At that moment, the future loomed before her, dark and foreboding.
Chapter 16
“Yet another ghost seer who claims to have seen Draygan,” Jessica mumbled to herself as she got into the Bronco.
Having just finished her second-to-last interview, she flipped open her notebook and quickly reviewed the notes that she’d taken thus far:
Susan Erskine, Bank Teller, DOB 11/4/70. First saw Draygan on September 28th while walking her dog. The area where she saw the dragon was completely scorched, as if by fire. Subsequently, the witness has developed extraordinary telepathic abilities, able to correctly “guess” the balance of her customers’ checking accounts. Witness gave time of birth as 12:52 a.m.
Chelsea Biggs, Student at Bluefield State College, DOB 3/13/95. While leaving the college library on the night of September 26th, she caught sight of Draygan. She has seen Draygan every night since. Per Ms. Biggs, she now has the ability to communicate with spirit apparitions that dwell in her parents’ 130-year-old home. Ms. Biggs gave her time of birth as 12:17 a.m.
Tyrone Johnson, Computer Programmer, DOB 4/7/78. On the evening of October 1st, Mr. Johnson saw a large winged creature in the vacant lot next to the First Baptist Church. Since the sighting, he has started to compulsively scribble arcane phrases into a notebook, including the phrase, “Two will die in the fast, green water. So sayeth the Beast.” Mr. Johnson was born at 12:39 a.m.
Joseph Whitley, Attorney-at-Law, DOB 7/31/61. To date, Mr. Whitley has not seen Draygan. However, his wife of twenty years, Christine Whitley, told her husband that on the night of September 27th, while driving home from a meeting of the Greenbrier County Historical Society, she saw a large winged beast in the middle of the road. She swerved her vehicle to avoid hitting it. According to Mr. Whitley, his wife arrived home that night visibly upset. The next evening, when Mr. Whitley returned home from his law office, his wife had vanished, “seemingly into thin air,” having taken no belongings with her, not even her wallet. The local police have turned up no clues in the case. While they suspect foul play, the police have ruled out Mr. Whitley as a suspect. Mr. Whitley was born at 3:11 p.m.; his wife at 12:22 a.m.
Jessica contemplatively tapped her finger on the Whitley entry. She’d heard about Christine Whitley’s disappearance almost as soon as it’d happened. Because the Whitleys were a prominent local family, the story was still front page news. Until she’d interviewed Joe earlier today she’d had no idea that his wife claimed to have seen Draygan the day before she went missing.
Flipping her notebook closed, Jessica stuffed it into her canvas tote bag. Clairvoyance, telepathy, channeling—there was no clear pattern to any of the supposed Draygan sightings other than the fact that it all fell into that murky realm of the paranormal.
Skeptic that she was, Jessica wanted to believe that it was a case of mass delusional hysteria. Like that which had occurred in Salem, Massachusetts, during the famous seventeenth-century witch trials. The problem was that no one she interviewed had been delusional. Or hysterical. Except for claiming they’d seen a fire-breathing, flying dragon, everyone she’d spoken with seemed perfectly sane. Perfectly believable. Assuming you were the kind of person who believed in the phantasmagoric.
As she started the ignition, Jessica glanced at the dashboard clock, double-checking that she had enough time to drive out to Gooseneck Holler and conduct her last interview of the day with John Henry Burdette. According to Darlene Malone, Mr. Burdette claimed to have seen Draygan seventy-five years ago, the last time that the dragon came calling in Greenbrier County.
Despite being exhausted, Jessica was in no hurry to go home. The fact that she’d fallen hard for Gideon MacAllister, a man who claimed not only to have seen Draygan but to have mysteriously crossed the boundaries of time, had her in an emotional tailspin.
After spending a restless night trying to untangle her feelings, it had finally occurred to her that maybe she’d permitted Gideon to stay at Highland House out of need. Uncut, undiluted, desperate need. She’d simply had this urge to be wanted by a man and, lo and behold, she’d latched on to the first one who came down the pike. It didn’t matter that he claimed to be a Confederate soldier. Or that he claimed to have once lived at Highland House. Or that he’d even claimed to have seen a fire-breathing dragon. It only mattered that he had two arms, two legs, and the appropriate attachment in between.
