Who is Mendacious Smith?

This is my entry for The Friday Challenge for 1/22/10

"Who is Mendacious Smith?"
by snowdog

Ida Mae Weaver sat down cautiously in the old wooden rocker and motioned me into the hanging bench swing. She picked up a tall, sweaty glass of sweet tea and sipped at it briefly. Then she gazed out over the rolling fields and started to speak in a slow drawl.

"Mendacious Smith." she said. "Now, I haven't heard that name in... lord, in years, Mister Johns. Mendacious wasn't his real name, of course. It was Trevor. Folk started calling him Mendacious when he started telling them tall stories." She paused and shook her head. "I'll never forget that first time. He must have been about seven. I used to keep the Smith children while their father--rest his soul--he used to work down at the sawmill."

I nodded impatiently, this was information I already had.

"Dangerous job," she said, then turned to me. "But anyhow, Mendacious came running through the back door like his britches were on fire! He was shouting 'Miss Ida! Miss Ida! I saw a monster out in the garden!' I said, 'What are you talking about, child?' and he said 'It's a huge monster! Like in that story you read me.'" She laughed, "Children have such imaginations at that age, you know, so I didn't think much of it."

"Indeed," I said, flipping open my notebook. "Did he describe this monster?"

Her brow wrinkled in thought. "No, sir. I can't say that he did. But if it was anything like in that-"

"The book," I interrupted. "Do you still have it?"

"Why, yes. I believe I do." Ida stood, unsteadily at first. "You wait here. Are you sure I can't get you any tea. It's hot as Hades out here."

She wasn't kidding. I could feel the sweat forging a stream down my spine. "No ma'am, I'm fine. Thanks."

The screen door slammed behind her and I took the opportunity lean back in the swing and take in the view. Smith sure picked a warm and peaceful place to grow up. The hot August breeze moved stealthily through acres of farm land, rocking stalks of wheat here and tugging at corn tassels there, but somehow never making an appearance on the front porch. I removed my Fedora and fanned my face with it.

The screen door creaked again.

"There were several I used to read to him, but this one was reserved especially for Halloween. He brought it to me, said he borrowed it from his father. I never quite got around to getting it back to him before-"

I rudely snatched the book from her. There it was, right on the cover. The beast was basically humanoid in form, but its joints were bent at impossible angles creating obscene bulges in its hulking physique. It was covered with reddish hair and sported more than a mouthful of stalactitic teeth. The painting didn't give any indication of scale, but I knew them to be at least ten to twelve feet in height.

"Mister Johns, what's the matter? Are you alright?"

"Mrs. Weaver," I said, showing her the book. "There are, at this moment, at least five of these creatures terrorizing the east side of Manhattan, where he lives now."

The glass of tea hit the concrete with a crash and an ice cube bounced off my shoe.

"So, all those stories..." she said in a low tone. "Mendacious wasn't lying after all."

"No, ma'am. He wasn't lying. He was creating."