by Beverly Sims
Mrs. Atwater stood, carefully placing her teacup on the side table. “Come, James, and help me. I am not as strong as I used to be. There is a panel here in the wood box that leads to stairs to the cellar. It made it easier for the slaves to bring in firewood without tracking up the floors. There is one in the kitchen as well. Now, move the wood out of the way and reach that little hook in the back. See it? Good, now slide the panel to the right. See how it moves under the floor. Henry, bring a lantern. James, go first in case I trip so you can catch me. My legs are not so sturdy any more. Here, Henry, take my hand and the flashlight off the mantel."
It was dark and dank on the slippery old stairs. They were covered with mold and mildew, and it was dark as a coal bin. Once he reached the dirt floor, James looked for light coming from anywhere, and there was none. “Okay, Grandmother, now what?” He listened for a moment. “Now what had better be soon, because I hear flames and smell smoke. If we don't get out of here, we will be as dead as we would have been upstairs."
"Lord, do I have to tell you everything? Apparently, I do. Henry, shine your flashlight to the right. No, more to the right, as if we were going toward the door leading out of the parlor. Good. Do you see that door, James? It has more stairs behind it, ones that go further down to a tunnel that leads to the barn.” They moved to the door, but it would not open. It was not locked but had swollen in the years of neglect to the cellar, as in the house above.
"Open it, James. What are you standing there for? And hurry up, I am smelling smoke, and you know it makes me cough."
He ignored her. “Henry, take your light and see if you can find an axe or hatchet or anything we can use to get through this door.” Henry came back with an old bucket and some splintered wood.
James looked at for a long time before asking, “Am I missing something here, Henry? What do we do with this stuff?"
"I dunno, Mr. James, but it be all Henry could fine."
James burst out laughing. “Hell, an old bucket and a few boards were better than nothing, right?” He took the flashlight and said, “Listen, I am going back upstairs. You two stay right here. I have an idea.” He returned within a couple minutes with the fireplace poker and an assortment of things he found in the desk. “We don't have much time before the fire eats the floor and the whole damn place comes down on us. We are going to have to poke some holes in the old wood if we can, then use the poker to pry the door open if we can. Henry, take this screwdriver and see if you can do anything with the hinges. I brought some sewing machine oil from Granny's old Singer, and maybe between the two of us we can get the inside bolts to move."
"Oh, for Pete's sake, you two are so dense.” Mrs. Atwater took the poker and began to shove it into the edges of the door where it met the jam. The old rotten jam boards began to break away a bit at a time. Finally, she handed the poker to James. “Now, do you think you can get it open, or do I have to do that, too?"
It took most of his strength to force the door to move even a few inches, but enough for him to get his arm through the crack, giving him leverage to move it further. Finally, it was wide enough to let Mrs. Atwater through, and in a thrice, she was gone. They could hear her running up the dark stairs, leaving them behind.
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Chapter 46
"Damn, Henry, come here. I am going to move as far as I can away from the door, and I want you to put your arm next to mine and between the two of us, we should be able to move it more. Now, together. One ... two ... three ... push.” Behind them, a section of the ceiling collapsed, showering them with sparks. “Come on, again. One ... two ... three ... push."
Whether it was panic or adrenalin, this time they moved the door enough for Henry to squeeze through. James put his entire weight against the door, but still it was not enough for the large man to make it. The door seemed to be hitting some obstacle. James knelt to the floor and found the dirt piled high as they moved the door, scraping the packed soil as it moved. He reached for the bucket full of wood, taking a stout piece to move the dirt.
"Hey, Henry, your damn bucket and boards are...” No more words, just a wall of fire was all Henry could see on the other side of the door. Another cave-in covered James completely.
Henry called repeatedly to James, finally realizing the man was not going to answer. He still held the flashlight and used it to find his way as he started to run. Something made him stop and return to the door, pulling it shut, cutting off the oxygen the tunnel was feeding to the fire. Perhaps it was divine intervention, as Henry was not bright enough to have figured it out on his own.
* * * *
The end of the tunnel in the barn was under a box of tack, similar to the woodbin. Mrs. Atwater was sitting on the bottom step, waiting. “What took you so long, Henry? I am tired of waiting, and I want some tea. Where is James? Get the door open so we can get out of here."
For once in his life, Henry disobeyed her. He sat at her feet, not answering at first. When she repeated her harangue, he turned off the flashlight. “Mrs. Atwater, James not be acomin'. Ceiling dropt on him, all afire. He under it all. Henry smelt burning body. Now, we be goin’ ta stay here ‘til we sure no one gonna find us. Miss Eartha kill us, that fer sure. So you jist close you eyes, Mrs. Atwater, ‘n’ let Henry watch o'er ya."
She started to speak again but decided he might be right. “Well, Henry, move up behind me and sit on the step so I can lean back against you. I am not so young and spry anymore, you know!"
