"But the sawmill is long gone," Mike pointed out.
Otto nodded. "I know it. But country people don't forget bad things, or the places they happened."
The old farmer reached into the top pocket of his overalls and pulled out a pack of unfiltered Chesterfield cigarettes. He offered a cigarette to Mike, who accepted only to be polite.
"Now, what can I do for you this morning?" Otto asked, lighting his cigarette. "This strictly a social call, or do you have business in mind?"
"A little of both," Mike replied, lighting the cigarette given him. The unfiltered cigarette was harsher than he was used to, and it was all he could do to keep from coughing.
"Oh?" Otto said.
"I saw you out plowing, so I wanted to stop by and say hello," Mike said. "But I'm also looking for some information."
"Information I've got plenty of, free of charge," Otto replied. "Although my wife thinks I ought to charge people. She says I talk too much, and if I charged them no one would pay me so I would have to keep quiet for a spell."
Mike laughed. "My wife sometimes feels the same way about me."
"So, what kind of information are you looking for?"
"Basically, I want to know about the neighborhood. I've been having a bit of trouble lately. I think someone's gotten into my house a couple of times, maybe trying to play a joke on me. I was wondering if there have been very many break-ins around here that you know of."
"Break-ins?" Otto rubbed the top of his head. "Not that I know of, at least not in the last couple of years. Something like that would have made the newspaper if reported. Not much happens around here so just about any news ends up in the paper."
"You've never had any trouble?" Mike asked.
"Not really. Somebody might swipe a watermelon or two out of the field, or a few ears of corn, but that's mostly teenagers out looking for mischief. Basically they're harmless; just trying to grab a watermelon to impress their girls, or the other guys. They never do any real damage, so I don't worry about it none."
"Heck, I used to snitch an ear or two of corn when I was a youngster. Always took field corn though, the stuff they usually feed to livestock, left the sweet corn alone. Didn't think it was right to take a man's sweet corn, even if it was only an ear or two."
"You never had anyone try to break into your house?" Mike asked.
Otto shook his head. "Nope. Never. I never even bothered to lock my doors until a couple of years ago. Saw all that stuff that was going on in the news and figured it was time I started locking up the place at night and when I was away. Still, most folks know better than to try and break into a farmer's house."
"Why's that?"
Otto smiled. "Because all of the farmers in these parts have guns. That's why. And they wouldn't hesitate to shoot someone trying to break into their home. The criminals know that, which is why they do most of their robbing in the towns and cities. I'm no exception. I've got myself a .30-.30 lever action, and a couple of shotguns. Keep them in the living room, right beside my chair.
"If someone's breaking into your house, then maybe you should think about getting yourself a gun. If you do buy one, don't just put it in a drawer, or closet, and forget about it. Take it out back and shoot the thing. Set up a few tin cans and put in a little target practice. The sound of a gunshot carries for miles; you'll let everyone around here know that you have a firearm. It might discourage unwanted visitors from coming around your place."
Mike thought about it for a moment and then nodded. "That might not be a bad idea."
Otto grinned. "Maybe my wife was right. Maybe I should charge for my advice. Of course the first batch is always free, us being neighbors and all."
"I really appreciate the advice," Mike said. "I was starting to get worried, especially after what happened to our cat."
"Something happen to your cat?" Otto asked.
Mike nodded. "I found him dead in the basement the other morning. His throat was cut, and his eyes were gouged out. The sheriff said he probably died of old age, and that something got to him after he died, but I just don't believe that. My cat was in perfect health. I'm still trying to figure out how to tell the kids. They'll be heartbroken."
The old farmer's grin had faded as Mike told about what had happened to Pinky. He looked around, as if suddenly impatient to get back to work. Crushing out his cigarette, he shook Mike's hand again, offering a final word of advice before climbing back on his tractor. "Buying yourself a gun is still a good idea, but you might what to think about sleeping with the lights on from now on. And if I were you, I would seriously consider selling that old house and finding someplace else to live."
With those parting words, Otto climbed back on his tractor and went back to plowing the field. Mike watched him for a moment and then climbed into his van, starting back down the road toward town.
* * * * *
The library had just opened when Mike pulled into the parking lot. Turning off the van's engine, he reached behind the driver's seat and grabbed the briefcase he always carried with him. He had learned early as a writer to always carry pen and paper, to jot down thoughts as they came to mind. He also kept a notebook on the nightstand beside his bed, because some of the best scenes in his novels came from dreams and nightmares.
In addition to the paper and pens, he also kept a copy of his latest novel in the briefcase. His theory was that if he ever got pulled over by the police, and mistaken for a dangerous criminal, he could wave the novel to convince them he was not threat to society. So far he had not had the opportunity to test out his theory.
Grabbing the briefcase, Mike locked the van and entered the library. It was still early so he was the only patron, which was perfectly fine with him. Connie Widman was standing behind the checkout counter, straightening books on a library cart. She paused and looked his way when he entered.
