This is part 12 of Todd’s story.
Giving in to what has got me
Feeling claustrophobic, scarred
Severed me from all emotion
Life is just too fucking hard
SNAP! Your face was all it took
Cuz this need ain’t doin’ me no good
Fall on my face, but can’t you see?
This fucking life is KILLING ME!
– Slipknot, “Me Inside”
—
The front door to Old Ralph’s house swung shut slowly, creaking. It latched shut, and the only noises were Thunk’s rasping breath and Sheila’s strangled sobs. Todd didn’t acknowledge, or really seem to register, that he hadn’t touched the door. He walked into the library, sat in the overstuffed chair, and put his cigar out in the ash tray. He slowly let his head sink into his hands, and he desperately tried to forget everything that had happened in the past few days.
Eventually, Thunk and Sheila sat down in the two chairs that faced Todd. He hadn’t moved much, but the tips of his fingers were white from the pressure of pressing against his skull. “My best friend and my girlfriend, making out, while two guys from crazy-town talk to me down here. What. The. Shit.” Todd could hear Sheila crying again. He could hear Thunk’s regular breathing. He could hear the house creaking. He could hear whispering in the walls. He could hear apprehension whispering to him from the creak and settle of the house.
“Todd, man.” He slowly looked up at Thunk, whose eyes refused to meet his. “This… this was on the seat before I sat down.” Thunk’s shaking hand held a carved wooden box with a brass plate on the top. Todd took the box, and ran his thumb over the plate. It was heavily tarnished with age, but the engraving was still legible.
“Old Ralph.” It came out as a choked whisper, and Todd could see Thunk flinch as if hit. Todd open the box slowly, relishing the feel of the wood and the creak of the hinge. Inside this box was anesthetic for his pain, straight from the mud of Dr. Celestine’s Carnival of Souls. Inside this box, lying peacefully on blue velvet, printed on foil paper, was a golden ticket. Its stub was already torn. “Uncle Ralph went to the Carnival. He’s been tracking it ever since.” Todd looked up at his friends, temporarily forgetting their transgression. They were afraid of him, and maybe even for him. “I have a lot to tell you, but you have to stay to explore the rest of the house. Okay?” They both nodded, as if stuck in a dream.
—
Mr. Weaver slammed the door of the Olds shut and gunned the old engine to life. The Doctor sat next to him heavily, wheezing a bit with each breath. Mr. Weaver buckled his own seat belt and glared at the Doctor. “What did you do to those kids upstairs?”
Dr. Celestine put on a shocked and wounded look, immediately followed by one that was sly and calculating. “I had sincerely thought that you were past that sort of question. It’s true that I might resort to something like that in more playful circumstances, but I assure you that I had no hand in it.” The doctor gripped the handle of his door with white knuckles.
Mr. Weaver put the car into drive, and pulled out into the residential street. “You know how hard it was to perform those parlor tricks in there, don’t you? I nearly fell to pieces. Those two kids, they gave me the creeps. Felt like I had two little clowns by the neck. They aren’t yours, are they?” Mr. Weaver sailed the boat around a semi as he entered the highway. The enormous engine roared a challenge to other cars on the road, but they knew their stations and stayed put. Mr. Weaver came to the end of his patience as the speedometer buried its needle, and spat out, “Well?”
The Doctor had closed his eyes. “You have been taking anger management classes from your brother again, haven’t you?” Mr. Weaver took a deep breath and let it out. His spider pins skittered off of his coat, and began to affix themselves to parts of the Olds.
“Where to, Doctor?”
“Chicago.”
“The new site?”
“By way of a certain warehouse.”
—
I don’t think you trust,
In… my… self righteous suicide,
I… cry… when angels deserve to die
– System of a Down, “Chop Suey”