Speaker 1: The Church Factor, written by Neoma Finn. I used to
love going to all those silly little festivals held in
small towns and villages throughout the countryside, you know the ones.
They're nearly always named after a fruit or a vegetable
that grows in that part of the world. They consist
of contests themed after the said fruit or vegetable, and
food is baked with the same fruit or vegetable as
the main ingredient. A few of them might be named
after a flower or an animal, but they all involve
the same types of activities, and they almost always culminate
in a street dance. And I love those darn things.
I'd get off work on Friday night and drive halfway
across the country. If I had to, I'd spend the
night nearby and do my best to be the first
one to arrive the next morning. They were a piece
of Americana that doesn't exist anymore, the epitome of wholesomeness
and honor. And I loved them right up until the
last one I went to. I was in my twenties
back then and a bit reckless. It never occurred to
me to tell anyone where I was going or when
I would return, nor did it ever cross my mind
to ask anyone to come with me. I can't count
the times when I'd be watching a bunch of kids
race each other on pedal tractors, or a group of
adults with their hands tied behind their backs and their
faces planted in plates of blueberry pie, and I think,
you know, so and so would have really loved this,
But by then I was there and it was too
late to ask. I would have given my right arm
if I had only asked a friend to go with
me to this last festival. It was October, my favorite
month of the year. In fact, it was my favorite
day of the year, October twenty first. I had read
somewhere about a pumpkin festival in a small town miles
from anywhere that hosted the most amazing jack o lantern
carvings anyone had ever seen. All day long. Aside from
the traditional vendors and events that can be found at
all of these types of festivals, people were invited to
carve pumpkins alongside the villagers. Those who visited were always
amateurs compared to the natives, but they were allowed to
enter their jack o' lanterns in the parade that always
took place after sunset. At that point, the car pumpkins
would always be placed on hay racks pulled by Clydesdale's
and Belgians, and everyone would get to see the artwork.
There would be the normal array of costumed participants who
threw candy out to the children, along with a variety
of floats decorated to celebrate Halloween, which would be celebrated
in Earnest less than a fortnight later. Meanwhile, pumpkin pies
and pumpkin butter, and pumpkin bars and pumpkin anything else
would be served from the booths, alongside apple cider, apple pies,
apple crisps, and caramel apples. Sounded like heaven to me.
I was surprised by how remote albert Landing was. We
were in the last decades of the twentieth century by then,
and most towns were either easily accessible via the interstate
or at the very least a main highway, or they
had become ghost towns. Neither was the case here. I
had to find a county road that wasn't clearly marked
and then turned down a one lane, unmarked blacktop. It
took me four miles through winding hillsides before it came
to a covered bridge, and even though I had left
my hotel early, I didn't arrive until nearly ten am
that day. I had to park my truck in a
field and walk across the bridge. I doubt my truck
would have made it through the bridge anyway, but a
friendly man sitting in a launch by the road stopped
me and let me know that there would be no
place to park after I crossed the river. Well, I
didn't mind. The bridge looked like something out of a postcard,
and the river that flowed under it was almost magical.
It was like walking into a Disney movie. The bridge
was nothing short of a portal to another world. The
citizens of Alberth Landing were awfully vested in their festival.
Most of them, or maybe even all of them, were
dressed in colonial American clothing, and each of the houses
along the street had the appearance of being well over
two hundred years old. A woman was standing in the
sideyard of the first house I came to, casting grain
to her Rhode Island red hens, and they were pecking
at it hungrily. Another woman was sitting on her porch
churning butter in an old fashioned butter churn, and the
next property had an open sided shd where a man
was practicing the art of black sss. The main part
of town was positioned in the crook of the river,
so that as the road I was walking on turned
and became main street, it was taking me right to
the river bank. Ahead of me, I could see a
park where booths were set up to sell handmade and
home baked items. Although I was certain I was on
the main street, it was nothing to indicate a business
district outside of four buildings where the road I was
walking cross the only other road that didn't look like
a cow path. The four buildings that stood on the
four street corners struck me as odd. The first business
was the post office. Despite being housed in a building
that looked like it had stood since long before Paul
Revere took up horseback riding, it had all the modern
day signage of the United States Postal Service in the windows.
