“You know this wouldn’t have happened if we had an air conditioner,” said Dad. He patted the water and said, “I’m sorry Jeffery. I am so sorry.”
“Dad, Mom. Stop this. It isn’t even funny.”
I think it was because I started crying, but they suddenly stopped their joke. It didn’t take long for us to laugh and hug, but the feeling I’d had when they pretended I wasn’t there was almost too scary to stand.
She slid beneath the surface, her body slithering around mossy rocks and under submerged branches, pondering the shimmering stillness above her. It had been too long since she’d added to her loneliness, to her collection. The fishes had long since lost their fear of her, generation upon generation growing and rotting as she patrolled her length of creek. Still, they instinctively avoided her cavern: water-filled and deep, with only a thin shaft of light spearing through the narrow entrance, spot-lighting the head of her fifth victim in a translucent green halo. The milky eyes stared, seeing but immobile, fixed in a body that was lost in a forever dream.
David skittered down the hill first, leaping through the tall ferns and yelping all the way down. I followed slower, picking my way through the brush and with the back of my hand, pushing away the long green fronds that tickled my nose. I hated walking where I couldn’t see what I was stepping on.
Grandpa used to tell me about the Little People before he went to heaven—stories about kingdoms within hills, toadstool houses and fairy rings. The Little People used to be everywhere, he’d said. The single greatest reason that no one ever saw the Little People anymore was because they kept getting squashed underfoot by ignorant humans.
I knew it was just my Grandpa’s way of telling me to be careful. Anyways, I believed in the Little People like I believed in the Witch of Cleghorn Canyon. There had been too many stories of missing children and black cats for us to not believe in her. That is, since before we started fourth grade. When I was a third grader I believed, but I wasn’t grown-up then. David said it was just a way for parents to control us. For once, I thought he was right.
“Come on, Jeffery! We’re going to catch the mother of all fish, and make Derek’s look like a minnow.”
I smiled and sped up a little. I wasn’t as competitive as David, but I would like nothing better than to show up Derek. He’d beat me up at least once every year of school. He was a fifth grader who had a new bike every year, lived in a big house with a TV in his room and caught the biggest fish ever found in Rapid Creek. No one believed there were any two and a half-foot trout in the water. Not, at least, until Derek hauled it up to the newspaper office and got his picture on the front page. David swore since the flood had washed the hatchery out back in 1972 that there had to be even more bigger fish.
I reached the bottom of the hill and broke into a run. Far ahead, David ran, holding the tip of his rod high in the air as he jumped and hooted over the pine needle-covered forest floor and fallen ponderosa pine. By the time I caught up, he was already drifting a kernel of yellow corn along the slow-moving water. Of course, he’d found the best spot. I silently cursed him and made my way downstream to the hole. It was where all the kids swam, but was deep enough to hide lunkers. As I turned, I caught David’s smirk. No one had ever caught any fish in the hole, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.
She watched the yellow bait drift by, and toyed with it, tugging gently on the line. She watched through the prism of water as the boy jerked his pole and inspected the now-empty hook. She smiled at her game and knew she would soon add another. She made a few bubbles, each drifting languidly to the surface, enticing the child to her spot. Tempting. Luring.
I had a few nibbles, but nothing serious, probably just some stocked fingerlings. When I was little, I loved catching them. Like my Grandpa, I was a serious fisherman, now. I was a trout man: brown, rainbow, brook, splake, cutthroat. Cutthroats. Now, there was a mean sounding fish—a fish that could meet a man in an alley and make him stop fishing. I had never caught one before, but with a name like that, they had to be pretty mean. Even deadly.
It was cooler near the water. I attached a bobber to my line and let it drift towards the middle. I laid back and stared at the blue sky through the long pine and imagined my corn dangling above a lunker like a bone held high above a dog. I kept my grip on the pole and closed my eyes, waiting for the fish to leap up and swallow the kernel so I could show up David and Derek and prove that I was the world’s greatest fisherman.
She saw the feet, young and tender, moving slowly through the mud of the shallows, the toes wiggling as they contacted small rocks, crawdads and a snail. A boy’s fleshy hand dove and pierced the mud like a bird searching for food. She slithered closer until she could examine each fine blonde hair on the boy’s leg. All she needed was to reach out and touch, drag a fingernail along the instep and the child would dance with fear. She glanced toward his concentrating face, and grinned as his eyes passed over her, blinded by the glare of the sun upon the mirrored surface and his disbelief in her truth; never knowing that she was so near.
