The Hauntings of Hood Canal

by Jack Cady

  Then he admitted he had to do something. Like, maybe take company. But who? If he took Sugar Bear, he’d sure as whiskers-on-a-catfish have to take Annie. And Annie, sure as whiskers, would do something magical . . . the fisherman shuddered. If magic misfired, all the dead things that ever tumbled on the bottom of the sea might rise to walk the land. Nope. Nope. Nope.

  Because, a ‘course, what scared the tow truck kid had to be the dead guy. It was just like the little show-off. That dead guy demanded attention even when he was bait. But, killing people for no profit?

  Still, the great wrongness, the ugliness, caused such sorrow. Something had to change. People kept getting lost. The fisherman told himself he should never have questioned the kid. He understood that he had just acquired a heap of responsibility.

  As shadows deepened a few wives and girlfriends started showing up at Beer and Bait. The ladies put a little color into a scatter of guys still wearing work clothes. Male voices grew louder as occasional girlish laughter came from surrounding tables. At the bar men turned and watched the women while pretending to watch pool games. A couple guys talked positive and dumb. The fisherman watched Bertha.

  She was more-or-less on top of matters. She had much of her lippiness back. She razzed guys, hassled the pool games, drew beer from taps running so fast and clear you knew they’d just been cleaned. Her smile, though, looked like a slightly bent, freeze-dried-herring. Bertha pretended to have a good time, but bein’ Norwegian, couldn’t fake it.

  Folks came and went. Most dropped in for conversation and one drink before heading home. Some might return. The fisherman figured Petey wouldn’t pass up a chance to hustle on Friday night. When Jubal Jim bounded into the room with his hound happy manner, it seemed Petey ought to be next through the doorway. Instead, a postal guy who delivered rural routes slipped in like mail through a slot. Jubal Jim scored a couple potato chips along the bar, then went to Bertha who seemed suddenly joyous. Bertha found a pickled egg. Jubal Jim snarfed the egg whilst wagging tail, then headed for a nap in his favorite spot beneath the space heater. Bertha looked lots better. It was almost like she’d made some kind of decision.

  As time passed the crowd changed. Guys headed home to supper. Guys without wives or girlfriends sat lonesome before pitchers of beer. Among the pool players the ante rose to ten bucks a game and hovered. Jubal Jim snoozed. Bertha mopped the bar and hoped for a big evening. By eight o’clock a thin Friday night crowd danced, hollered, and tried to make out. The fisherman felt happy for everybody but himself, plus he worried over what to do about the dead guy. Before the fisherman realized it the clock started knocking against eleven PM.

  It wouldn’t hurt to walk and clear the head. He bussed his table and waved good-bye to Bertha who, it seemed, now looked sort of tenuous.

  In the October night a three-quarter moon hung wispy behind thin clouds. He meandered between parked pickups and headed for the road. The dunk site lay a ways off, but no more than he, or for that matter, Sugar Bear, had walked many-a-time. Plus, this was just a walk to clear the head.

  The night road carried a few cars, bright lights whipping against roadside undergrowth, making eyes of varmints glow red or green; the glows dropping into darkness as headlights passed. The roadside felt alive with wildlife movements in a symphony of nature. The Canal lay black, except where wheyish October moonlight cast thin gleams.

  The fisherman hoofed right along, not hardly weaving at all. A gull squawked and slid through night air like a spirit. The fisherman thought of dark depths, imagined the dead guy walking down there poking through debris, or maybe getting chawed on by crabs. The fisherman shook his head, took deep breaths, and told himself this was no time for getting morbid. He told himself only a damn fool or drunk would be here this close to closing time.

  His watch read eleven-thirty when he arrived. The yellow crane stood to one side and the site lay stripped of vegetation. The Canal licked away at a slickery grade of rock and rubble. If a guy didn’t know what had been going on the scene might look peaceful. The fisherman leaned against the crane. He tried to fig­ure should he leave? A ’course, it didn’t make sense to leave if things were about to heat up.

  Headlights rounded the curve from north. An approaching car slowed and nearly crept toward the dunk site. The fisherman hid behind the crane. Anybody driving that slow looked for a place to do a deed, probably illegal, or else knew about danger.

  The car crept to a stop. Thin moonlight showed make and model. The fisherman gasped, actually gasped, actually couldn’t, could not believe it. Then he did believe it.

