Sinkhole

Sinkhole

There is a hole in the ground of a lonely park that no one dares to go. It lies in the center of Pittstown and in the darkest nightmares of the people who lived there. The hole, like the park it dwells, has always been there, before the town, before the white man kicked out the red, before man climbed down from trees and walked on two legs. No children play in this park, no couples hold picnics on its rolling hills, and no teams dared play their games on its open lawns. It simply sat there waiting, wanting.

The people of Pittstown have long ago learned to leave the park and its empty passenger alone. They go the long way around town to avoid driving by the park, they stay on the other side of the road if they have to walk by it, and never, never will they step inside the park after the sun has set. Every soul who grew up in this isolated town knew this, but Joe Lacuna didn't grow up in this blighted burg, he grew up in New York, in the hustle and bustle of Manhattan, moving here when he took the job as head librarian of the Pittstown Public Library.

Joe drove into town Sunday afternoon, his tiny city car stuffed full of books and personal items he had deemed far too fragile or important to trust to a moving company. His head was set on a swivel as he took in the sights the small town had to offer, which were few in number. Joe had grown up in the busy heart of New York City, surrounded by a constant buzz of activity and commotion—the lack of overwhelming stimulus was jarring to his brain. Hopefully, it won't be for too long, he thought, as he came to a stop at what must have been the town's only stop light. Looking around, the town seemed almost deserted as he took a left at the light and passed a church. Its parking lot was filled to the brim with vehicles, an inordinate amount were pickup trucks.

"Oh, mystery solved then." Joe said, as he drove past the big white church to his new home on the edge of Pittstown. His new home was a large apartment set above the very library he was to work in. It truly took taking your work home with you to a new level, he thought, as he pulled his overstuffed car in beside the moving truck that had arrived before him. He stepped out of his car, stretching and feeling life flow back into his legs. Breathing deep, he could smell the trees and grass around him instead of the car exhaust and concrete that he was used to.

It was strange, but good; it smelled like home to Joe, and he could see why people would want to live here. A stocky older woman with a large pile of blonde curls came bouncing out of the library, clutching a large black folder to her chest. She caught sight of Joe stretching and waved as she trotted over to him.

"Oh, you must be Joe!" She said.

"That's me. You must be Luanne, was it?" Joe said, extending a hand in greeting.

Luanne took his hand daintily in her own and gave him a little shake.

"You betcha! Luanne Daigle, the best realtor in Pittstown. Then again, I'm the only realtor in Pittstown, but that doesn't mean I'm not the best! I can't tell you what a joy it is to finally meet you.

"Oh? Why's that?" Joe asked.

"Well, it's not every day we get a new face in town, plus you're the new librarian. As you can imagine, in a small town like ours, that's big news. Plus, you being from New York City is just icing on the cake. Now let me show you around the library and the rooms above it where you'll be staying. Oh, and these are yours now." She said, as she handed Joe a ring of keys set on a Pittstown commemorative key chain. Joe took the keys and held them in his hands as he was pulled in the wake of Luanne through the open doors of the library.

The dusty smell of old books washed over Joe as he stepped into the building, and he was immediately put at ease. This was where he belonged, he thought, like a fish needs water and a bird needs the sky, a librarian needs to be surrounded by books. The library was one of the oldest buildings in town, second only to the church, or so Luanne told him. Its walls were thick brick and mortar, and the floors were all wood. It gave the place a sense of history that was almost holy, like a church dedicated to learning. Joe left the stacks and followed Luanne up a set of wide stairs that led to the apartments above the library.

The apartment turned out to be the entire second floor of the building, renovated as living space. Coming from New York, Joe was amazed at how much room he now had, and a bit dismayed knowing how little furniture he actually owned. Luanne rattled on about the amenities the building had, but something had caught Joe's eye as he crossed the living room. Through a large pair of windows set in the south wall, he could see the dark green of overgrown trees and grass of a park or empty lot behind the library.

