The Fringe Dwellers

by Patrick K. Ball

  CHAPTER 1

  “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”

  —Franklin D. Roosevelt

  “Damned piece of shit, don’t die on me now!” Hunter yelled at his pickup while pounding the steering wheel.

  The truck either didn’t hear him or was ignoring him. It continued coasting down the road with no signs of life, probably dead already. Hunter steered the truck off the road onto the shoulder. Not an easy task because the power steering seemed to have died with the rest of the pickup. When it came to a stop, Hunter popped the hood, got out, walked to the front and opened the hood, hoping he could figure out what was wrong with the damned piece of shit. He tested the connections on the battery and surveyed the rest of the engine looking for an obvious loose wire or something else out of the ordinary, but everything seemed to be in place.

  “This is just perfect!” Hunter yelled at the dead vehicle. “What am I ‘posed to do now?”

  His pickup didn’t answer, probably because it was dead. Hunter guess-timated that he was still a ten to fifteen minute drive from his house; walking the rest of the way would take forever. It was somewhere around three o’clock in the morning and this wasn’t one of the most traveled roads in Oklahoma. The chances of someone coming by to give him a lift were pretty slim. There were only a couple of houses on this stretch of the highway and only one was within sight. No light was on and he could hear dogs barking in the yard. They sounded like big dogs too. Knocking on that door was pretty much out of the question.

  “Girl, you done put me in one hellava fix. Ya damned piece of shit,” Hunter said to the pickup, although he seemed to have calmed down a little.

  He seemed to be facing the realities of the situation. Stay here and hope someone would pass by—unlikely—or start walking. Besides, if he started walking and a car did come by, he would have the same chances of it stopping as if he sat here waiting and, at least, he would be moving closer to home if no one happened by. Hunter decided to start walking, but not without giving his pickup one good, swift kick on the bumper before he began his trek. At this point, he had no respect for the dead.

  Hunter walked at a brisk pace up and down the rolling hills for ten to fifteen minutes when he thought he saw a glimmer of hope off in the distance behind him. He continued walking, but now he was more focused behind him than he’d been before.

  “Well, dress me up and feed me a steak ‘cause someone’s about to get lucky,” Hunter said to himself when he confirmed that the glow behind him actually were headlights coming towards him.

  The car took a couple of minutes before it reached Hunter, who’d stopped walking and was waiting on the side of the road waving his arms to flag it down.

  “Son of a whore! I hope your inbred kids cut off your balls and feed ‘em to the dogs!” Hunter yelled at the car as it sped on by without even slowing down. He was also giving the car the finger.

  Hunter was just about to start walking again when to his surprise, he saw another car coming towards him, just over the next hill. He hadn’t noticed that car before. It was as if the car appeared from nowhere. Thirty seconds later, the car was pulling over in front of Hunter.

  Hunter jogged up to the passenger window. “Thanks for stoppin’. You don’t know whatta night it’s been. I’d be obliged if you could give me a lift down the road apiece.”

  “Where ya headed, partner?” asked the driver.

  “Perry,” Hunter answered. “Actually, just outside the city limits . . . not far. If you could just get me close, I’ll walk the rest of the way. You’re headed that way anyway. I promise I won’t make you go out of your way.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Hop in,” said the driver. “It’s five after three. Too late at night to be hitchhiking along the side of the road.”

  “I ‘preciate this, mister,” Hunter said as he got into the car.

  “I’ll take you as far as you want to go,” said the driver as he pulled back onto the road.

  “Thanks again. I’m Hunter. Hunter Helmsey,” he said while offering his hand out to the driver.

  The driver shook his hand. “Hunter? That your name or your hobby?” the driver said with a slight smirk on his face.

  “Been teased ‘bout my name since I was a pup. When my dad was alive, he liked to believe he was the great outdoorsman. If’n I ever had me a brother, he’d probably ‘a been named Fischer. No kin left now. Me, I’m not much into huntin’, ‘cept the two legged deer. You a hunter or sumthin’?”

