House of Dead Trees

by Rod Redux

  Or the dead.

  Was she dead? Was she a ghost now, racing mindless through the murky afterlife like a smeared image in a photographic negative? When had she died? How had she died? She couldn’t remember, but maybe she wasn’t supposed to remember.

  Finally, she came to a door. She could see bright light glimmering around its edges. Relieved, she pushed through, and Raj was lying on the bed, waiting for her. The room was open and bright, with big bay windows full of blue sky and sunshine as yellow as egg yolk. He gestured to her, smiling, and she rushed to him.

  Saved!

  She climbed on the bed and embraced him, pressing her face to his chest, squeezing him in her arms, breathing in the good familiar scent of his body, but he crackled when she hugged him, and she drew back in confusion, wondering why he felt so stiff and light. She looked down at him and had to clamp her hands over her mouth, trying to cage the cry of horror that threatened to burst, flapping, from her lips.

  He wasn’t a living man at all, she saw. He was just a scarecrow made of sticks and burlap, an empty effigy, with button eyes and X’s stitched across his face for a mouth.

  She tore the front of his shirt open, her breath coming in harsh hot gasps, and dry leaves and dead flower petals spilled out of him. Beetles crawled among ribs of dead grape vine.

  Jane didn’t wake, but she stirred in her sleep, moaning and clutching her spare pillow to her breast. Her fingers plucked at the pillowcase as she tore the Raj-scarecrow’s chest open in her dream, but the fabric didn’t rend as it did in her dream, and there were no dead petals in her bed when she woke the next morning.

  Cypress

  1

  Cypress, Illinois, appeared around the bend like God’s afterthought, a little town tucked into the woody folds of the Shawnee Hills. It was shortly after 4:00 PM when the Mystery Machines came rolling down upon it, the hottest part of the afternoon, and the little burg wavered in the heat rising from the blacktop.

  There couldn’t have been more than three dozen paved streets in the town, Raj thought. The houses, still tiny with distance, seemed cut out of some antiquarian catalog. Not squalid, just… out of step with the present.

  “There it is,” Jane said from the passenger seat. Despite her obvious weariness— she had not slept well the night before, she’d said—there was still a hint of excitement in her voice. She closed her laptop and sat upright, looking at the town in the valley below with renewed interest.

  “We made good time, too,” Raj said. “We’ve got an hour and a half to spare before we have to meet with Rob Forester. We can stop somewhere and stretch our legs. Maybe grab a bite to eat.”

  “I’d rather go straight to the museum, if that’s okay with you,” Jane replied. “Diane Belasco said they closed at 5:30. After I interview her, I can meet you guys at the Forester House. I’m sure they roll up the streets at dark here, and I’d like to use the time to poke around.”

  “That’s fine, just grab something to snack on. You look a little drawn.”

  “It’s this heat,” Jane scowled, pushing a strand of sweaty hair behind her ear. It had gotten much more humid as they neared their destination, the atmosphere growing hotter and heavier the further south they drove through the vast, flat plains of Central Illinois. The muggy air of Southern Illinois had enveloped them like a hot wet blanket once they entered its verdant highlands.

  Jane looked out her window, watching the thickly wooded landscape rush past. Dark pines and underbrush whipped by, thick banks of bright orange tiger lilies growing wild in the ditches. She glanced at Raj, smiled. “But thanks… you know, for looking out for me.”

  Raj smiled back. “That’s my job.”

  They passed an ornate white sign that bid them, Welcome to Cypress, Population 1247. The sign was decorated with hand-painted cypress trees standing on a rugged hilltop.

  “Interesting fact,” Jane said, changing the subject. “The ancient Romans employed cypress trees in most of their funeral rites. They made wreaths of it to adorn their statues of Pluto.”

  “The god of the underworld?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought cypress were river trees,” Raj replied. “You know, the kind with the white peeling bark.”

  “Those are birch.”

  “Ah.”

  “I know because… my dad owned a nursery,” she said. She looked down at her hands.

