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EVIL HEIGHTS
BOOK IV
IN THE PIT
By
MICHAEL SWANSON
A Renaissance E Books publication
ISBN 1-58873-831-0
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2006 Michael Swanson
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.
For information:
[email protected]
PageTurner Editions/Futures-Past Horror
FIRST BOOK EDITION
THE EVIL HEIGHTS QUARTET
BOOK I. THE MIDNIGHT FLIER
BOOK II. MONSTER IN THE HOUSE
BOOK III. LOST AND FOUND
BOOK IV. IN THE PIT
CHAPTER ONE: THE FUNERAL
It was as though the sun neglected to come up Tuesday morning. It was raining. Not anything like a cold, drizzly January rain but a steady patter of fat drops which splashed out craters in the soft mud and made the air heavy and difficult to breathe.
Lee stood next to a weathered head stone, holding the umbrella, while Maggie with Patty next to her huddled underneath. Occasional booms and rumbles of hidden thunder shook the thick blanket of low hanging clouds. Under his yellow rain coat, Maggie had insisted he wear his church clothes, including his black clip-on tie. The sweat rolling down his ribs had soaked through his shirt after the first fifteen minutes, and the collar of his shirt chaffed his neck as though he was wearing a burlap bag. The man standing next to him had one of those small, pop-up umbrellas, and the water running off the pointed nibs was dripping steadily on Lee's shoulder. To relieve the boredom of the long service, Lee had attempted a count of the people crowding the cemetery and had lost his place at one hundred and twenty-nine.
"We all knew Petunia Ballard as an icon of our community,” Reverend Hauser extolled from under the comfort of the canopy covering the open grave. “She was born in Lenoir; she lived her life in Lenoir; and she passed on to her reward from Lenoir, always an example of a woman of pious character and Christian charity."
Though he could hear everything, Lee could only catch fleeting glimpses of the Reverend and the coffin through a gap that would momentarily open up, when one of the people up in front shifted or moved about under the jumble of umbrellas. Along with the Reverend and the corpse, enjoying relief from the rain under the dark green Memorial Acres canopy, was the mayor and his wife. Also assembled was a cadre of ancient, silver-haired scions of Lenoir society who occupied the two rows of chairs set out in back of the grave. The only person seated whom Lee could actually claim knowing was Brenda, the housekeeper, who was sitting by herself, separated from the others who might soon be potential employers. There was one other person who remained dry; Lee had seen him two days ago along the river, staring down at Phoebe as they had floated by. Seated in the brown, metal folding chairs next to the coffin he seemed to droop more than sit. The gray figure still wore the same antique cut, dark suit, and same brittle smile, as he sat stoically listening to the Reverend's praise of his dead mother.
"Petunia Jackson,” the reverend continued, “married Walter Ballard in 1921. Some of you in attendance here today, no doubt witnessed the ceremony. Out of that holy union, they were blessed with two children. The tragedy of the death of her daughter Irene, at such an early age weighed heavily on Petunia but never broke her faith."
"Yes, faith!” the reverend boomed, jolting the crowd from its soggy stupor. “Faith is what has led our sister, Petunia Ballard to God's reward."
Lee, at times, could be mesmerized by the rise and fall of the undulating rhythm of the Reverend's drawling intonations. Some of the tones of his words and inflections would stick in Lee's mind, echoing throughout the ensuing weekdays, repeating in his mind, like Javier's “cabrito.” Lee would sit in church and helplessly absorb each powerful syllabic blast as “God” became “Gawd” and “Jesus” flowed into “Jayeezus.” Sometimes he wondered if the dour and remote Reverend Hauser had secretly learned to thump the his brand of bible by sneaking out while a young seminarian and partaking of the Holy Spirit clandestinely attending some of the Negro gospel church sermons.
