Once upon a time, there lived a little girl named Betty, whose favourite thing to do was to go to the local cemetery to hang out with departed souls. She has dark brown hair cut in a page-boy style; no ribbons or barrettes, since they’d eventually slide off and get lost. Betty is in the 6th grade at the elementary school down the street from where she lives with her parents and younger brother, Kevin. Her father works at an advertising firm downtown, while her mother works at a legal office. She’s a lawyer, and a darn good one.
One day, as Betty was coming down the steps from the main school entrance, she was pushed from behind by a pair of small, yet strong, hands. Betty lost her balance and fell the rest of the way to the sidewalk, where she landed with such force that her right arm broke. She screamed bloody murder at the pain and at seeing her arm pointing at an odd angle from her body.
A teacher ran to help Betty as she writhed in pain. In an attempt to console her, she told Betty that she’d called 911 and that an ambulance was on its way to collect her and take her to the hospital. Mrs. Bladderwort sat with Betty until the ambulance arrived and asked who she should call first — her father or her mother. Betty told the teacher to call her dad, since his office was closest to the school and her mother was probably in court.
Betty’s father arrived as they were loading her into the ambulance. He hurriedly parked the car and raced over to his daughter. Betty’s arm had been wrapped to stabilize the broken bones until she got to the hospital. One of the EMTs had started an I.V. line with a strong painkiller — morphine, or perhaps hydromorphone. By the time the ambulance ride was over, Betty was flying high. She told the attendant at her side that she wanted to fly with all the dragons in the back of the ambulance, but the attendant advised her not to get up. Her dad, who travelled to the hospital with her, was mortified at her utterance.
Betty’s arrival, subsequent treatment, and discharge, went without a hitch and Betty was home in a few hours. The doctor who treated her filled her to the eyeballs with additional pain-relieving meds before sending her home. She also prescribed morphine tablets that Betty was to take every 4 hours if needed for pain. Betty was so doped up as it was, that she fell asleep at the supper table and had to be carried upstairs to her bed.
Sometime during the night, Betty awoke to see an apparition in her room. Before she could scream, a hand reached out and clamped her mouth shut. Her eyes seemed to pop out of her head and her body went rigid with fear.
“Don’t worry, Betty, I’m not here to harm you. I want you to do something for me, if you can. I want you to go downstairs to the kitchen, grab the biggest knife you can find, and then bring it back upstairs. Put it under your pillow for safekeeping until later. I will return and tell you when to retrieve it. Can you do that for me? And don’t say a word to anyone about our conversation. It’ll ruin the surprise I’ve got planned for later.”
Betty nodded her head, and the hand over her mouth was removed. Her broken arm started to throb, so while Betty was downstairs searching for the knife, she took a pain pill from the prescription bottle on the kitchen counter, swallowed it with a slurp of water from the tap, and went back upstairs, knife in hand.
There was no sign of the apparition, so Betty chalked it up to the drugs talking; she placed the knife under her pillow, and crawled under her covers; she was asleep in moments.
In the morning, Betty was awoken by the sounds of her family starting their work and school days. Betty would not be getting out of bed, so she lay swaddled in her warm blankets, listening to the familiar sounds. She must have drifted off, because the next sound she heard was silence. It seemed as though the house was waiting for something to happen, but Betty didn’t know what that could be. Then she remembered the conversation with the entity in the wee hours. She reached her hand under her pillow, feeling for the knife, but it was gone. The entity must have spirited it away sometime after the two had spoken. Betty would have to get out of bed after all.
She dressed awkwardly with one good arm, which was new to her — and headed for the cemetery, hoping to find answers. Betty put out the call to all the spirits who could help her learn why an entity would ask her to retrieve a knife and then later have it disappear.
