Weirder Than Weird (10 page)

The remark was followed by a scattering of laughter.

     “Then it’s settled, tomorrow we set sail once again for the Island, our fortunes now rest with the progress made there by our young geologist.”

   
The CEO  raised his glass.

    
“A toast to our lad Westing back at Walrus Island!”

   
“Here! Here!” came the enthusiastic reply of all present as they raised their glasses high and drank to the young man’s health and long life.

SWEET MARY McBRIDE

   
Reverend Carmichael has been heard to say on more than one occasion that he never wanted to stray too far from Mary’s side because when the rapture finally comes he fully intends to latch onto her, thereby ensuring his own deliverance as well. Despite her sixty-seven years, Mary would probably blush if she ever heard such nonsense. All the praise and attention showered upon her by friends from church was much too overwhelming for such a lowly and humble servant of God. Her duty, as she saw it, was to minister to the poor and less fortunate and to do the Lord’s bidding in whatever capacity was required of her. For most of her life, she worked tirelessly at that very thing.

   
On this beautiful Sunday morning, Mary is sitting alone in her garden with a cup of tea in her hand, a bit nervous and a bit apprehensive because in a few minutes her friend Celia would be stopping by to take her to church services. Immediately afterwards, there is to be a party held in her honor. It would surely be a day filled with flowing praises and endless speeches giving full account of her lifetime of good deeds, but Mary is determined to resist the temptation of feeling proud or deserving. Of course, there were many nights spent away from home comforting and nursing sickly members of her congregation back to health, but it was certainly a small price to pay for staying in the good graces of the Lord and besides…she needed the church as much as it needed her; it served to fill an emotional void that was missing in her life, that of feeling wanted and yes… even loved. Richard had never been up to that task; in fact, Mary painfully endured more than forty years of various forms of abuse by her so called husband. She had her church, he had his bottle, and it wasn’t long before the rest of the world stopped inquiring about him because it was painful to watch her try to explain her husband’s continued absence or even the occasional bruised cheek.

   
Mary sipped her tea and delightfully drank in the solitude of the early morning. She loved how the dew sparkled on the leafy vine that delicately intertwined her trellis and how the golden shafts of morning light played upon the fragrant flowers that she lovingly labored to bring to life. At times she could almost imagine her own garden as that of the fabled Eden; this always sent her heart soaring and kept her spirits aloft for a good part of the day. Aside from church, her garden was the only true pleasure she had ever really known.

   
Just beyond the tinkling water fountain and on the other side of a patch of bright Petunias is Mary’s pride and joy; a thicket of beautiful red roses grow there from a recently packed mound of earth. Each petal bearing an exquisitely deep and rich luster, quite unlike anything she had been able to achieve to this point; and just in time because the annual flower show is approaching fast. Mary glanced lovingly at her roses. For many years now, she competed in the flower show with her less than stellar offerings but this year she is certain that she has a true contender for first place. A few months earlier, she pondered what her strategy would be for this year’s event and after much deliberation, an idea finally came to her from out of the past. As a matter of fact, it came from something quite bizarre she had heard as a child.

   
On that day, she spent the morning digging an enormous hole in the corner of her garden. After finishing, she sat on a bench nearby sipping tea and in an odd manner laughing under her breath like a giddy young girl who was abiding the juiciest of gossip. At some point, a bear like roar emanated from the house and moments later, the screen door from the house to the garden burst forth in a loud explosion.

   
A drunken old man staggered his way out into the garden. “Mary!” he screamed with violent and flammable breath. “Damn you! Where the hell is my whiskey old woman!”

   
Mary calmly turned to him and pointed toward her morning project.

    
“There… over there is your horrid tonic old man… in the hole!”

   
The old man’s red lidded eyes immediately flamed with displeasure as he stumbled his way over to the hole and looked down. Upon realizing that his entire stock of expensive drinking whiskey lay at the bottom, a stream of vile obscenities gushed forth and he turned to give her a sound thrashing for her insolence but a shovel seemed to come out of nowhere and hit him square on the forehead, sending him crashing to the bottom of the hole like a sack of wet corn.

