A Night at the Beach

Matthew J. Costello

I had been to Coney Island twice — and I thought I'd never have to visit it again. The first time? 1952. Golden years in the good old USA, and Coney was America's beach. Miles and miles of relatively pristine beach front, an endless boardwalk, and the post-war boomers all baking into lobsters. Not that red isn't a nice color ... Kinda made me feel okay.

And why was I there? Oh, nothing too dramatic. One person on the board of the Bureau had a house in nearby Brighton. I probably didn't know it at the time, but I was still in the process of being checked out.

Everyone searching for an answer to the big question ... who was I?

Not that we ever answered the question. We have just all agreed to move ... past it.

And my second visit? 1975. And Coney was no longer anyone's playground. The big amusement parks like Steeplechase were long gone. Now the empty, haunted rides sat dark while the Atlantic slurped at the nearby coast. When I went, Coney looked like Berlin circa 1946. I actually had to step over a dead dog on the sidewalk wondering ... how long before someone comes and removes it? Or maybe they wouldn't? Maybe the dog would just lie there until it withered away, until it was just a pile of canine bones on the cracked pavement.

That time I had gone to Coney to talk to someone who had links to a Santeria cult in Manhattan that had turned, as Darth might say, toward the dark side. Alphabet City was turning into death world, and there was a former member in Coney who might help.

Or could have. I found him ... on his wall, pinned like one of the stuffed prizes from the boardwalk. I'm pretty sure he wasn't completely dead by the time the last giant four-inch nails had been hammered through him and onto the cracked plaster wall.

But he sure was dead by the time I got there.

Made stopping the cult that much harder.

But stop it I did. It's in the Bureau's files. Under 'Ritual Murder' ... or maybe 'Demon-Directed Serial Killing'. Not sure ... they've changed filing methods so often. Not my job, as they say.

And I thought I'd never revisit Coney Island again. Place left a multiple of bad tastes in my mouth.

But I was wrong.

I was due at least one more ride on the big Coney coaster.

It started with a grim-faced Abraham Sapien calling me into a small meeting room at the bureau. Now 'grim faced' is nothing new for Abe. But even for him, he looked unusually concerned.

"Sit down," he told me.

"I'm fine standing," I said. I've broken enough chairs in the joint to opt to stand unless I was mighty sure of my perch.

But Abe sat and opened up a manila folder ... from which all these clippings slid out.

"Know about these?" he said.

I looked at the clippings, most from the Daily News. A few disappearances, kids, a teenage girl, a postal worker who didn't come home. But then there were two stories of ... drownings. People found with their clothes on who drowned. I checked the locations ... Manhattan Beach, Brighton Beach, Sheepshead Bay, Coney Island.

The Brooklyn Riviera.

"Yeah, so ... ?" I said.

"That's not all, Hellboy. These are what the paper's got. Here's the other stuff ... "

And then he dumped ... the other stuff. Police reports, photos, audio tapes ... I only had to skim the material to see what was missing from the Daily News' recounting.

The drowning victims had strange lacerations all over their bodies as though they had been in the cage with a pack of starving wolves. The pictures — even for me — were hard to look at.

The police reports on the missing people had eyewitnesses saying how they heard sounds by the shore, people running, screaming, the sound of splashing water.

In five minutes I could see two things: That all the stories were probably linked. That was a no-brainer. But another element also emerged. Something mighty strange had happened to these people. Strange — and horrible.

"The drownings," I said looking at the pictures, " ... they're people who tried to ... escape from ... whatever?"

"Yes. Except we don't know anything about the 'whatever'."

I looked at the photos again. One of the bodies was found within sight of the Cyclone roller-coaster. The police photographer went for an art shot. Here's the lacerated body, and here's the decayed amusement park. I put the evidence down.

"You have your work cut out for you, Abe." He looked up. His eyes narrowed. "I mean, it's obvious that you should take the lead on this. With the water tie-in and everything. Your show all the way. I'll be there for back-up, of course. But — "

He held up a hand.

"No. I knew you'd think that. Maybe there's a water connection. Seems obvious, I know. But — "

Abe hesitated. There was something going on here that he didn't tell me.