Afraid that she might have missed the turn-off, Jessica pulled over to the side of the road and pulled out her map, comparing it with the handwritten directions she’d gotten from Darlene Malone.
Damn. Gooseneck Holler wasn’t on the Rand McNally.
Not one to call it quits, Jessica released the emergency brake and kept on driving down the narrow dirt road. The late-day sun shone through the tangled limbs of poplars and maples, casting eerie shadows onto the desolate stretch of woodland. A mile back, she’d passed a hardscrabble farm, the last outpost of civilization.
Spying a wooden bridge up ahead, she breathed a sigh of relief. Darlene had mentioned a bridge in her directions.
The road narrowed considerably once she’d reached the other side of the bridge, becoming little more than a rutted cow path. Throwing the Bronco into 4-wheel drive, Jessica kept on driving, wondering who in their right mind would choose to live in such an isolated place. On one side of the dirt road clumps of scraggly pines blanketed a steep incline; on the other side the road precipitously dropped away to a creek bed below.
When she finally came to the mouth of Gooseneck Holler, Jessica released her death grip on the steering wheel and cut the ignition. Staggering out of the vehicle, she walked around to the back of the Bronco and retrieved her peace offerings from the cargo hold.
Gifts in hand, she headed into the woods. Dressed in a floral skirt, matching sweater set, and a pair of low-heeled leather pumps, she felt as incongruous as she looked.
About twenty yards down the dirt path, nestled amidst a grove of pawpaw trees with branches heavy with ripe fruit, there was a small log cabin. Unlike the modern cabins favored by hunters and outdoor enthusiasts, this was the kind of cabin once favored by Daniel Boone and colonial frontiersmen. While she was no expert, John Henry Burdette’s cabin appeared to be at least 200 years old.
As she made her approach, the earthy smell of the woods gave way to the tangy smell of wood smoke. The chirp of crickets was drowned out by the ferocious, crazed barking of four dogs, each canine chained to one of the four corners of the cabin. Darlene had mentioned in passing that John Henry was “a little cantankerous”; she’d failed to relay that the octogenarian was an anti-social nutcase.
Trying her level best to ignore the dogs, Jessica stepped up to the porch and deposited her load onto a rickety camp table. Above the front door, there was a horseshoe with a fresh clump of green houseleek attached to it. An amateur herbalist, Jessica knew the ancient Romans believed that houseleek was a safeguard against lightning, thunder, and fire.
Guess ancient West Virginians believe the same thing.
Holding her breath, she rapped on the front door. Long seconds passed with Jessica unable to hear so much as a creaking floorboard inside the cabin. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she saw the green and white gingham curtain that hung at the front window flutter ever so slightly. Reaching inside her canvas tote, she removed one of her business cards, then stepped over to the window and pressed it to the glass at eye level.
“Hello, Mr. Burdette,” she said in a voice loud enough to be heard on the other side of the glass. “My name is Jessica Reardon and I’m a reporter for The Greenbrier Dispatch. If you could spare me a few minutes of your time, I’d like to talk to you about the recent Draygan sightings. I brought a case of RC Cola, six cans of Skoal, and enough moon pies to send your blood-sugar level soaring.”
“Leave me be,” came the muffled reply. “I ain’t got nothing to say.”
Undeterred, she said, “Mother Maebelle’s granddaughter, Darlene Malone, sent me out here to spea
k to you. I drove a long way, sir, and I’d really like to talk to you… even if it’s off the record,” Jessica added at the last, hoping that would sweeten the deal.
A few moments later, the front door creaked open. A tall, grizzled, white-haired man, who looked as rugged as the hills he called home, stood in the doorway, a shotgun resting in the crook of his arm. “Lucky for you, you’re right purty or I’d send you packing with a load of buckshot in your backside,” he muttered, motioning her inside the cabin with a terse nod of his bearded chin.