  “I guess you could say that, but like you, I only hunt the two legged variety,” the driver replied, then quickly changed the subject. “So, where do you want me to take you?”

  “Once you git to where the road T’s up ahead, instead of taking that left into the town square, you hang a right, go past the Heppler Machine Shop and continue not too far to my house.”

  “Oh. You live in a house,” the driver said—he sounded disappointed.

  “Course,” Hunter said. “Whaddya think? That I was just some drifter? Got me a little house, job out at the Ditch Witch plant . . . Ain’t doin’ too bad. My truck broke down a ways back there and I decided to start walkin’ home.”

  “That’s a shame . . . but what’s done is done,” the driver said, seemingly to himself. Hunter wasn’t sure that he was talking about the truck breaking down.

  “Yeah, that truck was just my dumb luck,” Hunter continued as if the driver had referred to his truck. “Went over to Stillwater. Figured I’d give them sweet little college girls a chance. College pie tastes so sweet, if ya know what I mean.”

  “Weren’t you afraid . . . walking down the road at night . . . all alone?” the driver said, ignoring Hunter’s comment.

  “Naw, not much around here to be a-feared of.”

  “Everyone’s afraid of something,” said the driver. “That’s a . . . hobby of mine. Phobias. I’m always interested to hear what people are afraid of.”

  He had a soothing way of talking, almost melodic. There was certainly nothing scary about this little man. In fact, Hunter felt pretty relaxed at the moment, even a little sleepy.

  “So tell me. What scares you?” asked the driver.

  “Hmm.” Hunter thought about the question for a minute without answering.

  As he thought about an answer, Hunter’s heart started racing. He could hear it pounding in his ears. Breathing suddenly became difficult and he started to break out in a cold sweat all over. Then, he realized he couldn’t speak and was trembling uncontrollably. It was as if the whole world was swirling around him, collapsing in on top of him. Is this what a heart attack feels like? he wondered briefly, intensifying his fear. When he looked around, he noticed he was no longer driving down the highway in the car. Other images appeared before his eyes. Horrific images. Hunter had been transported into his own personal nightmare. He’d never told anyone about this, but now he was here, watching it . . . living it. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Hunter was beyond ordinary terror.

  That was when Hunter’s world went dark.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Nooo!” Ed screamed as he sat up straight in bed, awakening himself from the nightmare.

  He was covered in sweat and his heart was still racing as he looked around in the dim light at the familiar surroundings of his bedroom and began to calm down. Among other things, he saw his computer sitting atop the desk in the corner. A touch tone phone was on the desk next to the computer. Slowly, he realized it was 2003, not 1969. He was an adult—forty-one years old—not the seven year old child of his nightmare. He had once again escaped the alley by waking up and fast forwarding in time to the present.

  “Holy cow,” Ed said to the empty room as his head slunk into his hands, momentarily to
o heavy for his neck to support.

  After taking a few deep breaths to help calm down completely, Ed looked over at the clock—three sixteen in the morning. He knew what time it was before the red numbers of the digital clock told him. It was always three sixteen when he escaped the alley.

  The nightmare had haunted Ed for as long as he could remember. It was always the same. Eddie, as he was known back then, was in the town he grew up in—Edge Key, Florida—a small coastal island on the west coast. In 1969, Edge Key wasn’t anything special. That was before all the retirees invaded the west coast of Florida, started building golf courses everywhere and generally developing every inch of land within a mile of the Gulf of Mexico. The town was within a couple of miles of I-75 though, resulting in a disproportionately large transient community.

  There’s a certain segment of the population, mostly vagabonds or drifters, who travel down to Florida to escape living on the streets during the cold northern winters. Most hitchhike down the major interstates—I-75 being one of them—and take refuge in towns where they can set up camp without being hassled too much by the local authorities. Edge Key was one of those towns.

