by Clive Barker
Finally she reached the back wall. The birds plucked at her hair, pecked gently at her skin and the sensation was so comforting she sank down onto her rug and closed her eyes.
She felt bones and seeds press into her back and buttocks. She tried to lift an arm or leg but couldn’t. She felt light as a feather but solid as concrete.
The birds got used to her, threaded twigs into her pubic hair. There was a kind of peace about it, a giving up. An end to the relentless striving, decision making.
“There are only two,” Finch said. She wasn’t surprised to see he’d followed her back there. “The rest are ghosts. Only you and I can see them.”
“When you said ghost birds, I thought you meant metaphorically.”
“I meant both.” The ghost birds flew around him and he ducked gently, as she’d seen him do many times.
He reached in his pocket for sunflower seeds, which he offered to her.
She took a few.
They began to cover her with sticks, stones, jewels. Nesting materials. In her ears, across her eyes. She kept her mouth shut. The birds told her a story to send her to sleep, a long, disjointed story of many voices.
Mate, have you got a spare dollar?
I haven’t eaten in two days, help us out.
I been on the street six years.
My mum chucked me out.
As the sun rose, the birds caused a ruckus, singing in their wheezy voices get up get up.
She sat up, sweeping off feathers and shit, the twigs from her pubic hair and the stones from her ears.
She opened the cage and moved slowly to the granny flat, feeling as if she was walking over eggshells. The birds had quieted as the sun rose, and there was a warmth in the air that made her take deep, grateful breaths.
Her boxes of sewing things sat open, and she ran her fingers through them, loving the texture, the feel, the tinkly song of them playing against each other.
“You spent the night with the ghost birds,” Finch said. He stood at the door, leaning in. Over his shoulders, she thought birds flew, but the sun was bright. “Nothing is the same now.”
Ghost birds flocked in to her, plucked at her, picked at her buttons. She felt them in her hair, nudging at her ears, nibbling at her fingers. They bathed in sequins. They flocked around her and she had never felt such a sense of belonging.
Nothing is the same, they said. And who will you bring for us?
“Who will you bring?” Finch said, or was it the ghost birds, sending out an invitation, “Who will you bring for us?”
She thought of Luke’s determination to move Finch out, move him on. She wondered how they’d get Luke into the cage. Or her sister, whose life was nothing, or any of the idiot customers she served daily. And there was always the homeless, the forgotten. Birds fluttered around her spare a dollar, mate and she knew there were plenty of those. All she had to do was entice them.
She decorated herself with makeup, jewelry, clothing, her hair done up and braided with golden ribbons, her legs shaved and smooth. Finch watched as she preened, and Luke was there, and Rachel, all of them watching as she made herself shine.
Memory Lake
Robert Morrish
The story began with the worst drought Karn County had seen in more than a hundred years. Events happened slowly at first, crawling through a seven-year prologue of dry skies and parched earth. But as a thirst for water built, so, too, did a thirst for revenge. And once things started to happen, they happened pretty quickly.
1.
Jack Depp was busy when the phone rang. Not to put too fine a point on it, but he was on top of Randy Mueller’s wife, who was one smoking-hot redhead, and Jack didn’t appreciate the interruption.
The second ring did the trick. He opened his eyes to a darkened bedroom ceiling and looked over to see his wife lying next to him. Obviously, she wasn’t going to answer it. It’s those damned radio commercials, he thought as he crawled across her to reach the jangling receiver, the new, racy ones. Ever since the local station had started running them, he’d found himself acting out his radio role in his dreams. He hoped they’d end soon. The dreams, that is; not the commercials. The ads were doing the trick, so he could most definitely live with them for a while longer.
He answered with a sleepy, tentative, “Hello?”
“Wake up, Jack. It’s Frank. I need you.”
Jack paused, trying to gather his still-napping wits.
“Who is it, honey?” came a drowsy voice from his wife’s side of the bed.
“That’s nice,” he said into the receiver. “I need you like I need a hole in the head.”
“You’re not funny when you’re awake. Don’t waste your time trying to be funny when you’re half-asleep.”
“Yeah, yeah. Speaking of sleep, what the hell time is it, and why are you calling me?”
“It’s about five-fifteen. Shouldn’t you be up by now, anyway?” the caller prodded, then continued without waiting for a response. “Listen, I’m serious—I need you to get down here as soon as you can. It’s work-related, I can tell you that much.”
“Where, exactly, is ‘here’ and what, exactly, is so all-fired important?” Jack’s mouth felt like it was full of half-congealed paste.
“Come down to the south end of Esmeralda, to the Hyde Point boat launch. Murphy or I will meet you there.”
“Okay-y-y…” Jack drew the word out to about three times its normal length. “That takes care of the ‘where.’ Now what about the ‘what’?”
“I can’t say right now. I’m on a cell phone, so this is an unsecured line…”
“Oh for chrissakes,” interrupted Jack. “You’re the police chief of a podunk town, not the director of the FBI. You think anybody really gives a shit?”
“Jack,” came the measured, patient reply, with just a hint of menace, “you don’t have any idea what’s going on here, so why don’t you give me the benefit of the doubt, quit jerking me around, and get down here.”