  “Part of the hustle,” he whispered, and watched Petey climb from the Plymouth. The window on the driver’s side was rolled down, and Petey left the door open. He checked the road in both directions, patted the car on its roof. Petey looked like he tried to comfort a horse he must shoot. He reached in and put the car in drive. It moved slowly into the Canal. Bubbles rose, and dark water closed over the Plymouth. Petey stood for a minute, talking under his breath, then walked away.

  Bubbles did not rise for long. Lights turned the water green, then shorted out as darkness closed in. Little wavelets made expanding circles, and the Canal once more lapped against the land. The three-quarter moon reflected on the Canal like a ghost of a ghost. A hump in the water moved fast enough to show a wake. It drew a straight line to the dunked car. Then, as if the creature had brakes, the line stopped, water swirled, and the hump disappeared. For two seconds the Canal knew only silence. Then the hump circled, moving slowly away.

  Later, the fisherman would tell himself he had been sober. Not absolutely, totally, cold sober, maybe, but sober. Later, he remembered standing beside the yellow crane, both hands hanging onto a grab bar, while fighting to stay sane.

  A flurry of water beneath the moon. Silence. Something like a hand clawed toward moonlight. Stubs on the hand showed where fingers were forming. An arm followed, then head, shoulders; a figure slowly rose from depths beside Petey’s drowned Plymouth. A low sound, like the sigh of wind among leaves, though no wind blew. The thing moved slow, deliberate, looking a lot more like a person than the tow truck kid had claimed. This thing had a sort-of-a mouth, almost had eyes, or at least places where eyes might grow.

  The tow truck kid had reported smell, and smell rolled across the water and onto land. It was rotten-fish smell, rancid-poultry smell, spoiled-beef smell . . . the smell of moderate decay . . . stuff for the gullets of gulls. A guy could stand it if he had to.

  The thing moved forward, like it waded from Canal to shore. It seemed struggling, maybe inching one foot ahead of the other; assuming it had feet. Sighs increased. The thing sank backward into darkness. Wavelets moved on the surface. The Canal lay calm beneath thinish moonlight.

  Why, the Creature?

  Night clasps the Canal in layers of darkness as wisps of mist flicker ghostly in starlight. In the depths, night-swimmers drift, dart, eat and are eaten. It is a grand feast of chomping and biting and flight; the sting of jellyfish, the rush of small shark. Octopus hover in drowned cars, or in discarded refrigerators that lie on the bottom like open coffins. Octopus dart forward to make a meal or become one.

  The Creature (one dare not yet call it a monster) floats high above the carnage. If, as Annie attests, the creature is a Fury, it was spawned in the Mediterranean Sea these twenty-five hundred years past. At its spawning (poor crippled thing) it bore the mark, nay the Curse, of immortality. For these aching years it has moved beneath the watery surface of the planet. As centuries passed, so must have also passed the vibrancy of youth as life turned to dull aches.

  But Annie, whose magic only works when it wants, is only partly right. This creature came into being at the dawn of western civilization. It is surely less than a myth, but also much more. Like most everyone else on the Canal, Annie knows as much about the rise of the western world as a cat knows about Croesus.

  Because what humps out there cannot be a Fury. It is without pedigree, some remnant of bizarre mati
ng left over when elder Gods and Goddesses abandoned this world to step with immortal feet across the doorsill of eternity. Perhaps in the Creature’s self are strains of fury, but there may also be sorrow, even charity. After all, it has seen a lot.

  Through the span of weary and slow-moving years its ancient memory recalls the downward march of civilizations, for it has viewed the decline of Greece, Rome, Spain, France, the decline of Empires. It has seen legends revised for expediency. It has even seen mountains grow shorter.

  At present it moves differently at different times. Beneath the moon it rushes toward the sites of drowned cars. At other times it cruises slowly and communes with itself. A creature of the sea, it has for centuries held an offshore view of land. In olden days it watched lands illuminated by moonlight and occasional watchfires.

