Traverton’s back now arched, his neck extended to keep his mouth and nose clear of the rising surface.
“Jerry, it’s been thirty years! Can’t you forgive me after all that time?”
“All that time? My life right now is a result of your actions. It was thirty years ago for you, not me. Sorry Willie, I’m just not in a forgiving mood.”
“Jerry! Please! If you can’t forgive, at least show mercy! Please!”
Jerry pulled up a cobweb shrouded axe that must have been leaning against the shed wall. He examined it with one raised brow.
“Mercy? Now I believe I might be able to demonstrate a little of that.”
He turned and approached the trough with the axe. Nothing in his face hinted of pity as he hefted the weapon. Traverton closed his eyes, hoping his executioner could at least swing straight. It had come down to this.
He felt the gentle pressure of the axe blade under his ear, then to his surprise, the sensation of its slow removal. He opened his eyes to see Jerry Moller withdrawing the axe, with the spider crawling on the blade
“There you go, little feller. You see, sometimes the little guy does get a second chance in this world.”
“My God, man!”
“As for you,” Moller set the axe down and returned to the trough, “since you invoked Phaedrus earlier, let me send you to hell with a couple of his real quotations. He once said, ‘Whoever has fallen from his former high estate is in his calamity the scorn even of the base.’ I think he hit a bulls-eye on that one, don’t you? No? Well, take it from the ‘base’, he nailed it. And as for the other quote, I find it even more fitting…”
Jerry leaned near just as the water closed over Traverton’s mouth.
“‘…All the old knives that have rusted in my back, I drive into yours.’”
Under a Racer’s Moon
When Hocker Caldwell and I pulled into Buddy’s Drive-in that night, I could feel right away the undercurrent of something wrong.
Just south of Hallisboro, Buddy’s was the favored hangout of several crowds before it burned down in 1958. On this night in particular though, it still lived as an island of yellow fluorescents in the black night of the countryside just outside of town. Tinny music blared from rickety speakers attached to the poles of the carports, while girls in red uniforms and stacked trays dodged between the trucks and automobiles. The smell of hot dogs and chili hung so thick in the air you could cut it with a knife.
Catcalls between the cars carrying townies and cowboys often competed with the songs, although they seldom escalated beyond insults. Buddy didn’t put up with much guff at his place. Still, nights at Buddy’s were usually a noisy blend of rock and roll, shouts, and the occasional engine revving. On Friday nights, especially after a football game, the place became a maelstrom of noise, carhops, headlights, and hot food. Tonight though, as Hocker swung his old Thunderbird convertible into the driveway, everybody seemed content to converse amongst themselves in their own groups.
He cruised his way down past most of the cars, surveying the scene, before sliding into a vacant spot near the doors leading into the kitchen. I rode shotgun and noted the subdued tones that barely registered against the background music.
“Hey Hock, did we miss a funeral or something?”
“I dunno, Eddie,” he shrugged. “Somethings up, that’s fer sure. Let’s find out.”
With that, he let out a loud whistle as Sally Dupree sashayed by in her little carhop outfit, carrying a tray piled high with drinks and food.
“Hey darlin’, swing your pretty self this way for a second would you?”
Now if I or any other guy there had tried that stunt we would have been wearing those drinks, with a hamburger for a hat. But not Hocker. Hocker Caldwell was a living testament to the axiom that life ain’t fair. Two hundred and fifteen lean pounds of good natured crazy, stacked to a height of six feet and two inches with blond hair, a scruffy straw hat, and a perfect white smile, Hocker simply lived in a world where different rules applied.
Sally changed course with smooth precision, somehow managing an even more feline slink to her walk as she did, without disturbing a single item on her tray.
“Hi Hocker,” she purred, “so what are you doing out on your own tonight?”
“Out on your own” obviously meaning without a girl next to him, or I had turned into a potato without realizing it. I got used to it after a while.
“Not much, darlin’. Me an’ Eddie were just droppin’ in for a bite an’ I noticed the place seems a little…quiet. What’s up?”
“You aren’t going to believe this,” she leaned close, “but Tommy Bowers and his girl are swearing they were almost run off old Pritchard road by Betty Jo Bedford tonight.”
“Naw!”
“Yes! They came roaring in here about an hour ago. He was white as a sheet and she was cryin’ like she had lost her mind. He left about fifteen minutes later. Said he was taking the girl to the hospital cause of her hysterics and all.”
“That bad?”
“You should of seen her, Hocker. She got even worse when she realized he intended to drive back out there into the dark again, even though it was in the opposite direction that they came from. I think she wanted to sit here all night or something.”
“But why did they think it was Betty Jo?”
“Tommy said she pulled up right beside them on the road. Said that they could see her grinning at them, big as life in moonlight. He said it wasn’t pretty either. But that ain’t the end of it.”
“There’s more?”
“Yep. Old Man Munley stopped by about a quarter hour ago, hunting the Sheriff. He was all shook up, saying there was something right out of Hell on the roads tonight.”
Which explained the odd atmosphere amongst the customers.
