by Adam Golaski
I walked up to the door and hollered into the house if anyone was home. No one answered and besides, the hall was still unfinished wood and the walls were open where they were putting in light switches and plumbing. I walked in and down the hall. On my left were two doors—pocket doors—and I pushed them open. I couldn’t believe it. The room behind the doors was completely finished. And I got a weird feeling from it.
HOST: What was that feeling, Jimmy?
JIMMY: That that room had been lived in for a long time. But that’s impossible and I knew that. But the floor was polished and clean and there was a carpet—a bear rug, with the head still on it—and a big leather chair and a table and lots of bookcases with books. I went over to the bookcases and looked at the books and a lot of them were in different languages. They all looked old. Some of them were in English and one said that it was ghost stories, so I took it down to look at it and it was really beautiful and there were pictures in it. I figured that no one would miss it if I borrowed it for a while so I took it home with me.
When Mom saw what I had she asked where I’d gotten it from and she told me I had to return it right away.
HOST: Do you remember the name of the book?
JIMMY: No.
JIMMY’S MOTHER: I don’t remember either. It might have just been called “Ghosts.” It was a beautiful old book, leather bound with gold leaf. We wrapped it in brown paper with a note so Jimmy could just leave it on the front steps and not go into the house again, that we thought, obviously, someone lived in.
JIMMY: Anyway, so the next morning after breakfast I go back down to where that house was. The door is still wide open. I look in thinking I’d just as well put the book back on the shelf if I could. The pocket doors were open, like I guess I left them, but the room was different. I walked down the hall and looked, and the room was as unfinished as the rest of the house.
Before I got spooked I went outside and looked at all the houses around that one to make sure I hadn’t just made a mistake. But I’m telling you, I hadn’t. Well, now I was pretty spooked and wanted to get out of there. I put the book in the hall near the doorway and took off. I haven’t been down there since.
HOST: A vanishing room! Perhaps a room from another dimension, briefly sent to Cedar Grove to deliver a book to young Jimmy here. I want to thank Jimmy for his story, and his mother, Mrs. Johnson, for helping.
[Sound quality changes, back in the studio]
HOST: Just a quick word to wrap up tonight’s episode. I have been the subject of some local controversy. Seeing as this is a small town, I’m sure you know of what I speak. You must also know that the rumors aren’t true, couldn’t be. The people who spread these rumors are stupid, thick-headed people who do not understand—maybe can’t understand—the nature of my work. I am building a library of the supernatural, among other things. These people who insist I ought to take a step back and learn how to live normally are people who don’t understand that my discoveries originate from a solid base. I am a solid person, and only because of this, am I able to attempt to reach into the invisible. There are other dimensions that can be reached, I know it; chances are, I won’t discover these places, but there is a chance that I will. Please discount those who criticize me.
I hope you enjoyed tonight’s broadcast.
ANNOUNCER: And that takes care of another episode of Weird Furka. If you’ve had a weird encounter with the supernatural, please contact KADE, Weird Furka [address]. Tune in next week for another story that will shake you free of the everyday.
MUSIC EXTRO
Thursday afternoon, exhausted, Craig sat in front of the gas station, staring blankly at nothing. He jerked in his seat when he heard his name. Johnson walked from his truck toward Craig. Craig stood up, tense.
“Leave me alone, Johnson,” he said.
Johnson put up his hands. “Give me another chance, Craig. Just hear me out.” He stopped walking, and stood about two yards from Craig. “I’m sorry I told you to go to hell. You’re a good kid, I’m sure of it. You’ve been serving me beer a long time. You just need to listen to some sense.”
“You’ve told me everything already.”
“No, no, I haven’t. I didn’t want to. Now, can I come over and sit down?”
Craig sat, and Johnson took this as an invitation. He took a chair off the porch and set it in front of Craig. “Just give me five seconds and maybe I can clear up why I got so angry when I heard those shows on the radio again.”
Before Johnson could speak, Craig came alert, and asked, “What’s your first name?”
Johnson grimaced.
“Is it James? Jim, Jimmy?”
“Use your head, son, I can’t be little Jimmy Johnson. Frank and I were in high school together. But don’t look so disappointed. Maybe if you ever got some sleep you would’ve figured it out: Jimmy’s my nephew. Only son of my brother, David, God rest his soul. It’s my brother who made me aware of what Frank was up to. Frank was screwing any housewife who’d let ‘em. You’ve heard Mrs. Buzzard on the air, right? She was a frequent guest, wasn’t she? She thought Frank was handsome and interesting, unlike Mr. Buzzard—a friend of mine, by the way. Now you see why he made those recordings when their husbands were at work.”
Craig fought a grin and asked, “But with Jimmy there?”
