Archive 231 The Church Factor

the main ingredient. A few of them might be named after a flower or an animal, but they all involve the same types of activities, and they almost always culminate in a street dance. And I love those darn things. I'd get off work on Friday night and drive halfway across the country. If I had to, I'd spend the night nearby and do my best to be the first one to arrive the next morning. They were a piece of Americana that doesn't exist anymore, the epitome of wholesomeness

and honor. And I loved them right up until the last one I went to. I was in my twenties back then and a bit reckless. It never occurred to me to tell anyone where I was going or when I would return, nor did it ever cross my mind

to ask anyone to come with me. I can't count the times when I'd be watching a bunch of kids race each other on pedal tractors, or a group of adults with their hands tied behind their backs and their faces planted in plates of blueberry pie, and I think, you know, so and so would have really loved this, But by then I was there and it was too late to ask. I would have given my right arm if I had only asked a friend to go with me to this last festival. It was October, my favorite

month of the year. In fact, it was my favorite day of the year, October twenty first. I had read somewhere about a pumpkin festival in a small town miles from anywhere that hosted the most amazing jack o lantern carvings anyone had ever seen. All day long. Aside from the traditional vendors and events that can be found at all of these types of festivals, people were invited to

carve pumpkins alongside the villagers. Those who visited were always amateurs compared to the natives, but they were allowed to enter their jack o' lanterns in the parade that always took place after sunset. At that point, the car pumpkins would always be placed on hay racks pulled by Clydesdale's and Belgians, and everyone would get to see the artwork.

There would be the normal array of costumed participants who threw candy out to the children, along with a variety of floats decorated to celebrate Halloween, which would be celebrated in Earnest less than a fortnight later. Meanwhile, pumpkin pies and pumpkin butter, and pumpkin bars and pumpkin anything else would be served from the booths, alongside apple cider, apple pies, apple crisps, and caramel apples. Sounded like heaven to me.

I was surprised by how remote albert Landing was. We were in the last decades of the twentieth century by then, and most towns were either easily accessible via the interstate or at the very least a main highway, or they had become ghost towns. Neither was the case here. I had to find a county road that wasn't clearly marked

and then turned down a one lane, unmarked blacktop. It took me four miles through winding hillsides before it came to a covered bridge, and even though I had left my hotel early, I didn't arrive until nearly ten am that day. I had to park my truck in a field and walk across the bridge. I doubt my truck would have made it through the bridge anyway, but a friendly man sitting in a launch by the road stopped me and let me know that there would be no place to park after I crossed the river. Well, I

didn't mind. The bridge looked like something out of a postcard, and the river that flowed under it was almost magical. It was like walking into a Disney movie. The bridge was nothing short of a portal to another world. The citizens of Alberth Landing were awfully vested in their festival. Most of them, or maybe even all of them, were dressed in colonial American clothing, and each of the houses along the street had the appearance of being well over

two hundred years old. A woman was standing in the sideyard of the first house I came to, casting grain to her Rhode Island red hens, and they were pecking at it hungrily. Another woman was sitting on her porch churning butter in an old fashioned butter churn, and the next property had an open sided shd where a man

was practicing the art of black sss. The main part of town was positioned in the crook of the river, so that as the road I was walking on turned and became main street, it was taking me right to the river bank. Ahead of me, I could see a park where booths were set up to sell handmade and

home baked items. Although I was certain I was on the main street, it was nothing to indicate a business district outside of four buildings where the road I was walking cross the only other road that didn't look like a cow path. The four buildings that stood on the four street corners struck me as odd. The first business

was the post office. Despite being housed in a building that looked like it had stood since long before Paul Revere took up horseback riding, it had all the modern day signage of the United States Postal Service in the windows. The signs looked out of place, but not nearly as inappropriate as the gas station across the road from it.

