by Jeff High
“That would be my guess as well. I did quite a bit of digging on Hiram in the months before I came here. He grew up near Penobscot Bay in Maine.”
“I’ve heard it said that he was from Maine.”
"He was raised by an Aunt and Uncle in Penobscot. But he was born in Brooklyn and lived there through the sixth grade. No idea what happened to his parents or how he ended up in Maine. His uncle was in the mining and shipping business. Hiram went on to attain a degree from Dartmouth with a major in business and a minor in classical studies."
“Isn’t Brooklyn where Capone grew up?”
“Exactly.”
"Perhaps the two of them could be childhood friends."
Matthew nodded in affirmation. “My thinking as well.”
"So, here you have a guy who knows a lot about shipping and distribution connected with a guy in bootlegging."
“Seems to fit together, doesn’t it?”
"Yeah, but why Watervalley? Why make this a distribution point? And how does mining phosphate play into any of this?
"Well, it's all conjecture mind you. Hiram already knew a lot about the mining business, and phosphate was a legitimate boom at the time. But the area was also known for the making of spirits. Let's face it, even in modern day, the Jack Daniels and the George Dickel distilleries are only a county away from Watervalley. For better or worse, this part of Tennessee has a long history of whiskey production."
I leaned back and folded my arms, staring at Matthew inquisitively. "You know, it's my understanding that Hiram built a railroad spur that goes from Watervalley up to Nashville. Along with phosphate, it does seem like a clever way to transport large quantities of whiskey on a regular basis without drawing a lot of attention."
“And a small, remote little town as a distribution center was likely to be under the Feds radar...not in the way a Chicago, a Kansas City, or an Atlanta would be.”
I gathered my thoughts. “This is all quite incredible.”
“So, I guess you can understand why I have been rather discreet about disclosing why I came here. Being the descendent of a likely criminal and possible mobster is not exactly the kind of reputation you want your children to be known for by their schoolmates.”
"Well, I certainly understand that. But honestly, Matthew. Why come here at all? I realize that the loss of your wife was tragic and that everywhere you turned in Charleston probably held some memory of her. But I can only assume that you enjoyed your professorship, you had ample friends, a grand house, everything was familiar to the children...why leave all that? Why come to this backward little boondock if you didn't have to?"
With my blunt posturing of this question, Matthew’s demeanor eased to that of stoic resignation. He spoke with quiet conviction. “Because it was Emily’s dying request that I do so.”
I had no response for this. Just as before I simply stared at him, somewhat stunned. Moments passed before I could find words. “But...but why?”
Matthew gazed down at the floor as if he were deliberating his response. "Emily died of synovial cancer. It is rare, and we foolishly didn't catch the warning signs. As cancers go, it took her down pretty fast. She died in a matter of months. But in truth, it didn't feel very fast. I spent hours and hours at her bedside, watching her waste away. She slept often. And in that sleep, she dreamed. In her final days, she kept having the same dream over and over again. She dreamed she was talking with Hiram, her great-grandfather. He appeared to her as a young man. He kept pleading with her to come here, to...to come to Watervalley, to somehow help him heal some great tragedy that happened years ago."
Matthew paused and looked up at me as if he were trying to read my acceptance of his words. He gushed a short laugh. "I know it all sounds rather far-fetched, Luke. But you have to understand, we had this conversation numerous times, and I'm convinced she was completely lucid."
I shrugged and nodded compliantly. “No, um...absolutely.”
My tone more than my words seemed to mollify him. He rubbed his chin and spoke with further resolve. "You see, there's something else as well. I wasn't joking when I told you that sometimes, the children could see angels. I think somehow in the crazy scheme of things, they really can. I used to not pay much attention to it all until we were coming home from church one Sunday about three weeks after Emily died. Out of the blue, Adelyn said, ‘Mommy wants to know when we're going to move to Watervalley?'"
My eyes tightened. “No way.”
