Donald Trump's Scalp

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

After Bob Mueller collects Trump's scalp, his descendants are entrusted with it's care and safe keeping. Never leave it's box unlocked after midnight.

Submitted: March 11, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 11, 2018



Donald Trump's Scalp

The house had been old when Michael Mueller's great, great grandfather Bob was alive and still active in the old FBI. A soaring, three story Queen Ann with a central tower capped with a mansard roof. An ancient iron fence surrounded the property and the structure fit well with the heat lighting now flashing behind it. Thunder rolled across the dark lawn. There was no rain as of yet.

Michael had inherited the house, or at least inherited the right to be it's lifetime resident, because the rest of the family frankly found the place to be bit creepy. There was some resentment because Michael occupied such an large and historic residence for little more than minor upkeep and property taxes. And Micheal tried to mitigate this bad feeling with an open offer of quarters in the house to anyone who wanted to share the large home. So far, nobody had accepted.

The year was 2115 and Michael was awaiting the arrival of his young nephew William, who would spend the weekend in the house and discuss the merits of a medical career with Michael. Michael, a medical doctor, was now retired, but had practiced for almost fifty years. William was torn between an engineering school and a medical school and Michael hoped to help him make a wise decision.

After being promised for decades, flying cars had finally been invented, and Michael heard William's settle onto the grass outside the front door.

“Hello!” Cried Michael. Waving from the front door. The old incandescent light on the porch gave everything a weird black and white appearance.

“How are you doing?” Answered William, climbing from the car, and tugging at his stubborn valise. At this moment the rain started and conversation ended as William quickly closed up the car and sprinted to the porch.

“Wow, just made it”, William panted.

“Well, if you had gotten soaked, I would have asked you to come in and have a brandy by the fire. But hey, come in and have one anyway. Have it when you're dry. It'll taste the same.”

“Don't mind if I do”, answered William.

Entering the foyer, William felt that he was entering a museum. He saw dark, wooden, heavily carved tables and chairs lined the walls. Hooked rugs on the oak floor. Paintings on the wall of long dead relatives. A large framed photograph of his ancestor Robert Mueller and his FBI team. That one appearing to have been taken around 2019 or 2020. Iron candle holders with real candles in them. William had no doubt that if the candles had been lit, the eyes in the portraits would have seemed to follow him.

They made their way to the study where a cherry, large fire burned in an enormous fireplace.

“In the old days they actually heated this room and the library next door with this fireplace”, said Michael, patting the stones. “I'll have to take you on a tour tomorrow. There's a lot of interesting stuff here.”

They settled into the two easy chairs facing the fire and Michael poured two generous snifters of Brandy.

“Enjoy it, my boy”, said Michael. “You won't have time for it next fall whether it's engineering or medicine. I didn't drink for eight years during my studies and it almost killed me.”

William answered by raising his glass in a toast.

After some small talk on family matters, William broached a subject that had piqued his interest. He rose and inspected a plexiglass box on the fireplace mantle that seemed to hold a patch of mangy orange fur.

“What is this?” He asked. “I've been looking at this all evening and it seems strange. From back there I thought it was a squirrel pelt, but here I can see it isn't, and it's the wrong color anyway.”

“That my boy, is from your great, great grandfather Bob Mueller. It was his proudest possession. The cap of his career. Donald Trump's scalp.”

“Donald Trump, he was the President, wasn't he?” Asked William.

“For a short while”, the old doctor answered. “A nasty, evil regime. One that your great, great grandfather ended. And the world is better for it.”

“The man must have had a small head”, noted William.

“No, that's only half the scalp”, the doctor explained. “Bob had to share it with a woman, a Stormy Daniels, who also took some credit for Trump's downfall. Our family hopes to see both halves united and on that mantle some day. We are negotiating with her family now.”

“Why is the box locked?” Asked William.

“The scalp is rumored to be evil. To be possessed. That's no doubt a bunch of poppycock, but now it's a family tradition. The scalp has been locked in that box ever since it came to this house. Besides, the thing probably smells. Trump did.”

