by Donnie Light
He began to read the papers he had brought from his office. Gaston had called him a few months ago requesting the same information. He had said he was interested in the legend and wondered if Paxon had any information on the subject, since the whole thing had taken place in his own geographical backyard. Paxon knew of the legend, but had never investigated it himself. In fact, it was one of those projects he had always intended to get around to, but had not found the time. He had planned to write about the legend, maybe even get it published. The school had some information concerning the story, so Paxon had reluctantly sent copies to Gaston. Paxon felt Gaston was intruding into his territory and taking a project from him. He knew he could not stop him, so decided to cooperate—a little. Perhaps some of Gaston’s fame would rub off on him.
Gaston had called him back several days later to thank him and they had discussed the legend in more detail. What he had learned from Gaston was the extent of Paxon’s knowledge on the subject. Paxon had to admit then, and again now, that the story was damned interesting, however unlikely it seemed.
If he could only get settled into a good school, he thought, he could really do some good work. It also seemed Paxon was moving too often—six schools in the last fourteen years. The schools would only tolerate him for so long then let him go. Their loss, Paxon thought, John Paxon has yet to do his greatest work.
That great work was always just around the corner for Paxon. The idea of doing this work was appealing to him but he never got down to the nuts and bolts of getting it done. He always intended to start soon, but it never happened.
Paxon knew he had to get it done soon or he would lose this job too. Even this little school had their reservations about Paxon. He knew the next job would be even harder to find, if he ever found one. He could tell by the way the staff acted that he was on his last leg at Baxter. He had seen it too many times at other schools. The coolness toward him, no long range plans for him, not being included in staff meetings; these were warning signals.
Paxon continued to read the papers, taking a slug of the whiskey after each page or so. His eyes began to burn, so he took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair. He took another swig, placed the bottle back on the desk and fell sound asleep.
– Chapter 14 –
Benjamin Richards ran down the lane toward his home. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the glowing orb following him.
He entered the back door of the house and ran to his study. He grabbed the pistol from the rack on the wall.
A harsh rasping sound came from the kitchen.
Richards heard the sound of breaking glass as the ball chewed its way through the wall and then through a china cabinet. The china crashed to the floor, the entire shelf vibrating as the ball bored a hole through the polished cherry-wood.
Richards heard footsteps on the second floor. “Stay up there!” he screamed. The footsteps stopped. He cocked the pistol and stood in the doorway. He glanced up the hall in the direction of the noise. The sound grew louder as the ball began cutting through another wall, seeking its prey.
Richards could feel the boards below his feet vibrating as the ball cut through the house. He spun around, wondering where the thing was. He saw it emerge from the dining room wall and enter the hallway.
The vibrations stopped after it came through the wall. The noise it made was reduced to the sound of the many points on its surface cutting through the air as it spun.
Richards lifted the gun and took aim.
It was too late. The thing was too close.
Richards backed into the parlor as the thing bore down on him. He turned and ran for the front door. Just as he pulled the door open, he felt a searing pain in the middle of his back. The ball had just enough time to touch him, shredding a small patch of shirt and skin, before Richards bolted through the door, screaming.
He stumbled down the front steps and rolled onto the front lawn. He heard his wife and son’s voices calling to him. Quickly, he got to his feet, eyes searching for the ball. He spotted it coming for him but this time had more room between it and him.
He lifted the cocked pistol and took aim. His target was small, so Richards waited for it to get closer before he fired. When it was about ten feet away, Richards pulled the trigger.
In a flash of brilliant light, the lead bullet was shredded to invisible particles as it struck its target.
The orb never altered its path. Richards, horrified, screamed again and ran toward the road.
The darkness of the night was near complete. The quarter-moon was partially covered by broken clouds. He ran blindly down the road. Glancing again over his shoulder, he saw the ball of light behind him. He ran, a small amount of blood trickling down his back.
He gained a little distance on the orb as he ran. His wind was leaving him and Richards gasped for breath.
The ball was following about twenty yards behind him. It began to glow fiercely, shedding a stark white light along the road.
Richards’ stamina was wearing down and he began to slow. He turned, panting, to look for the ball. He was both surprised and horrified at what he saw.
He saw what appeared to be a band of about two dozen slaves keeping a constant pace behind him. The light from the ball continued to glow from within the crowd of slaves, lighting their faces with cold, white light.
The slaves were carrying tools. Some carried hoes; others carried sickles, scythes, or axes. Some of the slaves carried whips. Long snaking whips they cracked over their heads with a jerk of their arms.
They came toward Richards, their eyes glowing from within. They walked silently toward him.
Richards tried to get his breath while his heart leaped about within the walls of his chest. He could see the hate in their eyes and could feel the hate coming off them in waves. Their mouths worked, as if they were speaking, but Richards could hear nothing.
As they grew closer, Richards could see the slaves had an almost ghostly look about them. It was almost as if he could see through them, yet he could not. He recognized many of the faces as his slaves, some that now worked on the plantation, and others who had died years ago. They beckoned him to come to them, their arms motioning him to join them.