  They were coming into the outskirts of town now, rolling past mobile homes with rusty cars subsiding in the lawns, old-fashioned farmhouses with tin roofs, grain silos standing erect in the fields like strange metal fertility symbols. They passed a barn that had been leveled by some recent storm, as if God Himself had crushed it beneath His heel. Fields of corn and soybean shuttered past. Horses galloped in a pasture. A teenager with a fishing pole over one shoulder waved at them from the side of the road. And huddling over all, the piney hills, like a domineering master, oppressive and vaguely threatening.

  The walkie-talkie crackled and Little Dan said, “Welcome to Mayberry, ya’ll! Yeehaw!”

  2

  They parked outside the courthouse in the town’s central square. For a minute or two, the quartet simply milled around the SUVs, stretching their legs, arching their backs and groaning as stiff joints popped and muscles twanged like guitar strings. They’d driven the last two hundred miles nonstop. That was three hours without a break-- Raj always got impatient the last leg of a trip, and would only pull over for gasoline or threats of impending doodie.

  “I’m getting too old for these long hauls, boss,” Big Dan groused.

  “We made good time, though,” Raj replied, only sounding a little defensive. He grabbed his head and chin and gave it a twist, making the bones in his neck crunch.

  “I hate it when you do that,” Jane said with a shudder.

  “What… this?” Raj asked, and twisted his head the other direction. Crruuncchh!

  All three men laughed at the face Jane pulled.

  Ignoring the swinging dicks she’d just crossed half the country with, Jane wandered away from the group to absorb her new surroundings. “It feels like we slipped through a crack in time,” she said aloud, speaking more to herself than the dorks who were no doubt burping, farting and scratching themselves like a trio of chimpanzees now that her back was turned.

  Looking around the courthouse square, Jane had the eerie feeling that she’d been transported thirty years into the past. Farm trucks cruised the street in a slow, ceaseless parade of Chevies and Fords and Dodges, good ol’ boys in John Deere ball-caps slouched behind the steering wheels, aged sixteen to sixty. Across the street, a chubby girl in her twenties was pushing a baby stroller, accompanied by two older children. The girl looked harried and less than fashionable in a washed-out sleeveless blouse and faded jeans, her jelly belly pouched out over the too-tight waistband of her Levis hip huggers.

  The businesses that lined the square were still open. They hadn’t yet been slain by internet shopping. There was a drug store, a Goodwill, a Dollar General and a slew of lawyer and accountant offices. Jane spied a secondhand clothes shop, a used book store and a diner. There was even an ice cream shop called The Big Scoop. Fifty Cool Flavors! the sign in its plate glass window advertised. Jane made a mental note to check out the ice cream parlor, if it was still open, after she finished at the museum. A couple “big scoops” would be a welcome treat on a day as hot as today.

  Raj called to her, and Jane returned to the group. Little Dan was checking the battery of a handheld video camera.

  “Yes?”

  “The guys are hungry,” Raj said. “They want to grab a bite before we meet with Forester.”

  “Okay.”

  “You sure you want to go to the museum first?” Raj asked.

  “I’m sure. I’ll meet you guys at the site.”

  “In that case, here’s your camera. Dan put some spare batteries in the bag. A couple extra memory cards, too, if you need them.”

  Little Dan handed her the camer
a bag, and she slung it over her shoulder. Raj pulled the keys to one of the SUVs from his pocket and passed them to her.

  “I’ve got the address of Forester House programed into the GPS,” Raj said.

  “Okay.”

  “Call me on my cell if you need anything.”

  “Will do.”

  The Dans were already heading for the other vehicle. Little Dan called shotgun and the men started bickering. Raj glanced over his shoulder at them, then cast Jane a dubious grin. “See ya later. Call me when you’re ready to head out.”

  “Aye aye, captain.”

  Jane was smiling up at him, their faces very close, and for a second she felt an impulse to close her eyes and tilt her chin up. She imagined Raj leaning forward, kissing her.

