| TWO TALES |
| Tale 1: The Tale of Mahoney Creek �Well, good night, Brian. Thanks again for seeing me this late,� said an attractive, young brunette to a handsome, middle-aged man who was sitting behind a desk. She wrapped a white alpaca scarf around her slender neck and put her arms through the sleeves of a long, black fur coat. �No problem, Lyndsey. It�s good to see you any time. I hope that neck gets better soon, though. Such a shame a beautiful lady like yourself has to suffer such inconvenience.� He flashed her a bright-white and warm smile, and she coyly grinned back. �G�bye, Doctor,� she said to him, chuckling gently at the formality of the title she just called him by. �Bye,� he replied. He watched her move her graceful self out the door, disappearing from sight. He was in love. Brian collapsed back into his leather swivel office chair, locking his hands behind his head and propping his feet onto the desk. He eyed the belongings on his desk. �Dr. Brian Torrence, Chiropractor Extraordinaire,� read a double-sided, triangular name plate sitting there. It would make him chuckle now and again whenever he focused on it. Brian was a man with a sense of humor, and that often carried over with him at his place of work. He thought most doctors were too literal and tense. He was destined to change the view people had of studiers of the medical practice. Most of his patients called him �doc� instead of the excruciatingly formal title of �Doctor Torrence.� Lyndsey, however, was a completely different story. Miss Lyndsey Connelly, a phys. ed. teacher of Bigsby Elementary School, tried to keep herself in peak physical condition for her job by working out constantly, exploring various techniques and exercises. Consequently though, her neck suffered from the side effects of working out so hard. About three months ago, she started seeing Doctor Torrence to treat her injuries. But, she found more than just a chiropractor in him. She revisited his office often but not always because her neck hurt. Soon, after enough appointments, or more accurately... flirtations, she started to get free �therapy,� mainly in the form of neck massages. It was the doc�s contribution to a patient�s recovery. Grinning, he looked over at a picture frame that was sitting next to the name plate. Normal doctors had pictures of his/her loving family to inspire their tough day at work. Not him: forty- five and never been married, no current long-term commitment, and a picture of his dog on his desk. How sad. This thing with Lyndsey could be something, though, at last, for him. He liked her a lot and enjoyed her company thoroughly, but he was afraid she was after him for his money. That idea didn�t go over well with him. The age difference was what worried him. She was only twenty-nine which made them nearly twenty years apart. He couldn�t see a young, beautiful woman like her being attracted to him. But besides going after his wealth, he thought the only other conniving reason for a young woman to deceive him would be if she was just desperate and wanted to get into his pants, or more precisely, into anyone�s pants. Like that�d ever happen. His self-esteem was lost over the years. He had given up hope of finding someone that wanted a real relationship, so he immediately would have doubts about any lady he would meet and suspect her of trying to pull something on him. If only he knew that Lyndsey actually was interested in him, and not his money... and she wasn�t just desperate, neither. Yet, not knowing the truth and thinking that she possibly was after something, he still felt great about having someone to spend time with. After contemplating his crush and basking in the memories of her elegant ways, he focused attention on some paperwork that should�ve been done the day before. It was Saturday night and he should�ve left the office hours ago. After he closed the practice, the first thing that hindered his leave was the complete reorganization of his office. He was bored with the layout after two years of it being exactly the same. So, he moved his desk and filing cabinets around, put picture frames and his degrees up on another wall, and cleared out the desk-drawers, removing files and documents he no longer needed. Resting in his chair for a few moments before heading home, he leaned back in the chair and gazed up at the stuck-o ceiling. His eyelids were heavy and a nap seemed in order. Closing them, he began to fall asleep. Without warning, the walls began to shake. Quickly, Brian sat up in the chair and held onto the desk; it was an earthquake, something he hadn�t experienced in years, before he even moved to Maine. The picture of Johannes, his loyal pug, tipped over. He flipped