Florida isn't a great place for long walks along the coast at night.
So, I just moved to Lake Worth, Florida from Santa Ana, California and it’s about as awful as you could imagine. My dad thought it would be awesome since I just graduated High School (and part time rehab and mental health clinic after a car accident on Xanax) but didn’t get into any good schools and since we could only afford a three bedroom condo in Santa Ana but now own a five bedroom house right on the intercoastal waterway. My dad had gotten a new job as an architect, which is a pretty competitive field so he didn’t have a lot of choice. As an RN, my mother didn’t have any difficulty finding a new job anywhere anyways. My fourteen year old sister Emma was thrilled, but she was a nerd and was hoping she’d be more popular here. My mom and dad were just happy to have found a huge place that was so cheap in comparison to California.
There were some problems though. First, Florida and California are only similar in pictures and this place has the exact same climate as someone’s crotch after a long run and the hobos living in the park that was our new back yard had a much less timid aroma. It is flat and brutally humid, and even the breezes are like a disgusting breath. In comparison to California, at least. Second was the people. Everyone here is a bit weird at least, and sometimes it’s like an episode of Reno 911 except less exaggerated and more drug addled and violent.
Our backyard is a park, Bryant Park, which I thought would be a perfectly place to go have a few drinks, smoke and avoid the parents while I get wrecked. After only the first month of extremely cheap drugs, I was almost getting used to the place. So I was hoping there would be people my age out at night in this park, but no luck. It’s mainly hobos and people walking their dogs. After my first few weeks in the Florida Summer, I had made a regular habit of venturing out once the sky turned dark orange and turquoise as the sun went down, to get fucked up in the amphitheater where the hobos and other assorted junkies tended to congregate.
It was pretty awesome, and kind of like an open air drug market (pretty common in Florida). I had more money than anyone there thanks to my parents, so people just came up to me with fun new ways to waste time, and most of them were no more or less creepy than any Floridians. I heard them mention every now and then that someone or another went missing. Hobos have a tendency to move around so who knows. Most didn’t seem to want to elaborate at all. They usually just sipped their booze while carefully watching the people who occasionally trotted up and down the seawall, especially the ones who took time to gaze at the spectacular view of the water. People did that a lot, but whenever someone did it for too long the hobos would all watch them, no matter how stoned or fucked up they were, and whisper among themselves about who that person might be.
The park was a long walkway of about a mile and a half along the waterway with my house at one end near a children’s park and exercise area, a long walk leading to a strange cross shaped pier with a dock right next to it and a shuffleboard court in front of it and finally the amphitheater. The views of the water, mangrove islands and the greater island across the way are about as good as you can expect to find in Florida, since there are no mountains or hills to provide vantage points. After that is a long walk under a bridge to two piers, one of which twisted out into small man-made mangrove islands called the “Snook Islands”, which were nice during the day. No one slept on the piers, either the cross shaped one or the two on the far end of the park.
I met a guy named Rickie though, a short Guatemalan immigrant that slept in the amphitheater and had long straggly black hair. He always wore a black and red flannel shirt that must have been hell in the Floridian heat. He had strange, cheap looking tattoos, but he gave me a bag of shrooms once in exchange for a ride to Caridad, a free clinic, so we both considered each other ‘cool’. He slept on the end of the park opposite my home, near the auditorium. He used to help boats out near the docks for money, but a dirty cop used to shake hobos down for their cash and people got into the habit of avoiding handouts in an attempt to avoid attention. He told me people came and went, but that the pavilion near the children’s play center on the south side near my home was the safest. I had wondered why the homeless seemed to congregate near my home and the auditorium instead of the well covered pavilions and temple like structures on the strange piers.
When I took him to Caridad, he went over his perspective of the area. He mentioned a hooker named Tricia used to sleep under the bridge that intersected Bryant Park from the walkways and kayak ramp that surveyed the mangrove islands.
"She was nice. Sweet girl. Horrible thing, they did to her. Much horrible."
He shook his head sadly and seemed to shake just slightly as he did, unsteady with every movement. His inability to fully articulate his thoughts in English didn't take anything away from the sorrow he clearly felt. I briefly wondered if he was much more intelligent than I had assumed. Sometimes good people land in shitty situations.
