Explore every episode of the podcast Psychochronograph: Short Fiction Bursts

Far away from here, and many thousands of years in the future, a young girl by the name of Coletta von Nestershaw walks through the empty rooms of the station. Its formal name is very long and tedious, as names of things tend to become when the same organizational scheme has been used to assign them for over a thousand years. It all ends in a number—893. Thus, its three occupants call it Station 893.

Coletta is twelve and has many strict ideas about all sorts of things. One of these is her annoyance over the fact that some things have multiple names. It seems redundant, hampers communication, and makes everything harder to learn. So, while she is not satisfied that the station has multiple names, she accepts it. She is also very fond of her home. She has lived here since she was ten, when her father—Venya von Nestershaw—was assigned to the planetoid in which the station is embedded.

The planetoid has no name, it’s just a seemingly endless series of numbers and letters, so Coletta calls it “the rock” or, more often, “planetoid” because there seems to be no reason to give it another name. It is brutally cold outside, and as far as Coletta can see vast planes of ice recede into the distance. It glitters at sunrise, although the star for this system is very distant. The light will sometimes refract in hues of purple and blue. But now the short day is done, and the sun is hidden.

The station is anchored into the ice—it’s shark-tooth shape sunk deeply in through force and heat. She never tires of the vast emptiness of the rock, but she loves it most of all this time of year. Because she is only days away from Kriznas, and the cold and Kriznas go together.

“It is time to sup, Coletta,” says Nan, the ovoid comfortdrone who has raised her since she was very little, after her mother expired.

“Very well, Nan,” Coletta sighs, stopping the game of leapscotch she was playing in the game room, and bowing her head slightly. A smooth tube slides out of a recessed panel in Nan’s side and attaches itself to the center port in Coletta’s nexum, a cluster of natural ports that all humins have evolved. A puree of fiber and nutrient-rich suspension shoots through the tube, past the center port’s tasting ring, and directly into Coletta’s system. Coletta smiles appreciatively.

“Mmmm. What was that? I liked it very much,” Coletta said. Nan chirped, pleased with herself.

“It is a special mix I’ve been thinking up. It’s called ‘Rain in the Woods,’ If you like it, I can add it to the regular rotation,” Nan said.

“Yes, please. Are you planning a new taste for Kriznas?”

“Perhaps. If you are good.” With that, Nan floated away to attend to other duties. Nan had many bodies throughout the ship, all working simultaneously, so she was never far away. When Coletta’s father was away working, Nan was more than just her comfortdrone. She was the keeper of their residence. Venya operated a large rover and did his scientific work over long sojourns over the ice. The weather on the planetoid was too violent for aircraft. Even the formidable traction of the rover wasn’t enough when the weather was at its worst. So, it was a slow and tedious business, and he was usually gone for months at a time.

“I hope he’s home for Kriznas,” Coletta said, stopping by the nativity on her way to the Kriznas tree. Nan was not physically present, but her warm intelligence permeated the station. Coletta would often speak to her, just to make her thoughts known, without expecting a reply. The nativity was a traditional one, although other families had trendier-looking ones. At least, that was her impression from the shows and commercials she saw on the viewer. They were well out of regular broadcast range, but they got data bursts every six months. It was expensive, because of the raw power needed to send the info, but it kept them at least marginally in contact with civilization. They were due another a few days before Kriznas.

 In any case, Coletta had always favored the more traditional set-up for the nativity. Three walls of plantone mimicked ancient wooden walls. Shaved plantone sticks represented the hay. In the center of all this was Mahre*E, the most holy birthing chamber, recreated down to the most minute detail by artisans working in precious metals. Within the birthing chamber was the traditional glowing green egg, made of a spongey, bioluminescent fungus that was meant to mimic the look and feel of the real thing.

“May the light of Josu Kriz, still but a spark in Mahre*E’s womb matrix, guide papa home, safe and sound, on Kriznas morn,” Coletta intoned reverently. Tucked within the green fungus was a genestruct of Josu Kriz, ready to be “birthed” at the appointed hour. He’d emerge from his protective cocoon, deliver the traditional Kriznas speech, and be generally available for play for about a day or two. Then the genestruct would dry up and shrivel, the way all genestructs do, and be pitched in the recycler. But for a couple days she’d have her very own pocket god. It was always very exciting.

“Nan, may I trim the tree?” Coletta asked, as she entered the main hall of the station. Here, the enormous holographic projection of their Kriznas tree slowly turned, hovering above the circular gift pit. The tree itself was also traditional, a crystalline lattice of sharp green spikes emanating from a central, rotating cylinder. The facets of each spike cycled through video memories, stretched and semi-translucent over the length of their surface. The memories were from the collections of all the Van Nestershaws going back hundreds and hundreds of years. The distortion of the shards rendered the memories somewhat abstract, but all were selected for their happiness and nostalgia quotients.

“Yes, my dove,” said Nan as a panel in the wall slid open and one of her ovoid forms glided gracefully next to her. “Would you like me to sing, or would you?”

“Oh, you, please. Your voice is so beautiful.” Coletta raised her hands up to the Kriznas tree, and Nan began to sing.

Guide my hand / Oh Josu

As I shed / The past into

Crystal limbs / Vibrate the call

Reveal the gifts / For one and all

Coletta swiped gently at the jagged crystals near the top (you had to start at the top, it was a rule) and they fell away and shattered into nothingness. You did this a little each day leading up to Kriznas, until finally the base of the tree was swept away, and the gift pit was revealed. This reminded Coletta that she needed to finish and wrap her gift for her father so Nan could place it in the pit. Her father was not a sentimental man. So Coletta had wracked her brain for most of the year trying to think of something practical he’d enjoy on his long sojourns. She settled on a radiation detector, and had Nan add it to their last shipment order—they got shipments only once a year—in secret, using her allowance funds. Coletta had painted it in her favorite colors—purple and blue—and affixed a small picture of herself on one end. It was practical and sentimental, so she hoped her father would like it for one aspect at least.

Oh three-headed god / we wait for you

In your cloak of man / Sweet Josu

The wrath-head God / And Gentle Sonu

Ghost-head Spirri / All are you

Sweet Josu

Sweet Josu

Coletta had tears in her eyes. So great was Josu Kriz. She couldn’t wait to play with him on Kriznas morn.

Weeks passed, and Kriznas grew closer and closer, and the tree was nearly half gone.

“No word from father, yet?” Coletta asked Nan. It was long past her bedtime, but Nan had allowed her to stay up later as a treat.

“No, my dove. Not yet. But the storms have been terrible lately,” she replied. Coletta knew this, of course, because beyond the constant weather map that was projected in the communications room, she also could hear the winter storm battering the walls of the station. Months could go by without hearing from her father, especially when he was on the far side of the planetoid as he was now. The thought that he was on the sunny side of the planetoid made her happy, somehow, as she stared out at the dark, blizzard-obscured night. Although she hoped he was headed back to her. She wanted to give him a hug. It was like hugging a stone, at times, but it gave her comfort when he was near, especially if her loneliness had been severe.

Then, the entrance bell chimed.

This was impossible, of course. But it still sounded.

“Was that the outside entrance?” Coletta asked expectantly.

“I’m sure it’s just some sort of malfunction. Your father isn’t due—well, if he is going to be able to make it back, he’s not due for at least another week,” Nan said. Coletta felt like Nan was acting very odd. The entrance bell chimed again. Coletta ran to the nearest screen and turned on the entrance camera. There was a man, hunched over, with black cracked skin, wearing a ragged blood-red hooded cloak. His eyes burned like cinders. Coletta was delighted and ran for the entrance.

“Now, Coletta, hold on one—sigh,” Nan said, as even her hover engines weren’t fast enough to keep up with the girl. Instead, another of her bodies activated near the entrance.

“Hello, mysterious stranger!” Coletta said into the microphone once she reached the entrance.

“Hello little girl! It is I, Cinder Clod! Come to reward the good little children and mercilessly punish the bad! Which are you, little girl?” said the man, who was clearly her father in disguise. Nan and he had conspired to surprise her, although apparently, he was earlier than expected.

“You’re supposed to know!” Coletta crossed her arms and acted unimpressed. “Where is your great data cloud, that collects all children’s thoughts and deeds?”

“Oh, good point,” said Cinder Clod as he touched one finger to the cracked black skin of his temple. Smoke hissed out from between the cracks. “Ah, yes, here’s the data. I have the decision on you. Now let me in before my cinders completely cool!” Coletta giggled, and let “Cinder Clod” in.

“You must be the comfortdrone, eh?” Cinder Clod asked Nan.

“Yes, oh great Cinder Clod, I am,” Nan said, a little stiffly. “Coletta, dove, run to the refinery and get a nutrient suspension for Mr. Clod, here. We don’t want to break with tradition.” Coletta nodded and ran away excitedly. She’d helped Nan brew the suspension. It tasted like Ginger Surprises, and she knew her father would love it. As she ran away, she heard Nan whisper to her father. Even though Nan’s voice was low, she still heard her.

“You’re awfully early, Sir,” Nan said.

“Am I?” Cinder Clod asked. “Huh.”

The conversation was over by the time Coletta returned with the vial of Ginger Surprises, wrapped in festive mauve paper. She handed it to Cinder Clod with a quick curtsy.

“This looks wonderful,” Cinder Clod said, raising the vial up to his mouth.

“No, Cinder Clod!” Coletta squealed in delight at her father’s silliness. “Not in your mouth!” The man seemed genuinely chagrined, and her father’s acting made Coletta even happier than she had been. Sometimes her father could feel as distant as this system’s sun, even when he was at home. He got wrapped up in his work, and his job wasn’t easy. So, it made Coletta happy when he went through some extra effort for her. It was rare, and always welcome.

“Well, where, uh, do I put it?” asked Cinder Clod.

“In your nexum, of course,” Coletta said. Cinder Clod stared at her blankly. Her father was really leaning into this performance.

“Perhaps I can do it for you, Sir—I mean, Mr. Clod,” Nan said. She took the vial from Cinder Clod, and hovered behind Coletta’s father, who continued to keep up the charade of confusion. Nan froze and hovered in place.

“What’s wrong, Nan?” Coletta asked. Nan didn’t respond, but Coletta heard the gentle whir of a panel opening behind her. Another of Nan’s bodies was at her side. Then another one came, speeding down the corridor from the main hall.

“Is something wrong?” Cinder Clod asked, his orange-flame eyes darting behind him, as a swarm of Nans surrounded Coletta.

“This isn’t your father, dove,” Nan finally said.

“Of course not! I’m Cinder Clod, one of the servants of—”

“Cut the act. And tell me who you are.”

“I don’t understand! Of course, that’s father!” Coletta said, her head darting from one Nan to another as they surrounded her.

“This person has no nexum, dove,” Nan said. Hovering near “Cinder Clod” threateningly.

“Oh. Yes, yes, I see it now,” said Cinder Clod. And Nan watched as three holes appeared in the base of the man’s neck. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not my father?” asked Colette. The man kneeled, and the Cinder Clod disguise melted away from his skin and seemed to evaporate, leaving behind her father. Or what looked like her father.

