fizickse
07-08-2011, 09:46 PM
This is a comedy story, disguised as a horror story. I want to be able to get published in magazines and whatnot, and thought I would post it here for people to comment on it. It is a 6,300 word story.
Sweltering waves of relentless heat cascaded upon pristine roads and thousands of eager, ebullient faces this March afternoon, as I observed the hordes of tourists migrating from one side of the street to another. The bustling activity that pervaded for miles on end caused a disorderly commotion consisting of children, young adults, and the occasional wheelchair or bicycle that slowed traffic down to a halt sometimes. The heat and glare of the sun that reflected from the stretch of white pavement in front of me was powerful enough to cook an egg. Not being able to open my eyes, I was blinded. I had a quick solution, though. Gently inserting a hand into my shirt pocket, the sizzling touch of the air stroked through the plentiful hairs on my arm while my fingertips grabbed the durable pair of sunglasses that I’ve had for years. Now, I could behold the vividly fine details of the broad, picturesque visage of Daytona Beach, Florida during its most interesting period of the year, Spring Break.
I stood outside of an incredibly luxurious hotel, the Hilton, which I had reserved with a few of my friends, and it was located on the busiest street of Daytona Beach. Not knowing what the actual name of the street was, my friends and I affectionately dubbed it as Main Street, to keep things simple. Lighting up a cigarette, I looked to my right, and saw a tiny gaggle of young twenty-somethings, all walking in synchronized steps. They didn’t wear much, except for one man in the group who wore a t-shirt and a sombrero. To my left, I caught a refulgent shimmer of a loud Ford pickup truck, creeping listlessly down the road as it played music and hauled an energetic trio of young, drunken women who were wearing attire that was even more revealing than that of the previous group I had just seen. Finally, across the street, a large intimidating African-American male of a formidable stature stared right back at me, coming down the road and walking up to my face. He was my friend, John, and he wheeled his large bag of luggage hurriedly towards me, having just arrived from Missouri. Daytona Beach was paradise for landlocked folks such as John.
“Hello, John. Long time no see,” I said to him, exhaling a cool stream of tasty smoke from my mouth.
John smiled. “Where is everyone?”
“In the hotel room. Just go to the lobby and they’ll give you your room key.”
“You coming up there soon?”
“No, I’m going to have a drink or two at a bar, then I’ll be back…probably”
“Mind if I have a cigarette?”
“I’m sorry, John, but these cigarettes are Mild Sevens. You can’t buy these in America, and honestly, I would give one to you if I had plenty, but I’m running out. Mike has some, though. Just go to the room and he’ll give you one.”
“Alright man, see you in a couple of hours then?”
“Sure.”
I dropped the completed cigarette down to the hot ground, letting it bounce just once off of the sidewalk before I stomped on it with great force. Mild Seven was a rare brand of cigarettes to find in the United States, being sold exclusively in Chinatowns. That is, of course, assuming you knew where in Chinatown to look for them. I had bought four cartons from a friend who had illegally imported them from Taiwan. At about two dollars a pack, the brand Mild Seven had an unmatchable quality. Being the third most smoked brand in the world, each of these cigarettes had a charcoal filter, which purified the smoke to some degree, and lent each puff a delicate smoothness that possessed absolutely no trace of harshness. Inspecting the contents of my pack of cigarettes, I saw that I had more than ten left in this one alone.
“This is enough to last until tonight,” I said to myself.
Striding along the immaculate promenade of Main Street, there were many bars from which to choose. I wanted one that faced the beach. An interesting feature of Daytona Beach, as well as most beaches, was that the city could not be seen from the beach, and vice versa. With the dozens of hotels that lined Main Street, these towering heaps of concrete and stone would effectively act as a shield between the splendid beauty of nature, and the effervescent vibes of the city.
After five minutes of hurdling through a gigantic mass of dizzy walkers, toddlers holding hands with a parent, and boisterous young men whom I wanted to punch in the face, I stumbled upon an outdoor bar that I hadn’t seen before. An old man afflicted with an unusually bad posture tended this bar, fervently washing shot glasses and beer mugs with a hearty quickness that you wouldn’t typically see in younger bartenders nowadays. A hundred seagulls vigorously circled the premises of his bar and adjacent businesses, providing a ceaseless hullabaloo that mirrored the industrial clamor on the other side. The noise was unavoidable, but I sat down at the bar anyways. I had a good feeling about this place.
The old man had a croaky voice. “What’ll we be havin’ today, sir?”
“I’ll have whatever drink you think would be appropriate for the occasion, my good man.”
As cheerful as a person can be, the old man got straight to work as I lit up another cigarette. Here, I could relax, and not think about my stressful life as a stock broker. Accepting the freshly-concocted beverage that the old man handed to me, I gave him a handsome tip of five dollars, eased my weight onto the plush beanbag chair that this bar strangely had for some reason, and soaked in the stunning image presented to me by heaven itself.
Frigid breezes of salty wind intermittently flowed through the crevices between my toes, and in the distance, a piece of garbage danced in the air. The radiance of the sun beamed freely through the cloudless sky, embarking its way to the flatness of the crystalline sand. When the elegant foams of the ocean traversed upon land, speeding and thinning itself out on the sand’s dry texture, the sand would become wet and look like a well-polished shoe. Enjoying a drink, a cigarette, and the sight of merriment and fun on the beach, the old man turned up the volume of a large television behind the counter of the bar. A news report was being told.
“Today, the clothing of three young teenagers has washed ashore on the northern part of Daytona Beach. They were declared missing as of yesterday, and it is presumed that they have drowned. Police are still investigating the situation, but are still cautioning all tourists and beach-goers to be safe. Remember, these are the usual signs of a person that is drowning: hair in front of-”
I tuned my mind away from the television. The news was nothing but bad stuff vying for everyone’s attention. I only wanted to hear good news. Reminiscing of the countless hours that I had spent worrying and fretting at my cluttered desk at my sufficiently frustrating job, I mentally blocked all negativity that would come my way. Taking another sip of my slightly green-colored drink, I inhaled smoke for a terse moment from my cigarette, contemplating what I was going to do tonight with John, Alex, and Mike. John liked to drink like I did, but Alex was a former alcoholic. Mike didn’t like to drink at all. The only logical activity we could all agree upon, most likely, was to pay a visit to the car show.
With plenty of money to spend, the three of them were fairly rich. John was an investment banker making $200,000 a year, and Alex was his boss, making three times as much as that annually. Mike made the most out of all of us, dealing in real estate since he was twenty-four years old. He once said that his net worth was over 100 million, but none of us bothered to verify this. His Ferrari was enough to indicate to anyone that he was swimming in wealth.
The four of us were an odd group.
We were all in our early thirties now, living life slowly and casually, and not taking things too seriously. However, I was probably the least sane out of all of them, as I had extended periods of stay inside of various mental institutions during my teenage years. On edge, and out of it, my younger years were troubled, but gradually, I became more relaxed over time. I never told any of my friends about those times of my life.
The drags of the delicious cigarette tingled my body with an abstract pleasure that was a hallmark characteristic of the indescribable nicotine high. Accompanying the attractive weather of Florida was the placid roar emanating from the beastly ocean. The landscape evolved into a grayish blue as one looked further and further into the infinite horizon. The vacation was off to an excellent start, until the television interrupted my tranquil state of mind, once again.
