Home Is Where the Horror Is

by C. V. Hunt

  I cleared my head of the memory of smoking my first cigarette and of Lloyd’s daughter and returned to the bathroom. I used the last of the gauze to make a loose bandage, made a mental note to buy more, and dressed.

  On the way to the post office I noticed a house not too far from my own with a large wooden structure split into squares. It appeared to be an oversized storage structure stuffed with split logs. Each sectioned square was one of two different sizes and numbers were spray painted above each section. I imagined the numbers were the price of the lot of wood. There was a small sign by the road with the word ‘firewood’ spray painted on it. I didn’t recall seeing any wood at the cabin, and knew it was early in the summer and I wouldn’t need it for a while, but I thought it would be a good idea to be prepared for any unseasonably cool nights. I also wanted to find out if they could deliver. There was no way for me to take it myself without loading it in the trunk of my car.

  I continued on to the post office and picked up some more first-aid items and a few other stray things I’d forgotten. On my way back home I stopped at the house with the firewood sign.

  The house was what one would think of when asked to conjure an image of a farmhouse. It was a white two-story structure with faded and chipped white paint. The house had a covered front porch with two large wooden rocking chairs positioned to look out over the lawn stretching toward the road. The main door was open and through the screen door came the muffled sounds of cheering from a television set. I knocked on the screen door. There was a pregnant silence and I was about to knock a second time when I heard shuffling. I was greeted by an elderly hunchback woman in a cotton dress with a floral pattern and pink slippers that made a scuffing sound when she walked. Her white hair was pulled into a bun and she wore an oversized pair of glasses. A twang of disappointment hit me once I recognized how feeble she was. There was no way this woman, or her husband, could deliver the wood. The old woman pushed open the screen door a few inches to talk to me.

  She said, “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” I said. I thumbed over my shoulder at the firewood. “I would like to buy some firewood but I don’t have a way to haul it.”

  “Oh,” she said. “That’s no problem. My son can deliver for an extra ten dollars.”

  “That would be great.”

  She pushed the door open farther and said, “He’s at work right now. But if you want I can take down your address and number. He’ll call you to set up a time.”

  I nodded and she motioned for me to enter the house. She led me through a darkened living room lined with overstuffed brown leather furniture and brown carpet and cheap imitation wood paneling. The walls were covered with old and worn photos of people I assumed were family members. The room was illuminated by the faint sunlight trickling through the sheer curtains and the glow of a television airing a daytime gameshow. I followed her into a brightly lit kitchen with an old Formica topped table with worn red vinyl covered chairs. A napkin holder sat in the middle of the table along with a small notepad and pen. She handed me the latter two and I wrote down my name, address, and number, being careful to print it neatly so it could be read easily. I was used to scribbling down things only I could decipher. When I was done I handed her the note pad, reached into my back pocket, retrieved my wallet, and thumbed through the bills.

  “You never mind that,” she said. She looked at what I’d written, squinted, and simultaneously said, “You pay Charles when he delivers.” Her expression changed into one of surprise as she read the notepad. “Oh!”

  “Is there a problem?” I stowed my wallet in my back pocket.

  The old woman looked at me. “You moved into Karen’s old cabin?”

  “She was my mother.”

  She made a clucking noise and shook her head. “Was a shame to hear about her passing. Your mama was a nice lady. Used to stay and drink a cup of coffee with me when she placed her order.” She waved her hand dismissively at me and smiled with a touch of nostalgia. “We’d gossip about those peculiar characters down the road from her like a couple of school girls.”

  “She told you about those two?”

  The old woman held up three fingers.

  “Three?” I said.

  She nodded over animatedly. She gave a dry little laugh and laced the fingers of her hands together. “Don’t listen to me. Your mama was creative with those tall tales. I let her pull my leg all the time. I don’t get many visitors and I let people go on and on for a little bit of company. People ’round here come up with all kinds of stories about the local hermits.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “Oh.” Her face flushed. “Mostly about what she heard coming from the cabin late at night. Said she was certain the father was having an inappropriate relationship with that girl.” She raised her eyebrows as if to question whether I understood what she was insinuating.

  “Uhf,” was all I managed to get out. A sickening chill ran up my spine and a pang of disgust emanated deep in the pit of my stomach.

  “She also had some crazy tales about a tall creature who ran around . . . nude in the woods at night. She said it lived with those people.”

  “Creature?”

  “Honey, don’t you worry yourself about all that cockamamie. Old wives’ tales. People been hollerin’ about creatures in the woods for as long as I can remember. Sasquatch and wolf men and deformed inbred lunatics. It’s all malarkey.” She tapped her temple with the corner of the note pad. “And sometimes being a shut-in for too long can play tricks on the mind.”

  She tapped my chest with the notepad, hitting the cuts on my chest. The pain renewed and I fought the urge to wince or grab her hand to stop her.

