New Tales of the Old Ones

by Derwin, Theresa

  Banks got up to leave as two well-dressed men appeared.

  “And you’ll do nothing either, Kevin. You can’t, you see? It’s the power of television. It convinces you that it is the best thing in the world to sit there and do nothing.”

  I tried to get up but my legs wouldn’t work and I fell forward. I remember something very hard hitting my head and then nothing for a while.

  When I woke up, it was two days later and I was in the hospital. It was explained to me that I had passed out from intoxication and hit my head on a table. A minor concussion they said, nothing to be too worried about. As I left the hospital, I walked by the pediatric ward and I saw something that happens every day but which I had never noticed. The children were all gathered around the television, watching.

  None of them moved.

  None of them blinked.

  None of them did anything.

  They just watched with an intensity I had never seen before.

  I didn’t even have to see their eyes to know that they were also looking at me and it was looking at me through them.

  I bought a bottle of whiskey on the way home and drank it all within an hour.

  Later I put my television outside and listened to the news reports on the radio as they described strange happenings around the country.

  The Captain Billy Show was number one in the ratings and Mr. Banks was nowhere to be seen.

  I sat there and drank and did nothing. Because nothing was all any one man can do. You just can’t beat good TV.

  THE HOWLING MADNESS

  Kelly M Hudson

  House Randifor.

  Home to many myths and legends; some true, some shrouded in mystery. I stood before it at long last with a heart swollen by trepidation and fear.

  My name is Herbert Peter Longstreet and the house was passed down to me after the recent death of my estranged uncle, Chester Randifor. My father, Chester’s younger brother Frecks Randifor, died before I was born. He died, in fact, after visiting my uncle at this very house. He fled from it, rushing back to Boston to be with my mother, who was pregnant with me at the time. They were to be married within a month of his return but it never came to pass. My father took to the streets on a drinking binge the moment he returned and became so inebriated he passed out in an alley. That very night a blizzard struck the city and my father froze to death. His side of the family disowned my mother and I grew up knowing them only as strangers. But I heard the tales, the infamous stories that revolved around the family property and that mysterious house in Kentucky. As soon as I was informed of my inheritance, I put my affairs in order and traveled from my home at Arkham University, where I was a tenured professor of ancient languages, to House Randifor, my house now, outside of Lexington, Kentucky. For it was there that I prayed I would find answers to questions that had haunted me since childhood.

  X

  The farm and house were well outside of Lexington. I had to rent a car and follow directions, but the way couldn’t have been clearer. I drove out into the countryside, careful of the winding, rising and falling roads with their sudden, blind turns. It was slow and cautious going.

  The surrounding farms more than made up for any inconveniences. Here were some of the famed horse farms of Kentucky. I drove at an easy pace, absorbing every detail I could, from the rolling hills full of gorgeous bluegrass, the wooden fences, the barns and large houses, to the horses dotting the landscape. The sun gleamed bright and, although summer was long since over, it was still a very warm and inviting day. The sky was a beautiful shade of blue, reminding me of pictures I’d seen of the ocean surrounding Hawaii. Giant, fluffy white clouds floated overhead like lazy cotton balloons, hanging for a while and then drifting on their way. There were dozens of trees, their leaves changing, some having already fallen, and their bright arrays of yellow and orange canopies stood in colorful and stark contrast to the dark grass at their feet. I imagined retiring out here, lord of my country home, sitting on a porch, sipping tea, and watching the sun set each and every day.

  Once I found the house, however, my fantasies fled faster than a burglar caught in a police spotlight.

  I passed it three times, never once seeing it. On my third pass I spied a ragged gravel road, nearly grown over with thick grass and weeds, and decided to give it a try. My directions had specific mileage details, so I knew I was in the right area, but I could not see the house from the road. Once I ventured a hundred yards down the road, however, the mansion appeared, dark and gaunt, as visible and mesmerizing as a scar on a beautiful woman’s face.

  It was obscured by a stand of trees so that it was invisible to the road beyond its property. It now stood before me, desperate and old, slouched like a broken promise. The lawn surrounding it was well-kept, the grass mowed a couple of weeks ago and the bushes lining the perimeter of the house trimmed. The actual mansion itself was another matter entirely. It was built of wood that had darkened over time and, despite what appeared to be several coats of paint over the last twenty years, peeled worse than any sunburn I’d ever seen. It almost seemed as if the house rejected any attempts to change its facade, as if it were resistant to any alterations whatsoever.

  Four windows faced the lawn, two were ground level, the other two upstairs. A long porch stretched around the front, stitched to the house like the grin of a scarecrow, and on it sat several metal chairs, all weathered with age and the elements. The porch was built of the same kind of wood as the house and was elevated by one step. There was a front door made of oak, with a large knob built right into the middle of it.

