Scary Creek

by Thomas Cater

  “There is no information about Elinore, when she was born, or came from. She was here in the early 1900s,” Virgil continued. “She was blind, or visually impaired, so I’ve been told, but learned to read and write with the help of a ‘magic glass’ and a colored girl. What little sight she had did not improve with time. Of course, that may have been a blessing, since Samuel resembled a distant relative of our original ancestors. He was nearly seven feet tall with long hair and a beard that looked like rusted barbwire. Some say it was his appearance that kept him from being chosen Bryan’s running mate.”

  “What about that magic glass?” I asked.

  “Just a piece of solid glass in the shape of a prism from what I hear. There was nothing special about it.”

  “What about her mother?”

  “No one knows,” he continued, “but there were always lots of women out there: nurses, tutors, companions and lots of guests: the cream of polite society, including politician, painters, musicians, performers, artists, carnival freaks, jugglers, clowns, wild animal trainers and wild animals: lions, tigers, elephants and camels.”

  I dared not venture a guess as to what that rustic sideshow resembled.

  “Samuel however kept to himself, except when he was entertaining, which he often did.”

  I wondered if any of those wild animals and freaks, or their descendants, were still loose and roaming the woods.

  “When I met Elinore, which was a long time ago, she was supposed to be old, but she didn’t look it. From what I could see, she wore dark glasses, scarves and gloves, even in warm weather. She had been in and out of the state hospital as a patient and did not have much to say. She wanted me to find workers to tear down the old board and batten rental houses on her property. They were falling apart. There used to be about thirty-to-forty cabins, but now there are less than a dozen. You say you’ve never seen the place?”

  I gave my glabrous pate a rub and my head a shake. “No, but I am, believe it or not, looking forward to it.”

  “The mansion was once surrounded by coal company houses,” he said. “The closest now is about a mile away. Those still standing are barely habitable. I tried for years to collect rents for the estate, but not anymore. It never amounted to much when you could get it, not even enough to pay the taxes. Before Elinore died, she turned the rental houses over to the people living there. Squatters moved into the vacancies and have been there ever since. In any other location in the county, the house and real estate would fetch about $150,000. But in Elanville, I can’t give it away.”

  “You mean it’s not worth what I paid for it?”

  “It’s not the house,” he blurted out, “it’s the location, and the possibility that on rare occasions people have been injured out there.”

  I tried to coax empathy from his eyes, but they would not relent.

  “You may think I’m foolish, but it’s true. I could have sold that place a dozen times, if it were somewhere else. How often do you get a chance to buy a house and 26 acres of land for $30,000?”

  “Not often,” I added.

  “I’d buy it myself if I thought for a moment there was a possibility of occupying it someday.”

  I could not believe a location, or rumors of errant spirits, could prevent a realtor from investing in a potentially viable piece of income-producing property.

  It suddenly occurred to me that I could be falling for a reverse sales pitch. I began to suspect the property was worth far less than the price, and its only value was the story that went with it.

  “Have you been inside?” I asked.

  “I told you,” he replied. “No one has been in there since Elinore died.”

  “What about the furniture?” I asked, as if I had a right to expect it to be intact, and if it was not, it was a convenient item to negotiate.

  “It’s there.” He said.

  “The house is furnished?” I asked, surprised.

  “With dozens of antiques,” he replied.

  “And no one has tried to steal them?”

  “That would account for one fatality,” he said, “a drifter who did odd jobs. His body was found draped over the wall surrounding the house.”

  “What happened?” I asked, stunned.

  He shook his head. “I can’t explain it. There were no open wounds, but not a drop of blood was found.”

  “That’s very strange,” I said. “Next you’re going to tell me aliens are mutilating local cattle and sheep.”

  “Where’d you hear that?” He said.

  “Never mind: are there any more bed time stories?”

  “An electrician died while installing electricity in the house. There was an expression on his face, so I've been told, as if he'd witnessed something dreadful. It was so frightening the family had his coffin sealed.”

  “He could have been electrocuted, or died of a heart attack?”

  “You could say that, but …”

  “But, what?”

  He avoided further discussion and moved on to another story. “A primary school teacher gathering wild flowers had an attack of some kind. Students saw her thrashing on the ground. Whatever it was that possessed her ….”

  ‘Possessed?’ It was a curious word coming from the mouth of a realtor. “It sounds like an epileptic fit; or maybe she stepped on a nest of fire ants. They can do that kind of mischief. A few thousand ant-size shots of formic acid and you’re thrashing so violently you could break something.”

  He shrugged. “One way or another, something got into her the way things get into anyone who lingers near that house.”

  “Tell me more,” I challenged.

  “A hiker fell from the wall and hit his head. A companion said he ‘bled out’ and his face turned white. It looked like a mask of a skull; the kind primitive people wear to scare off demons.”

  “I know all about primitive masks,” I interrupted. “I have acquired several from Africa, Sri Lanka, Indonesia, Cambodia and Northwest tribal Indian masks. In fact I’m an expert on spirit masks.”

  He was not interested in hearing about my collection or qualifications.

