by Ronald Kelly
To say that he didn’t have much confidence in Hot Pappy’s ability to help him was an understatement. The old man was something of a sad joke in the community. He had been arrested for public drunkenness dozens of times and seemed to spend more time in the county jail than out. When he was sober, Hot Pappy was making a dollar here and there, doing odd jobs around town and collecting aluminum cans along Highway 100. Looking at the rundown shack and its surroundings was like looking at a residential version of the man himself.
Roger sighed and left the Dodge Caravan. Considering the events of the previous day, he didn’t really have much of a choice. He respected Jack McCall’s advice on all levels, both medical and personal, and if he said the old black man could help him, then he was probably right. Or at least, Roger hoped so.
He picked his way through the rusty junk and garbage of the front yard and climbed the steps of the rickety porch. Roger was raising his fist to knock on the door, when it suddenly opened.
“Morning,” said Hot Pappy from the opposite side of the threshold.
The man was short and wiry, with close-cropped, curly white hair and a beard to match. His bloodshot eyes – one lazy and canted to the left – were a peculiar shade of slate gray. His teeth were crooked and stained a yellowish-brown with tobacco juice. He wore a dingy wife-beater undershirt and a pair of jeans that had been patched so many times that the denim could scarcely be seen. On his feet was a pair of scuffed Nikes that looked like they had been in and out of Goodwill stores a dozen times.
“Good morning,” Roger replied.
Hot Pappy smiled crookedly. “Didn’t say it was good, now did I? Looks like an awful low and cloudy one for you… or am I mistaken?”
“No, sir. You’re right on the money.”
The old man stepped aside. “Then come on in. Misery loves company.”
Roger entered the little shack. The interior was dark and cluttered, and stank of unwashed clothing, unwashed dishes, and stale beer. He was surprised to find that there were only two rooms in the structure. The first boasted a little potbelly stove, a ratty armchair, a table with two chairs, a kitchen sink, and an olive-colored refrigerator that looked like a throwback to the 70’s. A door lead to another room – probably a small bedroom – but it was closed.
“Have yourself a seat, Mr. Perry,” Hot Pappy invited, waving to one of the two kitchen chairs.
Roger sat down. “You know who I am?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Did Dr. McCall tell you I was coming?”
The old man shook his wooly head. “Uh-uh. There ain’t much goes on in New Middleton that I don’t know about. Especially the bad stuff.” He ambled over to the fridge. “Mind if I have my breakfast whilst we talk?”
“No… go right ahead.”
Hot Pappy took a tall boy of Budweiser from the refrigerator and had himself a seat in the opposite chair. The two men regarded each other across the table while the old man popped the top and took a long draw on the beer.
A scratching from the closed door caught Roger’s attention. “What was that?”
“Just my ol’ dog. Don’t pay it no mind.” The elderly man rested his knobby elbows on the table top, interlaced his fingers, and stared at Roger over the knuckles. “If you had to resort to coming to me, then you must be hurting for help,” Hot Pappy told him. “Now tell me exactly what’s going on and don’t leave a speck of information out. It’s the specks that are the most important.”
Roger gathered his thoughts, trying to figure out where to start. “Well, this might sound crazy…”
“Mr. Perry, I’ve heard and seen a thousand kinds of crazy. Give me what you got and we’ll see if it measures up to all the others.”
Roger nodded and then told him everything – the lidless garbage can with the mysterious pod in its nest of refuse, the fears of his children afterward, the attack on Tyler in the back yard, and the near evisceration of his wife the night before. When he finished he felt totally drained. “See, I told you it was crazy.”
Hot Pappy took another swing on the tall boy. “A grim situation, but not crazy.” He leaned back in his chair and thought on the subject for a long moment. “I reckon I can help you with it, though.”
Roger studied him suspiciously. “How much?”
The old man laughed. “This ain’t no business transaction, Mr. Perry. If’n you wants me to clean out your garage or whitewash your porch posts, then, yeah, I’d want a greenback or two for that. But this sort of thing I don’t charge for. It’d be a downright sin. Of course, if you want to stop by the liquor store and bring me back a bottle of Johnny Walker Black, then I ain’t adverse to – what do you church-going folks call it? – a ‘love offering’.”
