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

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #91

Evidence in Amber​

Nature really does like to play some interesting tricks. It’s always creating different sorts of life to see which ones will take. This has gone on since time began. A thousand varieties of dinosaurs got born before the whole line died out. When man finally came along, there were two kinds, humans and Neanderthals. In the end, humans won because we turned out to be smarter. The lungfish is able to live both in oceans and on dry land. It just can’t make up its mind. There are special flowers that catch and eat insects. These plants are completely confused. They think they’re animals. So you see, it’s true. The forces of nature can’t ever be trusted.

If you check out the exhibits at the natural history museum in Sutton, you’ll find one that’s pretty interesting. It’s so unusual that alot of people think it’s fake. But it really is completely genuine. What you’ll see is a huge glob of amber. It’s abnormally large, but the shape is what folks usually don’t believe. Most amber is a million years old, but this piece is pretty recent. It was located up in Gordon Valley after a real bad hill fire.

Gordon Valley is alot more wild than the farming lands in Ross Valley. There are a few vineyards and orchards up that way, but mostly it’s not good for planting because none of it is very flat. So the area never has been developed much. It’s been in just about the same condition for centuries.

Twenty years back, a smart land speculator had plans to change all that. His scheme was to build a big community of high priced homes in the middle of all that natural beauty. It would be sort of like the expensive housing in Green Valley, only a bit more remote. He figured lots of rich folk would be anxious for a little solitude. Maybe retired couples, who just wanted some peace and quiet before they died.

So he got the proper permits and started clearing the land right away. It was about five hundred acres of woody hills. The trees were tough to remove, but a crew of bulldozers finally got it done. Everything was on schedule until he started actually building the houses. Two weeks into construction, every one of them was torn down. It was a very puzzling and troubling act of vandalism. The structures weren’t just wrecked. Each one was carefully dismantled and all the lumber was buried under a thin layer of dirt.

This was a costly setback for the builder, but he didn’t dare stop. All his money was tied up in the project. The buried planks were still mostly okay. The wood could be reused. So before too long the two-by-four frameworks were standing again. But whoever did the damage hadn’t left. He went right back to his destructive ways. The labor crew just couldn’t stay ahead of him. Any building they installed would be taken apart and buried the very next day. Police investigated, but could find no clues at all. The guilty man would have to be using heavy equipment. The cops didn’t see a single sign of it, though. The land developer was really desperate by this time. He hired a crew of guards and left them to protect the construction site. He hoped they would prevent any further problems.

The next day presented a frightening scene. All the recently raised houses had vanished, just like before. The guards hadn’t been able to stop it. Their bodies lay broken and twisted on the ground. The men had received a terrible mauling. Only one remained alive, and the story he told made him sound like a raving lunatic.

According to this guy, no man had done the deed at all. He claimed it had been a giant scrub oak tree. That’s right. The culprit was actually a tree. After dark, the thing had clambered right out of the woods, creeping along on its roots just the way an octopus does on its tentacles. The armed guards tried to attack it, but they stood no chance. Their bullets couldn’t penetrate much past the bark. On the other hand, the tough, strong limbs and roots were forceful weapons. They could squeeze the life right out of a man or bash his brains onto the ground.

The authorities made plans to institutionalize the injured guard in the Blue Powder asylum, but the speculator wouldn’t let them. He was an animist and believed every word. Probably, he figured, this was one of those weird nature experiments I mentioned earlier. Trees have been around alot longer than people. It was only a matter of time before one started thinking for itself.

Trees can live for hundreds and hundreds of years. This one was most likely around since the Indian era. It had seen the first white Americans come into Tabor County. As long as folks left it alone, it had no call to turn savage. Then the bulldozers invaded. They dug up countless numbers of fellow trees. It must have seemed like a full-scale attack. And on top of that, the construction crew began to cut up and nail lumber. No wonder the rogue oak had buried the wooden remains. It must have seemed the only decent thing to do.

The developer was sympathetic, but he was in a tight spot. He risked losing his whole investment. If this was going to be a war, he sure intended to win. So he got teams of men together to search the surrounding hills and hunt down his enemy. This was actually harder to do than he thought. Gordon Valley is pretty extensive and not much of it is accessible by roads. And the tree proved to be a wily opponent. When it learned it was being tracked, it sunk its roots back in the earth and pretended to be just another scrub oak. With all the rest for cover, the chances of spotting the right one were pretty poor.

It’s too bad no one thought to use sensitive audio equipment. If they had, they might have detected a low thumping sound. You see, this oak tree was different from any in history. Other types had sap in their bodies that ran by gravity, but this one needed a more complex system to stay active. Its juices were pumped by an actual heart made from crystallized resin.

Since the search parties failed, it was a good bet that the monster would strike again as soon as night fell. The builder was prepared. He had filled up several bottles with gasoline to use as bombs. The men waited and waited for the attack to come. Nothing at all happened until 9:00. That’s when it crested the hill, its waving branches silhouetted against the rising moon. The walking tree really was a sinister sight to behold. It was fifty feet tall at least, and swayed and tremored as it slithered on undulating roots right toward the most recent construction. The limbs stretched out like clutching fingers. All the men stayed low and held their breath.

The land developer lit up one of the bottles of gas and flung it. The firebomb didn’t hit, landing a few feet short. Still, it proved pretty effective. The tree jumped back in terror. Pretty clearly, it was afraid of being burned. So everyone else began chucking bottles too. Before long, big clumps of leaves had ignited like tinder.

The man had brought along fire extinguishers. He knew the hills were quite dry and wished to avoid a disaster. But he got no chance to use them. The flaming oak tree made a break to escape. It waddled away into the dense brush, dripping fiery embers in its path. The men desperately followed, but their spindly equipment couldn’t deal with all those blazes. A major hill fire was soon under way. The Tabor County Fire Department had to be called in. Even their efforts did no good. The flames raged out of control for a whole week. In the end, three thousand acres were completely burned into ash.

The poor scrub oak had been first to go, of course. Not one bit of its wood survived. Neither did the land developer. He never made it out of those blazing hills. Once the ground had cooled off, curious visitors went in to take a look. One of them stumbled across the large piece of amber in among all the charcoal. This was the tree’s resin heart. The intense heat of the fire had baked it into hard amber, just the same way that mud can bake into bricks.

Needless to say, the housing project never happened. After such an awful event, no rich folks or anyone else wanted to move into a risky area like Gordon Valley.

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #92

Royal Flush​

I once heard of a man who tried to take over the Low Roads. People who arrive at the dry creeks in fruit season usually come to work, but I don't think he ever had this in mind. He was no field laborer. It was his plan from the first to rule other men.

If you're familiar with the Low Roads, you might think that to take them over would be an impossible scheme. Look how extensive they are. There must be two or three hundred miles worth of dry creek beds in Tabor County altogether. And most of the guys down there know how to take care of themselves. That's why they choose to live their lives out in the open air of the countryside. They don't like rules or laws very much.

Someone would have to be a little crazy to think he could take charge completely, but folks say that this man was. I don't know about that, but he certainly must have been unusual. He was originally born in Mexico, but he didn't stay there long. I don't think he ever really worked an honest day in his life. He would skip from country to country, running get-rich-quick plots and fighting for power and survival. You get to be pretty tough that way.

When he showed up in the Low Roads, he brought with him some kind of big crocodile/alligator thing from the jungles of South America. I don't know how in the world he could move an animal like that around with him, but he managed it. He would feed it chunks of raw meat, although nobody knew where this came from. Rumors were it was human meat. That may just have been a story he started to cause fear. The monster was wild and vicious, but completely loyal to its master. No one ever dared stand up to him when it was around, and it was never far off.

Like I said, this man didn't care for hard physical labor. The first thing he did was to find other big, tough bruisers who would prefer not to sweat it out in the fields either. He formed them into a team of thugs to terrorize the rest. Everyone had to come in front of him and swear their loyalty. The crocodile was there to see they did. Then they were required to hand over half their wages. They had to do this every payday. The thugs would bring them around to make sure this happened.

This business about the loyalty oaths made it seem like he believed he was some kind of royal person. I think he did this on purpose. If he was a king, it would be harder to disobey him than if he was just some guy. He made this impression even stronger by insisting that his subjects build him a castle at a wide spot in the middle of the central creek. It wasn't a real castle, of course. It was made of alot of timbers and old fruit bins nailed together. All the same, it was a pretty impressive structure. It stood about fifteen feet tall and actually had several separate rooms. Wooden fruit bins stack pretty well. That's what they're meant to do. This building was actually stable enough for his thugs to patrol the walls on the top. All the field hands had to contribute labor to this after they were done with their regular work.

Inside, it was pretty roomy. The King had a throne made from a plush, cushy office chair. He sat in front of a roaring campfire where hams and wieners were roasting. The court drank only the best whisky and malt liquor. At night, they all slept on comfortable mattresses instead of on the bare ground.

I never heard of anyone being fed to the alligator for disobedience, but I'd be surprised if this hadn't happened. At any rate, the "peasants" got fed up with the arrangement pretty quickly. You can see why that would be. The King might not have thought they had any way of fighting back, but he was wrong. One dark night, a bunch of them went down to Putah River. They sneaked to the floodgates that allow river water into the central creek in winter and opened them all the way. This was a very illegal act, but I guess they had no choice.

The creeks can fill up fast with the gates open like that. Water came rolling down in a great wave. I've been told that when it hit the castle, the structure didn't tumble over all at once. It was that well made. It sure woke up the King and his court, though. There were lots of frantic shouts and the men started clambering up the walls to the highest point. It was like the castle was under siege.

Most of these guys were smart enough to climb into the tree branches and escape. They must have gotten the hint, because they cleared out of Tabor County and were never seen again. The King wouldn't leave, though. Maybe he just wasn't willing to give up all that power. Maybe he refused to desert his pet, which couldn't climb trees. That shows some faithfulness, at least. But the castle couldn't last in those raging swells. Finally it collapsed into a tumbling wreck of splinters that was swept downstream.

No one knows whether the King drowned or if he got pierced by the shattered timbers. His dead body never showed up. But he can't have survived in that flood. That's my opinion. But there is a crazy notion that he isn't really dead at all. In the winter months when the creeks are full, he's supposed to have been sighted sailing regally on his crocodile. The castle is still intact somewhere, hidden under the surface. He leaves it regularly on a quest to seek out his disloyal subjects for punishment.

That's the story. It's just alot of colorful baloney, if you ask me. Although it is true that a man actually was bitten in half somewhere in the creek a few years back. That evidence doesn't impress me much. The crocodile could be responsible all by itself. There's no reason it should have died in the flood. It could swim, after all.

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #93

The Man Eater​

Once each summer a traveling carnival hits the town of Fairview. It uses one of Fairview Mall’s big parking lots to set up all the rides and tents. The mall manager doesn’t mind in the least. It’s easy to see why. The carnival attracts alot more customers than normally come. Folks just love to check out all the excitement. This goes on for about a week. After that, the Ferris wheels and freak shows pack up and move on. But they’ll be back next year. You can always count on that.

