I’m A Guest on Take A Sip
A big thanks to Michael Poole for having me as a guest on his podcast “Taking A Sip.” We discuss spirituality, podcasting, kilts, drum corps, ASMR, the arts and tons of other things. Give it a watch!
You May Be Right. I May Be Crazy.
(L to R) The author, circa 1979. Italian-looking singer-songwriter, Billy Joel.
When I was in high school, I idolized the kind of NY, Italian, street gang-guy I saw in celebs like Billy Joel and Stallone. I really wanted to be in a street gang, which, if you know me, you know how completely asinine even the thought of that is. But I didn’t want to be in a real street gang, I wanted to be in more of a movie street gang. I didn’t want to actually hurt people, I wanted to strut around the streets like Travolta in a leather jacket, maybe smoking cigarettes. I wanted to know some guys named Mikey and Vinnie. Maybe learn to use the f-word occasionally and not feel guilty about it. That’s all I knew. I really wanted to be a Baptist preacher and I carried around a copy of The Cross and the Switchblade with me all of the time. It was a book about a preacher who went to New York to save the street gangs. I figured I could do that. Maybe have the best of both worlds. Although I would have to nix the f-word probably.
One year, I asked for a leather jacket for Christmas. My parents couldn’t afford a real leather jacket so they got me a vinyl one. It looked a lot like the real thing and I wore it all the time in high school and college. I’m wearing it in this photo. It looks a lot like Billy Joel’s but, I’m guessing, his was real leather. I always imagined I’d one day get to go to a “rumble” in my jacket, but I never did. Once, the neighborhood bullies tried to challenge my brothers to a fight and I thought it was the perfect opportunity, so I grabbed my jacket and a long chain I’d been saving for the occasion, but my dad went out and ran the bullies off so nothing really happened. Eventually, I changed over to Billy Joel’s “suit jacket and loose tie” style, which seemed to work much better for me.
When I was in middle school, my dad started getting into a new hobby of selling things at flea markets. He was a school teacher but would do the flea market stuff on the weekends and he ended up making more money doing that than he did teaching. So I grew up around flea market culture. I’m still fascinated by the southern flea market characters I encountered every weekend. Flea Markets, antique stores, secondhand shops, thrift stores are all still a huge part of my life. It gets in your blood and won’t come out. Like a stiletto. Sorry. I go to antique stores just to relax. I could spend an entire weekend doing nothing but visiting thrift stores and antique shops. Last week I stopped by a thrift store to look for some junk pieces I could recycle as art. While I was there I saw a really cool leather jacket. It still had all of the tags on it. And, holy crap, it was exactly my size! I can never buy clothes off the rack because I have freakishly long arms but this jacket fit perfectly. And it was only $25!
I used to never buy or wear anything leather. I’m vegetarian because I’m an animal lover and I never thought it was right to not eat animals but still wear them. Then, I decided to wear a kilt for a year in 2012 and I had to buy leather stuff. Boots, straps, vests, all that stuff that makes you look more cool in a kilt. I also started eating fish last year, so screw the animals! Dang, I should have used the f-word there. No wonder I never got in a street gang.
I bought the jacket. I took it home and cleaned it the way the leather stores I Googled said I should clean leather jackets. Last night I put it on for the first time in it’s full, freshly laundered, glory. I dug out the switchblade knife I have been keeping in my nightstand— in case The Bishops want to start some shit— and I came out to the kitchen to see what my wife thought. She laughed. Laughed? It wasn’t really the response I was looking for. I mean, this is a real fucking leather jacket! But while she was laughing, she also took off her bra. It was like she did it without even thinking. I don’t even know if she knows why she was taking it off. It just happened. Dang, the first time I put on a real leather jacket and the first girl I see immediately whips off her bra. I knew it!
Farm Fresh Eggs
Fiona Blaine opened her eyes, squinting at the glowing numbers on the digital clock. Without her glasses, she could only make out the faint outline of the time. It was 5:29. One minute before the alarm. She reached out and shut it off just in time, not disturbing her husband, Sonny.
She sat up slowly and fumbled for her glasses on the nightstand. A silent prayer of thanks crossed her mind for the extra few minutes of sleep on the weekends. Every weekday for the past fifty-two years, Fiona had been up at 4 a.m. to prepare breakfast for Sonny. Weekends were a brief reprieve, a chance to sleep in until six. But today was different. Today was the Cocke County Celtic Festival, and for the past forty-nine festivals in a row, Sonny had led the parade with his bagpipes and full, dress kilt. She would need to start breakfast earlier this morning.
Fiona wrapped herself in her cream-colored flannel robe and tiptoed to the kitchen. She flicked on the light and froze in her tracks. In the middle of the floor lay Monster, their old black lab, his eyes barely open. She sighed, relieved that at least the dog hadn’t stirred in his sleep. Fiona opened the fridge, scanned the contents, and planned her steps carefully: biscuits first, bacon next, and finally Sonny’s favorite cheese scrambled eggs.
The eggs!
Her heart sank as she scanned the refrigerator’s contents. The egg carton was missing. How could she have forgotten to pick up eggs yesterday? Sonny would be up soon, expecting his usual cheese scrambled eggs.
She knew what he would say, too. He’d remind her this wouldn’t have been a problem if the door to the chicken coop hadn’t been left open a year ago this September when, in the middle of the night, a fox or coyote or something had entered the coop and killed all five of their good-laying hens. Fiona didn’t remember leaving the door open, and Sonny said he certainly would never have done such a thing. It was the biggest quarrel they had had in their marriage. Sonny finally just said to heck with it; he wasn’t replacing the chickens. They’d have to start buying eggs at the grocery store like city folk do.
And that’s exactly what Fiona would have to do this morning. Drive to the all-night grocery store for a carton of eggs. Grabbing her rabbit coat and the keys to the Lincoln, Fiona slipped out the door to the garage. At this hour, there’d be no one at the store to care about her bed hair and disheveled appearance. She adjusted the car’s seat and mirrors from Sonny’s preferences, cranked the heater, and set off down Sussex Road.
Cooper’s 24-Hour Grocery was only three miles away, so she had plenty of time. She’d be in and out, eggs in hand, before Sonny even noticed she was gone. She didn’t worry about Monster waking him up; after all, that dog hadn’t barked in four years.
As she passed the old church cemetery, she noticed something unusual ahead. A faded wagon by the roadside. Her headlights illuminated a cardboard sign: “Ordell’s Farm Fresh Eggs.”
“Thank you, Lord!” Fiona exclaimed, relieved. Local farmers often set up roadside stands, and she was grateful for the shortcut. She pulled over and stepped out of the car.
The wagon’s stand was dimly lit by the full moon, aided by the scarlet tail lights of her car. She approached and noticed a figure wrapped in a blanket, sitting motionless by the eggs.
“Good morning!” she called cheerfully. “Lordy, you have saved me! I was just starting breakfast and realized I forgot the eggs! Can you believe that? I don’t know what’s wrong with my head lately.” She squinted at the figure, trying to make out details. The blanket was too thick to see anything clearly.
“Are you Ordell?” she asked. “Hello? Anyone there?”
A hand stretched from under the blanket and pointed silently at the eggs.
Fiona smiled. “My husband loves his eggs. I’ll take a dozen, please.” She gathered a dozen large eggs into her basket. “Thank you so much for being here. I was about to drive all the way to the store. How much do I owe you, Ordell?”
The blanketed figure remained silent.
Fiona placed a five-dollar bill on the stand and muttered to herself, “He probably doesn’t even speak English.” She felt a twinge of sympathy. “Poor man’s just out here early, trying to make a living.”
Relieved, she scurried back to the car, though a bit unsettled by the strange quiet of their encounter. The eerie silence from the figure on the roadside lingered in her thoughts.
When she returned to the kitchen, Monster had moved from the kitchen floor to the bedroom. She didn’t think much of it. She was too focused on getting breakfast started. She set the eggs on the counter, then retrieved the biscuit dough from the fridge. As she kneaded it, she thought about the comfort of mornings like this; the warmth of the oven and the sounds and scent of bacon frying in the pan. She knew the smell would soon drift to the bedroom, waking Sonny in the gentlest of ways. When the bacon was done, Fiona poured most of the grease into the “Bacon Grease” container, leaving just enough to flavor Sonny’s eggs.
