Heather Farthing's Blog - Posts Tagged "changeling"

I AM MOVING THIS TO ROYAL ROAD

(C) Heather Farthing, 2022, all rights reserved

Chapter one

Angler County.

The words on the sign pass by like so many trees. It’s a strange name for an interior, land-locked region. Maybe there’s a lot of lake and river fishing.

The scenery drones by, monotonous and green. The only thing that changes is the roiling stormclouds above, angry steel gray, split by lightning. Rain spatters on my windshield as a storm warning plays on the radio.
My fingers grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. The road spreads out before me, empty and desolate, trees on each side. There’s old signs about some sort of defunct resort, faded and cracked, depicting smiling antlered animals in forest ranger costumes, “Angler’s Ridge Woodland Getaway.”

I bet it was nice. I bet scouts spent summers there, learning to tie knots and finding arrowheads. I never got to go camping as a child. It was no big deal, never saw the appeal, really, but I guess now I can see the appeal of disconnecting from everything and seeing the world as it originally was.

One of the signs passes by, probably used to be a turnoff. It’s old and overgrown, the paint faded and peeling, just barely showing the ghost of a yellow park ranger uniform and formerly white buck teeth.

I turn my eyes back to the road just in time to see the antlers smash into my windshield and the limp, gray body roll over my roof. Slamming on my breaks, heart in my throat, I stop so quickly my chest slams painfully into the wheel.

All is quiet as a grave for what feels like an eternity. The large body in the road casts a shadow in the rain, my eyes drifting from the figure to the road ahead of me and the damage to my hood. Nothing moves except smoke rising up from my engine.

And then it staggers to its feet in an unnatural, bone-popping way, like a puppet on strings. It snaps pieces of itself back together, twisting bones and joints, realigning limbs, until it’s standing on two legs, white eyes like headlights cast into the rearview mirror. There are more lights rising up over the hill, and the thing drops to all fours and bounds deer-like into the woods.
The car crests the hill and slows to a stop beside me, rolling the window down.

“You alright? You hit a deer?” the man asks.

“Yeah,” I mumble, shaking and not sure he can hear me. “Yeah, I hit a deer.”

Before I can stop him, he’s on his cell phone and calling someone. I unlock the car and clamor out of my seat, fighting against the belt, but by the time both feet hit the pavement I’m sitting down, leaning up against my car, the world spinning.

“I think she might have hit her head.”

The eyes burn into my memory, like flashlights held in both hands. The antlers spread wide and proud, but the long, tufted tail twitches cautiously, like a dog meeting a stranger. It stands on two legs to look at me, but bounds away on four.

The other car is gone. No, not gone, pulled over to the side. The man watches both was cautiously as he jogs to my side and sits down beside me.

“I need you to stay awake, okay?” he insists, putting a hand on my shoulder. “An ambulance is coming, but you need to stay awake.”

“No, no,” I mumble, trying to stand back up.

They can’t find it. They can’t see what’s in the trunk.
The man grabs at my arms to keep me from getting up, but I’m determined to get back in my car and drive away. Once I’m standing, my body begs to differ, swaying as the ground pitches beneath me like a ship in a storm. I fall into the man’s arms and he whispers soft platitudes to hold me steady.

“I have to go,” I protest. “I’m…I need to go.”

The man guides me to a seat in the driver’s side. My hands are shaking, my palms sweaty.

“Put your head between your knees,” the man instructs gently, helping me lean over.

By this point, the ambulance’s sirens are echoing painfully through my ears. I barely see the EMT as little more than black boots when he walks up to me.
“Something the matter, miss?” he asks as I look up at them.

“I’m fine, just...shaken,” I tell him dismissively.

“What happened here?” the EMT asks as his female partner brings a bag up to me and starts looking me over.

“Nothing,” I insist. “I just…hit a deer. Or wolf. Or something.”

The energy gets sucked out of the area like a deflating balloon. The look they share with one another is as troubled as if I had admitted to deliberately running down a kid chasing a ball in the road.

“I don’t see no blood,” the woman calls from the front of my car. “Front end’s pretty messed up, though.”
The good Samaritan swears under his breath.

“A deer?” the EMT asks. “Are you sure?”

I try to hold the image in my mind. It had the strong antlers of a buck, but the swooshy tail of a dog. The eyes are what I remember clearest, like headlights in the dark.

“I…don’t know,” I admit, wishing they’d leave me alone so I can drive out of here. “I…I didn’t see it.”

The EMT looks up at the oncoming storm as his partner goes back to checking me over.

“No sign of a head injury,” she reports grimly. “Probably just…shaken.”

“I’m fine, really,” I insist again. “I’ll…I’ll just be on my way.”

I turn away from them and twist the key in the ignition. The engine moans and gurgles and then collapses, spewing smoke. I groan loudly and put my head against the wheel. Not now, not now.

The man and the EMT are on the other side of the road, chatting softly. After a few minutes, they walk back over and ask if I have a place to stay the night.

“No,” I shake my head. “I’m…in a hurry. I can’t stop for the night.”

“We already called Ed to come get your car,” the man explains. “You ain’t going anywhere tonight. Listen, I’ll ride you up a-ways to the motel, and Ed’ll call in the morning when your car’s fixed. You got money?”

