by David Wood
“You just have a seat then.” Mary Ann pulled out a chair for him and started unloading her box. Grant sat down and watched, a little uncomfortably, as she laid out fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, biscuits, green beans, corn, and a jar of sweet tea. In typical southern fashion, she apologized profusely for what she claimed was meager fare.
“It looks delicious. I can't remember the last time I had real home cooking.”
“Well, you just enjoy yourself then. I'm going to take a little walk.” She patted him on the shoulder and turned toward the front door.
“Do you want to join me?” Grant asked. “I doubt I can eat all this by myself.” He didn't relish the thought of making small talk with his unexpected visitor, but it would have been rude not to offer.
“I'll be fine.” She gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. “Take your time.”
When the front door closed behind her, he chuckled and set to his meal. The chicken was the best he'd ever had-- crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside. The biscuits were perfect, and the green beans and corn were fresh, though seasoned with a little too much salt and bacon grease for his liking. He could almost feel his arteries clogging with every delicious bite. By the time Mary Ann returned, he was working on his second plate. She nodded in approval and started wandering around the living room.
Grant did his best to ignore her as she hovered about, looking in turn at the paintings on the wall and his dad's old musket. As he stuffed the last bite of biscuit and gravy in his mouth, he noticed her kneeling beside the boxes where he'd been sorting his dad's books. Her back arched strangely, her fingers curled like claws, the nails jet black and far too long. Her face seemed stretched back, drawn tight and angular across her skull. She seemed to be growling deep in her chest. Grant gasped, his chair scraping back as he stood.
Mary Ann turned, her soft, middle-aged face curious, her hands resting on the edge of a box. Grant shook his head, blinked. What the hell was that? He swallowed, took a swig of tea, and cleared his throat.
“Did you want to borrow a book?” He kept his tone easy. “Dad had plenty of them. I figured I'd donate them to the library. I'm more of an e-book guy myself.” He wondered if she even knew what an e-book was.
“Oh, no.” The smile that suddenly spread across her face was so unlike her expression moments before that he found the change unsettling. “My husband lent your daddy a book. It isn't valuable, but it belonged to Edwin's great grandfather, and he'd love to have it back in his library.” She rose unsteadily to her feet.
Cold suspicion trickled down his spine. “What was the title?”
“Oh, it didn't even have a title. Just a wrinkled old leather cover, kind of light brown in color. The pages are old and wavy and the words aren't even English. It's just a curiosity that was passed down through the family.”
He relaxed a little. He'd assumed she was referring to Demonology and The Bible.
“Sorry, but I definitely haven't seen anything like that, and I've been through all the books.”
“Are there any in the back rooms?” she asked. “I could go check for you.”
Grant shook his head. “Nope, I've checked every nook and cranny, but I'll definitely let you know if it turns up.”
Her face tightened and, for a moment, he thought she would protest, but she nodded. “Thank you kindly. I'll leave you our number, but you can find us at the parsonage. It's right by the church, and somebody's most always home.”
She insisted he keep all the food he had not eaten, telling him he could return the dishes any time he liked. He thanked her and promised again to keep an eye out for the book. He stood in the doorway as she drove away, and didn't go back inside until her taillights vanished in the darkness.
He supposed her hospitality should warm his heart, but he felt cold inside. There was something wrong about this town.
A freaking iron key. That was the only thing his dad had left in his safe deposit box at the First National Bank of Wallen's Gap. Grant wondered why he'd even bothered to make the trip into town, enduring another round of dull stares and angry mutters from the local fauna. He'd kept an eye out for Cassie, but hadn't seen her. He was still convinced she knew something about his dad. Maybe she even knew something about the book the pastor's wife had been so interested in finding.
He'd searched every inch of the cabin, including the attic and the crawlspace, and was satisfied there was no lock the iron key would fit. He now stood on the front porch, twirling the key around his finger and thinking. Why put a key in a safe deposit box? The reasons were obvious. While the key itself might not have any intrinsic value, it must unlock something that did. His dad was keeping the key safe, keeping it away from someone else, or both.
