Crooked Hills

by Cullen Bunn

  “How many cows have you got now?” I asked my brother.

  “A bunch. Something like a hundred and fifty.”

  About that time, we passed a roadside billboard advertising a restaurant called Chauncy Burger. The sign featured a happy cartoon character chowing down on a hamburger.

  I quickly yelled, “I make hamburgers out of all your cows!”

  “Gross!” Alex yelled, but he couldn’t help but laugh.

  Signs of modern civilization such as shopping centers and fast food restaurants grew more and more scarce, while stretches of thick, dark woods grew more and more common. We traveled the winding road through farmland and then into hill country, where rocky slopes cast ominous shadows over the highway.

  “My ears feel funny,” Alex said.

  Mine felt strange, too, like they were stuffed with cotton.

  “Crooked Hills is in the foothills of the mountains,” Mom said. “The altitude can cause your ears to pop. You’ll get used to it. Charlie, get some gum out of the glove compartment.”

  Chewing a stick of gum helped, even though it was peppermint-flavored—my least favorite—and it also eased my carsickness. Before long, I forgot all about my popping ears and flip-flopping stomach. I spotted a signpost on the side of the road.

  WELCOME TO CROOKED HILLS

  “We’re here!” Mom piped.

  I sat up straight and looked out the window. Maybe I’d spot a ghost or ghoul before we even arrived at my aunt and uncle’s house. I doubted it, though, since it was still daylight, and most spooks and specters only came out at night.

  Crooked Hills didn’t look like much of a town to me. In fact, I hardly saw any houses as the car followed the snaking road through tree-covered hills. Tree limbs loomed overhead, dappling shadows over us. Eventually, I spotted a few mailboxes along the roadside, and paths cutting through the trees. Every now and again, I glimpsed a house tucked away in the woods, but those looked even more rundown and decrepit than the haunted house on the cover of my book. Paint peeled from the walls like snakeskins, and the roofs sagged as if ready to buckle. I started to worry Mom might pull into the craggy driveway of one of the near-ruined houses and cry, “Welcome to our home away from home!” Luckily, she kept on driving, and I saw a few homes that at least looked fit to live in. Still, I didn’t see any signs of a town.

  “There’s a few stores and restaurants up the road,” Mom said, sensing my confusion. “We’ll go into town in a couple of days, after we get settled in a bit.”

  She hit the brakes, slowed down, and veered onto a dirt path through the forest. The car jostled and bumped, and pebbles clicked and clattered beneath us. The path curled deep into the woods, but we passed a few cabins, houses, and secluded pastures along the way. Low-hanging branches tapped and scraped across the roof of the car like boney fingers.

  The forest opened up like a yawning mouth, and we crossed a concrete bridge. I craned my neck to get a good look at the creek below. The shore was covered in a flat bed of round, white stones, and tangles of branches bunched up around the base of the bridge. The water was so clear I could see the rocky creek bottom in most places, but a couple of spots looked dark and deep. A little ways downstream, the flow picked up speed and rushed over some large rocks and around the bend. It wasn’t like whitewater rapids, but it was close.

  On the other side of the creek, the trees once again grew thick, pressing in on both sides, their shadows washing over the rocky stretch of road.

  We rounded the bend and followed the path parallel to the twisting band of water. A heavy copse of trees separated us from the creek, but occasionally I caught a glimpse of water glistening from behind the veil of thick, leafy trees.

  “Look up there.” Mom pointed toward the hill.

  Alex pressed his hands and face up against the window in the back seat. I looked, too, and saw four deer wandering through the trees. One sported huge antlers. The deer watched as we slowly rode past, then bolted into the brush.

  “Wow,” Alex breathed.

  Up ahead, a mailbox sprouted out of a tangle of flowering weeds, the name “Widows” printed across the side in reflective, stick-on letters. Widows was my aunt and uncle’s last name. Our long trip was drawing to its conclusion.

  To get to the house, we turned down an even narrower path. The car dipped and rocked as we started downhill. At the bottom of the incline, we even had to drive right through a couple of shallow, slow-moving brooks! The water wasn’t very deep, but I imagined the streams flooded the road in heavy rains. We started uphill again, and my aunt and uncle’s house waited for us at the top.

