A Place to Be
Ben set the two boxes on the counter and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. The cashier, a pimply kid in a white polo, picked up a box.
“You gonna put these up on your house?” the kid asked, turning the box over in his hands. His name tag read, Shaun. There was a weird red stain beside the tag, like a blotch of marinara.
Ben stared at Shaun and tried not to sigh. The day had been long, the hour was late, and Ben wanted to go to bed. He was grateful, however, for the pure miracle that the feed-slash-hardware-slash-gun-slash-bait shop even had camera doorbells.
“Yep,” Ben said. “That’s what I plan to do.”
“You ain’t worried your dogs’ll set ‘em off?”
“I only have cats.”
“Cats could prob’ly set ‘em off.”
“My cats live inside.”
Shaun stared at Ben like he had sprouted a third eye. “Why?”
“Because it’s harmful for the local bird population to let domestic cats outdoors.”
“The world ain’t gonna miss a few mockingbirds or blue jays.” Shaun scanned the box he held. “Might even be better for it. I once had a blue jay dive bomb my head while I was in the middle o’ my yard.” He waved the box in a reenactment of a bird swooping at his head. “Wasn’t near a nest or nothin’.”
Ben said, “You were probably near a food source, then.”
Shaun shrugged. He placed the first box into a plastic bag on which was printed, in big block letters, SAMPSON’S FEED AND SEED: WE GOT A LITTLE OF EVERYTHING. He scanned the second box. “How come you’re gettin’ cameras?”
It was really none of the kid’s business, but he held the box while staring at Ben with expectation. Maybe if Ben answered the question, he could escape more quickly.
“Someone threw a dead alligator at my front door,” Ben said.
Shaun laughed. “What? How big?”
“Um. I think three feet?”
“Aw, jus’ a baby, then. Didja talk to your neighbors about it?”
Ben didn’t think a three-foot-long alligator was a baby, but he also didn’t feel like arguing. “Actually, no one lives next to me. The nearest house is a hundred yards down and across the road.”
“Where d’ya live?”
“On Nickel Road.”
Shaun went still, holding the box over the open mouth of the shopping bag. “Nickel Road? You live out there?”
“Yeah. I just moved here from Greenville.”
“That’s a long way from Hammondville.”
“I wanted a change of pace, so I bought a fixer upper.”
Once Ben was done renovating the house, however, he was going to sell and move on. He didn’t intend to live the rest of his life in the backwaters of Baxton County, South Carolina.
“What?” asked Ben, as the kid continued to stare.
Shaun said, “Lottsa weird shit happens on Nickel Road. You be careful, mister.” He dropped the box into the bag. He hit a button on the cash register. “That’ll be 200 even.”
Ben paid. As he took the bags from Shaun, he said, “You’ve got red on you.”
Shaun looked down at his soiled shirt. He muttered a curse. Ben smiled and walked out into the chilly March night. Inside his SUV, his phone chimed. It was a text from Mom.
The text message read, Sorry, son. Can’t have you over this weekend. We’re going to New York on business.
With a sigh, Ben closed his phone and tossed it into the passenger seat. It bounced, landing on the floor. He cursed and bent down, digging around in the dark until he found it.
Ben’s headlights flashed over the front of the house as he pulled into the weed-tangled yard. He switched off the car.
A real estate agent would call the house on Nickel Road “quaint”, with “plenty of southern charm”. Ben called it a money pit or an eyesore, depending on his mood.
The tin roof, though sound, was covered in rust. Half of the gutters were missing. The white exterior paint was peeling. The wraparound porch was nice, except for the rotten boards in spots. Ben was pretty sure something lived under the house.
The interior was painted in shades of hunter green and goldenrod, a look that was probably very stylish in 1965. Thankfully, there was no carpet aside from a collection of area rugs so worn, the patterns were undecipherable. The scuffed and scratched floors were in desperate need of refinishing.
All the fixtures and appliances were outdated by decades. Ben was honestly impressed that any of them still worked. His first order of business, before he even moved in, was to have WiFi installed.
