Seventh Sense

by Robert A. Brown

  Seventh Sense

  The Cleansing: Book 1

  Robert A. Brown and John Wooley

  Published by Babylon Books, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  SEVENTH SENSE

  First edition. November 20, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Robert A. Brown and John Wooley.

  ISBN: 978-1948263337

  Written by Robert A. Brown and John Wooley.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Seventh Sense (The Cleansing: Book 1)

  DODD GENERAL HOSPITAL | Main and Jackson Harrison, Arkansas

  About the Authors

  For our wives, Hattie and Janis, who have always been there for us — and with us

  May 6, 1939

  Saturday night

  Dear John,

  I am here at last, and you and Lovecraft would love this burg. Dark, green, wet, and full of shadows. I kind of figured this would be Dust Bowl country, but I guess that’s farther west, because I saw lots of streams and rivers and ponds as we came through the Ozark Mountains (which are actually “dissected plateaus,” elevated places eroded over the centuries until they look like mountains – something I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t picked up a book on the Ozarks to read on the train. I figured I needed to know something besides what we saw in that cornpone Republic hill-billy picture Down in “Arkansaw” last year. Remember?).

  Although the first part of the trip, from St. Paul clear through most of Missouri, went smooth as silk, the last few hours of the trip were pretty rough. When I changed trains at Springfield, I got on a “mixed local” – you know, one that had both boxcars and old Pullman coaches – and it stopped at every little jerk-water town between there and here, dropping off freight, picking up cars, and pulling into sidings to let every other train on the line pass us.

  I shouldn’t complain, I guess. It was cheap, so I saved a little out of the travel money Uncle Sam handed me, and the seat was comfortable enough. There weren’t many passengers, at least not at first, so I could sit by a window and put my bag and typewriter case on the floor beside me. I bought the new Dime Detective at the Springfield depot, to give me a little break from reading about the Ozarks. (There’s a Rambler Murphy yarn in the Dime, incidentally – did I ever tell you he reminds me a little bit of you?)

  I’ll tell the world I was pretty tired of the trip by the time we began the long downhill run into Mackaville. The tracks curved southeast down a long grade, giving me the opportunity to see the whole town, nestled down in a valley – and I’ll be damned if it didn’t look like a typical New England-style village, laid out around a downtown square, looking neat but out of place here in the South. Maybe Mackaville’s founder was from back East. That might explain it. Have to check up on that.

  Ahead of the train, I could see what appeared to be a little Hooverville shack-town, just on the outskirts, like they generally are. Peculiar little shacks, I thought, straining my eyes in the thickening twilight. I saw movement there in the shadows, but as we drew closer I found that what I thought were humans were cats – and they were moving through a grave yard, not a Hooverville. The hovels I thought I saw were actually crypts, and what I took for pieces of junk were crowded, odd-sized tomb stones.

  As we rattled by, I watched three of the biggest cats stop, sit down, and peer silently at the train. They reminded me of the three wise monkeys, and I had a weird fleeting thought about what evil they saw and heard but did not speak of, out there in that cemetery. Just as that notion flew through my brain, one of the cats – a big old calico – hoisted herself up and took a couple of steps toward the train, craning her neck a little, like she was trying to see better. And I swear, John, I could feel her look right straight at me.

  You remember Jenny Sorenson telling us how all calicos were female? Her words from all those years ago flashed into my mind then because that damn cemetery cat was staring just like a woman would. Hard to explain, but that’s what my seventh sense told me, and we both know enough by now to trust it. Not that I knew what the hell it meant. Just an impression. Still...

  Anyhow, I watched her until she and the grave yard were behind us and swallowed up in the gathering dark, with the light from the depot coming into view. I was still dealing with a strong but unfocused premonition, which is probably why I didn’t reach down and steady my baggage as the train began to buck with the hard hissing of the brakes. There was a teeth-rattling jolt, and my stuff bounced backward and hit something with a dull thud.

