Blackwater

by Tara Brown

  I watch the field and listen to the whispers of the breeze tickling the wheat. Everything sounds as it should. When I relax, my memories take over where my instincts have been. Sliding my back down the wall to sit on the old musty carpet across from the huge window, I try to get control of my brain again and remember everything.

  If I close my eyes for a second I can hear the music. Nina Simone singing about the birds and sun and the sky. She was singing about feeling good and the way love brings with it a new dawn. I love the song Feeling Good and I love her version the best.

  I keep my eyes closed and try to remember the details I still can't fully access.

  I relax and let myself remember it. I whisper the words to the song into the dark lonely room. Instantly I can remember it.

  I was leaning with my back against the pillar. I was hot and sticky from dancing. The heavy air was filled with the sickly sweet smell of cigars. It rolled around me. I wiped my glistening face and looked around for him. We had been avoiding each other. Or rather, I had been avoiding him. I didn’t want Martin to see us together. Or worse my momma.

  Whit wanted to tell me something but Martin was still too sober and watching my every move. I waited for the moment when he was too drunk and I saw him slip off into the forest. I only got a glimpse of the black dress on the girl he dragged in there. The night was too misty and the air was too dense for me to see clearly. I remember I felt sorry for her, whoever she was.

  I took the opportunity to seek out Whit.

  His eyes caught mine from across the garden that was filled with smooth jazz. The lanterns were placed strategically, revealing only the fractional details we wanted seen and allowing the dark to hide the rest. The warm light hit his smile from across the weathered dance floor that my daddy was determined to replace next summer.

  Whit's chestnut hair seemed darker with so little light touching him. The shadows played on his handsome face, making impressions of different people dance upon it, as he crossed the dance floor to me. He placed his big hands on either side of me, trapping me to the pillar. The warmth of them made the air seem heavier. Scotch swirled in his breath in front of my face. My eyes darted nervously for anyone looking at us, even though we were hidden in a shadow.

  It was all too exciting. Forbidden love mixed with the right amount of lust.

  He smiled his lazy grin and whispered into my nape, "Meet me inside in ten minutes. I need to show you something before we leave okay? I love you."

  He kissed my neck, massaging it with his warm breath. I shuddered. He pushed off the pillar with a grin but I saw something in his eyes. It was panic.

  He turned his back and disappeared into the crowd of dancers, who were feeling good with Nina Simone.

  I didn’t see the people laughing and having fun. I noticed the cut of his beige linen pants and the small trickle of sweat that had soaked into the back of his white dress shirt. I noticed the way he entered the dark path, to go back to the dark house. I noticed the way Nina Simone sang Feeling Good. She felt what I was feeling in that moment. You can't sing with that kind of sexual tension without knowing that feeling.

  I push the memories away and realize I'm crying alone in the dark where I'm leaning against the peeling wallpaper. As much as it's his fault that my heart is destroyed, I have never wanted him more. I stop my memories before they get too far. Something is not right in my mind. He has done something to me. That panic that was in his eyes has me not seeing everything.

  I wish the night had stopped there. I wish that I had watched him walk away from me and then an asteroid had hit the earth and destroyed everything. My last memory woulda been a mixture of the back of a beautiful man and the curiosity of the thing he wanted to show me. It would be minus the horror of the truth in his words. So many words that seemed innocent at the time and now feel sullied by whatever memories I can't quite make out in my brain.

  I'm crying and listening to the sounds of the field when I notice the wheat sounds different. Something has changed. I glance up at the moon hovering in the air over the abandoned mansion. The way it's hidden behind the clouds makes the night seem darker than normal. Perhaps it’s the dark deeds that have made the night seem worse.

  I hear it again. The wheat tickles against someone. I hear the person walking through the massive field. Their steps interrupt the way the wheat dances with the breeze. I close my eyes. I shouldn’t be able to hear it and yet I am.

  I fight my mind, as it attempts to betray me. It wants me to run to him.

  My heart closes off and I wait. I wish, for the first time in my life that the icy whispers would return and talk sense to my heart.

  I hate waiting in the dark for them, him.

  He doesn’t know the path up the stairs. He, or whoever is coming up the stairs, steps in the middle where the boards creak.

  My heart races. I wonder how long it will beat for?

  The door is rattled.

  I crawl along the floor to the closet. My daddy built the old farmhouse after the war, when I was a girl. He was obsessed that it wasn’t really over. Hell, in the South none of the wars ever really end.

  I push on the back wall where the wallpaper seam is. The wall clicks. I push it open and step into the dark. I close the closet door and then the opening in the wall. I turn the latch on the wall and pick up the thick beam from the floor. It feels lighter than it did when I was a child. I place it across the door that locks the wall in place. It's impossible to get through.

  The secret room was built in case the Germans or Japanese made their way into Louisiana, even though they had surrendered when he built the damn house. At one point, Daddy got so paranoid he forced us to run the path he'd made from the mansion to the farmhouse. He never believed the war was over. Like I said war doesn’t end in the South.

  It was the one flaw he had that momma endured for over twenty years. His paranoia always had the better of him. I thought he was crazier than a shit house rat. Now I'm grateful.

