The Haunter Of The Threshold

by Edward Lee

  “He’ll probably never even find the place, Sonia,” Hazel suggested. “There’s whole square miles of tree coverage all the way up that summit—you saw it. But I’d love to know what this stone is, this ST. ”

  “I could care less. And he’s going to be real sorry he’s pulling this stunt.” Sonia’s hands tightened to fists. “No oral sex for him, just you watch.”

  Hazel laughed. “Oh, give him a break. He’s just out on a camping trip. The poor guy sits in an office ninety-nine percent of the time.”

  “Stop sticking up for him!” Sonia barked. “He’s making me a nervous wreck. How would you feel if Ashton decided to go mountain climbing while you had to sit in some ridiculous non-air-conditioned cabin while you were pregnant with his kid?”

  Hazel smiled, then looked around. “Check this out,” and from atop a bookshelf she retrieved some sort of decorative metal box, five or so inches long, and four high.

  “Jewelry box?” Sonia wondered.

  “Maybe, but...” At once, Hazel noted the foremost oddity. “It’s uneven. See?” She pointed out the box’s slightly unparallel lines. “Pretty funky—a style thing, I guess.”

  Sonia squinted. “It’s not gold, is it?”

  Hazel tapped the side with a fingernail. “I don’t think so.” It was a yellowish metal but too dark for gold; however, it didn’t look like bronze or brass, either. “Flavescent” was the only word she could think to describe its unique hue. Both women seemed to stare fixedly at it, like some captivating totem.

  “What interesting engravings,” Sonia observed next.

  Hazel wouldn’t have called them interesting. “More like unsettling...” Peculiar glyphs and characters like less-than and greater-than signs had been etched very faintly all about the object. Atop the lid, and centered on each slightly uneven side, were just-as-faint bas reliefs which seemed to depict some obscure figure whose details she could not quite make out. Hazel couldn’t understand why the figure unnerved her.

  “Open it,” Sonia said.

  Hazel paused, then raised the off-kilter lid with a fingernail.

  An egg-shaped metal band had been fixed by tiny struts within the box. Hazel couldn’t imagine what purpose it served. “There goes the jewelry box theory.”

  “What’s the band for? To put something on it?”

  Hazel reclosed the lid. Objectively she viewed the box with insignificance, yet something...

  Something about it...

  —made her queasy. A vertigo crossed her eyes when she looked harder at the barely visible engravings—mostly shapes like V’s on their sides—and she thought it almost seemed as though the little angles were minutely opening and closing. I’m just tired, she thought, but then her squint sharpened: she was looking at the etched figure on the lid. Her stomach hitched.

  For a moment the figure looked bulb-headed, with a trail of tentacles draped below.

  Another fatigue-born mirage. Tentacles, the word lolled in her head. Her mind had simply made her think that, based on the horrific baby from her daymare in the outhouse.

  “Put it back,” Sonia said with a look of distaste. “Don’t know why but I don’t like it. Suddenly it looks creepy.”

  “Yeah.” Hazel shoved the box back into its shelf. “Maybe it’s morbidity on my part but...didn’t you say Henry killed himself in this room?”

  “Um-hmm.”

  Then they both looked up at the study’s only overhead rafter.

  “That must be it,” Hazel said. But at the same time Sonia happened to glance in the small waste can by the desk. She jumped back as if startled, pointing down with a frown.

  “Now I’m really going to kick his butt,” she said.

  Hazel peered into the waste can. It contained a length of stout rope.

  “Thanks a lot, Frank, for leaving the hangman’s noose in the house! ” Sonia added.

  “You’re really squeamish all of a sudden.” Hazel had to chuckle.

  “Squeamish and bitchy. Christ, my stomach’s sticking out like a beer keg while the father of my child is out playing Lewis and Clark, and now I get to look at the friggin’ rope that Henry killed himself with. Frank really can be an inconsiderate dick sometimes.”

  “He’s just absent-minded—”

  “Don’t stick up for him!”

  “–but you’re right, a grade-A dick.”

  “That’s better.”

  “Look, I’m starving, so let’s—”

  “We have Pop Tarts,” reminded Sonia.

  Hazel scowled. “You’ve got a baby growing inside you, Sonia. He or she deserves better than Pop Tarts. So go get ready. We’re going to the Bosset’s Tavern or whatever it’s called.”

