High Lonesome Sound

by Jaye Wells

  The charm flashed in the sunlight accusingly. Her stomach dropped about fifty stories and crashed at the bottom. “I didn’t break the statue,” she blurted. “It fell over.”

  He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why did you bury the book?”

  Even with his eyes closed, she still couldn’t look directly at him. Instead, she looked down at her shoes. Her canvas sneakers were dirty from the walk out to the ruins and looked childish next to his boots. “I was trying to be sure you’d say yes.”

  His eyes popped open. “What do you mean?”

  The thought of admitting what she’d done aloud made her feel like throwing up right on his boots. “I read in a book that there were some things you could do to make sure a person did what you wanted them to do.”

  He scowled at her. “Was it a book of spells?”

  “Don’t make it sound like I was killing chickens under a full moon. It was more like setting an intention.” She didn’t mention that the book she’d used actually had a spell that involved sacrificing chickens.

  “Did it occur to you that burying a book about the devil in a consecrated cemetery might raise a few eyebrows?”

  “I didn’t think anyone would ever know. I told you, I accidentally bumped the statue and it broke. I realized I’d made a mistake and left as fast as I could.”

  “Leaving behind my book and your bracelet,” he said. “Do you have any idea how suspicious it looked this morning when several members of the Deacon Council found my book buried under the broken statue? They think I was up there last night doing some sort of satanic rite.”

  Panic welled again. “What did you tell them?”

  “The truth—that I had no idea why it was there and that I’d been with Deacon Fry last night.”

  She paused. What he said tickled a memory of something. “Wait a second, did you tell Deacon Fry we’d spent time together yesterday?”

  “Of course not. Why?”

  “Because he showed up to my house this morning. Asked me if I’d been spending time with you.”

  His color went high and his eyes suddenly looked everywhere but at her.

  “Peter?”

  “Shit,” he said. “When he showed up last night, I was worried that Junior might have figured out we’d been on his land. I mentioned your name to the deacon to test the waters, but when I realized he was there on another matter, I dropped it.” Almost to himself he said, “Clearly he’d thought it an odd enough comment to follow up with you this morning.”

  “Don’t worry. I told him I saw you after the funeral and we talked for a few minutes but that was it.”

  He blew out a breath and nodded. “That’s good. That’s really good.”

  She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. “You, uh, aren’t going to tell them it was me in the cemetery, are you?”

  “Of course not, but it’s only a matter of time. Are you sure you didn’t leave anything else behind?”

  She thought about it real hard before she answered. “I don’t think so.”

  “Any chance someone saw you coming or going?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He braced a foot on a decaying tree trunk that had fallen against the wall. “This isn’t good.”

  “You didn’t show anyone my bracelet, did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then I should be okay.”

  He huffed out an edgy laugh. “You don’t get it, do you? When they figure out it was you, all hell will break loose. History is full of small towns persecuting young girls for doing magic.”

  “But they don’t hurt Granny Maypearl.”

  “Ruby, listen to me, you buried a book about the devil with my name on it in a cemetery and destroyed a sacred statue. No reasonable explanation in the world can compete with the imaginations of people who enjoy nothing more than punishing sinners.”

  She rubbed her hands over her arms to warm them. “So what am I supposed to do?”

  He pushed himself upright and started pacing. Judging by the way he was mumbling to himself he was having quite an argument. Finally, he stopped and said, “God damn it.”

  “What?”

  He sucked in a deep breath and exhaled it slowly through his mouth. “Can you leave today?”

  Excitement fluttered in her stomach. “Today? Leave?”

  “That’s what you wanted, right?” He sounded angry. “Well, guess what, sweetheart—you got your way. There’s no way I can leave you here now.”

  Her mind spun. This was all so fast. He was offering her exactly what she’d asked for, but it felt wrong. “I can’t leave today.”

  “Why not?”