  I smile bitterly. If he could see me now, using his safe house, he would be prouder than a peacock. He would know he'd built it for a purpose.

  I think about all of the things I've feared in my life. The things outside testing the locks on the door don't feel scarier than a German invader, even though they are. Perhaps, because I've been trained for nineteen years to fear Nazis more than anything. Perhaps, it's because the things outside of the house don't feel real to me.

  They shouldn't be real. They are the frightening characters in the tales Grandmamma spun to scare Ramón and I. They are the things I've long believed to be a figment of Grandmamma's imagination. Ramón and I would laugh at her.

  Who's laughing now? Ain't me laughing. Not with any sanity anyway. I might laugh in a bit when they find me, but that will be all madness.

  I flinch when I can tell the first lock is gone. I hear the wood buckle under the strain of their strength. It's greater than I imagined possible, even for a monster from a story.

  I can still smell the cigar smoke on my dress. I can see his lazy grin. I can taste the scotch on his breath. I can feel his fingers brushing the sides of my body. It all wants me to go to him. He's using my own mind to call to me. Thankfully, the smell of mothballs inside of the secret room takes over, reminding me why I need to be afraid.

  I slide down the wooden beam across from the door and wait.

  They'll smell me out. They're animals.

  I doubt my decision to run to the old farmhouse.

  I should have run away. My legs are strong. I'm the fastest runner I know. I can outrun any boy. I outran Ramón every time.

  The last lock snaps with a smash. The house trembles and I imagine them ripping the door off the hinges. In my mind they snarl. All the best creatures snarl. They sniff the air. They smell the cigar smoke on me, no doubt.

  I shiver.

  I don’t know if it's out of fear or anticipation.

  I want him to find me.

  If I'm honest with myself, I can forgive him
anything and that scares me. The sight of the blood in my fractured memory tells me everything I need to know about him, and yet I can't fight what my heart fills with when I'm around him. The way he lights my skin on fire.

  No one knows about the farmhouse. No one knows my daddy built it. No one knows about the secret room. I wish my family had run for the safety of the farmhouse. I wish Em and daddy were here with me. The sight of them fills my mind in a flash of horror and blood spray. They never had a chance. They were shocked by what they had seen. I can see their shocked faces if I let myself relax.

  I hear a sound and push away the memories. I need to focus on surviving now. Not that there is anything left to survive. By the sounds they're making, I know they are on the stairs. I can hear the boards creaking under their weight. I imagine they weigh more than an average man. They are more than the average man.

  They speak, but the secret room keeps the sounds muffled. My daddy milled the wood for it himself. He used the thickest boards for this room. I believe it could withstand any attempts at getting inside, beyond burning the house to the ground.

  Their murmurs fill the silence.

  My breath whispers from my lips, like a breeze slipping through a crack. I have nowhere to go.

  The closet door opens. I feel the vibration of it being tugged hard against its frame.

  I expect them to smell me.

  I expect him to sense me.

  I do not expect the knock that vibrates the wall in front of my face.

  I don't breath.

  Another knock. Like a knock one would do politely on the door of a neighbor to borrow some sugar.

  A heavy breathing mouth is pressed against the hidden hinges and words are spoken into the corner of the closet, "Little pig, little pig, let us in."

  They know about the room. They know where I am, but it's not him speaking.

  Words sit in my traitorous throat. I want to call to him but my lips refuse to open. They refuse to allow breath in, for fear the words will slip into the dark night.

  Terror is lodged with the words in my throat.

  A loud bang fills the small room. I jump.

  Several loud bangs knock against the wall. They are testing the strength. I can hear when their hits land against the beam across the door.

  Horror has crippled me. I imagine it will be as it was for my family. I imagine my blood spraying across the peeling wallpaper and old carpet.

  I want to scream. I don’t want to wait for my death any longer. If I had full use of my body I would open the door, but I do not.

  I'm stuck, frozen.

  I shiver against the wooden beam as the wall is beaten with a percussion session, the wall separating me from my death.

  The banging and noise stops. I hold my breath trying to guess where they are. Are they listening against the wall? Are they wondering where in the room I am, as I wonder where they are?

  "Let me in." His voice starts my heart again. I hadn’t noticed it stopped. The jolt of the electricity his voice causes, shocks a gasp from me. "I can hear your heart beating. Let me in." He whispers softly. I want to believe I can let him in and that once again his warm arms will be the ones to save me.

  Tears trickle down my cheeks. I don’t know what hurts more - his being on the other side of the wall - or the vision of his hand swiping at my daddy's throat, spilling his blood against the shockingly white sculpture in the foyer of my home. His fingers that created such heat in my skin only hours before, took the lives of my family.

  Like a traitor, I can't force the images of my dying family over the memory of his lips trailing along my throat.

  I feel my breath leaving my mouth, it's hot and sweet. I can still feel the bourbon from the drinks I had, searing its way inside of me.

  I shake my head. His effects on me seem unnatural.

