High Lonesome Sound

by Jaye Wells

  Had he seen a ghost? Again.

  He shook off the thought. “I’m okay. I’m fine. I just—my imagination tricked me.”

  She rushed over to the small refrigerator in the corner and removed a bottle of water. By the time she placed it in his hand, his breath wasn't so labored and his heart didn’t feel like it wanted to escape through his sternum. He uncapped the water and took a long swallow. The icy water burned his throat, but he welcomed its bite because it was real.

  “That’s better,” Mrs. McDuffy said. “Now, do you want to tell me what’s got you all het up?”

  He pulled a deep breath in through his nose, relieved that the oxygen had an easy path down that time. “I was walking through the forest—the path from the house. Something jumped out and spooked me.” He looked up to gauge her reaction. She smiled politely; her concern had dissolved into the practiced practicality with which she approached every situation in life. “It was probably just an animal, though,” he added quickly.

  But it looked like Jack.

  “A deer?”

  He shrugged. “Probably.”

  But deer don’t stand on two legs or laugh like demons.

  She patted his shoulder. “Well you’re here now, and you have a busy morning to take your mind off the incident.”

  He shook himself mentally and stood straighter. He’d momentarily forgotten himself—who he was. Deacon Virgil Fry didn’t let a silly deer spook him.

  Even if the deer really had looked like a man. Like Jack. Like Jack covered in blood and smelling of rot and evil. Oh God, what was that smell?

  “Deacon? Did you hear me?” She was talking again.

  Right. Focus. The thing in the forest was a deer.

  “Say that again,” he said.

  “I said, Peter West should be here soon for your meeting.”

  He’d forgotten. But now that she’d reminded him, his mood lightened. He found his spine and hardened his resolve. It was good to have focus. He should be grateful to Mr. West for providing him a distraction from what happened in the fore—

  No, focus.

  “That’s good,” he said to Mrs. McDuffy. “I have a few calls to make before he arrives. Let me know when he gets here.”

  Her relieved smile meant he’d managed to sound like himself again. “Yes, sir. I’ll bring your coffee in a moment.”

  He went into his office, but left the door open behind him so she could bring his coffee in when it was ready.

  His office sat on the south side of the church building. Before the deacon had been elected head of the Deacon Council, it had belonged to Reverend Peale. But once he’d finally managed to get himself elected as head of the council, he’d taken over the space. It had taken some convincing with the reverend, but eventually he’d agreed with the deacon’s opinion that he’d be more comfortable in a smaller office in the back of the building.

  A massive wooden desk and an equally scaled leather chair dominated the room. Behind the desk, an expensive cherry wood credenza held all of the deacon’s important papers, and lording over those papers was a massive picture window.

  He went to it and looked out at his view. Cemetery Hill loomed in his peripheral vision, but the forest dominated the view. He stared at the cutting green of the tender leaves, which trembled on ancient branches.

  Normally, gazing out at nature brought him a measure of peace. It made him feel more in control of nature’s chaos to view it from behind glass. But looking out that morning, the green felt somehow aggressive. He softened his focus until the image blurred into a large miasma of poison green. But it was worse when he tried to make out individual leaves. The dark spaces between the leaves appeared like tiny, black eyes staring at him.

  Was the thing out there, watching him?

  Just a deer.

  “Here you go!” Mrs. McDuffy called in a cheerful tone.

  He started and whirled around, nearly colliding with her. He caught himself short of tipping over the steaming mug in her hands.

  “Oh!” she gasped.

  He caught her by the forearms to steady them both.

  “Sorry,” she said, automatically assuming the blame.

  It took a moment to collect himself, but having his back to the window was worse than facing it. The creeping green pressed against his shoulder blades and coated his skin with dread. But it wouldn’t do to let Mrs. McDuffy see his reaction.

  He took the coffee with a smile. “Let me know when West arrives.”

