What Price Gory?

by West, Terry M.

  Cecil was a grease monkey, but he was consigned mostly to oil changes and air filter replacements. His daddy owned the garage, and wasn’t that impressed with his son’s work ethics or abilities. Cecil was sometimes allowed to hold the droplight while his more seasoned coworkers dirtied their hands on carburetors and transmissions.

  Bubba was a bouncer at the Busty and Lusty topless club in Forth Worth. Bubba was a big pussy cat, but he looked intimidating as hell at six foot three and over three hundred pounds. Bubba generally worked weekends when the Busty and Lusty was extra crowded. He was paid fairly, but he put an awful lot of his salary into video games and fast food. His job was an easy one. All he had to do was stand there, scowl and look big. Occasionally he was called upon to manhandle somebody. But it didn’t happen often. Bubba still complained about his job an awful lot, though.

  Habits aside, the boys still had their minor cash flow problems; but they were earning some extra funds tonight. And they weren’t being called on to do much of anything except stand around; an old hat for Bubba. They were sure they could manage the task well.

  Cecil and Bubba were on their way to the old Reynolds property. Cecil drove a weather-beaten 1975 F-150 Ford pick up down the 287 toward Cowtown. He tapped the steering wheel as he sang Family Tradition.

  The radio was broken, so Bubba had to endure the piercing torture Cecil was handing out. But at least he wasn’t desecrating Johnny Cash anymore.

  “For all that is holy, stop,” Bubba pleaded, at his limit with it. “I know you’re doing this for the simple pleasure of getting a rise out of me. You’ve won. Now take your blue ribbon and shut the hell up already. You couldn’t carry a tune with a bucket.”

  Cecil grinned, his bottom teeth caked with chewing tobacco. “You’re just jealous is all.”

  “Yeah,” Bubba snorted. “I’m jealous of the way you set the trailer park dogs to crying when you try to sing. They’d blow their heads off, if they could.”

  Cecil laughed good-naturedly.

  “Why don’t you replace that radio? Real music would be nice every once in awhile. You got a heap of problems with this vehicle, man. The gas gauge is busted. The body is starting to rust. Your tires are bald. You should fix it up. You are a certified auto technician, after all,” Bubba nagged him.

  Cecil shrugged. “Who’s got the time?” Bubba didn’t know the truth. The most Cecil could do for this vehicle was feed it fresh oil.

  “Like a barber with a bad haircut, I’ll tell you what,” Bubba said, shaking his head and staring out into the dark. It wasn’t your usual night out there, he realized. You could almost taste it on the air.

  It was the night before Halloween. It was known by diverse names in other parts of the country. Mischief Night. The Devil’s Night. Cabbage Night. The boys didn’t really have a name for it. Though it was associated mainly with kids egging front doors or wrapping trees and houses in toilet paper, the boys knew it was still considered a mighty powerful and magic night by the superstitious. Storm clouds brewed in the dark sky, as if aware of the night’s reputation and potential.

  Of course, the night was nothing to Cecil and Bubba except for an opportunity to make some much needed cash. They had stopped egging doors near or on Halloween a long time ago. But Bubba suddenly thought better of the night for a different reason entirely.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, his big feet getting chilly all of a sudden. “Not after that thing with Rosalita.”

  Cecil groaned. Rosalita Perez was an elderly Hispanic woman who was slightly crazy. They had gotten into a dust-up with her last Saturday.

  Cecil and Bubba were at the Cherokee Lounge, their favorite stomp, tying one on. Rosalita had come in to warm her bones and have a snort before closing time. She had tied her pit bull, Crackers, to a tree near the entrance of the parking lot. It was a good distance away from the establishment because the son of a bitch was vicious; Rosalita kept the dog for protection. Cecil and Bubba were backing out of the Cherokee Lounge parking lot, drunk as skunks, and they had rolled over Crackers, right in front of Rosalita who had come to liberate the dog and go back home to the section eight apartment she rented.

  Rosalita, who had long claimed gypsy blood in her veins, swore a curse against them right there on the spot. Bubba remembered the words:

  “You will be plagued by the strange and evil until the end of your days,” he recited them out loud again as a reminder to Cecil.

  Rosalita had topped off the curse by giving the boys the middle finger and spitting in their direction; it had been crude, but it was still an effective seal on it, Bubba was convinced.

  “Don’t go on about that again,” Cecil said. He picked up an empty Styrofoam coffee cup from the cup holder between the seats and emptied his chaw into it. “There ain’t no such thing as a curse.”

  “I don’t know, man. She looked pretty mystical and serious about the business,” Bubba believed.

  “She flipped us off and spit at us,” Cecil said incredulously. “I don’t think that’s how curses go. Not professional ones, anyway. She was just drunk and pissed.”

  “It still sent a shiver down my spine,” Bubba said, illustrating by quivering his shoulders.

