Scary Creek

by Thomas Cater

  I pushed and turned, rattled, cursed and was ready to give up and leave while I had the chance, when the lock tumbled into place and the door swung open to a silent vestibule. Two more doors of ranch oak with long thin panes of frosted glass stood before me. They were less intimidating and more inviting. I tried the same key and the doors opened easily. I stepped into the hall.

  For a mid-afternoon in fall, there was more than enough light by which to see, and what I observed, I liked. Antique prints and wall hangings decorated the hall. Decorative lamps and an array of family photos covered an oak library table.

  I felt like an intruder. Someone had to be living in the house, cleaning and taking care of things. The oak floors glowed from a recent polishing. The house had the appearance of ongoing habitation. The inside was free of dust and the usual musty odors of age and decay that inevitably invaded derelict property were absent. It lacked absolutely nothing in the way of homespun comfort. Only the absence of an occupant raised speculation to a nervous height.

  There were large open rooms on both sides of the hall. A sitting room furnished with couches and chairs and bright oriental carpets with vivid colors were scattered on the floor. Everything looked relatively new, except for the style, which was solidly Victorian.

  The silence was even more impressive. I had never been in a structure where the absence of sound accounted for so much of its character. No sighing drafts, no creaking boards or chimney breezes stirred. The house’s construction was without fault.

  I crept through the sitting room, fearing discovery, even though it was officially my property. I had not reached that state of mind where I could freely possess it. I examined each piece of furniture, reluctant to try it out for fear of leaving an impression. It was all expensive, good leather, velvet and hardwood.

  I gazed at the pictures on the tables without touching them for fear they might cry out, or vanish in my hands. I had no trouble spotting Elinore in her rose-colored glasses. Samuel, I could see was a man to be reckoned with. He was tall, broad-shouldered, robust, and a burning intensity raged in his eyes like a smoldering fire. I would never live long enough to understand the thoughts in the mind of a man that could create that kind of paralyzing stare. There were many pictures of Samuel and Elinore, but she appeared to be the same age in all of them, while his appearance changed subtly. In each picture, she seemed to grow wiser, fragile and vulnerable. When her eyes were uncovered, they become more opaque in their search for light.

  I continued to move silently about. I found other photos of Elinore on bookshelves and a library table. There were pictures of Amy Taylor, and other curiously dressed women. One of the women, stunted in size, was also slim with dark skin and dressed in formal clothes. She concealed her face in a hat and veil that covered her very large head. There were no identifiable pictures of Elinore as an older woman. It was almost as if she ceased to exist after the age of twenty.

  I crossed the hall and entered a room that was very masculine. There were no pictures, no decorations, only the timeless fragrance of wood, leather and tobacco.

  Down the hall, there were other closed rooms. I opened one and made a brief inventory. It wasn’t intended to make an impression. In all probability, Ryders occupied the spare rooms when they weren’t receiving guests.

  The kitchen was primitive. The bird's eye maple cupboards and shelves reached to the ceiling. Heavy maple tables and chairs occupied the kitchen. The stove was an ancient heirloom standing on short bandy legs with burners beside a boxed-in oven. A refrigerator, the color of old ivory, wore its cooling element on top like a crown. A hand pump, affixed to the kitchen sink, still drew its black and smelly water from a nearby well.

  There was a door in the kitchen that led to a stairwell. The stairs down led to the basement and the stairs going up led to the bedrooms. The enclosed stairwell was narrow and cool, with an odor of mildew and … something else. The skin on my arms tingled. I knew the odor. I discovered it in Asia and it lingers in my olfactories. Even the vilest and smelliest farts could not conceal it. I knew the stink of decomposition. I felt ensnared by its odor, as if it were a web. It pinned me against the wall, passed through the sleeves and buttonholes in my clothes and wrapped my body in a stifling cocoon.

