by Edward Lee
"Looks like three bodies too."
Balls shined his own light in and made the same observation. Two women and a man, it appeared, all bound and gagged. Balls took a breath against the stench and hauled the first woman out by the ankles.
"Fuck."
The body flopped to the ground. A brunette in her twenties apparently, cut-off shorts and a halter. She would've been a looker... if she hadn't been dead for several hours. Her skin had turned to the hue of spoiled cream, while the undersides of her arms and legs were a disturbing purple-black.
"That there's a waste'a prime splittail," Balls related. He pulled the corpse's top up to gander the breasts and blue nipples, just for good measure. "But I'se wonder what the fuck's this all about."
"Looks like we picked the wrong U-Haul ta rip off," Dicky offered. "Shee-it, I thought it'd be full'a old junk or something. Instead, it's full'a dead bodies."
"Not quite dead," a muffled voice floated out from the dark compartment.
Dicky and Balls nearly keeled over.
"The fuck!" Dicky yelled.
Balls hauled the next body out onto the ground.
FLUMP!
A man in a white shirt and glasses sluggishly churned on the ground, wrists and ankles twisting against rope bonds. He'd managed to half-remove his gag by the force of his tongue. Balls whipped out his Buck knife and cut the gag fully off.
"Thank God!" the man wheezed.
"You look familiar," Dicky remarked.
"Yeah," Balls added. "Shee-it, you're that dude hangs out at the Crossroads. Barkeep tolt me you was a Writer."
The Writer nodded, face smudged. "That's me, and thank you for rescuing us."
"Us?"
"There's another woman inside. I think she's still alive."
Balls yanked out the third occupant of the U-Haul.
FLUMP!
"Dang!" Dicky railed. "It's that bar ‘ho—"
"Cora!" Balls finished.
All ninety pounds of her squirmed in the dirt. Her eyes bugged above her gag, which Balls, too, cut off.
"Balls! Dicky! Ya saved us from that awful man!" Her voice shrilled. Balls, Dicky, and the Writer as well all flinched at the tenor of her voice. Nails across slate would've been less annoying.
"What man?" Balls asked.
"Some old philosophical psychopath named ‘Lud," the Writer said. "He conked us both out behind the bar, then tossed us inside. But... when this happened, the U-Haul was hooked up to a red pickup truck."
"It was until we stolt it," Dicky said.
The Writer peered. "Why... would you steal it?"
Balls was wholly aggravated by this new monkey wrench. "We stolt it ta clean out that house," he pointed upward. "But lookin' at the dump now, I doubt there's anything inside to steal."
The Writer took a long look at the Crafter house. "Interesting."
"What's that, Writer?" Balls snapped.
"Well, did you ever read ‘The Purloined Letter' by Edgar Allan Poe?"
"No."
The Writer frowned. "The moral of the story is that things of the most value can be effectively hidden in plain sight. That house, for instance."
"What about it, Writer?" Dicky urged.
"From the outside, indeed, it appears to be an abandoned dump. But aren't the windows curious? They look brand-new. Why install brand-new windows in an uninhabitable hulk?"
Balls and Dicky peered. Then they cut the bonds at the Writer's and Cora's ankles, hoisted them up, and they all approached the leaning house.
"Damn if he ain't got good eyes," Dicky said, studying a bow window with his flashlight. "It does look brand-new." He squinted at the corner. "Some winder company named Lexan."
The Writer laughed. "It's not a company, it's a composite material—bullet-proof glass, in other words. It's indestructible, which proves even more curious. Lexan windows are as effective as iron bars, and very expensive. The owner of this property obviously wants people to think it's not worth breaking into, yet he installs Lexan to insure that they don't."
Balls muttered, "Indestructer-able?" and then the Writer jumped back and Cora shrieked when Balls pulled the big Webley pistol from his belt. "Ain't nothin' indestructer-able if'n I say it ain't!"
BAM!
Everyone jumped an inch, and Cora shrieked even more annoyingly loud. When the smoke cleared...
