9TALES TOLD IN THE DARK#5
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First electronic edition 2015
Edited by A.R. Jesse
Cover by Turtle&Noise
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9TALES TOLD IN THE DARK#5
Table of Contents
THE SEVENTH MORNING by Jim Lee
THE VERY LAST BATTLE OF CALEB MORSE by Jim Lee
THE KINGDOM OF THE ANASAZI by Jeffery Scott Sims
COULROPHOBIA by Betty Rocksteady
A BOY OF DIRT by Sara Green
THE ONE NO ONE FEARS by Sara Green
THE RAVINE by Shawn P. Madison
THE OLD BRICK CHURCH ROAD by Shawn P. Madison
THIS ONE IS BENJAMIN by Daniel J. Kirk
TALES
TOLD
IN THE
DARK
#5
THE SEVENTH MORNING by Jim Lee
—for Dick Slick.
Ah, morning again!
The morning of the seventh day, assuming I haven't lost count. Oh, yes, dear litter mates—what the humans call a 'week.' Yet nothing much has changed. Nothing but the smell. . .
That has grown more intense, but no more-so than one might expect. And it certainly doesn't bother me—this strong, sweet, pungent odor of decay. It is a quite familiar thing. After all, I've bagged my share of mice. Even the occasional bird. And sometimes I let them a few days—to ripen, you know?
Yes, the smell is nothing terrible or new to me. And nothing significant has changed. . .
The Old Woman is still dead. I'm still alive. And today, the Younger Woman—that 'Social Worker' with the sharp tongue and can't-be-bothered abruptness—will come around. Unless I've miscounted. In which case, she'll be here tomorrow.
Either way, she'll come.
I can picture the scene quite clearly: Getting no response at the door, she'll mutter to herself. Fish the passkey from her ugly brown purse. Let herself in. Her mediocre primate nose with eventually detect the odor. She'll grimace. Her head will turn. She'll see the Old Woman and most probably scream.
Hey, you know these creatures! Unable to accept the nature of things—they simply can't deal with anything that's hard, raw or too real.
Like death.
Yes, my brothers and sisters, I'll never understand them either!
I mean, isn't death the one thing in all of life that one can depend on? The single undeniable, inescapable, even universal truth? So why make such a fuss about it?
Anyway, the Younger Woman will come and see and carry on, but at least I'll be free and this whole annoying incident will be at its end.
I hope.
Alas, with humans one can never be sure. They have such a distorted view of the world—and no, not just due to their strangely rounded pupils. They also have profoundly twisted ideas of morality and justice.
Such odd creatures!
Perhaps the Younger Woman will even be somewhat angry with me, somehow imagining I'm somehow to blame? Yes, sisters and brothers, that would be quite ridiculous. But just consider the murky way they think. . .
When it happened, the Old Woman was hobbling across the kitchen in her usual slow, arthritic manner to get me my dinner. So it was in my service that she suffered heart failure (or whatever else it was).
But of course I'd never set out of harm the Old Woman so severely!
Actually, I was even somewhat fond of her. She was an altogether adequate servant/caregiver. In fact, watching her die like that—sprawled on her back on the linoleum, liver-spotted forepaws ineffectively clawing at her chest—was a most solemn thing. Without being overly sentimental about one of them, I found the whole process most disheartening.
Yes, she was just another human. And I'm quite over it now. But at the time, I confess to being saddened.
The Old Woman never mistreated me. Always fed me well, and on time. The mark of a good human, surely. And she was seldom demanding of my precious time and attentions. All she asked was that I rub against her amusingly fur-free ankles once in a while, purring a little and maybe allowing her to pick me up, stroke me now and again.
Not a bad way to make a living, all things considered. . .
And now it's over. Oh, well.
Just have to hope I'm equally fortunate with my next human. Assuming there is a next one—and no, I'm not being foolishly morbid! I am serious!
Something I'd failed to consider just occurred to me. Just goes to show how different—and wrong—they are. How weird and irrational. Not like us at all. . .
But it could mean a litter-box full of trouble for me!
And only because I forgot: It isn't only death they fear. Humans overflow with all kinds of primitive, superstitious emotions. How could I overlook such an elemental fact?
It must have been the deprivation, the hunger. Yes, by the evening of the third or fourth day, I wasn't thinking at all clearly. By then, I was simply not responsible. But that won't help me—not against the hysterical, barbaric attitudes most humans have.
For even more than death, they fear and loathe disfigurement.
And the fact she was already dead—that in fact I waited till the sweet scent grew absolutely irresistible—that will likely do me precious little good.
I may indeed be doomed.
Oh, if it were the Old Woman or one like her, I'd still have a chance. A pouty upward glance, a plaintive meow or two might mitigate such a one's temper. But I know the Younger Woman—that 'Social Worker' with her dull, unreasoning eyes.
For it isn't only what I've done—what I simply had to do, to survive. It's the way I did it. If I'd started with the somewhat meaty if shrunken torso, it wouldn't be so bad. But I didn't. I didn't consider how one of them would react.
