Archives:
October 28-November 3, 2007

October 28, 2007

There's a rumble of thunder in the distance. I kneel at the back of my car, turning the handle of my father's old jack, hurting my palm with every twist of skin against cracked rubber. Rain's falling all around me, and I shiver from the cold.

It occurs to me that's not the only reason I'm shaking. I realize I'm scared as hell.

I look up at the sky, black aside from the gray rain clouds scattered throughout. Looking around me, it's all trees, no signs of any kind of civilization. I think I see some leaves move, and I jump back peering into the woods. It could have just been the wind, or a squirrel or something. In my gut, I know it was something more.

I turn the jack higher and higher, my heart racing, wondering what the odds are of getting a flat tire here, in the middle of the night, all alone.

I hear the leaves rustle again, but don't look up. I grab my wrench from beside me and set to work on the lug nuts. There's no point in getting distracted—no chance of getting out of here in time if I do.

I hear a footstep on the road.

I set the first nut down and set to work on the next. It's only then that I give in to temptation, or fear, or curiosity, looking up again.

There's a man in a long black trench coat, soaked with rain. He wears a dark fedora on his head, tipped so I can't see his face at all. His arm rises, and I find myself staring down the barrel of the Spaniard's gun.

I wake with the sound of my clock radio, my sheets all tangled around me. I rub my eyes, taking a second to recognize it was all a dream, and that I'm safe in my room.

“Will you turn that off?” Cameron groans from her side of the room, turning over in bed, flopping her pillow over the side of her head.

October 29, 2007

“All right,” Phoebe says, leaning over the side of the recliner in her living room, “so straight from the horse's mouth—what's the deal with this Spaniard thing? Did you actually have people go out to see him? Is there actually any evidence? Spill for me.”

I rub my forehead, looking down at the text for my Jones class. “I only know as much as we printed,” I say. “But, personally, I think it's all crap.”

“So you're letting the story run on your website when you don't think it's true,” Amelia says sitting down on the far end of the couch from me, Teri between us.

“We're running it as urban legend,” I glance to Teri, “something fun for Halloween. And while some of my writers are taking it more seriously than that, that's all it is.”

“I think we should check it out,” Teri says.

“Yeah,” Phoebe agrees, cracking a smile. “It sounds like fun.”

“You've got to be kidding me,” I say. They all just look at me, so I go on, “That has to be one of the stupidest ways you could spend a night.”

“I thought you said you didn't believe in the Spaniard,” Amelia says. “So why are you scared?”

“I'm not scared,” I sigh, “it's just a waste of time. There's probably no one out there. People are just seeing what they expect to see. Or even if there is a guy out there with a gun, who knows what the real story is—and who wants to put yourself in the guy's path?”

“Curiosity,” Teri says. “It's the same reason it makes a good story for the paper. But if there is some crazy guy with a gun out there, I'd like to see him. And if there's not, I'd like to see if I can figure out what's really going on.”

“So let's do it tonight,” Phoebe says. “Who's with me?”

“I'm in,” Teri says.

“Me too,” Amelia adds.

I shake my head, lifting my book. “I've got homework to do.”

October 30, 2007

Teri carries a Styrofoam cup in her hand, and wears a smug grin on her face as she comes into the Window office.

“How's it going?” I ask, turning a page in the day's USA Today.

“Good,” she says, sitting down kitty corner to me at the center table. “I had a late night last night.”

“Is that so?”

She nods. “It was kind of crazy.”

I turn another page, opening to the crossword puzzle. “So did you find any signs of the Spaniard.”

“We saw him twice!” she says, her smile widening. “It was so creepy.”

“And what, exactly, did you see?” I ask, grabbing a pen from the table, and starting to look over the clues to the puzzle.

“A guy standing at the side of the road, shotgun propped up against his shoulder.”

“Was it in the same place?” I ask, not looking up. “Could it have been a tree that looked like—”

“It was a guy, there was no mistaking it,” she cuts me off. “He showed up in two different spots, and he was just standing there.”

“Are you guys talking about the Spaniard?” I look, and Teri turns as Cameron comes into the office.

I rub my forehead.

“Yes, we are,” Teri says. “I saw him last night.”

“That's awesome!” Cameron says. “What was it like?”

“It's not awesome,” I say. “It's silly. So was there something I can do for you Cameron?”

“No,” she says, looking off at one of the walls. “I'd just never been here and I thought I'd come up and see where you worked.” She turns to Teri. “So was it hard to find the place? I was thinking I might visit the Spaniard myself.”

“It's not that hard at all. And my roommate, Phoebe, and I were talking about going again tomorrow, in honor of Halloween and all. I was actually just here to invite Preston along, but do you want in?”

