by Edward Lee
"A... graveyard?" Dicky muttered.
Balls' glare seemed to even take the scowling portraits aback. "I don't care 'bout no graveyards or no creepy houses. All's I want is a nice paycheck fer a night's work. Dicky—you and the Writer go check outside—" The girl mewled when Balls pinched her nipple and twisted hard. "I'll keep an eye on this stringbean with a pussy, and check the rest'a down here."
Cora opened her mouth to object, then thought better of it. "Come on, Writer," Dicky said and shoved the Writer toward the back door.
They both stepped out into the night. The moon was so bright they scarcely needed their flashlights. Now's my chance, the Writer realized. I can brain this ignoramus with my flashlight and head for the hills, but then he laughed to himself. Who am I kidding? I'm a writer. Writers don't have balls like that...
"So's yer a writer, huh? What'cha write? Like, books'n shit?"
The Writer gave his stock answer. "I'm a speculative novelist. I infuse relatable modern fiction scenarios with charactorial demonstrations of the existential condition. Allegorical symbology, it's called, rooted in various philosophical systems."
Dicky nodded with approval. "That's what I thunk. I read a book once, see? They made us in school. It was kind'a dumb though. A retard watchin' golf balls or some shit."
The Writer nearly howled. Absalom, Absalom!
They wended through tilted gravestones, some with crudely etched dates going back to the late 1700s. Toward the rear of the yard, near the treeline, a newer building, like a garage, grew larger.
"Maybe Crafter's got a bunch'a fancy cars in that there garage," Dicky speculated.
"Perhaps. But what do you know about this man Crafter?"
"Nothin'. Just that he's some old weirdo who's got a house full'a ‘spensive junk."
"I wouldn't call him merely an old weirdo." The Writer looked at Dicky. "He's an old weirdo who also happens to be a student of the black arts."
Dicky remained silent. When an owl hooted, he flinched. The garage was unlocked. They both went in, flashlights beaming. No cars were in evidence, but there was a riding lawn mower, various tools, and a dozen tanks of liquid propane. "Check that barrel there," Dicky ordered in a feeble attempt at authority. "Might be full'a gold or jewels."
Greedy of filthy lucre, the Writer quoted the first letter of Timothy. He pried off the barrel's lid and found it curiously full of—
"No gold or jewels, Mr. Dicky. Just... salt."
"Salt? The hail?"
"Not table salt, either." The Writer tasted it. "Uniodized. It doesn't snow this far south, does it?"
"Naw. Why's the old coot gotta a barrel full'a salt?
"I couldn't guess. And that's quite a load of propane. I didn't see a grill out back anywhere."
Next the Writer looked in a metal can.
"What'cha got there? Jewels?"
The Writer shook his head. "Try dead frogs."
Dicky looked in. "Yer shittin' me!"
The can was full of petrified bullfrogs. The Writer noted an even odder anomaly. "It looks like all of their toes have been cut off. Then they were just tossed in here to die."
"Shee-it... "
Another can was full of desiccated newts, all missing their eyes. "Eye of newt, toe of frog," the Writer's voice echoed in the dark.
"This is right fucked up. We'se leavin'."
Back outside the Writer combed his light behind them. "Let's go look at those graves."
"The fuck for?"
"I detect an incongruence."
"Huh?"
The Writer smiled and walked over. "How curious... "
"A half-dug hole? Big deal."
Indeed, there were several areas in their proximity that had been dug down to about a foot, trenches, in a sense, about six feet long.
"What's that on the ground? Cement?"
"Crude cement. It's called tabby," the Writer explained. "You know what this place is, Mr. Dicky? It's an unconsecrated graveyard."
"Shee-it... "
"The more normal stones in the area have dates from the 17 and 1800's, but these... "
They weren't grave markers at the foot of each trench but simply splotches of old cement in which someone had inscribed a name and date with their fingers. "Back in the day, common criminals were buried in unconsecrated ground. Relatives would come in later, pour some quick tabby and render an inscription. Look at this one."
An old finger-scrawl in the cement read ELSBETH - 1689.
The Writer eyed Dicky. "Or I should say, common criminals and witches."
"Fuck... "
"Or warlocks. Anyone accused of soliciting the Devil."
Dicky gulped. "Witches'n warlocks are buried here?"
"It would seem so. And... what on earth... " The Writer strode off several yards, to the edge of the woodline. He aimed the flashlight down.
A simple wooden post stuck out of the ground about two feet, and nailed to it was a crucifix.
"A cross," Dicky observed.
"Not just one cross... " The Writer shined his flashlight to either side. The entire woodline had a similar post and cross every six feet or so. It's almost like a fence... of crosses. A... barrier...
"If Crafter's a satanist, how come them crosses ain't upside-down?" Dicky made a surprising query.
But the Writer didn't answer, for now he noticed something else. "How do you like that?"
Dicky looked down. "What's that? A line'a sand?"
"A line of salt, Mr. Dicky. Let's follow it."
Flashlights down, they followed the line of salt which oddly ran unbroken just inside the cross-mounted posts. In a few minutes they were in the front of the house, and could see the salt and crosses continuing on.
