Scary Creek

by Thomas Cater

  Virgil stared without speaking.

  “You mean the van!” I shouted, nodding like a ‘Goofy’ bobbling head car toy. “We’re not just talking dollars here, Virgil. May I call you Virgil?” He nodded. “We’re talking life-style. Besides, the guy who sold it to me said I’d get eighty miles to the gallon and never have to change the oil.”

  “You believe that?”

  I didn’t believe it anymore than I could believe Myra’s cat had gained entry to my van. Although I’d shared his fantasies of mysterious deaths and ghosts in the Ryder house, I was disappointed that he chose to cast dispersions on my fantasy.

  “Why not?” I replied.

  Virgil’s impatience was tottering on the cutting edge.

  “He just wanted to sell you the damn thing; he didn’t care what he said. I’ll bet it gets less than eight miles to the gallon and burns more oil than a diesel locomotive.”

  I lost faith in my fellow man the day my autocratic father told me I was a reject, a throwaway baby found in a dumpster and adopted at an early age. To this day, I believe there is more truth to the claim than he intended to convey.

  “Coming from a guy who sells blue sky and green fields for a living, that’s a heavy trip,” I said, “but what he said doesn’t matter, eight miles or 80. I’m going nowhere and in no hurry to get there.”

  “Are you staying in Vandalia?”

  I’d only glimpsed the town’s surface and felt as if I’d re-discovered Erskine Caldwell's 'God’s Little Acre,' minus the promiscuous women. Vacant houses however were plentiful and property was selling cheap, even though it meant a financial loss to someone. Besides, there were more trees then people and that made me curious to know about the local industries.

  “Where do the ‘grass roots’ folks make a living?” I asked.

  “The kids grow some of the county’s finest hemp,” he said. “There are a few coal mines still scratching around in the hills, and everyone owns a pickup truck and a chainsaw, which means they cut and haul firewood.”

  “Sounds seasonal,” I said.

  “You cut it in the spring and summer and haul in the fall and winter, that’s year-round work.”

  “What’s the average income?”

  “About six thousand dollars,” he said.

  “A month?” I asked, concerned that I’d been too long out of touch.

  “More like a year.”

  “Are there any other major employers besides Mother Nature?”

  “The schools and the state; we’ve got a few doctors and lawyers; lots of lawyers, lots of litigation.”

  “Why is that?” I asked, sensing his need to spill a little judicial blood.

  “We’ve got a lot of unemployment, which translates into a lot of unpaid bills. People lose their homes, cars and furnishings. They start stealing from each other and screwing each other’s wives and daughters. They have too much time and energy on their hands and nothing constructive to do with it. Eventually that leads to bigger crimes, like making illegal whiskey or growing pot, robbing stores and gas stations to pay for it, and finally they end up shooting someone.”

  “Sounds like one of those irresolvable social dilemmas that only war, Dr. Ruth or Oprah can resolve,” I said.

  “That’s where the lawyers come in,” he said sarcastically. “One hundred bucks an hour to cop a plea, and those bastards have the balls to say they aren’t making enough to make it worth their while.”

  “If it isn’t enough, they shouldn’t take the case,” I said.

  “The state has got it rigged so they can’t pick and choose,” I said. “Hobson’s choice: if they want in on the action, they can’t refuse. If they could, there’d be lots of hillbillies going to the electric chair for drunken driving, disorderly conduct and a myriad number of old-fashioned sex offenses.”

  “You mean their crimes are so reprehensible?” I mused.

  “There is no crime here,” he said. “Only unemployment, hunger, privation, ignorance, greed and neglect, and those are crimes perpetrated against people, not by them.”

  He took a minute to settle down and then continued: “It wouldn’t be so bad if lawyers won once in awhile, but around here you get 1-5 for jay-walking or murder, it’s all the same.”

  A few blocks past the main intersection, we were out of town and heading east. Houses were growing fewer and farther apart. Only an occasional service station or ‘mini-market’ appeared on the highway.

  “Where is Elanville?” I asked.

