Microfiche
A Deadwater Tale
Bode twisted the nob on the microfiche machine forward and sighed as the newsprint spun up the screen in a blur. He read the next headline, “Three Die in Horrific Accident on Neckbreak Hill.” That was terrible, but it was neither unusual for the location, nor what he was looking for. He hadn’t had much luck at all, though he knew the Deadwater Chronicle had published an interview with Dr. Salamon somewhere between 1963 and 1968 about the town’s homegrown cult and the controversy surrounding them. The Chronicle had refused to help Bode when he’d asked for a copy, stating that the article had been published without permission from the editor at the time, and had been pulled from the archives. He was surprised it was still such a hot button issue some sixty years later, but then, Deadwater tended to hold tight to its secrets. As it was, he’d yawned his way through 1963 and ’64 and was on his fifth cup of coffee. A followup article about the accident at Neckbreak Hill caught his eye, “Closed Caskets as Morgue Admits to Losing Heads.”
In a statement issued to the press just this morning, the Deadwater Morgue admitted that the heads of each of the three most recent victims of Neckbreak Hill’s deadly incline are currently unaccounted for. City coroner Dr. Erik Salamon stated that while the injuries sustained by the victims were severe, decapitation was not listed on any of the autopsy reports and the heads should have been with the deceased in their mortuary drawers. “We have not lost a single body part during my consecutive appointments as coroner, nor, to my knowledge was one ever lost before me. I’m quite befuddled. Quite befuddled. The police have been called, they have been informed.”
Bode read the rest of the article quickly and printed it before scanning forward for a followup. As it turned out there were several. Heads had gone missing from the mortuary, and several graves had been robbed of only their occupants’ heads, the morgue had actually been robbed of heads twice. He couldn’t believe no one had mentioned this to him when he’d asked about Heads to Heaven, the cult had been operating right around the time of these incidents. Bode found it difficult to believe the proximity was just a coincidence.
The coroner, Dr. Salamon, had been asked to determine the method of decapitation used in each case. But being a podiatrist appointed by committee and not forensically trained, he had no idea what he was looking for. He noted strange striations and singed flesh as common on all of the cadavers’ neck tissue, but didn’t know what it meant.
Things got weirder after the grave robbing stopped, decapitated cattle were found in fields, dogs, cats, foxes, ravens, seagulls, any animal outside at night was in danger of losing its head. In an article from late 1965, Dr. Salamon insisted that all decapitations were made by the same instrument.
”We know for a fact that all of these crimes were committed by the same person or persons, I have my suspicions but have been instructed not to share them. What I can tell you is that whoever is doing this is sick. They are using some kind of blade that singes the edges of the flesh. It doesn’t fully cauterize, but it’s very clean. And we’ve seen this across the board on all victims. I’m not an expert on amputation, but this seems to be very cleanly and expertly done.”
When asked if he’d consulted any experts, Dr. Salamon wouldn’t say.
Bode stretched and looked around the microfiche room, he was alone. He’d been alone all morning except for the old man who’d wandered in looking for the DVDs. Bode didn’t know where they were. This was the first time he’d ever entered the spooky old castle of a library. A plaque on the door said the whole building and a trust fund for running the library indefinitely had been donated by some guy whose name he had immediately forgotten. But now that he was here, he had to admit he liked the place. It had a Dracula’s castle exterior, but a cozy hearth fire kind of interior. He appreciated the relaxed atmosphere, the last two weeks of his life had been a rollercoaster of the bizarre and unnerving. He stretched again and nudged the reader’s control knob a bit until the next article came up. There it was, the interview about Heads to Heaven. Bode didn’t know much about the cult except that they had formed in Deadwater in 1960, had done something to upset everyone else in the town, and then had all been burned alive when their encampment on the outskirts of town caught fire in 1968. The fire was ruled an accident by Bode’s own grandfather, who had been the town’s sheriff at the time.
Bode had first heard of the Heads to Heaven cult two weeks prior to this particular research trip. Lying in her hospital bed, bald from chemo, and so thin Bode was afraid she’d disintegrate if he touched her, his grandmother had given him a warning.
“They’ll come for you now. I’ve been praying to their god all these years to keep him away from you. The Heads to Heaven, Dr. Salamon, they’ll come for you.” She’d slipped into a coma after that and died a few hours later. Bode had shrugged it off, she’d said a lot of crazy things on the cancer drugs.
