The Twisted Tale of Terrible Tom

THE TWISTED TALE OF TERRIBLE TOM

By Carolyn Swanson

           Cindy hurried through the October twilight, her precious purchase, wrapped lovingly in its plastic bag, clutched firmly in her arms. She had seen it in the specialty store a week ago, but had to wait until payday to buy it – or rather him. And now her car was in the shop, so she had to walk all the way to the mall, and now back, but it had all been worth it when she saw they had still had one left on the shelf.

           As the crisp autumn breeze blew the turning leaves into her path, she reflected on her prize in triumph. Tonight was the eve of All Hallows’ Eve, and Terrible Tom would be part of the festivities. Just two feet tall, he was the personification of Halloween – or maybe even something darker. His eyes seemed to glow with an evil yellow light. His teeth, sharpened to points, were stained a dark red color that could have been blood. A wicked crimson scar ran down the left side of his face from forehead to cheek, and a trickle of blood ran from his nostril.

           Tom was dressed in a quite dapper fashion, in a white, button-down shirt, stained pink and red with deep-set bloodstains, and a grey pinstriped suit. The sleeves of the suit were ripped in places, and the cuffs were blood-soaked almost to the elbows. In his right hand he clutched a long knife with a serrated blade, clearly the instrument responsible for the many stains on his clothing. His hands and face were sprinkled with tiny scarlet spatters that would have spoken volumes to a forensics expert. While his pants were also drenched in blood, his shoes were incongruously clean. The left one turned inward at an odd angle, as though he possibly had a clubfoot. Tom was smiling broadly, as though he had just committed some noble deed, even more so now that he had been chosen and would not have to spend Halloween night on a shelf in a darkened store.

           Cindy could feel the cool breeze rippling the plastic bag, raising goosebumps on her arms. Behind her, she heard several male voices, approaching rapidly. Looking back, she saw three teenage boys and shrugged her purse strap higher up her shoulder. She increased her pace slightly, but could tell they were still closing in on her. They were abreast of her in seconds, one on her left and two on her right. She saw the tallest one glance at Tom’s bag in her arms and held her breath. He reached up and threw something in her direction, and she flinched back. The object hit the boy on the left, and all three burst into laughter as they walked on ahead, engrossed in their own horseplay. She breathed a sigh of relief, clutching Tom more tightly to her chest.

           She continued on her way, as twilight blended quietly into night. It was harder to see the sidewalk, and sometimes she stumbled a bit. Branches reached out to caress her with subtle wooden fingers

           Tom seemed to be growing heavier as she walked, and she shifted him in her grip. She almost thought she could feel him moving in the bag. What an imagination, she thought to herself, as one of his shoes seemed to kick her in the thigh. She held him facing her, so it must have been the left one, the clubfoot.       Now she could hear sounds coming from the bag, a low chuckling, as someone might make who was quite pleased with himself. Cindy abruptly felt a chill sweep over her body. Must be the wind, she told herself, hugging the bag close to her chest, as if that would smother the laughter.

           Cindy was getting closer to home now, where she could leave the mystery of the night behind in her safe, warm house. Up ahead she could see the yellow glow of a streetlight. As she reached its outer perimeter, the top of the plastic bag covering Tom began to writhe. She held it out away from her body slightly and looked to see what was happening. A red-nailed finger poked out. She jumped involuntarily, but didn’t let go of the bag. Seeing a second finger curl around the plastic next to the first, she grabbed the top of the bag and wrestled it closed over the two digits, holding it down. There was a momentary shuffling inside. Then things quieted down and stopped moving. Holding the bag closed as tightly as she could, she passed from under the streetlight into the darkness again. Further down the street, she could now see the glow of her porch light in the distance.

           Suddenly she could feel the tip of the knife poking her in the chest, not hard, but in an exploratory way. She fastened her eyes on the porch light and resolutely kept on going. The knife moved slightly higher, making a hole in the bag near the top. Cindy ignored it and kept on going, squeezing the bag tighter, but mindful of the blade.

           All of a sudden the hair on the back of her neck crawled to attention as she felt a grip around her throat. It felt like tiny fingers clamped around her windpipe, little nails digging into her flesh. Unable to breathe, she released the bag, but instead of falling to the ground, it hung from her neck like some obscene and evil plastic necklace.

           She put her hands around the little wrist, resisting the urge to pull it away, afraid that, like a cat’s claws, it would cause more injury in the pulling. Instead, she constricted it as hard as she could, as if trying to break Tom’s tiny resin bones.

           All this time she had kept moving toward her porch light. As she staggered up the driveway and reached the front door, she heard a satisfying crack, and Tom released his deadly grip. Stuffing the bag under one arm, she fumbled her keys out of her purse, managed to unlock the door on the second try, and reached the sanctuary of home.

           She might have done well to leave Terrible Tom on the porch. But what if he ran away to terrorize the neighborhood?

           Turning on the lights, she carried the bag carefully into the dining room and released Tom from his prison, standing him lovingly in a dining room chair so that his knife hand rested on the table, point up. She supposed she could tape a fork to his other hand so that he looked like he was ready to devour his dinner of little boys and girls.

           This time it was she who chuckled aloud, quite pleased with herself. After all the spooky images her mind had conjured up on the short walk home, she could just imagine what the trick-or-treaters would think when they saw him sitting on the porch tomorrow night, ready to give out candy. This was going to be the best Halloween ever.