an easy mark. He'd been there one day and was three thousand dollars ahead. That was by merely showing up. He imagined the take once he actually started trying. He might make enough to take a few weeks off to spend some time with Nelda and little Tony back in Atlanta.

By the next day, the word had spread about this mysterious stranger. Terry upped the ante by adding some sleight of hand and simple mind-reading stunts on the steps of city hall. Some of the widows brought him pies and cookies for chasing away the demons that had haunted them since their husbands died. One grateful person even sent an anonymous letter asking him to run for mayor.

His demonstrations were full of magic powders and showy parlor tricks he'd learned from a circus performer. Each one ended with a different pitch about how such powers could be easily mastered with the objects he was selling:

"See the future with the power of the tarot."
"Talk to a loved one on the other side with the Ouija board."
"Turn evil away and gather the good around you with a power crystal."

Three days of record sales left Terry without any merchandise and planning a trip to Birmingham to restock. That night, Terry phoned to his suppliers.

"All of it. Everything's gone. This town is ripe for the picking and I'm gorging on it."

"Sounds like it,” answered his distributor connection in Chicago. “I can get you a shipment by Thursday. That's two days. Do you think you can hold the town's attention until then?

"Two days? No problem. The town’s hungry. I've got a few more tricks up my sleeve."

Tap, Tap.

Terry was startled by the tapping at his driver's side window.

He turned to see a boy with dirty matted hai, sunken eyes and a protruding jaw standing beside the car.

"Are you… the man… what's got the… stuff to keep the.. spir…spirits… away?" The voice was not one of a young boy, but rough and gritty. The words did not flow but were stilted and broken, as if the boy was fighting to match his tongue to his thoughts.

"I can't promise anything, but I'd be happy to help."

“Can you… bring… me… back?”

Terry recognized the boy’s face from the paper. It was Jared Tompkins.

“My God. Jared? Is that you?”

“I’m… scared,… mis… mister. My… paw bought some…thing from you…and I can’t…go… back.”

Terry was so absorbed in the boy that he did not see the black and white Crown Victoria pull up next to him.

"I thought I told you to stay clear of New Deukalion."

Officer Driscol stepped out of the cruiser and shined his flashlight in Terry’s face, temporarily blinding him. When Terry could see again, Officer Driscol was leaning in the driver’s window, but the boy was gone.

"I'm sorry, Officer Driscol. I must've gotten turned around and lost again.” Terry scanned the area around the car but Driscol was the only one there. He looked up. “Am I breaking the law?"

"No. The warning I gave you was for your safety, not New Deukalion's. This town takes care of itself."

Terry heard the threat in Driscol’s voice. He tapped the thick wad of cash in his breast pocket.

"New Deukalion's taken good care of me, too."

"I'm sure that it has. I just want you to remember that I warned you to stay out."

The officer's cruiser roared back to life and sped off down main street and back toward the interstate.

Terry stepped out of his car and looked around him, but he was alone.

He spent a restless night at the hotel but returned to the square the next morning, just as a crowd that was forming on the marble steps of city hall. His face morphed into his biggest smile. He raised his hands to address the group.

"My friends, do you have questions about life and death that you just can't answer? I can help you. The cryptic cards of the Tarot can show the future to a believer who is adept with the sight. The carved board of the Ouija will let you speak to the other side.”

He opened he jeweled box and removed a dusty book and a small cloth doll.

“This tiny doll, enchanted by the proper ceremony outlined in this tome, can ward off evil spirits and even cause harm to your enemies. I have traveled far and wide for these objects, but I alone cannot contain their power."

The crowd moved around him, swallowing him in a sea of arms and purses.

Across the square from him, two men in faded brown coveralls and sweat-stained t-shirts studied the demonstration. Wilbur Simon and August Platter had been studying the demonstration for a few days.

"That's the one.” Wilbur pointed toward Terry amid the throng around him. “He showed up a few days after John Tompkin's boy was killed. Awful s'picious if you ask me."

"Yup,” answered Wilbur.

"A lot of the kids been hanging around him, buying magic jewels and such."

“Yup.”

"We don't need no magicians around here messing with our kids."

“Yup.”

"Hey, Wilbur, ain't that your boy Jacob over there now?"

