The Fishhook Man
The barb winks and waves at me in the garage’s dim light. My father calls from inside the house, but I am too enthralled to hear him. The hook reminds me of a nightmare that begins as a pleasant dream.
I am fifteen and crammed into the back of an old Astro van with my older brother and cousins. The seats are coming apart at the seams and the felt covering of the ceiling sags, caressing my father’s and uncle’s heads in the front. Any free space between all of us is filled with coolers, luggage, and fishing equipment.
“Last turn and we’re there. Hand me a cold one, will ya?” My dad calls from behind the wheel.
Internally, I groan. He is a heavy drinker, though never belligerent or abusive. A functional alcoholic. I am sitting closest to the cooler with the beer. I reach in.
“Ow!” I pull my hand back quickly and observe a bright red pinprick. The growing droplet of blood shimmers in the sunlight. Peering over the cans and ice, a little fishhook rests in the ice. The barb turned upward. Its point holds my blood, as if bragging it has something that belongs to me.
“Who puts a jig in with the pop and beer?” I ask no one, reaching in, carefully this time.
“You all right?” My brother asks, as I pass the frigid can up to our dad.
“Yeah. Just a pinprick. It just surprised me.”
I wrap the bottom of my shirt around my finger to clean the blood and stem the minor bleeding. Looking out the front window, I observe the larger Upper Peninsula trees. The early afternoon sunlight pierces the canopy, a view that always makes me feel like I am underwater.
The resort comes into view bringing a smile to my face. Pale blue paint covers the bar and office building. There are four rickety steps that lead up to the entrance, above which large white letters read: Cisco Resort & Bar. The gravel drive extends beyond down a hill to dozens of small cabins.
Across from the resort entrance is a red cabin. My smile broadens. Every summer my family rents this cabin for a weeklong fishing trip. It is like a home away from home. The Astro van brakes squeak as my dad parks in front of the cabin. We file out with a series of groans and sighs of relief. I stretch, feeling my limbs come back to life, as the blood flows more freely.
I take in the fresh northern woods air. It tastes different. Cleaner. The lake hides behind the resort. It’s cool blue rolling surface wearing a glittering reflection of the sunlight. I turn toward the red cabin. It sits in the shade of several large trees. The windows are open; these old cabins don’t have air conditioning. Along the edges of the ancient siding, the paint curves upward like dried leaves. Distracted, I saunter over and lightly run my fingers over the rough, ancient paint.
Sharp ticking taps rhythmically pull my attention upward. I look up and grasp at a meaty grey palm hovering centimeters from the glass. The index and middle fingers slowly alternate tapping the windowpane.
“Teddy!” Dad calls. I jump, looking back at him and the rest of my family unloading the van. “Are you that eager to get in there?” He asks, forcing a chuckle, as he tends to do. “Come on. Let’s go get the key.”
“Yeah. Okay.” I respond absently. I walk across the gravel and feel myself drawn to look back at the window. A grey curtain gently wafts in the light breeze. My breathing relaxes, and I rush to join my dad.
We cross the drive and climb the steps leading into the Cisco Resort & Bar. The inside light is low. Various neon signs hang behind the bar top. Following my dad, I read different domestic beer names in bright colors. Fishing trophies and pictures fill the remaining blank spaces on the wall. The bar stools are old, with thick metal frames and ripped black leather cushions. The bar top is scratched from years of service to the workers and customers alike.
My dad sits at the bar. I walk past him. “I’m gonna see if there’s anything new in the game room.”
“Need any quarters?”
“No. I got some. Thanks.” I say, as I enter the game room a few feet away.
My brother, cousins, and I spent a lot of time in this recreational room in previous summers, and, just like I thought, everything remains the same. The room is long and narrow. To my right, shoved into adjacent corners is a hunting game, Buckshot something or other, and a Top Gun themed pinball machine. Near these are two high top tables with no stools and each with an ashtray centerpiece. In the middle of the room is a pool table blemished with stains and torn felt. My middle and ring fingers skip across the billiard table rail as I move to the other side of the room. There is a door that leads out near lake and to the left of this exit are two more arcade machines. One is Area 51, a shooter my brother and I have easily spent a hundred dollars of dad’s money and, more impressively, almost beat. The last game I don’t recognize.
“That’s new.” I breathe, observing another shooter-looking arcade cabinet titled: Carn-Evil. Zombified clowns, carnival workers, bloody balloons, and colorful but muted ribbons decorate the game.
I glance at the doorway to the bar. I can hear my dad already talking up a storm with the bartender. He had ‘the gift of gab’, he would say. One of his many ‘truisms.’
“I’ve got time.” I convince myself and fish a dollar in quarters from my pocket. They cling and clatter as I insert them in the machine. After the fourth quarter, an evil laugh bellows from the game. Two words flash on the screen in a bloody font.
ONE LIFE
I lift a bright blue plastic gun from the holster and use the barrel to hit start.
“What’d you find, kid?” My dad asks.
I jump, startled and look away from the opening roll that describes whatever scenario made a carnival become evil and zombie infested.
“Why you gotta sneak up on me like that, Dad?” I ask, returning my attention to the screen and wait for the bad guys to pop out.