The glass front and store windows full of signs advertising lottery, tickets and slurpies felt like a time traveler sent back from the future to warn the world of the hideous fate that awaited us. Opposite the post office, the catty corner from the gas station, was the only one of four buildings that appeared to fit in It was a tavern. Other than the paps blue ribbon sign in the front

window that struggled to stay lit. It could have been an old inn, with bar maids wearing dust caps and patrons slashing down tankards of ale while they waited for fresh team of horses to be hitched to their coach. There was a certain comfort in that building, even with the flickering light. It felt as rooted as the oak trees that bordered the park ahead of me, And somehow the thought that it felt unnatural made me feel unnatural,

as if I didn't belong there. A voice from somewhere deep inside me whispered that I should turn around and leave. And since that day, whenever that voice has spoken, no matter how quietly, I have listened and obeyed. But this day, however, I did not. It was the fourth and final structure at that intersection that was the most bizarre, because little festivals like this one put on by small towns everywhere had been a passion of mine for several years. I had seen my share of out of the way places

like snowflakes. No two towns are exactly alike. It can feel like they are at times, but there is always something that will set each one apart. It may be a flea market housed in an old gas station, or a specialty store where the town creative types make leather goods while the locals watch. Or maybe it's a house on a hilltop where the founders once lived, or a local cafe that serves a certain dish unmatched anywhere else.

Or wherever it is, there is always likewise, there is one thing that every town of certain size has in common with every other town of that size. More appropriately, there are four things. While the typical blink and you'll miss it wide spot in the highway will certainly have only one or two of these. Any town large enough to form more than a few city blocks will have a post office, at least one gas station, one tavern, and one church, and many towns like this one will

have all four at the same intersection. But where a church should have stood in this town was a big red barn. It was in immaculate condition. Not one board was out of place. It had a fresh coat of paint with a gleaming white trim, and the front consisted of a ground level set of doors that slid open along the wide metal track, directly under the set of loft doors, over which on a pulley foringing up the

hay that would surely be stored there. Between the loft doors and the pulley was a gorgeously painted Amish heck sign in brilliant greens, blues and golds. Along the side that was visible to me were square windows that were closed off by hen shutters marked with a white trimmed axe pattern. The barn could have come straight out of a children's book. Despite its natural beauty, its location in the middle of town, right where I had expected a

church to be was a bit unsettling. That there was a rope draped across the front doors with a sign that said no admittance didn't help. I made my way down to the park. I passed a man who was standing in front of a massive iron kettle making kettle corn, and whose wife was busy scooping the finished product into bags and labeling them. A woman was carting wool a few doors down in front of a yard full of tables loaded with baskets of yarn and wide variety of colors.

Beyond that was a stand where a young couple was selling homemade root beer, the old fashioned carbonated by way of fermentation variety. I had to stop for a bottle. The closer I got to the park, the more there were people like me, dressed in twentieth century apparel. There was a family of four waiting in line so the

kids could have a turn on the pony ride. A young couple obviously deeply in love, paid no attention to anything or anyone except each other, and older couples walked hand in hand, enjoying the memories of youth that must

have been stirred by the nostalgia of the event. One lady, whose white roots were showing under her harshly dyed red hair, was holding up a quilt at a booth and telling the withered old man beside her how her grandmother had made a quilt using the same pattern and nearly identical colors for her when she was a little girl, and the man was already pulling out his wallet to purchase it for her. In nervous anticipation, she wiped her hands down the front of a gaudy white top with large

turquoise flowers printed on it. Near the center of the park was where the real activity was taking place. Children were gathered around long makeshift tables and carving pumpkins. Adults walked all along the line and offered guidance wherever possible. Moms and dads cringed at the messes their children were making, before smiling brightly and congratulating them on their jobs well done.

And then another adult dressed in appropriate period clothing would come along and direct them away from the table to a place where presumably the children could enter their masterpieces in the contest that was to be judged later in the afternoon. Now this was paradise. I couldn't believe how fortunate I was to have found such a festival. It was everything dreamed of. Booth after booth sold to items that had been made by hand and were surprisingly reasonably priced.