Jessica grabbed her gifts and followed John Henry inside. The cabin proved to be cozier than she’d expected, and the glow of oil lamps cast a warm, golden light onto the one-room interior. On one side of the cabin there was a dry sink and several kitchen cabinets, and on the other side was a four-poster bed. In the middle there was a table with a set of mismatched chairs. The centerpiece of the cabin was the massive stone fireplace, large enough to roast a side of venison in it. This she knew because that’s exactly what was hanging on the spit.
“I had a bit of trouble finding your place,” she remarked conversationally as she set the case of cola and other items on the table. “Gooseneck Holler isn’t on the map.”
“It don’t have to be,” her host snarled, his rheumy blue eyes narrowing as he sized her up. “Everybody knows where Gooseneck Holler is.”
Well, everybody wasn’t driving my Ford Bronco, Jessica nearly retorted, managing to bite her tongue at the last second. Instead, she smiled sweetly as she pointed to the ceiling, where there were at least a dozen bundles of dried yarrow hanging from the rafters. Their stems were wrapped in twine. “What do you use the yarrow for?”
“Ward off evil spirits,” John Henry replied laconically as he propped the shotgun next to the front door.
Not so much as glancing at her, he stomped over to the kitchen area and removed an earthenware jug from the cupboard. Grabbing two enamel mugs, he stomped back to the table.
“Well, don’t stand there gawking. Have a seat,” he said irritably as he set the cups on the table. Not bothering to ask if she wanted any, he proceeded to pour a healthy measure of a very potent-smelling beverage into each of the cups. “Make yourself useful and open that box of moon pies.”
“Right away,” Jessica murmured, more than a little intimidated by her host’s gruff demeanor.
Reaching inside the open box, John Henry snatched two moon pies, handing her one of them.
Not about to inform her host that she absolutely loathed banana-flavored anything, Jessica bit into the iced confection. Trying not to gag, she chewed and swallowed as quickly as possible. Without thinking, she grabbed her enamel cup and took a big gulp. The liquid hit her gut with a fiery impact, and Jessica worried that it may have burned a hole in her esophagus on the way down as well. Hacking, she slapped a hand over her mouth to keep both the liquor and the marshmallow yuck from making a return trip.
John Henry didn’t so much as bat an eye as he grabbed an empty coffee can and spit a wad of brown tobacco juice into it before calmly taking a bite of his moon pie. “How does your snack taste?” the old fart had the gall to ask.
“It’s yummy,” Jessica told him, forcing herself to take another bite. “What a tasty treat, moon pies and moonshine.”
To her surprise, the wisecrack elicited a rusty-sounding chuckle from her host.
“You’re all right, girl,” John Henry said with a smile, and Jessica was able to count on one hand how many teeth he had.
Pleasantries out of the way, Jessica decided it was time to get down to business. “I understand that back in 1939 you saw the mythical beast Draygan,” she remarked, deciding at the last minute not to pull out her notepad. She had, after all, given her assurance that his comments would be off the record.
John Henry took a long swig from his mug, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Draygan ain’t no myth. And I saw him a heap of times.”
“How many is a ‘heap’?”
“Five or six times, I reckon.”
“And you were how old at the time?”
Her host reached inside the chipboard box and removed two more moon pies. When he offered her one, Jessica shook her head. Since she’d yet to finish the first one, she figured that got her off the hook.
“I was 12 years old at the time,” John Henry said, a faraway look in his blue eyes. “Which is why, when I started to get the fits, everyone thought I’d plum lost my mind.”
Confused, Jessica shook her head. “What do you mean by ‘the fits’? I’m not familiar with this term.”
“It started out as just an ache in my head.” John Henry wrapped both of his gnarled hands around his enamel mug, contemplatively staring at it as he spoke. “As time passed, it got so bad, I thought my head would burst open like a smashed pumpkin. Then I took to shaking and trembling, like I was possessed by the devil himself. But when I started mumbling crazy stuff, that’s when folks begun to whisper as to how I was bewitched; particularly since I was born at the stroke of midnight, right at the start of the witching hour. Ma had that conjure woman, Mother Maebelle, come up here to take off the hex, but it didn’t do no good on account as how it weren’t a case of conjuration.”
Jessica reached for her mug and took a neat swallow, actually welcoming the burning warmth this time. John Henry’s “fits” were so similar to what Gideon called his “spells” that she was left dumbfounded.
