I almost came to a point where I scrapped this whole thing. Just crumbled these papers up and tossed ‘em into the fire pit. Sobriety nudged me into changing my mind, of course. Sort of ashamed to admit to how many cans and bottles I’ve put to bed since I started reminiscing about Ducky. Don’t know how he’d take to me going through all of this again—he was the type that stuck to the motto of ‘dead is dead’. Guessing he’d probably have leapt right back into the path of the speeding drug train if I’d come to him with this when he was still alive and kicking. I’d thought about it a time or two—in those fleeting moments where we’d shake hands or hug (if it had been more than a month since we’d crossed paths). Friendship has a weird way of storing memories. You muck around from day to day and sometimes you forget where you put your glasses or you forget how to change the clock on the microwave but then that random spark will ignite somewhere in the back of your head and you’ll run through hours and hours of time you spent with the people that mattered the most. And sure enough, you probably won’t miss many of the details either. Like the old home movie reels still work and you don’t even have to worry about any of the scenes skipping or missing altogether.
Ducky had changed a bit after that night in the woods. I didn’t think much of it—he was always a little on edge and sometimes his moods changed more than an actor’s wardrobe on Broadway. When school got going for us, he seemed fine. Not great. Not terrible. Just…fine. School always made him nervous, he said. He was never completely comfortable around so many people at once. And it didn’t take more than a five minute conversation with the guy to realize that he wasn’t working with the sharpest tools upstairs. He hovered around the lower forth of the class; a C and D student who put in as much effort as he could afford. Which, most of the time, wasn’t a whole lot. That bastard of a father he had really took him for more than he needed to. And Ducky didn’t have the spine to stand up for himself; at least not when it came to matters at home. Which, I suppose, is why my parents never once openly questioned (to me) why he was at our house almost all of the time. Adults have that sense when it comes to kids that are in trouble. Well, the adults with a functional electrical system attached to their necks anyway. I always loved them for that. I knew—well, hindsight knew—that things for Ducky would have probably blown sky high a lot sooner than they did if he didn’t have our family to come to.
I knew that something was going on with him—that being around the first week of school or so—when I found him in the boy’s bathroom during our lunch break. He’d been busted for smoking about half a dozen times by then—not that the punishment from the school had even teetered toward discouraging him from continuing. His old man, well, that was a different story. Frank Simpson didn’t exactly doll out punishment in the form of detention and suspension. He was more of a fist and screaming disciplinarian. I found a great example of it that day at lunch. The black eye was so swollen and discolored that you could have put ‘ol Ducky on one end of a football field and a few of us on the other and just about everyone looking would have seen the damn thing.
“There’s something wrong with ‘em, Rod,” Ducky whimpered. He’d been crying—I could see it all over his face.
“Your dickhead dad? Yeah, there sure is,” I said. Anytime Ducky came around with a new bruise or welt, I felt the same on the inside. A very unhealthy mixture of anger and sadness that liked to work its way up my gullet until it started to bottleneck. By the look of him that day, I had leaned toward the idea that Ducky was probably going to be even more of a permanent resident at our house.
“Not this. I mean, yeah, he’s a piece of shit for this. But it’s something else, man. He hasn’t been the same since…since…shit…”
“Since that night in the woods?”
Ducky nodded. “I don’t know what happened out there. I heard a lot but I really don’t have a clue.”
He started to look around—taking a few seconds to make sure we were totally alone—and then he pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and handed it to me. I saw him look away and start to shake a little. I unfolded the page and I swear…I do swear…I heard something crack behind my eyes—that’s how damn wide they got.
It was a sketch of a tall figure covered in a black sludge. It had what looked like long fingers on about three or four different hands. The slime covered thing stared back at me with yellow eyes—whoever had drawn this up had taken the time to color in the eyes. A dark tree line sat in the distance.
“What the hell is this?” I asked.
“Don’t you know? It’s Mr. Goopy,” Ducky said. Another tear rolled down his face and he hastily swiped it away.
“Duck, I always appreciate your art skills. I do. But this pretty weird. Even for you.”
I thought he was going to get pissed at that—there was that sort a vibe between us in that moment. But no. Ducky just smirked.
“My old man did it. That one and about forty more.”
That caused me to take a little bit of a pause and take another run at looking over the drawing. I don’t want to make it seem like what I saw on the page scared me—it didn’t—but I sure didn’t feel all that great about it either. Once Ducky told me that his dad was the artist, I got a real deep sinking feeling in my gut.
“I figured…you know…what they done out there that night had to have fucked with some of ‘em. Eckhart quit the force, did you know that?”
“I’d heard,” I said.
“You know why?” Ducky asked. I shook my head. I’d spotted the headline in the paper and that’s about where I’d left it.
“Ed Taylor was over at our place a few nights ago. I heard ‘em talking—couple other guys down there too that I didn’t know. They said Eckhart hadn’t been the same since that night in the woods either. Kept talking about how he was drinking non-stop. Even going out on patrol after knocking back a few.”
“I’m sure killing a man takes its toll on a person. Maybe a bit more if you pretend you’re a bunch of fucking cowboys looking for frontier justice,” I said.
“I thought the same. Lot of soft-dick little boys toting around their guns like they used to when they was kids. But it was my dad that spoke up after. Said that all of ‘em there knew what had happened—what had really happened. He told ‘em that Eckhart just needed some time to work through it all. He’d been the one that had gone in front of all them reporters and cameras and told the whole town—the whole area—that they’d nabbed their man and that was that.
“Then I heard one of the others start to talk. He said that everyone was just on edge ‘cause there was a chance they got the wrong guy. Said that getting all worked up and in a huff wasn’t going to change what they’d done. And it wasn’t going to bring them back.”
“Hang on. What do you mean they might have gotten the wrong guy? And who’s them?” I asked. There hadn’t been a whiff of talk or rumor about anything like that. At least none that had found their way over to me. The bell rang right then; it was time to pack it up and get on to our next class.
“I’ll tell you later,” Ducky said. “There is a lot more going on than you realize.”
Of course, Ducky didn’t need to tell me anything ‘cause I found out that bit on my own. Just like I found out about the three folks they found in the woods.
