The Windmills
Gina Lea
“Now don’t you be spending all that money in one place.” Mr. Sprout chuckled as he handed the slip of paper to Emmett.
Emmett clutched the check between his two gnarled hands, like it would slip away if he closed his eyes. His mouth remained fixed in a frown even in this triumphant moment. “So this is for them first few turbines standing out there on my land, eh?”
“Of course. Thirteen state-of-the-art Garnesa Wind Turbines that will be up and running shortly, producing twenty-six megawatts of energy. Enough to power over twenty-five thousand homes. May even turn tonight with all that wind we’re expecting.” Mr. Sprout pulled out his handkerchief from the pocket of his vest, wiped his brow and the top of his bald head. He took his suit jacket off and laid it on the chair next to him. “Mighty hot today. I take it you aren’t using your air-conditioner yet.”
Emmett, still grasping the check, looked up at the man across the table from him. “Couldn’t afford to, but I reckon I can now. I was hoping this first payment would be in cash.”
“Now, Emmett, you wouldn’t want that much cash lying around.” Mr. Sprout said. “Anybody could come in here and steal it. Best to put it into the bank. You do have a bank account don’t you?”
“Hate banks,” Emmett grumbled. “Sneaky sons of bitches find ways to take all your money and then tell you it’s your fault you can’t pay your bills.”
“Well, my company won’t pay you in cash. We prefer direct deposit. I’m making an exception to drive this check out to you.” Mr. Sprout stood and walked over to the fireplace where a breeze was coming off the ceiling fan. He wiped his forehead again and leaned against the mantel, drawing back in disgust when his sleeve came away dusty.
“Hah!” Emmett put the check inside a lockbox sitting on the table. “I don’t want no bank account so you’ll have to keep delivering those checks.” He watched Sprout try to brush away the dust and dirt from his shirt.
“Had to let the cleaning girl go. Maybe, hire her back now.” Emmett glanced around the dingy, dirty living room. The dining room table groaned under the weight of bills and stacks of unopened mail. The kitchen counters overflowed with dirty dishes. Every corner of the floor had large dust balls stirring in the breezes from the fan.
“But, Emmett, how do you pay your bills?”
“Cash, good ol’ American cash. Good enough for my father and his father before him!”
“But don’t you still have to go to the bank to cash checks?” Sprout wiped the back of his neck with his handkerchief.
“Yep, those thieves charge me every time but at least they don’t get to keep my money. Now when did you say the next check will come? Need to get a haircut.” He pulled his hand through his dingy gray hair that hung in greasy strands down over his frayed collar.
“Now you’ll have plenty of money for haircuts and anything else you want.” Mr. Sprout chuckled again, then stopped when he saw Emmett wasn’t smiling. “This is just phase one. Phase two will add another fifty wind turbines producing another hundred and two megawatts of energy. That’s enough to power another forty thousand homes. And the best news is, you can still farm the land between the turbines.”
Emmett shook his head. “No more farming for me. This land ’bout killed me. Broke down my back and feet. Turned my hands into a mess of arthritis knots. This land has been in my family for three generations but it done turned sour on me. Can’t grow tobacco anymore or even a decent garden. I’d sell it if I wasn’t afraid my ancestors would haunt me.” He walked over to the sideboard and pulled out a box. He opened it, removed a small square of paper and sprinkled tobacco across the middle, before rolling it up into a tight cigarette.
“What about your family?” Mr. Sprout asked, looking at the pictures on the mantel of a young boy, a girl and a woman.
“Both kids are grown and gone. Son’s a teacher over in New Bern and daughter’s married and living in Georgia. My wife, Ronnie, left when times got hard. Divorced me for some fancy, slick businessman in the city. Course he still hasn’t married her. Heard he’s one of those newfangled taxi drivers now, hah!” He rubbed the side of his forehead where an old scar throbbed.
“Don’t ’magine my kids’ll ever come back home. Can’t blame ’em. Hate farming myself. Have all my life. Blasted equipment’s too expensive and ’bout killed me more than once. Near tore my head off when the housing on that cursed combine tried to crush me. Was trying to fix that ol’ piece of rust so she’d run better, that’s gratitude for ya.” He rocked from one foot to another. The clock on the mantel struck three times.
