“See, I’m as famous as you are,” he told me. “I think more people recognize me in Limite than they do you.”
“Eddie, what’s the Zoloft for?”
He ignored the question at first, talking instead about some of the items on the menu. I asked again. Finally, he said, “Shelby, I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist ever since I got out of prison. Right after I turned thirty-two.”
“Okay.”
He shrugged. “So I’m crazy. You knew that.”
“Eddie. Stop. You’re not crazy.”
He shook his head. “Shelby, it actually started in the late seventies, but I did nothing about it. Panic attacks, mostly really scary ones. Compulsiveness. Depression. I started doing some crazy-ass stuff. I was still taking care of my mom, who had her stroke about a year before. I was having a hard time. I kind of freaked out one night when I was driving. I had an accident and smashed myself up. I was in the hospital for five days.”
“I didn’t know that! What happened?”
“Broken collarbone, two ribs broken, and a punctured lung.”
“Jesus!”
“Nah, he had nothing to do with it. It was all my fault.” Eddie laughed. “Anyway, I started seeing a shrink, and he recommended the medications.” He shrugged again and looked away.
“Geez, Eddie. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, either.”
“Eddie, I didn’t know. Does the … does the medicine help?”
“Yeah. It kind of makes me cloudy-headed at times. I laid off of it the past few days so I can be more myself with you.”
“You shouldn’t be drinking with it.”
He waved me away. “They say that, but really, it doesn’t hurt. Makes me feel better, actually.” Eddie leaned closer and whispered. “I was mostly afraid the medicine would give me sexual problems, but that didn’t happen.”
“No, I guess it didn’t.”
A pitcher of frozen margaritas, which I hadn’t realized he’d ordered, came to the table. I was about to refuse since I’d overdone it the night before, but Eddie had already poured two glasses. He held one up. “Hair of the dog,” he said and clinked my glass. “It’s the holidays, drink up.”
“Jesus, Eddie, I don’t think I can. My stomach and head still haven’t recovered—”
“Then just have a few sips.”
“You’re not going to drink this entire pitcher by yourself.”
“I will if you don’t help me.” He took a drink and sighed. “Ahhhh. Best margaritas in town.”
Of course I ended up drinking with him. I could say it was because the beverage complemented the meal, but it wouldn’t be the truth. While I attempted to take it easy, he didn’t and got intoxicated very quickly. The mood at the table altered. At one point, Eddie placed his hand on top of mine. “Shelby, I’ve decided to make the big change.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll start packing. I’ll come back to Chicago with you. It’s obvious we’re destined to be together, right? I mean, you felt it last night, too, didn’t you?”
That threw me. “What?”
“Last night. Didn’t you feel it? That bond between us? We’re meant to be together, forever. I’m coming to Chicago. I’ll find a place here where my mother can live and she can be taken care of properly. I’ll move in with you and we’ll get married. What do you say?”
“Eddie, I—”
“Oh, I know it’ll be an adjustment. Especially for me. I’ve never lived anywhere else except Limite and Vietnam. It’ll be a big change. I have to break that invisible umbilical cord that keeps me in that goddamned house. There are things … well, let’s just say I’ve always felt I had to stay there because it was my destiny to turn the place into holy ground—or rather, unholy ground. Becoming a Satanist made everything clear to me. You see, I’m a god. Wouldn’t you like to be married to a god? Then you would be a god, too!”
My stomach reeled. He started rambling and talking fast, saying bizarre, stream-of-consciousness things that sounded very unsettling. Things like how he and I were going to start our own Satanic church in Chicago and become famous like Anton LaVey. There were “relics of Hell” in the bomb shelter that had kept him in Limite, and now he wanted to break free of them.
“But you don’t believe in Satan,” I reminded him.