The signs looked out of place, but not nearly as
inappropriate as the gas station across the road from it.
The glass front and store windows full of signs advertising lottery,
tickets and slurpies felt like a time traveler sent back
from the future to warn the world of the hideous
fate that awaited us. Opposite the post office, the catty
corner from the gas station, was the only one of
four buildings that appeared to fit in It was a tavern.
Other than the paps blue ribbon sign in the front
window that struggled to stay lit. It could have been
an old inn, with bar maids wearing dust caps and
patrons slashing down tankards of ale while they waited for
fresh team of horses to be hitched to their coach.
There was a certain comfort in that building, even with
the flickering light. It felt as rooted as the oak
trees that bordered the park ahead of me, And somehow
the thought that it felt unnatural made me feel unnatural,
as if I didn't belong there. A voice from somewhere
deep inside me whispered that I should turn around and leave.
And since that day, whenever that voice has spoken, no
matter how quietly, I have listened and obeyed. But this day, however,
I did not. It was the fourth and final structure
at that intersection that was the most bizarre, because little
festivals like this one put on by small towns everywhere
had been a passion of mine for several years. I
had seen my share of out of the way places
like snowflakes. No two towns are exactly alike. It can
feel like they are at times, but there is always
something that will set each one apart. It may be
a flea market housed in an old gas station, or
a specialty store where the town creative types make leather
goods while the locals watch. Or maybe it's a house
on a hilltop where the founders once lived, or a
local cafe that serves a certain dish unmatched anywhere else.
Or wherever it is, there is always likewise, there is
one thing that every town of certain size has in
common with every other town of that size. More appropriately,
there are four things. While the typical blink and you'll
miss it wide spot in the highway will certainly have
only one or two of these. Any town large enough
to form more than a few city blocks will have
a post office, at least one gas station, one tavern,
and one church, and many towns like this one will
have all four at the same intersection. But where a
church should have stood in this town was a big
red barn. It was in immaculate condition. Not one board
was out of place. It had a fresh coat of
paint with a gleaming white trim, and the front consisted
of a ground level set of doors that slid open
along the wide metal track, directly under the set of
loft doors, over which on a pulley foringing up the
hay that would surely be stored there. Between the loft
doors and the pulley was a gorgeously painted Amish heck
sign in brilliant greens, blues and golds. Along the side
that was visible to me were square windows that were
closed off by hen shutters marked with a white trimmed
axe pattern. The barn could have come straight out of
a children's book. Despite its natural beauty, its location in
the middle of town, right where I had expected a
church to be was a bit unsettling. That there was
a rope draped across the front doors with a sign
that said no admittance didn't help. I made my way
down to the park. I passed a man who was
standing in front of a massive iron kettle making kettle corn,
and whose wife was busy scooping the finished product into
bags and labeling them. A woman was carting wool a
few doors down in front of a yard full of
tables loaded with baskets of yarn and wide variety of colors.
Beyond that was a stand where a young couple was
selling homemade root beer, the old fashioned carbonated by way
of fermentation variety. I had to stop for a bottle.
The closer I got to the park, the more there
were people like me, dressed in twentieth century apparel. There
was a family of four waiting in line so the
kids could have a turn on the pony ride. A
young couple obviously deeply in love, paid no attention to
anything or anyone except each other, and older couples walked
hand in hand, enjoying the memories of youth that must
have been stirred by the nostalgia of the event. One lady,
whose white roots were showing under her harshly dyed red hair,
was holding up a quilt at a booth and telling
the withered old man beside her how her grandmother had
made a quilt using the same pattern and nearly identical
colors for her when she was a little girl, and
the man was already pulling out his wallet to purchase
it for her. In nervous anticipation, she wiped her hands
down the front of a gaudy white top with large
turquoise flowers printed on it. Near the center of the
park was where the real activity was taking place. Children
were gathered around long makeshift tables and carving pumpkins. Adults
walked all along the line and offered guidance wherever possible.
Moms and dads cringed at the messes their children were making,
before smiling brightly and congratulating them on their jobs well done.