-Suzi McCormac: - “Dr. Salamon, thank you so much for being here, I really appreciate you doing this interview. I’d like to start by asking you how you got involved with the Heads to Heaven." -Dr. Salamon: “I was tasked by the sheriff, Sheriff Eklund, to determine how the heads of each victim, that is the stolen cadaver heads and the animals, were removed. And then recently, of course, Gary, the CEO of Commerce in town, as you know was murdered and decapitated. I was not able to determine the method of these crimes. There was suspicion among law enforcement that the Heads to Heaven were responsible, but I never agreed with them. Later, separately, I was asked to determine if the shrunken heads that The Heads to Heaven members had stitched to the top of their heads were human or not.” -SM: “We’ll definitely get back to the heads stitched to other heads, but for now, we’re you able to determine that? That the heads weren’t human?” -DS: “Yes, in my opinion, the heads were not human. I believe they were created with pigskin.” -SM: “How did you come to that conclusion?” -DS: “I looked at the tanned flesh of the shrunken heads with a magnifying glass and could determine that the leather, that’s essentially what it is, was not human by the shape of the pores.”
Bode rubbed his eyes, he hadn’t been sleeping well and this was all getting a little bit heavy. Decapitations? Shrunken heads that looked human but were pigskin? But it wasn’t just the research, the first time he’d seen the shadow was at his grandmother’s burial. It was a sunny mid morning, family and friends had gathered around the casket to watch as it was lowered into the ground. A priest said some things, Bode hadn’t really been listening, he was thinking about his grandmother’s last words. Or more accurately, he was thinking about his mom’s reaction to his grandmother’s last words. When he’d told her, she’d gone pale and started shaking her head. “It’s not true. It’s not true. Don’t ever tell that to anyone else. Ever. I should have listened to her. You’re going to be fine.” And then she’d walked out of the kitchen. He could hear her sobbing.
The priest had said amen or something and his mom had elbowed him out of his reverie, then the casket started to drop slowly into the ground. He didn’t even understand the shadow at first. It didn’t make sense. What looked like a human head with… other roundish things on top of it in kind of a graduated stack. He couldn’t tell what the other shapes were, just odd blobs. He turned around, hoping for clarity, but there was nothing there.
-SM: “But you are not a forensics expert, is this correct?” -DS: “It is, yes. I’m a podiatrist.” -SM: “So how did you decide on that method? On looking at the pores?” -DS: “I had asked a dermatologist I know who said that was how museum curators identified books bound in human skin. It’s a rather macabre thing, but back in the less civilized times of humanity some books were bound in human leather, its called anthropodermic bibliopegy. My colleague gave me a closeup photograph of human skin and I made a comparison with that.” -SM: “But you’ve never done this before? And are you aware that the tanning process can make accurate identification of leather down to a species extremely unlikely?” -DS: “I’m aware, but I’m confident. Heads to Heaven were not wearing human shrunken heads.” -SM: “It is true, though, that you’ve spent quite a lot of time with them, during and after your investigation?” -DM: “True, yes. I became… curious.” -SM: “So you were operating under a pretty heavy bias during your investigation? Would you agree?” -DM: “No, my assessment was accurate.” -SM: “I see, so let’s move on. What can you tell me about Heads to Heaven and their core beliefs? Many people in the town watched family members, loved ones, and neighbors give up everything to join this group, who are all now dead. What was so appealing about them?”
Bode leaned forward in his seat, this was what he needed. The name of their god. He needed to plead for his life, to stop the shadows following him. After the burial, the shadows were everywhere, rising up behind him like smoke wherever he was. Always a human head and shoulders on the bottom, and this impossible pillar of lumps on top of it. Always towering over him. He couldn’t understand what he was looking at. The internet had barely been helpful, calling the Heads to Heaven “An obscure cult from California of unknown origin who allegedly created shrunken heads.” He shivered remembering reading that line. But why had they cursed him? His family refused to discuss it. When he brought it up they tacitly changed the subject and ignored him.
-DS: “I really shouldn’t discuss this publicly, out of respect for the dead, but there are so many questions. The townspeople, people of Deadwater, they want to know. I just want to help. Heads to Heaven is, was, a group of people worshipping the god Den. They believe he once walked the earth, always carrying his head in his hands after having been tricked and decapitated by the Sky God. From the mouth of his severed head issued forth constant proclamations and portents, wisdom and woe. Where he walked also, his blood flowed onto the ground, and all who stepped in the blood would die and their bodies would shrivel. The shriveled bodies became sustenance and medicine for Den’s followers who took to wearing the shriveled heads strung around their necks. It was during a total solar eclipse that Den ascended to the stars and by his mighty will, and the vengeance of his followers, who also ascended with him, that Den became the ruler of the heavens and the One True God. His earthly followers today must reach him by their heads, towering toward heaven. Pillars of heads that are tall and desirable enough will get their wearer ascended to be with Den in the stars.” -SM: “That is- fascinating. I need to move on, or... So how are the heads prepared?” -DS: “That is a question I can’t answer. I was never allowed to witness that holy rite.”
Bode let out a breath. Den, the beheaded god that took over heaven. Whackadoodle. Or it would be if he hadn’t been seeing shadows that wavered like smoke everywhere he went. Shadows he hadn’t understood until now. And now that the dreams had started…
-SM: "What about some insight into the towers of heads? How is that constructed?" -DS: "The first shrunken head is sewn into the scalp of the follower of Den, then subsequent heads are sewn onto that first head, then the next, and so on up." -SM: "But the towers are sometimes ten heads tall? There must be some support? It must be heavy." -DS: "No structural support is needed at all, Den keeps the towers of the righteous standing tall." -SM: "Forgive me, but that’s difficult to believe." -DS: "Adherents insist the towers are light as a feather, as long as they hold strong to the faith."
