Gilda's Locket (6 page)

The local sheriff, now on his fourth term,
has presided over this and several other small towns in the county
for more than fourteen years. He splits duties with his two
deputies fairly equally, but still, he’s a busy man. He’s also a
good man, though I’m still on the fence regarding his deputies. One
is definitely an arrogant toad, and the new one, well let’s just
say we have each other pegged. Or at least I’d like to think so.
I’m fairly certain I’ve got him pegged, and I think he’s fairly
certain he’s got me. We’ll see. I’ve learned to bide my time
regarding judgment calls, life’s taught me that if nothing else, so
I’m still waiting it out. I'll let you make your own call.

Right next to the town hall is the old
firehouse. It houses the one and only fire truck the town owns
outright, and a few local volunteers work it. Aside from that, the
department in Henrietta covers all fire emergencies for the entire
county, and the hospital in Coretta handles the ambulance. It’s not
a great system, but it’s the only one we’ve got.

Further west, just before Main Street turns
back into US 24, is the local garage. The man that runs it
inherited it from his father, who inherited it from his father
before him. The fact that it is on the edge of town is probably the
only thing that encourages folks to stop and fuel up there. I think
they feel as if they are gaining an edge to get away from this
gloomy place.

Dozens of houses squat within ten feet of
most of the tree lined roads, their shadows looming across the
pot-hole riddled streets, as they hunch over the pavement. Looking
at them reminds me of watching a dog, straining forward from its
seated position, waiting for someone to throw it a bone.

To the south a thick forest borders the
town, crossing over Main Street, and attempting to stretch its
border across the whole west side of town. On the southwest side of
town, down about a mile of gravel road, lies the one and only
trailer park, one of the biggest blights to a proud but meager
town. Built sometime in the mid-seventies, it was meant to
accommodate the sudden influx of workers required to staff Knolls’
growing businesses; it brought about a legal battle of epic
proportions between the town and its primary benefactor. Needless
to say, hard-fought as the battle was, it was inevitably won by
Hiram Knolls. Money equals power and money always wins.

The trailer park now houses primarily
jobless drunks, many of whom were left behind when Hiram closed up
shop and moved away, laying them all off. Now they just sit around
waiting for their next government check, making monthly runs into
Humphrey or Henrietta for the few requisite groceries and a stop at
the liquor store, before returning home to drink the month away.
Nothing but a waste of good land, if you ask me.

Off to the north, amongst the seemingly
endless fields of corn and soybeans, there are still some local
farms running. However, most of the better farm land was owned by
the Knolls and has long since been sold off. What little land is
still in use by local farmers provides produce for the farmer’s
markets and feeds the farmers themselves.

With only about half a dozen businesses
still up and running and most of the folks still living in
Knollsville commuting to places like Monticello for work, I know
you have to be asking, what brings us here of all places? What kind
of story could you possibly tell me about this dull, drab,
god-forsaken place that might pique my interest?

Hard to believe there could be any kind of
story here isn’t it? Just goes to show you, some of the best
stories can be found in some of the worst places. Or maybe, in this
case, some of the worst stories can be found in some of the best
places. Because, at one time, Knollsville was one of the best
places to live, and the tale you’re about to hear, well, it made it
one of the worst. But, still, it’s home to me. Has been for more
than thirty years.

As I’m sure you’ve figured out by now,
(can’t hide my accent for nothing), I’m not originally from
Indiana. I came up from Tennessee at the conception of the Dradon
Project, and though life had changed drastically for me over that
time, I stayed.

But, I’m rushing ahead. I have a tendency to
do that, sprint for the finish line before the starting gun’s even
gone off. Got to slow down, keep on track, let the story tell
itself. ‘Cause it will you know. This story’s been wanting to be
out for a long time, and the catalyst has finally arrived. Just
now, this town's one big powder keg, and it's just waiting for
someone to strike the match. And there are lots of people running
all over town, fingers clutching matches, scratching them
everywhere that can be thought of.

Getting back to the starting line; you see
that one little lonely road to the north there? Just past Magnolia.
Right up there, just up ahead, across the street and east of the
gas station. Yep, that’s the one, creates an intersection there
with Main. Doesn’t even look like a road, made of dirt like it is.
And it doesn’t have a road sign. But it’s a road, I can guarantee
you that. Just take a right and wander on down, see what you find.
For about a mile or so, some of the other neighborhood streets
intersect with it, pavement meeting dirt trail. But about two miles
out, no other road meets up with it and it almost seems like it’s a
road to nowhere. But have faith, keep on going for another mile or
two and then you’ll see it. One lonely house stands out there all
by itself. Two sides surrounded by empty, barren fields, overgrown
with ragweed and tall grass. To the back lie those woods that seem
to go on forever. And the frontage is only wild grass and the dirt
road cutting its way through it all, leading up to the farmhouse,
and beyond.

It’s an old two story farmhouse, almost as
old as the town itself. Once it was the grandest estate in all of
Knollsville, built by Hiram the first, for his wife, just after
settling the town. The farm fields and the woods were all part of
the massive acreage that he owned.

The Knolls still lived up there until about
thirty-two years ago, when their only son, Hiram the fourth, and
heir to the vast majority of their estate, split the land into
parcels and sold them all off, including the once grand farmhouse.
As I said, it was the late seventies, and Knollsville was beginning
to prosper at the time. From a distance, it looked as if nothing
would change. And Hiram was always planning, always working the
angles. Even then, at the ripe age of thirty, he utilized all of
his influential business and governmental connections, most of them
fraternity brothers from the Ivy League school his parents had sent
him to, to the betterment of himself and his bank account.

