by Jan Tilley
Malachi was amazed how most teenagers thought that oldsters were completely oblivious, but in actuality, they take it all in. He was very astute and kept a keen eye on everyone who came in and out of his hollow. Watched the boys intently with Baxter at his side, he patiently waited for them to finish up. Gently patting the beagle on the head, Malachi told him what a good dog he was.
The boys whispered to each other and left the store without purchasing a single item. The first two scurried out the door without even acknowledging Malachi. The new boy was last to leave. He nodded and embarrassedly smiled at Malachi. Nodding back with a stern face, he couldn’t help but wonder how he got caught up with this bunch of deviants.
Malachi watched them drive away, far too fast across the rickety old bridge. He didn’t want to stir up trouble. Calling them out over a candy bar would just offer them a reason to try to get back at him. He felt that it was best to let karma take care of these situations. Shaking his head, he looked at Baxter and said, “Kids these days.” He said it as though the dog understood him.
They made their way back to the kitchen to finish their supper. Malachi pulled the crusts from his sandwich and tossed them to Baxter, who caught them in mid air. Somberly, he finished up his own supper. When he was done, he smiled at his furry friend with a twinkle in his eye, and said, “Time to work on some cryptics.” Quickly, he washed up the dinner dishes and made his way to the storefront. Looking out the hazy panes of glass, he flipped the ‘Open’ sign around to ‘Closed’ and locked the door.
He slowly made his way out back to his workshop. His stump of an index finger scanned the dates of a calendar that hung on the wall. “Better change some batteries, Baxter. It’s Saturday night and it’s sure to be busy. I don’t want to let anyone down.”
He pulled out his old, green tool box and restocked items he thought he might need for the night. “Yep, that should do it,” he said and then lectured Baxter. “Run on home, now. I don’t know why Roberta leaves you out like this. As much as I enjoy your company, I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Malachi had a pet dog of his own about ten years ago, a beautiful husky. The dog developed heartworms and died a slow, painful death. It broke Malachi’s heart to watch his best friend suffer like that. He vowed to never get attached like that again. Baxter was his friend, but he was quick to shoo him back home to Roberta, where he belonged.
At a slow and steady pace, he made his way out the back of his store to his old, red Chevy pick-up which was parked behind the store. It waited for him, like a long lost friend. Placing his tools into the truck bed, he unlocked the door and gently slid into the driver’s seat. A smile crept across his face as he greeted her, “Hello, Rosie. Ready to have some fun?” Taking a rag from under the seat, he dusted off the dashboard as he patiently waited for her to warm up. When she was ready he coaxed her into drive and off they went.
Two
Malachi had made it his personal mission to keep Rogue’s Hollow on the map. Stories of the local hauntings were legendary. Many nights, the ghosts did just fine on their own, but sometimes they took a well-deserved break. That’s when Malachi would step in and become their personal assistant.
It had started about forty years ago, mainly out of Malachi’s own boredom. Surprisingly, word spread like wildfire throughout the area as the locals whispered, “The evil has risen, it’s back!” Business at the general store doubled almost overnight. Folks came from all over hoping to hear the faint sound of weeping at Cry Baby Bridge, or catch a glimpse of Maggie watching them from the upstairs window of the burned-out remnant that was once her childhood home.
Malachi had a state-of-the-art system set up with motion and sound detectors. He tinkered with his ‘cryptics’ almost every day. It had become his hobby and he enjoyed the thrill almost as much as those on the receiving end of his antics. He was tight-lipped and so far, folks hadn’t caught onto him.
The hardest thing for him to do was to set a deception and simply walk away. Malachi loved to hang around, lurking in the shadows, watching the reactions of the frightened and curious visitors. Sometimes, their feedback got him so tickled that he could barely stand it. He would be forced to cover his mouth and stifle his laughter so he wouldn’t get caught.
