End of the Road Page 17

  I stood in the rain and I watched his taillights until they faded from view, and then I turned and walked to my house, shivering not from the night’s damp chill, but from a premonition of things to come.

  ***

  The familiar drudgery of work served to soothe my nerves over the next several days, and by the time Friday came, logic and reason once again ruled my mind. Though the frightful image of the deformed calf had not diminished in my memory, I now attributed it no more superstition than the sight of a black cat or the accidental spilling of salt at the dinner table. It was fodder for the uneducated, and nothing more.

  The day was still bright and warm when I arrived home, though the shadows were beginning to lengthen. I hastened inside, resolved to forego any work, and went about preparing myself for the evening. I had even undergone a change of attitude and was actually looking forward to dinner with Bennet, having decided that it would serve me well to be on good terms with my closest neighbor.

  The sun had just settled on the mountaintop when I emerged from my house and walked to my car. The air had taken on the hint of a chill, but the coming evening held the promise of clear skies and no rain. Spring had indeed arrived, and with it the anticipation of a world reborn. I whistled a tune as I started the engine and pulled the car out into the lane.

  By the time I arrived at Bennet’s house, the hollow was cast in deep shadow. A warm light shone from the windows of the farmhouse, beckoning with the enticement of good food and fellowship. I got out of the car and was preparing to take the walkway which led to the front porch when a scream from the barn froze me in my tracks.

  There followed the sound of quite a ruckus, and my first thought was that Bennet was being trampled by some of his livestock. I darted toward the structure, my mind already trying to judge the length of time it would take me to get him to the doctor in the event he was badly injured. I nearly slipped in the mud more than once, managing to retain my balance only through sheer luck.

  I arrived at the entrance to the barn only to be greeted by darkness and silence. Was I already too late? With fumbling and shaky hands, I groped for the oil lamp Bennet had used several days before. Eventually, my fingers settled on the object, and I grasped it with one hand while digging for my matches with the other. The first match slipped from my numb fingers, but I was able to steady myself enough to light the second. I touched the flame to the oil lamp’s wick and adjusted the flame.

  Earlier in the week, on my previous trip to the barn, I had witnessed a sight so disturbing that I’d been certain that it would haunt my dreams forever. But the scene that the light from the oil lamp revealed to my beleaguered eyes assaulted my senses by tenfold.

  The thing was the size of an adult horse, its stature made seemingly larger due to the fact that it was standing on its hind legs. Its elongated, serpentine body was covered with bristles of grayish-black hair, though that was the limit to any resemblance to a mammal. The shape of the head was that of a large viper, and the burning eyes set on either side featured the vertical pupils of a poisonous snake. The mouth was elongated, and the lower jaw was unhinged to such a degree as to allow for the consumption of its prey as a whole.

  The upper part of Bennet’s lifeless body, from the chest up, protruded from the thing’s horrible maw.

  I screamed, uncaring that I drew the creature’s attention. It whirled upon me, its body seeming to coil like a cobra preparing to strike. Upon recognizing my presence, the monster hurriedly sucked down the last of its meal. With a dreadful slurping sound, Bennet was no more.

  By divine grace, my rational mind was somehow able to regain control of my paralyzed body. As the thing before me drew back in preparation to attack, I slung the oil lamp with all the strength I could muster. The lamp hit the creature mid body and broke apart, dousing the fiendish beast with flaming oil. Droplets of burning liquid splattered onto the hay-covered floor, producing an instant inferno.

  The monstrosity drew back upon itself and emitted an ear-piercing cry. It began to thrash about in a futile effort to rid its body of the burning oil. I gazed upon the grotesque sight for a few brief moments, then hurried across the threshold and barred the heavy wooden doors behind me. No sooner had I retreated several steps away when the doors shook from a violent impact.

  The thing was attempting to break free.

  I turned and ran to my car, not daring even the slightest glance back at the burning barn. Smoke from the engulfed building descended upon me as I reached the vehicle, burning my eyes and lungs. I started the car, put the transmission into reverse, and backed out of the drive with such reckless abandon that I plowed Bennet’s mailbox down in the process.

