I
I still remember the day we got the phone call to clean the apartment at 1535 Boxer Ave very well. My brother James and I ran a junk removal and cleanout company in our local community and beyond; people hired us to haul away their unwanted items. When someone in the family passed away or needed to eliminate junk, the Carson brothers were the ones to call; we were the junk brothers, J and M Cleanouts Inc. I recalled a crisp fall day when the J and M cleanout office received a call from Callahan, inquiring about our house cleaning services. I was in the office that day, answering the phone and making appointments, as we had not hired a receptionist yet. I answered Callahan’s call, but should have said we were unavailable when he asked to hire us. Hindsight is 20/20, as the saying goes. “J and M’s cleanouts, this Mike speaking, what can J and M do for you?” I said cheerfully when the phone rang at 8:00 am; I had just finished my first cup of coffee. The phone crackled at first, a bizarre buzz, and then an eerie and chilling voice spoke; the voice was high-pitched and menacing. “Mike, this is Callahan, Wayne Callahan,” the man with the chilling voice said over the phone. He paused and continued, “I want to hire you for a special job.” The phone crackled again as if Callahan were in a bad service area or had a damaged landline phone. A part of me wanted to hang up the phone right then and there, as I got an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach about this guy. Yet, since James and I had not had much business lately, I thought better of it, as we needed the money. I took a deep breath; the phone crackled again. “What day are you looking for our services?” I asked. There was silence for a few seconds; Callahan said, “As soon as possible, I’ll pay a hundred dollars more if you can make it tonight after 9 pm.” I thought about it because I needed the money. “Yes, we can be there tonight after 9 pm. What is the size of the area you would like us to clean?” Silence again, and, odd buzzing, the man Callahan answered, “It will only be one room, the living room; everything of my dearly departed brother’s will be in that room that needs to be moved and junked.” The odd buzzing returned on the phone, and another incomprehensible voice came through for a few seconds. I waited until the noises and the cross-wired voice stopped to answer Callahan. “My condolences on your brother,” I said. I paused, then asked, “How many boxes, bags, or items will be in the living room?” The damn silence again, then the buzzing; Callahan finally answered, “There will be a total of thirty boxes, nine bags, and three piles of newspapers.” He went silent, and buzzing came through the phone receiver; Callahan’s voice said, “The only thing you will not haul off is the ventriloquist dummy sitting on his chair; his name is Charlie, he is special, and there are other plans for him.” He went silent, and the buzzing returned. A ventriloquist dummy named Charlie, I thought to myself. Oddly, my thoughts continued: Was this family related to Edgar Bergen, the father of the star of the late 1980s sitcom Murphy Brown, who had a vaudeville act with a dummy named Charlie McCarthy in the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s, and long before that as well? Damn, I was old. I came out of my thoughts and said to Callahan, “So to confirm, we take everything in that room that is boxed up, bagged, and tied up, but not Charlie and his chair?” Silence, the buzzing again; Callahan’s voice finally hissed, “That is correct.” Then silence, the buzzing again. “The address is,” I asked. The buzzing sound, and Callahan answered, “1535 Boxer Ave.” I wrote down the address and mapped it on the laptop before me; it was one town over from ours, so I quickly calculated the cost of the junk removal service. The whole time I was doing my calculations, Callahan sat silently, waiting on the phone with the buzzing in the background as I worked. Once I completed my calculations, I cleared my throat. I said firmly, “Factoring in mileage, time, labor, and the number of items you want us to haul, I estimate it to be four hundred and fifty dollars for the job.” Callahan finally spoke again after the buzzing and hissing sounds passed. “That is fine, plus the extra hundred for doing it after 9 pm.” “Yes,” I answered after letting the buzz die down again. That damn buzzing was annoying by now. “I’ll pay cash. You will find an envelope on Charlie’s lap. Do be careful not to disturb Charlie too much; he doesn’t like that,” Callahan responded ominously. That was an odd response; this guy was a bizarre caller, but we needed the money. “My brother and I are professionals; we will not disturb Charlie too much, I promise,” I said sarcastically. The buzzing, then the hissing sound, “I trust you wouldn’t want to do that, Mike,” was the response. The buzz followed it, then a hiss, what sounded like a scream, and then the click of the phone being hung up. After the click, I sat silently for a moment, then hung up the phone myself. I looked again at the address. I still regret taking the job.
II
Later that night, we stood outside the crumbling house, its dark silhouette looming ominously against the dusky indigo sky. The air was thick with a sense of foreboding as I turned to James, a tumult of apprehension and determination swirling in my gut.
“Are you sure about this?” James asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty as he scrutinized the sagging roof, where shingles hung like tired old men. The broken shutters flapped in the cold evening breeze, adding an unsettling rhythm to the silence.
