PITCH
William Ollie
Late October 1903
They were coming for him, the sheriff and his men. How they found him he didn’t know, and didn’t care. Two carried machetes and two carried a torch. All were armed with either a pistol or a rifle. The youngest of the bunch had a hangman’s rope slung over his shoulder. They stopped for a moment while the sheriff plucked a piece of fabric from a bush, held it up to the moonlight, and then dropped it to the ground, an act that had Smith looking frantically down at the tattered garment that had once been his finest shirt. My God, he thought, and then took off up the mountain, crashing through briars and vines like a crazed boar as he raced away from these men who had chased across two states, until they had finally cornered him …
He stumbled upon a solid wall of heavy foliage and threw himself to the ground, scratching and clawing his way through to a narrow dirt road, his face stinging from the cuts and scrapes, his hands full of thorns. His clothes hanging off him like shredded rags. Music and laughter drifted up from an old farmhouse a ways down the road, the smell of fried chicken. I’d trade my soul for some of that chicken, the starving man thought, as he turned away.
Fifty yards up, the road turned into a three-foot-wide path, and Smith allowed himself a moment’s rest. He couldn’t believe an innocent romp in the hay had led to this. But it had. Men were chasing him, and a piece of his hide wouldn’t be enough this time. He looked down the path toward the old farmhouse, and then staggered up the trail.
In a clearing in the woods, he stopped. To his left, at the base of a huge rock formation, was a solid stone wall. Smith leaned against a tree, exhausted, and looked further up the path. Hungry and thirsty, his eyes burning, he felt weak, and didn’t think he could go on. And, finally, he was completely without hope.
“Hey Johnny!” a friendly voice called out. “Over here!”
Smith turned to see a well-dressed man standing in front of an opening at the base of the formation, a cave… one which moments ago had not been there at all. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, opened them and found the man was still there. He had dark hair, and eyes that were cold, and very blue. He stood in the middle of the woods, wearing an expensive suit of clothes, holding a top hat in his hand as if he were standing not in the woods but in a grand ballroom.
Smith looked down, surprised to see the man wore no shoes.
“Time’s running out, Johnny,” the man called over his shoulder. “Better come with me.”
Smith, moving closer to the cave, said, “Who… are you?”
“A friend.”
Smith stopped and took a backward step, and the man smiled.
“Do you want to live?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Well then, you’d better follow me, Johnny,” he said. He walked toward the cave, and Smith took a hesitant step. In the distance, somebody called out his name. Somebody else yelled, “This way!” And Jonathan Smith ran past the chuckling stranger, into a cave that minutes ago, had not been a cave at all.
Witchery and Spookery
October 1968:
‘
Donnie Belcher sat a bottle of beer down in front of the old coal miner.
“Thanks, Donnie,” Jerry Mays said, and then pulled a smoldering cigarette butt from an ashtray and used it to light another. Like most of their workdays, Jerry and his cousin, Willem (don’t call me Willie) Mays, Jim Harris and Carver Pitts, had stopped in for a couple of rounds after their shift.
“How’d it go today?” Donnie asked them.
“Smooth, Donnie,” Carver Pitts said. “Smooth as axle grease.”
Jerry Mays, smoke flowing from his nose, took a long drink of Black Label beer.
“Sure beat hell outa last night, huh boys?” he said.
“You hear about that, Donnie?” Jim Harris asked on his way back from the bathroom. He had snow white hair, and he ran a hand through it as he took a seat at the table.
“Heard Verlin Hughes hurt his arm is all.”
“You hear how it happened?”
“Bits and pieces.”
“Those damn conveyor belts were down again,” Jerry said. “You how know how they just up and stop.”
“Yeah.” Donnie, who had worked the mines for eleven years before buying his tavern, knew exactly what Jerry was talking about.
