Out There: A Rural Horror Story

by Cademon Bishop

  As if they were waiting for her, like a lone wolf perched in a field, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

  Side C, Track 4

  Wheelin’

  Record date: September 6th, 1977 6:52pm

  “Don’t get me started on that bike gang. They got it out for me too, ya know. One of em spray painted somethin’ god awful on the side of town hall. Another one hucked a rock through the top winder to my office. I tried to stop em but the police barely put up an effort. What good do them bikers have wreckin’ up a town like ours? We ain’t got shit to do. They got some plan, I know it… When is that damn waiter comin’ with our food? You ever eaten here before?”

  “I believe I haven’t.”

  “Pretty fine place if they didn’t wait a day before you got your order. They got the best drinks in town and that makes up for it.”

  Side B, Track 4 “Just Occasions”

  Harvey slung a shirt on before checking the door. He examined the peephole and got a fish-eye view of the yellow-lit hall. No one was there. With the chain still latched, he creaked the door open. A small Winston cigarette box lay in front of the door.

  After surveying the area, Harvey snatched the carton through the door’s slit like a cat pawing a toy. He shut and bolted the door, then inspected the box. It made no noise as he shook it like a Christmas present.

  Opening up the box, he found a note scrawled on legal paper. Written in red ink was: “Thanks for stopping by 207-789-0205”. He placed the carton in his bag and wandered back to the phone in the suitcase. “Hey, Donald?”

  “What was that?”

  “What if someone knows I am here?” Harvey glanced at the door as if someone stood behind it, watching him. “I just got this weird note with a phone number.”

  “Crap, someone probably knows you’re new. Jesus, this is confusing. Brush it off but stay alert. I had a close encounter, as well.”

  “With what?” Harvey said, “The secretary?”

  “The head of security. I had to sneak into a closet just to call you. It reeks of old rags in here.”

  Harvey slipped his legs into striped pajamas. “You think everything is all darling over here?” He glanced out the window and saw a tattered clump of backyards and old motorhomes. Rain-drenched plastic toys were strewn across untrimmed grass. A streetlamp mirrored the scene in rippling puddles along the road. “I’m in a quaint lodge, the kind that you only see in illustrations on postcards, only problem is that the town looks as though an apocalypse swept through it. Too bad I can’t come back next year and visit.”

  “Hold on, how did you manage to make it in there?” Donald asked.

  “I have no clue, I was driving though a rainstorm, then almost hit a car.” Harvey walked in circles as he talked, the phone cord tethered him back to the suitcase like a dog leash. As he recalled the past events, he glanced out the window once more and watched how the rain tapped down the windowpane. Something caught his eye out in midnight-black woods. Within the spread of thin trees, he saw a pair of glowing eyes staring at him, like distant car headlights. “I don’t know how to explain it, but there are these creatures after me.”

  “Are you sure it is not an animal?”

  “They’re in the shape of people and have these glowing white eyes.” Harvey concentrated at the woods, “It’s gone!”

  Donald paused, “So is it friendly?”

  “I suppose one is..” Harvey spun the note in his hand, “I need to look at this other number, I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

  “Hey, make sure you follow your instructions laid out in the folder. This isn’t some vacation.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Harvey rolled his eyes, “find the target, find the location. Honestly, I’ve had grocery lists more complicated than this.” He clicked the red plastic button on the side of the suitcase, then spun the numbers on dial. He waited for the person on the other end to respond as he got into the bedsheets.

  “Twelve at the Brookside Garden.” The voice on the other end sounded robotic, its tone shifting three times.

  “I think I have plans at twelve. Can we do one?” Harvey tried to sound serious, yet sheepishness stole his words.

  “Twelve.”

  Of course, Harvey had his priorities lined up. The following morning, he idled in the lobby waiting for Debbie. He sat, reviewing his assignment folder, on a wooden booth tucked under a window by the front door. A warped square of light shone out of the window and onto the table. A translucent sea of clouds hid the sun.

