TOKEN
Paul
stared at the small baggies in his hand. After a fair amount of consideration,
he set down the small egg-weight sinkers, choosing the split-shot ones instead.
He glanced at the counter, which was still free of an attendant. Shaking his
head, he stepped over to pick some hooks for his day out fishing.
“Man,
guess the shipment’s late again,” he mumbled to himself while grabbing a couple
packs of baitholders in place of the circle-hooks he preferred.
He
walked over to the counter and set the little bags down. After a minute, he
tapped the bell that rested on a coaster. The bell sounded sickly, and it
looked that way too. Rather than the bright shiny silver of its younger days,
it was a grimy brown with rust, and the push button atop it stuck in the down
position.
“Hey,
Chuck?” he said, not quite shouting but louder than his normal voice. He went
to the door and stepped out, making sure the sign was turned to ‘OPEN.’ Letting
the door close behind him, he tried again, “Hey, Chuck? You out here?”
Nothing.
Paul briefly wondered if something had happened the day before that made Chuck
forget to close up properly. After some thought and still no response, he
walked to his truck and pulled an envelope from the glovebox. He decided to go
ahead and take the hooks and sinkers along with a container of Canadian
Nightcrawlers. The envelope was so he could leave a note and the money to cover
the goods.
“Damn
it,” he said, nearly tripping on the step as he dug through his wallet for the
bills. He opened the door before focusing back on the green paper and trying to
figure just how much he should leave. “Fifteen should be more than enough.”
He
pulled the ten and five out and went to stuff it in the white envelope.
“Good
morning!” a voice boomed much too joyfully.
The
items in his hands fell to the floor as he jumped, startled. “What in the!
Where did you come from?” he asked, meeting the eyes of a frail-looking,
little, old man. Paul had no idea how such a tiny and ill-looking person could’ve been so loud.
“I
was just around back. I didn’t mean to scare you, son,” the man said. “You seem
to be ready to pay.”
“Um,
yeah. Yeah. I just need those and a thing of worms.” Paul picked up a container
out of the small refrigerator on the counter. He shook and opened it, checking
the activeness of the nightcrawlers. “And you didn’t scare me. Just caught me
off guard is all. I didn’t think anyone was here. Where’s Chuck?”
“Oh,
Chuck? He had to run back home. Forgot something and asked me to hold down the
fort. I’m afraid I’m doing a terrible job.” The old man punched in some numbers
on the ancient cash register in front of him. “That’s all? You sure?”
Paul
nodded. “That should do it.”
“That’ll
be eleven sixty-two.”
Paul
handed over the bills and accepted his change from the old man. “Well, I’ll be
on my way. Tell Chuck I’m sorry I missed ‘im.”
“Will
do, Paul. Good luck, but leave some fish for the rest of us.”
Something
struck Paul as odd, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. So, with a
shrug, he turned and walked back out of the tackle shop. When he got back to
his truck, he reached in the bed for his tackle box.
He
kicked his tire when his hands came up empty, realizing he’d forgot the box on his porch. “Shit, damn!” He
opened the truck door and tossed the worm container and baggies on the seat
before heading back in to face the little old man.
“Back
so soon?”
“Yeah.
Seems I left my tackle at home. Looks like I’m fishing simple today, so I’m
going to need a bobber,” Paul said, turning to the shelf.
“Oh,
you’re in luck. These just came in, and I was on my way to put them out.” The
man held up a neon orange bobber. It was medium size and had black inserts on
the top and bottom. Nothing special. “Here ya go.”
Paul’s
mouth turned down on one side, and he glanced back at the ones on display.
Shrugging, he approached the counter. “I guess I’ll take it. How much?”
“Don’t
bother. Think of it as a token of my
appreciation for not leaving earlier when you couldn’t find anyone around.” The
man seemed to think for a second. “Here, have another. Give it to someone who
needs it,” he added with a wink, handing over the neon orange bobber followed
by a yellow one.
Paul
hesitated but took them. “You sure?”
“Yeah.
Yeah.” He smiled. “That orange one’s yours. Gift
the yellow.”
“Um,
sure. Okay. Thanks . . . Well, I don’t know your name.” Paul gave an awkward
chuckle.
“Eh,
they call me Papy.”
“Uh,
okay, Papy,” he said, forcing the name out oddly. “Well, thanks again.”
