Peculiar Country

by Stuart R. West

  Peculiar County

  By Stuart R. West

  Digital ISBNs

  EPUB 978-1-77362-522-5

  Kindle 978-1-77362-523-2

  WEB 978-1-77362-524-9

  Print ISBN 978-1-77362-525-6

  Amazon Print ISBN 978-1-77362-526-3

  Copyright 2017 by Stuart R. West

  Cover art by Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  * * *

  Dedication

  Everybody’s got a bit of peculiar in them, but Kansas is swimming in it. To the oddballs, eccentrics, weirdoes and kooks, as long as they’re on the good side of things, this book’s for you.

  To Zak, our beloved dog, who’s had a rather peculiar year, one ending in the loss of a limb, but not his spirit.

  Thanks to Nora Folan. And as always, a special dedication to Cydney and Sarah—keep being peculiar, my loves!

  Chapter One

  1965. Hangwell, Kansas. Peculiar County

  “Help me...”

  It takes a mighty big effort to stir me from my sleep. Grams used to say I slept like the dead, then carried on like it was the funniest thing ever. Given the family business, Dad didn’t really find it very funny, just not his cuppa’ joe, being the proprietor of Caldwell’s Funeral Home and all.

  But that night, something yanked me from a deep sleep like a battling catfish.

  “Help me...”

  Quite possibly, I’d been hearing the voice for some time, trying to stitch it into a dream the way folks do while in mid-slumber. But the insistent nature of the cry, the rising panic, forced me awake. I shuffled to the open bedroom window, my feet dusting up bunnies. A breeze set the curtains to sailing. I pinched them aside, stuck my head out. Even with the moon riding high, I couldn’t see much, just the tops of the neighbor’s corn stalks rattling like a hundred catalogs dropped from an airplane.

  “Help me.”

  Nothing but a kid, a boy by the sound of his voice, maybe a little younger than me, possibly just goofing. But I didn’t truly think that; nobody could fake stark fear like that.

  I’ve always been a curious sort, following in my dad’s scientific footsteps. Mostly it’s because I’m fifteen, I suppose, trying to get a handle on things, adding to life experiences whenever I can. Either way, nothing was gonna stop me from investigating, ‘specially when a kid might be in trouble.

  “Help…please…”

  The kid sounded downright terrified and I gotta admit, it scared me a bit, too. Not that I’m a scaredy-cat, mind you. But when you live in Peculiar County, well, let’s just say the county’s name fits like a glove.

  I slipped my overalls over my pajamas. Lately, it’d been raining enough to float an ark, so I capped my feet with boots.

  Out in the hallway, Dad’s snoring nearly whittled a hole through his bedroom door. Like me, if put to the test he could sleep through a tornado.

  Hardly my first nocturnal visit out of the house, I knew the tread and creaks of the stairwell just fine, the map imprinted in my brain. The moon guided me, shining through the window at the bottom of the steps, as sure-handed as a Starlight Cinema usher with his flashlight.

  I inched the front door open. An uppity how-do-you-do wind gust greeted me, whipped my hair back and nearly took the door slamming against the wall. I caught the handle and struggled to shut it behind me.

  “Help…me…”

  Tonight, an unseasonable chill crested the wind, downright unwelcoming. A shiver scuttled down my back, more than just the wind rattling my nerves.

  “Please…please…”

  Now out in the open, I high-tailed it through our yard, across the gravel drive, and into the field next to the Saunders’ farm. I didn’t know the Saunders well, other than an occasional hand-wave (which they sometimes returned, other times not). I could pick Evelyn Saunders’ Sunday bonnet out of a crowd, but that’s as far as our country neighborliness travelled with them. Dad had always told me to keep my distance. With a cross face, he’d add, “they’re not very hospitable.” Then he’d vanish behind his newspaper the way adults have a tendency to do, leaving most of my social education to myself.

  ‘Course this just made the Saunders’ farm all the more intriguing.

  “Help me! Please, don’t let…”

  The pleas had turned downright horrific. His voice lifted in the night like a heated barn-cat.

