Scary Creek Read Free

ragged week-old newspaper from
a coffee shop. An ad announced an estate auction in a town called Vandalia,
Upshyre Country, located several hours southwest. The house, a Victorian
mansion built by a coal and timber baron in the 1880s, looked as if it had
possibilities. Surrounded by 26 acres, the house, land and contents were selling
as a package per the previous owner’s wishes. There was something compelling about
the house, though I cannot say what it was. The auction was closing that very
day.
    The town was easy enough to find on the map, but
making time and progress on the narrow winding roads proved another matter. I
arrived several hours late and found the courthouse doors locked. I was under
the mistaken impression that most state and county facilities remained open
until 4 pm.
    There were numerous cars and pickup trucks lining the
streets, but the sidewalks were nearly empty. The stores appeared to be open but
in dire need of customers. Across the street from the courthouse and located
within the block were empty restaurants and dusty storefronts, banks, a
department store, drug stores, and a real estate office. A magistrate’s office
and notary public shingles dangled from faded aluminum awnings.
    High school senior class and aging wedding photos were
on display in a vacant storefront window. I suspected there were malls
somewhere on the outskirts of town doing a thriving business, medical clinics,
donut shops, burger joints and automotive stores scattered throughout, but from
the steps of the courthouse, the streets were dead.
    A lone figure moved inside a realtor’s office. I had
traveled too far to walk away from Vandalia without registering a word of
complaint. I checked the name of the agency in the auction notice. They were
the same. If it was an error, I felt entitled to an explanation, or at least
ask a few questions if nothing else. The door was open and a bell announced my
entry in a rattling noisome way. The office intimated there were profits in
real estate to make, even in a county as remote as this one. Several desks
seemed to be comfortably nestling in a blue shag carpet that emitted a pleasant
fragrance. The newest and most impressive desk was adjacent to a frosted-glass
room divider.
    A young man wearing camouflage fatigues and combat
boots had risen at the sound of the bell and was weaving his way across the
room. Midway he discovered some pleasure in my presence and smiled . I thought it
had something to do with my thinning hair, which I neglected to brush. The wind
had swept it over my ears to look like fender skirts. I was also wearing red
suspenders over a tie-dyed purple tee shirt with a Grateful Dead logo, a gift
from a woman trucker who aspired to be an exotic dancer. My hastily assembled fugitive
attire was sadly uncoordinated. It had created a similar response in the
Harper’s Ferry coffee shop.
    I popped a tissue from a box on a nearby desk and
wiped the dust and grime from my nose and forehead.
    “Virgil Stamper,” he announced in an accommodating
voice.
    He was short and stocky with long blond hair and a
wind-burned face. His smile was wry and as suspect as his camouflage fatigues.
    “I came here to bid on a house,” I said, inspecting my
glasses for smudges and flakes of dander. “I guess I got here too late.”  
    The word ‘bid’ seemed to stir his curiosity.
    “The house on Scary Creek?” he asked.
    “I don’t know the location, but I like what I saw.”
    “You’ve seen it?” He asked.
    “Only a picture in the paper,” I replied.
    Virgil’s eyes picked through a stack of listings and
photos piled on a nearby desk.
    “That was an old photo,” he said, searching through
the papers and locating the print. “The house was a showplace, but now it’s run
down. Some of the windows are broken and termites and dry rot have invaded the wooden
porches. It needs work, but it’s still a bargain,” he concluded.
    “It doesn’t sound like a bargain; sounds like