An hour later, I drove up to a crossroads and spotted a sign indicating there was a store nearby. But the sign was hanging at a crazy angle and barely attached, so the direction of nearby was a bit foggy. Great. Well, any direction was better than just stalling out in the middle of nowhere, right?
Eeny, meeny, miney, mo.
I picked up my phone and speed-dialed Gus. "Hey, do me a favor and pick a direction. I'm trying to find human life forms."
"You're the one driving the car."
"Trust me, you have as much chance of making the right decision as I do."
"You've gone soft. All right, let me grab a pendulum." There was a pause, then he was back. I could just see him, swinging a pendulum over a map. "Fe fi fo fum, I smell the blood of an... Turn east."
"Great. Thanks." As we continued chatting, I turned right at the stop sign and drove down the road a bit. Sure enough, there it was. Big J's Trading Post. There was even an honest-to-goodness hitching post in front.
"Yee-haw. You're the best. Talk to you later. And don't sell Sally! Or I will haunt your dreams and drive you crazy."
After we hung up, I parked Zed. A trading post. I shook my head. I didn't think trading posts still existed, outside of Indian reservations in the Southwest. And I'd never been in one before.
I slowly got out of the car. Ouch. I'd been driving so long, my legs were stiff and my feet felt like I stuffed my shoes with pebbles.
As I limped my way through the parking lot, it felt like I was walking into a piece of living history. I ran my hand across the worn hitching post and opened my mind's eye:
I could see a row of horses tied up while their owners went inside to barter; smell the warm, musky scent of their hides and the well-worn leather of the saddles.
In front of the trading post, three oak steps, worn smooth down the center, led to the front door. As I matched my gym shoes to the grooves, I could feel a buzz from the energy that centuries of boot-clad feet had left behind.
I took a deep breath and opened the door, not quite sure of what I'd find on the other side, but ready to embrace the adventure.
Chapter Nineteen
I half-expected some Little House on the Prairie scene, with a pinched-face Harriet Olesen behind the counter, hoarding sugar and taking chickens in trade for flour.
Instead, I found blaring rock music and a tall, lanky kid who looked like he was stumbling through his early twenties. Long, stringy, brown hair that could use an "up-close and personal" with a bottle of shampoo, a face pitted by a thousand lost battles against acne and a pervasive aroma of cigarette smoke and stale sweat.
When I approached the counter, he turned down the radio. His name was J.J., he said, introducing himself with a crooked-toothed, nicotine-stained grin. "Jarvis the Fourth. I'm Little J. My dad, Jarvis the Third, is Big J."
I found myself liking J.J., despite his appearance and slightly ripe odor. If the rest of the people in Devils Point were this friendly, I might actually enjoy living here. Even though I already missed Gus like crazy.
"This place seems a lot older than two generations."
"Well, yeah, dude. It's been in my family forever. We got us plenty of J's to go around. Before it was my dad's place, it was Grandpa John's. Before that, well, it goes all the way back to Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandpa Jarvis the First. We're like, the J-men."
I smiled and looked around at the store supplies. Camping equipment, sporting goods, vintage clothes, camouflage gear, hunting rifles, children's toys, freeze-dried rations. There was even a small food section. I was surprised to see a row of cast iron cauldrons, but soon realized they were utilized as camping cook-pots.
"Is there anything you don't carry?" I asked, glancing at the boxes of ammunition stacked behind the counter. Charlton Heston would have loved this place. I could just picture him waiving his rifle at reporters.
"Lots of stuff. Mostly we do a lot of trade-ins, second-hand stuff. One man's junk and whatever. Recycling, North Woods style." He made a dismissive gesture and I noticed that his nails were bitten down to the quick and his fingers were stained the same color as his teeth.
"Well, I'm just glad I found you. I was starting to think I was in the Twilight Zone," I smiled, mentally nudging him to tell me more while I put on a flirty facade. Not that I was interested in J.J., I mean, he seemed harmless enough. But I was definitely interested in getting the scoop on my new hometown and a little bit of flirty could go a long way.
