Deadman's Tome: Monsters Exist

by Mr. Deadman

  All of Baltimore had delegates at the gathering of rats.

  Nearly three hundred human beings from all sides of the tracks marched, retaining no sentience beyond that of the surrounding rodents. Many of those wearing short sleeves had sores visible on their arms similar to the one on Bernice.

  Seeing the vile welts shared by so many in the company of rats tripped the automatic association Pete failed to have before: bubonic fucking plague.

  The throng gathered around the fence and Pete, unable to think of a reason not to, joined them. Together they toppled the fence and crossed into the lawn of Calloway Homes, rats following close behind. They swarmed, some as small as mice, some as large as cats. Both hoards, rat and human, stopped thirty yards from the front entrance of the building.

  The humans knelt in unison.

  The rats stood upright.

  All waited in silence for a minute, and then the Calloway Homes breathed.

  A long draft, reeking of garbage and bile blew out the windows. The façade quivered and the ground followed suit. Dust fell delicately from the awnings. An avalanche of brick fell forward, crushing the first row of humans and rats. Inside the shell of the building, two red eyes opened at the third floor. Another pair to the right of the first floor opened, followed by another on the left. Heaving its magnitude across the threshold, there in the moonlight, stood the Rat King. Its center head wore a crown of fungus which appeared to grow from inside its skull, and the left and right heads were begrimed in mold. Each head was the size of a small car.

  The Rat King fell onto its forelegs and yawned, showing teeth like sabers of yellowed bone.

  Everything inside Pete went cold. He could feel fear pulling at his muscles until they cramped. He was unconsciously grateful he was near the back of the human throng. This meager feeling of safety collapsed when he realized the purpose of the gathering. The appearance of the king had signaled the beginning of the feast.

  The Rat King’s three heads plunged into the crowd, aiming to impale the people. Some remained kneeling, and some fled, though many that did so collapsed as rats clamped onto their ankles. A stream of blood from some unknown jugular sprayed Pete’s face. The terror paralyzed him, reaching its shatter point as he bolted backwards, running blindly in the direction he’d come, eyes shut against all that surrounded him. He bolted until his lung refused to draw another breath, and he collapsed in the street, gulping for air.

  Pete dragged himself to the sidewalk to sit with his head between his knees. He raised his head at the sound of rapidly approaching feet. It was the man from the restaurant, his face flushed and his suit in ribbons.

  “We made it!” the man gasped. “I can’t believe it.”

  He reached up to brush the sweat from his brow, revealing a long tear in his right sleeve, perfectly framing an angry patch of welts and boils.

  “I can go home,” he said, ignoring the look of dread on Pete’s face. “I can spread the Rat King’s blessing.”

  About the author:

  Wallace Boothill lives on the top floor of an old house in Baltimore, the city where he works as a teacher. Direct all correspondence to wallaceboothill@gmail.com or to @WBoothill on Twitter, if you prefer.

  Legend Trippers

  Theresa Braun

  Jaxon knew what the train could do to a living being. A month ago his front end barreled through a flock of sheep, the cowcatcher not doing much good. About twenty animals were cooked meat under the hot traction of the motors, guts and blood on the windshield, bits of wool plastering the glass. The gruesome sight had been enough, the memory of burning flesh stinging his nose. Jaxon thanked his lucky stars the boy on the trestle tonight hadn’t suffered the same fate. Damn kid was in some kind of trance, his feet dangling between the ties, oblivious to the locomotive’s whistle and various cries for him to get out of the way.

  Jaxon’d just finished his statement to the police and made sure the kid, Joey, was safely in the hands of the paramedics now tending to the boy’s bloody shins. While Jaxon had leaned over the front of the train to yank him from the tracks just seconds before he’d turned into hamburger, the kid’s shins banged against the plow. Thankfully, the wounds were minor. It was the young face Jaxon couldn’t get out of his mind—it had appeared stunned as if coming out of a dream, every facial muscle tensed, eyes practically popping out. The boy’s life seemed to flash before his eyes as he allowed Jaxon to pull him free. What the kid said echoed in Jaxon’s brain. The others ran, but my body wouldn’t move. I tried to scream, but I couldn’t. The shake in the boy’s voice indicated something happened to him out there. Jaxon was sure of it, too, especially after seeing a shadow with horns and flaming red eyes in the shaded gloom at the bottom of the trestle.

