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The drive to Caliban Cove had been the start of the nightmare. From the stop-and-go traffic on I-5 to the long winding roads through the peninsula, by the time you reached the sleepy beach town, you already felt dead.
Caliban Cove had been a booming tourist town in the 90s. Skeletons of pastel beach cottages that had been lost to time dotted the coast, remnants of a boardwalk that overlooked the Pacific Ocean, a town lost to time and tragedy.
Bodies washing up along the coast were nothing new. The Pacific was cruel; go out at the wrong time, and the current will eat you up and spit you back up. At first, it was nothing abnormal. A surfer went out during a storm and drowned, a fisherman fell over the ledge, and a parent turned a blind eye as their toddler swam out. A tragedy, sure, but nothing unusual.
Then, in the summer of ‘98, it all started.
At first, it was just one, a woman strewn across the beach, all grey and bloated, and what was left of her. Her body was all mangled, chewed up with chunks missing. News reports had claimed it was a shark attack. What else could it be? Then another one appeared on the sandy beaches. And another….That summer alone, twenty bodies had washed ashore, all mangled and in various states of gore. Theories of serial killers and satanic cults floated around.
As if, statenism is soooo 80s! It’s definitely Y2K influencing them through radio waves!
Are you stupid ?? Clearly, it’s a government cover-up!
The internet was host to conspiracy theories, and you ate up every one. Journalism was a dying career, your boss had said, no one wants to buy the paper anymore, not when the internet is free.
You’d give them a reason to buy the damn paper.
You had followed the lead, researching the missing people’s cases and the reports of the deceased. Maybe if you could crack a dent in this case, it could be the big break you’d been looking for, the jumpstart your dying career so desperately needed.
The salty wind was thick with humidity; the overcast sky did little to help with the heat, and the second you stepped out of your car, beads of sweat were already forming at the base of your neck.
The beach was outstretched before you; gone were the gravelly shores that the beaches of the sound hosted, and the smooth sand before you stood witness to the steely grey ocean. The scene of the crime, where countless bodies had been strewn ashore.
The wind howled again, so loud that it swallowed the low growl of an engine rolling up behind you. You didn’t hear the footsteps, either. Not until a deep voice cut through the wailing of the wind.
“You got a license for that thing?” A deep voice called out.
You spun around, heart skipping as your fingers brushed the grip. The man stood behind you in the banks of the sandy dune — close enough to see the tension in your shoulders, the flicker of readiness in your stance. His hands were at his sides. Nonthreatening. But he looked like he didn’t need to try hard to be dangerous. The gold star pinned to his chest was a giveaway. Sheriff. Tan uniform, worn at the seams. A Stetson shadowed the top half of his face, but you could see the chiseled outline of his jaw, the lines near his mouth, and when he took the hat off—dust-blonde hair tousled by the wind—his eyes were the same color as the sea: cold and stormy.
“Is a license needed out here?” You countered, hand falling to the handle of the little Hi-Point 9mm you had strapped to your belt.
“Not for that little pea shooter.” He gave a wry chuckle. His gaze flicked between you and your car, trying to get a read on you. He didn’t seem impressed, nor angry. He just seemed….tired, the face of a man who had seen too many tragedies.
“You one of ‘em journalists?” he asked, voice flat.
You hesitated. He already knew. You were dressed too nicely for a local and too professional for a tourist. A notepad poked out of your back pocket, and your car had permits for Seattle Times parking.
“Every few months, your kind rolls in from Seattle or Portland,” he went on, voice low but cutting, “hoping to gawk at our tragedy long enough to write a spooky little headline.”
You felt the heat rise to your face, and not from the muggy summer air.
“The people have a right to know, sir, besides,” you pause, taking in the stranger. “Maybe I can help out?” The statement left your lips more as a question.
“Oh, really?” The cop drawled, eyes trained on you. “You gonna help me solve the big bad case?” His tone was sardonic, yet you couldn’t help the flutter of anticipation in your chest.
