Seventh Sense

by Robert A. Brown

  My bones were aching like I had the grippe, but I still managed to pull myself out of the side car – with a little help from Pete – and walk to the building. The lights of the station were on but no customers were around, and Diffie stood in the doorway of the office, waiting. He looked like he was about to needle us about being gone so long, but the grin on his face turned to a look of horror when I came up under the lights.

  “Holy moley,” he said slowly. “What the hell... ?”

  “It’s all right,” Pete said. “Worse ‘n it looks.”

  I nodded at him and we both walked past Diffie into the office. Sitting down stiffly on the side of the desk, I watched as Pete dug a Coke out of the cooler and handed the wet bottle to me. I still had his rag pressed to my forehead.

  “Lemme see,” he said, pulling it away. Behind him, Diffie peered in at my wound.

  “Bled like a stuck hog,” he offered.

  “Yeah,” agreed Pete. “Get me the first-aid kit, will ya?” Then, to me, “You might wanna wash up ‘fore I dress that wound.”

  I nodded and went back to the big deep sink in the grease-pit bay, washing what blood I could off my hands and arms, and then wetting the oily towel and wiping around my face. There wasn’t much I could do for my shirt, which was not only splotched with blood but ripped to tatters by, I guess, the rope across the road.

  I’d been damned lucky.

  When I returned to the office, Pete and Diffie were there with the kit, and I sat down and let Pete daub my wound with iodine. As far as pain goes, it might as well have been sulphuric acid. When he was all done torturing me, he put gauze over it and bandaged it up, Diffie handing him the stuff he needed with all the efficiency of a nurse in a big-city operating room.

  “That’ll do for now,” Pete said. “Tomorrow’s Sunday and the doc’s closed, but if it keeps on bleedin’ you’d better go see him anyway. He don’t mind seein’ people if it’s an emergency. You may need stitches or somethin’.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I reached in my pocket and threw a nickel on the counter. “How about another Coke before I go?”

  I had another, and one more, the sugar and caffeine doing me some good. Or maybe it’s that Coca-Cola is a cure-all, like I’m always telling you. Anyway, I sat there until I felt strong enough to leave by myself, and then I went home to Ma’s – where I became a human target again, sort of.

  I think that’s a good place to stop, because I feel like I’d better write up today’s interview before it gets cold. I will do my damnedest to give you the whole rest of the story of that crazy night when I write again.

  Tell you what. I’ll put an extra carbon in the typer when I write up this report, and I’ll send a copy in with this letter. I’ll have to type hard and hope it’s not too light for you to read it, but I think it’ll be worth the effort. It’s a hell of a yarn, you bet, and since you’re always saying how a writer should show things instead of tell things, I’ll show you this and see what you think.

  I promise to write more tomorrow.

  Your friend and faithful correspondent,

  Robert

  WORKS PROGRESS ADMINISTRATION

  FEDERAL WRITERS’ PROJECT

  Official Form

  DATE: 13 June 1939

  INTERVIEWER: R.A. Brown

  STORY TOLD BY: Mr. Titus Gunnison AGE: 83

  ADDRESS: Star Route 1, Mackaville, Arkansas

  This here story is about the two Bibles my Grandpa and Grandmama Gunnison uster have.

  Papa Jim, we grandkids called him, tole us that he got that extree Bible during the war of the rebellion from a burned-out neighbor of hisn that some bushwhackers had kilt and burnt out. Him and Grammy Mary had them that extree Good Book for some thuty years afore they had need of it.

  Papa Jim weren’t shy about tellin’ us younguns all ‘bout it, ‘specially of a night we was wantin’ a scary story. He’d gather us all ‘round and look usn’s over, and then he’d start right in. Here’s as I remember it:

  One night in the dark of the moon, Papa Jim’s old dawg woke him up with howlin’ and carryin’ on, and didn’t take Papa Jim long to know somethin’ had th’ chickens in th’ hen house upset. He’d been losin’ some birds right regular, so up he jumps in his night shirt, pulls on his boots, and a-grabbin’ his shotgun and lightin’ a kerosene lantern, he hotfoots it outside. He could hear them chickens carryin’ on a-squawkin’, and when he opened the hen house door, he sees thar in th’ yeller light of th’ lantern the biggest ole rattle snake he’d ever come across. Up comes the shotgun and he blowed that snake right in haff, leavin’ them two parts a-wigglin’ on th’ floor.

