Never Play With Voodoo Dolls by Brian Hesse (book club books .TXT) 📕

Let me just start off by saying…Don’t do It! I don’t even think it’s real, but this voodoo stuff is still not something to trifle with if you’re an amateur, like myself. Not to mention it is so addicting. I only wanted to try a simple spell, but the power rush was intense. You see, I have never been much of a lady’s man. I stand only five feet, six inches, with average brown hair, average brown eyes, and a face you see every day in the crowd. Now, I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say that there is nothing wrong with average. Many people are average, that’s why they call it the average. This may be fine with most, to live average mundane lives. The “average” person has no problem with just scraping by with a boring job, a boring wife, two point five children, and premature grey hair from all the crap that comes with being just average. But not me man. I have an above average IQ with the above average ambition to match. Oh, by the way, how rude of me, let me introduce myself. My name is John Smith. Go ahead and laugh, but that is my real name. My very own average boring name. Your next question is probably going to be where I work. Well let me tell you, I’m sure you have already guessed, I don’t work at a very exciting job. After barely graduating High School, I settled down at just eighteen years old, as an overnight stocker at the You Bag It Grocery in my small town of Andreas, Pennsylvania. Fortunately, living in a farming community of only seven hundred, or so, living souls, a person could stock shelves the rest of their lives and nobody would even seem to take notice. I even manage to keep my own one-bedroom apartment, and 1998 Chevy Cavalier, with the rusted frame and thick black smoke bellowing from the hole where a tailpipe should be attached. Yea, I would have liked a brand new 2017 model, but I guess that aint happening now.

 My troubles began, probably on the very day I was born, but I am not going back that far. With time, memories get lost in an ever-thickening haze, until one day, you can longer distinguish fact from fantasy. So, I will just go back to that short-term past while the memory is still fresh in my mind. My real problems began on the day that I met Sandy Parker, the head cheerleader, and hottest girl I would ever know.

Oh, Those High School Days

 I remember it like it was yesterday. There she was, Sandy Parker. I was sitting in the seat behind her, like I did for the last four years, since the fifth grade. But this day was different. I am certain she always used the same strawberry shampoo her entire life, but I never really noticed until now. This was like an awakening for me, like a flower with a tightly shut bulb until the very first day of Spring, when temperatures are just right, and then, POW! A full bloom of every petal straining with months of pent up energy just to reach as far as possible to the glory of the morning’s shining sun. You see, that’s how this girl made me feel. I say made me feel, because just like perfect clockwork timing, reality interfered and turned that love into annoying anxiety, but that is another story we will talk about later. Just know that for years, Sandy was the object of my deep affection. So, you can understand the breaking of my heart when I tell you what happened on a specific day that September. The exact day and time is inconsequential to the story.

  “Hi Sandy,” I stated, with my voice slightly cracking through nervous exhaustion. Hey, I am lucky I could even speak at this point.

  “Hi,” she hesitated for what seemed like an eternity, “I’m sorry, who are you?”

   At this point I was a little crushed, but not enough to feel that literal tearing of the tough fibers of my heart. Why should she remember me? I was just some backward, and shy guy who creepily smelled her hair every day. So, I began, again with a cracking tone of voice, “I’m John Smith. I sit behind you in Math, Science, and Homeroom.”

   “Even Homeroom,” she replied, frowning slightly and, from what I perceived, a slight roll of her pretty Emerald eyes. She rolled her eyes because we get to pick our own seats in Homeroom, and is never full of students. It didn’t dawn on my emotionally stunted brain that I must have looked desperate taking a seat directly behind her, while the classroom was only a quarter full at any given moment.

   “Yea, I just wanted to say high.”

   “Well Hi, then. Hey look, I have to get back to class, but it was nice chatting.” With that, she quickly scampered down the hall giggling with several girls she met when she was about twenty feet away from our awkward encounter.

   Well, needless to say, after that less than smooth encounter, she switched places with Bobby Wills. Bobby, smelled nothing like strawberries. It was out of little situations like this, I started to think about needing some outside help to get what I wanted. I was just certain that if I only had Sandy, how my life would change. I would have the confidence to get better grades, go to medical school, and become a world-renowned heart surgeon. Maybe, I would be a rock star, or famous writer, anything but a stock boy at a grocery store. But it all came down to me having the girl of my dreams first.

