Apr 19, 2021
A freighter on Lake Erie experiences heavy storms. A salvage goeswrong. Conway reminisces about his past, and has a revelation abouthis present.
(CWs: death, dead animal, brief gore, blood, body horror,insects, alcohol, derealization, deep water)
Lyrics to "Farewell Song" originally published by DickBurnett
TRANSCRIPT:
CONWAY ON THE PHONE: Omensalways come in threes. The dead rat on the porch should have beennumber one with a bullet. I put some water on the range for a potof coffee yesterday morning. I was looking out the back window atthe leftover frost glittering in the pink ribbons of earlysunlight. I saw it lying there on the cement and couldn’t let itjust decay. I went out the back door and looked over the scene.Pretty big thing. Probably lived a nice long life eating from mygarbage, all things said and done. It had a serious bite on its legand its stomach was uh...well you know how sometimes yourimagination is worse than anything you actually see? This wasn’tone of those times. The kettle bubbled in the kitchen, letting offa trail of steam, and a fly buzzed around overhead.
I fixed to move the poordeceased critter. Scooping it up with a shovel seemed awfulundignified, though. I rummaged through the kitchen drawers andcabinets. I waffled between a paper bag and a shoe box. The kettlescreeched and plumed on the stove behind me. I couldn’t just dumpthe little guy in the trash, so I grabbed my garden trowel and madea small hole in the backyard. I laid the box in the grave, thencovered its fur in soft earth. In time, it’ll be earth itself oncemore, and plants will grow from its back that new rats eat.Needless to say, I’m out a pair of tongs and a shoeboxnow.
Yeah, omens always come inthrees, but not because of any natural or supernatural law. Humansare real good at pattern seeking, sometimes to our own detriment.It’s just that it takes three strokes of bad luck for us to reallypay attention; one bad thing--well, it is what it is. Two badthings? That’s a coincidence. But three, and now you’ve a pattern.A chain of events. A story.
By then, Kenji’d been missingtwo weeks, and the angel was still in storage. It'd been a hell ofa month. A missing person, an small town, mysterious letters andunexplained occurrences. It all felt a little...familiar. Almostcliche. But I’d been doing this gig for 6 years now and I wasn’tabout to give up my healthcare over that. Besides they pay me toread, not to think. And so I did read, one last time, for the DeadLetter Office of Somewhere, Ohio.
*New introduction music*
CONWAY: This is Conway, receiving clerk for the DeadLetter Office of ******* Ohio, processing the national dead mailbacklog. The following audio recording will serve as an internalmemo strictly for archival purposes and should be consideredconfidential. Need I remind anyone: public release of this or anyconfidential material from the DLO is a felony. Some names andplaces have been censored for the protection of thepublic.
Dead Letter 315, a weathereddiary sent to the wife of a ship’s engineer. It details the fate ofa lost cargo ship called the Oneiros, slated to make a quick tripacross Lake Erie in 1913. The entries that contain no pertinentinformation will be excised from the record. The remaining relevantpassages read as follows.
NARRATOR: Morning November 6, 1913. Embarking on a short voyage across the Erie,carrying a heavy load of cargo. Some twenty of us boarded thesteamer Oneiros, a handsome ship, one of the finest freightersI’ve seen on the Great Lakes. Most aboard are able-bodied seamen,seasoned hands for the weather ‘sides one of the young cargoloaders, a Patrick, or Phillipe I think. USDA weather bureau noteda brisk easterly front, spots of rain for the upper lakes, calmerwaters south. Crew seems in fine spirits despite the chill, the3000 some gross tonnes of cargo, presumably coal and timber,secured below deck. I’m to look after the engine and its variouscomponents.
Captain Ludic’s a little daffy,assertively old-fashioned. Barking orders like he’s a pirate kingand we’re his swabbies. Could have stepped right from the pages ofTreasure Island, beard and all but for his soot black buttoned coatand hat. Seems no quack, though, and certainly knows his way roundthe ship. He’s very particular about his cargo, and ordered thatnone of us enter the cargo hold unless he gives us his explicitpermission. Should be no longer than a day’s trip, then two daysmore before I see you again. It’s lonely out here, I can onlyimagine how dire it is stuck at home alone. I pray that upon mysafe return, this log of my activities and thoughts of you morethan makes for the time apart. And perhaps then we shall marry. Iwill be thinking of you fervently.
