Dreams from the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror Page 37

  Before long, Pistol and I drew up to a rusty gate leading into the overgrowth that clusters ’round the Brazos. I had just dismounted to unlatch the chain when I heard an engine rumbling down the road behind us. I couldn’t get over into the ditch because it was steep and slick and full of water, so I leaned over to see which farmer it was. I figured they’d probably stop to say hello.

  I had to blink hard and squint. Churning torturously between the ruts was a gleaming black Fairlane spattered liberally with mud. I pulled Pistol over to the far left so the stranger wouldn’t have to pass us, but to my displeasure, the car dragged to a stop beside us and the window rattled down.

  A little old man sat in the front seat with the kind of face I’d only seen in Sunday afternoon movies. He had a neatly groomed mustache and goatee, wore round gold-rimmed spectacles and a threadbare tweed suit, and carried an old-fashioned briefcase stuffed full to bursting. His eight-track tape player was going full tilt—Strauss, “On the Beautiful Blue Danube,” same recording as the one on a record back home. He struck me as one displaced in time, from his shining Oxfords to his spotless pair of driving gloves. I had the thought that if I touched him, he might dissipate like a soap bubble.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “Is this the way to the Brazos River?”

  “It is,” I said. “But you have to go through Ms. Ross’s and Mr. Greentree’s pastures. You get permission?”

  “Oh, of course!” he said, and patted a couple of signed papers sitting beside him. “By the way, I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself. I’m Dr. Arnold Peaslee from Miskatonic University in Massachusetts.”

  Massachusetts! A far-off salmon-colored state I’d only seen in Social Studies. Suddenly I had a place to put with his accent.

  He extended his hand, and we shook.

  “My name is Leah Byrd,” I said, squaring my shoulders. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I’m on the trail of some fascinating local folklore,” he said. “Have you, by any chance… ah… seen any remarkable stones down on the river bank?”

  I bit my bottom lip and glanced back at Pistol, who was eyeballing the Fairlane.

  “Stones like these,” he said, and rustled around in his briefcase.

  He pulled out a series of fuzzy photocopies: stones of every size and shape and persuasion. Stones jutting above the waterline, stones eclipsed by thorny bushes, stones that still stood in some semblance of walls. Some of them were big enough to build a house with; others, no bigger than your fist. Many bulged and bubbled in organic shapes, while others were graced with bas reliefs. Tarry seepage trickled from broken corners.

  I nodded. “Yeah, I’m… I know about them.”

  “My specialty is archaeology,” he said. “And of course, I dabble in folklore and myth on the side.” When he saw my expression, he smiled. “If you’re worried, I assure you that I won’t disturb the location.”

  “You couldn’t touch them if you wanted to,” I said. “It’s been raining hard and the river’s overflowed its banks. We may not see anything at all.”

  A flash of panic crossed his face, and he sagged through the window. If I had been wise, I would have jumped up on Pistol and spurred him the whole way home—it would’ve saved me a lot of trouble in the long run. Instead, I hesitated. I can’t help liking earnest people. It’s a curse.

  “Ms. Byrd, I beg of you. It’s a cosmic stroke of fortune that I have discovered you at all,” he said. “You know what I speak of and you know where to go. It seems you may even know the same stories. If you do, then you know what day this is, and why it is so important that I visit the stones at once.”

  “Are you sure you’re dressed for it?” I asked. “There’s gonna be mud up to your ears.”

  “Yes, I’m prepared,” he said.

  “I’m saying this because the road ends in a bit and you’ll have to walk the rest of the way. If I were riding China I’d say we could double up, but Pistol’s a drama queen, and I don’t want you falling off.”

  “I see,” he said, and looked a bit relieved.

  “Your car doesn’t have four-wheel drive, either,” I said.

  “Ms. Ross said that I should be fine,” he said.

  I shrugged. “All right, if you want. But if you get stuck, you’ll have to walk back to her house.”

  So he rumbled through the gate, and I shut the gate behind us. I swung my leg over Pistol’s back, and together we descended into the knotted mesquite thickets.

