A Quincy Tale

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J-J9XHvqIhA

“Hi. I’m Quincy.”
What in the living hell was that? It sounded like it was coming from my closet. What did it want from me?
“I love to play my trumpet.”
I approached the closet wielding a pencil in one hand and a flexy-ruler in the other.
“Let’s sing a silly song.”
Who did it think I was? What was IT? What followed scarred me for the rest of my life. It was a hideously twisted, jerky tune, staccatoed with blood and the screams of victims past. Of pain and death. My pain. My death.
“Falalalala.”
I braced myself against the front of the closet. It had to end now.
“Lalalalala.”
I put one hand on the wooden handle. The other on the second. I had seen on TV that times like these would get your blood racing and send insane hormones of some sort through your body, enabling you to maul a charging bear. Instead I felt weak, lightheaded.
“La.”
I swung open the closet door, using it as a shield as I stabbed in with my ruler hand. I whiffed air, but Quincy did not. My hand was grabbed by a serpentine appendage that yanked towards itself, smashing me into the door. It slammed shut on the tentacle, and there was a freakish, almost musical scream as Quincy screeched in pain. I yanked my hand away and stabbed at the hideous tentacle with my pencil, puncturing it twice. It flopped and squirmed and then dropped to the floor, dismembered. It was over. The closet monster had been vanquished.

I opened the closet door in relief.

A fist shot out and clocked me in the face. It was black and stunk of stale cigarette smoke.
“Hi. I’m Quincy.”