 There is a town just off a forgotten exit on a lost highway. It is a town entombed by sycamores and shadows, trapped between our realm and another, in otherworldly hamlet misplaced on earth. It is a town that should be lost to legend and night terrors. Yet unlike folk tales as tall as the sycamores that conceal it, the town of weirdling woods is real. In this ominous dimension, this playground for the wicked, life is a nesting doll layered in unrelenting mystery and macabre. Mythology is reality and reality is a fractured spectrum of madness. Come for a visit and stay for eternity. There are thousands of stories in the cursed town of weirdling woods. This is but one of them. Now join me as we take a walk through weirdling woods. Bounty Joe Tillis decided that the bounty would go directly to the families of the victims. Justice or vengeance, by the reward, would be enough to fill his coffers. Tillis didn't see the dark county welcome sign as he sped down the fog and fasted highway. He missed it because at that exact moment his GPS began to scramble, which wouldn't have been all too strange had the ankle monitor tracking device not done the same. The grizzled ex-sheriff huffed and sipped the last of the necessary but atrocious gas station coffee staining the tips of his white mustache as shade of mahogany. More work, he thought, though the hunt would now become more raw, more visceral, a throwback to the old-timers' glory days. In his prime, cops had no technology or digital advantage. Somehow, that was better. The competitive tickle in his expansive belly began to flutter in anticipation. Of course, the long trip was more than just a retired sheriff moonlighting as a bounty hunter for kicks. It was more than collecting a $25,000 reward. Far more. This was personal. As his first ex-wife once said, One truth can never be changed. Wayne Gilchrist will forever live inside the sheriff. Gilchrist was the biggest albatross to Joe Tillis' peacekeeping oath. From middle school to Khan College, Gilchrist had terrorized the faraway town of Grover's Mill. Vandalism led to Grand Theft Auto, which led to strong armed robbery, countless drug trafficking charges, and, finally, the big one, murder. At least that last charge was how Tillis and the entire town of Grover's Mill saw it. The courts, however, took a different approach. As he had done since childhood, the scourge Gilchrist dodged fate with a laughable sentence. An excuse or technicality always seemed to favor Wayne Gilchrist. In horrifying fashion, this would include the arson that snuffed seven lives, including Tillis' niece, Alice. The entire trial was sullied with legalese. Gilchrist emerged from the rebel with a short sentence and a psych ward, and this was unending torment for the grieving community. Grover's Mill had become victim to Wayne Gilchrist once more. Escaping from that minimum security joke was inevitable. So foregone a conclusion that Tillis would fall asleep to the disorienting humming from an old police scanner waiting for the alert. One day it came. Now, according to the tracking device, Gilchrist was somewhere in the same strange county as the sheriff, though how the smug, evasive killer arrived from so far away was a mystery. The irony poked and prodded Tillis. His mind began to ponder how his nemesis could be smart enough to escape, but not smart enough to clip the angle monitor until arriving in the town of Weirdling Woods. Before the monitoring device went on the fritz, revealing its location in sporadic bursts, it showed no movement within Weirdling Woods, and it was obvious that the escaped convict had left the gadget lying somewhere. Logic would also give the possibility that the perp was lying dead in a ravine, but Tillis and the citizens of Grover's Mill did not possess such luck. Sheriff Tillis didn't need the monitoring device though because he had something lacking in modern law enforcement. Instinct. He knew Gilchrist as well as he knew himself. The perp wouldn't get far, not without money, and especially not in a medical gown. Nor would he remain anonymous with that latest hideous addition that nullified Gilchrist's ability to blend in. That stupid scorpion tattoo plastered on his face was a flesh-bound spotlight. Weighing Gilchrist, the white whale, the vile stench that permeated Grover's Mill and Joe Tillis' mind needed to simply cease to exist. Sometimes justice outside of the system was a grey area that needed to be visited. Weirdling Woods was that grey area and the two men were there now, playing tourist. There was one certainty. It had to die here in the infamous town of Weirdling Woods one way or another. The former sheriff's fuzzy lip curled into a smile as he massaged the worn grip of his revolver and revved the engine towards destiny. The car radio finally began to pick up reception as the city limits of Weirdling Woods approached. He shuffled through the channels, dodging the commercials and music that he couldn't be bothered with. That was the 80s classic. She drives me crazy by the fine young cannibals. Click. Tomorrow night, at midnight on Channel 18, catch the annual Homer Thon, starting with the Eli Roth instant classic, The Green Inferno, followed by Click. Finally, he landed on inspired radio and sunk in. Through the stand speakers on K-dead AM radio, a golden-throated host whispered into the night. Ultra doors lock your windows. Turn off your lights and come with me into the weird darkness. Classic American radio as it used to be. Tillis lost himself in the man's velvety