Redneck Eldritch

by Nathan Shumate

  The walk seemed to take longer this time as I imagined scores of Boktussa’s best and brightest stained white, turning to stare at me as I crested. But when I reached the top, I saw only Taggart and Andee, playing at the shore. Already they were white below the armpits. I stood at the edge and watched them building in the mud.

  But what were they building?

  At first I saw walls, but as I realized their undulating mounds radiated outward from a central point, that paradigm seemed inadequate. Some… star? A sea-star? And why the rocks at the ends of these squiggles? Little piles of—But no, not rocks—people. My breath stopped at this sudden insight. Instantly, I was convinced. People attached to a central—what? At the center was nothing but the hole they’d dug to supply the waving mounds of mud, radiating outward. They worked with an intense focus, adding squiggles and people until, apparently satisfied, they stood and looked at their creation. Without a word, they turned to the lake, filled their hands with its black water and began filling the center hole. The motions seemed automatic as they walked back and forth, back and forth, scooping water and pouring it into the hole, while I remained silent, unmoving. When they’d filled the hole, they dipped their fingers into it, then they sucked off each finger in turn. I tried to cry out to them, but nothing arrived but a low moan, and they did not regard me.

  In the next moment, all was well. My two children were laughing and jumping and splashing and running through and destroying their careful creation, seeming unaware of its presence. I hailed them and they greeted me joyously, running to me and pulling me to the water. I laughed in return and ran with them, but as my forward foot hit the water, I collapsed into the mud in pain, yanking my foot out as if it had been burnt.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?” asked Taggart.

  Andee looked at me almost medically. “She was chosen once,” she said. “She was chosen and she chickened out.”

  “What? No—! I—Andee?”

  “It’s okay, Mommy. We still love you. And I’m better anyway. I’m complete. You didn’t even have a brother.”

  “Yeah, Mom.” Taggart slung an arm around me and squeezed. “Andee’s special.”

  “We’re… all special.”

  They rolled their eyes at me and helped me stand up.

  I tried to lick my lips without biting my tongue. “Let’s—let’s go back down and watch a movie or something, okay?”

  “It’s my turn to choose!” yelled Andee, and she took off running for home, Taggart slipping as he tried to follow her. I closed my eyes and imagined sitting with them and the dog in front of the TV and nothing else. That was enough future for now.

  That night, after they were asleep, I returned to the barn. I had to decide whether to paint over what I had started—maybe strip it back down to canvas—or to finish it. Or destroy it. Or just . . . abandon it. Start something new. Start something… with a large cross. Yes. Start there. Let it fill the canvas. Yes…

  I set up a new canvas and began by blacking out the negative space, the corners, leaving the canvas untouched where the cross would later be. I put the paint on thick, thick as would hold, then grabbed a palette knife and began to scrape in vines and flowers, gouging them deep. As my work grew more detailed, I began to zone out my periphery, seeing no more than the square inch I was sculpting. When I’m focused like this, hours can pass without notice. And so they did this night. The sky was lightening when I came out of my reverie and took a step away from the easel. My back, I began to notice, was stiff and complaining about the final hours as I worked on the lower half of the painting. I set down the knives and stepped back again, stretching my arms then pushing into my hips with my thumbs. I walked over to open a pair of windows, then turned off the lights. The predawn sunlight lit the paint’s contours in a satisfying way. I walked around it in a half circle. Seeing the different details reveal themselves, small leaves and blossoms and—

  A certain overall pattern was established in each quadrant. One slightly larger blossom or leaf in the approximate center, the rest attached to vines trailing from the center in—

  The precise mode of my children’s mud sculpture.

  I had painted their tentacled maw in utter black with greenery the color of death as decoration. I reached backwards with both hands; they crashed into my various tools—brushes and so forth—one grasping a roundnose chisel. I turned it in my hand and, as if by instinct, raised my arm to stab downward when a calm voice behind me said, “No, Mommy.”

