But to set things right for Thomas, find out what happened, I had to see. Wait it out and witness the horror soon to be unleashed.
“Hurry, Thomas, tell me…what happened to you?”
The train from Hell chugged along. A near to ear-bursting whistle rose. Next to us, stalks toppled, the dark storm rolling in.
I took a stab in the dark, figured I couldn’t possibly be physically hurt from a ghost.
But sometimes reason’s not worth risking your life over.
“Run!” I screamed. With the strength of a grown man, Thomas broke free of my bear-hug, and dove straight through the facing stalks. I tore out after him.
Protruding stalks and husks slowed me, but Thomas ran like the wind itself, turbining a clearer path in his wake.
Behind me, panting rose, fuming from a great beast’s nostrils. Wind squalled, circled us. Leaves lifted, swirled. Hot, fetid breath blasted the back of my neck, filled my nose with the stench of rot.
“Run! He’s here!” Screaming for all his worth, Thomas’ pace didn’t lag. From the forest across the road, bats took wing, eclipsing the grand moon. Creatures hooted, cawed and skittered away to safety.
Yet the beast kept coming, mowing down stalks with ferocious ease.
Bam…bam…bam…
Tempted to turn around to see our pursuer, I figured it for a fool’s choice. It’d slow me down, drop me in the monster’s killing path.
Thomas broke away and didn’t look back. Just vanished back into the shadows from where he came.
Behind me, something swished. Close enough I felt a rush of air on my neck.
Zzzzz…shissss…
I didn’t have to look. Terror, auditory cues, filled in the blanks. Just like the grim reaper—and for all I knew, that’s what he was—the monster swung his scythe, plowing the fields of life. Keen on harvesting my soul and adding it alongside Thomas’s.
I picked my legs up higher, tried to follow in Thomas’s shorn path. The air sliced behind me. Closer…closer…ever closer…
The blade bit into my back. Just a nick. But the sharpness of the instrument, the severity of the blade drew a line of pain.
I stumbled. Went down on my side. Crashed into stalks.
The beast’s footfalls stopped. But its over-heated gasping didn’t. Above me, in the dead dark, hoarse gulps strained for breath.
One final gasp. A big one as if preparing to exert a last strenuous effort.
Darkness swallowed me whole.
Chapter Four
When I looked in the mirror that morning, I reckoned I needed to quit spending my nights in the Saunders’ corn fields. I looked a mess and a half. My eyes gave me a scare, motion picture ghoul eyes. Black circles blemished my pale skin, not the way I cared to be noticed.
The way I had it figured, the trauma of last night gave me such a fright I passed out. Didn’t wake up ‘till first call of the rooster. Still early enough to slip back inside before Dad crawled out of bed.
For my troubles, all I managed last night was Thomas’s verified identity. Well, that and the realization ghosts can indeed hurt the living. The cut on my back proved that theory beyond a doubt. Dad always preached to believe in absolutes. The facts never lie, he’d say. I wondered what he’d make of a factual ghostly wound. Plain and simple, he wouldn’t believe it. Can’t rightly blame him, either.
But there sat the proof on my back, a little forget-me-not from the world beyond. The cut itself wasn’t bad, just about an inch-and-a-half long. Not too deep, the bleeding had long clotted. I’d had worse paper cuts. Still, even in the bright of morn, the thought of what had cut me shook me head to toe.
Now, I’d be a downright liar if I claimed all of last night’s sleeplessness rested primarily on the ghosts in the cornfield.
Don’t reckon I realized that, either, until I found myself almost absentmindedly applying make-up.
I’d worn make-up before. Usually on the rare occasion I went to church or out to dinner with Dad. So I kept it around, waste not, want not. Just hadn’t had much call for it lately.
Yet, even though I looked like The Mummy, ol’ Imhotep himself, this morning I wanted to present myself in a different light.
Because of James, dammit.
I’d been more than curt with him yesterday, maybe a little scratchy around the edges. And I certainly wouldn’t mind enlisting him as a partner in solving Thomas Saunders’ presumed death if I hadn’t pushed him away. Course the fact the partner in question was cute played a part in it all, too.
