The Good, the Bad, and the Balloon Animals by Devin James Leonard
Tammy Lynn Peacock and her brother investigate the grisly death of their trailer park neighbour.
Me and my brother were drinking beers on our stoop, watching the police swarm Todd's trailer like ants on a dropped French fry, when a plainclothes cop wandered over and asked us if we were the ones who discovered the body.
"Richard and Tammy Lynn Peacock?"
I took a sip of beer and nodded. Richie answered with a burp, and the cop introduced himself as Detective Manners. Once he confirmed we were the ones who called it in, he asked us questions we'd already been asked and answered, and then some.
"Did Todd have any pets? A dog?"
Richie shook his head, said, "Nope."
"You're certain?"
"Todd was petrified of dogs," I said, adding that when we was kids, we owned a little ass-licking pooch no bigger than a bunny, and yet Todd would throw his hands up and back away from us as if we had a fuckin' leopard on a leash.
"What about guests?" Detective Manners said. "The neighbor over there -" He gestured to the trailer next to ours and checked his notepad. "Margot Fletcher."
"Aunt Mags," Richie said.
"She's your aunt?"
"Naw. Everybody in the park just calls her Aunt Mags."
"Right - well, she said there might have been a birthday party going on. Heard loud music playing, and there was a balloon tied to his door." The detective shrugged as though the information was meaningless as it sounded.
"It ain't Todd's birthday," I said. "He just likes his music loud. And if he was having a party, we'd a been there."
"But you were there at one point," Manners said, giving us the side-eye.
"Todd's got Wi-Fi," Richie said. "We're always going back and forth over there to use it. That's why we found him before anyone else."
"Wasn't just his internet we liked," I said.
"Right. He had beer, too."
"I meant we liked Todd," I said. Then, returning the detective's glare at him: "Point being, he was our friend. Means we're certain he wasn't throwing no party without us knowing. Also means no matter what happened to him, it was gonna be us finding him at some point."
"Thanks," the detective said, and then he left us with a cloud of dust after hopping into his cruiser and speeding out of the park.
"What an asshole," I said.
"How's that?" Richie said, slurping his beer and basking in obliviousness.
"He was looking at us like we were the ones killed Todd."
"He didn't say that."
"And you weren't helping us none, telling the cop we only go over there to take advantage of his internet and beers."
Richie shrugged. "It's the truth."
The coroners rolled Todd's body out on a stretcher. Tossed him in a van as gently as throwing a bag of trash into a dumpster. The remaining cops were now cordoning Todd's trailer with yellow tape, wrapping things up. We sat in silence for a long time under the baking sun. Hot as it was, inside the trailer was worse, ever since our air conditioner shit the bed. It was late afternoon, and the heat was crawling away at a slug's pace, taking its sweet time to crap out.
After a while of sitting there saying nothing, I said, "What kind of bites you think were all over Todd?"
"Who says they were bites?" Richie said.
"You heard the man."
"He didn't mention no bites."
"He asked if Todd had a dog."
"So what?"
"You saw Todd."
"Again, so what?"
So... when me and Richie had gone over to Todd's, we found him on the living room floor with a double-barrel shotgun lying next to his stiff, massacred body. Also lying next to him was his throat, as it had been torn from his neck, ripped right out, leaving a bloodied hole where his Adam's apple ought to have been. His face, arms, and chest were marked with deep gashes; most of his blood had seeped into the carpet beneath him, and three fingers on his left hand were missing. Appeared to me - and to Detective Manners - that his fingers had been bitten off, and that it wasn't no murder, but an animal attack.
I said to Richie, "We know Todd didn't have no dog in his trailer on account of him being terrified of 'em. But the detective assumed he did, 'cause of the wounds."
"Hell, I don't know, Tammy Lynn," Richie said. "Could just as well've been a knife someone butchered him with."
"Naw, a blade would have made cleaner cuts than what we saw. Looked to me like something chewed him up and spit what it didn't find favorable back onto the carpet."
"Okay, Miss Sherlock, if it were an animal, how'd it get in? Door was shut when we went over. No windows open."
"Aunt Mags said she heard a gunshot and glass break," I said. "I don't remember seeing no windows broken, though, do you?"
Richie curled his lip and cringed with a sickly expression. "Shoot, all I remember seeing is Todd."
"Let's go take another gander."
"We look like detectives to you? What's it our business?"
"Todd was your friend."
"All he was to me was a neighbor to scrounge beer, a bowl hit, and free Wi-Fi from time to time."
"And you wonder why the cop was looking at us like suspects," I said.
"I wasn't wondering," Richie said.
"He's likely still got beers in the fridge," I said, and my brother perked right the hell up.
"I'll find us some gloves."
Once the remaining cops scattered and vanished like a carnival act, me and Richie slipped behind the two trailers between ours and Todd's, ducked under the police tape and went inside. To keep our hands clean and our prints off of things, we put on pairs of purple dishwashing gloves Richie had found under our sink.
Todd's living room looked as if a tornado had scooped it up and gave it a good shake and set it back down. Place stunk worse than it looked. It usually smelled like musty sweat, ripe garbage, and a man yet to be housebroken, but now -
"You getting that latexy smell?" I said.
"Latexy?" Richie said.
"Latex. Rubber."
"Like a jimmy hat?"
"Yeah. Smells like a used condom in here."
"How do you know what that smells like?" Richie sneered at me.
"Shut up," I said, rolling my eyes.
"It's from all the cops in here, wearing their gloves. Or it's us," Richie said, raising his purple hands.
"Yeah, maybe."
"Anyway, there's your point of entry right there, sis," he said, pointing to the window behind the couch. The glass was gone, shattered into shards and fragments spread every which way you looked.
"The cop said Aunt Mags heard the gunshot and glass break at the same time," I said.
"Okay - keep explaining, Miss Sherlock."
"I prefer Her-lock."
"Good one."
"Means whatever killed Todd was already inside when he blasted the window. He was trying to kill it."
"Or it could have been outside the window when he fired, and that's how it got in."
"Perhaps."
"Perhaps I'll grab us some beers while we think about it," Richie said.
"Don't want one," I said.
"Watching your figure?"
"Yeah, for all the eligible bachelors this park's got."
The fridge contained an eighteen-pack of cans, which kept Richie occupied while I searched the rest of the trailer. Todd's bedroom had been untouched by the events, though from the condition of it, it too appeared to have been swept by a tornado. I pulled my head out of there and checked the commode next. Retreated from there even faster. There wasn't nothing in the kitchen or any other rooms to suggest Todd's attack had occurred anywhere but in the living room.
Five steps from the doorway were the blood-stained remnants of Todd on the carpet, between the television and the coffee table. I dropped to my hands and knees, squinting at the floor, searching for animal hairs. Didn't find any strands, and that was because the police had already found them, or there weren't none left behind by the creature. Or because I gave up looking the second my bare knee pressed down on a speckle of glass and sent me springing back to my feet, hissing and cursing. I was wearing cutoff jean shorts, and the glass fragment, despite not drawing blood, lodged in the skin and stung like a flicked titty.
"Find anything?" Richie said from the kitchen counter, chugging beer.
"Nope," I said, caressing my knee.
Next, I considered the broken window and the bits of glass flaked on the couch cushions and the windowsill behind it. I slid the couch forward and found more glass on the carpet. And some latex-looking stuff.
I plucked it off the carpet and held it in my purple hand. It was a small, thin fragment of black rubber. Could have been part of a cop's glove, I thought, but then I remembered the cops had worn white gloves. And even if it were white - the hell did it matter?
I squatted down behind the couch again and found some more stuff. Called Richie to come look, who said, "I'm busy." He was on his phone now, aimlessly scrolling.
"Richie!" I screeched.
"Hush," he said. "I'm checking my dating apps."
"You can check later."
"Oh, did you get us some internet at home without my knowing?"
Groaning, I stomped my way over to him and held my open palm to his face, showing him the bits of latex. "Found this behind the couch."
Richie took his time removing his attention from his phone to look. Then he raised his eyebrows at me. "Already told you, I ain't a detective," he said. "You gonna tell me what it is?"
"Soon as you tell me what you think it looks like," I said, pointing to a specific piece that was circular and as small as a coin, which, to me, appeared to be the tied-off bottom portion of a balloon.
Richie snickered at it and said, "Looks like a butthole."
"Or a balloon knot," I said.
"Same thing, ain't it?"
Richie was right; we ain't detectives. We gave up on our investigation and hoofed it down the road for our daily convenience store hot dog and soda dinner. It's a ten-minute walk on the way there but usually takes longer on the way back because Richie's dragging a crate of beer home with him. The slow trek gave us plenty of time to talk about Todd's murder, only there wasn't nothing to discuss. I'd found parts of a balloon that Aunt Mags had claimed to have seen on Todd's door earlier in the day, but, in the words of my brother... so what?
