"RSPK"
By Robert Bletcher
“Mr. Whitaker,” a man’s polite, English affection rumbled. “I can certainly understand how first thought might dictate a deferral until you find yourself able to procure the proper firearms from a local distributor, however I assure you delay is wholly unnecessary. Several loaded weapons are fully operational right here in this very inn. I’d be delighted to direct you to one of these fine pieces. You may even use me if you like. Little secret...I'm a reproduction and I can still work.
Place me snugly against your temporal lobe, after which you may make me functional at your convenience, and we'll have this all taken care of.”
Hayden chuckled, amused the marketing was getting to him. Then he trembled, but just on the inside. Sixteen hours earlier he’d eaten breakfast in the beautiful seaside Capt. Thomas Hanson Inn’s infamous “haunted breakfast nook.”
While devouring a sumptuous lobster omelet, he’d listened to John and Caroline, the charming, quintessential white haired New England innkeepers, recite a well-rehearsed tale of woe worthy of summer stock. As he stood motionless and alone in the breakfast nook, Hayden ran the presentation through his mind. It was almost midnight.
“For thirty years now, we’ve had guests come down here at night, just to use the ice machine, maybe just to look around, only to be greeted by the faint disembodied squeals, or grunts and snorts or even voices, angry voices, voices of the anguished” Caroline, had said in a hushed tone.
Like a player on a stage, Caroline then stepped backward and John stepped forward.
“In the late summer of 1838, Captain Thomas Hanson and his crew of nine strapping young lads returned to port from six months at sea on his whaling ship. The captain invited the men into his home to hoist a ceremonial pitcher of `end of voyage ale,’ but they found more than a pint.
The captain and his men walked into the house to find four of the village’s selectmen taking turns harpooning the captain’s willing wife. The captain drew his pistol and held the guilty at gunpoint, allegedly uttering, `Those who rut like hogs shall die like hogs.’
The captain’s crew subdued the guilty and forced them down into this very basement, which at that time, was little more than a mud room and a few beams to holding up the rest of the inn,” John continued.
Caroline returned as narrator.
“The selectmen were stripped, placed on their stomachs and hog tied. Their heads ripped backward and their heels brought forward so the two touched. Their mouths were pried open and the apples from the tree out in the courtyard stuffed inside,” she said.
Hayden recalled glancing up at Caroline as he forked another mouthful of eggs and shellfish.
“The selectmen were hung by their bound feet from this very beam,” Caroline said, pointing upward, directly above Hayden.
Hayden remembered glancing up at the beam, but continuing to eat.
“Two fire pits were dug in the dirt floor and the butchering kettles were filled with water and it was brought to a dancing boil. The captain’s crew manned the ropes, gently lowering the selectmen, head first, into the boiling water, again, and again...and...again...as the selectmen screamed in agony.
After the hog hair was loosened by the heated water, it was usually scraped off with a scraping knife.”
“You know what’s coming next,” John said, stepping back into the story. “Capt. Hanson sat at this table, smoking a cigar and enjoying a brandy as his crew scraped the selectmen clean of hair, of eyes, of fingertips, of genitalia. He puffed his cigar happily as the selectmen begged for mercy that wasn’t coming. But the captain was careful. Before the guilty passed out from the pain......they were disemboweled alive. They final seconds on earth were spent watching their innards drop to the floor,” Caroline whispered.
John’s turn again.
“When the selectmen were dead, the captain, who had made Abigail watch the proceedings, looked into her limpid blue eyes and whispered, `My dearest heart....you will now die like the sow you have chosen to be.’
And the process was repeated and Abigail died the most horrible death, the death of a colonial period free range hog. They say the ghosts of those tortured souls have never left this place,” John said.
The small gathering of eight or so guests applauded at the story’s conclusion. It was a good little yarn which surely kept the AmEx slips of paranormal psychologists and the like flowing freely through the inn. A bit strange to share such information while patrons downed sausage and bacon for breakfast, but nonetheless, darned entertaining.
The story was omnipresent as he listened for the voice again. He just wanted some ice. Hayden had tried to throw back the blue magic sans liquid during some heavy petting, but the little bastard was stuck in his throat. He needed a soda to wash down the Viagara.