My intent was to save the best meat for later. Just in case, you understand?
Besides, her clothing was in the way.
But you know humans. They put such a misplaced, sentimental value on the oddest things. Including certain body parts?
Yes, I've really done it! Made my big mistake. If I don't get out of this alive, you'll know why. And you'll know what not to do, my sisters and brother, should you ever find yourself trapped inside a musty apartment for a week. Confined. With no Old Woman to let you out and nothing much to do; with only stale water in your bowl and only one thing to eat.
Damn. Why didn't I consider this before? How could I have been so blind?
And why—oh, yes, why—did I have to eat so much of the Old Woman's face?!?
THE END
THE VERY LAST BATTLE OF CALEB MORSE by Jim Lee
As a last resort, Caleb Morse was going home.
Carpetbag in his hand, he tramped along the dusty, ageless and familiar dirt road of his memory. It was typical of the backcountry roads crisscrossing that part of northeastern Mississippi—hard and uneven, choking in the heat of a dry midsummer day like this one, deeply rutted and sparsely traveled.
Some things never changed.
And Caleb Morse was glad of it—just as he was glad the old family homestead was in an obscure and forgotten corner of nowhere. He needed exactly such a place, just now. A place of quiet and safety. A place for a solitary man to gather up his shattered hopes and plan—decide on his next move. His next campaign, you might say.
A place to rest—to hide.
Caleb heard the poorly oiled buggy coming and took cover, kneeling behind a bramble bush and peering out. His fingers played across the top of his carpetbag, ready to snatch up the revolver hidden within.
The homey creaks and groans of the approaching vehicle, the plodding steps of the animal that was drawing it—these did not speak of pursuit or danger.
But Caleb could not be sure.
He had barely escaped Tennessee in time, after all. A mere step or two ahead of the bluecoats who had rounded up so many of his fellows.
Damn them all!
The Yankees and their Freedmen’s Bureau! Their nigger rights and nigger laws! The federal agents and their spies!
Caleb scowled, nodding to himself.
The Klan had been done in, its leaders brought down, its members scattered. Hundreds, maybe even thousands—arrested. But the Yankees weren’t smart enough to do all that, not on their own. And most of the darkies were still too scared, too cowed by the Klansmen’s costumes and rituals, and by their guns.
That left but one alternative: Spies and traitors within the Klan’s own ranks! Turncoats who had sold their own kind down the river!
Caleb thought about the General, and felt sick. A great man like Bedford Forrest, brought to ruin by such vermin.
Hate rekindled in his heart and Caleb shook with fury. He promised himself that somehow, some way, he would destroy the man responsible for this latest outrage.
Caleb studied the dust-covered buggy that had come into view. From his hiding place, he saw the driver was alone—an old man, carrying on a rambling monologue, urging on his slow-moving mule and keeping himself company. There was something about the old man’s floppy hat, his rumpled clothing, and the wart on his chin.
“Yes,” Caleb whispered, allowing a grin to cross his face. “Old Doc Blanchard, still alive.”
But Caleb allowed the buggy to pass, never calling out. He could not trust anyone now. He could take no risks.
Besides, why frighten the old man?
Caleb knew what he himself looked like now, what he’d looked like for a long time—the battered slouch cap pulled down to his ears, the soiled shirt, equally decrepit pants, boots that were unpolished and worn through. And of course, Caleb’s ancient service jacket, worn in pure defiance of both the heat and of circumstances. It had been mended in several places and all but one button—stamped CSA—was gone. All braiding and rank insignia had been removed long ago. Yet, about the jacket’s torn collar and ragged cuffs, upon the threadbare shoulders, ghosts of the discarded decorations seemed to hover.
Caleb knew, without really caring, that he had become a slovenly specter of manhood with a dirty, embittered face, an unattended beard and flat lifeless eyes. The smiling, innocent boy whom Blanchard had pronounced fit for service that long-ago spring of 1861 was no more than a fading memory.
A ghost, one might almost say.
Caleb waited until the doctor was well out of sight, and then resumed his journey.
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The house was small, for Caleb’s family had never been wealthy—just a bunch of backcountry chicken farmers with a little land, at the edge of an unimportant swamp that eventually fed into the Tombigbee River on its way to Alabama.
To Alabama, and the Selma Ironworks.
Bedford Forrest had laid down his arms there, in May of 1865. But he had not surrendered, Caleb told himself. No, not really. Men like General Forrest, they don’t give up. Just change tactics is all. Just change their tactics . . .
And if weapons could be laid down, they could as easily be taken up again—in a different time, a different place.
Hence, Nathan Bedford Forrest and the Klu Klux Klan!
Even so, Selma had always stuck in Caleb’s craw... A moment, an association he found hard to face, even after five years. It was, he finally admitted to himself, one reason he had not returned home afterwards.
It was a humiliation he did not care to share with his people.
Caleb shook his head, moved quickly around the locked and boarded legacy to which he was now the sole surviving heir.