  “Not far, about 10-15 miles out of town. It may seem farther because of the road, it winds a little.”

  Twenty minutes later, the car topped the crest of a hill. Virgil pulled off the road and set the brake.

  “I’ll show you a bird’s eye view of the house,” he said.

  We left the car, climbed a gnarled guardrail and walked to the edge of the hill. The view overlooked a narrow stream and wooded hillside. In the distance, there were a few cleared fields and a dilapidated barn.

  The sun on the back of my neck and shoulders felt warm. The green leafy landscape before me was bright and cool. For the most part, it was an unbroken landscape of lush green treetops, brush and blue skies. A few hardwood trees were beginning to show the effects of an early autumn.

  “It’s not so easy to find when the forest is dense and green. People are inclined to pass right by, except for those it calls. They seem to have no trouble finding it.”

  I didn't know if he was talking to me or himself.

  “Let your eyes follow the creek to the bend,” he said, “Do you see the gray slate roof and the side of the house?”

  I sighted along his finger as if I were gazing down the barrel of a rifle.

  “It looks harmless enough to me,” I said. “It’s hard to believe all the bad press and gory stories from up here. I’m more anxious than ever to see it now.”

  We returned to the car and drove down the road, crossed a bridge of rusting steel girders and turned left onto a dirt side road.

  A row of dark, weather-beaten frame houses jutted haphazardly from the side of the hill. An assortment of derelict cars, old washing machines, mildewed furniture and water tanks lay alongside the road and tall weeds.

  A greasy auto engine dangled like a giant spider from a tree limb rigged with a block and tackle. Red, rusting oil drums, wrecked toys and scraggly mongrels lay on the dry, sun-dried earth. The locals were secluded apparently inside their board and batten cabins.

  “This place reminds me a little of the budget traveler’s guide to Katmandu, Nepal.”

  Virgil agreed with a sullen nod.

  “You’ve been there?” I said surprised

  “Where?” Virgil replied

  “Kat-man-do,” I said, while shifting the car seat to a reclining position.

  Gray and unpainted, the aging shed-like houses were on the brink of collapse.

  “They don’t look habitable,” I decided.

  “A lot of people would agree with you,” he replied.

  Elanville was a socio-economic aberration comparable to those that were supposed to exist only in Third World countries.

  “Why haven’t these shacks been torn down?” I asked.

  “They’re not as fancy as your metropolitan ghettos,” Virgil said, “But they do provide some shelter.”

  “With all the abandoned housing available, you’d think they could find something better than this,” I said.

  “You don’t understand, Mr. Case. These people live here because it is home, the only home they’ve ever known.”

  For several miles, the shacks squatted alongside the road, or against the hill; identical in that they were all constructed of the same drab, discarded materials. A few had received some care and maintenance. Others were so neglected they had fallen into a state of total disrepair.

  “What do you mean, the only home they’ve ever known?” I asked.

  “These people aren’t…average,” he said. “They’re poor, uneducated and there has bee
n some inbreeding. They’re not considered your ‘citizens of the year’.”

  A lone disheveled child squatted near a mud hole on the side of the road. Her clothes were ragged and her eyes were dull as slate. She held a thin, mangy pup in one arm. The features of her face were old and misshapen, out of place on the small frail body. Her appearance frightened and moved me to pity at the same time.

  “That kid looks kind of strange,” I muttered.

  The dog’s wasted body also seemed out of proportion.

  Virgil’s own profile, I observed, appeared more exaggerated than before, especially his lower jaw.

  “Uh huh,” he said, without taking his eyes from the road, “they’re typical.”

  I leaned back into the seat and tried to relax, to enjoy the scenery, which was beginning to distort my image of rural America.

  “Typical?” I said. “Typical, of what? No wonder you can’t sell that house. Sane people don’t want to settle down in a town populated with neighbors from a short story by H.P. Lovecraft.”

  Virgil’s eyes were intent on the road, but his thoughts were traveling down that lone and untrammeled highway in his mind.

  “It must be something in the water,” he said absently.

