by Ronald Kelly
Epilogue
Several weeks had passed since that hellish night on Craven’s Mountain. It was past midnight when Boyd Andrews drove his red Ford pickup up the winding mountain road. It wasn’t his first trip back, however. He had returned several times following the demise of Grandpappy Craven.
Boyd had had a hell of a time trying to explain the whole thing to Jay Mathers at the Green Hollow police department. Boyd had accompanied Mathers and Officer King to the mountain and carefully covered his tracks the best he could. He blamed the entire reign of terror on Dudley Craven, and fortunately, the evidence uncovered during their investigation seemed to match up with Boyd’s story rather nicely. They found the body of Chief Watts in the trunk of the wrecked Lincoln, as well as the charred remains of Wendell Craven and the Hughs family in the burnt-out structure of the old church. When they reached the top of the mountain, they found very little left of the Craven house. Mathers and King dug through the smoldering ruins but discovered next to nothing. They did find evidence of explosives, which confirmed Boyd’s story of Dud’s booby-trapping the house with dynamite.
All in all, Boyd claimed that he and Caleb had discovered that Dud was holding his children hostage, and they had gone there to rescue them. The carpenter had received a stern lecture on taking the law into one’s own hands, but no charges were filed against him. Apparently, Mathers and King were glad that the whole ordeal was over and that most of the victims had been accounted for.
Now, in the dead of night, Boyd drove his truck to the peak of Craven’s Mountain, his thoughts heavy with the tragedy of what had happened there only a short time ago. The dark hollows and forests held no menace to him now, only an air of deep sadness. After his trip with the two lawmen, he had told himself that he would never set foot on the mountain again. Yet he had failed to keep his word. Again and again he found himself drawn to the abandoned homestead where Grandpappy Craven had taken refuge.
Boyd reached his destination. He braked to a stop in front of the ruins of the old house and stared at the scattering of blackened timbers for a long moment. He thought of Caleb Vanleer and what a good friend he had been. Caleb had deserved a better death than the one he had suffered. Upon their search, all they found of the mountain man were his coonskin cap and his Bowie knife.
Sadly, he turned his eyes from the ruins, and putting his truck back into gear, drove past the few remaining outbuildings to the big graywood barn.
He parked in front of the double doors and got out. It was April now, and the nights were much warmer. He stood there for a long moment, listening. Crickets sang in the high grass. Far away, on the mountain, he heard the lonesome call of a whip-poor-will.
Boyd straightened his jacket, then opened the barn door and stepped inside.
He stared into the darkness, searching.
“I’m here,” she said.
Boyd turned toward the voice. Joan stood in the shadows, her face a pale oval in the darkness. He felt a twinge of regret at the sight of her. He recalled that moment of indecision in the upstairs bedroom of the Craven house; that moment when his heart had taken control and misplaced his shot, sending the wooden slug into the wall, instead of through his wife’s chest.
Joan studied him with concern. “How are you feeling, Boyd?”
“The ribs are just about healed up,” he told her. He raised a hand to the white tape that covered his nose. “After I get rid of this, I’ll be back to my handsome self again.” He started toward her. “How are you, Joan?”
“The same,” she said, her eyes full of misery. “Hungry.”
Boyd nodded grimly. “Yeah.” He turned and nodded toward the truck. “I brought something that might help.”
Joan looked through the barn door. In the bed of the truck was a cattle cage bearing a young Holstein calf. She regarded Boyd gratefully. “Thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do,” he replied.
The woman stared at him for a moment. “How are the kids?”
“They’re doing okay,” said Boyd. “They miss their mother, but other than that, they’re fine.”
A painful expression shone in Joan’s eyes and he knew that she yearned to see them, to just hold them one more time. But she didn’t ask to. Both of them knew it was impossible. It was better to let them think she was dead and leave it at that.
“Well,” said Boyd, at a loss for words, “I’d best bring that calf in for you.”
Before he could go, Joan took a step toward him. “Boyd?”