***
The
drive to his usual fishing hole was uneventful, and Paul parked his truck on
the side of the four-lane highway. He was surprised to find the spot empty. The
small dam-like structure usually had half a dozen or so people fishing at it.
Even
though he’d parked a considerable distance from the road, he checked to make
sure there weren’t any oncoming cars that were too close. Seeing the coast was
clear, he opened the door and stepped out, closing it behind him and hurried
around to the other side of the truck.
He
grabbed one of his rods from the bed, leaning it against the side before
opening the passenger door to collect the hooks and sinkers. He pocketed the
baggies then picked up the container of worms. Glancing at the bobbers, he
wondered if he should just fish bottom, but he knew there were far too many
fallen trees to do that.
Gift the yellow.
He swore he could practically hear the words whispered as he remembered them. A
chill went down his spine, but he shook it off, shoving the orange bobber in
his pocket and wrapping his fingers around the yellow one.
“Pfft,
it’s just a damn bobber. What’s it matter which one I gift . . . if I don’t just decide to keep them both,” he said,
shaking his head while walking to the cement wall that doubled as a walkway.
A
car passed by on the road behind him. There was a small thud followed by a
strange whistle. Paul turned in time to see a stick fly into his back window
with a crack, and then it clanked as it fell into
the bed.
“Well,
damn!” he said, going back to the truck. “Of course, it broke. Just my luck.”
He blew out his breath with a huff. It could’ve been worse. The glass could’ve
shattered completely, but as it was, there was only a spiderweb-crack. He
decided he’d worry about it later.
Pushing
the anger down, he went back on his way to get his fishing line in the water.
The concrete wall was plenty wide enough to walk on with room to spare, which
seeing as it had water on both sides for
most of its length, that was a good thing. Paul hadn’t quite reached the end
when he chose a spot to leave the worms, so he wouldn’t accidentally knock them in the water. It was there that he baited
his hook and put the bobber in place.
He
flipped the bail, cast his line, and waited. Fifteen minutes passed by before
the bright yellow float wiggled and bounced up and down on the water. Finally,
it plunged beneath the surface. Paul pulled back on the pole, setting the hook.
By
some weird fluke, the bottom of the fishing pole slipped into his shirt pocket.
He tried reeling, but the drag kicked in,
causing the hum noise it creates when the line gets pulled from the reel. He
pulled back harder, fighting the fish, and he tried again to turn the crank.
The handle grabbed hold of the shirt pocket where the bottom pole was still
hung. The free spinning end of the handle slipped in the slit for the button on
the pocket. Before Paul could understand what had happened, the fish jerked
with all its might, nearly tugging the pole from his grip. He held tight, but
the action ripped the pocket from his shirt, leaving a hole where the pocket
had been.
Paul
lurched forward, almost going head-first into the dark waters. Upon gaining his
ground, the line had gone slack. He reeled it in with a fierce determination,
but the fish had seized the opportunity and made its escape.
“Damn
it!” he said, turning and throwing the pole to the bank.
The
end of the rod crashed into the mud-slick ground, but something was amiss. Paul
studied the scene in front of him as he mindlessly fingered the hole in his
shirt. It took a moment before he figured out what was wrong. While the end of
the pole sat on the bank, the tip was well off the ground, pointing in his
direction, and the bobber hung just out of reach a few feet in front of him.
“What
in the hell?” His tone, perplexed. He twirled his fingers in his chest hair
just beneath the shirt’s fabric. “How the fuck did that even happen?”
At
some point in his fit, as he threw the
pole, the bail had flipped open, allowing the line to pull free of the spool.
The hook and sinkers on the free-flowing line managed to wrap themselves around
a tree branch. When the pole hit the ground, the bail flipped shut, leaving the
line taut.
Deciding
there would be no way to reach the line to try and pull it down, he walked
along the cement wall and carefully stepped onto the slippery mud. He picked up
the rod and tugged. The line held strong, and the hook and sinkers wouldn’t
budge.
He
gripped tight on the pole above the reel and took a couple steps back. The limb
bent, and Paul thought for sure it would break from the pressure. He took
another step back, adjusting his hands. The knuckle of his thumb brushed the
line, and it screamed in protest with a high-pitched twang. The tension broke,
and Paul heard the whistle of the weights sing through the air right before
they smashed into his left cheek. He felt them fall to his shoulder and roll
down his back.