words as the car puttered into town on a drizzly November eve. An hour passed as Sheriff Tillis cruised the streets of Weirdling Woods on a scouting mission, looking for anything. It was an interesting little hamlet so far. Somehow, folksy enough to be a village yet geographically large enough to be a city. The bizarre stories he had heard about the place seemed plausible for some reason. The place held an eerie vibe, an eclectic mix. The buildings and houses and structures seemed undecided on a theme. Maybe disarray was the theme. Southern Gothic, art deco, modern and classic, whatever the intent, continuity seemed lost by design. One street would be lined with sycamores and picket fences, while the next was a graffiti-ridden urban sprawl molded from dirty concrete. Tillis was reminded of that paranormal soap opera from his childhood, Dark Shadows, yet also the whitewashed town in Leave It to Beaver. Labeling it was fruitless, much like his diet. No people were out at that hour so he couldn't make further observations about the city. Who would be out on a chilly, rain-trodden night? Gilchrist would be. Somewhere out there, maybe in one of those lonely buildings or an unattended shed or even the forest that swallowed the town, weighing Gilchrist was lurking like a hidden specter. Tillis, peered through the droplets of water collected on his driver's side window and stared. His eyes pierced on both the nothingness of the evening and the soul of weighing Gilchrist. As midnight hit, a respite from the many hours behind the wheel was needed. One does not achieve a waistline as Tillis had without practice and his stomach began to rumble in unison with the thunder. Getting Marlar Avenue, which seemed to be the main drag in town, many restaurants showed promise, but only two produced neon signs announcing they were still open. They were next to one another which seemed odd. Tillis took his usual slow exit from the car and placed his Stetson cowboy hat atop his balding head. Then he stood in front of the competing restaurants directly in between as if faced with some culinary Sophie's choice. To his left was a dive called Bruno's Pizza, with the beef flickering a dying powder blue hue inside the bulb. To his right was a traditional greasy spoon, simply labeled Diner. No cute name or gimmick, just Diner. A man of the old ways, pure meatloaf and apple pie and Americana, Tillis' stomach reached the door of the diner before his hand did, a jingling bell announcing his arrival to all inside. The creatures of the night made little sound inside of the diner, silence broken only by the scrape of a fork or an errant cough. As Joe Tillis looked around the joint, he smiled. From the long sit-down counter to the paper-hatted cooks to the catchy bars of the old Archie's song Sugar Sugar on the jukebox, it felt like home. Though he had never been there, he knew the place, or at least he'd known countless spots like it. In the old days he'd belly up to the counter, but these days his belly required a table. As soon as his posterior touched the cherry red cushion, she appeared. Evening cowboy, haven't seen you before, what brings you to our humble establishment? Tillis looked up and immediately noticed a woman's height, weight, age, bubblegum color, and name tag. Cops were trained that way. Vera, what a beautiful name. Has anybody told you how much you look like, a young earthy kit? Vera clad in a pink diner waitress uniform that hugged every curve with reckless abandon, blushed. Oh cowboy, I'm supposed to be working you for a tip, not the other way around. Much obliged by the compliment, darling, but I'm fifty years old. I haven't looked like a young anything in a long time. Now, you're a young earthy kit. Fifty is an age that I'd kill to be again. Name's Joe. You're right. First time I'm here. In fact, I've never been to weirdling woods before. Heard a lot about it, though. Oh, good things, I hope, Vera replied. You must be a yard dog or freight shaker hitting town for some motion lotion in a choking puke, I assume? Coming in at this hour and all? Tillis grinned, instantly recognizing the trucker lingo. He didn't wear a badge anymore, so it was an understandable conclusion on her part, given the hour. He decided to answer back in trucker-speak, something he picked up as a hobby in semi-retirement with the help of a CB radio. No, ma'am. Just a retired county-mountain looking for some decent jumping juice and a bed. Vera laughed. Apologies, Sheriff. There's a motel two blocks away. They'll give you a discount for being law enforcement. As far as jumping juice, well, I have the best coffee in the world heating up in the back for you. Various stoop gathering eyes of Sheriff. Pretty and well-read, your door must have danced from all the fellas beaten on it. I gotta tell you, though, every diner I've been to claims they have the best coffee. Younger the, we'll see about that, Tillis kidded. Take a look at the menu, smoking bear. I'll put my money where my mouth is, Vera hummed as she walked off, perhaps with a bit of bounce, not common in her usual repertoire. The waitress knew that her new customer was watching her walk away in that tight-fitting uniform, and from his table, Joe Tillis, indeed, could not look away. Fifty must be the new thirty, he thought. It was all in good fun, though. Any chance to relieve his mind of weighing Gilcrest was a blessing. Catching that man had become his life's work. Obsession would be a better turn of phrase for it, actually. As his second ex-wife once said, One