  “A witness said his blood appeared to vanish into the wall. She went for help, but when she returned, it was too late.”

  “Too late?” I asked. “You mean he recovered?”

  “No, he was gone. All that remained were soiled clothes and bones. It took several men to drag her away.”

  “Drag ‘her’ away? What happened to him?”

  He shook his head and shrugged. “She was eventually committed to the State Asylum for the Insane; the name it was called when it happened. Now it’s the Vandalia State Hospital.”

  “And where is that?” I asked.

  “Just two or three miles down the road.”

  “Could she have imagined the whole thing?” I asked.

  Virgil lifted his eyes. A lunatic, electrocution and a fire-ant victim, I began to suspect the Ryder mansion would soon prove to be the most dilapidated piece of junk real estate in the county, and I would probably end up owning it because of my complete lack of business acumen.

  “So when did these events occur?” I asked.

  Within the last fifty years.”

  ‘Fifty years? You got anything more recent and relevant?”

  Virgil took a deep breath: “A local college student spent a night in the house a few years ago, a fraternity initiation. Police found a climbing rope tangled in the branches of a tree. Most people break bones falling out of trees not climbing into them. Some said he jumped from the roof and landed in the tree, a distance of thirty feet.”

  “So what did he say?” I asked.

  “He didn’t talk about it.”

  “That’s convenient. Were there incriminating circumstances?” I asked.

  “His blood alcohol level was high and he carried climbing gear.”

  I grimaced. The stories, I decided, were too absurd. They sounded as if they were from a supermarket tabloid.

  “Did the local paper repor
t on the stories?”

  “Not all of them,” Virgil said, “just the ones occurring around Halloween.”

  His hapless grin faltered. “There are those around who can tell you their personal stories. Their mishaps did not cause bodily harm, but they ended up badly shaken.

  “A reporter from a national tabloid once wrote a story about the house. She called it the ‘Hell House of Upshyre County.’”

  “Is that another Halloween story?”

  Virgil nodded. The smoke was beginning to clear. I could see the headlines, read the handwriting on the wall. It was what every Appalachian community needed: a legend, a house, and a psychotic spook, all of which could add up to a few tourist dollars and an All Hallow’s Eve festival.

  “Why hasn’t some smart promoter started conducting tours?” I said.

  Virgil groaned. He was thoroughly disappointed with my disregard for local history.

  “There are those who look for conspiracy in everything. I hope you are not that cynical, Mr. Case. The Ryder house is not the best setting for a skeptic.”

  My convictions were strong and my beliefs ran deep. I was not about to abandon them for Appalachian folk or fairy tales. I did not believe in ghosts, archetypes or spirits: collective unconscious, maybe. I would not allow a local legend to disturb my psychic equilibrium. I could not however rule out the possibility that forces were at work on anyone who unconsciously participated in this unwitting form of mass hysteria. There was even the possibility that some demented drifter might be lurking in the area, waylaying strangers and trying to keep others away from the house until he could…what, find the family jewels?

  “Please, call me Charles,” I pleaded, glancing at my watch. “If you can spare the time, I would like to see the house this afternoon.”

  His gaze was direct and made me wonder how much I had a right to expect from a sales agent acting on behalf of the local courts. He was most likely deciding whether I was able to accept full responsibility for the debt and my actions.

  ”We can look,” he said, “but I won’t go in. I’ll wait on the road.”

  “When can we get started?”

  “I’ll call my wife and let her know I’m going to be late.”

  “For dinner?” I asked, making a second observation of the time.

  “Let’s hope it’s not a funeral,” he replied.

  I am so easily compromised, I decided, and getting more so as I ‘glom’ my way through the mysteries of middle age and all of its attendant fears.

  Chapter Three

  I waited while Virgil telephoned his wife. I kept an eye open for signs that might reveal ulterior motives, but the mask of credibility remained firmly affixed. Nothing dubious occurred to make me suspect I was the victim of a ruse. If he were testing the limits of convention, trying to quicken his own life of quiet desperation with a role-playing game, he was too intent an actor to be so far off Broadway.

  “Violet, it’s me. I’m going to be late. Yeah, the guy who bought the Ryder property is here. He wants to see the house. Don’t worry. I said I’d show him from the road. I’m not going near that house. I don’t blame him for being skeptical; if he doesn’t come out, I’ll let the sheriff take care of it.”

  I was not eavesdropping. He spoke in a voice loud enough to convince me that confidentiality was not an issue. He did occasionally speak in whispers or shield his mouth with a hand. He also watched me from the corners of his eyes. He wanted to see if I’d pilfered more tissue or paper clips. I’d straighten a paper clip and was scouring the interior of my left ear. I was smiling graciously and nodding at every opportunity, pretending that public ear maintenance was socially acceptable in the Potomac Basin.

  After years of compiling photos in foreign lands that competed for national awards, I found myself engaged in a competition for credibility with an Appalachian realtor. It was not a comforting thought.

  “I’ll be home in an hour,” he said. “If I’m not back in two, call Gus.”

