CAN YOU SEE ME?
Everything I’m about to tell you will sound crazy. I’m telling you that straight up. You don’t know me from the man on the moon and, even if you did know me and knew that I’m as honest a fella that ever worked the griddle, you’d still think I cracked something important up in the brain pan. I can’t help that. If I was you, I’d write me off as some pothead with a wild imagination. So, I get it. You should also know that I ain’t exactly Willy Shakespeare, if you catch my meaning. I’m gonna do my best to convey the story that was told to me in the hope that you’ll be better prepared than I was.
My name is Ricky Beventi and I’m what you’d call a short order cook. I used to spend my days slinging hash and scrambling eggs. I worked down on 12th at a joint called The Hash Tag, a name the little hipster puke who bought out the joint thought would really sell to the college puddin’s. The new owner, Tad, spruced the joint up, but it’s still pretty much a shithole—if you’ll pardon that French.
Anyways, I normally worked the night shift and last Halloween it weren’t no different. In a dozen years workin’ that griddle, we ain’t never had any trouble on Halloween, just the usual traffic and a few bookworms from the local U coming in all dolled up in their costumes. No eggings. No flaming bags of dog sh—I mean, poop—at the front door. Nothing. So, last year come Halloween, I ain’t expecting nothin’ out of the ordinary ‘cept maybe a few more college broads than usual dressed up as hookers. And I truly didn’t get nothin’ out of the ordinary until just after 2 a.m.
I remember the time specifically ‘cause Joey Vitaglia was giving me grief about the Giants and I had glanced up at the clock and was trying to convince him that he should get on home to that pregnant wife of his and not leave her alone all hours. As Joey lobbed a few more insults at my team and paid his tab, a guy walks into the joint wearing a trench coat over some torn and bloody pajamas. As Halloween costumes go, I had seen more disturbing characters but something about the fella’s expression made me think he might be more damaged than his get up made him appear.
Now, a fry cook ain’t the same as a bartender, so let’s get clear of that notion right off. I don’t spend my time as some grease splattered priest who’s gotta listen to all the troubles and sorrows of every creep that walks into the place. That said, I usually know my customers—as long as they’re from the neighborhood—and, like Joey and me, we might talk trash about the Giants or Jets or some of the old timers might tell me what their grandkids are up to and the like. The point being, I don’t go outta my way to get into the business of everyone that cops a squat at my counter but it ain’t outside the realm of possibility neither. This guy, though, I didn’t know from Adam.
As he took a seat at the counter, the guy didn’t take his eyes off of me. I was finishing up a stack of flapjacks for an Elvira wannabe over in the corner booth so I spoke to him over my shoulder.
“What can I get for ya, pal?”
“Can you…see me?” he asked—a question that might’ve drawn an insult from me had he not seemed so…I don’t know…sincere, I guess.
Before I answered, I glanced over at Dave Krasinsky, a regular that time of night due to his trucking business being a 24 hour operation. Dave seemed uninterested in the weirdo at the counter. I say that on account of Dave asking me for another slice of pie instead of aiming his razor sharp tongue at the guy clearly trying like hell to be spooky.
I turned back to the guy and shrugged. “What do you need, mister? Because I can whip you up the greasiest damn burger that ever gave you a coronary, but I can’t really stop everything I’m doing to play your little Halloween games.”
“You can see me,” was his only reply.
“Look, mister, my waitress called in sick so I’m running this ptomaine farm on my own. If you’re gonna order something, order something. If you just came in here to yank my chain, drag your ass back outside. You got me?”
He nodded.
“Good,” I said. “So what will it be?”
“Do you have pie?”
I glanced over at the revolving pie case over near the register. “I got peach, I got apple and I got chocolate cream.”
“Peach, please,” he said, “and a cup of coffee.”
“You got it.”
Dave Krasinsky chuckled down at his end of the counter. “Say, Ricky, before you serve your ghost pal over there, howzabout you get me a slice of the apple?”
“Is that what he’s supposed to be?”
“You tell me,” Dave said.
“How about it, mister?” I asked. “You some sort of ghost or a walking pop culture reference that I’m just not dork enough to get?”
I handed Dave his pie and then put the last slice of peach pie in front of the stranger. Then I grabbed a mug and poured him a steaming cup of joe before warming Dave’s up with a refill. The stranger said nothing.
“Cat’s got his tongue, I guess,” I whispered to Dave.