Shameful, I know. Entirely unlike me.
Beleaguered, I stared into the closet full of nice clothes, left-behinds from Mom. All of them stylish, even by today’s ever-changing standards. I’d never worn Mom’s pleated skirt before—never dared to—mainly because ghastly pink drenched it, the color the awful Suzette wrapped herself into. I knew pink represented femininity, but based on Suzette’s ridiculous airs, I associated the awful color with weakness more than anything.
Today wasn’t the day to try out the pleated skirt. Not even a cute boy made wearing pink palatable.
Tapered slacks in a perfectly inoffensive teal color would do nicely, a middle of the road compromise I could live with. I paired it with a white shirt and a sorta mustard colored pullover that clung to the neck.
As I modeled before the mirror, I turned every which angle, agonizing over my bold rebirth. While I’d never fetch the most alluring beauty prize at a fair, my mirror managed not to break either.
I returned to deliberating over the make-up. Clearly, the eyeliner was too much, probably even against school code. In the bathroom, I scrubbed and scrubbed until the flesh around my eyes went from black to red. Even worse, it made me look like I’d been crying, something I’d never allow Suzette and her little hellions to see, not in this lifetime.
Angry, nervous, I scrubbed and started over. Finally, I got the base right, the foundation of my face. Mom’s long abandoned hairspray filled the hair and hardened my hair into place. Playful and daring, I puckered my lips into a red oval and kissed the mirror. I giggled at the left-behind prints, perfectly molded. My mind wandered and I allowed it to indulge in what it’d be like to press those lips against James’. Of course he’d have to give up smoking. Kissing an ashtray sounded like it’d leave a lot to be desired.
Before I chickened out, I grabbed my books and rumbled down the stairwell.
In his usual spot, behind the cover of the Gazette, Dad munched on cereal. For some reason, he rarely used milk. As a result, our breakfasts always resulted in loud affairs.
I planned to rush through breakfast, hoping Dad wouldn’t draw aside his shroud of newsprint.
“Morning, Dad.” I filled my bowl, less than the usual amount.
“Morning. Sleep well?”
“Like a baby on a log.”
He chuckled at my mixed metaphor, the way he always did. The paper accordioned together, the pages met. The paper below his chin, he took a long look at me.
In the hallway, the clock ticked. Inside my chest, my heart tocked. Finally, he grinned. I mighta understood his reaction better had he gone the other way.
My cheeks, forehead reached mercurial and dangerous levels of red.
“My, my, my, you look nice today, Dibby.”
I shrugged. “Thanks.”
“Any reason in particular?”
Before he began that odd ritual parents enjoyed, belittling their children about crushes and what not, I bottled his mischievous genie. “There’s some kinda school photos today or something. For the yearbook. Just thought I’d try and make an effort.”
His smile turned warm, far from condescending. “It’s a mighty fine effort, Dibby. You look very pretty.”
By now, my cheeks matched the bright rose red of my painted lips. I employed my other battle tactic: switching topics. “Dad?”
“Hmmm?” He settled the paper down, crossed his legs. Attentive parent position.
“Are you keeping something from me about the
Saunders next door?” I needed to force Dad into talking. Eventually he’d come around, he always did, even if it took some coaxing. The lessons we both learned over “the birds and the bees” debacle were hard to forget. Although he’d been more mortified and embarrassed over that particular talk than me, he discovered I never let go of my inquisitive nature.
“Again with the Saunders. Dibby…why’re you so interested in them? Why now?” Lines scrimmaged across his forehead. “You’ve lived here fifteen—”
“Almost sixteen.”
“…fifteen years and never showed a wink of interest. Now, suddenly, they’re …the Beatles or something.”
“I wouldn’t quite—”
“Just put the Saunders out of your mind. Leave them be.”
“Why? What’s—”
“I have my reasons. Just listen to me.” He achieved that intimidating lower tone, rarely used and one not to take light-heartedly. He retreated behind his newspaper.
