The Candyman- Part 6

If I thought school would be a refuge, that foolish idea was gone as soon as I got there.

Things didn’t start out too badly, of course. The 8th graders hadn’t shown up yet, probably trying to get a few extra minutes of sleep before coming in. In its early stages, They still functioned somewhat normally, sleeping and eating and, to the casual observer, acting like the rest of us. They studied for tests, and even played sports after school.

But I knew better.

I knew that these things weren’t like us, that these beings didn’t have a single thing in common with us humans.

So come lunchtime when the 8th graders leered at us with their garish makeup and grinning faces, when they handed out their candy like some kind of screwy church fundraiser, I didn’t buy it one bit.

“They seemed nice,” Clark gushed through a mouthful of taffy. I should have known they’d carry his favorite treat. The bastards.

“Don’t you think they’re a bit...I dunno...creepy? Nightmarish, even?” I tried to say it offhandedly, but Clark knew me too well, giving me a strange look.

“Well, they’re kinda weird, I guess, but they gave us free candy, so they seem alright,” his gaze bored straight into me. “Why, you got something against Mr. Trundermann or something?”

If only he knew.

“The meeting, Clark, it’s still on, right? Tonight?”

“You didn’t really answer my question...”

“It’ll all be explained, Clark. I’ll see you, alright? I have something I need to do.”

Before he could protest, I walked away, not looking back. Let him wonder, I thought, let him steep till the time is right.

We didn’t toss the football around at all that day.

Instead, we walked in silence, each brooding on our own thoughts. Well, I did, at least. Clark was seething, muttering to himself as he tossed his questions about his mind like a blender without a lid.

Just a little longer, Clark, I thought, just a little longer and you’ll see.

Trundermann’s Confectionary Delights showed in the distance, and I increased my pace to a brisk walk.

“Hey, Job, wait up,” I heard behind me, accompanied by wheezing and panting, “Job, where are you going?”

My pace increased to a jog.

“Job, stop! Don’t go in-”

Don’t go where, Clark, I thought viciously, aren’t they nice people, didn’t they give you candy?

I began to sprint, and soon whatever he was about to say became lost in the breeze as Trundermann’s shop loomed large in front of me. It was time for him to see the truth, no matter the cost. Time for him to realize what was really going on behind the scenes.

Oh, Ezz, I felt so confident. Arrogant, even. I thought my knowledge was absolute, that I was the only one that saw through the facade the rest of the townspeople believed.

Looking back on it now, I feel sick.

Clark’s parents were at the counter of the candy shop, talking to what could only be assumed was Mr. Trundermann. They had official-looking documents, job applications, most likely, and were handing them over, looking nervous and happy at the same time.

Too happy.

All this I knew, I knew beyond a doubt. Two days was how long it took before they came, two days before they understood that this was their only option.

And on the third day, they would rise again.

I knew all of this already, of course I knew. If his parents had left to search for jobs and hadn’t come back in such a long time, there was no other place they could be. And yet as I stood there, next to the door, as my buddy, my best friend, busted in and saw this, I didn’t feel one bit afraid or one bit angry that this would be the case yet again.

I say this from the bottom of my heart, from the depths of my despair, but I have to be truthful. I have to tell you how I really felt, what it really was like that time, the time I pried my unsuspecting friend’s eyes open and turned the lights on.

I felt relieved.

I felt relieved that it wouldn’t just be me this time, that I’d have some other unfortunate soul with me down here, that I could point in his face and say “A-ha!” and laugh.

I am a terrible person.

And yet look at me now, Ezz. I’m the only person on this side of the cell door. I’m the only person who ended up shouldering this burden, not you or Clark or anyone else.

Do you understand now? Do you get it? And the worst part, the worst part of it all is I still yearn to share this with someone else, I still yearn to pass this disease of a life onto someone else, to drag another person with me into the pit.

I am a terrible person, and I pray for anyone’s soul who has to deal with me.

We did not have the meeting that day.

Saturday. The weekend, a time to relax and unwind from the mild stress of school life and take ‘er easy.

