Lovecraft Country

by Matt Ruff

  “Well now, that’s a fair point, Talbot . . . What about it, boys?” the sheriff asked George and Atticus. “You really from Illinois? Or are you just a couple of car thieves from Worcester?”

  “Sheriff,” George said, and then fell silent, eying the guns.

  “Go on,” the sheriff said. “We’re all dying to hear it, really.”

  George shook his head slowly. “I don’t know who you’re lying in wait for here, Sheriff, but you’re making—This is a misunderstanding.”

  The sheriff chuckled. “You hear that, Eastchurch?” he said. “The way he caught himself, there? He was going to say I was making a mistake, but if he says that, he’s a Negro telling a good white Christian man that he’s wrong, and you know that never ends well. Pointing out a misunderstanding, though, that’s just being polite, like letting me know I dropped something . . . I think I like this one, Eastchurch. He’s smart.”

  “Not that smart,” opined the deputy.

  “We do what we can within the limits God has set for us,” the sheriff said. “I’m smart, too,” he told George. “I’ll prove it, by predicting what you’re going to say next: You’re going to tell me you don’t know anything about a burglary in Bideford last night, or two other burglaries in Bucks Mill last week. And when I ask you about the campfire John Wakely saw burning in these woods on Friday, you’re going to say, ‘What campfire, Sheriff? Do we look like Boy Scouts?’” His good humor dissipating, he continued: “You got greedy. Your real mistake was coming to Devon County at all, but if you’d stopped with Bucks Mill, you might have got away with it. My other deputy, Coleman, he had me halfway convinced it was local kids who were doing the robberies—in fact he’s over in Instow tonight, on his own stakeout. He’s going to be sorry when he hears he missed out on the fun.”

  “Sheriff Hunt,” Atticus said. All three shotguns were suddenly pointed at his head, but he took a breath and continued speaking in a calm voice: “My uncle George is right, Sheriff Hunt. This is a misunderstanding. We aren’t burglars. You can go ahead and check the car for stolen goods, if—”

  “Eastchurch,” the sheriff said.

  “Yeah, Sheriff?”

  “Tell me I didn’t just hear that. Did this nigger just give me permission to search his car?”

  “I believe he might have, Sheriff.”

  The sheriff shook his head in disbelief. “This one,” he said, “I don’t like.”

  But Atticus went on, unwavering: “We aren’t burglars, Sheriff. Or car thieves, either. We’re guests.”

  “Guests?” The sheriff barked laughter. “In my woods? I don’t think so.”

  “Guests of Ardham,” Atticus said. “I’m sorry if we’re trespassing on your territory, here, but we were invited, and we don’t know any other way to go.”

  “Ardham!” More laughter. “Boy, you are a lousy liar. I’ve heard some odd things about that commune out there, but if you think they’d extend a welcome to the likes of you . . . Well, let’s just say you should take that alibi back for a refund.”

  “It’s the truth, Sheriff. We were invited to the manor house in Ardham. The big house, up on the hill. We’re expected.”

  “Sure you are. And who is it that’s expecting you, exactly?”

  “Montrose Turner.”

  The sheriff clucked his tongue. “Now see that, right there, is a basic failure of research. You take the trouble to learn my name—which is telling—but if you’d really done your homework, you’d know the only Turners around here are Andrew and Grace Turner, over in Instow.”

  “Montrose Turner is my father,” Atticus said. “He’s staying at the manor house in Ardham. He asked us to meet him there.”

  “But he didn’t tell you who you’d be guests of,” the sheriff said. “That’s funny. Where I come from, if you stay at a man’s house, you know that man’s name, even if someone else does the inviting. Maybe you do things differently in Illinois.”

  “Sheriff—”

  “Or maybe, company you keep, you’re used to even stupid lies being believed.”

  “You don’t have to believe us, Sheriff,” Atticus said. “Just take us to Ardham.”

  “Just take you there. Three in the morning, just go knocking on doors.”

  “The hour won’t matter. We’re expected.”

  “You’re sure of that, are you?”

  “Positive,” said Atticus, actually managing to sound as if he was.