“Yes,” I blurt, trying not to look at the trunk.

“Alright, let me give you Ed’s number,” he continues, pulling out his cell phone. “Irma at the motel makes a mean pot roast. It’ll do you some good in the meantime.”

“I’ll ride with you, Bobby,” the female EMT nods, glancing at me, noticing the way my hand grasps the pepper spray on my wallet chain. “Shift’s almost over anyway.”

I give my car another few starts for good measure, and nothing happens but pained grinding. The road spreads on before me and behind, so I’m about as safe riding into town with these weirdos as I am walking on foot.
Before I know it, I’m in the passenger seat of “Bobby’s” car with the female EMT in the back, my dufflebag protectively in my arms, my fingers twining around the straps. The two of them keep up idle, small-town chatter, about gardens and livestock and children, as the town gets closer and closer.

They seem friendly enough, but I’m not in the mood for friends.

“You’re awfully quiet, hun,” the female EMT observes.

“Consider what she’s been through,” Bobby replies. “Hitting a…hitting a deer. Must be terrifying.”

“Well, I hope it’s not taking you too off course,” the woman murmurs dryly.

“It…kind of is,” I reply, tightening my grip on my duffle. “This guy…he’s your town’s only mechanic? He any good?”

“If he wasn’t, we’d need more than one!” Bobby laughs affectionately. “Anyway, here’s the motel.”

The motel is a standard, two-story roadside shanty, with an ancient sign that reads, “MOTEL: IN-ROOM AIR CONDITIONING, COLOR TV,” like it hasn’t been changed since the seventies. The paint is faded and washed-out, like it used to be a sign-matching garish orange and brown but hasn’t ever been touched up. A few of the orange doors to the rooms have lawn chairs or small grills in front of them, and a neon sign with a failing “e” reads “OPEN.”

I try to stifle my look of disgust. While I could stay anywhere I want now, it’s my fault I had car problems in a literal one-horse town, and unless I plan on hitchhiking, this is as good as it gets.

The office is in its own building, but attached to some kind of greasy diner. It smells like decades of waffles and french fry grease all the way through the parking lot, which makes me wrinkle my nose. A few people are in the windows, nursing slices of pie and mugs of coffee. An older woman in a 50s-style waitress dress looks up as the car passes through the window, her mouth forming the word, “Bobby?”

Bobby pulls in at the main entrance, getting out of the truck as the waitress, probably Irma, comes around the diner to the main desk, taking her place at check-in. The bell overhead jangles noisily as Bobby pushes the door open and ushers me inside, the EMT waiting outside, leaning against the car.

“Morning, Irma, how is it?”

“Weather looks bad, Bobby. My knee’s been flared up all morning.”

An apologetic look crosses Bobby’s face as he gestures at me.

“This here’s Mya. She…hit a deer, ‘bout nine o’clock.”
Irma winces and nods.

“Mr. Bobby here had my car towed for me,” I tell her politely. “Then drove me here.”

“Oh, I see,” the older lady replies. “Ed’s best mechanic in town, he’ll set you up good. You need a place for the night?”

“I…um,” I mutter, shifting the heavy duffle over my shoulder.

“Main house is full, but got some cabins down by the lake,” Irma continues. “We’ll do…fifty off because I ain’t heartless, and another twenty-five for the walk. How’s that sound?”

“Very kind,” I agree, wondering how she stays in business if she just gives away rooms like that.

“Alright,” Irma mumbles, turning around to a rack of keys behind her, selecting one and a map. “Path to the cabin’s orange. Go out past the main house and look for the posts. Payment due at checkout.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answer quietly, taking the key.

There’s a bit of an awkward silence as I make sure the conversation is over, and then slip out the window. The female EMT waves at me with a cigarette in her hand, and Bobby slips out the door shortly behind me.

“A deer, Bobby?” she asks him as I cross the parking lot. “That ain’t good.”

The trail is easy enough to find, marked by weather-worn wooden posts with tops spray-painted orange. There’s a faded map on the motel’s outermost wall, showing the path past the hotel down to a good-sized pond or small lake. The font and colors are a bit out of date, but at one time this might have been a family resort with the water feature as its main draw.

The path is lined with markers that show local plants and animals, scientific names, and a bit of trivia. Certain plants that grow wild here were used as food or medicine by the early settlers, like dandelion and nettle. Deer, rabbits, and hawks are common around here, and upon request the head office can provide carrots and celery to leave out.

The woods back here are thick and a bit overgrown. It’s hard to step over all the twigs and branches lying in the muddy path. There’s some preserved footprints in the mud, some deer tracks, what according to the signs might be rabbit, and a large dog.

I’m hot and sweaty and the sun is getting high by the time I see the line of cabins curving around the banks of the lake. Mine is, of course, farthest to the back, but it doesn’t look like I have any neighbors, which is good. Naturally the key sticks and needs to be wiggled and the door pounded before the door creaks open.

The air is musty and a bit dank. There’s a kind-sized bed with a flannel quilt thrown on top, but the floor is clean and no dust rises when I drop the duffle onto the bed. The toilet and sink have age stains, but seem to have been recently clean and smell like bleach. There’s bottled water in the fridge and the stove has all its dials, but the television is one of those ancient behemoths with a knob and a large, square remote control.

