No Gein: An Alternate Horror Part Eleven

Part Eleven: What If?

July 23rd, 1991. Wisconsin

Robert Bloch’s high school class always held reunions at odd years. In fact, the thirty-ninth reunion of the class of 1934 was the very first one they’d ever held. Back then the Cold War was in full swing, so perhaps they didn’t want to chance waiting till their fortieth. This summer was their fifty-seventh-year reunion. Bloch wondered if there was a special name for such an odd number, the way fifty years is the golden anniversary and sixty-five is the sapphire.

Driving through the plains of Wisconsin, he laughed to himself as he thought back to that reunion a few nights ago. One of his classmates, who really shouldn’t still be wearing those low-cut blouses, leaned over her dinner plate while eying his watch and asked, “What have you been doing since you got out of school?” Robert delighted her with an impromptu story that he ran a garbage truck company. As a matter of fact, he was the top garbage service in three counties. “Trash, manure, medical waste, we haul it all!” he said with a jovial wave of his fist. She wasn’t eyeing up that nice watch of his anymore.

Later at the bar one of his friends looked that old classmate over and said, “I don’t know about you Bloch. If you played your cards right, you could have had her back in your room tonight screaming bloody murder!”

“I don’t think my wife would approve!” Robert laughed.

“Who knows?” his mischievous friend said. “Maybe she would have watched!” Robert missed the humor of his classmates, but he also missed his wife. Elly wasn’t up for another trip to the great state of Wisconsin. It was probably for the best though. He learned that night that one of his friends who couldn’t make the reunion was living in one of those little towns in the northern part of the state. He managed to get a hold of him, and via his rental car went out to see him for a few days.

Now that visit was finished, and he was heading back south. Eventually he would turn east and fly back home via Milwaukee. Speeding through a part of his homestate that was mostly unexplored by him, he noticed the road sign, ninety miles to Plainfield. Something about that name sounded familiar, Plainfield, but he couldn’t remember. Not long after, another sign, sixty miles away. About a mile later he finally remembered. He heard it from that big guy back at that horror convention, and his story about the psycho house. As he drove by the empty fields, he tried to remember the details.

Less than an hour later Plainfield was ahead of him, and on a whim, he decided to get off the highway. Coming into the one-horse town, he stopped in at a general store to get a drink. He couldn’t resist a peek at the magazine rack. Long gone were the magazines Weird Tales and Amazing Stories that writers like himself and old HPL got their breaks in. At least they still had a few comic books. Either way, Robert grabbed some stationary and a soda and got in line to check out. In front of him were a much older couple who placed a few items on the counter, but the clerk charged them nothing. He’d heard of a senior citizen discount, but this was ridiculous! As Robert paid for his own items, he watched the happy couple walk out of the store. Maybe they used to be the owners or something. As he looked at them, he thought to himself that he hoped he and Elly made it that long.

Robert then walked outside and looked down the street. Past what looked like the local bar was a hotel, he didn’t imagine them not having a vacancy.

“Elly it’s me.” Robert said as the phone picked up.

“Hi honey, how was your visit?” He heard his wife’s sweet voice over the phone in his hotel room.

“It was great, really fun. Listen I decided to stay out here a few extra days.”

“Oh ok, where are you now?”

“I’m in a little town called Plainfield.”

“Plainfield, never heard of it. Who do you know there?”

“Actually no one,” Robert answered, “which is the reason I called. I need you to get something for me.”

“OK.”

He hated the thought of subjecting her to this madness, but he had no other recourse. “In my desk,” he went on to explain, “I think in one of the right-hand drawers, there’s a stack of papers from that convention I went to last Halloween, see if you can grab it for me.”

“Sure.”

“There should be a folder with just a few papers in it.” He explained. “There’s stuff written down in there about Plainfield.”

After a few minutes her voice came back on the line. “Ok I got it.”

“Great, there’s just a few papers in there, I want you to read whatever it says, and I’m going to copy it down.”

