Blind Shadows

by James A. Moore

  No, Tony stopped to take a leak on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere and was unpleasantly surprised by the four men who seemed to come out of nowhere to grab him. Men, as if that word could properly describe the genetic aberrations that grabbed him and hauled him further into the woods.

  There are places in the woods where no sane human being would go without substantial backup. Tony got to see one of those places intimately before the spikes were pounded into his eyes and his scrotum. He also got to learn exactly how much a knife stroke can hurt well before he was blinded.

  And while Tony was dying, another member of the same group took the time to first loot and then remove Tony’s car from the side of the road.

  The car was a rental, not that Leland Blackbourne gave the least bit of a damn. Instead he drove the car down rutted tracks that were seldom used and moved deep into the lowest areas of the Hollow, where the Ford was stripped of radio, tires and several untraceable engine parts. By the time he was done the manufacturers of the vehicle would have had trouble recognizing what was left.

  Still, not everything was taken from the car. No, what was not really understood by Leland—whose physical appearance was less than pleasant and who had never attended school and whose education was limited to basic math and reading taught him by his mother and the fine art of auto-stripping taught by his cousin Owen—was that certain precautions are often taken by auto manufacturers and rental car companies. The GPS tracking device hidden in the frame was activated exactly one week after the car was not returned and only after several attempts to reach Tony Moreno had failed. The signal was not the strongest, and the location didn’t help with detection, but be it the right combination of cloud cover and luck or merely that a sheriff’s department squad car came close enough, the signal was eventually noticed.

  Deputy Will Bradbury expected to locate a stolen car. It wasn’t all that unusual to run across them and, frankly, the Blackbournes had been known to jack a car from time to time. What he didn’t expect as he started his search was to find so many damned cars.

  The Hollow has several areas where access is limited. To be kind the area is not well developed and the geography has never made the notion of paved roads a viable one. If not for the fact that Leland Blackbourne lacked in imagination when it came to hiding the remains of his stolen toys, it’s possible that the sheriff’s department might not have ever learned about the stolen car ring. As it was, the remains of over fifty cars were located, all of them stripped and dumped in the same area.

  But even when he was looking right at them, Will had trouble seeing them. The foliage in the area consisted heavily of kudzu and the thick leafy vines had overrun most of the vehicles, wrapping around the remains and shrouding them in green so thick that it became nearly impossible to see them until he actively looked for the shapes and interpreted them. He had to pull several thick layers of the plant life back before he could see several of the vehicles.

  Strange fact that came to light over the next day: none of the cars had been reported stolen before. Several of the owners had been reported missing, however, including Anthony Robert Moreno, who left behind a wife and two lovely daughters.

  Will Bradbury called in his discovery. He knew better than to use the radio: Carl would skin him alive if he broke that particular rule. Half an hour after he’d made the call the Major Crimes Unit—which consisted of whoever was available at the time—arrived to look in on the situation. Then Ben Randall and Stuart Carter—the lucky dogs who were playing Major Crimes Unit that day—took one look and called Carl. Carl showed up a few minutes later. He brought along three tow trucks. Two from the department and one from Wellman’s Citgo station.

  Carl took his time looking the site over and he jotted several notes to himself. He also told Randall and Carter that he expected them to have information on each and every car to him before the end of their shift, including the owners and the current whereabouts of the same.

  It wasn’t the first time the deputies decided that their boss was a prick and it wouldn’t be the last.

  * * *

  While making his way from Crawford’s Hollow, Carl took the time to look carefully at every residence he could see along the way.

  He also called Griffin to let him know about the discovery. Maybe it was nothing, but he doubted it. His stomach told him there was a connection, especially since he had no doubt in his mind that the Blackbournes were involved.

  He parked himself not far from the dirt road that led to Merle Blackbourne’s dubious palace and waited there as the first truck came by, hauling the wreck from the lower area of the Hollow. By the time the second truck came past, Merle showed himself. He stood at the edge of the rutted path and watched the truck’s taillights. Then he spit on the ground and shook his head as the third one came by.

