“Robert, I cannot go into it on the phone. Just humor me. You need to see this for yourself.”
“All right. Do not be late.” Hanging up the telephone, Robert wondered at the tone of Sheriff Hudson’s voice. An unfamiliar note had put him on alert. It took a lot to rattle Hudson. The last time he’d heard that tone in his voice, they were at the farm taking care of a little unpleasantness that his mind refused to dwell on. An uncontrollable shiver coursed through him. His soft manicured fingers absently picked at the paperwork on his desk. Realizing his mind wanted to dwell on the incident despite his desire, he jumped to his feet and hurried to the front door to await his sedan.
*
Arriving at Lily Pond Road, Eli and Robert pulled into the dusty drive, followed by the well-used pickup truck they utilized for their illicit moonshine deliveries. Spotting Hudson’s black Ford, they pulled over and parked. Now that Netty’s disappearance no longer raised eyebrows, they no longer needed to sneak in on horses. Both Sheriff Hudson’s and Robert’s flashy vehicles were easily recognized.
Piling out of the vehicles, the men lumbered toward the barn, casting nervous glances around the grounds. Most of them grumbled under their breath, grousing about the need to return, awaking lurid and macabre memories they had vigorously tried to forget.
“Glad you came. I cannot make any sense of what I found. Maybe you can. Follow me.” Hudson led the group to the east side of the cabin. Fully protected from the hot summer sun as it disappeared under the western horizon, they spotted a stout and weathered wooden door built into the ground. Robert frowned in surprise, realizing they had stupidly overlooked what probably contained the results of the late summer harvest. Hudson pulled up the door, letting sunlight expose row after row of Netty’s fantastic canned goods. The vibrant colors: red, yellow, green, purple, shone behind the glass of their protective jars as the sun sent glints of solar light back into their faces.
Descending into the cellar, Robert saw rows and rows of magnificent fruit standing neatly in huge rattan baskets. The smells were overwhelming. Organic mustiness mixed with apple, pear and peach. He picked up a firm yellow-white peach, the cool fuzz soothing under his masculine hands. Yes, hands. He needed both of them to hold one peach.
“My God, this must weigh four pounds.” Robert held it to his nose, the scent overwhelming. Could it be any fresher if he’d just picked it from the tree? “I think my housekeeper could bake three pies from just this one peach. Have you tasted them?”
Hudson nodded. “Sweeter and fresher than anything I have tasted in my life.”
“Well, that is certainly curious.” Robert looked around, picking up a potato that must weigh a full three pounds. He walked the aisles, spotless and well organized. Hefting every new vegetable as he came to it, he estimated they all appeared to be five to six times their normal weight and size. Biting into an apple, he realized it would take three people to eat it, at least. How Netty had produced results like these baffled them both.
“What about the orchard? Have you checked it out? The trees that support fruit this size must be gargantuan.” He looked at Hudson, incredulous. Amazingly, Hudson’s stoic stare confirmed his investigation of the orchard. The trees complemented the fruit.
“You are not kidding me, are you?” Robert pensively accepted the unbelievable.
“I reckon Netty and her creature possessed some kind of power. What other explanation can you think of? The popularity of her pies and meat cakes, loved by almost everyone in the town, confirms the unusual qualities of the fruit. What other explanation can there be? Need I remind you how she looked?”
“I do not know what this means, but she did not look anything like that before she swiped my coin and took off.”
“Well, what do you want me to tell the boys?” Hudson waited patiently as Robert paced. He detested mysteries. Staring at the cellar’s miraculous produce, he finally made up his mind.
“Have the boys load up the truck. Make sure they leave nothing behind. Take what you want for yourself, no sense letting it rot. Put some fruit in my vehicle. Sell the rest.” He started up the stairs. As an afterthought, he turned. “Yeah, you better drop off a load for Simpson. He’ll bitch like a woman if we leave him out.” He continued his climb out of the cellar, the treads of the stairs creaking under his weight. Blinking and squinting in the bright sun, he rudely ignored the men standing expectantly at the opening to the cellar. Turning on his brightly polished boot heels, he strolled to his vehicle.
