Corpse Cold_New American Folklore

by John Brhel

  hanging wire.

  Sure, the bugs could be responsible for the flickering

  and the swaying of the bulb, I thought, but what was

  causing the mechanical banging and grinding of the air

  • 18 •

  SWITCHES

  conditioner?

  I got out of the bed to investigate, creeping ever-so-gently across the dingy carpet toward the window, and the AC unit beneath it. I paused when the fan whirred to life inside the unit. And when I bent over to have a closer look, a flurry of flies swarmed around me from the old machine. I searched

  nearby for something to defend myself, while swatting at the flies that began landing on my face and in my hair.

  “Fuckin’ flies!” I screamed, as I slapped at the bugs in

  the air around me. I spit out a few that had made it into

  my mouth, while I searched the nightstand next to the

  bed. I found a Gideon Bible and used it to defend myself,

  smacking the wall and the pests gathering on the headboard.

  As I killed handfuls of the black houseflies with every

  swing, the two light sconces above the headboard came to

  life, and then, as quickly, sparked and blew out. I noted

  how blackened the tops of the bulbs had become. But I

  didn’t have much time to consider the blown wall lamps, as the bare bulb above me then unceremoniously shattered.

  Whether from the force of the flies colliding with it, or

  due to an errant swing of the Bible, I had no answer. My

  only sense was to gather my things in the infested room,

  swim through the flies that buzzed around my face, and

  leave behind the wild clanging and whirring of the mad air conditioner.

  I fought the flies, and a few moths, as I fled the room

  and got into my Cadillac. The motel’s office was now dark, and I wasn’t about to make a fool of myself again in front of McGirk. I was too upset, and sickened, over what had

  occurred—but I really was dead tired, even after all the

  excitement, and was eventually able to fall asleep in my

  reclined seat.

  • 19 •

  SWITCHES

  It was well past dawn when I awoke in the lot at McGirk’s

  Roadside Motel. My back and neck were sore from sleeping

  in the car, though I noted that I did get a couple hours of deep, refreshing sleep. The car’s windows were fogged

  over, and it was especially chilly outside, and was quickly becoming uncomfortable.

  I started the car, intending to warm it up and clear the

  windows for the rest of my drive home. I groaned at the

  thought of having to go find the key, which I’d dropped

  in the room during my escape. I didn’t look forward to

  having to return the key to the motelier, and likely having to explain why I had slept in my car.

  But I soon discovered that I would be saved from

  further embarrassment. As the windows defogged, the

  scene at McGirk’s gradually revealed itself. The motel was all but gone. In its place was a burnt-out husk, a wisp and dream of a building that I was forced to re-imagine. The

  motel office, which had the most structure to it, was merely a blackened slab of a partial rear wall, with some crumpled copper plumbing protruding from it. There was vegetation

  where Room 7 should have been; the foundation looked

  like it had been grown over for years.

  I got out of my car and tentatively inspected the area.

  The motel wasn’t even a shell of itself anymore. It was

  obvious that a fire had occurred. There was char littered

  around the foundation, and I could make out various burnt

  debris scattered among the weeds. I walked the paved path

  that would have led from the office to the room where I had stayed the previous night, or, at least, where I believed I had stayed.

  I was about to end my investigation and return to my

  car when I saw it, a few yards off among the weeds and bush.

  A red, plastic identifier on a key ring stuck out of the soil.

  • 21 •

  CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE

  I pulled it out and saw that the key ring still held its key.

  I turned over the plastic tab and saw that it was embossed with a large, golden ‘7.’ It was my room key, and it hadn’t decayed or been worn by the weather! I tossed the key and

  scrambled back to my car. It made no sense to me, and I was afraid of what I might uncover if I stuck around.

  Not five minutes down the road, I came to a gas station.

  I saw a female attendant outside, adjusting the gas prices on the big overhead sign. So, I pulled in and the woman

  greeted me.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. Do you know of any motels

  nearby?” I waited anxiously on her response, curious as to if she’d refer me to McGirk’s Roadside Motel.

  “Yeah, definitely. There’s the Deep Well in Harford

  Mills and The Sunrise in Richford.”

  “Thanks. But wasn’t there one closer nearby?” My

  voice wavered, revealing my anxiety. “McGirk’s something

  or other Motel?”

  The attendant didn’t immediately reply. She eyed me

  and my car for a few moments before responding: “You

  must’ve been by before McGirk’s Roadside burned down. I

  used to actually clean for Chester—the owner—part-time.”

  “And how long ago was that?” I asked, my heart

  thumping in my ribcage.

  “About ten years, I’d say. Chester was a cheapskate;

  God rest his soul.” The woman made the sign of the cross

  before continuing: “He got ticketed by the fire marshal, I don’t know how many times. But it was an electrical fire.

  He had just about a full-house the night of the fire. Seven people died.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. It’s too bad.”

