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