Morbid Metamorphosis

by Lycan Valley Press

  “I sent Deputies over to the diner. We’ll go and take a look ourselves now Tommy’s secure.” The Sheriff started the engine and eased the car away from the sidewalk. Mist swirled in the headlight beams, yellow from the halogens.

  Harrington watched the houses sweep by. “Sutton says they caught Derringer up in Newport.”

  A long pause followed before a quiet, “Sure thing.”

  “Are they definite it’s him?”

  The lawman gripped the steering wheel tight and stared through the fog.

  “Are they sure?” pressed Harrington.

  Lee turned onto 2nd Street, narrowly missing a parked car outside the hardware store. “Damn this fog,” he grunted. “Forget Derringer, Doc. Can’t dwell on my mistakes. I might’ve let that sick son of a bitch slip through town, but now it seems we got something worse.” He wound down the window. “I can almost smell it.”

  Harrington knew exactly how he felt. The fog that had arrived at their innocent little town was thick as soup, one reeking of rotten vegetables and fish left out to decay in the sun.

  “The weather certainly has taken a turn for the worse,” said Harrington. “At least it would appear that your Deputies have everything under control.”

  Just ahead stood the diner owned by the Gleesons. Still the lights burned, casting wide, pale beams into the mist from the windows. The booths were empty, and neither Frank’s serious face nor Pam’s warm smile decorated the counter. On any given night Harrington may have chosen to stop in for a coffee or slice of pie as he made a late night call, yet here, the circus of flashing red and blue cruiser lights banished all thoughts of refreshment.

  “Ah shit,” said Lee and pulled over. He brought the car to a complete stop and turned to the doctor. “You said the boy had no sign of injury.”

  Harrington nodded.

  “In which case, the blood wasn’t his.”

  Harrington nodded again. “Two and two often make four, Sheriff.”

  “Then I’m glad you’re here,” he said and unclipped his seat belt. “Saves me calling you out.”

  The two men stepped from the car and approached the entrance to the diner. Two officers stood by the glass panes. Willis, an old hand with the Greenwick PD, stood smoking a cigarette, studying the ground. Stallard, an officer whom Harrington was still prescribing cough syrup and Band Aids – hell, there’s that paper trail again – leaned against the wall. He glanced up, meeting the doctor’s eyes. In that moment, Harrington knew the young man would rather be anything but a police officer.

  “How bad is it?” Harrington asked, turning to the more sober Willis.

  “Oh yeah, Doc. It’s…” He savoured a long draw on the wrap between his fingers. “It’s the wars in there, Doc. Pam and Frank…they’re…”

  “Yes?”

  He grimaced.

  “And you didn’t call it in?” said Lee. “What in the good name of—”

  “We tried,” said Willis though a plume of exhaled smoke. “Nothing’s working, boss. I swear it. I was about to send Stallard here direct to the station…but look at the state of him. He can barely control his stomach let alone a cruiser.”

  Harrington had heard enough blundering and stepped forward, grabbing the handle to the door and yanking it open. This was the god-damn picnic all over again. What was wrong with this town? The slightest upset and the citizens wilted like flowers in late summer.

  Derringer, he thought. Everyone was in such a tizz over Derringer. I think most were happy the Sheriff missed him and he slipped through, otherwise, he’d still be here. Still in Greenwick, like a dormant virus bidding it’s time in a cell. They thought the threat had passed them by…

  The diner had been open for most of the day. A few soiled cups and glasses sat here and there, on the bar or on tables nestled within booths by the window. No plates, the doctor noticed, but who would want to eat just before a Greenwick picnic? Pam and Frank, always so diligent with the cleanliness of the diner, had obviously been distracted shortly after closing time. Today, Harrington judged that to be around six.

  He moved past his own regular seat, where he would tuck into stacks of pancakes dripping with maple syrup, Pam’s home-made meatloaf, or if it was after house calls, a strong coffee and cream-laden pie. The usual smells were here: the salty grease tang seeping from the hotplates out back, and the dark imbued tone of coffee that seemed that have permeated the wood of the tables. The diner had proved far from the brutal scene of carnage the officers had described. The only slight variance from the familiar was a slight fishy undertone, almost as if the last meal of the day had been a fried kipper.