“Hey, how ’bout you give me a ride into town, so I can argue with that fool bank about cashing this check?” He picked up the lockbox and glared at Sprout daring him to say no.
“Well, I suppose that will be all right this one time.” Mr. Sprout picked up his jacket, anxious to get out of the hot farmhouse. “You should open a bank account, Emmett. It’s not safe keeping that money here.”
“Don’t you worry ’bout that!” Emmett said darkly. “I know how to protect what’s mine.” He jerked his head to the rifle hanging over the fireplace. “Now let’s hurry up before that worthless bank closes. Don’t mind if I smoke, do ya?”
That evening, Emmett stepped onto the front porch, rubbing his belly full of steak and baked potato. He sat in his rocker, pulled his pouch out, and rolled his evening cigarette while he looked out over the farm.
The first gloom of night had painted shadows across his two barns, the deserted chicken coop, falling-down smoke-house, and moss-covered root cellar. The land was as neglected as the farmhouse and buildings around it. Abandoned crops lay wasting in the garden, picked clean by the blackbirds who mocked the disintegrating scarecrow. In the field, scrawny tobacco had turned brown and bent back to the earth as if it couldn’t wait to return to the soil. Even the trees near the farmhouse were scraggly and bent, limbs long overdue for trimming, broken from past storms.
The crickets chirped from the bushes near the barn and the night became darker with clouds blocking the moon.
Emmett lit his cigarette and took a long draw. His mouth dropped open, causing the cigarette to fall, “Ouch, durnit.” He snatched the cigarette off his lap. He turned toward the sight that startled him. Off in the distance the silent turbines had lit up and glowed bright as beacons against the black sky.
“Well I’ll be danged. Didn’t know they did that.” He tried to laugh but snorted instead. “Well, guess you can light up the farm as much as you want as long as you keep making me piles of money.”
He sat back and rocked, smoking his cigarette and thinking about the things he could buy now. Maybe one of those fancy new TVs. A new car. His old truck had gone kaput last month forcing him to beg rides into town. “Cain’t spend too much though. Gotta save plenty. Taxes will eat a lot and that electric co-op would take more than their share. Better be careful.” He felt his head droop and thought about going to bed, but the crickets were singing him off to sleep right where he was.
He caught himself before he fell out of his rocking chair. “What the heck?” He strained his neck forward and squinted trying to see out into the fields. The windmills were dark now. A deep rustling came from the turbines nearest the farmhouse, like something large moved in the dark. Whispers carried on the light breeze, across the fields and up onto the porch. Emmett was sure he heard voices mocking him.
He jumped up, opened the screen door, went through it so fast it slapped in protest. He came back with his rifle. “Whoever you are, come out right now or I’m gonna blast you to kingdom come!”
The night returned his threat with silence. Even the crickets fled. He glared at the fields but all was quiet with the sleek, silver turbines lit again and glowing. Emmett rubbed the back of his neck and lowered his rifle. “Must-a-been that shot of whiskey I had. I swear I heard something.” He took two steps down and thought hard about prowling around the farm but decided his feet hurt too much to try.
“Guess it’s time for bed.” Emmett climbed back up onto the porch and into his house, locking both the screen door and the front door for good measure. He slammed the bolt across the top of the front door and circled around to every window to make sure they were secure. Finally satisfied, he went into the kitchen to fetch the cleanest glass he could find and slam back a long drink of water even though he wanted another shot of whiskey from the bottle he had opened that night.
Emmett glanced over to the worn-out dog bed in the corner of the living room. It sat cold and silent. “Maybe get a new dog,” he said and went to bed.
That night Emmett tossed and turned. His dreams turned into nightmares. Something hid in the fields, rustling and creeping closer and closer. He tried to scream for help but no words came out. All he could do was open his mouth wider and wider as the swirling sounds grew louder and more menacing, devouring his fields, consuming his barns, the smokehouse and now whirling in the farmhouse. He’d be eaten too. They’d get his piles of money. He had to get out. Had to wake up. Get his rifle. Scream for help. It had to be those damn turbines. Had to.
