Midnight Grinding

by Ronald Kelly

  Seeing Larousse’s amused eyes in the glow of the lamp, the young man continued. “Despite what you think, old man, I do not spend every waking hour jet-setting with a buxom blonde on my knee and a martini in my hand. No, actually my interests are quite respectable. My passion has always leaned toward the biological sciences, most particularly zoology. I’ve contributed millions to various zoological societies; the Smithsonian, the Audubon, the Sierra. I’ve also devoted much of my time. I’ve traveled the world over collecting rare species of bird, mammal, and insect life, both for public exhibition and for my own private collection.”

  “And so dat be de reason we are here, rowing through the bayou at such an ungodly hour?” asked the guide. “To collect something or other?”

  “Yes,” said Price, a little peeved. “But don’t complain. You’re being well paid for this little foray. In an hour or so, you’ll be back at your humble swamp shanty, stuffing that three hundred inside your mattress. And I’ll leave this godforsaken place with what I came here to find.”

  “And that would be de creature you mentioned before?”

  “That’s correct,” said Price. “A rare species of the order Araneae. The pronunciation of its Latin nomenclature would likely be way over your head, old man, so I won’t even bother. Needless to say, the common name of the arachnid is the striped swamp spider. It has a pale underbelly, the upper shell pitch black with broad streaks of crimson on the hind section. I do hope this isn’t a wild goose chase you’re taking me on. You are sure that you’ve seen such a spider in these parts?”

  Larousse nodded. “Oui, a very large and ugly thing. But only at night…never in de light of day.”

  “Yes, they are nocturnal in nature,” agreed the collector. “And they are rather large; the size of a man’s fist, or so I’ve heard. That is why I came prepared.” He patted a ten-gallon aquarium at his feet.

  The darkness grew thicker, the night sounds more varied, more mysterious to one unaccustomed to the swamps. They rounded a sharp bend between two waterlogged stands of old cypress and came upon a tangle of heavy cobwebs, stretching from one side of the channel to the other. Price directed the beam of a flashlight upon the vast webs, the glow etching each silver strand upon the darkness beyond. Fat-bodied spiders the size of golf balls scuttled away from the silken centers, away from the probing light.

  “Hoo-boy!” exclaimed the Cajun. He watched the long-legged things climb swiftly upward into the obscurity of the dark limbs above. “Dere be you some spiders, Mr. Price. Plenty o’ them. Oughta take a bucketful back with you.”

  The young man seemed disinterested. “Common water spiders.” He tore away the fragile network of webs with a swing of his arm and they continued on. “They’ve been an item of my arachnid collection for years. It is the swamp spider I’m looking for now.”

  They moved on into the bayou, into far reaches where the boldest of poachers dared not come, even in broad daylight. The roar of a bull gator rumbled to their left, but it was too far away to present any immediate danger.

  “De thing you seek…de swamp spider…it has an interesting history, it do,” Larousse said. The glow of the kerosene lamp highlighted every little wrinkle, every line and liverspot on his aged face. “Some of de Cajun people, dey still believe in de old ways, de magic and de beliefs of dere ancestors. When de French first settled de bayou, dey believed in such things. De spider of which you search, dey called it La Sanguinaire, ‘The Bloodthirsty,’ for it was said to be big enough to catch and devour prey larger than other insects. Birds, rabbits, dere was even a case of one trapping a wild boar in its awesome web. Some, dey say, dat even a man fall prey every now and again, and de Sanguinaire would crawl down out of de trees and drain him of his blood. Many thought, and still do, dat dey are de souls of de damned left upon earth as punishment, left as things repulsive to be loathed by man. Some think dat dey possess magical powers…dat if a man be bitten upon de crown of de head by a Sanguinaire, he is subject to dere very wishes for de remainder of his life…to watch over dem, to protect, to provide food, if it be necessary.”

  Douglas Price laughed out loud at the old man’s story. “And do you, old timer…” he asked with a grin, “believe these stories of the Sanguinaire?”

