Lure (11 page)

"I'm coming in too," Shells said. "I just needed to take that picture first. The south is a trip."

"I have a feeling we haven't seen anything yet."

An older gentleman dressed in farmer's clothes held the door for them as he left. Sam noted the sign on the door that read: Shoplifters will get a free ride in a shiny new Sheriff's car courtesy of Sheriff Carter.

"Now that's a switch," Shells said. Sam nodded. Inside, the store had character; no bland uniformity and specialized lighting to make everything look sterile and shiny. This place showed its age, and did so with grace and a sense of dignity. The well-worn interior was a familiar sight to some, and one that had endured for decades. To Sam, it was refreshing. It felt good to be around people who maybe weren't uptight in general.

Behind the counter stood a man whose face did not speak of an easy life, yet there was so much life in his eyes. "Well hey there, youngins," he said, his drawl thick, and his Sheriff's Patrol hat worn with pride.

"Hi," Sam said, and she noticed his gaze followed her and Shells as if they were the most interesting thing to walk in there all day, and she guessed that perhaps they were. The store was like a true mini grocery, and Sam browsed the shelves.

"What the heck is Sun Drop?" Shells asked, and the man behind the counter poked his head around so she could see him.

"You never heard of Sundrop?" he said, or at least she thought that was what he said. "That was Earnhardt's favorite."

"Who?" Shells asked, and Sam smacked her forehead.

"You ain't from around here, are ya?"

"No," Sam said. "But I know who Dale Earnhardt was, may he rest in peace."

The man behind the counter seemed to reappraise them, and Sam bought a couple extra things just so it didn't seem like they were stopping only for directions and not buying anything.

"You want a possum bag for that?"

"A
what
?" Shells asked.

"A possum bag. In case you get one on the way home. They're good eatin' you know."

"Uh. OK. Yeah. I'll take a bag."

"One possum bag coming right up young lady," he said.

"Can you tell me where Lake Lure is?" Sam asked once Shells had her possum bag well in hand.

"Sure. It's over yonder," he said, and he pointed out the door.

"Could you maybe be a little more specific?" Shells asked.

"Well, you go on outta here toward town and before you git to town, turn right onto 64, and after that it's just over yonder. You on vacation?"

"Sort of," Sam said.

"We're hunting ghosts," Shells said, Sam thought probably just to freak him out a little; she was just returning the favor after all.

"Oh," he said, and as they were walking out he said, "don't let those possums get you by the ears or you'll get gum disease for Christmas." Or at least that was what Sam thought he said.

"Did he just tell me to blow a possum?" Shells asked.

"I don't think so."

"Good thing. I don't want to have to kick that old man's ass," Shells said while doing her best kung fu hand moves.

Ten miles later . . .

"How the hell far is a yonder anyway? I mean, shit!"

"There's something up ahead," Sam said, and she turned onto highway 64, which was nothing more than a two-lane strip of blacktop. Accustomed to being able to see for long distances while driving, Sam felt the mountainous terrain they were driving into crowded and confined her. However, the feeling was overcome by the natural beauty of the verdant landscape. So much lush foliage and black rock, it became more and more breathtaking as they drove.

"I need something real to eat," Shells said, and Sam started looking for places to eat. The next place they came to was a small restaurant attached directly to the side of a gas station, a rather large gas station at that, which looked to be the local hangout. "I think we may have found the cultural hub of RU-THER-FORD-TON."

Pulling into a crowded parking lot, Sam noticed that every other vehicle in the lot was a pickup truck. This was her kind of place.

Eyes turned toward them when they walked into the small restaurant. They stood near the front door and waited.

"Just sit anywhere you like, honey," a little woman said from the doorway that led to the kitchen. Sam wasn't certain which of them she was addressing, but she supposed it didn't matter.

After running her gaze over the tables and booths that looked like they were from the 1970's, Sam settled on the one farthest from the other patrons, who were watching them with interest.

