Ghosts of Black Bear Mountain Page 2

  I gazed out across the hood again to the narrow, curved strip of the shoulder. Somehow the Falcon had fit. I slowly turned my head to the steep road I'd barreled down. My car had spun around and was now aimed up the hill. I shivered.

  I gently craned my neck to the left; more glass cut into me. Muted sunlight shone through the top of the window, but a brown boulder blocked more than half of my crumpled door. I wanted to reach out and touch its rough surface, but recoiled my hand, fearing the slightest contact might cause the boulder, my car, and me to plummet over the cliff.

  I took one of the duffle bags from the back seat and shook off the shards of glass. I used it to wipe the seat clear, then tossed it back over the seat. As I climbed across to the passenger's side, the crystalline bits ate into my shaky legs every time they touched the seat. The pain was subtle and welcome. I needed the anchor to tell me I was alive.

  I finally managed to pull myself out of the car. I carefully took off my suit coat as I stood shaking. I bent over and rested my palms on my knees, trying to stop the ringing in my ears. Mixed with a constant high-pitched noise were the amplified sounds of nature: limbs creaking and cracking in the wind, squawks of unfriendly birds, and the roar of the harsh, cold wind. It was like hearing for the first time, and it was deafening.

  I swallowed, and my ears popped. Everything returned to a gentle silence. My hands hovered next to my ears. After all the chaos, the peace was just as foreign and, for a moment, just as frightening.

  The mountain air pierced my clothing and hit my face and cuts. The chilled breeze consumed the heat radiating from me. I pulled the frosted air into my lungs. I coughed hard but took another deep breath.

  Dropping one hand, I used the car for support as I circled to the hood. The right front tire was blown out and the bumper was beaten up. I looked over at the serrated break between the pavement and the shoulder; it was more than a foot deep. The rain must have carved the empty channel. I ran my fingers down my face. The blown tire saved my life.

  Still using it for support, I followed the body of the car around to the side closest to the ledge. What saved me? I wondered. It wasn't good clean living. I could have said it was Fate or God, but, instead, I thanked the lone boulder nestled in the curve. I was shaken but alive, saved by a rock resting less than a foot away from—

  I gulped. Another foot and I would have soared over the cliff and arrived at my appointment on time. Dead, but on time.

  My eyes moved sluggishly over the grayness of mountains, mountains, and more mountains. They were devoid of color, like a black-and-white photograph. It all looked so sad, as if my trip had been a reverse version of The Wizard of Oz. I continued to stare and slowly discovered a few drops of orange, yellow, and red leaching from the vast image before me. There was still hope.

  I couldn't see the bottom of the ravine, so I inched closer to the edge, grasping the hood of the Falcon with only my fingertips. My glasses slid down my nose, but I couldn't risk letting go of the car to adjust them. And I wanted to see.

  Jagged rocks blocked my view, so I side-stepped, causing my fingers to slip from the Falcon. One... two baby steps closer to the edge... and there it was, the gaping mouth of the valley with no bottom or end in sight.

  My head swam at the depth. My stomach churned, but I managed to keep everything down. I hadn't eaten in two days so I wasn't sure what would come up. The dry, bare branches of the oaks and birches looked like a graveyard of brittle witch fingers. I tried to break from my brush with death, but instead imagined my car burning below with my impaled body roasting in a tree above it.

  Finally, I was able to make out the little town, through the branches, down in the valley with its smoking chimneys. It looked like a village nestled in the fog from a painting I'd seen a long time ago.

  I found I was unable to take my eyes off the bottomless image. The view below me was foreign, like when you look in a book and see a picture of a Chinese palace, tribes in South America, or imagined the surface of Mars; the valley looked just as unreal to me.

  I shook my head. I couldn't help but think it seemed magical, as if the little town had been formed by an ancient god and then set there, cupped in his caring hands. Except the mountains had fallen, trapping the god's arms and wrists. He could free himself, but then the town would be crushed by the massive mountain rocks surrounding it, so the god held his hands still. The town appeared protected, though long forgotten. Maybe my God's hands had also been tied, and that was why he allowed so much death and sorrow run rampant in the world. I tried to shake off the negative emotions, but there was an intense sadness that shrouded me.