He looked back up at me. "I don't know how to tell you this, Hellboy. It's not easy to admit."

The air in the room felt close, claustrophobic — as if we were underwater.

"Partly it's intuition. Partly it's making a few conceptual leaps from these photos. But this has something to do with the sea, something in the ocean that's growing in power, feeding off these people. If I go ... I'll meet them in their world. Which is precisely what they want. You — on the other hand — "

I laughed. If there's one thing I knew about Abraham it was that he didn't scare easily. So I believed what he was saying ... that this possible water-related investigation might be better done by me.

"Coney Island," I said.

Abe nodded. "I'll do back-up, and I have a few leads for you to follow. And I've asked Kate to help."

I nodded. I wondered if Dr. Kate Corrigan was still annoyed with me. When we were in the Appalachians my over-eagerness triggered a whole room full of folk texts to explode into flames. That the books were bound in skin didn't deter her academic's interest in their documentation of three centuries of rural cannibalism.

"She's up for it?"

"Yes, as long as you think a nanosecond before blowing anything up."

"Deal. And the lead?"

"Just this one ... "

Abe handed me a slip of paper.

I rolled my eyes. "You gotta be kidding me ... "

But he wasn't.

Kate Corrigan had an office on the campus of New York University though I had never seen it.

"You'd create quite a scene," she said.

"In the Village?" I said. "Give me a break."

There were days I traveled below Eighth Street and I felt as though I fit in just fine. In New York City you could be anything ... even a Hellboy. The village could be mighty tolerant. Still, she met me at the Used Book Cafe. I didn't exactly disappear, but this meeting of old books and fresh coffee had enough of a bizarre charm that I felt okay.

"So what's up?"

"What?" I said. "No 'Hello, Hellboy — how are you doing'? Hows life in the fast lane?"

She smiled. "I have thirty minutes before my urban-legends seminar. If I could only tell them half of what I know ... "

"And scare the hell out of them? Not a good idea."

She looked right at me. "So — "

I told her what Abe had been talking about, the murders, the disappearances. She sipped her latte.

"I've seen the stories."

"He thinks ... we think ... that they're connected. Something's happening at Coney Island. And I wouldn't mind an urban-legend expert coming along. After your next class, of course."

"And I'd be very annoyed if you didn't ask. Besides, I haven't been to Coney Island in ages."

"A Nathans hot dog on me ... "

She laughed.

We wouldn't be laughing for long.

"Christ — it's like a war zone. Do people actually have fun here?"

I looked around at the landscape. Sure there were rides, and games to play, and junk food galore. But everything was a bit ... off The stuffed prizes in the booths — the plush toys — were unrecognizable, as though we had beamed down to some alternate planet filled with totally unfamiliar cartoon characters. No Donald or Daffy here. No, but you could get a stuffed Demented Duck if you wanted ... if you could win the game.

We stopped on Surf Avenue right near the Cyclone roller coaster.

"That's supposed to be one great coaster," I said. "Not that I know from personal experience, not that they'd ever let me ride." On cue, a line of cars went screaming above us, the sound echoing down to us. Happy screams, I imagined. The sound of fun.

Was it the danger that provided the thrill? In which case, the riders might be flirting with more danger than they knew.

We passed a carousel.

"That's open all year," I told Kate. "Even in the dead of winter, you can come and try to get some brass rings."

"The operator looks like a happy soul."

The man feeding the rings into a long arm had a haunted expression as though he was operating some infernal machine from the bowels of Dante's hell.

The thumping carousel music filled the car ... then faded, like the rich smells waiting on the wind, the sweet smell of sausage and hot-buttered corn and — of course — Nathan's famous.

"Still the best hot dog," I said.

"They're off my list of edible food. Still, maybe on the way back I'll test fate."

I nodded. What were we looking for here? Some hidden link that would tie the disappearances together, the missing bodies, the drowned bodies. It was purely instinct, but I thought that someone here must know something. This might be a great place for secrets ... but nobody can keep secrets forever.

"Turn here," I told Kate. "All the way down to the end."

To our one lead.

She turned, and the boardwalk was ahead. The sun was going down. Less chance for me to cause a stir, I thought.

But I needn't have worried.

