I’ve driven through Peculiar, Missouri once before, but the exact occasion I cannot recall.
I think I had gone to see a friend. I remember because I had just gone through Humansville and
noted the odd town-names along the western border of Missouri. It was as if some time ago the
locals decided to have a little fun with the Census Bureau and got stuck with it. This time, it was
winter – just before Christmas – and to my dismay I got stuck in Peculiar, that infernal town
whose horrors will haunt me in these last few hours of my life.
I was driving back from a gig in Kansas City in the little yellow Beetle I had fixed up. It’s
an antique, a little rickety but fun to drive. I should have known better than to take her on such a
long trip but there was weather coming soon and I knew I wouldn’t have another chance until
after the holidays. I bet it’s still there, frozen stiff in the parking lot of the Quality Inn I stopped
in.
It was probably the opossum. It was already roadkill when I hit it, but I didn’t see it in
time and grimaced at the chung-CHUNK sound the car made as I rolled over the poor creature. I
turned down the radio, muting a country station that was only marginally better than the carols I
had been listening to for the past hundred miles. I listened, but all seemed well, so I kept going.
Fifteen miles outside of Peculiar I started to lose RPMs. I knew what it meant. That
skunk probably opened back up that oil leak and it spilled out. The engine was overheating. I
tricked myself into denial – I do that quite a bit – and pushed on, just trying to make ground in
the dark.
By ten miles out I’d lost more power. There was no denying it now, and it was only going
to get worse. I had the tools in the trunk to fix it, but it was dark, and it would have to wait until
morning. I still had an hour left of driving to do - I’d have to find someplace to pull off.
Five miles out I passed an exit with a gas station but no motel. I wonder if I would have
been able to make it through the night without freezing to death. There’s a blanket in the trunk. It
would have been miserable as hell, but I probably would’ve survived. I don’t think I can say the
same now.
Peculiar. It is a town of maybe a thousand, but it looks like it couldn’t have too much
more than a few hundred. It looked almost serene, like one of those paintings you see in
shopping mall art stores, the ones with cottages and lamps. There was something off about this
town, an aura I couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the blue streetlamps that dotted the roads off
the highway here and there, a unique expression of the town’s name. I remember making a
mental note to try and write a song about it. I never will. My fingers are numb writing this as it
is. This account will have to do.
I parked the car at the first hotel off the interstate; a Quality Inn, if I recall correctly. I
gave the hood of the yellow Beetle a soft pat as if to comfort it. Don’t worry, ol’ girl, I thought,
First thing in the morning. I trotted up to the hotel door and tugged. To my astonishment, it was
locked. I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered in, but the place was deserted.
I let out a guttural groan and pinched my nose with my thumb and forefinger and leaned
over. “Fuck, fuck, fuck...” I had no idea if I was going to be able to get the car restarted now that
it was shut off – it wasn’t exactly a forgiving machine once things started to go off-kilter. I looked around – there were no other lodgings in sight. I got back into the Beetle, and, holding my breath, I turned the key.
whirr-whirr-whirr-wing. Nothing
whirr-whirr-whirr-wing. She was dead.
I should have called someone. A friend, a tow, my mom, anyone, but it was already close
to midnight and no one I knew would be able to get me for at least a couple hours. I didn’t know
any tow numbers, and my phone was almost dead, so I didn’t want to risk looking one up. I
should have stayed in the car and waited it out. I had the tools to make the adjustments, and I
could buy a quart of oil from the gas station. It was only – what – seven hours until dawn?
I was cold, I was exhausted, I was hungry, and I desperately needed a drink. That’s a
thought. Bars won’t close for another hour or two. Get a drink and warm up until they kick you
out. I’d still need to find a place to sleep. Not far, I could see the blue streetlights in a cluster that
I could only assume was the town. I grabbed my trumpet out of the car, not wanting to risk
damage or theft, and I started towards the eerie blue lights.
I must have passed half a dozen inns and motels, yet all were locked up. I didn’t
understand: was there a tourist attraction here I hadn’t heard of? A festival or county fair? It was
six days until Christmas, what could possibly be going on? I started to get a bad feeling again – a
sour taste in my mouth. It was like how as a kid if you played outside in the cold for too long you
started to almost smell and taste blood. What’s more, I noticed I hadn’t found any bars either.
Had it not been for a car or two I’d seen driving I might have thought Peculiar was a ghost town.
