Category: Fiction Factor

There was no quiet way to reach the cabin near Moonbeam Creek.

Dead leaves covered the makeshift path leading to it, so each step added a loud, crunching noise to the typical sounds of the woodlands. Of course, with windchimes hanging from the ceiling of the old, rickety porch, the resident of the cabin was surely used to plenty of noise.

Moonbean Creek – or at least the forest that it split – was thought to be the home of the “Moonbean Monster,” a tall, ape-like creature that had allegedly roamed these woods for decades.

Like the Yeti or Bigfoot, it was often seen only in shadows or quick glimpses; there was never any positive proof it existed, and no bones or bodies had ever been found. But tall tales? It had spawned its share.

What made the Moonbeam Monster different from the other creatures, though, is that amateur “monster hunters” Lexie Thornton and Dex Schneider had proof. They had long been fascinated by the folklore surrounding mythical beings, and a year or so earlier had taken a special interest in the Moonbean Monster.

The creek was a popular spot for anglers, and Lexie and Dex had spent hours upon hours talking with several of them – most all claiming they had had some kind of encounter with it.

Calling it a “monster,” however, didn’t square with what they heard from those who had experienced such close contact. Other than being startling in its hirsute form, the Moonbeam Monster seemed peaceful enough. It would often be spied grabbing elderberries or pawpaws, then quickly disappearing into the wild.

The pair of sleuths decided to place cameras on trees throughout the area, and even employed drones on occasion to cover more ground.

Over 12 months they had collected plenty of photos and videos, but the most compelling was a grainy, night vision clip that saw the Moonbean Monster walk up to the cabin, step on the porch, open the door, and then lean down and walk inside.

As they approached the domicile, they didn’t know who – or what – to expect after they knocked on the door.

“Hi, I’m Lexie Thornton and this is my partner, Dex Schneider,” Lexie said. “We were hoping you’d give us a few minutes of your time.”

The heavyset man who opened the door appeared to be in his late 60s or early 70s, his thinning white hair combed straight back and his flannel shirt bulging just above the beltline of baggy, faded blue jeans.

“I ain’t religious, I don’t need no magazines and I ain’t registered to vote,” he said. “Whatever y’all are sellin’, I ain’t interested.”

As he started to close the door, Dex piped up.

“Please, sir,” he said. “We’re not trying to sell you anything. We just want to talk to you about the Moonbean Monster.”

The man smiled, swung the door open and made a sweeping motion with his hand, gesturing the two to come in.

The inside of the cabin was spartan; a single bed, table with four chairs, and small kitchen area with a wood-burning stove.

There were no paintings and no “homey touches” of any kind.

“Pull up a chair,” said the man.

“May I ask your name?” Lexie said.

“Sure,” said the man. “But I ain’t telling ‘cause it don’t matter. You said you wanted to know about Moonie; nothin’ about me is interesting.”

He pulled a chair away from the table and situated it near the fireplace.

“I’m guessing y’all are the ones that put them cameras up everywhere and fly them little contraptions through here,” he said. “Why did you go and do something like that? Moonie ain’t botherin’ you – or nobody else. Never has.”

Dex produced a tablet, made a couple of quick swipes, and showed the man a photo of the monster entering his house.

“Sir, the Moonbean Monster – or Moonie as you call him –  has been in your house,” he said. “Were you here when it happened?”

The man chuckled.

“Moonie has been comin’ and goin’ from here for as long as I’ve been here,” he said. “And I’ve been here since before you two was even born. Look here.”

The man walked over to a box near his sink and produced a handful of pawpaws.

“Moonie likes these a lot,” he said. “I always keep some on hand for when he visits.”

Lexie pulled a small recording device from her pocket.

“Do you mind?” she asked.

“I don’t care,” the man said. “But you ain’t gonna be here long and I ain’t got much to say other than Moonie lives in these parts just like I live in these parts … just like deer and turkeys and whatever else you can find in these woods live here.

“If you think I’m gonna do anything to put him in danger, well, that ain’t gonna happen. When people come sniffin’ around looking for somethin’ everybody thinks is different, it usually don’t end real well for the thing that’s different.”

Before Dex or Lexie could say anything, the man walked to the door and opened it.

“Moonie ain’t no monster,” he said. “He just wants to be left alone. Now y’all need to leave. Anybody else comes sniffin’ around, I’ll just tell ‘em y’all are pullin’ a hoax.”

Lexie and Dex got up, smiled politely, and walked out onto the porch. The man could hear them talking, and then listened as they crunched their way toward the creek.

It would be nightfall in a couple of hours … once again giving him the opportunity to venture out into the woods.

He could already tell a cool evening was in store, perfect for a fox – or maybe a hound dog or racoon.

Moonie was his natural form, but with all the unwanted attention it was time to give that shape a rest for a while – at least long enough for the monster hunters to lose interest, take down their cameras and move on to some other venture.

Once the sun sank and he saw the creekside clear of humans, he took off his clothes, opened the door, and darted out into the night.

