The Fringe Dwellers

by Patrick K. Ball

  “EDDIE!” the attractive staff member interrupted. “Oh my god!”

  Ed stared at her blankly for a second before he realized who it was. “Torrie? Torrie Wilson?” he said as a broad smile came across his face.

  She was more gorgeous than he’d remembered. Torrie, the adult, still had the same strawberry-blond hair color and sky-blue eyes. She also still had the slim, athletic figure of a twenty year old even though she was Ed’s age. The only difference was that she seemed shorter at about five foot five or so. Ed then realized that he’d grown about three inches in college—she’d stayed the same height. She was wearing a white doctor’s coat over a professional looking suit-skirt combo. Is she a doctor?! That thought was replaced by a more important thought: No rings on the left hand!

  “Torrie, w-what are you doing here?” he finally said, noticeably flustered.

  She pointed to the gold name tag on her white coat. It read, “Dr. Wilson.” “I work here,” she said, still smiling.

  Wilson. She’s using her maiden name. Ed’s smile got bigger. “Wow.”

  “For a famous reporter, I’d have expected something more profound,” she said, obviously teasing.

  Ed was still too stunned to say anything. It didn’t even occur to him that she knew he was a reporter.

  “Are you gonna just stand there all day with your jaw on the ground or are you gonna come around here and give me a hug?” Torrie said.

  Ed didn’t need any more prompting. He rushed around to the opening on the side of the counter where she met him. The embrace lasted a full minute.

  “Dr. Wilson,” Ed said when the embrace finally ended. “If that don’t beat all.”

  “See what happens when you’re gone from home for more than twenty years.”

  Ed fumbled for an excuse. “After mom and dad, and everything that happened, it’s just, ah . . .”

  “Hey, you don’t have to explain to me. I obviously didn’t do any better of a job of keeping in touch with you after you left. What’s done is done. I missed you though. God, you look great!

  “I saw them bring in Uncle Kane yesterday. He didn’t seem like he was doing too well, but I never expected in a million years that you’d show up. If I would’ve known that’s all it took to get you back into town, I would’ve committed him myself years ago.”

  “Do you know how he’s doing today?” Ed asked, feeling guilty. He really wanted to tell her that he would have come back years ago if he knew she was still here. Gibsonton was suddenly feeling a million miles away.

  “I haven’t checked on him this morning. I’m just a staff psychologist. He’s Dr. Austin’s patient,” she said.

  “Yeah, I met Dr. Austin last night. He told me I could come by today and see him.”

  “Come on back with me and I’ll show you where his room is. You can catch up with him and then tonight, you can catch up with me. I’m taking you out to dinner, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  Ed didn’t bother to tell her that declining her offer was the farthest thing from his mind.

  “This is it,” Torrie said when they reached the door to Kane’s room. “I’ll give you some private time with him and check in later. I’ve got a few patients of my own to see.”

  “Okay,” Ed said, although he didn’t want her to leave.

  “EDDIE!” Kane said when Ed walked into the room. “How’s my favorite nephew?”

  “I’m your only nephew, Uncle Kane.”

  “And I’m your only uncle.”

  “All that Dad would admit to anyway,” Ed finished the greeting ritual that had begun when Ed was a little kid. He didn’t remember how or when it had originated, but it was a little saying they always recited before talking about anything else.

  “What’re you doing here?!”

  “They told me you were in the hospital . . . I was concerned,” Ed said as he walked over to the bed to give his uncle a hug.

  “There’s nuthin’ wrong with me. The bastards won’t even tell me why I’m here. Probably that croaker, Dr. Austin. I’ll bet my last dollar he’s got sumthin’ to do with it.”

  “I spoke to Dr. Austin last night, Uncle Kane. He told me the police brought you in ‘cause you were wandering around, babbling incoherently. Do you remember anything at all?”

  “Not really, but the old noodle don’t work as well as it used to. I’m gettin’ old, Eddie. There’s only so many dragons you can slay in a lifetime before it finally catches up to ya.”

  Ed smiled at the dragon reference. Uncle Kane’s noodle was still in good enough shape to spin a good yarn. “Well, you seem okay right now.”

