Mr. Heller’s Friends

Brian Davis sat on the stone steps in front of his parent’s house with his one and only friend Chris Demarco. Chris had been yammering about something for the last 20 minutes, but Brian really wasn’t listening. Brian had been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder earlier that year. His parents breathed a sigh of relief finally knowing why ‘poor little Brian was struggling’. He didn’t feel that he had A.D.D. Most of the time when someone was telling him something uninteresting he chose to turn his mind elsewhere. ‘Simple’, he thought to himself. Now as Chris blabbed on and on, bits of Doritos falling from his pock marked face, Brian’s attention was on the faded blue lap-boarded house across the street with its sagging soffits, heavily draped windows and its anomalous inhabitant.

Mr. Heller moved in the day after summer vacation started. Every day, just before the evening light surrendered to night he would ride down the street on his gray Honda moped, returning later with a big plastic bag from Jacks Shop ’N Stuff dangling from the handle bars-swinging rhythmically, like a white plastic scrotum. Both Chris and Brian enjoyed the struggle Mr. Heller displayed keeping the moped balanced and the mopeds labor, heaving the gelatinous mass of its rider along the quiet neighborhood street.

“There is nothing funnier than a fat guy on a moped,” Chris said for the umpteenth time.

“Nope,” Brian said, again.

Soft rolls of fat seemed unsatisfied being restrained under the sweat stained polo shirt. They dangled and bounced happily as the moped putted along. Mr. Heller’s bald head and puffy face flashed red by the stress jostled like a life size bobble head. His garage door opened reluctantly. Rusted rollers strained against unforgiving tracks.

No one had lived in the house for as long as Brian could remember, but his memory was about as reliable as his father’s piece of crap Oldsmobile. Brian watched Mr. Heller disappear into the dark garage. The door lowered half way grinding to a stop. Brian continued to watch his friend. A high-pitched noise interrupted Chris’s story. A scream. Someone was screaming in complete terror as if they were falling from a sky scraper, then quiet. Silence.

Chris stood, dropping the bag of Doritos. “What the fuck was that?”

“It came from the fat ass’ house. I bet he fell over and the moped is on top of him. Come on. Let’s go and see if he needs help.” Chris said.

Brian eyed the rust speckled garage door. Chris walked cheerfully towards it. Street lamps recognizing the darkness, sprung to life spilling puddles of yellow light along the sidewalks, except those in front of Mr. Heller’s house. His narrow house and garage appeared to be darker now.

“Chris. Wait.”

Chris continued, wiping cheese dust onto his tan khaki shorts. “Don’t be such a pussy.”

Brian followed slowly, stopping next to Chris standing a few feet from the door, close enough to investigate, but far enough to high tail it home if he needed to, with or without his friend.

“Let’s just take a quick peek at the fat asshole.”

“Dude, let’s just go”, Brian edged away.

“Hell, man! This is some funny ass shit and I gotta see it.” Chris whispered then slid under, “Mr. Heller? Are you alright?” He giggled.

Brian stood outside shifting his gaze from the garage door to home. He wiped the sweat from his palms wishing his sister or mother would be standing on the front porch yelling for him to come home but, silence surrounded him.

“Get in here Bri.” Chris poked his head out. Brian jumped, wiped his hands again then stepped into darkness, but not dark, black. Blackness surrounded him. Caressing a cold, uncomfortable embrace. It was considerably warm. A wave of hot air stabbed the back of his throat. Oil, gas and something smelling liked cooked, rotten meat lingered on his tongue. Brian had a familiar odd feeling. Like when he tried sledding down suicide hill for the first time, knowing halfway down it was a terrible idea and there was nothing he could do about it, continued towards the bottom, helpless. That’s where he was now. Halfway down a terrible idea and there was nothing he could do about it.

Chris flicked sparks off his dad’s Zippo. “Mr. Heller? Are you in here? Lighter is a piece of shit.” A flicker of yellow flame grew illuminating a 3-foot diameter swath of light. “About Goddamn time.”

“We shouldn’t be here.”

Chris ignored the request, shuffling forward. “Hello? Mr. Heller?” Light reflected off the moped’s muffler, laying on its side, motor tinging as it cooled from lugging around the excessive passenger.

“See. I told you he fell off. He must have knocked himself…”, Chris froze in his tracks. Mr. Heller lay on his back, motionless. His pendulous abdomen, naked, white, thin red cracks streaking down the sides, like some enormous bird’s egg.

Brian’s pulse clicked in his throat. “We need to get the fuck out of here.” He never used the ‘F’ word, but when he did, it was appropriate. In fourth grade, having enough of his long-time bully’s antagonism, Brian told everyone he was going to ‘fuck him up’ and did so at the bus stop. This felt like an opportune time to let his feelings be known and ‘fuck’ was just about the only thing he could he could express.

Brian grabbed the back of Chris’s shirt pulling him towards the door. Then, something chirped and clicked repeatedly. It’s tone high, nervous, like an animal backed into a corner.

“What?” Chris held the lighter with both hands, shrugged himself from Brian’s grip and moved towards the sound. Brian felt the bottom of the hill coming and didn’t want to see, but he did.

It had three long claws on each foot, puncturing the soft belly flesh creating new red ‘cracks’. Its clawed hands shoved wads of what looked like raw hamburger into its softball sized head above narrow black slits for a nose and a wide mouth full of needle like teeth. Blue eyes twitched back and forth. Sinewy muscles flexed beneath greenish blue iridescent skin draped tightly over its small human like skeleton. It wasn’t any bigger than Chris’s cat, Mr. Whiskers, except Mr. Whiskers didn’t stand upright and use his hands to feed himself.

Chris stood rigid, the zippo flame quivering in his hand. Brian felt like someone was pulling his ball sack up through his belly button.

“Chris…”

Brian clenched onto Chris, pulling him towards the door. Until. Something much larger than the thing squatting on top of Mr. Heller, decided to come out. Brian couldn’t see but could feel the air shift around its enormity. Deep throaty breaths washed over the two from above. Heavy foot-steps with what Brian could only imagine as claws racked across the floor. Chris turned towards Brian holding the zippo. Odd shadows danced over his horror-struck facial landscape. The smell of fresh urine wafted in between them.

Brian would only remember interesting things. Fantastic things. He could tell you the difference between dark matter and dark energy. Brian could calculate the surface area of a dome and tell you how much paint it would take to cover it. His teachers cringed at the sight of his raised hand in class. He was smart. But, he couldn’t remember anything remotely intelligent now, only his father sitting sternly at the dinner table what felt like a long time ago.

“Just so you kids know, I spoke to the new neighbor across the street. Do me a favor and stay away from that guy. Something about him aint right. He smelled and was one hell of a twitchy sum bitch”, his father had said.

Brian stood trembling, the words swirled in small eddies of memory. Brian was left swimming in his Attention Deficit Disorder as the owner of whatever was scraping along the floor, closed the garage door.