The First Installment
A flood from the sky disrupts the late-night activities performed ritually by the citizens of Anchor and the few neighboring cities—Foredge, Dover Park, Lance—with immense prejudice, deriving malicious joy from the closing of freeways, grocers, churches, and bars.
Windows grow foggy with stubborn rain-born residue, refusing to dissipate, and the steamy breaths from inside as the flooding sky warms, keeping the temperature hot inside the cars of those not brave enough to open their windows.
Slushes and sloosh’n fill the turning night, accompanied by caws of birds and barks of dogs seeking shelter from heaven-made, earthbound, furry.
Tires lose grip on the asphalt. The black roads reflect the glowing light from lamp posts and neon signs perched on shops. A forecast of colors distracts drivers by displaying a mirage of down-shining yellow-stained-white, bursts of blue and green fighting for dominance over the pallets of red and orange. Some drivers see deafening eruptions from the warning glows of cars and trucks, while others see a pin-point globe. Regardless, the hues do nothing to conquer the sheer might of the moon—Old Luna—as she lets the tides roll where they may and keeps the glistening drops of rain glistening.
Black wool spins around the sky, with whisps of grey interloping with the fading red, orange, and pink bends. The wool, dark as a closed eyelid, pulls at the light around its malevolence, challenging the sun, which under duress from the new power, reduces its allowed time, setting before the clock strikes Seven-Thirty-Seven. Another false report, but to the benefit of science, was not caused by the usual mismeasurements but the unforeseen greatness of darkness that now plagues the Anchor sky.
Windows are hurriedly slammed shut. Screen door locks are double-checked. Cats scurry under beds while children plug their ears as their parents hold them and put on their favorite movies. Baths abruptly end as the pushing crackle of thunder and piercing beams of lightning irk the senses.
Petals of half-matured leaves and sprouting buds blanket the roads. An endless swath of green reds and pink yellows. Squirrels and birds cry out in frustration as their shelters plummet to the great mass known as Earth. Raccoons evacuate their tree burrows, rain filling to the point of spilling. They wade through the rainwater and leaves, praying they don’t get stuck in the plaster mud. Worms claw their way to the surface, basking in the freshness of the water, knowing that their predators are too deterred by the hallowing winds to assault them. Tonight, they can have dinner, not be it.
Inhuman cries of agony pierce the ears of animals and man. The winds pipe like organs through trees and houses tightly packed beside one another. Sirens blare. Their screeching unknown to the critters, which can only guess that the wailing-growing-gnaw of sound comes from the storm itself, not the ulterior force known as amplifiers. Children dash to their windows, peering to see if a spiraling cascade of wind, cows, and cars threatens them. At the same time, parents empty out closets, evade windows, and turn on the news, eagerly waiting for an educated announcement of the impending—yet hopefully falsified—warning of cross-competing winds. Transformers flash scolding blue; TVs vertically line out in white and black; families huddle in bathtubs.
A voice echoes, reverbing demands from the whirlwind the citizens once knew as the Anchor Sky. All color fades; a Gray dominates; flashes of icy blue its heartbeat.
A warning is cast upon the citizens of Anchor. The sky is the ancient stone, the rain the carving, the floods the prophets, and the booms the priest. A voice from within the whirling wool calls out to One.
A One, unlike the others, is currently, to his own ignorance, driving a rusted-out 99’ Explorer.
A metallic clank forms every time a pothole meets the tires of the Explorer. A jolt of energy pops up the front of the car, and the inevitable drop sends another noise--similar to nails in a dryer—as the bumper, a different contrasting grey to the otherwise black car, thuds the road and lets loose the wild shambling of the internal engine. The headlights flicker for a moment, but the road is illuminated by a flash. Water smothers the windshield faster than the worn rubber wipers can remove it. A losing battle of vision and safety. The controller, however, is obverted to the sense of danger. Instead, he focuses on the music playing from his phone—his radio lightless from the constant jolting— remaining oblivious to the demands of the storm.
The Gray calls to its Prophet; the Prophet sways to the beat.