  There wasn’t a tourist industry in those days and there was always a need for back-breaking, manual labor in the fishing industry. Since there was usually steady work to be had, there was no need to resort to crime. Troublemakers were run out of town by the transient community itself—they didn’t want to screw up a good thing. As a result, the local police mostly tolerated the transient population, although they were pretty much confined to one area of town. Word spread through the hobo-grapevine that Edge Key was friendly to their type and, bottom line, the permanent residents got as used to their transient population returning every winter as other communities get used to certain migratory birds. Of course, like migratory birds, some of the transients stayed in town year round. This was the Edge Key of Ed’s nightmare.

  In the nightmare, seven year old Eddie was walking through town, just wandering around, looking for something to do as lots of seven year olds of that era used to do—child abductions were not commonplace in a small town in 1969. His aimless meanderings eventually brought him to the area of town that was mostly occupied by the transient community. Although Eddie wasn’t afraid of any of the transients, his parents had always told him not to go back into the alleys or woods where the transients had set up their shantytown. Eddie obeyed his parents for the most part. Not because he was such a well behaved kid, but more because he was terrified of getting in trouble. Even back then, Eddie was afraid of authority figures.

  The only time Eddie dared to disobey his parents’ command was when he would visit his uncle who lived in one of the alleys off the main street. Uncle Kane’s alley was within a couple of blocks of the public health center where Uncle Kane went once a week to see the doctor and pick up his “crazy pills,” as Eddie’s parents called them. Uncle Kane was nuts according to Eddie’s parents, but to a seven year old kid, Uncle Kane was more like a modern day Sinbad, always off on another adventure. Uncle Kane was always traveling the Seven Seas in Eddie’s mind. Supplementing his disability income working on fishing vessels, according to Eddie’s parents. Uncle Kane wouldn’t get grounded if he didn’t clean his room. Because he’s a crazy bum living on the streets, according to Eddie’s parents. Uncle Kane was allowed to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Because nobody cares about a crazy bum, according to Eddie’s parents.

  Eddie never cared what his parents said. To Eddie, Uncle Kane was the greatest. He never treated Eddie like a little kid. Uncle Kane wouldn’t talk down to Eddie. Uncle Kane was never a “big meenie.” Uncle Kane always had time for Eddie. The best part about Uncle Kane was his stories. Uncle Kane would weave fantastical tales about far off lands with mythical creatures. These were the lands where the fairy tales originated. Uncle Kane had actually been to these places. Who needs a dumb comic book when you can get a firsthand account? Eddie could sit and listen to his Uncle Kane for hours.

  Subconsciously, Eddie had probably been heading over to see Uncle Kane all along. That’s usually where Eddie went when he was bored and had nothing else to do. Eddie walked down Goldust Avenue—the main street on Edge Key. One of the founders of the city had struck gold out west before retiring to his own personal island, Edge Key. Ed passed by the tackle store, the hardware store and finally, the drug store. Next to the drug store was the alley where Uncle Kane lived. Eddie turned the corner past the drug store into the alley.

  The narrow alley was always dimly lit, even at high noon. Something to do with the architecture of the surrounding buildings kept most of the sunlight out. That’s probably why this alley was considered prime real estate among the transients. Lack of sunlight meant shade from the heat of the sun and from the bright light that would interfere with a daytime nap. Another reason the alley was considered a prime location was because the alley contained the dumpster for the drug store.

  This was one of those fountain drug stores that served milkshakes and ice cream floats, in addition to hot dogs, hamburgers and the like. Food that passed its expiration date was required by law to be thrown away, but expiration dates are overly conservative to ensure public health safety. Usually, expired food was good for about a week after the expiration date on the label. Any food thrown into the dumpster, whether expired or unfinished from a customer, was quickly rescued by the alley’s inhabitants. Free meals to go with the free housing. Who could ask for more?

  When Eddie entered the alley, the dumpster was in its usual place. The dumpster blocked his view of most of the alley. He started to walk around it when he heard someone talking.

  “Have you taken the Lord Jesus Christ as your savior? Have you been saved?!”

  The voice was tinged with a feeling of lunacy. It definitely didn’t sound like one of the many evangelists who often visited the alley trying to convert the “lost souls” who lived there. Eddie was glad the source of the voice couldn’t see him behind the dumpster. There was something unnerving about the voice. Eddie wanted to turn and run, but there was also something about the voice that had a magnetic effect. He felt a need to continue listening.