The
soles of his boots slipped and slid on the mud. He threw his arms wide, trying
to keep his balance. He managed to steady himself. Huffing from the exertion,
he began turning the crank of the reel, bringing in the slack.
“Fuckin’
hell! That was close.” He stopped reeling and brought one hand to his cheek,
coming away with bloody fingers. “Guess I should call it a day. Go home, clean
this up, and see how bad it is. Don’t feel like tying another hook on anyway,
‘cause I’m sure it’s stuck in that tree. Else it would’ve took my eye out,” he grumbled to himself as he
went back to reeling in the slack.
A
cracking sound came from his right, and when he turned to see what could have
made the noise, there was a slight tug at the back of his pants. He turned
further, too quickly, to see what had caused the tugging; his foot had begun to
slide in the mud again. This time when his arms went wide, there was a biting sensation
in his calf. The pain stole his concentration, causing him to fall and careen
down the bank. The biting turned into a tearing feeling, and as he slid into
the dark waters, the pain turned into a burning sensation.
His
butt came to a stop in the mucky bottom. Looking around, he tried to understand
what exactly had happened. He was sitting in three inches of mud covered with
another ten inches of brown water. His fishing line was wrapped around his
right arm, and the rod and reel it was connected to lay on the bank. His calf
throbbed, and he hoped like hell he hadn’t been bitten by a cottonmouth.
Though, he saw no snake while checking his surroundings.
He
went to stand, but when he moved his arm, the searing in his calf flared. “Son
of a bitch!” he growled.
Reaching
over with his left hand, he plucked ever so lightly at the fishing line,
testing if it was the offender. The pain sang through him, again, making him
cringe. He brought his left hand down to the right pocket of his pants and felt
that the pocketknife he had was still there. Trying to cause as little movement
as possible, he wiggled the knife free.
“Well,
at least that’s one thing that’s gone right,” he said as he opened the knife
partway, just enough to slip the line in and cut it. Not wanting to risk
another mishap, he closed the knife back up and tossed it to the bank. It
landed next to the fishing rod.
The
tension on the line being broken made the pain ease. He unwrapped the part that
was still on his arm, noticing the yellow bobber. Once free, he grabbed the
brightly colored styrofoam and chucked it as hard as he could.
“Stupid
thing. Stupid old man. Gift the yellow,”
he said in a mocking tone. “Mumbo-jumbo. Hullabaloo!”
He
stood up, ignoring the pain in his calf as he made his way out of the water. He
picked up his pole and knife from the ground then walked over to the cement
wall to grab the worms. He knew he should check his leg, but he wanted to get
out of there. He’d had enough.
Walking
to his truck, he dipped down and grabbed the bobber, but something caught his
attention. A white styrofoam cooler sat in the shade, scrawled on its side was
a note that read: EXTRA BAIT? SHARING IS CARING. USE WHAT YOU NEED, GIVE WHAT
YOU DON’T.
He
glanced to the worm canister and then to the annoying yellow float. Shrugging,
he approached the cooler and lifted the lid. Inside was a brick, he assumed was
to weigh down the light material, and four ice packs surrounding it. No bait.
He dropped in the worm container and bobber, and then he dug into his pants’
pockets for the other bobber and the bags holding the weights and hooks,
tossing them in beside the worms. He replaced the lid firmly and walked away.
The
exertion of walking up the incline to his truck caused his injured calf to
burn, making the trickle of blood seeping into his shoe nearly unnoticeable. He
reached the truck’s bed and decided he should check the damage on his leg
before heading out. He dropped the tailgate and sat on it as a car pulled onto
the shoulder behind his truck. Trying to ignore the newcomers, he focused on
his wound, stretching his good leg along the tailgate.
His
pant leg was scrunched up in the way, so
he pried the pocketknife out again. He opened it fully and proceeded to cut off
the denim just below the knee, ignoring the growing red puddle below his leg.
There
was a whistle beside him as he gaped at the wound that started above the ankle
and ran up to just below the back of his knee. “That is going to need stitches, my friend.”
Looking
to his right, Paul spotted a tall man with dirty blond hair, who appeared to be
in his early forties. He grunted before saying, “Do you normally sneak up on
people and state the obvious? How about a ‘hello’ or ‘are you okay’?”
“Sorry.
It just looked like you might need some help, and, well, then I saw that.
