B
By W. M. Pienton
“This the picture you talked about?” Pierce held an old black and white photo. It was weathered, dogeared, and creased down the middle.
“Yeah,” replied Hunter, “creepy, ain’t it?”
“This the only known picture of the Wicked Man?”
“Never heard that name before.” Hunter lit a cigarette. “Always called him the Wicked Fiddler.”
The teen studied the image. A bearded old man in a cowboy hat was seated on a wooden rail fence, a fiddle tucked under his chin. He appeared to be playing the instrument.
The picture was taken near a roadside field. An overgrown thicket crowded the edge of the image. “I swear,” Pierce remarked, “his eyes are glowing.”
The youth stuck the photo into his pocket. “I can really keep it?”
“Sure. I don’t want it anymore.” Hunter took a drag off his cigarette. “Too creepy.”
“If it’s the only known image, how’d you know and how’d you get it?”
“I used to be neighbors with Libby Gert.” The teen’s friend took another drag.
“The Crazy Lady of Devil’s Lane?”
“She wasn’t always called that. She was a semi-famous photographer, even won awards and shit. Anyway, before she went mad I used to visit her when I was a kid. She told me it was the only known image of the Wicked Fiddler.”
“And you believed her?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“Why’d she give you the picture?”
“She didn’t. After Libby died, I explored her house. When I came across the photo, I remembered what she said when she showed it to me, so I kept it.”
“When did you do that?”
“I dunno, couple years ago I guess.”
Pierce checked the time on his phone. “My mom wants me home for dinner. I should go.”
“If you gotta go, you gotta go.” Hunter crushed out his cigarette. “See ya.”
Pierce hopped onto his bike and pedaled off.
“Dad, ever heard of Libby Gert?” Pierce twirled some spaghetti onto his fork and ate it.
“Can’t say I have.”
“What about you, Mom?”
“Sorry Dear. Homework finished?”
“Yeah, can I go out tonight? It’s Friday.”
“I don’t care.” The woman looked to her husband.
“So long as your homework’s done,” the man said to his son.
Early the next day Pierce biked into town headed for the library. Can’t believe none of the guys heard of Libby Gert, he thought. He veered into an alley then turned onto the main street.
Several minutes later, he arrived. The teen chained up his bike. Time for research, he determined.
Hours passed while Pierce rummaged through town records. The teen was frustrated. Can’t find Jack-shit about Devil’s Lane, let alone Libby Gert, he thought.
The youth massaged his temples. Break time, he decided. He smoked a cigarette on a bench near the library. Don’t understand it, he contemplated, not even the librarian heard of Libby or her street.
Finished, Pierce crushed out his cigarette and made for the library. Hunter sped past on his bike, then stopped. “Hey, Pierce,” said his friend. “What’re you doing here?”
“Research on Libby Gert. Found zero info, like she never existed.”
“Well duh, the Wicked Fiddler got her. He plays songs for the forgotten. Everyone he takes becomes blotted out.”
“Why do you remember?”
“I dunno.” Hunter shrugged. “Besides, what did you want to know about Libby?”
“Anything really.”
“Tell you what.” The teen lit a cigarette. “How about I take you to her old place. We can explore it together.”
“Really? When?”
“How’s now?”
“Cool, let me get my bike.”
The friends sped along the main street. “You know,” said Pierce, “Devil’s Lane isn’t on any map I saw.”
“Yeah, it’s forgotten.”
The two stopped at the end of an overgrown street. “This is it.” Hunter lit another cigarette.
“Where’s the street sign?”
“I dunno,” said Hunter. “Somewhere here.” The friends searched around.
“Found it.” Pierce held up the sign. “The plants hid it after it fell. You lived on this street?”
“Yeah, wasn’t that long ago either.” Hunter crushed out his cigarette. “Let’s go.” He pedaled down Devil’s Lane.
Pierce dropped the sign and rode up alongside his friend. “Why isn’t the street paved?”
“Dude, how should I know.”
Trees along the lane were arched over, giving the impression the teens were in a green tunnel. A dark mass rested on the roadside ahead. “That’s Libby’s house,” said Hunter.
The two skidded to a halt before it. “Looks like it’s been abandoned for a hundred years,” remarked Pierce.
“More like five, maybe less.”
The house was a weathered two stories. The paint was gone and the boards were warped and sun bleached. Curiously, none of the windows were broken or missing.