“I’m not, Coletta. But I could be,” said the man.

“Enough. You will reveal your identity, and then you will be detained until the proper authorities can be contacted,” Nan said. “You will not get anywhere near the girl.”

“You’ve… you’ve got this all wrong,” said the man. With these words, the likeness of Venya von Nestershaw melted away, too. In his place, appeared a man who looked like he was made of ice. Except, when Coletta looked closer, she could see that under the frosted crystalline exterior were vague suggestions of organs. They showed as blooms of color—reds, blues, and purples—peeking through the foggy glass of the creature’s body.

“What are you?” Coletta asked softly, before asking the question she most wanted to ask, but most feared. “Where is my father?”

“I have no name but the one you gave me,” the creature said, kneeling so that it was eye to eye with Coletta. The Nan bots hovered nervously around the girl. “It is apparently very long. So, you call me Planetoid. Which is as fine a name as any.”

“You—you’re the planetoid?”

“Sort of. I suppose I’m not that different than your protector, here. One mind, many forms. When you first came here, a literal thorn in my side, I was very annoyed. But over time I have come to care for you, Coletta. And your father. He liked to poke me, and bore holes in me, but I suppose I liked the attention.”

“We will assume that’s true,” Nan said, hovering lower so that she was between Planetoid and Coletta. “But the girl asked you another question. Where is her father?” At this, Planetoid’s rudimentary crystalline face frowned.

“I am sorry. And sorrier to be the one to deliver the news. His rover broke down, and he could not contact you. He tried to get back, but he was so far away. I showed myself—I wanted to help him, protect him, on his journey home. But I scared him. He ran and fell off a sheer ice cliff. I could not save him.”

Nan let out a small, electronic squeak. Coletta, for her part, stood very still.

“Where is he now?” Colleta asked. The Planetoid looked toward the main entrance.

“I froze him in ice. You have many wondrous machines. I didn’t know if you might have something—I mean if he was kept very cold if there was a chance—”

“We have a DocBox, but it would depend on the extent of…the injuries,” Nan said carefully, the main, hexagonal light in her body pulsating yellow, which it always did when Nan was deep in thought. “But there is a chance—if we could use the DocBox while keeping him in stasis until he can get proper medical treatment. It will take many months before a ship can come retrieve us. I will contact the corporation.”

“I can regulate his temperature. Below my surface,” said the Planetoid. He closed his eyes for a moment. “There. I have pulled his form into myself. I can keep him at whatever temperature you need.”

“I will grab the DocBox. Can you pull me below too? I would like to stay near him and monitor him,” Nan said. The Planetoid nodded. Nan was gone for only moments before she returned with the suitcase-sized DocBox.  Nan did not say goodbye to Coletta, of course, because she was still all around her, and had many more bodies, but she did turn back briefly and look at the young girl. Colleta was so still, and so silent. Nan cycled through a thousand different possible grief counseling options, before deciding that she should give Coletta a little time alone to process. She floated out to the planetoid, blasts of cold air and snow gusting in. And then door shut.

“She’ll be safe, don’t worry,” Planetoid said. Coletta nodded, and then turned away. She walked, a little mechanically, to the main hall. She sat on the long gray couch near the Kriznas tree. The Planetoid, not knowing what to do with himself now, sat on the couch too, some distance away from her.

“Is there anything I can do?” it asked.

“Why did you pretend to be him?”

“Your kind seem to hold some day-cycles in more regard than others. I rushed down to your father as he—well, I was there with him for a few moments. I’m very good at reading thoughts. They sort of blast out toward me, to be honest. And his final thought was of Kriznas, and you, and how he planned to surprise you.”

“It was?”

“Yes. You seem surprised.”

“Maybe a little,” Coletta said, because she did not want to say what she really felt. She loved her father, in a way. And she knew he loved her, in his own way. But they were more like two people who lived in the same space than family. Coletta would have named Nan as her closest kin, if someone had ever been around to ask. He was gone most of the time, so his presence provided something comforting but non-specific. Not the comfort of a father, who has returned to his child. But the comfort of another living being, with distinct ideas of their own, occupying the same space she was in. The thought that he was gone, now—perhaps permanently, sparked strange and conflicting feelings within her. There wasn’t a lack of grief, but she wasn’t sure if it was because of the loss of her father, or because of the loss of an occasional companion.

“He did love you,” Planetoid said. Coletta whipped her head around in confusion, before realizing that it had said it could read her thoughts. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to read your mind. You’re practically shouting at me.”

“I think he loved you,” Coletta said.

“Yes, he did,” the Planetoid said, turning its head toward the Kriznas tree. Tilting it slightly, as if trying to take in everything it saw there. “Or, to be precise, he loved the puzzle I represented. He loved that about you, too. Because you were no less baffling to him. But he also loved you like you love me—for who and what you are. You love my icy expanse. My wild and untamable nature. He loved your specific, fervent beliefs, as well as the puzzle you presented. He loved your efficiency, even as he worried that being raised by a robot might have had a negative effect on you.”

“You learned all of this as he—as he expired?” Coletta asked. Planetoid shook its head.

“No, as he drilled out core samples from me, I explored his inner recesses as well. It only seemed fair.”

“I suppose. And me? Did you explore my mind as well?”

“As you stood at the window, staring at me, your love radiated. I did not have to dig in for it. I just sat back and enjoyed it,” said the Planetoid, a smile forming on its face. “In all my long days, I have been respected, feared, enjoyed, and hated. But never loved. In any case, I pretended to be your father because I wanted you to share the upcoming day with him without sadness.”

“That was thoughtful. But we humins don’t like being tricked,” Coletta said, inching closer to the Planetoid. Coletta realized that most of her knowledge of humanity came from shows, and that perhaps that wasn’t a true judge of her race’s wants. So, she adjusted and limited herself to her own feelings. “I’d rather have reality. Something reliable. Consistent.”

“Hmm,” said Planetoid. He sensed what Coletta wanted, and he inched forward toward her, and put his arm around her, and pulled her close to him, protectively. Coletta rested her head against his chest.

“You’re warm. I thought you might be cold.”

“I would have been when I first came in. But I’m not made of ice. It’s more like crystal. And it absorbs heat quickly,” said the Planetoid.

“It’s nice. Like a massage stone,” said Coletta. “Now why did you say ‘Hmm?’”

“Well, you are a very young girl,” the Planetoid said, watching the Kriznas tree rotate. “I am very, very old. And I have had many different beings wander my surface over that time.”

“And you’re very wise, then, I suppose?” asked Coletta. The Planetoid laughed, and its laughter had a musical, vibrational quality to it.

“Less that, I think, than I’ve had a lot of time to think and come to some conclusions.”

“Like what?” Coletta asked, yawning, letting her head further relax on the warm, unyielding surface of the Planetoid.

“Well, the universe is a very wild place, full of things that are out of our hands. I cannot control who lands on my surface, for instance. I do not control my orbit around the star I have called home for millennia. But we like the illusion of consistency—to believe in the unbroken chain of what we call reality.”

“I don’t understand,” Coletta said sleepily.

“I know, sweetheart,” said the Planetoid. “But most beings in the universe are little more than a flicker. Blink and you’ll miss them. So, they like the idea of permanent things—places or ideas, mostly—that are a bedrock against the unruly change that is around them. But when you’ve lived as long as I have, you know that most of those things are flickers too. Two thousand years or two months or two seconds—the difference becomes barely noticeable after a while.

The best you can hope for is something malleable enough to twist and fold with the wildness of the universe. But sometimes, that new shape is so unrecognizable as to barely resemble the thing it once was. I think there’s beauty in that, though, too. Because that new thing might be greater than the thing it used to be.” Coletta snored softly by the Planetoid’s side. It scooped her up its arms and carried her to her bed. It laid her down gently there and pulled her covers up around her head. As it exited, it saw Nan float toward it.

“You tried to call, I take it,” the Planetoid said.

“You knew there’d be no answer,” Nan said.

“I did.”

“Mr. Van Nestershaw’s body is shattered. There is no hope of recovery for him.”

“There is not.”

“Why? What does this mean? Why did you give the poor girl hope where there is none?”

“My kind exist all throughout the galaxy. We can speak to each other, through the song of cosmic tides that your kind cannot see or hear. They brought me news of your makers’ misfortune some months ago,” said the Planetoid.

“What happened?”

“A solar implosion destroyed your home system. There is not much left of the civilization you left behind.”

“Those words you said, when Coletta was asleep. They were for me more than her.”

“Yes, she understands a lot for one so young. But would not understand this, I suspect,” the Planetoid said, as its features blurred and remolded back into the form of Venya Von Nestershaw. “Because there is no future for her beyond me—beyond this small station and this icy rock. I wish to make the future she does have as comfortable as it can be. With your help I can do that. But you know her best.

Which should that future be? As her father—after a “miraculous recovery” thanks to your DocBox—or as myself? I do not know the best course of action. I know what she says, but it is at odds with her heart. Which should I listen to?” Nan floated over to the doorway leading to Coletta’s room.

“We are probably both poor judges of that,” Nan said. “I cannot say if my thoughts and feelings are my own, or just clever programming. And you—your mind and your perspective I can only guess at.”

“It’s not ideal, true. But we’re all she has,” the Planetoid said. Nan let out a chirp of agreement, and she and the Planetoid watched Coletta as her body, buried under the thick blue comforter she was tucked into, rose and fell gently. They regarded this little creature, suspended between youth and adulthood, apocalypse and comfort, loss and hope, and could not find the answer to their quandary.

“We will decide in the morning,” Nan said.

“Yes, that is wise,” said Planetoid. And then both watched Coletta sleep, as the unrelenting storm around them howled and clawed at the station.

The End

Notes on “Kriznas on Station 893”

In mid-September of this year, I began thinking about what I’d do for my December short story. I had some options I’d already written, but I liked the idea of doing something new. I started with the idea of a little girl celebrating Christmas, or at least what was left of the IDEA of Christmas after thousands of years. There’s a whole backstory to how humanity got to this place. Maybe someday i’ll tell it. But for now, it’s just about Coletta. I was not expecting the story to take the turn it did.

Maybe it’s an extension of my own thinking about the holidays. I love them, but there’s no denying that the holiday is tinged with sadness for many. I’m always very much aware of this, and I think that seeped in here too. The story got “bigger” in ideas than I expected, too. I like the strange brew of what it ended up as. I hope you do as well.

About the music:

What Is Love by Kevin MacLeod

Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/5015-what-is-love

License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license

Kennedy's eyes grew heavier by the second until, at last, her head dipped forward, her hands fell heavily on the keys, and the computer let out an electronic squawk. This shook her awake, and she tried once again to focus on the Excel sheet in front of her. But the grids began to dance in front of her eyes—numbers jumping in her vision from row to row and column to column. Mr. Bowles paid her a little extra each week to balance the books, even though Kennedy had no training in that sort of thing. It wasn't exactly hard, but it was tedious—especially when she was running on three hours of sleep. Her main job here, acting as the second shift desk clerk at the Paper Moon Bay Motel, was equally as easy. Particularly through the weekdays.