  Carl wasn’t close enough to hear words, but he could see the fury on the man’s face. His complexion was positively ruddy as he screamed at one of his men and pointed down the road toward the automobile graveyard. Good. That was good. Seeing something piss the bastard off made Carl feel that he was doing something right. Maybe it was irrational, but there it was.

  Merle looked his way after about two minutes of making his opinion about the situation clear to his people. The look he cast was surely just as dark as Carl’s thoughts.

  Merle reached into the pocket of his blue jeans and fished around until he found a small bundle of cloth. He opened the bundle and stared at the contents for a long moment before rolling something small and black between his forefinger and his thumb. Then said something softly and flicked the small object in Carl’s direction.

  Carl shrugged and supposed that was the redneck equivalent of giving him the finger.

  He should have known better, but sometimes reality doesn’t always prepare us for what it has in store.

  Carl started driving away when he got a call from Andrew Hunter. “Andy, good to hear from you.” He held the phone against his shoulder as he drove carefully along the uneven tracks.

  “A man leaves me four or five messages to call him and I eventually take a hint.” The professor’s tone was pleasant enough. “What can I do for you, Carl?”

  “I wanted to know what you might know about the legends of the Moon-Eyed People.”

  “Carl Price, I’ve written three books on the legends of the Cherokee Nation. You’d know that if you ever bothered to go to the damned library.”

  He smiled. “I happen to have copies of your books, Andy. I just thought it made more sense to actually go to the source of the books to expedite matters.”

  Somewhat mollified the older man responded. “Little albino men with big round eyes who couldn’t abide the light. Or possibly a Welsh prince named Madoc, depending on who you talk to.”

  “Can you tell me about the little albino men?”

  “They were supposed to be in this area when the Cherokee came around. According to the legends they lived in caves and underground, couldn’t stand any light at all, but could see in complete darkness. One old fella I spoke to years ago said their eyes were supposed to glow in the darkness, and because they were so round that was why they got their name. At any rate, the Cherokee supposedly drove them off to the west a long time ago.”

  Carl nodded his head. He’d heard the legends, of course, but wanted to know what one of the authorities on the subject had to say. “Have you ever seen evidence that they existed?”

  “There are a few old stone walls they allegedly built. But again, they were supposed to be nocturnal, and to live underground, so I imagine most of what they might have done would have been found in caves and such. Not too many of those that I’ve seen that had anything worth noticing.” He paused for a moment, which was good because Carl had to take a particularly sharp turn on his way out of the Hollow. “Of course there are a lot of old miner’s caves around here, and more than one of those was supposed to have old pottery and the like in it when they were discovered by the miners.”
r />   “Really? I hadn’t heard that one.”

  “Mostly the finds were dismissed as ramblings from desperate gold miners. Remember, the people who claimed they found that stuff weren’t actually finding any gold, despite their best efforts. They might well have been making up tales to see if they could sell anything in order to recoup their losses.”

  “Any evidence remain?”

  “Not as such. Mostly just rumors of what used to be there.”

  “So, any idea why Mooney’s Bluff might be special to the Moon-Eyes?”

  “I think you’ve just answered your own question. According to very old local legends, the Moon-Eyed People lived up on the bluff and did all sorts of things up that way.”

  “Yeah? Anyone ever find evidence?”

  “Didn’t I already say no? What are you dense?”

  “Sorry. I’m just fishing, Andy.”

  “Well, according to the old legends there are caves up in the bluffs. I never found any, but I also never went looking. Who’d be able to find them through all the kudzu anyway?”

  Had Carl been driving at a good clip he might well have wrecked his truck at that moment. Kudzu was a relatively new thing in the region. Some bright boy had decided it would be a good grazing plant at the beginning of the twentieth century and a little over 100 years later the damned stuff had overrun plenty of areas, concealing whatever didn’t move.