  “I need time to make sure my granny can take care of my two little sisters. Plus, I need clothes and I have to get ahold of some money.” She chewed her lower lip and thought it over. “We can leave day after tomorrow while everyone is at the Decoration.”

  “What if they figure out it was you?”

  “That’s a risk I’m willing to take. I can’t just abandon my sisters, Peter.”

  “All right. The morning of the Decoration. We can leave right after.”

  “No, it has to be before that while everyone’s at the ceremony.” She hated to argue with him when he seemed so close to accepting, but her gut told her it would be impossible for them to leave if they went to the Decoration.

  He looked like he wanted to argue, but he sighed instead. “Fine, but don’t be late. I won’t wait around for you.”

  Ruby had never been one for dancing but right then she could have jitterbugged her way all the way to New York City. She threw herself at him. His arms came around her to steady her.

  “You won’t regret this, Peter,” she whispered into his neck. He still smelled like Daddy after a bender, but she pretended it was just her imagination.

  “Yes,” he whispered back, “I will.”

  35

  The Devil’s Spine

  Deacon Fry

  Reaching the old cabin where Cotton brewed his moonshine required tromping through acres of woods up to the Devil’s Spine. Luckily, the deacon had dressed for the cemetery work that day, so his sturdy boots and work pants stood up well to the briars, mud, and deadfall that formed a natural barrier around the cabin. However, it took him a good twenty minutes to reach it, so by the time he pounded on the door he was in quite a lather.

  The cabin wasn’t much. Cotton’s daddy had built it back in the sixties for he and his fellas to get away from the womenfolk, drink moonshine, hunt, and look at nudie magazines. Deacon Fry had never been invited to these get-togethers, but he knew it well enough because he’d gone up there a time or two to bring Hank Barrett home, just as he now was doing with the man’s son.

  He pounded on the door three times because he assumed Cotton would be passed out, as usual. But on the third strike, the door opened inward. He paused with his fist raised against the rectangle of shadow.

  “Hello? Cotton?” He took a hesitant step toward the threshold, but didn’t cross it. A man who’d been on a bender was likely to shoot first and ask questions later if a man darkened his doorway. “It’s Deacon Fry.”

  Silence from inside the cabin. But outside, three birds leapt into the air, screeching like the devil himself was on the hunt. Were he a cursing man, the startle might have dragged a real string of profanity from his lips. “Dumb animals,” he muttered instead.

  As he finally placed a foot over the threshold, he convinced himself it was concern for Cotton—not fear, never that— that finally got his feet moving.

  “Anyone here?” Light from the doorway revealed the outlines of an old rocking chair and potbellied stove, but the far edges of the room were still blurry and dark.

  A smell rushed at him like a fist, punching him in the nose with the stench of rot and the heavy smell of old tobacco smoke. There was no electricity in the cabin, so he pulled his keys out of his pocket. Sarah Jane had given him a small flashlight keychain for Father’s Day a few years
back. He twisted the base and a weak beam spilled from the tip. He wished he’d thought to grab the large Maglite he kept in his trunk in case he ever had car trouble on the deserted back roads of Wise County, Virginia.

  “If wishes were horses, poor men would ride.” He started at the unexpected sound of his own voice in the small room. Where had that come from? The proverb was one of his father’s favorites to trot out when Virgil or his little brother, Isaac—back before the accident, of course— begged for sweets. He hadn’t thought about that for decades. Why had he repeated it now?

  He shook off the memories and stepped farther into the room. In addition to the stench, there was also a nagging sound, a constant buzzing, he hadn’t noticed when he’d first entered. He moved the light around to try and locate the source, but it was difficult to see anything with a two-inch band of light as your guide. If only the cabin had windows—

  Wait a second. The last time he’d been to the cabin, it had been early morning, and he had a clear memory of watery light seeping through two small windows as he had dragged Hank Barrett out of the cot in the corner. He stepped closer, and realized the rectangle where there should be light appeared darker than the rest of the walls. When his fingertips made contact with the dark shape, they slid across the surface like someone has spread grease across the glass.