Along the far edge of the park was a row of gaming booths where visitors were encouraged to try their hand at balloon darts, the duck pond and a ring toss. At the end of the boost was a dunk tank, where the town's mayre was perched precariously on a lever that would drop him into the water below if the

person throwing the ball hit the target. Periodically, a man driving a horse drawn wagon would make his way through the crowd, with a handful of children sitting in the back, and another man towered over everyone on stilts hidden under extra long pant legs. I saw a tent with a sign that offered palm readings, beside another tint from which I could hear music. Now this wasn't the typical bar brown howling out of painful renditions of Lenyard skinnered songs,

or making poor attempts at being Janis Joplin. The music from that tent was old beyond my memories. The melodies were both familiar and strange, alluring and menacing. I visited every booth and examined every piece of merchandise, and purchased more than I could comfortably carry, and I ate more than my stomach had room for. I visited the game booths and took a shot at dunking the mayor before

winning a stuff bear at the ring tossed. My legs ached and my arms were loaded down By the time I made my way back over to where the children were carving pumpkins, more and more adults were taking seats at the table and trying their hand at carving. A young girl approached me and asked if I'd like to buy a pumpkin to carve. I was young, and my job paid well, and my bills were paid. I wasn't married, and I had no children. This was what money was

made for. I thought, yes, please, I said. A letter lead me to an empty spot at the table, and someone held open a bag and suggested I put my merchandise sent it and set it under the table, and I obediently did as I was instructed. The young girl brought me a tall pumpkin and took my payment. She pointed out the carving instructions in jaws in front of me and asked if I needed any help. I assured her that I was an old hand at this, and I thanked her before she went off to find someone

to fill the empty spot beside me. I had already cut open the top of my pumpkin and was scooping out the seeds when the lady with the garnish red hair sat down beside me. She flashed me a tobacco stained grin through lips stained with a bright pink lipstick that was bleeding down the creases of her mouth. Hazel, she said, excuse me, I answered, unsure of why she was calling me Hazel. Well, my name is Hazel. What's yours? Oh, I'm Charlie. I told her. Nice to me, you, Charlie.

Have you ever been to this thing before? The young girl who helped me sat a small, squat pumpkin in front of Hazel, and it suddenly struck me that she was matching pumpkin shapes to body types. No, I haven't. I didn't know it existed until a week ago. Well, me neither. If I'd known they did this, i'd come every year. I was struck by the little girl quality in her voice. I'm Martin. Over there, that's my husband, She gestured over to where the withered old man was

nodding off on a park bench. Martin never likes to go to these things, but he's had so much fun today. He's like a kid again. And she giggled, and I decided that I liked Hazel. He says we can come back next year if I want to. Well, that's nice, I offered, because I didn't know what else to say. I looked over at her sleeping husband. He wasn't an attractive old man. I highly doubted that he had been

handsome in his youth. He bore a full set of acme scar on each cheek, and his mouth seemed too wide for his thin face, and his nose was long and hooked. However, I remembered how he had pulled out his wallet and purchased the quilt for his wife, and I decided I liked him too. We carved our pumpkins, trading suggestions and offering support as we did so. Hazel didn't stop talking. She told me about her children and grandchildren.

She talked about a son who died in Vietnam, and another who lives somewhere out west now but who always comes home for Thanksgiving. She told me about the quilt she'd purchased and how much it reminded her of a quilt her grandmother had made for her when she was

a little girl. And then she told me how she and Martin had always planned to travel after he retired from the factory where he had worked for nearly thirty years, but that they had robbed him of his pension, and now they couldn't afford to do much more than go to little festivals like this. And by the time the young girl came around and led us over to the judging table, I knew almost everything a body could know about an elderly couple leaving Social Security check to check.