"Gawd!” the Reverend roared, “Loved Petunia Ballard, just as he loves all sinners. Has she earned her reward?” He held his finger up, pointing to the canopy. “Has she earned her place at the right hand of the Lord Gawd Almighty?” The finger began to tremble. “I believe she has. And why do I believe this, knowing that only Gawd can judge her soul?” He lowered his finger and stabbed it out at the crowd. “Because I know our dear departed sister, Petunia Ballard feared Gawd her maker. Yes, she feared him to the depths of her soul.” His eyes blazed, and he shook so, that the Reverend seemed on the verge of a stroke himself. “But what each and every one of you all have to ask yourselves today, is do you?” He pointed randomly into the crowd. “Do you, fear the wrath of sin, and love the love of Jayeezus, as Petunia Ballard did?"
The miserable crowd milled about in one guilty mass of itching, sweating sinners. If everyone in attendance felt only half as uncomfortable as Lee did, they were all already receiving this very morning a taste of the punishments the afterlife would offer to those who found themselves on judgment day standing in the long lines before the gates of hell.
Lee would do anything, if only he could figure a way to get a finger into the collar of the raincoat and scratch the itch dogging the back of his neck. He looked longingly down at the flat, metal clasps, which folded over to close the heavy rubbery raincoat and considered dropping the umbrella and using both hands to tear the thing open. He didn't though, as he feared the earthly wrath of Maggie more than all the fire and brimstone the Reverend could conjure.
"Many of you here today paying your last respects to our departed sister Petunia Ballard, do not know her only surviving child, Ridley Ballard. He's been apart from us lo these many years, and I'm sure he feels as though a stranger among us. After the service, I'd hope that each and every one of you would take a moment to introduce yourselves and welcome this prodigal's son returned back into our fold. I've asked him if he might care to say a few words about his mother, and despite his grief, he's agreed to speak his piece."
The Reverend moved back, taking a seat, as Ridley Ballard rose to his feet.
"What a shrimp. Looks like a bookkeeper to me.” Lee heard the man next to him whisper to a woman at his side.
"Inbred,” the woman replied.
Ridley, in passing, took the Reverend's consoling hand, shaking it in both of his for a moment, then stepped up to the podium. Peering out from under the protecting fringe of the canopy, he adjusted his tie and with one spidery hand, reached up and smoothed over the few pasty strands of hair combed over his bald spot. The microphone was adjusted for the Reverend's height. Ridley had to reach up to adjust it downward. The moment his hand came into contact, a fearful screech let out, jarring Lee to his teeth and causing everyone assembled to shiver. The Reverend was quick to leap up, and soundly rap the microphone, mercifully ending the ear-piercing scream. Yet, despite the rain, the metallic ring seemed to echo off the gravestones for the longest time before finally dying off, becoming lost as the shriek escaped into t
he distance.
Lee could see Ridley thank the Reverend with a nod as the minister quickly retook his seat, smoothing his pants with both hands. The littler man could just barely see over the podium, and looked nearsighted, as though he couldn't focus more than a few feet. He again reached for the microphone, but abruptly drew his hand back.
"I didn't know my mother very well.” He took a long pause, never looking at anyone directly for a long time, and for the most part keeping his eyes down. “I spent most all of my early years in boarding schools, apart from my family. Then, after my sister Irene's accident, I went away for good, only returning but a few days ago."
Lee, along with surely every other miserable soul in attendance, was taken aback at the sound, which materialized from the man. It was as though the air suddenly wasn't right; more than one person wiggled a finger in their ear. The sound of his voice was sharp and nasal, as might be expected from such a diminutive man; yet it held a strangely echoing, resonant quality, which would be natural from a larger man speaking loudly in a vast and empty room. And for Lee, there was no mistaking a haughty undertone of arrogance, almost an aristocratic flavor, laced with a thorough dose of upper east coast Boston.
"I am the rightful heir,” he declared loudly. “And it is I who will rightfully inhabit my father's estate.” Ridley looked up suddenly, and a reflexive shiver passed through those foremost in the crowd. Such a change, his eyes seemed to light from within.
