Beyond the Bend
Retirement. How many millions of people in America's workforce dream of the day they no longer have to wake to the sound of an alarm clock, fight rush-hour traffic to make it to work on time and put up with all the tension and aggravation associated with making a living?
By the time Ed Fahey turned sixty-five, he'd paid off his house, put his kids through college and financed his daughter's wedding. Miraculously, he still had enough money on which he could retire, so at his wife's urging he tendered his resignation. No sooner did he become a man of leisure than his wife, Alberta, suggested they sell their house.
"It's far too big for just the two of us," she reasoned.
The truth was she didn't like living in what had become an overcrowded suburb. When they first bought their house in northern New Jersey, close to forty years earlier, the area seemed far away from the crime and overcrowded streets of New York. Over the years, however, the city had encroached on their once peaceful neighborhood.
"What do you want to do, move into a condo?"
Alberta wrinkled her nose in distaste.
"No. I thought we'd get a small place in a more rural area."
"How rural? Sussex or Warren County? The Poconos?"
"Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of Vermont."
"Vermont?" Ed echoed with surprise, spilling his coffee on the kitchen table. "That's quite a change from New Jersey."
"I know, but I've always longed to live in New England, and now that the kids are spread out all over the country and you're retired, there's no reason for us to stay in this area."
"I don't know. Vermont is so far away."
"The cost of living here keeps going up. Just look at how much we're paying in taxes now. And how long do you think our savings will last if one of us gets sick and needs to be hospitalized? Medicare won't pay for everything, you know."
Ed knew the soundness of his wife's arguments. Given modern medical advancements, he might live another twenty or thirty years. Would his pension, savings, 401k and social security benefits cover all the expenses he and his wife would incur? He seriously doubted it.
"It doesn't seem fair," he complained. "I've worked hard all my life, and now I have to leave my home and spend the rest of my days clipping coupons and pinching pennies."
Alberta smiled wryly.
"Welcome to the Golden Years, dear!"
Thus, with a heavy heart, Ed said goodbye to his friends and neighbors in New Jersey and moved to Vermont.
* * *
The two-bedroom Cape Cod the Faheys bought was located halfway up a hill in a small, picturesque village that was considered rural even by Vermont standards. Ed would have preferred a more populated community, but Alberta fell in love with the place at once.
Not long after they moved into the house, she took up arts and crafts. She covered the bare walls of the interior with needlepoint and crewel wall hangings and made hand-sewn quilts for the master and guest bedrooms. With tole painting, ceramics, knitting and candle making, she kept busy morning, noon and night.
"Not another afghan?" her husband asked when he saw Alberta sitting in front of the bay window, crocheting a stack of brightly colored granny squares. "How many blankets do we need?"
"It's not for us. Maisie and I plan on selling some of our homemade things at the craft fair in October. Maisie made quite a bit of money last year selling pottery to the tourists who came up here to see the fall foliage."
Ed shook his head and grumbled, "Damn fool tourists! There are plenty of deciduous trees in New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania. They don't have to travel all the way to Vermont to see the leaves turn color."
"When did you become such a cantankerous old man?"
His wife's question, although asked in jest, struck a raw nerve in Ed, for he had indeed become a bit of a grouch lately. It wasn't that he was unhappy. He had a wife he still loved after more than four decades of marriage, his children and grandchildren were all doing well and he was healthy in both mind and body. Then why wasn't he enjoying his retirement? The answer was simple. For the first time in his life, Edward W. Fahey had no purpose, no goal outside of taking out the garbage, mowing the lawn, raking leaves and shoveling snow.
"What you need is a hobby," his wife suggested. "Something to pass the time."
"I'm not going to start collecting stamps or doing jigsaw puzzles."
"Why don't you try painting? We live in an area of incredible natural beauty. Why not let it inspire you?"
"Me? Paint? I have no artistic ability. I can't draw a straight line without a ruler."
"Then get your camera down from the attic and go take some pictures. I don't think you've used it since little Sara's first birthday party."
Ed had been a bit of a shutterbug when he was younger, taking his camera along on every vacation and family get-together. He had always wanted to learn more about photography, but with the demands of his job and family, he never found the time.
"You know, that's not such a bad idea."
* * *
While his wife was knitting another hat, scarf and mitten set to sell at the annual autumn craft fair, Ed hung his Nikon from a strap around his neck and went outside to photograph the surrounding countryside. The Faheys had lived in Vermont for several months already, yet Ed never explored what was beyond the bend in the road that went up the hill. Wondering what kind of view there might be from a higher elevation, he took a deep breath and began climbing.
