Pitch

by William Ollie

  “No, sir. I do all my business away from the house.” Hastie filled the glasses with ice water, and sat down in front of Pitch.

  “Never, Jimmy? You haven’t gotten a little drunk and brought some young lady up here to impress her?”

  “No, sir. I mean, I’ve had plenty of people ask, but I always say no. Every once in a while somebody’ll just wander on up and ring the doorbell, but I’ve never let anyone inside.”

  “Some coal camp whore, maybe?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Hastie picked up the Jack Daniels and took a good long drink, and then chased it down with the cool and soothing ice water.

  “Jimmy, look at me,” Pitch said, and then took the bottle from Hastie’s hand, which immediately began to shake.

  Hastie looked at Pitch, at the eyes that commanded his undivided attention, fear crawling up his spine as the room shifted, tilting sideways while the floor shook, and then dropped suddenly away, sending the frightened old man spiraling down into a deep, dark tunnel of despair, as the ever-contracting walls slid slowly toward him, until his own stare was nothing but a blank void, a fresh piece of undisturbed clay ready for molding.

  “Now, Jimmy,” Pitch said. “Have you brought any outsiders into my house?”

  “No.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  Pitch, smiling, took a drag on his cigar. “Who is your master?”

  Hastie, answering in a dull, flat monotone, said, “You are.”

  He flicked his cigarette lighter, turned up the flame and told Hastie to hold his hand over it, and Hastie placed the flat of his hand over the searing heat. Skin crackling and popping, he didn’t so much as blink as Pitch smiled, biding his time a moment or two before closing the lid and returning the lighter to his pocket; while Hastie stared straight ahead, the youthful exuberance that had once been the essence of him no longer there, the nerves of steel that had seen him safely through his early years as top gun for the Little Boss having followed it wherever it had gone, so many years ago.

  “Guess I’ll have to find your replacement when I leave here this time, old fellow,” Pitch thought aloud. Then, smiling, “Drink up, my boy, drink up. Don’t make me drink alone.”

  Hastie’s eyes slowly refocused, as he accepted the bottle Pitch offered and took a long drink of his own. “Boy, that’s good,” he said, smiling back at Pitch.

  “It is, isn’t it?” Pitch said, and then relit his cigar, which had gone out while he had been playing with Hastie, doing the same for Hastie when he leaned over with one in his mouth.

  “Tell me, Jimmy, what’s been going on while I’ve been away.”

  “Nothing much has changed, well, except for Sheriff Peters dropping dead.”

  “You’re kidding,” Pitch said, clearly stunned.

  “No, he’s dead, all right,” Hastie said, and then leaned back and blew a series of smoke rings, each one smaller than the other.

  “Well, shit, Jimmy, what happened to Earl?”

  “Had a heart attack last June. Fell down and died right there in his office.”

  “God damn it,” Pitch said, grabbing the Jack Daniels, and guzzling a huge amount down his throat. “What the hell happened?”

  “I really wouldn’t know, but you’re gonna shit when I tell you who the new sheriff is.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Tell me you’re kidding, Jimmy.”

  “Yep, it’s Nathan Hayes, all right.”

  “How?” Pitch said.

  “You’d have to ask the mayor about that. I imagine Nathan’s daddy had something to do with it. He’s got a lot of friends around here, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. Good ol’ honest Lester Hayes, the working man’s friend.” Pitch paused for a moment, looking out at the horizon, before saying, “Why, Jimmy, what have you done to your hand?”

  Hastie, glancing down at the clear fluid oozing from a cracked and charred blister covering the middle of his palm, said, “I… I don’t know. It looks like I… I’ve burned it.”

  “You’d better take care of that, Jimmy. It looks rather nasty.”

  “Yes,” Hastie said. “I guess I’d better.”

  “And Jimmy?”

  “Yes, Mr. Pitch?”

  “See if you can’t get that crooked-assed mayor on the phone for me.”

  “Yes sir,” Hastie said, and then stood and walked into the house.