  “Dayum!” came an oath from the seat behind me. Then, all of a sudden, like the giant popping up in “Jack and the Beanstalk,” a big old blond hill-billy boy in overalls and a dirty undershirt stuck his head over the top of my seat.

  “Tayke it easy, yuh pinhead!” he growled.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  I’d had no idea anyone was sitting behind me. The seat had been empty at Springfield, when I’d gotten on the mixed local. He must’ve boarded at one of the more recent stops.

  I bent down and reached back under the seat, figuring the typewriter case had bounced against his foot. I grabbed my bag, but I couldn’t locate the case.

  “Lookin’ fer this?”

  I glanced up and saw double. Two hulking straw-haired yahoos that looked exactly alike, right down to the same blank expressions and pale blue eyes. They even seemed to have the same number of bad teeth.

  One of them held up my typewriter case and grinned dully. I reached for it, but he pulled it back.

  “Reckon this oughta bring some good money,” he said to his twin, leering like a big dope, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

  I didn’t say anything right away. The train had finally lurched to a stop, and they filed out and headed for the exit. Hoisting my bag, I followed, not letting them out of my sight. That wasn’t hard, since there weren’t very many people on the train and just a few getting off.

  I didn’t have much of a plan for getting my typewriter back from those two knuckle- dragging oafs, but I damn sure wasn’t going to let them take it, either. So I followed them up the few steps from the track to the platform outside the depot. There were a few people loitering around, and I could feel their eyes on me. Maybe it was the CCC uniform and newsboy cap I wore, or maybe it was because strangers didn’t get off the train at Mackaville very often. Either way, I didn’t have time to worry about it right then.

  The twin with my typewriter case was swinging it like a lunch pail, kind of exaggerated, like his idea of a kid walking to school. As I stepped up next to him, he turned, a big stupid grin on his face.

  I sat my bag down, doubled up my fist, and hit him as hard as I could square on the bridge of his nose.

  He yelped like a stuck hog and staggered backward a couple of steps, dropping the case. I landed three quick ones, left-right-left, into his midsection, and then caught him with a roundhouse I brought up from around my shoelaces. He stumbled, grabbing at his face, and I snatched up my typewriter case, hoping that his other half would be so dumbfounded by the quick action that I could make a getaway. You know I can box a little bit, but he had at least a foot and fifty pounds on me. Multiply that by two, and I was the kind of long shot even a Damon Runyon character wouldn’t touch.

  I almost got away. But the other big hill-billy roused himself enough to grab me from behind and sling me to the wood floor of the platform. I managed to hold onto the case with both hands as I went down, hitting with my shoulders and back, but I could see I was going to need those hands pretty quickly. The first guy – crimson dripping between the fingers of the hand he held
over his nose – had recovered and was advancing on me, his eyes blazing with rage and pain. The other one drew back and kicked me hard in the side, shooting fiery pinwheels through my whole body.

  No, it didn’t look good for Robert.

  Just as I was bracing for the jar of another boot in my side, I heard a gunshot. Glancing up, I saw the two giant dullards stopped dead in their tracks, looking toward the source of the shot. It was a lawman, badge pinned to his khaki shirt, pointing the barrel of what looked to be an old Remington .44 toward the sky. As I watched, he holstered the revolver and glared at the two, who looked sullenly back.

  “He started it, sheriff,” muttered the one who’d taken my typewriter, his voice muffled by the bloody hand over his nose.

  “He don’t look that stupid,” returned the sheriff, eyeing me.

  “Just a misunderstanding,” I said, getting to my feet and hoisting up the typewriter case.

  To my left, down on the tracks, there were blasts of steam and lantern lights and whistles signaling that the train was backing into the siding with its freight cars. Then I noticed the half- dozen or so people dotted across the landing, all silent, watching us.

  “He is that stupid,” said the other. “Seth wasn’t doin’ nuthin’ and he jus’ come up and hit ‘im.”