  It was a large building, constructed of mismatched gray and white stones. The front of the house faced the forest, but the lawn was freshly mowed, and planters full of bright flowers were placed here and there around the yard. A split-beam fence separated the yard from the woods, keeping the tangled trees at bay.

  Mom pulled to a stop behind the house.

  A couple of metal bench swings sat in the back yard, along with a picnic table and dozens of bird houses of every shape, size, and color, mounted on tall wooden beams. The back yard butted right up to pastures stretching as far as the eye could see. Much of it was fenced-in, and I saw chickens and goats in the pens and ducks milling around a muddy watering hole. A narrow trail lined with apple trees climbed a hill that filled the horizon. Cattle grazed in the distance.

  A covered shed stood off to the side. In the shed, at least a dozen plump cats prowled around shelves cluttered with tools and a rusty old tractor that looked like it hadn’t been used in years.

  Before we even rolled to a complete stop, Aunt Mary came out of the house to meet us. She looked almost exactly like Mom, only a couple of years older, and she smiled so widely it looked like her face was split in half by teeth. Mom got out of the car and gave her a hug.

  I turned around in the seat and looked at Alex. He shrugged, and we climbed out of the car. We walked up behind Mom and her sister.

  When Mom turned toward us, she had tears in her eyes and a big smile on her face that almost rivaled her sister’s. I’m not sure I’d ever seen her so happy, at least not in the last year.

  “Boys,” she said. “You remember your Aunt Mary, don’t you?”

  “Look how big you are!” Aunt Mary hugged each of us in turn and looked us over from head to toe, almost like she couldn’t believe we were real. “Charlie, you’re growing into a fine young man.”

  I felt my cheeks redden. All the attention embarrassed me.

  Beside me, Alex drew in a sharp breath. His eyes grew as big as saucers. I followed his terrified gaze and swallowed my chewing gum when I saw what bothered him so.

  A man emerged from behind the shed. He was broad-shouldered, and his arms were corded with thick muscles. He wore a pair of dirty overalls and heavy work boots. He didn’t say a word as he stomped our way.

  And he held a bloody axe in his hand!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CRIMSON DROPLETS OOZED AND DRIPPED from the blade, plopping onto the big man’s boots and rolling down the dirt-caked leather to the ground below. His thick fingers flexed on the axe handle. He walked right up to us, each heavy footstep like a peel of thunder, and I thought we were goners for sure.

  But instead of whacking us over the heads, the man smiled broadly. It was one of the most welcoming, friendly smiles I’d ever seen, not as wide as Aunt Mary’s, but warm and full of good cheer. I couldn’t help but grin back at him.

  “How’re y’all doing?” He looked at my little brother and me. “Y’all look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I was so focused on the bloody axe that I’d failed to recognize the man as my own Uncle Shorty!

  He stuck out his hand—the one not holding the axe—and we shook. I could tell he was strong, but he didn’t grasp my fingers so hard it hurt. I tried my best to return a firm handshake. He ruffled Alex’s hair and hugged my mom with one arm around her neck.

  Shorty. The name didn’t quite fit. He wasn
’t necessarily tall, but he wasn’t short, either, and he looked like he could lift the old rusty tractor all by himself if he ever set his mind to it.

  “What on earth are you doing with that?” Mom peered at the gore-covered axe.

  Aunt Mary rolled her eyes and said, “Oh, he’s just trying to make a dramatic entrance.”

  Mom laughed. “Sounds like the Shorty I remember.”

  “I’ll have you know I’m getting supper ready for our guests.” Uncle Shorty winked at her. Then he looked at Alex and me. He smacked the handle of the axe in the palm of his hand. “What do you say, boys? Want to give me a hand?”

  When it came to cooking, I couldn’t even make toast without burning it. And I sure didn’t know how Uncle Shorty could be whipping up a meal behind a rickety old shed. Maybe he was barbecuing, but I didn’t see or smell smoke. And what was with the axe?

  “I’ll help,” I said.

  “Me too,” said Alex.