   
The old man lay there for a moment, bloodied and dazed, then, slowly and with much difficulty, pulled himself up to the rim. When he looked up through blood and sweat, his eyes fell upon a slight figure standing on the edge of the hole silhouetted against an intense midday sun. The shimmer of warm light surrounding the figure gave the impression of an angelic presence bathed in a halo of holy illumination. For a short moment, a calmness washed over the old man as he studied the divine vision that was undoubtedly interceding on his behalf, but his reverie soon came to a horrible end as the figure raised a staff like object high in the air and brought it down upon his neck with surprising force. The sharp edge of the shovel cut deep and severed the old man’s jugular which sent him sprawling to the bottom of the pit once more in a fountain of red spray.

   
Mary giggled once again softly under her breath as she remembered that fine day. She then turned her thoughts once again to her beautiful roses. “Won’t Celia and the rest of the ladies be jealous of my entry this year!”

    The ladies would certainly be curious to learn the secret to her wonderful roses and when they inquired she would only respond with one word: “RICHARD!” The absurdity of the thought made
her laugh out loud.

   
The door- bell chimed and Mary got up from the bench. She straightened her dress and patted her head just to make sure every hair was in place. Her special day had finally arrived and a charge of excitement now surged through her tired old limbs. Her many years of good deeds were finally about to be recognized and rejoiced over by those who loved her the most and at that very moment she was feeling… well… quite deserving of the day… and to be honest… a little annoyed that it had not come any sooner.

    
THE BLACK BOX OF SUMERIA

Just three blocks down from Ling Fu’s Chinese restaurant and catty corner to the Seacrest Electronic Emporium sits an incongruous little store front called Wilson’s Antiques and Oddities. The shadowy shop appears out of place next to its modern neighbors, itself a vestige of lost Americana, a business with a barely  perceptible heartbeat, much like the patrons who visit it from time to time (old folks mostly, themselves also of museum quality). Visitors to the store are far and few in between these days but on this brisk October morning an eager looking middle-aged man in a yellow wind breaker can be seen standing just outside, clutching a package under his arm and looking up at the lettering on the dusty display window. Satisfied that he was at the correct address, he stepped through the door of the shop and heard the faint sound of a buzzer in the back some
where, announcing his arrival.

The shop itself seemed alive with clicking and ticking sounds, these coming from a variety of wall clocks, their pendulums hanging like elongated tongues from a mouth, wagging to and fro, beckoning customers to look in their direction, as if to say, “Please, take me home. I’ve been hanging here far too long!” Immediately to his right, a wooden cigar store Indian stared back at him with carved black eyes, its once bright paint and lacquer finish now dull and faded by untold years of standing outside some American shop in some American city. As he glanced around, he noticed that everything was coated with a fine layer of dust and there was a distinct mustiness that brought back memories of scrounging around in his grandmother’s cluttered attic when he was a boy, hoping to discover any odd treasure that would help him while away the hours before his mother came to pick him up after a long day at work. “Antiques and Oddities” he thought to himself, “Yes, that certainly fits the bill.”

Stacked tightly against each wall could be seen a collection of old furniture, some interesting and most likely valuable pieces but he wasn’t a collector, nor did he have any special knowledge of such things. A squirrel sitting on a glass counter and holding a nut in its little hands caught his eye. He suddenly became aware that the shop was filled with all types of stuffed animals, like a beautiful golden retriever that stood only a few feet away, next to a drooping book shelf, staring with timeless anticipation of its masters return. There were also quite a number of birds of the stuffed variety, some sitting quietly on shelves while others hung by wire cables from the ceiling, animated in postures of flight, wings splayed and flashing aggressive beady eyes.

The man was becoming quite intrigued by it all when there came from behind, a shuffling of feet across the dusty floor. When he turned, he could see an old man approaching. His first impression was that the old fella was the spitting image of the famous physicist, Albert Einstein. He was gaunt and slightly bent and he wore a faded green sweater vest over a white long sleeve shirt that looked to be in need of a good ironing. A thick pair of spectacles attached to a chain lay across his spare chest. His hair was long and airy, in a wind-swept way, like freshly spun cotton candy. His bushy eye brows and full mustache held the same color of his hair which was a pure snowy white.

“Can I be of assistance?” said the old man in a crepe paper lite voice. The old man was now standing directly in front of him and he could see that his craggy dry face was contoured in a number of deep folds, most noticeably at the corner of his eyes. A fleeting notion crossed his mind to reach up and poke at the dry parchment-like wrinkles, to see if they would somehow make a crackling sound or even perhaps explode in a puff of dust.

