Mr. Wombly

She was a pretty woman with dark hair and a slender build. She sat in a chair opposite me, puffing on a cigarette, and looking suspiciously nervous. “You’re the reporter?”

I nodded and brought out my small voice recorder.

“No.” she said, “You can take written notes but I don’t want my voice on tape.”

I chuckled gently, “I doubt anyone records with tape any longer. That went out in the eighties.” She did not seem to appreciate my sense of humor so, keeping the recorder in my hand, I settled back in the plush chair and looked at her for a moment, watching as she squashed-out her cigarette, with nervous fingers, in a tray.

It was a dark bar, an old fashion tavern, with tapestries and an atmosphere that projected "gentlemen’s club". Watching this woman smoke and lift an amber drink to her lips did not surprise me. I was the odd man out with my soda water with a squeeze of lime.

“You promise to listen and not interrupt me?”

“I’ll try.” It was the best I could do. I did some research and this woman seemed to be the genuine article. Weirdly, up until I spoke on the phone with her, I did not know Elizabeth Hearth even existed. Odd, when you think about who she is related to. “Tell me your story.” I urged.

Secretly, I touched the button on my recorder.

*

“When we were children my brother and I lived in a small town called Ritsville. It was a nice place. Our upper middle class street, with many families, could have been featured in House and Garden. We had gentle Winters, cool Springs, and muggy Summers. But our favorite time of year was Autumn.

Ricky and I loved preparing for Halloween, figuring out what costumes we would wear on the night of October thirty first. Trick or treating was a rite of passage for us and it was all the more important in the early part of the twenty first century, when I was ten years old and my brother was twelve.

This was going to be his last year to make that candy run. As it turned out, it was mine as well. I never went trick or treating again after that night. I was too disturbed. And Ricky … He’d move onto drinking parties and more serious high school hijinks.

What was extra special during this particular Halloween was the promise from our mother and father that we would be able to go off by ourselves, without their watchful eyes, and trick or treat on our own. Honestly, I was a little nervous about the vote of confidence but Ricky was thrilled. He knew the areas we were going to hit, which yards to T.P. and what houses to egg.

I still recall Mom’s loud: “No!”

Dad agreed. “Son, we want you to be responsible for not just yourself but your little sister. No vandalism!”

“Even old man Wombly’s place?” he asked as he slipped on his Dracula cape.

“Particularly Mr. Wombly. He’s a strange old man and I don’t want Lizzie anywhere near him.” He passed Ricky some fake vampire fangs.

We had all heard stories about Mr. Wombly, the neighborhood curmudgeon, an intensely private man with vivid green eyes and a wandering stare, who was often seen walking outside in the moonlight. Some kids thought he was zombie, because he was so abnormally pale, and others thought him a vampire because he appeared to sleep all day. Whatever the case, he had lived on Pine Street for a long, long time. Dad remembered him being old, having some kind of government job, even when he was a boy.

I took all of this in, me in my princess costume, gently waving a glitter wand about. Part of me wished Dad or Mom would come with us, just to keep Ricky out of trouble. I knew my brother could be a hand full.

We left at seven pm, when it was twilight, visited several houses in our own neighborhood then crossed over to the more lucrative streets like Willow and Santa Fe. Mrs. Wan always gave us full sized chocolate bars and Mr. Hirshberg was famous for his yearly peanut butter popcorn balls.

It was an innocent time and we loved every minute of it. As we made our rounds, watching as a breeze kicked up dead leaves, and clouds began to move in, covering the stars, I asked Ricky if he was going to miss it. He loved the adventure of trick or treating and, at any time, I liked walking with him. It was one of the few sibling things we did together.

“A little.” he said, “But it’s not like we can do this forever.” But I could see the disappointment in his eyes. If he had his way, Rick really would have liked to be a kid forever. He was the Peter Pan of his generation.

It was eight thirty and we knew it was time to go home. I was satisfied and a little tired. I wanted nothing more than to empty our bags on the living room carpet, like we did every year, and check the loot. Ricky agreed with me when I mentioned it.

