[Stylist] gothic?

Thu Oct 10 18:52:15 UTC 2019

Hello,

Not sure if this qualifies as gothic or not, but here goes. As background, I
live in Danbury, Connecticut. A hundred years ago Danbury was known as 'hat
City', since there were 3 large hat manufacturers and something like 90% of
the hats worn by men and women in the United States were made here. As the
fashion disappeared, and the medical conditions associated with exposure to
mercury (used in the manufacturing process) became better understood(see Mad
Hatter's Disease) in the mid 20th century the businesses went away.  

All comments welcome.

Cursed

By Chris Kuell

After nine hours of cubicle confinement at work, I enjoy sitting on my front
porch with a  few cold beers, watching the world roll by. This evening, I
was sitting in my usual spot when this old-timer ambled down the sidewalk
and started poking through my trash.

"Nothing worthwhile  in there," I said.

He turned to look at me as if the muscles of his neck were frozen, fixing me
with a cold glare. it was difficult to see his eyes through the mulched
flesh which was his face. What wasn't covered by  a tangled, gray beard
appeared as though it had been massaged with a cheese grater, then baked in
the sun for a few weeks. His clothes, tattered nineteenth century rejects,
looked like he'd pulled them from a dumpster at Sturbridge Village. 

"Didn't your mother teach you not to stare?"

"Sorry, " I mumbled.

He cocked his head, eyeing me like an unusual specimen at the zoo. "If'n
you'll share one of those ales, I'll tell ya my tale."

Not fond of communicable diseases, I simply twisted off the cap and handed
him a beer.

He nodded, took a long swallow, and licked his lips in appreciation. "You
married?"

"Divorced," I said. "Twice."

"You're better off. Women's nothin' but trouble." He took a crooked finger
and pointed to his gnarled face. "That's how I ended up like this."

He took a seat, drained his beer, and began. "Twas back in '74. Harriet was
a sweet thing, twenty years younger'n me, the eldest of farmer Woodfin's
three daughters. I had a good job at the Jenkins hat factory-Danbury was the
hat capitol in them days. We had a nice house, went to church and town
meetings regular, I thought everythin' twas grand."

I took his empty, and handed him another.

"Much obliged," he said."One afternoon, I cut my hand on the leather slicer,
and old boss Jenkins sent me home. Imagine my surprise when I seen Jenkin's
boy leaving me house as I'm approachin. At home, I asks, 'What's Jenkin's
boy doing here?' Harriet gets all red in the face, and tells a whopper about
his findin' a fine pair of ladies boots, and wouldn't she like to have 'em."

He paused to drink, then wiped his lips on the back of a hand that looked
like it had been through the smokehouse. "Next day, I see Jenkin's boy, and
tell 'em if he goes near Harriet again I'll show him what the slicer can do
to a man's arm. The little bastard just smiled, and says if'n I want to keep
my job, and my pretty wife in fine clothes, I'll just shut up and leave him
be. I grabbed the first thing I could find, an iron paddle used in the
tannin' vats. Jenkin's boy never smiled again."

He scratched at something in his crotch, then continued. "After that, I lost
my mind for a bit. I know I couldn't let anyone find what I'd done. We had
several tanks of kerosene out back. I poured some over the boy, on the
machines, then I used my flint to start everything ablaze. In my hurry, I
hadn't noticed how much kerosene had splashed onto me, so I went up as
well."

He turned his grizzled face to me. "As the flames of hell tore at my flesh,
I cursed the entire Jenkins family for what they'd made me do. All their
decendents would burn the same way I had, every last one of them."

I polished off my beer, contemplating the horror which this old guy had been
through. Imagine doing that, committing murder, then disfiguring yourself
like that. "I'm so sorry, Mister."

"Dunham," he said, standing and handing me his empty bottle. "Patrick
Dunham. Thank ye for the hospitality."

He wandered off down the sidewalk, leaving me to ponder his story. I grabbed
my cooler and headed inside. The first thing I did was grab my grandmother's
bible. In it, she had a fairly detailed family tree. It didn't take long for
me to find the name I thought was there.  Hiram Jenkins, born 1834, died
1882. Two sons, Walter and Robert, and one daughter, Elizabeth. Elizabeth
married Lewis Westfall, they had two daughters, one of whom married Herbert
Townsend-my great, great grandfather.

Next, I googled, finding paydirt with the fourteenth hit. from the Newark
Daily Advocate, October 2, 1874. A fire broke out at approximately four
o'clock yesterday afternoon at the Jenkins Hat Company, 48 Elm Street,
Danbury, Conn. Two employees,Patrick  Dunham, and Robert Jenkins, the
owner's son, were killed in the fire, and about two dozen others were
treated for smoke inhalation. Damages are estimated at nearly $39,000.

It goes without saying, I went to bed pretty freaked out. Sleep did not come
easy, and when it did, my dreams were filled with flames and sizzling flesh
and burning hats. At first, I incorporated the buzzing sound into my dreams,
but my coughing brought me from the depths of slumber into the firey hell of
my room engulfed in flames, the smoke detector honking frantically before
being consumed by the inferno. 

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