“Maybe I could!” You countered, lip curling back in a sneer.
The sheriff smiled, lips twitching upwards. “Listen, you seem like an eager ‘lil thing, why don’t you follow me back to the station and we can talk?”
You took a step back, surprised. “On the record?”
“Sure, whatever it takes to get some damn help ‘round here,” he said, his lips twitching into a lazy smile.
You went quiet, biting your lip as you pondered your options.
“Alright, sir, lead the way.”
You followed the old Crown Victoria to a worn-down brick building, windows stained with grime and vines settling into the cracks. He led you from the gravel pit that doubled as a driveway and through the run-down waiting room, the station empty except for an elderly lady at the receptionist desk. She hardly looked up from the old boxy computer, the game of solitaire far too captivating.
He nodded at the woman, leading you through the few scattered desks in the open room, his own desk shoved in the corner, old reports scattered across the dented desk, maps of the town pinned up on the wall, and newspaper clippings of the town’s horrid past taped up.
“Have a seat, miss,” he said, gesturing to the worn-down wooden chair. You sat down hesitantly, taking in the haphazard mess of his desk. He seemed perplexed by your expression, a gear clicking into place as a suddenly flustered expression spread across his features, his cheeks tinged red in embarrassment.
“Sorry for the mess, don’t get a lot of people wandering through here, most of the time the only people I actually end up arresting are drunken teens who need their parents to pick ‘em up,” he explained, his words rushed.
“No, no, you should see my desk at home, it’s a hazard in itself,” you offered, smiling politely as you made yourself comfortable, whipping out your notepad and tape recorder. You clicked the small device on, placing it on an empty spot.
“Alright, sir, why don’t you start by telling me about the bodies?”
“Leon,” he mumbled gruffly, sitting down on the creaky office chair.
“Pardon?”
“Names Leon, not sir,” he said. “No need for formalities here,” he finished with a shrug.
“Fine, Leon, tell me about the first time you saw one of the corpses on the beach.”
He tilted his head back, his dimpled chin raised to the ceiling as he pondered the question. “This was way back when I was a rookie. I was transferred here from the Midwest, the original town I’d been assigned to canceled at the last minute, huge crisis going on, don’t think the town exists anymore, even,” he shook his head, turning to look at the map. He tapped one of the red pins that were embedded in the wall.
“The first body that really got people talking appeared two weeks after I got here, washed up not ten minutes from here. A fisherman had called in, said there was a body.” Leon pauses, opening his desk and rummaging around. He pulls out a thin folder, starting to turn yellow with time. He drops the folder on his desk, and you eagerly take it in your hands. There wasn’t much in there: the initial report and a single photo. The body, what remained of it, was grey and bloated from the ocean with inky black veins spidering across its body. A chunk was missing from the corpse, like a shark had taken a bite, the flesh rotting.
“I’ll never forget the smell, somewhere between a rotten fish and a funeral home,” he chuckled humorlessly. “After that, they just…kept showing up. At first, the county sheriff tried to take over the case, but when he couldn’t handle it, the state got involved, then the FBI,” he sighed, looking around the small room. “Nothing came of it; it’s like they just gave up. Eventually, the former sheriff quit, and most of the force with him. Couldn’t take heat from the public, I suppose. After that, I got voted in pretty quickly, now it’s just me and a handful of folks who couldn’t afford to leave.”
“So everyone just gave up?” you asked.
“Everyone but me,” he grumbled. “I’ll be damned if I let this town go to shit.”
You pursed your lips, clicking off the recorder as you glanced around the cluttered office, boxes filled to the brim stacked haphazardly along the walls.
“You keep records of all the bodies washed up on shore?”
“Of course,” he said, brow furrowed.
“Mind if I take a look?”
________
“You know, I could get into some real trouble if it got out I was letting you do this,” Leon mused, as he set yet another box of records down at your feet.
