The Malfeasance Occasional

by Various Authors

  From the passenger’s seat I took up the loose unbound galleys of my next novel, and on the third page in was the title of the book, The Forgotten Horror, and underneath it, my name, Holly Morant. Even after scores of published short stories and this, my tenth novel, I still find it strange to see my name listed as an author. It’s like either I’m fooling the world, or there’s another Holly Morant out there, pretending to me. I still haven’t figured out which is which.

  I started going through the pages, black ink pen in hand, and after ten minutes of going over page one about a dozen times, I gave up and put the printed pages aside. I looked out again at the streets, now well-paved and with the nearby lawns and shrubbery well-groomed. I tried to look at the place through the mind of a nine-year-old, and remembered those long summer days and nights that seemed to drag on forever. Back then, of course, no cell phones, no MP3 players, no video games, no home computers, no texting, no chatting … hell, Grandma and Grandpa still made do with a black and white Zenith television set, and I was their remote control. It was always, “Holly, go to channel four now, will you?” and I’d scamper over and turn the knob. And sometimes I’d get to jiggle with the rabbit ears to pull in a better reception.

  After breakfast, unless I wanted to help Grandma with the chores, I was tossed outside, where I’d play with the neighborhood kids until it was lunchtime, and then I was tossed out again. Back then, kids were trusted to be kids, and no one worried about kidnappers or criminals or strangers. Bad people, in the village of Mullen? Please. So it was just me and the local kids.

  I’m sure at one time I remembered their last names, but now I just remember Greg and Tony and Sam, and Sam’s younger sister Penny.… we weren’t a gang or anything like that, just a group that hung out together. Greg was the oldest, eleven that summer when I was nine. And I guess he was the leader, always setting the plan for the day, but it wasn’t organized. It was just loose, lots of fun, and filled with days of play and adventure. No soccer league, or Little League, or field hockey, or day camp, or anything like that. Just running in the fields, looking in the local sandpit for fossils, collecting tadpoles in the shallow water of nearby streams, playing kickball or building a tree fort, or biking a mile to the local Dairy Queen, and … kid stuff. That’s all. At nighttime, we’d watch the stars, play hide and go seek, try to capture fireflies, or play flashlight tag.

  I remembered. And I wished I had brought along some water, for now I was terribly thirsty.

  I looked over at the haunted house. Sometimes, we’d sneak up on the haunted house, and torment the old man who lived there, who claimed he was a warlock and put spells on naughty children.

  A honk of a horn startled me. I looked up at my rearview mirror.

  Behind me a white Subaru had pulled up, and a woman with a too-wide smile was waving at me. I got out of the car and went further back in time.

  * * *

  I remembered the road in front of Grandpa and Grandma’s being dirt that had been sprayed down with a mix of oil and asphalt, meaning it got sticky during the days of July and August. It was always hot, it seemed, and I had a bedroom upstairs that was small and just stifling. Oh yes, the days before air conditioning, you know, though I had a whirring fan to keep me company at night, the fan moving back and forth, not doing much more than just stir the air around some. But if I was deprived, I sure as hell didn’t know it. All I knew that it was so much fun to spend the summer with my grandparents, far away from the Boston suburb where I was growing up.

  Of course, I learned there were dangerous things out here as well. Snakes whispering their way through the tall grass, fisher cats at night that would howl and screech, and make you curl up in your bed in a little ball, hoping they wouldn’t tear through the front porch door screen. Ghosts, of course, and flying saucers with aliens ready to grab you. The cows were usually dumb and slow moving, but the previous summer, Greg had gotten too close to one and his left foot got stepped on, broke a few bones. And one day Grandpa came from one of the far pastures, cursing loudly, holding his left arm up, blood streaming down his wrist, after getting his hand sliced trying to cut a new fence post.