  The wooden fence separating our properties had seen finer days, weathered down to splinters and loose two by fours. I managed to unhinge one of the boards, swung it down, hiked a leg over and followed through.

  More wind kicked up, setting the stalks to waving. Leaves whispered to one another, sharing secrets. Telling stories better suited to the golden light of day.

  Taller than me by a good couple of feet, the corn giants hovered over me. As I entered the field, they crowded in.

  “Help me!”

  The stalks’ reaching fingers hid the moon’s brilliance. I couldn’t see for beans. But the boy’s voice cried out louder. My heart likewise thumped to beat the band.

  “Oooohhhh…help me…please…”

  Tears flooded his voice now, his words garbled. Terror struck a spark in me, urgency suddenly crucial. I wanted to help the boy, get it over with, leave the field.

  “Eeeeeeee…”

  His sudden scream—pitched high enough to hurt dog ears—plugged ice into my veins. The voice echoed next to me, above me, behind me. Everywhere. I twisted in a circle, closed my eyes, honed my hearing the way hunters sometimes do. Leaves scratched my arms, poked at my face. Corn stalks rattled, knocking around with a tornado’s intensity.

  “Help me!”

  Closer, the voice so close now, I could almost—

  “Help!”

  The boy burst out of the stalks, nearly plowing into me. I shrieked, pasted my hand over my mouth but good. As I suspected, the boy was young, probably eight or nine, maybe a shrimpy ten on a good day. Dressed in nothing but filthy underwear.

  Breathless, we stared at one another. His small chest heaved out, sunk back into his bag of bones. Raccoon-lined eyes filled with fear, distrust. Moonlight fingered in through the stalks and touched him with an eerie blue color, a color I was right well-accustomed to: the inescapable color of death.

  He stuck out bony arms, palms up, shaking worse than ol’ Hyrum Thurgood’s three-day tremors. We stood that way for a spell, before I mustered up courage to speak.

  “Are you in trouble?” I whispered.

  His entire body trembled. His fingers clawed up and stuck, the way heart attack victims shuffle off.

  Never one for playing with dollies, a sudden need to protect the boy, to mother him, took hold of me. I wrapped him in my arms, held him tight. Tried to quell his shakes and make them my own.

  “Please…” he whispered, “please, help me…”

  “Help you what?” My voice rose, just a hair, nerves grinding down.

  A sudden moan—not unlike a freight train—supplied the answer the boy couldn’t. The inhuman sound hitchhiked along a frigid wind gust, road the cornstalk tops, and crashed toward us. Louder and louder, hellishly so. My chest thrummed, pounding with fear.

  In my arms, the boy jerked straight up, stiff as an ironing board. His eyes rolled into his skull. Spittle bubbled at his mouth and drew down his chin.

  Madder than hell, the earth pounded. The heels of my boots shook, tremoring up into my molars.
>
  Thrum…thump…thump…

  The sound of a giant in the cornfield, racing toward us, ready to bring down his Paul Bunyan axe to cleave us in two.

  Thump…thump…tump…

  “It’s too late!” The boy’s eyes remained locked into his head. His voice climbed to shriller heights. “He’s coming!”

  I wanted to grab his shoulders, shake some sense into his head. Tell him everything would be all alright. Truth be told, though, it would’ve been a lie, a parental lie. Every bit as terrified as him, I knew we had to skedaddle. Now. His hand in mine felt cold as a winter’s day, but I clung onto him regardless. Unsure which way to go, lost in the cornstalk maze, I whirled in a panic-driven circle, swinging the boy with me. Because whatever approached seemed to be coming from every direction, an army of beasts now.

  I picked a dirt row, any old row, and wrenched the boy behind me.

  Exploding footfalls drew closer, louder. Behind me, the boy murmured, crying nonsense. Next to us, stalks tumbled and crashed.

  Tump…thump…thump…

  Louder now, heart-bursting, bladder-pushing closer.

