“Gramma, I love you. I’m sorry I messed up the last time.” His eyes widened when he realized that he was speaking, actually speaking, and not just letting syllables trip over each other. He tried again: “Grandma, I saw something bad this morning. Something really bad. I saw a man hurt a girl and then kill her. He had a bag on his head and I know he’ll do it to more people because he’s bad. I don’t know what to do.” Her eyes remained closed and he realized that she probably couldn’t hear him, no matter what his parents had said.
He went back upstairs to bed and didn’t sleep until the sun was shining through his blinds.
***
His grandmother died that morning and his house seemed to erupt with family members: cousins, aunts, uncles—people he’d only met once or twice, and some for the first time as they hugged him a little too tight and told him things would be fine.
His parents didn’t say anything more about his running away. They only talked to him when they needed to: about making sure his suit wasn’t wrinkled for the funeral, about trying to nod and only use small words when people spoke to him.
After the funeral, more family members came to the house. They ate and drank coffee and talked about his grandmother like she was just on vacation.
Henry sat on the couch and turned on the television.
The dead girl’s face stared at him.
She had not come home, the reporter said, and although no foul play was suspected yet, people were advised to keep their eyes open and offer any information they could to the local police department.
The picture they used on the screen looked much different. She was smiling, not crying. Her hair was dyed blonde and there were hints of brown roots peaking out from her scalp. She wore it back in a ponytail and had a small locket around her neck in the shape of a heart. He wondered if there was a picture inside, and if so, what it looked like.
***
The next day he went outside and pretended to play. His mother brought out a sandwich at around noon, saying nothing, just set the plate on the ground, and then went back inside. He wandered away just enough so that he knew his parents would be able to see him from the windows, wondering if they even remembered grounding him.
When he was sure they weren’t watching, he walked back into the woods, trying to probe his memory and find the right way to the beach. It took almost an hour, but he found it.
It was low tide and in the distance was a lighthouse, just barely visible.
He walked up to the water, took off his shoes and shirt, and dove in.
She wasn’t easy to find. The waves had forced her between a few rocks farther down on the shore, but he was happy she hadn’t floated away.
Henry grabbed her arms and pulled her back to land, almost collapsing from exhaustion when he set foot on the sand.
She didn’t look well at all. The water had gotten to her, bloating her skin, which was now pale and almost grey. When he caught his breath, he dragged her up into the woods, setting her back against a tree.
He stared at her face for a long time and tried hard to compare it with the picture on the news. The locket was not around her neck, and he backtracked to the beach and water until he was sure it was nowhere. It bothered him somehow, not knowing what picture had been inside.
When he returned she was still lying against the tree, eyes open but not seeing. He kneeled down and watched her. “I’m sorry.” He breathed deeply and went on. “I’m sorry I didn’t help you. I tried. I promise I did, but it didn’t work. I stutter, see, and my words never work. Usually they sound like nothing or a dying motor, except now.” He realized he was talking again, not fumbling over sounds, and wondered why that was.
He continued. “I tried to yell for him to stop, but nothing came out. Did you know him? Where is he? Because I don’t want him hurting anyone else. I need to find him.”
He asked her a few more times, but it was useless.
The dead girl did not answer him.
***
He visited her every day, sneaking off after breakfast, and sometimes after lunch, too.
On Friday, he found the locket, peeking out from beneath a leaf.
Before he latched it around her neck, he opened it. There was a picture of a boy with blue eyes and black hair. A quick wave of jealousy struck.
She seemed complete with the locket. “I told you I’d find it,” he said.
He sat next to her, listening to a woodpecker and the ocean.
“Everyone’s looking for you, you know.” He turned and looked at her dead face staring at nothing. “Your family misses you. They’re on the news all the time, saying they’re hopeful you’ll come home. And the Bag Man—that’s what I call him—he’s not on the news at all. They say they don’t have any suspects yet. We might be the only people who know it was him. That’s why I need to find him. So he doesn’t hurt anyone else. He could be anywhere.”
There was movement somewhere, leaves crunching and a twig snapping. It could’ve been an animal, but in Henry’s mind it was him.
When it was silent again, he told her he was sorry and went home.
***
That night, he heard her calling to him.
He’d just fallen asleep when the words hit him. He was skeptical only for a moment, blaming it on the wind, but then it was undeniable.
Come here.
He changed out of his pajamas and into clothes, grabbed a flashlight from downstairs and left.
He walked quickly toward her, knowing the path by heart now.
She was starting to smell. In the flashlight’s beam, her skin looked even darker than before, as if she was blending into the night.
Come closer.
He was sure her lips hadn’t moved, yet he’d heard her. He walked over to her and kneeled.
He’s near.
Tiny bumps erected from his skin, the night seeming to cool down quickly. “What?” he asked, almost stuttering this time, more out of fear than anything else.
He’s near and you have to stop him.
“How do you know?”
I know.
“Where is he?”
He’s outside of your house. He’s watching through the windows.