"Back so soon?" She smiled. "I hadn't expected you until at least next week."
Mike smiled back. "I needed to do a little research for the novel I'm writing. Poke around in the town's history, dig up local legends, scandals, skeletons in the closet, that sort of thing." He didn't what to tell Connie exactly what it was he was looking for, because he didn’t want to explain what had been happening at his house. "Do you keep back issues of the local newspaper?"
Connie nodded. "We've got the issues published within the last year; the rest are available on microfilm."
"What? Nothing on computer?" he teased.
"A library this small is lucky to have a microfilm system, let alone a computer," Connie replied, faking a frown.
"I was just kidding," he laughed. "Microfilm is fine. How far back does it go?"
"The town's newspaper was established about one hundred forty years ago. Of course it's changed owners and names a couple of times since then. We've got most of the issues on film, except for the paper's first two years of production. There was a fire about twenty years ago and those issues were burned before they could be put on film."
"That's a shame," Mike said, shaking his head. "But that's probably farther back than I need to research anyway."
"Well, the microfilm viewer is in the reference section. There's a table next to it. Grab yourself a seat and I'll bring you the files you need. What year would you like to start with?"
"Sometime in the sixties, I guess. Sixty-eight, sixty-nine. Thank you." Mike walked over to the reference section and put his briefcase on the table beside the microfilm viewer. Connie appeared a couple of minutes later with a wooden tray filled with tiny blue boxes containing a chunk of the town's newspaper's history on spools of microfilm.
"I take it you know how to work this thing?" Connie asked.
He nodded. "I think I can manage all right."
"Okay then, I'll leave you to it," she said. "If you need anything, I'll be up front."
She set the tray down and then left him alone. Mike switched on the viewer, then started his search about thirty years ago and worked forward.
It didn't
take him long to find what he was looking for. In 1968 the town's newspaper carried three different reports saying that the sheriff's office had been summoned to the farm of Vivian Martin in answer to a complaint about a possible prowler. Despite thorough searches by the deputies answering the calls, no prowlers were ever found.
There were no more reports pertaining to the Martin farm in the years 1969-1970, but in 1971 Mike discovered in the police reports section of the paper that the sheriff's office had been summoned to the Martin farm a whopping total of eleven times. Each time the call was in response to a possible prowler sighting.
Mike jotted down a few more notes about the reports then sat back to ponder over what he had just read. He didn't remember much about his grandmother, but he did remember that she was paranoid. In the year he had lived with her, she had been afraid to leave the curtains open for fear of someone looking in. The windows and doors had always been kept tightly locked, even on the warmest of summer days, and instead of sleeping like normal people she had spent most nights wandering from one room to the next. She only slept during the daytime, and then only for brief periods.
He had only been five years old when he first went to live with his grandmother, far too young to understand the things taking place in the mind of Vivian Martin. Still, he had sensed the old woman was terribly frightened of something. In the brief time they had lived together, her fears had affected him; he too had become afraid of the dark. It was a phobia that took Mike years to overcome.
As he slowly scanned through the back issues of the town's newspaper, Mike found other police reports pertaining to his grandmother. Twenty-seven in all. All of them were prowler reports, and in each case no one had ever been caught, or even seen, on the property. Nothing had ever been stolen, and there were no signs of a break-in.
Although nothing was ever said right in print — at least not in so many words — some of the later reports, those dating back only about ten years, hinted that Vivian Martin might be suffering from a mental condition. There were no police reports after that. Either the sheriff's office refused to answer her calls, or the paper got tired of printing things about her.
What Mike was looking for, and what he didn't find, was report about mysterious faces being drawn on the floors, walls, or ceilings of Vivian's home. Jody Douglas said the previous sheriff had grown tired of Vivian calling about the faces and had painted over them, yet there was nothing about them in the papers. Surely something so strange would have been deemed newsworthy, especially in a town as small as Braddock.
Odd. Very odd.
Maybe the faces didn’t appear until after Vivian had already worn out her welcome with the newspaper and sheriff's office. Perhaps by then she had been deemed an official nutcase and nothing about her was worth putting into print. There might still be a report or two about the faces on file at the sheriff's office, but Mike seriously doubted if Jody Douglas would let him take a look at them.
He leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting off a headache that was starting to form behind his eyes. Were the painted faces and the prowler sightings related? Probably. From what he had read, it would appear someone had come up with a surefire way to terrorize a paranoid old woman.
Glancing back through his notes, Mike was astonished when he realized that the newspaper reports about his grandmother covered a period of thirty years.
Thirty years? That's incredible. What if the prowlers hadn't existed only in Vivian Martin's head? What if someone had been sneaking around her house, perhaps deliberately trying to frighten her? Thirty years was a long period of time, much too long for it to be just one culprit. Several people had to have been involved, at different periods of time.
Mike thought about that concept for a moment. He knew Jody Douglas and his teenage cohorts had gone to great lengths to make his grandmother's life a living hell. Were there others before him, and after him, who did the same thing? Maybe. Was tormenting Vivian Martin a local pastime, something to be passed down from father to son?
