by Ronald Kelly
On the far side of the bridge, Maggie found herself torn between the two boys. She was an old friend of Rusty and certainly didn’t want to venture into the dark heart of Hell Hollow. But, on the other hand, she desperately wanted the boy from Atlanta to win, although she didn’t understand why. She saw him speeding across the bridge, hunched low over the handlebars, putting everything he had into it, and she couldn’t help but root for him. “Come on, Keith!” she laughed, feeling kind of giddy. “You can do it!”
“Traitor!” Rusty yelled back at her. He looked over and, much to his surprise, found that he and his cousin were running neck and neck. “You’d best just slow down before you sprain something important, city boy. You ain’t gotta chance in hell of winning.”
“We’ll see about that when we cross the finish line, Hyram!” replied Keith. “Now if you’re aiming to beat me, I’d suggest that you quit talking and save your energy for that last twenty feet.”
The two boys reached the halfway point in the center of Duck River Bridge. Keith poured on the speed and pushed it to the limit, using muscles he never knew he had. He looked over and saw that Rusty had slipped back a couple of feet. I’m doing it! he thought in amazement. I’m actually gaining on him!
A big grin split his face and he looked to where Maggie stood waiting for them. But, strangely enough, she was no longer watching them. Instead, she was looking down the road toward the direction of the interstate. What’s she up to? he wondered.
Then she turned around and looked back at them, her face full of alarm. “There’s a truck coming!” she yelled. “A big truck!”
Keith didn’t dare slow down. He had gained a lead over his cousin and he wasn’t about to relinquish it. He continued to pump the pedals of Blue Fury, even though the muscles in his calves burnt with the effort. Probably just an old pickup truck, anyway, he told himself. We’ll get by it just fine.
Then, when he and Rusty were scarcely sixty feet from the other end of the bridge, a noise became apparent. It was low at first, then it grew in volume, eventually drowning out their grunts of exertion and the machine gun clatter of playing cards in the spokes of their bicycles. Puzzled, Keith glanced over at Rusty. The farm boy looked back at him, equally perplexed. Then the rumble turned into a roar as the vehicle up ahead appeared around a bend in the road and, neglecting to slow down, drove onto the one lane bridge.
It wasn’t a pickup truck. Far from it. Instead, it was a big Peterbilt tractor-trailer truck, hauling a long silver tanker with a yellow Shell emblem on the side. Apparently, it had just left Interstate 24 and was heading into Harmony to fill the tanks at the gas station in town.
“Oh shit!” yelled both Keith and Rusty at the same instant. As the big truck blasted its air horn, the two parted, each heading for an opposite side of the bridge. The Peterbilt’s brakes hissed, but it was still coming at them at fifty miles per hour, seeming to fill the width of the narrow bridge with only inches to spare. They looked up past the chrome grill of the big truck and saw the driver staring down at them from the windshield. His eyes were obscured by sunglasses, but they could do little to hide the expression of horror on his face.
Then, suddenly, the truck was upon them. Keith rode the edge of the bridge as closely as he possibly could, praying that it was close enough. He saw the Peterbilt’s left fender and tire heading straight for him and he squeezed his eyes shut. He lifted his legs taking his feet off the spinning pedals, but Blue Fury refused to slow down. It sped forward even faster than before.
Keith braced himself, expecting to feel the impact of the fender smashing into him, as well as the tug of the big tire jerking him under its massive tread. Terrified, he could imagine himself being squashed by the tanker truck until there was nothing left of him and Blue Fury but an ugly smear of blood and bike parts.
Abruptly, he felt a warm wind sweep past him. He smelled the gassy odor of diesel fuel, as well as the stench of hot rubber. He felt steel strike his knee, bringing a burst of pain, but it came from the opposite side. He had veered too close to the bridge railing and bumped his leg.
He opened his eyes just as a blur of silver passed him, followed by a dense cloud of sooty exhaust fumes. He was through the diesel smoke in a flash and, a few seconds later, past the last girders of the bridge and into the open roadway again.
