Peculiar Country

by Stuart R. West

  Back where it all started. Smack dab in the middle of the Saunders’ cornfield.

  Frankly, I thought I was dead. Instead of finding out what’d happened to the two missing boys, I’d joined ‘em in death. While I didn’t put too much stock into the notion of an afterlife, a cornfield left a lot to be desired.

  But then I realized how badly my body hurt. My lungs burned, put through the ringer and finely abused. Surely if I’d journeyed down the post-life road, my aches wouldn’t have aches on top of them. I bit down on the space between my thumb and forefinger, gave it a good chomp. I yelped. Blood seeped from a puncture.

  I rallied with a cheer. Pain was generally a sensation reserved for the living, I reckoned. Granted, I found myself in a mighty peculiar state and place, one I didn’t know how to get out of exactly, but if I’d been saddled with a gift horse, I didn’t intend to go exploring its mouth.

  A familiar sound stopped my reverie, set my heart into overtime. Ground-shaking footfalls stormed through the cornfield. Nearby shrieks of hysteria rose. From both Hedrick and Thomas Saunders.

  I parted two cornstalks, privy to a front-row seat of the tragedy about to unfold. Tonight I’d finally witness an ending, I just knew it.

  Across from me, Thomas cowered, tucked up inside himself. Stalks that touched him shook, spread his palpable fear.

  The scythe cut through and Hedrick followed. Panting, sweating, eyes agog.

  “Thomas?” He said, his voice calm, very human. “Tommy? Where are you, son?”

  Thomas didn’t answer.

  “Come on out, son.” Hedrick looked all directions, then lowered his gaze. “It’ll be alright. I aim to get us outta here. Just you and me, son. We’ll be just fine. Tommy?”

  Hedrick spotted Thomas. He heaved the scythe behind him, down the path he’d trampled. Dropped to his knees. Arms out, he beckoned to his son. “There you are. Come here, son.”

  At last, Thomas crawled out and into Hedrick’s waiting arms. Hedrick hugged and Thomas gave back, the two of them fitting together natural as love.

  In the shadows, a third figure crept out from Hedrick’s forged path. The scythe rose, scarred the moon’s face. The weapon swooshed down. Thunked into Hedrick’s back, the sound of a watermelon chunked apart. Hedrick’s eyes burst wide. Thomas shrieked. Hedrick fell forward. His face hit the dirt. Dead eyes glowered at me.

  Thomas cried. He tucked his head between bent knees, wrapped his arms around them, and set to rocking. Shutting out the death of his beloved father and closing off the rest of the world.

  A bad wind, riding shotgun with evil, spat through the field. Corn stalks rattled like bones. A whistle wheezed through the field, a train plummeting down, down, dead straight into Hell.

  The killer stepped into the moonlight. No longer beautiful, Evelyn Saunders had transformed into a monster, a mythical Medusa. Her hair lifted on the wind, snaky tendrils held aloft. Her big, wild eyes saw nothing. Through clenched teeth, she made a sound, not quite a cry, not quite a growl. The scythe dropped from her hands, thumped down at her feet.

  Blood dotted her chest, spattered her skirt.

  Along with the wind, Thomas’s cries died.

  Petrified to move, something itched on my forehead. I risked it, scratched. Pulled away a smear of blood. Hedrick’s blood. Then the warm, rich liquid kept rolling down my face, soaking me. I tried to keep my eyes open, I surely did, but my vision tinted red.

  Waves of flowing blood rolled into the cornfield. Soon, only the tips of the tallest stalks rose above the red tide and I floated into the sea of blood. I let it take me, far downstream, away from the murder and madness. I closed my eyes. And sunk, seeking calm.

  When I opened my eyes, the blood had turned clear. Water again. From a distance, the two boys waved at me. This time I had no trouble catching up to them.

  Yet Thomas and Richard—still typical boys, after all, even while dead—aggravatingly played a game of water tag with me, always staying just out of reach.

  Above, light filtered through the water. An unnatural off-yellow light provided by a bulb.

  Thomas rolled over on his back, stuck his head up above the waterline.

