Sanctuary
I hunt a monster, the memory of which plagues me.
I drove into Mackenson County, Texas, crossing the bridge over the Silver Creek River. Five minutes later I saw the Fairton Community sign which was about 100 yards away from the local (and only) gas station, diner, and convenience store. I whipped into their parking lot, turned my wipers off, and covered my head with my hood. I had driven most of the way to my ancestral home in a thunderstorm; now it seemed like it had turned into an icy rain, or maybe sleet. Suddenly shivering, I nevertheless exited my SUV and headed into the store.
A few minutes later I emerged from the store a few dollars poorer and with a carton of cigarettes and a fifth of whiskey. I put these creature comforts into the back seat and pulled back out onto State Highway 73. Soon I had passed through Fairton and was well on my way to Silver City.
After another 15 to 20 minutes of slow driving through what was definitely sleet, I passed the Silver City city limits sign and soon made my way to the town square. My destination was the SC Bar & Grill. When I arrived there were three other cars in the parking lot, most folks having enough sense to be home out of the weather. The sky was certainly ominous; the weather forecast on the radio promised snow, and the dark gray clouds in the distance seemed to be ready to deliver on that promise.
For the second time in a day, I dashed through the weather and headed into the establishment. A friendly server met me at the door and, upon hearing that I was there to meet a friend, she directed me to a booth with a window view along the north side of the building. Therein sat Thomas, a longtime friend who I first met in Iraq during the war.
In times of war and trying to survive it, soldiers develop deep bonds which go beyond friendship. Though we had not seen each other in several years, Thomas and I had such a connection. At one time we had been the proverbial (and clichéd) two peas in a pod. Thus, we exchanged a brief hug before our initial pleasantries. This accomplished, we placed identical orders for black coffee and a cheeseburger.
It did not take long for our conversation to turn to Silver City, Mackenson County, and life in general. Thomas explained how the inconstancy of everyday life was to blame for his seeming apathy toward our association, and that when he tried to get in contact with me, he discovered that he no longer had my telephone number. He was, however, fortunate enough to find an old email address. He sent me an email, half expecting to receive no reply. I actually had a new phone number and I occasionally checked my email account. I read Thomas’ correspondence, got in touch with him, and we planned today’s visit. To my relief, Thomas never mentioned the obvious fact that I was just as “guilty” as he was when it came to failure to keep in touch.
Thomas explained, as he had briefly mentioned in the email sent to me, that he was in this part of the country to attend a dealer’s meeting relating to his occupation as a co-owner of a fair-sized lumber and hardware store. In fact he was on his way south, and was due to attend his meeting in Houston the next day. He had emailed me, he said, after remembering that I had a connection to Silver City. He distinctly recalled that I used to speak of my contempt for Silver City and the surrounding area, where I had lived for much of my life. He had no real reason to suppose that I was still living in a county that I despised, but he hoped I was. He then took a chance and reached out to me, as noted earlier, hoping that we might reconnect at some point during his business trip.
Thomas was surprised, he said, when he drove into the county and observed it firsthand. There seemed to be, he noted, nothing about the countryside to dislike. At least it was attractive enough to an outsider like himself. From the copses of oak and pine one encountered immediately after crossing the Silver Creek River, to the forests near Fairton, the environment appeared to be pleasing to the eye. Certainly it was dated, but many historical areas were dated and some places took advantage of this in order to attract tourism. The state highway (as well as Silver City) was practically filled with Victorian era and early 20th-century homes, Thomas mused aloud. Surely many of the county residents were somewhat well to do—and many of the antiquated structures were not only homes but were operated as bed and breakfast establishments. The very restaurant in which we dined, he noted with a hint of awe, had a plaque on the wall dating the existence of the structure back to the days of the Republic of Texas.
I let Thomas continue with his obvious admiration of my old haunts with no interruption save for an occasional nod. When he finished speaking I took a sip of my coffee and paused to make sure that he had indeed concluded his speech. He said nothing further, and clearly expected a response, a conversation or perhaps even an explanation of some kind. At that point I considered my words carefully. I would not launch into some diatribe against the county or any town within it. Instead, I would tell Thomas what few others knew: The truth.
The truth? Despite its historical edifices, I cared little about Mackenson County or its surrounding communities. I had been to the county seat—Clarkston—very few times, and most of those visits were at the behest of the sergeant who recruited me for the army. Silver City was not even my hometown. I had attended junior high school there, and almost a year of high school. Silver City was little more than a hopeful sounding name for a mid-sized town that was and remains unremarkable except for being the host to public schools and a handful of factories.
My actual hometown, and the place where I lived the first years of my life, was Fairton. Fairton is an unincorporated town lying north of Silver City and just south of the Silver Creek River. The community, as far as I know, has always consisted of roughly 10 homes and farms. Most of those homes were farmhouses, and several of them were the grand Victorian houses that Thomas admired. When I was a child there were even a couple of house-barns, though throughout the years they were torn down to make room for more modern constructions.
The residents of Fairton farmed and kept a variety of livestock. Mostly they raised chickens and swine, but there were also some cows scattered here and there. My grandparents on my father’s side of the family called Fairton home, and had lived in the area for all their lives. I grew up next door in a farmhouse that my grandfather and father built by hand with the assistance of neighbors.
Fairton had and still has one store, which started out as a general store. It has always had one church, well-attended, called the Fairton Congregational Church. When school was in session, all the youth of Fairton gathered on the church parking lot to catch the bus. The nearest schools were in Silver City. As I understand it, classes were previously held inside the church sanctuary, but at some point the school had closed for reasons unknown to me.
The bus stop is where I met the person who would affect my life forever. I suppose she was my first and only girlfriend, though only she and I knew about it. We were young, probably too young, to be so close. Her parents certainly would not approve, nor would mine. Because of this our friendship was a private—secret—matter.
I know not if the term is politically correct, but she was what we used to call a tomboy. When she ventured out of her house she was unafraid and would spend much of her time roaming the countryside. She was comfortable in and more familiar with the woods and forests than I was. In fact I was afraid to set foot in the woods. Something about being enclosed in the dark coolness of uncultivated land unnerved me; I would never go there on my own—and my family owned 20 acres of woods that I could explore at any time.
As the end of the school year approached, two events occurred that would influence me deeply. The first was the establishment of a private meeting spot on my family’s land. Knowing my dread of the woods, she calmly took me by the hand and led me to a place near an unnamed creek that skirted the eastern border of our property. Here at some point she had constructed a small three-sided structure with an overhanging roof of brush—a sort of lean-to. This little shack became our “hangout,” and there in that sanctuary we visited every day that we could, away from the prying eyes of others.
A second event that would have ramifications lasting to the present time took place during the winter months of the next school year. It was at this time that the residents of Fairton began to lose their livestock to some predator. Whatever plagued the farms avoided the chickens and only occasionally struck the cows. It seemed to prefer the boar, sows, and piglets.
Surprisingly, the manner of death for the deceased hogs (and the occasional cow) did not involve the devouring of any portion of the flesh of the beasts. According to the necropsies conducted by the local veterinarian, each of the animals had been completely drained of blood. As far as the doctor could determine, there were no injuries other than two vampire-like puncture wounds on the necks of the animals.
People in the area were, quite obviously, disturbed. They began to keep a close eye on their livestock, though vigilance was required. All was well as long as the animals were carefully and consistently guarded, but the moment when one’s attention was diverted or required elsewhere, the predator would strike.
© 2023-2025 Ren Adama