  One thing about us Ward brothers—we were curious, sometimes too much for our own good. Mom said we inherited the trait from our dad, and that suited me just fine.

  Already chatting away, Mom and Aunt Mary went inside while Alex and I went with our uncle. Behind the shed was the massive stump of a tree that must have been cut down long ago. I knew you could tell how old a tree was by counting rings on the stump. But I wouldn’t have wanted to start counting the rings of this tree. I’d surely lose track. Suffice it to say, it was old—as old as the hills. Numerous cuts crisscrossed on the stump, and a little blood spread across the scarred wood. Next to the stump lay dozens of puffy white feathers and a dead chicken. Another chicken—this one alive—clucked at us from a small wooden cage in the shadow of the shed. The bird’s head bobbed this way and that as it watched us.

  “What are you going to do?” Alex asked, his eyes growing big and round again.

  “Hold this for me, and I’ll show you.” Uncle Shorty offered the axe, but Alex took a step back. I took the axe, careful not to let my fingers touch the drying blood. I knew exactly what was about to happen. I knew my uncle used the ancient tree stump as a chopping block! But I wasn’t sure I wanted to watch. I swallowed hard, even though my mouth was bone dry, and my stomach started feeling queasy again.

  Uncle Shorty opened the cage. The chicken squawked and flapped its wings. Feathers flew everywhere. Shorty wrapped one of his large hands around both of the fowl’s legs, hoisting it out and holding it upside down as he carried it to the stump.

  He held out his hand for the axe. The late afternoon sun beat down on the back of my neck, and my face felt hot. My muscles felt frozen, though, stone cold. I thought I might lose my lunch.

  “Don’t worry.” Uncle Shorty took the axe. “It’ll be quick.”

  With one hand, Uncle Shorty held the chicken by the feet and laid it on the stump. The chicken didn’t move much, like it was paralyzed or something. Maybe it accepted its fate. With the other hand, Uncle Shorty hefted the axe above his head. The bloody blade gleamed.

  Alex covered his eyes. I did the same—only I peered out from between my fingers. I saw the whole shocking thing from beginning to end.

  There was no joy in Uncle Shorty’s face—thank goodness! If I thought for an instant he enjoyed what he was doing, I might have run for my life all the way back to Chicago. Instead, he pressed his lips tightly together, gritting his teeth through a few moments of unpleasantness.

  The axe seemed to hover above the chopping block for an eternity. I saw my own reflection in the blade, blurry and twisted and horrified.

  The chicken clucked curiously.

  The axe fell with a chop!

  I flinched.

  Uncle Shorty pulled his hands away, leaving the blade of the axe embedded in the wood. The chicken scrambled off the chopping block and ran across the yard—without a head! The decapitated bird ran in circles, wings flapping wildly, until at long last it fell over and lay still.

  I’d heard of jumping around like a chicken with its head cut off, but never put much thought into the origins of the expression.

  “Gross!” Alex said, even though he had missed most of the event.

  “What’s so gross about it?” Uncle Shorty asked. “Don’t you like fried chicken?”

  “Yeah, but I never saw anyone kill a chicken before.”

  “Well, you didn’t think we breaded and fried them while they were still alive and kicking, did you?”

  “Do they always do that?” I asked. “Run around without their heads.”

  “Not always,” Shorty said, “but sometimes.”

  “But how do they live without their heads?”

  “Well, they don’t, not really. The running around is really a sort of involuntary action. The muscles are convulsing, making the chicken flap around and look like its still alive, but it’s not.”

  My brother and I both stared at the dead bird, half-expecting it to jump back up and attack us like a headless zombie chicken.

  “Now—” Uncle Shorty clapped his hands together in anticipation. “—who wants to help me clean these birds?”

  “No, thanks.” I’d had enough of chickens for one day. I figured if I helped pluck and gut the carcasses, I’d lose my appetite forever.

  Alex still watched the chicken as if he feared taking his eyes off it.

  “Come on.” I nudged him. “We better unpack.”