  “I’m fine. No reason to worry ‘bout this old swashbuckler. So, what’s new with you? What sort of fascinatin’ stories has my famous reporter-nephew been working on?”

  Ed didn’t want to tell Kane that none of his stories had been too fascinating lately and that his job was in jeopardy for that reason. Instead, Ed decided to tell Kane about The Crash Test Maven.

  “When I got the call that you were in the hospital, I was in this little town a couple hours north of here—Gibsonton. You ever heard of it?”

  “Yeah, that’s where all the circus freaks live. I’ve been through there before. It’s a weird place.”

  “Won’t argue with you there. I was sent there to find a story, but I got sidetracked on this other story about a dead body they found there, a former sideshow performer called, The Crash Test Maven.”

  “What’s so special ‘bout some stiff. They find a cadaver a day in some places.”

  “It wasn’t just the fact that they found a body, it was the condition this body was found in. I didn’t actually see it, but I interviewed several people who claimed to have seen the body. The best description I can give is that they guy was scared to death; he died of fright. His face was frozen in a scream, his hair had turned white . . . he’d even tried to tear out his own eyes. It was a grisly find. I mean, what could’ve caused that?”

  “Hmm,” Kane said as he stared off into the distance. “I think I know what killed him. You know I’ve been on the streets for a long time.”

  “Sure, but-”

  “I’ve seen—and heard—an awful lot of weird things over the years.”

  “I’ve enjoyed listening to your stories since I was a little kid . . . whether they were true or not,” Ed said with a smile on his face.

  “Just listen to me for a minute, Eddie,” Kane said, sounding irritated. At least in his own mind, Kane felt that he had something important to pass on. “This isn’t some fable about unicorns and fairy princesses that I’m tryin’ to tell ya. I’ve seen a dead body that was in almost exactly the same condition as this circus freak of yours—from your description anyway. Whatever he saw in the final few seconds of his life must’ve been too much to handle. From the looks of things, I guess you could say his mind just cracked.”

  “Why don’t you back up a bit, Uncle Kane. Start from the very beginning,” Ed said.

  Kane had Ed’s undivided attention. “It was back in the sixties. Sorry I can’t be more specific than that, but the old noodle ain’t what it used to be. I was livin’ here in Edge Key, you know, in Vagrant-ville.”

  Ed cringed upon hearing the name, even coming from Uncle Kane.

  “Eddie, I am what I am. I’m not ashamed of who I am . . . and Vagrant-ville is where I’ve lived a good majority of my life. The name don’t bother me none, so don’t let it bother you.

  “Anyway, one night, we was all sittin’ around this campfire we made back in the woods, not too far from my house.”

  Kane’s house, as he referred to it, was any temporary shelter he happened to have set up in the alley where he lived—the alley of Ed’s nightmare.

  “One or more of us had a bottle that we was passin’ ‘round while each of us took turns tryin’ to one-up the person’s story before us.”

  “What do you mean?” Ed asked.

  “You know, one guy tells a story about getting shanked or sliced with a r
azor in some fight. Then, the next guy tells a story about getting shot during a fight and on and on until the last guy is talking about the time he had his leg blown off by a bazooka while arguing over a cigarette butt. One guy has a charitable stranger hand him a hunnerd dollar bill, the next guy gets put up in the penthouse of the Waldorf-fucking-Astoria. Stupid shit, but it passes the time. You gotta entertain yourself out there. We don’t got no TV out in the streets, ya know.

  “This type of nonsense continues over several hours ‘til none of us are feelin’ a damned thing. Remember, we was all drinkin’. Then, somebody starts in about his favorite birthday party as a kid. Someone else starts talkin’ ‘bout how his parents rented ponies so all the kids could have a pony ride. Someone else starts talkin’ ‘bout the time his parents hired this clown for his birthday party.

  “Well, as soon as this clown was mentioned, this other guy, Rico, just starts freakin’ out. I mean, he really looses it. He starts screamin’ and yellin’ at the guy telling the story ‘bout the clown to ‘shut the fuck up about the clowns’ and all sorts of other shit. At first, we all thought he was kidding around. I mean, who’s scared of a clown, right? It don’t make no sense. But this guy was really serious.