“Yes, hello!’ the man said, sticking out his hand. “My name is Richard Dorian. I take
it you’re the proprietor here.”

“That’s right Mr. Dorian…for better or worse, this is my little shop. I’m the owner. My name is Wilson…Stanley Wilson.”

“Well, Mr. Wilson, hopefully, I won’t take up too much of your time. I was given your name after making a number of phone calls. I was told that you were just the man who could possibly give some insight as to what I have here.”

He squeezed the brown paper bag under his arm and it made a crinkly noise (as squeezed paper bags tend to do). Now it was the old man’s turn to feel intrigued.

“Ok, Mr. Dorian.” The old man replied with a half-smile, revealing worn brown nubs of teeth. “Let’s have a seat and take a look at what you’ve got.”

He gestured to a nearby table. They both sat down and the man slid away the paper bag. The object in question was approximately the size of a jewelry box, and like a jewelry box, it contained a lid that hinged open, but that was where the similarities ended. It was made from a type of stone, or at least it appeared to be so. It was a deep black color, polished to a shiny gloss and had strange lettering carved into its top. The man spun it around so the old gentleman could see it more clearly but after a quick glance, the old man flinched and suddenly looked more than a little uneasy. The wrinkles around his eyes disappeared, moving their way up to his forehead where great folds of concern seemed to register.

“Where did you get this Mr. Dorian?” The old man asked, keeping his distance from the box, as though it were the conveyance of some deadly disease.

“I purchased it at an estate sale. Well, actually, I purchased an old steamer trunk full of odds and ends. This box happened to be tucked away at the very bottom. It looked interesting. I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life. Tell you the truth, I was hoping that it might be worth something because I’m in a bit of a financial bind and could use a good windfall about now. Here, let me show you what’s inside...”

He tilted the lid back and they could see more odd lettering carved into the underside of the lid. He then pulled from the box a rectangular black object that was apparently made from the same material as the box. The object resembled what can only be described as a brick, but smaller in dimension. This particular object, however, had a very peculiar feature, it had two round apertures of glass somehow fused into one of its sides.

“When I first saw this thing I was reminded of a toy from my childhood. You know, one of those old View Master jobbies? You’d take a round slide card and drop it into a slot, then advance the pictures with a lever on the side. But this, of course, doesn’t have a slot or anything like that.”

For a few brief moments they both stared at the thing in silence then the old man donned his spectacles and leaned over to study it more closely. Something odd registered on his face, a look of wonder perhaps.

You see it don’t you? The lenses… there’s something like smoke or…or fog flowing behind the lenses isn’t there? Please tell me what you know about this thing Mr. Wilson. You
do
know something because I can read it in your face.”

The old man leaned back in his chair and drew in a great breath of air. His complexion was now
almost the color of his hair.

“Yes, Mr. Dorian, I know
of
this particular item, but mostly from legend passed down through the ages and the occasional discussion with colleagues. What you have before you, if authentic, is ancient. If stories tell right, very ancient, and perhaps the only one in existence. The letters carved into this box look to be Sumerian… a language and civilization long lost for thousands of years. I may, however, be of some help in translating those letters….not because I’m versed in ancient Sumerian mind you, but because…” The old man stopped and held up a finger as if to say, “Wait one moment.” He got up from his chair and shuffled off to the back room. The man was beside himself with anticipation. He was certain that the mystery of the black box was about to be solved, but more importantly, he thought he was close to making a sale.

A few minutes later, the old man returned carrying a large manila folder. From it he pulled out a number of odd sized papers and spread them on the table. “Ah, yes.” He said, snatching one in particular and holding it close to his face for inspection.

“You see Mr. Dorian, I have an old friend who deals in antiquities…more like a collector of sorts. His particular area of interest, his obsession really, has to do with artifacts concerning the occult. On occasion, he will send me notices with descriptions of particular items that I am to keep an eye out for. This gentleman, you’ll be happy to learn, is exceedingly rich and would pay a king’s ransom to acquire that which he is seeking. I think that you may have just fulfilled a life-long quest of his, Mr. Dorian. The one item that has eluded him and the one he desires most of all...The Black Box of Sumeria!”

The old man expressed those last words with such theatrical emotion and such a feeling of underlying dread that the man half expected to hear a sudden burst of scary organ music to accentuate the mood.

