It’s been a week since the lady in white incident. I should probably clarify on some stuff from the last post before I update you all.
First, Louise is Rosco’s beloved shotgun, I believe he referred to it as an M4 Benelli Semi-Auto; for whatever reason, that makes it better than most others, and he treats it as if it were his child. When I mean he treats it like it's his child, I mean he talks to it like how a child talks to their favorite stuffed animal; with care and a vendetta towards anyone who dares to wrong it.
The second thing is Keaton, the local escaped psyche ward patient that lives out in the woods. As much as it sounds like it, that is not a joke, I am pretty sure he escaped from somewhere— I don’t know where, no one does, but he always wears this dirty white paper wristband. You know those ones that hospitals give to patients with all their information scribbled on them. Though anytime I tried to read it, the thing was so degraded, it was illegible. I have zero idea how it’s still magically holding on for dear life. Well, at least that’s the fun theory. Rosco believes he’s a government experiment and the wristband is some sort of tracker, which is why he never stays in one exact place for too long. One of those great mysteries I guess. Just like the only reason we know his name is because he offered to tell me if I were to trade him a crate of our rotten produce.
Honestly, that saved Rosco a battle with the raccoon army that occasionally rules our dumpster out back. I believe they’ve made a truce with the possums of the road, because I swear I saw both packs last week sharing dinner. Said dinner was a buck carcass that they were simultaneously dragging and eating; acting a bit too friendly to each other in my opinion.
Keaton, at this point, is a genuine mystery, and a growing urban legend among the townsfolk. Any time he comes by and causes a scene, he always somehow vanishes like a stinkin 'fart in the wind the second the deputy arrives and; cameras seem to just stop functioning anytime he’s around. If it weren’t for the random sightings reported by people in town and not just my sole accounts, I think law enforcement wouldn’t have even believed his existence, other than Deputy Heller. Then again, the sheriff and most of the other deputies likely still don’t believe it. One time Deputy Dempsey— oh yeah, almost forgot to mention, Deputy Dempsey is the day shift deputy, to understand there are two deputies that watch the store throughout their 12 hour shifts. There’s Deputy Heller for the night and Deputy Dempsey for the day. Deputy Dempsey, unlike Deputy Heller, doesn’t exactly believe in all the crap that I say happens in and around the store. You’d have a better time convincing a mule that the earth was flat and surrounded by a dome than getting Deputy Dempsey to believe a morbidly obese woman with cherub wings flew around, and wreaked havoc across the store. But that’s a story for another time.
Both deputies tend to drop by a few times during their shifts, and Deputy Dempsey is a no-nonsense type of law enforcement officer, who finds this portion of her job to be a waste of time. I have had the pleasure of talking to her on multiple occasions, from giving her witness statements that have gone down the drain due to the sheer absurdity, to light talk between me, her and Marco over coffee, being that the coffee is free to employees and law enforcement. I can’t say she’s an asshole, well sometimes, but I can understand where she’s coming from, considering she’s stuck baby sitting the less eventful time slot of a convenience store. From my knowledge, she’s only seen a few of the abnormalities that the store has to offer, and those were on the lighter end of the cluster fuck that is this store.
So of course she doesn’t believe me or Marco when we both say Keaton came in with a goose, that had a handgun duct taped to its foot, and somehow the avian out of the two was operating the pistol like a trigger happy meth head. Till she found said goose in the men’s bathroom with an empty gun loosely strapped to it’s foot, but she thought we were either fucking with her or Keaton, which I don’t think she fully believes, tried to rob the store with the goose and gun in hand, leaving the goose and the gun behind after he ran out of ammunition. Which isn’t a completely awful theory, because what sane person trains a honking cunt to use a firearm— apparently Keaton from my experience. It didn't help that there was no evidence; Keaton’s effect on recording equipment struck again.
Deputy Dempsey knows the store is odd, but doesn’t believe in its certain supernatural aspects, sure to the fact that it's a magnet for the downright weird maybe. Getting back to what I was going to say, this one time Deputy Dempsey had visited before my and Heller’s shift; I was only present due to our monthly managers meeting that was made up of two cups of coffee and an exchange in words. We did this mainly to update each other due to Marco’s need to never stay past his shift, so I’d come in half an hour early, and tried my best to not push him on the unusual unless it was necessary, but when was it ever not needed?