truth can never be changed, weighing Gilcrest will forever live inside the sheriff. When Vera returned with the Java, she asked Tillis if he'd glanced at the menu, but he knew the diner game. The best thing on the menu would be the special. Heck, it was even in the word itself. It was special. As he asked about it, the coffee hit his taste causing a sensation that made him interrupt himself. What's this spiked with, Vera? Holy moly, do you win? This is the best coffee I've ever had. I hope we didn't bet on that because you weren't kidding. Vera pulled out a chair and sat down. Darling, I don't leave the house without my face done, and I don't lie. That right there is a weirdlin' woods treasure, weird dark roast, brewed just up the way at a cute little beannery called the Little Coffee Shop of Horrors. You wouldn't believe how many people become addicted. They ship nationwide, you know. Celebrities have an ongoing order. The president even stopped there on his campaign tour. Tillis took another deep sip, closing his eyes and savoring every drop. Oh, I do believe I have changed from a doubting Thomas to a convert, Miss Vera. This is amazing. Forget the special. What else is your neck of the woods known for? I mean food-wise. You know, like Philadelphia has cheesesteak, Cincinnati has chili, New York has pizza, because whatever it is. And if you have it, I'll take it without asking another question. If it comes close to matching your coffee recommendation, I'd be happier than a dog in a butcher's shop. Vera blew a bubble and studied Tillis for a moment. Then she stood with the conclusion. Say no more, dollface. You'll be a regular weirdo when I finish with you. That's our pet nickname for locals, by the way. I'll be back in a few. Tillis again watched her walk away, then attempted to focus on the task at hand. The town layout, as well as the most recent mugshots of Gilcrest, were sprawled out on the table. The plan of attack was being concocted in his head. Circles indicated starting search points and Xs would cross off areas already scoured. The napkin dispenser was home base. The ketchup bottle was the sedan. The salt shaker represented him, white to match his hair and, well, salty to match his demeanor. It was strange to the sheriff as he sipped that hot magical elixir and dove into a daydream, knowing that somewhere nearby, Wayne Gilcrest was breathing the same air, perhaps even watching Tillis as he sat exposed in the diner. Exposure was a real threat. Gilcrest was an army unto himself, younger and stronger, and with nothing to lose. Tillis knew he had the advantage, where it counted, though. In a battle of wits, Gilcrest was unarmed against the veteran lawman's stockpile of ammo. Vera's hand interrupted his thoughts as she set the meal down. Are you still with this sheriff? Where'd you go? Tillis chuckled. I'm a deep thinker, young earth. What culinary masterpiece have you prepared for me this fine evening? Looking down, his first impression was not favorable. Mincemeat pie? Diner food was a hamburger, fries, lots of gravy, maybe a malt, basically anything that was American or Americanized and artery clogging. Mincemeat pie was something British people ate at Christmas, and in terms of national cuisine, the English offerings tended to be far less upscale than their accent. Vera picked up on the trepidation immediately and spoke before Tillis could. I thought I'd earned your trust with the coffee cowboy. The young earth, right? Would catwoman do Batman wrong? I'm Batman now. Sometimes cowboy, sometimes sheriff now. Batman. Your character, Vera, call me Joe. Truthfully, though, as Batman, I used to have a hard time believing Gotham's citizens would enjoy this. Tillis said, as he stabbed at the dish with a fork. You know what, I'm not going to be rude when in Rome, right? Count me in as an honorary native weirdo. Vera's eyes beamed satisfaction as Joe Tillis took a reluctant bite. As she expected, his expression changed in an instant. Miss Vera, you did it again. I'll have been needing stock advice next. If I'd discovered this years ago, I might still be married because I'm at a loss for words, and my mouth was what did me in with each former Mrs. Tillis. Wow. Another heaping bite. They come from all over for this Batman, she said, emphasizing the Dark Knight's name. I get to choose your nickname, by the way, not you. It's in the waitress' handbook. The brandy butter really ties it together, doesn't it? It's finger food in England, but we added our touch, so you'll need a fork and spoon. It's a diner, after all. That right there is one of the many reasons our little slice of heaven is just that. Now, Vera said as she once again pulled a chair for herself, this time directly next to Tillis, you said you were retired. Are you writing your memoirs or was that a lie? Her eyes pointed to the photos on the table. The sheriff took a pensive bite of his food and cleared his throat. I'm a private citizen doing a public service, and can we just leave it at that? I suppose we can. But I've been here since birth and you've been here 20 minutes and have a seriously outdated map. None of my business, though. Cowboy Joe, the sheriff of Gotham, she teased, and she began to rise. Tillis motioned for her to sit down. Apologies, truly. I didn't mean to sound so curt. It was quite a drive, this fella I'm after, and I'm licensed to collect his bounty, just so you know that I'm legit his one bad man. I'd hate for him to infect your little slice of heaven like you did in my town. You seen