And then another adult dressed in appropriate period clothing would
come along and direct them away from the table to
a place where presumably the children could enter their masterpieces
in the contest that was to be judged later in
the afternoon. Now this was paradise. I couldn't believe how
fortunate I was to have found such a festival. It
was everything dreamed of. Booth after booth sold to items
that had been made by hand and were surprisingly reasonably priced.
Along the far edge of the park was a row
of gaming booths where visitors were encouraged to try their
hand at balloon darts, the duck pond and a ring toss.
At the end of the boost was a dunk tank,
where the town's mayre was perched precariously on a lever
that would drop him into the water below if the
person throwing the ball hit the target. Periodically, a man
driving a horse drawn wagon would make his way through
the crowd, with a handful of children sitting in the back,
and another man towered over everyone on stilts hidden under
extra long pant legs. I saw a tent with a
sign that offered palm readings, beside another tint from which
I could hear music. Now this wasn't the typical bar
brown howling out of painful renditions of Lenyard skinnered songs,
or making poor attempts at being Janis Joplin. The music
from that tent was old beyond my memories. The melodies
were both familiar and strange, alluring and menacing. I visited
every booth and examined every piece of merchandise, and purchased
more than I could comfortably carry, and I ate more
than my stomach had room for. I visited the game
booths and took a shot at dunking the mayor before
winning a stuff bear at the ring tossed. My legs
ached and my arms were loaded down By the time
I made my way back over to where the children
were carving pumpkins, more and more adults were taking seats
at the table and trying their hand at carving. A
young girl approached me and asked if I'd like to
buy a pumpkin to carve. I was young, and my
job paid well, and my bills were paid. I wasn't married,
and I had no children. This was what money was
made for. I thought, yes, please, I said. A letter
lead me to an empty spot at the table, and
someone held open a bag and suggested I put my
merchandise sent it and set it under the table, and
I obediently did as I was instructed. The young girl
brought me a tall pumpkin and took my payment. She
pointed out the carving instructions in jaws in front of
me and asked if I needed any help. I assured
her that I was an old hand at this, and
I thanked her before she went off to find someone
to fill the empty spot beside me. I had already
cut open the top of my pumpkin and was scooping
out the seeds when the lady with the garnish red
hair sat down beside me. She flashed me a tobacco
stained grin through lips stained with a bright pink lipstick
that was bleeding down the creases of her mouth. Hazel,
she said, excuse me, I answered, unsure of why she
was calling me Hazel. Well, my name is Hazel. What's yours? Oh,
I'm Charlie. I told her. Nice to me, you, Charlie.
Have you ever been to this thing before? The young
girl who helped me sat a small, squat pumpkin in
front of Hazel, and it suddenly struck me that she
was matching pumpkin shapes to body types. No, I haven't.
I didn't know it existed until a week ago. Well,
me neither. If I'd known they did this, i'd come
every year. I was struck by the little girl quality
in her voice. I'm Martin. Over there, that's my husband,
She gestured over to where the withered old man was
nodding off on a park bench. Martin never likes to
go to these things, but he's had so much fun today.
He's like a kid again. And she giggled, and I
decided that I liked Hazel. He says we can come
back next year if I want to. Well, that's nice,
I offered, because I didn't know what else to say.
I looked over at her sleeping husband. He wasn't an
attractive old man. I highly doubted that he had been
handsome in his youth. He bore a full set of
acme scar on each cheek, and his mouth seemed too
wide for his thin face, and his nose was long
and hooked. However, I remembered how he had pulled out
his wallet and purchased the quilt for his wife, and
I decided I liked him too. We carved our pumpkins,
trading suggestions and offering support as we did so. Hazel
didn't stop talking. She told me about her children and grandchildren.
She talked about a son who died in Vietnam, and
another who lives somewhere out west now but who always
comes home for Thanksgiving. She told me about the quilt
she'd purchased and how much it reminded her of a
quilt her grandmother had made for her when she was
a little girl. And then she told me how she
and Martin had always planned to travel after he retired
from the factory where he had worked for nearly thirty years,
but that they had robbed him of his pension, and
now they couldn't afford to do much more than go
to little festivals like this. And by the time the
young girl came around and led us over to the
judging table, I knew almost everything a body could know
about an elderly couple leaving Social Security check to check.
