Weirdbook 39

HORROR AROUND THE BEND, by Franklyn Searight-2

“You think so?” asked a member of the team, a youthful, clean-shaven man named Felix.

The MA looked at him with mild disdain. “Yeah, it’s my best guess, for now. I can tell you more later on. What I know for certain,” he said, switching his gaze to the Captain, “is there’s not a drop of blood in the body—and it’s been dead now for at least a month.”

Chief Carter’s jaw sank in surprise.

“Strange,” he said. “Shouldn’t what’s left of him be decomposing, rotting away?”

“Not if he’s already been pickled, his veins filled with formaldehyde to preserve the body a while longer.”

“Then what you’re telling us…”

“What I’m telling you,” the MA snapped, “is I don’t know yet. It’s possible the corpse was embalmed at a funeral home, and then somehow turned up here.”

“Then it’s the work of some animal? Maybe a bear, a lion…”

“Possibly a bear—some have been seen in this area—but I doubt it.”

“Maybe,” speculated Felix, “it’s the work of a hungry cannibal.”

The MA shot him a contemptuous look. “Who is this guy?” he asked Captain Carter.

“Name’s Felix, sir,” said the youngster, unable to control his enthusiasm. “New man on the force, sir.”

“Tell him to keep his drivel to himself,” mumbled the MA.

“Yes, sir,” Carter responded, throwing a stern look at the young man.

“Might not be such a farfetched idea, Cap,” interrupted Chief Inspector Randolph, his curly blonde hair poking out from under his hat.

“You mean talk about cannibalism?” asked the Chief.

“Yes.”

“Never heard of an anthropophagus dining on a body stuffed full of formaldehyde before,” stated the MA scornfully. “Taken by itself, it would be quite deadly.”

As they talked, two photographers drove up and proceeded to take picture after picture of the general location, along with numerous shots of the partially consumed man and where he lay.

“Then we’re left with the paranormal,” spoke up Chief Carter, stroking his chin. “But what person or animal could be visiting us from the spirit world?”

“You mean like a ghoul?” suggested the inspector.

“What’s a ghoul?” asked Felix, forgetting he was to be quiet.

“You asked the question, you answer it,” snapped the MA. “I have no idea. I do not specialize in supernatural creatures.”

“Well, in plain and simple terms,” said the inspector, slowly and thoughtfully, “a ghoul is a humanoid living under cemeteries and eating the flesh of those buried there.”

“You mean the dead bodies of people?”

“Yeah, but don’t get too excited, Felix. They don’t exist now, and never have, except in someone’s gruesome imagination. Don’t know anyone who’s ever seen one—I sure as hell haven’t.”

At one point, during the investigation, the biking couple overheard Inspector Randolph telling the police chief: “There’s enough evidence to tell us the man wasn’t killed at this spot, but was brought here and laid on the ground. The cannibal, if we’re dealing with one, ate from him as much as he wanted. When finished, instead of taking the remains away with him, he hid what was left under the brush pile. Maybe he’ll return tonight to eat more of it.”

“Perhaps Felix wasn’t as wrong as we thought he was,” conceded Chief Carter, slowly. “We’ll be waiting for him,”

The bicyclists, still seated at the nearby table, continued to eavesdrop, intrigued by the dialogue they were overhearing, envisioning the gruesome picture being described.

“This can’t be real,” observed Karen. “Some sort of carrion-eating degenerate must be responsible for this.”

“I think you’re right, dear. The notion a supernatural force is behind this is absurd.”

They looked dubiously at one another, hardly daring to believe they were not dreaming. Earlier, they had listened to three members of the investigating team talking about other problems occurring in the area, including the disappearance of a woman two weeks earlier, and problems with the Gainesville Cemetery located beyond the camping area.

“What happened in the boneyard?” one of the men had asked.

“You forgotten, or haven’t you heard about it? An old fellow was buried there a month ago, and the next day the grave was found dug up. The body was missing.”

The events of the afternoon had been so depressing the couple feared their camping experience might be spoiled. They had planned to enjoy the coming evening by a roaring fire, pleasantly dining by the barbecue pit, and later on chatting and singing with surrounding campers. The excitement and adventure of their casual camping excursion might well be ruined—their reward for being good citizens.

“It’ll be alright, Hon,” consoled Howard. “Just pretend we’re on a movie lot, or with a theatrical company, rehearsing for a play.”

“’Guess you’re right,” agreed Karen. “Let’s enjoy our adventure. Tomorrow we can read all about this horror in the papers.”

They watched as an ambulance arrived with a stretcher and carried off what remained of the dead man.

* * * *

The sun was no longer high over their head, and had made significant westward progress, when the Prestons mounted their bicycles, with the consent of Randolph. Giving a final look at the group, they peddled back to their camp site.

They assembled and pegged down their tent, and distributed assorted articles to where they would be most handy. Finally, they inflated a large air mattress and unrolled their sleeping bags.

“Do you suppose it’s safe to be camping here all by ourselves?” Karen asked of her hubby. “Someone or something killed the man—even eaten large parts of him—and might still be hanging around here. Just how safe are we?”