Henry’s heart stopped for a few beats and in that moment he was dead. He was dead like the girl and they were together at last. He was dead and he didn’t have to worry about the Bag Man or his parents or anything. Everything was gone. But his heart began to beat again and he remembered his dream.
“How can I stop him?”
She didn’t answer.
“Please,” he said.
Her face stared at him, quiet.
He ran back to his house, shutting the flashlight off when he could see the front door. The man with the bag over his head was walking up the porch steps and gripping the doorknob, which Henry hadn’t locked when he left.
The Bag Man walked in.
Fear gripped Henry and held him where he was until he said “no,” actually spoke the word aloud. He crept toward the door and went inside.
It was dark, but he knew his way around. The Bag Man was looking through things in the living room, lifting up magazines and photos. Henry hid behind the recliner and watched him.
At one point the Bag Man turned around, looking at something on the chair and Henry was sure he’d been spotted. The Bag Man walked toward him, and Henry imagined what it would be like to feel the blade dig into him.
Henry closed his eyes, ready for it.
When he didn’t feel pain he looked again, seeing the Bag Man lifting up another magazine, flipping through its pages like there was no rush.
He dropped the magazine and walked toward the stairs. When he was all the way to the top, Henry worked fast.
He ran into the kitchen, opened up the silverware drawer and grabbed the biggest knife he could find. When he looked back up, he saw the Bag Man opening his parents’ door.
There was a sound, echoing in the silence, suddenly not so silent at all.
&nb
sp; His sister opened her door and screamed. The Bag Man grabbed her by the hair and brought her head toward the wall. It made a sickening crunch sound and she fell back.
His parents’ door opened next, and Henry ran up the stairs, knife in hand. He stopped and saw the Bag Man’s own knife. Henry wondered if it was the same one used to kill the girl.
His parents shouted. Not just his mother, but his father too, sounding almost childish. They tried to shut their door, but the Bag Man held a hand up and blocked it.
Henry stood behind him, wound back, and shoved the knife into the middle of the man’s back. He pulled it out quickly, ignored the plopping sound it made.
The Bag Man turned around and Henry was closer than he’d ever wanted to be, close enough to stare into those two holes. There was only blackness. He thought of the girl and stabbed the man’s chest. Blood spilled down the front of his shirt. Henry stabbed him again. And again. Until there were holes everywhere.
The Bag Man fell to the ground.
Henry looked into his parents’ room. His mother was on the phone and his father was frozen, looking at the knife in Henry’s hand.
He dropped it and ran back downstairs and into the woods.
His mother was calling the police. They’d be here soon. They’d see the Bag Man and within minutes they’d be searching. By tomorrow they’d find her, and he couldn’t let that happen.
He’d found her first.
She was up ahead. “You were right,” he said when he reached her. “He was there and I killed him.”
She said nothing.
“Hello?” He touched her head. It was cold and dry. “Can you hear me?”
Only silence.
“Please answer me. I need to hide you. They’ll take you away, don’t you see?”
Her face only stared blankly.
He fell to his knees. He wanted to hear the dead girl’s voice because she was the only one who’d ever bothered to speak to him without making him hate himself even more than he already did. But in the silence, he knew she would never speak again.
From far away there was the sound of sirens.
He grabbed her feet and dragged her toward the beach. She seemed heavier now. He had to stop a few times to catch his breath and he was sure he heard footsteps and voices.
The wind picked up and at the shoreline the waves were choppy, moving in and out.
The voices were closer.
He bent down and looked into her dead eyes. “Thank you,” he said.
He pushed her to the water and the ocean took her.
He sat down cross-legged on the wet sand and watched her float away, hearing the police and his parents call for him from behind.
She went under and he thought he saw her head come up once, but he wasn’t sure.
THAT WHICH IS NOT SEEN
Dane Hatchell
Dane Hatchell is the author of Resurrection X: Zombie Evolution published by Post Mortem Press, and over thirty short stories published in various anthologies. He has co-written a novel with Mark Scioneaux, Insurgent Z, to be published by Blood Bound Books June 2013. Evil Jester Press will publish a co-written novella with Scioneaux, Slipway Grey, in October 2013. He is a member of the Horror Writers Association.
Katsuro was an only child of a loving mother and proud father. The happy family lived in the small farming village of Otari. Katsuro had spent a normal spring day performing chores; the goats had to be tended, and the snow peas, edamame, and Pac Choi patch assigned to his care weeded. When he was finished he still had time to play KagomeKagome with several of his friends. For some reason, the activity of the day had tired his eight year old body more than usual. It wasn’t long after a supper of fish, rice, and vegetables that he excused himself and readied for bed.
Sleep pulled him under like an anchor falling to the bottom of a deep lake. The world of dreams opened, and Katsuro found himself with others on the main road that led to the next village. All his friends were there, his parents, and his other relatives too. In fact, the whole village had turned out. He could not remember any special holiday to call for such a gathering.
