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There are perks to working for the Foundation. A nice cabin on a restricted reservoir. A private dock of my own where I can moor my baby. My baby being a classic 1948 Hutchison 26 Sport Utility that I restored with my own bare hands. They tell you to find a hobby and a passion when you retire.
I found my lucky six rotting in a backyard about ten years ago and have shown her nothing but love, a steady income, anonymity from snoops, and protection from my enemies. I may have left the life a decade ago, but memories are long and enemies have a way of showing up when you least expect them. Overall, it's a decent life.
A life I'm enjoying from my back deck with a strong cup of black coffee in hand when my phone rings. The New Jersey Department of Environmental Protection. It's not really them. Just a front the Foundation uses to keep the reservoir off limits from the public. Something about timber rattlers being endangered. It's a slim cover, but if it works for them, then great. I answer. "Let me guess," I say without a hello. "Pigs won't do."
The guy on the other end says, "They've grown bored." "Time frame?" I ask. "Within the next three or four days." The guy answers, "After that?" "Yeah, after that they start to roam." I say, finishing the thought for the guy. "And we don't want that." The guy says, "No, we don't." I say, "I'll make some calls." "We're counting on you." He says.
"No problem," I say and hang up. I sip my coffee for a few more minutes. Not everyone in Leeds Point, New Jersey is on the Foundation's payroll, only a handful. It's that handful that I call. I haven't even hung up from my last call when I already have a voicemail waiting for me. I listen to the voicemail and smile. Couldn't be more perfect. Devil in a Blue Dress is the name of the souvenir shop.
When your town is next to the Pine Barrens and close to a legendary off-limits reservoir, said town tends to attract a very specific type of tourist. Those looking for the Jersey Devil. Half goat, half man, half bat, all teeth and claws. That is not the depiction I'm looking at on the front window of the shop. Nope. This one is a cartoon Jersey Devil in, as you can guess, a blue dress.
Puns and tourist traps go hand in hand. It's the American way. The bell dings as I open the shop's door, and I don't have to search the place in order to find my target. Hard to miss a 20-something asshole in a tank top and board shorts shouting at a helpless clerk. "What the fuck do you mean the lake is closed to the public?" he shouts, pounding his fists down on the counter like a petulant toddler.
To her credit, the clerk barely blinks as the little shit keeps pounding and pounding. I quickly scan the shop and see seven other 20-somethings, three boys and four girls, an aisle away, pretending to study the myriad of devil tchotchkes that line the shelves. Their snickering at their friend's antics is a dead giveaway. The clerk, Tammy Sosnowski, catches my eyes as I enter the counter, and I see her relief at my arrival.
Oh, this little shit must be a peach to get under Tammy's skin. "I hear you're looking for a ride across the lake," I say, casual as can be. I press my shoulder up against the little shit's shoulder and act like we're spies in some Cold War novel. "I may be able to help." "Who the fuck are you?" the little shit asks as he turns to face me. I give a slight head nod to Tammy and she hurries into the back room.
The move surprises and impresses the little shit, which is exactly the response I am looking for. "I'm the guy with the only boat on the lake," I say with a huge smile. The little shit almost flinches at my smile. I smile wider. "You got room for my crew?" he asks. The others have moved closer and are listening. "I do," I say. "But it'll cost you." The little shit snorts and pulls out a huge wad of cash, all hundreds.
"How much?" he asks and starts peeling off hundreds. "It's gonna cost you way more than cash, you little shit." But I don't say that. Instead, I hold out my hand when he's peeled a respectable amount of bills off his roll. Then I smile as wide as I can. I've been told it's my best feature. "What the hell are we listening to?" the little shit asks me. I squeeze my eyes tight for a second. The kids these days.
"Hey, Grandpa! I asked you a question!" I pull back on the throttle and let the boat slow to an easy cruising speed. The motor putters as I turn to regard my passengers. What I want to do is put a bullet between the eyes of each of the young fucks. Even the girls. I'm not sexist. Trash is trash. But these young, attractive, oblivious morons aren't mine to put down. I'm simply the procurement and delivery system.