“No, no, I don’t believe in the devil, but I know he’s out there. He entered me when I was a little boy. I’ve lived with evil all my life, Shelby, and it’s high time I get away from it. You will help me do that, won’t you? We can run away from this evil place, and maybe I can turn my life around. No more black houses—we won’t do any of that if you don’t want me to. No more Satanic rituals. No more Davy Jones’s Locker. No more—”
“Davy Jones’s Locker?”
“Yeah, you remember that? Davy Jones’s Locker. It’s a source of pure evil. Everything that’s wrong with me has come up from Hell through Davy Jones’s Locker and enslaved me. The devil has touched me, Shelby, and I hear him talk to me at night.”
I was beginning to get extremely disturbed. “Eddie, I think we should leave. When did you say you last took your medicine?”
He laughed. “I haven’t taken it in a few days, actually.”
“Eddie, you need to call your doctor.”
“No way. I’m coming with you to Chicago, and we’re going to get married. When do you want to leave?”
“Eddie, you’re not coming with me to Chicago and we’re not going to get married.”
He wasn’t listening. “I know you can’t have babies, and that’s good because I never want to bring a child of mine into the world. I don’t want him or her to have my evil. Evil is hereditary, you know? I got it from my father …” He chugged another glass of margarita.
“Eddie, you’re delirious. Stop drinking and listen to me.”
“Whee, I feel so good! I’m finally going to be happy. We’ll be happy, Shelby. I’ve seen it in my dreams. We’ll live in your palace in Chicago. Maybe we can turn it into the biggest and best Satanic church in America. People will come from all around to—”
I stood. “Eddie! Stop it. Let’s get out of here.” I dug into my purse, pulled out a wad of bills that would more than cover the check, and pulled him to get up and come with me. He followed reluctantly, suddenly confused and disoriented. Once we were outside, I told him to take a breath of fresh air and calm down.
“I’m perfectly calm. I love you.” He tried to embrace me, but I pulled away. I was frightened. I’d never seen him like this.
“What the hell’s the matter?” he asked, abruptly turning from his euphoria to belligerence.
“Nothing. I’m going to drive you home. You can’t get behind the wheel.”
“Fuck you, of course I can.”
“Eddie! Don’t talk to me that way.”
“Are you like all the others, too? You’re scared of me? You’re afraid of big, bad Evil Eddie? Mwahaha, the Devil Man is going to get you!”
He made like he was going to attack me, and I swear I screamed and backed away.
“Eddie! Let’s just get in the car. I’ll take you home and then drive to my dad’s apartment. He can follow me back to your house and I’ll leave your car.”
“No. Spend the night.”
“I’m not going to, Eddie. You’re not well. You need to call your doctor.”
“Fuck my doctor.”
“Eddie!”
“And fuck you, too.”
I slapped him. I couldn’t help it. It was something I shouldn’t have done, but the emotions and fear and confusion were too much. As soon as my skin struck his, his eyes grew wide with anger. I thought he was going to hit me. Instead, he leaned his head back and howled like a wolf. Loud and scary. He didn’t stop. Just kept howling as people stopped and stared. I left him on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, went back inside, and asked to use the phone. I called 911 and asked for an ambulance.
He was still outside, on his knees and howli
ng at the sky, when the ambulance arrived. He got violent and struggled with the EMT personnel, but they finally subdued him and took him away.
The keys to his car were in his pocket. I was stranded. I didn’t want to disturb my father, so I called a taxi and went home.
The evening left me with the shakes. I knew I couldn’t stay in Limite. It wouldn’t be wise to be near Eddie. The following day was Christmas Eve. I told Dad that I would be going back to Illinois the day after Christmas.
I never spoke to Eddie again.
19
My life went on, without too much drama, for the rest of the nineties and beyond the turn of the millennium. I thank my lucky stars for the success of my books; sales have remained steady and I don’t believe I have to worry about retirement. There are no plans to stop writing any time soon, but someday I will want to simply relax and live off my nest egg.