“Residents of Daytona Beach are advised to be on the lookout for two men, both students from the University of Florida, who have disappeared as of last night. They were last seen walking down the beach at approximately 9:45PM yesterday, and wore red shorts. Also missing as of last night are local residents Timothy Burns, and his son and daughter- ”
Confused by the depressing news that defiled my ears, I tried to make of sense of it in my mind, failing. Why is the world so cruel? The news of the man and his children missing made my heart sink. I had to talk about it with someone. “What do you think happened to those people?” I asked the old man.
“Beats me,” he said with indifference. “Maybe people are just stupid, you know, like they go deep into the water. You would think that the beach would close down by now, but we all know that ain’t gonna work. The hotel owners here would throw a huge fit.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s the lack of responsibility that caused their drowning, probably,” I said.
“Going deep into the water, I ain’t stupid enough to do that, no sir.”
Out of nowhere, a familiar voice chimed in.
“Neither would I,” said John.
“Whoa, how did you find me?” I said to him, a bit startled.
“Because I stalked you. Well, actually, it was just easy for me to spot your suit from far away.” John guffawed with a carefree glee that I could not have mustered in a thousand years. His earnest laughs were always contagious.
Looking down at my clothes, I realized that I had easily been standing out amidst the throngs of people in Daytona Beach. I adorned an exquisite raiment of silk threads, dyed purple, and assembled together to form what appeared to be a business suit. Contrasting my remarkably expensive suit was a pair of long beach shorts that I liked to wear on hot days such as today. The ridiculousness of my clothes, combined with my cheap slippers, gave me an awkward appearance.
I went back to the Hilton with John, finding Alex and Mike smoking big fat cigars on the balcony.
“Hey guys, come and join us,” said Mike, who wore three diamond rings on his left hand, and one ring, with a ludicrously heavy ruby, on his right hand. In total, the rings must have been worth over a million. “I like that suit of yours, Jason, where did you get it?”
I couldn’t give him a straight answer, so I made one up. Sensibly, Mike was a connoisseur for the finer things in life as he was very rich. “I bought it online,” I responded.
Nodding his head, Mike stood up, and began shadowboxing for no reason whatsoever. Boxing was a favorite hobby of his, but he had never participated in any real fights, claiming that just one punch of his would “knock someone’s head off like a baseball bat hitting a tee-ball”.
Alex, who enjoyed the pleasure of smoking as much as I did, bellowed a cloud-like waft of light gray smoke into the air, not saying anything. A stern fellow of a short stature, Alex lived quite conservatively after his days of getting drunk everyday, which had caused him to seek rehabilitation. We were all glad that he no longer drank, as he had vowed to never have another drop again, except on birthdays and new year’s eves. He was also a weird character, as one could never quite figure out what made him tick, or how the gears in his brain functioned. He occasionally talked about seeing auras around certain people that he encountered in life to me, as I was more open-minded about this stuff, but seldom does he ever mention it to others. They would think he was crazy.
A sturdy gust of wind plowed into our faces, nearly blowing the cigars out, and almost as if taking it as a cue, Alex and Mike went back inside of the hotel suite, which was paid for completely by Mike. The suite had a wonderful fragrance that exuded from the various air fresheners discreetly hidden in each corner of every room. Everything about the suite represented the pinnacle of comfort, and on account of the organization of the little goods and amenities such as coffee and exotic bath salts that were there to tempt us, there was not a more delectable place of rest in Daytona Beach.
Alex talked to his wife on the phone, and the talking progressed into what appeared to be an argument. Mike, bothered by this heated debate between the two, proposed the first plan of action for tonight. “Allow us to proceed to the car show.”
It was approaching evening by now, and the four of us headed outside, clad in a diverse range of outfits. From John, who wore short shorts and a button-up shirt, to Mike, who practically wore a tuxedo, we resembled a queer collection of colors and fabrics. We strolled along Main Street, welcoming the sultry humidity that embattled our nostrils and hair, and as we approached the car show, I was already drenched in sweat.
The car show was phenomenally entertaining as always, and soon enough, it was time to eat dinner. John suggested that we simply return to the hotel suite, and order room service. Acquiescing to this idea, the four of us returned at about 9:00PM with tired feet, and empty stomachs. We ordered steak, and Mike paid for it all.
Celebrating the dinner with a traditional finish, the four of us each lit an authentic Cuban cigar, courtesy of Alex, who had a large stash of them that he had inherited from his grandfather. He said he had thousands, all sleeping in an elegantly constructed humidor that occupied a room bigger than his closet in his house. The oak, and deep woody accents of the Cuban cigar, mixed with a flavorfully round, buttery flavor, was rich and complex. Notes of cherry and coffee blended together effortlessly in the thick, creamy smoke. The cigar was large enough to last almost two hours, and the four of us sat in reclining chairs, staring at the water from the balcony.
Breaking the silence, I brought up the topic of the missing people I had heard about earlier today. “Did any of you hear about the people who were reported missing? I think they all died.”
“Yes,” replied Alex. “It sounds awfully fishy to me.”
“These dumb *** hooligans just don’t realize the dangers of going deep into the water. **** that, you won’t find me going more than knee-deep into the water. Flowing water is 1,000 times more powerful than air, did you know that?” added Mike.
“Sounds to me like this is the work of a serial killer,” said John, with furrowed brows. His previous, yet short career as a police officer gave his opinion a substantial amount of credibility. “People have always been stupid. They don’t just get dumber all of a sudden.”
When my cigar was halfway finished, I decided to take a walk, alone, on the beach. The only things that followed me were the faint glimmers weakly shining from the light poles that tidily dotted the beach. A number of minutes later, I could still see the miniscule images of Alex, John, and Mike suspended several floors above the ground. They were the only people that I could really see in the dark. The presence of human activity on the beach remained scarce during nighttime, and so far, I had only passed by one man walking his Labrador Retriever.
The pulsating orchestra that was the Atlantic Ocean induced a meditative complacency deep in my soul; its rhythmic beatings upon the sand rejuvenated my senses and nerves. A loud shout dashed into my ears.
“Help!”
I looked around for the man who screamed that word. It was coming from the ocean, and all that I could spot was an erratic splashing of water about 30 to 40 yards away from the edge of the shore. Directly behind the helpless man, who was difficult to see with this lack of light, was a cumbersome hook of gargantuan proportions, reeling him further and further away from the shore. Where the hook was coming from, I didn’t know. I didn’t see a boat, which could’ve been the only thing that was capable of wielding such an enormous hook. The man thrashed violently in the water, trying desperately to escape the grasp of the hook that had undoubtedly pierced into the bone of his arm. “Help!” he cried, once more, and by this time, I had quickly taken my cell phone out, dialing 911.
“Hi, a man is drowning in front of me, I’m at the part of the beach that is in front of this hotel called the Conch House,” I urgently explained into the phone. Right as the operator assured me that assistance was on the way, a short harpoon plunged into the side of the man’s head, and he released what sounded like the most blood-curdling yell I’ve ever heard. He was dead for sure.
