The Suicide Swamp

“Aw, that’s bullshit!”

Fred wasn’t yelling at his overweight wife or even his young, hotshot, halfwit boss. He was plopped in front of the small ancient television, the kind you couldn’t find in any electronic store nowadays if you tried. The game was on: a local high school affair between two rivals nearest his hometown of Weeping Springs, Florida. And the ref had just blown it all for the Cougars.

“Pass interference my ass,” Fred muttered and threw several kernels of popcorn from a lap-sized bowl at the screen. Static waves rolled, then completely covered the screen.

“Fucking reception,” he grumbled as he got up and banged three times on the television’s side. Still nothing but static and noise.

Fred looked down at the butter stains on his white muscle shirt and shook his head. He took the giant bowl still half full of popcorn and chunked it out the screen door into the water below. He gazed across the dark swampland, feeling moody.

He shuffled his way to the small fridge and, upon opening it, felt his terrible mood grow bitterer. There were the peanut M&M’s –HIS peanut M&M’s—the wrapper torn, rolled down to seal the freshness. Three fourths gone.

“I’m gonna kill her.” He tried to keep the anger out of voice. A loud snore sounded from the room behind him.

Margerie. You fat bitch.

Feeling like he could take his sawn-off out of the tool shed out back and do some murdering, he yanked the junk drawer open, shuffled loudly to find his cigarettes, and nicked himself on something sharp. Blood dribbled lightly down his ring finger.

“Motherfuck.”

Pulling a cig from the pack, he went outside, shutting the door a little too loudly, not caring if he woke her.

He stood out on the dock, a pudgy hand stuffed in his sweats pocket, and took a long drag. The smoke felt like shit going down his lungs and he coughed a couple of times. No wonder he was trying to quit.

The night air felt decent, breezy even. The problem was that no matter how good the air felt it always smelt like fungus and tasted like rotten fish. Nonetheless, it was as good as it was ever gonna get around here, dead in the middle of fucking nowhere Florida swampland.

Giggling? Was that what he heard? Rubbed a finger through his ear. Maybe just the wind playing tricks--

There it was again. Some high-pitched sound. He gazed out into thick grove of twisted trees. Probably just some dumbfuck frog trying to get laid.

He noticed a sharp pain coming from his hand and glanced down to see that he had clinched his fist and one of his fingernails was digging into the wound on his finger.

“Did you have to be so Goddamn loud, Fred?”

He didn’t have to turn to know it was Margerie.

“What, you trying to catch up on your beauty sleep?” he jeered.

“Fuck you,” was all she replied. He smiled a little. He loved getting on his wife’s bad side.

He turned and saw the massive shape in the doorway. Margerie had on a nightgown that had long since given up trying to fit her and now clutched for dear life to her breasts and hips. Her short hair lay disheveled on one side of her head, flat on the other.

“Surprised you didn’t wake yourself up with that snoring,” he said, and then added a little apologetically, “The wind slammed the door.”

“You mean you didn’t hear those noises just then?” she asked.

He instantly looked out again towards the trees.

“It just them stupid frogs. Nothing to lose sleep over,” he said.

“But it sounded like a child. Like some kid laughing,” she said.

“Nope. Just frogs,” he said, but he couldn’t say it with any real conviction. In fact, he could’ve sworn he had heard it again just now.

“See?” she urged, creeping closer to him, her eyes also on the trees. “What is that?”

Fred rolled his eyes and took another drag. Margerie tore her gaze away from the dark swamp and looked accusingly at Fred’s cigarette. He saw that look in her eyes, like she was about to start nagging. He decided to put a stop to it right then and there. Nothing was worse than her nagging.

“Now don’t start,” he said, shaking his head. “Damn TV went out on me.”

He glanced at the airboat tied to the dock. Tossing the cigarette aside, he headed back inside.

“Where you off to?” she asked, only half-interested. She couldn’t keep her eyes off the trees.

“None of your business, but I’m going down to The Fish Stick to see if I can’t catch the end of that game.”

He threw on a coat, some jeans and a Weeping Springs Cougars cap and got the old boat started. Margerie snapped out of her trance.

“Say, where the hell you going, Fred?”

He shrugged.

“Nowhere,” he said and before she could protest any further he was flying across the water towards town.

She snorted. “Fine then, be that way,” she muttered to herself as she made her way back inside, to the comfort and safety of her bed. She couldn’t resist a last uneasy look behind her before the door shut.

*             *           *

In Weeping Springs, there were only four roads throughout the entire town, all of which were near impossible to drive on due to the amount of potholes. In Weeping Springs, you either traveled by foot or by boat.