  Once she’d left, he turned to approach his desk once again. This time, he averted his eyes from the view. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he preferred to drink his coffee from the love seat on the far side of the room. He grabbed his leather bound calendar and went to sit on the sofa.

  He took a sip of coffee and winced at the watery flavor. Mrs. McDuffy never had figured out how to brew a proper cup. He’d never corrected her because some perverse part of him didn’t want to admit that he liked his coffee to taste like jet fuel. It seemed an indulgence not fitting a man of his position in the community.

  He opened his calendar to look over the same schedule he’d reviewed that morning at the breakfast table. Nothing had changed, but the distraction allowed him to gather his thoughts and compose himself for the coming confrontation with Mr. West.

  His fingers felt stiff, so he wrapped them around the warm ceramic and leaned back. He looked at the low pile beige carpet on the floor, at the acoustic tiles on the ceiling, at the taupe walls. On the wall parallel to where he sat, he found a few moments of thoughtful contemplation while gazing on the painting of John baptizing Jesus in the river. John the Baptist was the deacon’s personal hero—besides Jesus, naturally. Even though he was not an ordained member of the church, he considered himself a secular version of the apostle. He guided the flock of his church and was a role model for how to live a pious life.

  The deacon had not been born to elderly parents. But his younger brother, Isaac, had been considered a miracle when their mama gave birth at the age of forty-five. He also was not the one who performed the church’s baptisms in the river. That job belonged to Reverend Peale.

  They hadn’t had a proper community baptism in a couple of years. Lately, the old reverend was growing too feeble to wade into the rushing waters. However, Deacon Fry liked to think the people of Moon Hollow were baptized every day in the purifying waters of his guidance and tough love.

  As both the secular leader of the community and the spiritual mentor, he also understood how John the Baptist must have felt being the “voice of one crying out in the wilderness”—the moral wilderness, that was. His sacred duty was to encourage his flock to do what was right, even if what was right wasn’t easy.

  Meditating on the similarities between himself and his hero went a long way to calm his nerves. He settled back into the sofa’s plush cushions and didn’t even notice the taste when he took another long swallow of his coffee.

  From the outer office, comforting noises reached him as Mrs. McDuffy went through her morning routine. She’d shut the door after her, so the sounds were muted, like relaxing white noise. He lay his head on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes, enjoying his return to equilibrium.

  Only a thin sheet of glass separated him from the creeping, patient woods.

  A deer. Just a deer.

  A loud buzz shattered the silence.

  Eyes flying open, he jerked upright. The sound had come from the phone on his desk. Before he rose to answer it, pain and heat spread on his thigh. He made a disgusted sound and slapped at the spilled coffee as he walked toward the desk. The phone rang twice more before he answered.

  “What?”

  A pause. “Sir, Bob Truman for you,” Mrs. McDuffy said in a stiff tone. “He sounds upset.”

  He cursed silently but softened his tone when he responded. “Put him through, please.”

  “Bob?”

  “Virgil? Oh, shit, Virgil—you’ve got to get down here.”

 
He wasn’t used to hearing his given name in the church, much less having it uttered in the same breath as a curse word. However, the foreman at the Big Stone Gap Mine wasn’t one of his flock, so he let it pass.

  “Calm down,” he snapped. “What’s wrong?”

  “The kid, sir. The kid . . . he’s dead.”

  He heard the words, but his body refused to process them correctly. His attempts to deflect them caught him so off guard that he forgot not to look toward the window. By the time he realized what he was doing it was too late. The green captured his gaze and wouldn’t let go.

  “Virgil? Did you hear?”

  “What kid?” He was too entranced by the wet, black trunks and the sharp green leaves he barely heard the slightly drugged tone of his voice. Something moved in the tree line. A branch rustled; the tender leaves trembled.

  Just a deer.

  “The Thompson boy—Jack.”

  His voice dried up in his throat, and tendrils of cold fear crept around his heart.

  “Listen to me, Virgil,” Bob snapped. “Jack is dead!”

