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Health & Fitness

It's All Kicking Off Now

So I had just exited the tunnel at the Salem train station when I heard voices, low and sonorous, coming from the cleared dirt patch where the parking lot once stood. I was in the tunnel because on my way back from visiting the Candy Squad Jr., a second generation trio of psychic children who are based out of Swampscott, I decided to pay a visit to my good buddy Mortimer, a groundhog who lived by the old signal tower at the train station. He’s a good guy who doesn’t mind late night visitors, especially ones who are only really stopping by to use the bathroom.

At first I thought the low voices were just echos from the Rust Monster that prowls the junkyard on the other side of the river, clanking and grumbling its sour diesel fumes, but it did not take long for me to realize that the sounds were coming from the three robed figures standing in the center of the cleared lot. Their droning chant sent shivers up and down my spine so I crouched, hiding in the darkness of the moonlit night.

Their chanting rose in volume as a soft, purplish glow began to flicker to live between them. They raised their arms in unison and the glow spread, creeping along the ground like a tide of ants, spreading, spreading, surging towards me. I ducked low and felt the baleful energy pass over me, pressing through my squeezed shut eyes and covered ears.

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Everything about that energy was wrong, a perversion of the senses: It felt like how nails on a chalkboard sound as it crawled over my skin. It tasted like a favorite childhood toy burning in a house fire as it pressed into my mouth. It sounded like a breakup letter as it slipped into my ears. It looked like a father’s disappointment as the glow blossomed across my eyes. It was loss, it was sorrow.

It was isolation.

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I stifled a cry, clenching my teeth until I felt a filling crack. The pain - a real pain, a physical pain - kept me safe, gave me something to hold on to as the baleful energy passed through me.

I do not know how long I lingered there, muscles shaking, tears flowing from my eyes. The dull throb that was, I don’t know, the opposite of a ringing in my ears began to subside and I could hear voices again.

“Good,” one of the figures said in a voice that was strangely familiar to me, “With your papers filed, you’ll be on the ballot come the fall. We will do everything in our power to ensure your campaign is a successful one. Is that not right, my lord?”

“Yesss...,” hissed the reply. It sounded like a tiny, twisted chorus singing as one. “My minions will do all the can to sway the elections. They will pull down signs, hide pamphlets, harry our foes who attempt to walk the Wards...”

“If only they could vote,” said the first voice.

“Soon.... soon...,” crooned the chorus. “If the candidate fulfils the bargain, then my influence will spread beyond the mere squirrels and woodland creatures of Salem.”

Squirrels? It was Lord Skritch! That mysterious eight legged squirrel monarch of Salem Common! I raised my head slightly but was still too frightened to look up over the platform. Around the lot that purple energy still crackled, sealing it away from prying eyes. When I looked to the sky, I saw nothing but that purplish glow. I was trapped there, trapped at Salem station with them.

“Let us not get ahead of ourselves,” said the familiar voice. Where did I know it from? “We must complete the first twenty one items on our agenda before we can get to the twenty second. Speaking of which... I think it is time for the candidate to depart. Item Twelve here could get a bit... messy....”

I peeked over the platform and saw one of the robed figures bow and turn to depart towards the stairs that lead up to the street.

“Wait!” called the familiar voice. “You can’t go that way. The stairs are blocked off.”

“I thought that wasn’t until Labor Day,” chorused Lord Skritch. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I saw that his form was less a figure in a robe and more a writhing mass of something with a robe draped over it. It hunched low, swaying slightly.

“It is, except for alternate days divisible by three,” said the taller figure with the familiar voice. “On those days, the stairs are closed and you have to scale a ladder to get up to Bridge Street.”

I could hear the wistfulness in Lord Scritch’s chittering voice. “Everytime I think we are the evilest thing to come to Salem, the MBTA steps in to show us how much more we have to learn.”

The Candidate then began the long, huffing climb out of the train station. I craned my neck to try and catch a glimpse of any identifying feature, but its voluminous robe obscured too much. Once it passed over the rails and out of sight, the two remaining figures turned back to each other.

“A useful puppet,” sang Skritch.

“Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment,” replied the other. “Increasing our influence on local politics is a must if we’re to complete the Agenda.”

The mass of chittering, scurrying things that stood in the loose shape of a man shifted - Lord Skritch’s attempt at a shrug? “But why put so much effort into a local election? Surely the populace is unaware of us? Surely none know to stand against us?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said the taller figure, reaching up to pull at the hood of his robe. As he drew it back, he raised his oh-so familiar voice to a shout. “Isn’t that right, Cecil?!”

I froze, but he had seen me. I saw him too. I saw his face. His eyes, his nose, his sneering mouth. They were even more familiar than his voice. It was my brother. It was-

“Cyril!” I yelled. I tried to sound more confident than I actually was, but I had little on me that could defend against my blackhearted kin. Still, I felt the warmth of orgone energy flow through my Orgonmite pendant, shaking off the cold fear in my time of need. “But! I thought you...”

“Died?” replied my brother. “No. Not quite. Age before beauty and all, dear brother.” He lowered his voice slightly as he spoke to his companion. “Your highness, if you would do the honors?”

“Of course,” sang the chorus of chittering voices that aped the shape of a man. “Of course,” it said as it exploded into its component parts, all tiny needle teeth and sharp black claws scrabbling scrabbling scrabbling.

I turned to run, back into the safety of the tunnel, but I could hear them gaining on me. They were on the walls, the ceilings, the tracks.

At my feet. Crawling up my legs.

Covering my mouth.

My eyes.

Darkness.


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