Once inside you lean back against the door while closing your eyes and taking in long deep breaths to try to calm yourself. In that manner you analyze your situation and stoutly confirm that potato salad on a fork or not, whatever you do you are not going back into that parlor with 'The Mummy!'

Opening your eyes you realize that the only light in the room is coming from a small window on the far wall so with frantic, trembling fingers you quickly locate the light switch and flip it on. As the overhead fluorescent light flickers you scan the layout of the bathroom. It is a five by five foot room with a seven-foot high pale acoustic paneled ceiling. The walls are covered with dark blue velvet wallpaper displaying the bizarre combination of white stars, yellow crescent moons and for some unknown reason red circles? Each red circle contained two smaller red concentric circles inside its perimeter with a red dot in its center like a target's bullseye. You wonder just how high the person had to have been when they picked this stuff out?

The dark wallpaper combined with the limited size of the room makes the space feel even smaller as you start to feel claustrophobic, thinking that the room seemed more like a tomb than a bathroom. To your right a fiberglass tub and shower unit covers the entire wall. Much to your relief the shower curtain is pulled completely to one side thus proving that no one is lurking behind it to pull a reverse 'Psycho' shower scene to completely ruin your day. On the left is a freestanding white pedestal sink, above which is a mirrored medicine cabinet hanging on the wall. In the far left corner sits a white toilet stool. Upon seeing the toilet you immediately realize that while you may have not kept track of the seven beers you had just poured down your throat in the last thirty minutes your bladder sure has! Without any further warning your bladder immediately tells you that 'It' is now in total control of your body and that 'It' will seek relief at that very moment!

Fumbling with your zipper you frantically hop across the room uttering, "Ooh…Ooh… Ooh…" like a crazed chimpanzee! You are barely able to 'get ready' before the high pressure fountain erupts. Luckily the toilet seat had been up as you stand there sighing in immense relief from this overdue drainage. For what seems an eternity you stand there forgetting your pain and smiling at the pleasant sound of water flowing into a deep pool. Gradually you feel yourself becoming calmer with the sound of the cascading water and nothing else. You relax, telling yourself that everything is okay. You convince yourself that you are all alone in this big house and when you are done here you will casually walk out that back door and go back to your peaceful, tranquil, pleasant and normal hotel room.

When you have finally finished you absentmindedly tuck things haphazardly away as you slowly proceed to zip up. But halfway through that mindless routine maneuver you are startled by a very loud knocking on the bathroom door making you jump in fright while pulling the zipper quickly upward until it seizes a section of your very delicate skin!

"YEEEEEEE…OOOHHH!"

Later as you analyze the tragic events of this day you will vaguely remember through your agony the sound of footsteps running away down the hallway as a child screamed, "Mommy! Mommy! There's a monster in the bathroom!"

But as for now you clutch your groin with both hands as you hop around on your one good leg bouncing off the walls, sink, door and shower all the while moaning, cursing and sobbing in pain. As your 'personables' slowly become numb you check the damage to find that nothing is stuck or still captured in that evil malevolent zipper. Closing the lid of the toilet, and this time remembering the bruise on you buttocks, you gently lower yourself down to rest. It is then that you realize the full effect of that God-awful wallpaper for as you sit there staring at the wall, the stars, crescent moons and red circles start to spin around each other making you feel extremely ill. With your right hand you grasp the sink and pull yourself up to stand before it, while closing your eyes in the hope that the crazy spinning objects will just go away. When you open your eyes, and upon marking your reflection in the mirror, you shriek in absolute repulsion, as there are dozens of enormous white zits scattered all across your face! You scream, "Oh my God! That witch! She's hexed me!"

Taking a step back from the sink in horror, your trembling hands frantically reach for your face to inspect these disgusting boils only to find that upon touch three of them harmlessly fall off and flutter to the floor. Mystified you mumble, "What the h…?" as you step back toward the mirror to inspect your face. Upon realizing that the zits are just pieces of paper you quickly wash your hands and face while wondering how these clots ever got there and how long you had been wandering around today looking like this?

"No wonder everybody was acting so weird to me out there when I came in?"

After splashing water over your head and face, taking a towel off the rack you dry your head and hands and for the first time since you figured out that little Ricky was a corpse you are starting to feel like your old self again. Unfortunately your swollen knee, buttocks and groin now all begin to simultaneously throb with pain.