On the table were photocopied menus in plastic sleeves, the usual salt, pepper and ketchup, but also a bottle of what looked like chili peppers soaking in a mostly clear liquid. Sam was tempted to try some, except the bottle, too, looked like it had been around since the 1970's, and she decided to leave well enough alone.

"What the hell is livermush?" Shells asked, and Sam noticed the stares aimed her way. "Why would anyone name anything livermush? And can you imagine someone actually ordering it?"

"I'm sure people order it all the time, and it just sounds weird because we aren't used to it."

"I still think it's a stupid name," Shells said, and then in a louder voice she asked, "Fatback? What the hell is fatback?"

"Would you shut up?" Sam said in a low voice.

"Oh, sorry," Shells said. "Was I loud?"

"No louder than usual," Sam said, and Shells played a little air guitar.

"What can I get you," asked the waitress.

"Livermush and fatback," Sam said, and Shells gaped.

"No way, really?" Shells said. "I just want french fries. Oh, and pickles. Do you have any pickles?"

"We have pickles. What would you like to drink?"

"Coke," Sam said.

"Pepsi OK, hun?"

Sam nodded.

"I'll have iced tea," Shells said.

"Sweet tea?" the waitress asked.

"Uh, yeah," Shells said. "Sure."

"That'll be just a couple minutes, hun."

Sam couldn't escape the feeling that everyone knew everyone around here, just like in Salem. Some things, though they seemed different on the face, were the same here as they were at home.

The waitress brought their drinks, and then brought Shells a basket of fries and some pickles. Next she came with two small plates; one with what looked like a piece of scrapple on it, and another with what looked like two extra thick pieces of bacon.

"You're not really going to eat that, are you?" Shells asked.

Sam answered by picking up her fork and digging into the livermush.

"Aw, man. You're killing me."

"Mmm," Sam said. "It tastes like spicy scrapple."

"You have to be crazy to eat that stuff."

After trying the fatback, Sam didn't say anything; she just rolled her eyes and moaned.

"You like it?" the waitress asked when she returned to check on them.

"Yes. Thank you," Sam said.

Shells reached for her tea and took her first sip, which she almost instantly spit out. "Holy crap!" she said. "How much sugar did you put in that? It's like 12-ounces of diabetic shock."

"You two aren't from around here, are you?"

"You could say that," Sam admitted, and those who were still watching them nodded their heads knowingly.

"I guess we stick out a little, huh?" Shells asked.

"The only way you could stick out more would be if I set you on fire," Sam said.

"It ain't that bad," the woman said. "It's pretty easy to pick out folks from the north. Y'all just have a different way of talking is all."

"How far are we from Lake Lure?" Sam asked.

"It's just over yonder," the waitress said, and Shells groaned; a look from Sam kept her quiet for a change.

 
"Let's go yonder, youngin'" Shells said after they had finished their meal and left a generous tip for the waitress. Once back in the car, Shells brought up Dio's
The Last in Line
and cranked the volume. The guitars were just hitting when Sam gunned it and roared back onto highway 64. Folks who had been chatting or rocking in the chairs outside of the store all watched as Sam and Shells sped away accompanied by heavy guitar. Sam could only imagine what they thought of the two of them. She didn't care.

The road was no longer straight, and the curves became more frequent and tighter.
 
Sam had to pump the brake pedal to get them slowed enough in some places, and Shells cast her worried glances when it appeared the mirror might vibrate itself straight off the windshield.

"I think maybe we should get some more work done on the car," Shells said, her voice shaking as if she were speaking through a fan. Along with the twists and turns came sheer drops, and the guardrail seemed like precious little protection from the surely fatal fall.