  “Well, if she was that all powerful, I don’t think she’d be living at that apartment complex she calls home. Have you seen the place? It’s a dangerous shithole. I think she’d use that mumbo jumbo to whip up a nicer place to live, if there was real magic in her. I know I would. Shit, I’d voodoo me up a mansion.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But curses are still things I take seriously,” Bubba said, suddenly distracted off the topic by his growing hunger. He opened and dug into the glove compartment, scrounging for food.

  Cecil noticed Bubba’s heavy fingers circling around. “What are you looking for?” Cecil asked.

  “We got anymore of that jerky left?”

  Cecil shook his head.

  Bubba frowned and shut the glove compartment.

  Cecil squinted at the dark road. “Where is this place?” he asked, digging the directions out of his jacket pocket.

  Bubba took the cocktail napkin from Cecil and unfolded it. “It’s not easy to find.”

  “We’re making some easy money tonight, my friend,” Cecil said with a dirty smile. “A hundred bucks each to watch over this guy in a haunted house. It’s a bunch of nonsense, but I’ll take his cash.”

  “At least we ain’t doing it on Halloween, ‘cause that’s when the spirits come out in full force. It’s their night. And I’m gun shy enough with this curse business and all,” Bubba said, studying the directions scribbled on the cocktail napkin in the dark. He lit a lighter to see them better; the interior light was broken as well.

  Cecil grunted. “You really believe in that garbage, don’t you? Curses. Ghosts.”

  “There are things that can’t be explained by man or his science,” Bubba said, deciphering the directions.

  “Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but it’s all a bunch of horse hockey and there ain’t no Santa Claus either.”

  “Well, who knows? Maybe tonight will change your mind.” Bubba said.

  “Doubtful. It ain’t Christmas Eve,” Cecil shot back.

  “I kind of hope we see something. Just to prove you wrong.”

  Cecil hooted. “Bubba, you’re the biggest chicken shit alive when it comes to that stuff. You leave the lights on after we watch horror movies.”

  “One time, and that flick was scary as hell,” Bubba said, motioning up the road. “Take the next exit and turn right.”

  Cecil took the exit and turned down an unmarked and unnamed country road, all but lost to time. They were swallowed by solid darkness, the headlights bouncing off of the thick brush on either side of the rough dirt road.

  “This is what you call the high and hard sticks, my friend,” Cecil said, keeping a safe speed over the bumpy road.

  Bubba sighed, still not sure what they were heading toward. He remembered their meeting with
Conrad Woods the other night.

  It was at the Busty and Lusty club, and Bubba had been working so Cecil had done the negotiating. Conrad was a man both of the boys had met at the club. He had struck them as the tight-assed metro sexual kind, and they had figured him just another sexually repressed horn dog; like most of the customers who brought sweaty dollar bills to the place. They eventually learned that Conrad Woods was a man from the East Coast who called himself a parapsychologist. He was investigating the famed Reynolds house, thought to be the one of the most haunted houses in the Dallas/Forth Worth area. Busty and Lusty had seemed like an odd place to conduct their business, but they had while Cecil and Conrad both got their laps swept by asses and Bubba did his job at the door.

  Their task was simple. They just had to look out for Conrad while he conducted his investigation. It was decided that the investigation would be done on the 30th, as the Reynolds house was being rented out to a religious organization that was hosting a chaperoned high school party there on Halloween night.

  Cecil and Bubba had never been to the house. But it was a miracle anyone ever found the place, as far out in the wild as it was.

  “I wish we had eaten before we left,” Bubba said, patting his empty belly. “Don’t think there’ll be much food where we’re heading.”

  Cecil snickered. “Is that all you think about, man? Food?”

  “No,” Bubba said, defensively. “I think about pussy every now and again, too.”

  “Well, keep eating like you do, and you won’t be able to find your pecker if you do find a woman who’ll have you,” Cecil advised, navigating carefully. The road was getting worse.

  “Hey, now. Plenty of women would go for me,” Bubba said, a little hurt.

  “We ain’t counting circus freaks,” Cecil joked.

  Bubba held up a middle finger, wondering if he could curse Cecil with it himself. “Sit and rotate, man.”

  “Come on, you know I’m just bustin’,” Cecil said.

  “Well, you really know how to hurt a guy. Not all of us can eat whatever we want and not gain an ounce,” Bubba whined. “My momma always said you had a tape worm thirty feet long.”

  Cecil was the same size he had been his senior year of high school. He even wore his old leather jacket from his high school days that night, because if he was hired on as muscle, he was going to look the part.

  Bubba, on the other hand, looked like he did all of the time. He wore a flannel shirt that was a size too big so he would look thinner and ratty jeans. And those boots of his needed either a shining or the trash can.

  Cecil loved Bubba like a brother. Hell, that’s why he teased him so often; he just wished Bubba could stop being so damn sensitive about his weight and drop a few pounds. The least he could do was lay off of the fried foods. The fool fried everything.