  As I pointed the car towards home, I paused for the briefest moment to look upon the burning mass which had once been Bennet’s barn. Through the swirling clouds of thick smoke, the light of the fire showed me the one thing I wanted to see.

  The doors still held.

  I tore away at a breakneck pace, slowing only when the outline of my own house appeared in the glow of the headlamps.

  ***

  That was over seven years ago. I moved almost immediately thereafter, away from the shadow of Drover Mountain and that cursed sinkhole. I now reside near the other end of the county, in a fine house on the shore of Clairbourne Lake. I have married, and my wife has given me a son. He’s a fine lad of two years, already strapping and hale at such a young age.

  I have never returned to Bennet’s place—in any event, there would be precious little to return to. The farmhouse caught as the barn burned, and by dawn all of the structures on the farm had been reduced to nothing but glowing cinders. Of Bennet himself, no trace was ever found, and there were no stories of anything out of the ordinary being found in the ashes.

  I tell myself that the unholy creature met its demise in the fire that night, and I really want to believe that.

  But earlier in the evening, while stacking firewood, I heard something in the woods down by the water’s edge. Something that sounded like the cross of a baby’s cry and the shriek of an eagle.

  I look in on my wife and son, both abed and sleeping peacefully. I could never let anything hurt them, and I know what I must do.

  I am taking my shotgun, and I’m going down to the lake. I will leave this written account where it can be found in the event that I do not return.

  For, God forgive me, I fear that I may not.

  Alvin Theodore McCoy, Esq.

  November 20, 1943

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  Chapter 22

  Sans Cinderella

  By Traci Tyne Hilton

  The Prince stifled a yawn behind his gloved hand. The glove was new, white kid, and perfect. In much better form than the Prince, without a doubt.

  The Prince, Bertie, was miffed with his father. While Bertie’s best hound was fighting a mysterious infection at the stables he was at yet another forced march of eligible young ladies. In the mind of the doddering king this was the perfect place for young Bertrand to find a wife.

  It had been much the same for the king and queen thirty years previously. And just a year ago for Bertie’s cousin the Marquis of Huffington. Old Huffy had picked a girl just like he was supposed to, from one of last season’s parades, and already had an heir.

  This particular march of breeding stock was the end limit. Absolutely the end. It was a hopeless last minute, end of the season move on the king’s part and as such necessarily destined for failure. “I mean really,” Bertie thought, “if I didn’t like any of these gels at Tuesday’s Assembly why should I like one tonight?”

  The king sat rigid in his throne. He had had it with his boasting brother, the duke. Little Lord Huffy Jr., as the diaper-clad infant was called by his grandfather, was a blobby, useless little clot. Not at all like his own grandchild would be. If Prince Bertram would just get to it already.

  Bertie looked down the line of young women who waited to be received with glittering impatience. The end was probably twenty minutes aw
ay yet. Ridiculous.

  His friends at Uni didn’t have to put up with this. He’d give his honorary degree and honorary post in the navy for the privilege of going into trade and not having to produce an heir. There wasn’t a new face in the whole line. Next year, several eligible ladies would enter their first seasons. This year they were kids. Next year he could marry them. Preposterous.

  The torture had to end sometime.

  He turned his head in the middle of his introduction to Harriet, his third cousin who he had been playing tennis with just last Saturday, and spied his father. The king was glowering. “Alright,” Bertie thought, “the next girl who sneezes when she is presented to me is the one I will marry.” Harriet stepped away without sneezing.

  Clorinda, a visiting princess from the continent looked rather fetching. She showed rather more décolleté than the other girls and had rosy cheeks. He puckered his lips and blew down at her when he said hello, hoping her nose would tickle.

  She cringed, but she didn’t sneeze.

  Rosalind was a pretty blonde who liked to drive a four-in-hand. She was flushed, and the tip of her nose was red. Maybe she was coming down with something. He dusted his shoulder with his gloved hand, but the motion didn’t move much air.