“Must be,” Dave said with a chuckle.
I served Elvira her pancakes and then, with no other orders waiting for my attention, I poured myself a cup of coffee and let my curiosity get the best of me.
“So, the costume…who are you supposed to be exactly?” I asked him. He just stared at his pie. It wasn’t the freshest peach pie in the world, but I was beginning to think I’d have to remind him that it was supposed to be taken orally and not through sheer contemplation.
“Stop playing around,” Dave said. “It ain’t as creepy as you think it is.”
“Yeah, pal, the silent act ain’t gonna send us quaking,” I said. “So why don’t you tell me who you’re supposed to be.”
“I was asleep in my bed,” the man said. “I’d had a long day at work and Millie, my secretary, had said the next day would be even busier. So, I remember going home, eating dinner with my wife, kissing my toddler on the head and just crawling into bed. Sometime during the middle of the night, though, I woke up to hear my daughter’s cries coming from the baby monitor. She sometimes has bad dreams. I tried to nudge my wife, but she was out like a light. So, I put my slippers on and went downstairs to check on Dani—Danielle is my daughter’s name after my wife’s grandmother. I thought maybe I could catch up on the snuggles I had missed by turning in early.
As I passed by the kitchen, I heard a strange noise. It was a tapping sound coming from the large window that looks out from our breakfast nook to the side yard on the east side of the house. From time to time, I had found a cat perched just outside on the window’s tiny ledge. I guess, perhaps, the window was warm from the heat of the house and made a good place to sleep on a cold night. Anyway, thinking it was likely the cat again, I went and banged on the window a time or two, hoping to scare it away. I figured the tapping noise had frightened Dani so, cold night or not, the cat needed to go.”
“Lemme guess, pal,” I said with a chuckle. “The cat came back for revenge and clawed the hell out of you.”
Dave apparently didn’t think that was funny. I thought maybe he didn’t want me to encourage the loon, but I figured it was Halloween. What the hell, right?
“I went to Dani’s room and saw that she was asleep,” he continued. “Whatever had upset her clearly wasn’t enough to keep her awake. I went back to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water. After I put the empty glass in the sink, I turned to head back upstairs to Anna, but I heard that noise again. The more I listened, the less it sounded like a cat and more like the branches of a tree moving in the wind… first tapping and then squeaking against the glass. The problem with that explanation, however, was that we had no trees in the side yard. I tried to move the blinds enough to peer outside and find the source of the sound, but the light from the kitchen prevented me from seeing past my own reflection.
I rubbed my eyes and glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was a little after 4 in the morning and I had to be up in just under three hours. I realized, though, that it was a trash night. Normally, I’d take the garbage out to the curb right after dinner but, since I had gone to bed early, I had forgotten. I grabbed my trench coat from the entry way closet and walked it out to the curb.”
“And that’s when a mutant creature made outta all the garbage in Jersey rose up to avenge its children who you so callously bagged up and threw on the curb,” I said. “Or did a drunk garbage man run you over—oh, or maybe he tossed you in the compactor?”
“Cut it out, Rickey,” Dave warned.
“No, no,” I said. “I want to hear how this story ends. Go ahead, Stephen King. Scare me.”
“I put the bags of trash on the curb and suddenly had the strange feeling that someone was behind me.”
“The Middlesex Mangler!” I shouted, causing all my patrons to look at me as if I had just taken a leak in their water glasses.
“There was no one there,” the man said. “I whirled around prepared to defend myself but there was nothing to see but my lawn and the neighbor’s fence. “
“I thought for a second that I had you figured out,” I told him. “I thought maybe you were telling me about the Middlesex Mangler, which—no offense—would’ve been a bit of a let down. That guys been on the news so much it would’ve seemed too obvious.”
The man stared into his pie like he was expecting Jesus Christ to come galloping out of it on a unicorn. Now, normally, if I felt a guy was really messing with me—and I mean really trying to play me for the fool, you know?—well, hell, I’d give him the boot and go on with my shift. But this guy, in spite of being a walking question mark of a character, came off as totally sincere…like he believed every word coming out of his mouth. And, at that point, he hadn’t really said anything too weird, right? I mean, if that was his idea of scary, he needed to save it for a Boy Scout campfire.
