by Ronald Kelly
Keith said nothing. He simply let her pull him through the grove of close-grown pines. He certainly didn’t want to get separated from Rusty and Maggie. The thought of being trapped in the grove alone with Old Man Perry and Big Red was enough to make him want to pee his pants. Besides, he didn’t mind holding the girl’s hand. Despite his terror, he was rather enjoying it.
A minute later, they were past the pines and at the split-rail fence. They scaled the barrier and ran for their bikes. Maggie’s was parked a couple yards further down, hidden in a tall clump of Queen Anne’s Lace. “Can you manage okay?” she called out to Rusty.
The farm boy hefted the watermelon and deposited it into the plastic tote that was lashed to Cyclone’s handlebars with his right hand. “I’ll be a little off balance, but I’ll manage. Let’s go!”
The three headed their bikes southward down Sycamore Road and began to pedal away furiously. Soon, the baying of Big Red grew distant and the threat of capture had left their minds. They began to laugh with triumph, slowing their pace a bit when they were a half mile away.
“We did it!” squealed Maggie.
Keith let out a sigh of relief. “I just hope it’s as tasty as you say it is,” he said.
“Oh, it will be,” promised Rusty. “But there ain’t no call to keep the spoils of victory all to ourselves. Follow me!”
The farm boy took the lead. Maggie and Keith grinned at each other, then increased their speed, falling in behind Rusty as he shot down the dusty stretch of rural road.
~ * ~
Chuck Adkins sat in his wheelchair on the front porch of his house. He waited quietly, patiently, for the hovering beacons of fireflies to grow near. The bugs clung mostly to the open yard, winking like Christmas tree lights in the summer night. But, occasionally, one of the fireflies would stray from the others and Chuck would reach out and snatch it with his fingers. He would then deposit it in a glass mason jar with a collection of others. Either that or he fed it to Churchill, who sat atop the boy’s right shoulder.
He remembered once, when he was a couple years younger, running through the yard, jumping high and catching the lightning bugs by the dozens. But he would never do that again. He set his jar aside and sat there in the darkness. Those memories of life with motion always dragged his spirits down; a constant reminder of those simple little things he no longer had the ability to do.
Chuck stared into the night and thought he heard the metallic spin of bicycle gears. A moment later, he heard an owl hoot down by the mailbox next to the road. He smiled and, raising his hands to his mouth, let loose with the lonesome call of a whippoorwill.
Forms emerged from out of the darkness. “Whatcha doing out here, Chuck?” asked Maggie.
Chuck pointed to the Mason jar. “Thought I’d catch some fireflies, but didn’t have much luck.” He looked over at Rusty and Keith. “What’re you guys up to?”
“Been on a covert operation,” said Rusty. He hefted the big watermelon above his head. “Over at Old Man Perry’s place.”
“We thought you might want to share it with us,” said Keith.
Chuck’s dark mood passed. “Boy, would I! I love watermelon.”
Rusty looked toward the house with suspicion. “Where’s your folks?”
“They’re in the living room, watching TV.”
“How about going in and fetching a knife to cut this sucker with?” he suggested. “I’ll split it four ways and we’ll chow down.”
“Sure,” said Chuck, spinning his chair toward the door. “Be back in a jiffy.”
He wheeled through the front door, then started down the hallway. He passed the living room. His mother was dividing her attention between a situation comedy on TV and a historical romance novel. His father, a big man with thick black hair and grim eyes, sat on the couch beside her. Joe Adkins was a mechanic at the Shell station in town and his hands were a perpetual dirty gray from years of earning a living in grease and oil.
“Did I hear someone outside, hon?” asked his mother as he rolled past.
Chuck paused for a second. “Uh, yeah. It’s Rusty and the guys. They brought over a watermelon.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” she said, failing to pull her eyes from the page she was reading.
“I’m going to fetch a knife to cut it with.”