“Take a look at this.” The old man continued, holding the paper next to the box. “See how the symbols match exactly? This letter contains the precise translation to the writing on this very box. The words on the lid translate to “DO YOU WANT TO KNOW?” and the first two lines on the underside translate to “THE FATE OF MAN IS SEALED IN STONE. TO FOLLOW THIS COURSE IS TO DISCOVER ONES OWN.”

“What the hell does that mean?” the man asked with a confused look, a few beads of sweat now forming on his forehead.

“Legend states, Mr. Dorian, that this box allows the user to witness his own future, or more to the point…to witness his own death!”

The notion struck the man as quite absurd and he laughed out loud.

The old man’s face remained dark. “I wouldn’t jest about things of this nature Mr. Dorian, or in any way take them lightly. I am reminded of a bit of Shakespeare that seems to apply here…”There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of...”

“
More theater
!” the man thought to himself and laughed again, but the old man ignored his impertinent outburst.

“Now, the last few lines explain the steps that one must follow in order to the see the task through to completion.” He stopped and stared with expectancy, checking to see if he should continue.  The man motioned with his h
and, indicating that he should.

“It concludes with…THUMB PRINT OF BLOOD, BURN BY FLAME, REPEAT THE SACRED WORDS, AGAIN AND AGAIN,”

“The words to complete the ritual, Mr. Dorian, are…TIBUS-REMUS-SATANUS.”

“TIBUS-REMUS-SATANUS?” The man repeated. Now, what the hell does
that
mean?”

The old man shrugged his shoulders and smiled
. “How the hell should I know?”

Mr. Dorian laughed. “Well, your story is quite spooky Mr. Wilson but let’s get serious for a moment shall we? How do I get in touch with this collector friend of yours? Or maybe…you’re interested in purchasing yourself?”

The old man’s face blanched at the suggestion. “Oh no, Mr. Dorian, I would never take possession of this box. Quite frankly, I think it’s…well, let’s just say I have a bad feeling about it and let’s leave it at that. However, if you write down your phone number, I will pass it on to my friend. I’m sure he will be most eager to contact you to discuss its purchase. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you got a call this very night.”

As he was leaving the shop, he glanced back around, taking one last look at the old gentleman who was shuffling slow and stiff toward the back room. If he should ever revisit Wilsons Antiques and Oddities in the years to come, he wouldn’t be surprised to see the old man stuffed and propped up next to the golden retriever. It would, he thought, be a timeless and fitting tribute for the dusty old shop owner.

Later that evening, back at his apartment, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down at the kitchen table to read the days mail. He pulled back on the tab only to see it break off, leaving it half open.  He tried forcing the stubborn piece of metal down into the can with the tip of his finger but he paid an immediate price. Bright drops of blood materialized and dribbled to the table below, forming a small puddle of red. “Damn!” he said and rushed to grab a nearby stack of napkins. He wrapped his finger and was about to wipe the blood from the table when a thought crossed his mind. He looked down at the box on the table. Ever since he laid eyes on it he was consumed by a nagging curiosity of what lay beyond those smoky lenses. He even tried at one point to pry them open but he found the task quite impossible. He realized that this just might be the only opportunity he’ll ever have to discover its secret. Something in the back of his mind urged him to light the small votive candle on the table. A few seconds later it was burning. He pressed his right thumb into the puddle of blood and transferred the print onto one of the junk mail envelopes. He tore away the portion containing the thumb print and held it over the flame. It slowly burned with a slight hiss. He searched his memory for the words that the old man had read to him. “TIBUS…RE…REMUS…SATANUS. Yes! That’s it! TIBUS-REMUS-SATANUS! He repeated the phrase a number of times until the paper was reduced to a crispy black piece of ash burning at the end of his fingers. He immediately picked up the viewer and stared into its lenses with eager anticipation but the swirl of mist behind the lenses didn’t change in the least and he couldn’t help but laugh at the silliness of it all. That’s when the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Yes, hello, am I speaking with Richard Dorian?”

“You are. How can I help you?”

“Mr. Dorian, I’m the gentleman that Mr. Wilson spoke to you about earlier. I must say, I’m delighted to hear that the black box of Sumeria truly exists. Let me be Frank, Mr. Dorian. I must have this artifact for my personal collection and am willing to pay a sum off…”