Stories (2011)

by Joe R. Lansdale

  "This old house," said Kevin, "didn’t you say something at school about it being haunted?"

  "No. I said there was an old legend about it. Not exactly a haunting. No ghost. Let’s don’t talk about it. I’d forgotten about it."

  "Crying out loud. You talk me into this and won’t even tell me the ghost story that goes with it?"

  "It’s a silly story."

  "It’ll entertain me."

  "Roll out those bedrolls and I’ll entertain you!"

  Kevin laughed, took Dag’s hand. "Come on, tell me."

  Dag sighed, lifted her head from his shoulder. "It’s just a bunch of nonsense. It’ll give you nightmares. Worse yet, it’ll give me nightmares and I’m the one that thought up this screwy idea."

  "The cold does take some of the charm out."

  "Uh huh."

  "Very well. You talked me into this, so that puts you on the spot. Dag, spill the story."

  "All right, but it’s screwy. My grandfather, who owned this house last, was as rich as they come. He could do what he damned well pleased. He pleased to explore the world, and did. Down in South America he found Huitzilopochtli, or so he claimed."

  "Who?"

  "Huitzilopochtli. Let me tell you a bit of the background behind that. It helps for understanding the story."

  "Are you making this up?"

  Dag held up her hand. "Girl Scout’s honor. This is for the family legend. I’ve heard it all my life. I was interested in it enough to do some reading on it. There really isn’t much about Huitzilopochtli, or witchy-wolves, as the Spanish called him. As far as I can tell the witchy-wolves stuff had nothing to do with werewolves and that sort of thing. Some other connotation altogether.

  "The Aztec, as the Spanish called them, supposedly, early in their history, found in a grotto an idol. This idol was Huitzilopochtli, and through the idol a god lived. The god offered the Aztec advice. It was a constant oracle if they would satisfy certain conditions. They were to carry the idol with them like a banner and feed it on fresh hearts ripped from the breast of recently sacrificed victims. This was part of the Aztec preoccupation with human sacrifice, the satisfaction of Huitzilopochtli."

  "And your uncle found Huitzilopochtli?"

  "So goes the legend. After the Spanish came and destroyed the Aztec, the idol was hidden, and eventually when its keepers died it was forgotten. Without human sacrifices it became nothing more than stone again.

  "While exploring some ancient caves my uncle came upon the idol. All this was recorded in his diary. What happened after the discovery of the idol was also recorded, and when his diary was read it was determined he claimed the idol made him a promise."

  "He claimed the idol made him a promise..."

  "The same promise it made the Aztec. He brought the idol home with him. Here. Used it to make things better for himself than they were. Not that he needed it. He was rich, remember? But you see, the neighbors started missing."

  "I got it. He was killing them for Huitzilopochtli."

  "On the dot. He kept a diary of it all. How he killed them and flayed their skin to wear as a robe."

  "Yetch!"

  "In this very house he killed and cut the hearts out of his victims. The diary goes into great detail. It tells how he fed them to the idol, a small black statue not over six-inches high with a leering face, ruby-red eyes, and one of its hands holding an upturned plate."

  "A plate?"

  "That’s where the heart went, and once it was placed there, still dripping blood, the statue would begin to come to life. The diary tells how its eyes would be the first thing to reveal its life. Blood red they would become, and then the statue, plate and all, would grow to the height of eight feet."

  "Jesus, that’s one tall tale. He was losing his marbles!"

  "When the heart was devoured, the statue would return to normal size."

  "And lifelessness?"

  "Right. Well, it was never entirely lifeless. Just limited in mobility."

  "Why the skins? Why did he flay the victims?"

  "That was another part of the Aztec custom. To flay the victims and wear the skin to impersonate a deity."

  "What happened to your grandfather?"

  "That’s the interesting part. He went to prison. For one night he was in the middle of one of his ceremonies when the law broke down the door. They found grandfather wearing the unfortunate victim’s skin. The body was on the floor, it’s chest torn open."

