Corpse Cold_New American Folklore

by John Brhel

  “You girls are a real pain in his ass,” said Brandon.

  “That’s about as much of the story as we know.”

  “Yep. He seems harmless enough, though,” added

  Cameron.

  “He probably told you that his family preserved this

  land for hundreds of years,” said Kait. “He’s full of shit.

  Our mothers were the first white settlers north of the Fulton Chain settlements, decades before his ancestors arrived...”

  Another woman pulled Kait away from the small semi-

  circle that had formed before she could finish her thought.

  “He’d hate that you guys were over here,” stated Rebekka.

  “You can stay as long as you’d like—even overnight.” She

  winked at Cameron and returned to her friends.

  The night went on and the women continued to dance

  around the fire, largely ignoring the men. A few of them

  got close enough to Brandon and Cameron that the two

  friends could feel the sweat dripping off the women’s

  bodies. Brandon and Cameron laughed at their luck and

  thought about Seth sitting back at the house all alone,

  scared off by his uncle’s kooky stories. Sure, these women were odd, but they had met plenty of strange hippie girls at college and didn’t think there was much danger in drinking and dancing with what were attractive women.

  It was around 2 a.m., and the guys were having an

  unbelievable night, when the women began chanting loudly.

  Brandon and Cameron sat stunned as the women removed

  the rest of their clothing and drew a circle around the fire.

  “Holy shit,” said Brandon. “It’s about to get real.”

  But Cameron wasn’t laughing. The incessant chanting

  and the surreality of the situation alarmed him. He thought of Mr. Beasley’s claims, of the poisoned caretaker, as he

  looked at the bottom of his cup. He was considering the

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  CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE

  possibility that they had been lured away from the safety

  of the island, when he spotted one of the women’s legs lift from the ground. He stared intently at her feet to check

  if she was standing on a platform, but there was nothing

  beneath her; she appeared to be hovering. When he looked

  around, all the other women were doing the same! He sat

  in silence, dumbstruck, as the women rose several feet into the air, their chants now coalescing into a single unnerving voice. The fire reflected off the whites of the women’s

  twitching eyes, which had rolled back into their heads.

  Cameron looked over at Brandon, who seemed oddly

  entranced by the specter of the levitating women. He tossed a pebble in Brandon’s direction to get his attention. The

  two men locked eyes and, without saying a word, sprung

  to their feet and hurried toward the shore. They weren’t

  twenty feet from the fire when they heard Rebekka yell,

  “They’re leaving!” the timbre of her voice now masculine,

  unfamiliar.

  Cameron and Brandon launched the rowboat and

  dashed out onto the lake. They rowed furiously as they made their mad escape back to the island. And as they propelled the craft through the inky water which merged with the

  surrounding darkness of an overcast night, Rebekka and

  the others called out to them, yelling something about

  magick, pleading with them to return to their shore.

  Both men were exhausted by the time they reached

  the island. Their arms were heavy and their heads were

  throbbing. They scrambled out of the boat and hurried to

  the house. To their relief, Seth and his uncle were outside, standing on the porch.

  “Seth! Mr. Beasley! You were right!” said Cameron,

  running up the steps.

  “I told you to stay away from them!” shouted Albert.

  • 112 •

  mOSS LAkE ISLAND

  “We told you!” added Seth.

  “Now you’ve endangered us,” said Albert, scowling at

  the two visitors. “Those women want to destroy what I’ve

  built. They’ve been here before and I’m sure they’ll be

  back.”

  Suddenly, the porch light went out and the men were

  left in near darkness.

  “Not again,” said Albert.

  Brandon and Cameron were both shaken by the time

  the lights flickered back on.

  “It’s them,” said Albert, looking across the water. “The

  generator kicked on, but it’ll only last so long. I don’t have enough fuel to last the night. Seth, you’ll need to go into town and get some diesel.” He tossed him the car keys and

  Seth headed for the motorboat.

  “You guys, follow me,” said Albert.

  “Can’t we go with Seth?” asked Cameron.

  Albert leered at him. “No. Come with me.” He had

  them follow him to the side of the lodge, where he opened

  two wide doors and led them into the basement. He turned

  on the lights, illuminating the dank space, and Brandon

  and Cameron could see that the room was set up less like

  a basement than a doomsday shelter. The walls and floor

  were a thick cement, and large racks occupied much of the

  space, foodstuffs of all sorts lining the shelves.

  “I want you two to stay put while I deal with this,” said

  Albert. They were both disturbed when Albert retrieved a

  shotgun from a nearby cabinet. But he paid them no mind

  and hurried back up the steps, locking the doors behind

  him.

  “What are we going to do?” said Brandon, unsure of

  what was transpiring, and considering the presumed threat

  of the women, and a man, whom they had only just met,

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  CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE

  with a firearm.

  “I don’t know. He’s a fucking nut,” said Cameron.