it back up. The earthquake did not last long. On his way out, he had to straighten only a few things, but it seemed nothing to panic over. As if to stall him even more from getting home, the snow had fallen in great amounts. His car was buried under a sizeable mountain. The forty-eight mile trip to Williamsborough in freezing weather with a car with malfunctioning heating was a pestilence enough, despite having to turn into a popsicle from taking time to brush all the snow off. Winter � what a deranged season. Adults just have it so hard. Finally finishing the strenuous chore, Brian opened the door, threw the brush to the front of the passenger seat, sat down, kicked his boots together to knock off the build-up of snow, then slammed the door shut Sticking the key into the ignition, he discovered it wouldn�t turn... again. His car acted up every winter and he would often have trouble turning the ignition.. �GODDAMNIT!� He was too lazy to buy a new car, though, or get this one fixed. ~~~~~ �FUCK IT ALL TO HELL!� he yelled in fury; the windshield wiper fluid had run out and there was a lot of build-up on the window. As the wipers moved, they streaked muck across his view. He had to stop the wipers and let snow collect before trying again, for it would supply a little bit of fresh water to clear up the sludge. This would help the solution temporarily. The night was dark and ominous. There were no street lights along Hollow�s Run, except while passing the turn-off for Vagrant�s Hideaway. It was necessary to have some light at the intersection there so one could even tell that there was another road leading off in another direction. All the pine trees around kept the fifty-mile road in seclusion, for the most part. Darkness and shadow everywhere - Brian could feel himself getting sleepy behind the wheel. He hadn�t even passed Vagrant�s Hideaway yet, and that was less than the halfway point to Williamsborough, where he lived. The only reason he ever stepped foot into Bigsby was for his job. He worked there because the building which he made his office was the only place available to rent. He couldn�t find any place in Williamsborough for his practice. And Vagrant�s Hideaway was too small of a town to even consider opening a place there. Occasionally, he�d rub his eyes, trying to force himself to stay awake. The snowflakes came down heavily. The headlights of his car illuminated a white wall of countless particles; it made it difficult for him to see even a couple feet in front of the car. By habit, he had reset the odometer before leaving work. It only read twelve miles now. He looked down and saw that and groaned. Two years and he still hadn�t gotten used to the trip, especially during winter. Over his plethora of trips, Brian learned the mile markers of certain landmarks along the way. They served only but the purpose of easing his mind, knowing that his drive was making progress. The two biggest landmarks were the Mahoney Creek Bridge and Hollow�s Bend. Coming from Bigsby and going home, the bridge was at mile marker 14 and Hollow�s Bend was at mile marker 38. Needless to say, he got bored traveling and resorted to counting miles to pass the time. ~~~~~ Panic struck him and his foot slammed on the brake pedal; he had no other option. His car succumbed to the devastating power of the icy sheet covering the road. The car whirled around, turning ninety degrees, until the passenger side was facing forward. Grinding against the road, the car rushed toward the ravine ahead of him. The brake pedal couldn�t get any closer to the floor and his knuckles were white and tight around the steering wheel. Fidgeting with the wheel, the car turned almost forward again. The decrease in speed seemed to take forever in his mind. Finally, the car came to a halt, just inches before the gap in the road. Brian�s head collapsed onto the wheel and he inhaled and exhaled rapidly and deeply. It had happened so quickly and he had almost plummeted over the edge. His nerves were wrecked. After regaining enough composure to get a hold of himself, and thankfully not wetting his pants, he got out of the car to investigate. To his utter surprise, the Mahoney Creek Bridge was no longer standing. It was dark and snowing too heavily to see all the way across or down into the ravine, but it was clear that there was not enough bridge left to make it across. Could it have been the earthquake? That was his first and only guess; it made sense, so there was no need for another deduction. Earthquake or not, the path home was now non-existent. Hollow�s Run was the only road from Bigsby to Williamsborough. �Just great,� he muttered, circling around in front of the car, which dissipated the