—
There was a bit of news that got lost in the shuffle once the town had settled. That being the three missing men. Now, I guess this memory aint so spectacular like I thought. Had to go back and do a little research to get their names. James Hawkins (42), Randy Linger (58), and John Tyler (25) was the three that ended up being reported missing by their families. ‘Course, I couldn’t help but think about what Ducky had said he’d overheard. That getting all worked up wasn’t going to bring them back. Teenage me quietly wondered if the two situations were connected. Ducky said that there were a few guys out in the woods that night—he’d only laid his eyes on a couple. There was searches for those fellas that stretched all through the summer months. Officially speaking, the cops had stopped looking for those men about less than a week after they’d been reported missing. There were little contingents of townspeople here and there that took a few hours every day and scoured different sections of the woods. Volunteers mostly—men and women who either knew the guys that were gone or just wanted to be good neighbors. ‘Course, as expected, there was plenty of hearsay and chatter concerning why each of ‘em was gone. Popular rumor had James Hawkins on the run ‘cause he got caught with his pants down (literally) with a fifteen-year-old girl near the Leeton Elementary School playground. Randy Linger—a noted drunk and problem gambler—had supposedly been spotted in the Pittsburgh Airport getting ready to board a plane to Las Vegas. Much like Henry Simpson, Randy Linger had come back from the war missing a few chunks of himself (and his left leg). There weren’t any juicy or salacious stories about John Tyler. The only rumor that made the rounds was that he’d left his girlfriend (Anna; who had been six months pregnant at the time) and ran off to join a cult somewhere in California. That’s just more sad than anything.
Day after Ducky and me had our little bathroom chat is when they found those men out in the woods. I’ll say this much—the timing was eerie. Maybe more than eerie in a way. Coincidences have a way of making things look much bigger than they really are. Still, when I heard the sirens kick up, I remember that empty feeling filling up my guts. And yeah, this came before the phone call from Ducky. Suppose you’d call that an omen. A warning. Or maybe—just maybe—part of me knew that there was a monster storm on the horizon and it’d come calling with a siren.
I couldn’t tell you how I found out the real story ‘bout those men getting found. And that’s not from some secrecy pact or nothing—I just don’t remember. The pieces that decided to stick paint a picture like this: a father and his two daughters were on an early morning hike through them woods. We were removed from the murders and Leeton police had made countless assurances that the woods were once again safe (from wild-eyed murderers, that was). I do remember asking why the girls weren’t in school and my recollection tells me that they weren’t public school kids. Home schooled or ones that got shipped off to one of those fancy ass private schools. Not a point of major importance. The three of ‘em was hiking down near the creek (which they called the Silver Eye Creek back then) and one of the girls stopped ‘cause she thought she saw something swimming in the water. It wasn’t exactly something swimming as it was something floating. Happened to be an arm—one that the authorities believed belonged to John Tyler.
Few hours after, all three bodies had been recovered. They’d found what was left of James Hawkins pinned under a couple of large rocks close to where the creek dumped into the river. John Tyler—sans arm—had been found tangled up in a thicket of bushes about fifty yards from the creek bed. Randy Linger—going by what I’d heard—had been found not too far away from Hawkins—his head turned almost all the way around. Police were quiet on the whole thing; outside of identifying the men to the paper once the families had been notified and all. Official word was that the trio had gone out to either camp or fish (perhaps both) and had gotten lost. Red flag shot right to the sky there; most folks in town knew that the only way Randy Linger would get lost is if he’d managed to go blind. And even then, some believed he could still navigate his way back home. Linger—as I was told—was part of a special navigation team when he was in the service. He’d also spent his entire life in Leeton and out in those woods. The whole thing smelled funny. Didn’t matter though. That was the story and the boys in blue stuck to it. They made the claim that a wild animal (or several) was responsible for their deaths. Look, I aint no wildlife expert or nothing but can you name me an animal that can turn a man’s head all the way around?
There was a piece that never made the official reports or papers. It sort of floated in and out of mouths around town for weeks and months but I guess no one on the force would admit to any of it. The whole case was one of those hush-hush deals. Even my parents tried to keep their conversations about it quiet and to themselves. But as stories go, word finally got ‘round in school about what the whole scene had looked like. Wasn’t much changed in how the bodies was found—that stayed just about the same. It was what they supposedly found near the deceased that had everyone in a tizzy fit. Found near and on, so I was told. A whole lot of black sludge.
I couldn’t help but think of Ducky when I heard that. It fit right into his version of the story—running under the grand assumption that there was something else out there in the woods that night. What came next, well, it put enough of the puzzle together that I didn’t need to look at the box in order to finish it.
—
Police had arrested a man by the name of Jerome Alsner just outside of Philadelphia roughly about two weeks after Eckhart and his rag-tag team of bloodthirsty vigilantes had gone into the woods with their guns and pitchforks and torches. Alsner—according to the papers—had been spotted trying to break into a car around 4:30 in the morning. Normally an offense like that would have landed a man in jail, sure, but when the arresting officer noticed the fresh blood on Alsner’s jeans, things took a bit of a turn. When things settled, Alsner admitted that he’d just come from killing a woman in an apartment building somewhere in downtown Philly (name was not given). There wasn’t much debate on the truth behind that confession—Alsner had a bag on him when the cops had spotted him trying to get into the car. At first glance, it was a bag full of junk. Cheap watches. Gaudy jewelry. Pieces of clothing that didn’t match. Strange, sure. Alsner said that he’d been drifting for about eight months. He’d started out of Cleveland, Ohio and slowly worked his way east. Anyone out and about that long is bound to pick up a few trinkets. It was the ten-inch hunting knife that caught the eye of the arresting officer. According to Alsner’s statement, he’d ‘grown tired of walking and killing’. When pressed, Alsner claimed that he’d slain at least twenty people along his trek towards the coast.
“The best crop of bodies was in this little town called Leeton,” Alsner had said on record. “That place was a goldmine for death. I wasn’t a shy cowpoke when I rolled on in there. No sir. But I knew if I had been, then I would have still been able to do what I done. Stabbing them throats gave me more of a rush than being with a woman.”
The conversation Ducky had overheard seemed to have a bit more weight to it; at least from the point of thinking that those men had indeed killed the wrong man. If Alsner had been responsible for the murders in Leeton—not Bob—then the guilt must have been enormous for Henry Simpson, Eckhart, and the others.
Guess I already knew what was going to come next. I had tried and tried but getting that fucking image of Goopy out of my head was as close as impossible as anything I’ve ever tried. Swear, for weeks, it was the last thing I saw before I fell asleep. Those giant yellow eyes just staring down at me from some dark hole in the universe. Oh, how Ben would have laughed and laughed if he’d caught wind of any of that. “You’re such a fucking sissy, Rod,” he’d say. Perhaps that autumn, I was being a bit of a wuss. Airing on the side of caution that yielded the most benefit and the least risk had often been my singular path through life. One that some would say is rather dull, I’m sure. But I seemed to get along just fine. Still, that damned sketch followed me around corner it seemed. It would even slip into my nightmares on occasion. Long stretches of restless dream that saw me running from something in the woods—something that I could never quite see but always knew was just a step or three behind. Always told myself that I needed to keep running. Never, ever look back. Just go on forward and never stop. ‘Cause I knew if I did, I’d see those evil yellow eyes back there just ready to strike.