“My dear, sweet Betty, I’m afraid you’ve been duped by a daemon who’s intent upon ridding the world of humans, one at a time. The knife you seek can be found at the bottom of the storm drain in front of your house. It will be wrapped in a bloody nightgown. Retrieve it and the knife, douse the nightie with lighter fluid, and set it on fire. Use the bbq on your deck to do it. Make sure that no traces of the nightie remain. Burn it twice if you must. Take the knife and stab it into the earth past the hilt a number of times, making sure with each strike that the blood is being removed from the blade. Next, drop it in a bath of strong bleach and water to remove the blood that may have seeped into spaces that a cloth can’t reach. Leave it to soak overnight, throw it in the dishwasher and run it through a cycle. Make sure to use the ‘sanitize’ feature. Take the knife out and place it back with the rest of the kitchen knives. You’re home free, my doll,” said Mrs. Drymouth, a spirit who roamed the cemetery and spoke frequently with Betty.
“Thanks, Mrs Drymouth, but I have a question. Whose blood is on the knife and my nightie?”
“I thought you knew. It’s your brother, Kevin’s, blood.”
“Who would kill my little brother?” asked Betty, as she choked back her tears.
**********
The family buried young Kevin in the cemetery Betty frequented. Not long after the funeral, and during her first visit back, Kevin began talking to his older sister, telling her how he’d been murdered and who did it.
“I was riding my bike home from school that day. As I approached our driveway, I took the turn too sharply and fell off my bike. I scraped up my knees pretty good. Then a man bent down to help me up. It was Fred Pickle from up the street. He righted my bike and took me to his house to patch me up. Once we got there, he bandaged my knees, alright, but he also stabbed me in the heart. I died right there in his kitchen. Then he did unspeakable things to my corpse. It’s no wonder I looked like I’d been put through the wringer when they found my body.”
Betty told her brother about finding the knife wrapped in one of her nighties in the storm drain and of getting rid of the items. Now that she knew the truth, she was pissed that Mrs. Drymouth had advised her to get rid of the items. Nothing was left to implicate Fred Pickle of Kevin’s death. She went back to the cemetery to ask how to make sure that Fred P. was held accountable for his crime.
The answer wasn’t long in coming. Mr. Blacktoast, recently deceased, spoke up. “Betty, you need to enter Mr. Pickle’s house and gather evidence of Kevin’s demise. It won’t be easy. Here’s what you must do: Go to Mr. Pickle’s house, and enter through the back door. Look for blood that didn’t get mopped up on the vinyl tile floor in the kitchen. There will still be a lot of blood left between the tiles. After all, Fred didn’t make too much of an effort to clean up. Make sure you wear gloves and have a sharp tool, like a steak knife, to dig the blood from between the tiles, and a tissue on which to put the collected blood. Try not to leave scratches on the floor. Seal the tissue securely in a plastic bag and take it to the police station. Ask for Detective Chip Monk. Give him the bag personally and explain where you got the evidence. Since Mr. Pickle thinks no one will ever catch him, he’ll be surprised to see the cops at his door with a warrant. He’ll let them in, thinking they won’t find anything. Boy, will he be wrong!”
The next day, Betty watched and waited for Fred Pickle to leave his house, then hurried over to get the evidence. Luckily for her, Fred doesn’t lock his doors; he thinks it’s a safe neighbourhood, which it was, until he moved onto the street.
Betty did as instructed, making sure to hand the bag to Mr. Monk. A couple days later, she was looking out her living room window, and saw a patrol car and a forensics van roll up to Mr. Pickle’s house. A plain-clothes detective exited the van, strode up the sidewalk and knocked on Mr. Pickle’s front door. As predicted, Fred was surprised to see the cop who presented him with the warrant to search his house.
It took about 10 minutes before Mr. Pickle emerged from his home in handcuffs, a surprised and/or scared look on his face. The neighbours were all gawking as they stood on the street watching the scene unfold. They watched as the cop placed Fred Pickle in the back seat of the patrol car, and watched their neighbour being driven away.
At the time, no one knew what Mr. P. had done, but they found out soon enough, on the six o’clock news. He was a child-killer, and the neighbours were aghast. They had entertained this monster in their homes. More than one homeowner rented carpet- and furniture-cleaning machines and went to town on their sofas, chairs, and rugs, trying to clean the essence of child-killer from their homes.
As for Betty and her parents, they grieved the loss of their brother and son, and carried on with their lives as best they could.
