Out There: A Rural Horror Story

by Cademon Bishop

  “Fire away.” Stockwell was about to take another sip from his paper cup but poured it back into the glass.

  “When is it right to kill someone? I know that sounds weird but.”

  “Becket… death is different in our field.” The subject shocked Stockwell into a near sober state, yet the undertones of alcohol curved the tip of his breath. “In the army death is an enemy, death fights you, it’s a tank, it’s a grenade, it’s those rare morning alarms of gunfire… In the rest of the world, you fight death, it’s cancer, it’s old age, it’s not knowing that the light turned red… I guess it’s…” Stockwell placed his chin into his hand, “Is it right? Is it right… I guess it’s right when death fights you, like some man out to kill ya, but-” Stockwell folded his hands. “If you’re fighting death, then no. It isn’t right. You shouldn’t control that, that’s life, ya know… I’m not in the best condition to explain it, but you understand.”

  “What if you didn’t kill them, but knew you were responsible for it?”

  “Oh… I, well… I mean yeah, life should have taken its natural way.” Stockwell shook his head. “I’d say it isn’t right if you meant to do it.”

  “Thanks for talking, I guess.” Harvey slipped out of the tent and asked the guard where the bar was.

  “It’s a three-minute drive down that road. We can drive back now if you think you’re ready.” The guard said.

  “Nah… I’m in a mood to walk, but thanks.”

  “You sure? It’ll take you like twenty minutes to walk and-”

  “It’s fine! Is Donald here?” Harvey asked as he wandered down the row of lit tents.

  “Donald should be down by the vehicles, next to spotlight three.”

  Harvey nodded and slipped between two tents.

  Donald leaned against a spotlight stand. The tip of his cigarette lit like an orange star in the dark. Harvey stumbled down a rocky hill, out of the spotlight’s reach, and leaned against the machine by Donald. Harvey stayed silent for a moment, trying to piece together how much the government knew about the town. Donald’s cigarette bobbed as he glanced at Harvey.

  “How much of it was a lie?” Harvey asked. He kept his gaze glued on the camp above the hill.

  “All of it,” Donald sighed and tossed his cigarette on the ground. “You making any progress?”

  “What about your dad? Did he really die trying to get out here?”

  “He did die, but it had nothing to do with this.”

  “Then what’s the reason to all of this, what does the government—”

  “I can tell you all I know but I’m just as clueless as you are.” Donald took a moment to take in his cigarette. “In 1959, one of the Pentagon officials had a sudden fixation on the town. People thought they were possessed, and they nicknamed the phenomenon the ‘Joselean Phantom’. Later on, they sent a group to survey the area and implant these machines I made. In the sixties, the Joselean Phantom stuck once more and got a program named Red Acres Inc. sent food and supplies into the town.

  “People thought it was some anti-Russian project or an Area-51 situation when truck blueprints leaked. Even those within the program couldn’t say what the meaning behind it all was. Things lulled for the next fifteen years until 1977, they have been planning something for that year.”

  “Who” Harvey stepped forward.

  “There. Do you see that?” Donald interrupted, he pointed towards the vivid expanse of stars.

  Harvey squinted at the celestial sea, “No… no I don’t.”

  “Exactly,” Donald rested his hands behind his neck as he leaned on the humming spotlight generator. “I think this is beyond us. We are just pieces to this ethereal game of chess. You think we caused any of this? You think I had any other choice? We’re just waiting for the checkmate home.”

  Without a word, Harvey hiked towards the dark road towards the bar. He glanced behind him as saw the glint of the base in Donald's glasses, looking back at him. Harvey turned around and watched the army men move like ants under the spotlight glare.

  Something finally clicked in his mind as he walked down that gravel path.

  Side D Track 10

  Need a Drink?

  All stars are dead; above him was only the twist, wind, and whirl of streets. Michael weaved through the assortment of creatures that roamed the pavement. A four-armed man with dark blue skin flushed by his right. An olive-skinned elderly woman with a horn on her head stumbled past his left. Michael only knew one thing for certain: he couldn’t go back.

