Some Dark Holler (The Redemption of Ephraim Cutler Book 1)

by Luke Bauserman

  She shook her head. “What I can tell ye is, the dog soaks in the grave for a good long while. While he’s down there, he learns the scent of a guilty soul, and at the same time he’s changin’, turnin’ into a critter, like the one that latched ahold of your arm.” She shook the molasses jug and slapped it on the bottom. “I might have to sit this out in the sun afore any will come out. Anyway, after the hound is dug up, it can be used to hunt down folks who’ve done grievous wrongs. It smells their guilt and trails ’em, same as any huntin’ dog after a rabbit.”

  A dark glob of molasses worked its way down to the mouth of the jug. Nancy stuck her finger inside and scooped it into the bowl. She licked the black residue from her finger, smacked her lips, and eyed Ephraim. “Which means ye done got yourself into a mess of trouble since I last saw ye.”

  Ephraim took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He wasn’t prepared to talk about this. “You’re right, Nancy. I did somethin’ terrible. But that ain’t why I’m here. My ma, she’s taken foxglove, and she’s dyin’. I need you to help her. Whatever happens to me don’t matter.”

  Nancy motioned for Ephraim to lay his arm on the table. “Well, I’m goin’ to try this remedy on ye, no matter what ye did. There’s no sense in saving ye in the middle of the night just to let ye die of the hydrophoby the next day.” She used a wooden spoon to mix the molasses with the crushed leaves. “This is chickweed and molasses. I seen it work on mad dog bites, so I reckon it might get ye healed up and haired over. I don’t know what you got mixed up in, Ephraim Cutler, but I’ve had a feelin’ of late that somethin’ strange is a-brewin’ in these parts.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I was over in Pendleton County, couple days ago, and heard tell of a mule givin’ birth. And only this mornin’, when I was doin’ my washin’, I saw an omen in the suds.” She pointed the spoon at Ephraim. “Lye soap don’t never lie. Remember that.” She tilted the bowl and scraped down the sides with the spoon. “That, and my pappy’s old shirt, are all pointin’ to somethin’. I seen times like these afore. The whirlwind’s a-comin’.”

  A shiver ran through Ephraim. He sat in silence while Nancy used the spoon to daub the mixture over his wound. He knew the old woman was waiting to hear what had happened, what he had done to draw the hellhound’s attention. He didn’t know how to begin.

  Finally, he took a shaky breath and closed his eyes. “I shot a man,” he said. “Silas Henson.”

  “You kill him?” Nancy asked, still looking at Ephraim’s arm.

  Ephraim nodded. The words tumbled from his mouth. “I didn’t want to do it. Ma—she wanted me to kill a Yankee, said she’d drink poison if I didn’t.”

  “She must’ve figured they’d caught ye. I reckon that’s why she drank it anyway.”

  “Yeah, well they did, but I got away.”

  Ephraim paused for a minute. He thought of what Nancy had said about wicked people creating hellhounds in the old days. The image of the stranger in the Confederate coat flashed through his mind, along with the piece of paper that floated ahead of him with a life of its own. He heard the reverend’s warning again: It could be that your crime has drawn forces far more sinister than a lynching party to Sixmile Creek.

  “Nancy,” he said. “I don’t think I shot Silas on purpose. I think the Devil made me do it.”

  “I’m sure many a man has told a tale like that at the gallows,” Nancy said. She tore a fresh strip of bandage from an old shirt and wound it around Ephraim’s arm.

  “You don’t have to believe me, but I think I saw him.”

  “Who, the Devil?” Nancy raised an eyebrow.

  Ephraim nodded. “I had my pistol pointed at Silas, and I was trying to work up the nerve to pull the trigger. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Then my horse jumped, and the gun went off. This man, he’s a stranger passin’ through Sixmile Creek. I saw him in the woods, watchin’.”

  “Ye think the man is the Devil.”

  “I didn’t before, but what you said ’bout the hellhound makes sense. Somebody had to make that thing and send it after me, right?”

  Nancy frowned and looked out the door. “Could be,” she said. She pulled out her pipe and filled the bowl. “He’s been known to show up every now and again.” She walked over to the stove, struck a long match on it, got the tobacco smoldering, and turned around. Smoke framed her face. “And he certainly could conjure up a hellhound, I reckon. If a witch done it they’d have to be mighty powerful; they’d have to know the old ways.” She shook her head. “Perish the thought!”

