And from those houses we claimed those tables and chairs; railroad lanterns, a spittoon, even a nickel slot machine full—to our ecstatic delight—of Indian head nickels.
We kept hunting, not I think, for what we might yet find, but for the thrill of the entry. We were, in a sense, prairie vampires: feeding in the farmers’ tombs, drawing life from their failure. We fed on the possibility of the find more than the find itself.
“Haunted house!” Fred called out.
“Where?”
“Ahead, to the left.”
Far ahead was a clump of cottonwoods and the top eave of a house could just be seen through the leaves.
“Number five. That makes five in a row for me.”
“Maybe it isn’t haunted.”
“It is. No one would live out here.”
The paint was peeling off the second-story structure. A rain gutter had fallen from the top of one side of the roof. I parked the car behind a shed that held the skeleton of a tractor. The car hidden from the road, we walked to the house.
The windows were empty and curtain-less, the porch swing hung by one chain. Spider webs encased it. The front door was unlocked and Fred opened it, stepped in and I followed: the rush of excitement hitting again and filling me with anticipation.
Empty.
Wallpaper hung from the walls in strips. Water stained ceilings, dusty floors, but not a stick of furniture greeted us.
“A bust,” Fred declared.
I sat on the steps as he went to the second floor. I thought I smelled a human odor mixed with the smell of dusty house, and got up to walk into the kitchen to investigate. There I found a door that was locked.
“Nothing upstairs,” Fred said as he came into the kitchen. “What’s that?”
“Locked door.”
“Well, give your magic keys a go.”
I pulled a ring of skeleton keys from my pocket and the second one I tried turned the lock. A powerful stale human smell billowed out when I opened the door. Light streamed down the steps and fell upon a face.
“Jesus Christ,” I whispered, and Fred stared over my shoulder.
“A girl,” he said. We heard her whimper.
Her pale face was dirty and her hair long, brown, tangled, and matted. She kept reaching a hand out up at us, and put it in her mouth. A dirty dress covered her body.
“She looks retarded,” Fred said.
“But what in the hell is she doing out here?”
Her mouth hung open and her eyes watched us as we walked down to her. Behind the dirt and the idiocy, she was pretty. As we approached, she stood up and ran away. We saw the outlines of her heavy breasts swing against the thin cotton dress.
Her bare feet slapped against the concrete floor, and she sat on a mattress in the corner of the dark basement. Again she put her hand out to us, and then to her mouth.
“She’s hungry,” I said.
“Go get a couple sandwiches and a Coke from the cooler,” Fred directed.
It was when I started up the stairs to carry out his order that we heard a car brush against the high weeds in the driveway.
Fred reacted instantly. “Jesus. Lock the door.”
I ran up the steps, but dropped the keys when I pulled them out of my pocket. I picked them up and it took me four tries to find the right key, finally turn the lock as the car door slammed.
Fred found us a place to hide behind a curtain where old dresses were stored. We crouched against the musty, velvet cloth, sitting on our haunches and trying to calm our breathing as we heard a key turn the lock, and the door open.
“Hello, Honey,” a baritone voice said. His steps made the stairs creak and fear crunched in our hearts. “Here, have a piece of bread.”
We heard a whimper and something splat against the basement floor. It was followed by a scampering and the sound of eating. The man walked in front of our curtain, and we could hear particles of dirt being ground against the cement floor under his heavy heel.
“More bread, Honey? Well, now, Honey, you know you got to pay for your bread. Your Daddy’s no rich man, now is he?”
Our velvet curtain seemed to be a gigantic zipper as the unzipping sound echoed in the basement. I expected a muscled, suntanned farmer’s thumb and finger to reach through and grab us.
There was a sound of clothes being shed, a jangle of coins, the noise of a belt buckle hitting the floor.
Fred began fiddling with the curtain, and I wanted to scream at him to stop touching the flimsy tissue that kept us secret. He had found a moth hole, lined his right eyeball to it, and looked out.