  “The only way you can conquer your fear is if you’ve been saved.”

  “Not even Jesus can help me,” said another voice, probably from one of the alley’s regular inhabitants. This voice, though despondent, sounded normal to Eddie, relatively speaking.

  “There’s only one sure way for you find out,” the first voice said. “I can help you. All you have to do is have a little bit of faith. All you have to do is believe. You don’t want to be scared all the time, do you?”

  “No,” the regular alley-resident replied.

  “The first thing we need to do is get to the root of your fear. Just relax and find that happy place in your mind and let the answers to my questions flow out of you. Don’t think, just let them flow. Just let them flow.”

  The voice had lost that feeling of lunacy that Eddie sensed before. It was now very soothing. Relaxing.

  “Just answer my questions. That’s all you have to do. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. Just let it flow. What scares you? Tell me. Just let it flow. WHAT SCARES YOU?!”

  Eddie wanted to run. He knew he’d die if he didn’t get out of the alley right now. He tried to run, but he couldn’t move. His legs just wouldn’t obey. His heart was pounding. He couldn’t breathe. Everything around him was swirling. He wasn’t sure he was even in the alley anymore. Eddie closed his eyes as tight as possible trying to fend off the images that began appearing before his eyes. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. Eddie tried to close his eyes even tighter to stave off the panic engulfing him.

  That’s always when Ed—not Eddie—woke up screaming. Always at three sixteen. Always at night. Always the same nightmare.

  This night was no different. Ed laid his head back down on the pillow and tried to go back to sleep. He knew it was futile. He could never get back to sleep after the nightmare came. It
had gotten to the point where he rarely even tried anymore, but he needed his sleep tonight. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

  Ed had set his alarm for five thirty, which should give him enough time to shower and get on the road before the rush hour traffic clogged every artery in or out of the city. Ed had an assignment. He had to leave his apartment in Pompano Beach and drive to the west coast of Florida to some little town near Tampa named Gibsonton. The town was more commonly known as Showtown USA because it was the winter residence of a large number of carnival workers.

  Ed Nanreit worked as a reporter. Actually, calling Ed a reporter was being kind, even from Ed’s perspective. Ed wrote articles for a small tabloid newspaper. The purpose of his articles was more for entertainment value than information content, much in the same way that professional wrestling relates to real sports. Facts were only required to the extent that they might make a lawsuit harder to prosecute. True investigative journalism was actually discouraged, especially where the truth got in the way of a good story. An unsubstantiated rumor from an unnamed source was good enough to run with. Actually, that was more often than not the norm for the source of a story. The editors only had one requirement for an article—that it helped sell papers. In fact, a lot of the articles were pure fiction.

  Ed’s tabloid was called, Manifesto Veritas. Roughly translated, the name meant—the truth be told. The name was pretty ironic given its lax journalistic ethics. The publishers of Ed’s tabloid thought a Latin name would give the paper some credibility and class making it easier to compete against the giants of the industry—The National Enquirer, The Star and The Globe. Ed’s paper was a relative Lilliputian compared to the major tabloids with a circulation of less than half that of The National Enquirer. The headquarters of Manifesto Veritas was also based in the same city as the tabloid big boys—Boca Raton—an effort to put the paper on par with the competition.

  The thinking was, by locating the paper in the same city as the major tabloids, there might be some consumer confusion about Manifesto Veritas’ ownership that would quash any brand loyalty. There was probably also a hope that AMI (the media conglomerate that owned most of the tabloids) might be more tempted to buy out or pay a premium for a paper that wouldn’t require an expensive headquarters change, naturally resulting in retired multi-millionaire status for the publishers. An added bonus was that the “reporters” for all the tabloids tended to socialize together, mainly because they were ostracized by the mainstream reporters. This gave the reporters from Manifesto Veritas the opportunity to exchange—or steal—ideas from reporters of the other tabloids. Reporters often resorted to ruthless tactics to obtain “the story.”