Sins Of The Father

When the road to a family’s history turns back time, unearths dark secrets, and exacts revenge.

Scott Panderbaugh pressed his seat belt firmly in place with a satisfying ‘click’ and smiled at his wife, Rebecca.

“Ready?”

She smiled, looking ethereal as she turned her head, her golden blonde hair and thin cornflower blue shirt appearing almost translucent thanks to the bright mid-morning sun streaming in the car window behind her.

“You know I’ve been ready! Let’s go, baby!” Tucking one leg under her, she bent her head, scrolling through her phone searching for the perfect playlist.

The years since their wedding had been filled with a lot of hurdles, both within their household and throughout the nation and even the world as rocky economic times were pushing everyone’s threshold for stress to new levels. The couple was just about as ‘in love’ as any two people could possibly be, but the natural challenges of life had been especially pervasive as of late, causing shortened tempers, frayed nerves, and a sense of exhaustion to set in.

Deciding to take a weekend trip to celebrate their anniversary seemed a great way to get out — of their home, their normal routine, and their city — and reconnect. He’d entrusted his wife, as he did with most things, to plan a beautiful, relaxing getaway, and she’d searched every possible AirBnB until she found the perfect one: beautiful, chic, and romantic, with a hot tub to boot, on the coast near a small town.

90s alternative began playing as Scott made the turn onto the on-ramp for the interstate. He merged into traffic and then turned his head to smile approvingly at the music choice when a dark shadow caught the corner of his eye. He looked in the rearview and saw an old car, one that looked to be a Ford from the early 40’s, a classic hot rod. Instead of a shiny new paint job, the car was matte black with a streak of rust forming across the long rounded hood; a real gnarly rat rod.

“Hey, check out that car behind us… pretty cool!”

Rebecca glanced in her side mirror. The car was dark, not only the dusty black exterior but a strangely shadowed interior considering the brightness of the day. A vague outline of the driver could be made out, but only the pale hand gripping the steering wheel was clearly visible.

“Really?” Dismissive, she was clearly unimpressed.

“Well, yeah, it needs work, but you know… they just don’t make ‘em like that anymore,” he mused. Rebecca was already back on her phone, looking at the map and planning their trip.

Scott settled back into his seat, already feeling the well-deserved relaxation flow through him as they coasted through the bright autumn day.

Their destination wasn’t far; they’d intentionally picked a location that didn’t require a long road trip. A few times during the drive, Scott changed lanes and noticed the old rat rod back there, a few cars back sometimes, but still there, the skinny pale hand in the center of the steering wheel, never moving.

In fact, the old Ford followed them just until they turned off the main road, onto the long gravel drive of their AirBnb.

‘Must be a coincidence,’ Scott thought before turning his attention to waking his dozing wife and carrying their suitcase into the small cabin. As he turned, he appreciated the privacy as tall pines and brush obscured the view of the road and any surrounding homes.

Rebecca was already halfway through the cabin, opening doors, peering into rooms, and he joined her as she stepped out onto a small side porch, where a hot tub sat quietly humming.

“Great job, Becca. This is perfect, really. Just listen…”

They both paused and the hush settled around them, punctuated only by the occasional chirp of birds and rustling wind in the trees.

“Oh, man,” Rebecca joked, “Are you sure we won’t go crazy with all this quiet?” Their home was always a bustling hive of activity, with multiple kids, dogs, friends, music, TV, always something going on.

Scott’s eyes danced as he grinned at his wife and touched her neck, pushing back her hair as he quipped, “Oh, I could think of a way to make some noise…”

Rebecca laughed and kissed him lightly, hand on his chest.

“Let’s get some lunch first… I’m starving.”

After stowing their hygiene bag in the bathroom and a quick freshening up, they headed into the nearest town. On the map, it looked pretty small, with a handful of restaurants on a quaint little Main Street flanked by shops, a small library, a post office, and a little police precinct.

Once they’d sated their hunger with a light lunch of salads and white wine at a small cafe, they wandered around the streets, pausing to admire window displays. They passed an antique store, and Rebecca spied something inside through the large window by the front door.

“Oh, look, they have those old metal signs you like! Let’s check it out!” Rebecca pulled him through the front door, which jingled when they entered.

The place was packed with antique furniture, clocks, radios, books, sets of china, dolls, framed artwork, and more. They spent a few minutes browsing before an enlarged, framed photo behind the counter caught Scott’s eye. There were four young men, dressed identically in blue jeans and dark T-shirts with the sleeves rolled tight, each leaning on the front bumper of their own Ford, all painted black, parked side-by-side in a neat row.

“Excuse me. Hey, sir?” Scott got the attention of the man behind the counter, an older guy with a gray ponytail, sitting on a stool reading a newspaper. “Who are those guys? What’s their story?”

Scott couldn’t stop looking at the cars. They were dead ringers for that car on the interstate. That would be pretty wild if the guy still lived here, had kept his car, and was unaware his photo was hanging in the local antique shop.

The shopkeeper shrugged.

“Hard to say. No, I don’t know any of their names. Got it at an estate sale. There were some guys here, way back in the late 40’s, early 50’s, that worked at the car plant down the road. They each bought their own and made sort of a car club. They souped ’em up and would race ’em. There are a few photos around, but I don’t know any of ’em personally.”