"There is much, much to do.” He stared out, those eyes, working the crowd, now going from face to face. Though Lee couldn't be sure that Ridley Ballard recognized him, the man's eyes were such, Lee felt he, like everyone else, was being noted, recorded, and entered into some sort of mental ledger.
"Since my return but these few days ago, I've come to realize how much I missed Cherry Heights: the grounds, the trees, the very earth below. This is the place where I was born. In my absence I had forgotten how much a part of me it has always been.” The same acrid smile Lee had seen before drew itself across his waxy lips. “And I know now how much Cherry Heights has missed me."
He stopped and cleared his throat, then continued haltingly, picking his words slowly at first as though he were undecided over what to say next. “I'm not sure what a man should say at his own mother's funeral. Especially a woman such as her."
He twisted back to look at the coffin, then suddenly whirled his gaze back around suspiciously, as though suspicious that someone might have taken an encroaching step forward. “I haven't seen her body, but I know she is there, behind me, in that box of wood and iron. She was always a powerful presence, my mother.” For a moment those eyes faded and he looked lost in thought. “A powerful presence,” he said softly. “I scarce imagine most of you, even if you thought you knew her, could have any true idea of who she really was.” He suddenly came back to himself, his voice rising and those eyes once again seeming luminescent in the misty gray rain. “But, now she is in fact gone, and but her body, her husk, remains. She was not much of a motherly mother to me, never doting, never crying over me, never holding my little hand in the night, in that house, in the dark, when I was all alone.” Again he drifted off, and again he as quickly came back with a vengeance. “But I do remember she taught me strength. ‘Buck up, boy! Buck up!’ she'd say. ‘You're a Ballard. You're not going to be some kind of candy pants!’”
"Candy pants!” The name hit Lee as surely as a stone.
"All of you here assembled today,” Ridley continued without missing a beat, “to pay your respects to my mother's body hold no inkling of what her strength, since my father's demise, has meant to Lenoir. But you will, even if you do not know why. And you all will miss her, her strength, her presence; you will miss her dearly, as there is always such a powerful change in death."
The silence when he paused was as heavy as the air. The moments before Ridley Ballard had begun to speak, it had been difficult to hear the Reverend's practiced voice over the drumming beat of the rain on the umbrellas, even with the aid of the funeral home's amplifier. But though the rain was falling even stronger now, the clarity of Ridley's voice seemed to hold sway of the elements, causing a hush, silencing the rain but not the distant thunder.
"But if I may.” He again cleared his throat. “As a eulogy, I'd like to quote from one of my own favorite passages.” He closed those eyes momentarily and faced the sky. When he reopened his eyes, Lee thought it appeared as though the strength of the luminescence was like a car's headlights illuminating the falling drops of rain. “To the manor born, ye shall not split heirs. Always but one of blood. And it is unto the one, his task, his fate, the manifest duty. To the rightfully chosen, so endowed, for he who suffers the burden, time's passing has no hold, no power, never lifting the utter eternality of the wait. So, it shall never die. The house sundered in suits lies sleeping but unscathed by the truth of succor offered by the cut. The deep, careful cut. In that there is sweetness. Discipline, in the face of facts mandates the sacrifice's unconscious demand to be served up to the strong and forceful hand. Lowly are chattels that do not rise. Yea verily they cry out, pleading, even if they know not truly for what, or why; but cry out they do with fallow and weakly fearful eyes. How they mill about, seeking the silence. What little they mean. Inviting the shear, their flesh to be served, blood to be drawn, if but to sweeten the master's cup. Such shall it be, for in all nature, the true master, eternal, alone, wields the power of the inescapable verdict through the truth offered by his final hand."
With another quick pass with his eyes and a final nod to the Reverend, Ridley Ballard turned his back to the crowd and returned to his seat.
"What?” Lee asked himself immediately.
Lee overheard a woman's voice in back asking, “What in the world was all that? That couldn't have been from the Bible, could it?"
A man's voice off to the side said: “Sounds like a bunch of damn Yankee claptrap to me."