Matthew drew in a deep breath and nodded. “I swear to you they knew nothing about Emily and my conversations. Adelyn said her mother had appeared to them during the service and asked the question.”
Just like with previous visits to this drafty old mansion, a hardened shiver bristled down my neck and, without passing go, went straight to my toes. The problem with what Matthew was saying was that I believed every word of it. Something about the atmosphere of this place seemed to lend plausibility to virtually anything in the spiritual realm. I did my best to appear unruffled.
“So, what is it that you’re supposed to find?”
"Well, there's the rub. I honestly don't know. All I know to do is to keep digging into Hiram's background. And that, Luke, is why I asked you here."
Admittedly, by now I was a little spooked and somewhat reluctant. “Well, okay. Tell me what you had in mind?”
“As I mentioned earlier, I have done some research at the Watervalley library in their microfiche files, trying to look at old newspaper articles. But at least a dozen people came and struck up conversations. Half of them outright asked me what I was looking for and the rest did their best to try and look over my shoulder.”
I had to laugh. “That sounds about right.”
"Well, I need to go to the courthouse, to the Assessor of Property's office and look at any records I can find out about this place and see if there are any old documents regarding Hiram's phosphate business. My presence raises too many questions. So, I was wondering if I might trouble you to do this if you can find the time."
Inwardly, I breathed a sigh of relief. This I could do.
“Sure. Yeah, that’d be no problem.”
Matthew’s shoulders relaxed as if he had been wound tight. “Splendid. Thank you.”
He said this and nothing more. Perhaps it was due to his military background, but now that Matthew had attained his objective, it seemed that he saw no further need for conversation. I sensed this and stood, a motion toward departure.
But curiously, Matthew politely held up his hand in an act of inquiry. “Luke, I wonder if I might ask a probing question?”
Instinctively, I returned to the couch, somewhat guarded.
“Go ahead.”
“I picked up on something earlier that struck me as...well, odd. You referred to Watervalley as a backward boondock. I guess I have been under the impression that you grandly loved it here. But I detected a certain...I don’t know, toxicity. Did I get that wrong?”
Matthew’s insight had been both astute and accurate. I tightened my gaze, contemplating his question. Then it occurred to me that he was the perfect soul in which to unpack my burden of confession. Matthew had no real ties to Watervalley and was a well contained and cool head. He was the perfect sounding board.
“Well, here’s the deal.” I spent the next hour unloading the weight of my conflict, rambling a little bit, but giving full testimony to the benefits and disadvantages of both staying and leaving. It seemed that I talked nonstop and yet all the while, Matthew listened patiently and attentively. At long last, when my words were exhausted, he responded quietly.
"Luke, it appears that you have a great love for both your fiancée and the people of this community. It also sounds like Christine is made of pretty strong stuff and she'll go along with you to Nashville... if that is what you want. But as far as the people here go, I get the sense that it's not so much that you fear disappointing them, you just don't want to leave them high and dry...without medical coverage as it were."
“Yeah. I’d s
ay you just summed up in eighteen seconds what I’ve been trying to say for the last hour.”
Matthew pressed his lips together, acknowledging his understanding. “It’s a tough one, alright. I wish I had an easy answer.”
"Didn't expect you to. I appreciate you letting me bend your ear for a while. I'll figure out a solution. I need to find a way to put all the pieces together. The trouble is, I only have a few weeks left before a decision has to be made."
“Well, like I said. I wish I had an answer.”
I stood and extended my hand to him. “Hey, no worries. Thanks for the beer. I’ll get down by the courthouse early next week and let you know what I find.”
“I appreciate it. I wish I could give you a better clue as to what you’re looking for.”
“Eh, you’ve got me curious now. Maybe something will turn up.”
We walked to the entrance. But as I turned to shake his hand again before departing, a loud metallic crash echoed from the depths of the basement.
Chapter 22
BUMP IN THE NIGHT
“DID YOU HEAR THAT?”
