Point Pleasant

by Wood, Jen Archer

  Tucker had been a married man, and the tattoo on his arm was a confirmation that Shirley Tucker had held some precious place in the farmer’s life. Had she left him? Or had their marriage met its end by some other tragic means? Ben could not understand whatever motivation had inspired the older man to give away his private writings, but the final page of the most recent notebook, dated just three days prior, was perhaps an indication.

  The entry bore a dark, ominous sketch of the creature from the forest. It was like a scribble gone haywire. Tucker was no artist, but he had used a black pen to present a rough drawing of the thing; it was all wings and long, gangly limbs. The only spots of color were the eyes, which were huge and red against the white page and ink smudges. This visage had locked its gaze on Tucker just one week ago.

  The silence had started soon after.

  Despite his gruff exterior, Tucker was scared. He had made no mention of having work to tend to even though his farm appeared to be active. He had also seemed wary of straying too far from the shelter of his house and the safety of his shotgun.

  Had the Mothman’s appearance served as some kind of threat? Was the penetrating silence of the forest meant to reinforce that warning?

  Ben flipped to a page in one of the first notebooks and re-read the story of Silver Bridge, the bridge that connected Point Pleasant to Ohio over the Ohio River. In December of 1967, the bridge collapsed and forty-six people lost their lives. The ones who survived the initial crash had drowned in their cars or froze in the icy water of the river. Ben was familiar with the event but only as a horrible memory from the town’s history.

  Tucker’s record of the account differed from the standard version of the bridge’s collapse that Ben recalled from his adolescence. Carol Chapman, a reporter for the Gazette at the time, had been out near the bridge at twilight to take photographs of it as it glimmered with Christmas lights. She had snapped several shots before she noticed that there was something off about one of the support towers.

  Somehow, Tucker had managed to obtain a copy of one of the photographs. It was a grainy image, but the form was clear. There was something perched atop the bridge. Something with wide, unfurled wings with a span that made it impossible to ignore. It was the creature from the forest. A note beside the photograph revealed that the bridge collapsed an hour after the image was captured. Five years passed before the Mothman was sighted again.

  Ben checked his wristwatch and saw it had gone past noon. He could go into town to Duvall’s and have lunch there, but he was in no mood to be around anyone else. He enjoyed eating alone; he was accustomed to the practice.

  As he waited for his grilled cheese sandwich to brown, Ben mulled over the photograph of Silver Bridge and struggled to understand how the Mothman could be connected to the collapse. Had it gnawed on the suspension cables? Was it responsible for the devastation, and no one had realized?

  The other accounts featured in Tucker’s notebooks were vague and nondescript from farmers and motorists who had seen the creature flying over the forest or crouched by the side of the road in the middle of the night.

  Ben was not surprised to find his own story in the pages of Tucker’s writings. The farmer wrote of how sure he was that he had shot ‘the beast,’ but he had been unable to find it during his solo venture into the woods.

  What Tucker disclosed in the privacy of his journal, and what he had failed to tell Ben and Nicholas that morning when he had returned to the pickup truck, was that he felt something watching him as he wandered through the dense undergrowth. It had unsettled him, but he had kept that to himself. Ben was thankful in retrospect. He was sure his twelve-year-old self would have nosedived right back into panic mode if Tucker had confessed that something had followed him, unseen, and observed him from a distance.

  The account also revealed that after Ben, Nicholas, and Mrs. Nolan left the Sheriff’s Department that morning, Tucker had not told Deputy Nolan about the creature. He had been certain that the deputy would have thrown him into the drunk tank.

  So Tucker had kept it quiet. After all those years, he never told another soul about the creature he had seen with his own eyes or how he had saved two boys on bicycles from its sharp claws.

  Ben understood Tucker’s reluctance. When Caroline and Andrew found out about Ben’s trip into the woods, they had grounded him for the rest of the summer. Ben told his mother about the experience, but he never brought it up with his father. Caroline relayed some of the details to Andrew, of course; she had been concerned that her son had confused the black-and-white horror films he favored with reality. Much to Caroline’s annoyance and Ben’s dismay, Andrew teased Ben for weeks about the ‘batman’ under his bed.