"The salt and the crosses completely encircle the property," the Writer said. He lowered the light to the driveway which, too, was crossed by a line of salt. "Now that's interesting."
"I'se don't get it."
"Ancient metaphysics, Mr. Dicky. Salt was once more valuable than gold, and it eventually became a favorite constituent in alchemy, divination, and spells."
"Spells," Dicky intoned with some trepidation.
"This Mr. Crafter fellow seems to have deliberately enclosed his property with two powerful totemic symbols."
"Totemic," Dicky intoned.
"And to respond to your previous query, I suspect the crosses aren't inverted for that very reason. Between the salt and the cruciforms, Crafter seems to be covering his bases."
Dicky made yet another astute remark. "A magical fence?"
The Writer nodded, impressed. "I think so."
"To keep bad stuff from getting in?"
The Writer lit another cigarette, and sighed smoke as he looked down at more crosses and salt. "The crosses are facing toward the house, Mr. Dicky. So it would seem that Crafter's intentions are just the opposite. He wants to keep ‘bad stuff' from getting out," and then they both slowly turned their gazes back toward the house.
««—»»
"We'se gonna be rich men, Dicky-Boy," Balls enthused when the Writer and the more globose redneck went back inside. Balls already had several boxes full of gold and silver gimcracks set aside on the William and Mary table. "The dinin' room alone's chock full."
"Cool," Dicky tried to sound excited.
Balls caught the downcast tone of voice. "‘S'matter with you?"
"Aw, nothin'. Just kind'a weird outside."
"The premise is surrounded by an occult barrier," the Writer baldly stated. "Crafter obviously has some overtly ritualistic beliefs."
"Don't know what'cher talkin' 'bout, don't care," Balls ignored him. "Now git yer writer-ass in gear ‘fore I start kickin' it. Find a box and start loadin' it up with ‘spensive-lookin' loot."
"Where's Cora?" Dicky asked.
Balls pointed to the other side of the room where, in the candlelight, Cora could be seen lying unconscious. "Punched her a tad too hard last time she started runnin' her yap again. Leave the ‘ho be. She'll just get in th
e way."
They made several trips to the U-Haul, depositing a few of the valuables from the dining room, but back inside, the Writer suggested, "Shouldn't we check the rest of the house first? Since you gentlemen are thieves, it might be more efficient to identify the most valuable booty initially, and that's just one reason."
Balls paused, carrying in a silver service tray. "One reason? Gimme another?"
"Well... to discern beyond all doubt that the house is, indeed, unoccupied."
Balls and Dicky traded uneasy glances but then Balls scoffed. "There ain't no one else here, Writer. My buddy Bud Tooler tolt me so."
"So this Mr. Tooler—his knowledge of the house is unimpeachable?"
Balls shot the Writer a funky look, which would be the first of many such looks. "What? Peaches?"
"What if this Mr. Tooler happens to be incorrect?" the Writer posed, "and there's someone upstairs right this very moment, calling the police?"
Balls and Dicky traded another uneasy glance. "He's gotta point there, Balls," Dicky said.
But Balls shook his head. "Look, Crafter ain't married and he ain't got no kids or reller-tives. I'se know for a fact there ain't no one else in this house."
Just then, quite loudly, a television clicked on upstairs.
"This is CNN Headline News," a woman was saying, "and this is Lynn Russell reporting on all of the nation's up to the minute headlines. In Milwaukee, Wisconsin, today alleged serial-killer Jeffery Dahmer was arraigned on six counts of capital murder... "
Balls pulled the other two aside, into a dim hall beside another door with, of all things, a cross on it.
Now here's a cross INSIDE, the Writer reflected. Crafter's obviously no Christian, so why would he mount a cross on THIS door?
Balls and Dicky weren't the least bit interested. All of their faces glowed eerily in the candlelight.
"Keep yer voices down," Balls whispered. "There's someone upstairs watchin' fuckin' television. Whoever it is... we gots ta get rid of 'em so's we can finish the haul."
"But who is upstairs?" Dicky whispered after huddling closer.
No answers were forthcoming.
All the while, the Writer considered: How can a TELEVISION be on when the power's cut off? But he did not give voice to this curiosity.
"Yer buddy Tooler fucked up," Dicky sniped. "Crafter didn't go to fuckin' Spain. It's probably Crafter hisself sittin' upstairs, waitin' fer the police."
Against the wall, a mahogany stand inlaid with crisp amethysts stood with a phone on top. The Writer picked up the phone and listened. "No dial-tone. Crafter probably did go on this trip of his and had his phone turned off. So whoever is upstairs couldn't have called anyone."
"Good thinkin'," Balls said. He tiptoed across the expansive sitting room and straddled Cora. He slapped her face several times till she roused, then pressed a palm across her lips. ""Shhh. Not a word. Someone else is in the house, upstairs... "
He helped her up and led her back to the hall.
Cora's objection was a whining whisper. "Someone else in the fuckin' house? You're fuckin' shittin' me! We gotta get out'a here!"
"Only person goin' anywhere is you," Balls informed her. "Upstairs."
"My fuckin' ass," Cora illustriously stated.
