The Hauntings of Hood Canal

by Jack Cady

  So maybe Annie could fix things, but it would not happen as long as Sugar Bear insisted she stay out. It once more came to the fisherman that Sugar Bear was too cherubic to expect long life. The fisherman shuddered.

  As he stepped along in company with Jubal Jim, night seemed like a darkened stage seconds before a play begins . . . curtains already raised, stage pitch black, and footlights about to rise . . . like the world paused, ready to swing into action.

  The yellow crane still hovered over the dunk site. Along the road, cops had placed wooden barriers with blinking red lights. A couple barriers were busted, but not too smashed. Red warning light cut through silver moonlight, and flashed like little puffs of fire across rubble of the well-worn shore. Nothing grew there, nothing could, what with foot and vehicle traffic. The fisherman looked from land to water, saw running lights in the channel, red where a crab boat chugged home, and green where something faraway passed to seaward. Water lay placid as a lake, but near the shore the backend of a small station wagon appeared.

  The fisherman knew with awful suddenness that something dark lay in wait. Something had changed. The air seemed chilled. Of course, it was night and it was October.

  As the fisherman approached the crane Jubal Jim started going crazy. He danced with joy and jumped against the tires of the crane, trying to get inside. From inside the cab came a mutter as Petey said something unprintable. The door opened. Petey looked down. Jubal Jim woofed. Petey looked ticked, but also happy as only a guy can when reunited with his dog.

  “Nice work,” Petey said to the fisherman. “You ain’t exactly welcome. There’s no room for three of us up here.” He climbed down. As Petey and Jubal Jim got back together with licks and rubs, the fisherman told himself this night was lonelier than usual.

  Red light made dark shadows darker, and silver streaks flashed like blades of knives. Petey and Jubal Jim looked like cutouts against red light; moving silhouettes. The fisherman waited until man and dog regained sanity. Petey took off his belt and leashed it to Jubal Jim’s collar.

  “Welcome back from the dead,” the fisherman told Petey. “For awhile you became a legend.’’

  Petey pointed to shrubbery fifty feet away. “Get over there. Company’s coming.” He walked quickly. When the three were concealed Petey whispered, “What’s the bull?”

  “Everybody thinks you’re dead,” the fisherman told him, “except Bertha and Sugar Bear and Annie, and, a ‘course, me.” The fisherman paused. “Maybe that cop has questions. Plus, the bartender at China Bay always knows everything that’s going on.’’

  “How’s Bertha?”

  “Championship.’’ The fisherman told how Bertha and the cop came to mutual disagreement. “As far as Beer and Bait is concerned, the cop is history.”

  “In that case,” Petey whispered, “the cop is one up. I see I done wasted a Pontiac.” He looked toward the Canal. “Plus a busted rice grinder.”

  “You’re running a hustle?”

  “I’m getting rid of a cop.”

  The fisherman could not see Petey’s blush, but felt that he heard it.

  Petey mumbled. “I was hoping for false arrest, or at least get roughed up a little. Bertha wouldn’t stand for that. But that’s busted. Plus, stuff comes up.” Petey still sounded embarrassed. “The cop started to get smart. He started showing up here nights, but never the right time, or never on a night when anything happened. I fed him the Pontiac to keep him interested.”

  “Something’s happening?” The fisherman pretended ignorance.

  “When it happens you’ll know. When the cop sees it his case is solved. When his case gets solved he’ll have to explain it to the home office, and you’re gonna see how he can’t. Way I figure it, he’ll quit, or get transferred, or marry a lady cop. The important thing is he’ll get outta here.”

  “Which will save Sugar Bear.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” Petey said. “Sugar Bear shows up on bad nights. Sugar Bear has worse problems than cops.”

  “And that’s the whole entire hustle, to get rid of a cop?”

  “What gives on the pool tournament? I overheard some bull.”

  The fisherman explained.

  “That’ll work,” Petey muttered, mostly to himself. “I gotta move quick. Mostly, it’s already set up.” He flopped Jubal Jim’s ears. “You know me better. A ‘course it’s about more than getting rid of a cop. Stuff comes up. The rich guys are running a hustle. I just naturally got to work that house.”

  “Which? What hustle?”

  “Heads up,” Petey whispered. “We got some action.”