C’mon, Masta, we’ve got somethin’ for ya’.
Richards turned to run. The pain in his back was hot as coals. The pain in his side slowed him down. He came to a crossroad, and turned right. The road was bordered by woods on both sides, their darkness as black as the bottom of a well.
Richards looked behind him and did not see the ball or the band of evil slaves.
He took a deep breath of relief and stopped in the road. He watched the road behind him and saw no signs of movement.
He then heard a sound in the woods to his left and peered into the darkness. A light came from the woods, escaping the blackness in a multitude of beams, broken by the trees. He gasped as he saw the silhouettes of the dozens of slaves walking through the woods toward him.
He stumbled along, looking back to see the slaves reassemble on the road behind him.
Don’t run Masta, take it like a man.
Richards turned from them again, running as hard as he could while still glancing over his shoulder. He only gained a few yards this time as his middle-aged body was unaccustomed to running and he had little stamina.
The slaves had dropped back a bit, but he could still see them clearly. He gazed at them while walking backwards and saw something new in their midst.
A woman now walked among them; a white woman.
Richards could not make out the face from this distance, but as the group closed the gap he realized it was Mary—his Mary. She walked among them and seemed to be terrified. He noticed she had shackles around her ankles and her wrists, connected by a heavy chain.
Looky what we got Masta. Ain’t she purty?
Richards gazed in amazement.
Can we have ’er, Masta? Can we?
“No! No! It’s not real!” Richards screamed.
The slaves were much closer now. Richards stumbled backwards, trying to move away from them.
One of the slaves grabbed Mary from behind.
I got ’er Masta.
The slave gripped the back of her dress and ripped it off her. Mary seemed to scream, but issued no sound. Her face was distorted with terror.
The slaves drug her along. One of them placed his hand over her breast.
She’s so soft, Masta.
Again, Richards turned to run and twisted his ankle. The pain shot up his leg, but he still managed to hobble up the road. He could hear the voice in his head.
Where ya’ goin’, Masta?
Richards looked back and saw a ghostly Raymond with a slave on either side of him. The slaves had lifted him by the arms, his feet dangling above the road.
The boy was terrified. A slave pulled off Raymond’s shirt and cracked the whip across his back. He screamed with the pain, a silent scream of torture. The slave cracked the whip again and Raymond threw his head back and shuddered. Raymond’s head then fell forward as if he had passed out. A slave grabbed his hair and lifted his head.
Richards could see the horrified look on Raymond’s face, pleading for help. Richards hobbled off the road into the woods, screaming. He was so terrified that he clawed at the underbrush, tearing great gashes across his hands. He was exhausted from the run, but the fear fueled his body to keep moving. He crawled along on his hands and knees trying to stay ahead of the ball and its evil band of slaves.
Richards fell into a shallow ravine, gasping for breath. He crawled to the side and tried to climb up the short bank. His back still burned and his hands were cut and bleeding. His ankle was twisted badly and could barely support any weight.
Instead of running, Richards tried to hide. He lay with his back against the bank, which rose at a slight angle. He began trying to cover himself with dead leaves. He noticed the glow from the light approaching and became still.
The light grew brighter as it approached and Richards peeked toward it with one eye. He could see the group of ghostly slaves, but saw no sign of Mary or Raymond.
The slaves continued to approach him, climbing down the far side of the ravine.
Richards prayed they would pass him, not noticing him under the dry leaves. He could hear nothing of their approach except a faint whirring, humming sound. He lost sight of the slaves as they reached the bottom of the ravine, but soon noticed they were on both sides of him, looking down into his eyes.
Ya’ can’t hide Masta. We knows where ya’ are.
The slaves surrounded him and Richards began to whimper. “Jesus. Oh, God,” Richards cried.
They can’t help ya’ Masta. You’re on your own now.
The light grew brighter before Richards’ eyes, drowning out the sight of the slaves. The light was so intense that Richards could see nothing else.
A tremendous pain exploded in Richard’s chest causing his body to shudder uncontrollably. The pain was so intense that his body could not comprehend it. He gasped his last breath alone, staring up at the dark sky above him. He noticed the light fade as he died, the ball ripping through his chest, shredding his heart before peacefully coming to rest in its place.
§ § §
Tobias had watched Master Richards as he crashed toward the house. He crawled off the path and was now just inside the cover of the woods.
His pouch was gone, and with it the power that had kept him alive for this long. He was cold now, the pouch’s warmth missing from his side. Inside, he was burning, the infection causing a fierce fever to build within him. His vision was blurred, the fever played games within his head.
He had yet another mission while still in this world, one that was not blessed by the gods. He struggled to muster what remaining strength he had and crawled through the woods like some dark animal prowling through the night.
He crawled north a short distance then turned westward toward the next county, where his boys now lived with Miss Mary and Master Ralph.
He prayed to the gods to give him a little more strength, enough to cover the ten miles to the other plantation. Tobias felt the prayers fell upon deaf ears. You’re on your own now, Tobias, we’ve granted you enough. He crawled along moving slowly, the fever raging in his skull.
