Corpse Cold_New American Folklore

by John Brhel

  articles about a Soviet goalkeeper. I soon realized I’d have to search in Russian, and switched the filters and turned on the translation feature. Many of the same hockey articles

  appeared, but so did stories from months earlier about a

  missing Russian gas oligarch named Igor Tretiak. I clicked on a few of them, at first assuming nothing, before I saw

  that Tretiak had disappeared in Yonkers, New York, not

  180 miles from my town.

  I couldn’t help but make the most basic of connections.

  Had I witnessed this man’s last moments? Had Vitali

  uploaded a torture, ransom, or snuff video publicly, before switching the settings to private? If so, how would he know if I had watched it? I called my contact at the sheriff’s office and sent them the link to the private video. They said they’d look it over and get back to me.

  As if Vitali had some next-level spyware on my

  computer, he began sending me messages again, this time

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  being much more direct. You will disappear too, Legglas, You keep it up, trying to see things that you have no business seeing. I felt afraid and utterly alone that evening. I had nowhere to go and no real connections in town.

  I tried to get some sleep, in bed by nine that night,

  sweat soaking into my sheets. Knock, knock, knock. I startled, my body contorting at the sound of the rapping at my door.

  He had said that he was coming for me. What could I do

  against Russian gangsters that had likely just driven hours to my home?

  I slowly got out of bed, the old springs gently creaking.

  I crept over the carpet as the knocking returned. This time it was more insistent. I peered out of my bedroom window,

  down onto the front porch. There were two men dressed

  in black at the door. They knew I was home; my Jeep was in my driveway.

  I could hear their muffled voices discussing what to do

  next. Then all hell broke loose. Sirens blared and flashing lights came blazing up Pearl Ave., and the two men jumped

  from my porch and ran. Soon deputies were parked all

  over the street and sidewalks, guns drawn, tracking the two men. Shots were fired. When it all ended a deputy had been grazed by a bullet, and the two goons were shot dead behind my neighbor’s garage.

  County Sheriff Powell came to my door, flanked by the

  detective I had met with in the office. I opened the door

  and they practically dragged me out of the house. They

  didn’t say much until we were back at the sheriff’s office.

  “How did they find me?” was all I could ask, over and

  over.

  “Son, that video you sent us... You commented on it

  that night it was posted,” stated the detective.

  “Huh? What do you mean I commented on it?” I laughed,

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  but no one else in the room laughed with me.

  The detective retrieved his laptop, opened to the video

  and scrolled down to the comments section. The sole

  comment was from my screen name ShroomTender420,

  which I must have signed in under to retrieve some of my

  favorite video playlists that night. It read: killer fx, dudes.

  horror/10.

  • 86 •

  • IX •

  THE BIG ‘m’

  General Manager Jason Dowdy was loathed among the

  staff of the Big ‘M,’ a long-running grocery store in

  the village of Eagle Bay, NY. Complaints against Dowdy for harassment and verbal abuse were frequent, and it wasn’t

  uncommon for employees to leave the store in tears. With

  the store’s owner out of sight, living comfortably down in Florida, Dowdy’s reign of terror went unchecked and he

  ran the place as he saw fit. Those who kept their jobs kept their mouths shut.

  As for the Big ‘M,’ it had served the grocery needs

  of Eagle Bay for more than thirty years. It was dated, but possessed a certain rustic charm. The market sold the

  staples: bread, milk, beer, deli and barbecue meats. It did good business during the summer and snowmobile seasons

  of the central Adirondacks, but there were also the famine months, with only a trickle of locals window shopping the

  fully-stocked shelves.

  The early evening of New Year’s Eve had started like

  any other at the Big ‘M,’ if a bit busier due to the holiday.

  Night manager Stephen Drew and cashier Tim Hale both

  arrived at 4 p.m. and over the next couple hours saw to

  locals in need of last-minute snacks and booze. From 8

  p.m. on, however, the store was practically empty. Stephen

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  and Tim were bitter about having to work that evening, but did what they could to pass the time, chatting with the few remaining employees about trail conditions in the Pigeon

  Lake Wilderness. Their conversation was interrupted by

  Dowdy, who had been in his office for some time.

  “Hale, how about you make yourself useful and clean

  out the bottle return area,” said Dowdy. “Get a few hours

  of real work in before the year comes to a close.” The small booth at the front of the store stunk of stale beer and soda pop and cleaning it was among the store’s more stomach-turning tasks.

  “C’mon, man. Now? It’s New Year’s Eve. I cleaned it

  yesterday morning.”

  “I don’t care. If you’ve got time to lean.”

  Stifling a scowl, Tim left the register area and headed

  for the bottle return.

  Dowdy moved on to Sarah, a newer cashier. “What are

  you doing tonight?”

  “Me and my boyfriend are going to a party on Big Moose Lake,” replied Sarah. She had only worked at the store for a few months, but she was already an expert at deflecting her boss’ harassment.

