INTRODUCTION
What a remarkable time, 1956, to be living in the town of ‘Saint Cloud’ in Barron County; that is to say, if you were a homicidal fiend; but indeed, not so good if you were among those modest inhabitants who fell prey to such evildoers.
Saint Cloud can be found in the northwest expanse of Oklahoma, known as the ‘Pan Handle’ which borders the four states of Colorado, Texas, Kansas and New Mexico. The meager community is right off highway 56, and is home to some two hundred and ninety-nine hard workin' souls; the majority of which have fallen on tough times, or so they believed.
Yet, most of the town's upper crust--those individuals who give themselves way too much prominence--is mighty anxious concerning little Stacy ‘Lollypop’ Steimel; who is just scarcely eighteen, and comes from the wrong side of the tracks--if you catch my drift--and just happens to be with child.
It goes without saying, many Christian folks were off-put by the fact she came to be knocked-up, out-of-wedlock, and that Stacy won't name the little cuss who caused this dire circumstance; which is probably a good thing, since the residents around here would surely beat the bejesus out of him, if they knew of his identity.
Just between you and me, it was that Bobby Taylor boy; a good-for-nothin' out-and- out scoundrel if there ever was one. Wouldn't surprise me at all to see his picture one day down at the post office; hangin’ up on the FBI's top-ten most wanted bulletin board, yes sir to be sure.
But what seems to be upsetting the Christian community leaders more, is that with her baby's birth, the town of Saint Cloud will hit the big three hundredth mark; something that hasn't been achieved in over twenty-five years. Their concern is that it will be her baby that finally gets them to that glorious milestone, and that everyone will know her little darling is a 'bastard.'
Now, it may seem strange, but there could be a savin’ grace on the horizon--as some holy rollers see it, or what I affectionately call the town snobs--as old man Dietzel, who is ninety-six, is knockin’ on deaths door as we speak. Should he kick-the-bucket before Stacy has her little ‘bastard’ then the town census would still be two hundred and ninety-nine, when the so-called blessed event comes ‘round. I'd like to be able to say with certainty that no one is prayin' for old man Dietzel's death; but that would surely be a lie.
So now, with that little bit said, let's get to the heart of the matter, shall we. They never imagined things could be any worse off, until the murders brought forth the nightmarish fear that would soon engulf the once complacent and friendly little township. All kinds of eerie goings-on would be comin’ out the woodwork; séance’s, ghosts, dark spirits, mediums, aliens, walk-ins, zombies and all manner of bizarre things that go against good Christian tolerances.
Well, on the flip side of that coin, those who accept as true, those who call themselves ‘New Agers’ and whatnot, will most likely see what emerges as simply nothin’ more than life lessons occurring unsurprisingly in accordance with universal laws, or some such gibberish. I myself am stickin’ to the bible no matter how much those so-called ‘Enlightened Seekers’ say it’s full of horse-hockey; when their time comes on judgment day, it won't be old Saint Peter who answers their knock at the pearly gates; but surely indeed, it will be none other than Satan himself.
Now then, the pale-blue skies shine mind-numbingly over the parched landscape in this quiet province of our great republic. The dusty flat prairies afford one the ability to see far enough into the dreary distance; where nothin’ of any eminence stands out; other than some cows and horses scattered around the seared remnants of arid wheat and hay fields. Most folks hereabouts are not too highly accomplished when it comes to schooling; with the exception of a few who hold important titles in the forlorn municipality.
Never see an average feller wearin’ a fancy coat nor tie; mainly simple fare such as dog-eared straw hats, tattered T-shirts, faded knee-patched denims and leather high-top work boots. Women wear light, drab-colored dresses which come a tad down past their knees; never ‘god forbid’ see one wearin’ pants of any make or kind, and only the local harlots wear demon inspired red lipstick, flashy makeup and nail varnish; those Jezebel's who are stalked late at night by the horny, sweaty men of dire character who seek out the taverns of ill repute.
For the most part, Saint Cloud is running a good ten years behind the rest of the country, that is, when it comes to new fades and the like. Elvis Presley may be on his way to bein’ a big sensation; but here, nary a teenager has heard of this fine fellow. No bobbysoxer’s swooning over his hip-swinging gyrations in this backwoods little community. No colored folk here ‘bouts neither. Not one soul in Saint Cloud could ever make the claim they met one in person, no siree.
Simple and cheap old-styled colonial one story homes with their faded, decrepit white picket fences; with even older homes still sporting the rust covered wrought-iron fences, and the old pale-white outhouses; to be found lined alongside the sandy paved lanes, with the exception of a few ostentatious homes of the more affluent.
Down on Main Street, where street lamps abound, the buildings of purpose can be found--Dalton Main Bank, Jefferson Davis Memorial Library, J.K. Peterman Post Office, and the Saint Cloud Municipal Complex--which houses the Mayor's Office, Coroner’s Office and Cold Storage Unit, Police Department and Jail--the Bozeman Café, Mueller's Drugstore, Zeeks Barber Shop, and Milly's Dress Shop among others--the roads there are a bit better maintained, and kept free of sand and blowin’ tumbleweed; well, most of the time anyway, unlike the rest of the town.
No movin’ picture shows; have to drive to Millersburg, some 22 miles away for that kind of high-toned showbiz. Yet most folks don’t go anyway; can’t afford the gas, nor the price of an afternoon matinee. Have only three insignificant grocery stores and one large one called Franklin's Market; but most have all the basics needed to sustain life of the common man; booze, cigarettes, German-baloney, taters and baked beans; among other palatable edibles. Phillips 66 station is the largest serving the local community, and it does sport three main gas pumps and one smaller diesel pump with 'full service' at all times. The other station, Shell, is only half its size, but still does a brisk business.
The old Lumber Mill is located only about seven and a half miles outside of town; yet, looks like it may be heading for hard times as out-of-state competition is tryin’ to move in. The Saint Cloud Area School building--which hosts all grades--is only a stone’s throw from main street, and was once the home of the 'Steinmann's Sewing Machine Factory' before it finally succumbed to financial difficulties back in 1932; a victim of the great depression no less.
The local ancestry of this simple town is mainly English, German and Irish; in that order. Most folks are employed through the lumber mill, ranchin', farmin', and the like; while the others simply work for the fore mentioned businesses and going concerns of town life.
Fear was about to clench its ugly grip on this sleepy hamlet, as on that first fateful day of May 13th, 1956; the first ghastly murder would come to full light and the town folk’s reaction would run the gauntlet from simple blather to finger pointin’ and suspicion of anyone who weren’t a resident, or considered a good Christian.
I'm truly not sure why some folks get so worked up about dyin' since it’s such an expected and common thing. Yet, some folks just love to run around all scared and fearful and worryin’ about every little thing; just a sad way to live your life if you ask me. Such was the mindset of the townsfolk of Saint Cloud; that is, before the quick sting of death came forth to wreak havoc on the ruthless and virtuous alike.