Hayden knew he should’ve felt lucky to get any at all. Mature Stud Horse magazine was not going to be calling anytime soon. Short, stocky, balding, thick glasses and a halitosis problem he’d battled his entire life, he knew he should feel like a kid at Christmas anytime his wife Cassandra invited him in, but he cringed at the thought. Cassandra was no spring chicken anymore, no fitness nut either. But it was their anniversary trip to Cape Cod and the spousal obligation was undeniable.
"I'll be back in a minute dear," he'd said, standing and putting on his robe. He hoped she'd be asleep by the time he got back. "I need a soda or something to wash this thing down."
Now here he was, hearing voices. Hayden Whitaker --hearing voices? He was a Botany Professor at a prestigious northeastern university for Christ’s sake, a man of science, and he’d let supernatural nonsense worm its way into his brain. Still, there was something about the combination of darkness and quiet which blurred the line between the plausible and implausible.
“The voice” had seemed to emanate from an allegedly 18th century rifle hanging above the 17th century honeycomb fireplace which served as the center piece of one of North American’s oldest and most infamous basements. Hayden shook his head and laughed to himself in an effort to shake it off.
He moved toward the ice machine, then froze in his tracks again. There was a different voice, a woman’s voice.
“Hayden, do you recall this sentence: `That Whitaker kid killed one of my prize white rose bushes by breathing on it. I’m gonna offer him extra credit points based on Tic Tac consumption,’ a mocking female voice said from behind. “College professors should be more quiet when discussing students with colleagues. Funny though don’t you think, Hayden?”
Hayden whirled and searched the dark room without moving his neck, expecting to see a woman with a condescending look on her face, but there was no one. Perfect balls of sweat popped out on his ample, pink dome. His eyes scanned the low colonial wooden beams, the dark wood trim, the place settings set up for the next morning’s breakfast. There was no one. Hayden’s eyes fixated on a white ceramic coffee pot sitting atop one of the tables.
“Hayden, do you recall that time you forgot to take the Detrol and your size 46 Khakis turned on you, right in the middle of your lecture on the possible commercial applications of Lorenzo’s Oil?” the woman’s voice said mockingly. “Oh Hayden, if only you’d been talking about trickle down economics. Funny though, don’t you think Hayden?”
“Mr. Whitaker, or is it Professor Whitaker?” the polite Englishman’s voice said.
Hayden whirled toward the rifle hanging above the fireplace.
“Professor Whitaker is a distinguished courtesy title which carries a good deal of implied respect don’t you agree? Professor Whitaker, I don’t envy you my good man. Engaging in relations with that mass of humanity upstairs in your bed must be a daunting thought indeed. Perhaps it might be preferable to simply rest your weary bones on one of these beautiful antique chairs, take off one of your socks, put your big toe on the trigger of a nice, long, hunting rifle, place the barrel in your mouth, and take care of this once and for all. The inn keeper’s got a .22 caliber rifle in the pantry.”
The female voice returned and Hayden turned back to the decanter, his heart thundering.
“Hayden do you recall the time you stopped at that McDonald’s in Rutland and one of those egg role shaped apple pies got stuck in your esophagus and that guy in the Grimmace costume had to give you the Heimlich? Do you remember when the pie came flying out and that yokel, yelled, 'Lookie there everybody, Grimmace done saved his twin brother!’ Do you remember the gathered crowd roaring with laughter? Funny though, don’t you think Hayden?”
Hayden’s stomach began to burn. Balls of sweat were dispersing into rivers rolling down hill.
“Professor Whitaker, in reference to my earlier comments, I certainly do not want to give you the impression a firearm is your sole option. Indeed the results can be messy; especially in your case my ample friend,” the man’s voice said. “The ocean is big after all, and only a few steps a way. A rock tied around your waste and a good old ‘Heave Ho!’ from the fishing pier would surely produce the desired result.”
“Hayden, do you recall this: “Hayden is Gayden, Hayden is Gayden,” the woman’s voice called out. “Those preteens can be so funny don’t you think Hayden? You know what they say though Hayden, the repercussions of one ill-timed, post physical education shower erection can last a life time. Funny though, don’t you think Hayden?”