  Then ole Papa Jim, he jest shuts up th’ door and goes back to bed, figgerin’ them chickens’d pick apart them old snake halves right down to the bone ‘fore mornin’.

  But thet ain’t what happened. And right about here in th’ story he’d narrer his eyes and get his voice way down deep an’ growly. No sir, he’d say, what he’d shot was still layin’ there in the morning. Them chickens was huddled in a corner of th’ coop, fur away from it as they could get.

  So Papa Jim goes out to th’ pasture jest back of the big barn and starts to dig him a big ole deep hole fer buryin’. He wanted it seven foot deep he tole us, ‘cause eight foot is for Bible-believin’ Christians and even injuns but not for no snakes.

  While he was a-diggin’ two more big rattlers snuck up and tried to bite him but he seen ‘em comin’ and chopped ‘em up good with his shovel. Havin’ two of ‘em sneak up on him like that kinda got him to thinkin’, so after he drug that body out of the hen house and dropped it in the grave hole, he dropped in the bodies of the two snakes he’d kilt that mornin’ and then went in and got that extry Bible and put it thar on top of them dead rattlers. Then he filled that hole up. After that, they never had no trouble with no rattlers ever again, nor with chickens bein’ kilt or disappearin’, ‘ceptin’ for a coyote getting’ one every oncet in a while.

  They was some little disturbance pret’ near all over the county for a time after that, ‘bout a fella who’d disappeared without no trace. The sheriff even came to visit once. But Papa Jim jest kept his mouth shet and it all finely blowed over.

  He’d end up his tale by tellin’ us younguns how Caleb Black was no damn good anyway, a chicken thief and prob’bly a lot worse. Yep, he said, he’d been surprised to see old Caleb’s body blowed near in haff and layin’ there on the hen house floor when he’d checked that mornin’, but Papa Jim knew he’d shot a snake the night before, and he knew thet extry Bible ud keep it buried, whether man nor beast, fer good and all.

  June 14, 1939

  Wednesday night

  Dear John,

  Full day of interviews today and I’m beat, but I promised I’d finish telling you the tale of that fateful Saturday, so here goes:

  I didn’t want anyone at Ma’s to see me in the shape I was in – especially Ma herself – so I cut the engine on the old Indian a couple of blocks from the boarding house and pushed it the rest of the way. That took some muscle, and I still wasn’t in very good shape, so I had to stop and rest a few times and still almost passed out a time or two before I got it into the garage.

  As it turned out, I could’ve saved myself that effort. The house was dark when I got there, not a boarder nor Ma in sight. So I got everything out of the bike, my sawed-off shotgun and pistol and water bottle and a couple of candy bars left from our trip, shook out the ground sheet, and draped it over the Indian. There was moisture in the air and maybe even rain – I glimpsed some lightning up in the hills to the east – and that old shed was not any too waterproof.

  When all that was done, I gathered up my stuff, let myself in the back door with my key, and went into the kitchen. Ma had told me that if I ever came in hungry and she wasn’t around I could help myself to what was in her ice box, and I hoped she was as good as her word because I suddenly felt starved. Leaving everything on the sideboard, I got the pitcher of ice water out, poured a big tumbl
er full, and then saw the leftover meatloaf we’d had a couple of nights before. My head started to spin when I reached in to get it; I hadn’t realized how weak I still was. But I recovered in a minute and sat down to my cold dinner.

  I’d taken exactly one big bite when I heard a skittering of claws in the hall, followed by the sudden appearance of my pal MacWhirtle, galloping ninety to nothing and skidding to a stop right at my feet. Sure, he’s a chow hound and can probably hear an ice box door opening in the next county, but I think he was just as concerned about me as he was about the meat loaf he knew I’d share. Even after it was gone, he kept licking my hands and whining. I wondered if he knew what my torn and bloody shirt and forehead bandage meant. I do know that he insisted on climbing into my lap, where he sat, looking up at me with what I could swear was real concern.

  I petted him for a minute or two, then I started worrying about the questions I’d have to answer if anyone came home and saw me looking like I did.