The motel was old, built sometime in the late 60s when the old highway saw a lot more business than it did now. It hadn't been maintained well enough to be a cute-and-trendy destination, and Mr. Bowles refused to invest any money to get it there. That meant it was a motel for diehards who found its decay charming, people who didn’t want to pay a lot for a room, or for the people who were visiting the nearby state park. Kennedy's eyes were feeling very heavy again when the old phone on the desk rang. Kennedy hated this phone. It was made of an off-putting peachy-flesh color better reserved for prosthetics. Oh, and usually when it rang it was a customer complaining.

“What’s up b***h?” Teri yelled as soon as Kennedy picked up the receiver.

“Me, unfortunately,” grumbled Kennedy. “Can you please not shout.”

"Poor girl, you must really be feeling those shots. They went down so smooth, but damn, they could mess a person up,” Teri said.

“How are you so… not dead?”

“I haven’t gone to sleep! That’s the secret. Just keep going until you can sleep for the next day. Speaking of which, want to come by my place tonight? Keith and Shawn are going to swing by.”

“No! No, that sounds like the absolute worst idea. Aren’t you going to crash before then?” asked Kennedy, although she already knew the answer. She’d been friends with Teri since college, and she was fun. But she was a Chicago suburbs trust-fund baby through and through, and had no clue about how life in the real world operated. Kennedy was equally judgmental and jealous about this fact.

"No way," Teri said, shaking a bottle of pills near the phone. "I get tired when I want to get tired, and I stay awake when I want to stay awake." Kennedy involuntarily yawned so hard the muscles in the lower part of her jaw cramped painfully. A small, older woman entered the motel office at that exact moment, thrusting the door open with such force the small entrance bell clacked tunelessly.

"I'll talk to you later," Kennedy said quickly before hanging up the phone. The woman was halfway through the door and gave Kennedy a quick smile before suddenly turning around and poking her head back through the door.

“Do you two want something to drink? Maybe a fruit juice? Sure, Grammy can do that," the woman said before turning her attention back toward Kennedy. She closed the door behind her gently. "Sorry about that, my grandkids are darlings, but they never seem to stop needing food and drinks! Do you have any fruit juice?"

“Sure, over there in the case. I mean, it's Snapple, but I think that still counts,” Kennedy said, pointing toward an old, refrigerated unit that kept the bottles inside a few degrees colder than the air outside of it. The woman tottered over toward the case. She was very short–under five feet tall—with fluffy white hair and a thick middle. She wore a blouse with a delicate pink and green floral pattern and light blue jeans worn high on her hips. A loose-knit shawl in light blue draped around her shoulders and hung down her back and at her sides, almost to her knees. She completed the look with a large purse slung over her neck, its strap bisecting her breasts. Kennedy knew that Teri would find her hilarious, so she pulled out her new flip-phone and took a quick snap while the woman deliberated between two flavors of Snapple. Almost the instant after she took the shot, the older woman whipped around, a smile on her face and two different flavors of juice in her hand.

“These’ll do! Little George likes strawberries, and Addison usually likes this fruit punch flavor, I think,” said the woman.

“Will that be all? Or did you want a room?” Kennedy asked. For some reason, the woman found this funny and laughed.

“Of course, dear! Why do you think I’m here?”

“Right, silly me," Kennedy said through a forced smile. She was too tired and had no patience for this. Plenty of people stopped in just to get food and drinks and head back out on the road since gas stations were in short supply on this stretch. “How many people will be staying in your room?”

“Oh, just myself, Georgy, and Addy," the woman said. Kennedy nodded and started typing information into the computer. And, since Mr. Bowles didn't want to invest in some software to manage the reservations and guests, it was just another Excel sheet.

“That’s fun. Taking the grandkids for a little vacation?” Kennedy asked, mustering as much enthusiasm for this obligatory banter as possible.

“Yes, I figured they wouldn’t want to spend their whole visit sitting around some old woman’s home. I haven’t seen them in years. My son lives with his wife on the East Coast. So, this is a special treat.”

“That’s nice of you to go through the trouble.”

"Oh, no trouble. We like to go on sightseeing trips. It's not too much money, but we get to take our pics in all sorts of interesting places! I've got a fancy new digital camera and tripod and everything," the woman said.

“Well, there’s a great view of the lake if you follow the signs in the park for the Outlook,” Kennedy said, trying to stifle another monster yawn building inside her.

“Oh, thank you, dear. I’ll do that.”

Kennedy kept forging ahead with the check-in process, and the woman said her name was Cecilia Ann Yates, but to just call her Grammy Yates. Everyone did. Kennedy nodded at this politely, and minutes later, Grammy Yates was heading out of the office with two Snapples in her right hand and the key to room six in her left hand.

"Now, you two settle down!” Grammy Yates said the moment she stepped out of the door. “Or you won’t get your fruit drinks!” The woman’s voice raised a few octaves when she said “fruit drinks” and Kennedy had to stifle a giggle. The door closed, and (to Kennedy’s relief) muffled whatever the woman said next. Kennedy waited a few more seconds, just to make sure the woman was gone, before picking her phone up again and texting Teri.

Kennedy: You have got to see the pic I took of this woman who just came in.

Teri: my data is sooooo low show me when I see you tonite

Kennedy: I am not coming tonight. And this is worth it.

Kennedy sent the picture. She needed something to keep her occupied so she wouldn't fall asleep. After all, she was only a couple of hours into her shift. And, gossiping about people with Teri was almost always fun.

Only one other person checked in all night, a man in his mid-forties with greasy hair and beads of sweat on his immense forehead. Kennedy checked him in as quickly as she could. Whatever he was up to, she was sure it wasn't anything she wanted to know about, and she figured efficiency on her part was all that he required. Somewhere around seven, she gave in to her exhaustion and nodded off, only waking up to the crunch of tires on gravel. She jolted upward, glanced at her watch, and was amazed to see it was past nine. Only two more hours, and she could get some sleep in an actual bed. Still, she figured she might as well get some of the other daily nonsense out of the way, like refilling the pop machines outside. She thought some of the cool night air might help her feel less groggy, too.

As soon as she opened the door, she realized her black short-sleeve Stone Temple Pilots t-shirt was not going to be enough. Not only was it cold outside, but the wind had picked up, sending an icy blast through the crack in the door. She ran back and got her thin hoodie and quickly put it on, and stepped outside. The pop machine, however, was forgotten as she was immediately drawn to a brown Oldsmobile parked in front of room number six. The back door on the driver’s side—the one facing her—was open, and yellow light spilled out from the small dome light of the car’s interior. No one was inside, and the door to room number six was also wide open.

This struck her as strange, but Kennedy shook the notion away immediately. Grammy Yates and her two grandchildren must just be in the middle of unloading the car and would be back out any moment. It must have been the tires of the Oldsmobile that had startled her awake. This seemed sensible, but Kennedy still found her gaze transfixed on the two open doors. The old woman, or one of her grandchildren, would come out and close the car door at any moment. How old were the woman's grandchildren? Young enough to sleep comfortably in one bed, Kennedy supposed, as there were just two twin beds in that room. Thirty seconds passed, and no one came out, so Kennedy wrapped her arms around herself, put the hood up on her sweater, and decided to take a closer look.

After glancing into the room, and seeing no one, she decided to check out the car first. The car was remarkably clean. Much cleaner than Kennedy managed on her own, let alone with two kids riding in the back. But there was a crumpled-up McDonald’s bag next to two Happy Meal boxes. The two bottles of Snapple were next to these. They looked full, though, so apparently, the children hadn't settled down enough to earn their treat. On the seat was a chain of paper dolls—a chain consisting of just two figures. Both were crudely drawn in crayon, one a boy and the other a girl. She picked up the paper dolls, although she didn’t really know why. Maybe it was her foggy head, but the piercing cold wind seemed to be running right through her. That same wind almost immediately blew the paper dolls out of Kennedy’s hand and up into the air.

"S**t," Kennedy muttered as she ran around the car and after a little cut-out piece of paper. It landed on the edge of a mud puddle from the previous days’ rain. The water quickly spread from the side that had been partially submerged in the water to the other. When Kennedy picked it up, the dolls drooped and tore slightly, already losing cohesion. Kennedy looked at the open door of room six again.

“Mrs. Yates?” Kennedy called out.

"Yes?" Grammy Yates called out. "Are you that girl from the front desk?" Kennedy's face lit up, and she shook her head at her stupidity. She'd gotten worked up for nothing.

"Yes, Ma'am," Kennedy said as she strode toward the open door.

“Oh, fantastic, I could use your help.”

"Sure," she said as she entered the room. Grammy Yates stepped into view, carrying a camera and tripod under her arm, and mashing the plastic buttons on the remote with her finger. She sat the tripod down, and attached the camera to a mass of cords jutting out from the back of the television.

“I’m trying to find that button that changes the mode thingy,” the woman said.

“I can help you with that. But, uh, where are your grandkids?”

"Playing in the car, I suspect. I meant just to get this set up quickly while they finished their Happy Meals in the car—I hate the stink of leftover fast food don’t you? —so we could all view the pictures we took today. But it's taken longer than I thought it would."

“I… I didn’t see them.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure they’re just playing hide n’ seek. They like to do that sometimes,” said Grammy Yates. “Now you just figure out this remote, and you can see our pictures too!”

 "I kind of hate to say this since I work here and all, but this isn't the kind of place where I'd let kids run around," Kennedy said as she took the remote in the hand that wasn't currently holding sopping-wet paper dolls. Two-button clicks later, an image popped up on the screen. What the picture was, Kennedy couldn't have guessed. It was just a peach-red blur.

“There we go!” Grammy Yates said, clicking the button again and again as she worked through several more similar pictures. “Oh, don’t look at those. That’s just my thumb when I was setting the timer up. Oh, here we go. Here’s me and the kids at the farmer’s stand a few blocks down the road. It’s so nice they stay open this late in the season. Now, here we are at that lake you mentioned. That spot was so nice, so thanks for the tip.”

Kennedy tried to speak, but she couldn’t. Twin sparks of fear and confusion rocketed through her, sending the hairs on her neck prickling. She felt like she’d been dumped into a tank of honey. She moved slower than she should. Even her brain was moving slower than it should. The pictures on the screen didn’t make sense. As Grammy Yates clicked through picture after picture, Kennedy’s dread only heightened. In every picture, Grammy Yates was alone, her smile beaming widely right toward the camera lens. And, always, she held the paper dolls—forever linked by crudely-cut paper arms—in front of her.

"George liked this spot," Grammy Yates said. Kennedy looked at the wet paper in her hand and then looked out at the car, the door still ajar with light spilling out into the night. The older woman must have realized that she was not responding, as Grammy Yates looked over at her just as Kennedy decided she had to leave, and quickly. But it was too late. Grammy Yates saw the look of fear in her eyes. And, upon seeing that, her eyes darted around until she saw the wet, nearly translucent paper dolls in Kennedy's hand.

“Oh no,” the older woman said, crumpling forward, bent over the hotel bed. “No, no, no.”

“Look, Mrs. Yates, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I mean, it was—” Kennedy tried to find the words to comfort her, but the whole situation was too ridiculous, wasn’t it?