  These days, though, it has (momentarily at least) abandoned the sea and moved to inland waters. These days it views other lights; headlights, running lights, pink glows of neon signs, blue lights vaporing above barnyards and parking lots, red warning signs atop radio towers. Something in the Creature’s mind has surely changed, some lonely “something” must have persuaded it that loneliness may be only the habit of centuries. Poor crippled thing, drawing smooth and liquid lines across the water, poor crippled thing: is there something; or perhaps someone here you want, someone who, if only for a small space in the unremitting stretch of eternity, could be your companion, your friend?

  Petey Deceased

  On the morning after, a Saturday, and before news of Petey arrived, worlds looked a tad off kilter. A new Cadillac sat in the parking lot of Beer and Bait and a chubby rich guy spoke with Bertha. He was gone before opening time. Guys slurped coffee at Beer and Bait, talked in low voices, and watched Bertha. She moved quiet but happy, well, happier; well, not gloomy. Jubal Jim lay beneath warm waves from the heater. Nobody, nowhere, relaxes like a snoozing hound.

  Gray light in the windows showed October rain pattering the Canal. Beer and Bait glowed slightly pink because of a couple beer signs. As midmorning marched toward noon the cop showed up looking grim.

  His cop suit held spatters of mud, and he looked ready to bust everybody in the bar: a fisherman, two loggers, a masonry guy, a port-a-pot guy, and a used car salesman riding unemployment. The men crouched like scared kittens.

  Something was up. Somebody was gonna swing. The fisherman kept his big yap shut. He watched developments while remaining one of the throng. He watched Bertha move along the bar with the grace of a young girl. At the same time she looked sorta practical. Her greeting was friendly but nothing special, because she greeted truck drivers the same way. Bertha’s hair no longer piled and braided. It swung long and full, softening a face that had been solemn for far too long.

  The cop seemed puzzled because Bertha’s greeting was not as warm as expected. She treated him like he was temporary, a guy just passing through. Later, in the wake of grimness and misery, the fisherman would think that the cop had already looked lost.

  The cop turned from puzzled to solemn. He had to figure Petey meant something to Bertha. He spoke so low only Bertha heard. She leaned across the bar as he told about Petey. He whispered, but words “car” “Canal” “missing” were like echoes along the bar. Bertha’s face lost happiness, lost all expression, and then showed sudden sorrow; the kind that breaks hearts just watching it. The fisherman sipped coffee and experienced total admiration. The cop also looked stricken. Jealous, actually. He checked out everybody in the house, like he memorized faces. He turned back to Bertha, whispered, and received a sad smile that pretended to be a bright smile; the whole thing fake. The cop seemed confused, then sorta ticked off. He tapped the bar a couple of times, brushed a little spot of mud on his sleeve, turned toward the doorway. He paused, like he was about to deliver a parting shot, then shrugged and went out to his car. He must have stood beside it and watched the Canal for a minute or two; maybe cussing. The door of the cop car finally slammed, but the engine did not start for a couple minutes. The cop must have sat there wondering.

  Bertha turned toward the bar and delivered the next-to-greatest-moment of her life. Probably. She sniffed, wiped moist eyes, squared shoulders; she turned to the backbar, touching things, like she tried to convince herself the world was still real. She did not face the bar when she told about Petey, but her face reflected in the bar mirror. Guys saw enormous grief, did not know what to say, and sat abashed. The fisherman sat absolutely stunned with admiration, because, while he could not always spot a hustle, he spotted this one.

  He told himself to get away from the bar because he was about to get droll. He told himself to stay away from sober, serious guys, because he might bust out laughing. Maybe, he thought, he ought to go see Sugar Bear. Maybe he ought to ride on down to China Bay.

  He eased off his barstool whilst feeling slick as a dose of cod liver oil. He gave a sad little wave to Bertha and managed to keep from tossing in a wink.

  He left wondering how Bertha could get through the day with a straight face. Only the greatest kind of actress could pull it off. And, only a born hustler would recognize that Petey pulled a hustle. Of course, Bertha had advance information.

  Bertha had to have known, the night before, that a hustle was underway. When Jubal Jim showed up the game began. Jubal Jim arrived relaxed and happy. No hound, nowhere, and especially Jubal Jim, would snooze at peace if someone valuable was dead. Ergo, Petey was alive. Ergo, Petey hustled. Hounds knew about this kind of stuff.