The realtor had told him the road ended about half a mile past their house. He had expected to find a typical dead end, one where the pavement abruptly stopped and Mother Nature took over. But the road kept going, even though a sign reading ROAD CLOSED was prominently mounted on a guardrail that spanned the pavement to prevent cars from continuing uphill.
As he rounded the bend in the road, he spotted a large brick building nearly hidden behind a thick copse of trees.
I wonder what this place is, Ed mused as he walked up the gravel driveway.
Suddenly, a man appeared from around the back of the building.
"Hello, there," Ed called. "I didn't know anyone lived up here."
"Up here," the man repeated.
"I live down the street in the Cape Cod house."
"Cod house."
Ed looked more closely at the man. There was something familiar about the face behind the glasses, but he couldn't put his finger on it.
"Is this private property?"
"Per-ty."
It was obvious that the man was not in his right mind. Ed wondered if it was safe to leave him wandering alone in the woods.
"Do you live nearby?"
"Near-by."
"Where is that?"
"Is that."
Another man, one who looked identical to the slow-witted man to whom Ed was speaking, right down to the same clothing and eyeglasses, came from the direction of the brick building.
They must be twins, Ed thought.
"Hello, there. My name is Ed Fahey. My wife, Alberta, and I lived down the hill. I was just talking to your brother."
"Bro-ther," the first twin repeated.
"Do you two live around here?"
"Round here," both men replied in unison.
"This is your home?"
"Your home," the twins echoed.
Apparently, the second brother was not much brighter than the first.
* * *
"Where did you go off to?" Alberta asked when her husband returned to the house.
"I went exploring up beyond the bend."
"Find anything interesting?"
"Remember the real estate agent told us there was nothing there? Well, she was wrong."
"Really? What's up there?"
"I'm not sure, but I think it's some kind of group home for the mentally challenged. I met two men—twins—who were definitely a few cards short of a full deck."
Alberta shook her head.
"I swear, Ed, you're as politically incorrect as ever."
"What I don't understand is why the town would close the road that leads up to the home."
"There must be more than one entrance to the place," Alberta suggested. "Perhaps this one, steep as the road is, is too dangerous in the winter."
"I suppose so, but I still think it's odd to close the road like that."
The following day Ed again walked up the hill beyond the bend. As he neared the brick building, he saw the twins outside on the lawn again.
"I'm just getting some exercise," Ed yelled as he waved to them.
"Er-cise," the two men replied.
What great conversationalists they are, Ed thought sarcastically.
He kept walking, eager to see where the road led. A third man—a clone of the other two—was standing by the side of the road. Triplets? They were rare, but they did happen occasionally.
Ed greeted the third man and got only a silent stare for his trouble.
"And he's most likely the smart one in the family," he muttered to himself.
Soon the silent man was joined by a fourth and then a fifth, both carbon copies of the first three. Twins Ed could readily believe. Triplets even fell within the range of probability. But quintuplets? There was definitely something strange going on in the old brick building, something that made him feel decidedly uncomfortable.
His flesh began to crawl as five identical pairs of eyes stared at him through five identical pairs of glasses. He did an abrupt about-face and quickly walked back down the hill, toward the safety of his own home.
The next day when he set out with his Nikon, Ed headed downhill, hoping to avoid the queer quintet who lived in the brick building beyond the bend. On his way down, he saw Clem Abercrombie, his nearest neighbor, trimming his hedges.
"You folks all settled in yet?" Clem asked amiably.
"Yes, we are. My wife and I feel right at home now."
"I'm glad to hear it. Remember, if there's anything you ever need, just holler down to me and the missus."
"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."
"No thanks needed. That's what neighbors are for."
"Speaking of neighbors, I met my neighbors up the hill. I have to admit they're a strange group."
Clem looked puzzled.
"No one lives up the hill. Yours is the last house on the road."
"I'm referring to the large brick building about a half mile past my place."
"You must mean the old convent. Heck, no one's lived there for close to five years."
"A convent?"
"Ayah. There used to be a Catholic church up that road. One night it caught fire, and before the fire department could get there, the church and rectory were destroyed. Shortly after that, the nuns left, and the convent has been abandoned ever since."
"Then there are squatters living up there. I've seen them."
"Maybe you ought to mention it to the police. They might want to keep an eye on the place."
* * *
"Let me get this straight," the desk sergeant said. "You say five men are living up at the old convent, and they're quintuplets."
"That's right," Ed confirmed. "Or, if not actually quintuplets, then brothers very close in age."
"Okay, Mr. Fahey. I'll go up there and check the place out."
When Ed saw the sergeant the following day, he asked him if he'd found the squatters.