“What have you done?” Grammy Yates roared as she lunged from the bed straight at Kennedy. Kennedy held her hands up in fear, the sopping wet remains of “George” and “Addison” falling to the floor. She felt a sharp pain just under her ribs as she watched the older woman’s face—reddened and scrunched in fury, her teeth bared—loom right in front of her own. She looked down and saw a pair of pink-handled scissors sunk deep into her chest. Where had those come from? Had they been on the bed? Kennedy thought dully, unable to process what had just happened. There was a strange silence between them, with only the older woman's puffs of breath, in rhythm to the heaves rattling her small frame, making any sound.

“You’re insane,” Kennedy whispered as she grasped the woman's shoulders. She didn't say it with judgment. In fact, she was saying it more to herself than Grammy Yates, as her mind tried to break through her fear and confusion and put the fractured puzzle of what had just happened to her together.

"What have you done?" the woman yelled, spittle flying from her mouth and landing on Kennedy's face as she felt the scissors pulled from her body with a wet, squelching sound. Was she addressing Kennedy or herself?  It didn’t matter, did it? Kennedy sank to her knees and then to her side. Darkness began to creep around the edges of her vision, and her head felt foggier than ever. She watched as Grammy Yates carefully picked up the wet pile of paper on the floor and tried to smooth it out onto the bed. The woman grabbed a ratty notepad next to the phone and used the scissors to cut into the paper. The sticky red blood on her scissors and hands wilted the paper even as she cut. Kennedy knew it was her blood, but she felt so far away from it now, her revulsion was oddly muted.

“Oh, my darlings. My darlings, I’m sorry,” Grammy Yates said. “Maybe if I can make you just the same as they—as you–did. Maybe you'll come back to me." The older woman's hands began to tremble with frantic fury as the blood-covered paper seemed to lose all shape in her hands. “Come back to me, come back to me.”

Kennedy wanted to cry out. Whether it was to cry out in frustration and fear that this had happened to her, to yell at the older woman, or maybe even to comfort her—she couldn't say. Because she was so far away now, she couldn't speak, and every thought seemed to drift away from her and into a dark, dark void.

Music credits:

Heartbreaking by Kevin MacLeodLink: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/3863-heartbreaking

Right Behind You by Kevin MacLeodLink: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4286-right-behind-you

Children's Theme by Kevin MacLeodLink: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/3497-children-s-theme

Slow Burn by Kevin MacLeodLink: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4372-slow-burn

License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license

Hello everyone, and welcome to this month’s Short Fiction Burst. Usually I present a piece of short fiction here. But this month I have something a little special for you. That’s because my horror novel, In the Dark of the Grove, has been released from Gurt Dog Press!

That’s right, it’s October 29, 2021—the day is finally here! To celebrate, I’ll be reading a couple chapters from the book. For more info on how to order your copy (ebook or physical) you can go to my website: jonwesleyhuff.com

In The Dark of the Grove

by Jon Wesley Huff

Prologue

Dying ended up being more difficult than Herb Thomas had anticipated. He’d assumed the build-up to it would be the worst part. The drive to Silver Cove had been an uncomfortable mix of familiar and foreign. He hadn’t been up this way in nearly a decade. The once charming lakeside town had taken on a commercialized feel, with tall condos now partially blocking the view of Lake Michigan. He drove into the familiar parking lot of Silver Cove Beach, though he preferred the free parking along the roads of the quaint downtown. His wife, however, had always insisted on paying to park in this lot, since it was closer to the beach. She could spend twelve hours working in the fields, but she hated walking on sand. He smiled at the memory of her and their son, Kyle, running as fast as they could to the shoreline and the cool wet sand that awaited. The smile didn’t last long.

Herb’s wife had been gone a long time now, and he hadn’t seen his son in fifteen years. This time, he parked in the lot because he wanted his car to be easy to find. He snuffed his cigarette out into an overflowing ashtray—the result of picking the bad habit up again in the two years he’d been planning all of this. The build-up to this moment had been hard. The uncertainty of whether this was an act of bravery or cowardice plagued him. He never thought of himself as a brave man. Even the book, the greatest act of bravery he’d ever managed, was masked in illusion and art. He looked at the passenger seat, where his comp copy of Dunbar’s Grove sat. His last book, and his most important one.

Herb thought of his life. He thought of the series of mistakes and blunders that had left him with a family he hadn’t wanted, and finally to this moment. Why was it that now—just as he was ready for it to be over—it suddenly felt precious? One last time he allowed his mind to wander. What if he’d told his father he wasn’t going to take over the farm? What if he’d been able to write full time, instead of at night, when it rained, or when the fields were dead and frosted over? He put those thoughts away, as he slid Dunbar’s Grove into his jacket. It was long past time for that sort of daydreaming.

He mentally went over every detail again, craving the solace of knowing he’d done everything he could do. The agony of the last two years of planninghad left him utterly exhausted. He’d spent so many sleepless nights trying to figure out how to get his message across, but in a way that they wouldn’t know what he’d done. This kind of exhaustion wasn’t cured by even days of sleep. This kind of exhaustion crept straight to the bone and then rested heavy like a lead weight. He was only alive because his death would draw too much attention, given the talk that had started to swirl around the book. But his suicide? That would be a nice bow wrapped around everything. They’d put their guard down, at least at first.

The fact this entire plan hinged on someone—who had every reason to hate him—piecing together clues that were designed to be vague at best didn’t fill him with much confidence. That was, of course, assuming Kyle even bothered to return home. There was always the chance his son could leave it to the lawyers, and Herb wouldn’t have blamed him.

All of this, however, was just a prelude to the annoyance of dying itself. He walked a half hour down the shoreline, away from the lights of the condos. Here there were just a smattering of lake houses. The last of the sunlight disappeared as the dusty amber of the horizon faded to gray. At last, he came to a stretch where all of the houses were dark, and the calls of the gulls faint in the distance. Hopefully that meant he’d have privacy. The last thing he needed was some well-meaning witness trying to stop him. He walked out into the lake, but its waves battered him away as though he were an infection it wanted rid of. His annoyance turned to rage as he kicked his legs and thrashed his arms to get further away from the shore. How had anyone ever managed to drown themselves? He had a memory—from a movie or a book, he couldn’t remember which—of someone weighing themselves down before walking into the water. That would have been smart. For all his planning, he hadn’t really thought this part would be so difficult. With one last, determined surge of power, he dove further into the murky depths of the lake. Finally, the undertow took him.

This death wasn’t like he’d imagined it would be. It was no gentle descent into oblivion’s embrace. He choked and sputtered. His body rebelled against his intentions, tried to claw back to the surface of the water and back towards life. Even as he whirled in confusion and terror in the lake’s depths, he cursed himself. He cursed himself—ever the writer—for trying to write his own ending. His last thought was of the cruelty of reality. A world he could not control. Full of people with their own thoughts and desires. Narratives he could not weave.

Chapter 1

It was a perfect summer day, and Kyle Thomas resented the hell out of it. He rolled his window down, and the perfect sweetness of fresh-cut grass stewing in sunshine washed over him. It mixed with the more earthy scent of the sweetcorn, standing proud (if a little stunted, thanks to the lack of rain) and ready for harvest. The late afternoon sun washed everything in a slightly golden haze and caused the crops to cast long dark shadows that stretched over the newly cut road-side grass and onto the mottled surface of the road. The effect was dream-like and nostalgia-inducing.

It reminded Kyle of the summer drives he and his mom used to take in the country. Sometimes they had a destination, and sometimes they didn't. Sometimes it was just a reason to get out, listen to some music, and collect some of the wild grasses from the side of the road. His mom used the grasses to create fragile bouquets to decorate their home. Bouquets that would inevitably be destroyed by his dad’s fumbling.

This was exactly what Kyle wanted to avoid. The false comfort of sunlit days only made the harsh reality of what came after more painful. He was coming back to the town he had grown up in—he refused to think of it as home—in protest. He was the last Thomas. The last in a long line that stretched back to the town’s founding. He passed a low sign made of polished stone that read: Essen, Indiana, Population: 4,500. And underneath this: A Good Place to Live. He could see the faint outline of white spray paint—the last remnants of some sort of graffiti that’d been scrubbed away—and found this strangely reassuring. When he was young, a wooden welcome sign had been posted here. The kids in town had frequently made a game out of vandalizing it in new and creative ways. He was glad to see this small act of rebellion had continued.

 Other than some soulless new housing developments on the outskirts of town, Essen, Indiana, looked unchanged even after all these years. The twin towers of the Baker Farm's grain silos still glimmered weakly in the sunlight as he entered town along Mills Road. The road curved past a small industrial park that used to house a microwave popcorn manufacturer, an aluminum siding plant, and a tool and die shop. All those businesses were gone now, but new tenants occupied the buildings. The general shape of it was the same, with only the signs having changed. This gave way to the stretches of tree-shaded houses that lined the streets in a ring around downtown.

 In the darkest part of Kyle’s heart, he’d hoped Essen, Indiana might be a sad ruin. A meth-riddled shell of its former glory. But there were still kids playing at Faraday Park. Outside of Kessinger’s Grocery, two older women parked their carts—primarily there to hold their gigantic purses—side by side as they gabbled. They stopped to gape at the unfamiliar car that passed them by. Everything was much as he remembered it. The roles were the same. Only the actors had changed.

Kyle turned right before he reached downtown and headed toward the East side of town. The 'newer' shops were out this way, lining Mint Run Street before it wound over the bridge and out of town. He was sad to see Perry's General Store was gone and had been replaced by a generic dollar store. Perry's was his favorite haunt as a kid. He'd gotten his first cassettes in the Radio Shack housed within the building. This was where Kyle had bought the fabric to make a pillow in his home economics class. Where he’d seen his first men’s workout magazine, and realized that the muscular man in the purple speedo intrigued him in ways he didn’t understand. This was also where he’d purchased (and, yes, sometimes stolen) Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle figures and a vast array of comic books.

As he turned into the pot-hole riddled parking lot of the AllCare Insurance office, Kyle shook the memories away. He didn’t want to dwell on the fact that most of his fondest memories of Essen were in that store. It was too sad a thought, and he wanted to be in a decent mood for what came next. He stepped out of his car and stretched his back. It’d been a five-hour drive, and he hadn’t bothered to stop at any of the rest areas along the way.

The insurance office was a modest little brick building with a glass front. Through the glass, he could see a young woman—barely out of high school—sitting at the front desk, staring intently at a laptop. She had dark lipstick, the curve of her right ear was covered in small earrings from top to bottom, and her blonde hair was dyed shades of blue and pink on the ends. Behind her were three posters, all of which looked a little faded, touting the benefits of going with AllCare for your insurance needs. In his youth, the building had been a local video rental place. There were still holes bored into the brick where a neon sign had once flashed “video” in brilliant purple letters at passersby.

"You actually did it," said a deep rumbling voice the instant Kyle walked into the office. Kyle was startled for a moment, before realizing the sound was coming from a hallway to his right. At the far end of it, he saw Max Williams walking down the hall. “You actually came back.”

“Hey, I’m as surprised as you are,” Kyle said. “It’s weird.”