  A neon-red sign flickered above him: “The Bar at the End of the World.” He swung open the metal sheet front door and slipped in.

  The place smelt clean, a sickening bleach-like clean that leaves you on the frill of nausea. The bar edge had a soft yellow under-glow. indecipherable posters were tossed on a couple walls. One poster was a simple white print with multicolored shapes tossed about, another one was a dark mesh of shivering static that evoked a strange fear within Michael. He shuffled towards the bar seating as nonchalant as his out of breath body would allow.

  A man in a sand tan uniform sat a seat or two away from him. He had an all too familiar red band with a black symbol strapped to his arm, a mustache that looked like a miniature black carpet taped on his top lip, and hair cut short and draped to one side. He sat drawing something with a fountain pen on a bar napkin, then laugh a little and toss it back.

  There was an entire mound of these napkin drawings pooling under the man’s seat. Michael studied each one but couldn’t make out what they all meant. One was a rather impressive drawing of a pond, piled around it were collections of the same pond with slight variations. Further back he could see a napkin that was a well-shaded depiction of ruins. A slender man with low hanging ear lobes worked behind the counter.

  Michael watched the mustached man in the mirror behind the assortment of bottles, jars, and cartons along the back wall. The man smirked as he finished another napkin, slid it out of view and pulled up a new one. A drink appeared in front of Michael despite him not saying a word to the bartender. He lifted the short glass and swirled it, a brown liquid weaved within the glass.

  The drink had a nostalgic taste that he nearly forgot. Michael realized that the liquid was the same chocolate milk his mother always kept stocked in the fridge. He looked at the bartender who gave him a wink and continued on wiping the rim of a wine glass. Michael shuddered as heard heavy tapping footfalls stop right behind him. He tried to ignore the sound and sip on as if he were a regular.

  “Lost, kid?” A deep voice asked. Michael swiveled around and saw a seven-foot-tall crimson skinned man in front of him. The man’s nose protruded 6 inches from his face into a rounded Pinocchio point and had wavy black hair that flowed down to his black-winged back.

  Michael spilled a little of chocolate milk on the glowing glass counter, “Uh, I’m sorry what?”

  The red man cocked a thick black eyebrow, “You are lost.” The creature glanced down and stroked his chin, “Your shadow says so, it’s darker than all of ours.” Michael compared his dark, defined shadow to the mustached man’s light, fuzzy shadow. The man cocked a radiant smile. “Don’t be afraid, I do not rat out. I only guide those lost, and… you look as lost as you could get. Call me Toro.”

  “I’m…” Michael hesitated to think of a fake name. Ah, forget it. “I’m Michael.” He could hear loose feather flap as Toro sat on the stool beside him.

  “Michael, why are you here?”

  Michael slipped some chocolate milk, “I fell in here and-” He stopped as he heard the Toro stifle a laugh.

  “I’m sorry, that’s a classic, continue.”

  “Well, I fell in and this man rowed me in and started tellin’ me how this whole place works and I, I don’t know, I feel like I’m fine with just bein’ down here.”

  “You are a wise but fearful man Michael, I sincerely congratulate you on your fearlessness of death, however,” Toro stroked his sideburns with a finger and a thumb. “You have a f
ear of living, you don’t belong here.”

  “I never feel like I belong in the first place.” Michael said.

  “Death is something that should never be feared. However, never beginning to live is far more frightening… Do you still want to be lost?”

  Michael thought about this question as he watched the cocoa swirls of his drink, “Yes.”

  Toro waved him towards the back of the bar, then grasped a metal orb on the bottom of his vest and produced a long metal rod. A set of thin rings clanked on the top of the rod. Toro tapped the staff twice on the ground. The wooden floor emitted a yellow glow, then the bar around them vanished in purple ripples. Michael found himself in a vast purple forest. Toro’s long cherry-red nose darted like a conductor’s baton as he studied the area. The sky had a deep violet overcast. Lavender vines grasped along the dark tree bark. Clouds moved bizarre speeds overhead.

