The Interview

The sleepy town of Holbrook has all but woken up.

Eight murders in two months.

All stabbings.

All committed on Saturday nights.

The media eagerly christened this string of killings “The Saturday Slashings”. All but one member of the media who found the name uninspired and predictable: Oliver Darnell.

At first, he was completely uninterested in the story and the frenzy that had turned this small New England town into the lead story on every evening broadcast from Boston to Baltimore.

Yet now, Oliver finds himself one-and-a-half black coffees in at the Holbrook Diner after his editor told him to write a story that sells or “start cleaning out your desk”.

Nothing like a good old fashioned ultimatum to get your head out of the sand.

The diner had the kind of charm that only existed in towns too small to even know they had a certain something to them. A bitter stench of coffee beans twirled with the tang of sun-baked vinyl from the cracked red booths. A jukebox tucked in the corner played half-forgotten country songs, the medley dragging listlessly through the crisp autumn air. Half of the customers seemed less interested in their eggs than in stealing a glance at the unfamiliar face sitting at the counter.

“You one of those TV hounds?” a waitress wiping the counter asked.

She had a tired face, storied eyes, and faded name tag that read “Dot”.

“Pardon?” Oliver asked, looking up from his blank notepad.

“Your badge.” Dot pointed with the rag, “Kinda gives you away.”

Oliver looked down at the laminated “MEDIA” tag clipped to his shirt pocket and laughed.

“Oh, nope.. Newspaper.”

“So you hide your face behind the crap you write?”

Oliver nearly choked on his coffee.

“Ma’am, I don’t-”

“Look kid,” her voice softened, but only slightly, “I know why you’re here. You and every other shark wearin’ that badge want to capitalize on our tragedy. As if we’re not grieving enough. You people fly in, stick cameras and microphones in our faces, ask us how we’re holding up, and then disappear before the bodies are even buried."

She topped off Oliver’s mug without even asking.

“How about instead of making our town your own little true crime documentary, you give us the time and space to grieve.”

Oliver set his pen down.

“Look, I hear you. Really. I don’t even want to write about the murders.”

Dot raised an eyebrow.

“Really?”

“Really. Frankly, I think that enough people are doing that already. I want to tell the world about Holbrook, the town, not the crime scene. I want to write about how this community has come together and highlight the good in this town.”

“Well aint that precious?”

Dot rolled her eyes hard enough to threaten permanent injury.

“Guess Hallmark Channel’s hiring now.”

Oliver smiled politely.

“With that said, what can you tell me about Holbrook?” he asked.

Dot studied him, her eyebrow raised and her hip popped.

She sighed.

“That it’s better off without people like you.”

Oliver nodded, accepting the blow.

“But,” she continued pointing a manicured finger at him, “you seem to be the least scummy of your kind that I’ve met this week, so I’ll give you a name.”

“A name?” Oliver leaned forward.

“A man who knows more about Holbrook than our own town treasurer.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Oliver eagerly grabbed his pen and looked up at a smirking Dot.

“But first you gotta pay for your coffee.”

Two minutes and $5 later, Oliver was winding down the narrow, gravel roads of Holbrook toward a man who would make his story sell: Orion Eldritch.

According to Dot, Orion lived on the far end of town, past the church and down an unassuming side road called Candlewick Lane.

Oliver followed directions, noting the faded signs, boarded up windows, and swarm of media trucks camped out like vultures. He passed a playground surrounded by ripped caution tape billowing in the wind.

As he took a sharp turn onto Candlewick Lane, the town grew quiet. It was as if the sensation of Holbrook had yet to penetrate this imperishable street.

Looking left and right, Oliver searched for the number: 122. The houses stood farther apart the further down he drove, swallowed by trees and mossy shadows. When he finally found it, the small number carved into a wooden post and hidden by ivy, he reluctantly turned his wheel into the dusty dirt driveway.

The house itself was two-story narrow, and lopsided with shutters that hung askew like broken wings. The paint had once been white but with time and the brutality of Mother Nature had yellowed to the color of bone. A faint light glowed behind an upstairs curtain.

Oliver killed the engine and sat for a moment, listening to it tick itself quiet. A chill crept through the air, the kind that made him wish he packed his coat.

He gathered his notebook, pulled his socks up, and stepped out onto the dirt.

Before he even got the chance to knock, the door creaked open.

The damp smell of ammonia stung Oliver’s nose.

For a moment, no one appeared. The door simply hung half open, revealing darkness and a sliver of worn hardwood floor. Oliver leaned to the left to see what, if anything, lay behind the door.

Then a man stepped into view.

Oliver jolted back.

The man had emerged so quietly that Oliver wasn’t sure where he had come from.

Tall and thin, the man wore brown suspenders over a dirtied white shirt. Liver spots dotted his freckled hands and wisps of silver hair clung stubbornly to his scalp. One cloudy eye drifted slightly while the other glared at Oliver.