He closed his eyes and he was back there, those ringing, prepubescent voices he'd to scramble away from them on the playground, but he couldn’t move. Fear induced paralysis had kept him wide-eyed and pinned against the playground fence. It was the same sensation which kept him stone-like at midnight in the breakfast nook.
The sweat rivers traversed his forehead, his chest heaved, but Hayden’s feet could not move toward the ice machine or the staircase.
“Professor Whitaker, I realize not all individuals are nautically inclined. There are some extremely solid, hand-crafted, pre-colonial era wooden beams right here in this very room that have been used for our purposes before, as you heard at breakfast. A chair, some rope from the gardener’s shed. I think that’d be a fine and historically relevant method.”
“Hayden, do recall this stunning announcement: `And the class of 1969’s Prom King, is......the man voted by his peers most likely to split Adam, the man most likely to eat one Circus Peanut for every second of life and the man voted most likely to show up to the prom stag in a lime green tuxedo......Hayden `are you going to finish that’ Whiiiiittttaaaakkker!’ That was a funny joke your classmates played, voting you king. Do you remember the look on the queen’s face? Remember that one Hayden? Funny though, don’t you think Hayden?”
Hayden’s pupils moved to the top of his head and his mouth hung ajar, slightly.
“We’re almost there now Professor,” the male voice hissed, less polite now. “Madness is the explanation for so many things. Even equilibrium, strangely enough, often takes leave of those on the verge of the abyss. A fall down the stairs perhaps.....”
“Hayden, do you recall the look on the face of the little girl in the grocery store who was pointing and staring at you and your wife because she thought you were a lesbian couple? Do remember that Hayden? Funny though, don’t you think Hayden?”
“Professor Whitaker, I would be remiss if I did not at least broach the subject of pills. A wide variety of medications would serve our purposes, and dare I say, cut down on the cleanup time for poor old Eilbert in the morning.”
“Hayden, do you recall this sentence. ‘I’ve actually never seen acne this intense. Perhaps a face transplant is in order. Haha.....just kidding son.’ Dermatologists should be a bit more sensitive don’t you think? Funny though, don’t you think Hayden?”
“There are knives on the tables right now Professor Whitaker. Perhaps the ancient Japanese tradition of Hari Kari would appeal to a man of your cultural sensibilities?”
“Hayden, do you recall yesterday when you checked in, and you heard the maids talking about whether the bed would be able to withstand two tons O’ Whitaker in room seven? Funny though,don’t you think Hayden?”
“Professor Whitaker, it is unlikely with that body shape you have more than a handful of years left anyway. Why not put yourself, your wife and every one you come into contact with, out of their collective misery? I’m a gun....I work believe it or not, I actually work, Put me in your mouth Professor.”
“Hayden, do you recall the time.....”
“Do it Professor Whitaker. Do it now.”
“Hayden, do you recall the time.....”
“Do it Professor.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” the female voice cackled. “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.”
“Do it Professor.”
Hayden dropped the empty ice bucket and let out a primal howl. His head filled with pressure and his face turned his infamous shade of crimson. He lunged at the rifle and found that it lifted out of its decorative brackets rather easily and he swung wildly, unconcerned about connecting with specific targets.
Wild eyes blazing, Hayden suddenly moved with speed and purpose.
He spun like Jackie Chan and connected with the impudent coffee decanter sending it into flying white shards. The tables suddenly looked like smiling, pointing little men. And Hayden swung the butt end of the rifle, spraying carefully displayed silverware in all directions and shattering glasses into bits.
He was just getting loose when the rifle itself splintered into shrapnel as he wildly smashed it against one of the ancient wooden posts holding up the inn. He picked up the pieces and began to throw them against the brick fireplace. At once, the sound of descending footsteps entered his consciousness. He whirled wildly to see John and Caroline dressed in old fashioned bed clothes standing at the foot of the stairs.
“Looks like we’ve got another one,” Caroline said, turning to John. “And he’s absolutely perfect for that shot we’ve been looking for.”
“You’re right. Perfect,” John said, eyes locked on a panting and confused Hayden. “We’ll be booked solid with magnetometer toting hippies for months.”
“I’ll take him down, you get the rope....and tell the other guests heading this way not to bother, just a few unexplained noises in the breakfast nook,”John said calmly. “They’ll eat that up.”
