2.

2.

It was my first visit to Clifton Heights Junior/Senior High School. Right from the start, I thought Clifton Heights was a strange town. Nothing obviously wrong with it. Not on the surface, anyway. Place was the same as any of the hundreds of towns I’d visited over the last twenty years. Homey little department and hardware stores, restaurants, and knick-knack shops. A town hall, three churches, the requisite small town diner and two high schools. A library, a lumber mill, and a little creek running past the town, with a bridge over it called Black Creek Bridge.

There was a modest lake—Clifton Lake—to the east, and folks referred to the hills as “the Heights.” The clean streets were patrolled often by Sheriff Baker and his deputies. He seemed a decent guy. Certainly not the stereotypical small-town crook, who ran his little kingdom with an iron fist. Trust me; I ran into plenty of that sort back in the day.

The students of Clifton Heights High were a bunch of hard-working go-getters, the kind which usually brought in droves of subscriptions. Right from the start I knew they would deliver.

The teachers and administrators were friendly and accommodating. The kick-off went well, the student body enthused, and everything was running five-by-five. Normally, I would’ve headed out to a bar (in the next town over, of course, always in the next town over), and settled for Ms. 40-Maybe-50. If she looked okay, of course, and if I’d had enough Jose Cuervo.

For some reason when I returned to my cabin at The Motor Lodge, I started to feel restless. I’m not sure why. Like I said, there was something off in Clifton Heights. It didn’t make sense at the time. It was quaint, homey, rustic but not a tourist trap. The people were friendly. The kids at the high school had been outgoing. The English teacher there—a Gavin Patchett—had taken me out to dinner at The Skylark. The meal had been everything you’d expect from a small town diner; heaping portions of great food. When I’d left The Skylark, I was full-bellied and content, maybe interested in a little company later.

On my way back to The Motor Lodge, I started feeling twitchy. Uneasy. As if I was being watched or something. Sounds crazy, I suppose. Anyway, even after showering and prepping for my night out, I still couldn’t settle down. My good mood had vanished. I no longer wanted to chat up an aging bar whore with a loose grin and glazed-over eyes. At the same time, I was far too restless for sleep.

So I found myself driving aimlessly around town.

Which was strange.

I’d never before had any desire to explore the town I was visiting. I usually checked into my motel the night before, maybe hit a bar one or two towns over, called it an early night so I could wake up fresh the next morning. The next day I’d wake up early, get myself organized, head to the school, and do my thing. After, I’d return to the motel, eat somewhere then head out to another bar a few towns over and maybe score some female company. The next morning, I’d be on my way to another gig.

I’d never bothered to see more of the towns I visited, so I didn’t understand why I was doing so that night. Maybe I was curious. You never know if something interesting might be lurking in a humble little town, right?

As I turned onto Asher Street, I pulled my rental up to the store at the end. It appeared to be the only one open. Handy’s Pawn and Thrift. That was interesting: a thrift store in a small town open at 8:30 at night, when everything else appeared closed.

At the time, I didn’t know why I’d stopped there. The joint caught my eye for some reason. Maybe there was something valuable inside, hiding in all the junk. Treasure among trash, y’know?

But something else was at work. I felt pulled there. By what, I had no idea at the time. Now I know, of course.

It was Fate.

I was meant to stop at Handy’s.

And nothing would ever be the same after.