“Good morning sir,” Oliver said, “Are you Orion Eldritch?”

“Depends on who’s asking.”

The voice surprised Oliver. Not because it was loud. No, quite the contrary. Because it was dry and soft, like leaves skittering across pavement.

“My name is Oliver Darnell. New York Tribune.”

Orion’s eyes settled on the “Media” badge clipped to Oliver’s pocket.

“I can read.”

Oliver forced a laugh.

“I’m writing a profile on Holbrook and I was told that you were the man to talk to.”

“Me?”

Something resembling a smile tugged at the corner of the old man’s mouth.

“Come in, won’t you?’” Orion said, stepping aside.

Oliver hesitated.

Orion’s expression never wavered.

“Unless you’d rather talk out here on my porch.”

As if snapping out of trance, Oliver replied, “No, I’m sorry. I was just… yes, thank you.”

He chuckled and crossed the threshold.

The smell of ammonia grew stronger.

The inside of the house was no less dreary than its exterior. Through the half-darkness of closed blinds Oliver could make out stripped pea-green wallpaper peeling off neglected walls like sun-burned skin.

Photographs covered nearly every available table and mantle. Dozens of them. Each telling a different story: weddings, little league games, funerals, first days of school. Oliver reached out and touched one of a young girl on a playground swing. Dust clung to his fingertips.

The floorboards groaned under Orion’s slippers as he shuffled down the hall.

“Dining room” he said, “follow me.”

Oliver did. He passed shelves of books and other small tchotchkes. A grandfather clock ticked somewhere deep in the house.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Then…

Thunk.

Oliver stopped.

The heavy sound had come from upstairs. He looked up.

“Is someone else here?”

Orion kept walking.

“My cat.”

Another thump. Bigger this time.”

Orion paused and looked back.

“My big cat.”

He resumed and Oliver followed.

The dining room was lit by a single hanging lamp. Its center piece was a butcher board table scarred with several knife marks.

“Have a seat,” Orion gestured toward the head of the table, “can I get you something to drink?”

Oliver noticed a plate of molding spaghetti on a nearby loveseat. Flies buzzed lazily around it.

“No, thank you. I’m all set.”

“Suit yourself.”

Orion limped into the adjacent kitchen. He opened the fridge which, to Oliver’s surprise, was completely empty save for a twelve pack of beer that Orion reached into and plucked a bottle out of.

Oliver glanced down at his watch. 10: 23.

“So, Mr. Eldritch,” Oliver started as Orion sat down at the other head of the table, “how long have you been living in Holbrook?”

“My whole life.”

He twisted the cap off of his beer with his hand, the jagged edge leaving a red crescent.

“So you were born here and never left?”

“That’s right.”

Oliver jotted this down while Orion took a long sip from his bottle.

“And what made you stay?”

“It’s quiet. The people. The nights.”

His cloudy eye drifted toward the dark window.

“I can go about my business in peace.”

“I see and-”

Another loud thud echoed from upstairs.

“Do you need to go check on your cat?”

“He’s fine. Can’t an animal have its fun uninterrupted?”

Oliver smiled politely.

The grandfather clock ticked.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

“So you enjoy the quiet of Holbrook. Has it always been like that?”

“Until recently,” Orion’s lips curled, “All these deaths have made this town a circus.”

“Do you think that the town will ever recover?”

“Once they catch the bastard, sure.”

Something about the way he said “bastard” made Oliver glance up.

Orion was smiling a cool and easy smile.

Oliver looked away. His eyes landed on the fireplace. Above it hung a hand-drawn map of Holbrook.

“Is that a map of the town?”

“Sure is. An authentic one too. Not the garbage they sell online.”

Oliver pushed his chair back.

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Be my guest. That’s why it’s there.”

The paper had yellowed with age.

“Wow, this shows you just how small the town really is.”

As he got closer to the map, he noticed eight colored pins dotting the town.

His pulse quickened.

“What are the pins for?”

“Bus routes,” Orion replied, not bothering to turn his body toward Oliver.

“Oh, were you a school bus driver?” Oliver asked as he reached into his pocket.

“For 35 years.”

“So you must really know every nook and cranny of this town?” Oliver slipped his phone out of his pocket and quickly snapped a picture of the map.

The camera sound clicked.

Orion’s eyes flicked upward.

“And the people in it,” he replied, “ I knew every single one of the victims.”

Oliver sat back down.

“Really?”

“Name and address.”

“Address?”

“Well how else would I know where to pick them up from school?”

Orion chuckled softly.

Oliver laughed.

“You said New York Tribune, right?”

Oliver looked up.

“That’s right”.

“Hm,” Orion nodded to himself then took a swig, “I used to read the Tribune.”

“Did you?”

“Every Sunday.”

He scratched absentmindedly at the label on the bottle.

“Funny thing.”

“What?”

Orion looked up, directly into Oliver’s eyes.