  Then his head flushed back under, held in place by two hands. One moved to grip his throat. Thomas’s feet thrust out frantically. His small, weak hands gripped the killer’s hands to no avail. The strong hands—a man’s hands with tiny hairs floating on the knuckles—held him under until the life left Thomas’s frail frame. His body went limp. Then drifted back and forth slowly, peacefully, falling like a feather. Falling down into the depths of darkness, until he resembled just a white speck on a black velvet landscape. Then—just like his sad, shortened life—he blinked out of existence.

  I turned around. Richard, too, followed Tommy down the drain of life. Fading, fading, gone.

  The man’s hands withdrew from the water.

  Damned determined to see who killed Thomas and Richard, I swam toward the light, the waterline. I burst through the water and gasped in a hideous sounding intake of air. Cool air slapped me.

  I sat in my bathtub. Alone in my bathroom. I peeked over the side, ensuring the tub’s lion claws were at a standstill.

  Other than spilled water next to the tub, everything appeared as I’d left it. Before I departed on my strange trip.

  Quickly, I jumped out of the bathtub. Breathing hard, eyes locked onto the tub, I grabbed a towel. Wrapped it around myself. Then sat on the closed toilet. I didn’t imagine my future held many more baths.

  My hand throbbed. Sure enough, my skin showed remnants of my teeth marks.

  I didn’t rightly understand what I’d just experienced. Didn’t know if I wanted to, either. Part dream, part vision maybe, just like Thomas’s cornfield visits.

  Undoubtedly, though, I now knew who’d murdered Hedrick. But someone else had done away with the missing boys. Drowned ‘em. A man.

  Which tossed my Sooter sisters theory on top of the trash heap. Still, they were mixed up in the mess and I needed to find out how.

  Too exhilarated to go to bed, maybe a tad scared, I sat on the hard porcelain for a good bite of time.

  Back in my bedroom, I grabbed the box off the top shelf of my closet—the box stuffed full of my childhood discards—and pardoned Rags, my teddy bear, from his stay in his cardboard prison.

  Together, we tucked in and kept the bedside lamp burning the rest of the night.

  * * *

  A rooster beat me awake, but not by much. The early bird had nothing on me. I had places to be, people to meet, murderers to uproot.

  The cool early morning temperature sat right by me. The horizon bled from dark to light blue. In the dew tipped grass, I walked my bike toward the road, avoiding the gravel drive so as not to wake Dad. On the road, I paddled slowly past the Saunders’ homestead.

  Wind ruffled through the cornfield, Thomas’s purgatory. Leaves twittered, rattled like paper flags. They waved at me, a welcome, knowing full well I’d come back tonight.

  Filtered sunlight struck the Saunders’ barn, rendered it a darker, duller shade of red, blood red. Pink dappled skies gussied up the house with a deceptively innocent color. On the top floor, a steepled attic, a curtain withdrew through an open window, then exhaled out.

  A moan drifted out, rode the wind, then muddied into sobs. A woman’s voice, Evelyn’s voice.

  Sadness gripped me, wouldn’t let go. I couldn’t really say why, either.

  In fact, everything about today felt different. Menace hung in the air, a dangerous squall ready to unleash. No doubt about it, dark forces were at work, stirring things to a boil.

  As I rode down the road, Mrs. Saunders crying faded like a forgotten dream.

  At the Oak Grove Road intersection, I stopped. Just took in the tranquility of the early morning. Night wouldn’t quite give up its squatters rights just yet, spotty darkness still hanging on. Birds woke, sung to one another. Somewhere off in the distance, a cow lowed and sparked some imitators.

&nb
sp; Down the road I spotted a lone figure, bopping up and down, marching to his own beat. Boot Gundersen, dressed in his military clothes, empty shirtsleeve pinned to his chest, on his way to the telephone company. He raised his hand and I waved back. Hand cupped around his mouth, he hollered at me, his words meaningless barks in the distance. Downright insistent he sounded, but urgency rimmed everything he said.

  But I didn’t have time for a long-winded chat with Boot. I waved again, got on my way.

  I had an important meeting with a couple of witches to tend to.

  This early, downtown appeared to be a ghost town. Just a couple vacant autos lined the street. Sunlight struck the empty storefronts, dazzling diamonds in coal. As I rode past Mr. Simonson’s drug store window, my reflection distorted in a funhouse manner.

  Unimpeded by traffic and townsfolk, I sped through the street. Directly ahead, Stoney had returned to his natural perch, locked down where he belonged. Gently, I set my bike next to the block he sat on, said, “Morning, Stoney.”

