One Last Plot in Skeleton Town

She was Reagan Fitcher from Copperhead Creek. She was born in 2004, on February 7th. This much the woman knew, having read it off her driver’s license in the flickering headlights of her car. She couldn’t say where she was, nor could she say where she was going. Neither of these ignorances were as troubling as the fact she couldn’t remember precisely who she was, passed Reagan Fitcher from Copperhead Creek. She had no other hints as to her identity - only her wallet, a ring of unlabeled keys, and a cellphone shattered beyond use.

Two things she knew for certain: the first was that the car she’d awoken in was hers. It’d sparked the outline of a memory - it had been gifted to her used, though by whom and for what reason remained unknown to her. 

The second was that the damage done to it was irreperable. She’d awoken to the sight of white smoke rising just beyond the windshield, seeping from her car’s pancaked front. The hood had been bent upwards, allowing her to, as soon as she stepped out, see the obliterated machinery it would have otherwise hid. 

She wasn’t entirely sure what she’d hit - whatever it was, it was gone. She’d have guessed it was an animal who managed to limp away alive, but no blood was left behind. She didn’t dwell on the subject - identifying the animal that had put her car in its sorry state wouldn’t shed any light on her identity, so it was hardly worth the speculation. 

So Reagan walked. In the way of choices, she had few: either walk in the direction she’d seemingly been driving towards, or the direction she’d presumably been driving away from. She chose to go onward, hoping that whoever she was, she had either been going home or into town. The prior seemed more likely - the road underfoot wasn’t asphalt, but a deep red gravelly sand only slightly more hospitable than the wild, untamed desert surrounding it. It was devoid of any signs of life - the woman had been keeping an eye out for passing cars in hopes one might be able to help her, but there were none, nor were there street signs, nor any indication that the road was meant to be driven over at all. Even the sounds of the desert - the scuttling of wildlife in the brush, the cackle of coyotes in the distance - dwindled and died the further she went.

Reagan wasn’t sure how long she’d been walking before stumbling on the wrought iron gate. It’d felt like hours. When she found the looming structure, a sob of relief passed her lips. The comfort was short lived, however. It was an unsettling sight, especially in the darkness of night. The metal looked bent, warped, the metal twisting in ways that made it look like it was moving - or about to move. It reminded Reagan of her car - distorted metal, twisting in on itself. Unlike her car, however, there was a symmetry to the gate that suggested its design was intentional. Where the metal seemed bent out of shape on the left, on the right it’d be bent just the same way. Above it was words, similar in their sinister strangeness: Skeleton Town.

Unsettling as the words were, they inspired more confusion than fear. She couldn’t tell what was beyond the iron bars waiting in darkness for her to enter, nor could she find any clue as to what ‘Skeleton Town’ actually was. She approached - a thick chain bound the gate closed, but there was no lock. The moment her fingers touched the cool metal of the chain, it sloughed off, landing with a gentle thud onto the scarlet sand below. Unbound, the gate slowly opened inward with a deep groan. The sound sent the woman’s heart pounding, a primal instinct inside her telling her to turn back, that whatever Skeleton Town was, it wasn’t for anyone with air in their lungs. 

Turning back wasn’t an option, though. Eerie as it was, Skeleton Town held something that the path behind didn’t: hope. Hope that whatever Skeleton Town was, perhaps inside was someone who could help. A friendly face with a working phone and insight as to where she was - other than the obvious answer of Skeleton Town. She pushed on through the gates. As she stepped past the threshold and into Skeleton Town, her feet found pavement. The ordinary pathway might have been comforting to Reagan, were it not for the dark shapes perching on either side of the path. They each came up to roughly her waist, and thankfully, were still. They were uniformly lined up alongside one another, evenly spaced out and matched with perfect symmetry to those across the path. 

Graves, Reagan realized as she squinted into the dark. Skeleton Town was a graveyard. Whatever mind had been behind that naming choice had a morbid sense of humor that unnerved Reagan more than it amused her. They must not have been the only one - judging by the sheer number of graves lining the pathway and stretching out into the darkness beyond, it was quite a popular resting place. It had to have been the most populous cemetery she’d ever seen, she morbidly mused, though she couldn’t say for sure.

Reagan stepped off the pavement, the sensation of plush grass underfoot causing a shiver to go down her spine. It flattened under her weight with such a squish that it felt like stepping on meat. She continued to the rounded marble tombstone warily. She had to lean in close to read the inscription by the dim light of the half moon above.

Ray Marston

1986-2029

Whose talent was surpassed only by his fame

She’d heard of him - an actor, though from what she couldn’t say. Perhaps this place - glibly called Skeleton Town - was a cemetery for the rich and famous. It was the only way she could explain what a well kept cemetery teeming with dead was doing in otherwise empty desert. Just as she was ready to step away, she stopped. Her eyes fixed on the date, her thumb gliding over the inscription, tracing every number to make sure she wasn’t reading it wrong. According to the grave, Ray Marston wasn’t to die for six more years. 

