Halloween in Gothenberg

HALLOWEEN IN GOTHENBERG

 

The Department of Extranatural Affairs

Washington, DC

December 9, 1932

From: Derek Flanagal

To: B. F. Creed

 

Dear Ben,

First of all, Merry Xmas and a Happy New Year. I hope you don't mind me writing to you on old Department stationery, but I've still got a ton of it and I need to save every penny I can since my retirement.

As you can see, I have moved to Gothenberg, Texas, as I always threatened I would. I fell in love with the place when I was down here researching the Robert Bellamy materials; you might recall he moved into the area in his later years. There is such an impression of small town charm and Victorian grace, hidden here in the brown hills. Winter is not as severe as in Washington, which is gratifying to old bones, but I miss the snow a little. It is more like a bleak late fall than what I expect at Yuletide.

You might have a hard time finding Gothenberg on the map. Let me help you. It's about thirty miles from San Antonio, and three miles from Walnut Springs, the next biggest town. It's too small to find on most maps; the official population is 444, not counting dogs and horses. Every location in town, from the three (!) churches to the post office, are within walking distance of each other.

The house I bought is tiny, just one big room and a bath, but adequate for my needs. And it only cost $200! It is really an old converted smokehouse, built of limecrete, that queer old material that Bellamy writes about. If what he says about its spiritual properties is true, and I think it is, the ghosts of thousands of pigs and sheep might be sharing the place with me. If so, they are very quiet room-mates, and don't interfere with my work.

"What work, Flanagal?" you may ask. "I thought you were retired, my good and faithful servant." Well, I am pursuing my old dream of becoming a writer, and think I am well-stocked with incidents from my Washington career. Not the work with the Department; Lord knows what readers would make of that stuff. I mean society and political experience. I want to do something like Upton Sinclair or Carl Van Doren.

Prices here in this part of the country are fairly inexpensive, and with my leisure and my pension plan, I am seen to be one of the luckiest and most affluent men in town. All on what would rent me a bare closet in New York! I'm becoming a well known sight to the inhabitants (who are mostly German), some of whom even know enough to call me "Flanagal" instead of "Flanagan," a habitual mis-labeling that will probably follow me to the grave unless I prepare my tombstone personally ahead of time.

As you can imagine, space in my house is rather limited, so I decided to donate some of my more mundane volumes to our tiny local library. The place is hungry for books, and as I could still have access to them as needed but no need to store them myself, it seemed a perfect solution for all parties.

Which brings me to the real meat of the matter, and why I am writing this rather lengthy letter to you at all, instead of simply sending you a Christmas card. I suppose once an agent, always an agent. Who around here can I discuss it with? Despite my own expertise and analysis, I still feel that client's urge (familiar to everyone in the Bureau) to talk about it, like the Ancient Mariner. To whom do psychiatrists tell their woes?

Ben, I met a very nice widow by the name of Mrs. Eulalie Krampf. Before you go jumping to conclusions, this is not another case of your old pal Derek hounding off after one more skirt. I'm afraid, to be perfectly candid, that those days are behind me now, and she's old enough to be my older sister. But I do like companionship, especially female companionship (they're so sensible), and around here the male companionship is all beer and bowling. Not bad pastimes, but not my cup of tea.

Eulalie is the librarian in Gothenberg, a purely honorary position in our poor little town, and this is where I met her, when I came in to see about donating my books. I wanted to make sure they wouldn't be simply dumped into the next library sale, but shelved and available if I ever needed them. After looking around to see if they had a copy of Bellamy's legendary childhood memoir (no such luck) I engaged her in conversation.

She was delighted with the offer of more books for their impoverished stacks, and even more impressed when I revealed what caliber they were; mostly reference books and old literary classics. She told me that the best way to ensure their continued presence was to confer them as books "given in the memory of": rules said these had to remain for at least twenty years. This was fine by me; by then I imagine I'll be bones in a box.

We got into a deep discussion about local history and genealogy, interests we both share, and by the end we knew quite a lot about each other and were fast friends. This affection grew the next day, as I brought the books over and helped her prepare them for shelving. I ended up giving them in memorium of old Bob Bellamy. It seemed fitting, considering his local connections. It puzzled Eulalie. I'm sure she's never heard of him, and probably thinks (from the way I spoke of him) that he's some kind of Dutch uncle of mine.

She has no idea of the existence of the Department of Extranatural Affairs, or my connection with it. I don't think, even after what's happened, that I need ever enlighten her. Knowing such things makes life complicated.

So what happened? Well, for some months, not a whole heck of a lot. I walked my daily rounds; did my writing in the morning, went to the post office to get a paper, visited the library to talk to Eulalie, and had lunch at the one tiny diner in town. Sometimes I forced her to come with me to eat, despite the wagging of local tongues that ensued. She was really struggling financially since the death of her husband Otto, who had passed five years ago.

I even proposed (when I found out about it) to buy the old flivver that had stood in her garage, useless, since his demise. She didn't drive, never learned; it had always been Otto. With everything in walking distance, like I said, I didn't really have much use for it, but I pretended that I needed it for trips to Walnut Springs.

She could have used the money (I offered $30 for it) but the memories of Otto were still too strong. This was obvious the few times we walked together to see the cemetery and discuss local family history. The first thing she would do was visit his grave, kiss her hand, and touch the stone. It's one of the last plots in the old walled part of the graveyard.

Every now and then at the library I would submit the suggestion I buy the car and she would refuse; I'd shrug, then take a walk around the neighborhood and return home to do my evening writing with a sandwich and a bottle of brandy at my elbow. I figured that if things really got desperate, she would take me up on my proposition.