He smiled back, warming up. "Nah, we're real enough. In a pain-in-the-ass, out-the-way, bad-teeth kind of way. At least, that's what the city folk say when they get lost up here."
"Well that seems rude."
"City folk wouldn't be city folk if they weren't rude. It's either that or they're all gushing about our quaintness. Like we're some kind of weird, old-fashioned, zoo exhibit."
I laughed. "You like living up here?"
He shrugged. "It's okay."
"That doesn't sound like a ringing endorsement."
"Dude, whadda you want from me? If you're down with boring, it's a totally righteous place to live." He leaned on the counter and flashed another gap-toothed smile at me. "We got a penny candy store, a diner that serves homemade meals, a librarian who remembers what you like and sets books aside for you. The schools are safe, the teachers are strict and the principal gets his house TP'ed every Halloween."
"Please tell me that's not the height of fun around here."
"We're not that backwoods. We got an arcade where the games are a quarter and a movie theater that shows double features for a dollar. It's Homage to 1939 this week. Wizard of Oz and Some Like It Hot." He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "We also got some righteous skunk weed growing in the woods, if you know where to look," he said, winking.
I laughed again. "I'm sure the cops love that."
"Every now and then, they'll pull up a plant and the paper will run a story on their big drug bust. Usually they just leave it alone. It's not like it belongs to anybody specific. Besides," his eyes twinkled, "the sheriff's uncle has glaucoma and he likes a toke now and then. So bustin' us would be kinda hypocritical."
"Sounds like a pretty laid back place to live."
"Mostly. But we got us our crazies up here too."
A customer walked in and while J.J. finished ringing him up, I picked up a copy of the local newspaper. It was pretty thin. Mainly social stuff, syndicated columnists, cartoons and opinion pieces. Although it looked like two farmers were getting all heated up about the ownership of a prize-winning cow.
"You guys have any festivals or craft fairs or anything like that?"
"Depends on the time of year. It's all seasonal. We're havin' our Harvest Fest next month. We also have a happenin' antiques row, if you're into that kinda thing. You here on a visit?"
"Nope. I'm moving in. Three forty-five Oldway Lane." I put the paper back on the stack. "You have any idea how to get there from here?"
"Aw, dude, the witch house? Everyone knows that place." He lit up a cigarette and I shifted to get out of the path of the smoke. "You don't look like no witch to me. Way too young and cool-looking."
"Thanks," I coughed and quickly tried to change the subject. "Why's it called the witch house?"
"'Cause that's what it is, dude. Lotsa stories about that place. It seemed to like old Tillie though. She lived there forever. Until it decided to kill her."
"That's ridiculous." I said, but my voice wavered. I took a breath and tried to sound sure of myself. "Houses don't kill people, people kill people."
"Whatever. Wait until you actually move in. Then tell me it's not a crazy killer cottage."
Another noxious cloud of nicotine wafted towards me and I coughed again. "You know, those things'll do you in faster than any cottage."
"That's what they say now. Ten years from now, they're gonna say a cigarette a day will keep the doctor away. Just like butter. They said butter and bacon and eggs was evil, but now they found out they're our friends."
But when I coughed again, he put the cigarette out. "Thanks," I smiled at him and took a deep breath of toxin-free air.
"So how'd you get hosed with it?"
"What, the cottage?" Well, there was no way I could tell him the truth. Somehow, I didn't think saying I did a ritual to get a house, the cottage heard me and decided to off Aunt Tillie would endear me to anyone. Although Gus had been pretty successful at drilling his version of events into me: Aunt Tillie was nearing the end of her thread, so the cottage reached out to see who the next owner was going to be and I was just psychic enough to feel it.
"Tillie was my Aunt. Technically, Great-Aunt."
"That explains it. Next of kin and all." J.J. looked me up and down. "You'd be better off just forgettin' about it. Check into the B&B, have a little vacation away from the city, buy an antique, then turn around and go back home. Life's too short."
