I heard the thud again.
18
The thud sounded closer, louder.
“Jeffrey?”
Silence replied.
Then the thud.
I whipped my head around. A pod rolled on the ground.
Something hit me on the head and landed at my feet. Another pod. I put a hand to my head, and it came away wet, sticky, and gummy. The gum webbed in between my spread fingers, and it reeked. I had slipped on that same smelly ooze. I looked up inside the tree. A lanky, gray monkey hung from a branch. Only it wasn’t a monkey.
“Hello, Mason,” the creature said, extending a long arm, a pod in its slimy hand. “I’m Mr. Granger.” He smiled and gave a guttural laugh. “Is this what you want?”
I stumbled backward and fell. The seeds splattered out of my pockets among the torn pods littering the ground.
That thing, whatever the hell it was, was slithering down the tree toward me leaving a trail of ooze in its path. It was hairless, and knobs formed all over its head, like the knobs on the tree trunk.
It reminded me of a crawling stick I’d seen on some nature show. I couldn’t think fast enough to react, because it was out of the tree and standing right in front of me, its green eyes unblinking.
“Remember me?” Mr. Granger asked as it leaned against the tree.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Yes,” Mr. Granger said, biting into a pod, teeth crunching, oval head nodding. Had the creature’s head been red, it would have looked like one of the pods. Mr. Granger’s bulbous eyes glowed. “In Mexico,” Mr. Granger said.
“I’ve never seen anything like you before,” I said, raising my upper lip in disgust. I quickly tried to reconstruct the time spent in Mexico and what might have brought us into contact. Faces flashed in my head: the dealers, the smugglers, the police, and the cartel. My memories stopped on one face in particular, a face with electric-green, crazy eyes.
“Miguel,” Mr. Granger said, discarding the pod.
“Miguel!” I repeated.
“What a bastard he was,” Mr. Granger said.
“Yeah,” I replied, half-dazed. “He was a bastard.” I remembered how my heart had raced when I met Miguel. How those green eyes of his had bore into me.
“He was always smoking or snorting something,” Mr. Granger said. “Remember Miguel’s thick, Mexican accent? He cussed and ranted and raved, his sweaty black hair hanging in his face, trying to look all tough and incognito. He was a brazen little bastard, all five foot four of him with cowboy boots. How ’bout the stiletto switchblade on his hip? Dangerous weapon.”
Mr. Granger crouched and sat on his haunches. My face and neck felt dry and hot, as if I were standing in front of a fire.
“Miguel was a lackey,” Mr. Ganger said. “He was everywhere, wasn’t he? No matter who you were supposed to be dealing with, Miguel was there lurking in the background. You were being watched by the son of a bitch and your every move reported back to the cartel. Honestly, you couldn’t even shit without Miguel reporting it.
“‘Don’t fuck with Miguel,’ you had been told when you began dealing with the cartel, meeting guys named Jorge, Pablo, Juan. Most of those greasy shits had dark, shifty eyes. Not Miguel; his eyes stayed on you, didn’t they? He saw everything in his peripheral vision, eyes always fixed on you.” Mr. Granger chuckled.
I remembered Miguel’s fixed stare. Miguel must have relied on another to yell “Duck!” whenever fists or bullets began to fly.
I had witnessed Miguel stabbing his knife more than once. He was quick, not too bloody or messy, enough to send a message—don’t fuck with Miguel.
I never wanted to see Miguel again. But the creature standing in front of me couldn’t be him. “You can’t be him.”
“No, you have it all wrong,” Mr. Granger said. “I am not Miguel. I inhabited Miguel.” Mr. Granger gave a dark, shriveled smile. “I accept whenever I’m invited. Some come right out and beg. Others ask in a subtle round-about way, thereby opening the door.” Mr. Granger took a deep breath and said, “Then there are those who have no idea I’m coming. I manage to wiggle my way inside. It’s not hard to do, and once I’m in, I think they learn to enjoy my company.