I ran back to the lights of civilization, hundreds of feet away from the shore, as the police and an ambulance arrived. I told them about everything that I had seen, and they understood. There was no hope for the drowned victim, and the hook, they said, must’ve been a figment of my imagination. Traumatic events tend to make one hallucinate, they told me. I didn’t believe them, but the power of their suggestion made me think otherwise.
Surely enough, the only way to resolve what had just happened was for them to send a boat or two out there to find him. He was supposedly the ninth person within the last few days to have either died, or went missing. I called John to tell him what had happened, and waited for half an hour on the beach, trying to keep myself calm and sane. I told him and everyone back at the suite to stay there, and that I was safe and sound.
A sleek, tough-looking boat eventually arrived. Perhaps there was hope left, but I was smart enough to realize that there probably wasn’t. The best that the policemen could do was recover the corpse, and find out if the cause of death really was by drowning.
The police boat pitifully illuminated the blackness of the night with its searchlight, meticulously inspecting the waves of the Atlantic Ocean. I lit a cigarette, and listened to the end of it crackle with ferocity as I inhaled a large puff. The slowness of the boat made the search and rescue of the man depressing. Suddenly, I saw the boat’s light go out, and thinking that the crew members of the boat would replace the broken light fixture, I saw that no such action occurred as I had finished my cigarette. At this point, I could only see a dark silhouette of the boat, embedded against the spooky background of the landless terrain.
Inching closer and closer to shore, the boat soon found its way onto the sand of the beach, and stayed there until a medium-sized wave tipped the whole boat over. I gave the boat a studious glance from far away, and walked closer to it, curious as to what had happened to its occupants. Not realizing that the whole crew was no longer inside, I delved closer to the boat, perhaps being twenty feet away from it. My legs trembled as I realized something horrifically tragic had gone wrong. Just ten minutes ago, there were at least eight people onboard. Now, there was nobody.
Stepping backwards from the boat, a formless body of some sort broke through the shadows of the night, sauntering about at waist level in the ocean. I found it strange that it just stood there, sauntering about as if it didn’t want to come to the shore. I had no clue what it was, but it approached me. Backing away, it followed me with increasing pace, and I backed away even faster. By now, I was on the dry part of the sand on the beach, and the figure rested at the edge of the water. I took one peep at it.
The figure looked like a decrepit, rotting mass of biological matter, holding a gigantic hook in one arm, and a string of bodies that trailed beside him in the other. I could hear it huffing laboriously. I could see that the bodies it pulled along with him had no clothing, and they had a rope that was strung through their skulls, as if a hole had been bored into them. The smell they emitted was horrendously putrid, and assaulted me so hard that I started to become disoriented. I saw that some of the bodies were that of children, the ones that must have went missing last night.
It continued to follow me, and I continued to back away. Right when I had thought that this was all a hallucination, the formless organism hurled its large hook at me, forcing me to dodge it. It grazed lightly on my leg somewhere.
Had I not dodged, the hook would’ve likely penetrated me. Whatever this thing was, it had good aim. As I attempted to move further away from it, I heard a pleasant song coming from the ocean. The song beckoned me to go towards the ocean, and I could feel it loosening every knot of tension in my body with its soft whispering quality that it laid into my ears. Mysteriously, the song grew louder and louder, encompassing everything around me, and it was more satisfying to listen to it than being on any drug while listening to music. Forgetting about the threatening nature of this thing that hauled a load of reeking bodies with it, I was tempted to be drawn towards the ocean.
However cordially inviting the song was, I continued to move further and further away from the water. It felt like a trap. I had a feeling that I was being tricked, and the further away I was from the water, the quieter the song became. No song could fool me into doing something so stupid. I knew that my willpower was indomitable, as I had quit smoking for months at a time before. I lit another cigarette as I found myself back on Main Street, ecstatic to see the lights of Daytona Beach that brightly poured itself on to the crowds of drunken people. I rested at the hotel, planning to tell my friends about the incident tomorrow.
When I woke up to the sound of seagulls making a ruckus outside again, I saw that everyone had disappeared, and I found a note beside my bed, written by Mike, I could tell, saying that he, Alex, and John went to buy some groceries. Pondering about last night’s hallucinations, I thought I was going insane again. It all seemed so real, though. After all, there was no sound explanation for the creepy monster other than that it really must’ve been nonsense that I had entirely fabricated from my mind, right? Brushing my teeth and putting on a new set of clothes, I noticed the wound below my knee. It looked small, and I ignored it. It was a small gash of about half a centimeter in length, and I’ve healed from plenty of these before. I decided to go back to the bar with the cheerful old man, and attempted to reconstruct another excellent day.
The weather today was identical to that of yesterday, and the old man smiled widely as he greeted me once again. “Having a nice day today are we?”
“Not really,” I replied.
“What’s the matter? The weather is beautiful, and you look like money ain’t a problem for you.”
“I think I saw someone die last night here. He drowned in the water, and I called the police. When the police came, they used a boat to search for him, and when the boat searched for him, everyone on the boat disappeared. I think I hallucinated it all, but I’m not sure.”
“Oh that ain’t no hallucination, sir. The police have been patrolling this beach all mornin’. You just missed the action.”
“That wasn’t the strange part. The strange part was the hook I saw. It looked like a man was being hooked into the water, and the next thing I know, something came out of the water, carrying a bunch of dead bodies with him.”
The old man immediately paused, and his cheerful demeanor vanished instantly. He put his hands on the table, giving me a terrifying disconcerting expression on his grim face. “It’s the curse of that fisherman.”
“That fisherman?” I asked.
“One year ago, a fisherman died out here. What his name was I’ve forgotten by now, but he was a retired old man, kinda like myself. He would fish along the shore of Daytona Beach every day, and some thought that he was an odd character. As odd as he was, all fishermen have their own favorite lure, and his favorite one was music. He would play a set of these vinyl records as he went into the ocean. He would bring his little record player and set it up on the beach, fishing for hours. He claimed that the record player had an ethereal quality, like it was magically imbued, and could lure any fish he wanted. I didn’t believe him of course, almost nobody did. Caught a good deal of fish, though. Anyways, how could the darn thing be heard from underneath the water? Heh heh. Well, one day, the fisherman went too far off into the sea, and he apparently drowned. Nobody on the beach saw him in the water so nobody could help him. A shocking tale, nonetheless, I’ve read about curses before. It may be that the old fisherman seeks revenge upon the living, forever resentful of those that failed to save him despite the hundreds of people playing and frolicking on the beach in broad daylight. Somebody should’ve seen and saved him, but people are dumb. But what do I know? I’m probably wrong. I’ve read up on curses, but I don’t reckon I really believe in ‘em yet. It’s all a legend, son. Just a legend. I’d just stay away from the beach at night if I were you.”
A chilling shiver wrapped around my skin as I heard the old man’s tale. Raising a glass of beer to my lips, I noticed that the wound below my knee grew to over a centimeter in size by now. I asked the old man about my wound.
“Oh Lord,” he stammered, “I don’t know of a nice way to say this, son, but you must’ve really seen the ghost of the fisherman last night.”
“Why is that? I thought you didn’t really believe in the legend.”
“I lied, son. I only said that I didn’t so that you wouldn’t think I’m crazy. That wound you have there means that the fisherman has cursed you. He must’ve injured you last night. Some ghosts can do that. They can put a curse on you from far away. In this case, it appears that whoever he wounds will slowly die.”