For the most part, the carnival is a pretty safe place to be. The rides may seem dangerous, but inspectors check them constantly to insure that nothing goes wrong. I’ll bet the death rate on these things is pretty low. Still, rumors get started. After all, people show up to get a thrill. If there wasn’t some amount of risk you might as well stay home. So it’s no surprise if you hear weird stories. That’s part of the fun.

It’s not always easy to know which rumors are accurate. Some are true beyond all doubt while others may just be made up. Like the one about the prize-winning pumpkin. The carnival hauled this exhibit around California for a whole year. It really was a whopper, one thousand pounds in weight and four feet tall. You paid five dollars just to go into the tent and have a look. Well, one day a little boy disappeared right off the carnival grounds. Cops all thought he was kidnapped, but never were able to track down anyone guilty. So months later the giant pumpkin finally went bad and had to be thrown in the garbage. When they did, it split and the boy’s rotten body fell right out. No one was ever able to explain how it could have gotten inside.

That’s not the only weird tale. There’s a wooden horse on the carousel that nobody will ever dare to ride. The other animals look gay and bright, but this one is dingy and corroded and evil looking. Not even the operator will touch it, not even to replace it. And what about the cotton candy? I’ve been told that to save costs it’s really made from old swept-up cobwebs. They’re flavored with sugar so that no one will ever know. Then there’s the freak tent. Alot of folks are nervous about all those curiosities, and with good cause. After all, the ghoulish Little Big Head hid out there for years.

But probably the most notorious tale concerns the old spook ride. It’s what the English call a “ghost train”, because a little two-man cart roles through it on rails, just like a miniature train. You progress all through this big dark building, and along the way various ghosts and demons jump out to threaten you. At the end you burst through doors into the daylight once more. It’s always a relief to be outside, but still everyone enjoys the scares.

Well, a couple of kids went on this ride. No one suspected anything strange until the end when the cart exited the doors. The kids were still in their seats, but both of their heads were cut clean away. Blood sprayed out the stumps all over the patrons who were waiting their turn. It caused quite a panic, of course. When authorities investigated, they didn’t find the missing heads or any way they might have been severed. Officially, it was a mystery. But since the name of the ride was “Lair of the Man-Eater”, the rumor started that an actual man-eater lived in the building. Usually it was under control, but this time it had gotten loose and done the horrible murders.

Even though there were no news reports to prove this story, a group of Fairview boys got obsessed by the idea. They were so convinced, they made a pact: next time the carnival hit town they would sneak in and learn the truth. It was a pretty crazy scheme, about what you’d expect from a bunch of dumb kids.

Well, summer rolled around and the carnival returned once more. The boys were all prepared for a midnight raid. They had gotten hold of a big barrel flashlight, which would not only light the way but could be a heavy club in case they needed one.

They arrived on the scene well after closing time. All the attractions were locked up with chains. Even so, they found a way into the spook house. They did it by examining the bottom of the building, which was raised three feet off the asphalt on posts. A trapdoor allowed for maintenance people to come and go. It led straight inside.

The ghost ride was dark and eerie even in the day when it was open for business. So you can bet it was pitch black now. The rails followed a path through various rooms in the building where mechanical spooks and landscapes were. The boys took them one by one. First was a mocked-up cemetery with graves and tombstones made from Styrofoam. There was a lever built into the floor right by one of the rails. This was so the cart could activate automatic mechanisms. When one of the boys accidentally stepped on it, they all got a scare. Plastic skeletons and ghouls raised up from the open graves and poked their heads through the crypt doors. Actually, it could have been worse. If the electricity had been on, all the corpses would be screaming and flashing light-up eyes. Still, it got everyone pretty jittery.

After a short, narrow tunnel, they came to the next room. It was decorated so it looked just like a raging forest fire. Flaming trees were painted on the walls and there were wax models of burning deers and squirrels. Lamps on the floor were supposed to flicker yellow light.

Next was the human sacrifice room. A realistic victim was laid out on a stone alter. It was covered with bloody stab wounds. Surrounding the alter were hooded figures with hatchets and knives. If those two kids really were decapitated, this was the most likely place it could have happened. The boys were determined to learn the truth. They felt the edge of every blade, but these just turned out to be foam-rubber fakes.

There were about twelve rooms in all. Finally they came to the last one. The rails led to a set of doors which read: “Beware of the Man-Eater!” This was it. Everyone swallowed hard and pushed the doors open.

When you went on this ride, the man-eater’s lair was the scariest part. It was totally dark inside. Then, a pair of blazing red eyes flicked open. A fire-filled mouth seemed to snap at you. The eyes and mouth were all you could see, but you knew the man-eater was huge and hungry. After that, the exit doors were a really welcome sight.

So when the boys shone their flashlight around the room, they were dismayed to see that it was completely empty. Only a metal box hung from the ceiling. It was attached by heavy springs so it could bob up and down, and electric cables ran inside. The boys saw that the blazing mouth and eyes were just holes cut in the box for light to shine through. It was a terrible disappointment. This was the biggest fake of all.

The boys shouldn’t have felt bad. A real man-eater would have killed every one of them. Still, they felt gypped as they headed back toward the trapdoor. They were so downcast it took a few minutes before somebody noticed that they were lost. That shouldn’t be possible. All they had to do was follow the rails. But the rooms didn’t seem like they were in the same order anymore. It was pretty unsettling. The boys argued about which direction was best. They probably would have split up, except there was only one flashlight. Then they heard a strange noise coming down the tunnel. It was a heavy breathing, like someone was working a big bellows. In the tunnel mouth, glowing red eyes winked open.

This startled everyone. But now they understood that the man-eater was a phony. The leader of the boys went with the flashlight to investigate. He really should have left the light behind. As soon as he was out of sight, the others heard a terrified gasp. Then there was an awful crunching sound, like bones and meat were being chewed apart by strong jaws.

The remaining boys panicked and ran. But they had no light to show the way. Soon they all got separated. One of them found he had stumbled into the fake cemetery. The bellows sound was approaching fast. In desperation he leaped into one of the open graves, right beside the plastic ghoul. This quick action saved his life. The blazing red eyes stalked clear past his hiding place and down another tunnel. Then from the sacrifice room he heard screams for mercy and the whistle of descending axes.

That boy was the only one who got out alive. The rest disappeared completely, just like the missing heads. That’s the story, anyway. I can’t really prove it one way or the other. I have been on the spook ride. It’s pretty scary, all right, but nothing ever tried to kill me. I must say though, I would never think about sneaking in after closing time. That would be trespassing, after all.

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #94

Finding a Way Home​

During the farming season, there are probably as many Mexicans in Tabor County as Americans. That's because they come up into the fields and orchards to do all the work. Without these men, agriculture in the state of California would most likely fail. Local people just don't care for this kind of labor. It's way too hard.

Crops are only grown during spring and summer months. For that reason, almost all the Mexicans go south again in autumn. They tend to have wives and children back home. Most of them do this, but not all. Some migrants like it so well here that they want to stay permanently.

That was the story with one particular young man. It was his dream to buy land in California and raise peaches. He'd been saving up his wages for years. Finally, he had a sufficient amount of money to purchase the ranch he'd set his heart on.

It was a two hundred acre orchard in Ross Valley. Today, land prices are really high, but at the time of this story it was much easier to afford. This farm was everything the man had ever wanted. It seemed as though the place had been waiting just for him. He walked into the real estate office and made a fair offer, confident that he would soon be a happy property owner.

But he was doomed to disappointment. Not long after he visited the agent, another buyer came along and offered twice as much. It was something of a shock. The land wasn't nearly that valuable. Somebody must have wanted it much worse than he did, but it seemed impossible. The man had never before desired anything more than he did this ranch. It didn't matter, though. There was no way he could meet the new price.

All his careful plans were bitterly defeated. That didn't mean he was ready to give up and return to Mexico. His dream ranch wasn't the only one on the market. He could obtain different property, and since none of the rest were as nice as the one he'd lost, the cost would be even cheaper. So, back to the real estate office he went.

But no matter which ranch he asked about, he was thwarted. Each time, a mysterious purchaser would appear and put up more money than he could possibly raise. It looked almost as if someone was trying to keep him out of Tabor County altogether.

And as a matter of fact, that was exactly the case. The man making the high bids was actually the wealthiest landowner in Ross Valley. He had holdings all up and down Rockville Road. The large peach orchard bordered some of his land. So did every other site the Mexican had tried to buy. This rich snob didn't want a man from Mexico for a neighbor. He didn't mind if Mexicans worked for him, but he didn't like the idea of one who thought he was an equal. It shows you just what kind of miserable character he had that he'd acquire all this useful land for no better reason than prejudice.

But the Mexican didn't know any of this. He thought it was just his bad luck at work. All these setbacks made him very despondent. He'd have liked nothing more than to be an honest American citizen and productive member of society. He really wanted the United States to be his new home. It didn't look like this would ever happen now, though.

He was living down in the Low Roads to save money. The Low Roads are the dried up creek beds in Tabor County. Most of the field hands camp out there. He was walking along one day and just happened upon a small rattlesnake basking in the sun. Rattlesnakes are pretty rare in the creeks. They live mostly up in hilly land. This chance encounter started him thinking. Very carefully, he grabbed up the snake. He tied its mouth closed with a shoelace and stowed it in a corner of his pack.

Since this man was from Mexico, he knew the story of how Mexico City was founded. In ancient days, the Aztec Indians had wandered far and wide to find a site for their new home. They had a legend that explained how to recognize the place. One day, an eagle was seen flying through the air. It settled down on a cactus bush to feed itself with a rattlesnake it had caught. That was the sign they were waiting for. The Aztecs built Mexico City on that very spot. It's still a prosperous community to this day.

There were no eagles in Tabor County, but the man knew where a big hawk had made its nest. That would have to do. He would release the snake so the hawk could see it. Hawks also feed on snakes. It wouldn't fail to swoop down for a meal. Then he would follow the bird wherever it led. The place it chose to set down would mark the man's new home site.

His plan started out pretty much the way he'd hoped. The hawk was hungry and the rattler must have looked appetizing enough. Pretty soon, both the animals were airborne. But a hawk isn't an eagle. It's not as big or as strong. This one was having alot of trouble holding onto its catch. The snake was really fighting hard. Then, the shoelace broke. The snake was already furious and began striking with its fangs. Hawks are immune to rattler venom, but this bird didn't like being stung on the wings. It hadn't flown for more than half a mile before it let go of the struggling serpent.

At that very moment, the wealthy bigot rancher had just walked out into his new two hundred acre peach orchard. He was wracking his brain to figure a way of making his expensive purchase pay off, when the pissed-off rattler plummeted right smack on top of his head. It was the last thing in the world he ever expected to happen to him, and in fact it was the very last thing that ever would happen to him.