“It’ll be fine. Essen has changed a little since you’ve been gone.”

“Has it, though? I think I saw the Thompson sisters outside of Kessinger’s. They were giving me the stink eye. It certainly felt like old times.”

“You’re always gonna have a******s,” said Max. “And old biddies who act like they’re the town’s watchdogs. On the bright side, if you get any weird looks this time, it won’t be because you’re the town’s resident homo.”

The young woman at the front desk cleared her throat loudly, although she didn’t look away from her work. Kyle noticed, next to her computer, was a dog-eared script for some sort of play, heavy with highlights and notes in its margins.

“Homosexual, I mean,” corrected Max. He paused a moment, his brown eyes narrowing, before turning to the young woman at the desk. “That better, Lissie?”

“Somehow, not when you say it,” Lissie murmured to her computer screen.

“It’s okay. Max kicked more than a few asses back in high school defending this ‘homo,’” Kyle said. Lissie looked dubious but shrugged her shoulders.

“Asses that you’d rather have done other things to, if I remember correctly.”

“The pretty ones were always the cruelest.”

“Speaking of pretty, look at you! It’s like you lost half of you,” said Max.

“The gays are merciless,” Kyle joked. Max cocked his head to the side quizzically. Kyle tried to fill in the blanks. “I couldn’t get laid. It was good motivation to get in shape.”

At this, Max grinned and nodded his head in understanding. It was a cute way of summing up a dark period in his life. But that’s what you did when you caught up with someone you hadn’t seen in over a decade. No one wanted to hear your life story. Not really.

Standing next to the man again, Kyle was struck by how unlikely their friendship might have been anywhere butEssen. Max was a popular football player. Not the star quarterback or anything, but he was well-liked, and there were few institutions more beloved in Essen than football. Max had been part of the team that took Essen to state for the fourth time in its history. But he was still a black kid in a town where you could count the number of families of color on your fingers. His family had been the only black family in town when Kyle was growing up. Their shared outsider status helped sustain their friendship in the beginning.

“Well, that’s why I’ve got my sexy ‘dad bod.’ Getting laid these days requires way less effort,” said Max, proudly slapping the paunch around his waist.

“You in a play?” Kyle asked Lissie, hoping to change the subject.

“Nah, I do the lighting. Local community theater. It’s going to be terrible,” Lissie said.

“This is why we don’t let you sell the insurance,” Max groaned.

“I mean, the lighting will be good?” This elicited a groan from Max, which seemed to please Lissie. Kyle couldn’t help but smirk.

“Come on, let’s shoot the s**t in my office away from the studio audience.”

Kyle followed Max back into his office. It was a reasonably tidy place, with a white wooden desk with silver legs he recognized from a trip to IKEA a few years ago. An older model MacBook was connected to an octopus of wiring that linked it to a mess of various peripheral devices. The plush black leather chair Max settled into felt out of place in comparison—a relic from a different age. As Kyle seated himself in an uncomfortable clear plastic chair across from Max's desk, he noticed the many framed photographs surrounding the AllCare logo painted on the center of the wall.

“Still amazed you didn’t end up with Betty Clark,” Kyle remarked. Max’s expression darkened.

“Well, Betty died a couple years after high school,” said Max.

“Oh man. Sorry.” Kyle felt a churn in his stomach.

"It's okay. It was a long time ago. We’d split up by then. She went off to Purdue, and I was stuck here. So that didn't last long. A drunk driver t-boned her car while she was driving home for Spring Break.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I was broken up about it at the time. But life keeps chugging along for the rest of us.” Max got up and took one of the portraits off the wall. “And eventually I met Heather.” He and Heather were grasping each other and staring into the camera lens. They both had high-wattage smiles that showed off their incredibly white teeth. Nestled between them was a little girl with brown skin, kinky reddish-brown hair, and freckles. Kyle was terrible at guessing children’s ages, but he was thinking she looked four or five. Heather Williams was skinny and tall—a few inches taller than Max. She had pale skin, freckles to match her daughter, and curly red hair gathered up on top of her head.

“A kid too?” asked Kyle. “So respectable.”

“Yep, that’s Azura. Although this is an old pic. She’s nine now and insisting we call her ‘Zee.’”

“That’s kinda cool." Kyle looked closer at the picture. Zee had her father's grin.

“Maybe,” Max said. “But we try to give kids these interesting names to make up for the fact we’re all called Sam and Joe and John, and they go off and decide what they want to be called anyway.”

“You sound like an old man.”

“Speaking of old men. Your dad’s last book…”

“Yeah.” Kyle tried to slump back in his chair, but the sound of straining plastic caused him to sit upright again. “You read it?”

“No. Not a ton of extra time, to be honest. But I think everyone else in town’s read it. Once people figured out the town in the book was a thinly disguised version of Essen, and… well, you know the rest.”

“Dunbar’s Grove by Herbert Thomas,” Kyle said, holding out an imaginary book as if reading its title. “About a grove, next to a lake, outside of a small town in northern Indiana. Doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together, I guess.”

“Want to know something funny? I live out at the Lake of the Grove now,” said Max. Kyle shot him a confused look.

“I thought you were doing okay. I mean, it looks—”

"No, no, I'm doing fine," said Max with a laugh. "In fact, I’ve got some opportunities coming up that might get me up the ladder. But Lake of the Grove isn't like when we were kids. They've cleaned it all up. They figured out people with money want to live by water, so the old guard got bought out or pushed out."

“People want to live by that old swamp?”

“They cleaned that up too. I mean, it’s still murky with tons of algae lining the bottom, but you can swim in it. Even take out a paddle boat. You should come by sometime while you’re in town,” suggested Max.

“Sounds fun,” Kyle said absently. It was strange to think of the lake that adjoined The Grove as some destination for the well-to-do of Essen. The town had always had money. The school was a testament to that. Even though the town was tiny, it boasted a first-class football field, Olympic-sized pool, computer labs with the latest equipment, and other amenities schools in much larger cities didn’t have. But when Kyle lived in Essen, most of the people with money lived in the large old houses on the brick-paved roads around Faraday Park. Eventually they started migrating to one of the many new housing additions popping up on the edges of town.

A kid he knew at school, Justin Miller, moved into one of the sprawling McMansions with his family. Kids at school got wind of the fact that only three of the rooms in the house were actually furnished because the family couldn’t afford any more right away. The teasing that followed was merciless.

The Lake of the Grove, in contrast, had been surrounded by trailer homes. Home-made docks of plywood and two-by-fours dotted the slushy green waters. You were more likely to find trash floating in the lake than you were people. The local kids did build tire swings and hung them from the branches of the tall trees surrounding the lake. But the fun there was the thrill of danger should you fall into the murky, stagnant water. The Grove itself was technically separated from the Lake by a country road, but they were basically part of the same stand of trees. Both were surrounded by farmland. The reason the farmers of decades past left the trees around the lake was understandable. But why they left The Grove had always been more of a mystery.

When he was twelve, Kyle had read an article about it in the paper. In fact, that article was part of what had inspired him to become an investigative journalist. It mentioned there was an old forgotten graveyard there, but even the earliest dates on the stones were after the land was cleared for farming. So, the cemetery wasn't the reason The Grove was left standing. Most of the old stones were pushed over or smashed by the delinquents who’d frequented The Grove since the 60s. That was what The Grove was most known for when Kyle was growing up. It was where teenagers snuck off to go drink, smoke pot, make out, and even have full on sex. There had been whisperings that Lane Bradford and half the football team ran a train on Gale Phillips out there. Max, his lone source for football team gossip back in the day, said he didn't see anything like that happen, but he'd left early because of his parents’ strict curfew—which was probably for the best, since Gale ended up getting pregnant and there was no small amount of scandal surrounding the whole affair.

Now, The Grove cultivated a new sort of infamy, all thanks to his father’s final book.

“You said in your email you were coming to sort out the property?” Max asked. “Are you—I’m not sure how to put this—you thinking about looking into the stuff in the book? Whether it’s true or not?”

"No. I mean, it’s not true, right? It can’t be," Kyle said. Looking further into everything the book had churned up had crossed his mind, but he’d been ambivalent at best about the prospect. "You know I wasn’t my dad’s biggest fan. And I hadn’t seen either of them in twelve years. But even I can't imagine him doing that."

Max nodded and stared off into the distance thoughtfully for a moment.

"For what it's worth. I didn’t think so either," said Max. Kyle nodded because it did make him feel happier to have someone else confirm his gut feeling.

“Look, I don’t want to keep you too long. We can catch up later," said Kyle.

“Want to grab a drink? The office closes in a few minutes.”

"I'll take a raincheck. I definitely plan on seeing whatever fancy house you've set yourself up in. But it was a long drive, and I want to take a shower."

“How long you think you’ll be in town?” inquired Max as Kyle got up out of the uncomfortable chair. “I’ll ask Heather night would be good for us to have you over.”

"Not sure. Probably a couple weeks. Maybe less," he said.

And so, they began the long Midwestern ritual of parting. Max told him that was plenty of time to get in a couple visits. He mentioned the town fair was coming up, too, if Kyle stayed around long enough. Kyle nodded his head, but was getting more and more tired, and was trying to leave as quickly as was polite.

It was at least another five minutes before he’d been able to leave Max's office and was in the short corridor heading toward the exit. Enough time had passed that the sign on the door was turned to 'closed' and Lissie was packing up her script, books, notebook, and multi-colored gel pens into a small black backpack adorned with a variety of buttons and pins. She was so engrossed in her packing that Kyle felt awkward interrupting her to say goodbye. But as he opened the door, Lissie spoke. As before, she did not look at him but kept her focus on her task.

“I listened to your podcast. It was pretty good,” she said.

“Ah, so you’re the one,” joked Kyle, worrying it sounded more bitter than funny. He’d spent a year researching and making the podcast, and barely anyone had listened to it. It was the beginning and end of his podcast career.

“I like that you made the girl an actual human,” said Lissie. “People either make the victims saints or treat them like they’re basically a prop in the killer’s story. You going to do another one?”

"Thanks. That… that means a lot to me," Kyle said. "But I mostly keep to shorter-term investigative pieces for magazines or sites now."

“You’re not going to do one on your dad? And his book?” Lissie surprised Kyle by finally looking directly at him. She had shockingly aqua-colored irises. Kyle realized they were contacts, but they gave her gaze an effectively eerie quality. She was hard to read because of them, but here was a hint of genuine concern at the corner of her eyes.

“I guess I’m going to get that question a lot,” said Kyle, shifting uncomfortably. “But, no. I’m here to figure out what to do with the farm. That’s it.”

“Good.” Lissie said it so emphatically, Kyle couldn't help his face scrunching up in confusion. Her face softened, and for the first time, the steely confidence the young woman radiated faltered. "If you do decide to look into it, don’t tell anyone. Word travels fast around here and people are being really weird about it."

