Peculiar Country

by Stuart R. West

  The beastly, always unsettling, roar rose. But tonight, it sounded different as well. Almost like it’d been slowed down a spell, the voice deepened, words nearly formed through guttural and long-drawn growls.

  Trapped in the middle, I could either go right, pursue Thomas, or wait and see who came crashing out from the left.

  Stalk tips vanished, toppled, marking the beast’s speedy approach. One after the other they fell, crack, crack, crick… Moving closer.

  Closer.

  Scared, I froze in a bout of panic. I’d learned ghosts could physically harm me. I didn’t know if they could kill me, but it aimed to follow.

  Yet, I had to see. I had to see what happened to Thomas. I had to see his pursuer, his killer. I had to help the boy any fashion I could.

  Crack…crick…tack…

  The destruction of the field drew closer. Beneath me, the earth shook. Tremors traveled through the earth’s core, wormed up into my feet, zipped up my legs, and attacked my full bladder.

  Ready to jackrabbit away, my legs refused, kept me planted. I swung the flashlight up. Ready to use it as a weapon for all the good it’d do me. The final stalk toppled. It fell toward me and I elbowed it out of my line of sight.

  Then…. Nothing. A preternatural quiet as if I’d been snatched out of the real world and deposited into an eerie afterlife. Silence reigned.

  I flicked the flashlight on, sprayed the beam from left to right. At first, the light swept right on over a tiny, huddled figure. Startled, I brought the beam back around and lowered it. Another boy, this one’s hair as blond as the fallen corn he crouched on. Just as pale as Thomas, maybe even a tad younger, and just as frightened. His bony hands reached toward me.

  Behind the boy, a dark figure swiftly approached. The blond boy melted into living shadow. Then drew within the earth, sucked right up as if ol’ Scratch had grabbed his ankles and pulled him into Hell.

  The new figure stepped into the arc of light.

  “Boo!” he said.

  I yelped, dropped the flashlight. It lit up James’ black and white sneakers.

  “Dang it to hell, James! You dang near set my hair to grey!” I felt like hefting up that flashlight and clubbing him with it. But my first priority lay in settling my hammering heart. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Hey, don’t flip your wig.” He grabbed my shoulders. I wriggled out of his touch, plainly not in the mood. “’Member? We had a date tonight to go see the witch’s pad.”

  “Guess I fell asleep. But why are you in the corn field?” I took to shuddering, not in a cold sense either. I rubbed my arms up and down.

  “I tossed some pebbles up into your bedroom. Figured that’s why you left the window open. Then I heard something in the cornfield. Like quiet thunder, sorta. Thought I’d take a look, see some ghosts.”

  “Well, not only did you scare the tar outta me, you spooked the ghosts away, too.”

  “What? That’s bananas! I chased the ghosts away? I missed ‘em?”

  “I kinda think they don’t want you to see them. When you came lumbering into the field like an elephant, they vanished. Done packed up and went home.”

  “Dammit.”

  “I’ll trade you any ol’ day. Now, hush before you wake my dad.”

  * * *

  Thin blue clouds cut away at the sliver of moon, sailing fast as if something big and unspeakable had blown them from its monstrous maw. On our midnight bike ride, I took to shivering like I’d come down with the pneumonia. But germs weren’t the culprit behind my chills.

  A couple times James offered up his jean jacket. Tempting as it was, I declined, not wanting to be beholden to him for anything. Even though the offer gave me kinda a nice, warm feeling, the chills stuck, riding piggyback through the moonstruck roads.

  Just to hear a voice in the dead of night, I told James about my visit with Evelyn Saunders, my talk with Dad, and the mystery of the second ghost boy in the field.

  “Huh. Who do you think the kid was?” His tortured lungs huffed, panting like an overheated dog.

  “Beats the dickens outta me. But I aim to find out.”

  And that was pretty much the extent of James’ interest in all things mysterious and ghostly. He had other things on his mind, things of a personal nature.

  “So…” he gasped, slowing down on his bike, “…is your old man ready to kill me? For the smoking and all?”

  “I dunno. He’s hard to figure at times. Might go either way.”

  “Man…” James slouched over his handlebars, almost laid out on them. His knees jacked high to keep up with me. “So, has he said anything about the movie?”