She cracked an egg against the side of the iron skillet. Fiona wanted to scream when the first cold, slimy tentacle emerged from the egg, but she was prevented from doing so as it wrapped twice around her mouth. The second tentacle was thinner and sleeker, resembling a lizard’s tail. It crawled up her neck and sprouted tiny fingers that twitched and spread across her scalp. Two of the finger-like appendages descended her forehead and pierced through her eye sockets. Her glasses fell to the floor, and she got the feeling she would never be needing them again.
From the broken shell in her left hand, a dark, bristly mass emerged, pulsating and expanding rapidly. Veins and filaments spread, its viscous fluids oozing over her hand. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she slumped against the stove, her body growing cold. All she could think was, “Where is Monster? Why doesn’t Monster hear this noise and come running to my rescue?” Then she realized it was, after all, Monster. That dog hadn’t heard a single sound in the past three years.
Fiona’s body convulsed as the mass launched a cord into her chest, injecting a yellowish liquid into her heart. The liquid spread rapidly, dissolving her from within, but on the outside, it exploded into a glob of golden bio-goo that coated the cabinets, the stove, and the oven.
Monster ambled into the kitchen, sniffing at the goo dripping from the oven door. He licked it lazily, then circled twice before settling in the middle of the floor to sleep.
Several moments later, Sonny entered the kitchen, dressed in his usual pre-parade attire. He expected to find Fiona at the stove, but she wasn’t there. Puzzled by her absence, he glanced around. Her robe lay in a heap near the stove. He looked in the living room and the second bathroom, but found no clues to her whereabouts. The car was in the garage, and Fiona’s rabbit coat was draped over the rocking chair. He thought maybe she had gone out for a morning walk, as she often did. “That’s probably what she was doing last year when she left the door to the chicken coop open,” he muttered to himself. “Or, maybe she just went to the end of the driveway to get the mail or the morning paper.” He was confident that Fiona would return soon.
Sonny approached the stove, his eyes widening at the sight of the plate brimming with warm biscuits, crispy bacon, and delectable cheese. He stirred the contents of the iron skillet, then carefully transferred the fluffy, golden eggs onto his plate. Sitting down at the table, he offered a silent prayer of gratitude for the breakfast before him. With a contented sigh, he scooped a generous portion of cheesy scrambled eggs onto his biscuit. The cheese was perfectly melted, just the way he liked it, and the eggs appeared fluffier and sweeter than usual. “Fiona has truly outdone herself this morning,” he thought. As he gazed out the kitchen window, he noticed an old wagon passing by the house, and thought about how Fiona had made his breakfast every day for the past 52 years. “This morning,” he thought, “may have been the best he’s ever had.” With a satisfied smile, he wiped his mouth, knowing that Fiona’s love for him was evident in every bite.
“Damn good eggs!”
©2018 Rick Baldwin. Revision ©2024. All Rights Reserved.
(COPYRIGHT NOTICE – This story is under the full copyright of the author who gives permission for royalty-free performance/readings of the story for non commercial purposes. This story must not be changed or altered in any way without permission of the author. Any performance of this story must credit the author, Rick Baldwin. This story may not be reprinted without permission of the author.)
The Curse of Brigid McGhee
In the mid-1800s, Brigid McGhee’s Pub and Inn stood as the vibrant heart of Clonglash, a quaint town nestled on the edge of Ireland’s Brehon Forest in County Donegal. Farmers, merchants, sailors, and wanderers from across the region would gather around its smoky hearth, seeking solace and camaraderie over a frothy pint. However, its allure extended beyond mere indulgence; it served as a refuge, a bustling crossroads, and, as some whispered, a sanctuary of dark magic.
The townsfolk often whispered rumors about Brigid herself. Some claimed she practiced witchcraft, weaving spells into her daily routines. These whispers lingered in her family history, as her great-grandmother had been executed for sorcery decades earlier. Brigid never directly addressed the accusations, but she didn’t entirely discourage them either. Locals seeking remedies for ailments, amulets for good fortune, or incantations for revenge would often slip her secret requests over the bar.
In 1862, Melvyn Frazier, a dashing Scottish whisky merchant, became a frequent visitor to the inn while traveling between Letterkenny and beyond. With his captivating crystal-blue eyes, wavy gray hair, and vibrant tartan kilt, Melvyn charmed almost everyone, including Brigid. Despite her usual aloofness towards men’s advances, she found herself irresistibly drawn to him. Their undeniable chemistry was evident, but their intimate encounters remained discreetly hidden from prying eyes and gossiping tongues.
Love turned sour. By late September, Brigid confided in her closest friend, Ann Donnelly, that Melvyn’s affection felt like a ruse. He had been pressuring her to stock his Frazier Scotch whisky at the pub. When she hesitated, he became increasingly irritable and demanding. Their final argument erupted in the early hours of a foggy morning. In a fit of rage, Melvyn slapped Brigid, threatening to burn her inn to the ground if she didn’t comply. Clutching a dagger, Brigid drove him away.
On a particularly blustery October night, the pub was filled with locals when Melvyn made a dramatic return, arm-in-arm with a woman adorned in gaudy finery and perfumed. As he approached a table, he made a loud announcement, ordering, “Two Frazier Scotch whiskies! One for me and one for the lady!”
Brigid scowled. “We don’t stock Frazier Scotch whisky,” she snapped, “and judging by the looks of it, there’s no lady here either.”
The room erupted in laughter, but Melvyn remained unfazed. “I hope you’ve freshened the sheets,” he said smugly. “We’ll be staying at the inn tonight.”
“Like hell you will!” Brigid spat. “There are plenty of barns for the likes of you.”
Melvyn smirked, tipped his hat, and sauntered out with his companion. At the door, he turned back. “Happy Samhain to you, Miss McGhee. Enjoy the Scotch whisky.”
Hours later, long after the last patron had departed, Brigid awoke to frantic cries of alarm: “Fire! Fire at the inn!”
Rushing outside, she witnessed her cherished inn engulfed in flames. The roaring inferno illuminated the night sky, consuming the timber walls. Tragically, the guests inside were trapped, their screams soon silenced. As Brigid gaped in horror, someone shouted, “The pub!” Flames danced around its edges, spreading rapidly. By dawn, both buildings lay reduced to smoldering ashes. Seven souls had perished in the inn.
The following day, near the forest’s edge, Brigid stumbled upon a whisky cask bearing the unmistakable Frazier name. The parting words of Melvyn echoed in her mind: “Enjoy the Scotch whisky.”
For weeks, the villagers buzzed with tales of Brigid’s wrath. Some swore they witnessed her soaring across the night sky on a broomstick, vowing vengeance. Others claimed she transformed into a bat, darting between the ruins. Regardless of the accounts, one thing was certain: Brigid McGhee herself had vanished from Clonglash.
Melvyn Frazier returned to the village only once more. On Halloween night, Ann Donnelly stumbled upon his mutilated body in a forest glen near the ruins. His limbs were neatly stacked and wrapped in his tartan kilt, while his torso dangled from a tree by a crude noose tied to his manhood.
Life continued in Clonglash. A year after the devastating fire, Ann and her husband, Mac, embarked on the arduous task of rebuilding the pub. Despite its revival, Ann remained resolute in her decision to refuse serving Scotch whisky, driven by the lingering presence of Brigid. Mac, tempted by the potential financial gain, attempted to persuade her, but Ann stood firm in her conviction.
Five years later, a bartender named Connor Quinn defied the ban and secretly sold Scotch whisky to patrons. One night, as revelers raised their glasses, an unusual fog seeped into the pub. It swirled around Connor’s head, choking him until he collapsed. The whisky barrel beneath the bar burst open, its contents igniting in an unexpected blaze. The fire consumed Connor and every patron holding a Scotch whisky.
As the flames crackled, Brigid’s voice rang out, “I warned ye! Scotch whisky has no place in Clonglash!”
From that fateful day onward, no one in Clonglash dared touch Scotch whisky. Brigid’s curse became legendary, told in pubs and by firesides far beyond Donegal. However, across the globe, there are always the audacious, the skeptical, and the reckless who raise their glasses of Scotch in defiance of her warning.
A century later, on a stormy Halloween night, a pub in Belfast hosted a boisterous celebration. The air was filled with laughter, and glasses of Scotch whisky clinked as revelers toasted their good fortune. Among them was a young man, bold and brash, who heard the tale of Brigid McGhee and scoffed at it.
“Ghosts and curses! What a load of rubbish!” he declared, raising his glass. “To Brigid McGhee! May she haunt someone else tonight!”
The pub patrons erupted in laughter, but as the whisky touched his lips, the lights flickered ominously. The laughter abruptly ceased, replaced by a sudden chill that swept through the room. The fire in the hearth extinguished itself, plunging the pub into an unsettling darkness and silence.