  He pointed his flashlight at his fingers. The substance coating his skin was oily and black. He lifted it to his nose. The rotten smell forced his head back.

  The nagging feeling in his abdomen—the one he’d ignored ever since he’d stepped over the threshold into the dark, foul-smelling space—bloomed into hot panic.

  Across the room, a scraping sound exploded into the silence.

  He spun and aimed his pitiful light at the far corner. “Cotton?”

  Nothing answered.

  His chest tight, he sidestepped toward the open door.

  It slammed shut.

  His heart pounded a painful rhythm in his chest. He lurched toward the door. His greasy—bloody?—fingers slipped against the metal knob.

  The air behind him felt like ice tendrils on the back of his neck.

  Open, open, open. His fingers grasped for purchase on the metal.

  “Cain.” A single word, whispered hot in his ear.

  “Lord, protect me!” His hand twisted the knob, and, hallelujah, the door finally opened. But before he could run out, a force slammed into his back, pushing him out of the cabin. He fell to the ground and rolled over just in time to see the door slam closed behind him.

  36

  Meeting With The Mentor

  Peter

  At ten a.m. the next morning, Peter arrived at the rectory for his meeting with Reverend Peale. Located across the street from the church, the reverend’s home was a charming little place with a picket fence and flowers in hanging baskets along the front porch. The mailbox out front was in the shape of a small church with a perfect little steeple and cross. He wondered if it was a replica of the original church before the lightning strike—or the demon strike, if Bunk was to be believed.

  He knocked on the front door and waited two minutes before it was opened. Instead of Reverend Peale, Sarah Jane Fry stood across the threshold. He’d seen her the day before in the library, but he’d been so distracted he hadn’t really looked at her then. Now, he was shocked to see how different she looked than when he’d first seen her in church. Her youthful shine was gone. Dark circles dulled her eyes and her hair was pulled back in a greasy bun.

  “Mr. West?” she said, her voice wasn’t welcoming.

  “I have an appointment with the reverend.” He immediately regretted the words. Surely he should have begun by offering condolences, but something in him wanted to escape her as quickly as possible. Something small and selfish that didn’t want to be bothered worrying about how someone so young could live with such loss.

  If she’d noticed the slight she didn’t show it. Instead she nodded. “He’s in the study.” She stepped back to allow him entrance, and as he passed he didn’t look at her.

  “Ruby ordered those books,” she said quietly.

  He paused, caught off guard by the unexpected change in topic. “I don’t know anything about all that.”

  “Someone’s going to have to pay for them.”

  He looked her in the eye. In mourning or no, he didn’t appreciate her tone. “Are you suggesting I was somehow involved in those books being purchased, Miss Fry?”

  She shrugged and pursed her lips. “Something’s going on. I don’t know what, but it ain’t right.”

  “You’ve been through a lot this week. I’m sorry for your loss, but harassing me seems like an odd way to deal with your grief.” The minute the words left his mouth he felt like a grade A asshole.

  She was staring at him as if she was expecting something. Instead of guessing, he simply waited. Finally, she spoke. “Why are you in Moon Hollow?”

  He hadn’t expected her to be so direct. Maybe in her grief she simply had lost the ability to be politely passive. “I’m writing a book.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her frown deepened. “Doesn’t sound like you’re off to a very good start, then.”

  Part of him admired her chutzpah. He’d written her off as a vapid girl, but she seemed to have some spunk under all that blond hair and pain. “I’m sorry about your—I’m sorry about Jack.”

  Something shifted. Her posture stiffened to the point of brittleness and her mouth hardened. He’d seen that look before. It reminded him of the way Renee would look at him when he’d disappointed her, which was most of the time.

  “Second door on the left.” She turned and walked away.

