Chapter 13: The Tale of the Monkey's Head

(a special Halloween chapter)

(with deeply grievous apologies to W. W. Jacobs. I'm really, really sorry, Bill. In fact, here, take some McDonald's coupons.)

elhi and Heath followed the proprietor into the store. The gaunt shopkeeper, dressed for all the world like a mortician, paced to the sole glass case in the establishment and with skeletal white hands opened the top panel. He withdrew a shrunken, dust-covered mummified Monkee's head.

"I want you to have this," he intoned as he held out the talisman, "though I feel compelled to tell you of its history." He motioned Mel and Heath to two straight-backed wooden chairs, as as they sat, this was the story he related.

Outside, the Halloween night wind wailed invisibly against the window panes, but in the small parlor the fireplace burned brightly. The old man lay on the floor, poking at the dipswitches of a sound card that had been wrenched from a Packard-Bell that sat open on the rolltop desk like a disemboweled animal; a squarish disemboweled animal; okay, a squarish animal that has lots of large-scale integration built in. Oh hell, it sat on the desk like an open computer.

"Pretty nasty outside," said the white-haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire. The last applause sounded out through the inexpensive stereo, and Mrs. Flamingo gently laid down her knitting needles and stood to flip the tape. It was her most precious possession, a rare bootleg of the '86 Greek concert that reunited the Monkees.

The trick-or-treaters were out despite the wind. Mrs. Flamingo glanced out through the parlor window, and saw groups of ghosts and ballerinas, witches and Power Rangers skipping down the street. Lurking under the streetlight opposite their house were two masqueraders, he in a nightgown, and she -- well, she just lurked. Their arms were around each other. Mrs. Flamingo thought back to her younger days and sighed.

At the sound of the knock the old man rose and opened the door. Two children stood holding out bags; the girl had a small table glued to her head, and the boy was wrapped from head to toe in yellow "Police Line - Do Not Cross" tape. "Trick or treat," they said.

"And you're supposed to be..?" asked Mr. Flamingo, proffering a bowl of Twinkies.

"A wad of gum," said the girl. "Nicole Simpson's house," answered the boy. They each took a Twinkie, dropped them into their bags, and turned to walk back down the path to the street. Mr. Flamingo closed the door and returned to work on the sound card. "Cute kids," he said.

Another knock sounded on the door, this time louder, more confident. Mr. Flamingo opened the door and smiled with recognition. He shook hands with his old army friend, and after brief pleasantries reentered the room followed by the tall, burly man. "Captain Lock," he said, introducing him to his wife. The Captain shook hands and taking a seat by the fire, watched contentedly as his host got out the mason jar and teacups and stood a small copper kettle on the fire.

At the third glass of Kombucha tea his eyes got brighter, and he began to talk, loudly. The couple listened intently as he shouted of pyramids and caravans and the mythic Recycle Babes.

"What was that that you started telling me the other day," said the old man, "about a Monkee's head or something, Lock?"

"NOTHING." said the soldier hastily. "LEASTWISE, NOTHING WORTH HEARING."

"You don't have to shout," said Mrs. Flamingo, then adding curiously, "Monkee's head?"

"Sorry. Well, it's just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps." said the Captain off-handedly. He fumbled in his pocket. "To look at it, it's just an ordinary little head, dried to a mummy." He took something out of his pocket and held it out. Mrs. Flamingo drew back with a grimace, Mr. Flamingo, taking it, examined it curiously. "And what is there special about it?" Mr. Flamingo inquired.

"It had a spell put on it by an old Trekkie," said the Captain, "He wanted to show that people who lived entirely in their past did so to their own sorrow. He put a spell on it so that the head's owner could have three wishes from it. I tried it," he said quietly, and his blotchy face whitened.

"And did you really have the three wishes granted?" asked Mrs. Flamingo.

"I did," said the Captain, and his glass tapped against his teeth. He was ashen as a ghost now.

"And has anybody else wished?" persisted the old lady.

"The first man had his three wishes, yes," was the reply. "The first was that O.J. Simpson would stop acting in those Police Squad movies and go back to doing what he was good at. The second was for the O.J. trial to end. The third..." He swallowed hard. "...the third was to die. That's how I got the head." His tones were so grave that a hush fell upon the group. He took the head, and holding it in the palm of his hand, suddenly threw it towards the fire. Flamingo, with a slight cry, snatched it away before it passed the andirons.