  After lunch, Ben left the house again. He drove back to town, parked, and strolled down Main Street with his messenger bag draped over his shoulder. He approached the familiar headquarters of the Gazette. Just as he opened the main door to the building, a petite form dressed in a skirt suit barreled out of the entrance and ran straight into his chest.

  “Sorry, sorry! Ben!” said the woman, and Ben realized it was Lizzie Collins. Before he realized it, she was hugging him.

  “Lizzie,” Ben said as he untangled himself from her grasp and offered a genuine smile. “It’s good to see you.”

  Lizzie brushed a hand through her hair, which was dyed black and struck Ben as foreign when he recalled her lank brown hair in high school. She grinned, and the red lipstick she wore complimented her perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. “You’re not here for a job, are you? We’re not hiring.”

  Ben laughed and shook his head. “No, but I am here to see you.”

  Lizzie arched an eyebrow and checked the silver watch around her slim, pale wrist. “I was just running down to grab a coffee and a sandwich from the café on the square. Wanna come? I can’t stay for long. Busy day and all.”

  “Yeah, of course. I could always use a coffee.”

  They walked across the town square to Dawson’s, a new addition to the town that Ben had not yet noticed as it was tucked behind a grouping of trees on the other side of the quad. An elegant sign in the front window boasted: ‘The Best Muffins in Town!’

  “I heard you were back,” Lizzie said as they walked.

  “News travels fast.”

  “You know how it is,” Lizzie snickered.

  “Too well,” Ben said. “I read some of your articles. Associate editor. Good for you.”

  Lizzie grinned again as she strode into the café. “Yeah, not too shabby for a small town paper, I guess. Nothing like you, it seems. Mae told me about the article you’re writing. What publication is it?”

  “Oh, Jump the Shark,” Ben lied. He turned to ask the young man behind the counter for a black coffee. A notice taped to the register advertised free Wi-Fi for paying customers.

  “I’ll have to look it up,” Lizzie said before she placed her order as well.

  Ben paid for his coffee and Lizzie’s lunch despite her protest. “I want to, please,” he insisted and was happy to shift her attention away from his fabricated career as he ripped open packets of Demerara sugar and emptied them into his cup.

  Lizzie gestured to the door. “Let’s sit outside. It’s a bit more private.”

  Ben followed her outside and took a sip of his coffee when he sat beside her on a bench by the fountain in the center of the square. The area was desolate despite its central position. Most people were at work and kids were in school, but the square was never this empty in Ben’s memory.

  “So what did you want to talk to me about?” Lizzie asked before she took a bite of the cranberry and brie on rye.

  “Oh, just the festival, I guess,” Ben replied and tried to sound casual. “But then I read this morning’s paper. Is it true they might cancel the whole thing?”

  “I hope not,” Lizzie said, and Ben could tell she was sincere. “But you know how this town operates. Shoves its head in the sand. Your friend worst of all, I think. No offense.”

&
nbsp; “None taken,” Ben said, realizing she meant Nicholas. “Haven’t spoken to him in years, so I wouldn’t call us friends anymore.”

  “Yeah, what happened with that anyway? You guys were always inseparable,” Lizzie asked and then blushed. “Sorry, I’m still nosy.”

  “Just grew up different, I guess,” Ben said with a shrug as he looked off at the fountain and the Sheriff’s Department on the other side of the square. “But I know what you mean. Head in the sand. Coyotes and raccoons and all.”

  Lizzie rolled her eyes and sipped her coffee. Ben expected to see traces of scarlet on the lip of the cup, but he noted that the paper remained a pristine white.

  “I mean, I am not the type to buy into the whole ‘Mothman’ thing,” she said, and Ben believed her. Lizzie had never been one for flights of fancy. In high school, he had been certain she lacked an imagination entirely. “But at some point, the town officials need to really take a minute and own up to all the weird stuff that happens around here.”