Watching from the front seat of the sedan, his eyes absently followed the movements of his men, monotonously emptying the root cellar. The truck filled rapidly, the men obviously in a hurry to leave. Something in the back of his mind bothered him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It began to eat at him as he continued to watch the loading. Frustrated, he got out of the car, pacing frantically as he tried to pin down the source of his irritant.
His blood began a slow simmer, his attention focused on an easy target. Netty. She’d done this to him. She’d turned him into a laughing stock with his men. He’d often heard the whispers and crude jokes at the carriage house. He glanced up at them catching a few sneaky peeks in his direction. The fact that Netty had successfully turned this dump into a prosperous economic success burned him even more. He felt like spitting on her grave, the bitch. Shouting to Sheriff Hudson, he motioned for him to join his march to the back of the barn.
“Robert, you do not want to go back there.” Hudson ran hard to catch up. “Please, leave it alone. We should get out of here.”
Robert threw Hudson a scornful look as he approached the grave. Startled, he froze at the edge. The grave looked caved in. Son of a bitch, how could that happen? His face turned crimson, his fists balled in anger. He slowly breathed in and out, trying to keep a lid on his explosive temper.
“Go get the boys. And some shovels, now.”
Hudson hurried away, shaking his head as Robert stared down at the impossible.
Moans of reluctance announced the arrival of his men bearing the shovels. They gathered at the edge of the grave, snorts of dismay and shock professing their surprise. The silence grew restless, the baffled men unmistakably spooked.
“This had better not be a joke.” Robert’s ice pick eyes drilled deeply into those of his men. Not a one uttered a sound, more intimidated by Robert than the meaning of the disturbed grave.
“You, you and you,” Robert directed in a glacial voice. “Get down there and start digging. I want all of this dirt removed. All of it.” His voice started to leak telltale drips of hysteria. Swallowing, he kneeled at the side of the grave, desperately examining the dirt as it flew from the grave to land nearby. Grasping at straws, his face murderous, he turned to Hudson.
“I trust we do not have a case of grave robbery here. I suppose the freak value of the bodies would be worth a few coins.” Venom and suspicion leaked from his clenched teeth.
“Please, Robert, for the last time. Let’s go. This place might be cursed.”
“Now you sound like an asshole, Hudson. Just shut the fuck up.”
Sheriff Hudson’s face blanched, looking as if he suddenly realized the snail he’d swallowed was still alive. Snickers could be heard from some of the men, hidden protectively behind strained coughs.
“Hey, boss, can we come back up?” The voice from inside the grave convulsed with panic. Robert leaned over the grave as his men scrambled up, not bothering to wait for a response.
“Ain’t nothing down there no more; just a bunch of big holes tunneling to who the hell knows where. Looks like they were still alive.” The other men joined a chorus of agreement.
“Shut up, you idiots. They were dead. The likelihood they dug tunnels to escape is as likely as the possibility I am going to sprout tits in the next two seconds.” Roberts’s educated mannerisms vanished. Under pressure and attempting to disguise his mounting fear, he sank to the verbal dirt with the rest of them.
“Give me that.” He yanked a shovel fro
m a pair of hands, jumping into the grave himself to investigate. He immediately felt a change in temperature. Astonished at the quick chill, he rolled down the sleeves of his white linen shirt, surveying the tight space. As his men claimed, four holes carved darkness into the walls of the grave. Leaning down, he could feel a slight draft of frigid air, smelling a lot like sulfur. The holes were perfectly round, about two feet wide. The soil at the lip of the holes looked burnt and tightly compacted. As he reached down to dig at the compacted soil, his hand dipped into something soft and gooey. Springing back with a girlish scream, he frantically rubbed the substance on his pants. It dissipated, leaving no trace, not even a moist stain. He drew a hand to his heart, feeling it pummel his chest.