He mumbled something that I didn’t quite make out, so I asked him to repeat himself. When he declined, I made the rounds with a fresh pot of coffee and bussed a table or three. A young couple came in looking for a malt, so I whipped up something sweet for them and then returned to the stranger. He still hadn’t touched his pie…or the coffee, for that matter.
“Not hungry?” I asked him.
“I need to tell you,” he said. “But you won’t listen.”
“Do you believe this guy?” I asked Dave.
“I thought you were over that,” Dave replied. “Why keep this gag going, Ricky?”
“I just want to hear what he has to say,” I said. “Especially now that he lays in on me that I’m not listening. Let’s hear the man out.” I pushed the guy’s peach pie and coffee out the way and leaned in close. “Shoot, mister. You got my full attention. But I can’t promise you that I won’t call you on your BS once you’re done. You’ve gotta be one of the strangest cats that ever wandered in here. So, either you’re trying to get a reaction from me or you’re off your nut. Whatever the case, I’m willing to humor you a bit longer so get on with it already.”
“Ricky—” Dave started.
I gave him the look. You know the one: that look your parents get when you’re saying something so incredibly stupid it’s about to get you some one-on-one time with the switch. Ol’ Dave just swallowed hard and went back to what remained of his apple pie.
The stranger sighed, rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and then continued.
“There was no one there. No monster hiding behind me waiting to devour my soft organs. No demon of fire sent to drag my soul down to the flames and torment. Yet, I still felt—and I know this sounds crazy—but I felt like I was in real danger. I felt as if, just by standing there alone in the cold early morning, I was dying a little inside.
I went back inside and locked the door behind me. I’ve never been a brave man, you see, but I was suddenly frightened beyond all reason. I had seen nothing unusual outside, but I had the tremendous sense that there was something out there that wanted to do me harm. That, perhaps just beyond my vision, was a great and terrible evil waiting for me. Logically, I knew that I was back inside safe and sound, but I could still feel the chill of the morning air and the whistle of the northern wind was still in my ears.
Once again, I began to hear the tap-tap-tap screeeeach at the kitchen window and, once again, I went to see what was making that noise. This time, though, I left the lights out in the kitchen and felt my way through the dark to the window. I wanted to make sure I could see more than my own reflection. I was actually afraid to raise the blinds, which seemed silly. I knew there was nothing out there. I knew there was every possibility that I would open those blinds and see nothing but an old tabby cat cleaning herself on the ledge, or maybe a raccoon trying to figure out how to jimmy the window so he could raid the pantry like a real bandit would. I really tried to convince myself that nothing dangerous or frightening could be found on the other side of that glass, but my heart was pounding incessantly and I could feel every muscle in my body yearning to break into a run—as though some primitive fight or flight response was keenly aware of some danger I was not.
So, I took a deep breath or two and grabbed onto the pull chord that raised the blinds. I gave myself a silent three count, yanked the chord, and peered outside into the frigid morning.”
If I had been seated, I woulda been on the edge of my seat, you know? So I looked over at Dave to see if he was as interested in what the fella was about to say as I was, but Dave was just sipping his coffee and reading a newspaper.
“So what’d you see out there?” I asked the stranger. “What was waitin’ on the other side of that window?”
“Me,” he said just above a whisper. “I saw me.”
“You mean you saw your reflection again,” I corrected.
“No. I saw me—er, myself. But—“
“But what?”
“I was dead. Dead and decaying as though I had just sprouted up out of the ground like a ragged robin and come to give myself a good scare. But, as soon as I realized that it was me out there, all dead and pointless and far beyond the usefulness of fear, I remembered everything.”
“What everything?” I asked, suddenly too caught up in his spooky tale to remember that it was bullshit. “What did you remember?”
“That I had died one morning taking the trash out in my trench coat and pajamas. I had felt someone behind me and had turned to find a man in a mask… with a knife that pierced my flesh as if it offered no more resistance to his blade than tissue paper. I had died there in the cold, not twenty feet from the warmth of my own house where, as I drew my last breath, my wife and daughter slept like angels.”
I laughed with a sudden realization and took a step back from the counter to really look the clown over.
“That’s pretty good, mister. You sort of had me going a bit. I can admit to that. You’re supposed to be George Nichols, right? I mean, that’s who you’re dressed up as.”
“George Nichols,” the man said, as though rolling it around on his tongue had a familiar flavor. “Yes. I was George Nichols. That was my name. That was my name in life.”
