The kitchen was the most modern room in the house. A sizeable pantry near the back, filled with mason jars containing various grains, seasonings, and vegetables. A wide soapstone sink sat in front of a fat window overlooking a garden outside. It even had plumbing, at which Augustus marveled, though became a tad bit apprehensive. If something broke, he’d have no understanding of how to fix it. There was also a wooden table draped with a linen sheet in front of a black iron coal stove that stood almost as high as the ceiling with several cooking and warming ovens on each shelf. There was a door in the kitchen leading down into a cellar, to which Augustus never went, except for once in curious exploration. The place seemed otherworldly to him, both damp and surprisingly warm. Condensation collected unnaturally along the stone walls. And there was something else there as well, a presence perhaps, if you happened to believe in those sorts of things. On certain nights he’d have nightmares of stumbling down the stairs, alone and prisoner to whatever creature or creatures crawled within the depths. What ever happened next was a phantasmagoria of horror and misery. So, the door had always remained locked. Next time in town, I’ll purchase some bolts and some wood and cover the door, sealing it permanently. Until then, the nails he’d found out in the barn would have to do. But even then, he kept an ever watchful eye on the door. Expecting, though never admitting, for someone or something to birth from the depths.
On one such occasion, while sitting at the kitchen table attempting to enjoy a cup of coffee and a bowl of grits, as the evening sky was snuffed into darkness, the faint whisper of clicks came from just behind the door, sounding something like chirps of some small insect, like the locusts from biblical stories. Augustus nearly dropped his mug. He listened carefully, but the terrifying sound was gone.
***
Winter came with a colorful explosion of autumn leaves turning brown and fading into barren, gnarled branches. And likewise, the weather had grown cold and miserable. Colder, Augustus would say, than Houston. But he would say this with a smile, for Augustus enjoyed the cold. And misery was never far from his heart. It had been nearly fifteen years since Bedford was killed. More than a year since his mother’s passing. And while the farm had sparked new life, he still felt shattered with thoughts of those he had lost. He’d wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, the sound of cannon fire echoing in his head. The shouts of men and terrified screams of young boys pierced with bayonets—his bayonet. The madness that had gripped him at that ship, at times, seemed so near. Sometimes when he’d nap during the day, he’d wake to find the Army surgeon standing above him with the crude, metallic saw that took his leg. He’d scream and fall from his chair and find no one there. And now with Christmas approaching, his heart felt even hollower than it had in seasons past. Maybe coming up here alone was not the best of ideas. Maybe I should have stayed in Houston. I know no one here in Jotham. But this is what I wanted, is it not?
With the air turning colder, Augustus spent most of his time inside the house getting drunk on moonshine by the fire. He kept the firewood on the porch. His only chores during the day involved tending the chicken coop and feeding the swine and milking the heifers. By midmorning, he’d be done with these banal tasks and then tend to what he considered to be the most important job on his meager farm, the distillery. If he could distill enough he planned on selling some of it in town. But then again, that would involve going to town, being around people. And the more time Augustus spent alone, the more time he spent inside the house, the more and more he’d rather keep away from people. Alone, no one mocked him. And though they’d never say it to his face, he knew they whispered about him, they looked at him as nothing more than a cripple, an unpleasant memory of a time most would rather forget. Who needs people? Who needs anyone? Out here, alone, this is paradise.
Though, in retrospect, perhaps it was being alone that drove him into the one place in the house he did not want to go.
***
It was twelve days before Christmas when Augustus went down in the boarded up cellar. He had stopped going to town completely. Killed all but one of his swine who looked so diseased he dared not eat it. The chickens died of a mysterious sickness. The heifers withered away. He thought about butchering them too, but for reasons unbeknownst to even him, he decided to just watch them slowly starve to death. He found a strange glee in watching them suffer. If anyone happened to pass by they might have heard the faint sound of laughter coming from the barn. After a week or so, the cows died. He stayed clear of the barn and the terrible stink that rose into the grey winter sky. In the end, the only creature he took care of was his horse. The others had run off. However, twelve days before Christmas, before he ventured into the cellar reeking of starvation, feeling the tightening nauseating knots in his gut, Augustus ate his horse. Gobbling down meat and sinew, it was not enough. He raided the pantry and the jars of vegetables, pouring seasoning down his throat without thought or heed. Now, twelve days before Christmas, only whatever was in the cellar remained.