Ben looked at the front porch, at the large, black trash bags cluttering it.
The oddest bit, however, was that the previous owner’s belongings sat completely untouched under a thick layer of dust, as if the man had left for an errand but never came back.
Ben knew that house flippers loved this sort of thing. However, this was his first time flipping a house. Finding it in that state creeped him out. And the worst part was that most of what he had found over the last two days was junk, and there was still more to go through, especially in the attic.
With a sigh, Ben grabbed his purchases, climbed out of the SUV, and trudged up to the front steps. And then stopped.
A large, broken tree branch sat on the welcome mat, surrounded by shards of tempered glass from the storm door. A long scratch ran down the wooden front door, where the branch had struck it.
The sheer size of the branch was impressive. Ben figured he could pick it up, but he wouldn’t be able to throw it far.
A chill slid down his spine. That was when he noticed the swamp surrounding the house was still and silent.
His gaze swept over the darkness outside the glow of the security light. They were having a sudden cold snap, but it wasn’t so cold as to send the frogs back to sleep. Ben had the strangest sensation of being watched.
Shivering, he hopped up the steps and carefully navigated the debris. He let himself into the house.
As soon as he entered the front hall, something furry rubbed against his shins. He left a light on over the stairs, allowing him to see the little black body winding around his ankles.
“Careful, Binx,” he said, closing the door. “You’re going to trip me one day.” He said that every time he came home.
Binx let out a plaintive cry. Another cat, this one white and brown, appeared from the darkness of the living room. Frodo meowed loudly.
“Okay, okay,” Ben said.
He fed the cats, and then went out into the quiet night with another trash bag, a dustpan, a broom, and his toolkit. An hour later, the mess was cleaned up, the broken storm door removed, and the new camera doorbells installed front and back. The sync module sat beside the WiFi router on a stand in the living room. Pleased with his work, Ben went to bed.
He woke up and wasn’t sure why. Ben peered at the bedside alarm clock. It read 2:59 am. As he watched, the time changed to 3 am.
The screen of his phone lit, chirping an alert. He sat up and reached for the phone. A second alert went off as he picked it up.
From somewhere downstairs, he heard one of his cats let out a large hiss that morphed into a terrified scream.
Ben launched out of bed and ran out of the room, coming down the stairs two at a time. He stopped at the bottom, heart racing.
Frodo, fur standing on end, bolted from the living room. He dashed past Ben up the stairs. Ben walked into the living room, switching on the light. Nothing was out of place. The world outside the windows was pitch black.
Ben switched off the light. Slowly, he approached the windows. Heart climbing into his throat, he peered out, bracing to face a monster or a burglar. He didn’t see anything aside from an unkempt yard and the beginnings of woods.
He checked his phone. Both alerts came from his newly installed cameras. There were two new videos. He selected the first one.
The backyard was beyond the glow of the security light. Black and white night footage showed nothing unusual. Then, a flash of quick movement and the feed went dead.
His stomach knotting, Ben pulled up the second video. This one was in full color. At first, nothing unusual. Then, again, another flash and the feed went dead.
Fear turning his mouth sour, Ben crept to the front door. He fumbled with the lock and then eased the door open, the chilly air spilling into the hall.
His new doorbell camera laid in pieces strewn across the porch. Four claw marks gouged across the wood where the device had been.
Ben slammed the door closed and locked it.
A half hour later, a sheriff’s deputy’s black-and-tan patrol car pulled into the front yard. The deputy, a thin man with a thin mustache and bags under his eyes, introduced himself as Officer Riley. He surveyed the destroyed camera with a passive expression.
“What about the back one?” Officer Riley asked.
“Broken.” Ben crossed his arms over his chest and tried to not look as shaken as he felt. “Earlier today, someone broke my storm door by throwing a tree branch at it.”
“How come ya didn’t call then?”
“I guess I thought I could catch whoever it is on the cameras.”
