“I don’t often have guests, so you must forgive my lack of tidiness,” Walraven apologized as he reentered the spotless parlor, then seated himself opposite his visitors in a large wing chair decorated with hand-crocheted doilies. “I’ve paid little attention to niceties since my wife passed away; it isn’t easy keeping up with a full-time job when one also owns such a large farm. I’ve had to forego the corn and wheat crops in recent years just to keep up, and I still have to hire outside help.”
The Sheriff cleared his throat, having decided it was time to state the reason for his and the Reverend’s presence. “Mr. Walraven, me and the Reverend here, why we’re here on account of …”
Walraven interrupted, “I know why you are here, Sheriff. You see, I’ve been expecting you. You’re here to inquire after my hired hand, Luke.” Before the officer could say anything further, Walraven arose in response to the whistle of the teakettle, excused himself, and scurried off to the kitchen once more. He returned moments later, bearing an old fashioned, bone china tea set on a tray.
Walraven poured a cup for each, informing the Reverend that the tea was “store tea, not that spice wood or yarb stuff for which most people settle.”
As Walraven fiddled with the tea set, the impatient Sheriff asked politely, “Supposing you’re right, Mr. Walraven, that we are here to see about Luke. What would you say in that case?”
The host adopted what the Sheriff perceived as a feigned gravity in his voice. “Luke hasn’t been into town for supplies or even to the beer garden for his usual nightcap for several days, so it is certainly understandable that his friends should be concerned about him.”
“That’s right, sir. We were hoping to have a word with him, so we can put folks’ fears to rest,” added the solemn official.
“I fear it is my sad duty to inform you gentlemen that poor Luke has met with tragedy. He is dead,” Walraven announced without emotion.
The visitors rose from their seats in unison at the shocking news of young Luke’s demise. Madland County was a small, close-knit area of rural Ohio, so news that one of its better-liked young citizens had died was the last thing the pair expected to hear.
“Please sit down, gentlemen!” admonished the schoolmaster. “You act as if I were a madman confessing to heinous murder! Luke’s death was, in fact, no accident, but I assure you that it was not I who killed him.”
“What happened and where’s the body,” the portly Sheriff stiffly demanded.
Walraven sighed. “In due course, Sheriff.”
Frowning, the Sheriff insisted he be shown the body immediately.
The thin, wiry Walraven arose from the chair before responding. “The body is not on the immediate premises, but I shall lead you to it presently, if you insist. First, however, I must answer the first half of your question. I will satisfy your demands in that order and that order only.”
The Sheriff raised his bulky torso from his seat and struck a threateningly officious pose. The Walravens had long had a reputation for sticking to themselves and wanting to be left alone, but this was too much. “Now you listen here, bub ….” he commanded.
The frail, elderly Reverend carefully rose from the rocker, placing his tiny form between the two stalwart men.
“Gentlemen, please!” piped the clergyman. “I’m sure Mr. Walraven has an excellent reason for this delay if only we allow him the opportunity to explain.”
Against his better judgment, the lawman reluctantly conceded to the preacher’s judgment. The Reverend was used to dealing with confessions, he thought to himself, so for the time being he would defer to the church. It would not look good if he overreacted to Walraven’s peculiar behavior, especially if it turned out the teacher really was not in any way to blame for Luke’s death. Maybe the parson too had picked up the inconsistencies in Walraven’s demeanor, like the way he seemed relaxed and in control one moment, then edgy and nervous the next. He hoped the man did not turn out to be some kind of dangerous nut case. He kept to himself outside his classes, as the Walravens had for decades, so how could one know what to expect of the man?
The Sheriff slowly calmed, sighed resignedly and resumed his seat. Reverend Peterson, obviously relieved, sat back down as well.
“Thank you kindly, Reverend. I don’t mean to be obstinate.” He put his hand to his furrowed brow and, covering his eyes, added softly, “It is just that I, well, have not been quite myself of late.”
Before his listeners could ponder their host’s newfound solemnity, they found themselves sharing the distinct impression that Walraven was actually slyly chuckling. Dropping his hand and straightening his posture, he addressed them further.
“Really, Sheriff, there’s no need for a confrontation. It is just that my thoughts become somewhat disjointed when I get agitated. I do apologize if I seem uncooperative, for that is not my intent.” He reached out a trembling hand for a sip of tea.
“I ask only that you humor, for a short while, a shaken man.” he whispered. “I assure you I will answer any and all of your questions, but first, it is absolutely necessary that I be allowed to provide background information that, although it may at first seem irrelevant, is quite essential to your understanding of this — to use your word, Sheriff — “case?”
Walraven turned his attention toward the window behind and to his right, then, as if searching for something very important, he ogled the yard outside. After nearly a full minute, he relaxed, returning to a conversational position in his chair. He smiled at his guests as if nothing untoward had occurred.