  “You just want to cozy up to the woodsman,” Sonia said, nodding knowingly. “I know you.”

  “Just get ready, while I put this in the garbage,” and then she reached into the waste can and grabbed the length of rope that had no doubt been around the neck of Henry Wilmarth just nights ago.

  “Eew!” Sonia shrieked.

  Hazel loped out of the cabin. She really is loaded up with pregnancy hormones or something. Outside, she flipflopped across the front yard toward the end of the drive, but slowed to take a grimacing glance at the outhouse. In her mind, the tentacular newborn squalled, its sucker-mouth pulsing. Jesus... A large plastic garbage can sat across from the mailbox. She pried off the lid, then held her breath at the stink. But before she dropped the noose in, she caught herself peering down.

  Several objects she couldn’t identify lay atop a garbage-filled bag.

  An arrangement of leather straps were attached to metal platforms, while from each of the two platforms, sharp steel spikes sprouted. A long leather strap had also been dropped in the can, with a buckle, yet it was much too lengthy to be a belt.

  She picked up one of the platforms.

  When she noted wood-splinters embedded in the saw-teeth she could guess that they were the things workmen used to climb telephone poles; a brand name was etched on the spikes, SPORT CLIMBERS, INC. Next, she picked a receipt out of the trash, which read, HAMMOND’S OUTDOOR GEAR, BOSSET’S WAY, N.H. Lineman Spikes, one pair, $199.99. The next item: Tree Scaling Belt, one, $69.99.

  “Did Frank buy these?” Hazel wondered aloud, but then the date told her that could not be. These items were purchased not only before Frank had arrived, but two days before Henry Wilmarth committed suicide.

  Hazel barely knew Wilmarth, though he definitely did not strike her as a sport climber or an athlete of any kind.

  The last item on the receipt made the discovery all the more dark.

  Rope, sisal, 3/4-inch, 20 ft., $10.00

  Hazel stared out at nothing. Why would Henry buy tree-climbing spikes? Unless... Unless he originally planned to hang himself from a tree? Then thought the better of it?

  It made the most sense, she supposed.

  She dropped the rope in the can, then noticed one more thing: a metal can, which at first she thought must be a can of paint until she picked it up for closer inspection. TREE PATCH, it read. It was empty yet the can’s side contained traces of some tarry substance. Oh, like when you cut a branch off a tree, this is the stuff you smear on the stub. She shrugged, then put the can back in the garbage, replaced the lid, and went back to the cabin.

  3

  Astonished, Sonia said, “This squirrel burger is wonderful! ” after just one bite. “And to think I had my doubts.”

  “The muskrat’s excellent, too,” Hazel complimented the stringy yet aromatic chunks on her sampler platter. “Tastes like smoked duck, and the possum reminds me of turkey drumstick meat.” Then she took a crispy bite of the next selection: deep-fried hognose snake.

  “Don’t tell me,” Sonia suspected. “Tastes like chicken?”

  “Nope. More like trout, and very good.”

  Hazel let her gaze glide over the tavern: wooden tables, wooden walls, and wooden floors. The aromas from the kitchen were delectable. A long bar stretched across the rearmost
wall, tenanted by working-class...Rednecks, she could find no other word. Most of the tables were occupied by groups of rough-handed and coarse-voiced men. It impressed her, though, that when she and Sonia had entered, the clientele had scarcely taken note of them. Looks like we’re the only women here other than the wait staff. She would’ve at least expected to be ogled a bit, especially considering her scant shorts and top and Sonia’s overspilling bust, but there was really none of that. I guess I feel out of place if there’re no perverts lusting after me.

  “Waitress?” she asked. “I’d like to order another entree, please.”

  Sonia looked surprised. “You just ate an entire Roadkill Platter and now you want more?”

  The chuckling waitress was the ultimate cliche: stocky, pear-shaped body; bunned hair; eye makeup that looked applied with a butter knife; and a name tag reading ASENATH. “It must mean she likes our food. Bet they en’t got restaurants like this in the city.”

  “It’s such a unique surprise,” Hazel said. “Everything’s even better than I imagined.”

  “I’m glad, and by the looks’a yew, ya could use a little meat on yew’re bones.” The waitress huffed like Aunt Bee on Andy Griffith. “And if ya want my recommendation, order the perch. It’s a nine-ounce fillet on a bed of fresh-water mussels and crawfish tails sauteed in garlic butter.”