A few diners and bars were just about the only businesses in town and you didn’t have to go very far to find them. The four roads made a double cross of sorts and right at the intersection where they made a square sat The Fish Stick, the oldest bar for miles.

It looked more like a shack than a place of business, with its old rotting wood and shingles. Fishnets hung all up and down the walls, some with bones still stuck in them. But you couldn’t beat $2 beer on Friday nights. And despite its raggedy appearance, the little place packed quite an atmosphere. Live banjo music could be heard blaring and drunks could be heard quarrelling and local singles could be heard dancing. It was quite the hubbub.

Fred wandered in and made his way past a couple of women wearing too much makeup with cigarettes hanging from their too-red lips on the dance floor and found a seat on the corner, and the bartender immediately sat a cold one on the coaster next to him.

“Freddy, you goddamn hermit how’s it going?” the bartender said.

Fred stared at Jole a while and almost choked on his beer. It was hard not to look at the man and laugh. His eyebrows were always arced high on his forehead and a goofy grin was always plastered on his pimply face. He also had a shock of curly orange-red hair.

“Just dandy, Carrottop,” Fred said. “Game still on?” He indicated the small television tacked up in a mangle of fishnets in the corner.

“No signal, sorry,” Jole said, grinning stupidly. “Dunno what’s wrong with the thing.”

“For fuck sakes,” Fred muttered under his breath. He stared at the two women on the dance floor. Jole leaned in close.

“The blonde one, she’s from Georgia. That’s her cousin from Iowa. Guess what? They say they know Joey.”

This time Fred nearly soaked the tabletop as he spat his beer out.

“Joey? You talking about my boss Joey?” Fred asked.

Jole promptly wiped the counter with a rag as he nodded, apparently pleased by Fred’s reaction.

“No way. That little punk never had a woman in his life.” He watched the blonde woman twirl her cousin, and they both laughed drunkenly.

“Know what else?” Jole asked, eager to impress Fred with more gossip. “He’s here with them. They’re staying at his place.”

“You’re shitting me?”

Jole grinned wider, showing his yellow crooked teeth.

Fred turned back toward the two women and saw Joey come up and hug the blonde. He was short, and his face almost planted itself in her cleavage. He kissed the cheek of the other.

Fred’s shock quickly turned into disgust as he shifted in his seat. How did a two-timing little runt like Joey get that kind of action? For all the years he had worked under Joey at the Blackwater Airboats, never once had he begun to imagine him as a ladies man. From the first day he had set foot in Weeping Springs and took control of the business and started barking orders left and right and hollering out corporate nonsense in that nerdy whiny nasal voice of his, Fred had assumed that Joey was a loner who always did things by the book, was in bed by nine every night and never liked to party.

Yet here he was with two gorgeous women, two beers in his hands, and his tie slightly undone. And here Fred was, alone at a bar with no game to watch and no pretty women clinging to him.

“Pretty amazing, huh?” Jole said, sliding another beer at Fred. “Never seen him come in here once until tonight. Now he’s acting like he owns the place.”

“Fuck him,” Fred said, now staring bitterly at the bar top.

He glanced hopefully up at the TV. Still nothing but waves of static, rolling on and on and on…

“I’ll think we’ll be lucky to get a signal tonight, Freddie,” said Jole. “Yep. Another beer?”

“Naw, I think I’ll just head back home and crash.” He checked outside the little bar window. “Don’t get it. I just don’t get it. The weather’s not acting up any. The lights are still on. Geez.”

“I know, technology, right? Never works when you need it.”

But Fred was already almost out the door, giving a small wave and trying not to gain Joey’s attention. The last thing in the world he wanted right now was to converse with that corporate brown-nose prick.

*           *           *

Margerie sat on the front porch rocker, smoking a cigarette and praying to never see her good-for-nothing husband again. Sales, ha. He was no more a salesman than she was an athlete. She smiled as she reminisced about the old days at the track, back when she could run a mile in under six minutes easy. All the guys would play grab ass around her because she was little miss hot stuff with just a little junk in the trunk.

She took a long, slow drag, swallowing most of the smoke. She knew that was worse than actually letting it all out but this was reflection time. You let the smoke come in on the good memories. That was good smoke, to be kept inside with all the good times.

Her mind turned to Frank and she took another drag, this time releasing it all. Smoke on the wind, never to be seen again. Just like the good old days.

You’ll never be pretty.

She heard it whispered almost as if someone had leaned in close. She shivered, glanced behind her. Nothing.

I’m just going stir crazy. That’s all I’ve ever been seen he moved us out here.

