Once within striking distance, the creature lunged, but Clay side-stepped it and began raining blows upon it, dropping it to the pavement. Eventually, the creature stopped moving, and Clay, filled with rage, stomped on the back of the creature’s head. Clay flinched at the sound of the creature’s skull smashing from his blows. Flipping onto its back, the creature reached up toward him, almost pleading, its flesh slick with sick, black fluid and blood. Clay stared at its orange eyes, the color seeming to fade. After a moment, he smashed the lid of the garbage can onto the creature’s head, killing it. Clay sat down next to the dead creature to catch his breath. His heart was racing, and he worried that a heart attack wouldn’t be far behind. He eventually steadied himself, pulled himself to his feet, and stared down at the creature, trying to see more of it.
Clay took his phone out and used the flashlight to examine the figure. Those eyes he kept thinking, vaguely familiar and disconcerting all the same. The front of the figure’s body was similar to its back, muscle, sinew, bone, except for its lower regions, where the creature was blessed with a member that was vastly larger than the average man. Clay regarded the creature’s genitalia with confusion, and recognized the clear indication that this figure was, possibly, human in some way.
Turning toward the inferior pizza restaurant that bordered the alley where he found the creature, Clay looked around, checking the empty town for any sign of people (or more creatures), and, using the trashcan lid , smashed in the window of the restaurant, stepping inside once the glass was clear. He needed to gather his thoughts, and wanted to clean up somehow, and remembered the bathroom was down the hall from the counter, so he moved slowly and slipped into the men’s room.
Once inside, he noted how relatively clean it was compared to the dusty and vacant restaurant. Using his phone’s light, he examined his face in the mirror, and took some time to look at the fluid the creature had spewed all over him. He noticed redness around his mouth and nose, where the creature’s mouth started enveloping him. The redness was accompanied by a soreness he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager, that summer, after meeting the boy in the pizza place. Summer nights spent at the bluff overlooking town when Clay’s dad was working late. Other nights spent along the banks of the Hudson River. Nights Clay and the boy hoped would last forever, but Clay knew, deep down, couldn’t.
When he turned the sink on, he was surprised to see clear water after about five seconds of brown, and washed his face, hands, and more. He wiped his suit the best he could but realized that it was a lost cause and stepped back into the pizza restaurant.
He walked behind the counter and imagined he’d find something better than a trash can lid to protect himself in the kitchen, so he slipped inside. On the stoves and burners, there were pots of rotted food, long-since cooked and forgotten, the smell hanging heavy in the air, accompanied by the buzzing of flies or gnats. He looked around, pulled his tie off and slipped it into his pocket, and found a chef’s knife along with a small meat cleaver. He had seen tough guys use meat cleavers a million times in movies and figured that it would be easy to defend one’s self with it, so, he tucked the knife in his belt, and, with his briefcase in one hand and the cleaver in the other, exited the pizza place.
The only way out of town would be back to the train station, and he remembered that the last train out would be stopping in about an hour, so he had plenty of time to make it back, board, and settle in before heading back to Grand Central Station.
Where is everybody? he wondered, but with the empty stillness of silence that met his every inquiry, down every alleyway, into every open store, he never received an answer.
He started back down the road out of town but found that the town continued to stretch on, regardless of how long he walked. At first, he thought he might be overly tired, but after walking a solid twenty minutes, he passed GJ’s Dugout and Donato’s for the third time. It seemed impossible, and Clay couldn’t rationalize what was happening, so he continued walking, thinking that he had merely taken a wrong turn and somehow just looped back around. But that wasn’t the case. Clay had reached the end of town only to find himself back at the entrance to Kirkbride’s Bluff. He passed the Welcome to Kirkbride’s Bluff sign now five times, and when he checked his watch, the train would be arriving in ten minutes, and he knew it would be impossible to make it there, even if he wasn’t somehow finding himself in an impossible space-time nightmare.
