In a little town by the sea, there’s a lake. And in the middle of the lake is a little island. And on this island live two women. One woman is older than 40 and younger than 60, and the other woman is ageless, or at least that’s what she tells people. Or at least what she would tell people if anyone ever visited the little island in the middle of the little lake in the little town by the sea.

The two women live in the lighthouse on the island in the middle of the lake. They’re supposed to keep the light to help any boaters navigate their way to the little island. The island doesn’t have a name, but the women have a private name that they share between themselves. The women call the island Potato Island because of the color of the rocks and mud that line the shoreline of the island underneath the lighthouse. The rocks and mud are the same color as a baked potato skin. Potato Island is a lonely island in a lonely lake. If there are any boaters on the lake, the women have never seen them, other than their own little wooden boat they row across the lake four to six times a year to get groceries and other supplies.

“Melissa,” one of the women says one morning, “do you ever wonder why there’s a lighthouse on the island?”

“No,” Melissa answers. “Annie, do you ever wonder why no one ever boats on the lake?”

“No,” Annie says. “Do you wish there were more people on the island?”

“I’m lonely,” Melissa says.

A week later, Melissa goes to wake up Annie, but Annie is not in her little bed in her little room at the bottom of the lighthouse. Her bed is made and her shoes are neatly tucked under the little wood dresser. Melissa runs outside and calls Annie’s name. A dove coos a response. But no Annie. Melissa climbs the 59 steps to the top of the lighthouse. Melissa can’t think of any place Annie could have gone. Melissa can see the whole island from the top of the lighthouse and would have seen Annie if she had ventured into the small wooded area behind the lighthouse. Annie is nowhere. Melissa sticks her head outside the window and calls Annie’s name over and over. This time not even a dove replies.

For three days, Melissa lies in her bed. She does not get up to check the light or do any of her chores. There won’t be any boats on the lake anyway. The light can go out, for all she cares. Annie is gone.

On the fourth day, a loud banging on the door wakes Melissa up from her almost sleep. She closes her eyes. The bang comes again. Melissa opens her eyes and starts to say, “Annie, why don’t you—” Annie. Annie is gone. The bang comes again. Annie! What if it’s Annie at the door, waiting outside the lighthouse to be let back in?

Melissa pushes aside the thin sheet that covers her legs. She doen’t bother putting her slippers on. She runs to the door and flings it open. There is no one there. She steps out onto the narrow stone stoop to look around. She sees nothing. She takes one more step and her foot squishes into something wet. She jumps back.

Mud. Mud the color of a baked potato skin is caked and plopped onto the stone stoop, and footprints stain the little path that leads to the dock. But there’s no one there.

“Hello?” she calls. “Annie?” It’s improbable, but she can’t stop herself from trying. “Annie, are you there?” No answer. Melissa feels the tears come and a sob dislodge itself from her throat. Four days without Annie. Tomorrow morning she will row the little wooden boat across the lake and go into town. She’ll speak to the police. She’ll file a report. They’ll help her find Annie.

That night, Melissa dreams of Annie. In her dream, she sees Annie standing at the dock. She is wearing her favorite dress, the one with the little purple flowers and the lace trim on the edge of the hem. Her dark green boots are peeking out from the bottom of her dress. In her dream, Annie reaches down and grabs the bottom of her dress and pulls it up, wrenching it over her head until she is standing on the dock in nothing but her underwear and boots. And then Annie turns to the lighthouse. She sees Melissa watching her. Annie waves and turns back to the lake. She lifts her arms above her head and jumps off the dock into the water. Melissa watches her, waiting for her to come back up. But she doesn’t. In the dream, Melissa calls to Annie. She calls her name over and over. But Annie never surfaces.

Melissa wakes up, the dream still playing on her eyelids. She makes a cup of tea and packs her old canvas sack with things she’ll need in town. When she’s all done, she walks outside to the dock. The little wooden boat is gone. Melissa looks from left to right. Maybe the boat has somehow become untied and drifted away.

And then she sees it. Crumpled up at the end of the dock is a puddle of pale fabric. Melissa walks closer. She crouches down. Tiny purple flowers. Ivory lace. Melissa stands up quickly, stumbling backward. She starts to shake. “Annie?” her voice is weak.

A seagull calls, and Melissa shrieks at the sudden sound. She feels it so deep inside that something is very wrong. Where is the boat? Where is Annie? How did her dress, the same one Melissa dreamed about, get on the dock? Who or what banged on the door last night?

Melissa runs back to the lighthouse. The door is open. She closed it, she’s sure of it. Is that mud on the steps? Is that mud on the doorknob? She steps through the open door and into the small sitting room. There is definitely mud on the worn wooden floor. Footsteps. She can make out the shape of a foot.

“Hello?” she says to the quiet room.

Melissa creeps deeper into the room. The day is overcast, and there is very little light in the room with the curtains closed. Annie is sitting on the wooden bench under the window. Her skin isn’t visible under the mud, but Melissa can tell she is only wearing her underwear.

“Annie? Annie, what’s happening? Where are you?”

Annie turns her head toward Melissa. Her movements are jerky, unnatural. She opens her mouth, and Melissa holds her breath. Something slithery and dark peeks out over Annie’s teeth. It crawls out over her lip and down her chin. Melissa takes a step backward, afraid for the first time of the woman she has spent every day of the last five years with. The disgusting thing makes its way down Annie’s chest, carving rivulets in the mud. Melissa gives a shuddery, breathy scream.

Annie is still looking right at her while the thing, it is a leech, Melissa realizes with horror, keeps crawling down Annie’s body. “Ann… Ann… Annie?”

Annie keeps staring, and the leech keeps slithering down and down. It is on Annie’s thigh now.

“Please, please, Annie. What is going on?” Melissa backs up and up and up. Annie still says nothing, just stares at Melissa. The leech has reached Annie’s foot now, and only then does Annie break her stare and reach down and pluck it off her foot. She cradles it in her palm, bringing it up to her mouth, and then lets it climb back inside.

