October skies

CHAPTER 26

Monday

Blue Valley, California

Aaron Pohenz looked at Rose quizzically for a moment then smiled. ‘Oh yes, Grace called and told me to expect a visit from you. You’re the English lady who’s making a movie?’

‘A documentary about local folklore, that’s right.’

He waved his hand. ‘Come on in.’

She stepped inside the motel. It smelled strongly of varnish and she wrinkled her nose.

‘Whilst it’s quiet season and I’m closed up I thought I’d work on the wooden banister up to the rooms. Needed tidying up,’ he offered by way of an explanation.

Rose looked around the entrance hall. It looked homey; old sepia portraits hung on the wall alongside a few hunting trophies, and a cheerful rug was spread across a wooden slat floor. In the corner, beside an open doorway that led into what looked like the kitchen, was a rocking chair made from a rich, dark wood.

‘It’s lovely,’ she said.

He batted the compliment away with a hand. ‘It’s what the summer season guests expect; a slice of traditional.’

She nodded. ‘You’ve got that all right.’

He gestured for her to follow and led her through the open door into the kitchen. The slice of traditional motif had spread into there as well. Pine cupboards lined the edge of the square room and in the middle, a large, sturdy, pockmarked and stained oak dining table surrounded by half a dozen breakfast stools beckoned them to sit down.

‘Take a seat,’ he said and then went over to the counter and poured a couple of cups of coffee from a cafetiere. He sat down opposite her and slid a cup across the table.

‘Thanks.’

‘So,’ he said, ‘I’m not real sure what it is you’re after. Grace mentioned something about the old wives’ tales that get told round here?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. That’s what brought us here originally… the number of spooky tales, UFO sightings, the Bigfoot sightings that seem to be floating around the area.’ She took a sip of the coffee. It was black and strong as hell — just how she liked it. ‘I’ll be honest, there’s a quirky internet site called DarkEye that deals with all things strange and Fortean; they listed this region as one of the most sighting-rich areas of America. So’ — she hunched her shoulders apologetically — ‘that’s really what brought us here.’

The old man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Hmm… see, I trust Grace. She’s a rock in this community. Not that she was born here, mind. But she’s been living here long enough that we look at her as a valley girl. If Grace said you’re all right, I guess that’s good with me too. But,’ he said, raising a finger, ‘we’ve had a few news and TV people come here from time to time, especially when someone starts up with a new ghost story. They come up, film a little, interview one or two people and then go away. When it comes on the TV, they make us look like a bunch of simple-minded idiots.’

Rose shuffled awkwardly on the stool. That was exactly the sort of crap she and Julian had originally come here to make.

‘You get a lot of news people?’ she asked.

‘No, once every couple of years, when one of ’em stories crops up, is all. Ain’t all bad I suppose, though. Brings us a little extra motel business.’

She looked around the kitchen and noticed a corkboard with hooks in, and about a dozen sets of keys dangling from them.

‘You run this motel by yourself?’

‘No, my sister comes up from Fort Casey during holiday season and helps out. Rest of the year, when it’s closed… it’s just me here, rattling around like a pea in a tin can.’

‘Grace said you run a town newspaper of sorts as well.’

He nodded. ‘That’s right. Hardly a newspaper, though, sometimes just a page, sometimes maybe I get five or six sides with some local stories, a bit of history and a bunch of adverts for local businesses. The paper’s free and the ads don’t barely pay for the print.’

‘It’s a labour of love, then?’

He smiled, showing several gold teeth. ‘Could say that. Used to be a bigger paper, but then, it used to be a bigger town. I sort of inherited it… the paper, that is.’

‘Grace suggested you had some sort of archive and a lot of local historical knowledge.’

Aaron nodded dismissively. ‘I guess you could describe me as an amateur historian.’

‘I’m after some details about a thing that might have happened back in 1856. I know this’ll sound silly, but Grace mentioned Blue Valley has its very own boogieman. She called him the Rag Man.’