“This place looks like it’s one gust from the wind away from collapsing,” he added, his eyes flicking nervously to the crumbling edges.
I narrowed my gaze at the dilapidated structure, my brow furrowing in concentration. “Yeah, it’s seen better days, but we came here for a purpose. Besides, Callahan wouldn’t send us if it was too dangerous… right?”
“Right,” I replied, though doubt tinged my voice like a bitter aftertaste. “But let’s be honest; we really need the money. It’s been a slow start to the month.”
James paused, his expression clouded with concern. He clicked his tongue, a nervous habit. “You think Callahan is lurking inside somewhere, ready to kill us?” I let out a dark chuckle, though it felt hollow. “Maybe. Either way, I can’t shake this feeling that something isn’t right.”
James nodded, his gaze drifting to the overgrown yard, a wild tangle of weeds almost swallowing the cracked path leading to the warped door. “It feels like the house is hiding secrets. I want to know what we’re getting ourselves into.”
“Well, we won’t know until we step inside,” James replied, his voice steady, yet the unease in his eyes betrayed him. “If we stick together and keep our heads straight, we’ll be fine.”
I nodded, feeling the weight of the moment. “Just remember what Callahan said: don’t disturb Charlie, his dummy.”
James took a deep breath, forcing a crooked smile at the thought of tiptoeing around an inanimate object. Dummies had always unnerved him, and the mere suggestion of avoiding one sat uncomfortably on his shoulders, even though it was a client’s request. Yet, our resolve remained unyielding despite the creeping dread, as if unseen eyes lurked within the shadowy recesses of the house, waiting for us to enter.
“Maybe I’ve watched too many serial killer documentaries with my wife,” I mused. “Let’s just get in and out, then. No heroics.”
James returned my sentiment with a determined nod. “Agreed. We’ll be like ghosts—silent and swift. Just get the job done.”
With that, we took a deep breath and stepped forward, the heavy anticipation hanging in the air like a storm about to break. As we approached the rotting door, it creaked dramatically, announcing our presence like a haunting call as we pushed it open. The darkness within enveloped us like a chilling embrace, and the cold air sent shivers down my spine.
Inside, the house was a winter cave, cold and dark, except for a glow emanating from a room at the far end of the vestibule. The room beckoned us like a siren, the promise of the items we needed to move hidden within.
James and I focused straight ahead, adrenaline coursing through our veins, bracing ourselves against the unnerving sense that something awaited us in that very room—our worst nightmares just beyond the threshold. Sitting on a wooden kitchen chair in the middle of the room is a ventriloquist dummy dressed in a screened T-shirt that reads, “I’m not the dummy,” jeans, and a pair of child-size Nike sneakers. Charlie, I think to myself as I lock eyes with the dummy’s lifeless eyes staring at us as we enter the room, the smile on its porcelain face is less than welcoming and more evil. The envelope that Callahan said would contain the money is on the dummy’s lap as promised. Boxes, bags, and newspapers tied in bundles are arranged in neat piles across the room. The walls are covered with strange writings and newspaper clippings from different years. The writing appears ancient, featuring numerous symbols, runes, words, and numbers from a long-forgotten language. I walk up to Charlie, a chill running up my spine as I look down at its lifeless porcelain face close up. James walks around the room, looking at the text and newspaper clippings on the walls.
I pick up the envelope from Charlie’s lap and find myself whispering to Charlie, “My name is Mike; I’m here with my brother to move the boxes and bags; we promise not to disturb you much.” I pick up the envelope after whispering the following to Charlie. As you can tell, I believe in the paranormal; my brother does not. I open the envelope to see if cash is in it; once I see it, my eyes meet James’s. “Are you talking to the damn dummy?” he asks me bluntly. “No, just counting the money,” I answer, running my fingers through the cash to show my face. James looks like he doesn’t believe me at all. James and I counted the items again to verify that the number of items matched the one reported by Callahan earlier that day. As we count, my eyes scan the writing on the wall and the articles; I can’t understand the writing, but the articles are all about a famous professor from Florida who has written a dozen bestselling books on the occult and the paranormal. The subject of the articles has also given hundreds of successful lectures on occult and paranormal encounters nationwide. The articles follow Professor W. Callahan’s career. He must be the Callahan who called earlier today.
Some time later, we continued looking over the items and the articles on the wall, and I took a deep breath. “Do you feel like something is watching you?” I finally asked Mike about it after having had the feeling several times over the past forty-five minutes. Mike shakes his head no as he continues to count the items. After James answers, I fight off the feeling and count the items. I want to complete this job ASAP because it is causing me a lot of stress. Ultimately, everything comes together to what Callahan and I agree upon. The room suddenly feels heavy and much darker as we start the move, as if something does not like us moving the stuff. My imagination tricks me, and I try to convince myself that everything is okay and nothing is wrong. Despite my feelings of unease, Mike and I begin moving the boxes first; most are on the side light. After about an hour of moving boxes, we started moving the bags. That’s when things get interesting.
