by John Osborne
“I hope you never get really angry at me,” Noah said.
Twenty-Four
Willow flipped around to her hands and knees and started to crawl into the opening. Noah snagged an ankle. “Whoa, girl! Let’s get ready first.”
Willow spun around and sat up. “What’s to get ready?”
“You supernaturals may be okay in the darkness, but mere humans need light. You had better tuck your wings into your pants, too. There may be some nail points in there.” Willow sighed and complied while Noah walked to the door, retrieved his extra flashlight and shouldered the camera. He handed the flashlight to Willow. She flipped it on and turned to the opening again. Noah grabbed her ankle again.
I hate to revert to trickery. Sort of.
“Now what!” she yelled.
“I need a kiss to celebrate.” Willow sighed in exasperation and backed out of the opening. Noah grabbed her, gave her a peck and lunged past her into the opening.
“Cheater!” Willow bellowed.
Noah crawled through before Willow could protest more, or grab his ankle. Once past the fireplace, he stood up into a thirty-year mass of cobwebs. Despite his best efforts, he coughed, much to Willow’s amusement. She followed him into the passage, giggling at his discomfort.
“Should have let me go first.”
Noah batted the cobwebs out of his path as he walked forward. “That wouldn’t have helped, short stuff. You can’t reach high enough.”
“Smartass photographer,” Willow muttered.
The passage was typical of old house attics: dark, dry lumber and lath, with plaster oozed through the cracks and nail points sticking through. Noah’s shoulders brushed both sides of the narrow way.
Perfect. She can’t squeeze past.
He reached the outside corner of the closet and turned right, where the space widened several inches. The flashlight revealed this stretch of the passage extended to the back wall of the house, but a stairway leading down began about five feet from where he stood. The stairs appeared solid, but he tested them carefully as he descended. No telling what might have happened over thirty years.
“Be careful,” he said to Willow over his shoulder. The light from her flashlight illuminated his feet. He led her to the bottom, which he assumed meant they stood on the same level as the third floor. Willow’s light tread followed close behind him. Ahead of him against the back wall, a black hole opened in the floor.
Noah’s heart froze. He knew what the opening had to be. He eased forward and leaned out far enough to look down. The flashlight beam revealed a heavy ladder of lumber hung on the near side of a shaft. His light didn’t reach the bottom.
Willow stepped up beside him and placed a reassuring hand on his chest.
“Are you okay?” she said.
“I’ll be alright. I guess.”
As long as I don’t upchuck.
“Okay, now I’m going first,” Willow said and muscled her way past him. “I’ll be below you, and you won’t be able to see how far down it is. And I’ll catch you if you slip.”
“But—”
“Stuff it, Noah.” She climbed down the ladder. Noah turned around and stepped off the edge to the first rung.
Goddess help me.
Then the second. He couldn’t think about the fact he stood thirty feet in the air on a dead straight vertical ladder. Willow invaded his thoughts with feelings of reassurance.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
“Peachy.”
“You’re making my stomach turn. Please don’t puke on me.”
No promises.
Noah’s ordeal lasted less than a minute, but it seemed an hour. He didn’t breathe fully until his feet landed on smooth stone. The last ten feet of his descent had been past stone block walls. Willow waited at the bottom. They stood in a narrow cavity inside the double stone wall of the basement. Noah lowered the camera to the floor and leaned against the wall.
“Now can I puke?” he asked.
Willow leaned down and nuzzled his head. “If you think it will help.”
“I’m okay.” He stood up straight. “Lead on.”
Willow took his hand and led him along the narrow space about ten feet to its end. Here a new passage began on their right, perpendicular to the basement wall, about four feet wide with a seven-foot head clearance. Solid limestone formed the walls, floor and ceiling. Whether it was natural or cut, Noah wasn’t sure. He suspected the latter since this tunnel sloped down at what appeared to be a consistent angle. The cool air carried strong aromas of damp stone and earth. Their flashlights illuminated the first thirty feet of the shaft. Noah played his beam across the jagged walls. Light glinted from something shiny near the ceiling about twenty feet away. On closer inspection, it was a light bulb. Walking forward a few feet, he found a cable attached to the rock wall and traced it to a rusty metal switch box, which they had missed in the dark. When Noah threw the switch, a flash and a bang sounded down the tunnel followed by the tinkling of glass, but dirty clear bulbs dimly lit the way. Noah switched off his flashlight.
Willow looked flabbergasted. “I can’t believe it’s still wired. You would have thought the electricians would have run across the circuit when Father had the house rewired.”
Noah shrugged. “Save your batteries,” he said.
Willow switched off her light. Noah took her hand and led cautiously down the tunnel. The smooth, dry floor sloped at a steady rate toward a door at the far end. About halfway down, they passed a dark stretch where the bulb had exploded. Glass crunched under their feet. The passage ended at a standard-sized oak door.
Willow tried the round metal doorknob and found it locked. A firm twist snapped it off in her hand. She glanced at Noah, shrugged and kicked the door with one foot where the knob had been. The door flew open with a sharp snap and the sound of splitting wood.