  A tall, thin guy in camouflage pants, black T-shirt, and Doc Martins, with a video camera propped on his shoulder, rushed at Jaxon, who was on his way back to the train. “Can you tell me what happened? Is it true you saw the Goatman?” the guy asked.

  “Get outta my face, you prick.” Jaxon put his hand up over the camera lens and strode away with a huff. This goat creature must’ve been the reason the kids were “legend tripping.” Wasn’t that what Joey mumbled they were doing? Jaxon was impressed the rescued boy knew Jaxon had seen something, even though neither one had said one word about it.

  “Come on, give me a statement.” The guy shimmied to Jaxon, pressing his black-rimmed eyeglasses up to the viewfinder for a second. “Anything.”

  “No way, asshole.” The last thing Jaxon needed was footage of his testimony getting back to his boss, causing public humiliation to the entire rail company.

  The cameraman stuffed a business card in Jaxon’s shirt pocket. “In case you change your mind,” the guy said. “I’ve been staking out this Louisville Loop for months, hoping to catch a break.”

  Jaxon pushed past him, tossing the card on the ground, and then lifting himself back inside the cab of the train, where he radioed headquarters.

  “You been drinking again?” Frank asked after Jaxon filled him in on the details of the near accident.

  Jaxon hadn’t touched a drink in two years. Thinking he was safe off the record, he now wished he’d lied about his story. “This wasn’t my fault.”

  “Oh, you might as well blame the Greeks—Pan did it.” Frank chuckled.

  “Come on, man. I know it sounds crazy, but do you think I’d risk mentioning this if it ain’t true?”

  “I can’t write this fucking shit down on the damn report.”

  “Look, there’s a kid missing—and some thing’s out there.” The brother of the boy Jaxon saved had also brought his girlfriend out to the trestle. She was the one who’d vanished. The police had already interrogated Jaxon about the teen girl before they searched the night with their flashlights.

  “I can’t believe you’re falling for those crack pot stories. Not you.”

  “I know what I saw. I know what I heard.”

  “Well, you need to get your head straight. Right now I gotta put you on suspension.”

  “Fuck, Frank, you firing me?”

  “I’ll get back to you after the investigation shakes down. Company’ll spring for your motel tonight. Get home tomorrow and shake this off.”

  “But—” There was a click over the airwaves and static.

  Jaxon grabbed his jean jacket and his keys and hopped off the train, skulking past the cameraman who was filming the departing ambulance.

  Walking down the slope on the side of the tracks leading to the bottom of the trestle, the Kentucky bluegrass crunched under Jaxon’s boots. Shadows of the sparse trees and bushes darkened with the waning light, and the empty lot was eerily devoid of insects or critters. He searched the brush for those red eyes. Had that just been a hallucination brought on by his adrenaline rush? Had he worked too many shifts in a row? Maybe it was just some wild animal.

  Whatever it was, he needed to stick around to prove his sanity—to not only himself, but to his boss. And, he couldn’t help bu
t think of that poor missing girl. Somehow he felt complicit in her disappearance, although logically that was nonsense. However, helping find her might fill the void left by his runaway sister, who narrowly escaped the drunken hand of their father, or his fellow soldiers brutally killed in the Gulf War. All of that had driven Jaxon to the bottle, the alcohol letting him delude himself into believing he wasn’t becoming his father.

  Following a crossing of the busy highway, he popped into the corner drug store to purchase a disposable camera to capture some much needed evidence.

  ***

  After checking in and getting his hotel key, Jaxon avoided his room. He couldn’t afford to stare into the mini-bar. The stuff had already made him hate his father growing up, and himself for drinking away every opportunity and girlfriend he ever had. He’d be damned if he’d lose his engineer job on top of all that.

  Exhaling audibly, he hit the pavement outside the lobby. His adrenaline had tapered off, but the ghost of it ran through his veins. He imagined how some liquor would wash all the nerves away. And how it would make everything worse, too. That was the kicker.

  He wandered into the deserted coffee shop on the corner and sat at the counter on one of those old fashioned diner stools with a swiveling cushion. It squeaked with his weight.

