Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror (10 page)

12.

NO STRINGS ATTACHED

Billy Hayes peered through the shop front window; the whitewash had been removed, and after several weeks of speculation the store was almost ready for opening.

The building was of typical Victorian fare. It was tall and grey bricked with large long windows on a street of similar offerings. The cobbled road was full of closed businesses. Signs hung low, denoting dead hopes and dreams, and the area as a whole was slowly decaying.

The new shop had been the source of much gossip amongst the street. Billy was twelve years old, and as nosy as he was fearless. It would prove to be a dangerous combination.

Billy was short and skinny, with underdeveloped narrow shoulders and a reedy chest. He had short ginger hair and freckles to match, and unfortunately neither went un-noticed on the playground. He generally sported a wardrobe of hand-me-downs and the results of many a jumble sale rummaging. Today’s offering was a combination of cord trousers that were brown and a little too short, and a paisley purple shirt that had been all the fashion - maybe twenty years ago.

School was out for the summer and for once the weather was actually in tune with the season as the warm sun beat down. Like a lot of the children on the Roundhill Grove estate, Billy lived below the sightline of most adults who were more concerned with keeping a roof over their heads and food on their tables.

His mother was an earnest woman who worked every hour available at a local factory; one of the few viable ones still operating in the area. Her shifts were long and poorly paid; her conditions unpalatable and the complaints’ department was a swift kick up the backside as you were thrown out of the door.

Billy held his hands to the window in order to peer deeper inside the store. He could just make out the long shelving units that looked different to the normal commercial apparel. A fluttering canopy hung over his head; it was deep red in color and printed with gold lettering. Billy’s grasp of the written word wasn’t all that it could or should be at twelve, but he could spell out the name with a little concentration, “Kidikraft” he said slowly to himself.

With no sign of any opening day parade he turned and began to wander home. He looked down at the cheap digital watch that his mother had bought him and insisted that he wore at all times. He had promised faithfully to always be home before dark every night, regardless of the season. For the past three months the town had been held in the grip of near hysteria as several children had disappeared. The talk where Billy lived was that the police would have caught the pervert by now if the snatchings had occurred in the more affluent areas instead of the working class neighborhoods. Billy’s mother had made him promise that he would always walk home with friends and never alone. Billy had agreed, but the problem was he didn’t actually have any friends to speak of. He was a quiet and shy boy, often lost in his own world and oblivious to those around him. He wasn’t particularly intelligent or tough; he wasn’t academic or sporty and he just seemed to fall between the gaps in childhood society. Most his life was spent in his own head. His imagination was boundless with creativity and the time would often drift by un-noticed. He had received more than his fair share of clips around the ear and more recently harsher spankings as his mother became increasingly worried for his well-being after the dark blanket of night fell.

He was about a dozen yards away from the shop when the door opened with a soft silver bell tinkle. He turned back in surprise and saw a man leaning out into the street washing the long glass in the front door. The man was old, ancient even to Billy’s twelve year old eyes. The man slopped soapy suds onto the glass and grunted in effort as he swept a yellow sponge across the surface.

“You know a gentleman would offer to help,” the man said without looking up.

Billy looked up and down the street; there was no-one else anywhere around, “Me?” He asked.

“Of course young sir,” the man answered.

Billy walked back towards the store with the confidence of youth. The man had a strange clipped accent that Billy couldn’t place; not that he had ever heard any accents outside of the small confines of his world.

“Where you from?” He asked somewhat rudely.

“Here and there and lots of places,” the man said enigmatically.

Billy stared at the man as he got closer. The man looked older than anyone he had ever seen before; he was tall but a little stooped. His face was creased and lined with what looked like a thousand years. His hair was full and lush, brilliant white in color with a thick bushy beard to match; to Billy he looked like a skinny Father Christmas. He wore a light blue denim shirt and dark blue canvas dungarees which were splattered with bright spots of what looked like red paint.

The man held the sponge out, “I tell you what young man, how about a pound for every window that you wash?”

“Uh, I don’t know, I’m not really supposed to talk to strangers.”

