It was Friday night at the Comedy Corner.  The third act was on.  Shiney Johnson sat in a chair under the lights, sweating rivers.  On his lap were four beautifully made ventriloquist dummies.  One of them had long black hair and a straw hat.  Its grin was wide and toothy.  Opposite him sat the little accountant with blue shirt, tie and suspenders.  His hair was slicked back and parted severely down the middle.  Forward a little from the accountant sat a black crow with a large curved yellow beak.  Across from the bird sat a tiny policeman dress in the old Keystone Kops style.  Two small dummies sat on Shiney's feet and four more rested on his shoulders.  There was a frog on his head that served as a hat.  The routine started with a conversation between the accountant and the cop.  Then, the other two on his knees began to argue about their jobs as knee-sitters.
     Shiney's left hand was visible the whole time, gesturing to each little character, and to the audience.  As a waitress walked by with a tray, an ice cube in a glass gargled through two bars of Swannee River.  Shiney never missed a syllable.  The six dummies on his knees and feet chattered away keeping the crowd roaring.  Every so often Shiney would yell, "Help!" and the frog would burp.  It had become his trademark.
     At the end of the routine, Shiney invited the audience to join in a round of Row, row, row your stinking boat.  The little dolls on his shoulders began each one in turn, until all ten of them were singing in harmony with no perceivable break.

     Somewhere at a table in the middle of the room, a young woman was very perplexed.  Sharon Heperton watched the reactions of the audience.  The heads were thrown back, hands were in the air, cigarettes held demurely between slander fingers.  Even one asshole with a cigar, his mouth a doughnut-sized "O", bouncing up and down around yellow teeth like his swollen belly.  Sharon's date was a young guy from her office.  He had tears in his eyes, from laughing so hard.  She gently pulled the mini processor from the pouch discretely sown inside her blouse.  The little red light was glowing a steady red. 
     Dead battery, she thought.  She had been profoundly deaf from birth.  Pre-lingual, they called it, meaning that she had never heard English before she had to learn to speak it; deaf as a fence post they called it, when they were less kind.  The implant had given her back what nature had taken.  A tiny wire thinner than a hair fed sound directly into her brain by way of the cochlea.  It was a miracle. 
     But nothing compared to what was happening.  The little red light said that the juice was off and she couldn't hear.  Surrounded by the silent crowd pantomiming the laughter, she reached up and pulled off the magnet above her ear.  The little tennis racket dangled from its cord.  There was no extra battery.  Her puzzlement began the moment Shiney Johnson began his act.  Even now, she watched in amazement. 
     She heard, "Row, row, row your stinking boat." 
     She heard. 
     The little dolls on his knees, the mouths moving in perfect time.  The ones on his feet, just like Muppets; on his shoulders, a tiny chorus, all hands and feet moving, singing the round perfectly.  And at the end, Shiney Johnson opened his mouth and yelled something.  She read his lips.  It was, "Help."  But nothing came out.  The dummies sang their little wooden hearts out, but Shiney was silent as a stone.  Then the frog burped, long and loud.  She laughed and then she too had tears in her eyes. 
     At the bar, a man with exceptionally long fingers ordered another Cutty.  The bartender was watching the show.  He squealed, "They ought to put that guy on the Tonight Show."
     The man with the long fingers looked out at the stage and for a moment caught a glimpse of the tiny black filaments that ran up into the dummies.  He made a mental note to talk about that.  To the bar tender he said, "It'll never happen."

     He reached back into the past, like a tongue that probes into a blackened tooth.  The sharp, exquisite memory was a scathing acid.  All night, the old man had repelled the beast, until blood had dripped with bile from his mouth.  The stick went in and out like the tongue of a poisonous snake.  Whip,whip,whip.  The windows were closed, nailed shut, the shades drawn and adjusted, taped shut.  No link with the outside but that little hole.  The grandfather had checked the stick as one would check the oil in an old car.  Repeatedly, he brought the point up close to his weak eye to catch even the most minute drop of the blood.  It was hard wood, and would turn dark from moisture. Then all was quiet outside the door.  Clearly a trick to draw them out.  The old one waited.  They all waited for an hour, as though for lightening to strike.  The old man smacked his hand against the wall.  He drew his shoulders together and bent over.  He was dead before he could reach his cot. 
    The stick fell to the floor.  Its sharpened tip was dark.  It was wet!  The boy bent to pick it up.  Ruis screamed and screamed. 