“Takes a lot t’break a storm door. Where’s the limb?”
Ben pointed to where it laid next to the front steps.
Officer Riley whistled. “Big damn limb.” He pulled a notepad out of his shirt pocket. “I can file a report for your insurance, but that’s about all I can do.”
“You’re not going to look for the kids who did this?”
“Kids?”
“Yeah. This is a kids-type thing. Right?”
Officer Riley smirked. “In the middle of nowhere, in the dead of night, on this road?” He pointed at the doorframe. “You think kids left scratch marks like that?”
“Well—”
“Listen. Your nearest neighbor is little ol’ Ms. Milly, and she’s deaf as a post and old enough to’ve changed Methusaleh’s diaper. Have you gone over to see her?”
“Why would I?”
Officer Riley said slowly, “To introduce yourself. You a city boy, ain’t you?”
“I’m from Greenville.”
“The hell you doin’ out here?”
“At this point, I don’t know.” Ben could feel a headache forming behind his eyes. “I just got tired of a fast-paced life, and I thought it would be nice to fix up a country house. I picked Hammondville at random, bought this place sight unseen at a tax sale, and once I’m done renovating, I’m leaving.”
The officer snapped the notebook shut. “Aw, well, shit, that’s your problem.”
“Sorry?”
Officer Riley settled a hand onto his utility belt. “Nickel Road is the most haunted stretch of asphalt in Baxton County. It runs from Sniper Road all the way to Winchester Crossroads out in Glenhollow, where it becomes Lodge Hall Road. That’s seven miles o’ swamp and farmland. On that stretch, there are only three houses. Ms. Milly, the Buchner place, and now, you. This used to be Mr. Rogers’ house, but he passed away five years ago.”
“And it’s only now gone on tax sale?”
“His son was payin’ the taxes, from what I heard.”
“What happened to his son?”
“He stopped payin’ the taxes.”
Ben blinked. “Right. Well, how come he didn’t take his dad’s stuff?”
“I think they had a falling out. Mr. Addams, what I’m tryin’ to say is that not just anyone can live here. Only the people who choose to belong here can be accepted by whatever-the-hell-it-is that prowls this stretch of road. And every dumb kid in this county knows not to go messin’ around here.”
Ben shook his head, confused. “None of this makes sense.”
“It doesn’t have to make sense to be true.” He slapped his notepad against his leg. “I’ll go write up that report.”
Officer Riley walked off the porch and to his patrol car. Ben sighed. While he waited, he might as well sweep up the mess.
Ben couldn’t sleep after Officer Riley left, so he spent the rest of the night going through more trunks, boxes, and drawers. He kept what he thought was useful, set aside what could be donated, and bagged the rest. Most of it was bagged.
In the attic, he found a box of old photos. While the first glimmers of dawn slipped through the window, he spread the photos out on the oaken dining room table.
There were glossy color photos of Christmas morning celebrations, graduations, and family gatherings. There was a black and white photo of a young couple standing beside a 1950s Ford Galaxie, the car’s paint color lost to time.
There was a multigenerational family portrait, running from ancient to infant, all ranged on the front steps of a house. Ben recognized the columns framing the group shot. It was the front porch of this home.
He set the photo down with the others. Hundreds of moments and faces caught in the click of a camera lens. The weight of history settled across Ben’s shoulders.
And, with it, a familiar, cold sensation: the chill of being an outsider. This wasn’t his family. He was an invader, going through their belongings and callously deciding what had value and what did not.
The officer’s words of last night came back to him. Was this what he meant? Did Ben need some sort of history or personal tie? It was all ridiculous, anyway. There were no monsters in the woods.
But then he remembered the claw marks on the door frame, giving him pause. A small voice in his brain whispered, What if…?
Binx hopped onto the table, sending a stack of photos flying. Ben jumped, gasping.
“You scared me,” he said, running his hand over the cat’s back. “You know how to belong to a place, Binx? I don’t.”
