***
Hal struck a match across his muck encrusted boot and used it to light the iron lamp hanging from the roof. Bugs began to swirl instantly, attacking the flame with their winged bodies. Shadows danced in the fading light.
The trees were dark now. Sometimes Hal swore he could see faces looking back at him from the swamp. These were dead souls, he believed. And Lesh was sure of it. There were lots of dead souls in these swamps, she said. They would wander the marshes forever, never to rest.
Lesh knew things that most men did not.
The hill behind his shack was sullen and he knew how it felt. Hal crossed it every day to get to his job. On the other side the fields were waiting for the sun. For now, it was night and just beyond the light of the porch he could hear things creeping and crawling about. Predators were on the hunt. The darkness reminded him of how much of Africa was still in his blood, even though he had never been there. It was a genetic thing, passed down from man to man. He could feel the drums pulsing in his heart and he could see the spirits out there in the depths of night.
They affected Lesh even more. Sometimes she awoke when the moon was full, screaming aloud. This was because she was from Africa and Africa would always be a part of her. Lesh was the daughter of a witch doctor. As a child she had danced with the Loa.
Which is why she wanted to leave. Even though she rarely spoke of her time on the dark continent Hal could feel her dark secrets between them. There were unmapped roads all through her soul. When he looked in to her eyes he knew that she had seen things that should not have been seen. She had done things that should not have been done. She had come to Saint Sebastian to get away from them and now he knew why she wanted to leave. Lesh would never be able to spend any length of time in one place. For her there was no such thing as home.
The Loa would allow her no peace.
In her youth she had many cohorts. There were witch doctors and bonfires and warriors and black rhythms. There were spells cast by moonlight and Gods that the white man forgot. Now it was all a cloud over her mind, but it was still there, inside her. And there were things, looking for her. Hal thought about that old juju man that everyone called Gummer Jackson who lived in a cave. Once, shortly after they had gotten married, he caught her speaking to him in a strange language he had never heard before.
“You leave the occult alone,” he warned his young bride with a wagging finger. “And it will leave you alone. Leave it behind you. Forget about it. And don’t be talking to no witch doctor. That Gummer Jackson is crazy.” It seemed like good advice.
Only tonight things seemed different. Hal had seen red moons before. They were common enough in Saint Sebastian. But he had never seen one this shade of scarlet. Blood had been washed over the face of the heavenly white body. This was a bad night. He could feel it. Something was in the air. This was the sort of night when the dead walked like men and caused mischief and evil. This was a night when those of the true faith locked their doors and prayed to white gods while the heathens danced and sang, and chicken blood rained.
Hal leaned back in his old rocking chair and stared off into the night. Soon he would go inside and join Lesh in bed. But they would not make love tonight. Who knew what sort of offspring would be produced under this bloody moon.
Voices could be heard in the distance.
Hal sat up. They were coming from the top of the hill. He put his hand over his eyes and looked. There were shadows but there was nothing mystical about them. These were men crossing the hill and they held torches in their hands. He could see their hoods and he knew what they were.
White uniforms cloaked their bodies. Pointed hats sat on their heads. Like ghosts they came down the hill with their loose-fitting sheets blowing about them. And he knew why they were here.
It was that bitch, Mabel. He was in town buying a new bolt-lock for his door and he came across her in the shop. Mabel had said some things. He tried to ignore her. She told him that she had heard things about black men and how “big” they were. He told her that he had a wife. She got pissed and told him to get the fuck out of town and take his horse-cock with him. He said nothing, just walked out with her screaming after him.
Carefully he slipped inside the shack. Lesh sat beneath a lamp with an old book spread out on her lap. “What’s happening?” Her long hazel eyes were wide with fear. Hal smiled when he looked at her. There was a way her eyes glowed in the firelight that always made his heart melt.
“We have some visitors,” Hal said as he took the old rifle down off the wall. He snapped it open and checked the loads inside. “Unwelcome visitors.”
“Is it them?” Lesh asked.
“Just stay put,” he told her. “Don’t make any noise. I’ll handle this.”
“Are they ...”
“Damn it, Lesh. Stay here.”
Hal went back outside and locked the door behind him. The bolt, even though it was brand new, would not do much. The door itself was only a slim piece of particle wood. The men in white wore boots that were thick and made for combat. There was only one thing to do if he wanted to survive this night. Make the moon bleed.
He stood on the porch like a sentinel, ready to kill. He watched as they came closer. Their torches cast an eerie glow across the trees and flickered against the quagmire like tiny suns that would not be quenched. Their sheets swayed with the wind and looks of hate filled their eyes.
Hal gripped the rifle in his hands tight. His knuckles were soon as white as their hoods. And he felt at a disadvantage. One of them had a sawed-off shotgun. Another held a noose that had recently been tied. The others each lifted their torches high.
