THE Leer County Museum

Shelly wanted to stop every time we passed it.

            “THE” Leer County Museum.

            That’s how they’d hand-painted the letters across a barn side up the hill from highway 14. Something told me it was an un-ironic advertisement. That the quoted “THE” in all caps implied someone was in a feud of sorts with the official Leer County Historical Society Museum just another two miles down the highway in old downtown Archers, Tennessee. The fact that the hand-painted sign also had a period at the end of the statement seemed to send a clear message as well, besides the speaker not giving a damn about sentence fragments. They obviously meant business. 

            Shelly and I’d passed the place a hundred times since moving down from Philly to take care of her mother, Darlene. We’d speculated as to what the old spot’s story was really about. It looked like a prime place for those antique hunters on television to walk up on and prowl through for a day, rummaging over cobwebbed things that hadn’t been touched in decades. I counted at least five large buildings on the property. The lots looked just shy of abandoned, but just about the time the grass would get too high on one pass, we’d pass by again and everything would look a little spruced up, mowed. A few decrepit items in the fields, a tractor, some barrels, a collection of cracking concrete yard ornaments, would appear shifted around.

There was an old man hobbling on the property sometimes. I’d catch a flash of him standing in a field among the neglected grass, coming out of a dark door of a leaning shed, always with a crooked-necked cane. Always in overalls. Stooped over a little, seldom looking up. It made me want to slow and honk the horn. Surprise him and trick him into looking up so I might see his face. I wondered which building he lived in. None of them looked inhabitable.  

We were passing the place on a late Saturday afternoon. The handwritten cardboard sign on the roadside read Sale Today. There were tables up the hill in front of the main building. They were covered with piles of color and shapes that called out there might be treasure to be found.  

“Looks like we get to see this place after all,” I told Shelly, pulling over. 

We parked on the shoulder and walked up the field. The grass had been mowed, but was already growing back up. It looked like nobody ever bothered to trim around the buildings or fight back the vines. Poison ivy was everywhere. There was a wall of Kudzu-matted trees on the backside of the row of buildings at the top of the hill.

No one was around. No shoppers. No one watching the tables. That man we’d seen. We looked around.

It looked like the “museum” was having a fire sale. The tables were covered with cobwebbed, rusting tools, car parts. Moldy cardboard boxes of country-western 8-track tapes. Stacks of dusty mismatched place settings. Red, blue, and green glassware filled with murky rainwater. Water-stained movie posters. Books with wrinkling pages. Nothing was priced. Plow implements sat all around. Wooden buckets. A steel milk can.  

            “Wachalwont?”

            The little voice came from behind a battered screen door of what was probably the main building, the one with “THE Leer County Museum.” painted across the roofline.

            We must have jumped a little.

            “Dinmeentascaryall. Gowonshopn.”

            I had to hear the words, slow them down in my head to understand them. He talked so fast and high-pitched. I could see his outline inside the structure.

            “All this for sale?” I yelled back to him.

            “Aintharferfreeyungn. Yep.”

            I’d picked up an old butter churn that was still in good shape.

            “How much for this?”

            “Pucheesumtoogethr. Weelfigritout.” 

            His shadow moved away from the door slowly. I guessed he’d left us to our own devices. A moment later the distinct, but garbled chunka, chunka, plinka, plinka of Jerry Lee Lewis carried through the building. Strangely it lacked words, but after a few measures a high-pitched voice, we assumed was the old man, started up.

            “Shakerbabeeeeeshaker!Shakerbabeeeeeshaker!” An out of tune piano plunked along with what must have been a recording without the words.

            Shelly shot me that look we often traded when we weren’t sure we wanted to stick around some place. I wasn’t convinced, however. I wanted to investigate. I grabbed some 8-tracks and Shelly’s hand and moved to the front door.

I knocked loudly on the screen door over the music. Now the man was just humming along. He was rummaging around inside. “Cry, Cry, Cry” by Johnny Cash was playing now, but without Cash’s voice. The man hummed along, singing out “Crycrycryyyyyy” like it was the only words ever written to the song.

Everything stopped. The music. The humming. The singing. The moving around inside.

“Hey? Wachuwont?”

He sounded pissed, like we’d interrupted him.

“We’ve got a few things here to maybe buy,” I yelled through the door.

“Oyea,yalcomoninhyeer!”

Shelly squeezed my hand. It meant let’s get the hell outta here. But no, I wouldn’t let it go. I had to see inside. C’mon, I gestured.