  “Like the cattle disappearances…” Ben started, and Lizzie nodded.

  “That’s not even the half of it.”

  “Oh?”

  Lizzie took another bite of her sandwich. “It’s probably not something I should talk about,” she said. “I don’t believe half the stories I hear. I didn’t even want to write about the Moth in the paper, but you know Richard. Everything’s an opportunity. He figures if we stir up enough intrigue, we’ll pull in more people for the festival next week. More people means more revenue for the town.”

  Richard Fulwell was the grumpy asshole who had run the Gazette for the last twenty years. Ben had worked under Fulwell for two years during his brief stint on the paper, and it had been an experience, but Ben supposed most editors were as batshit crazy as old Richard, and Ben had definitely improved as a writer under Fulwell’s punitive red pen.

  “Which, of course,” Lizzie continued, “is the kind of thing the mayor and the Sheriff’s Department hate. We’re spinning the side of the story the town officials want us to bury deep in that sandpit of theirs.”

  “Guess it’s a good thing Fulwell owns the paper, then,” Ben replied with a sardonic smile.

  Lizzie laughed and sipped her coffee. “Right. He publishes what he wants.”

  “So what are the other things?” Ben asked. “I mean, aside from cattle disappearances?”

  “I thought you wanted to know about the festival?”

  “I do,” Ben said. “We can talk about that too. I guess I still like a good scary story.”

  Lizzie glanced at her watch again. “I’m sure you do. Look, I have to get back to work. But if you want a scary story, you should talk to Jack Freemont. He’s an old drunk, but the things he could tell you would make you sleep with the lights on. Says he hears all kinds of noises coming from the forest. Screeching howls that sound like children screaming.”

  Ben’s throat pinched, but he eyed Lizzie with controlled placidity. “Children screaming?”

  Lizzie stood and dusted a few crumbs off her skirt. “Yeah, crazy, right? Especially if you think about that whole disappearance with the Harper kid back in the day. It’s no wonder people are so protective of their children around here.”

  “True,” Ben said. He walked with her as she crossed through the square to the Gazette’s office. “Listen, we should talk again. I’ll ask about the festival next time, I promise.”

  “Yeah, you do that. You had better feature me in your story. I want a quote and everything.”

  “You got it,” Ben said, but he felt a pang of guilt over the lie. He could name a character in his next book after her. “See you later, Liz.”

  “Bye, Ben.” Lizzie waved and disappeared into the building.

  Ben strolled down Main Street and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. He paused outside Abernathy’s Antiques; the shop was dark, and there was a hand-lettered sign on the door. “Open Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. 10-4. For private sessions with Marietta Abernathy, please redirect yourself to The Purple House on Main.”

  As it was Wednesday, Ben supposed he could forget the idea of a browse. He snickered to himself, wondering if the business of fortune-telling was more lucrative than antiquing, and continued on his way.

  He considered driving out to the Freemont farm; it was a bit further than Tucker’s, but if Ben were honest, he was unsure if he would be able to stand the silence.

  There was a steady set of vibrations against his hip, and Ben pulled his phone from his coat pocket. The phone continued to vibrate to alert him to a call, but there was no number listed on the caller ID, not even the usual ‘Unknown Caller’ message.

  Ben slid his finger across the touchscreen and held the phone up to his ear.

  “Hello?”

  The sound of static greeted him from the other end of the line.

  “Hello?” he repeated, and he nearly dropped the phone as a whining, electronic screech blasted into his ear. When he listened again, the line was dead.

  A black and white Dodge Charger pulled into the empty parking space Ben had stopped by to answer his phone. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the LED light bar atop the Charger’s roof and froze. Ben cast a furtive glance to the side and saw the word SHERIFF written across the driver’s side of the vehicle. He focused on his phone and moved to walk away.

  “Ben,” Nicholas said, stepping out of the car.

  Goddamnit.

  Ben paused and peered up from his touchscreen. “Sheriff.”