Something, though, was amiss. Everyone kept their gaze to the ground, and no one paid any mind to one another as they moved toward a line drawn across the road. He called out to his mother and father as they passed by but they acted as if he were not there. Katsuro couldn’t catch anyone’s attention, and soon gave up and followed the crowd.
The Sensei stood on a platform dressed in a long yellow robe and waited as the villagers positioned themselves side by side behind the line across the road. Katsuro found an opening and joined the rest.
The Sensei raised a wooden striker near a brass gong marked with two gold rings linked together. “Run the race as if to win,” he said, and then bashed the striker across the gong. The villagers began to run at a slow pace.
Katsuro felt quite confused. What was this race? What was there to win? The runners moved down the road kicking up whips of dust until finally out of sight.
He gazed about and found himself alone. Even the Sensei had gone when he turned and faced the platform. The village looked different with all the people removed. Its warmth, its humble beauty, gone. Hollow. Dull. Vacant. Katsuro realized without people, the village might as well not even exists, for no one would be there to give it life.
The eerie hush brought wings to his feet. Katsuro ran headlong to find his people, following larger footprints in the dust each step of the way. Surely there was a reason, some grand purpose for this race. The Sensei had sanctioned it. His friends—even his parents and relatives had abandoned him to participate.
Katsuro ran and ran and ran. Up hills and around curves, praying to catch up to a familiar face. The people of the village acted as a part of a living organism. Even those responsible for lesser duties were important for the village to prosper. He so badly wanted to resume his place again. He missed the comfort of daily life, and he even missed the mundane tasks that took away from playtime.
From out of nowhere, a sharp piecing jab, as if fangs from a Tshushima wildcat, struck his left heel. He toppled face down in the dirt. A dark, slithering form snaked off the road and disappear into foliage. Katsuro cringed as white-hot fire shot up his leg and engulfed his body. The pain only lasted for a moment, dissipating in precious relief.
He found himself in a weakened state, his arms and legs almost too heavy to lift. Somehow he managed to right himself and stand. His body ached and his joints creaked as he made his first step. Never could he remember making such effort for so little gain. In the time lost recovering, his people had pulled farther away. There was no hope he would ever catch them now.
Still, he was determined to try. He owed that much to himself. It’s what his parents and his Sensei had taught him. Fall seven times, stand up eight! as the proverb said. Katsuro moved his body as if in an ocean of mud to continue the journey.
Light reflected off a shiny object and pulled his attention toward it. A small path veered off the main road leading to a mountain. Two large golden rings linked together were imprinted on the face of the mountain. The rings matched the ones on the Sensei’s gong.
Then it dawned on him. The mountain face was the finish line, and the path a shortcut. Katsuro had no idea how long the villagers would take to reach the finish line from the road, but knew he at least had a chance to meet them there by taking this short cut.
He took a lethargic step toward the path. More words from his Sensei came to mind: If you are facing in the right direction, all you have to do is keep on walking. Katsuro was determined to make it to the finish line, even if had to crawl.
***
The morning sun roused Katsuro from a fitful sleep. He didn’t feel as bad as he did in the dream but his body did carry some of the weakness. It took a conscious effort to dress and take care of the morning toilet.
His mother and father drank tea at the table and ate rice cakes as they did every morning. Katsuro entered the room. His mother stopped sh
ort of sipping a mouthful of tea when she saw him.
“My Son! What has happened to you?”
“I did not rest well. My dream has exhausted me. My body no longer feels like my own.”
His mother went to his side and put a palm on his forehead. She then had Katsuro stand by a window and examined his eyes. “Your inner light is weak.” She turned to Katsuro’s father, and said, “I must take our son to the Sensei. He will know what to do to remove this curse.”
Katsuro’s father kneeled in front of him and rested his hands on his son’s shoulders. “What evil have you done to deserve this? Confess your sins now so this curse will lose its grip on you.”
“I have done nothing, Father. I give you my word. I am honest and I work hard to maintain the honor of our family.”
“Katsuro is a good boy. It is an evil spirit come to dine on our young son’s life force. The Sensei will know what to do.” Katsuro’s mother snatched him into her arms and hugged him tightly.
***
The Sensei had Katsuro remove his shirt before beginning the examination. Wind chimes made of bamboo played songs stroked by the wind. Red banners hung forming a makeshift room as a ceremonial fire burned incense in the center. The Sensei gently explored Katsuro’s chest and underarms with the tips of his fingers. He then felt around the boy’s throat and the back of his neck.
“Tell me, Sensei. What manner of demon is this that afflicts my son?” Katsuro’s mother held clenched fists in front of her mouth.
The Sensei closed his eyes and dropped his head toward the ground. “I am sorry. Darkness has made its dwelling inside Katsuro. It seeks to consume his light.”
“It is what I feared most.” Tears rolled down Katsuro’s mother’s cheeks. “What can be done to save him?”
“The poizun waters from Mount Rausu are his only hope.”
“The poizun waters? We are forbidden to even travel to Mount Rausu. The air reeks of hell and death. Drinking the waters will certainly kill Katsuro.”
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