any things suspicious or anything like that? Maybe a stranger wandering around, looking lost? Better yet, he continued as he chose the best mugshot and handed the photo to her. Have you seen him at all? I'm pretty sure you'd remember. That stupid face tattoo and all. With a keen eye, Vera studied the mugshot before setting it aside. Have I seen anything suspicious? Yes, but it's weirdly woods. That's a given. Stick around long enough and you'll understand. No, I definitely would have remembered him, though. He doesn't blend in with the weirdos here. You're right, that tattoo is stupid. Is that a crab tattoo on his cheek? Doesn't seem like something someone on the run would find advantageous. Does the crab have a meaning? Nope, it does not, Vera. And it's a scorpion, though I suppose that doesn't much matter. These people, they get strung out and make stupid decisions. Wayne here just makes really stupid decisions that cause death. I need him off the streets, dead or alive. I'm not sure if I care which. Oh, easy, Joe, Vera responded. Batman has suddenly become quite interesting. Would it be presumptuous to ask more about his crimes? I apologize, I'm just the type that watches Dateline religiously and I've never been this close to the real thing. Tilles took another bite and chased it with the delicious coffee as if he couldn't help himself. Against his judgment, his lifelong affection for Earth a kit swayed him enough to slide Wayne Gilcrest's jacket to Vera. You owe me a free refill, Tilles winked. Vera sifted through the phonebook-thick density of Gilcrest's rap sheet. Tilles finished his plate and exhaled with satisfaction. Then he pulled out his archaic note-keeping method, a yellow legal pad and blue ink pen, and asked a few questions. First, he asked where the Weirling Woods police headquarters was, an address she knew without a flinch. Odd, but she did say she'd lived there her entire life. Next, he asked about securing a helicopter to canvas the vast woods beyond town, again receiving a direct answer. This surprised him because of the abnormality of the request. What about the odds of securing updated maps of the town? She'd print them right off the computer in the back office, no problem. Everything was seamless. Then Tilles asked where the nearest homeless shelter was. To this, Vera turned her head the way a confused dog does. What does that mean, Joe? Tilles thought it was obvious, but then remembered citizens didn't think like cops did. Well, if a fugitive needs a free meal and a cot without ID, a homeless shelter would be the next place I'd check after the local jails. So where might I find the nearest homeless shelter? Again, confusion plastered Vera s face. I m not trying to understand what you're saying, Sheriff. Are you looking for the animal shelter? His mind spoke to him. Was she joking? She didn't know what a homeless shelter was? She couldn't actually be a moron, could she? Well, of course she could. The waitress was wired bad. That had to be it because no one could be blessed enough to be an earth a kit doppelganger without some type of downside. It s okay, Vera. I'll ask your sheriff, Tilles said. No, she interjected. What are... I don't understand that word. What is homeless? Why would someone not have a home? It s like you just strung together two words that don't belong together. Like, she looked at Joe's Stetson hat and then his empty plate. It s like if I said, Hey, hand me that hat spoon. It makes no sense. What is... I don't know. I guess I m confused. Whatever you re talking about must be something they do or you re from. I ve never heard of it. Tilles stared at her in silence. Again, he spoke to himself and thought, She s confused. Step into the boots of this old cop. Was she actually trying to make this believable? Or maybe playing a game? Was he to believe that she had no knowledge not only of a homeless shelter but the concept of being homeless itself? This doesn't pass the old smell test. From the vantage of a lawman, Vera suddenly seemed quite suspicious. Vera, who s the poorest man in Weirdling Woods? You have people who beg for money on the streets? They have runaways? Why would anyone need to beg for money? There s an ATM on every corner and who s running from what? You are a very peculiar man, Batman Joe. Tilles felt a bit creeped out and suddenly began to feel the eyes of fellow diners and staff on him, real or imagined. He stayed for a bit and continued to flirt though his heart wasn t in it. It was a distraction tactic to make it seem as though everything was normal in case he needed to retrace his step. It was better to appear as a friend than foe. Any cop could tell you that. Tilles managed some small talk for a while, followed by directions to the motel and a generous tip. He felt like he had to be anywhere but that diner and relief overcame him the moment he stepped onto the sidewalk. As he turned to the ignition, he took one last look at the diner and shook his head. Vera s silhouette could be seen in the window, watching. Weirdos, he said aloud. His stomach rumbled and he was hungry once more for the minced meat pie. I thought he never imagined he d have. What a perfect nickname. He sure can cook though. Within seconds, the diner was in his rear-view mirror. Morning crashed in with only a few minutes of sleep. Tilles was grumpy but the hunt had to begin. He located the memorable named coffee shop and ordered two cups of that hypnotic blend from last night and poured them into an empty big gulp cup. He thought he might have