Twisted Tales From The Northwest

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Author’s note

Twisted Tales From The Northwest contains most of the stories I wrote while living in the Northwest.  I’ll plead guilty to making these tales dark and gloomy like the skies that covered the Earth most of the time.  Our house was nestled in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains and Mt. Si blocked our view of the rising sun.  Evening comes early in that portion of the northwest.  One year I swear I did not see the sun for nine months.

Many of the communities were still the old time logger towns built around the huge logging companies that once supplied the nation with wood.  One of those companies was still going strong, but their towns and housing were by then privately owned.

These tales can be your own visit to the Northwest where you will meet the people who live, work, and exist there. Along the way you'll find humor as Good Sam tries to return a time traveler to his wife.  There is a murder mystery, plus a depressing sea town ruled by an ancient deity, dark elves that came with the Swedish immigrants, a vampire that likes the dark skies, and take a brief visit to the future where other beings inhabit our Earth.
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Some of the people will struggle to survive, others live only to help the other person, and one couple tries to remodel an old, neglected house. But they should be careful... for the unknown dwells there.

Book excerpt

Good Sam

I first met Charles A. Hinderson at a little restaurant in Fall City where I like to eat after doing some steelhead fishing. Charles was all dogged out in a tweedy suit, preppy sweater, and a white shirt. He had come in to ask directions, but now was using his fist to pound the counter while he shouted at the cashier. His black hair was waved back and cut short on the neck. His nose was like his body:  long and lean. It set well in the high boned face with the dark eyes. His ruddy complexion darkened as his frustration mounted over the cashier’s directions.

“They keep changing the road!”

“Sir, it’s been changed for years,” replied the young cashier and she rolled her eyes at anyone who was watching.

I noticed the bright flush extending from his neck to his brow and decided to help. I’ve always had a penchant for being a Good Samaritan. It’s undoubtedly my parents fault for naming me Samuel B. Goodfellow. I laid the bill and money on the counter and reverted to my Good Sam role. “Come on,” I offered. “I’ll show you the way.”

We walked outside to the only main street in town. A light, fair breeze blew off the Snoqualmie River promising the summer to come. Above the breeze pushed the grey clouds forward as a reminder that the spring rains were still with us. “Are you familiar with this area?” I asked.

“One might say I know it well.” His voice was choked with bitterness. “But it’s been so long since I left home.  I must get to Seattle tonight.”

“Where are you parked?”

In response, he pointed to a black, 1936 De Soto. I whistled. It was in excellent condition, the finish like new. It even had the original license plates. Later I would wonder why he hadn’t been picked up by the police. Other antique autos have special plates.

“Look, the road right here in front of us is Highway 202. Head west, straight through Redmond. Just stay on 202 until it joins 520 at Redmond. Take 520 across the Evergreen Point Bridge to I-5. That will put you north or south of any area in Seattle.” I stopped, noting the wild light dancing in his brown eyes.

“However,” I added, “I-90 would probably be a lot easier. You just back out and head in the other direction.” I pointed to the end of the street towards the Colonial Inn. “You turn right at the Fall City-Preston Road. Do you remember Preston?”

He nodded in affirmation.

“Good. At Preston the signs will lead you straight to I-90. Turn right to head west into Seattle. You’ll go by Bellevue, over Mercer Island and Lake Washington.”

“What about the ferry?” he asked, breaking into my speech.

My mouth dropped. Hell, he didn’t look that old. “Mister, there hasn’t been a ferry there since the forties.”

The wind seemed to go out of him. “Anyway,” I continued, “I-90 takes you across Mercer Island and Lake Washington. You are now in Seattle and can go any direction you want.”

He looked dubious. “Is Empire Way still there?”

“Yeah, only they call it Martin Luther King Jr. Way.”

A look of resolution came over his face and he turned to shake my hand. “Thank you. I must be home by nightfall.” His grip was firm and warm. Something else I would wonder about later.

His old car roared to life, and I wandered back to collect my change from Suzie, the cashier. “I think I got him steered in the right direction.”

“Hah!” Derision bubbled out of her glossed mouth. “He’s always going to Seattle. He comes in every six months or so.”

“Really?”

“Not only that, but my Grandma used to give him directions. He’s been a long time driving to Seattle.” She giggled. “It always rains when he leaves.”

Rain splattered against my windshield as I left Fall City to take one of my clients grocery shopping. I refused to believe the direction asking male was responsible as it always rains in western Washington.

After my divorce from Velma, I started volunteering as a driver for senior citizens on Saturdays. That way I can control my humanitarian impulses. I have to admit it’s a satisfying outlet. Other times, it can be completely unnerving.

Two months after giving Hinderson directions my client, the elderly Mrs. Patterson, had a complete emotional meltdown in my car. Her cat, Mr. Tye, a pet of some twenty-five years had passed. She sobbed out her sad tale, tears rolling over her wrinkled face and liver spotted hands.

“I don’t have the money to bury him. The county supported complex for senior citizens doesn’t have any yard space to bury him.”

Then she really began crying. “I don’t even have the strength to dig a hole if there was room. I can’t, just can’t let them cremate Mr. Tye.”

“Mrs. Patterson, I’ll be over tomorrow and take care of the situation.”

I should have restrained my Good Sam instincts. When I arrived, it was obvious that Mr. Tye had developed a distinct odor. Mrs. Patterson had placed Mr. Tye in a cardboard box and covered him with an old lace shawl. Naturally, I promised to bury Mr. Tye in a peaceful place.