  He’d heard the man, but at that moment, a figure crawled out of the tree line.

  All he could think about was how it was such a thin sheet of glass and such a short distance separating him from that thing with the bloody, broken-jawed face and those burning eyes.

  The phone dropped from his hand.

  “Virgil?” Bob Truman’s tinny voice rose from the floor. “God damn it, Virgil!”

  A scream was born and instantly died in his throat. His vocal cords froze. His limbs hung heavy as lead. Helpless but horrified, he could only stare at the thing—the man—the man who was definitely not a deer, who looked like Jack but Jack was dead.

  Oh, God, no.

  The thing did not walk toward him or move at all, but its—his—stillness felt far more menacing.

  The trees had to be a good fifty yards from where he stood. Yet when that ruined mouth began to move, he could hear the words as clearly as if Jack Thompson were standing right behind him.

  “Revelation’s comin’, Virgil.”

  Bob’s voice continued to scream from the phone. The thing—the Jack-thing—laughed. The sound was so close it seemed to echo inside the deacon’s head, crawl down his throat, and attach itself to the chambers of his heart, where it echoed like the toll of a funeral bell.

  14

  Allies

  Peter

  As he approached Christ the Redeemer Church, Peter whistled a tune he didn’t immediately recognize. It felt right on his lips, so he kept at it all the way along the sidewalk.

  A car roared to life in the church parking lot to his right. He didn’t pay it much mind until the vehicle—a black boat of a Cadillac—screeched out of the lot. The tune he’d been whistling swung low and back up before cutting off. It all happened so fast, he didn’t get a good look at the driver, but something in his gut told him only one resident of Moon Hollow drove a Caddie.

  Now why would Deacon Fry drive off like a bat out of hell when he had a meeting with Peter?

  Determined to find out, he jogged toward the church’s front door. Once inside, he followed a series of arrows that pointed him down red-carpeted hallways toward the church’s main office. Inside the doors, he found Mrs. McDuffy sitting behind her desk and speaking into a phone in a fierce whisper. He caught the words accursed mine and God bless before she cut off her words and looked up. Her hand clawed the receiver as she watched him expectantly.

  “Good morning, Mrs. McDuffy,” he said. “I have a meeting with the deacon at ten.”

  She sat up straighter and spoke quickly into the phone. “Have to call you back, Edna.” She slammed the phone down, cleared her throat, and clasped her hands neatly on the desktop. “I’m afraid he was called away on an emergency.”

  “Oh dear. I hope it’s nothing too serious.” What kind of emergency required a deacon? A crisis of faith? Peter bit his lip to hide the smirk that jumped to his lips. “Will he be back soon?”

  Mrs. McDuffy adjusted her glasses. “I’m afraid he’ll have to reschedule the meeting at a later time.”

  Peter rocked back on his heels and feigned a look of disappointment. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Now,” she said, “if you’ll excuse me, I’m quite busy.”

  She glanced meaningfully at the phone. Most likely the work keeping her busy was spreading news of whatever happened to the network of gossips in town. He wanted to press her for details, but he figured he’d probably hear what happened if he just walked across the street to the mercantile and struck up a conversation with a local.

  With that, he backed out of the room and all but danced toward the exit. Judging from the electricity buzzing in that office, whatever happened to call Deacon Fry away was big news—and most likely not of the positive sort. He should have felt guilty for benefiting from some other person’s misfortune, but he couldn’t help but feel like he’d just escaped the noose. If it kept Deacon Fry out his hair long enough for him to get his story then he’d send up a prayer for the poor soul whose misfortune had become Peter’s lucky day.

  Back out in the sunlight, Peter stared up Moon Hollow’s main street looking for something to do. At ten a.m., one might expect even a small town to have some activity in what passed for the business district, but that morning, the only soul Peter West saw on Main Street was old Bunk, who sat in a rocking chair on the front porch of the Moon Hollow Mercantile.