“Hey, Jeffery! Look, I got a big one.”
The yell jerked me upright and my shoes splashed into the water, soaking them. The chill of the creek cleared my head of daydreams. I checked my still bobber and then glanced over to where David was wading. He held up a crawdaddy big enough to be a lobster, its claws snipping at the air and attempting to take off a few of David’s wiggling fingers. It finally managed to snag one and David’s scream was followed quickly by a splash and then a high pitched, “Damn.”
I smiled and laid the pole carefully down, placing my butt upon the reel so if a lunker did hit, I’d have a second to keep my pole from going in. I untied my shoes and removed my soaked socks and laid them out to dry on the long grass beside me. Mom wouldn’t be happy if I had wet clothes. She probably wouldn’t let me down to the creek for months, if then.
I dangled my feet in the water and held the pole in my lap. The coolness ran up my legs and sent shivers of goosebumps along my skin. I watched as David splashed and fell in the shallows, chasing his Mountain Lobster. The funny scene tore through the lingering strangeness of my dream—a dream of a woman, just beneath the water watching us and waiting. My feet stilled their wagging, dead and wakeless like my bobber and I fought the urge to jerk them from the water. The urge to run. But I was a fourth grader now. The dream was just a dream.
She felt the tug of belief and allowed it to pull her down the creek and into the place where the children swam; the place where she teased their legs and toes, tickling them until they screamed with fearful laughter, each unsure if it was a leaf, or a fish or a snake, never once knowing the truth. This was the one. She felt his thoughts lurking upon her existence and sent feelers into his soul, massaging his memories and divining his needs.
When the bobber disappeared, I was so surprised at the hole having a fish that I stared like I was stupid. The second time, however, I jerked the pole and felt the hook set. I stood up, almost slipping into the water and held the tip of the rod high, ready for the fish to jump and lower it. It was all about being calm, my Grandpa had said. Too many as they are reeling in their catch get excited and lose.
Be calm. Breathe deep. Play it slowly.
The fish pulled hard and visions of Derek’s disappointed face were foremost in my mind. This one was a lunker. Definitely the biggest I had ever hooked. Its jerks and pulls inched me forward as my wet feet slipped on the grass. There was no way I would let go, though. This was not the mother of all fishes, it was the father of all fishes and it was all mine.
Patience.
I screamed for David, but didn’t look. I knew the picture of my struggle was enough information for even his dense skull. I traded tugs and whatever was at the end of my line was an equal. Maybe it was a cutthroat— one of those fish my Dad talked about. I dreamed the dream of all fisherman as they played with unknown catches. I was ready.
But I wasn’t. It was a tremendous tug that jerked me into the hole�
�� a tug by something immensely more powerful than me. A tug that didn’t even allow me a chance to let go. Before I hit the water, I heard David’s scream and then the silence of the water. As I hit, I let go of the rod, but I’d already fallen deep. My Mom was going to be so pissed. She’d made me promise never to swim here. And no matter how much I argued, she’d never believe my fish story.
I kicked up, my clothes heavy and dragging. I looked through the green water to the sun shining brightly above and made that my goal. I was almost there when the hand grabbed my ankle. It pulled me, reeling me in. I kicked and fought for the surface, my lungs about to pop. I wanted to cry, to scream, but I knew if I opened my mouth, I would surely drown. The hand pulled down and down until I felt the muddy silt bottom. With one leg perched, I used my hands to spin me around and see what had grabbed my leg.
Of all the things I’d imagined in nightmares and dreams of dead things, the woman who gripped my leg was the worst and my last.
She hovered just above the bottom, her long red hair catching the small currents as her body wound behind her. Eyes as round and milky as dead fish examined me. Her face was old, like a great grandma, but without the necessary love. Her smile was more of a frown, but even so, I could tell she was happy—happy that she’d reeled me in.
It was then that I screamed and my lungs filled with water.