  “Yep, it was; and it’s all on Chester,” the woman

  replied, matter-of-factly. “Christ, I remember how the

  • 22 •

  SWITCHES

  lights used to flicker off and on, and all sorts of things used to go haywire while I was cleaning the rooms. You’d think

  the place was haunted, or something!”

  • 23 •

  • II •

  BLACk DOG

  Ed Skinner’s old Freightliner semi roared to life in the

  driveway of his rural home. He was about to leave on a

  cross-country trucking haul, and his two teenage sons, Carl and Garrett, stood beside the truck to see him off.

  “Where are you headed?” asked Garrett, the younger

  of the brothers.

  “All the way out to Pasadena. I’ll be back in about a

  week,” replied Ed, leaning on his arm in the open window.

  “There’s plenty of canned food. Maybe some TV dinners.

  Stay out of trouble, okay? And go to school!”

  Garrett and Carl both snickered.

  “I suppose you’ll want to hunt while I’m gone, huh?”

  continued Ed. The Skinners liked to hunt. In fact, they had to hunt if they wanted good protein. With Ed’s trucking

  gigs only pulling in part-time money, the family made due

  with what little they had.

  “Yeah,” said Carl.

  “That’s fine by me. Just be careful, and keep things tidy

  around here—especially your rifles.” Carl and Garrett both nodded and Ed shifted into drive. “Oh, and don’t hunt at night, you got me?” He eyed Carl when he said it.

  “Yeah, Dad,” said Garrett.

  Ed waved goodbye and drove to the end of the bumpy

  • 25 •

  CORPSE
COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE

  driveway, turning onto the long country road. Carl and

  Garrett watched as the truck disappeared behind one of the rolling country hills.

  Not long after, the boys were in the kitchen heating

  condensed soup on the gas stove in their small cabin.

  “I’m sick of eating this cream of whatever, dog’s-drool

  soup,” said Carl. “Let’s get a big, fat doe, or even try for that buck you said you saw the other day, after school tomorrow.

  Something we can strip quick and eat all week until Dad

  comes home.”

  “I’m down,” said Garrett.

  The brothers spent the rest of the evening watching TV

  and taking swigs from a bottle of whiskey Ed kept in the

  garage.

  When they got home from school the next day they

  grabbed a couple rifles from their dad’s gun cabinet, hopped in the family pickup, and drove through the pastures and

  open fields leading to the woods behind their home.

  It was mid-November and the brothers had only a

  couple hours of daylight left to hunt. Carl drove the truck through the field, parking near the tree line. Each carrying a rifle, they entered the woods. Their boots crunched over dry, brown leaves and they walked amidst dead trees and

  brush, making their way to their tree stand. Carl taking the lead, they climbed up the aluminum ladder and took a seat.

  A half hour of whispered shit-talking and recollecting

  had passed when Carl nudged Garrett in the side and said,

  “Psst. Over there.”

  Garrett looked to where Carl was pointing to see a buck

  eating some acorns, about ninety yards off.

  “Shit, looks like eight points, at least,” whispered Carl, adjusting his position in the stand and readying his rifle.

  “Can you get it from here?” asked Garrett.

  • 26 •

  BLACk DOG

  “Nah, he’s got to come closer. We’ll have to wait.”

  Another hour passed as the brothers waited in silence.

  The buck came a little closer but was still at too odd an angle for a clean shot. And the sky had darkened considerably.

  “Carl, it’s getting late. You heard what dad said,”

  whispered Garrett.

  “Yeah, I heard what dad said. C’mon, it’s not that

  dark. We’ve almost got him.”

  “I don’t even know how you’d hit it anyway, seeing how

  dark it is. I think we should head home. We’ll try again

  tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow this buck probably won’t be here. Just hold up.”

  “But dad said…”

  “Don’t hunt at night, ” said Carl. “He just said that so we wouldn’t shoot each other. Dad hunts at night.” Carl then

  put his finger to his lips.

  Garrett sighed and sat back in the stand as Carl held

  his position. Several more minutes passed before Garrett

  noticed the movement of some creature to the west. There

  was scant light, and the thing was a considerable distance away, but Garrett was sure what he had spotted.

  “Carl, I think I saw a dog or something,” he whispered,

  nervously.

  “Huh?”

  “Jesus. It was big. Maybe it was the Black Dog. The one

  dad told us about?”

  “There ain’t no Black Dog, you dummy,” said Carl,

  picking up his rifle and sitting back next to his brother.

  “It’s one of his stories. Did you see the white lady, too?”

  “No, I swear I—”

  “Black Dog. No hunting at night. Dad just tells us this stuff to keep us out of trouble—and to mess with us. You didn’t see

  • 27 •

  CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE

  any black dog. It was probably a coyote or or a fox.”

  “But it was too big to be a coyote.”

  “Sit back, shut up, and let me take care of this buck.

  Unless you want to suck down chicken with stars and stale

  bread all week.”

  The sky had gone black by the time Carl had the buck

  lined up for a clean shot. The animal was only thirty yards away, off to their right now. Carl mouthed “Got him” to his brother and steadied his rifle, released a nervous breath, paused, then pulled the trigger.