Marco readied two cups of coffee while we talked about what had happened that particular month.
“Gotta ask, ya been gettin any sleep? Ya look..--”
“Like if I was hit by a shit hurricane?”
“I was gonna say ya look tired. Young folk these days, dramatic like if ya thought the sky was fallin and the earth was risin to meet it.” He handed me my first cup of brown sludge for the night.
“Well am I wrong? Do I look like I just came out of the figurative oven looking like I had a good day’s rest?”
Marco sipped his coffee, smacking his lips in preparation for a blunt response, “No, but I was tryin to be nice.”
“Well shove the nice down a bag; got 27 minutes till you run off into the sunset.”
“Okay, okay, ya don’t have to be that way, jesus. It’s been pretty uneventful, except, uh, few shoplifters and stuff, but nothin I can’t handle.”
“You mean nothing Mason can’t handle.”
“Hey! Just because I’m olde, don’t mean I can’t keep up with a few miscreants, but Mason did get to em first.”, he said, sounding a bit offended at reality.
“Hm, okay.”, I sipped my cup in slight satisfaction.
“What about you? What bumps in the night come ringin at ya door?”
“Well, I had a lady return a bunch of meat products because vague messages appeared on them when she opened the packaging. The trenchcoat guy came back. The poltergeist also came back, and Rosco and I had to defend ourselves from flying fruit and cans of beans, while Father Jonathan drove up here to perform another exorcism. The Salesman tried to sell me a foot in a jar for a pack of cigarettes. The store’s hue changed a deep purple for a few hou— ”
“Hey, Tweedledee, and Tweedledum, what in the hell are you two talking about?”
A serious sounding voice to our side had interrupted my rundown of the month, and probably saved Marco the time of having to explain any of the new occurrences. We both turned to see Deputy Dempsey. A woman I’d say to be in her early 30s, maybe around the same age as Rosco, though I’ve never bothered to ask either and she could easily pass for someone in her 20s. She stood a bit shorter than me, but that never hindered that certain “don’t fuck with me” presence she gave off, like professionalism with a hint of vulgar media was her default setting.
“Rehashing the month’s events.” I said plainly.
Deputy Dempsey gave me this glare, something I’ve come to know as her confused and annoyed look, like how giving a normal-ish answer with such weird context makes sense at first, but really doesn’t when you think about it, and she clearly thought about it.
“You do realize what you said sounds… insane?”
“But is it really that weird, in comparison to what anyone else who works here has said?”
She thought about it for a few seconds, and then sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose while closing her eyes, “You know what, I’m not even going to bother digging down that rabbit hole. I’m just here to do my check in and get some coffee to go. Unless there’s been another shoplifter, Mr. Davenport, or should I be asking Mr. Garcia?”
“Welp, now that ya’ve gone and jogged my memory, we had a wee visit from the mad bird man himself.”
Marco’s nickname for Keaton, when he doesn’t involve the use of worded obscenity. “When?” I asked in confusion.
“Yesterday, right after ya shift ended, he came by, wantin to talk ya. Referred to you by full name too.”
Before I could have asked something in response, like why he didn’t bring it up earlier, Deputy Dempsey took the conversation into her own hands.
She brought out her note pad, and pen, then asked, “Did he say anything? Did he look any different? Do you know where he went?!”
To note, Deputy Dempsey kinda became ever so slightly obsessed with attempting to figure out whether or not Keaton was actually real, especially after the goose incident. Out of all the other deputies, including the sheriff, I think Heller and Dempsey were the only people who even remotely believed in Keaton’s existence, even though neither of them have actually seen him in the flesh.
Marco’s eyes widened a bit from the burst fire of inquiries, and while they looked at each other for a good minute. Neither of them blinked, Dempsey all too focused on the topic while Marco was still trying to process what was asked of him.