“Yes?” he asked, his heart pounding.
“Come here for a minute, Boyd.” When she noticed his reluctance, she smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t bite.”
He smiled back, but there was no humor in the gesture. He walked to his wife and stood a few feet from her.
“Hold me, Boyd,” she said softly.
He stared at her and saw that ungodly hunger in her eyes. But it was not for him. That was why he had brought the calf, just as he’d brought chickens and rabbits before. Slowly he took her in his arms. She felt rigid and cold, but he tried to ignore it. He closed his eyes and remembered how she had once felt against him—soft, and warm, and tender.
They held one another for a long time. Then Joan whispered in her husband’s ear. “Would you kiss me, Boyd?” she asked. “Just this once.”
Boyd felt himself ache for her. He drew back and stared into her pallid face. There was love in those bloodshot eyes, a love he knew would always be there. He lowered his face and granted her wish. He fought off a shudder of loathing. Her lips felt like slivers of dead meat against his.
After the kiss, they held each other tightly, feeling only one heart beating between them. The other was cold and still.
“Do it for me, Boyd,” she whispered gently. “Please, do it tonight.”
Boyd stiffened. He remembered how the revolver had felt in his hand, as well as the expression of acceptance in Joan’s eyes. “I can’t,” he finally told her. “Not yet.” Tenderly, he pulled away from her. “I love you.”
He could see disappointment in her face, but she managed a smile. “I love you, too.”
Boyd went outside and unloaded the calf. As he tied it to the handle of the barn door, he glanced into the darkness of the structure one last time. Joan was gone, hidden deep in the shadows. Somewhere inside, he could hear her crying. The sound broke his heart, and for a second he considered giving in to her request. But he couldn’t. He knew that he was being selfish, but he couldn’t bring himself to do what should have been done in the first place. Losing her would be like losing his own soul, and he wasn’t prepared to deal with such a loss. Not yet, at least.
Boyd walked back to his truck and opened the door. Before getting in, he reached underneath his jacket and took something from the waistband of his jeans. He stared at the stake in his hand and sighed. Then he placed it beneath the seat of the truck, where he always kept it.
Maybe next time, he told himself.
He climbed into the truck and stared at the barn for a moment. Then he started the engine and headed back down the mountain for town.
The Wanderer of Twilight Mountain
Author’s Note: After writing Blood Kin, it occurred to me that very little history concerning exactly how Grandpappy Craven contracted the curse of vampirism was included in the original novel. Considering that Grandpappy was something of a Bible-thumping Don Juan, I figured he was bitten—not by the love bug—but by one of his many sexual conquests. His journeys as a traveling preacher, which took him up and down the rugged chain of the Appalachian Mountains, from West Virginia to Northern Georgia, would have undoubtedly placed him in contact with a number of different kinds of people. Given the rich folklore and superstition that is common among the rural folks of the Blue Ridge and Smoky Mountains, it’s likely that he may have come across a vampire or two along the way.
— RK
This story is dedicated to Michelle Garza, a good friend, a faithful fan, and an exceptional writer of the macabre
.
Yeah… I know it’s werewolves you have the hots for, but couldn’t you find a teeny-tiny place in your lycanthropic heart for an old-school, senior citizen blood-sucker?
From the journal of Reverend Josiah Craven
March 9th, 1898
My travels have taken me into the heart of the Appalachians. I left my home on Craven’s Mountain with only a bedroll, meager provisions, my mule, Winnie, and the Good Book.
Much of the terrain is wilderness, devoid of human habitation. The dove awakens me in the morning and the whip-poor-will lulls me to sleep at night. I have seen possum, raccoon, and squirrel aplenty. A black bear crossed our path once, but at a distance, and Winnie remained steady and mercifully silent. The bruin passed onward, never aware of our presence.
