Pleasant Hills

“The sky is looking ugly, Trav.”

I glance upward, my attention on driving momentarily forgotten. Rosie and I have been driving through the back roads of Iowa for the past four hours, and my vision is starting to get blurry. The sky is turning an ugly slate gray, a color similar to the road winding ahead of us. In the far distance, thunder clouds roil.

“Maybe we should find a place to spend the night?” Rosie asks, shifting in the passenger’s seat. Her thighs make a slurping noise as she adjusts, the hot vinyl unforgiving. When the mechanic had told me last week that the air conditioning in my car was kaput, I had waved off his concern. But now, on hour seven of stewing in 93 degree heat, I’m eating my words. 

I shrug, my glazed-over eyes moving back toward the road and the slippery mirages that sparkle in the distance like water, “I’m sure it will just be rain, babe. No need to worry.”

Rosie’s hand instinctively draws to her belly. I note the movement with a raised eyebrow. Ever since this impromptu road trip started, she’s been almost annoyingly careful. No alcohol, no junk food, frequent breaks…It’s like she’s paranoid or something. 

Or at least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

“Something wrong with your stomach?” I ask carefully.

“Car sickness, I think.”

“Remind me why we’re going to the buttfuck middle of nowhere again?” I yawn, changing the subject. 

Rosie snorts and kicks off her flip-flops, “the bank that foreclosed my grandpa’s farm eons ago is finally putting it back up for sale.”

“And what does that have to do with us, exactly?”

“You’re always talking about how you wanna get out of Chicago.”

My eyes widen at Rosie’s insinuation, “yeah, and go somewhere more chill, like Montana or Washington or something. Not somewhere so chill it feels abandoned.”

“How do you know the town we're going to is gonna feel abandoned?” Rosie challenges. 

“It’s Iowa,” I reply, “unless the town you’re speaking of is Des Moines, it’s pretty much gonna feel abandoned.”

Rosie sighs and pulls up something on her phone, “Pleasant Hills, Iowa,” she reads, “population three hundred,” she looks at me, “soon to be three hundred and two?”

“I don’t know, Ro.”

“Please, Travis?” Rosie begs, “this farm was my favorite place growing up.”

“What about our jobs?” I ask, “do you just expect me to drop everything and become a farmer? I know jackshit about owning a farm. And a literary agency finally picked up my book idea-”

“You can write at the farm and meet with your agency virtually,” Rosie interrupts excitedly, “I thought maybe I could open up a firm and-”

“This isn’t some romantic comedy or coming-of-age film,” I say, “This is real life. I don’t want to be wasting away in some bum hick town. I won’t.” 

“I’m just thinking about our future, Travis,” Rosie says. 

I swallow thickly. The emphasis on our had my bones feeling itchy and goosebumps pepper along my skin, despite the heat. Rosie and I have been dating for six years now, straight out of high school. Being with her has been the only thing I’ve ever known, the only thing she’s ever known. I’ve seen the subtle hints she’s been dropping about our future for the past couple of weeks now- pictures of engagement rings left on the computer, listings for homes “accidentally” shared with me instead of her mom. I love Rosie, I do. But why does the idea of commitment make me feel so claustrophobic?

“I just don’t see my future here, in Iowa.”

“Yours?” Rosie says softly. 

“What?”

“You said your future, not our future.”

“Ro-”

“No, it’s okay,” she sighs, retreating to her phone. She frowns at the Google Maps app and looks around, confused, “where the fuck are we?”

“Five minutes away from our destination, hopefully?” I say tiredly. 

“My maps app is glitching. It says there’s nothing around us.”

“Did we miss a turn somewhere?” I ask. 

“I don’t think so. If I remember correctly, it should just be a straight shot. 

“You’ve been going off your memory? From when you were six?” I say sharply. 

Rosie gives me a long look but says nothing. She opens the glove compartment and pulls out a battered map, “pull over,” she orders, “let’s figure out where the hell we are.”

