The Planchette
Scott Wilson learns to tell a lie
If you’re new here, welcome! This is Sleep Tight, the section of Kindling where I share original short fiction, and serialized stories. I hope you enjoy! Feel free to comment, ask questions, whatever you’d like. I love reader interaction! And if you know someone else who might like this newsletter, please share it!
And for my paid subscribers, I’ve recorded an audio version of this story. See what you’re missing here!
Enjoy the teaser? To hear the full audio version, become a paid subscriber for $6/month, or $50/year.
This is the prologue from a longer work, called Found Things.
Scott Wilson’s family has lived on the same land for three generations, a plot of hundreds of acres in the middle of Colorado valley. His grandmother, the woman who raised him as a small boy, has Alzheimer’s.
Desperate to keep her memory alive, Scott travels back to her home, and starts to record his memories of her for his own children. In the process, he discovers her own journals, and learns of the secret dark past that led his family to this land in the days of the gold rush.
Scott Wilson grew up in a way that most kids in the early eighties did not. It was a way of life that had long been dying since the industrial revolution. He lived on a hobby farm with his grandparents for most of his young childhood. His mother and father had him when they were seniors in high school, and in a desperate attempt to pull their family out of a lifetime of poverty, Scott’s father went to work most of the year on an oil rig in Houston. That left his mother to care for him on her own most of the time, so she moved into the hundred year old cabin on her grandfather’s land.
The old thing had been outfitted with plumbing in the sixties, and the splintered siding had been painted and repainted varying shades of ruddy brown over the years to protect the little home from high winds and harsh winters. It neighbored her father’s land that he had purchased when he was in his mid-twenties from his father, and which he was still working to pay off now late into his fifties. Her grandfather had stayed in the cabin once he got past working age, but her father had put him in a home two years before. Scott’s mother was still in high school then.
His mom started going to nursing school when he was just two years old. That left him with his grandmother, a cheerful potbellied woman, a female version of Santa Clause in many ways. He called her Mee-maw. During the winter she took care of the house and kept full rich meals on the table for him and his grandfather, and of course for his mother at night when she returned home from classes, and later residency. In the summer she spent long days tending to a two-acre garden she had planted when Scott’s mother was a young girl.
Those were the times he remembered most. He would wake up early with her, grab some toast and milk freshly brought in from the one cow they owned, and head out with her into the early pink morning light. The prairie grass stretched on for miles, flecked by bubbling trees and brush. In the sunlight it gleamed golden. The air was always cool and his shirts would moisten as he walked through dew kissed grass. He didn’t even mind the itching that would inevitably come later. He loved to roam on that land.
Mee-maw would give him a jug of water and get to work within the protected fences of that garden. Scott’s grandfather was always out fixing something or watching his animals. He spent most of his time in an old barn. Scott wasn’t allowed in on account of all the dangerous equipment and was left to wander on his own. He kept a handful of metal army men in his pocket that belonged to his uncle when he was little, and some toffees that he’d sneak from Mee-maw’s candy bowl.
There were three trailers where tenants had lived in the early seventies about a half mile from the garden, but they’d been empty for close to five years now. Five years is an eternity to small boys and it’s an eternity for cheap structures. The trailers weren’t well cared for and they appeared ancient to little Scott. He imagined that were he to go inside, he might find an old mummy, or a skeleton key that would unlock all the doors in the town. Maybe even treasure that one of the mysterious tenants had left behind. He overheard that a couple of them had been circus performers. He knew that whatever was in there had to be neat. The roof of one was caving in and the siding had fallen off in places on a second. Now they were used for storage. The items in there belonged mostly to his own family, but some of them had been left behind.
He wasn’t allowed to go in any of the trailers on his own. They weren’t safe for a little boy, but he was allowed to sit in their shade and ride the tricycle that had been left by some kid who had stayed there for a few weeks while his family was passing through. From what he knew they had left in the middle of the night, just before first month’s rent was due with most of their belongings. But the little red trike had stayed.
Scott felt bad for the kid that had to leave the thing behind but he was happy that he got to play with it. He went riding between the close knit junky trailers most days until lunch, setting up his army men on rusty piles of metal fencing or balancing them on the stairs to the trailer doors as he rode by. In his mind, he was always racing and the army men were fans in the stands, betting and yelling as he pedaled the trike through sandy dirt, kicking up dust as he went.
He spent several quiet summers mostly alone in this way while his mother plodded along through school and work. He saw her most evenings but he knew she was tired from long hospital shifts and late night studying. He tried not to talk much when they watched shows in the old cabin at night and kept his thoughts for the forbidden trailer play during the mornings and afternoons. He didn’t have an imaginary friend. Scott always knew that he was talking to himself and never felt the need to personify that or manifest it in the form of an animal or person. The talking just helped him feel less alone. It was as simple as that. And one day he talked himself into what he thought was a fantastic idea.
