“The Man on Malden Road”
By Kimberli Milhoan
It was late summer in the sleepy, small historic town of Malden, the kind of afternoon where the sun hits just right, and everything feels just a little too still. Justin was half-dozing, earbuds in, lying on the brick porch of the historic Putney House that he called home. The house, built in 1836, was whitewashed brick, and the entry was covered in hand-carved wooden details. The bells at the church across the street rang when something - or someone - pulled his attention back to the present.
It was a man walking slowly down the road, not like someone out for a jog or even a neighbor on a stroll. He moved with a kind of purpose, pausing every few steps to study the houses like he was memorizing them. His clothes were unusual. Old-fashioned, maybe even antique. He wore a long, dark coat that would’ve made more sense in a Civil War reenactment than a humid August afternoon in West Virginia.
Justin pulled out an earbud, his music replaced by the cicadas buzzing in the trees nearby. “Hey there, buddy,” he offered with his Appalachian accent and a slight wave. The man turned, as if surprised to be noticed. “Good afternoon, young man.” His voice was warm but formal, like someone used to speaking in front of people.
“You lost?” Justin asked, standing up from the porch. “We kind of know everyone around here.” “No, not lost,” the man said. He stepped closer to the Putney House and looked up at the second-floor windows. “Just visiting. This one... this house is still standing.”
Justin followed his gaze. “You know it?”
“I ought to,” he replied, his eyes fixed on the porch. “I used to live here. We moved in when I was barely old enough to reach the windowsill.”
Justin stared at him, trying to recall all the stories of previous owners his mom had told him, and not placing anyone still alive aside from the lady they bought it from. There was Richard Putney, the physician who built it way back when, his son Garland, his daughter Mary. Then it went to the church, and then the lady we bought it from. “Wait… like, you lived here? In this house?” Justin asked, skeptical of the man’s claim.
The man nodded. “Yep, a long time ago, as it is. The salt works were thriving then. The river out back, Kanawha, used to carry steamboats loaded with salt bound for Cincinnati and beyond. I can still hear the whistles when I close my eyes.”
The details came so naturally, so genuinely. The man walked to the edge of the porch and looked toward the street. “We called this area Kanawha Salines. Most people today just call it Malden. Is that what you call it?” “Yeah, we call it Malden, but wasn’t it Kanawha Salines a long, long time ago?” Justin leaned against the house, suddenly interested. “So... you’re like a historian or something?”
“Something like that.” The man’s gaze grew distant. “Not many people remember anymore. But I remember the day the Federals came through, mud on their boots, soot in their beards. They were retreating, but their enemies followed close behind, and for a moment we thought the town might be lost to fire.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, worn leather notebook. “I wrote about it all in here. The fear. The cannon fire. The women gathering up the children.”
Justin shivered, despite the heat, as the feeling of realization passed over him.
The man smiled gently. “People forget what happened here. The salt, the war, the people who built this place. I suppose I just wanted to see what became of it all.” They stood in silence for a moment, the only sound was the train whistle blowing in the distance.
“Hey…” Justin asked, “what’s your name?”
The man turned, already stepping back toward the road. “Garland,” he said. “Garland Putney.”
Justin’s jaw dropped. “But that’s…”
Garland tipped his hat. “Time doesn’t always move in a straight line, kid. Sometimes it loops.” And with that, he walked on, his coat catching the light just long enough for Justin to know: he really was from around here.