  A sputtering vehicle climbed the hill. I stood watching the empty diagonal road until an old, orange truck drove past me. The middle-aged driver wore a blue trucker's hat and shot me a questioning look as he slowed. I held up my hand in a tentative wave, but the old man sped up the winding hill until he was out of sight.

  I sighed, and then focused on my task of changing the flat tire. I still had an appointment to keep.

  4

  After I changed the tire, the remaining trip down the mountain was cold and tense. I couldn't help but think about having another blowout and tumbling to my death. The road continued to wind and dive. My right foot was numb from riding the brake all the way down, so I had to alternate using my left foot.

  As I drove further into the valley, the higher and heavier my dark, rocky surroundings grew. I was a worker ant on a termite mound. I sighed with relief when I reached the base. It had been a hell of a ride, but luckily it was a one-way trip.

  A train whistle blared. The taunt was so powerful and close that my gut clenched. Who the hell would put train tracks at the bottom of a death trap like this? "Come on!"

  The Falcon screeched and came to an abrupt halt, causing all the various pill bottles in the duffle bag behind me to rattle. It sounded like I was smuggling baby toys.

  Seconds later the train blew past, blurring in front of me. I whipped my head in the train's direction, attempting to match its speed and catch a glimpse of its cargo of black rock, coal.

  Once the train passed, I turned right onto Highway 421, which ran parallel to the tracks. The landscape still swelled and curved, but nothing like what I'd just experienced. From the appearance, the railroad tracks and highway had once been part of the mountains, cut out of the thirty-foot slanting rock that remained and unnervingly loomed. I couldn't imagine the dynamite and machine-power it must have taken to level the terrain. The rock face looked like petrified charred meat ripped by the teeth of some enormous prehistoric beast.

  A chill came over me; I didn't belong here. I didn't think anyone belonged here.

  The highway also ran parallel with a small river, which, according to a sign, was named Looney Creek. Even though it was the widest creek I'd ever seen, I acknowledged the name with a cocked eyebrow and grin.

  Beyond the creek, the bare-bones woods were broken up by the occasional lone shanty. Some of the shacks were far off the road, while others were stacked on the mountain, and some even appeared to be in holes. It was at this point I noticed the crosses. Small, white crosses were nailed or painted on just about everything: trees, rocks, mailboxes, and phone poles. A pattern developed as I drove: shack, burned shack, cross painted on a rock; shanty, caved-in shack, shack, cross painted on a pole.

  After I passed the third partially demolished home, I couldn't help but think of my own recent near-death driving experience. Images of out-of-control cars diving off the mountain filled my head. I cringed, turning my eyes away from the homes, not out of judgment, but out of empathy. My father and I had lived in plenty of roach-infested rooms and apartments, and for the last two weeks I'd slept in my car. I wasn't better than anyone else.

  A green sign with a black bear on it greeted me: Welcome to Middwood, Population 3,013. The low number was a culture shock. It was more than twenty-thousand people less than the Atlanta suburb I'd left behind. Good grief.

  About three miles late
r, a small collection of buildings appeared on my left beyond the creek. It was too small to be a town, but the buildings weren’t uniform like a college or an industrial park. There were houses further up the hill. I slowed down and glanced at my directions, then peered out the window in disbelief. This was it, I knew it.

  I shook my head in disbelief, but there were no streets or apparent way to drive into the town.

  "How the hell do I get into this place? What am I supposed to do? Jump the river?"

  A quarter-mile down the road, I came to a worn, narrow wooden bridge. I stopped my car on the road and studied the overpass. It was wide enough for a vehicle but appeared decrepit, and I wasn't even sure it would hold my body weight much less my car.

  "You can't be serious."