Then Reagan felt something. The earth beneath her shifted, almost sand-like in the way her knees sunk an inch in. She clambered backwards, only ceasing once her hands found pavement. She jumped to her feet, eying the knees of her jeans. It couldn’t have been mud - her jeans were as clean as before, and she would’ve noticed signs of rain. Her eyes darted back to where she’d knelt. It was solid, no indents where she’d felt herself sink into the ground. She quickly departed, doing her best to shake off the impression that she’d almost been swallowed.

She didn’t step off the path after that. When she first saw twinkling in the distance, she wasn’t sure if it was real or if she was deluding herself for the sake of her sanity. The closer she got, however, the more distinct the light became, glowing yellow, mixing with a strangely familiar blue. 

Reagan broke into a run, weary legs reinvigorated by the fresh feeling of hope. By the time she was able to make out the source of the light, she was gasping for breath - she almost crumpled to the ground in exhaustion. Fear of falling off the path was the only thing keeping her upright. 

A gas station. There were no roads leading to it, only Reagan’s pathway. There were places to park however, and spaces at the pumps clearly meant for cars. Golden light flooded from the windows, contrasted by the blue neon sign above: Eddie’s Gas. A mundane name for a gas station inexplicably in the middle of a graveyard, itself in the middle of nowhere. Were it not for what Reagan had encountered, she might’ve been unsettled by the normality of it. Instead, she was perfectly happy to accept it for what it appeared to be.

There was a soft ding as she entered - not electronic, but from a small bell that hung above the door frame. The building was empty - at least of people. A clutter of shelves were lined up centerstore in a jagged parody of symmetry, filled with snacks and sunscreen. 

“Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.” Behind the counter was a man. He was tall, even hunched forward as he was. Thin too, rail thin, wearing a suit that seemed perfectly fitted to him. Or rather, perfectly fitted to show just how thin he was. His shirt tight enough that, when he moved, Reagan could make out the outline of ribs beneath, but the jacket baggy enough to look oversized on his frame. It was hard to see his face in the flickering light that dangled above him. In the occasional bursts of light, she was able to make out pale skin, and chapped, cherry red lips curled up into a grin. His face was directed slightly upwards towards the bell, but Reagan could feel his eyes on her. 

“Good poem. An…optimistic idea - that every death is a stake to the heart of all those left behind. Of course, it’s not true, is it? There’s no poetry in death,” he continued. There was silence. The man was clearly waiting for Reagan to respond, but she didn’t know how to. 

“I-I need a phone. A-are you the owner of this place?” Reagan finally asked.

“Not yet, I’m afraid.” It was an unsettling answer. She shifted, her eyes flitting about to see if there was anyone else in the store with them. “Not of Eddie’s Gas, anyway. Skeleton Town…well, I own Skeleton Town about as much as someone can own a place like Skeleton Town.”

The woman could feel her feet instinctively backpedal towards the door. Her movement was slow, as if fearing the man might retaliate if he noticed her inching away. The warm light that had made her feel safer now only highlighted how out of place the man was. She didn’t want to stay - not under his gaze. Those animal instincts of hers were taking control.  

“Don’t worry, though. Any minute now…he’s a comin’,” the man hummed. His eyes aimed back towards a door, opposite the one Reagan had entered from, passed the shelves. Her eyes followed his, alternating between looking at it and looking at him. She felt her heel bump the door, her hand feeling behind her for the doorknob. Just as she found it, the door opposite her opened, and he stepped out. 

Eddie. 

The name was emblazoned on the coveralls he wore, which clung too tightly to his heavy body. Unlike the man behind the counter, they seemed incidentally ill-fitting. A disheveled, dark gray beard hid the bottom half of his face, though not well enough to conceal his stern frown. His cheeks sagged, and deep, dark circles underlined his contemptuous eyes, only partially visible under his mop of greasy silver hair. 

Reagan twisted the knob and slowly opened the door.

The bell rang.

Reagan felt her stomach drop as Eddie turned his eyes to her.

At the sight of her, the scorn in his eyes disappeared, replaced by a whirlwind of softer emotions - confusion, sorrow, joy, countless others Reagan couldn’t hope to name. The sudden shift was enough to give Reagan pause, fist still around the knob as the blistering chill from outside spilled in. 

“Reagan…” Eddie said in disbelief, causing the woman’s heart to skip a beat. Actually hearing the name for the first time, the familiarity was indubitable. So too was her familiarity with Eddie, she realized, his face now lit up, full of life. She knew him once - but he hadn’t been like this. 