“Safe enough,” decided Howard, “But if you’d like, we can pack up our gear and go home—set up the tent in the backyard.”

“Not on your life,” she exclaimed. “We’re here to go camping, and camping we shall go. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to sleep in our bed tonight?”

Howard laughed. “No, I wouldn’t. I was just thinking of you, dear one, but I’m not surprised to learn it would take more than a dead body to scare you off.”

He went to the car and returned with the hamper and cooler they left on the back seat before leaving their house. Inside was enough food and drinks to last them for a few days, including a rack of spareribs, two steaks, and packages of hotdogs to grill.

Howard soon had a fire going, and Karen went about preparing their evening meal. The couple was used to camp life, and in the advancing twilight, after a filling supper, they discussed the events of the day. Shadows advanced over the landscape and darkness came upon them before they finally succumbed to the exertion of the day, and crawled into their bedding.

* * * *

A shriek in the middle of the night stunned Howard into immediate wakefulness. He sat up, cognizant of the silvery moonlight entering through the screen window of the tent, and attempted to identify what had made the awful sound. He could not imagine what animal might be responsible. It had not been a coyote or any other member of the canine family, he believed. A mountain lion? Possibly, but unlikely. They had been known to occupy this region at one time, but ever since the campground and the bike trail were established, their presence had been rarely seen. Apparently, the larger animals had moved on to friendlier, more unpopulated territories. Could the commotion have been made by some night bird pouncing upon its prey? Howard knew of no feathered creature ever making such a sound. He was left with the uncertainty of what it might have been.

“Karen, you awake? Did you hear that awful cry?”

No answer came from his companion, and he turned to shake her awake.

Karen was not there. Her sleeping bag was unzipped and rumpled, and the clothing she had discarded when it was time for sleep was gone, indicating she had awakened earlier and dressed again. He reached for his flashlight to better illuminate the darkened area and convince himself she was nowhere inside.

Maybe nature had summoned her during the night, he reasoned, and she had left to answer its call.

“Karen?” he called again, a bit louder this time, but still softly, not wanting to awaken the other campers in their recreational units.

There was still no response.

Suddenly, the cry was repeated, and seemed to be cut short with an abrupt ending.

“Karen?” he said again, this time his voice much louder and more insistent.

It could have been the same cry first awakening him, and it sent a fevered chill of fright racing along his backside. He was still uncertain as to what had made it, but there was an undefinable quality about it vaguely resembling the sound Karen was known to make when her favorite pitcher allowed the opposing batter to hit a homerun. It was not an exact replication of her voice, but there had been something in it elusively reminding him of his loved one.

Quietly, he slid into his jeans, donned his T shirt and slipped into his sneakers. Gripping his flashlight, he unzipped the canvas opening of his refuge and crept out into the star-studded night. Standing up, he looked around, swinging the beam of his light in a three-hundred-sixty degree circle.

Nothing out of the ordinary leaped to his gaze. He noted the silent RV trailer parked near their tent, and the glowing redness of the fire pit cooling down, burning itself out. An assortment of camping units, set up in irregular lines, paraded along the roadway and were conspicuous by their deafening silence. The illuminated dial of his wristwatch revealed it was one-twenty-six.

God, what an awful time of the night to be up and about.

He swung his light about again, revealing sentinels of shadowy trees and assorted sleeping quarters, and illuminating the adjoining lot where their car was parked for the night.

He wondered, taking the first steps upon the moonlit path, if Karen might be in trouble, and momentarily considered awakening his neighbors and asking for their help. He negated the notion as being too soon for such an action. There were a few porta-potties, a three or four minute walk down the path, if one did not dawdle, used by the campers while a larger, more accommodating facility was being constructed. He would follow her there, or meet her on her return trip to their little settlement.

He paused to consider. Also available for her use, at the end of a short path off to the left, was an old privy, infrequently used, just a minute’s stroll away from their tent. The camp supervisor had once told them it was part of an old farmstead, long since abandoned, its reclaimed land now a part of the park system. It was now rarely used, but if Karen were in a hurry—if she couldn’t wait—perhaps she had gone there. Being so close, he decided to check the facility first, rather than make the longer trek down the road.

“Damn,” he thought to himself, passing an old oak tree splintered by a lightning bolt sometime in the past. She should have awakened him, told him where she was going and she’d be right back. It was just like her to let her man continue sleeping, rather than disturb his slumber. Her consideration for others was an admiral quality attracting him to her on their first meeting.

A sudden movement near his feet startled him, nearly causing him to drop his light. Aiming it off to the left, he was in time to see a raccoon scooting off into the bushes.

Damn! It had given him an awful fright, an unusual experience for him. He wondered why he was so jumpy, and then recalled the poor fellow discovered lying near the bike path. No wonder he was unnerved; anyone would be. The police had promised they would stop by their campsite before nightfall to tell how their investigation was progressing, but they had failed to show up. Had they forgotten, or had what they learned been so grim they did not want to frighten the campers with the knowledge?