articles about a Soviet goalkeeper. I soon realized I’d have to search in Russian, and switched the filters and turned on the translation feature. Many of the same hockey articles
appeared, but so did stories from months earlier about a
missing Russian gas oligarch named Igor Tretiak. I clicked on a few of them, at first assuming nothing, before I saw
that Tretiak had disappeared in Yonkers, New York, not
180 miles from my town.
I couldn’t help but make the most basic of connections.
Had I witnessed this man’s last moments? Had Vitali
uploaded a torture, ransom, or snuff video publicly, before switching the settings to private? If so, how would he know if I had watched it? I called my contact at the sheriff’s office and sent them the link to the private video. They said they’d look it over and get back to me.
As if Vitali had some next-level spyware on my
computer, he began sending me messages again, this time
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being much more direct. You will disappear too, Legglas, You keep it up, trying to see things that you have no business seeing. I felt afraid and utterly alone that evening. I had nowhere to go and no real connections in town.
I tried to get some sleep, in bed by nine that night,
sweat soaking into my sheets. Knock, knock, knock. I startled, my body contorting at the sound of the rapping at my door.
He had said that he was coming for me. What could I do
against Russian gangsters that had likely just driven hours to my home?
I slowly got out of bed, the old springs gently creaking.
I crept over the carpet as the knocking returned. This time it was more insistent. I peered out of my bedroom window,
down onto the front porch. There were two men dressed
in black at the door. They knew I was home; my Jeep was in my driveway.
I could hear their muffled voices discussing what to do
next. Then all hell broke loose. Sirens blared and flashing lights came blazing up Pearl Ave., and the two men jumped
from my porch and ran. Soon deputies were parked all
over the street and sidewalks, guns drawn, tracking the two men. Shots were fired. When it all ended a deputy had been grazed by a bullet, and the two goons were shot dead behind my neighbor’s garage.
County Sheriff Powell came to my door, flanked by the
detective I had met with in the office. I opened the door
and they practically dragged me out of the house. They
didn’t say much until we were back at the sheriff’s office.
“How did they find me?” was all I could ask, over and
over.
“Son, that video you sent us... You commented on it
that night it was posted,” stated the detective.
“Huh? What do you mean I commented on it?” I laughed,
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but no one else in the room laughed with me.
The detective retrieved his laptop, opened to the video
and scrolled down to the comments section. The sole
comment was from my screen name ShroomTender420,
which I must have signed in under to retrieve some of my
favorite video playlists that night. It read: killer fx, dudes.
horror/10.
• 86 •
• IX •
THE BIG ‘m’
General Manager Jason Dowdy was loathed among the
staff of the Big ‘M,’ a long-running grocery store in
the village of Eagle Bay, NY. Complaints against Dowdy for harassment and verbal abuse were frequent, and it wasn’t
uncommon for employees to leave the store in tears. With
the store’s owner out of sight, living comfortably down in Florida, Dowdy’s reign of terror went unchecked and he
ran the place as he saw fit. Those who kept their jobs kept their mouths shut.
As for the Big ‘M,’ it had served the grocery needs
of Eagle Bay for more than thirty years. It was dated, but possessed a certain rustic charm. The market sold the
staples: bread, milk, beer, deli and barbecue meats. It did good business during the summer and snowmobile seasons
of the central Adirondacks, but there were also the famine months, with only a trickle of locals window shopping the
fully-stocked shelves.
The early evening of New Year’s Eve had started like
any other at the Big ‘M,’ if a bit busier due to the holiday.
Night manager Stephen Drew and cashier Tim Hale both
arrived at 4 p.m. and over the next couple hours saw to
locals in need of last-minute snacks and booze. From 8
p.m. on, however, the store was practically empty. Stephen
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CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
and Tim were bitter about having to work that evening, but did what they could to pass the time, chatting with the few remaining employees about trail conditions in the Pigeon
Lake Wilderness. Their conversation was interrupted by
“Hale, how about you make yourself useful and clean
out the bottle return area,” said Dowdy. “Get a few hours
of real work in before the year comes to a close.” The small booth at the front of the store stunk of stale beer and soda pop and cleaning it was among the store’s more stomach-turning tasks.
“C’mon, man. Now? It’s New Year’s Eve. I cleaned it
yesterday morning.”
“I don’t care. If you’ve got time to lean.”
Stifling a scowl, Tim left the register area and headed
for the bottle return.
Dowdy moved on to Sarah, a newer cashier. “What are
you doing tonight?”
“Me and my boyfriend are going to a party on Big Moose Lake,” replied Sarah. She had only worked at the store for a few months, but she was already an expert at deflecting her boss’ harassment.
