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

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #8

Henpecked​

A mousy little man owned a small vineyard in the hills of Gordon Valley. Even though this man was successful at his business, he never even once had a date with a woman. Since he was middle aged, it looked like he would never have a family to carry on after him.

So it came as a surprise to everyone when he returned from a trip back east with a wife. His few friends thought this was encouraging, but it was soon obvious that the poor fellow was ruled and henpecked by his bossy new wife. It was embarrassing the way he would hang his head as she nattered at him.

As time went on, she became pregnant. Not only was she going to have a baby, but she was pregnant with triplets, so the man went from having no family to all at once having a big family. Folks thought that this might make the woman happy and settle her down. But of course she just became more bossy than ever.

The situation was so unpleasant that the few people that would come over to their place stopped doing it. They lost all their friends and became pretty isolated. Those who had known the man felt sorry for him, but things weren't likely to change as long as he stayed so mousy.

A year went by. One of the man's former friends ran into him again. He seemed just as harried as always, but it turned out that after his kids had been born, his wife took them and left. She went back east with them again to live with her family. All in all that was probably for the best. Now the poor fellow could get back to living a normal life. But that didn't happen. He stayed just as withdrawn and isolated as before.

About that time, bums started to disappear from their camps in the dry creek beds. They became so spooked and agitated they actually invited the law down there to investigate. This was unusual because the whole reason for living in the creeks to begin with was to avoid law officers.

The trail seemed to lead to the mousy man's vineyard. Some Mexicans who worked at his place had disappeared too. The sheriff and his men drove out to his house. It was eerily quiet. They checked out all the buildings but stopped when they got to the old water tower. Alot of ranches had these structures. They were built at a time before electrical pumps and are relics now. If you've never seen one, they're tall, thin buildings about a hundred feet high, and house a large upright water barrel at the top. It really is a big barrel, ten feet high and maybe twelve feet across. This barrel must have been really heavy when full of water, so the tower has to be a hardy structure. That's why so many of them are still around.

The sheriffs stopped because they heard a strange commotion coming from the top of the tower. It was a chorus of high-pitched squalling. Those who heard it felt a little sick without knowing why exactly. The men proceeded up the stairs to the barrel platform. The mewling and screeching got to be unbearably loud. When they got to the top they saw that a pulley system had been set up directly over the barrel. This wasn't the usual arrangement. They found the little man. He was lowering a rope into the barrel.

Once he saw the law officers, the man screamed and gave up immediately. The sheriff checked out the rope. There was a human body tied upside down to the end. At least it was the legs of a man. That's all that was left. Inside the barrel were the triplets. They were not normal babies. For a start, they were obviously strong for infants. Each one was already on his feet. They were hopping around, squawking and squealing and nipping at the meat over their heads. They didn't have normal mouths. The lips protruded and were hardened to sharp cutting edges. Their arms weren't normal either. They bent backwards like bird's wings and the hands had no fingers. The children were surrounded by a tall litter of bones. They looked for all the world like baby chicks in a nest.

They were mutant children. Their father had obviously gone crazy from the strain of caring for them. That's why he had hunted down men to feed them instead of using beef. The mother had gone crazy too. They found her in the basement of the house. Her husband had chained her up down there. She had lost her mind from the shame of having freaks for children.

The parents were taken away and committed to an asylum. No one was quite sure what to do with the babies. For the time being they were just left in the water barrel. I don't think anyone really wanted to touch them. They were safe in there. In spite of what they looked like, they were not birds. They would not grow feathers and fly away. Caretakers tried lowering down baby formula, but they wouldn't have any of it. They only wanted fresh meat.

As far as I know, the mutant babies were never removed from the water tower. I don't know how old they'd be now. I just hope the wood holds.



Next: "The 1943 Vintage".

 

[Journia]

Wowzer bowser.
First a daring, deranged faux swashbuckling adventure down a raging river to the death, Whch actually left me wondering what happening to the bomb throwing widower's body; to a menagerie of urban legends of farm maladies; intellectual rats on sprees of robbery who dream of better life; and roc-like children from henpecked mothers and fathers...It is quite an interesting collection, and yes, I too, hope the wood holds.

 

[Low_Roads]

Thanks, J! I like your cumulative approach to assessment... it's the very way I hope these stories will be taken, as an outwardly chaotic melange which ultimately (hopefully) resolves itself into a cohesive, coherent whole (similar to the way oral folklore and fairy tales create recognizable environments through the accumulation of bits and pieces). This strategy will strengthen considerably once certain characters begin to repeat... look for the first in story 13.

 

[Journia]

Thanks Littlebighead. I think I finally found a way to match your cumulative assessments toward stories.😀 And I certainly shall be perusing the next bits of your stories....13 here we come!!!

 

[Cbarton]

They keep getting more and more bizarre every time, LBH...and that's a GOOD thing.