“I suppose I could do that.”
“Fine. Now let’s get down to brass tacks.” Hot Pappy took a long pull on the Bud and set it back on the table. “Do you masturbate, Mr. Perry?”
At first Roger was certain that he had misunderstood him. “I beg your pardon?”
“You know… jack off, jerk off, bop the boloney, throttle the ol’ pink snake…”
“I know what you mean.” Roger’s ears blazed blood red. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
Hot Pappy leaned forward in his chair until his face was only a foot from Roger Perry’s. “If you don’t wanna see your son and daughter, maybe your wife and that little baby she’s carrying inside, laid out at Johnson’s Funeral Home, then you better make it my business.” He sat back in his chair again and took another sip of beer. “Now answer my question.”
Roger shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Yeah, sometimes. My wife and I can’t…you know… have relations. Because of her pregnancy. And a man has his, uh, needs.”
A sad smile creased the old man’s face. “Oh, he does indeed. South of the belt buckle a man’s needs are urgent and plenty. So, tell me, when was the last time you… indulged yourself… before leaving on your trip to Florida?”
Roger’s face took on the same crimson flush as his ears. “That morning, I suppose… after I took a shower.”
“And the drippings from your pleasure? Where’d it go?”
“Really! This is getting…”
Hot Pappy raised a wrinkled hand. “Didn’t wanna ask… just needed to know. Believe me, I get no pleasure from delving into your right-handed shenanigans.”
“In the bathroom trash can.”
“And that would be the last one you emptied into the big can out back?”
Roger considered it. “Come to think of it, it was.”
“And where you shot off was where you found that ugly ol’ egg, ain’t that right?”
Roger’s embarrassment was gradually turning into a dark dread that he couldn’t quite comprehend. “Yes. But what are you….”
“Mr. Perry, is there a tree growing near your back porch? A peculiar tree with jagged leaves? Green on one side and blood red on the other?”
“How did you know that?”
“I didn’t, but I do now.” Hot Pappy rubbed the palms of his hands over his eyes and sighed. “Mr. Perry, are you aware that your property shares two counties?”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. The front yard and house is in Williamson County and the back yard is in…”
“Fear County.” A grim expression shown in Hot Pappy’s gaunt face. “I know you ain’t originally from Tennessee, so maybe you’re a mite ignorant about our neighboring county and its dark reputation. Just let me tell you that it ain’t a place folks around here talk about much. Why those fools built the back half of a damn subdivision on its cursed earth is beyond me!”
“What’s so bad about it?” Roger asked.
“It’s what soot black is to snow white… what Purgatory is to Paradise. Those who live within its borders are rotten to the core, possessing no conscience or decency. And what grows there – be it plant or animal, bird of the air or fish in the creek – are just as warped and full of venom.”
“And this tree at the
edge of my deck… it’s one of those things?”
“Hell yeah, it is! Don’t have a name, not that I know of, but they grow only in Fear County. And if one of its leaves should happen to fall upon the seed of man… well, what comes about is a pure and simple abomination.”
Roger felt a coldness run through his veins. “Mr. Spangler… what is this thing?”
“It’s a Seedling.” The old man grinned humorlessly. “My old granny used to say it was God’s judgment for a man’s misguided passion. I reckon she wasn’t wrong about it either.”
“Your grandmother knew of these things?”
Hot Pappy chuckled. “Damn, she lived smack dab in the middle of it all… in the heart of Fear County. Folks called her the Granny Woman. Said she was a witch… but a good ‘un. That’s how I come to know about these sordid matters. I’m the seventh son of a seventh son, Mr. Perry, bound by tradition to learn the old ways. When I was twelve, I was sent to Paradise Hollow to learn potions, conjuring, and such from Granny. The journey there was a terrifying one for a boy my age, but the trip back wasn’t nearly as stressful. I had the tools necessary to deal with all the evil Fear County had to dish out. And I haven’t forgotten a thing ol’ Granny taught me sixty long years ago.”