  Rosalind did not sneeze.

  Allisande, an heiress with a French mother and an indifferent seat on the hunt, was next. She sniffled a little which gave him a jolt.

  She did not sneeze and he felt his relief acutely.

  Drucilla and Anastasia were next, together like always. Not much money and not much name. How they still managed to get invited to these shindigs was beyond him. Good sorts, and all, but not really up to it. They shuffled each other to be first. Anastasia, a rusty brunette with a towering head of someone else’s hair, was first.

  He had never seen hair reach such dizzying heights. While she did her courtesy he stared at the bouffant, wondering how she had managed to get it to stick to her pointy little head.

  “Hello, Bertie.” She winked.

  He thought that was rather forward, but she didn’t sneeze.

  Drucilla did.

  He scrutinized her closely. Drucilla, eh? She’d been on the shelf a while. They were of an age together. Her parent despaired of her marrying as much as the king despaired of Bertie. She didn’t appear to have fussed much over today’s affair. It was the same old dress he had seen three times this season. Not that he made a habit of recalling dresses, but as Drucilla wore this season’s only vermillion tartan, it was easy to remember.

  He recalled himself in time and handed her the kerchief from his pocket. She curtseyed.

  “Save the first dance, will you?” he asked.

  “Sure.” She didn’t hide her surprise. She was a round girl, quite round really. But she was energetic and when she danced, depending on the cut of her dress, one had a wonderful view of her generous, bouncing bosom. She was devoted to lute playing and folk music in general. Her laugh was braying. What would his father say?

  She bounced off after her sister, her exposed bosom like two very nice Christmas puddings. He liked pudding.

  The line of young ladies for presentation was not endless. Only Georgette Price, daughter of his mother’s cousin and heiress to the textiles fortune in the North made him question his decision. But then he knew for certain that Georgette had cheated at faro. He had stood second for her brother on account of it. He would rather deal with a braying laugh than constantly shield a blotted reputation.

  The prince and Drucilla led out the first dance. More than one matron muttered behind her fan on that basis alone.

  “Thanks for the dance Bertie.” Drucilla grinned a dimply, wry, smile. “It’s been ages since I’ve started an evening. You’ve made Mother’s night and that’s the truth.”

  “But not yours?”

  “Of course mine. I’m sure that goes without mention. Who asks me to dance the first dance? Never The Prince. Not since we were in second form and our evenings ended at seven.” Her cheeks flushed a very sweet pink.

  “You know of course, why father is giving this last dance of the season?” Bertie pulled her a little closer, his hand on her very firm waist—the product of vigorous corseting.

  “It’s the same every year, isn’t it? Do you want the scoop? I know who is pining for whom and whose funds could use an injection from the national treasury. I can help you fill your card strategically.” When Drucilla laughed, people turned their heads, but her eyes almost disappeared in the crinkles her smile produced. Bertie couldn’t help it. He laughed too.

  “Why don’t I just fill my card with you?” They had been mates, not so long ago. He’d rather spend the evening with a mate than dodging simpering girls.

  “Don’t be daft. Can you imagine the ideas you’d give them all?” Drucilla clucked at him.

  “Well? What’s wrong with giving that idea? I’ve got to get married someday and you don’t seem mad for some other fellow.” Bertie looked over her shoulder at the room swirling with beautiful, single, rich, girls who looked and sounded pretty much exactly the same. “Won’t you have me?”

  “Go on with you.” She swatted his shoulder with her overly worked lace glove. “Take Tilly over there instead. Not above twenty years on her and over forty thousand pounds when she comes of age. She’d pay for the privilege if you asked her to.” Drucilla blushed a color that did not go at all well with her dress. So many society ladies were incapable of honest embarrassment. No fluttering fainting fits and bottles of smelling salts for Drucilla, Just a heated magenta face. He liked it. It seemed healthy.

  “Tilly doesn’t know Nelson from Wellesley. What would I do with a chit like that?” He shook his head.