Almost afraid to look, he glanced over, expecting to see his cousin several feet ahead of him. Instead, Rusty was a good two yards behind him. He sped past Maggie – who stood with her hands plastered over her eyes – and laughed in triumph, his hands off the handlebars and his arms raised in the air.
“I did it!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “I won!”
A second later, his feet had found the pedals of the bike and he came to sliding halt in the road. He was soon joined by Maggie and Rusty. His cousin, for one, looked none too pleased with the race’s outcome.
“You won!” squealed Maggie, jumping up and down. For a moment, Keith half-expected her to wrap her arms around his neck and give him a big kiss, but she didn’t. After the thought had passed, the boy found himself feeling both relieved and just a little disappointed.
“You bet I did!” he said with a grin. “I knew Blue Fury wouldn’t let me down.”
“I reckon I fixed up that pile of junk better than I first thought,” grumbled Rusty. Keith expected him to gripe about the truck ruining the race and promptly demand a rematch, but he didn’t. He accepted his defeat honorably. “Congratulations, cuz,” he said, extending his hand.
Keith reached out and shook it. “Thanks,” he said. “Close call, eh?”
“I’ll say,” Rusty agreed with a big sigh. “I thought we were roadkill for a moment there.”
“Me, too,” admitted Keith.
Maggie looked across the bridge. The diesel truck was long gone, probably past the Harmony town limits by now. “I think we oughta get back over to Chuck. I bet he freaked when he saw that truck bearing down on you.”
Soon, the three were on their bikes and heading back across the Duck River Bridge. They took it slower this time, and much more cautiously, glancing over their shoulders every few seconds to make sure a convoy of Peterbilts weren’t dogging their taillights.
When they reached the other side, Chuck was waiting for them. “Man!” he said. “I just about peed my pants when I saw that gas truck come across. I figure you two were strawberry jam for sure.”
“It was close, but we squeezed past,” boasted Rusty.
“So who won?” asked the handicapped boy.
“I did,” said Keith with a gloating grin.
Chuck looked uneasy. “So you mean to tell me – ?”
“That’s right,” Keith said. “We’re all going to Hell Hollow… this afternoon.”
“Hold on, pardner,” said Rusty, holding up his hands. “By the time we get all the way back across Hawkshaw County and to the end of Sycamore Road, it’ll be going on five o’clock. And I sure ain’t going down in that blasted hollow with the sun going down.”
“Me neither,” said Maggie. “Couldn’t we go tomorrow, early in the morning maybe?”
“Or high noon at the very least?” put in Rusty.
Keith rolled his eyes in disgust, although secretly he too thought it best to explore Hell Hollow in broad daylight. “Okay, Gary Cooper. High noon it is. But a deal is a deal. And that means nobody chickens out. Comprende?”
“Si, señor,” said Chuck.
Suddenly, Maggie gasped in alarm. “Keith! You’re hurt!”
“Huh?” Keith glanced down and saw that the side of his right knee was badly skinned up. “Aw, it’s nothing.”
“But it’s bleeding,” she moaned. “Doesn’t it hurt?”
“Not at all,” claimed the boy, his chest puffed out a couple of inches. He didn’t dare tell her, but the abrasion burned like pure fire.
“Come on,” she said, climbing back on Hot Mama. “We’ll go to my house. I have some peroxide and Band-Aids. I’ll doctor it up for you.”
“Hey, why does he get special treatment?” asked Rusty. He raised his arm, showing off a bloody gash on the knob of his left elbow. “I’m wounded, too.”
“Okay, I’ll fix you up, too,” said Maggie, although her concern seemed to be centered more on Keith than anyone else.
“What a couple of babies!” laughed Chuck. “The way ya’ll are carrying on, you’d think you’ve got a couple of sucking chest wounds.”
“Just the same, I think they ought to be cleaned up,” Maggie told him. “Now come on.”
Rusty and Keith took a few minutes to bolt the sidecar back onto Cyclone, then the four headed back toward town.
On the way, Keith felt smugly satisfied. His plan had been a success. He had challenged Rusty to the race, won it fair and square, and was awarded the prize he had sought. The others had grudgingly agreed to accompany him to Hell Hollow, despite the spooky rumors of ghosts and disembodied laughter.