“Well, they’d been down more than an hour, and we couldn’t find the problem. Every time they stopped and goosed the power, nothin’ happened. Verlin gets to clearing out between the belt and end roller pin, and that damn fool Gus Johnson gooses the power. Didn’t say a word. No warning, no nothin’—well, hell, they’d already goosed that belt about twenty times. All of a sudden it takes off and damn near takes Verlin’s arm with it.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
“Huh uh. Liked to have ripped it off at the shoulder. Damn thing hanging on by a couple of tendons, blood spraying all over the place. Lucky he made it outa that hole alive.”
“If you call that luck,” Willem said. “I don’t.”
“Boy, I’d hate to be Gus Johnson about now,” said Donnie.
“I guess so,” Jerry said. “Seeing how he’s down at the funeral home, stiff as a board.”
“What?”
“Yep, started having a nervous breakdown or something, so they took him on out. Had a heart attack and died on his way to the hospital.” Jerry took a drag on his cigarette while ribbons of smoke drifted up from an ashtray full of butts, and a Patsy Cline song played on the jukebox. “It’s weird, Donnie. All that startin’ and stoppin’, and nothin’, zilch? Then all of a sudden the belt starts, and they never even found out why it got stuck in the first place?”
Carver, having drained his upturned bottle, asked for another, while Jerry said, “Hey, Donnie. You know we had a rock fall on third shift the other night?”
“Oh yeah, what happened?”
“Tram was pulling us along and a huge rock dropped from outa nowhere. Damn near crushed the guy driving the thing. Three inches to the left and he’d been one dead son of a bitch.”
“But he’s all right,” Donnie said, and set another round in front of the miners.
“You don’t think that’s weird?”
“Unfortunate, maybe. Don’t know about weird.”
“Donnie, I’ve been workin’ these mines longer than you’ve been alive, and I ain’t never seen nothing like that. Tell you something else: for as long as I’ve been around these here parts, weird shit always seems to happen. Rock falls out of the roof for no reason. Experienced miner like Verlin damn near kills somebody, then drops dead hisself. And how ‘bout Sheriff Peters, strong as a horse and drops dead of a heart attack?”
“What’re you trying to say, Jerry?”
Jerry took another drag on his cigarette, held it in, and blew smoke through his nostrils. “I’m saying there’s witchery and spookery goin’ on around here.”
Donnie laughed. “Witchery and spookery,” he said. “Only a West Virginia coal miner could come up with something like that.”
“And you think I’m wrong.”
“Hell yeah. What about you guys?”
“Some of that shit does seem kind of strange,” Carver said.
Willem chortled. “Witchery and spookery,” he said. “You two are loony and kookery!”
“Fuck you, you Willie Mays motherfucker!” Jerry called out, causing an eruption of laughter from the rest of the bar.
“Easy, big boy,” Willem said, and then brought out a pouch of Red Man, stuffing a plug into his mouth as he offered the pouch to Jerry, knowing the only time his cousin had ever tried a chaw, he’d turned green and gagged.
“Aw, fuck yerself,” Jerry told him, Willem grinning as Jerry took a sip of beer.
“Well, looky here!” M
ary Cousins called out from behind the bar.
Donnie glanced over his shoulder as the door swung closed behind Nathan Hayes, the town’s sheriff, who proceeded to lead a man who was a stranger to Donnie and his friends up through the bar.
Nathan Hayes stood six-foot-two. His eyes were brown and so was his hair. He was Donnie’s oldest friend, and they had known each other nearly their entire lives. When he reached his childhood friend, he held out a hand, and said, “Hey there, Cuz. How they hangin’?”
“Tough, Cuz,” Donnie said as he pulled Nathan to him and gave him a brotherly hug. “Hangin’ tough.”
“Who’s that tailing you there, Sheriff?” Jim Harris asked, smiling.
“Boys, this here’s Walter Davis. His friends call him Walt, and he’s come up from Atlanta to run the Coca Cola plant.”
“Izzat so?” Carver said, then, “Welcome to Whitley, there, Walt.”
“Glad to have you,” Donnie said.