  But nothing was as scary as the haunted house up by the T-shaped intersection and the warlock that lived there. His name was Henry Lee Atkins, and all summer long, he wore baggy green chino trousers or khaki shorts and sleeveless white T-shirts stained on the front. He smoked cigarettes all the time, and had white bushy eyebrows and little patches of hair that grew out of his ears. He never smiled, not once that I remembered, and another thing I remembered is that he liked to mow his lawn all the time, at least once or twice a week. After mowing it, he’d spend hours watering it. And God, did he hate having us running over his lawn, which we did a lot, because he owned a good chunk of pine forest at the rear that was a great place to explore.

  We’d race by his house sometimes, while he was sitting on the porch, and Henry Lee would call out, “You kids slow down ‘fore you break your necks!” Greg, the bravest of us, of course, would yell back, “You stay away from us, you warlock!”

  Another thing about Henry Lee was that he was missing his right foot. He had a prosthetic leg that he never bothered to cover with a sneaker or sock, and a couple of times, when he was hauling out trash to the side of the road—no sidewalks in this small town—he would pause and point at his leg and say, “That’s what I got for fighting the slant-eyes back in Korea. I was in the First Marine Division, nearly froze to death, and lost my foot at the Frozen Chosin. You’d think I’d’ve gotten a medal or something but no, the Marines and the government screwed me over good…”

  One time I told Grandma and Grandpa about that story. It was late at night and we were watching Laugh-In on the Zenith, and Grandpa—working on his third Narragansett beer of the night—snorted and said, “That’s a hell of a story, and that’s all it is, a story. Lance Jenkins, down at the American Legion, he told me what really happened … old Henry Lee was in Korea but he lost his foot when he went on leave to Tokyo and met up with a couple of whores. He wouldn’t pay them and their pimp got payment by going after Henry Lee with a sword … sliced his foot … and Henry Lee was too stupid to get it looked at by a doc or a corpsman, so it got infected and they had to cut it off…”

  Grandma, knitting, looked up and said quietly, “Roger.”

  Grandpa took another swallow of his beer. “Damn it, Millie, that’s the truth. You know it. Don’t be bothering Henry Lee none, okay? Something about him … just ain’t right.”

  Oh, I remember.

  * * *

  The real estate agent tumbled out of her Subaru, eager to be alive, very eager to see me, and very, very eager to seal the deal. I got out as well, my oversized black leather purse hanging from one arm. This was the first time I had met her face to face—our previous dealings having been done over the phone and e-mail—and after giving my outstretched hand a severe shaking, she said, “Clara Woodson, Holly, and I’m so glad to meet you.”

  “Thanks for coming to see me here,” I said, getting my hand back and giving her a smile in return that was about eighty watts less than hers in intensity. She was plump, about ten years younger than me, her brown hair styled nicely with highlights. Above her black slacks, she wore an ugly yellow jacket, which bore an oversize name tag that had her name and the name of her real estate firm. I have many things to be thankful for, I know, and one is that at my age, I don’t have to wear a nametag.

  Clasped to her chest by her thick hands was a leather binder, and she said, “Before we start, Holly … I have to say, what a thrill it is to have you up here. Now, I can’t say that I’ve read any of your books, but my daughter has, and I’m hoping you don’t mind autographing your latest for her when we’re done.”

  “That’d be fine,” I said, waiting for the next inevitable question, and I was certainly not disappointed, for Clara said, “Your books … I know they’re bestsellers and all, but they’re really scary, aren’t they. With blood and horror and monsters
and all that.” She giggled self-consciously. “I mean, you look so … chic. So nice. Hard to believe a pretty woman like you writes such dark tales.”

  From inside my purse I took out a lighter and a pack of Marlboro’s. “Like we say in my world, you can’t judge a book by its cover.”

  We went up the flagstone path to the steps, and Clara started talking about the house and its history and when it was built. I just lit a cigarette, took a deep, satisfying drag, and then dropped the cigarette down on the stone and squished it out, like the foul bug it was.

  That brought another giggle from my real estate agent. “Didn’t taste right?”

  “Tasted fine,” I said. “But I’m trying to quit, by cutting back.”

  Clara said, “Oh, I hear that’s so tough.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Quitting’s easy. I must have done it about a hundred times. Look, before we go into the house, I want to take a quick walk around the yard, all right?”