  The shop sat on the right side of the road about halfway up next to the post office and across from an old log building with a sign out front indicating it was the library. The fact the town even had a library was a source of both surprise and delight to him. The last thing he’d expected to find in Moon Hollow was a building dedicated to the written word. He made a mental note to check it out after chatting with Bunk.

  Bunk raised a hand and hollered, “Well if it ain’t the city boy.”

  Peter climbed up on the porch. “Mornin’.”

  “Thought you writer types only came out at night.” He accepted Peter’s hand for a shake.

  “Nah, that’s vampires. Real writers work all hours.”

  “That mean you don’t have time to sit a spell?”

  Peter pulled up the other rocker. “As it happens, my schedule just opened up for the day.”

  “Did I see you come out of the church?” Bunk asked, knowing very well that’s exactly where he had been.

  “Was supposed to meet with Deacon Fry, but something came up.”

  Bunk sat back with his hands on his belly. “What sort of something?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose if it’s important you’ll hear about it soon enough.”

  Bunk’s laugh had years of unfiltered cigarette smoke behind it. The sound reminded Peter of his grandfather, who’d smoked two packs a day out in his garage workshop while he worked on the old cars he restored. When he was a kid, Peter would spend hours watching Pop’s greasy fingers fiddle with engine parts while a cigarette hung from his lips.

  “Lettie said you was renting the cabin to write a book.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What sort of story you working on?”

  “Not sure. That’s part of the reason I’m here—to find a story.”

  “What makes you’ll find one in Moon Hollow?”

  He wasn’t ready to tell Bunk the real reason any more than he was ready to admit it to himself. Mostly because he’d tried not to examine the motivations too closely when he’d made the decision. He’d told himself he was following his muse. But he told Bunk something else, which was equally not-quite the whole truth. “I found a story about Moon Hollow in a book on mountain legends. Figured a place with such an interesting history would be the sort of place I’d find a good story.”

  Bunk huffed out a breath that was neither quite a rebuttal nor acceptance of the statement.

  They fell into an easy silence. Buck rocked back and forth, and Peter propped his feet on the porch’s railing. Th
ere wasn’t much to look at on Main Street, but the quiet had its own sort of charm in the daylight. He didn’t expect to find his story on that lazy morning, but you never knew where or when inspiration would whack you upside the head. Wasn’t that how he ended up in Moon Hollow? He wondered where he would have ended up after his fight with Renee had he not spilled coffee on that book.

  A bar, probably. Some dive with a jukebox that only played Patsy Cline. Without a story to keep him out of trouble he probably would have spent the rest of his days there, chain smoking and nursing cheap beers while “I Fall to Pieces” played on an endless loop.

  He shook himself because that image held more appeal than it should have.

  “You all right, son?”

  “Yeah.” He cleared his throat and leaned back in the chair. For a few moments, they rocked in companionable silence. Once again, the silence made Peter uneasy.

  A girl was walking up Main on the opposite side of the road. Her head was down and she had several books clasped against her chest, like secrets. She moved quickly and something about her posture tickled a memory that he couldn’t quite place.

  “Who’s that?” he asked.

  Bunk squinted and raised his hand to his eyes as if to shade them from a nonexistent glare. “Ah, that there’s Miss Ruby Barrett.”

  “She looks familiar. Was she at church yesterday?”

  Bunk laughed. “The whole town was there.” He paused. “Well, ’cept for Ruby’s daddy.”

  Before Peter could ask about Ruby’s daddy, Bunk raised his hook. “Mornin’, Ruby!”

  The girl jumped and looked up like she’d been caught doing something wrong. From his vantage point, Peter could make out bright eyes and a pointy little nose. He realized then that she was the girl he’d watched march down the aisle in church. What had happened to her since then that made her so nervous?

  “This here’s Mr. West!” Bunk called.

  Ruby looked toward him but not directly at him and tipped her chin. Then she turned on her heel and escaped into the library’s front door.