Black Horse and Other Strange Stories

by Wyckoff, Jason A.

  Ruis leaned towards Hank. ‘Ah yes, and for now, that doesn’t suit you, does it?’

  ‘What—what does he mean?’ Barclay worried.

  ‘Nothing,’ Hank hissed. His glare burned at Ruis. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’

  Ruis met the stare. ‘I know the thought that is most important to you: You think, “I have done nothing wrong”. That is how he sees it,’ he explained to Barclay, ‘He thinks he is innocent, you are guilty. As soon as his “innocence” is questioned, he reveals your guilt. Because you—you are his scapegoat.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Ruis ignored Hank. ‘That is what he has been so calmly considering: “When will I have to throw my friend to the wolves?” He knows you both can’t get out of this unscathed. As long as he can pin the murder on you, his freedom is assured. Now it is only a matter of getting what he can out of this scenario, and managing his partner to help him as long as it is convenient.’

  ‘Enough!’ Hank slid his hands down to grip the auger near the point. He lunged forward and swung the handle at Ruis. He meant to strike Ruis on the head but somehow managed only to bounce the crossbar flatly off a fleshy shoulder.

  Ruis chuckled. He grabbed the cord dangly on his chest and made the withered head dance. ‘You missed!’

  Hank was so confused by the ineffectiveness of his swing that he didn’t venture another. Instead, he looked at Barclay, whose drop-jawed expression revealed a sense of betrayal.

  Ruis tapped the shrunken head with a pudgy finger. ‘Think! One dead man! One murderer! One witness! Who will it be? To the victor go the spoils!’ His poncho heaved as one leg lifted and came down again, shattering the skull on the ground.

  ‘But I’m—I’m the murderer…’

  ‘You?’ Ruis asked incredulously. ‘Look at you! You are falling apart from the stress. You are weak while your partner is strong. Think, man! Think! Do you really believe you could be a murderer?’

  Barclay looked at his trembling hands, the thin, white, useless things in front of him, washed clean and rubbed raw. He saw their uncertainty, their ineffectiveness, and he wondered, ‘Could I...?’ The question seemed ridiculous to consider. ‘No,’ he whispered, ‘It couldn’t have been me.’

  Hank dropped the auger. ‘What?’

  Ruis roared with laughter. Hank watched in horror as the fat man’s body seemed to swell with the sound, and his belly drooped over his feet and smothered the fragments of skull. The sound of the laughter reverberated as though the canvas were stone. Hank put his hands to his ears as the echoes thrummed and boomed, swallowing the sound of the laughter itself. He looked at the similarly afflicted Barclay. Barclay’s face was distorted with frenzy. Hank watched Barclay’s mouth form the words, ‘WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?’

  The sound swirled and shrieked, turning over on itself. Hank staggered under the onslaught and dropped to his knees against something hard. He moved his leg to reveal the discarded auger. He saw Barclay lunge at him; no, not at him: Barclay snatched at the auger. Hank grabbed it before Barclay could gain control. Barclay’s mouth frothed with spittle; his eyes opened so wide the pink of the sockets outlined burst vessels in white orbs. Barclay twisted the auger one way, then the next; then he tried to pull the auger straight away from Hank. Hank guided the momentum and smashed the bar across Barclay’s nose. Barclay released the bar and fell back in a burst of bright blood, turning away. Hank clasped the T and cocked his arms back. The point flew forward and stuck in Barclay’s back. Barclay arched. The auger held for a second before Hank turned it and drove it down; the pole slid easily between vertebrae until the point met the ground. Hank let go of the auger in horror. Barclay’s body trembled once, and then slumped. Barclay seemed to begin a bow, pinned on the auger, before his body collapsed to one side and he fell, a look of shock frozen on his face, into his rapidly pooling blood.

  Listening to his quick, shallow breathing, Hank realised that the monstrous cacophony had instantly subsided. Cool air moved across his temple flush with sweat. Hank saw he was alone in the tent with Barclay’s corpse; there was no sign of Ruis. The bones lay on the ground where Barclay had spilled them. A meek cry stuck in Hank’s throat as he noticed that the skull remained intact, just as it was when they’d excavated it earlier that day. Hank heard the donkey complaining nervously and tramping at the ground as though trying to get free. The open tent flap fluttered; Hank saw nothing beyond but darkness. In small steps, he backed away to his cot, and then sat down and began to think.