     He watched life, like an itch being gently scratched, leave the pony's eye.  The belly was opened from the neck to its balls.  Underneath, the metal tub sat on a dolly.  As it filled, he sawed one of the forelegs.  Rocking the dolly back, he began to roll it toward the door of the barn.  The carcass under the tree was already beginning to dry in the hot air.  Ants began to focus on the gift. 
     He was assailed by images as he looked into the tub.  Buildings like those in magazines, places he had never been.  He was still a superstitious man and considered this to be a bad sign.  But how could things be worse?
     The dogs were gone, all dead.  But around the corner, a young dog whined like an old friend.  Flies collected on the stump of the horse's leg.  He waved them away out of some perverse courtesy.  For a moment, he listened to the sound of lace curtains lifted delicately by a breeze.  He was moved to tears by this reverie.  He entered the door slowly, pulling the sloshing tub.  As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, his stomach began to tremble.  He stared at the cage.  Steel mesh, strong enough to hold a bull, the metal rusted amber, oxidized into delicate powdered leaves.  Inside, in a shadow, surrounded by crushed dry bones and deep scratches dug into the diamond plate steel floor, squatted the horror.  A misshapen thing, it flashed like the petal of a flower, a demon, the head falling to the floor.  It whimpered.
     The stench was unbearable, but Ruis Montan bore it.  He marveled at his ability to breathe, but knew that it wasn't air that carried it.  The odor parted like scents within scents, one from a dream, into one from a nightmare.  He was careful not to look too long, and never directly.  He wrestled the tub onto the rail.  As it rolled into the cage the outside door closed.  The mechanism allowed for neither entry nor exit, only feeding. 
     Then he saw them.  Ants.  Carpenter ants moving in a long line away from one of the posts.  He kicked at the post and part of it crumbled like old cake.  Work would need to be done and quickly.
     Ruis Montan stepped back.  The bubbling of cooking pots swirled around his ears.  The bleating of a lamb screamed from all around his head.  He turned away, as he always did.  The creature's eyes held him belligerently, great black orbs.  Eyes with huge pupils nearly undetectable.  It cried from the cage in the voices of his ancestors.  Amidst the wailing of the dead and the songs of a thousand banshees, nearly drowned, was a sound that the man wished he would never hear.  It was the crying of a small boy.  It was the voice of his youngest son Juan, who had touched that Goddamn stick.
     It was so sad and ironic that now the child had become manageable.  Now he would listen to his father.  He was no longer human, but he would listen.  When Ruis had realized on that day how to let the boy out, he had done it.  Still quite retarded, and still befuddled, the child, the abomination would never remember how to get back out once he was returned.  But the instructions had been clear.  Become as an automobile, catch the meddling priest, who would tell everyone what was in the Montan barn, and do what must be done.  The boy had done it and come back. 
     Ruis closed the door of the barn and walked to the edge of the cliff. 
         He faced the sea.
        And screamed the boy's name into the wind. 
 
 
 

MORGANS HILL ROAD
Wilson Township, Pennsylvania
Site of the blasted heath.

