by Brit Jones
I oughta, Daryl thought, but made no move to stand. Outside, the wind groaned.
The general store, which Harry had owned since 1969, was three miles north of Picketts Meade on Route 29, surrounded by forest. Business was slow during the day, but once the sun went down, forget it. They hadn’t had a customer since shortly before seven. It was nine now. Two hours of sitting by the stove, the only sounds the hollow wind and the crackling of the fire. It’s Halloween, Harry said earlier, someone might wanna get some candy or something.
Daryl hadn’t been trick or treating since he was ten, but as far as he knew, all that was over and done with by eight-thirty. No reason to stay open now.
“You piss and moan about being tired all time,” Daryl said, “but look at you, staying up all night reading.”
Harry grunted. “At my age you can’t sleep worth a damn anyway. You’ll see.”
“That why you get up at four in the morning?”
“Yes it is,” Harry said.
Daryl rolled his neck. “I’m getting sore sitting here.”
“Go home.”
“And leave you alone?”
“I got Murphy.”
“That dog’s as old as you are.”
Harry looked up, his glasses reflecting the light of the fire. “If all you’re going to do is grouse, go home. I get around just fine without you.”
With that, he went back to reading. Defeated, Daryl opened his magazine and flipped to an article he hadn’t read yet. He was just getting through the first paragraph when the bell above the door dinged and cold wind filled the store.
Daryl glanced over his shoulder. A man stood just inside the door. Young. Early twenties. He looked nervously around, missed them in their nook, and seemed to anxiously plot his next move.
“Good evening,” Harry said, putting aside his book. Murphy, knowing the score, got up and dragged himself closer to the stove so Harry could get up, which he presently did.
The young man jerked, saw them, and smiled. “Thank God. I thought you were closed.”
“Nope,” Harry said, “we’re open. What can I do for you?”
The young man gestured toward the door. “Me and my friends are broke down up the road. We don’t have any cell service and I was wondering if I could use your phone.”
Harry shook his head. “Don’t have a phone.”
The young man gaped. “You don’t?”
“Harry’s too cheap for a phone,” Daryl said.
“Never used it anyway,” Harry said, spreading his hands apologetically. “You don’t have any service here?”
“Let me see.” He dug in his coat pocket, brought out a rectangular iPhone, and glanced at the screen. “No.” He shook his head. “Weird. We had it coming in.”
“This is a bad place for cell phones,” Harry said. “Everything from Stonewall to Opal. I can have Daryl here run you into town. They got phones at the police station.”
Daryl was sure he saw the blood run out of the kid’s face. “Uh...no, that’s okay. Really. Could you give me a ride back?”
Harry shrugged. “Yeah, what the hell? We’re closing up shop anyway. Where’s your car?”
“Chestnut Hill.”
Daryl’s heart sputtered, and he was sure Harry’s did likewise.
“Chestnut Hill, you said?” Harry asked, his voice suddenly uneven.
Sensing their disquiet, the kid suddenly looked worried. “It’s not private property, is it? We didn’t know. Honest.”
Harry and Daryl exchanged a glance. Set back several miles from the road, Chestnut Hill, which rose bald from the sea of twisted trees around it, wasn’t the kind of place someone owned. It wasn’t the kind of place someone would want to own. It was a bad place. An evil place. The Indians knew it. They buried their dead there long ago, and as the story went, their dead came back. When white men came along, they laughed at the Indians’ superstition. Until their child went missing, and red eyes appeared at their windows at night.
Only stories, of course, Harry and Daryl both knew that. Still...
“No, it ain’t private property,” Harry said, “but it’s not a good place for young people to hang out. Lots of stuff out there, animals and such.”
“We’ll be out of there as soon as we can.”
“Yeah. That’s best. Come on. We’ll run you up there.”
Harry started closing down. Daryl set his magazine aside and got up. In the bathroom, he pissed, washed his hands, and dried them on a washcloth hanging near the sink. In the mirror, he looked...unnerved. Not scared, just uneasy.