The beach was oddly deserted. Here it was, a warm summer day, sun not quite gone, and there were few people in the water, and fewer still on the beach.

"Strange, hm?"

"Business looks a little slow on the boardwalk, too."

Everything looked open ... just not terribly busy.

"It's the Jaws phenomenon," I said. "Something is snatching people around here, and all of a sudden other recreational activities start to look more attractive."

A young man on roller-blades flew by us.

" 'Course, if you're really fast ... maybe you don't get afraid."

"There it is," Kate said, pointing to a small building that sat at the middle of the boardwalk. The building, painted white, glowed a burnished orange in the setting light. Big puffy red letters announced, "The Coney Island Museum of Oddities." It was our one lead from Abe, a good place as any to begin.

"Wonder if it's open ... "

On cue, a thin, weasel-looking man slunked out of the museum, looked left and right — he couldn't have acted more furtive — then he dashed away.

"We're in luck," I said. "Let's hope the oddities don't disappoint."

I walked up to the white door and turned the handle. It didn't open.

"That's ... odd ... " I said. "I could have sworn we just watched someone come out this very door."

I jiggled the handle. Then Kate knocked, rapping hard.

"Hm, maybe it's — ," I pushed hard, and when the door didn't budge, I pushed harder. The sound of splintering wood told me that the Museum of Oddities probably had a termite problem.

The interior was dark, musty ...

Kate hung by the doorway.

"I don't like this," she said.

"And I do?"

I took another step in, and she followed. Gradually my eyes adjusted to the light and I saw some of the more obvious specimens in the collection. There, floating in a jar of murky water, was a two-headed baby. It looked real enough, but I doubted that it could be. Otherwise, where were all the two-headed humans? A mummy sarcophagus sat in the corner. The paint looked a tad fresh — but then maybe the proprietor re-touched it.

"Get a load of this," Kate said.

And I turned to see a hand.

"Says here ... that this is the Crawling Hand that strangled the Count Weingrin of Austria ... after he had his romantic rival tortured and put to death."

"Crawling hand ... looks pretty still to me."

Kate read from a card. " 'The Count had his rival's hands and feet cut off and tossed into the Danube. Later that night, this hand crawled out of the river, found its way to the Count's bedroom and strangled him'."

"Oh, it's that famous Crawling Hand."

"Ahhh!"

Kate let the hand fall to the ground.

"What is it?"

"I felt ... something ... "

"Oh give me a break. Just pick it up and — "

She knelt down.

"Hellboy." Her voice was quiet, still. One of those sounds that's inversely proportional to the alarm she felt.

"Yes."

"I — don't see it. Dropped it here, and now — "

"Just stop fooling around ... It has to be right there."

"Stop!"

From the darkness, the musty back rooms of the Museum of Oddities, I heard a voice.

The proprietor, I thought. I turned slowly. I wondered if he'd ever seen anything as odd as me.

"Tell me," he whispered, holding a rifle, "why I shouldn't just shoot you both now. Breaking and entering. Would be no problem with the police."

Despite the gun sitting inches away, I could have mentioned one reason might be that I could smash him so fast with my hand that he'd go flying out the back of the building.

I heard him wheezing, sniffling.

A member of the coke generation.

I decided to try verbal communication first.

"Just this. We're here ... because we think you might know something. That maybe — ," I took a stab at something. My batting average was anything but perfect, but, — "Maybe you know something, and you're scared and hey — it might all impact your business."

"You mean my museum?"

I laughed. "You wish. I mean your drug business. You're dealing. Keeping Coney high on whatever they want."

He rubbed his nose.

Kate came close to me. She whispered: "I still couldn't find the damn hand."

I whispered back. "Well, you know those crawling hands. Can't keep them down ... "

"You dropped the crawling hand?" the proprietor said. The tenseness in his voice gave me pause. Maybe bantering about the thing wasn't a good idea.

"I think ... " I said slowly, " ... it sort of ... scurried away ... "

The man's eyes darted about. And in that rather surreal moment, I brought up my right had as fast as I could and smacked the man's gun hand. I had hoped that the pain would make him release the gun. Instead he held tight and pulled the trigger.

"Idiot," I said, and now I slammed a backhand to the side of his head.

He was on the floor, out.