  Debbie ambled up the porch steps, and through the front door, a book tucked under her arm. The heels of her coffee-tinted boots clicked with each step.

  Harvey lifted an orange mug towards her, “Morning, Debbie!”

  “Mornin’.” She waved back.

  Harvey was neither a coffee nor tea person; still, he propped the mug on the booth to make himself seem sophisticated, “Got any plans today?” He folded his papers away, twisting his back into cork pop cracks as if he had been working for hours.

  “Gotta see my old friend Michael at a church meeting around six,” She said as she walked behind the desk.

  Harvey snatched his folder and strolled towards her. “Say, if you’re free after that-” He shrugged. “I’m free around seven. Maybe you could show me a fine place to eat? I’ve never been down this neck of the woods.”

  “I’ll probably be free.”

  Harvey felt the reluctance in her voice, but he knew he could change her mind. He was still good, still that dirty blond bachelor. “I’ll see you then,” Harvey strutted to the front door with a smirk and took out a town map in a red tray on his way out. Unfurling the map, he searched for Brookside Garden, where the mysterious caller led him.

  Side D, Track 4

  Crimson Bones

  Michael Brown propped himself on the pristine sink’s outer rim. He glanced up at the metal-rimmed bathroom mirror and stared at his worn, sunken face. Bending over to wash his mouth, he spat again—this time a translucent cherry. A loud knock intruded his silence.

  “Ya almost done in there!?” His sister, Jessica, called behind the bathroom door.

  “Uh... just a second.” Michael wheezed on the other end, hints of iron accenting his breath. He was prone to coughing fits once a month, so coughing up a little blood wasn’t unusual—In fact, the doctor said it was okay for his condition.

  At nine, he contracted a disease that nearly murdered his immune system, leaving him a walking corpse of a person. Then, at fourteen, he stopped visiting the hospital and lived a normal teenage life—somewhat normal.

  If, on the frighteningly rare chance someone could look under the many sweaters or jackets he shrouded himself in, they could see the indents between the bones of his forearms and the way his veins gripped like roots in soil.

  He thought about when he tripped into the rain during recesses at seven years old. His teacher called the kids back inside as it began to storm.

  — — —

  Michael was off by himself and hadn’t heard her shout. It wasn’t until a raindrop fell on the back of his tiny hand that he noticed they were gathering towards the door, the rain trickling down their jackets. Michael fled towards the school, the storm growing. The door was only twenty feet away. A few kids shouted for him, then a few more covered their mouths as he slipped on the lawn and fumbled into the wet dirt. The side of his face burned as he landed in a shallow puddle. He could have melted away if his teacher hadn’t rushed out to grab him. The trail of children stared at him, his tiny body a city on fire as the rain trickled down his face.

  — — —

  He had been on the verge of death ten times—that being one of them. He stopped keeping track after that. The rain was too painful of a way to go. He got to a point where he didn’t mind dying.

  “Stop…” he whispered to himself, gripping his leather-bound Bible in his left pocket. No matter how much he thought about death, he knew that something kept him in this town for some messed up reason. T
he church was one of the few places where he felt unbound to sickness. Michael washed the sink rim and headed downstairs.

  “Oh, Peter, you’ve seen Michael?” His mother, Beth, asked.

  Peter gave off an uncontrollable chuckle, “Probably tripped when he caught one foot in the grave.”

  “Oh, quit it you!” Beth slid a kiss on Peter’s cheek, along with a sliver of cooked ham on a dinner plate.

  “Yup dad, busted my knee too,” Michael said as he walked downstairs. Beth pulled a navy square oven mitt off the marble counter and slapped Peter upside the head.

  “I told ya for the fourth time now! Watch your mouth.”

  “Okay!” Peter said with a mouthful of peach ham sloshing about. “Tank, ya feelin’ any better?”

  “Yup,” Michael grunted as he slipped his shoes on.

  “Heading out?”

  “Yeah, a church thing.” Michael slipped into the sleeves of his indigo raincoat. Peter checked his watch and the calendar.