  The Night of His Sister’s Engagement

  Geordie Russom wasn’t surprised when Mike proposed to his younger sister, Denise. Denise, on the other hand, was overwhelmed—despite Mike’s distinctly conspicuous ‘conference’ with her father, despite the future married couple’s prior discussion of the possibility, and despite the necessity of the timing. Geordie mused that her strong reaction may have resulted from the event occurring exactly as she’d dreamed: since everybody knew it was coming, the energy in the living room was thick with anticipation when Mike got down on one knee in front of the whole family. Denise gasped and started to tear up as Mike fumbled through a few meaningful words. Though many women might resent being put on the spot like that and pressed to give an answer under so many watchful eyes, Mike knew that Denise wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

  Geordie’s family had gathered to have Thanksgiving dinner together—on the weekend before Thanksgiving. Mike was from Texas; he and Denise would be going there for the holiday. They chose not to wait to surprise his parents then, but phoned them minutes after Denise had accepted to let them know the good news. Now that the ‘preliminaries’ were out of the way, Denise would be welcomed as the guest of honour, with effervescent fanfare and dotage from Mike’s large family. The excitement of the proposal was sufficient for the smaller, Presbyterian Russom clan. Geordie suspected that plans might be made the next weekend to relocate Denise to Texas; this would allow Mike’s family to help Denise plan the wedding. Mike would be unavailable, of course—he was due to ship out in three weeks to the Yokota Air Base in Japan.

  After they’d finally sat down to dinner, Denise loaded her plate from each passing dish but failed to eat anything other than a few sweet gherkins. Geordie’s father attempted several lame jokes at Mike’s expense about having an Air Force man in a family that had boasted a naval officer or midshipman in almost every generation—‘So, what kind of boat will you be flying?’ was his best. Geordie felt unable to contribute; he had not continued the military tradition. No one had ever expected him to serve—no one had even mentioned it—but he couldn’t help feeling sequestered from the connection his father and future brother-in-law shared.

  Geordie noted that his father and Mike also shared the connection of purpose, albeit on opposite ends: Mike had the accretion of momentum from new beginnings embarked upon and broad horizons waiting; Geordie’s father had the satisfaction of respectability and accomplishment. They were meeting at what had been the summer house on the lake because Geordie’s father had retired in early spring and soon after was able to sell the house in which Geordie had grown up. Over the past decade the ‘summer’ home had expanded from an unremarkable cottage to a retirement castle as Geordie’s father found increasing time and funds available to him. In his recliner in the den, Geordie’s father sat exactly where he’d always hoped he would, waiting patiently to spoil his yet-to-be-conceived grandchildren.

  Geordie wasn’t sure that he liked Mike. He was charitable enough in his deliberations to concede he didn’t know Mike well enough to make a fair judgment one way or the other. Mike was unquestionably a decent man and he had always been cordial to Geordie, if slightly dismissive. But Geordie thought that there was something in Mike’s solidity of character that suggested vapidity, and some element of condescension in his treatment of Denise. Geordie found it strange that his little sister, the former teen hellion, not only acquiesced to this sort of patronage, but actually seemed to blossom under it. Geordie
couldn’t dispute that Mike was good for Denise, even if he never would have expected her to end up with someone like him. He loved his sister unconditionally, unreservedly, but that didn’t keep him from thinking, as he gently pulled the front door shut behind him, God, she could be such a bitch sometimes.

  Geordie smiled as he zipped up his jacket and started walking down the un-lined asphalt road. His judgment of his sister’s occasional petulance wasn’t based on the harshness of the abuse she meted out so much as (what he saw as) the inappropriateness of her scorn: he would keep her out of trouble—and maintain her unblemished image in their father’s eyes—and she would deride him for (what she saw as) his prudishness. He tried to argue against his upright moral standing with her periodically, but his evidence was always overshadowed by her accomplishments, despite his thirteen-month head start.

