Chapter 2: Giles Hollow

  The town of Giles Hollow sat alone in a cloud.  The high hill upon which it was built sloped dramatically down from all sides, creating an endless view that, on a clear day, seemed to stretch across all of New England.  At this moment, however, the rest of the world had been swallowed into a white, nebulous void, sparing only the small village.

  The first rays of the rising sun illuminated the dense fog, pulling it upward in ghostlike wisps that drifted hauntingly through the maple trees and tidy buildings.  Nearby, golden fields extended outward in all directions, chopped into a patchwork of squares by impossibly straight stonewalls.  These rustic boundaries acted as both property markers and fencing for the various types of livestock that chewed their way across the landscape.   

  Along a single lane of blacktop that split the village in two sat a line of houses.  They were far enough apart to allow room for a series of meticulously trimmed lawns, but not so far that one’s comings and goings could go unnoticed.  As with all small towns, privacy in Giles Hollow was in short supply, anonymity impossible. 

  Number 507, like every one of its neighbors, was a white two-story, with black shutters, a gray slate roof, and a bright red chimney.  But unlike the others, quiet and dark at this early hour, a light glowed brightly from a downstairs window.

  The garage door groaned, clanked, and generally complained as it hoisted itself open, slowly revealing a pair of sneakers astride the tires of a bicycle.  Before it could rise any further, there was a metallic screeching, and the door came to a lurching stop.  A frustrated foot lowered a kickstand, and the sneakers disappeared towards the back of the garage.  There was a pounding sound, and the door came to life once more.  As it finished its labored climb, a boy, the bright orange strap of a newspaper bag across his chest, stood in the opening.

  Lester North had straight black hair and brown eyes.  He was thin, not spindly, but as though his body had been stretched while he slept and was waiting for the rest of him to catch up.  At eleven years old, he was tall for his age, though few noticed.  Being a bright toddler, his parents had started him in school early, and then he’d skipped a grade.  This made him easily a full year younger than his classmates, and with some of the older students, nearly two.  Because of this, his height and above-average intelligence went mostly unnoticed, which suited Lester just fine.  

  Shifting the bag over his shoulder, he once again mounted his bike and rolled it into the driveway.  There was a low growling sound, and looking down, Lester smiled at the large brown dog baring its sharp teeth.

  “Really, Mac?  We’re going to do this every morning?”  He reached out and ruffled the shaggy fur on the dog’s head.

  Mac replied by increasing the volume of his protest and letting a string of drool drip from the edge of his jaws.

  “Aw, who’s a scary dog?” chided Lester as he pedaled out of the driveway.  “See you tomorrow, Mac.”

  The dog did not give chase, but his eyes followed the paperboy until he was gone from sight.

 Lester coasted along the flat Main Street without much effort, tossing papers into driveways with uncanny accuracy.  Each found its mark, front steps, porches, and walkways, with a satisfying thud.  

  By the time he’d reached the southern edge of the village, Lester’s bag was much lighter, and he stopped to move it to his other shoulder.  Here, Main Street became rural route sixty-three.  To the right, the houses thinned, separated by wide fields and hay barns, too far apart to be worthwhile for a delivery boy and his bicycle.  On the left stood a thick forest.  Its tall evergreen trees blocked the rising sun, allowing the dense fog that was rapidly disappearing elsewhere to linger.  

  Lester was steering his bike in a lazy arc to head back the way he’d come when he skidded to a stop in the middle of the road.  Past the point where the blacktop’s double yellow lines vanished into the gray mist, he thought he’d seen something move.  Holding his breath, he waited.  Perhaps it had only been a trick of the light.  But then Lester’s stomach dropped as a large dark shape — actually, several large dark shapes — drifted past in the fog.  They were too big and slow to be cars, and there was the disturbing fact that he could hear breathing and what sounded like heavy footsteps.  Lester’s mind flooded with images from the horror movie his brother had insisted they watch the previous night while their parents had been out for the evening. 

  The shapes drew closer.

  Gripping his bike’s handlebars, Lester glanced back in the direction of the village.  He calculated how far he was from home against the speed of whatever was approaching.  If he pedaled hard and didn’t look back, he could probably make it.

  Adrenaline shook through Lester’s legs as he swung the bicycle around and got ready for the ride of his life.  Then, another noise came through the fog.  This one was so familiar and ubiquitous that he nearly laughed.  The breathing and footfalls continued to grow louder but now were punctuated by the occasional clang of a metal bell.  And, in what seemed like a blatant attempt to make Lester feel even more foolish, a series of long, low moos.  The Chipping Farm’s cows had broken through their fence again.

  Mystery solved, Lester headed back toward town.  He knew that if a car driving through the fog hit a 1,500-pound dairy cow, it wouldn’t end well for the driver or the animal.  However, he also knew that in Giles Hollow, he and his bike made up the entirety of the morning rush at this hour.  Therefore, other traffic anytime soon was extremely unlikely.  

  Finishing up his route, he threw papers in front of the town offices, the fire department, and the police station.  Had the station’s one patrol car been parked out front, Lester would have gone in to report the escaped milkers.  But since it doubled as the sheriff’s personal transportation and the meals-on-wheels delivery vehicle, it was no surprise that it wasn’t.  Continuing on, Lester also left papers at the elementary school, the historical society, and the library.