Slapping his palm with the cold iron, he looked around. There was nothing out front except an old dog house, its roof sagging like an aged horse. He stepped down off the porch and circled the house. On the back side, the land sloped upward toward the peak of Clay Mountain far above. The pine forest that covered the mountainside was fast encroaching, casting the land in a dull hue of dark green. As Grant gazed up the hill, he caught a glimpse of weathered, gray wood. He climbed up the slope, heading directly toward it, nervous energy buoying his steps. Something told him he'd found what he was looking for.
An old smokehouse stood almost completely hidden in a dense stand of blackberry vines. He tried to push a few aside and got a handful of briars for his trouble. This wasn't going to be easy. He headed back to the house and returned a few minutes later with an old sickle. Its curved blade was pitted with rust and the edge was dull, but it would have to do.
For half an hour he hacked away at the tangled vines. His hands and forearms were scraped and bloodied and his muscles burned, but he felt good. He hadn't had a proper workout since he'd left home, and it was nice to work up a sweat. When at last he'd cleared a path to the smokehouse door, he tossed the sickle aside and withdrew the key from his pocket.
His heart sank. The door was secured by a simple padlock. Whatever lock the iron key opened, this wasn't it. He'd worked for nothing.
“What the hell?” he said to no one in particular. “Might as well see what's in here.” He picked up a rock and took out his frustrations on the padlock until it snapped off. He put his hand to the door but, as he was about to open it, a cool breeze passed over him. He paused, gooseflesh rising up on his arms. Where had that breath of air come from in the midst of this dead, calm forest? Puzzled and a little spooked, he retrieved the sickle, holding it in a white knuckled grip, and pushed the door open.
Grant tested the floorboards before stepping inside. The smokehouse was dark, dusty, and filled with cobwebs. Thin shafts of light pierced the cracks in the rough-hewn walls, shining on heaps of mouldering burlap sacks. A coil of rope hung from a hook on one of the overhead beams.
“Shit.” He kicked a pile of burlap, sending up a cloud of dust that burned his eyes and set him to coughing. When the dust cleared, he looked down and his eyes fell on a small door set in the base of the wall. The keyhole in the center looked like the perfect fit. For no particular reason, he looked around to see if anyone was watching. He knelt, inserted the key in the lock, and turned it.
The door swung open, revealing a small, recessed area carved into the natural rock that abutted the smokehouse. Inside lay a book. The cover was a light tan, creased leather, strangely soft to the touch. The pages were heavy, rough-edged and covered in a curling, crabbed script that made Grant frown as he flicked through. Fascinated, he sat on a pile of mouldering burlap and turned to the front of the book, reading by a shaft of light through a gap in the wall behind him.
An inscription was written by hand inside the front cover, in a different language to the rest of the book. It used the alphabet as he knew it, though still not English. One word was clear, however - Kaletherex. He turned the page and realized the rest of the book was hand-written too, in a dark, reddish brown ink. A crooked smile tugged at one side of his mouth as he wondere
d if the thing was written in blood, but the smile faded like sunlight behind a passing cloud when it occurred to him that he might be right. A weird leather-bound book, written in blood, in an arcane, indecipherable script. “What the..?” His voice was barely a whisper.
As if in answer, the cold breeze blew again, shifting the edges of the sacking all around, chilling him. The breeze seemed to carry a voice, read read read, like a distant echo.
Grant jumped up, looked around. “Who's there?”
He stood still for close to a minute, listening so hard he felt as though his ears must be standing out on the sides of his head. Nothing but the susurration of the leaves and pine needles outside, the occasional call of a bird. He stuck his head out the door of the smokehouse and saw nothing but trees.
Losing my freaking mind. He sat down again.
The pages were heavy, thick, slightly waxy. He turned slowly through the book, examining each page in turn. He could make no more sense of it than if he had been trying to read Chinese or ancient Greek, but there was something compelling about the shapes and ellipses of the text. His eyes moved slowly, sliding around the words and paragraphs. This had to be something important, something worth locking in a safe carved into bedrock. The key to which was kept far away in a strong box in the bank. Was it something so valuable it needed security? Or something else. Important? Dangerous?
