Poppa M’s Bedlam Tales

Bedlam’s Souls
By Brandon Layng
© 2009, All Rights Reserved

A lovely jar, isn’t it ma’am? A pleasant shade of green like newborn grass in spring.

I apologize if I’ve startled you. I was putting together prescriptions and I happened to see you admiring it. I thought to myself, “Now Poppa, you know this lady isn’t interested in sugar-free suckers.” It simply had to be the jar itself. Am I right?

Sometimes I can be as useful as a broken clock, which is better that than having a busted ticker. Would you care to hear how the jar came into my possession?

The tale is quite peculiar.

* * *

One day few years ago, I had closed up early – disappointing of a group of lads hoping for root beer floats before dinner – and I was in a bit of a rush. I walked briskly, a sight to see at my age, let me tell you. My head was filled with visions of my roast in the slow-cooker; I’d started it that morning and I became certain that it had dried out, setting the house to flame in the process.

I realize now I had not really been worrying over the meat; even then New Bedlam had begun to change. I’m sure you’ve noticed the weirdness?

There are shadows in the windows. Children cavorting in childless homes. Twisted elderly men creeping past the shades of houses owned by young families. You’ve heard the distant screams, lain awake in bed, wondering when you’ll hear sirens coming, and only hear crickets outside your window, haven’t you?

That’s what it’s like for me. Not very much sleeping.

I digress. The night I found the jar I was beginning to fear walking the streets of New Bedlam at night.

On the way to my house I pass the vacant lot where a construction crew discovered a mass grave. They were digging out the foundation of a house commissioned for this big-money, bestselling writer. I don’t know if you remember, but that man got in a huff when the historical society put up a fuss and had the land preserved. Those busy-bodies tested the bones and found that many of them were ages old.

And there I was, the sun setting at my back, sending my shadow-self out like a blanket on the sidewalk and this god awful screech came from my left. At first I believed it was only a pair of tomcats pitching a fit. I’ve never seen so many cats in one town marking territory. The back wall of the store smells like a urinal when I open in the mornings. Of course, that could be the drunks from the pub but the point is, it was natural to think of the cats first.

That is, until I heard the scream of protest. It was a frightened child’s voice. I looked out over the long grass, the browning blades tall, not high enough that if there was a child in there I couldn’t have seen her; a knee poking up or the top of a head at least. Instead there was a cat’s tail. It was missing clumps of fur and showing pink in the bare spots. The scream came again and got my feet moving towards the hip-high fence. I’m past my fence hopping prime and was lucky that the gate had been left unlocked by one of those historical biddies.

The grass was dry and crinkled under my shoes. I was certain my approach would scare off the cat, except you can never underestimate a mangy tom’s tenacity and by the sound of it, it had caught a piece of the girl. Following the whining and growling I had arrived at a depression in the ground dug out by paws or very tiny hands. In the centre I found the cat and his quarry; a girl no taller than my knee. I was surprised and questioned if my eyes were deceiving me.

Between them was the jar. I felt drawn to it. Within the green glass something swirled and struggled. I had been drawn there to set that captured fog free, I knew it in my bones.

I kicked the dirt in front of the gray tom and received a hiss of disdain in return. The girl followed up with a heavy hit to the cat’s head, taking a tuft of fur from its worn face. Instinct kicked in and it knew when to run to scrap another day. Through the grass it went, disappearing.

The girl stood her ground. My interests did not lie with her – not to say I wasn’t amazed by the smallness of her stature, I was in awe of such a tiny creature – but the jar had my attention completely. She sensed as much and put up great protest when I reached down to take it. I barely felt the sting of the stick across my gnarled knuckles. I was lifting it to see better what it held when the girl bit my ankle.

I was not about to stand there and be assaulted. High-tailing through the grass, which my opponent found more an obstacle than I, I twisted at the jar’s lid as I went. It was with a small smirk of satisfaction that I closed the gate behind me and heard her body crash into it. She emitted a series of barks in a language that was foreign to my ear yet I do not doubt were a few choice obscenities. I favoured my tender ankle but I was heading home as fast as any old man can walk before she could climb the fence.

I was afraid to glance behind and see her following but the padding of tiny feet on the pavement was answer enough. I fumbled with the keys at the lock when I reached my front door, and I slammed it to close out the girl as soon as I was inside.

My breathing rough, I finally had time for the jar. Its contents screamed. I felt compelled to open the lid and release it.

* * *

What’s that ma’am, you want to know what was in the jar? I can’t tell you that, if some biddy from the historical society found out, I’d probably lose it.

Hey, where are you going with my jar ma’am? Who’s going to clean up all of these sugar-free suckers?

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A father and husband, Brandon Layng has endeavored to make his writing affect readers in a physical way. In other words, he isn’t happy unless he makes you cry, shiver, laugh or puke. Several pieces of his work have been published in Darkened Horizons, Reverence of Runes, Tales of the Zombie War, N.V.F. Magazine, Cemetery Moon Magazine and the 2008 Gentlemen of Horror anthology.