  Harrington’s cane tap-tap-tapped across the hardwood floor as he ventured further past the counter, aiming for the hinged section that allowed access around the back. Here Pam would dart back and forth, taking orders and refilling coffees, while Frank belonged in the kitchen, spatula in hand, singing the classics as loud as his off key voice would allow.

  Outside the mist continued to push against the wide panes of glass. Muted lights from the street appeared distant, unnaturally stretched away. Harrington glanced outside and, for a moment, was partial to believe the diner had been transported miles under the ocean, where the only light came from bizarre, luminescent creatures. Yet the fog hung still, encouraging pictures of galaxies and astral clusters that dusted the universe like a child had thrown coloured glitter through the vast vacuum of endless night. One of those lights was not the Hoffsteader’s bathroom window, where Norm was probably struggling to work around his engorged prostate, nor was the red and blue twinkling from the cruisers of frightened officers. The lights came from distant stars and planets, undiscovered and untouched. Seas raged in colours that could drive a man mad, and beneath, a world of flying monsters that devoured worlds.

  Harrington leaned hard on his cane, shutting his eyes tight against the spectacle. The sights entered through his pupils and seemed to tear his mind in half, opening it…exposing it…

  The doctor shook his head, escaping the oncoming fugue. His heart and lungs, far past their best, wheezed and stuttered like a rusted car engine.

  “You okay there, Doc?” asked Lee, having abandoned his men at the door. He marched to Harrington and took him firmly by the shoulder.

  The old man gave the hand a grateful squeeze and tried to stand a little straighter. “Just a funny turn, Sheriff. These things happen when you get to my age. Let’s find Pam and Frank.”

  Lee nodded, lifted the hinged section of the bar and slipped behind. Harrington gave the wide window one last glance. There are worlds out there…

  The doctor swallowed.

  …and the beasts that inhabit them. The miasma danced beyond the glass like suspended plankton, the lights from inside blaring out into the dark waters. The stench of fish had returned, drowning the delicious scents of coffee and fat.

  “The lights,” thought Harrington, unsteady on his cane as he sought out the bank of switches. “We need to turn off the lights! Lights attract— “

  His panicked thought was cut short as the diner rocked to one side, like a strong wind had buffered the northern wall, or a fully loaded truck had barrelled past.

  Harrington fell back against the counter, staring out into the depths.

  A great shadow darkened the glass.

  “Doc. You…you need to see this.”

  Harrington blinked. The shadow became the Hoffsteader house again.

  The doctor pulled himself along the counter and stepped behind, limping over a spilled jug of milk.

  Long day, he tried to convince himself. Long, hard day.

  All men left a paper trail. Sadly, Harrington was well aware of his own. He lurched around the doorway leading into the kitchen.

  Sheriff Lee leaned against the industrial-sized sink at the back of the room where he’d just vomited over the dirty dishes within. The expected cooking appliances: the hotplates, oven and various racks for saucepans and utensils were neatly arranged along one side. In the opposi
te corner stood a dining table with paper and crayons strewn atop. Several of the young artist’s better attempts had been pinned to the wall in all their gaudy cheer. The linoleum was worn in a patch before the double hotplate, and Harrington could easily imagine Frank singing Sinatra into his spatula with burgers, sausages, and eggs sizzling away before him.

  Frank, who’d had a heart scare back in ’55 after eating too much of his own fried delicacies, wouldn’t be singing or cooking any-more. His remains lay at the centre of the room in a wide pool of blood, tangled with Pam.

  “God have mercy…” muttered Harrington.

  The Gleesons had been folded and twisted together like two balls of dough. Limbs ended in limbs; arms concluding in stumps were fused to flesh and exposed bone. Frank’s head had almost been severed and clung on with grim tenacity by a stretched flap of skin at the back of the neck. Poking from the top of the open throat, a glistening fold that appeared to be a vagina crafted from steak fat. Harrington knew better. Frank had sung his last Sinatra; there were his vocal cords, half pulled out.