headlight beams and made them flicker along the wall of trees on the cliff�s edge. For a moment, Brian thought there was someone there with him. He turned sharply toward the forest. There was no one there. The eery aura around made his nerves clench even more. His whole body was tense; after tonight, he would need the massage. Still nervous, he got back into his car and locked the doors. Then, he strapped the seatbelt on and cautiously pulled the car away from the downed Mahoney Creek Bridge. The ride back to Bigsby seemed longer this time around. To make matters worse, he forgot to pay attention to the miles. His normalcy was ruined. Brian reported the news to Sheriff Moore of Bigsby. The Sheriff had long since left the office, so Brian had to disturb him at home. So, doing all he could do to help, Brian got a handshake for his aid and he went back to his office for the night. There, he made up a cozy bed on one of his patient tables. The night trudged on and on. He couldn�t find the ability to fall asleep. Too many images flooded his mind. First were those of nearly careening into the creek gorge and then came sweet thoughts of Lyndsey, who made all the coldness of his nerves pass away. Finally, around 4:00 AM, he got his sleep. Tale 2: The Tale of Hollow�s Bend Reporters have their sources, have their ways; they wake up at the crack of dawn and already know more than anybody else could ever know. Relays of information, connections with people on the inside, a listing of a myriad different contacts - they are the foundation of the news. Often, though, reporters can be heartless. All they are after is their stories, their scoops. They�ll mow down any and all emotion and not bother to care whom they hurt along the way, as long as at the end of the day, they get what they sought for. All for the news. Public domain. But not Taylor Murphy. Yes, he did have his sources like any good journalist, but where he differed was his method of handling victims and persons involved in the cases he wrote articles about. He�d seek permission - a word not often in the vocabulary of some reporters - where it should be granted and he�d handle grieving relatives with the respect and concern they deserved. Sincere is an adjective worthy of describing Taylor. Readers loved him. His fellow staff loved him. He�d consistently make the front page. The Williamsborough Confabulate tried to cover more than just local events - and by local, that includes Williamsborough, Vagrant�s Hideaway, and Bisgby - because much hardly ever happened that was newsworthy locally. Bigger newspaper prints didn�t reach their desolate corner of Maine. If it weren�t for The Confabulate, the local citizens would never know the outside events that occurred that weren�t important enough to make the television news programs. And it was Mr. Murphy who went out gathering most of the news and brought it back to them. He earned himself quite a respected position among the locals. Taylor was thirty-six and was born in Williamsborough. He moved to Bangor when he was twenty-two, leaving his home and pursued his talent in writing. His heart belonged to works of fiction and poetry. He spent most of his childhood and teen years perfecting his art. Realistically, however, he knew no career lied in that path. Journalism was the best employment opportunity in the writing field. Non-fiction was rather new to him. He dabbed in it sparingly. Truthfully, he wasn�t as good with it as fiction. But once he moved away from home, he tried getting articles published in newspapers. They were all ignored. Finally, he tried a work of non-fiction, pretending to be a reporter and covering a crime that happened in his neighborhood. For nearly a week straight, he poured all his heart and creativity into that one article and sent it in. Taylor got a response, yet nothing much came of it. At age thirty, with little success in the bigger city, he came back to his hometown. He was in well with the chief editor of The Williamsborough Confabulate, Kevin Burke, and landed himself a job after showing some of his previous works. They loved him. Over the next six years to the present, his writing technique improved and his reader following increased. His latest assignment saddened him thoroughly. Living in a rather boring area of Maine, the stories he covered were usually nothing of much importance. The three murder cases of Vagrant�s Hideaway was a phenomenal tragedy and a completely new experience for him. He was compassionate toward victims and their relatives and he found himself wallowing in that compassion. He saw things he was never able to get accustomed to; his stomach was much too weak for it. He�d never be able to handle writing