By Ed Staskus

   Emma was fast asleep in the back seat, her head slumped on her brother’s shoulder, the night they discovered the truth about Hat Man. Oliver had heard of him, but since they were leaving Prince Edward Island in a few days, going home to Ohio, he had almost given up hope of tracking him down. Even though he was only 10 years old, he was as a rule prepared for the worst when it came to monster hunting, but always hoped for the best.

   Oliver was the Unofficial Monster Hunter of Lake County. His older sister Emma was his right hand man. Their parents were in the front seats, their father driving and their mother scrolling through her cell phone. It was nearing 11 o’clock. They had been in Charlottetown, at the Irish Hall, where they had seen the band Fiddler’s Sons They were returning to the Coastline Cottages in  North Rustico, where the family had been staying for nearly two weeks.

   They took a wrong turn leaving Charlottetown and ended up on Rt. 15 instead of Rt. 223. “No matter,” their father said. “We’ll drive up near Brackley Beach and from there all we have to do is go west to North Rustico.” Getting back to their cottage from there meant going through Rustico, Rusticoville, South Rustico, and Anglo Rustico, which were along the way.

   North Rustico was founded around 1790. Nobody is sure exactly when. It is on a natural harbor on the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The environs were home to a remnant Acadian population who fled British capture and deportation during the Seven Years War. René Rassicot, a French pioneer, was one of the first settlers in North Rustico. All the rest of the Rustico towns take their name from him.

   They were driving down a dark stretch of Route 6 between Brackley Beach and Cymbria when the road was engulfed by green fog. Suddenly, out of nowhere, there was somebody in front of their car. He was a tall man wearing an old-fashioned flat brim hat and a long black coat. Their father slammed on the brakes but it was too late. Their car hit the man and sliced through him like he was a shadow.

   “Stay here,” Oliver’s father said, coming to a stop and getting out of their Jeep Cherokee. He was shaken. He looked all over with a flashlight. Nobody was lying dead in the road or on the shoulder. Emma woke up. Oliver twisted around and peered through the rear window.

   “What’s going on?” Emma asked.

   Oliver climbed out of the back seat. His sister followed him. Their mother kept her hand on her cell phone, ready to call 911.

   “He came out of nowhere,” their father said. “He was in the middle of the road but now he’s nowhere.”

   “I have nowhere else to go,” a voice said. “This is all I have.”

   Oliver, Emma, and their father jumped, looking for the voice. A man walked out of the night and fog towards them. He was still wearing his old-fashioned flat brim hat. He was more shadow than flesh and blood. He was carrying an aspergillum in his right hand. It is a liturgical implement used to sprinkle holy water. It looked like a mace.

   “It’s my double-edged sword, in case my sacred water doesn’t work on the fiend,” he said. “In that case I will send him back to Hell by smashing him with God’s instrument.”

   “We thought we hit you in the road. Are you all right?”

   “Yes, I am all right,” the man said. His voice had an echo to it. He had a French accent.

   “Who are you?”

   “He’s the Hat Man,” Oliver said.

   The Hat Man is a phantasm. He goes back to ancient times. He is a night-time vision that paralyses men and women with fear and sucks the breath out of them. He often appears next to one’s bed somewhere between sleep and consciousness. He is a silent nightmare. “I was utterly paralyzed with terror, as if fear had frozen me from the inside out,” said a woman who lived on Femanagh Rd. in Anglo Rustico. “I couldn’t sleep for trying all night.”

   “I am Rene Rassicot, after who these lands are named,”  the man said, fog rolling off his shoulders. “Some call me the Hat Man but I am not. I am Shadow Man. I do not terrorize the living or the dead. I watch over those living on my lands, especially at night, when their dreams leave them exposed to danger.”

   “You lived and died here hundreds of years ago,” Emma said. “Are you immortal?”

   “All creatures, except for man, are immortal because they are ignorant of death. Being a man, I am not immortal, although I was once threatened with immortality, which is more terrible than being threatened with death.”

   “Are you alive now?”

   “Yes and no, young girl. My advanced age has resigned me to being Shadow Man. I miss my family. I miss the smell of coffee and tobacco.”

   “If you’re not the Hat Man, who is?” Oliver asked, getting down to the business of monster hunting.

   “The real Hat Man is Mr. Babadook, not me. He prowls these coastal lands from Brackley Beach to Stanley Bridge. He is furtive and cold-hearted. He strikes a pose in a beaver pelt top hat. He wears black mouth paint and his long spindly fingers are knife-like claws. He feeds on bowls of worms. He is my enemy.”