"Yeah," I whispered. "What was it?"
“No idea,” he said intently. His light manner hardened into a sharp, focused stare. Quietly, his thoughts were submerging; brooding upon some unspoken apprehension.
I spoke haltingly. “You want to go check it out?”
He was preoccupied, clearly searching for some easy explanation. He nodded. “Do you mind coming with me?”
I shrugged. “Sure.” But after a moments silence, I spoke in a confidential, hushed tone, almost not believing the words I was saying. “You think it might be a...you know...ghost?”
Matthew shook his head decidedly. “No, that was no ghost. Not the right vibe. That was more of an in your face kind of noise.”
His blunt certainty caught me off guard. Matthew seemed to be itching for a fight... a condition that was decidedly not contagious. The only thing I was catching was a bad case of the sissies. “Matthew, look. Don’t get me wrong. I like your confidence, especially coupled with the old-school smack talk. But what makes you so sure? Is there a ‘Ghosts for Dummies’ that I should thumb through?”
He grimaced, his thoughts still consumed. “It’s uh, it’s hard to explain. With ghosts, you feel them before you hear or see them.” He shook his head again, clearly irked. “No, something or someone is down there. Come on.”
We hurried through the living room and down a short hall to an elaborate kitchen that was large enough for a small staff. "Wait here," Matthew said with quiet authority. A moment later he returned with two long flashlights and a pistol.
“Whoa,” I exclaimed, poorly masking my alarm. “This looks serious.”
Matthew had also brought a box of bullets and set them on the counter. Methodically, he popped out the clip of the pistol and began to load it. “Just a precaution,” he said calmly.
“A precaution for what?” I spoke in disbelief.
He glanced at me and continued filling the clip. But he was elsewhere, looking more through me than at me, as if he were rehearsing the steps of some well-practiced drill. He spoke crisply.
“Look, per Lida, the basement is extensive. Down the steps is a sizeable main room but there are several hallways leading off it. There are doors all along those hallways that go to several storage rooms.”
“Rooms for storing what?”
“Don’t know. Lida said they were part of the original design when the house was built in the twenties. She told me that the lights don't work and that except for the main room she hardly ever went down there. Early on she tried to explore all of them, but according to her, most of the heavy wooden doors were wedged shut from the house settling over the years."
“So, have you been down there and checked it all out?”
“Not really. I’ve only been down to the main room. It’s pretty cluttered. Since there are no working lights, that area of the house is toward the bottom of the ‘to do’ list.”
Admittedly, I was a little rattled by this sudden change of events. In fact, downright scared would likely be a better summation. “Okay, let’s break this down. You’re saying the lights don’t work down there. So, that means it’s dark, right?”
“Yeah, completely black. Why?”
“Well, I don’t know. It’s just that when I was a kid, I was always taught that the dark was a place that nice people didn’t go.”
“Are you saying you’re afraid of the dark?”
“No, I’m saying I’m afraid of what’s in the dark?”
“You don’t have to come.”
"No. I'll come. I was thinking that maybe we should wait and get an electrician to come with us. Preferably one with a concealed weapon permit."
It might have been the complete lack of testosterone in my voice, but Matthew now realized the full weight of my trepidation. His demeanor changed, and he offered me a somewhat forced but accommodating smile.
“I think it’ll be fine.”
"Yeah, I'm sure you're right. I just have a thing about basements."
“What do you mean?”
“Well, about a month after I moved into the house on Fleming Street I was going to bed one night when I heard a noise in the basement, just like we just did. It’s an old root cellar with a dirt floor. Other than opening the door and taking a quick glance, I’d never taken a step down there. So, I tried the stairwell lights and nothing. Completely dark, just like you’re describing. So, I’m thinking, ‘no problem.’ I get a flashlight and start inching my way down.”
“Okay, so. Did something happen?”
I shrugged, wanting to treat the matter coolly. “Well, I...you know. I saw something.”
