by J. D. Horn
He raised his hands, now both within her field of vision. He lingered, staring into her eyes as if asking permission, the sharp of the scalpel pressed against his left wrist.
Yes. Yes, she thought, even though she wasn’t consciously sure what the thing within her desired. The man sucked in a breath as he traced the blade along the wrist, then turned it so the first few drops of blood fell onto her lips.
Ruby’s mind protested, saying that she should be disgusted by the taste of blood on her tongue, but that voice quickly faded. Joined with the entity, she found herself caught up in the rapture of feeling another’s life force feeding into her, warming her, renewing her strength. But in those first moments the entity had not yet been strong enough. The ecstasy she had been experiencing came crashing down around her, ripped away as their control over the source of the feast broke.
The man roused himself and cursed, seeming to believe he’d cut himself by accident, or at least trying to convince himself that was the case. He called out for Charlie and then turned his attention to wrapping his wrist.
“Clean her up,” he commanded as the door creaked open. “Clean her up and get her dressed. I need to get her boxed and out of here.”
ONE
September 6, 1953
The smell of smoke and creosote seeped through the broken windowpane. Glass lay strewn everywhere. A burning cross cast a glow over the yard and illuminated the men—four, no, five of them—with pointed white hoods pulled over their faces.
“Mama?” Joy’s small voice called out.
“You get on back to your bed,” Lucille whispered fiercely to her daughter. “No, stay back,” she ordered as the girl tried to come closer. “You will cut your feet. Now you do as I tell you.”
Coarse laughter, followed by a rock crashing through another of the window’s panes. “You go on, now, Lucille,” one of the men in white shouted. “You send that boy of yours out here to talk to us.”
She crept up to the side of the window, taking quick peeks through the broken glass, while making sure to keep out of range of any further projectiles. “What you want Willy for?” she called out. She heard a noise behind her and turned to see her twelve-year-old son standing wide-eyed and frightened in the doorway. “What you done, boy?” she asked in a hushed voice.
“I ain’t done nothin’, Mama,” Willy responded.
“You just send him out here, Lucille,” another of the men called. He sounded tired, like he had other places he’d rather be. Terrorizing her children was an inconvenience for him.
“Not till you tell me what you want with him.” Lucille tried to keep her voice level, but inside she was quaking. Her husband, Jesse, would have known how to handle these men. He would have gone out there and offered them a comical act like Stepin Fetchit. He would have disarmed them with his smile. Convinced them they’d be better off at home in their own beds, with their own wives. But the government had shipped Jesse home from Korea in a box and now everything—raising the children, feeding them, protecting them from the monsters in white who came after dark and desecrated the Lord’s own holy cross—had fallen on her.
“Lucille.” The first man’s voice pulled her back. “You send the boy out here. If he will stand and take his punishment like a man, we’ll go and leave you alone.” Lucille peered out the window again so she could take another glance at the men. One of them carried a bullwhip, she noticed. She knew these men. She recognized Bob McKee and Sam Jessel by their voices. Dowd Johnson, the one with the whip, she knew by his bulk. These three always traveled in a pack, so that meant the others were probably the Sleiger siblings, Walter and Wayne. One of their regular gang was missing. Probably guarding the back door. All the same, she’d pretend never to have laid eyes on any of them, as dispelling the myth of their anonymity would inevitably mean death for her and her children.
“But I ain’t done nothing, Mama,” Willy pleaded.
Lucille waved her hand at him in a downward motion. “Shhh!”
“But I ain’t,” the boy whispered.
“Lucille, don’t make us come in there to get him. If we gotta come drag him out, we won’t just whip him, we’ll string him up and burn that house of yours down around you. Now what’s it gonna be?”
A thousand thoughts rushed through her mind at once. There was a chance the back of the house had been left unguarded—it was their only chance. “You take Joy, and you see if they anybody in back. If they ain’t, you take her and you run. Don’t you stop till you get to Pastor Williams’s house, you hear me?”
“But what about you, Mama?” Willy’s eyes had flooded with tears.
