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John Prescott lives in the deep southern woods of Mississippi with his wife Edie, son Grafton Caine, and their three cats. He loves to spend time with his son, take long walks, and draw, and he is, of course, an avid reader. He somehow finds time to umpire baseball and softball and be an art director. He also has a website dedicated to his writing at www.john-prescott.com, where he has a healthy growing forum and encourages anyone to sign up. John started taking his writing seriously two years ago and is about to publish his first book of short stories. He is currently at work on his first novel, Pray. Click here to purchase John’s horror collection, Before Sunrise.
Illustration by mimulux.
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NOTE: Images contained in this Lovecraft eZine are Copyright ©2006-2012 art-by-mimulux. All rights reserved. All the images contained in this Lovecraft eZine may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, borrowed, duplicated, printed, downloaded, or uploaded in any way without my express written permission. These images do not belong to the public domain. All stories in Lovecraft eZine may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, borrowed, duplicated, printed, downloaded, or uploaded in any way without the express written permission of the editor.
The Crane Horror
by Bruce Durham
I wondered what would become of Catharine. The Morrisons had agreed to take her in until Governor Simcoe decided how best to act, given her state. Not that she was any trouble. Far from it.
My sole visit to the Morrison home after the events of last week proved heartbreaking. Catharine sat rigid in a rocking chair next to a feather bed, her gentle hands knotted and working feverishly. Her brown eyes, once so vibrant and alive, were glassy and vacant; fixed on some point beyond the log wall with its mud mortar and tufts of straw. But that was not the worst of it. What tightened my throat was the thin line of drool trickling down the corner of her mouth to pool on her lap.
That constant discharge unnerved me, and I dabbed at it repeatedly while engaging her in conversation, discussing aimlessly about the weather and the latest goods at Rousseau’s general store. But, despite my best efforts, she never acknowledged me. I do not believe she was aware of my presence.
Frustrated and grief-stricken, I took my leave, though not before exchanging words with Mrs. Morrison about Catharine’s condition, imploring the woman to alert me over any change.
My farewells said, I strode the long dirt path to the town street where I briefly acknowledged sombre greetings from concerned well-wishers. I set out west for the long walk to the garrison at York and the bottle of rum I knew waited. Alone with my thoughts, I reflected on the events from those grisly days, events that would haunt me to my death.
***
“Eliot. Corporal Matthew Eliot.”
The pronunciation of my name with that Scottish lilt brought a smile of anticipation to my lips. Planting my shovel into ground churned by last night’s thunderstorm, I straightened and wiped at the sweat on my forehead. I was more than eager for a break in the tedious task of road repair.
Catharine Crane stood not a dozen paces from me, smiling her greeting. I could not help but notice the long brown hair that cascaded from under a green bonnet to curl about her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face with its slightly upturned nose and full lips. Even her dress, at one time immaculate, but now well-worn and tattered from the hard life of farming, distracted little from her beauty.
The men in my unit paused in their labors and offered polite greeting. Rough veterans of the American Colonial wars, they were perfect gentlemen when Catharine appeared along the old Indian trail that led from her parent’s farm to York.
Walking was an accepted way of life in these parts. Horse and wagon were luxuries few possessed in a town barely three years old and boasting a meager four hundred souls. The lack of transport forced most farmers to make the long trek by foot to trade for supplies. In turn, these were delivered by a few entrepreneurs who could afford such teams. Of course, there was always a charge for the service.
Catharine’s farm was a few miles beyond the garrison at York, which was itself a mile and a half west of town. She was seven when her parents had ventured north in 1780 during the American rebellion to purchase property along the north coast of Lake Ontario.
The original owners were a large family, original settlers, who spent years hacking out acres of pine, oak and birch trees, clearing land for crops and livestock. But continued war between Loyalists and Patriots had cost them their sons, leaving the grieving and heart-broken parents land they could no longer tend. Eventually the farm went for sale and was purchased by the Cranes. This was where Catharine grew up.
