When I was little I loved Scooby-Doo—the show itself more than the
titular character, who I always found a little disturbing if I’m being
honest. But I loved the ghosts and mysteries, and I loved Velma, who
was always smart and determined to keep the rest of the Scooby gang on
the right path. Apparently I loved the show and Velma so much than when
I was about four I would run around the house yelling “Jinkies!
Jinkies!” much to the annoyance of my brothers and long-suffering
parents. It was told to me a cute story when I was older, but I could
read between the lines.
I even had a little stuffed rabbit that I named Mr. Jinkies. I remember a friend of the family had brought him to me, a kind-looking older man in a gray overcoat, and I loved Mr. Jinkies from the start. I had nightmares a lot when I was small, and sleeping with Mr. Jinkies seemed to be a magical cure-all for them. It may seem silly, but I slept with that rabbit until I went to college, and ten years later, I still had him in a box of childhood toys and keepsakes in my attic.
I mention all of this because last week I went up into the attic looking for Mr. Jinkies. My best work friend, Melanie, has a little boy that has been having night terrors for months. They’ve tried sleep studies and child psychologists, but nothing has helped. I was kind of embarrassed, but seeing how worried she was, I felt like I should at least suggest a different option. I told her about how Mr. Jinkies had helped me get over my childhood fears, and that a similar thing might work for her little boy. Her eyes lit up, as much out of desperation as anything I think, and she asked if I still had Mr. Jinkies.
My first thought was actually to lie. I didn’t really want to give up my favorite childhood stuffed animal. But pushing down that first selfish impulse, I swallowed and nodded with a smile. I thought so, I said. I’d look and bring it the following day. She gave me a hug, telling me that she’d tell her little boy how it had helped me and that it would do the same for him. I hugged her back and tried to push away the strange anxiety I was feeling.
When I went up into the attic, it didn’t take long to find the right
box, as it was labeled “Stuffed animals and Mr. Jinkies”. I opened it
up and pulled him out, studying him in the dusty late afternoon sunlight
streaming through the attic window. He looked just as I remembered
him. Brown fur except for a white belly and paws, long ears that
flopped at the tips and black glass eyes that you could see yourself in.
I felt a small surge of excitement run through me holding him again,
and squeezing him to me I felt a strong urge to call Melanie and tell
her I didn’t have him anymore after all.
But that was silly, of course, and I told myself I could always get him back in a few weeks whether it helped him or not. The idea that I was planning on taking a new toy away from a small child never really occurred to me, and if Melanie looked strange when I told her it was just a loan of Mr. Jinkies, not a gift, I managed to ignore it.
Still, I felt good for helping them out, and the next day she came in glowing. She said the rabbit had worked like a charm, and they had all had the first good night’s sleep in months. I told her I was happy for them, and I was, but I admit I had to fight the urge to ask how many nights she thought they’d need him.
Then it was the weekend and I was busy getting ready for a family barbeque. My older brother couldn’t make it, but it was the first time I got to spend a day with my parents and my younger brother Bailey in a couple of months. He was just starting graduate school and so he would sneak off occasionally to study when he thought he had met some sociability threshold for the next hour or so, but I was busy helping our mother in the kitchen while Dad got the grill ready outside.
We were making hamburger patties when I mentioned that I had let Melanie borrow Mr. Jinkies. I jumped when the bowl my mother was holding shattered on the floor.
“What did you say?” I was looking at my mother, her face white as a sheet and her mouth trembling, a mound of raw hamburger meat and ruined porcelain splattered on the floor between her feet. “What name did you say?”
I was confused and scared by how she was acting. “Mr. Jinkies. My stuffed rabbit.” As I was speaking, she was coming across to me swiftly, her hand clapping across my mouth as I finished “rabbit”. Shaking her head violently, she resisted my efforts to pull away.
“No, no. You don’t ever say that name. Not ever. Where did you hear that name?” Her eyes were wild, and for the first time in my entire life, I was actually a little afraid of my mother.
She lowered her hand from my mouth and I pulled back some, but she still had a firm grip on my arm. “You know, my stuffed rabbit I had when I was little? Mr…I mean, that was its name.”
