Tales From the Low Roads (WARNING: grisly content).

[His Divine Shadow]

The old Mexican and his Demona are back again! Blackey and crew continue to be about the only effective law in the land; they've stopped the supernatural (Burn Ward and LBH) and now they stop the merely human. I don't know which is more repulsive; the monstrosities like LBH or the men who take on their airs. Tabor County is full of both of them, that's for sure.

Keeping track of time between these becomes difficult sometimes. When Blackey is present we know they operate within the span of perhaps ten years but with others it is anyone's guess. Vaguery and mystery!

 

[Low_Roads]

The old Mexican and his Demona are back again! Blackey and crew continue to be about the only effective law in the land; they've stopped the supernatural (Burn Ward and LBH) and now they stop the merely human. I don't know which is more repulsive; the monstrosities like LBH or the men who take on their airs. Tabor County is full of both of them, that's for sure.

Nicely reasoned, my good HDS! Minimizing the difference between innate evil and assumed evil was a big incentive for writing this particular chapter. The Red Devils may be finished now, but their arcane allure has only begun (starting at the end and working backwards... the big benefit of a fluid timeline!) They'll receive plenty of mention in coming chapters, always as an acme of menace. Whether they're human or supernatural becomes nearly immaterial... that ordinary Tabor citizenry can expect the very worst at their hands erases any reason to care.

Keeping track of time between these becomes difficult sometimes. When Blackey is present we know they operate within the span of perhaps ten years but with others it is anyone's guess. Vaguery and mystery!

That's by design, partly. Skipping back and forth randomly amongst decades lends the time-frame an amorphous quality... events seem more mythic when you're not altogether sure when they occur. It's true that anything involving Blacky probably takes place within a few year's time-period; rats don't live much longer than that. Though, the same experimentation that increased his intelligence might also have lengthened his life-span; it was my intent, too, to suggest that by assuming the mantel of legendary protector, he might likewise gain the immortality (real or perceived) that legendary status confers. If one can never really be sure when he and his crew are around (a vague hum in the air serving as the only clue), it'll be impossible to know if they're gone for good or if they're simply lying low. Maybe they only truly exist when need for them arises... the Once and Future Rats!

 

[Cbarton]

Yes, the Dark Rat Knight strikes again! Blackey is becoming more and more the Murine Vigilante as these stories go. Looks like the old adage of 'honor among thieves,' as many other classic standards, don't seem to apply to Tabor County.

Another great addition to the series...

 

[Low_Roads]

Happy, as ever, to receive your fine compliments, Hawk! An apt reference... rats seem wingless bats, each dwelling in rep-bolstering dark obscurity (cats, meanwhile, play sphinx even when lounging in full view). You're so right, too, about the Red Devils' sparse honor... messing with innocents dooms you quicker than any other outrage. Blacky may have started his career as a crook; his sinister motives and methods still mark him as fearsome to all. He has a code of honor, though, and won't tolerate those who go too far. He's a territorial little bugger... anyone else who wants to be top terror is in for a hellacious time.

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #43

The Plaster Cast​

The town of Fairview really isn't big enough to support a natural history museum. You can see examples of wildlife in jars at the Department of Agriculture, and the Science Hall at the community college has a few mounted specimens, but that's really not what I'm talking about. If you want to go to a genuine museum, the nearest one is in the city of Sutton.

Sutton is in Harmon County, which is northwest of Tabor County. If you travel up Rockville Road all the way to the end, then turn left onto Gordon Valley Road, you'll reach Sutton. Gordon Valley Road will take you straight there. Sutton is a real city. Fairview has nothing you could consider a skyscraper, but Sutton has got a fair selection downtown. Its population is about four times that of Fairview, although area-wise both communities are about the same. Fairview's population is just more spread out.

The Museum of Natural History for Sutton and Environs is right downtown and pretty easy to find. It features displays on the natural make-up of our part of the country. Tabor County is one of the "environs" mentioned in the title. I'm afraid that's the way folks in Sutton tend to see us. It's a pretty snooty attitude, if you ask me.

People from Fairview who check out this institution can get a little miffed at the way Tabor County is presented. Any display from Ross or Gordon Valleys or the western hills or from Lake Tabor is usually the sort of thing you're more used to seeing in a carnival tent. The only way they ever want to represent us is by our freaks.

The eight-legged snake is a good example. I'm sure everyone remembers that one. A freak gopher snake was born in Gordon Valley that had four sets of lizard-like legs. When it grew up, it could climb so well it made its way to the tops of phone poles all the way up and down Rockville Road. It would often surprise linemen when they arrived to do repairs. It would rear back and hiss and strike at them. A snake on top of a phone pole was the last thing anyone expected to see. One man was so startled he unfastened his safety harness to get away. He fell the full distance to the ground, breaking his hip in the process.

Any attempts to catch the snake were futile. It would always be gone when Animal Control showed up. But one day it got careless. It brushed a power line and got electrocuted. This freak snake would have made a nice display for the college, but the museum curator pulled some strings and obtained it for himself. Folks in Sutton always did have more influence. You can see its mounted body at the museum to this day, perched behind glass on a fake tree limb.

The most prominent museum exhibit from Tabor County is a six-foot long patch of plaster. It can be found on the floor in one section, with a stretch of velvet rope separating it from the public. This cast is a series of strange footprints found in a dry creek bed in Ross Valley.