It was dusk when we returned to the trailer park, and it wasn't until we crossed the dusty lot that circled the trailer park I rolled that so-what around my mind. As we passed Todd's place, I halted at the following trailer. This one belonged to Harry, a strange middle-aged man who almost everybody, especially us women, steered clear of because he had a way of gawking for too long. A thin, unemployed alcoholic who lived alone and mainly kept to himself, he had the ugliest trailer on the lot, drove his lawnmower everywhere, and had gotten more DUIs than anyone else I'd known that don't even have a license. What gave me pause was the balloon tied to his door. Wasn't just a balloon but a balloon animal. It was green, long, thin, and squiggly, with big googly eyes pasted on one end.
"Richie, what's that look like to you?" I said.
"A balloon," he said.
"No shit. What does it look like, though?"
"It's a snake."
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Mags said there was a balloon on Todd's door. Now there's one at Harry's."
"Probably someone in the park makes 'em."
"Harry hates snakes," I said.
"Then it's some dickhead in the park makes 'em," Richie said.
The problem with not having a car or a job is, without a car, I couldn't travel far in search of one and, even if I had a job, I needed a car to get to work. Richie had a pickup that needed its registration and inspection renewed, but if I was to wait on my brother for that, I'd be closer to collecting social security than starting a career.
The only viable option close enough to hoof it was the Cumberland Farms store I walked to every damn day of the week. My plan this morning was to wake up early and beat the heat while I tramped down the highway to see if the store had any shifts that needed filling. I put on my best denim pants, which was only one tear away from my worst, tossed on a shirt that wasn't a tank top and would hide my bra straps, and stepped outside to a morning that was already boiling with a vengeful summer heatwave. The air was heavy with humidity, loud with chirping crickets, and the lot was once again flooded with policemen. They were twenty yards closer to my home than they had been yesterday, as they were now investigating a scene at Harry's trailer.
I slinked over the back way, creeping past the trailers until I reached the rear window of Harry's place. Stood atop an upside-down bucket and peered through the window where most of the commotion was coming from.
What I could see through the filthy glass was a dim bedroom, Harry's mattress, and Harry on it. Cops and emergency crews hovered around Harry, who lay flat on his back, wearing boxer shorts and a wife-beater. His legs were straight and pressed together, and his arms were stiff against his sides as if he'd frozen while practicing a pencil dive or squeezing himself into a narrow space. Parts of his limbs were bent at strange angles; his knees and elbows were twisted inward, and his neck looked a darker shade than the rest of him, as if he'd been strangled. His face was the color of blueberries, and his eyeballs protruded from their sockets like a golf ball stuck halfway out of a hamster's ass.
Since that was about all I could see, I tuned in with my ears, listening to a medical examiner converse with a voice I recognized as Detective Manners.
"- seen ligature marks like this, Detective?"
"No, it certainly wasn't hands that did this," Detective Manners said. "Not narrow enough to be a rope or cord."
"He's marked from the suprasternal notch up to his chin," the examiner said. "Like he was strangled by a goddamn tight-fitting turtleneck."
"What's this stuff on the bed?"
"Synthetic latex."
"Sorry?"
"A balloon."
I squashed my face against the window, hands shielding my eyes from the sun, and squinted. The medical examiner was holding a small instrument that could have been a pen or a pair of tweezers. At the end of that instrument, a shard of green material dangled.
A balloon.
"Think I ought to ask the neighbor about this?" Detective Manners snickered. "See if this one had a birthday party, too?"
"Richie, you listening?"
"Uh-huh."
"Richie?"
"Yeah?"
"Pull your goddamn head out of your ass and your eyes from your phone," I snapped, "and take this seriously."
Richie rolled his eyes at me and tossed his phone aside. Sat up straight and huffed. "What, Tammy, what? I'm trying to check my dating app matches!"
"There ain't no matches to see 'cause you ain't got none," I screeched at him.
"Frig off," Richie said. "I got plenty of matches."
"Name one girl in town you matched with that I would know."
"Mel."
"You mean our cousin Melissa?"
"Yeah, but she don't know we're related."
"What do you mean, she doesn't know?"
Richie shrugged. "Second cousins don't count."
I shook my shoulders, ridding myself of the heebie-jeebies, and told him, once again, ensuring he was listening to me this time, what I had seen and heard at Harry's. When I finished, he said, "So what, Tammy Lynn?"
"You say that an awful lot, you know," I said.
"Then speak your fuckin' mind, sis, so I ain't gotta try to read it."
"Harry died from strangulation," I said. "His whole body was crushed, bones busted. Cops said whatever got wrapped around his neck wasn't hands. The marks were too big. His face was blue from the pressure, and his goddamn eyes nearly popped."
Richie twirled his finger, meaning for me to keep talking.
"What was Harry afraid of the most?" I asked. "What animal?"
Richie said, "Snakes - like you said."
"And what was Todd afraid of?"
"Dogs."
"What'd we see on Harry's porch yesterday?"
"A snake balloon."
"I saw them pick up parts of that green balloon in Harry's trailer," I said. "Just like the one I found at Todd's."
"What's this got to do with Todd?"
"What'd it look like Todd was killed by? What'd the detective ask us if he owned?"
"A dog."
"Right. Because they think Todd got torn to shreds by some animal, something like a dog."
"Hold up, Tammy Lynn," Richie said, his hands raised. "Just hold on. If you're saying what I think you're saying, then you're meaning to tell me -"
"That I bet the balloon Aunt Mags saw at Todd's was shaped like a dog."
Richie snorted. "What are you gonna tell me next? That because there was a snake balloon at Harry's, and he was scared of snakes that he was killed by -"
"A big fuckin' snake," I said.
"You realize how bat-shit that sounds?"
"I know how it sounds. But it's just too coincidental. It could be something - what's the word? Something supernatural."
"What, like, some paranormal party clown is offing folks in the park by making balloon animals of things they fear the most? That those balloons come to life and kill 'em?" Richie scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. "That's what you've come up with, Herlock?"
"Hey, you said it, not me, So-Watson."
"Funny. It's what you're thinking, though, ain't it?"
"I'm thinking we ought to put one of us on guard duty tonight."
"Shit, give me some beer money, sis, and I'll sit on the porch all the livelong day - regardless if I believe what you think."
"We're not watching our place, Richie. We're not the next trailer down the line."
"The line?"
"First Todd, then Harry. Who's next?"
"Aunt Mags."
Aunt Mags was an enormous woman who never left her trailer on account of her being old, unhealthy, and wider than the door itself. Living an immobile life in a mobile home, she was also short of breath, not only from being massively overweight but from emphysema, having been a smoker, she'd once said, since she was twelve years old. She was pushing seventy now, and the cigarettes she had sucked on most of her life were now replaced with oxygen from a tank. Her niece Ronda had lived with her and had been taking care of her in the years since she'd been sick, but she passed away less than a month prior. Ever since then, the neighbors had been pitching in to help her around her trailer.
We knocked on Aunt Mags' door and entered. Had she not hollered for us to come in first, the stink that hit me like a heatwave when we entered would have convinced me she was dead. Unsanitary was the first word that came to mind. Rotten was the second. Fester was the third. I had to breathe from my mouth just to keep from keeling over and dying my damn self.
Richie, forgoing any politeness, wafted his hands at the air as though he were crop-dusting a fart. "Christ in a crosswind, Aunty, ain't nobody been by to help you tidy the place?"
Aunt Mags was planted in her recliner, in her usual spot, with the TV on, broadcasting some daytime soap operas. The clear plastic shield of her oxygen mask rested on the arm of her seat, and corded to it on the floor beside her lay the tank. She considered the room, looking around as if she could see a smell, and lowered her chins - yes, chins - plural - in shame.
"You should've called us if you needed some help," I said.
"Seriously," Richie said. "Stinks to high heaven up in this tuna can."
"Did you kids get a landline without my knowing, or did you expect me to get up and walk to ya?" she said in a sharp but lighthearted tone.
"You're right," I said. "We should've come by sooner. Sorry, Aunt Mags."
"Harry's been looking after me, but he hasn't been by in a few days. He knows how lonely I get now that Ronda's not here, but -"
"That's what we wanted to talk to you about," I said.
"About Harry?"
"Sort of."
Aunt Mags gestured toward the couch. "Come - sit."
Richie plopped down on the couch beside her, and I stayed where I was, holding the door open to air the place out. The trailer stunk of spoiled food refried and left out to fester, and the coffee table was littered with bowls of half-eaten soup, candy bar wrappers, and cups half-filled with a yellow liquid I feared was urine. Not one ounce of me wanted to go in and sit, and even if I did, I'd bet my legs would have rebelled against me.
I told Aunt Mags we weren't staying long enough to get comfortable, and pressed forward with our investigation, saying, "You mentioned to the cops you thought Todd was having a party because you saw a balloon."
"That's right."
"Why'd you think that?"
"You know, it's like when there's a child's party," Aunt Mags said. "The parents would put a balloon out on their mailbox, so other kids' parents knew which house to go to?"