The legend of Cry Baby Bridge began decades ago when a young family was traveling over the bridge on a cold, wintry December eve. Their car hit a patch of ice which caused them to slide off the bridge and into the frigid waters. The mother and father were knocked out and drowned almost instantly, but their baby lingered. It did not perish in the crash, but died overnight from exposure. It’s rumored that if you go to the bridge late at night you can still hear the hungry, freezing baby crying out in the darkness for its parents.
Malachi and numerous other locals believed that they’d actually heard the faint crying of the infant child, but those incidences were few and far between. So, Malachi took it upon himself to assist the ghost baby.
First he set up a motion activated sound system just down the creek and out of sight. But, he discovered that every passing car was triggering the machine. So, he tweaked it and now had a more advanced contraption that was not only motion, but also sound activated. Only at night and when there was a loud noise, like slamming car doors or voices did the machine release the faint infant cries. There were times when it sent chills down Malachi’s spine and he knew exactly where the sound was coming from. Local teenagers and tourists would run back to their car and peel out, screaming as they fled for their lives down the road, leaving Malachi in the woods with a big smile and a good laugh.
It was sure to be a busy Saturday night, and he needed to replace the batteries at the Cry Baby cryptic. He parked Rosie and headed into the woods to begin his maintenance routine.
Twigs and sticks crunched under his boots as he meandered around the canopy trees that have stood proud and tall for centuries in these old woods. Malachi loved this forest. It was home to him, the only home he’d ever known. The sweet smell of honeysuckle filled the air. Rogue’s Hollow was more than just a hometown to him. Here, he had a spiritual connection to the land and his ancestors who had walked these very paths decades ago. There was an undeniable bond that linked them together and he couldn’t even imagine living anywhere else.
As he began tinkering, his concentration was broken by a commotion at the bridge. “Customers already?” he grumbled. “It’s barely dusk. Folks should wait till dark for a real scare.”
He hid behind a large oak tree and peered down the river bend. Squinting and focusing his eyes, he saw the three kids from the store stopped at the bridge. They were armed with beer cans and smoking cigarettes as loud rap music permeated the air from their parked car.
Malachi watched them for a while and then muttered, “Kids will be kids. They just want to test the limits and push the boundaries. Nothing wrong with that, as long as they keep it under control. I used to be young once. I think.” He chuckled to himself and returned to his tinkering. “There,” he contently proclaimed, “Cry Baby is ready for another rousing Saturday night in Rogue’s Hollow.”
He tested the machine out on the boys, but their music was so loud that they didn’t hear a thing. Malachi could barely hear the baby’s faint cry himself and he was standing right next to the machine. Shaking his head in disgust, he gathered his things and headed out. “What ever happened to real music like Sinatra and Bing? I can even tolerate the Beatles, but this isn’t music at all.” Laughing at himself, he said, “Wow, you really are old, aren’t you?”
His feet shuffled down the dirt path to where Rosie was parked. He could hear the boys yelling. They were cursing and getting pretty rowdy. He stowed his gear in the back and drove toward the bridge. As he neared their car, he saw the boys stash cans of spray paint into their trunk. They didn’t even attempt to hide the beer cans or cigarettes they were smoking.
Malachi pulled up slowly and made eye contact with each of them. Two of the boys just glared back with hostile faces, but the thi
rd boy nodded, acknowledging Malachi. He nodded back in return at the young man. Shaking his head, he drove away and cringed. “Well, looks like Roberta’s gonna have her work cut out for her tomorrow.”
He veered up a steep, narrow, over-grown drive and pulled up behind the charred remains of Maggie’s house. The front of the house was still intact, but the back section was nothing but blackened rubble. Some folks wanted to tear it down, but Malachi and a few others fought to keep it standing. It’s an intricate piece of Rogue’s Hollow history. Plus, where would Maggie go if they tore down her house?
It was part of his weekly ritual to stop by and pay his respects to Maggie. He parked Rosie out back and solemnly stared at the ruins. Shaking his head, he whispered, “What a shame. It was such a beautiful house in its day.”