  “You never mind those stories,” she said sternly. “They’re old spook stories to give the kiddies night terrors.”

  “Did you ever meet her neighbors?”

  She placed the notepad on the kitchen table. “No. They don’t buy firewood from us.” She slowly took a seat at the table. “Would you like to stay for a bit? I could make some coffee or tea.”

  A part of me wanted to know more about what my mother told her. It was out of character for my mother to make up stories about monsters in the woods. And she must have heard something or seen something terrible to make such a vile accusation about Lloyd and his daughter. It struck me as odd she didn’t tell Phillip anything more than they had taken out her trash if she suspected they were committing such terrible acts.

  The elderly woman appeared lonely and in want of a gossiping companion. I did want to know everything my mother told her but I had some grocery items in my car and I didn’t exactly feel comfortable or believe what the woman was saying. There were only two people living in the other cabin that I was aware of. It was more likely the old woman had my mother mixed up with someone else or the stories she was eluding to were constructed of her own imagination. Or delusions brought on by the onset of a mentally deteriorating disease.

  “No, thank you though. I have some things in my car I need to refrigerate.”

  “Maybe another time?”

  I nodded. “Sure. Another time.” I knew I was only placating her. I would probably never return until I needed more firewood.

  “All right then,” she said.

  I said my goodbyes and she reassured me her son would call that evening. I informed her my phone didn’t have the greatest reception and told her to tell her son to leave a message if I didn’t answer. I left with a headful of dreadful images and questions about Lloyd and his daughter and whatever might be lurking in the woods. I tried to tell myself none of it was real but I couldn’t remember a time when my mother lied about something so ridiculous if the woman could be believed and my mother had been the one telling the stories. The lies Mom constructed about our financial situation while Phillip and I were kids was one thing. She was protecting us from unnecessary adult worries and taking on the burden and stress herself. She never tried to appease us with superfluous nonsense stories or bedtime fables.
If it were true, if Mom had been the one originating the tales, this was something completely different and out of character for her.

  9

  Charles scheduled and delivered the wood two days later. He was a bulky man with a thick head of hair and a full beard. He was tall and sun-worn and well-muscled and appeared as though he was constructed out of the obvious life-long hard labor he’d supported himself with. He smelled like grease and sweat and mint. He asked the customary standard questions about me and where I was from and what I did when he delivered the wood. He was reluctant to carry on the conversation once I mentioned the photography and I didn’t blame him. The people in the area seemed to interpret an invasion of outsiders, aside from the constant stream of tourists, with an air of reluctance and suspicion. I chalked up the majority of Charles’ ill feelings about me to my straggly and fledgling beard. I was sure he viewed me as some type of lumberjack or hillbilly poser who claimed to be an artist from the city who’d moved to the wilderness to get in touch with nature and take some photos. In reality, I was poor and this was the cheapest way for me to live on my own and not be a burden to someone else until I could come up with enough money to find a place I could afford on my own. I was thirty and newly single. Why else would I choose to move here? There were tons of women and opportunities for models and making money in the city in comparison to the middle of nowhere. And when I really stopped to think about it I still clung to a bare thread of hope Naomi would change her mind even though I hated to admit it. Living somewhere in the city made me easily accessible to Naomi and there was a possibility I could run into her at our normal haunts had I chose to stay with Phillip. Monotony and routine were comfortable. Starting anew sucked. And I had to face the fact I was too lazy and too tired to play the dating game anymore. What could I possibly offer a woman at this point? Flakiness? No money? No prospects? An aging man who refused to become the all-American male with two kids, a house, a respectable job with a trophy wife, and two brand new cars in the garage topped off with a big screen television to watch sports on mindlessly after working his ass off at a job he hated?

  I helped Charles haul the wood in armloads down the bisected flights of stairs. My first armload was piled high and the wood scraped against the cuts on my chest. Charles pointed out where my mother used to stack her supply of wood. There was a cubby under the deck stairs beside the house I hadn’t paid much attention to before. We found the remnants of her last winter’s woodpile covered by a battered blue tarp. I inconspicuously checked the wound on my chest once I’d dropped the firewood on the stack to make sure I hadn’t disrupted the scabbing and caused it to bleed again. There was no blood and I silently reprimanded myself to be more careful.

  I asked Charles questions he probably viewed as dumb but I’d never used a fireplace before. I was used to a digital thermostat on the wall and the one time I’d received any trouble out of the electric furnace Naomi called the landlord. I expected Charles to be more condescending than he actually was. He explained to me the best way to start and run the fireplace. He also advised me to hire someone to clean the chimney since I didn’t know the last time it was done. He gave me a phone number for a friend who was a chimneysweep as a side job for extra cash. We located the fire poker and broom set which doubled as a stand to hold a small pile of wood in the garage area beneath the cabin.