  A brick wall studded with rounded river stones jutted into view. Virgil slammed on the brakes and brought the car to an abrupt stop.

  “The wall is where the property line begins.”

  It was, to say the very least, without equal. The stones were composed of round interlocking blocks of gneiss mortised tightly into place by some adept of a distant culture. The fruit of man’s labor was finite, unequal to the test of time and bound to crumble. This wall however was destined to endure. It also looked vaguely familiar.

  Virgil resumed his drive down the narrow gravel road. Inside and beyond the wall was a tangled mosaic of vines, brush and trees. Rabbits would have had trouble negotiating that throttle of jungle green vegetation.

  “That wall is impressive,” I said. “Not a stone out of place. If the house is built like the wall, I’m sold.”

  “The front yard is not as wildly overgrown,” Virgil said. “It once consisted of a few acres of well-groomed grass and flowers. Even though her eyes were failing, Elinore liked to get out and smell the roses. Statues and markers helped her get around the yard.

  “Samuel Ryder built the wall to keep her from wandering off the grounds and into Scary Creek, or so I’ve been told.”

  Through the trees, the house came partially into view. It was a magnificent old structure, more like a temple than a house. Crumbling statuary and trees with a hundred years growth also surrounded it. Several small ponds were choked with water lilies and decaying cattails, while old flowerbeds were overgrown with weeds and bracken. In the middle of the cobbled drive, new growth had taken root and concealed the house from view. It was there that a black subtle hole sucked the surrounding light and energy into its dark vortex.

  “This place is not slightly overgrown, it’s a jungle,” I said, and the voices of tribal people living in Asian jungles echoed in my mind.

  “There are ghosts of kings and queens and elephants back there, where the tigers howl and gibbons swing from bough to bough.”

  Outside the gate, there was nothing too terribly formidable about the place. In fact, there was something fragrant and stimulating in the air, something that made me keenly aware of the place. My spirit soared toward the house like an errant child responding to the call of a parent, eager and anxious to explore the property further.

  “It’s an intriguing piece of property!” I said. “I wonder how many different kinds of hymenoptera live there.”

  “Kinds of what?” Virgil replied.

  “Hymenoptera, I’m an amateur myrmecologist.”

  “What is that … some kind of religious belief?”

  “No, it has to do with watching ants at work and play.”

  “Ants?”

  “Wood ants in particular: rufa and fusca.”

  “A happily wedded couple?” Virgil inquired.

  “Two different types closely related.”

  “I imagine there are enough here to keep you occupied.”

  “The trees are green and healthy,” I said. “That’s a good sign.”

  “What’s that got to do with ants?” Virgil asked.

  “Everything is related,” I said. “Not just Earth, wind, water and rain, but everything from the birds in the top branches of the trees to the grubs in the ground. The trees look healthy because the ants are taking proper care of the aphids on the leaves.”

  “I don’t understand,” Virgil said.

  “Aphids produce a secretion called ‘honeydew.’ It makes up about 50 percent of the ants’ diet. If ants do not harvest the honeydew, it collects on leaves. A sooty mold forms and turns the leaves black, lowering the photosynthetic power and the general health of the tree.”

  “I see you’ve spent some time with the little buggers.”

  “They are not buggers,” I said. “They’re hymenoptera.”

  Chapter Four

  We parked beside the wall, climbed out of the car and stood outside the wrought iron gate gazing in. The paint had scaled on the lance-like pickets and covered them with rusty cankers. The thick carpet of dead leaves and the proximity of the creek kept everything damp. In this moist climate, everything made of wood was destined to die an early death of moldy disintegration.

  Two elaborately detailed birdhouses, scale models of the mansion, crowned the stone pillars that anchored the gate. Stone, brick, and a slate roof peered through the trees. From what I could make of the house, it had successfully weathered the inclement elements and encroaching wilderness.

  “Houses were built like temples in those days,” Virgil said.

  All that was lacking was the raucous chatter of Capuchin monkeys, birds with bright plumage…and snakes.