“You don’t think that costume’s in bad taste?” I asked. “I only figured it out because I read the papers every day. The way you sold that story, man, you really were going for broke. But, as soon as you got to the murder, I had it all figured. I was half right when I guessed the Middlesex Mangler. I just didn’t catch on that you were dressed as the first victim.”
“First?” he asked.
“Yeah. It’s been in all the papers. The Middlesex Mangler has been killing folks all over the county. First, as you must’ve learned researching your costume, there was George Nichols, a business man with a wife and kid. He was found just like you said: wearing a trench coat and PJs and slumped over the garbage he had taken out. Then some woman got it at one of those walk up ATMs. That’s how the cops first got a look at the guy. Again, just like you said. He was wearing a mask and had some sort of knife that the cops seem to think he made himself. Two more since then, so the papers and TV news had to give him a name and, since all the murders have taken place right here in Middlesex county, the Middlesex Mangler has become quite the morbid sensation. But I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
“He’s still out there,” the guy said, though less like he was asking a question and more like I had just confirmed his worst fear. “That’s why I’m here.”
“What’s that mean?” I asked him.
“Even though I had just realized I was dead, I felt the need to wake my wife. I guess I thought maybe she could wake me up from the nightmare I found myself in. But as I walked back upstairs, I noticed what, previously, my mind had not allowed. The house was empty. Boxes full of our possessions lined the hallway and no one remained in the house but me. Time had passed since my death although, until you told me about this Middlesex Mangler, I had no idea just how much.
I walked here tonight like a dog on a leash goes where he is led. I was being pulled along, dragged here by some force greater than death. Along the way, I tried to ask people on the street if they could help me figure out where Anna and Dani have gone, but no one could see me…not until I came in here. When you spoke to me, I knew I had to tell you my story. I think—I’m not entirely sure—but I think I was sent here to warn you. I think, perhaps, that you can only see me because you’re the killer’s next victim. You can see me because you must. You can see me because there is still hope for you to escape my cruel fate.”
Now, I felt like I’d been pretty patient with ol’ George or whatever his name really was, but the way he laid out those last few statements convinced me that maybe I really was in danger…of looking like a damn fool for listening to that loon tell his nutty story without showing him the door. For the first time since he had walked into the Hash Tag, I felt like the stranger was truly bent in the head. He looked at me with some sort of sadness, like I was a puppy dog that had just been run over and he wanted to help me only he couldn’t quite figure out how. But he also seemed more detached than he had been when he was telling his story. It was almost like his concern for me was just some half remembered notion. H could give it voice, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel any real concern. To say it gave me the creeps would be a helluva understatement.
I ain’t never been the type to start a fight, but I’ve finished quite a few in my time and I really wanted to smack the guy. Still, I didn’t quite know whether I should be angry at him for trying to threaten me or angry at myself for giving him the opportunity. At a loss for words, I turned back to Dave Krasinsky.
“You believe this guy? I play along real nice to let him tell his Halloween stories and he has the gall to threaten me? Dave, you got my back, right, if this creep tries to say I attacked him or something? I just want to throw him out on his ass and get back to my night.”
Dave, typically a calm and cool type, slammed his coffee mug on the counter and stood up. He then leaned in really close until his nose was practically touching mine.
“Listen, Ricky,” Dave said. “I get that it’s Halloween, and I get that you’re pissed off for getting stuck runnin’ this joint on your own for the night, but my patience with you has just about run out.”
“Your patience with me?” I said. “What about ol’ George Nichols over there? I’m not the guy trying to convince everyone he’s the first victim of the Middlesex Mangler!”
“No, you’re the guy who’s spent the past 20 minutes giving pie, coffee and conversation to an empty seat! I don’t know if you’re cracking up, if you’ve been drinking on the job or you’re just trying to annoy the shit out of me. Either way, I’ve had enough. Give me my check and let me get the hell out of here.”
“It’s not me, Dave,” I said. “It’s this idiot that—”
When I turned back to George, I saw what Dave and all the other diner patrons had seen all along: an empty seat at the counter that had been served a slice of peach pie and a mug of joe. They hadn’t been witness to a man dressed like a homicide victim telling his crazy-ass horror story. They had watched the cook at their favorite greasy spoon carrying out his half of a conversation with an empty stool.