—
End of that week, I got over to Ducky’s place just before the sun came crashing down. After our talk in the boy’s room, I didn’t see ‘em for the next few days. I called a couple of times and always got told the same thing. ‘He’s just under the weather, Rod. He’ll give you a call when he’s feeling better’.
Now, looking at the situation from my perspective, I knew the chances of Ducky actually being sick were about as good as a Playboy model knocking on my bedroom window at 2:00 in the morning wanting me to show her a good time and then some. That’s not to say that Ducky wasn’t feeling bad—I’m quite sure he was—just not from the flu or whatever the hell story his mother had drubbed up. She knew what Henry was like just like the rest of us did. I don’t know what they call it when a mother won’t stick up for her own kid when he’s getting thumped around; ‘course, we always figured that Mrs. Simpson probably faced her fair share of knuckles and curses too. Doubt she cared to share that but maybe—and this is a dark, dreadful thought—but maybe she never said nothing ‘cause she didn’t mind getting a break from Henry’s wrath. Seemed, too, like little George had always managed to skirt around his father’s wrath. But, again back to a horrible truth, I never paid much attention to George Simpson. He was there, sure, but had a quiet way to him. He wasn’t like Jen—a sticky note that glues itself to your shadow and refuses to leave.
As soon as I laid eyes on Ducky that afternoon, I knew why he’d been out of sight all week. Suppose it’d be tough for anyone to go out sporting two shiners and a lip that looked like a bobcat had tried to tear it off. There were splotches of yellow and purple on his neck and throat. He would have been the ‘other guy’ in the standard ‘you should see the other guy’ spiel.
“I don’t even know what to say, man,” I said. Now, I knew I had plenty to say. Probably a couple sheets of paper worth of expletives and angry ramblings. But what good would it have done? He knew what had been done to ‘em. He certainly didn’t need me standing there preaching to him about saving himself. Ducky wasn’t the type to sit there and act like he was the one at fault. He didn’t try to measure out his mistakes in conjunction with the beatings he was getting. There was something keeping him at that house—something that I could see lingering behind the little black dots in his eyes.
“Things are getting worse,” he said. “I think he’s going to kill us soon.”
Pretty sure all of the blood drained out of my face at that point. I’d kind of gotten used to seeing him all mangled and bloodied. But when he said that he thought his dad was going to kill them, it was like someone had stabbed me in the back with an icicle and left it there to melt all over my organs.
“If you think he’s capable of that, then why don’t you call the cops?” I asked. Ducky just shrugged. He fucking shrugged—like, ‘I don’t know…I guess we’ll see what happens’.
“Ducky, man. Come on. This is serious. Look at you. Not a damn thing right with what he’s done,” I said in a fury. My blood had been set to boil and I knew if Henry Simpson had walked in at that moment, I would have leapt at him with everything I had in me (that’s what I kept telling myself anyway…the mind of a child operates in realms of naïve foolishness).
“What are the cops going to do, Rod? Think! What the fuck are they going to do?”
Even more of that chill had spilled down into my legs and up into my throat.
“Christ, everyone in town knows that your dad is a whack job. And I’m sure they all know how he takes it out on you guys. One look at your face and he’ll be sleeping on a metal bench for a good while.”
This moment—the one here—still makes me break out in bumps and worry. Ducky looked at me and he started to laugh. Like, he really let it off. He sat there and howled and howled like we were watching All in the Family or The Tonight Show.
“My old man is a prick. And a killer. But it’s not him I’m worried about.”
It took me back a way hearing him say that.
“Then who?”
“Mr. Goopy. It’s real, Rod. Goopy is fucking real. And it’s coming for my family.”
I remember standing there for what felt like hours. Like, somehow, time itself had been stretched well beyond how we perceive it to function. Ducky’s expression never changed either. I didn’t know if he was just doing a bit or if he truly believed in what he’d said—though as we went along, I sort of leaned toward him being incredibly serious.
“Look at these!” Ducky said, shoving a handful of papers into my face. I had to take a few steps back before snatching them from him. “Don’t you see how close it is?”
He’d handed me more sketches of Mr. Goopy. Or something that was supposed to represent Goopy. I didn’t know then. Sure don’t know now. But I sure as shit didn’t want to look at those damn drawings anymore. Dreams were bad enough after just the one—this was at least twenty. Maybe more. I didn’t exactly stand there and count ‘em. But it was almost like I didn’t have a choice. Pretty obvious that they’d gotten stranger. Every time I turned to the next page, the figure seemed to get taller. Well, no. Think a better way to put it would be that it looked like it was getting closer. And of course, Ducky’s old man had taken the time to color in the eyes. Those sickly yellow eyes. Sort of felt like I was holding one of them flipbooks—you know, you hold onto the corner and let the pages go so it gives you a moving picture.
“I want to show you something,” Ducky said. “Out back.”
He marched us into the backyard and pointed to a sunken in patch of dirt near the flowerbed his mother kept during the summer.
“What am I looking at?” I asked.
“Footprints,” Ducky said. “They started back by the fence. Came up here. And then…”
He pointed over toward the stone steps that led up to the tiny landing that acted as a back porch. It was like we’d fallen head first into a Hardy Boys story and were just about to crack the case (though I don’t remember too many of those books containing monsters).
Sure enough, there were another set of prints on the landing. ‘Course, they weren’t typical looking footprints. Can’t even tell you that they looked like marking a foot would make. What we was looking at was…longer. Like they was made by them silly clown shoes or something. Extra-long streaks of dirt and mud.
“Found those the other morning. Fresh ones are on the other side of the house,” Ducky said. ‘Fore I could even ask him a single question, he’d already made his way to the side of his house. I didn’t follow ‘em right away. I had to get one more look at the prints on the landing—assuming that’s what they was. I made myself bend down to get a closer look. Certainly was an outline of…something. Plenty of dirt and mud. But there was something else too. I almost stuck my finger to it—just to see—but common sense slapped me upside the head and told me to back away. Figure I really didn’t need to touch whatever it was. Rather obvious once I got my eyes focused in on it. Looked like oil. There wasn’t much of it, mind you, but there was just enough. I hated to admit it, but I hadn’t really believed what Ducky had been saying. And his thoughts on the matter set aside, it sure looked like someone—or something—had been standing near that back door. Maybe even close enough to be looking inside.