My Mom visits the spot, now. She comes almost every day. I call to her and tell her I love her, but she is closed to me. When the sun is perfect, it pierces the depths to my face and I feel its far away warmth and remember life. Especially David, Super Nintendo and my Grandfather’s tales of things that couldn’t be. Other than when the kids come swimming, their legs dangling just a few feet from where I sit, my Mother’s visits make me the happiest. I know she doesn’t understand. I know she doesn’t know that I’m still here. She believes that I’m really dead—lost. It is the witch. It is her doing. She keeps me and the others so she won’t be so lonely. I have spoken to them in my forever dreams and they tell me their stories. They are all like me. They believed. They were good. It is what the witch needs, what feeds her. It is our dreams of things we can’t have, things dead to us. It is our dreams of dead things that allow her to live.
Night of the Hunters
by Weston Ochse & David Whitman
“So then I says, ‘Well, go on then, girl, see if I give a shit,’” Rolly said, staring into each and every eye around the campfire like a born storyteller. “And then she ups and throws the goddamn hammer right into the brand new television screen. She looked at me like she done caught a five foot bass—like I’m supposed to be all fuckin’ impressed, and put her hands on her hips.”
Mason smiled at his friend and punched him in the shoulder. He liked Rolly. The man was much smarter than he played himself to be, but tended to wear his ‘Southern Boy’ like a second skin. “Damn, Rolly, you’re never going to be married,” he said, throwing the last of his burnt venison to Get, Rolly’s white poodle. “You might as well marry that damn mutt.”
Rolly grinned crookedly and slapped Get’s rump. “And you know something, she’d make a pretty good bride, too. That’s one bitch who sits when I tell her to sit, begs when I tell her to beg, and rolls over when she wants a good rubbin.” Rolly grinned, stared off into space for a moment and seemed to ponder the possible domestic qualities of a four-legged bitch as opposed to his normal two-legged ones, but snapped his eyes straight, then spun and glared at Mason. “Hey, Man, don’t be interuptin’ while I’m talkin.” He scratched his balls. “Now, where was I? Oh yeah, so she’s standin’ there with her hands on her hips, the brand new television set smokin’ behind her makin’ it look like it was comin’ from her ears and the top of her head—a regular demon. So, not to be intimidated, I leaned back against the wall, smiled, and said, ‘It’s a good goddamn thing I used your credit card to buy that set.’ And then I got my fat ass out the door before she could get me with the hammer too.”
The faces around the campfire, primed with grins throughout the story, erupted into howling hysterics at the newest tale of their friend’s never-ending battle against the opposite sex. Billy Bob erupted into his trademark guffaws, his immense belly shaking up and down as he roared. Weasel giggled insanely. Forever Rolly’s moveable laugh track and sidekick, Weasel was already so drunk his body couldn’t decide which way to lean. Mason shook his head and grinned, laughing on the inside.
Just to the right of the campfire was the carcass of the bear that they had poached, its thick tongue sticking out of the side of its mouth with indignity. It had taken eight shots to bring her down and then about a dozen whacks from the baseball bat. Hunting was something that they all felt was their God-given right to do, despite any law that said otherwise. And Billy Bob, known as BB Spotlight by the sheriffs of thirteen counties, new every law there was going back to the state’s reintroduction to the Union after the Great War of Northern Aggression.
The close circle of friends were still rubbing the tears from their eyes when Get stood up, yelped once, and then darted off into the woods, almost knocking Billy Bob from his log.
“Get!” Rolly shouted, staring into the dark trees. “Get your ass back here, girl!”
Mason started laughing, this time on the outside and Rolly flashed him a look of irritation. “What in the hell you laughin’ at, Mason? This ain’t goddamm funny, there’s wild animals out there,” he said pointing to the dead bear as an example. “Besides, the last time she ran off in the woods she got sprayed by a fuckin’ skunk.”
Weasel jumped in with squeaking titters, “And that fuckin’ dog was flamin’ pink for a month after you bathed her in tomato juice. You had to walk her at night, just so’s the other dogs wouldn’t laugh at her.”
Mason laughed at the memory of Rolly, a picture of whom Joe Bob Briggs would put in a dictionary as the icon of Redneckocity, John Deere hat, lip full of Beechnut Wintergreen, tattered flannel shirt and greasy blue jeans, walking a hot pink poodle under the moonlight.