  At the end of Main Street, the last building was a large gothic-looking church, and Lester stopped to look up at its towering white steeple, gleaming in the brightening sky.  Being atop the highest hill for miles meant that the view from Giles Hollow was spectacular in every direction.  It also meant that each building in town showed at least some signs of the wearing power of the non-stop wind.  Yet, the church and its steeple remained pristine.  

  His bag was nearly empty, and Lester coasted across the street to his final stop, the Giles Hollow Post Office.  It operated out of the first floor of a modest stone house and was the only other structure to show any evidence of life this early in the day.  Parking his bike, Lester pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  The customer area was no bigger than a large walk-in closet.  A grid of gold mailboxes lined the right wall, and a window cut into the far end created a small counter, behind which an older man sat sorting through a plastic tub of mail.

  “Good morning, Mr. Titus,” Lester called.

  “Lester!  What’s the news of the day?” the man asked, flashing a warm smile.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Lester replied, handing him his paper.  “The Giles Hollow Mosquito’s reporting area only covers about twenty miles.”

  The older man laughed, took the rubber band off the newspaper, and began smoothing it out with his hands.  “Well, now, that twenty miles is pretty much my entire world.”  

  Ben Titus had lived in Giles Hollow his whole life.  His gray hair, cut into a fifties-era flattop, was paired with square, black-framed glasses that completed the look.  He wore his standard, light blue postal uniform whether he was at work or not.  And though it was entirely unnecessary in such a small town, Lester had never seen him without his name tag.

  “Mr. Titus,” said Lester.  “The Chipping Farm’s cows are out.”

  “Again?  I’ll radio the town garage, and they’ll have Mike round them up,” Ben Titus said, turning the page of his newspaper. “It must be those yearlings. They spend all winter following their mothers around the barn.  Then they finally get put out to pasture.  That first day they don’t wander much.  All that wide open space spooks them, but then they get a taste for it.  Before long, they break through the fence to, quite literally, see if the grass is greener on the other side. The rest of the herd mindlessly follows, of course.”  He paused his reading to glance at Lester. “Not so different from you and your classmates, I would suspect,” he added with a wink.

  Lester laughed.

  “Speaking of which, it’s the first day of school today, isn’t it?  Are you ready for another year?”

  “I guess,” said Lester.   

  “You have Mrs. Q now, don’t you?”

  Lester felt himself turn red and looked down at his sneakers.

  Every kid at Giles Hollow Elementary lived in fear of their sixth-grade year when they would have the notorious Mrs. Q for homeroom and math.  In addition to being strict, a ruthlessly hard grader, and a feared disciplinarian, she made no attempt to hide what might politely be described as a strong dislike for children. 

  “Yes.  I do,” said Lester.

  “And how do you think that will go?” asked Ben.  

  Lester knew Mr. Titus wasn’t just making conversation.  Unlike other adults, who would ask a question and not wait for an answer, Ben Titus was sincerely interested.  That, and the fact that he wasn’t one of Lester’s parents, made him easy to confide in.

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  “I think she hates me,” said Lester.

  “How could anyone hate you?” Ben asked.  “Besides, I’m sure you’ll be one of her best students.”

  “I do okay.”

  Lester’s modesty wouldn’t let him admit that Mr. Titus was right.  He’d had a few classes with Mrs. Q the previous year when she substituted in 5th grade.  Though he’d done well, he had not come away confident in the prospect of spending more time under her gaze.

  “It’s like she never stops watching me,” Lester said.  “I get the feeling she’s always waiting for me to make a mistake.”

  “I know it must seem that way.  But I assure you, Annie Quince has been scaring kids well before you came along and will continue long after you’ve graduated.  To tell you the truth, she kind of scares me too.”

  Lester gave another laugh.  Ben always had a way of putting things into perspective.

  “Now, here,” Ben said, handing Lester a stack of envelopes.  “You might as well bring this mail to your folks.”

  Lester took the bundle and opened his empty newspaper bag to drop it inside.  Only it wasn’t empty.  A single paper lay at the bottom.  “Oh, shoot!” he said, turning to leave.  “Sorry, Mr. Titus, but I’ve got to go.”

  Before the post office door had closed behind him, Lester was on his bike, pedaling madly back down Main Street.  He prided himself on completing all of his deliveries before any of his customers awoke.  How could he have forgotten one?  And worst of all, he knew exactly who he’d missed.

  Frank Ditcher, or The Ditch as everyone in town called him, not necessarily to his face, lived in a house on the far edge of the village.  Distracted by the escaped cows, Lester had failed to leave his paper and was now racing with all he had to get back there before it was too late.

  The Ditch was not what most people would call friendly.  Once, Lester had accidentally tossed his copy of The Mosquito onto his lawn instead of in his driveway.  The Ditch had refused to pay for the week.  He’d claimed it had been ruined by his sprinklers, even though it had rained the day before.  If his paper wasn’t there when he stepped outside this morning, Lester would have to listen to another speech about responsibility, the poor work ethic of his generation, and how things were back in The Ditch’s day.