  Pam had fared no better. Her face, far from a picture of beauty when alive what with the cigarettes and greasy diet, seemed deflated, the nose too flat and the jaw saggy. Against his own wishes, Harrington studied her features closer, seeking out the lack of structural integrity.

  Pam’s eyes were missing, as were her teeth and tongue. Something with a fibrous, purple texture sat inside her open, floppy lips and bloody eye sockets, her head nothing more than a rubber mask placed over a magenta balloon. Harrington had no idea how it could have possibly been done, but Pam Gleeson’s stomach now resided inside her head.

  “I’ve seen some sights,” Lee garbled, shaking his head, “but this? I’ve only heard of something like this once before. Derringer. We were relieved he passed through. When I heard…” The Sheriff stared at the butchery on the kitchen floor. “I thought we’d escaped this.”

  He staggered over to the table and perched his rear on the edge.

  Harrington bent as low as his aged knees would allow. “We did escape Derringer.” He sighed. “Well, at least Pam and Frank did.”

  Lee retched and clamped a hand over his mouth. Once back under control, he murmured “What do you mean?”

  “We thought Tommy was in shock, what with the staggering and glazed look and that gibberish he was spouting. As I said, that isn’t his blood and he must have gotten close to something pretty horrific.”

  “I think this…” the Sheriff pointed but kept his eyes averted, “qualifies as pretty horrific. God-damn it, Doc. These were good people. What did Pam and Frank do to deserve this? And poor Tommy, he must have seen the whole thing, or at least discovered the bodies, to be in such a state.”

  Harrington swallowed. “That’s the thing, Sheriff. Look at the bodies. I noted the hand and foot prints in the blood: small. Definitely a child, presumably Tommy. Quite feasible. The boy discovers the bodies, checks to see if they’re still alive, goes to get help. I can see his tracks leading away.” He pointed them out with the tip of his cane. “But I don’t see any other tracks leading away.” He hobbled over to the Sheriff and parked himself on the edge of the table beside him. “So either Pam and Frank did this to each other, their killer flew away or Tommy slaughtered them himself.”

  “For a man of science, Doc, those are some impossible explanations.”

  “Yes, Sheriff, but look at Pam. I can’t even imagine how…” He shook his head and plucked his spectacles from his nose, rubbing away tears. “Impossible is all we have.”

  ***

  “E uh glud blemmeb…”

  Tommy Gleeson sat cross-legged on the floor of his cell. One of only two in the Greenwick PD, the cells had been designed to hold fully grown men, usually the odd drunk that passed through town and sunk a few too many in the town’s only watering hole. Tommy could have easily slid his lithe frame between the bars, yet after his parent’s blood was washed off and a more detailed medical examination performed, the boy chose the cold, hard floor over the bunk and stared at the wall.

  Harrington had pulled a wide, round table closer to the bars and sat watching him. He had a sneaky suspicion that the on duty officers used the table for poker games, but it allowed him a comfortable enough spot to continue his vigil. Happy to be underground, the doctor had purposely sat facing away from the only window, a narrow and barred slit high in the wall that offered a street level view. Tendrils of mist crept around the bars, holding it like the fingers of the convicted. In the few times Harrington had glanced outside, for the window had the pull of a magnet, vast shapes moved in the roiling fog. Winged leviathans blocked the haze cast from the moon, and unseen abomination slithered and croaked, smelling of the sea.

  Harrington’s heart lurched, one of its cogs slipping loose. He unleashed a massive cough that popped it back into place. He sat gasping and clutching the top of his cane as Lee walked down the stairs clutching a fully loaded brown paper bag under his arm.

  “I brought you a present,” he said, dumping his burden on the table. It landed with a solid thump.

  “No change here,” said Harrington, still staring at the boy.

  Lee sat facing him at the round table. “You still think he was responsible for the murders?”

  “I’m a man of science, Sheriff. I look at the evidence and make a diagnosis, same as yourself. Tommy was the only one there. He escaped uninjured, physically at least, and was covered with his parents’ blood.”

