Jellybones Part Two

Copyright

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Book cover by Inara Reynolds

October 28th, 2016

The door to the art gallery was slightly ajar, and as I put my hand on the handle to open it the rest of the way, I hesitated. I was afraid of what, or whom I might find on the other side. I know I had locked it when I left work the night before. I had also turned the alarm on.

I turned away from the door, and walked back to my car, pulling my cell phone out of my purse. I started to dial the police, but for some reason, I could not dial the number, it was almost as if I had forgotten the numbers 911. I felt the urge to go inside the gallery; something was directing me to go in, calling my name. I looked at the door again, shoving aside my fears. I pushed the door open and walked inside.

“What the-” I said out loud as I walked through the gallery door, taking in the scene. I started to go into a state of shock at the horror that lay before me.

The paintings were torn from the walls throughout the gallery, and some of the art sculptures had been knocked off of their pedestals and lay broken on the floor as if there had been some type of struggle.

My gallery, my beautiful gallery! It is destroyed! I wanted to cry. Someone will pay for this.

I began to take photos of the damage before calling the police to report the crime.

Who could have done this? I had worked as the art curator for the gallery for the last 25 years, and there had never been any vandalism in that whole time. Most of the community treated the exhibits with respect and enjoyed bringing their children. This was a family place, for fuck’s sake!

As I photographed the broken statuary on the ground, I noticed a weird drag pattern of some kind on the floor. I took a picture with my cell phone to document the stains. I bent down to look at it, it was still sticky, and the substance stained my fingers. I followed it along the floor and noticed the tarry substance staining the wood floor led back to the storage room.

As I entered the room, I could smell the overwhelming stench of rotting fruit and ammonia. The dead body of a vandal lay in the middle of the room. The boy lay in his own blood that surrounded him like a puddle of melted dark wax.

He was torn to shreds as if a wild animal had mauled him somehow in our storage room. His organs were strewn around the storage room like a child's toys from their chest.

His face was not identifiable. Whatever had shredded him had ripped his face off down to the bone of his skull. It was time to call the cops.

“This is 911, what is your emergency?” The dispatcher asked.

“Hello, this is Juliette Olamos here at the Poxston Art Gallery. We have had a break in and there is a dead body in our storage room. It’s... pretty gruesome.”

I heard the moans of pain from another vandal coming from the back of the storage room.

How could anyone survive this kind of decimation? I asked myself as I called out, “Hello?”

The moans went silent for a moment. “Help me… please.” He mustered up the energy to call out a reply.

“There is at least one other person in here, they are moaning in the back area of our storage room. I am going to go check him.” I told the 911 operator on the phone.

“Stay on the phone with me, I will send out the police and an ambulance.” The dispatcher said.

“Thank you, I am with the boy, he’s alive but bleeding profusely. His intestines are out of his stomach.” I told the dispatcher as I bent down next to the kid.

I heard myself scream as he grabbed my arm, “Jellybones,” he whispered, “She’s coming for you.”

“He’s been disemboweled? Ma’am, are you ok?” The dispatcher asked.

“I… I am fine, but he is not. The boy grabbed my arm as I bent down to check him. Yes, that’s what I meant, he has been disemboweled, but he is alive.” I answered her. “I am just stunned and overwhelmed by this whole thing.”

“That is understandable in this situation, ma’am. He is still alive?” The dispatcher asked.

“Yes, he’s still alive, he won’t let go of my arm,” I answered.

“Jellybones, Jellybones, she’s coming for you.” The boy whispered over and over as if he was giving me a warning. He looked terrified and squeezed my arm tighter. I could feel my arm start to go numb as he squeezed it, and through his black leather gloves, I could feel the chill of death.

Despite my anger of the destruction of my gallery, I stayed with him until help arrived, listening to his warnings about Jellybones.

The cops finally arrived and took over the scene, ushering me outside of the gallery. As the medical crew loaded the boy onto the gurney and started to wheel him out, he looked at me again, his eyes wide and anxious. He started to cackle hysterically, making my blood run cold.

“Jellybones is going to kill you!” He yelled through his laughter. “You are dead! You will die! Die… die… die… Dead! There is no escape!”

The medical crew loaded him into the ambulance and began to give him medication to calm him. Through the ketamine, he continued to laugh and scream his warnings to me. The words echoed through the metal walls of the vehicle as if they were nothing more than paper. I stood, unable to move as the anxiety of his words implanted themselves deep into my mind. What did he mean, who was going to kill me?

“Ma’am, if you could let us know if anything has been taken, we would appreciate it.” One of the policemen pulled me out of my thoughts; as he placed his hand on my shoulder, making me jump out of my skin.

“Of course, I also need to call our insurance company as well,” I said as I began to hyperventilate.

My boss was going to kill me, and the only thing I had to fear was getting fired. Of course, this was not my fault, but I would be an easy target to blame for allowing the crime to happen.

The officer helped me to the bench outside of the gallery, and I sat trying to catch my breath. Dirt had been kicked out of the garden areas by the bench, and boot prints ran across the garden with abandoned frenzy. The paramedics had destroyed the new mums that had been planted the day before. I put my head between my legs, selfishly more worried about losing my job than I was the kid who was on the way to the hospital dying.

“Do you need medical attention? I am sure that the boy’s words are frightening. I don’t think you need to worry about what he has said, I am sure no one is coming to kill you. When people are dying, it’s not uncommon for them to say weird random things in their own fear. Please do not hesitate to call me if you need anything.” The officer told me.

All I could do was give him an understanding nod; I could not tell him I was worried about losing my job, and not the break in. Besides, maybe the officer was right; maybe the words were nothing more than the fears of a dying boy, and nothing for me to worry about.

I finally managed to calm myself down, and the kind officer who had stayed with me left, making sure I had his card. I went back inside and started to take inventory of the broken items.

I noticed a small statue was missing from its shelf. It had been one of my favorite pieces in our gallery, of a medieval girl holding a cat in her arms. Just a simple statue, but sometimes simple things had more impact at least to my mind. It also had taken me a year to get it into our gallery after a bidding battle with another one in New York. I had won honestly, and to me, it was my trophy piece, my badge of honor.

I faxed my report to the insurance company and to the police station, closing the art gallery for the day. I called my husband Sam and told him what had happened at the gallery. I had forgotten to call my boss; I just wanted to get home where I would feel safe again and get away from this whole Jellybones nonsense.

Thank you for reading! Creative and helpful criticism is welcome! Find typos in this draft? Let me know!