“Fine.” I left my cereal unfinished and emptied the remains into the sink. At the door, I figured I’d give him one more shove. Make a fast getaway if I needed to.
“Dad, did you know Mrs. Saunders had a son? An eight year old?”
Time may as well’ve stopped. The newspaper, usually so crinkly in his hands, drew taut. From behind the paper, he said, “Have a good day at school.”
As I walked to my bike (no running, not in my fancy duds), an unsettling notion dropped on me. Maybe James was right about parents and their penchant for lying to their children.
* * *
The farther I rode, the more uncomfortably my girly attire fit. The pants chafed my legs, wanted to ride up into tender parts. Worse, my clothing choice gnawed at me, a less than reassuring start to my day. Sometimes a small itch could grow into a festering pimple.
Lost in worry, I nearly had a head-on collision on Oak Grove Road with ol’ Boot Gunderson, Hangwell’s telephone operator.
Boot seemed an odd name for a man who had two legs, but only one arm. A victim of the Big War (although I’m still unclear as to which big war Boot fell victim to; he purt near seemed old enough for either), he’d left his arm overseas, but not his uniform. Every day about this time, Boot hightailed it to work on foot, marching down the road to imaginary military anthems, dressed to the nines in his army uniform. He’d been the telephone operator in Hangwell since the phone had been invented, I reckoned, alternating with Gretchen Singer, a notorious busybody.
But if you ever needed to know someone’s business, know where they were at a certain time of day or night, you rang up Boot and he’d set you straight. Thanks to the party lines prevalent throughout Hangwell (again, another antiquated item that could use modernizing), Boot could tell you in a blink where so-and-so was. One of Hangwell’s most colorful, yet creepy, citizens, I generally tried to steer clear of him. I ‘spose Boot was harmless enough, but he gave me the willies, and not the good Starlight Cinema kind either.
Just a foot or so away from Boot, I dragged my heals to a hesitant halt. He reached over and snagged my handlebars.
“Well, now, Dibby Caldwell, if I don’t live and breathe!” One eye squinted like Popeye, the other sized me up. His sea salty chortle just added to the cartoon caricature. “If you’re not a living doll this morning. What’s the occasion? Hah?” He lifted a hand to his cauliflower ear, cupped it. “Huh?” Everyone knew you had to raise your voice to the heavens when speaking to Boot, which made him an odd choice for phone operator.
“Morning, Mr. Gunderson. Just on my way to school.”
“Looking like that? You gonna kiss the boys and make ‘em cry?” Another bray.
I reckoned if Dad hadn’t instilled a good dose of manners in me, I might’ve planted my foot right on top of his. But, frankly, I didn’t want to touch him, not even through my shoe.
My skin crawled like a kazillion ants. I wanted nothing more than to get away from him.
I tried a smile, found a grimace winning out. “No sir. I wouldn’t do that. Just…going to school. Picture day.”
He stepped back, surveyed me again top to bottom. “Yessir. Purty as a picture you are.” His lecherous smile dropped. Tar-discolored fingertips massaged his whiskers. Then he leaned in close to lock one open eye on mine. “Listen to me, girly. You be careful out there. Ya’ hear me? I reckon Hangwell’s not nearly as safe as some folks make it out to be. I know things. I hear things. Purty thing like yourself ‘specially oughta’ be careful.”
“Yes sir.” My voice quivered, my usual angry or frightened response. I managed to wrest control of my handlebars, then quickly got my bike up to speed. “Gotta’ get to school,” I called back.
“You hear me, Dibby Caldwell? Just mark my words! You be careful!”
I pushed my pedals harder, leaving Boot far behind. Hearing about the hidden dangers of Hangwell from the man I believed responsible for a good deal of them seemed about as fruitful as spitting in the wind. Then again, never judge a book by its cover, Dad always said. But sometimes it’s hard to ignore a moldy, sodden, rotten cover.
