Crooked Hills
THE DAMNED
Graphic Novel
THE SIXTH GUN
Ongoing Comic Book Series & Graphic Novels
THE TOOTH
Graphic Novel with Shawn Lee
MOTHER, MAIDEN, CRONE
Upcoming Novel with Shawn Lee
BOOK ONE
CULLEN BUNN
AN EARWIG PRESS BOOK
October 2011
Digital Edition
Earwig Press is an imprint of
Pulp+Pixel Entertainment Company
PO BOX 1981
Crystal Lake, IL 60039
Story text copyright © 2011 Cullen Bunn
All rights reserved.
This book and all derivative works in the
Crooked Hills
series are exclusively licensed from the copyright owner by Pulp+Pixel Entertainment Company. No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form, or by any means, without the permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to persons, living or dead, is neither intended nor should be inferred.
Cover illustration by Brian Hurtt
Cover Illustration copyright © 2010 Pulp+Pixel Entertainment Company
Crooked Hills
logo is a trademark of Pulp+Pixel Entertainment Company
Invocation by Kate Sherrod
Invocation copyright © 2011 Pulp+Pixel Entertainment Company
ISBN-10: 0-9825789-2-X
ISBN-13: 978-0-9825789-2-6
For more information about this series or other books published by Earwig Press, please visit
Earwigpress.com
I like a dark and moist and cozy space,
A waxy lair, where all your secrets hide,
All gooey. And I know of just the place.
You will not even have to open wide,
Say “aaah” or anything. Your little ear
Will let me in. I’ll wait until tonight
When all is quiet, when I know the fear
Of this wee story’s left you. When the light
Goes out, then in I’ll come, and there I’ll stay.
I’ll tickle going in, but you’ll forget
I’m there, until I settle in your brain
To tell you stories that will make you sweat
(Sweat’s salty!). You will never be the same!
Things change, you’ll find, with me inside your head.
You think you’ll only dream when you’re in bed?
Kate Sherrod
There are many people I’d like to thank, so I hope I don’t forget someone. First and foremost, I’d like to thank Cindy for all the support and for being an awesome wife and mom. I’d also like to thank my dad for being a natural storyteller; Jimmy Z. Johnston, McKenzie Johnston, and Greg Kishbaugh for the editorial support; Brian Hurtt, Chris Samnee, and Drew Moss for drawing pictures that helped bring Crooked Hills to life; Shawn Lee and Mike Oliveri for listening to me go on and on about “the most haunted town in America”; Anton Kromoff for all the support and encouragement; and A. N. Ommus for his vision and tenacity.
I’d also like to thank the towns of Newton Grove, Goldsboro, Dudley, Mt. Olive, Thayer, Mammoth Springs, West Plains, and Koshkonong for a lifetime of inspiration.
This book is for my son, Jackson.
I hope your life is filled with adventure
and you bring me along
for some of the fun.
CHAPTER ONE
“I BURY ALL YOUR COWS!”
I barely heard my little brother, Alex, as the car continued on its way toward... my doom, I thought.
“Charlie!” My little brother yelled a little more loudly. “Charlie! There’s another graveyard! I bury all your cows!”
For good measure, Alex kicked the back of my seat hard enough to jostle my head.
Eight-year-olds, I thought, must be the most annoying creatures in all the world.
Maybe not all eight-year-olds, but definitely my brother.
“I’m not playing your game, Alex.” I looked out the window. The hills along the right-hand side of the winding road were dotted with dozens of old, leaning tombstones. And I don’t have any cows for you to bury.”
“Aww,” Alex whined. “C’mon, Charlie.”
I ignored him and watched the road. The graveyard slipped out of sight, replaced by a tangled forest of tall trees and thick brush. Shadows dappled the window and painted the interior of the car in strange, shifting patterns. Up ahead, the road curved, and I couldn’t see what was around the bend.
I eyed the car’s clock again. We’d been on the road all day, and I was getting a little tired of being cooped up in the car with my mom and little brother. The muscles in my shoulders and the back of my neck ached. Still, I would have gladly suffered through another six hours on the road if my mom would just turn the car around and head back home.
As we drove along, Mom and Alex played a game I’m certain Mom made up off the top of her head. Every time they spotted cows grazing alongside the road, they’d count as many of the animals as they could out loud. Mom counted cows on the left, and Alex watched for cows on the right. We passed plenty of pastures, and sometimes they’d both be rattling off numbers so fast it gave me a headache. Whenever they passed a cemetery, the first one to cry out, “I bury all your cows!” caused the other to lose all the cows they’d already counted. A morbid little touch, I thought, and even though I had no interest in playing, I found myself watching for gravestones every now and then.
