HAUNTING STURGEONS: Chapter Thirteen

Previously in this blog serial...

(Click here to read Chapter Twelve) 

Now the HAUNTING continues...

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    I am climbing the precarious stone steps of the rebuilt Sturgeons Public Library.  I wasn’t an avid reader as a kid, so my memories of this place are vague pieces at best.  An echoing silence.  A slight musty staleness in the air.  Occasional shushing.  I recall the overall feeling being serious and more for adults than children.

    Two pillars stand guard on either side of the double doors, the only ornate aspect of the two-story brick building.  I enter and take in the one large room, finding it how I remember, but also different.  The walls hold shelves of non-fiction books, with several free-standing rows for fiction.  An assortment of tables and chairs are scattered about, along with a few patrons watching me.  Across from the doors is the main desk, which is where the difference can be seen.

    Instead of the clinched, no-nonsense librarian from another era that I remember, there stands someone only a few years older than me.  His fiery red hair is a splash of vibrant color against the muted shades of green and grey.  He smiles as I approach, my footsteps shattering the silence.  The curious look in his eyes indicates he is trying to place me, but I don’t think I know him.  I would surely remember his vivid put together-disheveled style.

    “Hello, may I help you?” the librarian inquires, his green eyes still searching for recognition. 

    Thinking about the other patrons, I lower my voice to a loud whisper, “Hi, I am looking for a book.”

    As if out of habit, he readies his fingers on the computer keyboard.  “What’s the title?”

    “I don’t know,” I answer, feeling my heart thudding in my chest, “but the author is Benjamin Straker.”  Even with my lowered volume, I swear the lawman’s last name reverberates through the stacks.

    The librarian removes his fingers from the keyboard and gives me a hard look.  Then a knowing smile slides across his face, “Are you Jimmy Schroder?” 

    “Yes,,” I answer uneasily.  “Why do you ask?”

    “You’re on the list.”  Before I can ask about this list, he tells a nearby clerk to watch the front desk and then beckons me with a wave.  The need to know drives me forward and I follow this suddenly talkative stranger.  He tells me his life story as we walk through a door into a back room.  His name is Simon Hollis and he interned at the library as a teenager.  Then he came back to become the youngest head librarian in Sturgeons history.   Simon had also been in the same class as Tommy, but I still don’t remember him.  He grins as we walk down a narrow flight of stairs, “You know, your brother cut a fine figure.  Such a waste that he wasn’t more like…us.” 

    I don’t even know how to respond as we continue down the stairs, especially with his sly wink.  Obviously everyone from the elderly to his peers wanted my brother, but I would rather focus on more important topics.  “So, what’s this about a list?” 

    “Oh, it’s a list of names,” Simon answers vaguely as he flips on a set of lights hanging from the ceiling.  Shelves of old, dusty books fill the basement, along with a solitary table and two chairs in the middle.  “Names of people he believed would be interested in reading his book.” 

    “You mean Benjamin Straker’s book?” I ask, just to make sure the librarian and I are still on the same page. 

    “Yes,” Simon answers, his back turned to me as he studies one particular shelf.  “I only met Straker once, when he left his book here.  He struck me as a nice guy, but he split town with his husband before I could get to know him.  I swear the good ones are always married or hetero-centric.  Ah, here it is!” 

    I watch as the librarian removes an oversized paperback from the shelf and blows dust off of it.  Coughing a little, he places the volume on the table.  I can barely believe Ms. Minch steered me in the right direction and now the lawman’s book is in front of me.  Taking a seat, I study the green and black cover, but there is something peculiar.  I open the book and feel my heart sink. 

    “What language is this?” I question as I flip through a few pages of unfamiliar markings.

    “It’s shorthand.  Guess Straker was eccentric.”  Simon grins and takes a seat across from me, “Flip it over.”

    I do as he says and study the revelation.  The back cover is almost identical to the front but the text has been translated.  Can the lawman’s words actually explain what happened to my brother?  Could it change my feelings?  Alter my perception of the last ten years?  Caught up in my thoughts, I forget that I’m not alone and read the cover out loud, “Shadowtown, a novel by Benjamin J. Straker.”

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The HAUNTING continues in…

  

Thank you for reading or listening to my half-blind words! 