Emerging through the swirling rain, foggy black, and light-polluted streets isa small bar and grill. Over the years of renovation and bi-yearly grand openings, the owner of the store, Bill Haggus, dug deep into his fat belly to find his soul and, through purification, changed the very ideals of the model of business he previously adhered to. The once small plot of land, between a department store and a hair salon, used to be the center for one-night stands, and bachelor parties for grooms who felt their rings were bound tighter and tighter nearer the altar. Now, it has become a family-centered establishment, with coloring pages for kids, boneless wings, and Taco Tuesdays. The old neon sign was replaced with a tall pole, thick in diameter, with a plastic border of their esteemed logo of a happy sailor flexing his disproportionate muscles. Beneath him is a white square box displaying ever-changing specials and happy birthday announcements. White and yellow awnings cover the sidewalk leading up to the double doors. On entering, a tasteful carpet of deeper browns causes burns for the running kids. A bar pushed towards the back showcases various liquors that remain a mystery even to the drunkest Frenchman. Large overhead lights of semicircular fashion beam down a faint yellow so customers can adequately view their menus. Booths line the windows, as all the good interior designers advised Bill Haggus to do, and tables short and long adorn the inner floors, easily movable to accommodate bigger parties and the oh-so-prized family get-togethers, graduation dinners, and little league participation awards. Mumba Jumba margaritas, Cassio Delight Wines, Triple Explosion Melt Cakes, and appetizer platters remain staples of Bill Haggus’ fine dining establishment for every walk of life who wants to have some easy, simple, fun. To revel in the proximity of friends. To bask in the glory of companionship.
The Gray calls to its chosen, with The Happy Sailoracting as a refuge, a cheap sanctuary from the wake outside. The turmoil starts to ravage, truly destroy,and soon, in observance of its Prophets trajectory, turns its attention to the inner portions of Anchor, unleashing a flurry of fury onto The Happy Sailor.
Opa! A middle-aged man yells from his booth of daughters when the lights go out after another lightning strike. The delayed travel of thunder booms right as the power comes back on, a four-second interval. Bill Haggus lowers his shoulders and relaxes his lungs, thankful that the emergency generators came on. Tugging on his spiral beard, he places a scale on the table. Two circular disks with chains holding them to two similar but opposite-sided arms, a decorated figure piece of a pipe on the center mass, its bottom place folding upwards, all brass, stuck to the beer caused condensation marks; gone sticky and iced. Placing his scale, he puts Common Decency on one end and Personal Satisfaction on the other. Send the wary souls home? Or let them stay until the storm lets up? What’s in it for me? Is everything about me? They can’t possibly keep buying appetizers! They can’t possibly make it home.
The scales deform as the brass starts to divot under the heavy weight of Bill Haggus and his internal dilemma.
A remark is made by Allison Ponds about the knotting of his beard, to which he thinks it’s nothing, to which he replies it’s nothing. Knowing him for three years, a faithful waitress through the many changes before the final form, she sees the strain in his eyes and how he knots his beard, almost unscrewing the follicles. She knows something is wrong, so she pries. A little comment here and there until finally, he sheds his personal secrecy to achieve a few seconds of peace.
“I can’t keep these people here all night; against their will or with it. I just- I just can’t do it. The storm has to let up soon, right? The weather report said it wasn’t going to be coming at all! Just a light shower. Look at this! We’re running on backup power. A generator is spinning a million miles a minute to keep the windows defrosted and the lights glowing. How can I just let that money burn? How can I keep these people here in the false hope that the storm will get better? It won’t get better; you can feel it, too,can’t you? They can’t sleep here. I can’t drive them all home! What am I supposed to do, Allison?”
She sits on the counter next to him, registers clicking a few feet away with every nail-first tap or swipe of a card. She leans, not on him, but within his cologne’s proximity, applewood, and breaths a few deep breaths, closing her eyes while swaying rhythmically to the beating of her heart. Tapping her fingers on his thigh.
“Seems you already thought this one through, Bill. We don’t have a PA system, so you’ll have to be loud. I won’t judge you, but Shawn will. Probably Angus, too. Oh, and just about every other person employed by you and being served by your employees. You’ll be a real villain for the night.”
“Thanks. Do you think this counter will support my weight?”
“You installed it
“So no. Alright, I’ll yell by the door.”
“Still taking me home tonight?”
“Just like every night. Wish me luck.”
Collecting every ounce of breath, forcing every drop of blood to flow, and cataloging every English word in his head, he focuses and plots out his announcement. How to send away a hundred people into the heart of the worst storm Anchor has ever seen and still expect them to return for their next get-together? Not likely, might have to scrap the sailor and start again. Maybe an animal theme? A bigger bar? Could buy a fast-food chain, install a drive-thru. Whatever it may be, the tide of the o’ so-dreaded force known as change has fallen into Bill Haggus’ hands once again.
Ironic, he thinks, The Happy Sailor fails the moment it gets wet.
