Catching Up
with an Old Friend
Slash Fiction by Paul Newman
Finally the day came to an end. Chris was still numb, except for his throbbing feet. He’d stood in those damned
shoes at the mortuary for hours it seemed. He collapsed atop the tiny bed—his bed—after all these years. The same
old bedroom had never seemed so small. He peeled the tight black wingtips from his swollen feet. Finally, the emotion of the
last week caught up to him in a rush. Everything, from the first crying phone call from his sister to the funeral service,
hit him at once, and he crumbled onto the faded brown cotton blanket. He recognized the smell—cheap detergent and sunshine
from the clothesline outside—and dozed off.
He awoke what must have been hours later, slowly, gradually, unsure of what had woken him. It was dark but the door
was shut now. Mom must have closed it on her way to bed. There it was again! Chris felt something feathery, a tickling,
and then realized the blanket was sliding across his bare feet. He reached out without thinking and grabbed at the blanket,
but it was too late. The whole thing had slipped to the floor.
He reached out in the dark, knocked the back of his hand into the papery lampshade, and felt blindly until he found
the little knob for the light. A loud click…and harsh yellow light pushed the shadows into the corners behind
his old desk and dresser. From the floor at the foot of his bed, Chris heard scratching, scampering noises as something slid
underneath.
Mom and her cats! Which one is it this time? He scooted forward on the bed, leaned up on his knees, and reached
forward over the foot of the bed to grab the blanket. Only the worn fringe still poked out from under the edge. He leaned
over a bit further to reach, and barely caught himself from falling headfirst over the footboard. A push—a heavy blow—was
struck up into the box springs from beneath the bed. He fell against the scarred wooden headboard and rubbed his eyes. It
came again, shaking the box springs and mattress on their rickety frame. He pulled his legs in from the edge of the bed and
scooted forward from the headboard. Chris felt it again, harder this time. The mattress was soon bouncing from the frantic
pounding below.
Chris’s spine was ice as he heard a low hissing laugh through the mattress directly beneath him. It carried on
for a moment or two and then died off to an ominous stillness. He jumped up and off the bed toward the hall. The phone and
front door weren’t far beyond. He’d call the police from outside.
No sooner had his feet landed on the cold floor, than a burning, sharp, ripping pain seared through his left calf.
Low on his leg, a wet ragged tear revealed the red meat and white tendons beneath. Chris collapsed back onto the bed. He frantically
scooted into the middle of the mattress, away from the edges, rocking back and forth and moaning as he tried to wrap a pillow
case around the wound.
The soft, mocking laughter began again. One corner or the bed bounced up into the air. Chris put his hands out for
balance and turned to look. A tug on his hand, then something sharp, and he was too late to see the attacker who scuttled
back under the bed. His hand melted into wet, seeping pain as blood shot from the stumps where his fingers had been. Dark
mist framed his vision and crept in from the edges; his stomach rolled and clenched.
“Did you forget me, Chris?” taunted a voice. It was surprisingly soft and high pitched.
“What the hell are you?” begged Chris.
“Ahh, you’ll see.” The laughter returned for a moment, then stopped.
Chris’s heart pounded. He took quick gasping breaths. The haze around his vision grew darker and thicker. He
had trouble focusing his eyes as he scanned side to side.
He felt tugging at his feet and saw the sheets bunch and clench as though something were pulling on them. He could
only watch the small figure that slowly struggled, hand over hand, up onto his bed. It was an old teddy bear, no more than
18 inches high and missing one red glass button eye. Stuffing poked through the ratty brown fur where a belly button would
have been. Its bloodstained mouth bristled with long, needle-sharp teeth.
“Teddy?”
“Now you remember me,” answered the bear.
“Teddy? Why?” Tears mixed with the blood on the sheets.
“Why? What about the last thirty years, you bastard?” it spat. “I comforted you. I soaked up your
tears. I loved you! Then you threw me into that dark box for forever, you ungrateful son-of-a-bitch!”
“Teddy, please, no! It was so long ago. I…I just grew up. I’m sorry!” Chris fought to stay
awake. The fog had thickened to a blindfold. Head spinning, he tried to scoot back, dragging his useless leg behind him across
the mattress. But, slowly, the thing advanced, shifting its weight from one floppy stuffed leg to the other.
“Chrissie, you’re never too old for your teddy bear.” A gleam burned in its one remaining
eye.
He couldn’t think about that now—he was too tired. His eyes wouldn’t stay open. As Chris fell asleep
he felt a soft tugging nuzzling against his neck. “I love you, Teddy,” he sighed with a dreamy smile. Teddy smiled
back, and then continued to feed.