  “They’re in there,” Virgil said, and when I turned to meet his eyes, he added, “Snakes, lots of ‘em; watch where you put your feet.”

  I wanted to see the house, inside and out. As if he had read my thoughts, Virgil shook his head; he was like a buffalo standing at a watering hole driving away annoying flies.

  “I can’t let you go in there alone,” he said. A faint trace of sulfur seared my nostrils. I saw a change occur in Virgil’s face; it darkened as if with dust and his eyes widened.

  “Then go with me,” I replied, focusing and re-focusing my eyes. The illusive odor and the sudden changes vanished.

  Conviction drained from his eyes. He fished the key from his pocket and pitched it wordlessly. I snatched it out of the air.

  “I can’t stop you from going in,” he said, “but I wish you would reconsider.”

  I had stood at the edge of jungle haunts in the past and considered my reasons for going in; they were always preferable to staying out and living with regret.

  “I own the place,” I said. “What choice do I have? Maybe second thoughts are for those who give a damn, or never wanted something bad enough.”

  He shoved both hands into his pockets and stared at the ground. In his camouflage fatigues, he looked like a well-rooted plant

  “I feel bound to tell you, I think it’s a mistake.”

  Mistakes were so elementary to my way of life they hardly seemed worth thinking about. I examined the key and the padlocked gate, waiting for one to invite the other.

  “You’ll have to climb the wall,” he said. “I don’t have a gate key. It hasn’t been opened in a dozen years.”

  The wall was only four feet high. I boosted myself up, legs dangling, and sat on the ledge.

  “You will wait?” I asked. My concern was not for safety, but for the convenience of riding back to town.

  “Forty-five minutes,” he said. “If you’re not back by then, I’ll call the sheriff.”

  Responsibility is so easy to delegate. If we feel powerless, we ignore or give the problem to others, a universal response. I swung both legs over the wall
and dropped onto the ground. Stunned by my haste, Virgil tottered backwards.

  “My God, you’re going in!”

  Nothing so far had been as frightening as the sound of his voice at that moment. I made a snickering sound intended to be a contemptuous laugh, but it caught in my throat and I gagged.

  I could feel my toes eager to take root in the soft earth. Virgil ran to the wall, removed the machete from its sheath and tossed it flat in the air to me.

  “You might need this,” he said. “That brush and cane in there looks thick.”

  Within the confines of the wall, I could see that animals frequently traveled across the land. Footprints and pathways bisected the yard. I concluded that if some degree of primitive innocence was required to survive in such an environment, I stood as good a chance as any creature of the wild.

  It was an intensely beautiful day. The air felt warm and gentle, while the setting sun tried to angle its way through the branches of the trees. An eye-slaking blueness in the sky thrilled my senses to look at it.

  I felt confident as I crept slowly and carefully up the overgrown drive to the house. I followed a clearly marked path through weeds neatly cut by the hoofs of deer and other small animals. For hundreds of years, the dark earth had been recording the prints of everything that had passed this way. As I penetrated deeper into the estate, into the cool shade of overhanging trees, the air filled with curiously sweet odors emanating from local trees and plants.

  Ruined remnants of marble statues, stone benches, ponds, trellises and a crumbling gazebo peeked discretely through the thick and tangled growth. They were all that remained of a lost way of life. The statues may have survived the ravages of weather, but not the mischief of man.

  The deer path left the drive not far from the front of the house and cut a wide circle toward the back. It appeared as if even the animals were trying to avoid passing too close to the house. Little dead birds and tiny fragmented skeletons of other small creatures were lying on the ground. The entire area, I realized, was deathly silent. Such an area should have been bustling with bird and insect chatter.

  I stepped out of the narrow rut and picked my way through the trees, vines and greenbrier to the front of the house. Its size was not its most impressive feature. It had a steep roof, pointed arches and a porch with fancy wooden balustrades. The paint on the banisters and trim had weathered away, but the wood was still intact with no signs of mildew or decay. The stone foundation was solid and unbroken. Ensuing rows of bricks, one atop the other, were positioned with a master craftsman’s touch.