Darkening Sturgeons: Chapter Thirteen

My hotbed mess of blog fiction continues...

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DARKENING STURGEONS

Chapter Thirteen

by John L. Harmon

 

    Chief Deputy Clyde Woodhouse sits in a generic grey car, with POLICE painted on its sides.  His hazel eyes are alert and focused on the white van and the entrance to Gordon’s bar.  This particular street is empty, but a more-than-dull roar can be heard in the distance.  The sound of vehicles and people…the vibration of fleeing humanity.

    He shudders, thinking about everything as he fiddles with the turning signal switch.  It would be easy to join the mob and get the hell out of Sturgeons, but there are too many questions that need answering.  One of which he may have a personal stake in.  This is something he should discuss with Ben, but hasn’t figured out how to broach the subject.

    As the Sheriff enters the Chief Deputy’s thoughts, he emerges from a nearby alleyway.  Walking slowly, but steadily, Ben’s physical appearance is initially lost on Clyde.  He is simply blinded by relief that his superior made it through the hotbed mess of Sturgeons apparently unscathed.

    Apparently.

    Exiting the generic gray car, Clyde Woodhouse is, for the first time, stunned motionless.  No fiddling or fidgeting occurs as he sees that the Sheriff is far from unscathed.

    His slacks are dirty and ragged, while his shirt is untucked and ripped on one side.  Dirt is smeared on his grim face, giving texture to the blood from a gash near his left eye.  Benjamin Straker has seen better days.

    Upon leaving Headquarters and realizing the SUV was blocked in, Ben was confronted with the scared and ill-tempered citizens of Sturgeons.  They hollered at him.  They cursed him.  They illogically blamed him for Bob Kinney, Tommy Schroder, Bertha Waterbottom, and a few other disappearances, including Gordon, that had not been officially reported.

    Even after cutting through the initial street madness, Ben had to dive out of the way of several missile-like motorcycles.  Then as an act of final indignity, for all involved, Tommy’s father and a group of men followed him from the vehicular bedlam, itching for old-fashioned justice.  Ben was forced to knock out two of them and restrain Mr. Schroder with wrist straps before Mrs. Schroder showed up, stopping the bare-knuckled fight before it escalated beyond control…beyond fists.

    Yet, despite his ransacked appearance, the beige hat of Lawrence sits proudly upon his head.  This one seemingly small detail lets Chief Deputy Clyde Woodhouse know that Sheriff Benjamin Straker is not down for the count and there is no need to press for details.

    The two men exchange silent nods as Ben comes to a stop beside the hood of generic gray.  He gives a glance to the large white van in front of Gordon’s bar.

    “Inconspicuous is not their strong suit.”

    “No, it sure isn’t,” Clyde agrees with a breathless chuckle.

    Ben reaches a raw-knuckled hand up to adjust the beige.  “Are you ready to find out who they are and what they know?”

    “Ready as ever.”

    The law enforcement duo maneuver across the street and down half a block.  Ben gives Clyde a firm look as they reach the bar entrance.  Before either can react, the door suddenly swings open and they come face to face with the scientific duo.

    “We’ve been expecting you…” Christine, the yellow-blond woman, begins and then looks down upon the shorter man, “…Clyde.”

 

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Click CHAPTER FOURTEEN to continue.

Until next time, Readers, be well and Freak Out,

JLH

   

 

Darkening Sturgeons: Chapter Twelve

The continuing fictional story of a town in crisis...

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DARKENING STURGEONS

Chapter Twelve

by John L. Harmon

 

    Sheriff Benjamin Straker stands, yearbook in hand, in shock and awe at the chaos spread out before him.  It is something akin to a science fiction film, and Joe, the dispatcher, is correct…it is a madhouse. 

    Cars, trucks, and vehicles of every shape and size line both sides of the street in front of Sturgeons Police Headquarters.  All creeping along, moving in the same direction, as motorcycles zip in between and around with flagrant ease.  Honking, revving of engines and profanity-laced shouting add an urgent and terrifying ambiance to the unbelievable sight.

    He quickly assesses that he will need protection amidst the crowds.  Shutting the solid door and walking determinedly to his office, Ben gives Joe a, “What the hell is going on out there?”

    Joe follows, answering the best he can with what information he has gathered from emergency calls and overheard conversations.  “The disappearances are getting to people, so they are fleeing Sturgeons.”