There must have been a hundred pumpkins on the hay racks behind the judges booth. They were separated into categories by the age of the artist. We were handed cards on which to write our names, and when we handed them back, they stuck a sticker on each card with a number and handed us each a ticket with a corresponding number. The judging would take place in a few more hours, and if we placed, we would be invited

to ride on the float and carry our pumpkins. I said my goodbyes to Hazel, and I wished her and Martin good luck, and I went to find more food to eat. When I finally sat down on the bench where Martin had been napping earlier, I took a long, hard look around. Most of the pumpkin carvers were adults. Now. The simple, toothless grins created by the children were gone. Older minds were cutting out more devious looking faces with evil,

frowning eyes and pointed, jagged teeth. I watched as first one person in twentieth century apparel, and then another was replaced by someone who dressed in their period clothing, began to carve with amazing precision. The initial works were not much more impressive than anyone else's, but little by little, simple eye holes and gaping mouths were disappearing. Whole faces were being carved in with tools that weren't on the table, but were being pulled from inside of pockets. I was

amazed at how realistic those faces began to look. A few were whimsical, but mostly they were frightening. I saw one carve to look like an angry sea captain, into whose mouth the artist shoved a pipe when he was finished, And another face resembled a witch. It looked so alive that I could almost see her meeting with her sisters in the open scene of Beth. Then I saw a

beastly face. The eye was popped out and dangling by cords of pumpkin guts, Its cheeks were modeled as if scarred by smallpox, and it was spewing more pumpkin guts from its fat lips. It looked like blood was trickling from its nose, and I couldn't help but feel that I had seen that face somewhere, maybe not such a hideous version of it, but definitely that face, and I decided it must be the artist rendition of Charles Lofton as the hunchback of Notre Dame. I was beginning to

get tired. Too much food, too many bottles of the overly sweet root beer, and too many glasses of apple cider were taking their toll. The judge wasn't due to start for another hour, but I was imagining my warm, comfortable hotel room and thinking that no parade would match the joy of crawling into bed. Another completed pumpkin was placed beside the dangling eyep can. This one had been painted with pink lipstick and wore a mop of bright

red hair. I looked at the little squinting eyes and thought how funny it was that the two pumpkins, side by sides looked so much like Hazel and Martin. And it occurred to me then that it must be a tradition to find people in the crowd, and the car faces to resemble theirs. I looked up and down the line of the artists to see if anyone was carving my face. None of the pumpkins looked anything like me.

Will you come with me please? I looked around, and the voice that seemed to be whispering in my ear, the young girl who had sold me the pumpkin, was bending over the back of my bench. Are you talking to me? I asked, yes, Can you please come with me? She was beckoning for me to follow her. Exhaustion was winning the day. I couldn't imagine where I would ever find the energy to stand up, much less wine. I shook my head no, unable to find the worst to

explain that I was too tired. You've won a price, she said, you have a spot on the float. Her smile felt more like a leer. All around us, lights were being lit, or perhaps torches were being ignited. I couldn't tell which voices were fading in and out. People were moving about, but it looked more like they were swaying. I felt dizzy. If you'll follow me, I'll take you

to the float, she said. I don't know if I was too exhausted to move or too exhausted to disobey, I sat straight up on the bench and I reached for my bag. My body was making up my mind for me. It apparently thought I had enough energy to follow. My hand reached the spot where my bag should have been, but there was nothing there. I have your bag, if you will follow me, the young girl said. Her voice had a strange, ethereal sound that matched the music that

was still coming from the tent. Come on, she coaxed. It's this way. The world tilted sideways as I gained my fee, but I quickly righted myself and I took the first step forward. She was directly in front of me. Her long brown hair fell down her back in soft waves. Such pretty hair, I heard myself mutter. We walked through the crowd single file, and every now and then she would stop and look back to make sure I was still there. Somehow I was. My head was spinning and

my eyes were losing focus. I was certain that I was going to pass out, but my feet kept moving forward. We made our way back up the street to the big red barn. In here, she said, sliding the door open wide enough for me to step through. It was warm inside. It had been a relatively warm day, but the night. At some point, and I can't remember when it had become nigh, the night air chilled everything, including me.