A cold tingle started midway up Kyle's spine. It crawled slowly up his back and made the hairs on his neck stand on end. Was it her eyes? The tone of her voice? He couldn’t be certain why he felt so unsettled. He gave her a quick, awkward nod and stepped out of the door and into the warm summer night. A shiver pulsed through him. As he got into his car, he scolded himself for letting Lissie get to him. She reminded him of a lot of the theater kids he’d known in high school, even if the look had changed since then. Theater kids were just dramatic, right? With that thought, he pushed the strange mood away.

And that is the end of the selection from In the Dark of the Grove. The small town of Essen, Indiana has secrets. And soon, Kyle is going to be pulled into them, whether he wants to be or not. If you’re looking for some small-town horror from a queer author (like myself) I invite you to discover the dark heart of America’s heartland. Thank you, and until next time.

Notes:

Text and Audio: In the Dark of the Grove is ©2021 Jon Wesley Huff.

Music: Lightless Dawn by Kevin MacLeodLink: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/3982-lightless-dawnLicense: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license

Witch Adder

by Jon Wesley Huff

Witch adder blackWitch adder greenWhich is the riderAnd which the unseen?

Witch adder crimsonWitch adder whiteWhich is the cureAnd which is the blight?

Run to the milland run to riverRun past the straw manThrough briar and heather

Run past the winding roadWinds round the deadWave to the porchmanThat holds his head

Witch adder silverWitch adder yellowWhich is the sawbones—that curious fellow?

Witch adder slitheringWitch adder blueWhich adder killed me?Witch killed you?

Thanks everybody for listening to Psychochronograph audio. I hope you don’t mind me diving into spooky season a little early. I had planned to save this one for October, but then I realized I’ll have something more pressing to read for you then. My new book, In the Dark of the Grove, will be out next month (October) from Gurt Dog Press. The exact date is still up in the air, but I’ll let you know when it’s coming out. Don’t worry. And I'll be reading a couple chapters from it next time.

Witch Adder was written a couple years ago for Halloween. I find poetry difficult. I have written some, but rarely every feel like it’s good enough to share. The line between impactful poetry and not-great poetry always seem so razor thin to me. And i’m not even sure I’m a good judge.

But my main goal with Witch Adder was just fun. Something that incorporated a little bit of the lore I heard around the campfire as a kid. But mostly I just wanted it to be fun to read out loud.

Audio: Very Low Note by Kevin MacLeodLink: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4581-very-low-noteLicense: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license

Don’t worry, this isn’t Groundhog’s Day. I’ve decided to upload audio versions of my short fiction so you can enjoy them podcast-style. This required re-posting this story. In between each newsletter, I’ll be sharing some of my short form writing. Some, like this one, will be older. Some will be new. The first one is, in some ways, a special one.

Bartleby’s Miracle Tonic

Crik-crik-crik-crik-clak-crik-crik

I listened for this sound. I listened with my whole body. Do you know that sort of listening, where you try to open yourself wide as if trying to summon some other senses beyond the ones that are failing you? I clutched the rope with all my might, its coarse, twined strands digging into the flesh of my hands, biting with every lurch and twist. I held on for dear life, and wished my hands were calloused again. Ahead, somewhere, was Bartleby’s wagon. Brown dust stung my eyes, impossibly thick. I could not see the end of my arms, though of course I could feel them. I could not see the wagon, though I could hear it. I tried to conjure the picture of it in my mind, as though it might make it easier to follow. I was so afraid. So afraid I’d be lost to the dust. I imagined the wheels, cracked red paint flaking from the split wood of the spokes. Crik-crik-crik-clak-crik. They rhythm of them was comforting, as was the discordant sound where the forward left wheel rim had been broken and hastily mended.

I tasted the dust. Grit and earth in my mouth. I spat it out, but only succeeded in swallowing more. Concentrate on the wagon, I told myself. I imagined it not as it is, but as it must have been long before I first saw it. Bold colors blazing, apple red and evergreen; ornate swirls and decorations. On the center of each side, inscribed in grand letters upon a swirling yellow-painted banner: “Bartleby’s Miracle Tonic.” I was crying now, involuntarily. Dispassionate tears flowed from my reddened eyes. Such tears always feel strange, as if someone else were crying them. Wet and trickling and mixing with the dust to form rivers of brown sludge on my face; products of basic physical reactions to the foreign agents in my eyes.

“You still alive back there, m’boy?” Bartleby’s voice called out from the brown mass before me. There was no real concern in his voice. But then, I expected none. I did not call out, nor attempted any sort of response, already struggling with the taste of the storm in my mouth. Bartleby did not bother to ask again. After what seemed like hours of struggling through the dust storm, it was over. I coughed and spat and rinsed my eyes out with the canteen.

“Now don’t you go wastin’ that water, boy. You’ll wish you had it ‘fore long.” I eyed him miserably. He laughed–his nasty, phlegmy laugh–before taking a deep swig of his own canteen. It was not filled with water, but rather liquids of a harsher temperament.

“Why couldn’t we have just stopped?” I spat on the ground, and the spittle was brown and rough. “Stopped, ‘til the storm blew over?”

“Timing, my boy, is everything. Now be a good lad and try to get some of the dust off the ol’ wagon.”

“Yessir,” I said. I must have let my reluctance creep into my voice too much.

“Now don’t you go acting like that! You’re the one who wanted to come along with me, remember? Now git to it!” Bartleby’s tone was harsh, but I could see in his eyes that he was just enjoying giving me a hard time. I rubbed my hands together, trying to stop the sting of the rope burns. Bartleby saw me and grabbed my hand. 

“Ha, that’ll teach you. I told you you’d regret it.” I said nothing.

I shaved a few pieces of soap into the bucket, poured about half of what water was left in my canteen in it and let the soap dissolve a bit. I grabbed the old scrubbing brush, its bristles barely clinging to its bone handle (it might have been an expensive horse grooming brush, ages ago) and got to work. I was worried about scrubbing the decaying paint off the old thing, but only a few flakes relented. I took the opportunity to scrub my arms and face in the soapy water. Finally, I was done, and the effort hardly seemed worth it. The old box was clean, but it still looked faded and worn. The once brilliant reds and greens were now sun faded pink-browns and limes. The yellow of the banners had faded nearly to white, the words obscured.

Bartleby emerged from behind the wagon in full regalia. He traded his usual drab cotton shirt and brown slacks for his “entertaining” outfit. It had probably been expensive at some point; a black suit with tails, faded to gray in splotches by the sun and a dandy top hat set at an angle. His undershirt was yellowed and wrinkled. Only one part of his attire looked right;  his cane. It was a bright, polished silver. Ornate decorations of claws and fangs swirled around a blood red ruby on its very top. I’d looked at it once, in the dead of night, while Bartleby slept. I remember staring at the ruby, getting lost in the glint of the moonlight splintering through the ruby’s facets. I’d been mesmerized, and absently wondered how much it was worth.

“Why can’t we get a respectable looking operation, Bartleby?”

“And what, may I ask, do you have in mind?”

“Well...” I hesitated, already anticipating his reaction. “Maybe something like Otto Danzing has.” He flew into a rage. His face trembled, veins popping in his forehead. His long, stringy white hair flailed about as he shook his head in fury. I knew it was coming and, in fact, I sort of enjoyed pushing his buttons.

“Otto Danzing?” He spat and shook his fist in the air. “That pompous, preening, over the t–Danzing? You want us to be more like Danzing? Danzing is an idiot. He’s got his velvet cloak and his gold and his dancing girls. Bah! The problem with Danzing is he looks too expensive. You’re going to put off half your customer base looking like that.”

We had run into the The Great Otto Danzing about two weeks back. It was an unusual occurrence, as Hobbleston—the city we’d earmarked to sell our wares—was larger than we were used to. It was also a great deal smaller than the cities that Danzing played. He did have quite an act. His box wagon had a frame of (what at least looked like) gold with red velvet curtains for walls. When it was time for the show, the sides of the wagon swung out. Two gorgeous women, decked out in exotic, near-transparent veils and flowing gowns danced about as strange music filled the air. The townspeople’s eyes were wide. A few of the mothers shielded their children’s eyes, not sure of the appropriateness of the display. They needn’t have worried. The dancer’s outfits revealed nothing. I know. I looked.

The strange music swelled with instruments I had never heard, and a great billow of purple smoke shot up from the center of the splayed wagon. Children squealed, women fainted, and men stood motionless as The Great Otto appeared out of nowhere. He had a long, purple velvet cloak with a high collar, a bright white tunic, and frilly lace about his chin and sleeves. His brilliant blue eyes pierced your soul. That was an act. He offered his potions and his cures, performing simple illusions as the dancing girls made the sales. Finally, when all the money was collected, he took the collection buckets in his hand. He threw the change into the air, and the crowd held out their hands as the money shimmered down like rain upon them. I’ll admit, I was holding out my hand too. Money is money, and they certainly weren’t going to get it back from me. Of course, before it touched our hands it disappeared. I asked Bartleby to explain the trick of it to me, but he refused. He doesn’t deserve it, but we working men keep each other’s secrets. I didn’t believe him. I’d seen the way they had talked to each other. Their body language told me everything I needed to know. They had known each other a long time. They were not friends. I read body language well. That’s why Bartleby kept me around, to read if a crowd was turning against us.

“Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to look a little more expensive. Then we could get to the larger towns,” I said. Bartleby just shook his head and looked at me pityingly. His rage had subsided, and he’d defaulted back to his usual laid back demeanor.

“We go where I say we go. You stick around long enough it’ll all make sense. And even if we wanted to go to the larger towns, we’d still look like this.” Bartleby grabbed his lapels and tugged at them proudly. “Can’t look like common beggars or they’ll wonder how you came about such amazing stuff. Can’t look too slick or they smell a snake. Y’see?”

“Can we head out? I’m getting hungry.”

“Sure, sure. We better get going so we can get there a good hour before sunset.” Bartleby got into the driver’s seat of the wagon and gave Ol’ Jeannie a wallop and set her off full gallop. I was never allowed to ride on the wagon. Bartleby said Jeannie couldn’t handle the extra weight on a long trip. I think he just liked to torment me. He hadn’t really kept it a secret.

We arrived at the edges of Calico. The town wasn’t much different than most of the town’s we’d been too. All of them were in their final death throes. A few shops were open, a few bullheaded prospectors hoped the veins of the earth might still give up some of their fortunes, and a few families tried to fight the notion that they’re home was fading around them. Everywhere we went, it was the same story. We’d pass by perfectly respectable towns, thriving and alive and full of money. I’d asked old Bartleby why we never stopped at those sorts of towns. He’d just look at me with weary eyes, like I was the dumbest thing in the desert short of a rock and explain.

“That’s not where we go. Your boy Otto might go there, but not us,” said Bartleby.

“Think of it, though. Going someplace with people who actually have two coins to rub together!”

“Bah, those people just keep going on rubbing their coins. That’s why they’ve got two of ‘em. Besides, this isn’t about money. It’s about changing lives.” I gave up trying to figure Bartleby after that. As we reached Calico, a tall, thin man whose balding head seemed incongruous with his youthful features, walked towards us. He didn’t need a badge to tell us he was the law, he had it all over him.

“Alright boys,” he said in a fairly congenial tone, “You can just turn that wagon right around. We don’t need any magic dust, herbal remedies, or–”

“Miracle Tonic?” asked Bartleby as he rested Jeannie’s reigns and hopped down from his perch.