"Agreed," Sam said, now driving much more slowly and anticipating each turn. Her car had never struggled so hard on the flat roads of New Jersey, but here every downhill run was something of an adventure. Aqua green water could be seen through the gaps in the trees and in pools at the bottom of winding cliffs. Then the trees opened up and gave them their first good view of Lake Lure, it was breathtaking. Still waters reflected the clouds and mountains surrounding it. With the exception of a few bald spots, deep green forests covered mountains that were more compact and dense than the sweeping mountains she knew in Virginia. These mountains seemed almost random in their shape, and the way they overlapped each other created a three-dimensional landscape filled with texture and light play. Sam had to keep her eyes on the winding road, which was made even more difficult by Shells pointing out every thing Sam shouldn't be looking at.

Boats cut the glasslike waters, and a water-skier looked to be having the time of his life. Jet skis buzzed near floating docks and red soil beach. A covered pontoon boat moved at a more leisurely pace, every seat onboard appearing to be full.

After crossing a two-lane bridge that seemed only wide enough for one and a half lanes, a sandy beach came into view. Bright red lifeguard stands stood at regular intervals along the sizable but finite beach. Water slides could be seen at the far end of the beach, and the parking areas were packed with motorcycles and other vehicles. As they looked around, it became apparent that this was a popular destination for motorcyclists. Many motorcycles packed the lots along the beach and the larger lots across the street, which stood alongside a stately building of white, with a roof the color of burnt umber. The place had a sense of age; its very stature declaring that it was the product of another time. The partly bald mountains behind it dwarfed the structure, and yet it stood its ground proudly.

A nearby restaurant's parking lot contained only motorcycles. They filled the lot and it didn't look like there was room for even a single car. The Margarita Grill, the sign proclaimed.

"That's the place!" Shells said, pointing to the stately Inn. "Holy crap that place is big!"

Driving by slowly, Sam got a strange feeling in her gut, as if things inside the Inn were looking back out at her. She didn't turn into the lot.

"Aren't we going to check in?" Shells asked.

"Not yet," Sam said, not knowing why she wanted so badly to delay checking in. Perhaps it was just nerves over having to actually find some evidence of the paranormal or else find some other way of supporting herself. Either way, she coasted along until reaching the end of the beach area, and the road opened up for a short distance; soon, though, she slowed again. Signs for Hickory Nut Gorge and Chimney Rock Park made it unnecessary to ask where they were. At road level, there were quaint shops, small eateries, and a lively but relatively small crowd divided between them. A place called Arrowheads caught Shells' eye.

"Let's stop here for a bit. I want to check that place out," she said.

Sam didn't argue, since this would certainly delay check-in. Parking was tight and in short supply, but Sam squeezed the Camaro into a spot. One thing she noticed was that no one was in a hurry. This was a resort town, and those here basked in the natural glory of the place. Beyond the shops on the west side of the street ran a narrow river, whose bed was littered with enormous stones with edges rounded and worn by wind, water, and time. Teens in bikinis laid out on some of the larger rocks, and therefore teenage boys were not far away, playing frisbee and generally making fools of themselves.

When Sam finally looked up, following the terrain until she had to crane her neck and shade her eyes, she saw a formation of rock protruding from the mountain above them. Atop it was one of the largest United States flags she had seen since her last visit to Washington, DC.

"That must be Chimney Rock," Shells said. "Some guy cut a shaft up there through solid rock and then put in an elevator, so you can just ride up to the top."

"Recently?" Sam asked. "And how the hell do you know that?"

"No.
 
In the 1920's," Shells said. "It's called the Internet, girlfriend, you should try it some time."

Dodging foot traffic coming from the other direction, Sam didn't respond. Computers just weren't her thing. No matter what she tried to do it didn't work; support technicians were always amazed at how badly she managed to botch even the simplest of tasks. She was glad that Shells understood it and could deal with it, but for Sam, it was completely foreign. Cell phones were the limit, and even those were pushing their luck by becoming more complicated every day. Shells swore by her smartphone, which she said could do just about anything, but Sam knew she would destroy one of those within a week. Even her old 'feature phone' as the techies called it, would be lucky to survive the year. Coddling technology was just not in Sam's DNA.