Freak Out, 

JLH 

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Click the pic ⤵️ to open November’s Collective Eye interview with artist-author…

HAUNTING STURGEONS: Chapter Twelve

Previously in this blog serial...

(Click here to read Chapter Eleven) 

Now the HAUNTING continues...

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    I am staring out the windshield of my car, the parking lot of The Golden Dusk stretching out before me.  Out of all the names to fall from the ancient lips of Ms. Minch, it had to be Benjamin Straker.  The lawman who passed my family’s car, igniting a rage in my father.  A rage that forced him out of the vehicle to pursue the lawman.  A move that caused my mother to follow them, leaving me alone.  

    The noise from the traffic jam was so loud that I could still hear it no matter how hard I covered my ears.  Shouting voices, revving engines and the endless blaring of horns mixed into what sounded like the end of the world.  The motorcycles speeding by created sudden vibrations and more shouting, which kept me in a fetal position in the backseat.

    It felt like hours before my parents returned to the car.  I stayed firmly curled up, watching them, waiting.  Waiting for something to happen, but they were silent.  My father looked like he had been in a fight.  His shirt was torn and there was dirt or blood on the side of his face.  The severe way he clutched the steering wheel made me think he wasn’t finished.

    My mother sat perfectly still for a few minutes until she turned to me.  She reached out a hand, trying to provide me, or maybe herself, with some sort of comfort.  I was only 11, but I clearly saw the fear in her eyes.  Fear of losing me like she lost Tommy?  Fear of the chaos around us?  Fear of my father?  She started to say something, but my father interrupted.

    He shouted at my mother.  Shouted that she should’ve stayed out of it.  That he had the situation under control and could’ve ended this.  My mother turned her attention to him, trying to calm him down.  She explained how she was afraid he was going to kill the lawman.  He slammed his fists against the steering wheel and bellowed that the bastard would’ve deserved it.

    I covered my ears again as my mother started crying and my father continued raging.  Our car then lurched forward and I closed my eyes.  We were finally moving but it wasn’t a smooth ride.  I felt the car jerk with every obstacle we hit.  A garbage can?  A storefront sign?  Letting the chaotic noise in, I grabbed the backseat as my father suddenly turned left.  I opened my eyes long enough to see passing buildings on either side of our car.  We were driving through an alley and it wasn’t long before our car shifted as we left pavement for dirt.  Without looking, I knew we were getting out of Sturgeons on a winding back road.

    I shut my eyes, shoving the memory back down again.  Ten years have taught me that the pain and fear will never go away, unless…maybe.  I open my eyes and imagine Tommy sitting beside me.  His expression is placid as he tilts his head towards the back, indicating something.  I look in the rearview mirror and gaze upon Stickler Hill in the distance.  

    Averting my eyes from the persistent reminder, I shake my head.  The clock is ticking, but there’s still time.  Time for myself.  Time for Eddie.  I reach for my phone, but hesitate.  He’s probably still at work and I need to focus.  Starting my car, I pull away from The Golden Dusk, zeroing in on the library and the possibility of the lawman’s book. 

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The HAUNTING continues in…

Thank you for reading or listening to my half-blind words! 

Freak Out, 

JLH 

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Click the pic ⤵️ to get a little jazzy…

freakboy on film: RING-A-DING RHYTHM! (The Third Hammer-Amicus Blogathon Edition)

 

I offered a taste of horror for the first one and a doctoring of sci-fi for the second.  Now I’m going to get a little jazzy for The Third Hammer-Amicus Blogathon, hosted by Gill of Realweegiemidget Reviews and Barry of Cinematic Catharsis! 

1962, written by Milton Subotsky / directed by Richard Lester 

A small town has been infested with a sudden bombardment of swinging, gyrating, jazz-crazed teenagers!  These sudden pop-up dance parties have become such a nuisance that even the mayor can’t have a nice quiet cup of coffee anymore.  He effectively kills the mood by creating a law where businesses using jukeboxes and television sets must get an entertainment license.  What will the younger generation do now?

Two plucky…teenagers? 

