by Ninie Hammon
Thelma Jackson stood in the crowd of people gathered on the street in front of the West Liberty Middle School waiting for Viola Tackett to show up and get the signup process going.
Thelma almost didn’t come. She didn’t trust Viola Tackett any farther than she could throw the Washington Monument, but just like everybody else in the county, it wouldn’t be long before Thelma’s car ran dry. That’d be a problem since Thelma didn’t own a horse and she was not up to walking these days. She felt like she had aged ten years since J-Day, felt the life being sucked out of her minute by minute by the imprisoning wall of the Jabberwock and all the horror it was perpetrating.
Truth of it was, Thelma Jackson was worn out.
She wasn’t sleeping well. Hardly sleeping at all, as a matter of fact, paced the floor in her house on Chimney Rock Pike, wandering around in the dark like she was looking for something, though she couldn’t have told you what it was.
Even though the nights were cool, she had every window in the house open because it felt so stuffy inside — close, like a sealed-up attic, like there wasn’t enough air in the house to breathe even though she was the only person breathing it.
And there was Cotton, of course, or what she called her “Cotton sightings.” She hadn’t shared that little bit of magic with Sam, Malachi Tackett and Charlene Ryan … McClintock … when she had talked to them about the history of Gideon and Carthage, the Bible in Shakertown, and her interview with Rose Topple in the nursing home in Beaufort County. Oh, they had extended to her — what did they call it? The umbrella of mercy, meaning they would not laugh at her for whatever ridiculous thing she shared with them, and that should have made it possible to tell the whole thing. Maybe she would have it they hadn’t been interrupted when Skeeter Burkett had brought in the body he’d found in the river — Rev. Norman’s daughter, Hayley. And after that …
They never did get together again to talk about the rest of it, but she had left all her information there, all she had at the house. Most of the old records were in their storage unit in Lexington. And who did she think she was kidding? Thelma wasn’t going to tell anybody about what she had experienced in her house almost every minute of every day since J-Day.
It was like Cotton was … there, just out of reach. And when she turned around quickly she would swear that she had caught a glimpse of him. Or not. Maybe she was imagining the whole thing. But she didn’t think so.
Some nights, she would lie awake in bed and concentrate, try to … make contact in some way. It was crazy, but still. And it was like he was right there in the room with her, like she could sense his presence, feel his nearness. And so she wandered the house at night, seeking a Cotton sighting, trying to find what was obviously not there in the first place.
And then, late Monday afternoon, she felt a cloud of dread settle over her as real and palpable as a wet blanket. It settled around her and her heart began to hammer. She was afraid, but there was nothing to be afraid of. Still, her fear grew and grew until she was near tears, looking fearfully around.
She felt Cotton’s nearness … not like before, but like he was … tuned up louder, maybe, the volume bigger and she could hear what had only been whispers before.
There was a sound like popcorn. Like popcorn in the microwave in the kitchen and you’re standing in the living room. Not loud enough that you’re even sure you heard it at all. Pop. Pop-pop-pop. Pop.
She found she was clenching her hands into fists so tightly her fingernails were gouging holes in her palms.
And then it was over. Abruptly over, and she found herself panting like she’d run a marathon, the way you gasp in air after something really terrifying has happened.
Ever since Monday, Thelma had felt like whatever separated her from Cotton was growing thinner and thinner. This morning, she’d even gotten a whiff of his aftershave. Which was crazy!
“Ya’ll listen up, now. Mama wants to talk to you.” That was the voice of Neb Tackett. He was standing on the top step of the porch in front of the school, beside his mother, who had a stern look on her face, glaring out at the crowd. “Come on, now, scoot in close so’s everybody can hear.” The crowd obediently shoved closer together, densely packed in the street before the porch steps.
Thelma glanced to the side and did not like what she saw. There was Jethro Bodean and the bearded Monroe brothers, Felix and Bubba. They were standing a few feet beyond the crowd of people … and Bubba was holding a rifle! So was Jethro. No, this was not a good place to be.