“Do as I say,” she hissed at her son, knowing full well that these would most likely be the last words she ever said to him if he managed to escape with his sister. She had to keep the men engaged, give her children a chance to slip out unnoticed. She turned back to the window. “What you say my boy done?”
“He done took something what didn’t belong to him, that’s what he done.”
“That can’t be. My Willy, he ain’t a thief. I raised him better than that.”
“You calling us liars, Lucille?”
“Why, no, sir, I ain’t saying that at all. I’m just saying they’s been some kind of mistake.”
“No mistake. They was a witness.”
Lucille swallowed hard and stepped in front of the window. “I’m sure you are all good Christian men. You tell me what the boy took, and I’ll make right for it. I’m his mama. You let the blame of what he done fall on me.”
“You gonna do that, boy?” Dowd raised his head and yelled into the darkness. He flicked the whip out to its full length and lashed at the ground. “Are you gonna show that you a man? Or do you plan on shamin’ your daddy’s memory by letting your mama take your punishment for your sins?”
“No, sir,” Willy’s voice called out from the tree line. Lucille’s heart sunk at the sound of his voice. He’d managed to sneak past the men unnoticed, but he must have been too worried about her to flee.
“You run, Willy,” Lucille screamed and raced to the door, barely noticing the pain as a shard of the broken glass punctured her foot. She threw the front door open and ran out, but by then it was too late. All she could do was watch helplessly by the light of the burning cross as Willy walked toward the men, his whole body trembling as he stepped into the unholy glow. Lucille scanned the surroundings for Joy, relieved at least to see she’d had the sense to stay hidden.
“I ain’t taken nothing, Mister,” Willy said to the closest man. “Honest, I ain’t.”
“You bring that lying little sack of shit over here,” Dowd said to the Sleiger brothers, cracking his whip. “He’ll own up to it soon enough.” They advanced on the boy’s slight figure and dragged him over to Dowd. “Turn him around.” Dowd came closer and thrust his hand through the collar of Willy’s nightshirt, ripping it open down the back.
“No,” Lucille pleaded, falling to her hands and knees. “Please don’t hurt my boy. I’ll do anything. Use that thing on me, if you need to use it, but don’t hurt my boy, Mr. Johnson.” She’d no sooner said the name than she realized her error. Dowd turned to look at her and reached up to pull off his mask. He handed it to one of the Sleiger boys. “I will deal with you later,” he said, pointing at Lucille. “Hold him,” Dowd commanded, and Sam stepped up to assist the other Sleiger.
“Mama,” Willy yelped as his arms were pulled tight to each side, exposing the whole of his back. Dowd took a few steps rearward and brought the whip up, the leather whistling through the night air as he brought it down for the first lash. Lucille closed her eyes and sank to the ground. She could not bear to watch.
But there was nothing—no sound of the lash breaking open Willy’s skin, no cry of pain. Lucille opened her eyes to see that Dowd, and his whip, had inexplicably vanished.
A cry of terror came from just beyond the point where the light from the burning cross gave way to darkness. Dowd screamed again—for the screams were his, that was unmistakable—t
hen there was silence.
“What the hell?” Sam shouted, loosening his grip on the boy enough for Willy to break free of him, though the other Sleiger still held him tight. The sound of footsteps beyond the circle of light was almost deafening in the astonished silence. Someone—something—was circling them.
She followed the sound with her eyes. A blur crossed her field of vision, followed by a shriek. This time she sprang up from the ground, taking advantage of the men’s surprise to pry Willy from Wayne Sleiger’s hands. He was too startled by what was happening to put up a fight. She pulled her son close. “Where’s your sister?” she whispered.
Willy nodded toward the well, where a shadowy movement betrayed the girl’s presence. “You get her to Pastor’s. You do as I say this time, or Joy’s blood is gonna be on your hands. You hear?” Willy nodded, and Lucille watched as he pulled off his ruined nightshirt and took off barefoot, dressed in nothing but his underpants. Soon, his shadow joined that of his sister. The two clasped hands and headed for the trees, in the direction of their pastor’s house.