“What are you doing?” Ducky asked. He’d come back to fetch me, I guess. I apologized and followed him around to the side of the house. It was like following a little kid who’s very eager to show you a flower or a frog that he just found. There was that childlike enthusiasm to the way he moved. Perhaps it was just excitement that stemmed from him finally sharing his theory on the matter at hand. Not sure how else I’d describe it. I think Ducky had been carrying a big bag of secrets for a really long time and it felt good to unload some of them.
“Window to my parent’s room,” Ducky said. He pointed down to a spot just below the framework. The grass there had been crushed almost totally flat. And just like the other spots, there were long depressions that certainly looked like footprints. Ducky hadn’t been fooling around when he said that those ones were fresh. Seeing as how we was looking at the grass, I couldn’t really differentiate the dirt and the crud from what may have already been there. Didn’t matter; the sludge was thick. And there was plenty of it. My mind brought up the same image as earlier—something standing right outside of the window. Getting in a spot so it could look inside. And then what?
“I’m scared, Rod.”
“Duck, I mean…you think…you can’t think this was Goopy,” I said.
“Why not?”
“That’s a story, man. It isn’t real.”
“Then what is this? Explain this!” he shouted. I hated making him mad. I also hated that I couldn’t just take a step back from my own perception of rational thinking. This was a time when my friend needed me and the only thing I could do for him was try to convince him that he was making it up.
“It’s dirt and mud. I don’t know what you want me to say. Look, maybe your parents were just out here doing work? Or maybe your dad was out at the bar and came home late and stumbled around?”
Ducky shook his head and I knew he was trying to fight off that feeling of being totally helpless. He never liked to cry in front of anyone—especially me.
“I hear it out there, Rod. Almost every night. I hear it walking around. I hear those same damn squishing sounds that I heard in the woods.”
“And it’s rained almost every day. Duck, come on. You’re just letting your imagination get away from you. Swear, I think your old man has knocked you around one too many times.”
See, that was the tipping mistake right there. Looking back, I don’t know what kept me from sticking to Ducky’s side that day. Hearing him out and trying to see things from how he saw ‘em. You know, I never cared much for what other folks said and thought. That’s the easiest way for things to get all bent outta shape and twisted ‘round these parts. Survived this long just being my own person and staying out of everyone’s way. But I always cared about what Ducky thought. Especially about me. But that day, I swear, he could have told me that the sun was yellow and the grass was green and I would have fought him on it. I don’t think it was much of a matter of not believing him. It was more of not wanting to believe him. ‘Cause if I took him at his word, then what did that mean? That I was idling along my own edge of going whacky? I didn’t want to believe that he’d even seen a shadow of a shadow. Kids tend to jump at every loud noise and tree branch scraping against their windows during a wind storm. Moonlight comes in the right way and catches an animal—well, you probably gonna see all sorts of stuff. Mind works funny like that sometimes.
“Fuck you! Fuck you!” Ducky screamed. He was red in the face with the kind of hurt that only comes from betrayal. I saw it in his eyes—that pain that swells when your words fall on deaf ears.
“Ducky…man…maybe you need…uh…maybe you need to see someone?” I said.
“See someone? Like a shrink? You think I’m crazy, right? Well fuck you, Rod! I’m not crazy! THAT THING IS OUT THERE!”
“Goopy isn’t real,” I said. My voice had dropped almost to where I couldn’t even hear myself speak. “It’s a story. Just a story. Your old man is sick in the head. He needs help. You all need help. Come back to my house, man. We’ll get away from all this.”
Ducky shook his head.
“Go. Just go home,” he said blankly. I’ll never forget how his eyes shifted away from mine. How they stared at the trees behind us. It reminded me…ugh…it reminded me of how Henry looked when he was drunk. Far away.
The grenade had been dropped on our friendship and yeah, I’ll take the blame. All of it. Believing or not, I should have done better. I can’t speak for Ducky but I often thought that I was the only person he had in the world that he truly knew he could count on. And when things got shaken up and tossed in a batter of ugly, unexplainable shit, I turned tail and barely held out a hand to help him come along. Things like that stay with a man—knowing that you took the road most often traveled and willingly left behind someone that you cared about. Ducky knew something was wrong and he knew something was going to happen. And there aint nothing comfortable about any of it. Wasn’t back then. Still isn’t now. See, legends—stories—like Mr. Goopy get that way ‘cause people don’t want to face facts ‘bout other people. Ducky’s old man got away with killing another man—four in total, if you believe the next part. But it ate at him. Had to. Dug into his soul like a rusty hoe. Henry Simpson sat ‘round drawing Mr. Goopy, getting drunk while he did it, and then when the getting was good, he took all that anger and piss out on his family. On his wife. On his oldest son. And eventually, things got to be too much for ‘em and he snapped.
And yeah, sure, maybe a part of me thought that Henry and Eckhart and those other guys saw something in the woods that night. And maybe a part of me considered that Goopy had followed them afterwards. Stood by just watching ‘em. All of ‘em. Anyone could make the case for the strange prints at Ducky’s place. And the same sort of case could be made for the weird gunk that they found in Eckhart’s car after he’d gotten blackout drunk and crashed head-on with a telephone pole. Or how they found Ed Taylor hanging in his barn—oil and sludge all over him. Even coming out of his mouth. Maybe if Goopy was real, it would have been a lot easier for folks to stomach all the bad shit that happened. Process goes a whole lot smoother when you got a patsy to pin all the troubles on—even if that patsy is a tall tale.
—
There came a time when I got real close to asking Ducky to forgive me. But I never did. And somehow I knew he never would. After all, he came to me when things were just nudging and nuzzling close to the end and I couldn’t bring myself to believe him. And we’d stuck to our own little worlds after that. Ducky had basically dropped out of school to take care of things at home. His dad had let everything fall apart. Bills had gone unpaid for months. Food was scarce; the bulk of the grocery money (while they still had some) had gone to liquor and cartons of smokes. Ducky managed to get hired on at Makar’s—a two-pump gas station that used to sit right on the north edge of town. ‘Course, that didn’t last very long. Three weeks maybe. Could have been less. Time is strange when you’re looking at its contents from far away. Point being, this is when I got the phone call from Ducky. When the nightmare slipped out from the dream world and landed on my front porch.