“Is that right?! I bet you get wild with a few drinks in
you.”
Sarah forced an uncomfortable smile. “I’m sure your
wife will be glad to see you after work.”
“She’ll be asleep. How about I swing over to that party
of yours and take you for a ride over the ice on my new
snowmobile.”
“I don’t think my boyfriend would like that...”
“Oh, c’mon. Live a little.” Jason grabbed her forearm,
and she recoiled, causing the store manager to chuckle.
“Leave her alone, dude,” said Stephen.
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THE BIG ‘m’
“Mind your own business, Drew.”
“Really, Jason. I’m not interested,” said Sarah, quietly.
“Huh?” said Jason, looking back and forth at his two
subordinates.
“Take a hint,” added Stephen, having seen Dowdy
harass Sarah on a near-daily basis.
“I want you in my office, now,” said Dowdy to Stephen.
Stephen reluctantly followed him to the back of the
store.
“We have to talk. I’m not happy with your management
style.” Dowdy sat behind his desk and shuffled some papers, never making eye contact with Stephen. “I heard you let
Harold off the other day on an hour’s notice?”
“His grandmother had just died.”
“You’re too soft. I have a store to run.” Dowdy briefly
look at Stephen. They were both in their mid-thirties,
college-educated, stood about the same height, and had
similar familial attachments. The main difference between
the t
wo, and in the hierarchy of the store, was the fact that Dowdy had gone on to get his MBA from Oswego State.
“And I see you tossed out that smoked ham I told you was
fine.”
“It smelled rancid. I can’t serve that to customers.”
“It’s not your place. Listen, I’m going to have to ask for your resignation.”
“What?!”
“It’s been a long time coming, Drew.”
“I’m a good manager. The shelves are full each morning.
The place is spotless at the end of my shift.” Stephen’s lip quivered as he thought of his daughter.
“Stephen, this morning I found four cans of peas, labels inward! That is not up to my standards. I’ve already spoken to Mr. Mendel about this weeks ago. He’s fine with your
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CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
resignation.” Dowdy removed a form resignation letter
from his desk for Stephen to sign.
Stephen signed the paper, his hand shaking as he
considered the lack of employment opportunities in the
Central Adirondacks in mid-winter. “So I shouldn’t show
up tomorrow?”
“No, you can still show up, stock, and clean while I
look for somebody who can do the job.”
Stephen left the office, dejected. His paycheck from
the Big ‘M’ wasn’t much, but it made due in Eagle Bay, kept his kid fed. He had always been able to tolerate Dowdy, for the sake of his daughter. It hadn’t been the first time he’d stood up for a fellow coworker or pushed Dowdy’s buttons,
but he had never expected such an abrupt dismissal. With
his rent payment looming, he spent the next few hours
pacing up and down aisles, his anger rising as the seconds ticked toward midnight.
Soon, the remaining employees clocked out and
hurried to their respective celebrations, leaving only
Stephen, Tim, and Dowdy to close.
Tim was still in the bottle return, finishing his cleanup
job, when he heard a loud, metallic screech come from the
back of the store. He sighed, got up and left for the back room, figuring that the old box crusher had broken down
again. When he pushed open the stock room’s swinging
doors, he spotted Stephen standing on two pallets, leaning over the dumpster-sized cardboard compactor. He could
see that the machine had gotten stuck midway. The motor
was still whirring.
“What happened?” said Tim, walking up to the
machine.
Stephen turned to Tim, his face pale and expressionless.
“I was pulling pallets and I heard the machine break down—
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THE BIG ‘m’
and I heard him scream…”
“Huh? Where’s Dowdy?”
“He’s in the machine.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean...look in the machine.”
Tim stepped up onto the makeshift platform and
looked down into the compactor. He caught a glimpse of a
crushed arm and a few trickles of blood seeping down onto
the partially crushed cardboard.
“What the fuck?! Is he dead?”
“I don’t know.” Stephen pushed the UP button on the
machine. It whirred loudly, but didn’t budge.
“How’d he get in there?” asked Tim.
“I don’t know. He must’ve been trying to clear a jam
and it came down on him. You know this machine’s been
having issues, and they’re too cheap to get it replaced.”
Tim attempted to open the front panel of the machine,
to no avail.
“You know you can’t open the front when the machine’s
on,” said Stephen. “Do you have your phone on you? We
need to call an ambulance.”
“No, it’s in the office.”
“Okay, I’ll go call,” said Stephen, but Tim grabbed
him by the arm.
“Wait a second,” said Tim. “Does this machine still go
down?”