Every town has a haunted house or a haunted road, the kind of place kids tell each other stories about. In Picketts Meade, that place was Chestnut Hill. Standing at the sink, Daryl remembered everything he’d ever heard about the hill and the thick woods around it. Demons. Ghosts walking in the trees at night. Some people said they heard screaming in there. Sobbing. Insane laughter. One old timer when Daryl was growing up said he got lost in there as a kid, said glowing red eyes glared from snarled thickets. “I dunno what that place is all about, but something ain’t right,” he said.
It’s just stories.
Yeah. He knew that. He didn’t much like the place anyway, especially after dark.
“You ready?” Harry called.
“Yeah,” Daryl said. Shutting off the light, he went into the store proper. Harry and the kid were standing by the door, waiting for him, Murphy sitting by Harry’s feet. When he appeared, the trio went outside, Harry holding the door for him. When he, too, was out, Harry shut the door and locked it.
Harry’s Blazer was parked along the side of the building, a 1985 model with rust on the hood. Harry coaxed Murphy into the open space behind the back seat while Daryl climbed into the passenger seat and the kid slid into the back. Once Murphy was settled, Harry slammed the tailgate and came around to the divers’ side.
“Lotta people say that place is haunted,” Harry said, starting the engine. “You ain’t seen nothin up there, have you?” He sounded like he was joking, but Daryl thought he was being half serious.
The kid shook his head. “No. It’s just strange. One minute the RV’s fine, the next...we lost power.”
“Like it died?”
They were on the highway now, heading north. The turn off for Chestnut Hill was a mile up, a narrow dirt track nearly hidden by foliage.
The kid nodded. “Yeah. The lights went out and everything.”
“Maybe those ghosts didn’t like you being there.” Harry laughed.
“Maybe,” the kid said, smiling wearily.
Daryl didn’t think it was funny. Even though he didn’t really believe there were ghosts fooling around in the woods, he didn’t like the place. He remembered an article he read in a magazine on one of those nights Harry kept him over to the store ‘til ten or eleven. It said something about certain places having low frequency sound wave vibrations that caused fear and disquiet in people. One example was a guy working in a lab. Every time the air kicked on, he started getting that ooky, spooky feeling you get when you think a ghost is haunting you. Come to find out, the vent was somehow creating sound waves that rubbed him the wrong way or something. Daryl couldn’t remember exactly. It was too science-y for him. But the gist he took away was: some places just scare people. If that was true, then Chestnut Hill was one of those places. Maybe it was the lay of the land. Maybe the hills and trees reflected the wind in such a way it triggered peoples’ fear glands. Who knew? Even so, that’s not the kind of place for people. Bad environment. Best to just stay away.
By now they’d reached the turnoff. From the highway, the dirt road followed the contours of the land, barreling along a raised ridge through the forest. The trees pressed close, in some points brushing the truck. It was dark in the woods—too dark.
From the storage compartment, Murphy whined.
“What’re you guys doing back here anyway?” Harry asked.
“Camping,” the kid said.
“You in college?”
&
nbsp; “UMW.”
That was in Fredericksburg, thirty some odd miles south along the Rappahannock. Nice old town with shaded streets and colonial architecture. Daryl figured the kid and his buddies were out here drinking and doing drugs, like college kids do. Not that he cared. Even now he enjoyed the occasional joint...although it usually put him to sleep.
Ahead, the road bent to the left and disappeared around a gentle hillside. Daryl kept expecting to feel eerie sensations along his spine, but didn’t. He felt normal.
After bending, the road emerged from the forest and continued between two barren hills bathed silver in the light of the moon. In actuality, they were the same hill, at least on paper. Chestnut Hill.
“There,” the kid said.
About five hundred feet ahead, at the summit, an RV sat in the road. Harry pulled in behind it and killed the engine. “Daryl’ll take a look at your RV for you. He knows cars pretty well.”
Daryl nodded. “Yeah,” he said.
“Thanks,” the kid said, getting out. While he jogged out of the along the RV, Daryl looked at Harry. “Thanks for volunteering me.”