I looked out into the night beyond the yellow fluorescents and felt a twinge of primal dread myself. It might all be childish nonsense, but I got the definite feeling that this particular night should be spent under the bright awnings of Buddy’s drive-in eating chili dogs. Apparently a lot of others agreed, because I only saw one departure while we were there, and it was a convoy of three cars heading straight back to town.
“So you’re tellin’ me everybody’s hidin’ here or in town on account of some spook on the road?”
“You should have seen them, Hocker. They weren’t pullin’ nobody’s leg. Those people were plumb scared.”
Hocker leaned back in his seat and pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger with a speculative grin on his face.
“So you think this spook is real, darlin’?”
“Aw hon, don’t ask me that. All I’m gonna say is that I’m catching a ride home with Buddy tonight, and the other girls working here are going to be together in the car behind us.”
“You? I thought you weren’t afraid of nuthin. Now you gettin’ rides from Buddy cause of spooks?”
“Don’t you start picking on me, Hocker Caldwell,” she made a face at him. “I don’t see you running around out there either.”
I wish she hadn’t said that, because that grin widened across his face.
“Hey Eddie, what do you think about doing a little spook huntin’?”
“How ‘bout we discuss this over hamburgers. I hate going off and doing stupid things on an empty stomach.”
For the first time, Sally’s eyes met mine and she acknowledged my existence.
“Hi, Eddie. See if you can talk some sense into this knucklehead. I gotta get back to my customers before Buddy starts yelling at me.”
Then with a wink at Hocker, she turned and strutted back down the row of cars. I watched her retreating figure with pure admiration. Over the speakers, Bill Haley started rocking around the clock and she unconsciously altered the tempo of her steps to the beat. I looked back at Hocker to see him lost in thought, leaning back with his hands behind his head and watching the small flurry of moths that circled the lights overhead. I knew it was probably too late, but I
had to try and divert him.
“Aw c’mon, Hock. That girl was hinting as big as life that she would like it if you hung around and gave her a ride home tonight. As good looking as she is, you must be out of your mind to be thinking anything else.”
“I noticed you admiring her there, Eddie. Maybe you ought to ask her out instead of me.”
“Are you kidding? That girl is way out of my league. The only girl I’ve managed to date so far is Helen Erdman.”
“So? What’s wrong with Helen Erdman?”
“She plays the tuba, fer gawds sake!”
Hocker chuckled.
“You know what your problem is Eddie? You have no confidence and a complete lack of understanding on what makes life great. You really ought to ask Sally out, because you honestly can’t be sure what she’d say and that must be great.”
And with that, he started the car.
“Hock, what are you doing?”
“You believe in ghosts?”
“Of course not.”
“Then I’m just taking an uneventful drive down old Pritchard Road.”
“Can I change my answer?”
“Nope. Only one answer per question, pardner.”
We pulled out of our nice, cheerfully lit spot under the awning and headed back out the driveway. I could feel my stomach sink as we left the pool of illumination behind. I made one last pitiful try as the nose of the car reached the highway.
“Would it have killed us to grab a burger and drinks?”
“With that crowd? It would have taken forever for our order to arrive.”
That was the general idea.
“Hock? Are you sure about this?”
“Aw c’mon, Eddie. That’s the same thing you ask every time. Y’know, it’s okay to be sure about something, even if you don’t know how it’s going to work out. Besides, what do you really think is going to happen here? We’re going to go down to Pritchard Road, then take a run up and back down it with you being creeped out the whole way and absolutely nothing else happening. We’ll be back to Buddy’s in an hour and still have time to eat those burgers you suddenly want so bad.”
“Then why go in the first place?”
“Because,” he laughed, “I could always be wrong.”
And that was vintage Hocker Caldwell. He didn’t do things like this to show off, or to prove how brave he was. He just had this natural curiosity, coupled with a thirst for adventure and a complete absence of fear in regards to most things. Apparently it fell to me to supply all the fear in our friendship, and I figure I did a pretty good job of it. I just needed to work on getting Hocker to listen to it more often.
A huge hunter’s moon hung low and orange in the sky as we sailed down the highway towards the south end of Cole County. I could see cows bedded down in the fields we passed by its light, and the twinkle of the occasional farm house window off in the dark. The smell of fresh cut hay and the rush of humid night air through my hair had a soothing effect, and my spirits had pretty much returned to normal by the time we reached the turnoff to Pritchard Road.
At this spot, five years earlier, Betty Jo Bradford had gotten into the car of local bad boy, Hobie Simmons. And it was here they began their race against a visiting hot-rodder from Waco. They probably intended the finish line to be the city limits of Pritchard Hill, eighteen miles down the twisting curves of the road, but nobody is sure since none of them made it. It must have been a close race, because they were running neck and neck when they hit Potter’s Creek Bridge…and that’s what killed them.
The bridge at Potter’s Creek is an old narrow affair, nowhere near wide enough for two large automobiles. The kid from Waco probably didn’t know that, and Hobie Simmons was probably just too stubborn and stupid to give way. However it happened, the result ended up the same. The kid from Waco hit a concrete post on the left side of the bridge and went through his windshield. Hobie’s DeSoto somehow went partway up the other angled iron siding of the bridge before flipping and sailing out into the creek below. Betty Jo must have been thrown far wide of the car when it overturned.
