1255 Robert's Cove Road (Part 1)

Author's Note:

There's an urban legend around these parts of a haunted gravesite on Ohlenforst Road in a little town called Robert's Cove. I spent more time thinking about Hookman's Grave when I was a teenager in high school, when it was a popular weekend hangout spot. Every couple of weeks or so, someone had a new Hookman's story to tell; of stalled cars, phantom fog, or a mysterious shadow-man appearing with red eyes. In my senior year, one group of kids told me that they went to Hookman's and put a ouiji board on the grave and it told them that one of them would die on a certain day in a car accident. The dark prophecy came true. Whether or not the ouiji board part of it was made up - who knows? (it's a whale of a tale) - but I did know the girl who ran into a telephone pole on Parkerson Avenue when I was in my junior year.

I'm thirty two now, and it's been years since I've heard any good Hookman's Tales. I've traveled around a bit; did a stint in the Air Force, lived in Utah and Houston for a while, but now I'm back home. I recently moved with my family into the country about two miles from Robert's Cove. My wife and I were out driving one afternoon and we decided to pay old Hookman a visit. As we got close to the gravesite, my wife noticed all the houses in the area and said, "You couldn't pay me enough money to live this close to Hookman's!"

And an idea was born.

Wouldn't it be fun to tell stories - not only about Hookman - but of all the freaky things that happen to the people who live near his grave?

This series is fiction, but the locations are real. I'm sure most of the stories I heard about Hookman back in high school were fiction too, so it feels right to do my part in adding to the legacy of the urban legend of Hookman's Grave on Ohlenforst Road. (At least, I hope they were fiction... I'm living in his neighborhood!)

Enjoy.
BJ



1255 Robert’s Cove Road
By Brandon Johnson

A sharp, sinking in the pit of his chest could take him at times, and in those moments, thoughts of what she’d done would steal upon him like a tide. Fragments of memories could cut against the fabric of his mind. Every image of their past vivid, the fragrances sharp, and the total ocean of loss heavy as it pressed the pieces against him. The dark water came on him often over the past few months, and under the pressure to drown in it, he found his escape hatch at the bottom of a bottle of bourbon.

He stood on the front porch, locked outside his house. He knew before going over to the neighbor’s that he would be coming back stumbling drunk, so he walked the half mile there (and stumbled the half mile back) without his car keys. He didn’t remember locking the door, never locked it in fact, but wasn’t really surprised either, that he had. In his current state, he wouldn’t be surprised to look down and discover that he had left his pants at the neighbor’s.

It was a clear night at least, and not too terribly hot. Springtime in Louisiana is a joke that lasts about two weeks before the humidity delivers the punch-line (usually around the middle of April) to make every trip out of doors a new reason to take a shower. A slight breeze played through the pine trees and swayed the flowerless pots which hung around the edges of the porch. They were once tended by his wife, and eventually deteriorated into tangled brown masses covered in spider webs. One day, he shook the dead plants off and tossed them into the yard, leaving the pots empty except for the Styrofoam-specked potting soil. As he looked at them now, he couldn’t discern whether it was the flower pots that were swaying back and forth, or everything behind and around them. He couldn’t look at them.

He went over to the window and braced himself up against the sill and shut his eyes in an attempt to recalibrate his equilibrium. When he opened them, he saw that he had left the television on as well. Curious. The view of his living room through the window began to make a sick kaleidoscopic rotation and he closed his eyes again.

He tried to focus on one of the small screws which held in the screen. He had witnessed several hurricanes in his lifetime, some pretty bad, and decided to have all the window screens screwed in to prevent them from blowing away.
His screwdriver set was in the utility room.

No big deal, really. He could always get into his car (he kept a spare key tucked under the back left quarter panel), and drive over to Mama’s house. She had a key to the house, but he knew better than to drive when he was more than half-lit. Besides, Mama would rip him a new one if he did. It was still early, however. He left the neighbor’s at 9:30, so it must be around ten now. In an hour or two, he’d be sobered up enough to drive over and get the key.

He looked back into the living room and pondered the television being on. He knew he hadn’t turned it on after work. Maybe Mama brought Little Nell back to the house. She probably forgot her Pooh, had to come back, and Mama just flicked it on while Nell ran upstairs.

Maybe.

The news was just on; confirming that his perception of time wasn’t too far off the mark, even if he was shit-faced. The newscaster was reading a story that he couldn’t hear, but the image over the anchor’s right shoulder caught his attention. The living room, the empty flower pots, and everything else stopped moving. It was a photo of his ex-wife.