    “Fleeing Sturgeons,” Ben mutters in contemplation as he sets the yearbook on the desk and unlocks the cabinet in a corner of the Sheriff’s Office.  His thoughts turn to Miranda, Ned, and Sheriff Lester Lawrence.  They all fled Sturgeons, leaving him to pick up the pieces.  Now, more than ever, he understands what his mother must have felt when his father abandoned them…overwhelmed, helpless and alone.

    Just like his mother, Ben is neither helpless nor alone.  Shutting and locking the cabinet, he turns to Joe with an order.  “I’m needed out there, Joe.  Stay at your post and try to soothe the fears of anyone who may call.”

    “Will do, Sheriff.”

    “You’re a good man, Joe.”

    Sheriff and Dispatcher leave the office and part ways at the enormous front counter.  Before Ben ventures away from the safety of indoors, he whips out his cell and calls Chief Deputy Woodhouse.

    “What is your location, Clyde?”

    “I was just getting ready to report in,” Clyde mentions for no particular reason.  “I tracked the white van to Gordon’s.  A man and a woman just entered the bar in that odd way Ms. Minch described.”

    Ben pauses for a beat, deciding the best course of action.  “Stay put, Clyde.  Don’t engage.  I’ll be there a-sap.”

    “Careful, Ben.  Sturgeons is a hotbed mess right now.”

    “I know.”

    Sheriff Benjamin Straker shoves the cell in his pocket and grabs the handle of the gun of Lawrence holstered at his side.  He doesn’t want to use it, but he finds comfort in the fact he can if the need should arise.  Mentally prepared as possible in such a confusing situation, he opens the solid door and steps out into vehicular bedlam.

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Click CHAPTER THIRTEEN to continue.

Until next time, Readers, be well and Freak Out,

JLH

Darkening Sturgeons: Chapter Eleven

Yet another entry in my piece of blog fiction...

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DARKENING STURGEONS

Chapter Eleven

by John L. Harmon

 

    Joe Grossman, the tall lanky dispatcher with a shock of blond/nearly white hair, bursts into the employee lounge, waking Sheriff Benjamin Straker from a particularly intriguing dream.  The two men stare awkwardly at each other for a moment, adjusting their bearings.

    “Well, Joe?” Ben inquires, quickly sitting up and buttoning his shirt.

    “Leslie, uh, I mean Officer Johns reported in.  She spotted the white van at the Teeter-Totter and—”

    “The Teeter-Totter?”

    Out of all the places in all of Sturgeons, the Teeter-Totter Motel was the last place he would’ve looked for the blond woman and Samuel Dwyer.  It is a seedy little joint on the outskirts of town and was once, according to legend, a house of ill-repute.

    “And there’s more,” Joe adds.

    Having put on his boots, Ben grabs the beige hat and picks up the yearbook.  “Let’s talk as we walk, Joe.”

    “Chief Deputy Woodhouse reported for duty—”

    “What time is it?” Ben interrupts, checking his watch as they make their way through the Sturgeons Police Headquarters.  “It’s nine o’clock, Joe!  Why was I allowed to sleep so long?”

    “Everything happened in just the last ten minutes.”

    Ben stops at the enormous front counter and stares at the empty chair.  He briefly wonders if he is simply feeling confused after being startled from a hard sleep.  “It’s nine in the morning and Miss Whiffle is not at her post?  She is the most punctual person I know, aside from Officer Johns.”

    Joe points to a colorful item on the counter, “She dropped it off for you.”

    “Another day, another envelope,” Ben whispers to himself as he places the yearbook down and picks up the pink rectangle.  Tearing it open, he slides out a folded pink note.  A dumbfounded silence fills the room as he is confronted with a second letter of resignation.  It seems that Miss Whiffle has run off with ‘Ol Ned to elope, forever leaving Sturgeons.

    The Sheriff recalls the comforting nature Miss Miranda Whiffle displayed towards the emotionally distraught Ned Dobson.  Perhaps they always had feelings for one another and it took the mysterious disappearance of Bob Kinney to bring everything to the surface.  The only thing Ben knows for certain is how disturbed he feels about this new/old couple leaving Sturgeons, but there are far more vital issues to deal with.  He stuffs the envelope and note into the yearbook.