He paused and looked up at the bluff the town got its name from. From one angle, you could see down into the town’s square. From another, one could look out over the Hudson River in the distance and watch as ships passed lazily up and down the river. Clay remembered so many nights on the bluff, indulging his teenage desires for whatever he needed at that moment. Most of the time, with friends, drinking warm beer and smoking terrible marijuana.
He checked his FitBit again. Another fifteen thousand steps had been tacked onto his count. His body was exhausted. He found no other figures, no more creatures, but instead felt the presence of something from the trees in the park watching him. He had spent multiple nights in the park with friends, playing sports, drinking beer, smoking weed, getting into trouble, and found that whenever he looped back into the town on his fruitless trek to make it back to the train station, every single time he passed the park, he felt uncomfortable. There was a silence that felt unnatural to him as he walked past the park, and his skin crawled at the idea of something in there, watching him.
Taking a seat on a park bench that framed the outer entrance to the park itself, he opened his briefcase and started eating the banana, which was browning quickly. He looked around town, the mist still coming down, and couldn’t figure out what to do next.
Finally, his mind and heart raced when he saw a figure moving down the cement sidewalk leading to and from the park and noted its movement was jittery and unnatural. Clay gripped the cleaver tightly, rose, and walked toward the figure. The only thought Clay had in mind was that he was tired. He couldn’t escape the town and couldn’t call for help, as his phone just didn’t seem to have a signal.
The figure was about sixty yards away and moving quickly, its torso lilting to the right, one arm dangling, some kind of stick in its hand. Clay couldn’t quite make it out, but followed it nonetheless. He called after it, but it only continued deeper into the park, the trees black, creating almost a tunnel of foliage from which Clay couldn’t see the stars, or much of the town. His phone light’s beam was bright and sure, and he continued, cleaver in hand. The figure was large, larger than himself—even at this distance, Clay knew that—but he didn’t know what it was. At least it didn’t seem to want to kill him like the last thing he'd encountered.
Eventually, the tall figure disappeared into the woods next to a large fountain. Clay stood near the fountain and was flooded by memories. Fleeting glimpses of holding hands. He was young. Sixteen or so. Holding hands. His lips and tongue dancing with another’s. He couldn’t quite hold onto any of the images long enough to discern anything, but when the images finished flashing through his mind, he recoiled, suddenly unsteady on his feet. He looked toward the tree line where the large figure had disappeared. He placed his briefcase on the fountain. He held the cleaver in one hand and the knife in the other and made his way into the woods.
Once inside, he followed the sound of bushes rustling. He checked the battery on his phone and noticed he still had eighty percent power. After a few moments, Clay found himself in a small clearing, a shovel resting on a nearby tree. The area was small, about fifteen feet all around, but there was a small plot of disturbed land situated at the base of one of the enormous black trees. Clay reached for the shovel, thinking that it may be an upgrade from the knife or cleaver, and again, he was flooded with memories that didn’t seem like his own.
His hands gripped the shovel and dug furiously into the soil. He saw his father nearby, standing, watching the woods, cigarette in his mouth. Clay wondered what his father had been doing in the woods, and wh
o he was with, and what they were burying. Clay grabbed the shovel and started digging, and each time the shovel connected with the dirt, he felt a shock run through his body, from his fingertips to the base of his spine, as though someone was gently touching a raw nerve.
After digging about two feet down, the shovel struck what looked like a plastic bag. Kneeling, he gripped the bag and pulled, revealing a pair of skeletal, brown hands. Stumbling backward, Clay struggled to his feet, and when he did, he saw the tall figure, looming in the tree line. Was it watching me the entire time? Much taller than he imagined, its body twisted into a hunch leaning to its right. A thin, membranous film that almost resembled flesh covered its face. A black mouth full of brown and black teeth, rotted away, showed through the covering. Loose, fleshy sacks hung in spots all over its largely featureless body and crinkled as the tall figure moved. Bright, orange eyes stared at him. A nose, or, what remained of a nose as it looked smashed in, dripped black fluid.
