Cider Mill Vampires (The Caleb Anthony Paranormal Series #1)

by Alan Spencer

  She pointed behind the counter at the magazine rack. “If you’d choose any one of those nudie magazines, which one would it be?”

  “Look, I’m not pent-up. I have fun. Work pays for awesome dinners. I get to travel. Like you said, I’m not tied down. I’m not that boring.”

  “Does any of that sound adventurous?” She leaned forward and scolded him with her fingers. “Now what rag gets you off, Caleb?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit.” She waltzed behind the counter and bent down to thumb through the magazine rack. “You’re a traveling man. Single. No girlfriend. Surely you pick up the latest issue of, well, how about Barely Legal? Or wait, you like the classier mags like Playboy. No, you want actual penetration. Bodily fluids. The whole nine yards, baby.”

  The chiding was beginning to work, and he couldn’t help but fold to her friendly taunting. “You have me wrong, Shannon. I enjoy Leg Show.”

  “You’re full of surprises.” She selected the latest issue of Leg Show and rolled it up into her bulging purse. “Now take something without my help.”

  He didn’t want anything until he spotted the bottle of orange soda in the refrigerator. The can wasn’t enough this morning; the sugar high was short lived and needed a follow up dose. He stole the twenty-ounce to redeem himself. “There. Now let’s book it in the escape car before the sheriff catches on to us.”

  “Yeah, let’s beat our feet.”

  They sprinted to the car and piled in. He slammed down on the gas, peeling out at forty miles an hour, and then firing up the street at sixty-five. “Oh God, the cops are right behind us,” she shouted, sticking her head out the window, the breeze whipping the strands of her hair into a wild frenzy. “We’re Bonnie and Clyde. They’ll pull us over and perform a cavity search. Maybe they’ll find that soda bottle shoved up your ass.”

  He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face as he coasted back down to forty miles an hour. The drink was refreshing beside his partner in crime. The experience was oddly exhilarating. He regretted not taking more now that they had gotten away with the heist clean.

  “Your soda tastes good, doesn’t it?”

  “Best drink in my life.”

  She thumbed through Leg Show. “This magazine’s not trashy enough. There’s no penetration.”

  “I’m so sorry to disappoint.”

  She turned her attention to Deer Lake. The dock was barren of people, but Shannon made a stranger observation. “There’s an open tackle box on the dock and a tin of worms. That has to be Mike Simpkin’s. He always fishes out here, but where is that retired jug head? That old man baits a hook, drinks a six-pack of beer, and takes a nap. I’ve never seen him actually catch a fish before.”

  “It makes me yearn for retirement, talk of fishing.” He imagined himself casting a rod and reeling in a real whopper. “A lot of people think they can’t relax once they reach that age. You have to keep doing stuff to satisfy your mind. I think that’s a crock. I could relax, and I’m sure my mind would be fine. I can stimulate myself in other ways. I could read or write or take a community college class, whatever.”

  “So when you retire, you’re very confident you can stimulate yourself, huh?”

  He changed the subject. “What’s the deal with this town? You’ve got a convenience store without employees, a hotel whose staff doesn’t open their front desk in the morning, and you’ve got retired fisherman who leave their tackle box unattended.”

  “Mike’s probably taking a piss somewhere. He’s probably got too much stage fright to whip it out on the dock. Even the mosquitoes looking at his wrinkly pecker would make him uncomfortable.”

  He pointed at the two-car garage with a rusted out sign hanging on two steel pillars up ahead: WILLIAMSON’S AUTO SALVAGE TWO LUBES FOR THE PRICE OF ONE FREE TIRE ROTATION WITH ONE HUNDRED DOLLAR PURCHASE.

  Both the garage doors were open, and no workers were on the premises. “Has everyone signed off for today?”

  She stared at Williamson’s Auto Salvage. “I guess so. I don't know."

  On the outskirts of Deer Lake, he caught a shack amid a long stretch of weeping willow trees. He barely distinguished the homemade sign erected from two wooden planks, the words painted in sloppy strokes: Ophelia’s Ostrich Burgers.

  “Ostrich Burgers? Aren’t ostriches from Africa?”

  She licked her lips. “You can captive raise those suckers. Ship the eggs via UPS, and there you have them.” Her left eyebrow arched, wanton. “Wanna try one?”