  Like an arrow shot straight into my heart, a scream arose. One the likes of nothing I’d ever heard before. And living in a funeral home, I’ve heard lots and lots of mournful screams.

  I let go of the boy’s cold, cold hand. Clamped my hands over my ears.

  One last blast of wind knifed down our path, targeted me. Lifted me off my feet and tossed me into the cornstalks. Woozy, I shook my head, sat up.

  The wind stopped. As did the screaming. No more crazy, thunderous footfalls either. Absolute silence.

  Likewise, the boy had vanished.

  On sea-faring legs, I managed to get up. For the longest time, I stood still. And listened. Other than the banging of my heart into my ears, I heard nothing. In fact, the entire night had stilled, quieter than…well, quieter than death.

  In a loud, hoarse whisper, I called for the boy. Poked around the field a bit looking for him. No sign, no trace, nothing out of the ordinary other than a few trampled stalks.

  As if the boy had never existed and maybe he hadn’t either.

  Folks always say life is different in Peculiar County. More than ever, I suspect death is, too.

  Chapter Two

  “Morning, Dad.” At the kitchen table, our usual morning ritual, I dragged a chair out and sat down. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Like an angel.”

  Well, I didn’t rightly know how angels slept, found it strange Dad referenced a celestial being seeing as how he didn’t put much stock into whatever came out of the Bible. In his line of work, his controversial beliefs made for some mighty uncomfortable business meetings. Of course, everyone in town knew Oscar Caldwell’s beliefs, hardly a secret. Yet, he always provided practiced comfort to the mourning, gave appropriate lip service to an afterlife when the need arose.

  “What about you, Dibs? How’d you sleep?” Judging by Dad’s hang-dog, tired smile, I reckoned he hadn’t heard my late night outing. Frankly, I was half-convinced it’d been a nightmare myself.

  “Just fine.”

  “I made breakfast for you.” Dad peered over his newspaper and nodded toward the two cereal boxes on the table: Shredded Wheat and Raisin Bran. Dad liked regularity in his humor just as he did in his morning constitutionals.

  I spilled some Shredded Wheat into a bowl. “Dad…did you hear anything last night?”

  “Hmm?” The paper came down. Folded, neatly set aside on the table. “Heard anything? Did something happen I should know about?” Behind his dark-rimmed glasses, his eyes fluttered, his confused look when logic failed him.

  “No. Reckon I just had a bad dream.”

  “That’s all those spooky books and movies you like. You know I’ve warned you about them.”

  Dad didn’t truly disapprove of my penchant for all things eerie and otherworldly in entertainment, not really. After all, he was always the first to point out the spooky movies playing at the Starlight. Sometimes I suspect he says things just ‘cause that’s the way parents are expected to act.

  Since he appeared to be in a particularly chatty mood this morning, I decided to test potentially disturbing waters.

  “Dad, what do you know about the Saunders next door?”

  Dad’s brow scrunched up. I knew the look, every wrinkle tucked with concern. He sighed. “Why are you asking about them?”

  “Well, you always say asking questions is a good thing. About things I don’t understand.” He gave a stiff nod. “A while ago, you told me I should steer clear of the Saunders ‘cause they’re inhospitable. I was just wondering it that’s the only reason.”

  His gaze dropped to the table. After several false starts and stutters, he found his words. “There’s just…something not quite right about them, Dibs. You know how people in Peculiar County talk. I’m not one to gossip, but word is, some strange things befell the family years back.”

  “Like what?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s just idle gossip. Nothing more. We Caldwells don’t go in for that sort of thing. Still it’s always best to err on the side of caution. I’d give them wide berth.”

  In other words, end of discussion, the way adults finish uncomfortable conversations, satisfying only to themselves. Dad didn’t usually react like that, education and enlightenment usually high on his agenda. Of course, considering his non-answer, I now deemed the Saunders’ past well worth looking into.

  Obviously wanting to tiptoe back into safer waters, Dad asked, “Dibs, can you take your bike to school? I’ve got a morning appointment.”

  “Dad, I usually ride my bike. Who died?”