Never married, she was the perennial object of suiting, and with no lack of contenders. Well dressed gentlemen, rough garbed laymen and soldiers of the Queen’s York Rangers at one time or another vied for her hand. She politely declined all. It was a chance meeting at Hanlon’s wharf, and an offered escort to her farm that evening which ignited our friendship, a friendship that soon evolved into love.
On those days when my duties required no service at the garrison, or working the Indian trail from York to Burlington, I devoted much of my free time laboring on the Crane farm, clearing extra land for crops or hunting game for the table. Any chore that kept me near Catharine.
The storm the previous night had been particularly violent. Trees had toppled, their ancient roots exposed to the elements, many of the thick trunks snapped like twigs, others shattered and blackened by ferocious lightning strikes chased by the deep explosion of rolling thunder. The storm passed at dawn’s approach, replaced by a dense, energy-sapping humidity.
I wiped my forehead a second time watching Catharine approach, her youthful face wrinkled with concentration while negotiating scattered puddles, broken branches and cords of randomly bundled planks.
Hesitating at one particularly wide stretch of muddy water, she frowned and cast me a despairing look. I chuckled and hurried over, offering my hand. Smiling, she took it, her grasp cool in the stifling heat. Gingerly she leapt over the stagnant pool.
“Thank you, sir,” she said. Looking down, she tutted as one hand brushed at the twigs and burrs clustered about the lower half of her dress. Her other hand remained firmly in mine. Pursing her lips, she said, “Serves me right for wearing my best today. Ruined it, I did.”
I shared her joke. “I suppose you could ask your mother to sew another.” After a pause I grinned slyly. “Or perhaps you could try that deer-hide outfit Chief Wabakinine of the Mississaugas presented you a month back.”
Catharine playfully slapped my hand with her free one. “And stir your blood? I think not.” She glanced at the men standing nearby, men who by all accounts should have returned to work. Lowering her voice, she said, “Why do they stare, Matthew? Have they never seen a woman before?”
I sighed. Catharine was anything but naive, and she was not above fishing for a compliment. “They stare because you are a jewel in a chest of tarnished copper.” I shrugged. It was a poor line, but I was hot, sweaty and distracted by her touch. It was true, though. In a town where single young women were scarce, the woman holding my hand was indeed a treasure.
Catharine wrinkled her nose. “A chest of tarnished copper? Perhaps I should indulge one of these fine gentlemen to purchase me a new dress. I know of a seamstress in town who makes wonderful clothes. Tarnished copper indeed.”
I glanced at the sky. The sun struggled to burn through a thin layer of clouds. “It is past noon, Catharine. Would you accept my offer to escort you to this seamstress?”
Catharine nodded. “I would be most appreciative of your company, copper and all.” After the moment of whimsy she frowned. “Sadly, my journey does not involve a new dress, but to find the doctor.”
My grip on her hand tightened. “Macauley? Are you ill?”
“Of course I am not ill.” Facing the direction of her farm she said,
“A French ship ran aground last night during the storm. At least, that is what the survivor muttered in broken English before collapsing on our porch.”
“A survivor?” A touch of urgency crept into my tone. “What survivor? What ship?”
“I do not know the name of the ship, but he gave his name as Fournier before falling unconscious.”
“And you are sure he was a sailor, not trader or trapper?”
Catharine narrowed her eyes. “Yes, Matthew Eliot. He is no trader, or trapper.”
“My apologies,” I murmured. A French ship in these waters was not unheard of, but strained relations between the Crown and a recently formed United States with ties to France was cause for concern. I motioned toward the fort, its squat, wooden-walls lying south of us. “You are in luck, then. Doctor Macauley arrived at the garrison this morning. You may see him while I inform my commanding officer of this ship and survivor. I believe your story warrants investigation.”
Catharine smiled her thanks. I took comfort in the fact she had not released my hand.
***
Upon reporting Catharine’s story to Captain McGill I was assigned to question the survivor and locate the ship. Depending on its damage, I was to determine its potential seaworthiness. Though flattered to receive this command, being a lowly corporal in rank, the truth was the majority of officers and sergeants were elsewhere on other duties. Our garrison of less than two hundred men was often spread thin.