These tracks caused quite a scare when they first appeared in the summer of 1983. A camp of Mexicans had settled down to sleep after a hard day's work. No one noticed anything strange during the night, but in the morning they discovered that a line of footprints had passed close to them. If the tracks had been normal, no one would have been disturbed. The hobos and field workers had a number of camps down that way and folks would wander around freely. But these prints were clearly not from a human being. They were round depressions that seemed to be padded with scales like an alligator. Each footprint bore the marks of four elongated toes, one at each compass point, with taloned nails. At least five separate feet had left a distinctive print.

The Mexicans were really spooked. They moved their camp to a completely different location that very day. They supposed they were safe that evening, and everyone slept soundly. But the tracks had followed them. There they were at sunrise, all around the men. They had stopped right by the head of one guy. He was in a really scary state. All the hair had been cleaned from his head and face. He was completely smooth, like someone had shaved him with a razor. The idea that something had done this while he slept disturbed him so much that his mind bent. The poor fellow had to be placed in the insane asylum up north for observation.

Animal Control was called in after the cops saw the bizarre nature of the prints. They were the ones who made the plaster cast in an effort to discover the identity of the animal involved. The casting was sent around to various institutions, but the tracks belonged to no known creature. When it reached the museum in Sutton, the curator simply never sent it back. That's how the casting ended up as a display.

The tracks never reappeared after that and no one else in the creeks was bothered that year. By fall, the rains had come, and they wiped out all the remaining traces.

So, the incident became nothing more than another amusing exhibit for the museum. Sutton came out on top once more. But the story doesn't end there. One night a few years back, there was a really odd act of vandalism on the display floor. The velvet rope around the plaster cast was torn down and every stuffed animal, including two wax statues of extinct Indians from the area, had been cleaned of their hair. The squirrels and deer looked ridiculous without their fur, and every exhibit had to be replaced. I understand it cost a hundred thousand dollars to repair everything. Well, that should teach the folks in Sutton for being so grabby.

 

[His Divine Shadow]

We don't even get to see the beast! Why would it go for hair? How could something so sizable (I would imagine, at least) move so silently? I wonder if we will encounter this creature again. Or were there truly more than one? Mysterious! At least the creature(s) meant no great harm, or so it seems. Quite a change from most of the stranger denizens of Tabor County!

 

[Low_Roads]

Frankly, I don't know what the hell I had in mind when I wrote this story (not past dumping on our neighboring county!) A hint of obscurity is all right; it adds an air of mysterious dread. The plot points here, however, are so diffuse that they scatter at the merest breath of logical questioning. Why does the thing go for hair (is it a phantom barber?) Why did it target those specific field workers? Why does it have an odd number of limbs? Why and how did it manage to ransack the Sutton museum... was its essence captured in the cast? If a narrative doesn't satisfy at least a few of the conundrums it broaches, it isn't playing fair with its reader and wastes his time. This has always been one of my least favorite Low Roads (GM really liked it for some reason; some aspect of it must have struck a sympathetic chord). One lame outing out of 43... not too unforgivable. Not as long as the remainder of the tales continue strong.

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #44

Tie-Dyed Mushrooms​

In the '60s a colony of hippies invaded the Rockville Hills. This was before there was any park up there. They'd come to live off the land for awhile. It was sort of like the Charles Manson set-up, except that these people weren't very dangerous. They took up residence in a big cave overlooking the valley.

This cave is located on top of a big craggy rise. It's actually pretty roomy and comfortable inside, with a soft dirt floor. You just need to be careful about spiders and bats. If any locals had known they were sleeping in the cave, the sheriff would have removed them immediately. That site is protected by law, even now. Way back when, Indians used to make it their home. They left pictures painted and carved into the rock. Some markings are even older than that, and scientists think cavemen might have left them. A few of the hippies actually carved their own names and hippy slogans alongside the rest. Local people got infuriated by this action, calling it desecration, but it seems to me that the Indians and cavemen weren't doing anything different.

The Indians were supposed to have visited the cave in order to see visions. That's why the hippies came. They were most anxious to see visions themselves. They didn't arrive very well prepared for the wilderness. They brought no warm clothes, only their beads and sandals and tie-dyed jeans and tank tops and buckskin vests. They had plenty of drugs to eat but no food. They figured they'd feed off the wild. That's not so easy to do as people think. There aren't that many things that are good for humans to eat, especially since none of them would touch anything but vegetables.

So, once they got settled they had to face their food problem. Deer can eat grass and leaves, but people can't digest any of that. The squirrels like nuts and berries, but there wasn't enough of this to last long. No one wanted to give up and go back to town. Fortunately, the woods were full of mushrooms. There were plenty growing right around the cave.

Now you have to be careful about mushrooms, of course. Some kinds are extremely poisonous, and these kids didn't really know how to tell the difference. But they got lucky. All the ones they picked were quite nutritious. They harvested a number of different varieties and ate them while they took their drugs, trying to see the future.

There was one type of mushroom they left alone, not because they were afraid of it though. Just the opposite. It was a cute little blue mushroom. This species looked a little like a replica of a person, sort of like the mushrooms in that Disney cartoon. There were white patterns on their light blue surface, almost like they had been tie-dyed. The hippies could relate to that. They left this type to grow, almost like they considered them friends.

So the hippies feasted on nothing but mushrooms. Even though there had been alot to start with, soon this number began to dwindle. At the same time, the blue mushrooms, free of their competitors, flourished. Originally they had only been a few inches high each. But without the other varieties to keep them down, they multiplied and became bigger in size. Soon some of them were a foot tall.

Time wore on. The drugs were almost gone, but they still hadn't gotten any messages from God. Their food supply had almost disappeared too. Only the blue mushrooms remained. It began to look like these would have to be eaten as well. It was either that or admit defeat.

