Category: Fiction Factor

Everybody in Mississippi knew the legend of ‘The Crossroads.”

Hell, anybody who ever picked up a guitar knew where Robert Johnson’s deal with the devil was made. They also knew the cost involved.

And when Bestor Teevens decided to go there, he did so with the full knowledge that he would gain a lot and lose a lot.

So, he gently laid his LSC1-WH white electric guitar into the back seat of his faded red,  2001 Ford Festiva, cranked the engine, and headed towards Clarksdale.

The trip would take maybe three hours – four if traffic was bad and he had multiple pee stops – and he sure didn’t want to spend all that travel time ruminating about what awaited at the end of his journey.

He did, however, think about what made him want to go.

He remembered that old toy guitar that he wore out as a boy, banging away at it for hours but never learning to make anything with it other than noise.

Then there were those play-by-number books he got through the mail – the ones that came from a special TV offer and pimped by a “famous” guitarist who he had never heard of.

As much as he wanted to master the guitar, picking and plucking just didn’t come naturally to him. The Crossroads was his last hope … it might have been his only hope all along.

But still, he dreamed, and the portable CD player plugged into the car’s cigarette lighter helped provide inspiration.

There was “Born Under a Bad Sign” by Albert King … “Live at the Regal” by B.B. King … “Texas Flood” by Stevie Ray Vaughan. And of course, there had to be some Robert Johnson.

Had to be.

So, once he figured he was less that an hour away from the intersection of Highways 61 and 49, he decided to play the compilation album released in 1961.

Appropriately enough, it opened with “Crossroad Blues.”

By the time Bestor arrived at his destination, “Hellhound On My Trail” was playing.

I can tell the wind is risin’, the leaves tremblin’ on the tree … tremblin’ on the tree. I can tell the wind is risin’, the leaves tremblin’ on the tree … tremblin’ on the tree. Hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm. All I need’s my little sweet woman, and to keep my company. Hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm.

It was a breezy day and the leaves were, in fact, tremblin’ on the tree. Bestor didn’t really notice as he reached into the backseat, grabbed his guitar, and got out of the car.

Before he could close the door, he saw a mountain of man standing before him, wearing a fedora hat and flashing a toothy grin.

“You must be Scratch,” Bestor said.

“And you must be Mr. Bestor Teevens. Welcome to The Crossroads, my friend.”

Bestor walked closely behind Scratch, realizing there was no turning back. By god, he was going to learn to play the blues, and he was willing to pay the price.

“OK,” Scratch said. “We’re going to meet once a week here at the Crossroads Center, and the lessons will normally last 60 minutes. The cost of the first lesson is $50 due to our introductory offer, and after that it’s $120 per session. Now, I need you to sign this waiver saying you accept the fact that you have committed to eight consecutive weeks of lessons and the money is non-refundable …”

The campfire that once hissed and popped as its flames licked at the night sky was calm now … mostly just a glowing bed of embers that provided more ambience than heat.

Hooper Craven – already sufficiently drunk – released a rattling burp, pawed at the melting ice in the cooler, and fished out another cold one.

“Well, boys,” he said. “I think we’ve solved most of the world’s problems tonight, so it’s time for an old-fashioned campfire tale. Raise your hands if you wanna hear a ghost story.”

No one raised their hand.

“Nah, me either,” Hooper said, mindlessly scratching his belly. “Everybody knows ghosts are bullshit. Hell, I knew that when I was a kid. I remember my uncle took a bunch of us campin’ right here at Lake Halcyon and we roasted marshmallows and weenies and he told us about a lovesick lumberjack who had died here … dude was cuttin’ down a tree under the light of a full moon so he could build a cabin for his sweetheart, and a limb fell on him and crushed him. Supposedly – late at night – you could still hear him off in the distance, howlin’ and runnin’ his chainsaw. Some of the boys got spooked, but not me.

“First off, why would a ghost need a chainsaw? And second off, wouldn’t a lumberjack be smart enough to cut limbs while the sun was out? That story just never added up to me.”

Hooper laughed and took a long pull off his beer.

“Nah, the stories I liked were the ones that were more real. The ones that – if you really thought about it – could easily happen. Now, that guy who had the hook for a hand that killed the teenagers who went parkin’, that’s possible but it’s still a stretch. I mean, it’s just not likely. Raise your hands if you think that’s likely.”

No one raised their hand.

“Nope, if I was gonna do a scary campfire story, I’d keep it simple and make sure people could relate to it. Take tonight, for example. We’re all out in the middle of the woods. If we sit real quiet, we can hear hoots and squawks and all sorts of animal noises that we can’t quite identify. None of that’s all that scary, though, is it? I mean, that’s nature and we’re campers. Of course, if you hear somethin’ trompin’ through the woods you might think it’s a bear or Bigfoot or that Friday the 13^th fellow, and I guess that might give you a little bit of a tingle if you’re the nervous type.

“But to me it’s all about the element of surprise. Just people out enjoyin’ themselves, sittin’ around shootin’ the shit and gettin’ smashed. Not a care in the world. Then all of a sudden, one of ‘em stands up, pulls out a big machete and WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!”