“Just wanted to see what you were up to.”
“They got a new one. Figured I’d check it out while you got a drink and the key.” In my head, I add, ‘I wasn’t sure how long you’d take.’ My eyes remain on the screen. The first undead clown shambles out of a tent toward the screen. I can see mine and my dad’s reflection.
“Well, be quick. We unload the van and get the boat in the water.” He finishes the last of his beer and turns to leave.
“I won’t be long. Promise.” I say raising the plastic light gun and dispatching the virtual enemy.
I didn’t catch the story, not that it really matters for games like this. As far as I can tell, the player character is investigating some paranormal activity at a carnival on a wharf. Whatever happened zombified the clowns and carnies and civilians. It seems like an average set up for this kind of arcade machine. A bad thing happens, and a good guy comes in to ‘investigate,’ which may as well be another word for shooting everything that moves. Most enemies walk or run up to the player. Others pop up right in front. After a few waves of this, the game introduces hatchet throwing clowns. I laugh dryly as I shoot a hatchet twirling toward the screen. It spins off its trajectory and out of harm’s way. Why do carnival clowns have hatchets? It’s silly.
A new enemy appears. Its movements are odd compared to the others. The thing feels more real. It peeks from inside a striped tent. Its actions are exaggerated and childlike. I shift my weight, finding this creature’s animation unsettling. Suddenly, it somersaults out and then jumps upward on one leg with the other sticking out, and its arms raised in the air. Compared to everything else, this is so life-like.
The creature is a large round thing with grey skin. Different sized fishhooks pierce its skin protruding from within. It leans left rocking its head and gives me a wave wiggling its thick fingers. Dozens of hooks curve from beneath each fingernail like cat claws. More barbs curve out of its mouth like metal fangs catching the light, as it smiles hungrily. Its eye sockets are empty and pitch-black holes. Fishhooks curve up and down from within the abyssal pits where its eyes should be like twisted eyelashes.
I lift the bright blue gun and shoot.
Nothing happens.
I shoot again and nothing. I use a grenade pickup and, still, nothing.
“Busted game. What a rip off.” I whisper and roll my eyes.
The Fishhook Man approaches the screen. It frowns then cocks its head again in that strangely naive way. The creature catches my gaze and waves, lowering and raising each finger individually. It giggles silently then reaches out, grabbing the edges of the screen. Its claw-hooks catching the plastic frame of the arcade cabinet.
I drop the gun and take a step back. Incomprehensible noises dripping in fear fall out of my mouth. The Fishhook Man pulls itself out of the screen. I back into the pool stick rack, knocking everything on it to the ground.
“What the hell’s goin on back there?” The bartender calls from the front.
I look toward the bar and back to Carn-Evil.
The Fishhook Man is gone.
Three words and a countdown flash at the bottom of the screen.
GAME OVER
CONTINUE?
I run out the side door, panicked and confused. Throwing the door open, I stumble down the stairs and fall into the dirt. My chest pounds pumping more fear-instilled adrenaline into my veins.
Outside, all the color of the world is gone. The trees are barren save for some chains carrying massive, barbed hooks hanging from the branches. The sky is grey; I am unable to tell if there are clouds or if that is just how the sky looks now. The lake is drained of its water. Pits of bubbling tar wait for a meal along the lakebed. The door slams against the buildings outside wall.
I push myself up and run back inside. I grab the door and slam it shut. My ribcage rattles feeling like it’s going to shatter under the pressure of my pounding heart.
The inside of the bar changed. I am standing in a courtyard. There are four pillars that hold up a walkway ten feet in the air. There are four walls with no windows or doors, even the door I entered is now gone. The pillars and walls stretch upward forever until they fade into an obscuring grey black. Like the trees outside, there are dozens of chains carrying hooks hanging from the void above. In the center of the courtyard, there is a chair suspended by some of these chains and hooks.
On the chair, a man sits, quiet and still.
Distorted carnival music begins to play.
The Fishhook Man swings into view. Its limbs lifted and palms skyward, as if mocking an aerial dancer. It starts swinging and spinning around the man in the chair, who begins a slow rotation around the room as well. His chair turns, and he faces me.
Terror strikes through my confusion.
The man in the chair is me.
I feel myself shift. My consciousness is pulled into this other body, my other body. I am trapped in the chair. I cannot move. Forced to participate in this horrifying midair waltz. The Fishhook Man slowly gets closer to me with each rotation. It bounces lifting its limbs with playful terrifying grace. Closer and closer until it is nearly nose to nose with me.
The music stops.
The Fishhook Man smiles wide and slams its face against mine. I feel the barbs pierce my flesh. I feel it pull my face as it reels back with a horrid guttural cackle.
The tab of a can hisses and cracks open. I hear my dad’s voice behind me pulling me back from the nightmare. Back from the dream memory.
“Lost in thought, Theo?” He asks before taking a gulp.
“Yeah.” I say shaking my head, as if I could cure the physical revulsion. “Just remembered a strange nightmare.”
I turn to him, noticing a small metallic glint reflecting the garage’s dim light.
A tiny barb pokes out of his tear duct, catching the light, winking and waving at me.
Horror Sleaze Trash 