Not only was he bitten repeatedly in the face by the enraged snake, but the hawk must have thought he was stealing its food. It landed on him and attacked just as fiercely as the snake did, clawing him up with its talons. I don't know which one finally killed him. It was probably a combination of the two.

The landowner's heirs were not as greedy as he had been. They sold off all the extra property at a reasonable price. So, the Mexican did get his peach ranch after all. As for the hawk and the rattlesnake, neither one was badly hurt. The hawk flew back to its nest. The man returned the snake to its lair in the creek. After what he'd just been through, he well understood how important it was for everything to have its home.

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #95

Thirty Fathoms Down​

People who go up to Tabor Lake for recreation frequently tow boats along behind them. All types of watercraft are allowed: speedboats, houseboats, sailboats, rowboats, whatever. There are no restrictions at all. As you’ll see, that’s probably a mistake.

One fine summer day, a man showed up with a most unusual boat on a raised trailer. It was a ten-foot long metal cylinder with round windows on the side and a hatch on top. It looked just like a little submarine, and in fact that’s exactly what it was.

The man had actually built it himself. He fancied himself a marine biologist, even though he had never taken any classes in school, and wanted this one-man sub so he could study fish. His plan was to sail freely through the open ocean, but he had come here first to test it out. He figured the lake would be safer than the sea with its tides and currents.

The lake police looked dubiously at the scrawny metal tube. They would just as soon not have it in the water. Since it was meant to submerge, it might be a menace to other boats. Also, if something went wrong they didn’t really know if they could haul it back to the surface again. The man assured them there would be no problem. He had built the sub and knew what it could do. He had designed it to withstand pressures up to a thousand feet. Since the lake bottom only went down two hundred, he couldn’t possibly get into trouble.

As there were no restrictions on the lake, they had to agree. But they imposed two conditions. First, he could only dive down in a few of the more remote channels, where there was little or no other traffic. That was okay with him. He wanted to check out the submerged town anyway, which was only about seventy feet below the surface. Second, he had to attach the sub to a warning buoy with a length of rope. That way, they could always be sure about his position.

So, off the man went to do his exploring. The cops had many other duties that day and couldn’t take time to check on him much. About noon, a patrol boat was cruising a main branch when they saw the submarine’s marking buoy. This was not where he was supposed to be. The man had broken his promise and ventured into deeper, more heavily traveled water. Evidently the chance to explore the landscape two hundred feet down had proved too strong a lure.

The cops stayed right by the buoy, waiting for the sub to surface, but it never came up. By the next day, it was clear they would have to use their winch. They attached the towrope and started to haul, but the weight on the other end of the line was just too much. That could mean only one thing. The sub was flooded with water. The would-be marine expert had been drowned.

A much bigger boat with a boom was sent for and it finally was able to pull the stricken vessel up. Once it was on deck, though, the mystery began. Sure enough, the submarine was filled with lake water. It had entered through an eight-inch hole bored right into the metal. At first cops thought an underwater rock had caused it, but there were no signs of that. Once the water was drained out and the hatch was opened, everyone was stunned to learn that the man wasn’t there. Simply no sign of him could be found at all. But there was a large quantity of strange slime inside. Some of the men burned their hands on it.

A real marine biologist was called in to examine the substance. He found that it was a caustic secretion, like stomach acid. How it could have gotten in, no one was sure. The scientist was the only one to venture a guess, but it was a wild one.

He pointed out the example of the starfish. This animal feeds on clams. It’s not strong enough to break open their shells, so nature has provided another way. It will pry them open just a little bit and position its mouth right over the gap. Then it vomits up its whole stomach into the clamshell. The stomach digests away all the meat inside. Once the starfish is done eating, it withdraws the stomach again, leaving a totally cleaned-out shell.

Of course, he wasn’t suggesting that the lake culprit was a starfish. Those are ocean animals and the lake is fresh water. But some kind of unknown creature might be lurking at the very bottom. When the water level rose back when the dam was built, several caves became submerged. That would be a perfect place for it to hide. Since it had never attacked anybody on the surface, it probably preferred all that pressure on the lake floor.

But like I said, this was all pretty wild speculation. There was no way to prove it. Not without going down to have a look.

Any volunteers?

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #96

An Ill Wind​

Back in the days of the Red Devil Gang, a lonely hollow tree in the western hills served as the hiding spot for their equipment and their stash of stolen loot. Ordinary people shunned the western hills, but nothing scared the Red Devils. After the gang was wiped out, rumors persisted for years that the ill-gotten money was still there, patiently waiting for the first person bold enough to march up into the hills and find it. For that reason, you'd expect folks to be on the hunt constantly. A fortune like that should be a powerful lure. Even so, the western hills are pretty much empty all the time. Their reputation is that evil.

In the old western era, before proper civilization, it was the perfect place to go if you wanted to get killed. The hills were a haunt for bandits and ruffians of all sorts. They even had a kind of base, the old Thompson’s Store, where they would practice the most unspeakable wickedness. But not even the badmen of the west could withstand this area for long. In time, every one of them died, and Thompson’s Store fell into disrepair and finally burned down.

Things beyond human evil lurk in those hills. So, no one goes up there much. Hardly anyone owns ranch land up that way. Most of it is wild and unincorporated. That goes for the western creek, too. Hardly anyone is tough enough these days to even think about searching out the Red Devil’s treasure.

Still, you do get a few fools who try it. Sometimes they return with stories of their fruitless frustration. Sometimes, they will lose their way. The hills are mighty extensive and confusing. These folks are never heard from again. Their bodies are never found, so no clues tell of what happened to them.

Actually, that’s not completely true. Two bodies were found once. One of them even lived long enough to relate his wild tale.

The two men had been brothers. Anything they ever did, they did together. You’d think that would surely lead them to success, but these guys were pretty crazy dreamers. Any scheme they tried was just too outlandish to work. As a result, they were poor and needy most of the time.

Well, considering their nature, it was no surprise when one of them got the bright idea to look for that hollow tree. If they could just find the Red Devil’s horde, they would never have another care in the world. Like the others did, they had forgotten one thing: the money rightfully belonged to the Devil Gang’s victims. Even if they found it, there was no way they’d be allowed to keep it. But they never thought things through. The idea of all that hidden loot was just too tempting.

So, off they went, across Rockville Road and into the wild brush country. They didn’t pack food or anything. I guess they didn’t figure they’d be away too long. That was a pretty silly notion. Like I said, the western hills are fairly extensive. But most folks don’t realize that until they’re actually up in them. Seen from the valley, they just don’t look like much. The slopes aren’t too high and seem like an easy climb. The tree cover isn’t as dense as in Gordon Valley or the Rockville Hills. It forever appears to be stunted and dying.

Anyway, the brothers searched all morning long without any success. Trouble was, the hills were full of dead, rotten trees. Any one of them could be the hiding place. The lack of proper vegetation and tree cover made it hot and uncomfortable. These guys were so dumb they hadn’t even brought any water to drink. By 2:00, they were miserable and discouraged and ready to give up.

But like so many others before, they had gotten lost. The hills looked exactly the same from every angle. The grass was so dried out and stunted it didn’t show any trail, so it was impossible for them to retrace their steps.

This was a desperate situation, but the brothers weren’t too worried. They had an escape plan. All they needed to do was wait until dark. Then, the lights from the town of Fairview would illuminate the night sky and show them the proper direction. If only more people had considered this, fewer of them would have vanished over the years.

The long wait was tough. But finally the sky changed from light blue to violet and at last to dark, star-speckled black. The guys believed they saw a soft yellow glow on the horizon. That must be Fairview.

A full moon was up and the night air was incredibly clear. The men had no trouble making their way over hill after hill. It seemed that reaching home again would be an easy task. Then, a slight breeze blew up. It was in front of them, but not too strong. Walking against is proved to be no problem.

The farther along they walked, the stronger the breeze became. It seemed a windstorm was brewing for sure. Tabor County was frequently hit by windstorms, but usually they came from the west, directly off the ocean. That was the most natural way for wind to blow. But these gusts came from the east. That was pretty bad luck. It made the hike back alot harder than before.

The gusting air was warm and dry, like air from a heater. It didn’t seem to contain any moisture at all. That was too bad. A little dew would have been refreshing on that hot night. But this warm wind didn’t bring any relief at all. Instead, it seemed to suck every bit of moisture right off their skin.

The further they went, the more oppressive the wind became. The men were feeling weary and exhausted. Not only was it a struggle to walk, but both of them were growing withered and parched. It was actually more draining in this gale than it had been all day long in the sun.

Finally, one of them collapsed on the ground to rest. He was so worn out, he couldn’t go any farther. The other man was more hardy. He decided it would be best to press on. When he got back to town, he could send help.

Search parties from the sheriff’s office found the collapsed man the next morning. Friends had sent them, though, not his brother. The other man had disappeared completely. The sheriff’s deputies surveyed the sight in dismay. The remaining brother was still alive, but just barely. All night in that sucking windstorm had drained away most all of his moisture. He was now like a living mummy, but it was clear he would not be living long. He was able to tell his weird story, but didn’t even survive the trip to the hospital.

This sucking wind from the east is a pretty rare occurrence in the lower regions of Tabor County. You almost never hear of it in the valley. When it does blow, the locals are all careful to lock their houses tight and never go outside. They refer to this gale as the Devil Wind, because so many people have died from it while hunting for the Devil Gang’s fortune. They seem to think the wind guards all that treasure. Actually, it’s a pretty ignorant idea. The wind has been around alot longer that the gang’s hidden loot.

The lost brother was finally discovered by search teams a few days later. It turns out he escaped the wind, but that didn’t save him. He had made it all the way to the site of the old Thompson’s Store. The structure had been burned into ashes long ago, but a decrepit stone well still remained on the property. Whether he plunged down there to escape or just didn’t see it, we’ll never know. When deputies noticed the top of his head bobbing around in the water, they thought at first he might be all right. That wasn’t true, though. When they lifted him out with a rope, it was only the upper half. His lower body was completely gone. According to the medical examiner, the marks of giant teeth could be seen on the remains. This appears pretty farfetched to me, but I guess he’s an expert and would know. At any rate, the well entrance was boarded up with strong planks after that.

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #97

Girls' Night Out​

Mud Sally lived in the southern tulle marsh just below the community of Fairview. She would have preferred the town’s sewer system where she had a better chance to snare and eat people, but she didn’t dare leave the safety of the swamp water. Blacky and his gang ruled Fairview, and if they ever caught her again they were sure to kill her on the spot.

Sally had to live near water all the time so her skin would stay moist. If she didn’t, it would crack and flake off. The only reason she would ever leave was to hunt for food or to search for her darling husband, Little Big Head. Blacky had buried him alive years ago and she had no idea where. Little Big Head was pretty tough. He might not be dead. When you think about it, searching all of Tabor County for just the right spot was a pretty hopeless task. But Mud Sally was a devoted wife. She wouldn’t stop trying.

Then one day she learned a stunning piece of news. Little Big Head had been found by someone else. Whoever did it was holding him prisoner in the old stone barn out by Rockville.