  “Jesus, that’s late for a church meetin’ why don’t you stay here for a bit?”

  “Can’t, not now. I gotta go.”

  Peter smirked, “Alright, I won’t go on eatin’ all of this… well, maybe.”

  Michael snickered, “Dad, I’ll be back bout 7:30.” He shut the door. Michael always wore his rain jacket, not for the rain, but because it was a layer of protection against anyone witnessing his scrawny arms. The way jacket sleeves cuffed to his wrist and wrapped around his body felt like a mother’s firm hold, the grip he clung to all those nights when he would wake up, get sick, and tiptoe into his parents’ bedroom.

  His dad lent him a car when he was sixteen; a silver ACM Gremlin with the words “Heartland Interior Inc”, printed on its side in blocky blue font. His father ran the company and always planned for Michael to move up as manager. Michael was reluctant about working there but didn’t have much of a choice. His dad was the wealthiest business owner in the area, giving Michael a ticket to success in town where money lost its meaning.

  Michael started the car and turned on the heat. The near setting sun flooded the car with golden yellow light. He glanced at the forest 500 feet down the road and thought about how he had first met Lara and Dian.

  — — —

  When he was six, he saw the shadows of two little girls prancing and laughing into the forest behind his father’s lot. He followed them in. Michael always missed when his legs were strong, willing, and able to run. Weaving like a skier down a hill of trees, he dashed to where the girls played: a wide clearing with an island of cement in the center.

  Michael kicked off his small, blue shoes and felt the green strings of grass scratch his heels. His father stop him from exploring the woods, so he felt like a space-explorer in a comic book. Exploring this strange other world and its even stranger inhabitants.

  “Lara, look!” he heard the darker one saying.

  The pale one with caramel hair staggered up into a protective stance. “Shoo! Our land!” She said, holding a stick as if it were a sword.

  The other one pushed her back, “Hey, he looks nice, and he’s got his shoes off, which means he’s gotta be somethin’ cool.”

  “Dian, I don’t give a crap!” The stick-wielding girl said, squinting at him.

  “I’m Dian…?” Dian held out a hand.

  “Mi, M, Michael,” he shook Dian’s hand. “H, He, Hey, I like your shoes…”

  Lara took one step back, “I’m Lara. Do you wanna play fairies with us?” They scattered around the field and stone bowl, pretending like a dark fairy waded underneath the waters. When he had returned from the woods, his Michael's father ran out of the mill.

  “Michael! Michael, are you alright…” His father knelt down to hold him.

  “I’m fine, Dad, I’m fine,” he said, smothered into his father’s red button-up shirt.

  “Did you see anything out there?” Peter pulled him away and locked his hands on Michael’s shoulders.

  “Yeah? I met some friends out there.”

  “Michael, whatever you do, don’t go back there, you could get hurt. How am I supposed to hear you out there?” Peter pressed him against his chest again. Michael wrapped his little arms, as much as they could, around his father.

  — — —

  Elk Horn Woods peeked between the long storage halls as Michael drove past the Heartland Mill. He still daydreams about what could be out in those woods that was so harrowing to his father. Michael snuck back with Lara and Dian a month after their first visit and, to this day, had no horrifying encounter.

  This week, however, would put him into a different perspective.

  Joselean Springs’s First Baptist was about as enthralling as a remodeled brick covered barn could be. The steeple flushed a cozy ambiance in his heart when the sun hit it just right on fall mornings, reflecting a cross shadow against the parking lot.

  The bible the study was tonight. Michael sat on the far left pew from his friend Debbie. She gave a short wave, and he shimmied closer to her.

  Pastor Kent Holz called off the meeting, Michael kept close to her. Debbie’s gorgeous allure was obvious to Michael; However, he never cared much for beauty.

  It was Lara who he fell for, the way an alcoholic falls for a bottle. He knew with firm intent that Lara had no feelings for him, yet she still plagued his mind, and he would still drip-feed himself into this fantasy. Lara was by no means some perfect goddess—Michael knew goddesses were boring. Yet the saw the fascinating beauty buried within Lara’s rugged face.