  “Most men know what to do with a Tilly without having to ask. Well, and if I thought you wouldn’t regret it the next day I’d agree in a heartbeat. You know I would.” Drucilla kept her eyes glued to the distant wall, her color only increasing.

  “That’s what I like about you, Dru. You talk like a mate. I’d take a lifetime of that. Do have me, eh? You’d be doing me a great favor, wot.”

  “Well if it’s a favor, then of course. But I won’t mention it. I’ll let you get over the intoxicating wit and pied feathers I’ve won you with. You can wake regretting your choice and none will be the wiser.”

  “They will too.” He grabbed her tartan waist with both hands and pulled her in for a vigorous kiss.

  She didn’t pull away in a missish protest, so he kept kissing her, not at all disappointed in her full, warm lips.

  The king in his elevated throne sat up. He peered through his golden monocle. The pairs of dancers stood like statues, gaping at the spectacle. “Cor!” He pressed his gloved hand to his forehead. “That’s what I call out of the frying pan and into the fire!”

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  Traci Tyne Hilton is the author of The Mitzy Neuhaus Mystery Series, The Plain Jane Mystery Series, and one of the authors in The Tangle Saga series of science fiction novellas. She was the Mystery/Suspense Category winner for the 2012 Christian Writers of the West Phoenix Rattler Contest, a finalist for Speculative Fiction in the same contest, and has a Drammy from the Portland Civic Theatre Guild. Traci serves as the Vice President of the Portland chapter of the American Christian Fiction Writers Association.

  Traci earned a degree in History from Portland State University and still lives in the rainiest part of the Pacific Northwest with her husband the mandolin playing funeral director, their two daughters, and their dog, Dr. Watson.

  More of Traci's work can be found at http://www.tracihilton.com

  Chapter 23

  Hilda’s Song

  By John Daulton

  Hilda’s large head bobbed to the tinny rapture of the banjo player’s song. His fingers flickered in the dim light of the Busted Jug’s rickety stage and filled her with joy. She smiled without knowing it, her eyes partly glazed, the twang and melody carrying her mind away while the bass thud-thumped and drove her booted foot to stomping on the
floor. Something about that man’s hands upon those strings enchanted her; the way his fingers danced like mercurial feet, his knuckles pulsing and the writhing ecstasy of the veins visible beneath his skin. Every movement that he made, every plucky note caused her to fill up inside. The music poured into her, warmed her like a lover slipping into bed. She wiped moisture from the corners of her eyes, sprung there unexpected and despite the song being as happy as could be.

  The banjo player was older than she by at least ten years, his gray hair and bolo tie evidence of a generation well on the decline. But his music was youthful and masculine, as masculine as anything she’d ever heard, and as his hands ran across that banjo, as they touched those strings so splendidly, Hilda, for the first time in twenty-eight years, wanted to be touched as well.

  The song ended, and she stared into the darkness while the band, a visiting trio called The End of the Road, took a ten minute break. She had to shake her head to break herself from the trance, a reverie that held her happily until it occurred to her that he wasn’t playing anymore.

  “That’s music,” she said when her mind cleared. She looked across the crude plank table at her friend Edith Miller, who was draining the last of double shot of Jack. “A fine shame they only gonna play one night.”

  “Yep. They good.”

  Hilda turned and spat a thick stream of tobacco juice on the floor, missing the spittoon by at least an inch and a half. Edith heard the spit hit the floor and fixed Hilda with curious, narrowed eyes.

  “What?” said Hilda to that look.

  Edith glanced down at the spittoon and raised an eyebrow.

  “I reckon that feller got me distracted some.” Hilda drained the last of her drink and wiped her mouth with her thick wrist.

  Edith smiled. “Who, the banjo man? He ain’t that amazing.”

  “Amazing ain’t the half of it. That feller is divine.”

  Edith studied her for a moment, staring into Hilda’s face, squinting as if looking deep into a fire. Then she began to laugh. “You got to be kidding.”