  “Overlooking the sheer…insanity of motive, Doc, how can a nine-year-old boy overpower two adults? And the things that were done to them… I can’t even get my head how it was physically done before I wonder how Tommy managed it all.”

  Harrington glanced away from the boy. “I’m trying to be grounded, Sheriff, clinging to the simplest explanation like a drowning man clings to a piece of flotsam. For if something…if something is occurring here, how can we even comprehend such events?”

  The Sheriff reached for the discarded brown paper bag and upended it, spilling its contents on the table top. A thick and battered old book fell with a thump, sheets of paper drifting down around it.

  “I took the liberty of removing this from the crime scene, so don’t do anything foolish with it, Doc. Evidence. But this is still my town and I’ll police it the way I see fit. I value your opinion. You’ve been more stalwart in the face of this compared to my men.” The papers, each containing a crude drawing in crayon, Harrington recognised from the Gleeson’s kitchen. Lee quickly arranged them with the speed of a long time card player, laying each one in a pile, face down. “I…I don’t like looking at them.”

  “Why is that, Sheriff?”

  “You’ll see for yourself.” He studied Tommy for a moment. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out,” said Harrington, flipping over the first drawing.

  At first he thought the design on the page was just random scribble, the swirls and jagged lines of a hand just mature enough to clutch a crayon. However, within every toddler’s apparently random artistry lay a million pictures.

  Harrington stared into the picture, his thoughts growing fuzzy amid the haze of colourful wax within the rectangle of white paper. He quickly followed the Sheriff’s lead and slapped it face down onto the table before his mind could be washed away on cosmic tides. Yet he pushed on, owing that much to the Gleesons. If the explanation to their deaths lay in their son’s pictures…

  The next showed more detail, performed with a heavy hand that had built up thick layers of black crayon. Here a solitary rock poked from turbulent waves. Overhead, pale green lightning forked through lilac clouds of twisted tongues, illuminating a dark slab that stuck out from the rock like a rotten tooth.

  Read me, thought Harrington, squinting to read the hieroglyphs on the stone front. Read me…

  He quickly slammed this picture onto the table.

  Still he flicked through, allowing himself the most cursory of glances a
t each piece of paper. Some were so violent, he expected his fingers to come away bloody on touching the red crayon. Others showed creatures that hurt his eyes to behold, while a few showed vast astral landscapes that threatened to pull him in him; alien gravities and pressures sucking him inside out.

  Sheriff Lee slid a thumb between the pages of the aged book and gripped the leather cover.

  “No!” Harrington screamed, throwing aside the child’s drawings and pounding a fist onto the book, stopping the Sheriff. He gritted his teeth, fighting the rose of fiery pain that had bloomed in his chest. “There are…there are worlds…”

  ***

  “Thank you,” said the doctor, meek and exhausted. He took the offered cup of cold water from the Sheriff and sipped.

  Lee returned to his seat. “Did I ever tell you about my trip to Martha’s Vineyard?”

  Harrington had no patience for small talk, yet little energy for anything else. He shook his head.

  “Good fishing out there,” continued the Sheriff, his gaze no longer on the bars of the cells but staring out across the docks and the modest fishing boats that dotted the waves. “Thought I’d charter a small vessel, spend my days out on the ocean. The night I arrived, a cold front came in, bringing with it a chilly fog bank. You could barely see your hand in front of your face, Doc. I remember feeling restless and going for a walk. That town…Jesus. The fog, the distant tolling of a buoy out on the ocean, the dank smell of the sea. That wasn’t the worst part.” He sighed. “There wasn’t a soul to be seen, almost as if they felt the presence of something in the fog, or sensed it coming in from the dark water. Reminded me of townsfolk preparing for an incoming storm or flood. Tonight…it’s the same, only…this isn’t some distant town. Another town. This is my town, the town I’ve sworn to protect and serve. I might have been put through the ringer over Derringer…” The Sheriff chuckled. “He was just a man. This is…this is what it is.”

  Harrington looked up. “Don’t touch the book, Sheriff.”