On our way home we stopped at Mrs. Langley’s. She made watermelon popsicles every Halloween, her specialty, and she was always our last stop. It was warm and we loved slurping our way to the front door of our own house. They were messy but worth it. Mrs. Langley told Ricky she would miss him next year and, once again, I saw sadness in my brother’s dark eyes.

We walked and very suddenly Ricky stopped at the front gate of Mr. Wombly’s house. He seemed inspired and it worried me. He was looking at the old dilapidated place with an odd eagerness in his expression.

“What are you thinking, Rick?” I asked nervously, slowly licking my popsicle.

“Let’s go knock on the door.”

I was aghast, “Dad told us not to!”

“I know but I need to do something wild for my last Halloween.” He then looked down at me and smiled, “Come with me, Liz!” He tossed what was left of his popsicle in the tall grass.

“Mom will have our hides. No way!”

“Okay.” He then removed his cape, draping it over the yard’s short fence, and handed his bag of candy to me. “I’ll be right back.”

“Ricky, no!” I cried, watching as he opened the outside gate and walked up the path.

I then saw him at the door. He turned around and looked at me, smiling playfully. Then, he lifted the knocker and let it drop. I cringed, waiting for Ricky to run away, but instead my brother stood still and lifted the knocker again.

“Ricky, come here!” I pleaded.

“It’s unlocked!” He returned my call, “It’s open!”

“What?” I didn't know what he was doing until I saw him enter into the house. I gasped. Was he crazy?

I heard something. A crash, a shout, and a blood curdling scream. It was from my brother. I could not see what was happening, but I saw a bright light wash over the downstairs windows. Then, I heard Ricky cry: “Lizzie! Help me!”

I panicked, dropping our bags of candy, and ran all the way home, crying for Mom and Dad. They greeted me at the door, alarmed. I told them about Ricky going into Mr. Wombly’s home and they, at first, appeared angry then stunned.

“I’ll go after him.” Dad barked on his way out of the house, “Call the police!”

He did not need to tell Mom twice. She was already on the phone, fear in her voice, and she gave the police Mr. Wombly’s address. She might have followed Dad out the door if it wasn’t for me, whimpering and telling Mom over and over again that I begged Ricky not to go. She calmed me the best she could, sitting with me on the sofa, holding me.

A few minutes later, we could hear the police car siren pass our house.

About an hour later Dad returned – with Ricky.

Both looked a little forlorn and I thought, for a minute, that they had really gotten into it. I didn’t care. I was so grateful that he was standing there, alive and well, that my parents could have given us the same punishment and I would have accepted it without objection.

“It’s Wombly.” Dad spoke to Mom, gently rubbing his son’s shoulder. “He’s dead. Rick found him in the armchair downstairs. He’d been sitting there for days.”

“Oh honey,” Mom crouched down to get a better look at Ricky. “Are you all right?” she asked, sympathetically.

He nodded and smiled gently. “It scared me at first and I screamed.” Later, I would learn he said that for my benefit. “I’m okay.”

I ran at Ricky and hugged him, “I was so scared. I thought I heard shouts, and loud noises, and … and ….”

“No, it was just me, Liz-girl. Old Mr. Wombly is gone.”

I never heard Ricky call me “Liz-girl” before and I looked up at him. For a count of five his brown eyes were a vivid green. And he looked different ...

“Guess I got my special Halloween, Liz.”

Things radically changed after that. Ricky's personality transformed completely. We were no longer close and the things he once found great pleasure in, model cars and monster movies, no longer mattered. Mom explained to me that he was growing into a young man and if he did not seem the same as he once was it was because he was maturing.

If it hadn’t happened so abruptly I might have accepted the change but, honestly, he turned into another person the moment he came from the Wombly house. I remember him looking out the window that night, as the ambulance drove away with the body, and it seemed like a part of Ricky had left the neighborhood as well.