Her grasp on my arm tightened. “Who put you up to this? Was it your brother? Bailey is too young to remember, but Alan would know.” She gave me a small shake. “Tell me the truth.”
I felt my fear turning into anger as I yanked my arm away. “Chill the fuck out, Mom. I haven’t even talked to Alan in like a month, and since he didn’t show up today it will probably be another two before I see him. What’s the big deal about a stuffed rabbit?”
I could see my mother trying to regain her composure and only partially succeeding. She wiped a strand of hair from her face and gestured to the table. “Sit down for a minute.” When I pointed at the mess on the floor, she waved it away. “I’ll get that up when we’re done talking. But I need to talk to you about this now.” Her face softened as she motioned for me to sit again. “Please, honey.”
Slowly I sat down. I felt disoriented, as though I was having an entirely different conversation than the one my mother was in. How could it be this big of a…
“You never had a stuffed rabbit.”
I laughed. So it was some weird joke. “Yeah, sure. You’ll have to explain that to the kid I gave him to.” I tried to stop there, but I felt compelled to add, “Loaned him to.” She was shaking her head again. I pushed on, explaining how I remembered getting him, naming him after my favorite catchphrase from Scooby-Doo, how he helped me with my nightmares…
She interrupted me, a finger stabbing the air in my direction. “Oh, you had nightmares. And you did know a Mr….you know. But it wasn’t some stuffed toy.”
I felt my stomach beginning to sink. It wasn’t a joke. She was really upset. “What was Mr. Jinkies then?”
I saw her wince at the name, but she went on. “We never knew for sure. When you were about three, you started talking to something nobody else could see. You were just learning to talk, and it’s not uncommon for small children to babble off and on to themselves. But instead of lessening, as you got older it got worse. By the time you were four you were telling us stories about Mr….Mr. Jinkies. About how he was this funny creature that told you stories and sung you songs. That was about the time the nightmares started.”
“At first we thought it was just normal night terrors. Took you to the doctor, saw a child therapist a couple of times, but nothing seemed to help. Then we started seeing the marks on you.”
I frowned, my skin starting to prickle. “Marks? What kinds of marks?”
Her lips had started trembling again, and she covered her mouth with her hand as she went on. “Bite marks mainly. Small and not shaped like anything we knew. Some scratches too.” She looked up at the ceiling, her eyes wet and glistening. “My God, we were so terrified. We didn’t know if someone was abusing you, or if some animal was getting in at night somehow. We went and stayed at a motel for a few nights, but it made no difference. The nightmares and the marks kept happening, and as time went on, you were getting more and more where you wouldn’t talk to us. You would only talk to Mr. Jinkies.”
She let out a shuddering breath and looked back at me. “Eventually we brought in specialists. A man who was a former priest and an expert in, well, occult-type things. He said something had attached itself to you. Over the next few days, he tried to get rid of it, and it looked like it worked. You stopped being attacked, stopped having dreams. You were young enough that we swore to never tell you about it, never talk about it again.” Reaching forward, my mother grabbed my hand in hers. “But now I don’t think it ever really left you. These memories you have about this toy…none of that ever happened. I think it just hid inside of you and waited.”
Pulling my hand away, I felt a mixture of fear, anger and guilt. “That’s not possible. I held that rabbit in my hands this week. It was real.”
She shrugged. “I believe you, and I can’t explain it. But I can tell you that didn’t happen when you were growing up, and whatever you gave to that little boy, him and his family are in danger.” She grabbed my hand again. “But don’t you take it back. Whatever you do, don’t you take it back. Warn them, tell them to burn it. Maybe that will work. But don’t you ever see it or touch it again. Promise me.” Her grip and gaze were desperate and hot, and I found myself nodding even though I knew it was likely a lie.
After quick excuses and good-byes I headed out, telling my mother that I was going to call Melanie on the phone, but I wouldn’t go by her house. I did call, but my car was already pointed in her direction. After the third call to voicemail I gave up. Thirty minutes later I was pulling up in her driveway. There were two cars parked there already, but at first I saw no signs of people. Then the front door opened and Melanie came out.
