Gaslit

The fire engines screamed as they burst onto the scene joining the fight already in action. Smoke and flame engulfed the once beloved Jo’s Diner on 1^st Ave, the third fire I witnessed since arriving Tuesday.

I held back from the crowd letting the firefighters do their job, but close enough that I could still hear the fire chief give his report once the fire was tamed. No casualties—thank God but I imagine luck may be running out soon. Gas leak—the diner was old I will give it that but given recent events I doubted that was the whole story. I pushed forward to get a statement, but he was not in the mood and waved me off. I get it, busy week. Still, there was something off about him—this man an embodiment of bravery—was scared. He suspected something more sinister.

I have been a reporter for nearly a decade and have developed something of a sixth sense, a nose if you will, for when a situation smells fishy. This one could clear a room.  

Back at the hotel, a quick internet search revealed that there had been at least 24 reported gas leaks leading to fires over the past two weeks alone. I pulled out my roadmap, pinned it to the wall, and started plotting the locations of each blaze, seeking a pattern.

Half an hour of pin pricks later, one thing proved blatantly obvious—either this town had an extremely unfortunate gas problem, or I was starting to smell a rat.

—~

Running on fumes I decided to head downtown to grab a hot coffee and maybe some hot goss. I spotted an unpretentious café bustling with energy and a parking spot a couple shops down. Under different circumstances I would love visiting a small town like this, charming with a local business mentality. I strolled along window shopping, wondering which of these boutiques would be the next gas leak victim.

A little bell jingled above the door and I was engulfed in the overwhelming aroma of a fresh brew as I entered the building.

“Welcome to The Bean! Lemme know if you have questions or if you wanna order!” said a caffeinated blonde teen behind the counter. Bingo.

I stepped up to the counter, “I’ll take a drip coffee. Black.”

She rung in my order, “That all?”

Seizing my opportunity, “I actually have a question too.” She nodded, “I was just wondering, as a local, what you think about all the bizarre things going on around town? I’m a reporter from the Piedmont Times and when I heard about the fires popping up all over Beach Hill I had to come and investigate for myself. I read about the gas leaks but I’m just not buying it.”

“Ugh! Finally! Ain’t no one buying that gas leak bull!” she waved me close. I leaned in but she spoke in a stage whisper, "It’s Cletus.”

“I’m sorry, Cletus? Who’s Cletus?”

“Shh! Everybody knows about Cletus. Adults pretend he’s just an urban legend but he’s real! Jake and Andrew and ‘em from school said they seen him out sneaking around before the fire at the high school.”

“I’m sorry can you elaborate, who’s Cletus?”

The barista handed her my coffee. She passed it to me, and I traded her a five. She sighed, “Cletus used to live out at Gilvarmit’s Bog, his family used to own all of Beach Hill but when their swamp ran out of oil they went broke and left—all except Cletus. People used to see him around town all the time, but he ain’t been seen months. Story goes the swamp gas finally ate away his brain and mutated him. It explains everything.”

“Ah ok.” Dead end. “Thanks for the tip.”

“No problem!” she smiled and shook the tip jar. I dropped in another five and she smiled even wider, “Have a nice day!”

I moseyed to a corkboard overflowing with business cards and real estate flyers and grabbed a Beach Hill tourism brochure. Beach Hill was not a renowned tourist destination, but the self-appointed visitor’s bureau had seemingly decided otherwise. The front had lovely stock photo scenery with the words “Welcome to Beach Hill!” splashed across the top, an odd name for a swamp town with nary a beach nor hill to be seen for miles. Below the greeting the town’s slogan read “When you’re here, you’re—” with the final word blacked out, and the word “here” written in by some angsty smalltown teen. Sort of funny, mostly sad.

I flipped the brochure over to the back and found “A Brief History of Beach Hill.” I had done plenty of research already, but a local’s perspective would surely have more flavor than Wikipedia’s sterile blurb. Taking a seat at a corner booth by the window, I settled in for a read while sipping my coffee. “In 1904 a post office called Beach Crossroads was established. In 1925 Cletus Augustus Beach, the town namesake, struck oil on his property just 10 miles south of our modern-day Town Hall. Falling in love with the daughter of oil baron William Theodore Hill, Maryanne, Cletus formed a partnership in business and in love, and thus the town got its name Beach Hill. People moved from all over to our newly established town in hopes of finding riches of their own. Sadly, none prevailed and in 1941 Beach Hill was out of oil. Many moved away including William and Maryanne, leaving Cletus bankrupt and bereft with his young son Cletus Jr—” huh, maybe caffeine teen was on to something after all.

Finishing my coffee, I left the shop and walked back to my car. Regardless of what the girl or brochure said there was no way a 90-year-old man was wandering around town setting fires without being noticed. I drove about a block before the stench of sulfur filled my nostrils. I heard breathing in my ear and hot air hit my neck. I glanced in my rearview, “Cletus?”

“Hi,” said the thin air.