  "The idol?"

  "Nowhere to be found."

  "Then it was all in his mind?"

  "The victim’s heart was never found either, and according to legend, there were deep grooves dug in the wooden floor planks as if by something heavy being dragged across it."

  "Huitzilopochtli making his escape."

  "The scrapes got smaller outside, and they said they tracked the scrapes for some distance till they disappeared into a stream. They dragged the stream a couple of times, but decided the current must have carried it out to the river."

  "And your grandfather? You said he went to prison for awhile."

  "He did. He began to age radically. You see he was 65 then and looked 40. He’d looked 40 ever since he found the idol. He claimed that was part of his agreement with the god. Fresh hearts for eternal life and youth.

  "He spent about six months in jail and looked 70 by the end of that time, and then, by a stroke of luck he managed to escape."

  "They catch him?"

  "Never even saw him again. But legend goes that some folks saw him, and that he was as young as before, and the story goes on to say that when the heat died down he came back here, and off and on, it’s been his headquarters."

  "And the diary?"

  "The police took it, turned it over to the family eventually. That’s how we all know about it."

  "Grisly!"

  Dag nodded. "But you have to admit, eternal life is quite a prize."

  "I suppose," Kevin agreed.

  That night they made love and Kevin could not remember it ever being so passionate. Not even the first time when the thrill of sneaking into her dorm room added to the pleasure. This was something else altogether. Hot, unrestrained passion.

  When they were through he slept with Dag close in his arms, her sweet breath tickling his flesh.

  It was the smell of the candles that first alerted him to wakefulness, and then the sound of chanting. He blinked. Dag was gone. He raised up on one elbow, and gasped. Before the fireplace, back turned, was a figure, and on the figure’s back was a tattered skin. Enough of it remained so that there was no doubt as to what type of skin. It was human flesh. Through rips and rents in the skin the flesh of another showed. It was from this figure the chanting came.

  And as Kevin watched, frozen, the figure turned.

  It was a man, about 40. But the eyes were much older, and very wicked. Kevin found the courage to struggle out of his bedroll and to his feet.

  The man moved toward him. Kevin could see that the face of the skin was thrown back like a hood. The man reached up and took it, pulling it down over his face.

  "Kevin."

  He turned quickly. Behind him, wearing the same ghoulish garb as the old man, was Dag.

  "Dag... What?" And then he noticed what was in her hand and what set on the floor beside her.

  "Eternity is worth most anything," Dag said and she lunged toward him with the obsidian knife.

  He had just enough time to scream before the old man grabbed his hair and Dag planted the dagger in his chest. But before the blade ripped his heart free, the thing that had been at Dag’s feet, a little, black, grotesque statuette, moved on stone legs and feet toward him. In one hand, balanced in the middle of its palm, it held a black, obsidian plate.

  Empty.

  For now.

  ISLAND

  “He’s really a very nice boy,” the father said, shifting in his chair, adding, “when he’s asleep.”

  The man behind the desk laughed. “Yes, we have a lot of them h
ere on the island.”

  The boy, uncomfortable in short pants, white shirt, black tie and sporty little jacket, squeaked his dress shoes on the floor when he moved, said, “Sorry.”

  It’s just his mother and I, well, we don’t have a lot of time to ourselves, and he causes…trouble.”

  I understand. We all understand here.”

  “He has problems at school. Bullies pick on him. He doesn’t fight back. He always wants books and such. Not much for sports, you see. It’s not just the bullies. There’s other things. He wants lots of attention. We’ve tried medication. Doesn’t help much.”

  “Well, there’s good attention, and there’s bad attention. And seldom think medication is such a good idea. As for good attention and bad attention, here he’ll sort them out.”

  I saw as soon as we got off the boat, as we were driven in, that this could be the right place for him. I can see it’s the kind of place that can mature a boy quickly.”