From the darkness emerged a voice, low and venomous: “You dared to toast me with that poison?”
The young man’s glass shattered in his hand, the shards drawing blood. He gasped, clutching his throat, as if unseen fingers were squeezing the life from him. Around the room, glasses of Scotch whisky shattered, their contents spilling onto the floor. The air was filled with the acrid smell of brimstone and smoke.
“Get out!” someone screamed, and the patrons fled into the blustery night. Behind them, the pub erupted in flames, the fire dancing unnaturally, taking the shape of a woman’s face—Brigid McGhee’s face. The young man was never found, and the pub was reduced to ashy ruins.
Legend has it that Brigid McGhee’s wrath intensifies with each defiance. Those who drink Scotch whisky on Halloween are said to hear her voice, feel her icy breath, or glimpse her shadow amidst the flames. Some claim she appears in the mirror behind the bar, her eyes watching, waiting.
So, the next time you raise a glass of Scotch whisky in defiance, think twice. For Brigid McGhee’s curse transcends borders, time, and mercy. And if you hear a faint whisper in the wind or feel the glass grow icy in your hand, know it’s already too late.
©2018 Rick Baldwin. Revision ©2024 All Rights Reserved.
(COPYRIGHT NOTICE – This story is under the full copyright of the author who gives permission for royalty-free performance/readings of the story for non commercial purposes. This story must not be changed or altered in any way without permission of the author. Any performance of this story must credit the author, Rick Baldwin. This story may not be reprinted without permission of the author.)
The Scarlet Kilt
I don’t think it will spoil my story one bit if I tell you upfront that I’m dead. It isn’t the fact that I’m dead that makes my tale most interesting, but how I ended up dead. This is that story.
I started long-haul truck driving the year I was discharged from the Marines. October of ’78, I was driving a load of toothpicks to the East Coast. It was late Halloween night, nearing 2 a.m., and the trick-or-treat goblins had long gone to bed. I’d just passed through Whitefish, Montana, when the logs I was carrying and my eyelids started feeling a couple tons heavier. Making good time on my haul, I figured it was a good opportunity to pull over at the next truck stop for coffee and a cheeseburger.
After miles of pitch-black driving, I finally saw light up ahead. A small greasy spoon, no bigger than a mobile home, sat just off the road, bathed in red neon light. The sign out front read “The Scarlet Kilt.” It could’ve been “The Purple Panties” for all I cared; I was hungry and needed caffeine. I pulled over.
Inside was the kind of place you’d see a thousand times if you’d been on the road as long as I had. Same heartburn-inducing food, same tired employees. But there was something about this joint, something slightly off. I walked in, lit a Marlboro, and took a seat at a small wooden table in the darkest corner.
I propped a menu in front of my face and pretended to read while I scanned my surroundings. An old cowboy in filthy clothes sucked down a brew, while a leathery-faced woman, old enough to be his mom, chewed on his ear. A white-bearded biker with a massive gut stood up, fished his wallet out of his pants, and punched Jim Stafford’s “Spiders and Snakes” into the jukebox, then walked out. Behind the counter, the cook, a hulking, Elliott Gould look-alike, flipped greasy patties and chomped on a stogie. The whole scene was a tableau of roadside stereotypes and eccentricities.
A sharp cackle broke through the haze of smoke and grease. A short, middle-aged waitress skittered to the counter, whipping a rag around like a ninja weapon.
“Arnie, sugar, if your burgers get any blacker, we’re gonna need coal shovels!”
The cook didn’t flinch. The waitress glanced at me, grabbed a pitcher of water, and strutted over with a smile that shifted between sassy and sinister.
“Don’t let that scare you, doll,” she said. “I wouldn’t say it to his face, but Arnie makes a fantastic cheeseburger. I just love busting his balls. I’ve been doing it for 25 years, but between you and me, he doesn’t hear well, so I’m not even sure he knows I’m doing it.”
She poured ice water.
“Welcome to The Scarlet Kilt, handsome,” she said. “I’m Evanora. Owner, CEO, and your waitress tonight. What can I get for you?”
“Cheeseburger and coffee,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Tom. What can I get for you?”
She leaned in, shaking my hand with a crooked smile. “Honey, I think I’ve got everything I need. This place, my little upstairs apartment, and a steady stream of good-looking men like yourself dropping by. Hey, a girl never gets tired of that kind of eye candy, even when it’s not Halloween.”
She winked, and it made my heart skip a beat. “And you, Mr. Tom… well, you’re the type of eye candy that would make a girl happy she brought an extra-large Trick or Treat sack. What’s a handsome guy like you doing out here so late anyway? Don’t you know only maniacs and murderers come out this time of night?”
“That rig out there stacked with timber? That’s mine,” I said. “I don’t know what they’re going to use all that wood for, and that’s not my problem, but me and that wood are currently on our way to West Virginia.”
She tilted her head, eyes twinkling. “That sure is a lot of wood you’re packing there. But I’ll bet you’ve heard that before. Wait, your name isn’t something ironic like ‘Tom Woods,’ or ‘Tom Plank’? Oh god, please tell me you are the world-famous porn star, Tom Logg…”
“Corbett,” I interrupted. “Tom Corbett. Yours?”
She shrugged. “Sugar, there’ve been too many last names. I’ve lost track. Just call me Evanora.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Evanora. Let me guess, you really love peaches.”
She blinked at me. “Peaches?”
I pointed at her necklace, a string of polished peach pits. “Either you really love peaches, or your kid won the arts and crafts blue ribbon at church camp.”
She grinned. “I’m a Georgia peach, born and raised. Haven’t been there in years, though. This necklace reminds me and keeps me grounded.”
“A southern belle?” I said. “I would never have guessed.”
“It’s been a long time,” she replied. “I didn’t fit in down there. Came out here to find myself. I’m a Montana girl at heart now. Anyway, let me put your order in and check on Monty. He’s the one over there wearing the cowboy hat and the whore. I’ll be back with some hot coffee in a couple of minutes.”
She strutted back to the counter, and I watched her go, not even trying to hide the way my eyes followed her. The place did have a weird energy, but Evanora had a way of making everything feel a little lighter. A nice change from the monotonous stretches of highway I’d been driving.
A few more customers came in and out, and Evanora continued to make her rounds to my table, squeezing my shoulder or giving me a flirtatious rub on the neck. I was starting to wonder how to make a move on her when Monty, the cowboy, and his leathered lady staggered out.
“Arnie,” she said, laughing, “your cooking has run off another one!”
She winked at me again. Her flirtations grew bolder with each pass of my table. By the time my burger and coffee arrived, I was more interested in her than the food. As I finished the last of my coffee, she plopped herself onto my lap.
“My shift is over, sugar,” she said, fingers tracing down my arm. “I don’t think I want to go home alone tonight. What do you say you come with me? No strings attached. You hit the road first thing in the morning, no questions asked.” She didn’t wait for a reply. “You look like you could use a shower and a soft bed. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Just wait five minutes after I go out the front, then follow me ‘round the back, up the stairs.”
She kissed my cheek before prancing off. I waited five minutes, paid my bill, and left a generous tip. I made my way around the back of the diner, climbed the stairs to her apartment, and found the door unlocked as promised. Stepping inside, the comforting scent of incense and candle wax greeted me. The place exuded a cozy, museum-like atmosphere, its shelves crowded with eclectic trinkets, Celtic amulets, and a few peculiar stuffed animals. Above the fireplace hung a picture of a younger Evanora sitting on the lap of a smiling, red-bearded guy. A painting of a man with a goat head hung above them. Despite its quirky charm, the place felt oddly welcoming.
Evanora appeared, wearing a cherry-colored satin robe, barefoot and stunning. She carried two mugs of tea. “Hope you’re up for a cup,” she said, giving me a smile. “I make it myself. Helps me sleep. China Black, chamomile, rose hips… a few other things.”
I took the tea and sipped. It tasted earthy, with a faint sweetness. She led me to the couch. “Let me show you something,” she said, digging through a cabinet. She produced a small box, opened it, and revealed a hand-rolled joint. “I hope you don’t mind. Helps me relax.”
She lit the joint, took a long drag, and offered it to me. The smoke made my head swim, and the tea’s warmth spread through my body like a spell.
“My ex, Rory, was Scottish,” she said. “He taught me the craft when I was 19.”
“Craft?” I asked, my voice getting a little sleepy.
