Business these days… it ain’t what it was.

Moved here back in… don’t even remember now; it’s been that long. Figured, town needs a convenience store — hell, the whole world seems to need convenience stores. Why deprive myself of a steady living? Built my little store. Easy access to the highway, to the town main road. No-brainer, right? Get the tourists coming in for the Falls, and get the locals who need a quick somethin’-or-other. I win, the town wins, works all around.

Seemed to work for a time, too: got the locals pretty regularly, got the tourists sometimes, even got the odd state trooper who was comin’ in to have a look-around.

That store was the first smart thing I did. Life just crawls by when you got worries. Bills to pay, job after job, letting you go, gettin’ fired or laid off. Not now that I owned somethin’ people needed, people wanted. Time went by, I didn’t even notice. Years. Made pretty good money for my station, though I can’t say I saved much. How the time did fly.

Did notice though, when the tourists started dropping off, and the state troopers started picking up. I still had the locals, but they started bein’ different locals: at first, it was just poorer than usual, slower than usual — had to repeat myself when talkin’ to them, y’know? Also noticed how they wouldn’t come in the store if the troopers were here — figured it was ‘cuz they were illegals or somethin’. Nothing against that — times were gettin’ tough all over, and s’long as they paid, I had no complaints.

Nights were hardest — long nights, just me and the store, the odd shufflin’ local coming in or goin’, the lights buzzin’ overhead. Got to talkin’ to myself, playin’ the radio to make it seem like there was more company — these new customers couldn’t chit-chat for crap, I tell you that. Some seemed more smarter than others, but even they wouldn’t talk; you’d get a grunt or three, but mostly they just stared at you with this gleam in their eyes.

(continue reading…)

I always loved children, always wanted to be a father. To raise some small version of myself, teach it the lessons I never learned, all part of the dream. But it was truly for their faces. A child sees the world as it should be, not as it is. They have wonder and joy in those eyes that we all lose in time. It is perhaps unusual for a man to feel this way, but I cannot help it.

When I moved to Ichor Falls, it was sadly not for the children. A local newspaper, the Sentinel, needed someone to type up obituaries, and lacking a better option, I took it. Life as a journalism undergrad is filled with these choices. I have flitted from obit job to obit job. It is not a career that draws companion. I had been working here for three months when I finally was able to move into my house. The realtor, a handsome man with a close-cropped goatee who introduced himself as August Parrish, had shown me the house earlier. It was in that district called Lower Alethia. I had needed the months to gather enough money for the down payment. He had explained its history, built before the Ethylor Summer, had even been home to an Amish school for a time. It was a nice Victorian home, and with time, I could certainly make a profit, once Ichor Falls’ housing market started filling up a bit more. The perfect time to buy.

He asked the strangest question at the time.

“Do you like children?”

“Actually, yes.”

“The neighborhood is supposed to have several families moving in soon, I was checking to see if that was a problem.” He flashed me a smile.

(continue reading…)

I am now sitting on an old bench, the green paint chipping as the old boards splinter underneath my weight. My heart is beating rapidly, and I am fatigued, cold with sweat in the frosty morning air. It is four o’clock, and the moon is heavy in the sky, masked here and there by a vagrant cloud or two. The soft hushes carry the smell of damp grass and dirt; the dew is congealing upon the withered blades found creeping through the cracks in the concrete walkway.

Behind me is the madhouse; the malign edifice from which I recently came, bolting madly with the cumbersome voices whispering at my back. I swear I could almost feel their words upon my skin, as some weight upon me; almost as much as the wind that cools my perspiration as of this very moment. But as I wait here, pausing often to look timidly over my shoulder, half-hoping to see the faint outlines of animated bodies in pursuit, to prove that I am not quite insane, I do so that I may bolt again in fear for my life.

If I should die this morning, if those deviant figures should rise against me unexpectedly, I wish to have the events prior recorded here, so that any who may come across my dismembered body may know what has come to pass.

My name is William L. Hume Jr., and I am a middle-aged man living out a very poor mode of existence in Ichor Falls, West Virginia. My means for such a distasteful living are as equally detestable as the mode, but do not assume that I have lived as such since the days of my ignorant youth. I once attended a small community college, around the ripe young age of nineteen, spending two years as a studious incumbent of the collegiate atmosphere, but my father fell under the effects of an illness from which he did not recover. I dropped out to care for him for a period of time, though it swept him eagerly, and thus was a curt struggle.

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The street fair was in full swing, and I couldn’t have been more bored.