“Unless your receptionist is a snitch, I think we’ll be fine,” you muttered under your breath, skimming through the death record of one of the victims.
“World War Three could break out, and I doubt Marge would notice,” he sighed, sitting down as he rummaged through the boxes.
“How come so many of the bodies have yet to be identified?” you asked with a frown.
“I ain’t a forensic specialist, but a lot of them just didn’t have dental records or their bodies were too far gone to get a fingerprint on ‘em. For the bodies that are still recognizable, no one’s ever come out to claim them as family. It’s like they just….appeared.”
You frown, lips turned downwards as you look back down at the records. “But you have been able to identify some of the deceased?”
Leon nodded, grabbed a stack of paper, and handed it to you. “Two years back, a man washed up on shore, the freshest looking body we’d seen yet, face still intact, and he hadn’t gotten all bloated yet. The name was John Ho; he was a scientist over at a nearby facility, some pharmaceutical company’s research lab, or whatever. Poor guy, the cause of death seemed to be different from the rest, just a simple drowning case. I always thought it was weird, though.”
“A pharmaceutical company?” You asked, “What’s one doing all the way out here?”
“They built that facility before my time here, way back when tourism in the town was first starting to fade. Local leadership wanted to bring a big business in, hoping that people would move to the town looking for work. Umbrella was the first to bite at that offer, claiming they’d bring in jobs. Then the bodies started washing ashore and ruined everything. Don’t know how they are still operating.”
You leaned back in that rickety old chair, glancing out the grimy window at the setting sun, the final rays of light peeking through darkening clouds.
“Listen, why don’t you finish looking through these files? I’ll brew a pot of coffee, then we'll call it a night,” he offered, rising to his feet, stretching until a few bones cracked. “You got a place to stay at?” He asked.
You shook your head, “Honestly, I didn’t plan my trip out very well,” you admitted.
Leon went quiet for a moment, running a hand over his jaw as he looked at the clock. “There’s only one decent motel in town, and the owner probably is already a few beers deep at the bar. I got a spare room, it’s yours for the night,” he offered.
You gawked at the sheriff, taken aback by his offer. “Really?”
“I don’t exactly get many visitors; might as well get some use out of that room,” he grumbled, making his way to the coffee machine. The whirring and wheezing were the only sounds that echoed in the station, the smell of burnt metal and grounds perfuming the space. You returned to sorting through the reports, noting down anything that stood out to you as unusual. Leon set a chipped mug down next to you, sitting down as he sipped from his own. You thanked him, taking a sip and trying not to cringe at the bitter taste. He snickered as your face scrunched up, his eyes lighting up. This was the first time you had seen him genuinely happy, no tired sighs or sarcastic quips.
The sound of the radio buzzing broke through the silence of the moment, the brief look of happiness on Leon’s face draining as the static-sounding voice broke through.
“Kennedy, you in?” the garbled voice asked.
“Always, what’s your situation?” Leon said, pressing down on the speaker.
“We got a 10-54 down by the boardwalk, victim is unresponsive with no pulse,” the officer reported.
Leon sighed, setting down the mug with a heavy thud, coffee splashing out the sides.
“Rodger that, I’ll be there in ten,” he grunted, turning off the radio with an annoyed flick. He sat still in his chair for a moment, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he finally looked back over to you.
“Well, miss, can I interest you in a ride?”
________
The ride back down to the beach had been silent, just the wail of the siren and the getting of teeth as Leon sped down the old roads. A small crowd had gathered- drunkards from the nearby bar, their movements sluggish, a couple of bored teens that had been meandering the beach, bottles hidden by brown paper bags in their hands. In a town with the only thing going for it, strange deaths, you suppose there wasn’t much to do but wait to see if you’ll be the next body the tide brings in.