In the privacy of my car, I stuck Mr. Tye’s makeshift coffin in a plastic garbage bag and headed east on I-90 to the North Bend area, intending to combine humanitarianism with hiking or fishing. My pole and tackle box were up front.

Unfortunately, it was a warm day and the plastic bag didn’t cut the smell as much as I had anticipated. After burying Mr. Tye, I headed back into North Bend to a grocery store for a can of air freshener and a six pack. There was still enough daylight to spend some time at Rattlesnake Lake.

As I started to go into the store, I almost bumped into the lost traveler. He was pacing up and down in front of the payphone like he was expecting it to ring. Like a fool, I said, “Why hello. Did you make it to Seattle?”

He grimaced and shook hands. “No, I took a wrong turn.”

Now mind you, this was two months later. That must have been one hell of a wrong turn, but he looked so miserable in that tweed suit in the summer heat that I felt real compassion.

“Look, man, I’m heading up to Rattlesnake Lake. Want to come along? There’s always plenty of girls on a day like this.”

“Thank you, but I really need to get back to Seattle tonight. Would you be kind enough to explain again? I think the others, the young men and the people with rings in their ears or their noses, they-they’re laughing at me.”

Well, he was bizarre, but he didn’t look stoned or smell of booze, and that innate helpful nature of mine rose to the fore as I took his arm to position him towards the exit.

”Just drive out of this parking lot and hang a left.” I pointed to the street. “Take the street to the light, turn left, and you are headed out of town. The first turn to the right is the I-90 exit. You go up a steep grade and you are on your way home, straight into Seattle.”

He grasped my hand again and pumped it up and down. This was becoming a habit. “Thanks! My wife will appreciate this. My name is Charles A. Hinderson.”

“Sam Goodfellow,” I said in response.

He looked up at the gathering clouds. “Good, there will be rain,” he muttered and sprinted for his antiquated automobile.

I went inside and bought some beer and jerky. When I came out, it was raining and the wind blowing. After wasting a summer’s afternoon on a dead cat and Charles A. Hinderson, the doubts about pursuing my humanitarian ways became overwhelming. I took a good look in the mirror that night and decided that since my eyes were still blue and my teeth and hair were still intact at almost forty, it was time to devote my leisure hours to more selfish, and hopefully, more productive activities. Retirement would allow time for bettering the world and helping my fellow humans.

This new resolve lasted for two weeks. Friday night after work, I swung into one of Redmond’s large discount stores for some new DVDs. The weather had been A-1 for a western, Washington summer. Lazy, sunny days with a couple of showers tossed in just to remind you of the normal weather. It promised to be a great weekend for getting together with your buds for sports or a barbeque.

I walked out of the store loaded with the DVDs and some speakers I didn’t need when who should I see but Charles A. Hinderson stopping people and asking the way to Seattle. His agitated manner and wild gestures were beginning to worry people and I knew it wouldn’t be long before somebody called the cops.

“Hey, Charlie, how’s it going?” I yelled.

He left off trying to grab this old guy’s arm and stared at me with bewilderment. Finally his brow cleared and the brown eyes gleamed with recognition. “Sam, I’ve got to get to Seattle tonight.” He gasped the words out as he tried to pump my hand.

One of the speakers dropped to the cement. Later, I discovered it had cracked. We retrieved the box and walked to my car.

“Where are you parked this time,” I asked.

He pointed a couple of lanes over. As we walked I started to describe how to get to Seattle and changed my mind.

“Look,” I offered, “I’ll be glad to lead the way into Seattle. Just follow me. Remember, once we’re out of this lot, we’ll need to keep to the right to go south.”

The look of gratitude on his face was payment enough for me. I waited for him to pull up behind me, and then we started edging out of the lot. Redmond is one of those fast-growing, urban centers with unbelievable traffic congestion. At least we were turning onto 202 to go right. 202 is a four lane state route with a middle lane for left turns or merging to the right in heavy traffic. Good ole Charlie, however, managed to merge into the left lanes.

You guessed it. He turned left onto Avondale Road and headed straight north, not south. God knows where he thought he was going, but I certainly didn’t, and there was no way in that traffic to get back to him. Not that I wanted to as I was heading for Bellevue, not home. By the time I had gone one-half mile, it was pouring rain. That slowed the traffic even more. One hour later, I finally made it home. With luck, I’d never see Charles A. Hinderson again.

That episode should have been enough to curtail my Good Sam efforts forever. I began writing scathing letters to the editor of the local paper about the mistaken do-gooders of the world and started to attend the concerts, movies, and literary readings that I had given up to better mankind. True, I was using these venues as a way to hook up with a woman, but what better way to meet someone who is looking for a footloose, under forty (all right, just barely), goodtime Charley. Scratch that.  Make it Sam, Sam Goodfellow.

On the last, long weekend of summer, I headed to Black Diamond’s Labor Day Festival. It’s a nice little town, nestled in a wooded valley. There was to be a parade, a Soap Box Derby, and an assortment of games and rides. Just the place to be when the temperatures are moderate, the crowd friendly and spaced out instead of a mass of humanity pressed together pretending that they are enjoying themselves.

I opened a can of cold beer at their outdoor café and sat at a table while looking around watching and waiting for an opportunity to meet the opposite sex. I started to make eye contact with a couple of unattended females. Who cares if they were over thirty or forty? They looked self-sufficient and in no need of being rescued from anything but lack of male companionship:  Just my type of humanitarianism. The brunette had deep, deep blue eyes and a dimple when she smiled at me. I started to saunter over when someone grabbed my arm and dumped half of my beer.