Something in his brother’s tone impelled Jack to comply. “All right, fine. Give me about… half an hour and I’ll be there.” After a moment, he thought to add: “Is the department gonna pay me for this, by the way, or are you expecting me to haul my ass out of bed on account of brotherly love?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get paid. And besides, right now, all I need you to do is take a look at… a situation, and tell me if you can get a ’hoe in there to do some work.”
I sort of figured that much, thought Jack, but stopped himself from saying so. A brief urge to ask if he’d get time-and-a-half rates, given the early hour, also died before reaching his lips. Instead, he just said “all right, see you in a bit,” and hung up.
“Everything okay, honey?” asked Christie.
“Yeah, fine. Frank has some sort of important job for me. Wouldn’t give me any details.”
“Be careful,” she replied, but he could tell from her tone she was already falling back asleep.
Jack ran a hand roughly across his face, hoping the gesture would somehow wipe away the clinging effects of sleep. It didn’t work; he still felt hopelessly groggy and his mouth still tasted as if something had died in there last night. With a groan, he rolled off the bed and to his feet. I remember when we used to make fun of dad for all the grunting noises he used to make. Now it’s me making them. When, exactly, did I get old?
He flipped on a hallway light, squinting in the sudden brightness, and began a search for clothes and toothbrush, moving carefully so as not to wake Carolyn and Jack Junior.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Jack “Digger” Depp was on the road, a second cup of coffee in his free hand. The first one he’d thrown back like he was doing a shot, not that he drank all that much liquor any more. Having a wife and two children and owning your own business didn’t leave too much time for carousing. Although the first part of that equation—having a family—hadn’t done much to slow down some of his friends. Not me. Couldn’t be that irresponsible if I tri
ed. Gotta give thanks to the old man for that, I guess.
He flipped on the radio and cracked a smile—his first of the morning—in response to a familiar tune. Perfect timing—it was the new commercial. His new commercial. What a strange thought that was, although he should be getting used to the notion by now. It’d been over a year since he’d first taken the plunge on a radio ad—his first foray beyond the yellow pages—and nearly a month since the new campaign had started.
Radio advertising didn’t seem like the most logical avenue for his line of business. He’d only allowed himself to be talked into it because it was so relatively inexpensive—and because he liked the station so much. The ads only ran on a single station, KFAT, a small outfit with a weak signal, but a big reputation among those with eclectic tastes and a strong distaste for the top 40 crap served up by the big faceless corporate stations.
Because the station wasn’t constrained by any corporate standards, it became known for both its DJs’ eccentric behavior and its frequent spoof commercials. The irreverent atmosphere resulted in many of the station’s “real” commercials being decidedly tongue in cheek.
Digger’s first effort at a radio commercial had actually been pretty tame. But when it didn’t generate much of a spike in business, he was convinced by the radio’s ad department to try a more risqué approach. And so for the second commercial, a new persona was created for Digger Depp, as a studly gigolo whose business consisted of not just excavating the earth but also plumbing the depths of countless panting housewives. Featuring the breathless voices of several such wanton wenches, commenting on his prodigious tool and skillful handiwork, it was really quite racy—or, depending on your viewpoint, extremely juvenile. The new commercial, his second featuring the gigolo version of Digger, was along the same lines as the previous one, but ended with Digger waking up to the sound of an alarm clock and realizing that all the gushing remarks were only part of a dream, and that it was time to get up and go to work for real. Much like this morning’s episode: life imitating art.
What really mattered was that the risqué ads seemed to strike a chord with the listeners—at least sufficiently to make them think of Digger’s name when they needed a hole dug. Business was up almost 50% since the racy ads started running. And the funny thing—or perhaps not so funny—was that a few housewives had actually come on to him.
Business was up so much, in fact, that Digger had been forced to hire a couple new employees. One of those was an apprentice who reminded him in some ways of himself, some twenty-plus years ago. Jack Depp had been permanently saddled with the “Digger” moniker when, at the age of 19, he took an apprentice job of his own with an excavation company. His last name was actually pronounced “Depp,” like the actor Johnny, but once he started the excavating work, his friends had decided it should be pronounced “deep.”
Looking back, Jack thought that maybe, just maybe, he’d stuck it out initially with the excavation company only because he enjoyed the novelty of having a nickname. But after a bit, he realized that he actually liked the work. There was actually some variety to the tasks and he enjoyed working with the soil, even if in many cases there was a whole lot of metal between his flesh and that soil.
Fifteen years later, the man who ran Kearsley Excavating had retired, and Digger managed to scrape together enough money to buy the business. He quickly changed the firm’s name to Digger Deep Construction, seeking to take advantage of all the novelty his nickname had to offer, and had enjoyed a stable if occasionally slow business ever since—until the radio ads had given him more business than he could handle.
Digger turned onto the road leading to the Hyde Point launch. Headlights were visible at the end of the road, backlit by a gray but rapidly-brightening sky. As Digger drew near, an officer he recognized as Pat Murphy walked out to meet him. Digger rolled down his window, letting in morning air that was still crisp but already held an undercurrent of warmth. It was going to be another hot one.
