The
art of a true, real hardboiled type of detective was not too different
from ventriloquism. It was all about theatrics and playing a part, a
role - to get someone else to talk. To make them say what you wanted to
hear. Was it the truth? Was it all just horning in an answer to
questions that had no reasonable direction?
When it came to hunting
down something as other-worldly as demons, detective work became
something like improv comedy. It was all about winging it. If the first
attempts fell flat, there was always a chance to get back on your feet
again - get the audience to your side.
The art of the Smooth Talk. Even when in a body that barely had a
functioning mouth, Sid was still a king of jabber. He must have had a
silver tongue in that wooden jaw of his, he could talk his way into and
out of anything. But there was one thing that not even Sid had the
easiest time with.
Convincing the common folk who see him not to scream.
He really couldn’t blame them. If any rational, sane human being
- a reasonable skeptic, saw a ventriloquist dummy ‘walking the
beat’, searching for clues, making calls, taking names and
inquiring about something called a ‘demon’, it would be
rational to just run away. Scream. Maybe see a doctor, because
obviously, there was something wrong with your head.
Right?
Well, not everything is as clean cut as it seemed in the world. Even
back when he had flesh on his bones and weight to his step, Sid always
had a keen awareness that there was a veil between the
‘skeptical’ world and the actual world. Skeptics were those
who were either too cowardly or too brave, to understand what really
hid behind the curtains.
It took a strong man to deny what was right in front of him. There were
a few cases where Sid had been caught standing up a little too
enthusiastically like a human being inhabiting the prison of a carved
chunk of wood. A sad caricature of a once better man. In those cases,
the witness simply walked away in disbelief.
He saw it before. So many times. The fragility of contemporary reality
was as brittle as an egg. A few strikes and the whole yoke will plop
out eventually. That is how Sid saw himself, an old egg that was about
to get fried. But he jumped out of the frying pan, avoided the fire and
somehow - got trapped right back inside an egg.
“I’ll neva’ get used to this!” Sid practically
spat with his artificial jaw, managing to practically puppeteer himself
through the library of a man named De Ascanio. Who was De Ascanio? He
was a Spanish occultist that hoarded knowledge like a dragon.
“What was up with this De Ascanio wise guy?” Asked Sid
aloud, as if the shelves of books around him would suddenly become
possessed as he was - to expel an answer soon after.
A single shard of glass stuck out of his little wrist. For some reason,
it actually seemed to hurt. Now that he had been brought back to the
realm of the living, albeit in his embarrassing puppet prison, there
was something all the more mortal about his body. “Never thought
I’d bust outta of a display case befo’... But then again -
neva’ thought I’d be walkin’ and talkin’ again
eitha’.”
Trying to compartmentalize all that had happened proved difficult. Even
with his years of experience, being in the Big House of the Afterlife
for so long had numbed some of his rhetoric, logic and drilled at that
inland empire of his - a wealth of knowledge that was practically
boarded shut like an out-of-business restaurant on a dock. It was like
his entire mind had defaulted on a loan and the repo men of men’s
spirits had closed the whole operation down.
But little by little, more and more lights became a bit less dim in his
head. “Investigatin’ my own damn case, ay? Behind in the
grind and tryna’ figure out what happened to me…” It
was ridiculous, but the more stretched his legs, the more he conformed
to what they used to call the “Demon Huntin’
Shuffle”. A series of exaggerated movements with a crouched head,
he was on the prowl, looking for cools, contexts within the shadows
themselves.
“Lemme think it all over…” Before he could continue,
however, he had to get his head straight. Literally. Throwing himself
through the glass had knocked him a bit crooked. The small hands
managed to crack his head back into place with an audible spur of wood
rubbing against a few layers of decades old paint. “When I broke
tha’ curse years ago… that shoulda been it. But someone
took my body, brought me back. What a dingy pill!”
Just when he was free, someone had
brought him back in. That was much for sure. Life had been restored -
it was indeed the same Sid deep inside, but he just knew that some
years had passed. Call it a hunch or a working man’s intuition.
“Whoeva’ it was that brought me back… they
didn’t expect me to be this mobile, heh…”
Can’t keep a good dummy, err… man down, he thought.
The library was obscenely dark, only a few ill lit light fixtures hung
above. Everything was coated in an ambience of amber, whether it was
from the tanned light bulbs or just the general aged aesthetic of the
place, he did not know.
A quick scan of some of the books
here proved to be fruitful. It was all high tier occultia. The kind of
things someone would read if they were just completely engulfed in the
world of life after death. “Some sonny jim was prolly afraid of
dyin’, looken for some way to dodge it…” It took
only a moment for Sid to deduce that he was some weirdo’s prized
possession in an occult collection.