“Never cared much for the reporters.”

Oliver smiled.

“Can’t say I blame you.”

THUD.

Oliver looked toward the ceiling, Orion never broke eye contact.

“George really ought to settle down.”

“The cat?”

“The cat”.

Orion smiled into his beer.

Oliver shuffled in his seat.

“Speaking of the victims, since you brought them up-”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Orion raised a hand, “though you said you weren’t interested in the murders.”

“Well yes, but you mentioned them so I thought I could-”

“Who sent you here anyway?"

“Some waitress at the diner.”

“It was Dot, wasn’t it? That girl is always running her mouth. Gonna get her in trouble one of these days, I'm telling ya.”

Another thump upstairs. Louder this time.

“You know what I think? I think those poor folks deserve to rest.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“How long have you been here, son?”

“In Holbrook?” Oliver shrugged, “ Just a couple of hours. I drove in from Queens this morning.”

“The city, huh? Fancy.”

“If you call a studio apartment fancy, sure.”

Orion smiled.

“What do you think of Holbrook?”

Oliver blinked.

“Huh?”

“You’ve been asking me all of these questions. Figure it’s my turn.”

“Oh well,” Oliver smiled, “it’s beautiful. Very charming.”

“Don’t lie.”

The words came out silent and landed with a bang.

“Excuse me?”

“I said don’t lie to me.”

With his head slightly tilted down, Orion locked eye contact with Oliver.

“What do you really think?”

Oliver shifted in his chair as Orion took a sip.

“I told you. Main Street has character. The old houses. Goose Pond seems like a lovely park.”

Orion stopped sipping.

“Goose Pond?” He asked, slowly bringing his bottle down to the table.

“Yeah, the one with the benches.”

Silence.

Then Orion stood.

Slowly.

He limped toward the fireplace.

“Look.”

His finger rested on one of the pins.

“Goose Pond.”

His shoulders dropped and smiled sadly.

“Used to go there every day before Emily Hartley.”

“Victim number four, right?”

“Five. Poor girl. Terrible what happened to her.”

“A tragedy, really.”

“Sure was.”

For a moment, nothing moved. Not even the flies.

“But you know what I find interesting?” Orion broke the silence.

Oliver forced a smile.

“What’s that?”

“You said you came in from the city this morning?”

“That’s right.”

“Straight off Ninety-Five?”

“Yep.”

“Hit Dot’s diner.”

“Correct.”

“And then came right here?”

“Right.”

Orion nodded.

“Then how’d you see Goose Pond?”

Oliver blinked.

“I passed it.”

“No you didn’t.”

“I could’ve sworn-”

“Nope.”

Orion tapped the map.

“I’m west of Dot’s.”

His finger slid east.

“Goose Pond is over here.”

He cocked his head and smiled.

“Whole other side of town.”

Oliver laughed nervously.

“Guess I got turned around.”

“No,” Orion’s smile vanished, “you didn’t.”

The grandfather clock ticked.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Another thud upstairs. Neither man looked.

“I’ve lived here eighty years,” Orion said softly, “drove a school bus for thirty-five.”

His finger moved over the map and his eyes followed.

“I know every road. Every pin. Every house.”

He froze, slowly turned his head, and looked Oliver dead in the eye.

“And I know when somebody is lying to me.”

Oliver’s hand slid down his pant leg and toward his shoes.

“You think I’m lying.”

“No,” Orion smiled, “I know that you are.”

The knife flashed out of Oliver’s sock.

It sank into the old man’s side.

Orion screamed and slid down the fireplace gripping his side. A trail of blood followed.

Oliver stood over him, chest heaving.

“You should have left it alone.”

He kicked Orion onto his back.

“Do you know how hard I’ve worked?”

He pressed the bloodied blade against Orion’s ear.

“You know how many people underestimate me?”

“Please…” Orion whimpered.

“Don’t.”

“Please-”

“I said, don’t!”

Oliver pressed the blade further in.

“Wait, wait! I’ll tell you whatever you want to know! Just please don’t kill me.”

“And risk you running to the cops and playing hero? Do you think that I’m stupid? I don’t like people who think I’m stupid, Orion.”

“I can help you, I promise! I know this town, I know where everyone lives. Please just let me live.”

“Why? So you can grow even older and die in this wasteland of a town?”

“No, so I can see this.”

“What?”

Suddenly, with a swift flick of his arm, Orion pulled Oliver’s leg out from underneath him, sending him face first into the ground.

Before Oliver could recover from the blow, Orion rolled on top of him with the confidence of someone who’d done that move before.

Steel snapped around Oliver’s wrists.

Handcuffs.

“I got him,” he called out.

A door upstairs burst open. Heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs.

Three officers. Weapons drawn.

Oliver stared at them in disbelief.

Then at Orion.

Orion tightened the cuffs and smiled.

“Sorry son,”

He clicked the second cuff shut.

“but I’ve been lying too.”