Authors: Edward Lee
City Infernal (6 page)
HULL’S GENERAL STORE, read a creaking swing-sign. After the long hot walk, a Coke sounded like a good idea. Inside, a crag-faced old man in suspenders glared at her from a chair behind the counter. It took him almost a minute just to stand up.
Looks like Uncle Joe’s movin’ kind’a slow....
Looks like Uncle Joe’s movin’ kind’a slow....
“What the hail are you?” the man said, gaping at her hair and dress.
Here we go.
“I’m a mammalian biped known as homo sapien,” Cassie curtly replied. “Ever heard of it?”
“I’m a mammalian biped known as homo sapien,” Cassie curtly replied. “Ever heard of it?”
“The hail you talkin’ about?”
Suddenly an agitated fat woman with her hair back in a bun came in through a back room. “Gawd, Pa! It’s one of them tranvesterites, I reckon. Like we seen on Springer!”
“A
what?”
what?”
“From the city! They call ‘em Goths! They listen to devil music, and half of ’em are really fellas tryin’ to look like gals! ”
The old man stroked his chin, which looked like a pair of arthritic knuckles. “A transvesterite, huh?”
Oh, Jesus,
Cassie thought in mute anger. In a place like this, she didn’t expect to be well received, but this was too much too soon.
So I’m a transvestite now?
She faced the woman and, without really thinking about it, she raised her sarong and yanked up on the waistband of her black panties, stretching them tight across her pubis.
Cassie thought in mute anger. In a place like this, she didn’t expect to be well received, but this was too much too soon.
So I’m a transvestite now?
She faced the woman and, without really thinking about it, she raised her sarong and yanked up on the waistband of her black panties, stretching them tight across her pubis.
“What do you think, Aunt Bee? Does it look like I’m hiding a penis anywhere down there?”
The woman brought horrified hands to her lined face. “Good
gawd!”
Then she clumped hurriedly away.
gawd!”
Then she clumped hurriedly away.
“The hail you want here?” the old man said.
Cassie readjusted her sarong. “Just trying to buy a Coke in a free country.”
“Ain’t got none. Get out.”
Cassie just shook her head, smiled, and left.
Now that’s what I call a first impression,
she thought.
Cassie Heydon, welcome to the Deep South.
Now that’s what I call a first impression,
she thought.
Cassie Heydon, welcome to the Deep South.
She should’ve known better than to come down here. Back out on the store front, she ignored the hateful glances from the other old men. As she walked along, she noted that most of the stores along the strip were long closed, unoccupied, easily, for years. Cobwebs had adhered to the insides of the front windows. The heat began baking her again; the locket with her sister’s picture inside grew hot on her chest.
Rich little Goth girl’s first day in Ryan’s Corner—a bust. Can’t even get a bottle of Coke in this hillbilly hell-hole.
It seemed wisest to just go back to the house.
Rich little Goth girl’s first day in Ryan’s Corner—a bust. Can’t even get a bottle of Coke in this hillbilly hell-hole.
It seemed wisest to just go back to the house.
But then she thought:
The house.
The house.
She’d really hoped to be able to ask someone about Blackwell Hall, but after her first official welcome at the general store, the prospects didn’t look good. Several blocks down the street, she noticed a tavern—CROSSROADS, the sign read.
Hmm, a redneck bar. Bet I’d get some real funky looks in there.
That would even be a bigger mistake, and even if they served her a few months short of her twenty-first birthday, she knew she didn’t need to be drinking. She hadn’t had a beer since the night her sister died.
Hmm, a redneck bar. Bet I’d get some real funky looks in there.
That would even be a bigger mistake, and even if they served her a few months short of her twenty-first birthday, she knew she didn’t need to be drinking. She hadn’t had a beer since the night her sister died.
“Hey, girl....”
Cassie turned at the comer of the last shop. An old red pickup truck was parked there; she hadn’t realized until just now that someone was sitting in it.
Another cliché. From the driver’s seat, a sun-weathered man in a ZZ Top hat was staring at her. No shirt beneath the overalls, a couple of days since his last shave. He raised a can of beer from between his legs, sipped it. Cassie frowned when she noticed the brand: Dixie.
“Bet old man Hull shit hisself when you walked in,” the man said. “Folks in these parts don’t take too kindly to strangers.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Cute tatt, by the way,” he commented of the tiny half-rainbow tattoo around her navel.
“Thanks.”