  Dr. Peaslee drove alongside me and Pistol down the road, car groaning over the ruts. The blessed silence and rain-perfumed air was gone, exchanged for the rumble of the engine and the stink of exhaust. Dr. Peaslee turned to smile at me every now and then. I smiled back, but I won’t lie; I was a bit nervous. The River Rat gave me stories because he knew he could trust me, and it felt like betrayal to bring an outsider.

  “Do you know anything about archaeology?” Dr. Peaslee asked.

  “I like reading the National Geographic,” I said. “And I’ve got some arrowheads in my jewelry box.”

  “How much do you know about the local area?” he asked. “Do you know anything about the end of Rath City?”

  “A little, but it’s a ways out south,” I said. “It didn’t last too long.”

  “Yes, only four years, from what I’ve heard,” he said.

  The hair stood up on my neck. It’s one thing to discuss Rath City in a house, quite another when you’re nearly at the Brazos itself.

  His voice took on a slightly fretful tone. “It seems everyone has a different story to tell about it. Some say the Comanches had something to do with its end…”

  “Sir, all due respect, but we shouldn’t talk about it here,” I said.

  He nodded and withdrew, and there was silence for a while. We weaved between the tortured trunks of the mesquites, last season’s blackened beans swiveling in the wind. Branches squealed against the Fairlane’s flanks, and the horse’s ears rotated idly. The incline grew steeper, and the branches around us knotted tighter and grew higher—a jumbled mass of root and branch and thorn and leaf, stained dark from the recent rainfall. A bobwhite called from far away and went silent. I remember feeling oddly lonely.

  Soon we sloshed up to a cul-de-sac dug out by decades of truck tires. The last gate hung there, paint peeling, its faded “No Trespassing” sign glaring wearily at us.

  “You can’t take the car any further,” I said, jumping off the horse. Mud squelched beneath my boots. “Take what you need and I’ll show you the rocks.”

  Just as I pulled on Pistol’s reins, the stupid horse laid his ears back and put on the brakes. I had to drag him all the way and knot his reins around my arm so I could undo the latch.

  “Is there something wrong with your horse?” Dr. Peaslee asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I don’t think he likes your car.”

  “But I turned it off,” he said.

  “Pistol is a special case,” I said. “I probably shouldn’t have ridden him today, honestly.”

  Dr. Peaslee opened his door and perched on the edge of his seat, staring down into the mud. Very methodically, he unlaced his patent-leather dress shoes, so glossy I could see my reflection in them, and donned a pair of neat old hiking boots. I almost laughed—each boot was big enough for him to put both feet in. With that, he withdrew a camera case and a satchel bulging with god-knew-what.

  I eyed the doctor’s shoes. “Are you sure you don’t need to go back for galoshes?”

  “I’m perfectly sure,” Dr. Peaslee said, lifting his chin, and stepped off into the mud up to his shins. He paled a little. Cold water in his shoes, I guess. I knew right then that I was probably going to bring him home so he could shower.

  As for me, I was a little nervous about getting on Pistol again. He had progressed from mild distaste to insistent refusal: he strained away from me, lips pulled back from his thick, flat teeth. A chill ran down my neck; the silence seemed heavy and oppressive, and in the distance, the thunder was od
dly muted. Don’t know why I didn’t stop right then; I guess Dr. Peaslee’s presence kept me going.

  While Dr. Peaslee picked his way around the edge of the cul-de-sac, where the mesquites and weeds clumped the earth together, I dug my pocketknife and spurs out of the saddlebag. I tucked the knife into my pocket and I donned the spurs—usually unnecessary on Pistol, who would take off at the least insistence—and finally managed to remount. When we passed through this gate, I didn’t close it. This is the height of bad manners since it might free livestock, and it was the first time I hadn’t done so since I was a little girl.

  I urged Pistol out through the gate and into the pasture beyond. The doctor lurched alongside us, picking his way along the side of the road. Finally, we broke out of the undergrowth and slopped to the edge of a cliff. Below, the Brazos had clawed a ragged red canyon into the earth. The old river was swollen, churned up into a dirty gray color, choppy with a rough current. Dr. Peaslee withdrew a camera with a lens jutting out of it as big as a pepper-grinder and snapped a few shots of the landscape. The snapping and clicking sounds were unpleasantly loud.

