Empire, NV

Brad sat in the kitchen of an abandoned house, carefully balancing on a rickety wooden chair, twisting the tip of his mustache. He was reading a tattered Montgomery Wards Catalogue, feeling ten years old again, safe and uncomplicated. There was something oddly familiar about this place.

A calendar hung on the wall behind the wood burning cook stove. The bold red letters read Cee Tee Pliers Company. The beautiful pin-up girl was smiling at you in her skimpy pinafore jump-suit, and holding a pair of pliers with a red hot riveting bolt gripped in it. The date was 1945.

A warm desert breeze passed through the open back door and found him staring into some inner space. He could hear Matty shuffling around in the front of the house. Her camera shutter making rapid whirring sounds assuring him of her presence near by. He stood up just as she called out. “Hey! Brad come here a minute, there’s something I want you to see.” He moved toward the direction of her voice stepping over pieces of fallen roof and tumbleweeds that rolled in and were trapped in the lee.

A lizard slithered out from under a broken coffee cup, and disappeared into the rubble. Brad made his way through the maze of wallpapered halls and found Matty. She had one elbow braced on the back of an overturned easy chair, the other on her knee bending over photographing some mysterious wonder she had discovered.

He was proud of how well she was doing with the Nikon he gave her last Christmas. She already had some positive feedback from a curator of a prestigious gallery, he told her to put together a series and he’d see about showing her work in the fall.

“Brad, look in that corner over there” she stopped her focusing to point at it. He bent down behind her to see her point of view. In the corner, was a miniature desert scene. The wind had blown several inches of sand and debris to create a mini-diorama. A metal toy truck parked near an unusual city made of marvelous glass towers that was once the guts of a Philco radio, the cover was laying on its side a foot away staring wide eyed at them. Scattered about and partially buried were a half dozen metal toy soldiers, bayonets fixed and aimed in aimless directions. In the corner itself was wedged a pillow, it’s faded shiny cover had a picture of the Pier at Coney Island, NY. The once gold fringe braid lay tarnished and frayed waiting to be rescued.

Posing on a hill beside the WWII Souvenir was a dirt colored multi-spiked horny-toad, oblivious to anything but the ray of warm sunshine that beamed down from a hole in the roof.

At first glance he suspected Matty had arranged the whole scene but the sight of the live horny toad told him it was just Mother Nature showing off. “Far out” he said surprised. “Shh…you’ll wake him up.” And went back to her shooting.

“I’m going to look around” he whispered in her ear, and tiptoed toward the front door, the doorknob was gone so he had to pry it open with both hands forcing the debris to move aside wide enough to step out onto the porch. The boards under his feet were broken and missing, it was a real cliffhanger sidestepping toward the three porch steps and freedom from this certain danger. He leaped over all three steps in one bound almost falling. He turned back to look at the porch.

There was a wooden porch swing hanging, sideways from a single rusty chain, the other laying coiled on the floor, where it fell. Above his head was a roughly carved wooden sign that said ‘Hargroves Hideaway’ tucked under the porch eves. He pictured a man about his own age, mid forties, in faded blue overalls looking twenty years older than he should. His brown weathered hand was holding a Mason jar half full of a clear brown liquid.

Mrs. Hargroves looked to be a pleasant woman, tolerant and kind, her graying hair pulled tight into a knot behind her head. She was sitting on the porch swing drinking Coca Cola and snapping green beans for their supper. The Philco was blaring out news of the war. Off to the side was a tidy little vegetable garden, carrots, tomatoes, green beans, all bordered with marigolds to keep the rabbits out.

Then he wondered what the boy looked like and he saw himself, grey eyed and skinny, sweaty faced from running, then he saw his own boyhood dog, ‘Pistol’ following close behind, tongue flapping, tail wagging, it took him back in a very strange way. He was having intense deja vu. He shook his head to bring himself back to the moment.

His head was hot from the sun and he had a creepy feeling like he’d been here before in a dream or something. It was an uneasy feeling he couldn’t quite hold on to, and didn’t especially want to.