"She sleep in the auditorium with everyone else. She do tricks, you know, get money, but not much cuz she old. She desperate one night, she need money, so she was talking to everyone, walking around. Everyone, they try to warn her, not to go walking around alone at night, but she need a fix. She didn't come back. But her arm washed up, came back to the pier. The fish wouldn't eat it. Her tattoo was still there."
He shuddered deeply as I wondered if it would be insensitive to go to Havana's, one of the better Cuban restaurants, to get a sandwich to go without offering him anything. I felt instantly relieved, there is no way the fish would ignore any meal.
"Jesus man, that's horrible."
I added something akin to enthusiasm so he wouldn't notice how perfunctory my reaction was. I'm a junkie and lived near L.A. and in South Florida, so I had already heard of people getting chopped up from time to time. I didn't think his story was likely to be 100% true anyways, fish and sea-vermin would eat anything, usually with incredible efficiency.
"We don't go over there no more. You can't talk to people there, you know? Just to be safe. It's still safer at the park than Downtown or on the Island though."
Even among people who didn't do shrooms and get wasted all day, the Island had a mixed reputation as being both beautiful and unnerving. It had some of the nicest architecture in Florida, with wide streets that once allowed horses in many areas and Arabesque influenced turrets adorning otherwise colonial looking buildings that stood out defiantly among newer buildings of various quality. It was relatively expensive to live there (not in comparison to California, of course), but it was absolutely beautiful, with a style and layout that was distinct from any place outside of South Florida. The disemboweled remains of some 17 year old illegal immigrant housekeeper girl had been found in a room in the Flagler Mansion just weeks earlier. The news blamed gang warfare in the Hispanic community across the water and wondered if police precautions had been stepped up enough. According to several very influential and respected hobos, her family was still trying to get police to look into why the autopsy showed her lungs had been filled with smoke and water before she was disemboweled, when there was no water on the body or smoke or fire damage in the ancient wooden pantry she was found in. The homeless avoided the Island like the plague, and it had nothing to do with the police; it was widely understood that one could sleep on the beaches without fear of harassment.
"So where else do you guys sleep?"
He perked up a bit at an inherently brighter subject. I noticed a lesser Cuban restaurant on the side of the road, which strengthened my resolve to enjoy my Dad's M3 all the way across town for the good shit with my new hobo friend.
"I like that park up by Okeechobee, but it's always crowded. Pretty place. Calm, comforting. Refugio tranquilo. You don't have to avoid people at night, like you do at the park. Always scary, even when they ignore you. Not enough room though."
His English was pretty good for someone new to the country who was drunk all the time. Caridad was a miserable place, filled with frightened migrants who all seemed to be in pain. He ended up getting some minor surgery and a tooth pulled, I got some shocking badass shrooms and felt generous enough to get him soup on the way home. After a little more stilted conversation I dropped him off in the parking lot adjacent to the children's playground, right in front of our house but where my parents couldn't see. I was excited as fuck about those shrooms, my weed, some Xanax and my Styrofoam container filled with Cuban delights.
We had been in this house for two months now and I’m positive it isn’t haunted, but there is still some seriously fucked up shit around here. The neighborhood used to be a ghetto, and most of the houses are old wood or cbs shacks and mission style homes that have been continuously updated or massive homes and apartment buildings built in the 1970s with strange almost age of Aquarius meets Art Deco style architecture in the more extravagant ones, with pastel to bright tropical colors on many. It’s recently recovered from the real estate disaster and is now pretty expensive, especially the handful of true Art Deco towers at the end of a strip of bars and restaurants that passes for night life that intersect the intercoastal with the main traffic artery of the area, which then heads to the ritzier Palm Beach island over a large bridge. There were absolutely no young people, no one my age or close, that seemed to come out in public even during the summer, aside from the beaches which were packed.
Three weeks after the trip to Caridad, I had about had it. I wasn't about to introduce myself to anyone at the beach and I was getting tired of getting wasted by myself or worse, with hobos. I found out about pill mills, doctors offices where narcotics flow freely, but spent the majority of my time at the pitiful Wellington Green Mall. It was far away from my place, had nothing in it and I had so far failed to successfully introduce myself to anyone I found attractive there. My being fat and awkward probably didn't help, nor did my being wasted. One night, instead of hanging out with the hobos, I decided to go for a long walk while listening to music. The park was empty, as it usually was the moment the angry, brilliant oranges, turquoise and purples of the Florida sunset receded into the horizon. I was getting tired of the smell of spilled malt liquor and piss. After I passed the auditorium, with it's enclave of homeless, the path along the seawall quietly ducked under the bridge, where not a single car seemed to be passing. It seemed like a better place to sleep, even with the occasional car, than the auditorium with its bright lights and occasional weird buzzing from a device meant to frighten birds away. As i reached the edge of the bridge, I noticed a tiny dachshund running up to me, yapping. I took off my headphones, as if I expected it to have something important to say.
