Horror For Good - A Charitable Anthology

by Jack Ketchum

After 392 different body parts turning up and none being identified to date, this was breaking news, but something was wrong.

  "Where?" This question needed nothing more. These body parts were washing in from somewhere in the deep blue, but we all wanted to know where they lived before tragedy put them there. Perhaps the answer to what had happened could be answered by learning where they were from.

  Bruenstein shook his head. "It ain't where, it's who."

  The waitress set my lobster roll and chips in front of me and his sandwich in front of him. She started, "Can I get you anything…"

  "Can't you see we're deep in conversation?" I snapped.

  Quickly pulling her hands away she said, "Oh, sorry," and scuttled off. I took enjoyment in her humility. I hate wait people who assume they can just interrupt a conversation mid-sentence on the pretext that they are busy.

  I looked out over the railing, past the marina to admire the happy blue water of Chesapeake Bay. I reset my focus. "Okay, who?"

  "Jerry Collins."

  I turned back to Manny. "Wow." That answered the where as well. Collins had been a famous Newport News Banker, who'd allegedly been mixed up in some shady dealings and then suddenly disappeared. We did update after update on his disappearance, but the story had died on the vine and his body was never found.

  Manny nodded. "Wow is right."

  I leaned back and sipped my beer. "Where'd they find him?"

  "Here in the bay. Divers pulled him up."

  All this was so awkward. "So how much of him came up?"

  "Pretty much his whole body." Manny was uncharacteristically nervous.

  "That's odd," I said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The first whole body and it turns out to be someone who is identified?" I studied Manny's eyes. He was hiding something.

  Things were silent for a moment.

  Then something broke our strange stare-off. It was an older woman on the other side of the restaurant deck leaning over the railing and pointing animatedly down into the water.

  "No look, can't you see it? There it is, right next to that boat." She was motioning toward a small boat, pulled up on the shore next to several rows of docks.

  We turned her way, as everyone did on the crowded deck. I instantly knew what it was and I wasn't impressed. Worn out by it, in fact.

  The old man sitting with her said, "I see it too. Is it the lower section of a body?" The excitement in his voice reminded me of myself during my first whale watching expedition as a kid. They were tourists, no doubt. Probably here to enjoy the freak show and maybe be the next to discover a wash-up.

  If it was the lower section, then photos wouldn't do much for me. The world had seen plenty of those and was no longer tuning in. Since there was really nothing in it for me, I shouted at the old bag and her husband, "Hey you, people are trying to have lunch here. Have some respect." I shook my head and turned to Manny.

  The couple settled down, revealing complete intimidation.

  I asked Manny, "Can I print it tomorrow?"

  "Of course. That's why we're here."

  "All right." Suspiciously, I asked, "What else do you know?"

  He bobbed his head a little, indicating there was more. "The body was partly clothed. It was wearing jeans."

  I refused to drop my stare. "Hmmm. The first clothed body too."

  By now, several patrons and a couple of the wait staff were at the railing, staring at the decomposed section of the washed-up remains.

  Someone yelled out toward the water's edge, "Don't touch it. That's police evidence."

  Manny stood up. "Guess I need to get back to work."

  "Saved by the bell," I said.

  We shook hands and I agreed to pay the tab.

  Watching Manny walk out, I lit a cigarette and picked up my beer.

  A double-take later the bum from the other day was standing on the outside of the deck rail, and he started at me, "Hey dude…"

  Keeping indifferent, I said, "Got nothin' for you," avoiding eye contact. I turned back to my food, which was waiting untouched.

  "Hey man, I know who you are. You're that reporter guy. You did a story on my dad and me."

  I looked back, this time at him. "Yeah?"

  "That over there is from Cuckoo Island." He pointed in the direction of the small boat, where Manny was now standing above the visible human remains.

  I chuckled and turned to my beer.

  "Fine, don't believe me." He threw his hands up, disgusted with my lack of interest.

  I turned back and studied him. He was a boy of maybe 22 or 23. His matted hair clung to a dirty, greasy face. His jeans were sliding off his buttocks, his t-shirt looking paper thin, human grease stains making it almost clear.