  “All right then,” the sheriff said nodding. “We’ll go to Ardham.”

  Atticus and George both sat very still, waiting for the catch.

  “Yeah, we’ll go to Ardham,” the sheriff continued. “The thing is, though, it can be a tricky drive. You’ve seen how the road twists and turns, and it gets worse past this gate. The good news is, I know a shortcut. Through there.” The sheriff nodded at the darkness beside the road. “Talbot, get us a flashlight, would you? We’re going for a stroll in the woods, and I wouldn’t want anybody walking into a tree by accident.”

  “Sure, Sheriff.” The deputy ducked back to the patrol car.

  The sheriff gestured with his shotgun. “You boys stand up slowly now,” he said. “Keep your hands behind your heads.”

  “Sheriff,” said Atticus.

  “Hold on a second,” said George.

  “Stand up,” the sheriff repeated. “Or I’ll take you to Ardham right here.”

  “Keep that light steady, Talbot,” the sheriff said. “The young one’s thinking about running, and I don’t want to have to strain my eyes when I blow a hole through his back.”

  From the moment they’d left the road, Atticus had been watching for some sort of cover that he and George could dive behind and so survive the first volley that would accompany any attempt to escape. But either the sheriff really did know these woods or the Wood itself was conspiring against them: The ground they walked on was level, with only light undergrowth, and the trees, which earlier had crowded so close beside the road, were sparse enough here to offer only minimal protection. Even so, on his own he would already have made a break for it. Now, reckoning they had only a few more steps before being ordered to their knees and shot, he tried to catch George’s eye without turning his head: If they broke and ran at the same time, one of them might make it.

  “Don’t try it, boy,” the sheriff said. “I know what you’re thinking, but I used to shoot skeet down at Camp Lejeune. The two of you could run opposite ways and I’d still hit you both without reloading. I—”

  The sound came from up ahead, just beyond the range of the light: a sudden sharp crack! like a rifle shot or a thick branch breaking, followed by a heavy thump in the undergrowth. Atticus, George, and the three lawmen all stopped and the flashlight beam wavered.

  “Keep that light steady, Talbot,” the sheriff commanded. Out in the darkness, a big something slid or was dragged along the ground. They heard the snap of another branch, and another, and then the prolonged groan of an entire tree being shoved over. A crash.

  BOOM!

  The shotgun blast was louder than all of the sounds that had preceded it. George staggered and dropped to his knees. Atticus let out a strangled cry and dropped down beside him, throwing arms around him and feeling for the wound. But George shook his head: He wasn’t shot, just rubber-legged with fear.

  Atticus looked around. The sheriff had pivoted slightly to the left and was aiming his shotgun out into the woods, smoke curling from one of the barrels. Deputy Talbot pointed the flashlight in the same direction. But Eastchurch still held his gun steady on Atticus and George.

  The sheriff called into the darkness: “These are my woods, understand? Man or beast, you’d better get your ass away from here!” He fired off his second barrel and George jolted in Atticus’s arms.

  A stillness fell. The sheriff broke his shotgun and reloaded, then stood listening. From the woods came only silence now: the tree-feller, man or beast, either dead or playing dead.

  “All right,” the sheriff said. “Where were
we?”

  Atticus spoke softly to his uncle: “Come on, George. Get up.”

  “No, that’s OK, you boys stay down,” said the sheriff. “I think we’ve walked far enough. Time to finish this up. Unless,” he added, “you’d like to talk about those burglaries now.”

  The new sound came from the road behind them: a soft whump! of ignition accompanied by a blossom of flame. By the time the sheriff and his deputies turned to look, the blossom had become a blazing pyre with a car-shaped silhouette.

  “The hell?” Deputy Talbot said.

  Sheriff Hunt locked eyes with Atticus. “Boy,” he said. “Did you neglect to mention something?”

  A car horn sounded. The Packard’s horn, Atticus thought. Which would make the sheriff’s car the burnt offering.

