Eerie, Indiana fanfiction: Waterlogged
It had been raining for six days. Deadwood Park was a morass of sucking mud and small pools had formed in the deeper hollows, where strange and secret creatures moved beneath the surface of the dark water. A kelpie had made its home near the drinking fountain, and already the stone pedestal was choked with green weeds. Slimy fronds had crept into the spout itself, and the Eerie Water Board issued an emergency bulletin warning customers about possible contamination.
A small team of veteran plumbers had been summoned to city hall, and after much negotiation had agreed to send their most unpromising and expendable apprentices to deal with the creature. The only known survivor had returned minus three of the fingers on his left hand, and had stumbled into union headquarters covered in blood and screaming about workman’s comp and a tongue that lolled dog-like from a maw that bristled with horrible teeth.
When Radford read that last part of the report, he thought that perhaps the unfortunate young man would have been better off enrolled in a creative writing class at the Community Centre than wrestling with recalcitrant water-cryptids. He rearranged the promotional pamphlets advertising Eerie’s adult education courses so they stood near the first aid supplies and the display of prosthetic body-parts, restocked the ice-cream counter, and waited.
Sure enough, Marshall Teller showed up, sidekick in tow, just as Radford finished dusting the pickles and preserves behind the cash register. He hopped up onto one of the tall bar stools and slapped a marked-up copy of the Herman B. Wells High March edition down on the polished surface. It was open to the Lifestyle section. A grainy thumbnail picture of Harley Holmes sat a little to the right of the highlighted column, his by-line in microscopic print beneath his photo.
Radford tucked his bright-yellow duster away in a cardigan pocket, picked up two tall sundae glasses, and turned to face the boys with a genial smile.
“Morning, boys,” he said. “Two Black Cows with a nip of java?”
Simon nodded enthusiastically, but Marshall had something more urgent than the humble coke float on his mind.
“Mister Radford,” he said, in the dramatic tone that had more than once prompted Radford to suggest he look into joining one of Eerie’s amateur theatre groups, “There are kelpies in the water supply.”
“Only one, from what I read,” said Radford. “And it’s not in the water supply yet.”
“It’s only a matter of time,” said Marshall darkly. “We’ve got to do something, Mister Radford! It’s up to us to save the town!”
“Hmm,” said Radford. “Well, if I remember right, I’m a shopkeeper, and you are a newly-graduated stock-controller at Eerie Dairy, and neither of us works in pest control or for the water board.”
Marshall’s face fell. Radford softened.
“On the other hand,” he continued, “I do happen to have a few copies of Myths and Legends of Scottish Waterways going begging, at a very reasonable price I might add.”
“We checked it out from the library,” said Simon, heaving the heavy tome up onto the counter. It was Radford’s turn to scowl in disappointment. Simon gave him a rueful shrug and began to turn the thick age-yellowed pages, stopping when he came to a chapter marked with a bright pink Post-It.
“Actually, what we need is a silver bridle,” he said, pointing to an illustration and turning the book so that Radford could get a better look. “We thought, you have all that stuff for NightMares, maybe you have kelpie bridals too?”
“Well, no,” said Radford. “I can special-order one, but it will be a few weeks and Eerie’s bathrooms will be full of pondweed and polyps by then.” He drummed his finger on the edge of the book, expression thoughtful. “I do have the Hellhound Harness you returned last month, though; it was too small for Sparky once his venom-spines grew in, but it might be about the right size for a water-horse.”
In the end, he managed to up-sell them on an industrial-sized can of silver spray paint along with the lightly-used harness that hadn’t fitted over Sparky’s moderately-poisonous protuberances, and sent the two boys on their way.
The door was closing behind them when he heard Marshall say hesitantly, “You know it’s going back to the lake once we get the harness on, right?”
The heavy double-doors swung to, and the jangling entrance bell drowned out Simon’s reply. Radford stared at the closed doors for a few moments, then turned and lifted his suppliers’ book down from a high shelf. He flipped through it until he came to a full-page colour illustration of an old-fashioned grain mill surrounded by dismembered human limbs, then picked up the wall-mounted telephone and dialled.
“Hello, Giants Granary, we grind your bones to make our bread, how can I help?” came a cheerful female voice.
“Hello, Marla, this is Bartholomew Radford from the World o’ Stuff. I was wondering if I could place a small order for the human entrails charcuterie?”
Trusted Associates, Inc.
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Microwave-verse
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In For The Night by froodle, in which Dash refuses to leave the house
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