  My watch read 3:45 pm. I was already an hour late. Seeing no other way into the town, I made do with what presented itself. I'd already survived the mountain, so it was only poetic I would face the river, but I was determined to be smarter about it. I turned the wheel, pulled onto the shoulder, then parked. I grabbed the directions and slid out through the passenger side.

  There were no other cars on the highway, and except for the rippling gushes of the creek and the breeze, it was quiet. It was possibly the most silent place I'd ever been.

  I bit my lip and looked down at my directions. Was I in the right place? I frowned. "Middwood, in the middle of nowhere." I scratched the back of my head and hit a stray piece of glass. I examined my index finger and squeezed it. A little bubble of blood formed, and it was enough to dislodge the shard. I shook my head and thought about getting back in the Falcon and seeing how far Marbert's gas would take me.

  There was nothing behind me but the railroad tracks and the remains of a mountain with more peaks in the distance. The directions read, Once you cross the bridge, turn left onto Main Street. My eyes widened at the short row of buildings. "That's Main Street? Oh, brother."

  I ran my eyes along a few rows of houses up to, of course, another mountain. The town looked out of place, like a Western but with an overabundance of looming mountain peaks.

  I took off my glasses, closed my eyes, and listened. A woman laughed, a screen door snapped, a dog yipped, and somewhere a man sang in a distinctive country twang. My frown faded, and I took a deep breath. There were at least two living people and a dog in Middwood. That was good enough for me.

  Even on foot, I paused and warily eyed the bridge. I managed to grunt out a laugh when I imagined the bridge was the remains of some ancient drawbridge and I was walking across a moat.

  To the right was a small gas station with two pumps, though one of them was wrapped in a rusted chain. A reedy young man about my age in a blue and white flannel shirt studied me. I assumed he was the station attendant and from his dark tan it was apparent he worked outside. He was wearing a blue baseball cap, but his dark hair peeked out in messy, unkempt tuffs. His sparse beard matched his hair. At first, I wondered if he was the man in the truck that passed me, but he was too young. He sat in front of the station eating a box of Cracker Jack. The longer I stood building up my courage, the more his curious gaze shifted into a wary stare. I wasn't sure if he was nosey, friendly, or shocked that I was stupid enough to attempt to cross the fragile wood bridge. So, I decided to do what we always do in the South when we are in doubt—wave, the universal greeting for "hey ya'll." It didn't seem to ease the attendant's suspicion.

  I surrendered and took a step onto the bridge. The planks creaked, and I froze. "Hey!" I called to the attendant. "Is it safe?"

  He stuck out this chin, making his long nose appear longer. "What do ya mean is it safe?" He said in a thick southern drawl.

  It wasn't a sarcastic question, but he acted like he needed more explanation, which was silly since the bridge looked like nothing more than termites holding hands.

  "The bridge—is it safe to cross?"

  The guy tensed and leaped behind one of the gas pumps. He had been sitting down, but when he moved I saw his legs were so very long, he reminded me of a frog. He grabbed something resting out of my sight, something long. A smooth metal rod?

  He threw up the end of the barrel and demanded, "Who are you?"

  Oh crap, it's a shotgun.

  5

  Why is he pointing a gun at me? I thought.

  I definitely didn't belong here. I could still leave; get back in my car and keep driving. Chicago couldn't have been more than seven or eight hours away.

  I held up my hands, eyes wide. "What did I do? I'm just here about a job."

  "There ain't no jobs in Middwood."

  "I'm obviously in the wrong place. I'll just be on my way."

  The hammer clicked back. "No, sir, you are on the bridge now. You gotta cross."

  "Look, I'm just going to get back in my car and leave."

  "I hate shootin' a man in the back, but then again, the ones I shoot ain't real men. I'll leave that up to you."

  "Fuck," I whispered in shock. "Wait...I have an appointment about a job—"

  "Which mine is hiring?"

  "Um, no. At the school."

  "We ain't had no school for years." He tightened his muscles and pressed, "Why'd you park your car over there? Why didn't you just drive on over?"

  "I already crashed my car coming down the mountain, and the bridge looks old as hell."