  “Eastchurch,” the sheriff said, “you come with me. Talbot, you stay here. If they do anything, you put them down.” The sheriff hesitated, as if debating whether to preemptively carry out the last part of that order himself. Then the Packard’s horn sounded again, and he spun on his heel and ran back towards the road, with Eastchurch following a few steps behind.

  Atticus turned his head to face George, who nodded meaningfully. He looked down: A thick tree branch lay on the ground just in front of George’s knees.

  Atticus turned his head again until he could see Deputy Talbot out of the corner of his eye. The deputy was standing about six feet away, with his shotgun in one hand and the flashlight in the other. The gun was pointed roughly in Atticus and George’s direction, but the muzzle had dipped towards the ground. Meanwhile the flashlight beam, like the deputy’s attention, was wandering: He shined it at the retreating figures of the sheriff and Eastchurch, then back at Atticus and George, then out into the woods where they’d heard the tree go down.

  Atticus took his hand off George’s chest and reached for the branch. He gripped it tightly and readied himself, waiting until the flashlight beam had begun to move away again. Pushing off George, he sprang up, stepped back, and spun around, swinging the branch in a vicious arc, putting everything he had into it.

  The branch passed through empty air. Atticus stumbled and nearly fell down again. He stood teetering above the flashlight, which now lay on the ground. Holding the branch with both hands he looked around wildly for the deputy, expecting at any instant to be shot. But the deputy was gone.

  The hell? Atticus thought.

  Then he heard it. Out in the Wood, straight ahead and much closer than before: The beast. Definitely beast, he told himself, and big—big enough to knock down trees, or yank unwary deputies off their feet—but stealthy now, making just enough noise as it moved through the undergrowth to let Atticus know it was there.

  It was moving away from him. He bent down and scooped up the flashlight, fumbling it; by the time he had it steady the beast was already beyond the range of the beam. Circling towards the road.

  “Atticus,” George said. “Help me up.” Atticus went to him and slung an arm around his shoulders. As they were getting to their feet, the light from the fire dimmed, briefly, a big blur of shadow passing between them and it.

  In the distance, Sheriff Hunt called out: “Eastchurch? . . . Where the hell are you?”

  A long pause. Then a shotgun went off. Atticus and George both saw the muzzle flash. It looked like it was out on the road, the gun firing straight up into the air.

  Then stillness, broken only by the crackle and hiss of the flames.

  Atticus and George exchanged glances. George sighed and shrugged. Atticus turned off the flashlight and led the way back towards the road, trying to move silently.

  They were almost there when Atticus’s foot kicked something hard. A shotgun. Single-barreled. He crouched down and looked around for some other trace of Deputy Eastchurch, and wasn’t really surprised when he didn’t find one. He passed the flashlight to George and picked up the gun and continued to the road.

  The patrol car was now an anonymous blackened hulk pushing flames and smoke into the air. The Packard’s rear hatch and tailgate were open, and by the flickering firelight Atticus could see that the blankets on the mattress in back had been shoved to one side.

  Sheriff Hunt lay belly-down on the ground directly behind the station wagon, bleeding from a gash on the back of his head. Lying beside him, bloodied and dented, was the emergency gas can with which he’d been cold-cocked.

  “Letitia?” Atticus called softly, and she came out of the shadows on the far side of the road, holding the sheriff’s shotgun.

  “What happened to the other two?” she said.

  “Grizzly bear ate them,” Atticus replied, trying not to dwell on the next question: Why them and not us?

  The patrol car coughed out a fresh ball of flame. “Hell,” George said. The heat was intense, and it was something of a marvel that the Packard hadn’t caught fire too. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  While he ran to the front of the station wagon, Letitia and Atticus faced each other over the prone body of the sheriff. Letitia was smiling, self-satisfied. “I told you God sent me along for a reason,” she said.

  Atticus glanced back into the Wood, thinking: I don’t think it’s God that saved us.

  George had the gate open and was standing by the driver’s door. “Come on!” he called to them. “Let’s go!”

  Letitia put the sheriff’s shotgun into the back of the Packard. Atticus picked up the gas can—still half full—and stowed it in back as well. Then, while Letitia ran around to the passenger’s side and climbed in the front seat, he stood over the sheriff, holding Deputy Eastchurch’s shotgun, and asked himself another question.