“How do you know this?” I asked. I wondered where he had all of this knowledge of ghosts and curses.
“The wound will grow in size until you die. You might have a couple of days left. Let’s just pray that the wound doesn’t grow too fast.”
“What? Is there a way to break this curse?” I frantically asked of him.
“Destroy the fisherman, or so I’ve heard. Once the ghost it gone, the curse will be forever lifted.”
“But isn’t he a ghost? I mean, ghosts don’t have physical bodies do they? Could he really be destroyed?”
“Some ghosts do, some ghosts don’t. But all ghosts can be destroyed. Chances are that if you saw the ghost in person with your very own eyes, then it is a ghost with a physical body.”
“Is there anything you can do? Many more are going to die as long as this ghost haunts this beach.”
“Oh no, sonny. I’m an old man and I can’t be doing that kind of stuff. My legs and back have gone bad ever since I returned from the Vietnam War. I’m afraid I can’t help, but I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you.”
“Why not?”
“My intuition tells me your friends can handle your business for you.”
“What do you know about my friends?”
“That they are more than capable of handling your business, like I said. Just go back to the Hilton.”
“How did you know I’m staying there?”
“Son, I just know these things.”
I left the bar, knowing that I was going to die. Maybe the old man was wrong all along, but I don’t think he was lying. He seemed serious, and I heeded his advice. Now that I had thought of it, there seemed to be a mystical presence that surrounded the old man. His was unusual happy. He had a bizarre dexterity that was shown in his cleaning of the glass vessels, and he also had a curiously quaint nose that I’d never quite seen on any man before. I quickly hurried to the hotel.
John, Alex, and Mike sat on the balcony, each of them smoking a cigarette. Debating how I was going to spend the last couple of days of my life, I requested a private talk with Alex, who seemed to be the most likely person to believe what I was about to tell him. He generally believed everything I had said to him, not doubting me for a second. Going back to the balcony, he talked with John and Mike about the curse, and right when I had thought they were going to call me crazy, they didn’t.
“I can find out where this fisherman ghost is,” said Alex. “Ghosts are surrounded by a distinctly orange aura, so I would be able to spot him easily.”
“You guys actually believe in this ghost stuff?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t, but I’d like to kick some ***,” replied John.
“Me too,” said Mike.
“Guys, I don’t know about this. I mean, we’re fighting against a ghost,” I said, unenthusiastically.
An hour of conversation later, I had learned that all of my friends were quite extraordinary in their own ways. We had all agreed to wait until close to midnight to go out on the beach, where it would be easier to find the ghost. No longer would there be the herds of obnoxious drunken people obstructing our view, but time was slowly chipping away like my health. The wound below my knee became over two inches long by now, and began to bleed. The only thing that slowed down the bleeding was a thick pad of bandages, bought from a local gas station for $10, that I had applied to it.
When nighttime dawned upon the city of Daytona Beach, the four of us went out to hunt for the ghost. I could only limp at this point, but my other leg was strong enough to allow me to hobble rapidly to wherever I needed to go. With Alex on the lookout, it didn’t take much time before he spotted the ghost, who he said had a bright orange aura, at about fifty yards or so into the ocean.
John approached the edge of the water, tossing the ghost intimidating gestures. The ghost, smelling strongly of dead flesh, could be seen walking towards John, towing its vile cache of decomposing trophies.
John covered his nose. “Oh man, he smells really bad.”
“Be careful, John, he’s about to hook you in!” I shouted.
The demonic ghost threw his hook at John, but John caught it in mid-air with just one hand. The rope forcefully tried to pull John into the ocean, but John did not budge an inch. Firmly gripping the hook’s rope with all of his might, John gave the rope an uncontrollable series of frenzied yanks that dragged the reluctant ghost closer to the shore, and John’s gargantuan, burly frame clearly disturbed the ghost. The rope, which was coiled numerous times around the ghost’s waist, forced it to not be able to escape its inevitable doom. As the ghost advanced further and further onto the actual beach, John continued to perform the most aggressive tugs of a rope that I had ever seen, and the ghost went berserk, digging its hands into the wet sand to prolong his fate. The thing about John was that if he were in prison, he would be one of the ones doing the raping. It wouldn’t be the other way around.
By the time the ghost was stranded ashore, it was on its knees, begging John to not do anything to him. The string of corpses it had carried was nowhere to be seen. As the ghost pleaded for mercy, Mike walked up to it, pulled it up by its wretched armpits, and delivered a violently wild haymaker with his right hand. The amount of power in that punch alone was so preposterously absurd that the ghost’s green, fetid jaw shattered into several pieces. A sluice of brown liquid, presumably the blood of the ghost, squirted a hundred feet into the air as its head snapped back from the sheer force of Mike’s right hook. Pow! Bits of the ghost’s jawbone scattered and strewed across the sand in a fine mist. Then, Mike picked up a watermelon that happened to be lying nearby (as if a fruit vendor had forgotten about it earlier today), and launched it at the top of the ghost’s head. The watermelon exploded into irregular chunks, sending the ghost flying towards the ground as if he had just been tackled by a 315 pound lineman running at 23 miles per hour.
John reeled the ghost closer to him right before the ghost actually made contact with the ground, and put him in a chokehold, making it an idle target for Mike’s diabolic barrage of vicious punches to the body. Mike was slightly crouched down in a sophisticated kind of fighting stance, mercilessly pummeling the ghost’s ribcage, evidently causing a medley of audible cracks to whip through the air. The strength of each punch was equivalent to the strength of a lightning strike, and each punch tore a gaping hole in the ghost’s body, revealing a chasm of grime and filth that gushed out profusely.
Alex soon joined in on the monumental beating that was being performed on this helpless ghost by bringing three lead pipes that had also been conspicuously been lying around the general premises, much like the watermelon. Taking turns, the three of them jumped up in the air before landing a nice whack onto the ghost. Alex, especially, wound up the lead pipe an excessive amount, which enabled him to throw all of his weight into each swing. One of his swings tore off the entire genital region of the ghost. About fifty whacks later from each of them, the ghost soon resembled nothing more than a pile of mush.
Bedazzled by the spectacle that was totally incomprehensible to me, the ghost’s body turned into a white dust, looking like the sand itself, and it dissolved smoothly into the wind. Taking off the bandages under my knee, I saw my wounds disappearing with alacrity. I ran my fingertips across the skin to make sure I was okay. The curse had been lifted, and the four of us rejoiced. We celebrated that night with fast food, which I thought was stupid.
The next day, I visited the old man at the bar for the third time. I explained to him the conclusion of my quest for saving my life, and what my friends had done.
“Seems to me like they handled business well, like I said,” conjectured the old man.
“A little too well,” I suspiciously responded.
“I knew you had nothing to worry about. When I have a good feeling about something, I’m never wrong.”
“Is the curse permanently lifted?” I asked, taking another sip of a novel concoction that the old man had apparently invented himself.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. But hell, seems to me like your friends are scarier than the ghost itself!” The old man chuckled gracefully.
“Good. By the way, what is this drink called? It’s quite good.”
“Never given it a name, yet, but I reckon it’s the best that I’ve created so far. How about you give me a suggestion? I’ll let you name it whatever you want.”