Melissa turns and runs outside the lighthouse. She doesn’t have anywhere else to go. She wonders if she can swim across the lake, but she has never been a strong swimmer, and the water is so cold this time of year. The shoreline, with the mud and rocks the color of baked potato skins, is now covered with leeches. Hundreds and thousands. Maybe millions of the things slither and creep and crawl over the rocks and through the mud.

“I brought them here for you,” a crackling, wet voice says.

With a gasp, Melissa looks up at the lighthouse doorway. Annie is walking toward her, mud dripping from her breasts and her legs as she walks.

“What?” Melissa manages to say. She feels the leeches crawling over her feet now. She begins to cry, small gasping whimpers.

“You said it was lonely on the island. You said you were lonely. You’ll never be lonely again. I have waited so long for the right time to bring my babies home.”

“I don’t understand. I don’t know what’s happening. Annie, please,” Melissa begs.

The leeches are crawling up Melissa’s legs now. She feels them under her trousers. She shakes her legs in a panic, trying to dislodge them, but it is no use. Melissa falls to the ground as Annie reaches for her.

“No, get away from me,” she says, kicking out her leg, trying to scoot backward away from Annie. She finally gets back onto her feet and runs toward the water. She doesn’t turn back to look at Annie as she runs off the dock and plunges into the lake.

Her swimming is strained and exhausted. She can’t breathe. The leeches are still crawling up her body. She doesn’t dare turn around to look at Annie or the lighthouse or island they made their home on. She can see the shore of the town on the other side of the lake. It won’t take too long to swim to it. But she is such a poor swimmer, and her arms and legs are so tired, and her lungs are burning with terror and exertion.

Melissa feels her body sinking and sinking and sinking. She lets herself finally look back at the shoreline and at Annie and the lighthouse and the little island. She closes her eyes and lets the water drag her down. Down, down, down. She and the leeches sink to the bottom. As she reaches what will be her grave, Melissa thinks the little lake is the loneliest it ever will be.

Authors Note:

This piece is from the first chapter of my work in progress novel, In The Pines. In The Pines is inspired by and haunted by the folklore of the New Jersey Pine Barrens, specifically the legend of the Jersey Devil. In it, I have imagined a tiny town that doesn’t appear on any maps but is kept alive by its allegiance to this legendary cryptid. Creative liberties have been taken with the legend, because well- it’s a legend, but it’s fun to think that there may still be some hooved, winged creature lurking in the thick piney woods. Hungry and with a plan for its own survival.

This piece is shared here as a response to a call for speculative fiction based on local and regional folklore by .

Tuesday September 25, 2012

Four days until the Harvest Gathering Festival

Voicemail from Tria to John:

I have no idea where the fuck I am, but I have a feeling that means I’m getting pretty close. My GPS crapped out and was completely useless once I got off the highway. It couldn’t even find the address I entered into it. Just a big fat “no location found” error. I stopped at a gas station slash deli slash bait and tackle shop and the old guy between drags of his cigarette told me the motel is next to some historical museum village or some shit like that. Is that really a thing? Have you been to one? Nevermind. Doesn’t matter and I don’t care, but all I’ve seen is trees and more trees. I haven’t heard anything from the Navarros since yesterday. Maybe they’ll contact you? Anyway, they said they’d meet me around 2pm and I’m going to be late. Fuck! Their daughter is missing and the police aren’t doing their job and I can’t even manage to show up to some shitty motel in the woods on time. Wait, wait, I think I see a sign for it now- Olde Leed’s Village…The motel must be close then. I’ll call you back when I’m all checked in. And maybe you’ll actually answer this time? Talk to you later.

Tria

Tria pulls into the gravel lot of the Hide-a-Nest in the Pines Motel. Another car, much older than hers, is parked in the very back, where the gravel edges right up against the thick woods, pine needles floating down to the ground and covering the gravel. The driver of the car opens the door as soon as Tria pulls into a space, or what serves as a parking space in the crunchy gravel lot. Tria squints to get a better look at the man, thinking it might be Ian Navarro. She steps out and walks to the rear of her car to get her overnight bag. She’s packed light, hoping this would be the briefest of stays. The candy pink motel doesn’t exactly look like the sort of place she would want to get too comfortable at, despite its kitschy charm.

The Hide-a-Nest in the Pines Motel has stood in this same spot for nearly 70 years and hasn’t changed all that much since then. Sure, owners current and prior have freshened things up a bit. A coat of shiny fresh paint here and there and there was that one year that they painted the outside facade a harvest gold color with sickly avocado green shutters and doors. But if you were to have visited, perhaps for an ill-planned honeymoon in 1962 and returned again today for your anniversary, you’d probably feel a little uncomfortable pit in your stomach, deep down, when you see how much has stayed the same. That sense of familiarity will seep into you and feel sickening, suffocating. Things should change, you’d think. And you’d be right. But the Hide-a-Nest in the Pines has not changed.

Tria slams the trunk shut and the man starts walking towards her across the lot. The gravel crunches under his shoes. She gives a little wave, still thinking it must be Ian Navarro. But where is his wife? And would he really drive a car that old? She was under the impression the Navarros were a wealthy suburban family. As the man gets closer, she realizes it definitely isn’t Ian Navarro. The man carries a black zipper pouch in his hand, like a soft briefcase without a handle. She turns to head towards the motel office, hoping she could duck inside before he gets any closer. She assumes he must be a salesman of some sort. They probably still have those sort of things out here in the middle of nowhere, she thinks. Do they even have internet here? They probably don’t even know you could sell things without leaving your house these days. She stops herself. She really needs to stop thinking these sorts of unfair things about everyone that doesn’t live in the city. She reminds herself that not everyone is some uneducated yokel who hates big city folk like her. She doesn’t know his story.

“Go back to where you came from!” the man shouts as she nears the glass motel office door. Oh great, a crazy townie trying to scare away the tourists, she thinks and immediately regrets feeling the least bit guilty a moment ago for thinking the worst of him. She wonders why he’s even bothering, though. Looking around, you would think it would absolutely thrill the townies that anyone ever even stopped here. Why did they even have a motel? This place was a ghost town, you might think. Even worse than a ghost town maybe. Tria doubted even ghosts would want to hang out here.