            The door moaned on its hinges and we entered. We let our eyes adjust with so little sunlight. The room was stuffed floor to ceiling with chairs. Only a few motes of dusty light beamed through the stacked legs and seats of what appeared to be hundreds of chairs and chair parts. The floor was carpeted, or what was left of carpet, walked thread-thin to a dust and full of holes down to dark wood. The air smelled of metal dust, old clothes, and used motor oil.

            The bass and drums for CCR’s “Fortunate Son” cranked up. Then the guitar. No words. Only the old man somewhere beyond a door leading further back into the building humming in his high-pitched octave.

            “Cmonyal. Bakhyeer.”

            The low ceilinged hall was lined with shelves of vertically stacked newspapers and Time Magazines. Colored lights flashed at the bend of the hall. We turned the corner into what must have once been the largest portion of a barn and loft. A spinning, multi-colored disco ball hung from the vaulted ceiling with some thick twine. A tiny fan attached to a loft rafter kept it spinner enough to make the lights twinkle all over the room like tiny spotlights.

            The little old man was in the center of the room waving his body back and forth, his feet barely moving, cane holding him up, eyes turned up to the spinning disco light. He might have been in a trance. He was dressed in overalls and a button-up gray work shirt. 

            The floor was fashioned of antique hollow glass blocks so the lights bounced everywhere. A cool effect, but strange since there was still the prevalence of barn wood everywhere as well. The warped sounding piano sat in a corner. Across the top of the piano was a long neon sign with the letters K_R_ _KE flashing in chipped blue paint. There were Christmas lights strung all over, but plenty were out, so only sections were lit, some flashing red and blue, some green. It was still pretty dark in the place the room was so large.  

            The man snapped to and stared right at us. His left eye was clouded over with cataracts. 

“Welcomtomahkerohkeebarn!”

CCR was wrapping up.

“IcallsthisCecilsKerohkeeBarn. IamCecil.”

“What the fuck…”

I’d said it too quickly to catch myself. Shelly caught it, though, and elbowed me. I’m glad the man didn’t hear me over the music or read lips. At least I assumed he couldn’t.

“Yalllikethekerohkee?”

I nodded. I think Shelly did, too.

            “Disusdtabeahsquahrdancehall! Fordafarhapnd.”

            “The fire, you say?” I asked. Shelly mouthed to me, “You understand him?”

“Strange Days,” by The Doors started up.

            He wobbled up to us with a mic. Spoke at it, spittle flying. Tapped it on his balding head with a giggle. He had a white crust around his lips. Hadn’t shaved in days.

“Heyungns, wachuliktosing?” His good foot was tapping. He hummed along to the song.

“WeplaydthisunbakintheNam.”

“Vietnam? You were in the war?” I asked.

“Iwasadoorguneronachopr!” He mimed a shooting action with one hand, made peoow, peoow noises.

The batteries were dead in the mic, but he didn’t seem to know it or care. He shoved the mic up to us for an answer. Shelly must have felt obligated.

“Umm…I don’t know, maybe, Madonna?”

The old man’s eyes widened. I thought he might poo-poo that suggestion.  He limped off up to a stage area in the corner, flipped on a light and filed through what looked like a dynamite box of CDs, found one, messed with the player, clicked some buttons and spoke again into his dead mic. He pointed across the room.

“WachdaTVupthur.”

The tune for “Papa Don’t Preach” started up. He hopped down best he could and brought the mic to Shelly, grabbed her by the hand and led her to the middle of the room under the disco ball. He stepped away and gave a little bow as if to say the stage was hers. She gave me a look of embarrassment. I shrugged my shoulders. I clapped, egging her on. Cecil clapped. Shelly took up singing.

            …know you’re gonna be upset…

…was always you’re little girl…

  I heard Cecil give a snort from over where he stood. 

            …but you should know by now…

…I’m not a baby…

Cecil let out a long snotty snuffle. He was all teared up. He mouthed Madonna’s words, squinting his one good eye at the screen, sniffing up a storm.

…we’ll be alright…it’s a sacrifice…

And then.

            “Pappydonchepreech!” he literally yelled.  

            Shelly kept on, but I don’t know how she did it with a straight face or without taking off running from the building. She was really creeped out.

            The song wrapped up. Cecil was back in a half-trance, mouthing the words, snapped out of it and pulled a nasty handkerchief and wiped his nose and eyes.

            “Youdonesechagudjobhuny,gogetcheesewfaprizdollygirlfrumthozpretteezthur.”

He pointed to another corner. It was a dark corner piled thick with dolls and stuffed animals, an avalanche of musty forgotten youth. “Goonowgurl,findjesumthn.”