“OK,” he could hear the papers rustling. He took a deep breath as he remembered what she was about to discover. “Plainfield Wisconsin, October 1957, Sally Kohler,” Robert wrote it all down. “Oh my god.” she exclaimed as she continued reading. “Is this true?” 

He almost regretted calling her now “Well I don’t know honey; I’m going to try to find out.” Then, feeling the need to soldier on, he said “Just keep reading it please.”

She finished the last remaining notes before adding, “Honey please be careful.”

“I will Eleanor, thank you. I’ll be home in a few days, love you.”

It wasn’t that late in the day. Robert managed to find the library. Here he was greeted by a little old lady with thick glasses and gray hair who was sitting at the circulation desk reading a hardcover book. It looked like they were the only ones in the library as she politely led him to microfiche of the local newspapers. Given the Plainfield Sun only came out once a week, it didn’t take long for Robert to scan through years’ worth of papers. Wasn’t much going on of course. There was the occasional hunting accident or hunter disappearing. News about Evelyn Hartley made its way all the way out here. He remembered reading about that case in the Weyauwega Chronicle when he briefly lived a bit east of here. That poor young girl; disappeared while babysitting. It was the biggest manhunt in state history, and it didn’t turn up a thing.

“Excuse me.” Robert turned to see the old woman grinning at him, her hands gripped a hardcover book and appeared to be trembling with excitement. Then, she asked the question. “Are you Robert Bloch?”

“Why yes I am.” the author answered politely. He wasn’t used to strangers recognizing him.

“Oh my goodness!” The apparent fan gasped, “What brings you all the way out here?”

“Uh, I’m just doing a little research, for a… a friend.”

“Are you writing a story about our town?” Her voice raised in excitement, “Can I be in it!?!”

Robert winked at her answering, “You know I don’t write tales of romance, right?”

Blushing, she laughed, “Oh, of course you dont!. I was wondering, could you autograph one of our books?” She handed over the libraries copy of his 1984 novel Night of the Ripper, yet another one of his works about the mysterious Jack the Ripper.

Taking the book in his hands, he replied, “I’ll tell you what, I’d be happy to autograph your book. Would you be able to do something for me?”

“Why, what would that be?”

“Would you be able to tell me of anything ghastly occurring in this nice town of yours?”

“Oh good heavens, nothing ghastly ever happens in Plainfield.” Patting his shoulder, she said “Why, having you in our library is probably the most excitement we’ve ever had.”

“Is that so.”

“Absolutely,” she said, “nothing like a murder even close to us for,” she paused as her eyes lifted up to the right, indicating that she was thinking, “forty years.”

“Forty years did you say?” Robert’s own eyes perked up. Doing the math in his head, he calculated that probably fit the timeline of that young writer’s tale.

“Yes, a woman who owned a tavern over in Pine Grove came up missing about forty years back. Never found the body, but everyone said she was probably mixed up with the mob. She was a tough old broad.”

“I see.” Looking down at the book Bloch authored, he opened the cover and added his signature. “There you go.” the famous author said, handing the book back to the librarian.

“Thank you so much.” she said as she took the book back and read the inscription. “To the people of Plainfield; May your town be forever free of ghastly ghouls. Yours truly, Robert Bloch.”

Closing the book, she leaned over and asked in a hushed voice, “So, who do you think Jack the Ripper was?”

Looking back, Bloch plainly stated, “I have no idea. I guess we never will know.”

This sweet old woman looked disappointed just for a moment; but gave him another pat on the arm saying “Well, I’ll leave you to your work. Again, thank you so much.”

While she walked away Robert could see the sun was still shining outside. Still having time to kill, he figured he’d continue looking through the old newspapers. Decades of scant local news whizzed by with not much of note. There was the Mary Hogan case, which the sweet old librarian mentioned A pool of blood and a .32 cartridge were found on the scene, and thats where the story ended.