“Oh, fuck off!” she shouts back at the man.

“This isn’t the place for you. Go back! Look around! Don’t you see it?” He was only a few feet from her now. He’d taken a piece of paper out of his zipper file folder and was waving it at her, as if he expected her to walk towards him and take it.

“Look, buddy I don’t know what your problem is but I’m—”

Suddenly the motel office door opens with a jingle of bells. A balding head peeks out of the door and a man shouts, “Oh for god’s sake Eddie, get out of here! I’ve told you not to come around here anymore. Go home!” The man, Eddie presumably, says no more and starts walking back to his car, head down and zipper pouch tucked under his arm. The paper he was holding drifts to the ground, crumpled in the middle.

“What the fuck was that all about?” Tria asks as who she assumes must be the motel clerk holds the door open for her to enter.

“Oh, don’t worry about Eddie. He’s been messed up good since years back now. He doesn’t mean any harm. He just isn’t right in the head anymore.” Tria nods. She follows the clerk to the desk and puts her bag down on the green and white speckled tile floor. It’s clean, at least.

“I’m Leon,” the clerk says. “How can I help you?”

“Tria Montero. I booked a room here yesterday. Or well, my editor did?”

Leon pulls a thick book out from a cubby under the counter and it thuds onto the scratched and pock marked formica surface. He opens it to a seemingly random page in the middle. He runs his finger down the page. “Let’s see. Let’s see. Yep. See it right here. One night in the queen suite. Paid in full. Okay then, just sign right here.” Leon pushes the book towards her. A pen dangles from the spine, attached with a rusty ball chain, you know the kind, made of a metal that makes your fingers smell like raw meat and tarnished pennies after you touch it.

Tria signs the book next to the scribbled entry Leon had written. 1 night. queen suite room 5. Paid full. “Queen suite, huh? I’m surprised John didn’t arrange for the cheapest room possible.”

“Oh well, you see the queen suite is just a regular room but someone painted a crown on the wall above the bed so we just call it the queen suite now,” Leon says. Tria doesn’t respond and Leon hands her the key and tells her where to find her room. Outside, 5th door to the left. The room closest to the treeline, is left unsaid.

“Thanks,” Tria says. “So, I’m supposed to be meeting someone here. Has an Ian or Rachel Navarro checked in yet? I’m actually pretty late, so they should be here already.”

“Navarro, you say? No. No one here by that name,” Leon says and looks down at the book suddenly invested in whatever was written there. Tria doesn’t know who is weirder, old Crazy Eddie the salesman in the parking lot or Leon in the office. Small town living could do that to you. But it is really strange that the Navarros haven’t reached the motel yet, isn’t it? It’s nearly 3:30. Tria shakes off that nagging sense that something is wrong, out of place, slightly shifted. But then again, hadn’t she had a hard time even finding this place? The Navarros must be having the same issues no doubt finding a town that not even satellites seemed to know exists.

“Ok then can you please let me know when they do check in?”

The glass office door jingles again before bursting open and a man wearing jeans, a khaki button down long sleeved shirt and a beige, seemingly oil stained cowboy hat strides in. Leon rushes out from behind the desk, nearly knocking over a small stand of grimy dust coated travel brochures.

“Chief Jeffries, how great of you to stop by! Everything alright? Anything I can assist you with today? Not everyday you stop by you know.”

Tria’s eyes grow wide and she chokes down a small chuckle. What the fuck is going on? she thinks. Who is this swaggering small dicked cowboy? Chief? Does he know he’s in New Jersey and not some dusty town out west? And why is the motel clerk acting like this guy might murder him and his family in his sleep if he steps the least bit out of line.

The Chief pats Leon on the back and Tria notices Leon grimace slightly. The Chief breaks into a wide, toothy grin. “Leon, my friend, since when do I need a reason to stop by for a little chat and a visit? Hmm?”

“Ha! Of course not! I mean, never! You’re always welcome here, you know that.”

“Well good. I gotta admit I’m not here strictly for socializing today, though. I was going to leave a stack of these fliers. If that’s all right? That’s fine, with you isn’t it Leon?” The Chief places the thick stack on the counter. The paper is orange, the color of leaves just before they die. Tria can only read the top from where she is standing: “Annual Harvest Gathering Festival.”

“Of course! More than fine!” Leon looks over at the fliers. “The Harvest Gathering Festival,” he says and swallows hard.

“I do hope you’ll make it this year, Leon. You’re always missed.”

Before Leon can respond, the Chief swivels to his left and extends a hand. “Pardon me, how rude miss. I don’t believe we’ve met?” Tria takes his hand, firmly as always. She won’t let this swaggering fool intimidate her like he intimidates Leon and probably everyone else in this town.

“Tria. Tria Montero. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Peter Jeffries, but most people around here just call me the Chief. What brings you to our fair town, miss Montero? I’m sure you can probably tell we don’t usually get too many visitors around here.” The Chief leans against the counter and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“I’ve noticed,” Tria says. “I’m here to meet with the Navarros. Ian and Rachel Navarro. Their daughter was—”

The Chief turns his body to fully face her. “Rumors,” he spits. “Vicious rumors started by bored, angry people with no grasp on reality. Nothing more.”

Tria takes a step backwards. “Hey, I’m just here to—”

“To what? Upset our residents and chase ghosts? For a silly hoax?” the Chief spits out. “She’s probably out west in the desert right now living her best life, a little spoiled girl, while people like you run around trying to ruin people’s lives with nonsense.” The Chiefs voice is low, measured, in control.

“I think you have the wrong idea. I’m a journalist.” She stops and reaches down into her bag and fishes out a business card. She hands it to the chief. He looks at it, scoffs and puts it in his shirt pocket.

“Oh, I most certainly do not have the wrong idea, miss,” he says with a small, unfriendly chuckle.

“Well, then don’t you think these things should be investigated? There’s zero evidence that Addie’ disappearance is a hoax of any sort. That’s so outlandish to even suggest. Excuse me, but if Addie was seen here, that should be looked into.”