"Dang," Dicky muttered, scratching at the window pane. The big bullet barely scuffed the surface.
"Looks like the Writer's right," Balls admitted.
Then Cora shrieked again.
"Shut up, girl!" Balls yelled.
"L-look! There's a face lookin' at us in the next winder!"
They walked over, if a bit cautiously. Balls shined his light.
"Ain't no face. It's a—"
"A bust," the Writer said.
"Bust?" Dicky scoffed. "Ya mean like titties?"
"No, no... "
The curtains of every window in the house had been drawn but this one sported an overlooked gap, and in the gap, indeed, a face peered out. A marble face.
"Think of it as a statue head," the Writer said. "It's propped up behind the window, for decoration." When he looked closer, he went "Hmmm... "
"What'choo, hmmin' about?" Balls demanded.
"It appears to be Italian marble. Very expensive."
"Well hot dog!" Balls hooted. "Tooler weren't lyin'!"
The Writer said, "But even more curious is the brass plate beneath the bust. It says Phillipe Marquand, 1674-1728. Marquand, if I remember correctly, was a famous French medium who is said to have been able to communicate with the dead."
Balls, Dicky, and Cora all gaped at him.
"And this, over here," and the Writer led them up the front steps onto the ruined porch. "I almost didn't notice it, due to the torn screens. Shine your light up there, sir."
Balls did, and almost gasped.
Above the front door was a half-circle composed of ornate stained glass.
"It's called a tympanum. See the face?"
They all squinted further.
"Well, dang if'n he ain't right," Cora said.
"Don't that beat all?" Dicky added.
The mosaic formed a face below which ornate letters read ALEXANDER SETON.
"Who the fuck's he?" Balls asked.
"The most notorious of all alchemists," the Writer explained. "In 1604, Seton is said to have turned lead into gold."
"Bullshit," Balls scoffed, but after another moment of staring at the puzzle-piece face, he turned away.
The Writer smiled, amused. "Looks like the house you gentlemen picked to break into... belongs to a dedicated occultist."
"Occult?" Dicky asked, a spike in his voice. "You mean, like, devil-worship'n shit like that?"
"Um-hmm... "
"Fuck this, let's leave!" Cora shrieked again. "And, Balls. Come on! Untie my hands!"
"I'd appreciate the same," the Writer said.
"Stay here, both'a ya," Balls ordered, and took Dicky down off the porch out of earshot.
Dicky's bulbous face was pink with stress. "Shee-it, Balls, this caper's gone all fucked up."
"Tell me about it, Dicky. Just our luck to rip off a fuckin' U-Haul that's gots two people in it who can identer-fy us."
"And this fuckin' house, man. What's this guy talkin' 'bout devil-worshipers' turnin' lead inta gold'n shit? I cain't make heads'ner tails'a this."
"Neither can I, Dicky." Balls rubbed his hands together. "But at least we'se gonna make a score. You heard that Writer dude. Italian marble," but—oh, goodness, he'd pronounced the word Italian as "Eye-taller-un." "Bet Crafter's house is et up with it, so's we'se gonna take it off his hands, and shit knows what else's in there."
"Yeah, man, shore, but—" Dicky cast a fretting glance toward the porch. "What we gonna do with them two?"
"Well, I reckon we'll make 'em help us load the U-Haul, and then I reckon we'll kill 'em."
(IV)
The Writer found his existential re
solve being tested, yet at the same time he found he had passed the test. The fact was, by the greatest fluke, he'd been accidentally commandeered by two redneck thieves in the process of committing a criminal act; hence, his future looked rather dim, for more than likely once the criminal act was completed, these two characters would have little choice but to dispose of him.
On spiritual grounds, the Writer was... okay with that, for he'd lived a full and aesthetically enriched life. His only regret?
I'll never be able to finish White Trash Gothic...
"Those two crackers are gonna up'n kill us," Cora whispered to him.