Begrudgingly, I pull the car over to the side of the road. The heat feels worse somehow, without the fifty-mile-per-hour wind slamming into the side of my face. I roll up the windows, hoping to conserve some of the slightly colder air. 

Rosie is flipping through the map, getting more and more irritated the longer she can’t find what she is looking for. She yells out, crumpling up the map. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Every other state is in this fucking book, except for Iowa. There’s a part that’s torn out. See?” She shows me a half-ripped page.

My brow furrows, “I have never seen that map before in my life. Where did you find it?”

“Right here,” Rosie gestures to the glove compartment. She whimpers, rubbing her stomach, “I don’t feel so good.”

“It’s okay, we’ll figure out where we are. Just take a few deep breaths.”

I glance around wildly, looking for a Hail Mary. The horizon is virtually empty, save for corn stalks and the occasional tree. And then, I see. Off in the distance, a tiny house. 

I start the car, and Rosie looks over, “what are you doing?” She asks. 

“I’m going to go against every masculine fiber in my being and ask for directions.”

The closer we get to the house, the more I realize how tiny it actually is. It is a faded blue color, with banana-yellow shutters and vines crawling up the corners. All of the windows are bordered up with cardboard, and the front door is so dirty that the white paint looks dark gray. A tireless red pick-up truck is in the crabgrass infested front yard. There is a tinier, equally-faded blue shed toward the back. A cropping of trees encircles the house, stopping at the gravel driveway like sentries keep watching. I brake as I pull in. 

“Yeah, we’re leaving.” Rosie says, locking her door. 

“It can’t be too awful, right?”

“Are you kidding me, Travis?” Rosie says, her face paling, “this looks straight out of a horror movie.”

I look around, seeing no signs of life, “yeah, maybe you’re right. I don’t think anyone’s lived here in awhile.”

A sudden, rapt knock on my window has Rosie screaming. A middle-aged woman wearing a wide-brimmed sun hat and a floral, grass-stained apron stands in front of my window, a pair of gardening shears in one hand. She is wearing a very dirty medical mask.

She waves excitedly at us with her free hand. 

I roll down the window an inch, “hello?”

“Are you the Conroys?” The woman asks, her voice muffled, “I didn’t expect ya’ll for another couple of hours.”

“N-No,” I cough, trying to regain a steady heartbeat, “we’re just lost.”

“Lost?” The woman laughs robotically, and I flinch, “no one gets lost ‘round here. Where are ya’ll headed?”

The woman’s eyes are bloodshot and jittery, not being able to settle on one thing for too long. Her skin seems stretched over her face, as if it’s too small for her skull. Everything about her feels off, but I can’t place why.  

“Pleasant Hills,” Rosie says quietly, her eyes wide. 

The woman’s eyes narrow, and she visibly stiffens, “that place is trouble. Folk like you shouldn’t be headed that way.”

Rosie and I exchange a look. This is the perfect excuse I need, “what kinda trouble?” I venture hesitantly. 

“Just trouble,” the woman says sourly, “wouldn’t want your child in danger now, would ya?”

Rosie goes rigid, and her hand goes reflexively back to her stomach, “how did you know?” She whispers. 

“How could I not know?” The woman snorts, “it’s as obvious as the sky is blue.”

My heart stops beating. Rosie…pregnant? No wonder she’s been so adamant about figuring out a future, “when were you going to tell me?” I ask through clenched teeth. 

“Soon. I…I just wanted to figure shit out first.”

“Well, I can tell I overstepped. Just, go back the way you came and y'all have a good day.”

Rosie glowers at the woman, “we didn’t drive all this way to just turn back. How do we get to Pleasant Hills?”

“I’m telling you, you don’t wanna go there.” The woman repeats, her voice deathly calm. 