The world contains many wonders, few more impressive than the will of man. Tobias willed himself on, crawling on his hands and knees, head spinning wildly, barely able to see.
The instincts of survival also raged within him. It was these instincts that pumped adrenalin through the veins of his ancestors over the millennia. It was this human quality that granted his distant fathers the strength and the will, to do battle in the face of fear. This instinct provided food and warmth, it provided life itself. It provided not courage, but will; the will to survive against all odds.
Tobias continued to crawl westward in his three point stance. His right arm hung uselessly at his side as he shuffled along. He found a rhythm. Blocking out all of his surroundings, he continued forward. He was not aware of the pink glow to the east and the birds who bustled noisily about at his approach. His rhythm was finally broken when he came to a swampy area and realized he was crawling in shallow water.
He looked around then gently lowered his head to the water. He sucked up some water, swirled it in his dry mouth and spat it back into the swamp. He then took another mouthful, but this time swallowed. He sat down, the warm water coming up to his waist. He splashed a little water on his face with his left hand and attempted to stand up. The world swooned around him but he fought to keet his balance.
He began to walk along through the swampy land. He disturbed a nest of small black snakes that brought the water around his feet to life in a squirming fury. Like a small explosion in slow motion, the wiggling black fragments of the nest swam in all directions. After Tobias passed, they all came back together, reassembling themselves into the nest.
He made it to firmer ground and in the distance noticed a road running westward. This road would travel west another three miles then terminate into a north-south road. One mile south of this junction, the twins were busying themselves with their daily chores.
– Chapter 15 –
The drunk held Audra with one hand over her mouth and the other hand - holding a knife - across her chest. She stared wide-eyed at Galen, who began to try to talk the guy down.
“C’mon buddy,” Galen said. “You don’t want to hurt her. Put down the knife and we’ll leave.”
“Up yours!” he stammered. “And I ain’t yer buddy!”
“What’s your problem?” Galen asked, keeping his eyes on his adversary.
“The bitch wouldn’t dance with me!” he said. “I ought to slit her damn throat.” He pulled the knife up close to Audra’s slender neck. “What’s the matter, bitch? Ain’t I good enough for ya’?” he asked. He did not remove his hand to let her answer, but she shook her head. “You want to dance with me now?” he asked. His drunkenness slurred his speech.
Audra nodded, hoping to calm him down. Maybe if she danced with him he would put down the knife.
“Oh, sure,” the drunk said. “Now that I got a knife at yer throat, you wanna dance!” He pulled her back and tightened his grip. “Too late bitch!” he shouted. “Yer too late. Should’a danced with me when you had the chance!”
“C’mon,” Galen said. “You’re only gonna get yourself in a lot of trouble.”
“Shuddup, jerk!” the drunk shouted. He was trying to move Audra backward, behind a parked car.
Galen decided the drunk couldn’t be reasoned with and risked a different tactic. “You always pick on women?” Galen asked. “Are you afraid to fight with men? Is that it?”
“Screw you, bastard!” the drunk said.
“You’re a chicken-shit drunk,” Galen said. “You’re a chicken-shit drunk who’s afraid of a real fight.”
“Shuddup, you stupid bastard!” the drunk yelled. “I ain’t afraid of nothin’, especially a skinny runt like you.” He s
hoved Audra toward Galen causing her to fall in the gravel parking lot. She scrambled to her feet and got behind Galen.
“Get to the car,” Galen said, keeping a keen eye on the drunk.
“No, Galen, the two of us-.”
“I said get to the car, now!”
Audra heard something in the tone of his voice, something that clearly said don’t argue with me! She looked again at the drunk who now wore a maniacal smile across his face. He pitched the knife from hand to hand, beckoning Galen to come. Then she noticed a faint glow coming across the field behind the drunk. She saw Galen switch his glances from the drunk to the ball.
“I said get to the car!” Galen shouted.
“Yeah, little bitch. Get to the car where you’ll be safe,” the drunk said. He looked at Galen. “Let’s rock, asshole,” and swung the knife through the air.
Galen saw Audra running to the car from the corner of his eye. The drunk was coming toward him, the knife held ready to strike. The ball maintained its pace across the field, coming straight at Galen. “You really want to do this?” Galen asked, stalling for time.
“What’s the matter, you chickening out?” the drunk said.
“No. But I could just leave and you’d never see us again.”
“You were callin’ me a chicken-shit!” the drunk yelled. “You’re the chicken-shit!” He laughed loudly, “Now who’s the chicken-shit, you sissy?”
Galen positioned himself so that the drunk was directly between him and the ball. The ball disappeared behind the drunk’s back. Galen continued to stall.
“And what happens after you kill me?” Galen asked.
“I ain’t gonna kill ya’,” the drunk said in an insane voice. “I’m just gonna carve ya’ up a little. Make ya’ wish that I’d killed ya’.”
Galen could tell the ball was closer now. The glow cast a bright spot on the ground just behind the drunk. He heard the Mustang start in the distance and thought about running to it but the drunk was too close. If Galen turned to run, the drunk could bury the knife in his back. He just began to walk backward, toward the car.