"Good one," Kate said. "He'll be great to question now."

"Oh, we'll just wait," I said. "Give us time to find your lost hand — before it finds us."

Richie came to. That was the guy's name, according to the material on his desk — the unpaid bills and the pack of rubber checks he planned on paying then with. Richie Tryp. Sounded like a good name for a fifties crooner. Ladies and gentlemen, Richie Tryp!

Richie sat on the one chair in his office space-cum-garbage dump.

"W-what do you want?" he asked.

The little smash to the head had convinced him that we should make peace, not war. Besides, Kate had his gun.

Kate took the lead.

"You know about all the disappearances, the bodies ... "

"Yeah," I added, "the way Coney just isn't any fun anymore."

Richie nodded.

"We were wondering ... you live here ... maybe ... you know something."

He turned away.

"Don't know a thing."

"Richie," I said. "Richie, Richie, Richie ... you don't want your drug business to go bust, now do you? Who will supply all of Coney's campers?"

"If you know something," Kate said, "for God's sake tell us. What makes you think ... that whatever it is won't get you?"

"Or maybe some of your customers," I said.

No one laughed at my bit of black humor. I turned and looked at the door, still open a crack. Except now the light had faded. The sun was down. Coney at night.

Why did I look back there, I thought. Was it a feeling that something was ... there?

"Tell us what you know," Kate said. "Before this place becomes a ghost town."

Now Richie Tryp looked up, his bloodshot eyes, so sad and haunted.

"I — I don't know ... "

No. There was nothing at the door. Just my nerve endings a little hot-wired. Something was up tonight. And Richie was about to reveal all.

Well, almost all ...

A surprisingly cold breeze blew off the water.

I hummed a bit of a classic song.

I mean, we were, after all, huddled under the splintery boardwalk.

"Enough, Hellboy."

"Just trying to lighten the mood."

The beach was deserted. Nobody as far as we could see in either direction, and nobody on the boardwalk.

"Think Richie screwed us?"

"Doubt it. I don't think he wants me knocking on his door again. Funny, the oddest thing in his museum ... is the proprietor."

A sudden gust. I heard Kate shiver.

"Not exactly a nice summer night on — "

I stopped.

A sound, voices in the distance ... carried by the wind, then blown away.

Kate moved. "Steady," I said. "Let's stay hidden as long a possible."

She moved close. I whispered to her, "Hey, maybe you'll get a new urban legend out of the evening."

"Maybe ... "

The voices grew in volume, excited noises, and then a muffled sound. And finally I saw the group streaming down from the east, from the roller coaster and the aquarium.

"Amazing everyone knows to stay off the beach, eh? The word must be out."

We didn't move. Didn't have to ... since the merry band was making its way to us.

Carrying someone. A girl — I saw her struggling, arms holding tightly to each limb.

"Let's go," Kate said.

I put out my hand out to stop her.

"One more minute. Maybe it's just a clam bake."

The girl's struggles suddenly freed her head, and she screamed, a chilling sound on the empty beach. But someone quickly covered her mouth again.

I had this thought.

Where are the cops?

Unless — they're there. Part of the little party. The crowd looked about twelve strong.

"Richie Tryp scores ... " I said. "Have to give him my regards."

The crowd reached the shore. I could barely make out the girl being pinned to the sand ... just at the water's edge ... when the low keening began, a bizarre moan. A Hawaiian luau this wasn't.

"Now," Kate said.

I nodded.

We got up, the damp sand sticking to our bodies.

"Going to need a nice hot shower when I get home," I said. "Don't you just hate it when the sand gets in all those little cracks and crevices?"

"And you have such ... big crevices."

"I thought you'd never notice ... "

We walked to the crowd at the shore, the moaning rhythmic. I spotted the thin sliver of a waning moon in the sky, like a weird grin, as if planet Earth was really one very amusing place.

Lots of laughs.

Especially here, especially now.

Kate and I picked up the pace. My hand was close to my gun ... not that I was sure I'd need it.

Someone in the group turned and saw us, but the chanting sound went on. They weren't going to let a little Hellboy visit interrupt them.

Kate broke into a run — probably thinking that they might do something quickly to the girl. But I didn't see any weapons glinting in the pale light.