  I parked and walked around the left side of the house. It was as plain as the front, with one window at ground level and one upstairs. The backside of the mansion was almost identical to the front and only differed in that the porch did not stretch the entire length of the building, but instead ended abruptly two feet from both edges. The yard stretched out, mown like the front, until it reached a stand of trees some forty yards away. There, the property gave way to a small, rolling forest. A tiny pen lay to the right where someone at some point in the past must have kept hogs, but its fencing was old and warped, useless for anything but kindling. On the left was a patch of land that appeared to have been a garden once. A few wild watermelons, split open by the hot sun and turned rotten, grew here and there.

  I strolled all the way around, finding the right side of the identical to the left. The place was much smaller than I’d been led to believe by legend. It had always been referred to as a mansion, but it was less than even an estate. It was a house; a large house, to be sure, but not one as to inspire awe. Fear, perhaps.

  I stopped at the front again, surveying the building. It didn’t appear mean, but there was a laconic spite to it. I could see where some lesser minds would call it haunted, but if it had ever been, it was something that had faded with the paint. This was an old house, nothing more. At best, it would be of historical interest.

  A low moan lifted on the wind. It swirled around in my ears and flitted away. With it crept a chill up my spine, making the small hairs stand on end.

  I smiled. The famous moan. It was surely nothing more than a breeze through some slatted piece of wood in the house.

  I sighed. I was disappointed. I’m not sure what I had hoped to find, but this was certainly not it. Still, it was mine to explore, and I was excited to go through the underground passages I’d read so much about and see where an ancestor of mine had helped smuggled slaves to the north. Some accounts said the tunnels went on for miles in every direction. If so, they should provide me with an afternoon’s excitement. After that, I would probably go back home and put the property up for sale through the lawyers.

  It certainly did not live up to the billing of its past.

  X

  It was built in 1804 by Mr. Rance Randifor. Rance built it at the behest of his brother, Vance, who swore he had a vision of it come to him one night during his sleep. In this vision, he saw the exact place where the house was to be built. Va
nce had the reputation of being a witch and, whether that was true or not, he did convince his brother to buy the land and build there. The history after that is a bit sketchy, although we do know Rance ended up dead by his own hands, having hung himself one autumn evening.

  After that, Vance moved in, and many stories circulated of black masses and other occult activities. None could be proven. Like his brother, he died in a strange way, after a fall down a flight of stairs and a broken neck. His head was twisted completely around.

  The house passed on through various family members through the years and with each generation came more ghost stories, folk tales, and hearsay, until the house fell into the hands of Grady Randifor.

  He’d made his fortune in cotton in the South and, when tensions between the states began to rise, he sold his shares, took his money, and went back to his childhood home in Kentucky. House Randifor. He had no family to speak of, although he did bring with him a half-dozen slaves that he’d kept after the sales. They set about righting the house, getting it into good repair, and generally creating a quite-prosperous little farm. He grew corn and tobacco and made a good amount of money at it. Over the years, he became a fixture of the local community.

  The War Between the States soon changed that. Grady, despite owning slaves, was quite against the practice. He swore he had freed those men and women he had once owned, but they had elected to stay with him. Grady and his freed slaves built a series of elaborate tunnels under the property and used them to not only hide fleeing slaves from the South, but also to send them safely on their way. History books speak glowingly of Grady Randifor and his participation in the Underground Railroad. He was and is a hero of many to this very day,

  During this same time, Grady met and married his wife who eventually bore him five sons. But then the war ended and things changed. The former slaves he’d brought with him disappeared, his wife left him, taking the children, and Grady became a recluse. Neighbors found his corpse a year later, sitting at the kitchen table, bent over, having apparently starved himself to death.

  His children, once grown, scattered, and the house stood empty for almost two generations. Until my father and uncle returned to it. Until whatever happened that fateful night led to my father’s flight and imminent death.

  X

  A truck bounced down the road, approaching the house and jouncing me from my reverie. I checked my watch. This would surely be the caretaker employed by the estate.

  The truck was dented and rusty, a vehicle dripping with character. It was old but strong, despite the belch of black smoke it left in its wake. The truck skidded to a stop ten feet from me, carrying with it a fog of dust from the gravel and a puff of rotten exhaust.

  The man who stepped out was much taller than me and quite rangy. He was rawboned, probably fifty, but walked like a man much younger. He had big hands and feet and his clothes—a plain cotton, blue button-down shirt and faded red slacks—appeared older than he was. He wore beaten tan boots and had a battered fedora slanted back on his head. His face was full of crags and furrows surrounding small, mean blue eyes bordered on both sides by large, hairy ears and above by a shock of white hair.

  “You Herbert?” he said, his voice scratchy and as Southern as sun tea.

  “Yes,” I said, offering my hand for him to shake. He stared at it with one squinted eye until I lowered it, untouched. “You must be Mr. Sizemore.”

  “That’s right,” he said, pushing the hat further back on his head. “You can call me Ray, if you want.”

  “That sounds fine, Ray,” I said, smiling.

  “You finding everything to your satisfaction out here?” he asked.

  “So far, so good. Although I really thought the house would be bigger.”

  Ray laughed. It was an easy laugh, betraying his rough exterior. I imagined Ray would be a good friend to have, someone who’d stick by your side, no matter what. But perhaps I was getting ahead of myself.