  “Is that right?! I bet you get wild with a few drinks in

  you.”

  Sarah forced an uncomfortable smile. “I’m sure your

  wife will be glad to see you after work.”

  “She’ll be asleep. How about I swing over to that party

  of yours and take you for a ride over the ice on my new

  snowmobile.”

  “I don’t think my boyfriend would like that...”

  “Oh, c’mon. Live a little.” Jason grabbed her forearm,

  and she recoiled, causing the store manager to chuckle.

  “Leave her alone, dude,” said Stephen.

  • 88 •

  THE BIG ‘m’

  “Mind your own business, Drew.”

  “Really, Jason. I’m not interested,” said Sarah, quietly.

  “Huh?” said Jason, looking back and forth at his two

  subordinates.

  “Take a hint,” added Stephen, having seen Dowdy

  harass Sarah on a near-daily basis.

  “I want you in my office, now,” said Dowdy to Stephen.

  Stephen reluctantly followed him to the back of the

  store.

  “We have to talk. I’m not happy with your management

  style.” Dowdy sat behind his desk and shuffled some papers, never making eye contact with Stephen. “I heard you let

  Harold off the other day on an hour’s notice?”

  “His grandmother had just died.”

  “You’re too soft. I have a store to run.” Dowdy briefly

  look at Stephen. They were both in their mid-thirties,

  college-educated, stood about the same height, and had

  similar familial attachments. The main difference between

  the t
wo, and in the hierarchy of the store, was the fact that Dowdy had gone on to get his MBA from Oswego State.

  “And I see you tossed out that smoked ham I told you was

  fine.”

  “It smelled rancid. I can’t serve that to customers.”

  “It’s not your place. Listen, I’m going to have to ask for your resignation.”

  “What?!”

  “It’s been a long time coming, Drew.”

  “I’m a good manager. The shelves are full each morning.

  The place is spotless at the end of my shift.” Stephen’s lip quivered as he thought of his daughter.

  “Stephen, this morning I found four cans of peas, labels inward! That is not up to my standards. I’ve already spoken to Mr. Mendel about this weeks ago. He’s fine with your

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  resignation.” Dowdy removed a form resignation letter

  from his desk for Stephen to sign.

  Stephen signed the paper, his hand shaking as he

  considered the lack of employment opportunities in the

  Central Adirondacks in mid-winter. “So I shouldn’t show

  up tomorrow?”

  “No, you can still show up, stock, and clean while I

  look for somebody who can do the job.”

  Stephen left the office, dejected. His paycheck from

  the Big ‘M’ wasn’t much, but it made due in Eagle Bay, kept his kid fed. He had always been able to tolerate Dowdy, for the sake of his daughter. It hadn’t been the first time he’d stood up for a fellow coworker or pushed Dowdy’s buttons,

  but he had never expected such an abrupt dismissal. With

  his rent payment looming, he spent the next few hours

  pacing up and down aisles, his anger rising as the seconds ticked toward midnight.

  Soon, the remaining employees clocked out and

  hurried to their respective celebrations, leaving only

  Stephen, Tim, and Dowdy to close.

  Tim was still in the bottle return, finishing his cleanup

  job, when he heard a loud, metallic screech come from the

  back of the store. He sighed, got up and left for the back room, figuring that the old box crusher had broken down

  again. When he pushed open the stock room’s swinging

  doors, he spotted Stephen standing on two pallets, leaning over the dumpster-sized cardboard compactor. He could

  see that the machine had gotten stuck midway. The motor

  was still whirring.

  “What happened?” said Tim, walking up to the

  machine.

  Stephen turned to Tim, his face pale and expressionless.

  “I was pulling pallets and I heard the machine break down—

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  THE BIG ‘m’

  and I heard him scream…”

  “Huh? Where’s Dowdy?”

  “He’s in the machine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean...look in the machine.”

  Tim stepped up onto the makeshift platform and

  looked down into the compactor. He caught a glimpse of a

  crushed arm and a few trickles of blood seeping down onto

  the partially crushed cardboard.

  “What the fuck?! Is he dead?”

  “I don’t know.” Stephen pushed the UP button on the

  machine. It whirred loudly, but didn’t budge.

  “How’d he get in there?” asked Tim.

  “I don’t know. He must’ve been trying to clear a jam

  and it came down on him. You know this machine’s been

  having issues, and they’re too cheap to get it replaced.”

  Tim attempted to open the front panel of the machine,

  to no avail.

  “You know you can’t open the front when the machine’s

  on,” said Stephen. “Do you have your phone on you? We

  need to call an ambulance.”

  “No, it’s in the office.”

  “Okay, I’ll go call,” said Stephen, but Tim grabbed

  him by the arm.

  “Wait a second,” said Tim. “Does this machine still go

  down?”

