Saint Hilda Township: The Barber
By: J. Lee Graves
Tags: Creative Writing, Horror Stories, Serial Fiction, Series, Horror Fiction

Saint Hilda Township: The Barber

1 -

Junior Williams was new to Saint Hilda Township. Growing up in a small town he knew how important it is to shop local so every city he was stationed in Junior always shopped local, small town shops especially. Well, that is when he wasn’t shopping on post supporting the base Exchange like a good soldier. After two weeks on leave it was time for a haircut even though the hair on the side of his head barely brushed his ears. He knew if he went on to Post looking like this Sarge would call him a hippy and he’d hear it all day from his platoon.

Having parked his jeep at one of two community parking lots, the one that gets converted into a Christmas-themed park every December, Junior strolled the sidewalk along Matheson Avenue.

Matheson Avenue was renowned for its local flair with its oak lined streets, abundant food trucks, and shops selling locally made clothes, artwork, and books. He thought he had seen an old looking barber shop one afternoon while doing some local reconnaissance not long after getting settled in his apartment across town. There were three national chain barber shops near King Towers where he lived but why give money to Big Industry when a local merchant can shave my head just the same, he always thought.

Junior decided to stop and ask one of the local vendors. Even though he did not mind simply exploring on his own he was on a deadline and had to get a haircut for tomorrow before the shops close today. Walking away from a food truck called Lil’ Charlie’s Dogs with a loaded foot-long and a soft pretzel Junior knew he was on the correct path. “Two blocks down, corner of Blackwood,” the restaurateur said with a grin.

This was indeed a happy place, Junior thought. He had time to enjoy his purchase and decided to take a seat on one of the many high back park-benches that lined Matheson Avenue. Finishing his foot-long he flipped its paper sleeve in to a trash can to his left, Finger-roll, two points, he smiled, and started on his pretzel.

Taking the time to soak in the view he moved his eyes slowly from shop to shop across the street, each colorfully painted in their own unique way lining Matheson Avenue; Claiborne’s Vintage Dresses, Leland’s Furniture, Toddler Time, and Red Knight Rare Books and Comics. He was very happy to see the comic book shop. Junior may be a grown-ass man (as his pops would say) and a trained killer (his platoon lieutenant would say) but he still loved the comic books of his youth; a more innocent then, escape from the now.

Junior finished his pretzel and to his amazement had managed to keep his shirt mustard free. Getting up from the bench seat and spinning on his hills he rolled the pretzel wrapper into a ball and fired a pseudo fade-away shot into the same trash can. As the ball arched, he knew right away — missed it. He slumped his head and shoulders in a mock gesture of defeat. That’s why the Army and not the NBA, he acknowledged to himself. Three long steps later the pretzel wrapper joined the hot dog sleeve and Junior walked away humming Together Forever.

The song he hummed made him think of his mom, it had been one of her favorites. He despised Eighties pop music, always favoring the hard rock and rap his pops listened to but he did appreciate the feelings pop music gave him. Gretta Louise Johnson-Williams had been gone ten years now and anything that helped him remember her was welcomed.

His thoughts turned back to his task at hand and looking up at the street signs he read Matheson Ave and Blackwood Blvd. Looking across Blackwood Boulevard he saw the barber shop he had set out to find and jogged across the street against the light.

There was nothing spectacular about the shop itself. The building was pained a muddy brown (a stark contrast to the colorful shops around it), appeared to have only one window that seemed to be obstructed, and had large white block letters across the upper façade; B-R-O-W-N could have been more descriptive only if the word ‘shit’ preceded it. The doorway was nothing special either, a simple glass entry with Max Brown’s Barber stenciled in basic white lettering about eye level for a person of average height, some of the stenciling looked to have been worn or chipped away. Hanging in the window from a hook and suction-cup was a faded black sign with orange (almost white) letters that read ‘Open.’ Junior shrugged and pushed the door open.

A tiny bell announced his entry. The entry was a panel-wood-half-wall with old Seventies-style wooden newel posts giving Junior a slightly obstructed view of the barber shop. It was enough to see he may want to rethink his local business policy when it came to getting a haircut.

The floor was concrete; unpainted, cracked, and stained with what he hopped was coffee. The barber chairs looked at least as old as the man who sat in one who Junior saw peek over his newspaper to see who came in. The entry led Junior to a row of old vinyl and steel chairs lining a wood paneled wall. Sitting in the first chair (in truth the first two) was a man who appeared to be four of Junior who was a large man himself. The man was dressed in faded coveralls and a heavily stained white shirt. As Junior approached the row of seats the large man didn’t appear to take notice or care who had just walked in.

In stark contrast to the gloomy interior of Brown Barber Junior noticed many of the walls were covered with what appeared to be oil paintings. No, every wall had at least one painting on it, several in most cases, and the reason the window appeared obscured from outside is because it is — by more paintings. There had to be one hundred at a minimum.