“Yeah, yeah, someone saw her.” The chief glances over to Leon and juts his chin towards him. “No offense, to you or your sister, Leon, but everyone knows Lenore has a, let’s say loose relationship with the truth. She was mistaken. We all know that and we don’t need outsiders poking their noses around.” The Chief takes a beat and looks directly into Tria’s eyes. Without turning, he says, “Isn’t that right, Leon?”

Leon clears his throat. He’s back behind the long counter, trying to get as much distance between him and the Chief as possible. “Um… yes. Yes, that’s right. She wasn’t here. Lenore was mistaken. No one saw her. She couldn’t have been here. Not a chance. You’re exactly right Chief.”

Tria gives Leon a “you’ve got to be shitting me” look, while Leon looks as if he might actually sincerely be shitting himself at that moment. What hold does this guy have over these people? Is it just Leon, or the whole town? What is going on here? Tria’s been a journalist, or at least that’s what she calls herself, if paid by the article and sometimes by the word staff writers for free newspapers can call themselves journalists. This could have been her big break, or at least that’s what she dreamed about the night before and what she told her therapist, who just politely nodded and wrote something down on her notepad when Tria recounted just how very important this was. “Hmmm, I don’t really follow things like that, sorry. It’s all just so… morbid,” her therapist had said when Tria tried to explain how big this was, how captivated the entire fucking country was by Addie Navarro’s disappearance. And then to have Addie’s parents personally contact her to write an article about their daughter and how the police were potentially, allegedly covering up sightings and huge tips? Tria couldn’t even begin to describe what this story could do for her career. How mind blowing it was to even have the opportunity. So what that she left out the teensy tiny fact that the Navarros may have been slightly mislead to believe Tria wrote for the New York Times and not the Nathan Young Tribune, by a pesky business card that simply said Tria Montero, staff writer- features, NYT. She liked to think it was a way of manifesting her desires. Fake it until you make it, or some such bullshit that her friend Jeanie always goes on and on about.

Tria loses track of the conversation Leon and the Chief are having until she hears the Chief’s booming voice say, “I’m afraid we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, and for that I do apologize. But I guess you could say I’m pretty protective of this town and the people in it. They’re my family. We’re all one big happy family around here.” The Chief reaches down and picks up one of the fliers. He holds it out to Tria. “I do hope if you’re still in town, you’ll consider stopping by our Harvest Gathering Festival. There’s a little bit of something for everyone and it’s our town’s biggest tradition. I guarantee you’ll have some fun and see things you’ve never seen before. Maybe you can even convince our friend Leon here to actually show up.”

Tria takes the flier from his hand and drops it on the counter without even looking at it. “I’m only here until tomorrow but thanks for the invite.”

The Chief smiles that smile again, his teeth bared and slick and shiny. If he’s taken aback by Tria’s dismissal, he doesn’t show it. “I guess I’ll be on my way then,” he says and makes his way toward the door. “Leon, pleasure as always. And Miss Montero? Give my best to the Navarros when they arrive, won’t you?” And with that he tilts his head towards Leon and Tria and passes through the door into the parking lot.

Tria turns on Leon as soon as the door finishes its insipid jingle. “Aren’t you the one who called the Navarros? Aren’t they coming here to meet with you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Leon says, straightening the pile of fliers the on the counter.

“C’mon, Leon. You called in the tip. You called Addie’s parents. Stop fucking lying. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you? Huh?” Realizing she may have gone too far, Tria starts again.“I mean, why do you let him treat you like that? Why do you let him intimidate you?”

Leon doesn’t look up. “The chief is wrong,” he says.

Tria isn’t sure she heard him right. “What? He’s wrong?”

“He’s wrong,” Leon says again, louder this time. “Lenore might exaggerate things but she doesn’t lie. She’d never hurt anyone or cause trouble like this.”

“You’re saying it was your sister? Lenore? She saw Addie?”

Leon nods. “She saw her that day, in the pines right behind the motel here. She was helping me out, and went to bring some sheets into the laundry room and that’s when she saw her. Or…thought she saw her, I mean.”

“Why did you say it was you, if it was your sister?”

“They didn’t believe her. They convinced her she was wrong, that she didn’t see anything. That it was a mistake.”

“The chief, you mean? He convinced her to take it all back?”

Leon nods. “The chief. All of ‘em. I don’t really want to say anymore about that, but Lenore saw her and I believed her no matter what the say. I couldn’t let that poor girl be all alone out there in those woods. It’s dangerous. It’s… it’s…. not right.”

“You called and pretended you were the one who saw her.”

“I called the tip line and they sent some people out. They gave me their card, I can find it for you if you want.”

Tria shakes her head. “Did they look for her?”

“No, they didn’t do nothing. They told me she wasn’t here and couldn’t have been. That there was no evidence.”

“Does the chief know it was you?”

“I didn’t tell anyone. Lenore doesn’t even know I did anything like this. She wouldn’t like it.”

“And I had to open my big mouth and mention I was meeting them here. I’m so sorry, Leon. I probably gave it all away.”

“Nah, it wasn’t you. He knew somehow. He always knows things, everything that goes on. He’s a part of it. Nothing gets by him. Nothing at all.” He stops and seems to contemplate something. “How could anything get by him?” Leon shakes his head and starts to say something, but stops himself. He tries again. “I.. I… just don’t want any trouble. For me or for Lenore.”

Tria nods. “This is crazy. I’m sorry, but it is. I don’t get it. What’s his fucking deal? Who is this guy anyway?”

“He’s the chief,” Leon says, as if that answers everything. And maybe it does.

Voicemail from Tria to John

John, I really wish you’d answer your goddamn phone. What are you doing up there? Better not be having any sort of fun while I’m stuck down here in fucking no-man’s-land. It’s wild, I tell you. I’m serious. Ok, so get this. There’s this guy here they all seem to call the chief, but I’m not sure what he’s the chief of. The most I can get is he’s some sort of council president or something and also what serves for police around here. Or something. I think. Anyway, he has this town by the goddamn balls, John. They’re all terrified of him. I don’t get it. At all. Anyway, the motel guy? He never saw Addie. It was his sister. And the sister isn’t saying a thing because this chief guy convinced her she didn’t see anything. But the brother, the motel guy, he takes it on himself to report what his sister saw, but of course lie and say it was him. Can you believe this? But wait- it gets even better— Shit, I’m getting a call but I don’t recognize the number. It better be the fucking Navarros telling me they’re in the fucking lobby. I’ll try you again later. Pick up your fucking phone, John!”

