Old Man Hemmings, his memory a twisted map of Mt. Holly's hidden histories, would often point a gnarled finger towards the empty lot on the edge of town. "Holly Chemical," he'd croak, a hint of grim satisfaction in his voice. "Sold the juice for the stiffs. 'Service Is Our Business,' their sign used to say. Irony, thick as formaldehyde fumes."
For years, Holly Chemical Co. was the town's morbid secret, the quiet supplier of embalming fluids to the undertakers. Formaldehyde, methanol, a cocktail of chemicals designed to cheat decay – that was their stock in trade. This very rain gauge, likely a cheap promotional giveaway, a stark juxtaposition against their grim profession, would have been a fleeting reminder of their unsettling presence. Their old "AM 7-1770" phone number connected them to a time when the potential hazards of their business were perhaps less understood, less regulated.
They operated in the shadows, their deliveries to funeral homes swift and discreet. Most of Mt. Holly remained blissfully unaware of the volatile concoctions stored in their unassuming warehouse, the potential for disaster simmering just beyond the town's consciousness.
Then, on a sweltering September afternoon in '85, the hidden threat became terrifyingly real. The air, heavy with humidity, was suddenly ripped apart by the shriek of sirens. But it was the smell that truly chilled the blood – a searing, chemical stench that clawed at the throat and spoke of something deeply wrong. It was Holly Chemical.
The warehouse had become an inferno, the very substances meant to preserve the dead now fueling a violent blaze. Toxic fumes, a cocktail of formaldehyde and other dangerous chemicals, billowed into the sky, a poisonous cloud hanging over Mt. Holly. Hazmat teams descended, their protective suits a stark testament to the lethal nature of the fire. The "service" Holly Chemical provided had morphed into a dire threat to the health and safety of the entire community.
Old Man Hemmings watched the smoke from his porch, a grim knowing in his eyes. "Always said that stuff was trouble," he muttered, the acrid smell a stark confirmation of his long-held suspicion. The fire wasn't just an accident; it was a brutal unveiling of the inherent toxicity of their business, a stark reminder of the potential for death to beget even more danger.
This rain gauge, a simple instrument meant to measure life-giving water, now carries the stench of that toxic fire. It's a relic of a business steeped in the macabre, a silent witness to the day their "service" nearly choked the very air of Mt. Holly. It stands as a stark and unsettling reminder that sometimes, the most necessary services can harbor the most insidious dangers, leaving a lasting, toxic legacy.