Alvin

A bored little boy unknowingly upsets the household ghost, who gets his lovely revenge. A short ghost story to make you wince.

 

There was a boy. His name was Alvin. Alvin was bored. He sat inside his room. Then he stood in his room. Then he spun around and fell on the floor. The ceiling was boring. The lights were blinding.

“What to do?” he thought.

     Alvin scanned the bookshelf.

“I've read them”

      He observed the scattered toys, old and dusty from lack of use. Played with several times over last summer. No new toys since Christmas and that was five months ago.

     Then, Alvin remembered something.

“Dad!”

     He rushed to his father’ study. There, atop the mahogany desk, was a wonderous new toy- the new printer/scanner/ copier combo with wireless capabilities. It shimmered under the desk lamp.

Alvin dragged a chair over, climbed on top and popped the lid. The blue light from the power button cast him in a glow.

     The touch screen inquired, “Scan or copy?”

     With a beep, it registered the scan option. The machine whirred with preparation.

     Alvin hit it again and again. He dragged his face, nostrils, hair and finger nails across the glass top. He giggled when the images would pop up on his father’s computer monitor.

     There was a ghost. His name was Charley. Charley was also bored. Tuberculosis took his life at a young age, before vaccines existed. His blood spotted collar folded as he gandered down at Alvin. He was wrought with jealousy. And then Charley got an idea. From the corner of the room, he glided into the pretty new machine.

     Alvin plopped his ear down onto the scanner and pulled it across with the rod of light.

     Charley made a minor adjustment.

     Alvin’s giggle was stiffled by a worried cry. Inside the surreal path of his middle ear was a long, extended pale lobster bug. It was the only way Alvin could describe it.

He ran to his father. He called for his mother. They searched for the image, but it did not appear. Alvin was apparently a liar.

Charley whispered into Alvin’s ear, clicking his tongue and chattering his teeth. This confirmed that the bug was burrowing deep, deep down inside his brain. But mother would not take him to the doctor. His father would not take a look with the flashlight.

     Alvin could not sleep. He rose from his bed and walked to the bathroom. There on the counter, conveniently placed, were his mother’s tweezers. Alvin took them between thumb and pointer finger, raising them up to his ear. He searched. He winced. He concentrated.

Then Alvin heard a pop, then a sizzle. A snake of cotton balls seemed to crawl into his ear and muffle the sound of the lobster bug.

     The tweezers fell to the floor. But then the bug was in the other ear. Again the relieving pop and sizzle.

     Alvin climbed upon his father’s chair once more, streaking the glass top with blood. Much to his relief, there was no pale lobster bug.

     In the morning, Alvin slept peacefully. He was undisturbed by his mother’s screaming and his father’s crying.

Charley watched as Alvin slept. Charley smiled. Bad Charley, bad.

The End

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