The other patrons broke their stares and returned to their plates, chewing and slurping and talking in hushed tones.
Trudy smiled. “Now that weren’t so hard, right?” she said. She slid a menu across the counter and patted it twice. “Take a gander; see what looks good.”
Mallory sighed. “Honestly, I’m not hungry,” she said, even though she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and now that Trudy mentioned it again, the smell of waffles and syrup was definitely stirring something in her stomach. She thought about the sheriff’s deputy standing in front of the collapsed bridge, speaking into his radio and watching her drive away. “What I really need is to get my car fixed…I have to get going.”
Trudy shook her head. “There is an auto shop, but it’s closed now. Don’t open ‘til 9 tomorrow. Might as well make yourself at home.” She patted the menu again. “Take a look. I’ll be right back.” She shuffled off down the counter to refill the coffee cup in front of the man at the other end, who had resumed his chewing, even though the fly still clung to his bottom lip.
Mallory sighed and sat down on the stool. She let the backpack slide off her shoulders and tucked it between her feet. She slid the menu over; it showed a blue owl wearing dark sunglasses perched on a tree branch with the name of the diner carved into the wood. She flipped the menu open. The pages inside were blank, except for one line in the center of the right-hand page. It read, Nite-Owl Waffles with Field Mouse Syrup. There was no price, no further description, and not a single other item on the page. Mallory frowned. “Excuse me,” she said, holding up the menu. “Is this everything?”
Trudy squinted at the page from the far end of the counter. “Bless me!” she called, laughing. “Sorry ‘bout that, sweetie.” She swayed back over to the stack of menus and plucked a new one from the middle. “I gave you the breakfast menu.” She slapped the new menu down next to the other. This new cover was nearly identical to the first, except the owl was no longer wearing sunglasses; instead, his eyes were wide open and bloodshot, and there was a mouse tail wriggling out from the side of his beak. “This here’s dinner.”
“Appetizing,” Mallory muttered. She flipped the menu open. The inside was perfectly identical to the inside of the breakfast menu, with the same item listed: Nite-Owl Waffles with Field Mouse Syrup. She looked quizzically up at Trudy. “Is this a joke?”
“Come again?”
“Where’s the rest?”
“The rest of what?” Trudy asked.
“The menu…where’s the rest of the menu? You know—bacon, hash browns? Steak? Club sandwiches with stupid little toothpicks?”
Trudy put her fists on her hips. “You don’t like waffles?” The other patrons put down their forks and turned to stare once more.
“No—I do,” Mallory said. Then she said it again, louder, so everyone else in the diner could hear. “Really, I do!” They turned slowly back to their plates and resumed eating their waffles. “It’s just that…is it all you serve?”
Trudy shrugged. “We tried adding eggs and grits back in ’93. It ended badly.”
“How can eggs end badly?” Mallory asked.
Trudy sighed. “Ask the seventeen folks who died that day.”
Mallory squinted suspiciously across the counter. “Seventeen people died because you served eggs?”
“We don’t talk about it with strangers, Trudy,” snapped the man at the other end of the counter. He glared at Mallory until she was sure his pupils would burst into flame.
Trudy leaned in close. “One of ‘em was Rolly’s brother. He gets real touchy about it. Matter of fact, he’s the one led the charge to kill every chicken in the township the very next day.”
“What?”
Trudy nodded. “Every single one. Killed ‘em for what their offspring did to our friends and family. To this day, you won’t find a single chicken in Anomaly Flats. If you do, it’s an illegal, and you can bet on the body count going up, up, up until someone finds it and breaks its neck.”
“Wait, how…” Mallory began.
Trudy pushed on. “Mob tried to burn down the diner, too, like I knew what the eggs’d get up to! Hell, I ain’t even sure it weren’t the grits that done those people in. But it was a bloodbath, you know, and people, when things go sour, they want revenge. The mayor stepped in, though, thank the Lord, said wouldn’t no one be burning down the Nite-Owl Diner, home of the best waffles in the quad-counties.” Trudy clasped her hands in front of her throat and beamed up at the general direction of the Lord. “The mayor loves my waffles something fierce.”