There’s an intense stillness. The woman’s eyes continue to fret about as she breathes quickly, her mask caving in and out with each breath. There’s something odd about the way the mask moves, as if it’s too big for her face and yet, not big enough. But again, I can’t figure out why. 

“Alright,” Rosie bites out, “we won’t go to your fucking town. Let’s go, Trav.”

I begin to roll up the window, but the woman sticks her hand through. Rosie yells out in surprise as I struggle to stop the window from closing. It closes just before it slices the woman’s fingers off, but not before it draws blood. The red liquid seeps from the woman’s new wound and trickles down the window, pooling in the crevices below. 

The woman doesn’t react, instead jiggling her fingers about until they’re finally free, “if you see a little girl,” she whispers raggedly, her face close to the window, “turn your car around and drive away, as fast as you can.”

I swallow hard and close the window the rest of the way. The woman barely has time to step away before I turn my steering wheel and reverse quickly out of the drive. 

“You see?” Rosie exclaims, “horror movie! Oh my god, that woman was crazy.”

“Rosie, you’re pregnant?” I demand.

“That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” 

“Fuck, Ro! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d freak out, like you’re doing right now.”

“Of course I’m freaking out! I had to find out my girlfriend is pregnant from the mouth of a potential murderer.” 

“Travis, lower your voice. And take a right.”

“No, we need to go left. That’s the way we came from.”

“We’re going to Pleasant Hills.”

“Now you’re crazy,” I say, “there’s no way we’re going to that town, especially if it’s anything like the woman we just met.”

“She didn’t know what she was talking about!” Rosie exclaims, “I grew up in Pleasant Hills, Trav. And I’m normal.”

“Well…” I trail off.

Rosie shoots me another scalding look, “normal-ish,” she concedes, “but still. It’s just a bum hick town, like you said. Even if we don’t buy my grandfather’s farm, it’s important that I look at it at least one time. Please?”

I sigh, still shaken up and trying not to look at the blood on my window, and nod slowly. Rosie smiles widely as I make a u-turn. 

The state of the town did nothing to quell my fears as we drove slowly through Main Street. The road, flanked on both sides by mom and pop shops, antique stores, and cafes, was virtually empty. Rusted and broken down cars were parked haphazardly on the side of the road, and trash blew gently in the breeze. Various shops were boarded up and decorated with graffiti. 

“This was a mistake,” I say.

Rosie slowly looks around, her face grave, “this is not the Pleasant Hills I remember.”

“Let’s just make it to that damn farm.”

In a daze, Rosie continues to give me directions. The town becomes more decrepit the farther we drive. My face pales as we near the town center, where a statue of an unknown yet historical figure is vandalized, a noose around its neck and red paint- or blood?- covering the face.

“What the hell happened here?” I whisper. Rosie stares, her expression strange. 

Eventually, we leave the town behind and again are surrounded by countryside. But this time, the corn fields have a malignant quality to them, every slight movement making me flinch. Whereas I am filled with one thousand volts of electrified fear, the closer we get to our destination, the more relaxed Rosie appears. Finally, we near a dirt path that cuts through the endless cornfields like a snake. 

“Pull into here,” Rosie says, and I oblige. 

The farmhouse isn’t as run-down as I thought it would be, considering it’s been abandoned for nearly twenty years. The house is bright white, with cherry-red shutters and a matching door. Empty- yet clean and perfectly painted- flower boxes are built in front of each window. Though the grass is brown, it’s cropped short. A large tree with a tire swing sits in the front yard. 

“It’s exactly as I remember it,” Rosie breathes, getting out of the car. 

I do as well, my legs feeling like jelly from sitting for so long, “are we meeting somewhere here?” I ask.

Rosie glances at me, confused, “no, why?”

“You said the bank was putting this up for sale. I thought maybe we were meeting a realtor or something.”

“Oh. No, we aren’t meeting anybody,” Rosie says, “I didn’t tell the bank we were coming.”