Evening the 6th of November, 1913. I’ve settled into my berth for the night afterwe’ve supped. How I wish you could join me. Captain Ludic took hismeal on the deck, and I saw fit to join him. Conversation wasn’texactly enlightening. We took our meat and bread quietly, until acold drizzle started pattering his old cap. He looked out at theovercast horizon, then he fixed his glazed eyes on me. His hardroll fell from his lap and bobbled across the deck unevenly for ayard before toppling.
CAPTAIN LUDIC: “The Witch ofAutumn, she’s coming for us, lad.”
NARRATOR: He spoke softly, andhis crooked mouth hung open long after his last syllable. A bit ofchicken hung from his scruff.
CAPTAIN LUDIC: “The boys in thepapers said t'would be calmer southward, but these old bones feelit coming. When my knuckles swell, when my teeth ache, and theheavens themselves break open, the winds carrying droplets ofdeath, the witch will crest the white waves. She’ll take us all ifwe’re not vigilant. You mark my words, boy: beware the Witch of theWhite Squall, and those who would invite her with their carelessyearnings. I fear there’s one such man aboard now. You keep yourheart hard and your eyes open, all 5 of 'em.”
NARRATOR: He was panting afterthis warning. His lone gold incisor glittering among the row ofstained teeth as his shoulders rose and fell. Then he burst out inlaughter, a wheezing squeal that cut through the wind. He slappedme hard on the back. I spit out my whiskey at the impact and forceda chuckle.
Needless to say I won’t bespending my dining hours with that walking stereotype again unlessI’m yearning for a fairy tale. I figure myself lucky I’ll only bein his company for a short time. I can now hear the cold rainimpacting the deck above my wool-wrapped womb. And something belowin the cargo hold, though I can’t tell its origin or purpose.Creaking, maybe footsteps. Perhaps something’s come loose andPatrick or Phillipe is checking on it. I’ll try not to fret overit. Until I see you again in the flesh, Caroline, I will continueour rendezvous in my dreams.
Morning 7th of November 1913. Itook breakfast below deck with Phillipe. The rain’s still comingdown and the wind blows cold, but Phillipe thinks it should clearby afternoon, and by then we’ll have gone ashore. Like a bad fever,he says. Just have to wait for the break. The boy’s from Montreal,took the rail down, then rode the canal before hauling lumberacross the lake. He seems affable and handy enough. He’s as wary ofthe captain as I, and he had some troubling news about our cargo.He’s been loading lumber for about 10 months now, certainly not amaster of his trade, but he says something was off about ourfreight. The tonnage is accurate, but one crate in particularseverely outweighed the rest. Given the volume of the thing, he’sconvinced it can’t be lumber, or even coal.
He asked me if I knew any moreabout our voyage: who’s paying us, where the lumber’s going, but Ihad little to tell him. I’m not one for accounting. He seemsconcerned that we may be harboring something dangerous, and thecaptain won’t tell us. I’d be inclined to agree. Though I’m notentirely convinced Ludic even knows what's down therehimself.
Whatever the cargo, we should beseeing the beacon from the lighthouse cutting through the fog anymoment now, and I’ll just be glad to be off this ship and in yourarms. I do grow so melancholy on these trips withoutyou.
Evening the 7th of November 1913. We lost Terrence this afternoon. The storm hasshown no signs of abating, despite the predictions of the men inthe papers. Terry’d gone up top the pilothouse to help the captainnavigate, as its windows were awash with rain. The lake was growingangry, waves breaking high as 10 feet. The boat was churning in thedrip, swaying to and fro, threatening to take on water. Terrencewas calling down directions to the captain when a wave suddenlyrose double the height of the others. The ship lurched, and poorTerrence--with naught to hold onto--he was launched backward,slamming his head into the pole behind him. The crew rushed to thepilothouse but another swing of the freighter tossed him overboard.We scoured the waters for some time, until Captain Ludic ended theefforts and sent us to bed like a disappointedfather.
Still no sign of land. We shouldhave come ashore in Ohio by now, even at our slowed pace. At night,I imagine the two of us together once more, holding hands by thelake. It's only a drean, but...until then.
Afternoon 8th of November 1913.
CAPTAIN LUDIC: “I think we’vegot a rat problem aboard this vessel!”
NARRATOR: The captain shoutedover Neptune’s angry bluster. He’d gathered the 19 of us thatremained on the darkened deck in the freezing downpour.