  Raj blinked at her awkwardly, then clapped her on the shoulder and ambled away.

  Silly rabbit, Jane chided herself.

  3

  Guided by the GPS’s polite directions, Jane had no problem finding the museum. It was just a few blocks from the town square, on a thickly wooded residential street. She wasn’t expecting anything impressive, but the building that lodged the historical gallery was a pleasant surprise: a large Victorian-style white house with a wraparound porch and a lawn full of pink roses and lilacs. The brass placard on the sign in the yard read: The Olive Forester Memorial Historical Society. Olive Forester, Jane recalled, was one of the few members of the Forester clan who had escaped the family curse, and the great great aunt of the house’s current owner.

  “You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS unit announced with a musical chime, and Jane turned onto the freshly tarred driveway. The parking lot had spaces for five vehicles, she noted, but she appeared to be the establishment’s only patron this evening.

  Jane threw the SUV into park and killed the engine, then grabbed her purse and camera bag and stepped out onto the pavement. She passed beneath an arching trellis festooned with roses and started up the stone walk to the front door. The property’s massive oak trees enveloped her in cool shade. The perfume of all the flowers was cloying.

  The front door opened as Jane climbed the steps onto the veranda, and a heavyset older woman smiled out at her.

  “Mrs. Belasco?” Jane inquired.

  “Call me Diane,” the other woman replied. “And you’re Jane Rivers. I recognize you from Ghost Scouts. I watch it almost every week. It’s my second favorite ghost hunter show.”

  Jane smiled. “Why, thank you!”

  Diane Belasco stepped aside, gesturing for Jane to enter. “Don’t be shy, now, dear. I’ve been waiting for you all day. Come inside.”

  4

  Diane Belasco was a stocky middle-aged woman with cherubic features and short-cropped gray hair. She wore the kind of stretch pants all post-menopausal women seemed to favor—light gray—with a flowery blouse and practical brown leather flats. As Jane followed her into the historical society building, Diane spoke over her shoulder: “I normally charge visitors two dollars for admission. To cover expenses, you know… but for such an esteemed guest, I’ve decided to waive the fee.”

  Jane realized the woman was teasing and laughed dutifully. “I appreciate you putting your collection at my disposal, especially on such short notice.”

  “There aren’t exactly throngs of eager young historians beating down the door,” Diane said—and to her credit, without much rancor. “Not here in Cypress… As you can imagine.”

  “People today are more interested in American Idol than American history, unfortunately,” Jane said sympathetically.

  “So true!” Diane tsked. “Who was it that said, ‘Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it’?”

  “George Santayana,” Jane answered quickly, and the proprietress of the Cypress museum looked over her shoulder with surprise.

  “Really?” Diane asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s very impressive.”

  “Thank you. I’ve always had a head for trivia, but why that quote?” Jane asked. “Are you trying to imply something?”

  “Me? No, I don’t think so. Unless it was subconscious. I didn’t offend you, I hope.”

  “Not at all.”

  The women paused in the middle of the foyer next to the reception desk, and Jane took a moment to absorb her surroundings, admiring the home’s polished wood surfaces and pleasant architecture, the staircase winding upwards to the second floor landing, the tall arched windows.

  The rooms of the house were large and open and wall-to-wall with antiques, enlarged prints of old photographs and historical documents, artifacts and ephemerae. Chandeliers hung glinting from the ceiling. A statue contributed by a local artist stood on a pedestal beneath the glinting candelabra, body frozen in a twisted, almost painful-looking pose.

  “This is a beautiful building,” Jane said, admiringly.

  “Thank you,” Diane replied. “This house was built in 1935 by my grandfather. I inherited it from my father, and converted it into a museum. The history of Cypress has been a hobby of mine since I was a young woman. Typical spinster. No husband or children. It was this or collect cats, and I’m allergic to animal dander.”

  They laughed.

  “Shall I give you the grand tour?” Diane asked.

  “That would be wonderful,” Jane replied, unslinging her camera bag. “Do you mind if I record you?”

  “Will they use it on the show?”