The night before the idea bloomed in his mind, he and his mother had been watching a detective show. There were two main characters. The first was a mad genius of sorts, making magical connections and following clues right to the solving of a crime, much to everyone’s surprise. The second was a skeptic following the first guy around without much faith. He was okay, but Scott really liked that first guy. He was always observing people and places. He caught the shoe print in the mud and recognized that it was a loafer sold only at two Sears department stores in the entire United States. In the end, the spider web of connections to that shoe (or tire track) would lead to the arrest of the criminal.
That was all good, bad guys getting it and stuff. But the most important part to Scott were all the fun tools they used, like magnifying glasses and special little notebooks and night vision goggles. Scott knew that if he had those tools he’d be able to solve his own mysteries. Maybe he could even get paid to do it in town for locals. Lost pet business or something. He hadn’t figured out all the details, but he knew if he had the stuff it would come to him.
The next day he got to work. He looked around his Mee-maw’s house early that morning, but was only able to scrounge up a pen and some paper. So much for tools, but he took it out to the trailers and folded it into small squares to mimic the leather bound notebook of clues the detectives carried with them in their pockets. He gazed at the ground and wrote down everything he saw. There were a lot of details he’d never noticed before.
There was a huge ant hill in between the first and second trailer, a tire with a rope out behind the first trailer, and colored bottles half covered in dirt between the second and third. He finished investigating these, wrote down each color of bottle he found and stood up, eyes squinting in the sun. He was looking straight at the third trailer’s front door when he realized it was cracked open. His grandparents always kept them locked, and he looked around, thinking his grandpa or Mee-maw must have gone in without him seeing. No one was there. As he stared at the three splintered stairs leading up to it his heart started to race. An idea unfolded in his mind.
He knew there would be plenty of detective work to do in there. He may even find some things he could use. The third trailer was the oldest, a faded grey blue that was filled to the brim with what his grandfather called “junk.” For two years he’d heard his grandparents talk about getting the whole thing hauled away. Every summer came and went and the trailer stayed and suffered under heavy winter snows. It sagged sadly now, like the roof was about to cave in. Scott made his way forward. He was eight years old and a lot braver than many of his peers. A lot more curious too. The idea turned into excitement and he ran towards the stairs, shedding that burst of anxiety and pleasure at breaking the rules. The stairs shook from side to side as he made his way up, and when he reached the little landing at the top, he noticed the boards were bowed in the center.
Carefully, he pushed the door open with his right hand, notebook paper and pen in his left, and stepped over those middle boards to avoid crashing through and hurting himself. The smell of musty wet leaves filled his nostrils, and he could see sky through a few patches where the roof was gone. Insulation hung down like spider webs in those places, and the sunlight glinted off dust flecks floating through the air as the wind blew in from the open door. The trailer was piled with things, and Scott had to meander through a thin path that went straight through the center. Stacks of books and magazines threatened to topple over on an old wooden table. He bent down to see if there was anything underneath and saw a litter box, long abandoned with old cat poop still in it. He wrinkled his nose and wrote it down. Maybe there was a missing cat that had to be found.
He continued making his way through the canyon of belongings, writing down the strange things that he saw until he came to an open door at the end of the makeshift path. It led to the trailer’s only bedroom. He entered slowly. A naked mattress lay on the ground. Strange dark stains covered it. In police shows mattresses were almost always important to the crime, though Scott had no idea why.
The carpet was pocked in burn holes no bigger than a coin. Scott got a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. A combination of hunger pangs and anxiety filled his abdomen and he thought about leaving. Then the brave detectives from TV flashed in his mind and he pressed forward. He took his notepad out again and wrote mattress. To the left of the mattress was a closet with mirror doors rimmed in gold painted metal. He stood in front of them for a second before pushing one to the side. It only opened five inches or so before hitting something hard. Something was jammed in the way of the door, so Scott grabbed onto it with both hands and leaned his body away from it awkwardly. It wouldn’t budge.
He shifted and pulled back on it, and the door finally popped out of the bottom slider and gave. Scott flew backwards as it crashed to the ground. Now he would really be in trouble. He waited for someone to yell but no one was there. He stood up and stepped shakily over the glass and peered into the closet. It was stacked with boxes and old clothing that smelled like cigarettes. He pulled aside a heavy brown leather aviator jacket. There was an emblem on it. Pilots wings, he thought. Scott studied the flat stitches of the airplane. He wrote it down on his notebook paper.
He reached to pull it off the wire hanger and his eyes caught the corner of a wooden box. It looked to be made of cedar wood. Maybe it was a cigar box. He’d always wanted a cigar box for his treasures. His army men and his new detective observations could go in it. As soon as that thought entered his mind he dropped the sleeve of the jacket. The coat swung back violently and the dowel holding it snapped. An avalanche of clothing and boxes spilled down onto Scott and he stepped back, crunching mirror glass under his sneakers.