  He didn’t have to think on that suggestion. “Sure, why not? I’m hungry, now that you mention it.” He performed a quick U-turn, and they detoured to Ophelia’s Ostrich Burgers.

  She studied the business, focusing on the empty wire pins near the back. “I believe Ophelia slaughters the birds early in the morning and freezes the meat. If the birds broke out somehow, I’d watch my back—and my balls.” She snorted. “I saw a local kid get pecked on the head for reaching through the wire. Oh, and Bruce, Ophelia’s husband, had to punch one once because it pecked him in the nuts.”

  The article flashed in his mind’s eye:

  Bruce receives blow after blow to the testicle region, and it doesn’t faze him. Baseballs at thirty miles an hour, a dog’s wagging tail, a boxer’s upper cut, a 2x4 slam, a bicycle seat ramming him during a wreck, or an ostrich pecking him in that special area has no effect on him. “It’s been years of training,” Bruce explains, while demonstrating his abilities. A boy wearing an oversized boxing glove gives him a good whop between the legs. “They’ve grown a thick skin. Sometimes my wife punches them for fun.”

  After parking, they walked up to the entrance. They were curious as to the whereabouts of the birds and his would-be meal. The door was cracked open, begging them to walk inside. “Anybody here?”

  The ramshackle place was constructed by a collection of loose wooden planks. The roof itself was poorly shingled, the patch jobs a piece of flat wood nailed in place. Caleb read the business sign. The place was open everyday of the week during the summer between ten in the morning and five o’clock at night. There was no actual parking lot, only a dirt square.

  “This place is still in existence, right?”

  “Yeah, I ate here last week.”

  The lights were shut off except for the back room. There was no dining area, the place barely big enough for a line to form, the rest of the space taken up by the counter and the back room. The back wall displayed a simple sign: Ostrich Burger and Fries 5.00, Ostrich Onion Rings 2.50, Ostrich Coleslaw 2.00, Ostrich Drinks: 1.50.

  “So what’s the deal? I know it’s a Saturday, but is anybody open for business?—come on, people.”

  “Small town. Ophelia’s probably working off a hangover herself. Maybe she’s in back puking in a bucket or mixing up the special sauce for the day.”

  “Gross, Shannon. You know what, I don’t care. The thought of burgers is making me hungry. How about going somewhere else to eat?”

  She called out again, ignoring the idea of leaving so soon. “Ophelia, are you here? Do you have your head in a toilet? Don’t forget to come back up for air.”

  They waited for thirty long seconds.

  “Ah, screw it.” He walked out, but he stayed in the doorway for her to come with him. “The day’s burning fast. I can eat later. We’ll stop here on the way back.”

  She rapped on the wooden counter, and she hollered, “Ophelia!”

  Without warning, she leaped over the counter, determined to solve the mystery. “What the hell are you doing?”

  He was hesitant to pursue her, but she had already entered the back room, and she wasn’t talking to anybody. He hopped the counter, careful not to knock over any condiments or paper cups. The back room was even smaller than the waiting area. A grill stood in the corner, unused. The walk in fridge and freezer were locked up. Caleb stopped himself inches from the mess spattered on the floor, having to step back to avoid the widening puddle. Barbeque sauce, ketchup, cocktail sauce
, and various pickle jars had been smashed. The medley had the consistency and color of red molasses. More than half the walls were splattered in the mess.

  “Who did this?” He looked at the back door; it was locked. “Maybe somebody broke in? I mean, the front door was wide open.”

  Shannon disagreed, taking in the damage on her haunches. “Nothing’s been taken. The cash register isn’t damaged or missing.”

  She peeked out the window. “There’s her hatchback. She’s here somewhere. I’m sure she’s aware of the mess. She’s got OCD. She’ll clean this place with Q-tips and bleach until the cows come home.” She pointed south. “She lives a block away from here. Maybe she had to get something in a hurry. She has a teenager son who cooks; he’s always busting shit. Clumsy fucker. Ophelia probably had the kid follow her back to collect extra cleaning items. This looks like it’ll be sticky and hard to get up.”

  He followed her back outside, Shannon saying on the way out, “I guess no ostrich burgers for now. I’m tired of worrying about everybody else. They can handle themselves. I need to make some cash. Don’t worry,” she patted his back, "we’ll return. You can eat your weight in bird.”