“About three weeks ago, Luke reported a shortage among the cattle. As I’m sure you are aware, Sheriff, like all the other cattle owners in Madland County, I’d lost a few head during the previous months; this time several were missing. While searching for them, Luke came upon an area where large gouts of blood had been spilled. He found no actual carcasses, however. More and more of my cows turned up missing during the following days and, each time, he found similar stains in that same area of pasture, near a small, seemingly natural opening at the base of a limestone crag which overhangs the creek. The area I’m talking about is in plain sight of the house, actually.”
The listeners maintained their uneasy silence as he continued, “My grandfather dubbed that particular opening the Death Hole many years ago. It once had an Indian name but he considered the appellation too burdensome to remember. He attributed the Hole to Amerinds of the Hopewell or Adena Mound Builder cultures, which flourished here long before even the Shawnee arrived around 1730. You may not know this, Reverend, not being from this area, but the vestiges of the Mound Builders can still be seen all over the southern half of Ohio, at Fort Ancient, Serpent Mound, and various other artificial mounds and pyramidal earthworks.”
The Sheriff sighed, only to receive a reprimanding glare from the Reverend at his side. The lawman resented the unspoken rebuke but still feigned rapt attendance to the words of, to his mind, a speaker who, in spite of his robust middle-age build, struck him as rather prissy. He made a mental note to have a few off-the-record chats with some of Walraven’s male students, just in case the man was a pervert. He dwelled on the mental image of the teacher fooling around with a naked young boy in the showers after gym class but quickly drove it from his mind when he realized he was becoming aroused.
“My forebears,” he heard Walraven say, “maintained excellent relations with the native population, which caused them to be ostracized by the other settlers, as is well-documented in the county histories. What the others didn’t realize was that my twice-great grandfather, Adodiah Walraven, had his eye on this tract of land from the start, despite the fact that the Shawnee deemed it sacred territory. The old rascal struck a bargain with them; in exchange for continued access to the land for the tribal leaders and shamans, Adodiah was granted the use of approximately 200 acres of the richest land in the state. You see, he convinced the chief and head shaman that the tribe’s only means of preserving any hold over this sacred site of theirs was to
allow him token possession of it. Should they refuse his offer, Adodiah explained, sooner or later the other whites would lay claim to the land and take it, by force if necessary. As part of the deal, Adodiah was made privy to the tribe’s most sacred traditions, all of which centered around the hidden entrance to a massive underground gallery said to rival Ohio Caverns and Kentucky’s Mammoth Cave in size. This cavern was the centuries-old burial place of the Indians, and Adodiah was the only outsider ever to be entrusted with the knowledge of its whereabouts.”
Walraven poured more tea for himself and his guests, peered intently out the window at the yard, then picked up the story where he had left off, his increasingly odd behavior leading his listeners to doubt his sanity.
“The earliest tribes buried their dead in artificial earthen mounds, which proved unwise in light of the looting tendencies of the European settlers who arrived here in the early part of the eighteenth century. Later, the cavern complex became the repository of the dead, offering the bodies safe sanctuary from not only scavenging animals, but also from the deliberate desecration of whites. The bodies were wrapped in several layers of animal hide, then tied in a seated position with forehead resting upon upraised knees, before being interred with ceremony within the cavern. One can only imagine the number of corpses that accumulated in those dark depths over the decades.”
Sheriff McKinny fidgeted in his seat, openly displaying his frustration at the recounting of what he considered superfluous history, as Walraven continued his narration undaunted. “My family immigrated here in 1789,” he offered, then, “I believe it was not until sometime in the mid-1800s that your clan arrived in Madland County, Sheriff. Still, you must be familiar with local lore concerning legions of dead warriors moldering beneath the valley of the Mad River until the day of Dar.”
Without waiting for a response, Walraven turned to Reverend Peterson, explaining that, “On the day of Dar, it’s said, a gruesome army of warriors, actually giant corpse woms, will rise up and sweep the white invaders from Madland County and the surrounding areas. Mothers often still frighten their naughty children with the story, its immediacy proving more effective than vague tales of bugaboos and bogey men.”
“Ridiculous. Just old wives’ tales,” grunted the insular Sheriff. Walraven ignored the lawman’s scoff. “With one epidemic after another, including everything from diphtheria and small pox to chicken pox, death swept through the native population of this area after the arrival of the Europeans; untold thousands were wiped out within a matter of a few short years. Yet the diseased corpses were entombed along with the rest in the cavern as Indian tradition strictly forbade the burning of bodies.”
After pausing momentarily, Walraven proudly spouted, “And that cavern’s corridors run directly beneath this very house.”
He further told them, “The Indian population eventually dwindled to nothing, the few survivors seeming to just disappear forever into the deep woods. My father came across only three Indians in his entire life, while I have only encountered one. I was a mere child at the time, and although he observed me for some time, he took flight the instant I tried to approach him. It was as if I terrified him. I suppose his reaction was understandable for, when it comes right down to it, once the Wyandots had been shipped further west in 1843, we whites proceeded to exterminate the Native Americans who remained in the area, although here in Ohio we did our killing with more subtlety than was done elsewhere.”
He smiled at his guests’ unease. They obviously had heard tales of the land-greedy early settlers purposely giving disease-riddled blankets to the Indians.