“Witchcraft. It isn’t what everyone thinks,” she said, lighting the joint again. “No baby-eating or cat-mutilating nonsense. No one does that kind of thing. It’s about nature and purification. Each of us has our own gift. Mine? Energy manipulation. I transfer energy.”
I looked at her, wondering if I should laugh. “I know, sounds weird,” she said, “but it’s real. In witchcraft, we’re all free to do our own thing, so we concentrate on the things we do best.”
The weed started kicking in. My mind was swirling with abstract thoughts. The witchy talk was making my head spin. Maybe there was something more than tea in my cup. A sudden surge of desire rose up in me, and before I knew it, I leaned in toward her. I wasn’t sure how I felt about making love to a witch, but I was ready to find out.
“I have that same philosophy,” I said. “Free to do my own thing. But to tell you the truth, right now, I’d rather do yours.”
I moved in, and pressed my lips to hers. She tasted like rose hips and vanilla, and the sweet scent of herbs perfumed the air of the room. Her tongue brushed against my mouth, and I loosened the tie on her robe while she undid mine. Our hands searched each other’s bodies as we sank back onto the couch.
We fucked for what felt like an infinity, the details of which are best left to memory, but it was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I wanted more, but Evanora stood up, her body moving gracefully as she began to dance around the living room. Her nude, middle-aged figure still carried the vibrancy of someone far younger, and as she closed her eyes, she seemed to be lost in her own rhythm. I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she swayed like a wood nymph, her movements slow, deliberate, and hypnotic.
She stretched out her arms.
“Dance with me, baby.”
I’ve never been shy, but dancing naked with a witch? That was a new one for me. I stood and joined her, unsure of my own movements. At first, I mimicked her graceful flow, but it was clear she was listening to some music only she could hear. It didn’t matter; I let her take the lead. Her arms rose above her head, and she skipped around as if caught in a magical trance. I followed her, trying my best to keep up.
She ran her hands over her own body, moving like she was making love to the air or some invisible presence. Her dance became more sensual, almost hypnotic. At first, I didn’t hear anything, but then, slowly, the music began to seep into my mind, like it had existed somewhere in the corners waiting to come out. I didn’t question it. We had connected on a deep level, and I could feel her energy wrapping around mine. Sweat dotted my skin, and my heartbeat quickened. We moved faster, spinning and twirling around the coffee table.
Suddenly, she stopped. She lifted her head and arms, her body still, and she whispered something in a language I wasn’t familiar with.
“Naestra, finna, toldor enna candorom! Shallae umstra lammacrom!”
She grabbed a stalk of herbs from the table and held it to embers in the fireplace. It caught alight immediately, and she placed it back on the table, where the fire quickly died, but the stalk smoldered. With a swift movement, she darted off to a closet and returned with what looked like a red kilt.
I froze. “What is this?”
“A gift,” she said. “Something special. Something passed down.”
I stared at the kilt. There was something unnatural about it. It seemed to have a strange, magnetic pull, as though it was waiting for me.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” I asked.
“Put it on,” she said, her voice suddenly hard, almost commanding. “It’s for you. It’s time.”
This woman seemed a little too old for dress-up, but I know a lot of people into role playing, so I didn’t argue. I was reluctant, but somehow… I couldn’t say no. Maybe it was the weed still clouding my head, or maybe it was something else. I was under her spell, and I complied. As soon as the kilt fastened, it began to glow, the red light intensifying. That was freaky. I tried to remove it. The buckles scortched my fingers.
Panic set in as the whole room felt different now. An unexplainable electricity charged the air. Everything about Evanora, about this place, now seemed different. It was no longer a night of lust, no longer an adventure. There was something ancient, something sinister here. I could feel it pressing against my chest, making it difficult to breathe.
Evanora moved slowly around me, her eyes locking on mine. “Do you feel it now?” she asked. “The change? The power?”
It was impossible not to feel it. When she first asked me to put the kilt on, I didn’t know what it meant. I thought it was just some strange fetish of hers. Now, as the kilt pressed against my skin and seemed to burn deeper into me, I began to understand. This wasn’t just a costume. It was a power. A force. It was taking over me. I tried to tear it off, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Don’t!” Evanora said. “You’re ours now, Tom. You belong to me and Rory. Just like all the others before you.”
Her words didn’t make sense to me, but then, through the haze, I remembered the peach pit necklace, the one nestled between the soft curve of her chest. At first, I hadn’t thought much about it, distracted by her beauty, her voice, her… presence. Now I could see it clearly.
Each of those seeds—not pits at all—but trophies. Mementos of conquests in her twisted collection. The men she had seduced, transformed, and consumed. I was simply another name on that long, horrific list. A notch on her belt. Another pit to add to her collection.
“Don’t resist it, Tom,” she said. “You’re giving Rory the gift of eternal life.”
I tried to scream—make any kind of noise, but the kilt had consumed me. It wasn’t physical anymore. It was spiritual. It was as if the very essence of me was being erased, rewritten, and remade into something else. Someone else. This kilt was alive, a vessel woven with threads of ancient magic and bound by blood oaths. It was Rory’s spirit pulsing within its glowing fibers, his unending life fueled by the stolen essence of those who dared to wear it. I became an offering, feeding Rory’s eternity.
The energy of the kilt surged, and Rory materialized. His form was radiant yet terrifying. A menacing smile grew beneath his red beard. He reached out, and I felt the last remnants of myself slip away, leaving only empty silence where once my soul had been.
The kilt fell limp, its glow dimmed. I was gone—no, transformed. No longer myself but a fragment of Rory’s eternal being. The kilt would wait, as it always had, for the next fool to continue its cycle. Rory was alive, and I was nothing more than two charms on a Montana witch’s necklace.
©2017 Rick Baldwin. All Rights Reserved.
(COPYRIGHT NOTICE – This story is under the full copyright of the author who gives permission for royalty-free performance/readings of the story for non commercial purposes. This story must not be changed or altered in any way without permission of the author. Any performance of this story must credit the author, Rick Baldwin. This story may not be reprinted without permission of the author.)
Fergus MacDuff
For as long as I can remember, the name “Fergus MacDuff” has been a part of my consciousness. When I was a child, my parents used the name as a threat or motivation for correction. “If you don’t clean your plate, Fergus MacDuff will get you. Clean your room or Fergus MacDuff will find you in the night.” As kids, we imagined old Fergus MacDuff lived under our beds, his long, dirty fingers grasping for our ankles every time we went to turn in for the night. Most of the time we would run to our beds and take a long dive onto the safety of the mattress, relieved we avoided another murderous, grasp by Fergus MacDuff.
The reality was Fergus MacDuff didn’t live under our beds but, rather, in an old hovel a block from the abandon gas station, a quarter of a mile from our house. At least that’s what all the kids at school said. We were all very aware of the dilapidated Fergus MacDuff house that sat in the middle of the overgrown plot of land we had to pass when we walked to the ball field. People would tell stories about seeing Fergus MacDuff standing in the shadows of his porch, watching all of us kids playing across the street. Some people said they saw him clutching a butcher knife. Ginny Blair said she saw him holding a chain saw. Troy Bolin claimed he once crept up the weedy pathway to Fergus MacDuff’s door, only to find him sitting on his porch pulling feathers off of a dead, bloody chicken. No matter the variety of stories, one detail was always consistent. Everyone claimed they saw old Fergus MacDuff wearing a dress. Why that old man would wear a dress, I couldn’t imagine but that was the thing about him the creeped me out the most.
In sixth grade, my best friend was Dewey Milk. Yes, that was his real name and no, you couldn’t come up with a new name-joke that Dewey hadn’t heard a million times before. For three or four years, Dewey Milk and I were inseparable. We always pretended we were Mulder and Scully only, in our fantasy world, I was Mulder and Dewey always wanted to be Agent Scully. He always said it was because of his red hair but I knew he had more personal reasons. Dewey Milk and I would travel the neighborhood investigating all rumors of paranormal activity. It was usually just blowing the lid off crazy tales we heard around town like Mrs. Stallings’ possessed cat or the space alien someone said the Berrier’s were hiding in their dairy barn. We never really found anything, of course, but we thought we were making some sort of difference to the safety of the neighborhood. It was all just innocent fun. Innocent, that is, until one day when Dewey Milk suggested we climb the back fence of the abandon gas station, crawl through the weeds and get our own view of Fergus MacDuff.
Sometimes in life you do things you would normally find so terrifying, you just have to shut your mind off and do ’em. Like pulling off an old band-aid. Don’t think about it, just do it. That’s how I felt about Dewey Milk’s suggestion. I said “yes” without thinking much about it and I told him we should do it immediately, since it was starting to get dark and I knew in a few more minutes my mom would be calling me in for dinner. But, really, I just wanted to get moving before I talked myself out of it.