Four men stood before Hal. He knew why they were here. He knew what they wanted. There could only be one thing men like them desired from someone like him.
Death.
The leader opened the folds of his cloak and pulled out a pistol. “Drop the gun,” he told Hal.
The night was silent. Eyes locked in the dark of the bloody moon. Four men, and Hal only had two shots in his gun. He was out numbered, and he thought of his wife inside. A stray shot would go through his old shack like a hot knife through butter. She could get hurt. She could be killed.
Finally, Hal tossed the weapon away. It fell into a patch of quicksand to be lost forever. He had made his decision. Hal chose peace instead of violence. He would not lower himself to their level.
The men came up the steps. The noose went around his throat. Someone tied his hands behind his back. They lead him towards a tree that had been growing since long before any of them were born. It was a grim dance, this waltz in silence.
“String him up.”
Hal felt the end of the rope go tight around his neck. Then it was cast over the lowest branch. It chafed and scraped at his jugular as it went taunt. He whispered a prayer of peace to the Gods of the swamp. He thanked nature itself for the good life he had lead. And he asked nature for one more favor. Take care of Lesh.
“Now pull,” the leader commanded. Three big men got on the other end of the rope and started to hoist. Hal felt the rope go tight around his throat. He thought of Lesh. For a moment he was flying and then all was dark.
Hal swung from the tree. Blank eyes stared downwards as his head slowly lolled from side to side.
Lesh screamed when she looked out the window. The four killers turned.
“Get her!” one shouted but it was too late. In another moment she was out the door and running into the swamp.
“She’s gone,” another man said. “We can come back tomorrow when its light out.”
“What if she tells the sheriff?”
“Sheriff ain’t gonna believe no porch monkey,” Hank said and tore the hood from his head, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Damn, these things are hot.”
“Besides, sheriff would never accuse us. He got no proof.”
And the men dressed like ghosts traveled back up the hill, leaving a hanging man behind. The corpse would never be buried, only hidden by the
swamp until the body rotted away. Hal Robson was just another meal for the monsters that lived here.
***
The swamp spit her out like an old bone. Lesh was holding on by a thread as she made her way up the hill towards the cave.
Death was close. She had seen Hal Robson hang. She knew that those men were after her, as well. They would not stop until she was dead.
But there was also life. She could feel it in her belly. A coiling, twisted thing and the product of their love. Against her womb she felt its anger. She felt it rage against the death of its father. Like her it wanted revenge.
Prayers spilled from her lips. She asked the Loa for guidance. She asked the Gods for aid. She got it.
“Well, pretty little Lesh.” Gummer Jackson smiled his trademark smile, which consisted mostly of bloody gums and a few left-over teeth. It was jagged and, she knew from experience, could cut like a knife.
But it was in his eyes where the true evil lied in wait. Those eyes looked at her now and they knew. They saw. The Loa laughed.
“I need help,” she wheezed and nearly collapsed onto his floor.
The cave was in complete disarray, like always. Gummer was a creature of chaos. Disorder was his natural state. He was also the most powerful juju man in all Saint Sebastian.
“Of course, you do, my dear.” He rose from the old chair he had been sitting on and went to her, wrapping the dead skin of an unknown animal around her shoulders. “Now why don’t you tell old Gummer what happened.”
“Men came, and they were wearing white sheets. They looked like monsters! They hung him, Gummer. They lynched Hal Robson!”
“Your husband,” he mused. “And you want revenge, yes?”
“Yes. Oh, yes!”
“You need your revenge, don’t you pretty little Lesh?”
“I do.”
“And you know that there must be a sacrifice made to have this revenge, don’t you?”
She did, although she had not thought of that. Not on her run through the swamp. Not on her climb to the cave. She had put it out of her mind. She wanted vengeance but there was a price. The Gods demanded it. There would always be a price.
“Name it,” she told him before she could think about it any further.
“Your child,” Gummer said and gently rubbed her belly. Already it had started to swell. Inside her the little human being was barely formed and already it was damned.
“I ...” She thought of Hal. This was his child. This was their child. It was a sign of their spiritual union. Even though it had yet to come into her life she already loved it.
But she loved Hal more. And she wanted her revenge. She wanted her revenge more than she wanted the child’s life.
“I agree.” Inside of her something squirmed.
“Good,” Gummer said. “You stay here for a few days. We’ll wait for that little child to come out and then you’ll have your vengeance. The Loa’s need blood to work their magic.”
Lesh nodded. She sniffled back a tear.
“Name those you want revenge upon.”
“Name them?” she whined. “But I didn’t see who they were. Like I said, they were wearing masks.”
“You did see them. You have the sight. You saw right through their manmade clothes. Now, tell me their names.”