“You saw something?”
“Yeah.”
"Okay. You mean something like a ghoul or some creepy apparition?"
I looked down and breathed a short laugh. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
I spoke sheepishly. "Well, it was an um...it was a spider."
“A what?”
“A spider. A big hairy spider.”
“That’s it? I mean...all of this because of a little spider?”
“Alright, alright, I’ll admit it. I’m the arachnophobia poster child. But I’m telling you, this spider wasn’t just big; it was an evil mutant spider.”
“Tell me your kidding.”
“Hey, trust me. That thing was scary. I think it was wearing a coat made of chipmunk hides. All it needed was a tiny fedora to look like an eight-legged pimp.”
Matthew smiled and returned his focus to loading bullets. “Okay, okay. I get it. But seriously, why not just hit it with a shot of Raid?”
“Because I’m telling you, this guy was huge. Raid would have just pissed him off. If I hit him with a spray of Raid, next thing I know he’s locking the door to the basement and chuckling softly.”
“Well, why not blind it with the flashlight and just step on it?”
“First of all, I was barefoot. All I had on was boxers. Secondly, I didn’t see him. I felt him. He was sitting on my shoulder.”
“Yeah, I guess that would freak anybody out. What did you do?”
“I did what any real man protecting his house would do. I screamed like a little girl, brushed wildly at myself, and dashed frantically back up the stairs.”
Matthew forced a smile, but it was clear that he was absorbed with what waited beneath. He spoke dryly. “Come on. The basement is this way.”
We walked down a short passageway to a large door with a deadbolt. Matthew paused and tucked his flashlight under his arm. Then, once again, he popped the magazine cartridge out of the handle. After a swift examination, he crisply reinserted it and pulled back the slide, loading a round into the firing chamber. The entire process took only a few seconds, conveying that he had done this a million times. It was both impressive and curiously odd.
"You think you might need that?”
"Like I said. Just a
precaution." He spoke dismissively, but his entire demeanor said otherwise. I swallowed hard and followed him, plagued with the fleeting notion that I was about to descend into the cellar of Satan. Admittedly though, I had to admire Matthew's boldness. For a modest-sized fellow, his intensity made him seem ten feet tall.
We moved cautiously down the steps. The damp, musty air welling up from the dark vat before us was decidedly cooler, thick with the muddy held breath of decades. It gave me an abrupt shuddering chill. To our left was a stone wall but the right of the wide steps was open to the room. After descending far enough to avail an angled view of the cavernous space below, Matthew stopped. We both crouched and shined our lights into the far corners.
I’d love to say my courage had risen to the moment. But in truth, I was scared senseless. My movements were feverish and abrupt, zooming my light around the large chamber with chaotic uncertainty. Conversely, Matthew was controlled and methodic, systematically scanning from left to right. He adeptly held the pistol in his right hand and the flashlight in his left, crossing his arms at the wrist to move the two in close unison. He was cool and measured. Spiders and creepy basements had my number. Nothing had his.
The chamber below was cluttered with the remains of the mansions previous lives, the heaped and forgotten refuse of many years. The walls and floor were crowded with paint cans and boxes, rusted garden tools, broken furniture, antiquated folding chairs, and lawn game equipment. There was both order and disarray; the surviving remnants of long ago inspiration and subsequent neglect.
Even still, with its stone walls, brick floor, and massive timbers, the wide room held a certain grandness. Beneath the elements of time and desertion, I got the sense that the derelict muddle below was a false veneer, a temporary film on the surface of what was a massive and enduring structure. Despite the eeriness of the moment, it was difficult not to be impressed.
Our lights had penetrated every corner, revealing nothing. There was neither sound nor movement. I was anxious to call it quits, to get this episode over. But Matthew had other ideas. He knelt patiently, and we waited. Finally, he switched off his light and turned to me, speaking in a half whisper. “Turn yours off too.”