    They ran giddy and breathless.  Though they were warned strictly away--all the kids were--they went anyway.  Razor wire left a mean cut and nobody wanted to get tangled up in that shit.  But a guy could watch. 
 Darren Calaway had heard all the old stuff.  But who gave a shit?  Parents and grown-ups were screwed.  They all had shrunken heads and always got into your space.  So, he and Cory went on the excursions, mostly at night.  It was about six miles to the old church, but if they headed out after lunch, they could make it around three.
     Their birthdays were a few days apart, and Darren's was today.  So he knew the date: January 26, 2002.  Back home in time for cake and presents.  They had decided to go the Nasty Place as a present to themselves.  Months before, they had brought hammers and nails and a saw.  The tree house was a work of art.  Sure that it was their own secret, they climbed the crooked slats fixed with six-penny nails to the trunk.  It wasn't really a house, just a nice platform, a place to look over the fence. 
     "There's some new stuff," Darren said.
     "Nuthin' moving," Cory added. 
     "See those big digs in the wall over there?"
     "Yeah, they're new."
     "Well," said Darren, "I ain't leaving until something comes up."
     "Happy birthday to us," Cory said, beaming as he lit up a Kool.    Plastic had once covered the grass.  It had been torn to shreds by the lumpy spikes that pushed their way grudgingly toward the sun.  Deformed cactus stood like ghosts, translucent membranes of mint green appendages rooting them to the ground.  Pieces of black plastic fluttered from the upraised arms of the repulsive plants.  There were vines with broad, flat leaves that hung to the peat-like turf with huge seeds covered with spiny shells.  The vines overran the rubble of the buildings that had been torn down three years before.  There was no perceivable consistency to the growth in the Nasty Place.  Every plant or tree--if they could be called trees--was different from every other.  They were demon shapes, oozing something like grey smut, dropping evil spoors that generated new sexless flora.  The vines grew thick as telephone poles in places with leaves like desktops.  They made a canopy over the wall so that it was almost hidden beneath the profuse network. 
     The boys watched the waking nightmare.  They didn't know of the events of six years before.  The whole situation at the former Gatherers Church had been all but forgotten and effectively covered up.  If they had known, they might have realized that each of the odious apparitions blanketing the area inside the fence was a grave.
     "I heard they're gonna try to burn the place,"Darren said.
    "Won't do no good.  My dad says they sprayed acid and all kinds'a shit in there," Cory said, puffing the last of his cigarette.  He was already a chain smoker at twelve. 
     "Last week there was guys from the eee-pee-aey all over in there takin' samples, makin' movies.  It was cool.  They looked like transformers.  They won't go in the lake, though."
     "Yeah," Cory said, "I heard they went in there with a row boat.  One of those big suckers came up and nailed it.  They never found those guys--or the boat."
     Darren sat thoughtful for a while.  Whenever his dad talked about the nasty place he always got a little white in the face.  Probably because of something that happened to Uncle Billy.  Something happened to Uncle Billy and he got killed because of it.  At least that's what Darren heard.  "My old man says they don't know what to do with the place."
     "Ever been here at night?  They're all buried in the mud, but they come up after dark to feed.  But you can still see them; they glow in the dark.  Little dots all over the place."
     "I wouldn't go in there for a hundred bucks," Cory said. 
     "Shit," Darren chided, "I'd go in there for two bucks."
     "You're such a butt-head."
    "'Two bucks is two bucks."
     "Git it out."
     Darren Calaway reached into his pocket.
 
 
 

DURHAM TOWNSHIP
Rattlesnake Road, 
Durham, Pennsylvania
March 27, 2003

     "Wake up boy."
     "Mmm-puh-fuh," the boy mumbled.
     "You're wet," the man said.
     "Sorry dad, I peed."
     "That's okay.  Remember what day it is?"
     "Trout!"
     "That's right.  Now git on up; get your gear together--which you should have done last night--and head to the kitchen."
     "Okay dad," the boy said.
     Ted Morgan pulled on his old, ragged, sneakers.  He sat in the hand painted rocker in the corner of the pantry.  Glenna had done the place colonial.  Everything was colonial around here.  Pennsey' was nothing but stone houses and fields.  But it was nice, just the same.  Not like Jersey all built up for God knows what.  So that a bunch of spoiled-assed city people could raise their little gang members up.  He pulled on the rubber waders, which took some time.  The folds ringed his waist like a grey and bronze ribbon.  Hooking the straps over his shoulders, he adjusted the seat and looked down. 
     Ready.
 In the kitchen, bacon was already crackling in the black skillet.  The old coffeepot had begun to perk at 3:30.  He didn't need an alarm, just the smell of that Colombian Supremo.  Travis would be down in just--he checked his watch--six more minutes.  He'd bet on the boy.
     "Three eggs enough," he asked as the boy appeared right on the button. 
     "Sure is.  Thanks dad," Travis said.  His own boots were rolled down to his knees, later to be hooked to the belt.  He was nine, and this was his third year to go along on the first day of trout.  Fact was, it came too early.  The new pole and tackle box, all the cool lures and hooks; he was all but trembling with excitement.  This was the first time he would really fish. 
     The kitchen was warm and a pleasant drowsiness passed between the father and son.  Ted tapped the dark wooden tabletop with his middle finger.  "You're gonna nail the limit, ain't ya."
     "You know it!" Travis yelled, then cringed, thinking of his mother sleeping upstairs. 
     Ted put his fingers to his lips and smiled.