The forest edge outside the motel, at the very back of the parking lot is quiet and untouched and much the same as it has been for over 100 years. Ever since the trampling feet of armed men stepped over the threshold into the pines on their last hunt. If you’ve ever had the opportunity, or misfortune some might say, to visit this deep into the pines, you’d know exactly what this means. Let’s imagine something, shall we? You’re in the pines. Deep. Deeper than you ever have been before. You’re not from here, but not from so far away that you don’t know things you aren’t really supposed to know. You drive and turn the radio on to the only radio station you can even get. All these damn trees block the radio signal. Though you really can’t be all too sure that’s the reason. Your mother, or somebody much older than she, always told you that something kept this town and all the towns this deep in the pines just the way they are. That this town was supposed to be so isolated. The rest of the world wasn’t supposed to be able to reach them. That was the way it had to be. That was the way it always had been. “Why change anything now?” they’d ask you and shrug their shoulders as you nodded politely and didn’t fully understand.

Some nasally woman on the radio sings about lost love. You aren’t a fan of the song but even so, it’s better than the quiet in the car and the crickets singing and the tree frogs calling outside. You can’t take all those nature sounds. Or anything else that the pine trees conceal. You’re almost there even though you don’t know that. You took a wrong turn a few miles back, could have been 10 miles or 100. It doesn’t even matter anymore. You’re almost to the shack kept hidden in the middle of the pine forest, near the foot of the hill, next to the old white cedar that marks a secret important place beside the bank of the thin stream of cold water the color of strong tea. An owl hoots somewhere in the thick darkness. You shiver even though it’s dead in the middle of summer and the nights are as hot and suffocating as the days have been.

Your headlights shine on the shack as you approach and you know you’re officially lost now. The windows are boarded with old cedar planks and what looks like leftover pieces of shipping pallets. There’s a padlock on the door and you consider getting out and taking a closer look. But you can’t tell from where you’re standing that the padlock is unlocked. The woman on the radio is still singing of lost love. You open the car door, buoyed by some fantastical notion that you might suddenly be the exploring type. Wrong decision, by the way, but I’m sure you know that by now, right? Is the wind stiller here? The creek babbles and bubbles over broken branches and bones. Then you hear it, the sound of your very own biggest mistake being made. A shriek in the distance. But the distance is never really far enough, is it? Wings and swoops. Wind and claws.

Anthony

The sun is just setting when Anthony pulls up to Olde Leeds Village in his white butcher’s van. He knows the procedure. Pull into the driveway marked “service & deliveries only.” Go inside the small museum office. Hand the invoice to Martika or whomever is in charge of accepting the delivery that night. Head out back behind the old replica mill. Unlock the gate. Walk 200 yards into the woods to the small brick structure. Open the grate that covers the top of it. And finally, drop the parcel down the stainless steel chute. He’s done it dozens of times. Maybe hundreds at this point. He was 5 years old the first time he accompanied his dad, Geno, on a delivery to the old historical park. He didn’t understand it then. He was too young. Just knew they had an important mission in the woods. He’s been doing it solo now for the past year, ever since he turned eighteen and was given the responsibility and the knowledge to complete the deliveries.

“Hey there, you must be Anthony,” some cute brown haired lady with glasses says as he walks into the office. She’s older than him, but he likes that. She stands from where she’d been sitting. “I’m Darcy. Martika’s not here, but she asked me to stick around for the delivery. ”

Anthony has never seen her before and is pretty sure she isn’t from town, so just says, “Hey” with a smile and hands her the invoice to sign. She bends down over the desk to sign the form and smiles back at him. Her lips are so nice, he thinks.

“Alright, I’m just going to head out back. I’ll let you know when I’m all done.”

“Okay, cool,” Darcy says. “I’ll be here.”

Anthony turns to get a good look at her ass once he’s behind her. She’s hot and just his type. Smart looking but with a bad girl side. He can tell these things. But he knows better than to get involved with out of town girls. Nothing good ever comes from that.

It’s getting pretty dark now, but there are some pathway lights that guide his way to where he needs to go. The old replica mill is only a few feet from him now and then the gate a few more behind it. The box he’s carrying is heavy, heavier than normal. Must be a special occasion, he thinks.

He puts the box down on the ground and fumbles in his pocket for the key to the lock. He always tries to remember to have it out and ready so he doesn’t have to waste time like this, but he usually forgets. He finally finds the key and shoves it inside the lock. It opens easily with a satisfying click and he picks his box back up and passes through the gate into the woods beyond. The woods are quiet, as they usually are, with just the sound of tree frogs and crickets droning in the background. But those are sounds Anthony hardly even hears anymore. He’s lived all of his nineteen years in this town and these woods and will probably never leave. There’s no where he’d rather be. He’s happy working at his dad’s butcher shop and he knows he’ll eventually take over his dad’s council position. That’s enough to start a good life, he thinks. All he needs is a nice, local girl to make it complete.

The small, low brick structure, really no more than a pile of bricks cemented together to make a sort of short cube shape is right in front of him. He puts the box down again to unlock the padlock that secures the grate that covers the delivery chute. It’s very dark now and he can barely see. He takes out his phone and turns on the flashlight to see the padlock better. But there’s no padlock. There’s no grate. The delivery chute is open. He shines his light down the chute but sees nothing but some dark stains on the steel.

Anthony starts to sweat. His heart races. He’s on his knees now. “Oh fuck. Oh shit,” he says. He scrambles to his feet, dropping his phone in the process. He hears the metallic tumbling sound just as a sharp, piercing shriek fills the air. It’s close. He leaves his phone, probably down into the pit by now, and the box where he dropped it and runs back towards the gate. He manages to close it behind him but forgets to lock the padlock that holds the gate closed.

