Never Play with Voodoo Dolls

Let me just start off by saying…Don’t do It! I don’t even think it’s real, but this voodoo stuff is still not something to trifle with if you’re an amateur, like myself. Not to mention it is so addicting. I only wanted to try a simple spell, but the power rush was intense. You see, I have never been much of a lady’s man. I stand only five feet, six inches, with average brown hair, average brown eyes, and a face you see every day in the crowd. Now, I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say that there is nothing wrong with average. Many people are average, that’s why they call it the average. This may be fine with most, to live average mundane lives. The “average” person has no problem with just scraping by with a boring job, a boring wife, two point five children, and premature grey hair from all the crap that comes with being just average. But not me man. I have an above average IQ with the above average ambition to match. Oh, by the way, how rude of me, let me introduce myself. My name is John Smith. Go ahead and laugh, but that is my real name. My very own average boring name. Your next question is probably going to be where I work. Well let me tell you, I’m sure you have already guessed, I don’t work at a very exciting job. After barely graduating High School, I settled down at just eighteen years old, as an overnight stocker at the You Bag It Grocery in my small town of Andreas, Pennsylvania. Fortunately, living in a farming community of only seven hundred, or so, living souls, a person could stock shelves the rest of their lives and nobody would even seem to take notice. I even manage to keep my own one-bedroom apartment, and 1998 Chevy Cavalier, with the rusted frame and thick black smoke bellowing from the hole where a tailpipe should be attached. Yea, I would have liked a brand new 2017 model, but I guess that aint happening now.

 My troubles began, probably on the very day I was born, but I am not going back that far. With time, memories get lost in an ever-thickening haze, until one day, you can longer distinguish fact from fantasy. So, I will just go back to that short-term past while the memory is still fresh in my mind. My real problems began on the day that I met Sandy Parker, the head cheerleader, and hottest girl I would ever know.

Oh, Those High School Days

 I remember it like it was yesterday. There she was, Sandy Parker. I was sitting in the seat behind her, like I did for the last four years, since the fifth grade. But this day was different. I am certain she always used the same strawberry shampoo her entire life, but I never really noticed until now. This was like an awakening for me, like a flower with a tightly shut bulb until the very first day of Spring, when temperatures are just right, and then, POW! A full bloom of every petal straining with months of pent up energy just to reach as far as possible to the glory of the morning’s shining sun. You see, that’s how this girl made me feel. I say made me feel, because just like perfect clockwork timing, reality interfered and turned that love into annoying anxiety, but that is another story we will talk about later. Just know that for years, Sandy was the object of my deep affection. So, you can understand the breaking of my heart when I tell you what happened on a specific day that September. The exact day and time is inconsequential to the story.

  “Hi Sandy,” I stated, with my voice slightly cracking through nervous exhaustion. Hey, I am lucky I could even speak at this point.

  “Hi,” she hesitated for what seemed like an eternity, “I’m sorry, who are you?”

   At this point I was a little crushed, but not enough to feel that literal tearing of the tough fibers of my heart. Why should she remember me? I was just some backward, and shy guy who creepily smelled her hair every day. So, I began, again with a cracking tone of voice, “I’m John Smith. I sit behind you in Math, Science, and Homeroom.”

   “Even Homeroom,” she replied, frowning slightly and, from what I perceived, a slight roll of her pretty Emerald eyes. She rolled her eyes because we get to pick our own seats in Homeroom, and is never full of students. It didn’t dawn on my emotionally stunted brain that I must have looked desperate taking a seat directly behind her, while the classroom was only a quarter full at any given moment.

   “Yea, I just wanted to say high.”

   “Well Hi, then. Hey look, I have to get back to class, but it was nice chatting.” With that, she quickly scampered down the hall giggling with several girls she met when she was about twenty feet away from our awkward encounter.

   Well, needless to say, after that less than smooth encounter, she switched places with Bobby Wills. Bobby, smelled nothing like strawberries. It was out of little situations like this, I started to think about needing some outside help to get what I wanted. I was just certain that if I only had Sandy, how my life would change. I would have the confidence to get better grades, go to medical school, and become a world-renowned heart surgeon. Maybe, I would be a rock star, or famous writer, anything but a stock boy at a grocery store. But it all came down to me having the girl of my dreams first.