  Watching her go, he wondered when women learned how to make men feel so little. Did their mothers teach them or was it simply part of their DNA? Left with no other option, he walked down the hall toward the study. The door was open, so he poked his head in. “Reverend Peale?”

  At first he couldn’t locate the reverend in the room. Two large windows let in streams of light that illuminated the bookcases that took up two of the room’s walls. Two upholstered chairs sat in front of the large desk, where the reverend appeared to be napping.

  “Reverend Peale?”

  When no response came, Peter rushed into the room. He was about to call out for Sarah Jane when the reverend looked up with bloodshot eyes. He cradled a tumbler in his palms and a bottle of cheap whiskey stood nearby.

  “Are you okay, sir?”

  The reverend made an inarticulate grumble.

  “I don’t know if you remember me—I’m Peter. You asked me to come by today?”

  “I’m old but I ain’t senile, son.” The reverend raised the glass to his lips and drained the last half-inch of liquid. “Get a glass.” He motioned toward a sideboard.

  “It’s ten in the morning.”

  “You’ve got some catching up to do, then.”

  Peter suppressed a shocked smile and grabbed a glass. When he placed it on the desk, the reverend nodded his approval and poured a couple of fingers for Peter and a few more for himself. “Whatever you do, don’t tell the deacon ’bout this. He’d have a conniption.”

  “Mum’s the word.” Peter had expected Reverend Peale to be as uptight as the rest of the men he’d met in Moon Hollow, but the good reverend was proving to be a delightful surprise. “Deacon Fry isn’t my biggest fan, anyway.”

  Reverend Peale chuckled knowingly. “The deacon ain’t a fan of much except the Good Lord and his own damned self.”

  “Forgive me, but if you’re such a critic of his, why do you let him run the church?”

  “As if I had a choice.” He chuckled and took a pull of whiskey. “Either way, it don’t much matter. I’m an old drunk. I’ll be making my amends with the Lord soon enough. Deacon Fry’ll have his own comeuppance eventually. In the meantime, I serve the Good Lord and Jim Beam.” He paused to take another drink. “Now, tell me about this book of yours.�
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  “The idea is pretty unformed at this point, but I’m thinking of basing it on some of the old legends about this area.” Peter set his untouched glass on the desk. “Moon Hollow is a fascinating place.”

  “You been talking to Bunk, eh?”

  Peter couldn’t fight his smile. “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you know his real name is Fred? We call him Bunk because that’s what most of his stories are.”

  “Fair enough. But you have to admit this whole area is steeped in legends.”

  Reverend Peale took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. He cradled the glass on his thin chest. The move took him back into a beam of light that highlighted the generous gin blossom on his nose. “I suppose there’s a few old stories that get passed on about things that can’t quite be explained, but if I were you I wouldn’t put too much stock in them old tales.”

  “With all due respect, Reverend, I’m a fiction writer. The things that can’t quite be explained are my stock in trade.”

  “You think my job’s any different?”

  Shock struck Peter speechless.

  “Don’t look so surprised, son. I might be a small town reverend, but that don’t mean I don’t understand the world. When I was a young man, I traveled all over performing missionary work. I read everything I could get my hands on about theology and science so I could understand the way of things. And you know what I found out?”

  Peter shook his head.

  “No one knows a damned thing. We’re all just guessin’.”

  He’d expected to hear some epiphany. Instead, he’d managed to find a reverend who was both a drunk and a cynic. “If you really believe that, why did you get ordained?”

  “Because a man’s gotta choose a doctrine.”

  Peter had never ascribed to the just-in-case school of faith. “But what if he picks the wrong one?”

  “You think you’re smarter than me, son?” He leaned forward and pointed his tumbler at Peter. “You think I never questioned my choices? I’ve lived on God’s green earth more’n seventy years. I’ve had plenty of time to learn and question, and what I’ve figured out is that the problem isn’t religion. It’s that men are flawed. They take perfect ideas and warp them by living selfishly.”