Rockville was a good ways away from the tulle marsh, so you’d think she’d have no hope of going to his rescue. But if you think that, you don’t know Rockville too well. The central creek flows right past it. The season was late fall, so there would be plenty of water to keep her moist. All she had to do was make the journey.

Rockville was the first community of Americans in Tabor County. It was started way back in the 1800s. It never has been very big, just a loose collection of homes and businesses. No one has ever considered it to be a town. Later, Fairview got founded and that’s where most folks in Tabor County live. But Rockville was there first. As a result, it still has alot of old, historic buildings. That’s because in olden days, residents used to build their houses from stones instead of wood. The old stone church at Rockville Cemetery is a protected historic site. So is the old stone barn, although no one uses it or visits it anymore. The property is owned by the state now, and maybe someday they’ll clean it up and restore the building. But for right now, it’s pretty neglected and decrepit.

Mud Sally made her way to the central creek and all the way to Rockville, but it wasn’t easy. When Blacky and the crew chased her to the swamp, they had cut away most of her legs. That would have maimed anyone else for life. But since Sally always lived in muddy water, her skin and blood were full of mold. Fungus grows pretty easy. Therefore, her legs had grown back again. They were all twisted and not as good as before, though. It was hard to walk without water to hold her up. Still, the thought of saving Little Big Head gave her strength.

Once she got inside the old barn, she found her husband right away. There aren’t too many places to hide in a barn. She could just barely make out his form trapped inside his jar of alcohol. Not too many folks could fit inside a jar, but Little Big Head wasn’t normal sized. His body wasn’t any larger than a baby’s body. Only his head was fully developed. That’s how he got his name.

Mud Sally would have liked to rescue him right then, but she couldn’t. The alcohol jar hung from the barn rafters on a long sticky rope, ten feet out of reach. Like I said, someone was holding him hostage. The one who did it was just as bizarre as Mud Sally and alot more sly. She was called Spinster. If Sally and Little Big Head didn’t look very normal, Spinster was worse yet. Her body was about the same size as a basketball. It was shaped like a big spider body and she had eight spider legs. But each one had a miniature human hand at the end and her head was a tiny withered old crone’s head too.

Spinster could make sticky threads like spiders do. She had used one to secure the alcohol jar, but it had taken an awful lot of trouble and pain. Her body wasn’t as good as it used to be, not since that terrible night when the ferocious Manx cat Demona had chased her right out of a school bell tower. She had broken every one of her legs when she hit the ground. If she had been a human, they would have healed better. That’s because human bones are protected and cushioned by all that meat. But spiders have their bones on the outside. Spinster’s legs were all deformed now, even worse than Sally’s were. Before the accident, she had fed herself by catching animals in her gluey net and sucking out their juice. But that took too much effort these days. That’s why she needed Mud Sally.

The swamp bogey really had no choice. To keep her precious husband safe, she had to follow all of Spinster’s orders. Unlike Mud Sally, who could go weeks without a meal, Spinster had to feed every day. She always needed fresh fluid to keep alive and healthy. So the two of them made a bargain.

Each night, after all the people in Rockville had gone to bed, Sally would emerge from the creek and place Spinster into a heavy burlap sack. Then the two of them went out on the hunt. When Sally came across a bug or a mouse, she would trap it and toss it in the sack. It took quite a few of these little creatures to satisfy Spinster, but bigger animals were usually too hard to catch. Sometimes she was lucky enough to find a chained-up dog. These couldn’t run away, of course. Sally would seize hold of it and pin it flat on the ground, while Spinster crawled from the sack and sucked all the blood from its veins. If the dog howled very loud, the owner might come out to check. Then they would have him for food too.

All in all, they didn’t kill very many humans. Mostly, they just avoided contact. Spinster was very leery about attracting any attention. The last thing she wanted was to have Demona back on her trail. But enough drained human and pet corpses turned up that the Rockville area developed a really bad reputation. Obviously something nasty haunted the place, although no one was sure what. Locals locked their homes tight and would never go out after dark.

The unholy partnership might have gone on indefinitely. But then Spinster got greedy. The sticky thread that held Little Big Head’s jar attracted all sorts of moths and flies. Soon it became thick with struggling insects. Spinster just couldn’t resist the temptation. She crept up to the rafters and sucked the juice out of each one. Over time, this put quite a strain on the rope. It became frayed and weak.

It was Mud Sally’s habit to enter the stone barn sometimes during the day. This was risky, since the sun-warmed air could dry out her skin. But it was the only chance she had to visit with her husband. She would stare longingly up at the jar, wishing he was free. Since Spinster was exhausted and sleeping after the long night’s hunt, she was in no position to stop these trips. Even if she had known, she might not have had any luck.

Well, the thread had become so frayed that one day it just snapped clear through. The jar fell all the way to the straw-covered ground and broke right open at Sally’s feet. That’s when she learned the awful, ugly truth. The whole thing had been a scam. Spinster hadn’t found Little Big Head’s jar at all. Blacky had hidden it far too well for that. So she made a fake figure out of an old plastic baby doll. She had shaped clay over the doll’s own head until it resembled Sally’s murderous husband perfectly. The liquid in the jar was cloudy enough so that no one could tell any difference.

A few days later, the workers at the Gordon Valley dry yard got a rude shock. Hanging in the big oven, right next to the trays of cut fruit, was a worn burlap sack. Spinster’s body was inside. It was completely dried out and stiff from the intense heat. A professor at Tabor Community College did tests on the tissues to make sure it actually was real. The results were positive, even though that didn’t prove much. Circus people used to make all sorts of fake monsters by sewing different dead animals together. Anyway, you can see the body if you really want to. It ended up in that traveling carnival that passes through Fairview a couple of times each year. Since it’s completely dry and stiff, it might just be hanging from a post. But I think I heard they’d stuck it in a big jar of alcohol.

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #98

The Boy on Black Velvet​

The land in the northwest corner of Tabor County, just above the air base, is the most level in the whole region. Not surprisingly, it’s referred to as “the flats”. Basically, it’s just rolling grassy plain. There’s not much development up that way, just a few small cattle and sheep farms. That’s all the poor soil will support.

There’s only one spot in the flats with any high ground. It’s a little clump of low hills. They don’t look impressive in the slightest, but they’re pretty important to the town of Fairview. This is where the landfill is located. All the county’s trash is dumped there and buried over by bulldozers. These hills are the perfect place for a dump. They hide all that ugly garbage, and they’re far enough from town that you can’t smell it either.

Most folks who visit landfills are there to throw things away. That’s what a dump is for. But one class of citizens behaves just the opposite. It’s not legal to remove items from the trash. They could be covered with disease. But some people will sneak in at night to see what they can find. They are scavengers out to get their furnishings for free. And sometimes they make a real discovery.

One man who visited the landfill regularly was actually a vagrant. He was so poor, he could only afford to live on the streets. You wouldn’t expect this guy to need many possessions, but what he did was sell what he found to other poor families for booze money. Usually the items he dug out were lousy and brought little cash. Sometimes he got lucky and they were in acceptable shape. Still, it wasn’t ever like he could receive retail price for any of it.

Then one night he located something really rare. In amongst the busted toasters and moldy banana skins, was a framed portrait. I’m sure you’ve heard about oil paintings that get bought up for pennies, then turn out to be priceless masterpieces. Well, this wasn’t one of those. This type of picture was pretty common. Still, it was in remarkably good condition for having been thrown away.

The canvas was a big sheet of black velvet material. After the Second World War, a lot of art got done on velvet backgrounds. The favorite painting subject was the same as in this picture: a young child, out on a dark city street. Kids are always popular subjects for portraits, but these were never very happy. They were always gaunt and sorrowful, with big pleading eyes. I think they were supposed to represent starving war orphans from Europe. Why a trend like this would catch on, I don’t know. But you used to see them everywhere.

This painting was in such good condition, it might have brought enough for a couple of full bottles. But instead, the man figured on giving it to his mother. She was a widow who lived all alone in a trailer park. A mobile home was the perfect place for art of that sort. This plan may seem pretty unselfish, but actually the man was acting for his own good. He and his mother did not get on and he wanted to soften her up. He didn’t care for the streets. If she began to like him again, perhaps she would let him live with her.

Well, the woman went wild for the painting. She hung it up in her living room, where she could see it every day. Not that she thought so much of it that she invited her son to move in, but at least they were talking once more. The man was content to bide his time.

After a couple of weeks, she did get in touch with him again. But something was wrong. She was very agitated. It seemed that food was disappearing from her ‘fridge. She would put in dinner leftovers, and the next day the plate was empty. Some stranger must be sneaking into the trailer after she went to bed. The man didn’t buy this story. He thought it was hooey. His mom was old and could be imagining things. But he went along with her all the same. If she was scared of intruders, she might want him around for protection.

As time went on, she became more and more disturbed about the missing food. You might even say she was growing demented. She was so concerned, she started eating out all the time. That way, no morsel of nourishment remained in the place to attract burglars.

Then one day, police officers contacted the man. He was afraid they were running him in for vagrancy, but that wasn’t it. His mother had completely disappeared. None of her personal items were gone, not even clothes. Not one of her friends had any idea what might have become of her.

Eventually she was ruled missing and presumed dead. As it happened, the man inherited her mobile home and all the rest of her possessions. His recent kindness must have paid off. She had owned the trailer free and clear, and her spot in the trailer park was paid up for several months in advance. It looked like he would have no worries for quite some time.

But a weird little surprise was waiting for him when he moved in. Like I said, all his mom’s things were still there. He had no need for alot of women’s dresses, so his first task was to search the trailer for stuff he could sell. When he got to the living room, he glanced up at that black velvet painting he had given away all those weeks before. He could certainly get a few bucks for it now. The unexpected sight gave him a turn. When he had first found it in the dump, the painted boy was a spindly, pitiful waif. But apparently someone had painted over the figure. Now the boy looked plump and happy and contented.

This wasn’t right at all. Who could have done such a thing? Not his mother. She had been pleased with the painting the way it was. It began to look more and more like she had been right all along. Some stranger had been breaking in.

This notion seemed even more possible as weeks went by. He started to notice his leftovers vanishing from the refrigerator. Whoever did it left no signs of how he got through the locked doors. And certainly no thief ever woke him up. As he usually drank himself to sleep, this wasn’t too odd, though. In the end, he tried the very same thing his mother did. He ate all his meals at the Burger King and left no crumb in the home at all. That should have ended the break-ins.

For a while, he thought it did. Then, he saw that somebody had once again repainted the boy. The figure became gradually skinnier and skinnier. Whoever did this must have sneaked in every night. Soon, the kid was as scrawny as he had been in the beginning. He didn’t look exactly the same, though. Before, his starving face had been weary and resigned. Now, it glared off the velvet canvas with an angry, malevolent scowl. It was so threatening and off-putting, the man could hardly stand to look at it.