A short time later I was at the head of a half-dozen men trailing Doctor Macauley on his horse and wagon with Catharine Crane seated beside him.
We reached the Crane property around mid-afternoon. The farm house was set well off the Indian trail, accessible by a rutted path flanked with fields of wheat. Barely wide enough to accommodate horse and wagon, the path was bumpy and seemingly endless.
The house was a squat log building with thatched roof and wooden porch. Two crude chairs sat next to a white pine door. Before the chairs lay a collection of farmer’s tools, washboard and butter churn. Fifty paces to the right a barn nestled against the tall, thick trees of the ancient oak forest. Resembling a low stockade, it served as storage for goods, as well as home for a clutch of hens busy announcing our arrival.
Doctor Macauley brought the horse to a stop. Catharine climbed off and called out, “Mama, Papa, the doctor is here. Mama? Papa?”
The door swung open and a woman stepped onto the porch. She was lean from years of hard work. Her thin face was lined and weathered, her premature gray hair drawn into a severe bun. Rubbing bony hands on a worn smock, she approached Macauley. “Thank you for coming, sir. You must be tired from your trip. Could I fix you something? Food? Coffee?”
“Ma’am,” the doctor replied, touching the brim of his felt hat. “Thank you for the offer, but I would see the patient.” Retrieving a sturdy bag from the wagon, he waited expectantly.
The woman nodded. “Of course.” She smiled thinly at me. “Good day Corporal Eliot. I see you brought men.”
I removed my cap. “Good day, Mrs. Crane. I am here to investigate the ship.”
“My husband should return soon. He will take you to it.”
“Thank you, Ma’am. Is the survivor conscious?”
“He was not when I last checked.”
I tucked the leather hat in the crook of my arm. A stiff breeze swept off the lake, cooling my forehead. “With your permission I would see this Frenchman before I visit the ship.”
Mrs. Crane nodded again.
I told my men to wait while I entered the house, trailing Catharine, Mrs. Crane, and Doctor Macauley.
The interior was dimly lit. Two small windows, one by the front door and another to my left, above the kitchen counter, provided the sole source of external light. On the counter lay a mound of sliced carrots and several fresh onions beside a cutting board. Next to the kitchen was a stone hearth. Suspended over its crackling flames a blackened pot was filled near to brim with a boiling broth. Its aroma tugged at my empty stomach.
Two bedrooms were located at the rear of the home, while to my right stood a pine dinner table and four chairs. Beyond the table, against the far wall, the Frenchman lay on a bed of blankets.
Macauley went straight to the patient. Catharine followed, grabbing a squat wood stool which the doctor accepted, mumbling thanks. He sat and opened his bag. I joined him, flashing Catharine a quick smile as we passed one another, and stood off to one side.
The Frenchman was perhaps forty with a face deeply tanned from years at sea. His long black hair was drawn in a ponytail. Gray flecked his beard.
Macauley peeled back the heavy blanket. The sailor was naked from the waist up, his bruised torso black and purple. Gently the doctor touched the ribs, eliciting a groan from the unconscious man.
Macauley looked over his shoulder. “Did he cough blood at any time?”
Mrs. Crane paused while slicing an onion. “None we saw, nor was there blood on his shirt.”
The doctor returned to the patient.
I had seen enough. Turning to leave, my boot brushed a canvas sack that lay near my feet. It shifted, leaving a damp imprint on the wood floor. “Does this belong to your guest?” I asked, toeing the sack.
“Yes,” Mrs. Crane said.
I dropped to one knee and worked at the tightly wound cord that sealed it. “Perhaps it holds a clue to our mysterious Monsieur Fournier,” I mumbled. Cord removed, I opened the sack and peered in. It held few items, mainly personal effects, as well as a book. “This could have our answers.” I said, removing the volume and resting it on my knee.
