The Weird: A Compendium of Strange and Dark Stories

by Jeff Vandermeer; Ann Vandermeer

  In the summer of 1954, Anna and Richard Becker disappeared from Yosemite National Park along with Paul Becker, their three-year-old son. Their campsite was intact; two paper plates with half-eaten frankfurters remained on the picnic table, and a third frankfurter was in the trash. The rangers took several black-and-white photographs of the meal, which, when blown up to eight by ten, as part of the investigation, showed clearly the words love bites, carved into the wooden picnic table many years ago. There appeared to be some fresh scratches as well; the expert witness at the trial attributed them, with no great assurance, to raccoon.

  The Beckers’ car was still backed into the campsite, a green De Soto with a spare key under the right bumper and half a tank of gas. Inside the tent, two sleeping bags had been zipped together marital style and laid on a large tarp. A smaller flannel bag was spread over an inflated pool raft. Toiletries included three toothbrushes; Ipana toothpaste, squeezed in the middle; Ivory soap; three washcloths; and one towel. The newspapers discreetly made no mention of Anna’s diaphragm, which remained powdered with talc, inside its pink shell, or of the fact that Paul apparently still took a bottle to bed with him.

  Their nearest neighbor had seen nothing. He had been in his hammock, he said, listening to the game. Of course, the reception in Yosemite was lousy. At home he had a shortwave set; he said he had once pulled in Dover, clear as a bell. ‘You had to really concentrate to hear the game,’ he told the rangers. ‘You could’ve dropped the bomb. I wouldn’t have noticed.’

  Anna Becker’s mother, Edna, received a postcard postmarked a day earlier. ‘Seen the firefall,’ it said simply. ‘Home Wednesday. Love.’ Edna identified the bottle. ‘Oh yes, that’s Paul’s bokkie,’ she told the police. She dissolved into tears. ‘He never goes anywhere without it,’ she said.

  In the spring of 1960, Mark Cooper and Manuel Rodriguez went on a fishing expedition in Yosemite. They set up a base camp in Tuolumne Meadows and went off to pursue steelhead. They were gone from camp approximately six hours, leaving their food and a six-pack of beer zipped inside their backpacks zipped inside their tent. When they returned, both beer and food were gone. Canine footprints circled the tent, but a small and mysterious handprint remained on the tent flap. ‘Raccoon,’ said the rangers who hadn’t seen it. The tent and packs were undamaged. Whatever had taken the food had worked the zippers. ‘Has to be raccoon.’

  The last time Manuel had gone backpacking, he’d suspended his pack from a tree to protect it. A deer had stopped to investigate, and when Manuel shouted to warn it off the deer hooked the pack over its antlers in a panic, tearing the pack loose from the branch and carrying it away. Pack and antlers were so entangled, Manuel imagined the deer must have worn his provisions and clean shirts until antler-shedding season. He reported that incident to the rangers, too, but what could anyone do? He was reminded of it, guiltily, every time he read Thidwick, the Big-Hearted Moose to his four-year-old son.

  Manuel and Mark arrived home three days early. Manuel’s wife said she’d been expecting him.

  She emptied his pack. ‘Where’s the can opener?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s there somewhere,’ said Manuel.

  ‘It’s not,’ she said.

  ‘Check the shirt pocket.’

  ‘It’s not here.’ Manuel’s wife held the pack upside down and shook it. Dead leaves fell out. ‘How were you going to drink the beer?’ she asked.

  In August of 1962, Caroline Crosby, a teenager from Palo Alto, accompanied her family on a forced march from Tuolumne Meadows to Vogelsang. She carried fourteen pounds in a pack with an aluminum frame – and her father said it was the lightest pack on the market, and she should be able to carry one-third her weight, so fourteen pounds was nothing, but her pack stabbed her continuously in one coin-sized spot just below her right shoulder, and it still hurt the next morning. Her boots left a blister on her right heel, and her pack straps had rubbed. Her father had bought her a mummy bag with no zipper so as to minimize its weight; it was stiflingly hot, and she sweated all night. She missed an overnight at Ann Watson’s house, where Ann showed them her sister’s Mark Eden bust developer, and her sister retaliated by freezing all their bras behind the twin-pops. She missed The Beverly Hillbillies.