  “I do not so much believe or disbelieve, as I respect dem. Dere be many things, Mr. Price, that are unknown to us…many strange and awful things. If you are to travel in strange lands and deal with strange people, you would do well to learn to respect local customs and not scoff so easily.”

  “Enough of this mumbo jumbo,” said Price. “Back to the business at hand.” He flashed his light upon the routed trunks of the cypress, along the heavy thicket that grew dense on the mossy banks. The wide swath of light swept the shallow bank to the right, then settled there. Movement came from the shadows between a clump of gnarled, exposed roots. “Take me over there…quickly, man, before they get away!”

  Larousse steered the pirogue to the far bank as his passenger prepared the glass tank. Price slipped on a pair of heavy, rawhide gloves and, when they reached the tangle of roots, handed the flashlight to the old man. “Shine the light on that opening there,” he indicated. The old man nodded sourly, thinking the whole situation was somewhat ridiculous. All this fuss for a stupid spider! But he remembered the trio of hundred dollar bills tucked in the pocket of his goosedown vest and did as he was told.

  The pale light revealed an entire nest of the spiders, great and bulky, glistening black with streaks the color of freshly-let blood crossing their hindquarters. They tried to escape into the webbed tunnels they had constructed beneath the shelter of the cypress roots, but Price quickly dispatched two of the larger ones, placing their writhing bodies into the aquarium and clamping on the screened lid.

  “Good Lord!” breathed the young man, his face livid with excitement. “Will you look at the size of these things? They’re three times larger than the common tarantula.” The two swamp spiders clawed at the glass walls, fairly the size of full-grown tree squirrels.

  The Cajun laughed, his broad grin showing off raw gums and a few tobacco-stained teeth. “Aw, I have seen much larger than those,” he said, handing the flashlight back to its owner.

  Price stared at the old gentleman, unable to determine whether the swamper was serious or just pulling his leg. He studied the two monstrous specimens in the glow of the Coleman, then glanced at his Rolex. It was a quarter after nine. “You get us back to town by midnight, oldtimer, and I’ll up your fee by another two hundred. Fair enough?”

  Larousse nodded, his eyes hidden in the shadow of his oily fishing cap. “Oui, Monsieur Price. That would be most generous.” He began to guide the low boat back into the channel from which they came.

  For hours they traveled the labyrinth of channels that made up the stillwater bayou. For some reason the night sounds that had seemed so prominent before were now oddly absent. Price was aware of this, as well as the unfamiliarity of the swamp they now cruised, a swamp more densely overgrown than the one they had set into earlier in the evening. He wanted to mention the fact openly several times, but the elderly guide seemed so confident in his navigation that Price had let it go. Probably just a shortcut back to the settlement, he concluded. For an extra two hundred, I bet the old geezer could find a shortcut clear to the gulf from here.

  Once, a curious gator crossed the dark waters and slammed his blunt snout against the side of the pirogue. The impact caused the lantern to topple off the center seat and over the side with a splash. When Price asked him why he hadn’t fished it out, Larousse only smiled. “I can afford to lose a lantern. I have lost many to de swamp. But I can’t afford to lose an arm. Look.”

  Price understood when he directed his flash upon the channel and saw half a dozen hungry gators floating like logs to either side of the boat.

  They moved onward down the winding channel. The young collector was gradually aware that the darkness around them had thickened. The full moon that had hung overhead was gone, obsc
ured by overlapping branches, heavy mats of gray moss, and something else.

  He directed his beam ahead of them. A velvet wall of light mist choked the inlet a few yards ahead. “Looks as though a fog has rolled in,” he said, gathering his jacket closer around him.

  “Oui,” replied the Cajun. “De fog…it gets as thick as gumbo in de bayou. So thick, in fact, that you can reach out and grab a fistful of it, if you so wish.” His passenger shook his head at the old man’s tale. “Really, monsieur. Go ahead and give it a try.”

  They were upon a wall of white mist now and, just to show the old man how idiotic his idea was, Price thrust his hand over the bow. His smug expression melted into confusion as his hand sank into something unsolid, yet of definite substance. It was sticky and clinging and, when he attempted to pull his hand away, he found that he could not.