  “That true, son?” asked the sheriff. He used “son” loosely; although he was a little grizzled, I’ll bet he wasn’t 10 years older than me.

  “Like I said, a misunderstanding. They misunderstood who owned this typewriter.” Suddenly out of the darkness hobbled a withered old guy with a full white bristly beard, as rough-looking as Cobb’s old horse, who nonetheless gave an impression of power – an impression, I’ll add, that was strengthened when he reached up and slapped the hulk called Seth across the back of the neck. Twice the old man’s size, Seth still shrank from the blow, pulling his head into his thick neck like a turtle.

  “Git over here,” hissed the old man, not even looking at the sheriff. He reached up and slapped Seth again. Dutifully, the other hill-billy fell in behind the old man and the three walked away, a queer parade. I reached down for my cap, beat it against my thigh a couple of times, and put it back on. The sheriff watched without saying a word, just like the others on the platform.

  The only movement was from the two blond behemoths, moving toward the depot and their wizened keeper, still whacking at the injured one with the back of his hand.

  I headed back toward the steps to get my bag, nodding at the sheriff. “Thanks,” I said, hoping that would be it. I was ready to call it a night.

  “Just a minute.”

  I stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

  “You CCC?”

  “Was. Now I’m with the WPA. Folklore project.”

  He looked me up and down. “How come you’re still wearin’ your CCC outfit?”

  “Hadn’t had a chance to get any new clothes yet,” I returned. Substitute “money” for “a chance” and it would’ve been the truth.

  “That cap ain’t regulation.”

  “Nope.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  I measured my words carefully. “CCC, too,” I said. “It belonged to a guy who thought he was the toughest man in camp.”

  “All right,” he said, a ghost of a smile playing across his lips. “But we don’t need no more troublemakers in town.”

  I looked toward the depot, where the three had just disappeared through the door. “No,” I said. “I don’t imagine you do.”

  After I’d told him my name, and he’d told me he was Sheriff Meagan, we shook hands, parted company, and I walked past the still-gawking locals into the depot. I got directions from the ticket desk to my boarding house and walked outside, passing what I guessed was the town’s only taxi, a 1929 Hupmobile with a colored fella dozing at the wheel. I’d been told it was an eight-block walk to Ma Stean’s boarding house, and I was tempted, but I thought it best to save the quarter and hoof it. I’d been sitting long enough anyway.

  Then a harsh voice cut through the night and my thoughts.

  “Hey peckerhead! Better be real careful where yuh step!”

  I turned. In the vague light of the depot, I made out the shapes of Seth, his twin, and the old man. I figured it was Seth’s brother doing the yelling. It might be too painful for Seth. At least, I hoped so.

  “Watch your feet, yuh little bastard!” he added.

  The thwack of flesh on flesh ended his soliloquy, and I walked on, wondering what exactly he’d meant. The street lights were on now, the stores were open, and as I made my way down one side of the town square I encountered a good amount of Saturday night traffic. I have to say Mackaville looked a lot more prosperous than I’d figured it would be. I mean, it wasn’t downtown Minneapolis, and there were lots of men in overalls and funny hats and women in long dresses and bonnets, but it seemed lively enough. Again, my khaki uniform with its riding breeches and leather leggings got me some stares and funny looks, so I was glad enough to leave the business district behind for the more dimly lit neighborhoods.

  Once away from downtown – which was all of three blocks – it was quiet and spooky. But there was a difference. Remember when we were kids back in Hallock, and we’d camp out on our backyards or, later on, out by the Two River? When we were quiet and there wasn’t any wind, we’d always hear dogs, barking or yelping or howling in the distance.

  It took me a little while to realize I didn’t hear any dogs in Mackaville. None. And it was quiet and airless, too, so calm that a fleshy burning odor I’d first caught from the train had really settled in. I knew what it was from my days working in South St. Paul around the stockyards – hard to mistake the smell of a packing house.