"Believe me, miss. Even the most brief reflection has illuminated me to that probability."
Suddenly, the skinny wreck of a girl looked doleful. "Ya know? I gotta step sister turns tricks up in bumfuck South Dakota where the meth is all over the fuckin' place and cheap. She tolt me I could come up there'n turn tricks with her'n we'd have a great time, man. But I never went." She looked around, more at the predicament than the location. "Shore as shit wish I did."
"Let's look at the glass as though it were half full, not half empty, Miss," the Writer advised.
"Whuh—what glass?"
The Writer sighed. "Let's not give up hope. We may be able to get out of this."
The skinny girl frowned. "What we gonna do?"
"It seems logical to me that for as long as we make ourselves useful to them, we extend our lives, and in that time... an opportunity for escape may strike."
She fidgeted in place. "Aw, man, I fuckin' hope so 'cos if I don't get me some crystal soon, I'll start throwin' up my brains... "
The comment shocked the Writer. "Let's, uh... hope that doesn't happen."
"That's what jones-ing from meth feels like, man. Ya start upchuckin'‘n it feels like yer brains're gonna fly out'cher mouth, and ya wish they would 'cos it's so bad, ya wish ya could just up'n die."
"Ah... how regrettable... "
As the Writer tried to think of a possible solution, something nicked his attentions: the door-knocker. It had been mounted on the ornate door's center stile, an oval of tarnished bronze depicting a morose half-formed face. Just two eyes, no mouth, no other features. He at once considered the potential literary symbol: Man, human features eroded by a corrupt universe, leaving him speechless. The existential mask...
"And who was that awful guy who knocked us out in the first place?"
The Writer blinked away the abstraction, feeling spiritually drained. "Oh, the old man at the bar, ‘Lud? He's a Christian phenomenalist, if you can believe it."
"Huh?"
"Shhh. Here they come."
The one called Dicky trudged up the porch steps, poker-faced, while the one called Balls... came bearing a long, stout piece of polished wood.
"Step aside, Writer. I'se gonna bust that front door down with this here hickory pick-handle. It's one'a the few thangs my shit-head Daddy left to me that weren't worth less than a rummie's shorts." Balls poised the handle with authority. "Oughta have that door open in 'bout two swipes."
Forty swipes later, and after an undo cacophony, the door finally split down the middle. The Writer winced at the noise, then winced harder when he noticed tufts of hair sticking out of Cora's armpits. He couldn't decide which was more annoying.
"Jaysus!" Dicky exclaimed. "That's one tough door!"
"Shee-it," Balls muttered. He sat down against the porch rail, to rest after the exertion.
"More of the same," the Writer offered. "The deception of appearances: a security door on a house that looks worthless." The Writer looked directly at Balls. "You might want to pause to take heed."
"What'cha mean?"
The Writer shrugged. "Expensive windows and an equally expensive security door? The owner may well have more precautions waiting inside."
"Ya mean like maybe a security guard or somethin'?" Dicky's pea-brain speculated.
"Sure. Or some other counter-measure."
Balls wasn't affected by the possibility. One hand hefted the pick-handle, the other hefted the pistol. "Here's yer counter-measures, Writer. Now... Inside. You two first."
The Writer and Cora led on, Dicky and Balls backing them up with flashlights. One of them flicked a wall switch but nothing happened.
"Shee-it. Crafter must'a had the ‘leck-tricity turnt off."
Flashlight beams crisscrossed over the ornate foyer and sitting room, carving slices of more statues and busts, and brooding faces that seemed to scowl at them from framed paintings.
"This place is creepy as shit!" Cora whined. "And... I need some meth!"
"Shut up," Balls told her.
"There are plenty of candles," the Writer observed of the many globed candle sticks along a spacious fireplace mantle and various wall sconces.
"Daggit!" Balls complained. "I ain't got a lighter."
"Me's neither," Dicky admitted.
