* * * *
Knott envied his colleague, Steve Crandle. Sharyn Rampling was the type of patient a good psychiatrist hopes for but seldom encounters. Witty, well-educated and, above all, challenging. And it didn’t hurt that she was alluringly attractive. The bulk of Knott’s patients were middle-aged deadly-dull depressives and poorly educated schizophrenics whose treatment consisted primarily of medication maintenance, and only a very few of them were amenable to true psychotherapy. Sharyn Rampling was the exceptional patient, and Knott wished, for selfish reasons, that he could engage her in ongoing psychoanalysis. A patient of her caliber was wasted on a doctor like Crandle, whose psychoanalytic technique consisted of engaging the patient in aimless chit-chat or babbling on about his collection of antique cars, while scribbling scripts for medication. Knott consoled himself with the fact that he would have nearly two weeks to work with Miss Rampling before Dr. Crandle returned from his European vacation.
On his way back to the nursing station, he saw Tom Riley, the night-shift PA (Psychiatric Assistant), conducting his hourly bed checks, going room-to-room with a flashlight to make sure each patient was safe (and breathing) in his or her own bed. As they passed in the corridor, he and Tom quietly acknowledged each other with a nod. Before Knott reached the nursing station, Tom called out to him in a loud whisper: “Doc! Doc, you gotta see this!”
He did a quick about-face and joined Tom Riley in the doorway of room 202. Tom turned on the overhead light and the room seemed to leap forward out of darkness. An emaciated elderly woman in a wispy white gown was marking on the wall with a red crayon. When Knott recognized the patient, he understood Tom’s sudden animation. She was Elsa Loveless, the ninety-two-year-old resident of a nearby nursing home who had been transferred to Ridgewood after she lapsed into a near-catatonic state. In the week since her admission, she had remained completely uncommunicative and incapable of feeding herself. And now here she was, standing on frail legs and drawing on the wall, apparently oblivious to the presence of two men in her room.
“Miss Loveless?” said Knott. “Elsa?”
She gave no sign that she had heard him, and continued her work with the crayon.
“What the heck is that?” Tom pointed at the red confusion of squiggles, swirling lines, and blotchy shadings of the old woman’s childlike drawing.
“I think she’s writing a caption,” Knott said. “Let her finish.”
They watched in silence as she printed a single word beneath her artwork, the crayon clamped awkwardly in her gnarled claw-like fingers. When she was done, she turned away from the wall and began to slash at her wrist with the waxy tip of the crayon.
“That’s really weird,” Tom said, shaking his balding head.
“Let’s get her back to bed,” Knott said, gently taking hold of both her wrists. “Come on, Elsa. It’s bedtime. We don’t want you to fall.”
She offered no resistance. After she was safely tucked in, the two men raised the metal bed rails, and then simultaneously returned their attention to the markings on the wall. Like patrons of an art museum trying to make sense of a mystifyingly abstract painting, they stared at the bizarre artwork of Elsa Loveless. The word printed beneath the helter-skelter sketch only added to the enigma of the drawing itself:
HELLING
“What does that mean, Elsa?” asked Knott. “‘Helling.’”
A faint smile (or perhaps a grimace) appeared on her thin lips, then she closed her pale blue eyes and immediately began to snore.
“Considering that she was working in the dark and she’s legally blind, I guess we can’t expect it to look like much of anything,” Tom observed.
“You’re right. Still, I’d like to know what she thought she was drawing. And what prompted her to come out of la-la-land long enough to draw it.”
“Well, clearly she’s not going to tell us.”
Knott took another long look at the mystery sketch, then said, “Tom, make sure that no one cleans that off the wall. Not without my say-so.”
“You got it, Doc. Mind if I ask why?”
“Yes, I do.” Tom Riley shrugged.
“Ooh-kay.”
Knott hated to be rude, but in this case a rude response was better than a truthful one, and the truth was, he wasn’t sure why he wanted the strange drawing left intact. He knew only that he did.