Her picture was sandwiched between two other women he’d never seen. The caption below the images read, “Escaped Inmates”.

He had to hear what the news was saying about his ex-wife. He shook the handle of the front door once again, then took off for the back porch. Maybe the sliding door was open. Before he rounded the corner, he tripped over something on the ground near the water hose and nearly wiped out completely. He paid it no mind as he made the corner and came upon the back sliding glass door. Unlocked.

He and his ex-wife moved into the house three years after they were married, which meant that he had lived there for five years now. It was a scaled down plantation-style house, with all the ambiance of an old Louisiana manor, minus most of the square footage. He darted through the kitchen that his ex-wife called “just darling” five years ago, as they pored over the house with the realtor. Then, her eyes were bright and alive with notions of wooden rocking chairs on porches, canned figs from mystic trees yet planted and cherry wood bassinettes. He saw a different set of eyes now looking back at him from the mug shot on the television; eyes accomplished at concealing darkness, jealousy, and ultimately, murder.

His head began to pound.

“Two of the three escapees have been safely returned to custody. We’ll keep you up to date on any further developments in this case… In other news, the Acadia Parish School Board faces yet another financial crisis. With the story, here’s Pete Thevis.”

He sat down at the small table between the kitchen and the living room. Everything started spinning again, but faster.

She’s out there. He thought. And Little Nell is over at Ma’s house.

A whining, high frequency tone crept into his head as he tried to put his thoughts together. A man has to know his limitations. Was that John Wayne? Random thoughts attacked the cogent ones that tried to form, while the single dog whistle note held out in the background of his head, making sorting out his next move a mad scramble.

As if this isn’t a difficult enough situation.

No, it was Clint Eastwood... a line from Dirty Harry.

Even through the fog, he knew one thing: He had to get in touch with Nell.

He phoned his mother’s house. While waiting for the answer, he noticed that there was blood on his right tennis shoe.

What did I stumble over out there?

No answer. Each ring amplified the high frequency whistling in his head; amplified the fear in his heart that was now pounding in his chest. He would have to drive over to Mama’s house and make sure that Little Nell was safe in bed. Then he would stay the night in Ma’s guest bedroom after making sure the house was locked up tight.

He left through the back door, so that he could take a look at whatever it was he nearly broke his neck tripping over. As he slid the door closed behind him, he remembered Pepper Jack.

It must have been Pepper Jack, his little girl’s golden lab that he tripped over. He froze with the realization that the damned dog simply wasn’t there when he got home. He remembered the dog going with him to the neighbor’s house, and it wasn’t necessarily odd that he wasn’t around when he left. But it was definitely strange that Pepper Jack wasn’t at the house when he got back.

He couldn’t let his daughter see Pepper Jack’s body when she got home. He had to make sure that Little Nell didn’t see the dog she raised from a puppy lying there dead when she got home. He went back into the house to get a trash bag, and stopped; the image of his ex-wife's mug shot, her cold eyes.

What am I thinking? Go find your baby!

He turned to leave again, and noticed the tea pot out of place on the stove and an empty cup on the counter with a tea bag in it. His ex-wife’s green tea brand.

He bolted out the back door, ran around the house making sure to steer wide of the spot where he had tripped. Pepper Jack would have to wait…

…And he stopped as soon as he got to the front porch.

His car was gone.

He shut his eyes. Clamped them shut trying to clear the slate of what it was he had seen. He opened them, expecting to see his car where it belonged, but it was gone. He cried out, and doubled over with his fists clenched against his ears. The whistling increased in his head... somehow widened across his brain. The circles of light that played against his eyelids were visible again when they were opened as the wretched sound - the pointed screech of a lost radio frequency - reverberated between his ears.

Despite the whining blare, he heard a noise in front of him, near the road... a loud crunching. He gave a start, and took two steps toward the black figure he saw hunched down in the grass.

Rage came up from his chest and into his throat.

“What!” He cried. “What are you doing out there!”

He took two more steps toward the figure in the darkness, and said, “I swear to God, if you’ve laid a hand on our daughter, YOU-SICK-BITCH” and took two more steps toward the huddled shape.

Once he got out from under the light of the porch, his eyes adjusted.

Pepper Jack was eating a turtle.

As he realized that it was just the dog; as his muscles relaxed enough to release his breath in a sigh of relief, he heard another sound, near the back porch, which tore his gaze from the contented animal, to the spot near the water hose where he had tripped on his dash to the back door.

“Paw.” The tiny, feeble voice.
“Mama came back.”