Blueberry Hill

Come for the jam, stay for the…well, just stay.

06/02/08

Blueberry Hill isn’t the kind of place I ever pictured myself moving to ten years ago. It sounds like a little village in a children’s book surrounded by blueberry patches and populated by…I don’t know, talking rabbits or something. A little old chipmunk named Mrs. Maplebottom that makes the best blueberry jam in town. Maybe a family of frogs living in a house made out of a log.

Well there are no talking animals, but there are certainly blueberries. You can find blueberry-flavored everything. Pie, jam, donuts, cake, candy, bread, ice cream. You name it, they’ve made it with blueberries.

Blueberry barbecue sauce. They have blueberry barbecue sauce.

I don’t know how to feel about that.

But here I am, and here’s where I’m going to be staying for the foreseeable future.

Here’s to a fresh start.

— -

06/07/08

Let’s be real; I wanted to get as far away from Ethan as possible. Things had been going downhill between us for the better part of eight years. Probably earlier than that; I just didn’t want to see it. We fought all the time, hardly spoke otherwise, even slept in separate rooms. Got so bad that the neighbors called the police three times out of concern for me.

We separated. Got back together. Fought again.

Repeated this far too many times.

Divorce was a foregone conclusion. We just kept kicking the can down the road until it finally hit a wall.

So here I am, living in a place with a mascot named ‘Bucky Blueberry’ because even being in the same zip code as Ethan is more than I can stomach. He can stay in the city with all its noise and crowds, the piss-stinking subways, the traffic, the rats. He can marinate in the rot of it all.

I think I actually like it here.

If I had to complain about anything it’s how confusing the streets can be. I thought Bilberry Lane and Eudicot Street intersected three blocks before they actually do. Threw me off when I was trying to go to the store.

Chalk it up to me not being used to the place yet, I guess.

— -

06/10/08

Everyone here’s so nice. Back home no one would have come to welcome you to the neighborhood. We were all too wrapped up in whatever we had going on to care about anyone else.

My next-door neighbor’s an older lady named Emma. She showed up this morning with a care package that included a carefully-wrapped bundle of cookies, still a little bit warm like they hadn’t been baked that long before.

“Chocolate chip,” she said. “Figured you could use a little break from blueberry everything for a bit.”

I like Emma already.

She gave me the grand tour of the place, pointing out some of the best places to shop. Henderson’s Bakery, she cheekily noted, was ‘almost as good as if she baked it herself’. The bookstore was another point of interest; she’d found some of her favorite romance novels there. Graham’s was better than Berrytown for groceries, since Berrytown could charge up to three dollars more for the same thing.

“Five dollars for four lemons!” she said. You’d think someone had mortally insulted her. “Those lemons better be made of gold for that price.”

There was the library, the movie theatre, town hall, and one particular diner she really liked.

The park is one of her favorite spots to just stop and rest a while. The beating heart of Blueberry Hill, she called it. She likes to go there and just feed the birds or chat with whoever might come by. On nice days she might even take her knitting with her.

After our trip through town I honestly I wonder what whoever they got to plan it was thinking. A lot of the streets fork and split in weird ways. It reminds me of veins.

Or plant roots.

Yeah, probably roots.

Of course Blueberry Hill’s layout would resemble a plant. Why wouldn’t it?

It’s a weird little town, but charming-weird.

— -

06/12/08

Emma invited me over for dinner last night. She’s all alone and I’m all alone, so I figured we could both use the company.

“No blueberries in anything but the dessert, I promise,” she said. I asked if I should bring anything, a bottle of wine maybe, but Emma just shook her head.

“No need, sweetie. I’m the one hosting, so I’ll take care of everything. You just bring yourself and keep me company for a bit. That’ll be enough for me.”

Dinner was roast chicken with mashed potatoes, green beans, salad and brown gravy. Dessert? Blueberry pie, made with berries gathered from her own garden.

She told me about her husband Thom who’d passed away some ten years back, and her three children who’ve long since grown up and moved away. Her daughter Olivia doesn’t even live in this country anymore, and rarely comes back even for holidays.

I asked if that bothered her and she shook her head. Said that children were like birds; one day they’d fly away.

Not much seems to bother Emma. Things just roll off her like water off a duck’s back. Wish I could be that way.

I told her about my marriage to Ethan, and how it had gone sour. How I stayed in it far longer than I really should have. That I came out here for a fresh start, free of all my baggage from back home.

Flying, I guess. Kind of like Olivia.