"The boss!" I say as I drape my arm across the top of my seat, giving them my wide smile. The boat isn't big, but the boys are, so they have their girls sitting on their laps. Not quite enough room for everyone to have their own seats. Not that the girls seem to be complaining. They're having a great time, and I turn my smile on the one with the least bleach in her hair. "You know the boss, right?" I say directly to her. She shakes her head. "Bruce Springsteen?
"How can you be from Jersey and not know the boss?" "We've heard of Bruce Springsteen," the little lead shit says. "Everyone has. But I ain't paying you to play the moldy oldies, Grandpa." "No, I guess you ain't," I reply and widen my smile. "Any requests?" "Requests?" the little shit asks. He smiles at his friends and they all laugh. "Nah, just turn that shit off. We got the tunes covered, Grandpa."
One of the girls leans down and rummages in her bag. She pulls out a plastic tube, which I realize is a speaker. The wonders of modern technology. I turn my music off and focus back on driving the boat, as the kids listen to some very loud music that I can't identify. Is it hip-hop or rap? Or hard rock? Dance music? Kids dance to stuff like this, right? I push the throttle and let them laugh and shout over the thumping beat of whatever it is.
Doesn't matter to me. They may not know who Springsteen is, but I know who they are. I may have retired to Leeds Point, but I still pay attention. In New Jersey, it pays to pay attention. I chuckle at my little pun. "What's so funny, Grandpa?" the little shit shouts in my ear. I wince and he laughs. Then he shoves his arm past my face and points at the shore that's getting closer by the minute. "That where the cabins are?" he asks.
"That's where the cabins are," I reply. "Good thing I'm going that way, ain't it?" I side-eye him, and can tell he's confused. The kid has plenty of bucks, but very little brains. "My pop says to never come out here!" The little shit shouts over the music and the motor. I just nod. He continues. "You know why?" "Why?" I ask, even though I know the answer. Oh, how I know the answer.
The place was always a favorite spot of mine even before retirement. The perfect location to get rid of evidence. Especially when that evidence is leaking bodily fluids and can be identified through fingerprints and dental records. I wasn't exactly surprised when the foundation offered me a job. I already knew what I was getting into and I'd managed to do what very few had ever accomplished. I managed never to get eaten myself.
"The Jersey Devil," the kid says and slaps me on the shoulder. "Can you fucking believe that shit? My pops, the most powerful man in the tri-state area, is afraid of some boogeyman!" He turns to his friends. "You hear that, boys? Vincent Abruzzo believes in the boogeyman!" The boys laugh. The girls don't. They know when jokes are aimed their way and when they aren't. That's the life they lead.
"You know who my father is, don't you?" The little shit asks me. I nod. "I can't hear you, Grandpa!" He yells right in my ear. I wince. He laughs. I know who the kid's father is. Vincent Abruzzo. Head of the Gagliano crime family. A person to be steered clear of, that's for sure. Christopher Abruzzo is the little shit's name. And from what I've heard, he's making quite the name for himself.
He just shook three counts of attempted murder and one count of manslaughter, got himself into a gunfight on the streets of Newark, and accidentally killed a little girl in the crossfire. But his pops has the best lawyers, very deep pockets, and more than a few civil servants in those pockets. And let's be honest here, this is Jersey, so people know which side their bread is buttered on. No one on that jury wanted a late night knock at the door.
They sure as shit didn't want to wake up with muscles standing over them and a .22 aimed between their eyes. In my former life, I was that muscle. Except for a different outfit. And I used a .38, not a .22. Anyway, the kid got off. It was all over the news and the papers and those online blogs. Or are they considered newspapers too? I can't keep up. All that matters is how lucky I am. Remember when I said the voicemail I got was perfect?
Yeah, it's because these little shits fit into a demographic that if they go missing, the authorities aren't going to bat an eye. Missing mobbed-up douchebags are a dime a dozen in New Jersey. Chrissy! One of the other young men shouts. When we getting there? I hear a girl giggle. Mandy has to pee, the young man says. I hear a slap and more giggling.