Thelma turned in place and started to make her way through the crowd when Viola’s words stopped her.
“You there, Thelma, c’mon back here. Where you think you’s going?”
Thelma felt ice cold dread in the pit of her stomach. But she had nowhere to run. She turned back toward the front of the school building where Viola stood next to one of the huge white columns, but she didn’t dignify the old woman’s rude question with an answer.
“Matter of fact, come on up here and stand next to me.” She gestured but Thelma didn’t move, but she saw that Neb had already started in her direction. This was bad, very bad. “C’mon. You can be the first to sign up.”
Sign up on what? Viola’s hands were empty. Neb took three steps down off the porch to the sidewalk and took hold of Thelma’s arm and yanked her forward.
She might actually have tried to break his hold and run away, but there was nowhere to go. The crowd was pressing in from all sides. But she did pull her arm free from Neb’s clutches without appearing to snatch it away, and walked with as much dignity as she could muster across the sidewalk and up the stone steps to the top where Viola Tackett and her other son Zach stood waiting for her.
Viola looked at her with a smile that never reached her cold shark eyes, then turned her attention back to the crowd.
“Ya’ll know Thelma Jackson, doncha? Thelma here is going to demonstrate how things is gonna go here today.” Then Viola allowed the smile to slide down off her face. She reached into her bag and drew out a pistol, a big one, a revolver, and pointed it at Thelma’s chest. “She’s going to be the first.” Then she cocked the weapon with a clacking sound that sent chills down Thelma’s backbone.
Judd hadn’t yet stuck his rifle barrel through the space between the stones on the facade. It wasn’t time yet. But he was ready to. On his knees, holding his rifle, peering around the side of the stone at the crowd below he spotted Fish wandering around like a lost puppy and hoped he’d pull his weight when the time come. Hard to put your trust in a man hadn’t drawn a sober breath in more than a decade, but Pete knew him better than Judd did, and if Pete was okay with it, it was fine by Judd. Of course, it wasn’t like Pete’d had a whole lot of choice about who he asked to help. What little time he’d had, he spent lining up Judd and Lester.
And maybe somebody else.
Might be Pete had asked … well, any number of people to help out but they’d turned him down.
Judd didn’t think that was the case. He liked to think that any man who’d been asked to step forward and defend a bunch of folks who couldn’t defend themselves would have said yes. He wanted to believe that, so he did.
While he watched, Neb Tackett came out the front door of the school and walked to the edge of the porch and looked out over the crowd. Judd prepared to set his rifle barrel on the edge of the stone and hunkered down over it, ready to ease it out into the crack when the time came.
“Ya’ll listen up, now. Mama wants to talk to you.” That was the voice of Neb Tackett. “Come on, now, scoot in close so’s everybody can hear.” The crowd obediently shoved closer together, densely packed in the street in front of the school steps. Judd laid his cheek against the stock of his rifle, put his eye to the scope, and the crowd leapt into magnification, became the stitching on the back of a hat, some guy’s bald spot, a woman with white roots showing in her black hair. Judd couldn’t yet move the crosshairs onto a target, not until he pushed more of the barrel out between the stones. But it’d be a simple thing to do
. This was going down just like Pete had said it would.
Then he heard a sound, a scraping sound and a crunch like feet on gravel.
He snapped his head toward the back of the roof. Obie Tackett was standing in front of the ladder leading from the roof to the ground. He held a 30.06 deer rifle trained on Judd’s chest.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing up here, but it’s gonna be the last thought you ever think.” He steadied his shoulder for the rifle’s kick when he pulled the trigger, and Judd Perkins closed his eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Do you know what just happened?” Charlie’s voice was breathless, her hands trembling, as she tried to shake free from the skeins of the reality that seconds ago was as real as the broken fingernails she had taken up chewing after she broke off all her fake nails the day she sat outside a kiln …
Charlie was leaning against the back door of Sam’s car, parked next to the massive tree. On the other side of the tree was a hole that had been filled centuries ago with rocks.