An uncomfortable blanket of itchy-wool silence settled on the diner. The patrons stared at Mallory, and Trudy stared at the air, and Mallory stared down at her menu. “So it’s just the waffles, then.”
“No one complains much.”
“’Cept you,” Rolly chipped in sourly.
Mallory shook her head at the two different menus. “Seems like you could’ve saved on printing,” she pointed out.
Trudy cleared her throat and crossed her arms. “Do you want the waffles or don’t you?”
Mallory sighed. In spite of her protest—and undeniable weirdness of this place aside—she was hungry, and, as a general rule, she did like waffles. She wasn’t a monster.
“All right,” she conceded. “Hit me.”
Trudy knocked on the wall above a square opening that led to the kitchen. “Blue plate!” she hollered to whoever was manning the griddle in the back. She glanced over her shoulder and considered Mallory for a few moments before adding, “Hold the extras.”
“What extras?” Mallory asked. But either Trudy didn’t hear her, or she just ignored the question, and she swished out from behind the counter instead to check on the customers at the tables.
Mallory propped her elbows on the counter and laid her head in her hands, scrubbing her fingers through her increasingly wild hair. “What a nightmare,” she muttered. She sat up, swiveled around, and peered out the window at her car, hoping maybe it had fired back up on its own and might be waiting patiently for her to finish eating her coffee and drive it away into the night—out of Missouri, up through the plains, and into Saskatchewan, to Lenore’s place, where everything would be okay.
Instead, it just sat there, dark and cold and resolutely broken-down.
“Order up!” Trudy sang out, grabbing a plate from the kitchen window and skimming it down the counter.
Mallory swiveled back and pushed the menus aside as her waffles arrived. There were two of them; crispy, golden-brown, and distinctly of the Belgian variety. A pad of butter slipped over the waffles’ little square pockets as it melted. The steam wafted up and teased its way into her nose. It smelled of childhood Sundays.
“They do look good,” Mallory admitted, picking up her fork and knife.
Trudy grabbed a half-full syrup dispenser and took the liberty of covering the waffles in field mouse syrup. “Like I said: best waffles in the quad-counties,” she repeated proudly. “Enjoy.”
And Mallory did enjoy them. She hadn’t had waffles in ages—probably twenty years, at least—but the sweet, sticky, buttery flavor brought her right back to spring mornings at her grandmother’s farmhouse. She could practically hear the cows and smell the cornbread.
These waffles are magical, she thought.
But they weren’t magical enough. They could help her remember, but they couldn’t make her forget. Had the deputy back at the bridge recognized her? Had her car been flagged? She’d been careful, but even so…
“Trudy,” she said, swallowing down a mouthful of waffle, “that repair shop…you said it’s closed until morning?”
“That’s right, hon. But no matter the trouble, I’m sure ol’ Rufus can fix it in a jiff. Boy’s got more heart than brains these days, but I swear, whatever he’s got in his head, it’s shaped like an engine bl
ock.”
“What about a dealership? Maybe a used car lot?”
“Gracious! In Anomaly Flats?” she laughed. “I think you’ve got us confused with Kansas City.”
Mallory frowned. “Do you know anyone who’s selling a car? Or anyone who would sell their car?”
Trudy raised an eyebrow. “Lord, girl. You’re anxious to get wheels underfoot, ain’t you?”
“I’m…” Mallory paused. “I’m in a hurry,” she said finally.
Trudy made a strange noise in the back of her throat. “No matter.” She shook her head. “People in this town ain’t really much for automobiles.”
“What do you mean?” Mallory asked, sliding a piece of waffle around a pool of syrup.
“We don’t got much call for ’em. Most people just walk to work, or take the bus, when it decides to run. Probably ain’t more than, oh, say, a few dozen or so vehicles total in the Flats. And most of ‘em spend more time in Rufus’ shop than a cat spends in the sun. We just don’t hold for cars ‘round here.”
