MARROWMAN

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Nothing to spill really.

Im just picturing the south shore being inhabited by angry dwarves.

It is.

They are positively Hobbsian; Nasty, brutish, and short...The only evidence of which I need offer is EoC.

The thing is, it isn't genetic dwarfism.  We bargain sections of our bones away.  Every one of us has their own price, but in the end we always pay it.  The Marrowman sees to that.

Oh...I like that.  Tell me more.

[Nephew Twiddleton]

Damn. Waffle iron may have to find himself back in new bedford at some point.

[Eater of Clowns]

Nothing to spill really.

Im just picturing the south shore being inhabited by angry dwarves.

It is.

They are positively Hobbsian; Nasty, brutish, and short...The only evidence of which I need offer is EoC.

The thing is, it isn't genetic dwarfism.  We bargain sections of our bones away.  Every one of us has their own price, but in the end we always pay it.  The Marrowman sees to that.

Oh...I like that.  Tell me more.

My friend Brian I've known since high school.  I met the guy during the first class of the first day, Ms. Piermont's French class.  We were close enough in those years, eating shitty fast food and not paying to see movies, going to music shows.  In college we were a few hours away from each other and eventually lost touch.  One of those deals.  Anyway a few weeks ago I drove down to Providence to meet up with Brian for the first time in a few years.  Oddly enough, he lives in Richter's neighborhood.  We walked down to a cigar bar and I couldn't stop looking at Brian's hands.

Brian's a big guy.  He's got some pounds on him, always has, but you can tell just by looking at him that even if he was thin he'd have a large build.  But his hands just don't fit that build.  And of course I kept staring at them over my glass of Guiness, through the lazily rolling smoke of the old joint.  And of course he'd notice.  Brian's hands are much, much smaller than any man his size could naturally be.  So I look at the friend I knew pretty well when we were younger and I wonder what Brian's price was for The Marrowman.  What did Brian buy with the bones in his hand?

The Marrowman doesn't work on wishes.  It's not like you can say "I'd give my left pinkie for a doughnut" and there he is with a contract.  The south coast would be a land of plenty if that were true, and if you know anything about us you know that it's just not the case.  You ever see those old cartoon door to door insurance salesmen?  There's something slimey about the way they put that doubt in your head that you aren't protected, that anything could happen and hey, wouldn't it be great if you could give us a few bucks and sign your worries away?  He's good at that, finding that lever, never threatening, and being there just when he needs to be.

Now maybe he knew to come to this beleaguered place that used to stand so proudly.  We don't talk about him a lot, of course, because how do you tell someone you sold an inch out of your femur.  The few folks I know willing to say anything seem to think we're lucky, like we have some guardian angel keeping us from falling off the edge.  It's beautiful, really.  In life we all stand at this precipice at some point, teetering above a canyon and scared to breathe, pressed desperately to the cold wall behind us and maybe in that moment finding faith.  Then comes the salesman with his promises, that the drop won't kill you or that he can tell you where to find the next handhold, whispering his promises and his price.  His very reasonable price.  Nobody ever wonders why so many of us down here seem to find ourselves in that rocky little place again and again.

A splinter of bone to take the fear away.  A shaving to laugh and he picks from where it comes.  Brian knows he's lucky with the tiny hands because what's an index finger to a hip joint?  We've both seen the guys with those.  And, hey, he can still play guitar.  Did I mention he moved to Providence a few years back?  Moved to Providence and makes the commute back here, back home, to work with troubled kids.  Kids who might be more than happy to sign away their shins to the man with the toothy smile.  I think he's trying to teach them something about that.  Brian learned the price of his bones the hard way.

[Nephew Twiddleton]

Holy shit...

[LMNO]

New England is a garden of spooky shit.

[Nephew Twiddleton]

Its an evil land lmno. That is why the puritans decided to make their last stand against the darkness here. And we all know from how many puritans you see walking around who won that war. The darkness is here now unopposed. It is merely biding its time.

[Nephew Twiddleton]

Hey- i request a thread split. I got a couple of ideas brewing and the marrowman deserves to be an op anyway.