"What's the matter, buddy, are you missing your human?"
I asked the little fella in the voice we all use around cute animals. It was yapping frantically, and I noticed its leash was still attached to its collar, but no one was holding it. When I leaned forward to try and get its collar or leash, it backed away, frightened and yapping more. Then I noticed at the other end of the underpass what looked like the dogs corresponding human. I big meaty dude, he was wearing what looked like a dark grey hoodie that was, even from the distance in the dark, clearly too tight. The hood was down and I could see a helmet of wet black hair. I'm about six three and this guy looked huge to me, so I'm guessing he was at least 6'6' and looked like he was part fridge. He was standing by the seawall, staring out at the water. There was no one else around, so I assumed it was his dog. I heard some yelling from the auditorium and decided that this was more interesting than whatever bum fight was behind me. He was at the other end, in a small benched area near the kayak launch that was obscured by the bridge. It was far enough to believe that the dog had somehow gotten away from him and maybe he was letting the dog explore that option.
"Excuse me, sir, I think your puppy got away!"
The dog was still yapping and running almost up to me before running away, but not quite within range of the man. The man didn't bother turning around. He dropped something in the water, and whatever it was fell in with a splash. His hand relaxed to his sides but he didn't bother acknowledging me or the energetic dog. The bridge itself is a four lane one, making the area under it large enough to be like a hobo cathedral.
"Hey, is this your dog? Is anyone else over there?"
I walked up to him, unable to see past the concrete wall that held up the bridge to know if there was any other potential dog owner over there, possibly looking for their lost friend. The bum fight, or whatever, grew in intensity and I could hear someone shouting something in Spanish.
"The little guy seems lost, he has a leash, but no one to hold it. Is he yours?"
I walked a little closer, then stopped about halfway across the underpath. I was about twenty feet away, maybe twenty five, when I realized that there was something horribly wrong. From the light over the benches I could see wet black hair clinging to the skin of someone's scalp, but the skin itself was wrong. It was a sickening shade of pasty greenish grey, like the skin had a shade of algae or rot. It was slick looking and there was something about it that made me think that it probably had a really mucousy texture. The mans hands were dripping red, and his fingers were long and webbed. He took a step backwards, away from the seawall and towards me, but didn't turn around. He cocked his head to the side, as if listening for something and took another step backwards, towards me.
"Holy fucking shit, are you alright?"
For some reason, despite suddenly being very afraid of this man, my reaction was to ask if he needed help. He still stood like a statue, both arms at his sides. I took another few cautious steps forward, in a vain attempt to get a better look around the corner, when suddenly the mans head turned to face me. Not the rest of his body, just his head, which swiveled on his shoulders like an owls. That was when I realized that he definitely didn't need my help. Whatever 'he' was, as his body slowly lurched to face me I saw that his mouth was impossibly wide, stretching from ear to ear, and filled with massive blunt teeth. A few strings of gore hung between the teeth, which reminded me of a hippopotamuses mouth. I couldn't see his eyes, but they were darker than they should have been, and wild strands of black hair clung to what looked like rubbery, slick pale green-grey skin. I heard footsteps rapidly coming behind me and Rickie shouting.
"No! No! No! Get away! Turn!"
I looked over and saw him coming, frantically shouting down the walkway from the auditorium. When I turned around again to face the man, he had turned around and was lumbering quickly towards me. It made a deep, gasping grunt sound and I could see black slits on the side of its neck inflame as it made noise. Its eyes were black around the sclera instead of white, with fat purple gashes running vertically up what would be a much larger than normal eyeball to begin with. The front of the hoodie was torn and covered in blood. A sleeve was detached but still tightly wrapped around one of the things thick arms. Its pants were soaking wet tatters fitted around legs that looked like tree trunks. It moved step by step in a strange gait, maneuvering long flat feet to the sides almost like a penguin, but faster. I felt Ricky's hand grab my arm and yank me roughly away, finally spurring me to action. I turned and ran like holy hell. I could hear strange flopping steps and a gasping, angry sound coming from the thing chasing us. Close behind him was the angry, determined yips of the dog. We were out from under the bridge in a second, but the nearest people were in the auditorium. I could see their shocked and frightened faces. At least one of them was walking away quickly, as if he planned on telling police that he 'hadn't seen anything'.