Vines covered half the porch, sloping it sharply to the right like a slow motion take-down. Trees had grown in such a way they tore the power lines from the house. The door hung ajar on one hinge.
Hunter stepped onto the porch. “Let’s go.” He turned and entered. Pierce followed.
The two were in the living room. Cobweb draped photos hung on the walls. Stacks of books collected dust in a corner. Dilapidated furniture sat where Libby placed them years before.
“I don’t think anyone’s been here since you explored it,” said Pierce.
“You hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“It’s faint.” Hunter cocked his head. “Sounds like music.”
The two fell silent. Pierce strained to hear. He shook his head. “Sorry.”
“There it is again.” Hunter grabbed his friend’s arm. They became quiet. Pierce shrugged.
The two crept down a hallway. Pierce motioned to an empty frame on the wall. “That where the photo was?”
“Yeah,” replied Hunter. “This way.” The teen crept to the end of the hall and entered the kitchen.
The room was invaded by plants. Vines grew in through the window. Grass shot up between floorboards. Bushes stood like sentinels at the backdoor.
The friends looked around. “Nature’s reclaiming the space,” said Pierce.
“Music’s louder. Sounds like a fiddle.” Hunter made for the exit. “This way.”
“I don’t hear anything,” said Pierce.
“It’s louder but still faint.” Hunter weaved past the bushes on the back porch, then down the steps into an overgrown field. Pierce followed. “Pretty loud now. You hear it?”
“No.”
“Whadda ya mean? How can you not?” Hunter followed the music. “You deaf?”
Pierce lagged further and further behind. This feels wrong somehow, he thought. Fear twisted his stomach into a knot.
Hunter was some distance away now. I’ll have to shout to be heard, Pierce concluded. The teen jogged half-heartedly to catch up.
Hunter’s making for the tree line, his friend observed. A figure was seated on the wooden rail fence that bordered the field. Who’s that? he wondered.
A wave of terror struck him. The Wicked Man, Pierce realized. The youth ran full tilt toward his friend.
“Stop,” shouted Pierce. “Come back.” Hunter paused and looked to his friend, then resumed walking toward the Wicked Man. “Stop.”
The youth was closer now. I hear the fiddle, he realized. Fear halted Pierce as the music’s volume increased. “Come back.”
Hunter ignored him. The teen was twenty paces from the fiddler. The music ended. Pierce’s friend stopped.
The Wicked Man slid off the fence and approached Hunter. He stopped a pace away and placed a hand on the teen’s shoulder. The two then climbed over the fence and walked into the treeline.
Pierce could finally move. He chased after his friend into the woods.
It was late. Pierce had to give up. He returned to Libby’s house in the dark. The teen rode home, alone.
Pierce dumped his bike in the garage and sprinted into the living room. “Dad, Mom, the Wicked Man took Hunter.”
“Who?” His parents looked at each other.
“Hunter? My best friend? You’ve talked to him a million times.”
“The Wicked Man’s an urban legend.” His dad closed his book.
“I never met Hunter.” His mom turned off the TV.
“He had dinner with us last week.” Pierce rested against the wall. The teen was on the verge of a panic attack.
“Sorry,” said his mom. “I don’t remember.” The parents shook their heads.
“Tell us what happened.” His dad walked Pierce to a chair.
The family piled into the station wagon. Pierce gave directions from the back seat. His dad drove. His mom rode shotgun.
“That’s Libby Gert’s house.” The teen pointed. His father pulled over.
Pierce raced from the car to his friend’s bike. “This is Hunter’s.” The teen picked it up. “We need to tell his folks. I’m sure they’re worried.”
The teen and his parents approached Hunter’s apartment. Pierce knocked. His friend’s mom answered. “Yes?”
“Hey, Mrs. Franklyn,” said Pierce. “I’ve some bad news. Hunter’s gone. The Wicked Man took him.”
“Hunter? Sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name. I think you have the wrong address.”
“Mrs. Franklyn it’s me, Pierce. Your son Hunter is missing.”
“I don’t have a son. Hope you find your friend.” The woman closed the door.
Pierce trudged back to the station wagon. “Nobody remembers Hunter except me.” He rested a hand on the car door and sighed. His parents whispered to each other.
The Wicked Man will come for me someday, he realized. Heavy hearted and heavy minded Pierce climbed into the vehicle.
A bit about W. M. Pienton:
Every morning, he meditates, reads; writes. Occasionally he paints. Once a week he hikes (he wishes he had time for more). And recently he gave up alcohol and tobacco.