She stamped out the cigarette, wrapped her night gown around her tighter, suddenly cold. She thought about going back inside but something was keeping her here. She couldn’t quite put a finger on it but she felt glued to that rocking chair.

Your good days are behind you.

There it was again. Like a whisper in the night breeze. She gazed out into the swamps, rubbing her ears.  What the hell was that?

Weak-willed. Powerless. Your life is over.

This time she sat up, listening closely. Those whispers felt almost as if they were coming out of her head, from someone else’s lips.

Do it now. End your misery. Join us.

And then she saw it. A face, bright and ghostly, in the murky darkness of the swamp. It hovered over the marsh like a firefly, bobbing slightly. But where on Earth was the neck? And why was it smiling like that? The more she stared, the less like a face it appeared to her. More like a mask. It reminded her of one of those creepy porcelain dolls her mother always kept laying around the house in her youth.

Another face materialized out of the darkness to join the other. Margerie forgot how to breathe.  She was on her feet but didn’t remember ever moving at all. Another face…  and another…  and another. They came into view as if they had been there all along in the dark and someone had just shined a light upon them.

Join us. End your miserable life.

They spoke in unison, barely above a whisper. Or were they speaking at all? She hadn’t seen their mouths move. They just floated there, smiling. Waiting. Waiting for her to join them.  Those whispers… she couldn’t get them out of her head.

Join… End it… miserable life…

They jumbled up her thoughts, getting louder so that she had to cover her ears. Except that now they echoed inside her. Her mind suddenly felt numb, until her only thought was how to stop those voices.  She headed frantically for the shed out back, looking back at the faces. Could it be possible that there were even more of them? She couldn’t see the swamp anymore, just the horrible, shining faces.

The shed was bolted. Dammit. Margerie headed back inside the house, still with her hands over her ears as the voices kept echoing in her head, egging her on.

The shed, Margerie… it’s the only way.

She searched frantically for the shed key inside one of the junk drawers. Why the hell hadn’t Fred cleaned all this shit out?

He’s a terrible man, Margerie. We can make you happier.

Almost to the point of crying, she finally felt the small brass object that was the shed key. Suddenly she no longer felt anger towards the whispers or those things out in the swamp. She felt nothing but numbness, depression.

The meander back to the shed (for that’s what it became, Margerie no longer frantic) only helped confirm her negative feelings and reinforce what the whispers were telling her. When she unlocked the bolt she felt a strange sense of accomplishment, as if her whole life had lead up to this point and she had stepped up and done the deed. Now all there was left was to finish it.

She fumbled in the darkness. The air in here reeked of salt and fungus, the air heavy and warm. Where was it?

The toolbox, Margerie. Behind the toolbox.

She wasn’t sure why, but she no longer tried to block out those voices. She listened, and almost as if she knew they were going to be right, she searched in the dark for Fred’s precious toolbox. It had to be within reach, for Fred cherished the damn thing like it was his life support. Besides, neither he nor Margerie could stand being inside the shed longer than a few minutes, so the toolbox had to be somewhere right near the door.

There. She felt her foot brush against the rusty metal and tried to lift it out of the way. Too heavy. She cursed under her breath as she dragged the box out. Huffing and puffing, she could just make out the shape of Fred’s shotgun tucked neatly in the corner, a box of shells lying near it.

That’s it. You know what to do.

The voices were almost giggling with anticipation as Margerie reached for the gun.

 

*            *           *

The ride back did nothing to shake the disappointment coursing through Fred. Negative thoughts rushed through his head, thick and fast. The bills were piling up. His wife was on the verge of packing her things and getting as far away from him as possible. Then again, so was he. His finger had stopped bleeding, but still stung painfully. A newcomer to Weeping Springs, Joey was now painting the town red with chicks in high heels and short skirts.

And here he was, Fred the hermit, who tried to get out tonight and found nothing to stymie the lonely, I’m-such-a-low-life-loser feeling.

When he arrived at the dock, he sensed a change. Something wasn’t right and it might have had something to do with the fact that it was unusually quiet, or that the near constant breeze had stopped, or that his front door was partially open.

No, on second glance the screen door was cracked, but the actual front door was shut. He tied up the boat and stood a bit, unsure of how to proceed. He didn’t like the fact that his self-pity had been almost forcefully butted out of him, to be replaced by an intense uneasiness. He didn’t like being scared. His mind went to the 12 gage he kept out back in the tool shed.

Get a fucking grip on yourself, he thought. Margerie just forgot to close the screen door. That’s all. The forgetful woman.