At least it’s quiet.

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter one

Chapter two

The duffle sits beside the bed like a dead body. No matter where I go in the room, I know it’s there. I can feel it, like eyes burning into the back of my skull.

Eyes like headlights.

The water in the bathtub runs red with rust for a few seconds before the pipes groan and gurgle like someone drowning, and then it’s pleasantly warm enough. There are some bath salts and bombs and oils, so I take a well-deserved pampering, lying back against the cool porcelain and closing my eyes and trying to let it all fade away.

How did this happen? How did I get here?

Everything seems to have moved so fast. One minute my duffle and I were minding our own business, the next minute I’m in this failing motel and I don’t even know where I was going.

I can go anywhere. I can buy a house, change my name. I could buy a yacht and sail for the rest of my life. I have options now.

I’m almost asleep when I hear a low murmur, a voice. Panic surges through me and I sit up, sloshing water onto the floor. I definitely hear a man speaking.
My voice catches in my throat. It can’t be…one of the local hicks. They can’t know what’s in the bag, can they?

I’m helpless in here, so as quietly as I can I climb out of the tub and wrap myself in a threadbare towel, ear pressed against the door.

“…er earlier this morning. The storm is expected to bring strong winds, hail, and lightning. Stay indoors until the sirens blast the all-clear…
”
Confused, I pull open the door and look around the room. Sitting beside the bed is a small, hand-crank weather radio.

Relieved and feeling a little stupid, I unplug the tub and then turn the radio off before changing back into my clothes from earlier.

I need to go clothes shopping.

I wonder if this place has a gift shop? I’m not looking forward to the walk back to the office, but I am hungry and my clothes feel sharp and gritty against my freshly-washed skin.

I slide the duffle under the bed and arrange the blankets so it can’t be seen, check my wallet to make sure I have plenty of cash, and set off back up the trail.
I guess it’s a pretty little pond. There’s a small pier that leads out into it, where I suppose I imagine fathers used to fish while their children ran around on the ramshackle playground.

I bet it was nice, to have the sort of family who did stuff like this. Long summer road trips, staying in hotels, seeing kitchy tourist traps.

I imagine what it must have been like, to have been here when this place was in its prime. In my head, I run up the rusted slide, gleaming in the summer sun, and jump into the pond. A kind man is grilling while a pleasant woman takes pictures on an old Polaroid.

I trudge back up the trail back to the motel, back up to the parking lot. A few cars are parked in front of rooms. A woman beats a rug over an upper railing. The smell from the diner wafts through the air, making my stomach gnaw on itself. A group of teenagers linger in front of the diner, pausing to watch as I enter and head for the booth.

I take a seat as far as I can from other people, in the back right of the restaurant, facing a large mural depicting the untouched beauty of the wilderness. I’m picking out animals hidden in the trees when Irma comes by.

“What’s your pleasure, sugar?” she asks.

“Oh, I…um…” I mumble, noticing for the first time the menu pinned under a pane of plastic beneath my elbows. I order a basic breakfast, scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and grits, with an orange juice and coffee, and go back to browsing the mural.

The picture spreads the whole back wall of the diner, untouched by booths or tables, fliers or notices. It looks like the only thing the motel keeps top shape, freshly painted and free of years of smoke and grease fumes. There’s some hidden surprises in it, too, a bigfoot hidden in the trees, a young man with the antlers of a deer, a plesiosaur in the river.

“So, hit a deer?” Irma asks when she comes back with my food. “Must have been scary.”

“It was fine,” I murmur, looking into my coffee cup, trying to forget. “It ran off. Not even any blood on the hood.”

Irma looks relieved. “Oh, that’s good.”

I frown a little into my eggs. My car might be totaled, I’m stuck here in the middle of nowhere, and she’s worried about the deer?

In between bites, I ask her where I can get a fresh change of clothes.

“Mel’s Stop and Shop up the ways a bit,” she replies, pointing toward the mural. “Got everything you’ll need. Now, don’t go askin’ for no uber or taxi, we don’t do that city stuff here. Oh, and town curfew is at ten pm sharp, and if the storm sirens go off, you’re to shelter in place until the all-clear.”

I don’t know which surprises me more: the curfew or the shelter in place. I guess it must be the curfew, because that’s what I ask about first.

“Local ordinance,” Irma explains firmly. “To curtail…troublesome behavior after dark. If the police around here catch you, a ticket. If something else…if you need anything else?” She stumbles over her words at the last bit.

“No, I’m fine,” I tell her, going back to eating and looking for animals in the mural.

***

The whole point was so that I wouldn’t have to worry like this ever again. I’m not supposed to sweat, to wonder, to fret. If I had known it was only going to lead me to a little Podunk town where I had to walk everywhere for little gain, I…I might have done things differently.

At least the Stop and Shop has air conditioning. I actually wondered if it would.

It’s cool and dark in here and smells like dry goods and mountain air. It’s a kind of feed and seed place, with stacked bags of animal food and potting soil, buckets of dry nuts and beans, and the most alarming collection of taxidermy I’ve ever seen.