  I tried to push away, but it was like smoke. The odor entered into my mouth and nostrils, played with me as if I were prey, a tasty morsel, but it was devouring me, from the inside out. I could feel it entering every available orifice, trying to make contact. The odor invaded my lungs. I twisted away from the wall, stumbled on the stairs and into the kitchen. I slumped to the floor and tried to clear my head.

  I began to murmur. Although I had no idea what I was saying, the words came into my mind and I spoke them aloud. “Tza ba di jia.” It was a chant an old Abidji witch doctor had intoned after he sold me a ‘We’ wisdom mask. At the time, I thought I was getting less than I’d bargained for. I never expected to remember the words with such clarity. When I asked him to translate, he said ‘there are no equivalent words in any other language’.

  I repeated the chant, while I waited for my mind to clear. The door to the stairwell remained open.

  The sun’s rays slanted through the window and illuminated a microcosmic universe of dust particles swirling around a miniature black hole. For one hapless second, I gimpsed the mystery and dimension of dark matter.

  Touching my face, I noticed it was hot and enriched with blood. Whatever I had encountered on the stairs didn’t think enough of my presence to continue its investigation. If it was dangerous, why was I shaken, but unharmed? The encounter reminded me of the ‘aromatic invasion’ of xenodusa cava, an ant predator. Xenodusa emitted a fragrance, a sweet narcotic from hairs on its back. Ants courted the beetle, stroked its head with their forelegs so it would emit secretions, which they greedily devoured. Within minutes, the ants were addicted to the narcotic and the beetle had acquired the ‘nest’ smell. He was than free to prey on ant eggs and larvae.

  Something, I believed, had stroked me, tried to seduce me with its deathly fragrant odors.

  I returned to the stairs, extended my arms like a blind man and felt my way along the wall. It was not a sudden revelation. I had thought all along that it might be Elinore, but her method of communication was puzzling. It did not occur to me that even in death she might still be blind or seeing things differently, or surviving in a different color spectrum.

  Ants communicate by sharing bits of food with bio-chemical messengers spread throughout the colony; it’s called trophallaxis. The system suggests a collective stomach. I suspect it was communication in a non-sensory way, or they were imbuing me with a ‘nest’ fragrance. It was okay by me, but I was confused.

  I’ve heard the afterlife described as a place where spirits never realize that death has no meaning, but life exists, after a fashion. Maybe the other side was not as orderly as we prefer to believe. Maybe the blind here and there are equally the same with all their attendant problems.

  At the top of the stairs, I gazed down the corridor. The hall I assumed was uncluttered for Elinore’s benefit. The first room I wandered in was nearly empty save for a single bed, a dresser and floor lamp. Unwanted overnight guests were never a problem for the Ryders. I continued to the next room, which was larger than the other. Unless I missed my guess, it was Samuel’s room. I sat on the wrought Iron bed. There were rows of books in a walnut case near the bed and a size thirteen shoebox full of correspondence.

  I examined a few books for authors’ names and titles. A two volume set of Isis Unveiled, by Madam Helena Petrovna Blavatsky; The Phoenix, by Manley P. Hall; Books of Essays by Eliphas Levy; A Book of Scottish Rites; Appolonius of Tyana; Pythagoras; Trithemius; Hynerotomachia Poliphili and five books by Ignatius Donnelly: Atlantis, The Antediluvian World, Ragnarik, The Age of Fire and Gravel, and The Great Cryptogram.

  The titles told me too much about Samuel. Once they were the forbidden repositories of banned and dreaded secrets. The more polite members of socie
ty in the Gay ‘90s viewed them with shock, horror and sometimes amusement. I could not keep from risking a smile. They were all scholarly books of unbridled imagination and fanciful speculation. I knew a few more details about Donnelly than I knew about other figures from the past.

  The governor of Minnesota at the age of 28, Donnelly served in the House of Representatives before a political quarrel blocked a fourth nomination. His passion for espousing pseudo-scientific causes forced him to set aside a political career for one less luminous in letters. By 1882, he was one of the most frequently discussed literary figures in America. His crypto-analyses of Shakespeare’s plays were famous among those who believed that Francis Bacon was the true author of those works.