He pulled a pistol from a pocket in his plaid pajamas and loaded a Ketamine dart into the mechanism.
Hayden gathered himself and stared at John and Caroline. His mind was blank now. John fired the dart into Hayden’s ample belly. Hayden looked down at the dart lodged in his stomach, looked up at John confused, then collapsed to the charming wooden floor like felled Serengetti game.
“Oh, he’s so perfect,” Caroline said, hovering over Hayden as his unconscious formed heaved up and down. “Get him tied up John....and I’ll get the apple and the digital camera.”
With the photo session complete, John and Caroline delivered a groggy, barely walking Hayden to Caroline, explaining he’d taken a bit of a fall in the breakfast nook.
Hayden awoke in room seven, nestled snugly next to a satisfied Cassandra, in their charming little bed in the Capt. Hanson Inn. Last thing he remembered was going for ice, but everything must have gone well between the four posts.
“You were fantastic last night,” Cassandra, purred. “Even after that bump on the head you took. What a man!” She smiled, got out of bed and walked into the bathroom for her shower.
Hayden smiled to himself, unable to remember his performance, but the compliments were nice, nonetheless. After breakfast in the charming little breakfast nook, the Whittakers packed up and headed home.
About a month later when Hayden’s memory of his `bump on the head’ was unceremoniously returned to him.
It was a crisp, beautiful late September day as Hayden strode briskly into the student union at his prestigious northeastern university to grab a bit of lunch when he noticed a table full of the guys from the Psychology Department. The psych guys shared his floor in the science building and he’d gotten to know them a bit. A decent bunch of guys in fact, but now they were laughing and pointing in his direction.
Hayden became clammy with sweat. He approached their table like a little child approaching a bully, knowing something unpleasant was coming. A heavily bearded colleague looked up at Hayden with tears of laughter in his eyes. Hayden approached their table with pit-of-the stomach caution.
“Uhh...good afternoon gentlemen,” Hayden said timidly, clearing his throat nervously.
They all burst out laughing at once and Hayden felt faint and began to sweat heavily.
“Umm....excuse us Professor Whitaker,” Professor Gillenwater said, clearing his throat. “You are....familiar with Dr. McEntire’s interest in those who have an interest in parapsychology?”
“Yes, yes, of course,”Hayden said, attempting to sound professional.
“Well, we were just noticing this striking resemblance you have to......oh, just show him Thomas, I can’t take it anymore,” he sputtered wetly.
Dr. Thomas McEntire pulled out a magazine from underneath the table where he’d been hiding it from Hayden’s view. He handed Hayden a largely black and white publication which featured some hot pink spot color on the cover.
Emblazoned on the black and white cover, were the capital letters reading: RSPK with the small italics subtitle underneath which read: The Journal of Recurrent Spontaneous Poltergeist Kinetics.
Hayden’s eyes moved to the cover photo where he saw himself, as clear as he’d ever seen himself. He was flat on his stomach, eyes half open, clearly unconscious, lying on the floor of the breakfast nook. He was contorted into an unflattering, uncomfortable looking U-shape, legs bent upward, heels near the back of his head and his hog tied hands bent backward. An extra dose of humiliation had been added in the form of an apple unceremoniously stuffed in his mouth.
In bright pink letters again, beneath the photo was the caption: “Pig Boy at the Capt. Thomas Hanson Inn!”
Underneath the photo was a smaller, italicized tease:
“Did the ghosts of Capt. Thomas Hanson’s victims prepare The Pig Boy for the serving platter? RSPK Investigates!”
His colleagues chuckles cut into Hayden’s stomach like an unsheathed blade through butter.
“What do you think Hayden? See any resemblance at all?”Professor Dumford said,chortling.
Hayden was unsure if his colleagues knew the photo was him or if they were merely amused at the resemblance. What they knew for certain was inconsequential.
Hayden swallowed hard and his stomach burned. Sweat poured down his forehead, his chest heaved, and his pupils began to move to the top of his head. His mouth hung ajar, slightly.
“We’re almost there now professor,” an educated, disembodied voice said softly from the vicinity of the napkin holder on the cafeteria table. “We’re almost there.”
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