"No, I didn't. I went inside the old convent, and there's not a sign of anyone having been up there."
"Are you sure?"
"The place is covered with a layer of dirt and dust, yet there are no finger- or footprints. Besides, there is no water or electricity in the old building. It's doubtful squatters would stay there without building a campfire, and I didn't see any signs of one."
"Who do you think those men were that I saw?"
The sergeant shrugged his shoulders.
"Damned if I know. Maybe they were just hikers. Lots of people like to walk in these hills, especially in the summer."
Having the sergeant's assurance that there was no one living in the abandoned convent, Ed made another expedition beyond the bend in the road. As he passed the old brick building, he was relieved that there was not a single dark-haired man with glasses in sight.
In his renewed quest to discover where the road led, Ed stumbled upon the charred remains of the old church. The steeple apparently had broken off from the main part of the building during the fire, for it was lying upside-down on the ground. The lightning rod that had been atop the steeple was stuck at least two feet into the soft earth of the small graveyard behind the church.
Ed was troubled to see that the five graves surrounding the fallen steeple were disturbed. Someone had dug up the ground and robbed the coffins. Was it the dark-haired men with glasses who had committed such a disrespectful offense?
"I suppose I shall have to report this to the police," he told himself, none too anxious to face the sergeant again so soon. "He's bound to label me either a crackpot or a nuisance the minute I show up at the police station."
As Ed walked back to the road, trudging through a year's worth of rotted leaves and undergrowth, he found a discarded JanSport backpack. Lying beside it were a faded, water-damaged paperback book and a small flashlight. He picked up the book and stared at the photograph of the author on the inside back cover. When he'd first encountered the five men with dark hair and glasses, he'd thought they looked familiar. Now he knew why. They were the spitting image of Stephen King!
Ed raced back to his house, clutching the paperback book in his hands. Then he got into his car and drove to the police station.
"Hello, Mr. Fahey," the sergeant said cheerfully. "I hope you're not having any trouble with those kids up at the convent again."
"They're not kids. They're grown men, and they've robbed several of the graves behind the burned church."
"Robbed them?"
"Yes. The coffins have been dug up, and the mortal remains removed."
The sergeant didn't seem overly concerned.
"I'll bet some of the local troublemakers dug up the graves as a prank. I'll send a couple of men up there tomorrow to set things right again."
"What about those five guys?" Ed asked, annoyed at the sergeant's calm acceptance of the vandalism. "Are you going to bring them in for questioning?"
"I told you I couldn't find anyone up there."
"Well, can't you put out an APB or something?"
"As far as I know they've done nothing wrong. Besides, you didn't provide me with a very good description."
Ed placed the paperback book on the sergeant's desk and announced, "This is what they look like. All of them look exactly like him."
The sergeant tried to suppress his smile.
"You're claiming that five men who look like Stephen King are digging up graves in the cemetery behind the old Catholic church?"
"Yes, I believe they are."
"Okay, Mr. Fahey," the young sergeant said in a condescending tone he usually reserved for small children and seniors suffering from dementia. "We'll check into it. Will there be anything else, sir?"
"No," Ed said with exasperation.
* * *
After dinner that evening, Ed sat in front of the fireplace, wishing he'd never moved to Vermont. To his knowledge, no Stephen King clones robbed graves in New Jersey.
Alberta sensed something was bothering her husband, yet she knew from experience that it was best to let him sulk until he felt like talking. While Ed was staring gloomily into the fire, she sat on the couch doing a needlepoint rendering of a Thomas Kinkade painting. Shortly before ten, she got up to get a glass of water. A movement outside the kitchen window caught her attention.
"Ed," she called, "there's a strange man in our backyard."
"A man?" her husband echoed, alarm bells ringing inside his head.
"Yes, a man who bears a strong resemblance to Stephen King."
Ed ran to the kitchen in time to see the man's four "brothers" appear. All five men were standing outside the kitchen window, silently staring at the house, as if they were auditioning for a role in Night of the Living Dead.
"Who are they?" Alberta asked. "And what do they want?"
Ed didn't answer; he was too busy racing around the house locking the doors and windows.
"It's okay," his wife announced with a sigh of relief. "They're gone now."
"They haven't left," Ed warned. "They've just gone around to the side of the house."
Suddenly, the glass in the sliding patio door shattered. Ed grabbed his wife's hand. If they could slip out the front door, they might get away safely. But they made it only as far as the living room. One of the zombies had broken in through the front window and was blocking their exit.
"Quick, Alberta," Ed ordered, "go upstairs and lock yourself in the bedroom. Barricade the door with the dresser, and then phone the police. I'll try to hold them back."