  “Atticus!” George said. “Come on!”

  “Hell with it,” Atticus said. He slid the shotgun into the Packard beside the other one and climbed in after it. George started the engine.

  Atticus had pulled the tailgate shut and was about to close the hatch when he saw the other car. It was back at the bend in the road, its engine and headlights off, only visible because of the flames from the burning wreck reflecting off its silver skin.

  George stepped on the gas. Atticus lost his balance and nearly tumbled out over the tailgate. By the time he’d caught himself they’d already started around another curve and the only thing visible was the fading flicker of the fire. In another moment, that was gone too.

  Atticus opened his eyes to gray light and morning mist. He sat up stiffly, feeling broken bits of glass on the seat beneath him. George was asleep behind the wheel, head tipped back and snoring, and Letitia lay in back wrapped in a blanket.

  Atticus opened his door and got out. The Packard was parked beneath a circle of trees, screened from the road by a tall stand of bushes. Opposite the direction of the road he heard the sound of flowing water. He moved towards it carefully, and pushing through another screen of foliage found himself atop a steep embankment. The stream below was rocky and shallow by the bank but deepened swiftly to a dark central channel.

  Across the water, still half-shrouded in mist, was the farm village described by the census taker. The Shadowbrook curved like a moat around Ardham’s fields, which were divided into plots by low stone walls. The plot directly across from where Atticus stood lay fallow; a herd of goats was grazing on the wild grasses and shoots that grew there. Off to the right in the middle distance, Atticus could see a bridge connecting the Shadowbrook’s two banks.

  North beyond the fields the land rose up to another, higher tier of open ground that held white-walled cottages and, to the left, a group of larger buildings including a steepled church. Higher still, overlooking all else, was the looming pale shape of the manor. Its outline was hazy and indistinct in the mist, but Atticus could see lights shining in several windows.

  There were lights in some of the cottages too, though not as bright. A man came out of one of them and walked down to the fallow field carrying a stool and two metal pails; the goats heard him coming and ran to meet him. Then came a splash off to the left and Atticus saw a woman di
pping a wooden bucket into the stream. The woman was close enough that he could have called to her, but like the goatherd she was white, so instead he did a quiet fade back behind the bushes.

  A hand came down on his shoulder. George. Atticus put a finger to his lips and said softly, “Looks like we found it.” He spread the branches so that George could peer out.

  “Looks like we did,” George said, not sounding enthusiastic. He pulled back, frowning, turned towards the car, then finally looked at Atticus again. “Can I ask you something?”

  “You want to know how we got here?” Atticus thought about it. He remembered driving away from the burning patrol car, remembered a seemingly endless and increasingly dreamlike journey through the dark Wood . . . And remembered waking, moments ago, to gray light and mist.

  “I don’t know,” Atticus said, to George’s frown. “I was going to ask you.”

  They all sat up front, George driving, Letitia in the middle, and Atticus on the passenger’s side holding the revolver in his lap.

  The bridge into Ardham was an arch of moss-covered stone. Iron posts topped with hooks had been set along the sides at intervals. Atticus assumed these were for hanging lights of some kind, though he couldn’t help contemplating other potential uses, particularly for the posts at the center of the span that offered the longest drop. George, perhaps thinking along similar lines, drove quickly to the far side, then had to slam on the brakes when a white man stepped into the Packard’s path.

  The man, who carried a rudimentary fishing pole and a pail full of still-twitching trout, regarded them through the windshield. They waited to see whether he would curse, or yell for help, or reach for a stone, or just swing the pail. In the end he did none of those things, but instead bowed his head, as though in apology, and stepped back to give them the right of way. George was so surprised by this that at first he could only stare, but the fisherman waited patiently, eyes downcast, for him to get the car in gear.

  They drove on. The road forked, one branch leading west among the cottages and the other continuing uphill. They went up. At the top of the incline the road, now graded with crushed gravel, became a curved drive in front of the manor house.