“This town takes care of its own, you know. Always has. Long as you give back to it, it gives back to you,” Emma told me. She gave my arm a little squeeze the same way my grandma always did. Then the topic turned to lighter things, mainly town gossip and what new TV shows looked interesting lately.

At the end of the night she sent me home with enough leftovers for the next two days.

— -

06/20/08

This’ll sound crazy, but one of the houses nearby is taller than it used to be. Four stories.

It used to be three.

I know it used to be three. Who around here needs a four-story house? Nobody, that’s who. And yet here one is.

Some of the knotholes in the wood look like faces. I know it’s probably just that phenomenon where things look like faces, but it’s still really off-putting.

There’s one right by my front door.

It looks like someone screaming.

— -

06/28/08

I haven’t seen Emma in days. Normally she’s out taking a walk every morning around 8:00, but I don’t think she has for a week.

That’s not like her.

I called her, but she didn’t pick up. Went to the answering machine. I left a message saying I hadn’t seen her in a while, and I was just checking up to see if everything was okay.

When she didn’t call back I knocked at the door and got no answer. Looking out the window at night, I could see that her house was dark. None of the lights were on.

I hope she’s alright.

— -

06/29/08

Emma’s gone. Vanished without a trace.

Her phone hasn’t been disconnected, it just goes to the machine every time. Mail’s been piling up in her mailbox. The garden’s looking pretty sorry except for those damn blueberry bushes. They’re bigger than ever.

She gave me her spare key, and while I normally wouldn’t invite myself into someone else’s house like this, but I wasn’t going to be able to rest unless I actually went there and checked up on her.

Everything’s still there. Furniture, clothes, photos, food in the refrigerator and the pantry. Garage still full of boxes of Christmas ornaments and keepsakes.

Just no Emma.

I called the police to report her missing and was told they’d be there shortly.

I waited all night.

Never saw a single car.

— -

7/01/08

No one knows what happened.

No, scratch that, they do. I saw it in Mr. Henderson’s face for a split-second at the bakery. He got this weird look in his eyes when I brought Emma up, and then he put on this big smile like absolutely nothing was wrong.

“Emma’s a tough old bird. I’m sure she’s okay. Maybe just went out of town for a bit, that’s all.”

“She doesn’t have a car,” I said.

That weird look came back and he mumbled something about having faith that I’d see her again soon. I paid for my loaf of blueberry bread and left.

I don’t think I’m going back there for a while.

— -

7/3/08

Saw them clearing out Emma’s house when I got home yesterday. Just emptying it out without any regard for whether or not she’s still alive.

That tells me they know that she isn’t.

The garden’s withered except for the blueberries. I think there are more of them, like they’re choking out everything else there. Don’t ask me how the extra bushes popped up so fast, but they’re there.

Everything is blueberries in this goddamn town. I’m so sick of it.

I actually used to like the blueberry smell that permeated this place. Now I can’t help but notice something foul underneath the sweetness.

Like rot.

— -

7/12/08

There’s something so wrong with this town. Like a cake that’s all moldy under a thick layer of blueberry icing. It looks wonderful, but once you cut a slice you can see all the nastiness underneath.

The streets are definitely changing. Not the signs, no one’s swapping them. The actual physical placement of the street shifts every so often. I took pictures of Highbush and Lowbush Street two days ago.

Now Highbush is five blocks away, intersecting Bilberry when it didn’t before. Lowbush is on the other side of town.

How do I know it’s the streets themselves and not just the signs? Simple. The buildings went with them.

Ericale Drive is shorter than it used to be.

Whortleberry Way is longer than it used to be.

Asterid Court curves when it didn’t before.

That’s not a thing that happens. Streets don’t just get up and move. Buildings don’t grow.

What kind of place did I move to?

— -

7/15/08

The town has a library, and I’m surprised it’s not called ‘Bucky Blueberry’s Book Bank’. I made a trip there yesterday in order to do some research on the history of this place.

Didn’t really get much that was useful. It was founded in 1884 by a man named Buford “Buck” Beckett. Buck was a blueberry farmer, because of course he was. Apparently the soil around Blueberry Hill was ideal for growing the fruit, which is probably why I find blueberry bushes all over the place and not contained to just farms and gardens. Bucky Blueberry was created in his honor.

Apparently a competitor named Jake Strawley tried to make strawberries a thing around here, but didn’t see much success.

The town is known for its tranquil atmosphere, picturesque views and high-quality blueberry products.