  I flapped my arms and shuffled my feet to enrich the flow of blood destined for my extremities. They were getting less and less of the stuff these days. I snapped my red suspenders for effect and yawned.

  “Who’s Gus?” I asked, “Your friendly neighborhood mortician?”

  “Gus Tyrebiter, the local sheriff, or ‘Walking Short,’ for a more apt description,” he replied.

  Now that the secrets surrounding the Ryder mansion were exposed, confidence instilled greater enthusiasm in Virgil for the manly art of salesmanship. He rifled through a desk drawer and retrieved a steel ring of brass and silver keys; some were nearly as large as those featured in the old Bela Lugosi movies were.

  “I’ve had a contract on that house for years,” he said. “I didn’t think I’d ever find a buyer. In fact, I’ve spent more time talking people out of buying it. Still you might be just what the old place needs, some new blood.”

  He removed a single key from the ring and stuck it in his pocket.

  “You think we’ll need that?” I asked.

  “What?” He said, standing deathly still.

  “The key, do you think we’ll need the key?”

  Mobility returned to his troubled eyes. “You want to go in, don’t you?”

  “After all those grim tales, I thought I might have to wrestle you for a key.”

  The uncertainty came back in his eyes. He held the key between the fingers of one hand.

  “I’m on autopilot right now; I’m not thinking about what I’m doing, just doing it. The first rule of sales deportment is never leave the office without a key to the property. You’d be surprised how easily a buyer’s mind can change; every thoughtless gesture is an omen of some kind.”

  He held the key at eye level. “I hope you don’t use it. I think it might be dangerous to enter the property.”

  I had acquired the habit of hooking my hands into the front of my suspendered trousers, which resulted in justifiably curious looks, one of which I was receiving from Virgil now.

  “Bring it,” I said, in a cavalier way. “I really must see the inside.”

  He appeared perturbed and a little weary of my indifference. He did not look as if he intended to do handsprings over my decision. He stuffed the key into his pocket.

  “We’d better get started,” he said. “We still have a few hours of daylight left. Let’s not be too adventurous on our first visit.”

  He unlocked a second drawer, removed a .45 semi-automatic pearl-handled pistol and crammed it in his pocket. He continued to rummage through the bottom drawer until he liberated a machete from rolls of electrical tape, hand tools, used batteries and miscellaneous hardware.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Can’t be too careful,” he replied, clipping the weapon to his belt. “Never know what we might run up against.”

  On the way out the door, he stumbled, nearly impaling himself on the knife. His dexterity with dangerous weapons left much to desire.

  A Ford station wagon with simulated wood trim, sat at the back door. Targets, gun oil, shotgun shells, outdoor magazines, Guns & Ammo, and other literature and plastic toys cluttered the back seat and bay.

  “You a vet?” I asked, harboring doubts.

  “Three years in Nam,” he said. “What about you?”

  “I took a few pictures in Ho Chi Minh, Cambodia, Laos and a few other places.”

  He shook his head intently. “I miss it. Wish I were there now. We never finished that job. We should have stayed until we finished.”

  I wanted to say ‘wars are unending’ but I held my tongue. He slid behind the wheel carefully to avoid a second encounter with the machete. I crammed my road-weary bones into the front seat and settled back. The leather seats conveyed a message of affluence. A gismo panel near the steering wheel indicated the car was loaded with every imaginable option.

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Case?”

  “Call me Charlie,” I said. “I’m a photographer and living off my prints and
assets.”

  “Can you make a living taking pictures?” He asked.

  “Depends on the number and quality of shots you have in circulation,” I replied. “I do a lot of work on speculation.”

  “Doesn’t that get expensive, traveling around for long periods of time?”

  “I don’t do that kind of work,” I said. I knew what he was after and it wasn’t my resume. “I’m also a D.C. landlord. I own a townhouse, thanks to a benevolent relative, and I collect atrocious rents on eight tiny apartments. In fact, if I’m not careful, I’m going to lose it all.”

  “Marriage on the rocks?” He asked restraining a grin.

  “Nothing that a little domestic violence wouldn’t resolve,” I replied, clenching my teeth.

  He pulled on the street; drove passed my RV and reviewed the DC tags.

  “Is that your RV?”

  I nodded proudly, the doting parent. It was the only material possession, besides my cameras, that I’ve ever owned, loved and believed could love me in return.

  “All the luxuries of home with none of the headaches,” I said. “I can take it with me when I go, leave it, love it, hate it, or sell it. It’s the closest thing to a faithful companion I’ve ever known.”

  There was something sad in that statement, though I’d never thought much about it. It made Virgil squirm.

  “Is the cat yours, too?” He asked.

  “Cat?” I said. “What cat?”

  “The big old grisly cat sitting in the van.”

  “You saw a cat in my van?”

  “Sitting in the front window,” Virgil replied.

  I gave some thought to the remote possibility that Myra’s cat may have entered the van, but I kept it sealed almost hermetically to prevent that possibility from happening.

  “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” He asked, smiling.

  “My wife’s cat,” I explained. “It took a shine to me after she moved in.”

  “Is it pretty expensive to care for?” He asked.

  “The cat?” I asked.