  “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Under the dim light of a bare bulb, they searched for

  another way out of the basement, inspecting each of the

  walls, shifting boxes and shelves around. There appeared

  to be no way up to the house itself. Outside they could hear something heavy being dragged through the sand.

  Forty minutes of a controlled panic had passed in that

  basement, when the two young men heard a rustling outside

  the door.

  “Dude, we hit him, get that rowboat by the dock, and

  get back to town,” whispered Cameron. Brandon nodded.

  They grabbed what they could to arm themselves—a

  thick broom handle for Brandon and a hammer for

  Cameron. The doors creaked open and they waited in the

  dark, at ready.

  “Guys, you down there?” asked Seth, as he stepped

  into the basement.

  Cameron and Brandon relaxed. “Jesus. Where have

  you been? Your uncle’s gone crazy. He locked us down

  here.”

  “Huh?” said Seth, who was holding a fuel container.

  “Quit messing around. You guys have no idea how serious this is.”

  “He’s walking around with a shotgun. He locked us in

  here. We’re not fucking around.”

  Seth paused, looking at the makeshift weapons in his

  friends’ hands. “Okay, let’s go.”

  They followed Seth back outside. Brandon and

  Cameron were about to make a run for the canoe, when

  Albert appeared from behind a service shed,
his shotgun

  aimed squarely at them.

  • 114 •

  mOSS LAkE ISLAND

  “I told you to stay put!” Albert barked.

  Cameron froze, holding up his hands. “Sir, we just

  want to get out of here.”

  “We didn’t mean to cause any trouble. Please, just let

  us go,” said Brandon.

  Albert shook his head. “No, no. I can’t have that.

  You’re too important.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Cameron. He

  turned to Seth. “Tell him to let us go, man. C’mon!”

  Seth walked over to his uncle and handed him the fuel

  container. “He’s right, guys.”

  Brandon and Cameron stared at their friend in

  disbelief. They ran, but Albert cocked his shotgun and

  screamed: “Don’t fucking move!”

  It wasn’t long before the Beasley men had tied Brandon and Cameron to stakes in the ground, which Albert had been

  preparing on the shore facing the witches’ camp. The two

  young men cried and struggled against the ropes, cursing,

  then pleading with, their captors, as Albert took the fuel which Seth had retrieved, and poured it on the firewood

  bundled around their legs.

  “Why, Seth?!” screamed Cameron, struggling to free

  himself from the tight ropes around his torso.

  Seth remained silent, his head bowed.

  Albert approached Cameron. “You don’t know what

  those witches are capable of. We must do this. It’s the

  only way to preserve our family’s land. The Beasleys have

  practiced here since the early 19th century.”

  Both friends called out for help as Albert removed a

  matchbook from his shirt pocket and lit a single match. The old man tossed it at Cameron’s woodpile and backed away.

  Flames shot up, engulfing the fuel-drenched young man.

  • 115 •

  mOSS LAkE ISLAND

  His agonized screams were drowned by the roar of the fire.

  Albert recited an incantation, his hands held in defense

  of the island. Brandon groaned, resigned to his fate, as he watched the fire consume his friend. He could feel the heat radiating off the burning man’s body.

  Albert turned and handed the matchbook to Seth. His

  nephew’s hands trembled.

  “You’ve got to hurry,” said Albert, looking out at the

  lake. The witches from the nearby encampment had taken

  their boats to the water and were making their way toward

  the island, chanting. “They’ll be here in minutes.”

  Brandon gave one last desperate cry as Seth struck the

  match and tossed it upon the woodpile.

  Seth and Albert turned their attention from Brandon’s

  writhing, burning body back to the lake, where heavy wind

  and rain were suddenly battering the water. The women

  in their boats struggled as they fought against the harsh, choppy water and violent downpour. Some of their canoes

  flipped, and those that weren’t capsized by the sudden

  storm burst were forced to turn back.

  The storm didn’t impact the island like it had the water

  around it. Only a soft drizzle fell, extinguishing some of the red char remaining from the sacrifice. “Those were my

  friends, Uncle Albert,” said Seth, staring at Brandon and

  Cameron’s black corpses. “They treated me like a brother.”

  “You did what the Beasley men have always done to

  protect our birthright. It will get easier with time.”

  When they were finished cleaning up the sacrificial

  site, Albert and Seth retired to their rooms, comforted

  that Moss Lake Island would be safeguarded for yet another season.

  • 117 •

  • XII •

  IT THAT DECAYS

  Jim Patrick tried to relax during his dental exam, but the severe pain made it hard for him to think of anything

  else. It had begun as a dull toothache, only a few days prior, and Jim had delayed making an appointment with his

  dentist, Dr. Godbere. But that morning, he was in such

  agony that he had pleaded with the office receptionist to be seen immediately.

  “Well, Jim, overall your teeth look great, as always.