The whispers. Clay heard the figure whispering to him. He heard it in the dark, in this space they shared. The woods around them completely silent, but this figure, ten or so feet from him, whispered. It whispered from that gaping black hole of a mouth. “What do you want?” Clay asked, overcome with emotion. “What is this? Why are you doing this?”
The tall creature stepped toward him. Clay examined it closer. The thin membrane that covered its body contained vaguely human forms beneath it: blurry, bloody and black. The crinkling of its movement unsettled Clay and he rose to his feet, bracing himself against a tree. He looked at its one arm, and it held no stick. A thin, long protrusion that resembled bone, sharpened to a point, was segmented where a human elbow and wrist would be. The creature’s other arm hung bound with black strips to its body, withered and possibly useless. Clay picked up the scent of sweat and musk surrounding the creature.
The creature stood over the gravesite, the shovel at its feet. Clay watched it closely, and suddenly found his mind flooded again, images of the past washing over him, over and over, his ears ringing, his body wracked with agony.
Clay’s tongue gliding over the nape of the boy’s neck, the two of them in the park, alone in the woods.
The boy staring—with impossible eyes the color of nectarines—at Clay and telling him he loved him.
Clay and the boy, at the bluff, making love in Clay’s car.
The two passing in school, Clay avoiding the gaze of the boy.
Clay’s father, breaking through the tree line, finding them embracing in their tiny sanctuary.
Clay struggling to pull his pants up, while his father attacked the boy, raining punches and more on him while Clay screamed for him to stop.
The boy, his face demolished, eyes wide, gurgling on his own blood and teeth, struggling to speak.
Clay and his father, under cover of night, digging in the woods, discarded black electrical tape, plastic bags and a shovel nearby.
The boy gurgling, his voice a whisper, as Clay began burying him.
“My god …” Clay looked at the tall, monstrous figure. “You’re him.”
The figure lunged at Clay and stabbed him with his thin, bony arm. Clay fought back, swiping and bringing the cleaver down on the appendage, a flurry of flesh, bone, and blood erupting everywhere. Clay screamed and the monster began whispering louder, its words unclear.
Clay was overwhelmed, and his heart was racing. His mind was flooded with images of him and the boy from the pizza parlor. That glorious, warm summer, spent in each other’s arms. Holding hands in the cool darkness of the movie theater. Making love in the park, in Clay’s car, in the boy’s house when his parents went away. Exploring their love for each other in ways Clay never imagined possible. Discovering a closeness he never felt before, and hadn’t felt since.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I loved you!” Clay screamed, tears streaming from his face, blood and meat splattering with wet fury, blow after blow of the cleaver.
Clay continued to bring the cleaver down on the monster, who struggled under his weight despite its own huge size. Clay punctured the fleshy sacks that held fluid within, and he found himself covered in a pus-like substance, sticky, almost transparent, the smell overwhelming. He continued cleaving the creature, its one arm now torn to pieces. In between blows from the meat cleaver, Clay stabbed with the knife, finding the creature’s throat, face, chest, and heart in a blend of terror and excitement that Clay had never felt before. If this was the fight or flight response, Clay didn’t know, but he felt as though he was running on pure instinct, overwhelming the creature with attacks.
Eventually, the whispers stopped. Clay stared down at the monster and was blinded momentarily by what he thought was a flashlight from the woods. When he looked up, he saw the boy, sixteen, the age they both were when they had their affair. Clay stared at him and began to cry. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Clay sobbed, his face slick with blood and tears.
The boy whispered, eyes a blazing orange-gold, and slowly walked off into the woods. Clay understood the whisper to be I know you are, Clay and waited until the boy was out of sight. Clay held his injury as he walked back out toward the entrance of the park. He grabbed his briefcase on the way and found himself losing more blood as he moved. The rain had picked up, and he was soaked to the core.
Eventually, he found himself by the same park bench he paused at earlier and had to sit and catch his breath. He put his briefcase down, took his jacket off and used it as a pillow to rest a moment. The rain continued pouring down, as Clay felt himself continue to bleed. Eventually, he closed his eyes, thinking he’d hear the whispering of his long-lost love.