Heavy thuds passed as steps are muffled by the jukebox coming alive after the power outage. People cheer lightly, finding another good in the swirling bad. How can I send these people away, he thinks; how can I? No matter the thoughts, his mind is made up, and he looks back at Allison Ponds, who shares with him a weak smile. He fills his diaphragm with the stuffy air and bellows a preparational ahem. Do I have the words? He thinks, yes, I suppose I do. Before releasing air and vibrating chords, he squints hard, puts his hand over his eyes for relief, and faces the culprit of his retina invasion; a car with its brights on beaming through the window directly at him, coming to a stop on the sidewalk.
“Who the heck could that be?”
Throwing a smooth fuzzy blanket over his head, a silhouette runs to the door. The figure exclaims as he pulls on the handle. Finally, as his makeshift umbrella gets soaked, he throws all his weight backward, using the side wall as a brace for his feet, and pulls a Hercules pull. Still, nothing happens to the door, but a lot happens to him as his hands slip from the slick wet metal handle, jolting him backward, his head hitting his car’s bumper, causing it to finally yield its life and fall off on his lap.
Bill Haggus awes at the ordeal, tilts his head to God, and goes and unlocks the door.
“I was going to welcome you in, but I couldn’t tell who you were with the rain. Now, after seeing that heroic display and that garbage can with wheels... welcome to The Happy Sailor, Macavich.”
“You didn’t wait for him to unlock the door?”
“Shut up, dude; let me enjoy this coke.”
Mark Macavich, the man of which the eye of the storm gazes, puts down his second glass of coke and slides it to the edge of the table, waiting for another.
The sudden arrival of Macavich invoked more than surprise in Bill Haggus; it invoked mercy. Feeling the hard pellets of rain, the sharp cold wind nearly cutting away at his skin, and the enveloping darkness of the sky, he felt his soul wasn’t empty enough to send everyone home, even if it causes the death of his wallet. There goes the Bahamas, he exasperated towards Allison Ponds upon sitting back down at the bar and removing his brass scale. A hug from her sent a thrill throughout his weary body and helped soothe the pain from making the right decision.
The children were starting to grow tired as the clock approached ten. Mothers sent their husbands outside to test the weather, then to the car for blankets and baby car seats, then to the bar for milk and water. Bill Haggus, now an accommodating host, offers up his office, the break rooms, and anything else he could think of spatially and materially to help the mothers with babies and young children find as much peace and care as possible with the unfortunate and tossed upon circumstances.
A seal team of hardened fathers and young men is formed with the purpose of traveling a few hundred feet to the pharmacy on the corner. A successful yet hazardous run for diapers, blankets, sleeping medicines, flashlights, and whatever else was put on the well-curated list by the mothers, the leader of which, Peggy Mardane, ran the local private schools PTA. A local fisherman, Buddy Oliver, who owns a small property out in the woods, gave a brief yet hearty instructional on wading through flooded streets and maintaining confidence when considering discomfort. Playing a walk-out song on the jukebox, the seal team departed from the safety of The Happy Sailor and trekked through the wastelands of the Gray. Besides soaked jeans and ruined sneakers, no harm befell the team, and they returned with a bountiful harvest.
As for the other events of the night, are they not written in the book of Anchor?The hundred and fourteen refugees rested their heads on the carpet, booths, and bar counters. They slept as peacefully as uneasy conditions could allow. Bill Haggus laid down under table fourteen, with Allison Pond at thirteen.
However, one last event occurred between the seal team’s departure and the resting of heads.
Mark Macavich was late for an astronomically important meeting with his friends to discuss their early morning trip to the Pine Ridge Mountains. The full Party, measuring nine in total, was made complete upon the provident entry of Macavich, the newly designated driver of the group, despite his groans. His lateness of thirty minutes relinquished his ability to complain and make viable decisions for the rest of the meeting. This was not done in anger, as Mike Daniels, the leader of the discussion would say, but out of mutual and reasonable distrust in the planning abilities of one such Macavich, to which the accused could make no sound justification to the accuser.
With the greetings of the Party complete, the what’s ups and took you long enoughs exchanged, they order a round of cokes—some ordering beers after Bill Haggus made the announcement that they would have to stay the night—and set the official meeting of the Pine Ridge Party to the date of May 1st, 2012, 10:13 pm. The ball was dropped, the gavel laid, and history began with the glowing words of Mike Daniels.
“Friends, associates, gatherers, and everything in between, above and beyond, I thank you for your attendance. The people sitting next to youthank you for your attendance. But solely, I thank you for your attention. You all know why we are here; if you don’t, you shouldn’t be here. Today, or ratherthis night, marks the beginning of our great collective journey into the unknown. The dark corners of illusion and fantasy, where reality falters. Today marks the beginning of our journey into the forbidden acres of the Pine Ridge Mountains. Specifically, sight Six-One-Two.We will embark on a cooperative adventure with the expressed interest in finding creatures beyond our knowledge; to finding the cryptid anomalies of the shadow world. This, and I mean this with much emphasis, will not be taken lightly.We traverse unholy and void grounds, but with our spirits intertwined in victorious unity, we shall survive the haunts and return here in four days’time as explorers of the vast uneasy. So, I, Mike Daniels, would like to say to all of you: are you ready for the Hunt?”
