by Noir, Mila
When she turned the corner she saw that, indeed, it was still there. And it looked almost exactly the same, although the window now proudly displayed a sign that said “Free Wi-Fi!” She wondered if the patrons, who all looked over seventy from where she was standing, even knew what that was. When she saw one of them was sitting with an iPad, she realized she was being kind of backward. Sweethollow might be quaint, but it wasn’t an actual time warp.
She went in and was offered a booth by a young waiter who looked like he wasn’t old enough to drive yet. He was like one tall line, all arms and legs. He seemed nervous talking to her, so she smiled and asked for coffee and a turkey sandwich with fries. Then she sat and looked out over Main Street.
Sweethollow really was scenic. And quaint. And picturesque, and all the words people usually associated with small towns. Most of the buildings had been there a long time and a few had even been restored to look even more “vintage,” with old-fashioned signs and curling roof adornments. They’d renamed things to really give it that old-world feel, like the General Store and Apothecary. There were plenty of modern businesses as well, however, and Taylor could see that they’d made extra effort to improve parking.
If you followed a straight line from the diner down Main Street, you’d hit the large pine tree in the middle, the one with the jaunty pumpkin she’d seen from her room on it. There were also banners and signs about the upcoming festival, ads for local businesses and brews, lots of pictures of the Deathless Rider looking spooky. In most of them he was holding a flaming cutlass, like a pirate, and his face was always a skull.
Taylor thought about her dream and tried not to analyze it. So, okay, she’d had a crush on Anton Quinn in high school. A big, painful, completely unrequited crush. She most definitely hadn’t been the only one, and it wasn’t like having a crush on the “bad boy” was particularly unusual.
What had been unusual was when he’d unexpectedly shown interest in her and asked her to the senior prom. She’d only been a junior but was taking extra classes to see if she could qualify to graduate early. She’d been done with the bullshit by then and her grams had encouraged her to get out if she could. Technically all she needed was to take her GED, but she wanted that diploma. She’d been through enough, she figured she’d earned it.
Young Taylor had been too surprised and naïve to think anything of Anton asking her. They’d been friendly for a while, chatting, even meeting after school, though she’d never noticed it was always when no one else could see. She’d been flattered and grateful, which was embarrassing enough. But she’d gone out and spent real, hard-earned babysitting money on getting her hair straightened and shiny and buying a dress that actually fit (even it had been secondhand) and a sweater that matched, with little embroidered birds on it. Anton had once said he liked birds. She’d really put in the effort, even though she couldn’t do anything about the braces.
He’d shown up, which was miracle enough. Looking beautiful in his suit, even if it had been a bit too big at the cuffs and hem. They’d driven to the dance and then…
Everything had gone horribly wrong. Not quite Carrie wrong, but close enough. She hadn’t been able to trust anyone for a long time after. And if she was being honest, she wasn’t sure she trusted anyone now. Certainly not men, that was for sure.
She sighed, sipping the coffee when it was brought and then picking at her fries. Memories were such a pain in the ass. Why couldn’t she remember nice things from her childhood? Like picking flowers? Or her first time going swimming? Or how great Grams’ pies were?
Well, okay, she did remember Grams, and that was always good, if a little sad. She ate her lunch and went over her notes. There wasn’t a lot, but there was some decent town history and the beginnings of what she hoped would be a good, meaty piece. Something about small-town secrets and cover-ups. She just needed to get some actual facts so the piece would be more than gossip.
She’d made of list of people to see and places to visit. There was Mrs. Keeper at the old folks’ home; as former head librarian she might know a lot. There was Nate Powell, Senior Detective. She’d known Nate in high school and he’d been a decent guy. Quiet, nerdy. Focused. The Saints had picked on him a lot, so she hoped he’d talk to her. There were also the Riderites, a sort of fan club/historical society in town her grams had founded. They’d be useful, especially since most of the members were small-town busybodies. They’d dedicated an entire old farmhouse to Rider lore, trinkets, and assorted crap. At the very least they could fill her in on whatever Rider story elements she’d forgotten over the years. And they’d certainly provide some of the gossipy tabloid stuff and superstition her editor was looking for.
As she was flipping through her notes, which had been taken the arcane, Luddite way on actual paper with a real pen, someone sat down across from her.
“Excuse me, I’m just finishing up my lunch here and—” she began.
“I noticed. Hi,” said Anton. Taylor looked up in complete shock. “Need another cup of coffee? Or pie? They make a halfway decent apple.” He grinned. She scowled.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, closing her notebook with as much vigor as she could. She began to scroll through her phone, trying to get him to take the hint.
“As I remember, you were fond of pie,” he said. “Two apple pies, Dave. Thanks.”
“I was leaving,” she said.
“You can stay a little longer to catch up with an old…friend. Last night was a bit of a misfire.” He grinned.
“Oh, I don’t know. I said what I wanted to,” she said, giving him a big, fake smile.
“I’m sure. But I haven’t,” he said quietly. Two slices of pie were laid down in front them with the faint clink of china on the Formica tabletop. They oozed apple juice with flecks of spice and did look good. But Taylor wasn’t even remotely hungry anymore, not even for sweets.