Excellent macabre style.

 

[Low_Roads]

They keep getting more and more bizarre every time, LBH...and that's a GOOD thing.

Excellent macabre style.

Very kind of you Hawk! Especially appreciated from a man who understands style so very well! My approach is to keep the stories' language a bit mundane and everyday; hopefully this lends the outre elements some credibility and makes them easier to swallow. I'm very pleased the weirdness seems to mount; I'd like the Low Roads world to seem pretty fabulous (that is to say, fantasy-oriented; not un-akin to the landscape of Greek mythology) by the time it's all presented!

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #9

The 1943 Vintage​

If you ever find yourself in Tabor County you might want to check out Green Valley. It's a quite beautiful spot, surrounded on all sides by green, craggy hills and dominated by the western face of the Twin Sisters peaks. It's rather isolated, but you can get there by taking Green Valley Road. This road crosses Rockville Road right at the point where the community of Rockville is located. Going east on Green Valley Road will take you into the town of Fairview, but traveling west will take you over the hills and into the heart of Green Valley.

This land is quite desirable. Richer folks in Tabor County like to live up in big ranch houses in the hills. They have the Green Valley Country Club, which features a big swimming pool and a golf course, and a little airfield for private planes. The clubhouse is an old stone building that was once the home of a rich family from the 1800s.

The flat land in the valley is all planted in wine grapes. There is no other crop except for a very small number of almonds and walnuts. Some of these vineyards are very old, going back to the 1800s themselves.

During the Second World War, most men were off in Europe doing their duty. This didn't leave much of anybody to tend to the vines, only kids, older folks and women. Then there were some able-bodied men who were not in the military for one reason or other.

One little vineyard of about a hundred acres belonged to a young couple. They had not been married long and didn't have any children yet. The husband was in the army, killing Germans. That left his wife to run things at home. These people not only raised the grapes but made wine themselves. It was an ambitious project, but they had already had two successful seasons before America went to war.

Well, the man got shot and killed by a sniper. This drove his wife to despair. Her mind snapped, although it didn't show at first. She had a crew working for her. She came to hate these men for being alive while her husband was now dead. This wasn't entirely fair. Some of these guys were up from Mexico, not U.S. citizens. Some of them were religious and were conscientious objectors, or they had health problems and were 4-F. Of course, some of them were cowards and gold bricks, too.

Her demented state caused her to come up with a plan. When it came time to make the wine, she would seduce a man and cause him to stay overnight with her. But instead of making good on her promise, she would kill him and put his dead body in the wine press. She would cover it with grapes so it would not be seen. Then in the morning the other laborers would work the press, squeezing all the juice out of the body. She had figured out the right ratio so the human fluid would not be noticed, one part dead body and four parts grapes. After that was done she was always careful to clean the grape skins out of the press herself so the flattened body wouldn't be discovered. All this refuse was put in a big pile to dry out so it could be burned later. She killed maybe a dozen guys this way. No one noticed because farm labor tends to come and go. After all the work was done she burned up the pile and destroyed the evidence.

Strange to say, when the wine was ready it turned out to be quite tasty. It was a limited vintage because the acreage was so small, but the wine became very popular and brought a good price. The woman called it the Yellow Label Vintage because she thought all the men she had killed were cowards. This wine was shipped all over California and I've heard they even served it at the state capital.

The woman was finally caught when the fire marshal came around to inspect. He would always check burn piles carefully because farmers were only supposed to get rid of agricultural waste. He had to be sure there was no sign of wooden boxes or garbage in the ashes. He didn't see any of that, but he did find the teeth from the murdered men. These teeth had been too tough to be crushed in the press and the fire didn't melt them either.

This vintage has since become a collector's item, although I don't imagine anyone actually drinks it. That's my guess, but you can never be sure. So, be careful. Check for the yellow label the next time anyone offers you a glass.


Next: "Straight Down the Middle".

 

[His Divine Shadow]

Yet another thread that got lost in my "to do" list. Much reading to do has this one!

#3: Ouch! I'd thought something more complex might be afoot (Some midair accident or whatnot), but I must say that "fried by landing lights" is spectacular in its simplicity. A bit of Stephen King's "lost children just vanish from the record" on his disappearance there.

#4: I thought of those glowing worms from Pitch Black when their blue neon light was described but, quite obviously, those are the wrong size entirely. The earth is a good source of mysterious happenings; we know so much about the world beyond our own atmosphere, yet who amongst us can claim to be sure about what lies beneath our feet? You seem to have a fondness for old creek beds as well. This is not the first time they have been used (Did not your comic "Low Roads" feature a similar local?).

#5: The Blag Lagoon calls in this one! A creature of green slime, clawed hand reaching for the innocent. With all the villages drowned by the Three Gorges Dam in China this one wonders if one will spawn such a monster?

