#1: Regarding the Thing in the River

[00:00:24] Speaker A: Can drive you mad and make you feel real good. [00:00:29] Speaker B: Gonna take you for a ride on my brand new car. [00:00:38] Speaker C: What if you stumbled upon something that wasn't meant to be found? Something that didn't belong to you or to anyone you knew, Something out of place, out of time, Waiting in the quiet, holding its breath. What if you tried to walk away, pretend you never saw it, but the moment you did, the world around you shifted just slightly, just enough for you to notice a wrongness in the air, a feeling in your gut. Would you start to wonder if you were part of something you couldn't escape? Or would you tell yourself what people always do when faced with the impossible, that it's just a coincidence, a trick of fate, Nothing worth losing sleep over. Hickory Bend isn't the kind of place where things like this happen. It's the kind of place where the biggest excitement is a church raffle. Where the same faces pass by year after year. Where the past is as stubborn as the people who refuse to leave. But this winter morning, something changed. A door opened. [00:01:49] Speaker A: A secret slipped loose. [00:01:51] Speaker C: So what would you do? Would you ignore it? Would you pretend it wasn't there? Or would you, like so many others in Hickory Bend, find yourself caught in the middle of something far bigger than you ever could have imagined? [00:02:32] Speaker A: The river ran cold. It always did this time of year. Bernard Capshaw knew it, but knowing never stopped a man from doing something he loved. He stood on the back porch, the faded wooded planks creaking under his weight. The first rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon, giving the sky a pink and orange glow. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, filling his lungs with the refreshing chill of a new morning. This was his sanctuary, a sacred moment before the chaos of everyday life descended. He had just crossed the threshold of 56, but carried himself like a man who'd put in more years than that. Retirement had come early, not by choice, but because his back had finally called it quits after decades of hard labor. He moved slower these days, careful, like he was always trying to outmaneuver a sharp pain waiting to take him down. His hair was thinning, a stubborn mix of brown and gray combed back out of habit even though the front was retreating faster than he liked to admit. His face was weathered, lined from years spent outdoors, the kind of skin that had seen too many summers and not enough sunscreen. His eyes, a steely blue, still held that sharpness, though he was always sizing things up, trying to figure out what was worth his attention and what wasn't. A flannel and jeans kind of man. No matter the season, the shirts were always worn in just right, soft from years of washing, the sleeves rolled up out of routine rather than necessity. His jeans, faded, frayed at the edges, had seen their fair share of repairs, but he wasn't one for throwing out a good pair just because they had a hole or two. His boots were scuffed, well worn, the kind that had walked through mud, sawdust, and riverbanks more times than he could count. In front of him the river was a deep, murky black that seemed to absorb all light, making the trees on the other side of the bank appear swallowed by darkness. A thick layer of mist clung to the surface, swirling in the faint dawn light. It wasn't frozen. No, not quite, but it had that brittle look about it, like a thin crust of ice was just waiting for the right moment to form. [00:05:05] Speaker C: You'll catch yourself a cold, edith warned, like she did every morning whenever Bernard grabbed his thermos filled with coffee. No cream, no sugar, black. [00:05:16] Speaker A: Just the way he liked it. [00:05:18] Speaker C: Bernard had long suspected Edith wasn't truly concerned about his well being so much as she was committed to maintaining her personal record for most consecutive days, delivering the exact same warning. 37 years and counting. He let out a sigh and shrugged off her words, knowing he would hear them again tomorrow. I won't catch a cold, bernard grumbled, pulling his knit cap down over his ears. I'm made of sterner stuff, made of foolishness and bad knees, edith corrected. And you better be home before lunch, bernard grunted, waving her off as he stepped off the front porch, boots pressing into the frostbitten earth. He glanced back at Edith, still parked on the porch, arms folded, bathrobe cinched like a judge about to deliver sentencing. They were the same age, and time hadn't exactly been generous to her either. She'd softened over the years, a little fluffier, a little grumpier, but there were still glimpses of the sharp, spirited woman she used to be, especially when she had something to say and no patience for nonsense. The years had added lines to her face and a permanent edge to her tone, but every now and then, in the right light, you could still see the fire in her eyes, the same one that had drawn Bernard to her. [00:06:48] Speaker A: All those years ago. [00:06:50] Speaker B: And in that moment, as he took in her expression, she gave him the look, the one that said, fine, go