  “Something has a hold of me, old man,” he gasped. He batted at the adhesive strands with the aluminum flashlight, but it too became entangled. It dangled in the silky wall, despite its weight. “Help me, Larousse. Dammit, man, get me out of this confounded mess!”

  Then he felt the distinct sensation of the boat sliding out from underneath him and realized that it actually was. With a curse, he lost his balance as he attempted to stand up and his entire weight lurched backward into the wall of unyielding mist. He was overcome with sudden terror when he realized that his body was now suspended over the dark water. He craned his head around and saw Larousse rowing the pirogue away from him, maneuvering to head back the way they had come.

  “Where the hell are you going, old man?” Douglas Price screamed, his anger quickly passing into blind panic. “Come back here this instant! I’m paying you good money, do you hear me?” He struggled wildly against the gummy strands, trying to pull away. But he only managed to entangle himself more firmly amid the great web.

  He watched as Henri Larousse began to row back up the channel. The flashlight bobbed crazily in its suspension, throwing light upon the retreating boat. Larousse totally ignored Price’s pleas for help. He didn’t even turn around. He absently removed his cap to scratch his balding head.

  The shimmering glow of the battery-generated light revealed two deep indentations on the back of the old man’s skull. Two ugly marks that seemed to sink clear past the bone to the brain, yet that had healed over many years ago.

  Douglas Scott Price screamed loudly and fought furiously with the spiral of viscid silk that imprisoned him. But, of course, there was no escape. As the darkness swallowed the old Cajun and his boat, Price was keenly aware of movement in the trees above. When he finally saw the things creeping down the web toward him, as big as pit-bull terriers, his mind snapped and he began to shriek madly.

  “Bon Appetite,” called old Larousse from out of the night.

  But the young man was beyond hearing him. Only the Sanguinaire acknowledged his well wishes, before they resumed their feeding.

  THE CISTERN

  Every small town or rural community has some particular point of interest that is native to that region. It may be a natural landmark or a man-made dwelling, like a home or church. Many are based in solid history and tradition, while some have grown murky and mysterious with the passage of time. In the town of Liberty, Tennessee, not far from where I live, there is a painting of a mule fifty or sixty feet up on the face of a stone cliff. No one recalls who put it there or why. And when it grows faded, it somehow becomes magically repainted. No one knows who is responsible for that act, either.

  The good folks of Jackson Ridge weren’t sure how the stone cap of the old cistern came to be. But, as they were to find out, it was not only a local landmark, but a barrier that separated good from evil…

  Surprisingly enough, it was the same as he last remembered.

  Well, almost the same. Of course there would have to be changes after twenty years. The old Ridgeland Theatre had been replaced with a new grocery store and the solemn gray-stoned front of the Cambridge County Trust & Loan now sported a thoroughly modern automatic teller. But everything else was there, unchanged and constant. It matched the vivid memories of his boyhood like a photograph that had somehow remained true in the passage of time, retaining its brilliance instead of fading to a disappointing drabness like he had dreaded it would.

  Jackson Ridge, Tennessee had been Jud Simmons’ hometown from birth until age twenty-one. He had spent a happy childhood in its peaceful, picturesque setting. But, like many had before, Jud left its comfortable niche of tranquility and had plunged headlong into the urban rat-race and a vicious cycle of stress, anxiety, and potential coronaries. In fact, Jud hadn’t even thought of stopping in Tennessee on his way back from a business conference in Atlanta. He had been cruising down the interstate when the sign had loomed before him. NEXT EXIT—JACKSON RIDGE. Nostalgia had gripped him unexpectedly and he had turned off the exit, driving down the two-lane rural road, across the old bridge, until he was finally there.

  Jud cruised slowly past Chapman’s Feed CO-OP and the low brick building of Jackson Ridge Elementary, marveling at the sameness of it all. He drove along the shop-lined street until he reached the grassy expanse of town square with its ancient oaks, two-story courthouse, and tarnished bronze statue of the Reverend Caleb Jackson, the Lutheran minister who had founded the town in the early 1700s.