Scott leaned forward and studied the young man leaning on the first car. The grainy black-and-white photo didn’t show great detail; a lock of hair had fallen across his forehead that shadowed his eyes. His arms crossed across his chest, tight T-shirt stretched around youthful, muscular biceps, blue-jean-clad legs casually crossed at the ankle, and visibly worn work boots, he couldn’t look more blue-collar Americana if he tried.

“You think you know him?”

Scott shook his head, “Oh, no. Just looks like a car I noticed when we were driving here. Thanks, though!”

The shopkeeper nodded and waved as Scott and Rebecca made their way to the front door and left, with a jingle.

As they wandered through the shops of the small town, Scott and Rebecca loosened up, chatted, and laughed like they had done years ago, before marriage, before kids, before the house and bills and stress. A gray cloud slowly crept over the sky, and they ducked into a small coffee shop just before an afternoon rain began pattering on the sidewalk.

Cozying down on an overstuffed velvet sofa with mugs of steamy cinnamon latte, they chatted about plans for the rest of the evening. Rebecca pulled out her phone to search for reviews on local restaurants for dinner when just behind her head, Scott spied the now-familiar rounded rusty black hood, and he sat up with a jolt. His coffee sloshed onto his knee.

“Oh, shit, Scott! Are you…”

Rebecca trailed off as Scott jumped to his feet, setting his mug on the nearby table as he moved to the front window, watching the rounded sedan slowly roll by. He still couldn’t make out the driver; the interior of the car was shadowed and the late-afternoon sky was an angry, dark gray anyway. He opened the door to the coffee shop, looking back to tell Rebecca he’d be right back. He pulled his jacket over his head and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The street was empty. He stepped forward, off the curb just behind a Jeep parked there, and leaned out into the street. He looked right. He looked left.

The street ended in a T-shaped intersection by a large brick building. It looked abandoned; windows boarded up with plywood from within and vague outlines of a business name just barely legible. A familiar, scrolling “F”. Ford?

He walked back inside. Rebecca looked annoyed. He should probably apologize for jumping up like that, but first, he went back to the counter.

“What’s that building down there at the end of the street? And did you see that car? A really old Ford…”

“Yeah, there’s a few of those around.” The barista was probably around 20 and her accent sounded local. She had a choppy haircut with a quasi-mullet; Scott didn’t understand Gen Z’s “aesthetic,” as they called it. Her pants were too large, her shirt was ripped, and a single dangling moon earring hung from her right ear only.

“That’s a Ford building down there. There was a plant outside of town, but they had this one administrative building here, I guess. It’s been closed for literally my whole life. Don’t know what they use it for… it would make great apartments. Better than living with my parents.” She rolled her eyes and went back to scrolling on her phone.

Scott turned to Rebecca, who looked pretty irritated at this point.

“Did you see it? The car from the interstate… I just saw it again.”

“OK, but… I don’t care. It’s just a car. I didn’t even know you were so into cars, actually.”

She was pissed. OK, he had to ignore this and remember why they’d gone away for a weekend.

“I’m sorry, hon. Did you find a good place?” he asked, gesturing towards her phone.

She nodded, and they looked through the reviews together before deciding on a tiny, hole-in-the-wall Italian place nearby, but first, she wanted to go back to the cabin to change. They finished their coffee and slid the mugs onto the end of the counter before ducking out into the rain and running to their car.

Heading back to the AirBnb, they listened to the music loud, laughing and talking like they hadn’t in months, maybe even years. Rebecca had pulled her damp hair up in a claw clip, and he noticed the fine lines around her eyes that deepened when she laughed. As he noticed how she was changing, he realized he was also developing some lines and wrinkles, some gray hair around the temples, and he thought how grateful he was that it was her he was growing old with. He was filled with a renewed sense of love… and lust.

They ran into the cabin and Rebecca turned on the shower, nice and hot. The aforementioned promise of bringing a little noise to the muted forest was kept, and they emerged from the steamy bathroom giggling and glowing.

She put on a little black dress and he slipped on a button-down and jeans. As Rebecca was putting on some makeup and brushing her hair, Scott headed for the porch to smoke a cigarette. As he grabbed his cigarettes and lighter from the table by the front door, something caught his eye from the front window. He pushed aside the lace curtain and saw something among the trees… was it? It looked like the rounded front bumper of that car…

He yanked open the front door and stepped out.

The rain had stopped and a thick mist was filling the forest. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees and the daylight was almost gone. The driveway was empty. There was no sound but the rustling of wind in the trees. Scott shook his head and lit his cigarette, studying the shapes of the leaves and branches of the trees along the driveway. Pines are skinny and scrubby and there’s virtually nothing rounded about them save the trunk. Thick brush filled in the forest floor beneath the pines.

As he smoked, he could hear the hum of the hot tub. The forest was still, sound-proofed it seemed, as any noise was muted. He heard the click of the hot tub cycling off, a few seconds of total silence, and then… the purr of an engine?