And that’s about it as far as books, newspaper clippings and their website went. Nothing of value. Any searches about moving streets or knothole faces resulted in a big fat zero.

News reports about missing people? Not a one in all this time. Nothing in the papers. Nothing on TV. Nothing online.

This place is better at hiding things than it really should be.

I don’t think I like that.

— -

7/21/08

There had to be thirty people outside earlier.

A whole mob of blueberry freaks, just minus the pitchforks and torches. I’d actually feel better if they were carrying those. It’d be less unsettling than all the insincere church-lady smiles.

And at the head of it was the baker. Henderson.

“Maggie,” he said, muffled a bit by the wood. “Open the door. We need to talk.”

He knocked on my window. Not even the door. What was I going to do, call the police? I already knew they wouldn’t come.

I opened the door. Henderson was right there, smiling his customer-service smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Haven’t seen you at the bakery in a bit,” he said. “What’s wrong? Don’t like my blueberry bread anymore? Maybe I should add in some chocolate chips next time.”

“I’ve been busy,” I said. Tried to sound like I wasn’t scared, but truth be told I was terrified. Henderson’s a big man, and he was standing way too close, looming over me the way Ethan would when he wanted to intimidate me.

It was working. I hated that it was working.

He knew it too.

“May I come in? Can’t really have a proper conversation in the doorway.”

I let him in, but closed the door before the rest of them could follow. Henderson wasted no time making himself comfortable, pulling up a chair like I’d invited him over for cake and coffee.

“Heard from Lucy down at the library that you’re interested in our town’s history, but you didn’t find what you were looking for. Being the neighborly gent that I am, I thought I’d come over and clear things up for you. So go ahead. Ask.”

So I asked. About the moving streets. About the knotholes. About buildings that grew and blueberry bushes that sprang up seemingly overnight.

“Simple answer to all of that,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “The town’s alive, and much, much older than the official founding date claims. Old Buck Beckett didn’t found Blueberry Hill so much as he found it already here and figured out how to make money off it. Smart man. Mean as piss, but smart.”

“Why isn’t there anything written down anywhere? Not one weird story, not one rumor, nothing.”

He laughed a short, little laugh.

“Because nobody who’d write it down sticks around long enough to,” he said matter-of-factly, like he was telling me the bakery’s hours. “And the ones who do stick around don’t want to. Not after a while. You stop noticing the strange parts. You start noticing how good the bread is instead.”

“And Emma?” I asked. “What about her? Where is she?”

For a moment he looked like he felt bad. Like he regretted something. Then it disappeared, and the not-smile came back.

“Old Emma always was a pillar of the community. Always there with a kind word, a helping hand, a warm meal for folks who needed it. Honorary Gran to most of the kids around here. Town recognized that. Honored it. Swallowed her right up, made her part of it forever.”

Swallowed.

That’s what he told me. The town just…swallowed her. And from the way he said it, he thought it was good thing. A reward handed out by a living town that’s been growing here for who knows how long.

I was quiet for a long while before I could manage a follow-up.

“What are you saying? That it ate her?”

“We feed on it. It feeds on us,” Henderson said. “It’s nature, pure and simple. Flesh and root, bloom and bone, we’re all bound together in a great and everlasting cycle. Nothing on Earth more beautiful than that.”

Reminded me of a cult leader.

“You owe it a debt. You’ve partaken of the fruit and haven’t done much to repay its generosity,” he continued. “And every debt gets called in sooner or later.”

Then he got up and left. I couldn’t lock the door fast enough. All the windows too.

I don’t think I’m going to sleep tonight.

— -

7/22/08

Last entry.

I should have left. I should have left yesterday. I should have left three weeks ago. I should have left when I saw they didn’t give a rat’s ass about Emma.

But I didn’t, and now I’m stuck for it.

Literally.

I can feel myself sinking into the floor, into the wall. The house is consuming me, calling in the debt I owe to Blueberry Hill. My legs have already been swallowed up to the knee. My back’s halfway into the wall. I can’t move, but I can still write. At least for now.

Soon, there’ll be nothing left of me but another knothole face in the wood. The house’ll be a bit bigger, perfect for a family. For the next victims.

Since I don’t want the Cult of Bucky Blueberry out there finding this and tossing it, I pried up a floorboard that was already a bit wiggly. Going to stash this journal in there when I’m done.

If you find this, a piece of advice: don’t eat or drink anything with blueberries in it. You won’t owe it anything if you don’t.

And if you already did?

Well, I’m sorry to say you’re screwed.

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