“A mother can shoo a child out of the house. My brother was sure something had happened. Bed sheets all thrown about, Mabel—my brother’s wife—out of it and exhausted. House in disarray.”
“And you’re sure?”
“My brother was. Ended his marriage. I haven’t seen my nephew or Mabel since. So, I just don’t like the idea of Shokler getting memorialized or glorified or anything. That’s why I got so angry. I shouldn’t have. But I’m calm now.”
“That’s good.”
“I’m just sorry I didn’t just lay it all out for you—I can see why you were bull-headed—I’d’a been if someone’d walked into my bar and told me what to do. I’m glad we got that square.” Johnson seemed unsure what to do now that he’d explained himself to Craig. He said, “If I were you, I’d get out of this town all together.”
“Why’s that?”
“Look around you. The town is shriveling up. When was the last time you pumped any gas?”
Craig tried to place in time the small, green pickup that was the last vehicle he’d topped off. He shrugged.
“That’s right. When I’m driving through this town I make sure I have plenty of gas ‘cause if I ran out here I’d be in the middle of nowhere. Montana has a way of squeezing little towns until they’re dead, and this town is pushin’ out its last wheeze. Once your station moves, you ought to. Go someplace where you might find a nice divorcée and make a life for yourself.”
“I’ll give it some serious thought.”
Johnson clapped Craig on the shoulder, then took Craig’s hand and shook it. “You do that. Now I gotta hit the road.” He started toward his truck, stopped and faced Craig. He pointed a finger and said, “You take care of yourself.”
As Craig watched Johnson drive away, he grinned. Shokler’s rant at the end of episode eighteen had meant little to him, so long out of context, but Johnson had unwittingly provided Craig with the missing history. He knew what Shokler had been accused of, and was certain the accusations were baseless. Sunday night, Craig would broadcast all the episodes of “Weird Furka.”
Craig spent Sunday afternoon making CD copies of the last episodes. As he recorded episode twenty-five, his attention was caught by Frank’s mention of a dog. Frank told the audience that he had his dog, Harold, with him in the studio, and intended to bring his dog with him to the station from that point on. Craig thought the dog at the station the previous Sunday must have been Frank’s—it did not occur to Craig that the dog he’d seen couldn’t have been Frank’s.
And that night, the dog was there, standing guard at the door. Craig walked up to the dog and said, “Hello, Harold.” He knelt beside the dog and patted him, as he would
a familiar animal. He stopped petting the dog, pulled his hands back and rubbed his forehead. For a moment he had no idea who the dog was, became terrified of it—and the dog growled. Blood rushed to Craig’s head—he could nearly see a cloud-like infusion fill an empty space in his mind—and he resumed petting the dog. When he stood, he held the door open for Harold in case he wanted to join Craig in the studio. The dog didn’t move, and Craig knew he was standing guard as he had for Frank.
Craig didn’t speak at all to the DJ when he stepped into the studio, though the DJ spoke to him, and set up Craig’s show. The DJ said, “Dog out there tonight?” And when Craig didn’t answer, he said, “I didn’t see any dog there last time.” Then he left, and Craig started airing “Weird Furka.”
Craig felt happy—giddy. And when, a little past 2 AM, Frank Shokler joined Craig in the studio, he almost took no notice, as if Frank had been there all night. Longer, perhaps. The two of them listened to the radio. The episodes of “Weird Furka” had dissolved from the original interview format into Frank talking for ten to fifteen minutes about supernatural revelations he’d had. Occasionally, a dog barked, and Craig wasn’t sure if he was hearing Harold outside or on the radio.
“I was wrong for so long,” Frank said. Frank’s voice was a clear baritone. Craig admired it as a good radio voice.
“Was there an announcer, or was that you, too?” Craig asked, without looking away from the boards.
Frank smiled, and, lowering his voice, said, “If you scoff at the idea that there is a world outside of our common perception, another world beyond our own, the supernatural world, then prepare to have your assumptions challenged; if you already believe such a world exists, then prepare to have your beliefs confirmed.”
Craig clapped.
“Nothing else was faked, though, unless some of those housewives I interviewed were making stories up to pass the hours. I imagine that went on a little. Some of the women, though—” Frank grinned, “were very serious and touched, I think, by what took hold of me.”
Craig turned in his chair and looked at Frank. Frank, in the other chair, by microphone two, was not a man, but man-like, dressed in a white dress shirt, sleeves held up by cloth bands, a pair of brown, wool trousers, suspenders and two-tone, white and brown shoes. The skin of the thing in the clothes was like moist black cloth. Between the weave, it shone. Craig gasped; just beyond the thing was Craig’s book of poetry; he focused on that as he switched on his microphone, drew it close to his lips and whispered, “Someone, please help me.”