“Well now, that is a good rule to have. My name is Rudolph Kessler, Mr. Kessler to you and now I’m no longer a stranger,” the man said holding out a pound coin.

Any thoughts that Billy had of possible wariness went out of the window at the mention and subsequent showing of money and he took the sponge eagerly.

“What kind of shop is this anyways?” Billy grunted ten minutes later through his arduous efforts.

“Well, we are a toy store, but one unlike any you have ever seen before I’d wager,” the old man said through a plume of foul smelling self-rolled cigarette smoke as he sat on the step watching.

“Like what sort of toys?” Billy asked intrigued, “Video games?”

“My dear boy, the only toys that I purvey are the ones sculpted with my own two fair hands, I can assure you.”

“Eh?”

“I
make
toys here child, carved from wood, born of love.”

“Have you got Xbox?”

The man fixed him with a sullen stare, “Is that all you think about these days boy?”

“A kid at my school called Bobby stink hands.”

“Is that his given name?” The man asked.

“Eh?”

“Continue,” the man said with an impatient wave of his hand.

“Oh, yeah right, anyway Bobby’s got Xbox and its brill.”

“But he doesn’t let you play with it does he?” The man stated.

“No, we ain’t exactly pals or anything.”

“Aren’t.”

“What?”

“It’s pardon or excuse me, and you say we aren’t pals.”

“Yeah that’s right we ain’t pals.”

The man shook his head woefully, “What gifts are wasted on the young,” he said wistfully. “Never mind child, I think that your mother may well be getting concerned about you by now, just look at the time.”

Billy looked down at his watch, shocked at how the time had flown away from him so quickly, “Jeez, you’re right, I’ll get a tanned arse if I’m late again.”

“Indeed, say why don’t you come back tomorrow and we’ll see if we can find a little more work for you?”

“Yeah sure,” Billy said with enthusiasm.

“Well then we shall reconvene at, shall we say 9am?”

“Huh?”

“Come back here at 9 o’clock tomorrow morning William.”

“OK,” Billy said already turning to run home, “How did you know my name?” He suddenly stopped and turned back to ask.

“I know a great many things young William, and tomorrow we shall begin.”

----------

The next two weeks raced by for Billy. Every day he would make his way to the store, and everyday Mr. Kessler would have a new job for him. He had cleaned and swept, stocked and carried until his skinny arms felt like they would drop off. Every evening he would trundle home merrily with his pockets chinking away, full of shiny gold coins. The store had begun to take shape and Billy had become absorbed by the hand-carved offerings. The puppets were all wooden, handmade and brightly painted. They hung from pristine white strings in wooden cubby holes, all lined up neatly on parade. Their faces hung on limp, tilted heads, and dark painted eyes with soulless stares seemed to follow him around the room.

Billy had watched as Mr. Kessler had painstakingly crafted each puppet with care and love. His hands were old, but his fingers were still wonderfully dexterous. Billy had watched this in awe; he had never seen such skill before, and he had never witnessed such creations taking shape before his very eyes before. He had asked Mr. Kessler just how he managed the patience to work so slowly when surely there were machines that would be quicker and easier than carving by hand. Mr. Kessler had looked aghast at the very idea, “These are my children young William,” he had said softly, “My children.”

The store was almost ready for its grand opening and Billy could not quite see just how Mr. Kessler was going to make money in such a neighborhood. His store was antiquated in an age of instant and gratuitous gratification. His mother had been happy that he had found himself a part-time job and often bragged to her friends that her son wasn’t keen to waste his days away with his friends. It wasn’t a choice of course for Billy; he simply had nothing else on his agenda for the summer holidays. But in his mind he thought that he could perhaps make some friends with his newly jingling pockets.