  Caroline’s father had quit smoking just for the duration of the trip, so as to spare himself the weight of cigarettes, and made continual comments about Nature, which were laudatory in content and increasingly abusive in tone. Caroline’s mother kept telling her to smile.

  In the morning her father mixed half a cup of stream water into a packet of powdered eggs and cooked them over a Coleman stove. ‘Damn fine breakfast,’ he told Caroline intimidatingly as she stared in horror at her plate. ‘Out here in God’s own country. What else could you ask for?’ He turned to Caroline’s mother, who was still trying to get a pot of water to come to a boil. ‘Where’s the goddamn coffee?’ he asked. He went to the stream to brush his teeth with a toothbrush he had sawed the handle from in order to save the weight. Her mother told her to please make a little effort to be cheerful and not spoil the trip for everyone.

  One week later she was in Letterman Hospital in San Francisco. The diagnosis was septicemic plague.

  Which is finally where I come into the story. My name is Keith Harmon B.A. in history with a special emphasis on epidemics. I probably know as much as anyone about the plague of Athens. Typhus. Tarantism. Tsutsugamushi fever. It’s an odder historical specialty than it ought to be. More battles have been decided by disease than by generals – and if you don’t believe me, take a closer look at the Crusades or the fall of the Roman Empire or Napoleon’s Russian campaign.

  My M.A. is in public administration. Vietnam veteran, too, but in 1962 I worked for the state of California as part of the plague-monitoring team. When Letterman’s reported a plague victim, Sacramento sent me down to talk to her.

  Caroline had been moved to a private room. ‘You’re going to be fine,’ I told her. Of course, she was. We still lose people to the pneumonic plague, but the slower form is easily cured. The only tricky part is making the diagnosis.

  ‘I don’t feel well. I don’t like the food,’ she said. She pointed out Letterman’s Tuesday menu. ‘Hawaiian Delight. You know what that is? Green Jell-O with a canned pineapple ring on top. What’s delightful about that?’ She was feverish and lethargic. Her hair lay limply about her head, and she kept tangling it in her fingers as she talked. ‘I’m missing a lot of school.’ Impossible to tell if this last was a complaint or a boast. She raised her bed to a sitting position and spent most of the rest of the interview looking out the window, making it clear that a view of the Letterman parking lot was more arresting than a conversation with an old man like me. She seemed younger than fifteen. Of course, everyone in a hospital bed feels young. Helpless. ‘Will you ask them to let me wash and set my hair?’

  I pulled a chair over to the bed. ‘I need to know if you’ve been anywhere unusual recently. We know about Yosemite. Anywhere else. Hiking out around the airport, for instance.’ The plague is endemic in the San Bruno Mountains by the San Francisco Airport. That particular species of flea doesn’t bite humans, though. Or so we’d always thought. ‘It’s kind of a romantic spot for some teenagers, isn’t it?’

  I’ve seen some withering adolescent stares in my time, but this one was practiced. I still remember it. I may be sick, it said, but at least I’m not an idiot. ‘Out by the airport?’ she said. ‘Oh, right. Real romantic. The radio playing and those 727s overhead. Give me a break.’

  ‘Let’s talk about Yosemite, then.’

  She softened a little. ‘In Palo Alto we go to the water temple,’ she informed me. ‘And, no, I haven’t been there, either. My parents made me go to Yosemite. And now I’ve got bubonic plague.’ Her tone was one of satisfaction. ‘I think it was the powdered eggs. They made me eat them. I’ve been sick ever since.’

  ‘Did you see any unusual wildlife there? Did you play with any squirrels?’

  ‘Oh
, right,’ she said. ‘I always play with squirrels. Birds sit on my fingers.’ She resumed the stare. ‘My parents didn’t tell you what I saw?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Figures.’ Caroline combed her fingers through her hair. ‘If I had a brush, I could at least rat it. Will you ask the doctors to bring me a brush?’

  ‘What did you see, Caroline?’

  ‘Nothing. According to my parents. No big deal.’ She looked out at the parking lot. ‘I saw a boy.’