  Pitch looked down at the bell tower atop the Baxter County Courthouse, chuckling as he thought back to a day thirteen years ago, when a greedy worm of a man had given over his first-born son for a lifetime of unlimited wealth and prosperity.

  Sheriff Nathan Hayes. How ironic, he thought, and then leaned back into his chair, blowing a few smoke rings of his own.

  Friday Evening

  The face in the mirror was tired and weary. The hair, once silky and blonde, had turned brittle and gray. Once, Vonda had colored it, but had stopped after overhearing the obnoxious remarks of her students. She sensed that many of her so-called friends had also been mocking her. And they were right, all of them. Vonda’s time had passed, and all her efforts to stall the aging process had made her look ridiculous: to her students, to her friends, and finally, to herself.

  Time had slipped away too fast. She wanted more, she needed more. Sure, she had received everything he’d promised. Money: over the years, Vonda had spent several fortunes, and still had money to burn. Sex: any lover she’d ever wanted had been hers for the taking. Power: anyone foolish enough to cross Vonda Peters would soon find their lives in total ruin. Influence: she was Pitch’s favorite, and a word to the right person would bring to her whatever she desired.

  She had it all, everything she could possibly want… except time.

  She knew it was hopeless, that he was a cruel and heartless monster. She could only imagine what he would say: ‘I’m so sorry, Vonda, but that just wasn’t part of the deal, now, was it? Haven’t I lived up to my part of the bargain? Yes, of course I have. Why don’t you just relax and enjoy the time you have left. Why, look at old Doc Fletcher. Compared to him, you’re still a child’.

  He would enjoy watching her squirm.

  Her desperate cries would be music to him.

  If only I had known.

  “Yeah, right,” she sneered. If she had known then what she knew now, would she still have gotten involved with him? She would like to have thought no, but deep down she knew what the answer was. He had dangled money in front of her like carrots in front of a rabbit, and she had chased him all the way into Hell.

  He was back.

  She knew it.

  She could feel him.

  His dark shadow had descended upon the town—soon she would be called to him.

  He’ll want to know about Earl.

  Vonda stepped behind the bar and mixed a drink. It had been four months since Earl’s funeral, and much to her surprise, she had found herself missing him.

  I wonder where you are now. Can you see me? Do you know what we did?

  She turned to Earl’s portrait, and read the inscription on the gold-plated frame: To Earl, from your loving wife, Vonda. What a joke, she thought. The telephone rang and she crossed the room, picked up the receiver and Charles Hadley’s frantic voice came rushing through the telephone line: “He’s back Vonda, and he’s not happy. He wants to know what happened to Earl.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He says we need to have control over the sheriff, that we should have waited, should’ve let him handle the situation. He said he could’ve made Earl do anything he wanted, that no man could ever defy him.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him the truth. It was your decision to kill Earl. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Did you tell him how you called me in a state of panic, how you said Earl was a danger to the group and had to be stopped?”

  “Well, no, I didn’t… do that.”

  “No, I didn’t thi
nk so, you sniveling, fucking coward.”

  “Now, Vonda, there’s no need to—”

  “Why the fuck are you calling me anyway?”

  “I just wanted to warn you. You know, so you can think about what you’re gonna tell him.”

  “How touching.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That means, fuck you.”

  “Now, Vonda.”

  “Goodbye, Charley.”

  “Come on, Vonda. I’m on your-CLICK-side-BUZZZZZZZZZ.

  Maudie Mason

  Maudie Mason, born during the Civil War, had seen the century turn. She’d lived through the Great Depression, and had outlived all of her children. Why she had survived so many of her offspring and lived to be a hundred-and-six years old with only a handful of sick days in her long life, she didn’t know and rarely asked. She’d put her faith in the Lord many years ago, and as far as she was concerned, the Lord knew what he was doing.