He woke up late the next morning. His mood was as sour as the taste in his mouth. He dressed and went out to the kitchen, looked longingly at the whiskey bottle. “Later,” he promised himself. “Tonight. But right now, I got more important things to attend to.”
He trudged out the front door into the yard and strode over to the root cellar. He turned the key in the lock and flung it open with enough force to nearly smash the door apart. He stomped down the steps and over to the far corner where he’d hidden the lockbox. His hands trembled as he put the key in the lock and opened the box. There inside lay all the piles of hundreds the bank teller had grudgingly handed him.
Emmett sighed like a baby suckling on its bottle. He stroked the piles once, twice, before closing the box back up and turning the key. He hid it deep in the far recesses of the cellar before climbing back out into the sunshine.
“Just stupid fool dreams. That’s all.”
Three weeks later, Mr. Sprout pulled up as Emmett sat nursing his third cup of coffee on the porch that morning.
“Why, Emmett,” Sprout said, “you look awful. Are you sick?”
Emmett rubbed his eyes, dragged his hand over his face, feeling the sharp stubble on his cheeks. He looked down at his rumpled dirty clothes then over to Mr. Sprout, dressed in his usual immaculate, three-piece suit, and wing-tip shoes.
“Some of us can’t dress as fancy as others, Mr. Sprout. Not sick. Tired.” He slugged back another shot of coffee laced with the whiskey he’d been adding the last few days. “Need to know something ’bout them durn turbine things, them windmills?”
“Certainly, Emmett. That’s why I’m here, we are so pleased with the progress and want to get started on phase two as soon as possible.”
“Now hold on a dang second. Don’t know if I want to put any more of those blasted things on my property. Somethin’ funny’s going on at night. I got to ask you something, Mr. Sprout,” Emmett sat forward, staring at the fields and lowering his voice. “Can those things get up and walk?”
Mr. Sprout took a step back. “Walk? Really Emmett, are you pulling my leg? Of course they can’t walk.”
Emmett stood up and paced to the end of the porch. “Something’s going on out there. Some sort-a rustling, stirring noises. Like those things are moving around. And voices. I tell you I hear voices. I never should have done this. I hate machines and they hate me, been trying to get me ever since they tried to cut my head off back in oh-nine. Blasted combine nearly got me that time and that cursed tractor sitting over there in the weeds ’bout turned over on me last year.”
Mr. Sprout shook his head. “Now Emmett, I think you’ve been out here on this farm too long. That’s just your imagination. Of course the turbines make noise. We told you that before you signed your contract. But move? Impossible.” He stepped closer to the porch and calmed his voice. “I think you need to get into town more. Be with people. Why, I ran into your lovely ex-wife, Veronica, the other day. She’s back in town and we had the nicest talk.”
“Veronica? Hah! Is that what she’s calling herself these days? What does she want?” Emmett continued staring out into the fields.
“She’s worried about you out here all alone. She heard about your good fortune—”
“What’d you tell her?” Emmett demanded. “You tell her about my money?”
Mr. Sprout put his hands up in protest. “I didn’t tell her any details. That is all confidential, but someone told her about the wind turbines and she wanted to know how it was going. How you are. She seemed genuinely concerned.”
Emmett shook his head. “In a pig’s eye. The only person Ronnie’s ever been concerned about was Ronnie. Don’t you tell her a thing about our arrangement, you hear me? She’ll come sniffing around, trying to take my money.”
“Of course, Emmett. Of course. You need to calm down. Now, we’d like to proceed with phase two. You good with letting us add more turbines next month? It’ll mean a lot more money for you.”
Emmett’s eyes fogged over. He’d have to get a bigger lock box. “Sure. Sure. I signed didn’t I?” Emmett rubbed his gnarled hands together before rubbing the scar on the side of his forehead. “Don’t want to go back to farming. That’s for sure.”
