Ceremonies

by T E. D Klein

  The library proved to be on the first floor of the building, and, true to the Brethren's work ethic, was open even on a Sunday. Poroth, they soon discovered, had not been exaggerating about its contents. As the two of them surveyed the narrow room with its meagerly stocked shelves, they saw nothing that would have corrupted the most innocent schoolchild. There were cookbooks, books on farming, and books of household hints, but the bulk of the works were religious, and most of them appeared to have been written in the days when people still drove Model T's to church. An entire shelf was devoted to refutations of Darwin; another bulged with temperance literature, most of it written before the start of Prohibition.

  'Sarr was right,' said Carol. 'There's certainly nothing here to make the blood race.'

  'Yeah,' said Freirs. 'Too bad!'

  Carol looked in vain for a librarian. There appeared to be no one around, nor even a desk or a counter where one would have worked. Voorhis seemed very far away. The only other person in the room was a short, portly woman who was fanning herself vigorously as she peered through a section of inspirational novels.

  'I've read every one of 'em once or twice before,' she confided, after they'd walked over to introduce themselves, 'but I like 'em even better when I know how the story comes out.' She explained that, in fact, there was no librarian on duty – 'leastways not summers, when the school's closed down. Folks just come in, take what they please, and bring the books back when they can.'

  'No kidding,' said Freirs. 'What's to stop somebody from just walking in and stealing all the books?'

  The woman seemed surprised. 'The sort of folks who come in here ain't the sort who steal,' she said, regarding him with suspicion. 'And the sort who steal ain't the sort who come in here.'

  Freirs, having sized up the woman as a regular, explained what he was looking for. She led him and Carol to an alcove near the back where floor-to-ceiling shelves sagged beneath the weight of thin brown books the size of atlases, piled flat. They were bound volumes of the Hunterdon County Home News.

  'Perfect,' said Freirs.

  'Back before the war,' Rupert Lindt had told them. The two scanned the shelves for the volumes from the thirties, and found them in a pile near the floor. From the way the books stuck together from the heat when Freirs pulled out the one marked 1937, Carol guessed they were rarely consulted.

  He flipped through the volume. The newspapers were yellow with age and smelled like a damp cellar. Over the years many of the bindings had loosened. Most were missing corners; here and there whole sheets were torn in half. The Home News had, in those days, been a weekly, with few issues more than eight pages long, but it was obviously the only source of local news; Gilead had never had a paper of its own.

  Carol watched as Freirs turned the pages. What struck her immediately about the stories she saw was their violence; rather than the sedate era she'd imagined, the newspapers conjured up an age of lawlessness, freak accidents, and sudden death. A local dentist, speeding from Flemington to Sergeantsville, had injured his best friend in an auto crash and had promptly committed suicide: Arrested as Drunken Driver, said the headline, He Goes to Office and Inhales Laughing Gas. A man in Pennsylvania had been shot down by a fellow hunter in an argument over a deer. A Baptistown man had been stung to death by bees.

  Other news was more frivolous and bespoke a happier time. A convention of dance teachers in Atlantic City had proclaimed the end of jitterbug ('People are tired of the jumping dances such as the Shag, Big Apple, and other athletic steps,' explained one), and railroads still ran everywhere: a special train had been initiated, running from Flemington to the New York World's Fair, whose admission price had just been raised to fifty cents. A New Haven Railroad ad suggested Sleep on the Train – Wake Up Refreshed in Maine. Clearly some conveniences had vanished since then.

  It took them nearly half an hour to work through the 1937 volume and the subsequent one before they came upon the article Freirs sought, in the issue of August 3, 1939. It had been an otherwise happy summer week, the populace keeping busy with a round of local fairs, auctions, and church socials. The weekend's weather had been hot; temperatures had run to 96 degrees during the day, 81 at night. The moon had been full. Amid the welter of other news the report of the murder near Gilead – Slain Girl's Body Found in Woods – would have gone virtually unnoticed if the two of them hadn't been looking for it.