As I recall, his construction business was
turning money out hand over fist at the time, and that’s why he
decided to sell a large amount of the land to one of his cronies.
It was some convoluted tax evasion, money making scheme, that’s too
involved for me to make heads or tails of. Suffice it to say, this
business partner specialized in building low cost middle class
neighborhoods with shoddy materials, and selling them for much more
than they were worth. I’m sure the plan included using Hiram’s own
construction company for the building, doubly lining his pockets,
but alas, none of it ever came to pass. And so, the land remains
forgotten.

But the wooded part and what lies further up
the dirt road; that’s a different story altogether. That he sold to
one of his government friends. But I’m getting ahead of myself
again.

As for the farmhouse, it has passed hands
any number of times, the last owner having been Ralph Edwards.
After he died, he bequeathed the farmhouse and his antique shop to
the town. It’s remained empty for three years. That is until two
weeks ago. A stranger, someone new in town bought both properties,
snatching them up sight unseen. Makes no sense does it? What could
possibly bring someone here, now, of all times? Especially a young
woman, early thirties tops? Makes one a tad bit curious. But she’s
got one thing in common with Knollsville, she’s full of secrets,
and secrets are what Knollsville does best.

Let’s not linger here, we’ll see enough of
this place soon enough, we got to keep walking. We got a few more
miles to go and my dogs are already barking. As you can see, this
part of the road just about gets swallowed up by the woods. You
almost can’t even tell there’s a road here. But it’s still here,
and strangely enough, about a mile and a half up, the dirt road
suddenly turns to pavement. True, the pavement’s pitted and
potholed after so many years of disrepair. Nevertheless, it’s
blacktop.

Why would anyone pave the road out here and
not the rest, you say. Well, that’s as good a question as any. Soon
enough you’ll have other, more important questions. Let’s keep
moving, it’s only another mile or so.

Ah, here we are. This place. Recognize it?
No, of course you don’t. No one would. At first all you can see is
the iron fence, overgrown with weeds cradling pockets of melting
snow, and poison ivy growing so thick you almost can’t see anything
else. Then, your eyes naturally follow the fence to the gate and
the unmanned guard shack beside it. One half of the gate hangs
open, dangling on rusty hinges, the weeds ripped from the handle in
order to gain entrance.

Peek through the opening, tell me what you
see.

That’s it. That big, brick monstrosity right
there, or what’s left of it anyway. Looks very out of place in
these wilderness surroundings, don't it? It's almost as if someone
plucked up some modern building from some big city and then plopped
it down right here in the middle of these woods. Once, it was a two
story structure, all red brick and tinted glass. Though of course,
far more brick than glass. If I recall correctly, there were only
four windows across the front of the building. A façade, really. A
pitiful attempt to make it look less like a prison. Didn’t
work.

The facility was built; you guessed it, by
Hiram’s construction crew, a favor for his government cronies. Back
then, I remember the building should have seemed to be dwarfed,
surrounded as it was by the massive trees in an age old woods.
Instead, strangely, it was the other way around. The building
claimed dominance. It almost seemed like it was pushing the woods
back, keeping the trees at bay. I never liked the feeling.

Most of the building is gone now, reduced to
piles of rubble and ash. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to
figure out that it was destroyed by something more than fire, the
complete devastation attests to something much more violent. Almost
like an earthquake. But we’re hardly in earthquake territory, now
are we? Oh, I suppose anything’s possible. I was there, and I’m
here to tell you, that to this day, I’m still not exactly sure what
happened.

And there, hanging from that post, just to
the left and in front of what’s left of the building, there’s a
sign. The sign remains untouched by the destruction that wreaked
havoc on the building and those housed within. It’s aged and
weatherworn, not unlike me, and very hard to read, but it’s
there.

“
Four Winds
.” Sounds like a loony
bin, don’t it? I know that’s what you’re thinking. And you would be
right; if you weren’t wrong that is. But close enough for now,
(close is only good in horseshoes and hand grenades they say, but
this time I think it applies.) Besides, you’ll understand it all
soon enough.

And what’s that? Over there? Do you see the
figure? At the back of the building, kneeling on the ground, hands
covering the face as the figure rocks back and forth, weeping
uncontrollably. It’s a heart-wrenching sound, I know. I’ve heard it
before. I know who it is, soon enough you will too.

For now, it’s time to go. I always hated
this place. It makes me feel creepy and sad, and I’m ready to head
out. I’ve given you enough direction to get yourself around, so
I’ll just be taking my leave. I’ll head on back to the highway now,
back to the heart of town. This sudden thaw we’ve been having has
been chasing folks out of their homes, getting them up and around
to come into the diner for a home-cooked breakfast and some gossip.
Folks are tired of being shut in. They’re ready for the snow to
melt and the sun to rise. The diner’s gonna be hoppin'. I’ve got
biscuits to bake, and the breakfast rush will be hittin' in less
than an hour. Course the weather won’t last, never does. They’re
calling for snow by the middle of the week, but that’s weather in
Indiana, summer in the morning, winter all night. Might as well
take advantage while we can.

Remember, if things get to be too much, too
overwhelming, east or west on Main will get you out of Knollsville.
And don’t stop for gas.