  Breathing hard, Lester approached the house with a sigh of relief.  There were no signs of movement inside, and he carefully landed the last paper smack in the middle of the front step.

  Gliding to a stop at the end of The Ditch’s driveway, Lester was happy to see that the road had cleared.  The escaped cows still mulled about, but the car he could hear approaching in the distance would have no trouble spotting them once it came up over the hill.  

  Turning to go, Lester felt a sudden icy chill and looked down to find himself ankle-deep in mist.  The fog, beaten back into the dark forest by the rising sun, was now reversing course.  It flowed like water around gnarled tree trunks, through the tall grass at the edge of the road, and back onto the pavement, somehow even thicker than before.  Within seconds, it had again completely obscured both sides of route sixty-three, and more importantly, the large cows that continued to stand in the middle of it.

  Watching from his bike, Lester could no longer see the approaching car, but he could still hear it.  The low hum of its engine grew louder with each passing moment.  In a desperate attempt to warn the driver, Lester snapped on the battery-powered bike light his mother insisted he use, but its small yellow beam was swallowed by the fog.  It was no good.  The mist continued to thicken.  Lester’s bike light could have been a lighthouse, and it still would have had trouble penetrating it.  What he needed was a horn, a siren, heck; even a whistle would be better than what Lester had, which was nothing.  What could he do?  The car would be here any minute, and anyone who might be able to help was still asleep.  He thought of waking Mr. Ditcher but decided there was no time.

  Lester felt sick to his stomach.  Then, thankful he’d yet to eat anything that morning, he began to stomp his feet and clap his hands.  “Hey, you lunkheads, move!” he shouted.  “Come on, move, you dumb cows!  Move!”

  Either the animals couldn’t hear or didn’t care.  Regardless, it was too late.

  As though someone had flicked a switch, the dull gray mist burst to life, bathed in the bright yellow of oncoming headlights.  Illuminated from behind, the cow’s dark shapes loomed like giant shadow puppets. 

  Tires screeched.  A cow mooed.  And Lester stopped yelling as a pale blue pickup truck burst into view.

  The driver of the truck suddenly found himself in a four-legged obstacle course.  He swerved left, right, then left again.  By some miracle, he managed to miss every one of the hapless animals but had run out of road in the process.  He slid sideways across The Ditch’s perfectly kept lawn.  Streams of dirt and grass flew from spinning tires, splattering the front of the house like some sort of mud spewing monster.

  Now completely out of control, the truck smashed into The Ditch’s fancy wooden mailbox.  Its windshield was awash in a hundred broken pieces as it rocketed down the driveway — straight towards the astonished paperboy and his bike.

  All Lester could do was stare at the terrified young man behind the wheel and brace himself.  This was going to hurt.

  Closing his eyes in anticipation of the impact, Lester heard the squealing sound of rubber catching pavement.  A rush of air blew across his face, and he looked just in time to see the truck’s taillights shoot back across the road, headed for the line of trees marking the edge of the forest.

  The engine roared as the vehicle left the ground, flew over the drainage ditch, and plowed into a stonewall on the other side.  There was a loud smack, and the front of the truck crumpled like an accordion against the rocks.  The rear wheels slammed back down to earth, causing every window to shatter in a hail of broken glass.  

  Lester, stunned to be still standing upright without so much as a scratch, stared, unsure what to do.  The truck, which moments before had been a tormented beast chewing up the countryside, sat motionless.  A billowing cloud of steam hissed from under what remained of its hood.  Should he go for help or check on the driver?  The thought of what he might find gave him pause, and before Lester could make up his mind, the passenger side door was kicked open. 

  A bewildered young man with messy straw-colored hair, dressed in jeans and a red-checked flannel shirt, emerged.  He took a few staggering steps, looked first at his wrecked truck and then back at the cows, who were slowly walking off into a hayfield, oblivious to the havoc they’d caused.

  Lester was amazed.  The driver appeared utterly unhurt.  That was one lucky guy.

  “Hey, you okay?” he called across the road.

  The young man startled and turned to look at Lester.

  “You want me to get some help?” Lester asked.

  The driver’s eyes went wide, and instead of answering, he took off at a run.  As he sprinted down the road in the direction he’d come, he glanced back every few steps as though worried Lester might follow him.

  Puzzled, Lester watched him go.  Maybe the young man was embarrassed at having played chicken with a bunch of cows and lost and didn’t want to be gawked at by some kid.  Perhaps the truck belonged to his parents, and he’d been using it without permission.

  Whatever the reason behind the driver’s hasty departure, he seemed no worse for wear, and Lester decided to head home.  As he pedaled along, a flash of movement caught his eye.  At first, he thought it might be the dog, Mac, chasing squirrels through the woods.  But when he looked again, there she was.

  Just inside the forest, behind the trunk of a large tree, stood an old woman.  She wore a long dark coat, the same color as the tree’s black bark.  If not for her silver hair, she would have been impossible to see among the fog and shadows.

  She smiled as she watched the driver of the truck disappear into the distance.  Then, as if sensing him, she turned her gaze to face Lester and winked.

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