  “C’m’on,” I told MacWhirtle, letting him down to the floor as I got up. “We’d better blow this pop stand before someone sees me.” I rinsed off my plate and glass, put them in the dish drainer and, picking up my weaponry and water bottle, headed upstairs, my little buddy at my heels.

  Although I was sure no one was around, I went up the stairs as quietly as I could, remembering what we’d learned as kids about walking next to the wall so that the steps didn’t creak and give you away.

  My door was closed and locked, as usual, so I used my other key and stepped aside to let MacWhirtle go in first.

  But he stopped dead, eyes wide, every hair on his little body suddenly standing up. His lips pulled back into a snarl. He was trembling all over, making a noise like an electric shaver.

  Well, I was just tired enough of this shit. I reached in my pants pocket and felt for a couple of shotgun shells – the ones with the cut-up dimes I’d pocketed earlier. Levering open the sawed-off Stevens, I shoved ‘em in and got down into a slight crouch, ready to shoot.

  “Get back, Mac,” I whispered. “Back.” I had to skootch his stiff little body back, out of the line of fire, with my foot. He acted like he didn’t even know he was moving, still on point, still growling low in his throat. A courageous dog, MacWhirtle.

  I peered into the room, trying to spot the source of his concern. The light from the hall’s 25-watt bulb is pretty dim, so I reached through the doorway and flipped the wall switch.

  John, it took all the guts I’ve got and then some to do that. It was like that time when you and I were kids, in your kitchen, and your mom had eggs boiling on the stove. Remember?

  She’d gone out of the room for a minute, and I told you that I could stick my hand in boiling water and not get burnt. When you expressed skepticism, I turned on the tap in the sink, held my hand under the cold water for a couple of seconds, and then, with a nonchalance I didn’t really feel, I plunged my hand in the pan and came up with an egg. I enjoyed the effect it had on you – for about one second, and then I let go of that egg with a holler. The water hadn’t burned me, sure enough, but that eggshell had blistered my fingertips.

  Sticking my hand in that room felt just like shoving it into that pan full of boiling water – and I guess I expected the equivalent of a burning hot egg.

  It didn’t happen. I stood there with Mac between my feet, still “rrrrrring” away, so agitated he was almost standing on his toes, peering hard into a familiar room that had suddenly turned sinister. The bedclothes looked a little mussed; I was sure I hadn’t left them that way. But as hard as I looked, I couldn’t see anything else out of place. I was screwing up my courage to step in when a sudden gust of wind outside brought a spray of rain against the window – and the screen moved.

  That’s when I figured it out. The window screen had only moved in and out a tiny bit, but it was enough to tell me it had been unlatched. And I hadn’t done it. I never unlatched the screen.

  I don’t mean to get all nostalgic again, but you remember how you and I figured out how to use a piece of wire to unlatch your bedroom window so we could sneak in after being out too late? I knew in a moment that someone had gotten up on the roof and done just that.

  Leaving the light burning, I stepped back, pushed the door shut, and locked it. Turning the key in the lock, I found the stub of a pencil in my shirt pocket and jammed it in under the key.

  Whoever or whatever was in there would play hell coming through that door. It would have to be broken down.

  I glanced up quickly. I’d forgotten about the transom, the one the old calico had jumped through. Luckily, it was closed.

  “Come on, Mac,” I said. “Other quarters for us tonight.”

  I reached down and scooped him up with one arm, holding the shotgun in my other hand, noticing for the first time that I seemed to be shaking a little bit. Hate to admit it, but I guess you can hardly blame me. Old Mac kept staring daggers back at the door as we slipped down the hall. I was going to say “tip-toed,” but we both know that if you want to move quietly you walk on the outside edges of your feet, staying balanced, testing each step before putting your full weight down. I was moving like that, although I couldn’t tell you why. Rain had started drumming on the roof, blown by the wind and making far more noise than we were.

  I guess I was going on pure adrenaline for the second or third time in a few hours, and when I got to the bathroom at the end of the hall and switched on the light, letting Mac to the floor, an immense tiredness swept over me. After shutting the door, I almost tumbled to the floor, plopping instead down on the commode. I sat there for I don’t know how long, lightheaded, trying to get my breathing back to normal, watching Mac’s fur slowly relax. He sat there, his eyes on me, ready for anything.