“Hey, Pat. What’s going on?”
“Morning, Digger. I’m just supposed to take you out to Frank. He’ll give you the details.”
“Out to Frank? Where is he?”
“Out there,” answered the deputy, turning and pointing across the dry lakebed, “at the old town site.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Digger was still grumbling as he trudged across the cracked moonscape surface.
“I still don’t understand why we couldn’t drive out here. The bed’s dry enough, and obviously Frank drove out here, unless that car I see is just a mirage.”
“I told you—he doesn’t want any more cars driving out here right now.”
‘Yeah, but why?”
“Ask him yourself,” answered Murphy, pointing at Frank, who was striding out to meet them. Although Frank was taller—more like 6’3” to Digger’s 6’1”—and broader—built more like their father than Digger, who tended more towards wiry muscle—the resemblance between the brothers was clear. Both sported unruly brown curls that passed for hair but refused to be tamed; prominent, borderline-chiseled jaw lines with cleft chins; Roman noses that tapered off just short of being unattractively prominent.
“’Bout time you got here,” said Frank, by way of greeting.
“I would’ve been here a long time ago if you hadn’t insisted on this boy scout hike.”
“I figured you could use the exercise. Noticed you been starting to get a little bit of a gut on you.”
“The only thing getting fat around here is your head. All bullshit aside, Frank, what’s going on here?”
“I need you to do some digging for me. I wanted you to come out here first to make sure there’s no problem bringing a backhoe out, right up to where the edge of the water is now, where it’s still pretty swampy.”
“I’d figured that much out, or most of it. Tell me the rest.”
Frank looked back in the direction of the water, and Digger followed his gaze, taking in the pathetic remains of a drowned town.
Since its founding in 1858, the town of Placerton had slowly taken hold here, along the banks of the Karn River. Over the years, the population had grown and more and more businesses opened their doors, including the likes of a hotel, a barbershop, a general store, and two bars. But in the springtime, floods would often plague the area as snowmelt swelled the river into an angry torrent that escaped its banks and inundated the surrounding, low-lying areas. When the floods became too frequent, and the losses too great, it was decided that a dam was needed to tame the raging river—and the location chosen for the dam meant that, after more than 100 years of life, the town of Placerton would have to die.
Ignoring a virtual flood of complaints and controversy, the federal government bought out everyone and relocated the town five miles to the east, allowing the U. S. Corps of Engineers to build a massive earthen dam across the span of the Karn River and create the Esmeralda Reservoir. With the dam’s completion in 1971, Lake Esmeralda soon became the centerpiece of the Karn River Valley, ultimately growing to include nearly forty miles of shoreline.
But now, after seven years of dry skies that had withered hopes and dried up dreams, the water level of Lake Esmeralda had receded so far that the ghost of the former town had emerged from the murky depths. Here and there, the remnants of stone fireplaces reached pitifully for the sky, and a few warped, sagging walls stood stubbornly like ribs of a skeleton. Crumbling cement foundations dotted the landscape like broken teeth; a concrete bridge stood uselessly, connecting nothing and no one; and the passage of water and time had done little to dull the red radiance of the old schoolhouse steps, a stairway to nowhere.
If he’d been asked to picture a ghost town, Digger never would have come up with a desiccated patch of vacancy such as this. But now that it was right in front of him, he couldn’t think of a more apt defining image. He’d only been three years old when the town was submerged, and what few memories he had of it were happy, almost dream-like. Looking at it now, he shuddered
, for reasons he couldn’t name.
“We got a call last night,” said Frank, bringing Digger back to the here and now. “A couple kids were out here on bikes to take a look at the old town, said they found a body. Pat here,” he glanced at the other cop, “came out, confirmed it, and called me out.” Frank started walking in the direction from which he’d come, and motioned for Digger to follow.
“The thing is, it’s not exactly a body—all that’s left is a skeleton. At first, we figured somebody must have dumped a body in the lake a long time ago. But then we started nosing around, and we found this.” He pointed toward a spot a few feet away, turning on his flashlight to highlight the spot, although the beam was barely noticeable in the dawning light. Sizable shards of splintered wood were visible through the mud.
“Is that…a coffin?”
“Yeah. And we’ve since found pieces of another one. It appears that we’re standing in the middle of the old cemetery.”
“But…” Digger paused, confusion playing across his features, “they wouldn’t have just left all the bodies here when they flooded the town. Would they?”
“Good question. I made a couple calls, woke up a couple folks—besides you, that is—and the answer, supposedly, is no. All the coffins were supposed to be dug up and moved to the new cemetery.”
With his right hand, Digger pushed his hair up off his forehead, exposing his widows-peak hairline, and held it there. It was a common pose for him when his brain was working overtime.
“You think somebody, umm, shirked their duty? Figured that nobody would ever know if some bodies didn’t get relocated to their new neighborhood?”
“That’s my guess. From what I’ve gathered, the cemetery owners got paid a pretty good sum to do the moving. Could be they just pocketed some of it as pure profit. I’m gonna ask some more questions, do some digging of my own, and I want you to do a little digging out here—see what else, or who else, you can find.”
