Saturday's Storyteller: "Don't go near there!"
by Belinda Roddie
"Don't go near there!"
Jeremy stiffened. He raised his hand slightly from where he was going to turn the knob of the closet. He stared at his friend with a questioning look glued to his eyebrows.
"Um...why?"
His friend twitched a little. "There are some...things in there that I don't like people seeing."
"O...kay..." Jeremy drew out the word slowly, separating the syllables with wispy strands of air. "So whatcha got to hide? Cheap booze? Cigarettes? Bad porn?"
"It's not that...kind of thing."
"C'mon, Roger, what kind of skeletons do you have in your closet, huh?"
The high-pitched shriek that seemed to rupture Roger's throat was certainly alarming in Jeremy's ears, almost forcing him to clap his hands over his lobes. The dilating pupils radiating from his friend's bulging eyes told one story - and it all seemed like a very, very bad joke.
"Roger..." Jeremy pointed at the closet. "Do you have real skeletons in your closet?"
The words that spilled from Roger's mouth did not sound human at first. It was as if he were defecating verbally, the language spewing like deep, liquid shit, staining the air as each slurring sentence hit the air. After a while, it became more coherent, with half-jumbled phrases as follows:
"They were there when I got here...no idea what they wanted...I had no money...my aunt was very ill..."
Not able to take it, Jeremy seized the knob of the closet door and yanked the thing open. Sure enough - basking in the faint light of his buddy's bedroom, almost a pearl white rather than a tarnished ivory in the tinny light - were three skeletons. Full-sized, human skeletons, held up by contraptions that appeared to have started as coat hangars and simply were modified to add further support.
He was tempted to touch the skeletons. Feel the raw bone, the smooth cartilage. Jeremy was used to handling cadavers at his job, so he knew every human bone by heart. He let his finger dance in the air, very close to tracing the outline of the ulna leading up to the humerus (not that there was anything humorous about the display). He was just about to nudge the clavicle when Roger started screaming again.
"Don't touch them don't touch them don't touch them DON'T TOUCH THEM..."
His voice slowly morphed into a primal roar, and Roger launched himself up the bed, practically snarling, like a wily pubescent wolf rearing up on its hind legs. Jeremy turned to look at him, blinked, scratched his head just behind his left ear, and sighed.
"So," he exhaled. "Either your father killed three people when he was young, explaining why they so beautifully decomposed to just bone - or you stole from the science lab down the street again."
"Neither," squeaked Roger. "They've...been there for a very long time."
"Oh, really?" Jeremy couldn't help laughing, a throttled sort of sound - it was that ridiculous. "And I suppose they have a history and names?"
"George, Larry, and Frankie Hammer," Roger rattled off almost immediately after Jeremy had spat out the question at hand. "Triplets. There was some incest involved. They drank arsenic together. Hence no battle wounds."
Jeremy let his mouth hang open somewhat. He blinked again. He scratched that same part of his head again.
"That...seemed very well rehearsed," he said. "Triplets, eh? Incest? Nasty. Arsenic? Makes for a good mystery. But it still reeks of bullshit. You telling me the truth, Roger?"
"Why would I lie to my best friend in the whole world?" stuttered Roger. "We survived junior year together, man! I could have literally died if it weren't for you!"
"Dude...you would've failed chem."
"Exactly!" exclaimed his friend. "I would have. Literally. Died. Like, my father would not have allowed me to live past the summer solstice."
"Fair enough," Jeremy groaned. "It's already bizarre enough that your family keeps literal skeletons in your closet...so I'll entertain it somewhat. I'll believe you."
"Thank you!"
"Because you really aren't kidding, are you?"
"Nope!" Roger shook his head furiously as Jeremy wondered whether or not he'd need therapy now. "No bones about it!"
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
"Don't go near there!"
Jeremy stiffened. He raised his hand slightly from where he was going to turn the knob of the closet. He stared at his friend with a questioning look glued to his eyebrows.
"Um...why?"
His friend twitched a little. "There are some...things in there that I don't like people seeing."
"O...kay..." Jeremy drew out the word slowly, separating the syllables with wispy strands of air. "So whatcha got to hide? Cheap booze? Cigarettes? Bad porn?"
"It's not that...kind of thing."
"C'mon, Roger, what kind of skeletons do you have in your closet, huh?"
The high-pitched shriek that seemed to rupture Roger's throat was certainly alarming in Jeremy's ears, almost forcing him to clap his hands over his lobes. The dilating pupils radiating from his friend's bulging eyes told one story - and it all seemed like a very, very bad joke.
"Roger..." Jeremy pointed at the closet. "Do you have real skeletons in your closet?"
The words that spilled from Roger's mouth did not sound human at first. It was as if he were defecating verbally, the language spewing like deep, liquid shit, staining the air as each slurring sentence hit the air. After a while, it became more coherent, with half-jumbled phrases as follows:
"They were there when I got here...no idea what they wanted...I had no money...my aunt was very ill..."
Not able to take it, Jeremy seized the knob of the closet door and yanked the thing open. Sure enough - basking in the faint light of his buddy's bedroom, almost a pearl white rather than a tarnished ivory in the tinny light - were three skeletons. Full-sized, human skeletons, held up by contraptions that appeared to have started as coat hangars and simply were modified to add further support.
He was tempted to touch the skeletons. Feel the raw bone, the smooth cartilage. Jeremy was used to handling cadavers at his job, so he knew every human bone by heart. He let his finger dance in the air, very close to tracing the outline of the ulna leading up to the humerus (not that there was anything humorous about the display). He was just about to nudge the clavicle when Roger started screaming again.
"Don't touch them don't touch them don't touch them DON'T TOUCH THEM..."
His voice slowly morphed into a primal roar, and Roger launched himself up the bed, practically snarling, like a wily pubescent wolf rearing up on its hind legs. Jeremy turned to look at him, blinked, scratched his head just behind his left ear, and sighed.
"So," he exhaled. "Either your father killed three people when he was young, explaining why they so beautifully decomposed to just bone - or you stole from the science lab down the street again."
"Neither," squeaked Roger. "They've...been there for a very long time."
"Oh, really?" Jeremy couldn't help laughing, a throttled sort of sound - it was that ridiculous. "And I suppose they have a history and names?"
"George, Larry, and Frankie Hammer," Roger rattled off almost immediately after Jeremy had spat out the question at hand. "Triplets. There was some incest involved. They drank arsenic together. Hence no battle wounds."
Jeremy let his mouth hang open somewhat. He blinked again. He scratched that same part of his head again.
"That...seemed very well rehearsed," he said. "Triplets, eh? Incest? Nasty. Arsenic? Makes for a good mystery. But it still reeks of bullshit. You telling me the truth, Roger?"
"Why would I lie to my best friend in the whole world?" stuttered Roger. "We survived junior year together, man! I could have literally died if it weren't for you!"
"Dude...you would've failed chem."
"Exactly!" exclaimed his friend. "I would have. Literally. Died. Like, my father would not have allowed me to live past the summer solstice."
"Fair enough," Jeremy groaned. "It's already bizarre enough that your family keeps literal skeletons in your closet...so I'll entertain it somewhat. I'll believe you."
"Thank you!"
"Because you really aren't kidding, are you?"
"Nope!" Roger shook his head furiously as Jeremy wondered whether or not he'd need therapy now. "No bones about it!"
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
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