In SEARCH of the PETRIFIED COW

Young adult fiction, 1900 words

In Search of the Petrified Cow 

nadia giordana

Young adult fiction

1914 words 

On the outskirts of the small town of Midtown, Minnesota, surrounded by tall corn, clover fields, and rolling landscapes, situated right dead in the center of the state, should anyone care to measure, sits an old barn. Listing precariously to one side, it stood in defiance of time and the elements for as long as anyone living there could remember. 

Once you could get the townspeople talking, the oral history in this place was a whole lot more fantastical than truthful, as most would admit. Some confessed to having participated in futile or aborted excursions in search of the notorious petrified cow. 

It all started with a pseudo-legend kept alive by whispers among the local youth. A tale of a petrified cow hidden away in the bowels of an old barn on an abandoned farm. Nobody knew how it got there or why, but the mere mention of it was enough to send shivers down the spines of all but the bravest kids. The thrill of the unknown and the fear of the supernatural were all part of the allure. 

As the story goes, it stands in the corner of a creaky and neglected barn somewhere less than 5 miles from the center of town. How it became petrified, or how anyone knew that particular factoid, was never shared, nor did anyone care. The challenge was always that one must go at night, never during the day, and take a photo of it as proof you had been there—but never to touch it. You get the idea. However, most dare-takers failed or chickened out when they had their chance. The barn remained a mystery, its secrets hidden from the community. Oh, one or two blurry photos were circulating, but it was impossible to determine whether those individuals had succeeded in their mission, and those few were not willing to tell where it was, even if they thought they'd found it. No one wanted the legend to die. 

The Wilson farm, it was called, though several families had come and gone since the Wilsons. The house was a burned-out hole in the ground partially filled in with dirt, debris, and trash from the property, along with the occasional appliance deposited under cover of darkness by farmers not willing to pay hard-earned cash to have them hauled away. After the fire, the last family to live there moved away, leaving the property to decay. There were a few other likely farms where the petrified cow might be hiding--if it existed at all, but most believed it was there at the Wilson place, where the haunting echoes of farm families from generations past lingered in the air like dust in the sunlight streaming in through the cracks of the walls.

And on this steamy August evening, a group of teenagers gathered to hatch a plan they hoped would go down in local legend. Among them was Jerry, the charismatic leader with a mischievous glint in his eye; Sonia, the logistical brains of the operation with a quick wit and a knack for trouble; Rusty, the quiet redhead whose loyalty knew no bounds; and Karen, the new girl in town with a fiery spirit, a thirst for adventure, and a solid desire to fit in.

They called themselves the Midtown Marvels, a fun-loving and rambunctious foursome bound together by a shared sense of boredom, daring, and a desire to shake things up in their sleepy little town. 

Tonight, they would indeed create a stir and, in the process, they hoped to become legends themselves. The plan was to find and move the petrified cow out of the barn, transport it to downtown main street in the dead of night, and leave it in the park next to the railroad tracks across from the Hi-10 bar. 

"I can't fathom why no one ever followed through with this. How scary can it be? We'll bring some equipment and tools, plenty of light, we know what to do. We'll be in and out in less than an hour," Jerry said to the huddled group.

And so, with flashlights in hand and a sense of mischief in mind, the Midtown Marvels set out to uncover the truth behind the stories they had heard. 

The next night, Jerry slipped through the back alleys and side streets, picking up Sonia and Karen, their laughter echoing through the air as they made their way to Rusty's house. He was the oldest and owned his own pickup truck. Old and beat up as it was, the faded and rusted, stone gray '55 Dodge pickup was dependable. All four squeezed into the front seat, girls in the middle, Karen sitting on Sonia's lap. They rode out to the old farmstead on the outskirts of town.

The headlights of the old Dodge illuminated the farmyard as they pulled into the driveway. The barn loomed before them, its windows dark. The gaping uppermost opening had long since lost its hay door, and someone had bolted the lower doors despite the structure looking like it might collapse at the first strong wind. 

But the Midtown Marvels were undeterred. With a snip of Jerry's bolt-cutters and a well-placed kick from Rusty, they were inside, the musty scent of decades-old manure and moldy hay hitting them square in their faces. Jerry and Rusty high-fived each other and, in fun, pushed Karen off-balance.

Ever the serious one, Sonia pipes up, "Watch your feet. There can be boards with nails sticking up. The last thing we need is one of you clowns to get a spike through their foot. I've seen it happen to my uncle, and it's awful, so stop it. I'm not kidding!"

Moving forward single file, still giggling, their flashlight beams skittered across the walls as they gingerly made their way deeper into the barn, hearts pounding with excitement and anticipation.

