Black Rite

by Allen Caraway

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I heard all of it,’ Beau said. ‘Well, most of it.’

  I stared at him, stunned. This wasn’t in Joe Hyams’s book. When questioned by the sheriff’s office, Beau claimed that at the time of the murders he was cycling home. It took me a moment to find my voice.

  ‘You were at the ranch?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Beau opened the thermos and poured coffee into two plastic cups, a guilty look spreading across his face. ‘But I told the sheriff that I wasn’t there when it happened.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was in love. I wanted to protect her.’

  He gave me one of the cups, returned the stopper to the thermos and then placed it between his feet.

  ‘Did she know that?’

  Beau shook his head. ‘No. I never told her.’

  ‘And the law never found out?’

  ‘No. I didn’t tell anyone. I wanted to keep her out of the gas chamber. Couldn’t bear the thought that I’d lose her, never see her again. Some of the happiest moments of my life were spent at that ranch, talking to her.

  ‘I was fifteen then and on the old man’s payroll, learning the family business, but I still did odd jobs for Lizzy; whatever she needed doing. I’d always been good at fixing stuff. Gotten myself a good reputation for getting it finished right and for charging a fair price, so folks around here kept me pretty busy. I guess one reason I did it was it gave me some feeling of independence from the old man. And in Lizzy’s case, it was just an excuse to see her. Even after she’d gotten hitched. That didn’t change how I felt about her. Thought the guy was an asshole.

  ‘Anyway, one day in early April she called to ask if I could fix the barn roof ‘cause it was leaking. On the eleventh, I started work at eight a.m. and around three-thirty I saw her black Caddy - a brand new Series Sixty-Two convertible - drive up to the house. Man, that was a beautiful set of wheels. I heard the Caddy’s door open and shut, then the house door. I was surprised to see her car ‘cause she hadn’t said anything about coming up. Usually me and Rosa, her housekeeper, got a call first. I knew the asshole was staying at the ranch ‘cause she had called and told us a few weeks earlier, saying not to be concerned if we saw a blue Lincoln Continental in the garage. The Lincoln was there when I rolled up, but the asshole didn’t come out and say hi, which I expected ‘cause he rarely did. Always ignored me, or at best just gave me a nod.

  ‘I stayed up on the roof ‘cause I wanted to finish what I was doing before climbing down that rickety ladder and saying hi to Lizzy. A minute or two passed then I heard shouting and yelling from the house. I’d heard ‘em at it before, so didn’t think anything of it. Lizzy and the asshole had some pretty serious arguments at times and it usually got real loud. Then I heard the front door slam, watched her jump into the Caddy and tear up the drive. I thought, well, he’s really made her mad this time. About two hours later, she came back. This time I heard screaming. First a woman, then a man, followed by six shots. Both of ‘em were cut off mid-scream. That freaked me out. I stopped what I was doing and stared at the house, wondering what the hell was going on. I thought maybe the asshole had been slapping her around - I’m sure he’d hit Lizzy before - then in a fit of rage had shot her. I needed to get off the roof and see. Fast.

  ‘As I was climbing down I heard doors slamming again and a car tearing up the drive, like before. At first, I thought the asshole must’ve panicked, jumped into his Lincoln and sped off, made a run for it, but as soon as my boots hit the ground, I ran into the drive and saw that it was a black Series Sixty-Two convertible, just like Lizzy’s. Then I ran over to the house and went inside, yelling the asshole’s name, my mind tangled up like a pretzel, part of me convinced that she’d killed him, the other part thinking, no, not Lizzy, she couldn’t do such a thing, I must’ve been mistaken about seeing her car. Anyway, there was no response from the asshole. Nothing but silence. I checked around: downstairs, then upstairs. I found the asshole and the floozy he’d been fucking lying in bed, stark naked with holes in their heads and chests, blood everywhere, bits of their brains on the walls.