    “I’m sorry for interrupting you, Joe.  You were saying something about Clyde.”

    “Yes.  Officer Woodhouse reported for duty and is now trailing the white van.”

    “I thought you said Officer Johns located it at the Teeter-Totter.”

    “Leslie did,” Joe explains calmly, despite feeling irritated at his superior, “but she lost track of the van when it left the motel.  Chief Deputy Woodhouse quickly picked up its trail.”

    Ben gives the tall lanky dispatcher a seriously quizzical look.  “How could Leslie possibly lose track of that van in Sturgeons?”

    Joe Grossman points a long finger from the end of one of his long arms towards the main door of the Sturgeons Police Headquarters.  “It’s a madhouse out there, Sheriff,” he opinionates, his voice slightly quivering.

    Sheriff Benjamin Straker curiously and cautiously walks to the solid door and reaches for the handle.  He glances back at Joe as if to make sure this is real and he is not still sleeping on the old beat-up brown couch.  Certain of reality, as much as he can be, Ben yanks open the door, encountering sights and sounds he has only experienced at the cinema.

 

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Click CHAPTER TWELVE to continue.

Until next time, Readers, be well and Freak Out,

JLH

 

Darkening Sturgeons: Chapter Ten

This chapter of my blog fiction is a week late for good reason...

Last week was the publication of my e-book "Dark Excursions: third set" and it did sort of eat up my time...

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DARKENING STURGEONS

Chapter Ten

by John L. Harmon

 

    Sheriff Benjamin Straker and Chief Deputy Clyde Woodhouse sit silently in the parked SUV.  Their eyes stare at the sturdy brick wall of the Sturgeons Police Headquarters in front of them, both contemplating what Ms. Floridia Minch had reported.  Her uniquely informative words echo in the surrounding stillness.

    A large white van, plain as the day is long, pulled right up into the Widow Waterbottom’s cracked driveway.

    “I’ve seen that white van, Ben,” Clyde admits in a hushed voice, as if they are under surveillance in the SUV.  “On the way to Stickler Woods.”

    “I saw it then, too, Clyde,” Ben confirms in a similar tone while gripping the locked steering wheel.  “And once before, on the way back from Lake Pontoon.”

    She was a buxom blond, but there was professionalism about her.  An air of authority, like a teacher.  Very beautiful.

    “The blond woman…I, well, I…” Clyde loses his words, but finds new ones.  “I think she was the one driving.”

    He was a four-eyed, dark-haired hippie!  Though even with that hair he was surprisingly clean.

    “And the man…” Ben starts, not finishing his thought, certain the man must be the one from the bar.

    They were wearing lab-coats and performing tests or collecting samples, like in those absurd crime programs.  Except it was odd the way they worked, in unison but somehow opposite.

    Neither Ben nor Clyde knows what to think about that piece of information.  After a few more minutes of sitting in the dark SUV the law enforcement duo exit the vehicle, Ben grabbing an item from the backseat before shutting the door, and enter Headquarters to find Officer Leslie Johns waiting for them.  Ben had reported in immediately after exiting the house of Minch, so Leslie’s quick readiness is not a surprise.

    Attired in light blue, like Clyde, she is standing at the front counter with a determined smile on her face.  Her voice is like sweet maple syrup, “I’ve put out the APB for the surrounding counties.  Officers Cartwright and Norris have been called in to aid in the search for the white van in town.”

    “Excellent work, Leslie,” Ben commends, pleased with her efficiency, even if he deems it unnecessary, “but Clyde and I can search Sturgeons with you.”

    “With all due respect, Sheriff Straker, you and Chief Deputy Woodhouse have been on duty most of the day and nearly all weekend, so go home and get some sleep.  I’ll report in when we find something.”

    Ben, after a brief deliberation, realizes the need for sleep outweighs the need for action.  He also realizes a good sheriff spreads responsibilities throughout his trustworthy force.  “Clyde, you can go home and I will rest in the employee lounge.  Leslie, make sure someone wakes me when you’ve found the van.”

    “Will do, Sheriff Straker.”  Forever the professional, Officer Leslie Johns gives a nod and turns to leave, her short brown ponytail swishing in an arc.  Chief Deputy Clyde Woodhouse follows with a wave, eager to check the hits on his online dating profile within the privacy of his own home.