  Nicholas lifted an eyebrow and shut the cruiser’s door. He said nothing in response as he joined Ben on the sidewalk. Ben returned his attention to his call log and hoped Nicholas would carry on his own course.

  When Nicholas did not budge, Ben faced him. “Can I help you with something, Sheriff?”

  His question was met with an unflinching stare from the other man. Ben knew this was undoubtedly because of his frosty reception and the way he kept saying ‘Sheriff’ rather than Nicholas’ name.

  “Have a nice drive this morning?” Nicholas asked.

  “I did, thanks.”

  “Couldn’t help but notice you were coming from River Bend Road,” Nicholas said.

  “That’s right,” Ben said. “Thought I’d go sightseeing.”

  “See what you wanted to see, then?” Nicholas asked, regarding Ben through narrowed eyes.

  “For now.”

  “It would be a good idea for you to keep your adventuring to a minimum, Ben.”

  “I’m just visiting old friends. I didn’t realize that was against the law, Officer.”

  “Who might those friends be exactly?” Nicholas asked, and Ben could tell the other man was trying to ascertain whether Ben had gone to speak with Tucker or perhaps Freemont. Probably so he can assess which line of damage control to use. Ben could almost hear Nicholas’ voice in his head, logical and cutting in its rationality. Tucker’s old and reclusive, Ben. Freemont’s the town drunk. You can’t believe anything they say.

  “Anyone. Just not you,” Ben replied.

  Nicholas’ eyes shuttered. For a flutter of a second, it looked like someone had punched him in the gut. “Ben,” he said after a beat of silence, and Ben puzzled over the shifting emotions he could read on the sheriff’s face. “I know things ended badly between us,” he went on, but Ben held up a hand.

  “It’s ancient history at this point, Sheriff,” Ben said, and even he was startled by his complete inability to call Nicholas by his name. “We’re not friends anymore. We haven’t been for a very long time. We’re not going to grab a beer or shoot the shit like the old days. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  “Very well,” Nicholas said, squaring his shoulders. “Then allow me to speak candidly. Not as a friend but as the chief law enforcement officer of Mason County. Rumor has it you are writing something about the Harvest Festival. That’s fine. But see to it you don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. This town doesn’t need you fanning its flames.”

  “Don
’t know what you mean,” Ben replied with an easy smile. “I’m just here to write a story.” This was the truth, of course. Ben was there to write a story, but it was none of Nicholas’ concern what that story was about.

  “I’m serious, Ben,” Nicholas said. “Consider this a warning between old friends. If I find out you’ve been poking your nose around the farmers’ business or pestering townsfolk about anything—and I mean anything—other than what kind of jam their grandmas are entering as a prize for the church raffle, I will personally throw you into a holding cell at the station and keep you for the forty-eight hours the law allows. Do you understand me?”

  Ben’s lips twitched upward. “Freedom of the press, Sheriff,” he replied. “I do believe the law states that I am free to talk to whomever I please about whatever I please. Is this power trip of yours recent or did it start the second they pinned that badge to your chest?”

  “Watch it, Wisehart,” Nicholas said, looming closer. Ben took a moment to appreciate that his former friend had grown into an intimidating bastard.

  They stood with only inches of empty air separating them, and the sheriff’s closeness afforded the familiar scent of a cologne that inspired thoughts of low-hanging Spanish moss. Ben’s throat tightened.

  “You done?” he asked, taking a step back.

  Something unreadable passed through Nicholas’ eyes, but it was gone before Ben could discern its meaning. “Goodbye, Ben.”

  Fuck you, Nic.

  Nicholas turned back to the cruiser. Ben did not intend to watch him go. Again. With a brisk pace, Ben walked around the corner to where he had parked the Camaro and slid into the driver’s seat. He wondered when Nicholas had become such a bully and if he always got his way when he barked orders at the normal townspeople.

  Ben fumed as he reversed out of the parking space. The idea of taking orders—first from Andrew, now from the sheriff of Mason fucking County—grated on Ben’s nerves like a scratchy wool blanket against bare skin.