“The people around here refuse to give credence to the tales of the cavern and the Indian curse I mentioned. Yet, as you may have noticed, they avoid my property like the plague. You couldn’t pay any of the old-timers to come anywhere near the creek area of my pastureland, which is one of the reasons Luke was so very valuable to me. Being from out-of-state, he’d never heard any of the legends and therefore had no fear of either my family or of my land.”
The Sheriff stood up. “I’m sorry, Reverend, but I’ve had enough of this man’s wool gathering,” he firmly announced. “Either I find out this instant what happened to Luke or, Mr. Walraven, I’m going to haul your butt off to jail. You can spin your spook tales to the judge tomorrow morning.”
Before Walraven could react, the Reverend held one hand up in the air. “If you will be good enough to excuse us, ah, Richard, I’d like to speak to the Sheriff alone, outside, for a moment.”
“Of course,” Walraven acquiesced, “take your time. I’ll be right here when you return.”
The Reverend led the disgruntled Sheriff out of the room and through the front door.
“Look here, Reverend,” the Sheriff complained, “I’ve got a job to do and I intend to do it, and that’s all there is to it.”
The Reverend stated his case calmly, almost patronizingly, pointing out the strange quirks in their host’s demeanor as an indication that, should it prove he was in some way responsible for Luke’s death, Walraven might be dangerous. Thus, he concluded, it would do no harm to humor the man a bit longer, and they might even get a confession out of him.
“I suppose you’re right,” said the Sheriff. “Given enough rope, he just might hang himself. I reckon you’re the expert when it comes to confessions. But keep in mind it’s getting late; the sun’ll be going down shortly. I got other duties I could be tending to rather than sitting here listening to this feller rattle on and on, so let’s cut it short as possible.”
“Certainly, and thank you,” the Reverend said. “I doubt you’ll regret this decision. Now, let’s get back before the situation becomes any more awkward than it already is.”
As they reentered the parlor, Walraven said, “I apologize, gentlemen, for straying from the point. If you will be seated, I shall rectify that now.”
The Sheriff sighed audibly as he resumed his seat next to the Reverend. Walraven nodded. “Thank you, both of you. Now, when Luke alerted me to the blood spill and just where he’d found it, I told myself some animal, perhaps a large ‘possum, wolverine or wild dog, had come to inhabit the Death Hole, savaging the livestock from the relative safety of that haven. Even I scoffed at the tales of Naaqwatta and his army of vermin, so I had no particular fear of the Hole.”
The Reverend asked, “Who or what is this Naa-whatta you just mentioned?” “That’s the name the Indians gave to the earth spirit they believed dwelled within the cavern,” Walraven answered. “As he was supposed to someday lead the army of corpse worms against the whites, my grandfather dubbed him the Paladin of Worms. Tradition claimed the Paladin had been here long before the first tribe set foot in this territory.”
“Oh,” uttered the Reverend, “please go on.”
Walraven nodded before going on, “Luke and I decided to check the Hole. It wasn’t a trip we relished, not in this terrible heat, but we roughed our way there through all the overgrown, chigger-and mosquito-ridden terrain. That’s a part of the meadow the cattle avoid, so the weeds and brambles have grown wild and, in some spots, as high as a horse’s back. And there are sinkholes to be avoided where it’s marshy as well, which makes for slow going. Still, I had to see for myself whether the bloodstains really led right up to the Hole.
“I should explain for your benefit, Reverend, if the Sheriff will allow, that the county dammed the Mad River way upstream over fifty years ago, around 1880, creating a whole new drainage system through the local creeks. That caused the creek which flows across my property to make a sharp U-turn precisely below the Hole. At the turn, a deep and wide stagnant pool formed, which makes the Hole tough to reach. We could barely see it what with all the weeds since it is merely a crack in the lower recess of a steep embankment. Yet somehow I knew exactly where it lay.”
A dreamlike quality crept into Walraven’s voice as he droned on, “The Hole’s downstream from where the old slaughterhouse used to be. I had that particular structure torn down years ago, but
as a child, I once followed the crimson stream of blood that poured from its drains after a particularly large number of hogs and cattle had been butchered. I traced the bloody path all the way to the creek proper, where it stained the Hole’s pool a forbidding scarlet. I can still recall the overwhelming odor of that grisly water. I don’t mind telling you it spawned many a nightmare in me. Several times I cried out in the night, believing I was drowning in that sanguine pool while, above me, the mouth of the Hole laughed mockingly at my plight.”
Falling silent for a time, lost in reverie, Walraven presently picked up where he had left off.
“Luke and I approached the pool from the opposite embankment after building ourselves a makeshift dam in hope of diverting as much water away from the pool as was possible. We did our best but still had to don rubber waders to navigate the dirty-brown, slime-covered water that remained. Luckily, I watched my step, trying to avoid scavenging crawdads on the bottom, otherwise I might have fallen. You see there’s a dropoff just a short distance in, after which the water gets very deep in places. As is, the pool’s surface came up to our chins. Luke worried about disturbing water moccasins as we waded, but neither of us saw any.
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