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s call it The Fisherman’s Lure.
Sweltering waves of relentless heat cascaded upon pristine roads and thousands of eager, ebullient faces this March afternoon, as I observed the hordes of tourists migrating from one side of the street to another. The bustling activity that pervaded for miles on end caused a disorderly commotion consisting of children, young adults, and the occasional wheelchair or bicycle that slowed traffic down to a halt sometimes. The heat and glare of the sun that reflected from the stretch of white pavement in front of me was powerful enough to cook an egg. Not being able to open my eyes, I was blinded. I had a quick solution, though. Gently inserting a hand into my shirt pocket, the sizzling touch of the air stroked through the plentiful hairs on my arm while my fingertips grabbed the durable pair of sunglasses that I’ve had for years. Now, I could behold the vividly fine details of the broad, picturesque visage of Daytona Beach, Florida during its most interesting period of the year, Spring Break.
I stood outside of an incredibly luxurious hotel, the Hilton, which I had reserved with a few of my friends, and it was located on the busiest street of Daytona Beach. Not knowing what the actual name of the street was, my friends and I affectionately dubbed it as Main Street, to keep things simple. Lighting up a cigarette, I looked to my right, and saw a tiny gaggle of young twenty-somethings, all walking in synchronized steps. They didn’t wear much, except for one man in the group who wore a t-shirt and a sombrero. To my left, I caught a refulgent shimmer of a loud Ford pickup truck, creeping listlessly down the road as it played music and hauled an energetic trio of young, drunken women who were wearing attire that was even more revealing than that of the previous group I had just seen. Finally, across the street, a large intimidating African-American male of a formidable stature stared right back at me, coming down the road and walking up to my face. He was my friend, John, and he wheeled his large bag of luggage hurriedly towards me, having just arrived from Missouri. Daytona Beach was paradise for landlocked folks such as John.
“Hello, John. Long time no see,” I said to him, exhaling a cool stream of tasty smoke from my mouth.
John smiled. “Where is everyone?”
“In the hotel room. Just go to the lobby and they’ll give you your room key.”
“You coming up there soon?”
“No, I’m going to have a drink or two at a bar, then I’ll be back…probably”
“Mind if I have a cigarette?”
“I’m sorry, John, but these cigarettes are Mild Sevens. You can’t buy these in America, and honestly, I would give one to you if I had plenty, but I’m running out. Mike has some, though. Just go to the room and he’ll give you one.”
“Alright man, see you in a couple of hours then?”
“Sure.”
I dropped the completed cigarette down to the hot ground, letting it bounce just once off of the sidewalk before I stomped on it with great force. Mild Seven was a rare brand of cigarettes to find in the United States, being sold exclusively in Chinatowns. That is, of course, assuming you knew where in Chinatown to look for them. I had bought four cartons from a friend who had illegally imported them from Taiwan. At about two dollars a pack, the brand Mild Seven had an unmatchable quality. Being the third most smoked brand in the world, each of these cigarettes had a charcoal filter, which purified the smoke to some degree, and lent each puff a delicate smoothness that possessed absolutely no trace of harshness. Inspecting the contents of my pack of cigarettes, I saw that I had more than ten left in this one alone.
“This is enough to last until tonight,” I said to myself.
Striding along the immaculate promenade of Main Street, there were many bars from which to choose. I wanted one that faced the beach. An interesting feature of Daytona Beach, as well as most beaches, was that the city could not be seen from the beach, and vice versa. With the dozens of hotels that lined Main Street, these towering heaps of concrete and stone would effectively act as a shield between the splendid beauty of nature, and the effervescent vibes of the city.
After five minutes of hurdling through a gigantic mass of dizzy walkers, toddlers holding hands with a parent, and boisterous young men whom I wanted to punch in the face, I stumbled upon an outdoor bar that I hadn’t seen before. An old man afflicted with an unusually bad posture tended this bar, fervently washing shot glasses and beer mugs with a hearty quickness that you wouldn’t typically see in younger bartenders nowadays. A hundred seagulls vigorously circled the premises of his bar and adjacent businesses, providing a ceaseless hullabaloo that mirrored the industrial clamor on the other side. The noise was unavoidable, but I sat down at the bar anyways. I had a good feeling about this place.
The old man had a croaky voice. “What’ll we be havin’ today, sir?”
“I’ll have whatever drink you think would be appropriate for the occasion, my good man.”
As cheerful as a person can be, the old man got straight to work as I lit up another cigarette. Here, I could relax, and not think about my stressful life as a stock broker. Accepting the freshly-concocted beverage that the old man handed to me, I gave him a handsome tip of five dollars, eased my weight onto the plush beanbag chair that this bar strangely had for some reason, and soaked in the stunning image presented to me by heaven itself.
Frigid breezes of salty wind intermittently flowed through the crevices between my toes, and in the distance, a piece of garbage danced in the air. The radiance of the sun beamed freely through the cloudless sky, embarking its way to the flatness of the crystalline sand. When the elegant foams of the ocean traversed upon land, speeding and thinning itself out on the sand’s dry texture, the sand would become wet and look like a well-polished shoe. Enjoying a drink, a cigarette, and the sight of merriment and fun on the beach, the old man turned up the volume of a large television behind the counter of the bar. A news report was being told.
“Today, the clothing of three young teenagers has washed ashore on the northern part of Daytona Beach. They were declared missing as of yesterday, and it is presumed that they have drowned. Police are still investigating the situation, but are still cautioning all tourists and beach-goers to be safe. Remember, these are the usual signs of a person that is drowning: hair in front of-”
I tuned my mind away from the television. The news was nothing but bad stuff vying for everyone’s attention. I only wanted to hear good news. Reminiscing of the countless hours that I had spent worrying and fretting at my cluttered desk at my sufficiently frustrating job, I mentally blocked all negativity that would come my way. Taking another sip of my slightly green-colored drink, I inhaled smoke for a terse moment from my cigarette, contemplating what I was going to do tonight with John, Alex, and Mike. John liked to drink like I did, but Alex was a former alcoholic. Mike didn’t like to drink at all. The only logical activity we could all agree upon, most likely, was to pay a visit to the car show.
With plenty of money to spend, the three of them were fairly rich. John was an investment banker making $200,000 a year, and Alex was his boss, making three times as much as that annually. Mike made the most out of all of us, dealing in real estate since he was twenty-four years old. He once said that his net worth was over 100 million, but none of us bothered to verify this. His Ferrari was enough to indicate to anyone that he was swimming in wealth.
The four of us were an odd group.
We were all in our early thirties now, living life slowly and casually, and not taking things too seriously. However, I was probably the least sane out of all of them, as I had extended periods of stay inside of various mental institutions during my teenage years. On edge, and out of it, my younger years were troubled, but gradually, I became more relaxed over time. I never told any of my friends about those times of my life.
The drags of the delicious cigarette tingled my body with an abstract pleasure that was a hallmark characteristic of the indescribable nicotine high. Accompanying the attractive weather of Florida was the placid roar emanating from the beastly ocean. The landscape evolved into a grayish blue as one looked further and further into the infinite horizon. The vacation was off to an excellent start, until the television interrupted my tranquil state of mind, once again.