  I pointed upriver. “The stones are that way,” I said. “Are you sure you want to head out? It might be flooded.”

  I gotta admit, by this point, I wasn’t thinking about betraying the River Rat. I was thinking how weirdly silent it was out there. Usually, all the little frogs come out after a storm, but they were quiet as the grave.

  “That’s all right,” he said. “I’ve come this far.”

  “All right,” I said. “Watch your step. And don’t follow Pistol too closely. He might kick.”

  We padded carefully down a steep incline toward the canyon floor. I kept an eye on the doctor as he stumbled behind us. He was covered in mud: mud up to his knees and mud all over his hands and sleeves, and a streak of mud on his forehead from where he had wiped away sweat. I was a little worried about him. He was a desk-job type, and I doubted he did much more than toddle to the mailbox every day.

  The incline flattened out at last and we were safe on the level valley floor. It was easier going down on the winding hog paths between the mesquites and cactus; the roots kept the soil firmer there. We passed some hog wallows circled by prints—cattle, deer, hogs, coyotes—wild things all sleeping somewhere in the dripping foliage. As we passed further into the brush, I started smelling a sticky musk, something reminiscent of the stink of a skunk and a garter snake put together.

  Dr. Peaslee covered his nose with a handkerchief. “What is that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  All of a sudden, Pistol spooked something awful, dancing sideways as though he’d seen a rattlesnake. I scanned the underbrush and saw nothing, and that just scared me more. You don’t understand, coming from the suburbs, how easily a wild thing can just disappear into the underbrush. All it has to do is stand still, and nine times out of ten, you can stare directly at it and see nothing.

  Then we rounded a thick stand of mesquites and saw the hog traps.

  The hog traps were built out of obsolete cotton-bale trailers with makeshift one-way doors welded on. Everyone in the area used them; feral hogs could obliterate whole fields in a night, and they were a ready supply of pork, so they were free game. What we’d do is pour feed corn inside and prop the makeshift door open with a stick. The hogs would funnel in, knocking out the stick in their eagerness, and bang! The door would drop and the pigs were stuck. Next morning everyone would come out with their guns of choice, climb to the top of the trailers, and take aim. We’d eat hog for weeks.

  Normally, when the trapped hogs hear humans coming, they’ll start charging from one side of the trailer to the other, and can be heard tramping and squealing and banging into the walls. Today, I heard nothing. Pistol’s ears were flat, his eyes rolled back, his chin thrust skyward. He danced in that unpleasant half-hopping way that preceded a bucking fit.

  There must’ve been hogs in the trap at some point. I say that because there was blood and hide everywhere. Fresh yellow bones striped with raw flesh lay jumbled in roughly sorted piles—ribs with ribs, vertebrae with vertebrae, femurs with femurs. Droplets glistened redly on the steel mesh, and the mud was churned up until it had the consistency of a milkshake. Here and there was an almost intact head with the eyes, tongue, and ears cored out. The mud was scored with tracks—not the tracks of the hogs, nor boot prints, but whip-like arcs like those made by serpents. I couldn’t get Pistol much closer and frankly, I didn’t want to.

  “Shit,” I said.

  Quivering, Dr. Peaslee sloshed over and lifted his camera.

  “Gross!” I said. “What are you taking pictures of them for?”

  “Surely you know what day it is!” he said.

  “April 15?”

  He leaned down to take a close-up. “You mean you don’t know what this means?”

  “That we should leave?”

  Dr. Peaslee laughed up at me. His teeth were very white. “Oh, no!” he said. “It means that the stars are favorable, and they’re here.”

  I turned white as a sheet. Wrong action. His face lit up and he clapped the camera to his chest.

  “Then you know! Where? Where are they?”

  Shit!