Then it dawned on him.
“What an egg! I’m in someone’s Occult Museum! They
had me locked up like a canary…” It was hard, but he was
able to make his little fingers clenched into fists in frustration.
Expressing anger while in a wooden body was worthy of an oscar in terms
of performance. If he had the time, Sid would salute himself for
holding onto some humanity despite everything. “Well, this canary
ain’t singin’ for ya’s anymore.” The intent
from here on out was clear, it was time to bust out. But he was going
to keep it wise, make it look like someone had broken him out of the
museum - like a robbery gig, yeah.
But that was when he heard the distinct footsteps of someone walking
about. On this light night, probably on a school night of all things,
there was some brat running the soles of their shoes flat in some
creepshow. Where was the moral of the youth nowadays…?
“Huh?!” An audible gasp. Some poor honey sounded like she
was on the verge of tears. “D-did someone break
in…?!” Damn, now Sid was going to let some chippy chick
take the rap for him? Fat chance, he was heading over in a jiffy to
investigate the scene.
Of course, he was doing it as sneaky as he could possibly muster. His
body had some notable improvements in articulation. It was a horrifying
realization, but it probably meant that his soul had become more
materialistic, more human. And the vessel, the dummy, was becoming more
like an organic shell. What most human’s call “an actual
damn body.”
Sid had ducked beneath a table with what looked like a few hundred
pound books laid open wide on top of them. He had trailed back to where
he had made his original break from the scene. Clutching a table leg,
he glanced out toward the display case that was his former prison.
The first thing the little fella
noticed was a golden plaque that he had ignored before. The title that
had been affixed to him was down right insulting.
[SEYMOUR - THE REAL HAUNTED DUMMY]
Load of crap. He thought. My name is anythin’ but Seymour.
Beside the glass cage that had a dummy-sized maw of broken glass in it,
as well as a garden of sharp debris littering the carpet in front of
it, was a young chick. He could tell that she wasn’t the hottest
of the bunch from the era they both were residing in now.
That didn’t stop Sid from taking a keen eye to her however. He
recognized her from his fading dreams before, little did he know -
these were glimpses from when his eyes had opened during
‘shop-hours’ at the museum.
She wasn’t half bad though, really. Messy hair in a chestnut
brunette, a tired and withdrawn expression that even now - was having a
hard time expressing her shock. Some baggy stockings, a cute dress
skirt and a layer of sweaters, one hugging her neck cutely. Glasses
that looked like she could see the surface of the moon clearly with.
Next to nothin’ for tits, but the ass and hips were looking fine
from this angle.
“O-oh my god…” The shock continued to rattle her as
she gasped at the dummy’s former containment. “S-should I
call the cops?” Poor girl clearly never had been in a situation
like this. Hell, it was likely no one had ever been in a situation like
this. And what was Sid going to do? Let her handle this by herself or
actually call the authorities on the beat? Then he’d never get
out of here.
“Don’t worry about callin’ the boys in blue. They
wouldn’t believe ya in anyways.” He made his presence
known, stepping from beneath the table and stopping as he heard his
little wooden feet crush some of the shards beneath him. “What ya
see is what ya get, honey. But I gotta tell ya, this ‘haunted
doll’ ain’t no Seymour. Capice?”
The girl’s face was suddenly more wooden than his but managed to
lack any colour. She nearly rolled her eyes and passed out on the spot.
In fact, she was starting to dip - as if she had just fallen asleep
standing up and her nose was about to bleed.
“Ay, aye! You okay there?!” Dammit, Sid thought. He scared
the girl to pieces now she was about to collapse into a jigsaw puzzle
of surprise and disbelief.
Yet, the woman suddenly stood up straight and her face became
expressive again. It was so sudden, it even surprised him. A glimmer of
her personality carved through the thick atmosphere that had been
stitched together by the circumstances - like a sharp knife cutting
through cloth. “I knew it!” She seemed... overly joyful
now, before she gained her composure and straightened herself up,
acting as prude as a know-it-all housewife. “I knew you were
real…”
“Good. I know I’m real too.” Sid replied, sounding as
smooth as an oil spill and twice as toxic. “Name’s Sid.
I’m guessin’ yer a visitor to this strange museum?”
There was something oddly flattering and enduring about how he clearly
wore his heart and his authority on his sleeve like that.
Blinking rapidly, she had no idea what to say at first. “Y-yes, I
work here. I make sure no one breaks in over the weekends while we have
some refurbishing in the main lobby…” Nodding her head and
holding her hands close to her chest, folded into one another, Sid
could tell that this broad hadn’t talked to many guys. Let alone
little wooden ones with the souls of dead demon hunters in them.