dreamt about the coffee as it held his mind hostage with craving the moment he pried his eyes open. A sedan was left at the coffee shop and he opted to walk the town. It was a nice enough day and the rain had subsided. Besides, running into Wayne Gilchrist on the street was not an insane improbability. How glorious would that be, killing the cancer of Grover s Mill for Alice, for the residents, for himself. The gritty detective he once was began to emerge from his cocoon. Weirdling Woods was a nice place if not eccentric. Hipsters and yuppies commingled with senior citizens and children in blue collar types. It was a United Nations of diversity. Not one of the citizens had a facial tattoo, which was nice. If that wasn t a trend, locating Gilchrist would be easier, no matter how well the murderous misfit had disguised himself. After all, a scorpion tattoo on a man s cheek was not cosmetic blemish that could easily be hidden. Some areas of town were a complete circus. On Elm Street, the circus reference was almost literal. For no discernible reason, caricature artists and bodybuilders and acrobats and men on unicycles sauntered about. It reminded Tyllis of the Venice Beach Boardwalk. Then he hit Lampkin Lane and was met with silence and an eerie calm that made it seem as if God had paused that particular section of the planet. The layout of the city was amazing. Joe imagined it was designed by a zany madman architect who wanted everything in one place whether it belonged or not. On one side was the ocean, the other mountainous pillars of snow-capped trees. In the middle was a flurry of skyscrapers and clusters of suburbia. Peaking atop the tallest trees in the forest was a set of concrete gargoyle towers. Tyllis asked to pass her by what it connected to. The woman seemed incredulous, insinuating this was information everyone ought to know. Marlar man or tourist, she said, without stopping her brisk pace. It clicked. That name. The diner was on the main drag, he thought, Marlar Avenue. Whoever this Marlar person was sure had left an imprint. I wonder if he is Oz in this fantasy of a town. Tyllis attempted to ask the dismissive and quickly banishing lady if he could visit the place, just out of curiosity, and another resident, an older man walking his Doberman nearby, interjected himself into the exchange. Buddy, will he Marlar man or alone in these parts? It's a respect thing to honor Ruben Marlar and his contributions to our utopia. Of course there's no law stopping you from visiting, I suppose, assuming you could find it, but then you might end up in the unsettled, and that's a dangerous gambit. You know they give trolley tours over on Woodsboro Road. Would you like me to show you? My father-in-law runs the tour. Walk with me, young man. Tyllis tipped his hat like a gentleman and said thanks, but no thanks. His thoughts scrambled again. His father-in-law? The old man had to be pushing 90. Was his father-in-law Methuselah? The gorgeous landscape can't be denied, but man, this town is as bizarre as it is beautiful. Eventually he landed at the police department and, having done his homework, asked to see Chief Nicholas Castle. The disinterested clerk informed him that the chief wasn't available, so the old sheriff pulled his badge and used his status to inquire about any recent arrests. The woman seemed confused, arrests, not since I've been here, and that's been 19 years, come may. Who did you say you were with, unbelievably thought, or maybe said aloud. It was unbelievable to tell us a town of respectable size, a popular town, a famous town, and no arrests. He looked at his coffee and began to wonder if it had indeed been spiked. This woman was the police facsimile of Vera at the diner, at least in personality, not as pretty, of course, but the notion of arrests was as foreign to this policewoman as the concept of transient people was to Vera. He rubbed his eyes, a nervous tick employed when frustrated. The clerk began to pepper him with questions that he didn't hear. Behind her, some ways, creeping through a slightly ajar door, he could see the filled jail cells through a squint. Only, they were filled with boxes and files, not inmates. It was storage, extra storage, and nothing else. Then he made the mistake of asking the clerk something he already knew what the answer would be. What is homeless, sir? I don't understand the question. Tillis walked more that day than he had in years, mostly because he was lost. It felt like he was in that maze from the shining. His encounters so far had rendered everyone in town abnormal. Now everyone seemed suspicious, even a group of children playing Red Rover. Was this a Twilight Zone episode? How could such pedestrian things be non-existent to these people? Hunger pangs informed the top cop that it was lunchtime, and suddenly he had a hankering for that mincemeat pie. Again, a strange hankering which would have puzzled him at the entire trip so far not been a deep dive into the murky waters of peculiarity. Everyone he asked was pleasant, but not much help. After all, with diner as the only descriptor, his request was quite vague. The hunger grew with his frustration until he remembered his culinary's Sophie's Choice when he asked a taco truck vendor for directions to the diner's next door neighbor, Bruno's Pizza. The request was granted, even though the vendor seemed depressed to be guiding someone to a rival restaurant. Always about the mincemeat pie, the vendor mumbled as Tillis walked off, somehow aware of the sheriff's actual