  He just glared ahead, vacant gray eyes ignoring me. Innocently pretending like he hadn’t been chasing us last night.

  I walked up the steps, gave no mind to the Library Closed sign, and put my hand on the door knob. The door beat me to the punch and clicked. In exaggerated library silence, the door swung open.

  Soon as I stepped through the double set of doors, the front door automatically locked behind me. The tiny snap echoed through the walls of books. Now I knew how a mouse in a trap felt. My breath buzzed in my ears. Every footstep I put forward ricocheted right back at me.

  On the front desk, a black candle burned. Set into a brass holder, the candle’s flame danced, formed a dark shadow of a woman on the wall behind. Behind the desk, the office door stood ajar, an invitation meant only for me. As if sleepwalking, drawn by the flame, I bumped through the swinging gate doors, and headed toward the office, a room never seen, but wondered about.

  The door handle nearly gave me freezer burn. I yanked my hand back, elbowed the door open.

  Yvette and Miriam sat at the end of a long table. Another dark candle burned brightly in front of them. Clad in black dresses, the material on their shoulders poofed up. Considered mighty stylish back in ol’ Salem days, I imagined.

  Grim and dour—nothing new under the sun there—they remained as unmoving as Stoney.

  “Good morning, Dibby,” said Yvette. Miriam nodded her acquaintance. “Please have a seat.” Miriam gestured toward the end of the table. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  I sat. My wobbly knees very much appreciated it.

  Miriam grabbed her sister’s arm, went through a routine of tugs and nudges.

  “We would like to remind you to refrain from saying ‘ain’t’,” offered Yvette.

  Turned into a frog, my heart extracted through my ears, these things I’d expected. Anything but a grammar lesson. “Excuse me?”

  “There’s no excuse for improper grammar. Last night when you confronted our gargoyle, you said ‘ain’t’ twice. Extremely ill-bred.” Yvette tsked. Miriam tried to.

  “Well, I rightly apologize for that, ma’ams. But I kinda feel that doesn’t hold a candle to your sending Stoney out to do me harm.”

  Miriam appeared on the verge of a seizure. Her head swayed in a trance-like circle, her mouth gulping like an obscene fish out of water.

  Yvette interpreted. “Miriam finds that quite hilarious. She’s beside herself.”

  “My lack of safety ain’t…sorry, isn’t very funny to me. Not from where I’m sitting, at least.”

  “Oh, Dibby, you’re a curious girl. Lately, you’ve surprised us.”

  “Think I surprised myself a bit, too,” I mumbled.

  “Dear child…on what plain of existence could you possibly think my sister and I would ever want to harm you? Why, we’re both actually very fond of you.” They displayed their fondness by remaining stonier than their pet gargoyle. Miriam nodded three times, though, big show for her.

  “Well, that feeling used to go both ways, ladies. Before you sent Stoney after me.” I held my ground, yet not Miriam’s unwavering gaze.

  “For a moment, let’s pretend such a preposterous idea is true, Dibby, and for—”

  “It is. Witchcraft. Your witchery brought Stoney to life and you sent him after me.”

  The right side of Yvette’s mouth hitched. Miriam’s left portion of her lips flicked. Between them, they formed a near smile. “You’ve been reading the wrong type of books, Dibby. Perhaps we should’ve steered you clear of such wild flights of fantasy as Frankenstein and—”

  “Dagnabbit, let’s just get on with it! Forgive my impertinence, but we all know you’re witches! I’m not gonna spill your secret to anyone. I just want to know why you sent Stoney to kill me!”

  The sisters turned toward one another. Finally, Yvette said, “Very well. We’ve always known you’re a bright girl, Dibby. It’s true, we are witches. And, yes, we sent our gargoyle servant after you. But, answer us this…did he hurt you?”

  I paused. I’d never gotten past what I imagined he’d do to me. “I suppose not.”

  “Did he threaten you in any manner?”

  “No. Gave us quite a fright, though.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose to the uninitiated, ‘Stoney,’ as you call him, might present a rather disturbing sight.” Miriam shrugged, tossed up who’s to say? hands. “But, know this, Dibby…not for one minute were you in danger from our servant. But you are clearly in danger from others. Which is why we took it upon ourselves to liberate our gargoyle to watch over you. As you surmised, I kept tabs on you through its eyes. And Miriam listened.”

