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A quote: “Every crag and gnarled tree and lonely valley has its own strange and graceful legend attached to it.” ~~ Douglas Hyde
I’ll start with a story …
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Mike knew he was a cliché. Burned out, big city detective takes cop-job in small, rural town.
Blue Pine’s town manager had hired him on the spot as they ate lunch together in Del’s Diner. The Diner’s hardcore 50’s aesthetic was almost unnerving as the town manager’s (Hi! Call me George!) loud coat and tinted glasses screamed used car salesman.
Mike mused there must be a persuasive optician nearby judging by how many people he saw sporting tinted, big-frame glasses. Time stopped at the 80s in Blue Pine.
He chalked up his continued jumpiness to not being used to friendly people welcoming him by name on the street. He told himself to get-a-grip and enjoy the fresh air.
Tule fog had rolled in by the time he locked up and headed home. No streetlights and he hunched over his steering wheel and crept along. Until he was stopped by an abandoned car in the middle of the street.
Mike clamped down hard on the rising panic he felt as he slipped out of his car, unsnapped his holster and held a flashlight on his shoulder. The car’s interior lights were on, and he slipped up the passenger side for a better look.
Why was the light pulsing? Changing color?
His mind only had time to register Wait, this isn’t light … when it poured out on him.
Mike showed up early at the Diner next morning, waving to customers and slipping into a booth with George. His coffee was already poured and on a plate was a new pair of tinted, big-frame glasses.
Mike slipped them on thinking, I’m going to love living here.
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Now, it’s your turn.
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. featured image, cropped, Adobe Stock standard license
Sheila Garrett says: Sam Freedman pulled into the Red River RV Park. After negotiations with the manager; and a fifteen minute chat covering vacation plans, any family in the area, and religious preferences; he finally got away to park his rental RV. The discovery that he was low on several personal items led him back to the manager’s office for a twenty minute discussion on how to walk to the nearest store without using the highway. The best the garrulous manager could offer was a hiking trail that led along the river for half the distance and Sam finally got on his way as the last tinges of red faded from the western sky.
It was a nice walk, once the hill cut off the highway sounds and he could just hear the river. The trail wasn’t marked at all, just a dirt path with fog coming off the water. By the time he got back to the tiny path the half moon was up and the fog was a solid bank filling the valley.
That’s where he picked up the dog. Silently it came from behind him until he heard the growl not ten feet away. It was huge, built like a mastiff with a head that came up to his chest and he was not a short man. It was blacker than the night and it’s eyes gleamed red in the moonlight.
Sam slowly backed away but the chuckle of the river reminded him that the path ran very close to the water and he needed to watch where he was going. He turned but the dog kept coming, growling louder and louder. He wanted to run but the panicked voice in his head told him if he did the dog would be on him instantly.
For a mile it went on, Sam constantly checking over his shoulder, seeing the huge shadow and the glowing red eyes, hearing the increasing growl. Finally he turned around the base of the hill and the growl was gone instantly. All he heard was the grinding of a tractor trailer transmission as the driver shifted for the hill. He crossed the road and fled for the safety of the manager’s office.
“I thought you said you had family in Clarksville. You know this is Adams, Tennessee, don’t you?” The man said after hearing Sam’s story. Sam nodded, puzzled. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you about the Bell witch?” Sam slowly shook his head. “Well, you just met her.”
Cameron says: The cruiser pulled to a stop just behind the car. “What do you think?” the old Sergeant asked the trainee.
“Given where we are, they’re lost or running low on gas. I’ll go check on them.”
He walked up cautiously, even stopping to push the trunk down. The driver and passenger looked at him nervously.
The trainee smiled. “Good evening. You guys OK?”
The driver looked a bit embarrassed. “Sorry, Officer. We’ve been on the road all day and I got a bit tired is all.”
“Can I see your license?” As he handed it over, the cop said “This is just a routine check. We’ll get you back on the road soon. Also, there’s a rest stop about ten miles down-”
The driver and the passenger suddenly began shrieking and the cop could smell burning flesh. He saw his Sergeant pointing a UV flashlight at the two. While they thrashed around, the man drew his gun and expertly placed four shots into them.
The rookie looked horrified as the Sergeant turned off the flashlight. Pointing at the piles of ash, he said “Safety tip: This time of night, always use the onboard camera. They weren’t showing up on video.”
These days I’m always a little unsettled when I have to go down by the old Laughlin place. Some people say Old Man Laughlin didn’t actually die. Instead, they claim, he poked into a few too many strange things, and one of them sucked him somewhere else — and one of these days he may just come back, with some friends.
I’d always rolled my eyes and laughed when the old folks started talking like that. I considered myself a rational, educated person, and wasn’t going to be taken in. Sure, I like a good scary story as much as anyone, but I know it’s a story, and when I turn off the TV and switch the lights back on, I’ll be back in the rational world of science and technology.
Then came the night when the bridge on Jamesburg Road washed out, and I had to take the old road that went right by the old Laughlin place. Not the front with its iron gate rusted shut from disuse, but along the back, where the ground dips and the fog gathers late in the evening. I was coming home from a long shift at the chemical plant, and my eyes were getting gritty from weariness — and then I saw the car sitting crosswise on the faded double yellow line, its taillights illuminating the fog.
I managed to get stopped just in time. As I was looking on either side for a way to safely get around it, I realized it was a ’78 Chevy, just like the one I learned to drive in. My folks figured it was a good learner car because it was new enough to have decent safety features, but old enough not to worry about a few bumps and dents reducing its resale value.
Could it be? Except that car went to the scrapyard years ago, when even Dad and Uncle Bob’s skill as shadetree mechanics couldn’t keep it on the road. Not to mention that it was rusting out all over the place by the time they finally signed the title off, and this thing looked like it’d just rolled off the assembly line.
I paused, torn between an urge to see if it really could be and a strong unease at having any contact with something that made no sense. Especially considering I couldn’t see anyone inside it…
And then, just as I was about to hit the horn and hope someone, anyone, would come out to see what was going on, the fog grew thicker, or maybe the car faded. And then a last wisp of fog drifted into the creek and I was staring at an empty road before me.
That was before I got my first dashcam, but even if I’d had one, I’m not a hundred percent sure it would’ve captured whatever I saw that night.
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