When I come across small mountain towns, or even solitary structures, they are inhabited by heathens. Many have never heard the name of Jesus… or some have, but do not care. Ignorance abounds, almost proudly, amid these dwellings. But my calling takes me beyond the comfort and familiarity of my own land and my own people. Like the apostle Paul, I must go forth and preach the Gospel… even though the Word is not well-taken in some of these places. I pray daily to the good Lord to grant me patience and understanding in the face of apathy and spiritual resistance, and to place a protective hedge about me in the places where I may be persecuted. I also ask for a strengthening of my own fortitude in matters of sin and the resistance of such.
March 11th
I have always wrestled with Satan in matters of wanton lust. Although I am married with young’uns, sons and daughters, most of them now near maturity, I still burn with desire. During my ministry I come in contact with persons of the female persuasion who are mesmerized by my charisma and submit themselves freely to my needs and affections. In the throes of passion, as we cling nakedly, all goodness leaves me and Old Scratch takes possession of my wits, banishing my resistance and my yearning for purity. At that moment, only the smell, the taste, and the feel of the woman beneath me matters and God and his judgment are forgotten.
Even at home, the fires of desire burn. I have forsaken my wife and have attempted at taking my daughters on occasion. The secretive appeal of taboo copulation drives me from my own bed and into theirs. So far, however, I have not had the opportunity to consummate my intended desires. My wife, Elizabeth, has always discovered my indiscretion before the incestuous act can be performed and hounded me from their midst. But I continue to yearn for them and know, one night, I shall accomplish my objective and partake of their innocence and virginity like a starving man before a banquet.
Shall I burn in Hell for my indiscretions? After each indulgence, I am convicted by the Holy Ghost, yet I do it again and again. Perhaps the fulfillment of my earthly desires is not a committed sin, but a reward for my faithfulness. Perhaps consorting with harlots and whores is apt compensation for spreading the word of God to these common, mountain infidels.
March 13th
My journey has taken me past the Tennessee border, into the wilds of Kentucky.
It is a dismal place. Among these hills and hollows, there is a crippling poverty and cloying ignorance hundreds of years in the making. I have seen children, deformed and mentally deficient, due to inbreeding—father with daughter, brother with sister. Other than coal-mining to the north and west, and factory work in the cities, there are no means with which to earn a living. Those who refuse to venture past their homeland, make due by brewing homemade liquor—moonshine or corn mash—and selling it to local taverns and saloons. Others turn to thievery and the ways of the highwayman. I have yet to encounter one of these ruffians, but have secreted a Colt Navy pistol—left to me by my father—in the event that such an encounter should occur. Winnie has a sensitive nature. If she should detect anyone’s presence on the trail or in the surrounding thicket, I will have ample opportunity to draw the revolver and dissuade a potential attacker from acting inappropriately.
This evening, I suffered in both body and humility.
I had ridden across particularly steep countryside for long hours and both Winnie and I were bone-weary and famished. I rode into a small town named Hickman Corners, intending to find sustenance and a night’s lodging. There was not much to the place: a store, a tavern, a livery stable, and a few crudely-constructed houses. Not a church among them. Perhaps, I thought, I might partake of some vittles and share the good news of my Lord’s gift of salvation in the process. If anyone was of need of it, it was the residents of this backwoods squalor hole.
I put up Winnie at the livery and fed her a measure of oats. Slinging my saddlebags over my shoulder, I crossed the dirt of the street and stepped through the doorway of an establishment called Sanderson’s Tavern. It was constructed of dove-tailed logs and a low-pitched roof adorned with cedar shingles. The interior was shadowy, comforting to some folks, while disconcerting to others. The lamplight was muted by a pall of tobacco smoke from hand-rolled cigarettes and corncob pipes. A long wooden bar ran along the rear wall, with shelves of amber-filled bottles resting upon them… various brands of whiskey and bourbon. Among them set several jars of fluid as clear as spring water; moonshine more than likely, perhaps made by the proprietor, Sanderson, or one of his patrons. Scattered across the sawdust-covered floor were several round tables with hand-carved chairs. To the right of the bar was an open doorway that led to a kitchen. The sizzle and aroma of meat in hot lard came from the adjoining chamber and it made my stomach grumble with yearning.