Some instinct screamed out for me to look around for the man who had called himself George Nichols, but some deeper instinct was certain I’d never find him. Part of me wanted to ask each customer if they had seen the man walk in and order his pie, but another part of me knew I would only be more frightened when they told me they saw nothing but a lunatic fry cook putting on a little Halloween theater.
“I’m sorry, Dave,” I managed, though my throat had gone as dry as a Mormon. “I was just, you know, trying to liven things up a bit. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
Dave dropped back down onto his stool and shook his head.
“You’re alright, Ricky. You were just starting to creep me out is all. I was seriously beginning to wonder if something had happened to you…like maybe your brain was stroking out.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Don’t sweat the bill, neither. It’s on me since you were such a good sport and all.”
Now, I don’t have to tell you how confused I was. I wasn’t sure if I should feel relieved that I was no longer seeing things or—and I know how this sounds—if maybe I truly had been sent some sort of warning. After all, the Middlesex Mangler was still on the loose and ol’ George Nichols had seemed just as real to me as Dave, Joey, and the rest of the diners had. Could the real George Nichols have been sent to save me from the violence that had come to call upon him that cold, dark morning? No matter how I put the question to myself, I couldn’t feel confident in any answer.
+++++
I finished my shift and was relieved by Carl Loomis, the morning griddle man and manager, and Doreen Clark, a waitress that the owner, Tad, was banging every time his wife went out of town. I counted my tips, which was a rarity since I usually didn’t have to wait on tables, and then said my goodbyes. It was just after 7 a.m. and the sun was already out. Home was just a few blocks away, so I hoofed back to my place.
As you can imagine, I was a bit on edge. Every sound—whether it was an argument among sedge wrens or an empty soda can clattering down the street—seemed to be the sound of menace. I ain’t what you’d call paranoid, but damned if I didn’t look over my shoulder a dozen or more times on that walk home, half-expecting to see the Mangler ready to greet me with his steel. Each time I glanced back, though, I found nothing worthy of my fear.
Away from the bodegas and bakeries, the streets were quiet and I began to feel more foolish than fearful. I began to wonder if reading all them news stories about the Mangler had poisoned me with such an intense understanding of how looney tunes the world had grown that it had me hallucinating phantom pie contemplators and filling in the gaps with details from the papers. I had read, after all, that Nichols had been found in his trench coat and pajamas with multiple stab wounds. So maybe the whole experience had just been my mind’s way of saying, “Yo, Ricky, this world has gone turvy-topsy and you gotta be more careful.”
Anyway, I took the steps of my stoop two at a time and fished in my pocket for the keys. Somewhere off in the distance, I heard a train whistle and the honking of cars. And in my right side, I felt something like a needle. Before I could even utter a curse, I felt water running down my leg. It was warm and, for a split second, I thought maybe I had pissed myself. I looked down thinking a dog may have mistaken me for a hydrant only to find a flow of crimson spilling out on my right shoe. Suddenly, those needles were everywhere, stinging my left shoulder…my lower back…just behind my left knee. Over and over, like a hornet with a thousand stingers, something bit deep into my flesh. I felt dizzy and had to grip the doorknob to stay standing.
I managed to turn, but my assailant was already cleaning his knife—a hawksbill blade nearly a foot in length—and walking back toward the street as calmly as if he had just delivered the mail. He glanced back at me and I got a good look at his mask. It looked like one of them ceremonial masks you sometimes see in those National Geographics. I’d say it looked Egyptian, but I don’t know Egyptian from Greek or Martian so why the hell should anyone believe that? I remember sliding down the door until I was sitting in a pool of my own blood. I could feel it seeping into the seat of my pants, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I have the vague recollection of my neighbor, Janie Freeman, finding me there and calling for an ambulance, but I don’t know how long I’d been bleeding out when that happened. “Too long” is all I can really say about that.
I know you probably can’t bring yourself to believe my story, but I’m telling you—no, I’m swearing to you on all I hold holy and sacred—that every word of it is true. I met whatever part of George Nichols still lingered in Middlesex county on Halloween night and, on November the 1st, I became the fifth victim of the man the newspapers call the Middlesex Mangler.
Now, I don’t remember how I got here today. I only remember feeling pulled along street after street until I walked in here and found you reading your book. I didn’t really know what I was supposed to do until you began to talk to me, but it finally hit me. See, I was sent here to warn you. I was sent here to tell you that you’re next—the Mangler is coming for you. I know this because of what you did.
You saw me.