  The article was a brief one; no doubt many of the details had been suppressed. The girl, one Annelise Heidler, twenty, had been reported missing on the evening of July 31 by her father, a prominent Flemington attorney. Two days later a party of deer hunters had discovered her corpse suspended from a tree in the woods outside Gilead. It had been partially burned and bore markings 'of an obscene nature' made with black grease. 'Although police refused to speculate,' the article added, 'elderly residents of the town have opined that the perpetrator or perpetrators may have been imitating a similar crime committed on July 31,1890, in the same location.'

  Freirs' eyes widened. 'Jesus,' he said, turning to Carol, 'it seems the murder had a precedent.'

  'Somehow that makes it even more horrible.'

  He nodded, not really listening. 'Let's see what the paper said.' Replacing the volume, he searched for the one marked 1890.

  'There it is,' said Carol. She pointed to an upper shelf. Freirs had to reach for the book on tiptoe and tug to pull it out.

  It was well that, this time, they knew the exact date of the article they sought,. because finding it in this early volume would have been difficult. The Home News had changed greatly in the intervening half century, and the version they were looking at now contained far fewer photographs; the typeface was smaller, the front page more cluttered, and the headlines, true to the practice of the day, maintained an almost enigmatic reserve: A Fatal Argument, The Closing of a Brewery, Unfortunate Accident in High Bridge.

  Freirs leafed quickly through the book, watching the county's history pass in review. Mills had been erected; people had made fortunes in the railroad; a Baptistown farmer had set a state record with a squash that weighed 118 pounds.

  He came across the article he wanted in the first issue of August. The county then had been suffering an unusually hot summer. The week's average temperature, the paper said, was 98 degrees in the shade. Ads recommended Hood's Sarsaparilla as 'an excellent remedy for summer weakness during the oppressive, muggy weather of the dog days.' A West Portal boy had gone blind from picking strawberries in the hot sun; eleven celebrants at the Hunterdon County Harvest Festival – 'the biggest gala in the history of the county' – had had to be treated for heat prostration.

  The article in question was a relatively brief one, crowded out by optimistic pieces on the fair. Tragedy Revealed, it said.

  Gilead, August 2. – Authorities here report the death of Lucina Reid, 16, daughter of Jared Reid of this town. She had been missing since the evening of July 31. Her body was discovered by searchers in the section of outlying woods popularly known as McKinney's Neck, the full moon aiding them in their task. Positive identification of the body was difficult, abominations having been practiced upon it, though further reports indicate that death was due to strangulation. Authorities are searching She heard Freirs catch his breath. For some reason, she didn't know why, she felt her own heart pound a little harder as she read the passage again.

  Authorities are searching for Absolom Troet, 22, of the same town, believed to be the last to see Miss Reid alive.

  For Freirs, it was like seeing a familiar face in the middle of a nightmare: it made the nightmare worse. So here the trail ends, he thought. The evil led back to Absolom Troet, the boy with the devil in him. Freirs recalled the blank space on the tombstone and, even in the heat of the library, felt a shudder.

  'This is the guy who set fire to the farmhouse that used to be on the Poroths' land,' he said to Carol, knowing there was too much to explain. 'He was some kind of distant ancestor of Sarr's, and when he was a little kid he killed his whole famil
y, burned 'em in their sleep. And now it seems he must have gone right on murdering.'

  'God!' said Carol, shaking her head. 'I thought things like that only happened today.'

  There was nothing about the crime in the following week's paper, but two weeks later a brief notice appeared to the effect that Absolom Troet, 'wanted in connection with the killing of a Gilead girl,' was still missing. 'Authorities have been unable to locate him,' the notice said. 'It is believed he has taken his own life.' There was no further mention of the crime.

  'Well,' Freirs said, 'there's just one more item to search for.' Shoving the book back onto the shelf, he withdrew one still earlier, marked 1877.