He turned another page and jumped, a small gasp escaping his lips. Across the double page spread was a drawing in exquisite detail, fine lines and smooth shading. It showed a young, naked girl on a table, her arms and legs strapped wide to make an X of her body. There were marks on her skin, spirals over her heart, stomach and forehead. Candles stood around her on the table's edges and strange symbols, similar to the text of the book, were carved into the wooden tabletop. Several figures stood around her holding a variety of implements: knives, scythes, branches of gnarled wood. One held a dripping organ, like the liver of a sheep or cow... or something. It looked too large to be human.
The girl's head was tipped back, her mouth wide in a scream, eyes squeezed shut. Grant held the book up closer to his eyes, fascinated by the gruesome detail. He could see where the straps at her ankles and wrists bit into the skin, rubbed it raw as she pulled against them, could see tears and sweat on her face. As his eyes narrowed in morbid fascination, the picture moved, the girl thrashed and screamed, the sound pierced his ears. A chant rose up from the people gathered around her, candles flickered, somewhere a sonorous drum beat a solid, regular dirge.
With a cry, Grant dropped the book and staggered back, tripped against a pile of sacking and sat heavily. His heart pounded as he struggled to recover his breath.
“What's going on in there?” a sharp voice called from outside.
Grant shuddered, adrenaline coursing through his body like an electric shock. He scooped the book from the floor, shoved it back in the rock safe and locked the door. He shoved sacking up against the door to hide it and pocketed the key as he turned and stepped out of the smokehouse. Three young men stood a few yards down the path, grizzled and a little dirty. They looked at him with hooded, suspicious eyes.
“You all right?” the gangly fellow in the middle of the three asked.
Grant forced a smile, tried to ignore his still hammering heart. “Yes, fine.”
“Thought we heard you holler.”
“Just tripped in the dark and banged my elbow. Wasn't watching where I was going.” He rubbed one elbow for emphasis, not even believing himself.
“What's in there, anyhow?” The young man stepped toward the smokehouse, his grin not quite friendly.
Grant made a dismissive gesture. “Nothing at all, just old burlap and some broken shelves. I had to break the padlock off to get in because I couldn't find the key. I was hoping there might be something interesting in there, but there's nothing.” He stopped, realizing he was rambling like a fool, and shrugged.
“Mm hmm,” the man said.
An uncomfortable silence hung in the air for a few seconds as they looked at each other. Finally, Grant said, “So, can I help you?”
“Wondered if we might help you. I'm Jed, this is Cliff and Jesse.” He indicated the others with a quick gesture. “We're Pastor Edwin's boys. Mama said we ought to come on up here and lend you a hand,.”
Grant chose not to mention it was a long trip to lend a hand unasked for. “I'm not really sure there's anything you can help me with. Thanks anyway.”
“You don't need no stuff cleared out or anything moved? You can't haul much in that car of yours. We got us a truck back there.”
Grant forced another smile. “Well, I do appreciate that. But I'm not ready to move anything yet. There's still a bunch of stuff to go through. When I am ready to start throwing things out, I could certainly use a truck and some extra hands though.”
Jed nodded. “Well, you be sure and give us a holler then.”
“I will, thanks.”
Discomfort swelled in the air as nobody moved. Grant felt trapped in the door of the smokehouse, pinned by the strangely unfriendly gaze of the three men who claimed to be there to help him. He looked from one to the next and back again, desperately trying to think of something to say. He eventually gestured back down towards the house. “I should be...”
Jed spoke over him immediately, like he had been waiting for Grant to speak, purely so he could interrupt. “Well, we'll be off then.”
Grant nodded. “Right. Sure. Thanks again.”
“Uh huh.”