  He mumbled as he walked away, "I saw it from the sky and it ain't a pretty sight." Shaking his head, the kid added, "He promised I wouldn't have to go back there again."

  As he walked away, I tried to remember how I knew him, yet he was so out of place here, I couldn't get that off my mind.

  Our city had once again become a great place to live. The streets were clean, the boardwalk, not counting the regular wash-ups of human debris, was a pleasant spot for locals and tourists, and the economy was booming. There was no fear of strolling through Hampton Park, no brown bag-covered bottles in the gutters and no stink of piss in our alleyways. Our elected and appointed officials had cleaned up Newport News and I was proud of my city more than ever. Our celebrated mayor was the talk of the nation.

  We had removed them all, hadn't we? Incarcerated them, institutionalized them or bused them away to smaller towns, with an enticing amount of cash and booze to make them happy for the move.

  Then I remembered who this kid was. He was a bit older now, but yes, I had done a story on him and it was surprising to see him alive. I threw a fifty on the table and jumped over the rail because my story was walking away.

  ***

  I recognized Manny Bruenstein's number on Caller ID, but I wasn't playing his games anymore. He'd taken advantage of our friendship and I was disillusioned. From my office on the 3rd floor, I let my cell phone ring four different times before I heard street pebbles clicking against the window. I answered on his fifth call. "What?"

  "You have to trust me, Jack. Let me in."

  The temptation of having him squirm at the sight of my incriminating evidence was too much to pass up.

  I called the security desk and told them to let him in.

  It was well after midnight and across many empty desks, a couple of Sports Day people lingered.

  He joined me at my desk and I stood, folding my arms. This lasted a long moment, before he finally broke the silence. "You can't run the story."

  I gave him my best intimidating stare.

  "Listen Jack, it's like this. If you run the story…"

  "How do you know I even have a story? You've been keeping tabs on me?"

  Manny shook his head. "Let me finish. The Commissioner is coming out tomorrow, either way. He's planning to discuss Collin's body. If you run the story, he'll switch his approach."

  "Then what are you guys hiding?"

  I'd never seen Manny so bent out of shape. He sat on my desk. "Your story is wrong. You have to trust me. I can't go into why."

  "Pirelli sent you," I accused. "You guys haven't been following me; you've been following the kid. I'm shocked you all even risked letting him out in the streets."

  "The kid's got mental disorders, Jack."

  "Ahhh, but he's enough of a threat that you follow him." I smirked. "Now what would you suppose this is." I held up a page that was going into the story, with a photocopy of fingerprints on it. "We can't argue who the kid is. So are you gonna deny Cuckoo Island?"

  "The kid drones on and on about this Cuckoo Island. The evil place where we dumped all his street friends. He's clinically schizophrenic, Jack! Come on!"

  Then I held up a picture of the inner belly of a 747, crammed wall to wall with unhealthy-looking people d
ressed in ragged street clothes. "Not exactly on their way to Club Med, eh good buddy?"

  He squinted, giving his best confused look. "What's this?"

  I pushed it, penetrating him with my stare. "Nice try, Manny."

  He forced himself to meet my stare. There was a long, silent, struggling moment for him. His eyes fought back, but mine were stronger. For once, I was winning at something.

  Manny broke the silence. "You're so desperate for the big story, that you'll risk your career."

  "What career?" I didn't take my eyes off his. "If it weren't for my uncle being chief editor, I would've been fired ages ago. This is it for me. It's my big chance."

  Manny shook his head. "You know, this obsession is gonna kill you. You're going off the deep end, Jack."

  With my forefinger, I slid one more photo from a manila folder. "Well, looky here?" It was a picture of the kid being pulled from the belly and into the cockpit of the crowded 747. Mayor Pirelli was waiting in the doorway at the top of the ladder, with his arms out. I chuckled. "Father and son reunited after three long years."

  Manny stood up and stormed the elevator. Pushing the button, he looked back. "If Cuckoo Island were real, do you think they'd send me over here to talk sense into you? Think about it, Jack. Would you even be alive right now?" The elevator opened. "You run it and they'll make you look like a fool."