He stepped off the front porch, taking a deep drag of his cigarette and looking east, towards the closest house. He exhaled and then paused, holding his breath for a moment. It definitely sounded like a car engine, a powerful one, idling. He took a few steps in the direction of the neighboring house, and then heard a crunch of gravel behind him. He spun around in time to see headlights bouncing through the trees out towards the road, and then the roar of an engine opening up and tearing away.

Rebecca stepped out on the porch, shivered a little, and turned and went back inside to grab a cardigan.

‘Weird,’ Scott thought, putting his cigarette out under his shoe and bending to pick up the butt. ‘Guess someone made a wrong turn.’

Re-emerging from the cabin, her skin and still-damp hair steaming lightly in the brisk autumn air, she smiled brightly.

“Let’s go, my Romeo!” she quipped as she skipped down the steps, kissed him lightly on the cheek, and slid into the passenger seat.

Scott hadn’t seen her so light and carefree in months, maybe years. He smiled and all thoughts of cars, old or new, left his mind as he pulled the car down the long drive, out onto the road, and into town for a romantic dinner with his wife.

Dinner was everything the reviews promised: in a candle-lit restaurant with white linens and cozy tables, the couple wined and dined until they were drowsy, warm, and relaxed from carafes of red wine and rich creamy pastas, finished with a decadent tiramisu.

Over dinner, they talked of dreams and ideas instead of kids, school, and home renovations. They finally unplugged from being parents and employees and adults and began recalling idealistic dreams and plans they’d made years ago and wondering why they ever let go of them.

They touched hands, legs, and feet, sitting close like young lovers instead of the nearly middle-aged married couple they were. They kissed over their demitasse of espresso before going back into the night, their hands intertwined, their flame renewed.

Driving back through the narrow, winding wooded highway, Scott focused on the road as his wife’s hand rested not-so-innocently on his upper thigh. When he risked a glance at her, she smirked mischievously and her hand crept slightly higher, but as his eyes returned to the road, he stiffened as he realized his car was drifting into the opposite lane and there were rapidly approaching oncoming headlights.

He jerked the steering wheel to pull their car back into their lane, and as the oncoming car roared past, he swore it was a large, round-bodied old hot rod with a pale hand on the steering wheel.

He stopped, heart racing, their car angled across their lane, headlights shining off into the misty forest.

“Are you OK? I’m so sorry!” Rebecca’s eyes were wide, her hand now on his arm.

“No, no, it’s OK!” Scott chuckled and exhaled shakily. “Definitely not your fault. Just keep that, ah, train of thought in mind when we get back.”

Rebecca smiled and slid her hand back onto his leg, and he eased off the brake and once again made his way through the dark highway to the nearly hidden entrance of the long gravel drive to their cabin.

Back inside the cabin, Rebecca peeled off her little black dress and stood in the bedroom in only her strapless bra and panties.

“Do you think anyone can see the hot tub, hon?”

Scott stepped out onto the side porch. There was a clear view of the driveway, but the forest, shrubs, and mist were so thick it was impossible to discern even lights from the neighboring house.

“I think you’re good. I don’t think anyone can see anything, especially with this fog. Are you gonna…”

His question was interrupted and answered as she unclasped the bra, stepped out of the panties, grabbed a towel, and headed out to the side porch. Leaning over, she pressed the button on the hot tub and the low hum sprang to life with jets, bubbles, and steam rising into the chilly night air.

He slowly unbuttoned his shirt as he watched her lower her naked body into the water and smile invitingly at him. As he pulled his belt out of the loops, however, the heavy, rich dinner began hitting his lower stomach and he held a finger in the air, he hoped alluringly.

“You’ll have to give me just a minute. Then I’ll be out there with you. Are we… should I wear the same… attire?”

She giggled and nodded.

“Yes, Mr. Panderbaugh. That’s the idea.”

He nodded and issued a half fake-salute.

“Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Panderbaugh. You wait right there… I’ll be right there.”

He ducked into the bathroom, wrestling with his button and hoping there was a vent fan in the small, rustic space. He had just finished when a shrill scream pierced the thick silence of the night.

Yanking his pants up, he threw open the door and ran out of the bathroom, almost slamming right into his naked, wet wife. She was wide-eyed, frantic, trying to unfold and wrap a towel around herself.

“A man… watched me! Out there! In that car, the car you talked about! He was just parked and leaning on his car, watching me, Scott!” Thick, heavy tears rolled from her eyes, leaving thick tracks through her dark eye makeup, and she struggled to catch her breath.

“What the fuck, Scott? Did he follow us back? Are you…”

Scott was already halfway through the front room, furiously buttoning his pants before throwing the front door open and bursting onto the front porch, his chest heaving and his eyes narrowed in anger.

His breath visibly hung in the air as he panted and goosebumps lifted along his arms as he looked towards the drive. No car. He paced heavily around the corner of the cabin. A chill slid up the back of his neck.

No car.

He stopped, his eyes searching the brush for any sign of the car or its driver, but the heavy silence had settled back into the forest, thick as the mist that lay about the brush and roots of the trees and among the carpet of brown and orange leaves.

He turned, slowly. Rebecca stood on the porch, trembling, wrapped in a towel, her hair steaming and dripping.