“Or tonics.”

“Even miraculous ones?”

“Especially miraculous ones.”

“Aw, you hear that lad.” He turned to me and looked at me as though he were a kindly uncle and I his obedient nephew. He only acted this away around others. “He says this town doesn’t have an interest in our wares. Oh, what a blessed town this must be then! Free from disease! Free from care! What a thriving metropolis!” Bartleby got very loud at this point, his voice carrying across the distance to the town. The townspeople of Calico stopped and looked at the scene. Even if they couldn’t hear Bartleby, they could see the wild gesticulations he was making while talking to the lawman. I had to smile. Bartleby was the flame, and the moths scurried to him in their faded dresses, their earth-stained cottons, and their frayed suits. He had them.

“What’s all this then, Barry?” A plump, red-faced woman (whose too-tight corset pushed her already ample breasts up near her voluminous chin) was the first to arrive.

“Miss Sherry, git back. All of you, git back. This is none of your business.” The lawman was very young, preternaturally balding or not, and his voice carried absolutely no weight with these people. I wondered how long he’d been the law. A few months, I guessed. Miss Sherry seemed to be the voice of the people. She was probably the local brothel owner, I decided, but then that might have just been wishful thinking.

“Maybe you should let us decide that,” said an older miner, his face stained with dirt and his hand clutching a rusted pan in his hand. “What’s the man selling?” Bartleby smiled. This was his cue.

“My good people,” His voice boomed over the chatter of the crowd, instantly quieting it. “I present to you, Bartleby’s Miracle Tonic! The finest tonic in the world and guaranteed to cure whatever ails you! Yessir and Yes Madam and yes, you little one–this tonic is for you. M’name’s Bartleby and this tonic was mixed in the exotic apothecaries of the Orient to my specifications. Step up, step up. Who wants a bottle? Only ten cents. A mere ten cents!”

“Oh, well never mind. Escort him out, then,” said Miss Sherry, who rolled her eyes and started to walk away, taking the crowd with her.

“Now wait just one minute my good lady. I know how you feel. Seen one snake oil salesman, seen ‘em all, right?” asked Bartleby.

“Right. Barry, use your gun if you have to.” Miss Sherry kept walking, and lawman Barry reached for his gun.

“Now just wait,” Bartleby had a small measure of panic in his voice. It was a tough crowd. “Now what if I were to show you a proper demonstration? Y’see, I got a secret for you. All the frauds and crooks that shuffle through your town–The Swinehearts and Amazing Stephane’s and Grandiose Otto’s–they don’t got what I got.” The crowd’s interest seemed piqued again. I covered my mouth so they couldn’t see the big dumb smile on it. I wasn’t a very good straight man, really. “The difference is... mine works.”

“Fine, a demonstration then. Who’ll it be?” the old miner said.

“Well, we need someone who is in a shape most dire...” Bartleby surveyed the crowd, looking up and down at the menagerie of pathetic faces that had assembled around him. Finally, he locked eyes with an older woman, her back hunched at nearly a ninety-degree angle. As he called her forward, I remembered the first time I sold with Bartleby. Do you want me in the crowd, so you can call me up? I’d been around enough to know that was the usual way of it. That was the first time he looked at me with the weary, pitying look I was so familiar with now. Don’t be a damn fool, boy. There’s about eighty people in this town. Y’think they’re not gonna figureout they never seen poor little cripple Timmy before? Nah, to make this work right you gotta pick someone who’s been around forever. The woman seemed to fit the bill. She was in her early fifties, but life had been unkind to her. I found out in the days that followed, before we skipped town, that she was the Widow Bannister. She’d come to Calico with her husband, her daughter and her daughter’s husband. All of them were gone now, taken by accidents or disease. She was the only one left, and she hobbled along the dirt streets of Calico with her old bent back selling breads and other baked goods to earn her way. She’d been like that as long as anyone here had known her, some said she was born that way. She was perfect for Bartleby’s needs.

“Ah, my good woman. Thank you, thank you for being such a willing participate. I promise the tonic’s ingredients will cause you no harm.” I knew that this was, strictly speaking, true. But only strictly speaking.

“I don’t see’s how I should care much.” The Widow Bannister gripped the smooth green bottle in her arthritis-twisted hands. Her hands shook as she spilled a few drops of the tonic into her throat. I ran my tongue along the roof of my mouth, remembering the taste of the tonic. Bartleby forbade me to try it, saying I’d be sorry if I did as a good merchant never sampled his own wares. The one time I had tasted it, was by accident. The wagon’s forward left wheel broke, sending a few bottles of tonic crashing into one another. I was sopping up the spill with a rag when I noticed one small dribble of it had clung to my thumb. I sucked on my thumb, tasting the forbidden wetness of the tonic. It tasted sweet, thick, and impossible. The latter because I knew the ingredients that went into it.

“Oh my.” The Widow Bannister managed to utter, before sitting down in the dirt and grime.

“Is she all right?” Miss Sherry wondered aloud.

“If you’ve poisoned this woman–” the lawman, Barry, threatened.

“Calm yourselves down. Just you wait.” Bartleby watched with narrowed eyes, as though he could see beyond the woman’s skin. Maybe he could.

“It’s all right. Don’t none of you make a fuss. I feel.... I feel...” Her eyes grew wide, as if she had just remembered something truly amazing, and she got up with one great hop. She stood straight and tall, and stretched her arms wide, as though she were using them for the first time. She felt behind her at her lower back and looked happily from the crowd to Bartleby and back again. “I can’t believe it! How?” She looked so much younger now, and she ran about in a happy jig. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve sworn she was working with us, the whole scene looked too fake. I’d seen more convincing displays in the heat of the revival tents back home. The crowd looked at her in stunned silence, for the briefest of an instant, before turning to Bartleby.

They called to him, plunged money into his face. He had them. I grabbed a crate of the tonic from the back of the wagon. I stood there, holding the small, wooden crate. Bartleby handled all the transactions, trading bottles for money and giving change when needed in graceful, practiced motions. I never knew how he did it, I was already lost as to who had purchased the tonic and who was waiting for it. There were about thirty people there, at the edge of town, with more coming every minute as people whooped for joy and excited children ran to spread the news. The lawman, Barry, just stood back and watched us with suspicious eyes. It was going to be a long afternoon that could stretch into the evening. I grew a bit restless. I eyed the bottles of tonic thirstily, but then I felt the pain in the palm of my hands from where the rope had burned and cracked them. I missed my callouses; they’d been hard won from years of labor. Then they were gone in an instant, in an errant lick of a finger. Bartleby, damn him, had been right. He usually was. The b*****d.

Night fell and the crowd dispersed. I hungrily ate some biscuits the newly slim (but amazingly barely less buxom) Miss Sherry had given to me. She gave me a wink and a smile when she handed them to me and let her pinky finger caress my hand. I looked forward to Bartleby giving the go ahead to close shop so I could be on my own time. Our wagon was still in the same spot it had been when the lawman stopped us, about thirty feet from the town limits proper. Bartleby stared out at the little town as people laughed and sang with joy, their earthly cares cleansed from them. I’d seen it all before. Old Widow Bannister (although that designation no longer fit her) danced all about the town, lost in a dream and humming a song I didn’t recognize. Her long blonde hair shimmered in the moonlight, and I began to think unsavory thoughts about her. Then I remembered the crooked old crone she had been hours before, and whatever lust had been building drained away. For the most part. I thought of Miss Sherry and wondered what sort of new tricks she might try in her new body. I wanted her to try them all on me. If only Bartleby would close shop. Still, he stared, as though he was waiting for something.

“Alright, alright.” My impatience got the best of me. “No one’s coming, surely. We’ll hook them tomorrow.” I got up off the ground and wiped the grease from the biscuits onto my trousers.

“Sit.” I was about to protest but thought better of it. I sat back down near the broken wheel of the old wagon when I spotted her. She was young, in her early twenties perhaps, with mousy brown hair bunched into two haphazard ponytails on either side of her head. She had been standing behind a post that held up the canopy of an abandoned dentist’s office. She saw that we had spied her and walked shyly toward us. After a few steps, she looked back to the town, before chancing a few more steps. She was graceful in her own way, with deep brown eyes that looked almost black in the waning moon. Finally, she reached us.

“Uh, hello Sirs. I have a request. I just wondered. Well...” She looked at both of us, clearly mulling the benefits and negatives of a choice in her head. Finally, she looked at me with some suspicion and softly asked, “Mr.... Bartleby, is it? Could I have a private word with you, over there. No offense to you, Sir.” I didn’t know what the wench was going on about, but I couldn’t really have cared much anyway. She had that preening, soft look about her as though she might faint at the drop of the hat. I didn’t care much for women like her. I liked women whose skin was a little more lived-in.

“Why, of course m’lady. Over this way. Cover your ears boy.” I shot daggers into Bartleby’s back as the woman whispered into his ear. I hate the way he made me feel like a child. But I obeyed and cupped my hands over my ears. I thought, strangely, that it sounded a bit like the ocean. Or what I imagined the ocean might sound like. There was something in Bartleby’s tone that had a way of settling my more volatile passions. I fumed over this while waiting for the conversation to be concluded. I saw Bartleby grab a bottle of tonic from the crate and give it to the young girl. She tried to pay, but he would here none of it. She smiled appreciatively.

“Helen, what the hell are you doing out there?” It was Barry, the lawman.

“Oh, Barry, give it up!” The girl smiled at Bartleby and mouthed a “thank you” to him before running to her husband. “It’s alright! He didn’t even charge.” The lawman narrowed his eyes and gazed at us suspiciously.

“Oh, alright. It’ll be good evidence if we find out this is some trick, Bartleby. Now you two close up shop. Miss Sherry’ll get you set up for the night.” I certainly hoped so. On our walk to town, leading Jeannie and the wagon, I pressed Bartleby for details. He laughed heartily, before coughing phlegm into his red handkerchief.

“Haw, well... now, you didn’t hear this from me–strict merchant/customer privilege you see–but it seems the young lawman has trouble cocking his pistol.” Bartleby laughed again, a deep and nasty laugh. I felt a bit sad for the guy. Lord knows I might even have trouble if faced with that homely, dour face every night.

The night with Miss Sherry was good, but a bit below my expectations, really. She seemed a bit depressed afterwards. I think she hadn’t really gotten the reaction she wanted out of me. She kept apologizing, saying she didn’t know what was wrong. She felt like she was learning all over again. I told her it was fine. The best part of the night was hearing all Miss Sherry’s stories about the townsfolk. We sucked back a few spoons of Absinthe and lay in her generously proportioned bed and I indulged in the sensation of her well fluffed pillows and the feeling of warmth beside me. Dawn broke and I slipped out of Miss Sherry’s boudoir, her perfume covering up the stink of my flesh. I really wanted a shower, but I knew there was no time for that. I reached Bartleby’s room and knocked a few times. After getting no answer, I tried the latch. It was open, and his bed was made. Either Bartleby was a particularly conscientious guest (I knew that wasn’t true), Miss Sherry had an amazing maid staff (that wasn’t it, as the maid staff was Miss Sherry, and she was still asleep) or Bartleby hadn’t even slept in his room.