Lucille wanted to chase after them; the pull of her heart should have been enough to cause her feet to move. But some force held her here. Something stronger than her own will, stronger than her own fear, demanded that she remain.
She watched till the last glimpse of Joy’s white gown disappeared into the growth, then Lucille turned back to the scene unfolding behind her. By the light of the burning cross, she now only counted three men. They had clustered together in a tight group. Walter, the taller of the Sleiger boys, the one who had been holding Dowd’s hood, had now disappeared. The remaining men unmasked themselves, trying to get a better view of the unseen predator circling them.
“What the hell is that thing?” McKee asked the others, his voice shaking.
“I couldn’t see nothing. I just felt it move past me,” Sam said in a hushed and cautious voice, circling the area, the cross at his back. “I think it done killed Dowd.”
Lucille had heard the sounds of a man dying in agony before. There was no question in her mind that Dowd was dead, maybe Walter too.
Wayne Sleiger looked panicked and was calling out his brother’s name in all directions. The other men stood perfectly still as they listened. No response came. A gust of wind rushed around the men, causing the flames on the cross to dance and sputter. As the remaining men tried to get their bearings, Lucille moved back toward her house, testing the invisible bounds she felt holding her, seeing how much play they would allow. “I say we get out of here,” she heard McKee say, his voice unsteady. “I refuse to stand here and let that thing, whatever it is, pick us off one by one.”
A woman’s deep, sultry laugh rang through the night.
“Miss Ruby?” Lucille whispered under her breath. The adrenaline that had failed her all along suddenly rushed up in her. Her heart beat in loud and painful thuds as she continued to edge back.
“What was that?” McKee asked, then he took note of Lucille’s movement. “Where the hell you think you goin’?”
Lucille froze, but before she could answer, there was another rush of wind, followed by a blur of movement and a loud snap. Then Bob McKee’s body lay on the ground before them, his head wrenched clean off his neck. In spite of the horror she’d already felt, there was something so unnatural about seeing McKee’s head roll over his once white but now bloodstained hood. Lucille wondered if it was all a dream. The moment stretched on for longer than it should have, as though time had slowed to molasses. She watched on, removed and dispassionate, as the remaining men succumbed to panic. Sam Jessel jumped away from the bouncing head only to bump up against the cross and set fire to his robes. He flailed around screaming, calling for help, but there was no help to come. Lucille turned away from the sight.
Lucille deafened her ears to the sound of Jessel’s cries. She felt the power that had held her here begin to loosen its grip. She started walking toward her house, for the first time favoring her wounded foot.
She ignored the sound of Wayne Sleiger as he screamed the Lord’s Prayer. His words were cut off after “thy will,” anyway. If Wayne called out for mercy before his death, Lucille didn’t hear it.
She went inside her house and pulled out the cardboard suitcase she’d used for her honeymoon. She didn’t have a car, and the stationmaster knew better than to sell her a ticket. A powerful man, a man who believed he owned her, Ruby’s own father had forbidden her to leave town. But while Lucille knew she’d never make it out of Conroy, Mississippi, she’d be damned if her babies lived and died here.
TWO
Willy shifted his weight, trying to find a place on Mrs. Jones’s lap where her bony knees wouldn’t poke him.
“Stop squirming,” the beanpole of a woman complained.
Willy’s mama looked back over her shoulder at him. “You sit still,” she said, her voice quiet and tired, but still firm enough to make him settle.
Pastor Williams’s Nash Suburban was built to provide a comfortable ride for five, maybe six if those passengers didn’t like pie.
Most mornings, other than Sunday, the car was already filled to its limits, its wood sides straining to contain the pastor’s wife, Willy’s mama, and four other ladies, three of them widows like his mama, one of whom liked to say she was a good as widowed, what with a bone-idle husband like the good Lord had given her. These women, like his mama, lived outside Conroy, but worked as maids in town. There was no bus that ran out that far, so Pastor Williams took it upon himself to make sure they would have transportation from their homes, some as far as five miles from Conroy, into town where they earned their living. Mrs. Williams, the pastor’s pleasant but ample wife, always rode along for propriety’s sake, sitting between the preacher and whichever of the women he picked up last that day.