“Splendid,” Mr. Sprout turned to go. “Take care Emmett. Drink plenty of fluids.”
Emmett nodded at Sprout who got into his car and pulled away. He pulled the flask out of his pocket and poured another shot into his coffee cup. “Well, now, if you say so.”
That night the dreams were worse. Emmett tore himself out of sleep and listened to the rustling sounds outside. He shivered under his covers even though it was a warm night. He went to the kitchen to pour himself a drink. He pulled the curtains back and peeked outside, sure he saw shadows moving across the yard. “Leave me alone!” He ranted, banging on the wall next to the window. An eerie glow lit up the fields as the turbine lights came on.
He rubbed his head and rocked back and forth. “I should take my shotgun out there and blast those things. Out to get me, I tell you, Max.”
He looked over to the empty dog bed. “Talking to a dog that’s long gone. Run off.” He massaged his scar. “No that’s not right. Max wouldn’t leave me. He loved me. Only thing that ever truly loved me. Dead. Right. That’s right. Max died. Why can’t I remember how?” He stopped and listened to the rustling outside. “Durn turbines gonna drive me crazy!”
He slugged back another shot then slunk into his bedroom and back under the covers. “Morning, got to make it to morning. They can’t move in the daytime.” He slipped back into his nightmares.
Emmett was locking up the root cellar when the big, worn-out Eldorado pulled up. A tall woman wearing a silvery dress stepped from the car and looked around before approaching Emmett.
“Good morning Emmett.” She removed her sunglasses, closing them up with a snap. “Same old dusty farm I see.” Each word filled with disdain.
“Ronnie.” Emmett snorted. “What are you doing here?”
“Veronica. I go by Veronica now.” She glanced over the fields at the tall, shiny turbines. “How are you Emmett? I’m worried about you. Living out here alone.” She stepped closer to him and stroked his arm. “We may be divorced but I still care.”
Emmett pulled his arm from her grasp. He spat on the ground then strode over to the porch and into the house.
Veronica followed him, picking her way up the creaky stairs and past the listing screen door. “Emmett, you know I still care about you. We were married thirty-six years, you can’t brush that off with a little piece of paper.”
“You had no problem brushing me off when you wanted to marry that slimy businessman of yours. What happened to him? Word is, he’s a real loser now.” Emmett took a slug from the coffee cup sitting on the kitchen table wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
Veronica stepped back for a moment, her mouth a thin straight line while her face turned red with effort. “His name is Ken. He wants to marry me, but now is not the time. He’s not set yet.”
“Not got enough money, more like it. You marry him, you can’t keep raping me for alimony every month. You got that fancy degree I paid for. Git yourself a real job and stop stealing from me. It’s not right, me having to pay for you and your loser boyfriend. That’s right, I know I’m keeping him in that fancy liqueur he likes to drink while I sip on rotgut whiskey. Well, no more. I’m set now and you can’t have any part of it, so git!”
Veronica shook her head. “I know you’re getting lots of money from that big company. The one that put those windmills on our land. Everyone in town’s talking about it. That nice Mr. Sprout confirmed you’re loaded now.” She preened at Sprout’s name. “It’s only fair I get half that money.”
Emmett grabbed her arm and yanked her out onto the porch. “It’s not ‘our land!’ It’s mine. Been in my family for over a hundred years. You ain’t getting one stinking dime of that money!”
Veronica struggled as Emmett pushed her toward the porch stairs. “You’re wrong Emmett. I got a lawyer, and he says half that money should go to me. I have rights!”
Emmett grabbed her throat and began to squeeze. “That’s my money.” Veronica’s face turned red. “My land. You hear me? Nobody’s taking it away from me.” He sobbed as he throttled her neck so hard, her hair whirled around her face. Veronica’s eyes slowly closed as her choking noises became fainter.
Emmett heard a rustling noise and looked up. “Nobody. Not even you stinking windmills!” Emmett shouted at the fields, releasing Veronica who fell backwards down the stairs landing at the bottom with a hollow thud.
Emmett stared at the pile of clothes that held the body of his ex-wife. “Ronnie?” He squatted next to her and lifted her head. He felt something wet and saw blood.