It’s well-done, I suppose, and not that deeply unsettling stuff where they’re dressed up like people. They’re…mashups. Wolves with antlers, squirrels with horns, deer with wings, even a great, black bear with the wings of a hawk of some sort and the tail of a rattlesnake.
Revulsion twists my stomach at their glassy, sightless eyes, displayed in lifelike poses on high shelving or countertops. A few ducks, thankfully normal, are in perpetual flight over the poultry section.

I take a small shopping cart and try not to look directly at the dead animals punctuating the decorative farming and mining equipment, picking up a few things here and there to get me through the night.

The clothing isn’t much to go on, spartan and cheap, with the occasional logo for the Stop and Shop. I don’t need much, since I don’t plan on staying longer than the night, but I do need it.

I reach up to take a shirt in my size from the rack only to come face to face with a young man, staring blinklessly into my soul. He takes a shirt from the other side of the rack without checking the size or even looking away from me, as if mimicking my actions, and without a word walks purposely to a gaggle of similarly-aged people who look similar enough that they might be siblings.

The group has their back to me, gathered in a semicircle around the milk, talking quietly among themselves. I get a prickle along the back of my neck before I realize something is wrong, and another several seconds before I realize their mouths are moving but they aren’t speaking. They don’t even seem to be mouthing words at each other, just unfocused flaps of movement. The eyes on the nearest girl slide in my direction, her head turning slightly afterward, looking as though she’s about to say something to me.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to stare?”

The voice actually comes from behind me, a young man about my age in a green grocer’s uniform with the logo of the store in white.

“Oh, um,” I blink, realizing the people are now gone. “Just…waiting to get some milk.”

Sheepishly, I stride over to the milk and get a small jug and place it into my buggy, glancing over my shoulder to check and see if he’s still judging me.

He has the brawny shoulders and compact frame of one whose ancestors dug coal for a living, probably a local boy. He’s tall with an easy smile and dark hair, reasonably nice to look at.

“Passing through?” he asks.

“Yeah, something like that,” I sigh. “Had some…car trouble.”

“Oh, you’re the one that hit the deer!” he blurts, blanching.

“I…didn’t realize that was newsworthy,” I blush.
“Small town, not much to do but gossip.”

“It was just a deer,” I reply, grabbing some orange juice while I’m at it.

“It wasn’t…” the man sighs, looking haggard. “They’re just…dangerous, you know? Big…uh…big animals.”

I don’t know if I would say that about a deer. They’re small, right? Like lithe, graceful horses? I look up at the nearest taxidermy specimen, a doe preening turkey wings. No, they’re bigger than I would have thought.
That thing’s eyes burn into my memory. It must be shock, or something like it that makes me picture it like that, standing upright on long, wolflike legs, humanlike hands clenched by its sides. A kind of daymare.

“Did they put you up with Irma?” the man asks kindly. “Storm’s blowing in. She usually keeps the rooms well-stocked, but you’ll want some emergency candles and some canned goods just in case.”

He motions me to follow him down the aisles, lightly filling my cart up with about a night’s worth of camping equipment.

“Wouldn’t a flashlight be better?” I ask, looking skeptically at the matches and plain, white candles.

“No, uh…when the storms get electrical they can really mess with…electronics.”

“Good thing I don’t have a pacemaker,” I reply dryly. “Never heard of a lightning storm that bad.”

“Angler County’s weather…is a whole other beast,” he grins, getting a six-pack of canned sausage. “That should do it. I can check you out whenever you’re ready.”

“Yeah,” I answer, looking into my shopping cart and moving toward the registers. “Yeah, that should about do it.”

As I’m laying my stuff on the conveyor, a sudden low moan fills the room, causing everyone around to suddenly drop what they’re doing, looks of worry crossing their faces, hands nervously gripping shopping carts and purses.

“Alright, people!” the cashier calls, looking up from my order. “Don’t act like you haven’t done this before! You know what to do!”


Chapter three

Chapter two

Chapter three

(C) Heather Farthing, all rights reserved


Chapter three

He then over two other male cashiers and they begin pulling down the shutters over the windows and doors, padlocking them down. The regulars start crawling under tables and registers and behind counters, covering their heads and assuming the “storm preparedness” position they teach in schools.

“What’s…happening?” I ask blankly, covering my ears against the siren.

“Storm siren,” the cashier explains, guiding me around his register. “Here, get down.”

“Come on awfully suddenly,” I point out. “Dry as a bone when I came in.”

“That happens around here,” he murmurs, taking a place beside me.

Thunder shakes the walls and rattles the floors. Knickknacks shake on the walls, something falls and clatters against the floor, eliciting a startled scream from somewhere. Thunderous booms echo across the store, like the sound of something large and angry stomping around outside. Lightning burns, and then the lights go out.

“Everyone stay calm!” the cashier, who must be some sort of manager or something, shouts from the register, peeking his head over. “It’ll blow over!”

“That’s not a storm,” I whimper, slinking under the register. “An earthquake? Is the mountain collapsing?”

“Nah, these kinds of things happen around here,” the manager explains, sitting back down. “I’m Archer. You?”

“Mya.”

The large, angry thing outside seems to kick something in frustration. The ground rumbles and bucks, raining pounding the roof.

“What happened?” one of the other cashiers asks. “Why is it so angry?”

“Someone hit a deer!” someone shouts.

