Autopsy of an Eldritch City: Ten Tales of Strange and Unproductive Thinking by James Champagne Page A
Authors: James Champagne
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as surprised to see me. We chatted for a few minutes, but something about him seemed different: there were bags under his eyes, and his skin had a sickly, pale look: he seemed bizarrely interested in talking about Atlantis, of all things, and he asked if I was still in touch with Bernadette, a cousin of mine who was also a nurse. When I asked him why he wanted to know this, he mentioned something about needing an epidermal shot in his spine to treat an old sports injury. I decided to not enquire further.
Following my stop at Covers, I drove down to Main Street to catch the annual Feast of Wasps parade. As always, it didn’t disappoint, and I was pleased to see that the Lamb of Torment balloon was still in use, though like Frederick, looking a little worse for wear. After leaving the parade, I drove down Main Street and pulled into the parking lot outside of Duncan’s Drugs, a popular local pharmacy. As a child, I had always loved visiting the place, and had usually gone there at least once a week. Old Mr. Duncan loved kids (having never had any of his own: his wife had died many years ago, when he had still been a young man, and he had never remarried), and towards the back of the store, near the kid’s aisle, a small play area had been set up, complete with building blocks, Lincoln Logs, a box of Lego bricks, and some Play-Doh. The Play-Doh had been a particular favorite of mine: I used to enjoy shaping the dough into little figurines, whole families made of the modeling compound, to which I would assign names, identities, life stories. Then I would crush them flat, roll them all together, then from that mass create new figurines with new identities.
Upon entering the store, the first thing I observed was that Judy Garland’s cover of “Purple People Eater” was playing over the store’s sound system. The second thing I noticed was that old Mr. Duncan was still working at the store, looking as gnarled as ever, though I was pleased to see he was still in good spirits. He recognized me at first sight (“The Play-Doh Girl!”), and we spent a few minutes catching up on old times. He filled me in on some of the things that had occurred in Thundermist over the last year (including the tragedy at St. Stephen’s Church the previous month, which in my mind wasn’t a tragedy at all), and once I was done talking to him I was back on my way.
As evening fell on Thundermist, I was pacing around my room at the Lucky Clover Hotel, still wearing my Black Swan costume. As I paced I pondered what I should do to pass the time that evening. Most of the local TV channels were playing classic horror films, so that was a possibility, but eventually I decided it might be fun to just walk around the streets of my old neighborhood. I was way too old to trick-or-treat now, but I could at least take in the decorations and admire the costumes of the new generation of trick-or-treaters. Something about the city seemed to be calling out to me that evening, and it was as if I was not a swan but instead a moth, one being called out and drawn toward that pumpkin-colored light.
So I left the hotel, hopped into my car, and drove to my old neighborhood. I parked in a public parking lot near the perimeter of Vernon Park, then got out and began walking the streets. There were many children out that evening, most of whom were accompanied by their parents, and I delighted in the costumes that were on display; I was amused that a great deal of girls (and even a few of the boys) were dressed up as Miley Cyrus.
Eventually, I was surprised to see myself standing at the corner of Keziah Street. I looked down the dead-end street, and sure enough, there was Ms. Paddock’s house, looking pretty much exactly as I had remembered it. A featureless humanoid piñata still dangled from a branch of the front lawn’s lone tree, and it looked as decrepit as ever, having been reassembled perhaps one too many times. A small crowd of boys were around it, taking turns
Following my stop at Covers, I drove down to Main Street to catch the annual Feast of Wasps parade. As always, it didn’t disappoint, and I was pleased to see that the Lamb of Torment balloon was still in use, though like Frederick, looking a little worse for wear. After leaving the parade, I drove down Main Street and pulled into the parking lot outside of Duncan’s Drugs, a popular local pharmacy. As a child, I had always loved visiting the place, and had usually gone there at least once a week. Old Mr. Duncan loved kids (having never had any of his own: his wife had died many years ago, when he had still been a young man, and he had never remarried), and towards the back of the store, near the kid’s aisle, a small play area had been set up, complete with building blocks, Lincoln Logs, a box of Lego bricks, and some Play-Doh. The Play-Doh had been a particular favorite of mine: I used to enjoy shaping the dough into little figurines, whole families made of the modeling compound, to which I would assign names, identities, life stories. Then I would crush them flat, roll them all together, then from that mass create new figurines with new identities.
Upon entering the store, the first thing I observed was that Judy Garland’s cover of “Purple People Eater” was playing over the store’s sound system. The second thing I noticed was that old Mr. Duncan was still working at the store, looking as gnarled as ever, though I was pleased to see he was still in good spirits. He recognized me at first sight (“The Play-Doh Girl!”), and we spent a few minutes catching up on old times. He filled me in on some of the things that had occurred in Thundermist over the last year (including the tragedy at St. Stephen’s Church the previous month, which in my mind wasn’t a tragedy at all), and once I was done talking to him I was back on my way.
As evening fell on Thundermist, I was pacing around my room at the Lucky Clover Hotel, still wearing my Black Swan costume. As I paced I pondered what I should do to pass the time that evening. Most of the local TV channels were playing classic horror films, so that was a possibility, but eventually I decided it might be fun to just walk around the streets of my old neighborhood. I was way too old to trick-or-treat now, but I could at least take in the decorations and admire the costumes of the new generation of trick-or-treaters. Something about the city seemed to be calling out to me that evening, and it was as if I was not a swan but instead a moth, one being called out and drawn toward that pumpkin-colored light.
So I left the hotel, hopped into my car, and drove to my old neighborhood. I parked in a public parking lot near the perimeter of Vernon Park, then got out and began walking the streets. There were many children out that evening, most of whom were accompanied by their parents, and I delighted in the costumes that were on display; I was amused that a great deal of girls (and even a few of the boys) were dressed up as Miley Cyrus.
Eventually, I was surprised to see myself standing at the corner of Keziah Street. I looked down the dead-end street, and sure enough, there was Ms. Paddock’s house, looking pretty much exactly as I had remembered it. A featureless humanoid piñata still dangled from a branch of the front lawn’s lone tree, and it looked as decrepit as ever, having been reassembled perhaps one too many times. A small crowd of boys were around it, taking turns
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