“Residents of Daytona Beach are advised to be on the lookout for two men, both students from the University of Florida, who have disappeared as of last night. They were last seen walking down the beach at approximately 9:45PM yesterday, and wore red shorts. Also missing as of last night are local residents Timothy Burns, and his son and daughter- ”
Confused by the depressing news that defiled my ears, I tried to make of sense of it in my mind, failing. Why is the world so cruel? The news of the man and his children missing made my heart sink. I had to talk about it with someone. “What do you think happened to those people?” I asked the old man.
“Beats me,” he said with indifference. “Maybe people are just stupid, you know, like they go deep into the water. You would think that the beach would close down by now, but we all know that ain’t gonna work. The hotel owners here would throw a huge fit.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s the lack of responsibility that caused their drowning, probably,” I said.
“Going deep into the water, I ain’t stupid enough to do that, no sir.”
Out of nowhere, a familiar voice chimed in.
“Neither would I,” said John.
“Whoa, how did you find me?” I said to him, a bit startled.
“Because I stalked you. Well, actually, it was just easy for me to spot your suit from far away.” John guffawed with a carefree glee that I could not have mustered in a thousand years. His earnest laughs were always contagious.
Looking down at my clothes, I realized that I had easily been standing out amidst the throngs of people in Daytona Beach. I adorned an exquisite raiment of silk threads, dyed purple, and assembled together to form what appeared to be a business suit. Contrasting my remarkably expensive suit was a pair of long beach shorts that I liked to wear on hot days such as today. The ridiculousness of my clothes, combined with my cheap slippers, gave me an awkward appearance.
I went back to the Hilton with John, finding Alex and Mike smoking big fat cigars on the balcony.
“Hey guys, come and join us,” said Mike, who wore three diamond rings on his left hand, and one ring, with a ludicrously heavy ruby, on his right hand. In total, the rings must have been worth over a million. “I like that suit of yours, Jason, where did you get it?”
I couldn’t give him a straight answer, so I made one up. Sensibly, Mike was a connoisseur for the finer things in life as he was very rich. “I bought it online,” I responded.
Nodding his head, Mike stood up, and began shadowboxing for no reason whatsoever. Boxing was a favorite hobby of his, but he had never participated in any real fights, claiming that just one punch of his would “knock someone’s head off like a baseball bat hitting a tee-ball”.
Alex, who enjoyed the pleasure of smoking as much as I did, bellowed a cloud-like waft of light gray smoke into the air, not saying anything. A stern fellow of a short stature, Alex lived quite conservatively after his days of getting drunk everyday, which had caused him to seek rehabilitation. We were all glad that he no longer drank, as he had vowed to never have another drop again, except on birthdays and new year’s eves. He was also a weird character, as one could never quite figure out what made him tick, or how the gears in his brain functioned. He occasionally talked about seeing auras around certain people that he encountered in life to me, as I was more open-minded about this stuff, but seldom does he ever mention it to others. They would think he was crazy.
A sturdy gust of wind plowed into our faces, nearly blowing the cigars out, and almost as if taking it as a cue, Alex and Mike went back inside of the hotel suite, which was paid for completely by Mike. The suite had a wonderful fragrance that exuded from the various air fresheners discreetly hidden in each corner of every room. Everything about the suite represented the pinnacle of comfort, and on account of the organization of the little goods and amenities such as coffee and exotic bath salts that were there to tempt us, there was not a more delectable place of rest in Daytona Beach.
Alex talked to his wife on the phone, and the talking progressed into what appeared to be an argument. Mike, bothered by this heated debate between the two, proposed the first plan of action for tonight. “Allow us to proceed to the car show.”
It was approaching evening by now, and the four of us headed outside, clad in a diverse range of outfits. From John, who wore short shorts and a button-up shirt, to Mike, who practically wore a tuxedo, we resembled a queer collection of colors and fabrics. We strolled along Main Street, welcoming the sultry humidity that embattled our nostrils and hair, and as we approached the car show, I was already drenched in sweat.
The car show was phenomenally entertaining as always, and soon enough, it was time to eat dinner. John suggested that we simply return to the hotel suite, and order room service. Acquiescing to this idea, the four of us returned at about 9:00PM with tired feet, and empty stomachs. We ordered steak, and Mike paid for it all.
Celebrating the dinner with a traditional finish, the four of us each lit an authentic Cuban cigar, courtesy of Alex, who had a large stash of them that he had inherited from his grandfather. He said he had thousands, all sleeping in an elegantly constructed humidor that occupied a room bigger than his closet in his house. The oak, and deep woody accents of the Cuban cigar, mixed with a flavorfully round, buttery flavor, was rich and complex. Notes of cherry and coffee blended together effortlessly in the thick, creamy smoke. The cigar was large enough to last almost two hours, and the four of us sat in reclining chairs, staring at the water from the balcony.
Breaking the silence, I brought up the topic of the missing people I had heard about earlier today. “Did any of you hear about the people who were reported missing? I think they all died.”
“Yes,” replied Alex. “It sounds awfully fishy to me.”
“These dumb *** hooligans just don’t realize the dangers of going deep into the water. **** that, you won’t find me going more than knee-deep into the water. Flowing water is 1,000 times more powerful than air, did you know that?” added Mike.
“Sounds to me like this is the work of a serial killer,” said John, with furrowed brows. His previous, yet short career as a police officer gave his opinion a substantial amount of credibility. “People have always been stupid. They don’t just get dumber all of a sudden.”
When my cigar was halfway finished, I decided to take a walk, alone, on the beach. The only things that followed me were the faint glimmers weakly shining from the light poles that tidily dotted the beach. A number of minutes later, I could still see the miniscule images of Alex, John, and Mike suspended several floors above the ground. They were the only people that I could really see in the dark. The presence of human activity on the beach remained scarce during nighttime, and so far, I had only passed by one man walking his Labrador Retriever.
The pulsating orchestra that was the Atlantic Ocean induced a meditative complacency deep in my soul; its rhythmic beatings upon the sand rejuvenated my senses and nerves. A loud shout dashed into my ears.
“Help!”
I looked around for the man who screamed that word. It was coming from the ocean, and all that I could spot was an erratic splashing of water about 30 to 40 yards away from the edge of the shore. Directly behind the helpless man, who was difficult to see with this lack of light, was a cumbersome hook of gargantuan proportions, reeling him further and further away from the shore. Where the hook was coming from, I didn’t know. I didn’t see a boat, which could’ve been the only thing that was capable of wielding such an enormous hook. The man thrashed violently in the water, trying desperately to escape the grasp of the hook that had undoubtedly pierced into the bone of his arm. “Help!” he cried, once more, and by this time, I had quickly taken my cell phone out, dialing 911.
“Hi, a man is drowning in front of me, I’m at the part of the beach that is in front of this hotel called the Conch House,” I urgently explained into the phone. Right as the operator assured me that assistance was on the way, a short harpoon plunged into the side of the man’s head, and he released what sounded like the most blood-curdling yell I’ve ever heard. He was dead for sure.
I ran back to the lights of civilization, hundreds of feet away from the shore, as the police and an ambulance arrived. I told them about everything that I had seen, and they understood. There was no hope for the drowned victim, and the hook, they said, must’ve been a figment of my imagination. Traumatic events tend to make one hallucinate, they told me. I didn’t believe them, but the power of their suggestion made me think otherwise.