  They were on the road again, and after moments of tires rolling over asphalt, she offered new directions. The Sedan cruised through a series of back roads, the asphalt turning into gravel and then downgrading once again into dirt. The shocks voiced their efforts, the path a jouncing one. A white tailed buck bounded from the road. Caught in his path and frozen in place, Caleb had to think fast and slammed the brakes to avoid striking it head on.

  “That was close, holy shit." He honked his horn, his heart thudding rapidly in his chest. “I almost struck Bambi.”

  “That’s why it should be legal all year to hunt the bastards." She shaped a rifle in her hands, taking sight on the deer as it dove between the trees. “Those animals can be dangerous, even if they are cute. Shoot Bambi right between the eyes.”

  “Wow, remind me not to cross you.”

  He read the wooden sign up ahead: SMITHVILLE’S AMERICAN TIME CAPSULE/

  TRINKETS, GADGETS, AND FADED MEMORIES/ 100% AMERICAN SOUVENIRS.

  “I guess this is where we’re going.”

  “It’s basically a tour of American junk. The place is run by Edgar Lampman; everyone calls him “Eddie.” He’s an ex-marine. Eddie tries to call the place a museum, but a swap meet of useless shit is a better description. His wife used to help him out, but she died of breast cancer a few years back. Eddie’s kind of gone senile; it’s hard to understand where he’s coming from sometimes.”

  “Like Chippie?”

  “Chippie’s different. He’s closer to crazy, suffering from shell shock or post-traumatic stress syndrome, without actually experiencing either of those in war. Chip wants combat and hasn’t gotten it. Eddie’s just a friendly drool head.”

  “Chip gave me a good scare when he shot at us." He remembered the gun going off and the apple near them exploding into sauce. “I wonder if he tracked down what made those weird noises yesterday.”

  “Even if he didn’t, I’m sure Chip shot something—whether it be a wild turkey or a tin can.”

  “And what was with him opening the trees? I’ve never witnessed anything like it. He’s like a G.I. Joe environmentalist.”

  “He’s ready for a war on his turf. Nothing would make him happier if America’s enemies dropped from the sky. He’d win the battle for us. I’m sure he’s got napalm stored somewhere at his house.”

  “What’s the likelihood that I’d be able to have a tour of Chippie’s house from the inside?” He rubbed his fingers together. “It’d be beaucoup mullah for you. Double the normal rate, and I’m talking pictures of his rooms and quotes from the man. Couldn’t you sweet talk him into giving us a tour? Johnny Appleseed was good, but there’s more.”

  “If it’s what you want." She said so begrudgingly. “I’ve never been inside his house. I don’t know anybody who has, actually. As long as you’re with me and you don’t leave me alone with him, I have no problem with it. And you pay double, like you said.”

  “Good—yes, double.”

  The road winded on for another quarter mile, and then it hooked left, and he ended up parking on a paved driveway. Two flag poles at each side of the yard were topped with an American flag beating in the wind. The abode was a two story ranch house with a white picket fence surrounding the perimeter. The lawn itself was occupied by a collage of items: lawn gnomes, birth baths, wind socks, pin wheels, a plastic set of deer, wind chimes by the dozens that rattled an annoying chorus, a fake sod golf course with one hole, a horse jockey statuette, and a live barking gray faced beagle who didn’t step off of the porch. He was speechless at the sight, imagining the possibilities.

  “You should see this place at Christmas. Santa Clause and his reindeer dominate the yard. Christmas lights are set up bright enough to bring in an airplane, and then there’s the baby Jesus in the manger menagerie. Real enough, it makes you believe you’re sitting ring side in Bethlehem. He even has a replica of Mary’s placenta.”

  “No he doesn’t.” He turned off the car and quickly flashed a series of pictures of the yard. “Eddie should win the lawn of the year award. I can’t wait to meet this guy.”

  They waited in the car, Shannon urging him to be patient. “He’ll be out shortly; it’s a dramatic build-up.”