The interior of the barn glowed with a golden hue that one hundred lit candles or a blazing fire would create. That people were moving around inside. They were all dressed in colonial attire. In front of me was a woman. Her clothes were from my century, and it told me that she was not local. She turned to look at me, and we were both startled to see the disoriented exhaustion in each other's faces. A voice from somewhere deep inside me whispered, I told you to leave, now, it's too late.

I felt sick. There was a strange, nauseating smell hanging in the air, and I couldn't quite place it. It was thick and metallic in nature, with undertones of something I could not identify. I closed my eyes for just a moment. The thud of something heavy hitting the dirt floor somewhere near me brought me wide awake, and I focused on the spot where the woman had stood only a moment before, but she was gone. Automatically, I stepped forward to take her place in line, and as I did so, I

tripped over her body. I need help, someone was saying. It was the blacksmith I had seen earlier. This one passed out. Someone helped me lift her. I watched as two other men came over and half dragged, half carried the woman away. I heard the sound of a blade swishing through the air in the split of something viscous. The line moved forward another step. My body ached for release. My eyes wouldn't stay open. There are always gluttons, someone was saying. Every year there are those who drink too

much root beer and they pass out. It's always the same, too much root beer. What did he mean? Root Beer is an alcoholic. It shouldn't make anyone pass out. I tried to count the number of bottles I had drank that day, Three maybe four. Another swish of a blade and another splaight of thick fluid. The line moved forward another step, and I followed suit. My mind was telling me to focus. Now. That little voice wasn't whispering anymore. It was screaming at me to get out and run,

or you're going to die. I forced my eyes open and took in my surroundings, and people were moving around, stacking large objects into piles. That little voice was telling me what I was looking at, but my mind couldn't accept it. The objects were mannequins, I thought, headless mannequins, and then I recognized a gaudy white blouse with big turquoise flowers on it. The head was gone, but I knew if it did been there, it would have had harshly dyed red hair. There were people everywhere around me.

I didn't know what to do. I swallowed a scream, and I forced myself to stand perfectly still. The adrenaline rush completely erased my confusion. With every ounce of strength I possessed, I forced myself to quit trembling. I had to get out of there. Another swipe of the blade meant another step forward, and I moved aside and allowed the man who was behind me to step forward in my place. No one noticed. I stepped back another step and let the woman behind him step up. No one

saw me. The blade took another head, and the line stepped forward, and everyone except me. With each beheading, I moved backwards, and finally I was at the door, and when it opened, the young girl who had brought me there was pushing another victim through. Now worried that she might have seen me, but she didn't, and the door closed too quickly. Anyway, the front wall of the barn was dark, not a sight of My only hope was to fade into the shadows. If I could keep hidden,

maybe I would find another way out. I slept backwards, and I pressed my whole body into the shadows. And a few minutes later the door opened again and another victim stepped inside. I had stood beside that man at the ring toss. He looked at me, but he was in too deep of a stupor to recognize me. And as I stared at him, something behind him caught my eye. It was the stairs leading to the hayloft. In every horror movie I've ever watched, the biggest mistake is always

to go up when running from the monster. Don't climb the stairs, don't climb the ladder, and don't climb the tree. I knew that, but I also knew there was no other escape. Clinging tight to the dark wall, I made my way over and quickly ascended the loft. Halfway up, I got a glimpse of the front of the line. There was an altar. I wondered if I could stay up in the loft for the night and make my

escape the next morning. I felt safe for now. My adrenaline levels were dropping, and I was beginning to feel the exhaustion seep in again. The hay looked soft and inviting. I could have fallen to my knees and slept for days weeks. Even A voice behind me erased that thought there are more bags up here, it was saying, as it climbed up the stairs behind me. Quickly, I dove behind a stack of haybelles, and I held my breath.