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Granger said, his mouth gaping open. “Miguel is dead. That’s why I came back home. Interested in how he died?” Two needle-thin fangs glimmered in the garden’s light. They were short and white, like a snake’s.
“I, I …” My tongue stumbled in my mouth.
19
“Miguel died from lead pois-s-ssoning,” Mr. Granger said, the last word in a long, drawn-out lisp. “He took a bullet for his boss. Idiot. I would never do anything so stupid. Would you?
“You’re speechless,” Mr. Granger said when I didn’t answer. “I have that effect on people. Want to tell me how you got his knife?”
I touched the knife’s bulge in my pocket.
“You stole it from him while he was sleeping, didn’t you?” Mr. Granger asked. “Your one and only brazen act before you fled the country. Oh, I don’t want it. You keep it; it’ll come in handy soon enough.”
Mr. Granger turned his attention to my rounded belly. “You over indulged. Tisk, tisk. Guess what this fruit you’ve been eating is called? A gorge. How ’bout that.” His eyes bulged and rotated in his sockets, one clockwise and the other counter-clockwise, as he observed the discarded pulp and pods on the ground. “We can’t let this go to waste.” Granger leaned down and began lapping at the pulp with a long, forked tongue as gray as his skin. “You’ll need to keep drinking this if you want any relief from your cough. One taste, and you become addicted,” Mr. Granger said in between sickening slurps.
I couldn’t move. I’d sucked the juices out of at least ten gorges, and I wanted to vomit.
“She sells the pods to the sangomas,” Granger said. “They use the empty pods for mortars.” Mr. Granger eyed my slime-covered knee. “Knee bones make perfect pestles. She’d love to find you here. She waters this tree with blood. And here you stand, right underneath. Have you met her?”
“No,” I whispered.
Granger finished lapping up the pulp, the ground below licked clean. After a great, big belch, he turned to the tree top, red juices dripping from his chin.
“Since she shares her father’s pride, she’s allowing your visit, so you might believe,” Mr. Granger said. “But will you? You better go. Pick up the book. I won’t tell her what you stuffed inside your pockets. The seeds didn’t all spill out when you fell. And you managed to cover yourself in her precious dirt. See how it glistens on your pants? Take what you have and go that way.”
A thin, bony finger pointed behind me. The finger grew longer and longer, like Pinocchio’s nose. It stretched passed me, and I realized I was supposed to follow.
With the breeze at my back, I jogged, shouldering my way through vines and branches. I tripped on a root, hugged the book, and managed to avoid falling.
An open door. I stopped. Outside was the flower field. Granger’s grey finger was gone, snapped back like rubber to his putty body. The creature reminded me of stretchy, greasy rubber putty.
“Jeffrey!” I called, hoping for an answer. I began running toward the door. “Jeffrey! It’s me, Mason. You out there?”
I clasped the book and dashed through.
20—Jeffrey Thurmont
I heard Mason calling for me and sniggered quietly. Granger would corner the poor chap, and the girl would come along to dispose of him. She was definitely awake and moving around, since it was dark.
I felt bad for Mason. Somewhat. He came here on his own accord. No one forced him. The girl had called out to him, I was sure. She tempted him with a story, fame, adventure, whatever, however. She had plans for Mason, a reason for his arrival into her world. What was I supposed to do about it? I told him my story, gave him a proper warning.
During Eva’s book signing party, Mena, Eva’s housekeeper, had invited Caroline, my girlfriend, inside. Caroline heard
countless stories about her sister’s haunted house. She owned a copy of Eva’s book. She had read it cover to cover, tested the magik, used the seeds. Since she had never been on Eva’s property or even met her sister, Caroline felt honored and proud to be there, though Edward had forbade her to come. Mena tempted Caroline with a private audience with her sister. The walls closed in on Caroline; she put out her hands, and a fleck of drywall fell away. Caroline saw the fleck and wanted to take it away with her as a charm. She put it in her mouth to hide it from Mena. Mena attacked her, and Caroline swallowed the drywall and escaped. As Mena had predicted, the drywall made its way out of Caroline and back where it belonged.