Bloch did notice two other incidents in the 50s involving two seperate fires at the same property, a local farmhouse at the edge of town. Taking note of that, he decided this would be the end of his search. In retrospect, he wondered what he expected to find. There was no rash of local disappearances, not even a little nugget that could inspire a good yarn.

Robert was back in his hotel room when nightfall came. He imagined he’d be penning a letter to his young fan about his findings tonight, or at least begin a new piece of fiction, but there was nothing to write about. Maybe he should have known better. Lacking options for what to do with himself this evening, he soon found himself at the tavern down the street. A few people eyeballed him as he walked in, and he thought to himself he might have been the first out of town person to come into this tavern since, maybe ever. Looking around at the mostly older crowd, he would have bet the same people had probably been coming here for decades. 

A Brewers game was on. It was an away game against Kansas City. Robert couldn’t remember the last time he even watched a ball game. Way back in his youth, what felt like a thousand years ago now, there was a special father’s and son’s day exhibition. Robert couldn’t recall who it was against, but he remembered it was hot. As he put down a few dollars for his beer at the bar he reminisced on the then outrageous price of a dime for a ballpark soda. That day, during the seventh inning stretch, big league player Hack Wilson tossed an autographed baseball directly at him. The ball flew perfectly through the air. Robert reached his hand up to grab it, searching for his first moment of athletic glory, but the ball slipped through his fingers. He watched the white sphere stitched in red fall deep down into the abyss below the open bleacher seats. He never knew if he had disappointed his father. He did just get his first pair of glasses, so at least he had that for an excuse. But what if? 

Sitting at the bar with his drink in his hand, he couldn’t help asking himself this question, a question probably faced by all in their twilight years. What if? What if, by chance, he was able to catch that ball? What if he then leapt into the more extroverted world of sports, and never dove into that most introverted world of books? What if he hit home runs or scored touchdowns instead of spinning strange yarns of the Elder Gods and dead Whitechapel murderers? It was too late for such questions now, though he did laugh to himself at the thought of be fawned over by voluptuous supermodels as opposed to little old ladies that worked in libraries. Either way, Robert did not regret his path in life. He did what he loved, but as he saw his reflection in the mirror at the back of the bar, he mulled over how his work never hit the nerve of the American consciousness. While he certainly had a successful career as a novelist, and even wrote a handful of screenplays and television episodes, he never did that special something that captured the public’s imagination the way Stephen King had, or the way his old friend and mentor H. P. Lovecraft had, or, as he watched the ball player on TV hit a homerun to a cheering crowd, the way athletes had. Too bad it was hit by Todd Benzinger of the Royals.

Long lost in thought, he didn’t even notice later when the game ended, a game he’d stopped watching so long ago. The tavern was now filled with the tune of the local news station, whose Breaking News logo emblazoned the screen. When the news caster appeared, he seemed more serious than usual, his voice in fact was almost shaking.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we come to you tonight with extremely disturbing news from right here in our area.” The Wisconsin anchorman said. “We warn you; the following segment may be too disturbing for some viewers. Milwaukee police have arrested thirty-one-year-old Jeffrey Dhamer, after finding an adult male fleeing Dhamer’s apartment with one wrist handcuffed. Police arrested Dhamer in his home, after which they found a scene of pure terror.” After taking a visibly deep breath, the anchor man continued. “Police found seventy-four polaroid photos of corpses at various stages of dismemberment, which were all taken in his home. Dhamer’s apartment was filled with actual human remains, including two entire human skeletons, seven human skulls, a pair of human hands, an entire human torso, two human hearts, and a bag of other human organs.”

As the report went on, and footage from the killer’s home was shown, Bloch looked around to see all eyes were on the screen. At this moment, nobody ordered, nobody drank, solids and stripes remained still on the pool table, the barkeep even turned the jukebox off. Bloch couldn’t put his finger on it, but somehow, he knew this horrific news hit the people of this tiny town with an extra sting.

Finally, an older woman at the bar broke the silence. “Well, you know who that sounded like….”