destination. Covered in sweat when he finally arrived, Tillis' eyes whitened. Had a comedic double take from a generic sitcom applied to real life, this was the time. There was Bruno's on the left, there was no doubt about that, even the flickering powder blue bee on the neon sign told him he was in the same place as last night. To the right though, well, there was an empty storefront, not recently empty either, thick build-ups of dust on the window and the construction mess inside told that story. His debts and hat could have flown off from this ominous site. How? It makes no sense, he thought. There's no doubt that this is the right place, right? It has to be, unless Bruno's is a franchise, but the exact letter flickering from the neon? What is going on? Okay Joe, he continued to negotiate with himself. You're under stress. Wayne Gilchrist is somewhere within reach and you're losing it with your anxiety. It was a long drive, you barely slept, it doesn't make sense. Think about it, the weight of Grover's mill is on your shoulders and it's giving you the yips. Eartha Kits twin flirting with you, serving you coffee and of all things mincemeat pie that you loved? No, that's your brain closing in on you, old man. It isn't real. You need sleep or whiskey, get either immediately. Tilda said no idea how to use a rideshare service and the sedan was somewhere across town, so it was a dash of nostalgic relief when he saw the yellow cab. Look over motel please, he said upon flagging the driver down. It was time for a nap. The bounty could wait a few hours. Tilda's hadn't gone this long without food since… ever. Waking up from his nap as Dusk set in, the guilt he felt was his own fault. Now he had set himself back several hours in his manhunt. Gilchrist might not even be in Weirdling Woods anymore. He had checked into the motel under a pseudonym with no real information given, but there was every chance that the escaped convict had become the hunter and was watching the old sheriff. Their history was quite Marvel versus DC, Coke versus Pepsi, only much bloodier, he hoped. Blood would spill, certainly. That would be the only true resolution to their war. As his third ex-wife once said, One truth can never be changed, Wayne Gilchrist will forever live inside the sheriff. The usual groan followed as his body creaked and struggled upright. Sundown fell on the windowsill and the wasted time disgusted him. It was well beyond time to hunt. A mental cursory check ensued after a quick freshen up. Keys, firearm, cuffs, taser, new maps, tracking monitor… where was the broken monitor? Normal people would dash into an instant panic over a missing item, but being trained in rational thought, as well as a stout believer in Occam's razor, Tillis remembered feeling like the room was different earlier before his nap. Then he remembered the flashing red light from the motel phone, a flashing light that beaconed a voicemail from the front desk. Interesting. His mind raced. Was the gadget still broken? Maybe suffering from some wonky malfunction that caused an outburst as it died? Or was a miracle afoot? Could it possibly still be attached to Gilchrist? Could Gilchrist still be here somewhere near? Butterflies attacked his gut. The dance was back on. Tillis followed a wraparound sidewalk toward the front desk when something called from the corner of his eye. He recognized the man immediately, not the fugitive Gilchrist, but an obvious transient man rummaging through dumpsters down an adjacent alley on the back end of the motel. Eyes were locked as the transient man also noticed Tillis. Tangible fear then spread across the homeless man's face and the sheriff turned away. No homeless people, my butt! Tillis thought. Validation overcame him. He was not crazy nor imagining things. The collective sanity, or worse, the curious intent of the townspeople to hide something, however, was a question that needed an answer when all this was finished. He quickly retrieved the tracking device from Arnie and asked the front desk clerk to call a cab to take him to his car. Rapid speed was detected on the ankle monitor while he waited for his chariot. Tillis turned to the skinny man behind the counter. Arnie, right? Let me ask you a question. Are there any trains that come through town, maybe that head out west like, say, earlier today? Arnie scratched his wispy mustache and thought, yes sir, in fact there is like clockwork, a freight line. Yep, I do believe I heard the whistle today, in fact, yes sir. Tillis grimaced and grinned in one motion. Gilchrist. The trail was hot now. It was also speeding away at 90 miles per hour. Arnie, the desk jockey, asked, Mr. Matthews, can I follow up your question with one of my own? Lost in planning and waiting for the cab, Tillis barely heard the man but obliged. You got it, partner. Arnie cleared his throat, obviously nervous. Why do you have a picture of Jake? I'm a little skieved out by that. Tillis turned to face him. Jake? Yes, sir. Arnie replied with apprehension. I wasn't snooping, but when I went into your room earlier to stop that beeping, I couldn't help but notice all the stuff laid out on your bed. And you had a picture of Jake and, well, it spooked me. Tillis rifled through his duffel in a hurry and pulled out a mugshot of Gilchrist. Arnie, is this the Jake you're talking about? Yes, sir. Arnie replied after a cursory glance. Playing his day, is everything okay? Arnie, is Jake a guest at the motel? He was, till about a day or so ago. Nice young man, didn't expect that