  “Of course, that just egged on the first guy. He was just plain mean about it. Real asshole. He started describing the clown to Rico. In detail. The clown had a red afro. He had a solid white face lined around the mouth and eyes to make them seem bigger. Big red lips. Big red nose. Buck-teeth protruding from his mouth.

  “At this point, Rico was acting like a hysterical woman. He was screamin’ and cryin’ and shiverin’ and curled up in a ball like a little baby. Some of us started feelin’ sorry for him and we finally got the first guy to shut up about the clowns, but by then, the damage had been done. Rico finally gathered himself enough to get up and run away. He just ran off screaming. It was sad. That’s the last time I saw Rico alive.

  “Sometime the next day, I think it was sometime in the middle of the afternoon, the cops was wakin’ us all up. We’d all passed out around the campfire sometime close to dawn that night. Every once in awhile, the pigs would harass us just for sake of proving that they had the power and were better than us; they did it ‘cause they could. Fucking oinkers can really piss ya off sometimes. But this time, they were waking us up because they’d found Rico’s body and they wanted some answers.”

  “They showed you the body?” Ed asked unbelievingly. He was rarely allowed to see a dead body even with his press credentials.

  “We weren’t the most cooperative when they first woke us up. In fact, we really didn’t believe them. Thought they were just fucking with us like usual. Guess it was their way to shock us into giving them some information. They found his body behind the dumpster in the alley next to the drug store. My alley! Talk about a rude awakening. It could’ve been me.

  “Some poor kid working at the drug store went out to empty the trash and . . . and Rico was . . . you know . . . there. Freaked the kid out from what I gathered. Rico’s body was in the same condition as your guy—clawed eyes, open mouth, white hair. Spooky. Like I said, it looked like he’d been scared to death.”

  “Did you ever find out what the actual cause of death was?” Ed asked.

  “I don’t think the cops ever really knew what the cause of death was. Of course, all of us kept our mouths shut about the clown-shit. That was just way too coincidental the way he ran off all scared like he did, and then was found lookin’ like sumthin’ scared him to death. They woulda probably locked us all up on a murder rap, but I think in the end, the cops said Rico died of natural causes. I saw that body, Eddie. There warn’t nuthin’ natural ‘bout the way Rico died. I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies in my life and I ain’t never seen nuthin’ like that. Before or since.”

  “Okay, Uncle Kane, but you said earlier that you knew what killed both my guy and your guy. If the cops never determined what the cause of death was . . .”

  “I wasn’t finished, Eddie. You told me to start from the beginning. That was all the background shit you asked for. I’m getting’ there.”

  “Yeah, okay. Please continue.”

  “It wasn’t until years later that I found out what happened to Rico. I think I was out in Texas at the time, but I’m not really sure. You know this old noodle ain’t what it used to be. There were a bunch of us campin’ near this railroad depot. I remember it was a cold night ‘cause we had this fire going in a barrel and none of us wanted to get too far away from it.

  “There was this old-timer there. I’d never met him before and I ain’t never seen him since, but I’ll never forget him. He went by the name of, “A-Train.” Said he’d been crisscrossing the country by train since the twenties, hopping from one freight car to another with no particular destination in mind. He was a real boomer. He told me he changed trains whenever he got this feelin’ that a certain train was the “A-Train.” He bragged that he only rode on the A-Train; it was the only one good enough for him. That’s how he got his nickname.

  “He claimed that he’d been ridin’ the rails since he got back from the war. World War One, that is. Now, this was sometime in the seventies, so it was possible even though he didn’t talk like it; he seemed more educated than your typical life-long vagabond. But you never know what to believe from a guy like that. Old hobos have a story for every situation. Maybe he’d been formally educated at some point before he just decided to drop out. I seen it before. Who knows?