Will the disgruntled teens go on a Children of the Corn killing spree or, even worse, call Kevin Bacon for Footloose advice on really bad dancing and fighting for the right to party?  Thankfully no, they do what any teen would do in 1962.  Put on a show, of course!  Two particularly plucky teens (going on late 20’s) venture to the big city to find a DJ to host the show and watch a crazy amount of potential musical acts.  This will prove to the mayor and other killjoy grown-ups that jazz isn’t a corrupting influence, but a way of life.  Well, at least until The Beatles turn up in a year or two.

The Brook Brothers on an ego trip.

This is one thing that truly boggles my mind about Ring-A-Ding Rhythm!  I don’t know what teens in England were listening to during that weird time between Elvis and The Beatles, but jazz seems an odd choice.  Especially since it’s less beatnik jazz and more big band orchestra.  I mean, is cutting a rug to an uptempo version of When the Saints Go Marching In really considered corruptive or rebellious?  This ridiculousness, along with some almost Airplane! style humor, makes me wonder if this film is a satire of American rock ‘n roll flicks from the 1950’s.  

Does twisting really make Chubby Checker happy?

Similar to Go, Johnny, Go!(1959) and Don’t Knock the Rock (1956), Ring-A-Ding Rhythm! has a threadbare plot that’s just an excuse to showcase musical talent and sell records.  I mostly enjoyed the performances, with a few that really stood out for me.  Gene Vincent is out of this world as he sings about taking a spaceship to Mars.  The Brook Brothers are squeaky clean cute as they sing a song ending in bigamy.  It was also great to see Chubby Checker, even though I could tell he was sick to death of doing “The Twist” yet again. 

Dinner in a show.

Then there is The Temperance Seven.  I had never heard of them, but they stole the film by embracing the nonsense.  This sedate group takes a slow ballad and turns it into comedy gold by having members of the band eating a meal or falling asleep while waiting for their turn to play.  Then, in a truly inspired moment of absurdity, the lead vocalist starts singing in French (I think) and subtitles appear.  I took a screenshot, zoomed in and discovered the subtitles were also in French!

One way to sing a torch song.

The acting in Ring-A-Ding Rhythm! is incidental.  Helen Shapiro and Craig Douglas are fine as the plucky, sort of teens.  Felix Felton is amusing as the perplexed mayor.  Deryck Guyler is perfect as the narrator who tells the story and helps the plucky teens get to the big city by simply changing the film behind them.  The other teens and grown-ups do a serviceable job at basically being extras. 

This is your brain on jazz!

In conclusion, Ring-A-Ding Rhythm! is generally a fun film with some truly funny moments, but the never-ending performances can grow a little tedious.  However the nonsense of it all held my attention and amused me.  So, get your entertainment license and shake your bum to this oddball little Amicus production!  (I watched it on You Tube)

Thank you for reading or listening to my half-blind words.

Freak Out, 

JLH 

P.S. Click the pic ⤵️ to go, Go, GO…

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In case someone wants to get addicted to my current blog serial…

HAUNTING STURGEONS: Chapter Eleven

Previously in this blog serial...

(Click here to read Chapter Ten) 

Now the HAUNTING continues...

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    I am taking a seat on an old wooden chair, its complete lack of comfort matching my every sensation.  The promise of a first hand account of ten years ago forces me to tolerate Floridia Minch a little longer.  I know she is a passive aggressive gossipmonger, but she may hold insight into what happened to my brother.

    “I happened to glance out my window that evening, minding my own business, when I heard a violation of the noise ordinance,” Ms. Minch begins, emphasizing her own innocence.  I want to ask what this has to do with anything, but I wait as patiently as possible.  “There sat Bertha Waterbottom on her rusty porch swing, blaring that wicked country-gospel music as if it were three in the afternoon.  I don’t know how many times I told that woman how gospel should always come before country.  Now, where was I?” 

    This does not inspire confidence, not that I should have any in this bitter old woman.  “You were watching your neighbor as she sat on her porch swing.” 

    “That’s right,” she rubs her chin.  “Anyway, her porch light faded out and I assumed she hadn’t paid her electric bill again.  Then the light returned a few minutes later and she was gone.” 