**********
Mr. Pickle lost his pickle in prison during the first month he was incarcerated. The man who claimed him as his ‘bitch’ didn’t like the way Mr. Pickle spoke to him, so he relieved him of his ‘pickle’.
Talk about justice…
One day, as Betty was coming down the steps from the main school entrance, she was pushed from behind by a pair of small, yet strong, hands. Betty lost her balance and fell the rest of the way to the sidewalk, where she landed with such force that her right arm broke. She screamed bloody murder at the pain and at seeing her arm pointing at an odd angle from her body.
A teacher ran to help Betty as she writhed in pain. In an attempt to console her, she told Betty that she’d called 911 and that an ambulance was on its way to collect her and take her to the hospital. Mrs. Bladderwort sat with Betty until the ambulance arrived and asked who she should call first — her father or her mother. Betty told the teacher to call her dad, since his office was closest to the school and her mother was probably in court.
Betty’s father arrived as they were loading her into the ambulance. He hurriedly parked the car and raced over to his daughter. Betty’s arm had been wrapped to stabilize the broken bones until she got to the hospital. One of the EMTs had started an I.V. line with a strong painkiller — morphine, or perhaps hydromorphone. By the time the ambulance ride was over, Betty was flying high. She told the attendant at her side that she wanted to fly with all the dragons in the back of the ambulance, but the attendant advised her not to get up. Her dad, who travelled to the hospital with her, was mortified at her utterance.
Betty’s arrival, subsequent treatment, and discharge, went without a hitch and Betty was home in a few hours. The doctor who treated her filled her to the eyeballs with additional pain-relieving meds before sending her home. She also prescribed morphine tablets that Betty was to take every 4 hours if needed for pain. Betty was so doped up as it was, that she fell asleep at the supper table and had to be carried upstairs to her bed.
Sometime during the night, Betty awoke to see an apparition in her room. Before she could scream, a hand reached out and clamped her mouth shut. Her eyes seemed to pop out of her head and her body went rigid with fear.
“Don’t worry, Betty, I’m not here to harm you. I want you to do something for me, if you can. I want you to go downstairs to the kitchen, grab the biggest knife you can find, and then bring it back upstairs. Put it under your pillow for safekeeping until later. I will return and tell you when to retrieve it. Can you do that for me? And don’t say a word to anyone about our conversation. It’ll ruin the surprise I’ve got planned for later.”
Betty nodded her head, and the hand over her mouth was removed. Her broken arm started to throb, so while Betty was downstairs searching for the knife, she took a pain pill from the prescription bottle on the kitchen counter, swallowed it with a slurp of water from the tap, and went back upstairs, knife in hand.
There was no sign of the apparition, so Betty chalked it up to the drugs talking; she placed the knife under her pillow, and crawled under her covers; she was asleep in moments.
In the morning, Betty was awoken by the sounds of her family starting their work and school days. Betty would not be getting out of bed, so she lay swaddled in her warm blankets, listening to the familiar sounds. She must have drifted off, because the next sound she heard was silence. It seemed as though the house was waiting for something to happen, but Betty didn’t know what that could be. Then she remembered the conversation with the entity in the wee hours. She reached her hand under her pillow, feeling for the knife, but it was gone. The entity must have spirited it away sometime after the two had spoken. Betty would have to get out of bed after all.
She dressed awkwardly with one good arm, which was new to her — and headed for the cemetery, hoping to find answers. Betty put out the call to all the spirits who could help her learn why an entity would ask her to retrieve a knife and then later have it disappear.
“My dear, sweet Betty, I’m afraid you’ve been duped by a daemon who’s intent upon ridding the world of humans, one at a time. The knife you seek can be found at the bottom of the storm drain in front of your house. It will be wrapped in a bloody nightgown. Retrieve it and the knife, douse the nightie with lighter fluid, and set it on fire. Use the bbq on your deck to do it. Make sure that no traces of the nightie remain. Burn it twice if you must. Take the knife and stab it into the earth past the hilt a number of times, making sure with each strike that the blood is being removed from the blade. Next, drop it in a bath of strong bleach and water to remove the blood that may have seeped into spaces that a cloth can’t reach. Leave it to soak overnight, throw it in the dishwasher and run it through a cycle. Make sure to use the ‘sanitize’ feature. Take the knife out and place it back with the rest of the kitchen knives. You’re home free, my doll,” said Mrs. Drymouth, a spirit who roamed the cemetery and spoke frequently with Betty.