  “I’ve heard folks talk ’bout witches, but I don’t reckon I really know what they are,” Ephraim said.

  Nancy snorted as she walked over to the stove. “Most folks you hear talkin’ ’bout ’em don’t neither. That don’t stop ’em from talkin’ though.”

  She opened a pot and served Ephraim a bowl of cornmeal mush. While he ate, she sorted through bunches of dry herbs, placing some into a pack-basket, muttering to herself.

  Ephraim wolfed down the food, watching Nancy.

  “Sounds like your mammy needs tendin’ to. I best get goin’. I don’t figure ye ought to trek back down to town in the shape you’re in.”

  Ephraim jumped to his feet. “No, I’m comin’ with you.”

  “There’ll be folks a-huntin’ ye.”

  “I know. I’ve seen ’em.”

  Nancy inspected him. “You ain’t goin’ to slow me down, walkin’ on them bare feet, are ye?”

  “No, ma’am,” Ephraim said. “I’ll be just fine.”

  Nancy slid her arms through the straps of the pack-basket and hiked it onto her shoulders. “All right, then. Let’s get goin’.”

  They stepped outside. Earl raised his head and looked in their direction. Nancy shook her head at him, and he bleated mournfully. “We can’t take ye this time, Earl. Got to move quickly.” She walked over to the goat and scratched him between the horns. “Stay ’round here till I get back. Ye can find your own food for a few days.”

  Nancy led the way down a steep path that wound its way in switchbacks down toward Sixmile Creek. Ephraim wished he’d found this path last night; it was much easier than the route he had taken. As they walked, he felt the soreness in his arm subsiding a little. Maybe this new poultice was working. He wondered how many cures the granny woman had stored in her head.

  “Nancy, is it true?” he asked. “That story ’bout you driving off the Skinner witch?”

  “Ol’ Josephine,” Nancy said, nodding. “Who told ye ’bout that?”

  “I heard Manson tellin’ the story.”

  Nancy smiled. “It’s good to know that some folks still remember what I did for Sixmile Creek.” She squinted at Ephraim. “He tell you what she did to the Sherman girl?”

  Ephraim grimaced. “Yeah.”

  Nancy pulled her pipe out of her mouth. “When I first came to Sixmile Creek, Josephine Skinner had the run of the place. Did whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted to do it. Nobody put up a fight. Well, besides Wes Sherman pepperin’ her hind end with birdshot, and to a witch that ain’t nothin’.

  “The first thing I did when I arrived was to go around the settlement and make sure that every last family put horseshoes over the doors to their homes and barns.”

  “Like the one you’ve got on your tree—er, the Laura?” Ephraim said.

  Nancy nodded. “Like that. But most folks in the settlement took theirs down after hearin’ Boggs preach against witches.” She snorted.

  “What’s the horseshoe for?” Ephraim asked.

  “Well, anybody who knows anythin’ ’bout witches knows they’ve got the evil eye.” Nancy pointed at her eye with the stem of her pipe. “It’s as ugly as sin, kind of like a goat’s eye.” She shook her head. “I still cain’t believe that preacher got the whole town to believe I’m a witch. Ye see anythin’ strange ’bout my eyes?” She turned to Ephraim and opened her eyes wide.

  Ephraim shook his head.

  “I’m
right purty lookin’, ain’t I?” Nancy winked. “The other thing anybody who knows anythin’ ’bout witches knows is this rhyme: If a wicked glint ye spy, you’re under the gaze of the evil eye. Hang a horseshoe over the door, the eye will close forever more.” She pointed the pipe stem at Ephraim. “Remember that. I can’t rightly say why or how it works, but it does. Now, as I was sayin’, the horseshoes was the first thing I done. It made it so Josephine had a hard time preyin’ on the common folk ’round here. It put the fight between me and her, cunning-folk against cunning-folk.”

  “What’s cunning-folk?” Ephraim interrupted.