"I'm scared. What if we get caught? What if something bad happens?" Karen's voice wavered.

The rest looked at each other's shadowy faces and, daunted, they were about to agree with Karen and give up when they saw it: a massive shape, casting a distorted shadow against the adjoining wall, its form twisted and contorted like something out of a nightmare, the tell-tale black and white spots of a Holstein cow—or at least, what was left of it: Skeleton protruding in places, dried flesh, hide, leather, all intact and amazingly still standing upright in the corner next to the stone foundation. 

"It must have been preserved like this by the cool, dry, consistent temperature. But I have to wonder," Sonia said to the others, "How did it die in the first place? Why leave it here? Wouldn't it have toppled over? Did someone do something to keep it together like this? Perhaps a taxidermist who abandoned a too ambitious project?"

The mysterious apparition only deepened questions in the collective thoughts of the teens.

The terrifying, hollow eye sockets stared back at the not-so-brave-now teens in silent admonishment at its suffered indignities. For a moment, the Midtown Marvels stood frozen, the weight of the legend bearing down on them like a heavy tarp.

"Do we really want to move it?" Karen asked, serious doubt in her voice.

Then, with nervous laughs and shared glances, they all sprang into action. Sonia shouts, "C'mon! We're here. Don't wimp out," and directs the operation with the precision of a true leader, her knowledge of engineering and physics coming to the forefront, along with Jerry's experience as a summer farmhand. They devised a plan to move the massive hulk using the still-operational rope and pully system from the mow. 

They soon found two leather milker straps hanging from spikes on a door frame and fitted them under the front and back legs to make a belly sling to hold the carcass steady. 

"It isn't heavy, so much as it is awkward," said Jerry to the rest of the bunch. "This is much more like a dried-out, mummified cow than anything else. It's not petrified stone at all. As a loosely held together mummy, this creepy bag-o-bones will require careful handling."

With Rusty and Karen providing the muscle and Jerry serving as a lookout to be certain no one comes along, they set to work, their laughter mingling with the creaks and groans of the old building. It was a scene straight out of a heist movie, with each group member playing their part to perfection. After untangling and testing the rope apparatus, they attached it with bungee cords to the backstrap of the belly sling (which they held in place until they got the ropes taut enough to hold everything together. Inch-by-inch, they lifted "Dolly, the bag-o-bones," as they were calling it, up and out of the lower level of the barn (10 feet) through the oversized ladder climb-through. There, they stopped, secured the ropes, and let the prize hang there until all four regrouped in the hay mow to complete stage two of the operation. Once in the mow, they hoisted it all the way up 19 feet to the rail running horizontally towards the gaping hay door. All went well at the top, and the pulleys did their job as they clicked and switched the trajectory from vertical to horizontal and out to the hay hood, where they once again tied off the ropes. Sonia and Karen were to maintain the position as Jerry and Rusty hurried outside to guide Dolly down.

"Okay, give us a little rope," Jerry shouted to the girls. But without warning, Dolly descended too fast towards the waiting truck bed.

"Stop Sonia! Rusty, we're off-center!" yelled Jerry. "Move the truck! Move the truck! I can't hold it!" Girls, hang on, hold her back!"

Sonya and Karen rescued the operation, and Rusty re-positioned the truck.

"You stay here and hang on," Sonia said to Karen and hurried down to help Jerry.

"Okay now, let's work it the rest of the way down," Jerry said as he and Sonia simultaneously shouted commands to the other two.

Then as they were about to declare victory, Rusty, who had come back to help control the ropes, grabbed the trip line instead. "No, NO!" came the chorus from the other two. But it was too late. 

"Run! Jerry screamed as they all scattered to avoid the falling monstrosity. The tackle gave way, and Dolly plummeted the last 12 feet, missing the truck bed almost entirely and sending bones and bits of dry-rotted hide in all directions. The deafening crash echoed through the night air like a gunshot. Frantic shouts reverberated through the nearby trees as a collective jolt of disappointment rendered the Marvels dumbfounded.

But as the dust settled and the reality of their foolishness sank in, the teenagers couldn't help but laugh. For they would realize, perhaps not at that moment, but years later, when recounting their story, that it wasn't the petrified cow or the legend surrounding it that mattered. The thrill of the hunt, the mystery, the bonds of friendship, and the memories were what made it all worthwhile. 

And on that night, as they slipped out into the countryside, leaving the wreckage of their prank behind them, the Midtown Marvels knew they had succeeded, for they had proven that even in the most unlikely of places, adventure could always be found if you were willing to put your fears aside and reach for it.