  “I don’t know. Holes in the cliffs, below the waterline. They stick around the stones, generally.” My tongue felt stiff. “But if what you’re saying is right, if you’re trying to tell me they killed these hogs, then we shouldn’t go anywhere near the rocks.”

  His eyes settled on the .22 hanging on Pistol’s hip. “But you are armed.”

  I shook my head. “No, no, no. You’ve been watching too many cowboy flicks, man. I’m not looking for trouble here. Self-defense only.”

  He relaxed. “You’re right. They might turn violent at the sight of weaponry.”

  “‘Might’? What stories have you heard where they brought us bouquets and chocolates?”

  “Communication of the proper kind might solve everything,” he said. “That’s why I have taken the time to learn their tongue. There are books…” He licked his lips. “Very old books transcribing the language and the methods necessary to its mastery.”

  My jaw dropped. He might as well have grown an extra arm right in front of me.

  “Why would you do that?” I asked. “The Things’ll kill you before they stop for a chat. Didn’t you see those hog bones back there? Hogs are not easy to kill, and they fight back. What do you think the Things will do to you?”

  He stretched himself up to his full height and lifted his chin.

  “My dear, I must try,” he said. “For you must understand that if I can speak to these creatures, it will advance our comprehension of both human civilization and the universe. Besides, I am quite old, and have lived a full life; if I died like this, seeking the knowledge of centuries past, it would be a fitting end indeed.”

  My god. Yanks have got only sentimentality where their brains should be. It’s because they watch so many movies.

  “Okay,” I said, “but if we need to run, you’re out of luck. I don’t think I can keep Pistol in line long enough for you to jump on.”

  “I am prepared for that!” he said, touching his heart. “Please, Ms. Byrd. Let’s go on.”

  My brain was awhirl with possibilities; the possibilities of seeing the stones and the creatures versus the possibility of real trouble, perhaps death. When I didn’t reply quickly enough, Dr. Peaslee trotted up to us. Pistol backed away stiffly. Not that Pistol was a judge of character; at that point a branch in the wind would have set him off. I was trying to calm him down when Dr. Peasley pulled out his wallet and started peeling out tens and twenties.

  “Doctor, no,” I said. “I don’t want your…”

  He grabbed my hand and stuck a whole wad of cash in it, and when Pistol jerked away he doggedly doddered after us and stuffed some bills in my boot. I think he would have dumped his change in there if he felt it could have swayed me. God! I felt absurd, clenching that money in my hand, money balled
up on my shin. For some reason, god only knows—I nodded and stuck it in my pocket. It burned against my hip.

  I twisted Pistol ’round and jabbed him with my spurs. He took off at a fast trot with flattened ears and bulging eyeballs. Without a word, we ducked down the labyrinth of hog and cattle paths toward the river itself. I didn’t look to see if the doctor was following, but every now and then I heard the click and whirr of his camera. I propped my .22 on my knee, popped the safety off, and kept my eyes peeled on the brush.

  We were hemmed in by a jumble of thorny branches that dropped our visibility to two or three feet at best. Every corner was a blind one, and often paths split into three or four branches that led off into winding ways unknown. The landscape was full of watchful eyes we could not see; I could feel them boring into us. I looked for shapes and shadows in the brush and strained for the sound of snapping branches, rustling leaves. Over time, the strange stink grew so powerful I could taste it. I hoped the hogs had been killed sometime in the night, when the River Things are most likely to come out of the water, and prayed that the sunlight would keep them underground.

  I should’ve known from the dampness of the blood that they hadn’t been gone too long.

  “So… you know about them?” Dr. Peaslee asked. “The amphibious people of the Brazos?”

  “I don’t know if I would call them ‘people,’” I said.

  “Well—I suppose you’re right in the technical sense.”

  He was smiling about something at my expense, and I can’t say I liked it much. So I didn’t say anything.

  He cleared his throat. “But you’ve seen them.”

  “No,” I said. “All I know is that they move the stones around.”

  “And do you know why?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Have you heard of Mnemeros, by any chance?” he asked.

  That name! It was the first time I’d heard it and I didn’t ever want to hear it again. Some names are like keys; they swing doors wide open that are best left shut.