He had seen parks before but not one like this. The parks he knew were full of life, be it human or otherwise. Places for activity and fun but this one was not. It sat silent and dead, in all aspects of the word, the shadows lay too dark upon the black earth, and the trees all leaned towards something deeper in the park, something he could not see, but could almost feel. Without realizing it, he had walked right up to the window and was staring through the thick cover of leaves toward the direction where all the trees leaned. Faintly, as if from miles away, an unpleasant high-pitched hum started up, fitfully, like a hungry baby awakening in the night. He may have stood there all day, but Luanne shook his shoulder, breaking him out of his trance.

"Joe? Mr. Lacuna? Are you 0k?" She asked.

"Hmm? Oh, yes. I was just admiring the, uh, view. The view of the park down there." he said.

"Oh yes, the park. It's such an eyesore, all overgrown and wild. The town just doesn't know what to do with it. I wouldn't go back there of course, who knows what's moved in there over the years. " She said quickly, never once looking out the window as she headed for the front door. Joe took one last look at the strange park and headed down after her. She left Joe with a hug, pausing at the foot of the front stairs. "Remember Joe, Stay out of that park. It's dangerous.' said.

"Yeah, sure." Joe said.

Luanne left with a wave, walking towards the park, She

but

before she came to its edge, she crossed the street like she didn't want to be any closer to the park than she had to be. Joe just shook his head at how strange country folk could be. In a matter of hours, the movers had placed all of Joe's belongings in the main room of the apartment, filling about a third of the space. It was hours later, after Joe finally assembled his bed and took a shower, that he laid down in the unnatural silence of country living. He opened some windows and heard the sound of nothing. No cars driving by or honking, no people talking or shouting, no music from another apartment, just the sound of the wind blowing softly through the crooked trees of the abandoned park. It was much later before Joe was finally able to fall asleep, his dreams filled with darkness and falling.

The following days were filled with the disturbed dust of shuffled books as he went about rearranging the surprisingly large collection of books that the small town library had managed to collect. Finishing a section on American history, Joe decided to go out for lunch at the small diner just down the road. He locked up the library and started walking toward the diner, swinging his keys around on his finger like a gunslinger spinning his gun. As he made his way, his head down, lost in thoughts of arranging the fiction section, he stepped past the library and in front of the park. Something stopped him in his tracks, breaking him out of his revelry. Joe looked down, and that's when he noticed the change in the sidewalk, as if someone had taken a ruler and drawn an invisible line dividing the well-maintained sidewalk beside the library from the wild and decaying ruins that struggled to exist in front of the park.

Joe stood, staring at the divide for a long time, some primal part of his brain screaming at him to turn away from his course and go another way, but ever the man of reason, Joe simply shrugged as he stepped over that line. As he did, a cold, dusty breeze blew out of the park causing the branches of the crooked trees to slightly part, revealing a small sheltered clearing with a pool of darkness in its center; that strange grating hum, a tiny bit louder, seemed to crawl out of that pool of darkness and slither into Joe's ears, curling up in his brain, sinking its claws in deep. The wind died and the branches creaked back, obscuring the secret glen with their rotten boughs, taking the hum with it. Joe took half a step into the park before catching himself, wondering why he would do that. Laughing to dispel the strangeness of the situation, he walked down the overgrown sidewalk, stepping across another unseen boundary as he made his way to Kay's Diner.

The diner was empty, save an old man sitting in a corner booth nursing a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper. Joe walked in, heralded by the cheerful jangle of bells mounted above the door. He smiled as he took a seat at the diner's bar, thinking how amazingly quaint it all was, like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. From the back of the diner came a pretty waitress with a cascade of red, wavy hair barely contained in a loose ponytail. She put on her brightest smile and made her way over to Joe.

"Welcome to Kay's Diner. I'm Mary. Can I start you off with a cup of coffee, iced tea, pop?" She asked.

"I'll have a cup of coffee and a glass of water, please." Said "Coffee and a water coming right up." She spun around and headed for the kitchen, but paused mid-way before coming back to Joe, holding up a finger in realization.

"Hey," she drawled," you're the new librarian aren't you?" "Yes, I am." Joe said.

"How come I never see you around? Didn't you move in like a week ago?" She asked as she leaned closer, revealing an ample chest barely contained by the low cut waitress' uniform.

"I've just been real busy trying to get the library in order. " He said, leaning slightly back from her intrusion into his personal space.

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Is it true you live above the library?" She asked, making no move to get Joe his coffee or water until she had her fill of gossip.