     Breakfast over, they checked the gear one more time: poles, leaders, salmon eggs, eagle hooks, split shot, flashlights, needle-nosed pliers.  They stowed the poles and their kits in the back of the old '89 Ford pickup.  Ted let gravity back the truck down the driveway and started it halfway down the hill.  No need to wake anybody.  The little screen jumped to life with the engine and ticked off the statistics.  Oil pressure, temp, fuel injectors, tank level, tire pressure, and a dozen other particulars.  Inboard computer wasn't stock for that year, but the auto parts store sold them and they were a must.  They were easy to hook up too.
     Ten minutes later, the heater kicked in and the cab got toasty.  Father and son watched the road go underneath them as anticipation began to build.  Visions of forearm sized "rainbows" swam in the dark stream of their minds.  Travis was surprised to see the brilliant yellow dots of campfires already strung along the banks of Durham Creek. 
     "Some guys sleep right where they are, just to get a good spot."
     "Wow," the boy said, "what time do they start?"
     "Supposed to start at five, but you'll hear a sinker drop before then."
     "Dad," Travis said.
     "Yup?"
     "I love you Dad."
     "Love you too son."
     "Dad?"
     "Yup?"
     "Let's kick ass!"
     "We're gonna," Ted Morgan said, pushing a finger into the boy's ribs.  Travis giggled and jumped against the door.

     Jim Tollamer and his boy were camped twenty yards from Ted's sure-fire spot.  Which was okay.  Jim had fished the same sixteen feet of stream for the last thirty years.  That was the way things were.  In the serene, airy, freshness of the morning, dark foamy water swirled around rocks.  The sucking noise of the stream got louder as they crept toward the bank. 
     "Morning Jim," Ted whispered to the shadow seated next to a smoldering pile of coals.  The red tinted figure moved and waved.  "Ted," the man said.      "That Travis?"
     "Hi Mr. Tollamer," Travis said, then, "Ralph."
     "Good luck to ya," the other boy said.
     "You keep your damn eyes peeled, Ted," Tollamer said.
     "I hear ya," Ted replied.
     "Check your line," Tollamer continued.
     "Will do," Ted replied.
     Upstream a radio began to play a rap tune.  It was somehow too loud and an intrusion in that place.  "Assholes," Tollamer hissed.
     Across the creek, a rolling meadow turned deep grey as the sun, somewhere across the earth, moved toward dawn. 
     "I say that's it,” Ralph Tollamer asserted, and impaled a neon pink salmon egg on the tiny hook between his fingers.  The monofilament line was invisible, but its tug was enough.  One split shot, the size of a pea was squeezed onto the leader.  He pulled back the thin rod and let go.  Like a slingshot, the little pink pearl vanished in search of a hungry trout.  There was no noise, no plop.  Any sound that the sinker would have made was swallowed by the fast moving water. 
     "Oh yeah," Ralph Tollamer said as the line straightened violently.  A splash could be heard out in the dark.  "It's a brown!  I can tell."
     "Is it okay Dad?"
     "Yeah, what the hell.  Let's fish," Ted agreed.
     "No time like the present," Jim Tollamer chimed.
     The creek had been stocked three days before and the trout were hungry.  Their diet of nourishing pellets had been interrupted since they left the hatchery and they were no good at catching insects.  When the fiery fish eggs floated past, the aroma was irresistible. 
     Travis had netted six in the first hour.  Before pulling each one to the bank, Ted shined the flashlight beam to identify the type: golden, brown, speckled, and one huge rainbow trout.  The fish lay gasping in the woven baskets, stainless steel clasp through their gills. 
     "Got my limit," Jim Tollamer said.  "Want coffee?"
     "Didn't bring any.  Sounds like a fine idea."  He stepped out of the water and went toward the offered thermos.  The smell of perked coffee next to white water was intoxicating. 
     "Wow!" Travis yelled.  "I hooked a big one."
 "Look at that pole bend!" Ralph yelled.
     The boy had the rod pointed back over his shoulder, but still, the incredible pull on the line made a severe "U" out of the fiberglass shaft.  Ralph moved out into the jumping water, net in hand.  "I got 'im"
     Light was now coming over the hill, deep aqua and rose-tinted orange.  They could see this fish.  If it was a trout, it was the fattest ever hatched.  It looked like a small pig struggling and jerking under a rock. 
     "Hold on there!"  Jim Tollamer yelled.
     "Cut the line," Ted yelled.
     "But it's a big one," Travis shouted over his shoulder. 
     "Ralph, stay away!" Jim screamed.
     The fish broke the surface.  It was black as the passing night.  Small mouth filled with sharp white teeth, a long useless tail, and several unevenly spaced spines, it swam straight for the boy with the net.  Ted dropped the coffee cup, sprinting for the water.  Both men now were lunging for their sons.  But Ted went for Ralph instead.  The boy pulled at the line and lifted the thing out of the water.  He had forgotten.  In the excitement, they had both forgotten.  Ted yanked at the line and felt a friction burn, got too low, and then something else.