“You know who I am,” Reagan declared. Even more than seeing her, this seemed to surprise him. He turned his eyes back to the man behind the counter, gaze once again turning to a glare. 

“She doesn’t remember,” he spat. The man behind the counter stood - and Reagan realized with horror that up to that point, he’d been sitting. 

At his full height, his head nearly touched the ceiling, the flickering light now illuminating his abdomen, shedding light on the ribs straining against the fabric of the shirt. They seemed to shift as he stood, like parasites posing as ribs. His long, spindly legs brought to mind a spider’s as he stepped over the counter with ease. The tube lights above him began to flicker as he strode through the store, leaving a trail of shuddering bulbs behind him. It took Reagan a moment to realize he was coming towards her. 

She tried to dart out the door, but she was too late. She felt the man’s hand wrap around her neck. It wrapped all the way around her throat, his fingers, long and bony, tightening their grip as she struggled to breathe. His hand was clammy, cold, and caused goosebumps to rise on the back of her neck where his palm rested. Her own hands flew up to try to pull herself free, but it was no use. Bony as it was, the hand didn’t budge. 

“Nor will she. Not unless the deal is made,” the man stated. His voice had become dryer. It was as if his words climbed up a throat of sandpaper. Reagan could only look onward with pleading eyes to Eddie, who stared back with fear of his own. “So what’ll it be, Eddie? I can always send her back to where she came from…All it would take is one snap.”

The man’s fingers tightened in time with the word, causing a croak to leave Reagan’s lips. 

“Fine.” The word came out resigned, a shaky sigh following. Reagan could feel the man looming over her bristle with excitement. 

“Say it,” the man commanded with cruel glee. 

“We have a deal,” Eddie reiterated. For a moment, the man choking Reagan was perfectly still, no longer shivering with anticipation. Then, with indifference, the man effortlessly tossed her out the open door. She landed with a shout of agony on her shoulder, for once ungrateful for the feeling of pavement under her. She quickly stood, looking back to the gas station. Inside Reagan saw Eddie, the spindly man beside him. Eddie was looking at her. The spindly man was looking at Eddie. Reagan took a step towards the building.

Then it began to sink. It seemed more like a liquid than a building as it went down. Like water circling a drain, deteriorating and collapsing in on itself as it crumpled into the ground below. Into a hole, Reagan realized. She stared with wide eyes as the entire building was flushed, not daring to blink for fear of missing the impossible moment. And then it was gone. Replaced by the familiar shape of a rounded slab.

A headstone.

The headstones on either side of it slid closer, filling in the empty space left behind by the building. The tombstones next to those shifted too, and so on into the darkness - hundreds of graves rearranging to welcome Skeleton Town’s newest addition. Reagan stumbled forward, off the pavement, collapsing at the grave. 

Edgar Fitcher 

1969-2029

A loving father to a living daughter

Reagan felt anguish first, anguish she didn’t fully understand. Then came the context. A lifetime of memories flooding back, an understanding of who she was, who Eddie was to her. So lost in the sudden remembering was she that she didn’t feel her hands sink into the dirt, up to and past her wrists. A cold hand pulled her from her daze, hoisting her up by the neck of her shirt and placing her back on the pavement. 

It was the man - the spindly man, casually plucking her from her sinking spot and laying her crumpled on the pavement. She stared ahead, eyes on the tombstone.

“That man…” she uttered, unable to voice the questions she needed answers to.

“Everyone has something they’d be willing to die for, Miss Fitcher. Fame, legacy. A daughter six years dead.”

Reagan pulled her eyes away from her father’s grave. If that was his shop, then…

She leapt up with a start, wincing as pain coursed through her shoulder.

“This isn’t supposed to be here. None of this is supposed to be here.” She had to force the next words out, reluctant to accept what she knew was reality. “This is Copperhead Creek.”

“It was.”

“You took it, a-and turned it into-“

“I didn’t take anything,” he coolly corrected. “It was given to me, piece by piece. It wouldn’t work otherwise. It’s like I said - everyone has something they’d be willing to die for. I’m simply the man who can give it to them.”

Reagan was silent. There were only two remaining questions in her mind. Somehow she knew the question of ‘why?’ would not produce a satisfying answer. Which left only one.

“Are you going to make me a deal, then?”

“Oh, no,” the spindly man replied. “I’m a man of my word - a client died to ensure you’d live. So you’re going to live - at least until you’re out of our domain.”

With a single step, the spindly man was off the pavement and next to Eddie’s grave, turning for just a moment towards Reagan.

“Just make sure to stick to the pathway on your way out, Miss Fitcher,” the man ran a finger over top the gravestone. With another step, he disappeared into the headstone-inhabited darkness. Still, his last words rung out in the night. “The graves here in Skeleton Town can be quite…ravenous. I don’t want you to make a liar of me.”