I sat to Fred’s right and watched his face as I heard cloth being rubbed against skin, and I imagined the thin cotton dress being lifted over the girl’s head.
Fred’s right eyelid opened wider, and I could see his cornea: a piece of blue crystal embedded in white, shifting slightly up and down. I wondered what the girl’s breasts looked like. We heard the fall of bodies on the mattress , and I saw a bead of sweat slide through Fred’s hair down next to his ear.
More drops of sweat formed on Fred’s prominent brow as the sounds of the man’s lust increased, and the sound of smacking sucking slap of skin made Fred’s chin quiver. His jaw muscles bulged. His slender nostrils flared, and I saw a white spot develop in the center of a red pimple in the hollow of his nostril. A grunt and deep sigh, and then the sound of a fart reached us.
Fred took his hands off the curtain, letting the moth hole flutter back into the folds of the heavy cloth.
“I was going to fix this place up for you, Honey, when I got some money. Clean you up, get the hot water heater fixed so you could have hot showers, fix it so you could have the run of the house, and put your mother’s dresses on you, and it would be just like when your mother and me were first married. Wouldn’t that have been nice? And I really wanted to.
“But I’ve got to sell the place now and I can’t have anyone finding you now can I, Honey?”
We heard him pulling his pants on and the zipper raised.
“Oh, I’m going to miss you. But I can’t take you to the city with me. Too many people there. But I tell you what. Day after tomorrow I’ll come back and we’ll have a party. Thursday, some people are coming out to look around, so I’ll come out Wednesday and we’ll have a kind of party. I’ll bring a cake. And I’ll do it real gentle, Honey, just like I did with your mother. It’ll be just like going to sleep.”
Fred and I looked at each other. The walls, the curtain, the dresses steeped in moth balls, the dirt, our own faces seemed to be screaming at the man that we were listening. I kept thinking the girl would walk over to the curtain, and pull it open. My hands started to shake. I was cold, but sweat ran down my face. My hands shook more, and I felt faint until Fred gripped my wrist and held it hard, pouring an injection of cement through his fingers into my bones, and giving me strength to last out a few more wretched minutes.
“Got to go now, Honey. See you Wednesday. We’ll have a real good party.”
We listened to his footsteps on the staircase and his key lock the door. We stayed hidden until we heard the motor start, and the car brush against the weeds and enter the sand road. Still we didn’t move, listening for any possible return, until Fred released a sigh and stood up.
We saw the girl, her thin dress back on, lying on the mattress, two fingers in her mouth.
“Jesus, I’ve never been so scared in all my life,” I said.
“No reason. Skinny little guy. I was tempted to throw open the curtain while he was screwing her just to give him a heart attack. We could have taken him easy.”
“Did he hurt her any?” I asked.
“Hell, no, she just opened her legs and laid there,” Fred said and stepped closer to the girl.
“We’ve got to go get the sheriff,” I said.
“I know, and he’s going to have his proof that we’ve been entering houses,” Fred said, and looked at the girl.
“But we’ve got to get him. That guy will kill
her.”
“I know. I know. Look, she’s still hungry. Why don’t you go get some sandwiches and a Coke for her and a couple of beers for us. I could use one.”
I unlocked the door and walked outside to fetch the cooler. Sunset was near. The rain-promising clouds that never had brought rain were breaking up so that the low rays of the sun bounced on the underside of the clouds and turned the sky yellow.
I wanted to carry the girl to the porch so she could see the sun and smell the air and look at the trees.
I carried the cooler down the steps. Fred must have undressed her. The girl was naked, her breasts large, red in spots and parts of her body showed bruises.
“Now just sit down, Brad. Open us a beer. Give the girl a sandwich. I want to talk to you,” Fred said as I stared at the girl’s nipples: brown and distended, and the black curly hairs, glistening, between her legs. The first time I had seen a nude girl in real life.
I handed the girl two sandwiches, and watched her breasts jiggle as she grabbed for the food. My faced turned red.
Fred reached into the cooler, opened a beer, and handed it to me.
“Sit down, Brad.”