"When we gettin' there, Grandpa?" Christopher asks me. "Better be soon, or that piece back there is gonna piss all over your pretty boat." "I've hosed down worse," I say and laugh, even though I'm 100% serious. "I have hosed down way worse." Christopher eyes me for a second, then laughs too. When he stops, he leans even closer. "I asked you a question."
He snarls in my ear. "Chrissy! Let the old fart drive!" Another of the young men shouts. "How's about you shut the fuck up, or you can fucking swim the rest of the way!" Christopher bellows. "See that shore ahead of us?" I say. "Yeah, so?" Chrissy replies, focusing back on me. "That's it!" I say, and turn and face him full on. "Blood beach!"
"Blood Beach?!" The third young man shouts. "That really its name? Or are you fucking with us?" "That's what we locals call it," I say and shrug. "You can call it whatever you want." "I'm gonna call it Sex on the Beach!" The second young man shouts. I could learn their names, but really, why bother? Some of the girls fake offense, and I hear a few playful slaps. Or they could be high fives. I don't know.
My eyes are on the shore that's getting closer and closer, and the view behind me is blocked by Christopher's face anyway. His chin is nearly resting on my shoulder. I slowly turn my head and turn my smile up. His eyes are on the shore too, but he gradually notices me. When he does, he yanks his head back and glares. "You trying to kiss me or something, Grandpa?" He snaps. "That'll cost you extra," I say.
His eyes narrow, then widen, and he bursts out laughing. "This fucking guy!" He shouts, and slaps me hard on the back. "You hear that? I ask him if he's trying to kiss me, and he says it'll cost extra! The ball's on this fucking guy!" All the kids laugh. Good for them. It's nice to be young and happy, and not give a shit about the future. Or others. Or anything.
I let them have their happiness and focus on getting us as close to shore as possible. Happiness is fleeting after all. I make my fifth and final trip from where I have the boat anchored in the shallows to the spot on the beach where I've been piling all their luggage and gear. "Thanks, Grandpa," Christopher says and holds out his hand. "Here's that extra, but no kisses." His crew cracks up as Christopher shakes my hand.
I feel the bill pressed to my palm and I pocket it. You don't look at the tip when a guy like this gives it to you. What you do is exactly what I do. I smile and say, "Thank you, Mr. Abruzzo." "Where are the cabins?" The second young man shouts from the tree line. His girl is standing next to him, wriggling like she's going to have an accident in her cutoffs.
"They're up that way," I say and point toward the trees. "But she can just use nature's facilities. Find a big bush and have a squat." "Oh, I know where the big bush is," the third young man says and pinches his girl's ass. She squeals and slaps his hand away. Oh, to be young again. "Keep your eyes respectful," Christopher says to me. The look in his eyes is less than respectful. "I'm sorry," I say and focus back on him.
"You will be, if you keep checking out our girls' tits, Grandpa," he says, and the look in his eyes grows darker. "Oh, I wasn't looking at their tits," I say, my smile creeping back into place. "Just admiring your youthfulness." "Yeah, right, sure you are," Christopher says, and brushes by me to one of the bags in the pile. He unzips the top, reaches in, and makes sure I notice the handle of the pistol.
Then he lets go of the pistol and zips up the bag. "How's about you keep that admiration to yourself?" "My apologies, Mr. Abruzzo," I say, and turn my smile all the way up. I lean in and lower my voice. "Sometimes the dirty old man in me can't help myself. You know what I mean?" "Yeah, well, that dirty old man better stay in your pants, Grandpa," he says. "If you know what's good for you." "We understood
"We're understood," I say and keep the smile turned up, then lay it on thick with an added "Sir" that makes him happy. The kid probably has never been called sir by someone my age. The sirs are reserved for his father, not a little shit like him. He laughs, slaps me hard on the back, and walks off. "She says she ain't gonna piss in the woods," the second young man shouts. No, wait, he's the third young man. Or the fourth?
