Angler's Ridge--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.