I walked further and further into the town. Somewhere along the way I felt the swansong
buzz of my phone dying in my pocket, only then realizing I had foolishly forgotten my charger in
the car. Finally, near the center of the town (I could see the square from the street I was walking),
I came upon a building with the lights still on. “Gary’s Inn & Breakfast” said the sign on the
doors and window. Inside, I could see a heavyset, middle-aged man clicking around on a
computer. The street was otherwise deserted; I’d probably be the only customer tonight.
Gary’s Inn & Breakfast was a plain building with a sickly lavender paint job peeling all
over. On the inside it was just as plain. The carpet smelled stale but clean, and the walls were
landlord-special white. The man at the front was portly, had a shiny red face and a pale patch of
red hair on top of his glabrous head. Beside him I could see the end of a double-barrel shot gun
peeking above the desk – I was in the middle of nowhere, alright. I had almost reached him at the
desk when he noticed me with a start. I heard the rapid clicking of the computer mouse, and he
gave an embarrassed cough that told me I was better off ignoring this little exchange.
“How can I help ya?” He had a strong Ozarker accent, and breathed heavily like many
overweight men do. I was suddenly aware that I’d never purchased a room without making a
reservation before.
“I was hoping I could get a room for the night, I – “
“Do you have a reservation?” Oh, come on, he knew damn well I didn’t.
“No, but – “
“Well, you usually need a reservation.”
“I know, but listen, sir, my car broke down, and I need to- “
The old man started to chuckle. I was too tired and too cold to realize he was putting me
on. The relief rushed from me so fast I nearly whistled instead of sighing. At the hope of a bed, a
new wave of fatigue passed over me.
“Sorry to hear about your vehicle,” he offered, pronouncing it “vee-hickle” like Midwesterners do. He was rifling through the desk, presumably for a key, then craned what little neck he had around me. “You got it outside?”
“No, I had to leave it at the hotel off the highway.”
“Oh that? Been closed well over a year now.” He had found the key, and was chewing thoughtfully on a hangnail as he spoke.
“What about the rest of the inns?” I pressed.
“Oh, mosta those close up this time of year. Not enough business to keep them open. Just
old Gary here holding down the fort. It’s fifty-five dollars for the night.”
I brought out my wallet and produced my debit card.
“Cash only,” came a curt, gruff, and well-rehearsed answer.
I started to feel my temper rising but was too exhausted to start an argument. Especially
not with a tired old man with a shotgun not six inches away from his hand. I looked in my wallet
for the cash. He was asking for nearly all the cash tips I had made from the gig in KC, but what
choice did I have? I gave him the money and he gave me the key. He gave me the directions (as
if the room would’ve been hard to find), and I mumbled my thanks. There was something else I
had to ask him. Despite my exhaustion, I still really wanted that drink.
“Hey, are there any bars open around here?”
“Sorry, we’re a dry town.”
“Those still exist?” I scoffed, not hiding a pathetic pout.
“Yeah, we don’t allow any liquor to be sold here, but if you buy it elsewhere, you can
bring it in town.”
“Oh.” Somehow, then, the fatigue drained away. I was feeling uneasy again, and my hair
for a brief moment stood on my neck. I realized I’d never be able to fall asleep; I’ve never done
well in hotels. I asked if there were any pharmacies or stores still open where I could get
melatonin, but apparently those were all closed too.
“Tell you what,” said Gary jovially, “I’ve got a bottle of Jack in the back. How ‘bout I
make you a hot toddy with some chamomile tea, that oughtta help.” I was surprised at the kind
gesture. I thought that maybe I had judged him too harshly at first. I accepted his offer, and he
said to go on ahead to the room and he would bring it in just a few minutes. I thanked him and
started on my way. “And happy solstice!” he blurted, though I couldn’t quite hear him.
“Sorry?”
“I said, ‘happy solstice’,” repeated Gary, just as jolly as the first time.
“Oh, I suppose it is.”
The room had a small bed with a nightstand, a writing desk, and a dresser. The bathroom
fan made a horrible screeching sound, and the whole place smelled vaguely of cigarettes, but
who was I to complain? Outside my window there was another one of those blue streetlamps that
filled the room with an eerie indigo glow. I closed the blinds, but they were too thin to block out
the light. I set my trumpet at the foot of the bed. I decided to take a shower to warm up and dried
off with the scratchy white towel that had a dusty smell as if it hadn’t been changed in a while.
When I got out, the hot toddy was waiting on the desk for me. I locked the door, then went back
to the desk and took a sip. It was strong, very strong; it tasted like it was half Jack. I drank it
anyways in three or four big gulps. Taking it fast did the trick, and I got just loose enough to get
sleepy. I climbed into the bed that smelled much like the towel with just my skivvies and tried to
sleep. The bright blue streetlamp made it difficult. I’m not sure how long I laid there nor if I
really dozed off, but something adjacent to sleep overtook me, an indigo-colored sleep that shone
behind my eyes and made me think of a vast and endless ocean. I was uneasy, but my exhaustion
overcame my anxiety.