The man was growing more and more enraged at this vandalism. It was an ugly, pointless invasion of his home, and he would put a stop to it. For once, he intended to do without his gin. He would sit right in front of the painting and wait for the intruder to appear.

Days later, the police were summoned. The man had not been seen by anyone for some time. Cops had to force the door to get in, and they searched everything. But apparently he had disappeared just as completely as his mother had. The black velvet painting was still there, though. It showed the fat, happy boy, not the thin one.

This picture really wasn’t worth much, so I imagine it went back to the landfill in the flats. That’s exactly where it belongs. Even so, bums and vagrants comb through that junk all the time. So if you should ever acquire such a black velvet painting, don’t take any chances. Keep plenty of food handy. Just in case.

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #99

Crossing the Lion​

Out in the wilds of the western hills is a miserable looking one-story shack. It’s pretty well hidden and few people have ever seen it. This place used to belong to a horrible, hardhearted woman, the final member of the Four Corners Coven. It was where she practiced her awful research into the mystery of life and death.

Inside, were dozens and dozens of wire cages. They were there to hold stray cats and dogs she would collect. These were not pets. Once each night, for years and years, she would strap one down to her crude wooden worktable and dissect it with operating tools. She was obsessed with seeing how long she could keep each animal from dying. Maybe she would eventually find a technique to keep it alive for good. That was her aim, to ultimately beat death. So, she tried many different approaches. She would severe off the head, or split the belly and remove the organs one by one. She would insert tubes and feed chemicals into their veins. She would cut loose the spine and hook the end to a car battery, but none of her experiments seemed to work.

When this woman finally died, authorities got interested enough to locate the old shack. Word was that she cut apart not just animals, but human beings. So the cops wanted to see if they could find any murder evidence. They examined every corner of the hovel, but had no luck. Any human remains were just too well hidden. All they saw was about a dozen dead cat bodies. These must have been her very last victims.

The dead animals couldn’t be left to rot. That might spread disease. So Animal Control was called in to dispose of them properly. That was part of their job, like picking up road kill. When the officer arrived, he saw that the carcasses were still in pretty good shape. This gave him an idea. He put each one in a plastic bag full of formaldehyde, then delivered them to Fairview High School. That way, they wouldn’t go to waste.

It was a regular practice in the science classes to hand students preserved specimens to show how all the body parts worked. Usually these came from the local pound. Dozens of stray animals get gassed to death every week, I’m afraid. But the dozen dead cats were already cut open. You could see every detail, inside and out. All the kids had to do was prod the organs with their probes.

The teachers never told where these new specimens came from, but it didn’t take long for pupils to learn the truth. Stories get around, especially ugly ones. It made the kids pretty respectful of the poor cats. You had to feel sorry for them, they died in such a horrible way. The students would check out the bodies, but they never made fun of them.

Well, that’s almost true. One kid didn’t show any respect at all. He was a pretty rambunctious, goofy sort. I bet you know the type. Every class has a class clown, and he was it.

This guy would do most anything to get laughs. It wasn’t all that difficult in a science classroom. He would purposely mix the wrong chemicals, causing green suds to squirt all over. He would place the jointed display skeleton in silly poses. A gopher snake was kept inside a glass tank as an exhibit. He liked to let it loose near certain girls so he could watch them scream and jump. The instructors got awfully tired of his antics. Still, all this rowdy behavior made him popular with the rest of the students. So when the cats were brought out to be inspected, you can bet he was thinking of a way to get some hilarity from the situation. Especially since everyone else was being so somber.

The examining probe was a spindly metal rod shoved into a wooden handle. The whole thing was about eight inches long. It was just lying on the table, so he grabbed it up, waving his arms and hollering “ Simba! Simba! ”, just like he was some sort of wild African. Then he chucked the probe. It stuck right into the side of a cat carcass.

Like I said, this guy was pretty good at getting laughs. But this time he had gone too far. Everyone was stunned and disgusted by his rude actions. It was almost sacrilegious. Things were about to become alot worse, though.

There was a gurgling and gasping sound rising out of the dissection pan. At first, people thought the probe had punctured some hidden air pocket. But the body on the tray was jerking and spasming and foaming. It hunched up and rose shaking to its feet, its dried-out eyes scanning the room. All the kids scrambled madly away. All but the class clown, that is. He was so aghast, he couldn’t move. He was rooted to the spot. The cat knew which one had thrown the probe. It sprang through the air and its wet, stinking fur smacked right onto his face. He screamed and screamed into the open chest cavity, as its claws tore bleeding chunks out of his cheeks.

Before anyone could move enough to help, the beast dashed out an open window and escaped. The poor kid had to be hospitalized. The claw cuts weren’t deep enough to kill him, but he died anyway. Formaldehyde had leaked into the wounds and poisoned him.

So it seems the woman’s ghastly experiment had succeeded after all. Nobody knows for sure what became of the cat. Maybe it returned to haunt that shack in the western hills. But some think it never did leave the school grounds. Folks claim they’ve heard it growl and hiss from the shadows when they’re in corridors all alone. If that’s true, I wouldn’t ever go back to classes at that school. It’s not worth the risk. Some things are worse than being a dropout.

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #100

The Man Who Had No Soul​

This is a story about a man who had no soul. That might seem impossible. You might say everyone has to have a soul. It’s not true, though. As you will see, there was nothing very natural about this man.

Years and years ago, before World War II, the countries in Europe were what you would call super-powers. You know, France, Germany, England, Italy, like that. Whatever they said, that’s the way it would be. Then the war came along. All these nations became weak, beaten down by bombing raids. Only two countries remained that had any real strength: the U.S. and Russia. They became the new super-powers.

But the two couldn’t get along at all. That’s because the Russians were just a bunch of Commies who went around stirring up trouble. There was no way to be friends with people like that. It looked like another war would be a sure thing. That didn’t happen, though. By this time, both sides had developed the A-bomb and the H-bomb. With these weapons, any kind of battle would be suicide. So instead, we just spied and sniped at each other in the Cold War. That way, no one really got hurt.

But it was still a pretty tense time. Scientists from both sides were busy trying to develop new kinds of weapons, just in case. When the Cold War finally ended, these secret projects weren’t needed anymore. Any evidence of them was scrapped and buried.

You may remember a few years back when there was a series of brutal killings around the area of the Rockville Hills. I’m not talking about the Cow Hide Murders. These happened later. About seven people were slaughtered in their homes. Nobody really started to pay attention until some rich folks in Green Valley became victims.

The cops were having a really tough time solving these crimes. There seemed to be no motive at all. None of the dead people had any enemies and no property was ever stolen. Actually, these seemed like passion murders because of their nasty nature. The victims had been torn up completely and parts had been dragged all through the house, as though the perpetrator had so much hatred he couldn’t do enough harm.

There was one other clue, but it was so bizarre the cops couldn’t do anything with it. The insides of all the houses and every victim’s corpse was covered with crumbly white streaks. When these marks were analyzed, they proved to be chalk. I mean the same kind of chalk that teachers use on blackboards. The fiend had scribbled all over everything, but the marks made no sense. They didn’t form words or pictures, so he didn’t appear to be sending anyone any message.

After this information was released, a drunk claimed to have seen a naked, chalk-white man roaming the Rockville Hills. Since he probably got this notion from the news reports, none of the cops took him very seriously.

But the men at Travis Air Base had been paying close attention to every word. They possessed restricted military information that they were not willing to share. Therefore, they immediately sent their own investigator into the Rockville Hills.

This man solved the case. It wasn’t that he was smarter than the sheriff’s department. He just had knowledge that they didn’t. He took some special equipment and headed straight for an old abandoned quarry. You may know this quarry. You can just see it from Rockville Road. A chain-link fence surrounds it to keep people away. That’s because it’s full of water now and quite dangerous. As it happens, it’s an old chalk quarry.

Chalk is made from the bodies of dead clams. Thousands of years back, the clams would die and their shells sank to the ocean floor. These shells disintegrated and their nutrients just lay there until layers of sand and boulders landed on them, squeezing them into chalk. This chalk is quite a valuable product. You can write with it, but it has other uses too. So it’s dug up wherever it can be found. The Rockville Quarry was two hundred feet long and two hundred feet wide and went down three hundred feet. They took out tons and tons of chalk. They would have gotten more, but ground water started to seep in and ruined the operation. Today, it’s nothing but a big water-filled hole.

The Air Force investigator knew this quarry well. Years before, he had been one of the military scientists working on secret weapons projects. At the time, it was becoming hard to make young men sign up for the draft. So the military was checking into ways of growing their own army. The scientist took individual ingredients from donors and grew his own fetus in a glass tank. It was completely independent from any kind of human womb. It would swim around in the tank and the scientist fed it just like it was a goldfish.

Since the fetus never had any proper mother or father, it never developed a soul. This idea worried the scientist quite alot. But before the baby could actually be born, the Cold War ended. We won, of course. The scientist got rid of the fetus by locking it in a weighted briefcase and throwing it into the quarry. He figured it would never be discovered there.

The briefcase settled into the chalky sludge at the bottom of the pit. The sludge seeped inside, and the growing fetus lived off its nutrients until it was strong enough to break free. For years, it lived all alone in the flooded quarry, consuming nothing but the chalk at the bottom. The chalk spread to every cell in its body, turning it ghostly white like a marble statue.

Because the chalk man had no soul, he would never know right from wrong. He couldn’t act in a moral way even if he wanted to. But he really didn’t want to. He was very bitter about how he had been treated his whole life and wanted revenge. Since he had no soul, he would never go to Heaven anyway. It didn’t matter what he did to anyone else.

The scientist had brought along a flexible periscope, the kind they thread through human bodies, only bigger. He fed it down into the chalk quarry until it reached the very bottom. Then he looked through the eyepiece. There was the sleeping chalk man, nestled in the silt. The scientist knew what he had to do. He reported to Travis Air Base.

That night, the Air Force sneaked in and took care of the problem. It was a big operation, but they managed it without anybody noticing. What they did was to pour truckload after truckload of concrete into the pit. They only filled it about half way, so no one would see any difference in the morning. But now the menace was sealed away for good.

Since the chalk man had no soul, there’s a good possibility he never was able to die. That means he’ll be trapped alive forever in all that concrete. If this is true, it’s a pretty horrible thing to do to anyone. That scientist will have alot to answer for when he finally goes to Heaven.

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #101

Test Flight​

The town of Fairview was in a panic. Citizens were disappearing right off the streets without a trace. Anyone who ventured into the night could be the next target. Twenty-five people had completely vanished and the police had no leads at all.

Only one man stood any chance of solving this mystery. He had been in Tabor County for some time, but kept such a low profile that hardly anyone would recognize him. It was important that he stay just as secret as he possibly could. That’s what he was, in fact, a secret agent. Thanks to his special abilities, he was the government’s most successful operative.

He was one of the few real psychic people in America. Some folks read tarot cards or practiced the zodiac, but he didn’t have to fool with that sort of thing. He had genuine mental skills. The C.I.A. had given him special training ever since he was a child. Now it looked like he alone could track down this menace. In fact, he was the only one who knew the whole story.