   “Who is Mr. Babadook?” Emma asked.

   “He is the fiend who has oppressed me these past one hundred years,” Shadow Man said. “I have been confused with him from the beginning, since 1925, when Mr. Babadook was brought to the island in a children’s book.”

   “He came out of a book?” Oliver asked.

   “Yes, a spectral pop-up book.” 

   The first pop-up book was “Little Red Riding Hood” published in 1855. It was called a scenic book. Seventy years later the big bad wolf had become Mr. Babadook. He and the wolf shared the same kind of teeth and appetite.

   “What does he do?” Oliver asked.

   “He knocks on the door and leaves his red pop-up book on children’s night stands.”

   “What happens if children read the book?”

   “When they open the book they read, ‘You can make friends with a special one.’ By the time they get to the middle of the book they read, ‘You cannot get rid of me!’ After that they can’t help turning page after page. When they finish the pop-up book Mr. Babadook moves into their basement and gains control of the house and the family. In the end what happens is madness.”

   “That sounds terrible,” Emma said. “Why hasn’t anybody stopped him?”

   Their father wanted to say there wasn’t any such thing as dream police, although he conceded there were dream monsters. Before he could, however, Oliver piped up.

   ‘Dad, can Shadow Man come with us? He could sleep in Cottage No.1 since it’s empty. We could search for Mr. Babadook tomorrow. Maybe if we put our heads together we could put a stop to what he has been doing. We don’t have anything planned, do we?”

   His mother was all set to say they had plenty planned and Shadow Man should go back to where he cane from, but before she could get a word out her husband said, “Get in the back. My son and you can go look for Mr. Babadook tomorrow, although you should know we are going home to Ohio in a few days.”

   “What about me?” Emma said, knowing she would be in on the hunt, no matter what.

   “We will find him,” Shadow Man said.

   What he didn’t say was Mr. Babadook might find them first. The top-hatted bogeyman was always on the prowl for children. Shadow Man looked at the two children in the car and began to make plans.

   Emma was dozing in the back seat, her head slumped on her brother’s shoulder, the night they discovered the truth about Hat Man. Oliver had heard of him, but since they were leaving Prince Edward Island in a few days, going home to Ohio, he had almost given up hope of tracking him down. Even though he was only 10 years old, he was as a rule prepared for the worst when it came to monster hunting, but always hoped for the best.

   Oliver was the Monster Hunter of Lake County. His older sister Emma was his right hand man. Their parents were in the front seats, their father driving and their mother scrolling through her cell phone. It was nearing 11 o’clock. They had been in Charlottetown, at the Irish Hall, where they had seen the band Fiddler’s Sons. They were returning to the Coastline Cottages in  North Rustico, where the family had been staying for nearly two weeks.

   They took a wrong turn leaving Charlottetown and ended up on Rt. 15 instead of Rt. 223. “No matter,” their father said. “We’ll drive up to Brackley Beach and from there all we have to do is go west to North Rustico.” Getting back to their cottage from there meant going through Rustico, Rusticoville, South Rustico, and Anglo Rustico, which were along the way.

   North Rustico was founded around 1790. Nobody is sure exactly when. It is on a natural harbor on the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The environs were home to a remnant Acadian population who fled British capture and deportation during the Seven Years War. René Rassicot, a French pioneer, was one of the first settlers in North Rustico. All the rest of the Rustico towns take their name from him.

   They were driving down a dark stretch of Rt. 6 between Brackley Beach and Cymbria when the road was engulfed by green fog. Suddenly, out of nowhere, there was somebody in front of their car. He was a tall man wearing an old-fashioned flat brim hat and a long black coat. Their father slammed on the brakes but it was too late. Their car hit the man and sliced through him like he was a shadow.

   “Stay here,” Oliver’s father said, coming to a stop and jumping out of their Jeep Cherokee. He was shaken. He looked all over with a flashlight. Nobody was lying dead in the road or on the shoulder. Emma woke up. Oliver twisted around and peered through the rear window.

   “What’s going on?” Emma asked.

   Oliver climbed out of the back seat. His sister followed him. Their mother kept her hand on her cell phone, ready to call 911.

   “He came out of nowhere,” their father said. “He was in the middle of the road but now he’s nowhere.”

   “I have nowhere else to go,” a voice said. “This is all I have.”