“This is insane,” Mallory said, more to herself than to her waitress. “What sort of town is this?”
Trudy wiped her hands on the front of her apron. “I know it’s none of my business, honey, but you know, Anomaly Flats is a...well, it’s a special place. Unique. I don’t know why you’re in such a twist, but I wouldn’t be so quick to leave it behind if I was you. Give it a day or two.” She gave Mallory a smile and a cold little wink. “Our little town might just grow on you.”
Mallory swallowed down the last bite of her waffle and pushed the plate across the counter. “Sounds like I might not have much of a choice,” she said.
Trudy shrugged. “We’ll just keep you however we can.” She smiled again and cleared the plate and silverware back to the kitchen window. “Seeing how you’ll be here for at least the night, you’ll want to head on over to the motel. Finest one in Anomaly Flats…the only one in Anomaly Flats, too. Just down the block, and right on Aberration Lane. You’ll see the sign.” She leaned on the counter and whispered conspiratorially, “Tell old Maude I sent you.”
“Thanks,” Mallory muttered. She picked up her backpack and unzipped it, digging for her wallet, but Trudy held up her hand.
“No charge,” she said. “First one’s on the house.”
Mallory looked up, her eyes skeptical. “I probably won’t be back.”
Trudy just smiled. “Oh, trust me, darlin’…you’ll come back,” she said. “And you’ll keep coming back, too.”
Chapter 3
Mallory turned down Aberration Lane and stopped dead in her tracks. “You have got to be kidding me.”
The hotel wasn’t a hotel at all, but a stately Queen Anne-style mansion that perched on a little hillock, looming over the dark street below. It stood three stories tall, and while most of the house was constructed of rough, pebbly blocks of quartz, two towers rose through the stone, edged with smoothly-carved, utterly dark wood. They seemed to have been built from the strongest, darkest trees dragged from the Black Forest and dropped in the middle of Missouri. Antique gaslights were visible through a collection of small windows, set into the house in an odd arrangement, as if the architect had worked on the manor one piece at a time and had never examined the entire picture until he was finished. Floodlights staked into the ground shot streams of harsh light up at the house; its ledges and eaves threw tall, ominous shadows that went leeching up the walls and looming across the roof.
A tall sign rose from the grass just beyond the manor’s green wrought iron gate, similarly lit by a too-bright flood lamp. It bore the name of the house in polished iron letters tacked onto a darker metal background.
The finest motel—the only motel—in Anomaly Flats was named Roach Motel.
Mallory briefly considered going back to her car and holing up in the backseat for the night. The Impala was comfortable, the locks worked, and there was nothing roachish about it. “But I’m not a hobo,” she said through gritted teeth. And that settled it.
She shuffled up the path, which curved from the sidewalk to the front door and was lined on either side by unevenly spaced weeds with long leaves and small bunches of tiny white flowers. The weeds were wild and tangled, but there was a strange sort of ordered chaos about them…they seemed to have been planted there purposefully. A rich and generous bedding of fresh mulch insulated each plant, and the bed had been recently watered. Given Mallory’s attitude regarding nature and her insistence on avoiding it as often as possible, she wasn’t terribly keen on the various species of plant, and she didn’t know this particular weed from a dandelion. Fortunately, a small identifying plaque jutted out from among the thin stalks near the front of the walk, just barely legible in the darkness. It read, “Conium Maculatum (Poison Hemlock). Ingest At Own Peril.” Mallory snorted. “Well, worst case scenario, I can off myself and be done with it,” she grumbled. And she decided that particular fate truly would be preferable to spending one night covered in skittering, rattling roaches. The thought sent a shiver through her whole body. She considered snapping off a bunch of the little white flowers, just in case the Roach Motel really did live up to its name. “No. Be strong, Mallory,” she whispered, patting the Jansport backpack. “You can live with anything for one night.”
Somewhere deep inside, a small part of her wondered if that were actually true.