There must have been a hundred pumpkins on the hay
racks behind the judges booth. They were separated into categories
by the age of the artist. We were handed cards
on which to write our names, and when we handed
them back, they stuck a sticker on each card with
a number and handed us each a ticket with a
corresponding number. The judging would take place in a few
more hours, and if we placed, we would be invited
to ride on the float and carry our pumpkins. I
said my goodbyes to Hazel, and I wished her and
Martin good luck, and I went to find more food
to eat. When I finally sat down on the bench
where Martin had been napping earlier, I took a long,
hard look around. Most of the pumpkin carvers were adults. Now.
The simple, toothless grins created by the children were gone.
Older minds were cutting out more devious looking faces with evil,
frowning eyes and pointed, jagged teeth. I watched as first
one person in twentieth century apparel, and then another was
replaced by someone who dressed in their period clothing, began
to carve with amazing precision. The initial works were not
much more impressive than anyone else's, but little by little,
simple eye holes and gaping mouths were disappearing. Whole faces
were being carved in with tools that weren't on the table,
but were being pulled from inside of pockets. I was
amazed at how realistic those faces began to look. A
few were whimsical, but mostly they were frightening. I saw
one carve to look like an angry sea captain, into
whose mouth the artist shoved a pipe when he was finished,
And another face resembled a witch. It looked so alive
that I could almost see her meeting with her sisters
in the open scene of Beth. Then I saw a
beastly face. The eye was popped out and dangling by
cords of pumpkin guts, Its cheeks were modeled as if
scarred by smallpox, and it was spewing more pumpkin guts
from its fat lips. It looked like blood was trickling
from its nose, and I couldn't help but feel that
I had seen that face somewhere, maybe not such a
hideous version of it, but definitely that face, and I
decided it must be the artist rendition of Charles Lofton
as the hunchback of Notre Dame. I was beginning to
get tired. Too much food, too many bottles of the
overly sweet root beer, and too many glasses of apple
cider were taking their toll. The judge wasn't due to
start for another hour, but I was imagining my warm,
comfortable hotel room and thinking that no parade would match
the joy of crawling into bed. Another completed pumpkin was
placed beside the dangling eyep can. This one had been
painted with pink lipstick and wore a mop of bright
red hair. I looked at the little squinting eyes and
thought how funny it was that the two pumpkins, side
by sides looked so much like Hazel and Martin. And
it occurred to me then that it must be a
tradition to find people in the crowd, and the car
faces to resemble theirs. I looked up and down the
line of the artists to see if anyone was carving
my face. None of the pumpkins looked anything like me.
Will you come with me please? I looked around, and
the voice that seemed to be whispering in my ear,
the young girl who had sold me the pumpkin, was
bending over the back of my bench. Are you talking
to me? I asked, yes, Can you please come with me?
She was beckoning for me to follow her. Exhaustion was
winning the day. I couldn't imagine where I would ever
find the energy to stand up, much less wine. I
shook my head no, unable to find the worst to
explain that I was too tired. You've won a price,
she said, you have a spot on the float. Her
smile felt more like a leer. All around us, lights
were being lit, or perhaps torches were being ignited. I
couldn't tell which voices were fading in and out. People
were moving about, but it looked more like they were swaying.
I felt dizzy. If you'll follow me, I'll take you
to the float, she said. I don't know if I
was too exhausted to move or too exhausted to disobey,
I sat straight up on the bench and I reached
for my bag. My body was making up my mind
for me. It apparently thought I had enough energy to follow.
My hand reached the spot where my bag should have been,
but there was nothing there. I have your bag, if
you will follow me, the young girl said. Her voice
had a strange, ethereal sound that matched the music that
was still coming from the tent. Come on, she coaxed.
It's this way. The world tilted sideways as I gained
my fee, but I quickly righted myself and I took
the first step forward. She was directly in front of me.
Her long brown hair fell down her back in soft waves.
Such pretty hair, I heard myself mutter. We walked through
the crowd single file, and every now and then she
would stop and look back to make sure I was
still there. Somehow I was. My head was spinning and
my eyes were losing focus. I was certain that I
was going to pass out, but my feet kept moving forward.