Wilbur stood slowly, his cane shaking under his withered hand. He moved as fast as his arthritic, stubby legs would take him. He brushed past several adults and children in the crowd and grabbed his son by the ear.

"C'mon, son. We're going home."

"But, Dad, I don't want the evil spirits to get me. I bought a crystal for you, too."

He handed his father a red crystal that swung slowly from a silver chain. Wilbur grabbed it and smashed the glass trinket on the cobblestone sidewalk. Terry calmly looked at the disturbance and quickly turned it to his advantage.

"Have faith, my friends. The secrets of the other worlds are not for non-believers. You can ignore them, but be assured they will not ignore you. It is easy to turn away from things you do not understand."

Wilbur turned around and shook his fist at Terry Milton. He swallowed hard, gathering the strength for his words.

"Understand? I promise you one thing, Mister. You come near my son again and you'll need more than a few tricks to keep me away from you."

Later that night, Terry drove back to his room. Due to his sudden windfall of money, he upgraded his efficiency to a suite. He stepped to the door and reached into his pocket for the key.

A harsh voice rattled from behind him.

"I hear you're the man with all the answers to our little problems."

"I’m sorry, but I'm tired. I’ve been working all day. I just want to hit the sack. Come see me downtown tomorrow. "

"I really need to talk to you, Mr. Milton. You might consider this urgent."

Terry turned toward the voice, intent on ending the conversation with a few harsh words. There were two men draped in torn flannel shirts and faded denim overalls. The taller of the two was a young black man, with rough calloused hands, and crystal blue eyes that incapable of emotion. The shorter man was pale, almost bleached white with a thick white beard that was matted and twisted on his chin. Their clothes were dotted with dark red splotches and both stood awkwardly, their heads hanging at painful angles.

"What is this? A farmer shakedown? I really don't have time?"

Neither man replied. Both shook almost randomly, their muscles spasming at odd intervals and threatening to make them lose their balance.

The harsh voice returned. It came from neither of the men before him.

"We are curious about the objects you are selling. Could we have a private demonstration?"


"Guys, I'm tired. Come see me tomorrow on the square."

Terry unlocked his door and stepped inside. He turned and slammed the door on the strangers, but the door stopped short of its frame. Four chalk-white fingers were wrapped around the door, holding it open. Terry’s leaned against the door but made no headway in closing it. The edge of the door cut into the gnarled fingers slicing through the pale skin and exposing the bones beneath, but still the fingers remained.

Finally, Terry’s strength waned and the door slowly swung open. In a long, smooth motion the body attached to the fingers pressed the door open. The two men stepped into the room.

“What do you want from me?”

The men did not answer.

“Money? Take it! All of it!” Terry grabbed his wallet and threw it at the men.

The two men stepped apart and a small dark man stepped forward from the shadows. He was barely four feet tall and wore a black suit sprinkled with dirt and ash. The man was looking down and Terry could not see his face. He stepped between the two larger men and walked in front of Terry.

In a slow, deliberate, almost theatrical fashion, the man slowly lifted his head. The dark skin of his hands and scalp gave way to a bright white paint that spread across the man’s face. The white paint formed an off-center cross over the man’s face. The man looked up through crimson eyes that seemed to burn through Terry’s soul.

“What do you want from me?” asked Terry.


"I'm very sorry to be so bold, Mr. Milton, but your products are of great interest to us."

“My products? What is this? Who are you?"

"Surely, you already know that." The man pulled a business card from his breast pocket.

"After all, aren't you ‘Terry Milton, purveyor the supernatural and investigator of the unknown’?"

The two outer men moved forward and grabbed Terry’s arms. In vice-like grips, they jerked his arms out to his side and lifted him off the ground. They set him down on a chair in the corner of the room. The short man sat opposite Terry and placed Terry's display case on the table.

"Let's see what you have."

The man pulled out a crucifix from the box.

"Imbued with the powers of God? Would you like to do the honors?” He offered the silver relic to Terry, but he was frozen in fear. “No? All right, I'll do it." He motioned for the tall man to step forward and lean down. When he did, the short man pressed the crucifix against the tall man’s forehead. Other than a slight imprint of the cross on his forehead, the crucifix had no effect on the man.