  “Hmm? Oh, ah…” He faltered, his mind elsewhere. “Mrs. Pedersen. Lived on the other side of town. With her son and his wife?”

  I didn’t know Mrs. Pedersen from Adam, but as small towns went, I’d heard of her. “Tell her loved ones I’m mighty sorry for their loss. How’d she pass?”

  He cleared his throat. “Natural causes.”

  I don’t reckon Dad put any more stock into “natural causes” leading to death than I do. Particularly in Peculiar County where death comes a’knocking in an anything but natural manner.

  * * *

  Just over three miles provided a lengthy bike ride to Hangwell High, but I didn’t mind one bit, not one iota. Particularly on beautiful, crisp fall mornings. I enjoyed watching the evolution of the seasons, caught before the seasons traded out. Leaves burned orange, still clinging to mother trees. The air never smelled fresher, revitalized, change on the tip of the wind. Temperatures remained at a perfectly comfortable sixty degrees or so, the best sorta bike-riding weather.

  At any given opportunity, I sped through town on my beautiful Raleigh ladies’ bike. A gift from Dad on my twelfth birthday, I maintained it in prime condition, all slick straight lines and a healthy, rich aqua color (none of that sissy pink stuff for me, thank you very much). I loved showing it off, riding the country roads, careening through downtown (comprised of three blocks of stores, a café, the lone bar in town, and the cinema). On my rides, especially the leisurely ones, I learned a lot—some might call it eavesdropping—about Hangwell, Kansas, and its inhabitants. For such a small town, Hangwell surely did harbor its fair share of secrets.

  That morning before I set out, I walked my bike past the Saunders’ farm. Similar to our homestead, a long gravel drive set their home off the road a ways.

  His ball cap tipped ever so over one eye, I recognized Devin Meyers. In that peculiar, waddly way of his, back and forth and a bit ducky, he sauntered toward his barn—a red one, of course. When it came to barns, I don’t believe I’d ever laid eyes on any other color than red, an unexplainable small town law, I wouldn’t doubt.

  On the porch sat Devin’s sister, Evelyn, still as a portrait in her rocking chair. Always dressed to the nines, Evelyn Saunders looked fabulous in her movie star dresses and perfectly rendered make-up. I knew for a fact she rarely left home, so I’d
always wondered who she dolled up for. Maybe she had a crush on Odie Smith, the postman, the only other person I’d ever seen come within spitting distance of her farm.

  I hopped my bike, ready to venture forward. As an afterthought, I raised my hand in a forbidden wave to Mrs. Saunders.

  Took a while, my hand just stuck up in the air, but I finally won Evelyn Saunders’ attention. As if it hurt, she worked that hand up, gave it a little shake. And I moved on.

  For a good portion of a mile, I bumped across the gravel, dust chasing me like smoke from a forest fire. At the intersection of Oak Grove and our unnamed road, I slid my bike into a sidewinder stop. Pebbles spat up, dinging against the bike’s frame. This time of morning, I pretty near had the roads to myself, or at least pretended to, showing off a bit for my imaginary, adoring friends.

  True friends tended not to last long, worn out faster than cheap sneakers. Can’t say if it was a bug in my personality or something else, but I suspected Dad’s business played a part in my loner status. Snotty girls at school tended to flock toward kids born of bankers, pharmacists, and a whole lotta farmers, rather than taking up with the mortician’s daughter. Weirder than a two-headed cow, I was fine with the whole pecking order of my school universe. Deep down, I knew it wouldn’t last forever, knew things would change once I left Hangwell for college. The silly little girls weren’t my cuppa’ tea anyhow.

  And I always had Dad. Everyone knows family’s forever or at least what amounts to forever in terms of a lifetime.

  Besides Mom, of course.

  After checking both ways for traffic—not that I couldn’t fly by most of the old pick-ups without breaking a sweat—I wheeled onto Oak Grove and really set my tires free. Recklessly, I careened down the hill, my short cropped hair flicking up at the sides. I used the momentum, built on the speed necessary to mount the upcoming hill.