Decoration

By Jim Doran

Father Gary eyed me as if I had asked him to rob a bank. I didn’t understand why. My question was simple. He had the power and the tools to help me, so what was the problem?

The priest folded his hands. “Edwin, let’s discuss this before I consider your request.”

Fair enough. I had made my request without any context. From his perspective, I suppose it would sound strange. But my wife Felicia and I had been parishioners for years at St. Andrews. He knew me from the pulpit and the confessional box.

I grabbed my iced tea and leaned back in my kitchen chair. “It started after the funeral. I had no problem—”

“Felicia’s funeral?” interrupted the cleric.

Whose funeral did he think I was talking about? “Of course. I was sleeping soundly about a week later when I heard something downstairs. I awoke and went for my rifle, hurrying down  to the first floor.”

Father Gary leaned forward. I gestured around the kitchen and to the living room. “Nothing. No one was here. But the door to the basement was open. I went down there. Again, nada. And I searched everywhere. No one was hiding in this house.”

“Proceed.” My visitor pinched his lower lip.

“The same thing happened the next night. And the next. I bought a small camera and placed it on the counter on the fourth night. Eventually, I fell asleep a bit after 1:00 A.M. Then, I heard footsteps again. Something hit the wall downstairs. This time, I reached for my phone to view the first level through my camera app.”

The priest blinked.

I rose. “Let me show you what I saw.”

“You don’t have it on your phone?”

I walked to the basement. “Funny, that. I had set my phone to record, but it didn’t.” Descending the stairs, I called over my shoulder. “Yes, I know. It sounds like a teenage horror movie. A part of me thinks the spirit planned it that way.”

Father Gary’s shoes pounded down the steps. “Planned?”

I rounded a corner into my well-arranged basement. My tool bench, discarded furniture, and hunting trophies, which Felicia abhorred, occupied their respective quadrants. That left one dusty area for my late wife. Plastic bins scraped the ceiling. In front of them stood a solitary figure with a sharp weapon leaning against its shoulder. I flipped on the light, illuminating a plastic six-foot angel of death complete with a cowl, robe, and scythe. I stepped out of the view of the skull’s empty gaze and rictus grin.

Father Gary rubbed his chin. “A Halloween decoration.”

I stopped, well out of reach of the scythe. “Felicia loved Halloween. Twice as many Halloween decorations fill these bins as all other holidays combined.”

“It’s scary, I admit.” My companion examined it. “But only plastic.”

“This thing picked up the camera and smashed it against the wall. Then it retreated downstairs.”

The priest’s jaw quivered as if suppressing a laugh. “Edwin, it’s a single molded piece. The feet are stuck to a plastic base. How did it move?”

I spread my arms. “It comes alive at night. It moves and swings its arms.”

“And you want me to perform an exorcism on it.”

“Exactly.”

Father Gary laid a hand on my shoulder. “How about you take a break from this house for a day? I’m sure it holds memories of Felicia everywhere. Perhaps you’re associating her memory with this figure, representing her love for Halloween. I have a friend—”

I brushed him off, pointing at the decoration. “I don’t want to see your friend. I want you to use your cross and water wand and expel that demon.”

“Aspergillum.”

I cocked my head.

“The water wand’s name is an aspergillum.” Father Gary folded his hands. “Specific clergy under special circumstances conduct an exorcism. It’s not at all like the movies. Now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll carry this thing to the curb for garbage pick-up, and I’ll call another friend at the Holiday Inn who will give you a free night. What do you say?”

Was he right? Was I suffering delusions? No, I had seen it. But if I resisted, who would he call then?

I clapped my hands. “I’ll help you lug this thing outside.”

***

I had told Father Gary only half of my story because I spied his doubt at the start. I didn’t inform him that I had thrown the decoration away before but found it had returned to my basement the next day. I also kept to myself that I had slept on the ground floor, eyes glued to the basement door. I watched while it exited and shuffled across the room. It had unhinged its jaw in a silent scream and pointed at me. I didn’t tell him about how I’d huddled in on myself, closing my eyes. When I finally found the courage to look up, it was gone.

All of this happened last night.

The hotel sounded nice. But if I went there, it would find me, I’m sure. No, the spirit inhabiting the decoration wants me, not the house, so I stayed home. At times, the dead don’t come back for revenge. They just come back.

I sit on my bed, watching the door. Footsteps now climb my stairs. The scythe’s blade bumps each step. The landing creaks and the knob turns. The door opens.

Felicia’s woodsy perfume fills the air—a detail I left out when I spoke with Father Gary. I had never doubted my wife’s spirit moved the figure. Was she trapped within the plastic? More likely, she stepped into the role of a macabre puppet master, pulling the strings from beyond.

The skeletal figure stands there and raises its scythe. With Felicia’s voice, it says, “It’s time.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jim Doran is a genre writer who enjoys transporting his readers to unique destinations filled with wonder… or sometimes danger. Whether it’s the fairytale hijinks of his Kingdom Fantasy series or his offbeat multi-genre short stories (many published in Havok), Jim aims to entertain his audience with every word. When he’s not writing, he’s usually enjoying the seasons in Michigan and counting the days to Halloween.

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