"I can't forget about a house. That's kind of impractical, don't you think? I mean, even if it's a nightmare, I can sell it." At least, that was my plan. Go, face my fears by spending a few nights in the cottage, fix it up and put it on the market. Then use the money to go back to Los Angeles.
"Not in this town, you can't. Tillie tried for years." He laughed. "Trust me. It ain't worth it. No one'll buy it and you can't burn it down neither."
So not what I wanted to hear. "Why not?" I asked, wondering if the cottage was a featured player in other peoples' nightmares. Or if it had a history of owners dying tragically. Maybe it was infested with termites. What if it was a white elephant built on a toxic waste dump?
"The cottage won't let ya. My Great-Great-Great-Grand-daddy tried to light it on fire and it turned him into a tree. Swear to God."
Well, that was an answer I wasn't expecting. I gave J.J. a sideways look.
"Seriously," he said, pointing to a faded picture above the register, of a nattily-dressed, middle-aged man wearing a bow-tie and an eye-patch.
"Wow, he's quite a looker." I said, fascinated. "Bet he had an interesting life."
"He was stylin', he was. Old 'One-Eye' Jack Wilbur. He was on the cutting edge. Until he became a tree."
"Get out," I said, laughing. He had to be pulling my leg. Either that, or he'd done one acid trip too many. "There's no such thing as a man-tree."
"Yeah? Well, when you find roots growing out of your heels, I'll send someone to water you."
"Forget water, send a documentary crew. If I turn into a tree, I want it on camera." If my fears about the cottage sounded as ridiculous as J.J.'s, no wonder Gus thought I was being an idiot. "So, how do I get to this vengeful, yet ecologically-proactive, witch house?"
"Hold on," he took out a piece of paper and drew a map for me. "You sure you want to do this, dude?"
I smiled -- probably for the first time, when it came to the cottage. "I think I can handle a bad-tempered house," I reassured him. And for the first time, I actually believed it.
He shook his head, clicking his tongue against his teeth.
"Besides, I kinda like trees. In moderation." I said, thinking of Gus. "They're not as good as a Coffee Bean, but they're better than a strip mall."
He shrugged. "Your funeral," he said and handed me the makeshift map. I raised an eyebrow at him and he put his hands up in surrender. "Hey, it's all good. You've got it now and Tillie can finally rest in peace. Everything's totally righteous."
Before I left, I wound up buying some emergency equipment -- first aid kit, flashlight, a map of the area, that kind of thing. I eyeballed the guns and ammo a few times. I mean, what if some rabid wild animal broke into the cottage? Eventually, I brushed the thought aside. I'd probably just wind up shooting myself anyway.
I spent a few more minutes chatting with J.J., but when another customer came in, I took advantage of the opportunity and left. If I hurried, I could take a quick tour of my new hometown and still be at my infamous cottage before sundown.
Chapter Twenty
It didn't take me long to drive through Devils Point. There was a small shopping district that included a mom and pop grocery store, an antique store, on old-fashioned diner, the movie theater J.J. had mentioned and a bookstore. There was also a mechanic's shop that was right out of the fifties, with a gas pump out front and vintage automobiles for sale, a hardware store, a thrift store and a bait-and-tackle shop. It really was an adorable, old-fashioned slice of Americana, preserved in time.
As I kept driving, I found the school, library, post office, church and town hall along with a medical center, funeral home and the town cemetery. And set back in a little picturesque clearing, was a grand old house with a sign proclaiming Auntie Mae's B & B out front.
According to J.J., if you were looking for any more action than that (or any action at all after sun-down, it seemed), the three-hour drive to Trinity Harbor was where you'd find it. Although, he'd said, winking at me, if you drove the way nature demanded and ignored the pesky road signs, you could make it in two.
"But that's like, insanely far away. What if it's an emergency?"
"We got the LifeQuest chopper. And Roy, over at Oldfield, runs a chopper service for people who just want to party. Fifteen dollars a head. Comes in handy in the winters." He glanced out the store window at the parking area. "Good thing you've got an SUV. If you're planning on stayin', you might want to invest in a horse and a sleigh. Or ice skates and skis. The winters are a bitch. The roads here are nothin' but ice and snow."