#6: Farm life sounds harsh! I can see the oven bit happening, though. Moving large pallets around doesn't leave much ability to see what lies in front. I wonder if all those accidents of cutting up or spraying did anything to the plants beneath the pieces?

#7: Rats are smart little buggers. A bit of Ralph S. Mouse with the wee cars here. Ralph was never a doer of evil, though. And always we assume to be greater than the rest as the scientist did. 'Tis why HDS tries to assume he is an idiot and the rest are brilliant. Has yet to get him in trouble. 😛

#8: I never saw that one coming! I had the wife pegged for something awful, not her spawn, no no. Heaven help the townsfolk if that tower gives way, eh?

#9: Human juices in the wine, oh my! Teeth seem to be a common downfall of killers; too often they forget to consider the strongest of the body's parts.

A delightful romp those provided, LBH! I'll have to stop ignoring things so I don't fall so far behind anymore. 😛

 

[Cbarton]

"make sure you look for the union label..."

Another chiller there, LBH....

 

[Low_Roads]

Wow! This is an epic response! Easily as lengthy and thorough as one of the presented stories! My profound gratitude for your interest and effort, HDS!

#3: Ouch! I'd thought something more complex might be afoot (Some midair accident or whatnot), but I must say that "fried by landing lights" is spectacular in its simplicity. A bit of Stephen King's "lost children just vanish from the record" on his disappearance there.

Thank you! I try to keep these stories straight-line simple to match their urban legend inspiration. And, of course, any comparison to Stephen King (in any capacity) is welcome praise! I'm afraid that kids are in for a very hard time in this series; this also mirrors the conventions of urban folklore, possibly because youngsters are the ones who disseminate it most often.

#4: I thought of those glowing worms from Pitch Black when their blue neon light was described but, quite obviously, those are the wrong size entirely. The earth is a good source of mysterious happenings; we know so much about the world beyond our own atmosphere, yet who amongst us can claim to be sure about what lies beneath our feet? You seem to have a fondness for old creek beds as well. This is not the first time they have been used (Did not your comic "Low Roads" feature a similar local?).

Egad! I haven't seen Pitch Black in ages! Did it really feature florescent worms? I just don't remember anymore!

The "dry creek" idea arose from a really ferocious drought that struck our area about 15 years ago. The creek beds really did run nearly dry for several years (though not to the extent that anyone could live in them... lots and lots of nasty, stagnant water). The fetish comic low roads were adopted from the low roads of this series, as will be many other elements... keep a look-out for Chapter 13!

#5: The Blag Lagoon calls in this one! A creature of green slime, clawed hand reaching for the innocent. With all the villages drowned by the Three Gorges Dam in China this one wonders if one will spawn such a monster?

Yeah, I always loved the Creature! My hands-down favorite Universal monster! I don't know about China, but our local dam (also called Monticello) actually did cover up a small community, which is where I got the idea. During the aforementioned drought, the lake level shrunk to the point that you could see building and bridge foundations. That reality is creepier, really, than anything I write about in the Low Roads!

#6: Farm life sounds harsh! I can see the oven bit happening, though. Moving large pallets around doesn't leave much ability to see what lies in front. I wonder if all those accidents of cutting up or spraying did anything to the plants beneath the pieces?

Plenty of hyperbole in Danger on the Farm... I spent a season working in a dry yard, and they aren't nearly as hazardous as I made them out (the pallet stacks are light and a whole line of them can be shifted easily). Too, the heat, while uncomfortable, couldn't cook or mummify anyone, whatever the length of exposure. Also, the pressure inside rainbirds is hardly sufficient to prove lethal (soaking is another matter; I'd get drenched to the skin regularly during growing season!) Let it never be said that I'd let an inconvenient truth interfere with lurid storytelling XD!. On the other hand, I was nearly killed falling backwards off a tractor. Disc accidents have resulted in numerous fatalities... I do remember one local tragedy from years back, the basis for the described incident.

#7: Rats are smart little buggers. A bit of Ralph S. Mouse with the wee cars here. Ralph was never a doer of evil, though. And always we assume to be greater than the rest as the scientist did. 'Tis why HDS tries to assume he is an idiot and the rest are brilliant. Has yet to get him in trouble. 😛

I had to look up Ralph S. Mouse... a cute looking series! If I'd seen it before writing Rat Race, Blacky might have been riding a simulacrum of Ralph's trademark motorcycle (bad-boy biker is sort of what I was suggesting with Blacky's black leather jacket). As I recall, Stuart Little also had a mini sports car (I remember this from the movie trailers... never saw either of the films or read the literature, if there was any). Must be some Freudian connection between rodents and automotives!

I too tend to assume that I know less than anyone else in the room... good way to guard against hubris! Anyway, in my case it's often the truth! XD

#8: I never saw that one coming! I had the wife pegged for something awful, not her spawn, no no. Heaven help the townsfolk if that tower gives way, eh?