I woke with a start, like how one wakes to a loud sound without knowing exactly what
the sound was. In my sleep I must have turned away from the window, for I couldn’t see the light
with my eyes closed. I almost didn’t open them. I almost went back to sleep. If I had just gone
back to sleep, I might still have made it out of Peculiar alive.
I opened my eyes. The blue light had turned a sickly, dark red.
The room was now cast like a darkroom for photography. I sat up like a wobble-doll. It suddenly felt cold, as if the heat had been turned off. I went to the window and pulled back the curtain, squinting at the crimson light outside. All throughout the town the blue streetlamps had turned red. I tried to tell myself that it was some strange local Christmas tradition, but something told me it was not. Getting my bearings, I took a look around the room. Everything seemed to be in place. Paranoid, I checked the foot of the bed. My trumpet was still there. A jittery nervousness climbed into my throat, and I realized I needed a cigarette, a pack of which I’d left on the writing desk.
I climbed out of the bed, and goosebumps instantly rose from my skin. It had gotten rather cold, and I slipped on my clothes and jacket I had been wearing. I approached the chip board desk and pocketed my wallet, pack and lighter, keys, dead phone, and the little notebook I keep for jotting down lyrics or other little ideas. It’s a cheap, 80-page, black faux-leatherbound thing, but it fits well in a pocket. I keep a pen tied to it with a rubber band. It had been in my pocket before so out of habit I put it back. I didn’t know that it would be my only hope to tell my story.
Night will fall soon, I must hurry –
After packing my things, I went back to the nightstand for my room key –
The key. It was gone. I checked the drawer, then the bed sheets, and then back to the desk. I knew I had left it on the nightstand but searched every nook and cranny anyways. It was a minute before I realized I hadn’t turned on the light. I went to the switch but was met with more of the same crimson-shaded darkness. The electricity was out - no wonder it had gotten cold. Still, I needed some fresh air anyways, and a few deep breaths through a cigarette. I’d look for the key in the morning - worst-case-scenario, I’d go to a bank and draw out some cash to pay for a replacement. I crossed the room and pulled on the door. It was locked.
My breath froze in my throat and my blood in its veins. All my premonitions, my strange
feelings about Peculiar suddenly felt very real. I wasn’t safe here. Strange lights, closed doors,
the missing key, and a hotel door locked from the outside. Something was very wrong. My mind
still futilely grasped for a rational explanation but found no hold. I needed to get out, and I
needed to get out soon.
I went to the window and tugged, but it didn’t budge. I pulled harder, and thankfully it
had just been stuck, and I was met with a blast of icy air. I gently pinched the screen tabs and lifted the screen on the window, then set it on the ground. I didn’t care about the room anymore; I wanted to get back to the Volkswagen. I took a breath before climbing out the window.
The scarlet streets seemed flooded with blood. I pulled my jacket tighter around me. In
the dark, I had to think about which way to go. To my left was a long street, and to the right was
the square. I started to go left, but then I heard the drums.
It was coming from the square. A steady thrum-thrum-thrumming like tympanies in some
backwoods philharmonic. By the sounds of it, there were at least a dozen. My curiosity overcame
my fear. I began to follow the sound, and the drums started beating faster. They seemed to
accelerate steadily until, as if by magic, they met the rapid tempo of my pounding heart.
I tucked myself against the wall to my right as I approached the square and inched
forward. This corner of the square was populated by rotten and abandoned brick buildings. One
of the back windows down the street was busted through. I needed to figure out what the hell
was going on, so I climbed into the building, crossing a dusty floor littered with glass and other
mystery crunches. The front window facing the square was also busted and was boarded up
haphazardly. I could see the faint forms of people through the stretches of two-by-four. I crept
closer to the window, kneeling to peer through two boards, and covering most of my body with
the wall. This alone was my doom, for what I saw rooted me to the spot.
What must have been the whole population of Peculiar had gathered in the square. It
looked like most small Midwestern town squares do: the square of brick buildings surrounding a
tall stone courthouse, what locals probably cheekily call “downtown”. This square, however, was
much larger. The left side had the courthouse, but another space the same size as the building lay
to the right. In this area was a carpet of dead grass which centered around a wide stone well, one
like those in medieval times. But was it a well? It seemed too big, at least three times as wide as
what I’d imagine, and the citizens of Peculiar were gathered around it on the side opposite to me.