"What other things gear do we have? Holy Water?” The short man took a long look at the crystal flask. He handed it to the dark man and told him to drink. The dark man held the bottle in his quivering hands and at the other man’s command, took a long swig from a flask marked holy water. He swallowed roughly and handed the bottle back to the small man.

"Is this some kind of extortion deal?” asked Terry. “If I knew this town was taken, I never would have…"

"Extortion?” interrupted the short mann. “Please, Mr. Milton. You give me too much credit. On the contrary, you claim to help people deal with supernatural problems. I simply want to see if you can help me."

Each artifact and item from the case was taken in turn and tested against the dark man. None of them fulfilled the promises listed on the case. None could support the claims Terry had made on the steps of the town square.

"Apparently, none of your little items works as advertised. What a pity."

"What do you mean? What are you going to do to me?"

"You see, if your trinkets had worked, my son would no longer be bound by my curse. I made a mistake. Thinking I could evoke my grandfather’s magiks and bring my son back to life.” He motioned toward the dark man beside him. “He wasn’t supposed to die in the accident that took his mother. I never wanted him to die too. It was an accident that took him and it wasn’t fair. I brought his body back but this dark soul is nothing of my son. Now I cannot free him, or me, of this curse. My experiments with Old Man Louis here or the Tompkins boy haven’t got me any closer to curing him.”

"What are you going to do with me?” asked Terry. “Are you going to kill me? Are you going to turn me into one of you?"

"Not exactly."

"What……?"

"You'll see."

A cloud of smoke slowly filled the room. It choked Terry's lungs and nose. It lingered for a while and then receded, leaving Terry all alone in his room.

Terry could not sleep that night, his imagination running wild about the short man and his brush with death. Then he remembered. Four long days with little sleep, two nights of hard liquor with the local color and a horrible lack of proper nourishment must be tinkering with his mind. He didn't believe all of his lies, but they calmed him enough for a few hours of sleep. His head sank into the pillow as he thankfully gave himself up to fatigue.

The next morning began bright and early. The morning air was refreshing and washed away his bizarre adventures from the night before. He parked in his usual spot and started to unpack. There were a few stirring already. "It's that damn witch-craft salesman. He's the one who started all this. He's the one who's killed my son."

Terry turned and saw Mr. Tompkins standing before him.

A crowd began forming around Terry. He was peppered with questions about why he hadn't made someone rich, why Miss Emma hadn’t found a husband, why he hadn't cured someone's cancer.

Terry was scared. He was not sure which was more terrifying, the townspeople's rage or the fact that something truly supernatural seemed to be happening in Redwood. He ducked back into his car. The engine roared to life, but his car was surrounded by fifteen local residents.

Fists crashed down upon the thin metal of his hood. Canes and sticks smacked against the windshield and side windows. His right hand gripped the gear shift and began to shift into drive when the driver's side window shattered into a hundred tiny shards of glass. The glass tore at his face as it showered into the car, cutting his cheek and ear.

A voice from the crowd screamed, “Get him out of there.”

Several sets of hands took hold of his coat and shirt and he was yanked through the shattered window. His head bounced against the inside of the door frame stunning him slightly.

His head was ringing as a coarse length of rope was wrapped around his neck. The other end of the rope flew high over the tree in the center of the square. It drew tight around his throat and he could barely breathe. He tried to speak, but the rope cut off his voice.

All around him were angry, chilling voices screaming for vengeance.

His body jerked upright as the rope lifted him into the air. He dug through his pockets, frantically hoping to find a knife or a tool to help him. His hands fished out a worn deck of Tarot cards which he threw in disgust at the ground beneath him. Pressure built within his lungs and he clawed frantically at the rope. Blackness crept in from the edges of his vision.

He stared at the crowd, silently pleading for help. He found the penetrating crimson stare of the short man. The darkness narrowed to a pinhole filled by the crimson eyes and finally overtook him. His arms grew heavy and his head slumped to his chest. Below his feet were the scattered remnants of his last set of Tarot cards. The deck was torn open and seven cards lay in a traditional card-reading pattern. At the head of the arrangement was the Hangman's card with Justice just below it. A message was scrawled in blood in the dirt beside the cards.

It read, "Curious about the other side?"