Now no one knew it yet, but these mushrooms were the ones the Indians ate to see their visions. They were subtly toxic and created wild hallucinations. So when the hippies took their first meal, they all had crazy, bizarre fantasies. As soon as they woke up, they were ecstatic. This was exactly what they had come for. Everyone could hardly wait for lunch.

They didn't realize that these plants were dangerous. When the Indians ate them they would boil them down and dilute the poison. But the hippies didn't know any better. They consumed them morning, noon and night. Before long, they became weak from the toxic effect.

This was big trouble. They were all too sick to walk down from the hills for help. And there was no food for them except the blue mushrooms. The more they ate, the weaker they got.

All they could do now was lie on the dirt floor of the cave, slowly chewing mushroom pulp. They had no strength to do anything else, except crawl outside occasionally to pick more. The toxin went straight to their brains. They were fantasy-addled all the time and couldn't think clearly anymore. Then, fungus from the mushrooms began to collect inside their skulls. Mold floated through their bloodstream to every part of the body.

Some time later, a man from the Bureau of Land Management went on an inspection tour of the Rockville Hills. By this time, the different mushroom species had grown back again, so things didn't look too unusual. He got to the Indian cave and found the sandals and bandanas, and also saw the new marks on the cave wall. He also saw something else that was a little disturbing. Growing in the dirt at the back of the cave was a good number of blue mushrooms with white patterns on the skin. Some of them were freakishly large in size. The man made a note about this, but didn't do anything about them.

A few months later on his next inspection, all the plants had died and melted into the soil. Some dried up skins and a stain on the dirt was all that remained.

 

[Cbarton]

Wow, where's the itraconazole when you need it? Excellent tale, LBH. Takes the old adage "you are what you eat" to an all new level.

On the previous tale, I smell a recurring creature. Perhaps a later antagonist for Blacky and the gang? I'll patiently wait to see...

 

[Low_Roads]

Wow, where's the itraconazole when you need it? Excellent tale, LBH. Takes the old adage "you are what you eat" to an all new level.

Anti-fungal agent would have been handy indeed (though negligible toward the end; more kill than cure, under the circumstances)! An unfortunate omission! Puzzling, too, considering the extensive pharmacy these guys did drag along. Their misfortune they didn't have your expert opinion to guide them... some actual medicine would have been a wise precaution!

On the previous tale, I smell a recurring creature. Perhaps a later antagonist for Blacky and the gang? I'll patiently wait to see...

Recurring character... that would have been a smart idea! Something might have been salvaged from the mess I made of Story 43! My original need to turn out these tales once a week was the problem... I distain deadlines! One more reason I'll never manage any professional art or literature!

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #45

Defeated by Nature​

Farm workers usually arrive in the spring and leave in the fall. That's not just in Tabor County, but everywhere. The trees go dormant in winter months and farmers really don't need that much labor.

But there's always some work to do even when it's cold. If ranch owners don't want to handle it all themselves, they are forced to keep a small crew the full year 'round. These men stay busy pruning trees and repairing equipment. They sleep in bunkhouses, which are alot less crowded and more comfortable in winter than when summer crews show up and they have to share.

All these guys usually come up from Mexico. US citizens just aren't up to doing hard field labor. In the summer months alot of them can be illegal aliens. That means they sneak across the border without applying for permission. If they're caught they are shipped south again. But the guys who stay here full time are almost always legal. It would be too easy to catch them otherwise.

Because the Putah River is diverted into the canal system during growing season, the creeks rarely have water in them. Just the opposite is true in winter, though. They pump water into the creeks so the Putah doesn't get too swollen and flood. When this happens, animals that have hibernated in the ground through all the dry conditions suddenly are active again.

I mean wildlife like crawdads and frogs. Alot of fish and insects lay eggs that only come to life when the creeks are wet. These can become plentiful and many of them are good eating.

It was the month of March and four men from the winter crew decided they wanted to go gigging. That means hunting with a gig. A gig is a spear about six feet long with barbed points on it. They're perfect for skewering slippery water animals. It would be time to plant soon. The irrigation district would divert the water and the creeks would go dry again. This might be their last chance.

The men rolled up their pants' legs and went into the water barefoot. It was cold that day, but not so bad they couldn't stand it. The water level was about normal for this time of year. It could get anywhere from three feet to six feet deep depending on where they went. There was a current, but it was pretty gentle. You couldn't get into much trouble with conditions like this. That wasn't always the case. After alot of rain, the creeks could go nearly full. The water would turn from clear to muddy brown, like chocolate milk. It would race and roil along at a fearful rate. You wouldn't want to be anywhere near the creek when this happened. Anyone in that angry water wouldn't last long.

Anyway, these men had a rare day off and didn't want to waste a minute. They hoped to bring their pals back some bullfrogs and maybe some fish to fry. You could sometimes find trout in this creek. They started early and planned to be back before lunch.

Well, their friends waited and waited. It got to be two o'clock, but still no one had returned. Everyone was starting to worry. Finally they caught sight of four figures making their way through the hip deep water. The guys on the bank called out and waved, but something was wrong. None of the men carried any gigs. They all wavered and staggered like they were having big trouble walking. When they got closer it was clear they were suffering terrible pain. Everyone watched in horror as the men left the water and struggled up the bank. Each man was missing his feet. They had been walking on raw stumps.

The ranch owner called for an ambulance. All four men went to the emergency room. No one died, but they were all maimed for life. Officers from the Department of Fish and Game hurried out to clear up the mystery, because the marks in the flesh made it clear all the feet had been eaten off.