"Yes and it has a lovely view of the park next door too." Joe said.

"Oh, that must be the worst!" She said, shivering at the idea of living near the park.

"It's not that bad. I even saw a little clearing in there that might be good for a picnic or something. I don't see why... " Joe was immediately interrupted by Mary. "Don't ever go there mister, no one goes there, ever." All traces of flirty, good cheer were now gone from her voice.

"Why not?" Joe asked.

"It's just not a good place. Never has been. I'll go get your coffee now." She said as she fled to the kitchen. It was the second time someone had warned him not to go into the park, and his curiosity was thoroughly piqued. Mary returned with his beverages and took his order with no more questions or gossip hounding. The old man in the corner got up and exited the restaurant, eyeing Joe all the way. Joe finished his meal and left a good tip in hopes of assuaging any hurt feelings he may have caused. Outside the cafe, he was stopped by the old man who had sat in silence in the corner booth.

"Sir, I couldn't help but overhear your exchange with Mary. " He began.

"Yeah? Are you going to tell me to stay away from the park as well?" Joe asked, his patience beginning to wear thin with small town mysteries.

"In a way, I suppose so. That park is dangerous, wild. It's a piece of land that refuses to be tamed by any man. If you want to know more, just look into what the last librarian was researching. You be careful though. "

"Why? Why should I be careful?"

"Because that sinkhole has been the end of many men. I'd hate to see it take another. " He said over his shoulder as he shuffled away.

"What a bunch of hokum. " Joe said, turning to head back to the library. A few steps later, he came back to the border of the park. Looking deep into the darkened mass of trees, Joe felt a slight chill wash over him. He crossed the street to avoid walking closer to the park, telling himself he just wanted to check out the shops on the other side and wasn't because he was afraid.

As Joe walked down the sidewalk, he passed the window of a thrift shop with a large antique mirror on display. Joe was admiring the artisanship when he caught his reflection in the old mirror. He looked awful tired, but it was what was behind him that made him freeze.

Behind him, he could see the Park—the trees had opened up again, showing him the clearing with that black hole gobbling up the noonday's sun in the center. He stood there, motionless, as that whistling buzz filled his ears, locking him in place. Sweat broke out on his brow as a cold salamander of fear squirmed up his spine, making his bowels quiver. Joe squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the sound out of his head. The sound of a truck's horn forced his eyes open; a large red pickup truck with a swearing driver flashed by within inches. Joe looked around in confusion, finding himself in the middle of the street headed toward the park. He didn't remember taking any of the dozen steps that lead him here. Feeling ill, he hurried back to the safety of the library, running the last few steps before being safely ensconced in its walls.

Back in the library, Joe tried to resume his work, but all he did was wander from stack to stack, his mind filled with thoughts of the park and what happened in the street. Just as the sun was setting and the sleepy burg of Pittstown was putting itself to sleep, he gave up on arranging the stacks. He locked the front doors, making sure the deadbolts were secure, and headed back to the small office in the back of the building. Joe had been in there all of two times since taking control of the library; he had been too busy re-organizing the floor to clean out the former librarian's office. He was glad he didn't, as he now searched through the piles of invoices, old mail, and printed reports, in search of the old librarian's research. He sat down behind the small desk and kicked a briefcase wedged beneath the desk's cabinetry. Joe pulled the briefcase free and placed it on the desk.

The briefcase was black, Italian leather, probably a gift from a loved one, and had seen a lot of use. Joe laid it flat on the desk and popped open the latches that kept it secured. Inside the case was a manila folder bursting with papers, and a leather-bound journal of some age. Joe, ever the librarian, went for the journal, unwinding the thin leather strap that kept it bound. Inside, he found page after page of handwritten notes in Latin. Joe flipped through the pages and sighed in defeat; he did not read Latin. He turned to the folder and the papers it contained.

It seemed that the former librarian didn't read Latin either, because the folder contained page-by-page translations of the old journal, as well as copies of news articles and police reports. The journal had belonged to a Spanish missionary, whose name was never mentioned. It chronicled his efforts to spread the faith in the Americas to tribes of indigenous people, and his eventual settling what would one day be Pittstown, then called Valle Del Agujero, the valley of the hole.

