Deadlight Jack

by Mark Onspaugh

  He turned around in a complete circle, trying to get his bearings, but nothing looked familiar.

  He stood for a full three minutes, trying to calm himself and consider his options. This was something heroes in books and movies always did, and it seemed to work.

  Finally, he decided that calling out to his moms was the only course of action. They would find him and take him home. He would get in trouble, for sure, but he would be safe. And, if someone else heard him, they would take him back to the campground. Grown-ups always knew where things were.

  As he readied himself to yell, he heard a mournful note from a flute. There, in the distance, was the tiny, glowing light, going from gold to green and back. It rose slowly, then descended to about three feet from the ground. It repeated again and again, a friendly and beckoning presence.

  Donny followed it and was relieved to hear the children laughing, somewhere just out of sight.

  The little light stayed ahead of him, leading him through the swamp. It seemed they traveled much farther than he remembered, but he was tired and confused. When he felt he couldn’t go on, that he needed to lie down by the path, the flute would beckon, giving him just enough energy to continue.

  At last, the light disappeared behind the stump of a monstrous cypress tree, its lower trunk like the pleated skirt of some giantess. There was a small hollow in the tree, but it was too dark to see anything within. Still, Donny felt his body tense, as if something were watching him.

  Two bright orange shapes appeared, and at first he thought they were the eyes of a tiger.

  No tigers here, you dumb shit.

  The shapes leaped out of the darkness and attached themselves to either side of the rift in the bark. They were salamanders, glowing a bright orange, and they formed lamps on either side of the massive wooden curtain.

  A man stepped out, although Donny would have thought no man could fit through such a small space.

  He was very tall and thin, almost like a skeleton. He wore a top hat and an old-looking dark suit.

  Donny trembled, and his skin broke out in gooseflesh.

  The man held up a large flute, carved from a human femur. Donny knew what such bones were, he had asked Tru-Mom to help him draw skeletons because they were badass.

  “You like my music, Donny?” the tall man asked, his voice whispery like a snake might talk.

  Donny did not reply.

  “Come, come, don’t be shy!” The tall man gestured grandly and the two orange salamanders leaped onto his face—became part of his face.

  “Allow me to introduce myself, Donny, I am…”

  Donny turned and ran. His moms had told him time and time again, run from bad strangers and find a grown-up, preferably a policeman.

  Maybe the parents of the children playing?

  He didn’t think so. He started to pray, hoping Jesus might be listening.

  “Please, Jesus, help me. I’m sorry I cursed, and I went out without permission. Please don’t let this bad man get me. Please, Jesus, please…”

  Something enormous came crashing through the underbrush and blocked his path. It was a gigantic alligator, twenty feet in length, covered in moss and barnacles. It opened its mouth and roared, flashing rows of huge teeth as saliva flew from its jaws. It was somewhat translucent and seemed to be made of blue-and-white vapor, but it was no less terrifying for that.

  Donny skidded to a stop, trapped.

  A hand came down on his shoulder, and it was very cold.

  “I’m Professor Foxfire,” the voice said, sounding merry.

  —

  George awoke suddenly, stifling a scream. He tried to bolt out of the bed, unsure of where he was. When he became entangled in the blankets, he was sure something had grabbed him, and he whimpered until he saw he was in his own room and that he had only snared himself.

  Stupid old fool, he thought. He extricated himself and stood, still trembling.

  He had been having nightmares lately. Nothing specific, he would just wake with a start, his heart pounding, his hand shaking. A couple of times he woke to find his cheeks wet with tears.

  He craved a cigarette, a habit he had given up just before his wedding day in 1961.

  George went to the window and breathed in the night air, trying to clear the last of fear’s cobwebs.

  Down below, he saw Jimmy trudging up the street, toward the house.

  He hadn’t told Jimmy about it because he knew Jimmy had his own problems.

  But it’s more than that, isn’t it, old man?

  George sighed. If he told Jimmy, he’d likely find some supernatural connection and they’d be off, risking life and limb trying to stop God knows what.