We scaled the gas station fence and soon found ourselves, on our stomachs, in five feet of weeds. The sky was that deep blue glow which happens right before everything goes completely black dark. Dewey Milk was right next to me and I was sure he would be able to hear the thumping of my heart, if it wasn’t for the pulsing screams of the cicadas. We laid there for what seemed like two hours. I wasn’t exactly sure what we were looking for. We stared at the silhouette of the old shack.
“I think I see him,” Dewey Milk said in a low whisper that scared the shit out of me.
“Where?” I asked. I couldn’t see anything but black.
“Right there in the middle,” Dewey Milk said. “See? It’s a window. You can see a little orange glow coming from it.”
I stared at the scraggly black building for a few moments. I’d been looking at the remaining light from the sky but when I let my eyes adjust to the darkness of the old shack, I, too, could see a glow coming from what looked like a window. It was the first time I really thought about what we were doing and, at that moment, I realized I didn’t want to do it.
“We gotta go back, Dewey,” I said. “My mom’s gonna bust my ass.”
“It’s too late, Mulder” Dewey said. “We’re in this too deep.”
Dewey Milk was right. We were engaged. It was too late to abort the mission. And, before I could agree, I heard a whimper come from him, then a low, gurgling, choking sound. Before I could ask if he was okay, I felt cold, leathery fingers grab the shirt at the back of my neck and pull it tight. I couldn’t tell what was happening but I could feel my entire body being lifted from the ground. I looked over at Dewey and could barely see him as he looked behind me. I knew from the panic on his face, the bony fingers which had me in their grasp, belonged to none other than Fergus McDuff.
The next few minutes moved super fast. I don’t remember moving from the cover of the weeds to inside the old shack but, in the blink of an eye, there we were sitting in front of a small, soot-covered fireplace. I assumed we were in the living room of Fergus McDuff. It was difficult to determine where we were though. In every inch of the house was piled boxes and books and paper and trash and mounds and mounds of shit. How anyone could live in that environment, I don’t know. It smelled like old water, old food and dead animals. No telling how many bodies of mice, rats, possums, raccoons, and, who knows what else, were rotting under the piles of garbage. It was sometimes impossible to tell if we were indoors or outdoors. I guess I’m still not sure. I looked at Dewey Milk sitting next to me and noticed he, too, was scanning the contents of the room while at the same time trying to figure out if there might be some miracle way of darting out of the room.
I could see the outline of Fergus MacDuff sitting in a chair in the dark. I could hear the clunking of metal which I eventually recognized as the sound of a spoon in a can. Was Fergus MacDuff eating while holding us prisoner? After a few minutes, an empty can of corned beef hash was flung out of the darkness and hit me on the bottom of my shoe. I heard a hacking cough in the middle of the void, the crinkling of paper and chewing noises. Dewey Milk reached over and touched me on the knee and pointed at the fireplace. On the mantle, I could see twenty or thirty little handmade dolls lined up in a row. They were crudely made but each one had it’s own distinctive look. Skinny dolls, fat dolls, boys with glasses, girls with braces, one doll in a wheelchair, just a lot of different dolls. I looked at Dewey Milk and he shrugged. I knew what he was thinking. What would this creepy old man be doing with all of these dolls? I was thinking something else. Why did Fergus MacDuff bring us here and what was he going to do with us?
After about forty five minutes of sitting on the dirt floor in front of the fireplace, I had had enough. “Can we go home?” I asked. “My mom and dad are going to be worried and they’re going to start looking for me.” I waited for a response from the dark and heard only a guttural noise. I couldn’t figure out if Fergus MacDuff was clearing his throat or laughing at me.
“Ginny!” Dewey Milk whispered.
“Ginny?” I whispered back. Dewey Milk pointed at one of the dolls on the mantle. It was a doll with curly brown hair and big, wire glasses, almost as big as her entire face. He was right. The doll looked like Ginny Blair. In fact, I suddenly recognized another doll. The one with braces was Carol Thornton. And there was Ray Beale. Johnny Brooks was there, Reneé Kincaid, and the wheelchair doll was definitely Kimmy Morgan.
Dewey and I looked at each other with wide eyes. We recognized our entire class there on top of Fergus MacDuff’s fireplace. I could feel tears pooling in my eyes. I was terrified and I wanted to get out of that creepy house. I scanned the room for an exit opportunity.
It was hard to see anything through the piles of trash but I noticed an open door in the room across from the living room. That was my big chance. I caught Dewey Milk’s eyes and subtly ran a pointed finger across the floor toward the open door. I counted in my mind, ready to dash toward freedom. Five… four… three… two… one…
Suddenly, a large pile of trash moved in front of me and blocked the open door. No. It wasn’t a pile of trash after all. It was Fergus MacDuff. The glow from the fire let me see Fergus for the first time. He was like a mountain. His hair and beard looked like the weeds we hid in outside his house. His face was wrinkled and looked like it was made of an old horse saddle. A wet stream of tobacco juice ran down the corner of his mouth. He reached over my head and, for the first time, I noticed the dress everyone talked about was actually an old kilt. Like the one I saw in a book about Scotland at the school library. Only, this one looked like it hadn’t been washed in at least 100 years.
I looked up at Fergus MacDuff and he grasped for a doll on the mantle. Holding his arm at a 90 degree angle he danced the doll over his arm and made squeaky noises. The doll was chubby with bright red curly hair. I immediately recognized it as the doll version of Dewey Milk. Fergus MacDuff cackled with a phlegmy laugh. He was obviously very entertained at his weird little puppet show. He slowly handed the doll to Dewey Milk but when Dewey reached out to take it, Fergus MacDuff quickly tossed it into the fire where it ignited into a ball of flame. Fergus MacDuff laughed with an even bigger cackle of phlegm.
I scanned the fireplace for my doll. I knew I was the next star of Fergus MacDuff’s show. I was a lanky girl with a short, bob hair style and tomboy clothes. But none of the dolls looked anything close to me. It didn’t make sense to me. Why would everyone else in our class be there on his fireplace mantle in doll form but not me? I turned to look at Fergus MacDuff and he stared down at me like he knew what I was thinking. His bony fingers moved down between his legs. He fondled around in the old leather pouch on the front of his kilt until he opened it. He reached inside and pulled out a crushed, misshapen doll. He ran his fingers over the doll a bit until it smoothed out and he handed the doll to me.
He started laughing the biggest laugh yet and he turned and walked into the dark part of his house and closed a door. Dewey Milk and I immediately ran to an exit door and kept running as fast as we could toward my house, the laughter of Fergus MacDuff fading into an echo behind us.
When morning came, I found myself questioning whether my experience with Fergus MacDuff the night before was real or a dream. I wanted to ask Dewey Milk, but his mom said he went with his grandparents to a church function. My dad was sitting at the breakfast table reading the paper and drinking a cup of coffee. I asked him what he knew about Fergus MacDuff.
“Fergus MacDuff?” He asked, surprised. “Well, honey, I think you’re old enough to know the truth about Fergus MacDuff. There’s no real Fergus MacDuff. I mean, there was a Fergus MacDuff. Long time ago. He was a custodian at the school you go to but somebody said he was inappropriately… well, you know… interacting with some of the kids. He was fired and he just went away by himself. Everyone started using his name as a kind of boogie man, you know? “Last one to the porch will be killed by Fergus MacDuff!” It started out as something funny but I guess it just became silly. Your mom and I always did it in a joking way. I don’t know, maybe it went too far. Anyway old Fergus MacDuff died ten years before you were born so there’s no way he’s ever going to get you.”
I never talked to my parents about the night Dewey Milk and I spent in Fergus MacDuff’s creepy living room. It was a secret Dewey and I locked away in our own minds. We never even discussed it ourselves.
Even though we were so close, eventually we drifted apart. Dewey’s parents moved to Nevada and we wrote each other letters for a year but that stopped eventually. There was no email or Facebook then so it was easy to just gradually lose touch.
The last time I heard from Dewey Milk was five years ago after my husband Alan and our son Daniel drown in a boat accident while on a fishing trip. Dewey heard about it from his sister and called me to tell me how sorry he was. We both cried together on the phone and promised we would soon get together. But we never did.
