MADNESS AT MERKIN MILL

Pottowattami: This is the story as we know it, or at least as it is told in Deseret. The 70 year old farmer entered the doorway of his decrepit mill and saw his beloved young wife, thirty years his junior, locked in passionate embrace with his son. Horace Merkin reached into his pocket to pull out a knife. The younger Merkin, David, grabbed a broken 2x4 and defended himself. Dorothy watched in horror as the two men battled over her. Horace dove at David, who slid out of his father's reach while at the same time planting a ugly blow to the old man's side. Horace, filled with the frustrated anger of the cuckold, dove again at the younger Merkin and this time tore a whole through his shoulder. David recovered and struck Horace full force with the board in the side of the head, but the old farmer only smiled, rubbed his head, and said, "Now, its your turn, boy."

     The elder Merkin made another running dive at the boy and landed on top of his only son. He raised the knife to strike, but just as it began its deadly arc toward David's chest the old man shuddered and gave out a weak groan. He rolled off David and exposed a knife protruding from his belly. His son had not been unarmed after all.

     The two lovers stood together, staring down at the dead husband and father, who looked back with open, empty eyes. The blood from Horace's wound flowed out from his wrinkled old body and through the cracks in the ancient floor of the mill. Dorothy clung close, closing her eyes against the horrible result of the bitter feud. But something far more horrible was following the bloody trail up from the deep tunnels beneath the mill.

     David and Dorothy staggered apart as the floorboards erupted and the still night was shattered by the shrill screaming of some ungodly animal from below. Clawing its way up from the ruined floor and licking at the oozing puddle of Horace's blood was the fetid green form of some zombie-like creature. The grotesque visage of this monstrosity was accompanied by a stench unimaginable. Its glowing yellow eyes scanned the room, falling on the frightened young couple. Dorothy screamed and David took a defensive posture, holding his father's discarded knife. "Save yourself," the boy shouted, "Run like bloody hell and get out!"

     Dorothy Merkin did run, and forty years later she still repeats the tale of that night, without a single change in detail. "I ran into town to get the Sheriff, nearly hysterical. He got a small group of men and followed me back to the mill. When we got there, David, the beast, and my husband's body were all gone. So was the blood on the floor and the knives. The only thing left was the 2x4 that David had hit Horace with. They tell me I must have dreamt it, but I assure you, it was real. Terribly, terribly real."

     When contacted, Sheriff Herd, now retired, gave his version of the facts. "Mrs. Merkin told us what happened. We didn't know what to make of it. Everybody knew she and the old man were having problems. He beat her and a lot of talk around here says he killed his first wife. Nothing could be proved, but Dorothy would show up at church in a veil, thinking nobody could see the black eyes and bruises. She always came into town with David and there was more loose talk about that. It was no secret, either, that David hated his father. We all figured it had come to a head out there at the mill, but there was nothing there when we arrived. Sure, there must have been foul play, but what could be proved and who knew who did what to whom....as for this zombie thing, well, that don't wash any better than the rest of it." Asked if he had bothered to check the tunnels under the mill, he replied, "Oh, I'm sure there's nothing down there. Horace's Pappy built that place and fitted it with all kinds of traps and devices. Peculiar old bird. I wasn't going to risk any of my men. The whole thing is over, so why not just let it be?"

     The mysteries of Merkin's Mill do go back to its construction. Dorothy told me, "It was one of the first buildings in Deseret, and the oldest members of the community whisper that it was built less to mill grain than to call up the dead. The area was near an ancient burial mound of native peoples, and Grandpa Merkin believed that those dead could reveal secrets about the soil. The mill was really a giant spirit locator."

     "I'll agree with Mrs. Merkin on that point," said Sheriff Herd, sipping his afternoon tea. "There were plenty of spirits located up there. Jack Daniel's, George Dickel, Old Grandad, moonshine, you name it. The Merkins did it all up there. Some folks said they held seances in there, and there was an unusual amount of activity at night for a mill. Hell, some of his neighbors got talked into joining some sort of secret society. They claimed they made contact with a long dead settler who was buried right under the mill. Claimed it spoke to them several times, and made a deal that in exchange for blood it would reveal spells and incantations to make the fields yield in plenty every year on the Merkin farm. Well, Grandma Merkin went missing that year. I'm not saying there is a connection, but Grandpa Merkin's farm gave a bumper crop for about ten years after that. Then, there was a blight, just for a year. Then he went missing, too. And when Horace inherited the farm, it was back to bumper crops again. Seems like every time there's downturn at that farm, a Merkin goes missing and the whole thing kind of rejuvenates. Every ten years, like clockwork."

     "The farm is mine now, reflects Dorothy in her small apartment in town, "I'm planning to sell it. The soil is good and the crops are the envy of the county. I shouldn't have any trouble. Horace hated the farm, I think, just working it out of respect for his family. After he lost his first wife-he said it was in an accident at the mill-he got bitter and mean. He was very sweet with me, though, and everyone thought I could tame his temper and bring him back into the world a little bit. But instead he took me away from it. I couldn't talk to strangers or other men, and he hit me for the smallest things. David was the only source of comfort and constant joy available to me, and though we knew it was wrong and sinful, we would sneak out to the mill and heal each other's wounds with love. Then the crops failed. The lost harvests preyed heavily on my husband and he seemed to blame me....and eyed me strangely. I thought it was jealousy, but it had a look more like desperation in his eyes. He looked at David the same way, and I knew he was considering something awful. I now have suspicions of what terrible things he was thinking....deciding which of us was to sacrifice. Well, what is done is done, and the crops have returned in great bounty. I am certain they shall remain vigorous in growth for the next ten, perhaps twenty years, but I'll not linger here even half that time."