  George wasn’t ready for another adventure or quest or whatever the hell you called it. Jimmy had nearly died the last time, and George knew he, too, could have been killed—he also could have wound up in jail.

  No, he wasn’t ready for all that so soon.

  Maybe never.

  If he went down to see if Jimmy was all right, Jimmy would want to know why George wasn’t asleep. Jimmy didn’t miss much.

  So George went back to bed, hoping that the rest of the night would pass peacefully.

  —

  Jimmy entered quietly, hoping not to awaken George. He didn’t want to share his concerns with his friend until he knew whether he had had a vision or just a hallucination.

  It felt like the former, but he prayed it was the latter. He’d rather that he was suffering the first effects of dementia rather than that his friend was in danger.

  Jabbo sat on the counter, watching him with large green eyes.

  Jimmy walked over and stroked the cat behind the ears.

  “You know you’re not supposed to be on the counter, Jabbo.”

  Jabbo purred and rose into Jimmy’s ministrations, arching his back as if to say, “I don’t care, your silly rules take a backseat to ear scratching.”

  Jimmy smiled. It was amazing how the low rumble of this little creature could calm him.

  He gave the cat a long stroke down its back, its rear rising up to meet his hand as its head butted his side. “That’s it for now, you little con artist.” Jimmy laughed.

  Jabbo jumped down and began twining around Jimmy’s legs and meowing to be fed.

  “It’s not breakfast time yet,” Jimmy said, trying to navigate the living room without tripping.

  Jabbo meowed again, then stopped abruptly. He looked toward the living room and hissed as his tail puffed up to raccoon proportions.

  Jimmy looked toward the darkened living room. He knew sometimes cats saw things people did not.

  But sometimes the menace was very much there.

  Jabbo hissed again and dashed up the stairs.

  Jimmy fingered the small knife in his pocket and walked slowly into the living room.

  There, in the far corner, stood a corpse. Fish-belly white, it was nude and had a horrific smile that was far too wide, filled with teeth.

  Jimmy gasped but held his ground. This was his home.

  The thing moved out of the deep shadows into the moonlight.

  It was an albino alligator, eight feet tall and standing erect.

  “Hello, Dabo Muu,” Jimmy said. He wondered, had he really seen a corpse that changed into the alligator? That would be a trick Dabo Muu might play.

  “Hello, Jimmy Kalmaku, Raven-Son.”

  “I am not the son of Raven,” Jimmy corrected. “My parents were human.”

  Dabo Muu laughed, an unpleasant hiss. “It’s our nickname for you, Tlingit. Every god knows you’re Raven’s boy.”

  Jimmy let this insult pass. He knew who he was.

  “What do you want, Dabo Muu? It’s late and I’m tired.”

  Dabo Muu hissed again, but this sound was angrier. “You’re very impudent for a pup I helped.”

  “As I remember, I helped you as well. You were afraid the world would turn to ice.”

  “So now you’re all done, are you? Back to being a useless
, whining old man.”

  “I remain here at the behest of Naas shagee Yéil, not you.”

  “You need to get yourself down to Louisiana,” Dabo Muu said. He pronounced it “Loo-si-anna.”

  Dabo Muu moved closer; his stubby hind legs, never meant for bipedalism, gave him a peculiar waddle.

  As he got closer, Jimmy could smell something underneath the swamp smells of grass, mud, and fish. It was the smell of corruption, a diseased and nauseating scent like the one out on the lake.

  Dabo Muu stepped into the light of the kitchen, and Jimmy could see now that one of his eyes was missing. In its place was a cavity ringed with festering sores. Dabo Muu’s distinctive necklace of stones, feathers, and a six-inch fang was also gone, and the skin around his neck and thorax looked blistered and scarred.

  “You have been in battle,” Jimmy said.

  Dabo Muu grunted. Saliva dripped from his massive jaws. His yellowed fangs were slick with it. Jabbo, having sneaked down from the second floor, hissed at him and ran upstairs.