  Maudie loved children, and was always delighted when a group of them would find their way to her home. She loved telling stories of the many strange and wondrous things she’d seen in her long life. Stories about the ghost who haunts Seeker’s Mountain, the Indians and how they just up and disappeared, sixty-five years ago. Maudie was the only person still around to have actually known Missy Thomas.

  Most of the children had heard stories about the old woman of the mountain. Many were frightened of her, thinking her to be a witch, or some kind of a haint. But any child brave enough to visit Maudie would soon come to love her.

  Maudie had seen many things in her years on the mountain, wonderful things— frightening things, too, things easily explained and strange things that defied all logic. But nothing she had experienced in her long life could have prepared her for the hellish nightmares that had come to her lately. It started around the time Sheriff Peters died. At first, once or twice a week, but now they were becoming more frequent. At the beginning of summer, she had the first of those horrible dreams.

  It was a warm night in May, when Maudie woke with a start, screaming as she sat up in bed. In her dream, Sheriff Peters knelt on the floor of an old dilapidated church lined with worn wooden pews. Pictures of Jesus decorated the walls surrounding him, as he fell to his knees a weak and frightened man. But after praying, Sheriff Peters stood up strong and tall, and walked proud out of the old church. In her dream, Maudie saw an old black man watching the sheriff through a window, and wondered who he was. Suddenly, Sheriff Peters was at his kitchen table, eating breakfast. Something was wrong, she could feel it. She tried calling to him, but he didn’t hear. Somebody laughed and the sheriff fell forward. In slow motion, his head banged a desk, hands clutching his chest as he fell to the floor of his office, and everything went dark. And from the darkness came a spinning dot of light that grew wider and wider, illuminating twelve people sitting in a circle, laughing and pointing at the fallen sheriff. In the middle of the circle, a woman lay on her back, masturbating, her head thrown back in laughter. Maudie found herself standing in front of a painting of Jesus surrounded by thirteen children, tears streaming down the face of Christ as a chorus of voices echoed: “Help us… help us… help us”. And one by one, the children in the painting began to disappear, until only one remained. The remaining child turned and pointed at Maudie, laughing wildly, staring at her through dark blue eyes as cold and cruel as a demon’s. Then the peaceful brown eyes of Christ turned as relentlessly cruel as the child’s.

  In her dream, Maudie put her shaking hands over her eyes. When she removed them, the calm and serene face of Jesus changed into the evil, laughing face of a demon from Hell. The demon and the evil child, no longer laughing, began to chant, “Help us… help us… help us!” and then howled with laughter again as bright red blood began streaming from the demon’s eyes. Suddenly, the demonic face changed back into the face of Jesus, and the head of Christ exploded, sending blood and skull and chunks of brain splattering over the old church floor.

  That night, Maudie screamed and jumped from her bed, turned on the lights and looked for the old family bible. The word of God in hand, she sat down in the old rocking chair and prayed for an explanation, closing her prayer as she always had:

  “Thy will be done.”

  Two weeks later, Earl Peters visited Calvary Cross, and then walked out of the old church at the edge of the county, a stern and resolute man. A month after that he was dead. With summer’s passing, the dreams came more frequently, revealing not a demon’s face, but one that gradually began to take a human form, a white-haired man, tall and slender, elegant and sophisticated, but still with the evil eyes of the demon. The child was always with him, and he too had the demon’s eyes. While the boy performed a litany of grim and ghastly deeds, the elderly and elegant demon of a man stood in the background, playing some weird-sounding tune on an old violin. As they moved through her nightmare, Maudie could almost recognize the Evil One. She didn’t know who this man was, but she knew what he was. The child’s face remained in the shadows. Still, she felt as if she knew him. But like the other, she couldn’t put her finger on who he was. And no matter how much, or how long she prayed, an answer would not come to her.

  Now that summer had passed and the weather had turned, Maudie could feel an uneasy presence in the air. Passive during the day, but as night would fall, she could feel it coming for her, climbing and clawing and scratching its way up the mountainside.

  Soon it would be here, stalking the streets, waiting in the shadows.