  “Yeah, I reckon it is. I’ve always known it like this, so I can’t say much else,” he said.

  “You’ve worked here for how long?”

  “Well, I figure pretty near on twenty years now. My Daddy used to take care of the place, but then he got too old and I took over. My wife, Faye, she would come by from time to time and clean up the inside, but she got spooked one day and swore she’d never come back.” He paused a moment, his eyes crawling over me. “‘Course, it’s the only damn thing she ever promised that she followed through on.”

  “So the inside is a bit rough, then?” I was not happy about this. I wanted a nice place to rest my head, not a rat’s nest.

  “Oh, it ain’t so bad,” he said. “The furniture rotted out a long time ago, so it’s been gone a good while. Most of the house is empty, but the floors are just fine, maybe a little dusty, and no critters are in there, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “No,” I said.

  “I go through about once a month, just to make sure it’s all okay. I went in yesterday. I think you’ll find it’s alright.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, why don’t you keep the inside clean? If your wife was unwilling...”

  “I don’t ‘cause that’s woman’s work. Just like making a bed or cooking a meal. I do it if I have to, but I don’t make no habit of it.”

  “Ah,” I said. It seemed I was out of things to say.

  Ray dug in his pocket and held out a small key ring with only one key on it.

  “This’ll get you in the front and back. There ain’t no other doors inside that got locks on ‘em.”

  I took the key.

  “Can I ask you, do you know about the tunnels underground?”

  He pursed his lips, chewed on the bottom one, and thought for a moment.

  “‘Course I do. Everybody does.”

  “Do you think you could show me around down there? Perhaps tomorrow?”

  “I have my own property to tend to,” he said.

  “Would payment sway your mind?”

  Ray glared at me.

  “What? You think I’m some inbred hillbilly and I got no money? For all you know, I could be a rich man.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  A big grin creased Ray’s face and he laughed out loud.

  “Hell, I was just joshing with you,” he said. “I’d be glad to take some of your money.”

  “Excellent.” I smiled. I was relieved, both at his jocular nature and the prospect of not having to face the tunnels all alone.

  X

  Having set our time for afternoon the following day, Ray left me on my own. I took the opportunity to explore the house. The front door was locked, I was glad to find, and the single key he’d given me slid into the lock and opened it smoothly. The house on the inside was much like the house on the outside: in decent shape, but wholly unremarkable. My disappointment was only held in check by the hope I had in exploring the slave tunnels the next day. Surely there would be something of interest there.

  The house was empty, as Ray had said. Not a stitch of furniture and every room as boring as the last. I went upstairs but found it a mirror image of the rest of the house.

  Venturing downstairs, I discovered the door to the basement. At last, here was potential excitement. Down there was the entrance to the tunnels where my relatives had smuggled fleeing slaves. I resolved to find them and enter at least one today. I could not wait until the morrow.

  I opened the door and peered down into the darkness. The house never had any electricity, so there were no light switches to flip and, even if there were, I highly doubted they would have worked, anyhow. It was much too dark to venture forth, so I went back outside.

  In my rental car I had supplies enough to last a week, if need be. I had stopped at a store in my way out and bought three kerosene lanterns, some food, a sleeping bag, two sets of flashlights, and plenty of fresh batteries.

  I looked up at the sky. The day was dying above me, and I decided t
o go ahead and stay the night. I could set up my things and get some reading done. It would be like camping out and the thought of it excited me.

  I brought my things in and set them in the living room. I fired up a lantern and traveled down the hallway to the entrance to the basement.

  The door was shut.

  I could have sworn I’d left it open when I went outside. No matter, I told myself. It was simply the wind, or I was mistaken. In any case, a chill crept up the back of my neck and I smiled. At last, something had happened. And a fleeting thought occurred to me: Perhaps down here I might find some clue as to what had driven my father mad enough to drink himself to death. Or maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe he was fearful at the prospect of being a father and died accidentally. There was only one way to find out.

  I opened the door and shone the lantern. The stairs were long and rickety, plunging so far down the darkness swallowed the edges of the light. I could not see the landing. Shrugging, I descended.

  With each step, the hot fall evening faded, only to be replaced by a slithering pall. The cold insinuated itself, filtering through my clothing, hissing against my pores, and sinking into my cells. By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, I was shivering.

  I laughed at myself. Now at least I knew where to go if I got hot during the night. My jesting did nothing to ease the feeling of dread slowly spreading across my chest. It was light but unavoidable, and with each step I took, I could feel it growing heavier.

  I tried not to think of my relatives who had died here.

  The landing at the bottom was a simple round space that served no purpose other than to introduce the hallway that led out from it. The floors were dirt and the walls were some sort of packed brick. No weeds sprouted from the ground, which was surprising. I could tell Ray took decent care of the property, but pulling weeds in a basement floor that hardly anyone would ever see seemed a bit beyond the call of duty. Still, I was happy for his work ethic. It made my way of going much easier.