Billy was sweeping the hardwood floor with a long handled brush; he wore a comically large long white apron as he worked. The store had a workshop out the back and Mr. Kessler spent most of his days whistling and carving happily. For some reason the wood shavings constantly found ways of migrating into the store and creating more sweeping work for Billy. He whipped his head around quickly, some days he felt that the puppets were always watching him, and if he could only move fast enough, maybe he would catch them. It was a silly and childish notion he knew, but he could still not quite shake the feeling. More and more he longed for the day when Mr. Kessler would just open the damn place and fill it with people. Regardless of the economic climate of the choice of location, window shoppers would be better than an empty creepy shop and no shoppers.

The day’s long shadows were beginning to etch their way across the store floor; Billy checked his watch and could see that his home time was rapidly approaching. The child disappearances had thankfully seemed to have abated, but his mother was still on full alert when it came to him wandering the streets after dark. She had embarrassed him completely when she had insisted on accompanying him to work on his first morning, dragging herself out of bed despite her late shift the night before. She had chatted in a friendly enough style to Mr. Kessler, even seeming a little charmed by his strange accent and gentlemanly manners. But Billy had watched her eyes as they watched Mr. Kessler keenly; the soft blue surface was hard like flint as she scanned the man. She had agreed to allow Billy to continue to work at the store, but Billy knew that perhaps she didn’t trust the proprietor fully, but at least she knew where he was.

A gentle rattle made him spin around again nervously; a Punch puppet twisted slightly in what he hoped was a breeze. The figure’s long nose and close together dark eyes gave it an evil appearance as a wicked toothy grin was stretched across its face. The Punch doll wore a harlequin outfit that was dressed with shiny bell buckles glinting under the faded light. Billy felt the electric connection between them as the air crackled. One by one his feet moved involuntarily towards the puppet; he was locked in a stare that he could not break. Something about the puppet’s dark eyes drew him ever closer. There was a life of some kind deep within the wooden face. The shop was bathed in the shadows of the day’s dying light and Billy was alone. Mr. Kessler was in his workshop and strangely quiet. Only the soft shuffle of Billy’s shoe leather across the hardwood floor echoed in the dead silence. The brightly painted face was frozen in a smile that looked increasingly malevolent to Billy as he drew closer, ever slowly closer. His arm raised by itself and his trembling hand reached out to touch that painted face. The dark eyes bore through him and he felt a strange familiarity about the look.

“Well now Master William, that looks like a job well done to me.”

Billy’s heart skipped a beat as the voice startled him from behind.

“Yes, a very good job indeed,” Mr. Kessler spoke kindly.

“Thanks,” Billy managed to mumble as he took off the apron, his eyes never leaving the puppet. He grabbed his jacket and headed quickly for the door, but a firm hand clamped down on his shoulder before he reached the safety of the outside world.

“Oh I think not young William,” Kessler said, his grip firm and strong.

Billy looked around fearfully, “I…, I’ve got to get home Mr. Kessler,” he stammered.

“Not just yet child.”

Billy’s heart pounded painfully in his chest and his reedy thin body quivered as a clammy sweat ran down his spine.

“You forgot your wages,” Kessler said with a smile as he reached a skeletal hand into his pocket and plucked three pound coins from the depths within.

Billy wanted nothing more than to be out of the shop. His body shivered and his heart thudded and jumped against his bony chest. He managed to snatch the coins from the thinly flesh stretched hand of his employer. “T-T-Thank you,” he managed before exploding out of the front door.

“See you tomorrow,” Kessler called after him, “Children, no manners anymore,” he tutted to himself as Billy ran.

Billy ran from the shop and the creepy eyed stares of the puppet doll. He ran blindly for a couple of blocks before he suddenly crashed straight into the tall, thick torso of Danny Jacobs. Danny was 14; he had lanky, greasy black hair and an eruption of acne across his face that covered his broad and mean features. He was the local bully; he had been held back two years in school already and he was well on his way to a third. Danny towered over his younger peers and used his physical dominance to good effect. He had two ham sized fists that won every argument, and eyes shrunken below a jutting brow that stared down any challenge.

“Watch where you’re going tosspot,” Danny snarled.

Billy cursed his carelessness. Normally he was a child well below the sightlines of the likes of Danny Jacobs; he was a tiny fish in an ocean of bully’s bounty.