CAPTAIN LUDIC: “I know one ofyou’s been below deck. Couple of the crates been priedopen.”
NARRATOR: He had us standingside by side, and walked the line up and down, hunched and frantic,his breath visible in large puffs.
CAPTAIN LUDIC: “Who among yedisobeyed yer captain’s orders?”
NARRATOR: He narrowed his brighteyes.
CAPTAIN LUDIC: “Or so bereftwere you of a woman’s touch that you consorted with the witch? Yeaccepted the company of the devil herself onto this freighter? Haveye no sense, lad? Must ye look death in her viscous eye and spit init? Aye the witch draws near, and she’ll scarce be satisfied withyou, now she wants the whole crew, and all that we carry. Your baselust has pinned us all to Satan’s dartboard.”
NARRATOR: He had me and Phillipetake our boots off. He inspected the soles. We were the newestmembers of his crew, and apparently the least worthy of his trust.Rainwater poured down the front of his cap and trickled off hisnose. The engine chugged and the steamer groaned against thebracing waves. He threw my boots back at me, squarely impacting mychest. I stumbled backward on the slippery wood. He stood uprightin front of Phillipe and drew a long blade.
CAPTAIN LUDIC: “Aye, that’sabout the size of it. Yes we’ve got a rat problem aboard thisvessel and I aim to remedy it. Do you know what’s down there, lad?Do you have any idea what that is we’re hauling?”
NARRATOR: Phillipe was shaking,shivering. His dark hair was matted, wet and stuck flat to hisskull.
CAPTAIN LUDIC: “I’ll not see itsink to the lake floor. Our cargo is more precious than any coin,or any of you scoundrels and lowlifes with your lasciviousthoughts.”
NARRATOR: I propped myself up onmy elbow, none too eager to draw Ludic’s ire.
CAPTAIN LUDIC: “White witch,take the boy! Let the thousand tongues of the deep rise and writhe!Let Neptune’s breath whip the tide into knives, all cutting windand choking froth. Come, come on your pelagic locusts, black as themoonless crusted tide. Take him to the sunless fathoms, entombed inbarnacles. Stuff his mouth with algae and feed his eye jellies tothe worms. Let your nautical insects drink his ichor and sup on hishair. Drag him down, drag him below the surf, where his soul willfester and rust among the reeds, forgotten in the scrap of ahundred ships, a thousand lives, hallowed out and timeless,unmoving as cold pitch. Take the boy who called to you and leavethe Oneirosbe.”
NARRATOR: Spittle dotted hisbeard. He panted for several tense moments as freezing rain peltedthe ship. The engine burbled and the stack belched black fire intothe twilight. Then the captain thrust the knife forward, straightinto Phillipe’s core. I shot upright and charged the captain, butthree other crewmen held me back: the captain had a pistol at hisside, revealed as his thick coat swung open. Ludic slid the bladeupward, gutting the poor lad from neck to navel. He burst like abeached whale onto the deck. The captain roared for someone to tiebrick to the corpse and toss it overboard, where it sankunceremoniously out of view.
I dreamt of you last night. Youcame to visit me in the bunk. You leaned over me and gently pressedyour sweet lips against mine. I felt a jolt through my system andwoke up. I shall hardly sleep this evening, and I shall hardly feela more forceful loneliness in all my days.
Afternoon November 9 1913. Mutiny. Of course mutiny was on the lips ofhalf the crewman on this cursed freighter, myself included. Thecold rain gave way to thick globs of snow overnight, now stingingin the hurricane winds. The ship is barely remaining upright amongthe massive waves. Everyone’s freezing, hungry, furious. I gathereda few similar-minded seamen and huddled below deck as we plannedour next move. The captain has his pistol, but we have numbers onour side. And a few blunt instruments could certainly bash somesense into him if our pretty words can't. This is for Phillipe, forTerrence, and for our miserable woebegone souls.
Morning November 10th 1913.I could scarcely see my hands in front ofme, nor the plank of lumber I was wielding. I and four othersapproached the pilothouse, now almost entirely coated in frost andlong, sharp icicles. I pounded on the door and demanded to seeLudic. No response. I wrapped the door several more times.Nothing.
The men and I shouldered thedoor open, only to find the wheel jammed the pilothouse empty. We’dbeen left rudderless by a craven fool. Then the winds fell silent,the snow diminished. The waves began to sink back into the lake.Several of the men aboard took to the lifeboats. They liked theirchances better in a vessel they could actually steer now that thestorm was clearing.