“This thing… this Seedling? Why is it terrorizing my family?”
“A Seedling isn’t all evil. It possesses love… but only for one person… its creator. It’s damn selfish, too. Doesn’t want to share its papa with anyone else and it’ll do whatever’s necessary to see that it has you all to itself. Even if it has to kill to do it.”
The thought made Roger sick to his stomach. “Can… can you help me, Mr. Spangler? Get rid of this thing?”
The scratching at the bedroom door came again. “You hush up in there!” Hot Pappy hollered. He turned his gray eyes back to the man across the table. “I’ll help you, Mr. Perry, but it ain’t going to be an easy task. I’ll do what I can to bring it out into the open, maybe even stun it enough to weaken it… but when it all comes down to the final moment, it’s you who are going to have to do away with it.”
“You want me to kill it?”
“That’s how it has to be,” Hot Pappy told him. “A Seedling can only be destroyed by the man whose loins it sprang from. And it must be done in a particular way.”
“What do you mean?”
The old man’s bones popped as he pulled himself out of his chair and went to an old trunk in the far corner. He opened it and brought out a metal box about eighteen inches long. Hot Pappy set it on the table and produced its contents. It was a strange-looking hatchet with a handle wrapped in dark leather bound with rawhide. He handed it to the man across from him.
“It’s made entirely of wood,” said Roger.
“Yes, from the same sort of tree that was this Seedling’s mother. That’s the only thing that can kill a Seedling – an axe carved from the wood of the red-leaved tree, wielded by the one whose lust created it.”
Roger handed the weapon back to the old man for safe-keeping. “When will we do it?”
“Tonight… when it gets dark. It’s downright treacherous, dealing with one of those nasty things at night, but I think it’s necessary that we dispatch it as soon as possible. You and your loved ones ain’t gonna have a moment’s peace on God’s green earth until we do.”
“Alright then,” Roger said with a nod. Although he felt better about the situation, he knew that relief would never truly come until the creature in the back yard was gone for good. “I’m going to the hospital to be with my wife for a while. I’ll be back around eight o’clock to pick you up.”
“Good deal,” agreed Hot Pappy. “I’ve got a potion I need to work up… something that’ll knock the wind out of that little bastard. And don’t forget that bottle of Walker Black.”
The two men looked at one another – men from entirely different upbringings and walks of life – and then they shook hands. After that, Roger left the shack and Hot Pappy went to work, humming a gospel hymn while measuring powders and liquids from bottles and flasks stored in the ancient trunk. When he was done, he took the finished product, cinched it up in a muslin bag, and then went to fridge for another Budweiser.
It was a little after eight that night, when Roger returned.
Hot Pappy hopped into the passenger seat. He was dressed in a checked flannel shirt, despite the heat of the evening, and a filthy UT ball cap. He toted the long metal box under one skinny arm.
The old man grinned when Roger handed him a brown paper bag. “Ah… my love offering.”
“I’d prefer that you don’t drink it until we get this business taken care of,” Roger told him.
“Just need one sip to fortify and strengthen me.” Hot Pappy broke the seal, removed the cap, and took a long swallow of the amber liquor. “Nectar of the Drunken Gods! But that’s enough for now. I’ll savor it later, after the dirty deed is done.”
They drove in silence as they left the dirt road and hit the level stretch of Highway 100, heading in the direction of New Middleton and the Rolling Meadows subdivision. Then Roger couldn’t help but ask. “Tell me something… why do they call you ‘Hot Pappy’?”
The old man smiled broadly. “I was once considered quite the lady’s man. Had a woman in my bed every night of the week… both black and white. Probably have twenty or thirty grown young’uns here in New Middleton alone. If they’re pitch black or have a little coffee in their cream, I probably had a hand in it somewheres along the line.”
Another half mile down the road, Roger asked another question. “What’s that awful smell? You?”
Hot Pappy laughed. “Maybe part of it. Mostly it’s this.” He held up the bundle of powder he’d concocted earlier that day.
“What is it?”