“Hear! Hear!” the others chimed in.
“Thanks, guys,” Walt said. “It’s good to be here.”
“How about a couple of beers there, barkeep?” Nathan said.
“Anything you say, Cuz.”
Walt pulled a pipe and a tobacco pouch out of his jacket and filled the bowl, struck a match and fired up his pipe.
“Walt here wanted me to show him the most cultural spot in town. So naturally, I brought him straight here.”
“Har de har har,” Donnie said, and then set beers in front of Nathan and Walt.
“Good beer, good people, lively conversation. That’s all the culture I’m looking for,” Walt said.
Willem spit some tobacco juice into an old coffee can lying at his feet. “I’d say you came to the right place then.”
“Speaking of lively conversation,” Donnie said. “We’ve been trying to figure out what Whitley has more of, witchery or spookery.”
Nathan, frowning, said, “Say what?”
“Yeah, Jerry here’s been pointing out some of the strange but true occurrences that seem to go on around these here parts.”
“Such as?” Walt said, and then took a swig of beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as Jerry ran down a few of the events he’d just related to his friends.
“Hell, Jerry,” Nathan said. “There’s nothing strange about that. Accidents happen all the time down there.”
Donnie, shrugging, shot his hands up in a ‘what’d I tell you’ type of gesture.
“What about Earl Peters, then?” Jerry said.
“What about him?”
“What about him? Well, let’s see now. He was healthy as a horse and his heart stopped pumping. What else do you need?”
“Earl Peters was a sixty-five year old chain smoker, Jerry. What’re you telling me, you think somebody made Earl have a heart attack? Hell, I’m surprised he stayed healthy as long as he did, the way he carried on.”
“Well, it seems strange to me,” said Jerry, who took another drag on his cigarette while his cousin laughed, and said, “You seem strange.”
“Oh yeah? Well why don’t you go ahead and explain Missy Thomas then?”
“Oh shit,” Donnie said.
“Here we go,” said Willem.
The others just grinned and shook their heads, because everybody knew what was coming now.
“Who’s Missy Thomas?” Walt asked, and took another pull on his pipe.
“Missy Thomas is the ghost that haunts Seeker’s Mountain,” Jerry said, his face a mask of complete and utter solemnity.
“You ever seen her?” Walt said, a hint of a smile curling his lips.
Jerry, his face growing red, said, “Well, no, but that don’t mean she ain’t there.”
“Hell, boys,” Nathan said. “From where I’m sitting, that would make her an alleged ghost.”
“What do you think, Nathan?” Carver said. “Is that witchery or spookery?”
“Sounds like spookery to me,” Nathan said, and his friends began to laugh.
“Oh yeah? What about those kids come up missin’ back in fifty-five? What does that sound like? And those four disappeared in forty-two. How about your brother, Sheriff? What does that sound like?”
Nathan Hayes’ soft brown eyes turned cold and steely as he tipped back his bottle and downed the rest of his beer, and looked Jerry Mays dead in the eye. “What do I call that? I call it cold, calculated murder. Not witchery, and sure as hell not spookery. And someday, sure as shit, I’ll find out who did it. And you can bet your ass when I do, I’ll leave some brains sliding down the fucking wall.”
Nathan stared into Jerry’s eyes, as if daring him to reply.
A moment passed, then another, before Jerry, his face getting redder by the moment, nervously spoke up, “Don’t look at me. I sure as hell ain’t done it.”
Nathan’s brown eyes softened. Smiling playfully at the old miner, he reached out and tousled his hair. “I know you didn’t, Bubba.”
Laughing, Willem said, “I think you’d better have a chaw, big boy.”
“Fuck you, Willie Mays!” Jerry barked, and laughter erupted from his friends.
PITCH
William Pitch sat on the balcony of his waterfront condo overlooking the seashore of Malibu Beach, California, silently reflecting on the past twelve months, and the twelve years that had gone before them. For days now, a quiet, uneasy feeling had settled in around him, surrounding him… choking him. He felt nervous, anxious. It was time to go back, and going back was always an unsettling proposition.