As James and I move the bags, Charlie and his chair are occasionally bumped by James and me as we struggle with the weight and awkwardness of the bags. Charlie’s chair jerks with each bump, and the dummy slides down, its legs dangling, lifeless and listless, off the chair. “Watch it,” I firmly state as my brother rocks the chair again. Charlie nearly falls to the floor after the last hit to his chair. “It’s a dummy,” my brother angrily responds, placing the bag on the floor. “Callahan told me not to disturb Charlie at all; he could be watching with a nanny cam in the darn thing for all we know to ensure we are not; it’s probably a family heirloom,” I snap back. My brother rolls his eyes and replies, “It’s a dummy; the dude that hired us is sicko if he is watching us.”
James pauses and looks around the room. “Look at this place; some sick shit happens here; he could be fucking the damn thing for all we know and doing satanic rituals.” James stammers in frustration, flecks of spit flying out of his mouth. That said, he grabs Charlie by the arms, picks up the dummy, and looks at it in the eyes with disgust and hate. “Ugly mother fucker,” James says to the dummy’s face. James is pissed off with the whole move and the dummy rule thing. That he broke his own rule that there should be no heroics.
III
Three hours later, the move is complete; the newspapers are the last items to be loaded into the van. We leave Charlie sitting in the chair in the empty room in the old house; the room is creepier without the items. James and I grab a quick bite close to our office; it is the only fast food place open at a late hour. After we eat, I drop James off at his apartment building, where he lives with his wife and kids, and return the van to the office. My car is parked there so that I can go home by myself. Since I am at the office and will be coming in late tomorrow due to the move, I decided to stop in for a second to check for any messages. To my surprise, there is a message on the machine. I hit the play button, and the message starts with static. The buzzing that plagued Callahan’s call earlier comes next. When the voice comes through, it is high-pitched and childlike with a twist of menace: “Hi ya buddy,” the voice starts off the message. It continues, “Thanks again for being nice to me.” The voice pauses to allow the buzzing to happen. The voice continues, “As for your brother, James, he needs to learn to listen to people and be nice to Charlie.” Another pause, the buzzing, a distant scream, the voice continues, “I’ll be seeing him soon enough.” Thank you for being nice to Charlie, Mike.” The message ends. “What the fuck,” I say out loud in the empty office. I click my tongue as I think about the creepy message and how to handle it. I think, “It cannot be; it has to be a joke; if not, this Callahan is crazy and maybe even dangerous if he goes after James.” I stand there for a few minutes to make a plan. I will stop by his place before heading home to ensure everything is okay. I hope it’s nothing.
IV
I arrive at James’ apartment building just after 2 am, the streetlights casting flickering shadows as I park my car. I ascend the stairs with a sense of urgency, the weight of the night pressing down on me. Taking the elevator to Mike’s floor feels like an agonizing wait; each moment stretches out, heavy with dread. As I stand in front of the apartment door, my heart races. We should never have taken that call or the job. I take a steadying breath and slide the key into the lock, my fingers trembling slightly as I turn it. I twist the knob and push the door open, the darkness inside swallowing me whole. “Hello?” I call out, my voice echoing back eerily. Silence greets me, wrapping around me like a thick blanket. I step inside, my boots thudding against the wooden floor, amplifying the emptiness. “James?” I try again, but my voice is sounding more tentative now. Still, no answer. Just that mocking echo, filling the air.
“Maybe James took a walk,” I mutter to myself, attempting to quell the gnawing anxiety. He mentioned pain after the move—maybe he just needed to stretch. I tread carefully into the living room and catch sight of a wet towel on the floor. His uniform draped carelessly over his favorite recliner. It feels wrong; James never leaves things lying around like this. “What the hell is going on?” I think.
Suddenly, something darts past my peripheral vision. My breath hitches in my throat as I freeze, every instinct screaming at me to run. A dark shape scuttles into my niece’s bedroom, but they aren’t supposed to be here—they’re on vacation at Disney World with their mom—the bedroom door slams shut behind the figure, sending a jolt of terror through me. My mind races: Callahan is here. Gathering my courage, I inch toward the door, my boots echoing louder with each step, betraying my anxiety. The door stands before me, ominous and foreboding. Callahan is lurking just behind it; I can feel it. Callahan probably has that damn baby cam hidden in the doll—it’s all part of his sick games, punishing James for not taking him seriously. My hand shakes as I reach for the doorknob, my stomach churning with panic. My heart pounds in my chest, and I want to scream, but instead, I turn the knob. The door creaks open, revealing a darkened room. I step inside, catching sight of my nieces’ beds, lined with their dolls in perfect rows. The sight should be comforting, but it sends chills racing down my spine.
