I heard today's story when I was 22, still a college kid. I'd stopped at a gas station on the outskirts of Memphis, on my way from DC to Houston, to visit a friend for spring break.

I'd somehow managed to take a kind of scenic route through the far end of Tennessee.

Wasn't intentional, but shit happens.

Anyways, I went inside the station to pay for my tank,

and while I was pulling out my wallet, I saw a yellowing flyer taped to the

plexiglass divided by the register. And it was, I don't know. I guess haunting is about the best

word I can think of. It had a photo of the

smiling middle-age bottle blonde and a polka dot blouse. She was holding up

some kind of roast and big lettering under her picture it said missing.

But it was the words below that freaked me out because someone had scribbled another

message there,

telling all who beheld this piece of paper

that Ms. Pocodot Roast had met some vicious, ungodly fate.

And there was one place identified in all capital letters to blame, Voodoo Village.

When I looked up the cashier was watching me with a knowing smile, like he knew what I was

dying to ask. And even though I sure as hell didn't want to give

him the satisfaction, I went ahead and asked it, what's Voodoo Village?

The cashier Smirk grew and I noticed a few things about him.

First of all, his name tag, Rick.

He also had a Falcon tattoo on his clavicle and a lot of intensity in that stare of his,

probably stood behind his plexiglass all day, waiting to tell tales to anyone who would listen,

which was lucky for me, because I wanted to hear

...