“Hey, what’re you doing here?” She was friendly, but she seemed tense as well. She came down to meet me and gave me a hug. “Sorry I didn’t answer the phone a few minutes ago. I’ve been running around like a crazy person this afternoon. I’m about to give Sidney his bath, but if you want to come hang out for a few minutes it won’t take long and we can visit.”
I wasn’t sure how to react. I had half-decided I was going to be walking into some horror show when I arrived, but instead everything seemed pretty normal. Melanie was staring at me, waiting for a response, so finally I just nodded, mumbled something about just dropping by to say hi, and followed her inside.
The interior of the house was messy, but normal “small child in the family” messy. She led me back into Sidney’s playroom and I felt a small chill when I saw the little boy on the floor whispering something to Mr. Jinkies. The rabbit stared passively back with its black gaze, but even at that distance I thought I could hear some kind of low, scratchy response to the child’s words. Sidney looked up at us as we approached, and I found myself struck by the shadows I could see under his eyes now. He looked sicker now than he had even in pictures I’d seen after his night terrors had started. I almost mentioned it to Melanie, but something held me back.
With some mild protests and reluctance at leaving the rabbit behind,
Sidney went to take his bath. I sat down in a large, overstuffed chair
that was likely used for reading stories and taking naps on most days.
From the angle I was sitting, Mr. Jinkies’ back was to me, but I still
couldn’t keep my eyes away from that small brown form.
Then I saw it was moving. Or rather, something was moving inside of it. At first I thought it was my imagination getting the better of me, but then the movements grew more obvious and I saw the first bone-white legs of the thing that was coming out from around the edge of the rabbit’s cocoa fur. I tried to scream or move, but I couldn’t. I was frozen in place, and by more than fear. It was holding me somehow.
It slowly pulled its impossible length from inside that small toy, wet strings of yellow ichor trailing back to what I could only assume was a gaping wound in the obscured stomach of the stuffed rabbit. It looked like a centipede more than anything, but its legs were thicker and had too many joints, and its face had so many eyes and mouths. It raised up until it was at eye-level, it’s body and legs moving side to side languidly as it regarded me. It makes no sense, but that terrible face seemed simultaneously tiny and enormous, its eyes boring into me until they were the whole world.
That’s when I remembered everything. I remembered this face of Mr. Jinkies and the true face behind it that was somehow much, much worse. I remembered its low, scratchy voice that had seemed so funny when I first heard it as a child, but had soon become the discordant tune of my terror and pain. I felt myself urinating and I didn’t have the presence of mind to care or feel embarrassment. I was too focused on the words emblazoned across my mind.
Leave me here or take me back. It is your choice.
I didn’t wait for Sidney to finish his bath before I left. I haven’t answered Melanie’s calls or texts, and I called work to tell them that I’m not coming back. I’ll change my number in the next few days as well. I thought I would feel more guilt or shame, and I do feel some, but not much. I keep thinking about an old joke my Dad told me once.
Two hunters are wading across a river, their boots strung around their necks, when they see a grizzly bear looking at them from the bank. The bear starts towards them and one of the hunters takes off running in the other direction. He’s making slow progress barefoot on the riverbed, but when he looks back his friend hasn’t started running yet. Instead he’s putting back on his boots. He yells for his friend to come on. Freshly booted, his friend starts running, soon catching up and starting to pass his barefooted friend as they make it to the far shore with the bear close behind. As he passes him, he yells back, “I don’t have to beat the bear, I just have to beat you,” and leaves his friend in the dust.
I wish I was a stronger person. A better person. I thought I was,
but I’m not. I can’t have that thing near me again, whatever it is. I
have to be rid of it, really rid of it, forever this time. I could call
this a confession, but I think you have to repent to really confess.
And in the dark, quiet hours that I lay awake, worried I’ll hear a
stealthy rustle across my floor or the thump of a stuffed rabbit flung
against my front door, I’m at my most honest.
And if Mr. Jinkies comes back, I’ve already made a list of other children I can give him to.
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Credits
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