Small Town Forever

The humid night air in Wurtsboro hung heavy, the kind of thick, damp atmosphere that made a man feel like he was breathing through a wet wool blanket. Inside Danny’s, the air conditioning was a lost cause, struggling against the mid-summer heat that seeped through the old wood frames of the windows. Bestbuy sat at his usual spot at the far corner of the bar, a position that allowed him to keep his back to the wall and his eyes on the front door. He swirled his glass, watching the amber liquid coat the sides before settling back down. The ice clinked against the glass, a rhythmic, lonely counterpoint to the low, droning hum of the television mounted above the top-shelf liquor. The news was on, but nobody was watching. In a town like this, the news was just background noise for people waiting for tomorrow to be exactly like today.

He glanced down at his left wrist. The Rolex Daytona caught a stray beam of dim light from a neon Budweiser sign, its polished steel surface shimmering with a cold, expensive brilliance. It was a jarring symbol, a piece of machinery built for a life of speed and luxury that seemed entirely out of place in a one-square-mile trap where the fastest thing moving was usually a stray dog chasing a squirrel. Bestbuy didn't mind the contrast. He liked having something on him that reminded him he’d been elsewhere, even if he always ended up back here, nestled between the mountains and the memories of fires he’d started and fires he’d failed to put out. He took a slow sip of his Jack and Coke, the burn of the alcohol familiar and grounding.

Across the table, Rit was lost in his own world of precision. His brow was furrowed deeply behind his thick-rimmed glasses, his eyes darting back and forth across a legal pad covered in neat, cramped rows of figures. He was meticulously calculating the week’s pool tournament earnings, moving the tip of a lead pencil with the same steady grace he used when lining up a bank shot on the felt. Rit had a medium build and a beer belly that spoke of a life spent in comfortable chairs and barstools, but his mind was a steel trap for numbers. He lived in the development across from his parents, a man of routine and loyalty. He didn't look up when he spoke, his voice calm and melodic.

"The numbers are holding steady, Bestbuy," Rit said, finally marking a final tally at the bottom of the page. "To the penny. Every single week, the engagement is the same. It’s consistent. I’m very proud of ya for keeping the spirits up in here."

Bestbuy grunted, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Skills to the mills, Rit. People need a reason to get out of the house, even if it’s just to lose five bucks to you at the table."

The town outside was unusually still. Wurtsboro was never a loud place—with a population of exactly 1,100, it didn't have the lungs for it—but tonight, the silence felt deliberate. Through the front window of the bar, the singular traffic light on Route 209 was visible. It was the only one in town, a lonely sentinel at the crossroads. It cycled from green to yellow, then to a stark, bleeding red, illuminating the empty intersection. No cars passed. No pedestrians walked the sidewalk toward the Canal Towne Emporium or the old church turned crystal shop. It was a ghost town that happened to be full of people.

The bell above the door gave a sharp, metallic ring as Dak stepped inside. He looked like he’d been pulled through a hedge backward. His red hair was messy, standing up in thin, balding tufts, and he looked agitated. He was slender, his t-shirt hanging off his frame as he marched toward the bar, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He notably kept one hand buried deeper than the other, hiding the absence of the fingers he’d lost to a lawn mower years ago. He didn't offer a greeting; he just pulled up a stool and started talking.

"Something’s wrong with the foundations in this town," Dak announced, his voice fast-paced and assertive. "I was over near the crystal shop earlier, the one in the old church. I was looking at some amethyst, and I heard it. A scratching. Rhythmic, heavy. It wasn't mice, and it wasn't the settling of old timber. It was coming from the floor, but it sounded like it was coming from twenty feet down."

Rit looked up from his ledger, a playful glint behind his spectacles. "Maybe the crystals are growing, Dak. Vibrating with cosmic energy. You should be happy. You're always saying you want more excitement around here. I'm very proud of ya for finally finding a haunting."

Dak shot him a look of pure annoyance. "It’s not a haunting, Rit. It’s structural. Or it’s mechanical. I’m telling you, I felt the vibration through the soles of my shoes. It was high-frequency, then low. It moved toward the firehouse, then it stopped. I’m highly intelligent, and I know when a sound doesn't match its environment."

Bestbuy listened, but he didn't join in the ribbing. He was focused on his own feet. As Dak spoke, Bestbuy felt it too. It was faint, nearly imperceptible beneath the vibration of the bar’s industrial coolers, but it was there. A heavy, dull thrumming that seemed to bypass the ears and go straight into the bone. It didn't feel like a truck passing on 209. It felt like something massive shifting, a slow, deliberate movement deep in the earth. He looked at the floorboards of Danny's Bar, the dark, beer-stained wood that had been there for decades. For a second, he could swear he saw the dust in the cracks dance.

"It’s probably just the water table shifting," Bestbuy said, though he didn't quite believe it. He took another drink, the ice hitting his teeth. "This town is old. Everything’s rotting from the bottom up."

"It’s not just the rot," Dak insisted, leaning in. "Think about the sign. The population sign on the way in. Eleven hundred. It’s been eleven hundred since my grandfather was a kid. You’re telling me in a hundred years, nobody had a third kid without someone else kicking the bucket the same day? The math doesn't work, Rit. You’re the accountant. Tell him the math doesn't work."

Rit sighed, closing his book. "The math is improbable, Dak. Not impossible. It’s a statistical anomaly. People like it here. They stay. When they die, someone else moves back from the city. It’s the circle of life in a small town. Small town forever, right?"

Bestbuy looked back at the Rolex on his wrist. The time was ticking forward, second by second, but the town felt like it was stuck in a loop. He thought about his house up on Wilsey Valley Road, tucked away in the woods where the streetlights didn't reach. Sometimes at night, he’d sit on his porch and hear the woods breathing. Tonight, sitting in the heart of the town, he realized the breathing wasn't coming from the trees. It was coming from the ground beneath the bar stools. The atmosphere in the bar shifted, losing its casual, Friday-night warmth and becoming something clinical, something cold. They were four friends in a room, but they felt like subjects in a jar.

"I'm going to head out," Dak said, his pride wounded by their skepticism. He turned to leave, his slender frame casting a long shadow across the floor. "But don't come crying to me when the Main Street sinkhole swallows the emporium."

Bestbuy watched him go, then turned his gaze back to the floorboards. The vibration had stopped, leaving a silence that was even more unsettling than the noise. He finished his Jack and Coke, the last of the ice melting into a watery residue. He had a bad feeling that the consistency of Wurtsboro wasn't a matter of luck or statistics. It was a matter of design. And he was starting to wonder who the architect was. He stood up, the Rolex flashing one last time in the dim light, and nodded to Rit. "See you tomorrow, Rit. Watch your step on the way home."

"Always do," Rit replied with a sincere smile. "Very proud of ya, Bestbuy. Get some sleep."

Bestbuy walked out into the humid night, the single red light of the 209 intersection casting a long, bloody glow across the asphalt. He didn't look back.