    Sheriff Ben Straker, as he makes his way to the employee lounge, feels an overwhelming sense of pride in the men and women who serve and protect Sturgeons.  Lawrence handpicked each of them, including Miss Whiffle who thankfully didn’t stay all night working, and they make quite a team.  Ben is certain that together they will find out what the hell is going on and prevent further disappearances.

    Entering the lounge Ben makes himself comfortable by taking off his boots, unbuttoning his shirt and placing the beige hat on the back of an old beat-up brown couch.  He situates himself on the couch, head resting on the cushioned arm, and opens the item he grabbed from the SUV.

    It is Lawrence’s decades-old high school yearbook.  The first thing he locates is the former sheriff’s senior picture.  Even though it is of a younger Lawrence, he is still recognizable; his reddish-orange hair is obvious even in black and white.

    “What was your reason for this?” Ben asks the picture, not expecting a response.

    After a moment of silence and a sigh, he flips through the pages.  Stopping every so often at a familiar name in sports, the school newspaper crew, a science fair spread, the drama club, and the chess club, he continues to ask the same question.

    Tired, and growing frustrated at the seemingly meaningless gift, or whatever it is, Ben puts the yearbook on the floor and closes his eyes.  Somewhere in his subconscious, between wakefulness and the swirl of sleep, he sees crisp blue eyes behind thick black glasses, intensified by a becoming smile.

    “Samuel Dwyer,” he mutters before falling into the sandman’s limbo.

 

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Click CHAPTER ELEVEN to continue.

Until next time, Readers, be well and Freak Out,

JLH

   

 

 

Darkening Sturgeons: Chapter Nine

 

Another week, another chapter of my piece of blog fiction...

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DARKENING STURGEONS

Chapter Nine

by John L. Harmon

    Floridia Minch, wearing her binoculars, sits extremely ladylike in a comfy purple recliner, surrounded by vivid blue velvet curtains.  Nearer to death than birth, this woman is a sight to behold, with her dainty figure and cropped bourbon wig.  She is also a force to be reckoned with, with her steely brown eyes and a voice that has been known to equally bawl out the deserving and undeserving.

    Reverent twanging faintly emits from a nearby radio as Floridia Minch reports what she witnessed this very night to the two officers-of-the-law seated in front of her on a purple sofa.  “Widow Waterbottom was on her front porch blasting away the blasphemous sound of country/gospel.”

    “Isn’t that what you’re listening to?” Chief Deputy Clyde Woodhouse asks, unsuccessfully holding back a chuckle.

    If looks could kill, Clyde would be a goner.

    “Bite your wicked tongue, young man!  This,” she points to her radio, “is gospel/country!”

    Clyde is about to inquire as to the difference, when Sheriff Benjamin Straker interrupts and apologizes, asking her to please continue.

    And Floridia Minch does, beginning with how she witnessed Straker breaking into Lawrence’s house.  (“I was investigating his sudden departure with the aid of a key,” Ben quickly explains to a wide-eyes and seemingly impressed Clyde.)  She then describes how, sometime after Straker departed, the light of the Widow Waterbottom’s porch slowly darkened.  After about ten minutes, she noticed the light gradually illuminating with Bertha Waterbottom nowhere to be seen.

    “Did you hear anything during this event?” Ben probes, thinking back to the helpless screaming of Bob Kinney and Tommy Schroder as described by the witnesses.

    “Her sinful music was far too loud to hear anything else.”

    “Well, thank you, Ms. Minch, for reporting this and giving us your time,” the Sheriff states as he rises, feeling there is nothing else to be collected from this witness.

    It has been a long weekend for Ben Straker, made even longer by this apparent third strange disappearance.  He had been at the bar, having a second unadulterated soda, when Joe the dispatcher contacted him.  There was a quick decision, on Ben’s part, to leave Officer Leslie Johns on duty at Headquarters and call in Chief Deputy Woodhouse.  Clyde had been present during the prior investigations, so he has more first-hand knowledge of the situation.

    “Have a nice evening, Ms. Minch,” the Chief Deputy nods, eager to escape the country/gospel or gospel/country, whichever, whatever the difference is.

    As the law enforcement duo turn to leave, Floridia asks in a lackadaisical, non-consequential tone, “Wouldn’t you like to know about the large white van that pulled up just moments after the porch light returned?”