Hooper rose to his feet, finished off his beer and crushed the can.

“Anyway, a couple of days go by and nobody hears from the campers. Finally, their wives or mothers or whoever get worried and call the police, and the police search the woods. And guess what they find? Yep … four campers’ bodies and four campers’ heads. Then they have to figure out what head goes with what body ‘cause they ain’t connected anymore. You know … on account of the machete. Next thing you know, it’s all over the news. ‘Manhunt on for sadistic killer!’ ‘Gruesome massacre at campsite!’ ‘Machete-wielding maniac at large!’ That’s the kinda story people can sink their teeth into.”

Hooper picked up his machete and proceeded to wipe the blood off the blade.

“A few years from now, people will gather ‘round this very spot and tell the story of the Lake Halcyon Massacre. And they’ll wonder … is Hooper Craven still out there, lookin’ for his next four victims? Raise your hands if you think they’ll ever catch me.”

No one raised their hand.

Pearl Tanner leaned over, gently kissed Jerius on the head, and fluffed his pillow.

“You good … you need to go to the bathroom or anything?” she asked.

“No, mama,” he said, smiling. “I’m all set.”

Pearl got up, stretched, and eyed the child’s room, which was painted mint green. On the wall behind Jerius’s bed was a giant poster of the Gill-man from “The Creature of the Black Lagoon,” while the far wall with a small window had three different drawings of King Kong – the last showing him swatting at biplanes while atop the Empire State Building.

And instead of a lamp, the centerpiece of his nightstand was a large skull that doubled as a candleholder. Once the overhead light went out, Pearl lit the wick.

“OK,” she said. “Lemme check for monsters.”

She walked toward the closet door, opened it, glanced at hanging clothes and a scattering of toys, and closed it. She then knelt down and lifted up the blanket slightly so she could peer under his bed.

“No monsters in the closet and no monsters under the bed,” she said. “No monsters anywhere in the house. Same as it was last night and the night before. The only monsters here are the ones on your wall.”

“Mama, you know I’m not scared of monsters,” he said proudly. “Monsters ain’t gonna hurt me.”

Pearl laughed.

“Well, of course not. No such thing, anyway. It’s like that big ol’ fish-looking thing there on the wall – it’s scary looking in the movie, but it’s just a man in a fish suit. And the monkey who climbed that building? He looks mean, but he’s just a story … a fun story, but just a story. I kinda suspected you already knew that, but just for fun I started checking for monsters when you were a little thing and just never got out of the habit. You never were the type to get scared, though, I’ll give you that.”

Pearl blew Jerius a kiss, ignited the candle and switched off the light.

“Goodnight, sugar,” she said as she left his bedroom. “Sweet dreams.”

Jerius could hear his mom walk down the hallway, and the squeak of her bedroom door and the click of the lock signaled that the coast was clear.

“Pssst … Eddie. You can come out now.”

The door to Jerius’s closet cracked and a gnarled gray hand with curled claws gripped the side and pushed it open. Eddie looked like a three-foot tall garden gnome – if garden gnomes were covered in wiry, brown fur. He had small blue eyes, no apparent nose and a triangular mouth that displayed jagged, yellow teeth.

He walked slowly – and with a wobble – but once he reached the side of Jerius’s bed, he effortlessly jumped up and plopped on the mattress.

“Hello, J,” Eddie said in a soft, child-like voice. “What’s the plan tonight?”

Jerius let out a belly laugh and his nurse, Rhonda, cracked a smile as she handed him his medication. He had told the story to the staff at the Franklin Assisted Living Facility for years, and it never got old – at least not to him.

“That’s the absolutely, 100 percent true story I call ‘Me and My Monster,’” Jerius said right after swallowing his pills. “I wrote it along about when I was 10 or 11, and now I’ve told it so many times I got it memorized. Pretty good, huh?”

“It’s very good, Mr. Tanner,” she said. “So, when I go to tuck my kids in tonight, I should tell them that all those stories about having monsters in their closets and under their beds are true, except they aren’t really monsters at all?”

“That’s about the size of it, Miss Rhonda. Monsters were always my friends, ever since I was a young ‘un. Think about the Gill-man … what did he do? He’s just mindin’ his own business and people come up in a boat and start messin’ with his house. And Kong? He’s doing fine on his island and these rich folks chain him up and put him in a show. Shoot … I’d be mad, too. Nah, just because you don’t understand somethin’ doesn’t mean it’s bad. ‘Monster’ is just a word people made up ‘cause they were too lazy to learn about somethin’ new.”

Rhonda patted him on the shoulder and walked to the door.

“I always enjoy talking to you, Mr. Tanner. Good night and sleep tight … you want the light on or off?”

 “Now you know Eddie ain’t gonna come out of the closet with the light on,” he said, laying his head back.

The nurse walked down the hallway, and Jerious could hear the sound of her footsteps fade away. He turned over and noticed the door to his closet was ajar.

“Pssst … Eddie. You can come out now.”