  “Whatever you say, Holly,” she replied. “You’re the client.”

  I walked up the slight slope of the lawn, to the right of the house, where the stone foundation was revealed, and something in my chest went thump-lump as I saw the two small and narrow windows built in the foundation. They were covered with wire mesh, and as I looked at the windows, thinking of what they kept in and what they kept out, I reached in my purse for another cigarette.

  * * *

  One cool dusk, I was out on the pasture to the rear of Grandpa’s house. Four Morgan horses were still at play at the far pasture, and the milk cows had been brought back to the barn. Grandpa didn’t feel like milking them anymore, so a young boy about a half-mile away came every morning and afternoon to milk them, and three times a week, the local dairy spun by to pick up the milk.

  On this night, Greg and me and Tony and Sam and Penny were just racing around, playing tag, pushing and shoving, and Greg stopped and said, “Let’s go see what the warlock is up to.”

  I remember laughing, saying, “He ain’t no real warlock.”

  Tony and Sam both piped up, “Oh, yes he is, he really is, he’s a man witch,” and Penny rubbed a fist against her mouth and said plainly, “I don’t wanna go to the warlock’s house.”

  Funny, I don’t remember much what the kids looked like. Greg was tall with blond hair, and Tony and Sam were shorter, more dark-skinned, and Penny had red hair and plenty of freckles. Penny’s hair was always in a braid, and the boys wore standard flat-top crew cuts. We all wore the summer uniform of T-shirts and shorts, or if it was cool, T-shirts and jeans.

  So even though I was a bit scared—maybe Henry Lee really was a warlock—I said, “Okay, let’s go see what the warlock’s doing.”

  We ran up the pasture and out to the road—about every twenty minutes or so, a car or truck would come by, so we really could play in the road without being worried—and went up to Henry Lee’s house. There were a couple of small lights on upstairs, but the cellar was lit up so that it looked like little searchlights were coming out of the basement windows. Greg led the way, and we scampered up the lawn and to the right, where Greg flattened himself down on his belly. We all did the same, except for Penny, who was standing back on the road, not daring to join us crazy older kids.

  Greg moved on the grass, digging in his elbows—he claimed he had learned that from his oldest brother, before he was shipped off to Vietnam—and I went to his side, doing the same. My heart was racing along and the grass felt cool against my legs, but I also remember being excited that we were doing something scary.

  It was hard to see inside the mesh screen. The lights inside were bright and I saw wooden shelves, and beams, and piping, and that was about it. I whispered to Greg, “So what do you think he’s doing down there?” and Sam answered for his friend, saying, “Potions and spells. That’s what I think. Potions and spells.”

  Then all of the lights in the cellar suddenly went off, and I almost ran away, and then I really, really wanted to run away, when a deep, ghostly voice called up from the dark cellar, “Who dares come to my home uninvited?”

  Greg called back, “You know who we are … what are you doing down there anyway?”

  A cackling laugh came out that made me whimper—though later, as a teenager, I heard the laugh again and knew Henry Lee was doing a lousy imitation of Bela Lugosi—and he said, “My spells, my magic, to do terrible things to snoopy kids.”

  I wanted to leave and even Sam and Tony were slowly sliding back on the grass, but Greg bravely—or stupidly—called out, “We don’t believe you, old man! You ain’t no warlock!”

  “Come closer,” he murmured near the basement window, “and I’ll show you what kind of warlock I am!”

  I don’t know if Greg was being stupid again, or was trying to show off to us younger kids, but he crawled up and said, “Here I am, old man!”

  One more cackle, a voice: “Here’s magic acid to burn your face!” and something liquid sprayed out, and Greg grabbed at his face, screamed, and we all got up and ran out of there, yelling and shouting, Greg still screaming, both hands on his face, young and smart Penny leading the way back to Grandpa’s farm.