    Ben and Clyde come to a screeching halt at the pointed question.  Giving each other a look of complete surprise, they turn and return to the purple sofa.

 

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Click CHAPTER TEN to continue.

Until next time, Readers, be well and Freak Out,

JLH

 

Darkening Sturgeons: Chapter Eight

My blog fiction continues...

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DARKENING STURGEONS

Chapter Eight

by John L. Harmon

    Samuel sits in a bar predominately illuminated by neon signs, with corners as dark as his mop of hair.  Leaving his lab-coat with his coworker, he is attired in a dark blue, long sleeved, buttoned shirt (three buttons unfastened), faded black denim jeans, and blacker than black shoes.  Some would feel uncomfortable sticking out like a sore thumb in a hand full of plaid and rock concert t-shirts., but Samuel left such awkward feelings behind in his teenage years.  He easily relaxes on a stool, sipping a Gibson, enjoying the stadium rock of the jukebox, and conversing with the bartender.

    “So this is the pinnacle of Sturgeons nightlife?”

    “Yup,” Gordon, the bartender of many years, answers, giving a sly glance to the crowd whooping it up among the tables and chairs.  “For the 21-and-over crowd anyways.”

    Gordon leaves this extremely new customer to fill the orders of a few demanding regulars.  He has never seen a crowd like this on a Sunday night, but he knows it is a reaction to the strange tales circulating around town.  There is nothing like bizarre tragedies to put folk in a partying mood, to celebrate life and forget death.

    Samuel, sitting on the stool and taking in the rambunctious atmosphere, is contemplating similar thoughts.  Even if he could share what he knows, or suspects, the information would not have a mellowing effect on the crowd.  In fact, it would have quite the opposite result.

    Suddenly, the creak of the door interrupts all thought processes.  There in the doorway, silhouetted by a streetlamp and faintly illuminated by red neon, stands Sheriff Benjamin Straker, his beige hat on.  He remains motionless for an eternity of a moment, inadvertently silencing the music, the crowd, the world.  Well, at least one person’s world.

    Samuel’s crisp blue eyes zero in on that red neon-tinted beige and work their way down from there.  His becoming smile grows with the realization this uniformed man is the one he has twice caught sight of, albeit briefly.  Now there are no vehicles passing like ships in the night, there is just a solid stationary space.

    Releasing the room from the motionless moment, Ben lets the door creak shut as he maneuvers to the bar, placing his beige hat upon it.  He holds a finger up to Gordon, indicating his usual, and for a split second his light brown eyes roam, landing upon Samuel sitting several stools away.  Then this sweet potential is shredded, as if fate has other plans.

    The human equivalent of a freak storm cloud rises behind Sheriff Straker, glaring, fearful eyes are the lightning, and demanding voices the thunder.  Questions and accusations rain down on him as he turns around to bravely weather the onslaught.

    “Where are Bob and the Schroder boy?”  “How is it the Newcastle girl and Ol’ Ned are all right?”  “Why did Lawrence leave?”  “He had to have a reason!”  “Tell us what happened?”  “You know something, Straker!”  “Tell us!”  The crowd continues, shouting various names of townsfolk who could be responsible, along with accusing the government, Bigfoot and aliens.

    Samuel sits there silently, mesmerized by the mob mentality.  He has never witnessed such a fascinating and disturbing display.  After a moment he nudges up his glasses and rises to his feet to put an end to this growing insanity.

    In the same instant, Gordon bangs a croquet mallet against the bar and bellows like a foghorn, “Sheriff Straker is doing all he can!  Let him have a drink in peace, as any man deserves!”

    This does the trick.  The storm of people subsides, falling back to the tables and resuming the music.  Sheriff Benjamin Straker, none the worse for wear, faces Gordon with a ‘thank you’.  He had been waiting for such an angry scene.

    Samuel, remaining on his feet, decides there is no time like the present.  He saunters over, taking a breath in preparation to introduce himself to the rather striking Sheriff, when his cell phone beeps loudly, indicating a vital text message from Christine.

    “Damn it,” he whispers, checking the screen.  Detection!  The one-half of a scientific duo quickly departs the bar, leaving his heart behind.

    “Who was that, Gordon?” Ben inquires, in a not-completely-professional tone, between sips of his unadulterated soda.