So, after my tour of Devils Point, I headed over to Oldfield. Besides the airfield, they had a real gas station, with a mini-mart. I pulled into it, gassed up, and settled my nerves with a chocolate bar and a soda. But when I offered Grundleshanks the carb-laden, chocolaty bit of heaven, he turned his toady face away, in a silent lecture on the protein benefits of crickets.
The threat of impending sunset finally made me stop procrastinating. As I got behind the wheel, I unbuttoned the top of my jeans. Ah, well. The toad might have a point. If my jeans got any tighter, I wouldn't be able to breathe. I sighed and tossed the rest of the candy bar out of the window and into the station trash.
Time to check out this mysterious cottage, even if it meant risking life and limb to become a tree. I figured it would be best to see it while it was still light, before my imagination could imbue it with any additional devilish powers. Besides, I kinda wanted to see the tree while it was still daylight. Seriously. How cool was that? A witchy cottage turning a wannabe arsonist into a tree? A cottage that ecologically proactive couldn't really be evil, right?
In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I thought it was a great idea. Turning felons into trees would certainly make for prettier scenery than cement block prison buildings and razor-sharp, barbed wire-topped enclosures. And the prison over-population problem would be a thing of the past. I'd bet there were prisoners who would even prefer being trees, to being caged humans.
Cheered by the thought and feeling a little bit better about my possibly sentient cottage, I turned down Route 41 and headed to my new home. As I got closer though, I was hit by such a strong sense of dŽjˆ vu, I had to pull off onto the shoulder of the road.
I got out of the SUV to look around. The everyday noise of the woods -- singing birds, buzzing insects, small noises in the underbrush -- did their best to reassure me, but something was making my blood run cold. I walked up beyond the bend and found a massive, lighting-blasted oak tree next to the road. Suddenly, realization hit.
This was the same road I had seen in my dream, the same road Aunt Tillie had crashed on. Goose-pimples raced across my flesh. I shuddered. I wasn't going to need the map anymore. The path from this road to the cottage was seared into my mind.
I walked around the oak tree. It was centuries old and sturdy as a tanker, which is probably why it withstood the impact. The only damage seemed to be a large bite taken out of the bark on the southwest side.
I looked closer. There were bits of tree bark that were still dark with blood splatter.
A whisper went through my
mind, nothing more than a sudden breeze, a wordless sigh.
Without really knowing why, I picked off a large piece of the stained bark and put it in my pocket. I had no idea what I was about to walk into, but I had a feeling that having something with Aunt Tillie's blood on it might give me the leverage I needed to keep her cottage under control.
The sun was just starting to set behind the trees as I headed towards my new home. Despite the beauty and richness of the colors -- the deep shades of pink, red and purple -- I suddenly felt incredibly homesick for smog and a jagged line of mountains against the horizon. So I called Gus.
He picked up after three rings. "This better be good. I'm on a date."
"How the hell do you find dates so fast? It takes me months."
"My secret club. It's a whole, incestuous, underground network that we don't let you fag hags in on. A place for us who shine like a veritable sun to share our boy toys. And our Viagra."
"You, share? When did that happen? You barely share with me, whom you have a deep and abiding love for. How can you possibly share with strangers?"
"Unfortunately, missy, you're missing the prerequisite body part. It's all about recycling. Good for the earth, good for..."
"Okay, I got it. Spare me the visual."
He laughed. The sound cheered me up. Gus had an infectious laugh. "And your second-hand boy toy is okay with us talking about him like he's a used book?"
"He's not here. He's seeing a man about a horse."
"He got you to go to the equestrian center? He must be hot." Okay, in all fairness, I was distracted, so I was a bit slow on the uptake. But as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I gave myself a mental headslap.
Gus snorted. "Oh my Gods! Get with it, girl. You're gone from the city for a few days and you've already become a hick. What happened to your kitsch-o-meter? He's pointing Percy at the porcelain."
Somebody Tell Aunt Tillie She's Dead (Toad Witch Series, Book One) Page 12