  She wouldn’t look at me, but she finished her story. I heard about the mummy bag and the overnight party she missed. I heard about the eggs. Apparently, the altercation over breakfast had escalated, culminating in Caroline’s refusal to accompany her parents on a brisk hike to Ireland Lake. She stayed behind, lying on top of her sleeping bag and reading the part of Green Mansions where Abel eats a fine meal of anteater flesh. ‘After the breakfast I had, my mouth was watering,’ she told me. Something made her look up suddenly from her book. She said it wasn’t a sound. She said it was a silence.

  A naked boy dipped his hands into the stream and licked the water from his fingers. His fingernails curled toward his palms like claws. ‘Hey,’ Caroline told me she told him. She could see his penis and everything. The boy gave her a quick look and then backed away into the trees. She went back to her book.

  She described him to her family when they returned. ‘Real dirty,’ she said. ‘Real hairy.’

  ‘You have a very superior attitude,’ her mother noted. ‘It’s going to get you in trouble someday.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Caroline, feeling superior. ‘Don’t believe me.’ She made a vow never to tell her parents anything again. ‘And I never will,’ she told me. ‘Not if I have to eat powdered eggs until I die.’

  At this time there started a plague. It appeared not in one part of the world only, not in one race of men only, and not in any particular season; but it spread over the entire earth, and afflicted all without mercy of both sexes and of every age. It began in Egypt, at Pelusium; thence it spread to Alexandria and to the rest of Egypt; then went to Palestine, and from there over the whole world…

  In the second year, in the spring, it reached Byzantium and began in the following manner: To many there appeared phantoms in human form. Those who were so encountered, were struck by a blow from the phantom, and so contracted the disease. Others locked themselves into their houses. But then the phantoms appeared to them in dreams, or they heard voices that told them that they had been selected for death.

  This comes from Procopius’s account of the first pandemic. A.D. 541, De Bello Persico, chapter XXII. It’s the only explanation I can give you for why Caroline’s story made me so uneasy, why I chose not to mention it to anyone. I thought she’d had a fever dream, but thinking this didn’t settle me any. I talked to her parents briefly and then went back to Sacramento to write my report.

  We have no way of calculating the deaths in the first pandemic. Gibbon says that during three months, five to ten thousand people died daily in Constantinople, and many Eastern cities were completely abandoned.

  The second pandemic began in 1346. It was the darkest time the planet has known. A third of the world died. The Jews were blamed, and, throughout Europe, pogroms occurred wherever sufficient health remained for the activity. When murdering Jews provided no alleviation, a committee of doctors at the University of Paris concluded the plague was the result of an unfortunate conjunction of Saturn, Jupiter, and Mars.

  The third pandemic occurred in Europe during the fifteenth to eighteenth centuries. The fourth began in China in 1855. It reached Hong Kong in 1894, where Alexandre Yersin of the Institut Pasteur at last identified the responsible bacilli. By 1898 the disease had killed six million people in India. Dr. Paul-Louis Simond, also working for the Institut Pasteur, but stationed in Bombay, finally identified fleas as the primary carriers. ‘On June 2, 1898, I was overwhelmed,’ he wrote. ‘I had just unveiled a secret which had tormented man for so long.’

  His discoveries went unnoticed for another decade or so. On June 27, 1899, the disease came to San Francisco. The governor of California, acting in protection of business interests, made it a felony to publicize the presence of the plague. People died instead of syphilitic septicemia. Because of this deception, thirteen of the Western states are still designated plague areas.

  The state team went into the high country in early October. Think of us as soldiers. One of the great mysteries of history is why the plague finally disappeared. The rats are still here. The fleas are still here. The disease is still here; it shows up in isolated cases like Caroline’s. Only the epidemic is missing. We’re in the middle of the fourth assault. The enemy is elusive. The war is unwinnable. We remain vigilant.

  The Vogelsang Camp had already been closed for the winter. No snow yet, but the days were chilly and the nights below freezing. If the plague was present, it wasn’t really going to be a problem until spring. We amused ourselves, poking sticks into warm burrows looking for dead rodents. We set out some traps. Not many. You don’t want to decrease the rodent population. Deprive the fleas of their natural hosts, and they just look for replacements. They just bring the war home.

  We picked up a few bodies, but no positives. We could have dusted the place anyway as a precaution. Silent Spring came out in 1962, but I hadn’t read it.