  “Huh? It will go down all the way, but it won’t go

  back up,” replied Stephen, studying his friend’s odd

  countenance. “I’m going to go grab my phone and call an

  ambulance.”

  “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  They simultaneously looked down into the compactor.

  A breathless half-minute passed before they saw a finger on

  • 91 •

  THE BIG ‘m’

  the mangled hand move, as if answering Tim’s query.

  “Okay, I’ll go call the ambulance,” stated Stephen.

  Tim again caught Stephen by the arm as he made

  to leave. “Hold up, dude. It’s probably better if this guy doesn’t make it through this, right?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “It’s a bad look for you, either way. You were back here

  alone with him. He ends up in the box crusher after he

  forces you to resign...”

  Stephen paused, realizing that the circumstances did

  appear suspicious. “I didn’t push him in, man.”

  “Just think about all of the people he’s fucked over

  since Reggie retired,” said Tim, getting himself worked-

  up over the past. “Remember Dave Philippio, the butcher?

  He fired him off of one silly tourist complaint, and now

  he’s the drunk of Old Forge. The guy had four daughters.

  Think about all the young girls he’s harassed over the years.

  You run this place, and he doesn’t do shit. He’s trying to send you back to minimum wage, man. How are you going

  to support your family?”

  “Sure, the guy’s a piece of shit, but this isn’t right...”

  “Seems simple enough, Steve. If he lives, it isn’t good

  for you. If he dies, it will be good for everybody...”

  Stephen eyed the DOWN button, knowing that the

  machine would ensure Dowdy’s demise if he wasn’t already

  deceased.

  “Hell, they’ll probably make you the new store

  manager,” added Tim.

  There was a brief moment of silence between the two,

  before Stephen spoke. “Tim, go up front and get your

  phone.”

  Tim nodded and shrugged, then left the back room. As

  the double doors swung behind him, he was startled to hear

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  the distinct sound of the compacting machine, whirring

  loudly and completing its task.

  • 94 •

  • X •

  DRACULA'S BRIDE

  Every neighborhood has a haunted house. When I

  was a kid, ours wasn’t an actual house, but a wooden

  chapel set back into a small immigrant cemetery known as

  Sunshire Hill. I’d grown up in the Village of Lestershire, went to school and college nearby, and built a successful

  lawn and gardening business. I had mostly forgotten the

  old cemetery on the hillside after my family moved across

  town in my late teens, that was until I took on a summer’s-long service contract to cut the grass at Sunshire. It was the first time in my ten years of business that I didn’t see a contract through to its end.

  I went to the cemetery without my work crew for the

  first few weeks, usually at the end of the day. It was only an hour or two of labor. I would breeze through with the

  mower, whack a few weeds away from the overgrown markers

  and monuments, paying little attention to the memories

  conjured
with each pass by those aged, wooden walls. Yes,

  the chapel was still standing, minus some rotting beams

  and a few cracked windows. It didn’t look much different

  than it had in my youth—like the sort of place Vlad Dracul would have stopped to take Holy Communion on the

  road to Bucharest. Real Old World. It loomed over the

  neighborhood when I was growing up, and was the center of

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  our lore-filled adventures and dare-based one-upmanship.

  The chapel at Sunshire was a throwback to another time;

  it stood out like a sore thumb amidst the hillside of tidy, factory-built homes and manicured lawns.

  By the third week on the job I couldn’t help but think

  fondly, nostalgically, of the neighborhood and the cemetery itself. There had been a part-time caretaker, but even back then the property reflected its decades-long neglect. The

  caretaker’s job description seemed to be ‘run a mower every couple of weeks in the summer, but mostly make sure the

  rusty cemetery gate opened each morning and closed before

  dark.’ Easy as hell. It’s not like the gate mattered all that much anyway; the fence only enclosed half of the cemetery.

  After the caretaker had gone, we would ride our bikes

  up to the fence and discuss what, and more importantly who, lay inside the desolate structure, and which neighborhood

  crone invited the chapel’s inhabitant in each night for a

  bite to eat. In our neighborhood, it was Mrs. Ellsic. The

  old bat was usually the one to chase us off, as her house

  was the nearest to Sunshire. She was well known among

  the local kids, specifically for her oversized broom that

  she was rarely seen without. We would spot her tending

  to graves occasionally as we pedaled by, and someone even

  swore they’d seen her sweeping the steps of the chapel.

  Everyone knew her as Dracula’s Bride, either because she

  lived in closest proximity to the chapel and looked the part, or because when riled up she would scream in her native

  tongue and it sounded like some sort of nasty spell.

  But most nights around twilight, late in the summer,

  my friends and I would peer through the fence at the chapel, conspiring about how we would convince a latecomer that we had seen a candle in the window, or heard an unearthly howl from the wooded area between the chapel and Mrs. Ellsic’s

  • 96 •