  “Why don’t you give me that critter, boy. Show me some courtesy, proper respect.”

  “I’m not feeding you my cat, you old dinosaur. Go out and find a chicken somewhere.”

  “You’ve become insolent, Jimmy Kalmaku—some might say blasphemous.”

  “Dabo Muu, I am tired and my bones ache. If you have a request, take it up with Raven. I’m not going to Louisiana, I’m going to bed.”

  “You owe a debt, boy.”

  “I paid that many times over. Good night.” Jimmy walked past the creature to the stairs. All the while his skin was atingle with gooseflesh, sure that Dabo Muu would take off his arm with a bite of those massive jaws, or break his neck.

  “You are a fool if you think there is only one evil in the world, or that we won’t meet again.”

  Jimmy turned to make a final retort, but Dabo Muu was gone.

  Chapter 4

  LAKE NISQUALLY, WASHINGTON

  On Tuesday, George spent much of the day washing, waxing, and detailing his new car. The previous owner had installed a CD player with good speakers, and George happily lavished care on Helen while listening to a boxed set of seventies soul.

  Jimmy hiked down to the drugstore to purchase necessities for his trip. He realized that he should bring a gift for his granddaughter, then realized he had no idea what a modern eight-year-old girl might want.

  Toy? Doll? Was she old enough for Barbie? Anne Marie had mentioned that some parents didn’t like Barbie because her proportions were unrealistic, leading to poor self-image and sometimes an eating disorder.

  Were Thomas’s and Kate’s parents like that? When did things get so complicated?

  He thought of a Raggedy-Ann doll he had seen in some toy store in Old Town but finally decided on a book. Easy to carry, easy to exchange.

  He settled on the first Harry Potter book and splurged on a hardcover. If she had it, they’d find something in Boston, and he would read this one himself. He had heard it was very good.

  Once he finished all his shopping, he rested on a bench down near the lake. His joints were aching again, and he wondered if someday he would be unable to move at all.

  Maybe then Raven would let him go.

  Although Jimmy had no more visitations or visions of Dabo Muu or anyone else, his sleep had been fitful. He wondered what was so important in Louisiana, and if his vision of George desiccated and hollow was a warning not to go there. As it was, the very air about Jimmy seemed charged, as if a storm was coming.

  For George, he kept feeling he had forgotten something very important, and he also slept poorly.

  They spent the next day largely apart again, as if in some unspoken agreement.

  Jimmy wandered around the lake, some of its fixtures—a tiny boat-repair shop with a single gas pump, a bait shop that also sold exceptionally strong coffee and ice-cream bars—reminding him of similar places in his boyhood home.

  He had not been back to his village since losing Rose, and now it was gone, or so they said. He wondered if any of its familiar landmarks would still be there, the rusted truck that stood sentinel on the outskirts of town, the bullet-riddled sign high up over Doughboy’s general store.

  Jimmy smiled at the memory. Doughboy had fixed up his business, hoping to attract the eye of Iris Clewison, a local Tlingit girl he fancied. When Iris had run off with a Russian fur trapper, Doughboy had shot up the sign himself.

  Jimmy bought a chocolate milkshake and fries at a burger shack, then sat at a table and ate, watching the gulls fight over french fries and thinking of distant days.

  —

  George spent his morning getting a haircut, a manicure, and his shoes shined while he watched the pretty girls walk by. It was usually a fine way to pass the morning, but he was still troubled.

  He went shopping for vinyl LPs, a fad that he had embraced for the last six months. There were a lot more shops in Seattle, of course, but Lake Nisqually had one that was well stocked, Vinyl in the Round, and he often whiled away an hour or two having his memory delightfully tweaked by old album art or photos of bands and singers from back in the day.

  Again, it was usually a fine way to spend an afternoon but not today.

  He had wandered over to the ten-inch EP records, a section that was usually too punk or metal for his taste.