He listened. In this kind of silence, a car’s engine would be easily discernible, particularly one fleeing the scene of a crime. Which this was, right?

“Peeping Tom.” Stalking? What would this be called?

He crossed the space between himself and his wife in four large strides and wrapped his arms around her.

“Let’s go report this. If anything, the AirBnb owner and the local police need to know there’s a local creep doing this shit. I wonder if anyone else has ever had this happen here?” Scott filled the space with words as he gently guided his wife back inside, opened their suitcase, and grabbed hoodies and sweats for both of them.

They dressed quietly and swiftly, and Scott went around and ensured that every window and door was locked before they headed out to the car and pulled down the long drive and out onto the rural highway towards town.

Rebecca opened her AirBnb app on the drive, checking the reviews for the place. A couple of hundred reviews, all positive. No mention of an old car, or a creepy man watching women in the hot tub. She messaged the host and let them know what happened and that they were en route to the police department to file a report, asking if they knew anyone who fit the description.

She closed the app and put her phone face-down on her lap, sighing heavily and wrapping her hoodie around her a little tighter.

The parking lot of the police department seemed unusually brightly lit after the darkness of the forest and the highway through it, so Scott and Rebecca blinked against the fluorescent lights when they burst through the double doors.

The stocky police officer snoozing behind a large wooden desk to the right of the one-room precinct jerked upright and sloshed the paper cup of coffee in his hand.

“Hey! Hey, what seems to be the problem, sir? Ma’am?”

He wiped his eyes as he rose, absently tucking in a rogue tail of his uniform shirt and brushing crumbs from his chest.

“We need to file a report. Peeping Tom, or whatever that’s called, legally. Technically. Whatever. A man was watching my wife in the hot tub and she was, um, you know. Nude.” Scott lowered his voice on the word, and Rebecca squeezed her hoodie around herself even tighter as she cast her eyes downward.

“We’re staying at an AirBnb right off 13. Just a few miles from here. The guy’s driving an old, old Ford, like.. gotta be a 40s model. All black, but old, rusted, not shiny. Skinny white guy.”

As Scott describes the car and the man, Rebecca slowly raises her head.

“Scott.” Scott is still mid-sentence in describing the situation to the officer, who is now looking back and forth between the pair, dressed in mismatched sweats, her with wild, wet hair and mascara running rivers down her face, his eyes large and almost hysterical as he waves his hands, actively describing this car.

“SCOTT.” He stopped and turned to her.

“Scott, it’s the guy from the picture. The picture in the antique store. That’s the guy.”

“Hon, that picture is like 70 years old or something. I don’t think… I mean, maybe dressed like him?” He turns again to the police officer. “Dark T-shirt, jeans, boots…” looking again to his wife for confirmation or further detail.

She nods.

‘Scott’s right. It couldn’t be that guy, but one that looks like him? Like… exactly like him…’

“OK, OK, OK, let’s take a breath. Hold on while I get an incident report form. Here, sit here.” The police officer pulls up a heavy old wooden desk chair and motions for Rebecca to sit down. Crossing the room and filling a paper cup with coffee from the nearby urn, the officer begins asking some preliminary questions.

“Where’d you say you’re staying?” As Scott described the location, he nodded.

“OK, gotcha. I know where that’s at. And you say you’ve seen this car around town since it… followed you… into town?”

Scott nodded, earnestly.

“Well, it is a small town. Could be a local just out running errands. There’s a few guys around there with that car. There was a plant here, you know, long time ago, so some of the old guys still have the car they bought when they worked there. Nostalgia, and just, you know… car culture.” He shrugged, before placing the paper cup of coffee in Rebecca’s hands.

His touch was soft, respectful, and his hand on her shoulder assured her he was a good guy and would hear them out.

“Alright, so let me grab this form,” he yanked open a lower desk drawer, flipped through some files, and pulled out a triple-carbon-copy form. Selecting a pen from the cup on his desk, he clicked it open, picked up his glasses from the desk and put them on, and cleared his throat before beginning.

“OK, I’ll take your name and all that information afterwards. I want you to tell me what happened now, while it’s as fresh as possible.” He looked at them, pen poised above the form, and waited.

They both spilled their stories, Scott’s version more focused on the car appearances around town with it even mysteriously seeming to vanish in the rain, and Rebecca’s solely focused on the hot tub incident, her hands trembling as she recounted looking over and seeing him standing there, leaning casually against the car, arms crossed across his chest, one ankle over the other, as if he had every right to be there.

“I swear, he looked just like the guy in that picture.”

The police officer nodded and patted her arm with his hand. “Sometimes, our minds play tricks like that. You just saw that picture and your husband,” he cleared his throat, “ah, seems to really be enamored with this car, so your mind could be sort of filling in the details of the guy you saw, which I mean, it was dark out there I assume? Your mind could be filling in details of the man you saw with the photo you saw in the store.

But listen,” he paused and made eye contact. “I believe you. I do.”

Rebecca breathed a deep sigh of relief as she felt much more secure and safe knowing the local law enforcement was taking this seriously.

At that moment, her phone buzzed. A notification from AirBnb. The host had replied to her message, was effusively apologetic, and insisted nothing like that had ever happened before.