JONATHAN: “It’s a sucker’shole.”
NARRATOR: One man, Jonathan,confided in me.
JONATHAN: "Those buffoons aregoing to capsize and freeze out there as soon as the wind picks upagain.”
NARRATOR: I looked around at thefrozen steamer. Ice hung from every surface. A westerly wind blewover us. I went below deck to check on the engine.
While in the dark of the hold, Iheard sleet impact the deck once more. The wind began howling, andthe storm proceeded at such a force I could imagine the boatcleaving in twain. Unless we find a way to maneuver or god forbidfind any sign of the captain, I’m doubtful we’ll make it to shore.I shall be thinking of you even as I draw my final breaths and prayyou visit my nighttime musings again.
Evening November 11th 1913. Ican hardly believe what I’m about to write myself, Caroline, but tothe best of my storm-battered and hungry mind, it’s true: CaptainLudic was right! The witch came for the Oneiros.
I awoke to the sounds of heavyfootfalls on deck. My head was hot and I felt a deep chill. Someonewas shouting. I shook my hazy head and rose from my berth,coughing. A scream rang out. I crept along the hallway and nearedthe ladder. A wet, slurping slither, dragging along the ground. Ihesitantly peered above. There was a sight I shan’t forget for therest of my life, for as long as that may be. Some manner ofcreature was on deck, a massive wingless insect with long,segmented legs. It had a small, pointed head and enormous roundbody, like an monstrous tick.
One of the men on board,Jonathan I think, had found a harpoon and launched it at the beast,but it couldn’t penetrate the thing’s thick hide. It turned theman’s direction, and a long, thin tongue unspooled from its head.The pink tendril slithered and writhed on the deck with frighteningspeed, extending dozens of feet and ensnaring the man. This slimyappendage wrapped around the crewman, tearing his flesh andexposing deep red blood. The beast rushed him, seemingly drawn bythe blood. He was screaming, but he couldn’t move. The tonguecoiled around him, cutting him badly at every point of contact,opening his skin like a rotten orange peel. The giant thingsquirmed and lapped at the blood spilling from the poor crewman,whose cries became weaker, quieter now, blending with the fury ofthe storm until they ceased completely. It pulled Jonathan’s headto its mouth and began feasting on the damp strands of his darkhair.
From the other end of thesteamer, another insectoid rose, its legs clattering over the metaland wood as it climbed onto the deck. It joined its kin, its whip-like tongue probingthe air for others to feed on. That’s when I saw the pile of bodiesbehind them, all shredded and drained of their essence, scalps baldand raw. The bloodbugs began patrolling the freighter forstragglers, and it seemed I was the only one left.
I fled down the hallway, towardthe cargo hold. Whatever the captain had said be damned. I hopedthat the strong odor of the pine and coal would mask my own reek. Iheard one of the things’ legs trying the stairs. I franticallypanned the room for somewhere to hide. I spotted a huge crate witha few planks pried off. I wormed my way through the opening andheld my breath in the box. I heard the tongues slithering down hallin my wake. I clasped my hands and silently prayed to god with thefervor of a hundred choirs that I’d see you again once more. But myprayer was interrupted by a sound behind me. In the crate I couldsee a looming shape.
*Crackling and rumbling noises,same as in the Lighthouse*
A sort of metallic invention,like a massive steam engine. It was smooth, dark, containingstrange protrusions and angles unlike anything I’d seen before. Itwas quietly humming, with an occasional clang or thump. There wassomething else, too.
A fleshy hand reached out intothe light filtering in through the missing slats. A hand robed in adark wool coat. A neck stretched out behind it, attached to acrooked bearded head. It smiled, and a gold incisor flashed in thedim light. I could see that it was Ludic, or part of him anyway.His hands and neck were elongated and stretched beyond man’slimitation. His flesh gray and malleable, like putty. My gazefollowed his distended arm down to where his shoulder should be,but all I found was iron. He had somehow...melted into the engine,or soldered himself to it. Metal and flesh twisted and fused,stringy skin hanging between folds of steel. I think he tried tospeak, but all that came forth was a buzz, an electrical chatteringlike a broken telegraph. I felt sick, and ran from thecrate.
I sprinted past the sleepingquarters and up toward the deck. I was hit full force with theblistering might of the storm as I went topside. My eyelashesfroze, my nervous sweat crystalized. I could barely see thebloodbugs at the other end of the deck through the blizzard. Myvision went completely white as I dropped to my knees, violentlyill and nearly frozen solid.