Augustus recalled seeing shelves of jars and boxes and sacks of grain during his first adventure. If it was spoiled or not, he had no clue. But it was something. He’d have to brave the humid, haunting cellar and the horrors within if he wanted to eat.
I need rations, I need to eat or I’ll die. God…I’m so hungry. But why? Was the pantry not enough? The horse? Why do I feel so pained? It’s as if I’d eaten nothing at all.
He fetched a hammer and a lantern that hung on a hook on the porch. With a few labored grunts the boards came loose from the door. With a long, iron key, he unlatched the locking mechanisms. The door creaked open on rusty, moaning hinges. The dark abyss stared up with the dark eyes of a predator. Augustus shuddered, as if expecting someone—something—to come up and snatch him, dragging him down to his death. But when nothing happen, he exhaled and carefully approached the stairs with the lantern in hand.
The wood bent with his first step. Balancing his free hand on the wall, he led with his prosthetic wooden leg, his bumbling Pinocchio monstrosity. A hot gust of wind attacked his nose and if not for the pains in his stomach, he would have turned and run. He shifted the lantern downward but its weak flame pierced little of the dank gloom. The smell was of some rotten stink, meat perhaps, uncooked and left out in the sun. But there was no sun down here. Whatever could it be? After a dozen or so steps he reached the bottom. Quickly, he scanned for movement and found nothing.
See, nothing to be afraid of. Just some smelly old cellar. Smelly and…warm…
Augustus spotted the shelf he had seen during his first exploration into the cellar several weeks before. The jars were coated with dust. Several looked to contain some sort of green vegetable, beans perhaps, or maybe cucumbers. As he shifted, the light from the lantern caught a gleam of something that was neither vegetable nor grain.
What is that?
He set the lantern on a clear space on the shelf. With both hands he lifted a large round glass jar filled with…
What is…? Some sort of creature?
Whatever it was it had curled around itself. Its blubbery skin glowing against the flame of the lantern, shimmering in the murky liquid that contained it. It seemed to be all tail, some sort of worm or worse. Teeth, or perhaps they were small hooked claws, formed along the base of its body. Augustus pulled the glass jar closer to his face, peering into the murk.
It stirred.
Damn!
Augustus flinched. The jar shattered on floor. Brown liquid and glass purged in a wide wicked pool. He snatched the lantern and searched for the creature.
It was gone.
Where did it go?
Only a trail of mire was left in its wake. Forget it. Just grab some jars and get back upstairs. Get drunk and forget about this place. I’ll go to town tomorrow. I’ll leave this house, this cellar, for a day. Maybe the fresh air will do me good?
Augustus filled his arms with as many food containers he could manage. He thought about the grain and decided against heaving
the weight. Not with the stairs. Not with his damn prosthetic. He clinched the lantern’s handle between his teeth and made for the staircase. He glanced back to the spreading murk and spotted a glint of light. Something was reflecting off the floor. Something he had not noticed before.
What is that? Could just be from the spilled water…no, too bright. There’s something there, something metallic; iron, maybe, or judging by the color, bronze. Augustus looked up the stairs. The waning glow from the fireplace beckoned him to the safety and comfort of his living room. But below, his curiosity howled as a wolf in a sheep’s pen.
Damn!
He dumped his cargo by the stairs. With the lantern firmly back in one hand, he investigated the spill on the floor. With some difficultly, he crouched down on his knee. Using his free hand, he wiped away the dust and dirt that soaked up the brown liquid from the broken jar. Sweat beaded along his brow, dripping like the slow start of a storm. After several passes, the clumpy grime gave way to some sort of circular sculpture etched in the ground. Marked at the center was a symbol he’d never seen before.
