Parlee Road – Louise Bohmer

Parlee Road

by Louise Bohmer

Danielle stopped the car and unfastened Sandra’s seatbelt.

“Where are we going, Mommy?”

“To see Aunt Beatrice. She’s waiting in the circle.”

Sandra skipped beside her as she held her hand. Danielle smiled down at her daughter and helped her step over a rock slippery with wet, fall leaves. They entered the forest.

“Mommy, what’s that sound? Can you hear it?”

“Whispers?”

The child nodded. She looked scared.

“Don’t be afraid.” Danielle bent to kiss her upturned nose. “It’s the trees. They’re speaking to you. You should be proud. I’m proud of you.”

*

I stare at the blinking cursor. Thoughts on how to make craft fairs and sheep races entertaining elude me. The journalist thrives in me, but not in this sleepy town of Martinville. Boredom chokes me, and I wonder if tranquility is worth the price. Sometimes, I miss Vancouver.

“Any luck?”

Jamie’s voice makes me scream and jump. My coffee lands in my lap. Thankfully, it’s cold.

“Oh damn.” He tries not to laugh. “I’m sorry, hon. You okay?” He grabs a towel from the bathroom and wipes at the stain. “Tell me you didn’t burn yourself.”

“I’m okay.” I laugh. “You know me. Klutz extraordinaire.”

“What’re you working on?”

I sigh. “Trying to combine last week’s sheep races for kids’ event with this week’s craft fair. I think my brain might explode.”

He smiles his sexy smile. “Can you put it away from a while?”

“Right now?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “Might help my concentration, though. Give me fresh inspiration. Sure.”

“Not that. Yet, at least.” He chuckles. “I was talking to Teddy. He was wondering if you’d look into something for him, but keep it hush hush.”

Corporal Theodore Ronston is my husband’s pal, and not one of my favorite people. He talks to my boobs too much.

“What’s he got?”

“Something strange is going on up on Parlee Road.”

Memories flood my head, and the emotional impact hits my chest like a brick. I haven’t been up there in years. Not since the autumn my Aunt Beatrice died.

“What’s happening?” My voice is shaky. I hope Jamie doesn’t notice.

“Sweetheart . . .” He squeezes my hand. “There’s been a murder. You have to promise to keep this out of the paper.”

Reluctantly, I promise. The reporter in me screams: Blasphemy! He knows I’m starving for a good story to cover.

“Local guys have been taken off the case,” he tells me. “They’re calling in more people from Fredericton.”

“Who’s the victim?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. No one local, Teddy says. Body was in pretty bad shape apparently.”

“Why does he want me to look into it?”

Jamie looks away. “Well, you’re into this kind of stuff, and. . .”

“And what?” I cross my arms over my chest and squint at him.

“He wants to ask you some questions about Beatrice and your mother.”

*

Aunt Beatrice has been dead twenty-two years. My mother’s been gone eight. I can’t imagine why Teddy would want to question me about them, but I go to meet him anyway. My first return trip to Parlee Road since I was ten years old.

The land surrounding this narrow strip of dirt road lies in the most isolated section of Martinville. Most of the real estate here belongs to Dave Coupe — a lifetime local known as an eccentric hermit. He’s attacked folks traveling through the area. Even though the road is a public one, he feels it belongs to him, and only allows those he deems worthy to walk or drive on it. Local law enforcement and government fight with him constantly about it. It isn’t uncommon to hear a story about Dave throwing rocks at curious children.

Dave has sold off small parcels of the land lining Parlee Road, but the folks living there are as strange as he is. It’s said a small tent community inhabits the thick hardwood forest up there, too.

Teddy is parked off to the side, just past what Dave has named the Abbey. He built the stone and wood building back when he first bought the land. People say it’s his place of worship, and he has followers who come there. I’m surprised Teddy hasn’t been chased off by the old kook or one of his people, yet.

“Hey Sandra,” he says, as I join him by a mangled birch. I’ve never seen Teddy look so pale before. “Why’d you move back to Martinville? Trade the west coast for the east coast?”

He’s caught me off guard, and I’m sure that’s his plan.

“Thought I needed peace and quiet, I guess.” I shrug. “Felt guilty for leaving Mom here by herself all those years. After she died, I didn’t want to be so far away anymore.”

He nods. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have thrown that out at you like that.”

I’m surprised by his apology. Teddy is not a gentle man — rough and gruff is his mantra.

“What happened out here?”

His eyes are red and glassy–haunted by too many sleep deprived nights.

“I wish I knew.” Quickly, he switches back to inquisitor mode: “Your mom used to bring you up here a lot, didn’t she?”