“…and by the way, the cabin does have a security system. I haven’t updated our check-in email since we installed it, but when you get back, check behind the key rack by the front door. There’s a small panel, and the code is #1946. There are sensors on every window and door, so once it’s armed, nothing’s going in or out without you knowing. Hopefully, that will bring you some peace of mind tonight, and of course, you can check out early if you’re too upset.”

The police officer completed his report and asked if they felt comfortable going back to the cabin tonight. Since there were no traditional hotels or motels nearby, there weren’t many options for them to have a place to sleep that night. Armed with the code for the cabin, Rebecca assured Scott she felt OK going back to the cabin that night.

They left the small building and spoke briefly in front of their car. He embraced her, lingering with his mouth buried in a kiss on her head, before opening her door and making sure she got snugly inside, running around to get in, firing up the engine, and pulling out into the night.

The artificial brightness of the police department made driving back into the rural cloudy night even more pronounced. Their taillights were indiscernible before they reached the end of the street, swallowed up by the deep darkness of the inky mist.

Dawn broke and Sgt. Mark Jacobs stretched and headed outside for a morning smoke. It was a nasty habit, one he was trying to break, and he was down to two cigarettes a day: once before shift, and once just before the end of a shift. His breath puffed in the brisk morning air as he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one, his eyes squinting with the first rays of morning sun. Randall would be there soon to relieve him.

Taking a deep drag, he thought about the couple that had come in late the night before. They didn’t get stuff like that around here often; in fact, he really couldn’t remember the last ‘peeping Tom’ case. Maybe something back around ’02, ’03, but not recently.

He also just kind of got a gut feeling when women were truly scared and had really seen something or been through something. That woman had seen some guy out there, looking at her. He believed her. He also recalled her comment about the photo at the antique store, and knowing how powerful “family genes” could run in small towns, he wondered if perhaps his peeping tom wasn’t the son or grandson of the guy in the photo.

If the resemblance was that strong, it may be a direct relative. Lord knows he still got confused for his old man by some old-timers in town.

Taking one last drag, savoring it, he exhaled slowly and watched as his replacement slowly pulled into the parking lot. He tossed his cigarette butt into the grass and went inside.

Later that morning, out of uniform and wearing a brown cable-knit sweater and jeans, Mark looked more like a sitcom dad than a law enforcement officer. His demeanor had never been as severe as his dad’s, but he could definitely get the job done when needed.

The door jingled as he entered the antique store, realizing with a bit of embarrassment he’d actually never been inside despite living there his whole life. He approached the counter and looked up, immediately recognizing the photo the woman had described last night.

Four men, four cars parked side by side. All assuming the cool “hot rod” stance, leaning against their own Ford Super DeLuxe, early 40s model.

The man closest to the camera bore an almost James Dean level of intensity. Despite his casual posing, his biceps were flexed and his face, although blurry and indistinct, felt intense. The eyes were shaded by a lock of hair on his forehead. Maybe that contributed to it. But Mark had a damn good idea he was looking at the image that woman recalled last night.

“How’s it going, sir? Can I help you with something?”

The shopkeeper hadn’t moved from his stool but leaned forward to rest on the glass case filled with costume jewelry in front of him.

“Yeah, actually. What do you know about that photo there?” Mark pointed up at it.

“Weird, you’re the second person to ask about that recently. No one’s ever asked about it before. I’ve had it up there a few years; got it at an estate sale. Thought someone local may recognize them, or just like it for the local nostalgia, but,” he shrugged, “it’s just never caught anyone’s eye. I mean, obviously, until now.”

Mark thrust out his hand for a shake. “Sgt. Mark Jacobs. I’m a detective and I got a complaint last night about a peeping tom, and the individual claimed that he looked… well, like that guy,” jerking his thumb towards the photo.

“Which guy, the first one there? Huh. Well, I mean, he’d be like…” the shopkeeper squinted as he calculated, “ 104? Something like that? He ain’t out here peeping at anything, I guarantee that.”

Mark chuckled. “You’re right. But I thought maybe, well you know how family resemblance goes. Maybe we could find out who it is and if they still have family around here? Could be worth looking into.”

The shopkeeper shrugged, “Yeah, but like I said, I don’t know who that is. Any of ’em.”

He stared at it for a moment before perking up and stepping down from the stool. “Actually, a lot of older people would write on the back of photos. Dates, names, whatever. Let’s see if there’s something on the back. I never even looked!”

Mark watched intently as the shopkeeper carefully lifted the framed photo off the wall, turned it facedown on the counter, and began extracting the decrepit cardboard and paper from the back of the frame. After a moment, the back was free and pulled away. The back of the photo was exposed, and four names, written diagonally along the back of each car was a name.

Car Club. 1946. On the back of the first, most prominent car, a name.

Andy Matthews.

“Would you look at that!” the shopkeeper exclaimed, clearly giddy with the excitement of this discovery. “It’s like we’re in an episode of Law and Order or something. Are you gonna need to take this?”

Mark chuckled, both at the shopkeeper’s excitement and the Law and Order reference. “No, man, I’m good. I’ve got the name. I’m just going to see if it goes anywhere. Thanks, though!”