When I made it down to the wagon, Bartleby was already serving a stream of about twenty customers, a few of which were return visitors. Their diseases and deformities were all healed, of course. They just discovered the side effect of Bartleby’s Miracle Tonic; the healing process tended to restore a bit of youth as well.

“Well look what the rooster coughed up.” Bartleby shot me a disdainful look, before returning to the practiced smile he wore when handling customers.

“Mornin’ to you, too.”

“See to the returns and stow that lip.”

“Yessir.” I started collecting the empty bottles from the returning customers, giving them a cent in exchange. It saved us on buying new bottles and seemed to encourage repeat visits and mass consumption of the tonic, as the customers knew we wouldn’t be hanging around long. Before long another crowd of people began to gather around the wagon. They were late comers. Or, as Bartleby called them, the “doubters and cowards” who waited to see what happened to their neighbors before buying themselves. Bartleby also called them the “slightly smarter ones.”

“Yessir, come one, come all. Let ol’ Bartleby soothe what hurts, heal what ails ya. You’ve seen your friends, your families, and your enemies all partake and benefit. Now do you want t’be left out? No Sir! No Madam! So up and at’em!” It was interesting to watch. The repeat customers plopped down their used bottles, paid their nine cents, and drank the new bottle down in one gulp. Some even repeated the whole process right there. The new ones sniffed the tonic and then took a sip or two, waiting for some great change. When it came, they’d almost surely down the whole bottle as well. One man, by the name of Joseph Waller–his eyes vacant and fixed on the distance, a victim of a childhood malady– drank the whole bottle down on his first go. The milky white faded from his eyes, turning a brilliant blue. He looked up at the sun for the first time and looked around at the people around him and cried. Behind him, in the distance, Young Miss Bannister still danced about, twirling her dress, and humming the same queer tune. I think she’d gone quite mad.

I enjoyed a big lunch at Miss Sherry’s. It was quite a spread; biscuits, bacon gravy, eggs over easy, and fried hash browns. As I shoveled the food into my mouth, I briefly thought about what it’d be like to marry the woman. She’d surely make any man a fine wife. She moved the food around on her plate miserably, and only ate a few bites. A bit of her old spark had left her, it seemed.

“Doin’ okay Miss Sherry?” I asked.

“That’s not my name, you know,” she said, moodily.

“Oh?”

“Nah, it just sounds good for an old w***e running an old w***e house.”

“Now you’re n–”

“Eat your biscuits,” she said curtly.

“Yes mam,” I didn’t need any dramatics. It didn’t matter much anyway; Bartleby and I’d be off in a few days.

“Evenlyn Crawfield,” she said, after a moment of blissful silence.

“What’s that?”

“My name. Evelyn Crawfield is my name.”

“Okay.” I got up then. I was done with my lunch, and it was getting pretty overwrought. A shame, really, she might’ve been worth marrying, Miss Sherry. Evenlyn Crawfield, though, I didn’t care much to know better. She hung herself that same night. If there’s one thing I regret about our stay at Calico, it’s not saying one kind word to her. Bartleby just told me that’s what I get for getting all mucked up in their affairs. Like I said, the b*****d has an annoying habit of being right.

The wind started changing on the third day in town. The discovery of slender, youthful, and very dead Miss Sherry swinging from the rafters of her brothel was just the beginning. The crowd grew larger than I’d ever seen it. At least a hundred and fifty people to be sure. It seemed like most of the town was there, and those who weren’t there were probably being held by lawman Barry. There’d been a rash of thefts in town; money missing from the bank, purses stolen, and secreted stash’s of cash disappearing. At least all Barry’s likely suspects were gathered in one place for him, empty green bottles in one hand and ten, twenty or thirty cents in the other. The crowd shoved and jostled for a good position before the wagon. Children ran wild about town, some of their parents barely children now. Joseph Waller yelled at his wife, unaffected by the tears streaming down her face as she clutched their youngest child.

“You ol’ hag! Thought you had me fooled, did ya? Thought you could pass yourself off to the crippled old blind guy, huh?” the man asked. His blue eyes were icy. “I don’t want to see you or that horse-faced thing you call our child again.”

Any other day, judging by what dear, departed Miss Sherry told me, the scene would have been cause for much gossip and commotion amongst the townsfolk. Now, I was the only one listening. Or at least I thought I was, until I caught Bartleby’s eye. He asked me a silent question. I looked around at the crowd; their faces, so recently filled with joy, were now showing the traces of advancing desperation. I nodded my head once.

“I think we’re about to run out of stock, my boy,” he whispered to me as he took a fresh crate of tonic from my hands. In reality we had a half dozen crates left, of course. “Time for the big push.” I crept around the back of the wagon and slowly climbed into the driver’s perch. I took the reins of old Jeannie, and patted her hind haunches. 

“Now, my good ladies and gentlemen. I want to thank you all for being such fine customers. So fine, in fact, you’ve cleaned me and the boy out!” A wave of panic and sorrow erupted in the crowd. “Now, now, I know it’s a sad case indeed. It’s clear how much you love this fine tonic. Have no fear, though the ingredients are rare, I’ll have a new batch mixed up by my friends in the Orient post-haste! It’ll be about six months or so, but I will return.” The panic turned into wails of desperation.

“But I haven’t had one bottle! I think those who haven’t gotten a bottle yet should get one first!” bellowed a portly man, with thinning hair and a thin moustache.

“Why should we suffer because you didn’t bother to get in on a good thing?” Joseph Waller asked, to the agreement of most of the crowd. The crowd began to squabble amongst themselves, and Bartleby was about to make the “big push” when a sound pierced the air. The sharp crack of a gunshot. I ducked behind the wagon; sure it was an angry customer coming to claim any amount of tonic he wanted. Another gunshot followed and Bartleby, who was not easy to spook, ducked along with the rest of the crowd. After a few seconds, when no further shots were heard, we all tried to gain some measure of composure. That’s when we heard it. I’ll never forget the sound. Never. Helen, the lawman’s wife, let out a sharp wail. She screamed like the banshees of legend, streams of tears flooding her face. She trembled as she walked into the town square, clutching a pistol in her hand. She stumbled before the crowd a moment, as if frozen in time. She looked up at us, with her deep brown eyes and mousy frayed hair blowing in the wind. I’m not sure what she wanted in that moment. I’ll never know. She raised the pistol to her temple and shattered the contents of her small little head and sent them spilling out the other side. As she slumped over onto the street, the red blood mixing with the dust and grime of the earth, children screamed. Three women in the crowd, along with two of the men, fainted and crumpled into the dust as well.

The crowd rushed to the woman and called for the doctor, but he was nowhere to be found. They stumbled around in mute silence. Joe Waller used his shirt to wrap Helen’s fractured skull, futilely trying to stop the blood from spilling out anymore. The tonic had been momentarily forgotten, and the townspeople tried to grasp what happened. A few minutes later, two of the men searched Helen and Barry’s small apartment above the Sherriff’s office. They discovered the lawman Barry slumped over the young town doctor, their naked skin still glistening from their quickly halted exertion. They were entwined and matching bullet holes burbled up the precious lifeblood from within them. The people of Calico wandered around the town, unable to grasp what was happening to them.

“Well, push now or forever hold your push, I guess,” Bartleby mumbled near me. “Ladies and gentlemen, I know today has been a sad day, a horrible day, for you all.” I grabbed the reins of ol’ Jeannie tight. “To that end, I wish to thank you for your patronage even as we must depart your town.” Bartleby grasped the rope at the back of the wagon and rested one foot on the flat standing plank at its rear. In the other hand he held the last crate of tonic, as though it weighed nothing at all.

“So, my dear friends, I give you this–my gift to you, from the deepest wells of my heart to soothe your deepest sorrows!” With a bow and a flourish, Bartleby laid the last crate of tonic on the ground. With a sharp tug on the reins, I sent Jeannie into full gallop. I could not see Bartleby behind me, as the dust Jeannie was kicking up was too great, and I had to concentrate on the task at hand. But I knew he was smiling, his gregarious smile full of crooked yellow teeth, and jauntily waving at the townsfolk of Calico. They would stare at us, as the wagon rolled off into the distance in a cloud of dust. They would only stare a second though, before their eyes would meet that rickety old crate. It would be filled with a dozen gleaming emerald bottles, each holding a few precious ounces of Bartleby’s Miracle Tonic. They would pounce and rip and tear and kick. Glass would break, children would roar, women would bellow, and men would scream.

We rode on for only a few minutes before we rounded a hill and came upon a stream. Bartleby insisted we stop. I protested, fearing we were still too close to Calico.

“Have you not learned anything? None of those’ll be following us.” Bartleby sat up on the driver’s perch of the wagon and watched as I lugged the crates of empty green bottles to the stream and filled them. It was a slow, laborious process. I kept looking behind us and listening, but there was nothing to see and nothing to hear. As I finished filling a crate, I’d hand it up to Bartleby. He’d take a swig of his canteen to wet his mouth and get the juices flowing. He’d draw his mouth up dramatically, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Finally, when it had built up enough, he’d release a great wad of spit into each bottle and close it up with a cork. As I said, it was a long and laborious process. We’d finished a couple crates worth when my listening paid off.

“Shush!” I said to Bartleby, as he was noisily calling up another load of spittle. I could hear it plain as day. A soft, whimsical hum filled the air. It was a song I did not know. It was a song I had heard before. The formerly old Widow Bannister, naked as the day she was born and covered with smears of blood, emerged from behind the hill. She smiled at us sweetly and flung her blood-encrusted blond hair about her as she danced. She sang and hummed and whispered. I tried not to notice the delicate swivel of her hips, the delicious bounce of her breasts or the rather magical way her nipples pointed in random directions away from her body. She saw me looking at her and she laughed at me and passed by me. She danced and shimmied up to Bartleby, who–for the first time I’d ever seen–seemed genuinely surprised.

“Oh, my dear Mr. Bartleby,” she sang in a soft trill. “We’re not all fools. Oh no we’re not! We’re not all fools my dear Mr. Bartleby.” She stopped next to him and brought her face mere inches away from his. “Peek a boo. I see you. I see you.” There was a moment of silence between them. “I see you!” She laughed and thrust herself away from him. She danced merrily away from us then, beyond the bend of the hill, and off into the desert–away from Calico–and towards the shifting horizon. We stared at her, until she danced with the heat-distorted air itself and disappeared.

I looked at Bartleby with wide eyes, but he just smiled and shrugged his shoulders. I guess even he could be wrong sometimes. The b*****d.

Notes on Bartleby’s Miracle Tonic (from its original posting August 23, 2021): Today is my birthday. It’s one of the reasons I picked this particular story to start publishing through this newsletter. Because it represents, in a way, my birth as a writer. Or, more specifically, a rebirth. Although I wrote a lot in my high school years, I went through a really rough time after I graduated and was out in the “real world.” I wrote some scattered poetry and song lyrics. But it wasn’t until 2006, when I wrote this story, that I actually tried writing fiction again.