  “Now,” Toro tapped once more, and a door appeared. “You want to be lost? This door will take you.” Toro bowed in front of the door. “I hope you may find yourself in the beyond.”

  Michael grasped the doorknob, pausing as he felt the cold metal in his hand. He turned back hoping to stay in the city, hoping to know just where he was, but Toro was no longer in sight. The door creaked as Michael opened it.

  He walked into to a to a small gray room. Everything looked like it came out of the 1800s. A rusting pot rested on a iron cast stove in one end of the room; plates collected dust on a circular table; empty candle sticks rested on the fireplace mantle.

  Michael realized that not a single object in this place had color, even his teal raincoat became various shades of gray. It was as if he were stuck in an old photograph.

  A crib rested near a window, and a woman in a white dress stood in front of the crib. A baby lulled, frozen in the crib. The woman’s hands moved stream smooth as she grazed the top of her baby’s forehead. Her dove gray face was expressionless as she turned to Michael, “How did you come here?”

  “Well, I came through this door.”

  The woman turned to the door, back to Michael, then to the crib. “Staying is all that’s good around here. Why move when all things enter and exit.” She trailed a glass-like finger down the bridge of the baby’s nose. The infant didn’t react, didn’t move, it simply lay with chubby hands sprawled on dove white sheets. The mother grazed a finger across her child’s porcelain cheeks as she spoke. “This is the movement of pain. I stay, you may stay… but not here.” The woman pointed out the window, then returned her hand on the edge of the crib.

  Michael looked outside through the open front door fields of pine green grass rippled, and dry, thunderous clouds filled the sky. He noticed a wide flicking line of yellow lights on the cusp of the horizon to his left. Michael assumed that’s where the city was. An occasional mountain or hill would pop up and block the city. Opposite from the glint of the city was a thin strip of darkness. It was as if the field was sandwiched between two infinite landscapes. He stepped out of the house. Color seeped back to his jacket in muted pastel hues.

  Michael strolled towards the void. The cream shack of a house he was in grew into a white speck behind him. His head tangled with thoughts, I’m not worth anything. It’s not worth the trouble. Stop. This isn’t right. I can still help out the town. You’re gonna die one way or another. what’s the point?

  He thought back to what Toro said: ‘never beginning to live.’ What’s the point? All I ever lived was pain, every day was some new hurtle. Stay here, keep on going… you just gotta get used to this. Michael wondered on. He saw the outlines of other houses far off in the distance. Thunder rolled and crackled above him like a distant crush of waves. His mind still had the occasional tug towards thoughts of home. Even your dad had pain in store for you. You’ll never find someone to be with, you’ll never be physically or mentally okay, so stop.

  Michael paused as he noticed a black speck off in the distance. He squinted to figure out what it was. The speck stood in front some dark line. Just as he was about to see what the black line was it flicked back into a shimmering spot on the ground. Michael realized it was a little boy by a small pond. He trudged down a steep hill and sat on a rock next to the boy. The boy wore light overalls and had hair that reminded Michael of Denver. The pond was as tranquil and as flat as a mirror.

  “Hey, sir!” The boy said as he smiled at Michael reflection in the water.

  “Well, good-” Michael wasn’t sure whether it was morning, afternoon, or just no time at all. “Good afternoon!” he settled on.

  The kid grabbed a few smooth pebbles out of his overall’s pocket, “Mama lives down there.” The boy pointed to the water. The pond was a meager five feet across.

  Michael bent over the rock and looked into the depths, “Mama?” He asked, eyes still glued to whatever the water could be hiding. He turned to the dark void behind him, then back down at the pond, pondering on whether to turn around or do some sightseeing.

  “Yup, she’s there, go on and see.” The boy tossed another pebble into the water. Plonk. Michael lay down on the rock and touched the water with one hand. It was cold and vibrating. Michael yanked his hand out, thinking it place some curse on him. His hand was fine, cold, but fine. The pond rippled as Michael leaned over the rock and sunk his head in. He opened his eye, expecting Mama to be a drowned person or some odd rock tossed in. Faint particles shimmered in the water-warped light above him. Vibrations shook the particles in rhythmic, warming warbles.