“I know you’re here,” I say, trembling slightly. Silence responds to me, thick and suffocating. “Please, Mr. Callahan,” I continue, forcing bravado into my voice. “We can talk. This can be worked out.” I move deeper into the room, scanning for any signs of movement. My mind races, considering hiding places where a stalker might be lurking. Perhaps he’s in the closet? I stand in the center of the room, searching for answers in the heavy darkness. “I’m sorry he disrespects you,” I press on. “He doesn’t understand—he can be foolish at times.” With a deep breath, I stride toward the closet. “This has to end,” I remind myself. I yank the door open, and darkness greets me—just clothes, toys, and more dolls. But then, something grips my spine with icy fingers. I feel a presence behind me, like breathing down my neck. My instincts shout at me to turn, to confront this nightmare, but I hesitate, frozen in fear. Before I can react, pain erupts in my legs, and I crumble to my knees, gasping in shock. A swift blow to my head sends me spiraling into darkness, the world collapsing into oblivion as terror steals my breath away.
V
The light rushes back to me just as the darkness washes over me. How long have I been out cold? I have a splitting headache when I wake up. My eyes adjust slowly to the scene in front of me. It takes me a while to realize where I am. I am back in the room on Boxer Ave. I am on the floor in the corner, hands tied in front of me. As my eyes adjust, I see James slumped in the chair that Charlie sat in earlier that night. Why does he bring us back here? I try to move when I realize that my legs are bound too. This is wild, and I start to panic. I know I should not have taken that call. Now look where we are.
A disembodied voice breaks the silence. “Don’t worry, Mikey, I like you still, but you should have stayed out of my business.” I look at my brother, who is still slumped in the chair. I do not know where the voice comes from, but I respond anyway, “Mr. Callahan, please, can we talk? James does not mean any harm to Charlie.” I pause, then continue, “he just does not think at times.” There is no response, just silence. I speak again, “Hello, are you still there?” Still nothing. I sigh. My brother lies slumped, still unconscious and butt naked. I am on my own to get us out of this. Being closer to the writings, I can see sentences within their symbols.
One sentence reads, “Charlie is not happy.” Next, one reads, “Daddy says Charlie is wrong and should not exist,” and another reads, “Daddy must die.” This guy has some serious issues, I think to myself as I struggle to get free. After about twenty minutes, I free my right wrist, sore from the rope burn. In less than a minute, I am free and clear. I get up and run towards my brother. He is still out cold. Damn it, this escape will not be easy. I look, but the door to the hall is not open. It makes sense that I have to open it and drag my brother out of the house. As I approach the door, the voice says, “I would not do that, Mikey. I like you. Don’t make me not like you.” The voice says. “Fuck you,” I respond. As I pull the door open, I find it locked. “You’re not as nice as I thought you’d be; I don’t like that.” “Charlie does not like mean people; I hate mean people,” the voice says angrily. “Charlie is a dummy, a dummy, your Mr. Wayne Callahan,” I scream at the voice. “NO,” the voice shouts back. My brother stirs and then shoots up like a rocket from the chair; he runs towards me, all naked, his nut sack swinging freely. James is on top of me like a lion on its prey, and I am lifted off the ground by James; my legs dangle in the air as he lifts me. James’ face contorts in the shape of a demon. His blue eyes are now black and dead, like dummies’ eyes from earlier tonight, staring through my soul. I cannot breathe. My brother’s mouth moves, but it is not his voice. It is the voice from the phone message. The voice comes from James’ mouth, saying, “Wayne Callahan was my father; he created me out of grief due to the loss of his son; he taps into things that should not be tapped into and creates a dummy who lives. But I cannot leave this place because I am born of evil, and I have done evil, so I am locked here with Daddy Wayne’s brother, Gene, my caretaker; we are both castaways from his life. Wayne wants nothing to do with us. I am happy here. Then Uncle Gene died not long ago, and Daddy Wayne had to come here and confront me for the first time in 20 years after pretending like I did not exist for all those years.”
VI
Wayne Callahan parks his rented car outside the house on Boxer Ave, a place he left behind 20 years earlier. Grief leads him down a dark road to this place all those years ago. Wayne plays Dr. Frankenstein at Boxer Ave, creating a monster within its walls. Wayne was a college student at the time, attending a local university and studying the occult. His grief becomes a living nightmare. His first wife, Bree, has just given birth to a baby boy named Charlie. Charlie is the love of their lives; they have a short time with Charlie before he dies of cancer at the age of four years old.