  As Geordie followed a gentle curve in the road that directed him away from the lake, he recalled one argument that concluded with him relenting: ‘You win! You’re a tawdry slut!’

  To which she replied, ‘Thank you!’ causing them both to burst into convalescent laughter.

  He had taken the heat more than once as a result of his sister’s lackadaisical approach to concealing evidence. Geordie knew that his father expected his boy to drink and that that brought some ambivalence to how he was disciplined. The old man had been especially hard-pressed to administer punishment when an empty bottle of fortified wine showed up; he seemed more confused than angry. Geordie suspected that his mother had a more comprehensive awareness of Denise’s character, but the conspiracy was fixed and its participants adhered—if messily, at times—to its tenets.

  Of course, Denise didn’t criticise Geordie for every assistance he performed her. They never spoke about it, but she gave him a long hug after Gary Brooke showed up at school with two swollen eyes and half his teeth loosened. Denise might not have been too mindful of her virtue, but no one ever tried to make the choice anything other than hers after that.

  The light from the convenience store came into view as Geordie completed the elongated ‘S’ curve from his parents’ house to the town’s main road. He frowned, thinking about the incident with Gary. He never regretted it, but he didn’t like to remember it, either. Geordie had taken his friend Chuck Stodermeier with him that night—not because Geordie was afraid of the smaller Gary Brooke, but because he simply had no experience in the matter and was unsure how badly to beat the offender. In the end, he was surprised to find that he had felt just about right when they finally let Gary loose.

  Geordie bought a pack of cigarettes at the convenience store. He had smoked regularly for only one semester of his freshman year before deciding that the habit was simply too stupid to pursue. But he indulged from time to time, at parties and some nights out—he was in college, after all. He was just on the underside of tipsy as he began walking back towards his parents’ house. They had all had a few celebratory drinks, and though Geordie had no plans to partake further, he felt too agitated to even consider sleep. He thought taking a walk and having a smoke was a good alternative.

  He blandly contrasted his future against his sister’s excitement: He was due to get his undergraduate degree in ecological sciences in the spring. He had had a pleasant internship over the summer, but felt no inclination to seek employment at the company with which he’d apprenticed. He guessed he’d try to find something at the annual job fair. Grad school didn’t sound bad to him. He liked school.

  Geordie tapped the top of the pack of cigarettes against his palm as he walked. He became aware of a murmuring and the rustle of leaves to his right. A man was taking down a string of lights from a small tree in his front yard. At his feet was a crate containing a skull and black cat frozen in mid-arch.

  ‘Are you ever gonna take down the damn Halloween decorations? Yeah, I’m gonna take down the goddamn Halloween decorations. I’m gonna take down the goddamn Halloween decorations right now, is what I’m gonna do.’

  The man heard the soft scrape of Geordie’s sneakers and ceased his complaint. He turned and looked at Geordie and smiled. ‘Hey. Pretty good night, huh?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Mild for November. I don’t mind a bit, I’ll tell you what.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Geordie sauntered on. ‘Pretty mild, all right.’

  ‘Yeah!’ The man let out a short laugh and waved. ‘Have a good one!’ he called, and turned back to his work.

  ‘You, too,’ Geordie responded absently, though he was already two houses past, and he didn’t think the man heard him.

  Geordie waited until he was back at his parents’ house before he lit up. He had no choice—he’d forgotten to get a book of matches at the convenience store. He walked around the side of the house to the brick patio in back. He reached under the vinyl cover on the grill and grabbed the long safety lighter he knew to be laying on the side shelf to light his cigarette. Geordie confirmed the Halloween Man’s observation—it was a pleasant night for mid-November in Ohio. Late October had seen a pronounced dip in the arctic jet stream, blasting rude cold across the state. But southern high pressure had eased back in over the past week as a seeming kindness to his sister for her momentous occasion. Even so, a breeze blew across the lake, and even a slight breeze over the cold water would send a wet chill straight through to the bones in minutes to chase indoors the timid or not acclimated.