  ‘I remember saying, “Oh shit oh shit!” then I turned and ran downstairs. I practically fell down ‘em I was movin’ so fast. When I got outside, I jumped on my bike and cycled home like a bat out of hell. When I got there I sat in my room shaking and wondering what the hell I was gonna do. Then it occurred to me that now the asshole was gone, I had her all to myself and I began to dream of us being together. That’s when I decided to tell anyone who asked that I’d already gone home when the asshole and his floozy got rubbed out.

  ‘Eventually the law woke up and they started looking for Lizzy but she’d made tracks and nobody could find her. She was probably halfway to Washington by then. As fond of her as I was, I couldn’t help but think she’d done it and when they found her hiding out in a cabin, I knew my suspicions were correct. An innocent person doesn’t flee to another state, right?’

  I nodded, not that I agreed. Plenty of innocent people have panicked and done a runner. The fight or flight instinct is built into us all. However, I didn’t want to get into a debate and sidetrack him from the conversation.

  Beau sighed and shook his head. ‘She had done a horrible, horrible thing - I couldn’t believe a lovely woman like her could commit murder – but like I said, it didn’t change the way I felt about her. Then the judge threw the case out and she moved up here permanent. Couldn’t believe it. Didn’t even sell the house and buy a new one. What kind of person wants to live in a house where her husband has been murdered? I’ll tell ya who: the one who did it.’ He shook his head again. ‘Of course, she still had most of us under her spell. The town believed she was innocent, that she’d been framed. One of the asshole’s jilted lovers had done it, or some shit like that.’

  There was a pause, both of us lost in our thoughts, then I said, ‘And you really think she committed suicide because guilt was eating her up?’

  Beau nodded, his eyes holding mine. ‘Absolutely.’

  ~

  As I drove home, I reviewed my conversation with Beau. Assuming that Joe Hyams’s conclusions were reliable – and from the extensive evidence that he had provided, I had every reason to believe that they were – then Lizzy being the murderer just felt wrong. I believed that Beau believed he was telling the truth, but it didn’t gel with the facts.

  Lizzy stated that when she found her husband in bed with his secretary, she ran from the house and drove away, heading north on Route 270, initially with no idea of what to do or where to go. As she drove, Lizzy remembered that a friend of hers owned a cabin in Washington, where she had stayed the previous August, and that he had hidden a spare key under a pile of rocks. It would be an ideal place in which to decompress and think things through.

  At around 5.40 p.m., a local woman named Eleanor Loughridge was driving north on Route 270 towards Kerorso, about a mile away from North Oak Ranch, when she passed a black Cadillac heading south towards Harkinen. Loughridge stated that it ‘looked just like Lizzy’s.’ She also said that even though the Caddy was speeding, she could see a blonde woman behind the wheel and naturally assumed it was Lizzy. However, this is where the case against her begins to fall apart. At just after 6 p.m., Lizzy pulled into a gas station in Klamath, a two hour twenty minute drive from Harkinen. The pump attendant and a local teenage boy confirmed this, both stating that she looked pale and upset, although it didn’t stop them from asking for an autograph.

  ~

  When I’d finished dinner, I sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and looked at the cupboard where I kept Gary’s books.

  It’s all in the journal you found. Everything.

  Twice I had gone outside, intending to burn them, but on each occasion I had paused as I was about to cover the books with lighter fluid, a feeling of panic, that I was doing something wrong, overwhelming me.

  I sighed, stood up and walked over to t
he cupboard.

  ~

  Gary began the journal in January 2009. He was seeing a shrink as he was still finding it hard to cope with Mom and Dad’s death, even after five years, and the shrink suggested that Gary keep a diary. He made three entries in 2009 and two in 2010 and then forgot about the journal until February 2, 2015. By then he had bought Sherman Hughes’s book and like me, had begun researching Lizzy’s life and watching her movies. From the February 2 entry onwards, Gary only wrote about Lizzy and his occult studies. He had started with witchcraft, which he referred to as the ‘right hand path’, and then began studying the ‘left hand path’ - LaVeyan Satanism and the Outer Circle Teachings of the Order of Aritenkhede - which he stated was ‘… just a different philosophy, a different way of doing things and seeing the universe.’ Reading his journal made me feel uneasy and by the time I got to his entry on April 20, 2015, that unease had turned into alarm.