Delightful! So pleased I could deliver a curve! This is one of the few times I consciously tried to employ misdirection. Most often, the tales will play out with a sort of sordid inevitability (as urban legends tend to).

#9: Human juices in the wine, oh my! Teeth seem to be a common downfall of killers; too often they forget to consider the strongest of the body's parts.

The dental element of the story was suggested by Poe's Berenice, one of the few times high literature will serve as inspiration. More often, attend to the Weekly World News for research!

A delightful romp those provided, LBH! I'll have to stop ignoring things so I don't fall so far behind anymore. 😛

Thank you, HDS! So very pleased you've enjoyed the Low Roads thus far! And please don't feel any need to respond to one of these stories the moment it's presented... this series will be an ongoing concern for years, always available when you wish to catch up!

 

[Low_Roads]

"make sure you look for the union label..."

Another chiller there, LBH....

Considerable thanks, Hawk! Indeed, there's much to be said for official standards... they do supply consistent, dependable quality. On the other hand, one does miss the little surprises provided by maverick brands. Ptomaine is a small price to pay for an interesting life!

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #10

Straight Down the Middle​

Rockville Road is the main road that passes through the farming lands in Tabor County. It starts at the freeway and passes through Rockville, a tiny community that used to be a town in the olden days. It then crosses Ledgewood Road, the main crossroad, and extends for twenty miles until it "T"s off onto Gordon Valley Road, which leads to Tabor Lake if you go to the east or crosses the mountains and finally lands you in the city of Sutton if you travel west. By then you're in Harmon County.

All the bridges on Rockville Road were built in the '20s and are pretty antiquated now. There are four of them. They pass the central creek and its tributaries three times, and the west creek once. These bridges were designed at a time when cars and trucks were smaller and traffic on the road wasn't as heavy. Also, I guess people were more polite back then. Anyway, they're pretty narrow. Rockville Road is pretty heavily used now because Lake Tabor attracts alot of recreation. People are always dragging boats or jet-skis up there. This can be harrowing because in the summer, when most of the boating takes place, big flatbed trucks are constantly on the road, hauling fruit for processing. Years ago, this wasn't a big deal. Farmers would truck their own produce and they would drive carefully. But now all the hauling is done by professional drivers who get paid by the load. They don't stop for anything.

Since school's out in the summer, kids in Fairview have alot of time on their hands. Most of the farm teenagers have to work, but town kids never seem to have anything to do. For that reason, alot of them come to Ross Valley and hang out. These teenagers can be pretty snotty and always seem to be up to no good.

You can catch them climbing up in fruit trees, stealing fruit and farm equipment, or busting up stuff. One of their favorite tricks used to be to hang out at the bridges. All the bridges have thick masonry rails, as wide as a seat. Really dumb town kids, and a few farm kids who should have known better, would sit on the rail with their legs hanging maybe thirty-five feet over the dry creek bed. Particularly stupid ones would face the other way and kick at the cars when they passed, or throw parts of sandwiches. It was typical dumb youngster stuff and locals always said there'd be a terrible accident someday.

Those who cared to venture into the dry creek beds could find plenty of mischief down there, too. The dry creeks are known as the "Low Roads" because you can go almost anywhere in the valley without leaving them. They're full of vagrants and bums who camp out there to avoid the law. These guys always have some illicit product for sale. Either cigarettes or liquor or Hustlers or fenced merchandise. If you told someone you were taking the Low Roads, that meant you were going down into the creek to get something you couldn't legally buy in a store.

Most of the farm workers come up from Mexico to do good, honest field labor. Some of them, though, come because they have drugs to sell. These guys occupy the Low Roads too, not stirring from there until they've sold all they have.

Well, this story concerns a teenage girl from Fairview who liked to hang out by one of the bridges. She came from a good family, but still didn't know how to behave. She had gone to a Mexican dealer and bought some drugs to smoke. It must have been some weird Mexican mutant strain, because the drugs made her crazy. She was acting bizarre, swearing at her friends and standing up to dance around on the bridge rail.

Now it so happened that two heavy fruit haulers were approaching the bridge at the same time. The one leaving the valley had a full load. The incoming one was in a hurry to make a pick-up. Neither one was paying attention to much besides their timetables. Two big trucks could cross the bridge at the same time, but just barely, with no room for error.

The hopped-up girl chose that moment to jump down off the bridge rail right into the middle of the road. She was standing right on the centerline. She never saw the trucks. Probably, she was beyond perceiving anything at that time. The trucks, going flat out, passed each other at the dead center of the bridge. The girl's friends were hit by a huge wash of blood.

The girl was struck by both trucks at exactly the same moment. She was cut clean in half. The left side of her body went with the incoming truck. The right side went with the outgoing truck.

The undertakers tried to sew both halves together for the funeral, but the result looked ridiculous. Her parents had to have a closed casket ceremony.

