UNCLE BLOB by William Pauley III
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UNCLE BLOB
by William Pauley III
My family doesn’t celebrate Christmas anymore.
We don’t exchange gifts for any occasion.
The decision was unanimous.
It wasn’t swayed by a religious belief or moral choice or anything like that.
It makes us sick.
I mean it—physically ill.
If I see a ribbon or a bow, I gag.
If I see a box that’s even the slightest bit decorated, I dry heave.
If I catch a glimpse of light reflecting off a single silvery slither of tinsel, I vomit inside my mouth a little.
You won’t find any of that stuff in my house.
Or my parents’ house.
Or my sister’s house.
We gave it up.
And I have a feeling you will too, once you hear my story.
It was the last year I ever saw my Uncle Bob. At the time, I was something like five years old and my sister was even younger.
He wasn’t supposed to come over.
A few days earlier, my dad had broken the news to us that his brother had fallen on hard times and wasn’t able to visit or send gifts that year. Our little hearts were broken. Uncle Bob was the best, the life of the party. We all had such a great time when he was around, and he always gave us the best presents, too. More often than not, they were more exciting than the ones Santa would bring. That year, I had my heart set on a Game Boy. I literally cried when dad told us he wasn’t coming.
Sometime later, my sister and I were sitting on the floor of our warm, cozy home, cutting construction paper into snowflakes with wonderfully complex patterns. Dad was smoking his pipe, listening to some holiday record, one he had owned since he was a kid, and mom was in another room, wrapping gifts or washing clothes or whatever it was moms did whenever they were out of the room.
Then came the knock.
I’ll never forget it.
A single knock, followed by a cacophony of other noises.
What it sounded like turned out to be exactly what it was—someone had thrown their body full force into our front door.
Without caution or brandishing a weapon of any kind, dad carelessly ran to the door and as soon as he twisted the knob, the door was thrown open violently and the body on the other side came crashing down onto our living room floor.
It was Uncle Bob.
My sister and I leapt to our feet and screamed out with joy. Dad looked confused. Mom had just made her way into the room.
“Bob? What on earth?!” she said, helping dad lift him up onto his feet. He could hardly stand without a shoulder to lean on. His hair was disheveled and wet with sweat and his beard was as long as I’d ever seen it. He looked around the room, disoriented. His skin was so white he was almost clear. I heard dad ask if he’d been drinking.
“Not a drop. I swear it,” and dad believed him, but only after taking a whiff of his breath.
My parents looked at each other and shrugged. For a moment, no one was talking and Bob’s head was swaying and everything felt painfully awkward. Mom finally broke the silence.
“Let me take your coat, Bob,” she said, reaching for his collar. He immediately pushed her hands away.
“No, no. I’m fine. I won’t be staying long. Just wanted to drop off some presents, then I’ll be on my way.” His voice was trembling as if he was worried, but his smile told us he was a-okay. Once he caught sight of us kids, he lifted both his thumbs up in the air, as if to say ‘the party’s on!’ We smiled back.
Around that time, he finally noticed the barking dogs at his feet. Four little, squeaky pomeranians. “Wow! Four of them! Are these new?” Bob asked, a little too close to dad’s face.
“New-ish,” dad said, pulling Bob towards the couch. “Why don’t you have a seat. You’re killing my arm.”
“Gee, I wish you told me about the dogs,” Bob said, sitting on the center cushion of the couch. “I didn’t bring them anything. I hope they understand.”
“Looking good, Bob! Have you lost weight?” mom asked. It was a lie. Had to be. Bob did not look great. He looked sick. Deathly ill. She must’ve been nervous. No other explanation for it.
Bob laughed. “You know, I have! I’m on this new diet. Lost five pounds in the span of an hour!”
She gasped audibly. “In one hour? Is that even possible?”
“I’m living proof!” he shouted, a little louder than he probably should’ve.