By tracing the men's path, they located the culprits. It turned out to be snapping turtles. This kind of animal was not unknown to the creeks and they weren't usually hazards. This was a new breed though, and had developed some dangerous habits.

This colony turned out to be particularly large. They had chosen to hunt by digging holes in the creek bed and lying there with their mouths pointed straight up. By doing this, potential prey couldn't even see them until it was too late. It turned out to be a horrible trap for the Mexicans. Each man had stepped right into a gaping mouth and the jaws snapped shut like bear traps.

The other field workers wanted revenge for what the turtles had done, but authorities prevented them from entering the creek. Even though the animals were dangerous, they were protected by law. The rancher wasn't going to be stopped that easily. He went far upstream where no one would see him, and released deadly pesticide into the water. By the next day, every turtle had died.

 

[Cbarton]

Yikes, reminds me of seeing a snapper that was eating on my stringer of bluegills one night when Dad took us out fishing while Mom hosted a baby shower. Ugly things. My Dad said that if one bit down on a stick and you cut it's head off, the head would still be biting on the stick a week later...:::shudders:::

Tabor County must grow them HUGE...

 

[Low_Roads]

Tabor County must grow them HUGE...

Yeah... I had the fabled "alligator" variety in mind, and even they aren't formidable enough to snip off feet! Not in one mouthful, anyway... I suppose gang-snacking would be required. Boardinghouse rules, just like with a KFC bucket!

It's doubtful, of course, that a mess of snapping turtles could be found in Tabor at all, whatever their size. Such terrapin aren't native to the San Francisco bay area; a paltry few captures have involved "introduced" individuals rather than species migration. Which doesn't mean that an isolated colony might not have sneaked westward and become acclimated... in my youth, I heard from friends who swore they'd had encounters during creek exploration. Flimsy data, perhaps (more like embellishment or misidentification)... happily, oral legendary thrives on the unlikely!

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #46

The Headstone​

Construction work for Monticello Dam was started in 1934. It took three years to complete this project, the most ambitious ever to be undertaken in Tabor County. The structure is four hundred feet high and made of millions of tons of concrete.

When you visit this landmark, you'll only be able to see the side of it from a narrow, twisting mountain road, or from below at the base. Only official personnel are allowed to walk on top of the dam. A sliding iron gate keeps normal people away. So, all you can tell about the top is what you can see through the bars. That isn't much. It's really pretty plain. The only thing of interest is a little building about midway along, which is what maintenance people use to enter the interior of the dam.

This building is pretty plain too. But if you look closely you will see something of interest. Standing just to the left of the door is a statue. You might think this is a replica of the project director or some important politician of the day, but you'd be wrong. It's the figure of a pretty ordinary looking guy in an old-fashioned flight suit.

After World War I was over, thousands of American soldiers came home to start normal lives again. Some of these were aircraft pilots. Flying during the war was a pretty exciting pursuit, and many of them had trouble adjusting to the more boring pace of peacetime. They were highly trained in a special skill, but America didn't have that much need for civilian pilots.

So alot of them became barnstormers or wing walkers. That was a special kind of entertainment in the old days. Barnstormers would travel from town to town, purposely crashing old derelict planes into buildings to give audiences a thrill. Wing walkers had a braced harness on the top wing of old biplanes. They would crawl up to this harness and strap themselves in place while the plane was in flight, as another pilot did stunts and barrel rolls.

The only war pilot to come from Tabor County did some stunt flying when he got home. He'd actually managed to shoot down some German enemies and was considered an ace by the hometown folks. He and another pilot buddy did a wing-walking act. When their stunt plane was hundreds of feet high, he would climb from one end to the other and hang one-handed to the struts. Then he would strap himself to the harness as his partner did Immelmanns above the cheering crowds.

It lasted for a few years, but soon the novelty value wore off this kind of spectacle. The two pilots bought some flat land in the eastern part of the county and turned it into a small airfield. They would tow banners through the sky for advertising clients, or do crop dusting in the summer months. They kept several different planes in the hangar for these tasks, but the pilot always made room for his old stunt plane because of sentimental reasons.

The business did well enough for almost twenty years, but then it fell into financial hardship. Part of this was the fault of the nationwide Depression that hit in the '30s, but part of the problem was the man's health also. He had developed a terminal disease and could not work as well as he had before. The sad fact was that he would soon die. That was bad enough, but what really bothered him was he could no longer contemplate being buried the way he wanted to. He craved a big, fancy funeral that celebrated his military achievements. Most of all, he wanted an impressive headstone, something that would really set him apart in Rockville Cemetery. But it didn't look like he would be able to afford any of that now.

This was in 1937. It became obvious he would not last out the year. The idea that he would have no fine monument to guard his eternal rest really depressed him. Then one day he read in the local paper that the dam project was nearly completed. They had been pouring the concrete twenty feet at a time, letting one layer harden before they went to the next. The very last twenty-foot depth was going to be poured the very next day. A great crowd of people would be there and a ceremony was planned. This gave him a happy inspiration.

In the morning, he and his partner fired up the old stunt plane. It had not been flown in years, but the man had kept it in good repair and it started immediately. They took off and headed in the direction of the dam project.

This was their plan: they would put on one more big wing walking show, directly over the newly finished dam. If the crowd was pleased, it might donate the necessary funds for his funeral expenses. It was no sure thing, or course, but it couldn't hurt to try.

Soon they arrived at the site. The freshly poured concrete glistened in the sun as they flew over. At once the man went into his act. He clambered up to his harness and waved at the multitude as his partner did all his flying tricks from the old days. Since this was an unscheduled performance and the pilots had not applied for any permission, the project director was dismayed and angry. But the crowd loved the show. They cheered wildly and waved back as the daredevils made pass after pass.