  I spun around and there stood Andee, still in her pajamas, the door closed behind her. “How—! How long have you been here?”

  “A while.”

  “Where’s—where’s Taggart?”

  Andee walked past me and leaned up close to the painting, her nose nearly touching the larger blossom of the bottom-left quadrant. “This is very good.”

  “Um. Thanks. You’re up early.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s not even dawn.”

  “I know.”

  “Andee—” I rubbed my eyes. “You let Taggart sleep?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I sighed. “Well, should we go have some early breakfast?”

  “Yay!”

  “Yay.”

  Andee measured out the Malt-O-Meal while I got the water boiling. Then I let her bring a chair over to stand on so she could stir it while I threw together some instant coffee.

  “I think it’s done, Mom.”

  “Great. Yeah, that looks great, honey. I’ll serve it up—you want to go see if Taggart’s up yet?”

  “He’s not in bed.”

  “Did you hear him?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “What do you mean he’s gone?”

  “He’s not here.”

  “What do you mean—you said—you said you… didn’t know… if he was sleeping.”

  “Right.”

  “Because he’s not here.”

  “Right.”

  I dropped the wooden spoon and stared at her. “Why didn’t you—”

  I left the rest of the question in the kitchen as I ran to Taggart’s room. His pajamas were hanging over the same chair his swimsuit was on. “Taggart!” I ran through the house and outside, yelling his name. Where could he be? Where would he go? He hadn’t gone swimming. He hadn’t been anywhere else. Would he walk to town? He couldn’t—could he?

  I ran back in. Andee had served the Malt-O-Meal into two bowls and was putting too much brown sugar on hers. “Where did he go, Andee? Did he go to town?”

  “Why would he go to town?”

  I hurried to the front room and dialed 9-1-1.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

  “Hello, yes, my son is missing.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. And when did he go missing?”

  “This—this morning, I guess. I don’t know. Maybe last night?”

  “Ma’am, I don’t seem to be able to pull up where you are located.”

  “I’m—I’m in Boktussa. Well, outside Boktussa, actually.”

  “Ma’am, I’m going to patch into the deputy based in Boktussa while I’m talking with you. I’m not going away. I am still talking with you while that call is happening. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. I understand.”

  “Very good. Now, ma’am, while we’re waiting, what’s your name?”

  “Tabatha. Sayble Tabatha Reever. Of—of—of just outside Boktussa.”

  “That’s good, ma’am. That’s very good. And your son’s name?”

  “He’s—he’s Taggart.”

  “Spell that, if you please.”

  “T-A-G-G-A-R-T.”

  “Very good. Now, ma’am, I have the deputy on the other line. I’ll still be able to hear you, but it’ll be a moment before I patch you over to him, okay?”

  “Th-thank you.”

  The line went silent. I could hear Andee scraping the bottom of her bowl. “I’m going to eat yours, Mom! So it doesn’t get cold!”
r />   “Ma’am, I’m turning you over to the deputy now.”

  “Okay.”

  “Here he is.”

  “Miz Reever?”

  “Y-yes?”

  “This is Deputy Malone, Miz Reever. I understand your little boy’s gone missing. He’s the older child?”

  “Yes. You—know them?”

  “Why, Miz Reever, in a town this small what else has the law to do but gossip? So I’ve heard a bit about your children, yes. When did he leave, do you think?”

  “He—I put him to bed around—around—before nine. Now his pajamas are in his room but he’s—he’s gone.”

  “I see. You don’t reckon he just run off somewhere? Your dog still there?”

  “I—I don’t know.” I covered the mouthpiece. “Andee! Is Teddy still here?”

  Through a full mouth: “Yeah!”

  “The dog’s still here.”

  “Well, Miz Reever, you know it’s only eight in the morning and I have a hard time calling a boy out of doors at eight a.m. a ‘missing’ boy.”

  “Yes, but, you see—” I took a breath. “He tends to sleep in. And.” I didn’t have anything else.