  Hazel nodded resolutely. “I’ll have it.”

  “Anything else for you, hon?” Asenath inquired of Sonia. “Seein’ you’se got a young ‘un on the way, don’t’cha forget you gotta eat for two.”

  “No, thanks.” Sonia cradled the bulbous belly. “The squirrel burger’s enough for both of us. I’ll be content just watching my 105-pound friend eat more than a football player.”

  Hazel shrugged. “I’ve always eaten like a pig, but I never gain an ounce.”

  “I was the same way, sweetie,” Asenath assured, then her body fat giggled as she laughed, “so just you remember what they say about gift horses!” and then she left to put in the order, laughing all the way.

  “I’ll bet the fish is really frozen,” Sonia whispered. “Places always say it’s fresh, then you find out it’s been in the deep freeze for a year and came from Viet Nam.”

  “Ain’t nuthin’ here not fresh, missy,” a crackly voice surprised them both. “I’se’ll stake my repper-tay-shun on it.”

  Hazel and Sonia both suppressed a shock when they turned to see an elderly man in a wheelchair passing between tables. Shrivel-faced and feisty-eyed, he wore a hat that read LUNTVILLE V.F.W. But the feature which stalled both Sonia and Hazel’s tongues was the unfortunate fact that the old man had no hands.

  Finally Hazel managed to reply, “That sounds like quite an endorsement, sir.”

  “Calls me, Clonner, hon, not sir. Clonner Martin,” he said in an out-of-place southern accent. “When I’se first moved here ten years ago, this dump was just a bar full’a S.S.I. rednecks, so’s I tell the owner, I say, ‘When God were passin’ out brains you must’a been in the butt line. With alls the critters in these woods and alls the fish in Lake Sladder, you could make a killin’ if’n ya turnt this hole in the woods into a restaurant.’”

  “Well, I’m glad he took your advice,” Sonia said.

  The old man—Clonner—cocked an eye. “Take my advice? Hail, the cocky rube told me to kiss him where the sun don’t shine’n threw me out. So’s I just said the hail with him and up’n bought the place fer, like, next to nuthin’.”

  “Oh, so you’re the owner,” Hazel remarked. “I must say, I’ve been to some good restaurants in my life, but this is definitely the most unique.”

  “Thank ya, thank ya, sweetie. It’s all’s about takin’ advantage of ak-sess-er-bul resources and ident-er-fy-in’ the market. We’se got skiers in the winter and campers in the summer. Why not give ‘em somethin’ they cain’t get nowhere’s else?”

  “You’re a true marketeer, Clonner,” Sonia said. “I would never have thought squirrel could be so good.”

  “I trap squirrel, possum, muskrat, snake, you name it, since I were a kid, and fished too. Cain’t do it now, a’course,” and he honked a laugh, holding up his stumps. “So’s I got my half-wit nephew and his ex-con buddy doin’ it.” He wheeled the chair around and pointed to an oblong opening in the wall through which the kitchen could be seen. Right up in the opening two rustic-looking men in their thirties busied themselves fileting fish. One was chunky-faced and bearded, with shaggy brown hair; he chewed his lip as he worked. The other—taller and slim—seemed more at ease with the work, whistling as his knife finnicked through slabs of clean white meat.

  “See them two losers there? That’s them. ‘Bout all they’se good fer is trappin’ and fishin’, but I guess that’s better than nothin’.”

  Hazel looked at them. Rednecks tried and true.

  The old man, next, pointed his stump right at Sonia. “Anyways, missy, if yer friend here say her perch ain’t the freshest fish she ever et, I’ll pay yer whole check.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it will be, Clonner,” Sonia replied, embarrassed now that her remark had been overheard. “You’ve convinced us. But...where exactly are you from? Your accent is southern but everyone else here has a New England accent.”

  Clonner nodded confidently, nubbed arms crossed. “I’se from Luntville, West Virginia, missy. Moved up here ten years ago, bought a couple pieces a land cheap. Got sick’a bein’ around rednecks, ya know?”

  He paused for effect, then the three of them burst out laughing.

  “And lemme guess. You gals? I’ll’se bet yer from Proverdence.”

  “How did you know?” Hazel asked, amazed.

  “I saw the Brown U. Sticker on yer car,” and then he honked another laugh.