I could feel an erection push against my jeans as I sat next to the girl. I drank from the can to hide my face.
Fred was quiet as he reached into the cooler again. I saw the toilet and the cold water shower in one corner, rows of cupboards with empty jars. I wanted to look at the girl again, but I couldn’t turn my head. Fred opened his beer and took a drink.
“Now, what we have here is a golden opportunity,” Fred began to explain and my heart and erection leaped when I saw him put his hand on the girl’s thigh.
He explained how the next morning we could fetch the sheriff and bring him out here, saying that the night before we had camped nearby, came here looking for water, heard the girl screaming, and broke in. We didn’t need to mention the farmer at all. The sheriff would easily find out about him.
Tonight, Fred said, his hand moving higher on the girl’s leg—who looked wide-eyed at me as she ate—we could do more than just talk about what it would be like to screw a girl.
I wanted to hit him, to run from the basement, to vomit thinking of the slurping sucking, smacking sounds I had heard. But I was afraid that my heart, thumping so loudly, would burst if I moved.
Wednesday, the paper carried our pictures in a story that hailed us as heroes.
FROZEN IN STONE
Doug Blakeslee
Megan watched the men enter the run-down hotel. Three months of running ended now. She didn’t know how they’d tracked her from town to town, but enough was enough.
They were her mother’s warrior-priests and would be prepared to block her abilities with mirrored sunglasses and thick clothing. Euryale might be bound to her ways, but that didn’t stop her followers from taking on modern trappings. Attacking them head on would be difficult, but Megan needed time to reach the oracle, and they needed to be stopped.
A musty aura pervaded the hotel, the sense that it was trapped in time and no amount of renovation would eliminate it. Threadbare carpet and old men watching TV completed the scene. She passed by the man in the cage who barely gave her a glance, seeing only the working girl headed upstairs to a client. Glamour and her changeling nature bewitched mortals with nary any effort on her part. The less magic she used now, the less chance her prey would be alert. Room 215 sat at the end of the hall, just around the last corner. All she needed to do is lure one of them out.
Megan pulled out the taser as the elevator door dinged and slid open. The shock on his face must have mirrored her own, though his reflexes fired a second too late. CRACK! SNAP! He folded as voltage crippled his nervous system. She kicked away his sunglasses and let her glamour flow, freezing and twisting him into cold, hard stone.
One down, two to go.
Two days and three hundred and seventy miles away, after a trip she’d thought would never end as the bus paused at small towns and big cities to pick up or drop off passengers, Megan finally disembarked.
She’d left town after a terse conversation with the last warrior-priest, who had begged for his life to no avail.
Someone would doubtless wonder about the three statues decorating the second floor of the hotel, but they couldn’t be linked to her.
She knew now that her charm of concealment was useless. Without the blood and eggs of a cockatrice, the enchantment had faded. One more piece of information her late father had failed to impart.
The first stars of the night twinkled in the sky, as the streetlights flickered to life. Fatigue ached at her joints and muscles, while her stomach nagged for a substantial meal to chase away the hunger. A look at her pockets gave the same results as the last four times: an expired bus ticket, forty-three cents in change, the burned out charm of concealment, and the business card.
The neon sign at the end of the street proclaimed “EAT!” Maybe they’ll exchange a meal for a couple hours of work if I ask nicely.
A rough hand pulled her into an alley and pressed her against a wooden wall. Megan saw another changeling, a child of Arcadia and humanity like herself. His sneer revealed gnarled, stone-like teeth. Amber colored sap oozed from his eyes, soaking into his shirt. He was more Fae than human. She felt her hair stir and writhe. “What do you want?”
“You’re trespassing, girlie,” he said. “This is my territory and I don’t like intruders.”
“I’m traveling the roads and claim the right of hospitality.”
“Ain’t none of that here. Maybe they follow that custom up in Pierre.” He chuckled, a rasping and grinding that sounded like it emerged from the core of the earth. “I don’t like your type, you smell of trouble.”
She glared at him. “I’ve done nothing wrong. If you’re not going to help me, then get the hell out of my way.”