  “Damn. Anything could be hiding in that stuff.”

  “Exactly my point, Carl. You could almost hide a city in those vines.”

  Having just seen a junkyard worth of cars hidden by the foliage, he was easy to convince.

  * * *

  Whit Gramling’s cabin crouched on the edge of a gravel and dirt road a few miles outside of Wellman proper. The trees around the cabin were a riot of autumn colors, mostly gold but some red as well, and shot through with the greens of pine and dark spruce. Griffin had forgotten how bright the autumn trees were this close to the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  “It’s gorgeous out here,” Charon said.

  “Yeah, I was just thinking that. Guess I had to move away to notice it.”

  Griffin parked behind a beat up, light green F-150 of 1970s vintage. Whit Gramling waved from the front porch of his rustic cabin as his two visitors walked up the path to his front door. Griffin said, “Afternoon, Mr. Gramling. I’m Wade Griffin and this is Charon.”

  Whit said, “Dennis told me you were coming. Said you wanted to hear some spook stories.”

  “Yes sir, we do,” said Griffin.

  “Well come on up on the porch and have a seat.” Whit was seated in a rocking chair that might have matched the age of the cabin. He was wearing faded denim overalls over a dark blue chambray work shirt and he had a nicely blocked fedora pushed back on his head over curly gray hair. His eyes were pale blue and seemed to take in everything around him like those of a young child. Griffin liked him instantly.

  “I love your hat, Mr. Gramling,” Charon said as she stepped up on the porch and took a seat in one of two straight-backed chairs.

  Whit grinned and nodded. “Can’t go wrong with a Stetson. You can call me Whit, by the way. My father was Mr. Gramling.”

  No question that the man was still as sharp as the proverbial tack. Griffin said, “How long have you lived in this cabin?”

  “Hmmm, built it when I got back from Germany in forty five. There was a big housing shortage back then, you know. So what, 66 years? But I’ve had to mostly rebuild it a couple of times. This version’s maybe 30 years old. Had electricity put in back then, but that was mostly for the wife. She only got to enjoy it for about ten years though.”

  Charon said, “Sorry to hear that, sir.”

  Whit’s smile was wry. “Thank you, sweetheart. But it’s fine. We had a good life. You make it as far as I have and you see a lot of folks go. Anyway, you wanted to talk about spooks. What were you interested in? The wailing widow? The lost Confederate platoon?”

  “Both of those sound fascinating, but we were wondering if you knew much about the Moon-Eyed people?”

  Whit’s expression didn’t change but Griffin thought he saw something shift behind the pale blue eyes. Whit said, “Oh I know right smart about them. Don’t see them much these days this far from the bluff though.”

  Charon said, “You’ve seen them?”

  Whit nodded. “They go a roaming on dark nights when no one else can see. Creep through the woods quiet like, nothing showing but their eyes.”

  Griffin remembered the weird silver glint in Fish-breath’s eyes. The thing in the door had had it too.

  Griffin said, “So they’re not just a legend?”

  “No, but there are fewer of them around here than there used to be. When I was a kid it wasn’t safe to go up on Mooney’s Bluff at night, especially not this time of year. In fact it wasn’t a good idea to go into the woods anywhere near here the closer it got to All Hallows. The Moon-Eyes stayed clear of town for the most part, but now and again someone would go missing during the night.”

  Charon said, “They took people?”

  “Not many. They didn’t like to draw attention to themselves, so they usually settled for drifters and hobos.”

  “Why did they take them?”

  “Best not to say. Not the sort of thing to talk to a young lady about.”

  “I’m pretty tough.”

  “I just bet you are. Let’s just say that them that was taken was a long time dying there in the dark.”

  “And you still lived out here in the woods like this?” Charon said.

  “Shoot, sweetheart. They wouldn’t come within a mile of this cabin. It’s protected.”