“Well, I don’t believe any of what I’ll say will be all too useful, he came in and, I warned em I’d call ya, if he didn’t leave. He started to talkin all gibber like, a bunch of weird as hell mumblin, speakin tongues and backwards at the same time but what I could make out was somethin about that I was here, and not ole Abigail, and ran off on all fours like some sort of wild animal hopped up on whatever folk like him are on.”
“That's it? That's all he did? Let me guess— no footage?”
“Pretty much. Mason n’ Frank tried to chase after em, but that just ended up with that wild man runnin off fasta.”
“So nothing to report other than disorderly conduct, and even that's a maybe. At least there’s more witnesses this time around. I’ll need to talk to them.”
“Mason is over at the register, but Frank left early due to what he calls a marriage emergency, though the man ain’t married, so I have no idea what he meant.”
While they talked, I made a cup of coffee for Deputy Dempsey. I didn’t think she’d mind a minute saved now that she was back to duty. Before she could walk off to talk to Mason, I told her, “Don’t forget what you came here for.” She turned to see my arm extended out towards her, a steaming cup of [drink] in hand. She didn’t smile, Dempsey simply took the coffee and gave a professional thankful nod with a face that told me she still thought of me as a weirdo. Before I knew it, she was already taking a statement from Mason.
To quickly elaborate, Mason Garcia is a day shift employee, who’s worked at the store for a few years now. I know absolutely nothing about him, and it is better that way, but I’ve been told that he’s a pretty decent employee, just a bit conceited apparently. The numerous times Marco told him to not chase after potential drug addicts and the insane can fill a bathtub. Marco often bitches about it before his shift ends.
I guess it’s time to update you all on the incident. Right after the whole debacle, I tried to call Deputy Heller, but he never picked up, which was odd, since he always answered within the first few rings, so I begrudgingly called the station. A woman answered the phone near instantaneously, with, “Sheriff’s office?” She sounded like she was in her golden years, like a regular sweet grandma.
“Just wonderful, dearie, who is this, and what can I do for you?”
“Uh, this is Abigail from the convenience store near the edge of to-”
“Oh yes, I know that place very well, Deputy Heller talks quite a bit; he’s such a kind young man, would you like me to check where he is, dearie?”
A few minutes of silence fell upon the line; I almost thought that the old woman had accidentally hung up, or worse, on purpose, before she said “Sorry dear, the deputy seems to be busy at a scene at the moment. Is this an emergency?”
“No, no no, uh it’s just a little thing, it's passed, but could you leave him a message?”
“Of course dearie, what message would you like me to relay to him?”
“Can you tell him to come up to the store when he can? There’s been an incident, but no one’s hurt or dead, just another weirdo,” I lied, the bruise that The Lady in White left me seemed to be getting darker, and started to hurt a bit more.
“Oh, are you sure you don’t want me to send over another deputy? I believe there are so—- ”
“No!” I interrupted her, “It’s fine, uh the person is gone now, I’d just like for you to leave the message for them….please.”
“Well, since you asked so nicely, I’ll let him know. “
“You're welcome dearie, you have a good night now.” She hung up right after, and while I shoved my phone back into my pocket, Rosco had grabbed my wrist which led to me wincing in pain; the bruise apparently was a lot worse than I originally thought.
“Hey, the fuck are you doing?”
“Jeez, was this a code durian?”
Rosco and I, well mainly Rosco, had set up a list of code phrases for certain situations. Durian was the phrase used for when we had a drug addict and or a lunatic present in the store. He was impressed by how quickly and effortlessly memorized all of his phrases, but then again, both of us knew that I had a good memory, whether I liked it or not.”
“No, more like a code Price.”
For some reason, Price was the code that we used for supernatural-seeming activity.
Rosco started to put his odd acting talents to work. His expression turned noticeably somber while shedding just enough tears to make it look real. Again, I would have given him props for being quite the thespian, if it didn’t always piss me off to some sort of extent. He let go of my wrist, which made me think for a minute if his gloves were stained with shit. Luckily when I looked over his hands, the gloves were nowhere to be seen, how odd. However, before I could further think upon their disappearance, he started to pretend sob; dramatic and real to well, anyone who isn’t used to his shenanigans. Really, to anyone else, it would look like he was in emotional distress. He really knew how to cry and generate snot on command, a feat I don’t think anyone but a movie star would be capable of.
