I heard a loud thud. I opened my eyes and saw Jorge and his goon twitching on the floor. The air was heavier now somehow. An unknown figure barged into the room wearing a gas mask and reached for the machete on the ground. It cut the ties on the chair and signaled me to get out. I nodded and kicked Jorge right in the mouth before running out of the room.
As soon as we got out of the house, I took a deep breath. Jack had actually saved my life from beyond the grave. It made me sad to think of my old friend, but I felt a great burden being lifted; not only did he not blame me, but he was also watching over me from the afterlife.
The stranger removed his gas mask; he appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He had a dark complexion, a short afro haircut, and stood probably over 6’3”. He jumped to the driver seat of a beaten-up white Corolla and opened the passenger’s side door. There was no doubt about it- this was ESF, my supplier and guardian.
I jumped into the passenger’s seat and coughed a little. He handed me an inhaler, which I took, and after one puff I felt good as new. I had so many questions for this man. I couldn’t stop looking at him; this was the guy who had been looking out for me. I felt incredibly grateful to him, but he seemed angry somehow, so I didn’t say anything for the time being.
He drove us to a rural town near the everglades. Once we were there he drove around in circles for a few minutes before pulling up at a nice old looking country house.
“What the fuck man, you can’t stay the fuck out of trouble for at least a week?” He asked, genuinely pissed. Not like I could blame him.
“Sorry, it’s not like I meant to get kidnapped.” I shrugged, which only enraged him more.
“Whatever, let’s just go inside for now.” He turned off the car and walked inside the house. I followed right behind him.
The house was pretty spacious. A teenage boy dropped his Xbox controller and ran to greet us before ESF shook him off. He guided me to the kitchen where an old lady took a glance at me, a look of concern on her face. She said something in a language I couldn’t understand, and ESF told me to show her my hand. I extended my open palm to her, and she nodded disapprovingly before saying something to ESF in the unknown language.
“She wants to know how long it has been since your blood turned that color,” he asked seriously.
“I just found out today when Jorge cut me open. By the way, what language is that?” He translated my answer to her while she grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and poured it in a kettle along with some small salt crystals.
“Creole.” ESF reached for the kettle as soon as it came to a boil and poured me a cup. “Drink up.” He slid the cup across the counter in front of me. I thought about protesting at first, but he’s gone through a lot of trouble for me. This man knows what he’s doing, I thought, so I drank it all in one gulp. As expected, it tasted like salt water.
“Salt tea, my favorite,” I joked; he didn’t laugh. The old lady approached him and whispered something into his ear. Why bother whispering though? It wasn’t like I could understand what they were saying.
“I don’t think you’ve told us your name yet,” he said as they both stared at me.
“It’s Dave… What does ESF stand for?” I asked.
“Emanuele Saint Fleur, but call me Manny. This is my Grandma Yvonne and my little brother, Gabriel,” he said, gesturing to the old lady and the teenager.
“You’re the one who’s been dropping window cleaner and salt crystals at the crane then?”
“Precisely,” he said, looking for something inside a kitchen cabinet. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye out on the canal, make sure those things are in check. Especially the cultists. But if those people ever see the three of us down by the canals, they’ll kill us.” He pulled out a new bottle of window cleaner from the cabinet, but this one was blue. He then proceeded to pour the contents into the sink.
“You’re on bad terms with those HOA loonies?” I asked. He laughed a bit, then handed over the empty bottle to Grandma Yvonne.
“Bad terms? That’s putting it lightly,” Manny said, helping Grandma Yvonne pour the contents of a wooden bowl into the empty bottle through a funnel. It was the same transparent liquid I had seen so often. “They’re stupid, but seriously dangerous. Like your friend Jorge.”
“Is he dead?” I asked. Manny shrugged.
“You probably have a bunch of questions, but I’d appreciate if you could save them for another time. Dinner’s almost ready.” I nodded as he guided me to the table.
