Category: Fiction Factor

The bell atop the door jingled and the smell of patchouli incense greeted Tim Wayford as he stepped inside Dr. Oracular’s House of Wonders.

         It was a cramped, cluttered curio shop fashioned from an old, one-story house. The outside was painted (poorly) black, while the inside featured all manner of oddities, mostly crafted or curated by the supernatural avant garde community and placed haphazardly throughout the store.

         A group of small Mason jars filled with a gold-colored substance were situated front and center on the main counter, each with a piece of masking tape slapped on their lids with the words “GHOST GOO” written on them in permanent marker.

         Behind the counter – taking up the entire back wall – were troll dolls of various sizes and hairstyles. What made these novelty items different is the glass eyes common in most had been replaced by eyeballs that seemed particularly large – and particularly human.

         It was creepy, but creepy was what Tim was looking for.

         His best friend, Burton, had long been fascinated by the occult, and had acquired quite a few oddities of his own. Surely, he had already been to Dr. Oracular’s House of Wonders; Tim figured it might be the only place he could’ve gotten a vintage Ouija Board from the early 1900s.

         But Burton had a wedding coming up in two weeks, and Tim wanted to find a fun gag gift to give him during the bachelor party set for Saturday night.

         As Tim picked up one of the Mason jars, a young woman emerged from the back of the store, dressed in black from head to toe – complemented by black lipstick and heavy black eyeliner. The only other color aside from her alabaster skin was a long orange streak that seemed to be painted down the left side of her raven hair.

         “Dr. Oracular, I presume?” Tim said with a smile.

         “Afraid not,” she said, forcing a slight grin. “Name’s Tara, but I’m sure I can answer any questions you might have for the good doctor.”

         “I’m sure you can,” Tim said. “Really, I’m just looking for a gag gift for a buddy of mine. He’s into this kind of stuff and I thought maybe you could steer me towards something that’s small and inexpensive and neat.”

         Tara gave Tim a puzzled look.

         “Yeah,” she said. “We don’t really do gag gifts here. It is, after all, a house of wonders.”

         Tim slowly looked around at the array of products, and then picked up a jar of Ghost Goo.

         “Seriously?” he said. “I mean, I’m not trying to be insulting, but how could something called Ghost Goo not be a gag gift? I’m pretty sure if I opened it up and poured it on a biscuit, it’d taste a lot like honey.”

         Tara snatched the jar away from Tim and placed it back on the counter.

         “Once you buy it, you can do whatever you like with it,” she said. “But if you open the jar, you break the seal. You break the seal, then you cast the spell. And once you cast the spell, you’ve made the purchase, and whatever happens after that is none of my concern or the concern of Dr. Oracular.”

         Tim shook his head.

         “OK,” he said. “I’ll play along. This stuff has magical powers, which is why it costs $25. But it looks like honey … and I can get a jar of honey for about six bucks. So, I could take the label off, write “Ghost Goo” across the top, and my friend would never know the difference.”

         Tara looked at the floor and fidgeted.

         “Oh, he’d know the difference,” she said. “And if he didn’t when you gave it to him, he’d find out quickly. I know Burton … he’s been a patron of ours for years. He’s a serious person, and he takes what we do here quite seriously.”

         Tim sighed and pointed at the trolls.

         “How much is one of those?” he asked.

         “Two hundred dollars,” Tara said.

         Tim’s eyes widened. “Shit … you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he said, almost shouting.  “What’s the cheapest … sorry … what’s the least expensive item you have for sale?”

         Tara placed her hand on a jar of Ghost Goo and pushed it toward Tim.

         “This is it,” she said. “It’s $25. But I tell you what, since you’re new to our shop I’ll sell it to you for $17.50. I’ll even put it in one of our cool little Dr. Oracular’s House of Wonders gift bags and FedEx a certificate of authenticity, signed by Oracular himself with a personalized message. When he comes back in, I’ll have him do it right away and get it to you no later than tomorrow.”

         Tara produced a piece of paper and pen.

         “Just write your address down and I’ll have it sent to you.”

         Tim threw up his hands before leaning over and hurriedly writing down his information. “All right,” he said, reaching for his billfold. “Here’s a 20 – just keep the change. I guess if knows I got it from here it’ll mean something to him.”

         Tara quickly bagged the Ghost Goo and placed it in the bag. “Thank you,” she said. “All of us at Dr. Oracular’s House of Wonders appreciate your business.”

         Tim took the bag, turned toward the door, and pushed it open, exiting the shop with a half-hearted wave. Tara watched him get into his car and drive away.

         “He’s gone, Doc,” she said, glancing back at the storage room.

         Dr. Oracular – a small, round man with a cheap hairpiece and red horn-rimmed glasses – trundled toward the counter.

“Glad you got rid of another jar of honey,” he said, looking at Tara. “I’d have gone as low as 10, so you did well by convincing him to fork over a 20. Say … did you get a look at his eyes, by any chance?”

         Tara gave the thumbs up.

         “Yep … they were blue,” she said.  

    Dr. Oracular glanced at the troll dolls and started taking inventory.

“Wait about an hour and then go to his house,” Dr. Oracular said. “The toxins on the gift bag should’ve taken effect by then, and you’ll be able to do some harvesting. We have a new shipment of dolls coming in, and we’re low on blue eyeballs.”

The bacon sizzled on the portable stove, popping and wheezing as the man indelicately jostled the pieces floating in the cast iron pan.

     Once the meat was crisp and ready, two eggs were dropped into the grease, where their sunny centers were quickly surrounded by bubbling whites.

     “Todd,” said the woman, rummaging through a large paper grocery sack. “I don’t see any plastic spoons or forks – just paper plates and knives and toothpicks – which I have no idea why I packed in the first place.”

     The man chuckled.