I can't tell them apart. "I'll show you to the cabins," I say and walk away from the pile of gear. "You just gonna leave that there?" The young man shouts at me. "Do your job, old man!" "I'll come back for them," I say and nod at the squirming girl. "Let's get your lady to the facilities first." "Yeah, you better come back," the young man says, buffing his chest out. "We didn't pay for some slacker geezer to ruin our good time."
"You didn't pay for shit, Nicky!" Christopher snaps. The mood changes instantly. The boys look wary. The girls look just plain scared. Christopher walks up to the young man. "Nicky? Was that his name?" "Who paid Grandpa?" Christopher asks. He gets closer and closer until his nose is almost touching the kid's face.
"You saying that you paid for this trip, Nicky? That what you're saying?" "Naw, Chrissy. I ain't saying that." Nicky replies and tries to take a step back. Christopher grabs his shoulders and brings him in closer so their noses do touch. They stand that way for a few seconds before Christopher starts laughing and shoves Nicky away. "I'm fucking with ya!" Christopher cackles. It's like a switch has been flipped. Everyone bursts out laughing.
Christopher looks over at me and I just give him my smile. "Come on, Grandpa," he says. "Show us the cabins. This way," I say and walk past them and into the treeline. Pines, pines, pines. Everywhere you look, there's nothing but pines. I breathe deep and take in the rich scent of the dry needles below my feet. Their sharp aroma makes me think of my younger days.
Days when I wouldn't have smiled at a kid like Christopher Abruzzo. No, a kid like this? He wouldn't have seen the smile until it was too late. Memories flood into my mind and I rub my hands together, remembering when they used to grip shovels and dig deep holes in the ground around here. Until I realized there wasn't any need for holes. The special wildlife took care of my problems for me. Good memories. "Here we are," I say as the cabins come into view.
Four wooden cabins built decades ago. No one owns them. Not officially. "Where's the can, old man?" Nikki shouts at me. "Outhouse is back there," I say and point to a gap between the middle two cabins. "It should have TP in there. If not, give a shout. I know where some is stashed in one of the cabins."
The wriggling girl protests and complains. She and Nicky get into an argument about how could he bring her out into the woods and make her use an outhouse. She ain't no crunchy girl, whatever that means. "Shut your fucking trap and go fucking piss," Christopher shouts. Nicky and his girl shut right the hell up. I snatch a look at her cutoffs to see if she's pissed herself since the scared look on her face says it's possible, but no wet stains, for now at least.
Later, there'll be plenty of stains, I'm sure. The girl gives Christopher a weak smile and hurries between the cabins. After a few seconds, we hear hinges squeal and a door slam, and some cursing and complaining. "Anyone else got a problem with the facilities?" Christopher asks. No one else has a problem with the facilities. "I'll fetch the gear," I say and turn to walk back to the beach. "You all have a look inside and pick your cabins."
"You gonna bring our luggage to the door?" Christopher asks. "Of course, Mr. Abruzzo," I say and pat my pocket. "That's what the extra gets ya." He gives me a finger gun and finds his girl. I hear the kids laughing and shouting behind me as they argue over who gets what cabin. In a couple of minutes, I'm back with the gear. My first thought is to go through all the bags just to see what weapons they brought, then toss those weapons into the reservoir.
That's what I would have done back in the day. Today, I pick up the luggage and throw as many straps over my shoulders as I can, then hike it back to the cabins. It's not like their weapons will be of much use. The kids give me a lot of shit for not automatically knowing whose luggage is whose and which cabin is whose. They laugh and fuck with me, saying to move this bag to that cabin and this bag to that other cabin.
I let them have their fun and smile and laugh as I shuffle back and forth, delivering the same bags to different cabins over and over, until Christopher gets bored. "Fucking knock it off!" He snaps. "You're gonna give the old man a heart attack! Then who's gonna pick us up on Friday?" "Friday?" I ask. "You wanna stay here four nights?" "Yeah! That a problem for you, Grandpa?" Christopher asks. "You got somewhere to be on Friday?" I shrug and smile.