Lee thought to himself, Ridley's quote did sound something similar to what Reverend Hauser might preach. Except Reverend Hauser rarely said anything, which didn't include at least one righteous jab at all the wretched sinners.
Reverend Hauser retook his place at the podium, resetting the microphone. Lee knew that look. Something was on the Reverend's mind. He always looked like that when something scandalous had happened, and he was about to work into his Sunday sermon a diatribe against whatever particular ill had befallen the community. But he cleared his throat, not once but three times, readjusted his tie, adjusted his head and neck, and then fell into his regular litany, pointing out that ashes become ashes and dust becomes dust, and in less than fifteen minutes the coffin had been lowered into the grave.
Lee was slogging his way back to the car, one of so many parked in two continuous lines to either side of the thin blacktop which meandered through the vast cemetery. He was purposely stepping in all the puddles, not so much hoping to ruin his good shoes, as to aggravate Maggie.
"Lee!” a voice sang out. “Lee Coombs!"
He stopped, and since he was holding the umbrella, he forced Maggie and Patty to stop as well.
"I thought that was you,” Mrs. Voorman appeared, splashing up from behind, her sensible rubbers protecting her feet from the water and mud. “Hello Patty,” she smiled out from under a great, gray umbrella. The vast wirework and fabric resembled the interior of a zeppelin. “How are all of y'all this morning, Magnolia?"
"We're all fine, Mrs. Voorman,” Maggie replied, seizing the umbrella from Lee to keep it centered over her head.
Lee knew full well that Maggie wanted nothing except to get to the car and get home. When Patty had brought up visiting Grandma's grave Maggie had said “No!” So as it was obviously something Maggie didn't want to do, Lee was content to be polite and talk to his Sunday school teacher, though he'd feel better about it if he didn't have to meet her eyes.
Mrs. Voorman reached up and cupped Lee's chin. “I'm glad to see you're feeling better. Magnolia, told me on Sunday you were ill."
"He wasn't sick!” Patty blurted out. “He went tubing on the river!"
Maggie's face went gray. She tugged at Patty's hand.
"Well he did,” Patty protested looking up at Maggie to see why her hand was being squeezed so. She peered back with absolute honesty at Mrs. Voorman. “Mamma, said he went with a slut. That's bad ain't it?"
Maggie winced.
"That's a sin ain't it, Mrs. Voorman?” Patty continued unchecked. “I bet Lee's going to burn in hell, just like Reverend Hauser says, isn't he?"
"Don't say ain't, Patty,” Maggie rebuked, acid dripping as she mouthed the hateful word.
"Well, I'm just glad to see that you are alright,” Mrs. Voorman replied, very diplomatically ignoring Patty's admission. “I'm sure we'll see you in church next Sunday, won't we dear?"
Both Lee and Maggie nodded.
"Oww, Momma, you're hurting my hand,” Patty complained.
"By the way, terrible isn't it?” Mrs. Voorman shook her head.
"What?” Maggie had started to turn to go, but stopped and clutched her purse up under her arm, fumbling with her keys in her free hand. “What's so terrible?"
Lee was having a difficult time keeping the umbrella over Maggie and Patty and not looking at Mrs. Voorman. God was surely punishing him by causing his to remember with way too much visual acuity what he'd seen in the dressing room.
"They found the body of one of those little girls, the ones who disappeared on Sunday.” Mrs. Voorman moved in closer and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I think she'd been molested.” She leaned back nodded with wide-eyed finality.
"What little girl?” Maggie squeezed her keys.
"Where have you been, dear?” Mrs. Voorman's surprise was overwhelming. “It's been all over the news."
"We haven't been watching much T.V. lately,” Maggie replied.
"They were two sisters.” Mrs. Voorman brought her hand up to her mouth, hiding the word. “Coloreds, you know. They'd left for services at the Word of Zion Tabernacle. You know, it's that disgraceful shack over in the colored section..."
Evil Heights, Book IV: In the Pit Page 1