Where The Gray Things Live(Scott Michael Davison) Bobby Starr was a chick magnet. When only fifteen he wrote, “10 Steps to French Kissing Cheerleaders”, mandatory reading for every high school boy in Tyler Creek, West Virginia.

Tyler Creek, once vibrant with lively Victorian Bed & Breakfasts’, roadside vegetable stands and pick your own peach groves now lay silent. The new highway bypass created yet another aging ghost town crippled by an eerie sense of isolation and sadness overshadowing everything. Well, everything except young Bobby Starr of course.

“Dude, if you wanna start french kissing girls then you gotta learn how to scare ‘em,” explains Bobby sipping his pop at Blanches Diner where lunch filled tables of bitter old men parking multi-colored pickup trucks reminisce about better times.

“Tonight, I’m taking my dad’s car and bringing Katelyn to the old church house down by the hidden lake back by where Old Pete used to farm.”

“What?” questions Danny, his best friend since kindergarten. “That’s where the gray things live!”

“Dude, it’s Katelyn? Hello? Besides, my older brother told me he’s the one who made up that whole stupid story anyway. I’ll give you all the hot details tomorrow.”

***

“Bobby, my dad’s gonna kill me if he finds out that I’m out here. Let’s go back,” requests Katelyn Christenson, head cheerleader of their high school’s three-girl squad.

“Okay, okay. But first I just wanna show you something over here. Come on, I won’t let anything happen to ya … I promise,” assures Bobby.

Parked and walking down the long grassy driveway of the decayed old church house, moonlight shadows guide their way. The skin-crawling buzz of a million mosquitoes can barely be heard over the thundering sound of barking tree frogs.

Standing outside the broken double doors of sun bleached wood half covering the outside entrance to the root cellar below, Bobby points and says with the slow purposeful voice of a bad 60’s horror movie, “Ya hear that soft humming sound? That’s where the gray things live.”

“Go see what’s down there,” says Katelyn.

“Say WHAT?” blurts out Bobby.

“Bobby Starr, I know why you brought me out here. I read your stupid book. So if you want a piece of these lips, then you gotta be a man and… um, go see what’s down there,” says Katelyn with growing hesitation.

Convincing Katelyn, and himself, that it’s structurally unsafe, Bobby grabs a nearby branch from a long dead oak tree and tosses it into the dark opening. Swarms of shiny green flies pour out making them gag as several fly into their mouths. Dry-heaving, they turn away to escape the overcoming stench of rotten food blinding their eyes with tears.

Eyes clearing, they notice a nearby well on the side of the church house just across the grassy driveway. Looking down the well all they can see is an endless pit of darkness.

“Drop a rock down there,” says Katelyn.

Before Bobby can even open his mouth Katelyn turns sharply pointing to her now puckered wet lips shining brightly in the moonlight.

“Ahh … am I the only one who just saw what happened back there?” asks Bobby pointing back towards the church house.

Still puckering, Katelyn folds her arms across her chest and motions him to start looking.

“Ugh” snorts Bobby. Finding a smooth round stone Bobby holds it above the bottomless pit. “You’d better be so worth it,” he says as he releases. Listening for a splash they both move closer to the opening.

Nothing …

Tilting his head to one side to hear better, Bobby is drawn to the upstairs window where the face of an old woman with long raggedy gray hair is staring back at him. Their eyes lock, freezing him with fear.

Suddenly she is gone.

Hearing sounds of glass breaking and boxes falling and loud footsteps running down stairs of broken boards, Bobby turns and sprints past Katelyn leaving her standing there helpless.

“Come back! Don’t leave me here. Bobby, don’t leave me here!!” pleads Katelyn.

Lunging from the side door, the ear-piercing shrill of the half woman half animal screaming like a wild banshee startles Bobby causing him to stumble and fall into a shallow puddle of mud and water. Slipping and sliding from shoes caked with wet slippery goo, he finally reaches the car. Panic stricken, he starts the car and hits the gas catapulting himself backwards down the long driveway towards the street.

THUMP … THUMP …

“Oh My God! Oh My God!” shrieks Bobby like a twelve year old girl scout face-diving into a spider web.

Instinctively stopping, the sudden silence is deafening. His eyes are fixed on the motionless dark shadow lying in the thick dry grass. Stepping one foot out of the car, “WHAM”, the front porch door slams open and another screaming mass of gray hair comes hobbling frantically on all fours towards him holding a broken wooden rake.

Like a Keystone Cop, Bobby stomps the gas pedal hitting the street like a speed bump cracking his muffler and sending one shiny silver wheel cover rolling endlessly down the long dark street. Squealing his tires filling the air with a lingering cloud of dirty white smoke, only the rumbling sound of exhaust and scraping metal can be heard in the distance.

Turning towards Katelyn, the two old women start moving closer, one still on all fours and the other dragging herself across the grass with one arm.

“Shoot, now we’ll have to walk all the way home”, said Katelyn.

Removing their wigs and masks, the three cheerleaders looked at one another with concern, then fell to the ground laughing hysterically … even harder than when Megan Stonewell sneezed a thick greenish white mixture of milk and snots at their fifth grade lunch table on split-pea soup day.

Walking and stumbling and crying from laughter, each girl took turn yelling, “Oh My God! Oh My God!” until one by one their hoarse voices finally gave out leaving only giggling to fill the quiet still air. Quite content with keeping the legend alive, the three girls never told their version of the story to a single sole.

***

A year later, now a freshman in college, Bobby Starr is still telling stories and scaring girls and has since become quite the cherry flavored lip balm connoisseur. However he has never returned to his home town to visit his family and friends - not even once.

Soon after, Billy Starr, his younger brother, upon stepping up in rank and moving into his older brother’s larger bedroom, discovered hidden in the closet a yet unpublished second edition of the newly titled, “11 Steps to French Kissing Cheerleaders.”

“Eleven?”

Rummaging frantically through the creased yellow-aged pages to become the first person to read the new words of wisdom from the old master himself, he turns to Step 11 and reads …

“To whom it may concern, if while following the first ten steps of this book you find yourself in the small town of Tyler Creek, West Virginia, stay clear of that rickety old church house down by the hidden lake back by where Old Pete used to farm …

… that’s where the gray things live.”

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