Two accounts of what happened to the Simpson family exist. The official story and the one that I managed to get out of Ducky years later (and I ‘spose my own theory makes a 3rd). Media painted a picture of a family in crisis. A father with lingering mental wounds that followed him all the way from Korea. A man who drank too much and finally succumbed to the pressures of the world. Police ruled it a double murder/suicide. Henry Simpson had killed his wife and his youngest son that night. Somehow—by the sheer will of luck or divine intervention—Ducky had managed to survive albeit losing an eye in the process. The family had sat down for dinner that evening and the events that unfolded led all four parties into the kitchen. A tragic ending to one of the bloodiest summers in Leeton’s already gore-soaked history.
It didn’t come as much of a shock when we heard the news. Unfortunately, there are obvious preludes to acts of violence and we (as in, me and my family) sat back and watched every bit of it unfold and never once lifted a finger in the hopes of maybe making a change. We all knew the kind of person Henry was; me more than the others when you take into account Ducky’s story about him lending a hand and a gun the night the night the drifter was killed. Does that make us partly responsible? Did we have a duty—as friends and as human beings—to try and step in before things took the turn they did? My dad used to tell me that folks often stuck their noses in places not meant for ‘em. That sometimes it was best to take a step back and let things go as nature intends. I always thought that was his way of saying it’s best to keep to you and your own. But perhaps it was his way of saying that some folks aren’t built for confrontation. That maybe regret and hindsight are easier to handle than the courage needed to make a stand. I never got the chance to ask him what he really meant by that.
—
If you want my version of what I think happened, here it is: Henry Simpson was psychotic. And after that night in the woods, his already fragile psyche had finally snapped like a twig. He’d allowed his conscious mind to be infiltrated with a running delusion that he had seen Mr. Goopy and that the creature had followed him—and the others—back home. Perhaps Henry even took it even further. He could have covered himself in oil and mud and God knows what else. Spent time during the twilight hours making it look like one of Leeton’s most disturbing urban legends was true. And when the night came and his damaged, sour brain had enough, he took a knife and stabbed his wife. He followed suit with little George. When Ducky tried to intervene, Henry got in a few parting shots and taught him one final lesson by removing his eye with the same knife. He covered the kitchen in that same mixture of sludge that he’d been covering himself with. And then, to seal the deal, he took the knife and ran it right across his own throat. I think that Ducky suffered from some of the same issues as his old man and allowed the whole Goopy situation to consume him as well. I went back to that phone call time and time again—snipping what I heard and pasting it into the narrative that I wanted to believe. Henry Simpson—done up in his own Goopy “costume”—going after his own family. The thought of it didn’t sit well then. Still doesn’t now. Brings on a certain feeling of despair, I guess. A slap in the face from hindsight. Ducky was terrified from the start and I sat there like a fool and listened and kept it at that. I never acted. I never stuck my neck out for the one person who would have stepped in front of the firing squad for me. And all because of what? Because I didn’t want to believe a story about a monster? Because I refused to accept the notion that things aren’t exactly painted in black and white?
Ducky never returned to school. Not being of age yet, he was put into the state system. He toiled ‘round in that maze until he turned 18. Then, just as quick as they’d snatched him up, he was cut loose and told to fend for himself. As you can figure, there was plenty of talk ‘round the halls of Leeton High ‘bout what happened. Was Ducky a victim meant to be pitied? Or was he actually responsible for the death of his family? I wish I hadn’t heard that particular rumor (landed me a three day suspension when I punched Davey Lewis in the mouth after he asked me what it was like having a best friend that was a killer). What I should have done is just stepped back and told him that Ducky wasn’t my best friend anymore. That I’d royally screwed the pooch.
Now, like things tend to do after a while, the talk slowed to a simmer and eventually stopped altogether. There were other matters that leapt up the importance ladder (things like prom and graduation and those first breathless moments when you finally made your way to the backseat of your car). I tried my very best to keep Ducky from fading away in my mind. But I aint perfect. Not by a long shot. But something told me—that little voice that hangs out in the way back—that I’d see Ducky again one day.
And I did. Took seven years. But I did.
—
Been dreading this part. You’d think some of the earlier stuff would have been tougher but somehow it spilled out like I’d just knocked over a cup of coffee. I’ve been putting this off for days and days. Left this notebook just sitting on the desk and paid it no attention. But that nagging little voice came back and told me that I needed to finish Ducky’s story. That I needed to get his version of the truth out there. Will it ever get that far? Aint for me to say. Always figure if something is meant to be known, it’ll find its way out for the world to see.
1981. I’d left Leeton behind and started a new chapter in life. Graduated from University of Pittsburgh with decent grades. Started a viable career working for UPMC (I’d somehow found my way into psychiatry if you can believe it). Had myself a little apartment downtown. Things was alright as they could be. Even started dating a real sweet girl named Hannah Dowling (we met in our final year at school). Didn’t last more than a few years but they was good years. Strong years. ‘Spose compatibility wears out after a while. Seems to be the case for the folks in my life anyway.
(For those wondering…I was married from 1987 to 2010. And if there is a Heaven, I know my dear Laura is looking down on me now as I work my way through all this. Miss you, dove).
But this aint ‘bout that. 1981. April. Was a pretty cold morning when I got that call that most folks are terrified of getting. It was Jen telling me that dad had passed away overnight. Complications with his heart. An outcome we’d knew was inevitable. But just ‘cause something is bound to happen don’t ever mean that you’re ready for it. How death works, I guess. It isn’t gonna give you a letter ahead of time letting you know the particulars.
I was surprised to see Ducky at the viewing. Didn’t quite recognize him at first. He’d let his hair grow ‘bout halfway down his back. Bushy beard that was speckled with plenty of gray and white—quite odd for someone who’d not even turned 22 yet. I remember thinking he looked too skinny. Almost like something had come along and sucked just about everything out of him. Big black eyepatch covering the hole in his skull. He had on a wrinkled pair of jeans and a dress shirt that looked to be a few sizes too big. It was actually Jen who pointed him out to me.
“You should go talk to him,” she said. I knew she was right but I couldn’t outright admit it. Far too much shame in that. To me, it was almost looking at a ghost and hearing him ask the same question over and over.
Why didn’t you help me? Why weren’t you there when I needed you?
“There’s no way he wants to talk to me,” I said.
“He’s here, isn’t he?” she said. “I think it’s time you two patched things up.”
I wanted to tell her that it wasn’t as simple as just shaking hands and agreeing to dump the past into the river. I wanted to explain to her that Ducky had rightfully held a grudge for years and that I had no good way of explaining myself. She’d already started talking to an older couple who had approached to offer their condolences and a viewing was no place to hold any sort of argument. Much like this story, I had no idea where to even begin with Ducky.
Thankfully, he started it for me. For us.