  Parking lights appeared as a car crept silently fifty yards away. Lights went out. There came the soft click of a door opening, but no interior light came on. The cop had taped down the switch. The door barely clicked as it was pushed back but not closed. “As sneaky as a crutch,” Petey whispered, “but he thinks he’s bein’ mysterious.” Petey hooked a finger into Jubal Jim’s collar and held tight to the leash. “Can it,” he told Jubal Jim.

  The cop walked as discreet as a dancing elephant. Gravel crunched, the swish of cedar branches sounded like whispers as the cop pushed them aside. He took his time, but had no experience at walking silent.

  The fisherman looked toward the Canal. Silver moonlight crossed the water and ended at the shore. Puffs of red danced toward the silver and turned black. The fisherman watched calm water, then saw slight movement beneath the surface; a ripple, like a sea turtle grabbing air, or a feeding cutthroat trout. Wordless, the fisherman touched Petey’s arm, then pointed to the water. Petey nodded “yes,” and his Portuguese-Spanish-Italian-type mouth hardened. He took tighter hold on Jubal Jim’s collar, and it was clear he protected his dog because Jubal Jim was too brave.

  “Something’s stirring. It’s getting stronger. This could get bad. Plus Sugar Bear’s gonna show up,” Petey whispered. “Get out of here and warn him.” Water stirred. A light odor dwelt along the shore, an odor of decay. A feeling of dread rose from the stench.

  “I dunno,” the fisherman said about Sugar Bear, “I promised Annie . . . “ He did not finish because, well, because.

  “I made the offer,” Petey whispered to himself. “Plus this hustle has crashed.” He took a tighter grip on Jubal Jim’s collar. “If things go sour I’ll cause noise, then beat it.” He sounded disgusted. “Sugar Bear. A cueball’s got more brains.”

  The fisherman thought about Petey helping Sugar Bear. Some hustlers rise to nearly ordinary kindness . . . always a shock when it happens.

  The cop approached the dunk site. In blinking red light he looked taller. He did not wear his uniform, just work clothes and jacket. He looked like a regular guy trying to walk off trouble. He carried one of those long, long flashlights cops use. He hid behind the crane. When he saw the busted barriers, and the rear end of the station wagon his shoulders raised, then lowered like he held back a sigh.

  The fisherman remembered what Annie said. Fighting just made the thing stronger. Or maybe she talked about the right way to fight.

  The fisherman asked himself if evil had gotten strong enough to challenge a cop? Then he told himself he was simple-minded. True evil wouldn’t care if a guy was a cop.

  Another ripple of water. For moments it seemed nothing more would happen. Either that, or decisions were being made. Then the ripple became a concentrated swirl of red and silver water as something broke the surface. The thing rose slowly, slow, taking its time, so filled with power it paid no attention to anything or anyone.

  The cop gasped, and the fisherman almost did. The thing looked like a rough-cut human, like a thing turned out of a mold a little too early. It looked like a dark manikin, unwigged, splayed around shoulders, broken pieces knitting. It had fingers, a sort of nose, and eyes; eyes that in flashing red light shone red, then black, red-black-red-black, metrical. Arms raised crookedly, hands palms up and beckoning. A light smell of decay spread among surrounding trees.

  The fisherman told himself he sa
w evil incarnate, evil walking, a work-in-progress, almost finished. He remembered that the cop thought himself alone. The fisherman reluctantly admired the cop’s courage, just as the cop stepped from behind the crane.

  Red light flashed across his face and his mouth firmed, cop-­like, then went slack, then firmed. Darkness flashed between red and silver slashes. Fear mixed with courage. The cop stood fixed for maybe twenty seconds before he finally understood nothing human caused the wrecks. He fumbled the flashlight switch. The sense of dread filled the clearing as the cop made a couple of practice moves with his mouth, then decided to stay silent.

  He pointed the flashlight and acted out his own show. The beam moved slowly along the bank, rested on the rear end of the drowned station wagon, flashed among shrubbery so Petey and the fisherman ducked lower. The beam ignored the shape in the water, like the shape was unimportant.

  “If you can talk,” the cop said in a pleasant voice, “better get started.”