niceness. What with the bug tattoo on his face? Sure seems like it'd be counterproductive to get in a job. Probably why he tried to get a free night on credit, on account of no job, I reckon. Is everything okay with Jake? Why do you have that photo? Now, the visit to the front desk had turned into checkout time. This representing his expired badge again, Tillis used his confidence and expired credentials to gain entry into room 217, where Wayne Gilchrist had holed up like the rat he was. The Jillbird left no clues other than a three musketeers wrapper that housekeeping had missed. In minutes, the fast-working former sheriff had the final destination of the train Gilchrist had to be on. In his possession, he had a photocopy of the shoddy, fake ID Gilchrist constructed on the run. Worse than anything, the sheriff had the nauseating feeling of cruel irony, since he'd missed the escaped con by a day in the same motel at that. A late taxi and inescapable dark skies widened the gap between lawman and criminal, and that gap couldn't be closed by automobile. So Tillis first asked Arnie about the airport, then where he might find a bite to eat. I'll write out a shortcut to the airport, Arnie said as it began scribbling on scrap paper. There's an amazing diner on Marlar Avenue. Have you tried our minced meat pie yet? It's a weirdling wood staple, and I like theirs the best, though some prefer Magnanus. Both are great, but the one on Marlar Avenue partners with Hamilton's fish market, and friend, Hamilton's adds a touch of thanks again, Arnie. Tillis interrupted as the taxi pulled in. He couldn't help but think. I'm on a candy camera. Or LSD. What's with the folks here and all the bizarre quirks? Enough with the minced meat pie already. This town. It seemed silly as he fired up to Sedan and exited the coffee shop parking lot, especially having just judged Arnie and the entire town, but he had to have that pie before leaving. It was the kind of meal that you thought about instantly after finishing, wondering why you hadn't ordered more. Pulling out of the coffee shop, with what he affectionately referred to as a cup of me, Joe was immediately immersed in a traffic jam. His analytical mind again spoke to him. Of course, use the log jam to plot and plan your maneuvering, though never waste time, old man. Have you already forgotten how to be a lawman? Inching along, Tillis booked a direct flight to Fresno from the gadget he hated. The phone should just be a phone he'd long ago decided, that he was able to navigate through the booking process at all was more of a miracle than Fatima. Flying to Fresno was the only way to beat the train and ambush Gilcrest. How glorious it would be, the look on the scumbag's face as he flung open the boxcar door to meet a smiling Sheriff Tillis. His traffic came down to one lane, Tillis was stuck in the merging lane, where people would fight to the death to box him out. For a moment he seriously considered slapping the old siren atop the roof of the car, but that was illegal. Sometimes it was hard to reconcile retirement. So, like a good citizen, he waited with impatience and crawled forward with his horn honking hand-armed. At least the flight was a late one, according to the computer on his phone as he double-checked. The Sheriff knew he shouldn't be on the thing while driving and tossed it in the back. Finally, some generous soul let him pass and the crawl graduated to a snail's pace. When he finally reached the breakout point, the reason for the jam was familiar and clear. Two Weirdling Woods patrol cars had blocked the lane to conduct a car search and had obviously found some illicit treasure, a conclusion based on body language and the perp in the back cage of a patty wagon. No arrests in 19 years, huh? What is it you're up to, Weirdling? You're a series of mysteries. You'll be an afterthought soon enough. Then, as if driven on autopilot in a fever dream, Tillis found himself parked on Marlar Avenue. To the left was Bruno's Pizza, the powder blue B flickering inside the sign with familiarity. To the right, a bustling restaurant with the simple word diner on the marquee. Hey, Batman, the usual? Fear a welcome, Tillis, from across the diner like he was a native weirdo as he sat down at the same table as before. He was spooked at the reanimation the diner had seemed to undertake but decided to keep his emotions reserved, per usual. Certainly a logical explanation existed. A long flight lie ahead and he could figure out the magic trick then. For now, he'd mentally tasted the famous Weirdling Woods mincemeat pie since last night and it was time to will those thoughts into action. Forget being spooked or shaken. Hunger checkmated creep factor at that moment. You know it, young Eartha. Keep an extra one hot for carry out as well, will you, sugar? Vera smiled and perched her lips in obvious flirtation. Confirmation of the order came with a wink. Not three times by Tony Orlando and Don come from the jukebox. Tillis removed the Stetson hat from his head as a gentleman does and admitted a quiet groan as he settled. Something all older men were inclined to do. That special weird dark roast coffee hit the table before he could get comfortable and he wasted no time sipping on his third bean juice of the day. Vera once again pulled out the chair next to him and settled in. Tillis glanced at the room wondering if such an act kept her from other customers. He sort of hoped it did. That make him the target of genuine flirtatious acts and for that he'd be a willing