I waited patiently outside the barn door with my hands in my trouser pockets. I wasn’t going in. The door opened enough for me to see inside. My drink was in there, waiting for me. Granger said it was. All I had to do was go get it.
I stepped closer. A twingle crawled up my sprinkle. Wait, No. A tingle crawled up my spine. My tankle—damn it!—my ankle tickled. Incoherent thoughts. This is what happens to me when I get too close. Stand black. Stand back!
I backed away from the barn door.
While me mind cleared, I knew if Eva were standing next to me, she would laugh. She would want me to go inside and get me drink. Me? My.
I refused to go.
I did want that drink.
At first, I didn’t want Mason to die. I really had intended to give him some seeds. I wanted the fool to believe before he immersed himself any deeper. But after we both got out of our cars, I saw disdain on Mason’s face. He thought I was the bloody fool; he presumed to know better than me. In his mind, I didn’t deserve such a house; it was too rich for me. I tried to get him inside. He surprised me by saying no. So I did the next best thing, and lead him behind the house toward her barn. Smug bastard could fetch the seeds for himself.
21
I heard Mason scream my name. He sounded like he was right inside the barn’s door. He was lost, of course. I smiled.
My mood abruptly changed. My smile faded. Instead of enjoying his terror, I started to feel remorse. The sudden mood changes happened more and more often. I blamed the muti drink; it made me erratic. If I were to visit a medical doctor, he would find my chemical balances off, my disposition bordering bipolar depression.
It suddenly struck me; I, too, was lost. I must change. I must amend my ways before it is too late. I had to help Mason. If Edward had helped me, then maybe I would be home, happy.
I missed England. I missed my orderly life. Lovely breakfast at seven, tea and biscuits after a simple lunch of sandwiches, dinner being the respectful, proper four-course meal followed by a cordial. Quiet evenings. Private, uninteresting life. A good life. Not perfect.
I’d left England many times, vacationing in France, Italy, Germany, America, but never Africa, until Father asked me to come. I knew many who had vacationed here, had second homes here. I hesitated when Father asked. I pointed out apartheid and the politics. Father countered, saying the British had been in South Africa since the eighteenth century.
I brushed up on history before following my father’s move. I learned the British brought missionaries to rid South Africa of its paganism. Humanitarians brought aid to the natives and civilization to the tribes. The British did their best to inhibit and reign over the people, bringing religion and proper etiquette with them. Did the natives want religion? I doubt it. Etiquette was pointless in the bush.
Once the outsiders came, problems arose. Slavery began with the Arabs and continued with traders from the New World. The Dutch and the British settled and discovered diamonds and gold, bringing in boatloads of whites. People haven’t stopped coming and exploiting.
“And they won’t,” Eva once told me, “as long as I keep summoning them.”
I moved to South Africa at Father’s beckoning to grow our law business in a country where the taxes were lower and the people were wealthier. I did as I was asked. I always did. I obeyed my betters, conformed to society, dressed and spoke properly. My parents brought me up to gain respectful employment, marry and have a family as namesakes and heirs, to desire and aspire to great things. Raised to believe in religion, I was open to almost any type. I yawned through it before meals and bed; I found the habit reassuring without caring why.
There was no difference, in my opinion, between the Holy Bible and Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Blasphemy, some might think, but to me, religion was a means to explain life and its unknowns. Growing up, I had followed the right paths, never seeing life as the maze it would become. I wondered if I would ever find my way out.
As I felt myself fill with resolution, another mood swing hit me hard. It felt like an out-of-body moment. I was weightless, unencumbered by physical confines. I saw myself as one does from afar—an Englishman in khaki trousers, stiff, white shirt, and polished shoes.