I shook my head.
"I guess that's an old-timer thing, the generations before phones and internet and GPS."
"Makes sense," Richie said, holding his phone toward the ceiling, "since this place still don't have fuck-all for those things."
"Richard," Aunt Mags said. "Don't be cursing in my home."
"Sorry, Aunt Mags, but there ain't dick for reception in this park."
"What kind of balloon was it?" I asked loudly to reel the conversation back.
"It was black," Aunt Mags said.
"But was it shaped like something? Or was it just a plain old blown-up balloon?"
"It was a balloon animal, now that you mention it. It is kind of weird that a grown man would put it out for a party. Regular balloons I can see, but a balloon animal? That's child's stuff."
"What kind of animal was it?"
"Those things all look the same, don't they? Only so many shapes you can twist out of a piece of rubber. You know Wayne from across the lot? He was a professional party clown. He could make those animals. You should ask him."
"Thanks, Aunt Mags, but all we need to know is what animal the balloon was on Todd's door?"
"Well, I guess it had four legs and a head, but that don't narrow it down, does it? A dog, I suppose."
Richie shot me a wide-eyed expression of utter shock. His jaw dropped, and he mouthed the words: Holy shit.
"Did the police mention to you how Todd was killed?" I asked Aunt Mags. "They think it was some kind of animal attack - like a dog."
Aunt Mags pressed her hand to her chest. "Dear Lord. Now, how did a dog wind up inside his trailer?"
I told her what me and Richie knew, then explained the snake balloon on Harry's door, what I had heard and seen through Harry's window. Then Richie chimed in with a snicker, telling Mags, "Tammy Lynn thinks there's some kind of paranormal thing going on. People's fears coming to life from those balloons and killing them."
I didn't expect her to believe a word of it, but when I explained how I thought she could be the next target and insisted we watch over her for protection, she appeared rather accepting.
"Sounds like silly superstition to me," she said. "Can't say I believe it, but I won't say no to some company, neither. I'm awful lonely without my Ronda here."
The plan was set. We'd come back before dark. And as we made our move to leave, Aunt Mags, God bless her, jumped and jiggled with fright. "You're gonna give me a scare like this," she squealed, "and leave me all by my lonesome now?"
"One of us will be back soon," I said. "Don't you fret."
Aunt Mags panted. "Gosh, you're putting me at great risk if what you say is true - people's fears coming to life!"
"How's that?"
"Todd was scared of dogs. Harry was scared of snakes. You know what my greatest fear is? Dying alone."
"If that's the case, consider yourself lucky," Richie said. "I don't think you can shape a balloon into loneliness."
"I hope not, Richard," Aunt Mags said, then, "Say, what's your biggest fear?"
"Big, hairy fuckin' spiders, Aunt Mags - pardon my French."
Aunt Mags shuddered, either from Richie's cursing or from picturing big hairy fuckin' spiders. "What about you, Tammy Lynn?" she asked.
I thought about that for a moment, but all that had been circling in my head was Wayne, him being a party clown, his face caked in white makeup, with a red nose, and blowing up balloons and shaping them into animals that could materialize into real-life creatures. "Clowns," I said. "I'm scared of clowns."
Again, Aunt Mags shivered. "Then maybe you ought not to be the one to go and see Wayne."
"You got shells for Pop's shotgun?" I said.
"Why? You think a shotgun'll do the trick on this magical clown?" Richie said.
"Might do something," I said, "but not having it won't do nothing."
Richie remained seated, lazily scrolling through his phone. I had it up to my tits with him and his mindless phone-gazing, and shouted, "Richie, go and get the fuckin' shotgun and get your fuckin' ass over at Mags' and stay there until I fuckin' get back! Now!"
Richie hardly flinched at my outburst. "Relax, Herlock," he said. "Soon as I get some provisions, I'm going."
He skirted over to the fridge, ducked his head inside, slammed the door shut, and threw a fit when he realized he was out of provisions.
"You can get beer later," I said. "When I get back from seeing Wayne, I'll come relieve you, and you can run to the store."
"Hell am I supposed to do until then?"
"Staying awake and alert would be a grand start."
"I'm a be bored out of my mind over there."
"Aunt Mags has internet. Chat with all those girls you got lined up on your dating apps till I'm back."
"Don't have any. Cousin Mel was the only match I had, but she blocked me. Guess I ain't the Castlevania I thought I was."
"Casanova, dipshit. Now, go on," I said, nudging my chin at the door.
Richie went to his room, came back with our dad's twelve-gauge, and then we left together, walking in opposite directions, Richie going next door and me making my way down the line of homes to find Wayne.
The sun was setting, and there wasn't a soul roaming the park. Everybody had either gone inside to beat the heat or word had got around about Harry's death on top of Todd's and they were too scared to come out.
It didn't occur to me until I'd walked by six or seven trailers that I couldn't recall which damn trailer belonged to Wayne, and the longer I searched my mind, the more and more I forgot just what the hell I was gonna ask him once I found him. Aunt Mags had told me to ask him about the balloons, but what for? What did I need to talk to some old wheelchair-bound ex-party clown -
That's right. Wayne was a paraplegic, bound to a wheelchair, and, more importantly, his trailer had a ramp. That's how I determined where his home was; his trailer was the only one with a ramp. And with that information, I turned around and started back the way I came. I didn't need to see or talk to Wayne. What was I thinking? Just because the man had once been a party clown and knew how to shape balloons into animals didn't mean he could be responsible for these murders - these supernatural murders. Naw, that was horseshit. The man was more immobile than Aunt Mags. If he'd had superpowers, he sure as hell wouldn't be rolling around in a wheelchair, relying on others to feed him, bathe him, and change his shitty diapers.
Back down to Mags's I went, knocked once, and let myself in, expecting to find Richie sprawled on the couch, but he wasn't. Our father's shotgun lay there, the barrel leaning on the arm at the opposite end of where Aunt Mags was sitting (fuckin' potted plants got more exercise than her) and the light of the TV flickered on her expressionless face. She was covered by a blanket the size of a circus tent. She had it pulled up to her chins, clutching it with both hands, with a fearful expression on her face, as if I'd walked in on her changing.
"Where's Richie?" I said.
"He weren't here but two minutes," Aunt Mags said, "before he run right out and leave me all alone!" Her voice stammered and sounded broken, like she'd lost her mind and was two breaths away from having a coronary.
"Goddammit," I hissed under my breath, then said, "Where'd he say he was going?"
"He said he left something at Todd's."
The sumbitch just couldn't wait to get some beer.
"Well, I'm here now," I said. "So, you come on back out from hiding under that blanket."
"Find my bearings first and I will. I ain't moved no further than this chair from my bedroom in Lord knows how long, but I swear it, I've lost more weight from nervous sweats this afternoon than a week's worth of walking ever could do me."
"Sorry about all this," I said and flipped on a lampshade to get some light in the place.
"Nonsense, Tammy Lynn," Aunt Mags said. "It ain't you that's scared me. It's being alone that does it."
I stood in front of the couch, looking out the window beyond it, the one facing Harry's trailer, and waited for Richie to come into my sight.
"First Todd leaves me," Aunt Mags said, "now Harry."
Staring at the glass, I couldn't see nothing but my reflection and the white flickering light of the television set.
"It's sad stuff, Aunt Mags," I said.
"You wouldn't leave me, Tammy Lynn, would you?"
"I don't plan on dying anytime soon."
"No, not dying," Aunt Mags said. "I said you won't leave me, will you?"
"How do you mean?"
"After Ronda passed, Todd was the first to come look in on me, then Harry. But they both left me."
"Left you?"
"They stopped coming by," Aunt Mags said. "Quit checking up on me."
"I didn't know Todd looked in on you at all," I said.
"Well, he did - for a spell. And then he didn't. Everyone gets sick of being around a fat old heifer like me."
At first, I thought she was making a joke, at which I snickered. Until I steered my eyes away from the window and saw she was tearing up. "I can't stand being alone," she whimpered.
"Aunt Mags," I said, "you're not alone. I'm right here. And when Richie gets back -"
I returned my gaze to the window to see if I could see Richie coming, but Harry's trailer was blocking Todd's place from this angle. I couldn't -
She thought there might have been a birthday party going on. Heard loud music playing, and there was a balloon of some sort tied to his door.
- see it.
I ain't moved no further than this chair from my bedroom in Lord knows how long.
I suddenly felt as if I were standing in a walk-in cooler. Tingles raced up and down my spine like static electricity. The tiny hairs on my arms stood up with the prickling sensation of a balloon rubbing against my skin. Arms slack at my sides, my fingers numbed. Every pore on my skin shriveled, as if every part of me but my brain was informing me of danger.
"Aunt Mags," I said, "you told the detective you thought Todd was having a birthday party - 'cause you saw a balloon on his door?"
"That's right."