   Oliver, Emma, and their father whirled, looking for the voice. A man walked out of the night and fog towards them. He was still wearing his old-fashioned flat brim hat. He was more shadow than flesh and blood. He was carrying an aspergillum in his right hand. It is a liturgical implement used to sprinkle holy water. It looked like a mace.

   “It’s my double-edged sword, in case my sacred water doesn’t work on the fiend,” he said. “In that case I will send him back to Hell by smashing him with God’s instrument.”

   “We thought we hit you in the road. Are you all right?”

   “Yes, I am all right,” the man said. His voice had an echo to it. He had a French accent.

   “Who are you?”

   “He’s the Hat Man,” Oliver said.

   The Hat Man is a phantasm. He goes back to ancient times. He is a night-time vision that paralyses men and women with fear and sucks the breath out of them. He often appears next to one’s bed somewhere between sleep and consciousness.. “I was utterly paralyzed with terror, as if fear had frozen me from the inside out,” said a woman who lived on Femanagh Rd. in Anglo Rustico. “I couldn’t sleep for trying all night.” He is a silent nightmare

   “No, I am Rene Rassicot, after who these lands are named,”  the man said, fog rolling off his shoulders. “Some call me the Hat Man but I am not. I am Shadow Man. I do not terrorize the living or the dead. I watch over those living on my lands, especially at night, when their dreams leave them exposed to danger.”

   “You lived and died here hundreds of years ago,” Emma said. “Are you immortal?”

   “All creatures, except for man, are immortal because they are ignorant of death. Being a man, I am not immortal, although I was once threatened with immortality, which is more terrible than being threatened with death.”

   “Are you alive now?”

   “Yes and no, young girl. My advanced age has resigned me to being Shadow Man. I miss my family. I miss the smell of coffee and tobacco.”

   “If you’re not the Hat Man, who is?” Oliver asked, getting down to the business of monster hunting.

   “The real Hat Man is Mr. Babadook, not me. He prowls these coastal lands from Brackley Beach to Stanley Bridge. He is furtive and cold-hearted. He strikes a pose in a beaver pelt top hat. He wears black mouth paint and his long spindly fingers are knife-like claws. He feeds on bowls of worms. He is my enemy.”

   “I’ve never heard of Mr. Babadook?” Emma said.

   “He is the fiend who has oppressed me these past one hundred years,” Shadow Man said. “I have been confused with him from the beginning, since 1925, when Mr. Babadook was brought to the island in a children’s book.”

   “He came out of a book?” Oliver asked.

   “Yes, a spectral pop-up book.” 

   The first pop-up book was “Little Red Riding Hood” published in 1855. It was called a scenic book. Seventy years later the big bad wolf had become Mr. Babadook. He and the wolf shared the same kind of teeth and appetite.

   “What does he do?” Oliver asked.

   “He knocks on the door and leaves his red pop-up book on children’s night stands.”

   “What happens if children read the book?”

   “When they open the book they read, ‘You can make friends with a special one.’ By the time they get to the middle of the book they read, ‘You cannot get rid of me!’ After that they can’t help turning page after page. When they finish the pop-up book Mr. Babadook moves into their basement and gains control of the house and the family. In the end what happens is madness.”

   “That sounds terrible,” Emma said. “Why hasn’t anybody stopped him?”

   Their father wanted to say there isn’t any such thing as dream police, although he conceded there were dream monsters. Before he could speak, however, Oliver piped up.

   ‘Dad, can Shadow Man come with us? He could sleep in Cottage No.1 since it’s empty. We could search for Mr. Babadook tomorrow. Maybe if we put our heads together we could put a stop to what he has been doing. We don’t have anything planned, do we?”

   His mother was all set to say they had plenty planned and Shadow Man should go back to where he cane from, but before she could get a word out her husband said, “Get in the back. My son and you can go look for Mr. Babadook tomorrow, although you should know we are going home to Ohio in a few days.”

   “What about me?” Emma said, knowing she would be in on the hunt, no matter what.

   “We will find him,” Shadow Man said.

   What he didn’t say was Mr. Babadook might find them first. The top-hatted bogeyman was always on the prowl for children. Shadow Man looked at the two children in the car and began to make plans and precautions.

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street at http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland at http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East at http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal at http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

“Ebb Tide” by Ed Staskus

“A thriller in the Maritimes, out of the past, a double cross, and a fight to the finish.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Books

Available at Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CV9MRG55

Summer, 1989. A small town on Prince Edward Island. Mob money on the move gone missing. Muscle from Montreal. A constable working the back roads stands in the way.

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication