The Cigar Box

Friday is here again and it's been a bit of a rough week. My macbook died and then our dishwasher broke, flooding my kitchen, destroying the ceiling below that floor, in my basement, ruining the hardwood floor of my dining room, etc. Fun times. Hopefully someone from the insurance company will show up today and it will all be covered. The kitchen stinks like a dirty aquarium now. It's pretty gross. However, I managed to write this story. 

The Cigar Box

I was just shy of thirty that year when I took the job in Dalhover. It was a ways from Tennessee where I’d grown up, but I needed the work, so I packed it all up and headed north. Dalhover was a picturesque, small seaside community. I was to be a records clerk for the town and the pay would do me fine. I had set myself up to stay in the Dalhover Inn while I looked for a place to rent. The bus rolled into the station at half past ten in the morning, on a sunny, warm July day. I got my duffle bag and suitcase from out of the underbody baggage compartment and once I passed through the dingy, well-worn station, I was able to get my first good look at the town.

                Dalhover was perched on the edge of the world, where the ocean continually beat hard against the face of black cliffs with large, crashing, tumultuous waves. There was a small harbor protected by a breakwater which allowed for some fishing and commerce to go on. The fishing was suffering by the looks of it, as the town had seen better days. Surrounded on its remaining sides by coastal bogs limiting the expansion of its borders, the village was beginning to fade. The railway had once offered the hope of new industry, but that had never materialized. Now the rusted tracks lead along the back edge of town, on a raised gravel bed that kept them from sinking into the swamps. It made a good walking trail, easily accessed by the dilapidated station house. In fact, the old train station was also the bus station. The village had sturdy houses built tight into the shelter of the rocks. Roads and paths went up and down from the harbor. These were houses of character. Old New England houses, sturdy and tall, but now fading to gray, or with peeling paint, and sometimes broken windows. A number looked quite abandoned with collapsing chimneys and overgrown lawns.  I could see a theater though, and a sort of general store at which I could probably get some groceries later. I threw my duffle on my shoulder, hoisted up my suitcase and began to saunter down the main street until I came to the inn.

                The inn looked like a cozy affair, made of stone; it was in much better repair than its neighbours. Soon I was settled into a room at the back corner of the building on the ground floor. I had a view of a small backyard lawn with flower beds, beyond which was a bit of forest leading into more boggy territory. Looking out the window, I gave a sigh. What had I gotten myself into? Perhaps on weekends I could take the bus to the nearest metropolis. Anyways, I figured, better to make the best of it. The day’s paper was laid out on a table along with a pamphlet advertising a local restaurant called ‘The Mighty Fork’ whatever that implied. I tucked the paper under my arm and headed out for lunch.

                The Mighty Fork was kind of like a pub, where the grizzled locals hung about eating simple pub fare, drinking, and getting all the local gossip. It wasn’t bad food, but as I ate and perused the paper, ‘The Dalhover Daily’, I found I was getting some seriously curious looks. Downright rude I’d venture to say, as one old geezer pulled out his spectacles, tottered over, looked me up and down, let out a harrumph noise then made his way back to his chair. The place was run; I quickly discovered by an older couple named Mary and Ted. Ted had the personality and appearance of a large, dimwitted slug. Mary was in charge obviously, running about, serving dishes and yelling orders to her husband and bantering with the customers in a congenial way. As Mary came past, she re-filled my coffee, gave the table a quick wipe here and there with her tea towel, and leaned in towards me, “Never you mind these old gizzards. They’re just like the seagulls flocking about, useless panderers wanting a free scrap or a bit o’ beer! But, they’re not bad folks in the end.  Curious about you they are! Not much coming through here anymore. Can I ask your business here, if you don’t mind?”

“I accepted a position as the records clerk, supposed to start the day after tomorrow. My name is Andrew, nice to meet you!” I extended my hand, but she pulled me up and into a hug. Then she called for attention and introduced me to the locals as the new guy. Turns out that Dalhover people were actually a really nice bunch and I found the appeal to it right there in that restaurant. I go there for a drink every evening now between supper and bed, right after a good stroll. It was nice to be made welcomed.

                That first day though when I was nervous it was awfully nice of them to take me in, so to speak; small town charm and all that jazz. They sat with me and helped find me a nice place to rent, cheap. It was a small house, with one bedroom. I happily called the folks back home from the inn that night to let them know I was making out okay. My dad told me he was proud of me, which sure felt good. Over the next week I got myself settled in, had the necessary connections made for phone and electrical and began to get accustomed to my new job. I will not bore you with the trivialities and dullness though of records management. It does not pertain to this story. It was just nice to have that secure nine to five, and a good roof over my head.  It was maybe two and a half weeks after the move though when things got interesting.

I’d had myself a nice supper and as it was just entering into August, to go for an evening walk was just the thing. I figured I’d follow the tracks in back of the house to downtown, pick up something to read at the library and then head over to The Mighty Fork for a beer or two. I locked up behind myself and started on my short jaunt. As I walked I realized how still the air had become and I was just entering into a small wooded area. Ahead was a short, old rail bridge which crossed over a bit of greenish swamp. Grey, moss covered broken stumps jutted out of the water like smashed and broken teeth in an ancient rotten mouth. Although it was warm, for some reason a chill came up my spine, and suddenly anxious I hastened ahead to get to the other side. I had maybe another ten minutes to get to the back of the station house. I kind of regretted not having taken the shorter road passing by out front of my place now as dusk came on. I stepped onto the bridge.

                Planks had been nailed down across the old ties so that there were no gaps, making it easy to cross. My footsteps made their thunking, thump beat on the boards as I went. I relaxed a little, and took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air. I heard a weird, watery blurp noise from below. Then, some more splashing movement in the water.  I looked over the side rail of the bridge and there, at the edge of the water was a man. However, not a regular looking man, he moved disjointedly, climbing out of the water on his hands and feet, slapping at the ground. His skin stained by the tannins of the water to the color of well-oiled leather.  I could hear him groan as he pulled himself up, scrabbling for purchase with his limbs amongst the dark leaf litter at the water’s edge. I watched as one hand drove down upon a stick protruding upward and it was driven right through the hand with a kind of schlock noise. It ignored this and just kept coming, pulling the hand free and moving forth. I came to the realization that I had not moved as if frozen in this horrible moment in time. The man or thing, whatever it was turned its head, looking directly at me with a cadaverous grinning face.

The mouth opened, and with a hiss of air it sorrowfully bawled, “Yoooooooouuuuu.”

My legs returned and I ran. I ran across the bridge and down the path, wondering how fast this thing could travel or if it even had to. Hopefully, if it was some sort of manifestation it was tied to the bridge or the water and I could escape easily. I chanced a look back. It had made it up to the railroad bed and was lurching after me. I ran again about another three hundred yards and looked back again.

                There was nothing there! What the heck I asked myself over and over, scratching my head. I moved on into town, confused and wondering. Was this a hallucination? Was I going mental? How could this even be? I decided at the library to check out a couple of ghost books. I was a deeply rooted sceptic when it came to this kind of thing. I suppose we all say this kind of thing until something happens that we cannot explain. The librarian looked at me a bit funny when she saw what I was checking out.

“A bit of spooky reading this time, eh Mister Ellis?” she smiled. Mostly I’d been checking out westerns and a book on local wild plants because of curiosity.

“Please, call me Andrew. Mister Ellis is my father.” I liked to occasionally throw out these witty gems. I continued, “Say, what can you tell me about local lore? Urban legends; that kind of thing.”

“Well,” she leaned over the counter conspiratorially, “the thing is we don’t have any! Ha, I got you, didn’t I? I suppose this village is too small and run down to have anything that way. Nothing ever goes on here.”

“Nothing? Nothing at all?” I queried, “What about the stuff you always hear about, like say ghosts of the railroad or a haunted house the kids won’t go near? Any of that type of thing?”

“Hmmm, not that I can say. We’re just too gosh darn dull for that. Although, I do think I may have something here about stories from local fishermen.” She raised her hands, making a silly face and wiggled her fingers, “Strange tales of the sea and the spirits and creatures that dwell below!”

I laughed, “Thanks, I think I needed that chuckle. I don’t believe what I am looking for has to do with the sea though. I’ll just check out these for now.”

I definitely did not take the same route back home. I did not go for a drink either. I just hurried along, got inside and bolted my door. Then the back door, after which, I secured the windows and turned on a couple of extra lights. I settled down in my second hand but new to me comfy armchair and began to read. Although I did not find anything directly useful, I was able to draw some conclusions.

Firstly, I had decided I was still sane and rational. There was no evidence of a continuing or worsening delusion, at least not that I could tell. I wasn’t sure how to test that exactly, but it was what I had decided would be the case until proven otherwise.

Secondly, if this thing made another appearance, I should be better prepared. If it was a living, breathing creature then I should carry a physical weapon. Still in my suitcase was a hunting knife which I decided to have upon me from now on. If the creature was a spirit, then my reading suggested crosses, amulets of crystal, the burning of sage, reading aloud from the bible, and simply surrounding oneself with a circle of salt. The sceptic within rolled his eyes!