  Michael restrained from seeing Lara. That face he longed to see only stung a hollow pain deep inside him. A pain that clung to the back of his psyche and whispered, Ohhhh Michael, I’m not going anywhere, buddy. I’m in this for the long haul because If I’m going down, you’re coming down with me.

  “Michael, I got myself in a bit of trouble…” Debbie rested a hand on his knee.

  His dazed eyes snapped to her hand. “Oh, sorry…” He said, gathering his attention “What happened?” Debbie was prone to dilemmas with men. It wasn’t that she was man-crazy; in fact, she despised most of them.

  “So there’s this guy who walked up at work, and he seemed nice, a little off but nice.”

  “A little off?” Michael squinted at her.

  “But he seemed safe, and now he wants to see me tonight, and I don’t wanna hurt him and say no.”

  “Hurt em?” Michael stood up, waving his hands. “It’s okay, hurt em! We’ve been over this the last three times now, you don’t have to agree with them. You’re your own being.” Michael watched how the stained-glass windows shot prismatic rays on her face as she stood up.

  “You don’t think I want to say no? This isn’t my fault. I sure as hell… I know when to stop.”

  “I’m not tryin’ to say it’s your fault. This is just… well, you know… an ongoin’ problem.” Michael looked down at the carpet. Guilt nibbled at the ends of his fingers, as he tapped restlessly against his jeans.

  “Don’t you think I know that!” she huffed and stormed out of the church. Pastor Kent sent a cheery wave outside as she swung the door open.

  “Debbie, wait!” Michael trailed behind. The outdoors was tinted a dreary purple as the sun set. Michael dashed towards her—as much as his fable legs could. His feet caved in, and he ate gravel as he tripped into the parking lot. Debbie turned and witnessed him bent in an uncontrollable heaving pant. She jogged back to him and held him in her arms. “D, deb, deb,” Michael said between his breaths.

  “Please forgive me,” she clung tighter, feeling the umbrella-like canvas of his coat. For a fraction of a second, the only sounds that encompassed them were the soft crinkle of his jacket, the caws from the birds in the trees, and their breaths.

  “It’s okay, I just worry about you sometimes… actually I worry a lot.” Michael’s tone shifted into a chuckle as he swept tears away from his eyes.

  “I… I worry about you too…” Debbie said.

  “Just be safe out-”
Michael’s voice was cut short as Debbie pressed her lips against his. Her movements were dove-soft, his body was a branch to perch on against life’s storms. He gave in and kissed back. Suddenly the thought of her appeared. Of course, Lara, he thought. You can’t let go, you’ll never let go because of this sickness. A deep voice, separate from his, echoed within him.

  “Michael, don’t be quick to haste.”

  His mind raced. She exhaled. He shuddered. “Quit it!” he shouted to himself.

  “I… I’m,” Debbie shielded her mouth.

  “No, no, I’m… I didn’t mean it.” It was too late. Debbie was halfway across the lot by the time he muttered his last syllable.

  “Go forth, you must warn her!” The second voice called within himself again.

  Was that god? Michael thought. No, no, no, you’re going insane.

  “Warn her of him, he’ll take her near the roses!”

  You are turning absolutely insane.

  As the tires of her car drove over the gravel, that bizarre second voice flushed him with an inescapable emotion, like the feeling you get when you close a great book or when the needle ticks at the end of a beautiful album. It ends as everything ends, the show went on, the song reverberated, the body slumbers, and the lips’

  warmth still lingers.

  “Michael, you need to listen to me!”

  Chapter 5

  Side A, Track 5

  Alone in a Skiff

  Lara was slated to work after her talk with Butch. Clem idled behind the front counter as Lara stocked assorted cans of vegetables. She placed a can of spinach on the top shelf. Clem licked a vienna sausage finger and flipped a page of western romance titled Viola Lee Blues.

  “I always thought bull wanglin’ was your likin’.” Lara shot off within the aisles.