Frank said, “And what is taking hold of you, too.”
Craig turned back to the board, and stared at the counter as it counted down the minutes that remained of the episode of “Weird Furka” he was broadcasting. Gradually, he looked away from the LED light numbers and at Frank again; he couldn’t not look at Frank.
“It took me a long time,” Frank said, “to realize that Furka wasn’t the nexus of the—shall we say weird?—but that the nexus was me.” Frank shrugged, sort of—at least, that’s how Craig interpreted the gesture with which Frank capped his statement. Frank said, “You should put on some of that music you like.”
Craig found the way Frank’s mouth moved to be horrible; like bubbling molasses. Craig was dimly aware that the last episode of “Weird Furka” had been broadcast. Without thought, he took a CD from the case he’d brought. It was the album he thought sounded like the opening music of Frank’s show.
Frank’s face rippled. “Johnson has come to rescue you,” he said.
Craig knew Johnson’s arrival did not mean he should have hope. He knew—almost as if he was outside watching—that Harold had leapt onto Johnson as soon as Johnson stepped out of his truck. Johnson would be found the next morning, dead air broadcasting from his truck’s speakers. The papers would declare that he’d been “mauled by a wild animal,” though there would be no animal tracks to be found near Johnson’s body.
Frank said, “You should gather up all those records.” Frank indicated the burned CDs with a wave of his arm. Craig began to gather them, his will gone; gone since he climbed into the sub-basement of the Furkabick hotel three weeks before.
“Good.” Again, Frank’s face rippled. “You should’ve turned that heating plate off when you left your house last. A fire has started already, fueled by your own filth.”
And acetate and celluloid, Craig knew. Frank stood up and started out the studio. Craig followed, the episodes of “Weird Furka” cradled in his arm. They walked through the empty house, to the basement door. The lock that Craig had broken still hung like a loose tooth from its latch.
The basement was dry and dark. In it, all that was visible to Craig was the white of Frank’s shirt and the band of white on Frank’s shoes. Craig followed, and whimpered.
“It’s not so bad,” Frank said. “It’s not so lonely as you’ve been. Why there’s Mrs. Buzzard, who’s most pleasant, and Mrs. Johnson.” Frank stepped into the small room at the far end of the cellar and bent over to open the sub-basement trap door. “After you.”
Craig saw, as he’d seen Johnson mauled and his house in flames, a young boy, up far later than he was supposed to be, recording Craig’s final broadcast. Craig got down on his knees, then dropped hard on his butt. He swung his legs over the lip of the sub-basement. Looking down, Craig saw a small point of light. He knew Frank stood over him, but also knew Frank was patient. The point of light grew; his eyes ached as his pupils shrunk to compensate for the ever-growing brightness below. The light, a ball of fire the size of a human head, was cold. The light was there for no more than a handful of seconds—when it vanished, Craig was blinded by the green-yellow circles burned onto his retinas. CD case held tight against his breast, he let his own weight pull him over the edge and dropped into the hole. Frank followed, carefully climbing down the ladder, pulling the trap door shut behind them.
[for Conrad and Louise]
About the Author
Adam Golaski is the author of Color Plates (Rose Metal Press, 2010). “Green,” his translation of Sir Gawain & the Green Knight, appears in Open Letters. He edits New Genre and for Flim Forum Press.
Acknowledgements
Slightly different versions of several of the stories in this collection appeared in the following publications: “The Demon” and “They Look Like Little Girls” in Supernatural Tales #9 and #13, respectively; “Back Home” in All Hallows #32; “What Water Reveals” in Strange Tales: Volume II, edited by Rosalie Parker (Tartarus Press, 2007); and “Weird Furka” in Acquainted with the Night, edited by Barbara and Christopher Roden (Ash-Tree Press, 2004).
As I wrote the stories for this book, many people offered their support and many their love. I wish especially to thank the following. Les Poets Bleu: John, Jeff, Matthew, & Jaime. Liz Sanger (“What Water Reveals”) & Kaethe Schwehn (KADE). Jeremy Lassen, who recommended I try Raw Dog Screaming Press. Angela. The Kemple family, especially Kate. Jeremy Withers. Mom, Dad, & Marie. And my Zetta, & my Elizabeth.
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
NEW ENGLAND & NEW YORK
The Animator’s House
In the Cellar
The Animal Aspect of Her Movement
The Demon
Back Home
A String of Lights
MONTANA
What Water Reveals
They Look Like Little Girls
The Man from the Peak
The Dead Gather on the Bridge to Seattle
Weird Furka
About the Author
Acknowledgements
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