The truck idled up the last paved road on our map, buckling back and forth every time Fritz shifted gear. The road was long and went uphill all the way, softly and easily at first, but then towards the end it turned into a slippery ramp, and the old truck was struggling.
"You're sure," i said. "that its not real?" He looked at me doubtfully.
"This road dead ends in a minute. Its fake, you'll see." We lurched forward again and i rolled the window up. Fritz pointed forward. "Here it is."
The hillside flattened out to a grimy, wet clearing that looked like it had very recently been the host to a 4-wheeling competition. Tire treads ran along like deep stitches through the mud of the clearing, surrounded by thick, heavily branched trees. It was November, most of the leaves dead. Fritz nodded forward.
"There’s the other road, that they told me about."
"I dont like this."
Ahead of us, cut into the trees, was a very slim access road, all mud and dirt and rocks. I shook my head.
"This is stupid," i said. Fritz frantically rubbed the palms of his hands together, over-eager and energetic.
"I got butterflies in my stomach," he said, revving the engine. I felt like mine was not full of butterflies but enormous, jet-black birds who all carried weights in their claws that were too heavy for them, smashing into the sides of my stomach.
"This is stupid, I have a bad feeling about this."
Fritz didnt say anything. With a nauseas jolt he put the truck into gear, and slowly we crawled over the tire treads and the deep gashes through the muddy clearing, the woods then surrounding us, each crooked branch an outstretched arm. About 30 yards down the road, a yellow 'Slow' sign had been spray painted over with the word 'Headless'.
The 'Village Rumor' had all the characteristics of a myth - all except notoriety - and i'm sure many twenty-somethings from Central Connecticut State or Uconn had ventured down this dim little access road before. Only i didnt know anyone who ever did. I had heard drastically different accounts from several people who were all known 'exaggeraters', and even if part of what they said was the truth, i didnt want to be there; Violent, inbred ancestors of the freaks who survived the circus tent fire in the 60s; a colony of dwarfs who only spoke spanish or portugese and climbed the trees, throwing rocks down on the cars full of college kids who wanted a good laugh; the remnants of a giant colony for children who had had HIV, but who had all died, leaving only ghosts and abandoned, haunted ruins.
There was one rumor going around that it wasnt even a village, but a single shack, with an sociopathic murderer who sat out on the leaning front porch, slimming a stick down with a buck knife, waiting.
Crows had collected on the frame of a twisted bicycle, its flattened front tire straying out into the access road. To my right, the woods slowly went up the incline of a large dirt hill, and I imagined a dozen zombies suddenly poking their bony, hungry bodies out of the muddy slope, moaning as the staggered after our slow moving truck.
The access road started to widen out, and Fritz carefully guided us around a legless, rusted, rotted out piano. Faded red spray paint over the top read, 'fuck the midget pygmies'.
Discarded deck chairs lay in a chaotic pile, beyond them several items of clothing, all wet and ruined, created a colorful, terrifying trail that led off into the woods.
"I do not like this," i said. Fritz cleared his throat.
"I cant turn around," he said, lifting up his hand in a 'what am i supposed to do' motion. "i cant even pull a k turn here."
The road widened suddenly, revealing a clearly abandoned trailer, its roof sunken in with water damage, the ripped window screens dangling out of the frames.
We continued on, until after a few moment Fritz hit the brakes.
“Do you see that?” he said, quietly. He pointed, his chin getting closer and closer towards the steering wheel. In the near total silence of the truck cab I could hear his seat creak. “It looks like … flames?”
I leaned forward in my seat, noticing for the first time the little dancing flashes of orange and yellow that ducked in and out of view through the trees.
“A fire?” I said.
“Roll down your window, Jay.”
I looked at him, slightly flabbergasted, but after a moment I complied. The shocked muffler was much louder with the window down, and I could hear anything over its broken droning.
“Turn off the truck,” I said. “All I can hear is the muffler.” He immediately turned it off, dropping us into the void of silence that filled the woods. The wind hardly moved.
And then after a moment I heard it.
The chanting.
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