“You’ll have to share your secret,” she said, just above a whisper. She was smiling as she said it, but her eyes were darting back and forth as if she was simultaneously planning an exit. As the words escaped her lips, Bob’s mouth drooped, causing the smile to slide right off his face, then his body slumped over and lurched forward, like a robot that had been unplugged. He would’ve bumped his head on the coffee table if it wasn’t for dad catching him by the back of the coat right at the last second.
“You’re drunk!” dad shouted. Mom cupped her hands over our ears.
“I’m not drunk! I don’t even drink! You know that!” Bob shouted back. His eyes remained closed through every word. He turned to us, as if the accusations were never spoken aloud, and said, “You kids ready for presents?”
“Yay!” we shouted, willing to completely ignore our instincts, the deep fear in our guts telling us danger was imminent and to retreat immediately, all over the thought of a fancy new electronic. Dad was ready to throw him to the curb, but he let him stay for our sake. He knew we’d never forgive him if he tossed Uncle Moneybags out after he’d said those five wonderful words.
“Now let’s see what I’ve got here,” he said, batting at his coat pockets. After a considerable amount of time had passed, he finally removed what appeared to be two oversized mayonnaise jars, both generously speckled with red-colored fingerprints. Written on the label, in dark black marker, were the words, ‘UNCLE BLOB.’ “Oh-ho-ho! What’s this? Looks like one present for Bikey and one present for Bolo!”
He handed me and my sister each a jar. Neither of us were named Bikey or Bolo, but we took them anyway. The walls of the jar were made of clear plastic, thankfully, so we didn’t have to open the lids to know what was inside. Knowing we were spared of whatever fetid odors they contained is the only part of this story I’m thankful for. Inside the jar, was some jiggly, pasty, gelatin-like substance, wadded into a ball and full of debris. It looked as if he’d kicked a ball of dough around the floor for an hour, sealed it up inside whatever container was closest to him at the time, then gave it away as a gift. My sister’s had a soiled strip of medical gauze stuck to it. Mom immediately swiped the jar from her hands to get a closer look.
“What the hell is this? Used Play-Doh?” she asked. She may have been speaking to Bob, but she was looking directly at dad. “It’s a white glob with red swirls and has all these little curly hairs in it! And is this an old mayonnaise jar? Jesus, Bob. Disgusting!” That’s when she took the jar from my hands and placed them both on the coffee table. We didn’t fight her to get them back.
“It’s sort of like Play-Doh, yeah,” Bob said, a little too quietly this time. He looked as if he was about to fall asleep again.
Dad leaned in and not-so-quietly asked his brother, “What the hell’s up with all the weirdo gifts, huh? Did you seriously bring my kids Jell-O blobs with hair?”
Bob instantly got defensive and began rambling incoherently. “Hey, man… this is all I could afford this year, alright? I didn’t want to let my favorite nephews down. Uncle Bob’s got the gifts! And, anyway… it’s the thought that counts, right? I’m thinking. These are my thoughts. They count. Okay? These are all for you and it all counts.” He was getting winded. After taking a deep breath, he whispered, “It’s the thought that counts, man. It’s the thought—”
Bob lost consciousness again and completely annihilated the coffee table. Dad pulled him back onto his feet in a single violent motion. He looked like he wanted to punch him, but refrained. Bob’s cheeks were now flushed and he was sweating profusely. Foam was forming at the corners of his mouth.
“Jesus, Bob! You’re overheating! Take off that coat at once!” mom said, forcefully pulling at his collar again. He was too weak to fight her off anymore.
As soon as she removed the coat from his torso, we all screamed.
Mom nearly passed out.
I don’t think I took a single breath for minutes after that.
My heart stopped.
I imagine all of ours did.
Once the coat was removed, we knew at once where those gummy blobs in jars had come from: his own body. The shirt he was wearing was completely soaked in fresh blood.
Bob just looked at us as we stared in horror, then laughed. “What? It isn’t that bad! It’s not! It’s not that bad!”
There was also a significant amount of blood gushing through his trousers, just below the waistline, but it seemed as if only my mother and I had noticed.