  The fisherman told himself that Irish wakes were gonna come of this, despite nobody was Irish. Memorials would come of this. Plus, this was genesis of Canal stories that would make recent history look like pale pink pudding. The fisherman vowed to give himself twenty-four hours before making any moves. There was always work that needed doing on the boat.

  ═

  Canal stories began right away. From Rough and Randy, all the way south to China Bay, guys sat at bars and remembered classic games of pool. No man among them had not been cleaned and pressed by Petey, sometimes scorched. Men told stories in which they were almost-heroes, except where they had to admit Petey outgunned them. Canal stories started by being sentimental. Somebody even wrote in the men’s can at Beer and Bait, “Petey the Pooler, I miss you slugger”; that was the only truly sloppy thing that happened.

  As hours passed, Petey became a legendary hero who had been snuffed by a power crazed cop. Petey grew in stature, so guys who showed-off at pool tables bragged to strangers that they had known Petey, had actually teamed with him many-a-time. They remembered Petey’s forceful presence and stature: seven foot tall, blond hair, cool blue eyes with a steely look, and a dimple on his chin.

  The stories turned complicated when the tow truck kid pulled Petey’s drowned Plymouth past Beer and Bait without stopping. The kid was delicate enough to wait for suds and bull until he got to China Bay. Word spread from China Bay saying there wasn’t a scratch on that Plymouth, or at least no scratches not put on by Petey. Then the story turned sad.

  The story claimed cops pulled a fancy pool cue from beneath the seat. When they opened the trunk out came a cloud of blue; water swirling bluey-blue where a stash of cue chalk melted. Except for a spare tire, and a cue-tip repair kit, the trunk lay empty. In the glove box Petey had stashed a flashlight, a clutter of papers, road maps, and a worn baseball cap reading “Kennel Club of Cambridge.”

  That was when the story took on weight. The story claimed Petey was not dead at all, but was at rest in a marble tomb hidden far back in the mountains. On some future day when people along the Canal needed a champion, Petey would rise from the fog and mist of valleys. He would slay all transgressors; senators and cops. A new social order would rise. Downtrodden masses would gain a place in the sun, and the meek would prosper. This story started at China Bay where an amused bartender proved, once for all, that you can sell anything if the price is too dear and the pitch is sincere.

  As Saturday morning worked toward afternoon, then into evenin
g, and finally into night, situations occurred. The first situation spelled “cops.”

  Guys were stopped for weaving, stopped for not weaving, stopped for 46-in-a-45 zone, stopped for holding up traffic doin’ 34-in-a-35 zone, stopped for dirty tail lights, stopped for windshield wiper checks, stopped for the hell of it.

  And, when guys were stopped, guys were hassled. “Where have you been? Where haven’t you been? Is this woman your wife? Why not? Have you ever heard of missing persons? Are you one? . . .” Guys wore themselves out trying to remember every smidgen of hassle. The cops wanted something or somebody, or else cops were steamed. Guys walked through doorways of joints, talking to themselves. Nobody could figure what was wrong, and almost everybody stayed away from Beer and Bait.

  And, all Saturday night, when he should have been home in bed, the Beer and Bait cop seemed connected to the hassle. He stayed in the background, quiet, parked not far from Bertha’s joint, like he waited for something to happen that he knew was gonna hap­pen. Bull claimed the cop went from polite to palooka because he lost his prime suspect, what with Petey underwater laughing his dead self silly. It was a bitter little story, and no one told it in front of Bertha.

  Another story surfaced on Sunday afternoon when Bertha announced that Beer and Bait would close for twenty-four hours as a memorial. Starting Monday. The story claimed Bertha was crushed, was gonna sell Beer and Bait, and move to some crazed place like, maybe, Peoria.

  Bertha did not say that a service was planned. It would take place at Sugar Bear’s house. Only a few select folk would attend. Bertha did not say, because she was dubious and a little scared, that something else, something seriously-serious, was in the works. She had made a deal.

  A rotund rich guy showed up at Beer and Bait. He screwed around the pool tables for a few games, and the little finger on his right hand looked sorta rigid as he held it away from his cue. He lost twenty or thirty bucks, then announced a pool tournament. A grand prize of ten thousand dollars was the stake, plus side bets a ‘course, and with an entry fee of only ten semoleons . . . a deal too good to pass up. Still, a bunch of bikers, plus loggers, plus mill guys, shuddered and felt scary.