Malevolence seeped from the dark opening. A mixture of smells floated out to greet them: mildew, herbs, wet stone, and old wood. Before she could move, Noah put a hand firmly on Willow’s shoulder.
“Be careful.”
Willow nodded and flipped on her flashlight, as Noah did the same. A quick sweep revealed an oblong room about twenty feet long filled with various pieces of furniture. Willow checked the wall by the doorway and found a light switch, which she flipped on to illuminate the room. They switched off their flashlights and walked in.
Rough limestone formed the walls and ceiling; only the smooth floor appeared shaped by man. The ceiling arched overhead about nine feet, Noah guessed. They had entered at the small end of the egg-shaped space, where the rock had been carved for the doorway. Willow picked up the wood she had broken from the doorway and leaned it against the wall.
“Look at this,” she said, pointing at a heavy oak beam, four inches square and five feet long, which leaned against the wall by the door. Heavy iron brackets protruded from the walls to hold it. “Looks like someone didn’t want to be disturbed.”
Willow shuddered as she scanned the room. “It feels evil in here,” she said. “It’s like Chester’s house but ten times worse.”
The room contained an odd combination of objects. Opposite the door, at the bottom of the egg shape, a pair of old burlap curtains hung against the wall on an iron rod. A wooden bed with a bare mattress sat to the right under the lower ceiling. In the center of the room were a round pedestal oak table and two chairs. A partly burned taper candle sat on the table in a corroded brass holder. More candles sat in niches carved into the rock walls.
To their left was a long, sturdy workbench. Shelves, which rose to the ceiling, held books, glass jars, boxes, bags and bowls. Candles in holders sat here as well. Noah went to the bench and began examining the contents of the shelves and some of the jars. He opened one jar and made a face at the odor that rose from it.
Willow in the meantime was drawn to the curtains. She walked to them and stood before the overlap of the two halves.
“I wonder what’s back here,” she said
quietly. Noah sensed apprehension in her.
Noah, remember why you’re here.
He walked over to Willow and rubbed a hand on her back, conversing their enchanted way.
“Let’s look,” Noah said. He flipped on his light and pulled open the left curtain.
Darkness swallowed the flashlight beam. Noah took two tentative steps forward, shining the flashlight at his feet. Willow crowded close to his side, with one hand on his back. The air was cooler and sounds echoed.
“We’re in a larger chamber, I think,” Noah said.
He flipped his flashlight beam above them and saw the wall arched to a high ceiling at least twenty feet above their heads. He traced down to their level and followed a wall first one direction and then the other. With this method, he deduced they were in a large cavern, some two hundred feet long and half that wide. Chunks of fallen rock and some stalagmites littered the irregular floor, but a winding path of packed earth led on confidently. Noah pushed both sides of the curtain open.
“That doesn’t bring in much light, but it’s a good reference point.” Noah led the way.
About fifty feet along the path, Willow spoke in a whisper. “Here. They’re here.” She pointed off to their right. Her face illuminated features filled with fear and excitement. Noah swept his flashlight where she pointed, and illuminated a mound of earth about eight feet across and three feet high. Not packed or smooth like the other earthy spots on the cavern floor, this dirt had been piled here. Shovel marks covered its surface.
Willow traversed the uneven surface of the cave floor until she stood before the mound. Noah followed at a respectful distance. Her eyes were fixed on the earthen pile, roving over its surface, examining every mark, every clod of dirt. She first knelt, and then slid over to rest on one hip. Noah sensed peace in her soul.
“I finally found you,” she whispered. Then she shook her head. “No. Noah found you.” She reached out and rubbed his leg, and looked up at him, smiling through her tears. “You would have liked Noah.”
Noah put his hand on Willow’s head and caressed it. “Sweetheart, I’ll let you have some privacy. Will you be okay?” Willow nodded. Noah picked his way to the path and returned to the smaller room. He looked back when he reached the curtain and could see her speaking, her glowing face a bright spot in the darkness.
Noah turned his attention to the workbench. He examined drawers, opened jars, looked into boxes. Last, he perused the many books and ledgers in the shelves. Glancing through them confirmed his suspicions about this place. Many of the books were journals, some written a century before. Weather and harvest information filled some. Others appeared to be expense records. One contained weekly entries of activities about a farm. The sheep have lambed and so on.
One large, tattered book contained a record of the farm workers. Each person possessed a line in the book spanning both pages. The earliest entries dated from 1835. The first column, headed “Acquired,” gave the date a slave came to the farm in Alabama. Subsequent columns recorded name, approximate age, gender, and so on. A column headed “Spouse” contained dashed numbers which referred to a page and line number in the book. Another column headed “Children” worked the same. The last column was headed “Lost” and contained a reason for the loss—died, ran away or sold—and a date. Several hundred slaves had passed through the Jones property. Noah flipped to the end and found the last entries in a different hand. The dates were of great interest. The last acquisition was dated 1917.
How did they “acquire” a person fifty years after slavery ended?
Noah’s eye fell on a less worn book. He pulled it from the shelf and flipped through the pages, finding mostly blank sheets. It was another journal with weekly entries. He turned to the front and scanned the first few pages. Judging by the names of the people referenced and the dates in the 1920’s, Noah guessed James Jones wrote the journal. Chester’s great grandfather.