  “Cunning-folk are anyone who can charm, cure, or read the signs. We’re all the same to begin with, born on Old Christmas Day, seventh sons of seventh sons. I was born with a caul. Anyway, the gift we have is supposed to be used to help folks. But some let their gift go sour. See, the very instant cunning-folk use their power to harm someone, to cast a curse, they lose the power to help and heal, and they get the evil eye. Them that do that are called witches, and there’s different names for them accordin’ to their talents. Josephine was what most folks call a skin-changer. Those of us who stay clear of cursin’ folks are called granny women, conjure men, dowsers…” She waved her hand. “There’s all kinds. Ye understand?”

  Ephraim nodded.

  “Anyway, after I got everyone to put up horseshoes, I just waited awhile. See, Josephine was feedin’ herself by stealin’ from folks. If she cursed a cow to give bloody milk, that meant that she was gettin’ the good milk somehow. I heard someone swear up and down that they seen her wring two gallons of milk out of a dishrag, just like she was squeezin’ a cow’s tits! She cursed hens to quit layin’, and she had a pack of toads up at her place that’d lay the eggs that was meant for the chickens.” Nancy waved her pipe stem at Ephraim. “There ain’t nothin’ a witch likes more than suckin’ raw eggs. But when the horseshoes went up, Josephine got hungry.”

  Nancy tapped her temple. “That’s how ye got to think when you’re takin’ on a witch. Ye got to back ’em into a corner. So Josephine started spendin’ more time a-roamin’, swappin’ her skin and tryin’ to trick folks into givin’ her victuals. I kept an eye on her place, and one night I saw her slip out, wearin’ the skin of a young woman.”

  Ephraim swallowed, thinking of Alice Sherman.

  “I snuck into her cabin and looked around. She had her own hide all folded up nice and tucked down into a trunk. I opened that trunk, dug it out, and rubbed the inside down with salt. Then I put it back, just like I found it.” Nancy smiled. “Lordy, you should’ve seen Ol’ Josephine when she came home and wriggled back into her hide!”

  “What happened?” Ephraim asked.

  Nancy chuckled. “The salt shrunk it, made it tighter’n a bull’s backside in fly season! She came a-runnin’ out of that cabin lookin’ like somethin’ the cat coughed up. She couldn’t close her eyes because the lids was all drawed up!” She spread her own eyes wide with her fingers, exposing their whites. “Her mouth was like that too.” She hooked her fingers into the corners of her mouth and stretched back her cheeks. “She had a great big split runnin’ from the top of her head, down her back, and down the backs of both legs. That was where she’d pull her skin off, see, but with it all drawed up like that, she couldn’t make the ends meet.”

  Nancy erupted into a fit of laughter. She pulled out her pipe and coughed.

  Ephraim shuddered, picturing a half-skinned possum of human proportions.

  “I never, in all my days, thought I’d see somethin’ like I seen that night,” Nancy said once she’d caught her breath. “Josephine was caterwaulin’, swattin’ herself all over, like she’d stepped on a hornet’s nest! That salt must’ve stung somethin’ fierce. She saw me and said, ‘You done this!’ Well I looked right back at her. ‘Yes, missy I did,’ says I, ‘and ye deserve every lick of it!’” Nancy laughed and wiped her streaming eyes. “Then I set fire to her cabin, with all her spare skins inside, and I told her she’d best leave Sixmile Creek or I’d see that she was burned too. That took the starch right out of her. I ain’t seen hide nor hair of Ol’ Josephine since.”

  Ephraim’s mouth had gone dry. He gave a shaky laugh and let the old woman walk ahead of him. I’m sure glad Nancy’s on my side.

  18

  A Hatful of Regret

  Isabel’s father stood in the doorway of the store, hat in hand. “I’m headed over to the mill to get some corn ground,” he said. “Your ma’s coming with me. I need you to stay here and run things while I’m gone.”

  “Yes, Pa,” Isabel said, looking up from sweeping the floor.

  She watched through the window as her parents drove off in their wagon.

  On a shelf behind the sales counter sat a round box tied with a string. Isabel pulled it down. Would she ever get to give Ephraim the gift she’d brought from Charleston? She doubted it. If Ephraim was still alive, he was likely far from Sixmile Creek by now.