There was a big hue-and-cry after the accident. There was alot of hot talk about replacing the bridges, but in the end there was not enough money and nothing got done.

The one good thing to come out of it is that kids don't lounge on the bridges anymore.


Next: "The White Thing".


Below... a sneak preview page from The Low Roads Chapter 9, due possibly next week (depending on how much work I'm able to get done on it this weekend):

 

[His Divine Shadow]

A ghastly end! I know such bridges; scattered throughout rural Connecticut they are. Reminds me of the confines of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel tunnels as well ... the drug might have been one of those Guatemalan insanity peppers that got Homer Simpson. 😛

 

[Low_Roads]

A ghastly end! I know such bridges; scattered throughout rural Connecticut they are. Reminds me of the confines of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel tunnels as well ... the drug might have been one of those Guatemalan insanity peppers that got Homer Simpson. 😛

Oh yes indeed! Chief Wiggums' Guatemalan insanity peppers! I love that episode; some crazy, hallucinatory animation! The tiger-striping made those peppers look soooo lethal!

Thank you, HDS! This story is based partly on reality; the younger set really did hang out on our antique masonry bridges (bridges that appear not to be as specific to the west coast as I imagined!) back in the '60s when I was a kid. Creek swimming was popular local recreation ... bridge sitting was a spill-over activity. The tone of the tale, though, was meant to mimic those poisonous, abusive public safety movies we were forced to watch in high school, the ones warning against drunk driving, drug abuse and carnal impropriety. Life seemed like such a futile, hazardous affair in those films... just the sort of thing that would drive you to drink!

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #11

The White Thing​

A man up in Gordon Valley owned a boarding stable. He had a wife and a little daughter. This happened back in '76 in the fall, when that big, big flood occurred. Floodwater ran right past the stable and was picked up by another creek farther down. The father told his daughter not to go near the floodwater, but she went out to have a look anyhow and got swept away.

The father was frantic to find her but couldn't get near the creeks because of the high water. The creek she was swept into emptied into a marsh basin. He went down there to see if he could find her body. The marsh was filled up with floodwater, so all he could do was walk the bank. He went down there several days without finding anything. Then one day he found an arm. It was a child's arm, just short of the elbow. There were marks on it that looked like bite marks.

The man was terrified that it might belong to his daughter. He took the arm to the coroner. The coroner examined it but had no way to determine who it belonged to. He decided that the limb might be murder evidence and put it in formalin.

The father was crushed. He had no idea what had happened to his daughter and now didn't even have the arm to bury. He went home and brooded about the tooth marks. He became convinced that his daughter had been eaten by something.

Time went by, but the man still brooded. Soon the creeks dried up and the fruit season came on. The laborers came up from Mexico and camped in the dry creek beds. They did this because they were here illegally and wanted to be as hard to find as possible. The man brooded and made his plans.

One night, he went down into the creeks. He had on camouflage clothes and carried a hunting rifle with a scope. He would approach different campfires full of farm workers or hobos and question them. He wanted to know if they had seen anything unusual. They would tell him various strange stories, but he didn't get the information he wanted.

Then he came to a Mexican camp full of guys who had just moved out of the creek bed that led to the marsh. They were very nervous about that creek and about the marsh. First, they had heard bad stories about people being stalked down there. Several farm workers had disappeared. Then one night, one of them saw a spidery white figure running through the tulles at the marsh entrance. That was enough for them. They moved their camp as far away as they could.

The next night after work, the man went down to the tulle marsh. It was alot drier now but there was still plenty of swamp water and he had to be careful not to get stuck in mire. The marsh was extensive and the tulles were tall. They formed a natural maze. The man began to hunt. He had liked to hunt in his time off and was experienced. He would stalk a little, then settle down to wait for something to show itself. He was very patient.

After a couple of hours he had covered alot of ground. Then he noticed something crouching down behind a stand of cattails. He found a nearby stick and flung it. A skinny white figure jumped up and snarled. The man snapped up his rifle to fire, but the creature streaked away, bounding on all fours like some kind of lanky dog. He tried to follow, but it was gone in a flash. The man followed its trail, going deeper and deeper into the center of the marsh.

He had tracked the thing into a large clearing, when he got the funny feeling he was walking into an ambush. He proceeded slowly, step by step, looking for some movement out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly from out of nowhere, the beast sprang out. The man just had time to wheel about and fire off a shot from the hip. The bullet took the thing in midair straight through the heart, killing it on the spot. It thrashed around in death agony for a few minutes and then lay still.

The man carted out the body of the white thing and gave it to the coroner to examine. It was only about four feet long, with an arched back like it was used to going on all fours. It was covered all over with long, course white hairs. The face was halfway between a human and an animal, and it gaped in a nasty feral way even in death.

