Page Five Ghouls

 

No Rain

 

Byline: Gary Llewellyn

Dateline: July 1st, 2017

No, people, you can’t leave Ohio without learning something completely awful. This time the grim toll for egress was the Melonheads. They are not a catchy, upbeat, sweater wearing band of the early nineties. These Melonheads are of the evil children variety. Now, normally I don’t fuck with evil kids, but these little motherfuckers have an off the wall origin story. It starts with a mad scientist named Dr. Crow who performed weird experiments on children. Metal as hell from the get go. The doctor would take these children…I don’t know how big their heads were from the jump, but the Dr. Crow would inject fluid into their heads which caused them to expand. I don’t think it works that way, but myths don’t operate on sense, they operate on belief. What is it in the psyche of Ohio that demands demon monkey science projects into existence? Or Connecticut, who made the little jerks into cannibals who live on Dracula Drive? In Michigan they call them ‘wobbleheads.’ The kids eventually burned down the orphanage Dr. Crow kept them in.

These little bastards have been running around the Cleveland suburb of Kirtland since the 1970’s, when they were summoned into the agonizing existence of the weakest of myths, the ‘urban legend’. Even still, the local police force keeps a company of snipers on hand in case one gets rowdy. In 1983, one went nuts in a shopping mall at Christmas. The local authorities covered it up and pinned the rap on the homeless vet that was always in the library, said he lit off a nail bomb, or some such shit. ‘The holidays broke him’, type jazz the man feeds you. Most of the time however, they never seem to do worse than armed robbery, but every now and then, one of them will get a wild hare up its ass and the next thing you know, Santa is getting his face eaten off in front of about thirty screaming, future alcoholics.

In Cannibal Connecticut, where they’re cannibals, they’re escaped inmates, from an asylum fire in 1960. As well as cannibals. Why do demonic children also have to be cannibals? Maybe it’s the Northeast? Northeast winters scream ‘cannibal’.

Michigan’s version is a little better. Some children lived in a mansion, but for one reason or another retreated into a system of underground caverns and became mole people. In the caves, they planned out the murder of the doctor that abused them. After said murder, they realized they didn’t have a clean up plan. So they chopped up the body and stuffed the pieces in mattresses and closets. Sometimes they live in an abandoned zoo. Which sounds awesome. Unlike like their dick counterparts, these kids mostly keep to the house. The Michigan psyche called out for a horrifying story of homicidal children, but didn’t really need to be haunted by it.

 

It’s a Shame About Ray

 

Byline: Stephanie Morgan

Dateline: July 1st, 2017

Heya, SEG-ers. I’m never having kids. I’m never babysitting again, not that I thought I would. I’m never driving past a daycare or school or park ever again. Every time I look at a kid, I see those wretched basketball heads with the mouths that take up half their face. I think they can unhinge their jaws and they eat everything. I can’t believe Steve would recommend we look these guys up while we’re in town. Maybe he gets a different side of them, than we got.

Gary told me a story about when he was eight, he watched the shopping mall Santa get his face eaten right in front of him by one of these. When someone finally pulled the thing off it was gnawing on skull. I couldn’t imagine why he wanted to go looking for them and to that he replied, ‘catharsis’.

When we finally caught up with the melonkids, they were just sitting down to dinner. Gary just crouched in the bushes and stared in the window, watching. I’ve never heard him so quiet. His eyes were dead and glazed. His expression was carved from living stone. He seemed fixated on one in particular. This one was bouncing a smaller one on its knee, clapping and singing songs. The others seemed to gravitate toward that one the most, he was like the beloved patriarch.

“Got it,” Gary whispered.

“Got what?”

“My target,” he pulled a pistol from his jacket.

“What? You’re going to shoot the grandpa one? Why?”

“It has to be the one that means the most to them.”

“What the hell are you talking about.”

“The coming storm.”

“That again?”

“I need an edge. The best way to get a quick edge is to horn my way into a preexisting myth. You want in? I got another piece.”

“What? No. I’m not shooting them.”

“Take this.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a sackcloth bag. You’ll carry it back into town. I’ll even let you dramatically dump it on the police officer’s desk.”

“Why would we do that?”

“We’ll be the ones who bagged the chief melonhead. We’ll be like Patterson, Zapruder and Bob Lazar all rolled into one. Baked into an urban legend. Trust me.”

I’m not sure why I trusted him. Now every time I see a child, I see those wretched basketball heads with mouths that take up half their face, unhinged and wailing in grief.

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