The next day, a local farmer found the wreck and police recovered the cars and the two bodies in them. It wasn’t until Betty Jo had been reported missing for almost two weeks that Sheriff Gartner acted on a hunch and returned to the bridge. He found her purse, one of her shoes, and a piece of her dress scattered downstream. Her body never turned up, but at least now people knew what happened to her.
That should have been the end to it.
But a year later Carl Whelker pulled into Harolds’ Bar, all shook up and swearing he was nearly killed by a dead girl driving a DeSoto convertible on Pritchard Road. Nobody put too much stock in it, especially since Carl only had a passing acquaintance with sobriety, but soon a new local legend took root. Now there were tales that when the moon hung full in early autumn, the ghost of Betty Jo Bedford prowled Pritchard Road between the highway and Potter’s Creek Bridge.
Like tonight.
Time to think of other things.
“Hock? Were you serious about me asking Sally out?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Oh, the usual…rejection, humiliation, and the very real chance she would pour a soda down my pants.”
“For asking her out on a date?”
“We can’t all be girl magnets, Hock. I’m smart enough to compete in my own weight class.”
“Eddie,” he laughed, “I’m not telling you to whistle at her and hit her up in front of everybody. I was thinking you should follow your own advice from earlier and just offer to drive her home this evening. I can drop you by your place on the way back and you can get your car. Speaking of cars, there’s a pair of headlights back there a ways behind us. You think that’s our spook?”
“Yeah, sure it is. Look, Sally Dupree is one major league hot number. Girls like her do not notice guys like me.”
“Y’know, I’m beginning’ to think you’re a victim of your own take on things. Sally ain’t in no ‘league’, she’s just a girl who lives in a world of guys who act like jackasses of one kind or another when they get near her. Try not being one of those and see what happens.”
For a brief second there, I wondered what kind of world Hocker lived in.
“And you guarantee she would go out with me?”
“Nope, but I promise you your pants will remain soda free. Speaking of jackasses, this guy coming up behind us is really flying.”
Looking back over my shoulder, I could see the headlights coming around a bend, two curves back. Somebody appeared to be in a hurry.
“Well, be sure and give them lots of room so they can pass. I don’t feel like getting killed by some drunk old farmer before I get my hamburgers.”
“Or your hot date with Sally Dupree.”
“Har de har har. I ain’t said I would ask her yet. I still think it‘s a really bad idea.”
“And not asking her out is a good one?”
“It saves wear and tear on both the trousers and the ego.”
“Your loss. But I suppose the tuba can kind of grow on you after a while.”
“Ouch. Just keep twisting that knife.”
“I just don’t understa…HOLY SHIT!”
Headlights suddenly glared and a horn blasted right behind us.
I thought the car had been farther back. The driver must have killed his headlights and sped up even more, just to pull this crazy stunt. Startled, Hocker pulled the car over to the right shoulder, far enough that I could hear gravel crunching under the tires on my side while he struggled with the wheel to keep us on the road. We were lucky this happened on one of the few short straight areas of Pritchard Road. The horn behind us shrieked again, a powerful explosion of sound that possessed a strange wailing quality to it.
“I’m over as far as I’m going!” Hocker yelled against the night wind and waved for the driver to pass.
Our shadows twisted around us in the glare as the other vehicle pulled out from behind and started moving u
p on our left. The light itself had an odd, off color to it like the yellow of a headlamp running on a low battery, but these were almost blindingly bright. Hocker squinted, and had a hand up to keep the reflection of the beams in the rear view mirror from blinding him, while I twisted around in my seat to try and see the car behind the lights.
At first I had no luck, the beams were simply too much. Then as the car moved further up on our left I started to make out a few bare impressions as my eyes tried to adjust. A pale car, older model, and definitely a convertible. The roar of its engine, as it moved up past us, held the guttural quality of some primeval beast. The thing reeked of fuel, oil, and just a hint of sulfur. It crowded close, mere inches from Hocker’s door. I closed my eyes, trying to force them to adapt to the dark faster and reduce the spots inflicted by those headlights.
I opened them again and looked across Hocker at the car…
…and straight into the face of a nightmare.
Her grin owed more to missing pieces of flesh than it did to anything else, yet the malice in it still hit with the force of a blow. Her blond hair whipped like a wild flame in the rushing night air, framing the dark sockets that glared across the short space between us. I screamed like a terrified child as she raised one withered arm and pointed at us, the threat of the gesture being unmistakable.
“Hocker, do something!”
“Eddie!” He turned to me, grinning from ear to ear, “It’s the ghost! She’s real!”
Sometimes Hocker is a little unclear on the whole “good thing/bad thing” concept.
“No kidding! Let’s get out of here!”
“You don’t understand. I think she wants to race us.”
“WHAT?!”
“She’s challenging us to race her.”
Once again that ghastly horn howled beside us.
“No, Hock! The correct answer is NO!”
“I can’t back down from this.”
“Why the hell not?!”
“She’s driving a DeSoto, fer God’s sake. My grandpa drives a DeSoto.”
Ghosts, Monsters and Madmen Page 5