All was going well until the plane began an extended series of barrel rolls. What neither man had considered was that even though the aircraft's engine held up well enough, the leather harness straps were nearly twenty years old and brittle. Just as they had passed directly over the dam, the harness snapped. The crowd shrieked in horror as the wing walker hurtled like a bullet toward the wet concrete and hit with a huge splash.

When all had settled down and everyone was quiet again, they took stock of the situation. The stunt plane was long gone. Some say the poor partner didn't land it until he was clear out of California. At any rate, neither he or the plane was ever seen in Tabor County again. Since the cement was wet, it was impossible to venture out to check on the wing walker. Nobody wanted to risk sinking. There was no chance that the man had survived anyway.

It took three days for the concrete to completely dry. Then the construction crew hurried out to where the impact had occurred. The man had landed head down. Only the bottoms of his boots poked through the surface. If he had been buried completely, there would have been no problem. But since even this much of him showed, the body would have to be excavated. It took a full day of work to do the job. They hauled out a slab of cement two feet thick. Then they used wedges to split the slab in half. The wing walker's dead body fell out of the slab halves and crumpled onto the ground.

It cost thousands of dollars to repair the damage. In the meantime, the man's body was laid to rest in Rockville Cemetery. It actually wasn't a bad turn out, but any money he might have received to pay for his headstone went to the repair effort instead. It looked like he would never have the monument he'd wanted so much.

But then one of the workmen saw the two slab halves and got a bright idea. He noticed that the cement had left a perfect impression of the man's body. So he and his fellow workers greased the inside of the slabs, stuck them back together, and filled the cavity with concrete. When they split the mold, a life-sized statue of the dead pilot remained.

The project director wanted no part of the thing. He ordered it destroyed, but there was a public outcry. The taxpayers of Tabor County insisted that it be put up on the dam as a memorial. And that's just what happened. Even though the pilot is in the ground miles away, the local residents consider the entire dam to be his headstone. That probably makes it the biggest, most impressive headstone ever in the history of the world, so he has to be happy now.

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #47

Trick or Treat​

A rancher in Ross Valley made his livelihood raising pumpkins. It was a good-sized planting each year, about two hundred acres worth. He had a few apricot trees too, but the pumpkins were the really important crop.

Now you might think he made a killing on Halloween, but that wasn't the truth. His whole crop always went for Thanksgiving pies. Even if anyone wanted a few for jack-o'-lanterns, he wouldn't sell them. He was a churchman and thought that Halloween was a satanic holiday.

Local kids would bug him for pumpkins every October, but he would just lecture them and chase them away. He knew full well that people could sneak into the field at night to steal his property, so he kept a pretty close watch. So it surprised and angered him one year when he found several lighted jack-o'-lanterns right out there with the rest of his crop.

He was pretty sure local pranksters were at work. Halloween was only a few days away and he had been especially harsh with the kids this time. All the same, these were pretty odd jack-o'-lanterns. They were clearly made from his own pumpkins, since each one was still attached to the vine. He could tell how they had been carved and cleaned, because none of them had the tops cut off.

The jack-o'-lanterns leered mockingly with their glowing eyes and toothy smirks. This enraged the man so much he took an axe and smashed each one to pieces. Then he thought about the candles. There could be fingerprints embedded in the wax and the police might be interested. If they weren't, he would make them interested. He was an important man in the community and not to be toyed with. So he went through the broken pumpkin bits, but strange to say there wasn't a single candle to be found.

That morning he brought the cops out to look for footprints. There had been some rain and the wet ground should show them off. But except for the man's own, they didn't see any. They took his report, even though it was obvious they thought he was wasting their time.

It was only one more night until Halloween, so the man was pretty sure there would be further trouble. His plan was to go out on patrol every half-hour. No one should be able to pull off any nonsense if he was vigilant. It was going to be a tiring night, but he didn't want any more sacrilegious desecration of his land.

Everything went fine until his midnight round. When he arrived he was stunned to see about four hundred new jack-o'-lanterns grinning at him. They were spread all through the field. Some were stacked on top of others. Some were perched up in the apricot trees. It seemed impossible anyone could have done all this in just half an hour's time.

The man went almost insane with rage. He charged back for his shotgun and then blasted away until all the shells were gone. Then he smashed all the rest with the gun butt. He didn't stop until three in the morning.

The next day, he put signs all over the field that read: "Keep out! Trespassers will be shot!" The sheriffs didn't like this, but since it was his own property they didn't stop him. They saw he had bought more shotgun shells, though, and determined to keep an eye on the place. They sure wanted to prevent any bloodshed.

A sheriff's deputy drove past the ranch once every hour. This wasn't easy to do, since there's all sorts of mischief to investigate on Halloween night, but they managed it. There was nothing strange to see. Not until midnight, that is.

The deputy on duty screeched to a halt. He got out and rubbed his eyes, but the sight was still there. The land glowed like a lava field. Absolutely every pumpkin had been converted into a jack-o'-lantern. There were thousands and thousands of them. The cop radioed in a report. He was afraid of what would happen when the rancher found out.

A team of four deputies approached the ranch house. It was a creepy scene. Jack-o'-lanterns were all over, even here. They were thick around this building and hundreds lined the roof. They were piled high in front of the door, and the men had to roll dozens away before they could even enter.

Inside, jack-o'-lanterns crowded every available piece of floor space. The man was nowhere below, so they made their way to the stairs. That's when things really got disturbing. They began to find remnants of pumpkins blown apart with buckshot. It was clear hundreds had been blasted to bits. The men climbed the slippery steps and entered the farmer's bedroom.