"Better let it burn," said the Captain solemnly.

The other shook his head and examined his possession closely. "How do you do it?" he inquired.

"Hold it in your right hand, and wish aloud," said the Captain. ("He's sure used to doing that," muttered Mrs. Flamingo to herself.) "But I must warn you. Wish for something sensible."

Mr. Flamingo dropped it back in his pocket, and the family and their company retired to dinner. At length, the evening ended, the farewells were said, and Mr. Flamingo watched as Capt. Lock drove away in the night, dodging thrown eggs and swerving at the last moment to hit a pumpkin that was rolling aimlessly in the road.

Mr. Flamingo took the Monkee's head from his pocket and eyed it dubiously. "I don't know what to wish for, and that's a fact," he said slowly. "It seems to me I've got all I want. Except ---"

He held up the talisman, which flickered in the firelight like Mrs. Bates's skull in Psycho. "I wish for the video box set," said the old man distinctly. Then suddenly with a shuddering cry he threw down the talisman. His wife and son ran toward him.

"It moved," he cried, with a glance of disgust at the object as it lay on the floor. "As I wished, it's mouth opened and closed in my hand like a beached trout."

"Well, I don't see the box set," said his wife, as he picked it up and placed it on the end table be the fire, "and from what I hear I bet I never shall." She chuckled at her own joke, and left to retire for the night. He stared mesmerized at the head for a few minutes, and with a little shiver he wiped his hand on his coat and went up to bed.

In the brightness of the autumn sun next morning as it streamed over the breakfast table they laughed at their fears. "The idea of our listening to such nonsense!" said Mrs. Flamingo. "Wishes granted, ha! Still, I'll admit, it would've been nice. We've wanted those tapes so. Besides, if we had them, maybe then I'd stop playing that reunion tape every day." She winked at her husband as the closing jam of Listen To The Band wafted in from the living room.

"It was believable last night, anyway. The night does things like that to a person. But I swear to you, the thing moved in my hand. It was... What's the matter?"

His wife was silently watching the mysterious movements of a UPS man outside, who, peering in an undecided fashion at the house, appeared to be trying to make up his mind to enter. He was carrying a package, wrapped in manila paper. Three times he paused at the gate, and then walked on again; the fourth time he stood with his hand upon it, and then with sudden resolution flung it open and walked up the path. Mrs. Flamingo walked into the parlor, took the bootleg tape out of the tape player and turned off the stereo. She gently placed the tape on the end table and opened the door.

She brought the stranger, who seemed ill at ease, into the room. He gazed at her furtively, preoccupied, and at length said, "I've got a package for Mrs. Flamingo. From Rhino. Or rather, what used to be Rhino."

The old lady started. "'Used to be'?" she asked breathlessly. "Has anything happened to Rhino? What is it? What?"

"I'm sorry---" began the deliveryman.

"What happened?" demanded the mother wildly.

"They're clearing out their stock," the deliveryman said quietly, "and they got your name from the newsgroup, from alt.music.monkees. They thought you'd like this."

"That's wonderful!" said the old woman, clasping her hands. "That's wonderful! That's--- " She broke off as the sinister meaning of the words dawned on her and she saw the awful confirmation of her fears in the others averted face.

"They're out of business," said the deliveryman at length in a low voice.

"Out of business," repeated Mr. Flamingo, in a dazed fashion. "Yes."

He sat staring out the window, and taking his wife's hand between his own, pressed it as he had been wont to do in their old courting days nearly forty years before. "No more Monkees CDs," he said, turning gently to the visitor. "They're out of print, now, for sure."

The other coughed, then, realizing he still held the package, looked around for a place to set it down. He spied the end table near the fireplace, and dropped the box set roughly. One of the three legs of the ancient table gave way under the shock and the table tilted and crashed onto the floor, spilling both the videotapes and the precious reunion concert cassette into the blazing fire.

Unconscious of his wife's shriek, the old man's jaw opened wide; he put out his hands like a sightless man, and dropped, a senseless heap, to the floor.

It was a about a week after that the old man, waking suddenly in the night, stretched out his hand and found himself alone. The room was in darkness, and the sound of subdued weeping came from the window. He raised himself in bed and listened. "Come back," he said tenderly to his wife.

"The house is too quiet," said the old woman, and wept afresh.