  Movement of water. Decisions being made. The smell of decay increased, but only a little. The mouth moved, soundless, imperfectly shaped. A whisper. Silence. Whisper. Silver streaks of water danced like knives as light wind rippled the water. The cop, casual, steady, moved the beam of light onto the form. The light illuminated, but did not shine through. “Not a ghost,” the cop said, talking to himself. “The damned thing is solid.”

  Behind the cop, movement. The road did not exactly twist, but seemed to flow, traveling sideways pretty quick, but not so fast that barriers tipped. The cop proved smart enough not to turn his back. He stepped sideways, flicking his light across the road, but also watching the dark creation standing in flashes of red cut with silver knives. The road continued to flow as it tried to pull the cop sideways into the Canal. The thing looked a little smaller, somehow, or maybe just tentative. The road returned to normal so smoothly it seemed nothing had happened.

  “Let’s see you do it again.” The cop’s voice remained calm, but he spoke a bit louder. He sounded pleasantly angry, but about to get less pleasant. The fisherman figured the cop thought of the many people dead, the drowned cars, the endless traffic problems, and sneers from the populace. The cop stepped forward, cop-like.

  The fisherman moved, was restrained by Petey. The fisherman tried to pull away, tried to stop the cop’s terrible mistake. The cop should not approach. The fisherman wanted to yell, to keep the cop away from the thing, but Petey motioned silence. Then, even Petey began to stir, and Petey was scared.

  Breezes increased to wind, and the fisherman wondered if Annie was taking over. Wind gusted, and little tips of fir rained onto the road.

  The cop stopped moving forward. Tried to step back. He seemed frozen, looked suddenly confused and fearful. Behind him the road moved only a little, returned to normal. The cop could not step backward. His right arm extended, like he was being pulled. His arm jerked, trying to pull away. As wind gusted on the red and silver water the thing seemed smaller, more concentrated. The cop tensed, made movements backward, but remained held in place. Whatever dark power dwelt in those depths was not strong enough to pull him forward, but the cop stood fixed, held in an ugly game of tug; caught.

  The fisherman moved, ready to stand, and Petey motioned him down. “Take care of my dog,” he told the fisherman. “I’ll take care of Sugar Bear.” He passed the leash. He patted Jubal Jim. “Sound off,” he said, then disappeared.

  Low growls, rising between sharp barks. Jubal Jim braced and sounded. The thing reacted, grew smaller as Jubal Jim raged. At the waterside the cop stumbled backward only a little, then was held.

  The fisherman stood, holding the leash as Jubal Jim sounded. Jubal Jim tugged ahead as stronger wind began to whip the water. The cop sucked air, gasped, tried to free himself. In flashing red light the cop’s face contorted as he fought for breath. Small waves began to lap the shore. The thing seemed smaller, still. It was weakening.

  The fisherman steeled himself, rushed forward, and reached the cop. The fisherman grabbed the cop’s arm, and pulled backward so hard both men stumbled. The cop managed to stay on his feet. The fisherman, whose shore legs were never as good as his sea legs, fell among red flashes, fell into darkness, fell yelling as his right hand went cold as death; tripping over Jubal Jim who now stood braced, growling in the direction of the Canal. The fisherman felt immersed in darkness, in cold, and even red flashes did not color the ground where he fell. He was so busy trying to rise he did not see a rapidly moving hump of water, and did not see the dark incarnation quickly sink beneath the waves.

  In reddest light the cop stood dazed. Weak. Shrubbery looked withered, frozen. The cop looked at the fisherman, at Jubal Jim. He rubbed his arm and awful fear lived all across his face. Wrinkles around his eyes deepened. He looked older, lots older. His shoulders were rounded, stooped, geriatric. He gasped. Gained control.

  The fisherman rubbed his own hand, the hand that did the grabbing. His hand felt cold. Not cold like pulling line at sea, but corpse-cold, lifeless. The cop continued to rub his arm. Something suspiciously like a sob sounded, followed by a deep breath. The fisherman wiggled his fingers.

  “You guys are okay,” the cop muttered. “Thanks,” he said to the fisherman. To Jubal Jim, he said, “You got a great voice.” He staggered, walked toward the crane and leaned against it, then fished in his pocket for keys. “Something’s screwed up with this arm. I got a car parked. We gotta get out of here.”