  They had gone on around ten more miles or so in silence- Bubba was stewing- when they saw the light. It popped through the thick brush and was less than a hundred feet or so on their right. It was the porch lights of a white, rectangular two-story colonial home. Large European columns supported a second story terrace. There was a row of windows, unvarying in size, on the second story that had very ornamental and expensive shutters. Two carved columns bracketed the tall entrance doors and extended to the top floor. A cherub sculpture was perched above the twin doors. The grass around the house was short and neat and the shrubs were all trimmed, indicating that someone still cared for the place.

  It was the most beautiful property either of them had ever laid eyes on.

  They spotted a white rental van pulled to the side of the house.

  “Must be it,” Cecil muttered, pulling in close to the van.

  Bubba drank in the place and whistled in appreciation. “Wow, man. What a house. I could hang my hat, here.”

  They jumped when Conrad appeared at the driver’s side window and rapped on it.

  Cecil rolled down the window angrily. “Christ, man. Don’t ever do that again, Conrad,” Cecil barked.

  “I damn near shit myself,” Bubba threw in over Cecil.

  Conrad laughed softly. “Sorry about that. But take my word for it; I’m the least scary thing out here. Good to see you, Cecil. Turner.”

  As they got out of the truck, Bubba said, “No one calls me Turner, ‘cept my mama. You can call me Bubba.”

  “Okay… Bubba.” It didn’t quite roll off of Conrad’s tongue and sounded rather awkward in his mouth.

  Conrad wore a dark turtleneck sweater and matching slacks. He was a well-groomed man in his early forties with slightly receding light brown hair and a van dyke on his upper lip and chin. His sculptured nails and soft hands had never been soiled with work. That much was sure.

  He shook their hands and motioned for them to follow him to the van.

  “I’ll show you the mobile lab,” he explained.

  Conrad opened the side van door and showed off the equipment inside. Among special cameras and other devices that neither of the boys recognized, there was a computer set up on a small table. A large monitor showed an array of rooms under surveillance. It looked like the security television at the liquor store, Bubba observed.

  “We’re all set up inside. I’ve been placing cameras in position all day. These are feeding into a digital video recorder, so I can study the footage later for evidence.”

  “Evidence of what?” Cecil asked.

  “Apparitions. Items moving of their own accord. Strange lights. Things of that nature,” Conrad said. He closed up the van and stepped up on the porch. “Let’s get inside and I will give you both the lay of the land.”

  Cecil and Bubba followed him into the house. They stepped into the huge formal room. The first thing Cecil and Bubba saw was the massive chandelier above their heads. There was also a sweeping staircase leading to the upper floor. The house was stripped of furniture and other possessions. The only thing present was a small folding table with more of Conrad’s equipment on it.

  Conrad caught Bubba admiring the place. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Bubba?” The name sounded a little more comfortable in Conrad’s mouth now.

  Bubba nodded. “It’s a hell of a place.”

  “It’s awful empty,” Cecil noticed.

  “This place has been vandalized so much over the years. The pieces that weren’t damaged or stolen were moved to storage units. The house is being meticulously restored. The plan is to repopulate the place with its personal effects once all of the repairs are done and the current owner hires a caretaker for the house,” Conrad explained.

  “Looks all right to me,” Bubba said, admiring the polished marble floor in the formal room.

  “Not all of the rooms are as nice as this one,” Conrad said. “Some are gutted and awaiting restoration.”

  “So what’s the story with this place?” Cecil asked.

  “You don’t know the story behind this house?” Conrad replied, surprised. He had thought the legend common knowledge. Especially to those who dwelled near it.

  Bubba and Cecil both shook their heads. Both wondered if they were in the minority.

  “This house was built in the early nineteen hundreds by the Harrows family. It stayed in that family until it was sold to the Reynolds clan in the forties. Daniel Reynolds came from a long line of land tycoons. He and his young wife, Hattie Mae, moved into this house, along with Daniel’s two brothers, Andrew and Clifford.

  “It turns out that Daniel was somewhat of a sexual deviant. He shared Hattie Mae with his brothers and sometimes visiting friends and acquaintances. He apparently got off on watching his wife with other men.”

  Cecil smiled to himself, remembering that money he had made off of the invalid and his wife.

  “Hattie Mae, however, was not very pleased with this arrangement,” Conrad continued. “It was rumored that her ancestors were witches that had somehow escaped the Salem trials and the magic in her blood attracted the attention of Satan himself. Hattie Mae made a deal with the devil and every man who had touched
her died from a horrible affliction. Her husband and his brothers were the first to go, dying from a disease that the doctors could not figure out. Of course, the sickness did not befall Hattie Mae or the help.

  “Suspicions arose and Hattie Mae was put on trial. She was eventually exonerated. Not long after, she killed herself. She hung herself from the second story balcony,” Conrad said, motioning up the staircase. “But then Satan called in his marker, as he is quick to do, and Hattie Mae became what is known as a succubus.”