Breathing deeply, he steadied his pulse before mustering the courage to peer into the holes again. Adjusting his eyes to the darkness, he located the gooey substance. It encompassed the entire circumference of the hole. The thick and viscous substance appeared to undulate. Ugh. Is it alive? Without warning, the substance contracted and withdrew into the hole like an arm being pulled through a sleeve. He lost his balance, falling on his butt in the dirt. He sat stunned. What the fuck did I just see? As his wits returned, he started to grasp the vulnerability of his precious butt. He currently sat at the bottom of a grave previously occupied by his murdered freak of a wife and her similarly dispatched nightmare of a pet. Scrambling, he stood, heedless of the cold soil still clinging to his normally impeccable attire.
“Give me a hand, for Pete’s sake.” Extending his arm, they hoisted him up out of the empty grave.
“What did you see down there, Robert? We heard you scream.” Sheriff Hudson brushed at the soil clinging to Robert’s pants.
“Do you mind?” He slapped Hudson aside, his natural annoyance masking his reaction to the frightening discovery. “I saw nothing. The bodies are gone because one of you bastards stole them.” Deflecting from his own cowardly behavior, he went on the offense. He fixed them with one of his famous ill-tempered scowls. “I had better not hear about this again. From anyone. Is that understood?” He watched as his macho thugs nodded slowly, confusion and fear unwilling companions. Satisfied, he wasted no more time. Pointing, he ordered, “I want this grave filled in, then get the sedan and let’s get the hell out of here. Eli, Hudson, let’s go.” Turning his back on everyone, he almost ran to the sedan, vowing to himself never to come near the farm again.
The ride back to town took forever, the three men clearly burdened with individual thoughts regarding the mysteries of the produce and the empty grave. They left Hudson at his office with nary a word. Ten minutes from home, Robert turned to Eli.
“I want you to take the whole crew and any equipment necessary back to the farm, this weekend. Cut down every tree in the orchard, down to the roots. Then burn them; every last one. Burn any berry bushes you find.” His expression impassive, he turned to Eli. “And burn the cabin while you’re at it.”
“I got it boss, but the orchard? We might be able to make some good bucks off that fruit. And the seeds could be really valuable if they matched the results she got. We could get a fancy penny for the new bakery if you throw in the orchard.” Eli’s homely mug revealed a spark of intelligence previously overlooked by Robert. Impressed, he strove to take a gentle tone. He clapped Eli softly on his mule-like shoulder.
“Seeds, you say? Hmmm, how mindless of me. Search the outbuildings until you discover where her seeds are stored. And burn them. I want all evidence obliterated. When the job is complete, you may join me in the library for a brandy while you make your report. You do understand, don’t you, that we will never speak of my departed wife and her devilry again?”
“Yeah, boss. I get it.” As Eli turned into the gravel drive of Sunnydale, Robert admired the solid comfort and confidence of the magnificent mansion. As ostentatious as some may think it, his home represented the security and normal, quantifiable sanity of his life. Tipping the back of his hand to Eli as the sedan departed for the carriage house, he stepped into his elegant foyer. Its Waterford crystal chandelier swayed amiably, another welcoming affectation of his privileged life. As if a switch had been flicked, he felt transformed. Smug pleasure strengthened his posture as he loudly called out to Martha, announcing his return and depositing all memory of his late wife’s, shall we call them, peculiarities? into the callous dustbin of his brain.
*
Eli wiped the back of his chalky lips with a sweaty paw. He was dog tired and as thirsty as a squalling babe searching for its mother’s swollen tit. His muscular frame ached from the exertion of the last two days, but they’d actually completed the job on schedule. Of course, hiring a dozen extra hands had helped. He surveyed the field, the waste was pitiful. His men, spent and hungry, hurried to light the bonfires. He planned to let them burn down by nightfall when they’d become more noticeable. He didn’t think the boss would appreciate it if the adjoining farmers came poking around his business.
He blew his nose into his hand, slinging it to the ground as he remembered his orders to locate and burn the seed supply. Absently wiping his hand on the back of his canvas work pants, he ambled down the road and up the hill to the barn. He stood under the very wooden support used to hang Netty as he stood wearily looking around the cool interior. The sweet aroma of cow manure, fresh hay and dried horse sweat still permeated the empty barn. No way did they use the barn to store the large quantities of seed he’d expected to find. Not enough room.