  We unloaded the car and hauled the luggage into the house. Aunt Mary took a break from her conversation with Mom long enough to show us to our room. Our room. Mom never bothered to tell Alex and me we’d be sharing a room during the vacation. Pretty smart on her part. If my brother and I had known we would be cooped up together, we might have staged a full-scale revolt. Now that we were here, there wasn’t much we could say or do except grit our teeth and bear the close quarters until the vacation drew to a merciful end.

  We would be bunking downstairs, right next door to our cousin Marty—who was nowhere to be found. The room itself was kind of plain, with cinderblock walls (like a prison, I thought) painted light blue, and a thin brown carpet over the floor. On each side of the room was a bed, covered in sheets far too heavy for the summer weather. A dresser stood in one corner, and between the beds a small nightstand sat beneath a curtained window. The curtains were drawn open, overlooking the yard, a split-beam fence, and the woods beyond.

  We unloaded our clothes into the dresser. I took the top two drawers and Alex took the lower two. I placed my boxes of comics and books at the foot of my bed. Alex painstakingly arranged his action figures across the top of the dresser. I also brought my digital clock radio. I plugged it in, placed it on the nightstand, and set the time to match my watch. Playing with the radio dial, though, I discovered I couldn’t pick up any good stations.

  We hung our clothes in the tiny closet, Alex taking the right side, and me taking the left. Most of my clothes didn’t really need to be put on hangers. We brought mostly tee-shirts and shorts, along with a couple of pairs of jeans. But I had a few shirts that wrinkled easily, and I hate ironing. Alex pulled a heavy gray hooded sweatshirt from his suitcase and placed it in the closet.

  “It’s the middle of summer,” I said. “When do you think you’ll need a sweatshirt?”

  “You never know. It could get cold at night.”

  By dinner—supper, I guessed they called it in these parts—I had pretty much gotten over my reluctance to eat fried chicken. Unloading the car and unpacking our bags helped work up an appetite. Everything tasted delicious—better than the chicken I usually got from fast food places. Sure, I felt bad about what had happened to the bird, but I guessed that was just life on the farm. I tried to remember fried chicken and hamburgers and hot dogs—all my favorites—came from somewhere. Alex, on the other hand, only picked at his plate. He ate some of the vegetables, but didn’t touch the golden-brown main course. He must have been really shaken if he didn’t feel like eating. I wondered if he’d ever recover or if I now had a vegetarian for a brother.

&n
bsp; My cousin Marty joined us for supper. He was my age, but stood a little shorter than I did. Skinny as a fence post, he didn’t take after Uncle Shorty in the muscles department. He had shaggy, dark hair and deep blue eyes. He wore a pair of jeans with thick patches on the knees. The patches were so dark blue they were almost black, and they stood out starkly from the rest of the faded denim. I thought he dressed like someone out of the 1950s. When he wasn’t running his mouth excitedly about one thing or another, he looked like he was planning something mischievous. You could see the wheels turning in his head, Mom might say.

  “Where were you all day?” Aunt Mary asked him. “We could have used some help around the house, you know, and it would have been nice of you to be here when your Aunt and cousins first arrived.”

  Marty pursed his lips and tapped his fork lightly against his plate.

  “I was out exploring,” he said.

  Something about his manner reminded me of a carnival huckster or a circus ringmaster. He was hamming it up, and we were his audience. Aunt Mary had said Uncle Shorty liked to be dramatic, and Marty took after him in that respect.

  “And I was looking for the perfect welcome gift for my cousins here.”

  “A gift?” Alex perked up. “What gift?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see,” Marty said. “It’s a surprise.”

  A surprise?

  As we ate, Mom and Aunt Mary caught up on old times. They grew up not far from Crooked Hills, and I wondered if they knew anything about all the ghosts supposedly haunting the area. For the most part, they chatted about everyday, ordinary things—people they went to school with, their childhood home, stuff like that.

  After dinner, Marty, Alex, and I tried to watch some TV, but the set only picked up three channels, and even those were static-filled. That probably thrilled Mom, who thought I spent too much time in front of the tube anyway. Instead, we hooked up my video game system, and I taught Marty to play a couple of my favorite games. He wasn’t very good at the sports games, but he loved anything involving shooting up monsters. We played for a couple of hours. Marty didn’t mention the surprise gift again.