  Anyway, just as I was thinking how strange it was not to hear any dogs, I suddenly saw a

  big cat, right in front of me. I swear, John, it was that calico who’d stepped out and locked eyes with me as the train passed by the bone orchard. She stood there for a few seconds and then turned and started walking the same way I was going, her tail standing straight up. Like she was my damn escort or something.

  I got the feeling there were other cats out there in the darkness, too, moving as I moved,

  and the seventh sense started going off in my brain again, even though I didn’t know why. All I knew was that this cat, for some reason, triggered it.

  I followed her up a hill, and then I saw “Stean” lettered on a mailbox, outside a picket fence. I opened the gate and went up to a big, old-fashioned, Victorian-style house, complete with bay windows and funny little dormers sticking out from the roof. An NRA eagle was affixed to a corner of one of the first-floor windows. It was open, and I heard music – Lanny Ross on Your Hit Parade singing “Jeepers Creepers.” It was a welcome sound, and the light from the house was welcome, too.

  I looked back as I opened the gate. The old cat eased down on her haunches and watched me as I walked up to the door and knocked. I was still looking back at her when I heard, “You must be Robert! Come in, come in.”

  I turned to see an ample, dark-complexioned older woman wearing an apron over her dress, her white hair twisted into a bun. And then, the sound of a yippy little rat terrier, running out from behind her to sniff at my boots.

  “I’m Ma Stean,” she said, sticking out a big hand. I shook it.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she continued. “Just drop your bags here for now and come into the livin’ room. I want you to meet the others.”

  Gesturing at the little dog, who looked like an oversized dirty pipe cleaner, she said, “This here’s MacWhirtle. We just call him Mac. Old dog. Hope he don’t bother you none.”

  “No. I love dogs.” Glancing back, I saw the big cat had disappeared. “He’s the first one I’ve seen since I got off the train.”

  I saw Ma Stean’s gaze follow mine, and I could swear she gave a little nod of her head – not to the dog or me, but to something or someone else. Odd as it seems, my seventh sense told me it was my now-va
nished furry escort.

  “Well,” she said, still looking out into the night, “this here’s kindly a cat town.” She turned then, smiling at me. “I saved some supper for you.”

  Well, John, I felt right then like I was home.

  I am typing this in my room on the second floor, which is small but nice, with one of those dormer windows over my bed. I have a roll-top desk for my typing and other work, a lamp, one chair, a rag rug (crazy-colored), a high brass bed, and the bathroom is just down the hall.

  That bed is looking good, so ‘til next time.

  Your pal and faithful comrade,

  Robert

  May 7, 1939

  Sunday evening

  Dear John,

  I read in a book once that nothing was as bleak as a boarding house room. Not true. Right now, as I sit here writing you, the sunlight’s coming through my south window and there’s a little breeze, so I don’t smell the slaughterhouse hardly at all. It’s very pleasant. It doesn’t quite feel like home yet, but it’s a long way from bleak. In fact, compared to the camps, it is pretty luxurious.

  Lots has happened since I got in Saturday night and met Ma Stean and her other roomers. When she brought me into the parlor, they were all sitting around the radio, eyeing me as I came in but trying not to be too obvious about it. Ma Stean introduced us, and I shook hands with all three – or, I should say, two hands and a fish flipper. The first one I met was named Dave, a short, very skinny little bald guy with bad front teeth and a goofy grin. He’d been reading an Edgar Wallace mystery and that struck me as a good sign. He was by far the friendliest of the three. Almost before I’d let go of his mitt he’d told me he was single, in town ‘til December, and worked as a brass pounder, a telegrapher, at the depot. I also tumbled onto his need for a pal, and that was ok by me. I could use one.

  As it turned out, all three of them were rails. Paul, my second introduction, was so tall he made the ceiling look low, maybe six-four or six-five, and not much heavier than Dave. His head was two sizes too big for that pole body and he had a thatch of straw-colored hair that stuck up like it was trying to get away from his head. He wore wire-rimmed glasses with lenses thick as cookies.