Walking back to the police department, Mark tried to think about anyone he knew in town with the name Matthews. There were a few. It wasn’t one of the most common names in town, but there definitely were some that came to mind. Mostly lower-income families that lived along the outskirts of town, one in an old farmhouse he’d had to visit once or twice for bawdy parties, and a couple in older trailers behind a farm that he’d had to help get a cow out of their yard and back into the adjoining pasture.

Neither owned a car like that, and he’d never had any complaints about either engaging in any “peeping” behavior.

He didn’t have high hopes as he fired up their records system, although they’d just finished having records from before 1950 digitized and entered as searchable data. He typed, Andy Matthews, and pressed enter.

NO RESULTS FOUND.

He chewed on a fingernail, thinking, trying not to think about wanting a cigarette. Oh, Andy was informal. He deleted the entry and then typed again. Andrew Matthews.

TWO RESULTS FOUND.

Mark sat upright in his chair. Well. Perhaps this would be a more exciting weekend than he had planned! He clicked on the first entry and his face registered disappointment. A standard incident report from some industrial accident out at the old car plant, and a death certificate.

He clicked the death certificate first. Perhaps it would list a next-of-kin. But to his surprise, the name Andrew Matthews was listed as next-of-kin. To a Sarah Matthews. His wife. Deceased. 1946. She was only 24. Cause of death: industrial accident.

His attention to the first query result was suddenly piqued. He clicked back, found the Industrial Accident Report file, and opened it.

In the file are five scanned documents. The Industrial Accident Report from the auto company. The police incident report. Three eyewitness statements, the files named by the eyewitness who gave the statement.

The third file: an eyewitness statement named G. PANDERBAUGH.

Panderbough. Panderbough. That’s a weird… wait, wait. No way.

Mark swiveled in his desk seat to his “Incoming” basket on his desk: the reports that were written and needed to be entered in to the system digitally. Fresh on top, the incident report from last night.

He pulled it towards himself, adjusting his glasses.

Scott Panderbaugh.

Mark sped through turnover with Officer Monroe, the oncoming duty officer, and returned to his desk with a fresh cup of coffee. Corporate incident reports, especially those involving a death, were often hundreds if not thousands of pages. Modern technology allowed him to skim vast portions of redundant, irrelevant information and find every mention of G. Panderbaugh.

The gist of the incident was this: a young woman, Sarah Matthews, was working late one evening, doing some extra janitorial work to get some overtime in her next check. At some point around 9 PM, she fell into a piece of machinery and was killed, crushed to death. Her husband, fellow plant employee Andrew ‘Andy’ Matthews, was notified in the wee hours of the morning. Three floor supervisors were in the building and all gave statements: G. Panderbaugh, S. Westingfield, and R. Johnson.

Mark sat back in his chair and sighed heavily. The report told an unfortunate tale of a young woman’s life ended too soon by simply being at the wrong place at the wrong time. But, that was decades ago. He wasn’t here to research history, he was looking for a living relative that could be related to this Andy Matthews.

For this, he opened their more modern records database and began typing. The last name Matthews yielded quite a few speeding tickets, domestic disturbances, and then one, a misdemeanor vandalism charge he vaguely recalled from a few years prior, listed Andrew Matthews III as the spray paint artist.

Mark clicked the jpeg icon, and the kid’s mugshot sprang onto the screen. He sat back and laughed out loud. Dusty blonde hair, a lock falling over his face, the same strong jawline, intensity, and similar build. Family genes did run strong with this one. Put a tight T-shirt and jeans on him and he’s a 50’s greaser, ready to drag race his rod down Main Street.

Mark jotted down the address, grabbed his jacket, finally logged off for the shift, and headed towards the edge of town.

Arriving at the address given, the first thing Mark noticed was the lack of a 1940s hot rod. In fact, the lack of any vehicle whatsoever. And when he knocked on the door, the gaunt skeleton of a man who answered the door could not possibly be misidentified as the robust, healthy young man in that photo.

Like most rural communities, even the “good ones,” drugs had found a stronghold, and their town was no different. The young man in front of him had clearly fallen deep into the pit of addiction; his skin grey and pulled taut over his visible bone structure and marked with dark pocks and scabs.

His head was shaved, so no luscious blonde locks falling over the forehead. He was wearing a dirty white wifebeater tank top and basketball shorts, not a dark T-shirt and jeans as she described, and since it seemed he was just starting to come out of whatever drug-induced coma he was in, Mark doubted he was out and about anywhere last night.

Still, he was there so he might as well ask. The young man simply stared at him, glassy-eyed, until Mark spoke.

“Hey, Andrew, you didn’t happen to be out anywhere last night, did ya?” Mark tried not to look past Andrew into the filthy trailer and make eye contact with him, but the young man was having a hard time focusing on anything.

“It’s Andy, and man, hell no. My old lady took my car three days ago and I ain’t seen her.”

Mark perked up. A car? “Oh, is that right? What kind of car?”

“An ‘06 Ford Fusion. Bitch better bring it back or she’s done….” Mark held his hand up to stop Andy’s rant.

“Andy, I need to let you know I am law enforcement.”