  Then she came—crept forward.

  At first, Michael thought his eyes had merely connected the dust into a shape but saw it move far, far below. Bubbles swarmed Michael as he shouted and tried to pull himself up. He got a foot above the water before being forced back down.

  The kid hopped on his back and pushed his head down with one tiny hand. The last gulp of air burned in Michael’s lungs as he squirmed. He franticly kicked the kid with his heels, but his efforts were too flimsy. He saw Mama move again; this time closer. She was like a long glistening string or a snake with no foreseeable head, continually bending in the water.

  Then a second-string appeared, blurry behind the first. They moved in the same rhythmic flag wave ripple. Bubbles seeped out of Michael’s mouth as he tried to grab the kid’s hands and pushed him up.

  Down, Michael thought, Jesus Christ, the only way I can go is down. Pebbles spilled onto the back of his neck as the kid pushed further. Michael grasped blindly to the rock and pushed, leaning his entire body weight along with him. The kid tried to pull back, but it was too late. They both slipped in.

  Bubbles sprayed around them as they sunk. Michael swam towards the pale light of the surface. He gasped as he reached the top, and with shaky hands, he clutched the dirt edge of the small pond. He tried to pull himself up, but his feet swung forward. The pool didn’t end at its lip. His legs swung into the vast cool dark beneath the ledge. The small opening was an entrance to a vast sea.

  Michael lay two hands on the grassy edge and heaved himself up. Just as he was waist high out of the water, the boy shot up, gasping, his arms swinging towards Michael.

  Michael’s arms shook as his meager biceps heaved himself forward. A stroke of thunder rolled overhead, making the pond flicker for a faint second. Nearly out of strength and out of breath, Michael hurled himself forward and dug his fingers into the hillside.

  The boy cried behind him, “Heeeelp!” His breath was both in and out of the water, causing him to choke a little as he spoke. “Helllp.” Michael’s head darted to the boy and then back to the strip of black at the field’s end far behind him. “I’m sorryyyyy!” The kid's teeth chattered as he tried to swim towards the edge.

  Michael’s breath grew quick and anxious as he debated on saving the kid or returning to where he was headed.

  “I hadda to do it, really, I hadda, you-” The kid gulped for air, nearly swallowing half a cup of water. “Mr., please, I was just havin’ fun.” Michael ran to the rock and knelt down—his eyes wide and scurrying.
“I ain’t got nobody to play with down here.” The kid’s lip trembled.

  Michael laid down and reached out, his other arm clung to the back corner of the rock, “Grab on!” He shouted.

  The kid spun around, trying to find where Michael’s voice had come from, then found him. Michael leaned forward and tried to grasp the kid’s wrist. Their wet fingers caught hold, then lost grip. The boy splashed up. His fingers found Michael’s and almost seized hold, fingertips dangling on Michael’s palms.

  Michael shouted once more, “Come on!” And tried to grasp the small hand.

  The boy let out a quick gasp, then sunk like a pebble into the water.

  Michael couldn’t see him anywhere—the pool only reflected the sky. He stood up, unsure as to what had just happened. Cold water dripped down every inch of his body, producing a miniature rainstorm around his shoes. He paused and glanced at the dark horizon for one last time, at the small cottages spread hundreds of miles apart on the grassy plain, at the strip of yellow stars where the city was, and looking back down into the pond he jumped in.

  Frigid water flushed through his jacket. He swam downward, arms flailing towards the dull depths. His eyes stung as he opened them. He couldn’t see Mama or the boy. He sunk further, air streaming in a tight line of bubbles from the corner of his mouth. A tendril shone in the dark. He saw Mamas eyes.

  Her face floated, a mask that resembled an exploded chunk of plastic. A crack, where he assumed her mouth to be, opened and produced a low vibration.