Thirdly and last, it was there on that path for a reason. I should attempt to uncover that reason which could lead to a proper resolution of these events. I should do what I could to conclude this incident and eliminate any mental or physical threat upon me.

I decided to begin with a thorough examination of the area of the railroad bridge. In the daylight, tomorrow morning, which would be Saturday. I turned out the lights and headed to bed.  I guess I fell right asleep, as I don’t even remember my head hitting the pillow. The next thing I knew I was opening my eyes and I could just make out the hands of the clock on the wall. It was three o’clock in the morning. I was slightly annoyed as I couldn’t understand why I would wake up then. I rolled over and realized I was not alone. There was the man again looking out my window with his twisted leathery back silhouetted in the moonlight shining in. Startled, I jumped and as I did he turned his freakish grinning head toward me.

“Yoooooouuuuu muuuuussst,” It hissed in that ungodly voice as I guess I probably was making an attempt to climb backwards up my bedroom wall. The man lifted an arm and pointed his finger out the window. Then just like that he was gone again! I got up, turned on the light and checked all around. I was alone and nothing had been disturbed. I looked out the window but all I could see was an old maple tree in the backyard. Had he been pointing at that, or at the tracks beyond? What must I do? I did not sleep another wink. I paced about the house, frantic and wondering.

                After what seemed like forever, the sun appeared and in the bright light of morning, all seemed much improved. Instead of heading to the bridge, I wanted the company of people so I went out for breakfast. Mary and Ted were welcoming as usual. I ordered myself a farmer’s breakfast with a mug of hot coffee. When Mary came by for a top up on it, fishing for information   I asked casually, “What can you tell me about the place I’m renting? Is it very old?”

                She smiled brightly, “That house is about as old as the village. Now the person to ask though would be Jenny, you know, the librarian? I bet she never mentioned she’s a widow. Back a few years ago, that was her house. She was married to a guy name of Ben Fellows. Married about six years or so, if I figure rightly. Folks could see it all over that their marriage wasn’t working out happily ever after. Rumor was that Ben was shipping stuff that wasn’t legal in his boat to up north, and packing away the money. When he was on land though, he was drunk as a skunk and as angry as a fit of cats! Suspicion was he liked to take that anger out on Jenny. Got too drunk one night though and fell off the rail bridge. Probably gave his head a good bonk and drowned. Jenny shortly after moved out and took the library job. She seems to have a bit of cloud over her since, you know? Too many bad memories still haunting her, I suppose.”

                I thanked her for the information and said maybe I’d ask Jenny a few questions about the place. I headed back home, wondering about the information and if the man who I was seeing could be Ben Fellows. It was a head scratcher all right. Around mid-morning I could be seen though out in the yard, doing a bit of maintenance, weeding the beds, stuff like that just to busy myself while thinking. I looked over at the maple tree occasionally, but there was no sign of anyone else. I even walked over to that big old tree and looking up at it I could see how gnarled it was. Looking down, I noticed the grass around the roots had grown tall and for me, unsightly. I went down on my hands and knees and began to pull out the long clumps closest to in around the roots. My hand felt something odd down in the grass, more smooth and square then what should’ve been there. As my fingers grasped and pulled forth an old cigar box, a voice seemed to carry to me on the wind, a cold whisper, “Yooouuu muuuust.” I shuddered as I stood and carried the box into the house and took a seat at the kitchen table.

                The box was a bit weather worn but otherwise intact. It still had a bit of the La Palina label and I could make out the face of the lady fairly clear. I was a bit timid to pop open the lid but when I did I need not have worried. There was a simple folded piece of paper and the key to a safety deposit box. I unfolded the paper and began to read as follows:

                If you are reading this, my name is Ben Fellows. My bitch wife has poisoned me while eating supper. She doesn’t think I know and I’m making a break for it down the rails to try to get to Doc Stewart’s office before I die. If I do die and you find this, my wife Jenny Fellows murdered me. She wanted all my money I worked too hard for to let her spend on frilly dresses and shit. If I’m dead you can have my money, as long as it is not going to her. That bitch is coming for me.

                What followed was the name of the bank where Ben had been placing his money. I guess he hadn’t drunk it all away.  I’ve never seen Ben again. Jenny seems to be watching me though. So I’m careful. Everyone thinks I take my vacations back home, but I’ve been going down to my vacation place in Florida. Got a nice place on the beach where someday soon I’ll be retiring to, thanks to Ben.