SHALLOW CREEK

DAVE DANVERS’ LAST FORAY INTO ALL THINGS WOO WOO-1

Get a grip, Danvers. You can do this. You’re holding the hand of the prettiest girl in the world, a switchblade in the other.

You never could keep it simple.

You’re getting ahead of yourself.

To the beginning of this strange day. To the gathering storm clouds and cranky bus cresting the hill into Shallow Creek, me its only passenger. All on my lonesome, afflicted by the usual anticipatory disappointment when visiting towns traditionally associated with anomalous activity and high strangeness.

I allowed myself to daydream that Shallow Creek would be the one. The place that finally lived up to all the hype. If you saw yourself as a roughy-toughy bona fide dark tourist, a fearless legend tripper, Shallow Creek had to be near the top of your to-go list. As for me, well, Shallow Creek would be my last investigation. If nothing happened here—which it wouldn’t—I’d hang up my monster hunting boots and take up beekeeping. If it was good enough for Sherlock, it was sure as s**t good enough for me. It had been fun visiting the world’s Fortean hotspots, exploring locations I’d researched and read up on so many times they felt like friends. But they never delivered, not really. A couple of echoes, a glimpse or two.

the oneMaybe. Yeah, maybe.

We passed the “Welcome to Shallow Creek; population 8,013” sign. From my elevated vantage point, I could see a river bisecting the burg. The town itself, a blue-grey jewel set in a crown of lush forest, mountains rising majestically behind. At the river entrance, a lighthouse loomed like an exclamation mark. Really! Do you really wanna come here?

reallyUp in the clouds, though, looking down, it looked alright. Nice view, nice prospect.

The bus hissed to a halt. A guy dressed in an immaculate pin-striped suit, crisp white shirt and paisley tie stepped on. I wouldn’t have glanced a second time were it not for his clown make-up and fluorescent green wig. The driver didn’t miss a beat, business as usual. Must be a regular pick-up for the clown. As the bus pulled away, the guy walked up the gangway. I looked away. I wasn’t in the mood. It was too early in the morning. Maybe the clown was for my benefit. Wow, Shallow Creek, what a crazy place, man.

The clown didn’t sit next to me, but did the next worst thing. He sat immediately behind. Tapped the back of my shoulder. Here we go. I sighed, turned to face him.

“You the guy?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I doubt it.”

“I mean, the guy come to put us back on the map?”

He had me there. I was, indeed, that guy. “That’ll be me, Dave Danvers.”

“I loved your shows, Dave Danvers,” the clown said. He seemed sincere. “I’ve read your books, too, but I preferred the shows.”

“Thank you, Mr, er—”

“Clown, Mr Clown. First name Krinkles, middle name the, last name, well I already told you that.”

the“Thank you for your kind comments, Mr Clown,” I said.

Like most paranormal TV show guys, I got my break in the noughties, my calling card ghosts and hauntings. Later I branched out into cryptids, UFOs, anything, really, within the ambit of Strange Doings. And then I got tired of the arguments and bickering that goes with the whole TV thing, and decided to focus on the books.

“You were the best,” he said. “The others were more entertaining, sure, but they were phonies. Not much happened on your shows, but when it did, boy was it quality. Are you a believer, Dave Danvers?”

“Agnostic,” I said. “Keeping an open mind.”

“You know, Dave Danvers, I think you’ll be alright here. I think you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

“Okay, yeah. Thanks. I hope so too.”

Anyway, people got fed up with the whole paranormal gig. I don’t think they stopped believing in ghosts or experiencing weird stuff, they just got bored with the way the supernatural was disseminated via ghosthunting TV shows. It got old. I mean given the way things are in this world right now, if a UFO did land on the White House lawn, would anyone give a s**t? It’s just tired, man. It was hyperreality that did it for our ghost shows. TV became more real than life itself. It made the damn thing so common-place that Strange Doings became Regular Doings. And yes, most of it was fake. Most of it.

tiredKrinkles leant towards me, entre nous. “Do you want to know why the clown get-up?”

Not really. “Yeah, sure.”

“It’s so I don’t have to smile all the goddam time. The makeup does it for me.” He laughed. “Genius, isn’t it.”

I nodded enthusiastically. “You got it, partner.”

He nodded to himself, kind of self-congratulatory. “I sure do.” He thought for a moment. “They taking you up the mountain?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Devil’s Gorge? Where those kids died back in ’59.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You reckon you got it in you?”

“To get up the mountain?”

“Oh, you’ll get up the mountain alright. I was thinking about the other business. What you have to do when you get there.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” I said, convinced there was nothing to follow, that the clown was full of crap.

He sat back. “Perhaps I’ve said too much.” He added, sadly, “Maybe I should shut the f**k up.”

I studied him for a few seconds, and while he didn’t seem dangerous, you can never tell. “Sir, you’ve made my journey more enjoyable than I anticipated. Thank you for your input.”