Difficult to believe didn’t even begin to express Bode’s feeling on the matter.
-SM: "I’d like to move into the murder of Gary Greaves, more than five months ago now. It has not been definitively proven that any one of the Heads to Heaven members murdered him, but there is circumstantial evidence to tie them to the crime, correct." -DS: "That is correct, but I’m certain they were innocent." -SM: "But there was a strong motive as well, can you discuss that?" -DS: "Gary was planning on selling the land where the Heads to Heaven camped. The land is owned by the city, so this was absolutely within his rights to do. Heads to Heaven was also not paying the city any rent for use of the land." -SM: "But the murder only exacerbated their problems, yes?" -DS: "Yes, the townspeople were livid. A trial was scheduled for two Heads to Heaven members, but as you know, it won’t happen as the encampment burned to the ground last week. Every member of the cult died. Preliminary findings point to an accidental fire." -SM: "Many don’t agree with that assessment." -DS: "The fire is actually still under investigation, I can’t really discuss it further." -SM: "Is it true that Sheriff Ecklund is being investigated as having started the fire?" -DS: "I cannot comment on that."
Bode covered his mouth. His grandfather had burned down their camp. That’s why he was cursed. Bode had never met the man, he’d died before Bode was born. “In the line of duty” was the only thing his family had ever said when Bode asked how he’d died. He printed the interview and scrolled forward. A sheriff doesn’t die without a mention in the paper.
And there it was. The article. His grandfather had died in a car accident on the way to the scene of a robbery in 1969. His car had slid under a semi, decapitating him. The only photo was a grainy picture of his grandparents together in front of their house, smiling proudly. He’d never seen a picture of his grandmother so young, she looked so carefree. And her hair. Bode touched the screen, her hair was nested up in the biggest bouffant he’d ever seen. He caught himself missing her, and then frowning, following his finger up to the corner of the photo. A familiar figure stood at the side of the house. Bode zoomed in, a robed man, a tower of heads on his head, a grin spread wide across his face. It wasn’t possible, the caption under the picture said it was taken in 1957, before the cult had formed.
His father had died when Bode was only six. He barely remembered him and his family was equally as cryptic about his death. He had to get a new roll of microfiche from the librarian, his father had died in 1993. A fishing accident, as it turned out, aboard a Dungeness crabbing boat. He’d been decapitated by a crab pot’s rope. A picture of the boat and crew, smiling before the voyage was attached to the article, in color this time. Standing at the end of the row of crew, right next to Bode’s father, was a woman with seven shrunken heads towering above her own, a wide grin spread across her face. Bode’s finger reflexively hit the advance knob, a blank, dark screen crept up. Reflected in the screen behind him, a face, a tower of small, leathery faces atop it.
Bode spun around. Convinced he’d find an empty room. Instead, a figure stood behind him in a tattered, filthy robe, its head cocked slightly to the side. Atop its skull a tower of small shriveled heads was stacked seven high. As the figure smiled, its other heads smiled, too. Bode’s scream caught in his throat. The thing loomed over him, in its hand two shrunken heads dangled by their hair. His grandmother’s voice seemed to whisper into his ear, “I’ve been praying to their god all these years.”
He dropped to his knees and clasped his hands together, he had never prayed for anything in his life. His mind was blank, his mouth dry. The thing reached out to him, the two shrunken heads swinging and knocking together. Bode shrieked. Even dried out and leathery, and uncannily small, he’d recognize his father. The other, no doubt his grandfather. Bode’s tongue loosed, he let go a torrent.
“Oh Den in Heaven on high, ruler of all Earth and Sky. He of the prophetic head and shriveling blood, please spare me. I don’t want those sewn on my head. I believe in you, I’ll prove my devotion with daily supplication, you’ll always be in my thoughts. I’ll uncover my grandfather’s wrongs. Please spare me, please. I beg you.”
The thing leapt at him. Bode struggled, the grinning face, inches from his, suffocated him with foul, stale breath. “Spare me,” he groaned, and then the world went dark.
Bode stumbled out of the microfiche room and down to the main part of the library. Something trickled down his face and he wiped it away, not bothering to look at what it was. He had a terrible headache. He wiped his face again. Blood. Bode came to the front door, his reflection in the glass smiled back at him. Two heads on top of his, his grandfather and father.
Laughter bubbled up his throat.
“Whackadoodle,” he giggled, pushing the door open, and leaving the library.
So much complexity woven into this story. Wow! Then there's the creepy and crazy stuff, which is amazing. You outdid yourself! Fantastic work.
I love this so much. Terrifying jump scare in the screen reflection too!