Just thinking about it made him feel both triumphant and uneasy. On one hand, he had gotten his wish. They would venture into wooded hollow and see what they could find. But, on the other hand, it was what they might possibly find that sent a shiver through him.
What if the legend was right? What if what they found was something supernatural and potentially dangerous?
Keith swallowed his nervousness and followed his friends back down the road toward Maggie’s house. He guessed they would just have to wait until tomorrow to see if his fears were on target or totally off course.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Jasper McLeod moved his checker to the wrong square… for the fourth time that night.
Edwin Hill shook his head and skipped his opponent’s piece, adding it to the growing stack that sat at the corner of his side of the checkerboard. “What’s with you tonight, Jasper?” he asked. “You ain’t playing worth a crap.”
The elderly farmer leaned back in his high-backed chair and sighed. “I reckon you’re right.” He took a long drink of Sun Drop, then sat the bottle back on the floor next to his feet.
“What’s the matter? Still worrying over that grandson of yours?”
Jasper nodded. “Partly. He hasn’t said two words to me since the other night, when I grabbed hold of his arm. I didn’t mean to do it, Edwin. It’s just that I was raised to respect my elders and not sass them. I lost my temper and now he won’t have nothing to do with me.”
“Aw, he’ll get over it,” Edwin assured him. “You gotta remember, he’s been raised differently from most boys. Rusty’s used to getting a good butt-whupping when he misbehaves. But Keith probably hasn’t had one lick of discipline since he was born. More’n likely his mama sits him on the couch and psychoanalyzes him, instead of laying a belt to his backside.”
“You’re probably right about that,” said Jasper. “That’s why his manners are so godawful bad.” The old man paused, staring absently at the lack of his checkers on the playing board. “But that ain’t what’s weighing on my mind tonight.”
Edwin cut off a thick shaving of chewing tobacco with the blade of an old Case pocketknife. He poked it into the pouch of his left jaw and began working on it. “So what is eating at you, Jasper?”
Jasper ran a liver-spotted hand along his lean jaw. “Well,” he said. “It’s this dream I had a couple nights ago.”
“A dream? You mean to tell me, a blasted dream has got you on edge?” chuckled the storekeeper.
The farmer’s face reddened a bit. “Yeah, believe it or not. Anyway, the more I turn it over in my mind, the more I wonder if it was really a dream at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it seemed more like a memory than something my imagination conjured up,” explained Jasper. “Like something I should’ve recalled from my childhood. But, for the life of me, I can’t remember anything of the sort.”
Edwin turned his head and forcefully sent a spritz of tobacco juice toward the floorboards of the general store. The glob of brown spittle hit the coffee can at the base of the potbelly stove with a metallic clang. “So what’s this cotton-picking dream about?”
Jasper took another sip of Sun Drop, then proceeded to tell Edwin Hill about his dream. He told him every detail that he could remember; the night ride on the back of his father’s horse, the other men of Harmony armed with pistols and rifles, the presence of Wilbur Hill and eight-year-old Edwin. He also told him of their discovery of the abandoned campsite, followed by the pursuit of the brightly-painted wagon drawn by two coal black horses.
And, with a trace of hesitation, he also mentioned the one who had occupied the seat of the wagon. The skeletal man in the black frock coat and stovepipe hat, laughing sinisterly and cracking the coachwhip wildly overhead.
When he was finished, he looked across the table at his friend. Edwin sat there for a long moment, staring at a red checker he turned over and over between his fingers. “Well, what do you think?” he asked anxiously.
Edwin shrugged. “A right peculiar dream, I must admit.”
“Does any of it sound familiar?” pressed Jasper.
“No, can’t say that it does.”
“Are you sure? None of it?”
Edwin lifted his eyes and stared at the man sitting across from him. “You and me on horseback, armed to the teeth, chasing some skinny fellow on a painted wagon? Now, Jasper, don’t you think I’d remember something like that?”
“I might not, if I were four or five,” said Jasper. “But there’s a chance you could, if you were eight years old.”