“When I was little, we’d come every day in the summer. Aunt Beatrice owned a place a bit farther up. I don’t remember much.” I look away and stare at the Abbey. “How is it you haven’t been beaned by a rock yet?”

He smiles a genuine smile. I’m glad I’ve lightened his weird mood.

“I’ve been watching the place,” he says. “Managed to get a feel for when it’s safe to come up. I bet old Coupe is pissed about the traffic up here recently.”

“You wanted to talk to me about the murder . . .”

He sighs and shakes his head, buries his hands in his pockets. “Found the body here.” He points to the mangled birch. “What was left of it. I’ve never worked in the city, so I can’t say what freaky shit they find up there . . . But I’m telling you, I think this would’ve given any hardass city cop grey hair.” His voice cracks.

The base of the birch is stained crimson. The trunk is stripped of bark, and there are deep gouges marring the soft, white wood.

“Animal, maybe?” I say.

“I thought that too at first, until I saw it. The body was empty. Nothing but hollowed out skin and bones. No muscle, no blood. Only the skin, teeth, eyes, and hair were left. Looked like a kid’s Halloween mask.”

“You aren’t screwing with me, are you?” I glare at him. “This some kind of sick prank? I’m desperate for a story, but I’m not stupid.”

“No prank. I’ve got pictures to prove it. Kept some. Didn’t hand ‘em all over to those bastards in Fredericton.”

“You could lose your job over that.”

He shrugs. “They need to prove it first. You ever see anything weird out here when you were a kid?”

I want to tell him about the stone circle hidden behind the Abbey, but I don’t. “That’s over twenty years ago. I don’t remember.”

He walks closer to me and whispers: “Three nights ago, I saw something strange. I come out here and watch a lot now. No one knows my spot.”

“What did you see?”

“Shit, Sandra. . . You won’t believe it.”

“Try me.”

“You can’t print this in the paper.”

I clench my teeth but try not to grind them. My fingernails bite deeply into the fleshy pads of my palm. “I won’t.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

“I promise.”

“I saw something in the trees.” He closes his eyes. His voice is shaking. “Thought it was a cougar stalking me at first. Damn near shot it, but I stopped before I could pull the trigger. Not sure why.”

“What was it?”

“You know those little grey aliens? It looked kind of like that, only taller, much taller. But its eyes — they weren’t big black holes. No. They were yellow. Damn thing tried to attack me. I hit it with my rifle, but I couldn’t bring myself to shoot it.”

If Teddy isn’t bullshitting me — and I’m not convinced he isn’t — then I’m intrigued. If he is faking, I admit he’s putting on a hell of a show. I’ve never seen him this unsettled by anything.

“How’d you get away? Did it run off?”

He looks at me, looks away. Runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “The goddamn thing flew off.”

After looking at his pictures, I say goodbye and drive away. As I leave, I hear the trees. They haven’t spoken to me since the summer after Aunt Beatrice died. I thought I’d blocked their whispers out for good.

Apparently, I wasn’t as successful as I’d hoped.

*

Lying in bed, a man comes to visit me. Jamie is sleeping deeply. I try not to wake him as I rise to answer the call of the summoning form.

He’s built like a praying mantis, my visitor. He’s not a good-looking man. His features are far too sharp and lack symmetry. A large nose dominates his face.

“The trees miss you.” His voice is strange. Not deep but not falsetto either. “Will you come and walk with them tonight?”

I answer “Yes,” and my room slips away. I’m standing on Parlee Road, facing the Abbey. The man now leans against the mangled birch tree.

He walks forward. “Have you come to worship them or join them?”

“Who?”

He smiles. “The winged ones.” His teeth are pointed. “Those who feed the trees.”

He walks behind the Abbey and disappears into thin air. I stare at the small stone and wood building. It reminds me of a stave church I once visited in Norway. A sideways hexagram made of metal and filled with stained glass is set in a circular window just beneath the roof.

Soon, I follow him behind the Abbey. He waits and takes my hand when I approach, leading me through the trees and into the stone circle. As my gaze soaks up the megaliths, he speaks:

“Welcome home.”

Behind me, I hear the door of the Abbey creak open. I’m too mesmerized to turn and see who joins us. Too focused on my husband, lying spread-eagle and shackled to a stone altar at the center of the circle.

“Jamie,” I whisper, but can’t move forward. Someone is holding my shoulders.

“A sacrifice must be made.”

I turn to find Teddy and a group of five others. Among them I recognize Tommy Magus — the town mayor — and Aunt Beatrice holding my mother’s hand.

Aunt Beatrice approaches us, leading Mother behind.

“We taught you to speak to them.” Beatrice touches my face.

“I thought you were both dead.”

“No. We just left the human world.”

Her skin moves. She grows tall and thin. The soft face of a woman falls away.