"Oh shit oh shit oh shit!"
Was what my attempt to ask Rickie what the fuck that thing was sounded like. I could hear the thing gaining ground behind us when suddenly Rickie's foot must have caught one of the many holes in the ground next to the walkway made by dogs digging during brighter hours. He went down with a frightened shout. I turned my head to see what happened, just as the thing wrapped massive, thick fingers around Rickies ankle and lifted his leg up, picking up Rickie and holding him upside down with his foot approaching its face. Rickie screamed bloody murder and reached his hand out to me when I saw the thing that was holding his leg instantly detach its jaw down like a snakes, with a sickening pop. Its mouth was impossibly wide, with a black snake-like tongue lashing out of the back. Before I could take a step in either direction it closed its mouth with a horrible crunch, and I could see shards of bone and gore fly from what was left of the bottom of Rickies leg. Gore rushed from the things mouth as its blunt teeth crushed bone instantly. Rickies screaming turned instantly into a crying hysterical laugh, and he flailed pathetically at the monstrous thing while it wobbled its head with his foot in its mouth, clearly trying to rip the foot free like a piece of meat. Its eyes were closed and seemed suddenly pressed under the slightly transparent skin of thick eyelids.
"Help me! Help me!"
Rickie screamed desperately while flailing at whatever he could reach, his voice warping with pain and terror. The thing holding him turned away from me, Rickie in hand, while I slowly stepped away. I wish I could say I was more heroic, but I probably wouldn't be around to say anything if I was. In one smooth, fluid motion, the thing maneuvered over to the sea wall with Rickie in hand and simply fell backwards into the water. He let out one last anguished cry, his arms flapping against the concrete in a desperate attempt to keep himself from going over, but first his leg went over, bending at a horrific angle with a grinding crunch as the weight of the thing pulled him into the water immediately over the concrete edge.
"Rickie, no!"
For the split second where the thing wasn't visible but Rickie was, I took a step in his direction and saw his eyes as he reached out. But his leg was over the wall in the next split second, and the back of his head smacked into the concrete. Just three, maybe four feet away I saw his limp hand slide over the concrete and into the water below on the other side. A bloody trail was all that was left of him as the yapping dachshund and I stared at the place where they had disappeared. In just two seconds that thing had picked him up, taken a bite out and gone back to the water. After a few seconds, maybe even a minute, I noticed the reflection of blue and red lights and the siren that let me know Rickie's last words were heard. I turned and ran like hell. When I got home my lungs burned and my vision was blurry. I ran straight to the bathroom and puked. My mom asked me if I had too much to drink and I just weakly nodded yes. Thank God there aren't any cameras around or the cops probably would have found me and asked me a lot of questions.
I wasn't sure if it had actually happened or not the next day. I drove over the bridge and looked down at where Rickie disappeared, but I didn't see any blood. I was inclined to believe that maybe I was tripping balls or something, but I saw in the Palm Beach Post sometime later that a young woman had gone missing while walking her dachshund, but that the familiar looking dog had made it home. Police were offering a reward for any tips, but I doubt anyone told them Rickie was missing to begin with. The hobos would never say shit. I would never go walking at that park again, and told my parents and sister how many dangerous junkies were there at any chance I got. I told them I had gotten mugged and some other crazy shit, I tried to make it as scary as possible while being realistic. I made plans to move out the next day and got a shitty telemarketing job to make sure it was possible. I slept in my car in a Wal-Mart parking lot instead of my bed, it was nice and cozy, a few miles inland. I was terrified that whatever the thing was, it might take an interest in my family, or not give a shit how far away from the water I was.
Its been about six months now, and I finally worked up the nerve to go back last night for dinner. As I was putting away some dishes from dinner I saw Rickie's red and black flannel shirt again through our sliding glass back door. Something was wearing it, standing next to the sea wall. This time, it wasn't pretending to look out over the water. I tried desperately to pretend that I didn't see it staring at me.