The beginning pages were filled with the mundane activities one would expect to read in the diary of a Spanish missionary. Day-to-day activities peppered with wild accounts of savage tribesmen, and the monk's righteous quest to save their heathen souls—evidently, the unnamed monk really took his job seriously. Later, when he finally settled down to build his mission, things began to take a darker turn. The monk took possession of a large tract of land given to him by the Yuchi tribe. The tribal elders gave him the land, hoping his foreign god would cleanse the land of its evil spirits, since theirs could not. The monk took this as a sign that the tribe was ready for conversion, and set about clearing the land and raising his church.

During the process of clearing the land, a pair of men under the monk's command came across a strange clearing in a darkened corner of the woods. Inside that clearing was a sinkhole so deep it seemed bottomless, and so dark it ate the light of the sun. One of the men went back to inform the monk while one stayed at the clearing. When the worker and monk returned to the hole, the man left behind was nowhere to be found. At first, they thought he had simply gone back to camp, but eventually they concluded that he must have fallen in, and after calling his name at the mouth of the hole, they started to hear faint noises coming from its depths. They endeavored to rescue the worker by lowering the smallest of their party, a Cherokee Indian guide, into the mouth of the sinkhole on a length of rope.

No sooner had the nervous guide's head dipped beneath the ledge of the hole, the rope snapped tight and the guide began to scream. The men gathered around, pulling the rope with their combined strength, but could not pull the screaming man out. With one final effort, they pulled with all their might and the rope snapped. The screams of the guide faded away rapidly, as if he was being pulled deep into the earth at great speed. As the man's screams faded to nothing, an odd buzzing noise filled the clearing. The men had said that it was like having a swarm of bees trapped in their skulls. Joe looked up from the pages of translated notes and pulled a pen out of a nearby penholder as he circled this bit of information and continued to read.

Many men abandoned the mission after that incident, but the monk was not to be deterred. With the remaining men, he built his church and sought to convert the tribes, even as the men from his camp began to take an unhealthy

fascination with the clearing in the woods, only to disappear forever. Finally, one day late in the summer, the remnants of his expedition told the monk that these hills were cursed and that the devil himself lived in that sinkhole. The men had decided that they would rather face the daunting trip back to Spain, and the Churches displeasure, rather than face another night in this evil besotted land. The monk cursed them as fools as they left him alone to deal with the wild. It wasn't long before the translated pages of the journal began to grow disjointed, as isolation and the hole did their work on the monk's sanity. The monk went on to describe how hours of the day would vanish as he stood watching the clearing with the sound of a million angry bees buzzing inside his head. Soon, all the monk would or could write about was the noise and the hole. The last entry simply read: "I cannot resist any longer. I must see what is in the hole." The journal was recovered ten years after the final entry by another expedition sent to aid the monk, but they were too late, the monk was gone and his mission had been

abandoned. The journal was found in a chest and taken back to Spain. How it ended up in the hands of a Pittstown head librarian, Joe wasn't likely to learn, but it was the remaining pages that interested him most.

The last stack of pages were newspaper articles and police reports involving missing persons from Pittstown dating all the way back to the early 1800's. The missing people were from all walks of life, young kids, old maids, farm hands, drifters, and even a town mayor. The one thing they all had in common was that they were all listed as lost in the park or down the sinkhole, as if that was a common cause of death in these parts, and by how thick the stack of reports were, perhaps it was. Joe set down the stack of reports, knocking the journal open to a page with a crude illustration. Drawn in a medieval style, it depicted a man with his hands held in the air in distress as he stepped over the rim of a hole set in the ground; the mouth of the hole was literally a mouth with puckered nose, hate filled eyes, and jagged fangs set along the rim. The title of the illustration read: "Succumbing to the Hell mouth" and scribbled in the margins was the note: "IS THIS WHAT IT IS?" Joe stared at the crude picture of the man's despair filled eyes as he fell into that pit. The drawing made his stomach churn and a cold sweat gathered on his brow. He quickly closed the book, sending a small puff of dust up from its pages.