No parent should have to bury their child, let alone at such a young age. Charlie never has a chance to live a full life due to the Big C, which angers Wayne. The grief of the loss kills both parents emotionally and destroys their marriage as well; Bree needs to be locked away in an asylum; she never regains her full sanity from the loss of Charlie and has been in and out of a psych hospital for years, to Wayne’s knowledge. Wayne goes back home to the house on Boxer Ave at the time to recover from the losses of both his son and wife. He plans to stay with his older brother Gene at the house on Boxer Avenue. The brothers grew up in the house, and Gene inherited it from their parents after they retired early. Wayne and Gene’s parents moved to Florida a few years ago for their retirement years. They leave the house to Gene because he would be homeless without it. Hence, their parents pay the mortgage in full before moving to Florida.
Gene has issues with alcohol, gambling, and women, which have led him not to keep a steady job or have a steady income for all of his adult life. On the other hand, Mr. and Ms. Callahan understand that their son, Wayne, is self-sufficient, goal-driven, and working hard on his career to become a college professor; therefore, they worry less about him during their retirement. Twenty years later, Wayne returns home to Boxer Ave, having become a successful college professor at a major university in Florida; he is also a successful investigator of the occult and paranormal events. Wayne has authored half a dozen bestselling books on the subjects of the occult and paranormal, along with hundreds of interviews on TV, radio, and other forms of media. He conducts many successful in-person weekend lecture series covering the occult and paranormal events nationwide and is handsomely paid for it. Since childhood, Wayne has been fascinated by the occult, a passion that would ultimately lead him to his career.
Wayne stands outside the old house on Boxer Ave, and thoughts of what happened in the house twenty years ago enter his mind for the first time in years. Fueled by grief and alcohol, and his brother Gene, who has a few screws loose, pushes Wayne to dive headfirst into occult lore and lectures after the death of Charlie to find a way to bring his dead child back to life. Wayne does not become Dr. Frankenstein through grave robbing; instead, he becomes the dark version of Geppetto and creates a living dummy, similar to Pinocchio. He brings an old ventriloquist dummy from a local thrift shop to revive his son; the dummy will be the vessel. Wayne keeps his dark plans a secret from Gene, so no one tells him not to cross the lines between the living and the dead.
Wayne looks at the house in the present; his brother has let it go to shit. He sends money over the years, mostly for booze and take-out food; Gene can’t boil water to save his life. The thing Wayne creates does not eat but loves being with its Uncle. Wayne walks towards the house, his shoes clicking on the pavement. He knows he will have to face it again one day. Gene agrees to keep the thing as long as Wayne pays him money to watch it and keep it locked in the house. Wayne shakes his head in disappointment at the sight of the house now; there is no way he can sell it as he had hoped, fucking Gene. Wayne takes a deep breath and walks carefully up the front stairs, which decay from neglect. He is about to go home for the first time in years.
VII
Twenty years earlier, Wayne and Gene stood in the room where the Carson brothers had moved the boxes and bags. Wayne had filled the room’s walls with symbols, runes, words, and numbers required for the ceremony to summon the spirit world. The dummy sat on a kitchen chair, staring blankly at the brothers who stood before it. Gene had sipped a Budweiser, his favorite beer, while Wayne held a tiny black book. He took a deep breath and began to read from it after lighting five black candles that formed a circle on the floor around the chair and the dummy.
Wayne recited, “Hear these words, hear my cry, spirits come from the other side. Come to me, I summon thee, cross now the great divide.” At first, there was nothing. Gene glanced around, sipped his beer, and muttered, “So…” Meanwhile, Wayne remained hopeful, waiting in the silence. Then, unexpectedly, the walls began to glow. “Look,” Wayne stammered, pointing at them.
Gene turned his gaze to the wall, distracted by the glow, causing him to miss his mouth as he drank. Beer spilled down his chin and onto his stained Beatles t-shirt. All the symbols, runes, words, and numbers flickered to life in a vibrant red, and the flames of the candles burst with a pop, sparkling red and blue. The air grew heavy and cold as the dummy slowly ascended, evoking a Christ-like image. A voice, not of this world, boomed from the shadows, “WHOM DO YOU SUMMON?”
“Charlie, my son Charlie Callahan, I want to bring him back home to me,” Wayne stammered, his voice filled with desperation. The dummy spun 360 degrees mid-air; the glowing symbols intensified, and the candles erupted into mini infernos, filling the room with the heat of hellfire. The dummy began to glow like the walls, shaking violently as it ascended further into the room, trembling the very foundation beneath them.
Wayne and Gene lost their footing and fell to their knees, as if bowing to the levitating dummy. It spun as if caught in a washing machine, five times, before finally straightening its body and descending gently back into the chair, perfectly still once again. The candles returned to small flames, and the eerie glow on the walls faded.