How to make a Voodoo Doll

  I always considered turning to magic as nothing more than an outward expression of weakness. So maybe I am weak. So, what! Look at my situation. Well, we will not go into all that again. It’s hard to bear ones’ soul once, let alone twice, to another living being. I decided to turn to the realm of the unknown, the unheard, and the unseen. I set out to find a library in the next several small towns down the line. We don’t have a library around these parts, so I was sure to find one somewhere around this shit kicker area. I found even better. I found one of those old used book stores without even a name for the business. You know the sort I’m talking about. Your walking down the main street of some small town, with a pizza shop on one corner, and a used car dealership on another. The only two businesses in town hanging on by just a thread before the inevitable sad closing and, the subsequent killing of the owner’s hopes and dreams. Back to flipping burgers in your golden years for you, I guess. So, there you are walking and walking, and out of the corner of your eye you see a run-down green paint chipped store front with a large dirt stained window with a cardboard sign taped to the inside. You stop just out of curiosity because like a stupid cat focused on a laser point light, you just can’t resist reading a cardboard sign. You get closer and try to look in the window, but despite the bright sunny day, you can’t see anything inside. Everything is so damned dark in there. So, you read the sign, and it says, “Used Book Sale.”

   I really liked the inside of the place. It must have once been a barroom, gutted out and missing its vomit stained booths with torn plastic revealing the asbestos stuffing underneath. The stools were missing, but the polished oak wood bar remained, now covered with scattered books. I thought to myself, do people even read anymore? Of course, they do, but the days of paper and ink are, sadly, almost completely faded away. Anyway, there were boxes everywhere filled with books. The place had a wonderful rich smell of ageing moth eaten paper. I always loved the smell of books.

   “Well hello young man,” came a fast approaching voice from behind the hanging beads, separating the main bar from the backroom. The man who appeared was interesting to say the least. He looked like an English gentleman straight out of the early twentieth century. You know, dressed like those people you see on the old black and white documentaries about World War One or something. He wore a black suit, black trousers, shined patent leather shoes, and one of those old black hats that had a rim and looked kind of like a pierogi on your head. He even had a black Cain with a cool silver skull as a handle. But what was most striking was his features. He had a face, but that kind of face you can look at for hours and forget as soon as you turned away. He was pale, not a wrinkle or a blemish. The only feature that gave away his old age were his eyes. His eyes were very small and round, like two grey marbles really, rather than actual eyes.

   “Hello, I’m just looking,” I stated, turning away from the man’s strange watchful eyes.

   “Oh, I see. You know, I do not get too many visitors, but the ones I do get, are always just looking around.” He began without waiting for a reply, I guess he knew he was not going to get anyway, “I am very old and skilled in giving people what they want.”

   I tried to pretend I did not hear him. I just kept examining the books in the overflowing boxes, as if he were not even there. I heard him go into the back room, disturbing the hanging beads as he went. He rummaged around for just a few moments, and emerged again with devil speed.

   “Here you go John. I have just what you need.”

   It did not dawn on me until later that this dude knew my name. I have a pretty bad memory but I know I never gave him my name. Anyway, he handed me a book bound in black leather material. On the cover, was nothing more than the words, Making Voodoo Dolls. I took the book out of the man’s hands and left as soon as I possibly could. I never felt in danger, but the place itself just started to close in on me a bit. The man’s presence filled the room, and there just wasn’t room for the both of us.

Playing with Dolls

   So, I will spare you detailed descriptions of me reading the book. However, it is worth the mention that the book did not have an author, at least not one listed on the cover. This was a straight forward book of thirty pages, filled with the English translation of how to make various voodoo dolls. I read the book from cover to cover, and I must admit, a wave of embarrassment filled my cheeks with uncomfortable warmth. I felt my face turn red as I thought of Sandy watching me read such a book. I mean come on, you must admit that belief in magic is quite a leap of faith. Well, I was never one to give up on an idea once it was stamped onto my brain. I tried my hardest to believe and decided that a test subject was needed. I kicked back and thought hard and long about someone I just really hate with all my heart. Someone who may have humiliated or insulted me in the past, or present, it was all the same to me. The thought struck my brain,