When they inquired about the ad in the paper. The 80 year old, registrar at the Empire Hotel said. “Not a trace of them. Jest up an disappeared one day.” He cleared his throat and spit something thick and brown into a peach can sitting on the desk. “They was nice folks, never said boo to nobody. Stayed to themselves, the boy was nice too, real polite, he had red hair like yourin’ He was about ten or elev’n last time I saw em’. There was a rumor after they left that something happened to the boy…he either ran off, died or was kidnapped, nobody ever knew for sure. You know how folks like to conjure things, but we all thought it was on account of him, they abandoned the farm.” He spit into the can again, Matty shivered. “It’s a real pity, George, that was Mr. Hargroves name, George raised the best goldarn pears for a hundred miles around. We really missed those pears, the neighbors went over every harvest to pick em but with no one to tend to them the orchard jest dried up.”

“So the state is selling it, as is, real cheap, you folks thinking about buying it?” He and Matty had been considering a move, they were both tired of city living and wanted a place they could settle for good. When they saw a classified ad for out-of-state property, it peaked their interests. They borrowed his brothers VW Camper and decided to hunt and peck their way through different states reading classified ads looking for the perfect place. After a couple of weeks traveling they found themselves here in Empire NV. An almost ghost town way off the main highway.

The ad read: 26 acres, pear orchard, farm land, 3 bedroom house, charming rustic barn and well. Needs repair $15,000 or best offer. Contact Charlie Bibs at the Empire Hotel. This was their twelfth stop and probably one of the strangest.

Looking around he spotted the well, stooping down to pick up a rock to test how deep it was and if it still had water in it. The sun flashed on a rock that caught hie eye, he scooped it up and examined it, the veins of gold running through it reminded him of one of his fantasies of someday being a gold miner. He smiled and slipped it into his pocket and picked up another rock next to it. He tossed it into the well and leaned over waiting hopefully for a splash. The musty green smell crept up into his nostrils. Clack, the stone hit the dry bed. Damn the well is dry. Not much chance for this place. Although Charlie Bibs mentioned there was a fair sized pond on the property, fed by an underground spring, so there was water.

He was curious what was left inside the barn. It was huge like an airplane hanger, must have been built when wood was still cheap, the grey Redwood was as described in the ad, rustic, albeit not that charming. He forced open the sagging door and slipped into the darkness. Touching and feeling around till his eyes adjusted, he bumped hard into something heavy hanging from the rafters on a rope, it creaked and swung around hitting him solid in the back of his shoulder and just laid there, pushing on him. It smelled like decomposed leather, and in the gloom he could just make out that it was a very large leather and metal horse collar for pulling a wagon. Probably to haul hay, or bushels of pears to market.

Brad instinctively jumped back away from it, a little bit spooked and letting his breath out slowly, he continued on in the din. The barn was a good sixty feet with a half dozen stables for horses and bins to hold food. Mounds of dried hay molding under years of rot and decay. Rusting equipment and various gardening tools hanging around like waiting soldiers. He must have been a horse rancher as well, he thought. He was half way into the barn picking up rusted souvenirs and broken things when he heard a rustle in the loft above his head. Then another rustle and a Thud, Thud, rustle, something was up there, something big. He dropped the bucket full of treasures and breathlessly headed for the glaring bright slit in the door without looking back. Once outside he continued running, heart pounding, pass the well right up to the front porch yelling “Matty” Breathless, sweaty and panicked. “Matty, let’s get out of here” still shaking he turned to look at the barn to see if the horrible noise was coming after him with a pitch fork. There was nothing there and no sounds from inside the house where he had left his wife. Still panicking he imagined the worst.

He stood under the hand carved wooden sign and yelled like a 10 year old crying for his mother. “Matty, damn it, let’s go this place gives me the creeps. From the side of the house Matty came walking slowly trancelike and reading from a blue ledger she had found behind a desk. When he saw her he was so relieved he almost wet himself. “Matty, can we go now?” He said nervously, looking once more at the barn. Her camera was draped over her shoulder but the camera bag was still inside the house.

Matty pretended not to hear him and continued to read. “Brad, listen to this.” She turned back a couple of pages looking for a spot she wanted to read from. She found the place and looked up into his white blood drained face. “Brad you OK?” He looked back to the barn and then the camper to judge the distance. “Yeah I’m OK now.” Just the sight of her settled him down. “But can we go now?”

“Well first, listen to this, you’re gonna die when you hear what’s in the old man’s diary. I guess he had quite a secret.”

End of part I

Part II