  The lake was large enough—over 3,000 acres—that any wind stirred the surface. Scales of small chop flickered under a waxing half-moon, sending random peaks to slap against each other. Under that familiar sound, Geordie heard a strange gurgling. Geordie knew that any manner of air and water interchange could produce such a sound, so he felt no trepidation about investigating. His greatest worry was that there was a hole in one of the pontoons on his father’s twenty-footer. The distance from house to shore was short; Geordie walked only a dozen paces to get to the edge of the retaining wall where he could look out at the protruding landing and the boats. He was surprised to discover that the sound didn’t come from further out, but rather from almost directly beneath him.

  Geordie stood at the recessed end of a curve that bowed away from the house to become an enclosed pier to his left as he faced the lake. He knew that the lake rarely reached to the retaining wall here. He put one foot up onto the concrete wall and leaned forward to look at a short run of rocky beach, slick with silt and mud, which banked sharply down into the black water.

  The wall blocked what dull glow the light above the patio afforded. Geordie’s eyes had not yet adapted to the dark. He thought he saw a large shape on the beach. He heard the sound more clearly now, but couldn’t identify it any better. It still sounded like gurgling, a wheezing push of water, a wet sniffling. The instant it occurred to Geordie that the sound might be the laboured breathing of an animal, the indistinct shape suddenly slid down, swallowed by the lake with a muculent slurp.

  ‘Ah!’ Geordie yelped.

  He started back in surprise, lost his balance, and fell on his back. Instinctively he scampered away from the wall on his heels and elbows, and then jumped to his feet.

  Geordie froze half-bent and listened. He heard the lapping water, the hollow brushing of the wind, and the drone of electrical current from the patio light—no gurgling, no splashing, no unexpected sound for a November night at the lake.

  He scratched his head and chuckled. Well, that was a good scare. His heart was beating hard. He calmed himself with slow, deliberate breathing. OK, a good scare—but what was it?

  Geordie padded lightly to the wall. He eased forward and looked down. He could see glints of moonlight on the small rocks. He didn’t see any unusual shape. He thought he saw a trail marked by two indistinct ruffles in the mud, as though something had been dragged down into the lake. He looked out across the lake and saw no wake or strange furrows in the water—though he reasoned he would be unlikely to see anything move through the busy water in the dark.

  Trash!—that’s what he must have seen: a ba
g, perhaps two tied together, that had been dumped indiscriminately in the lake—that’s a hell of a thing to do—had washed up on that little shelf of shore. The gurgling was the play of water over or through the plastic. Eventually, enough water had got into one of the bags to drag both of them under. It just happened to occur right when Geordie got there. A bizarre coincidence, to be sure, but if it had happened any other time, he would never have known to worry about it, and it would have been just another normal, everyday event that he hadn’t imbued with mystery because he hadn’t been there to witness it.

  Geordie felt satisfied with his hypothesis. The victory of reason over fear—or, perhaps, the experience of passing through the fear—emboldened him. He felt the sudden urge to go out onto the lake, to conquer the dark. He knew it to be a foolish endeavour. He expected to be embarrassed by the high spirits that inspired him and to turn back before he went fifty feet from the shore. But for now, he was enraptured by the very frivolity of the idea.

  He hurried back to the patio and grabbed the lighter. It didn’t fit in the pocket of his coat, but he zipped the pocket almost closed so that the lighter wouldn’t fall out. He went back to the landing and got into the two-man rowboat tied there. Using the pontoon boat was unthinkable; the engine was loud, and someone in his family was sure to hear it and wonder what he was doing. And if not them, then someone around the lake, some other soul out for a late smoke, would hear the sound carrying over the water and ask his bewildered parents about the expedition. Anyway, Geordie wanted to row, to feel the exertion of his arms, to be the man in the ‘man versus nature’ contest. He pushed off from the landing, set the oars into the oarlocks, and began to row.

  Geordie thought about his friend Todd Younger, his summer friend from the other side of the lake. He wondered for a minute if Todd was home for Thanksgiving, before reminding himself that it was the weekend before Thanksgiving. Geordie hadn’t seen Todd in two years. He’s at school, Geordie thought dismissively. It had seemed like a good destination. The idea abandoned, Geordie pulled the oars up and drifted.