Balls' face set. "Listen, Cora. I'll'se make a deal with ya. We needs ta know what we're up against, so you go upstairs and take a peek, see who's up there, then come right back down. You do that, and I'll untie yer wrists and let'cha go." Then Balls cocked a brow. "And if'n you don't do that, I'll cut'cher head off and piss out'cher mouth, then I'll scalp yer dirty pussy'n wipe my ass with it next time I take a corn-shit."
The Writer had to chuckle. "Not exactly an affable alternative, hmm?"
"Shut up." Balls whipped out his Buck knife and flicked it open, eyeing Cora.
Cora sighed. "I should'a never offered that old man a blow job back at the bar." She blinked, took a deep breath, then began to walk very slow up the plushly carpeted steps.
From upstairs, they could hear the TV channels being changed. CNN switched off, replaced by some man with a German accent saying, "But... this room has other qualities—in 1436 it was here that Prince and Princess Von Hart had their throats cut while they were sleeping." A woman's voice: "Their throats cut?" The German man: "Yes, madam, but that was in 1436. Will you excuse me?" and then the channel switched to a baseball game, "David Cone has just won his next shut-out for the Yankees! What another tremendous acquisition by George Steinbrenner, folks!" and next, a commercial, "Not available in stores! Call now while supplies last! Get the patented Therm-O-Fresh Food Saving System for just four easy payments of $49.95. That's right, just $49.95!"
The Writer rolled his eyes.
Then the TV switched off.
Had Cora been discovered by the unknown sentinel? Balls pulled out his pistol, and Dicky very courageously suggested, "Fuck it, let's just leave her, Balls. We'se can git out'a here while Cora's still upstairs."
"No way, Dicky. You seen the loot in this joint. We ain't splittin' till our kick is full up."
The three of them waited, pinned by shadows against the wall. A clock ticked somewhere. The Writer noticed again the other door behind him, with the cross on it, and without thinking he opened it. Cinderblock steps descended into darkness, and an awful smell assailed his nostrils.
"Shee-it, what's that stink?" Balls complained.
"It's coming from down there, presumably a basement."
Dicky saw the cross. "Just like the ones outside goin' ‘round the whole yard."
"It's interesting," the Writer reflected. "An occult afficionado... using crosses as some kind of transitive emblem."
Balls shot the Writer a funky look. "Close that fuckin' door. The stink's pissin' me off."
The Writer quietly reclosed the door, then went back to listening for any noises from upstairs. Then—
Tiny footfalls were heard padding fast down the stairs carpet.
Cora ducked around the hall. She looked more perplexed than anything.
"Well?" Balls asked. "You see who's up there?"
"It's a gal, weird-lookin'," the addict-prostitute enlightened them.
"A gal? Old, you mean?"
"Naw, don't thank so." Cora's eyes thinned. "And she looked weird 'cos she was all, like, black."
"A colored gal, you mean," Dicky presumed.
"Guess Crafter's got a maid," Balls supposed.
The Writer frowned.
"Naw, naw," Cora insisted. "I mean she was all black and wet. Like she been painted with black paint. And she was buck nekit."
Balls sighed. "A nekit woman painted black, huh? Shee-it. What else could I expect from a meth-head? You're seein' things, ya asshole."
"I am not!" Cora objected, almost too loud. "She was painted black, she was all wet'n shiny. And I don't mean black like a nigruh. I mean black like... black. Like road tar or somethin'. And she were layin' on a big fluffy bed, friggin' herself."
"What?" Balls asked for reiteration.
"She was playin' with herself. Feelin' herself up'n rubbin' her cooter. That's what I seed when I looked in. The first bedroom. She were workin' herself up inta a swivet, too, and just 'fore I come back down it looked like she was tryin' ta stick her whole fist in herself. That's what I saw."
Balls sputtered through a frown. "A gal painted black fistin' her own cooze. You're high, Cora. You've sucked so much dick ya got jizz fer brains."
"If'n ya don't believe me, go look fer yourself!" she countered. "But first ya best keep your end'a the bargain. Untie me'n lemme git out'a here, like ya promised."
"Shore, baby—"
WHAP!
Balls bopped her in the back of the head with his homemade blackjack, and once again Cora collapsed.
Balls jerked his head toward the stairs. "Dicky, git upstairs'n take care of this. Don't know what the fuck Cora's talkin' 'bout but I'se guess there really is a chick up there. So's you go punch her lights out'n tie her up."
Di
cky's jaw dropped. "Why me, Balls?"
"'Cos I said so. What, you's afraid of a splittail?"
"Naw, but... It's dark up there, and—"
"Just git on up there like I tolt ya."
Dicky's hooded eyes shot to the Writer. "Send him!"
"Shee-it, Dicky. He's a writer. Writer's are pussies."
The Writer interjected, "I'll admit, I am—to use your colloquialism—a pussy, but please know that not all writers are. Ernest Hemingway, for instance, was a boxer, a combatant in the Spanish Civil War, and a certified bull fighter. More recently, I'll mention the indisputable machismo of popular literary novelist John Irving. He would read Shakespeare and Percy Shelley in redneck bars, and when the patrons laughed at him? He'd give them all quite a pranging."