  “Sea salt and sage?” Charon said.

  “Well now. What’s a pretty young thing like you know about all that?”

  “I read a lot.”

  “So do I. But no, I used finely ground silver mixed in the mortar around the doors and windows. More expensive than salt but they won’t even try to pass it.”

  “Good to know,” Griffin said.

  Whit gave a slight shrug. “Like I said, haven’t seen one in years, but then I don’t go walking the way I used to.”

  Charon said, “Did you ever see any stone walls or ruins on Mooney’s Bluff?”

  “No, not like they have on Fort Mountain or the walls that used to be on Blacktop until eighty-six.”

  “What happened in 1986?” Griffin said. He’d been to Blacktop Mountain. It was close to the Tennessee border near the Chattahoochee National Forest. His family had picnicked there when he was small.

  Whit looked suddenly sheepish, like he realized he might have said too much but he went on. “Bunch of folks went missing near old Blacktop.”

  Charon’s brow furrowed. “I’ve never heard anything about that.”

  “No reason you should have. The law hushed it up pretty good and even they didn’t know what had really happened.”

  Charon started to speak, but Griffin held up his hand. Whit seemed to be lost in a memory and Griffin had the distinct impression that he might clam up if they interrupted him. “Thing was, something had been stirring up the Moon-Eyes. It was about this time of year, which meant whatever it was it was bad doings. Some folks came to talk to me about it but I couldn’t help them much.

  “There was some sort of big ceremony on the mountain and a whole lot of people died. I think someone was trying to bring someone over. One of the old ones. The walkers between shadows. They’re always looking for a chance. Watching. Waiting.”

  Whit looked down at his feet and in the bright sunlight he suddenly looked every one of his 103 years. Griffin said, “We’ve taken up enough of your time, sir.”

  Whit looked up and his pale eyes came back into focus. “I’m not quite done, son. I’m old but I ain’t gone senile just yet. There was a woman lived around here when I was a kid. She was one of the Denny girls. When she was little she used to play in the woods and bring back tales of the Moon folk. Said they whispered to her under the
leaves.”

  A sudden breeze came up and blew across the back of Griffin’s neck.

  Whit said, “My grandmother said she went missing one night in 1891 or so. Abigail, that was her name, liked to walk in the woods near the bluff. Anyway, she was gone for three days and there were terrible thunderstorms up near the bluff every night.”

  “Excuse me, Whit, but what has that got to do with something that happened on Blacktop Mountain decades later?”

  “Hold your water, son. I’m coming to that. After Abigail turned up, her family hid her away for a while. Folks said she was never right in the head after she disappeared. The few times I can remember seeing her she seemed scared of her own shadow. Skittish like. I don’t think she lived much past fifty. But those thunderstorms. That’s what I was getting to. There was the same kind of weather up in the heights on Blacktop the night the Moon-Eyes tried to raise something. They failed but they come real close.”

  “Whit,” Charon said, “Did Abigail have any kids? Are any of them still alive?”

  “That depends on who you ask. But she had a lot of descendants over in Crawford’s Hollow.”

  Griffin said, “The hollow? You mean she married a Blackbourne?”

  “Yep. Can’t recall his name, though. Now, I’ve enjoyed our chat, but I’m suddenly feeling a mite tired. You get that way after a hundred.”

  “I’d imagine so,” Griffin said, rising from his chair. “Thank you for talking to us, sir.”

  “Any time, Griffin. You bring this good looking young woman around any time.”

  “I might just come back without him,” Charon said.

  “Now you’re talking,” said Whit. Then he leaned toward Griffin and the joviality went out of his voice. “They’re back, ain’t they son? Going to try again.”

  “Yes sir, we think so.”

  “Lord help us. I’d hoped I’d be gone before they showed up again. Like I told you they came near to opening a gate in eighty-six. If that Decamp fellow and his friends hadn’t shown up, I don’t know what might have happened.”