In disbelief, Wayne stared at what had just unfolded, while Gene, unimpressed and upset over his spilled beer, declared, “I’m behind you, bro, but all that did was spill my Bud.” Wayne rolled his eyes, distracted by the sight of Charlie, the dummy. “Charlie,” he called, looking into its blank stare. Gene shook his head. “I need a cold one after that light show,” he said, walking towards the door.
Just before reaching it, Gene heard a childlike and haunting voice call out, “Daddy.” He stopped, shaking his head in disbelief, and heard Wayne respond, “Yes.” Slowly, Gene turned around. Wayne stood with the dummy Charlie in his arms, smiling at him.
Fast-forward to the present. Wayne entered the house, engulfed by the musty smell of stale beer and Chinese food. Memories flooded back, ones he had desperately tried to suppress. He recalled how he had spent weeks trying to train the dummy Charlie after the ceremony, only to realize it lacked the capacity for empathy or human emotion. Instead, it had become something inherently evil.
The dummy once killed Gene’s cat and had presented the dead animal to Wayne as an “I love you” gift, stating that it enjoyed the act of killing. When Wayne expressed his disapproval, the dummy simply replied, “Killing is a good thing,” revealing its twisted understanding of morality.
As the weeks passed, Wayne grew increasingly convinced that Charlie was not his son but a demon in disguise. Though Gene had suggested that Charlie might be Wayne’s son, he had to accept that something was profoundly wrong when he returned to life after nearly suffocating. Wayne’s growing hatred for the dummy consumed him with each passing day, and he resolved to destroy it.
Unbeknownst to him, as the dummy remained in that same room for hours—sitting silently, writing on the walls—it had become more than just an inanimate object. It had gained the ability to read and write, sneaking into Wayne’s book of occult spells during his absences. Over time, the dummy memorized incantations meant to protect itself in case Wayne dared to end the “Charlie experiment.” Those words Wayne had observed the dummy writing on the wall were ultimately set to protect it when the confrontation came.
VIII
Wayne was home now, standing in the hallway of the house on Boxer Avenue. As his Uncle Gene called him, the dummy Charlie, as his proper name was concerned, watched from a dark corner—the same dark corner from twenty years earlier, where Charlie had watched Wayne leave for good. Wayne had been informed three days earlier that his brother had died of a heart attack while on a beer run, which was why he was here. Charlie sensed something was wrong when his Uncle had never returned from shopping three days before; it was unlike his Uncle to leave Charlie alone that long.
Later, after his Uncle disappeared, the man who had abandoned Charlie and his beloved uncle years ago was back home, standing inside the house. Charlie knew it was searching for him. From his hidden place, life seemed kind to his father; the dummy felt happy and enraged. Uncle Gene had patiently taught Charlie about complex emotions—the feelings humans experienced, their meanings, and how to manage them. This was something Charlie’s deadbeat father had tried for a short time. Still, when Charlie failed to grasp the lessons quickly, his callous father gave up and tried to destroy him. Charlie was grateful for his Uncle’s teachings, which helped him become more well-rounded. He killed fewer people under Gene’s watch, though the dummy still found satisfaction in it. On occasion, when Gene was fall-down drunk, his darker side emerged, encouraging Charlie to kill. During those times, Gene would take Charlie out hunting in his beat-up old car. They predominantly targeted the homeless and sex workers in the local area—people who no one would miss. Charlie sometimes felt that Gene derived more pleasure from the killings than he did, though Charlie did enjoy it. Gene relished watching the killings, particularly those of the sex workers; he found a twisted pleasure in their screams and pleas for mercy, relishing the authentic fear that surfaced in their eyes when they saw a living dummy approaching them with a knife in its tiny wooden hand. For most, Charlie kills to satisfy his Uncle and help Gene get his jollies off, as his Uncle often says.
Charlie watched as Wayne walked through the downstairs area of the house. Wayne moved through all the rooms on that floor and eventually stood inside the room where it had all begun for Charlie. Hidden away, Charlie observed as Wayne took a deep breath and entered the room where the nightmare had been created. Wayne had expected to find the fucking dummy there, but the room was empty, with only the chair still standing in the middle, just as it had been twenty years ago. The room was as Wayne remembered it. The writing from the ceremony was still displayed on the walls. At the same time, newspaper clippings had become a new addition, placed alongside the occult spells. Wayne walked over to the nearest wall and peered at the articles about him—his career as a professor, author, investigator, and lecturer. The fucking thing had been keeping tabs on him, with his brother allowing it. A chill ran down Wayne’s spine at the thought of the tiny menace, clipping newspaper headlines about him and pasting them onto the wall of its room. The little stalker was going to burn, Wayne thought to himself.