  She rarely slept through the night. Instead, she tossed and turned, rising up with a startled jolt, sleep coming only when her body and mind had become totally exhausted.

  Last night she dreamed of a dry and dusty landscape where the boy had tortured and killed a beautiful young woman, finally dragging her lifeless body into the desert so he could bury her. Later, he boasted to his mentor. Maudie watched unwillingly as the Evil Master leaned back in his expensive chair, smiling and closing his eyes as tales of depravity, torture and death, filled the air around him.

  Tonight, screaming, Maudie jumped from bed and ran to the front door.

  Something scraping against her porch stopped her dead in her tracks. She hesitated, afraid of what she might see, and then opened the door to find the two specters from her nightmares standing before her. Maudie slammed the door shut and said a short prayer, asking God to give her strength, and to stand beside her. When she parted the curtain, the two spirits were peering in at her.

  “Beware,” they whispered, drawing a panicked scream from Maudie, who opened her eyes to find that she was still in her bed.

  It was just a dream.

  Maudie didn’t have to pray for an answer to this.

  She knew they had been coming, and now they were here.

  Evil was here.

  “God help us,” she said, and then got up to go look for her bible.

  Ward Rock Mountain

  Saturday Morning:

  The High Street Boys stood in front of Jackie Pritchard’s house, watching E.L. Davis pedal his bicycle toward them. He pulled up with a knapsack hanging from his shoulder, a metal canteen dangling from his belt as he jumped off his bike and said, “Hey, y’all ready?”

  “Sho nuff,” Jackie told him.

  “What’cha got in the knapsack?” asked Billy.

  “Bloney sandwiches and tater chips.”

  “Is that all the water you got?” said Junior, who knew how thirsty this climb would leave them.

  Red-faced, E.L. said, “I didn’t know how much to bring.”

  “Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Jackie said. “We got all the water we’re gonna need. Go get our stuff, Jimbo.”

  Five minutes later, Jimmy came back with two small paper bags full of tuna fish sandwiches, a big bag of potato chips and a gallon jug of water.

  “All right, boys, let’s go,” Jackie said, grinning, happy, as were they all to be going back up the mountain.

  “Wait a minute,” Jimmy said,
then set the bags and the water jug down, and took off back up the steps.

  “What’re you doing?” Jackie called out.

  “Be right back!”

  Jimmy ran to his bedroom and grabbed the New York Yankees cap his father had given him for his birthday. By the time he got back outside, the others were moving down the street, already heading for the trail that would take them to Ward Rock.

  “Hey, wait up!” he yelled, scampering after them, finally catching up fifteen yards into the trail.

  “You went back for that?” Jackie said, stuffing half a tuna fish sandwich into his mouth.

  “So what?” E.L. said.

  “‘Cause it still looks good,” Jackie said. “Almost like new, and he’ll just mess it up out here. Won’t you, Jimbo?”

  “It’s my cap, ain’t it? I’ll wear it if I want to.”

  Junior said, “That’s it, Jimmy. Tell him to get screwed.”

  “Get screwed!” Jimmy called out, drawing huge gales of laughter from the others.

  They left the path and went straight up the mountain, leaning forward to maintain their balance as they trampled over bushes, and through briars that grabbed at their clothes. When they broke through the brush and stepped onto the narrow dirt road, Jackie held up a hand. “Let’s take a break here.”

  Thank God! E.L. thought, pulling the canteen off his belt.

  Jackie walked a few yards to where the road took a sharp turn, then motioned to E.L., who, after taking a long drink from his canteen, made his way to Jackie’s side.

  “What do you think?” Jackie asked him.

  E.L. looked down to see the rooftops of the houses on High Street looking like the tops of the Monopoly Hotels they played with. “Wow!” he said. “I didn’t realize we’d gone so far. How much longer?”

  “Shit, we got a long hike ahead of us,” Jackie said, laughing at the frown creeping across his newfound friend’s face. “What’s the matter, you too tired to go all the way?”