The doctor then excused himself and made his way up to bed. William remained by the fire with another brandy. He was fascinated by the orange artifact, which resembled nothing less than a patch of skin from a rather mangy orangutan. He again approached the box for a closer look. And he noticed a key on the mantle next to the box. The key fit the lock on the plexiglass box. William hesitated. But then he thought just how silly the concept of a haunted scalp was, and he opened the box.

The smell of cheeseburgers, fries and cheap hair tonic filled the room. William stroked the ancient, brittle hair.

“So you were a President”, he murmured.

The house creaked behind him and he started. But looking around saw nobody. He closed the box and tried to turn the key to re-lock it. But the key would not turn. The lock was too old and full of gunk.

“Ahhh, I'll clean it out and get it tomorrow”, he said under his breath and went upstairs to his chamber to sleep.

When William came down to the breakfast nook the next morning his uncle, the doctor, was already at the table reading the daily news on his device.

“There is coffee on the counter if you want it”, said the doctor.

“Thank you”, William replied.

When William was seated at the table, the doctor said, “Very odd. There was a murder in the village last night”.

“A murder, for Gods sake. In that quiet little place? What's the story on that?”

“Apparently, the mentally challenged son of one of the residents strangled his nurse.”

“Those types are not normally violent”, said William. “In fact, usually quite the opposite. Good nurtured and loving and very appreciative of their families.”

“Yes,”, the doctor replied. “And it gets even stranger.”

“How so?”

“The young man insists on wearing a silly red baseball cap and keeps going on about Mexicans taking his job away.”

“A mentally challenged person like that has a job?” William asked.

“Of course not”, the doctor replied. “And that's why this whole thing is so very odd. Why be all worked up about Mexicans taking your job if you never had a job in your life?”

“It's certainly a mystery”, William mused.

“Yes, it's almost as if Trump's scalp got out last night and was up to mischief.”

“Well, I opened the box after you went to bed last night. I just wanted a closer look and found the key on the mantle. And then I couldn't get the box locked again.” William confessed.

The doctor suddenly looked thunderstruck. “The curse of Trump”, he finally croaked.

“A curse?” William asked.

“Yes”, the doctor hissed. “Whenever the scalp is passed on, the new owner is warned about the curse. I was warned about it in my early thirties when my father died. If the scalp is left unlocked after midnight, it can take possession of the minds of the least intelligent among us and make them do horrible, stupid things.”

“But that's just a legend”, said William, with a hopeful note in his voice.

“I always thought so, but this isn't the only strange occurrence that I know of.”

The doctor moved to the study and William followed. The plexiglass box on the mantle was empty.

“Quickly, to the widows walk”, said the doctor. “Let's see if we can spot it.”

On the widows walk there was a strong breeze from the East and on it the doctor could smell the strong odor of Big Macs, a smell the younger William only recognized as hamburgers, McDonald's having gone out of business some years back. Across the lawn, out of the rising sun, loped the scalp. Like some loathsome, orange ferret. The two froze and ducked below the railing. The scalp climbed the porch steps and the two heard the old, brass mail slot in the front door slam shut.

Tip toeing back to the study, they saw the scalp was motionless in it's plexiglass box.

“Playing possum”, hissed the doctor. “Keep an eye on it.”

The doctor returned to the kitchen and William could hear drawers slowing opening. The doctor returned with a hammer and a large nail.

“The only thing that will stop it is a stake through it's heart”, hissed the doctor. “This will be difficult as it is very strong. You will have to hold it against the wooden mantle while I pound the stake.”

The two approached the box and then pounced. The scalp struggled mightily and nearly escaped. An escape that would have no doubt caused another death. But William finally had it flattened out against the wood mantle while the doctor placed the nail.

The thing stopped struggling after the second hammer blow and emitted and long and mournful, “Covfefe!!” before finally expiring.

The doctor drove the large nail in tight.

When finished, the doctor was satisfied with his work. The scalp would now harm no one and having it nailed to the mantle gave the room a nice Native American, Southwestern touch.

“I think this ends the matter”, said the doctor. “It's unfortunate for the nurse, but I see no need to speak to the authorities and simply convince them that we are mad. We will never be believed.”

“Agreed”, said William. “It's early, but I need a brandy. Join me?”

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