  His breath is heavy suddenly, "Let me in. I want to take care of you. I want you to be like me. Then we can be together forever. Every night can be Nina Simone and Cuban cigars and a different party to attend. I want to show you my world. It's a world you can't even imagine."

  His deep voice bypasses my ears and speaks directly to my soul.

  Think of the blood. Think of Emily.

  Emily.

  She was sixteen. She liked books and show tunes. She liked that boy Greg. He was at the party. His face flashes in my mind. Alone in the dark secret room, orphaned and afraid, I still smile seeing his face. He looked like a turtle. He was bashful in the way I believe a turtle would be.

  Emily was gonna be a schoolteacher, even though momma swore neither of us would work.

  Her sweet face distracts me.

  "You're going to die in there if you don't come out now. There is no safety from the sun in there. You need me. I need you." He sounds defeated.

  I make no moves.

  His tone changes slightly, "Lorelei, I will always find you. You know you can't run from me." It ain't a threat, it’s a promise.

  It's silent for a few moments and then he speaks again, but not to me, "I have to go back and make sure everything is cleaned up. We have a lot of mess to clean up. You guys handled this really badly. My father is going to be devastated. The witch is gone. Just get her out. Don't hurt her, bring her back to the other house." I hear footsteps. He is talking to the other ones.

  Someone else responds, "You let her drink from you? Her blood is tainted."

  "She was never part of the deal." Whit sounds angry. "What deal?" I whisper softly to myself. I press my ears against the wall to hear better.

  The other man speaks defensively, "Your father is going to be angry with you too."

  Whit sighs, "Then I guess we better clean this shit up and you better make sure not a hair is scratched on her head. If she is hurt or escapes, then I will tell him everything. I'll be at the mansion."

  I hear footsteps again. He is leaving me here with them. How can he leave me?

  There are no sounds for a minute. Did they all leave?

  The silence of the dark is more frightening than the possibility of leaving the small room. Not hearing them is driving me more insane than the banging on the wall was.

  Cold starts to permeate through my sweat and fear. I turn slowly and peer out the tiny window daddy had put in. It's from his boat. It's a round porthole. I see a shadow crossing the wheat field. I think it's him. I know his gait. I see the field light up, as the moon comes out from behind the thick clouds. He turns and looks up at the window. His dark eyes glisten in the light of the moon.

  The banging starts again, but I can't tear myself from the beauty of the man crossing the field.

  I don’t turn around when I hear them more clearly. They speak fast but I don’t listen for their words. I don’t fight them as I feel something sharp scratch at my back. I put a hand up to the window and press my palm against the sight of him. I close my eyes and Nina sings what we both know to be the truest form of attraction and satisfaction.

  I let my memory of him be the truth of his existence, as their hands pull me away from the window. They drag me through the hole in the wall they've made. The jagged wood scratches me on the way out. I scream from the pain and come alive. I grab at the wooden shards from the splintered hole. I remember the stories.

  I feel the fight come alive in me, when I see the black soulless eyes again. They do not belong to him. Their mouths don’t smile when they open wide with huge fangs. Fear takes over for me and I don’t know the moves I use or the way I fight to get away. Light flashes as if lightning is being shot around the room and screams fill the air. The blood dripping from my fingers is not my own. I scramble away from the dead things on the ground.

  Jumping up and bolting, I'm out the door and fighting the feeling of falling down the stairs while taking them three at a time.

  I burst through the back door, breaking the screened storm door and soaring from the back stairs. I push myself in my strides across the field. The tickle of the wheat is lost in the journey. I hear screaming and shouting comin
g from the farmhouse. I have no back-up plan; I have nowhere to go. I see the light on the horizon as I round the top of a small hill.

  I remember the stories Grandmamma told us and push my legs harder.

  They will catch me. I know this. They are faster than I am. They are chasing me but the sun can save me.

  My dark-green cocktail dress has saved my life. My legs are free to run, which I'm good at. I'm so glad I didn’t wear the pencil skirt momma had picked out for me. I smile, this must be a lucky dress. I bought it because Jackie Kennedy had worn one like it last summer. The summer before John, her husband, had been shot. John died but Jackie lived. I will live too.

  I don’t think about John and Jackie. I don’t think about Emily. I don’t think at all.

  I chant the song Feeling Good.

  And I run.

  My lungs want to explode but I refuse to let them. My back is hot and sticky where blood is ruining my favorite Jackie Kennedy dress. My head is pounding from lack of oxygen. But I run. I run for the light. I run from the dark.

  I don’t even know where I'm running to, but I jump logs and leap creeks and race through low hanging woods, toward the sun.

  His breath is hot on my neck. Scotch is filling the air I breathe and I know he's close, but I run.

  I see the McKenzies’ field in front of me and I almost quit. I almost let him catch me. Their field is on a huge hill. They don’t grow very good vegetables because of the steep incline. I race as hard as I can up it.

  I crest the hill but my legs can't take another step, they collapse. The hay comes fast at my face. Something hits my stomach and the ground turns over and over and over. It rotates between ground and a bright light. I think I'm spiraling to heaven, until I land at the bottom of the McKenzies’ field with a loud thud. I can't breathe. My wind has been knocked out of me.