"You can't see Todd's door from here. So how'd you see it if you haven't left your trailer in Lord knows how long?"
Aunt Mags raised her eyes, thinking, and with her fists still clenching the blanket and holding it up to her neck, she pulled it up even further, dropping her face and sniffling into it like it was a gigantic snot rag.
I started backward, headed for the door on trembling legs. A bead of sweat ran down my back and into the crack of my ass.
"I'm gonna go see where Richie's at," I said, and Aunt Mags snapped her round face out of the blanket, her eyes seething and wide.
"Don't you dare leave me, Tammy Lynn," she said in a voice that was suddenly deep and stern and vicious.
I continued my slow backpedaling, eyes locked on Mags. "I'm not leaving," I said. My mouth was slack, and I could barely speak above a murmur. "I'm coming right back."
"You're lying," Mags said in that obscenely throaty drawl. "You're all liars. You all say you're coming right back, but you all get tired of me, and you leave and you don't never come back."
I quickened my backward motion. "I promise, I'm coming back." I turned around. "I promise." Grabbed the door handle. "I'll be right -" I swung the door open, and standing before me - no, standing's not the right word. Floating! Floating before my eyes was a big, round red balloon. As soon as I'd opened the door, it launched toward me as if a draft of wind had carried it inside.
I backed away as it coasted toward my face, felt my legs clobber the coffee table, and I fell, crashing on the table and falling onto the floor between it and the couch. Wringing myself up with a jolt, I snatched the shotgun off the cushion, pumping it as I swung around and -
The balloon was gone. I spun toward Aunt Mags, but she was gone, too. Her massively rotund and overweight form sat in the recliner, but this one was dressed as a clown. White makeup covered her round face, and her nose was an oval of red, a miniature version of the balloon I had seen a moment ago. Aunt Mags's eyes glowed orange like a wrathful fire. As she looked at me and smiled, stretching her lips like an insane person, her white makeup cracked and flaked like old paint along her forehead and mouth wrinkles. Rows of sharp, black teeth glistened like knives, and saliva the color of cola dribbled down her chin, dripping onto her clown costume and staining one giant yellow fuzzy button.
"This is what happens when you try to leave me," Mags the clown said, and though she had to have been pushing three hundred pounds, she levitated out of her chair and stood on her feet as if she was filled with helium. "This is what happens when everybody leaves me."
Mags' orange clown eyes darted to the door behind me, and it slammed shut against my back. She floated toward me, her monstrous frame and colorful outfit weightless and fluid. She looked like a Macy's Thanksgiving Parade balloon, and goddammit, I don't know how I managed it - I laughed. Laughed in Aunt Mag's face.
At once, Mags the clown halted. She appeared to slump or settle - deflating - and she growled, low and throaty, like a rabid animal, and said, "What is so funny?"
With a breathless sigh and a smirk, I said, "Oh, Aunt Mags, you just look so fuckin' ridiculous."
"I am your greatest fear come to life," Mags said. "Do you not fear me, child?"
"I lied about that, Aunt Mags. I'm not afraid of clowns."
I sauntered toward her, and Aunt Mags's snarl and monstrous, sharp black teeth faded as she closed her mouth. Her face scrunched into an angry frown, with more lines cracking in her white makeup, resembling a dried-up dog turd.
"Wanna know what I'm afraid of?" I said and pumped the shotgun. "Nothin'."
I aimed at the oxygen tank alongside her chair and fired. The report in the small quarters of the trailer was loud and rattled my noggin enough to disorient me. As soon as I had fired, I made a dive for the floor alongside the couch, my expectation being the oxygen would explode, or at least ignite and launch the tank into a flying projectile. Figured it'd do something, only it did nothing besides hiss for a second.
Soon as my hearing came back, my ears filled with the demonic sound of the fat clown lady chortling. Aunt Mags stood over me as I lay on the floor with the shotgun on my midsection.
"Silly child," she cackled. "What were you expecting?"
"Thought it'd explode," I said.
"If it were oxygen, maybe. But that's helium."
I didn't know what to say to that, only thinking that Aunt Mags breathing helium was not the strangest thing to happen to me today.
"Now, Tammy Lynn," Mags groaned. "Now, are you afraid?"
I racked the shotgun, reared up, said, "Already told you, Mags. I ain't afraid of nothin'," and fired.
Aunt Mags popped like a balloon. Her red nose fell to the carpet like a rock as pieces of her shredded clothes drifted to the floor in a torrent of elastic fragments. All signs of fat old Mags were gone, only the remains of her rubbery clothes that looked like parts of a balloon.
And a latexy smell.
Once I found my wits and kept them, I ventured toward Todd's trailer to find my brother, and what made me lose my composure, made me finally understand what it was I truly feared most in this world, was the balloon tied to a string and floating over the porch railing. It was aqua blue, round in the center, with eight or so appendages branching off. It was shaped like a spider.
"Richie!" I hollered and pushed through the door.
My imagination had gone haywire, picturing a colossal spider, a gigantic hairy tarantula coiling my brother in a web as thick as ropes.
I stumbled through the darkness and spun toward the kitchen, where a light shone from the open refrigerator door. Richie was crouched in front of it. He swung around, beer bottle in hand, eyes bulging with dumb guilt.
He spread his arms and shrugged. "What? I promise I was goin' right back."
I dropped my shoulders and heaved a sigh of relief. Thankful that my brother was still alive. That my fear had not come to fruition.
Through the open door, I could see the porch.
Where no balloon animals floated.
Next day, we were lounging in our usual place on our stoop when an unmarked police car steered into the park, stopped in front of Aunt Mags's lot, and Detective Manners got out and approached her door.
"She ain't home," I called to him, and he paused only a moment before letting himself inside.
Richie and I had cleaned up Mags's trailer the night before. Cleaned, as in, I got the shotgun and spent shells the hell out of there.
Few minutes later, Manners backpedaled outside and came up to our porch. Asked us where she'd gone. I shrugged, and Richie burped, not bothering to share details of what we knew, the consensus being he wouldn't believe it.
"What brings you to Aunt Mags's door?" I asked.
"Couple of things," Manners said. "Balloons for a start."
"Like how she could have seen a balloon on Todd's door from her window?"
"No - I must have missed that detail," he said. "Actually, it wasn't the balloons themselves, but what's used to inflate them."
"Air?" Richie said.
"Helium, dumbass," I said.
"Helium," Manners said with a nod. "A gas like that is colorless and odorless, and damn near impossible to trace from a forensics standpoint. However, if I were to bet that the balloon particles we found in the trailers had traces of helium on them, I'd put my pension on it."
"And that brought you to Mags's trailer because...?"
"Does the name Mar-Go-Go mean anything to you?"
"Not a damn thing," I said.
"Was Margot Fletcher's stage name," Manners said. "Your old Aunt Mags used to be a children's party clown many a time ago. When I first spoke with her, I knew the name rang a bell, but I couldn't put my finger on it." He raised a single finger and said, "Until I recalled something else."
Richie and I exchanged uncertain glances.
"Mags has emphysema," Manners said. "That right? Uses oxygen?"
I spread my hands, meaning: Where's this headed?
"Saw her tank the day I interviewed her," Manners said. "At first I thought there was something funny about it, but I couldn't figure out why. Then it occurred to me, industry-standard medical tanks are green. The one Margot had was brown. It was a helium tank - not oxygen."
Richie snickered. "So, you're thinking Aunt Mags - 'cause she used to be a birthday clown and had helium in her trailer - that she murdered Todd and Harry? Are we talking about the same Mags? The old, boulder-sized broad? The one who can hardly walk or breathe on her own? That Mags?"
Manners sighed. "Seems about as likely as her spotting a balloon from her window, uh?"
Richie and I turned our heads, lips pursed into smirks.
The side-eye the detective gave us the first time we had met returned when he said, "Looks like the tank took some scattershot. Wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
More head shakes and downward frowns from me and Richie.
"Didn't hear any shots?"
"Didn't hear nothin'," I said.
Manners took a deep breath through his nose. "If you could call me when she gets back -"
"Already told you she's too fat to walk or leave the house," Richie said.
Manners's eyes shifted toward Mags's trailer, confused. "But -"
"We said she ain't home," I said. "That don't mean she left."
"You're clowning around with me," Manners said. "No pun intended."
"No, sir."
Manners thrust his hands on his hips. "Well, if she didn't leave, and she's not home - how about you two quit with the riddles, and say what you need to say?"
"I don't need to say nothin'," I said.
"If she ain't here," Richie said, "and she ain't gone anywhere, she must have -" He raised a fist and flicked his fingers, making a Poof! sound.
With an abrupt about-face, Detective Manners waved a discouraged hand and trundled away from us, to which me and my brother threw our hands over our mouths to stifle laughter. As Manners opened his car door, Richie called out, "Hey, Detective!"
Manners paused and looked back.
Richie said, "If Aunt Mags really is a killer clown, there's only one way to stop her."