Caught me off guard,” the guy replied. “You need a ride to get that checked and
maybe grab a cold-pack for that cheek? I’m sure my girl wouldn’t mind waiting
here for me to get back.”
Paul
watched as the man casually licked his bottom lip then pulled it between his
teeth. He felt uneasy, sensing something was off with the guy. “That’s awfully
kind of you, but I think it just looks worse than it really is.”
He
didn’t believe his own words. The hook was still embedded firmly in the muscle,
and the gouge had to be a good half inch or so deep and more than a foot long.
The puddling blood began to make him grow queasy. He took the strip of denim
he’d cut from his pants and tied it, not too tightly, around his upper calf.
He
hadn’t noticed the woman approach. She and the man were talking quietly to each
other. She glanced briefly at Paul’s leg, and she paled.
“I’ll
be on my way. Get this looked at. If you guys are fishing, I left some worms in
that cooler down there,” he told them.
“I
really don’t mind taking you to get help.” The guy stepped closer; his eyes
gleaming with some sort of desire.
“Nah.
I’m good. There’s a clinic ten minutes down the road. I’ll be fine.” Paul
slipped off the tailgate and closed it, avoiding putting his full weight on his
injured leg. He maneuvered oddly around the side of the truck, not feeling
comfortable enough to turn his back on the strange man. “If I see you’re still
here when I come back by, I’ll stop to let you know I made it.”
He
fidgeted with the key and unlocked his door, opening it. Finally turning his
back, he climbed in, shut the door, and locked it before looking into his
rearview mirror, finding the couple enjoying a kiss. He shook his head and
started the truck, pulling away after seeing the road was clear.
***
Three
and a half hours passed by before Paul climbed in his truck to head home. A
little worse for wear, he was a proud owner of both an internal and external
layer of stitches and a prescription for 800mg ibuprofen.
He’d
planned to keep an eye out for the couple, but when he reached the fishing
hole, their car was gone and the area had been roped off with police caution
tape. There was, however, a tow truck that had just started pulling away,
hauling a pick-up truck with a boat and trailer.
He
thought the scene odd but continued on his way. About a half-mile down the
road, on the grassy shoulder, sat a news van. Thinking back, he’d heard hushed
voices of a horrible accident when he was at the walk-in clinic, but he hadn’t
gotten the impression it was newsworthy.
Another
half-hour and Paul limped in through his backdoor
and pulled off his shoes. He tossed the prescription on the counter, figuring
he’d fill it later. He had plenty of the over-the-counter stuff.
A
grey and white fluffball of a cat ran over and rubbed against his injured leg.
“Sorry there, Gargar. This old man had a bit of bad luck, and I don’t think I
can handle your tough love right now.”
He
scooped up the cat, scratched her head, and then set her down on her bed where
she began to play with her toys. Hobbling, he made his way to his chair, sat
down, and used the remote to turn on the television. His curiosity had him
switching to the station the news van belonged to, taking note that the news
wouldn’t start for another twenty minutes.
After
suffering through the rest of the boring, quiz program that had been on, he
gave his full attention to the tv, waiting to see if they’d discuss what
happened. It didn’t take long before the anchor introduced the story, with a picture
of the blond male Paul had met earlier that day hovering above his left
shoulder. The feed changed to a scrawny, dark-haired man standing next to the
cement wall at the fishing spot.
“A
string of bad luck on a day of fishing turned into tragedy for a couple today.
Soon after Jamie Litman and Susan Tribly arrived, Jamie was stung by a wasp,
hit with a falling tree branch, and fell off of this cement wall. When the
couple decided to leave, we were told by Ms. Tribly, who did not want to appear
on camera, that Jamie accidentally
dropped some fishing tackle by his door, and when he bent down to pick it up, a
passing truck pulling a boat decapitated him. The details on how this happened
are unclear, at this time, but we’ll give an update when more information is
available.”
The
program went back to the anchors at the news desk, but Paul was left in shock.
He felt his mouth gaped open and forced it shut as he turned off the tv.
“Damn,
Gargoyle, I thought I had a bad day,”
Paul said to the cat across the room.
***
Two
weeks later, Paul walked into the tackle shop. He was still a bit shaken by
what had happened, but his leg had healed, and he was going stir-crazy and in
need of a day fishing.
Shutting
the door, Paul was greeted by a familiar voice. “Hey, I was beginning to wonder
if you’d ran off on me since I was closed up a couple weeks back,” Chuck said.
