FatJose

There it was again.

The slow creaking sound rose out of the darkness like a pop of grease from a cast iron skillet. Little Billy Anderson tried to be brave, pulling up his cartoon bedsheets and quivering under them. Though his mother and father were gone for the night, he knew in his bones he was not alone. The noise started about an hour ago, then sounding distant like from a dream. Now it was in the room with him.

Billy sank deeper into the sheets. Maybe he hoped the cavern of linens would provide some degree of protection. Maybe he just hoped he wouldn’t have to see what killed him. We’ll never know. As the creak came into the room, the ragged breathing followed, then Billy’s scream. Then nothing.

Two weeks later.

A ragged brown and tan figure uneasily shifts among a crowd of black clad mourners, sticking out like a sore corduroy thumb. He watches from under a shaggy mop of matted hair, from dark and sunken eyes as an older woman comforts a younger one, weeping on a bench. He glances at the scrap of newsprint in his hand, ANDERSON, BILLY Age 11 of Calumet County died Thursday of causes unspecified. Memorial to be held—, here it ends just by a half torn school photo of Billy. The man stuffs the obituary in one of the pockets of his oversized military drab and approaches the bench.

The younger woman is now alone, still weeping. The shabby young man stays himself as though behind an invisible fence as he weakly lifts and drops his arm. “Mrs. Anderson?” His voice is high but pebbly, perhaps smoke damaged.

Tears still coursing from her eyes, Teresa Anderson does not speak but turns her heavy head toward the man. It takes considerable effort but she lifts her gaze to almost meet his. “Mrs. Anderson, I need to speak with you. I don’t know how to say this. Any of this. Without sounding crazy. But I may... I know what...”

”Excuse me.”, a taller man with a lined face steps forward, cutting the strange man off midsentence. “I’m sorry, do we know you?” The man shrank. “Ah. Ah, Mr. Anderson, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I’m too late to help.”

Bill Senior‘s face contorted in indignation, “I don’t know who the hell you are but this is a funeral. My son’s funeral. My son is dead, and you want to, I’m sorry, you want to help?” His tone cut like knives.

“I didn’t mean... I don’t...” but as the shaggy man stammered to explain, a large figure incorporated behind him, catching him by the collar like a cat carries its kittens. He freezes. “Bill. Ter. You okay?”

Teresa stood up, shot the younger man a strange look, then darted off still weeping. Sheriff Frank Glick held tight to the man’s jacket, balled up at the nape in his considerable fist. ”It’s fine Frank. It’s fine. Thank you. Thank you for coming. Please excuse me.”

Glick ushered the shaggy man out the portico and into the cool autumn air of the parking lot, roughing him up a little as he pushed the small of his back. “Okay, all right, I’m out, okay?”

”No fucking way is it okay, Chico, what was that shit you pulled back there? Huh? Rattling those folks? The just lost a god damn kid, you know.” The shaggy man cowered but rallied momentarily, “I was trying to help them!“

The sheriff set his jaw. “Who the hell are you?” he said after a moment of truly evaluating. “Frack. My name is Ezra Frack. And I’m not some lunatic off the street, I know how this looks.” Glick scratched his steely stubble a moment, “Coulda fooled me. But the name rings a bell. You used to write for the Calumet Crier, yeah?”

“Until they shitcanned me, yes. I’m not a bum though. I went to Harvard.” Glick snorted, “I known plenty of Ivy League bums. So what is it you’re doing here?”

”I was following this story when I was at the Crier. Not the Anderson kid but it’s connected. I... I got in too deep, lost myself. I was obssessed, okay? Those assholes at the Crier didn’t care, it was all state fairs and dog holidays with them. This was a real story.”

”What in the hell are you talking about Frack?”, said Glick reaching about the point of losing his patience. “I”m talking about a string of child murders over the last fifty years, Sheriff, murders in this county that I believe were all carried out by the same...” here Ezra faltered a bit before muttering, “Thing. The same thing, person, whatever.”

”Alright.”, Glick chewed a moment. “Alright?” Frack puzzled. “Yeah, uh, alright as in you got to the count of five to get the fuck out of this parking lot before I have Deputy Kramer over there give you a ride to your new one-bed zero-bath apartment downtown.“

”Damn it, Sheriff, listen to me—“ “One.”

”These kids, all of them—” “Two.”

”They- they all had the same story, Glick.” “Three.”

”They all heard something, saw something three days before they died–” “FOUR!”

”They saw the Spiral Man, god damn it!”

Sheriff Glick stopped counting. His face grew sober and ashen as he starred Ezra Frack in his skeletal face. “Say that again.” he growled. “I know it sounds crazy but all of the parents had some version of the story. Scratching noises in the house and the kids talking about seeing a man made of spirals, black swirls. The Anderson kid draw these awful pictures... The school psychiatrist is a friend, she tipped me off. I could have done something...”

Glick‘s meaty hand clamped down on Ezra’s shoulder. “Let’s go.“ “You’re arresting me, for what?!” Glick shoved him toward the idling squad car, Kramer still at the wheel, “I ain’t arresting you dumbshit. I just want an official statement.” Glick pounded the roof of the vehicle, “Get him to the station, Mike. He doesn’t leave until I get there, am I clear?”

”Sure Frank, ain’t you coming?” offered Deputy Kramer dimly. “I’m right behind you.”

Inside twenty minutes Frank Glick was in the kitchen of his small two bedroom bungalow on the edge of town. Far enough to be some semblance of peaceful. He frantically sifted through a small pile of papers on the table. Bills, newspaper, You May Have Already Won, the usual recyclables. Then he found it and his blood ran cold.

The mudroom door swung open and a small girl with rosey cheeks and pigtails came bounding in, her pink puffer jacket making her look like the Michelin Man’s daughter. “Hi daddy!” she squealed excitingly.

Glick wiped his face with his wide palm. “Hi pumpkin, how was school?” “It was good, we learned about Thomas Edison.” Glick forced an icy smile, “That’s nice, baby. Molly... honey, daddy has to talk to you about something.”

The little girl pulled up a stool at the breakfast counter and glanced up reproachfully, “Am I in trouble?” “No, no, of course not sweetheart. Everything’s fine. But this is important.”

Glick held up a drawing Molly had done in school the previous afternoon. It was just dark black scribbles, amorphous but deeply dug into the gray construction paper. “Molly, what is this?“ She looked down, “I dunno...”

”It’s okay honey, really, you’re not in any trouble but daddy has to know. It’s very important. Now can you tell daddy what your drawing is about?” Molly seemed to be considering something a while then finally meakly said, “It’s the man.”

Billy Anderson, like most kids in the county, went to school with Molly. He was two grades older but the school was small and they all took lunch together. “Baby, who told you about the man? Did you talk to Billy Anderson at school?”

She looked confused. “Billy? No.” Glick was sweating bullets, “It’s okay honey”. “I just saw the man outside the house.”

”You saw the man?” Glick’s ears were ringing. “Uh huh. He was funny looking.“ “What do you mean baby? Is this what you saw? These... these spirals?”

The static of Frank’s inner terror resonated with his young daughter and though now also frightened, she tried to reassure her father, “He went away but that’s him, daddy. He was made of big black curls.”

Big. Black. Curls.