“And why, exactly, should I listen to anything you have to say?” she asked, sitting back and looking at him like a bug she’d like to squash.
“Because I’m sorry,” he said simply. Taylor gaped.
“I…you’re…what?” she said, almost in a whisper.
“I’m sorry,” he said and dug into his pie, not looking at her.
Taylor felt like the world had just opened up and she’d fallen through into another dimension. This couldn’t possibly be real. She’d dreamt about it, more than once. But the people who hurt you in high school, especially the way Anton had hurt her, they didn’t just…apologize. That didn’t happen.
“Are you serious?” she asked, when words worked again.
“Very. And I’d like to take you out to dinner. On Friday, if you like, but another night would be fine, too,” Anton said, finishing his pie and looking at hers. She pushed it over to him with a sigh.
“So you’re sorry for being quite possibly the biggest asshole this side of the Hudson River a decade ago and you’d like me to have dinner with you. Why?” she asked, continuing to sit back, arms still crossed, like this was the most boring conversation she’d ever had. Inside, she felt like she was on fire. It was too much. She had no idea how to process what had just happened. It was too monumental.
“I owe you a real date. At least,” he said, eating her slice of pie. She narrowed her eyes.
“You think a burger and a movie will make up for that night?” she hissed.
“No. But it’s a start,” he said. “What do you say?”
She sat there, going through an entire gamut of emotions. Anger. Shock. Denial. Shock again.
“Okay,” she found herself saying. He blinked at her a few times, then smiled so wide and genuinely it was blinding.
“Great! I’ll pick you up at seven on Friday. You at the inn?”
“I am. I’ll be downstairs. Don’t stand me up,” she said, then got up, paid her check, and left, leaving him sitting at the booth, still smiling.
She stood outside for a minute, getting her bearings. The wind had picked up even m
ore and was making a low whine that was going to be a full howl by the time it went dark. And she was going to go to dinner at the end of the week with Anton Quinn. Who had just told her he was sorry for humiliating her and ruining her teen life.
Well. This was going to be one hell of a week.
***
Part 2: Bad Boys and Good Girls
Neither Taylor Harlow nor Anton Quinn were aware of just how strange and inextricably linked the legend of the Deathless Rider and the town of Sweethollow really were. Even though they’d both grown up there and been basically indoctrinated with the story since they’d been old enough to hear it, they didn’t know the “truth,” such as it was.
Very few did.
Like most local myths and legends, embellishment, superstition, tradition, and plain old storytelling whimsy surrounded the Rider in a kind of web of make-believe and reality. It represented the darker side of small-town life to a degree, a metaphor for secrets and mysteries, and of “justice” finding a way, even when that way was bloody and dark.
Just like any other small town, Sweethollow had its share of darkness. People didn’t always die of natural causes. Not everyone was as small-town sweet and down home as they appeared. There was gossip, rumor, affairs, and corruption. There were crimes of passion and crimes of just plain calculated evil. On balance, it wasn’t as though Sweethollow was worse than anywhere else. It just wasn’t any better.
There were a lot of undercurrents of tension in town, especially at this time of year. The festival involved nearly every business, with everyone trying to make at least a year’s worth of profit over a month. This often required certain kinds of deals and a degree of “looking the other way.”
And it all hinged on this strange, old-fashioned tale about a ghostly Rider and its grisly tendencies. Spinning that into something family friendly had been quite an accomplishment. Especially with people actually turning up dead this year.
The legend had a kind of hold over the town, which relied on the tale to thrive. But it was a tenuous relationship. As long as the Rider stayed just a story, it was appealing in a safely spooky sort of way that attracted city folks sick of the grime and looking for a little “country” homespun quaintness without the actual country. Sweethollow had worked hard to maintain this balance, even though people in town were just as modern and cynical as anywhere else. It just needed to look like Sweethollow was a kind of throwback to a “better,” simpler time. That’s what people paid for and that’s what they got.
The festival had been the main contributor to Sweethollow’s major source of financial solvency for decades now, especially the last ten 10 years. There’d been some kind of resurgence in traveling for “nostalgia” purposes , and while the town couldn’t compete with Christmas in New England or fall Apple Picking, they were a big draw for All Hallows’ Eve.
This year the town had a major show planned. They’d amped up the haunted trail and ride, commissioning real special effects artists from the city and some actors from the county playhouse. There were now four haunted houses in town, a pumpkin-carving contest and display, a tame hayride and a much-less-tame one with a Rider that followed the cart, a dance party on Halloween itself, and a reenactment of the legend that played all weekend, culminating in a surprise “Run of the Rider” through the final Halloween show. And the local ale flowed freely and cheaply at all of them.
Many locals actually dreaded this time of year, just because of the influx of loud tourists. Many of the older residents didn’t think it such a great idea to make the Rider into a commercial figure. Did they believe the Rider was real? Hard to say, but superstitions ran deep in Sweethollow. With good reason.
