Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 12 Read Online Free
Author: Gavin J. Grant
sparkling—we had this terrific rapport going, and I couldn't believe that this same guy had put such a scare into me a few minutes earlier.
"My point is that no one asks, because no one wants to know.
"On the one hand, the guy is relieved that nobody asks, because he certainly doesn't have any answers. But it makes him nervous, too. What if it's some sort of group hallucination? You know, like the French Revolution. What if his family is being poisoned by something in their bread or water or Krispies, and they're starting to wig out?
"But, when push comes to shove, these are small worries—middle of the night worries, like worrying that a plane'll hit the house, or that you'll look out your bedroom window and see a vampire-chick floating there, ready to bust through. Or worrying about finding a corpse hanged in the attic.
"After a while the rest of the family lets it go—they learn to ignore the kid, ignore him completely—ignore him to the point that he isn't there for them at all anymore—like Auschwitz, right?"
"What?” I asked.
"Auschwitz, the Nazi death-camp in Poland? It was right near a little town, right? Like, almost right in it?"
"Yeah. OK. I get it.” And, strangely, I did get it: I'd seen a documentary on the History Channel that had gone on for a while about Auschwitz. It seems that the camp was almost smack dab in this little town called Oswiecim, and in the camp they had the big crematory ovens where they destroyed all the corpses. When the camp was liberated, the soldiers asked the townspeople, How could you not know this was happening? Good Christ, the stink's incredible—it hangs all over your town right now , and the villagers said, The Germans told us it was a pork sausage factory, and we believed them. This was at the end of the war, after months of living in the lingering, wispy smoke of burnt human carcasses. There was practically a famine behind Nazi lines then, everyone was rail-thin, and these folks watched the smoke billow out of those stacks, watched the trucks and trains bring in load after load of bone-skinny “workers"—and never a single pig—but persisted in their desperate belief that Auschwitz was a sausage plant and nothing more. A huge sausage plant that no pigs entered and no sausages left.
"My point is that all that's left of the ghost kid, for these kids, is a vague sense of relief when they're invited to stay over at a friend's house.
"But the guy, he can't leave it alone. He calls the Humane Society again and gets a hold of the attendant who'd given them Ski Boot. He presses the guy, who finally ‘fesses up: He doesn't have a clue where the dog came from—his story, about the old man, was total BS. Folks want to hear cutesy stories about devoted dogs, and all he wanted to do was not waste a perfectly good pure-bred in the doggy gas chamber. So he lied. What's the big deal? Had the dog eaten his kid's face or something?
"The guy says ‘no’ and apologizes, says there isn't a problem, and promises to send in a donation post-haste.
"But, like I said before, this guy is a sci-fi fan, a horror fan. He knows the ghost-story formula backwards and forwards: Ghosts stick around because they've got business left in this world. Help them settle up their tabs, and they'll fade into the ether.
"So, he starts talking to the kid when they're alone, talking to him in that sorta absent way you talk to a lugnut you're trying to loosen, or the way you mutter to the spices while cooking. That kinda talking that, in a pinch, you can pretend isn't really talking. He sits up late at night, lights off, watching cable with the boy, the dog sitting between them.
"'You lost?’ he asks, eyes glued to the tube, watching Ed Harris and Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio in The Abyss , swimming for their lives through the Deep Blue Nuthin'. ‘Not sure how to, you know, ‘Walk into the light, Carol Anne'? Was this your dog, once, and you've still got a last goodbye you need to say? Maybe you
"My point is that no one asks, because no one wants to know.
"On the one hand, the guy is relieved that nobody asks, because he certainly doesn't have any answers. But it makes him nervous, too. What if it's some sort of group hallucination? You know, like the French Revolution. What if his family is being poisoned by something in their bread or water or Krispies, and they're starting to wig out?
"But, when push comes to shove, these are small worries—middle of the night worries, like worrying that a plane'll hit the house, or that you'll look out your bedroom window and see a vampire-chick floating there, ready to bust through. Or worrying about finding a corpse hanged in the attic.
"After a while the rest of the family lets it go—they learn to ignore the kid, ignore him completely—ignore him to the point that he isn't there for them at all anymore—like Auschwitz, right?"
"What?” I asked.
"Auschwitz, the Nazi death-camp in Poland? It was right near a little town, right? Like, almost right in it?"
"Yeah. OK. I get it.” And, strangely, I did get it: I'd seen a documentary on the History Channel that had gone on for a while about Auschwitz. It seems that the camp was almost smack dab in this little town called Oswiecim, and in the camp they had the big crematory ovens where they destroyed all the corpses. When the camp was liberated, the soldiers asked the townspeople, How could you not know this was happening? Good Christ, the stink's incredible—it hangs all over your town right now , and the villagers said, The Germans told us it was a pork sausage factory, and we believed them. This was at the end of the war, after months of living in the lingering, wispy smoke of burnt human carcasses. There was practically a famine behind Nazi lines then, everyone was rail-thin, and these folks watched the smoke billow out of those stacks, watched the trucks and trains bring in load after load of bone-skinny “workers"—and never a single pig—but persisted in their desperate belief that Auschwitz was a sausage plant and nothing more. A huge sausage plant that no pigs entered and no sausages left.
"My point is that all that's left of the ghost kid, for these kids, is a vague sense of relief when they're invited to stay over at a friend's house.
"But the guy, he can't leave it alone. He calls the Humane Society again and gets a hold of the attendant who'd given them Ski Boot. He presses the guy, who finally ‘fesses up: He doesn't have a clue where the dog came from—his story, about the old man, was total BS. Folks want to hear cutesy stories about devoted dogs, and all he wanted to do was not waste a perfectly good pure-bred in the doggy gas chamber. So he lied. What's the big deal? Had the dog eaten his kid's face or something?
"The guy says ‘no’ and apologizes, says there isn't a problem, and promises to send in a donation post-haste.
"But, like I said before, this guy is a sci-fi fan, a horror fan. He knows the ghost-story formula backwards and forwards: Ghosts stick around because they've got business left in this world. Help them settle up their tabs, and they'll fade into the ether.
"So, he starts talking to the kid when they're alone, talking to him in that sorta absent way you talk to a lugnut you're trying to loosen, or the way you mutter to the spices while cooking. That kinda talking that, in a pinch, you can pretend isn't really talking. He sits up late at night, lights off, watching cable with the boy, the dog sitting between them.
"'You lost?’ he asks, eyes glued to the tube, watching Ed Harris and Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio in The Abyss , swimming for their lives through the Deep Blue Nuthin'. ‘Not sure how to, you know, ‘Walk into the light, Carol Anne'? Was this your dog, once, and you've still got a last goodbye you need to say? Maybe you
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