“A big ol’ bug bomb of sorts, but it sure ain’t Black Flag. Some of the ingredients in this bag don’t grow nowhere but in the cancer pit of Fear County. Some of it was hand-picked by the Granny Woman herself.” The old man thought for a second. “I dare say, some of it might very well be found in your own back yard.”
Roger shook his head. “After this is over with, I don’t think I’ll be able to live there anymore. We’ll probably sell the place and move.”
“You can live in the shadow of Fear County, if you learn to respect its twisted nature. I’ll be glad to teach you what you need to know.”
A minute later, they entered the subdivision of Rolling Meadows with its upscale homes and manicured lawns. Hot Pappy frowned in disgust, “Such a place seems… well, unnatural… out here in the sticks. You city folks with your lofty ways barging in, bending our customs and such to suit your needs. Well, you ain’t gonna bend Fear County. It’ll smother you like a cold, wet blanket until this turns into a ghost town with fancy brick mailboxes. You may have been different from the others… or maybe not, until this thing with the Seedling came up outta nowheres and bit you in the ass.”
“I hate to admit it, but you’re probably right.” Roger turned the van into a pea-gravel driveway with low shrubs bordering it. “Here we are.”
“Nice. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a regional sales manager for a computer company,” Roger told him.
“Sure beats cleaning the toilets down at the Dairy Queen, I reckon.”
Roger pulled the van next to the doors of the double garage and cut the headlights. They sat in darkness for a long moment. “You wanna pray or something before we go?” asked Hot Pappy.
“I’ve prayed enough in the past eighteen hours to fill up God’s voice mail for the next couple of years,” Roger said. “Let’s get this over with.”
Hot Pappy opened the box and handed him the wooden hatchet. “I’ll subdue it and then you end it. Just like we discussed before.”
Roger held the weapon in his hand, testing its weight and balance. “I… I’m scared.”
“Good. So am I. Now let’s go find that hellish little pest.”
The two men left the van and walked a
round the end of the house to the back yard. Roger led the way around the deck, heading cautiously toward the strange tree at the far end. Halfway there, he stopped.
“What’s wrong?” asked Hot Pappy.
“The security light didn’t come on. It’s broken it.”
“I’d expect as much from a Seedling. Conniving and sneaky, they are.”
A full moon graced the sky that night, casting pale silver light upon the yard. Islands of black shadow stretched here and there, around the swing set, at the west side of the storage building, and beneath the red-leaved tree. As they approached the tree, something in its foliage giggled.
“Daddy,” the Seedling said. “My Daddy.”
Roger Perry stopped dead in his tracks. “Oh dear God…”
“Stay put and I’ll flush it out,” whispered Hot Pappy. “But be ready. Once it’s on the ground, make your move. And no hesitation.”
“Okay,” rasped Roger. His mouth was cotton dry and his arms were peppered with goose bumps. He clutched the handle of the hatchet until his knuckles hurt.
Hot Pappy came within eight feet of the tree. Then he took the muslin bag, lit its top, and tossed it on the ground where the tree’s roots protruded from the earth.
The bag hissed, then exploded with a blue flash. Noxious black smoke drifted upward, snaking its way between the tree’s branches and limbs. “Don’t breathe too deeply,” the old man warned Roger. “It’ll make the thing dizzy, but it’ll way-lay you, too, if you take in a lungful.”
For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then came a crash and rustling of leaves and something began to fall from its perch high in the uppermost branches. A second later it struck the ground with a crunching thud. Moonlight shown on the Seedling, revealing it fully for the first time.
Cindy’s crayon drawing hadn’t been far from the truth. The thing resembled some monstrous, tree-like version of a mosquito. The Seedling’s arms and legs were gangly and jointed, seemingly made of wood than actual flesh and bone. Its body was knotty and twisted and its head was malformed, long and almost rodent-like in nature. Tufts of brown hair sprouted from its skull… the same brown hue as Roger’s. Its jaws gnashed angrily, bearing thin, jagged teeth as big around as a number 2 pencil, and from its back fluttered two wings. They resembled oversized leaves, the same shape and two-toned color as the foliage of the strange tree at the end of the deck.