“I gotta coupla tatts myself, but believe me, you don’t wanna see ’em.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“My name’s Roy. Can’t shake hands proper, well, on account....”
That’s when Cassie noticed that his right arm was missing. It was just a nub. Then she saw that the pickup was a stick shift.
“How, uh, how do you drive?”
He grinned. “Practice. See, I joined the army ’bout ten years ago, thought it’d get me out of this cracker town. All they did was send me right back a bit later, left my arm in Iraq. Goddamn Saddam. Oh, I got some of his boys, though, yes sir.”
I’m sure you did,
Cassie thought.
Cassie thought.
“Lemme guess. You take one look at me and think I gotta be just another piss-poor drunk redneck on welfare. That why you’re not tellin’ me your name? You don’t seem like the type to hold somethin’ against a fella on account of the way he looks.”
“My name’s Cassie,” she said. “I just moved here from Washington, D.C.”
He laughed over his beer. “Well you sure picked a dumbass place to move to. Ain’t nothin’ out here. Aw, shee-it. I’ll bet it’s you who moved into the Blackwell place, huh?”
“Yes, with my father,” she said and instantly regretted it.
Smart, Cassie. You just told this PERFECT STRANGER where you live.
He seemed nice, though, in his own hayseed kind of way, and she felt sorry for him about his arm.
Smart, Cassie. You just told this PERFECT STRANGER where you live.
He seemed nice, though, in his own hayseed kind of way, and she felt sorry for him about his arm.
“Yeah, I know this guy who works up there with his ma. Jervis. His ma’s all right, but you keep an eye on Jervis. He likes to peek in windows’n such. Did thirty days in Luntville jail for peepin’ on little girls at the middle school.”
Charming,
Cassie thought and frowned.
Cassie thought and frowned.
“Oh, I don’t mean to scare you none. The county court makes him take some fancy drug as part of his probation. Keeps his mind off things like that. Just stick a wad of paper in your keyhole, if ya know what I mean.”
“I appreciate the sound advice.”
“Now, if I was you I’d be more worried ’bout the house itself. That place just has some bad vibes.”
The comment perked her up. “Let me guess. It’s haunted, right?”
“Naw,” he said and sipped more beer. A moment passed. “It’s a damn lot worse than just being haunted. You know. On account of what went on there.”
“All right, you’ve got me hooked now,” she admitted.
“Come on, let’s go fer a ride. I’ll tell you all about the place if ya like.”
Cassie just looked at him, and thought, I’m
really
not stupid
and
naive enough to get into
a
pickup truck with
a one-armed half-drunk
redneck
I just
met,
am I?
really
not stupid
and
naive enough to get into
a
pickup truck with
a one-armed half-drunk
redneck
I just
met,
am I?
“Okay, Roy. Let’s go,” she said, and got in.
(III)It turned out that Roy could drive a stick-shift better than she could. The flash of his left hand to the stick only took a second before it was back firmly on the wheel.
“Peel me off one’a them beers there if ya don’t mind,” he asked, “and help yerself to one too.”
“No, thanks. I quit two years ago.” She pulled a can from the styrofoam cooler in the footwell, opened it and passed it to him.
His knee kept the steering wheel in place when he took the can. “Bet‘choo ain’t even drinkin’ age and you’re already on the wagon. More power to ya, I say. You’ll find out soon enough, though. Ain’t nothin’ to do in this town ’cept drink and sweat.”
Cassie was already figuring that out. She grimaced over each bump in the road; the pickup’s suspension was shot, and by the sound of it, so was the muffler.
Riding in style,
came the sarcastic thought.
Gee, this puts Dad’s Caddy to shame.
He took a long narrow road up behind the row of shops. Soon they were in dense woods.
Riding in style,
came the sarcastic thought.
Gee, this puts Dad’s Caddy to shame.
He took a long narrow road up behind the row of shops. Soon they were in dense woods.
“All’a Blackwell Hill, see, is cursed so they say. Let me ask you something? When you and your daddy moved in, most of the furniture was still there, weren’t it?”
“Well, yes,” she admitted, and she also had to admit that it was a strange fact.
“After all this time, a lot of it probably looks like junk, but let me tell ya, there are some quite pricy antiques in that house.”
“I know. We kept most of it. My father had it cleaned up by some refinishers from Pulaski.”
“And don’t that strike ya as odd?” Roy cut a side-glance at her, sipping more beer.
