The Scar of the Phoenix

by Mike Mayak

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The draws for the September 2024 Flash Fiction Draw Challenge were: A Horror Story, set in a Costume Shop, involving a Dumpster. Here’s mine.—-mike

The sign on the little downtown shop read simply: “Margolis’ Costumes.” Scrunched in between a key shop and a closed-down garage it was part of a row in an old brick building that dated back to the thirties at least.

Joey Margolis and Matt Wieks were crouched over in the cramped back room going through boxes of old theatrical costumes Joey’s Aunt (who owned the shop) had bought in a blind lot at auction. So far they hadn’t found anything that would have been out-of place at the thrift shop a few blocks away, including a suit that looked like it had stepped out of the year 1975.

Joey glanced around the room, glad his Aunt paid the two of them to do stuff like this. They were both twentysomethings who’d moved into a cramped apartment not much bigger than this back room. They needed the money.

“Hey, look at this!” Joey had pulled out a long, flowered dress that looked like it belonged in 1890. It was out of a separate and very dusty box that had been in the lot.

“That’s from that play your Aunt talked about,” Matt said. “Pretty rare stuff.”

“I can’t believe she’s thinking about getting rid of it,” Joey said, holding the dress next to him. “She’s funny that way. Hey, give me a minute or two, okay?”

Joey stepped into the next room with the dress while Matt inspected the box. On the outside was a printed label: THE SCAR OF THE PHOENIX. Original Production, 1911. Besford Theater.

Matt rummaged through the clothes, pulling out an old red derby which he set to one side. Then searched the name on his smartphone.

“Hey, Joey!” Matt called out. “I think I know why this stuff creeps your Aunt out. The original production lasted one night after one of the actors killed another one during the first performance. Yeow! Wasn’t in the script.”

Matt scrolled down and read some more.

“Hey get this; during a revival of the play in 1947 one of the cast went after her fellow cast members with a knife during dress rehearsal. They subdued her and canceled the performance. The guy who wrote the play, Chambre, was a notorious Occultist who died under mysterious circumstances and the play is believed to be cursed.”

He looked up and whistled. Joey was standing there in the dress. He wasn’t doing full on drag with wig or makeup but the dress did something for him.

“Nice!” Matt said. Joey had done an amateur drag show at a local club the night when he and Matt had first made out. That had been their sophomore year of College. They were still taking classes but hadn’t graduated. They were “an item” if not officially a couple.

“Glad you like it,” Joey said. The voice somehow wasn’t quite his, it spoke of an earlier time and ancient things that had not all crumbled to dust. “I serve the Ravager. Dark Dolggna and the Low One.”

Joey advanced on Matt. He was holding a screwdriver like a knife. The point looked dangerous.

Joey swiped at Matt barely missing him.

“Hey, what the hell?” Matt yelled. Joey stabbed at him again cutting Matt’s shirt and drawing blood from his shoulder. There was a look in Joey’s eyes that wasn’t Joey.

“You will be for the Servitor an entry into greatness.”

“Joey!” Matt yelled as Joey moved in. But Matt had dated biker guys, he aimed a kick at Joey’s crotch doubling him over. Matt quickly pushed Joey down on the ground, knocked the screwdriver away and jumped on top of him. He clutched the fabric of the dress as Joey struggled and snarled; it felt warm, humming, alive.

“This stuff is cursed,” Matt said. “I don’t believe it but it is,” Matt said. He began to rip the dress off Joey. The ancient fabric gave away and tore easily and in a moment Joey stopped fumbling for the screwdriver and stared up with a blank expression.

Matt tore the rest of the dress of Joey, leaving him there in his t-shirt and jeans.

“What the hell is going on?” Joey breathed. He looked up at Matt. “Did I? Was I? Oh my God! That wasn’t me!”

“Yeah, I know.” Matt said. “There’s evil in this stuff. Your Aunt was right.”

“What’re we gonna do?” Joey asked.

“Burn it out back.” Matt said. “In the dumpster. All of it.”

He helped Joey to his feet and then they kissed for a moment, Joey not noticing that Matt had tossed the screwdriver under the cabinet on the wall.

“I bet Aunt Belinda wanted it burned anyway.” Joey said.

“Let’s not wait to ask her.” Matt said, picking up the big cardboard box of clothes from the ancient play.

It wasn’t as if they’d never burned old stuff before, Matt reflected. He followed Joey out as he tossed the torn-up dress in the dumpster and fumbled around in his pockets for a lighter. Matt was balancing the box full of clothes in his arms and had put the old derby on his head, making it easier to carry. Matt remembered that Joey had always admired his muscles. Matt worked out a lot. So it was easy for Matt to use one of the costume’s belts to throttle Joey from behind.

Matt let Joey’s body fall to the ground and pressed the hat down more firmly on his head. There would need to be more sacrifices, he realized. He walked back into the shop remembering where Joey’s aunt kept the pair of scissors, the names echoing in his head as they were once called out in lost Carcosa; “Hastor! Hali! Uoht! And Icy Thabbas!”

They would see blood run…

—end—

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Okay, “Kill Your Gays” is a trope I justly despise, but I figured what the hey! And I dedicate this to the late writer Robert W. Chambers (1865-1933) with thanks for the inspiration! —-mike