“What
do you mean? You had someone else running the shop. I picked up some tackle
here the week before last, and you had some spooky old man working. He gave me
a couple of bobbers for free because he wasn’t inside when I was ready to checkout. Papy . . . I believe is what he said
his name was.” Paul quirked his eyebrow and then nodded to himself as
confirmation that the name was correct. “Yep, Papy.”
“You’re
trying to get my goat. Eve had her gallbladder removed, so I was up at the
hospital with her. You know I wouldn’t let anyone run my shop. I certainly
wouldn’t let some spooky old man named Papy run it either. Hell, I don’t even
know anyone named Papy.” Chuck rubbed at his chin, appearing to be in deep
thought. “But I did see that name, this morning I believe.”
“Come
on, Chuck. I was here. I got hooks, sinkers, and worms. He gave me the bobbers.
Said some weird nonsense about the orange one being mine and to gift the
yellow. Then I went to my usual spot. It was a shit day. I left everything but
my poles there ‘cause I had to go get stitches.” Paul pulled up his pant leg, showing Chuck the new, shiny pink
scar.
“Your
usual spot? Isn’t that where the guy lost his head. I’d say it was a terrible
accident, but I’m pretty sure he got what he deserved,” Chuck said.
“Man,
I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. That’s cold.” Paul shook his head in
disbelief at what his friend had told him.
“Haven’t
you watched or read the news the past few days?” Chuck asked, and then his eyes
went wide. “You have, and you’re joshing me. Papy, that’s funny in a dark way,
I suppose. Now I remember where I saw the name.” He ducked down and began
rustling through some stuff.
“I
don’t know what you’re on about.” Anger began to build in Paul’s chest as one
of his oldest friends accused him of some sort of practical joke.
“This
is what I’m on about.” Chuck put a newspaper on the counter, turning it around
so Paul could read it.
A
picture of the old man was on the right side of the paragraphs Chuck pointed
to. Paul read them out loud, trying to understand what it was saying.
“One
of Litman’s victims was a 98-year-old North Dakota man named William ‘Papy’
Witherspoon. Papy’s severed head was found in a large freezer with fifty-seven
others. He’d gone missing nearly a year ago, and while his family is terribly
upset by what happened to him, they are glad to find some closure in finally
knowing.
“Litman’s
girlfriend, Susan Tribly, claims to know nothing of his extracurricular
activities. Stating that she’s appalled to find out she’d been dating a serial
killer. There is an investigation to find out if what she says is true and
whether charges should be brought against her.” Paul returned his gaze to his
friend.
“Well,
if I didn’t know any better, I’d say this is the first you’re hearing of this.
I’m not buying it, Paul, and frankly, I find it disturbing that you’ve made up
a story like this. Next, you’ll be telling me you gave that yellow bobber to
this Litman guy.” Chuck frowned.
Paul
stared on for a minute in silence. “But, in a way, I did. I told them I’d left
my bait in the cooler. They probably took the tackle too. That bobber, Chuck, I
used it. It had bad juju. Everything was going wrong until I put it in that
damned ‘sharing’ cooler.”
“Hey,
you okay? You’re pale.” Chuck grabbed the phone off the counter. “You don’t
look good. I’m calling for help.”
“You
don’t understand! This old man,” Paul poked at the picture on the page, “was in
here two weeks ago; he was running your shop. He gave me the bobbers. Said they
were a token of his appreciation and told me to gift
the fucking yellow one.”
He
began to hyperventilate. His head was pounding, and his left shoulder began to
ache. With shaky legs, he slowly lowered himself to the floor, ignoring the
pain from his freshly healed wound.
“Hey,
Paul, try to calm down. Help’s on the way,” Chuck tried to persuade him as he
knelt down, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“How
was he here, Chuck? How? He knew my name . . . How? Why?” Paul’s vision began
to blur and blacken at the edges.
“I don’t know, but everything’s going to be okay.
Help’s coming.”
*This story was lucky enough to join so many awesomely fantastic stories, written by amazing authors, within the pages of
Weirder Tales: An Omnibus of Odd Ditties. It's a great collection of stories that are similar to those you'd see in an episode of The Twilight Zone or The Outer Limits. So, if you enjoyed this story or you like those types of shows, be sure to grab a copy. Available in ebook and paperback formats.