“Huh? It will go down all the way, but it won’t go
back up,” replied Stephen, studying his friend’s odd
countenance. “I’m going to go grab my phone and call an
ambulance.”
“Are you sure he’s dead?”
They simultaneously looked down into the compactor.
A breathless half-minute passed before they saw a finger on
• 91 •
THE BIG ‘m’
the mangled hand move, as if answering Tim’s query.
“Okay, I’ll go call the ambulance,” stated Stephen.
Tim again caught Stephen by the arm as he made
to leave. “Hold up, dude. It’s probably better if this guy doesn’t make it through this, right?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s a bad look for you, either way. You were back here
alone with him. He ends up in the box crusher after he
forces you to resign...”
Stephen paused, realizing that the circumstances did
appear suspicious. “I didn’t push him in, man.”
“Just think about all of the people he’s fucked over
since Reggie retired,” said Tim, getting himself worked-
up over the past. “Remember Dave Philippio, the butcher?
He fired him off of one silly tourist complaint, and now
he’s the drunk of Old Forge. The guy had four daughters.
Think about all the young girls he’s harassed over the years.
You run this place, and he doesn’t do shit. He’s trying to send you back to minimum wage, man. How are you going
to support your family?”
“Sure, the guy’s a piece of shit, but this isn’t right...”
“Seems simple enough, Steve. If he lives, it isn’t good
for you. If he dies, it will be good for everybody...”
Stephen eyed the DOWN button, knowing that the
machine would ensure Dowdy’s demise if he wasn’t already
deceased.
“Hell, they’ll probably make you the new store
manager,” added Tim.
There was a brief moment of silence between the two,
before Stephen spoke. “Tim, go up front and get your
phone.”
Tim nodded and shrugged, then left the back room. As
the double doors swung behind him, he was startled to hear
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CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
the distinct sound of the compacting machine, whirring
loudly and completing its task.
• 94 •
• X •
DRACULA'S BRIDE
Every neighborhood has a haunted house. When I
was a kid, ours wasn’t an actual house, but a wooden
chapel set back into a small immigrant cemetery known as
Sunshire Hill. I’d grown up in the Village of Lestershire, went to school and college nearby, and built a successful
lawn and gardening business. I had mostly forgotten the
old cemetery on the hillside after my family moved across
town in my late teens, that was until I took on a summer’s-long service contract to cut the grass at Sunshire. It was the first time in my ten years of business that I didn’t see a contract through to its end.
I went to the cemetery without my work crew for the
first few weeks, usually at the end of the day. It was only an hour or two of labor. I would breeze through with the
mower, whack a few weeds away from the overgrown markers
and monuments, paying little attention to the memories
conjured
with each pass by those aged, wooden walls. Yes,
the chapel was still standing, minus some rotting beams
and a few cracked windows. It didn’t look much different
than it had in my youth—like the sort of place Vlad Dracul would have stopped to take Holy Communion on the
road to Bucharest. Real Old World. It loomed over the
neighborhood when I was growing up, and was the center of
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CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
our lore-filled adventures and dare-based one-upmanship.
The chapel at Sunshire was a throwback to another time;
it stood out like a sore thumb amidst the hillside of tidy, factory-built homes and manicured lawns.
By the third week on the job I couldn’t help but think
fondly, nostalgically, of the neighborhood and the cemetery itself. There had been a part-time caretaker, but even back then the property reflected its decades-long neglect. The
caretaker’s job description seemed to be ‘run a mower every couple of weeks in the summer, but mostly make sure the
rusty cemetery gate opened each morning and closed before
dark.’ Easy as hell. It’s not like the gate mattered all that much anyway; the fence only enclosed half of the cemetery.
After the caretaker had gone, we would ride our bikes
up to the fence and discuss what, and more importantly who, lay inside the desolate structure, and which neighborhood
crone invited the chapel’s inhabitant in each night for a
bite to eat. In our neighborhood, it was Mrs. Ellsic. The
old bat was usually the one to chase us off, as her house
was the nearest to Sunshire. She was well known among
the local kids, specifically for her oversized broom that
she was rarely seen without. We would spot her tending
to graves occasionally as we pedaled by, and someone even
swore they’d seen her sweeping the steps of the chapel.
Everyone knew her as Dracula’s Bride, either because she
lived in closest proximity to the chapel and looked the part, or because when riled up she would scream in her native
tongue and it sounded like some sort of nasty spell.
But most nights around twilight, late in the summer,
my friends and I would peer through the fence at the chapel, conspiring about how we would convince a latecomer that we had seen a candle in the window, or heard an unearthly howl from the wooded area between the chapel and Mrs. Ellsic’s
• 96 •