No! I’ve seen this before. Augustus searched his memory. It felt so close. Where? Where have I seen this? The answer balanced on the tip of his tongue, sat fat on the cliff of his nose. Where? Where? He thought and thought until—
Yes! The paintings…all of them. They have this same symbol. The men had it on their collars, like some pendant. In the scenery, the one with the dark black woods, it was carved…or rather painted into the trees. The buildings, etched. I thought it was maybe the artist’s signature, but it feels more like some secret whisper told over and over, unseen unless seen and then it becomes apparent, abundant. This symbol is everywhere here, all over this house.
Augustus continued to clean, studying the symbol, marking it in his mind. Finished, he leaned back from the ground. The symbol was of a curved line, like a bowl, and above the bowl a circle. Inside the circle was some sort of strange lettering, almost snake like, which he had never seen before, in none of the books kept in the study or of the few he had read since childhood. The only familiarity to it was of the paintings he’d seen upstairs in the house. The entire structure of the symbol looked like a large disk protruding slightly from the ground. There was a pit gutted on one side, as if some sort of bar or rod could be inserted and used to remove it.
Could it be a manhole cover…? Augustus picked at the pit, feeling around the edges. Just like the ones being in installed in Houston before I left, just larger. You could fit two men down inside those holes. It’s nothing more than a sewer pipe feeding into some canal, or more probably, the nearby lake. He looked around in the basement, using the lantern, and spotted a rod in the corner.
—Wait. Why am I looking for something to pry it open? Do I really plan to open this thing?
What else were you planning to do?
—Get drunk, of course. Why would I want to open this? If it even is a manhole cover. Why would I want to go there?
—Exactly, Augustus, exactly the point. Why indeed. Aren’t you the least bit curious? Don’t you want to know?
I don’t know…
—Come on. What’s the worst that can happen?
Searching in the dark with only the muted glow of the lamp, Augustus retrieved the rusted pry bar from near the corner with a box of other seemingly misplaced tools and returned to the disk-shaped cover. Taking a breath, he hissed, and went about the work of opening the metallic seal.
“Jesus, this thing is really on there,” huffed Augustus, struggling with the bar. He set the lantern on the ground and really put his weight on the rod. “Come on, come on.” Finally, something gave. A deep exhaled burp rushed up from the now opened manhole. The air was warmer than the cellar. The stink of rotting meat more nauseating than before, almost blinding. It was clear to him that whatever was causing the smell, it was coming from down below. Maybe it is a sewer line, but why down here and not outside? And why so large a manhole?
Carefully, he picked up the lantern and shone it over the dislodged cover. The pitch black peeled away, enough so for Augustus to spot a set of stairs leading further down into whatever this was.
Is that stone? A stone staircase? Here? In the cellar? What in the hell is going on? His curiosity faded against an onslaught of horror and dread. His imagination ran wild with thoughts uncanny. Having a sewer entrance in the cellar, as hard as that was to believe, was one thing, but this, a stone carved staircase? A staircase leading down into…what? Augustus leaned forward, balancing a hand on the cellar floor. He peered deeper down into the dank abyss, but the light from the lamp was too weak to penetrate the fade.
—Should I go down there?
Have you gone insane!
—Perhaps, Augustus grinned, perhaps. Leading with his good leg, he dipped down into the opening. He gazed at the long pry bar lying on the floor. Should I take it? For what purpose? With his prosthetic he continued down the staircase into the dark, his shadowy silhouette cast on the cellar wall faded with each agonizing step.
CHAPTER 20
TOAST
Johnathan
The holidays were approaching, time with family and friends. Johnathan knew this and mourned. Perhaps somewhere else things were looking more festive. Maybe somewhere like in Des Moines, Iowa, families were carving pumpkins, planning costume parties, scrambling for babysitters. Leaves would be turning orange there. Piles collected underneath oaks to be jumped in, thrown about, and then raked back into earthly mounds. The taste of the air would be cold, but not unpleasant. Good weather for all things pumpkin flavored. Months that would lead toward snow and Christmas and Hanukkah and New Year’s celebrations. It was a blissful thought.