He takes a deep breath and peers into the woods. He sees nothing. He hears nothing. He tries to calm down before entering the office where Darcy is still sitting at a computer, her glasses on the desk now. He can’t let her see him like this, shaking and sweating. He stands outside for a few minutes, breathing deeply and fidgeting with the keys in his pocket. When he opens the office door, Darcy looks up at him.

“Everything ok?” she asks.

“Yeah, yeah. All good.” Anthony says. His hands are shaking, betraying his true thoughts.

“I thought… I thought I heard something,” Darcy says.

“Just a bird, probably. No worries.” He attempts a smile and walks towards the exit door before looking back briefly. “See ya, Darcy” he says before pushing it open, surprising himself with how cool he is able to be while Darcy is left behind in the small office, her eyebrows raised and her mouth slightly downturned.

Anthony waits until he is back in the van before breaking down. He slams his fist into the dashboard. “Holy shit, holy fucking shit, holy mother of god,” he yells as he turns the van on and starts to pull away. His hands are still trembling as they grip the steering wheel.

Maybe there are worse things than getting involved with out of town girls, he thinks. And this is it. He’s in deep, deep trouble. They all are, they just don’t know it yet. But they will, soon enough.

Martika

Martika sits down in the creaky, clackity metal chair and raises her left hand as her name is called. She’s been on the council for nearly 10 years now and still cant believe they still haven’t gotten new or better chairs. It never seemed appropriate to bring up, though. There were more important things the council had to deal with, of course. The Harvest Gathering Festival was coming up for one. Though, to be honest, it was almost always coming up. No matter if it was ten months or ten days away. It was soon. Too soon. It was always top of the agenda all year, all the time. It’s a huge affair. A huge undertaking to put on and most days the only purpose Martika feels the council even has. To secure. To maintain. To keep. To preserve. To Persevere.

Conservare est perseverare. The town motto. To preserve is to persevere. To preserve tradition would ensure the town persevered, or that’s what Jeffries always said. Or chief as everyone else called him. But Martika had known him her whole life. They were only two years apart in age and calling him chief just didn’t feel right. It didn’t sit right. He never said anything about it, at least not to her. She couldn’t be so sure that he didn’t complain bitterly to Joanna, his poor wife, at night while they lie in bed and he recounted every transgression the town had made him bear. But he’d persevere because he preserved. And so would the town. As if there was really anything worth preserving, these days, Martika often thought. She didn’t always think that way. The town and the council used to be hugely important to her, but things change. She changed. The town may have stayed the same, but she couldn’t. The old Martika wasn’t something to preserve. The old Martika would never have survived, never have persevered like Martika had to now. And as she nears age 40, she is ever more cognizant of that. She has a life now, beyond the council and beyond the town. Her family is long gone, but she has Lenore. Lenore is her love and her life now and even though Martika feels as if she betrays her every step of the way, with almost every breath she takes in this town, Martika would do anything to preserve their relationship. Which, was quite a dilemma you see. Or maybe you don’t see, not just yet. But you will. When the flowers are picked and the robes are embroidered and the dough is fried. You’ll see just what Martika is up against. What they’d all be up against sooner or later, in one way or another. To preserve is to persevere. But for whom? Preserving would always ultimately mean something or someone would come to and end. And that end is coming soon. The Harvest Gathering Festival is only four days away and there is still so much to be done.

Suddenly, the gavel drops, and Jeffries speaks. “The count, please, Mrs. Hutchinson.”

Mrs. Hutchinson stands at her seat. She nods her head towards the front of the room. “6 members present. 1 absent,” she says. The numbers never change. Each and every meeting. 6 present. 1 absent. “Thank you, Mrs. Hutchinson,” Jeffries says and places his hands on the wooden surface of the podium and takes a deep breath. “And now, the creed.” The council members stand and begin to recite the council creed.

Conservare est perseverare.

To preserve is to persevere.

We believe in the preservation of history, tradition, and secret.

We are the chosen servants.

We must preserve or perish.

Servare debemus aut perimus.

To preserve is to persevere.

Conservare est perseverare.

Martika sits back down in her uncomfortable chair. Her mouth tastes bitter, like old coffee. The council has been holding meetings in the old pine room for nearly three decades, ever since the original council house had been burned down the day before Martika’s eleventh birthday. It was also the last day she ever saw her mother, died in childbirth, they told her. She cannot remember, but was told many times about how she screamed as her mother was taken away. How she clung to her father and begged him to stop it. He could not stop it. No one could.

The baby was a boy, they said, but no one but Doctor Wight had seen him. Born sleeping, her father told her, but that couldn’t be true. Martika had heard his cry. She had heard her mother sob. Guttural, feral, raw noises rushed from the tiny bedroom down the hall. Noises that scared Martika as she hid in her closest, hands pinned over her ears. Noises that sounded wet, bloody, inhuman. And on top of it all, old Dr. Wight’s voice saying everything was progressing as normal.

Mr. Jeffries, Peter’s dad, was standing in the kitchen the next morning when Martika awoke and went searching for her mother and the new baby. Mr. Jeffries was drinking tea, so strong it appeared cloudy in the cup, out of the teacup Martika had always liked best, the bright yellow one with the blue cornflowers painted around the rim. Martika’s mother had bought it at a tiny souvenir shop on the only vacation they had ever gone on as a family. Her father had made him tea. She had never seen her father make tea before, and she felt sick at the sight. Something was wrong. Her father and Mr. Jeffries turned to her before she could even speak.

“Martika…” her father said. His voice was hoarse and he said no more. And at that moment, she knew. She knew she’d never see her mother again. She was gone.

“The baby?” she asked.

Her father shook his head. Martika lunged towards the table and snatched up the cheery yellow tea cup. She held it above her head and brought it down and screamed as it hit the floor, shattering into the tiniest pieces. Her father rushed to her, grabbing her, holding her arms down as they dropped to the floor together

“Bring her to my house, Marty. Jane will take care of her. She’ll be ok there. Safe.” Mr. Jeffries’ voice wasn’t kind. He looked at Martika like she was a bug. He pushed some of the shattered porcelain pieces away from him with his foot, one lip curling slightly as he did so.