“Definitely,” Cameron says. “What do you say, Preston ?”

I fill in one of the clues in the puzzle, slowly, deliberately.

“Or are you too scared?” Teri asks, using this really juvenile voice.

I set scratch the back of my head, looking at the next clue. “I guess if this is all anyone's going to talk about, I'd might as well go.”

October 31, 2007

I look out the window, watching tree after tree go by, time and again. For the first couple passes, I think I got caught up in the spirit of the evening—caught up in Halloween and the story of the Spaniard, and I actually expected to see something. With at least a half hour gone by, I'm feeling grounded firmly back in the reality of the night.

It's kind of hard to breath in the car. Teri drives and Phoebe sits shotgun, while Chang, Cameron and I are packed in the back. I regret mentioning this trip to Chang at lunch earlier in the day, or that when he asked if he could come, that I said yes. Not only does it cramp up the car, but I know the odds are we aren't going to see a thing.

It's really warm in here, but Phoebe complained she was cold for those couple minutes we did crack a window. When we first got here, a few cars were going by, and I wondered if they came for the same reason—if The Window, or word of mouth around Taylor had made this place to be this Halloween.

The other cars have either seen the Spaniard or given by now. On our last three passes of the road, we haven't seen another set of headlights.

“So what do you say we just do one more run through?” Cameron asks with a yawn. Glancing at my watch, I see we're just minutes from midnight , after which point it won't technically even be Halloween anymore.

“I guess so,” Teri says, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. “But keep your eyes peeled. I can't believe we haven't seen him yet tonight.”

“Maybe he doesn't come out on Halloween,” Chang volunteers. “Too many tourists, or something.”

“It's possible,” Phoebe says, hand under her chin, staring out her window as we head down the road again.

A really light fall of rain starts to come down—just enough so Teri has to turn on her wipers, little enough so the rubber squeals against the glass as it makes its arc.

“Wait—that's him,” Phoebe says.

Teri doesn't slow down, but like the rest of us she turns to look. I never would have believed it, but there is a man out there—tall, large, it looks like he's wearing a trench coat. And there's something leaned up against his shoulder.

As we pass right by him, gathering speed as the girls squeal, I can see the gun.

I look back ahead, only to see a pair of headlights heading right toward us. “Teri! Look out!” I yell, pointing.

Teri looks and swerves, just as the other car starts to swerve back to its own lane. The brakes squeal, but Teri can't hit them hard enough, as the front end of the car crashes into a tree.

November 1, 2007

“Is everyone OK?” Teri asks, pushing past her airbag, turning back to us.

“I'm fine,” Phoebe says, turning back.

“Me too,” Cameron says, breathing heavily. “Glad I had my seatbelt on.”

“I'm good,” Chang adds.

“Teri, your nose,” I say, ignoring the question, leaning toward her. She's bleeding from one of her nostrils.

Teri touches a finger to her nose, then looks at the blood. “It must have been the airbag. I'm OK, though.”

I unbuckle my seatbelt, and look outside the car. There are trees all over, but I think I have just enough room to get out.

“What are you doing?” Cameron asks.

“Just going to survey the damage.”

“We don't know what kind of damage we did to that tree,” Phoebe says, peering at the space between her and Teri's airbags. “Let's not make any sudden movements.”

“The tree looks pretty solid,” Chang says. “And we couldn't have hit it too hard.”

“Anyone else concerned about the guy?” Cameron asks. I turn to look at her. She raises her eyebrows. “The Spaniard?”

We all look out the back windshield. He couldn't be more than half a football field back from where we crashed, but I can't see him at all, especially with the rain.

“Let's just stay put and call the police,” Phoebe says, fishing through her bag for her cell phone.

“That's a good plan,” Chang says, holding up his phone, “provided somebody has service out here.

I flip open my phone, to find no bars there either. It's the same for everyone.

“Well we can just sit here,” Chang says. “We don't know what we hit, but we could have that tree fall on us, are the car could blow—”

“And who's to say the crazy guy with the gun isn't waiting in the trees to pick us off one by one.”

And so we sit and wait. If another car came by, I figure it would have to stop to lend us a hand. A few minutes pass and no one comes.

“All right,” I say. “I'm heading out.”

“You can't—” one of the girl stats, but this time, I've already got the door open and set one foot outside. I climb all the way, slamming the door behind me. It's only after I've taken my first step that I see The Spaniard.

He's there, real and in the flesh, a tall, solid looking man, probably in his mid to late forties, wearing a hooded trench coat, a gun over his shoulder. I wonder how long it's been since someone saw the man this close—at least in his element, moonlighting as The Spaniard.