However, in Houston the leaves didn’t turn color. The ones that did wouldn’t change until at least December. And snow…well, forget about it. It never snowed in Houston. The occasions on which it did were very far and between. There was one instance which Johnathan could recall. It had been 2003 and Ricky and he had returned home from Basic Training at ‘Fort Lost in the Woods.’ It was the same year Karen’s grandmother passed, the one who lived near Jotham. Operation Iraqi Freedom started early that year too. It was also the same year Freddy vs. Jason had come out in theaters, much to Ricky’s lament of not being able to go see it on opening day. They’d be finishing AIT soon. They’d be at Hood soon after that. They’d be shipping out to the desert soon. It was a strange holiday, or so Johnathan remembered.
The very same could be said of this year.
Johnathan swirled the near-melted ice cubes. The two little frozen islands jingled against the glass, besieged by a sea of brown scotch. He took a sip and swallowed hard. The kitchen light was dimly lit. The hallway and living room lights were off. Ricky sat across from him at the table, pale in the glimmering moonlight that shone in through the blinds. He had a look on his face that reminded Johnathan painfully of their childhood, a look that distinguished Ricky forever as the joker, the kidder, the hardy-har-har guy who did the “okay” sign with his hand and when you looked through the circle made by his thumb and index finger he’d tap you in the eyeball. However, it was his eyes that made him an alien. Unnaturally white. He smelled like death.
He conjured the memory of Iraq and the civilian car that, due to stupidity or terror, had attempted to run up past a convoy of American soldiers. A .50-cal round measures the size of a large palm and what it does to flesh is indescribably horrible. Johnathan had seen such a thing, once. The remnants of the family who rode in that car reminded him of something he’d seen in a movie, one of those horror flicks Ricky made them all watch. The inside of the car was akin to a scene in Hellraiser, the part when Frank gets ripped apart by hooks. The odor was pungent, like strong BO but more sour. Regrettably, it was a smell, a memory he could never forget.
“How’s your drink?” asked Ricky, his voice the sound of gravel and murk.
Johnathan grunted. He didn’t want to give in. Not like last time. Last time he’d been caught carrying on with
Ricky, the look on his wife’s face when she walked into the garage was something he never wanted to see again. It wasn’t pity or anything of the sort. It was fear. She was afraid and it broke his heart seeing fear on her face, the look of a woman walking in on her husband talking to his dead friend as if he were in the room.
She’d noticed the drinking too…
“Wish I could have one,” muttered Ricky in one of those ‘woe-is-me’ tones.
Johnathan slide the bottle to him and watched in horror as Ricky slid it back. Am I watching this? Is this real? Did it really move?
“I’m dead, Johnny-Boy. The dead don’t drink. We don’t eat. We don’t fuck. We don’t do much of anything really…well, except annoy our friends and family.” Ricky had that jokester look again.
“Hadn’t noticed.” Johnathan shrugged.
“What good’s a drink, anyhow?”
“What good is there in haunting the living?”
“I’m sorry I’m being such a nuisance, Johnny-Boy.”
Johnathan glared and then took a much longer swig from his glass.
“Seriously, I am. Look, see my face. That’s my ‘sorry face.’” Ricky slapped the table, laughing hysterically.
Johnathan looked toward the hallway, worried for moment Karen or Tabitha would wake from all the noise, but then realized there was no noise. Ricky wasn’t real. He glanced back at his once childhood friend, the guy he’d follow anywhere. The tears that came could not be helped. They could not be fought. They came with as much agony as any soldier who lost a brother or sister. The pain came with both a feeling of sorrow and joy—rejoiceful that it wasn’t you; sorrowful because it wasn’t you.
Dwelling Page 19