Then through the pale wall shestepped, the Autumn Witch, the Woman of the White Squall. She badeher pests retreat, and stood before me. Her skin was glistening,and she wore not a single scrap of clothing to defend against thechill. Her hair shimmered and waved as if she was underwater. Herfeet never touch the ground. She brushed her hand against my cheek,and an icy jolt shivered down my back.
I looked into her eyes and sawwild, radiant love. A love conjured by a lonely sailor, nowrequited. A fevered love so bold it would kill. She leaned downclose, and I could smell the salt breeze on her breath. She pressedher blue lips to my forehead, and I blacked out.
I woke up 12 hours later in thedark, soaking on my back in the falling rain, adrift in theinfinite waters of Hades.
Morning November 12, 1913. Iawoke to a distant horn. I thought it at first a dream, a hopefulhallucination. Then the horn sounded again a second time. I satupright, shivering and soaked through. I saw a beam of light cutthrough the rain: the lighthouse! I yelped, a sound as much ofagony as celebration, and stood. I laughed, dry and bitterwheezing. The ship was drifting toward the shore after 6 long daysin hell. I ran down to gather my things and wrap myself insomething dry. Then I ducked into the pilothouse and stared out atthe light. A smile dared cross my lips. I could make it afterall.
Then came a horrible rending, apiercing shriek of metal on rock. The ship lurched, and I tumbledforward in the cabin. I was so enthralled by the beacon of thelighthouse that I’d missed the sharp rocks in the shallows. Now shewas sinking, taking on icy water. Metal groaned and beams bent andsnapped. The stack chugged and spit wet smoke over the scene. Therear of the freighter began sinking. Among the rocks I saw alifeboat, the very same from the Oneiros, filled with skeletons picked clean andbleached by the sun. I laughed again, a wailing peal like thewhinny of Death’s very steed.
There may yet be time forrescue, but the frigid waters or the phlegm in my lungs will likelytake me before the sailors do. And so I bid you adieu, Caroline.Just one more sob story for another sailor’s widow. As trite asLudic himself. If the intrepid rescuers do happen to find thesescrawlings and wish to know my fate, I’ve gone to join theCaptain.
CONWAY: Records at the time indicate that severalother ships went down in this storm, including several hundredcrew, but the Oneiros and its men were never found. Given itscontents and its age, the DLO has deemed this diary, DL-315,undeliverable. It will be stored safely in ourvault.
CONWAY ON THE PHONE: I’ve beenthinking a lot about the past lately. Old friends, old regrets. Isuppose it’s my approaching middle age catching uponme.
My time with the office has beenuh...illuminating. All those wild things I saw as a kid? The thingsmy parents sent me to see serious adults about? Well maybe some ofthem weren’t so wild. You know how I started working here? I usedto be in public radio, the local affiliate down in Cincy. I studiedart when I was in college, but well, that didn’t pan out like somany other things. I worked a bunch of odd jobs, making 6 dollarsan hour slinging coffee or double that if I was willing to break myback. I eventually got lucky and I guess somebody liked my cadence.I’m sure it helped that the station was underfunded and I waswilling to work late and cheap.
One day about 6 years ago, twosuspicious gentlemen in suits dropped by my little studio on mylunch break. They asked if I wanted a job with the post office.They sure as hell didn’t look like mail carriers, looked likestone-cold feds to me. I politely declined, praying the cuffsdidn’t come out. They just handed me a card. I told them if I wasever out of a job, I’d give them a call. After they left, I lookedover the card. No names, no phone number, just three letters:DLO.
Next morning, I get a call. Bosssays the studio caught fire last night after everybody left.Electrical malfunction. Whole place up in smoke. Not enough moneyto rebuild or move studios. Just gonna shut down the affiliatestation. What a coincidence. I looked at the card again and thoughtof Lucy. Then I got a call. One more chance to reconsider theoffer.
Yeah, Lucy and I did almosteverything together when we were kids. We were pretty muchinseparable, at least until the cave incident. I haven’t heard fromher in a long, long time. I don’t know why I haven’t reached out. Iguess I was afraid too much time got between us. That I wouldn’tknow what to say. We might even hate each other now. My memory fromthat time is a little fuzzy, too, just bits and pieces, blurryimpressions. It’s funny, I sometimes wonder if I made her up,y’know, like an imaginary friend. Those early memories feel aboutas real a dream most days. Like something that happened to someoneelse. Like scenes from a worn out VHS tape. But look at me, I’mrambling again. Back to the story.
