by Pete Kahle
Slyfield gestures to the photographs spread out Tarot-style upon the splintered, ale-stained table. The images bear the hallmarks of an amateur photographer; incongruous framing, sickly color temperature, and a blurry depth-of-field resulting from an over-reliance on the camera's auto-focus. In the dim lighting of the Grand Oak Tavern one could easily mistake these crime scene photos for a student art project. Slyfield is not oblivious to the bush league caliber of the pictures. He tugs absently at the sleeves of his suit as the Native American man slowly looks them over.
"Obviously Ansel Adams had the day off. This is all we have from the scene of the… disappearance," Slyfield says. "You can see the cell tower site, number 3276 here. Seems to be a remote stretch of wilderness, yet the public demands their cell coverage, eh?"
Tall Elk studies each photograph, his stoic expression impenetrable to the investigator. Slyfield watches with particular interest when the native man's eyes fall upon the image of the engraved boulder. The antediluvian wedge of granite is overgrown with moss. A rubella rash of lichen spreads across its surface, bridging the network of cracks left by the passing of ancient glaciers long ago. Visible in spite of this damage are the petroglyphs. A chiseled umbrella-like shape floats beneath a crescent moon; it is tethered to the body of a man-shaped symbol by a thin line. The rock cuttings appear too advanced for stone-age tools. It is unlike any other Native American artwork Slyfield has seen.
"That is the place," says Tall Elk.
He maintains a stony expression rivalling the heads of Easter Island. Slyfield is unable to determine if he is naturally dispassionate or under the influence of medication. He knows from the police report that Tall Elk is missing a fair portion of his left leg. Everything from the knee down was torn free when they found him dangling from his tether like a bloody puppet near the base of the cell tower. The second contractor, Andy Gilmore, was never found.
The fact that the native man did not bleed out was heralded by responding paramedics as a miracle. Slyfield has little faith in miracles that severely maim one man and completely vanish another. Add the possibility of a generous life insurance payout into the mix and his faith in miracles approaches zero.
"Can I get you a drink?"
Tall Elk waves his hand dismissively. The investigator smiles, then summons the lone waitress working the floor. He taps his glass and awaits his second whiskey sour while quietly observing the network of veins that climb Tall Elk's nose like latticework. Clearly the native has enjoyed alcohol in the past, his decision to forego it now strikes Slyfield as noteworthy.
"All right. So tell me, did you or someone you know carve that rock? Is this some kind of cult thing? Was Andy Gilmore a part of it?"
Tall Elk coolly regards the investigator. Slyfield's sharp gaze and slicked-back hair lend him an air of intensity, but his perpetual and reflexive drinking undermines his razor-sharp facade. His well-fitted suit is wrinkled at the shoulders and elbows as happens when such garments are slept in overnight.
"You are not the police, I owe you nothing," Tall Elk says, "You have wasted my time."
Slyfield drops his hand inside his vest then flings a metallic container across the table. The object bounces twice before slowing to a stationary spin before Tall Elk. It is a whiskey flask, battered and tarnished to the point that light reflects as a milky glow upon its surface. Beneath the grime the elegant curves of an inscription are faintly visible.
"I promised I had something that would interest you, there it is. Pick it up and take a good look before you decide you don't want to talk to me," Slyfield says.
The native lifts the object level to his eyes hoping to overcome the limitations that dim lighting and age have wreaked upon his vision. He turns the flask until the engraving is clear. It reads: A. Gilmore
"What should this mean to me?" Elk asks.
Slyfield retrieves the flask with a sudden lunge. His left hand removes a transparent bag from the pocket of his vest. He shakes the bag crisply before dropping the flask within and sealing it.
"It means that I have something that the police overlooked. Something of interest to numerous parties, the flask of the missing man which now bears your fingerprints. In turn, you have something I want, something I am willing to trade for," Slyfield says.