Chapter Two
* * *
From the front porch of her house overlooking the hamlet of Widow’s Ridge, Liza Leatherwood watched the sun climb higher above the mist-shrouded hills and wondered if she could survive another sleepless night. “Lord,” she said, sighing. “I feel nea’ly ’bout as old as them hills.”
A widow of sixteen lonely years, she had gradually fallen into the habit of talking to herself, finding comfort in the sound of her own voice, but here lately, the raspy sound of her vocal chords was just one more nagging reminder that she was becoming an old crone, withered, wrinkled and liver-spotted like a wizened witch from a child’s nightmare. Her mind was still plenty sharp, but her old bones betrayed all of her eighty-nine years.
She shifted her trifling weight in the rocking chair, reached down and picked up the Mason jar of clear liquid from its resting place beside the rocker. Holding the pint jar to her drooping bosom, she unscrewed the metal lid and brought the rim of grooved glass to her lips. The smell of the spirits was so strong it took her breath away, causing her to delay the first sip. “If Wilbur was to see me now, he’d think I’d gone soft in the head,” she said, referring to her late husband. She half-believed he could see her now. He had put so much of himself into this house that there were times when she could actually feel his presence round about her.
Wilbur Leatherwood had begun laying the foundation for the house the same day Liza agreed to marry him, back in the spring of 1938. The house was raised and furnished by midsummer, and they were married by a circuit-riding preacher on the tenth day of August. A week or so later, while Wilbur was working in the quarry, Liza’s grandmother sat with the new bride right here on this same porch and told her the dark secret.
Though Liza’s memory was not as keen as it once was, she could recall every word her grandmother had spoken that long-ago day. With the Mason jar of spirits forgotten for the moment, she closed her eyes and once again revisited the fateful conversation with her mother’s mother.
“They’s some things you need to know, now that you’re not a child anymore,” Granny said with heavy solemnity. Her weathered face lost all trace of her characteristic kindliness.
Thinking the old lady was about to tell her about the “birds and the bees,” Liza said, “Mama already told me all that, Granny.”
Granny shook her gray head. “I’m not talking about marital relations. Now you hush and just listen. Some things you think you know, ain’t true. A long time ago they wuz some bad things happened hereabouts. Things so terrible that they’re only spoken of in whispers or not spoken of atall.
“Things the menfolk don’t know about and—God willin’—never will. You must never breathe a word of this to your husband, nor to any man.”
Young Liza was chilled by the gravity of Granny’s voice and demeanor. She could not imagine what her grandmother was talking about, but she was seized by a powerful yearning to learn of the forbidden—and tantalizing—secret.
“You know how our little hamlet come to be called Widow’s Ridge?” asked the elder.
“Yes ma’am. ’Cause back during the Civil War, none of the men came home. They all died of grievous wounds or terrible disease, making widows out of all the married women of the little hamlet with no name.”
“That’s what you’ve been told, and you learned it word for word, but it’s a made-up story. After what really happened, the womenfolk got together and come up with that cock-and-bull tale and repeated it so many years that it stuck. They did it to hide the truth. It weren’t the war what killed all them boys.”
“Then what was it, Granny?” Brimming with impatience, Liza squ
irmed in her hard seat.
The old woman shut her eyes and shook her head, as if trying to dispel thoughts too dreadful to bear. When finally she answered, the words issued from her tremulous lips like the mournful wail of a bereaved widow at her husband’s wake. “The Helling,” she lamented.
Taken aback by her grandmother’s display of naked emotion, young Liza only echoed the words in a hoarse, questioning whisper. “The Helling?”
The rumbling whine of an approaching automobile intruded upon Liza Leatherwood’s darksome remembrance, and she opened her eyes to see the sporty little car turning off the dusty road and motoring up the gravel drive which led to her house.
“Damnation,” she spat, screwing the lid back on the Mason jar. “That man’s determined to hound me to my grave.”