The old woman slowly raised the spoon to her lips, took a long, noisy sip of soup, then lowered the spoon to the bowl, clinking the tip twice on the rim. She repeated the process several more times, occasionally pausing to take a bite of the cornbread muffin resting on a small plate beside the bowl.

“Excuse me, mam,” said the young man. “My friend and I noticed you were eating alone, and wondered if you might like some company.”

She looked up at the smiling fellow, who was quickly joined by a slightly older gentleman. Although she had seen the pair sitting at a nearby table, she hadn’t paid them much mind.

“Why, that would be lovely,” she said. “It might be nice to have someone to talk to.”

The men, both wearing dark windbreakers and blue jeans, pulled up chairs and introduced themselves as Jerry and Mike.

“Jerry and I have been coming to this diner for quite a while now,” Mike said. “I don’t think we’ve seen you in here before.”

She smiled.

“Oh, I don’t get out too much,” she said. “And I feel a bit guilty coming here to eat when I have plenty of food at home. I live alone and sometimes I guess I just want to see people – besides the people I see on the TV. They’re like my companions now.

“My name’s Hazel, by the way.”

Hazel – with toffee skin and  shock of white hair – was a small, thin woman, adorned in a modest amber housedress and nursing shoes. What caught the attention of Jerry and Mike, however, were her gold earbobs and a huge diamond ring on her left hand.

The men asked what kind of soup Hazel was eating, flagged down a waiter, and ordered the same. Following some lighthearted chitchat, Mike’s tone turned serious.

“I’ve got to tell you Miss Hazel,” Mike said. “Those earrings and that big rock on your hand really make you stand out – and not in such a good way. I’ll let you in on a little secret … Jerry and I are private detectives, and there have been a lot of senior citizen robberies in this neighborhood the last few weeks. Some got kinda violent and ladies like yourself got hurt.”

Hazel’s eyes widened.

“My goodness,” she said. “You had me fooled … I figured private detectives would be wearing suits like you see on those police shows. My jewelry is about the only things I own that have any real value. I don’t spend much money these days, I’ve just tried to save most of it since my husband died a while back.

“In fact, I keep it in an old cardboard box in my bedroom closet at home. Last I checked I had nearly $13,000 in there, mostly 100 and 50-dollar bills. Don’t really trust banks, not with the way the world is.”

Mike and Jerry darted their eyes at each other.

“I’m afraid you’re the perfect target for people like that … bad people who prey on senior citizens. I tell you what, when we’re done here, why don’t we give you a ride home? We can offer you some safety tips to make sure you don’t become a victim.”

Hazel leaned over, grabbed her purse and placed it on the table. She reached inside and retrieved a bulging, red-checkered napkin.

“You boys are being so kind,” she said. “When I go out, I always make sure to carry some freshly baked chocolate chip cookies with me. I want you to have them.”

The men each took a cookie and gobbled it down.

“These are delicious, Miss Hazel!” Mike said. “Jerry, why don’t you pull the car around while I pay the check. We’ll meet you out front.”

Hazel shook her head.

“No, no …. It’s my treat,” she said. “I’ll pay.”

Once outside, Mike escorted Hazel to a grimy white van with an engine that sounded as though it was in dire need of a tune-up.

“It’s not much to look at, Miss Hazel,” Mike said. “But when you work undercover like Jerry and me, you don’t want to draw attention to yourself.”

Hazel chuckled.

“At least you have a vehicle,” she said. “If I go anywhere, I have to take the bus … or walk. I just live around the corner, though, so it’ll be a short drive.”

The trio arrived at her garden home in less than a minute, pulling up in the gravel driveway and shutting off the engine.

After Mike helped Hazel out of the van, he put his left arm around her and stuck a gun in her ribs with his right hand.

“Don’t say a word, lady, and you won’t get hurt,” said Jerry, who had bolted from the drivers’ seat and was shielding Hazel and his partner from the view of anyone standing on the street. “Just be really quiet and take us inside. Give us what we want and we’ll be gone in a flash. And you can start with that ring.”

Hazel, to her credit, didn’t seem frightened. In fact, she had a gleam in her eye when she took off her ring and bobs and placed them in Jerry’s hand. After reaching the front door she took out a key, opened it, and walked into the den with Mike and Jerry so close behind they seemed like dual shadows.

Standing in the middle of the room were 11 other women, all around Hazel’s age, and all wearing bright orange robes.

The men froze – and that isn’t a figure of speech.

Once they stepped foot in the house, they were immobile, able to hear but not move and see but not speak.

Hazel closed the door behind them.

“Ladies,” she said. “This is Mike and Jerry, and they were going to rob me. They’ve been on quite a crime spree lately. Of course, now that they’ve eaten our delicious cursed cookies, they aren’t going to do much of anything ever again.”

Hazel plopped down in a chair, cracked her knuckles and sighed.

“I know it’s not demon-hunting like we used to do back in the day,” she said. “But it’s still a good service – and one the whole coven should be proud of.

“Now, who wants to help me carry these boys to the backyard and heat up the cauldron?”

Gary Tancred glanced at his wife, Gertie, and gave her a wink before handing a card to the host at the Crimson Crustacean.