The only thing Ben could think of doing was visit his neighbor.
Dark green boxwood edged Ms. Milly’s house while flower beds bursting with purple-faced pansies lined the front walk. Along one side of the yard, under the shadow of white dogwood blossoms, grew azaleas foaming with fuchsia-colored blooms. All the flowers were wilting slightly from last night’s cold, though the day felt warm.
An old woman in a blue dress sat in a rocking chair on the front porch. As Ben came up the walk, she slowly rose to her feet.
Remembering that Officer Riley said she was deaf, Ben said loudly, “Good morning! Are you Ms. Milly?”
“Don’t shout, child,” she snipped. “I got my hearing aid in.” She gestured to the device plugging her ear.
Ms. Milly was short, thin, and slightly bent. Her face was lined and weathered, as if she had spent many hours of her youth in the sun. Her jet-black hair was cut in a bob.
“Sorry,” Ben said, stopping at the bottom of the steps. “Um. I’m Ben Addams. I just moved in up the road.”
“Well, welcome. I’m Milly Barnes. C’mon in. You want some tea?”
“Sure.”
He followed the lady, who moved with a sprightliness that was surprising in someone supposedly old enough to change Methusaleh’s diaper, though Ben wasn’t sure who Methusaleh was.
Inside, the house smelled like baking cookies and clean linen. Pictures of family, Jesus, and people with halos crowded the walls. Ben had a passing familiarity with Catholicism, so he recognized the enormous rosary hanging by the door. On a low table stood a crucifix, a little statue of a woman with arms outstretched, a bunch of azaleas in a vase, and a burning pillar candle in a glass holder.
He followed Ms. Milly into the kitchen. A timer buzzed. She switched it off and pulled on an oven mitt.
“Make yerself comfort’ble,” she said as she opened the oven. She drew out a pan of cookies. “If ya be nice, I’ll even give ya a cookie. You like chocolate chip?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He sat at the yellow-topped kitchen table.
“’Course ya do. Who don’ like chocolate chip?”
Ms. Milly slipped the cookies onto a tray to cool, then poured two tall glasses of iced sweet tea. She gave him a glass and sat across from him.
Ben took a cautious sip. In his experience, tea made by little old ladies tended to taste like simple syrup that had a tea bag waved over it. Thankfully, this wasn’t too sweet.
“So,” she said, “ya likin’ the Rogers’ place?”
“It’s all right.” He tried not to be surprised she knew he had moved in. Maybe she’d seen him while driving by.
“Ol’ Chicken Leg messin’ with ya yet?”
He frowned. “Someone threw a dead alligator at my door, then broke the storm door with a tree branch, and then destroyed some cameras I put up.” He hesitated. “There were claw marks on the door frame.”
Ms. Milly nodded. “Sounds like Chicken Leg.”
Ben shifted in his seat, leaning forward slightly. “Who-what is Chicken Leg? Is he a local criminal?”
“A criminal?” She laughed. “Criminals ain’t got claws, child. No. Chicken Leg is the critter in the swamp. He protects it, keeps out what don’t belong.”
Ben felt a tingle go down his spine. “Why do you call him Chicken Leg?”
“I dunno. It’s what my dad called him an’ what his dad called him. There’s prob’ly a story but it’s been forgot.”
He was feeling more and more like he had fallen into an episode of The Twilight Zone. Any second, either Rod Serling or Jordan Peele was going to walk into the kitchen, face a camera Ben couldn’t see, and deliver a monologue.
Ms. Milly reached across the table and laid her hand over his. “You look upset, Ben.”
“I’m confused. Let’s say I believe you. Why is this Chicken Leg harassing me? Why don’t I belong?” His voice cracked on the last word. He clenched his jaw, surprised at the sudden welling of emotion.
“Are ya used t’ belongin’?”
He cleared his throat. He wanted to pull his hand away. But something about the comforting smell of cookies, and Ms. Milly’s compassionate face, kept him still. It made it safe to say, “I can’t remember the last time I belonged anywhere.”
