Scary Stories

Chapter 11 - The dying boy

I'm so fucked...

If you've ever worked in a coffee shop, you know the regulars. And if you've worked at the Kaldi's in Clayton, you know Randy. You can't miss him. 

He walks in almost every morning at 8:45 a.m. sharp, orders a small black coffee and sits in the corner booth by the window. But it isn't technically Randy that gets people talking; it's what he brings with him.

A puppet.

Not some ventriloquist dummy or a kid's toy. This thing's seriously unsettling. Pale as hell, with no face, no features at all—just a blank white head with a pair of limp cloth arms and legs. 

Randy holds it by the hand, drags it into the café, and sits it down across from him like they're having breakfast together. Sometimes, he talks to it, whispering, like he's expecting it to talk back. Other times, he just stares out the window, his hand resting on the puppet's shoulder, like they were waiting for something—or someone.

At first, like most people, I laughed.

How could you not? 

Grown man, late-forties, walking around Clayton with a faceless puppet, acting like it's his kid. Even the regulars, who were usually buried in their laptops or textbooks, couldn't help but look up and smirk. We baristas made our share of jokes too. 

I joined in too much, I'll be honest. I regret it.

Sometimes we'd even ask Randy if his friend wanted a piece of pumpkin bread. He'd smile warmly and explain that his son already had breakfast. It basically became part of the daily routine, just like his order.

Then Kara, who had been working at Kaldi's for years, pulled me aside one morning. Kara wasn't the type to joke around, which is probably why her words caught my attention.

"You should stop making fun of him," she said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

Kara glanced over at Randy, who was sitting at his usual seat, staring out the window, his hand gently resting on the puppet's arm like always.

"There's a story behind it. Something dark," she said, her voice low. "That puppet? It's his son."

I chuckled, thinking she was messing with me. 

"Yeah, we all say that," I said.

"No," Kara interrupted, her eyes serious. "I mean, his real son. The one who died."

"What?"

"Six years ago, Randy's son tragically drowned at a lake. Kid was 10."

"Jesus..."

"Four months later, the puppet was left on Randy's porch with a note explaining that it was his son. Made by someone who cared. It only required true belief to live."

"That's the dumbest -" I started saying before being cut off.

"Maybe it's like the whole cracker and body Jesus thing the Catholics believe," Maurice said, another barista who had been eavesdropping.

"Exactly!" Kara said. "Though it's a bit darker than that."

"What?" I asked.

"Part two of the story is that the spirit of whatever that thing is has to take lives to keep living for Randy. And when you see the puppet for who it really is, you know you're next. You're toast."

"You die?" I said aloud.

"That's what you're toast means," she scoffed. "My sister told me she heard about a high schooler who died. She lost her vision, then hearing, then couldn't speak. A few days later, her heart stopped beating."

"What the fuck?!" Maurice nearly yelled.

All three of us laughed.

Then we returned to slinging lattes and cold brews.

But the thing is, after that conversation with Kara, I couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. You know how sometimes you hear a story, and it just sticks in your head, no matter how ridiculous it sounds? 

It's that old saying. You can't put the genie back in the bottle.

Well, that's what this was to me. Every time I saw Randy dragging that puppet into Kaldi's, I felt this nagging sense of unease creep up my spine. 

Months passed. 

Almost every day, he brought in that damn puppet.

Occasionally, I'd find myself staring at it blankly, transfixed almost. Sometimes I thought I saw it moving. Or it had moved already and was now staring at me.

But I would always smile and laugh at Kara's stupid story.

Though I did find myself changing...

I would chat to Randy a little more when he came in to order. I tried to be nicer to him. The story about his real son made me feel terrible.

At first, it was just making small talk about the weather.

"The cool air is refreshing, isn't it?" I'd ask.

"We enjoy it very much," he'd say back with a smile.

I had never really acknowledged the puppet directly. It was a little too weird and unsettling for me, to be honest. Until last week when something came over me and I slipped up.

"What have you and your son been up to this weekend?"

Randy beamed a huge smile.

"Oh, we just finished a long walk in the park. It's stunning outside! Now we're here, of course. Drink a coffee and then I'll think we'll take the scenic path back home."

"Amazing," I said back to him. "Sounds like a top notch day."

"Then we'll go swimming later," he added. 

Even lovelier," I said.

Randy stared at me for a long while. As if he was studying me. The gaze was so deep and eerie that it made the hairs on my arms stand up.

"You're a good boy, aren't you?"

I didn't know how to respond.

"Let me grab your coffee," I said with a feigned smile.

I watched Randy the rest of the morning, and noticed he couldn't stop smiling and talking to the puppet about random things... things like what's for dinner that night, laughing about the movie they watched the night before, and their upcoming plans for the weekend.

"Sure, sure, sure," he kept repeating as he nodded along to whatever he believed the puppet was saying to him. "We could do that, sure."

Then he left as usual and I breathed a sigh of relief.

But this morning, while I was making a pumpkin cold brew for a customer... I found myself looking and gazing out our big shop windows, out at the park across the street.

When I saw it, the world went silent.

In the distance, I could see Randy walking in the park, pointing at all of the tall trees, whose leaves are just beginning to change color, while grasping the hand of a young boy beside him. A real boy. 

My stomach dropped. 

I couldn't believe it. My heart pounded in my chest as something urged me towards the windows. I had to get closer. There was no way...

I pressed my face against the cold glass, hands trembling as I tried to focus.

But the more I squinted, the blurrier Randy and the boy became. I closed my eyes and rubbed them hard, telling myself it had to be a coincidence.

When I reopened them, all I saw was blackness.

I'm so fucked...