You reach up and open the door of the medicine cabinet hoping to find some kind of pain reliever. "BINGO!" you shout a little too loudly as you find a prescription bottle of Darvon, and at 500 milligrams no less! Opening the bottle you pour four tablets onto your palm and place three in your pocket. Then, while totally disregarding your alcohol consumption in the past hour, you pop the fourth into your mouth, washing it down with a handful of tap water. Bracing yourself on the sink with both arms you lower your head, close your eyes and wait for the magic. A few minutes later you feel the pain ebbing from your body. Somewhere off in the distance you think you hear a rapping like wood on wood. But in your alcohol and drug numbed mind you imagine it is just that wonderful, glorious Darvon tapping away at the foundation of your pain to bring you that much-needed soothing relief. After five minutes, or for all you know an hour but feeling no longer in pain, you slowly raise your head to look into the mirror with half closed eyes and an idiotic smile.

In your alcoholic, drug induced haze you watch mesmerized at the reflection in the mirror, as you would swear that the left side of your brain slowly floats up out of your skull to hover momentarily above your forehead. You are delightfully amused as it sprouts bird like feathered wings and a Mickey Mouse cartoon, four-digit gloved hand that waves "Bye-Bye" as it wings its way out the small bathroom window to freedom. And you, in a loving and friendly parting gesture, raise your right hand, press your thumb against your palm while spreading your four fingers so that you too can give the left side of your brain a four-digit cartoon wave "Bye-Bye" in return saying, "Don't forget to write…"

For a moment you seriously contemplate popping another capsule to see if the right side of your brain will duplicate the fantasy flight of the left side. Instead you decide that it is definitely beddy-bye time and no matter how good you feel right now, you were not going to spend the night in the same house with smiling, dead Ricky. Ignoring that still ongoing rapping sound, leisurely you move to the door where you pause to go over your escape. There you tell yourself that you will open this door, walk straight down the hall, past the buffet table without stopping or without any hesitation except to quickly look at 'The Thing' to make sure that he is still standing in his corner and hasn't moved. You will not talk to or acknowledge anyone and you will not even try to rescue your frosted brownies. Then it will be straight out to the kitchen and out the back door to freedom. "Sorry little brownie buddies, you're on your own," you mumble as you open the door.

Standing dead center, square in the doorway is a skinny, old, bent over man holding a raised cane in mid-tap. He is completely bald with a scalp that shows every joint and vein in his skull. Across his brow he has giant bushy gray eyebrows that stick out at least two inches from his forehead. His face is leathery, winkled and covered with liver spots and hairy moles. His red bloodshot eyes are leering through a pair of wire rimmed spectacles that sit half way down a long twisted nose and which are anchored off of the largest set of bodacious, protruding ears anyone has ever owned. To look at him one would instantly guess that he must be a thousand years old! The sight of him suddenly standing there instantly snaps you out of your drug-induced doldrums as you scream like a twelve-year old girl, "EEEEEEEECK! Mummy! Save me! It's the Mommy!" and you slam the door shut in his face!

With your shoulder pressed hard against the closed door you plead, "Sweet Mary and Joseph, please make it go away…"

Now that once distant wood on wood tapping intensifies in both volume and repetition. Slowly you think to yourself, "Wait a minute, mummies don't carry canes… they don't wear glasses… and they don't have to use the bathroom! Sh…!"

Slowly you open the door to once again encounter this old man who is now red faced, puffing heavily and glaring angrily at you.

"What in the blue blazes is wrong with you? Ya knucklehead!" He fumes as he pushes past you into the bathroom. "Ya tryin' to give me a heart attack or somethin'? Jus what in the good name of Woodrow Wilson were you a-doin' in here all that time? Didn't ya hear me a-knockin'?"

"I… I'm sor…" You start to mutter as you move out into the hallway but he cuts you short.

"Ah hush up! Jus git the hell outta my way! Ya think you're the only one who has to pee around here? Jus wait till you're my age and see how long ya can hold it ya young squirt! Didn't your daddy ever tell ya that if ya shake it more than three times you're a-playin' with it? Now git! Git outta my way! You're lucky I didn't have an accident or I'd whoop ya with my cane… and don't think I couldn't do it neither! Ya insensitive pup!"

With that he now slams the door shut in your face.