XI
Wayne knew the dummy was somewhere in the house. He walked into the hallway, determined to end this mistake of his once and for all. Wayne walks into the vestibule as the memories flood back. Wayne was a fool; he should never have attempted that failed experiment. The question is how to kill the evil dummy. Wayne looked to his right and into the living room. Gene’s La-Z-Boy recliner and big-screen TV were the only things in the room. Gene liked it simple. Guilty feelings flooded Wayne’s thoughts as he looked into the living room. What a fool he was; he allowed alcohol and grief to cloud his intellect. Now, Wayne needed to make this situation right, to make up for not being there and abandoning his brother to start a new life, and leaving Gene alone to deal with the evil abomination he had brought into the world. What a fucked up thing to do.
A creak in the hallway behind him took Wayne out of his thoughts. He knew what caused it, the little bastard named Charlie. Wayne had come prepared; he reached down to his right leg and pulled up his pant leg to reveal an ankle holster. He unclipped the straps and removed a Glock 43 from the holster, loaded and ready to go. Suppose Wayne could not end it with a spell if he could not end it with a bullet and a bonfire. Wayne walked back into the hall, gun drawn, ready to fire. He scanned the hallway for movement, but nothing moved. The little asshole was hiding.
A bang came from upstairs. “Little bastard lives upstairs these days,” Wayne muttered out loud. Wayne strolled to the staircase, two hands gripping the Glock. Light filtered through the skylight at the top of the staircase, while the landing and the rest of the second floor remained in darkness. Wayne slowly ascended the stairs, ready for anything. As he climbed the stairs, the gun was ready to fire at anything that moved. Wayne did not account for an attack coming from below. A thin piano wire was strung between the supports on the staircase railing and the inner wall of the staircase, placed in the middle of the staircase, and invisible to the eye.
Wayne continued to ascend the stairs, but his eyes didn’t catch the trap laid before him. Charlie waited; soon enough, his father/creator would be vulnerable. Charlie watched; Wayne was two steps away. As Wayne got closer to the trap, he turned around in a circular motion to ensure that all angles were covered as he approached the top. Wanye straightened himself out and walked into the wire; his right foot got caught under it. Wanye lost his balance and fell forward on the wire, cutting his neck straight. Wayne slid downstairs on his belly, his neck bleeding profusely on the way down the stairs, leaving a blood trail behind him. The Glock tumbled down the stairs faster due to its weight. The Glock landed with a thud at the bottom of the stairs. Wayne followed, landing in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, a few steps away from his Glock. Wayne had hit every step on the way down; he had broken bones and ribs in the fall. Wayne attempted to turn around, but he could not muster the strength. His body was in pain after falling down the stairs, his neck cut and bleeding; he now lay in a lump at the bottom and could not move. Charlie emerged from his hiding spot. He walked over to the Glock and kicked it with a tiny, sneaky foot. Wayne looked up, eyes blurry and in pain. “Hi, Daddy,” Charlie said with a smile.
XI
Wayne lay at the bottom of the stairs, his blood pooling around him; he could not move; he was in a lot of pain from broken bones and blood loss. “Where is Uncle?” Charlie asked; there was emotion behind the words he said, which surprised Wayne. Wayne was weakened from the blood loss, so he answered in a low voice. “He’s not coming home; he’s dead; he died buying beer.” Wayne looked at Charlie. The face didn’t change much, yet Wayne saw the emotion in the dummy’s posture after telling it Gene was dead. Wayne attempted to lift himself, but it was no use; he was too weak and in too much pain. Wanye had to stay put. The dummy walked back and forth animatedly; watching an inanimate object walking independently was rather creepy. Twenty years later, Wayne was still amazed by what he had done that night. “This situation needs to end, “Wayne mutters. Charlie whipped around, a look of malice on his face now.
“So he’s dead, and now you’re here to end me.” Charlie says acidly to his maker, “Yes, you’re an abomination that was fueled by grief and booze, nothing more.” Wayne croaked. The statement hurt Charlie. “I’m YOUR SON,” Charlie screamed. Wayne did not flinch at the dummy screaming. Wayne finds the strength to scream back, “You are a dummy that a young drunk idiot hoped to resurrect his son in”!, Wayne pauses to continue his screaming, then, “All I created was a modern-day Frankenstein monster!” Charlie had become more flexible in the years Wayne had been away.