“Fine,” she said. “Be sure to take some newspaper with you, so it won’t leak all over the porch.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Chuck. He looked toward his father. The mechanic simply sat there, staring at the television. He had said nothing to his son during the entire conversation. He hadn’t even acknowledged that Chuck was there. But the boy tried not to let it bother him. His father had treated him that way for two years now… ever since that fateful day at Willow Lake.
Chuck went to the kitchen and got a long-bladed butcher knife from a wooden block on the counter. Then he grabbed that morning’s edition of the Tennessean from off the kitchen table. A moment later, he was back on the porch with his friends.
Chuck handed the knife and newspaper to Rusty. “So, did you have any trouble getting it?” he asked curiously.
“Big Red got after us,” said Maggie.
“And Old Man Perry shot at us, too,” added Keith.
The boy’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding!”
“Nope,” said Rusty. He set the watermelon on top of the newspaper and quartered it with the knife. “He fired over our heads with that old twelve-gauge of his. We were lucky to get outta there with our hides intact.”
Chuck accepted his slice and took a big bite. “Tell me all about it, from start to finish,” he urged. “And don’t leave nothing out.”
As they sat in the muggy darkness and feasted on watermelon, Rusty told the story of their clandestine journey into enemy territory. He embellished the escapade as only he could, throwing in the baying of Big Red and the crotchety voice of Old Man Perry for good measure. But also kept his voice low, on the chance that Chuck’s parents might overhear.
Chuck grinned with admiration and spat a watermelon seed into the darkness of the front yard. His eyes gleamed dreamily behind the lenses of his glasses. “Man, I wish I could’ve been there with you. I would’ve given anything.”
Rusty and Maggie looked at one another, then grew silent. Keith studied the boy in the wheelchair and felt badly for him. He could imagine how frustrating it must be to have to live your life through the actions of others. If there was only some way he could tag along, just get away from that confounded house, even for a little while.
Keith glanced toward the road and saw the gleam of moonlight on the bikes down by the mailbox.
Suddenly, an idea hit him. A hell of an idea. But he said nothing about it, not until he discussed it with Rusty and found out whether it would actually work or not.
Keith concealed a smile as he took another bite of his watermelon. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe he wasn’t as much of a self-serving jerk as he first thought he was.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
For the second time in the span of a week, Jasper McLeod found himself in the center of a dark dream, experiencing a time of heated emotion and vengeance through the eyes of a small child.
The wind was cold against his face. He felt as if the chill might blister his flesh, it was so biting. But he said nothing, uttered not one word of complaint. He was in the company of men that night and, therefore, would act accordingly.
The boy clung tightly to his father, his hands grasping fistfuls of his woolen coat, drawing himself closer to the man’s back. His father was quiet, as were the other citizens of Harmony who rode alongside them on fine horses and sway-backed plow mules. Their silence was due mostly to anger, as well as a grim sense of purpose they felt morally bound to. Their thoughts were divided between those who had died horribly only hours before, as well as the one who had been responsible.
That was where they were headed that frosty autumn night; to settle a score with the man who had concocted the poison that had stricken
down twelve of their neighbors and loved ones, seven of them innocent children who had committed no crime other than suffering from colic or the croup. Those were the lost ones who preyed on their hearts the most… those babies who had trustfully taken the black medicine their parents had spoon-fed them and died violently because of it.
The five-year-old glanced around him, although the cold wind stung his eyes, bringing involuntary tears. He knew all of the men in the posse, knew them by name and by face. Cranston, Hill, Abernathy; all were well-liked and respected men of the community, as was his own father. One of the town merchants, Wilbur Hill, rode his big chestnut roan, cradling a twelve-gauge shotgun in the crook of his arm. His son – who was scarcely eight years of age – rode alongside him, looking just as scared as the five-year-old was. Or was it guilt the two boys felt? Guilt for neglecting to warn the town of Harmony of the medicine show man’s potential for evil?
The boy looked up at his own father. The tobacco farmer rode with his shoulders hunched against the wind, one hand grasping the reigns of his horse, while the other was tightly fisted around the Winchester rifle.