The thought built up enough courage in him to block out the plan he had been formulating in his mind, requiring him to go unlock the shed, search in the piles of tools for the shotgun which was no doubt buried way deep in the back somewhere, find ammunition, and burst in the house with conviction demanding the intruder to get the fuck out of the house or get blown the fuck away.

When his hand touched the handle, the moon just peaked out of the clouds enough to illuminate the pattern etched in the screen’s mesh.

He stepped back, squinting to see it. A face. Or at least it looked like a face, except the forehead was a little cut off. The eyes had been made as thin straight line, the mouth carved into a wide melon-shaped grin.

Fred ran his fingers along the scratched screen surface, following the pattern. As he did so, he began to realize that whoever had done this had the precision of a surgeon. The cuts were faint, and he thought had it been broad daylight he probably wouldn’t have even noticed them at all.

He tried the front door. Unlocked.

What the fuck is going on?

There it was again. That sound. That unnerving giggling sound. He searched the swamps again, this time really, really thinking about his shotgun.

Fuck it.

He scrambled around the side of the house, almost forgetting to skip the fifth board in the deck, the one that was cracked so badly. He glanced nervously out at the dark shed some distance away. At that moment, he had never seen something so ominous in his whole life.

He crept his way to the shed, feeling the sweat drip from his arm pits, but stopped when he saw the bolt. Someone had unlocked it, which meant that whoever it was had his gun. He nudged the door open and peeked inside. Oh shit! The tool box had been drug out. Yep, the gun was surely gone.

Sweating bullets, Fred thought hard about running for the boat and into town to get help. Maybe tell Jole what was going on.

No. He was being a coward. He had to man up. This was his home, for God’s sake, and if that fucker had his gun he would get it back. He crept up to the back door, reached up for the key, and as quietly as he could turned the lock. He glanced once more out into the swamp before he slipped inside.

God it was dark. Why couldn’t he hear Margerie snoring? What he wouldn’t give right now to hear something normal, see something familiar. But the house… in the quiet darkness he didn’t recognize it. He snuck into the kitchen and took a look out the screen door. Nothing.

“Margerie?” he whispered, but his voice was so weak he could barely hear the word leave his lips. As he stepped back his boot found something on the floor. He peered down at the butcher knife, then back at the screen door.

This was it. The knife had been used to cut that crude smiley face in the screen. And were those Margerie’s slippers? Had she done that? Was she playing some kind of sick prank? Damn that woman.

A giggling sound wafted through the air. That damn giggling. She was laughing at him.

Margerie you fat bitch if you’ve touched my shotgun I swear to God…

He grabbed the knife and held it at the ready before proceeding to the bedroom. He stood in front of the door, debating whether he should knock or just bust in. The silence made him uneasy, and he wasn’t quite sure this was a joke anymore. He decided to go the cautious route and slowly turned the knob, knife held out in front waiting to jab at the first sign of trouble.

The first thing he noticed was the blood. So much blood. It puddled around his shoes and made him almost slip. Then he saw the source of it all: Margerie, slumped in the rocker next to the bed, her face half gone, his shotgun on the floor next to her corpse.

He didn’t know whether to scream or take off running. All he could do was stare wide-eyed at the gruesome scene as the giggling noises came back again.

She’s with us now, Fred. She’s waiting for you.

What were those whispers, penetrating his mind and scrambling his thoughts like a blender. He slumped down, right in the blood bath, unaware of his actions or what he was seeing. All he could do was shake his head in dismay, in denial.

Margerie, his wife of 25 years…  gone. He could think of nothing except all the awful things he had ever said to her or done to her. And there were a lot. He let a tear slide down his face.

“I’m sorry, Margerie.” He let the words flow out of him easily. “I’m sorry I brought you out here. I let you down.” He broke down, weeping hard.

She forgives you. She loves you, Fred. She’s waiting.

The voices broke his sadness momentarily. He listened, holding the knife ready.

Do it, Fred. Join us, join her in eternal happiness.

The words were so mellow, yet commanding. He suddenly felt the need to follow them, to do what they said. He looked down at the knife in his hands.

Yes. End your suffering forever.

“Yes. I… I will… join her,” he mumbled. He didn’t know why but as he rolled up his sleeves he felt proud, a great sense of accomplishment coursing through him. And when he put the knife to his wrists and watched the blood flow freely from them, he almost smiled.

A stray thunder cloud rolled over the moon. The air was heavy, the water calm, and the trees still. Yet the screen door to Fred and Margerie’s house swung back and forth in its frame. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The swamp showed no signs of life, no croaking frogs, no hissing snakes, and no floating, smiling faces whispering for the end of suffering and the beginning of a better life.