We made our way back up the street to the
big red barn. In here, she said, sliding the door
open wide enough for me to step through. It was
warm inside. It had been a relatively warm day, but
the night. At some point, and I can't remember when
it had become nigh, the night air chilled everything, including me.
The interior of the barn glowed with a golden hue
that one hundred lit candles or a blazing fire would create.
That people were moving around inside. They were all dressed
in colonial attire. In front of me was a woman.
Her clothes were from my century, and it told me
that she was not local. She turned to look at me,
and we were both startled to see the disoriented exhaustion
in each other's faces. A voice from somewhere deep inside
me whispered, I told you to leave, now, it's too late.
I felt sick. There was a strange, nauseating smell hanging
in the air, and I couldn't quite place it. It was
thick and metallic in nature, with undertones of something I
could not identify. I closed my eyes for just a moment.
The thud of something heavy hitting the dirt floor somewhere
near me brought me wide awake, and I focused on
the spot where the woman had stood only a moment before,
but she was gone. Automatically, I stepped forward to take
her place in line, and as I did so, I
tripped over her body. I need help, someone was saying.
It was the blacksmith I had seen earlier. This one
passed out. Someone helped me lift her. I watched as
two other men came over and half dragged, half carried
the woman away. I heard the sound of a blade
swishing through the air in the split of something viscous.
The line moved forward another step. My body ached for release.
My eyes wouldn't stay open. There are always gluttons, someone
was saying. Every year there are those who drink too
much root beer and they pass out. It's always the same,
too much root beer. What did he mean? Root Beer
is an alcoholic. It shouldn't make anyone pass out. I
tried to count the number of bottles I had drank
that day, Three maybe four. Another swish of a blade
and another splaight of thick fluid. The line moved forward
another step, and I followed suit. My mind was telling
me to focus. Now. That little voice wasn't whispering anymore.
It was screaming at me to get out and run,
or you're going to die. I forced my eyes open
and took in my surroundings, and people were moving around,
stacking large objects into piles. That little voice was telling
me what I was looking at, but my mind couldn't
accept it. The objects were mannequins, I thought, headless mannequins,
and then I recognized a gaudy white blouse with big
turquoise flowers on it. The head was gone, but I
knew if it did been there, it would have had
harshly dyed red hair. There were people everywhere around me.
I didn't know what to do. I swallowed a scream,
and I forced myself to stand perfectly still. The adrenaline
rush completely erased my confusion. With every ounce of strength
I possessed, I forced myself to quit trembling. I had
to get out of there. Another swipe of the blade
meant another step forward, and I moved aside and allowed
the man who was behind me to step forward in
my place. No one noticed. I stepped back another step
and let the woman behind him step up. No one
saw me. The blade took another head, and the line
stepped forward, and everyone except me. With each beheading, I
moved backwards, and finally I was at the door, and
when it opened, the young girl who had brought me
there was pushing another victim through. Now worried that she
might have seen me, but she didn't, and the door
closed too quickly. Anyway, the front wall of the barn
was dark, not a sight of My only hope was
to fade into the shadows. If I could keep hidden,
maybe I would find another way out. I slept backwards,
and I pressed my whole body into the shadows. And
a few minutes later the door opened again and another
victim stepped inside. I had stood beside that man at
the ring toss. He looked at me, but he was
in too deep of a stupor to recognize me. And
as I stared at him, something behind him caught my eye.
It was the stairs leading to the hayloft. In every
horror movie I've ever watched, the biggest mistake is always
to go up when running from the monster. Don't climb
the stairs, don't climb the ladder, and don't climb the tree.
I knew that, but I also knew there was no
other escape. Clinging tight to the dark wall, I made
my way over and quickly ascended the loft. Halfway up,
I got a glimpse of the front of the line.
There was an altar. I wondered if I could stay
up in the loft for the night and make my
escape the next morning. I felt safe for now. My
adrenaline levels were dropping, and I was beginning to feel
the exhaustion seep in again. The hay looked soft and inviting.
I could have fallen to my knees and slept for
days weeks. Even A voice behind me erased that thought
there are more bags up here, it was saying, as
it climbed up the stairs behind me. Quickly, I dove
behind a stack of haybelles, and I held my breath.