The laughing woke me from my fitful slumber.

It sounded different, this time, however-more desperate, maybe even a little bit angry.

Their voices, shrill and harsh. They were arguing.

My parents were still very much in love when they were alive, their affection going past even the worst disagreements, to the point that they always seemed to reach compromise. They rarely fought, and when they got even the slightest bit close, they’d somehow deftly sway the conversation and easily talk about something else, eventually coming back to the subject when they were more level-headed. They were very rational like that.

The things that occupied my parent’s corpses were not so fortunate.

I’m not sure what they were bickering about, but it was probably something to do with all the new hires taking their place. I remember at least that much, because the irony wasn’t lost on me. To think, that the same problems that plagued my parents plagued these cheap imitations. The idea both disturbed and amused me.

Chosen. Yes, Chosen, I think. That was the word they used to describe those who got hired at Trundermann’s. Not everyone could be chosen, they said in their shrill, desperate voices.

Diseased. That was what I called Them, yes, diseased, that’s the one. Not everyone was susceptible to it. Some, like me, were apparently immune.

The thing that baffles me, no, still baffles me, is that they tried. Oh, how they tried...can you imagine? Trying to get a disease.

A fad, they called it, those poor saps who slammed on the door day and night just to get a slather of makeup and a change of clothes, a fad that everyone else was doing it so why couldn’t they, Mom, Dad, sister, brother, why couldn’t they,

Why couldn’t they get cancer, too.

I guess in the end, Clark was immune, as well, but only kind of.

It had finally arrived. Our meeting, that is, it finally came that day.

Kind of.

The clearing was just the same as it was before, you see. It still had the trashy tent up against a small pile of boulders to partially shelter us from the wind and rain (the tent had long since failed in that regard), the ring of rocks around a small hole for a fire we never lit, now filled with mud and long-dead tadpoles caught during the happy blaze of summer. The pile of kindling sitting under canvas, all nestled against the half-dead trees in the corner which we, for some reason, never thought of using as a proper tent.

But the signal.

The flashlight wasn’t on in the tent, see, it wasn’t on and Clark, well, he wasn’t there.

A note hung on the entrance to the tent, tacked on with an old Superman bandaid, still wet from use. He’d been here, then.

And now the note, as follows:

I’m going to Trundermann’s shop to save my parents, and probably yours, too. Don’t follow me. You’ll only get in the way- let someone else do something for a change.

P.S. If I don’t come back to school tomorrow or I’m acting weird, don’t do anything stupid. This is bigger than either of us can probably handle. Whatever you do, survive. Don’t let them catch you, and don’t look back.

P.P.S. On second thought, if I start acting weird, just shoot me. I always hated makeup and old, musty clothes.

Dammit, Clark, you never put two P.S.’s in final notes, it ruins the mood- now I have no choice but to laugh.

But I didn’t laugh at all, and I didn’t stay there and wait, either.

Damn it, Clark, you big lug...
Damn it...

That night would be the last time I saw my friend alive.

I had been perched in a bush next to the candy shop for over half an hour, watching the workers go in and out of the entrance. It was fascinating to see these things at work, eating like anyone else, some of them even spitting tobacco juice or tapping the ash off the end of cigarettes as they went on smoke breaks, coffee breaks, lunch breaks...

Some of them even spoke normally, their voices the rough, jaded tones of the classic blue-collar worker as they conversed with each other and went about their day.

I think some of them had it worse than others, though- some of them were like my parents, speaking in shrill hysterics and giggling at some twisted joke only they knew. Others were seemingly unchanged, only wearing makeup and 50s-era clothing as they brought in shipments of sugar and syrup.

But they weren’t themselves anymore, even if their habits and personalities remained. They were all just empty shells, and their eyes reflected this, gleaming and sparkling lifelessly out of their skulls.

On and on they went, late into the night, perpetually making their sweets and taking their regulated breaks, cracking jokes or laughing at nothing. On and on they went, until my muscles stiffened and cramped, and my bones hurt from disuse.