Then, I heard last week that Dewey Milk was on a business trip in Los Angeles and, along with twenty-two other people, died in a hotel fire. I was devastated. I was also haunted by that night when Fergus MacDuff tossed Dewey’s doll into the fireplace. I couldn’t stop thinking that maybe that had something to do with Dewey’s death. And it made me wonder the whereabouts of the doll Fergus gave to me. I hadn’t seen it in thirty years or so. Last I remembered, I put it in a cigar box my dad gave me and I stored it in my attic.
I decided to dig out that cigar box and take a look at the creepy old doll. I went into the attic and moved piles of boxes and other stored items. For a second, it reminded me of the piles of junk in Fergus MacDuff’s living room. I found an old box of toys and mementos from my elementary school days and I pulled off the tape. It was mostly dusty, plush toys, softball shirts and gloves and sports cards. I cleared away the layers of memories until I finally located the wood cigar box. I remember wrapping the box with rubber bands, ribbons and strings which I pulled and cut off. I opened the box expecting to see the crude, straw doll, but I was horrified.
The doll Fergus MacDuff had given me was gone. In its place were two others: one unmistakably Alan, my husband, dressed in his fishing gear, and the other, a small boy with bright blond curls, was Daniel. The stitching on their mouths was crude and uneven but I immediately knew it was them.
Frantically, I dug through the cigar box, scattering its contents across the attic floor. I turned over every toy and scrap, but my doll was nowhere to be found. I had sealed this box myself thirty years ago, hadn’t I? How could these dolls have gotten in? Where was mine? Was there some way Fergus MacDuff could have reclaimed the doll? How could he and if so… why?
I shoved the box back into its hiding spot and turned to leave. As I stepped onto the creaky stairs of the attic, I froze.
Behind me, in the darkness, came a faint, phlegmy laugh. The same laugh I hadn’t heard in thirty years.
©2016 Rick Baldwin. All Rights Reserved.
(COPYRIGHT NOTICE – This story is under the full copyright of the author who gives permission for royalty-free performance/readings of the story for non commercial purposes. This story must not be changed or altered in any way without permission of the author. Any performance of this story must credit the author, Rick Baldwin. This story may not be reprinted without permission of the author.)
The Old Lockhart House
(Based upon true events.)
I come from a very rural part of East Tennessee. It ain’t “the sticks,” since there’s a large city twenty minutes away, but a person could still get lost on the winding country roads surrounding our house. It’d take someone familiar with the area to help you get back out to civilization.
Behind our house, a steep incline led to an old sawmill operated by Elmer Nicely. The train tracks ran right alongside Elmer’s mill, and when a train passed through — approximately once an hour — our house windows would tremble for a good ten minutes. Elmer slaughtered hogs there, too, so it was nice when the train passed by, masking the squeals coming from his small wood slaughterhouse.
A one-lane gravel road cut between our house and the sawmill. I had seen cars pass through at all hours, but I had never ventured far down that old road. It seemed intimidating to me. The trees and kudzu had overgrown, and the road was a path into a dark tunnel of leaves, vines, sticks, and dust. I knew people lived down that road, but not personally. They were reclusive country folk who preferred to keep to themselves, and I wasn’t one to go messing with them.
As I grew older, I would occasionally take walks along the gravel road. The road passed by the sawmill and the slaughterhouse, then curved left and crossed the railroad tracks. My first time past the tracks I couldn’t recognize anything. It was as if I had stepped into a secluded, backwood village. There were occupied, rusted trailers tucked away in the brush, and old houses constructed from scrap wood, plastic, and cardboard. A small creek ran behind them, one I’d never seen before. Every other house seemed to have an old, mangy hunting dog tied to a tree or a decaying doghouse. The entire area sent shivers down my spine, making my hair stand on end.
Just past the shacks, an overgrown cornfield stood tall. Perched on a wooden post was a pitiful scarecrow, its only arm raised as if attempting to hitchhike its way out of the desolate landscape. Strangely, someone had dressed the scarecrow in a burlap kilt, complete with a corncob kilt pin.
Nestled beside the cornfield, far from the main road, was a decrepit three-story white house. Every window was shattered, and a machete would be required to cut through the dense brush to reach the front door. Despite its dilapidated state, the house still held an air of grandeur among the shacks. It must have been a magnificent home in its heyday, and I couldn’t help but be curious about its history.
The following day, I shared my discovery with some school friends. One of them remarked, “That’s the old Lockhart house. I’ve heard it’s haunted.” Although neither of us believed in ghosts, we couldn’t deny the eerie atmosphere surrounding the place. I was intrigued by the story but unsure of where to find more about its background. I knew of some Lockharts around school and figured they didn’t live there anymore. Or did they?
Weeks later, I brought up the topic again, and someone behind me burst out laughing. It was Chris Mullins, one of the school football stars — good-looking, a nice guy, one of the few jocks who would ever talk to someone like me.
“That’s an excellent make-out place,” he said. “Take a girl there, make her feel scared, then tell her you’ll protect her. She’ll do almost anything you ask her to.”
I didn’t believe Chris Mullins needed a haunted house to persuade a girl to do anything he wanted, but it was good advice anyway. “I’m taking Jenny Quarles to that house this Friday after the game,” he said. “The only thing she should be afraid of is what’s in my pants!” We all laughed.
That Friday night, on the eve of Halloween, the football game was against one of our fiercest rivals. We won easily, and the celebrations continued into the night. However, I decided to head home early. The wind had picked up, and the full moon was obscured by rapidly moving clouds. I couldn’t shake the thought of Chris’s cryptic remarks about the Lockhart house. Perhaps I should drive by and check on them. I wondered if he had the guts to actually go through with it. I would drive out, circle past, and head home.
I came across the old gravel road just as a distant train horn echoed in the air. By the time I reached the curve and the crossing, the train was barreling towards me, so I waited. Once it passed, I sat for a moment in the deep silence that follows a train’s passage. I drove on past the trailers and shacks, up to the cornfield, and I noticed something peculiar. The scarecrow was gone. Its weathered and splintered post remained, but the figure was nowhere to be found. Perhaps it had toppled over, I thought. Or perhaps Chris had taken it down as part of his plan to frighten Jenny.
Ahead, I noticed a car pulled off the road in front of the house, but there was no one inside. I cautiously passed by, peering through the window. The front and back seats were empty. Surely Chris wasn’t brave enough to take her inside. Or foolish enough.
I pulled over, killed the engine and lights, and rolled down the window. The air was filled with the scent of decaying leaves, motor oil, and damp soil. The moon, now completely obscured by clouds, cast everything into a deep indigo darkness.
If you’ve never heard a hog’s death scream at midnight, it’ll send shivers down your back. It’s worse when you realize the sound you just heard wasn’t a hog at all. It was human. And it was coming right toward you.
Jenny Quarles burst from the brush, tried to open my locked passenger door, then leapt onto the hood, pounding the windshield like she meant to break through. It took me several seconds to realize it was her. I jumped out. She threw herself into me, legs giving out, still screaming. I tried to calm her, asking what had happened. She couldn’t speak, just grabbed my hand and pointed toward the Lockhart house. She could only say “Chris,” over and over, pulling me that direction.
A small path had been trampled through the weeds, and she dragged me along it. It all happened too fast to think, though nowadays I can’t believe I ever followed her in there. We stumbled through the brush until we came to a clearing under some twisted trees. Jenny pointed and screamed again.
On the ground lay a scattering of straw soaked in blood. Hanging from one of the trees was Chris Mullins — his throat cut from ear to ear, and stuck right in the middle was what looked like a corncob kilt pin.
I grabbed Jenny’s arm and ran. When she tripped, I dragged her, both of us crashing through vines and briars until we reached the car. We tore out of there and drove to my house, where we called the police and her parents.
It was months before Jenny could tell what had happened that night. She and Chris had left the game and stopped at a store where his brother worked and sold them beer. Chris joked that he wanted to take her to his house, then drove to the Lockhart place, saying that’s where he lived. They sat on the car hood, drank a couple of beers, and made out under the moonlight.
After a while, Chris suggested they walk up to the house. Jenny didn’t think that was such a good idea, so Chris made a bet with her. Jenny had to agree to go to the house if Chris could hit the old scarecrow with all four of their empty beer bottles. Even in the dark, Chris nailed it. Each bottle landed squarely on target, the last one almost taking off the old scarecrow’s head.
Jenny reluctantly went to the dark old house with Chris, and after they got under the trees, Chris began trying to scare her by running into the old cornfield and then running back out. At one point, he didn’t come back out. Jenny thought he may have snuck back to the car just to spook her. She wandered her way back to the car, through the maze of the thicket, and, not finding Chris, she sat on the hood of the car and drank another beer. When the light of the train cut through the blackness, she once again made her way to the side of the house, and it was there she found Chris Mullins hanging from the tree.