The owner of the voice was directing another voice to
look at the back of the waft, then rummaged around
while I laid as still as I could, And by
the time they found what they were looking for, it
was all I could do to stay awake. Sleep was
all I wanted. Once they were gone, I made my
own way to the back of the barn, and, to
my everlasting joy, there was a door there. I slipped
it open and I peeked out. Thankfully, no one was
back there. However, there was no way to get down either,
and whatever was in that root beer was playing havoc
on my cognitive reasoning, the hay was calling me back
to sleep and my body was doing its best to
betray me. But I had to escape. I looked around
the loft for something, anything, to help me get down.
There was a rope on top of the pile of
bags the two voices had come up to get and
I slid the door open as wide as I dared,
and I dropped the rope down, hoping there wasn't a
window below me that would reveal the rope and give
me away. I've never been the athletic type. Combined with
the overwhelming desire to sleep, I don't know how I
managed to get down, and when my feet were firmly
on the ground, I took off at a dead run
for the covered bridge. I didn't care at that point
who saw me. I just needed to get away. I
was running at what felt like a breakneck speed, but
in reality it was little more than a crawl. Street
Lights or torches let my path. As I ran along
the street toward the bridge, it was getting closer and
freedom was seconds away. And I knew when I got
to my truck that I wouldn't be going back to
my hotel room. I was going home. I was going
to put as much space between me and this horrible place,
these monstrous people, as I possibly could. I took my
first step onto the bridge deck. A relief flooded my body.
My truck was on the other side, just over the water.
I could do this. My hand reached down to feel
for my keys in my front pocket, and there they were.
The bridge was dark, but moonlight illuminated the opening at
the far end. I was going to be safe soon.
I burst through the portal that had led me to
that awful place and came to a staggering halt. My
truck wasn't parked in the field, No vehicles were parked there.
The entire field was empty. Overwhelmed by confusion, I looked
back across the river at the little town, and a
mass of fire burned now in the middle of the park.
Strange music drifted through the air, bringing with it uncertainty.
Was this all a bad dream? When was I going
to wake up? Could I wake up? I turned back
to the field where my truck should have been, and
then down the road where freedom waited. I thought that
was running through my mind was too horrible to accept.
Even as I rejected it, I slid down the river
bank and began to quietly make my way along it,
hidden from view by underbrush and overgrown trees, and back
to the park, where the fire burned. From behind one
of those tall oak trees that bordered the park, I
watched the festivities. The townspeople were dancing around a massive
bonfire where the pumpkin carving tables had been. All around
the fire, on the ground were the headless bodies of
a hundred or more out of towners. Where their heads
had once been, jack o lanterns were now perched. I
saw the bodies of Hazel and Martin, and the man
who stood beside me at the ring toss, the family
of four and their two children, and the young couple
in love. Each pumpkin was a grotesque replica of the
head it had replaced. The smell of their body slowly
roasting bold in the pit of my stomach. The kettlecorn
man was at the center of the activities. He was
dressed now in a white robe with a hood reminiscent
of the types of hoods worn by the ku Klux Klan.
He held up ahead and said something strange over it
before casting it into the fire. I recognized it by
the shit jock of red hair, and everyone cheered. The
Feast of Albreth, by all blessings be bestowed. The man
called the Feast of Albreth, answered his followers. There were
more cheers. He picked up Martin's head and repeated the ritual,
And I watched as he picked up head after a
head and repeated his prayer and cast it into the
fire again and again. The villains cheered, and the smell
of burning flesh was so overpowering that I began to
feel sick. But at last I emptied the contents of
my stomach out onto the dark grass behind the tree.
I had seen enough. That was a blessing. The medicated
root beer came up with the food, sobering me. With
no truck, I saw no reason to go back the
way I came. I knew the river would take me
back to civilization. I had only to follow it. It
took me three days before I saw anything that looked
remotely like the world I had left behind when I
crossed that bridge for the first time. I hadn't dared
leave the river until then. I had drank river water
and gone without food, but I had gotten away that
was all that mattered now. I reported my truck as stolen,
and I received an insurance check that was big enough
to put a down payment on another one. It wasn't
as nice as the first, but I didn't need a
better truck. I wouldn't be traveling around the country to
festivals anymore. My world would never expand beyond my own
backyard again