  “He definitely looked old enough though. Actually, he looked like he was a hunnerd and three! Face was all wrinkled and weathered, gray hair, gray beard . . . clothes were all worn and ratty and hung off his hunched-over, thin frame, holes in his boots plugged with newspaper, had this greasy derby-hat that looked fifty years old—he was a sight, I’ll tell ya.”

  “Sounds it,” Ed commented.

  “At some point in the night, one of the guys started talkin’ about how cold it was. Said it was cold enough to leave you frozen like a stone if you didn’t have sumthin’ to keep ya warm. He went on and on about how he’d seen someone who’d frozen to death once and what a horrible sight it was. Yak, yak, yak, he went. Well shit, I couldn’t let him get away with a crummy story about somebody who’d frozen to death, so I tell the story of Rico and what his body looked like when I seen it. I might’ve exaggerated a bit, but most of it was the truth.

  “After I finished, A-Train had this look on his face like he’d just seen a ghost and he says, ‘It’s not a legend, then.” We all looked around at each other like, what’s this old man babbling about? Finally, someone asks A-Train what this legend is that he’s talkin’ ‘bout.

  * * *

  “Kane, you swear to God that you actually saw this dead body . . . just the way you said it was?” A-Train asked.

  “Swear on my momma’s grave,” Kane answered. “Why?”

  “In the last few years, I’ve been hearing all sorts of stories about these mysterious deaths, just like the one Kane described,” A-Train told the group standing around the fire-barrel. He had their undivided attention. “But every other description I heard before tonight was just some account told by some bull artist who’d supposedly heard something from someone else. Y’all know how rumors grow coming down the grapevine. I just thought it was all just a bunch of big talk meant to scare the road kids—another boogieman legend. According to what I’ve heard, there’s this creature of the night that hunts and feeds off our type.”

  “Our type?” asked a man called Bazoo.

  “Hobos, tramps, bums, vagrants . . . whatever name you want to use, I’m talking about those of us who’ve chosen to live his life on his own terms, away from society and its rigid rules,” A-Train explained.

  “That sho-nuff describes all us here,” said another man called Beefer.

  “That’s a fact,” Bazoo said.

  “Shuddup and let him talk, will ya guys,” Kane said.

  “The creature travels all over the country in search of its
prey, but it only feeds on those who won’t be missed. That’s why none of us are safe. It’s a solitary beast that waits until the cover of night to stalk its victims, but you’ll never see it coming. It’s cautious. It’s patient. The creature can disguise itself to look human and only takes its true form when it’s time to feed. Its sustenance is a man’s actual life-force which is why all the dead bodies look the way they do, like they died from fright. It feeds on the strongest emotion man possesses—fear. It sucks that energy straight out of your eyes—the windows to your soul. It leaves nothing. Even the hair is left devoid of its energy, that’s why it turns white.”

  “What energy is in the hair?” Kane asked.

  “The hair is a great source of energy,” A-Train answered. “Think of Sampson from the Bible. His source of strength was in his hair.”

  “Boy, that sure is one whale of a story—think Jonah’s whale from the Bible—a real whopper if I’ve ever heard one,” Bazoo said, laughing.

  “Laugh if you want, but I’ve heard this story in every part of the country and it’s always the same,” A-Train said. “I’ve heard it from over a hundred people. Corpses of folk like us have been found all over the country, north to south, east to west. Bodies litter this country, but no one cares about a bunch of bums, so no one even tries to put two and two together and every death gets dismissed as just another random death, another victim of the road, unrelated to any other death of some bum in a different city. Don’t you see, it all adds up. It’s the perfect way to kill off thousands of folk without ever being detected. Stick to the undesirables, those who live on the fringes of society and you’ll never run out of a source of food. You’re off of society’s radar scope. I never wanted to believe it, but when a man’s presented with the amount of evidence I have, you can’t keep your head stuck in the sand anymore. There’s something out there . . . stalking us . . . hunting us. Be afraid. Be very, very afraid.”

  * * *

  “Of course, none of us believed the old man,” Kane said to Ed. “We all thought it was one hellava story, but nuthin’ more. Just a crazy old story from a crazy old man. A legend, plain and simple, like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster.”