"Yeah? How's that?"
"Go for the juggler."
God bless my brother. I fear the day he leaves me.
from FICTION on the WEB short stories https://ift.tt/MnBJN3D
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"Richard and Tammy Lynn Peacock?"
I took a sip of beer and nodded. Richie answered with a burp, and the cop introduced himself as Detective Manners. Once he confirmed we were the ones who called it in, he asked us questions we'd already been asked and answered, and then some.
"Did Todd have any pets? A dog?"
Richie shook his head, said, "Nope."
"You're certain?"
"Todd was petrified of dogs," I said, adding that when we was kids, we owned a little ass-licking pooch no bigger than a bunny, and yet Todd would throw his hands up and back away from us as if we had a fuckin' leopard on a leash.
"What about guests?" Detective Manners said. "The neighbor over there -" He gestured to the trailer next to ours and checked his notepad. "Margot Fletcher."
"Aunt Mags," Richie said.
"She's your aunt?"
"Naw. Everybody in the park just calls her Aunt Mags."
"Right - well, she said there might have been a birthday party going on. Heard loud music playing, and there was a balloon tied to his door." The detective shrugged as though the information was meaningless as it sounded.
"It ain't Todd's birthday," I said. "He just likes his music loud. And if he was having a party, we'd a been there."
"But you were there at one point," Manners said, giving us the side-eye.
"Todd's got Wi-Fi," Richie said. "We're always going back and forth over there to use it. That's why we found him before anyone else."
"Wasn't just his internet we liked," I said.
"Right. He had beer, too."
"I meant we liked Todd," I said. Then, returning the detective's glare at him: "Point being, he was our friend. Means we're certain he wasn't throwing no party without us knowing. Also means no matter what happened to him, it was gonna be us finding him at some point."
"Thanks," the detective said, and then he left us with a cloud of dust after hopping into his cruiser and speeding out of the park.
"What an asshole," I said.
"How's that?" Richie said, slurping his beer and basking in obliviousness.
"He was looking at us like we were the ones killed Todd."
"He didn't say that."
"And you weren't helping us none, telling the cop we only go over there to take advantage of his internet and beers."
Richie shrugged. "It's the truth."
The coroners rolled Todd's body out on a stretcher. Tossed him in a van as gently as throwing a bag of trash into a dumpster. The remaining cops were now cordoning Todd's trailer with yellow tape, wrapping things up. We sat in silence for a long time under the baking sun. Hot as it was, inside the trailer was worse, ever since our air conditioner shit the bed. It was late afternoon, and the heat was crawling away at a slug's pace, taking its sweet time to crap out.
After a while of sitting there saying nothing, I said, "What kind of bites you think were all over Todd?"
"Who says they were bites?" Richie said.
"You heard the man."
"He didn't mention no bites."
"He asked if Todd had a dog."
"So what?"
"You saw Todd."
"Again, so what?"
So... when me and Richie had gone over to Todd's, we found him on the living room floor with a double-barrel shotgun lying next to his stiff, massacred body. Also lying next to him was his throat, as it had been torn from his neck, ripped right out, leaving a bloodied hole where his Adam's apple ought to have been. His face, arms, and chest were marked with deep gashes; most of his blood had seeped into the carpet beneath him, and three fingers on his left hand were missing. Appeared to me - and to Detective Manners - that his fingers had been bitten off, and that it wasn't no murder, but an animal attack.
I said to Richie, "We know Todd didn't have no dog in his trailer on account of him being terrified of 'em. But the detective assumed he did, 'cause of the wounds."
"Hell, I don't know, Tammy Lynn," Richie said. "Could just as well've been a knife someone butchered him with."
"Naw, a blade would have made cleaner cuts than what we saw. Looked to me like something chewed him up and spit what it didn't find favorable back onto the carpet."
"Okay, Miss Sherlock, if it were an animal, how'd it get in? Door was shut when we went over. No windows open."
"Aunt Mags said she heard a gunshot and glass break," I said. "I don't remember seeing no windows broken, though, do you?"
Richie curled his lip and cringed with a sickly expression. "Shoot, all I remember seeing is Todd."
"Let's go take another gander."
"We look like detectives to you? What's it our business?"
"Todd was your friend."
"All he was to me was a neighbor to scrounge beer, a bowl hit, and free Wi-Fi from time to time."
"And you wonder why the cop was looking at us like suspects," I said.
"I wasn't wondering," Richie said.
"He's likely still got beers in the fridge," I said, and my brother perked right the hell up.
"I'll find us some gloves."
Once the remaining cops scattered and vanished like a carnival act, me and Richie slipped behind the two trailers between ours and Todd's, ducked under the police tape and went inside. To keep our hands clean and our prints off of things, we put on pairs of purple dishwashing gloves Richie had found under our sink.
Todd's living room looked as if a tornado had scooped it up and gave it a good shake and set it back down. Place stunk worse than it looked. It usually smelled like musty sweat, ripe garbage, and a man yet to be housebroken, but now -
"You getting that latexy smell?" I said.
"Latexy?" Richie said.
"Latex. Rubber."
"Like a jimmy hat?"
"Yeah. Smells like a used condom in here."
"How do you know what that smells like?" Richie sneered at me.
"Shut up," I said, rolling my eyes.
"It's from all the cops in here, wearing their gloves. Or it's us," Richie said, raising his purple hands.
"Yeah, maybe."
"Anyway, there's your point of entry right there, sis," he said, pointing to the window behind the couch. The glass was gone, shattered into shards and fragments spread every which way you looked.
"The cop said Aunt Mags heard the gunshot and glass break at the same time," I said.
"Okay - keep explaining, Miss Sherlock."
"I prefer Her-lock."
"Good one."
"Means whatever killed Todd was already inside when he blasted the window. He was trying to kill it."
"Or it could have been outside the window when he fired, and that's how it got in."
"Perhaps."
"Perhaps I'll grab us some beers while we think about it," Richie said.
"Don't want one," I said.
"Watching your figure?"
"Yeah, for all the eligible bachelors this park's got."
The fridge contained an eighteen-pack of cans, which kept Richie occupied while I searched the rest of the trailer. Todd's bedroom had been untouched by the events, though from the condition of it, it too appeared to have been swept by a tornado. I pulled my head out of there and checked the commode next. Retreated from there even faster. There wasn't nothing in the kitchen or any other rooms to suggest Todd's attack had occurred anywhere but in the living room.
Five steps from the doorway were the blood-stained remnants of Todd on the carpet, between the television and the coffee table. I dropped to my hands and knees, squinting at the floor, searching for animal hairs. Didn't find any strands, and that was because the police had already found them, or there weren't none left behind by the creature. Or because I gave up looking the second my bare knee pressed down on a speckle of glass and sent me springing back to my feet, hissing and cursing. I was wearing cutoff jean shorts, and the glass fragment, despite not drawing blood, lodged in the skin and stung like a flicked titty.
"Find anything?" Richie said from the kitchen counter, chugging beer.
"Nope," I said, caressing my knee.
Next, I considered the broken window and the bits of glass flaked on the couch cushions and the windowsill behind it. I slid the couch forward and found more glass on the carpet. And some latex-looking stuff.
I plucked it off the carpet and held it in my purple hand. It was a small, thin fragment of black rubber. Could have been part of a cop's glove, I thought, but then I remembered the cops had worn white gloves. And even if it were white - the hell did it matter?
I squatted down behind the couch again and found some more stuff. Called Richie to come look, who said, "I'm busy." He was on his phone now, aimlessly scrolling.
"Richie!" I screeched.
"Hush," he said. "I'm checking my dating apps."
"You can check later."
"Oh, did you get us some internet at home without my knowing?"
Groaning, I stomped my way over to him and held my open palm to his face, showing him the bits of latex. "Found this behind the couch."
Richie took his time removing his attention from his phone to look. Then he raised his eyebrows at me. "Already told you, I ain't a detective," he said. "You gonna tell me what it is?"
"Soon as you tell me what you think it looks like," I said, pointing to a specific piece that was circular and as small as a coin, which, to me, appeared to be the tied-off bottom portion of a balloon.
Richie snickered at it and said, "Looks like a butthole."
"Or a balloon knot," I said.
"Same thing, ain't it?"
Richie was right; we ain't detectives. We gave up on our investigation and hoofed it down the road for our daily convenience store hot dog and soda dinner. It's a ten-minute walk on the way there but usually takes longer on the way back because Richie's dragging a crate of beer home with him. The slow trek gave us plenty of time to talk about Todd's murder, only there wasn't nothing to discuss. I'd found parts of a balloon that Aunt Mags had claimed to have seen on Todd's door earlier in the day, but, in the words of my brother... so what?