“They did what?”
“You guys sure take your wildlife seriously,” I whisper derisively at Archer. “It got up and walked away, you know.”

“Local superstitions,” he replies with practiced delivery. “Harming deer out of hunting season is bad luck.”

I roll my eyes. Of course people with creepy hybrid taxidermy take wild animals so seriously.

The storm rages outside. I hear things bouncing off the roof, wind howling, and something that sounds like huge, booming footsteps.

A prickle runs up the back of my neck and my palms feel cold and sweaty. I didn’t know the mountains got weather like this. What if the building collapses? Or the walls are blown away?

Something booms nearby. The walls rattle and shake, I gasp and squeeze my eyes shut. There is a warm feeling on my hand, calloused skin against mine. I take a peek and Archer is holding my right hand, still pressed against the back of my neck. He sees me looking and I turn several shades of red, none of which look any good without any makeup.

“It’ll be over soon,” he smiles. “This ain’t exactly uncommon ‘round here.”

I lower my arm into a more comfortable position, he readjusts his. After what feels like an eternity, the stomping, booming thunder seems to be moving away, and Archer sighs with relief.

The skin on my fingers tingles where he touched my hand. He’s good looking enough, I guess, with that rugged, outdoorsy look some women go for.

My face gets hot again when he glances at me. I think he noticed.

“Alright, people, crisis averted!” he shouts. “You may now go about your daily lives!”

A woman bumps into me as she wheels her cart around to the checkout, shooting me a death glare like I killed her dog.

“In the olden days we let the mountain have what it wanted,” she huffs at Archer, nose in the air.

Soon, no one will look at me like that, like I’m beneath them. I can go shopping anywhere now, buy the finest clothes and the latest fashions. As soon as I get out of this hick town, I won’t need to wither under the gaze of people like her.

“That ain’t true and you know it!” growls Archer.

“Right, because back in my day…” she rambles pointedly as Archer bags her stuff and I move to the checkout two people behind her.

“Wilma, back in your day, they still sacrificed virgins to stop a solar eclipse,” the man behind her laughs, “and it ain’t no wonder you weren’t among ‘em!”

Wilma turns several unpleasant shades of purple before storming off with her stuff, eliciting a few snickers from the rapidly growing line.

“How’s your pa, Archie?” the man asks.

“He’ll make it,” Archer replies. “And it’s ‘Archer’ now.”

“Since when?”

“Since Poppa gave me run of the store,” Archer beams.

“Look at you, running your granddad’s store and you think you’re a man now!” the man smiles as he shuffles off.

Archer, who I guess is hillbilly royalty, is skilled with the checkout and keeps the line moving, despite somehow making pleasant chitchat with everyone in line. At least he’s easy on the eyes enough to give me something to look at that isn’t glass-eyed dead animals with extra limbs.

He smiles again when it’s my turn.

“So where you headed?” he asks.

“Thought I’d check out that sweet little resort I saw advertised,” I answer, batting my eyelashes.

“That place’s been closed since the seventies,” he grins. “Sheriff Waller keeps a deputy or two out there at night to keep kids out, so I don’t recommend urban exploring.”

“Popular spot for teenagers, huh?” I ask.

“Local test of bravery,” he replies. “Not a lot to do out here.”

“Especially with freak storms like that?”

“Yeah,” he grins, putting my groceries back in my cart. “You have a nice day.”

Outside the store, the air is warm and muggy, damp with that post-rain smell. A pretty clear swath of broken store signs and storm damage. It looks like a tornado came through the main thoroughfare, knocking down tree limbs.

Several people, business owners and passer-bys, mingle on the street observing the damage. In the distance, I can still hear thunder and puddles dot the streets. A little girl is crying, cuddled by a young mother, drying her tears and whispering softly.

Do you want the neighbors to see what a weakling you are?

The echo of the words ring like someone placed a bucket on my head and smacked it with a wooden spoon. I shake them off and keep walking past, as if I haven’t seen anything, focusing instead on the crunch of water and pavement beneath my feet.

I didn’t know places like this existed anymore. I thought they had all been drained away by bigger cities and better opportunities, like saline from an IV bag. Why would anyone stay here in this one-store town, when they could be somewhere with a shopping mall, and the jobs and industries that come with it?

In the center of town is a small park. It’s vibrant and green, untouched by the storm in a way that seems almost reverent. There’s a tree in the middle, a tall oak, whose shifted, bifurcated trunk looks almost like a person in stride, arms thrown wide in elation.

There’s a majesty to it, I guess. This is something natural, not bound by the will of man. Some people like that sort of thing, I suppose.

There’s a plaque beneath it. “Emmit Archer, 1672—Who gave his life for this community.”

Archer. That’s the cashier from the store. They’re probably related, people in towns like this valuing blood and marriage like royalty.

I imagine teenagers sitting under it on a hot day, homework sprawled out in front of them, a first kiss stolen under the branches. Generations have probably grown up under this tree.

It’s getting humid again now that the rain has stopped. I better get back to the room before my hair starts to frizz.

Just like before, the trek is long, humid, hot, and tiring. I’m already dreaming of another bath as I make my way past the motel towards my cabin. The silence is deafening, only the occasional car passing by to break up the sound of birds and insects.