"That's it. I'm out of here!" You state firmly as you limp back down the hall to the buffet room. Rounding the corner you see a line of people moving into the parlor. Quickly you look past them at the corpse to make sure Ricky is where he is supposed to be when suddenly you stop short at the bizarre sight that is taking place before your eyes.

Some one has set a TV tray in front of the dead guy. On it is a can of Miller High Life beer, a plate of food including potato salad, chicken and a set of silverware with a napkin. "Good Lord," you mumble in horror, "Do they expect him to sit down and eat?" Looking upward you see that the fork is still poised above the dead guest of honor and yet no one seems to have noticed it swaying there.

"Goodbye you Loony Tunes!" You mutter as you step forward but then again hesitate as a man moves in front of Ricky and squats down. "What the he…?"

Unbelievably you see that this guy has a camera and is taking pictures of the guests as they stand by, embrace or otherwise mingle with Ricky! The people standing in line are all waiting for their turn to be photographed with a corpse!

"Oh my God, these people are crazy!" Feeling a strong revolting chill rush down your spine you head for the back door. Reaching the kitchen your heart is pounding with fear that in being this close you may still somehow not be able to escape this House Of Wacko's! You open the back door and start to step out only to come face to face with dear old Aunt Hilda, 'The Witch', who is just coming back in!

"Well hello again!" She states too cheerfully. Instantly your right eye starts to twitch again as you just can't take your eyes off of that three inch yellow mole above hers.

"I thought I had lost you. You aren't leaving are you? Now you come back inside, I have a favor to ask of you." She explains as she takes your arm and once again leads you into the kitchen.

You, of course, again immediately start to sweat.

She continues, "After everyone has their individual pictures taken with Ricky, we are all going to have a group picture taken with him out by the old oak tree in the backyard. Ricky just loved that old tree. Anyway, as you look to be a strong young man I was hoping that you would help us carry Ricky out to the tree when it is time?"

"Excuse me? Oh, God no! I… I mean… I couldn't… do that… because you see… you see I hurt my leg earlier and I'm having a tough time just walking…and…" You stutter and stammer as you turn your head to look mournfully at the back door while hoping that she will either just fly away or possibly drop dead.

"Oh well, in that case we'll get someone else, but you will stay for the picture won't you? Have you had your picture taken with Ricky yet?"

"Ah…(oh man!)  No… I mean… (Oh Hell no!) Ah, not yet…" You confess.

"Well then you come right over here and get in line, it will only take a minute." She insists as she starts to pull you into the parlor.

Aggressively pulling your arm from her grasp you shout, "NO!"

An expression of shock instantly crosses her withered old face but that quickly turns into one of indignation as she asks sardonically, "Oh, well why not?" Standing there before her you could swear that in her umbrage that three -inch mole above her right eye had grown another inch, and was now standing erect.

From somewhere behind you hear what sounds like a low rumbling half-human growl, "We gotta problem here Ma?"

Suddenly some immense force of nature pushes past you to come to rest next to this angry old woman. In an instant you are standing before a wall wearing blue jeans and staring straight into an enormous silver belt buckle engraved with a skull! There now before you exists the largest, most revolting creature that you have ever seen in your entire life, and you have seen the entire 'Lord Of The Rings' trilogy! This creature is wearing black motorcycle boots, with looped chains on the heels, faded, greasy blue jeans and a black T-shirt with blood red dripping, bold lettering on the front, which states flatly the simple warning, "MOVE." Protruding out of that shirt, where normal people have arms, are two completely tattooed tree trunks. His hands are as big as your head. He holds a twenty-four ounce can of beer that looks like a thimble in his right hand. Out of the collar juts a tattooed neck the size of a bridge abutment. His face is somehow oddly twisted like the skin had not been placed on his skull properly. Three zigzagging facial scars added to his unsightliness while his nose looked like it had been broken at least twice but never corrected. Adding to this visaged upheaval was the distracting sight of one pale blue eye while the other was a distorted yellowish green.

You look up at him in awe and shiver while revoltingly thinking, "My God, this guy is gigantic! If he isn't seven foot eight than he just missed it. He must weigh in at three fifty! The only thing missing from this monster are pegs coming out of his neck and zipper marks on his forehead!"

The thought of a zipper makes you involuntarily cringe.

"Now Junior I don't want any trouble, it's just that this man doesn't want to get his picture taken with Ricky." Blurts Broom Hilda.

