"Nope. She's a whore. If you ever have the need, she has the itch. Just watch to make sure you don't leave with that itch breaking out all over you. Let's go before she walks out and asks you to walk her home." He gave a grunting laugh. "And here I was beginning to think you might not like women. Well, that's good. There are a few single girls your age, but they are few and far between. Lots of older women, though."

  "Why lots?"

  Franklin frowned. "Sometimes the mountains can be unforgiving. It's something that the town doesn't like to—"

  He broke off. He didn't want to talk about it, and I didn't want to hear it.

  A howl exploded in the distance.

  Fear grabbed me so hard I coward. "What was that?"

  "That's a coyote. Lord, son, haven't you ever heard one before?” He chuckled. “You about made my teeth fall out."

  I held my chest. "A coyote?" I turned to the darkening mountain, trying not to let him see me rubbing away the goosebumps that had popped up on my arms. "God, it sounded like a... woman wailing."

  "Nope, thems coyotes," he continued, having fun. "City boy, you are so out of your element here, I tell you what." His grin subsided, and he smacked his dry lips. "I don't need to remind you that you are in a new place, you might hear a bunch of other noises you aren't used to. Don't be alarmed. It's just mountain life. And when you get home, remember to lock your door—"

  "You have to lock your doors here?"

  "We have bedrooms with bricked up windows, so you best believe we lock our doors."

  He stopped, and concern washed over his face to the point of shame.

  “What is it, Mr. Mullis?”

  “Matt, I haven’t been honest with you.”

  I stayed silent, but my anxiety rose.

  “Go on.”

  He paused. "But there is a sort of folklore that you need to know."

  I raised an eyebrow. "Folklore?"

  "Yes, Matt." He frowned. "The town has rules. There are three. The first is, never turn your back on an open window."

  "Thank goodness it's winter." I joked.

  "No, Matt, this is serious.”

  I waited for him to laugh or at least grin. He didn’t. I readjusted my grocery bag.

  “All right.” I waited, then scratched my head.

  “The second rule is—"

  “Wait. You mean, odd duck Clint was telling me the truth.”

  “I can’t speak for Clint, but I decided to wait and tell you after you’d taken the job.”

  “Good grief. You are being serious. Is this why there aren’t any windows in the bedrooms?”

  "You can't turn your back on an open window if there isn't a window, now can you?"

  "Mr. Mullis—" I protested.

  "Matt, the windows were for security."

  "Security against what?"

  "It all started with Kennedy's advice on building fallout shelters, but we took it a step further."

  Good grief, Middwood was full of quacks. "It all seems a bit extreme. The Cuban missile crisis was years ago." I pressed. “I turned my back on a window since I’ve been here.”

  "Open, meaning you can see out of it."

  "I could see out of the window earlier when I was inside. I turned my back then—"

  "The rules only apply after dark."

  "Only after dark? Okay ...” I exhaled. “That’s good, I guess.”

  “The second rule,” Franklin cleared his throat. "Never go out after the sun goes down or before the sun comes up."

  My jaw gaped. "Are you fucking serious?"

  "I know they might sound odd, but that is just how Middwood works."

  I put the bag down. I didn’t know why, but I did. I didn’t want to ruin the one thing I might be walking out of the town with.

  “Man,” I huffed.

  If my car would fucking crank and if Eddie didn't have a shotgun, I'd get the hell out of this place. I folded my arms. “And the third rule?"

  "Since you are having difficulty with the first two, I'll save that one for later. If you follow the first two, you won't need rule three."

  "And are there reasons for these rules?"

  He avoided the question. "They are just for your own protection."

  "I—" I held my breath but found it too difficult to look at him. Town rules and folklore were a new kind of batshit.

  “Matt, we're a mining town, built on coal; all the towns around here were built on coal, and coal is money. Big money. There was a time when neighboring mining companies would try and run us out of town, scare our workers away, grow their domain. But, Matt, that was long ago."