Turning away, he hawked dryly on to the ground, berating his rotten luck. Now he would have to tramp behind the cabin to the distant outbuilding near the bakery that he suspected held the seeds. Sheeit. Having spotted a few rattlesnakes in the stone wall along the orchard, he knew the field might harbor a few late lurkers as they lay ready to ambush unsuspecting field mice.
Sighing out loud, he shook his head and picked up the jar of petrol he planned to use, simplifying the ignition of the fire. Okay, let’s go break that bitch, he groused to himself, pathetically trying to gin up some energy for the trek.
It didn’t take long to cross the deserted field. The hot sun, now low in the western sky, failed to reach the eastern part of the field behind the cabin, making the large but almost windowless shed appear foreboding and gloomy.
Spotting a fallen tree branch, he fashioned a torch out of dried grasses held together by his pocket handkerchief, which he’d soaked in petrol. Admiring his cleverness, he pulled out a book of matches and lit the torch, grateful for the bright light. Holding the torch high, he pulled the stubborn door wide, juggling his torch and the jar of petrol.
Scanning the storage space, he spotted enormous black earthen jugs near the only window in the place, its panes filthy and useless. The jugs lay on their side in disarray. Curious, he made his way to the window, kicking aimlessly at the jugs, all of them empty. Husks crunched underfoot as he realized someone had beaten him to the seeds. As his torch cast suggestive shadows on the walls, lovers entwined in macabre antics, he considered his next move. Distracted, he felt the shadows mock him as he pondered a plausible story for the boss.
Deciding to retreat back to the field, he turned to go, spotting a large dark round hole in the corner of the shed. Was that movement? Eli leaned over, holding his torch high, the jar of petrol safely clutched tightly to his chest. Peering into the corner along the floor, he failed to spot anything. His eyes lifted off the floor to study the hole. It looked familiar. His neck prickled with a persistent feeling of surveillance.
He slowly started to back up, telling himself he needed to get out of there anyway. Turning, his eyes swept up to the ceiling; the sight stopping his heart in mid beat. The thick fibrous and glistening thing hung in the air like a slobbering viper preparing to strike. He froze. As his brain registered the fact that the thing projected from the round hole, he remembered where he’d last seen identical holes. His bowels loosened, soiling his work pants. As the stench filled the shed, he thanked God for the torch.
The thing appear
ed to study the fire as it hung in the air over his head.
“That’s right, you freaky mother fucker. Don’t like the fire, do ya?” His courage elevated a notch as he continued his retreat, clutching the torch higher. The torch suddenly threw off a spark, and the thing jerked back, causing Eli to jerk reflexively. Off balance, he dropped the torch. In his backward panic, he stumbled, losing his grip on the petrol jar, sending it crashing to the floor to explode on the still flaming torch. As fire rushed to the petrol, liberally splashed prodigiously on his soiled pants, his eyes barely registered the thing withdraw into the dark hole. Then the fire quickly swallowed his eyelids and he saw no more.
*
Robert slowly replaced the telephone receiver. He felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach; shock and disbelief leaving his hands shaking. He picked up the telephone, its weight suddenly ponderous as he dialed the number.
“Let me speak to him, Hilda.” He waited for Sheriff Hudson to pick up.
“Hello, Robert. I guess you heard.”
“Have you been to the site yet?”
“I am going out there now. I will let you know what I find.”
“You had better let me know everything. I am not paying you to hold back information.” Robert’s voice gave an embarrassing crack.
“What are you worried about, Robert? Think the place is cursed?”
Robert wondered at the undercurrent of bitter amusement in Hudson’s voice. Deciding to let it pass, attributing it to the shock of Eli’s death, he barked an abrupt goodbye and hung up.
Chapter 10
Sheriff Hudson hung up the telephone after talking to Robert Doyle. Even though the guy was a sanctimonious shit and an evil one at that, he still called the shots. He certainly didn’t plan to hold back any information of the disturbing kind, if he found any. No way. Why miss out on an opportunity to personally cause a worthless piece of dog crap some discomfort? He sensed Robert’s growing concern over the events at Netty’s farm. If you call festering anger and misplaced righteous indignation, concern.
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