Konrath, J.A. - DRACULAS (A Novel of Terror)

Mick the Mick ducked into a crouch, ready to run for the nearest exit. He saw Willie standing by a big arched doorway with his hand on a light switch.

“There,” Willie said, grinning. “That’s better.”

Mick wanted to punch his hernia again but he was too far away.

“Put those out!”

Willie stepped away from the wall toward one of the displays. “Hey, look at this.”

Mick the Mick realized the damage had been done. Sooner or later someone would come to investigate. Okay, maybe not, but they couldn’t risk it. They’d have to move fast.

He looked up and saw a banner proclaiming the name of the exhibit: Elder Gods and Lost Races of South Central Pennsylvania .

“What’s this?” Willie said, leaning over a display case.

Suddenly a deep voice boomed: “WELCOME!”

Willie cried, “Whoa!” and Mick the Mick jumped—high enough so as if he’d been holding a basketball he could have made his first dunk.

Soon as he recovered, he did a thorough three-sixty but saw no one else but Willie.

“What you see before you,” the voice continued, “is a rare artifact that once belonged to an ancient lost race that dwelled in the Arkham area during prehistoric times. This, like every other ancient artifact in this room, was excavated from a site near the Arkham landfill.”

After recovering from another near dunk, plus a tiny bit of pee-pee, Mick noticed a speaker attached to the underside of the case.

Ah-ha. A recording triggered by a motion detector. But the sound was a little garbled, reminding him of the voice of the aliens in an old black-and-white movie he and Willie had watched on TV last week. The voice always began, “People of Earth …” but he couldn’t remember the name of the film.

“We know little about this ancient lost race but, after careful examination by the eminent archeologists and anthropologists here at the Arkham Pennsylvania Museum of Natural History and Baseball Cards, they arrived at an irrefutable conclusion.”

“Hey, Willie said, grinning. “Sounds like the alien voice from Earth versus the Flying Saucers .”

“The artifact before you once belonged to an ancient shaman.”

“What’s a shaman, Mick?”

Mick the Mick remembered seeing something about that on TV once. “I think he’s a kind of a witch doctor. But forget about—”

“A shaman, for those of you who don’t know, is something of a tribal wise man, what the less sophisticated among you might call a ‘witch doctor.’ “

“Witch doctor? Cooool.”

Mick the Mick stepped over to see what the voice was talking about. Under the glass he saw a three-foot metal staff with a small globe at each end.

“The eminent archeologists and anthropologists here at the Arkham Pennsylvania Museum of Natural History and Baseball Cards have further determined that the object is none other an ancient shaman’s scepter of power.”

Willie looked a Mick the Mick with wide eyes. “Did you hear that? A scepter of power! Is that like He-Man’s Power Sword? He-Man was really strong, but he had hair like a girl. Is the scepter of power like a power sword, Mick?”

“No, it’s more like a magic wand, but forget—”

“The less sophisticated among you might refer to a scepter of power as a ‘magic wand,’ and in a sense it functioned as such.”

“A magic wand! Like in the Harry Potter movies? I love those movies, and I’ve always wanted a magic wand! Plus I get crazy hot thoughts about Hermoine. She’s a real fox. Kinda like Drew Barrymore. In E.T. Hey, why does the wand have a deep groove in it?”

Mick the Mick looked again and noticed the deep groove running its length.

“Note, please, the deep groove running the length of the scepter of power. The eminent archeologists and anthropologists here at the Arkham Pennsylvania Museum of Natural History and Baseball Cards believe that to be what is knows as a fuller…

A fuller? Mick thought. Looks like a blood channel.

“…which the less sophisticated among you might call a ‘blood channel.’ The eminent archeologists and anthropologists here at the Arkham Pennsylvania Museum of Natural History and Baseball Cards believe this ancient scepter of power might have been used by its shaman owner to perform sacred religious ceremonies—specifically, the crushing of skulls and ritual disemboweling.”

Mick the Mick got a chill. He hoped Nate the Nose never got his hands on something like this.

“What’s disemboweling, Mick?”

“When someone cuts out your intestines.”

“How do you dooky, then? Like squeezing a toothpaste tube?”

“You don’t dooky, Willie. You die.”

“Cool! Can I have the magic wand, Mick? Can I?”

Mick the Mick didn’t answer. He’d noticed something engraved near the end of the far tip. He leaned closer, squinting until it came into focus.

Sears .

What the—?

He stepped back for a another look at the scepter of power and—

“A curtain rod …it’s a freakin’ curtain rod!”

Willie looked at him like he was crazy. “Curtain rod? Didn’t you hear the man? It’s, like, a magic wand, and—hey, what’s that over there?”

Mick the Mick slapped at Willie’s kidney as he passed but missed because he couldn’t take his eyes off the Sears scepter of power. Maybe they could steal it, return it to Sears, and get a brand new one. That wouldn’t help much with Nate the Nose, but Mick the Mick did need a new curtain rod. His old one had broken, and his drapes were attached to the wall with forks. That made Thursdays—spaghetti night—particularly messy.

“WELCOME!” boomed the same voice as Willie stopped before another display. “What you see before you is a rare artifact that once belonged to an ancient lost race that dwelled in the Arkham area during prehistoric times. This, like every other ancient artifact in this room, was excavated from a site near the Arkham landfill.”

“Hey, Mick y’gotta see this.”

After some biblical thinking, Mick the Mick spared the rod and moved along.

“We know little about this ancient lost race but, after careful examination by the eminent archeologists and anthropologists here at the Arkham Pennsylvania Museum of Natural History and Baseball Cards, they arrived at an irrefutable conclusion: The artifact before you was used by an ancient shaman of this lost race to perform surrogate sacrifices. (For those of you unfamiliar with the term ‘shaman,’ please return to the previous display.)”

“I know what a shaman is, ‘cause you just told me,” Willie said. “But what’s a surrogate—?”

“A surrogate sacrifice was an image that was sacrificed instead of a real person. Before you is a statuette of a woman carved by the ancient lost race from a yet-to-be-identified flesh-colored substance. Note the head is missing. This is because the statuette was beheaded instead of the human it represented.”

Mick the Mick stepped up to the display and immediately recognized the naked pink figure. He’d used to swipe his sister Suzy’s and make it straddle his rocket and go for a ride. Only Suzy’s had a blonde head.

“That’s a freakin’ Barbie doll!” He grabbed Willie’s shoulder and yanked him away.

“Jesus, Mick! You know I got a dislocating shoulder!”

Willie stumbled, knocking Mick the Mick into another display case, which toppled over with a crash.

“WELCOME! What you see before you is a rare tome of lost wisdom that once belonged—”

Screaming, Mick the Mick kicked the speaker until the voice stopped.

“Look, Mick,” Willie said, squatting and poking through the broken glass, “it’s not a tome, it’s a book. It’s supposed to contain lost wisdom. Maybe it can tell us how to keep Nate the Nose off our backs.” He rose and squinted at the cover. “ The Really, Really, Really Old Ones .”