As I moved toward an empty table near a side wall, I regarded the men who gathered there. Some looked to be common laborers; farmers who toiled the slanted and rocky hillsides, attempting to manage a living from corn or tobacco. Others may have been lumbermen… the type who chopped firewood or sold ties to the railroad to make a few paltry greenbacks. Others in the saloon were less honorable or desirable, the type of mountain ruffian I mentioned before. Two stood at the bar, a spittle-stained spittoon betwixt them, while a gathering of four occupied a table a yard or so from the kitchen door. The men talked loudly and laughed, sharing off-color stories and filthy jokes. An earthen jug sat in the center of the table and they shared it as they played cards. They were a rough lot, to be certain.
I removed my topcoat, which, in turn, revealed my cassock and collarless shirt. This drew looks of appraisal and stares of disapproval from the clientele. I hadn’t sat at the table for more than a minute, when an elderly man with a bald head, shaving-brush mustache, and hang-dog eyes called to me. It was Saunderson, the owner and bartender of the establishment.
“Are you eating or drinking?” he asked.
“Eating,” I replied.
He called a woman’s name—Clementine, like the song—and soon a buxom, young woman with curly red hair and skin the color of fresh milk left the kitchen. She set a dish of boiled peanuts on the gambling table and received a slap on the rump in return from a large man with scars upon his tanned face and a crooked picket of tobacco-stained teeth. She wagged a warning finger at him, then appeared before my table. “May I help you, sir?” she said, taking a scribbling pad from the pocket of her apron. Looking up at her, I found that her eyes were as clear and green as emeralds. She was obviously of Irish stock.
“Meat and potatoes,” I told her. “Bread and butter.”
“Beer? Whiskey?”
My frown of disapproval made her blush. “Tea with sugar,” I requested. “Hot.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, then went off to the kitchen to prepare my meal.
I took my Bible from my saddlebags and, turning to Psalms, laid it upon the tabletop. Several of the men at the gambling table talked in low tones and chuckled. The big man with the scars—the rooster of the roost—simply shuffled his deck and glared at me. I knew the type well; the low man on Lucifer’s totem pole, mean and ornery in a small measure, but not in his own mind. He was also a hater of God and his messengers, thus his undivided and contemptuous attention.
Clementine returned fifteen minute
s later with a plate and a cup in her dainty, but work-calloused hands. The plate bore a brisket of beef with gravy and whole red potatoes, boiled, along with sliced bread and a slab of butter. The cup was filled to the brim with steaming tea the color of horse piss after a rough ride. As she sat them down on the tabletop, my stomach made its self known once again, with a noise like a badger in a tow sack.
I pardoned myself and she laughed. “I’ve heard tummy noises in here before. It’s better than belches and farts.” She cast a baleful glance at the quartet at the far table. Scar-face gave her a lecherous wink, then continued glaring at me.
Before she left, I asked her a question. “My dear, do you know our Lord Jesus Christ and share in His divine gift of everlasting salvation?”
She shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other and looked at my Bible. “Are you a traveling preacher man? The kind who handle rattlesnakes and such?”
I couldn’t help but smile and not only out of amusement. She was a pretty lass. “I neither take up serpents nor partake of poisons,” I said. “To tempt the Lord in acting is utter foolishness. I simply deliver His news of faith and redemption to the masses.”
She looked dumbstruck for a moment, then said “The Masseys live over on Forked Creek. About a half day’s ride east.”
“No, darling.” I took her hand in mine. At first it stiffened, then relaxed as I ran the ball of my thumb across her knuckles. “The masses… the people. If you haven’t yet heard, I would be proud to share it with you.”
“Share what?” she asked, her voice husky. Those cat’s eyes flashed at me and her fingertips curled in the palm of my hand. I’d gotten to her already.
“Clementine!” Saunderson hollered from the drinking counter. “I got hungry men waiting!”
She gave me an apologetic look, then returned to her place in the kitchen.