Tires crunching the gravel, the sports car stopped behind Wilbur’s ancient pickup truck (which hadn’t been started in over six years), and Professor Alfred Thorn hopped out of the convertible, giving her the glad hand. “Hello, Mrs. Leatherwood,” he called as he strode to the front steps. “I’ve got something for you.”
Liza rocked forward in her chair. “You’re wasting your time, Professor. I told you, I don’t know anything about that twaddle.”
Ignoring her comment, Professor Thorn stopped on the first porch-step and held up a fat book. “It’s The Complete Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne. My gift to you, no strings attached.”
“Everything’s got strings,” she contended. “Just because you can’t see ’em, don’t mean you can’t get tangled up in ’em.”
Thorn chuckled, thoughtfully stroking his white-whiskered chin. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “Nevertheless, I want you to have this. You did say Hawthorne’s your favorite author.”
“I did. And I likewise said I can’t help you with your re-search.”
“You did, indeed. And I have to take you at your word.” He came up the steps and held out the book bound handsomely in brown leather. “Please, Mrs. Leatherwood, accept this as a tribute from one Hawthorne-lover to another. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Relenting, she reached out and took the heavy volume with both hands. “Thank you kindly, Professor. I do love the way the man tells a story. I’m not a scholar but I love a good tale, well-told.”
“I think the old scribbler would be pleased to count you among his devoted readers.” Thorn gave her a warm, knowing smile.
“Your flattery’s wasted on me, Professor.” She balanced the book precariously on the knobs of her knees.
He laughed. “That’s what I like about you, Mrs. Leatherwood. You always say what’s on your mind.”
“I’m too old to do otherwise.” She removed her bifocals and cleaned the lenses with a handkerchief she pulled from the bosom of her dress. “And I’m not so foolish as to believe you drove all the way up here just to give me this book. So come out with it. What do you want now?”
He looked down at his feet, assuming the countenance of a scolded child—though Liza judged him to be in his mid-fifties. And right handsome in a rugged sort of way, looking more like a sportsman than a Professor of Anthropology at Dogwood Community College.
“Though I don’t understand your reluctance to share your knowledge of the local folklore and legends, I respect your decision to keep it to yourself. But I would appreciate it if you would point me to someone of your generation who would be willing to help me with my project.”
She put her glasses back on and gave him a closer appraisal. He was all business now, the scolded pup having yielded to the seasoned bloodhound.
“You see, Mrs. Leatherwood, I’ve already turned up some fragmented yarns of a ‘Demon of the Dark Wood’ and the ‘Devil of Goat Head Hollow.’ Most all of these folk legends have a common thread running through them, and they have much in common with the lore of faraway places and long-ago times. Hawthorne himself made reference to ‘the Black Man that haunts the forest.’ These stories and myths are an important element in most cultures, and sometimes they are linked to actual events, growing over the years to mythic proportions. And it’s that convergence of history and myth that most interests me. That’s the region I want to explore.”
Liza leaned back and set her chair to rocking. “So you come up here to deliver me a lecture. Well, it was most gratifying, but I still can’t help you. And I don’t know anybody who can.”
Thorn spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. “Forgive me for lapsing into lecture, but I’m convinced that Widow’s Ridge is a hidden treasure trove of native myth. Over the years I’ve developed sort of a sixth sense about my fieldwork. I get a certain feeling—an actual tingling sensation—when I’m on the edge of discovery, and I’ve got that feeling right now. Forgive me if I’m overly passionate about my work.”
“Passion can be the ruin of a man,” she said, firmly entrenched in her role of Keeper of Secrets. “You’ll not find your treasure round here. And here’s a bit of hill wisdom you’d do well to remember: A man who digs cursed earth, uncovers great sorrow.”
“That’s a good one,” he said, beaming a big smile. “Better than a Chinese fortune cookie. I’ll bet you’re full of those old sayings. It would be a real shame if you took such gems to your grave.”
“Professor, you’re about as pigheaded as my Wilbur was. And I’ll thank you not to speak of my grave before I’m dead and buried in it.”
With a chivalrous bow, he said, “I beg your pardon. I meant no offense.”