"Not me." I point at the gear piled by the fire pit. "But you're gonna run out of food by Wednesday." Christopher eyes the pile of gear and supplies then nods at me. "I see." He says and reaches into his pocket. "And I bet you can bring us more supplies, that it?" "Happy to make a run to the local market," I say. "I can be back tomorrow morning. Will that work for you, Mr. Abruzzo?" He eyes me and licks his lips, then calls over his shoulder. "This fucking guy!
All eyes go from Christopher to me. My smile beams. "Here!" Christopher says, and pulls out his wad of cash. He peels off two hundred, pauses, and then peels off two more. "Make sure you get us the good burger meat!" "And eggs and bacon!" one of the young men shouts. He gets a withering look from Christopher. "What? I like eggs and bacon!"
"You got that?" Christopher asks, focusing back on me as he hands me the cash. "Good burger meat, eggs and bacon," I say. "And a few more cases of beer, yeah? I bet you're gonna get thirsty with all the fun you'll be having." "You keep your mind on your job," Christopher says. "And leave the fun to us." I nod. I smile. I tuck the cash into my pocket. Always good to have a little extra money for groceries. My groceries, that is.
"I'll see you tomorrow morning," I say and head back to the beach. As I walk away, I hear one of the guys say, "Shit, no fucking service out here." No, you little shit, there isn't. My smile widens. I sat on my back deck all night, waiting. At about 3 in the morning, I heard the echoes of gunfire from across the lake. I strained to hear screams, but the wind wasn't cooperating. I hate it when that happens.
After an hour of listening hard, I realized the show was over, poured out the beer I'd been sipping, and went to bed. Now, my motor idles as I study the shore. There's a lot of blood on the beach. Oh, how I smile. I drop anchor and wade to the beach. Some of the blood is fairly fresh. Looks like the wildlife was at work until just before dawn. Hey, I get it.
Sometimes you rush through the buffet and pile everything on at once. And sometimes, you put a little of this on, go eat, come back for a little of that, go eat, and come back for a little of something else. I pull the long knife from its sheath on my hip and keep the blade close to the side of my leg. They're nocturnal. But I didn't get to retire in a business that no one retires from because I'm stupid.
Bullets may not stop them, but they have hearts, and I can cut a heart out in less than two seconds. I've had practice. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. That's how many bloody trails lead from the woods to the beach. That means there's actually one left, and I have a feeling I know who it is. Hello? I call out. No response. Hello? When I reach the cabins, I can easily hear the sobbing.
Not from a girl, no, from a young man. "Christopher!" I call out. The sobbing stops. The door to the first cabin opens and a sad, sad sight steps out onto the porch. All his bravado is gone.
What I'm left looking at is a scared kid who just wants to go home. A scared kid that's also covered in blood and has scratches and cuts all over his face and chest. His shirt is pretty much ribbons. I'd wonder why he keeps it on at all. Except after years of being in my profession. You realize people will hold onto anything to feel even the slightest bit of safety. I guess Christopher's safety is keeping his shirt on. I set a camping chair upright next to the fire pit and nod at it.
"Have a seat, Christopher," I say. "Come tell me about it." He doesn't argue. He doesn't yell. He steps off the porch and does exactly as instructed. He takes his seat, and I know he won't be a problem. He's sitting in a chair coated in dried blood and hasn't seemed to notice. The broken are so pliable. "Tell me," I say and crouch down. So he does. "We were looking for Maggie," he says and swallows hard. "And then Marcus."
He looks around, probably for something to drink. I snap my fingers and bring his attention back to me. "Maggie and Marcus were missing?" I ask. He nods. I motion for him to continue. "We didn't find them," he says. "Not exactly." "Oh?" I ask. "We found a body," he continues. "But it was hard to tell what it was." "You couldn't tell if he found a human body or not?" I ask and laugh. "How's that possible?"