     "Did he get ya?" Jim Tollamer asked, staring at the small puncture. 
     "Shit yes," Ted said.  There was a shake in his voice.  The blood formed a small droplet at the end of his right forefinger.  He had flicked the demon away.  Away from the boy. 
     "You know what you got to do," Tollamer said dreamily.  He cut several feet of line from his reel, and began to wrap it around Ted's wrist.  It made a purple gasket in the flesh. 
     "She's sharp as a razor, man," Jim said.  "I honed her this morning myself."
     "Get it," Ted Morgan ordered, looking into his son's steel blue eyes.  He saw the boy was scared, confused.  But there was no time.
     Jim came back with the axe.  It was a Plum, crimson red, black blade with a cruel filed edge.  "Shouldn't be no more'an a nip," he said.
     With out hesitation and to the horror of the two nine-year-old boys, he put his outstretched finger on a fallen log and chopped it off.  The white digit flew like a small rocket, red-assed, into the dirt and leaves along Durham Creek.  He made no more noise than a man who swings his legs out of bed on a cold dismal morning. 
     On a morning of the first day of trout.

    Thanksgiving was at Kevin's that year.  Kathy, looking a little grayer each holiday season always put out the most delicious spread imaginable.  Their house was already festooned with the Christmas tree, trimmed in ancient collectable ornaments.  Outside, it was modestly decorated with a few thousand white blinking lights.  Kevin didn't like to go overboard.  His job with the department kept him too busy.
      Marian lived on the first floor.  She didn't get around to well and used a walker.  The kids ran her ragged as kids do and probably kept her that much more healthy. 
      "Your granddad’s here" Kathy said from the dining room.  The twins thumped down the stairs along with Charlie, their older brother.  Nanny and Grampy always brought presents.  Charlie had been promised an old wooden sword. 
      Kevin came to the door.  As Frank handed the boken to his grandson, Kevin raised an eyebrow.  "Is that a clean one Pop."
      "Never been used," Frank said and winked.  "It's the one I had."  They hugged, slapped backs and watched as Charlie went charging to his room.  "Awesome Grampy!"  He yelled chopping down invisible enemies.  Kevin remembered very well that his father had used his sword.  Frank grimaced faintly and smiled knowingly at his son.  Since the stroke, his words didn't come out as well and he shuffled a bit when he walked.  Gail went to the kitchen with the pies: two peach and a Boston cream; Charlie's favorite. 
     The twins, Frank and little Kevin were five and both received action figures from StarWars 9, and it wasn't even Christmas.  They settled to the rug in the living room to play, as Kevin and Frank sat down to watch the football game.  Father and son had little to say and didn't need to.  They could sit for hours and be comfortable.  Frank wasn't fully adjusted to his new situation and tried to avoid conversation.  Kevin felt that to engage him was almost like goading, and kept the more complicated things to himself.  They each had their favorite chairs. 
     "Careful pop," Kevin said, jerking forward in readiness. 
     "I got it.  I got it," Frank said. 
     "You know Charlie's gonna tear up the street with that sword."
     "Well...he...wanted it.  He rabb..dom, peh...” Sometimes the words wouldn't come.  Frank would shake his head and try again.  "He...should...have it.  Might come...might come...
     Kevin was accustomed to finishing sentences.  "Might come in handy.  I hope not.  I really hope not," he said.  The smell of roast turkey filled the room.  Both men envisioned the open oven door and the brown bird simmering.  Kathy brought in a tray of diet cokes.  It was their favorite drink."
     "Here you go, guys,” she said, curtly dipping like an expert waitress.  On the TV, the commentator announced the Super Bowl. The kickoff was minutes away. 