I never realized how comforting the sounds of the city, car horns, voices, machinery, are until they’re gone. Without them, the landscape seems still and lifeless, too bright and glaring, like an inexplicably unnerving photograph.

I’m actually relieved when I close the door behind me and set about putting the groceries away. I didn’t buy more than I needed or could carry on foot, but my fingers and wrists still hurt. At least the air conditioning works, that’s a welcome relief.

I take another bath when I’m done, in cool water to wash away the heat of the sun and the sweat off my skin and out of my hair. After that I change into a fresh pair of pajamas from the store and lay down on the bed to rest.

My duffle is stashed under the bed and I can feel it there, like the heartbeat of an old man with a weird eye. It seems to radiate heat beneath me, not a lot, but enough to remind me it’s there, a percolating coffee pot, pushed to the back of my mind, but never forgotten.

It makes it very difficult to get comfortable.

There isn’t much on TV to distract me. The television just has mostly local channels, and I feel like I should be grateful to get that much. At least it isn’t running anymore creepy weather reports.

There is a sitcom a sort of recognize as not being terrible, so I settle into the rustic-smelling pillows for a cozy day in. I guess the bed is comfortable enough, for a low-end motel, and it is peaceful, if a bit too quiet, all the way out here.

As time passes outside, and the canned laughter of the television lulls me, it the temperature starts to drop. Little by little, goosebumps raise on my arms. I start to shiver a bit.

I’ve never really known darkness, not before I did what I did and headed up into the mountains to get away. Night in the city is just orange street lamps and white security lights. Most of the neighborhood had motion-activated lights, so that even if a Pomeranian went outside after dark, it was still blazingly bright.

It wasn’t until my first night out in the backroads did I witness true darkness.

The forest seem to go on either side of me like it was infinite, just trees and darkness. I’d never seen the stars before, too much light pollution in the city. I felt adrift at see, so far out of my element I couldn’t tell up from down anymore.

A mind starts to fill in the blanks after awhile, create its own stimulus when there isn’t any of note. You start to see things in the dark, shapes moving too fast to make out, not the right shape for human or animal. Are those eyes up ahead, or just the taillights of another car?
The road is long and empty. The night is dark and cold. It goes on and on, with the dufflebag burning in the backseat like radioactive waste.

They say that no one is actually afraid of being alone in the dark, they are actually afraid of not being alone in the dark. I suppose that’s true, in a way. While I am afraid of stumbling and falling and there being no one around to help me, I am equally afraid of the eyes that glow in the night and the shapes that move in the shadows.

The road continues before me.

(C) Heather Farthing 2023, all rights reserved.

Chapter four

I wake sluggishly, trying to snuggle deeply into the warm bed, like the winter mornings before school, when I didn’t want to step into the cold and was hungry. The ghosts of my dreams feel like poison in my veins, making me feel uneasy and a little sick.

I shiver when I crawl out of bed, still hungry, a light pain behind my eyes that indicates poor sleep. Despite the adequate temperature and sealed walls, I still feel chilled and exposed.

How does the old song go?

Little girl, little girl, don’t lie to me

Tell me where did you sleep last night?

In the pines, in the pines,

Where the sun don’t never shine….

Tell me where did you sleep last night?

That song sounds like I feel, dark and crawly and not quite right. Some dinner will do me good, but the light is fading outside and I don’t want to have to walk back in the dark.

I spend way too long at the window, remembering days sent to school hungry, before I make my decision.

You know we’ve got a new car payment! We all have to make sacrifices, Mya!

Sighing, I unlock the door and step out, locking it carefully behind me again. The air outside is breezy and starting to get chilly as the seasons change. Crickets and frogs are chirping, making a cacophony of life that makes me feel exposed to the night.

The blackness of my dreams make me feel colder and more shivery than the approaching autumn really should. I find myself scanning the darkness for eyes, eyes like headlights.

I trudge my way to the diner, thinking I might get a breakfast to warm up so I won’t have to do this again, maybe some snacks. I’d rather not be out in the dark around here.

Something howls, sending shivers up my spine. I pick up speed, heart hammering in my chest. Wild animals don’t drag people off anymore, right?

Something moves in the leaves to my right. It could be a squirrel, or an acorn fallen off a tree, but it sends my heart into a thunderous hammer, scanning the shadows between the trees for movement or eyes.

Feeling a bit silly, I shrug it off and keep walking to the diner, holding my arms around me for warmth.

Humanity drove off the reaching hands of nature with the birth of civilization, so even out here in the middle of nowhere, I’m not going to be carried off by wolves.

Right?

I fix my eyes on the lights of the diner and the main motel and keep walking. Again, something rustles the grass, not wind but footsteps. Howls echo in the distance, past the cabins into the forests. I quicken my pace, heart hammering in my chest.

Lights from the cities drove away wolves long ago. I’m safe. I’m fine.

In the fading twilight, as I look over my shoulder, I see something move. It’s bigger than a squirrel, with eyes that reflect green in the dark.

Smack!

Stunned, I look up at the slab of meat I’ve walked into. It’s the bemused-looking cashier, the cute one from the store.

“Oh, it’s you!” he says, trying to be friendly. “You…okay?”

“Thought I saw something, is all,” I murmur, scanning the trees.