  I sighed. “Haven’t found the right opportunity to ask him yet.”

  “Oh.”

  “I will, though. Just gotta find him in the right mood.”

  We left my road behind, wheeled onto Oak Grove Road. Across the smooth pavement, we made good time.

  Along the road, limbs waved at us as we sped by. Tree trunks creaked with stiff rheumatism. Leaves shook. Branches stretched. Whispers rode the wind, passed from tree to tree, limb to limb, secrets buried with fallen leaves.

  An owl hooted, twice, three times, had its fill, then stopped. Some kinda varmint squealed, a rhythmic ai-ai-ai-aiii, that could’ve been a war cry from a different time. Deep in the woods, a coyote gave voice to his hunger. Maybe he found it, too. A horrible cry went up, then cut off abruptly. Birds, bats, other critters I didn’t like to ponder too much, took flight, blotting out the meager moonlight.

  “Hey! Hey, where ya’ going?” The voice cracked like a thin sheaf of ice at the end of winter.

  James gasped, whirled his bike around. He over-compensated and buckled onto the road.

  “I said, where the hell you going this time of night?”

  I couldn’t see him, but I sure as shooting recognized the sour voice of Boot Gundersen.

  Beside James, I pulled to a stop. He looked up at me, dazed, yet with a silly I’m-too-hip-to-hurt grin.

  “A little late for you to be out, ain’t it, girly?” Beneath an oak tree, a red ember lit up, a wink from the Devil himself. Boot stepped out of the darkness, bringing a fair share of dark with him. On stiff legs, he climbed down and up the roadside ditch. As he approached, his military boots clacked across the pavement. He tossed his cigarette to the road, snuffed it out with his foot.

  Caught red-handed, I improvised, something I’d grown good at lately. “Oh, hey there, Mr. Gundersen. You gave me a start. This here’s my friend, James. He, ah, needed some emergency studying tonight for a big test at school.”

  As Boot stepped closer, shadows carved away from him. Wrinkles mummified his features. “James, huh? The Mackleby kid?”

  James stood, pulled his bike up to lean against. “Yes, sir. I was just, um…seeing Dibby home.”

  Boot scratched a sandpaper cheek. “That doesn’t fit one bit. Nosiree! You was heading the wrong direction. Way I figure it is you think you can put one over on ol’ Boot, that’s what I figure. Boot Gundersen, he knows everything!” He jabbed a pinkie into his ear, gave it a squeaky twist. “I know for a fact you’re ‘sposed to be in bed at the Lewis and Clark. And you, missy!” He turned a shaking finger on me. “You’re grounded for a good spell, if not longer.”

  The response I formed in my head tended to lean anywhere but ladylike. But I couldn’t afford to have Boot rat me out to Dad. I didn’t care to be grounded until menopause.

  “You caught me red-handed, Mr. Gundersen.” I tried on a smile, but it didn’t fit very well. My lips quivered, wouldn’t hold. Boot Gundersen never failed to give me the heebie-jeebies. “I’m just…doing a favor for a friend. Someone who needs my help.”

  His finger jabbed out in an accusing manner. “You ain’t fooling me, lil’ lady! I know exactly what you’re up to. Matter of fact, you got the whole town up in arms about your inquirings and carrying-ons. Me? I think it’s about goddamn time someone tried to find out the truth about the Saunders boy. But I’m
telling you, missy, for your own good, you just let it be. Let someone else go digging up graves. Ain’t for you, not a sweet young thang like yourself.”

  Every time I think I’ve built up a tolerance for Boot Gundersen, he does something to turn that goodwill around. Still, it wouldn’t do any good to rile him up now. Not when he appeared to be the only other person in town after the truth.

  “Mr. Gundersen…do you know something about Thomas Saunders?”

  “Yessir, ol’ Boot knows lots and lots. If it’s said over the phone, I store it away up here.” He tapped a grey temple. “Mind like a steel trap. Snap!” Boot brought up a knee and thwacked his one hand down on it. “Now, I reckon all I hear is rumor, nothing but. But I’m informed enough to make my own conjectures. Ol’ Boot’s got his ideas.” Open-mouthed, he leered. Strands of saliva stretched between his lips.

  “What might those ideas be, Mr. Gundersen?”