Not that I’d ever let them know I was even paying attention.
“You have to play, Charlie,” my brother said. “Mom’s not much of a challenge.”
“Hey!” Mom craned her neck to give my brother the evil eye in the rearview mirror. “I thought I was doing pretty well.”
“Mom,” Alex said, “you don’t have any cows, and I’ve got, like, a hundred or something.”
“Well, excuse me for watching the road,” Mom said. “Besides, I’m on the verge of a comeback.”
Alex snorted.
Just then, we passed another cow pasture on the left-hand side of the car, and Mom started counting.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—”
Sure enough, as soon as she started counting, another small cemetery appeared alongside the road.
“I bury all your cows!” Alex called out, giggling with delight.
Cows and cemeteries, I thought. That’s almost the only thing we’ve seen for hours! Some vacation this is going to be!
I let out a loud, frustrated sigh, and a storm cloud of anger passed over Mom’s face.
“Charles Ward!” She only called me ‘Charles’ when I’d done something to upset her, and I guess moping and moaning like a death row inmate qualified. “I’ve had just about enough of your sulking for one day.”
She glanced at me, and I looked away.
Needless to say, I was none-too-thrilled with the idea of spending six weeks in the middle of nowhere. Who would want to vacation in Crooked Hills? I almost needed a magnifying glass to pinpoint the town amidst the colorful intersecting lines of the road atlas. It was no more than a tiny speck nestled in the Ozark foothills of Missouri, and I could have happily lived my whole life without ever setting foot there, let alone wasting six whole weeks in the backwoods.
“I know you’re upset,” Mom said, her voice softening, “but you’ve pouted long enough, I think.”
Upset? I thought. That’s the understatement of the year! The century!
How was I supposed to react to the news I’d be leaving my neighborhood, my house, and all my friends to spend the entire summer with an aunt and uncle I barely remembered?
I didn’t want to take the trip—no way, no how—but I understood why Mom needed some time away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Ever since the accident, Mom hated Chicago more with each passing day. You could see it in her eyes, this far away, restless look, like she was supposed to be somewhere else. It was only a matter of time before she decided to pack everything up and get away for a little while.
Mom hadn’t seen her only sister since my dad’s funeral a few months earlier. I didn’t blame Mom for wanting to visit. I just couldn’t understand why she wanted to stay so long. A week, two at most, would have been plenty, if you asked me.
I had thought about asking if I could stay with one of my friends for the summer. I was sure Taylor or Doug or maybe even Stewart, who would have been my very last choice, would be happy to have me as a houseguest. I knew Mom would never go for it, of course, because she wanted the family to spend some time in the country together. Like it or not, I was stuck. I felt like the unluckiest kid on Earth.
So a little moping was justified, I’d say.
“There will be plenty to do,” Mom said, still trying to encourage me. “You won’t be bored, I promise. What about your cousin Marty? Won’t it be nice to see him? The two of you will have a lot of fun.”
I had seen my cousin at the funeral, but we really hadn’t spoken to each other.
“What will we have in common?” I asked.
“You aren’t even trying to see the bright side. If you give it a chance, you might surprise yourself and actually have fun.”
“Doubtful,” I muttered.
How could anyone have fun in such a small town? Did they have a video store? A place where I could buy comics? A movie theater? Did they even have running water? Would I have to use a cramped, smelly outhouse when I needed a bathroom?
On the Saturday before we left, I played baseball with friends, and it might have been the all-time best game of my life. I’m not kidding—I was my team’s hero! I scored several runs, a couple of times with bases loaded, and caught more than my fair share of pop-flies. We sent the other team packing with their heads hung low. The cheers of my teammates only saddened me, though, since this was likely the only game I’d play before school started again. By the time I came home, another all-star would probably have taken my place on the field.
I wondered what else would change before I returned. Would my friends even remember me when I came back?
I said goodbye to my buddies, promised to call and write, and jokingly warned them not to start a losing streak without me around to carry the team.
Sunday, I gathered the things I wanted to pack for the trip: video games, comic books, horror novels, and—oh, yeah!—clothes. Sorting through my most prized possessions, I wished I could load my entire room in the back of the car. I tried to judge how much stuff I needed to keep me occupied in the Ozarks. I wished I’d thought to buy some new games for my DS Lite. I’d already beaten all the ones I owned at least a couple of times. I didn’t want to spend almost two months with nothing to do but watch cows chew their cud. Why did I feel like the minutes would pass like decades? Six weeks! Such a long time away from home hardly seemed possible.