“You were a precious gift to me,” Mother says. “We have to thank them.”

Most of them have changed now. White skin glows in the light cast by candles they place around the stone. One watches me with yellow eyes like a cougar’s.

“Those who feed the trees,” I whisper.

“You’re one of them,” Mother tells me, then she changes, too. Her ears are large, tapering to a thin point. Her body is hairless. No mouth. A pink proboscis wiggles in place of a nose.

“My daughter comes home,” a man speaks from behind me.

When I turn, I find Dave Coupe approaching. He’s on the verge of changing. Odd patterns ripple across his face. His skin shifts like sand dunes in furious winds.

“Our tribe is complete,” he says. “Has everyone arrived for the ritual?” He directs the question to mantis man, who nods.

“Ritual?” I ask.

“Tonight, we initiate you into the family. You become one of us.”

I stare at Teddy Ronston and Tommy Magus. How many times have we chatted noncommittally at the post office or drugstore? With no idea they belonged to a cult in the woods. With no idea they were a part of my family.

I feel foolish, ashamed, and betrayed.

“What’s going on here?” I grab Dave’s flannel lapels and bluff some courage.

“You are one who feeds the trees.” He smiles, just before his nose disappears beneath a wave of pink flesh. “We’ve called to you since you were born. Time to come home.”

A scream reminds me my husband is here. He’s thrashing against his bonds, while one bends over him, probing his fleshing with its mouth-nose.

“Why is he here? Please, let him go.”

A sacrifice must be made. Dave’s voice crowds my mind. You need to feed the trees, then feed with us.

He hands me a jeweled dagger, a hexagram inscribed in the center of its silver handle. Placing his spindly fingers around my shoulder, he leads me toward the altar.

I stop at the one who is my mother. “Is this why you never had any more children?”

She lowers her head and speaks through her mind. I only wanted one. One was enough. The coven gave you to me. My husband couldn’t. It’s only right I give back.

“I won’t kill him,” I tell her. “Let Jamie go. I won’t join you unless you let him go.”

Mother shakes her head. I’m sorry. A sacrifice must be made. The trees grow impatient.

I look into Jamie’s wet eyes. With the dagger, I cut the gag tied around his face.

“Help me, baby, please?” he begs.

Tears blind me. The stones glow.

“Please don’t kill me. I love you.”

When I look up from Jamie, the forest fades away. Lights like the Aurora Borealis dance around me and the tree feeders. The Abbey melts, and old oaks lumber into the circle. The tree feeders bow before them. Their roots slither over the grass, mimicking a nest of snakes.

Others join us in the circle, transparent humans wearing long robes. They whisper: “Children of Baal, we welcome you.” One holds a ghostly infant by its foot, and offers it to the yawning mouth opening in one of the oaks.

“A sacrifice must be made,” I say, after watching this. My hand shakes when I grip the dagger. Raising it above my waist, I stagger backward and nearly faint. One of the old oaks grips me and helps maintain my balance.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” I give Jamie’s forehead a long kiss. My chest aches with the weight of our goodbye. “I’m one of them.”

He jerks as I slice upward from his navel. Roots touch my ankles and kiss my skin. My face is wet with grief, but I must help my family feed the trees, must come home to them. He dies as my blade touches breastbone. Branches and roots crawl all over me, begging for nourishment.

“Eat,” I invite them. “Eat and be full.”

You’ve done well, daughter. My mother comes through the tangle of oak branches and takes me in her arms. Let us feed together.

She calls a root toward her with a strange cooing fluted from her proboscis. It’s the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard. The root touches her fingers and splits in two. One half she gives to me.

I bite the tip off and suckle. Roots crawl past me, joining those feasting in Jamie’s open stomach. As they consume him, parts of his awareness swim into me from my wooden teat. It’s not so bad after all. Pieces of him will always be with me now.

Before I suck the root dry, I thank it for the sustenance and take it from my lips. Renewed vigor, power surges through me. I feel the odd patterns rippling under my skin. The changes start, and doubt slips through what’s left of my humanity. Will it be worth all I’ve lost?

Wings push through my back, and I scream away the last of my rational thought before my mouth disappears. Too late for consequences. I pick up a scrap of meat from my husband and join my family in the sky.

The trees walk way. For now, they are satisfied.

---

Louise Bohmer is a freelance editor and writer based in Sussex, New Brunswick. Her debut novel–The Black Act–was released by Library of Horror in 2009, but is now out of print. You can read her short fiction in Old School, Tabloid Terrors 3, Courting Morpheus, and Into the Dreamlands. Her poetry can be read in Death In Common and the upcoming These Apparitions: Haunted Reflections on Ezra Pound.

© 2011 All rights reserved Louise Bohmer

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