  I searched for the words, but logical thinking and this town didn't match up.

  “Is it safe?"

  He reassured me with a smile. “Nothing in life is certain, but, yes, it's safe. We just keep the doors and windows covered up to remember, and, of course, against the slim chance anything like that does happen." He watched me for my response.

  I was aware he was waiting for me to speak. I bobbed my head to buy myself some more time to think. "That is some story."

  "Coal in these parts has a sordid past. Make no mistake about it, Mr. Christian, we have our ghosts, but we go on living.”

  When he explained it that way it seemed less dangerous. Crazy, sure, but there was a part of it that was exciting. I felt silly for making such a big deal out of everything.

  He stared at me for a moment. “Do you still want the job?”

  Oh brother, I had been around some crazy shit, but this was by far the most insane. I exhaled again. One thing I knew all too well was insanity. “I might just be crazy enough to stick around.”

  Franklin sighed in relief himself. “Good.”

  "Sorry for asking, but I just—"

  "No, no. I would have been more concerned if you didn't ask any questions. We don't want just anyone to take the job. Regardless of social status or windows, a man's children are his treasure."

  I laughed nervously and changed the subject. "It's a unique town."

  "Yes, it is," he chuckled.

  "Is the whole town superstitious?"

  "Welcome to Middwood," Franklin said.

  "I will do my best to play along."

  "You do that," he said nodding. "You do that."

  "It's late, so I need to get home" Franklin said. "Good night. I'll see you tomorrow. Remember don’t turn your back—“

  "—on an open window. Right." I faked-grinned.

  "Correct."

  "Now that I know what a coyote sounds like, and when the house creaks and such.”

  “Just roll over, wrap up in your beard, and go back to sleep."

  "Yes, sir. And the beard stays." I grimaced.

  "Good. I will meet you at the school an hour after sunrise."

  "When is sunrise?"

  "7:59 am, but the mountain blocks the sun for a good thirty minutes after sunrise, so what until then."

  "What kind of time is that?"

  "Valley time."

  "So 9:30?"

  "Children have to do their chores."

  "How does the sit with the school board?"

  Franklin shook his head. "We don't have a school board. This is the backwoods, Matt. We govern ourselves. Here is the key to the school." He handed it to me.

  "Thank you," I said, studying the key. I couldn't help but notice it was heavier than it looked.

  It was official. I was a teacher again. Correction, I was the teacher. I was employed, and I had an entire house to myself. Even though the town was strange, it reminded me how fast life could turn around.

  21

  Back at the house, after I had boiled some water, I settled onto the sofa and decided that reading was the best decision. Until I started having problems a few years back, reading usually did the trick to relax me. Reading was like a friend to me. It was actually the only friend I had left. I flipped open my book, The Diary of Anne Frank. Nothing like some light reading on a late Sunday afternoon.

  I read until the letters started to move. I blinked a few times and continued reading until I just stared at the page.

  I guess sleep won because the next thing I remembered was the sensation of falling. I jerked my head up and threw both arms out to catch myself. My left arm crashed into the armrest, and my right hand gripped one of the sagging, purple, back pillows.

  I was no longer lying down. I didn't remember sitting up. It was unnerving, but maybe it was a good thing. I was in a quiet little town. I was twenty-four, nearing thirty, and that was what thirty-year-olds did, they fell asleep on the sofa on Sunday afternoons reading about the Holocaust.

  I tried to remember what I dreamed, but I couldn't recall exactly. Something about me being interrogated by Darlene, who was really Hitler's young bride. But then there was something about a blonde woman telling me, "We want you to see us!" while she was lowered into a meat grinder equipped with shards of coal instead of metal blades.

  I shook off the visceral images.

  I had a real, honest-to-God nap. Twisted and terrible, but a nap all the same. I was so shocked by the state of relaxation it jolted me awake to make sure I was still alive. Maybe I should give the whole "relaxing thing" a try more often. Well, minus the killing.