Then the coroner noticed that one of the creature's arms wasn't fully developed. It was short and stunted, like it wasn't fully grown with the rest of the body. The coroner examined its hand. He noticed the fingers had swirls like human fingers. He had a sudden idea. He got the container of formalin with the severed hand of the man's murdered daughter and fished it out. He got an inkpad and took its fingerprints. Then he took the prints from the hand of the white thing. He compared the two.

The prints were exactly the same.


Next: "The Swallowed Skull".

 

[His Divine Shadow]

Was the creature the missing daughter, sans limb, or did it somehow absorb the daughter sans limb? Either way it is a vile one! Skittering little white spiders brought the face-huggers of Aliens to mind (Much smaller skitterers, of course).

Marshes are spooky. As the wind blows reeds and old dead trees rattle, the water is still and dead black ... one knows their is something out there, but one can't quite see it ...

 

[Low_Roads]

Was the creature the missing daughter, sans limb, or did it somehow absorb the daughter sans limb? Either way it is a vile one! Skittering little white spiders brought the face-huggers of Aliens to mind (Much smaller skitterers, of course).

Thank you, HDS! 🙂 I was shooting for a rather indefinite tone here... the resolution may actually be so indefinite and airy that it blows right off the page! Always a risk when one tries to play it too cute! XD

Oooh, face huggers! Not the deadliest alien format, but arguably the most offensive! There's something terribly nasty and claustrophobic about that level of predatory intimacy!

Marshes are spooky. As the wind blows reeds and old dead trees rattle, the water is still and dead black ... one knows their is something out there, but one can't quite see it ...

... heavens. That was quite lyrical! You should be writing these stories! 🙂

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #12

The Swallowed Skull​

There are three main creek systems that split from the Putah River to flow through Gordon Valley and Ross Valley in Tabor County. There are numerous branches and tributaries that split from these, but these are the main ones. The first flows to the east and actually passes close to the town of Fairview before emptying into a marsh basin. The next one is located pretty much in the center of the county and touches most of the farming land. This creek system got alot of publicity back in the '50s when it was invaded by a huge horde of subterranean worms for a few weeks in a weird freak of nature.

The last creek system goes through land to the west. Some of it is ranch property, but alot of it is wild, unincorporated land. This creek system is the loneliest one. Strange stories are told about all these creek systems, but the ugliest ones tend to center on the west creek. Because of its remoteness, people tend to avoid it.

During the summer months, when the orchards and fields need workers, the creek beds can be dotted with little migrant labor camps. Mexicans who are up here legally can live in bunkhouses on the ranch, but illegals usually don't do that to avoid being deported. They prefer the creeks instead. The creek beds are almost always dry this time of the year. Small leftover pools of creek water serve for washing up purposes. Sometimes little structures are built out of scrap wood or old fruit bins. Every camp usually has a campfire to gather around.

About thirty years back, some Mexicans were sitting by their fire at night swapping weird stories. This one old guy told about something in the west creek. It was a story that was notorious with the old timers. If you followed this creek for a few miles, you'd come to a sharp bend. Perched on the inside of the bend, overhanging the creek, was an old, gnarled tree. This tree hadn't hardly any greenery. It was really disturbing looking, resembling a huge, twisted headless human torso. If you passed by it, you were supposed to be taking your life in your hands. Several disappearances were supposed to have happened there, but because the victims were all undocumented Mexicans, no investigations had ever taken place. All this was hard to prove, but no one ever camped out there and would do just about anything to avoid the area.

One young Mexican who was listening was really interested. He was pretty cocky and wanted to have a look at this killer tree for himself. No one else wanted to go with him, so he started off all alone.

By the next morning, the kid still hadn't come back. His friends were really concerned, so before they did any ranch work they decided to go after him and find out if anything was wrong. They were all a little nervous, even in the daylight, to visit the spot, but went anyway.

When they finally got to the bend, they saw the old, ugly tree. They approached it and looked up. The young man was hanging from the branches. His neck was tightly wedged between two limbs, and by the obscene way his head was twisted it was clear that the spine was completely severed.

The whole crew went rushing back to the ranch in a frenzy. They told their boss about what they had seen. They were so panicky that it spooked him. He decided to check it out himself. He loaded everyone into his pick-up and took off.

There were no roads that led to the spot, but they got there without incident. This was state land and they really had no business being there. Once they arrived, they looked the old tree over carefully. The young man's body was nowhere to be seen.

Even so, the rancher decided to take action. The Mexicans' panicky story and the nasty look of the tree had convinced him. He got out a chainsaw from the pick-up and fired it up. He approached the trunk of the tree right where the two main branches gave the impression of raised, twisted arms. As soon as the saw bit into the wood, there was a piercing sound like a scream. Everyone ran for their lives. The tree split right down the middle and fell in half.