    Gordon, the bartender of many years, puts away his croquet mallet and shares with the Sheriff what information he gleaned from his extremely new customer, “Says his name is Samuel Dwyer and that he is just passing through.”

 

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Click CHAPTER NINE to continue.

Until next time, Readers, be well and Freak Out,

JLH

Author's Note:

Are you enjoying "Darkening Sturgeons"?

If your answer is yes, please check out the trailer for my first e-book...

http://youtu.be/vPSOf7cUh94

It is a twisted tale of friendship, love, betrayal, and death.

 

Darkening Sturgeons: Chapter Seven

The wayward voice-activated internet search inspired piece of fiction continues...

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DARKENING STURGEONS

Chapter Seven

by John L. Harmon

    The widow Waterbottom sways gently on her porch swing, keeping time with the country/gospel blaring from window speakers.  It is a near-perfect summer evening in Sturgeons, in one of her many opinions.  The sun is beginning to set, a gentle breeze floats lazily around, and there is a glass of homemade iced-tea in her hand.

    She observes with mild interest the Sheriff’s SUV pulling into the neighboring driveway.  Out of the vehicle emerges Benjamin Straker, a young man she doesn’t really know, but would gladly relate her version of his biography to anyone within earshot.  Speaking of earshot, the widow Waterbottom decides to stop the young man from wasting his time.

    “He’s gone!” she hollers over the country/gospel.

    Acting Sheriff Ben Straker, barely hearing the old woman’s voice, stops and faces the music.

    “What?”

    “He’s gone!”

    Ben walks over to the Waterbottom front porch and asks the widow to turn down the music.

    She complies and then reiterates, “He’s gone.”

    A dark, worrisome fear creeps underneath Ben’s skin, conjuring the names of Bob Kinney and Tommy Schroder.  “Where did Sheriff Lawrence go?”

    “Don’t know.  He just packed up and left in a hurry,” Bertha Waterbottom answers vaguely.  Much like some of her neighbors, she doesn’t ask questions, she just simply observes and judges.

    “When?

    “Yesterday.”

    Lester Lawrence obviously wasted no time in vacating not only his position but Sturgeons, as well.  This does not detour Ben from going forth with his original plan.

    “Thank you, Mrs. Waterbottom,” he gives a nod and turns away, but then stops and turns back, always an officer.  “By the way, please keep the music down.  As Lawrence always tells the teens with their rap/metal, not everyone likes your kind of music.”

    “What does aluminum foil have to do with it?”

    “Never mind, Mrs. Waterbottom.  Never mind.”

    Ben turns away again, not knowing if he should smile or scream as Mrs. Waterbottom brazenly ups the volume of her country/gospel.  The twangy reverence serenades him to the next-door porch.  Once there he reaches up, removing a spare key from the light fixture, and quickly enters the house of Lawrence, muffling the blaring music as he shuts the heavy door.

    Switching on lights, Ben is confronted with the truth.  Empty, abandoned rooms are what he finds upon a search of the familiar house.  Only one space, the living room, shows remaining evidence of the man who had lived there.

    Two items are propped up on the fireplace mantel, the smaller leaning against the larger.  Ben approaches the scene curiously, but cautiously, uncertain of anything after the events of this weekend.  He suddenly recognizes his own name written on a white envelope in Lawrence’s loose-style scrawl.

    He impulsively grabs the envelope, hastily opens it, and pulls out a letter, hoping it will provide answers.  Reading it aloud, his voice echoing in the surrounding emptiness, Ben is dismayed at its brevity.

    “Ben—You are a good man and you will make a great Sheriff.—Lester Lawrence.”

    The parentally abandoned man slips the letter, more note really, back into the envelope and the whole thing into a back pocket.  He then picks the second item off the mantel.  It is a decades-old high school yearbook.  Ben flips aimlessly through the black & white pages, shaking his head in confusion and disappointment.

    Sheriff Benjamin Straker leaves the house of Lawrence, once again serenaded by the widow Waterbottom’s country/gospel, and unilaterally decides that he could use a drink.  All the while, unbeknownst to him, binoculared eyes have been watching from behind blue velvet curtains.

 

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Click CHAPTER EIGHT to continue.

Until next time, Readers, be well and Freak Out,

JLH