A few years back, the men at Travis Air Force Base had shot down a flying saucer with missiles. No civilians had seen it happen, so the top brass was able to keep the operation quiet. Staff doctors assumed the alien pilot had been killed in the crash. Its neck was broken clear through. But what they didn’t realize was that its brain was still okay. The alien brain kept alive by crawling into the skulls of various human beings. When it did this, it took the person over completely. The psychic agent had followed a trail of empty skulls. Several times, he thwarted the brain’s evil plans. Then a couple of months ago, the line of dead bodies had stopped.

The brain had been traveling the dry creek beds of Ross and Gordon Valleys. It was desperate to find another skull to invade. The one it finally found wasn’t human, though. It belonged to a weird horror, an artificial body created by out-of-control disease germs. Since the germs didn’t use any mind to operate this body, the brain couldn’t take over. The two forces had fought a long, drawn-out battle for supremacy.

The psychic agent had the ability to read minds just from their leftover mental energy. He could never decipher the brain’s thoughts, though. It was just too alien to be understood. But recently that had changed. Perhaps the brain had spent so much time in human skulls it was starting to think in a human way. At any rate, this helped the agent out enormously. He now could discover all the brain’s plans. And what he learned filled him with a cold dread.

The brain hated all Earthmen because the Air Force had destroyed its spaceship. It had been seeking revenge from the very start. Now, it seemed to have a really good chance. It had finally won the war with the disease germs. It was firmly in control of the artificial body. This body could change at will and grow brand new limbs and organs. It had no mouth, but fed by absorbing tissues right through the palms of its huge webbed hands. When they clutched onto something, they would suck up all the juices until nothing remained. Each time the thing ate, it became bigger and stronger because of the absorbed tissue.

The agent had actually seen this horrible creature. Late one night he had tracked it to a deserted drive-in theater in north Fairview. No other man would have stood a chance. All the digested victims had made the body gigantic. It stood twelve feet tall and weighed two tons at least. The brain had been busy shaping the new body the way it wanted. It had grown two broad, filmy wings to fly with. A heavy spiked tail now swung in back for balance. When the man showed himself, the thing’s luminous green eyes shimmered with hatred. It advanced on pounding taloned feet, snapping over the speaker stands like twigs.

Since the brain was now thinking more like a human, the agent could use his mental powers against it with greater effect. First, he created an illusion to keep it at bay. He made it believe that the closer it got, the taller he became. Soon he appeared to be twice its size. Then, when it halted in confusion, he put in its mind the image that he could exhale a storm of hot flames. The brain believed it was badly scorched even though no real physical harm had been done. It beat the air with its mammoth bat wings and escaped before the agent could strike again.

So he tried and tried to track the creature down and finish it off. Problem was, the brain was now so powerful, its mental energy filled up all of Tabor County. You couldn’t pinpoint exactly where it had gone. It might not fall for the same trick again anyway.

The agent was convinced it had holed up someplace in Fairview. By day, it hid away and tended the burns it thought it had received. Because the artificial body healed so quickly, that wouldn’t take long at all. By night, it emerged into the streets to feed and increase its mass. If he didn’t locate it soon, their next meeting would have a completely different outcome.

Time passed and he made no progress. Then one evening, as he stalked silently through a deserted alleyway, he perceived his actions were being closely observed. It couldn’t be the brain, though. He sensed a number of individual minds, each one cold and appraising and unfriendly. It was clear that he was surrounded and in great peril.

In fact, twelve sets of eyes peered out at him, some from the doorways, some from the rooftops, some from inside trashcans. They were tiny, beady red eyes: rat eyes. Blacky and his gang had long been aware of the murderous rampage. Only, they were having even less luck tracking down the culprit than the agent was.

The man could never have guessed that the angry crowd surrounding him was made up of experimental lab rats. But he did know an intelligent mind when he sensed one. Blacky could not talk English, but his thoughts worked the same way a man’s do. So the agent started up a frantic dialogue. He spoke aloud and waited for Blacky’s mental answer. This was the first time Blacky and any human being had ever spoken together. The agent explained everything, especially that he had no hand in the killings. He worked quickly, since his life was on the line. Then things grew very, very quiet. Blacky warned him not to listen in while he made up his mind. The rat chief didn’t want anyone getting wise to his secret activities. After a few minutes, the man heard an odd, mysterious buzzing sound. It roared into life, then diminished as it spread away into the night.

Blacky and the gang were on the move. The buzzing noise had come from their miniature racing cars. Each one was headed in a different direction. The gang was going to try an almost impossible task, to search every building in Fairview in a single night. It was a job no human could do at all, not if he wanted to be secret about it. Humans just aren’t subtle enough. But rats could find a way in where people couldn’t. It only took a small crack in the wall to allow entry. If there wasn’t one . . . well, these little fiends had been trained to be expert spies and saboteurs. Picking a door lock was nothing to them.

The agent returned to his motel out by the freeway. Ironically, this was really close to The Sand Trap Miniature Golf, where Blacky and the boys had their hidden base. The man had just received the shipment of special equipment he had requested from his superiors. It had been sent in an ordinary looking steamer trunk so as not to arouse suspicion. As he went through the arsenal of deadly weapons, he suddenly noticed a voice talking inside his head. It was a message from one of the rat warriors. Traveler had come through. He gave the man complete directions on how to locate the alien brain. He’d better hurry and catch it while it was still sleeping.

The psychic agent drove all the way to a boarded-up factory out by the slough. This property hadn’t been used for any purpose in twenty years. It was pretty decrepit and rundown. The man had no trouble breaking in through a window. Traveler really had used his common sense. He knew that an abandoned structure would make the best hideout of all. The agent stealthily crept clear to the back of the building. That’s where the furnaces were.

The factory had three wide concrete smokestacks. Each one was six feet across. The brain had picked the center one as a refuge. Since it was really easy to enter and leave, this sanctuary seemed perfect. But nothing in Fairview was safe from Blacky’s notice.

The agent opened the middle furnace door, just as he had been told to. He was carrying a high-powered flamethrower. Since a fake blaze had worked so well the first time, the real thing should do even better. He thrust the nozzle in and pointed it up. Then he sent a screaming blast of fire through the inside of the smokestack. That’s when all hell broke loose.

There was a deafening roar, as an explosion of sparks and flames shot back down the tunnel and out the furnace door. The agent ducked just in time to avoid incinerating. Any residents who happened to be outside stared in gaping wonder as a fiery rocket launched from the crumbling concrete tube and into the chill night sky.

On their first meeting, the agent did not have much chance to closely examine the monster’s tail. If he had, he would have seen that it was hollow. An alteration was going on inside the beast’s body that he could never have known about. You see, the brain was planning to return to outer space. It was building a fuel tank deep within the artificial tissue and the hollow tail would expel the burning gas. It had even sneaked into Travis Air Base to suck up high-test rocket fuel. The creature’s tank wasn’t big enough for interstellar flight yet, but the brain wanted to check out the system to expose flaws.

When the agent attacked in the factory, he had inadvertently ignited the fuel and launched the would-be spacecraft too soon. The monster was now clear out of sight. Its preparations had been interrupted, but the man seriously doubted it had suffered any permanent setback.

The brain could not be allowed to complete its scheme. He had to find it again and finish it for good this time.

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #102

Passing Gas​

Harmon County is located northwest of Tabor County. The two are separated by the Blue Ridge and the western hills. You reach Harmon County most easily by driving north up Rockville Road all the way to the end, then turning left onto Gordon Valley Road. That will lead you into Sutton, Harmon County’s major city. You have to pass through the Blue Ridge first, but it’s a quite scenic drive. Alot of people make the trip just for all the beautiful landscape.

Harmon County is somewhat richer than the surrounding regions. That’s mostly due to its grape vineyards and wineries, which are famous throughout the whole world. Plenty of prizewinning vintages have Harmon winery labels. All this easy access to fine wine has prompted the construction of several popular fancy restaurants. That, in turn, encourages lots of tourism and special festivals. As the local businessmen like to say, “Harmon is Harmony”. The summer months always prove to be a pretty busy and festive time.

One of the most colorful trades in the area is the hot air balloon tours. These impressive craft can regularly be seen drifting lazily through Harmon County skies, offering sightseers a thrilling view of the towns and farmland. Folks pay up to a hundred and fifty dollars each for a single trip. That’s quite a bit of cash. Still, I’ve never heard anyone ever complain about the cost. It really must be a stunning experience.

I guess in olden days hot air balloons were painted in dull, flat colors. You can understand why, since they were used mostly in wars. You know, to spy out enemy positions and such. So they had to blend in. That’s not true anymore, though. Today, the wilder the paint job, the more money you’re liable to earn. It’s just good advertising, like the balloon itself is a floating billboard. Every tourist wants to ride in the most unique one.

A certain middle-aged man was the champ when it came to creating distinctive balloons. He had built several, and each one was a sight to behold. He wasn’t content just to use wild colors. Every balloon was designed so it resembled an animal or an object. They were all pretty bizarre, stuff you’d never think could get airborne. There was a flying school bus, a flying eight ball, and a flying elephant with tiny, silly looking wings. The more outlandish, the better. You sure could tell when one of his creations was in the sky.

But there was one balloon he had kept stored away for years. It had never flown. That’s because he knew he would only ever be able to use it once. You see, this guy had a practical joke in mind. If it worked, folks would be talking about this stunt for years to come.

All along, he had planned the joke as a kind of fortieth birthday present to himself. It would be his way of celebrating, a final fling before his declining years. One of his pals, another rabid prankster, was eager to get in on the fun. They spent an entire night snickering away as they made their special preparations.

By dawn, everything was ready. The weather conditions were perfect, just what the man needed. Balloon rides are dependent on a gentle westerly breeze. If there’s no wind, the balloon stands still. If there’s too much, the fabric can rip. But this breeze was just right. It would carry them directly over the city of Sutton. With luck, they would clear the western hills and drift right into Tabor County.

This actually happened often enough. Harmon County balloons frequently came down in Ross Valley. Because of the open farming fields, it was a safe and convenient place to land. Nobody minded. The balloons were always pretty to watch. Mexican field hands would take a break from work just to help haul in the anchor ropes. But this wasn’t what the two men had in mind. They planned to float clear past the farmland and over the town of Fairview. They could only be punished once for their little adventure, so common sense dictated they make as much of the opportunity as they could.

When the special joke balloon was completely filled with gas, it certainly was an odd sight. It was painted to resemble a crouching man. The figure had a distressed look on its face and its hands reached down to clutch ahold of its butt. Pretty clearly, it was suffering from intense bowel pain.