She thought for a moment. And she did see. She could see through them. She knew their names. “The Drunkard,” she whispered. The one man had a gut that could only have come from drinking beer. “And the Sadist,” she whimpered. That would be the man who had laughed as Hal dangled from the ground. “The Beast.” She had seen into that man and she had witnessed the savage heart beating in his chest. “And the Drowning Man.” The Drowning Man was the most obvious. He was the one who was already dead.
“Good,” Gummer smiled. “When the moon is full of blood you shall have your revenge, pretty little Lesh. Oh yes, vengeance shall be yours.”
10 YEARS LATER
The night was strange. There was a red moon in the sky of a sort that Sam had not seen in a very long time. It was the sort of moon that nightmares were made of.
The wind howled against the side of the trailer like a living thing. No. Not living. Even his rational mind had to say that it sounded like dead souls screaming.
It was okay. He was drunk. The aluminum beer can crumpled in his fist. He squeezed it until it closed in upon itself and then tossed it into the plastic bag that they used for recycling purposes. Adding cans to that bag was his hobby. Get enough cans in a bag and he could afford to get himself another six pack.
The easy chair rocked as he realized with a dim sorrow that he would have to get up to get another beer. That sucked. He was comfortable. The television blinked before him, the only light in the darkness. During the next commercial he would get up.
Maybe.
The blue light of the TV was the only light that could be seen inside the trailer. Last month the electric bill had been so high he could barely afford it. Unemployment could not pay for everything. So now he mostly kept the lights off. Sometimes he even used candles to see. He hated bills. They were true bane of his existence. Without water bills and electric bills and gas bills life would have been great.
Times like this Sam was glad he didn’t have a phone. Sam hated the telephone because it was just another bill. And another interruption during the game. He spent his day looking for work. He was entitled to relax when he got home.
The trailer did not cost much. He could scrape by and the owners were approachable, unlike the bill collectors. One could not talk to a piece of paper. One could not weasel out on a piece of paper. It was either pay or go to prison. Take your pick.
Sam finally found the strength to get up and get himself another beer. He ignored that strength and stayed in his chair. Somewhere a whistle rang. It was not loud, certainly not loud enough to bother him. Instead it hovered at the edge of his consciousness, like a continuous drone that one eventually becomes accustomed to. He remembered when he was a kid he lived under some power lines. When his friends came over they always complained about the constant hum.
But he was used to it. At night it lulled him to sleep. This sound was one that he would never become accustomed to.
Everything went black for a split second between commercials. A shiver went down his spine. It was so bad he had to quake a little in his chair. Like most of mankind Sam hated to be alone. Right now, he wished that Mabel was here. Or maybe Hank could come over. Hank loved to drink. Anything but be alone on a night like tonight. He had seen the moon on his way home from the liquor store. It was blood red. On nights like this, the darkies said, the dead rise from the swamps and haunt the living.
But what did coolies know? Absolutely nothing. Stupid gigga-bo’s.
Alone in his trailer Sam thought about that one darkie, the one who swung all those years ago. No. He had gotten over that little mistake. It was the act of children, the hanging of Hal Robson. They were just kids then. No court could convict them. That was ten years ago. Hal Robson was forgotten.
Unless he remembered that day Mabel came home in tears. She told him about the black man at the grocery store, the one who came onto her. Sam had told his friends. They decided to get revenge. Hal Robson had swung.
The whistle grew louder.
Part of him was tempted to get up and turn on the lights. All of them. He wanted to flood this fear with a bright intensity, but the more awesome thought of a high electric bill kept him glued to his seat. The TV was on.
Again, he lost himself in the plight of his favorite sports team. They were all there was, the people in the darkness, framed by obscurity. But the memory of that shiver and that split second of Hell stayed with him. It was deep in his mind like a tumor and it ate away at his body.
“Bullshit,” he mumbled but the words hardly made their way past his lips. His father had not raised his son to be like this, to be afraid of the dark. He was a proud Christian man. He was strong. The Devil could not touch him. Fuck it, he
was going to get himself another beer.
The entire trailer shook when he got up and made his way to the refrigerator.
Inside there was nothing but beer. Mabel had gone to the store after a typical fight. The kids had nothing to eat, she said. They were out of milk and eggs and everything else. What the Hell were they going to have for breakfast? Also, he was down to his last six pack.
So, Sam let her go to the store. He let her spend the last of his money. But she had promised to bring home more beer.
Sam popped open the tin can and took a long sip before headed back to the chair. On his way he noticed that the front door wasn’t locked.
He locked it, turning the tiny switch that slid a plastic bolt into place. He did not know why. He had nothing left to steal. But maybe it would keep the goblins out.
Gore Suspenstories Page 6