He wrestled the clothes off of his head and stared at the mess in front of him. On top of the pile sat the cedar box. It was larger than he’d thought, much too large to be a cigar box. A small golden latch held it closed, and he stepped forward with a curious excitement growing in his belly. He picked it up in his hands and felt a slight buzz rush up his arms. It reminded him of the time he had touched his tongue to a nine volt, unpleasant without being overtly painful. He turned it over to look at the bottom. It was all wood, no electricity in sight. His brow crinkled. He touched the latch but nothing happened.
Scott sat down on the mattress and placed the box on his lap. He felt the wood, smooth and worn in places where someone else’s hands had touched it. The thought of it sent shivers down his spine. He pushed the feeling away and opened the latch. Inside the box, he saw a wooden board with dark engraved letters. Spelled out in beautiful calligraphy at the top and set between an old-timey sun and moon were the letters O U I J A. Scott moved his fingers across them. He had no idea what they could mean, but they felt good beneath his fingertips.
In the shadowy upper right corner of the box sat a tear drop shaped block of wood about as big as his hand, a smooth circle of glass in the middle. “A magnifying glass!” Scott couldn’t believe it. He knew there was some treasure in here waiting for him. He’d felt it in his gut that morning, and followed that thread of instinct to this place. His lips were spread in a wide grin, and he stuck the wooden piece in his pocket. He latched the box and set it on the mattress. He wrote carefully on the last inch of white space of paper, magnifying glass.
“Scott!”
His head turned towards the bedroom window, heart suddenly in his throat. He could see Mee-maw walking up in the distance. He shoved the paper and pen into his pocket and scrambled up off the mattress to run to meet her outside before she could come in and see the mess he’d made of the closet. He ran on tip toes through the path of piled junk, knocking books over as he did, and opened the door a crack before peering with one eye to see where she was. She was headed toward the first trailer. As soon as her white dress disappeared around the corner of that first single wide, he jumped to the top step, tottered as it shook, and tumbled to the ground below. He stood up and went running around the back side of the second trailer, and almost ran into Mee-maw as she was walking.
“Here I am!” he yelled, smoothing his denim shorts and trying not to sound suspicious. Her eyes were wide.
“Scott where were you! Your face is all red.” Mee-maw’s eyebrows were angled. She was breathless and shaken. If he didn’t know her he would have thought she was mad, but he could see she had her worried face on. When it came to him she wore that face a lot.
“I’ve been waiting on you for over an hour. Your lunch is cold and I thought something bad happened to you. What are you doing playing over here?”
“I was just looking at stuff.” He was staring at his shoes and kicking dust when he said this. The look of a guilty man if she ever saw one.
She wasn’t satisfied by his response. “Come on in and eat. I don’t want you hanging around these old trailers. They aren’t safe.”
“Okay Mee-maw. I won’t.” The lie came easily to him. His mouth actually tasted sweet as he said it. He never knew it could feel so good to be dishonest. All the grownups were always telling him not to be. But they were always keeping him from the really fun things. This felt so good he thought he might try a lie again another time. It was better for the grownups anyway. They wouldn’t have to worry, and he would get to explore some more. She walked ahead, white dress blowing in the hot afternoon wind. The dust kicked up around her heels and spun small tornadoes in the space between them. He liked the distance. He didn’t want to be right at her side anymore. That was for little kids. Not bona fide liars like him.
“Now Scott,” she stopped and crossed her arms over her chest, as if a sudden chill had overtaken her despite the summer heat, “you didn’t go in any of those trailers did you?”
He could feel his face flushing and sweat gathered along the line of his hair. The wooden magnifying glass felt heavy in his pocket. “No ma’am.” She looked at him a moment longer. That wasn’t something he normally called her. He knew the ball was about to drop. In one second she was going to march over and see that the door was still hanging open. He’d forgotten to close it on his way out. She might even be able to see it now.
He was sweating so bad he thought she could probably smell it from where she stood, three or four feet away from him. The only sound was the wind and the sand hitting the metal trailer siding behind him. He waited for the inevitable. Instead she turned without a word, hands still gripping the soft flesh of her upper arms, and continued the half mile march past her garden and to the house.
Scott followed behind her the whole time, hands shoved in his jean pockets, his pointer finger on the smooth circle of glass. He moved the pad of his finger left and right across the wood, then circled clockwise and counter-clockwise around the glass as he walked with it. The wood was warm and smooth. He couldn’t believe his good luck and he couldn’t wait to really start working on some mysteries.
The way he saw it, by the end of the summer he could be as good as a real detective, just like the ones in the movies and TV shows. He stopped briefly and turned to stare at the golden prairie grass behind him, whispering as the wind bowed it low. The trailers were miniature now, dark in the distance and mostly covered by the grass in the field. He turned and followed Mee-maw into the farmhouse and closed the door gently behind him.
Below is the full audio version of this story. To hear it and receive weekly Kindling podcasts and bonus content, become a paid subscriber for $6/month or $50/year.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Kindling to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.