“We can’t just leave ‘em up here. Just...look under the hood or something.”
Shaking his head, Daryl got out. The kid was just coming out the door along the side. “They’re gone.”
Daryl stopped. “Gone?”
The kid nodded. “My friends. They’re not here.”
Daryl’s heart skipped a beat. Gone?
“Maybe they went for help,” he said.
“I dunno,” the kid said, “I don’t think...”
Something grabbed Daryl’s foot.
“What the shit?” Daryl screamed, jumping back. From the darkness beneath the RV, a blue face appeared, its eyes shining yellow. It reached for him, its fingers long and crooked.
“Give me your liver!”
“C-Cindi?” the kid asked, uncertainly.
Another face appeared from the blackness. This one was male; his face was blue as well. “Mark!” it greeted.
Daryl was frozen. One after another, three more faces emerged from the shadows, hands reaching, grasping.
Cindi was almost fully out, wiggling in the dirt like a serpent. She reached for Daryl’s foot again. Daryl jumped back. “If you’re friends are joking they better knock it off!”
The kid looked stricken. “Wh-What are you guys doing? Hey.”
Cindi went to stand. Daryl kicked her in the face. “Bro!” the kid cried.
Cindi lay motionless in the dust for a moment before resuming her efforts. “I’ll eat your toes for that.”
Daryl started for the Blazer. “I suggest you come on!” His voice was even, despite his slamming heart.
The kid stood where he was. The things were reaching for him, gnashing their teeth. Realizing something was wrong he started after Daryl.
Harry was standing by the Blazer, the door open. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“L-l-let’s just get the fuck outta here!” Daryl said, climbing into the passenger seat.
“What?”
In the back, Murphy was whining.
“What’s going on?” Harry asked, leaning in. His face was white. The kid was stopped at the front end, looking back at his friends.
“Get in the fucking car!” Daryl yelled, to both of them.
Harry, obeying, climbed in. The kid started for the door, but something stopped him. Daryl caught a glimpse of his face, and looked back.
Three shambling figures were closing in from behind, their heads crooked and their arms hanging. Harry saw them, too.
“Holy shit!”
“Get in!”
The kid, seeming to snap out of a trance, opened the door and threw himself in. “What the hell’s going on?”
Harry turned the key.
The engine clicked.
“Oh no,” he whispered.
Daryl looked at him. “Oh no?”
“It won’t start.”
The figures were closer now. Ahead, Cindi staggered from behind the RV. The others were close behind.
Harry tried again. The engine sputtered but didn’t turn over.
“Fuck!”
“Hit the brake!” Daryl cried, hysterical. He popped the brake, and the Blazer started drifting backwards.
Harry spun the wheel. The front bumper slammed into one of the things and knocked it down. The other jerked quickly away; in the wash of headlights, Daryl saw what it was: Its face was skeletal, its eye sockets empty and its teeth jagged and cracked.
They were coasting down the hill now, Harry muttering and Daryl panting. Behind them, the ghouls merged ranks and followed. They were moving fast.
“Harry!” Daryl cried.
Murphy was barking.
The kid was crying.
“I’m trying!” Harry screamed.
The road entered the forest.
They were everywhere: on the hillside and in the ravine, standing stock-still and watching, their eyes red and glowing. Harry saw them, let out a long, low agggggh, and lost control of the wheel.
The Blazer drifted left and went over the embankment. Daryl screamed.
It turned over, rolled once, and slammed into a tree, glass shattering and metal crunching. Murphy yelped, the kid screamed, and Daryl yelled. Harry continued gurgling. Heart attack. He’s having a heart attack.
Daryl’s head slammed on the dashboard and for a moment the world went gray.
When Daryl came to, he was out of the Blazer, lying in a drift of dead leaves, the smell of earth strong and pungent.
Shuddering, Daryl got to his feet, nearly losing his balance. The things were coming down the hillside. “I want his stomach lining!” one of them shrieked.