A car door slamming woke Emmett from a fitful sleep on the couch. He grabbed his rifle and stumbled out onto the front porch. He looked around. Where had Ronnie’s car gone? Had she really been here? Or was that one of his nightmares?
“Emmett?” Mr. Sprout waved and came toward him.
“Don’t take another step!” Emmett held the rifle aimed straight at Sprout’s head.
Sprout held his hands up. “What’s going on Emmett? I’m just here to see if you set that bank account up.”
“You sicced her on me, didn’t you? You’re in cahoots with her. First you talked me into putting those blasted windmills on my land. Paid me lots of money ’cause you know how desperate I am. Those things are alive. Creeping around at night trying to get me. Whispering in my head. Trying to find out where I hid the money. Now you go and send that greedy ex-wife of mine to steal it.” Emmett aimed the rifle up in the air and fired. Sprout fled toward his car. “That’s right, run, Mr. Fancy Pants. The next shot will be your head.”
Emmett watched Sprout’s car pull out in a cloud of dust. The sky was getting darker as a storm approached. He rubbed his ears and waved his rifle toward the turbines. “I hear you,” he shouted. “Out there getting ready to walk. Roaring day and night. You can’t have my money.”
He ran toward the root cellar, fumbling with his keys, crying and moaning as he slipped the lock off the door. Lightning lit up the yard as he stumbled down the steps. Emmett whimpered as the rustling noise grew louder and the shadows closed in around him.
He pulled the lockbox out of his hiding spot and dumped it on his lap. The whistling of the wind and crack of lightning grew louder as Emmett put his hands up to the sides of his head. “Get out. Get out of my head.”
Sheriff Cody watched Doc Runyan close up the body bag. He looked around the desolate farm, watching his team comb the place for Emmett’s missing ex-wife, Veronica, whose car was parked behind the farmhouse.
“I could be wrong,” the doctor said, “but I think he died of a brain aneurism. My guess is, it was a ticking time bomb, ever since his head injury back in 2009. He flat out refused to let us do an MRI. I tried to tell him he needed to be checked, but you know Emmett. Just insisted I stitch him up and let him go home. Probably had no chance. Even if we found it in time, I doubt it was operable. Autopsy will confirm.”
“Would that have caused him to jabber that crazy nonsense Mr. Sprout said he was talking? Something about those turbines getting up and walking. Trying to kill him. You think that was the aneurism talking? Would that cause him to kill his wife?”
“We’ll never know. If I lived out here alone like he did, well, I might go a little crazy too.” Doc turned to the sheriff. “I’ll call you as soon as I’ve completed my findings.”
“Sheriff.” A young deputy followed by another officer came out of the barn and strode over to the two men. “We found Emmett’s wife, Veronica. Dead in the barn. Looks like she was strangled but didn’t die right away. Blood on her head. He might have struck her or she fell in the fight. Tried to drag herself out of the barn before collapsing. My guess is the blunt force trauma’s what killed her. And it looks like something was in there with her. Something big made a hell of a mess. Never seen a barn so torn apart!”
“Guess, I’ll need to take a look.” Doc said, following the other officer.
“Sheriff, we found something else odd. When we were out searching the fields.” The deputy scratched his head. “Looks like the ground around some of those big turbines has been messed with.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well it looks like someone tried to dig those turbines up. Grass is torn to pieces around a bunch of them and the base of those things are exposed.”
“Makes no sense. Based on what that Sprout fellow told us, I’d a thought Emmett would have been too afraid of them to get that close.”
The sheriff looked out over the fields where the turbines stood silent and tall in the gloom of sunset. “Doc must be right. Emmett had a ticking time bomb in his head, poor sucker. Scraped by on this farm all alone, getting poorer every year, losing his health, money and family. Finally has all the money he needs and his mind snaps.” He turned to his deputy. He pointed to the turbines that lit up the sky with an eerie glow. “Look at them things. As big and powerful as they are, if they could pick up and walk, we wouldn’t stand a chance. Wouldn’t stand a chance at all.”