  After a full five minutes, the garage finally opened. The man inside traveled via a riding lawnmower to the side of the car and parked beside them. He wore an “I LOVE NY” t-shirt and Levi jeans. Buttons graced his shirt: “Made in the USA,” “This Flag Means Freedom,” “Semper Fi,” and “Don’t Mess with the U.S.” Soft white fuzz covered the man’s head like a newborn bird. He was stern faced except for the smile in his eyes; a militant ex-marine who’d lightened up over the years. Eddie leaned over to Caleb, asking him, “Are you here to see my collection?”

  “How about it? Can we come in?”

  “Two dollars each. There’s no other collection like it ever. The best in the United States, my friends. Nostalgia is something special.” He waved them towards the house. “Come inside and take a step back into the past with me.”

  He handed him a five dollar bill, the old man enticed by the offering. “Keep the change.”

  “Follow me,” the man sang, driving back into the garage on the mower. They walked behind him and entered, catching up with the man before he dismounted the mower. Once inside, he was overwhelmed by the green, blue, and white decorative lights lining the walls. “The exhibit is downstairs, folks.” He winked at Caleb. “You did a fine turn by taking your lady here.”

  He went along with the comment. “I try my best to impress.”

  She locked arms with him, playing into Eddie’s words. Then she whispered to Caleb, “This would definitely get me out of my panties.”

  After what I witnessed last night, I can imagine.

  Eddie stopped them before the basement stairs at the WELCOME mat. “Wipe ‘em good. Don’t track in dirt. I hate cleaning messes.”

  Together, they wiped their feet, and then they descended into the basement. They were greeted by a juke box that glowed ocean blue on the trim, the box blasting, “It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to...cry if I want to...you would cry too if it happened to you...”

  Feet away from the 50’s Mecca was a soda stand with two fountains and a stuffed mannequin in a white suit and thick black glasses clutching a tall glass. His breast pocket read: “Soda Jerk.”

  “Phosphates and drinks that pop,” Eddie cheered, throwing both his arms up in excitement. “Soda jerks were the best. You used to be able to get sodas from pharmacies. They were considered medicinal. Now soda’s bottled and in cans, and the whole deal’s impersonal. You can’t have a conversation with a bottle or aluminum can, unless you’re a loony. And now they say soda causes diabetes, and makes you fat—ah, pony loaf!”

  Caleb shared the sentiment, imagining how many orange sodas he’d downe
d in his time. “Yeah, tune those people out.” He pointed at the juke box. “But I love the box.”

  “It’s a phonograph,” Eddie enumerated, continuing to play tour guide. “That box doesn’t play vinyl records. It uses phonograph cylinders.”

  A random basket propped on a table was brimming with old issues of Yank and Sir magazines. Another basket nearby was filled with packages of “Fizzies.”

  He was about to check out the magazines when Shannon urged him towards another table heaped with dozens of Kewpie dolls. The plastic baby figurines were lined up in five rows of six. A large poster behind it showed a flying Kewpie doll hover over a cheeseburger.

  He laughed at the poster. “I didn’t know the Kewpie doll enjoyed burgers.” Beside the dolls, G.I. JOE action figures were positioned in fighting stances clutching plastic M-16’s and adorned in military camouflage.

  “These were the first action figures,” Eddie explained, following Caleb’s eyes. “You’ve got “Rocky” the marine, “Skip” the sailor, and “Ace” the pilot. I used to pretend “Ace” was my father in World War II kickin’ some Jap ass.”

  He was overwhelmed at the other random posters on the wall, including: “Cherry Mash, a Chase Candy,” “Slow Pokes,” and another with The Beach Boys at a restaurant stand drinking root beer, each of the band members toasting their mugs up in the air, the caption reading: “Chug-A-Lug.” He checked out the vintage posters for “Marlboro Cigarettes,” “Lucky Strikes,” and one for the movie “Casablanca.” The movie poster was above a pink Cadillac without a top; a pair of red vinyl bucket seats had been installed where the passenger and driver’s seats would be. A drive-in speaker was set up to the right and left of the car, the vehicle itself facing a blank screen. The design was meant to mimic the drive-in experience, he gathered.

  “The drive-in used to be swell. Folks could tune in on a radio station and the sound would come in real fine. Then teenagers would sneak in friends through the trunks of their car to avoid paying full price. Soon enough, kids used the drive-ins to screw. People started calling them “passion pits.” Damn shame when you have a good thing ruined. And then the double features really stank up the place. Horrid films, real turkeys. I guess that’s why the drive-in faded away.”