for a big city paper like in New York where such stories were common. Murder articles were a new breed of writing and it wasn�t his strong point. But even worse than witnessing the gruesome crime scenes was the emotional attachment that entailed interviewing family members of the deceased. He�d sit for hours, donating his time and his condolences. Listening to such sadness and mourning would just tear him apart. Very early on the morning of Sunday the 20th, Taylor received a call from a buddy of his at the Williamsborough Police Department in regards to the broken bridge over Mahoney Creek. His friend was one of many insiders who got him information before it leaked to public knowledge. Taylor himself had not felt the quake last night, but the staff at the Police Department had and this information passed to Taylor as well, during the phone conversation. Ideas for a story were already forming in his inquisitive mind. Normally, he wouldn�t take a new story while he was on another, especially when the current one was as big as it was. At such times, he�d choose to pass it to another writer for the paper. Taylor was not a hoarder. Every journalist deserved chances as well as he. Yet, he decided to hop on this one. He needed a break from the mental stress and madness caused by the Vagrant�s Hideaway story. He wasn�t equipped to handle such pressure. All citizens were in a half-state of panic. Vagrant�s Hideaway was not far from Williamsborough, and the threat of the killer heading there was possible. Any other week, a downed bridge would be gigantic news. Somehow, he felt this story would drown in the craziness. But, getting his mind off the murders would allow him to relax, even if only for a day. ~~~~~ He departed early that morning with nothing more than his trusty camera and tape recorder. The sun was shining more than it had all week. The temperature was a bit warmer without strong gusts causing a horrible wind chill factor, but the roads were still extensively covered from last night�s blizzard attack. He�d have to throw caution into his driving, especially going around Hollow�s Bend. Leaving Williamsborough and turning onto the main road, he passed an all-too-familiar sign that read, �Hollow�s Run.� Taylor had traveled this road more in the past week than he had in the entirety of the past couple of months, since he had to go back and forth between Vagrant�s Hideaway for his latest story. He himself had gotten used to certain landmarks - though, not as thoroughly as Dr. Torrence - along the route, the most notable of which was the famed Hollow�s Bend. The Bend wasn�t an attraction or anything, but like many areas across the world, there are certain dangerous points on the road for drivers. Cleveland, Ohio has its Dead Man�s Curve. Williamsborough has Hollow�s Bend. The Bend was a tight U-turn in the road that hugged a rocky cliff side. Off to the other side of the road was a steep bank that led down to a valley of pine trees. The only reason this bend in the road gained �fame� was because the number of accidents that accompanied it. And in winter, one would be best to speed along like a snail when passing The Bend. Taylor messed with the heater temperature controls of the car. He�d blast it on high until the engine warmed up, then it would get unbearably toasty and he�d have to turn it down. The day was quite beautiful, setting aside all the disasters. Sunlight broke through the gaps in the pine trees and shone down onto the wintery road, giving the secluded Hollow�s Run a rather mystic feel. The trees themselves were laced with snow, their supple branches acting as a carriage for the weather and displaying it for all passers-by. Some birds still lingered in the cold North and they sang enchanting choruses, which filled the chilly morning air with a subtle gentleness. Taylor felt at ease for the first time in a long time. Ever since the first murder, his life, along with those of many others, seemed in total chaos. For a moment, he felt horrible for feeling so good. To distract his befuddled mind from having to make a choice between letting it go or feeling remorse, he turned the radio on. It was preset on his favorite channel, which played classical music twenty-four/seven. Music helped to empty his cluttered head. He made an �S� curve in the road and came to a long straight-away. This part of the road was referred to by some as Hollow�s Straight. It was eight and a quarter miles long and following right after was the fabled Hollow�s Bend. To cut back on some time, as he always did, he stepped on the gas pedal as soon as he approached The Straight. Taylor knew he�d have plenty of time to brake before the vicious turn. He was well aware