“I’ll take none if you’ll leave me alone now. I’ve got chores to tend to, and I don’t have time to sit here yapping about old wives’ tales and mountain superstitions. You’ll not find your bogeyman round here.”
“Once again, I’m humbled by your unabashed honesty,” said Thorn. “I won’t trouble you further. But you still have my card if you should change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
“You take care, now, Mrs. Leatherwood. I hope you enjoy the book.”
She watched him drive off, secretly saddened by his departure. The truth was, she liked the man and rather enjoyed being in the company of a gentleman of such scholarship. She regretted having to send him off so rudely, but she’d had no other choice. The one thing he wanted from her was the very thing she was sworn to keep to herself. She had sworn an oath before Granny and God never to speak of the Helling; she had kept that oath for a passel of years and she didn’t intend to break it now that her remaining years on this earth were surely numbered in single digits. You didn’t get into Heaven by breaking a sacred oath. On the other hand, Liza questioned the wisdom of taking such terrible knowledge to the grave. Would not her soul be tainted by carrying that sinful knowledge so close to her heart for so many years? Though she wasn’t Catholic, she believed confession was a necessary means of unburdening the soul and cleansing the spirit. Dare she stand naked before her Maker with this guilty secret still in her bosom?
There had been times when she hated her grandmother for telling her of the Helling, times when she couldn’t fathom why the old woman had deemed it necessary to impart the horrible secret to her innocent granddaughter; but as she matured, Liza came to understand Granny’s motive. The elder had brought her into the sisterhood of truth and baptized her with the bloody knowledge so that she, Liza, would be forewarned against a recurrence of the abominable incident. “Forewarned is forearmed,” as Wilbur used to say, usually in reference to matters of politics and weather. Granny had forewarned her so that she might be able to resist the “shrill and dark summons” if it ever came again.
And last night it had come. Howling out of the dark wood, the dreadful summoning had ripped the night with its evil cry. Piercing and irresistible, the demonic shriek echoed across hill and hollow, seeking resonance in souls pricked by its barbed waves of sound. Liza had been snapping pole beans at the kitchen table when the unearthly screech found her. As insidious tendrils of sound slithered around her, she stiffened her spine and felt the dribble of warm urine in her crotch. Even as she felt the com
manding force of the shrieker behind the shriek, she found the will to clap her hand over her good ear to muffle the sound, and when the shriek finally ended in eerie silence, she crumpled forward to rest her head on the kitchen table, exhausted by the effort of resistance. The deafness of her left ear had undoubtedly saved her by diminishing the effect of the shrieking summons. Yet she instinctively knew she was far from safe; the next commanding cry would find her weakened and afraid. She didn’t believe she had it within her to fend off the summoner a second time.
Drastic measures were required, and now that Professor Thorn was gone, Liza could get on with what she knew she had to do. She picked up the Mason jar, removed the lid and drank some of the potent brew (corn liquor Otis King brewed in his basement for his personal consumption). Liza had never been a teetotaler, but she couldn’t remember the last time she had imbibed spiritus fermenti—which was all to the good because it meant that the brew would hit her hard and fast, numbing her senses and dulling the pain she was about to inflict upon herself. She didn’t want to do it, but she could think of no other way to defend herself against the evil shrieker.
The Black Man of the wood.
When the jar was half emptied, she knew she was drunk enough to proceed. She pulled up the skirt of her long dress and withdrew the hatpin from the bottom hem, then she dipped the sharp tip of the long pin into the jar of spirits to sterilize it.
As she gazed out over the hamlet of Widow’s Ridge and at the complex of new townhouses below it, she paused a long moment to listen to the singing of unseen birds, and then she raised the hatpin to her right ear and eased the point inside until it met resistance. Without further hesitation, she jabbed the pin deep and punctured the eardrum, just as her stern grandmother had long ago prescribed.
Abruptly, the birds stopped singing.
Liza Leatherwood’s world slipped into ringing silence.
Daemon of the Dark Wood Page 3