Malachi was leaned against the driver’s side door with Sam in front of him.
All around them were sparks twinkling in the air against a background hum like static.
“I know what happened to me …” Sam began. “What seemed to happen to me, but it felt so real—”
“It was real,” Malachi said. “I don’t understand how or why or …”
They were breathing hard, as if they had run to this spot from a great distance. Panting. The reality of right here and right now felt solid enough. But then, so had the reality of … where Charlie had just been.
“Did you guys … were you in—?”
“Inside somebody else?” Sam asked. “Yes.”
Malachi nodded but didn’t speak.
“So what was it? Why …?”
Charlie’s words trailed off and as they did they again became aware of the creepiness settling into all the buildings in the ghost town, and of the tension in the air. As if a thunderstorm lay just out of sight on the other side of the mountain, was lurking there where you couldn’t see it, but any moment it would unleash growling thunder, arrows of lightning, and a roar of torrential rain. Pent-up energy was all around them, straining at the air, the might of it.
“Look at your watch,” Malachi said, looking at his. When she looked down, the time was wrong. It said eleven o’clock.
“It can’t be eleven o’clock,” Sam said, looking up from her own watch. “We hadn’t even left to come here at eleven o’clock.”
“Mine’s just broken.” Malachi held out his arm for them to see his watch, moved it slightly as they looked so they’d realize all three hands — second, minute and hour — hung loose, swaying whatever way he leaned his hand. He took a breath and changed the subject. “What did you see just now?”
Charlie didn’t know if he was asking her or Sam.
“I was … a little girl, a twin, six years old, her name was Grace Biddle and she was mad at her sister …” Sam got that far, then ran out of steam, and when she continued, her voice was airless. “The other children were playing hide and seek when the Indians came.”
“Gabriel Dunn was the oldest, he was in charge of taking care of the others, of hiding them away—”
“In the cave, where they could still hear the Indians attacking,” Charlie said. “Sarah and Naomi could hear the war cries.”
Malachi stood up straight from where he had leaned back against the car.
“Gabe rolled the rock in front of the entrance to hide them,” Malachi said. “He was supposed to … he was not supposed to …” He took a breath. “He went back to the village and got shot, or maybe a tomahawk … he tried to get back, crawled to the cave, but …”
The horror of it rolled over Malachi in a wave it was possible to see from the outside.
“They died in there.” Sam had no voice or air to say it, but she did. “All of them. When Carthage was massacred, all the children …“
“Those children were the voices we heard in the mist,” Charlie said to Malachi.
“The children who watched us play hide and seek,” Sam said.
At that moment, from some great distance and yet right next to them at the same time came the cries they’d heard and heard about, the mournful cries of lost children.
“The Haints of Fearsome Hollow,” Malachi said, awe hushing his voice.
“Why did we … why were we … caught up in their minds?” Charlie asked. Neither Malachi nor Sam spoke, probably had no more idea than she did. Finally, Malachi was willing to hazard a guess.
“Because it happened here? I suppose … And the reality of it … the energy is still here, the power …”
“Plates spinning,” Sam said, and both she and Malachi looked quizzically at her. “E.J. said it when the stars got wonky, that the Jabberwock’s got too much going on at once, trying to spin too many plates at the same time. I don’t think our watches are broken. I think time is broken.” She glanced at her watch and looked so surprised that Charlie looked again at hers. It was now half an hour earlier than when she’d looked only a minute or two before.
“Or the Jabberwock’s control of time is slipping,” Charlie said. “The others …” She made herself say it, “Stuart and the others looking for us, they were supposed to be here at noon. And it’s noon. Well, it was noon. That’s a lot of things going on at once—”
It suddenly looked like a dimmer switch had been turned down on the day, and she felt her arms pebble with gooseflesh. It was so abrupt they all looked up, looked around, like a cloud had passed in front of the sun, but of course the sky was blue. The darkness was happening all around them, and had nothing to do with sunlight. The gloom around them was a palpable thing. The throbbing power behind it so strong they could feel it in their teeth.