"It was all guts and hunks of bone," he says and shivers. "A pile of it on the trail." "That was right after the sun went down?" I ask. "How'd you know what happened after the sun went down?" he asks, surprising me. "The little shit still has a little bit of punch in him." "I'm a local," I say and leave it at that. He narrows his eyes but nods and continues. "It was probably around midnight when I heard the screams," he says. "Nicky's and his girls.
I was out of my cabin with my Glock and run into his cabin but it was too late. "What's his girl's name?" I interrupt. "What?" "His girl's name." I repeat. "Sonya. What does that matter?" "Just curious. I want to keep the body straight." He jerks back as if I'd shocked him. "Oops." I got cocky. "Go on," I say and bring out a sad, understanding smile. "Tell me about Nikki and Sonia. Why was it too late?"
The blood, he says, and hooks a thumb over his shoulder at the cabins. The inside of the cabin was sprayed with it. He shakes his head. No, not sprayed. Painted. Blood was everywhere. Buckets of it. All over the... cabin. Yes, you said that. I interrupt. No sign of Nikki or Sonia? No! He snaps. I already said that!
"You said it was too late, and there were buckets of blood painted everywhere." I responded. "But no bodies?" He shakes his head. "And the others?" I ask. "The other young man and his girl. Carlo and Linda were next." He continues. "Same thing. Screams and blood." He wrings his hands in his lap. "So much fucking blood, man. Human bodies hold a lot, believe me." I say. I look around the site. "What about your girl?"
His eyes slowly, slowly lift and find mine. Tears well and threaten to drip. He snorts a streamer of snot back up his nose. I watch as that little bit of spirit he'd been holding onto is finally all gone. "I went to piss," he says quietly. "I had my Glock and was gonna put a few rounds in whatever motherfucker dared come at me." "This was about three in the morning?" I ask. He nods. I'm waiting for him to wonder how I knew the time.
but he's lost in his memory. "'He came at me fast,' he says. "'I opened fire and I know I hit it. "'Then I ran back to the cabin. "'What happened to your girl?' I ask. "'She was gone when I got back,' he says. "'Except for all her blood?' I say. "'He nods. "'I stand and slide my knife back into its sheath. "'Now he looks very confused. "'You didn't try to run?' I ask. "'Look for a way through the woods and find a road?'
I was waiting for you," he says, completely broken now. "Well, here I am," I say, "and I'm glad we got to have this talk." I turn my smile on high and focus it on him. He winces. "I'm leaving now," I say. "What?" he cries. He jumps up from his chair, but it only takes a hard push for me to sit his ass back down. So very pliable. "Calm down," I say,
"When I come back, I'll have your father and his guys with me." "You spoke to him?" he asks. And I nearly burst out laughing at the hope and optimism in those words. "Not yet, but I will," I say. Which is the truth. I can bet the lucky six on it. "Why can't I go back with you?" Christopher asks. "In case the others come back." I say with so much earnestness that he simply nods in agreement. I don't say anything else.
I don't need to. Like I said, the broken are just so goddamn pliable. When I get back to the beach, I do a little housekeeping and erase the blood trails from the sand with a large log and then a pine bough. Then I'm in the lucky six and speeding back across the reservoir. I don't hear screams tonight either. The wind was blowing wrong again. Vincent Abruzzo isn't a large man. Not small either.
Just medium build, medium height, with dyed black hair and an expensive suit. The guys behind him are big though. They're who I pay attention to when Abruzzo walks up my porch steps and sits in the empty rocker next to me. "I can't get a hold of my son," he says without any introduction or preamble. "I was told you know where they are." "Your son, sir?" I ask, then take a sip of my half-finished lemonade.
Lemonade on the porch in the evening? Retirement bliss. "Is he one of the young men I took across the reservoir on Monday?" "I believe he is," he says and turns to me. I turn to him and smile my smile. He frowns. "Do I know you?" he asks. "We've never met, no," I reply and sip. "I'd remember." "So you know who I am?" he asks. I nod and sip. "Good, good," he says and claps me on the shoulder.
He squeezes, and unlike his son, his grip has nuance. It says good things can happen to me, or bad things can happen to me. "That makes things easier. I can take you and your men over there if you'd like," I say. He gives me one last squeeze and nods. "I'd like." "Great," I say and stand up. "Is now okay?" "Now is perfect," he says and stands with me. I take them to the Lucky Six. I drive them across the reservoir.
That's nice words. Why not?
It's pretty funny after all. He regards me for a second then shakes his head. "Fucking locals," he mutters. They reach the beach and are quickly lost in the shadows of the treeline. The sun has fully set. I start up the motor, and as I get the boat turned around, I wonder if I'll be able to hear their screams tonight. Maybe if the wind is right for a fucking change. My phone rings, and I set my cup of strong black coffee down.
The sun is brilliant on the water, but I lift my sunglasses above my forehead so I can read my screen. The New Jersey Department of Environmental Protection. "I was expecting your call sooner," I say when I answer. "We heard you talking to the kid," the guy says. "Good job confirming everything." "Thanks," I say. "I'm a professional after all." "True," he says. "When did the kid get it?" I ask, knowing they not only heard everything but saw everything.
The pines have more surveillance than Disney World. "About two in the morning," the guy says. "They let him stew in his fear. They must really have been bored to toy with him like that." "Usually. He argues with me when I suggest they have thoughts and motivations like that. They see the devils as creatures only, but predators are a different breed. I'd know." "What aren't you telling me?" I ask, smiling.
He says after a short silence. "That's so." My smile widens. "The father, Vincent," he says. "Interesting," I reply. "We've only seen this a couple of times before," he admits. "Some animals like to play with their food when they get bored." "You're a sick fuck, you know that?" the guy says. "It doesn't bother me."
He's called me that a dozen times. "Someday I want copies of the footage," I say. "For when I get bored." "Jesus," he says and hangs up. I lower my sunglasses and watch the sunlight ripple on the water as I finish my coffee. Retirement. My smile widens. I've been told it's my best feature. This story is based on SCP-4059. If you want to hear more stories like this one, check out my podcast, The SCP Experience.
You can find hundreds of stories just like this one. Here is the description of the SCP: SCP-4059 is the collective designation for a series of anomalies centered around the Pinelands National Reserve in New Jersey, USA. SCP-4059-1 is a 30-meter radius circular freshwater reservoir
located in the center of a 330-meter radius circular clearing located west of the town of Leeds Point, New Jersey. Directly encircling the reservoir are six abandoned single-room cabins, estimated to have been built within the last 150 years. A mass grave was uncovered by Foundation archaeologists along the westernmost edge of the clearing.
The gravesite was found to contain the assorted remains of an estimated 72 infants, many exhibiting severe physical deformities. The reservoir and its constituent structures are not anomalous unless two compatible subjects attempt to perform procedure 4059-CAMOSH. SCP-4059-2 are bipedal hercene creatures that exhibit numerous deviations from non-anomalous goats.
Notably, SCP-4059-2 entities are approximately 2 meters tall on average, with functional chiropteran rings protruding from the shoulder blades, anthropoid forelimbs terminating in hooked claws, prominent incisors, vestigial anthropomorphic mammary glands on the chest, and a thin, hairless forked tail.
Like many species of non-anomalous goats, instances have a pair of large, keratinous horns protruding from the top of their head and have a small, bearded waddle dangling from the base of the chin.
SCP-4059-2 are adept predators, stalking and incapacitating prey with a bite to the throat. Instances have been reported to be able to move at speeds upwards of 90 km/h for brief periods of time in the pursuit of prey. SCP-4059-2 typically avoid human contact, but can become aggressive when trapped or provoked, and instances have been known to stalk and kill humans.
At seemingly random intervals, SCP-4059-2 may return to SCP-4059-1 to drink. SCP-4059-3 is the personal journal of J. Fett Bartoszewicz, a Polish immigrant. The journal includes details about the founding and daily life as a resident of SCP-4059-1, as well as instructions as to the proper execution of Procedure 4059-Kamash.