A tiny bell jingled above the door as she entered the house. The entryway was spotless; the windows sparkled with reflections of a brass gaslight chandelier that hung gracefully from the high ceiling; a low bench to the left was upholstered in deep red velvet that had been recently brushed; the maple wood floor had been polished to a high glow. A withered old woman stood primly behind a stately oak counter on the opposite side of the foyer. Her bones were wrapped in wrinkled, papery skin, and her long, silver hair was pulled back into an oppressively tight bun. She wore a deep red crepe dress with a high collar buttoned to the throat. The flickering light of the chandelier threw dark, hollow shadows into her gaunt cheeks and cast a sinister glow in her eyes, dull brown in color, but sharp as steel. She clasped her hands in front of her waist, her long, thin fingers intertwining like gnarled tree roots. “Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was wind blowing through a tunnel.
“Do you—” Mallory began.
The old woman cut her off sharply. “Close the door.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Mallory shut the door and turned to begin again. “Do—”
“Lock it.”
Mallory hesitated. “Lock—lock it?” The old woman said nothing. “It wasn’t locked when I…” Her voice trailed off. The look in the woman’s eyes left no room for argument. “Okay,” she said, throwing the bolt. It slid easily into place with a click. “Are you closed now, or…?”
“The Roach Motel is never closed,” the old woman intoned. “There are things in the yard tonight that are best kept at bay. Did you not hear them coming up the walk?”
Mallory smoothed down her hair and brushed off her t-shirt, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Uh…no. No, I didn’t.” She clutched her backpack tighter.
“They must have been watching you very intently,” the old woman said, narrowing her eyes. “I wonder why that would be.”
“I…I don’t know.” Mallory crossed the foyer uneasily and approached the desk. “Do you have a room available? For the night?”
“All of the rooms are available, and have been for some time,” the old woman said. “We don’t entertain many guests.” She spoke almost suspiciously, as if the thought of Mallory’s money were somehow off-putting.
“I can’t imagine why…everyone’s been so hospitable,” Mallory said, rolling her eyes. Easy, easy, she reprimanded herself. This woman is going to have keys to the room where you sleep tonight.
“Most people pass this town by,” the old woman continued. If she caugh
t Mallory’s sarcasm, she didn’t let on. “But not you.”
Mallory shrugged. “Nope. Not me.” Then she added, “Just lucky, I guess.”
The old woman raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”
Mallory blinked. “Listen, I’m sorry, it’s been a really long day. Do you think I could get my room key and head up? Or down—or wherever you keep the guests?”
The old woman sniffed at this but turned to the wall behind her just the same. It was dotted with a dozen wooden pegs. Each held a ring full of keys. “How many nights?” she asked, running her hands along the keys as if feeling for the perfect set.
“Just one.”
“Hmm…” The woman’s hand stopped at a particularly dusty ring on the bottom row. “This one, I think.” She grabbed the keys off the peg and laid them before her guest. “Thirty dollars a night. If you stay more than three nights, you have to pay a week’s deposit up front. Otherwise, you pay when you check out.”
“That’ll be tomorrow.”
“We’ll see.” The old woman picked up an old ledger, an old-fashioned ink pen, and a full inkwell from somewhere below the counter. A cloud of dust puffed into the air as she opened the ledger. She waved it away and turned to the next blank page. Then she picked up the pen and dipped the nib into the ink. “Name?”
“Mallory Jenkins,” she said automatically. Then she winced. Fake name, idiot, she chided herself. Use a fake name, for crying out loud.
“I’m Mrs. Roach,” the old woman said, writing Mallory’s name down in the book.
“Oh! Ha. Roach Motel,” Mallory said, suddenly smiling. “That makes me feel better.”
“It shouldn’t. The cockroaches are nicer than I am,” the old woman muttered, slamming the book shut. “Or so I’m told.” She eyed Mallory’s backpack warily. “Luggage?” she asked.
Anomaly Flats Page 2