“It’s too hot for my jacket,” Willy grumbled. His mama had dressed him and Joy in their best, Willy in a suit and tie, Joy in a frilly white dress with a blue cardigan. They’d worn the same outfits to Sunday school just yesterday. At church, he’d been roughhousing with Joe Turner till Mrs. Wiley, their Sunday school teacher, threatened to make them go out and cut a switch. They settled down right fast then.
Yesterday, he never imagined that today he’d be leaving home.
“You keep that jacket on,” his mama said. “Don’t you take that thing off till you up with your auntie, you hear me?”
“Yes’m,” he said. Last night, after she joined them at the pastor’s house, he’d watched as she undid the lining and slid an envelope inside before repairing the jacket. She’d told him the envelope held a letter for his auntie, and what money she had to help take care of them till she could send more. His mama said they’d only be away a couple of weeks, but he knew full well she’d put everything she’d set aside in that envelope.
Most mornings this time of year—at least since his daddy had been gone—Willy and Joy said good-bye to their mama, and waited for the pastor and his wife to come back and carry Willy to school, and then bring Joy back home with them. Willy wouldn’t be going to school today. He wouldn’t be going to school for a little while, his mama said, at least round here.
A bump in the road caused him to bounce on Mrs. Jones’s knee and hit his head on the roof. “Ow,” he said, rubbing the side of his head, though the blow hadn’t really hurt, and it had been the top of his head rather than the side. Mrs. Jones shifted her legs. “Why don’t you stop squirming,” he muttered.
A sharp “Willy” from his mother’s lips caused his mouth to clamp shut, but only for a moment. “Those men were lying. I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t see why we gotta go.”
“I know, baby,” his mama said. “I know they were, but you can’t talk about those men no more. You never saw them, and you don’t know what happened to them.”
But Willy had seen the men, and it puzzled him that the pastor didn’t get on his mama for telling him to lie. He waited until he figured Pastor Williams had time to say something, but the man kept quiet.<
br />
“Last night you said Miss Ruby killed them. I heard you say it, Mama.”
“Your mama was mistaken,” Pastor Williams’s voice boomed in answer. Then it softened. “Ruby Lowell is dead, and Ecclesiastes tells us that the dead sleep and know nothing, ‘neither have they any more a portion forever in anything that is done under the sun.’ That means Miss Lowell couldn’t have been there.” He paused. “No, your mama was just upset. Scared for you and your sister. She doesn’t really know what happened to those men, and neither do you, so you keep still about it like your mama told you.”
Willy felt like he’d been chastened, and for no good reason. He sulked for a few moments, then decided to ask what he really wanted to know. “How long we gotta be up north anyway?” He hadn’t wanted to, he didn’t want to act like a baby, but as he posed the question his voice caught in his throat and he started crying, setting Joy off wailing again.
Worse, his mama started crying, too. She tightened her grip on Joy, and patted his sister’s head. “Shhhhh, baby.”
“You gonna have a good time up visiting your auntie Hettie,” Mrs. Green said, patting his knee. “Ain’t that right, Lucille?”
“That’s right,” his mama said, her voice full of cheer. She pasted a big smile on her face, and used the back of her hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “I done told you, Auntie Hettie’s gonna love having you two for a visit. You are gonna like it up there, Mama promises. Auntie Hettie and Uncle Ernie live in an apartment in a real nice town.”
“What’s an apartment?” Joy’s question came out muffled, her head buried in their mama’s shoulder.
“Well, it’s like a house, but it’s like a whole bunch of houses put together.” His mama shifted Joy so that she could see her face. “You are gonna have a whole bunch of kids your age to play with. A whole bunch of new friends.”
From what Willy could see of his sister, she seemed unconvinced, her eyes wide, but her mouth pinched in tight. “Why can’t you go with us?” Joy asked again. Even Willy had lost count of how many times, but he kept quiet. He, like his sister, hoped his mama would have a change of heart.