  “Possibly,” Jane answered. “What we do is film everything we can, then the director and editor go over the footage and put together what they call a ‘narrative’. They cut all our videography into a story in post-production. Allen, Billy and I have some input into what goes into an episode, but it’s really up to Raj and Charles. Ninety-five percent of what we film just ends up going into archives.”

  Diane shifted uncomfortably as Jane powered on her camera. “I didn’t think you would videotape me for the show,” she said, touching her hair and straightening her blouse—possibly regretting the old lady stretch pants she’d chosen to wear that morning.

  “You look fine,” Jane reassured her, panning the camera around. The machine chirped and tinkled, and she adjusted some controls. “Really, you do. But if you’d rather I didn’t tape you…”

  Diane squared her shoulders and smiled. “No, that’s quite all right. It would be an honor to help document the history of our town and its… uh, most infamous landmark.”

  Jane grinned, centering the woman in the viewfinder. “Atta girl,” she said. “Tell me again about your home. When did your grandfather build it?”

  5

  Despite her initial hesitance, Diane was a natural storyteller, and Jane quickly began to regret that most of the video she was shooting truly would end up in their studio archives. Diane guided Jane through her historic home, directing Jane’s attention to various displays while speaking of the town’s history. For Jane, a history buff, it was riveting stuff, but she knew from past experience that most of her research and documentation would be compressed to, at best, a couple two or three minute segments when the episode finally aired. It was all right, though. She did this kind of research mostly for herself. She’d always been more interested in history than spooks.

  The town of Cypress was officially founded in 1883, the historian said, guiding Jane from room to room. But before that, as far back as 1843, it was a rough-and-tumble logging camp, run by the Black Hills Lumber Company.

  The Black Hills Lumber Company operated for a good twenty years before going bankrupt, due mostly to the unwise business investments—read, gambling debts-- of the company founder’s son, who took over the business after his father’s death in 1860. By then, most of the lumberjacks who worked for the enterprise had settled in, gotten married and started raising kids, so they weren’t going anywhere. Many of them changed professions from cutting wood to working in the newly minted coal mine, but the town of Cypress only grew modestly for the next three or four decades, and that growth stalled when the coal mines pl
ayed out.

  The region was also used to encamp and train Union soldiers during the Civil War. That era was really the town’s only flirtation with prosperity. When the war was over, the soldiers and the economy that had sprung up to satisfy their needs evaporated as quickly as they had formed.

  Yet even from the settlement’s founding, the wooded highlands surrounding the town of Cypress began to garner a reputation for being haunted.

  “How so?” Jane asked, perking up.

  “It was mostly the skeletons they found in the trees,” Diane said after a pause, a twinkle in her eye.

  “Skeletons…?”

  Diane chuckled. “Yes. The Native Americans who originally occupied this territory practiced ritual sky burial. Do you know what that is?”

  “I believe so,” Jane replied. “Isn’t that where they put the bodies of their dead on biers at the top of mountain peaks?”

  “Yes, or in the treetops,” Diane nodded.

  “So when they were logging…”

  “You got it. The loggers would fell a tree and find human remains enveloped in the bark. Not entire bodies, of course. Too much time had passed. And the elements, I suppose, destroyed most of the remnants. But they would find a jawbone or a skull, a thigh bone or a pelvis, sometimes even jewelry or articles of clothing. Of course, the loggers, being uneducated, were very superstitious men. They considered such discoveries bad luck, especially for the unfortunate lumberjacks who felled a particular tree. They began to call the timber they found the bones in ‘dead trees’, and blamed any misfortunes or illnesses on the angry spirits of the disturbed Indian corpses.

  “Most of the ‘dead trees’ were in the area known as Sawtooth Hills, a couple miles to the east of town,” Diane said, gesturing vaguely in that direction. “Interestingly, that’s where John Forester built his home. Right smack dab in the center of Sawtooth Hills, where the Indians buried their dead in the trees. That land’s belonged to the Forester family for the last 140 years or so.”