     “No big deal, Dana,” he said. “We can eat the bacon with our fingers and balance the eggs on the knives … just like the pioneers of old!”

     This, he thought, was shaping up to be the perfect camping trip.

     His tent had gone up with a minimum of cursing – thanks in large part to Dana’s expertise. She had not only agreed to the overnight outdoors stay; she suggested it. As a former Girl Scout, she jumped at any opportunity to get back to nature.

And that huge cooler he was sitting on was packed with ice and beer – although lighter by two after he cracked open a couple of cans of Coors Light for himself and his partner.

     Darkness had long since fallen and the full moon had risen directly overhead, its beams wriggling through the trees and illuminating every ripple on the lake. Sure, a gourmet dinner by candlelight was romantic, but bacon, eggs and brews by moonlight was a sign of true love.

     Then came the bloodcurdling scream.

     “Oh god, oh god, oh god!” yelled Dana, still clutching the sack of utensils as she stumbled back into the tent, knocking it loose from one of its tie-out points. “What is it, Todd! What is it!”

     Out of instinct Todd ran to Dana, wrapping his arms around her while swiveling his head in an effort to find the source of her terror. Dana then raised her left arm and – hand trembling – pointed toward the woods just beyond their tent.

     At first glance Todd thought some wild animal had wandered upon them, probably lured by the smell of the bacon. But as the moon provided the spotlight and his eyes adjusted, he realized he was eying something else entirely.

     The creature stood well over six feet tall, and was wearing what appeared to be a tattered flannel shirt and blue jeans covered in mud – or blood. Its piercing red eyes were framed by a fur-covered, reddish-brown face, and glistening yellow fangs seemed to hang from its black, quivering lips.

     Wooly hands highlighted by long, crooked fingers and sharp claws were evident when the intruder dropped them at its sides, and they swayed slightly as it slowly inched its way closer to the couple.

     Todd and Dana knew from their previous outdoor excursions there was always danger in the woods, whether it came in the form of a slithering snake or trundled toward them like a black bear does when searching for an easy smash and grab.

     But even though they had set up camp at Werewolf Ridge, they had assumed the site was nothing more than a clever name that might spark campfire stories and occasional jump-scares. Surely it wasn’t a description of its inhabitants.

     But if what they were looking at – with a degree of disbelief – wasn’t a werewolf, it was close enough to give them both a sense of dread.

     “Get away!” Todd yelled. “Leave us alone! I … I have a gun! I swear I do! And I’ll use it … I will!”

     Suddenly, the beast stopped in it tracks.

     “Silver bullets,” the creature said in a guttural voice.

     Dana and Todd looked at each other, then stared at the werewolf.

     It could talk.

     And if it could talk, it could communicate.

     And if it could communicate then, well … maybe the couple could avoid being ripped to shreds and pulled apart like an unsuspecting deer.

     “We don’t want any trouble,” Todd said. “Are you hungry? I’ll bet you’re hungry. Look … we have bacon. Do you know what bacon is? It’s food.”

     Todd then began touching his lips with his fingers in a feeble attempt to mimic the act of eating.

     Neither he nor Dana knew what to expect … perhaps it would howl, or possibly lunge at the bacon. Instead, the creature pointed at the cooler Todd had been sitting on moments before.

Todd and Dana were still fearful – I mean, there was a werewolf standing right in front of them – but mostly they were bemused. Despite a grotesque appearance, it didn’t seem particularly threatening. In fact, the poor creature invited pity.

     Maybe it wanted to be put out of its misery and knew a silver bullet was the only sure way to kill a lycanthrope.

     “Silver bullets,” it said again, pointing at the cooler.

     “Let’s give him what he wants,” Dana said. “Maybe we can distract him and make a run for it.”

     As the werewolf watched intently Todd slowly walked toward the cooler, opened the lid, then quickly backpedaled.

     “Just take it,” Todd said, grabbing Dana’s arm and continuing to retreat. “It’s all yours, buddy. It’s all yours … take it!”

     The beast lumbered toward the chest, reached into its right pocket, and pulled out a $5 bill that was then carefully placed on the ground beside the cooler. Leaning down, it reached into the ice, felt around for a moment, and pulled out two cans of Coors Light.

     “Silver bullets,” said the werewolf, holding the cans up in the air. “I ran out of beer about an hour ago and hoped I could buy a couple from you guys.

     “Appreciate it … have a nice rest of your evening.”

The old man leaned over and patted the dog on the head.

  “You’re a good boy, Hoagie,” Burtram Anchrum said. “You’re a very, very good boy. Just ignore them people … they don’t know nothin’ about nothin.”

  Each day Anchrum walked the same street of the small town, first passing the drug store, then the hardware store, then the fruit stand. Then he turned around and reversed course – first the fruit stand, then the hardware store, then the drug store.

  And each day, he and his faithful companion were the object of stares and the subject of shouts.

  “I know why they’re starin’ at me, Hoagie,” Anchrum said. “They’re just jealous. They see me talkin’ to my pretty little dog and they wish they was me. Every single one of ‘em. They wishes they was me. And that’s why they call you, ‘cause they want you to leave me.”

  “Hoagie!” called out Mr. Duncan, the proprietor of the fruit stand. “Stay out of the road, boy!”

  Mrs. Johnson grabbed a cantaloupe, sniffed it, and then gave it a couple of knocks with her knuckles to see if it was ripe enough.

  Then she let out a sigh.

  “Somebody needs to corral that little dog before he gets hit by a car,” she said.

  “I’m trying,” Duncan said, shaking his head. “He walks by here every day, back and forth … I guess he’s looking for his owner.

  “Poor old Mr. Anchrum dropped dead of a heart attack right in front of my store while he was walking him. He’s been gone for six months now, but it’s like that poor dog refuses to leave his side.”