“You done with the theatrics?” I asked while I looked for a box of tissues that Marco usually kept at one of the registers, though the one I was at seemed to only have a neat pile of familiar brown paper napkins. Don’t remember them being there, but I’ll assess that small oddity later.
“Really Abs...sniff…you gonna be that heartless to your BFF?” Tears streaked down his face with snot pilling itself downward along with it.
“Depends, do you want me to bring up the ceiling incident to the owners?” I crossed my arms, giving him my best “don’t test me” face.
And just like that, Rosco ended his whole tear-fest in the blink of an eye. I handed him a handful of napkins, which he took happily to wipe off all the snot that had accumulated on the lower end of his face.
“You really know how to twist a guy’s dick,” he said, removing the last bit of snot from his chin.
“Don’t you mean twist a guy’s arm?”
“No, why would I mean that?” He gave me a confused look, like he’d followed a completely different sentence into a dead end.
“Hold that thought tight.” He walked away to soon return with a tin box, placing it in front me and next to the register. I could now see that it had a red cross, the only identifier to what was contained in its confines.
“Okay, proceed, lady boss.”
“Oh, well, we both know that you won't seek any medical attention for a bruise, so old nurse Rosco is gonna at least patch it up. Looks like it hurts.”
“Not really.” To disprove my statement, he grabbed my wrist with little force for me to seemingly wince physically and audibly in pain.
“All cookies crumble, Abs, take the dough or crack.”
“No, not that, perhaps later, but stay still and let your pal Ross help.”
Rosco, for the next 5 minutes, acted as the unofficial convenience store caregiver, applying what I hoped was aloe vera, [though aloe doesn’t really have a smell, while this smelled oddly sweet like a new car]. Whatever it was, the gel’s aroma pierced through the iron chemical smell that roamed the premises, but/and also it weirdly relieved the pain. I would have asked what it was, but I wasn’t gonna go and ask the man who’d probably go into fine disturbing detail on what the reddish gel was.
I just had an odd realization, one that made me question my level of perception and memory; where did Rosco get the first aid kit? We did have one for the store, but it was in a large red and black pouch, in the break room. The tin box looked old with plenty of minor dents and scratches, but by definition, looked clean, like’d he’d been at least polishing the dust and grime off it regularly.
Before I could ask him, he’d say “Okie dokie, all done. Try to take easy peasy — well, knowing you, you won’t, but just be you then. Don’t take off the bandoes till the after shift, or preferably when you're near a bucket.”
“Why would I need to be at home or near a bucket to take these off?”, I gestured to the bandages that were neatly wrapped around my wrist and hand.
“Uhhhhhh… well, just to say, once the stuff dries and sinks into the bandoes and your skin, it's gonna smell like a dead pig’s liver when you unwrap em.” It took me a minute to process what he just said, and I cannot say that it’s the worst thing he could have responded with.
“Was there a moment— any moment— that you thought that using whatever backcountry remedy on an injury was a good idea?”
“So you agree that the bruise isn’t just any ole bruise?” he gave me a smirk like he’d won the miniature argument.
“Hey, when do you think Deputy Heller is gonna get here?”
And there was Rosco’s ADHD at work again; he couldn’t hold conversation, or pay attention to one, even if meant his fuckin life was on the line. Over the years, I’ve learned that there were only 2 ways for him to hold a conversation without him shifting into a different topic. Either avenue into getting him back on track was going to be annoyingly complicated or so unorthodox, that trying to in the first place would be one huge fucking exercise in futility. Though it’s generally better to simply move along with him.
“I don’t know, I just called 10 minutes ago.”
“At a crime scene, apparently.”
“Ohhhh, is our beloved convenience store custodian playing detective?”
“I don’t know, Rosco. I didn’t ask.”
“You know what Abs, you take the saying curiosity killed the cat too seriously. Don’t think it would've hurt to ask where our wandering sentinel was.”