How to make a Voodoo Doll

  I always considered turning to magic as nothing more than an outward expression of weakness. So maybe I am weak. So, what! Look at my situation. Well, we will not go into all that again. It’s hard to bear ones’ soul once, let alone twice, to another living being. I decided to turn to the realm of the unknown, the unheard, and the unseen. I set out to find a library in the next several small towns down the line. We don’t have a library around these parts, so I was sure to find one somewhere around this shit kicker area. I found even better. I found one of those old used book stores without even a name for the business. You know the sort I’m talking about. Your walking down the main street of some small town, with a pizza shop on one corner, and a used car dealership on another. The only two businesses in town hanging on by just a thread before the inevitable sad closing and, the subsequent killing of the owner’s hopes and dreams. Back to flipping burgers in your golden years for you, I guess. So, there you are walking and walking, and out of the corner of your eye you see a run-down green paint chipped store front with a large dirt stained window with a cardboard sign taped to the inside. You stop just out of curiosity because like a stupid cat focused on a laser point light, you just can’t resist reading a cardboard sign. You get closer and try to look in the window, but despite the bright sunny day, you can’t see anything inside. Everything is so damned dark in there. So, you read the sign, and it says, “Used Book Sale.”

   I really liked the inside of the place. It must have once been a barroom, gutted out and missing its vomit stained booths with torn plastic revealing the asbestos stuffing underneath. The stools were missing, but the polished oak wood bar remained, now covered with scattered books. I thought to myself, do people even read anymore? Of course, they do, but the days of paper and ink are, sadly, almost completely faded away. Anyway, there were boxes everywhere filled with books. The place had a wonderful rich smell of ageing moth eaten paper. I always loved the smell of books.

   “Well hello young man,” came a fast approaching voice from behind the hanging beads, separating the main bar from the backroom. The man who appeared was interesting to say the least. He looked like an English gentleman straight out of the early twentieth century. You know, dressed like those people you see on the old black and white documentaries about World War One or something. He wore a black suit, black trousers, shined patent leather shoes, and one of those old black hats that had a rim and looked kind of like a pierogi on your head. He even had a black Cain with a cool silver skull as a handle. But what was most striking was his features. He had a face, but that kind of face you can look at for hours and forget as soon as you turned away. He was pale, not a wrinkle or a blemish. The only feature that gave away his old age were his eyes. His eyes were very small and round, like two grey marbles really, rather than actual eyes.

   “Hello, I’m just looking,” I stated, turning away from the man’s strange watchful eyes.

   “Oh, I see. You know, I do not get too many visitors, but the ones I do get, are always just looking around.” He began without waiting for a reply, I guess he knew he was not going to get anyway, “I am very old and skilled in giving people what they want.”

   I tried to pretend I did not hear him. I just kept examining the books in the overflowing boxes, as if he were not even there. I heard him go into the back room, disturbing the hanging beads as he went. He rummaged around for just a few moments, and emerged again with devil speed.

   “Here you go John. I have just what you need.”

   It did not dawn on me until later that this dude knew my name. I have a pretty bad memory but I know I never gave him my name. Anyway, he handed me a book bound in black leather material. On the cover, was nothing more than the words, Making Voodoo Dolls. I took the book out of the man’s hands and left as soon as I possibly could. I never felt in danger, but the place itself just started to close in on me a bit. The man’s presence filled the room, and there just wasn’t room for the both of us.

Playing with Dolls

   So, I will spare you detailed descriptions of me reading the book. However, it is worth the mention that the book did not have an author, at least not one listed on the cover. This was a straight forward book of thirty pages, filled with the English translation of how to make various voodoo dolls. I read the book from cover to cover, and I must admit, a wave of embarrassment filled my cheeks with uncomfortable warmth. I felt my face turn red as I thought of Sandy watching me read such a book. I mean come on, you must admit that belief in magic is quite a leap of faith. Well, I was never one to give up on an idea once it was stamped onto my brain. I tried my hardest to believe and decided that a test subject was needed. I kicked back and thought hard and long about someone I just really hate with all my heart. Someone who may have humiliated or insulted me in the past, or present, it was all the same to me. The thought struck my brain, like a lightning bolt smashing hard into soft wet ground. I had a girlfriend, the only one I ever had in my life, who hurt me deeply. She humiliated me in front of everyone during our freshman year of high school. Yes, I was still infatuated with Sandy, but a man has needs, and I am not fool enough to wait on someone I may never have. Her name was Marion Morris. Seriously, that was her name. We went on a few dates and, by all indications, things were going great. We made out several times while her parents away. We went to the movies and held hands the entire time. We even talked about moving in together when the hell of high school finally came to its inevitable end. Then out of nowhere she dropped the proverbial bomb on me, right in the overcrowded hallway of that miserable brainwashing factory, Polk High.