  My eyes were still sleepy, so I took off my glasses and rubbed my face.

  I made sure not to allow myself to think of anything. My conscious was standing guard like a little samurai warrior, kicking and cutting away any thought trying to gain the hot seat in my head. Money-chopped! Worry-stabbed! Work—just a firm pointing of the middle finger. Sex... well... Sleep was the only thing that mattered. I had to make sure I slept.

  I went to the bathroom and reached for the bottle that read Sleep. The guy I bought it from had scratched off the label and roughly scribbled the word in black ink. I opened it up and swallowed one of the yellow pills. I had to play along with the pill, yawning and even thinking over and over, I'm so sleepy.

  I made it to the bedroom and laid down.

  I couldn't breathe.

  I tried closing my eyes, but it didn't matter. The box surrounded me like a coffin. I couldn't do it another night. I pondered taking another pill, but I didn't want to be crabby the first day of school. I opened my eyes.

  I got up and walked to the second bedroom, but I'd forgotten it was locked. I wondered what Franklin really had locked in there?

  I jiggled the handle. There was a burst of images, so fast and abstract I couldn't decipher them, like shouts reverberating off the darkness. Memories, my Rose-Mary Grand moving my hand from the boiling pot on the stove, backing me out of a room where my parents were arguing, shouting.

  I walked down to the living room. I could just sleep on the sofa. But I hated sleeping on sofas, I was always too tall. Then I turned to the dining room. The dining room had a set of windows. Real, open windows. It was perfect because the room had two doors. Moving the bed wasn't one of the three silly rules, so it was okay. Right? I guess you have to know the rules before you can break them. Regardless, I had to give it a try.

  I pushed the dining room table against the wall to get it out of the way. I dragged the mattress and box springs out of the bedroom, into the hall, and slid them down, one by one, to the main floor, then into the dining room. The tricky part was getting the mattress over the banister. I could have maneuvered around the banister by opening the front door, pulling the mattress out, then back in again. That would have been simple. But I couldn't chance one of my neighbors seeing what I was doing. Like Franklin said, “nobody knows your business unless you tell them.” So instead, I lifted it and pushed it over the rail.

  "Never turn your back on an open window," I scoffed. "You have to know the rules in order to break them."

  If they were going to make people sleep in rooms with no windows, then "they" should add another rule which stated, "don't sleep in a room with windows." It didn't make any sense.

  All of the superstition lore was rubbish.

  The evening had been filled with banging and grunting. If I had lived in an apartment or a boarding house, I'm sure I would have had a scandalous reputation by morning. I couldn't help but laugh and give my best Eliza Doolittle impression. "I'm a good girl, I am!"

  I set up my box spring and mattress on the floor. I put the non-fitting fitted sheet back on then threw on the flat sheet, a fuzzy, tan polyester blanket, and my two pillows.

  Once I was finally done, I raised my hands. "And God said it was good."

  Then it hit me. I could have just put the mattress on top of the dining room table. It would have been a high bed, but then I could feast on sleep. That's right. You can all just eat me! I laughed at my crudeness.

  I was sweating, and I didn't want to get any on the sheets. I needed to cool down. I hated going to bed dirty. Moreover, I hated doing laundry, so I always tried to take a shower before bed.

  I waited until I was in the kitchen to take my shirt off. The neighbors may not have been able to hear the noise I was making, but I did not want to give anyone reason to start talking about me. Definitely not talk of me being a nudist. I had no problem with my body, but I didn't necessarily want to show it off to any nosy neighbors, either.

  Since the town was paying the bills for the first month and the devil painting was locked away, I was going to live dangerously and take a long, hot shower.

  I waited until the water was steaming. It was so hot it burned my skin pink, and I had a new, whole bar of soap. It was perfect.