It was dusk when we returned to the trailer park, and it wasn't until we crossed the dusty lot that circled the trailer park I rolled that so-what around my mind. As we passed Todd's place, I halted at the following trailer. This one belonged to Harry, a strange middle-aged man who almost everybody, especially us women, steered clear of because he had a way of gawking for too long. A thin, unemployed alcoholic who lived alone and mainly kept to himself, he had the ugliest trailer on the lot, drove his lawnmower everywhere, and had gotten more DUIs than anyone else I'd known that don't even have a license. What gave me pause was the balloon tied to his door. Wasn't just a balloon but a balloon animal. It was green, long, thin, and squiggly, with big googly eyes pasted on one end.
"Richie, what's that look like to you?" I said.
"A balloon," he said.
"No shit. What does it look like, though?"
"It's a snake."
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Mags said there was a balloon on Todd's door. Now there's one at Harry's."
"Probably someone in the park makes 'em."
"Harry hates snakes," I said.
"Then it's some dickhead in the park makes 'em," Richie said.
The problem with not having a car or a job is, without a car, I couldn't travel far in search of one and, even if I had a job, I needed a car to get to work. Richie had a pickup that needed its registration and inspection renewed, but if I was to wait on my brother for that, I'd be closer to collecting social security than starting a career.
The only viable option close enough to hoof it was the Cumberland Farms store I walked to every damn day of the week. My plan this morning was to wake up early and beat the heat while I tramped down the highway to see if the store had any shifts that needed filling. I put on my best denim pants, which was only one tear away from my worst, tossed on a shirt that wasn't a tank top and would hide my bra straps, and stepped outside to a morning that was already boiling with a vengeful summer heatwave. The air was heavy with humidity, loud with chirping crickets, and the lot was once again flooded with policemen. They were twenty yards closer to my home than they had been yesterday, as they were now investigating a scene at Harry's trailer.
I slinked over the back way, creeping past the trailers until I reached the rear window of Harry's place. Stood atop an upside-down bucket and peered through the window where most of the commotion was coming from.
What I could see through the filthy glass was a dim bedroom, Harry's mattress, and Harry on it. Cops and emergency crews hovered around Harry, who lay flat on his back, wearing boxer shorts and a wife-beater. His legs were straight and pressed together, and his arms were stiff against his sides as if he'd frozen while practicing a pencil dive or squeezing himself into a narrow space. Parts of his limbs were bent at strange angles; his knees and elbows were twisted inward, and his neck looked a darker shade than the rest of him, as if he'd been strangled. His face was the color of blueberries, and his eyeballs protruded from their sockets like a golf ball stuck halfway out of a hamster's ass.
Since that was about all I could see, I tuned in with my ears, listening to a medical examiner converse with a voice I recognized as Detective Manners.
"- seen ligature marks like this, Detective?"
"No, it certainly wasn't hands that did this," Detective Manners said. "Not narrow enough to be a rope or cord."
"He's marked from the suprasternal notch up to his chin," the examiner said. "Like he was strangled by a goddamn tight-fitting turtleneck."
"What's this stuff on the bed?"
"Synthetic latex."
"Sorry?"
"A balloon."
I squashed my face against the window, hands shielding my eyes from the sun, and squinted. The medical examiner was holding a small instrument that could have been a pen or a pair of tweezers. At the end of that instrument, a shard of green material dangled.
A balloon.
"Think I ought to ask the neighbor about this?" Detective Manners snickered. "See if this one had a birthday party, too?"
"Richie, you listening?"
"Uh-huh."
"Richie?"
"Yeah?"
"Pull your goddamn head out of your ass and your eyes from your phone," I snapped, "and take this seriously."
Richie rolled his eyes at me and tossed his phone aside. Sat up straight and huffed. "What, Tammy, what? I'm trying to check my dating app matches!"
"There ain't no matches to see 'cause you ain't got none," I screeched at him.
"Frig off," Richie said. "I got plenty of matches."
"Name one girl in town you matched with that I would know."
"Mel."
"You mean our cousin Melissa?"
"Yeah, but she don't know we're related."
"What do you mean, she doesn't know?"
Richie shrugged. "Second cousins don't count."
I shook my shoulders, ridding myself of the heebie-jeebies, and told him, once again, ensuring he was listening to me this time, what I had seen and heard at Harry's. When I finished, he said, "So what, Tammy Lynn?"
"You say that an awful lot, you know," I said.
"Then speak your fuckin' mind, sis, so I ain't gotta try to read it."
"Harry died from strangulation," I said. "His whole body was crushed, bones busted. Cops said whatever got wrapped around his neck wasn't hands. The marks were too big. His face was blue from the pressure, and his goddamn eyes nearly popped."
Richie twirled his finger, meaning for me to keep talking.
"What was Harry afraid of the most?" I asked. "What animal?"
Richie said, "Snakes - like you said."
"And what was Todd afraid of?"
"Dogs."
"What'd we see on Harry's porch yesterday?"
"A snake balloon."
"I saw them pick up parts of that green balloon in Harry's trailer," I said. "Just like the one I found at Todd's."
"What's this got to do with Todd?"
"What'd it look like Todd was killed by? What'd the detective ask us if he owned?"
"A dog."
"Right. Because they think Todd got torn to shreds by some animal, something like a dog."
"Hold up, Tammy Lynn," Richie said, his hands raised. "Just hold on. If you're saying what I think you're saying, then you're meaning to tell me -"
"That I bet the balloon Aunt Mags saw at Todd's was shaped like a dog."
Richie snorted. "What are you gonna tell me next? That because there was a snake balloon at Harry's, and he was scared of snakes that he was killed by -"
"A big fuckin' snake," I said.
"You realize how bat-shit that sounds?"
"I know how it sounds. But it's just too coincidental. It could be something - what's the word? Something supernatural."
"What, like, some paranormal party clown is offing folks in the park by making balloon animals of things they fear the most? That those balloons come to life and kill 'em?" Richie scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. "That's what you've come up with, Herlock?"
"Hey, you said it, not me, So-Watson."
"Funny. It's what you're thinking, though, ain't it?"
"I'm thinking we ought to put one of us on guard duty tonight."
"Shit, give me some beer money, sis, and I'll sit on the porch all the livelong day - regardless if I believe what you think."
"We're not watching our place, Richie. We're not the next trailer down the line."
"The line?"
"First Todd, then Harry. Who's next?"
"Aunt Mags."
Aunt Mags was an enormous woman who never left her trailer on account of her being old, unhealthy, and wider than the door itself. Living an immobile life in a mobile home, she was also short of breath, not only from being massively overweight but from emphysema, having been a smoker, she'd once said, since she was twelve years old. She was pushing seventy now, and the cigarettes she had sucked on most of her life were now replaced with oxygen from a tank. Her niece Ronda had lived with her and had been taking care of her in the years since she'd been sick, but she passed away less than a month prior. Ever since then, the neighbors had been pitching in to help her around her trailer.
We knocked on Aunt Mags' door and entered. Had she not hollered for us to come in first, the stink that hit me like a heatwave when we entered would have convinced me she was dead. Unsanitary was the first word that came to mind. Rotten was the second. Fester was the third. I had to breathe from my mouth just to keep from keeling over and dying my damn self.
Richie, forgoing any politeness, wafted his hands at the air as though he were crop-dusting a fart. "Christ in a crosswind, Aunty, ain't nobody been by to help you tidy the place?"
Aunt Mags was planted in her recliner, in her usual spot, with the TV on, broadcasting some daytime soap operas. The clear plastic shield of her oxygen mask rested on the arm of her seat, and corded to it on the floor beside her lay the tank. She considered the room, looking around as if she could see a smell, and lowered her chins - yes, chins - plural - in shame.
"You should've called us if you needed some help," I said.
"Seriously," Richie said. "Stinks to high heaven up in this tuna can."
"Did you kids get a landline without my knowing, or did you expect me to get up and walk to ya?" she said in a sharp but lighthearted tone.
"You're right," I said. "We should've come by sooner. Sorry, Aunt Mags."
"Harry's been looking after me, but he hasn't been by in a few days. He knows how lonely I get now that Ronda's not here, but -"
"That's what we wanted to talk to you about," I said.
"About Harry?"
"Sort of."
Aunt Mags gestured toward the couch. "Come - sit."
Richie plopped down on the couch beside her, and I stayed where I was, holding the door open to air the place out. The trailer stunk of spoiled food refried and left out to fester, and the coffee table was littered with bowls of half-eaten soup, candy bar wrappers, and cups half-filled with a yellow liquid I feared was urine. Not one ounce of me wanted to go in and sit, and even if I did, I'd bet my legs would have rebelled against me.
I told Aunt Mags we weren't staying long enough to get comfortable, and pressed forward with our investigation, saying, "You mentioned to the cops you thought Todd was having a party because you saw a balloon."
"That's right."
"Why'd you think that?"
"You know, it's like when there's a child's party," Aunt Mags said. "The parents would put a balloon out on their mailbox, so other kids' parents knew which house to go to?"
I shook my head.
"I guess that's an old-timer thing, the generations before phones and internet and GPS."