   “Hi, babe. Are your parents’ home tonight?” I was almost shaking in anticipation of the answer. I must admit; the best part of our brief relationship was the alone time at her parents’ house when they were gone. But need I say more. I don’t think so.

   She looked at me with an expression I can only describe as complete revulsion, as if she were looking at a strange bug, only worthy of being squashed, “I don’t know what you’re talking about nerd,” she stated with a laugh, and quickly walked away down the hall. I found out later that she dropped me for Brad Tillerson, the muscular Neanderthal on the Polk High football team. I don’t blame him. Guys don’t have loyalty to one another. Girls are fair game in the limited world of the human male. She was the cause of my humiliation that day. She was the one responsible for the tearing pain that gripped my heart that day. It only makes logical sense that she should be my test dummy. Wouldn’t you agree?

Goodbye Marion Morris

   With a little amateur investigation, I tracked down Marion to the small town of Jim Thorpe, just a few miles away. She worked as a waitress for a local restaurant there, Karl’s Steak House. So, as you can imagine, I became a frequent patron there twice each week. By the third week I had to make my move. She was obviously becoming suspicious, considering the fact, that I always sat in her assigned section.

  “Wow, John, you’re here again.” Stated Marion, standing with her pad and pen in hand, waiting to take my order. She flicked the top of her pen continuously, nervously, with a blank expression, devoid of her typical fake waitress smile. I just knew that I officially have taken the awkward role of a stalker, and I was all out of “chance” encounters with Marion. In fact, I could see her going back to the kitchen to place my order, and talking to the other waitresses about me. I could see her telling her friends behind cupped hands, that her stalker from high school was back to order the usual fried steak, mashed potatoes, and a side of apple pie for dessert.

  “Hi Marion, we seem to always run in to each other,” I stated without even thinking. Now it was real obvious I was following her. I looked nervously throughout my meal for just one slip from Marion. Not even a slip really. I just needed something from her. A dropped stray hair in my mashed potatoes. A button from her blouse popping off from the enormous pressure of her oversized fake breasts. Then it happened, as if Satan himself was eating fried steak across from my table. When she came out to give me my check, one of her fake nails just popped right off her pinky finger. I snatched it up before she even finished writing the check, just in case she noticed it fell off and tried to take it back. I, laughed inside my own mind as I envisioned myself yelling, “finders’ keepers,” as I ran out the door.

I already rehearsed the ritual over and over again in my mind, without the personal belonging. My Mother didn’t raise any fools, and I was sure to read every word of that strange black book. On the very last page, was a warning written in strange calligraphed script. The warning read, do not practice rituals without all necessary objects, incantations, and intentions. Well, I knew the incantations, and I certainly had every intention of going through with this. I just lacked the object, which I now just so happen to have.

 

The Ritual

  I will be quick with this part. I made a human figure out of the melted wax of some black and white candles, I picked up at the Dollar Store. I buried the finger nail deep into the wax figure, concentrating so hard on Marion’s face, that my temples pulsated with each heavy thump of my heart. The day before the ritual, I casually walked into the old cemetery just a few miles from my home. This cemetery is old and, as far as everyone knows, is not part of any church in the area. So, I just took a guess that the dirt was not blessed. I gathered about two pounds of this ancient earth, and placed it right here, in a mound, on my kitchen floor. I placed the wax doll, with the imbedded nail, on top of the mound, and began the incantation. Turning in the directions, West, North, South, and East, I stated loudly with as much pent up emotion as I could muster:

I name you Marion Morris.

Fires and waves, earth and winds, spiral inside me.

Magic Begin!

I placed each candle on each point of where a pentagram may be. Oh yea, I forgot to actually draw the pentagram, but is that important? I doubt that it is.

I then took a pin, and warmed it over one of the candles flames. I stuck pins in the feet, knees, elbows, groin, chest, neck, and finally head. All the time saying odd things like, the feet are dead. “The knees are dead.” I am twisting your bones.”

So, I am going to skip some steps. This is not a how-to of spell casting. Let’s just say, that I ended by placing the doll in a cardboard box, and burying it in the same cemetery I got all that dirt from.