  The main thoroughfare was unusually quiet, even for a small town, but the sidewalks were lined with cars as far as the eye could see. Jud was lucky to find an empty parking space directly in front of the courthouse. As he cut his engine, he sat wondering if it was still there: the one point of interest he was most anxious to see again. But of course it was. It had always been there and always would be.

  He left his Lexus and walked to the eastern end of the grassy courtyard, enjoying the crispness of the autumn afternoon. He approached a wide slab of smooth stone and mortar that lay beneath a state historical marker. The old cistern…there as it had been since the founding of Jackson Ridge in 1733. It had been no more than a simple underground reservoir that had collected rainwater for the few residents when the little town was no more than a trading post for those settlers brave enough to venture into the wilderness south of Virginia.

  Jud walked around the vast slab of stone. The cistern…a source of legend and fantasy for young and old alike, a thing of mystery. SEALED IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD—1765 was chiseled into the great, flat lid that the townfolk had, for some unknown reason, secured over the pit of the well long ago. Everyone had their favorite stories for exactly why the cistern had been sealed. Some said it had been covered when a typhoid epidemic poisoned the town’s water supply, while others claimed that bodies were buried there: the remains of a French trapper and his nine Indian wives, violators of the Reverend Jackson’s strict moral code. Almost every kid in town was sure that buried treasure had been stashed there—precious jewels and golden doubloons as big around as the face of Grandpa’s pocket watch.

  As Jud finish reading the historical marker and looked down at the gray expanse of ancient stone, he was shocked to find that, during his long absence, a long fissure had split the heavy lid. The crack was a good two feet across, musky darkness gaping from the depths within. He felt a sinking disappointment grip his heart as he crouched to examine it better. “Now what the hell happened here?” he muttered.

  “Joe Bob Tucker got drunk the summer before last,” came a child’s voice from behind him. “Ran his four-wheel-drive up onto the grass and hit the thing a good lick. They tossed him in the county jail for a whole month just for putting that crack down the middle…I guess because it was a historical thing and all.”

  Jud turned and regarded the boy. He must have been around nine or ten, a short fellow in faded overalls, a striped T-shirt, and worn sneakers. He was a cute kid, all freckles and bright red hair. From the drabness and ill-fit of his clothing, Jud figured the boy must belong to one of the poor families who had always lived on Esterbrook Road, another unchanging constant in the little hamlet of Jackson Ridge.
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  “Joe Bob Tucker, did you say?” grinned Jud in fond remembrance. “I went to school with a Joe Bob Tucker…kind of lanky fella with buckteeth and a scar across the bridge of his nose?”

  The boy nodded. “Yep, that’s him all right.” He studied the stranger with interest. “So you were from around here once, mister?”

  Jud walked over and extended his hand. “Yeah, a long time ago. My name is Jud Simmons. I live in Chicago now. And what is your name?”

  The boy took his hand proudly, delighted to be shaking with a real grownup. “Name’s Calvin…but everyone just calls me Chigger.”

  Jud laughed good naturedly. “Well, it’s mighty nice meeting you, Chigger.”

  The youngster beamed. “Same here.”

  The businessman cast his eyes along the street he had just traveled. “You know, I don’t believe I’ve seen a single person since I drove into town. Where is everybody?”

  “They’re all down at the fairgrounds, mister.” Chigger pointed to a colorful poster in a storefront window that proclaimed CAMBRIDGE COUNTY FAIR, SEPT. 8th-12th.

  For the first time since his arrival, Jud heard sounds drifting over the wooded rise beyond the courthouse. The peppy notes of a circus calliope, the thunder, rattle, and roar of the rollercoaster, the steady hum of voices and loud pitches of the barkers on the midway.

  “So how come you’re not over there joining in the festivities?”

  Chigger’s smile faded. He stared down at his scuffed sneakers in shame. “On account I ain’t got no money.”