On Halloween night, hardly anyone dared to let their kids trick-or-treat. People stayed home, locking their doors tightly, fearing that a killer was on the loose. It was the first time I had ever seen my parents lock their doors.
Around nine o’clock that night, a friend called to say some of the guys from the football team planned to burn the Lockhart house down at midnight. A little after twelve, I drove down the gravel road. The sky ahead glowed orange. When I crossed the tracks, I could smell smoke and see flames flickering high above the trees. The old Lockhart house was fully engulfed. No cars, no people. Just fire.
And, to my surprise, silhouetted against the bright orange light of the fire, hung that old scarecrow; kilt around its waist, arm stretched out, and head held high.
©2016 Rick Baldwin. All Rights Reserved.
(COPYRIGHT NOTICE – This story is under the full copyright of the author who gives permission for royalty-free performance/readings of the story for non commercial purposes. This story may not be changed or altered in any way without permission of the author. Any performance of this story must credit the author, Rick Baldwin. This story may not be reprinted without permission of the author.)
Prosecution Closing Arguments In The Billy Joel Fire Starter Trial
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, good morning.
Throughout this trial, you have heard the defendant, Mr. William Martin Joel, steadfastly proclaim his innocence regarding the infamous fire that has captured all our attention. Yet, under oath, Mr. Joel himself admitted that accomplices were involved. Despite relentless cross-examination—and one notable charge of contempt of court—he stubbornly refuses to name these co-conspirators, instead endlessly repeating the cryptic refrain: “We didn’t start the fire.”
The defense would have you believe that this fire has been burning since the world’s been turning. But, ladies and gentlemen, fires don’t just ignite spontaneously. Babies don’t simply pop into existence, and universes don’t casually bang themselves into being. Someone, somewhere, is responsible. And while Mr. Joel vehemently denies his guilt, he has shown no hesitation in deflecting suspicion onto 135 other potential culprits. Among these, he audaciously implicates former President Richard Nixon—not once, but twice!—as well as a space monkey, Chubby Checker, and, most appallingly, children tragically affected by Thalidomide. The gall is almost as staggering as his aptitude at hitting high notes.
Now, Mr. Joel does not deny his presence at the scene of the fire. He even claims to have attempted to extinguish it, going so far as to declare that he and his unnamed “we” tried to “fight it.” The results, as we know, were catastrophic. Why did these efforts fail? Perhaps because Mr. Joel was distracted by delusional fantasies of rendezvousing with Marilyn Monroe, Joe DiMaggio, and JFK—meetings which, according to expert testimony, never actually occurred.
And then there’s the matter of “U-2.” What does it mean? Mr. Joel never clarifies. Was he joyriding in a military reconnaissance plane? Sharing cigars with Bono as this unforgettable fire raged around them? Or—dare I say it—does “U-2” signify a clandestine partnership? You, too, Billy Joel? I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.
The defense would paint Mr. Joel as nothing more than an innocent bystander—a man whose hobbies include watching Psycho, thumbing through Stranger in a Strange Land, and bingeing Wheel of Fortune. But the truth is clear: Billy Joel is an international music superstar with multiple mansions, a warehouse full of motorcycles, and unfettered access to open flames.
The ancient Greek storyteller Aesop wisely observed, “A man is known by the company he keeps.” And what company does Billy Joel keep? Communists. Mafia kingpins. Dead prizefighters. And, most damning of all, Fidel Castro—hula hooping together, no less! Can we trust a man with such associations to tell the truth? Should we believe Mr. Joel’s 1983 plea of innocence, or take heed of his 1989 confession that he is “shameless” and “goes to extremes”? Let us not forget his chilling 1980 admission: “You may be right, I may be crazy. But it just might be a lunatic you’re looking for.” Well, Mr. Joel, I am looking for a lunatic. A lunatic who started this fire. And that lunatic is you.
In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, the defense has utterly failed to show that Billy Joel did not start this fire. The evidence to the contrary is overwhelming. I know he started it. You know he started it. And deep down, Mr. Joel knows it, too—alongside his band of fire-starting accomplices.
Therefore, I wish to conclude by saying I am your uptown girl and you must find Billy Joel guilty.
I didn’t mean to say that uptown girl part but, please, still, find him guilty.
[This article first appeared in Okrabiscuit Humor Magazine, July 21, 2018.]
Pokey LaFarge at Terminal West
I was fortunate to attend the Pokey LaFarge concert at Terminal West in Atlanta on December 6. I’ve been wanting to see him perform for awhile now and I wasn’t disappointed. You can always tell when an artist or band has been touring for years. Their shows are tight and solid. This was certainly the case with Pokey LaFarge. They played an enjoyable selection of oldies, recents and brand new tunes and there wasn’t a dud in the bunch.
Samuel L. Jackson Orders a Subway Oven Roasted Chicken Sandwich
Good afternoon, Debbie.
Pay attention, because I’m about to order the greatest goddamn sandwich you’ve ever made in your short career at the Subway Corporation. How long you been here, baby? Three months? That’s adorable. You wake up inspired every day to craft better sandwiches? I hope so, Debbie, because I’m about to give you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to build the most incredible motherfucking Oven Roasted Chicken sandwich anyone has ever tasted. You feel me?
Debbie, today is not just another day of slapping cold cuts and lettuce on bread like some goddamn assembly-line worker. No ma’am. Today, you’re going to transcend. Take your round little ass over to that oven and pull me out a warm 12-inch Italian Herbs and Cheese loaf. Not just any loaf, Debbie. I’m talking about the cheesiest, herbiest, most Italian-ass bread you’ve got back there. Grab that loaf like it’s a feisty colt and you’re ready for some bedroom bareback rodeo.
Now let’s get surgical. Slice that bad boy open, smooth as a hot knife through sweet cream butter. Split it delicately, like you’re opening the legs of a young virgin on a warm wedding night. That’s it. You’re doing great. Now hit me with some thick mayonnaise— and let me stop you right there— you do not wait until the end to squirt mayo on a sandwich. Who the fuck taught you that porn-scene nonsense? This is America, Debbie. Mayonnaise goes on the bread, not on top of the goddamn ingredients. Slather that shit on thick.
Beautiful.
Now we come to a very important moment. Pay attention, Debbie. I’m only going to say this once.
No. White. Motherfucking. Cheese. Repeat that shit back to me. Good girl.
Lay some sharp cheddar on there. That’s the color of cheese we’re talking about. Golden. Bold. Unapologetic. Just like me.
Now for the the star of the show: the chicken. Chicken is the most versatile meat in the world. Fried chicken. BBQ chicken. Chicken soup. Chicken and waffles. Chicken and dumplings. Hell, chicken can be anything. It’s super meat.
You see that piece of chicken right there? Third one down from the top? That’s the one. Put that glorious hunk of bird on my sandwich. Gently now, like you’re tucking a preemie into a blanket.
Next we turn up the heat.
Crank that toaster to 475 degrees and toast this motherfucker like it owes us royalty money.
While that’s cooking, let me ask you something, Debbie—are you familiar with Henry V? No? Let me enlighten you: “It will toast cheese, and it will endure cold as another man’s sword will.”
That’s Shakespeare, Debbie. Cultured as shit.
All right, pull that masterpiece out and let’s cool it down with some lettuce. You know how every movie gets better when Samuel L. Jackson shows up? Same deal with lettuce on a sandwich. Lettuce is the Samuel L. Jackson of sandwich toppings. Pile that shit on.
Now here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna say some words, and you’re gonna add the ingredients.
Ready?
Tomatoes.
Cucumbers.
Black olives.
Red onions.
STOP.
You didn’t hear me say pickles, Debbie. DID I SAY MOTHERFUCKING PICKLES? No, I did not. So why in the holy hell are you reaching for pickles like they belong here? Did Jared himself rise from his dank prison cellblock to whisper, “Add pickles to Samuel L. Jackson’s sandwich”? No? Then back the fuck off with those pickles, Debbie. I didn’t ask for them and I sure as hell don’t want them.
Let’s move on.
To make things right, add two or three slices of crispy bacon.
That’s it, Debbie. You’re killing it now.
But we’re not done yet. You see that shaker of seasoning over there? Pick it up and shake it so hard I can hear your titties clapping together. Don’t be shy. That’s the sound of culinary excellence and it’ll also garner you an Oscar nomination. I know what I’m talking about.