  She undid the string and lifted the lid. A black hat with a pale blue ribbon band lay inside. She pulled it out and set it on the counter. She’d thought of Ephraim the moment she’d seen the ribbon, blue like his eyes. Aunt Eliza had bought it for her, and giggled like a young girl when Isabel told her about the boy back home she wanted to please.

  The bell on the door jingled, and Isabel looked up to see Lester and Polly Ewing entering. Polly walked to the counter.

  “How do, Miss Isabel?”

  “I’m fine,” Isabel said. “Pa’s gone to the mill. Is there something I can help you all with?”

  “I need to buy a sack of sugar,” Polly said, counting coins onto the counter. Her gaze fell on the hat. “That’s a handsome hat you’ve got there. Lester, come over here.”

  Lester walked over.

  “Try this on,” Polly said, handing him the hat.

  The hat fit Lester perfectly.

  “That looks real good on you, honey!” Polly said. She turned to Isabel. “He had a hat just like that when we first started courtin’. Seein’ him wearin’ it makes me feel young all over again. How much for it?”

  Isabel shook her head. “It’s not for sale. It’s a gift for someone.” Even as the words left her mouth, she wondered why she shouldn’t sell it, or even give it to Polly—just let go of the hat, and Ephraim too. If she didn’t, the hat would sit on the shelf, a silent reminder of dreams never realized.

  Lester pulled off the hat and laid it on the counter. “Shame. I kind of like that one.”

  Isabel took a deep breath and pushed the hat back across the counter. “Sorry, I was thinking of a different hat. You can have this one for two dollars.”

  Lester’s eyebrows shot up. He glanced at Polly. “Two dollars? I’d expect to give four for a hat like that!” He looked back at Isabel. “You sure ’bout this, miss? Your pa isn’t goin’ to hunt me down and accuse me of stealin’ from his store while he was gone, is he?”

  Isabel nodded. “I’m sure.”

  The Ewings paid and left with the hat and sugar. Isabel stared at the empty space where the hatbox had sat on the counter. A lump rose in her throat.

  Across the street, outside Manson Owens’s smithy, a knot of people had gathered. Isabel could see the Fletcher brothers at its center, wild-eyed, waving their arms as they spoke.

  The bell on the door jingled again, and Peyton stepped in. “Isabel, come out here! You got to hear this!” He returned to the porch, listening to the group, arms folded, shaking his head.

  Isabel walked out onto the porch next to Peyton.

  “I’m tellin’ you, this weren’t like any critter I ever seen in my life!” Clabe Fletcher was saying. “The thing had eyes like coals, teeth like jackknives! Didn’t it, Jake?”

  Manson poked his head out of his smithy. “What’re you folks carryin’ on about out here?”

  Rindy Sue, who stood clutching Jake’s arm, turned to the blacksmith. “Mr. Owens, Jake and Clabe caught Ephraim Cutler. They had him last night, but a monster attacked
’em and chased ’em off.”

  Manson shook his head. “This whole town’s gone plumb crazy. First I hear Ephraim’s hidin’ in badger holes, now a monster’s chasin’ him around the woods.”

  “I seen what I saw!” Jake Fletcher said. “It killed Frank Moats up in the Hurricane Timber! I swear it! His body’s probably still up there.”

  Clabe nodded. “Yeah, he’s up there, along with my gun. I dropped it. I reckon Ephraim’s dead up there, too. Last I saw that thing was after him.”

  Peyton leaned over to Isabel. “I think those boys have been drinkin’ their own product a little too much. When they told me, I said—”

  Isabel turned and walked back into the store.

  Peyton followed her. “I can’t stand this, Isabel. Knowin’ you’re angry with me. I was just tryin’ to say somethin’ to make you smile.”

  Isabel folded her arms and didn’t turn around.

  “Look,” Peyton said behind her. “I didn’t ask for Ephraim to shoot my brother. You act like this is all my fault. Well, it ain’t!”

  Isabel covered her face with her hands. How is some story about Ephraim getting eaten by a monster supposed to make me smile? Maybe he was still up there in the woods somewhere, cold and hungry. His ma was dying, and here she had practically given away the hat meant for him. How could she call herself his friend? Her eyes prickled with tears. She’d betrayed the boy she loved.