Then the world began to … dissolve. It couldn’t have, but it did. The edges blurred and stretched and elongated. Not smoothly, but in a jerky-jerky fashion that for some reason reminded Charlie of the way a chicken walked. Reality hitched and sputtered. Sparks popped.
“An electrical transformer,” Malachi said, his words hard to hear through the static. “A transformer when it blows … sparks …”
Great power flashed around them, unharnessed and out of control and it felt wrong, like somehow this wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.
What took shape then in front of Charlie, Sam, and Malachi was a bubbling, boiling, cauldron of evil that stretched out into the trees around them and up into the sky above. Looking at it was like looking into the surface of the sun, dancing red and yellow light, boiling and bubbling — except it somehow managed not to look bright but dark, not to give off light in any traditional sense. Instead, it generated an impossible black light, the boiling inky blackness they saw that had transported them to the Middle of Nowhere on J-Day.
How big had Charlie expected it to be? What form had she expected it to take? Her pitiful imaginings were the conjurings of a slug before it looks up at the elephant about to step on it. How could she not have envisioned it to be huge, monstrously big — a power strong enough to lay out an invisible barrier hundreds of miles long? An entity that could control time and the weather, change the stars in the sky. What would that kind of unrestrained power look like?
She was seized by an elemental terror that sprang from the core of her being, an instinctual fear of a thing so other that nothing in previous experience was a reference point. It wasn’t like … anything, except fire, though for all its boiling similarity, what emanated from it was not heat but cold. Charlie realized her breath was frosting, as it had done at Abner’s house a week-long lifetime … epoch ago.
And they’d thought they could somehow … defeat a thing like this by playing games with it!
She noticed then that within the bubbling mass were points of light, other suns within the larger sun, that were the greatest part of it but not the whole, whirlpools of black light, spinning in tornadic fury. Those grew more and more distin
ct from each other, reverse photography of pouring cream into steaming black coffee and watching it spread out in tendrils and merge. Here, the boiling whole began to gather itself into individual whirlpools. They formed all across the surface of it. And then one of them oozed down to the ground in front of them, frothing and bubbling there. An indistinct form that quickly took on features, like a picture forming up in the developer’s tray in a photographic studio. Another did the same. Then another, until there was a line of them distinct from, individualized against, the boiling black background.
Sam stepped to Malachi, who put his arm protectively around her. Charlie wanted to rush to them, huddle together with them in terror. But she had that sense you get … don’t make any sudden moves.
So she crept slowly until she had joined Malachi and Sam, backed up against Sam’s car, facing …
The creature was shrouded in mist, but it was clear to see. It was what Aloushous Hardy had seen in the trees, the thing the trapper saw rushing at him.
A deformed head, too large mouth, full of sharp, jagged teeth. Arms with long fingers ending in claws that looked like sabers. Eyes of flame. Different sizes, different shapes, all of them indescribable horrors. Anger, rage, malice pulsed off them like heat off a pot-bellied stove.
The Jabberwock.
Correction, the JabberwockS — plural — began to appear in a semi-circle in front of them.
Jolene Rutherford had spent the greater part of her adult life making it appear there was magic in the world. She’d tricked people into believing in spirits that weren’t there, in occurrences she had faked. Oh, she believed in ghosts, or spirits, or phantoms, or wraiths, or apparitions — or just plain old spooks. But it was intellectual belief. Meaning now and then reality really did lend credence to the stories, demanded some level of acceptance, like a teaspoon full. Obviously, there was something to the tales people told. After all, Moses Weiss had found the ring a ghost had stuffed into frozen hamburger meat in a freezer, so there had to be some form of communication from one … world, sphere, level of consciousness, whatever to the other.
