“…First, drive up Pinewood Ave until you hit the grasslands. Floor it from then on. You might be thinking of turning tail after forty or fifty minutes, but don’t hit the brake. Just don’t.

It’s a straight line down. Straight line back. Otherwise, you’ll be bad news, kid.

Near the end of the road, past the abandoned construction job and empty trailers, you’ll find Molly’s place — the diner parked in nowhere. End of the line. It’ll still be open; heck, I guess it never closed. I bet you’ve been told. Just knock if you want in.”

Berry sipped his morning coffee, then glanced at me.

“You alright, son?” The ranch hand sized me up fast. Forty years my senior, hands like gloves, he wore his sun-beaten tan with a long grey beard, a dreamcatcher necklace, and a reddish-brimmed hat. Other cowboys called him “Wizard.” I stuck with Ol’ Berry.

He was right to ask — I wasn’t. The more locals I spoke with, the more this felt like a death wish. Journalism is one thing, but how was I supposed to explain to my paper that I was following up on a lead I had in a nightmare? It felt crazy. But I wanted Molly.

“Oh yeah,” I lied, trying to conceal my city-mouse energy. “But… open?”

Berry took another gulp, set his cup on the fence while we watched the cows graze. “Yep. Open for business.”

“How’s that possible?”

“Her beasty.”

That was the first time I heard about a creature. Local teens talked about daring each other to go into the diner. They said you could even order something if you were brave enough. Old-timers swore Molly was alive and kind as ever, but that she’d moved far away to L.A. Berry’s version was different — he knew Molly. He was a regular.

I scribbled away in my notepad as the sun rose. The American West came alive around this hometown legend. “Beasty?”

“Pet, I guess.” He scratched his beard. “First sightings decades ago. Allen Hill first caught a glimpse of the damn thing — tore his chicken coop to hell. Squashed the dang birds! Just flattened the poor hens. Hill boys weren’t too pleased, I’ll tell you that. Him and his sons stayed up the next night with rifles. Built a new coop, filled it with new birds. One night passed, then two. Finally, on the third, Molly’s beast returned.”

“What is it?”

“Nothin’ kind.” He spilled a Dunkin’ dribble down his chin, then whistled at the cows getting rowdy. “Calm it down, girls!”

“But… what did it look like?”

“That’s the problem.” Berry looked through me like he was staring into the Town of Rostock’s history. “Story goes, Terry Hill saw it first — ‘bout twelve, I reckon. He fled, leaving Allen and Jacob behind. Both men were found the next day, in the dirt like the hens.”

“Flat?!” I wondered aloud. I tried to imagine a farmer in two dimensions, then realized the blood it must’ve involved — and the cartoon vanished.

“Like flapjacks. Sheriff’s deputy Carter Mason — the former mayor’s son, bless him — thought it was a ‘meteorological event.’ Told the town, the news, and anyone else stupid enough to listen that an asteroid might kill you on the way to work. The preacher man,” Berry moved to his morning cigarette, “the Billy Graham wannabe with the eyesore church up on Main? Son of a gun said it was an ‘Act of God’ the Hill men died. Told his flock Allen and Jacob — two tithers to his purse — were smited for missing the Sunday prior! Preached it from the pulpit with Allen’s widow, Sissy Hill, sitting right there in the blasted front row. Can you believe it? Thank heavens that sweet woman is deaf as a stump.” He smacked his lips in disapproval.

His folksy wisdom grew thin with sidetracks. I wanted him back on target. “What happened to Terry?” I asked, a bit sheepishly.

“That’s the thing — kid went missing for a good while. Rumor was he ran into the grasslands. Two years later, Officer Mason found him in a shallow creek, alive. A hiker had spotted him, but—” Berry looked shook up, like reliving the news, “the kid was all muscle. Said it was like seeing a skinned animal.” He shuddered, thinking about a peeled person.

“How didn’t this get reported?”

“Shoot,” he snorted. “Sure as shit did. Just not to Fox, CNN, or the other Jewish networks—” I tried to hide my concern at that comment. Being Jewish and a journalist, Berry might not have been willing to chat if I’d been completely forthright.

“—No, no,” he continued. “Went to Uncle Sam. Real Men in Black-type stuff. They went around asking questions. Stayed like that for a few months. Greg Habit — the drunk — vanished with them in town. His wife said it was because he was actually CIA.” He scoffed. “But most folks tried to pay it no mind. Still, they kept snooping. Pull up on you around the ranch, spooking my cattle every damn day. About that time, Molly started feeding ‘her baby’ in the back of the diner. Her place had been there forever. Molly — older gal, no kids — so we all thought the old bat got herself a dog or kitty cat. Fine by us; kind woman deserved a partner.”

“Where’d she find it? What—” I stopped myself. In my nightmare, an older woman in an apron begged me to take care of her baby.

“Son,” he looked down, “Molly… good woman. But she’d lost it. At that point she was eighty-seven with no retirement. She’d still come out to give coffee to all of us — smiling, but not all there. Talk about her baby’s smooth skin.” Berry began to fidget with his belt. With a sigh, he finished the cigarette. “One day, an agent came in, being nosey as usual. Asshat pushed behind the counter. Demanded to see what Molly had in the back — her ‘baby.’ She told him to get to steppin’. He refused. She pleaded with him not to take her dog away. I tried to tell him to back off, but more agents were waiting outside. He stormed in the back. We waited… then waited longer. No scream. No march back. Molly went into the back and came out holding the folded-up man’s suit — with the man’s face folded on top.”

Berry tried to explain from there, but he couldn’t. He whispered: “Skin for skin.”

“What?” I asked, startled to realize the day had fully arrived, carrying this haunted story.

“It’s what she said when she showed us the clothes. Listen, kid — go up there. The agent shut that entire area down. Molly, I bet, is gone. But young idiots from outta town roll in looking for her all the time.”

He started to walk away. “I feel drawn there,” I said, the thought leaping from my mind to my mouth.

“Like I said — straight shot. Don’t stop. It lives in the tall grass.”

“How do you know?”

“That’s where I’d hide.”