The recent murders had put a dent in the local festivities, but only long enough for those in the know to sweep away the evidence, spin it as a terribly tragic accident, and quickly move on. Just like they had before and would again if any more deaths occurred. It was, in a way, a tradition just like the legend and the festival. Even those who suspected something was very wrong kept quiet.
The older the resident, the stronger the superstition, mostly because those who had been around long enough knew that something about the story of the Rider matched up far too coincidentally with too many deaths. Even if it wasn’t the cause, the correlation was there. For some, it was almost charming in a morbid way; for others, haunting. Very few families that stayed in Sweethollow went untouched by the odd tragedies that surrounded the Rider. But few ever acknowledged it beyond whispers and stories passed down from generation to generation like an old heirloom. Instead of old lace or an armoire, this legacy was death and disaster. But what family isn’t touched by tragedy? That’s what they told themselves, and it mostly worked.
Taylor’s family had been in Sweethollow only since her grams, yet her parents’ deaths had occurred at this time of year. Anton’s family had been in town far longer, and his grandfather had died in that spectacularly gruesome way. Even his mother’s passing had happened near All Hallows’ Eve. Were they linked? Had the Rider been involved? Maybe; something about that time of year seemed to draw a kind of darkness around Sweethollow that invited loss. Many people got ill, though they always dismissed it as being “cold season.” Many of the elderly in town died around this time, though no one seemed to make the connection. Lost pets, accidents, all of them went up around Halloween. Some might call it coincidence. Others believed differently. No one knew for sure. And most didn’t want to.
What most in town didn’t know was how long these kinds of events had been going on. There had been witch trials even before the Revolutionary War, strange happenings, and the legend of the Rider had begun. Many good people had been hanged in a panic of fear. That history had mostly been expunged, obliterated in a fire years after the deeds had been done. No records remained, none that anyone knew of, anyway, and the town had been called something quite different then.
Neither Taylor nor Anton suspected that the Rider might really be real, because they wanted to believe that they were rational people and that ghosts were things that belonged in scary stories. But somewhere, deep inside both of them, they wondered.
***
Taylor walked away from the diner toward her car, then decided to walk to the nursing home instead. It wasn’t that far, and she definitely needed the air after that little encounter with Anton. Might as well get this interview out of the way while she tried to make sense of what had just happened.
She was still reeling. It might sound ridiculous to others, but for her, having him say he was sorry and invite her to dinner was maybe the biggest shock she’d had since her grams had passed. She’d been hanging on to her (justified) anger at him for a decade. To have him just come right out and apologize was like finding out the world was really flat. Reality as she knew it had taken a decided left turn into uncharted territory.
In her world, Anton Quinn was an unrepentant shit who had hurt her and left her unable to trust anyone (including herself) again. That he was sorry, that he regretted what he’d done, that maybe he’d thought about her over all these years, had never occurred to her. She’d made him a villain and been comfortable with that view.
But the truth was, Anton was human. She knew that. It didn’t make what he’d done okay, but maybe she had been allowed to indulge in her anger and resentment for a little too long. Painting him like some kind of inhuman monster in her mind, when really, he’d been a damaged teenage boy. And weren’t all teenagers monsters sometimes?
None of this meant she forgave him or ever would. But she had to admit she was curious about what he was like now. If he’d changed. He didn’t really look much different, other than a tad older and possibly more beautiful, which figured. He was still cocky as hell, too.
She sighed, pushing her windblown hair out of her face. Maybe she just wanted him to have changed. So she could feel better about the conflicting feelings she was having about him. Because it definitely felt like her old crush was resurfacing, which she found both embarrass
ing and infuriating. What was wrong with her?
Probably better not to ask that existential a question at this juncture.
Taylor rounded a corner and looked up at the Shaded Pines nursing home. It was a large gray building, with a front façade that looked homey. On a long porch that wrapped around the outside, there were plenty of chairs and even a few folks sitting in them with blankets piled high. It had once been the vacation home of a city developer, built sometime in the early 1900s. The family had lost their fortune eventually and it had been converted to a rest home in the eighties. Back when Taylor was a girl, it had been a lot less friendly looking, with weeds everywhere, cracked paint, and the lingering smell of mothballs, even from outside.
Whoever owned it now it had definitely made improvements. There was a well-tended garden, though most of the flowers were dormant this time of year. Plenty of shrubbery. The paint job was gray, but the trim was a crisp white and there were blue accents on the windows. A lot of effort had been made to make sure this place didn’t look dreary and depressing anymore. She hoped the inside was as welcoming.
She opened the metal gate and strode up, wondering how she’d get access to Mrs. Keeper. They’d know she didn’t have family anymore. But maybe they’d be lax if she really didn’t get many visitors. Everyone needs company now and then.
The residents on the porch at least looked comfortable, with books and thermoses next to them as they sat outside and enjoyed the brisk fall weather. An old man waved at her cheerfully, and she waved back, then stepped in.
Inside was yellow and bright, with a lot of white furnishings and framed posters with cheerful, uplifting quotes. Taylor took in these details, along with the wicker furniture and the lemon-fresh scent. All the rooms had a lot of healthy sunshine streaming in. It was a far cry from the depressing home she’d been expecting.
