Olive Hill
© Ryan B. Richey

Grownup path dissolves into the thick of the woods. Stumbling ruts decline to
reveal a candlelit shack stuffed inside a cubbyhole hill. Mike Nasty basks in
the glow positioned behind his makeshift desk. Stoned out of his gourd. Ears
buzzing to the sounds of Coast to Coast. Billy goat scuffling dirt and gravel
while looping the bed where Tammy blurts out muffled snores.

Art Bell asks east of the Rockies caller, Goldie from Olive Hill, Kentucky, to
tell us about the haints. “Well, no one dares to travel down Route 60 after
dark anymore. It gets real dark there at night. See, we don't have lights like
you all do in the city. Matter of fact, there's nothing on that road except for
an old barrack that looks like a chicken coup. It's where them soldiers who
came back from the war used to stay if they had nowhere to go. Now it's just good
for nothing Elvince and old WWII vet named Everett Browning holed up down
there. They're the ones to first see the haints. Said they come out at night
and dance in the streets. Now I've never seen it for myself, but Clyde has. He
hid out in them weeds down in the ditch off Route 60 the other night. Clyde
told me he heard a clicking noise and then them haints just started dancing
all over the road till the sun came up at about six o' clock.”

Nasty ponders, “What are haints exactly and why would anyone be so afraid
of them?” He has a strong urge to witness this phenomenon for himself, yet
the logistics of such an operation overwhelms him. Besides it's Saturday
night and T's bringing over some young girls to smoke.

Saturday night in Olive Hill is Hee-Haw night. Paul sits an inch off the
ground in the stuffed chair his daddy left him, pounding its arms each time
the audience laughs, sending rolling dust clouds into the atmosphere.

Everett's sprawled out on Paul's bed of dried tobacco grunting between
puckers. Both are chawing plugs. Burnt sienna dribble oozing down Everett's
chin collecting on his once white beefy tee. Trading Twinkies and good old
stories about war and school during commercial breaks. Talking school a little
more since Paul was janitor and Everett a bus driver.

Elvince walks towards them. He's bringing moonshine. Gets it from Clyde's
son Red, who makes some shit that's blinded a few men. A tin flask inserted
snugly inside Elvince's left breast pocket holds the stash. He habitually
slides it out, unscrews, pauses, and swigs. Swearing he'll save some for the
boys, yet knowing full well that he needs all the courage he can muster.
Frankly, ascending Paul's hill scares the hell out of Elvince.

The blinding forest rustles giving off a sense of another. Elvince leans to his
left bobbing and weaving with sour jaws and his swollen tongue lolling. He
reminds himself over and over again that either side of the path has a
considerable drop-off. The Burchett graveyard steadily approaches on the
right.

Elvince suddenly finds himself trapped on Paul's hill in a swarm of haints.
They followed him from Route 60. Attempting evasive maneuvers he climbs
forearm before forearm, his belly to the ground. Elvince sticks his chubby
fingers down crawdad holes to pull himself up a foot or two. The haints have
him by his right leg. They pull him back a couple yards. Grass tickles his
nostrils. “Help, help!” he hollers, “get these sons of bitches off me
goddammit!” Elvince pats for his flask, realizes they took it. “I am not
sharing with you devils,” he sobs.

Moonbeams illuminate the tin flask catching Elvince's eye. Reaching, out he
slips, slips, wiggles, and tumbles. Wet night soaking through his soul. He
gives up. Nestles his sopping bottom in a worn down patch. “Missed Hee-
Haw because of you haints.”