“You didn’t hear someone calling your name did you?” he grins in a mock-spooky tone. “That’s how the wood anglers get’cha!”

“Wood anglers?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Local folklore,” he smiles, motioning to the diner. “They say that people hear voices calling their name from the forests, and they feel compelled to answer.”

“What happens then?” I ask skeptically.

“No one knows for sure,” he replies theatrically. “No one ever sees them again!”

“If no one sees them again, how do they know they answered the voices?” I pry dryly.

“Don’t rightly know,” he laughs, stepping onto the curb. “Just local superstition.”

He holds the door open for me like a proper Southern gentleman and lets me inside, speaking quickly.

“I’m getting dinner for myself and some take-out for my dad,” he explains. “You look like you took a fright. Care to join me for dinner, and I’ll…um…walk you back to your cabin?”

Irma raises an eyebrow as she checks out a customer at the counter.

“Um…sure,” I answer, not sure if I’m grateful for the escort or worried about being alone in the dark with a strange man.

A man who, by the feel of it, is made of solid muscle.

He ushers me into a booth and slides in to the other side, handing me a menu tucked behind the napkin dispenser. I scan it lightly, finding mostly the usual cheap, greasy diner fair. My stomach churns a bit at the thought of a patty melt.

“Where you headin’ to?” Archer asks, catching me like a deer in headlights.

“Moving for work,” I answer with a practiced smile.

“Maryland.”

I always answer Maryland, and then never go there.

“You still got quite a drive. Headin’ out in the mornin’?”

“If my car’s fixed by then,” I sigh, putting my finger on some steak and eggs.

“Earl does good work,” Archer smiles. “He’ll get you on the road as soon as he can.”

“Evenin’, Archie,” Irma asks, appearing almost as if from nowhere. “Usual?”

“Yeah,” Archer answers. “I’ll take mine dine-in and send Dad’s to-go.”

“Sweet tea?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you, love?” Irma asks, turning to me.

“Steak and eggs. Fried. Well done. Diet Coke.”

“Short and to the point,” Irma smiles. “I like this one.”

She winks at Archer as she walks away with her notepad.

“You bring a lot of girls here?” I ask, flushing.

He flushes a bit, too, replying, “Don’t get many visitors.”

“You are sort of far out in the middle of nowhere,” I point out.

“It’s good for farmland,” he smiles.

“Farmland? Up here?”

“Depends on the crops, but yeah. We carved terraces into the mountains for apples. Plants do…really well in Angler’s Ridge.”

“You live on a farm nearby?” I ask, putting a straw into the soda Irma brings.

“We got a personal homestead,” Archer explains. “Some garden plots, a few chickens, and a breeding pair of milk goats.”

I wrinkle my nose at the thought of stinking goats and pungent goat milk, which makes Archer laugh, then he suddenly looks thoughtful and smacks the table.

“You know about the curfew, right?”

“Yeah, um…Irma told me,” I reply, pasting the wrapper from the straw to the outside of the glass using condensation to make it stick.

“The best thing to do is to lock all the doors, cover all the windows, and climb into bed,” Archer continues. “Nightlife is dead around here anyway, but don’t answer any knocking; they shouldn’t be out anyway.”

“People around here just go around knocking on doors?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, the dufflebag burning at the back of my brain like a solar eclipse viewed with the naked eye.

“Merry pranksters,” Archer smiles. “Can’t trust tricksters.”

“Get a lot of bored teenagers up here, huh?” I ask as Irma slides food in front of us.

“Take-out’ll be at the counter, Archie,” she tells him. “Slipped in a chocolate pie for Nora.”

“Great! She’ll love that!” he beams before turning back to me. “Ain’t much to do otherwise, ‘cept huntin’ durin’ the season.”

I look down at my steak, feeling a little pale. I can’t imagine what kind of person enjoys looking at an animal while it dies when there are grocery stores to get the meat from.

“That’s a bit judgey for someone eatin’ Irma’s famous venison steak and quail eggs,” he smiles cheerfully, taking a spoonful of grits with a shrimp tucked inside.
Immediately, I turn green and push away the plate, already making a mental note to keep an eye out for signs of parasites.

“Boy, don’t you go lyin’ about my cookin!” Irma shouts from the counter, prompting Archer to laugh so hard he puts his head against his arms on the table. “Don’t let him spook you, hon, it’s just beef. Darn fool.” She glares sharply at Archer, still shaking with laughter, hidden inside his lean arms.

“It is just beef and chicken eggs,” he smiles, looking up at me. “But you should have seen your face.”

I scowl at him, pulling my steak and eggs back toward me and prodding a thick yellow yolk with my fork until it bursts, running across the plate and dousing the steak.

“She got’cha in the cabins?” he asks in a more friendly, almost apologetic tone.

“Yeah,” I admit quietly, thinking of that long walk back in the dark. Maybe I should have just gone hungry.

“They used to be part of the Getaway, back in the seventies,” Archer tells me.

“Oh?” I ask, feigning interest.

“Irma bought ‘em after the Getaway closed down.”
“What was the Getaway like?”

I prefer to think of sunny summer afternoons spent sunning on a floating dock, the smell of grilling meat in the air. There’s no fighting, no arguing, no guilt trips, and full bellies.