That's where they found him. His body, anyway. It was in a dozen pieces. Each chunk of flesh was jammed in the leering jaws of a jack-o'-lantern. Hands and feet protruded like they were clawing to get out. The men looked all over for the head, but they couldn't find it right away. It was finally located inside one of the pumpkins. The face was frozen in a scream of terror. It was impossible to explain how it had gotten in. None of the holes in the jack-o'-lantern were big enough.

The police investigated for weeks, but it ended up being an unsolved murder. Whoever did it hadn't left a single clue, not a hair or fingerprint or shoe mark.

The man had no relations. His will left all the property to his church. The last I heard, they had gathered every pumpkin into a big pile and burned them all. Then every inch of open ground was plowed and disked, and the soil was sterilized and covered with salt.

I hope that was enough.

 

[Cbarton]

Wow, forget about trying to light your way around to avoid the demons on All Hallows Eve. This time the light IS the enemy. Makes me wish I hadn't eaten that slice of pumpkin pie at lunch today.

Even Linus Van Pelt would have run from this arrival of the Great Pumpkin!

 

[Low_Roads]

Yup... even Linus would be at a loss inside a pumpkin patch like this, all rightie! No man of action, Linus... philosophy is poor armor against slavering jaws! Lucy, now... that's a whole different story. No Tabor haunt would stand a chance against Lucy...

Actually, a nice slice of pie might be a useful way to bite back... demonstrate to these hateful squash who's boss (sure! Any excuse for a snack!) We raised Halloween pumpkins for twenty consecutive seasons, and I still have no idea how to maintain proper control. Sell the blighted things off... that was our only solution. Make 'em someone else's problem...

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #48

The Insane Spot​

There's a certain type of flower out in the wild. I've read about them. They're found out in Borneo or somewhere. The name of it is the pitcher plant. This has nothing to do with baseball. It's a big sack-like vegetable about the same size and shape as a water pitcher. Inside, it's about half full with a sweet liquid that smells like sugar. Bugs can't resist it. They fly to the open mouth to have a look. The interior of the mouth is lined with spines which all face away from the entrance. Any bug entering the flower has an easy time, but if it tries to back out, the spines are all against it. Therefore it can only go one way. The bug can only move forward into the mouth, toward the pool of sugar. Before too long it falls into the pool and drowns. This flower eats bugs. The drowned insect's body disintegrates completely in the pool and is digested by the plant.

The western hills in Tabor County are pretty extensive. This area has no official name that I know of. Everyone just calls them the western hills. Back in the nineteenth century it was a very dangerous region. Bandits would hide behind every tree. It's where the old Thompson's Store used to be, which served as their hideout and their den of sin. Hundreds of men have spilled their blood up there. Even today the area has an evil reputation.

That doesn't keep kids from exploring it though. Even if a few disappear up there every year. It's a pretty wild place and I think that attracts them. That's the only excuse I can think of. It's certainly no pretty landscape. The hills are clumpy and rocky and always seem to be dried out. The tree cover appears stunted and gray, like it suffers from slow poisoning.

A few years back, two couples went up that way on a hiking adventure. They were in their late teens at the time, but had been childhood friends all their lives.

Like I said, I don't know what the attraction was, but these folks had planned to spend the whole day walking the hills. Maybe they just liked its sense of history. Anyway, they were hardy hikers and all the exercise didn't daunt them in the least. They had even brought lunch to eat out in the wild.

Bringing food along is all well and good, but I've been in the hills myself and can't think of any setting up there that would make me want to eat. They found one, though. It was a lovely little grove no one had ever seen before. There was lush green grass and lithe, supple trees for shade. It almost seemed like an oasis, the surrounding landscape was so ugly. No one could resist it.

So they lolled on the beautiful grass and ate their sandwiches. It was calm and restful, and everyone became drowsy. Soon they all nodded off. One of the guys began to dream. It was a pleasant, innocent vision of his youth long ago.

He and his three friends were youngsters again. They were playing their favorite childhood game, Save the Princess. The boy was the White Knight. He had a short stick that was his trusty sword. He romped around through the woods like he was on his quest. Then one of the girls jumped out from behind a tree. She was playing the dragon. She had her hands alongside her head with the index fingers raised like they were horns. She roared and pretended to breathe out fire. The boy charged with his pretend horse and made several passes. Finally he swung his stick and the girl collapsed on the grass, laughing and acting like her head was cut off.

Then he saw the other girl. She stood against a tree like she was tied to the stake. The boy dismounted and came forward to cut her loose. He was almost there when the other boy stepped out. He was carrying a stick too. This was the Black Knight. The two boys had a terrific sword fight. It lasted for three minutes at least. In the end, the White Knight cut the Black Knight right down the middle. He fell over dead.

The triumphant boy strode toward the Princess. He was just about to free her when he noticed that she was no Princess at all, but an evil witch. So he did his duty and set her on fire, burning her completely to ashes. She squirmed in pretend agony until she was dead.

Once the dream was finished, the fellow roused himself. A long time must have passed, because it wasn't light anymore. In fact, the sky was unnaturally black. There didn't seem to be any stars at all. But the trees around him were in a weird luminous twilight. Waves of phosphorescence seemed to wash through their trunks and branches, and each leaf was etched with an angry glow that was sometimes red and sometimes violet. Each blade of grass was a little point of yellow fire.

