Parses: Chapter 1

The town of Parses was a small, independent community located a generous distance north-west of the heart of Pennsylvania. Teetering on the outskirts of Lake Erie, the townspeople had grown used to seafood-centric meals and the prolonged absences of their gatherers as they collected resources for the town.

In the summer, the town center flourished. The farmer’s market welcomed temporary vendors, those who came to visit during the summer, some who passed through on their long, winding routes, and the locals who had spent their winters crafting goods in anticipation for the return of warmth. Parses was not in the habit of receiving a massive influx of tourists, and they weren’t peculiar about them anyhow, but a few repeat travelers who had stumbled upon the town over the years revisited each summer, staying at the Foot & Flask Inn. The inn was run by brothers Joshua and Frederick Jones, who lived in an apartment on the upper level of the antique building. Occasionally, a bright and bubbling family would stay for a few nights as they enjoyed basking in the sun on the shore of Erie, only to leave as quickly as they had arrived.

The mayor’s office didn’t serve much function—it was merely a title, anointed to the one and only Ned Rochester, a kind man, who had come from a long bloodline of leaders. It had been one of his grandfathers, one with too many greats to count, or care about, who had founded the town of Parses decades ago. While the town lived in the present, they enjoyed a minimalist lifestyle, settling for outdated technology such as AM radios and television sets with no remotes and bunny-ear antennas. The houses still had landlines and there were a handful of cellphones amongst the citizens, but most found their entertainment in each other. 

Parses was a town stuck in a balancing act between the past and the present, sporting aspects of life from the nineteenth century while sprinkling portions of the twenty-first century along with them as they went. Mayor Rochester traveled to Pittsburg bi-annually, assuring that everything was in order with their somewhat off-the-grid town, and always came back with some interesting news; which, unfortunately, was glum most of the time, recounting a recent shooting or economic crash that impacted many Americans.

That year, as April interjected and interrupted the onslaught of storms and bipolar weather stemming from the end of February and into March, Ned concluded his business in Pittsburgh and began his drive back to the corner of the state. He had become familiar with the ins-and-outs of the route, knowing when to slow down and check the prime spots for entrapment for cops, and when he could truly put the pedal to the floor and roll down the windows, listening as his music was traded for the rush of brisk wind across his face. 

As he came upon a deep curve, shrouded by ancient oak and maple trees that only began to return to their traditional colors, he reflexively downshifted and rolled the windows up slightly. His glasses, reserved primarily for driving, had been placed in a nearby cup holder and he grabbed these with ease, placing them upon the tip of his nose. A fair distance ahead, Ned observed a gathering of storm clouds. He pressed the accelerator harder, almost as if to challenge the storm, and feeling a slight shift as he changed gears. He kept the windows lowered.

Passing the curve, a thin mist of fog had accumulated in response to the impending storm. It hung lazily in a thin sheet above the road and as Ned continued through, it was displaced in a series of swirls and gusts outward. He could see the small wooden sign marking the outskirts of Parses on the horizon and he whooped loudly, banging a hand on the steering wheel, not paying mind to the random burst of adrenaline. As he tore past Parses’ age-old slogan, NO HELP WANTED HERE, he turned his attention to the overgrowth of trees emerging on either side of the road.

The canopy quickly swallowed Ned and blocked any sight of the storm as the road narrowed. He was on the home-stretch now, and with an unwavering persistence he continued on, giving another charged whoop! before he exited the tunnel. In the corner of his eye he thought he could see something charging through the trees on all fours, keeping a consistent pace with his car, but he brushed off this thought with a laugh. He continued to close the gap between himself and his home, blissfully unaware that he would be dead the next morning.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Hi everyone,

I just wanted to provide some brief background on this story before you dive in. In the beginning of the pandemic, I dove into a game of “Werewolf” with a close-knit, slightly insane group of online friends. This game was similar to that of “Mafia” where a game master (Nephlite, in our case, and super awesome) assigns roles to random players with various powers that cultivates changes and surprises for each season.

I got the idea to write a short story (or novel, depending on how long this turns out to be) based on Season 4 of the game, which was arguably one of the craziest seasons we have played, thanks to our game masters’ meticulous planning and creative changes that kept us all on our feet. Since the game was played entirely online, I am writing each chapter based on daily chat transcripts and direct messages. I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as we all enjoyed playing the game.