  Stoney as a watchdog hadn’t been something I’d considered. I felt dumb as a box of rocks, no offense to Stoney himself. “So…you were worried about me?” Twin nods. “And you sent Stoney to safeguard me?”

  “He’s excellent at keeping us informed. Unfortunately, his bones aren’t what they used to be. Other than flight, he moves rather slowly, old age catching up to him. Happens to all of us. Isn’t that right, Miriam?” Miriam entwined her fingers, flexed, and cracked a slew of knuckles. “So, our servant’s limited in how much actual safeguarding he can do. But we’ve been keeping our eyes on you through him. Oh, yes we have.” She tapped her dark glasses.

  “Why? Why not just come to me? Talk to me, dang it.”

  Miriam dropped hands onto the table, sulked. “Oh, dear, you really must watch your tongue, Dibby,” said Yvette. “Truth of the matter is, we wanted you to abandon your silly Nancy Drew aspirations, particularly in regards to the poor missing Saunders’ boy. What we actually know as fact about the entire sordid situation surrounding the Saunders doesn’t amount to much more than an anthill of rumor. And as librarians, of course, we would never fall back upon rumor.”

  They beamed. Somewhere celestial librarians blared trumpets.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “One thing we do know for a fact is you’re involving yourself in a dangerous situation.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Excuse me?” The sisters frowned, leaned forward.

  “Sorry. Why do you reckon my peeking into the Saunders’ affairs is so dangerous?”

  “Dibby Caldwell!” Miriam slammed down her fist, the physical portion of her sister’s indignation. “We do not ‘reckon’! The very idea. It’s uncouth.” Miriam nodded, formal lower lip stuck out. “But it doesn’t take a coven of witches to see the whole town’s in an uproar over your antics.” Again, Miriam lolled around on her seat, cawing silently to crows everywhere.

  Once Miriam worked the hilarity out of her system, Yvette continued. “The entire circumstances surrounding Hedrick and Thomas’s disappearances have always been subject to idle gossip. Most people—including your father, I must say—have suspected foul play for a while. But there are forces at work, those we can’t intuit or divine, people who want the entire matter hushed.” Miriam tsked. “They’ve done a fine job for years. Until you reopened old woun
ds. And might we ask why the Saunders family has become so crucial to you?”

  “Thomas’s ghost started appearing to me. I think he wants me to find out what happened to him”

  The witches took it in stride, nodded, a ho-hum day in the dark arts of the arcane. “Now, that certainly explains a lot, doesn’t it, Miriam?” I wondered if Miriam ever got tired of nodding.

  “Well, I know I’m putting a lotta bees in folk’s bonnets,” I said. “Seems like everyone in town’s got some say in the matter, but won’t tell me boo about the truth. Would you ladies care to enlighten me on anything?”

  “If we knew something of import, we’d surely tell you, Dibby. As we’ve said…we’re rather fond of you and wouldn’t like to see you harmed. But sometimes even witches can’t uncover well-cloaked secrets. Who’s to say why? Some things—dark things—are beyond anyone’s ability to uncover, buried deep as they are. Be wary of everyone. Heed our words, Dibby Caldwell, everyone.”

  I nodded. “Words to live by, I reckon.” They sighed at my faux pas. “So…I’m sorry to ask this, but…why do you think Hettie might’ve implicated you ladies in the whole affair?”

  Their jaws dropped, aghast. “Us? Why…that’s ridiculous! And what on earth are you talking about?”

  “Um, well… After she died, Hettie visited me.”

  Yvette sighed. “I suppose Hettie’s still trying to cause trouble for us.” Naturally, Hettie’s ghostly visit didn’t confound them, but her prank from beyond shook the sisters to their core. “How, pray tell, did she implicate us?”

  “She drew a six-pointed star on my dad’s freezer door. A hexagram. I thought she meant a witch had done away with her.”

  “Hmph.” Both Sooters tapped long fingernails on the table. In front of them, the candle whiffed out. No doubt Hettie’s ears burning from the beyond.

  After a long pause, Yvette withdrew a piece of paper and pencil from a folder on the table and scooted them toward me. “To the best of your memory, recreate Hettie’s drawing. Michelangelo, she wasn’t, after all.” The sisters shared another creepy laugh.