The New Ghostfingers CHRONicles

By NoCazz

    Two young men. Some might even say boys. They pulled up in a shiny black Tundra, eyes empty behind large sunglasses, mouths agape in simpleton laughter. The driver opened his door and hopped out, and the passenger followed soon after. They left the parking lot and entered the foliage.

    The path was dark. In spite of the exuberant greenery, and in spite of the ethereal halos of sunlight tunneling through the canopy like great worms of light, it was dark. An eeriness existed there in that forest path, a gloom that pervaded the musty air in perpetual repudiation of the day. Not that these young men could see it, or even sense it. Nevertheless, it was there.
    They pressed on. A lugubrious, jungle silence was all they could hear, and the deep green verdure trembled in the stillness. The ocean soon came into view, and they saw waves breaking. The passenger carefully avoided a low hanging vine as not to dirty his brightly colored LRG t shirt. They smiled, and laughed to one another as they neared the beach.

    "Ah dude it looks sick out there."
    "Yah, dude, look at that left, it looks like Pipeline."
     "I can’t wait to try my new Quiksilver wetsuit out. It’s a four-three, perfect for colder days like this."

    The path emptied onto the empty beach and they watched the waves break onto the shallow reef. They stood on the head of the point and a thick tangle of trees lined the coast for a distance in either direction. They laughed and watched the waves for a small while. They were not alone.    

    "Dude this beach is sick, I can’t believe no one is here. We should totally set up a volleyball court right here. Oh, look at that left dude."
    "Shit it looks fun out there. Lets grab our quad fishes and get out there."

    They turned and headed back from whence they came. The excited young men quickened their pace as they trotted the path. They took no notice of the jungle whispers. They could not hear its warnings. It was dark, and they were not alone.
    The driver ducked under a low hanging vine, as not to dirty his brightly colored Active t shirt. The other did the same. In a short while they exited the forest and set foot back on the cement of the parking lot. They made their way to the shiny black Tundra in the otherwise vacant lot.

    "Dude, it looks so sick out there- wait, you smell that?"
  
    The driver sniffed, and something like dread washed over him.

    "Yeah, I do."

    "That’s a mighty fine piece of equipment you got there. A right pretty automobile."

    They turned to where the voice came, and there stood a figure, not five paces behind them. A rickety straw hat tilted down and pulled low, a haggard Hawaiian shirt wrought with stains of blood or barbeque sauce or both. Black jeans and relatively clean bare feet. This strange man took a drag of his spliff, and smoke seeped out of his nostrils like a ghostly hand.
     The boys backed towards the truck slowly, uneasily, unsure of what to make of this stranger or his comment. The driver tried to speak.

    "Thanks. My dad, like, owns this dealership, so--"
    "Yep, that there’s a top rate automobile. A fella could sure to be proud to call somethin' like that his own."

    The stranger stepped to the car and peered inside the bed at the surfboards tied down. He looked up at them. They saw his eyes.

    "You boys mean to paddle out?"

    The young men didn’t know what to say. The smoky presence of this man seemed surreal in those fragile moments before fear came into sight.

    "Hey man, do you live around here? We were just driving north on the highway and thought we’d check it out. Dude, we’re from SD. What’s this place called, bro?"

    The man took one last drag of his spliff, and dropped it to the ground, where he stepped on it with the ball of his bare foot. His unflinching eyes rose from his feet and set a stubborn, steel gaze on the young men.

    "Ghostfingers."

    The stranger smiled, his eyes burned with pulsating intensity, and the word penetrated the air.

    "Ha, Ghost-fingers? That’s a weird name. Wonder why it’s called that."

    At this, the man reached into a haggard fold of his dirty Hawaiian shirt and produced a large knife. He looked at it quietly for a second, and turned it slowly in his hands. Without warning, he took one of the young men’s hands and brought the knife down hard, severing the fingers at the base with godlike speed and demoniacal fury. Blood splashed and sprayed and dirtied his brightly colored Activ t shirt.
    The second young man looked with horror and disbelief, took a few quaky steps back, then turned and ran to the forest. The first boy sank to his knees, staring incredulously at the four bloody wounds where used to be fingers.

    "Mister, please, my dad owns this dealership--"  
  
    "All who wander here shall know the name."

    Tears mingled with blood as screams rang into the air.

    The full moon hung low on this cloudless night, omniscient and disinterested. Every few seconds the waves roared like primal beasts held captive by the stillness of the peculiar beach, both bleak and beguiling in its calm. The naked and charred bodies of two young men hung limply from the palm tree and were teased by the night wind, and all the while a murder of crows feasted and filled their gullets on this bounty of flesh. Two young men. Some might even say boys. And on the trunk of the tree was etched but one name. And that name was Ghostfingers.