—
“Real sorry about your dad,” Ducky said. His voice had changed since we’d last spoken. There was a phlegmy rawness to it—like he’d taken to smoking a few packs a day.
(By then, he had…and then some)
Standing that close to him, I really started to notice how much older he looked. There was no overlying vibrant youth. His eye was narrow. Sunken. Deep lines cut into his forehead. His skin—quite tanned—looked almost like old leather that had been left out in a rain storm. It was though time had treated him far different than it had the rest of us.
“Thanks,” I said. I felt an avalanche of words rolling around in my head. “He’d be thrilled to know you came.”
“Almost didn’t,” he said. “But he was always so good to me. It’d be disrespectful to stay away.”
Something in me wanted to correct him but another didn’t. So I kept my mouth shut.
“He was a good man. A good father. Shame he had to go already,” Ducky said.
“Dad loved you. He never said it but I don’t think he ever needed to. There was a big hole in the family after…”
I made myself stop talking. Everything that came out of my mouth sounded forced. Fake. Did my father love Ducky? In his own way, I suppose. He never complained about him being around as much as he was. And Ducky was one of the few who would talk baseball with him.
“Funny word…love. Pretty sure it means different things for different people,” he said. I felt the weight of his words slap against my chest like an open palm covered in nails.
“Ducky, I…”
“Guessing there is a good bit that you and me need to put straight before you speed off again,” Ducky said. There was mild contempt in his voice. And a little relief, I would say. He’d lived through the unimaginable and I believe that sits with a person forever. I think even if he hated me, he still wanted to get everything off his chest and out in the open. And he did. We both did.
—
I’d agreed to meet Ducky later that night at his place. I managed to make it through the rest of dad’s viewing without as much as a hiccup but once I got out to my car and lit up a smoke, all of that ridged confidence slipped away from my shoulders in an instant. I threw up once in the parking lot. Then, again, about half a mile from mom’s house. After seeing Ducky, it was like something had dropped into my stomach and then swollen to the size of a watermelon. Years of repressed regret, I suppose. Realization that you can’t simply run from the past—at least when a part of it is still alive. I was on edge for the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening. There was no way for me to know what to expect when I went out to see him. Perhaps he really just wanted to talk. Clear the air. Or, maybe, he wanted to break my jaw. Either seemed likely. And probably well deserved.
Davidson’s was a mobile home park that used to sit along the north end of the Silver Eye Creek (opposite end from where they found the bodies in ’74). Can’t say I was surprised to find out that Ducky had been living there. His old house had been bought and sold a few times over—though I didn’t think he’d want to go back there anyway. When I pulled up, I was greeted with a deep growl that came from the porch. Again, that lump in my gut seemed to grow and I almost turned around right then and there. If Ducky hadn’t come out, I may have.
“Relax, Lou,” he said. The growl had come from a German shepherd; one that continued to stare at me as I got out of the car.
“Lou aint fond of strangers is all,” Ducky said. He patted the dog and bent down to whisper something into its ear. The dog seemed to relax after that; its ears relaxed and its tail started to wave.
I tried to keep my nerves in check but the closer I got to the trailer, the harder it was. I still had no idea what was to come. Lou trotted towards me as soon as I got near the steps leading up to the wooden porch. I held my hand out just to confirm to the pup that I wasn’t a threat.
“He’s a good dog. Keeps an eye on things,” Ducky said. “You want a beer?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
He led me inside. Now, mind you, I aint the most organized person. Always something that needs cleaned or put away. Hell, there are a sink full of dishes in the kitchen now. But Ducky’s place was…well…it was a wreck. Dog hair covered almost all of the furniture. There were holes in the couch—from what looked like claw marks and cigarette burns. The carpet was a shade of brown that I was quite sure I hadn’t seen before (or since). The coffee table was buried under bottles and cans and open bags of chips. Ducky motioned for me to follow him into the kitchen area.
“I just stocked up today,” he said. There was almost excitement in his voice when he said that. I think I wanted to be disappointed—knowing how much he hated his old man for being a drunk—but I couldn’t bring myself to feel that way.
“How long have you been living out here?” I asked.
“Less than a year now. Had one of the apartments downtown for a spell but that didn’t quite work for me. Too much noise. Too many people around.”
He handed me a beer and grabbed two for himself.
“This place is shit but it serves its purpose,” he said. I followed his lead and sat down. His kitchen table was a narrow strip of wood held up by blocks on either side. Much like the table in front of the couch, it too was merely acting as a shelf for discarded bottles and cans—as well as two full ashtrays and a couple of little baggies that certainly looked to be holding cocaine. White plastic chairs held us as we took a moment and finally looked eye to eye.
“Ducky, I…I want you to know how sorry I am,” I said. Somehow I knew that we weren’t in for a rousing discussion about life and what we’d done with it in the years that had passed. My hands had already started shaking by then. I was quick to down about half of the beer in the hope that it would help settle me a little.
“It’s a little late for apologies, don’t you think?” he asked. He relaxed and finished off his first beer before I had time to even think about what I wanted to say next. I was more than uncomfortable. I was ready to leap out of my skin and go running back to Pittsburgh.
“Probably. But I needed to say it anyway,” I said. The taste in my mouth was hot and sour and made me shrink and shudder when I thought about taking another drink.
“Sure. Yeah. Sure. You say what you feel you need to say.”
I certainly knew it at that moment—the Ducky Simpson I used to know had gone away. It wasn’t my old friend sitting across from me in that moment. I didn’t recognize him anymore. Not his body. His face. Not even his voice.
“What do you want me to say? I screwed up. I shit the bed. I mean…Jesus, I had no idea what was going to happen.”
“I told you what was going to happen. I told you that it was coming for us. And it did.”
There was an icy calmness when he talked. Like he’d fully come to terms with his beliefs and would not be swayed into ever thinking otherwise. And, like a stupid asshole, I finally let my tongue go loose.
“It was damn terrible what your dad did. I can’t imagine ever going through something like that. Never. And if I could go back in time, I would. I was scared, Duck. Your old man was already on edge and then you come to me with all that Mr. Goopy bullshit. How else was I supposed to react? What else was I supposed to do?”
“You were supposed to be my friend. You were supposed to listen. You were supposed to believe me when I told you that we were in danger.”
“I couldn’t protect you from your imagination. Hell, I’m not even sure I could have done anything to protect you from that piece of shit you called a father. We were kids, man.”
Ducky had already started into his second beer. There was a look on his face that still haunts me to this day. A look of joy that shouldn’t have been there. I swear, I saw his good eye glimmer just as the smile crawled across his face.