This is not the investigator's first underhanded negotiation with an unwilling participant. He is a master of the hard sell, which is why his investigative services command top dollar. It is also why he packs fifteen million volts of stun gun in his left pocket. Negotiations sometimes go awry. As he watches flashes of rage cycle through Tall Elk's features he hopes things won't come down to a physical confrontation. The flask is, after all, a fake. Slyfield ordered it online, beat it with a ball peen hammer, and buried it in his yard for two weeks. There's no way for his victim to know this, which is why the tactic works, and has worked in various incarnations countless times before. It is one of the many paradoxes of life he has come to accept, that learning the truth often requires acts of deception.
"I will tell the authorities what you've done," Tall Elk says.
"That seems a bold gamble to me. The cops might believe you, eventually. After multiple interviews, subpoenas, and lawyer fees. Then there is your insurer. Your disability was awarded in spite of the lab contaminating your fluid samples from the night of the accident. Those who work under the influence aren't eligible for worker's comp, as you know. Fingerprints on a liquor flask look bad. Of course, you might win that battle too. Still, the time and money you'll have to invest to set the record straight…"
"And if I answer your questions you will give me the flask?"
"You have my word," Slyfield says.
Tall Elk studies the investigator, noting the thin sheen of alcohol sweat that covers his face like a translucent mask. He mentally counts to himself in his native tongue knowing that hasty responses bring regrettable consequences. Once he shares what he knows it cannot be taken back. Knowledge changes the path of the enlightened, forbidden knowledge even more so. This is why his people have long hid their secrets from others. Yet this investigator is as relentless as he is ruthless. He is a salmon constantly pushing upstream, unaware that his journey ends in the jaws of a grizzly bear. Yet what man can change the destiny of a salmon?
"The cycle is neither cruel nor compassionate," Tall Elk sys, "It simply is. An ancient dance that the stars began and we are merely witness to."
A bemused smile pulls at the edges of Slyfield's mouth.
"You ask to understand parts of an eternal performance that was never meant for you. Perhaps never meant for man at all. Those who glimpsed these truths lived more primal lives, they were more attuned to the cycle."
Tall Elk lays an earth-toned finger upon the photograph of the petroglyph depicting the man connected to the umbrella form beneath the moon.
"This is not graffiti. Your eyes tell you as much. See where the rock cracks cross over the symbols? The edges where they meet are flawless. These carvings existed when the glaciers split the stone. This is an ancient message reminding us that men stand not only beneath the heavens, but beneath those who drift below the heavens. These truths are what killed Andy Gilmore. Why sacrifice your own life for answers that will bring you nothing?"
His words pass over Slyfield with a refreshing coolness. It is a pleasant change from the vulgar rants Slyfield usually receives after putting the screws to someone.
"Well that's where you're wrong. There's quite a bit of money hanging in the balance. My share of the pie depends on what you tell me about the disappearance of Andy. You say he's dead? I really hope that's not the case, but if it is take me to the body."
Money.
Of course that is what brought the investigator here. Tall Elk cannot remember a point in his forty-seven year span when an outsider approached him over matters concerning anything else. The cycle is neither cruel nor compassionate, but his slice of eternity is filled with those whom have no love but for profit. The human complexities of form
er eras are reduced to the tracking of a single number, a bottom line, a profit margin, a bank account balance.
"You will not find his body any more than you will find my leg. They are buried in the cemetery of the sky. Leave the flask and go home, your search is over. There are no bones to present to your master."
Slyfield feels the combustible mixture of fatigue and anger percolating within his breast. He finishes his whiskey, bringing the glass down hard on the table. The few sickly patrons slouched over the bar do not bother turning to look. Only the disheveled waitress reacts, raising an irritated brow at him from across the room. Slyfield taps his glass in response, hoping the drink arrives before his temper overpowers his good judgment.
"If there are no bones then how do you know he's dead?" Slyfield says.
"I saw him die."
"Do tell."
Tall Elk closes his eyes and places his palms flat on sticky surface of the scarred table. He breathes in deeply, seeking tranquility but instead inhaling the loathsome scents of stale beer accented with a hint of urinal mint. Slyfield waits patiently.
