Chapter Five
When the knock came at the front door, C.K. was instantly on edge. From his bedroom window he heard the car pull up to the curb, then footsteps, then a rough pounding on the front door.
The Percy household rarely had visitors. Mr. and Mrs. Percy would often explain to their only child the benefits of being friendless (like them) in order to live a trouble-free life.
Unable to resist finding out who was at the door, C.K. left his room so he could eavesdrop more accurately from the second floor hallway.
Mr. Percy opened the front door. “May I help you?”
“Good afternoon, sir,” said a low male voice. “I’m a police officer, if you couldn’t tell by my uniform, or this stylish police hat, or the police cruiser parked directly outside your house.”
“Yes, I see that.” Mr. Percy knew instantly that something was wrong. Policemen don’t knock on people’s doors to inform them of good news, only bad.
“Come in, Officer—?”
“Just officer will do.”
C.K. listened from the top of the steps as the two adults made their way to the kitchen, where his father could be interrogated in a more comfortable setting. He heard the clanging and banging of his father attempting to fix himself and the officer a cup of coffee.
“I’m afraid the coffee’s not too good today,” said a remorseful Mr. Percy. “I made it myself. Usually I have my wife do that sort of thing, but she is…”
“Where is your wife, Mr. Percy?” asked the officer, followed by a distinctive pop! sound that C.K.’s super-sensitive ears were able to pick up—a gun holster.
“Well, you see, my wife hasn’t been feeling much like herself lately,” explained a nervous Mr. Percy. “So, like any good husband, I made a few phone calls and let some people from a Mental Health Institution come and take her away. They informed me that she would be subjected to all sorts of radical new therapies that may or may not help her condition. I’m not really sure of the details. Hazelnut creamer?”
“Yes, please,” said the officer. “Anyway, you were saying?”
“Ah yes, my dear wife…”
C.K. listened as his father explained the story about how his loving and dutiful wife had suddenly taken ill. How she began to neglect her matrimonial promises, such as taking care of his every need, day and night, without complaining or asking for anything in return.
“She was a complete mess,” said Mr. Percy. “And speaking in tongues.”
“So, it seems,” said the officer jokingly, “your wife was coming apart at the seams?”
“Actually,” said Mr. Percy, missing the joke, “she was covered in seams. Bed sheets to be precise. Three hundred thread count. All cut up into tiny manageable strips and wrapped around her entire body. Vanilla wafer?”
“Well that just so happens to be the reason for my visit today,” said the officer as he reached for a cookie. “As you are probably aware, Mr. Percy, there has been a rash of strange occurrences lately. All of which were very similar to what happened to your estranged wife.”
“Oh dear. You mean my wife wasn’t the only one?”
“Not even close,” said the officer. “It seems as though there is a serial soul-sucker on the loose. A bunch of sickos are feeding on the cerebral well-being of the people in this town. And the majority of the attacks have been right here in your neighborhood.”
C.K. made a gasping sound. It wasn’t very loud, but still loud enough that any trained police officer could hear it.
“Are you alone in the house, Mr. Percy?” The officer drew his weapon.
“No, officer,” said Mr. Percy. “That gasping noise you just heard was probably just the boy who lives upstairs—my son, I mean.”
“I see. So you are the legal guardian of an adopted son?”
“No, he’s related.”
The officer then asked, “Do you and your wife ever plan on having more children?”
“Heaven’s no!” shouted Mr. Percy, clearly insulted. “One child is more than enough, thank you. Shall I call him in here so you can talk to him? If we team up, maybe we can pressure him into giving you the answers you’re looking for?”
“No, not yet,” said the officer. “He may continue eavesdropping until I am ready to question him.”
The police officer went on to explain his theory of how an “unknown number of criminals” were breaking into people’s homes, completely undetected, then somehow causing the sleeping inhabitants to give up on life, hand over their human qualities, and relinquish their soul.
“These criminal masterminds basically put the victims in some sort of trance,” said the officer. “On several different occasions we discovered three or four victims in the same household. Just last week we found an entire family—the Hendricks—that had fallen victim to these heartless criminals.”
“I see,” said Mr. Percy. “Which part of the city are they from?”
The officer gave him a funny look. “They live on your street, Mr. Percy. Anyway—when we broke down their front door without a warrant, justifiable cause, or waiting for any type of response from inside the house, we found no signs of a struggle. It appeared as though nothing was out of the ordinary. But when the other officers and I went downstairs…” The officer shook his lowered head. “Well, that’s when we found them. All of them were—”
“Dead as doornails?” asked Mr. Percy as he nibbled on his delicious wafer.
“No, no, no,” said the officer. “Much worse, I’m afraid. We found all four of them—Mr. and Mrs. Hendricks and their two children—asleep in the basement. Each of them was lying inhumanly still in their own handmade sarcophagus.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t feel bad,” said the officer. “I had to look it up, too. A sarcophagus is nothing more than a fancy word for coffin. But the coffins the Hendricks were sleeping in were painted gold and blue, with lines and stripes, like something out of an ancient Egyptian exhibit at a museum.”
“How many victims so far?” asked Mr. Percy, not really curious but wanting to give the impression that he was paying attention. Mostly he was thinking about hiring outside help, someone to make his coffee in the mornings, do the cleaning, and cook his meals.
“Including the Hendricks, plus the three victims last night…” The officer had to think about it. “Plus the two we had the night before that, plus the other three hundred victims? That makes…hm.”
“Three hundred and nine victims!” C.K. accidently blurted out loud. He quickly slapped his hand to his mouth, but it was too late. “Mummy Mouse lied to me. He told me that he’d only sucked the life-forces of nine people, not three hundred and nine. Although…”
After thinking for a moment, C.K. realized that his translation could’ve been off.
“I am rather new at translating the ancient language,” C.K. said quietly, “so perhaps Mummy Mouse did say three hundred and nine? Not simply nine.” Still, he thought it just wasn’t right that Mummy Mouse had sucked away the life-forces of so many innocent people—even if their lives were typical and boring.
“Mr. Officer?”
“Yes, Mr. Percy?”
“Would you like another cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you. One cup of tepid brown coffee-like substance was plenty for me,” said the officer. “But I would like you to bring in your eavesdropping son for a quick interrogation.”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Percy. “C.K.! Will you come in here for a moment, please? There is a police officer here who wishes to speak to you. Enter the kitchen slowly with your hands raised high!”
“Coming, sir,” said C.K. as he headed downstairs.
Mr. Polymer, the principal at C.K.’s school, had just begun his speech at the PTA meeting when he noticed the dead mouse on his podium, staring at him with hypnotic red eyes. The tiny four-legged creature—now standing up on two legs, its tiny arms raised high—was right there between the microphone and the glass of water.