“Well, I’m pretty clear on what happened during my eighth year,” Edwin replied. “And riding with a vigilante mob just don’t come to mind. I’m sorry, Jasper, but this dream you had was just a dream. Nothing more.”
“But it seemed so damned real,” declared the elderly man. “I could feel the chill of the night air and hear that fella’s laughter. It sank clean down into the marrow of my bones. It was evil, Edwin. As dark and depraved of soul as any sound I’ve ever heard in my life.”
The store owner raised his hands. “Sorry, but if it happened, it didn’t happen in my lifetime. My memory is as crisp as a saltine cracker, and I just don’t recollect any of it at all.”
Jasper smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, it does sound kind of farfetched, especially to have happened in a peaceful little town like Harmony.”
“That’s right,” Edwin assured him. “It was just your mind playing tricks on you. You were worrying over Keith and it concocted that silly dream.”
Jasper nodded. “I reckon you’re right. There is one thing that still needles me, though. The direction we were chasing that fella… it was straight for the South Woods. And Hell Hollow.”
Edwin said nothing in reply. He simply chewed his tobacco and stared uneasily at the checker between his fingers, avoiding his friend’s eyes.
Thirty minutes later, they had finished their fifth and final game. Edwin accompanied Jasper out into the muggy summer night and watched as his longtime friend waved goodbye, climbed into his rattletrap pickup, and headed down the road toward home. But, even after Jasper had been gone for several minutes, Edwin continued to stand on the high porch of the general store. He stared aimlessly into the starry sky for a long while, before finally going back inside.
Edwin closed the door behind him and then did something he hardly ever did; he engaged the lock. The rash of nighttime burglaries came to mind, but that wasn’t why he secured the door. He had another reason.
He was spooked. Jasper McLeod’s unexpected telling of his mysterious dream had dredged up fears that Edwin hadn’t felt in a very long time. And, as for the dream itself, there was actually no mystery to it at all. Despite Edwin’s dismissal, the details of Jasper’s nightmare had been eerily familiar. Frighteningly familiar, in fact.
It had pained him to do so, but Edwin had deliberately lied to his best friend. It had startled him when Jasper had brought the subject up, then his surprise had instantly turned into defensiveness. He wasn’t sure why he had decided
to convince his checker-playing partner into thinking that no such incident had taken place. After all those years, it couldn’t have hurt to tell him the truth; a truth that Jasper had apparently either forgotten or completely cast from his mind.
Edwin Hill walked behind the counter and took a brown paper sack from a shelf beneath the cash register. He went to the table, cleared away the checkers and board, then sat down heavily in his chair. He took a bottle of Jim Beam from the sack, unscrewed the top, and took a swig of the amber liquor. After his heart doctor had read him the riot act as to what he could and could no longer indulge in, Edwin had sworn off beer and hard spirits. But he still kept a bottle of Beam around, for those times when the grief of losing his son became too difficult to handle. That and bad memories such as the one Jasper McLeod had just awakened.
The storekeeper set the liquor bottle on the tabletop and thought of that night some ninety years ago. Jasper’s dream had been like a dark and grotesque photograph that Edwin had never wanted to lay eyes upon again. Every bit of it – the pursuit of the medicine show man, as well as what had happened to him shortly thereafter – had come back to haunt him, as crystal clear and unsettling as it had been when he was a lad of eight years old.
And, along with it, surfaced that oath he had taken after the incident in Hell Hollow; an oath sworn upon by the men of that secret posse. All of them – Jasper included – had promised that not one word of what had happened to Doctor Augustus Leech would ever be mentioned within the God-fearing boundaries of Harmony, Tennessee. Edwin was the only one who still held that oath to heart. All the others had carried the ugly secret to their graves.
Apparently, Jasper had somehow repressed the memory of that night. It was understandable. After all, it had been Jasper’s father, Charles McLeod, who had pulled the trigger and put a rifle slug between the eyes of the murderous peddler who had deliberately poisoned twelve citizens of Harmony, among them innocent youngsters who had been ailing from one childhood sickness or another.