The usual assortment of vendors was there; local artisans who had honed their skill in little wooden knick-knacks, politicos who waved their flyers at anyone who wandered within range, and enough representatives from the local churches that everyone in attendance was bound to have their soul saved five times over. I went from stall to stall looking over their offerings. I had just decided to leave when I saw the “Used Books!!!! Cheap!!!” sign. I’m a sucker for books, new or used, and I immediately wandered over.

It was a simple card table with a grease-spotted tablecloth draped over it. Three cardboard boxes overflowing with ratty and torn books sat side by side. A large “$1” was written on each box in black Sharpie. The proprietor was a rail-thin woman wearing a dress that had seen better days. Her eyes were magnified a thousand times over behind thick lenses, and they seemed to protrude from her face. She was absorbed in a romance novel with a bountiful lass spilling out of her dress on the cover. The woman looked up when I approached her and grimaced a smile, her teeth yellowing and small. Then she returned to her book.

(continue reading…)

Ichor Falls Police Department archives, exact date unknown
Preceding documents indicate report was taken around December 1944

We lost Billy just over five months ago, now, and -

No, no, that was the name of our dog. Our children are long since grown and moved away. One to the Coast, then two to the War, you know how that goes. Good boys all.

As I was saying, it’s usually so quiet out here at the edge of town, is why Wallace and I bought this property when we wanted to start a family, and that was just fine. Just fine. He worked at the mill until they got bought and after that it was every day at the factory, steady income. Oh, some times were difficult, especially around winter, but we had lived through the Dark Years so you have to keep it all in perspective.

Now we got Billy, oh, around when the Pope passed away, and that Indian man stopped eating, bless him. So not that long ago. Very important to have a dog this close to the woods, Wallace would say, and I think it helped to have someone around the house to take care of besides us, with the boys grown up.

Billy liked to guard the house after dark, I suppose you would call it, but he was very excitable, always barking and whining at the door even though nobody lives near. Wallace would humor him and let him run outside and back in, but it never did any harm. Well, until one night when Billy didn’t come back. I was worried but Wallace said, “no, it’s fine, he’s just got to run around a bit,” so we set out his food by the door and went to bed.

(continue reading…)

Everyone’s got something they enjoy more than they should.

For some people, it’s an oddity -– but harmless –- like that guy at the
supermarket who’s always checking the corncobs for blight until an
attendant has to ask him to please get out of the produce department.

For some people, it’s problematic -– or worse -– like that truck driver
who paid more attention to the radio announcer’s opinion on the
economy than his vehicle’s opinion on going 70MPH around a hairpin
turn.

For some people, it’s acceptable –- even encouraged –- like my late
aunt’s penchant for embroidering historical scenes, except I don’t
think Colonel Sanders fought at the Battle of Kanawha.

For me, it has been Ichor Falls, with all its small-town
idiosyncrasies and legends. I hope tourists and residents have enjoyed
reading my weekly column “Stories of the Quiet Valley,” which was an
effort to plumb the depth of this area’s history.

Hearing tales of the supernatural, or just strange, may have increased
tourism revenue and
encouraged people to travel in this area, but it should not be
forgotten that there is a
lasting impact of focusing on the unsettling events of history, so
much that placing em-
phasis on haunted houses may lower property values, and recounting the
numerous local
murder sites in print can only discourage business growth.

Eventually, any journalist who values his community should understand
the fact that
some stories don’t have to be told. But your humble correspondent
thinks, despite his
training, the residents of Ichor Falls deserve to hear truth, and this
is a place where
one can have difficulty separating truth from fiction.

People have claimed that the FDA has no records of Ethylor being
certified as safe for
non-industrial use until 1938, long after the laminating industry
claimed it was harmless.

In later court battles, this theory was debunked, based on 1966
legislation releasing all
government records into the care of Rick (?) Donfeld, but at the time
Ichor Falls was
enduring

Lasting effects include a moratorium on intravenous — [recount details
of "Dawst v.
Opprobrium" case especially section IV.8.a]

Get tapes and reformat interview with Walter Mattias, check licence(s?)

• need more cereal, butter/cream ch, bagel plain NO CHIVES
• move P.O. box
• talk with CFO McKinsley about insur
• ??movie nightJennifer??
• certain problems with voice mail fix fix

Last three years of The Times indicates a serious problem with

Editors’ note:

We regret that no additional parts of Jonathan Tollant’s last article
were discovered in his studio. Law enforcement has been unable to
produce evidence that the fire there was connected to his ongoing
investigations for the Falls Inquirer.

We have attempted to reprint all of his notes here without editing to
honor both the memory of Mr. Tollant and also to reinforce our
commitment to the community of fair reporting.