And then, finally, around midnight, their activities ceased and they all went home. Just like that. Like there was some sort of silent alarm and when it went off they just dropped everything.

The only person left was a single worker. I recognized him, vaguely- I think he was the librarian. He stood there, only two feet from my hiding spot, smoking a cigarillo. Clove. Its sickly sweet odor assaulted my nostrils, but I kept myself from coughing. If it was one of the more rational ones, I guess it wouldn’t have mattered that much, but this was probably the worst I’d seen. He constantly giggled, seeming on the verge of laughing out loud, and he talked to himself. It caused him to cough on his own smoke, it was so bad. He was just barely coherent, but I could make out a few of his words.

“Clark, haha, he’s down there, so far, basement-boy, heehee, down there all snug like a bug in a rug but it’s rope, good old rope, has potential, that one, sure, has the size, certainly...”

The man’s words faded off at this, and with a beating heart I realized his stogy was almost out. If I were to rescue him, I’d need to move fast.

I searched around and felt a bit of hope as I felt a rock shift underneath my foot. I weighed it in my hand then threw it, as fast as I could. The bushes shook for a short moment, and I felt my heart skip a beat as I thought I’d been discovered, but sure enough it was just his legs brushing the foliage as he trotted off in the direction of the throw.

Wasting no time, I jumped out of the bush, wincing a little as the branches crackled and snapped, and whipped the door open, glancing around the dim interior before dashing in and slamming it shut tight. My heart sank as I heard the man’s frantic footsteps trace their way around the building and for a brief, sickening moment my hands fumbled with the deadbolt. But within seconds the door was locked tight and I slumped to the ground, trying in vain to relax as the man slammed his fist against the door, his laughs sounding more and more like sobs as he realized he was locked out.

I let out a sigh of relief, but before I could relax I felt a meaty hand fall on my shoulder.

“You idiot, I thought I told you not to follow me,” came a voice from behind.

“Clark?” I asked, feeling the blood slowly rush back to my face.

“Yeah, it’s me.” I turned to look at him, a question on my lips.

“Why? Why did you come here by yourself? You could have had me help you, and-”

“I wanted to go by myself because...because I couldn’t deal with you AND whatever this is. I know you, and I know you’ve been trying to tell me this all along and-”

For just a brief second, I could see what I do now. The growing resentment he had for me, the jealousy of being friends with the one person who knew the truth, feeling insignificant, like our friendship was just an alliance, a means to an end. For just a split second, I saw a glimpse of this, this darkness in his soul, and for that one split second I knew that this was my fault, my fault for not showing him the way, for not being harsh enough.

But I was stupid. So, so stupid.

And so when the front door opened and that crazy librarian began walking in, switchblade in hand, all of what I felt that moment, all of what I had learned, all of it, it blew away.

Instead, we clung to what we had right there, our flawed, failing relationship such as it was. We clung to it desperately, and we hid, and I watched as he ran out into the open with his camera and snapped a picture of the basement, and I DIDN’T STOP HIM, Ezz. I didn’t stop him when he abandoned all reason, and I didn’t rush over and help when that crazy old fuck grabbed him from out of the musty darkness and dragged him down. I just sat there and watched, sat there and stared while he reached out with his hand and grabbed my soul and took it with him.

I can still see his face. I can still see his face, his terror printed on it in stark relief against the nothingness without. I can still hear his cry, his one muffled cry.

I can still remember what he looked like, before They took him.

And as I watched him get taken, as I ran and hid in the closet like the little chicken-shit coward I was, I knew that I’d better look long and hard and remember this day because even then, Ezz, even then I knew it would be the last moment I had with him.

Three times, Job. Three times will you reject me.
The holes in your hands, Clark, the holes in your hands, they aren’t there and they
They tied you up all snug as a bug in a rug but it’s rope it was, it’s rope, not nails or wood but good old-fashioned rope, see, it’s

The man, that crazy outside, why did he say that, Clark was there, why did he say he was tied up, he wasn’t, not THEN, he was...

Ezz mY MiNd is AlL in A TiZzy

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | END