The Fisherman by Matt Leavitt is the first short story included in the “Mad Men” anthology. Mad Men is a collection of three disturbing horror shorts from writers from the Midwest, specifically, Illinois. The themes explored in this collection range from man versus self, man versus man, and man versus creature.
We will be releasing the full short story in three parts. If you enjoy it and want to support the author or read the full anthology, check it out at Barnes and Noble.
Our Gothic Summer Giveaway Sale includes this short horror anthology this was published in, “Mad Men.” Simply enter coupon code BNPMADMEN100 at the checkout.
The Fisherman by Matt Leavitt Part 3
She’s not going to be happy.
He walks into the yard and pulls the gate shut behind him. He almost forgets to take his sandals off before he enters, but they have a new weight with the caked-up mud, and they come off like shoes at the door.
“Mom?”
No answer.
Instantly Thomas’ stomach drops.
In the kitchen, a man stands unclothed, prostrated before the sink, his head fully submerged underwater. The faucet continues spilling water over the edge.
Thomas stares, transfixed. The man doesn’t move.
Instinctively, Thomas speaks.
“Dad?”
The body stands up, the head dripping from the sink.
—————————————–
A little up the road from where the old home stood, an engine hums. The ocean salt hangs in the air, telling that water breaks just over the ridge. There is iron in the air too.
An old truck pulls over a ridge, its wheels kicking up grass and sand. The flatbed on the back of the truck is filled with copper wire, still wet from being unearthed. The man at the wheel scans the hills and looks for the sun behind the grey skies. This was all very different from Westchester, more secluded and much colder. He couldn’t imagine living out here, with nothing to do but collect scraps and shellfish. He cleared his throat, something he always did, and spit out the window. He was going slow enough that the spit went in the direction he wanted, not skimming the side of his vehicle. The sky seemed oddly quiet. It was later now, but he remembered coming out to the beaches outside of Westchester at similar hours and the sky was awash with seagull shrieks and crashing waves. Even the ocean stood still. His inflamed lungs bubbled and cracked perforating the copper and scratching the flatbed.
The man slammed on his brakes.
In front of his car, in the middle of the sand road, was a man staring blankly at him. The driver waved and inched forward, signaling the man to step out of the way, but the man began approaching the vehicle. He was dressed in a flannel shirt, and old jeans, with an old hat, the kind paper boys once wore. Cracking a window, he called out to the man to ask him if he was lost. The man walked right up to the driver’s window and spoke.
“I’d like a ride. If you would.”
The driver, clutching the shift, looked behind the man at the crest of the hill, half expecting a pack of dogs to come over, snarling and spitting.
“You live around here?” the driver drilled.
“Yes, actually. Up the way.” The man said this but nodded to nothing. He didn’t take his eyes off the driver.
“Where you headed?”
“Into town.”
“You don’t got a car out here?”
“I do. My wife is using it.”
The driver cleared his throat and swallowed it. He brushed some papers sitting on the passenger chair onto the floor to join some others.
“I won’t make any trouble.”, The man said.
The driver nodded, not paying attention, and reached his plump torso over to open the door, which was missing a handle on the outside.
The strange man got in the seat, looked at the driver, and then looked forward through the window as if waiting for the driver to take off. He patiently sat with his hairy hands resting on his knees. The driver looked the man up and down for a few moments before taking off.
“You’re all wet, man”
“Oh, the rain. Sorry”
Keeping his gaze on the man and slowly starting the car back up, the man pulled off down the road.
“So, what’s you got a name fella?”
“Yea, I do.”
The driver rolled his eyes over to the man and back to the road.
“Well, what is it?”
The man paused for a moment. It could be anything he wanted now. He thought hard. He liked the boy’s name. He picked it.
“It’s Johnathan.”
“Well, Johnathan, a pleasure.” The driver paused between questions as if desperately trying to find the right one. His voice sounded congested and it made people around him uncomfortable. The man was no exception.
“So, John…. can I call you John?”
“Johnathan”
“So, anyway, what brings you out to town? You got work? I’m doing some scrapping myself. Y’see those wires in the back? Them copper wires don’t look like much, usually, you can strip em from an old telephone pole and the metal is…”
“I’m a painter.”
The man had always wanted to be a painter. And it was never to late to start over.
“Like houses or like, painting?” the driver croaked, eyeing the man again.
“Like painting.”
The car turned over another hill, the copper wires tumbling around in the back of the truck, thumping and scraping. Just beyond the grass, where the green broke and the sand overpowered, was a building in flames. The smoke crawled towards the sky, but the cloud coverage had concealed it.
“Jesus Christ!” the driver hit the gas and careened around the view, staring dumbly from the passenger window, right past the man who refused to stare, as if he had never seen fire in his life.
“Should we check it out?” the driver asked his passenger as if the man was the authority on the manner.
“No, let’s just go.”
If you enjoy “The Fisherman,” visit our blog at The Ritual for related flash fiction.
“I mean, make sure everyone’s okay. I didn’t mean to go in. I…”
The man shot him a glance, the first emotion the driver had seen on the man’s face. The ease suddenly fell off his body. He felt unsafe with this stranger in the car, a mere foot beside him. The man’s face was urgent. It was threatening.
The two drove a ways away from the burning home until the smoke became clouds again. They didn’t speak, just shook side to side as the car hobbled over the sand. About 20 minutes or 10 hours passed as the car crawled westward, away from the sea. The sand grains drifted lower and lower as the car moved on until eventually it was only grass, and after that, gravel roads. The two men were quiet except for the constant clearing of mucus from the driver’s throat, which he seemed to be stifling as much as possible, so as not to offend his guest.
“This is good.” The man spoke.
The driver startled, laughed nervously. “Let me pull over first. We’re close anyway.”
“Pull over here.”
The men looked at each other again and the driver complied, drifting off the side of the road, aside from the tree line. There was another pause between the men, the strange man had not yet reached for the door. The driver nervously glanced over at his passenger, who stared off into the trees, as if lost deep in thought.
“Well, you take care now…” the driver offered.
Still, the man remained silent and did not make a move to leave the car.
The driver looked at the man and slowly reached for his own car door. He couldn’t run if he had to, he was buckled in, the man would notice his release of the belt and he wouldn’t have time for the door. He was tied in. There was nowhere to go.
“You gonna hurt me…aren’t ya?
The man took a deep sigh, glanced at the driver, and reached for the door handle, clicking the passenger side open.
“No. I don’t think I will.”
That concludes our 3-part series of our short dark fiction piece, “The Fisherman,” by Matt Leavitt. “The Fisherman” is the first story in our Mad Men Anthology, a collection of dark fiction shorts from Indie writers.
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