Surely enough, the only way to resolve what had just happened was for them to send a boat or two out there to find him. He was supposedly the ninth person within the last few days to have either died, or went missing. I called John to tell him what had happened, and waited for half an hour on the beach, trying to keep myself calm and sane. I told him and everyone back at the suite to stay there, and that I was safe and sound.
A sleek, tough-looking boat eventually arrived. Perhaps there was hope left, but I was smart enough to realize that there probably wasn’t. The best that the policemen could do was recover the corpse, and find out if the cause of death really was by drowning.
The police boat pitifully illuminated the blackness of the night with its searchlight, meticulously inspecting the waves of the Atlantic Ocean. I lit a cigarette, and listened to the end of it crackle with ferocity as I inhaled a large puff. The slowness of the boat made the search and rescue of the man depressing. Suddenly, I saw the boat’s light go out, and thinking that the crew members of the boat would replace the broken light fixture, I saw that no such action occurred as I had finished my cigarette. At this point, I could only see a dark silhouette of the boat, embedded against the spooky background of the landless terrain.
Inching closer and closer to shore, the boat soon found its way onto the sand of the beach, and stayed there until a medium-sized wave tipped the whole boat over. I gave the boat a studious glance from far away, and walked closer to it, curious as to what had happened to its occupants. Not realizing that the whole crew was no longer inside, I delved closer to the boat, perhaps being twenty feet away from it. My legs trembled as I realized something horrifically tragic had gone wrong. Just ten minutes ago, there were at least eight people onboard. Now, there was nobody.
Stepping backwards from the boat, a formless body of some sort broke through the shadows of the night, sauntering about at waist level in the ocean. I found it strange that it just stood there, sauntering about as if it didn’t want to come to the shore. I had no clue what it was, but it approached me. Backing away, it followed me with increasing pace, and I backed away even faster. By now, I was on the dry part of the sand on the beach, and the figure rested at the edge of the water. I took one peep at it.
The figure looked like a decrepit, rotting mass of biological matter, holding a gigantic hook in one arm, and a string of bodies that trailed beside him in the other. I could hear it huffing laboriously. I could see that the bodies it pulled along with him had no clothing, and they had a rope that was strung through their skulls, as if a hole had been bored into them. The smell they emitted was horrendously putrid, and assaulted me so hard that I started to become disoriented. I saw that some of the bodies were that of children, the ones that must have went missing last night.
It continued to follow me, and I continued to back away. Right when I had thought that this was all a hallucination, the formless organism hurled its large hook at me, forcing me to dodge it. It grazed lightly on my leg somewhere.
Had I not dodged, the hook would’ve likely penetrated me. Whatever this thing was, it had good aim. As I attempted to move further away from it, I heard a pleasant song coming from the ocean. The song beckoned me to go towards the ocean, and I could feel it loosening every knot of tension in my body with its soft whispering quality that it laid into my ears. Mysteriously, the song grew louder and louder, encompassing everything around me, and it was more satisfying to listen to it than being on any drug while listening to music. Forgetting about the threatening nature of this thing that hauled a load of reeking bodies with it, I was tempted to be drawn towards the ocean.
However cordially inviting the song was, I continued to move further and further away from the water. It felt like a trap. I had a feeling that I was being tricked, and the further away I was from the water, the quieter the song became. No song could fool me into doing something so stupid. I knew that my willpower was indomitable, as I had quit smoking for months at a time before. I lit another cigarette as I found myself back on Main Street, ecstatic to see the lights of Daytona Beach that brightly poured itself on to the crowds of drunken people. I rested at the hotel, planning to tell my friends about the incident tomorrow.
When I woke up to the sound of seagulls making a ruckus outside again, I saw that everyone had disappeared, and I found a note beside my bed, written by Mike, I could tell, saying that he, Alex, and John went to buy some groceries. Pondering about last night’s hallucinations, I thought I was going insane again. It all seemed so real, though. After all, there was no sound explanation for the creepy monster other than that it really must’ve been nonsense that I had entirely fabricated from my mind, right? Brushing my teeth and putting on a new set of clothes, I noticed the wound below my knee. It looked small, and I ignored it. It was a small gash of about half a centimeter in length, and I’ve healed from plenty of these before. I decided to go back to the bar with the cheerful old man, and attempted to reconstruct another excellent day.
The weather today was identical to that of yesterday, and the old man smiled widely as he greeted me once again. “Having a nice day today are we?”
“Not really,” I replied.
“What’s the matter? The weather is beautiful, and you look like money ain’t a problem for you.”
“I think I saw someone die last night here. He drowned in the water, and I called the police. When the police came, they used a boat to search for him, and when the boat searched for him, everyone on the boat disappeared. I think I hallucinated it all, but I’m not sure.”
“Oh that ain’t no hallucination, sir. The police have been patrolling this beach all mornin’. You just missed the action.”
“That wasn’t the strange part. The strange part was the hook I saw. It looked like a man was being hooked into the water, and the next thing I know, something came out of the water, carrying a bunch of dead bodies with him.”
The old man immediately paused, and his cheerful demeanor vanished instantly. He put his hands on the table, giving me a terrifying disconcerting expression on his grim face. “It’s the curse of that fisherman.”
“That fisherman?” I asked.
“One year ago, a fisherman died out here. What his name was I’ve forgotten by now, but he was a retired old man, kinda like myself. He would fish along the shore of Daytona Beach every day, and some thought that he was an odd character. As odd as he was, all fishermen have their own favorite lure, and his favorite one was music. He would play a set of these vinyl records as he went into the ocean. He would bring his little record player and set it up on the beach, fishing for hours. He claimed that the record player had an ethereal quality, like it was magically imbued, and could lure any fish he wanted. I didn’t believe him of course, almost nobody did. Caught a good deal of fish, though. Anyways, how could the darn thing be heard from underneath the water? Heh heh. Well, one day, the fisherman went too far off into the sea, and he apparently drowned. Nobody on the beach saw him in the water so nobody could help him. A shocking tale, nonetheless, I’ve read about curses before. It may be that the old fisherman seeks revenge upon the living, forever resentful of those that failed to save him despite the hundreds of people playing and frolicking on the beach in broad daylight. Somebody should’ve seen and saved him, but people are dumb. But what do I know? I’m probably wrong. I’ve read up on curses, but I don’t reckon I really believe in ‘em yet. It’s all a legend, son. Just a legend. I’d just stay away from the beach at night if I were you.”
A chilling shiver wrapped around my skin as I heard the old man’s tale. Raising a glass of beer to my lips, I noticed that the wound below my knee grew to over a centimeter in size by now. I asked the old man about my wound.
“Oh Lord,” he stammered, “I don’t know of a nice way to say this, son, but you must’ve really seen the ghost of the fisherman last night.”
“Why is that? I thought you didn’t really believe in the legend.”
“I lied, son. I only said that I didn’t so that you wouldn’t think I’m crazy. That wound you have there means that the fisherman has cursed you. He must’ve injured you last night. Some ghosts can do that. They can put a curse on you from far away. In this case, it appears that whoever he wounds will slowly die.”