  * * *

  I stubbed out the cigarette again after two more puffs, and then put my lighter back into my large purse. The yard looked pretty good, all things considering, especially since Henry Lee Atkins had been dead for a number of years. Way I learned it, he got older and frailer with each passing year, and then a wound opened up in his amputated leg, and then he had to move into the state veteran’s hospital, where he lingered for a while before dying. Then the house and property was tied up in probate for another number of years, as various second cousins and other relatives fought over who got to have what, since Henry Lee didn’t have a will.

  I stopped underneath an old clothesline stand, built like a wooden crucifix, with droopy clotheslines hanging low, and it was like my real estate agent knew what I was thinking about, when she said, “If I can ask, Holly, why are you so interested in this house, anyway? I mean, well, I know about you and your success … I wouldn’t think you’d be interested in having a residence here, so far away from everything.”

  Success. A polite way of saying that for some reason, the sun, planets, stars and distant galaxies aligned themselves such that my first novel became an unexpected bestseller, and all of my subsequent books hit the New York Times list, and that because of my book sales, my foreign sales, audio rights, and the HBO mini-series in production, I could buy the entire town of Mullen and have enough money to maintain my homes in western Massachusetts, Idaho, and the British Virgin Islands without breaking a sweat.

  I said, “I have a lot of memories, growing up here … and I was too late to buy my grandparents’ place, so I thought I’d do the next best thing, and buy this property instead.”

  She nodded. “I see what you mean. Good memories and all that.”

  I turned so she couldn’t see my face. When in God’s name did I say the memories were good ones?

  * * *

  By the time we got halfway to Grandpa and Grandma’s house that night, Greg had stopped on the bumpy road and made all of us stop running as well, and he said, “Shut up, you sissies. It was water. That’s all. The old bastard just splashed me with some water.”

  I was breathing so hard I thought my chest would seize right up, and Penny was sniffling and Sam and Tony giggled, like they knew all along that it was just water that got sprayed on Greg, and Greg made us promise never to tell anyone what had just happened, and that’s what we did.

  But I remember other things, too, bits and pieces that didn’t make sense at the time, but were important enough that the nine-year-old me would file it away, to be examined later as she got older.

  Another night, up in my bedroom just over the living room, I woke up hearing something screaming out there in the darkness. It lasted only a few seconds—just long enough to know I wasn’t dreaming—and I wondered if it was a fisher cat out there, killing for its dinner, or may
be it was something else.

  I was going to roll over and go back to sleep, when I heard the murmur of voices. Grandpa and Grandma were still awake, and I snuck out of bed and went to my open bedroom door. I could just make out a few words of what they were saying downstairs, and it was something like this:

  “…you heard it too, Roger, don’t lie to me…”

  “…an animal, that’s all…”

  “…like hell…” which really scared me, because I had never heard Grandma curse before, and she went on, saying, “…you know that scream came from Henry Lee’s place…”

  “…maybe he was having a bad dream … television too loud…”

  “…you might think so, but tonight, the doors get locked…”

  “…Millie…”

  “.…don’t Millie me.… the doors get locked…”

  Then the voices were lowered, and I didn’t want to hear anymore, and I went back to bed.

  * * *

  So we went around the front of the house, and up the stone steps, and I was craving another cigarette but managed to push it aside. From Clara’s jacket pocket, she took out a huge key and worked it into the front door, which had an ornate handle that looked about a hundred years old and several glass panes covered by a curtain from the other side. The lock made a heavy chunk sound as it was undone, and the door creaked as she pushed it open.

  “Here we are,” she said, like she was announcing the opening of a long forgotten Egyptian tomb, and being chicken, I know, I let her go in first. She went in and I followed, and she made to close the door behind us and I said quickly, “No, I’d rather have it open, please.”

  “Whatever you say, Holly.”

  What I wanted to say was let’s turn around and get the hell out, but I bit the proverbial tongue and walked in another couple of steps, memories roaring through my mind like a Cat Five hurricane. The kitchen was before me, the old and cracked linoleum still in place. There was a refrigerator in some ghastly green avocado color that was popular at a time when the nation’s sense of taste obviously went numb for a number of years, and there was still an old black stove, once a coal burner, that had been converted to natural gas.