Martika started to shake. “No, no, no. Where is she? Let me see her. Where is she?” she struggled fiercely, thrashing against her father as he squeezed her tighter and tighter. Mr. Jeffries stood, but made no motion towards them. Martika’s father looked up at Mr. Jeffries, pleading with him to help, to give them the answers to the questions Martika was so desperately asking. “She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone, sweetheart,” her father kept repeating.

They didn’t let her see her mother. The took her body away, covered in a thick stained quilt on an old wooden stretcher. There was no funeral. No burial. No prayers offered up to the sky or a deaf god. Martika’s father never spoke of his wife or the baby again after that day. Martika assumed it was too painful, that her father couldn’t bear the pain that would come up if he dared to utter her name or allow himself to remember her smile, her laugh. If he remembered that, the grief would bubble up again. The what ifs and could have beens and yes, the should have beens. But there was more to it. More that Martika couldn’t know back then, and didn’t let herself know as she grew older. Things and secrets and motivations that would soon become apparent, horrifyingly apparent.

“Martika? Do you have anything to add?” Martika shakes herself out of her reverie to find Jeffries staring down at her from the slightly elevated podium. For a moment, his face looks exactly as his father’s had all those years ago after Martika smashed the teacup and he looked down at her, pathetic and sobbing on the kitchen floor. How long had she been spaced out? It was happening more and more frequently. Harvest Gathering Festival stress, Martika assumed. Lenore had been telling her she needed to take a break. Even suggesting she quit the council. She didn’t understand that it just wasn’t something Martika could do. No one had ever quit the council. Well, her father had. Technically. But that didn’t count. There were circumstances beyond any of their control at that point and no one could have stopped him, even if they had tried to. Which they didn’t. They knew it was inevitable. The path had been laid clear the moment his wife had died, in a pool of raw, sticky blood, in the small guest room bed that Martika’s grandfather had hand carved from old giant pines, in the old grey house Martika and Lenore now make their home, right off the main road. Martika can see the council meeting house from the front porch of the house, always there, waiting for her, and sometimes, she thinks, watching her.

“Oh, um. No? Sorry,” she manages to mutter. She really needed to get it together. This wasn’t like her, so unfocused and drifting further. Even her work wasn’t helping her these days. The dirt and roots and the tink of sharp metal hitting stones as she dug usually was all the therapy and healing she needed. But now? It wasn’t helping. She’s found herself growing careless with her work. Forgetting and missing things she never would have before. The Harvest Gathering Festival is four days away and Martika assures herself that everything will be back to normal soon. It always is after the festival.

Jeffries isn’t letting her off easy today. “So, nothing interesting at the Village today? No interesting conversations? Visitors?” Martika feels an uneasy pit start to dig itself deep in her stomach. He couldn’t possibly know anything about her day or that groups of women true crime fans in “The Husband Did It” and “Wine Me. Dine Me. True Crime Me” shirts have been showing up in small groups since the news got out that Addie Navarro had allegedly been spotted in the woods that connect Olde Leeds Village living history museum with the old motel. He wasn’t there. He’s never there, despite technically being the owner, operator, CEO, president, and all other prestigious titles. Martika shakes her head. But then she hesitates. She can offer up a little something. It’s not of any consequence, really.

“Well, Darcy told me she’s thinking of starting up some sort of Devil Hunt thing. It’s silly and I told her it was—”

“What did you say? A devil hunt?” Jeffries face is red, but his voice remains low and calm.

“Yeah, that’s what she said.” Martika shrugs.

“And what did you say, in return, Martika? Tell me you didn’t encourage this nonsense?”

“I told her it was a dumb idea and not to bother with it. That it wouldn’t work.”

“And did she drop it? Is her mind changed?” Jeffries steps down from the raised podium area and moves closer to Martika.

“Yeah, yeah don’t worry about it. She isn’t going to start some stupid devil hunt. It’s all good, I swear.”

“I surely hope so. This is not the type of publicity our town needs. And not this close to the festival. And on top of this unfortunate and inopportune Navarro business, which hopefully will be resolving itself shortly, my friends. We don’t need more tourists heading here thinking they’re going to, what? Chase down some mythical monster?” Jeffries laughs and a few others join him.

Martika thinks back on the conversation she had with Darcy, one of the only ones they had ever had in the six months Darcy has worked at the museum.

“So, you ready for the Harvest Gathering Festival?” Darcy had asked.

Getting only a sigh and a shrug in response, Darcy had continued on. “I’ve never been to the festival but I’m excited to finally get to go this year,” Darcy says

Martika wasn’t one for small talk and certainly not in the mood to really talk about the festival. “Well, I hope you have a good time. I should probably—”

“Nate told me your girlfriend is running for Harvest Queen or something? Lenore, right?”

Martika stiffened and she noticed Darcy’s face morph into an embarrassed frown, like she’d been afraid she had somehow offended Martika.

“Um, yeah. She was nominated for the Harvest Honor this year.”

“Harvest Honor. How cool! I hope she wins!”

Martika said nothing in return, just offered a wan, closed mouth smile and a nod. She could tell Darcy wasn’t done, she had more questions.

“Oh, uh, Martika, I’ve actually been meaning to run something by you, to see what you think,” Darcy said. Martika looked at her, her eyebrows slowly rising as she nodded her assent.

“Alright so, I’ve been thinking for a while about this and it’s probably a super dumb idea, but hey, who knows right? It could actually be good. I mean, all good ideas have to start somewhere and why—-”

“What’s your idea?” Martika interrupted. She really had so much to do.

“Okay, well- what do you think about me offering Jersey Devil hunting tours?”

Martika tried to keep her face neutral. “Hunting tours? I don’t—-”

“Not real hunting tours obviously. I mean the Jersey Devil isn’t real, right? They’d be just for fun, but also educational too because I’d go into the history of the area and the legend.” Darcy stopped. “It’s a bad idea isn’t it?” she sighed. “I knew it.”

Martika suddenly felt bad and something inside her urged her to try to soothe Darcy. “No, it’s not a bad idea, it’s just… I don’t think it would work.” Martika waved her hand in front of her. “Not here.”