  It occurred to the fisherman that, except for Jubal Jim, everyone was in shock. He turned toward the Canal and reckoned that wind gusted to twenty knots. Waves broke around the rear end of the dunked station wagon. He felt his cold hand, felt for returning warmth, felt none. He fumbled Jubal Jim’s leash, got it free. “Go to Bertha,” he told Jubal Jim. “Hang tough,” he told the cop. “I’ll be right back.”

  The Fisherman and the Creature

  Along about dawn when local delivery guys checked their loads against their routes, and when newspaper guys dropped copies of the Daily Blat onto counters of self-serves, or in boxes before restaurants, a Canal story worked its way north from Olympia.

  The story said a gang war raged north of Beer and Bait. Survivors were even now carried through doorways of hospital emergency rooms. The war was fought with knives, clubs, insults, cuss words, accusations; plus tire irons, shotguns, slingshots; all the usual stuff, plus a secret freezer-zapper that floated ten feet above the ground and, instantaneous, turned guys into corpsecicles.

  News of the war erupted when a cop and a fish-guy showed up in emergency, totally froze out, and not saying squat. The cop made a deathbed confession, then a minimum recovery because of a prayer session with an itinerant missionary. The confession indicted every cop and every preacher in three counties.

  Because a plot was afoot to a: dump speeding tickets in return for church attendance, b: make DWI a Class-A felony, c: raze every joint along the Canal and build rich-guy condominiums in a grand cleanup of bums, deadbeats, goldbricks, freeloaders, fornicators, hustlers, and honest men.

  By midmorning, when the fisherman slept exhausted across his truck seat while waiting for China Bay to open, the story reached Rough and Randy where guys toasted a wind-blown day with hair-of-the-dog, and watched each other with suspicion. Talk stayed at a minimum. Mental inventories of weapons, tactical plans, and deep, deep, deep, deep holes for hiding lay on the surface of each and every mind. If a war went on somewhere, no one could say the men of Rough and Randy were not prepared.

  And, at Beer and Bait, Bertha swept floors, polished mirrors, stocked cold cases, and poured coffee while listening to one crock after the next. Guys played at being brave. They hovered above steaming cups and passed the creamer.

  If a gang war was goin’ on out there, where were the cops? And was it a good idea to get back on that road or what? Plus, the bull said, another car had gone in. Men talked in low voices as they pretended not to listen for gunfire; but if sounds of battle went on, the sounds were carried away by wind.

/>   At China Bay, the fisherman slept in his truck as the bartender arrived, cleaned the joint, and got set for the day’s business. The fisherman kept sleeping heavy-duty, like after a twenty-hour stretch at sea . . . it having been one helluva night . . . drive to Olympia with a badly injured cop who was hurt lots worse than it first seemed . . . and himself feeling broken and old . . . and both of them so scared they could hardly talk . . . catch a return ride north for his truck, then drive back to Olympia where he could be near hospital and bartender; all with a hand that was gonna gangrene if blood didn’t start pumping pretty quick.

  A dreadful dream woke him at noon. He dreamed of the cop and Sugar Bear, and coldness, and eternal night. He dreamed of his face reflected in the truck’s mirrors, of wrinkles and seams, eye-pouches of age. He dreamed of the depths of the sea, and of a missionary voice, almost familiar and echoing from the bottom of the Canal, or maybe from a hospital waiting room. He heard the swish and flow of dark creatures moving monstrous above drowned men, monsters feeding on the fleeing souls of men. Impressions and memories mixed in the dream, and all through the dream sounded pain and darkness.

  He woke to twenty knots of wind. And, when he woke he looked in the truck mirror and saw the face of nightmare, a face aged and aging moreso as he watched.

  The parking lot displayed a lunchtime crowd, dink-commute-cars belonging to government jocks who packed in one beer, or maybe two, max, before tightening ties and heading back to make rules that molested suffering humanity. Plus, work trucks were sprinkled among the econo-boxes. A hefty crew of poolers had come aboard. The bartender’s Jag sat in quiet, if rumpled, splendor.

  When the fisherman stepped inside he saw all pool tables busy with guys practicing. He figured they clustered at China Bay, because Beer and Bait would already be crowded with folks arriving for tournament. He saw lunch tables surrounded by bureaucrats stuffing with gobbled cold cuts while sipping beer. He saw two retired gents playing cribbage at the fish tank end of the bar. One was the tattooed ex-Navy guy, the other the former diplomat with the pressed hanky.