  I knew what I was ready for. I had to get some sort of rest. Just close my eyes.

  Maybe I still wasn’t thinking too straight. I did consider making a call to the sheriff’s office, but what would I tell him? I had an idea what was in my room, a premonition I guess, but I didn’t know for sure, and it could just as easily have been gone by the time he got here. Hell, if whatever it was heard me, it might creep out the window and nail me while I was on the phone. Besides that, I’d have to explain my appearance to a lawman who didn’t seem to like me much anyway, and that would open up a whole new can of worms.

  Plus, I wasn’t too crazy about leaving the relative security of the bathroom right away.

  So I sat there, eyes closed, trying to plan a course of action. After several minutes, I got up and opened the linen closet. Pulling out all the towels, I laid them in the bottom of that big old cast-iron, claw-footed bath tub. Then I took the community towel off its nail, soaked it under the tap in the sink, wrung it out, and tamped it into the space at the bottom of the bathroom door.

  That would have to do.

  The only window in the bathroom was closed and latched and there was no transom, so our little fort was as secure as I could make it.

  I’ve slept in bath tubs before and they are not built for someone my height, but they’re better than a floor, especially a floor in a house with some sort of horror creeping around in it. So I eased myself down and pulled one of the towels up for a makeshift pillow. Without any coaxing, Mac climbed in, and with him and the shotgun for company, I settled in and felt sleep pull me down like quicksand.

  Then, the scream.

  It ripped through my consciousness like chain lightning. I’d never heard Patricia scream before, so don’t ask me how I knew it was her. I just knew.

  I grabbed my shotgun and was getting to my feet before I even opened my eyes. Right beside me, MacWhirtle barked like a tommy gun.

  “Hold it, son!” came a hard voice, one that I knew.

  My eyes were sticky again, but I got ‘em open. The grizzled face of Sheriff Meagan stared back at me, his hand on the butt of the Remington .44 he’d shot into the air the night the Black boys had braced me at the train depot. I looked down, saw I had the shotgun pointed squarely at hi
m.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, lowering the barrel. Over his shoulder, I saw Patricia, her eyes wide with horror, hand to her mouth, staring at me. Next to her was her grandmother and Ma Stean, and Mister by-God Clark, arms hanging down at his sides like a gorilla’s, mouth gaping. They all looked like they expected me to jump out of the bath tub and chase ‘em around the room.

  Except for the sheriff. He just looked pissed off.

  “Better just go ahead and set her down,” he said, nodding at my sawed-off weapon. I nodded back and placed it gently on the towels beneath me in the tub.

  Something was in my eyes. I brushed at it with one hand. The fingers came away sticky and red.

  Mac had stopped barking, so it was real quiet in that bathroom. So quiet that I heard Patricia’s sharp intake of breath when I looked at my fingers. It’s funny. I was maybe bleeding to death, a sheriff was threatening to plug me, and in the middle of it all I suddenly remembered that Patricia and I were supposed to be at the movies that night. I’d stood her up.

  I tried to smile like Errol Flynn, kinda crooked. Looking at her, I said, “If we hurry, we might be able to catch the second feature.” I had no idea what time it was. It just seemed important that she knew I remembered we had a date.

  She swallowed and tried to smile back. The sheriff interrupted our moment by telling me, “You know you’ve scared the bejeebers outta these folks. They thought someone shot you and dumped your carcass in the tub.”

  What had happened was that Mr. Clark had gotten off his regular Saturday shift and stopped at the Green Hog to hoist a few before returning home. When he got in, half-shot I bet, he quite naturally had to drain his radiator, and when he opened the door to the bathroom, there I was, a sight right out of the true-detective magazines. My error had been in forgetting to lock the door when Mac and I had forted up for the night. Mr. Clark, figuring me for a stiff, had called the sheriff. Just after he arrived, Ma Stean returned from visiting her pal Mrs. Davis. She’d planned to be over at the Davis house when I came to pick Patricia up, maybe to needle me a little; when I hadn’t shown, all three of them had come over to the boarding house, worried that something might have happened. (This just gives further credence to the idea that there’s something going on here, something maybe murderous, that’s still beyond my understanding, if not my sensing.) When they found the sheriff’s car outside, they ran upstairs and found him and Mr. Clark – and me.