Jeffrey Richard Thurmont of East Finchley was making great strides in keeping up appearances, so concerned was he with himself. He attempted to live the new life he now desired, giving up everything in exchange. He thought he would receive so much more. And what, exactly, did he have? An illusionary mansion. A beautiful woman who was a devil in disguise. His law practice was thriving, but he worked with scoundrels. It was a means to an end. I saw the scowl on his face darken. His soul shriveled.
Mason crashed through the open barn door in slow motion.
My mouth fell open. I snapped it shut, aware of my body and the fact that I inhabited it once again.
“We have to go!” Mason shouted.
22
“You made it out?” I asked Mason, incredulous.
Granger was nowhere to be seen, but Mason stood before me, sweaty and filthy, holding the book against his chest. His hands shook. His eyes, which had been narrow and full of arrogance, were widened and full of fear.
“Mr. Granger pointed the way,” Mason said, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Jealous?” I heard Granger’s voice ask. “This is what she wants. You would be doing Mason a favour by killing him off early, before your daughter has her way with him.”
If she had intended for this to happen, as Granger implied, then I should kill Mason. Call it jealousy. I was strong enough to take him. I could wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze. I could punch his face in until his brains exploded out the back. Call it mercy. I’d save him from a worse death at her hands.
Mason stood there panting and looking at me like an imbecile.
“Have you seen enough for today?” I asked, still wrestling with my decision. Let him go? Kill him? If only I had a coin to flip. I took him by the crook of his elbow and guided him away from the barn.
Mason didn’t say a word as we walked back. I kept glancing at him, and as we approached the driveway, the moonlight hit him. Specks of dirt glistened on his pants and around his bulging pocket, glowing in the moonlight like fluorescent crumbs.
“What’s on you?” I asked, stopping, reaching down to his pants. My hand came away tacky. “Those are seeds,” I said. “You have seeds.”
I noticed Mason’s stomach; it was swollen and it flopped over the waistband of his shorts.
Mason had drunk from the pods. He had seeds in his pocket and dirt on his clothes. He had the book. A recipe for my disaster. I wanted to kick myself as I realized her plan—she had chosen Mason as the next father. I’d be usurped in no time.
I started swatting the dirt off his pants and slapped at his pocket.
“Stop it,” he said, stepping aside.
“Give me your pants,” I said, anger rising inside me.
He must have read the look on my face. Mason started running.
I took off after him.
23
If he hadn’t drunk from those pods, I would have easily caught him. But even with a full belly, he outpaced me, the book no longer weighing him down.
He jumped in the driver side and locked the doors before starting the engine.
I clenched my fists, ready to sma
sh them through the window, but Mason backed out of reach. The tires screeched, kicking up gravel as he pulled forward and turned in the driveway. I jumped and dove through the air, landing with a heavy “whap” onto the car’s bonnet.
Mason and I stared at each other through the windshield. I grasped the lip between the windshield and the bonnet.
He slammed the brakes. I held tight, my hands squeezing impressions in the metal, and I pulled up part of the bonnet. The car came to a halt. “Get the fuck off my hood!” Mason screamed.
“Give me your pants and the book,” I said.
Mason blared the horn.
A memory suddenly hit me, one of a large, grey dog jumping through the air and landing onto the bonnet of my Town Car as Caroline sat beside me, screaming. Mena, Eva’s housekeeper, had been the dog, a lion-dog. Mena had shape-shifted and followed Caroline and me from Eva’s, terrorizing us, chasing Caroline in an attempt to retrieve the drywall she had taken from the house.
Granger appeared in Mason’s passenger seat, unseen by Mason. Granger pushed a button on the door, and the locks popped open. Mason quickly pushed the lock button again. Granger popped the lock. Back and forth the two went, locking and unlocking the doors. By the fourth or fifth round, I opened the door and lunged inside. The book fell to the car’s floor, and I swooped it up in my hand.
I screamed.
I never even saw the knife coming. The handle stuck out of my hand, the blade deep. My hand was pierced and bled like a son of a bitch.
“Damn you!” I shouted.
“My book!” Mason yelled, yanking out the blade, taking another swipe.
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