  “Well, of course, I could always come out, but—”

  “Would you please?”

  “Well certainly, if it would make you feel better. ’Bout half an hour be fine?”

  “Sure, yes, okay, thank you.”

  He arrived just past nine o’clock. My nerves were no better, but they were not as exposed. Deputy Malone was an older man, probably in his seventies, but with a gut and swagger that suggested he began and never left a midlife crisis of fast cars and faster women.

  “Place looks about the same as I remember it.”

  “Oh. You knew—you knew—”

  “Bethelsda? Course I knew her. I may have known her better than most. I don’t suppose it’s inappropriate to admit that as a young man I found her the most beautiful lady in the county. I remember being thirteen and ’magining your grandfather passing and taking his place. Heh. Course, by the time he did pass I was married up myself.”

  “Taggart—sleeps downstairs.”

  “Good place for a boy. Less noise for you, that is to say. ’Course, I remember your mother too. For some time I thought she might marry my Charlie, but she never was one for sticking close to home.”

  “Oh. Right. So Taggart—”

  “I remember you too, of course. Little Sayble. You were always Bethelsda’s favorite, I dare say. Shame you were gone so long.”

  “His clothes—”

  “Little Sayble…”

  “I—I go by Tabatha now.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, that was Bethelsda’s mother’s name, you know.”

  I hadn’t known.

  “Now about this boy of yours—”

  “Oh, yes! He’s—”

  “He’s in no trouble, Miz Reever. No trouble at all. I’m surprised your daughter didn’t tell you.”

  “Andee?”

  “You know, ’bout the moon and Mars and such. You probably remember from when you were little.”

  “I was seven when we left.”

  “Yes. Just before you turned eight. I do remember that.” He rubbed his hand on his chin and I could hear the stubble against the calluses. “I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll keep an eye out. Mention to folks you’re looking for him. But I betcha you’ll get this thing all sorted out yourself real soon. Ain’t that so, Andee?”

  I jerked a bit to realize Andee was at my elbow.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “That’s my—” he coughed into his shoulder. “That’s my girl.”

  When he left, I turned to Andee. “How do you know him?”

  She rolled her eyes. “He’s been to the butte, Mom. Obviously.”

  “Ob-obviously.” I watched her walk off then busied myself cleaning the kitchen, vacuuming, washing their swimsuits and other clothes, cleaning the bathroom. I was trying not to think of anything but of course I was failing. For one thing, I never stopped being aware of where Andee was. In the basement. Getting a yogurt from the fridge. On her dad’s computer. In the basement. And so I also could not stop rerunning all of my conversations with her.

  At four o’clock it hit me. I went to find her. She was playing jacks, legs crossed under her on the bed, bouncing the rubber ball off one of Taggart’s Harry Potters.

  “Andee.”

  “Yes, Mom?”

  “Do you know where Taggart went?”

  “Yes.”

  I took care to breathe slowly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “You knew I was looking for him.”

  “I guess.”

  “Andee.”

  “I’m on fives.”

  “Look at me.”

  She raised her head for the first time and looked at me.

  “Andee?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Taggart—are you—is Taggart okay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where did he go, Andee?”

  She bit her lip. “The butte.”

  “But he didn’t have his suit.”

  She laughed at that one. “He wasn’t going swimming! Don’t you remember anything?”

  “Where is he now?”

  She looked back down at her jacks. “I dunno. Still there?”

  “All—all day? Without any food?”

  She shrugged.

  “He’s on the butte…” I started to leave, but Andee cried out. I looked back at her. “What? What is it?”

  “You can’t go yet!”

  “What? Why not?”

  “You just can’t!”

  “Andee. What is going on?”

  “I need him.”