The Writer sighed through a cringing hope. "Well, it just so happens that I do and, Mr. Balls? I would be forever in your debt if you'd cut my bonds. Naturally I give you my word I won't try to escape. I'd be more than thrilled to light all these candles and—to be perfectly honest, sir?" The Writer's shoulders slumped. "I'm dying for a cigarette."
Evidently Balls appreciated being addressed as "mister" and "sir." He snapped open his Buck and cut the Writer's lashes.
"You have my unflagged gratitude."
Balls grinned, showed the pistol again. "Any funny business and I'se'll blow a hole in yer back bigger than Dicky's head."
The Writer nodded. "I have virtually no doubts as to your credulity."
"I like the way he talks, huh, Dicky?" Balls noted.
"Dang straight. Must'a gone ta collerge."
"Harvard," the Writer elucidated. "Not just any college." He lit a cigarette, then proceeded to light the candles about the sumptuous room.
"Do mine now, please!" Cora pleaded. She was hopping up and down with her back to Balls, showing her lashed wrists. "Please, Mr. Balls, sir! Pretty please!"
"Shut up," Balls smirked, then rammed his bootsole against her rump and sent her toppling across the room. "And quit whinin' else I'll sit on yer face'n shit in yer mouth while's I'se crankin' holes in yer belly with my manual drill."
Dicky blurted a laugh.
Once the Writer had lit a dozen or so candles, all eyes roved the sitting-room, in awe.
Someone said, "Shee-it my drawers."
The room's candle-lit darkness seemed alive with glittering. Several chandeliers hung overhead, catching the light, while from nooks and shelves sat more crisp-cut crystal. Many of the candlesticks were of silver and gold, and much of the furniture—hundreds of years old—was inlaid with more shiny gems. Even some of the Iranian throw rugs were stitched with myriad gemstones.
"It's all of Crafter's hair-looms," Dicky whispered.
"Just like Tooler said was here... "
Even Cora, dragging herself up with her hands behind her back, looked stunned at all the treasures about the room.
"This Crafter man," said the Writer. "He's quite a collector." He stooped to inspect a William and Mary table, and several armoires and rare-wood chairs. Many pieces were crafted from inlaid satinwood, mahogany, and teak. Half-tables and vase stands sported neoclassical motifs and fine hand-carved traceries. A serpentine settee that should've been in a museum sat mid-room, and along the walls were window seats with scrolled arms and tiny servant bells dangling. "Most of the furniture's Hepplewhite and Sheraton. There's a fortune in this room alone," and next the Writer perused more of the busts and paintings. "Hmmm."
"What's that, Writer?" Balls asked.
"Just like outside. Alexander Seton and Phillipe Marquand are in appropriate company. Two different portraits of Cagliostro, one of de Sade, busts of Ludwig of Flanders and Cristoph Vocolai—all well-known practitioners of the occult arts: satanism, black magic, sorcery."
Balls frowned through the following hush, which was then severed by still another loud whine on the p
art of Cora, "Let's get out'a this shitty place! It looks haunted."
Balls pointed a finger. "Cora. If'n ya say one more thing, I'll punch ya in yer peter-sucker."
"But—"
WHAP!
Balls' fist smacked Cora right in the lips. She squealed and went reeling.
"That means keep it shut."
Dicky's big pumpkin face looked around with some apprehension. "This joint is kind'a creepy, Balls."
"You, too? Shee-it," Balls smirked. "I don't give a rat's dick 'bout a bunch'a paintings'n statue heads. Let's git ta work, and you—" He reached down toward Cora. "Git off yer ass and help."
Cora lay dazed and bloody-mouthed at the foot of the fireplace. She kind of flopped there with her hands behind her back, but then Balls grabbed one of her tit-flaps through her halter and, using it as a handle of sorts, lifted her to her feet.
Cora squealed again.
"Guess we should check the rest'a this floor, then look upstairs."
"And out back, too, I'd advise," the Writer said, peeking out a heavily draped window. "Looks like a garage in the back property and, well, naturally a creepy-looking graveyard."