Outside, Eartha watched the house burn. Anyone seeing her would know she was insane by her cackles and shrieks, her wild eyes, and hands curled up into fists with which she was beating her face and chest. She ran around like a headless chicken, moving every which way and bumping into whatever was in her path. Several times her mishaps drew blood, in which she dipped her fingers and licked them, if she noticed them at all. She was completely insane as she ran up the front steps of the raging inferno and through the front door. She tried to climb the stairs, but they gave way under her, sending her to the basement, under a ton of burning rubble.
Henry sat in the dark, supporting the sleeping old woman with his knees, listening to his head. “Mrs. Atwater, Mrs. Atwater. Please be wakin’ up. Henry can go now ‘n’ open da stairs door. Miss Eartha be gone to her maker. Satan gonna burn ‘er in Hell!” He did not know how he knew that, but he never questioned those things he knew. He just knew it!
* * * *
The old van bumped its way into the yard just in time for the three men inside to see their sister running up the stairs. Not one of them moved—they just watched as her clothes caught fire, but she continued to run into the house, already fully ablaze. Daniel, who was driving, just turned the van around and returned the way they had come, passing several police cars and a fire engine when they reached the main road. Silent tears now dampened their cheeks. They had loved sister girl and would never know she hated them all.
* * * *
The police saw and smelled the smoke before they neared the old plantation house. It was in flames, every inch of it. Coming out of the barn was an old woman, dressed in antebellum attire, and a bent black man leading her. They stopped and watched as the flames produced sparks that accompanied the smoke into the now hazy sky. The man was crying, but the old woman's face was still and showed no emotion.
Officer Moffett, who had been here before, exited his car and moved to the pair. He took the woman's hand. “I am sorry, Mrs. Atwater. Do you know how it started? Was anyone inside? Where are your sons?"
Still without emotion, she said, “I don't know where Mac is, but James died in the cellar, getting us out. Eartha Black, one of those women who were missing, also died in the fire. She is the one who set it.” Finally, she showed how she felt. Her face twisted as she said, “She burned in there, and she will burn in hell for all eternity, as she deserves."
"Can you tell us anything more, Mrs. Atwater?"
"Of course I can, if you will find me something on which to sit, in
the shade. Do you have tea in that noisy car of yours? Can you please turn off those sirens and lights? It is all giving me a headache."
The other officers, all three of them, were moving around the property ... into the barn, around to the back of the yard, down toward the bayou and up to the cemetery. Moffett returned to the cars and switched off the emergency warnings.
"Mrs. Atwater, I think you will be more comfortable in the car with air conditioning."
"Hogwash. I will be more comfortable in a chair in the barn or under a tree. I have never used that air stuff, and I am not starting now. Nor have I been in a police vehicle before, and I am not starting that now, either. Henry, help me back inside and open the door for the breeze to run through. I can sit on a bale of hay if need be.” She ignored the police officer as she made herself comfortable on an old chair he found near one of the stalls.
One of the other officers waved him outside, where they had a long discussion and Officer Moffett wrote in his little notebook. He came back, sat on the hay bail, and started asking her questions. “Madam, my partner tells me there is what looks like a fresh grave in the cemetery. Please tell me about that."
"Common sense indicates, sir, that a fresh grave means someone was buried. In this case, it is my daughter Glenda Woodward, who was bit by a cottonmouth the day she made it back here from Cotton after the hurricane."
"I haven't seen any report of a death here, Mrs. Atwater. Do you remember the name of the person you reported it to?"
"I did not report it to anyone. Why should I? It is a family matter, and our family has never reported deaths in the past, and I am not starting that now, either. Do not give me any speeches about what the law does or does not require. Instead of worrying about my dead daughter, you people ought to be looking for my live grandson and the person who murdered those lovely young women who were vacationing at my home before and during the storm."
"My partner tells me those tarps up there cover a lot of your household items and clothing. Why are they up there, not in the house when it burned? Is the house insured?"
"Insured? Of course not. We have never insured it, and I doubt that any company would do so nowadays, as it needs a bit of work. Or needed a bit of work, I should say."
"The boxes in the cemetery? What about them?
"James believed that Eartha person when she said she was going to burn the house down, so he tried to get as much out as possible. He worked poor Henry so hard, the man was exhausted, weren't you, Henry?” Henry nodded. “I didn't think she would do it, but that doesn't matter now, does it?"
"Why would she want to hurt you, Mrs. Atwater?"
"Because she was the Devil's spawn, that's why. So don't bother asking me any more questions, because that is all I know, and I am tired."
Moffett knew it was useless to question her further, but he would talk to Henry later. “You can't stay here, ma'am. There is nothing left. We can give you a ride to Cotton, or to Inverness, wherever you want to go."
"When I am ready to leave, Henry will drive me in Glenda's car there. I haven't decided yet about any of that."
He shrugged and joined the others searching the perimeter of the still smoking house. He found the tunnel to the house and went through it as far as he could go before running into debris.
From his car, he radioed the unit in Cotton to relay the news of what had transpired. From the Woodward plantation, the men there had completed their search, reporting trash and signs of habitation recently, but that it was empty now. He radioed in to headquarters to give them a preliminary report of the fire and deaths. Forensics was on the way. He returned to asked Mrs. Atwater some more question, but she refused to talk about anything but the past ... the distant past.