The teeth should have been thesecond omen. An unmarked box showed up at the office the samemorning as the sailor’s journal. I picked up the small parcel andshook it like a kid at Christmas, though my approach was rathermore apprehensive. Lifting the folds revealed a jewelry box. Iflipped the lid open with a creek of its rusty hinges. Underneathwas a mirror long ago marred by the grit and grime of age. Theplush interior of the box was covered in dark stains, and itsmelled like a wet basement. Sitting in one of the compartmentswere about a dozen human teeth, dark and worn. One reflected lightunderneath the others: a crude golden incisor.
CONWAY: Dead Letter 18316, an application forworker’s comp from ******. The applicant’s name has been redacted.Looks like he suffered a leg injury during a salvage job. Includedwith the application is a photo of the injury and testimony fromthe worker. His testimony reads as follows:
WORKER: I hereby swear uponpenalty of perjury that the following statement is true to the bestof my knowledge. We were supposed to pull up some cargo from a shipthat recently went down in the area. Apparently whatever was inthere could leak, causing some serious trouble to the watershed.The algae’s bad enough, we don’t need some oil spill or toxic wasteleak or you know anything like that. We were given permission bythe state, and were funded by some tech startup to help clean upthe lake.
I boarded the boat around6:50am. I got out to the marked location around 8. I put on mywetsuit, grabbed the hook, and hopped in. I swam down and found theboat we were looking for. I was about to check the cargo hold whensomething grabbed hold of me. Something bit my leg and pulled mereally hard. Must have been some fish. Maybe even a shark. I’veheard some bull sharks can live in fresh water for a while. Ipaddled and kicked, but my leg wouldn’t break free. It dragged mesome distance, and then let me go. I saw a different ship ahead ofme underwater. Much older, covered in rust.
I broke the surface and signaledfor help. The boys pulled me aboard and the EMT got to work on myleg. Someone else went down to secure the cargo. I tried to tellthem it was a different ship but I’m not sure I was making sense. Iwas in searing pain and losing a good deal of blood. I was lookingup past the hanging cables and into the clear sky. Then the wiresstarted moving, waving on their own and spiraling above me. Iweakly lifted my hand to point, but the medic just placed it backdown and told me to relax. The wires weaved and twisted into form:an angel. Not just like a lady with wings, it was all fingers andeyes and mouths. It told me I needed to find it. That it was insome museum somewhere south of here and needed to be freed. I knowit sounds real loopy, but that’s what I saw. Someone shouted thatthey got the cargo up, but it wasn’t what we were looking for. Iwas close to passing out by then of course, so not sure what itwas. Then I woke up in the emergency room with a bunch ofstitches.
CONWAY: Inspecting the photo here, it’s a seriousinjury of the left calf. It’s certainly no fish bite. I’m nobiologist, but if I had to guess, I’d say the bite is primate inorigin. Likely human. Multiple bites overall, very deep puncturesand a few tears. I’m gonna send the photo and this box over to theboys in the lab. Maybe they can work out a match. In the meantime,I’ll have the higher ups approve his application and send him anice check, on the condition that he doesn’t mention the incidentagain. We’ll be keeping the application letter and associatedparaphernalia in our vault.
CONWAY ON PHONE: The Midwest isso big, it’s sometimes hard to imagine there’s anything outside ofit. Like I see pictures of the ocean, and that might as well be acontinent away at this point. You drive for hours and somehowyou’re still surrounded by cornfields and flat land. You take anold country route and pass the same intersecting road 3 times. It’slike a magic trick. Every time I try to leave, something keeps mehere. It’s a curse, or maybe that’s how I justify it to myself.Believing some paranormal interference is the reason I’m stuck in arut makes it a little easier to swallow than the reality: thereality that there’s a pit at the center of the state, a gravitywell that pulls you in and keeps you here. The fire burning foreverunderground. You can fight it, but you’ll always be pulled like thesnap of a rubber band back home. There’s like a vampiric presencehere, a specter of collapsed industry and apathy, poverty and vastdistance, that haunts the condemned buildings and provincial smalltowns of Ohio. There are good people here. Solid folk of all kinds.And there are stories to be told here. But who’s listening? Andwho’s allowed to talk?
