Scary Stories to Chill Your Bones – The Shades

Ever go to those second-hand stores searching for the best Halloween costume? This is where this story came from the bottom of the thrift store bin. Who owned the item before you bought it? What is the history behind it? I often think of such things, do you? I love the history behind items and it often leads to stories.

The Shades

I shouldn’t have touched the sunglasses. I should have left them at the bottom of the thrift store accessory bin. They did, however, make the perfect accompaniment to go with my seventies Halloween costume. The glasses were pristine; no scratches on the black lenses and the metal rims sparkled in the sunlight.

But, no, if I had to do it over again, I would destroy them, crushing them under my car’s tires.

The party was Friday night and nothing like waiting an hour before to pull your outfit together. Ally told me she was going as some seventies babe. At least that is what I heard. The polyester shirt unbuttoned to my navel, gold chains, and bell-bottoms would match Ally perfectly. I looked good, and the sunglasses made the man.

“I’m headed to Bloomfield Hall,” my roommate said with a wave.

“See ya.” I peered at my bedroom mirror and made a few 70s dance moves I’d seen from Instagram before hurrying down the stairs to meet Ally at the party. The sun was just setting and a layer of fog soon blanketed the campus.

A couple of buddies waved. “Looking the part, Teddy!”

I slipped my shades on before spinning about and giving them my finger guns. “I make anything look good.”

They nodded and smirked.

I strolled down Harding and passed Professor Gamblet.

“Hey, Mr. Gamblet.” I waved.

He side-eyed me, then hurried along without a word.

The Kerrigan house swelled with people as the music shook the walls, threatening to collapse the stone structure.

“You seen Ally?” I yelled to her best friend, Tabitha.

Tabitha’s lip snarled. “Who wants to know?” She stared.

My first clue that something was wrong.

I snort and stepped around a guy dressed as the Joker. “Tabitha? It’s me, Teddy.”

She scratched her head, looked at her drink, and pointed toward the living room.

I squeeze around the doorway. There she sat, talking to Bruce Johnson, the linebacker for our team. He always tried to get my girl. I frowned. Not at Bruce–I could handle him, but at Ally. She wore wide-legged linen pants, a flowered shirt down to her knees, and a gray hair wig. I chuckled to myself. Dorothy from the Golden Girls. Oh, that seventies babe and inside joke that only then registered.

“Ally, I have arrived.” I stopped in front of her in all my polyester glory.

“Go away from me you, creep.” She snarled.

“Allyson?”

All six-foot-two, three-hundred and forty-eight pounds of Bruce stood up. “The girl said get away, weird-o.”

I poked my head around him. “Hello, it’s me.”

“Teddy?” She squinted.

“I have been since birth.”

“You don’t got Teddy’s hair.” Bruce cocked his massive cranium to the side.

“It’s all me, Bruce.” I touched my short-cropped hair… only it wasn’t short. My hair was to my shoulders. I rubbed my mouth, then pressed both hands against my upper lip. A full-blown mustache perched under my nose, and I do mean full-blown. My mind riled.

“Are you really him?” Ally yelled over the surge of music.

“Well, it’s me, I tell you,” I scream, pushing my way to the restroom. A guy, dressed as a scarecrow, shuffled from foot to foot, waiting for the bathroom. I didn’t give him opportunity. When the door opened, I bound in with Ally hot on my heels.

I stared in the mirror. My mouth dropped. The person staring back was most definitely not me.

“Is it you?” Her face contorted. “That is some great makeup. Who did it? I mean, it looks so real.”

“What… I mean no one…”

“The hair, the stash. Amazing.” She yanked on my upper lip, almost falling over the toilet.

“Ouch!”

“And that nose. Take off your sunglasses, I want to see your eyes.” She tugged on the metal. “Take them off.”

My heart beat faster. I yanked on the frames, attempting to free them from my temples. They wouldn’t budge.

“Stop playing.” She huffed.

“Sure I wore these clothes, but I did nothing with my hair or add a mustache… Or change my nose.”

She pulled away. “Wait, did he put you up to this? You aren’t Teddy, are you? You’re just one of his buddies I don’t know.”

“Allyson, we’ve dated since middle school.”

“Prove it.” She stomped her orthopedic shoes against the linoleum.

I would have said nice shoes, under different circumstances. “You ran over Miss Jacob’s dog. You made me promise not to tell anyone,” I yelled.

She placed her hand on the doorknob. “Ha! Ha! Sure. I’m not playing whoever you are. He told you to say that.” She rolled her eyes, shoved her way into the crowd.

Time suspended. Somehow I stumbled back to my apartment, lost in a haze of fear and confusion. Even there, the image was the same. Long stringy hair, a thick burly mustache, thin lanky arms which weren’t mine, and those glasses. As hard as I tried, they refused to budge.

Today they sit on my nose. It’s been a week now. My face isn’t mine. I’ve changed my clothes, cut my hair, and shaved my stash, only to have it all grow back within the hour.

But, I cannot remove the glasses.

Allyson left me.

My roommate won’t let me in.

Even my parents don’t recognize me.

In fact, I’m not myself.

My own memories are fading and different visions replace them. Dark ones. You might see me sometimes pumping gas into my late-model van. Maybe you’ve seen it? The one with the service animal sticker on the side door. If not, then perhaps you will.

So next time you go thrifting, do be careful at what lurks at the bottom of a bin because–I make these glasses look good.