The two men cast off, heading right up into the sky. Also with them in the basket was a whole pile of water balloons. These had taken the whole night to fill. Only, each one contained a slurry of dark brown mud, not water. Just as soon as the anguished-looking balloon man was over downtown Sutton, the jokesters brought out bullhorns and started making loud groaning and farting noises. As they did this, they tossed the mud balloons over the side, one by one. I guess I don’t have to tell you what the balloon man seemed to be doing on the city streets. The trail of gluey brown spatters hit everything, from pedestrians to cars. A couple of well-aimed shots even plastered a portable outhouse, appropriately enough. These two clowns must have known they’d eventually be arrested for all the mayhem they were causing, but I suppose they figured the laughs were worth it.

All too soon, the muddy remains of Sutton were behind them and the western hills loomed ahead. The men weren’t worried. There was still plenty of hot gas left to clear the rise and make Fairview. Then the bombing raid could start all over again.

But that’s when their plan went wrong. A slight northerly air current began to nudge them off course. It looked as though they would miss Fairview altogether. In fact, they were headed right toward the southern tulle marsh.

The very moment they reached the marsh, the wind died away completely. This wasn’t good. The marsh was an awkward spot to set down. It was full of swamp water and quicksand. Not only that, there were no friendly farm workers around to grab the anchor line. Still, it didn’t look like they would be traveling any farther that day. They had to try and land.

But there was one thing these guys hadn’t even considered. Because a marsh is always so soggy, it is composed of layer after layer of sunken, rotting plants. The rot causes alot of natural gas, which comes up through the water in bubbling fumes. When the man attempted to expel the hot air from the balloon and descend, the swamp gas just filled it right up again. They could only hover there, completely unable to get any farther down.

This really irritated the man. It was like the marsh was pulling a practical joke of its own. Before, he had thought it was pretty hilarious when the folks in Sutton were splattered with gooey mud. Now that he was the victim, he wasn’t such a good sport. He had wanted a good joke to remember, but not one on him.

Then he thought he saw a solution to the problem. Below them on a patch of dry ground was a good-sized tree stump. It looked solid enough, so he made a loop from the end of the anchor rope. After a couple of tries, he managed to lasso the stump and pull the rope tight. Now he had an anchor point. He started up his little onboard winch and slowly began to haul the balloon down.

If they had been anywhere but over the marsh, this probably would have worked. But as the balloon got nearer and nearer the ground, it filled up more and more with swamp gas. The pressure was becoming dangerously high. The fabric couldn’t possibly hold that much volume. The balloon was still seventy feet in the air when it finally exploded, sending the two men plunging down into the mire below.

Investigators never did locate their bodies. That really shouldn’t come as a surprise. Like I told you, the marsh is full of quicksand. But local people have other ideas on the subject. The southern tulle marsh has always been a notorious spot. Unnatural hunting things are supposed to lurk around the dark waters. Horrors like the sucking swamp fog or the slimy cannibal, Mud Sally. So perhaps there simply are no bodies left to find. At any rate, authorities did manage to recover the pooping balloon man. I guess that will have to do.

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #103

Crime in Tabor County​

Most of the things that hunt down men in Tabor County are not human. I'm actually pretty proud of that. It means there are creatures around alot more evil than human beings. No one wants to believe their own species could be that mean. For the most part, people aren't so bad. But I must confess that they can commit some really horrible crimes from time to time. Since all of us evolved from killer apes back in the prehistoric days, this fact should hardly be surprising. Humans might not be the worst devils around, but we're not all saints either.

There's a big iron locker in the police department of Fairview that contains some pretty bizarre items. All of it is evidence from local crimes. Most of the cases have been solved, but these objects are so unusual that the police chief keeps them for curiosity value.

Like in one corner is a wooden box full of mason jars. The jars are sealed and most of them are full of a white substance that seems to be cream. Really though, it is liquefied human fat. They came from the campsite of an insane old hobo. It was his habit to stake living people on a roasting spit and cook them like barbecue meat. When this fat was analyzed, the DNA proved it belonged to a missing person from months before. The missing man was known to be pretty obese. The theory goes that when this guy was roasted, all the fat ran from his heavy body and put out the flames. It must have been quite annoying for the bum. But he solved the problem by collecting the fat in a funnel and emptying it into the jars. It was an unexpected bonus. He must have used this liquid fat the same way we use soap.

This old drifter caused plenty of deaths, but he wasn't the most dangerous man in the area. For example, the thugs in the Red Devil Gang were alot more sadistic. He only killed for food, while they did it for cash and for fun. If they ever found the need to threaten a victim or punish a snitch, they could be awfully creative. If you were to look in the evidence locker, you would find dozens of examples. For instance, they once had trouble making the family of a kidnapped man pay. So just to teach everybody a lesson, they cut a hole into his chest and inserted a small tube. They used this tube to feed in a colony of ants. The ants ate away the man's whole insides. When the gang sent back his body, it was completely hollow. Also, they killed off a rival crook by sabotaging his car. Most badmen would just plant a bomb, but that wasn't the Red Devils’ style. Instead, they drilled through his floorboards and ran up a cable which was tied onto the bars of a storm drain. The other end was fixed to the guy's seat belt. When he tried to drive off, the belt tightened like a vise, crushing all his chest bones flat. Broken ribs popped and shredded both his lungs, killing him. The ant tube and the booby-trapped seat belt are on a metal shelf in the locker.

Not every murder that happens is on purpose. Some people are addicted to practical jokes. I don't find this kind of humor very funny, but they seem to like it. One time, a group of teenagers thought it would be hilarious to hook a car battery up to the chair of an unpopular classmate. They wanted to see him jump when the shock hit. But what none of them knew was that this kid had a weak heart. It was so bad that he had to have a pacemaker installed. This apparatus gives off little electric jolts so the heart will beat properly. Well, when the juice from that car battery hit the pacemaker, it sent out a surge so powerful that the kid's heart exploded. It blew right out of his chest and flopped around on the floor. The ringleader who had thought up this little stunt went to jail. I'm not sure if it's the pacemaker or the battery that's on display at the police station.

Then there was the case of the lunatic with a sharp spike and a length of pipe. This guy had a killer practical joke. His gimmick was to find a tall wooden fence with a knothole in it. He'd stick the end of the pipe out the hole. People would pass it all day until some poor sucker couldn't resist taking a peek inside. That's when the murderer rammed the spike right down the pipe, piercing his brain through the eye. I guess word didn't get around too fast, because maybe five victims fell for this. The cops found his tools one day but never did catch the perpetrator. They'd sure like to before he locates another spike.

The Four Corners Coven was a covert bunch of would-be sorcerers that did as much harm as they possibly could. For a secret group, there sure are alot of stories about them. Like at their meetings they'd supposedly shove a faucet into a tied up captive and sample her blood all night long. I don't know how much of that you can believe, but it's certain that these fiends were responsible for many brutal deaths.

One coven member built low cost housing as a profession. He was no more trustworthy a businessman than he was a Satanist. His practice was to kill off his partners, taking all the profits for himself. As for the bodies, he would bury them in the cement foundations of his property.

On one occasion, he was preparing the concrete in a big cement mixer. The victim wasn't even dead yet, but he saw no reason to wait until the last minute. Unexpectedly, the marked man drove up to the site. This was sooner than the murderer had planned, but he didn't waste a second. Before the partner could get out, he swung the trough through the rolled down window and instantly filled the whole car with wet cement. The surprised man had no chance to react. Once the cement was hard, the car got dumped into the reservoir of Tabor Lake. It probably never would have been found if a drought hadn't lowered the water level. Folks could just see it resting on the bottom. Police fished it to the surface and broke the body out with chisels. The poor man was only a skeleton by that time, but the concrete held a perfect impression of his face. So the cops poured in plaster to make a cast. The face showed up perfectly and they were able to make an identification. You can see this death mask in the locker. The face's expression shows only the slightest hint of surprise. He must really have been taken off guard. Also, I guess the cement was the quick drying variety.

One of the most disturbing unsolved murders in Tabor County is represented by the contents of a duffel bag found out in the northern flats. The grisliest of these items is a tiny human skull. It really is minute, about the size of a softball. You might think it came from a baby or a really small midget, but doctors claim it once belonged to a normal sized adult. Also in the bag was a collection of adjustable straps and hooks and screws that had been needed to do the deed. Evidently this occurred while the man was still alive. Dead bones wouldn't have shrunk. They'd have broken up into powder. Whoever was to blame must have wanted the evidence to be found, because there was also a written confession. The note goes on about how sorry he felt and how he couldn't help himself. But there is no description of the ugly process he had used or any signature. So the ogre who did it has never been punished. If you know anything about his identity, make sure to inform on him. Don't hesitate. Who knows, you could be the next one on display in the iron locker.


Next week: Low Roads story #104, the series conclusion.

 

[Journia]

Wow, these are even better than I remember.

And they're almost done! I particularly enjoyed the painting story.

 

[Low_Roads]

Thank you, J! Most pleased these stories are holding up for you! Yeah, only one more to go! Hope the ending fulfills your expectations; most of the continuing characters will be there for the finish!

I'm most gratified that you enjoyed the black velvet story! Those spindly, sad-eyed kids were everywhere when I was young and vividly (if not exactly fondly) remembered. Glad I could keep one of them, at least, from starving!

 

[Low_Roads]

Tonight's submission will be the concluding chapter for this series. While it's possible I may eventually offer further tales set in the Low Roads landscape (at the time of writing, back in 2001-2003, I had a couple of ideas for longer, multi-part narratives which I never took the trouble to develop), they'll be posted independently, separate from this thread. My thanks to everyone who's read all or any part of this collection; particular thanks to the generous individuals who've written in to offer their perspectives. The responses have proved insightful and most entertaining… I'm truly grateful!

Low Roads Story #104

The Firing Squad​

A horror haunted the western creek. To those who knew the Low Roads, it was no surprise. Menace and dread were common in that dried up waterway. But this evil was new and more intense than ever before.

By now, you must know about the alien brain. I’ve mentioned it often enough. Travis Air Base was responsible for stranding it on Earth when they shot down its flying saucer. It had taken a slow revenge on humanity, burrowing into people’s skulls and using their bodies to do mischief and harm. But finally it made a mistake and invaded the wrong skull. This one belonged to an artificial creature ruled by disease bacteria. There was a terrible battle for control, the brain vs. the disease germs. In the end, the brain won. It now ruled the awesome body, one which could mutate and grow enormous off the swallowed tissue of others. 

Previously, it had hunted down prey, completely absorbing their liquefied flesh through sucking pours in its gigantic, clutching webbed hands. But moving around too much had made it a target. Other powerful folks were out to end its life, and rightly so. The brain had a sinister goal in mind, one which would not only finish Tabor County, but every living thing on Earth.

The artificial body was a moving mountain by now, twenty-five feet tall and countless tons in weight. But to accomplish its aim, it had to grow even more. So it had come up with a sly plan. It had enlisted an accomplice, one of the wretched bums who made the dry creeks their home. This guy had to be particularly degraded to go along with such a scheme, but I guess the brain left him no choice. His function was to lure fellow vagrants and Mexican farm workers to be devoured. It’s hard to imagine what kind of promises he made or rewards he offered to get them into any place as notorious as the western creek. But he sure must have been persuasive, because plenty went along. Once they sighted the monster, it was too late to get away. Their bubbling bodies vanished without trace. Countless numbers of men had disappeared and since all of them were undocumented, the cops didn’t even know they were missing.