“Look, if you’re gonna sit here and tell me that I made up the whole thing, I’d kindly suggest that you just get the fuck out. Get back in your car and drive back to your perfect little life in the big city. I’ve had it drilled in my head over and over that I didn’t see what I saw. Do you know what that’s like? To be the only one that knows something is true? My family knew it was true. That night, yeah, they knew. And now they’re all dead. My old man was a bastard. There’s no secret there. But he knew what was coming! He knew it ever since that night in the woods when Goopy took three of his buddies and tore them to pieces.”
“Oh, piss on Mr. Goopy!” I shouted. My voice carried loud enough to get Lou’s attention—who in turn shot me a look that said, ‘do it again and there’s going to be a problem’.
“Typical. Thanks for stopping by, Rod. Wish I could say it was good to see you,” Ducky said. There was still a smile on his face; one that I’d guessed wasn’t from some inner joy in seeing an old friend or rehashing the past. I saw so much of his father in him in that moment. It was almost scary. That same wide vacancy behind his eye (sure it would have been both if, well, you know). Sure he’d had plenty to drink before I showed up. Maybe a bit of indulgence with the fine powder he had sitting on the table too.
“Flip it ‘round. Would you have believed me if I came to you with a story like that? If I told you that Mr. Goopy was hanging out in my backyard? Just waiting for a good night to come on in and have itself a snack? Huh?” I asked. I heard the dog shuffle around a bit on the other side of the trailer. Ducky stared at me with that glazed look—the gears in his head turning and turning. I wanted to leave more than anything but I knew if I did that I’d just be saddled with more regret. I’d saunter off to my life in the city and repeat myself by leaving my friend behind. Not that I’d been under some grand assumption that Ducky’s life would have been better if I’d stuck ‘round—things were gonna happen as they happened. Call it whatever you like. Fate. Destiny. I never thought every minute was guided under some mystical force but I sure thing some of the big stuff is.
“Follow me,” Ducky said. I’d expected him to get up and physically toss me out the front door. Or encourage his pup to go for the throat (or worse). But he just stood up and started walking down the tiny hallway to my right. “And grab another drink. You’re gonna need it.”
I don’t know why but I did as he asked. Noticed then that the sun had slipped deep behind the clouds. The trees beyond Duck’s little plot of land casted gnarled shadows on the thin wooden wall as I followed behind. He pulled a small silver key from his pocket and jammed it into a doorknob. He’d gone inside and turned on the light just seconds before I entered myself.
It was a good thing I had a pretty tight grip on the beer bottle ‘cause once I saw what he had in that room, I ‘bout lost every bit of my strength. It was like I’d stumbled right into the thick of a crime scene. There was three large corkboards nailed to two of the walls (one on my right and two on my left). On each of ‘em was countless sketches of Goopy. So much of ‘em that some were stuck on top of one another. The window—which should have been straight on ahead from the door—had been boarded over and covered in dozens of newspaper clippings. Articles ‘bout missing person’s cases in Leeton and a few of the other surrounding towns. Faces of men and women and kids—all full of smiles captured in moments long past. Next to the board to my right was a huge map of the woods covered in different colored pins and little scribbles that I assumed belonged to Ducky.
“What is all this?” I asked. Sure, I had a pretty good idea, but the question came out anyway.
“Been tracking it for a few years now,” Duck said. He’d saddled up next to a tiny desk that was pushed up against the left wall—right below all the drawings. To my surprise, there was absolute organization with everything he’d put together. It almost looked professional—like he’d hired someone to come in and set up the whole thing.
“Came real close last summer,” he said. I’d already succumbed to a horrible bout of the chills and could only stand still as he spoke. “But it’s fast, man. Real fast. Probably why there aren’t many accounts of folks actually seeing it anywhere.”
I let my eyes roll around to every inch of the display in front of me. It was almost like a shrine to the creature—a detailed rundown of every sighting and description ever given about it. Unknowingly, I’d somehow allowed myself to break loose from the stillness that had held me just seconds before. I stepped over to the wall of news clippings and immediately my attention was drawn to three long strips of newsprint that told the story of the Simpson family. Ducky must have caught on to what I’d been looking at ‘cause he made a point to clear his throat.
“It killed mom first,” he said with a cigarette dangling from his crusty lips. “One of the worst things I’d ever seen. The way…the way it just tore into her. Like an animal getting its paws on a piece of raw meat.”
I turned to face him and I swear, there was an instant flash moment where I saw Ducky as he was when we was kids. The kid that used to tease me ‘bout liking Samantha Clark. The kid that raved ‘bout my mom’s pasta salad and would put away helping after helping ‘fore pretending to fall out of his chair ‘cause he was too full. I saw the boy that taught me how to fix a bike chain and string up a fishing pole. And, yeah, I saw the kid that tried to tell me that his life—his family’s life—was in danger.
“I’d just come back from my shift at the gas station. Mom had cooked a pot of chili and made up some cornbread. Couldn’t tell you how happy we all was that we was gonna get a hot meal. It’d been a bit. Man, I smelled it right as I got in the door. It was sweet and hot. ‘Course, I also heard my old man yelling ‘bout something. No idea what—some parts of that night are still a little blurry—but he was carrying on. George…George was upstairs and he popped his head out from the banister when he heard me come in. Told me that mom had made cowbread—that’s what he called it.”
(I wouldn’t admit it to him—even hate doing it now—but I can’t really remember what little George looked like. It was almost like he was talking ‘bout a stranger.)
“Happened quicker than a snap of the fingers. Mom called us into the kitchen to get our plates and such. The old man was still barking and spitting curses. George stood at the top of the steps and…and I told him to come down. Told him that we’d get our food and go eat by ourselves if we had to. Henry was usually good ‘bout going off on his own when he’d tied on a few too many. But sometimes he’d just stand there and yell and shout while the rest of us was trying to eat.”
Good bit of the color had drained out of Ducky’s face by then. I remember seeing his hands—weathered and covered in scars and sores—just shaking away. Like fragile leafs clinging to a branch during a wind storm.
“I heard the squishing sounds the second I stepped into the kitchen. Then the banging started. I knew it—right then I knew what was gonna happen. That’s when I called the cops. Told ‘em that we was gonna be attacked. And then…I don’t know why but that’s when I called you. I just…just thought that someone needed to know the truth. I tried…tried to tell George to run. To get outside and to run as far and fast as he could. But he couldn’t move. The back door just exploded open. Like someone had come at it with a tank or something. Henry was too drunk to know what had happened but…but I think he knew. He knew just like I did. And that was it. Goopy killed my mom in seconds. Then…then it…then it did the same to George. Picked him up like he was a toy or something. I heard his…heard things inside him crunch and pop. He couldn’t even scream. Poor kid couldn’t do nothing but stare up at the ceiling. Mouth hung wide open. Goopy tossed him against the wall after it was done with him. Little brother just…just discarded like a chicken bone that had been picked clean.”