Gabriel set the table while Manny helped Grandma Yvonne carry the food. She handed me a huge serving of oxtail stew, fried plantains, and rice. After another exhausting supernatural day like this one I once again failed to notice how hungry I’d been this whole time and gladly dug in. We chatted a little more, though Manny avoided most of my questions regarding the things in the canals or the supplies he’d been giving me.
I also learned that Gabriel installed a small camera on top of the crane, which was how they knew I got trapped in the canal that one night and how Gabriel saw Jorge kidnap me in real time. Luckily for me, they assumed he would be stupid enough to take me to the same place where he killed Joe. The family didn’t say much else. I knew they were hiding something, but for now it felt good to finally have allies; someone who’s got my back when shit gets weird, even by Florida standards.
After dinner was over, Grandma Yvonne sent me home with some kind parting words I couldn’t understand, a freshly made bottle of window cleaner, and a box of leftover stew. She asked Manny to drive me home (I assumed, as my car was still near the canal at this point since I couldn’t drive it while tied up in the back of a van). Manny pulled out his keys and pointed towards his car with his chin.
Once we were in, he pulled out a pocketknife from his glove compartment, grabbed my hand, and made a small cut on the side of my palm. I was about to protest before noticing the blood; it was no longer black, it was back to its former healthy red.
“We’re not the same as them, but that doesn’t mean we don’t play the same game. That’s all I’m allowed to tell you,” Manny said as he put away the knife and turned on the car. He drove in silence. I asked a great deal more questions which he ignored. Once we reached my place, he dropped me off without saying goodbye, just nodded and drove off.
Don’t get me wrong- I’m grateful to know someone’s got my back, three people in fact, but all the secrecy was starting to get on my nerves. By this point I would have been happy to quit my job; just send a text to that oblivious jerk, Roger, and tell him to start looking for a replacement. I was in too deep at this point and didn’t want anything else to do with this whole ordeal. What the hell is a necrodancer anyway? That’s what Jorge said he is… All I knew is that this night would require me to stay up until an ungodly hour to see if I could find out anything about “necrodancers”.
Fortune seemed to smile upon me for once. I took a well-deserved shower and browsed through some rather sketchy sites on the deep web that I used to frequent as an edgy teenager, including a forum for the supernatural. The first thing I learned is that Jorge said necromancer, not necrodancer. I wish I could explain to these cyberbullies how being tied up and beaten in some random shithole in Miami may not be the best condition for the human mind to recall events. And second, necromancers spoke to the dead but only to a certain extent; most of them claim that the dead can’t tell you what’s on the other side. Some have tried to bring back the dead into our physical plane of existence in order to get them talking, others just spend their lives trying to reach immortality (like Jorge). So far, they’ve all been failures, save for a few urban legends.
I also looked for some information regarding the canals but came to a dead end. There was basically no information other than a hick who claimed a possessed child with yellow eyes had once attacked him while he was fishing by a canal. Nothing too useful there, finding out other people know canaleros exist.
As I scrolled through the forum, I received an email notification from an unknown sender claiming to be interested in my questions. This was slightly unnerving considering I was accessing this site through a VPN, but all things considered, a hacker is probably the most normal thing I’ve run into since I started this job. I sent him a response and the conversation went on.
“What do you know about the Florida canals?” That’s all I sent, hoping that by making my emails short the other person would respond faster, which they did.
“You have seen them too? On the canal by Clear Ridge Road, right?”
Their reply astonished me. I knew the canal they mentioned, although it’s not part of my route. It’s a huge, poorly maintained canal sitting on a private farm not too far from canal #9. Apparently, the owner of the land had denied Roger access to the property and claimed they would take care of the maintenance themselves, which they never did. Even though I had never stepped foot on the canal I can see the yellow glares in the distance every time I drive by.
“You mean the kids, the furries, or the ghosts?” I responded, trying to be specific.
“So you do… write down this number, we should discuss a few things.” The stranger attached a phone number with an area code I didn’t recognize. I sent a few more emails which included pictures of some of the stuff I’ve seen by the canals and asked some vague questions, but all my emails remained unanswered.