The boy was terrified. He searched wildly for some hint of his companions, but they were nowhere in sight. So he tore through the glaring foliage like a madman. He found them each in turn. The first girl was prone on the glowing grass. Her head was three feet from her neck. The second boy was crumpled over. His belly was split and all his organs seeped through. Last was the other girl. She was propped against a tree trunk. All the skin had been burned from her body.

He tried like crazy to find a path out of the little grove, but every time he got turned the wrong way. Then, corpses of strange people started to emerge. They might have been there all along, but he didn't see them until now. Some half protruded from the earth. Each was in a terrible state, eyes missing, stripped of skin, no arms. Dead bodies, whole or in parts, were draped on tree limbs or dangled from vines.

That's the story he babbled anyway, when he was picked up. A sheriff found him the next day, stumbling along Rockville Road and gibbering to himself. An extensive search was made for the other teens, but not one of them was ever seen again.

The boy was no help at all. His mind was completely shattered. Psychiatrists check him from time to time at the asylum, but he doesn't ever seem to know they're around or even know where he is. He certainly gives no hint of how he came to free himself from the grove.

Actually, I imagine some lucky fly occasionally does manage to escape the pitcher plant.

 

[Cbarton]

Maybe some dreams weren't meant to come true...

Wild story there...love how it leaves the imagination hanging.

Great job, once again!

 

[Low_Roads]

As always, thank you for your kind attention and your compliments, Hawk! This is one of the series' more oblique entries, and I'm glad you didn't find the tone off-putting. The idea of an insane point of landscape (as opposed to an insane person) inevitably requires fractured perception... the point at which lunacy passes from the region to the trapped boy was meant to seem vague (affecting, of course, whether he's done murder or simply witnessed it). Non-organic insanity is a concept I'd toyed with in a separate, as yet un-written, series. Once I've finished the Low Roads comic (if, in fact, that ever happens!), I may get around to exploring it more fully.

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #49

Say the Secret Word​

I remember an incident concerning a man in Gordon Valley. This guy was obsessed with gathering arcane knowledge. He didn't care if it came from Satanists or the spirit world or some lost civilization. He didn't have any religious loyalty. He just wanted information that would give him as much power as he could get.

He had a huge library in his house, but none of the books were on the bestseller lists. Some of them were unique, one-of-a-kind volumes. They would cover such topics as how to live forever, how to turn scrap iron into gold, how to project your mind, and that sort of thing. He couldn't get most of this stuff to work. The books weren't really very useful. He'd spent thousands of dollars on his collection, but had nothing to show for it except debt.

In fact, his creditors were really getting annoyed with him. He ran up plenty of bills, but had no job. All his money came from a trust. He was on a fixed income and really should have been more careful. Anyway, alot of lawsuits were threatened. He was none too stable to begin with, and this got him pretty paranoid. His reaction was to concentrate on a means of striking back.

He spent all the free cash he had to obtain a really obscure volume from England. This came from a tiny, tiny printing. There might only have been six copies produced. It featured information collected from Brazil, Tibet, Australia, and other remote spots from around the world. The man thought this book could solve his problems. It was all about word power. It taught that just speaking certain secret words would get you anything you wanted, like love or wealth.

The man was so angry that what he wanted was to kill the people who were suing him. There was a secret word for that, too. If you just spoke it within hearing, your victims would fall down stone dead. I won't say what that word is. No one should ever use it, not even accidentally.

The man got a cage full of white mice so he could practice killing with the word. He tried again and again, but there was no result. Maybe the book wasn't written very well. Maybe the man was in a hurry and didn't read it carefully enough. But the fact is that this word was only good for killing people. It didn't do anything to other animals. The man didn't realize this. He just kept repeating it over and over again, and getting more and more frustrated.

Now this man had a parrot in the house. It wasn't really his pet. It had belonged to his mother and he received it when she died. This happens often because parrots can live a long time. It had been a pretty good talker before, but since the man spent no time with it, it had stopped trying.

Then the bird heard this guy repeating the same word over and over. That's how parrots learn to say certain things, by hearing them repeated. I guess you know what happened next. It gave a loud squawk and spoke out the killer word. The man heard it. He stiffened and fell over dead without even uttering another sound.

The parrot was in a big iron cage. That was too bad for him. Without anyone to feed him, he would die before too long. A couple of days passed and the bird was getting really hungry. This probably would have been the end if a bill collector hadn't shown up. This guy heard the frenzied bird's screeches and went in to investigate. He saw that all the bird feed was gone and had just opened the cage door to add some more, when the parrot spoke the word again. The bill collector hit the floor, just as dead as the house owner. But the bird was now free.

I assume it flew out the open door. There was a strange rash of deaths after that. The bodies looked completely untouched and showed no signs at all of what had done the deed. After a couple of weeks these stopped. It's possible that some hawk got the parrot.

I never heard what happened to the white mice. I guess they did starve to death.

 

[Cbarton]

Wow...better not let Norman Vincent Peale hear about this one. The ultimate power of negative speaking in action! Very interesting story, LBH. Kinda reminds me of the old Sunday School song...Oh be careful little ears, what you hear...

 

[Low_Roads]

Cagey observations, Hawk! Peale's favored technique of repetitious "suggestive articulation" certainly is negatively applied with a vengeance by the story's protagonist (I hesitate to say "hero"... maybe the parrot is the actual hero), to his fitting self-destruction! I was heretofore unfamiliar with the Sunday school rhyme... rather charming in its entirety and featuring the appropriate hand gestures! Had my own religious upbringing been more thorough, I likely would have practiced and enjoyed it myself! The suggestion gives the story an allegory status no less valid for being unintended.