“Thanks, Mrs Drymouth, but I have a question. Whose blood is on the knife and my nightie?”
“I thought you knew. It’s your brother, Kevin’s, blood.”
“Who would kill my little brother?” asked Betty, as she choked back her tears.
**********
The family buried young Kevin in the cemetery Betty frequented. Not long after the funeral, and during her first visit back, Kevin began talking to his older sister, telling her how he’d been murdered and who did it.
“I was riding my bike home from school that day. As I approached our driveway, I took the turn too sharply and fell off my bike. I scraped up my knees pretty good. Then a man bent down to help me up. It was Fred Pickle from up the street. He righted my bike and took me to his house to patch me up. Once we got there, he bandaged my knees, alright, but he also stabbed me in the heart. I died right there in his kitchen. Then he did unspeakable things to my corpse. It’s no wonder I looked like I’d been put through the wringer when they found my body.”
Betty told her brother about finding the knife wrapped in one of her nighties in the storm drain and of getting rid of the items. Now that she knew the truth, she was pissed that Mrs. Drymouth had advised her to get rid of the items. Nothing was left to implicate Fred Pickle of Kevin’s death. She went back to the cemetery to ask how to make sure that Fred P. was held accountable for his crime.
The answer wasn’t long in coming. Mr. Blacktoast, recently deceased, spoke up. “Betty, you need to enter Mr. Pickle’s house and gather evidence of Kevin’s demise. It won’t be easy. Here’s what you must do: Go to Mr. Pickle’s house, and enter through the back door. Look for blood that didn’t get mopped up on the vinyl tile floor in the kitchen. There will still be a lot of blood left between the tiles. After all, Fred didn’t make too much of an effort to clean up. Make sure you wear gloves and have a sharp tool, like a steak knife, to dig the blood from between the tiles, and a tissue on which to put the collected blood. Try not to leave scratches on the floor. Seal the tissue securely in a plastic bag and take it to the police station. Ask for Detective Chip Monk. Give him the bag personally and explain where you got the evidence. Since Mr. Pickle thinks no one will ever catch him, he’ll be surprised to see the cops at his door with a warrant. He’ll let them in, thinking they won’t find anything. Boy, will he be wrong!”
The next day, Betty watched and waited for Fred Pickle to leave his house, then hurried over to get the evidence. Luckily for her, Fred doesn’t lock his doors; he thinks it’s a safe neighbourhood, which it was, until he moved onto the street.
Betty did as instructed, making sure to hand the bag to Mr. Monk. A couple days later, she was looking out her living room window, and saw a patrol car and a forensics van roll up to Mr. Pickle’s house. A plain-clothes detective exited the van, strode up the sidewalk and knocked on Mr. Pickle’s front door. As predicted, Fred was surprised to see the cop who presented him with the warrant to search his house.
It took about 10 minutes before Mr. Pickle emerged from his home in handcuffs, a surprised and/or scared look on his face. The neighbours were all gawking as they stood on the street watching the scene unfold. They watched as the cop placed Fred Pickle in the back seat of the patrol car, and watched their neighbour being driven away.
At the time, no one knew what Mr. P. had done, but they found out soon enough, on the six o’clock news. He was a child-killer, and the neighbours were aghast. They had entertained this monster in their homes. More than one homeowner rented carpet- and furniture-cleaning machines and went to town on their sofas, chairs, and rugs, trying to clean the essence of child-killer from their homes.
As for Betty and her parents, they grieved the loss of their brother and son, and carried on with their lives as best they could.
**********
Mr. Pickle lost his pickle in prison during the first month he was incarcerated. The man who claimed him as his ‘bitch’ didn’t like the way Mr. Pickle spoke to him, so he relieved him of his ‘pickle’.
Talk about justice…
-- Gail Fulkerson is a writer who specializes in writings of the supernatural. She lives with her family in Saskatchewan, where she is working on another story. Stay tuned to 'OZ' for future stories.
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