“WELCOME!” The sign said, "TO IDENTITY VILLAGE!” in washed-out, old English text. There were other notations on the sign, so I pulled my car off the road and went up to it. I couldn’t begin to guess the age of the sign, but the black lettering and a gold star under the town sign were old and taking on an alligator pattern. The wood was bleached and splintered. Then I noticed in small letters where some comedian wrote, Leave your identity here, and never go home! Cute. I took a snapshot, then climbed back into my Saab.

I am a travel writer. I was tired of writing about the big cities like Paris, New York, and London and the same-o same-o. I wanted to do a series of articles on little known towns throughout the country. Regardless if they still existed, the history of what a town was like in its hey-day made curious readers eat it up. It was high time some of our small towns received recognition. The editor and I both thought it was a brilliant idea. It was an exciting assignment. I could put a historical value into these small towns I wrote about and see some of the back sided, under rated and little known areas of our great country. 

The first thing I noticed about Identity Village was how barren it seemed. There isn’t much here to begin with, a two-lane highway that needing repair separated it. I thought it was odd that up until I reached the town limits, the highway was in good shape. The buildings were silvery-gray from years of the desert sun baking the wood. On the right side of the main road stood a general store, a post office, library, and a doctor’s office, who also claimed to do dental work. The left side supported a motel, Movie Theater, café and a dingy saloon. In front of the saloon were a couple of motorcycles, Harley-Davidson, and so I pulled in next to them. It was the only place in the town I saw any type of motorized vehicle. Any sign of life.

The next thing I noticed when I stepped out of the car was the sunlight, as if I stepped into an eclipse. It was cold. It’s mid-July and one in the afternoon, in the middle of the Mojave desert.... A breeze ruffled my hair. I turned around, searching the buildings to see if some body popped out from one of them. Then scanned the town. It was then I noticed the lace of activity. No birds, no dogs. Nothing. My scalp tingled, and red flags were waving, but I thought it was just me, spooked at nothing. I liked to think I could sense it if something were amiss. Journalists are supposed to have that extra sense but I’m not so sure now. I climbed back into my car and pulled out my cameras; a digital Olympus Stylus 800 and an old Minolta range finder I had for over thirty years, and started taking pictures, jotting several notes about the town when two men came out of the saloon.

 “Somethin’ we can help you with?” A tall, thin framed man that looked to be in his thirties spoke. Something about his coal black eyes and stiff manner made me feel uneasy. I wanted to run back to my car, slam the door and get the hell out of Identity Village. Still, being curious, I smiled at the men, and stuck out my hand.

 “Hello, name’s Sam. I’m a writer and I’m writing a piece about small towns. I saw the sign,” I hitched my thumb down the street. “I thought it had an interesting name. So I wanted to come check it out.” I grinned, a little too widely I suppose. My hand still extended, which neither man offered to shake. “Well, uh.” I pulled my hand back and chuckled, a little too high pitched, perhaps. I struggled to find words. I have to say I was a little creeped out by their deadpan expressions. “You all live here?” I grinned again.

 “Yeah.” They continued to stare. I don’t think either one ever blinked.

 “Oh, well uh, that is, could I ask you a few questions about the town?”

 “No.”

 “Oh.” Now what do I do? Grin like a baboon was my choice of action. “I’ll tell you what; let me buy you two a beer! I sure could use one!” There was that high-pitched chuckle again.

They parted the way. “After you.” The tall, skinny guy finally smiled, but it sent an involuntary shudder down my spine. Just like the sunlight, there, but not. Slowly, I went between them and stepped inside the saloon. 

There were at least a half dozen people inside, bartender included. Two of them were playing pool, a young woman stood by the jukebox looking at the song list. Two other people sat in a booth eating. My new “friends” and I walked up to the bar and ordered our beer. I looked around; it was dark like most bars. The only lighting are above the pool tables and behind the bar. Other than that, the only source of light came from the jukebox. Despite its bleak exterior, the interior was nice. The brass work shined, no rips or tears on the stools. The paint on the walls looked fresh, and the floor was clean.

I handed the men who escorted me each a beer. Without a thank-you, they took their drinks, then went to a booth and sat down. I opted for a stool, watching the pool players. I must have guzzled mine because the bartender asked me if I wanted another one. “Sure! I like a cold fresh beer and that first one tasted pretty good!” I waved the bottle and showed him the baboon grin. 

 “That’ll be two-fifty.”

I handed him five dollars. “You live here?” I asked him, that beer sure had me relaxed. The second one would throw any misgivings I had out the door.

 “Got my place upstairs.” He started polishing the wooden surface of the bar top. 

I told him how I came to find his quaint little town and would he mind if I asked him some questions. 

 “Depends on what you ask.”

 “Just the standards, you know, how long you’ve lived here. What are the towns’ charms, history, that sort of thing.”

 “We got a library.”

 “I noticed. I’ll be sure to check it out later.” I took a long drink from the beer. When I do an article, I like to talk to the people who live in the featuring town. You know, for a personal touch.”