  “Daddy, I don’t want to stay here.”

  “It’ll be okay, son.”

  “I don’t like it here.”

  “It’s not about liking it, son. Is it Mr. Vesty?”

  “No. Not at all. It’s about learning to stand on your own two feet and becoming a man. Many have come here who were, well, weak, a bit sissy. Some left here strong and powerful young men. That’s our hope for you. And, if it doesn’t work out that way, I assure you, my boy, everyone is better off.”

  “But, daddy.”

  “No, son. This is it. We’ve tried all the conventional methods, but you stay the same.”

  “I can change.”

  “You always say that.”

  “But, Daddy, I just–”

  “Enough. We’ve been over it.”

  “You’ll need to sign here,” Mr. Vesty said.

  The father picked up the pen and signed the sheet of paper. The scratching of the pen sounded very loud in the little room.

  Finished, Mr. Vesty walked with father and son to the door.

  “You’ll be escorted out the way you came in,” Mr. Vesty said to the father.

  “And, your boy, we’ll start on him immediately.”

  “If it doesn’t work out…you’ll call me?”

  “Of course. And we take care of all arrangements. Your fee covers that.”

  Father turned to his son, said, “Do your best. This is the way it should be, and the best for everyone all the way around. You pay attention to things, keep yourself alert, you’ll…probably be okay. And I’ll come to see you in a few years…to pick you up.”

  “But, Daddy, I’m small…I, don’t know.”

  “Good, bye, son. I wish you luck.”

  The father took his son’s hand and shook it. “Keep your hands up. Anything goes in life, so you have to be ready. Hands up, now.”

  The door to the armored car was opened and the father went out between two armed guards who had been waiting. They guided him into the vehicle and the father closed the door without looking back. The guards climbed in up front.

  The car drove off.

  Mr. Vesty put his hand at the boy’s back, said, “Good, luck. And don’t come back here. No one will answer the door.”

  All about, boys were running wild, naked, with sticks and stones. Fighting each other. One child lay on the ground with his eye poked out, the stick that had done the deed was still in his face. He quivered and groaned, finally lay still.

  Smoke rose up in the distance.

  “But, I’m not a fighter,” the boy said.

  “You better try and be. This place is about survivors”

  Mr. Vesty stepped briskly behind the boy, and placing his foot to the seat of the child’s pants, shoved him face down into the dirt.

  Mr. Vesty stepped back inside the bunker, and closed the door.

  The boy rose up on hands and knees. His nose was bloody where it had scraped the ground. From his four point position, he saw a clutch of grinning, yelling boys, all of them carrying sticks and clubs, rushing right for him.

  IT WASHED UP

  In the moonlight, in the starlight, the churning waves seemed white with laundry soap. They crashed against the shore and the dark rocks there, and when they rolled back they left wads of seaweed and driftwood and all the tossed garbage and chunks of sewage that man had given the sea.

  All the early night and into the midnight hour, the junk washed up, and then, a minute past one, when the sea rolled out and took its laundry soap waves with it, a wad of seaweed from which clinging water dripped like shiny pearls, moved. It moved and it stood up and the shiny pearls of water rolled over the seaweed, and the sewage clung tight and the thing took shape, and the shape was that of a man, featureless and dark and loose as the wind.

  The seaweed and sewage man, gone shiny from the pearl drops of sea foam, walked toward town, and in the town it heard the clang and clatter of automobiles out on the brightly lit street, and it saw the street from its position in a dark alley, watched the cars zoom by and heard the people shout, and it chose to stick to the dark.

  It went along the dark alley and turned down an even more narrow and darker alley, and walked squishing along that path until it came to the back of a theater where an old man with a harmonica and a worn-out hat sat on a flattened cardboard box and played a bluesy tune until he saw the thing from the ocean shuffle up.