Once the dust had settled, everyone approached the split tree. It was stinking and rotten on the inside, but imbedded in the wood was a terrifying object. It was a human skull.

The rancher went to the hall of records in Fairview to do some research. It took some time, but he finally got the whole story.

This dated back to the days when California was still owned by Mexico. A bandit from the United States had lived in those hills. He was a brutal, dangerous man and would prey on Mexican landowners, shooting down all he would meet and taking their property. Finally, Mexican law officers tracked him down. He was killed in a shootout. As a warning to others, his head was cut off and staked to the fork of the tree for everyone to see. Time went on, and as the tree grew it grew over the skull, burying it completely.

The rancher figured that the skull had poisoned the tree. Even though the tree was now split, he was afraid of what might happen if it was allowed to remain.

So, he got his crew together and went back to the site with axes and some diesel fuel. They were still taking a chance since they were trespassing. As they were chopping up the wood to burn, one of the men split open a limb. Inside was the compressed body of the young Mexican. It must have been sucked inside as soon as his friends had left for help all those days before.


Next: "Little Big Head".

 

[His Divine Shadow]

Trees do have a habit of consuming things placed on or above them if left along long enough. Aside from the consumption factor I see some truth to this story! And I see even more how these stories'll tie together as they progress. Let come unlucky 13!

 

[Low_Roads]

... I see even more how these stories'll tie together as they progress. Let come unlucky 13!

Yeah, Little Big Head can't keep his nose out of anything! XD Due next week!

Trees do have a habit of consuming things placed on or above them if left along long enough. Aside from the consumption factor I see some truth to this story!

Thank you, as always, for the thoughtful response, HDS! It's so true about the weird vagaries of wood: I got this idea from a walnut tree on our ranch. It's managed to engulf a length of railroad rail which had been worked into a tight fork decades before... the bark grew up around the metal, and the rail is now intrinsically embedded 6 inches into the trunk. It can't possibly be removed without cutting the tree.

 

[His Divine Shadow]

Aside from the consumption factor

Just to note: the consumption factor I refer to here is the consumption of the living Mexican. That post made little sense reading it over again. 😛

 

[Low_Roads]

Just to note: the consumption factor I refer to here is the consumption of the living Mexican. That post made little sense reading it over again. 😛

Actually, the concept better not seem too outlandish or I'm screwed storywise! XD For a guy who grew up in the middle of an orchard (100 acres of prunes), I've never been entirely comfortable around trees. I've climbed them, rested in their shade, but never really trusted them... an inkling, perhaps, of the effortless damage they could do if possessed with malicious intent (our main ranch house was nearly flattened by a falling oak; a guy on the outskirts of our property mangled himself and his auto beyond repair by plowing into an old cherry tree that barely took a scratch). There are further "bad seedling" stories in this collection... tainted burl wood, toxic irritants, and one ambulatory example (this last is #91... we've a ways to wait yet!)

 

[Low_Roads]

Low Roads Story #13

Little Big Head​

There's a traveling carnival that hits the town of Fairview at least once a year. It shows up in the summer months when the weather is good and warm, and people want to be outside. The carnival workers set it up in a big parking lot next to the mall, and kids and older folks come from all over Tabor County to go on rides and see the exhibits.

One of the most popular of these is the curiosity tent. You can go there to witness interesting freaks of nature. You can see several live freaks, like two headed calves and such. Of course, there are many human freaks too, like dwarves and quadruple amputees and the guy with the face that looks like Silly Putty. They'll do their little act and then you can talk with them, if you happen to be brave enough.

There's also older dead stuff on display: dried out plants that look like faces and bizarre items in bottles and jars. The carnival has been around for some time and has collected a good many of this sort of oddity.

One of the most disturbing things you could see was Little Big Head. Little Big Head was located in a large glass jar about a foot and a half across. This specimen floated in alcohol, which was there to preserve it. Little Big Head had a head that was the same size as a normal old man's. But the body looked like it was the same size of a baby's body. It didn't have any baby fat, though. It was gaunt looking, with thin, wiry limbs. The fingers on the hands were gnarled and looked like hooks. The head was emaciated and bald. The face had a thin nose and thin lips, from which irregular yellow teeth stood out. The eyes were close set little points. If you looked into the face, you got the impression that Little Big Head was scowling right at you, trying to figure a way to kill you.

As a matter of fact, although nobody knew it, the little imp wasn't dead at all. He would float motionless in his jar the whole day while there was an audience, and you would never see any sign of it. How he could survive submerged in alcohol, I don't know. He must not have needed to breath air. But after the carnival was shut down for the night, he would crawl out the top of his jar and head off to do evil deeds. Perhaps the other freaks suspected this, because they would always lock their trailer doors tight.