“You’re feisty for a soft lander. I’m thinking you’ll make some good sport.” Glamour twisted around her, seeking to bind and restrain.
Megan laughed as the thick snake-like ropes of her hair writhed and hissed, shattering the enchantment. She could feel her mask burn away, knowing it would show the small scales on her hairline and her slitted eyes. Her hand shot out and grasped his throat. “Little man, I’m not some toy for your amusement.”
His eyes bulged in terror and fear, the threads of glamour vanishing and unraveling. “You’re her! The cyclops was right.”
“What cyclops?”
She followed him to the edge of town and a small, time-worn cottage. Tufts of dead grass made up the lawn and bare rose stalks formed a crude fence along the dirt pathway. A pale light shone from the front window. The other changeling thumped on the door, the sound of stone on wood. It creaked open, the rusted hinges protesting at the movement. Megan’s stomach growled as the smell of roasted chicken and vegetables drifted out from somewhere inside.
“Hello, Ray,” said a hooded figure. “You’re late and disobeyed my order. We’ll talk tomorrow on why I should continue to keep you. Go home.” The voice was stern, but the voice had a not-unkindly tone.
Ray bowed rapidly as he retreated into the night.
“Welcome Megan, daughter of Euryale, child of the Gorgons. Please come in and make yourself at home. My home and hearth is yours for as long as you wish it.”
“May your goodwill and generosity be repaid ten-fold.” She held up the business card. “You’re the oracle?”
“I am. Such a polite young lady.” The hood fell back to reveal a bald-headed woman with a single eye in the middle of her forehead. She smiled, showing a line of silvery teeth, and stepped back to let her in. “I’m Krynee the Ocular, and you’ve come at an opportune time. Dinner is almost ready.”
After two weeks of cartons or fried on the grill, Megan would have treated a bowl of soup as a royal meal. A whole chicken, mashed potatoes, steamed vegetables, and fresh bread filled the small folding table. Megan barely savored the taste before the first helping disappeared. The second plate was placed in fr
ont of her as she finished the initial one. “This is delicious.”
“Hunger makes the best seasoning, but I do pride myself on being a good cook. It makes the menfolk appreciate my talents.”
“I didn’t expect to find a changeling here, much less two of them.”
“Fate leads us to strange places. You were destined to be here, as was I. Ray has always been here and always will.”
“He tried to put a spell on me,” Megan mumbled around a mouthful of food.
“He has spent too much time alone with the earth and rock. He’s more Fae than changeling, tied and bound to this place,” Krynee said.
“You’re not fattening me up to eat, are you?”
“That is not my purpose. I’m here to guide you and then I shall move to the next place and await the next hero.”
Megan choked on a piece of bread at the comment. “I’m not a hero.”
“You seek to hide from your mother. I can provide assistance, but there’s a small matter that needs solving.”
“Now I know why oracles were feared and disliked.”
The cyclops smiled sadly. “It is our fate to be like Cassandra. For you, there may be a happy ending to this tale.”
“What do I need to do?”
“There’s a well nearby. You must cast a token into the waters to bind that-which-should-not-be back into the earth. In return, I will cloak you from the eyes of your mother for a year and a day.”
That was an easy and quick decision. “I’ll do it.”
“Good. Remember on your journey that ancient bones only sleep until they are woken.”
“Is that supposed to be advice?”
Krynee smiled and chuckled. “I’m an oracle. All I have is advice.”
Megan stood at the edge of the drop, sun beating on the back of her neck. Sweat trickled and matted her shirt, providing scant relief. The Badlands stretched out before her, walls of rock that wound for miles and miles in a maze of canyons and broken ground. The hot, humid wind gusted from below, bringing the smell of sulfur and other pungent odors. A faint path wound down along the wall, barely wide enough to walk on, and uneven with rocks. Her shoulders ached where the backpack straps dug into them, the full weight pressed against the base of her spine. What did I agree to do? It’s not even a prophecy.
Fossil Lake II: The Refossiling Page 16
