54. Groundhog Day

I almost forgot about Aunt Alice. I’m just about maxed out with creepiness until the moment Mom says, “We need to visit your aunt,” and I suddenly remember that oh yeah I have an aunt named Alice.

Who likes mannequins.

And whose place smells like death.

And who looks like she’s one séance away from joining the realm of the dead.

“Thanks, but I have to go grave digging tonight.”

“That’s not funny. It’s been a while since I visited her, and it’d be good for her to see you, too. Last time, she asked about you.”

“As in the size of my body? So she knows how much stuffing she can fill me with?”

Mom laughs, but the joke of Aunt Alice doesn’t seem as funny to her as it did the first time we left her creepy cabin.

Soon we arrive at her place. It’s a soggy Sunday afternoon with the rain stopped just enough so we’re able to see the road that leads to my aunt’s cabin. Right before we reach it, my mom drives over something.

“What was that?”

“I don’t want to know,” I say.

She stops the car, and we both get out.

Wedged underneath the car is something big and hairy. Mom freaks out and gets back in the car. I notice that the thing is not moving

hello nice little doggie hello nice little black smoke doggie from hell

and I also notice the smell.

That thing isn’t going to move for a long time.

It looks gray but also seems to have glitter over it.

For some reason I think of Bill Murray. I have no idea why.

“Get in the car!”

“It’s dead,” I say through the window.

She rolls it down. “What’s dead?”

“Whatever is under our car. Move up.”

I wish I hadn’t asked Mom to do that.

On the road is the body of a dead groundhog.

I say body because there’s no head to the thing.

And I say dead because—well, there’s no head to the thing.

If that thing jumps up and starts running at me, I don’t care what happens, I’m going to be as far away as possible from the woods and Solitary and North Carolina and Bill Murray movies for the rest of my life.

Mom parks the car and then gets out. I walk her way.

“Just a dead animal.”

“What?”

“A groundhog.”

“You sure it’s—”

“Yeah,” I tell her as I block her from going any further.

Last thing Mom needs is any more reason to have nightmares.

Aunt Alice seems happy today. And when I say happy, I mean deliriously happy. Medicated happy. Or possessed happy.

“Come on in, come on.”

Last time she wasn’t as friendly. Her short, round figure seems to roll through the living room. The place is the same as I remember it before, dark and creepy, although there seems to be a bit more light this time. Maybe she has the drapes open or something. It still stinks. The black crow is still there. But thankfully, no mannequins.

“Just sittin’ down for some lunch.”

I follow Mom and look over her shoulder, and when I see the family at the table I stop and then get in a sprinting stance, ready to dash.

Sitting around the square table in the corner of the kitchen are four …

oh man

I see that Melissa the Mannequin has gone and found herself a family. A husband with blond hair and two kids. A boy and a girl.

Oh this is beyond creepy.

They’re clothed, and their blank faces stare out like the rest of the things in this house, screaming Help us, we’re trapped with a short devil lady.

“Sorry, I didn’t know ya’ll were coming.”

“You’re having quite the party, huh?” Mom says. She glances back at me. “Would you like anything, Chris?”

“No. But thank you.”

She looks at me and gives me a “cut the crap” look.

Mom talks with Aunt Alice about the weather and about making jelly and about the weather while I feel claustrophobic. I look around the living room, and I see a picture of Uncle Robert in a frame, one I didn’t see last time we were here. I’m tempted to take it and show Mom. But as I glance into the kitchen, she notices me looking at it.

“I gave that to her last time I was here,” Mom says.

I nod. We don’t have any pictures up in our house, not really. But Mom gives Aunt Alice a photo of Uncle Robert.

I’m standing and watching the crow when something catches my eye. It’s the back of the girl mannequin’s head, her dark hair unmoving and her shoulders stiff as my legs feel on a day off from track practice.

Suddenly, the head starts to move.

The face turns, and the eyes are blank and hollow.

No no no.

And worms and maggots suddenly start to pop out of them.

I blink, and of course I don’t see this. This is in my mind, not a dream and not a fantasy. It’s just me imagining something crazy.

I feel hot and dizzy and want to run in the woods for about five days.

“Mom—can I—bathroom?”

“Just down the hall.”

I go down there and find a tiny room with barely space for a toilet, sink, and tub. A big plastic seat-thing sits on top of the toilet, like a basketball rim for a three-year-old. It takes me a few minutes to take it off.

As I’m washing and air drying my hands, I notice the shower curtain hiding the bath behind it.

Of course, I’m curious.

Of course, I can’t let things go.

So of course, I pull back the grimy yellow plastic curtain.

In the tub sits the rest of the groundhog. I see the whiskered face looking up at me as if it’s popping out of a goopy, bloody hole. But of course, there’s no hole. Not in this tub.

I jerk the curtain back and half of it comes down. Then I curse as I turn on the faucet again and rinse my hands with cold water, then douse my face with it.

I look again, and it’s still there.

I’m not imagining this.

I go back out to the main room, feeling woozy. “I need some air,” I tell Mom.

I should tell her to maybe wait to use the restroom until we get back home, but I don’t.

I can’t.

I feel just—just not so good.