It appeared old. Very old. The size of a journal, the texture of its leather cover felt oddly disturbing as I ran my finger across the smooth, tanned surface. I opened it. The top half of the front page was scribed in a text that was neither French, English nor any language utilizing our alphabet. Below the text was an etching. One look and I shivered involuntarily. A clatter startled me.
Mrs. Crane faced us, body rigid, arms crossed tightly about her chest, her face pinched and pale. A metal plate lay at her feet. “Put it away, Corporal Eliot. That thing is evil.” Her breath misted as she spoke.
I returned to the etching, wondering what disturbed mind could commit such an atrocity to parchment. Another shiver wracked me and I snapped the book shut.
“I’m cold, Mother,” Catharine said with a touch of fear in her voice.
Macauley cleared his throat. He had paused in his inspection of Fournier to fix me with a glare that flitted from book and back. “Do as Mrs. Crane says, Corporal.”
I nodded wordlessly and slipped the book deep into the sack, closing it off with the cord and setting it aside. Standing slowly, embarrassed, I moved to the door. “My apologies, Mrs. Crane, Catharine.”
I found the men lazing about the wagon. They straightened as I approached. A moment later their eyes shifted to a point beyond me.
Private James, one of the younger members of the Queen’s York Rangers, said, “Here comes Mr. Crane, sir.”
Elias Crane appeared from behind the house and muttered a greeting. He was thin, his body hard from years of toil, his face tanned and lined. Deep set eyes swept the men of the garrison before setting on me. “This way,” he said in a gruff voice.
I put on my hat. “Let’s go,” I said. The men took up their gear and followed the farmer. Private James tossed me my Brown Bess musket. Shouldering the weapon, I hurried along the worn path to join Crane, falling into step beside him.
After all this time he remained an enigma. Where Mrs. Crane was polite during my visits, Mr. Crane remained aloof and stern, seldom engaging in conversation. When he did, it usually involved inquiries over what supply ships put into port or how road construction progressed. Catharine assured me it was his way, and not to read any disapproval on his part, but truth told, the man intimidated me, more than my commanding officer Captain McGill ever did.
“You have seen the ship, Mr. Crane?” I asked tentatively. We were far enough from my
men they couldn’t hear the hesitancy in my voice.
“From a distance, Corporal Eliot.”
“What did it look like?”
Crane snorted. “A ship.”
My neck burned. “I mean, what kind of shape was it in?”
Crane glanced at me with his dark eyes. “It is grounded near shore. At least two masts are down. I reckon it received the brunt of last nights’ storm.”
“Did you see any survivors? Beyond the Frenchman, that is.”
“I kept my distance. The ship didn’t feel right.” He picked up the pace.
Minutes later we reached the back fields of the Crane farm. Here the ground was only partially clear of trees. Beyond the scattering of oak and white pines stirred the cold blue waters of Lake Ontario. The temperature cooled noticeably from lake effect as the air thickened with the pungent odor of decaying fish. Hungry gulls circled overhead, protesting our appearance.
Crane stopped abruptly and pointed to his right. “There.”
I grunted acknowledgment. A sloop, canted several degrees to starboard, lay about a hundred feet distant.
I nodded at Mr. Crane as my men joined us. “We will take it from here, sir.”
Crane’s mouth stretched thin. “Be careful, son.”
I prayed he missed the surprise in my eyes. “We will, sir.” Producing my musket, I checked the load and attached my bayonet, ordering the men to do the same. No telling who we would find in the close confines of the sloop. When ready I said, “Follow me.”
The ship was beached in several feet of water. Debris lay scattered along the pebbled shore or bobbed in the shallow surf, pushing against land with each gentle wave. Two broken masts lay at a forty-five degree angle, crushing the rail and ground into the sand, its torn rigging coiled haphazardly in thick coils across wooden beams and tangled with the torn remnants of sail cloth.
As Mr. Crane alluded, something felt odd. I pointed to James and another pair of men: Pierce and Johnson. “Scout the far side of the ship. Look for survivors.”
Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2011 Page 4
