What’s Wrong With Uncle Charlie

My Uncle Charlie and I have always shared a special bond. He would visit every Christmas, and we spent our summers road-tripping to his cabin. I loved when he’d take us out on the lake in his fancy boat, whipping us around on the tube until our arms gave out. Even now, he’s the only person who can make me snort-laugh with his Donald Duck impression. So I was thrilled, if a little surprised, when my parents told me he’d be visiting Presidents Day weekend.

“Smells good in here, Pa!” I called out to my dad, who was working diligently in the kitchen as I bounced down the stairs. “What’s on the menu tonight?” 

“Steak and potatoes—my specialty!” He looked over at me with steam-coated glasses. And it was. This man had spent his entire adult life perfecting the most mouthwatering, melted-in-your-mouth steak and potatoes you’d ever have, I guarantee it.

“What time is Uncle Charlie supposed to get here?” I asked as I hoisted myself up to sit on the island in front of where my father was cooking. 

He glanced down at his watch. “Should be here any minute.” 

“Why’s he visiting anyway?”

“Dunno.” He turned around with a plate full of steaks. “Could you put these on the table for me?”

“Yeah. Sure.” I hopped down from my perch and carried the steaks into the dining room. The table is perfectly set with an Americana-themed tablescape. That’s what my mom called it when she did up the table with fancy centerpieces she crafted. She was obsessed with watching Semi-Homemade Cooking with Sandra Lee on the Food Network. 

“You know, I worry about him these days.” He set the casserole dish of warm and gooey Cheesy Potatoes onto the red gingham-clothed table. 

“Oh yeah? How come?” 

“He’s getting older, and he’s all alone up there in his cabin. I'm sure it gets lonely.” 

“C’mon, Dad, it’s Charlie. You know how he is.” 

“Content in his solitude,” we said in unison. 

The doorbell rang, followed by a pitter-patter of footsteps.

“Hey! You made it! How was the drive?” My mom's voice carried down the hallway. “You’ve made it just in time, Rob and Rebecca just put the food on the table.”

Mom and Uncle Charlie emerged from the dimly lit hallway; she always avoided using the “big lights” whenever possible. 

“Look who’s here!” she said in sing-song, waving her hands next to Uncle Charlie like a magician who’s just made someone reappear. 

I rounded the table in a near sprint and greeted him with our usual bear hug. Instead of reciprocating, he just stood there and gently patted my back 3 times. Awkward. Was I getting too old for it now? I knew I should have grown out of it by then, but it was Charlie. It was our thing. 

“I don’t know about you guys, but I gotta eat!” Dad said, rubbing large circles over his stomach. “Plus, Charlie must be starving after his trip. Huh, Chuck?” 

“Yes. Food sounds pleasant.” 

“Let’s have a seat, shall we?” My mom pulled out a chair for Charlie and then took her own next to Dad. 

Charlie remained in the doorway. 

“Are you gonna sit down, Uncle Charlie?” 

“Yes.” He chose the seat directly across from me; the seat my mother pulled out remained ignored. Mom did her usual fake laugh—the one she used when something awkward happened and she didn’t know what to say. 

Mom and Dad helped plate everyone, piling up heaping mounds of Cheesy Potatoes. We all dug in—well, everyone except for Charlie. 

“So, Chuckie, how’s the snow up there?” Dad said through a mouthful of steak. 

Charlie stared at his plate, tenderly smushing the potatoes with his fork. “Snow is good.” 

Strange. Uncle Charlie was an avid skier; you usually couldn’t get him to shut up about the “pow.” One Christmas, he spent an hour lecturing us on the various styles of ski gear and their purposes. 

The man who sat in front of me looked like Uncle Charlie. He had the same dark salt-and-pepper hair. He wore his favorite Patagonia pull-over and khaki pants. Like Charlie did. 

“Aw, phooey!” I said in my best attempt at a Donald Duck voice. 

Charlie looked up at me. Hope rose in my chest.

“Does something ail you, child?” 

My heart plummeted. 

“That’s not Charlie.” I slammed my hands down on the table, rattling the glasses and silverware. 

“Rebecca Marie!” Mom scolded me. “I’m sure Charlie is just going through something.” 

“Yeah, what’s going on, Chaz?” Dad put his fork down. 

Charlie hung his head. 

“Charles, is everything okay? Look, man, Wendy and I can help you. Whatever it is.”

Charlie began muttering under his breath as his body convulsed. 

“Honey, maybe we need to take him to a hospital.” Mom placed her hand on top of Dad’s. 

Slimy puce-colored tentacles slithered onto the table from where Charlies hands had been, weaving around the picture-perfect Americana. 

“What the hell is that!” We all jumped out of our chairs. The tentacles rushed towards mom and dad, wrapped around their ankles, and wound up and around their bodies. They forced their way into their mouths. Their muffled cries lasted only a few seconds before their body went limp. 

A blood-curdling scream tore out of me. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t escape. Fear had me in a wicked vice. 

Charlie’s head turned slowly towards me, and he opened his mouth completely agape. A choir of voices—male and female, young and old—spoke through his unmoving lips. 

“We wait for you, child.”