I’m coming across too excited. Mellow out, Wilkerson. Pull yourself together. This is your stage.
He looked around at the four others sitting beside him and pulled out his black-inked Bic and a ream of dot-matrix paper from the desk drawer. “Make sure you take notes as you go. You don’t want to get too lost along the way. You have to be able to tie it all back together.”
Deep breaths, Chris. Deep breaths.
“Thank you for calling Creepy Nights. My name’s Chris. How can I scare you today?”
“Chris, I think I’ve got the wrong number.”
“No, no. I don’t think so. We have a story for you today. I can feel it. That’s our trade.”
“Okay, fine.”
“Our fee is ninety-nine cents per minute. Got it?”
“I’m not going to pay for that.”
“Alright, fine. Just stay on the line. This one’s on the house.”
“Get on with it.”
“1971. There once was a twelve-year-old boy named Bill. He walked home from school slower than he should have. When he came down Elm and Maple, he walked across from Roger’s Barber Shop and later past the tax appraisal office. He noticed a small blue shed behind the building and wondered what it might house. Storage, perhaps? It wasn’t weatherproof by his own estimation. Maybe something else? He wasn’t sure. He observed the chief appraiser, Mr. Beldon, locking it up as he prepared to leave. Bill slowed down, waiting until Beldon vacated the premises. After this, he backpedaled and headed toward the shed. It was off the main street — its rooftop visible over the small fence next to the building.
The padlock on the shed was unlocked. Bill took it off and stepped inside. Looking around, he noted a series of glass jars on the shelves. One was full of fingernails from top to bottom. He glanced at the next one and noticed another full of toenails. Then, he peered down and saw a jar full of toes. They were all large Vlasic pickle jars. It was almost like the junior-high science lab he had been in just two hours earlier, but this was something more disturbing than frogs or cow hearts.
Mr. Beldon was known around town for being particular with his accounting practices as a quiet man. He lived alone but often spent most of his waking hours at the office and a substantial amount of time ‘working’ in the shed after hours. The boy unscrewed the jar full of the toenails as he heard commotion outside the door. There was nowhere to go, and the shed was small. He knew he was nothing more than a meddling kid trespassing. Just as he thought the door was about to open, he heard the padlock click, and it closed. It became pitch black inside. He hadn’t looked around enough to identify his surroundings other than the jars. What could he do to avoid bringing attention to himself? Perhaps Mr. Beldon hadn’t seen him.
His eyes adjusted, and faint shadows and shapes became more visible. There was a small vent at the back of the shed where he could get someone’s attention if he could bend it back, but he couldn’t reach it. He stacked the jars full of extremities, one on top of the other, hoping to push the vent open. He climbed until the first glass jar cracked. Naturally, it was the jar full of toes. He crashed with his meager 106 pounds bearing down on it as glass shards cut into him. Sandals were a poor choice of shoe that day. The side effect, his big toe being sliced. The severed tendons dangled as his blood spilled out. He didn’t know if he had another jar to put the spilled toes into. It was his mess to clean up. If he had not been in there, he could have avoided this PICKLE altogether. From the smell of things, Old Beldon just used pickle juice to cure the toes. He heard the padlock being removed as the door opened, obviously alerted by the commotion.
The older tax appraiser spoke in a mysterious tone, ‘Kind of ironic, ain’t it? Your toe comin’ off, and my jar full of toes spillin’ all over the floor? I was in the mood for a fresh one, anyhow. Give it here, and I won’t tell your ma and pa.’
The boy yanked off the remnants of his toe, and Beldon bit right into it.
‘Mmm… just what I was hoping for, son. I didn’t even have to solicit it this time, either. I know. I’m an odd one. I’ll let you out of here after you eat one yourself and swear to me you’ll tell no one else about this. We best get you to the hospital. Here, I’ll give you another toe from my jar. I bet the doc can sew it on.’”
The voice on the other end of the phone interrupted, “Okay… okay. That’s enough. I don’t need to hear any more of this story. You are good, Chris. Very good. I’ll pay you for it.”
Chris concluded the call and said, “Pass on the word. I’ll transfer you to our account representative to firm up the billing. Speak to you soon!”
“Goodbye.”
Chris turned around to the new employees in training who clapped for him before he spoke, “And that, folks, is a Body Horror story. Who’s up next? I’m