Oh—there was that feature about me that appeared in People magazine in 2004, the year I turned fifty. I had been elected as one of those “50 and Still Hot” women, which was embarrassing and flattering at the same time. I would have been mortified, except that the article was a great one, covering my entire career and presenting me in a good light. I sat down for an interview with Alice, the woman who wrote the piece. She may have spent a little too much space on the fact that I was single and preferred to live that way, and there was an attempt to compare me to Patricia Harlow. Somehow, Alice had also managed to dig up information on what happened to our family in the summer of 1966. During the interview, Alice asked some uncomfortable questions about baby Michael, and I did my best to answer them truthfully. “It was a long time ago,” I told her, “and I was only twelve at the time. The subject is very painful even still, so I’d prefer not to talk about it.” To her credit, Alice replied that she understood and went on to other topics. The accompanying photographs were shot in Chicago on Michigan Avenue on a beautiful day—the sun was shining and fall was around the corner. I have to say I did look pretty good. Alice begged me to let her print a photo or two from my childhood, and I reluctantly relented. Warts and all, I now consider it to be perhaps the best piece of PR about me that I’ve ever seen. My book sales experienced a nice surge after the magazine hit the stands.
But what about Eddie? Upon my return to Illinois at the beginning of ’95, I was still worried about his health. He had been hospitalized when I left Limite. I figured it was just a case of him not complying with his psychiatrist’s orders and going off his meds. Some time passed, and I heard from my father that Eddie had been seen around town and that he still lived in the black house. I assumed that meant he was back on his meds and was doing all right.
Although we didn’t speak, I received a letter from him in November 1996, written in the familiar printed block letters, with bad spelling and grammar, on what appeared to be Big Chief tablet ruled paper. The letter was sent to my publisher and forwarded to me. Eddie had written to say that his mother had died earlier in the year and that he was now all alone in the black house. That he missed me, but that I was right to have left him. That was it. I sent a sympathy card to his house, telling Eddie that I was sorry to hear about his mother and that I hoped he was feeling better. I didn’t acknowledge anything else. He never sent a reply, and I was glad he didn’t.
The next time I heard about Eddie was when my father sent me a newspaper clipping from the Limite Observer, dated April 30, 2000, which featured an interview with “Evil Eddie,” the notorious Satanist living with a “witch” in a house in east Limite. A photo showed Eddie with a shaved head and a devilish goatee. He was obviously emulating Anton LaVey, who had died in 1997. That same year, Eddie officially founded The Temple, which was designated as a not-for-profit “religious” organization that funded various activities associated with his newsletter, website, and “church.” A congregation of sorts gathered at the black house once a month. Eddie was known as the High Priest of The Temple. He had completely converted the Chicory Lane home to run his business—writing and publishing Godless Times and utilizing eBay to sell Satanic-themed jewelry (pentagram necklaces and the like), T-shirts, and other atheistic literature. Whether he still used the fallout shelter as a “sanctuary,” the article didn’t reveal.
Atheists, self-professed witches and magi, and other characters with dubious backgrounds came from all over Texas, Mexico, and sometimes from out of state. The largest assembly he ever hosted counted to seventeen. That didn’t sound like a lot, but when one considered that Limite was a small town in Bible Belt Texas, it was remarkable. I was surprised he hadn’t been run out of town and lynched.
“I’m the most hated man in Limite,” he was quoted as saying. “My neighbors think I eat the corpses of babies and sacrifice virgins at the altar. That’s what people think of when the word ‘Satanist’ comes up. That couldn’t be further from the truth. A black mass is simply a parody of a Catholic mass. It doesn’t involve blood or children or violence of any kind. It’s an intellectual—and very funny—exercise.”
He went on to add that he’d had plenty of trouble with law enforcement and complaints from the public, but the fact of the matter was he wasn’t harming anyone. It was perfectly within his rights to practice his religion and operate his business. Was it offensive? Absolutely—at least it was to the population of Limite. But being offensive or having bad taste wasn’t a crime.