  It was a curious sensation, looking through these volumes in reverse. Time was running backward, and Hunterdon County grew younger. New Jersey, he saw, had been a rather wild place in '77; he read of cattle rustling, stable fires, and hunting accidents. A Milford boy had died in February from the attack of a 'mad bull,' another from the bite of a snake. In Flemington in March one Deto Turo, described as 'an Italian bootblack,' had stabbed three men in a bar. In June a Moses Rehmeyer, four years old, had fallen down a cistern and drowned, and a man had been sentenced to twelve years' imprisonment for horse stealing. One of the lead stories in July, Died from Drinking Too Much Milk, told of a cook 'employed on Gen. Schwenck's large dairy farm' who'd drunk herself to death after having become, in the words of the article, Very fond of fresh milk.' He wondered what the temperance crowd had made of that.

  There were dozens of reports of fires – civilization in those days seemed to have been one colossal tinderbox – but it wasn't until he saw the notice Tragic Fire in Gilead, near the end of the volume, that he knew he'd found what he'd been searching for.

  'Here it is,' he said.

  The report was a brief one, buried near the bottom of the page.

  Gilead, Nov. 1. – The farm of Isaiah Troet, 38, was the scene of a terrible tragedy last night when sparks from a wood stove apparently ignited combustible material in the kitchen. Eight of the family are believed to have perished in the conflagration that destroyed their home. Among the dead were Troet, his wife Hanna, and six children, all of whom were apparently asleep when the fire broke out. The volunteer fire brigade arrived too late to save the unfortunate family. Authorities from Annandale and Lebanon picked through the charred remains this morning and attributed the fire to 'an act of God.' The only survivor, nine-year-old Absolom Troet, had been outside at the time of the blaze, attending to a sick calf in the barn. Authorities say the boy will live with relatives.

  'Can't we go now, Jeremy?' whispered Carol. 'This tiny print's beginning to give me a headache. Or maybe it's just thinking about all those poor people.'

  'Sure,' said Freirs. 'Sorry for taking so long.' He slipped the book back on the shelf and wiped the dust of the old paper from his hands.

  He thought about Absolom Troet all the way back to the farm. And he kept wiping his hands.

  Sarr and Deborah were in the house when we got back. They were all fired up amp; full of the Holy Spirit; even when I was out here in this room, I could hear them clattering through the kitchen, humming little snatches of hymns. I suppose that when you don't have any Broadway shows around, or movies or TV, you take whatever entertainment you can get.

  They both told me over amp; over how 'exalted' they felt, but as far as I'm concerned they might just as well have said 'exhausted,' since they'd apparently spent the last four hours praying on their knees, rising to sing, kneeling, standing again… Good preparation for planting seeds, maybe, but not the sort of religion I'd choose.

  They were both very nice about my birthday, though – why hadn't I told them, Deborah would have baked me something special, etc. etc. She actually kissed me on the side of the mouth. (Could feel her breast brush against my arm. I don't think she wears anything beneath that dress.) Sarr put down the wicked-looking scythe blade he was honing amp; contented himself with an earnest shake of my hand.

  Wish I knew how Carol felt about him. Of course, nothing could have gone on between them last night (notwithstanding a few fantasies I had when I came out here), but I still sense a certain interest there, at least on Carol's part. As for Sarr, I'm now convinced he has his mind on God and eyes for no one but his wife. But who can say? Who can say what's in another person's head?

  I twisted Carol's arm a bit, amp; she agreed to stay for dinner, despite lots of moaning amp; groaning about the drive back to New York. It was a nice meal, one that Carol, this time, could eat: cheese omelet, garden salad, amp; that cake of Carol's for dessert. She amp; I finished off the Geisels' wine from last night; both Poroths declined. I guess one night of transgression is enough for the weekend.

  Deborah, as usual, spent the meal laughing amp; carrying on amp; generally having a good time – she obviously craves company – but Sarr tended to withdraw a bit as the evening wore on. He sat there like one of his own cats, getting all silent amp; brooding amp; inscrutable. Maybe it's because I made the mistake of asking him about those murders.. .

  'God's my witness, Jeremy,' he said, 'you know more about those things than I do. I'm just plain not interested. I wasn't around in 1939, and I certainly wasn't around in 1890. I've heard my mother had some sort of premonition about the one in '39, but I'm not really sure. She was a young girl then. I told you about the gift they say she has.'