  He shot a glance to the Falcon and then back at me. He shifted uncertainly.

  "Look, I'm already late, can I just pass?"

  He stiffened then cocked his head. "I don't know. Can you?"

  What kind of game was this? "I don't know. Are you going to shoot me?"

  "If I have to."

  What did that mean? And what was it with me and gas stations? He hadn't pulled the trigger yet, but he was still pointing the gun at me. "Okay... um... what do I have to do so that you don't shoot me?"

  "You can try and walk across the bridge," he instructed in a tone of profound sensibility.

  "What do you mean ‘try and cross the bridge’?" I asked trying to remain calm.

  "Them's the rules. If you can make it across, then I won't shoot you."

  Bewildered, I paused. "That doesn't make any sense."

  "Makes plenty o' sense," he said through his teeth.

  "What if I turn around?" I asked.

  "Then I'll shoot you! Stop stallin'."

  Where the hell am I? I thought.

  He took a step closer. "Hurry up, stranger. I thought you said you was already late?"

  "I am."

  "Then start walkin'."

  "I don't understand this!"

  He ran his tongue along his lower lip. "You've already stepped foot on the bridge and there ain't no steppin' off ’til you get to the other side here. And here I was thinkin' I didn't get to shoot anything this week."

  I started to speak, but I realized that words were pointless. I shook my head.

  "Shake your head all you want, but if you don't start walkin’ in three seconds, I'm gonna pull the trigger."

  It was one of those moments where you would pinch yourself to make sure you were awake, only, for whatever reason, you couldn't move your arms to check.

  It was the first time someone had pointed a gun at me. It was also my first time in Kentucky, so maybe this was a common thing. But I did what the guy with the gun told me to—I walked.

  * * *

  I kept my eyes fixed on the end of his gun. I wanted to see what came out of it before I died. The breeze picked up, and the piece of paper with the interview address blew out of my grasp. In a panic, I stumbled over my feet trying to catch it.

  CLICK! I froze with a hard jerk and waited for the spray of metal pellets to pierce my chest and head, but they didn't come.

  "What the hell? I just tripped!" I protested.

  Still holding the gun on me, he let out an excited laugh, "It's a double barrel shotgun, stranger. Keep walking!"

  I swallowed. He's playing a trick on me. It has to be some crazy, country-ass, bullshit trick.
r />   My eyes darted from the twin shotgun barrels down to my shaky legs. My feet slid and shuffled across the boards like sandpaper until the scuffs were replaced with the gentle crunch of dirt and gravel.

  With my hands still in the air, I stopped in front of the gunman. "What do I do now?"

  He huffed, then lowered the shotgun. "You thank the Lord God in Heaven that yer still alive. I guess it wasn't your time."

  He dropped the outlaw act and greeted me with a smile. "I'm Eddie. Sorry I had to do that to you, but it's part of my job."

  I let out an exasperated breath, ignoring his greeting. "What kind of job is that?"

  "Security," he said with a proud grin.

  I glanced at the gas station.

  Eddie noticed my confusion. "Yeah, I pump gas, too. Like I said, I'm Eddie," he repeated, stretching out his hand further. "I'm pretty important here."

  Was he being serious? I paused, but reached out to take his hand. "Matt."

  "Nice to meet ya, Matt," he said as I shook his dry, calloused hand.

  "You, too," I wearily said, releasing my hand and pointing to his gun. "Eddie, is that thing loaded?"

  "Oh, it's loaded," he said nodding. "Strange though, it's never misfired before. Like I said, thank God you're alive."

  I cocked my head. "You pulled the trigger?"

  "Yep. Crazy, huh? Lord must be watchin' after ya."

  "About time."

  Eddie rotated on his boot heels and walked away. He opened the shotgun barrel and popped out one of the shells, placed it in his pocket, and replaced it with another. He put the gun beside the old pump and sat down. I watched him as he took off his hat, gave his dark hair a shake, and went back to scanning the rock wall beyond the train tracks.