  I vacated the room with the shoebox of letters under my arm and continued down the hall. There were other rooms, but I was looking for Elinore’s boudoir. The next room was small with dusty bare floors. Cherry boards paneled the walls. Except for the paneling, there was nothing extraordinary about the room. In fact, it was plain. Elinore was blind; she would require nothing in the way of visual diversion. What she would have enjoyed were things stimulating to the sense of touch and smell. The window overlooked the spoiled gardens and invited scented breezes. A brass bed, tables and chairs accompanied a closet and a marble-topped chest of drawers.

  I wondered about the house and furnishings. Is it possible, despite Virgil’s convictions, the house was not safe from compromise? I was proof of invasion. I was beginning to feel disappointment. I did not experience the terrifying events I'd been led to expect. I should have felt grateful, but I needed affirmation that the other side was a reality, not a work of imagination.

  I returned to the landing near the top of the kitchen. A narrow door led to the attic. I knew I would find the vestiges of those who had lived in the house. According to Amy Taylor, it was the room where Elinore spent long periods of her youthful life. I tried the front door key, but it did not fit. I slipped a credit card from my billfold and pressed it against the latch and the door swung open.

  Chapter Ten

  The Appalachian Mountains are much older than other continental landmasses. They were the first peaks of jagged earth to rise above primordial seas, and those barren slabs of rock became a dwelling place for strange creatures that knew not of human life, and could never embrace it. They do however occasionally touch our lives and influence us in ways we cannot explain. I knew I had discovered such a strange place when I opened the attic door. A gust of warm and fragrant air almost sucked the breath from my lungs.

  The high spiral stairwell was double-planked with wooden treads. Dust lay thick upon a net of cobwebs, where spiders managed to accomplish their finest work. In the light that filtered through louvered attic window screens, I could see old boxes and barrels, packing crates and things I knew would reveal answers. The attic, however, was not silent. I could hear breezes sweeping in through the eves, whispering enticements to the cartons, flirting through the rafters and running across the floor, playing with the flapping ends of cloth and curtains. I started up the stairs feeling my way. I did not want to run into the specter of Elinore, or anything, or anyone else.

  The attic was as I had imagined: stacks of cardboard boxes brimming with books and magazines, wooden chests and steamer trunks, suitcases and storage bags, lamps that didn’t work and worn out appliances. All the worthless memorabilia that is impossible to give or throw away. The few things I did not see or find were a child’s clothes or toys.

  A small maple desk sat in a corner. I knew it was Elinore’s desk. She would not have required light to practice her letters, to transcribe personal notes or keep a diary. I raised the wooden desktop and was surprised to discover several notepads, a magnifying glass and a three-sided prism for bending light rays and making rainbows of light, all arranged inside the desk.

  Protected from dust, the notebooks looked as if the final entry had been made only hours ago. I randomly opened one notebook. The words, scrawled on the page, were running together and sometimes overlapping, but always written indifferently to a reader’s eyes. I read:

  “Dear diary; the sad lonely cries of the people in the ground howl like wild dogs. Nothing can make them stop, not books or music, not even magic. They come in the night like dreams and take me down to the dark and smelly place, where the children with glowing eyes have set the earth on fire.”

  I was aghast! I couldn’t believe I was reading the musings of a child. It was only a single entry in one of several notebooks, but it made me question why a child with failing sight might spend every day and night filled with frightening terrors. I picked up another notebook. It was older, the pages had yellowed and the printing was large and undisciplined. The spelling was wrong; Page after page of misspelled and backward letters. I suspected that it belonged to a young or disturbed child. I replaced it with another, and the notes continued:

  “They come into my room at night and whisper frightening tales of the Klikouchy. I cannot see them clearly. They are like shadows dancing on my walls, walking on my bed. Oh, please, let me help them get away and I will never doubt your power again.”