  Freirs nodded. 'Obviously in this case the gift didn't help.'

  'I guess not,' said Poroth. He sounded somewhat downcast. 'My mother seldom speaks of it. I expect it's troubling to her.'

  'What intrigues me most,' said Freirs, 'are the legends these things give rise to. I gather people claim they've seen ghosts in the woods where the murders occurred.'

  Poroth shrugged. 'Some claim that. Personally, I don't hold with such tales. I believe they're probably in error. Still, there could be something to it. It's not for us to say.'

  Freirs decided that he liked the idea of having a haunted place so nearby. It was just the sort of thing he could take back to his classes, evidence of modern superstition.

  Carol was gazing at Poroth sympathetically. 'You don't believe in ghosts yourself, then?'

  'On the contrary,' he said. 'I know full well that they exist, as sure as there are eggs and fireflies and angels. I just don't think they stay out there in the woods.'

  Freirs decided that he hoped they did.

  Carol wanted to leave before eight, to give herself plenty of daylight to navigate the dirt road amp; the way back to Gilead, but the Poroths' clock has gone off amp; I'd left my watch inside here, so she probably didn't start till close to nine, when it had already begun to get dark. Hope she makes it okay; she was really nervous about the goddamned driving.

  Was sorry to see her go. Never really got as close to her as I'd wanted to, amp; don't know when she'll have another chance to come out here. There's a kind of genuineness in her I don't find in most New York girls; she makes me feel like a teenager again, which isn't really as bad as it sounds, esp. for an old man of thirty.

  'Oh, come off it,' says another voice. 'You just want to get laid.'

  Could be. (Sigh.) Maybe I'll try to see her in the city next time, in my own environment, Tather than out here on someone else's turf.

  Came out here after she left amp; tried to do some work. Started on Melmoth the Wanderer by the Rev. Charles Robert Maturin. Powerful stuff, but after the Lewis book I'm getting a little sick of all the Catholic-baiting. No doubt it's great fun for the connoisseur of atrocity scenes – still more mothers clutching the wormy corpses of their infants (a Gothic staple, I suspect), starving prisoners forced to eat their girlfriends (that's a new one on me) – but the Inquisition's over now, the villains dead amp; gone, amp; all a book like this can do is put you in a rage. Fine for getting me through tomorrow morning's pushups, no doubt – a drop of adrenaline works wonders – but otherwise quite useless.

  Hmmm, never thought I'd find myself sticking up for the Papists. Must be Carol's i
nfluence.

  Afterward, wished I'd taken some notes on that story 'The White People,' which Carol took back with her. Already seem to have forgotten most of it, and what I do remember seems oddly confusing amp; repetitive. I did locate, in one anthology, another Machen piece, about a London clerk named Darnell who has mystical visions of an ancient town amp; woods amp; hills.

  Our stupid ancestors taught us that we could become wise by studying books on 'science,' by meddling with test-tubes, geological specimens, microscopic preparations, and the like; but they who have cast off these follies know that the soul is made wise by the contemplation of mystic ceremonies and elaborate and curious rites. In such things Darnell found a wonderful mystery language, which spoke at once more secretly and more directly than the formal creeds; and he saw that, in a sense, the whole world is but a great ceremony.

  The writing was beautiful, with a real magic to it – yet somehow my mind began wandering. When I was halfway through I looked down amp; saw something squatting sticklike on my pillow, just beneath my nose, something like a cross between a cricket amp; a spider amp; a frog, amp; as I watched the thing began to chatter; it pranced amp; chirped amp; shrieked at me amp; shook its tiny fist, amp; then I woke up. The story was still where I'd left it, amp; a huge white moth, horned like the devil, was tapping at my window.

  Must be midnight now, amp; the coldest night so far. Strange, really: it was hot all day, but with evening comes a chill. The dampness of this place must magnify the temperature. Carol complained that it gave her bad dreams last night, but she wouldn't talk about them.

  Yes, past midnight; I just checked. Thirty years behind me now, another birthday gone. Where do the damned things go?