Bob turned to my father and pushed a small package into his hands. It looked to be wrapped in the same wax paper commonly used in butcher shops.
“Your turn,” he said, suddenly seeming chipper and full of energy. He nodded for dad to open it. “It’s something you’ve had your eye on since we were kids. Don’t think I never noticed. Now, it’s all yours.”
Dad shook his head.
“Open it, Stuart,” Bob said, more sternly now. The two of them stared each other down for a moment, then dad tossed the gift to the floor. The dogs took immediate interest in it.
Bob leaned over, picked up the gift, and pinned it against dad’s chest. “Open your gift, Stuart,” he repeated.
“Alright, alright!” mom shouted. “Things have gotten out of hand! Bob, I’m calling an ambulance. You’ve lost too much blood. You’re not thinking straight.”
“Maybe it’s time for Donna’s present then?” Bob asked, unblinking. He removed yet another bloody gift from his pants pocket, this one long and cylindrical, like a wrapped candy cane. “Here you go, darling. I’ve been meaning to give it to you for a looonnnngggg time now, but the timing was never right.”
He motioned for mom to take the gift. She glanced briefly at the crazed smile spread across his face, then down at his hemorrhaging zipper, then back up at his smile again.
She didn’t want the gift.
“Come now,” he said, creepily winking. “Your gift is extra special.”
“Damn it, Bob… I think you should leave!” dad finally said, gathering up all the grotesque gifts and shoving them into Bob’s chest. We’d all been silently hoping he'd say those words since the moment the coat was removed, but he was clearly overstimulated and not thinking clearly. Admittedly, it was a lot to take in.
Dad pushed Bob toward the door, so hard he nearly stumbled. The dogs saw this act of violence and began barking again.
“But wait!” Bob shouted. “The dogs! I didn’t know you had dogs!”
“No worries, Bob. The dogs are fine. They’re just dogs,” dad said. There was a politeness to his anger that I appreciate more today than I did in that particular moment. “Off you go!”
Somehow Bob managed the strength to wrestle his way out of dad’s grasp. He took off sprinting across the living room floor. Mom wrapped her arms around our little bodies, attempting to shield us from whatever insanity was about to happen next, but I remember it clearly. If only she would’ve shielded our eyes instead…
Bob found the pair of scissors resting on the floor, in our sea of paper snowflakes, and quickly snatched them up. He held up his hand for all to see, his four fingers spread wide, then proceeded to snip each digit off in a single cut. Blood sprayed to the ceiling. The fingers fell to the floor and each of the dogs scooped one up into their mouths.
“Merry Christmas!” Bob shouted, between gasps for breath. “Merry Christmas from Uncle Bob!”
Then the room went silent… except for our crying… and the dogs chewing… and Bing Crosby’s delightful crooning in the background.
Dad eventually snapped out of his stupor and wrangled Bob to the door. It was much easier now that Bob had considerably less blood in his system than he had when he first arrived. As the two tussled, Bob repeatedly shouted, “Merry Christmas from Uncle Bob! Merry Christmas from Uncle Bob!”
Once Bob was finally out, dad shut the door firmly and locked both the knob and the deadbolt.
We all sat together on the floor after that, not saying a word, trying to make sense of the scene that had just played out before us.
By the following year, we all agreed we’d never exchange gifts again.
William Pauley III is the author of THE BEDLAM BIBLE series, HEARERS OF THE CONSTANT HUM, and AUTOMATED DAYDREAMING. He was the owner/editor of THE NEW FLESH bizarro publication for three years and editor of BIZARRO CENTRAL for a year. Fangoria Magazine once called his work “a perfect example of bizarro fiction … every line is littered with wild and imaginative ideas” and Gabino Iglesias (author of The Devil Takes You Home) said he was “one of the most recognizable voices in weird literature.”
You can read every story he’s ever written by becoming a paid subscriber of DOOM FICTION.
“The dogs took immediate interest in it” was my favorite line, until I made it to “She didn’t want the gift.” Beautiful, understated, perfect.
Yikes! An insane corruption of what it means to give of yourself!