  “You wanna’ know, lil’ lady? Be glad to tell ya’. But you gotta do me a favor first.”

  Although afraid to ask, I figured things couldn’t get much worse. Then again, my mind hadn’t been working at peak lately. “What kinda’ favor?”

  “Dibby,” said James, “I don’t think—”

  “You hush, boy!” Boot’s command—no doubt learned during whichever war he served—ordered James into silence. “You let the lil’ lady make up her own mind about things. Missy, you wanna’ know about Thomas Saunders, you come visit ol’ Boot up at my place. Then I’ll tell ya’ what you wanna’ know.” Just like his hound dog, Queeg—curiously bearing only three limbs as well—his tongue lolled out of his mouth.

  “Well now, Mr. Gundersen, I do rightly appreciate your offer, I surely do. But I reckon you of all people know that I can’t get there, not while I’m grounded.”

  He scratched his beard, gave it some consideration. “There is that, I ‘spose. But you seem like a resourceful gal, missy. You’re out now, ain’t ya?”

  “Come on, Dibby, let’s go,” whispered James.

  “I’ll think about it, Mr. Gundersen.” Course I won’t! “Only if you promise not to tell my dad you saw us out tonight.”

  Boot drew a big ol’ “X” across his torso. “Cross my heart, hope to die,” he said. Hope flooded his rheumy-looking eyes. His smile showed teeth sacrificed at the altar of tobacco, fried foods and liquor. He swayed his one hand, graceful as a professional golfer, ushering us on our way. “God speed then, lil’ lady. Just be careful who you trust. Folks ain’t right in Peculiar County.”

  Isn’t that the truth?

  James walked his bike up next to mine, again whispered, “Dibby, let’s beat feet. Now.”

  With a wave and a hidey-ho, we cycled our legs as fast as possible away from the strange, possibly dangerous Boot Gundersen.

  As soon as we were far enough away, James asked, “Man, what’s with that scurvy square?”

  “That’s ol’ Boot Gundersen. He’s one of our two phone operators. He’s kinda’ creepy, but Dad says he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Your old man hasn’t seen Psycho, then. Old fart’s a pervert! If I hadn’t been here, who knows what he would’ve tried to do? You can’t go to his shack, Dibby. Tell me you won’t.”

  “Why, James Mackleby,” I batted my eyes, the way I’d seen Suzette do it a zillion times, “I didn’t think you cared.” I tossed in the whole McCoy, awful southern belle accent and all. And felt dumb as a bag of rocks for my efforts. I reverted to normal. “Ol’ Boot can’t do much damage, no how, not with just one arm.”

  “If you go, I’m going with you.”

  “I can look after myself. But if I need help, I can’t think of anybody I’d rather have along.”

  Lately, I didn’t know what’d come over me, but I felt changed, a different person at times. I stopped my bike, waited for James to catch up. Considered rekindling our romance, right then, right there. Kisses are a lot like chocolates: you can’t just settle for one.

  Finally, James rode up next to me. Beneath the moon’s glow, he searched my eyes. Glanced down at my lips. Shorthand if I ever saw it. Over our bikes, we awkwardly leaned toward one another.

  Then something swept over us, something large. It zipped away fast. A mighty back draft pulled me into James. Together, we tumbled down to the pavement, a mess of bikes and limbs.

  Darkness dropped over us. I looked up into an unexpected lunar eclipse. A hovering presence, something massive, something not quite human, blotted out the moon. It gobbled oxygen, the sky, the world as I knew it, and I was beginning to think I didn’t know it very well at all.

  Like a land-locked fish, I gulped at the air. The sky creaked. Ancient bones folded with leathery snaps. The shadow lifted. It flitted away, the moon briefly silhouetting expansive and huge wings. Then, as if yanked away on ropes, the creature vanished.

  The air cleared. So did my lungs. My mind didn’t. James’ definitely didn’t as he still stared slack-jawed at the sky.

  “Welcome to Peculiar County,” I managed. “Now get offa’ me.”

  Chapter Eight

  We’d already lost enough time, so I figured I’d get right down to business. “Before you ask me what that was, James, I couldn’t tell you. I’ve never seen it, nor could I even venture a guess.”

  “But…but it—”

  “In Peculiar County, sometimes it’s just best not to think too much about things. Many folks—‘specially adults—find it’s a right nice plan for a happily-ever-after life here.”