 “There’s nothing charming about Identity.” The woman, who was standing by the jukebox when I came in, walked up and sat on the stool next to me.

I offered my hand; she too simply stared at me. “There has to be something about your town that is unique. Inquiring minds will want to know!”

 “Well, unique isn’t what I could call it.”

 “Sarah!” The other fellow that I first encountered spoke up. His voice had an edge to it like he was sending a warning. It was kind of funny, and not in a humorous way either. I stared at the man and I swear I thought I saw something in his eyes, evil is what came to mind.

 “I didn’t say a thing, besides he’ll see sooner or later.”

See what? My head whipped around back at the woman. “What’s that?” 

 “Oh.” Sarah glanced over at the two men in the booth and smirked. “It’s what gives our little town its unique charm.” She tilted her bottle up, draining it. She set the bottle down and stared at me. She too, had the coal black irises and the same deadpan expression. 

All of a sudden, I didn’t want my beer. It was half-full, but because I thought if I tried to leave too quickly; I might not make it to my car, so I nursed it, played it cool.

I had to check in at the run-down motel because my tire was flat. I could have sworn I had a spare. One of the pool players ran the gas station at the far end of town. He said he was closed for the night and wasn’t very sure he could help me out anyway. The sun was setting, it bathed the clouds in oranges, pinks, and purples. Far off I could make out a flock of birds riding on the thermals. It’s what I love about the desert; a person could see beauty in a parched land. I strolled along the storefronts, stopping in the tiny café.

The waitress came and took my order; she too had that weird stare. I pretended to read over my notes. The food was actually good. I went to the cash register where the cook was going over the receipts.

 “Food was good, by the way.”

 “Thanks. Glad you enjoyed it.”

 “What time do you open?”

 “After sunrise, er,uh, nine a.m.” He leaned toward me and whispered. “Look, I’ve only been here a month, there’s something I think you need to know. Stay inside. When you get back to your room, lock your door and don’t look out the windows.”

Uh-oh. I had to chuckle, “Don’t tell me the boogey man runs wild.” 

 “I warned you, it’s best if you listen.”

 “Well, if it’s so horrible, why don’t you just leave?”

 “I’ve tried, several times. They won’t let me.” He kept watching the front door of the café and the swinging doors leading to the kitchen. “Just keep your door locked and get out first thing in the morning when the sun comes up. Maybe you won’t get noticed.” He twisted around and snatched up the tickets and cash drawer.

I thanked him then left. I headed back to the motel watching every building entrance, every alley. I kept a close eye on the saloon because I wanted to make sure I had enough space between it and the motel in case I had to run. I picked up the pace, just a little so it wouldn’t appear as though I was scared to death. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any stranger, they did. Walking on the wooden sidewalks made my footsteps echo in the growing darkness. There weren’t any streetlights, just what came from the houses and businesses. Instead of warmth, a sense of security, the light seemed to stop at the windows, no poetic spilling into the streets. I stopped off at my car and grabbed my luggage. I noticed a cat crossing the highway, coming towards me.

It came within a couple of feet, watching me as I gathered my things. “Hello kitty.” I bent down rubbing my fingers together, trying to coax it over. It was the first animal I had seen since arriving in Identity Village. At first it hesitated, then trotted over, smelling my hand. I started petting it and that’s when it got downright freaky. I could feel the bones moving. I snatched my hand away and backed up. It wasn’t a cat; it was a chicken!

 “What the hell?” I stumble up onto the sidewalk. My mouth dropped open when it changed back into a cat and jumped up on the hood of the car, staring at me. From out of nowhere, a scrawny cow walked slowly in the middle of the highway; the only sound is the clop, clop of its hooves. I could feel the air pressure drop. The luggage felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. My feet felt as though they were made of lead as I tried to move them to the entrance of my room.

I watched in horror as the animal changed from bovine to bulldog, to a coyote. As it continued its trek to where ever it was going, he let out a warble that made my blood freeze. I saw something about five feet away rush into a shadow, I don’t know what it is, and I don’t want to find out. I fumble around with the room key, finally getting inside to safety.

It’s nearly midnight; the town is alive. I hear things slithering on the sidewalk, footsteps of something heavy across the street. Once I heard a growl at my door, and sniffing, like tracking a scent, then laughter. Insane laughter. I know I’m not supposed to look out the window, but I have to. It’s the reporter inside that’s just gotta know because inquiring minds want to know. 

I don’t suppose my readers will get to read my article about Identity Village. They won’t know the questions there fore, there will be no answers. I think I should have listened to the cook from the café. I had to look, what I saw, was hell itself. A demon, nine feet at least, staring right at me. It smiled. The same smile that the tall thin man gave me, except it had two rows of sharp teeth like a shark. Long black, curled talons and cloven hooves, its skin has pustule and oozing sores. I don’t think I’ll get out of here. I hope someone finds this journal.