  For a split second, Jaxon thought he ought to check the closing time on the window. The only sounds were the clanging of pots and pans and the clinking of plates and silverware coming from the kitchen. Stale coffee and sugary dough smells floated to him, accompanied by the faint sound of ‘80s music.

  He had suppressed the reality of what he had experienced for as long as he could. Like a clogged water pipe finally bursting, the images materialized. Jaxon heard an angry snarl as if right next to his ear. The shadow in the darkness at the base of the trestle with horns crouched all over again. Those glowing red eyes locked on Joey once more, a shadowy claw pointing up at the boy. Jaxon covered his mouth, to stop himself from crying out gimmie your hand! to the kid like he’d done only hours before.

  Jaxon jumped in his seat as the front door squealed open and a heavy step stomped the tile.

  “Marla?” the man in uniform barked. He faced Jaxon, twisting the end of his white mustache, surrounded by at least a day’s worth of stubble.

  With a thwack and a slam, a twenty-something Bettie Page-haired woman padded into view. Her roots were dark blonde, and her arms tattooed with sleeves of roses and pin-up girls. “Hey, Mack,” she said, pushing some of her unruly locks behind her ears. After rinsing the brown sludge from the coffee pot, she started a new brew, the strong aroma of coffee beans sputtering from the machine.

  Marla looked at Jaxon with bloodshot eyes, a hand on her hip. “What’ll you have, darlin’?”

  Jaxon examined the bottles of beer in the cooler behind her. “Coffee, and a burger, medium rare.”

  “Sure thing,” she said, going to the kitchen window and patting the counter. “Got that, Al?”

  “Coming up,” a deep voice said, followed by the sizzle of beef and the gurgling pop of fry oil.

  “I see you’re stuck with us tonight, huh?” the officer said to Jaxon.

  “Yeah.” Jaxon rested his elbows on the counter. “Hey, weren’t you up there at the scene?”

  The cop nodded, reaching for the cup Marla had just filled. “Damn kids.” Pouring a stream of white sugar from a canister, he clinked his spoon in the cup. “Keeps us busy around here. Damn shame, though.”

  “Did the girl turn up?” Jaxon asked.

  “Nah. Already sniffed ‘em dogs all around. Nothing.” He pointed his leathery hand to the pastry glass, and Marla plated a chocolate-filled croissant, sliding it along the counter. “None of the tragedies deter them kids—brings even more of ‘em out there. I keep saying we need to put up a fence ‘er somethin’.”

  Jaxon shifted in his chair at the cop’s casual attitude. “They all legend tripping?” He took another gulp of coffee. “Is that what it’s called?”

  “Beats me. Dumb kid said he took his date up there to scare her, like that’s supposed to be some kind of thrill. Said his brother tagged along.”

  Jaxon tapped his heel on the ledge of the stool, readying the question he already knew the answer to. “What’re they trying to see?”

  “You ain’t heard of this place? Pope Lick’s supposed to lure victims to their death, straight into an oncoming train.” His stout belly rumbled. “Most bastards poke around or get drunk under the trestle without nothin' happening. The occasional idiot jumps or gets shredded on the tracks—it’s all the same difference, really.”

  Jaxon shuddered, remembering the flock of sheep. “What’s the story with the—?”

  “Supposedly a goat man. Some say he’s an escaped circus freak. Others that he’s some spawn of a devil worshipper, or the devil himself.”

  “You seen him?”

  Marla delivered the burger.

  The officer munched the last of the croissant. “There ain’t no such nonsense.”

  Something scraped the front window, a sharp screech quickly fading. Jaxon turned but didn’t see anything outside, not even a branch. He massaged the gooseflesh along his muscular forearms, wondering why no one else seemed to hear it. “What about the girl? She disappeared after the train had already stopped.”

  “There might be another reason she’s missing,” the cop said, rolling his eyes. He stood, his shoes clapping the floor before slapping a twenty on the counter. “Thanks, sweetie.”

  The waitress picked up the cash and crammed it into her apron before clearing his plate. “Good night, Mack.”

  “Don’t go nosing around out there. That highway traffic’ll kill ya when you cross.” He patted Jaxon on the back and headed for the door with a hollow-sounding chuckle.