Daryl ran. All around him, eyes watched from the bush. Something came out of the undergrowth, reaching for him. In a cold shaft of moonlight, Daryl saw its face; twisted, black, and doglike, with a long snout and snapping teeth.
Daryl screamed, spun away, and struck out, hitting the thing in its face.
Blind with panic now, Daryl ran, barreling headlong through the forest, branches slapping his rudely in the face. When he reached the highway fifteen minutes later, he was so far gone that he didn’t see the oncoming headlights, didn’t hear the airhorns.
But he did feel the impact.
* * *
Sunlight crept tentatively over the land, spreading forth and banishing the darkness. On Chestnut Hill, an RV sat empty. A quarter mile south, a Ford Blazer lay on its side like a wounded animal. It, too, was empty.
Sweetie
Michelle Ann King
Audiences have so little respect, these days.
Admittedly, my little travelling show isn’t what it once was. We’ve been on the road for such a long time. But I like to think that for the discerning customer, we still provide value for money. An experience you can’t get from the computer screen—the modern freakshow—despite all its tricks and special effects.
Of course, it’s a different world from the one we started out in. You can’t just blow into town, set out your stall and start yelling ‘roll up, roll up.’ There are rules, now. Regulations. Local councils, who want risk assessments and reviews and background checks—public liability insurance, for fuck’s sake.
Time was, I’d parade the streets with Sweetie as a Sumatran tiger padding at my side and grinning at all the fine ladies until they swooned themselves into hysterics. We’d dance with bears and go pickpocketing with monkeys, and everybody oohed and aahed and couldn’t throw down their money fast enough. Couldn’t wait to see what other wonders I had in store for them.
But those days are gone, now. Instead of wild animals I have beetles and cockroaches and corn snakes—and Sweetie, of course, I still have Sweetie.
We don’t parade the High Street now, or line people up outside a huge, gaudy tent. We travel in a Transit van and squat temporarily in vacant outlets sandwiched between charity shops and Poundstretchers, and hide from Community Support Officers on
the lookout for unlicensed traders.
But for all that so much has changed, some things—some people—never do.
It’s not the kids—they’re fine. I like the kids. They’re excited, wide-eyed, thrilled to get up close. They love Sweetie, even when they’re pretending to be scared, and she loves them right back. Lets them stroke her back, her legs, with shivering fingertips.
‘She won’t hurt you,’ I tell them, and they usually grin and nod and pose proudly for mum or dad to take a video with a smartphone. But they’re still ever so careful with her. They respect her. Because deep down they know—I can see it in their eyes—I might be lying to them. And that’s good. That’s a worthwhile lesson for them to learn.
So no, it’s not the kids. It’s the ones who think they’re adults, tough guys; the ones who think that because they’ve seen the world on a screen, they know how it works; the ones who think if there’s anything to be scared of, it’s them.
Bless their hearts. Bless their deluded, juicy, little hearts.
‘No,’ I tell this particular tough guy. ‘I wouldn’t recommend that.’
He blinks at me. We’re in a seaside town, for some reason a place that attracts these roaming hordes of young men, sloshing around in clouds of alcohol fumes and testosterone. Time was they’d have ended their nights out by being press ganged into service on a Navy warship. These days they tend to get swept out of disreputable nightclubs in the cold hours with the rest of the rubbish. But either way, the middle of the spree has to be filled with fun. Specific definitions of that word might have evolved over the years, but the general translation of “trouble for someone else” hasn’t changed much.
‘Fuck you,’ he says, this little pumped-up runt. ‘I want to hold the fucking spider.’
I give him a pondering look, making a show of it. ‘I’m not sure,’ I murmur. ‘The tarantula experience can be a little intense. Perhaps I might suggest...?’
He follows my gaze to the glass case of stick insects, and his eyes bulge almost as much as his biceps. His companions snigger. Do people still die of apoplexy in this age? I hope not. It would be wasteful.
‘Are you kidding me?’ he says.
I attempt to assure him that I am not—that I am thinking only of his safety and welfare. It doesn’t seem to soothe his ire.