  The Cuckoo Island story was the most shocking claim of a government crime since Watergate, and yet on some plane, it was a lot worse. My story claimed that Cuckoo Island was created to deal with the overspill of homeless people in our community.

  It stated the fact that a city can't just arrest homeless people for wearing inappropriate clothes, pissing in parks or sleeping in alleys and not have a place to put them. There are not enough asylums, jail cells and half-way houses to shelter the crazies. And you can't just bus them to small towns. Not 50,000 of them, anyway. The towns will bus them back just as quickly.

  It argued that the answer was a place called Cuckoo Island, though it lies amidst hundreds, maybe thousands of man-eating sharks, and none of it sits above water. It was a damn good article and I had finally achieved something worthwhile.

  That was, until 10:30 AM, when Commissioner Andrews and FBI Special Agent-In-Charge Blakely opened their press conference.

  I didn't show my face. I'd made my case. I watched, along with my fellow Daily Herald associates, on TV monitors from our own press room.

  The 408 separate sets of remains that had been autopsied were all found to have several things in common. They were free of clothing, jewelry, tattoos and distinguishing marks for one, and the other—they were all male. This was news, and strange news at that.

  But then came the knockout blow that left a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. The remains were all found to have the same DNA! Not similar, but identical genetic codes! I was so floored by this that I almost missed the next disclosure. The bone density and muscular mass was identical to that of Atlantic salt water. This meant the remains could float at any depth, not sinking nor rising to the surface. This was evidence that the bodies of these human remains had been birthed underwater. It was impossible, but here they were, announcing it.

  Within seconds, I found myself in the men's room examining my breakfast sandwich and coffee floating in the toilet.

  Later in the day, a Reuter's release stated that the pictures with the mayor and his son in the 747 had been false. My quality work of superimposing the father and son together over the other photo had been discovered, destroying the validity of the rest of my story.

  Manny had been looking out for me after all. I had broken faith, not him.

  Worst of all, I would now be the joke of the town.

  All eyes were on me as I walked out of the building. I never returned to gather my things. I grabbed some clothes and other crap from my condo and drove home to Nebraska to complete my nervous breakdown.

  Within days of the press conference that destroyed me, President Palmer announced an underwater mission, Operation Atlantis Purging, to search for the source of the mysterious anomaly. There were all kinds of new specialists running around Newport News, spouting all kinds of theories and rumors on what had caused it. I remember a popular one about an illegal stem cell research group who had dumped their failed work in the Atlantic when federal authorities had closed in on them.

  Scientists believed the humanoid sea creatures were part of a collective, like corral on a reef, feeding off plankton in deeper waters. Once breaking free of the collective, the parts would die and decompose, taking on gases, causing them to slowly float upward.

  The situation worsened and spread. Within a year, these creatures were washing up all along the Eastern Coast of the U.S. After another year, the problem grew and spread to a point where the government became less interested in understanding the anomaly and more in stopping it. By the third year, these things were washing up on beaches all over the world.

  I enjoy my new life. Sipping from a cup of Tres Generaciones coffee, I walk out of Howler Monkey Lodge onto Punta Gorda, what used to be the most beautiful Caribbean beach in Costa Rica, and I step into the edge of the receding tide to begin my morning ritual of combing. The tourists no longer visit this area and most of the hotels have closed. Now the most prevalent business here is taxidermy.

  At 5:30 am there are only a handful of people walking along, poking through the millions of piled up body parts. This is one of the only places in the world where whole bodies wash up at all, and there is no explanation for it.

  The first time out here, I was surprised to find that it smelled the same as any beach. It was odd seeing something much more massive than the carnage of D-Day at Normandy, and yet being able to smell the salty sea breeze.

  Though littered with piles of flesh and bone, Punta Gorda's anthropoid season is all but over. Only occasionally will someone happen upon a whole body hidden amongst the shredded fragments. I found one last week, and after the cost of preserving it and shipping; I cleared $2,500. Not bad for a week's work in a third world country.