As he moved through high school, he became interested in policymaking. Ricky had never had an interest in politics before but he cited a smart American Government teacher, Mr. Cruise, that drove his enthusiasm and ambition. I could almost believe him, I wanted to believe him, but something was not right. I can only say it was a feeling.

He ran for Student Body President in his Junior year and won. Ricky began to win a lot of things after that and it had nothing to do with him being smart or attractive. He even managed to date the prettiest girl in his senior class. It was errie.

It was years later, when I looked into Mr. Wombly’s past, through the city library and on the internet, that I really began to understand what happened to Ricky. I read that the man was a public servant in his youth. He had run for office many years ago and won … but there was a scandal. Something about occult practices and the supernatural. He disappeared from the public eye.

His name and picture came up all over the place but it was the years that were confusing. His grandparents, parents, and even an older brother were shown. The family resemblance from the pictures printed was amazing. Then I saw a photo of him from back in 1857, but he was called Mayor Jack Quin from North Dakota then. Impossible, you say? The man looked too much like Wombly not to be him.

Somehow, through black magic, Mr. Wombly had taken my brother and is using him to this day. I know it. Just like I know he knows I know and is going to have to get rid of me, one way or another. Ricky even looks like a young Wombly now and …”

*

She had been over-heard. The next thing I knew two men, wearing dark clothes, approached us and Elizabeth Hearth went pale. If she had the opportunity to bolt she would have taken it.

“Come along, Miss.” One of them said and lifted a hand to her.

Tentatively, she reached out to him while giving me an imploring glance.

“Excuse me,” I stood, and confronted the men. “I was having a conversation with this woman and …”

“It’s okay.” Another man, one I knew well, came up on my other side and clapped me gently on the shoulder. “My sister is not a well woman, Mr. Harrod. She escaped from the institution last week and we have been trying to track her down ever since.”

Governor Richard Hearth smiled amicably at me. He was as tall and good looking as he appeared on his posters and on the many talk shows he appeared on before election day. I saw one of his town hall meetings last year and he was an astounding speaker.

“Governor, your sister was telling me a story ....” I said, watching as the men took the lithe woman, an arm a piece, and led her out of the building.

“My sister does that.” He sighed, “She told you the Mr. Wombly story?”

I nodded.

He spoke in low tones. “Both of us found him dead in his home when we were children. Liz-girl never quite got over it. She seems well for a while then suddenly she’s… irrational.” He shook his head back and forth, appearing concerned. “We, my family and I, tried to help her. We got her some of the best psychotherapy money can buy. I suppose she will never completely get over what snapped her poor young mind. But we live in hope.”

Briefly, I wondered if Miss Hearth was the only family member that had seen a psychologist. Hearth's dark eyes darted back and forth as if he too thought he was being watched. On the other hand, his profession often warranted knowing where all things were at all times. Now, there was an interesting angle for a journalist.

He sighed once again then lifted a hand to shake mine. “Thank you, Mr. Harrod. Your kindness, listening to her, means more than you can imagine. Often, she just needs to get that crazy story out of her system. You watch. She’ll be fine in a few days.”

He then flashed green eyes at me and made his way to the tavern door.

Something occurred to me. “Governor …” I called. He turned around, his hand on the door knob, curious. No, his eyes were brown. “Never mind.” I said with a smile and nod. "Good luck."

When he had gone, I picked up my recorder and shut it off. I never told him my name. How strange he should know it when we were never introduced.

Days later, I would see a photo of Governor Hearth at a function. In the background I could see Elizabeth standing and she did not look happy. I listened to the recording of the woman’s story. Everything Miss Hearth said was clear and disturbing. Yet, when it came to the Governor, nothing recorded. I could hear his henchmen, myself, and even Elizabeth’s gentle whines before she was taken away, but Richard Hearth was not heard at all.

I haven’t been able to reach any member of the Hearth family, Elizabeth, her parents, or the Governor, ever since.

END.