Rolly pointed a finger at Weasel, “You need to shut the hell up. And you, my edumacated friend,” he added, pointing at Mason, “And you need to stop laughin’ at my Get.” Rolly had stood up as his blood rose. He shook his head. “Every fuckin’ time somethin’ happens to Get, you sit around and laugh. You can’t laugh at a man’s dog.” He shook his head and sat down. “Never at a man’s dog.”
Mason slipped out a cigarette, leaned forward and lit it in the campfire. He was careful not to set the brim of his bright orange Tennessee Volunteers baseball cap on fire. He wore it every time they went hunting so Weasel wouldn’t mistake him for deer like he did the first time they all went shooting together. He grunted, stared at Rolly, then returned his gaze to the dancing flames. “I’m laughing because your dog’s name is an action verb.”
Rolly spit into the fire and shook his head at his friend. “Actually, Mr. Smarty Pants, it’s a transitive verb,” all vestiges of his ‘Southern Boy’ gone. He stood up, peered into the woods and began his patented whistle, the high pitched sound slicing through the quietness of the night.
Mason shook his head, wondering how a man who looked as one dimensional as Rolly could have so many levels to his personality.
“Get! If you get sprayed by a goddamn skunk again I’m leavin’ you out here in the woods!” Rolly looked over at the rest of the group. “I don’t know what I’m doin’ with a sissy ass poodle for a pet, anyway.”
“I told you, John Wayne had pups,” Billy Bob suggested. He had named his rottweiller a decidedly masculine name, not realizing that his dog was in fact a female until she gave birth. He still thought of John Wayne as a he, but it was an anachronism that Mason enjoyed.
“I ain’t takin’ no pups from a bitch named John Wayne,” Rolly spat, looking into the woods like a mother hen. “It’s un-American,” he said placing his cap over his heart. “Namin’ a female dog after one of America’s greatest heroes. Anyways, me and Get get along just fine. Goddamn that bitch!”
“That’s only ‘cause she can’t fit her paws around a hammer. I swear, if she had looked in a mirror and saw her pink fur, she would have broken every TV, mirror and window in your house just to let you know she wasn’t as fuckin’ gay as she looked,” said Billy Bob.
“She can’t be gay, asshole. She’s a girl,” said Mason, glaring at Billy Bob with one of those I am gonna come over there and kick your ass looks.
“Just calm down. Everyone calm down. She’ll come back. She knows you take care of her and she’s loyal,” Mason said, moving between the two.
Rolly glanced over at Mason for any kind of sarcasm. If there was one thing that Rolly couldn’t stand it was being made fun of, even by his closest friends. Mason had figured a long time ago that the whole ‘Southern Boy’ routine was Rolly’s way of short-circuiting people. It was okay to laugh at what he pretended to be, but never the real Rolly. Never laugh at who he really was. Lucky for the world, no one really knew.
Rolly stalked back over to the log and plopped down heavily. “She’ll be back. She needs to eat, don’t she? It’s not like she could hunt rabbit or anythin’, a little white, fluffy bitch like her.”
Weasel started laughing again. “That would be the shit wouldn’t it, Rolly? That little bitch walkin’ back into this campsite carryin’ a goddamn rabbit in her little mouth. Catchin’ the damn Easter Bunny. I bet even the squirrels would laugh at that.”
“I’ll tell you what, Weasel,” Rolly said, staring into the flames with a wide smile. “That bitch may surprise your ugly ass just yet.”
Billy Bob was staring off into the woods, his head cocked like he was listening to some far off music. It was the look he got when hunting. If anyone was the real hunter within the group, it was Billy Bob. The boy had hunted game from Alaska to Florida. His house was a museum to the hunt. From the alligator that greeted you at the front door, to the polar bear that seemed to hold the giant screen TV in its paws, to the wolverine toilet paper dispenser he had in the bathroom, he had over sixty stuffed animals and fish adorning the inside of his house. He was always the first one to lead the hunt, knowing exactly what the animal was thinking based on the shape and age of the tracks. He could dissect a bush in a hurricane and still be able to tell what animals had passed by, when they had passed by and the reason they had passed by. Fat old Billy Bob was their animal expert. It was almost enough to make one ignore his alcoholism and tendency to take shots at invisible things after his third six-pack.
Scary Rednecks & Other Inbred Horrors Page 22