There was no mountain of family photos for him. There was a slim photo album, containing two dozen pictures at most, mostly from his childhood, but that was it. His parents were businesspeople first, a married couple second, and everything else a distant third.
Even to this day, Ben couldn’t shake the pain of coming home from college on his first Christmas break to find that they had already turned his bedroom into an office. He had to sleep on a hastily bought cot.
Ms. Milly, as if sensing everything and more, patted him on the hand. “There’s no reason why ya can’t start now.”
“This isn’t where I thought I would choose to settle.”
“I don’ b’lieve that. You coulda hired folk ta fix up that house. You didn’ need to come out here yerself. But ya did. Don’ that mean somethin’?” She gave his hand another pat. “Think on it. An’ if ya decide this is the spot fer ya, then ask yerself: If ya could belong to a place, really have a place to be, what would ya do? Now. How ‘bout that cookie?”
Ben returned home with a ziplock bag of cookies. He tried to protest, but Ms. Milly would not be denied.
The bag dangling from one hand, he walked into the dining room and stared at the photos.
It occurred to him that the colors of the walls were probably picked by a wife delighted in decorating. The little notches on the door jamb leading into the kitchen were growth marks of children. Every scuff mark, cracked bit of wood, or wonky chair was a testament to time, love, and family. These were people who belonged.
A hole ached in Ben’s heart. Could he belong to a place? Could he make a home?
A new feeling budded in his chest. It felt fragile and warm. It took him a second to identify it as hope, mixed with longing.
And then, suddenly, he had an idea.
The sun was just touching the western treeline when Ben pulled into the yard. The trailer behind his SUV was full of blue totes and black-and-yellow tuff boxes.
He hadn’t moved fully into the house, not wanting to get too comfortable when he intended on selling it. Instead, the bulk of his belongings had gone to Lowcountry Storage just outside of town.
Along with the boxes was an iron pole with a hook that he’d bought at Sampson’s Feed and Seed. Ben took it, and a shovel, into the backyard. He picked a spot a few feet from the kitchen window.
Minutes later, with pole upright, he hung the bird feeder. The feeder itself was not storebought. In fact, it was a little tilted on its string. The yellow-and-red flowers painted along the edges were garish. But what could one expect from a thirteen-year-old’s first wood project? On the underside was Ben’s name in green paint. He filled the feeder with seed.
A rustling sound. His heart jumped. He turned to the woods. But whatever made the sound was moving away, diving deeper into a swamp filling up with the sound of awakening frogs and crickets.
“And how’s the renovatin’?” Ms. Milly poured sweet tea from the pitcher.
They sat on her front porch, a small table bearing glasses and a plate of brownies between them. It was early in the day, so it was still bearable to be outside.
“I found out what’s living under the house,” Ben said. “A cat family. There’s a rescue that’s going to trap them.”
“That’s nice.”
“I’ve just finished painting the living room. I’ll start on the floors tomorrow.”
“Oh? Didja go w’ that Lotus Petal color?”
“Nope. Colonnade Gray.”
Ms. Milly clucked her tongue.
He smiled. “I painted the trim Lotus Petal.”
“Well.” She smiled. “Better’n nothin’.”
“And I’ve found just the right place to open my coffee shop.”
“I dunno if Hammondville is ready for express shots.”
“Espresso shots. And you’d be surprised. I’m thinking about calling it Home Brew.”
She laughed. “I dunno ‘bout that name. But yer headed in the right direction. Speaking of, I got ya a housewarmin’ gift.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Hush.” She reached under the table between them and dragged out a large brown bag with SAMPSON’S FEED-AND-SEED: WE GOT A LITTLE OF EVERYTHING stamped across one side in red block-type. She pushed it over to him.
Ben opened the bag, reached in, and pulled out a large ceramic garden gnome. In its arms, it cradled a tiny alligator.
This is the perfect mix of sweetness and Southern Gothic creepiness!
Ooh so good!