The owner of the voice was directing another voice to look at the back of the waft, then rummaged around while I laid as still as I could, And by the time they found what they were looking for, it was all I could do to stay awake. Sleep was all I wanted. Once they were gone, I made my own way to the back of the barn, and, to my everlasting joy, there was a door there. I slipped it open and I peeked out. Thankfully, no one was

back there. However, there was no way to get down either, and whatever was in that root beer was playing havoc on my cognitive reasoning, the hay was calling me back to sleep and my body was doing its best to betray me. But I had to escape. I looked around the loft for something, anything, to help me get down.

There was a rope on top of the pile of bags the two voices had come up to get and I slid the door open as wide as I dared, and I dropped the rope down, hoping there wasn't a window below me that would reveal the rope and give me away. I've never been the athletic type. Combined with the overwhelming desire to sleep, I don't know how I managed to get down, and when my feet were firmly on the ground, I took off at a dead run for the covered bridge. I didn't care at that point

who saw me. I just needed to get away. I was running at what felt like a breakneck speed, but in reality it was little more than a crawl. Street Lights or torches let my path. As I ran along the street toward the bridge, it was getting closer and freedom was seconds away. And I knew when I got to my truck that I wouldn't be going back to my hotel room. I was going home. I was going to put as much space between me and this horrible place, these monstrous people, as I possibly could. I took my

first step onto the bridge deck. A relief flooded my body. My truck was on the other side, just over the water. I could do this. My hand reached down to feel for my keys in my front pocket, and there they were. The bridge was dark, but moonlight illuminated the opening at the far end. I was going to be safe soon. I burst through the portal that had led me to that awful place and came to a staggering halt. My truck wasn't parked in the field, No vehicles were parked there.

The entire field was empty. Overwhelmed by confusion, I looked back across the river at the little town, and a mass of fire burned now in the middle of the park. Strange music drifted through the air, bringing with it uncertainty. Was this all a bad dream? When was I going to wake up? Could I wake up? I turned back to the field where my truck should have been, and then down the road where freedom waited. I thought that was running through my mind was too horrible to accept.

Even as I rejected it, I slid down the river bank and began to quietly make my way along it, hidden from view by underbrush and overgrown trees, and back to the park, where the fire burned. From behind one of those tall oak trees that bordered the park, I watched the festivities. The townspeople were dancing around a massive bonfire where the pumpkin carving tables had been. All around the fire, on the ground were the headless bodies of a hundred or more out of towners. Where their heads

had once been, jack o lanterns were now perched. I saw the bodies of Hazel and Martin, and the man who stood beside me at the ring toss, the family of four and their two children, and the young couple in love. Each pumpkin was a grotesque replica of the head it had replaced. The smell of their body slowly roasting bold in the pit of my stomach. The kettlecorn

man was at the center of the activities. He was dressed now in a white robe with a hood reminiscent of the types of hoods worn by the ku Klux Klan. He held up ahead and said something strange over it before casting it into the fire. I recognized it by the shit jock of red hair, and everyone cheered. The Feast of Albreth, by all blessings be bestowed. The man called the Feast of Albreth, answered his followers. There were

more cheers. He picked up Martin's head and repeated the ritual, And I watched as he picked up head after a head and repeated his prayer and cast it into the fire again and again. The villains cheered, and the smell of burning flesh was so overpowering that I began to feel sick. But at last I emptied the contents of my stomach out onto the dark grass behind the tree. I had seen enough. That was a blessing. The medicated

root beer came up with the food, sobering me. With no truck, I saw no reason to go back the way I came. I knew the river would take me back to civilization. I had only to follow it. It took me three days before I saw anything that looked remotely like the world I had left behind when I crossed that bridge for the first time. I hadn't dared leave the river until then. I had drank river water and gone without food, but I had gotten away that

was all that mattered now. I reported my truck as stolen, and I received an insurance check that was big enough to put a down payment on another one. It wasn't as nice as the first, but I didn't need a better truck. I wouldn't be traveling around the country to festivals anymore. My world would never expand beyond my own backyard again