Publisher-in-Chief Nigel Oglethorpe and The Times‘ editorial staff would like to
thank Mr. Tollant for his many years of contributions to that news
agency, which is now in our care. We regret that much of his research
was never formatted for publication, especially regarding the rise and
fall of this town’s logging industry.

*ding ding* “The library will be closing in fifteen minutes.”

We call that the “nerd bell,” but it’s not derogatory. Or at least it’s only a little self-deprecating. Most students here don’t stay up until midnight… not to study, anyway. There isn’t much else to do in a small town, though, so the library stays open until 12:15 and every night, I end up reading here until the bell rings and the doors close. This common room is nice for relaxing, isn’t it? Haven’t seen you here before.

Oh, if you want to get real work done, not just chatting and reading novels, make sure you claim a spot in the building. People are creatures of habit, right, so it’s an unspoken custom here that students find spots and stick to them.

The first week of school I actually found this little study niche, framed by the government document section, that no one else uses. It isn’t near either of the computer labs, so the area doesn’t see much foot traffic, and I don’t have to worry about anyone crunching chips or listening to a Walkman set so loud the music bleeds out.

Sure, the heating vent right overhead can be a little noisy now that it’s winter, and the shelves close to both sides of this desk mean you have to squeeze by sideways to sit down, but it has a heavy, padded oak chair that’s really comfortable. I have no idea how long ago someone bothered to carry it down here, but it’s not going anywhere. (They probably stole it from the Provost’s office, anyway.)

There’s also a big oil painting of Edwin Cuthbert, from 1810, that dominates the wall right behind the chair. I guess that could be unsettling to people, since it’s about life-sized, or maybe a little larger than life. I used to think of old Cuthbert as my study partner, since he’s reading over my shoulder as I work.

(continue reading…)

It seems, nowadays, that Ichor Falls is a town stricken by plague. Certainly the atmosphere — the thick fog, the ever-barren trees — these things lend themselves well to horror stories. But now, with the unexplained deaths… the local stations would have you believe it’s the act of some sociopath, that the police are “breaking the case wide open.” It’s far from the truth. If you asked me, I’d say it was The Locksmith, but most Ichor Falls residents are too young to know of that horrible event — I myself am too young, in case you thought that was the wind-up to some fanciful tale. But I’ve always been fascinated by this town’s history — morbid curiosity, I guess — and have taken a look at some rather ancient correspondence tucked away in the town hall archives.

Here’s the history lesson.

(continue reading…)

I stood in the driveway as I watched my client, Arthur Acton, walk towards me in a smart business suit. The man said he wanted to live in one of the town’s more rustic residences, not in any of the new developments. He chose this as the first house he wanted to visit; it has been on my roster for as long as I’ve shown houses in this town. I tried to steer him towards others, but he was adamant about the place.

“People don’t usually ask to see this house, Mr. Acton. They don’t like the fact that the entire family died just after the Ethylor summer from brain cancer.”

“Then it would be very beneficial to you if I take this place off your hands,” Mr. Acton said as he put his hands into his pockets and smiled. Even though I knew he was right, I still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of someone living here.

“All righty,” I said as I fumbled with my key ring until I found the correct one. The door unlocked with a barely audible click and the door drifted inwards. The mist that clung to the town hadn’t been kind to this house over the years. The faded wallpaper was peeling in more places than not, and from the sounds of the scratching in the walls, a nest of rats had taken up residence. Even the floorboards seemed to be warped from the moisture. I’d lost countless parties at this point — I was sure he was going to walk out on me, but I turned to see him practically beaming.

(continue reading…)

My cat was the first to notice.

I mean, of course I’ve heard that animals are more sensitive to things of this nature. But I was never entirely sure. Until Muffin started acting up.

It was semi-normal in the beginning. Muffin would run around the house at random, like cats do. And there were times where she would stop, like dead stop, and stare at corners of the room. Usually the top, up where the roof and the walls meet. I never thought much of it, assuming she was staring at a bug or a cobweb or something.

The house was a bit larger than I needed, since it was just Muffin and I, but the price was unbeatable. Ichor Falls wasn’t my first choice for a new home, but I wanted to be out of the way so that I could focus on my work. I was redrafting my screenplay to seal a contract with a major motion picture company and I couldn’t afford to be disturbed. Really, I only used two or three rooms and it was a five-bedroom affair, so there was a lot of empty space left over.

I had set up furniture in all of the rooms, since I wanted the place to be hospitable in case I ever had company. I spent most of my personal time in my chosen bedroom, the living room, or the den, which I had set up with my computer equipment and turned into a workspace.

It was there that I first encountered it.

(continue reading…)