Leon hopped out of the car, making a beeline to the lone officer who was trying to keep the crowd controlled. The sight of the sheriff seemed to be enough for the drunken hoard to snap to their senses, a majority backing off with grumbled protests. You hesitated near the edge of the dissipating crowd, the salty air mixing with something wrong. Rotten. Foul.
Leon ducked under the yellow tape and glanced back. “You coming?”
You stepped closer. The others were backing away now, noses wrinkled, eyes wide. It was the smell that hit you first, like seafood that had long ago spoiled, the fishy stench assaulting your nose. After the initial punch to the senses, you laid eyes on the corpse. And honestly? It didn’t look human at all. The body was pale, like the blood had been drained out of it, inky black veins stained the skin, and the face was bloated and frozen in an eternal scream; the few teeth that remained in the purpling gums looked rotten and black.
“Jesus—!” you gasped, hand flying to cover your nose.
“Coroner should be here soon, sheriff,” the young officer said, voice devoid of emotion, guessing this was all routine at this point. Leon didn’t respond; he was crouched down next to the body, eyes trained on it, the lines around his mouth deepening as he frowned.
“It’s even worse in person,” you whispered.
He glanced at you, the ocean wind whipping through his hair. The eerie lights from the sirens and the haunted expression on his face made him look older than he was, withered and weary.
“You wanted the story, didn’t you?”
_______
The coroner had arrived in record time, grumbling in annoyance as she bagged the body. Leon let you take your photos, jotting down observations until you at long last put away your notepad.
“It’s getting late, listen, why don’t we turn in for the night, and in the morning I’ll drive ya down to the morgue after the coroner finishes her exam?” He offered.
You felt a bubble of hesitation rise in your throat, but as Leon shuffled nervously before you, eyes downcast with a wary yet hopeful glint, you felt that hesitation melt away.
“Sounds like a plan,” you agreed, feeling the corners of your mouth tug upwards as he stopped his nervous shuffle and nodded with bravado.
The car ride back to his house was quiet, the only sound was the hum of the old engine and the faint melodic 90’s rock that played on the radio. As he pulled down an isolated driveway tucked into a grove of crooked pines that leaned inland from years of coastal wind, you perked up, neck craning as you looked ahead at the dark house. It must have been a cute cottage when it was first built, but now all you could think of was how small and worn down it looked; the blue paint faded, and the once vibrant pastel had turned almost grey. Faded and worn down like the rest of the town, you thought to yourself as you stepped out of the car, following Leon up the steps of the porch, wood creaking under your feet as he fiddled with the lock.
“Damn thing always gets jammed,” he huffed under his breath, the door finally relenting and swinging open with a groan.
The house smelt of cedar and coffee grounds, warm light flickering on as he flipped a switch, the glow cast long, soft shadows across the living room. Your eyes scanned the area, trying to pick up on anything that might reveal more about the strange sheriff. The coffee table was cluttered with case files and notebooks, shelves sagged on the wall with VHS tapes of 80s action and noir movies, and a whisky glass sat abandoned on a coaster. Cleaner than you would have expected him to be, but it still painted the picture of a lonely workaholic.
“Sorry, it’s not—” Leon rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t really have people over.”
You felt a smile tug at the corner of your mouth, finding the sudden embarrassment on his face cute. “I can tell.”
A faint blush tinged his cheeks as he looked away, clearing his throat as he motioned down the hall. “Guest room’s this way.”
You followed him down the hall, the boards underfoot creaking with each step. He stopped in front of a door and opened it, flicking on the light. Small and tidy, what looked to be the most immaculate and untouched room in the house.
“I’ll be just down the hall if you need anything,” he murmured, the heat radiating off his body, his muscular body was inches away, his stormy eyes flickered to yours for a moment. You felt your heart skip a beat as he continued to meet your gaze. “Goodnight,” Leon eventually said, turning on his heel and disappearing down the hall. You watched his retreating figure, sighing softly as you tried to make sense of the day.