“How do you know this?” I asked. I wondered where he had all of this knowledge of ghosts and curses.
“The wound will grow in size until you die. You might have a couple of days left. Let’s just pray that the wound doesn’t grow too fast.”
“What? Is there a way to break this curse?” I frantically asked of him.
“Destroy the fisherman, or so I’ve heard. Once the ghost it gone, the curse will be forever lifted.”
“But isn’t he a ghost? I mean, ghosts don’t have physical bodies do they? Could he really be destroyed?”
“Some ghosts do, some ghosts don’t. But all ghosts can be destroyed. Chances are that if you saw the ghost in person with your very own eyes, then it is a ghost with a physical body.”
“Is there anything you can do? Many more are going to die as long as this ghost haunts this beach.”
“Oh no, sonny. I’m an old man and I can’t be doing that kind of stuff. My legs and back have gone bad ever since I returned from the Vietnam War. I’m afraid I can’t help, but I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you.”
“Why not?”
“My intuition tells me your friends can handle your business for you.”
“What do you know about my friends?”
“That they are more than capable of handling your business, like I said. Just go back to the Hilton.”
“How did you know I’m staying there?”
“Son, I just know these things.”
I left the bar, knowing that I was going to die. Maybe the old man was wrong all along, but I don’t think he was lying. He seemed serious, and I heeded his advice. Now that I had thought of it, there seemed to be a mystical presence that surrounded the old man. His was unusual happy. He had a bizarre dexterity that was shown in his cleaning of the glass vessels, and he also had a curiously quaint nose that I’d never quite seen on any man before. I quickly hurried to the hotel.
John, Alex, and Mike sat on the balcony, each of them smoking a cigarette. Debating how I was going to spend the last couple of days of my life, I requested a private talk with Alex, who seemed to be the most likely person to believe what I was about to tell him. He generally believed everything I had said to him, not doubting me for a second. Going back to the balcony, he talked with John and Mike about the curse, and right when I had thought they were going to call me crazy, they didn’t.
“I can find out where this fisherman ghost is,” said Alex. “Ghosts are surrounded by a distinctly orange aura, so I would be able to spot him easily.”
“You guys actually believe in this ghost stuff?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t, but I’d like to kick some ***,” replied John.
“Me too,” said Mike.
“Guys, I don’t know about this. I mean, we’re fighting against a ghost,” I said, unenthusiastically.
An hour of conversation later, I had learned that all of my friends were quite extraordinary in their own ways. We had all agreed to wait until close to midnight to go out on the beach, where it would be easier to find the ghost. No longer would there be the herds of obnoxious drunken people obstructing our view, but time was slowly chipping away like my health. The wound below my knee became over two inches long by now, and began to bleed. The only thing that slowed down the bleeding was a thick pad of bandages, bought from a local gas station for $10, that I had applied to it.
When nighttime dawned upon the city of Daytona Beach, the four of us went out to hunt for the ghost. I could only limp at this point, but my other leg was strong enough to allow me to hobble rapidly to wherever I needed to go. With Alex on the lookout, it didn’t take much time before he spotted the ghost, who he said had a bright orange aura, at about fifty yards or so into the ocean.
John approached the edge of the water, tossing the ghost intimidating gestures. The ghost, smelling strongly of dead flesh, could be seen walking towards John, towing its vile cache of decomposing trophies.
John covered his nose. “Oh man, he smells really bad.”
“Be careful, John, he’s about to hook you in!” I shouted.
The demonic ghost threw his hook at John, but John caught it in mid-air with just one hand. The rope forcefully tried to pull John into the ocean, but John did not budge an inch. Firmly gripping the hook’s rope with all of his might, John gave the rope an uncontrollable series of frenzied yanks that dragged the reluctant ghost closer to the shore, and John’s gargantuan, burly frame clearly disturbed the ghost. The rope, which was coiled numerous times around the ghost’s waist, forced it to not be able to escape its inevitable doom. As the ghost advanced further and further onto the actual beach, John continued to perform the most aggressive tugs of a rope that I had ever seen, and the ghost went berserk, digging its hands into the wet sand to prolong his fate. The thing about John was that if he were in prison, he would be one of the ones doing the raping. It wouldn’t be the other way around.
By the time the ghost was stranded ashore, it was on its knees, begging John to not do anything to him. The string of corpses it had carried was nowhere to be seen. As the ghost pleaded for mercy, Mike walked up to it, pulled it up by its wretched armpits, and delivered a violently wild haymaker with his right hand. The amount of power in that punch alone was so preposterously absurd that the ghost’s green, fetid jaw shattered into several pieces. A sluice of brown liquid, presumably the blood of the ghost, squirted a hundred feet into the air as its head snapped back from the sheer force of Mike’s right hook. Pow! Bits of the ghost’s jawbone scattered and strewed across the sand in a fine mist. Then, Mike picked up a watermelon that happened to be lying nearby (as if a fruit vendor had forgotten about it earlier today), and launched it at the top of the ghost’s head. The watermelon exploded into irregular chunks, sending the ghost flying towards the ground as if he had just been tackled by a 315 pound lineman running at 23 miles per hour.
John reeled the ghost closer to him right before the ghost actually made contact with the ground, and put him in a chokehold, making it an idle target for Mike’s diabolic barrage of vicious punches to the body. Mike was slightly crouched down in a sophisticated kind of fighting stance, mercilessly pummeling the ghost’s ribcage, evidently causing a medley of audible cracks to whip through the air. The strength of each punch was equivalent to the strength of a lightning strike, and each punch tore a gaping hole in the ghost’s body, revealing a chasm of grime and filth that gushed out profusely.
Alex soon joined in on the monumental beating that was being performed on this helpless ghost by bringing three lead pipes that had also been conspicuously been lying around the general premises, much like the watermelon. Taking turns, the three of them jumped up in the air before landing a nice whack onto the ghost. Alex, especially, wound up the lead pipe an excessive amount, which enabled him to throw all of his weight into each swing. One of his swings tore off the entire genital region of the ghost. About fifty whacks later from each of them, the ghost soon resembled nothing more than a pile of mush.
Bedazzled by the spectacle that was totally incomprehensible to me, the ghost’s body turned into a white dust, looking like the sand itself, and it dissolved smoothly into the wind. Taking off the bandages under my knee, I saw my wounds disappearing with alacrity. I ran my fingertips across the skin to make sure I was okay. The curse had been lifted, and the four of us rejoiced. We celebrated that night with fast food, which I thought was stupid.
The next day, I visited the old man at the bar for the third time. I explained to him the conclusion of my quest for saving my life, and what my friends had done.
“Seems to me like they handled business well, like I said,” conjectured the old man.
“A little too well,” I suspiciously responded.
“I knew you had nothing to worry about. When I have a good feeling about something, I’m never wrong.”
“Is the curse permanently lifted?” I asked, taking another sip of a novel concoction that the old man had apparently invented himself.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. But hell, seems to me like your friends are scarier than the ghost itself!” The old man chuckled gracefully.
“Good. By the way, what is this drink called? It’s quite good.”
“Never given it a name, yet, but I reckon it’s the best that I’ve created so far. How about you give me a suggestion? I’ll let you name it whatever you want.”
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s call it The Fisherman’s Lure.