  Weeks passed of me just laughing at myself for what I did. I mean come on, I stole dirt from a cemetery and put it on my kitchen floor. Anyway, one night I got hungry, and there was just nothing to eat in my apartment sized fridge. You know, the kind that can barely hold a bag of apples and a few TV dinners. It dawned on me, “I will go check on Marion.” Maybe I will try to be nice and just bury the past. I kind of felt sorry for her. She didn’t end up that

well off. She looked tired and worn out working in that place as a server of the rude and ungrateful. On my way, to the restaurant, I imagined her being tripped by snot nosed brats making their horrible little messes. I saw her wearing a silly little birthday hat, singing that stupid birthday song to ungrateful screaming children. How humiliating she must sometimes feel. So, I decided that I would apologize, and maybe get Sandy off my mind. Time to grow up sometime.

I’m Sorry Marion

   I sat in her section nervously waiting for her to emerge. I was so afraid that she would peek out the grease stained steel kitchen door, and quickly retreat back in to have a talk with the manager. I could hear the conversation now.

    “Pete, this guy keeps stalking me.” She would state in an overly exaggerated tone.

    “Want me to call the cops?”

   “No, I’m used to humiliating this guy, I will just do it again. Besides, what’s the difference between a crowded school hallway and a crowded restaurant?”

   But this isn’t what happened. Scenarios are always the worst in our minds. As if all our thoughts originate in the lonely darkness and are slowly pushed, reluctantly, to the reality of daylight. What actually happened is she came to wait on my table as normal. However, her appearance was so haggard. She had very large purple bags under the eyes. Her once beautiful dark eyes appeared dull and grey, as if the life was swiftly drained from her soul.

   “Can I take your order, John?” she asked, slurring on every syllable, as if her speech was in a perpetual dream mode, in slow motion and barely audible.

   “Marion, please sit down and talk to me, I have something to say.”

   She sat but interrupted, what was to be, my emotional apologetic outpouring. “John, I am so sorry for what I did to you. Truth is, I was really in love with you. I was just confused. You see, my home life was really bad. I was scared that you would see that home life if we got too involved. Anyway, I hope you can forgive me. I really want to work this out, if we can.”

   At that moment, my thoughts of Sandy faded from my mind. The words of Marion washed the picture of Sandy away, like a tidal wave destroying a house of cards. I was in love with Marion all over again. Never before have I felt such compassion and love for another human being. Marion made me realize that Sandy was nothing more than a leftover childish infatuation.

   “Yes Marion, I always loved you. Let’s start again.”

    Watching her walk back into the kitchen, all felt right with the world again.

After several minutes, I heard chaos that would tear my utopia apart, like a hot knife slicing through cool butter. I heard screaming from several voices, both female and male. I heard the clanging of stainless steel pots and pans crashing against linoleum. Worst of all, I heard the now lively scream of Marion echoing in my ears, like the blood curdling scream of a murder victim shooting through the brain of a guilt-ridden killer.

I ran to the back of the kitchen and vomited when I gazed upon the unreal scene before my eyes. Marion was lying on the floor in a puddle of thick French fry grease mixed with a growing puddle of her dark blood. The grease and blood met somewhere in the middle but could not mix. This image struck me as revolting, but interesting from a scientific perspective. Her face looked charcoaled on one side, and the other was covered in large blisters of flesh peeling in layers as she squirmed helplessly on the slick linoleum floor.

   She apparently slipped on the floor in her half-dazed state. I learned later from coworkers that she complained of sleeplessness for weeks before the accident. Yep, you guessed it. Right around the time of my silly little ritual in my apartments kitchen. Well she slipped right next to the large deep fryer face first into the hot oil, French fries, and onion rings that were still cooking at the time. Even worse than that, I heard she was very excited just before the “accident” in fact, she looked awake for the first time in weeks after talking to me.

   My heart still aches when I think of what may have been. It has only been two weeks since she died that night at the Lehighton Hospital. The only comfort is that I have not thought of Sandy since Marion’s death. I also decided to get out of this shitty little town. I am going to college, find a nice girl to settle down with, and get all those things I always dreamed of having. I am also going to burn this damned silly book.

   Oh wait, it seems there is a missing page in the back. The page here is torn. Oh, here it is tucked away in a sleeve found in the front cover.

It says…. THOSE WHO IGNORE ANY STEP OF THE RITUAL, WILL MEET WITH

THE SAME FATE AS THE VICTIM.

So, I forgot to draw a stupid pentagram. Like that really means a damned thing. We all know that voodoo and black magic isn’t real, Right?

 

End

 

           

           

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Texte: Brian Hesse
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 08.10.2017

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