It was strange how he told his version of the story. I could hear him stumble and start to choke up sometimes. And other bits came out so nonchalant—almost like he was just reciting a passage in a book or something. ‘Spose the years in between had hardened him a bit. Figure, too, that he’d gone over that story probably hundreds of times. Repetition can make things monotonous, I’d wager.
“I aint never seen something so horrible in my life. Never. That…that thing was…I don’t know. Unholy would probably be the best word for it. It was huge. Just like this unnatural force snatching up everything in its path.”
One look in his eye told me that he believed what he was saying. Which meant he was either fully committed to a delusion or the story was real.
“Henry had gone for his gun but he wasn’t quick enough. It got him right in the throat. Dropped him like that,” Ducky said, snapping his fingers. “Not even sure he knew what happened.”
He’d turned away from me at that point and had opened the door to the closet that was to the left of the desk. I was stunned and frozen—like something had come along and injected ice into my bloodstream. I wanted so badly to rewind the clock. To just go back to earlier in the day and make a different choice. I still didn’t know if he had other intentions in mind besides recounting the single most horrific day of his life. In that moment, part of me expected him to come out of that closet with the very shotgun that his old man used to carry around. But he didn’t. He brought out a wide glass jar that was about a third of the way filled with some sort of black gunk. It looked like a mixture of oil, mud, and chocolate syrup.
“I got this out of the woods last month,” he said as he handed me the jar. The look on my face must have been one of pure disgust.
“It’s a jar. It aint gonna bite.”
“Where did you get this?” I asked. He’d already said he got it from the woods but I couldn’t help but question the specifics. I felt dirty holding that jar. Like it was something that shouldn’t have ever been handled. It was warm to the touch—which just didn’t seem possible.
“Found most of it near the side of the road. You remember that access road that was behind the playground?”
Of course I did.
“I’d been out that way a few times and had never come across any sign of it. Couple of the neighborhood kids said that they’d heard something big moving ‘round in that area so I kept an eye out. After ‘bout three days of wandering and looking, I found that close to where the road ends. Just a big puddle of it. Trail led into the woods a ways. Found a little bit more on the base of a tree. Spent the rest of the day following that trail. The gunk disappeared after a mile. Came across a few dead animals. But no Goopy.”
There was no real way to measure my disbelief and worry in that moment. I handed him the jar and tried to pull any sort of response out of my head. I was dumbstruck and he knew it. He saw it written all over my face.
“You know, after it killed Henry, I was so sure that I was next. I told myself, ‘this is it…this is the last thing you’re gonna see…this monster’.”
“What happened? I mean, why didn’t it kill you too?”
“I always wonder the same thing. Some nights I lie awake and keep re-living that night over and over. And I ask myself that question. Why didn’t it kill me? Why did it snatch the eye from my skull and then just leave? By then, the neighbors had heard the ruckus and called the cops. Maybe the sirens spooked it. Or maybe by the time it got to me, it was already full and figured an eyeball would make for a good snack.”
“Or maybe it left you alive on purpose,” I heard myself say. “Maybe it wanted you to be able to tell your story.”
Ducky laughed at that. His face turned red and he spent the next five minutes swapping between laughter and a coughing fit.
“Lot of good that did,” he said. “I’ll be long dead in the ground ‘fore anyone believes me.”
I knew that was another light shot at me. At our past. And towards his own past, I suppose.
“I don’t care if you believe me or not, Rod. I stopped caring years ago. I know what happened. I know what I saw. I aint crazy like Henry was. Lot of fucked up stuff has happened to me but I am still put together upstairs. And one day, I swear, I’ll prove you and all the others wrong. I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch and drag its corpse right down Carolina Avenue. Might not be today. Might not be tomorrow. Might not even be for another twenty years. But it’s gonna happen. I’ll find it and I’ll kill it.”
—
Sure you can already guess that Ducky never got his wish. Time never came for him to prove to the town—and the world—that he had been right from the word go. I saw him from time to time over the years (a little more often after I moved back to town). He always looked ragged and worn. And older. Always so much older. Still can’t explain that one—though I ‘spose that years of heavy drinking and drugs aren’t ever gonna make a person look better. Anytime we’d see each other out and about, things were civil. Even friendly. But Ducky was always on his guard. Always looking over his shoulder. And he always came ready with a story. How he’d come this close to getting Goopy. Or how he’d spotted it somewhere.
I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead or nothing but I felt sorry for him. He stank of desperation almost all the time. Like he had nothing in his life but this maddening quest to prove himself as being on the right side of things. As the years sped by, I would often dread the thought of seeing him in town because I knew that he was going to start right back into his theories. Did I expect him to let things go after a while? Perhaps. But Goopy had become his true obsession. His singular goal and purpose. I felt bad because I could see his life just wasting away—much like his body was, I ‘spose. Trauma tends to compound on itself if you go on your way without taking the time to acknowledge it.
Was Ducky right about Mr. Goopy? I don’t know. Don’t ‘spose I’ll ever know. Sure, there are still stories that get passed around ‘bout the thing. To this day. And you bet they’ll continue until time comes to an end. Is Goopy real? Some believe so. Others just laugh and wave off the notion entirely. I can’t say one way or the other. If I had to make a choice—like if it was forced on me—I’d probably end up landing with the group that doesn’t believe. Not sure I can ever let myself make such an acceptance. ‘Cause if something like Goopy is real, then what does that mean for all the other stuff we shrug off as fiction? As fairytale?
A terrible thing happened to my friend and his family. No taking away from that. I still stick to my guns that Henry Simpson was the one that did ‘em all in. And, sure, I ‘spose that means I’m leaning towards Ducky being crazy. And it breaks my heart to write that. To think that. Surely isn’t something I’d have said to his face. But you can’t escape the truth. None of us can.
That’s Ducky’s story. And mine, I guess. You know, it’s funny, but I still catch myself staring outside sometimes. Double checking the yard and the back porch—just making sure those clown shoe sized prints aren’t out there. And sometimes, if I’m out for a walk and I happen by the woods, I’ll stop and listen. I’ll close my eyes and just listen for whatever wants to make a sound. What does that say ‘bout me? Just as good a question as any, I ‘spose.
A Total Mess -- A Blog by Travis Ralston 