They didn't move, or even blink. Grant felt a kind of pressure building up that made him both incredibly uneasy and frustrated. Trembling set in, making his hands shudder slightly at his sides. Unspoken violence hung in the air between them like a storm cloud. He felt his fists closing of their own accord, and realized he had to say or do something. He opened his mouth to speak and Jed and his brothers instantly turned and ambled slowly off back down the path without another word. Grant stood, shivering, in the doorway of the smokehouse until he heard their truck rumble into life and fade off down the mountain.
Chapter 5
It was the same dream again. Cassie lay bound on a table, candlelight flickering across her naked body. Ghostly figures circled her, chanting in low tones. She never quite knew what they were saying. The words seemed to dangle there just beyond the edge of comprehension. Somewhere a drum pounded out a slow, deep, relentless beat.
She thrashed about, trying to free herself, but the bonds held tight. Her breath came in gasps, drowning out the drone of the pale figures that drew ever closer. She wanted to pull away, but how did one do that when they were all around you?
The figures never touched her in the dreams, but the words seemed to. It was as if the sounds had substance, and as the chanting reached a crescendo, she felt cold, dry hands caress her. She pressed her knees together and tried to pull her legs up as the invisible hands traced the curves of her flesh, moving ever downward, but her bonds held fast. A stray tear trickled down her cheek as one of the figures leaned in close and, for the first time, she recognized a face.
She started awake, sweat pouring down her face and soaking her pillow. Her t-shirt clung tightly to her. She looked around her bedroom, taking in the cheap paneling, the secondhand lamp, and the dollar store kitsch, reassuring herself that, once again, it had been a dream. Out of habit, she checked her wrists for chafing, but they were fine.
The chafing had only happened once, the first time she'd had the dream. That had been the one and only time she'd let Carl talk her into smoking with him. He'd assured her it was weed, but he must have added something to it because she almost immediately lost consciousness, suffered through the first of these awful nightmares, and awoke in her bed hours later. Carl said she'd gotten sick and he'd taken her home, but she'd been so freaked out she'd driven two hours to the E.R. in Kingsville to get a rape exam. The results had been negative. That had been a relief, but it still left the chafing around her wrists and ankles. He might not have rape
d her, but he sure as hell had drugged her, tied her up, and done something perverted. No other explanation made sense.
After that, she'd tried to break things off with him, but he wouldn't listen. He kept coming around as if nothing had happened. Stranger still, everyone in town assured her that Carl was a good boy and just needed her to set him straight. Why the population of Wallen's Gap seemed to have a stake in their relationship was beyond her. Between Carl's persistence, or arrogance, and the not-so-gentle prodding of every adult in her life, she'd finally given in. Why couldn't she stand up for herself? That counselor lady had been no help at all. Life in Wallen's Gap was like living in a fish bowl. Everyone knew too much about her business.
That wasn't entirely true. There was the new guy, Andrew Shipman's son. What was his name? Grant? He'd been looking at that awful book...
And then her stomach lurched and she felt suddenly dizzy. Memories of the dream returned and she remembered the face she'd recognized.
“I need to talk to Grant Shipman,” she whispered to herself. She glanced at the digital alarm clock beside her bed. It was only 11:30. Late, but not too awful late if she hurried. From the next room, Daddy's drunken snores told her he wouldn't wake before morning.
She slipped into jeans, flip flops, and a hooded sweatshirt, grabbed her purse and keys, and tiptoed down the hall and out the front door. The cool night air calmed her nerves, but she felt vulnerable out in the dark. The waxing moon afforded enough light to see that Daddy had parked his truck on the street and didn’t block her in like he so often did when he tried to keep her home.
She slipped into her beat up Honda Accord, which she always parked facing downhill for occasions such as this, put it in neutral, and coasted down the road. When she was well away from home, she fired up the engine, flipped on the headlights, and headed for the Shipman cabin.
As she drove, she thought about what she would say to Grant. Hi there, I've been dreaming about your daddy stripping me naked and tying me to a table. That would go over well. It didn't matter. She'd tell him the truth and trust him to understand. Her thoughts returned to the book she'd seen him reading in the diner. She hadn't realized it then, but there was something about it that reminded her of the dreams. Maybe she would find the answer.