  “That’s what everyone does? Just not think about all the creepy stuff? I mean, sure, there’s the ghost dog—and I’m still not convinced that’s on the up and up—and then there’re your ghosts, but, you know, they’re—”

  “Wait a minute! You don’t believe in my spooks? You think I’m fibbing?”

  “No, no, nothing like that! It’s just… I can, you know, sorta understand ghosts. But I can’t even imagine what just happened to us. Or why. How do you guys put up with it? I mean, live here and everything?”

  I shrugged. “You adapt, I reckon. A lotta’ adults are beyond being able to do such a thing, set in their ways as they are. So they choose to ignore what’s plain as the nose on their face. The kids, though, they’re a might bit more open to such things. I used to kinda fall somewhere in the middle. Dad taught me to believe in science, the facts of things. Concrete reasons behind anything that doesn’t quite fit. Thing is, he picked a really weird town to live those lessons. Or I guess he didn’t really pick Hangwell. His great-great-grandpa did. Still, I’d be a darn fool if I didn’t buy into some of the weird, otherworldly happenings in Peculiar County.”

  “Man, I’ll say.”

  “Now…you ready to go home, pull the blankets up over your head and hide? Or are you ready to go look in on a witch?”

  “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto. Let’s go see the Wicked Witch of the West!”

  I groaned. Years of outsiders’ stupid Kansas jokes never grew easier to tolerate.

  While no one considered Hangwell a big town, the bike ride ahead of us was formidable, nonetheless. Hettie Williquette lived on the outskirts, her spooky abode hidden in the sticks. As the night—morning, now—drew on, our pace lagged, especially James’.

  We peddled through downtown, quite a different sight in the wee hours. Every light had been doused, the Lewis and Clark Hotel tucked into a comfy darkness I envied. I figured at least the lampposts would still be blazing and I figured wrong. Another penny pinching, purse- tightening ploy by Mayor Hopkins, that no-good, so and so, as Dad liked to pontificate.

  Shadows crawled out of shadows, making me reconsider how many different shades of black might actually exist. My imagination reached out and set up shop in alleyways, peeped out from around corners, and slithered behind drawn shades, a might bit scarier than the truth. Then again, normal rules never did apply, not in Hangwell.

  We zipped past the grade school. A ghost had taken up Odie’s swing. It wobbled about drunkenly as if Odie’d
just left it, and maybe he darn well had. No one knew the solitary mailman’s nighttime routine. In fact, now more than ever, I wondered if any of us in Hangwell truly knew our neighbors.

  We left Main Street and sped by Hollow Crick Road. Chills chased after me as I snuck a quick peek—not too long, mind you—at the Hangwell Cemetery. Full of piss and vinegar tonight, the wind dosey-doed through the Judge’s tree’s naked tree limbs, whistling quite the jaunty melody. Clearly just a trick of my overheated imagination, I swore I glimpsed a silhouette of a man performing his own swing dance at the end of a rope. He spun, bounced, ended with a little bow before dropping slack.

  I set my gaze ahead and didn’t look back.

  We buzzed through the southern farmlands out yonder, destined for the desolate woods that might even give the stout Hansel and Gretel reason for pause.

  Now out in the boonies, I slowed, gathered my bearings. Not many folks inhabited the area, practically forgotten by the more prosperous townsfolk. The powers that be—“the righteous Mayor Hopkins, that S.O.B.” according to Dad—didn’t deem the little dirt roads worthy of names. But I recognized the road Hettie lived on, could find it blind seeing as how it proved a worthy challenge for any kid worth her salt growing up in Hangwell. And in the wood’s darkness, we may as well have been blind.

  I flicked on the flashlight and tried to steady it inside my bike basket. It didn’t produce a straight-on beam, but provided an ample, if unsteady, source of light.

  We turned left on Dead Man’s Slip (a moniker the boys at the Tavern had deemed worthy of this orphaned road), deadly enough in the rain, drop the temperature a bit, and it well earned its name. Untamed by automobiles, the narrow dirt road proved rough riding.

  “Wow, this is…a gasser.” Big shot words, but James voice folded into an unsure child’s. Dang near shaking in his boots, he studied the alien environment. Trees hulked over us, edging in when you looked the other direction.