I take a step back toward the car.

“Having some car troubles?” he asks. There's not so much as a hint of a Spanish accent on the guy. If anything, the voices is plain, a little gruff, about what you'd expect in upstate New York .

He turns his head, and I follow his eyes to wear Chang is getting out of the car. The second he looks up, Chang freezes. His eyes wide, he opens his mouth. “We're very sorry. Please leave us be and we'll be out of your hair as soon as we can.”

“Relax,” the man says. “Why don't y'all come with me and we'll call the police to report the accident.”

I swallow, looking at the gun. Just because he's not quite what I expected from the Spaniard doesn't mean the guy isn't dangerous. “I think we'll be all right. We'll just flag down the next car that comes by for some help.”

“Don't be silly. This time of night, you'll be waiting for hours.”

“Look, we didn't mean to disturb you,” Chang says. “But can you please just put down the gun and let us go.”

The man smiles. “The gun's a part of my job, son. My employer's orders. Doesn't trust me guarding the premises without it.”

“You're a guard?” I ask.

“Well why the hell else do you think I'm just standing out here in the rain with a gun. I get paid top dollar because the crazy old son of a bitch in there thinks that's what's going to keep his mansion in the woods safe. Now you can come with me, or you can wait in the car. Either way, I'm calling the police for you.”

I'm tempted to tell this guy why we're here—what people think. I wonder if he'd think it was funny or just be annoyed. “I think we'll wait in the car,” I say. “Make sure our friends are all right. But thank you for making that call for us.”

The guy nods and turns away.

Chang reopens his car door. “Well, so much for the Spaniard.”

November 2, 2007

“But anyway, Todd leaves early, so then Zach and I are stuck there—the two stooges,” Nick rattles on, sitting next to me before class, recounting the Halloween party he went to two nights ago. “The costume just doesn't make sense anymore.”

I sit at my desk, rubbing my eyes, still exhausted after my own Halloween adventure. I remember riding in the tow truck next to Teri, just staring out the window, trying to decide if it would be better for our website to publish a retraction from our article on The Spaniard, or make it a new story—or just forget the whole mess. I was annoyed as hell with all of the time we wasted, and, in part, at not being able to say I told you so. Teri was really upset about her car.

I haven't seen her since we got back to campus. We haven't spoken since we got in the tow truck.

I look up and see Emma come in the classroom. I have to do a double take, though, when I see her hair. She's not a blond anymore. For the first time, I'm seeing her as a red head.

“Whoa—Emma, your hair—” I start.

“Do you like it?” she asks, scrunching her nose as she takes a seat next to me in the circle.

“It's really different.”

“It was Bud's idea,” she says. “For Halloween, I was Raggedy Anne. I was going to just put on a wig, but he said I should go all out and dye it.”

“So what, did you use Kool Aid or something?”

She shakes her head. “That would have washed out by now. I went for the real deal. Figured it was time I try a new look.”

I nod, finding myself kind of fascinated with her—like there's something fundamentally different about her because of the color of her hair.

“So anyway,” Nick goes on, “this girl is telling me how her brother looks just like Curly, and sits on my lap.”

I rub my forehead, turning back to him.

November 3, 2007

I slap my cell phone shut, and toss it onto my desk.

“No luck?” Teri asks, sitting on my bed, back against a pillow, against the wall.

“Of course not,” I say turning in my chair. “Why would Computing and Internet Services be open on a Saturday? There's no chance a website could have problems then.”

“Well there's no point getting bent out of shape over it,” Teri says, turning a page in the book on her lap. “They'll be back in on Monday, and if the site's still down then, they'll straighten it out.”

I'm not sure how long the Window website has been down. I just know that the page was not found when I first went to it at ten this morning, and I haven't been able to do a thing about it since.

“It's just frustrating,” I say. “I mean, this is the only way we're publishing now. People go to the site over the weekend and they see its down—maybe they'll just assume the site isn't around anymore.”

“That's a little dramatic,” Teri says. “Pages go down all the time. The Internet's an imperfect place. If people can't get to the site over the weekend, they'll just come back during the week, or the next time they think to check it out.” She turns another page, looking back down. “You can't be so obsessive about these things.”

I turn and look out my window. It's drizzling and it's windy out. I can see tree branches wavering back and forth. “You're probably right.” I rub my forehead. “I guess that's the problem with The Window the way it is now, anyway. With no hard copy, there's no real structure, and no one cares about it.”

“I didn't say that—”

“But I did,” I cut her off. “I don't know. It just seems like the whole thing isn't worth it anymore.”