  “What? Why?”For a moment, I felt I almost remembered something. I felt dizzy and sat on Andee’s bed. She pulled my head down onto her lap. And somehow, somehow, I slept…

  I jolted awake and ran upstairs, spinning around house. It was nearly dawn again. No Taggart. No Andee. Just Teddy hiding in the bathroom. I went out the back door and could see a mist that had formed over the butte’s pool, spilling over the edge and sending a tattered blanket down the sides of the butte, like the tendrils I had painted, reaching toward me. Taggart. I took a breath and set my face, then began the march up.

  I stepped over the first fingers of fog, then a leg, then I punched into a chest-high wall which overwhelmed me like the tide. I stumbled as my feet became less visible. I had to lean forward and use my hands to scout a path up the butte. I don’t know how long it took me but when I crested the top, the sun had risen into the sky. The fog still obscured most of my vision. The sun was a flat white disk before me, like the dead eye of a god that saw little need to impress with glory.

  I struck for the water, a sense of panic building in me. A cry—my son? a bird?—and I lost my caution and ran forward, losing one shoe in the mud. At that moment, the fog cleared just enough to let the sun blaze through, blinding, sliced from the sky in unholy white, its clean edges turning the world from nondescript gray to legions of shadows, of which one—one was Taggart.

  “Taggart!” I screamed and ran towards him. The sun dimmed again and I fell on my side in the mud as Taggart disappeared, a dark air swirling around him and seeming to lift him up. “Taggart!”

  I repeated his name over and over as I pushed my way through the mist until my voice cracked and bled and faded to a ragged whisper.

  When I became aware of myself again, the sun was high in the air and the sky was clear and blue. I was covered in muck, hair to foot. I pushed myself up.

  “Oh, there you are.” Andee looked down at me, her jeans stained white from the knees down.

  “Where’s Taggart?”

  “He’ll be back.”

  I struggled into a sitting position. The mud had largely dried on my skin, a whitish, fecal brown like old dog shit in a backyard but I wasn’t able to care. I just looked down and concentrated on breathing. In. Then o
ut. In. Then out.

  “Mommy?” I heard her feet move. “Mommy, you should go home.”

  “Why is this happening, Andee?”

  She paused, then spoke in sounds impossible for a throat as young and as human as hers to make.

  I did not look at her as I stood, as I turned to the edge and walked over it. I kept my eyes on the ground directly in front of me. I showered, staring straight at the tiles, not blinking away water or soap. I stood most of an hour in the kitchen. I walked to the barn and stared at my mockeries. I returned to the house, stood by Ben’s computer. Sat in front of it. Stared at its black unblinking eye. Reached to turn on its monitor. It blipped then came to life. I clicked on the icon for the cameras and all four views came to life. One looking across the backyard. One in the same spot, positioned up to the top of the butte. One on the driveway. One towards the entrance of my barn. In the late summer heat, everything glowed in shades of red and orange, a hellscape of oscillating edges and fiery nondistinctness. The only contrast, a blue-green cap atop the butte.

  On I stared, my eyes unfocused, all four views present in my vague consciousness; as the day drew on, the reds turned orange and the oranges turned yellow, but the top of the butte waged battle, getting bluer, then blacker, then black—just black. On the driveway camera, the dog with its white core and red legs paced back and forth. I should have let him inside. But I could not stand. I could not move.

  At some point, the oranges stopped lightening. The ground returned to red. Night had fallen. Dark purple tendrils crept from the top of the butte, reaching downward. The dog ran out of camera and I could hear it scratching at the front door. The barn’s temperature began to drop, drop. From its door, a miasma of black leached out in cancerous curls.

  The tips of the butte’s fingers drew nearer. At the front of each stood a figure, black, outlined in blues and purply greens, cold, ghastly creatures—I could not tell if they were merely coming close enough to recognize or if these humanlike forms were solidifying before my eyes as they staggered forward.

  The unreality of this horror shocked me from my stupor and I gripped the desk in front of me. Black-cold beings, approaching the house, growing in number. A sound like an uncertain earthquake rose and fell then rose and fell again. As it repeated it grew in volume and clarity until I recognized my own name—Sayble… Sayble… Sayble… Sayble…