A woman named Dora Walton was mentioned as being his “second-in-command” or High Priestess. The article wasn’t clear whether or not Eddie was married to her or if she lived in the house. A “Magister Wade Jones,” a CPA from California, was treasurer of the congregation. He had been a member of LaVey’s Church of Satan in San Francisco.
When asked why he chose to establish his “church” in a small town like Limite, Eddie answered, “There’s a sacred spot on the property where I grew up, the house on Chicory Lane. Call it a source, a vortex, or whatever—there is power emanating from it, the power of Satan. It’s had a hold on me since I was a child. I can never leave it.” Where on the property was this source? Was it in the house? “I’d better not say,” Eddie replied. “For my own security.”
Ha—I knew what that sacred spot was, and I had spent much time in it myself.
In closing, Eddie stated that all he wanted was to live and work and practice his beliefs in peace without harassment and discrimination.
I had to give credit to the Observer for presenting the piece without bias or judgment. The story made Eddie sound intelligent and well-spoken—albeit a little like a wacko freak who practiced Satanism in his backyard.
And who was Dora Walton, the High Priestess? What was all that about? Was she his lover? Maybe even his wife?
My curiosity was piqued, but not enough to warrant the trouble to find out anything. I didn’t want to contact Eddie and wasn’t about to ask my father to do any research.
I let it go and forgot about it.
That is, until Christmas of 2005, when Eddie made international news. He was a murderer. The headlines screamed the worst. EVIL EDDIE SLAYS LOVER. RITUAL KILLING SHOCKS NEIGHBORHOOD. DEVIL WORSHIPPERS IN BLOOD ORGY.
It occurred on Christmas Eve. Almost all of the houses on Chicory Lane in Limite were decorated in holiday lights, with front yard displays of Nativity scenes, Santa and his sled, and other common yuletide imagery. One house had no decorations—the black one, the home of Evil Eddie, devil worshipper and Satanist, the blight of the neighborhood.
Just after midnight—so in fact it was Christmas Day when the deed was discovered—Eddie decided to create his own holiday display in the front yard of his house. It was unclear when the actual murder had taken place—most likely just minutes prior—but he considered the final act to be the result of an “artist at work.” Dora Walton was seven months pregnant. After her death, he performed an amateur Caesarean, removing the fetus. He then placed mother and child in the front yard, arranged as if they were a grotesque perversion of Madonna and child. Not only was it bloody and horrific, it was obs
cene. As the sun rose on the street, the calls flooded the police station.
As my assistant Billy had said, it was pretty creepy shit. Nothing says “Merry Christmas” better than an abattoir in a person’s front yard.
Officers burst into the house. Over a hundred black candles illuminated Eddie’s demonic artwork, which covered the walls. No one was there. The police searched the home and found no evidence of the crime. Then they went outside to the backyard. The bomb shelter door was closed, but they could hear music coming from down below. They opened the steel door, stormed the underground lair, and uncovered the scene of the crime. Eddie, naked, sat cross-legged on the floor in the center of the pentagram, lost in a meditational trance. He was drenched in gooey, coagulating blood. Two large knives lay next to the murderer. The music was Black Sabbath from the seventies.
The cops arrested Eddie, and he offered no resistance. He didn’t say a word.
By noon of Christmas Day, the street was overflowing with news vans, police cars, ambulances, and dozens of curious onlookers. It was a circus.
I found out about it from my father, whom I had called midafternoon to wish a Merry Christmas. It was all over the news, he said, so I booted up my computer and found the stories online. I’m afraid I may have gone into shock. I don’t remember crawling back into bed, but that’s where I was when I opened my eyes at six p.m. that evening. Three or four hours had passed since I’d spoken to Dad. The news stories were still on my computer monitor. I must have been so repulsed that I’d turned away from the desk and stumbled back into my bedroom.
The tears flowed freely. “Why, Eddie?” I called out, to nobody in the house. “What happened? Why did you do it?”
The Secrets on Chicory Lane Page 15