“I don’t think they would have told me if I had asked.”
“Never know till you tttrrryyyy.” He sang that last word while walking away.
Roughly a little over half an hour passed, and within that span of time, I restocked the shelves, as some were left nearly barren after the wave of factory workers raided plenty of it earlier. I was in the liquor aisle, restocking the horizontal wall of wine boxes. For those of you who aren’t aware, it's best to keep wine on its side and in a cool area; it lasts longer that way. It’s why this portion of the store was much cooler in comparison to any others, except for, obviously, the frozen goods section. Cold enough to keep the wine good for a long time, while still being warm enough for you to not need a jacket; well, at least if you’re not stationary there like some of the sad or fronting intellectual fucks that come by often.
I did notice that Rosco followed me around, trying to make it look like he was just simply cleaning; mop in one hand, janitorial bucket cart by his side, and headphones around his head. It was obvious what he was doing, because the second I moved out of his line of sight, he’d move along with me. He tends to do this, especially when I had been injured recently or an attempt on my well being was enacted. I understood that he was just looking out for me, though it felt odd. Not because a 6-foot-something sunshine veteran who smokes more than a fucking chimney was keeping an eye on me, but the fact that I never will get used to people trying to have my back. I get the idea that a person can care enough about another, to want to protect them in some shape or form, but it just always unsettles me. Like a weird feeling that I’ll never get used to.
My ear caught the front doors being opened, which either meant that a customer was here or possibly Deputy Heller left his crime scene to see what was going on at the store. I left the cart of goods I had been rolling around with me to see which 2 of the options were true.
Now, if you guessed another customer, then you would be correct— on any other day. Deputy Heller was at the coffee machine, making himself a cup of ashy brew. It was like he knew I had seen him, as he turned towards me the second I did, giving me a friendly smile and quick wave.
Deputy Heller has been a night shift babysitter way before I had ever set foot at the store’s doors. I even knew him beforehand, as in this town, if you didn’t know any of the law enforcement by name, you weren’t a local or at least not a dumbass.
I gave him a wave back while I walked towards him. He gestured with an empty cup to ask if I wanted one; I nodded.
Then I heard a loud voice yell behind me, “WASSSUUPPPP!” I would’ve flinched if I hadn’t instantly realized who it was. Rosco should really learn the definition of personal space, but that lesson would only go as far as the mouth that spoke it.
“Ay, Rosco, ya awfully chipper.”
Deputy Heller spoke with this odd accent, and although he would use southern phrasing, it really didn’t fit. The closest thing I could describe his accent to was perhaps rough and British? It’s not like he would force the accent, but more like if a Londoner lived in South America for decades, and simply picked up the dialect. His voice was raspy and deep, belonging to an individual who seemed like he’d seen a lot of rough patches in his life, though that didn’t deter him from keeping a friendly and calm attitude.
“Well, it’s one helluva night.”
“Agreed, but enough with the pleasantries. Abigail, got a call from dispatch, about uh wee incident.”
“Yeah, we had a little situation with a customer.”
“Yeah? That explain the new accessory?” He tapped his wrist.
In turn, I rubbed my wrist, but I didn’t feel anything, not like my wrist was numb, but touching it no longer hurt. “Well, yeah, there was uh lady, she grabbed my wrist, said some weird shit, and walked off into the woods.”
“Is that all?” He raised an eyebrow like he’d been expecting something more. “Abigail, I assume there’s a little more than you being attacked by a junkie?”
“She was wearing a white gown, looked pale, didn’t blink whatsoever, oh, and she also pulled a Regan Macneil.”
“She vomited?” Rosco said, giving me a curious glance. He looked around the room, supposedly for a puddle of dry vomit, which if she did, I’d like to believe he would have found it half an hour ago.
“No, her head fuckin spun around like her neck wasn’t attached to either her body nor head head.”
“Okay, well, any other details you’d like to leave me? More about her appearance? Did she do anything other than scare ya and leave that new beauty mark? Ya said that she had spoken some half cracked stuff.” Deputy Heller set his cup down, and took his pen and pad out.