“Hi,” he said. “We’re here for the end-of-life planning seminar and complementary meal.”

The Tancreds had received an invitation in the mail a couple of weeks earlier, one sent by the Heavenly Meadows Memorial Gardens Mortuary. It stated that if they attended “an informative session concerning advance funeral planning options that allows you ask difficult questions and receive compassionate answers,” they would be rewarded with a delicious dinner.

Why not? Even though they were both in good health, they were also in their mid-70s. And one can be plowed over by a bus at any age, so there is never a bad time to prepare for the inevitable big sleep.

So, they put on their Tuesday best and headed out for date night.

The Crimson Crustacean was decorated in a distinct nautical theme, with life preservers and oars tacked to its ruddy red walls and a shipwreck display situated just outside the entrance to the main dining area. The host, wearing a sailor cap, navy blue pea coat, white slacks and black sneakers, cheerfully escorted the couple to an area designated “Grub Ahoy.”

Once inside, they joined several other couples at a long table – one adorned in a white, plastic tablecloth dotted with cartoon anchors. Standing at a podium a few feet from the table was the family service counselor at Heavenly Meadows.

“Hello, I’m Steadman Wilshire, and I’d like to welcome everyone to the Crimson Crustacean,” he said in a low, raspy voice. “I know that you’ll enjoy the wonderful dinner and I trust you’ll find our program quite informative.”

Gary raised his hand.

“Hate to interrupt, Steadman, but we don’t have any menus,” he said.

Mr. Wilshire forced a smile.

“Actually,” he said. “The meal is already pre-planned. Each of you will receive a fish filet, baked potato and dinner roll, as well as your choice of iced tea, soda or water.”

Gary furrowed his brow.

“Well, that’s unfortunate, Steadman,” he said. “I was gonna order the Endless Lobster Trap with fries, and one of those cheese and jalapeno biscuits they’re always talking about on TV. Now, the fish plate is fine for Gertie – this is my wife here, Gertie – because she’s allergic to shellfish. But even if she wasn’t, she wants no part of a lobster.

“See, when she and her sister, Agnes, were teenagers, they went on a family vacation to Maine. They were on a pier horsing around and the damnedest thing happened; a lobster somehow got loose and attacked Agnes. Bit off her left nipple. We never knew if it was a random attack or a targeted one, or how her nipple even found itself in harm’s way, but you never forget something like that. At least I haven’t, and I wasn’t even there. Just imagine … losing a nipple. Mine are getting tender just talking about it.”

Wilshire didn’t know quite how to respond.

“I, uh, I’m sorry about all that, sir,” he said.

Gary interrupted.

“Not your fault at all, Steadman,” he said. “I mean, unless that was your lobster that got loose. In that case you don’t need to apologize to me, you need to apologize to Agnes and her good nipple.”

Wilshire’s eyes widened.

“We really do need to get on with the program, sir,” he said. “And as you can see, the food is already being placed on the table.”

Gertie raised her hand.

“One thing real quick, Steadman,” Gertie said. “I know funeral homes will do things like embalm you and put you in a coffin, or shove you in a furnace and cremate you. I guess all those are standard. But do you have, like, a Thelma and Louise plan? I mean, say if Gary and I both die and we’re willing to pay for it, is there a way you could put us in a convertible and drive us over a cliff? That just seems like it would be a fun send-off. I know our family would get a kick out of it. Especially Agnes, poor thing. Oh, even better, maybe get Susan Sarandon or Geena Davis to do the eulogy. If you could just talk a few minutes about those options, we’d really appreciate it.”

Wilshire was now red-faced and his once low voice grew higher.

“You two are being very disruptive and, frankly, wasting our time,” he said, practically spitting out his words. “We’re here to have a serious discussion and you … well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you both to leave.”

Gertie produced a couple of Styrofoam containers from her oversized purse, and she and Gary raked the food inside them.

“Well, Steadman, you’re the one who sent the invitation saying we were in for an informative session concerning advance funeral planning options that allowed us to ask difficult questions and receive compassionate answers,” Gary said. “And you never even answered the question about the Thelma and Louise option. We’ll just be taking our complementary food to go, thank you very much.”

The pair hurried out of the dining area and made a beeline to their car. After Gary cranked it up and pulled out of the parking space, both of them erupted in laughter.

“That was fun, Gertie,” Gary said. “Date nights with you are the best. And I gave ‘em a fake email address and phone number, so we don’t have to worry about any follow-up. What do we have next?”

Gertie opened the glove compartment and pulled out a small stack of invitations.

“Let’s see,” she murmured. “OK, next Tuesday at Cowpokes there’s a financial seminar. Free steak dinner.”

Gary smiled.

“Financial seminar, huh?” he said. “That’ll be fun … I’ll do the bit where I start talking about the Irish Republican Army when he brings up IRAs.”

Gertie howled.

“I love that story,” she said. “Especially the part where your cousin loses his right nipple in a friendly fire incident. Anyway, let’s get home and eat  before the fish gets cold.”