Small Gods of the Shed

The wood shed was visited rarely, was weather beaten and had begun to slide into disrepair. The previous winter rains and spring wind had knocked the old building from its foundation and the process had been made easier by the fact that what was stored in it was stacked away haphazardly.

George Nilsen decided to remedy the situation by fixing the thing up and reorganizing the items stored in it. It was a slow process as first he needed to empty the building of several plastic containers, unused camping gear, old records and cassette tapes, misfit plates and silverware, an old couch, chair and side table, all of which sat collecting dust.

With the unloading of the stored items and following a week, the building was back on it’s proper foundation, and George began to return the previously stored items to their place. He looked at each piece he returned, making certain to take care to keep the interior properly balanced.

One curious item drew his immediate attention; a small red wooden box labeled “Små guder,”and a tiny lock holding it closed. “What is that? Norwegian?” he asked himself, thinking back to a book he’d once read to his now grown son, as a young child.

The lock, no bigger than a half-dollar, made of a cheap aluminum was easy to remove. George set it aside, once he’d gotten it of the box.

The box contained a set of antique ventriloquist dummies, that he’d forgotten about. It had belonged to his friend Casey Johansen, who’d disappeared two years previously.

He tried to recall how he came to be in possession of the dummies. Nothing came to mind.

“Like it simply appeared out of nowhere.”

When he lifted the lid, he felt a chilly breeze rush over his entire body.

“Perhaps, it’s the weather change we’re expecting this weekend.”

With the possibility of rain on it’s way, George hurriedly returned the remainder of the items back to the shed and barred it shut. He’d return once the sun had a chance to dry things out, and since it was the high desert of Nevada, he knew it wouldn’t take long.

The following day, as he sipped his morning’s coffee, he saw that the shed was open.

“I know I put the bar in place,” he told himself and he walked out and reapplied the length of wood.

Come the next morning, it was open again. He searched around the building, in the damp earth for foot-prints.

None were to be seen.

This time he looked inside the shed. There he found the red box with the ventriloquist’s dummies slightly out of place.

Since he’d broken the lock when he forced it open, it wasn’t secure, so opening it was less of an effort. There he found both dummies gone.

Angry, George was certain that someone had entered the shed with out his knowledge and had stolen the pair of dummies. As he turned to leave, he was struck in the head and his world quickly went dark.

By the time he regained consciousness, it was dark and he was hanging from the center beam of the shed, upside down and trussed up like a feral hog for slaughter. He could hear and see no one as he struggled against the ropes that held him.

Then somewhere from behind, he heard the high chanting of voices of what believed were children’s voices and smelled the harsh aroma of a wet wood fire. George wiggled until he was turned, so he might see what was happening.

To his shock and fright, he saw the two dummies moving about a small blaze with a miniature kettle with a boiling liquid steaming from it.

“What the…” he uttered, his voice trailing off from the shock.

Both dummies looked his way, grinning their odd frozen show-like smiles, then returned to their chanting and what looked to be, to George, a ritual dance. With his blood congregating in his head, he passed out once again.

Awaking, this time he found himself, wet, cold and centered over the kettle. It took him a few minutes, amid his struggle to get free, to realize that the kettle had grown in size.

“…or am I smaller?”

Since he could neither hear, nor see the dummies, he thought that perhaps they had abandoned him. But then he felt the slip of the rope that held him about the legs and knew he was about to drop into the still-steaming cauldron of brackish fluid.

He plunged into the liquid. It was warm, thick and sticky, and he was certain that he was going to drown as he held his breathe.

As fine bubbles began to issue from his lips, and knowing he was losing the battle with his lungs, he was quickly raised and this time he saw his two minute agitators. They were hastily dousing the flames and removing the kettle.

In it’s place, that dragged the box that one held the pair. In it, he saw another figure, a woman, bent at the middle and folded to fit in the cut-out that had once held one of the two dummies that were now preparing him for the same fate.

Though he tried to struggle, George discover his body was limp and practically useless. He screamed hoarsely as they dropped him without onto his back and without ceremony into the padded box, roughly arranged him, folding him at his middle, his legs over his head, and face poking out from between his shins.

In place, he saw the lid as it slapped shut and listened as the lock he had busted, and now repaired was clicked into place. He heard the pair speaking in muffled tones and giggling as they left the shed.

“Who’re you?” George Nilsen choked, his voice thick and clumsy while becoming less and less.

A long ragged draw of breath and gurgle was all that could be heard with nothing more than continuous darkness and silence following.