“What the fuck, man? I ain’t done nothing. Britney took my car, OK, but I ain’t done nothing. I just been here. Don’t have a way to go anywhere, really…” Mark put his hand up again.

“It’s OK, Andy.” Mark dug in his inner jacket pocket and stuck a small card in Andy’s hand. “Here’s my card. Call me and give me a description of the car and we’ll keep our eye out for it. Sorry to bother you.”

Mark got in his car and contemplated going home, but another day home alone didn’t appeal to him. Plus, this was going to tickle in his mind all day so he needed to figure it out. Crime didn’t happen often in his town, especially any kind of violent crime, or “creepy” crime like peeping. If there was a peeping tom around here, he needed to figure it out and get rid of him.

Another tickle that just wouldn’t go away was the strange coincidence of the last name Panderbaugh. That was an unusual name. No Panderbaughs in town. Whoever the G. Panderbaugh was that was listed in that Incident Report, he no longer lived here.

He rubbed his eyes. He was getting soft in his old age. He kind of wanted to just go home and go to sleep. Instead, he turned to the right and headed back into town, to the coffee shop.

His least favorite barista, Ava, was working at the coffee shop. She had the worst haircut ever and her oversized shirt was grungy. Seemed all the kids in this generation wanted to look as awful as possible most of the time. She had a real anarchist thing going on and really, really disliked law enforcement.

“What up, pig?”

“Nice, Ava. Can I just get a coffee, black?”

“Do you want a pour over? Do you want fair trade, organic, free range ethiopian blend?” Ava was already pouring his regular drip coffee as she rattled off the litany of ‘wokeisms’ that she presumed would annoy him, and she was right.

“Yeah, yeah, why are you so cranky today? Even more than usual?” Mark shoved a dollar in the tip jar even as he was being verbally berated by this delinquent youth.

“Well, my cousin just posted on Insta that you were out there harassing him this morning? He doesn’t even have a car right now. He hasn’t left his place in like a week, dude…” Mark looked up from the counter where he was pressing a plastic lid onto the cup.

“Wait, what? You’re related to him?”

“Yeah, he’s my cousin, on my mama’s side.”

“Your last name is Matthews?”

“No, it’s Rosch. My mom’s maiden name was Matthews. Yo, what’s with you? Andy’s right, you’re onto something. What’s up? Do we have crime here? Is there a game afoot?” she giggled with the Sherlock reference and leaned over the counter, suddenly very invested and interested in law enforcement business.

“So your grandfather is, was, Andy Matthews? He had a hot rod, in a car club kind of thing?”

Ava stopped laughing and stood up.

“Yeah, man, you know like… a lot about my family. What’s actually going on?”

Mark ran through an abbreviated version of the night’s events. Ava’s eyes widened as she recognized the couple he was talking about, the yuppie couple that had been disgustedly canoodling on the coffee shop couch the afternoon before.

“Yeah, oh my god, they were here last night! So they said they saw something? Something that looked like my grandpa’s old car? I mean, damn, they’re really tripping because that car was burned up when I was little. Fireworks accident. My cousin Ray shot one of ‘em right into it and damn near blew it up. Almost burned down the shed. My family talked about that for years.”

Mark ran his hands through his hair. “So the car’s gone? Totally?”

“Totally. It burned for a whole day. Nothing left but a shell, the frame or whatever.”

“Well, shit.”

“Yeah, it really changed him. My grandpa. He never wanted to get rid of it. He kept fixing it and working on it to keep it going because he said it reminded him of my grandma. She died pretty young, and… well, I don’t really know the ‘official’ story. Stuff from way before I was born.”

Mark nodded. “Yeah, I read the Incident Report this morning. Sounded like a bad accident.”

“Accident?” Ava snorted. “Yeah, OK.”

Mark paused. This all seemed to be pretty open and shut. At this point, he was ready to head home and get some sleep. The coffee wasn’t really working, he’d reached some dead ends, and he was coming to think maybe this couple came into the cabin in the woods with a little ‘extra fun’ of some sort and the woman was visualizing the image she’d seen in the photo in the antique shop when she looked over at the woods.

Looking into the woods at night, especially from a vulnerable place as sitting naked in a hot tub, can cause the mind to conjure any nature of visions. He yawned. Rubbed his eyes.

Yet his mind kept going back to the last name. Weird connection.

Ava was absently wiping the front of the espresso machine with a rag, but watching him steadily for a reaction.

He plunked down on a barstool a few feet down the counter, took a big swig of coffee, and sighed, “Alright, Ava, let’s hear it. Why’d you say it wasn’t an accident?”

Ava threw the rag down and scurried to his end of the counter, leaning forward so he could smell the patchouli and sandalwood incense fragrance embedded in her shirt.

“Our family said it wasn’t an accident. They talked about it all the time, especially when I was really young. My aunt swore up and down she was killed. My grandpa thought so too, but nobody had any proof.”

Mark looked at her face. Ava was frequently bratty to him and any other law enforcement came in, and she loved getting a rise out of him, but this was just about the most earnest and sincere he’d ever seen her. Her eyes were wide and she genuinely believed this version of events.