  Once we were finished I offered him a beer but he politely declined and said he had to be on his way. I tried to give him an extra twenty dollars for explaining everything to me but he declined it also. I decided to follow him as he took his leave and make sure we hadn’t dropped anything deemed dangerous to car tires.

  Charles’ line of sight kept narrowing in on the other cabin as he approached his truck. I glanced down the way and didn’t see anyone on the porch and the station wagon was parked in its normal spot.

  Charles opened his truck door and I approached him before he shut it.

  I nodded toward the other cabin. “What do you know about them?”

  “Nothing really. I’ve never delivered to them.”

  He lifted a can of chewing tobacco from the console of his car, retrieved a large pinch, and placed it in his lower lip. I noticed a spent plastic soda bottle in the console which appeared to hold the contents of his wasted spit and chew.

  “Must have electric heat,” he said. “Never seen any smoke from their chimney when deliverin’ to Miss Karen.”

  I responded with a nod and glanced at the cabin. The girl appeared on the porch. I hadn’t heard the slap of their screen door and her sudden materialization startled me. She watched us and lifted a lighter to the cigarette dangling from her mouth.

  Charles lowered his voice as if he were afraid the girl would hear us. “Weird folk,” he said. “Don’t see the girl anywhere but on that porch.” He inclined his head slightly in her direction. “Neither one of ’em work ’round here. People tell crazy stories about ’em.”

  I kept my voice low and conspiratorial, much like his. “Your mom told me they, uh . . .” I was reluctant to say the word incest or to imply such a harsh accusation. The people in this area must know the stigma that comes with living rural and I didn’t want any of them to take offense or misinterpret what the ‘city boy’ had insinuated.

  Charles finished my thought. “Rumor has it the ol’ man keeps his daughter under tight watch and has his way with her.”

  I cleared my throat. “Do you know her name? I had a brief conversation with the man when I moved in. Said his name was Lloyd. He didn’t mention her name.”

  “One of the girls who worked at The Pit Stop says her name is Tryphena. Says she talked to them when they first moved here.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Oh.” He lifted the soda bottle from a holder in the console, held it to his lips, and spat brown slime into the container. He held the bottle but sat it on his thigh. “Probably ’bout six or seven years ago. Laura, the girl from The Pit Stop, said the girl hadn’t quite hit puberty then. You know?” He cupped his free hand in front of his chest to insinuate large breasts.

  I fought the urge to shudder at his vulgar gesture for prepubescent. “Yeah,” I said, hoping my response would prompt him to stop.

  He dropped his hand. “Laura said the father gave her the heebie-jeebies. Said he didn’t treat the girl right. Real handsy with her. Caressing her hair and bein’ an all-around weirdo.”

  I highly doubted a word of his story was true. I’d stopped in The Pit Stop. The staff appeared less than friendly or in the mood to strike up a conversation with a stranger and prod them for information. I surely didn’t have a conversation with any of the folks on my first visit. They most likely assumed I was another one of the tourists or any other new face moseying through the store. Besides, even if Lloyd and his daughter had a conversation with one of the employees years ago the accusation of incest was one of speculation and not based on any hard evidence. I hoped if someone made such a claim the police would’ve gotten involved.

  “No one’s seen her in public since,” he said.

  “What about school?”

  He shrugged. “Must’ve homeschooled.”

  He deposited another glob of spit in the soda bottle. I glanced at the cabin. The girl crushed her cigarette and retreated back into the cabin. The screen door punctuated her leave with a slap.

  “Damn shame,” Charles said. “Pretty thing.”

  “I don’t think she’s old enough to smoke.”

  “Kids ’round here ain’t old enough to do a lot of things. But they still do ’em since they got nothin’ else to keep ’em occupied.”

  We both stared at the other cabin in silence.

  Charles broke his reverie. “Well.” He placed his hand on the handle of the truck door. “I ought to get goin’. The missus has a honey-do list a mile long.”

  I took a step back and gave him room to shut his door. “Sure thing. Thanks for everything. I really appreciate it.”

  With his hand still on the h
andle he nodded at me. “Don’t forget to give Dale a call about cleanin’ the chimney before you use it.”

  I patted my pocket where I stowed the paper with the phone number. “Will do.”

  He pulled the truck door shut. I retreated to the top of the stairs and watched him as he turned his mammoth truck around. He gave a quick bleat of his horn as he headed back down the trail and toward the incline. I waved and waited until he was out of sight before I descended the stairs.

  10

  Over the next couple of weeks I worked on the floors of the cabin. The first thing I tried to do was remove the few stains located in the inconspicuous areas. I took to the Internet for tips and home remedies. It took a couple of applications to see an improvement. I also cleaned the whole floor thoroughly two times to eliminate the dog odor.

  Renting the floor sander was the challenging part of the whole project. A day’s rental cost me nearly fifty dollars and the damn thing weighed a hundred pounds. An employee at the store helped me load the contraption into the trunk of my car but I didn’t have anyone to help me once I arrived home.