My father owned a parrot named Cleo (a double yellow headed Amazon, like the one below) as a youngster, a happy experience he hoped to replay in later life. The feathery replacement, Pete, was far from a pleasant bird... aggressively surly, bitey, screechy, a very, very poor talker. It was my unfortunate childhood duty to clean Pete's cage, take him out for airings and clip his nails and flight-plumes, ordeals he hated just as acutely as I did. During daylight hours, we'd frequently leave him to roam a small tree in front of our house... some anonymous marksman shot him out of it one day with a 22. Alas, that happens all too frequently in the remote farmland... I've lost more than one pet that way. This one, I didn't miss.

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #50

Duel​

This is a story about two brothers. They were five years apart in age. I would like to tell you that they got on well, but the fact is that they never really even knew each other. Here's why.

When the eldest brother was only a couple of years old, it became obvious that he had psychic powers. Anyone who got close to him experienced a violent headache. That was the boy trying to read minds. This happened during the '60s, when folks were more accepting of the idea than we are now. The federal government got wind of it and became interested in his abilities. They offered to take the boy away and train him. His parents were sad at the idea of losing their son, but they considered it their duty to the nation.

To make up for their disappointment, the couple soon had another little boy. This lad turned out to be psychic too, but it didn't develop in him as early as it did in his brother. As a result, his mom and dad didn't notice right off. They were just glad they had a son they could bring up this time.

The boy didn't start to show his talents until he began school. He became a star student, but that's because he got all the answers out of the teacher's head. Anyone who ever taught him had problems with head pain. Sometimes the distress became so bad that the teacher would have to be hospitalized.

The boy saw what he was doing and stopped using his power as frequently. He was still a pretty good pupil, but not as impressive as before. The only time he ever tried to look into anyone's thoughts now was if he believed they had a guilty secret. He uncovered alot of wrongdoing this way. The only problem was that he was becoming more powerful. Some of these people had mental damage afterward.

His folks couldn't help but notice this. They didn't want to lose another child, so they moved often. By the time he was ready to graduate he had been through a dozen different schools.

When his education was finally over, he got himself a nice, normal job. But his reputation had followed him. The police would impose on him when they had a case that was too hard to break. He would be called in and asked to question certain suspects. If they lied, the young man would know it. The cops knew this was dangerous. They knew that most of the people he interrogated would lose their minds, so they only called on him when they were sure the suspect was guilty. They did get to the bottom of a number of crimes this way. The insane people that resulted probably got what they deserved.

One day he was pressed into service because of a desperate kidnapping. Time was running out, and the prime suspect wouldn't talk. The young man probed deep into his brain. It was a real struggle to get any information. In the end, it turned out that the prisoner's mind was completely broken. He died soon after. The thing was, he had nothing to do with the case in question. He had done a murder, though, one the cops weren't even aware of.

This episode had a very bad effect on the psychic man. It really warped his perspective. He now believed that every person was guilty of some secret evil. He would probe the brain of anyone who didn't look right to him. The number of insane victims began to mount.

He was living in the town of Blue Powder at this time. That's where the local asylum is. The doctor's there had seen alot of the police enquiry suspects before, so when the new lunatics started to show up they had a good idea what was happening. The trail led right to the man. Cops were sent to arrest him, but they were found later with their minds ruined. The man himself had disappeared.

This situation was so critical that a special agent was sent to take charge. As it turned out, this was the man's own brother. He had been trained by experts his whole life and had good control over his mental powers now. He had been used as a spy and was very successful at his work. For this reason he was the perfect person to track down his renegade brother.

The fugitive was no longer in Blue Powder. The agent chased him south to the town of Fairview. There was no sign of him there either until an unfortunate victim was found. The poor woman had gone suddenly insane, so the agent knew he was on the right track. He let his psychic senses wander until he found a trail. He followed this to a deserted warehouse where he located the runaway.

The younger brother had never seen his sibling before and didn't even know they were related. All he saw was another guilty man to be punished. So he tried to probe his mind. The agent blocked the attack with his own abilities. That confused the young man and he tried to flee.

The agent knew he had to stop him. He imagined two rotating saw blades and put this image into his brother's mind. Then he imagined the blades cutting off his brother's legs. The man thought his legs were gone and stopped running. The agent closed in, but his brother imagined a flaming spear and sent it hurtling. The agent felt himself struck. He knew the spear wasn't real, but his mind felt it anyway. The young man had pretty strong abilities. His psychic power created the illusion of razor-sharp glass shards. The agent imagined a great black cape in his hands to fend them off. Then he swept it over his brother's head, blinding him.

The fugitive was in a panic. He could see nothing but darkness. His opponent could be anywhere around him. So in desperation he whistled up a mental pipe bomb full of nails. The bomb exploded, sending deadly missiles everywhere. He scanned the area and saw the spots of blood against the black where nails had hit the agent.

The bomb had wounded him, all right, but the nails had gone all over and some had pierced the young man too. Both were in a bad way, but the younger brother was worse off. It was all downhill for him after that. The agent thought of two heavy metal maces and used them to batter his enemy. All his good training was starting to pay off. His brother could do nothing more than imagine two shields to keep the blows away, but they were quickly being pounded to pieces. It was only a matter of time. Finally the young man imagined a 45 automatic. He pointed it at himself and pulled the trigger.

This has been a pretty sad story. I can understand why the parents didn't want to give up their second son, but they really should have. They really weren't qualified to help the boy. With special training like his brother got, he might have been able to keep his abilities under control and this unfortunate situation wouldn't have occurred.

 

[Cbarton]

Nice tale...almost thought we were gonna see something similar to the movie "Scanners" at first. Would be a fun scene to film and watch.