“So what did your… so that would be your great-aunt? What did she say happened?”

“Well, she said it went like this. She wanted to stay with my grandma, work late. They both needed the overtime. But the floor super sent her home. In fact, he sent home the other two girls that were asking for overtime, too. When she left, my grandma was all alone in that building… with three men. Three floor supers were there. My great-aunt said this: her sister was the prettiest girl in the plant, and the floor supers had already put her and my grandpa on separate shifts as much as they could. They always seemed to try to isolate her, you know get her alone because they were creepy old fucking corporate men…”

“Ava, stick to it.”

“Yeah, OK, but yeah, Aunt Shirl was sent home with all the other girls. She believes the floor supers tried putting the moves on my grandma and she, you know, fought ‘em off. Something. And then something happened. They said she fell into this machine- first of all, that machine shouldn’t have been running at night. She was there to do janitorial work, not machinery work at night. And apparently, there was a platform with a pretty decent gap. She’d practically have to jump the gap to get into that machine.”

“Ava, why did your family not bring all this up during the investigation? Did they?”

“Dude, you really don’t get it.” Ava laughed abruptly, shaking her head. “You think police listen to poor factory workers? Especially women? And back then, in the 40s, 50s, whatever? Man, you really are trippin’.” She kept shaking her head as she turned back to rinse out a coffee pot.

Mark stared at Ava a moment before asking, “Hey, did they happen to mention who these floor supers were? The ones that they thought.. the ones that were…”

“Gross? Sexually harassing women? Only one. The “Goon”. Gerald the Goon. I didn’t know what “goon” meant as a kid, but my great-aunt always said that the Goon did it. Had to. He even quit the next year and moved his family away.”

Mark heard the thumping of his pulse as his mind raced back to that highlighted name on the screen.

G. PANDERBAUGH.

SCOTT PANDERBAUGH.

If this was somehow connected, maybe some other member of Ava’s family had found out this Panderbaugh guy was here and was taking some kind of generational revenge. Trying to stay cool, Mark slid off the barstool, picked up his coffee, raised it to Ava, and quipped, “To my Dr. Watson,” as he made his way to the front door.

To his surprise, he got a genuine smile, for just a moment, before she turned away.

Mark called the station and asked the duty officer to check the report that came in last night, still on paper as he hadn’t entered it yet, and to please give him the address. Entering it in his maps, he felt a fluttering in his stomach that he hadn’t felt in years, since his few years in active duty military service many years ago.

He tempered his excitement as he kept reasonably near the speed limit heading out Highway 13. The road was still wet, and leaves had blown over the road in some spots, making for potential blind slick spots on such a curvy road. As he neared the address, he saw a red pickup truck in the driveway, about halfway down. He pulled behind it and parked, walking down the rest of the drive.

An older couple stood out front talking. She had a long orange cardigan on, which she had pulled tight around herself. Pink sweatpants and house slippers completed her unusual ensemble. He was also in sweats. Mark emerged from around the bend and yelled a greeting.

“Hey guys! It’s Sgt. Mark Jacobs from the Police-”

“Oh, thank GAWD you’re here! You got here so fast! I can’t imagine what happened…”

“Whoa, slow down. Got here fast? How did you know I was coming?” Mark’s eyebrows furrowed.

“We just called and filed a report. There were people who were supposed to be staying in our AirBnb here. We got a strange message from her last night saying there’s a peeping tom around. I messaged her back and never got a response. I messaged her again this morning and she still didn’t answer. So we decided to come over and talk with them, and… well, no one is here. And it’s as if no one was ever here. Go look inside! Nothing’s been touched.”

Mark, dumbfounded, couldn’t find an appropriate response yet, so he simply nodded as he walked around the couple, up the stairs of the cabin, and inside.

The bed was immaculately made, folded crisply down. Two fresh bath towels were rolled up on a shelf in the bathroom, both bone dry and smelled of detergent and fabric softener. Not an item out of place.

It was as if they’d never been there.

The seat belt alarm was dinging. Frankie looked over at his wife, Stacey.

“Buckle up, Mrs. Westingfield! I’m trying to whisk you away over here!”

Stacey grinned and pushed her seat belt in place with a loud click.

“I’m ready, Mr. Westingfield! Anniversary weekend, starts now!”

Stacey reached over and cranked up the radio. “Hey Jealousy” spilled out of the speakers and Frankie rolled the windows down.

As he merged onto the interstate, he saw in the rearview mirror a classic black car, a dusty old Ford, probably late ’40s model. A shadow over the driver, he could only see a pale white hand gripping the steering wheel. Next to him, the sun shone on a pretty blonde in a cornflower blue shirt, sitting straight upright, her hair blowing in the wind.

He yelled over the wind and music, “Hey, Stace, look behind us! What a great car!”

She glanced in her side mirror.

“Ah, I love that!” she yelled back, looking more intently in the side mirror at the classic car.

“They just don’t make ’em like that anymore.”

My name is Melissa Corrigan, and I’m a freelance writer/thought sharer/philosopher in coastal Virginia. I am a mom, a wife, a veteran, and so much more. I deeply enjoy sharing my thoughts and receiving feedback that sparks genuine, respectful conversation.

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