The dummy sprang forward at Wayne after what he said. The dummy kicked, and then he hit Wayne in the face. Wayne attempted to fight back but could not due to weakness. Wayne took every hit from Charlie like a champ, hoping the damn thing would tire itself out. Wayne lay on the floor after the attack was over, in more pain now. A thought crossed Wayne’s mind as he lay there: was this how it would end for him? Charlie also walked over to where he had kicked the Glock and picked it up. Charlie. Turned back towards Wayne. Charlie’s face was twisted now, its true evil showing through. Wayne looked at the dummy. Charlie looked at Wayne. An evil smile spread across the dummy’s face with no remorse, and Charlie fired the Glock at Wayne.
XIII
I am on the floor in the room at Boxer Ave when Charlie finishes telling his story about Wayne and Gene. My brother stands over me, but he is no longer my brother; Charlie has cast a spell, and he controls my brother’s body. I do not see the dummy lying in the corner when I enter the room. The dummy that was Charlie’s face is now shattered from the removal of Charlie’s spirit. I understand here and now that Charlie calls me Callahan after he kills his father, and we move their stuff to the van. Charlie’s belongings are all now in the van outside our office. “Where is my brother?” I finally ask Charlie. He points at the shattered dummy, indicating that my brother’s soul is trapped within it. “Now what?” I ask Charlie. My brother draws a deep breath. With that high-pitched voice of Callahan’s, Charlie answers me, “With my miserable prick of a dad dead and uncle as well, it’s time for me to move on.” Charlie looks over the room and says, “It is time for a change.” He smiles and looks at me. Charlie pauses and continues, “I have heard Florida is lovely this time of year.” The smile never leaves Charlie’s face. I look at my Charlie, who possesses my brother, and ask, “What about us?” “Oh, you’ll be coming along,” Charlie answers with a smile.
**Epilogue**
It is mid-afternoon when the doorbell rings at Orange Grove Apartments in Tallahassee, Florida; the apartment number is 104 in the ground-level complex. A middle-aged woman walks to the door of apartment 104 to open it. To her surprise, a man stands there wearing jeans and a faded Beatles T-shirt. The man smiles as the woman opens the door. “How can I help you?” she asks. “My name is Charlie Callahan; I’m looking for Wayne Callahan,” he answers. Charlie then produces a piece of ID to show her he is telling the truth. After looking at the ID, sadness washes over the woman. She replies, “I’m sorry, Charlie, but Wayne passed away on a trip home a few weeks ago; he was killed in a robbery.”
The woman attempts to hold back her tears; the death is still pretty recent. Charlie draws a deep breath and then says with empathy, “Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am; I just discovered that I am related to Wayne not too long ago. My father was his brother Gene, and my mother never told my dad she was pregnant with him after a drunken one-night stand years ago.” Charlie pauses, taking a moment to choose his next words. He then continues, “Unfortunately, I discovered my dad Gene had passed away from a heart attack a few weeks ago after starting to search for him.” The woman is shocked by the statement, as her late husband did not know he had a nephew. She gently says, “I’m sorry, I don’t know much about your father, Gene; my husband, Wayne, does not talk about your dad, who had a long-distance relationship. My husband helps your dad out financially. I am surprised that my husband goes back home to Massachusetts to tie up your dad’s affairs after his death. He does not talk much about your dad, but Wayne insists he take care of business in person. It gets him killed.” The woman tears up.
Charlie nods and states, “I’m not bothering you. I find out about my dad and his death, so I track Uncle Wayne through him. I think he could tell me about my dad.” Charlie responds. The woman smiles with tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry, hun, my name is Bridget; well, I’m your Aunt Bridget, I guess.” She pauses, and Charlie smiles at the statement. Bridget continues, “Do you want a cold drink, and we can talk a little about stuff?” Charlie nods and says, “I would like that.” Bridget responds, “I would like that too.” This is when Bridget notices the moving van parked in front of her apartment, with the name J and M Cleanouts written on the side of the truck. “Are you moving?” Bridget asks, looking past Charlie at the parked van. Charlie nods and says, “Yes. After years in one place, I decided I needed a change of scenery, so I bought the van from these brothers who lost their business to move my stuff down here.” Bridget nods. “So come in, let’s talk,” she says. Charlie enters the house, and the door closes behind him.
I sit in our work van, James sitting beside me in his dummy body. We sit together in the back of the van, along with Charlie’s stuff from the Boxer Avenue cleanout. My tiny body takes time to get used to; Charlie puts my spirit into another dummy, which he acquires from the same pawn shop he came from. Charlie burns down the Boxer Avenue house with my body in it. Charlie, in control of James’ body, not only gets the dummy from the pawn shop with his body but also dumps his father, Wayne’s body, in a sketchy part of town and sets up his death to look like a robbery gone wrong. James’ dummy’s face is still shattered, yet he can communicate with me with his hands. I now know that I should not have answered Callahan’s call this morning; it is confirmed. All my brother and I can do now is sit and wait for what’s next, just two dummies who must clean up from hell.