  Jaxon chewed the last of his burger and stuffed the fries into his mouth one by one.

  He prayed the Goatman was just a prank, someone in a costume, much like his dad’s terrifying ancient man latex mask he wore every Halloween, and that the missing girl had somehow made it home safely.

  “Do you know those kids that were up there tonight?” he asked Marla.

  She wiped the counter with a rag. “Natalie’s my cousin.”

  “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He pushed his empty plate toward her. “Why didn’t you say something when—”

  “I’m going to look for her after I close.” She dropped his dish in the sink behind the counter with a plunk, his silverware jangling in after it.

  “By yourself?” he asked, his leg bouncing so much he forced it down with his palm. “That doesn’t sound safe. Don’t you—”

  “You heard Mack.” Her rag swiped right in front of him. “There’s no such nonsense.” She rinsed the rag, her lip quivering, and her hand quaking under the running water.

  Jaxon’s heart thundered in his chest when he remembered those red eyes, the gnarled claw. He was always glad he never had a wife or a daughter, someone to protect. Wondering what horrors might have befallen his runaway sister was preoccupying enough. Many nights Jaxon woke to the sound of his father calling out in his sleep the details of blood-splatter or chunks of brain-embedded walls from the crime scenes he got paid to clean up. Jaxon couldn’t rescue any of those victims either, one of the motivating factors in his enlistment into the army.

  Marla must not have anyone stopping her from going out in the dark alone. Or, if she did, she’d managed to lie to them about what she was doing tonight. That urge to save her, to help her find her missing cousin, who was God-knows-where, consumed him. Also, he wanted to prove he wasn’t crazy. He’d shove it in Frank’s face, demanding his job be fully re-instated, his good name cleared.

  The front door squeaked on its hinges again.

  “Let me go with you,” Jaxon said.

  “I’m sure you have better things to do.” She searched his eyes, appearing to discern his intentions. Blinking, she looked away, perhaps questioning why a stranger might care about her. She adjusted
the neckline of her uniform to conceal her cleavage.

  “Actually, I don’t.” He laughed, throwing his hands up. His smiled faded, wondering if he should keep the next remark to himself. “Besides, Mack’s wrong.”

  Her face paled. “What do you mean? Have you seen something?”

  A camera clunked down on the counter. Jaxon noticed the camouflage pants on the chair next to him. “Yeah, you see something?” he asked, tilting his head.

  Jaxon clenched his jaw.

  “Hey, I’m not the enemy here,” the cameraman said, pointing to the pot of coffee.

  Marla set a mug in front of him and poured a cup.

  “No? You don’t care about that girl out there—or who you make look like a fool with that.” Jaxon waved at the camera. “You’re just after the story at our expense.”

  “Oh, and you’re not thinking about using her to get your job back?” The cameraman smirked.

  Jaxon squinted, searching his memory for how this guy could possibly know that.

  He pushed the bridge of his glasses with his middle finger. “I heard you tell your boss what you saw. Let me help.”

  “Fuck you.” Pulling out his wallet, Jaxon laid a few bills on the counter.

  As Jaxon got up, the cameraman grabbed him by the arm. “Seriously, you don’t know what you’re dealing with. Remember, I’ve been tracking this thing.”

  “Get off me.” Jaxon glowered.

  The man peeled his hand off Jaxon’s arm.

  “What are we dealing with?” Marla asked.

  “Shapeshifting. Mind control, to name a couple,” the camera guy said, taking a toothpick from the dispenser and poking it between his teeth. He tapped the camera. “From what survivors have told me, you gotta look away. And the more of us at the trestle, the better. It can’t get us all at once.”

  Jaxon leaned toward the guy. “Who’s gonna be the bait, then, huh?”

  “Can we all play nice?” Marla interjected with the tone of an elementary school teacher.

  The two men, now both standing, glared at her.

  “Let’s close down the joint, Al.” She turned off the coffee pot and didn’t wait for his answer. Marla untied her apron and retrieved her purse, slinging it over her shoulder. “Hey, how ‘bout you brief us on the way?” she asked the cameraman. Then she met Jaxon’s eyes. “We’ve all got something to gain here.”