Cheering erupts with a harmony of bravos. Bottles clink, hands meet in slaps, and compliments are given to the versed speaker, and even though unofficial, the charismatic leader of the Pine Ridge Party. Macavich leans into Mike Daniels, now sitting, and says in a loud whisper, did you write all that yourself? Or did your dad help you? Daniels, after shaking a hand and stirring his drink, leans back and into some words, it was mostly me, but he helped me drum up some extra flavorful adjectives. I thought about doing it on the spot, but that would make for a garbage story later if my speech sucked. I mean, the most memorable part of a story is the beginning and the end, and we have a mythical beginning.
The table grows louder, to the annoyance of the booths behind them, but the storm seems to offer its hand in assistance by sending a force of wind so loud its howls echo through the night. Creaking every wood board of the restaurant. Making the windows seem like they could push in and shatter on people’s plates.
The table’s general chaos starts to be corralled by Mike Daniels and Fred Aster, both opposing ends of the table, with the carving fords of conversation following the direction of directions, inventory, packing, who drives with who, who is bringing what, and whose parents are most afraid for their child’s wellbeing; Julius Horn wins that award. A general list of groceries is made, and a team is designated to procure them in the morning. Following suit is a team to grab essentials such as flashlights, tents, blankets, firewood, and other such utilities. A third team comprises one member—who animatedly and uncomfortably demanded to be labeled as a team—to gather monster hunting items such as cameras, traps, motion lights, and other needs he deems essential. Finally, a fourth team is created to handle anything that might slip through the other teams’ list and the handling of entertainment items such as speakers, fishing poles, instruments, and card games. Lists are created digitally and then physically by the copyright Fred Aster, for memories and for the function of credibility. A personal item list is verbally expressed through a popcorn of interruptions amongst the table and is left as an individual responsibility that, if faltered, is up for mockery by fellow members of the Party. Finally, after much deliberating and cooperative additions, the soon-to-be inventory of items is made, and plans go underway to travel across town to a city less affected by the storm in hopes they retained power. This changes the plans, as now only quick stops back home in the morning can be allowed if the Party expects to follow the original goal of an Eleven-Thirty departure in the morning of the morrow. This bodes well for everyone except Julius Horn, who is wept and sorrowed at over the phone by his parents.
All is set in stone, except the last measures of who is driving with who and the formal listing of Party members; signatures to be signed. The former unfinished objective falls into obscurity, as Wallace Parsons exposes a very formal document, created by his lawyer mother, passing it to Mike Daniels, who then passes it clockwise to Macavich and so on, till all names are listed, and all blanks signed. Morgan Cross removes a wooden tube, cut down from an oak tree, and debarked and smoothed by his own hands, in which Julius Horn, the last to sign, places the rolled-up document. They tie a string of tan wool around it and hand it to Mike Daniels for safekeeping and proper storage. After the formalities—dear say rituals—are finished, the Party returns to their young behavior and laughs until the babies are put to sleep around them. They then restate their objectives for tomorrow, set alarms on their phones, and curl up with blankets for the night. Ruff carpet and loud breaths, skyborne explosions, and pelting rain help keep the whole Party up, but soon sleep finally finds them.
The incased document reads:
The Pine Ridge Party: founded May 1st, 2012, 10:13 pm. To be disbanded within the time frame of May 3rd to May 4th. The Parties Sole purpose is to explore the Pine Ridge Mountains and its surrounding areas for the existence of Ghosts, Monsters, Creatures of a peculiar sort, Spirits of malicious or pure intentions, or anything else that fits the category of Cryptid. The headquarters of the Pine Ridge Party is campsite Six-One-Two. May God bless our travels and aid us in our Hunt.
These are the members’ names and signatures in the order in which the founding meeting was organized.
Mike Daniels
Mark Macavich
Wallac Parsons
Ulysses Patel
Mark Reinbach
Fred Aster
Don Salvus
Morgan Cross
Julius Horn
The storm outside begins to settle. Damage across Anchor remains, but rest is given to all the creatures—man, animal, and beast alike—with the wake diminished into a drizzle and electricity returning to much of the city.
The Gray realizes its strives for its chosen have gone to waste and elects to leave the polluted air for more savory scents of pine.