"To understand the Uhridanawa, you must first understand something about the spirit world. For over a decade I climbed the cell towers for any contract company that was paying. My body grew strong. It had to. My biceps became like stone, my legs pillars of marble. But my spirit was sick. Cold nights, long hours, and seeing too many friends plummet to their deaths or lose limbs only to be replaced as easily as one might replace old shoes…" He pauses, his chest moving with an uneven rhythm. When he opens his eyes they are moist at the edges. Though his penetrating stare is directed toward Slyfield it seems focused on a point far past him. “It was difficult. I handled it as many men do, with drink, smoke, and painkillers. I climbed great heights every day yet my view of the world never changed. My body became powerful like a bear but in my heart I was a worm, burrowing into chemical bliss as if it were the dampened earth. I sought the comfort of a living grave."
Slyfield quietly sips his whiskey. He wonders if his patience will result in a payoff. Andy Gilmore's widow has spent six years begging the courts to declare her husband dead. The slow wheels of justice have begun to turn in her favor, an event that displeases Slyfield's employers. If Andy is dead, Safeguard Life Insurance will have to honor the three million dollar policy he took out on himself. For that kind of money Slyfield can afford to entertain the deranged ramblings of the sole witness to Andy's disappearance.
"You know some animals can tell when a person is near death? Dogs can smell cancer on their owner's breath. Cats in retirement homes sometimes visit the next patron to die, guided by unknown abilities. Likewise there are similar creatures of the spirit. Primal things that hover above the earth, things which watched ancient men gather themselves tightly within the circle of the first campfire light. As animals can smell the fatal sickness building within a body so too can the Uhridanawa smell a spirit that are sickened unto death."
“I assume there's some connection between this story and the disappearance of Andy Gilmore,” Slyfield says.
Tall Elk points again to the photo of the petroglyph laying a calloused fingertip on the umbrella shaped symbol beneath the crescent moon.
“This is the Uhridanawa. That is the name my people gave it, though the rock was carved long before our ancestors ever beheld it. It hovers beneath the moon. This line connecting it to the man shows how it follows humanity from its unseen place in the heavens. I knew when I first set eyes upon the petroglyph that Andy and I were in its territory. Yet I paid no heed, because the prophecies of my people have brought us nothing but tears in modern times. I treated this warning of the ancients with the same skepticism you show on your face right now."
Slyfield shrugs. Whiskey has somewhat alleviated the oppressive atmosphere of the tavern. Hard, dark edges turn fuzzy, the oppressive air of hopelessness is buoyed by his heady buzz. He's slowly coming to accept that this one-legged Indian really thinks he will be bluffed by some cock-and-bull story about sky spirits and boogeymen. As if he can return to his employers with nothing but a fake flask and an empty report to drop on their desk.
"I'm listening," Slyfield says.
"We were replacing a main antenna that night, a two man job. The air was heavy with frost, so we warmed ourselves with drink and spoke of the ways we would waste our overtime pay. That is how it was in those days. The climb was nothing special. I held the antenna in place while Andy worked to connect it. From that height a man can see a great distance. Yet my spirit, poisoned with alcohol and frivolous desires, took no joy in the view. I did not bother looking toward the stars until a number of them began to shift and ripple as if underwater." Tall Elk lifts a soiled drink coaster holding it a few inches above the table. He places his other hand beneath it, then wiggles his fingers while raising them upward. “Then it is like this. Everything falls upward, the tools, the antenna, loose bolts, us. Fortune smiled upon me and my tether held. Andy had forgotten to fasten his to the tower. I watched him fly up to the place where the stars were trembling and then vanish. I too fell toward this place but was stopped at the end of my lanyard. There I dangled upside down, confused, cold, and terrified. I screamed nonsense prayers, useless words of slurred panic, but I howled them nonetheless. Then, pop! I felt my body jarred by a swift force like an ocean wave and I fell toward the ground. I did not know my leg was gone until I awoke at the hospital."