“I don’t really know,” Archer admits sheepishly. “It was closed long before I came along. Supposedly, real deep, there’s still the visitor’s center with pamphlets and educational stuff still on display, and the wildlife center still full of vet stuff. Some say still prepped for surgery.”

A shiver runs down my spine. Not really the description I was after.

“Don’t like the spooky stuff, huh?” he grins as he puts another grits-covered shrimp into his mouth.

“What is a ‘grit,’ anyway?” I wonder, eyebrows knitted, looking into his bowl.

“Cornmeal porridge,” Archer beams proudly. “Mom used to make it from scratch when she could.”

I retch discreetly, thinking about the bumpy texture across my tongue, like eating chunky butter and a block of cheese. “My mom never made it.”

“Pop tart kind of girl?”

“No,” I answer, frowning, not sure how to tell him my mom would rather us go without than eat “poor people food.”

When dinner winds to a close, Irma comes by to clear our plates.

“What’s the damage, Irma?” Archer asks.

“No, no, I can…” I interject, not wanting to look like a leech.

“Don’t worry about it,” he smiles, passing Irma his card as she hands him the check. “You’ve had a rough day.”

My mouth gapes like a fish, before closing on its own. I don’t like taking handouts, especially under current conditions, but he seems well-meaning and genuine. If a good-looking young man is willing to pay for a lady’s dinner, who am I to argue?

“Imma walk her back to her cabin, Irma, and pick up the to-go on the way back,” he tells her as he pays.

I follow him out past the register and back out into the cool, darkening air. He takes a deep breath in the fresh mountain air, apparently just enjoying the night.

“So, which cabin?” he asks, gesturing ahead.

I point the way and start walking, acutely aware of him, his hardworking man-smell, the ripple of his muscle under his clothes.

I’m always nervous about strange men. Men are bigger and stronger, and any woman in America should feel safe walking naked, drunk, and brain damaged through the lowest-income neighborhoods, but we’re not so maybe don’t.

Way out here, they’d never find me. Plenty of lakes, plenty of wildlife.

Without realizing it, or even really having done so before, I start whistling to break the tension.

“No,” Archer declares, whirling on me fast enough and looming large enough that I actually back away a little with a squeak of fright. “No whistling after dark, especially outside.”

I just stare at him, all wide-eyed an a little shaken as his intense face softens.

“Local…” he starts.

“Superstition,” I finish. “Local superstition.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Things…are drawn to it. Things you don’t want to tangle with.”

“Things?” I ask. “Like…bears or wolves?”

I’m by no means an expert, but I’ve never heard anything like that before.

“No,” he huffs, looking frustrated. “Things like…”

Before he can finish what he’s about to say, a piercing wail fills the night air, a simian shriek of pain and rage that has me clinging to Archer’s side and trembling.

“Was that a wolf?!” I blurt, wringing his shirt in my hands.

“No, that’s not a wolf,” Archer replies kindly. “Probably just John, or one of his wives.”

“John?” I ask, letting go of the cashier and still shaking, wondering how to can be so calm about a polygamist making such a terrible racket that can only mean police sirens and news vans.

“Big Bad John,” he continues. “Our local sasquatch…silverback, or alpha male, or whatever.”

“Bigfoot?” I repeat, feeling very stupid and wondering if he’s just trying to diffuse the situation.

“Oh, yeah, biggest male for at least four counties,” Archer shrugs. “Been the alpha for about…forty years now.”

“You believe in bigfoot,” I state dryly.

Yeah, sure, let’s screw with the city girl.

“Of course,” Archer laughs. “Had to chase Big John out of my granddad’s apple orchards a few times. He’s nearly nine feet tall, but people annoy him. Bang a pan with a wooden spoon or such, he’ll go away on his own. Bring out a rifle, he’ll charge. He knows what they are.”

“Bigfoot,” I state again.

“Yeah,” Archer agrees. “You know, big, hairy, primate, native to North America? Patterson-Gimlin film?”

“…Bigfoot.”

“You know, on the rare occasion we get people coming through, they’re usually sqatchin’,” he growls. “That sorta makes you the anomaly here.”

“Bigfoot the only urban legend around here?” I ask.

“Nah, there’s the Lake Emmit Siren,” he elaborates. “A lake monster in the heart of the Getaway, lays her eggs on land like a turtle from time to time. Some of the older buildings are, without a doubt, haunted. An’ then there’s the wood anglers…”

“Wood anglers,” I laugh. “That’s a new one.

By this point we’re close to my door, standing on my porch.

“Yeah, short version is, wood anglers are why we don’t just hang out in the woods.”

“Wood anglers,” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “And not wifi and air conditioning?”

“Nope, definitely the wood anglers,” Archer grins. “They come out of the woods to steal children and take their faces.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, we got a kind of peace with ‘em,” he shrugs. “We stay out of the woods ‘cept during huntin’ season, they only take those stupid enough to wander off. So, remember the curfew. Take a Benadryl or something, and veg out in front of the television. I’ll wait out here ‘til I hear your door lock, then be on my way.”

We say our farewells, and then I slip inside and lock the door. By the time I check out the window, Archer is already heading back up to the diner, so I close the blinds and start getting ready for bed.

Mountain people are weird.