Malachi sat patiently, his breathing shallow as he watched the house. He remembered little Maggie just like it was yesterday. Her hair curled in ringlets with a white ribbon, tied into a bow, on the top of her head. She always wore a beautiful, white, flowing nightgown. The same one she had on the night she died. That was a dreadful night of sirens and tears. And poor Maggie, sweet little Maggie, was dead at the scene. She was always such a shy girl. She was his best friend.
He fondly recalled playing hide and seek with Maggie for hours in that grand old house. Malachi was supposed to spend the night with Maggie the night she died, but he’d gotten in trouble with his Mom over something silly and his punishment was not being allowed to stay with his friend.
All alone, he sat in the driveway and wondered once again what would have happened if he had spent the night. Could he have saved his friend? Or would he be dead right along with her?
Malachi watched as the remnants of the second story curtains slowly began to move. Most folks weren’t patient enough for Maggie, but there were some that had reported seeing her in that abandoned upstairs window.
With a contented sigh, it was time to head home for the night. People would be showing up soon and he didn’t want to stand in the way of their fun.
He had one more stop to make. He grabbed a gallon jug of water and made his way up the stairs to the second floor of an old abandoned house at the three-way stop in town.
The Mills’ house was the site of a ghastly double murder suicide back in the seventies. Mr. Mills had come home from work early one day and caught his wife on the couch with a neighbor man in a compromising position. Mr. Mills snapped and bludgeoned them both to death with his work hammer that was still hanging from the side-hoop on his carpenter’s jeans. He was known to be extremely jealous and this act of betrayal was the final straw.
Calmly, Mr. Mills then took a shower and made himself a sandwich for supper. He lit a cigarette and sat in his lazy-boy chair in the living room, inspecting his work. One can only imagine the thoughts that went through the man’s mind at that moment. He finished his cigarette and extinguished it neatly into a nearby ashtray. Then he proceeded to lift a sawed-off shotgun and shower the beige wall behind him with his own brains.
As hard as the new owners tried, they could never wash the stain off the living room wall. Fresh coats of paint were soon soaked through with the reddish-brown reminder of the evil deed that had been committed here. Eventually, the new owners fled from the house and left it abandoned where it still stood today.
Malachi opened the container and poured the jug of water into an exposed pipe. Then he slowly descended the old staircase, and walked into the living room, inspecting the wall which was becoming moist and discolored. He smiled, “The house that drips blood is bleeding yet again. Thank goodness for rusty old pipes.”
Once Malachi returned to the mill, he parked Rosie out back, gave her a pat and said, “See you tomorrow, old gal.” He headed inside to wind down from the day. It was getting dark out and even though he wasn’t a skittish man, he knew better than to tempt the darkness of Rogue’s Hollow.
He settled in for the night and turned on the old boob tube and to catch the end of The Lawrence Welk Show. It was his mother’s favorite television show. He always thought of her when he watched it.
His mother, Norma, was a spirited woman in her younger years, or so he’d been told. Never took a husband and had him out of wedlock, which was quite a scandal in a small town in those days.
Malachi only remembered her much older and in ‘mama mode’. She was a very good mother and worked like a dog to put food on the table, she never rested. As he recalled, she was working, cooking or cleaning every minute of every day.
Malachi was Norma’s only child and she doted on him. There was never a daddy in the picture, but there were lots of men-folk at the mill who stepped up and gave him guidance, and a swift swat to the rear if he needed it.
His mother had been gone almost thirty years now. It was hard to believe. The only time she’d sit and rest was when Lawrence Welk was on T.V. Malachi watched the show because he enjoyed the throwback songs, clothes, and attitudes, but also to honor his mom. Even after all these years, he still missed her terribly.
His foot tapped to the ending song, Bubbles In The Wine, and he smiled as bubbles engulfed Welk’s set. That was always his mother’s favorite part of the show.