  I was about to read another entry when a subtle breeze from the window stirred the particles of dust gathering on the floor. They looked like ants on the march. The longer I watched them; a form was slowly taking shape. It was a kind of dust devil that looked like a large ant. with a horny carapace. There were also mandibles and spider-like eyes looking in various directions. It was gliding slowly, a foot or so from the floor. I watched as the swirling particles gathered in greater density. I closed my eyes and gave my head a shake to clear my thoughts, but the particles of dust acted as if they wanted to join me. I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, but I could not believe what happened next. I could feel the mandibles scurrying upon my chest, until they began to squeeze as if they were tongs. They lifted me toward a broken window. I could not believe my good intentions were destined to end this way. A long, low groan escaped my lungs. My head bumped against the rafters. I was conscious of a cry inside my head, but I could not say with certainty it was coming from me.

  My thoughts were searching, sifting for the chant, which I found difficult to recall. I tried to loosen the grip of the mandible that held me, but it became as shapeless as smoke. My head collided again with the window casing and I spoke her name, “Elinore!”

  My body trembled and I heard a growl, though I am not sure where the voice originated. The claw gripped me tightly. I heard the sound of bones crumbling. I was fearful that they might have been mine, and breaking! When I thought my skull was going to crack, I shouted … “Tza ba di jia!”

  *

  .For several moments, I lost conscious. When I suddenly awoke, I was no longer bothered by the dust devil. I knew instinctively the sun had set and I needed light to navigate the stairs, but I had none. I stumbled over the box containing Samuel’s’ letters. I gathered it up and started walking, like a blind man, each step rattling through my spine. I was angry and indignant, but trembling too fiercely to think straight. When I stepped into the hall, I sensed something had changed. My mind, I suspected, was not yet fully conscious. As I moved, the stench of wood rot, mildew and decay filled the hall. The wallpaper appeared to be peeling and hanging off in dry stained clumps. A darker than dark shadow gathered on a distant wall.

  I began to discern another form taking shape. I could only see its outline … and its eyes. I turned toward the figure, but it quickly vanished and then suddenly reappeared, it was a shifting apparition … of sorts. It was about the size a large dog sitting on its haunches, at the end of the hall. It looked, at times, as if it was just an outline. It had a pendulous stomach, and a ferocious face. It was like a spreading inkblot growing all the time. An expression of savagery in its eyes. The thing was visible in the shadows, yet it was a shadow, and it was staring steadily at me. To run, I could see, would be hopeless. The thing could and would appear when and where it chose. The victims of the house were no longer a
mystery. I wished now that I’d been spared the sight.

  The creature extended a shadowy arm, as if beckoning. I took a step forward and the ‘thing’ rested, its other arm resting upon its knee. I could see the scaling wallpaper pattern through the creature, even though it possessed dimension. Its crude head and darkened eyes continued to glare, while it assessed my progress. As I approached, I stood opposite the creature. I was a few feet from the stain that defined it. It could have reached out and touched me, which it tried to do. I quickly took a step down the stairs. I could hear the sound of its breath and I heard a muffled growl.

  “Tza ba di jia!” I whispered, and studied it as I descended the stairs. The thing, now the size of an ape, moved and I thought it looked weary.

  A car horn blared when I reached the bottom of the steps. I was relieved to know Virgil had returned. I had no idea how long I’d been creeping and crawling around the house and stairs, and still remained conscious. It might have been an hour. I tried to walk, but my neck ached.

  The headlights of his car were shining like distant beacons through the trees. I felt safe when I reached the periphery of those bright beams. I tried to raise an arm to signal, but I could barely lift my hand above my head.

  I was elated when the car horn stopped blaring. He could only be drawing more attention to me and I was not yet off the grounds. He gunned the engine. I heard tires spinning in the dirt and saw red lights backing up, moving away, and preparing to speed off and down the road!

  ‘The worthless bastard is leaving!’ or so I thought. He’d seen me coming through the trees and suspected I was one of the house's 'walking wounded’. I tried to shout, but the words were lost beneath the engine’s roar. I waved and whistled. The noise stopped. He waited and stood alongside the wall, while I dragged my body over.