  It's amazing what a little money will do for you here. My new girlfriend, Alicia, is a peach. She's a beautiful "Tica" and she adores me. Probably next week, I'll call it a season and we'll go on vacation somewhere...inland of course.

  Life is good. Who knows what next season will bring, but at least for now, I'm successful at something.

  —Jack Ketchum

  Jack Ketchum's first novel, Off Season, prompted the Village Voice to publicly scold its publisher in print for publishing violent pornography. He personally disagrees but is perfectly happy to let you decide for yourself. His short story "The Box" won a 1994 Bram Stoker Award from the HWA, his story "Gone" won again in 2000—and in 2003 he won Stokers for both best collection for Peaceable Kingdom and best long fiction for "Closing Time". He has written twelve novels, arguably thirteen, five of which have been filmed–The Girl Next Door, Red, The Lost, Offspring and The Woman, written with Lucky McKee. His stories are collected in The Exit at Toledo Blade Boulevard, Peaceable Kingdom, Closing Time and Other Stories, and Sleep Disorder, with Edward Lee. His horror-western novella The Crossings was cited by Stephen King in his speech at the 2003 National Book Awards. He was elected Grand Master for the 2011 World Horror Convention.

  —Returns

  By Jack Ketchum

  "I'm here."

  "You're what?"

  "I said I'm here."

  "Aw, don't start with me. Don't get started."

  Jill's lying on the stained expensive sofa with the TV on in front of her tuned to some game show, a bottle of Jim Beam on the floor and a glass in her hand. She doesn't see me but Zoey does. Zoey's curled up on the opposite side of the couch waiting for her morning feeding and the sun's been up four hours now, it's ten o'clock and she's used to her Friskies at eight.

  I always had a feeling cats saw things that people didn't. Now I know.

  She's looking at me with a kind of imploring interest. Eyes wid
e, black nose twitching. I know she expects something of me. I'm trying to give it to her.

  "You're supposed to feed her for godsakes. The litter box needs changing."

  "What? Who?"

  "The cat. Zoey. Food. Water. The litter box. Remember?"

  She fills the glass again. Jill's been doing this all night and all morning, with occasional short naps. It was bad while I was alive but since the cab cut me down four days ago on 72nd and Broadway it's gotten immeasurably worse. Maybe in her way she misses me. I only just returned last night from god knows where knowing there was something I had to do or try to do and maybe this is it. Snap her out of it.

  "Jesus! Lemme the hell alone. You're in my goddamn head. Get outa my goddamn head!"

  She shouts this loud enough for the neighbors to hear. The neighbors are at work. She isn't. So nobody pounds the walls. Zoey just looks at her, then back at me. I'm standing at the entrance to the kitchen. I know that's where I am but I can't see myself at all. I gesture with my hands but no hands appear in front of me. I look in the hall mirror and there's nobody there. It seems that only my seven-year-old cat can see me.

  When I arrived she was in the bedroom asleep on the bed. She jumped off and trotted over with her black-and-white tail raised, the white tip curled at the end. You can always tell a cat's happy by the tail-language. She was purring. She tried to nuzzle me with the side of her jaw where the scent-glands are, trying to mark me as her own, to confirm me in the way cats do, the way she's done thousands of times before but something wasn't right. She looked up at me puzzled. I leaned down to scratch her ears but of course I couldn't and that seemed to puzzle her more. She tried marking me with her haunches. No go.

  "I'm sorry," I said. And I was. My chest felt full of lead.

  "Come on, Jill. Get up! You need to feed her. Shower. Make a pot of coffee. Whatever it takes."

  "This is fuckin' crazy," she says.

  She gets up though. Looks at the clock on the mantle. Stalks off on wobbly legs toward the bathroom. And then I can hear the water running for the shower. I don't want to go in there. I don't want to watch her. I don't want to see her naked anymore and haven't for a long while. She was an actress once. Summer stock and the occasional commercial. Nothing major. But god, she was beautiful. Then we married and soon social drinking turned to solo drinking and then drinking all day long and her body slid fast into too much weight here, too little there. Pockets of self-abuse. I don't know why I stayed. I'd lost my first wife to cancer. Maybe I just couldn't bear to lose another.