The tympanists drummed still to the tempo of my pounding heart. How was that possible? The
percussionists wore long, dark green robes, and their heads were in long hoods obscuring their
faces. The crowd were talking amongst themselves, some swaying or chanting along to the
drums. Some of them wore white robes, some their usual attire of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt
under puffy jackets. A bearded man in a black robe with a red cord as a belt was swinging an iron
incense burner on a chain and walking back and forth along the perimeter of the crowd. I
watched while I shivered for several minutes, and when the ritual began, I was to see horrors too
terrible to describe.
The man in the black robes hung the incense burner over the well like a bucket and
turned to the townspeople, and as he raised his hands, a hush fell upon the crowd. The dancing
stopped, and the tympanists resting their mallets upon their drumheads. With the drumming now
gone, it felt like my heart stopped with it. My only proof of it beating was the sound of blood in
my ears. Such silence could have driven me mad had the leader not begun to speak.
“Good people!” he called, “Loyal disciples of the Master. Happy Solstice!” A short cheer
rippled through the crowd and one of tympanists did a short roll upon his drum. Silence fell
again. “Tonight, we see who the Chosen of our glorious lord shall be. Nigh is the time to
summon our great God!”
Again, the people cheered, and a tympanist drummed another roll. The preacher untied
his crimson cord and slowly dropped his robe, revealing a thin, wiry frame and a pair of white
briefs. The crowd whooped and hollered. I couldn’t see his face then, but I think he laughed, for I
saw his shoulders bounce up and down. He raised his hands again, and the crowd simmered down. The preacher approached the incense burner, which had begun to put out thick, coiling
wisps of smoke that looked pinkish in the red light of the square. He brought the burner to his
face and made a dramatic show of inhaling the smoke. He threw back his head to exhale, though
how much of it was incense smoke and how much was the steam of his breath I am unsure.
He grinned, and for a second, I could swear he was looking at me, but he turned back to
the audience.
“Let us all greet our Master!” He nearly screamed, the last syllables echoing throughout
the square. The townspeople formed a half-circle around the well in over a dozen rows and got
on their knees and prostrated themselves toward the well. The drums started again in steady
eighth notes, and finally I could feel my own heart again. The preacher turned to the well and
raised his hands. Here is the closest approximation of what I heard the people of Peculiar chant:
“By’lehu ungol thalxche pollum.”
Roared the crowd, “THALXCHE POLLUM.”
“Threx nilve gu’ukh ye py-eye”
“GU’UKH YE PY-EYE”
“Bale shee-ay. By’lehu, ungol!”
“BY’LEHU, UNGOL”
“By’lehu, ungol!”
“BY’LEHU, UNGOL! BY’LEHU, UNGOL! BY’LEHU, UNGOL!”
The ground started to shake, and a low groan seemed to come from the strange stone
well. The drums were now beating with no rhyme or reason. The people started to rock back and
forth, at times raising their hands before falling back to the ground. I watched in horror as I saw
the stones of the well lift of their own accord and reassemble themselves into a giant throne.
Then By’lehu came.
A giant blackish-green hand arose from the hole in the well. The preacher started to
cackle maniacally as another hand the size of him came from the well. The people continued to
chant and cry and cheer and the drums continued to roll in an unholy chorus. The preacher put
his arms out wide like wings, then threw himself into the well. The people screamed with sick
delight.
The gargantuan hands hoisted up a great head of the same color that looked as if it were
carved marble with angular, polished features on its skin. It was akin to a Greek statue. The
stony face made no expression. Indeed, it did not seem to be made of flesh, and as it rose the
people broke their prostrations and began to dance wildly around the impossible creature
climbing out of their well. Some began to hold and shake each other in excitement, and I saw
two men began to tear each other apart. Chunks of flesh were being torn from each other’s body,
but they both seemed to be laughing, laughing in disgusting ecstasy.
As the being pulled itself up, a second pair of arms below the first came from the depths.
The creature was climbing towards the great throne. Every part of its body seemed like perfectly
carved stone, with immobile, sculpted muscles. It climbed onto the throne. Sitting, it was nearly
twenty feet tall. I cannot imagine what it must have looked like standing at its full height.
The people continued to dance, and the Master watched, turning its head slowly as it
adjudicated the throng. Towards the courthouse, four women had stripped themselves naked and
thrashed about wildly, their skin an equal mix of goosebumps and sweat. They seemed to be
trying to get their Master’s attention.