  * * *

  I went to my tomb to get my pajama bottoms, then I stretched as I walked down the stairs to the dining room. I flipped off the light in the kitchen, then crawled into bed. I grabbed the cover sheet with two hands and gave it a whip. It flew out above me as I lay down. It almost fell perfectly, but I had to readjust a bit for my left foot to be covered. I hated for my bare feet to be outside of the blanket.

  Air moved around the space. Whether it was air leaks in the windows or the air in my head, my chest was light. I took a huge breath and nuzzled into the mattress.

  It was quiet. I was relaxed. I fell asleep with ease.

  A bang woke me from a deep sleep. I was disoriented. I had to remember where I was.

  Knock. Knock.

  I wasn't sure if I really heard it or if I was dreaming. I tried to rationalize the source of the bang. It wasn't someone knocking on the door. And even if it was, they would knock again. I decided not to worry about it and I quickly slipped back into sleep.

  Skrrtch. Skrrtch.

  22

  Images of a rabid coyote prowling the porch filled my mind.

  More scratching, then a weighted shuffle.

  "Dammit."

  The first good sleep I’d had in months and some critter was trying to ruin it.

  I didn't know how to interact with wildlife. I wondered if just turning on the porch light would scare it away.

  I got out of bed, opened the dining room door, and inched to the far side of the living room. A thud sounded just beyond the front threshold.

  I flipped on the porch light and peered out the living room window, but there was no change. I flipped the switch again, nothing. It was dead.

  I leaned back to get a better view through the shutters. There was nothing but darkness. I clenched my jaw in dismay. I couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't a coyote. What if it was a bear or a wolf? What if it was Magnolia?

  I flattened myself against the wall and slid in front of the living room window.

  I could instantly feel eyes on me, like someone was in the room. I pushed my back into the shutters, causing the slats to clatter against the window frame. I held out my arms in defense, but there was nothing there. Nothing except the opened dining room window behind me. "Never turn your back on an opened window."

  "Ridiculous." I went to the kitchen and dug through the drawers, but all I could find was a screwdriver. "It'll work."

  Whatever it was made no attempt to be quiet.

  With screwdriver in hand, I moved from the kitchen to the living room. It slipped from my hand. I tried to catch it, but it slipped through my fingers. The screwdriver crashed to the hardwood.

  Everything went quiet.

  It stopped. Whatever it was stopped. It knew I was there.

  I ran my hand over my damp hair and took a deep breath. I slid my hand along the floor until I found the screwdriver.

  I jerked open the front door. I leapt out onto the porch, wielding the screwdriver like a knife. There was nothing there.

  A shuffling came from my left, and I turned.

  There it was. The monster of my nightmares. A little, gray, fluffy, baby possum was crawling on my porch.

  I let out a sigh of relief and leaned down.

  Sure, I had seen a fully-grown possum, I was from the South, but I'd never seen a joey possum before.

  I stuck out my bottom lip because even though it had a cone-shaped nose and little, black eyes, it was kinda cute. He stared up at me. He wasn't afraid. He gave me another look, then the fat little baby turned and waddled away.

  Once, I was riding with my father in his truck when he ran over a possum. I remember after he hit it, he backed up and ran over the creature again. For some reason, we hate possums in the South. I'm not sure if it was a common practice or not. Regardless, that particular possum, even after getting run over twice, hadn’t died.

  There was a loud hiss.

  I turned to my right, and at my feet was the most massive possum I had ever seen. It spat. Its feet shuffled, its claws sounded like metal pins hitting the porch.

  She was a female with five more little babies on her back, but she didn't let that slow her down. I was between her and her baby.

  She charged me, and I jumped, trying to avoid landing on her little stray.

  I stubbed my pinkie toe on a protruding nail head. I stumbled forward onto the porch railing. She charged at me again, and I backed away as far as I could into a corner, removing myself as a threat.

  She finally rushed me, showing me all her sharp, shiny teeth in a long hiss. I hopped up so my rear was on the rail and pulled my legs up so she wouldn't bite my exposed, bleeding toe.

 

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