    I sit motionless on the uncomfortable chair, trying to process the simplicity of what she witnessed.  She makes it sound like seeing someone disappear is an everyday occurrence, but maybe it was back then.  Tracy Newcastle allegedly saw what happened to Tommy in Stickler Woods, but my parents said she was in shock.  All they told me was that Tommy was gone.  That he disappeared and was presumed dead.  That the person who destroyed the town was responsible.  Just like when I was a kid, I want to know more.

    “That’s it?  One minute here and then gone?” I ask as my irritation increases.  For someone who prides herself in knowing everything about everyone, Ms. Minch is lacking in important details.  “What actually happened to your neighbor?  Didn’t you hear anything?” 

    “The widow Waterbottom’s blasphemous music was too loud to hear anything else, so all I know is what I saw.”  She shrugs her bony shoulders, “I suggest you go to the library.” 

    “That’s my next stop.”  I keep my response short because I want out of this pointless conversation and away from this frustrating resident of The Golden Dusk.

    “Then ask the librarian for the book.”  She waves a hand, as if dismissing me.

    “What book?” I inquire, ignoring the gesture and doubting a book recommendation will be of any use.

    Ms. Floridia Minch looks at me like I’m the stupidest person in the world, and maybe I am.  I feel like it as she sighs and then casually answers, “Benjamin Straker’s book, of course.”

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The HAUNTING continues in…

Thank you for reading or listening to my half-blind words! 

Freak Out, 

JLH 

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I finally finished remodeling my online home! 

Click the pic ⤵️ to check it out! 

HAUNTING STURGEONS: Chapter Ten

Previously in this blog serial...

(Click here to read Chapter Nine) 

Now the HAUNTING continues…

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    I am standing at the threshold to an inner sanctum quite unlike the other rooms I passed in The Golden Dusk.  Lush velvet curtains filter the morning sun into a warm blue, giving the impression of being underwater.  Neatly framed photos and inspirational pictures dot the walls, almost as if they are collectively directing attention to the deep purple recliner and its decrepit owner.  Ms. Floridia Minch, somehow still alive and older than the dirt she enjoys spreading, sits staring intently.

    Without taking her eyes off me, she lowers the volume of either religious or country music.  “Just you, James Schroder?  I’m surprised the Newcastle boy isn’t with you.  You and your brother could never resist the basic temptation of that family.” 

    I ignore the insinuation and step into the room, focusing on her burgundy wig more than her watchful eyes.  “I’m here about my brother, Ms. Minch and what you saw.”  

    “I have seen many things over the years.”  Ms. Minch fondles the pair of binoculars hanging around her dainty, wrinkled neck.  She then goes through a list of alleged transgressions.  From witnessing a man named Ned relieving himself in public years ago to Mrs. Decker failing to wear a bra at arts and crafts yesterday, I feel my mind wandering until Tommy comes up in her gossip.  “I was naturally shocked when I saw your brother servicing the widow Waterbottom.” 

    “Wait.  What did you see Tommy do?”  I take a bold step forward. 

    Ms. Floridia Minch, either ignoring or not noticing my eager tone, casually answers, “Your brother was mowing the widow Waterbottom’s weed infested lawn.” 

    I stare directly into her condemning eyes, trying to understand the significance of her words, “I’m confused.” 

    “The widow Waterbottom wasn’t,” Ms. Minch scoffs.  “That woman watched your bare-chested brother like a hawk, inviting him to her rickety porch for store bought lemonade.  He stood there, gulping down a glass as she drank in his young, sweaty torso.  Disgusting.” 

    I imagine Tommy standing behind the ancient woman’s recliner, a sarcastically bemused look  on his face.  This can’t be what my parents whispered about when they thought I wasn’t listening.  Everyone who knew my brother knew he was a show-off.  It wasn’t news then and it’s definitely not now. 

    “Well, thank you for your time, Ms. Minch.  You obviously didn’t see anything strange ten years ago.”  I turn to leave, feeling irritated and stupid for ever believing this gossipy old lady would have anything helpful to say. 

    “Oh…that,” she states slowly, forcing me to face her again.  “You’ve come to hear the story of how my heathen neighbor disappeared right before my eyes.”

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The HAUNTING continues in…

 

Thank you for reading or listening to my half-blind words! 

Freak Out, 

JLH 

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Books & blogs from this author/blogger…

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