“A little. It is a lot of furniture.”
“Ain’t no one lived in that house for about seventy years. All that expensive stuff sittin’ in it, but in all them years nobody pinched a single piece. Any other place—shee-it. The rednecks in this burg’d clean the place out in one night.”
Cassie thought about that. “Yeah, I guess it is pretty strange. I wonder why nobody ever ripped the place off.”
“It’s ‘cos you can hear the babies cryin’ at night. You heard ’em yet?”
“Babies? No. I haven’t heard anything funny. And what’s with the babies?”
Roy’s head tilted. He seemed to be pausing for the right words. “It was Blackwell. Everything south of town’s called Blackwell something. Blackwell Hall, Blackwell Swamp, Blackwell Hill, like that. ’Cos there was a guy—Fenton Blackwell; he’s the one who bought the original plantation house back before World War One, then built all them crazy-lookin’ additions.”
Great,
Cassie thought.
The wing that I live in.
Cassie thought.
The wing that I live in.
“Blackwell was a satanist,” Roy said next. “Bigtime.”
“Come on.”
“It’s true enough. You can go to the Russell County Library’n read all about it. They still got the old papers on some micro something-or-other. See, right after he had that funky part of the house built, some local gals disappeared a might quick. ‘Bout ten of ’em all told, but nobody paid it much mind on account they was just hill girls. Creekers, we call ’em.”
Cassie loved ghost stories, and this was sounding like it had all the makings of a doozy. “What about the babies?” she urged him.
“I’m gettin’ to it. You seen the basements?”
She remembered them well: long, narrow brick channels beneath the newer part of the house, not like typical basements at all. “Yeah. Big deal,” she said.
“Well, it was Blackwell who snatched them hill girls, and it was in those basements he’d keep ‘em chained up. He’d—you know—he’d make ’em pregnant.”
“And
?
”
?
”
“And then he’d sacrifice the babies lickety split. Soon as the gals gave birth, Blackwell’d take that newborn all the way upstairs, to that room with the funky window—”
The top garret, Cassie thought. With the oculus window.
“—and then sacrifice ’em to the devil.”
Cassie slumped as if let down. She didn’t believe a word of it, but she at least had hoped for a ghostly folktale that was more original that this.
“Then he’d bury the dead babies on the back hill. They found a few, dug ’em up, but it’s for sure that there were lots more all told.”
“What makes you say that?”
Roy didn’t miss a beat. “ ’Cos they caught him doin’ it, the local cops. They busted into that place and found the women chained down there in the basements. There were ten women, all still alive, and they’d been missing for ten years. The few that were still able to talk, said Blackwell had been doin’ it to ’em steady the whole time. Figure it out. Ten women, each havin’ a baby once a year for
ten years?
That’s a
hunnert
babies he killed’n buried up there.”
ten years?
That’s a
hunnert
babies he killed’n buried up there.”
A hundred,
she thought. Babies.
she thought. Babies.
She still didn’t believe it. If any of it were true, Jervis—in his own propensity for hokey stories—would’ve mentioned it.
“Screamin’ Baby Hill’s what they call it.”
Cassie rolled her eyes as Roy pulled the truck to a stop. His one hand gestured out the window, toward the vast wooded hill before them. “That’s it. Right there.”
“I don’t hear any babies screaming,” Cassie pointed out.
“A’course not. Not now. Only at night.”
“Of course.”
“You’ll hear ‘em out here, but you’ll hear ’em best up the house. At night. Midnight,‘cos that’s when Blackwell killed ’em.”
“Of course,” she repeated.
He shot her a sly smile over his next sip of beer. “I know. You think I’m just some nutty cracker with a belly full of beer’n bullshit. But I ain’t lyin’. It’s all true.”
“Then how come I haven’t heard any babies at night?”
“ ’Cos you ain’t listened hard enough, or—” Roy shugged. “Or maybe them babies don’t mind ya bein’ there.”
“Have you ever heard them?” she asked next.
The sly smile fell apart. He looked serious, even bothered. “Yeah. Once.”
It was the quick change in his expression that bothered her.
Roy continued without having to be asked. He finished his beer in a long slug, as if to steel himself. “Just before I went into the Army,” he said. “Week before basic training. I took a gal up to Blackwell Hall—Hal—loween Night as a matter of fact. Her name was Carrie Ann Wells, a real beaut, and I don’t have to tell ya just what I was takin’ her up there for.”
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