“What?” I ask, “why not?”

“Because,” Rosie says, fully turning toward me. She grabs my arms excitedly, “I wanted you to fall in love with the place first. That way, if you don’t like it, we wouldn’t have wasted anyone’s time.”

“I guess that makes sense,” I murmur. 

Folding her fingers in between mine, Rosie leads me up the front stoop, past the huge, wrap-around porch, and into the house. The inside is much like the outside of the house: shabby and forgotten, but not totally destroyed. Instead of heading into the large living area with floor to ceiling windows to our left, or into the dark mahogany study to our right, Rosie begins to climb the stairs. 

“Wait,” I say, and she hesitates, “are you sure those are safe?”

Rosie jumps solidly on the step she’s standing on, “yeah, I’m pretty sure they’re safe,” she laughs, “come on, scaredy cat! I want to show you my old bedroom!”

Rosie races up the stairs, two at a time, and disappears into the second floor before I’ve had a chance to blink. 

Sighing, I follow her. The unpleasantness of the town has left a bad coating on my skin that I can’t shake, and though the house isn’t as awful as I expected, I can’t ignore the ominous feeling crawling across my body like bugs. 

The second floor is one long hallway with three doors on either side. “Rosie?” I call out. 

No answer. 

I jiggle the doorknob closest to me, and it’s locked, “Rosie, this isn’t funny!” I yell.

“Over here,” she calls softly, from the farthest door on the left. 

I walk over and open the door. Rosie is standing in an empty room, closest to the window. Tears are streaming down her face, “I’m sorry,” she whispers. 

Everything goes black. 

I wake up in blackness, so it’s hard for my foggy brain to even register it’s awake. The air smells damp and cold, and I realize I must be in a cellar. I start to stand up, but my wrists and ankles are duct-taped to the rickety wooden chair I’m sitting on. I struggle against the binds, but the tape holds firm. 

“Rosie!” I yell, my voice hoarse.

A single light bulb turns on and casts dim light on my surroundings. I am in a cellar. The ground is made of packed-in dirt, and the walls are chipped red brick. I can make out a couple of shelves, filled with random boxes and other nonsense, that disappear into the encroaching darkness. 

Rosie is sitting in front of me, her hand resting on her belly. Her eyes are red and puffy from crying, but her face is dry, “Hello, Travis,” she whispers. 

“What is going on?” I demand. 

“He said either you or the baby and I had no choice,” Rosie replies. She can’t look me in the eye. 

“What are you talking about?” My voice is shrill, my struggle against the tape becoming frantic.

A man steps into the pool of light. He is wearing a dirty red-checkered shirt and jean overalls. His brown hair is patchy and greasy. My eyes widen at the dirty medical mask covering his face, and I pale at the large pickaxe in his left hand, tipped red. I hope it’s rust, but I realize very quickly it’s blood. 

The man nods at Rosie and she closes her eyes, “He…he needs something from you. And then we can leave.”

“Rosie, this is ridiculous. Call the police!”

“It will hurt, but it’ll be over soon. And then we can leave,” she repeats. “I’m sorry, Trav. He was gonna hurt the baby.”

“The baby that’s not even born yet? That’s the size of a grape right now?” I yell. I know I sound crazy, but I don’t care. This whole situation is crazy. 

The man steps forward as Rosie continues, “there’s a reason this town is abandoned. I couldn’t remember why, but then it came to me when I saw that statue at the town square,” she swallows, looking at the man, “it’s because of him.”

The man lowers his medical mask and I feel queasy, Where his jaw should have been is a mutilated mixture of bone and muscle. Skin flaps as he works the mass, moving it around as if stretching out his jaw. I blanch.

“That's why the woman warned us. She was a victim, but managed to escape, I think,” Rosie swallows, “I have to go. I’m wasting my head start.” She disappears out of the pool of light, and I scream after her.

I scream as the man offers me a bloody, mangled smile.