They had ridden only a few miles, when they left the hard-packed clay of the roadway and entered a small clearing surrounded by thorny blackberry bramble. Curses mingled with clouds of frosty breath when they discovered the clearing to be empty. One of the men hopped down from his horse, hogleg pistol in hand, and walked to the gray ashes of an abandoned fire. He shucked off the glove of one hand and tested the dregs with a finger. He withdrew it swiftly, the tip blistered.
“He’s just left,” the man called out, hurrying back to his mount and swinging up into the saddle.
Almost immediately, they heard sounds carried to them by the night wind. The crack of a buggy whip and the pounding of horse hooves. “He’s heading south!” yelled the boy’s father. “Let’s go!”
Flanks were spurred and, soon, the horses were on the road again, sprinting southward along the lonely length of Sycamore Road. Low-hanging tree branches whipped at hats and raked across the faces of the riders, but they paid no attention. Their thoughts were focused on the dark shape that moved a quarter mile ahead of them. Desperation urged them forward. They all knew they must not fail at the task they had come to do. They must not lose the monster who attempted to escape them.
Moments later, the gap was closed between the hunters and the hunted. The boy looked past his father and, in the frigid moonlight, saw the vehicle that they pursued with such a vengeance.
It was a brightly-painted wagon drawn by two coal black geldings. And, perched on the seat of the wagon, was a skeletal form decked out in a black broadcloth coat and a tall stovepipe hat.
A form that laughed fiendishly as it cracked the whip wildly over the heads of the frantic team, driving them onward into the wooded darkness.
~ * ~
Jasper awoke, breathing hard, the bed sheets in a tangle around him. As the disturbing images of his dream faded, he almost felt as though he could still feel the chill of the night air against his face, as well as the fluid motion of the horse beneath him.
The elderly man sat up and turned on the nightstand lamp. Light hit his eyes, causing him to squint. But even still, Jasper continued to see that last shred of dark dreamscape. The bearded man in the stovepipe hat, brandishing his whip with urgency and, yes, even pleasure.
Gradually, his breathing slowed and his heartbeat resumed its normal pace. This dream had been even more disturbing than the one he had experienced several nights before. Jasper thought of those he had dreamt of. There had been all the men he had grown up with during his childhood, as well as the eight-year-old Edwin Hill. And the farmer he had shared the horse with had possessed the face of Charles McLeod, Jasper’s own father. The tobacco farmer had died of pneumonia in 1929 and there were times when Jasper’s failing memory couldn’t even recall how he looked. But his face had reappeared clearly during the course of the dream… as well as the expression of grim rage that had shown in every line and crease of his weathered skin.
Jasper sat on the edge of his bed for a very long time, considering the dream he had just been a part of. In reality, he could remember accompanying his father on no such nighttime ride. But it had seemed so real. Like he had actually been there in the flesh.
But that wasn’t what bothered Jasper the most. What clung to his thoughts the most was the one they had pursued. The lanky, bearded man in the black coat and hat. The old man shivered, despite the warmth of the summer night. Except for his dream, he had no earthly recollection of the man on the wagon, no name to call him by. All he knew – and somehow he knew it completely and without doubt – was that the dark man was evil. He could tell that by the cruelty of his laughter and the way he had laid the leather of the whip across the flanks of his team, bringing blood, fear, and speed.
And there was another thing about that awful scene that disturbed the elderly man. And that was where the self-appointed posse had been chasing the dark man. Straight into the black heart of the South Woods.
Straight for the place known as Hell Hollow.
Was there some connection between the two? Jasper had no reason to believe so. Since he was a lad of ten or eleven, Jasper had heard whispered tales of the backwoods hollow being haunted, by what or whom he had never known. And whenever he had asked his father or the other adults in town about Hell Hollow, all had remained tight-lipped, refusing to answer his questions.
With a sigh, Jasper turned the lamp off and lay back down on his bed, leaving the covers bunched around his ankles. It had only been a stupid dream, that was all. Familiar players in a theatrical production of the imagination. He hadn’t thought of Hell Hollow for years, but for some reason it had come back to haunt him, conjuring old fears that reached clear back to childhood. And, as a result, his subconscious had conjured the disturbing image of that sinister man in the black stovepipe hat.