My first day as the new Dibby Caldwell hardly kicked off in the rip-roaring sensation I’d imagined. I suppose a silly part of me, the goofy little head in the stars schoolgirl, expected there to be a coming-out party of sorts, a belle of the ball scenario, nothing but flying doves and long belled trumpets and a stuffy ol’ British guard announcing my glorious arrival. All of the incredibly silly little girl stuff I thought I’d put away a long time ago along with my teddy-bear, nightlight, and Mom’s departure.
More than ever, I considered wheeling back around, zipping home, and changing into my overalls or jeans. Something that felt natural, that wouldn’t draw attention.
What was I thinking?
But it’d mean passing by creepy Boot Gunderson again, something I’d rather not do more than once a day.
At the last minute, I decided to bypass Main Street and instead hightailed it down Hollow Crick Road, the less traveled street one block over.
Unlike Main Street, the shop proprietors of Hollow Crick opened up a bit later, something I had counted on. Of course, the corner gas station seemed to never close, Darryl Mooney was out in his flawless uniform pumping gas and talking up a mean streak from the back end of a customer’s Buick. He hollered something unheard to me. I poured on the speed and buzzed right past him with a wave.
Round the corner I flew, cut back to Main, and came up on the grade school.
Part of the architecture, Odie Smith sat in his preferred swing, nibbling away at his muffins. He risked loosening a hand from the swing’s chain to pitch up a fast how-do-you-do.
I stopped, dropped my feet. Waved. And honestly considered riding up the hill to have a chat with Odie. Next to Boot Gunderson, Odie Smith was considered the second best fount of information on town legend, past and present.
Except for one other townsperson, of course, and the less said about her the better.
But unlike Boot and the woman who shouldn’t be named, Odie was a friendly sort, a non-scary fella, the kind of guy you’d see sitting in church every Sunday and helping ol’ Mrs. Pederson (before she died, natch, and I harbored no doubt Odie was already planning to be a pallbearer at her funeral; he was at practically everyone else’s) cross the street.
“Morning, Odie,” I called out, remembering to call him by his first name, “you got a minute to—”
“You look fetching this morning, Dibby! Got a new boyfriend?”
With that tossed out on the wind for all of Hangwell to hear, I redirected course and went to school. Wished I woulda’ cut for the day and gone fishing instead.
* * *
Late as usual, I wheeled right up to the rack and jumped off. At the first bell, I raced up the steps. Outside of my classroom, I straightened my slacks before entering.
First thing I saw pretty much set me crashing into an iceberg. Suzette hovered over James at his desk, unashamedly flirting with him. Fluttering those goofy—clearly fake—eyelashes like bat
wings and playing with the silly baby doll bow holding up her ghastly pink potato sack jumper. She knew how to utilize her long blonde hair and whipped it around, making sure it grazed James’ face.
Then all heads turned toward me.
Upon seeing me, Suzette opened up her big mouth. She released a whoop akin to a pig realizing it’s bacon day. Her lacquered claws came up, pointing at me.
“What happened to you, Dibby?” she screeched. “Did someone hit you with the pretty stick?”
A bout of laughter infected the room. Suzette’s foul cronies formed a supportive circle around their leader. I burned hot, boiling in a stew of embarrassment, humiliation, hurt, and anger. Anger not only at Suzette and her stupid followers, but at myself for ignorantly believing I could dress-up without being put on parade. Mostly, though, I hated myself for trying to change into one of them.
The laughter continued, a record stuck in a groove.
My fingers curled into my palms. The power of my fists took up a mind of their own, ready to share some anger. Flabbergasted and useless, Mrs. Hopkins stood before the chalkboard, pointing stick in hand.
More insults were hurled. But they flew past me, my mind and ears pretty much blockaded.
All that mattered was James. His brow furrowed as he stared at me. While he hadn’t joined the hyena-like caterwauling, his response seemed far worse. As if disappointed, he shook his head, held a suppliant hand out toward me in a what in the tarnation did you do to yourself? gesture.
Rather than pounding some humanity into Suzette, I backed up onto the high road, and skedaddled out of there. If they wanted to suspend me for cutting class, I’d smile, curtsey, and help them fill out the paperwork.
Peculiar Country Page 5