Slyfield slaps the top of the table with enough force to nearly tip over his half-full glass, "C'mon, now! You're going to tell me the sky ate him?"
Tall Elk folds his arms across his chest, his expression never registering more than a bored disinterest. "What does the evidence tell you? Where is the body? Where is my leg? The police do not know and neither do you. Only I know, and I have kept my end of the bargain. Give me the flask. Or are you not honoring our deal?"
Slyfield stands, patting the vest pocket containing the flask with one hand while gathering the photographs with the other. "I'll hand this over when you hand me something useful. Call me at my hotel when you're ready to have a real talk, but don't wait too long."
Tall Elk rises from his chair, steadying himself with the edge of the teetering table. “Wait! Let me leave first. I can sense the presence of the Uhridanawa. Remember the cord on the petroglyph that connects it with the man. I can sense when it is nearby, ever since it took my leg. We are connected, and I tell you it is close by now. Even if you do not believe, humor me."
Slyfield snorts. "You're a regular Captain Hook of the sky crocodiles, chief. I don't think so. The fact is that Andy is still missing and you were alone with him when he vanished. I'll take my chances with the spirit world before I follow you into the dark of night. Try not to get vacuumed up yourself."
Tall Elk considers making another attempt. He considers shouting after him “My spirit is healed, I will be buried in the earth, like a man.” Yet he knows any attempt to change the path of the investigator will only hasten him more quickly toward his destiny.
The cycle is neither cruel nor compassionate; the eternal dance simply moves forward.
Slyfield exits the tavern, never to be seen again.
Weeks later the police come asking questions. They talk to the barkeep, to the handful of people present on the night that Slyfield disappeared. Tall Elk answers their questions while wisely avoiding mentioning any details that may endanger his disability benefits.
The search drags on for three months before the Native American is contacted again and questioned over the only evidence that will ever be found in the case of the missing investigator: the bizarre discovery of his dress coat hanging atop a tall pine tree about mile away from the tavern.
D. Morgan Ballmer lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and two daughters. Their home has only two full bathrooms. Boom, you just got a bonus horror story in the author’s bio. His work has appeared in Three-Lobed Burning Eye Magazine and on the Halloween Forevermore website.
IN THE COURT OF
&nb
sp; THE PUMPKIN KING
-A nick nightmare novella-
by Adrian Cole
Usually when I hear some kind of commotion down in the alley outside my office, especially near the end of my working day, I’m inclined not to pay it too much heed. Drunks arguing over their last bottle, kids smashing windows in the empty warehouse opposite, cats, dogs, rats and so on, it’s a laugh a minute down there. However, when you’ve spent a dreary October afternoon trawling through a bunch of tax returns for your accountant who insists on giving the Revenue boys something to chew on once a year, you’ll take anything that’ll give you a break. So I went to check things out, one of my twin Berettas leading the way: I always like to be able to get off the first shot.
At the bottom of the stairs, I slowly tugged the door open to be met with a wall of darkness – almost all of the goddamn outside lights were busted – and a mother of a storm. Wind howling, rain gusting, temperature dropping deep down into brass monkey territory. I almost shuffled back to the figure work.
I went outside, collar up and peered back. Rain was gushing from a broken gutter across the narrow alley, a small waterfall that sploshed down onto what at first looked like a big sack. Some jerk had dumped a bag of garbage in here and hightailed it. Not for the first time. The alley was empty now. I would’ve ignored the thing slumped up against the wall, except that I had a bad feeling about it. I went over to it and kicked it.
It was like kicking a sack of wet mud: my boot sank in. Now that was odd, because I could see that it wasn’t a bag of garbage. Such things did not have arms and legs.
It was a body.
Its legs were buckled up under it like they were composed of modelling clay. Its head sank down on the chest, almost melted into it. I knelt down. The face was starting to slide off the head, the features already distorted beyond any proper recognition. I looked back over my shoulder. If this was a warning to me from any number of thugs I’d upset, it would have been no surprise. How many more times was my alley going to be used as a depository for a corpse? I’d seen more stiffs here than at the local morgue.