He stood up and leaned against the railing, and watched the waves roll to the shoreline, an act which usually had a soothing effect upon Pitch.
But the waves did not comfort him tonight.
He walked inside and made his way to the bar, poured a shot of Cuervo Gold, bit into a slice of lime and threw the tequila down his throat. Then he faced the mirror behind the bar, gazing at his reflection while the liquor struck home. He felt proud looking into that mirror. And, indeed, he had much to be proud of.
Even though he had a full head of white hair, he looked nowhere near his actual age. At six-foot-one, slender but powerfully built, he was a proud man, unwilling to back down from anyone. His temper was quick, his rage quicker, a lesson many a person had learned the hard way. Pitch was pleased with his appearance, especially when he thought of how things could have turned out… maybe how they should have turned out that night, all those years ago.
Tonight, as he poured himself another shot of tequila, he felt himself being drawn back to where it all had started, such a long time ago. He’d blinked his eyes and another thirteen years had rushed by. Now it was time to pay up. Pitch bit down on another lime wedge, threw another shot of tequila down his throat, sat down in his easy chair and pulled one of Castro’s finest cigars from his pocket… bit off the end, lit it and watched smoke fill the air around him.
Poured another shot of tequila, and a young man entered the room.
“Good evening, Father,” he said.
Pitch stared thoughtfully at his protégé, admiring his six-foot-two-inch frame, the brown hair and eyes, the movie star good looks. “Well, well,” he said. “How are you, my boy?”
“Fine.”
“You ready for our trip to West Virginia, or will I have to pry you away from this lovely California sun?”
“Actually, I’m looking forward to it.”
“Good… good. Well, where’s that lovely young woman you were with last night?”
“I took her to the desert.”
“Tell me about it,” Pitch said. “Was it good?” He took a deep drag on his cigar, closed his eyes, and let the smoke flow freely from his nostrils.
“You kidding?” the protégé said. “It was great.” He laid a cassette tape on the coffee table in front of his mentor. “Here, see for yourself.”
Pitch, scooping it up, said, “Go ahead and get yourself packed and ready to leave. We’ve got a long way to travel tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. I’l
l see you in the morning then.”
“Yes, in the morning.” Pitch popped the tape into his recorder and punched the play button, leaned back and closed his eyes, smiling as a frightened young woman’s voice echoed throughout the room.
Newton Hayes
“Well, Walt,” Nathan said, as he pulled his police cruiser to the curb. “What do you think of our little town, so far?”
“So far so good. Beats the hell out of Atlanta. You know, big city hustle, big city crime.”
“I was kind of surprised when you called asking about a watering hole. I’d have thought you’d be more at home at the country club.”
“Actually, that’s another reason I left Atlanta. Too many phony-assed rich people. Everything was money—how much you have, how much they have. How they cheated this person or that person, whose wife they’re screwing. I didn’t want to raise my kid around that.”
“Shit, most people would do just about anything to be wealthy, but you seem to hate it.”
“No, Sheriff, my—”
“Hey Walt, my friends call me Nathan, and I think we’re gonna be friends.”
“All right. Well, you see, Nathan, my grandfather was an inventor, and he made so much money on his inventions and patents that his descendants will probably never actually need to work. So, as you might imagine, I’ve been around some of the wealthiest people in the country. You know, the in crowd, the beautiful people. Bottom line? A boring bunch of assholes.”
Nathan laughed. “Hell, we’ve got a few of those right here in Whitley.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve already met some of them. What I want to know is how a small town like this came to have a black policeman. That’s something you don’t see where I just came from.”
“Johnny Porter was the most gifted athlete these here parts ever produced, star halfback on the football team, starting point guard on the basketball team from the moment he walked onto the court; track and field—you name it. And then there’s the shot.”
Pitch Page 1