The sounds of her sobs died away on his ears. The bed was warm, and his eyes heavy with sleep. He dozed fitfully, and then slept until a sudden wild cry from his wife awoke him with a start. "THE HEAD!" she cried wildly. "THE MONKEE'S HEAD!"

He started up in alarm. "Where? Where is it? What's the matter?"

She came stumbling across the room toward him. "I want it," she said quietly. "You've not destroyed it?"

"It's in the parlor, on the bracket, he replied, marveling. "Why?"

She cried and laughed together, and bending over, kissed his cheek. "I only just thought of it," she said hysterically. "Why didn't I think of it before? Why didn't you think of it? The other two wishes," she replied rapidly. "We've only had one!"

"Was not that enough?" he demanded fiercely.

"No," she cried triumphantly; "we'll have one more. Go down and get it quickly, and wish that the Monkees get back together."

The man sat in bed and flung the bedclothes from his quaking limbs. "Good God, you're mad!" he cried aghast. "Get it," she panted. "Get it quickly, and wish - Oh, Davy, oh, Micky!"

Her husband struck a match and lit the candle. "Get back to bed he said unsteadily. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Reunite them," cried the old woman, and dragged him towards the door. "Bring them together for me, for your wife! Bring them here!"

He went down in the darkness, and felt his way to the parlor, and then to the mantelpiece. The talisman was in its place, and a horrible thought of what the new reunited Beatles songs will sound like seized up on him, and he caught his breath as he found that he had lost the direction of the door. His brow cold with sweat, he felt his way round the table, and groped along the wall until he found himself in the small passage with the unwholesome thing in his hand.

Even his wife's face seemed changed as he entered the room. It was white and expectant, and to his fears seemed to have an unnatural look upon it. He was afraid of her.

"WISH!" she cried in a strong voice.

"It is foolish and wicked," he faltered.

"WISH!" repeated his wife.

He raised his hand. "I wish the four Monkees would get together and visit us."

The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it fearfully. Then he sank trembling into a chair as the old woman, with burning eyes, walked to the window and raised the blind.

He took his pipe in shaking hand and opened the box of matches. He took one match from the box and struck it on the flint; and at the same moment a vibration, a thud of such low frequency as to be scarcely audible, sounded at the end of the block.

The matches fell from his hand and spilled in the passage. He stood motionless, his breath suspended until the thud was repeated. Something huge, weighing perhaps six or seven hundred pounds or maybe more, was approaching their house. The old man turned and fled swiftly back to his room, and closed the door behind him. From outside a low, wet, gutteral voice that was wrenched from the most misshapen regions of Hell itself rumbled:

"HERE WE COME..."

"What's that?" cried the old woman, starting up. "The television next door," said the old man in shaking tones. "They're probably watching Jurassic Park or something."

Another thud, louder this time, closer. "WALKIN' DOWN THE STREET..."

His wife sat bolt upright. "It's them!" She ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching her by the arm, held her tightly. "What are you going to do?" he whispered hoarsely.

"It's them!" she cried, struggling mechanically. "It's Peter! It's Mike! The Monkees got together! What are you holding me for? Let go! I must open the door!"

"WE GET THE FUNNIEST LOOKS FROM..."

"Together...? Togeth..." Through the sheer drapes drawn in front of the parlor window he glimpsed a monstrous form backlit by the streetlight, eight arms waving like like a huge bloated spider, and he felt the creature's eight eyes drilling directly, unaverting, at him. "Oh my dear God, they've... it's... For God's sake don't let it in!!" His wife struggled in his arms, trying to reach the door.

There was another thud, and another. "EVERYONE WE MEET..."

The old woman with a sudden wrench broke free and ran to the door. He saw her rattle the chain back and the draw the bolt slowly and stiffly from the socket. He was on his hands and knees groping wildly on the floor in search of the head. If only he could find it before the thing outside got in.

He heard the creaking of the bolt as it came slowly back, and at the same moment he found the Monkee's head, and frantically breathed his third and last wish.

The proprietor of the store was lost in the retelling, eyes closed, leaning against the wall. "Mrs. Flamingo opened the door, and a cold wind rushed through the house," he said as at length he opened his eyes. "A loud wail... of... dis..." The shopkeeper trailed off.

He was alone. The two chairs lay on their sides; a hat spun in the air six feet from the floor, and the store's entrance door had two people-shaped holes in it.