and elated bullseye. So have you been working all day? Tillis asked as he took another sip. Cop stuff again. He told himself to lay off but couldn't fight his nature. Maybe he'd figure out why that same bustling diner was a dilapidated shell earlier after all. His innocuous police questioning. A liar held many tells and he was always primed. No, I just got in for the dinner, Rush. I'm a night owl. Daylight doesn't work well with me. How about you? How'd your work go today? Any luck finding your man? You've seen enough dateline to know I can't reveal that info, Vera. Had it out tonight though. Sorry to say, Fresno. I'm sure the coffee will be terrible. Well, that's not what I wanted to hear. I'd hope to see you stick around for a while. No info, little old me. I suppose you're right about dateline, but then again, you're not a cop anymore. You're Batman, right? Batman would never keep anything from Catwoman, just plain manners. Tillis played it cool. To be honest, Vera, I was never big on that goofy show. Too cartoony. Vera, the kid of my imagination, is less Catwoman and more the Santa Baby version. Some pressing work issue caught Vera's attention. As she rose, she smirked at Tillis. Don't go expecting me to serenade you in some sultry voice, Sheriff. I wouldn't want to soil your fantasy with my off-key screeching. I'll be back with your dinner in a sec, hon. With a third time in 24 hours, Tillis watched her walk away, and for the third time he enjoyed every second of it. It took great comfort in that she revealed no signs of deception according to his years of studying body language. That would be his excuse if she caught him staring at her. Body language study. From his briefcase, he pulled his yellow legal pad and organized his flight details. Then he checked the ankle monitor. Gilcrest was chugging along the rails at great speed. Soon, weighing, he mused, very soon we'll meet again. His old bloodhound has a few more bites left in him. Vera returned with the coveted mincemeat pie until us grabbed the plate from her hands before it could be set on the table. Like a sommelier inspecting a vintage wine, he inhaled the scrumptious aroma and let the smell burn the inside of his nose. Vera, you gotta give me the recipe before I go. Do you take bribes? Vera cast a sly grin. We'll see, Sheriff. The thing is, Catwoman would share such privileged information with Batman, but I'm more of a Santa baby earthy kit, so it'll never work. Even if your belly and white beard are so very Santa. Enjoy your dinner, Joe. Touche, he thought, in his sudden solitude as she disappeared. She was a feisty one, very quick indeed. He thought, I'll definitely have to stay longer next time, just in case our stars might align. As he enjoyed the first bite, he imagined Gilcrest in an empty boxcar honing in on the Rocky Mountains, thinking he'd escaped justice again. Near the Rocky Mountains in reality at that exact moment, an empty boxcar was indeed fast approaching, an ankle monitor scraping the floor with every twist and turn to the tracks. It was attached to an ankle that belonged to a leg. The leg was not attached to anything at all, a mere bloody stump. Back at the diner, Tillis mentally compiled his day as if filing a report. Old habits and all. What a town, he whispered to himself. No runaways, no homeless, no inmates. Yet I've seen those people without an inkling of doubt. But the jails are empty. Shelters non-existent, it just doesn't add up. One step closer to Gilcrest though, that's what's important. He's within reaching distance. He's in my sights. I'm just waiting to pull the trigger. A heaping piece of weirdling wood's native dish now clung to his fork. The utensil itself lingering inches from his mouth, looming in suspension and waiting to be eaten as he remained buried in his thoughts. I just wish I could know before I leave. I've seen drifters, man criminals, and everything weirdling woods denies. So if I just knew where, for my own sanity, where, where do all of those people go? In the reflection of the hot coffee that nestled still in his mug, if one were to look, a large chunk of white meat hanging from the fork revealed a very clear imprint of a scorpion. Then the ink-stained flesh was in Tillis' mouth. As his next ex-wife would one day say, one truth can never be changed. Wayne Gilcrest will forever live inside the sheriff. This was just one of numerous stories to be released in the weirdling woods universe written by John Allen. More stories will, of course, be featured here in the Weird Darkness podcast in the weeks and months to come. You can also find all of the stories in the Weirdling Woods book, coming soon to bookstores and online retailers, in paperback, hardback, ebook, and audiobook versions. In the pages, you'll also find a bonus story at the end which will not be used in the podcast, along with a fun list of Easter eggs to look out for within the stories. You can contact me, Darren Marlar, other John Allen, or learn more about this series at WeirdlingWoods.com. All stories in the Weirdling Woods series are written by John Allen, theme music written and recorded by Nicholas Gasperini, also known as horror composer Me You on YouTube. If you like this series, please share it with others and leave a rating and review of the series in the podcast app you listen from. Doing so helps Weirdling Woods get noticed. Weirdling Woods is a registered trademark, copyright Weird Darkness. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for walking with me through Weirdling Woods.