  Bam! The shot cracked and echoed throughout the

  woods, and Garrett clenched next to his brother.

  “I got it!” yelled Carl, looking through his scope at the

  buck, which now lay flat on the leafy ground. “Wooo! Let’s go.”

  Carl hurried down the ladder, Garrett following close

  behind. They were venturing out finally, into the dark

  evening, and all Garrett could think about was the dark-

  furred creature he had seen. Up in the tree stand he had

  felt some semblance of safety, real or imagined, but when

  his feet hit the soft ground he looked for movement in

  every direction, while Carl beelined toward his kill.

  When they got to the buck, Carl hollered, “This thing’s

  huge!” He slapped his brother on the back.

  Garrett only managed a “Yeah, it’s great, man…”

  The two dragged the heavy carcass through the woods,

  toward the tree line. They were nearing the break, and could just make out the outline of their pickup in the distance, when they heard twigs cracking and leaves rustling far off behind them. Garrett looked up from their chore and got

  a quick glimpse of a four-legged creature running between

  deadfall and underbrush, about forty yards off.

  “What is that?” asked Garrett, pausing.

  • 28 •

  BLACk DOG

  “Keep moving,” said Carl, and they dragged the deer

  another few feet. “I saw it too.”

  “It’s the Bla—”

  “Don’t say it,” interjected Carl.

  They continued with the eight-point buck, finally

  reaching the tree line.

  “Go get the truck,” said Carl.

  “Why do I gotta go?” whined Garrett.

  “Someone needs to stay with the buck and make sure

  whatever that thing is, it don’t take a big bite out of it. I didn’t spend hours in that cramped-up stand to lose our

  dinner to some scavenger. Now go—hurry!”

  Garrett ran out of the woods and into the field, his fear

  nipping at his heels. When he reached the truck, he heard

  his brother scream. He quickly got in, and it started rough, but he gunned it toward the tree line. The pickup bounced

  over the uneven ground. His rifle fell off the seat beside him, and the headlights swept over the barren field, finally shining on the buck and then Carl.

  In the glow of the yellow light lay his older brother. A

  black shape was on top of him, mauling him.

  Seeing his brother in peril, Garrett slammed on the

  gas and sped into the tree line, stopping only yards from

  the scene of the struggle. Quickly, he grabbed his rifle and stepped out of the truck. Carl’s screams made him jittery, almost spastic in movement. He nearly froze seeing his

  brother’s desperate-yet-futile attempts to beat the dog

  away. It was a large, black dog, all right.

  Garrett swallowed his fear, steadied himself, raised

  his rifle to his shoulder in one smooth motion, and fired

  one round at the dog. He heard a deep, ungodly yelp and

  watched as the creature leapt away from his brother and

  disappeared outside the radius of the headlights. Garrett

  • 29 •

  CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE

 
helped Carl up and into the truck, and they rode back down to the house in silence.

  When they got inside, Garrett inspected Carl’s arm

  under the kitchen light. There were teeth marks up and

  down his wrist and forearm.

  “It looks like a dog bite,” said Garrett. “You should

  probably go get a rabies shot or something.”

  “I’ve never seen, or felt, a dog like that before,” said Carl, wincing at the pain. “That thing was strong. But you got him good, man. The mutt’s probably curled up dead

  and cold by now. Thanks...”

  Both brothers looked out the kitchen window then,

  toward the dark fields and forest, wondering if it was still out there.

  They ended up going to the clinic that night to get

  Carl’s arm wrapped properly. The medical staff gave him a

  series of shots and sent him home.

  It was a rainy, restless night for the boys back at

  the cabin. The coyote calls that evening held a special

  significance for them—not that they felt more menacing,

  or that the brothers felt any kind of threat from the small scavengers. But it almost felt like the forest wasn’t as far off as it used to be.

  The next morning was a Saturday. Carl and Garrett walked

  back to the tree line to check on the status of the deer

  carcass and whatever had attacked Carl. When they reached

  the spot, however, all they found was a stripped carcass. The buck had been picked clean during the night, head to tail.

  A few flies buzzed around what little remained of the hide.

  “Holy shit,” said Carl. “There’s nothing left. Check

  out those teeth marks, though.” he pointed out some large

  marks on the ribs and leg bones.

  • 30 •

  CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE

  “Where’s the dog?” asked Garrett, eyes searching.

  Whatever he had shot the night before certainly didn’t die nearby.

  “Dude, check it out,” said Carl, pointing out a trail of

  footprints leading from the deer and into the woods.

  “Let’s go home,” said Garrett, looking deep into the

  forest, the vision of the dog attacking his brother seared into his mind.

  The duo walked the perimeter of the kill site to make

  sure the dog hadn’t just crawled into a nearby bush or

  deadfall, but found nothing.

  They soon headed back to the house for breakfast.

  Carl took out a can of condensed tomato soup from the