“D-do you know where you are?”
Considerate. Sid liked her already. And not just because his body, or
rather, his soul was yearning for some human contact. He was imagining
that an innocent girl like her had the smoothest, milky white legs
hidden beneath those clothes.
“Hardly at all. I had a few dreams, woke up from a long sleep -
saw that I was stashed like a Christmas present unda’ tree
‘ere and decided to bust outta there.” Honesty would get
him far. After all, honesty was the best way to make sure you could
puppeteer a potential witness into being honest with you back.
“What is this place exactly?”
“You mean you don’t… know at all?” The woman
looked toward a large poster behind her, it had most of the light
fixtures in the entire place aiming at it. A proud man of the local
ethnicity, as this was Spain, of course. He had his hair dyed blonde
and slicked back, the lad also wore a nice suit.
Beneath this poster’s image were some large, board words:
[De ASCANIO’S INTERNATIONAL GALLERY
OF INTENSE MORBIDITY]
“Yeah, I saw that the first
thing as I woke up in the box-o-glass.” Sid replied, although
admittingly - he did not bother to actually read beyond the man’s
name. Whoever this De Ascanio was, he looked like an asshole.
“Just assumed I was some antique for the schmuck - that he
slotted me in with the rest of his ol’ dusty books like I was
some prize of his.”
“Well, that isn’t so far from the truth…”
Sheepishly, she looked away. “Mr. De Ascanio was a collector of
occult merchandise. He bought you at an auction in America and it was
said you were haunted. We had reports that you’d blink and stand
up in your case and…”
She was happy, but restrained. It was enduringly cute. What Sid would
do to smack lips with this beauty and see those small breasts of
her’s, while her ass rubbed against his balls. Anything, anything
to feel a bit human again!
“Bought me at an auction? Am I famous?” Sid inquired, he had to know. For research reasons.
“I don’t think so, we’re not a very popular exhibit
of esoterica or macabre…” The lady replied sadly. She was
obviously disappointed with De Ascanio’s lack of success too.
“De Ascanio is also a horror writer. He uses this place and
‘cursed’ objects like you, from auctions, to sort of
promote his main body of work…”
Wow, okay. Sid thought. I knew this guy was an asshole from just the pictura’!
“So, you his moll, dollface?” Sid asked, realizing that
dollface was not the most appropriate term here. And judging by her
confusion, she didn’t know what moll meant either.
“Mall?”
“I mean, are ya his squeeze? His lady friend? Ya know?” Sid also wanted to know… for other reasons.
“Oh-oh, heavens no! N-nothing like that, my relationship was
purely professional with De Ascanio…” With the way she
fibbed, Sid could tell she sometimes got hot between the legs thinking
of the guy. Oh, how he wished to feel that heat with his face. “I
am an intern… I am apart of his creative writing course and his
Occult studies club.”
“Well, that explains why you weren’t so scared of me then…” Sid proclaimed, knowing he was right.
“I was afraid someone stole you…” She replied. Jack
pot, not only was she a hot dame beneath that nerdy attire, she had a
good heart. An absolute sweetheart.
“I’m blushin’.” Sid joked charmingly, slicking
his already permanently slicked back dummy hair. “So, where is
this De Ascanio fella…?”
“He’s…” It was clear that she was now actually
upset. Sid stepped closer, scattering some of the glass debris with his
foot.
“Ayy, sweetheart, you alright?” Fragile girl… He had
to be careful with this one. “Ay, I might have a heart of wood
but its painted gold.”
The humour made her give a nervous smile. That nicety was enough to
warm her up to admitting what happened. “De Ascanio was found
dead a few days ago.” She looked away. “He was trying to
perform a ritual and…” A single tear nearly escaped, but
she held it in. Maybe she was tougher than she looked, Sid thought.
“Then there was more activity with you lately… you…
you aren’t De Ascanio in there, are you…?” Wishful
thinking. “No, you couldn’t be… you’re too
nice.”
It was all the makings of a ritual gone wrong. A dead summoner, who was
a wannabe occultist and horror writer. A dame in distress. And Sid knew
that he started to ‘wake up’, probably from the residual
energies of the incident, just in time.
Fate, some people called it.
“Hey, I can help, ya know…?” Sid confided in her and
shared some of his own integral strength in that moment. “Listen
here, frau. I ain’t the kind of dummy to just see a lady feeling
this down. I specialize in this sorta thing, ya know?”
What was this the beginning of? Who knows. The lady nodded and Sid asked, “What’s your face, hun?”
“My name is Matilde. My family and friends call me Mati…”
“Well Mati, I’m gonna help you out ‘ere, alright?”
Aces baby, I’m in!