Deciding that this day has been long enough, Joe put the doomed monk's journal and the file of translated pages back into the briefcase, leaving it on the desk as he went to his room. Joe climbed the steps, hoping a shower and a good night's sleep would help to dispel the fear that had grown all throughout his research. Stepping into his room, Joe was hit with a bone chilling breeze from windows he was sure he had closed, but were now flung wide open.

"The hell is going on?" Joe said, as he walked over to the windows to close them. As his hands touched the window frame, that strange high-pitched whistling hum started up, freezing him in place. Through the open windows, Joe could see straight into the park as the icy breeze pushed open the foliage, allowing him to behold the hole in all its dark and empty glory. It sat in its clearing like a fallen king on a crumbling throne; all the while, that whistling buzz lifted and lilted throughout his head. Joe squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the sound out, but it would not leave; it crawled through his brain leaving a trail of corruption behind. He tried with all his might to close the windows, hoping to physically block out the sound that he couldn't block out by will alone, but his arms would not obey. When he forced open his eyes, he found himself outside the library, standing on the sidewalk facing the park.

Joe couldn't believe what was happening; he tried to go back to his apartment, but his body refused to move. He tried screaming, but only a strangled whisper managed to claw its way out of his throat. To his horror, he started walking into the park, step by shuddering step; against his will he edged ever closer to the trees. The very leaves of the trees seemed to shiver in time to the vibrations of that beguiling hum as he stumbled through the park's overgrown lawns. Sharp stones and debris bit and cut into his bare feet, but he could not stop himself from marching forward into the darkness. As he came to the tree line, another icy breath of wind blew out and the limbs of the twisted trees swung open, creaking like arthritic joints as they exposed the clearing hidden behind them. The hole dominated the clearing, its darkness all but spilling out in eager anticipation of Joe's arrival. His heart was thudding in his chest as he fought against the dark impulse, but it was to no avail; his feet betrayed him and took him beyond the trees. The branches scratched at his face and caught in his clothes as if they were trying to save him, but the trees had long ago lost the power to save anyone.

As he got closer, Joe could now tell that the noise that filled his head and robbed him of his will was coming from the hole in the ground. He could see the dead grass that surrounded the hole. It seemed to struggle to stand under the weight of that dreadful song, which rose out of the hole like a snake from a charmer's basket—but it was the snake that was doing the charming now as Joe drug his feet through the oppressed grass surrounding the hole, until he stood at the very lip of the abyss.

Joe stared down into the inky maw of the sinkhole, seeing nothing, but realizing that Nietzsche was right; if you stare into the abyss, it stares back. He could feel something down there, something old, something evil, something that refused to bow down to reason. Whatever dwelled in that hole was filled with a great and terrible will. It forced Joe down with a thought. He was on his knees, his hands braced to either side of the hole, slowly dipping his head toward the gaping maw inches away.

Drops of sweat dripped from his nose, disappearing down into the sinkhole as they did, Joe could feel the buzzing noise grow stronger in excitement. Joe's arms gave out and he slid head first into the hole, finally finding his voice, but it was too late. His screams were muffled by the trees and overshadowed by the buzzing whistle of the hole as it relished its meal.

The Sheriff of Pittstown came by the Library three days later to check up on the towns latest head librarian, but he found the building locked up tight, and no one answered his knocks. Using the well-worn keys attached to his belt, he let himself in. He checked the upstairs apartment first and found nothing but open windows, which he closed while averting his eyes from the view of the park. He then walked down to the small office that belonged to the head librarian. Inside the room was a mess, with papers scattered about and a black leather briefcase laying on top of the desk. The Sheriff popped the briefcase open, seeing the old journal and the file folder filled with the translated journal and missing person reports. He opened the file and flipped through some of the pages before he pulled out a folded piece of paper from his rear pocket and placed it in the file. The paper was a closed missing person report for Joe Lacuna, "Lost in the Park" was stamped across the front of it. The Sheriff closed the file and the briefcase; he placed it back under the desk, making sure it stuck out far enough so that the next librarian would discover it when they needed another sacrifice.

"May God forgive us." The Sheriff said as he closed the door to the office.

In the distance, coming from behind the library, a tiny satisfied buzzing whistle could be heard over the gently blowing wind; it came from a hole in the ground of a lonely park where no one dares to go. It lies in the center of Pittstown and in the darkest nightmares of the people who live there.