He stared at his notes, frustrated by the lack of information they contained. He was especially annoyed that he hadn't come across any mention of the mysterious faces that had been painted on his grandmother's kitchen floor, the same faces that were now appearing on his floor.
Maybe I'm looking in the wrong place for information.
Putting the last of the boxes back in the tray, Mike switched off the microfilm viewer. He put his notebook away and closed the briefcase, turning to look toward the front of the library. Connie Widman had finished her sorting and was now reading a paperback novel. Maybe there was still one source of information to be searched.
Connie looked up at him and smiled as he walked up to the counter and set down the tray of film boxes. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
"I found some things I needed, but not everything. I guess I'll have to look through some of the records I have at the house." He made a motion of turning toward the door, then turned back to the librarian.
"You said you knew my grandmother pretty well?"
Connie closed the book she was reading and put it on the desk in front of her. "I knew her about as well as anyone. She used to come in here once or twice a week, regular as clockwork."
"Would you happen to remember what kind of books she enjoyed reading?" Mike asked, leaning on the counter.
Connie thought about it for a moment, then said, "At first she liked mystery novels, but later her tastes changed to books that were rather strange."
"Strange?" he asked. "How so?"
The librarian looked around as if she were afraid of being overheard, even though they were the only ones in the library. "She started reading books on the occult an awful lot. Satanism. Shamanistic studies. Myths and legends. That sort of thing."
"Do you normally carry those kinds of books here?"
"Oh no. We had to special order them through the library loan system. Created quite a stir with the regulars. They all figured she was some kind of witch. The gossip got so bad I had to hide the books when they came in."
"Do you think my grandmother was a witch?" he asked.
Connie shook her head. "Not at all. She was much too nice to be anything as terrible as that. I just think she was a lonely, frightened old woman."
"Frightened? What was she frightened of?"
Again Connie looked around. "She told me once. She said the boogers were after her."
"Boogers?" Mike asked. "My grandmother was scared of dried snot?"
She shook her head. "That's just a slang term. The actual definition of boogers goes something like this: Booger. A bogeyman. An item or thing that is unnamed or unnamable." She smiled. The old people around here also used to call them the hobgoblins."
"Hobgoblins?" Mike grinned. "My grandmother was afraid of hobgoblins?"
"Terrified of them." Connie nodded. "She said they were trying to get into her house. Poor old woman, living by herself, she must have been terribly frightened."
The grin on Mike's face faded. His grandmother was terrified of hobgoblins getting into the house. And now, all these years later, it seemed as if something was getting into the same house.
The door opened and a young boy entered the library. Mike waited for the boy to go the children's section, before he turned back to the librarian. "Connie, I'm curious. Did my grandmother ever talk about faces appearing on the floor?"
The librarian's expression lit up. "Oh, goodness yes. Faces on the kitchen floor. On the walls. Even on the ceiling. She used to go on and on about how the faces were watching her."
"Did she ever say who the faces were supposed to be?"
Connie looked at him funny. "I just told you what they were supposed to be: they were boogers."
20
When Tommy came home from school that afternoon, he was hoping Pinky would greet him at the front door, but the big cat was nowhere to be seen. He asked his mother if they could go looking for him, but she just said Pinky would come ba
ck in time. It was the same thing his father had said. But what if the big cat didn't come back on his own? What if Pinky was lost and couldn't find his way home? What if he was hurt?
Maybe he had stepped into a hole and broken his leg. Cats could get broken legs, just like people. Tommy had seen a cat with a broken leg once, at the veterinarian's office back in New York City. That cat had gotten run over by a car, his back leg broken with the bone sticking out all bloody and sharp. The cat's owners had brought him into the veterinarian's office in a cardboard box, carrying him right past Tommy. The cat had screamed in pain, and there had been a strong smell of ammonia because the cat had peed in the box. They had carried the cat into the doctor's office, but they hadn't carried him back out again. Tommy knew what that meant: they had put the cat to sleep because they couldn’t fix his leg. They sometimes did that to animals, put them to sleep so they wouldn't have any more pain. They did it to animals who were in pain and couldn't be fixed, but they never did it to people. Tommy didn't understand why they did it to one and not the other.
Maybe Pinky had stepped in a hunter's trap. Tommy hoped not, because that would be terrible. Once he had watched a television show on the educational channel about hunters and trappers. It showed wolves and foxes, even rabbits, that had stepped into traps. The traps were like big mousetraps, but much, much worse. They had steel teeth that sprang shut when an animal stepped on the trap, clamping around a leg or foot, breaking the bone. He had watched the terrible pictures of animals stuck in the cruel traps, their legs mangled and broken. Sometimes the foxes and wolves would chew off their own feet to get free. Sometimes they just died in the traps, freezing to death or slowly dying from hunger. The television show had given him nightmares for almost a week, nightmares far worse than any he had ever had from watching scary movies with his sister.
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