Noah heard feet scuffling in dirt. A few seconds later, Willow appeared at the open curtain. Her face was composed and she smiled sweetly at him as she walked over and placed an arm around his waist. She leaned her head against his shoulder.
“I love you, Noah. Thank you for everything.”
Noah put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her.
“So what is all this stuff?” she asked, pointing at the workbench.
“This is a magic shop. What you see are ingredients and tools for performing spells. Herbs, spices, incense, candles, animal parts and of course lots of spell books.” He pulled open a drawer. “Knives, axes, chains and other stuff that I don’t like to think about how they might be used.”
“Magic. Janet said they were into folk magic.”
“This is like nothing I’ve ever seen, though I’ve read about it. Wicca would never use most of this stuff, especially the animal parts. From what I’ve read in these books, that’s the power they held over the slaves, or workers, whatever you want to call them. If anyone got out of line, they cast a spell on them.”
“So that’s where Chester’s magic books came from.”
Noah nodded. “And it’s probably why he wants in here so badly.” He continued flipping through the last journal. Willow pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. After a couple of minutes, Noah shook his head.
“Unbelievable,” he said.
“What?”
“The last entry in this journal was written in 1924 by James Jones, just a few days after all the workers disappeared. It explains what happened to make them leave. I’ll read it to you if you want me to, but some of it is nasty stuff. Maybe after you hear this you’ll understand Chester better.”
Willow thought for a moment. “Go ahead.”
Noah leaned against the workbench and read:
They’re all gone now. Armstrong did it. The fool has cost us everything. Should have turned him out long ago. Would now if he weren’t half dead.
We had the workers for nigh to a hundred years. Started by my daddy’s grandpa. Kept them happy and kept them in line. Everything worked fine for all those years. Everybody knew their place and kept it. The workers did what we told them to do and we took care of them. They knew their station and it was below us. We brought them to the farm, we let them marry and have kids and keep the kids. But we kept their kids away from our kids. Workers were separate, here to serve us and work the farm, not to live with us. They were Negroes at first then more gypsies when we came north. None of them much more than animals by nature. We never mixed our blood with theirs. Oh, we took our liberties with the women, of course we did. That’s how it was where we come from. Everybody did it. That’s what the women were for. Their men didn’t like it but they had no choice. But we were careful never to get them with a child.
Maybe I am to blame for what happened. It was just fun and sport. We’d pick which one we wanted and take her to the cave at night. The young ones in their teen years. Sometimes they went willing. Sometimes not. My daddy let me start when I was eighteen, as I did Armstrong.
I guess the trouble started when I became attached to one of the young ones. She was gypsy, named Amelia. She was born on the farm and from the first she was different. She was a beautiful child and became a favorite with her big brown eyes and smooth dark skin. Her hair was long and dark and shiny. She knew she was beautiful and used it to full advantage. She could flirt and tease and get her way even with my father. She had a way of saying Papaboss (that was what they always called the oldest Jones man) that could melt your heart.
Amelia followed me around a lot, but I never touched her until after my father died. She had grown to be a fine looking young woman, though she remained tiny. She was only sixteen but could pass for twenty. Things changed when she started calling me Papaboss. Her flirting wasn’t teasing anymore. Mine wasn’t either. One summer day when the house was empty I took her up to my bed and had my way with her. She didn’t fight. She wanted it, too.
That summer I had her every day. I wasn’t careful. I didn’t care i
f she got with child, and soon she did. My Amelia, my darling. So young, so beautiful. But the birth went wrong and I lost her. Nadia was the child of our love. Nadia, the image of her mother, tiny just as her mother had been. Amelia’s parents took Nadia to raise in the workers’ quarters, but she had free run of the Big House. She was my joy, though my wife hated the sight of her sweet face. I spoiled her.
I had little joy in the women after Amelia. When Armstrong turned eighteen I allowed him to use the women and the cave. I always had to watch him, though; he hated using protection and always wanted the youngest girls, the ones who didn’t have their menses yet. More than once I caught him, despite my warnings.
Two weeks ago I was working late in my study at the Big House when there was a knock. My field boss was standing in the door. He acted nervous and fidgeted with his hat. He wouldn’t look at me. He said Papaboss you need go find Mr. Armstrong. Why, what’s wrong? I asked. The man’s look turned to terror. Nadia, he said. He come and took Nadia.
I knocked the man out of my way and ran from the room. My Nadia? She was only ten! I flew upstairs to the entry way and ran down the passage and the ladder to the tunnel. When I reached the cave the door was unbarred and I flung it open.
He had my Nadia, my own daughter, naked and bent forward over the table while he ravished her from behind. There was blood on the floor beneath her. Her eyes pleaded with me to help. She didn’t even know what was happening to her.
Armstrong looked at me when the door opened. He was in a drunken stupor. I picked up the timber we use to bar the door and beat him senseless. I left him lying on the cave floor, I hoped dead, and gathered up my precious Nadia in my arms and took her to her grandparents.