Darcy brightened a bit and went on. “No? Well, I’ve done a lot of research into this and cryptid tours are big, big money and draw tons of tourists in other places. Like the Mothman in West Virginia, you’ve heard of that, right? They have an entire festival! Maybe it wouldn’t be as big as that, but I think it could definitely get some tourists here. And Halloween is coming up and we could definitely play into that. What do you think?” Darcy looked so hopeful at the second, like there was no way Martika hadn’t been convinced.

“Let me think about it. Don’t bring it up to anyone else, just yet. Ok?” Martika said and gathered up her things to leave the the conversation.

“Hey! I got an idea,” Geno, the butcher, suddenly yells out, breaking into Martika’s thoughts once more. “Why don’t we give Darcy the Harvest Honor this year? An idea like the one she had certainly deserves it, don’t ya think? Devil Hunts!” More laughter. Martika stays silent. Jeffries isn’t laughing either.

“That would certainly dissuade her, I suppose. Geno, my friend, you may be on to something,” Jeffries says.

“I was… I was only joking here, Chief. I didn’t mean…”

Jeffries raises his hands in front of him, palms out and break into a wide grin. “Of course, of course. And so am I, friends” he says. The rest of the room relaxes. But not Martika. She knows that grin, lived with it for nearly eight years. She knows what’s behind it, even if the rest of the people in the room don’t, or simply choose to ignore what is literally right in front of them, staring at them, blinding them.

Tria

Darkness overtakes the pink motel nestled cozily on the outskirts of town. The townspeople like to joke that the reason the Hide-a-Nest in the Pines was built right outside the town limits is to keep the tourists away from the main street, to keep and preserve the town proper for the people of the town. But that isn’t much of a joke, is it? Everything about the town and surrounding environs appears made to keep people away, keep people out, keep people afraid of what may lie beyond the tree line, deep in the pines with the creeks and streams full of dark stained water. Afraid of things they never could really imagine, things their nightmares wouldn’t even touch.

Tria sits up in the surprisingly comfortable motel bed, dressed in an old college sweatshirt and a pair of blue bike shorts. It’s nearly ten pm and the Navarros have proven to be no shows, over seven hours late. Tria reasonably seethes a bit over this. How dare they send her to this god forsaken shit hole town, which is barely a town, in pursuit of some crackpot sighting, which, by the way, the one who saw it won’t even claim the story anymore, and not even bother to show up or return any of her calls? She would almost be worried about them if she was not so fucking angry.

The small TV stuck inside an old armoire is on, tuned to the only channel that comes in clearly, some 24 hour news station, but Tria isn’t paying much attention to it until she sees Addie Navarro’s pretty face and blond hair pop up on the screen with the breaking news graphic screaming up from the bottom.

“Breaking news tonight in the Addie Navarro disappearance. The 18 year old has been missing since August 16th while on a cross country RV trip with her boyfriend. Tonight, sources close to the investigation are telling us here at 24/7 Action News that a quote credible sighting has been reported in Arizona and that this sighting involves extensive video evidence. We’re hearing possibly from a trail camera or a surveillance camera of some sort. Addie’s parents, Ian and Rachel Navarro, who have been vocal with their criticisms of the investigation surrounding their daughter’s disappearance in recent days, are reportedly on their way to Arizona tonight in light of this recent development in the case. We will keep you updated as more information rolls in.”

“Well fuck me,” Tria says and grabs her phone from the nightstand. At that moment, it rings. It’s the Navarros calling. Tria declines their call and sends it straight to the purgatory of voicemail. She doubts she would be able to be entirely civil at that moment, so it’s for the best if she doesn’t answer. Besides, there’s nothing much they can say from Arizona. She decides to just go to bed, at least morning will come faster that way, and she can be on her way back home and away from here. Tria reaches over and turns off the utilitarian bedside lamp. The shade is dusty from inattention, as much seems to be around here. Just as she settles down and nestles her head into the pillow, a shrill shriek rings out. It sounds close. Too close. She sits back up, heart racing. Years of living in the city has conditioned her to strange and unexpected noises in the night. But here? It had been so quiet before that shrieking sound came. She cannot place the fear she is feeling. It is new and as unexpected as the sound. Yet, also familiar in some strange way, like it’s a fear she should have been prepared for or one she had let herself forget. She takes a deep breath and then a deeper one. Just some weird ass piney animal, she tells herself and flops back down in the bed. Her eyes are just starting to close when the scratching begins. Not scratching like a house cat’s sharp claws on the side of a wood dresser or the sound of small yet eager rodents in the walls. No, this scratching is deep and rhythmic like a frustrated horse pawing at the ground. Tria imagines whatever it is must be leaving heavy grooves and notches behind in its wake.

She sits up again, this time turning on the light. She grabs her phone, perhaps as some sort of security blanket. “What the fuck?” she murmurs as the scratching continues. A new sound joins the chorus now, a sort of gnashing sound, like bone on teeth or teeth on wood. She follows the sound, almost unconsciously. The sound is coming from above. Up on the motel roof.

Tria lets out a startled yelp as the shriek once again pierces the no longer quiet or still night. Her breathing comes out more ragged now and her throat feels constricted and full, as if she’s choking something down. Every breath feels sharp and almost jagged. She feels pinned to the bed, unable or unwilling to move. Whatever is on the roof is moving now, slowly but heavily. Tria hears something that she is sure can’t possible be something she could hear down in her room, with wood and insulation between them. But it sounds like wings. Papery and flapping, fluttering. It can’t be a bird, can it? Are birds just bigger down here? Tria thinks. That must be it, though. It has to be. It’s just a bird, she says out loud and repeats it until the thought feels accurate and her breathing returns to normal. She lies back in the bed, once against nestling her head in the pillow. It drowns out the sounds coming from the roof enough that she is able to drift again, back to that state between awake and asleep, where no waking world anxiety or care can touch her. It’s just a bird. It’s just a bird. It’s just a big, fucking, dumb ass piney shit town bird, she thinks as sleep finally catches her and she holds on tight.

But, I ask you, what kind of bird has hooves for feet?