All right, here comes the grand finale. Take that magnificent creation and cut it—not in half—but into four motherfucking pieces. Yes, I know it’s unorthodox, but trust me. It’s the way this sandwich was meant to be enjoyed.
Now wrap it up.
Let me tell you something—I’ve been in over 100 films, Debbie. More than any other goddamn actor in history. But do I know how to wrap a sandwich? Hell no. That’s your department. Just make it tight enough to keep it from leaking on my lap but loose enough so I don’t have to hack it open like a cockpit full of snakes.
Perfect.
Now stick some extra napkins in the bag, grab me a bag of BBQ Sun Chips, and tell me how much I owe you.
What the hell do you mean you don’t accept Apple Pay?
[This article first appeared in Okrabiscuit Humor Magazine, August 18, 2015.]
I Wish I Wasn’t Dead
— by Wallace Thatcher Hogg 1842-1929
(as dictated to Harmony Rae, psychic medium, clairaudient)
I wish to state right from the start: I completely and without reservation wish I wasn’t dead. If I had been aware of what death would feel like, I would have fought harder to stay alive. Sure, the last few years of my life, I went around saying things like, “I can die now” or “I’m ready to meet my Maker.” Poppycock! What was I thinking?
First and foremost, there is no “Maker.” I don’t know who conceived the notion of mansions, streets paved with gold, or angels strumming harps on fluffy clouds, but let me assure you, it’s horseshit. Hell, I haven’t seen a cloud since 1929! The reality is, you’re buried in a pine box, and that’s the end of it. No music, no clouds, no angels. Just you and the darkness. And let me emphasize: this darkness is unlike anything you’ve ever encountered. You could light a torch, but it wouldn’t make a difference. Not that I have a torch. Or hands to hold one, for that matter.
I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat, if I still had one. What I wouldn’t give for anything that beats, pounds, or throbs. This place is too quiet, too dark, and the smell… Good God, the smell! I hate to admit it, but I think I’m the source of it. And it was much worse those first few years, especially with the farting. Did you know corpses fart? Oh yes, decomposition gases. It’s absolutely revolting. And don’t let anyone tell you “your own farts don’t stink.” Those people clearly haven’t been dead. Or farted.
Now, you might be thinking, “Well, at least you can catch up on sleep.” But let me stop you right there. Sure, it might feel like a twelve-year nap at first. However, you wake up with an itch on your face, and guess what? You can’t move your hands to scratch it. It’s absolute torture. Although, now that I think of it, eye weevils are even worse. Nobody warns you about those little bastards. In the first 24 hours underground, they move in, suck your eyes dry, and you just have to lie there and let it happen. Like Mrs. Hogg on our honeymoon.
Speaking of Mrs. Hogg, she’s lying a foot and a half to my left. We can’t communicate, hold hands, or even make love. It’s just like the last twenty years of our marriage. Despite this, I miss Schatzi. That’s what I used to call her. She made the best blackberry cobbler. And her ironing? Flawless. I’m actually wearing one of her shirts right now — no wrinkles, even after decades underground. Sometimes, I try to catch a whiff of Schatzi on the fabric. But alas, I haven’t smelled anything since blowfly maggots hollowed out my nose during the Great Depression. A man can dream, though. Even a dead man. I sure do wish I wasn’t dead.
Sometimes, I try to distract myself by reminiscing about my happier days. For instance, there was this time in Budapest when I shared a sarsaparilla with Mari Jászai. An actress with a doll-like face and a laugh that could melt icebergs. She was engaged, but I couldn’t resist kissing her. She grabbed my necktie and pulled me toward her, then dunked it in her drink. It was my only necktie! I was furious! But then, she giggled that irresistible giggle of hers, and suddenly, we were laughing like fools. See? For a fleeting moment, I almost forgot about the family of millipedes living in my skull.
Here’s the kicker of being dead: you can hear everything. It’s as if my hearing has become superhuman. Super dead human. Conversations from miles away, halfway across the globe — I can hear them all. Last week, I had to endure an Alabama farmer whistling “I Get a Kick Out of You” while milking cows for four excruciating hours. I’ve never been so close to clawing my way out of this bone hole. Not that I could, because — you guessed it — I’m dead.
I try not to complain, but honestly, what’s worse than death? I think about all the moments I squandered while alive. Night after night, I passed out in a scotch coma, while Schatzi cried herself to sleep. I wish I could relive those nights. Instead, I spent my life chasing career aspirations. I aspired to be the Shoe Polish King of the Northern Hemisphere. And for what? Even George Vanderbilt is lying nuts-up in a crypt somewhere. Probably listening to a goat herder yodel.
Anyway, I should return to lying still and rotting. I’m not even sure if this whole “communicating with the living” thing is permitted. The rules here are quite straightforward: Be still. Rot. I’m mostly bones at this point, but I must admit, I haven’t looked this good in years. My suit finally fits, and it makes me want to dance. That whole “dancing skeletons” thing? True. We’d cut quite the rug if we could actually move.
But we can’t. Because we’re dead. God, I wish I wasn’t so fucking dead.
[This article first appeared in Okrabiscuit Humor Magazine, July 2, 2015.]
A 57 Year Old Man’s Sexual Diary
6:00AM
Morning wood! So awesome! I still got it! I could change a tire with this thing!
7:00AM
This hot water feels good. Should have showered earlier. If I masturbate right now I won’t be able to stop at Panera Bread on the way to work. Scew that, I need my Cinnamon Crunch bagel! Maybe I could skip shaving. Even better, I’ll just stand here in the hot water.
8:00AM
Julie in accounting is wearing that outfit. I think I’ll go by and see how her weekend was. I’m pretty sure she has a thing for me. She’s young enough to be my daughter. Did girls have asses like that when I was in college? She smells like cookies. I’d never fool around on Sarah. Look but don’t touch, right?
9:00AM
Sarah just texted me ❤️❤️❤️. I texted 👉🏼👌🏼 three times in a row, Ha ha!
10:00AM
Sleepy. I can tell it’s gonna be an early one. Hope Sarah doesn’t want to have sex tonight.
11:00AM
Sarah wants to have sex tonight. She just texted me 👅👅👅👅. I’m going to have to start working on a plan to get out of this. I’ll tell her I have an early meeting. Better text her now.
12:00PM
Lunch with Clark, Telly, Mary Ann and Julie. Didn’t realize I could see so much of Julie’s cleavage. Does she have a tattoo on her boob? Why would she want that? I think Mary Ann has a thing for me. Need sleep. Why does Telly keep looking at Julie’s boobs? So obvious. He’s old enough to be her father.
1:00PM
Went to the restroom and thought about masturbating but I need to print some stuff out.
2:00PM
So, incredibly sleepy. Shouldn’t have had that beer at lunch. Might take a nap as soon as I get home. Maybe Sarah will order something. She’s going to want sex. Christ.
3:00PM
Sarah just texted 💋. She wants sex. I can’t do this tonight. So tired. Tomorrow. I’ll promise sex tomorrow. I’ll feel more rested tomorrow.
4:00PM
Working on a report and my penis fell asleep! When did this start happening?? Also I think it’s shrinking. Can that be true? I need to walk around a few minutes. I wonder what Julie is doing…
5:00PM
Why am I so tired? I couldn’t have sex right now if I wanted to. Which I don’t.
6:00PM
Home. Sarah just kissed me and grabbed my crotch. Oh, come on! There is no way possible I can have sex tonight! I’m going to start talking a lot about how tired I am. She’ll get the clue.
7:00PM
Every time I say I’m tired Sarah says “Then maybe we should take off our clothes and go to bed.” No! So sleepy! I don’t want to upset her but this is not going to happen tonight. She’s mentioned sex six times since we’ve been home. I keep changing the subject to Telly’s new car. Not sure how long I can keep this up. She hates Telly.
8:00PM
Sarah keeps staring at me during dinner. It’s her sex stare. I need more garlic bread. I could go to sleep right here in this chair.
9:00PM
Told Sarah I was too tired for sex. That didn’t go over well but I feel relieved. Went to the bathroom and masturbated. What the hell is wrong with me?
10:00PM
Bed feels so good. Amazing. So much better than an orgasm. I’ll be unconscious in 5 minutes. Sarah has forgiven me. She scooted over so our asses are touching. Wait, I hope she’s not still trying. I just pretended to snore. I don’t think that sounded fake. I can hear her breathing heavy now. She’s out. Whew! Danger has past. I can relax now. Why does Julie have a boob tattoo?
[This article first appeared in Okrabiscuit Humor Magazine, June 22, 2015.]