that in this weather he would need to take it easy around The Bend, that is, unless he cared to fly off the cliff and into the sea of trees below... and he did not. When he had about forty seconds left before the turn, the classical music faded to a soft static. He messed with the dials quickly to try to get it back but it didn�t work. His attention shot back to the road. He was getting close, so he started to depress the brake pedal. Nothing happened. His composure sprang to full alert and he tried numerous times to brake the car. Still, there was no response. If ever Taylor had felt true panic, it was now. The seconds were consumed and his car made it to The Bend. He started off the first part of the turn okay, hugging the cliff wall perfectly. He was on edge but he was sure he was going to make it. But, as he continued around the turn, he saw that up ahead the road had caved in. Immediately, he had thought of the story of the earthquake he heard that morning from his friend at the Police Department, but soon his mind thought only of what was going to happen to him shortly. His foot slammed on the pedal once again, by instinct, even though it would do no good. Taylor�s eyes grew wide and his hands clenched down on the wheel. As his car tumbled down into the collapsed part of the road, he let out a piercing yell... that no one would hear. The angle of the slant caused the vehicle to begin to roll sideways, toward the steep bank. It tumbled time and time again, falling from the road above. Everything became a blur for Taylor. He couldn�t tell how far he had fallen and how far away the bottom was. Finally, the car came to a deafening halt when it had crashed against the trunk of a giant tree. The birds that once sang the beautiful songs fled the area. And Taylor Murphy was dead. ~~~~~ A couple hours had passed; the sun remained outside the veil of nearby clouds and the fall of precipitation still held off from blessing the lands below. An officer of the Williamsborough Police Department was unaware of the disaster that lie beyond the line of Hollow�s Straight. He was despatched to investigate the matter of the collapsed Mahoney Creek Bridge. Another assignment of his was to check Vagrant�s Hideaway on his way. Sheriff Nathan Moore of Bigsby had discovered the night before that the phones weren�t working in Vagrant�s Hideaway, when he tried reaching the town�s sheriff, Dudley Shockey, to inform him of the incident. He tried again the next morning to the same result and passed the information along to the Williamsborough police. Officer Matthew Pitzer came off The Straight and onto The Bend. He slowed the vehicle down and heeded caution around the turn. The road was heavily covered with snow. Mike�s Towing, a locally owned business, worked for the city of Williamsborough during winter, doing most of the plowing. They shoveled Hollow�s Run within the city limits, which ended just after The Bend. After that, it turned to Vagrant�s Hideaway's domain. Mike�s Towing had not plowed the road since the night before, around 10:00 PM. Officer Pitzer followed through tracks of a vehicle that had passed this way some time before him. Coming around the final part of The Bend, Officer Pitzer saw the cave-in. �Oh my god,� he said in a low tone to himself, amazed and struck with devastation at the same time. He stopped the car and got out to check the situation. �Whoa...,� he said as he peered into the collapsed gap. Then, he gazed down over the side of the road. The drop to the earth below was about 326 feet. Pitzer then saw the wreckage of a car huddled against a great tree. �Holy shit!� He shouted and he ran back to the police car. Upon approaching it, he stumbled, slipping on an icy patch on the ground. He reached out and grabbed the hood to brace himself. Forcing the door open, he clambered inside and snatched up the police radio and put in his report to headquarters. ~~~~~ The recovery of Taylor Murphy�s body, the foundered Hollow�s Bend, and the severed Mahoney Creek Bridge - it was a huge catastrophe that would take weeks to clean up. Hollow�s Run was the only road through. The path would need patched in order for anyone to pass. Vagrant's Hideaway finally had the isolation the town brochures always boasted. Yet, the worst scenario was taking place within Vagrant�s Hideaway, under the noses of both neighboring towns. The Urbanics were cut off from civilization and no aid could come their way soon enough. Bridges couldn�t be built that quickly. Events were grave indeed and it seemed that some force was having its way, to tie all things together, to gather loose ends, and to cover its tracks. Something was going to go down and it was going to happen soon. |