As he drifted back to sleep, he wanted to convince himself that that was all there was to it. But, for some reason, he found it difficult to do so. Deep down in his mind, he knew the incident that he dreamed of was somehow responsible for the carefully-veiled legend of Hell Hollow.
And, although he had long since forgotten it, he knew that both he and his father had somehow been involved. In a very crucial way.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Early the following morning, Jasper McLeod opened the door to Hill’s General Store. As usual, the copper cowbell jangled loudly overhead, startling the elderly man.
“Land sakes alive, Edwin!” he declared, turning a contemptuous eye toward the contraption hanging over the doorframe. “Why don’t you take that darned thing down? You know it scares the crap plumb outta me!”
His friend grinned from where he stood behind the counter. “That’s why I keep it up there, Jasper. To let me know when undesirables walk in.”
“Then I’ll just take my undesirable business elsewhere,” grumbled Jasper with an expression of mock hurt.
Edwin laughed. “So, what can I do for you today?”
Jasper handed him a handwritten list. “Just need a few odds and ends,” he said. “Couple pounds of boloney, bag of cornmeal, and a couple of candy bars for Keith.”
The storekeeper nodded and eyed the paper through the lenses of his spectacles. Edwin Hill was probably one of the few merchants in the state of Tennessee who still adhered to the old-fashioned practice of gathering his customer’s groceries for them. “Who wrote this?” he said with a frown. “You or that old bantam rooster of yours? Looks like chicken scratch more’n anything else.”
“You’re right funny this morning,” Jasper said. He walked to the soda pop cooler and retrieved himself a Sun Drop. “Oughta start a comedy club here in Harmony.”
Edwin ignored the farmer’s remark. He walked to a refrigerated display case at the end of the counter and took out a long, thick tube of bologna. He carved off a slab of the luncheon meat, slapped it on the scale, then began to wrap it in clean, white butcher paper. “So,
how is that grandson of yours doing?”
“Okay, I reckon,” replied Jasper. “I admit it was a little rough to begin with. He was fit to be tied and really gave me a hard time of it. But I think he’s settled down a little, kinda gotten used to being here.” The old man grinned. “Of course, Rusty might’ve had something to do with that. I think he and Keith butted heads last Sunday afternoon. That probably helped to knock him off his high horse a bit.”
“How are they getting along now?” asked Edwin. After finishing with the bologna, he walked to a shelf behind the counter and took down a five pound sack of fine-ground yellow cornmeal.
Jasper took a long pull on his soda pop. “Oh, they’re like blood brothers now. In fact, Keith’s been spending more time over at Rusty’s place than he has at the farm with me. Rusty even fixed him up an old bicycle so they could ride the back-roads together.”
Edwin turned and regarded Jasper curiously. “You sound sort of resentful of that.”
“Naw, I’m tickled to death those boys have taken to one another,” he said. “To tell the truth, I was afraid they might start out feuding, them being so different from one another.”
The merchant wasn’t fooled, though. “Now, admit it, Jasper. Something about it is sticking in your craw.”
A hang-dog look crossed Jasper McLeod’s long face. “Well, dagnabbit, Edwin… I reckon I am kinda disappointed in a way. Here I thought Keith would be spending a lot of time with me on the farm, but instead he ends up roaming all over Hawkshaw County with his cousin.”
“Well, you should’ve known he’d prefer the company of those his own age over you,” Edwin told him. “It’s only natural, especially it being summer and all.”
“I understand that,” said Jasper. “I reckon I just had this crazy idea about him and me working on the farm together. You know, doing things that might draw us a little closer.”
“Forming a bond, so to speak?”
The farmer nodded. “Right. But it looks like I ain’t gonna get much of a chance, if he ends up spending all his time away from me. Heck, he still treats me like a perfect stranger, even though he isn’t quite as bratty as he was a few days ago.”