"Is that right buddy?" Asks Junior in his unearthly growl. "You got somethin' against taking a picture with our cousin? Now why don't you just go on over and…"

But in your drug and alcohol induced daze you just can't seem to concentrate, not even when being addressed by Frankenstein himself, so as your mind wanders you ponder:

"Junior? What idiot would name this hulk Junior? He had to be bigger than his old man when he was born! They should have renamed the old man 'Junior' when this thing first hit daylight! Mmmm… no wonder 'Ma' looks so worn out and old… grunting out little Junior here would be enough to turn any woman into an old hag… She must have aged twenty years in twenty minutes… She probably went into delivery as a hot little blond and came out looking like she does now, all gray, frazzled and with three quarters of her life force sucked out of her… (Giggle)… That's probably how she popped that three-inch pencil out of her skull over her right eye! Where does this guy buy his clothes… at Omar's… the tent maker? And how did little old 'Junior' get those scars on his face… get into a knife fight with somebody on a stepladder? (Chuckle)… My God… imagine the size of the guy who broke his nose… he must have been a horse! I bet…"

"Hey! We're talking to you!" Growled Junior.

"Uh… wha…" You start to answer.

"We said get over there in line and get your picture took with Ricky. You're upsetting Ma and when she gets upset we don't like it!" He warned.

"Right!" You answer quickly, moving towards the end of the line and welcoming the chance just to get away from Frank-an-mom while mumbling, "Gees… this guy's so big he thinks of himself in plural!"

But Junior wasn't finished as he thunders, "Hey! We've got an eye on you!"

As you absentmindedly step to the end of the picture line you mumble, "Yeah… and who does that belongs to?"

Suddenly it dawns on you what you have just done! For you have voluntarily just placed yourself closer to a coffin and a corpse! Not only that but after only five more of Ricky's ghoulish friends you will have to stand next to this Thing and say, "Cheese!"

Once again the sweat starts to profusely pour out of your scalp and forehead to flood down your face. Your leg, buttocks and groin all begin to rhythmically pulsate in synchronized pain like they are doing their own little private version of the cha-cha. Instantly you reach into your pocket and pull out another Darvon and pop it into your mouth swallowing hard to choke the large pill down your dry throat.

To your left you now see 'Junior' lumber across the room while he constantly has his "eye on you" as he stops and leans against the far wall of the archway and within five feet of that beckoning front door through the front archway. There, like subsidiary jackals, two other average sized goons who now also seem to have nothing else to do but to stand menacingly leering at you join him.

To the left of these three, or four if you count Junior twice, stand a group of five smiling, laughing ghouls watching the 'fun' of this spectral photo op. Behind them is a large picture window showing that the empty darkness of a chilling night has now fallen to mask this bizarre, macabre scene from God and the outside world. "My God, " You think to yourself, "How long have I been trapped here?"

Moving your gaze still farther to the left stands the coffee table still adorned with your ancient, forkless plate of food containing that heaping, helping of now dried out and unwanted potato salad. Seated on the couch, where you became aware of what was really going on, are Ricky's mother, brother and the priest. They are still conversing but now you have to wonder from what weird denomination this priest comes from? You guess that he may be from 'Our Lady Of The Perpetual Dead.' Well, you surmise, you have never offered your condolences and it looks like you will not get a chance to so here it goes, "I and my family are deeply sorrowed by the loss of your son and brother. But I am also very sorry that he has not yet truly departed and twice again as sorry that I myself have not been able to be departed from this unholy Looney bin!"

Behind you see that Broom Hilda, or 'Ma', has now been joined by the rest of her coven of witches as she, Hazel and The Wicked Witch of the West now block your exit to the kitchen. "My Lord they are a gruesome lot!" You mumble as you shiver looking at them standing there in a circle. You can almost imagine a steaming, boiling cauldron placed in the middle of this unconsecrated assembly. They stand rumpled and haggard in the archway cackling like old crows while glaring at you… and they are eating your frosted brownies! One of the other two, and having not been formally introduced you are not sure which witch is which, smiles at you knowingly and nods in your direction sending an icy cold chill down your spine. You are absolutely sure that they are arguing about just what spell they are going cast upon you when this party is over, which will turn you into a toad, a mushroom or an ogre! You figure that 'Ma' is probably arguing to just hand you over to Junior so that he can turn you into hamburger! Or spare parts.