He picked up the fireplace poker and swung it at one of the intruders. The emotional shock Ed felt when the hooked end of the poker passed right through the creature's hologram-like skin and struck bone was surpassed only by the electric shock that raced up the medal rod. Had his wife not insisted on getting the decorative fireplace tool set with the cherry wooden handles, Ed would certainly have been electrocuted.
Momentarily, the intruder flickered like a poor television transmission and then returned to normal. If these creatures did not have corporeal bodies, he wondered, how could they be destroyed?
While Ed tried to hold the first creature at bay, the other four Stephen King look-alikes made their slow, shuffling way into the living room. When he saw one headed toward the staircase, Ed feared for his wife's safety. He had to get them out of the house.
"All right you grave-robbing ghouls," he shouted. "Come and get me."
Ed ran past the five of them, who all clumsily reached out their hands toward him. Thankfully, even at his advanced age, he was quicker than they were. He ran through the family room and then stepped carefully through the broken glass door and out onto the patio. As he'd hoped, all five creatures followed him.
Now what? Should he run down the hill towards town? Although he thought he might be able to make it as far as the gas station at the bottom of the hill, he wasn't sure if the creatures would follow him that great a distance.
As the electrically charged zombies drew nearer, Ed frantically looked around. There must be some way to stop them. His eyes then settled on the pole beside the picnic table.
"Maybe this will work," he said, reaching up for his Black and Decker electronic insect control unit.
Ed held the bug zapper out in front of him at arm's length as though it were a warrior's shield. The creatures advanced, but the terrified man stood his ground, fervently praying he would survive the attack. As one of the zombies raised his hand, Ed thrust the bug zapper forward. The creature's energy came in contact with the power grid of the zapper, and more than two thousand volts of electricity short-circuited the zombie and sent up a shower of sparks that resembled a Fourth of July fireworks display. When the smoke cleared, all that remained of the Stephen King imposter was a smoldering pile of bones.
The other four creatures, who apparently lacked the instinct for self-preservation, were not deterred by the destruction of one of their own. They continued to shuffle toward him. Ed, however, was no longer frightened. He rushed forward like William Wallace at the Battle of Stirling Bridge, swinging his bug zapper at his would-be assailants.
* * *
When the police arrived, the two patrolmen found Ed Fahey sitting on a picnic table bench, staring at a pile of old bones.
"Are you all right, sir?" one of the officers inquired. "We received a call that there was a B and E in progress."
"One man broke in through the front window, and four men entered my home through the patio door," Ed explained.
"Are they still here?" the patrolman's partner asked, his hand instinctively going to his service revolver.
Ed's eyes briefly darted toward the bones.
"No," he lied. "They're gone. They took off into the woods."
"Can you describe the perpetrators?"
Ed had no intention of telling them the truth or sharing his theory on the cause of the strange occurrence. He suspected that lightning had struck the fallen steeple, sending a surge of electrical energy through the ground, a surge strong enough to animate the mortal remains buried in the five surrounding graves. Those electrified skeletons, lacking flesh of their own, projected the illusion of living human bodies, using the first model they found: the picture of Stephen King in the back of the paperback book, which had probably been left up in the graveyard by some thrill-seeking teenager.
"Sir," the patrolman repeated the question, "can you describe the people who broke into your house?"
"All of them were white men with dark hair and glasses. I'm afraid that's all I can tell you. I didn't get a good look at them in the dark."
"That's not much to go on, sir."
Ed Fahey shrugged.
"I don't think they'll be coming back. Besides, nothing was stolen, and no one was hurt."
"And what can you tell us about these bones here?"
"I think they came from the cemetery behind the old Catholic church. I spoke to your sergeant earlier today and reported the vandalism. He told me it was probably nothing more than a prank. I guess he was right."
* * *
The following day, the sergeant sent some men to the Fahey house to collect the bones, which were then returned to the five unearthed coffins and reburied.
Ed waited until a glazier replaced the sliding glass patio door and the front window before leaving the house and walking up beyond the bend toward the charred remains of the Catholic church. After making sure that the graves had been restored, he walked over to the fallen steeple. He used a crowbar he had brought with him to unearth the lightning rod and cross and remove them from the steeple.
"There!" he said, somewhat breathless from his exertions. "The last thing we need is another electrical storm reviving those creatures."
Then Ed Fahey walked into the burned shell of the old church, placed the cross on what was left of the altar and headed down the hill toward his home.
The image in the upper left corner of this page is of author Stephen King.
Imagine what would happen if the dead returned and looked like Salem! What a CAT-astrophe that would be!