ahead, indulge your ridiculous whims. But when you're done gazing into the abyss or whatever existential nonsense you're up to, maybe think about cleaning out the gutters. But he didn't care about the gutters. He had a routine to maintain, and he didn't like to mess with routine. Get on the water just before sunrise. Paddle toward the bend on his old wood hulled boat. Sip his coffee. Let the warmth battle the chill seeping into his bones and sink into the kind of silence only the river could offer. He drifted a few feet from shore, right to that sweet spot where the world felt just still enough paddle resting across his lap. He let the river take over, rocking him in its lazy, indifferent rhythm. The the morning murmured around him. The low chitter of waking birds, the whisper of water slipping past the boat. The kind of silence that wasn't really silence at all. But today the river had other ideas. The tap was faint at first, a soft, repetitive thunk against the side of his dinghy. Bernard ignored it. Probably a branch or some stray debris caught in the current. He took a long sip from his thermos, wincing as it burned the roof of his mouth. Thunk. Louder this time. Bernard sighed and leaned over, pushing the brim of his cap up. He squinted at the water. A suitcase. A damn suitcase, floating half submerged, bobbing lightly against his boat like it belonged there. Bernard frowned. It wasn't the usual kind of trash that wound up in the river. Beer cans, old tires, the occasional shoe. Maybe some careless fool lost it. He reached down, the cold biting at his fingertips as he grabbed hold of the handle. The thing was heavier than it should have been, waterlogged and reluctant. With a grunt, he heaved it onto his boat, the wet leather slapping against the deck. It was old, beat to hell. The kind of suitcase his father might have carried back in the day when men still traveled in pressed suits and tipped their hats at strangers. Brass latches, the edges scuffed. A faded tag on the side with no name on it. Curiosity gnawed at him. Bernard glanced around. Not a soul in sight. His fingers hovered over the latches. He told himself not to, that whatever was inside, it wasn't his business. That some things, especially things found floating in cold rivers, were best left alone. Then he popped the latches anyway. The lid creaked open, stiff with years of neglect. Money. Stacks of it, bundled tight, crisp despite the damp. More money than Bernard had ever seen in his life. Not just a little, a lot. Enough to buy himself a new boat, A new truck. Hell, a new life. His stomach twisted. People didn't just lose suitcases full of money. People left them. Bernard sat there, the morning air thick with the scent of pine and something else. Something heavy, something he couldn't name. The river lapped at the boat like it was waiting. He licked his lips, looked around again. The river was silent. Still watching, the money stared back. He paddled back to shore, his mind racing faster than his arms could move. The suitcase sat heavy in front of him like a guilty conscience wrapped in leather. The river, once a comfort, now felt like it was taunting and teasing. The moment his boots hit the dock, he nearly bolted for the house, ready to fling open the door, announce it to Edith with none of that half awake coffee pot mumbling, and show her the fortune he just plucked from the water. But something stopped him. Edith. Edith, with her unwavering sense of right and wrong. Edith who still returned extra change at the grocery store even when the cashier insisted it was fine. Edith who wouldn't just tell him to report this to the authorities. She'd make him Sheriff Hollis. Rusty Hollis, a man with the metabolism of a bear coming out of hibernation and the disposition of a dog that had been kicked one too many times. The kind of man who never missed a town council meeting but regularly forgot his own wedding anniversary. Rusty wasn't a bad sheriff, just the kind who'd rather spend an afternoon fishing for catfish than fishing for suspects. Bernard could already picture it. Rusty standing on his porch, one hand on his belt, the other scratching his stomach, squinting at the suitcase like it had personally offended him. Well, Bernie, rusty would say, rubbing his chin like that alone would summon an answer. This sure is a situation. An interrogation, perhaps. His face splashed across the front page of the local newspaper. It was all too overwhelming for someone like Bernard, a simple country boy used to a quiet life. And then there was another possibility. What if this wasn't just lost money? What if this was bad money? The kind that came with strings. The kind that, if you weren't careful, had a habit of making people disappear. Bernard looked down at the suitcase, his brass latches still glinting. He nudged it with his boot, half expecting it to spring open and shout surprise. Like some kind of cursed jack in the box. A decision had to be made, and fast. Take it straight to Edith. Accept the inevitable. Be lectured before breakfast. Lose a fortune, but keep his soul intact. Or hide it just for now. Just long enough to think, to figure out what kind of trouble he was dealing with. He chewed his lip. He wasn't a greedy