He seemed satisfied and stared out the window. I turned around to face the front. We were entering the town limits. “All change,” the driver said. The clown and me stood up as we arrived in what looked like the town square, shops and bars lining its perimeter. We thanked the driver and strode out into the crisp air. Krinkles held his hand out. I shook it. “Good luck, Dave Danvers”.

“You too, Mr C,” I replied. “Take care.”

“We’re all rooting for you,” he said and walked off, oddly dignified despite the clown thing.

It was cold out on the street and I zipped up my coat and searched for Mallum’s shop.

What was I doing here?

When my wife died, after I’d resurfaced from that first deluge of grief, I became aware of a curious silence. Not really a silence, I suppose, more of an absence. Duh. Yeah, I know. That’s what you would feel, dead wife and all. But it wasn’t a localised silence resulting from the absence of one woman. It was more, much more. I realised that this silence had been present for a while. My wife’s absence merely enabled me to tune into the larger, more profound, absence. It was like the world had gone … quiet. I could still hear birds and traffic and other random s**t, but I knew that behind all the regular, everyday noise, something sloped off. Something exited the building, the world, the whole damn universe, for all I knew.

DuhquietAh, Shallow Creek. Back in the 20s—last century 20s—something happened in Shallow Creek that almost wiped it off the map. Even the FBI was involved. It’s all on record, if you care to check. But just what they were involved in, well, that’s up for debate. And then there were all the skiers that died at Devil’s Gorge in ‘59. Synchronously, the exact same thing happened at Dyatlov in the then USSR.

Yep, it happened. Dyatlov and Shallow Creek. It’s a matter of record, despite the lack of details.

andSo when Mal got in touch to ask if I’d do a dark tourism piece for my impressively popular blog, I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. I’d been putting off visiting Shallow Creek for a long time, leaving the best till last. I could take the disappointment of all the other sites because I still had Shallow Creek. Shallow Creek wouldn’t let me down. Shallow Creek would live up to its reputation. Of course, now, I didn’t believe that one damn bit. None of it was real. It was all smoke and mirrors. No bigfoot, no spooks, no little green men. The bastards. Only us. Us. Jesus.

wouldnowthatUsAs I stood in the middle of the square, an old couple wearing tight little smiles and winter gear, shouted, “Good luck, Mr Danvers!”

I waved back.

Yowza! I was a big deal in this town. It was sweet. The kind of sweet I used to feel when I was a big TV star. The kind of sweet my wife once gave my life. I scanned the buildings and searched for Colt’s Curiosity Corner. Ah, there she was, squashed between two wonky colonials. I stamped my feet, and blew into my hands, thumbed my rucksack straps and hiked over the cobblestones.

A man with his dog waved, yelled, “Yo, Dave! Way to go!” His face carried a tight smile too. Even the dog seemed to smile. Just like the in-sync couple and the driver. What a smiley place this was.

The items in Mal’s window were bathed in a warm glow, immediately seducing me. The display was artfully done: a dab of Dickensian curiosity here, a pinch of steam-punk chic there. Wilfully anachronistic, but somehow not too twee or whimsical. Hard to pull off. Way to go, Mr Mal.

Thematically, the items in the window promoted early twentieth century comedy. There were life-like busts of Chaplin and Keaton, Lloyd, too. Faded sepia photos of long extinct burlesque halls, a bowler hat, its provenance unclear, allegedly belonging to Mr Stan Laurel. Among the last century funny-guy stuff were items—artefacts, I suppose—that defied categorisation, beyond the grasp of even the most gifted taxonomer. Of these, one particular object caught my attention; a three-dimensional thing in a glass case, suspended by no visible aids, its shape and colour shifting, its composition alternating between organic and inorganic. I leant in for a closer look and immediately felt a sharp pain in my forehead.

thingShocked, I realised I was pushing my brow against the window. I tore myself away. Weird.

Warily, I entered the store, an actual bell ringing above my head. The sprung door shut behind me. First impression. The store was like an old-fashioned proscenium arch stage set, the back of the room fading into the distance, a perspective created by talented scene painters rather than any accepted version of reality. The smaller items sat at the front of the store with incrementally larger items staggered behind, gradually disappearing into the darkness, infinitely, for all I knew. From the gloom, a tall, thin fellow emerged and calmly approached me, smiling. His high forehead, angular cheekbones and sweptback greying widow’s peak gave him the look of a genteel skull, the spit of Peter Cushing, the famous horror film actor. He was immaculately dressed in a fine tweed three-piece, trailed by someone still in the gloom. Chris Lee?

“Mallum Colt,” he said, shaking my outstretched hand with a firm grip.

“David Danvers.”

“Of course you are. Who else would you be?”

Good question.

“Tea?” he asked. Mal, too, sported the Shallow Creek Look, the tight little smile, though not as tightly, as if his version was bespoke and not off the peg.