  I saw the coyote on the fourth day. She came out of a hole on the bank of Lewis Creek and stood for a minute with her nose in the air. She was grayed with age around her muzzle, possibly a bit arthritic. She shook out one hind leg. She shook out the other. Then, right as I watched, Caroline’s boy climbed out of the burrow after the coyote.

  I couldn’t see the boy’s face. There was too much hair in the way. But his body was hairless, and even though his movements were peculiar and inhuman, I never thought that he was anything but a boy. Twelve years old or maybe thirteen, I thought, although small for thirteen. Wild as a wolf, obviously. Raised by coyotes maybe. But clearly human. Circumcised, if anyone is interested.

  I didn’t move. I forgot about Procopius and stepped into the National Enquirer instead. Marilyn was in my den. Elvis was in my rinse cycle. It was my lucky day. I was amusing myself when I should have been awed. It was a stupid mistake. I wish now that I’d been someone different.

  The boy yawned and closed his eyes, then shook himself awake and followed the coyote along the creek and out of sight. I went back to camp. The next morning we surrounded the hole and netted them coming out. This is the moment it stopped being such a lark. This is an uncomfortable memory. The coyote was terrified, and we let her go. The boy was terrified, and we kept him. He scratched us and bit and snarled. He cut me, and I thought it was one of his nails, but he turned out to be holding a can opener. He was covered with fleas, fifty or sixty of them visible at a time, which jumped from him to us, and they all bit, too. It was like being attacked by a cloud. We sprayed the burrow and the boy and ourselves, but we’d all been bitten by then. We took an immediate blood sample. The boy screamed and rolled his eyes all the way through it. The reading was negative. By the time we all calmed down, the boy really didn’t like us.

  Clint and I tied him up, and we took turns carrying him down to Tuolumne. His odor was somewhere between dog and boy, and worse than both. We tried to clean him up in the showers at the ranger station. Clint and I both had to strip to do this, so God knows what he must have thought we were about. He reacted to the touch of water as if it burned. There was no way to shampoo his hair, and no one with the strength to cut it. So we settled for washing his face and hands, put our clothes back on, gave him a sweater that he dropped by the drain, put him in the backseat of my Rambler, and drove to Sacramento. He cried most of the way, and when we went around curves he allowed his body to be flung unresisting from one side of the car to the other, occasionally knocking his head against the door handle with a loud, painful sound.

  I bought him a ham sandwich when we stopped for gas in Modesto, but he wouldn�
��t eat it. He was a nice-looking kid, had a normal face, freckled, with blue eyes, brown hair, and if he’d had a haircut you could have imagined him in some Sears catalog modeling raincoats.

  One of life’s little ironies. It was October 14. We rescue a wild boy from isolation and deprivation and winter in the mountains. We bring him civilization and human contact. We bring him straight into the Cuban Missile Crisis.

  Maybe that’s why you don’t remember reading about him in the paper. We turned him over to the state of California, which had other things on its mind.

  The state put him in Mercy Hospital and assigned maybe a hundred doctors to the case. I was sent back to Yosemite to continue looking for fleas. The next time I saw the boy, about a week had passed. He’d been cleaned up, of course. Scoured of parasites, inside and out. Measured. He was just over four feet tall and weighed seventy-five pounds. His head was all but shaved so as not to interfere with the various neurological tests, which had turned out normal and were being redone. He had been observed rocking in a seated position, left to right and back to front, mouth closed, chin up, eyes staring at nothing. Occasionally he had small spasms, convulsive movements, which suggested abnormalities in the nervous system. His teeth needed extensive work. He was sleeping under his bed. He wouldn’t touch his Hawaiian Delight. He liked us even less than before.

  About this time I had a brief conversation with a doctor whose name I didn’t notice. I was never able to find him again. Red-haired doctor with glasses. Maybe thirty, thirty-two years old. ‘He’s got some unusual musculature,’ this red-haired doctor told me. ‘Quite singular. Especially the development of the legs. He’s shown us some really surprising capabilities.’ The boy started to howl, an unpleasant, inhuman sound that started in his throat and ended in yours. It was so unhappy. It made me so unhappy to hear it. I never followed up on what the doctor had said.