Oddity

by Abby Comey

When I wouldn’t go to Paul’s apartment to see his collection, he started bringing dead things to the climbing gym. The first day, it was a dried coyote skull wrapped in a bandana. He looked down at the head cradled in his palm like it was a peach he was dying to take a bite of.

“It takes a steady hand to get one of these into mint condition.”

He held up his other palm and wiggled his fingertips. That steadiness translated to climbing. I’d never seen anyone tie a knot so fast or place a cam so expertly.

A week later, it was a black widow in amber, her legs outstretched in elegant free fall.

“Her venom is strong enough to kill a grown bull with one bite.”

The whole thing seemed harmless enough — an eccentric old guy with an eccentric hobby. Wasn’t rock climbing just as weird? Weren’t both activities just ways to get high off death’s proximity?

I liked Paul. He was fun to talk to and a grossly talented climber with a lot of knowledge that I needed as a novice. He latched onto me, sure, but I did the same to him. And so when he invited me to his cabin in Seneca Rocks, I agreed.

My friends told me not to go. An attractive young guy straight out of college hanging out with a recluse who was pushing seventy and collected dead animals? It didn’t compute. In the end, their judgment just made me want to do it more. My life as an entry-level data analyst was mindless and bleak. Paul’s mind was a maze, and he owned bird feathers in every color.

“Fifteen folks have died climbing here since 1971.”

He said this at a gas pump just outside the park. He stared at me as he drew a line across his throat. He only started laughing once I did.

We got there a few hours before sunset and went straight for the approach. It was warm for December but still bone-chilling. My nerves only made the shivering worse.

Paul slapped me on the shoulder as we stared up at 1,500 feet of sandstone.

“Ladies first.”

I’d never trad climbed anything above a 5.9 before. We started with a 5.11, and I let Paul shout beta to me from the ground. Normally, I would’ve sent it by myself no matter how long it took, but it was getting dark, and I was ravenous for the view at the top.

The thought did occur to me, faintly, as I obeyed his every order. What if he’s leading me to my death? It was a half-joke, and I half chuckled, pausing to lean back in my harness and look up at the sky, which was more orange than blue in the dying light.

Something, something, sailor’s delight.

“Quitting already?”

“Fuck you,” I called down. “Never.”

I made it up. He followed in half the time. We ate three bananas each and passed a bottle of Gatorade back and forth while the peels piled up.

“In the seventies, we used to get stoned up here. I once pissed off the side of the mountain and told my friends I was baptizing the moss.”

“Do you still smoke?”

“Nah, it messes with my head too much. I like to stay sharp, you know? Keep my hands steady.” I felt him looking at me, but I didn’t turn from the view. “You never know what kind of shit you’ll encounter out here.”

By the time we got to his cabin, we were exhausted. Paul said he could make pasta with marinara. I said he could make whatever he wanted, as long as he made a lot of it.

The outside looked normal. Quaint, even. There were yellow curtains in the windows, early winter dandelions between the cracks in the path, rocking chairs on the porch, tiny pastel handprints on the mailbox.

“My kids,” he said when he saw me counting the sets through the passenger window as we passed. “Martha, Dan, and Paul Junior.”

“Are you close?”

I knew I was breaking my own rule.

“The divorce was ugly. Martha and Dan sided with my ex-wife. We don’t talk much.”

“And Paul Junior?”

“Goes by PJ.” Paul smiled. I’d never noticed the chip in his front tooth before. Just that small detail turned his face from charming to rabid. “He saw my side of things, bless his heart.”

We parked in the driveway, and Paul led me into the house.

I’d been prepared for the dead things. Paul had mentioned that he kept his most prized oddities at the cabin. To get myself ready, I’d laid in bed at night and conjured grotesque images — a two-headed rat in a jar, snake fangs on a string, cow testicles in a bottle.

I wasn’t ready for what I saw in the middle of that living room.

Immediately, I turned and ran. I left my gear in the back of his car. I didn’t care. Paul didn’t try to stop me.

He’d just wanted me to see. That was all.

It was a mile walk to the main road. From there, I hitched a ride on a dairy truck to a bus station in Dayton. I told my friends that I’d come down with something. When they asked about “my friend,” I laughed and told them we’d fallen out of touch. He became a punchline for a while until they all forgot him.

But I never forgot the look on Paul Junior’s decomposing face. I never forgot the maggots nestled into each of his cheeks in miraculous symmetry. I never forgot the tufts of blonde hair that hung loosely from his rotting scalp. I never forgot the dried dandelions that someone had slipped into his curled-up skeleton hand. And I never forgot the line across his throat, so straight that it could only have been drawn by a steady hand.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Abby Comey is a graduate student from Williamsburg, VA. She loves walking in the woods and playing D&D. Her work is featured in Flora Fiction and forthcoming in I-70 Review. She has also penned essays for The Washington Post and The New York Times.