Closer to the throne, a man screamed out the dark god’s name and disemboweled himself,
emptying the contents of his abdomen into the well. I thought I might be sick but remained
frozen in place. The man miraculously remained standing, and the beast’s head turned towards
him. One of the great arms reached out. He was to be the first Chosen.
He picked the bloody man from the ground, who was sobbing with joy. The Master
brought him towards its Charleston green stomach. I watched in terror as I saw a great maw open
sideways from its abdomen. Hundreds of sideways teeth dripping a colorless ichor materialized
from the horror’s stomach. But beyond the teeth there seemed to be no mouth, tongue or throat.
No, it appeared to be an endless depth of blackness, as if its unholy jaws were a portal to the
depths of a distant and endless darkness it had consumed long ago. It was as if the creature were
the malice of the universe manifest. The man disappeared between the vertical jaws and the
crowd became even wilder.
I watched as the people of Peculiar were chosen by their Master and consumed. A
tympanist and her drum were next. One of the naked women, and then the barely breathing two
men that had torn each other to shreds. A few more here and there whose dancing the monster
found satisfactory, including a young boy who couldn’t have been more than fourteen. He alone
seemed afraid out of them all, screaming in fear as he was minced by the enormous teeth and
being thrown inside that unfathomable blackness.
When the thing was satisfied, it wrapped all four of its arms around itself and stared
straight ahead. The stony visage began to melt into a thick mucus. It dripped its way back into
the well, a process that took no more than a minute. The stones reformed themselves back as a
well, and the chanting and howling and drumming began to quiesce. Everyone became so calm
so quickly it was almost hard to believe I had seen what I had seen mere moments before.
Then a shrill shriek pierced through the crowd. It was another of the women who had
stripped herself before the monster.
“No, my Lord, please, please take me too!” She screamed and threw herself into the well.
No one tried to stop her. The sound of her fragile body breaking at the bottom of the stone chasm was akin to stepping on a pile of thin twigs.
It’s almost funny how that was what drew a terrified cry from my throat, that all throughout the horrifying ritual I stayed dumb as a dog but that the sound of someone dying from a fall made me scream. The entire crowd turned towards my hiding spot in the brown-stone building. I was discovered. There was a tense few seconds of silence – then they all started to rush toward me.
Some screamed a battle-cry, others shouted “Intruder! Outsider! Kill him!” I ran, leaving
my instrument behind. I flew from the building out the busted window I had come in from. The
townsfolk had already made it to the edge of the square. I ran down the street towards the inn,
thinking of the shotgun. The mob was not far behind.
I threw open the door, startling old Gary. I looked at me like a deer in the headlights, and
I saw my key on the counter. Then I saw him reach for the gun with surprising speed and pull
back the hammer.
I was barely around the corner when the shells shattered through the door window. I
continued down the street running as fast as I could. I am lucky to have always been a quick
runner, but they had some quick sprinters too; no matter how far I ran, I couldn’t shake my
pursuers.
They were able to split up and block off certain streets. I don’t know how long I ran,
maybe an hour, until I was run out of some side of town, across a field, and into the forest. Only
there was I able to hide for a few moments before I heard the mob getting closer. I ran in the
dark, bouncing off trees like a pinball, turning whenever I thought I heard a sound.
It was nearly dawn when I stopped hearing the shouting of the Peculiar cult for good. By
then I was so deep in the woods, I had no idea where I was, or where to go. I wasn’t sure which
direction I had entered the woods from, and the sky the next day – two days ago – was too
cloudy to see the sun. I wandered in the woods for hours, hopelessly lost, cold, and
hungry.
It's been three days with nothing but stump water to drink and pine tips to chew on. The
snow is coming tonight, and I don’t think I’ll make it through without freezing. I have written all
this down in my little notebook and tucked it into a hollowed-out tree. I hope someone finds it
someday. I hope someone can figure out what happened to me. If you find this, tell my mom I
love her, and that I’m sorry. I’m going to make one last push south and see if I can make it to the
interstate before nightfall. If I don’t, I may climb to a tree and end my misfortunes once and for
all. Even if I don’t freeze to death, I cannot bear that every time I close my eyes, I see that
fearsome creature, and that when the woods grow still, I can hear drums, drums, drums in the
night.
About the author:
Michael Frisbie is a writer from Missouri, USA. He earned a B.S. in Entrepreneurship from Missouri State University last May, but has been writing since high school. In addition to writing, he has been a barista, a musician, a typewriter mechanic, a rare books dealer, and a small business consultant. When not hunched over his typewriter, he can be found loitering around jazz clubs, cafes, or hosting artists' salons. He lives in Springfield, Missouri with his wife.
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