“Well, if it wasn’t a case of conjuration—” whatever that was—“what was wrong with you?” she asked, after she’d had a moment to collect herself.
“Mother Maebelle said that Draygan was using me as a vessel.”
Uncomprehending, Jessica said, “I’m sorry, but you lost me.”
“Since Draygan can’t speak directly to us, he has to find a vessel he can speak through,” John Henry clarified as he opened another moon pie. “And that damned dragon chose me. But it was a poor choice on account of me being just a kid and folks payin’ no mind to what I was spoutin’. Except to say I was crazy. And because no one paid me any mind, all them people drowned when the flood waters came through. Fifty of ’em died in one single day.”
“Do you remember what it was that Draygan used to say to you?” she quietly asked, wondering if this traumatic episode from John Henry’s childhood hadn’t permanently scarred him. That would certainly explain why he chose to live isolated from the rest of the world.
“I expect I’ll take them words to my grave. ‘Two score and ten will die in the fast, green water. So sayeth the Beast,’ ” he recited, before taking another swig from his mug.
Like a puppet on a string, Jessica’s head instantly jerked. The wording was almost identical to what Gideon had babbled just before two rafters were drowned on the Greenbrier River—Two will die in the fast, green water. So sayeth the Beast. A cryptic phrase that had then proven tragically prophetic.
“Did Draygan say anything else to you?” Jessica inquired, still reeling from shock.
Her host shook his shaggy head. “Nope. And after the Reckoning, I stopped having my fits.”
The Reckoning. Jessica recalled that was how many locals referred to the Draygan epochs.
“For how long a period did you experience these fits?” she next asked, tempted to pull out her notepad and record all of this while it was still fresh in her memory.
“Nigh on six weeks.”
“Have you seen Draygan recently?”
Again, John Henry shook his head. “And I’m doin’ everything in my power to make sure that I don’t see hide nor hair of him. I got my Dragon Dogs at the four corners of the cabin keeping vigil. Ain’t no way Draygan is going to pester me this time around.”
“I hope that he doesn’t,” Jessica said in all sincerity. John Henry Burdette sounded as if he’d been pestered enough for one lifetime. Slipping her canvas tote over her shoulder, she rose to her feet. With a grateful smile, she extended her hand toward her host and said, “Thank you, Mr. Burdette. This has been an illuminatin
g conversation. And I promise that nothing you said will be printed in The Dispatch.”
For several seconds, John Henry stared at her proffered right hand. Then, getting to his feet, he took her hand in his. “You best take care, Miz Reardon. That dragon can cause you a world of misery if he puts his mind to it.”
“Yes, I know,” she murmured, reminded of the pain that Gideon endured each and every time he suffered one of his spells. She didn’t believe in dragons, but she did believe that some unseen force, something possibly malevolent, was at work. The coincidences were too striking to be written off as chance occurrences.
As she turned to leave, John Henry cleared his throat. “Hold your horses… I got something for you.” Stomping over to the other side of the cabin, he removed a floral garland from a wall peg. “This will protect you from any evil spirits that might be lurking,” he said as he placed the garland around her neck.
Jessica gently fingered the dried blossoms of sweet woodruff, rue, and yarrow. “Why, thank you… this is the nicest gift that anyone has ever given me.”
A few moments later, ignoring the ferocious barking of John Henry’s four Dragon Dogs, Jessica made her way back to the Bronco. Just as she was about to open the driver’s side door, she stopped in her tracks, her breath catching in her throat.
In the layer of dust that covered the hood of her SUV, somebody had written the words “Ever yours.”
* * *
Gideon raised his head, letting the warmth of the autumn sun caress his face as a gentle breeze wrapped him in its embrace. Not nearly so complacent, the horse beneath him nickered.
“You’re quite right, Blaze. Walk on,” he said to his equine companion, nudging him behind the girth.
The black gelding obediently set off at a leisurely pace toward the hillock just yonder. While it was only half a mile from Highland House, the small hilltop fell outside the boundary of Jessica’s property. No matter. He had a reason for committing the trespass.
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