man, but even a man with a well worn conscience had to wonder if a suitcase full of money taps against your boat in the middle of the river and no one's around to claim it did it ever really exist? Bernard sighed, hoisted the suitcase under one arm, and made a choice. The shed. It wasn't a good choice, necessarily, but it was the fastest. The fastest choices were usually the best ones when you were standing on a dock with a suitcase full of questionable cash and a wife who prided herself on civic duty. [00:13:59] Speaker A: He trudged across the yard, boots sinking into the earth, glancing over his shoulder like a man carrying something much worse than money, like sin or a live grenade. The morning mist curled around his ankles, thick and lingering, as if even the weather wanted to be part of the secret. The shed sat at the far edge of the yard, leaning slightly to the left, its tin roof rusted from years of neglect. Bernard had always meant to fix it up, but procrastination and a healthy disinterest in manual labor had won out. The door groaned when he pulled it open, the kind of sound that made a man think about all the horror movies he'd watch over the years. At first he hesitated. Then he stepped inside. The shed smelled like old wood, damp earth, and a vague sense of neglect. Cobwebs stretched from beam to beam, a small army of spiders doing what Bernard never got around to. A broken fishing rod leaned against the wall. A rusted tackle box sat on the workbench. A lawn mower that hadn't worked since Nixon was in office took up most of the space. Perfect. Bernard shoved the suitcase into the darkest corner, behind a stack of paint cans and a bag of fertilizer he wasn't entirely sure was still legal to use. He stood back, hands on his hips, examining his handiwork. Couldn't even see it. [00:15:28] Speaker C: Good. [00:15:30] Speaker A: He wiped his hands on his jeans, turned to leave, and stopped. A single thought, quiet but insistent, wormed its way into his head. What if someone came looking for it? Bernard swallowed hard. He shut the shed door, bolted it, and stood there for a long moment, listening to the wind shift through the trees. Then, with a deep breath and the kind of optimism only a fool or a desperate man could muster, he pushed the thought aside and walked back to the house, practicing his best. I didn't just find a fortune in the river and hide it in my shed face. Bernard crept back to the house like a man returning from a crime scene. Which technically he wasn't, but it sure felt like one. His heart was thumping harder than it should have been for a man who just took a quick morning boat ride and definitely didn't haul a mysterious suitcase full of money out of the river and stash it in his shed like a lunatic he stepped onto the porch, wiped his boots twice, then once more for good measure, and slipped inside. The scent of bacon and coffee hit him first, then the sight of Edith hovering over the stove, spatula in hand, mid pancake flip, turning to face him with narrowed eyes. She was still in her robe, once pink and smooth, now faded to a weary shade of rose, its frilled edges curling like old paper. Her hair, a tangle of forgotten effort, lay tucked beneath a headpiece that had seen better days, a quiet crown for a woman who had long since stopped caring who saw her wear it. You're back early, she said, suspicion laced in every syllable. Bernard forced a chuckle. Well, good morning to you, too. She jabbed the spatula in his direction. I told you it was too chilly this morning. You never listen. He set his thermos on the counter and shrugged, aiming for casual landing somewhere between shifty and recently paroled. You're always right, he said. Edith squinted at him like she could see straight through his skin and into the very bad decision currently rusting in their shed. Bernard did his best to look like a man who had not just committed what might technically be a felony. She turned back to the stove, but not before muttering, damn straight I am. Bernard exhaled, crisis averted. Or at least postponed. He pulled out a chair, plopped down at the kitchen table, and tried to act normal. Normal meant reading the paper, sipping coffee, and not immediately running back outside to check on the suitcase. So, edith said, cracking an egg against the pan. What did you see out there? His stomach clenched. She meant the river, the birds, the trees, the usual. But all Bernard could think about was the suitcase, the stacks of cash, the way it had tapped against his boat like some cursed offering from the deep. He cleared his throat. Oh, you know, the usual mist on the water ducks. Edith side eyed him. You're acting funny. Bernard laughed. Maybe a little too loud. A little too oh God, she knows funny. Me, I'm just. Just enjoying my morning with my beautiful wife, he said, flashing a grin that he hoped read loving husband and not man hiding a terrible secret. Edith snorted. [00:19:19] Speaker C: Uh huh. [00:19:20] Speaker A: She flipped another pancake. Bernard took a sip of coffee, told himself to calm down, and tried not to think about what he'd just dragged into their lives. But outside, beyond the yard, beyond the shed, the river was still moving and the morning wasn't over. Sa.