     After the game, after dinner, they went into Kevin's office.  The room was like a police department museum.  Just as his father's office had been.  Police memorabilia covered the walls.  Two small arched windows gave a view of the yard, one of them in front of the desk.  Over the window, a small crossbow and short bamboo sword were fixed to a wooden plaque. 
     A new IBM computer sat on a polished wood table in the corner.  The system was equipped with a police fax, modem, and laser printer.  They were seated comfortably, cokes in hand, in a room that was as complete as any police station in the country.  A scanner was hissing on a shelf.  It traced the calm activity of the local cops on patrol. 
     "I developed this new program based on the one you used."
     Frank's mouth moved, trying to get ahead of the words.  "Very good.   Missing...."  Long pause.
     "Missing persons," Kevin finished.  "But now, it constantly monitors activity nationally and globally.  I reworked the database to include every shred of information we have.  The complete report, the history, every name, living and dead."
     From the living room they heard the kids laughing. 
     "The ex-commissioner is still under house arrest, living alone on his pension.  And remember you asked about Feniman?  Turned himself over to medical researchers at Temple University.  They're still trying for a cure.      They say your serum saved a lot of lives."
     "Wasn't mine," Frank said.
     "You did it Pop.  You saved a lot of people."
     "Didn't have prob-nom, reb, reb--" he shook his head, frustrated.  The cords in his neck stood out, his brow lowered.  "No choice," he said with great effort.
     Again, mirthful, delightful giggling from the TV room.
     "Where's Marian...how's she doin?"
     "Her eyes are going, just like yours, but she's getting around pretty well.  She plays bingo a lot.  A bunch of old gals pick her up and away they go.  She can't read a stop sign ten feet away, but she can read those little cards."
     They could hear Marian's old throaty laugh along with the boys.  Her deep cackle changed to a racking cough.  Kevin wished she would stop smoking, but it was hard to broach the subject.
     "What are they...watching,” Frank asked.
     "The Shiney Johnson Hour." Kevin answered.  "The kids are nuts over it."
     "Haven't seen it," Frank said, with no hesitation.  There was a glimmer of pride in his voice.  "Can't see a damn thing." 
     "Maybe after you go for the cataract operation?"
     "Maybe," Frank said.
     "I haven't seen it either.  He started out in small clubs and now he has a network show.  Totally pantomime, just music and those puppets.  I hear it really fantastic."

     Midnight.
     Frank and Gail left with plates and bowls filled with leftovers.  Gail drove.  She played classical music continually.  Frank loved it almost as much as she did.    She gave Frank a try at driving once in a while, but his days behind the wheel were over. 
     Charlie and the twins were tucked into their beds, glow-in-the-dark stars twinkling over their heads.  Kathy was curled up also, with the covers pulled over her sensitive nose.  A therapist had once said it was a way to deal with her fear.
     Kevin wanted to spend just a few more minutes with the computer.  There was an unnatural increase in Toronto.  He'd already contacted them.  The state paid for his equipment and anything else he wanted.  He never had to go to the barracks or to the office.  He had one function, to see that it didn't happen again.  Cooperation was worldwide. 
     He heard the soft coughing from the kitchen, the vague scrape and thump of her walker.  The four rubber caps rubbed the tile floor and her slippers whisked through the house.  From the living room, the dining room, and to the children's bedrooms, he could hear Marian Kirk.
     Adjusting the shades.