"Makes sense," Richie said, holding his phone toward the ceiling, "since this place still don't have fuck-all for those things."
"Richard," Aunt Mags said. "Don't be cursing in my home."
"Sorry, Aunt Mags, but there ain't dick for reception in this park."
"What kind of balloon was it?" I asked loudly to reel the conversation back.
"It was black," Aunt Mags said.
"But was it shaped like something? Or was it just a plain old blown-up balloon?"
"It was a balloon animal, now that you mention it. It is kind of weird that a grown man would put it out for a party. Regular balloons I can see, but a balloon animal? That's child's stuff."
"What kind of animal was it?"
"Those things all look the same, don't they? Only so many shapes you can twist out of a piece of rubber. You know Wayne from across the lot? He was a professional party clown. He could make those animals. You should ask him."
"Thanks, Aunt Mags, but all we need to know is what animal the balloon was on Todd's door?"
"Well, I guess it had four legs and a head, but that don't narrow it down, does it? A dog, I suppose."
Richie shot me a wide-eyed expression of utter shock. His jaw dropped, and he mouthed the words: Holy shit.
"Did the police mention to you how Todd was killed?" I asked Aunt Mags. "They think it was some kind of animal attack - like a dog."
Aunt Mags pressed her hand to her chest. "Dear Lord. Now, how did a dog wind up inside his trailer?"
I told her what me and Richie knew, then explained the snake balloon on Harry's door, what I had heard and seen through Harry's window. Then Richie chimed in with a snicker, telling Mags, "Tammy Lynn thinks there's some kind of paranormal thing going on. People's fears coming to life from those balloons and killing them."
I didn't expect her to believe a word of it, but when I explained how I thought she could be the next target and insisted we watch over her for protection, she appeared rather accepting.
"Sounds like silly superstition to me," she said. "Can't say I believe it, but I won't say no to some company, neither. I'm awful lonely without my Ronda here."
The plan was set. We'd come back before dark. And as we made our move to leave, Aunt Mags, God bless her, jumped and jiggled with fright. "You're gonna give me a scare like this," she squealed, "and leave me all by my lonesome now?"
"One of us will be back soon," I said. "Don't you fret."
Aunt Mags panted. "Gosh, you're putting me at great risk if what you say is true - people's fears coming to life!"
"How's that?"
"Todd was scared of dogs. Harry was scared of snakes. You know what my greatest fear is? Dying alone."
"If that's the case, consider yourself lucky," Richie said. "I don't think you can shape a balloon into loneliness."
"I hope not, Richard," Aunt Mags said, then, "Say, what's your biggest fear?"
"Big, hairy fuckin' spiders, Aunt Mags - pardon my French."
Aunt Mags shuddered, either from Richie's cursing or from picturing big hairy fuckin' spiders. "What about you, Tammy Lynn?" she asked.
I thought about that for a moment, but all that had been circling in my head was Wayne, him being a party clown, his face caked in white makeup, with a red nose, and blowing up balloons and shaping them into animals that could materialize into real-life creatures. "Clowns," I said. "I'm scared of clowns."
Again, Aunt Mags shivered. "Then maybe you ought not to be the one to go and see Wayne."
"You got shells for Pop's shotgun?" I said.
"Why? You think a shotgun'll do the trick on this magical clown?" Richie said.
"Might do something," I said, "but not having it won't do nothing."
Richie remained seated, lazily scrolling through his phone. I had it up to my tits with him and his mindless phone-gazing, and shouted, "Richie, go and get the fuckin' shotgun and get your fuckin' ass over at Mags' and stay there until I fuckin' get back! Now!"
Richie hardly flinched at my outburst. "Relax, Herlock," he said. "Soon as I get some provisions, I'm going."
He skirted over to the fridge, ducked his head inside, slammed the door shut, and threw a fit when he realized he was out of provisions.
"You can get beer later," I said. "When I get back from seeing Wayne, I'll come relieve you, and you can run to the store."
"Hell am I supposed to do until then?"
"Staying awake and alert would be a grand start."
"I'm a be bored out of my mind over there."
"Aunt Mags has internet. Chat with all those girls you got lined up on your dating apps till I'm back."
"Don't have any. Cousin Mel was the only match I had, but she blocked me. Guess I ain't the Castlevania I thought I was."
"Casanova, dipshit. Now, go on," I said, nudging my chin at the door.
Richie went to his room, came back with our dad's twelve-gauge, and then we left together, walking in opposite directions, Richie going next door and me making my way down the line of homes to find Wayne.
The sun was setting, and there wasn't a soul roaming the park. Everybody had either gone inside to beat the heat or word had got around about Harry's death on top of Todd's and they were too scared to come out.
It didn't occur to me until I'd walked by six or seven trailers that I couldn't recall which damn trailer belonged to Wayne, and the longer I searched my mind, the more and more I forgot just what the hell I was gonna ask him once I found him. Aunt Mags had told me to ask him about the balloons, but what for? What did I need to talk to some old wheelchair-bound ex-party clown -
That's right. Wayne was a paraplegic, bound to a wheelchair, and, more importantly, his trailer had a ramp. That's how I determined where his home was; his trailer was the only one with a ramp. And with that information, I turned around and started back the way I came. I didn't need to see or talk to Wayne. What was I thinking? Just because the man had once been a party clown and knew how to shape balloons into animals didn't mean he could be responsible for these murders - these supernatural murders. Naw, that was horseshit. The man was more immobile than Aunt Mags. If he'd had superpowers, he sure as hell wouldn't be rolling around in a wheelchair, relying on others to feed him, bathe him, and change his shitty diapers.
Back down to Mags's I went, knocked once, and let myself in, expecting to find Richie sprawled on the couch, but he wasn't. Our father's shotgun lay there, the barrel leaning on the arm at the opposite end of where Aunt Mags was sitting (fuckin' potted plants got more exercise than her) and the light of the TV flickered on her expressionless face. She was covered by a blanket the size of a circus tent. She had it pulled up to her chins, clutching it with both hands, with a fearful expression on her face, as if I'd walked in on her changing.
"Where's Richie?" I said.
"He weren't here but two minutes," Aunt Mags said, "before he run right out and leave me all alone!" Her voice stammered and sounded broken, like she'd lost her mind and was two breaths away from having a coronary.
"Goddammit," I hissed under my breath, then said, "Where'd he say he was going?"
"He said he left something at Todd's."
The sumbitch just couldn't wait to get some beer.
"Well, I'm here now," I said. "So, you come on back out from hiding under that blanket."
"Find my bearings first and I will. I ain't moved no further than this chair from my bedroom in Lord knows how long, but I swear it, I've lost more weight from nervous sweats this afternoon than a week's worth of walking ever could do me."
"Sorry about all this," I said and flipped on a lampshade to get some light in the place.
"Nonsense, Tammy Lynn," Aunt Mags said. "It ain't you that's scared me. It's being alone that does it."
I stood in front of the couch, looking out the window beyond it, the one facing Harry's trailer, and waited for Richie to come into my sight.
"First Todd leaves me," Aunt Mags said, "now Harry."
Staring at the glass, I couldn't see nothing but my reflection and the white flickering light of the television set.
"It's sad stuff, Aunt Mags," I said.
"You wouldn't leave me, Tammy Lynn, would you?"
"I don't plan on dying anytime soon."
"No, not dying," Aunt Mags said. "I said you won't leave me, will you?"
"How do you mean?"
"After Ronda passed, Todd was the first to come look in on me, then Harry. But they both left me."
"Left you?"
"They stopped coming by," Aunt Mags said. "Quit checking up on me."
"I didn't know Todd looked in on you at all," I said.
"Well, he did - for a spell. And then he didn't. Everyone gets sick of being around a fat old heifer like me."
At first, I thought she was making a joke, at which I snickered. Until I steered my eyes away from the window and saw she was tearing up. "I can't stand being alone," she whimpered.
"Aunt Mags," I said, "you're not alone. I'm right here. And when Richie gets back -"
I returned my gaze to the window to see if I could see Richie coming, but Harry's trailer was blocking Todd's place from this angle. I couldn't -
She thought there might have been a birthday party going on. Heard loud music playing, and there was a balloon of some sort tied to his door.
- see it.
I ain't moved no further than this chair from my bedroom in Lord knows how long.
I suddenly felt as if I were standing in a walk-in cooler. Tingles raced up and down my spine like static electricity. The tiny hairs on my arms stood up with the prickling sensation of a balloon rubbing against my skin. Arms slack at my sides, my fingers numbed. Every pore on my skin shriveled, as if every part of me but my brain was informing me of danger.
"Aunt Mags," I said, "you told the detective you thought Todd was having a birthday party - 'cause you saw a balloon on his door?"
"That's right."
"You can't see Todd's door from here. So how'd you see it if you haven't left your trailer in Lord knows how long?"
Aunt Mags raised her eyes, thinking, and with her fists still clenching the blanket and holding it up to her neck, she pulled it up even further, dropping her face and sniffling into it like it was a gigantic snot rag.