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His crude valise contained all of his personal possessions including a rusty key that lawyer had sent him with his final letter. Caleb pried two rotting boards from the door then used the key. The old lock clicked over with slow reluctance and Caleb pushed his way inside.
For a long time he stood beside the fireplace, staring upwards at the crude, unfinished logs that served as rafters. And he wondered: Which one?
Which one had his mother used that day in 1868?
He tried to picture her—Emily Wade Morse—willfully arranging the rope. Putting her head into the noose. Stepping off the hard backed wooden chair. He tried to picture it, but failed. No. Caleb didn’t know the woman who could do that!
She was a stranger—a total and complete stranger.
Caleb blinked, lowering his head.
And if Momma was a stranger, what did that make his late sister, Nettie? He felt his guts twist, stinging moisture gathering to haunt the corners of his eyes.
Then abruptly, he saw something out the corner of his eye.
A man, at the far window—peering in at him! A black man, large. Bareheaded, but in a buttoned cloak and wool jacket—an all-too-familiar shade of blue.
Caleb dove across the musty room, grabbing his carpetbag and upending a table in one frantic motion.
THEY FOUND ME! He thought wildly. LORD GOD THEY ALREADY FOUND ME!
But then—nothing happened.
Frowning, Caleb emerged from behind his makeshift cover, gun in hand. He wet his lips, moved quickly to the open doorway. COWARDS! He thought. They were waiting for him—a typical Yankee trick!
He took three deep, deliberate breaths and made sure his Sharps revolver was properly cocked. Then, prepared to die, he gave a yell and sprinted into the open.
There was no one there. No one at all.
><><
Three more times, Caleb caught fleeting glimpses of the lone figure in dark blue. Once, amid the stand of dogwoods at the edge of his property. Then again beside the abandoned chicken coops. And finally, just outside the house again. Each time, the figure ignored his shouts. Each time, the big black man vanished without a trace.
“Crafty burr-head,” Caleb muttered, quietly amazed a man so muscular was also apparently so nimble.
He was a deserter, obviously—though Caleb knew of no Colored regiments stationed in these parts. And he’d surely picked the untended farm for the same reason Caleb had—it seemed a good hiding place. But if so, why did he continue to wear his full uniform. And a winter uniform at that? Even Caleb—stubborn pride losing out to common sense—had finally removed his much lighter summer campaign grays.
And for that matter, why was there no sign of the man having been inside the house?
Caleb had found the place closed up, exactly as he had expected it to be. The air inside had been stagnant, dust everywhere. Clearly no one had lived there in the six months since his sister’s death—the ‘accident’ that Caleb was sure had been anything but.
Caleb Morse bit his lip, considering. Was the black man insane? Certainly his actions made no clear sense.
Sternly, Caleb resolved to shoot him, on sight.
><><
“Yo' don’t really hate me, does yo’?”
The voice shocked Caleb to consciousness. He had been dozing, but now was instantly alert. He sprang from his chair. The pistol in his hand came up, as if on its own. Its muzzle centered itself on the black man, who was leaning against the stone front of the disused fireplace. Caleb used both of his thumbs to cock the hammer then stood
gaping.
“How’d you get in here without me hearin’?” Caleb gasped.
“No.” The black man ignored the question and shook his head. “Course yo’ don’t. Oh, this here uniform—dat yo’ might jus’ hate, I reckon. An’ my skin? Maybe so. But not me. Hell, yo’ don’t even ‘member me!”
“Crazy nigger!” Caleb spat. “I could just as like shoot you dead!”
“Try.”
Caleb frowned. “I used this thing before, you know. Kilt me a dozen men—white and black—in battle.”
“So why not make me number thirteen?” the huge bluecoat taunted. “Why not do it, white man?”
The unrepentant rebel shuddered. “That was different. They was tryin’ to kill me. It—it was war.”
“Were it?” The dark man stepped closer. “Were it always like dat, Caleb?”
“You—you know my name?”
A laugh—a bizarre mix of pity, mirth and mockery—erupted from the strange bluecoat. “Yessir, I surely do. I knows yo’ plenty, Captain Caleb G. Morse! Yo’ an’ yo’ brother—both rode with Forrest. Least ways both did, till Eustace got hisself captured. July of ’64, weren’t it?”
“At Tupelo,” Caleb murmured, at a loss to understand. “Died in prison. Camp Douglas. What? You one of the guards?”
The black man shook his head, grinned. “Not hardly. But let’s stick on yo’ an’ you brother a while more. Was good soldiers, I hear—‘ceptin’ that one time. That time yo’ done a murder, Caleb. That’s why I’s here, see?”
“You’re a—a liar. You—”
“Think on it, Caleb. Think long an’ good. Think on the spring of ’64, early. ‘Fore Eustace got taken. Forrest was raidin’ Tennessee, bound for Kentucky. April, it were. Evenin’ of the 12th day. Place you Rebs built then abandoned. Yo’ mind dat place, Caleb? Up on a bluff, above the Mississippi River?”
“Fort Pillow,” Caleb mumbled. “You were there?”
9 Tales Told in the Dark 5 Page 1
