The Weird Tapes

I found a weird tape in my mailbox today. I had stopped to check the mail on my way home after work, like I do every day. There was the usual assortment of 'pre-approved' credit card offers, unpaid medical bills, and one of those sign-up card things from this stupid magazine my mother used to get once a month. They're still sending the damn promotional materials marked, "Current Resident." Bloodsuckers.

Anyway, under all that crap was another envelope. A strange, manilla number that was wrapped in packing tape. Damn near covered in the stuff, really. There were no markings on it. No postage. Just the envelope.

I didn't give it much of a thought, when I grabbed it out of the mailbox and took it inside. I figured, worst case scenario, I'd mark it "Return to Sender" and dump it back in the mailbox with the flag up.

Once I got inside the house, I tossed the junk mail and flopped down on the couch with the weird envelope. I turned it over a few times, trying to find a place where I could pull at the tape, but it was wrapped pretty tightly. I popped up from the couch and went to the kitchen for a knife.

The knife made short work of the tape and inside the package I found an old VHS cassette. When I say old, I'm not just referencing the fact that it's vintage technology. This tape looked weathered. Abused. Like it had been to places a VCR, or any other technology for that matter, would be unwelcome. It had no markings, save for a weird symbol etched into the plastic indentation where a sticker would normally go.

"What are you?" I asked the tape, running my fingers over the symbol. It seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. A memory hiding in the shadows, just out of reach, and mostly obscured by the darkness.

I laid the tape down on my coffee table and headed into the kitchen. It was late and my stomach was rumbling. I pulled a styrofoam container of leftover Chinese from the fridge, opened the lid, and gave it a quick sniff.

"Meh, it's probably okay," I said, closing the fridge and grabbing a fork from the draining rack next to the sink. I grabbed the tape from the coffee table on my way through the living room and headed for the back of the house.

My dad had a room back there he used to call his study. All it really is is a room with a big-screen TV, an old armchair recliner, thousands upon thousands of VHS cassettes, and one well-cared-for VCR from the late 80's. My dad was obsessed with horror films and he swore up and down that VHS was the best way to view them. So, when he and Mom passed, I inherited his massive collection.

I didn't go into that room often. Too many memories of me and the old man watching his goofy old horror flicks. But, today was different. I needed to see what was on this tape, and Dad had left me a way to do it. I was never quite so grateful for his weird obsession as I was just then.

Once in the room, I fired up the TV and the VCR, sliding the tape into the old machine. I grabbed the remote from the top of the VCR and flopped down in dad's threadbare recliner. Sitting in that chair after being away for so long was eerily like coming home. It was more comfortable than I'd remembered.

I set the styrofoam box of Chinese food in my lap with the fork and remote, then pulled the lever on the side of the chair to raise the footrest. When I did, I heard something clunk to the floor under the chair. I put the footrest down, set my food and the remote on a nearby table and leaned forward to peer at the floor. Between my feet lay a small key on a ring with a blue tag. The tag looked worn.

"Huh," I said, placing the key on the table and picking up my food. I also picked up the remote and clicked play on the tape. I set the remote down on the table, opened my box of food, and dug in.

On the screen, there were a few seconds of pure static, before a picture popped onto the screen. The footage was grainy, like it had been shot on one of those old-school video cameras that used the tiny cassette tapes. It even had the little date-time stamp in the upper right corner. 10-27-1982, it read. It really reminded me of someone's home movies, and I felt wrong watching it.

Two boys were on screen now, playing in a sandbox, in what appeared to be someone's fenced-in backyard. The boys were pretty young, one standing slightly taller than the other. The taller boy grabbed a toy truck from the younger one and said, "It's my turn now, Brady."

"Erik Harold Rumsberger, you give that truck back this instant," a woman scolded from somewhere off camera. Meanwhile, the younger boy wailed and held his hands out for the toy.

"Fine!" Erik shouted, throwing the toy to the sand below. "Have your stupid truck, you big baby," he spat, turning to walk away. In a flash, he turned back to face Brady and kicked a huge plume of sand in the younger boy's face.

Brady began screaming immediately, flapping his hands uselessly at his sandy eyes. "No, honey, don't," his mom said, reaching towards Brady. "We need to get the hose." She pulled Brady's hands away from his face and said, "I know it's hard honey, but you can't rub them, okay? Mommy needs to rinse your eyes. Hold still. Okay?" She dropped the camera then and bolted for the hose that must've been just off screen.

To the right side of the screen, Erik was suddenly lifted into the air and he shrieked, "Mommy!"

She spun around, "Erik?" The question leaving her lips in a trembling breath. When she saw her son hoisted above the ground by an unseen force, she screeched, "Erik!"

"Mommy. Help me," Erik said, but before his mother could move, the boy collapsed in on himself like a piece of paper balled up in an enormous fist. Jets of blood gushed from his body and the air was filled with the sounds of breaking bones, snapping ligaments, and tearing flesh.

Within seconds, the boy's body was nothing more than a glistening ball of flesh, sinew, and bone, dropped to the ground with a dull, squishing thud.

"Mommy? Mommy, what's going on? Mommy-"

The tape cut out abruptly, and static once again took over the screen. I sat there for a moment, holding my fork halfway between the container of food in my lap and my mouth. I put the fork down and set the container of food aside. I no longer had an appetite. I stopped the tape with the remote control and got up to eject the tape from the VCR.

With the tape in hand, I turned back to the old recliner and flopped down. "Where did you come from?" I asked the tape, staring at the strange symbol carved into it. I wasn't holding a rare copy of some obscure old film, or even some low-budget B-movie that never saw the light of day. This tape was real. Erik and Brady Rumsberger were real people. Erik was certainly dead, but what about Brady? I ran the math in my head and realized that, barring some kind of accident, Brady was likely still alive. He'd be about forty years old. I made a mental note to search Google for news articles or an obituary or something to prove that the tape was real.

That's when I remembered the weird key and picked it back up. The blue tag was blank on one side, but I could feel something etched into the other side of it. When I flipped it over, my breath caught in my throat, and my blood ran cold.

It was the same symbol as the one carved into the tape. I even put the two side-by-side just to be sure. It was an exact match. It even looked to have been carved by the same hand. I couldn't be sure. But now, I'm left wondering, just what the hell my dad was into. Where did this damn tape come from? What's this key for? Why did my dad have it hidden in his study? And, perhaps, most importantly, what does it all have to do with me?