  The name Billie Holiday caught his eye and he pulled out an album with a disturbing rendering of a stark black tree with gay bunting and a profusion of dark figures hanging from it. The EP was entitled World Unmade by a band called Storm Flowers. It included their cover of “Strange Fruit,” which liberally sampled Billie Holiday’s version from 1939.

  The bodies seemed to sway on the cover and George realized his hand was shaking. He suddenly felt he might throw up and hastily put the album down and hurried out, oblivious to the young clerk at the counter telling him to “Have a good one, man.”

  George sat on a bench looking out at the lake and breathed in the summer air, warm but not too hot on this breezy afternoon.

  His nausea passed, but he still felt a sense of disquiet. He held up his hand and it shook.

  For the first time in his life he felt very old—more than old, tired and feeble.

  George sighed and felt his eyes well up.

  What the hell was happening to him? He had been through so much in his seventy-plus years, and he could never remember feeling this way.

  Get ahold of yourself, George Watters.

  The sun felt warm on his face, and, as he closed his eyes, he could hear the life blood of his new home in the conversation and bustle, the laughter of children and the clink of spoons in ceramic mugs. The coffee smelled heavenly, and he thought perhaps he…

  He was somewhere completely dark. Even though George was apprehensive, he had no sense of having been transported elsewhere. This was the world now.

  He could not tell if his location was familiar or not. Indeed, the darkness was so absolute that he might be blind.

  There was a shift within him, and he was suddenly five years old again.

  Now he was afraid, terribly afraid. Why couldn’t he see? Where was his mama? Where was his daddy?

  Daddy died in the war.

  He tried to call out to his mother but could not, some awful paralysis seizing him.

  Far, far in the distance, or so it seemed, a faint greenish-and-gold light winked into existence. For a moment he was thankful as both a child and an adult—he was not blind!

  The light seemed familiar, and he shook violently as the memory glided by his consciousness like a small, dark fish that was quickly gone before he could grab it.

  Then, without any decision on his part, he began walking toward the light.

  No, I don’t want to!

  He continued forward, unmindful of his own wishes. The light was slowly growing in size, and he was sure whatever was revealed in that Stygian glow would drive him mad. He tried to cry out, but he could only make an awful keening sound, like an animal ca
ught in a trap.

  Please don’t make me go there!

  But he continued, his feet betraying him with every step.

  A voice wailed out in the distance. “Granddaddy! Help me!”

  Who was that? Was it a trick? What did they want?

  George was pulled forward even though he tried to force his legs to stop.

  He realized suddenly he must be dreaming and willed himself to wake up. A sense of urgency overcame him.

  I need to get home—something important is waiting for me.

  George struggled up out of sleep, like a diver many fathoms down.

  He struggled to open his eyes, which seem glued shut. He forced them open.

  An old, black man stood over him, touching his shoulder with concern. As George tried to remember where he was, the old man became a rotting corpse, his suit a filthy patchwork of mold and worms, stained and torn from years in the grave.

  He knew that face.

  “Georgie…Porgieeeeee…”

  George shrieked, then he was falling…

  He awoke on the grass next to the bench. Two young men in fraternity tee shirts bent over him, their faces wrinkled in concern.

  “You okay, sir?” the taller one asked.

  George was out of breath but managed to nod. They helped him up, one of them keeping a hand on his shoulder, lest he fall again.

  “Do you want us to call an ambulance?” the other one asked, his phone already out.

  George shook his head. “No, I’m fine. Just…just had a bad dream.”

  “Must have been really bad,” the first young man said.

  George nodded. “Thank you for your help. I have to get home.”

  The first looked at the second. It was clear they had somewhere to be, but they were unwilling to abandon George.

  “Um, we can give you a ride…”

  George waved them off. “I live close. Thank you again.” He got off the bench, grateful that he did not stumble or waver. He gave a casual wave and hurried out of Old Town. People who had witnessed the incident stared at him, not all with pity, but he ignored them.

  It was a slight incline past Lake Street and then 154th to their street, but George had been walking nearly every day. He was feeling better, more clearheaded, when he headed up the front walk of their little blue-and-white house.