  “You really are something, Clonner,” Hazel said.

  “And don’t be put off none on account I ain’t got no hands,” he went on. “Some folks are, but, hail, it’s no big deal. First sixty years’a my life, I had hands”—he shrugged—“now I ain’t. I got me a pair’a hooks but don’t like ‘em much.”

  Before Hazel could think better of it, she asked, “Clonner, how...how did you lose them?”

  “Blammed dye-ur-beet-iss,” he said nonchalantly. “Runs in the fambly’s what the doc tolt me. A Hindu feller, or swami. Older brother Jake had it too, so’s they cut off the poor bastard’s feet. But me? I gots it in the hands, and I guess I must’a pissed God off a time or two ‘cos right after the swami doc cut off my hands, I got a whopper of a case’a arthritis so’s I gotta roll my old butt around in this chair.” He raised a nub as if there were still a hand on it and he wished to raise a finger. “But you know, way I see it is my life’s still a blessing. Heart’s still beatin’, sun’s still shinin’, and I’se still drinkin’ beer, so I got a lot ta be thankful fer.”

  “That’s a wonderful viewpoint, Clonner,” Hazel said, then felt a twinge of guilt. Sounds like something my father would say... It made Hazel more mindful of all she took for granted.

  Now Clonner peered curiously at them. “Guess that one slipped by ya, huh?”

  “What’s that, Clonner?” Sonia asked.

  “I mean, I thought shore you’d be thinkin’ ‘How in tarnations does a fella with no hands even drink a beer?’”

  Hazel and Sonia looked at each other, duped.

  The waitress set a can of Bud on the table next to him. “Here ya go, Clonner.”

  “Best thing ‘bout owning yer own bar is ya drink fer free!” he exclaimed, and then he leaned very carefully over, got the rim of the can between his top and bottom front dentures, then tipped his head back and drank.

  Hazel and Sonia stared.

  “See? Ain’t no big deal,” he said. “I best take a peek in the back’n make sure I ain’t gettin’ ripped off blind. But you girls take care’a yourselfs, and thanks fer stoppin’ by.”

  “It’s been a pleasure talking to you, Clonner,” Hazel said. “And we’ll be back for the all-you-can-eat fish-fed pork.”

 
“Best pork ya ever had, so’s you do that. And if’n ya need anything er got any questions ‘bout the area,” he added, wheeling away, “just you come’n ask me.”

  “Thank you, Clonner,” Sonia bid.

  When he was gone, Hazel observed, “What a wonderful, high-spirited old man.”

  “Yeah. Poor guy’s got no hands but he’s still got a big smile on his face. Me? I pitch a fit like there’s no tomorrow if I break a nail or if Frank’s five minutes late.”

  I need to have more of his outlook, Hazel thought, but she knew it was all mental talk. Even now, she was surveying the tavern, sliding her gaze over various men to fantasize about which ones she’d like to have sex with. Several men played darts in one corner, jabbering in restrained revel. Two more played billiards with serious looks on their work-worn faces.

  When she blinked, she caught on a breath, and suddenly saw herself stripped, gagged, and blindfolded, with her hands tied behind her back. She’d been bent over the pool table while one sturdy man stood behind to methodically sodomize her. The other deftly plunged the fat end of a cue stick in and out of her vagina like someone churning butter...

  Hazel shivered out of the vision.

  Sonia was smiling coyly. “What are you so intent on?”

  “What?”

  “You know what I mean. Since we walked in here you’ve been eyeballing everyone in the place.”

  “No, I haven’t,” Hazel blurted.

  “Oh, I know. You’re looking for that guy we saw when we first drove by. The woodsman-looking guy.”

  Hazel frowned, said, “I am not,” but thought, She’s right. “But now that you mention it, I don’t see him anywhere.”

  “Gee, I guess that means he left, Hazel,” came some sarcasm from Sonia.

  “But his truck’s still outside.”

  “Ah, I see, you’re not looking for the guy but you memorized what kind of truck he has.”

  Her cell phone jangled, then she moaned when she looked at the caller ID. “Damn. I should have never gave my cell number to my father.”

  “That’s terrible, Hazel”—now Sonia looked genuinely annoyed. “How can you just disregard your father like that? He’s a very nice man, and you duck his calls like he’s a telemarketer.” A sharp frown. “You are going to answer it, right?”