Monachopsis

Chapter IX: Rodeo Cowboy

Rodeo Drive In looked exactly how it sounded. The inside dining room as well as the outside tables were packed with teenagers. Rock music blared from the overhead speakers. It was beyond tacky, but just being near it sent a wave of nostalgia crashing over me. The drive in back in Fallon looked almost identical, and immediately, my mouth began to water at the thought of their burgers.

Questioning started almost immediately once Sam recognized one of the boys sitting outside as a kid from the story.

"It was the scariest thing I ever saw in my life, I swear to God," said Table Boy.

Inside, another kid spoke to us from behind the counter. "From the moment we walked in, the walls were painted black."

"Red," countered Table Boy.

"I think it was blood," interjected a girl from inside.

"With all these freaky symbols . . ."

"Crosses and stars and . . ."

"Pentagons . . ."

Pentecostals . . ."

"Whatever," said the girl, "I had my eyes closed the whole time."

"But I can damn sure tell you this much," said Table Boy. "No matter what anybody else says . . ."

"That poor girl . . ."

"With the black . . ."

"Blond . . ."

"Red hair, just hanging there . . ."

"Kicking . . ."

"Not even moving . . ."

"She was real," the girl insisted."

"One hundred percent," agreed Table Boy.

"And kinda hot," said Counter Kid. He glanced at my disgusted face and added, "Well, you know, in a dead sort of way."

"Okay," said Dean, having heard quite enough. He let out a nervous laugh and looked to Sam.

"And how'd you find out about this place anyway?" Sam asked.

"Craig," answered all three of them at once, seated on the bench across the table from us. I shared a look with Sam and whipped out an official looking notepad.

"Okay," I said professionally, taking a pen out of my pocket. "Any idea where we could find this 'Craig'?"

Craig worked in a music shop on the town's main street. When Sam yanked the door open, the sound of rock music drifted onto the sidewalk.

There weren't many people inside; just a couple here and there browsing through the massive collection of vinyl records on display. As the shop door shut behind us, a young man who couldn't be more than eighteen stepped out from behind the clerk desk.

"Gentlemen, ma'am," he greeted pleasantly, "help you with anything?"

I frowned. I wasn't a ma'am. I wasn't even old enough to drink yet . . . legally at least.

"Yeah, are you Craig Thurston?" asked Dean.

The boy didn't look up from the records he was organizing. "I am."

"Oh, well, we're reporters with the Dallas Morning News," said Dean. "I'm Dean. This is Sam. That's our . . . associate . . . Gray."

I ignored Dean's tone in exchange for the slightly starstruck expression that spread across Craig's face. "No way," he said. "Yeah, I'm a writer, too. I write for my schools lit Magazine."

"Well, good for you, Morrison," teased Dean. I aimed a glare at him, my teeth set on edge from his attitude. Dean met my gaze evenly, a slight grin curling the corners of his mouth.

"Um, we're doing an article on local hauntings," said Sam when Craig watched us expectantly, "and rumor has it you might know about one."

Craig paused. "You mean the Hell House?"

"That's the one," Dean said.

"I didn't think there was anything to the story," Craig said.

"Why don't you tell us the story?" Sam prompted.

"Well, supposedly, back in the thirties," Craig started, "this farmer, Mordechai Murdoch, used to live in the house with his six daughters. It was during the Depression, his crops were failing. Didn't have enough money to even feed his own children. So I guess that's when he went off the deep end."

"What do you mean by that?" I asked.

"Well, he figured it was best if his girls died quick rather than starve to death . . . so he attacked them. They screamed, begged for him to stop. But he just strung them up, one after another. And then when he was all finished, he turned around and hung himself. Now they say that his spirit is trapped in the house forever, stringing up any other girl who goes inside."

Craig's eyes slid from the boys to me. His brown eyes trailed slimily up and down my figure, trying for faux concern and failing. I kept my gaze unimpressed and detached, which seemed to give him the hint that I wasn't interested.

"Where'd you hear all this?" Dean asked.

His attention drawn from me, Craig said, "My cousin Dana told me. I don't know where she heard it from. You got to realize I didn't believe this for a second."

"But now you do," Sam guessed.

Craig paled. "I don't know what the hell to think, man. Guys, I'll tell you exactly what I told the police, okay? That girl was real. And she was dead. This was not a prank. I swear to God, I don't want to go anywhere near that house ever again, okay?"

The three of us shared a single look before Dean said," Thanks."

As we left the store, Sam turned to me. "He seem sincere to you?"

"Yes," I answered. "But any kid not wanting trouble with the cops over a prank would. Don't you think?"