Anyway that’s when the lastpostcard showed up. Just like the ones sent in by the LostFisherman from the nonexistent town. The name on the card readLucy. What a coincidence. But the number beside the name’s whatshook me, gave me that tingling feeling in my brain that sometimescomes as a corollary to dread. Like twisted deja vu. It was my homephone number from when I was a kid. They disconnected that lineages ago. I thought about calling it, but the DLO was sending meout for one more field trip. A package too unwieldy, too fragile tobe shipped out of the tiny post office that was storing it. Ofcourse it was my job once again to drive out to some location andstick my snoot into whatever nonsense they’d cooked up. Of courseit was 2 hours away.
But I’m nothing if not dedicatedto the job, so I tucked the postcard into my shirt pocket, took aswig of cold coffee, and got in the car.
CONWAY ON TAPE:--down to a small postoffice, to check out a very large crate. Apparently it was a littletoo fragile and a little too um...unwieldy to ship out of thatsmall post office given its resources. Now any time they send meout somewhere like this I’m a little suspicious, so let’s find outwhat I’m about to get my nose in.
*click*
--the back room here, and it isa fairly large crate, I’ll give them that.
I’ve got a crowbar here, let’ssee if I can get this thing open. *Wood snaps* All right. *Conway coughs* Dear god, it’s a body. Oh dear got that is abody. That...that’s Kenji’s body. That’s Kenji. Oh my god. Oh god.And if I...His leg, oh my god. Well, that’s those bite marks. Oof.Oh god Kenji, what did you get into. Okay. And he’s holdingsomething, he--Kenji’s got a hold of a-an all white rotary phone.Old spin dial, you know you gotta twist the numbers around beforeyou can input the number. Oh god Kenji. Based on the decompositionof the body, I would estimate he’s been dead for quite some time,though the preservation is uh impressive. Perhaps the sea air orperhaps a mummification process was used on him. But god, lord ifit don’t stink.
Now...gonna pick up that phoneand dial this number.
*click*
CONWAY ON PHONE: Well anyway,that’s when I called you.
LOST FISHERMAN:“Jeez, that’sall fascinating. You’ve had a quite a ride today. But do you mindif I ask you one thing? I want you to think real hard about thisone, don’t just blurt out an answer. What’s your last name,Conway?”
CONWAY: I uhh I don’t see whatuh...Now wait, now don’t you do this. I know who you are, don’t youdo this.
LOST FISHERMAN“Iknow it’s rough, yourmind wants to reject it, but I promise it’s all gonna makesense.
CONWAY: Oh, Ken and Lucy, veryclever. You knew I’d tie it together eventually. Now don’t you dothis. Let me stay here. Let me--
LOST FISHERMAN: “You’re notreal, not yet anyway.”
CONWAY: Let me stay.
LOSTFISHERMAN: Now I wantyou to look at your cellular telephone. What time isit?”
CONWAY: I can’t…I can’t makeit--
*Dial tone*
CRACKLING VOICE ON THE RADIO: Ifyou make the margins big enough, you can see him in the dots andwaves. He comes through the wires. He’s a frequency, an atom bomb’sworth of electricity.
ANTONY: She said they’re notreal, they’re just fictional characters.
CONWAY: It all felt alittle...familiar. Almost cliche. What happens in that missingsecond every million years?
LOST FISHERMAN: We’ll be waitingfor you at the top of the lighthouse.
*Overlapping voices say “this isConway”*
*Scratchy, old folk song,singing the following:*
I am a man of constantsorrow,
I’ve seen trouble all of mydays;
I’ll bid farewell toCincinnati,
The place where I was born andraised.
For six long years, I’ve been introuble
No pleasure here on this earthI’ve found,
For in this world I’m born toramble,
I have no friends to help menow.
Oh, fare ye well my nativecountry,
The place that I loved andloathed so well,
Fo--
*record scratching, forestambience, crickets chirping*
Then I was somewhere else. Aplace I’d heard of but never been. Surrounded by firefliesunderneath the canopy of red oak boughs. There was something in thetrees ahead. Two glowing spots like headlights in foliage. Theywere moving, attached to something about a foot taller than me,coming my way through the dark. It strode on long, thin legsbending backwards, like a hulking stork. Powdery wings spread fromits back and there was a...skunky smell on the air. And he hadsomething to show me.
*lighter flicks several times,drums kick in, jambegins*
*forest ambience fadingout*