Aaron smiled. ‘Ah yes, that ol’ chestnut. Yes, just about all the local stories use him in some way or another.’

‘Could there be a grain of truth to the Rag Man? I mean, was he once based on a real person?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Aaron said. ‘Yes, it was, once upon a time, a very real person. He was a man that emerged from the mountains, nothing more than skin and bones, who was nursed back to health in Blue Valley. He then took himself off, never to be seen again.’

Rose smiled. ‘That sounds promising.’

‘Of course, back then this town wasn’t called Blue Valley. It was referred to as Pelorsky’s Farm, after Jacob Pelorsky who had built up a trade store here — trading for beaver pelts with the trappers and the Paiute and Shoshone.’

Rose scribbled the settlement name down and then sipped her coffee.

‘There’s a bit more to that particular tale.’

‘Really?’

‘This man emerged from those woods on the point of death, see. Somehow he managed to hang on and survive. As they fed him and tended to him, he recovered his strength, but he didn’t immediately take himself off. He stayed on for about half a year; a very troubled period of time that was too.’

‘Troubled?’

Aaron nodded, swilling a mouthful of his rich, aromatic coffee. ‘The man seemed to bring all sorts of bad karma with him. He was very disturbed by something. The family that took him in described him waking them all up repeatedly at night with his screaming. Anyway, apart from being a very mentally disturbed individual, there was a growing feeling amongst the small community around Pelorsky Farm that he was in some way cursed.’

‘Cursed?’

‘I use the term cursed in preference to the term possessed. I think, thanks to that movie, the term comes with a lot of unnecessary baggage.’

‘Which movie?’

Aaron shook his head. ‘I’m guessing, looking at you, you’re probably way too young to remember it. Horrible movie. Horrible. Gave me nightmares.’

She looked at him, pen poised.

He sighed. ‘The Exorcist.’

Rose knew of it; she’d seen the film once years ago and thought very little of it. The flying goo and the spinning heads had amused her and her fellow room mates, certainly not frightened them.

‘So, they thought this man had some sort of devil possessing him?’

‘Well, like I say, I’d rather use the term cursed, it’s less provocative,’ he said, sipping his drink before continuing. ‘So… they thought this man was cursed in some way. There were those who thought it was some kind of Indian thing, thinking the man had trespassed on burial grounds or something. Anyway, the point is, whilst he was with them, bad things happened.’

‘Bad things?’

‘Bad things,’ he echoed with no elaboration. ‘Then it finally came to a head when a child went missing. The next morning the man was gone. Never saw him again.’

‘That’s pretty creepy,’ she whispered.

Aaron nodded. ‘The man was evil; well that’s what they thought — that he had evil in him. And just maybe he picked it up in those mountains.’

‘What do you think?’

Aaron finished his coffee with several quick gulps as he pondered an answer. ‘I’m not a churchgoer, you understand? Nor am I some dumb sap who’ll believe any old conspiracy or ghost story doing the rounds. I think Ouija boards are a load of crap. I think mediums and spiritual healers and their type are a bunch of crooks. Okay? I’m telling you this just so’s we can be clear that I’m not some sort of whacked-out small-town hokey. Are we clear?’

Rose nodded.

‘But, I think there is stuff out there that we don’t have the tools to measure and explain and quantify.’ He looked at her with grey, keen and intelligent eyes. ‘And, yes… I think maybe there’s something out there in those woods that can do something to a man. Change him somehow.’

‘Change him?’

He shrugged. ‘Turn a good man bad.’

She finished her coffee. ‘Tell me, Mr Pohenz, is there any record of this man’s name?’

‘Because it started as a verbal tale, no one really remembers if he did give a name. The Rag Man is the only name people remember. It’s kind of catchy,’ he said with a smile.

‘And would you know roughly what year that happened?’

He smiled. ‘I know exactly; it was the spring of 1857.’