Now the second Darvon has started to kick in and you are feeling rather woozy as you turn back to your right. Wearily you prop yourself against the wall and notice that the old mummy from the bathroom has taken a seat next to Junior and his two lackeys. The old man is still definitely upset with you about his long wait for the bathroom and is intermediately pointing and shaking his cane in your direction or pounding its tip on the floor. Meanwhile Junior nods his head in agreement to whatever the old man is raving about while patting the old geezer on the shoulder with one of his enormous meat hooks as if to say, "Don't worry Pops we'll get em." You are getting light headed and sick to your stomach.

Your attention is suddenly drawn to the front of the line where two pale, skinny but extremely busty women are now gaily having their pictures taken with the still dead Ricky. Both of these women are dressed in long, black low cut dresses that are split high up the sides showing an abundance of cleavage and revealing each alarmingly milk white thigh. They are wearing spiked high heels as they dance around laughing too loudly while repeatedly offering many different and sometimes obscene poses with the deceased. Both women have long black hair and wear black lipstick with matching black fingernail polish. Your senses are suddenly bombarded with a sickly sweet aroma of some pungent odor that now engulfs the room and adds to your nausea. You cannot determine if this stench comes from the perfume of the two women or from Ricky himself? You judge that these creatures must be drunk, drugged up, crazy or all of the above. You consider that they would almost be attractive if they weren't so vulgar, pale and creepy. But since they are so disturbing, and because you did not see them around before the sun went down, you christen them Valmia and Vesper Vampira, 'The Night Stalking Party Sisters.'

Because of the tension, alcohol, Darvon and a dead guy still standing in the corner the whole room is starting to spin. This ghastly, grisly, sick world in which you have found yourself entrapped has become too much for you to endure. You notice that there are now only two people in front of you in this hellish line to absolute, perverse morbidity. If you wanted to you could now reach out and actually touch that repulsive, vile casket. This unconscionable consideration makes every inch of your skin crawl. The guy standing in front of you abruptly starts to move away out of line. Instantly you roughly grab his arm stopping him dead in half step to command, "Whoa there buddy, where the hell do you think you're going? Get back in line!" But he just pulls his arm out of your grasp and moves away shaking his head. Now there is only one person between you, a creepy sarcophagus, two vacuous vampets and a ghastly cadaver! Quickly you turn your back on this unholy scene as your alcohol immersed, Darvon dried out frantic phobic mind hits the freak out button, hard!

In your crazed state of horror you quickly gaze around the room where once no one would even look at you when you climbed backwards up couches or knocked over end tables and lamps to now find that everyone present is staring, pointing and laughing at you!

You look at the carcass with his stupid baseball cap and sunglasses and in return he is smiling at you, taunting you. Around him dance the two vulgar, boob-shaking crazies hugging, laughing and cavorting with the dead guy as if they were simply at a nightclub dancing with a slow moving date. In your demented mind suddenly Ricky comes back to life! With lifeless arms he stiffly reaches out to embrace these willing, depraved dance partners while they all look at you and perniciously snicker.

You quickly look up at that pious fork full of sanctimonious potato salad, which has been constantly mocking you by hanging so precariously over this dead guy's head while it virulently dares you to wait and watch for its ultimate fall creating your own punishment for so irreverently, albeit unwillingly, placing it there. In your hallucinated state the fork now stands upright on the valance with a potato salad laden head and dances a jig. Suddenly the fork bends at its midsection and leaps off of the valance in a potato salad headfirst dive straight towards the bill of Ricky's Oakland Raider's baseball cap.

For reasons known only to God, Anheuser-Busch and Eli Lilly and Company in your delirium you shock everyone present by yelling at the top of your lungs, "TIMBER!"

Before the full impact of that shouted word is realized by the stunned gathering, or its echo faded from this frightful house; full of adrenaline, alcohol, Darvon and phobic fear, like an All-American USC tailback you bolt through an imaginary defensive line of bewildered mourners and dash past one gigantic but befuddled linebacker named Junior to cross that until now, illusive goal line called a front door! Just as that cursed fork with its devilish load of potato salad hits the bill on Ricky's cap and thus setting off frenzied, catastrophic mayhem at what was really just a quiet family wake.

To Be Continued:

The Wake: Part One

The Wake: Part Three



"Copyright 2008.  Michael E. Tank   All rights reserved. No part of this document may be copied, faxed, electronically transmitted, or in any other manner duplicated without express written permission of the author."