I started backward, headed for the door on trembling legs. A bead of sweat ran down my back and into the crack of my ass.
"I'm gonna go see where Richie's at," I said, and Aunt Mags snapped her round face out of the blanket, her eyes seething and wide.
"Don't you dare leave me, Tammy Lynn," she said in a voice that was suddenly deep and stern and vicious.
I continued my slow backpedaling, eyes locked on Mags. "I'm not leaving," I said. My mouth was slack, and I could barely speak above a murmur. "I'm coming right back."
"You're lying," Mags said in that obscenely throaty drawl. "You're all liars. You all say you're coming right back, but you all get tired of me, and you leave and you don't never come back."
I quickened my backward motion. "I promise, I'm coming back." I turned around. "I promise." Grabbed the door handle. "I'll be right -" I swung the door open, and standing before me - no, standing's not the right word. Floating! Floating before my eyes was a big, round red balloon. As soon as I'd opened the door, it launched toward me as if a draft of wind had carried it inside.
I backed away as it coasted toward my face, felt my legs clobber the coffee table, and I fell, crashing on the table and falling onto the floor between it and the couch. Wringing myself up with a jolt, I snatched the shotgun off the cushion, pumping it as I swung around and -
The balloon was gone. I spun toward Aunt Mags, but she was gone, too. Her massively rotund and overweight form sat in the recliner, but this one was dressed as a clown. White makeup covered her round face, and her nose was an oval of red, a miniature version of the balloon I had seen a moment ago. Aunt Mags's eyes glowed orange like a wrathful fire. As she looked at me and smiled, stretching her lips like an insane person, her white makeup cracked and flaked like old paint along her forehead and mouth wrinkles. Rows of sharp, black teeth glistened like knives, and saliva the color of cola dribbled down her chin, dripping onto her clown costume and staining one giant yellow fuzzy button.
"This is what happens when you try to leave me," Mags the clown said, and though she had to have been pushing three hundred pounds, she levitated out of her chair and stood on her feet as if she was filled with helium. "This is what happens when everybody leaves me."
Mags' orange clown eyes darted to the door behind me, and it slammed shut against my back. She floated toward me, her monstrous frame and colorful outfit weightless and fluid. She looked like a Macy's Thanksgiving Parade balloon, and goddammit, I don't know how I managed it - I laughed. Laughed in Aunt Mag's face.
At once, Mags the clown halted. She appeared to slump or settle - deflating - and she growled, low and throaty, like a rabid animal, and said, "What is so funny?"
With a breathless sigh and a smirk, I said, "Oh, Aunt Mags, you just look so fuckin' ridiculous."
"I am your greatest fear come to life," Mags said. "Do you not fear me, child?"
"I lied about that, Aunt Mags. I'm not afraid of clowns."
I sauntered toward her, and Aunt Mags's snarl and monstrous, sharp black teeth faded as she closed her mouth. Her face scrunched into an angry frown, with more lines cracking in her white makeup, resembling a dried-up dog turd.
"Wanna know what I'm afraid of?" I said and pumped the shotgun. "Nothin'."
I aimed at the oxygen tank alongside her chair and fired. The report in the small quarters of the trailer was loud and rattled my noggin enough to disorient me. As soon as I had fired, I made a dive for the floor alongside the couch, my expectation being the oxygen would explode, or at least ignite and launch the tank into a flying projectile. Figured it'd do something, only it did nothing besides hiss for a second.
Soon as my hearing came back, my ears filled with the demonic sound of the fat clown lady chortling. Aunt Mags stood over me as I lay on the floor with the shotgun on my midsection.
"Silly child," she cackled. "What were you expecting?"
"Thought it'd explode," I said.
"If it were oxygen, maybe. But that's helium."
I didn't know what to say to that, only thinking that Aunt Mags breathing helium was not the strangest thing to happen to me today.
"Now, Tammy Lynn," Mags groaned. "Now, are you afraid?"
I racked the shotgun, reared up, said, "Already told you, Mags. I ain't afraid of nothin'," and fired.
Aunt Mags popped like a balloon. Her red nose fell to the carpet like a rock as pieces of her shredded clothes drifted to the floor in a torrent of elastic fragments. All signs of fat old Mags were gone, only the remains of her rubbery clothes that looked like parts of a balloon.
And a latexy smell.
Once I found my wits and kept them, I ventured toward Todd's trailer to find my brother, and what made me lose my composure, made me finally understand what it was I truly feared most in this world, was the balloon tied to a string and floating over the porch railing. It was aqua blue, round in the center, with eight or so appendages branching off. It was shaped like a spider.
"Richie!" I hollered and pushed through the door.
My imagination had gone haywire, picturing a colossal spider, a gigantic hairy tarantula coiling my brother in a web as thick as ropes.
I stumbled through the darkness and spun toward the kitchen, where a light shone from the open refrigerator door. Richie was crouched in front of it. He swung around, beer bottle in hand, eyes bulging with dumb guilt.
He spread his arms and shrugged. "What? I promise I was goin' right back."
I dropped my shoulders and heaved a sigh of relief. Thankful that my brother was still alive. That my fear had not come to fruition.
Through the open door, I could see the porch.
Where no balloon animals floated.
Next day, we were lounging in our usual place on our stoop when an unmarked police car steered into the park, stopped in front of Aunt Mags's lot, and Detective Manners got out and approached her door.
"She ain't home," I called to him, and he paused only a moment before letting himself inside.
Richie and I had cleaned up Mags's trailer the night before. Cleaned, as in, I got the shotgun and spent shells the hell out of there.
Few minutes later, Manners backpedaled outside and came up to our porch. Asked us where she'd gone. I shrugged, and Richie burped, not bothering to share details of what we knew, the consensus being he wouldn't believe it.
"What brings you to Aunt Mags's door?" I asked.
"Couple of things," Manners said. "Balloons for a start."
"Like how she could have seen a balloon on Todd's door from her window?"
"No - I must have missed that detail," he said. "Actually, it wasn't the balloons themselves, but what's used to inflate them."
"Air?" Richie said.
"Helium, dumbass," I said.
"Helium," Manners said with a nod. "A gas like that is colorless and odorless, and damn near impossible to trace from a forensics standpoint. However, if I were to bet that the balloon particles we found in the trailers had traces of helium on them, I'd put my pension on it."
"And that brought you to Mags's trailer because...?"
"Does the name Mar-Go-Go mean anything to you?"
"Not a damn thing," I said.
"Was Margot Fletcher's stage name," Manners said. "Your old Aunt Mags used to be a children's party clown many a time ago. When I first spoke with her, I knew the name rang a bell, but I couldn't put my finger on it." He raised a single finger and said, "Until I recalled something else."
Richie and I exchanged uncertain glances.
"Mags has emphysema," Manners said. "That right? Uses oxygen?"
I spread my hands, meaning: Where's this headed?
"Saw her tank the day I interviewed her," Manners said. "At first I thought there was something funny about it, but I couldn't figure out why. Then it occurred to me, industry-standard medical tanks are green. The one Margot had was brown. It was a helium tank - not oxygen."
Richie snickered. "So, you're thinking Aunt Mags - 'cause she used to be a birthday clown and had helium in her trailer - that she murdered Todd and Harry? Are we talking about the same Mags? The old, boulder-sized broad? The one who can hardly walk or breathe on her own? That Mags?"
Manners sighed. "Seems about as likely as her spotting a balloon from her window, uh?"
Richie and I turned our heads, lips pursed into smirks.
The side-eye the detective gave us the first time we had met returned when he said, "Looks like the tank took some scattershot. Wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
More head shakes and downward frowns from me and Richie.
"Didn't hear any shots?"
"Didn't hear nothin'," I said.
Manners took a deep breath through his nose. "If you could call me when she gets back -"
"Already told you she's too fat to walk or leave the house," Richie said.
Manners's eyes shifted toward Mags's trailer, confused. "But -"
"We said she ain't home," I said. "That don't mean she left."
"You're clowning around with me," Manners said. "No pun intended."
"No, sir."
Manners thrust his hands on his hips. "Well, if she didn't leave, and she's not home - how about you two quit with the riddles, and say what you need to say?"
"I don't need to say nothin'," I said.
"If she ain't here," Richie said, "and she ain't gone anywhere, she must have -" He raised a fist and flicked his fingers, making a Poof! sound.
With an abrupt about-face, Detective Manners waved a discouraged hand and trundled away from us, to which me and my brother threw our hands over our mouths to stifle laughter. As Manners opened his car door, Richie called out, "Hey, Detective!"
Manners paused and looked back.
Richie said, "If Aunt Mags really is a killer clown, there's only one way to stop her."
"Yeah? How's that?"
"Go for the juggler."
God bless my brother. I fear the day he leaves me.
from FICTION on the WEB short stories https://ift.tt/MnBJN3D
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