  There’s just a small cavity on one of your bottom third

  molars,” said Dr. Godbere. “Christ, it’s rare that I come

  across a full set of wisdom teeth that have as much room as yours. You’ve got great genes.”

  Jim grabbed his cheek and sighed. “I’ve never had a

  cavity before. I didn’t know it would hurt this much.”

  “The amount of pain you’re experiencing is out of

  the ordinary. But in the realm of teeth, gums, and nerves, nothing surprises me anymore,” said the dentist. “We’ll

  drill it and fill it.”

  “Go ahead and drill, Doc. I’d never thought I’d be

  saying that to a dentist.” Jim smiled faintly as the dentist clapped him on the shoulder.

  “I’ve known these teeth since the 90s. You’re in good

  hands.”

  • 119 •

  CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE

  Godbere began preparing for the minor dental

  procedure. Jim tried to distract himself with a daytime talk show on the exam room’s TV, but he was already beginning

  to sweat. He was neurotic about his dental care, and was

  disappointed in himself for having to undergo a procedure

  that was fully preventable.

  “Jim, I’m surprised you have a cavity. Has your diet

  changed since the last time you were in?”

  Jim threw up his hands. “That’s the thing, Doc—

  I’ve been eating healthier! More fruits, smoothies, even

  drinking this special kombucha—my son said it did wonders

  for his gut flora.”

  “Ah, I see. Fruits and juices are really acidic, eat at

  the enamel—not to mention the sugar,” said Godbere.

  “I’ve heard kombucha can really stain the teeth—and that it might be more hocus pocus than digestive aid. But we can

  talk about your diet later.”

  Godbere tested his drill; the whirring of the motor

  made Jim cringe. The dentist then retrieved a long needle

  from his assistant and prepared to inject Jim with some

  Novocain. “You ready?”

  Jim nodded, gripping the armrests on the dental chair.

  “Then let’s get to work.”

  Jim returned home later that morning, satisfied that he

  had dealt with his tooth troubles. It wasn’t until the early afternoon that the Novocain wore off, and he again felt the dull ache in his jaw. Dr. Godbere had told Jim it might take a day or two for the pain to completely fade, and had given him a prescription for Percocet.

  By the time Jim was ready for bed that evening, his pain

  was on par with what he had experienced before visiting the dentist. Jim took the medicine, and still he barely slept

  • 120 •

  IT THAT DECAYS

  that night. He called the dentist during his lunch break

  the following day, as he had been forced to down multiple

  painkillers just to get through the morning.

  Dr. Godbere managed to get Jim in for a late-afternoon

  appointment. “Jim, you look good. I can’t believe you’re still in pain—it really was just a surface cavity, which I normally wouldn’t even bother filling. We’ll do some x-rays and

  figure this thing out.”

  After the x-rays were taken, Godbere went over them

  with Jim in the exa
m room. “Here. Here’s the filling we

  just did,” said the dentist, as he pointed at the black-and-white film.

  Jim followed along with the dentist, but he also noticed

  another blemish further down the tooth, and pointed it

  out. “Doc, what’s this dark blotch here?”

  Godbere leaned over Jim to get a closer view of the

  film. “It’s not a cavity, and it’s probably not on the tooth itself. You sometimes see this sort of thing with wisdom

  teeth. They tend to pull up extra tissue, since they rarely have enough room to fully irrupt without disturbing the

  canals. Wisdom teeth are what we call ‘vestigial structures.’

  They serve no purpose; they’re evolutionary holdovers

  from millions of years ago.” Godbere sat back and wrote

  out a prescription. “I’m prescribing you a rinse that’s

  meant to treat serious gingivitis. It should alleviate the gum pain itself—if this is a gum issue.”

  Jim left the dentist’s office that evening feeling like he had received no real answers. He filled his new prescription, followed the rinse regimen, and popped a Percocet before

  retiring for the night.

  To say Jim woke in pain each morning following his visit

  with Dr. Godbere would be an understatement. He was

  • 121 •

  CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE

  taking so many pills that he could barely function. He was a zombie at work and slept at all hours when he was at home.

  Jim was worried about getting hooked on opioids—he had

  heard the horror stories—and worse, his whole jaw ached

  when he wasn’t loaded up with Percocet. He called around

  until he could make an appointment with a new dentist

  and get a second opinion on his condition. He no longer

  trusted Godbere’s judgment.

  “So, you say you’ve had a cavity filled and now your

  jaw hurts?” asked Dr. Robinson, as he examined Jim at his

  private practice.

  “Just look at the x-ray I brought, Doc. I don’t think

  Dr. Godbere got all of the cavity or something.”

  Dr. Robinson picked up the film and looked it over

  briefly before setting it down. “We can get the filling out and take a look, clean up anything that needs to be corrected.”

  The dentist was all too eager to replace the filling and

  collect an easy $800. He knew Godbere was an experienced

  dentist and considered the possibility that he was dealing with a hypochondriac.