“These are good,” Junior said breaking the eerie silence. No television or radio played. The only sound since he had walked had been the rustle of the newspaper the man in the barber chair was reading, the rumbling of the large man’s stomach, and maybe a fart, until Junior spoke.

Junior had taken some art classes before dropping out of college to join the Army. He liked art in general, he was a very visual person, and a lot of good-looking girls took art classes. Junior leaned in to take closer looks at many of them while he waited for someone to say something. He noticed the focus of the paintings appeared to be empty space framed by scenery which he thought was odd. He looked to see who was responsible for the unique style and saw in the lower right-hand corner of each painting the letters M.B. Junior turned to the man in the barber chair and asked “Are you M.B.?”

The man in the barber chair curled down the right side of his newspaper, old eyes in a wrinkled face glared at Junior. “Yup,” was the only reply before he flipped the right corner paper back up.

A chill shot down Junior’s spine. Those eyes looked cold and dark. His mouth went dry as a voice in the back of his mind told him, do not stay here.

Shaking off the feeling of unease he looked over to the large man, “Are you next, sir?”

The large man did not move or speak. Junior would have sworn he was a wax figure from Ripley’s had a very audible and unmistakable fart not erupted from the man as if in reply.

From the barber chair Junior heard a heavy sigh rise above the paper. “Nope,” the man in the barber chair folded his paper loudly, tossed it on the chair to his left, and grunted “come on,” as he got up.

Junior hesitated for a moment. His skin prickled like it did when police pulled him over.

“You want a cut or not?” The barber’s voice seemed irritated and the man looked every bit of the definition for ornery and had to easily be nearing ninety.

“Yeah,” he said, snapping himself out of his momentary daze, “I mean yes, sir.”

“Well come on.” The barber gestured for Junior to come sit in the seat he had just vacated. “You’re last of the day.”

Junior took a seat in the cushioned barber chair, the musky smell of dust and stale air hung heavy around him like an old dirty mask. He settled into the seat which was far less comfortable than one would think. Trying very hard to ignore the alarm bells ringing in his head he decided to let the barber know what he wanted. “Go ahead and shave…”

“Go ahead and lock the door, Eddie,” the barber cut Junior off abruptly. “and flip da’ sign.”

The behemoth of a man finally spoke and his voice sounded like pouring gravel. “Yes, sir. Mr. Mack.”

Junior watched as Eddie hauled his considerable bulk up off both chairs, each straining beneath his girth, and shuffled across the dirty concrete to complete his task. Junior inhaled deeply, alarm bells turning to klaxons. “This is your place? You’re Mack Brown?” Junior hoped conversation would normalize the uncomfortable feeling he had.

“Yup.”

Not a too customer friendly, Junior thought, or was it just me? This certainly wouldn’t be the first time the color of his skin resulted in poor service.

“Those paintings are yours?” Another question but the ‘normalcy’ of conversation did help Junior relax but if Mr. Mack didn’t feel like talking Junior would take the hint.

“They are.”

Two words this time, Junior thought sardonically.

“Alright boy. Hold still,” Mack’s voice struck Junior as an oddly harsh tone.

“But I’ve not even told…” Mack cut Junior off by placing a towel over the young man’s face.

Junior heard heavy footsteps coming toward him and then felt large heavy hands pressing his wrists firmly to the chair. He fought against the weight of what were surely Eddie’s hands. Eddie was too heavy and Mack Brown was far stronger than he looked.

Junior fought against the two men. He tried screaming but with the sweet-smelling rag pulled firmly against his face nothing of substance emerged.

The world behind the white rag began to fade into darkness.

“Make sure the alley’s clear,” were the last words Junior heard before consciousness abandoned him.

2 -

Junior felt strange, completely disoriented, confused, nothing was making sense to him as he slowly woke from the darkness. He tried to move — nothing. His arms, his legs, his head — he imagined this is what being encased in concrete felt like. Junior’s heart began to thunder in his chest as he struggled to see clearly. He attempted to scream. Nothing but a weak mumble.

“Take it easy, boy.”

The words sounded slow, as if delivered under water at half speed. Junior again tried to scream. Nothing but a mumble.

“Give ‘em the shot. I want him awake.”

A sharp pain pinched Junior right arm. He tried to recoil from the pain but his immobility held.

“That sting ya’ felt would be the ‘drenalin ole Eddie here just pumped ya’ full of.”

Junior’s vision slowly returned, two blurry shapes became the two fuzzy shapes of Mack Brown and Eddie.

“Now that shit won’t clear ya’ up. Ain’t no antidote for chloroform but it’ll wake ya’ a bit.” Mack was leaning over Junior, both hands resting on either side of him. His face was so close he could smell the man’s feted breath and feel the spittle that flew from his mouth as he spoke. Mack leaned even closer, his nose almost touching Juniors. “We like ya’ awake when we skin ya’.” Mack’s mouth formed a smile, nothing more than a rotted slit of missing teeth. His laugh was a cackle of wet throat noises.