  April 20, 2015

  Bought a shit load of occult books today. Too many to mention here.

  Have to admit that I’m totally smitten with Lizzy Dashwood. I’ve been watching her movies over and over. I’ve also visited her at the boneyard several times. Sometimes I just sit down and talk to her, like she’s still alive. It’s cool, man. She doesn’t interrupt!

  April 21, 2015

  4.12 p.m.

  Went to Redwood Hill Cemetery and gave Lizzy some flowers. White lilies. Hope she liked em.

  A horrible feeling of déjà vu ran through me. My chest tightened. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

  I was reading about myself.

  I shook my head and looked at my hands. They were trembling.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Coincidence. This is just coincidence.’

  Gary had felt what I was now feeling. Done the same things. Was equally obsessed.

  I’m not obsessed, I thought, trying to smother the realization. I just … admire her.

  Sure you do, a cynical inner voice countered.

  I spent the next few minutes pacing back and forth in the reception hall, thinking, You’re losing it, bro, like Gary. Sane people don’t become obsessed with dead movie stars.

  You’d think that due to his occult studies and obsession with Lizzy I would have noticed something, a change in his personality, but I hadn’t. Gary had masked it well.

  I recalled what Robin had said to me: what you’ve been doing, thinking and feeling has opened you up, made you visible to those on the fifth plane and I began to wonder if something in this house had manipulated Gary and was now manipulating me.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I spent most of the following day outside. Owning 122 acres was great, however, it was 122 acres of land plus numerous outbuildings that I had to maintain, most of which I did with the help of Cole and Eddie, my ranch hands, the cost of running the ranch supplemented with the income I received from leasing 70 acres of pasture to Guy Deschamps and the occasional holidaymaker renting a cabin or one of the guesthouses.

  Early in the morning, I stood in the old hay barn sipping a coffee and wondering what to do with some of the junk that Gary had left behind when I felt someone staring at me. Turning around, I expected to see either Cole or Eddie standing in the doorway and was surprised to see a small gray haired man wearing an old-fashioned black suit and a black fedora. High cheekbones jutted from his long face, giving his cheeks a sunken look, the man’s bright green eyes holding mine, their color a startling contrast to his olive skin.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I said, walking towards him.

  He didn’t reply and that was when I sensed there was something odd about him. Initially, I thought he was a tourist who’d pulled off Route 270 to ask for directions or to enquire about renting a cabin, but that didn’t fit with the look of surprised curiosity on his face. Then there was his 1940s suit and fedora. He didn’t feel right. I stopped walking and stared at him. The man stared back with a lack of inhibition that was verging on rudeness and it unnerved me. My pulse quickened. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Black, putrescent butterflies rose from my stomach. A sharp coldness sliced through me. I shuddered, suddenly and acutely afraid. Thoughts and feelings that weren’t mine appeared in my mind, erupting like monstrous weeds, sucking me into a suffocating, fathomless darkness, saturated by hate and a malevolent curiosity. I realized with shocked disbelief that the man had somehow merged his mind with mine. Panic circled me like a hungry predator, my throat suddenly dry, tongue frozen, and I fought against it while simultaneously trying to repel him. It felt as if I was pushing against a massive wall that pushed back. I tried to speak, to look away, but I couldn’t. His eyes were hypnotic.

  Get out of my head get out of my FUCKING HEAD! I mentally screamed.

  Abruptly, the suffocating malevolence vanished. The wall collapsed. Control of my thoughts and feelings returned. I exhaled loudly, relief saturating my body, muscles weak and shivering as if I’d just completed an assault course. The man frowned and then turned and strolled away, seeming to dismiss me as if I only held momentary interest.

  I was to learn that this wasn’t the case.

  ~

  That evening, I sat in the living room thinking about the old man, repeatedly asking myself four questions. Who was he? Why had he come to North Oak? How the heck had he managed to access my mind with such unnerving ease? How had he managed to disappear so quickly and easily?