            I saw the reluctance in Shelly’s eyes, but she went over anyway, careful on the uneven glass floor with her heels. 

            She reluctantly shuffled some of the dolls around. She screamed out. She was backing from the mountain of dolls, a limp stuffed red bear in one hand and a porcelain-headed clown jester in the other. I ran to her.

Exposed in the heap from head to hips was a girl’s torso.

Shelly whispered. “Is it…”

I inched closer, sniffing the air. The thing was a doll. A very lifelike doll.

            Shelly whispered. “I thought it was a body. I swear I did.”

Cecil was hobbling up, realizing what had happened.          

“AtritdarzmahBeverleeAnn! Donbeeskeerdnow! 

            The doll was probably five foot. Its hair was failing golden blond curls. Dark eyes crusted half open. Skin crackling, once porcelain smooth. The beige lace dress, lined up the front with faux pearls, was stained and stiff from water damage and mold. Its lips were faded pink. It was once a pretty thing.

            “PoorlilBeverleeAnn,” he said bending down and reaching in deep, softly cradling his palms under arm and shoulder, whispering low to the thing as he hauled it up. Decrepit dolls once burying it fell away like a carpet of shed skin.

            “Thinkyewokerup,” he said, rubbing her nasty forehead and bangs. “Aswershesleeps.”

            Shelly squeezed and yanked my hand, pulled at me, and backed away.

            “Shedontehkindlytobeenwokuptaskreemz.”

            Cecil turned his head and gave us a stare with his good eye. Kept petting the thing’s hair down like we’d messed it up ourselves, like it wasn’t caused by being buried for a decade under the archeology of stuffed animal rot.

            The doll was almost as tall as him.

            “Nosir,shedontakekinlytoitatall!” he shrieked at us. No music played. His voice hung in the big room. He didn’t need a microphone.

            We backed up another few feet. The disco light was disorienting.

            Cecil took a step toward us, stumbled to keep upright while holding up the doll, managed to right himself with his cane. The doll fell. He caught it, but only by the matted hair of the head. He dragged it then, walking at us across the dance floor, shaking his head no, no, no.

            “…notonebitnotonebit…”

            “We’re leaving now,” Shelly yelled to him, turning, pulling on me. “Yes, it’s time for us to get going, sir! Thanks for the music! We’ll see ya!” I agreed, turning with her and heading for the tunnel hallway. I could hear the old naked feet of the doll scraping the floor with his cane tapping along with his shuffling feet behind us.

            “Cmonbakhyeer,” he yelled, “weaintdunsanginbahyamile!”

            “The hell we ain’t!” I yelled, kicking a stack of yellowed newspapers over behind us to trip him up if he kept following us through the hallway. Shelly pulled a stack off a shelf after that. It caused a crack to sound out overhead. A wave of dust fell from the ceiling on our heads and shoulders. Another crack and a pop rang out. A higher shelf gave and papers fell behind us.

            “Run! Run, baby!” I yelled.

            We made for the front room we’d first entered, running from the sound of collapsing wood and metal. A shot of dust exploded covering our backs, heads, necks as we managed to get into the room full of stacked chairs.

            Shelly opened the front door to let the dust out. We listened. For all we knew the old man and his doll “daughter” was buried back in the hall. It all depended on how close he’d gotten chasing after us.  

            Then we heard it. Music again. Muffled through all the settling chaos and dust. The high scratch of a fiddle, the accompanying banjo, then guitar. An old Bluegrass song was on. Then the words…

Dim lights, thick smoke…

…and loud, loud music…

…is the only kind of life you’ll ever understand…

It was unmistakably Flatt and Scruggs. Dim lights, thick smoke…

Behind it all was the high octave cackle of the old man along with the out-of-tune plunking of the piano again. He wasn’t dead and buried in the hall.

I looked a Shelly, still coughing out dust. “You seen enough of the place?”

“I’ll race you to the car,” she shouted, already starting down the hill through the grass.

I saw another car parking down by ours along the road. I wondered if we’d know what to tell them by the time we got down the hill, if anything at all.

***

 Larry D. Thacker is a Kentuckian writer, artist, educator, and reality show actor, now living in Johnson City, Tennessee. His stories can be found in past issues of Still: The Journal, Pikeville Review, and Fried Chicken and Coffee. His poetry is in over 180 publications. His second collection of fiction, Labor Days, Labor Nights, is just out from Bottom Dog Press. Check out his website at: www.larrydthacker.com His Insta at: thackalachia