“Yeah, she was around 5’8, super pale, on the slim side, black over the shoulder hair, very dark brown eyes, pretty, but not like gorgeous, more on the stereotypical stuff you see on ads, no shoes. I didn’t see any scars, but her white dress seemed a bit ornate, like old fashion, the sort of thing a bride from the early 90s would wear. Dark lips, but I don’t think she was wearing any makeup though. Also her voice was…raspy, like she’d choked down a couple hundred cigarettes before walking in.”
“My kinda woman. You think she’s single? Probably not, nevermind. Sounds like a total byatch.”
I would have asked why Rosco said that, but it’s Rosco and I think my time would have been spent more efficiently talking to Deputy Heller.
“Oh, and she also kept talking about some person? I don’t know who— she was pretty vague about it, other than saying he’s in her head and that he knows me.”
“Possibly just be the dust talkin, but make sure, I’ll stay here for a bit, see if they ever be comin back, call in a BOLO on em. Mind me checkin the cameras, or is it another Keaton thing?”
I believe the face I made said all too well that I hadn’t, so I’d find myself, Rosco and Deputy Heller in the surveillance room, a little office that can only be accessed through the break room and with a key. Managers and the owners had access, but that wouldn’t really stop anyone from getting past a thin wooden door and a jankie lock.
It didn’t take long to pull up the footage, with the camera quality being quite defined for a bunch of television screens that predate my existence. Her face was clear as day, though she wasn’t staring at me like she had been less than an hour ago, but directly at the camera, as if she was the one watching whoever was on the other end. She continued to not blink and her stare never wavered, no matter what angle I swapped to, she was always looking at that camera. Something about this unsettled me a bit, not like I haven’t been present for more of the visually horrid occurrences that would scare off even the bravest or the dumbest of what mankind has to offer but it didn’t feel like she was just staring at the camera for all to see. It felt like she was still staring at me — I don’t mean just the general direction, I mean it felt like she was ignoring Rosco and Deputy Heller at this moment to just stalk me from beyond the digital screen. It felt as though she were still here.
“She’s not bad on the eyes, but she sure does make my spine go a bit soft.” Rosco said as I was slowly switching camera perspectives,
“You can say that again.”
“She’s not bad on the eyes, but she sure does make my spine go a bit soft.”
“Rosco, she didn’t mean for ya to repeat it.”
“Oh, like an idiom? I gotcha ya.”
“You know what an idiom is?” I said as the deputy and I looked at Rosco
You learn something new every shift. We continued to look through the footage for 10 or so minutes, before Deputy Heller took a photo of the woman and asked for a copy of tonight's footage. Usually I’d need to ask the owners to give such “sensitive” information away to law enforcement, but in the case of anything “weird” I was allowed to as long as I only gave them the footage that mattered. Even after all these years, I’m still not exactly technologically literate, so it took some time to actually get that done.
Deputy Heller stayed around for about an hour, before heading off to conduct his other duties. Luckily, what was left of the night went past smoothly— well smoother than one can expect from a job like this, unless you count a pack of flower children trying to impose their beliefs on to me, for my response to simply be a blunt “If your just going to stand around and not buy anything, how about you get around to leaving.”, and Rosco would smack them out of the store to be peculiar. In the literal sense, Rosco bludgeoned 3 of them with a broom hard enough for Clyde Shelton to say “that’s enough”, yelling “Begone you flower sniffin heathens, begone with thee at once!” and “No shoes, no service. Crocs don’t count!”
Half of them had run out of the building, while the rest dragged out their sobbing members that were eternally stuck in the fetal position to what they previously refer to as their “Concord Chariot”. A 80s styled RV that was coarsely painted a royal blue with pink and green peace signs along with variously sized clouds strewn around its surface. A vehicle that is first in the contest of being a huge eye sore; second place goes to Rosco’s van. I would give a better description of the RV, but no matter how hard I try, it seems to always come up as a blurry rectangular blob in my mind. Like interpreting the silent suggestions of the inky shadow cast upon a canvas. Most people called it a Rorschach test. I call it a waste of time, not like I’d remember it anyways if I were to take one.