But then, beyond the group, I did see something.

Did you ever see those classic movies in the fifties ... you know, the ones about the gillman? Not bad effects for the time, old Ricou Browning doing a pretty convincing job as the creature.

Beyond the group, I saw something come out of the water.

Now imagine — if you will — that the gillman ... was totally convincing. Imagine that he looked as real as some slimy slug in your typical suburban garden.

Not only that, give him an extra pair of arms and mouth of teeth that would put a great white to shame.

Now imagine that after you see the first one, six more pop their ugly heads out of the water.

Only meters away from the girl.

Abe didn't want this. A little too close to home for him.

How nice of him to pass it on to me.

The sea things trudged towards the girl. Their bodies may have been made for speed in the water, but walking in the shallow surf seemed a tad hard.

I reached the crowd.

I backhanded the first few ... worshippers, and sent them flying like bowling pins. The girl began screaming.

She was looking at me.

"It's okay," I said. "We're here to help."

Then Kate jumped on two of the other beachcombers and the girl was nearly free. But not before I saw the sea things almost at her.

One cultist wouldn't let go of the girl's arm.

I pulled out my gun and fired right at the place his arm joined his shoulder. Suddenly holding the girl didn't seem like such a priority.

"Kate, take her ... get going."

She looked at me. In her eyes, I could see she knew she was leaving me in one very bad situation.

"Get her out of here ... "

Kate nodded, and pulled the girl away.

The sea things opened their mouths in unison.

"What are you boys gonna do ... " I said, "sing?"

And as if in response, they all hissed at me, so loud and long that I could smell their foul breath.

"What the hell have you guys been eating? No ... don't answer that."

I formulated a defense plan. Basically, shoot and bash.

One creature leaped at me, but his footing was lousy and he landed on my shoulder. My stone fist smashed down on his head. I heard a soft, pulpy sound. One down ... five to go.

Another came running, jaws opened wide, like some demented humanoid shark, snapping at the air.

"You wouldn't like the way I taste," I said — and shot him in between two curved incisors.

The shot set him flying back.

But then one landed on my leg and I felt its teeth bite down. Another jumped onto my shoulder, and then — a moment I dreaded — I felt myself being pulled by these things into the water. And despite my size and all my strength, I felt the water on my legs, saw my blood swirling around the milky moon-lit sea water ... deeper, even as I fired at this creature and tried to smash the other.

I knew once they had me in the water, it would be no contest.

Deeper, until I felt them all around me — were there more? And the water at my chin. Then — I tasted the too-salty water of the Atlantic.

At least the water made the pain better.

The teeth chomping down didn't feel so horrible anymore.

I struggled in the murky water, zero visibility, my arm slowed by the water so even my best attempts to smash the creatures failed. They were all around me.

Then I felt one creature ... ripped off me.

Then another. Now I could grab one and crush one slimy head between my biceps and chest. I didn't hear the satisfying crack ... but I felt it.

I grabbed the creature hanging on me and knocked its jaw straight up so that its mouth was now re-located close to the top of its frog-like skull.

Then I thought ... breathing! Air might be nice. What a good idea.

I shot to the surface.

What had pulled them off me?

A few seconds and then something broke the water.

A familiar face.

Abe.

We treaded water there for a moment.

"I thought this was my case ... I thought ... you were worried?" I hurt all over — and I'm sure the blood from my wound was driving the blue crabs below crazy.

Abe grinned.

"Hey, didn't anyone ever take you fishing, Hellboy?"

I looked at my friend. "What?"

"What do you need when you go fishing ... ?"

Some of the dead sea-things bobbed to the surface. A bunch of them ... all of them? Time would tell.

"Fishing?"

Abe was grinning, looking demented in the rolling surf, the white moonlight hitting his eyes.

Then I flashed on it. And I laughed.

"Right ... " I shook my head. I owed him one for this. "I was the bait."

Now Abe laughed, and he looked around at the bobbing sea-things even now rolling towards the shore. "And look how well you did."

"Yeah," I said, turning, starting to swim back to the shoreline. I saw Kate on the boardwalk, waiting. "Catch of the day, don't you think?"

And Abe laughed again.