The thing that finally happened came at the end of October, in fact on Halloween. After lunch I was more restless than usual, nervous and edgy. You know how that day makes all us agents feel. It usually passes without incident, but we can't relax until it does. I know I'm not an agent anymore. Old habits, I guess.

I walked much later and farther than usual, trying to shake the feeling, but I couldn't settle down, no matter how tired I was getting. I wondered when the children would go out trick-or-treating. Then, when the light was starting to lay long, I noticed something peculiar happening. First in horse-drawn wagons, then a little later in automobiles, families were loading up and heading out of town, in a general exodus. Soon, when the evening shades began creeping, I could only see three or four houses with lights still on.

I had always thought Gothenberg was a quiet town, but the absolute stillness that had fallen was unnerving. It was only broken by the shrill of a few last dying cicadas. I suddenly heard the gentle opening of a door, distinct and startling in the empty streets. I turned and found my steps had brought me to stand in front of Eulalie's house.

She was carrying a jack-o-lantern, already lit, to set on the porch railing. She put it down and looked out towards me through the shadows. A welcoming smile broke out on her face. "Well, you've come early."

"I'm not a trick-or-treater, Mrs. Krampf," I said, taking off my hat and stepping into the light. "Just out for an evening stroll. I'm afraid your pumpkin won't attract many children; the town seems deserted."

Her smile faded a little as she recognized me. She seemed confused, then a little concerned. "Most folks go into Walnut Springs tonight, and don't come back till morning. There's parties and things," she explained, then blurted out, "Mr. Flanagal, you shouldn't be wandering around the evening like this!" She collected herself. "The damp night air, and all. You'll catch a chill. Best go home and shut yourself in for the night."

"Yes, perhaps I should," I said. "Do you think I might come in for a drink of water first? I've been walking all afternoon, and you know my house is on the other side of town. I'm parched."

Now she looked alarmed. "Mr. Flanagal! What would people say about you visiting a poor widow woman under the cover of darkness! My reputation would be out the window!"

I looked up and down the abandoned streets. "What would who say, Eulalie?" I asked. "I promise you I'll be in and out and on my way so fast not even Miss Grundy could find anything wrong with it. Please. I'm about to collapse with exhaustion." And I was. My knees were shaking, and my stomach felt light.

She peered at me through the jack-o-lantern light. "All right," she said. "A drink of water, then home you go." She backed up, scanning the neighborhood as she did, and I followed her onto the porch. We went in, and she led me to the kitchen.

I drank two glasses of water as hastily as I could, too hastily, I think. Going back through the living room, I was overcome by a wave of dizziness and purple shadows swarmed the corners of my eyesight. With a groan I sat down hard on the over-stuffed loveseat, head swimming. The air seemed to grow thicker around me.

Now she was really panicking. She tugged at my arm. She kept tapping my face with her open hand and telling me "You've got to get up!" in that strangled voice that means one hopes no-one overhears. It wasn't really helping me any. I tried to rise and kept falling back.

Then there was a knock at the door. She turned to it and stood straight up, her face like a light. She dropped my arm, forgotten, and rushed to open up to the shadowy figure behind the frosted glass panel. "Hello, darling," she said warmly.

I looked up and blacked out completely.

I woke up in my own bed, fully dressed, the morning light streaming through the window. I got up, befuddled, and threw the covers off. Bits of dried mud scattered to the floor.  I sat staring at them a moment, then got up and staggered to the door to look out on the day and try to figure out what had happened and what I had seen. There in the driveway sat the Krampf flivver.

I walked over to it and looked inside. The keys were in the ignition. On the driver's side was more mud, smudging the seat and backrest. I looked at the fuel gauge. It sat on empty. I drew my head back out. Around me the neighborhood was loud with the returned townspeople, taking up their daily routines. I went in to bathe, change my clothes, and think things over.

In the end, I had to call the mechanic at the gas station to tow the car back to Eulalie's house and put it in her car port again. When he asked, I told him I had taken it out for a spin before buying it and run out of gas. He looked in the dry tank, looked at the mud, then looked at me knowingly. "Thought it might have had something to do with Mischief Night," he said laconically.

After he left, I walked out to the cemetery. There was a groundskeeper there, placing fresh sod on certain graves. When I asked him, he said, "Just some maintenance. It's All Soul's Day," as if that explained it. One of the graves was Otto's. The new section outside the wall, surrounded by chain link fencing, was undisturbed. I scraped at the whitewash on the old wall. It was limecrete. I walked back into town and went to the library.

She was busy behind the desk, blushing, pretending not to see me. I stood clearing my throat, and finally said, loudly, "Eulalie!" She turned to me in dismay. I cleared my throat again. "Mrs. Krampf. I just wanted to say I'm sorry for last night, and to apologize if I took up too much of your limited time. I want to thank you-all for seeing I got home safe." I did not mean the singular 'you.'

"Please don't mention it again," she said formally, gracefully. "Ever. It's one of those things that doesn't need repeating in these parts." And thus, I was assured that it was an open secret in Gothenberg. I left the library and haven't imposed myself since. I think she needed some time, but now that Christmas approaches, I do have a fruitcake that I'm considering dropping by to deliver, to renew our acquaintance on a more enlightened basis.

Well, Ben, I don't think the Department needs to look into this one. Everybody knows about it, and nobody's getting hurt. I imagine that as the relatives of those in the old cemetery walls get fewer, the visits will dry up. All the same, I'm thinking about going to Walnut Springs next year.

I just wanted the circumstances noted in the records. It's all too true, I find: once an agent, always an agent. Thanks for letting me ramble on so long; I suppose it's my literary aspirations showing through. Tell Eddie Happy Holidays for me.

Yours Truly, Derek Flanagal.