  I had walked outside on unsteady legs expecting to see the old man climbing into a car, but he had vanished. There had not been enough time for him to duck behind another building or to hide behind a tree, not unless he had sprinted, and the old man looked as if his sprinting days were over. I glanced at the journal, lying beside me on the sofa, and wondered if the old man was the ‘It’ that Gary had referenced in his suicide note. Curiosity about his experiences wrestled with my fear of the journal’s mirror-like quality. Eventually, curiosity won.

  ~

  April 21, 2015

  7.40 p.m.

  Currently reading my way through Aleister Crowley’s extensive bibliography and practicing/applying what I’ve learned. At the moment I’m studying The Holy Books of Thelema. Fascinating reading.

  April 24, 2015

  Still daydreaming about Lizzy. When I took a break for lunch, I spent it wishing I could go back to where she grew up. I find myself imagining her as a young woman, lying under a tree and reading a book in the park across the road from her house. Wish I could step into a time machine and ‘bump’ into her in that park. How cool would that be!

  In the evening I watched and DVR’d The Shallows of Man. Lizzy was fucking awesome. What a performance. And she looked a total babe. Man oh man.

  April 25, 2015

  3.17 a.m.

  Just woke up from a weird dream. Lizzy was talking to another character in the movie, then turns to the camera and starts talking to ME! Can’t remember what she said though.

  April 26, 2015

  Had the dream again.

  April 27, 2015

  And again!

  April 30, 2015

  AND AGAIN! Man! This time I remember what she said: help me. Kinda weird. I woke up at 3.17 a.m. (always at the same time) in a cold sweat. Scared the shit outta me.

  May 1, 2015

  Still having the dream. What a Nightmare! Literally.

  May 5, 2015

  The dream has changed and has gotten longer. It now starts off in Redwood Cemetery. It’s a warm summer day and we’re sitting by her grave, just chillin. She’s looking totally gorgeous in this black dress and we’re just talking and laughing, having a good time. I woke up with a big grin on my face. It was so realistic and vivid, as if it actually happened.

  May 6, 2015

  Last night I dreamed that we strolled around town, talking, then went for a drive in her car, an awesome black Caddy. I’ll have to look it up, see if I can figure out which one it is. We stopped and had a picnic. She’s still wearing the same black dress, but it
doesn’t matter cause she looks soooo fucking HOT in it!

  May 7, 2015

  I went online and after a lot of searching, checking and double-checking, I found Lizzy’s Caddy! I couldn’t believe it! It was a 1947 Cadillac Series 62 Convertible. Man, that car is soooo beautiful. I WANT ONE.

  Remember how I said how vivid my dreams are? Well at one point I caught a glimpse of her license plate. Clear as day. It was 36 J 269.

  I put down Gary’s journal, frowning. The last line had triggered another feeling of déjà vu. I stood up, walked over to the bookcase and took out Joe Hyams’s biography, flicking through the pages until I came to a photograph of Lizzy leaning against the rear fender of a Cadillac convertible.

  ‘Oh you gotta be shitting me!’ I said. ‘No fucking way!’

  The license plate number was clearly visible.

  36 J 269.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  By then, I had gone through all of Gary’s possessions, including his book collection. To my surprise, he didn’t have a copy of Joe Hyams’s biography and the first publication of the photograph was in the 2010 special edition and I had yet to see a copy of it online. However, I found it hard to accept that he had seen the license plate in his dream. Just because I hadn’t seen the photograph didn’t preclude Gary from doing so. He must have stumbled upon it and stored the image in his subconscious.

  I slid Joe Hyams’s biography back into the bookcase and returned to Gary’s journal.

  May 11, 2015

  The dreams are progressing. Getting serious, too. Like we’re dating now, making out and stuff. Got to 3rd base in the one last night and woke up with a hard on. Jerked off then and there as I recalled the part of the dream where I’m sucking her gorgeous tits and then she’s sucking my cock. Best dream ever!

  May 13, 2015

  In last night’s dream Lizzy and me were back in the boneyard, just chillin as usual. We’re talking and stuff then she turns to me and says, “You’ve got to get me out of there” and nods towards her headstone. Then I woke up at 3.17 a.m. (again), sweating, with tears in my eyes. Scared me, man.