Junior attempted to drive his forehead into Mack’s nose only to come to the full realization that his entire body was immobile. “What have you done to me?” The question was fashioned by words formed with a numb mouth and tongue but Mack had experience in what he called ‘mumblese’.

“Just a little cocktail cooked up fer me an’ Eddie here.” Mack’s breath filled Junior’s nose with putrefied respiration and sputum. Mack coughed a laugh as he stood.

“Hand me that blade, Eddie.” Mack stepped back from the table where he and Eddie had placed the unconscious Junior just a few moments prior. Eddie had taken to the task of undressing Junior and administering the ‘cocktail’ before the effects of the chloroform wore off. Junior was a fabulous specimen and not one Mack or Eddie carried to deal with if he woke up sooner than expected.

“Look at his dinger, Mr. Mack,” Eddie had giggled once he’d undressed Junior.

“Shut up, Eddie,” Mack had scolded the large oaf. “Ain’t nothin’ we ain’t seen before.”

Eddie pawed at it like a cat with a toy.

“Stop it!” Mack smacked Eddie hard across the face sending spit flying, bring blood, and sending a cowed Eddie into a corner.

Eddie wanted to play with the bodies sometimes, “while they were still squirmy,” he had said.

“Next time,” Mack snapped at Eddie whose body jerked like he had been struck by a jolt.

“I said hand me da fuckin’ blade ya shit.” Mack held his right hand out like a surgeon waiting for a scalpel. Eddie, still simpering in a corner stepped forward, wrapped his meaty hands around the requested blade, and handed it to Mr. Mack. “I just wanted…”

“I know want ya wanted, ya shit.” Mack hissed at Eddie. “Now knock it da fuck off.” Mack turned back to Junior. He had a full thirty minutes before he’d need to administer another dose of the ‘cocktail.’

Junior screamed.

“Ah, there he is.” Mack chuckled. “Scream all ya want boy, ain’t no one going to hear ya.”

“Yeah,” Eddie laughed before letting out a bellowing scream of his own. “Ain’t no one going to hear ya.”

Mack tilted his head to the left and made a ‘sad face’ mocking Junior. “This here barn here,” Mack waved the hand holding the blade around gesturing in general at the building they were in. “This barn is way out in the middle of bum-fuck-Egypt, boy.” He leaned in again and whispered in Junior’s ear. “Ain’t no one comin’ fer ya.”

Junior fought to scream, each effort clearer and louder than the last while Mack and Eddie laughed. Junior tried to move but every effort was met with abject failure.

“Oh, ya about to scream alright,” Mack said as he moved around to stand at the top of Juniors head.

Junior’s screams stopped with a gasp as he felt something stab into the top of his head.

“Ya see, boy,” Mack explained as he pierced Junior’s flesh. “I done shaved ya clean and now,” Junior felt the agonizing dividing of the flesh atop his head, “and I’m gonna use this little knife here,” Junior could feel the flesh separating, “to skin ya alive.” Junior screamed. Eddie laughed. Mack Brown continued to slice.

Mack liked to watch the skin part like water behind a boat. He loved the feeling of warm blood turning cold on his flesh. He particularly enjoyed the sensation he felt through the handle of the knife as the tip scraped bone exposing the white of the skull. Mack admired Junior’s skin, smooth and the color of mahogany. He will make the most beautiful boots. Eddie was fond of making lamps, wallets, and hats but Mack’s specialty were cowboy boots and they fetched a hefty price on the black market.

As Mack sliced into the flesh of Junior’s forehead the young man passed out.

“Wake him up, Eddie,” Mack told his assistant.

“Yes, Mr. Mack.” This lifted Eddie from his morose pouting. “It’s best when they scream,” Eddie laughed.

“Yes, Eddie,” Mack Brown smiled his rotted mouth smile as he brought the blade across the forehead. “It is better when they scream.”

Eddie administered another shot of adrenaline and Junior woke up — screaming.

3 -

“Are ya finished yet, Eddie?” Mack screamed at his assistant who had just tossed the last shovel full of dirt onto the mound covering Junior’s body.

“Yes, Mr. Mack.” Eddie answered, leaning on a large oak tree to catch his breath,

“Good. Get yer ass over here and help me hang these skins to dry.”

“Yes, Mr. Mack.” Eddie pushed himself off the tree and tossed the shovel into the bed of a beat-up old Chevy pickup where it landed with a clang. “Comin’, Mr. Mack.”

4 -

The bell rang as the glass door opened to Brown’s Barber. A young man entered and made his way to the row of chairs along a panel-wood wall where a large man in coveralls and a filthy stained tee-shirt sat. The young man looked around at several paintings on the wall without noticing the old man in the barber’s chair curling down the right side of his paper to see who came in. One of the paintings looked particularly fresh. It was an odd piece with nothing but a field as the central focus framed by barn on one side and an oak tree with a Chevy truck parked beside it.

“You gonna stare at my paintin’s all day or ya here for a cut,” the barber fussed.

The young man turned slowly toward the barber, arms lifting up from his sides.