[Eater of Clowns]

Hey- i request a thread split. I got a couple of ideas brewing and the marrowman deserves to be an op anyway.

Thanks.  I was debating between its own thread with a link in this one and just putting it here (which is why, actually, Guinness is spelled wrong in this one, because I corrected it in the other).

[Nephew Twiddleton]

No problem! I like the idea of creepy new england stories. Ill be tackling the idea of what happened to the puritans.

[East Coast Hustle]

I like this thread alot.

[Luna]

Oh, awesome...

[Arim the Backwards One]

I like this thread. I like spooky stories. A lot.

[Eater of Clowns]

Thanks, all.

Brian (name changed) is real.  I e-mailed him this after I wrote it.  He'd mentioned something shitty happening so I wanted to make sure he was cautioned against bargaining away more bones.

[Aucoq]

That's so creepy and awesome, EoC.  I love it!

And I can't wait to read what you write, Twid.  I've never been to the New England area, but you guys might be on to something here.  After all, a significant portion of Stephen King's fortune was made from writing about the horrors within Maine.   

[Nephew Twiddleton]

Have you ever wondered what happened to the Puritans?

You know, the Mayflower, funny hats, buckle shoes, Thanksgiving, scarlet letters, stockades, hanging witches? If you ask a historian they'll tell you that they became Congregationalists, with the United Church of Christ as their most direct descendant. But that's the easy answer. The one that people have to believe. Because I'm pretty sure I know what happened to the Puritans.

I have this cousin, Clement, comes from old Plymouth stock on his daddy's side. Clem and I used to be real close. Even managed to go to war together. Clem used to be a real cheery sort. Not like he is now. Back then he was a bit of a chatterbox, and quite the ladies' man. The war didn't change any of that. It did for a lot of fellas, but not ole' Clem.

When we got back from the war, Clem snagged himself a fine young brunette that I had my eyes set on. I didn't hold it against him though. Women were more naturally drawn to him. Eventually he got around to marrying her and had themselves a son. He's a grandpa now, as am I, but he ended up looking the part well before I did.

These days when Clem walks into the room people go colorblind. That's no exaggeration either- everything takes on a grey cast when he's around, and the sun dims just enough for you to notice. Clem keeps mostly to himself these days, and no one really minds that, because mostly we don't much like having him around. Used to be people always wanted him around. Used to be he'd make those colors seem brighter. That all changed when Clem's daddy died. He became real dour after that.

Clem's the church-going sort these days. Doesn't talk much about it, doesn't much like the company, but shows up for service every Sunday. Doesn't like preachers who talk fire and brimstone at all though. We had one of them once. Clem took exception to his sermons. That pastor didn't take long to request transfer to another parish. Don't know what Clem did to spook him, but the pastor would glance at him kinda fearful until his replacement took over.


You want to know what happened to the Puritans?

The Puritans were the sort of folk who saw the struggle between good and evil everywhere. The land of New England was this place of darkness, an evil wilderness where the Devil lived just outside of town. They made their stand against that darkness and did some dark things themselves.

In time those Puritans realized that they lost their stand against the darkness. They had been powerless against it. It was they who had become the darkness. The more they fought it, the more powerful it became. No one was sure anymore whether the darkness came from New England, or if they brought it with them. Only that it had become them. Sometimes a sin becomes so heavy that a sacrifice must be made in order to atone for it, like the Israelites did with that goat for Azazel. All that darkness has to go somewhere.

Back when Clem's daddy, Enoch, was on his deathbed, he asked to speak to Clem alone. Clem was in there for about ten minutes, and in that ten minutes aged about twenty years. His hands went bony, his eyes sank in, his hair turned grey, and he had this look on his face like he was chained up, and nothing would ever free him. He never smiled again. Never. No one knows what old Enoch said in that room- he was dead when Clem came out, and Clem never said anything about it. No one wanted to ask him either. Clem and I are old men now. Clem's not doing so good healthwise.  I'd say it's likely he's not long for this world. His son is a cheery sort, a bit of a chatterbox. Has himself a fine wife and a son. But I expect it won't belong before Clem has a ten minute conversation with him.

I think I know pretty well what happened to the Puritans.