Little Big Head would venture into the town of Fairview. He was pretty nimble, considering the size of his head. I guess his skull must have been full of foam or something light. He would take the opportunity to cause harm, the more the better. His aim was to terrorize as many people as he could. He might plant razor blades all over the floor in rooms where folks were sleeping. There could be poison in the milk the next day. Unexplained crimes would follow the carnival wherever it went, and it got a bad reputation. I don't know what the motive for these acts was. I guess he was just evil.

About the first of every month, Little Big Head had to feed. Once a month isn't very often. I guess he digested his food slowly, like a snake. Anyway, this was when he was the most dangerous. It was the only time anyone ever saw him moving, right before they died.

The last time he did this, he picked the house of a lady who lived all alone. He sneaked in and went to work. First, he tied her down to the bed. He did this carefully so she wouldn't wake up. When she was secure and couldn't move, he hopped up on her chest and stuffed a rag in her mouth so she couldn't scream. She was awake by now, but it didn't matter. He peered into her terrified face in a taunting way and then pulled out a little sharp knife. He nicked the vein in her neck to make a stream of blood. Then he poked a straw into the hole and sucked out her blood until he had had enough. When he was finished, he just let the rest of the blood run out all over the floor until she was dead. This was his usual habit.

Little Big Head sneaked back to the carnival and into his jar. No one was the wiser. No one had seen his little trip into the night. Except, this time somebody did. There had been watchful eyes.

There was a buzzing noise on the open air. Blacky and the gang were on the move. Their little black racers maneuvered into the sleeping carnival and came to a stop in the freak tent. One of the cars pulled a little red wagon behind it.

They all hopped up onto the table that held the big jar of alcohol. Blacky's bright rat eyes stared right into the evil eyes of Little Big Head. The imp's scowling face usually spooked others, but not Blacky. Little Big Head pulled his usual trick. He stayed stark still, pretending he was dead. One of the gang hopped into the wagon and brought out a role of duct tape in his mouth. Then everyone went to work.

They wound the duct tape around and around the glass lid of the jar. Little Big Head saw what they were up to and stopped faking it. He thrashed around and started trying to push off the lid. It was too late, though. The tape held it fast. Blacky and the boys lifted up the jar. It was heavy, but they got it by working together. They deposited it into the back of the wagon. Then they were off again into the night.

The little black racers rolled into Ross Valley. The farmland was full of empty fields and they chose one. Then it was back to work. An hour later they had dug a hole. It was six feet deep and a foot and a half across. There was a rope in the wagon, and they used it to lower the jar into the hole. Little Big Head raged at them, but he was helpless. Then they filled the hole with dirt again and packed it tight. Their job was done. They left Little Big Head six feet deep to think about his evil ways.

Little Big Head had to feed once every month, so it's not too likely he's alive now. But if you should be digging a trench and unearth his jar, just bury it again. Releasing Little Big Head is the last thing you'd ever want to do.


Next: "The Hunting Mist".

 

[Violetta]

Yeesh! A bit more gruesome than the thorn in Mercy's side, eh? Reading the comic made me think I'd be brave enough to go into the tent, but this story sorta makes me second guess it. I love how stories collided when Blacky and gang came motored onto the scene. And it's kinda funny how the rats now seem like the town's protectors almost. Wonder what their motivation was for that. Either way the folks of Fairview can rest a bit easier. Even though I doubt a few feet of dirt's enough to keep that little monster down. 😉

 

[Low_Roads]

Yeesh! A bit more gruesome than the thorn in Mercy's side, eh? Reading the comic made me think I'd be brave enough to go into the tent, but this story sorta makes me second guess it.

Spot on, Sammi! The names and circumstances may be the same, but the Little Big Heads of this and the comic series are decidedly different creatures! The fetish aspect of the comic is responsible; a less dire tone became necessary to keep sensual frisson from being blunted (it's difficult to appreciate the thrill of tactile teasing when the threat of dismemberment also looms). Too, the comic format forced me to advance the storytelling through dialogue; a calculating, loquacious Little Big Head fit the bill far better than the brutish, instinct-driven degenerate depicted here.

I love how stories collided when Blacky and gang came motored onto the scene. And it's kinda funny how the rats now seem like the town's protectors almost. Wonder what their motivation was for that. Either way the folks of Fairview can rest a bit easier. Even though I doubt a few feet of dirt's enough to keep that little monster down. 😉

Thank you so much! This story was intended to be pivotal... after 12 chapters suggesting Tabor County's landmarks and setting the tone, I was eager to establish a rough continuity by re-introducing active elements. I'm very pleased you asked about Blacky's motivation... it was important to me that any positive players in Tabor's underworld still be tainted by the sinister (rather like the pulp terrors the Shadow or the Spider, who could inspire general unease even when he battled only villains). My working explanation is that Blacky considers Fairview to be his "territory" and he therefore guards it against invasion and disorder. He won't be alone in this (characters will continue to emerge with diverging allegiances and motivations) but it will take many more chapters for distinct battle lines to form.