But they never came. As he lay bleeding onto the bench, his blood mixing with the rain, which had grown steadily stronger, Clay thought about the boy. Thought about his father. Thought about Kirkbride’s Bluff. The years seemed to wash over him, and as he felt himself drifting away, he felt glad to rekindle his moment with the boy. Lost all those summers ago, lost to time, lost to his father’s rage.
Clay’s vision began to fade as he shut his eyes. In the dark, he saw the orange-gold glow of his lover’s eyes one last time.
Black Dog Blues
Luciano Marano
Choosing sides, that’s what you’re doing when you tell a story like this. By clearly identifying the aberrant we define and agree upon what is normal. We share unusual experiences and observations and thus reassure each other. It’s practically ritualistic, a way of definitively declaring that is not right and we are not that so therefore we are right. You understand?
That can be whatever—ghosts, monsters, the Bermuda Triangle, flying saucers filled with little green men—it doesn’t matter. But such stories need to be shared. The point of telling tall tales is to recalibrate reality, and we truckers tell ‘em taller than most.
You got your seatbelt on? Good deal.
As I was saying, culture is full of tribes, little clubs and cults. Most of them have distinctive codes and traditions, their own myths and legends. I was in the Navy for about ten years and can tell you that sailors are an especially insular lot. I’ve known plenty of cops too, a members-only club if there ever was one. I imagine it’s the same all over if you dig deep enough.
And truckers? Well, maybe we need the psychological anchoring sharing such stories provides more than most because ours is such an unnatural way to live. There’s a reason the species by and large gave up the nomadic way of life a long time ago: It wears on you! I should know, been behind the wheel going on thirty years, crisscrossed this great big country more times than I can count. I have seen things you would not believe, trust me.
That vent blowing on you too much? I can adjust the heat. This rig has so many buttons, dials and settings it’s like a submarine or space ship. Actually, with all the glowing indicators and instruments up here, late at night when it’s just me and the slim path cut by the headlights against all that dark, I sometimes feel like I’m driving through outer space. Like I’m out here all alone
, hurtling through the void.
You okay, then? Good deal.
That’s why I picked you up. I don’t usually give rides, but I know how cold it gets out here when the sun goes away. Plus, sometimes a little company, somebody to talk to, especially at night, makes the miles go faster. You’ve got music if you want, and the CB radio, but those distant crackly voices can sometimes make a man feel more lonely rather than less. Sound kind of like ghosts, I think. People talking to you from…someplace else.
Which brings me back to what I started to say. Took the long way ‘round the reservation on that one, sorry about that. But I promised you a story and I always keep my promises, ask anybody you like. They don’t call me True Blue for nothing. True Blue being my radio handle, every trucker worth his wipers has one.
Now, consider the glow of the dials and panels, the gentle crackle and hiss of the CB. Not so dissimilar from a campfire, right? It’s the perfect setting for the aforementioned ritual of recounting the so-called ghost story. Truckers have quite a stable of yarns to select from, but of all the legends traded amongst the tribe of professional drivers—sailors of the asphalt sea, you might say—the black dog is unquestionably the most iconic. Think there was even a movie made about it. Starred Meat Loaf, Randy Travis, and the guy from that dancing movie. Remember? Nobody puts Baby in a corner? Hell, it’ll come to me.
The dog—more like a wolf, really—is an enormous, loping, slavering beast. Teeth, big as kitchen knives. Hair, black as space without stars. Eyes that blaze fiery red like emergency flares on a lonely stretch of bad road.
They say a driver who’s been awake too long sees it just before a crash—the type you don’t walk away from. Does the dog cause the crash? Maybe it’s trying to warn you? There are many variations. Back when I was coming up, the old-timers said it comes to carry off your soul afterward, like a spirit guide in some Indian vision quest. But I don’t believe that. It’s no simple omen either, not the hallucination of a tired mind. The dog is very, very real. Every driver only has so many miles in them. And then, when you’re coming to the end, that’s when you see it.
The Half That You See Page 8