As he kept beat with the music, he heard a faint noise. Someone was knocking at the mill door. It was very unusual this late at night. The hairs on the back of Malachi’s neck stood on end as he muted the television.
It was moments like this that he wished he had a dog of his own. “Where’s Baxter when I need him?” Malachi whispered. Cautiously, he made his way to the front door and flipped the switch to turn on the exterior lights.
He leaned in close and peered out, but couldn’t see a thing through the dirty window panes. He whispered to himself, “I’ve got to clean this place.” He paced back and forth, but saw nothing out there but darkness.
He assumed it was just his imagination playing tricks on him, but just as he was reaching to turn off the lights, a face appeared in the glass staring back at him. Malachi jumped backwards and almost tripped over the sorghum molasses display, knocking over a few bottles in the process.
Malachi caught himself and reached for his pocket knife. As he hastily drew it from his pants pocket, he realized that it was a kid at the window. He recognized him. It was one of those trouble-making teenagers from the bridge.
The young man pressed his face to the glass. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
Nervously, Malachi responded, “What do you want?”
“Do you have a phone I could use, please?”
Malachi stood in silence for a moment, thinking, afraid to trust the young man. It was risky to open the door to a stranger this late at night, let alone one with sketchy friends like this kid had.
He took a deep breath, removed the chain from the door, and unlocked the deadbolt. He poked his head out into the chilly night air. “What do you need?”
The young man was shivering and appeared to be alone. He shuffled his feet on the dirty porch and repeated the request, “Sir, do you have a phone that I could use?”
Malachi was still uncertain whether or not this was a ploy to get him to open the door. At any moment he expected the other two boys to jump out of the bushes and rush the door, demanding all the money in the register, which wasn’t much. Not much maybe, but it was all that Malachi had and he didn’t want to give it away to some hooligan punks. He thought for a moment and then responded, “Where’s your friends?”
“They left. Can I please use your phone to call my mom?”
Malachi began to feel sorry for the kid. He opened the door and said, “Come on in.” Quickly, he closed and locked the door behind them, causing the young man to turn and look at him oddly. Malachi snapped at him, “I don’t want to give your ingrate posse a chance to rush the door and rob me.”
The young man scrunched up his face and replied, “My what?”
Malachi became testy. He waved his hand in the air, irritated that he had to explain himself. “Your thieving friends.”
The young man nodded, understanding what he meant. “Oh, gotcha. They’re not really my friends.”
Malachi laughed. “Well, obviously. They left you out here in the dark of night to fend for yourself. I wouldn’t say those are real great pals, if you ask me.” Malachi thought for a moment, then curiosity got the best of him. “Why’d they leave you here anyways? Did they get scared?” A twinkle sparked in Malachi’s eye as he waited, hoping the answer was ‘yes.’
The young man shook his head. “No, they were getting rowdy and I just didn’t want to hang with them anymore. I asked them to take me home, but Junior got pissed off at me. He kicked me out and told me to walk.”
“Where do you live?” Malachi asked.
“Canal Fulton.”
“They kicked you out and left you to walk that far?”
“Yes, sir.” The young man shuffled his feet on the dusty floor planks and looked down. “You don’t have to say it. I know they’re jerks.”
“Why do you hang out with them?”
“I was bored.” The kid shrugged. “If you haven’t noticed, there’s not much else to do around these parts.”
Malachi jumped in, “Well, I’d find something better to do than ride around with those dirt bags.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I know. Can I use your phone, please?”
“Don’t all you kids carry those mobile things these days?”
He shook his head and seemed embarrassed. “I don’t have one.”
Malachi took a deep breath, feeling sorry for the kid and headed around behind the counter. He placed an old rotary telephone on the countertop and said, “Help yourself.”
The young man grinned and jokingly said, “What is that thing? How does it even work?”
Malachi’s nerves were short and he snapped, “Now, don’t be a smart aleck. You dial it just like any other phone. Do you want to use it or not? Makes no difference to me.”