But as I suggested, the law wasn’t all the brain had to fear. Hidden, secret things had been working against it from the very first. One of these was a special agent for the U.S. government. He was a powerful psychic who used E.S.P. as his main weapon. He had battled the brain many times, but the fiend always managed to escape. This was his last chance to stop it. If he failed now, it might be the end of everything.

The psychic agent could follow trails of mental energy to locate the whereabouts of certain people. But this had not worked well on the brain. Instead, he scanned the minds of local folks throughout the area. That’s how he discovered rumors of this fresh menace in the wildlands.

No truck could take him along the western creek. That region was mostly unincorporated country, overgrown with uncut shrubs and trees. That was too bad. The agent had a steamer trunk full of weighty equipment to transport. But he was a strong, well-conditioned man, used to hardy adventures. He shouldered the heavy burden and set out all alone on the hunt.

He followed the edge of the creek for miles and miles, surveying the bottom stealthily so as not to be detected. As a result, it took quite awhile to move any distance at all. Soon the hot daylight passed away. Night was coming and he would lose the advantage of the sun.

As a matter of fact, it grew pretty dark. That slowed him down all the more. But it turned out he didn’t have far to go. The glow from a flickering campfire was just a little way ahead. The man crept to the ledge and looked down.

It was as appalling a sight as he had ever witnessed in his long life. The behemoth was much more massive than before. It must have sucked up scores of men. And he saw that several changes had occurred. The creature’s skin was toughened with warlike spines and scales. Its hollow tail was now reinforced with ridged plates. It crouched motionless in front of the vagrant’s fire. Probably it was asleep. No other being would dare be so careless in the western creek, but little could threaten this titan anymore. Off to one side, away from the warming fire, the creature’s human partner hunkered against the creek wall. He was not asleep, but gibbered and gestured mindlessly to himself. Probably, he would never find the peace of sleep again. His mind was clearly gone. It looked like he had outlived his usefulness. Most likely he would be next to go.

The agent knew the brain’s grand plan all too well now. He could see it in the thing’s dreaming mind. Since the Air Force had destroyed its spacecraft, it was building a new one from the artificial body’s transforming flesh. The creature’s hollow tail would expel thrusting hot gas, just the same as a rocket. Once it reached its home world, it could mount an invasion force so deadly it would wipe out our entire planet. It only needed to grow large enough to hold the necessary fuel.

The man examined the arsenal of deadly weapons inside the steamer trunk. Not one of them looked adequate to do the job. If he attacked, he would be killed instantly. Just one more bit of tissue absorbed into that colossus body. But he had to try. It was his duty to the nation. Besides, if the brain’s scheme worked, he was doomed anyway.

His first glimpse of the slumbering giant shook him up so much that he’d failed to notice something really odd. He saw it now, though. Shoved into the wide, sandy expanse of creek bed, completely encircling the monster, was a series of narrow pegs, like tent pegs. Each peg had a metal ring slipped over it. The rings seemed to be hard, shiny steel and they glistened in the flickering firelight.

The agent watched in fascination as several low forms hopped down from the opposite slope. They appeared to be rats. There were twelve in all and each one had a small rat-sized ring decorating its tail. The rat rings were not metal, but looked to be carved turquoise or jade.

Six of the rats hopped right to the periphery of the pegged ground. They chased each other around and around the encircled giant, springing merrily in a clockwise pattern. Then the remaining six did the same, only they leaped counter-clockwise. The two circles of bounding rats cast weird dancing shadows like they were an unholy pair of merry-go-rounds.

As they bounded, the rings on their tails began to glow. And the agent saw that the trapped campfire was glowing hotter too. The coals grew brighter and brighter until they blazed a deep unnatural red.

The alien brain was in a snare. The rings on the pegs were made by sorcery. They were called Binding Rings, and anything enclosed within them was imprisoned by their power. The rings on the rats’ tails were Rings of Fire. Their influence was what stoked the glowing coals. Only a powerful wizard could work with such magic material, and there was one in Ross Valley. His neighbors thought he was just a peach rancher, but he was a wizard all the same. He’d learned of the brain’s foul murders and its evil plot, and had prepared for action. Tonight was the showdown.

The fire was growing so hot that the devilish giant finally woke up and noticed. It raised to its full twenty-five feet and glowered with flashing green, hate-filled eyes. It saw the prancing circles of rats and tried to clutch one, but the Binding Rings held it firm. Then it explored the barrier with those horrible sucking hands until there could be no doubt it was hemmed in. Meanwhile, the fire blazed redder and hotter. The sandy creek bed bubbled and melted into glass. Insane, distorted shadows leaped all over. The glow became so bright that the man now saw that a regal, scowling figure had perched high on a tree limb. It was the Manx cat Demona, presiding over this awful execution just like she was the Queen of Hell. Bright blazing rings adorned her neck and all four of her paws. The agent wasn’t sure, but he thought that her single hot-orange eye actually winked slyly once in his direction.

Demona rarely joined forces with Blacky and his gang. Usually, she and her wizard master guarded the farms and the wildlands, while Blacky stuck to his home turf of Fairview. But the demon Manx and the rat chief had to fight side by side this time. The alien brain was too strong to overcome otherwise.

The man noticed that tiny moving figures dotted the ground. They strode all over, grabbing up tufts of dry grass or branches to feed into the fire and keep it red-hot. Some of them passed right in front of him. They seemed to be the figures of men, but each one was made from prunes and sticks. They regarded him curiously, then went right back to their work.

The giant’s artificial body was tough. It had been specially made to withstand the brutal conditions in outer space. No ordinary flames could ever harm it. But the magic fire was alot hotter. It was starting to take its toll. Those huge taloned feet were softening like wax. The alien brain knew this might be the end. It became frantic to survive. Desperately, it stretched out its great absorbing hands until they clutched hold of those invisible securing chains. Then it tried and tried to absorb the power out of the magic rings.

The glow in each Binding Ring increased immediately. It looked as though they were becoming pretty hot themselves. The agent didn’t know how much punishment the metal could take. If they should happen to melt, the monster would burst free. Then every one of them would die. So the psychic man tried his E.S.P. as a distraction. He created the illusion of meteors falling from the sky. He dreamed up earthquakes and ice storms, but it did no good. The brain ignored them all and kept struggling to absorb the magical force. Blacky and the boys saw this and increased their speed. The withering fire roared up in great blasting sheets, tearing off chunks of the giant’s scales and horn.

The agent returned to his steamer trunk. He wanted one particular special weapon. It was a high-powered rifle with a scope, the largest bore ever made. This gun fired heavy slugs two inches in diameter. He could tell the giant’s skull was thick with bone. It would take a really powerful bullet to pierce through.

The man took dead aim. He stitched a line of shots right across that mammoth forehead. The last one did it. The top of the skull broke clear off and the brain was exposed to the open air once again. Instantly it detached from the artificial body and reached up ropey tendrils for the overhanging trees.

But Demona wouldn’t allow it to escape. Her rings were the most powerful of all. With a piercing yowl, she leaped up and gaped her ferocious jaws wide. Streams of green and purple fire shot out, completely engulfing the brain. It plummeted down the side of the colossal body, right into the hottest part of the inferno below.

The hellfire went completely out as though it had never existed at all, and a deep black descended. When the man came to his senses again, it was early morning. Whatever occurred at the moment of the brain’s death had knocked him out cold for hours. But he was awake now and able to examine the aftermath.

He made his way down thirty feet to the bottom of the creek. A huge mound of sticky ashes was all the remained of the giant. Barely a bit of it was left. Only the finger bones from those horrible hands had been too tough to burn. The Binding Rings were only melted slag now. They had held together just long enough.

There was no sign of Blacky or Demona. With the brain destroyed, they had no reason to hang around. But the victory hadn’t come without cost. All the little prune men lay motionless on the sand. They had been gone from the prune orchard too long and the rising sun had killed them. Still, it was a small price to pay for eliminating such a great evil.

* * *​

When the agent returned for his trunk of weapons, he found them all scattered on the ground. That was a pretty thoughtless thing to do, but I really had no choice. I needed that old steamer trunk. You see, it was thanks to me that all those poor hobos and Mexicans lost their lives. I didn’t want them to die. Some of them were my friends. But the brain forced me to. It threatened the most horrible tortures if I didn’t supply victims. And now it’s gone. But not completely. Those finger bones are still around. I have to keep people safe from those sucking fingers. It’s the only way to make amends. So I’ll trap them in the steamer trunk. But that’s not really enough. If the lid should come open, they’ll be free again. The only thing to do is bury them under a great weight. I’ll fill the trunk with something so heavy so they’ll never get out. Rocks are no good. They could easily be removed. The perfect thing would be white, pure human bones. I could smack them flat with rocks and make a solid mass. The fingers would never escape then. That’s all I need, human bones. I wonder how I could get them...

 

[Featherdemon]

Meat on ths pit...oooh, grisly, me likes this a lot my friend. Though it took a few moment to get used to darker setting I very much liked the Urban Legend approach. Very nice. I look forward to reading more! 😉

 

[Low_Roads]

Wow! I thought I'd heard the last from this particular thread! So pleased to see fresh new commentary! I'm glad that you've enjoyed the opening story, Feathers! Hope you like the rest of the series, too... there's a lot more to come, 104 chapters altogether, and you'll discover a few crossover characters from my comic (this was written first, and I adapted some of the elements of this early Tabor County into the later one). Anyways, thanks so much for your interest, and double thanks for letting me know!

 

[Featherdemon]

The Man who was pulled apart eh? *shudder* I like this piece a lot. The Quater Vines are something ripped from epochal depths of man's oldest nightmares - something perhaps that even Cthulu would leave behind as a reminder.

I think you got the length of this story just right and it reads very well. It has the feel of an urban legend, a warning to those who would trespass or give no thought to another's propery.

Great story!! 🙂

 

[Low_Roads]

I'm awfully glad you liked that one, Feathers! Thank you for the invigorating assessment; it makes the creative effort so worthwhile! I'm very pleased that the urban legend tone was successfully conveyed, as it's something I was eager to achieve throughout the whole of this series. I've been a big fan of such storytelling since well before I knew the tales of Kentucky-fried rats and milk-snakes were apocryphal, and I hope that the high-concept themes that make these tales compelling will be successfully replicated throughout.

The Quarter Vines certainly do have the feel of something Lovecraftean; doubtless my powerful affection for the Cthulhu myth cycle has imprinted itself on much of my fiction! The strong central overview and interconnections that mark tales set in HP's New England will be missing here to a certain extent, though a loose continuity will eventually emerge. No one as horrendously intimidating as Yog-Sothoth is destined for the scene, but those on offer should be formidable enough for most mortals!