  The thing twisted its head when the music stopped, stood over the man, reached out and took the hat from the man's head and put it on its own. Startled, the man stood, and when he did, the thing from the ocean snatched his harmonica. The man broke and ran.

  The thing put the harmonica in its mouth and blew, and out came a toneless sound, and then it blew again, and it was a better sound this time; it was the crash of the sea and the howl of the wind. It started walking away, blowing a tune, moving its body to a boogie-woogie rhythm and a two-step slide, the moves belying the sound coming from the instrument, but soon sound and body fell in line, swaying to the music, blowing harder, blowing wilder. The notes swept through the city like bats in flight.

  And out into the light went the thing from the ocean, and it played and it played, and the sound was so loud cars slammed together and people quit yelling, and pretty soon they were lining up behind the thing from the ocean, and the thing played even louder, and those that fell in line behind it moved as it moved, with a boogie-woogie rhythm and a two-step slide.

  Those who could not walk pushed the wheels of their wheel chairs, or gave their electric throttles all the juice, and there were even cripples in alleyways who but minutes before had been begging for money, who bounced along on crutches, and there were some without crutches, and they began to crawl, and the dogs and the cats in the town followed suit, and soon all that was left in the town were those who could not move at all, the infants in their cribs, the terminally sick, and the deaf who couldn't hear the tune, and the thing from the ocean went on along and all of the townspeople managed after.

  It went out of the town and down to the shore, and over the rocks and into the sea, and with its head above water, it rode the waves out, still playing its tune, and the people and animals from the town went in after, and it took hours for them to enter the ocean and go under and drown, but still the head of the thing from the sea bobbed above the waves and the strange music wailed, and soon all that had come from the town were drowned. They washed up on the beach and on the rocks, water swollen, or rock cut, and lay there in the same way that the garbage from the sea had lain.

  And finally the thing from the sea was way out now and there was just the faint sound of the music it played, and in the houses the infants who had been left could hear it, and they didn't cry as the music played, and even those who could not move, and those in comas, heard or felt the music and were stirred internally. Only the deaf were immune. And then the music ceased.

  The thing from the sea had come apart from the blast of the waves and had been spread throughout the great, deep waters, and some of the thing would was
h up on the beach, and some of it would be carried far out to sea, and the harmonica sunk toward the bottom and was swallowed by a large fish thinking it was prey.

  And in the town the infants died of starvation, and so did the sick ones who could not move, and the deaf, confused, ran away, and the lights of the town blared on through day and night and in some stores canned music played and TVs in houses talked, and so it would be for a very long time.

  THE LAST OF THE HOPEFUL

  High up, on the edge of the cliff, green wings strained, gathered the wind and held it. But the breeze-bloated device did not lift the girl who wore it aloft. Two men, one old, one young, stood on either side of her, held her, served as an anchor for her lithe, brown body. They were her father and brother.

  "Will I fly like a bird, father?" the young girl asked. Her voice was weak with fear. The wind seemed to clutch the words from her mouth and toss them out over the glistening green land of Oahu.

  "No," her father said, "you will not fly like a bird and you must not try. Do not flap the wings. Let the wind rule and take you where it wants you to go. Glide. Do you understand?"

  "Yes father," she said, "I understand."

  "Good. Now tell me one more time what you know."

  "I know all the songs of our people. I know all the hulas. I know where we lived and how it was when we lived our own way and were not controlled by others. I know all of this. I know of all the things before the coming of Kamehameha."

  "You are the last of us, daughter. You are the last of our hope. I have long expected this day, dreamed once that we would be driven here and forced over the side, down to death on the rocks. But in the dream we did not scream, and we will not scream this day."

  "And the bird, father," the young boy said.

  "Yes, and there was a great bird in the sky, green and brown, and I came to understand what it meant. This day could not be avoided, but there was still hope for our people. That is why I built the wings and taught you all these things, some are things that women have never been taught before."

  "But maybe," the young girl said, "it was only a bird in your dream-a real bird."