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Chapter 47
When he hit the riverbank, he felt pain. It was the first pain since the strangulation. Pain meant he was alive. He pulled himself up the beach slope, the black water lapping near his feet. His hand and throat were sending messages to his brain, telling it he was in trouble. He looked down at his hands to see his fingers deeply cut. Only the bones stopped them from amputation. He carefully felt his neck with his thumbs, which were undamaged by the wire. He could trace the deep wound in his neck, all the way around to the back. He realized that only his fingers had stopped his throat from being cut as he was strangled and possibly decapitated.
Even in his near unconscious state, he heard the snort of a gator. Looking through one squinted eye, he saw a nest to his right and suspected the mother was to his left. He could hear her moving his direction. He could smell her muddy carnivore odor. He sensed her closeness as he rolled toward her. With both eyes open, he aimed his thumbs at her eyes as she moved in for the kill. Life on the bayou had taught him that the eyes were vulnerable when nothing else is. He felt the hard, sponge-like tissue as he ground his thumbs in as hard as he could. She produced a noise somewhat between a snort and a scream, but she stopped her attack.
As quickly as he could, lungs coughing up water and head reeling with dizziness, he staggered to his feet and raced away from her and her nest. He prayed that she would not follow him, as she could outrun him any day of the week, let alone when he could see only through a haze. He ran into a tree, one with low enough branches that he pulled himself up and climbed to where he found one strong enough to hold him. He lay there, gasping for air. He turned over on his stomach as best he could and forced himself to retch, expelling not only the water from his stomach, but from his lungs too, to clear them out. Again, on his back and using only his thumbs as best he could, he slid off his belt. He wrapped it around the branch he was on, again hooking it into his belt loops. He hoped it would stop his fall because he felt himself passing out.
He dreamed he was being eaten alive. Not by the alligator but by something unseen. He felt pain in his hands and neck and unconsciously knew he needed to awaken. It was still dark when he shook off the nightmare only to realize it was true. He was being eaten—by hundreds of ants. They were in all his wounds and even his mouth. They crawled all over his face, and he could feel them inside his clothes. He tried to jump from the tree before he remembered that he had tied himself with his belt.
Swollen fingers did not work, and his thumbs now felt like balloons, but somehow he managed to free himself. Once on the ground, he forced his weak legs to move. He could smell the gator's nest, so he moved the opposite direction. He began brushing away the ants with his palms and thumbs as he pushed through the undergrowth. A cat snarled near him, but he gave it no notice. He had to get to water, somewhere he could wash away the creatures that were consuming him.
As he moved, it was in circles as lost souls are wont to do. He discovered that by using his fingernail, he could scrape some of the ants from his neck wound, causing more pain. Finally, he came to a clearing and heard the gator again. This time, he ignored it and ran straight into the bayou. The water was cool, and the ants began to release their hold on him. He let the current carry him again, but this time he floated on his back. Dawn was breaking as he floated under trees hung with massive nets of Spanish moss. Birds were welcoming the day as he closed his eyes again. In unconsciousness, there was no pain.
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Chapter 48
Ellen listened to the policeman relay the information from both Black Bayou and the Woodward place. She nodded when he said there was no sign of Mac. Eartha being dead seemed a relief, somehow. She had no feelings for Mrs. Atwater but was glad Henry was okay. She remembered Glenda's moment of kindness when she came to the hotel room with new clothes. James had frightened her, but she wished him no ill will. All she wanted was Mac.
"Alma,” she said when she went back inside the café. “I am going to Black Bayou. Don't even bother to try to persuade me otherwise. I promise to be back before dark.” She was out the door and on her way, stopping a block or so ahead when she saw the small boy, bouncing his ball by himself.
"I hear your name is Bil
ly and you are a hero around town."
"Shucks, ma'am, I ain't no hero."
"Well, most folks think you are. Say, would you like to take a ride with me? Let's go ask your mama if it is alright."
"Got no mama. She dun run off with a fisherman from the bayou."
"Oh, I am sorry to hear that. How about your daddy?"
"Nah, he's drunk ‘n’ passed out on the floor. So it's ok if'n I go with you."
"Okay, hop in, sweetie.” Ellen put the car in reverse and returned to the café. She ran inside to tell Alma about her passenger, in case anyone questioned his absence. At the same time, she grabbed a couple candy bars, promising to pay when she returned. Alma watched through the window as Ellen jumped back into the Jeep, tossing the candy into Billy's lap and tousling his hair.
As they sped by the Atwater place, a pair of eyes watched them from the underbrush. Damn that kid. Sure as hell can't grab her until she is alone. But, that is okay, too, as waiting is half the fun. Sure increases my imagination and size. He felt himself harden. I can wait, he thought as he touched himself, closing his eyes, picturing her on his table.
* * * *
Some places in the road still had standing water, and Ellen hit the first one as she rounded a corner without time to slow down. Mud and water flew everywhere. Billy threw back his head and laughed. Ellen looked at him, thinking that he had little in his life to laugh about, so she deliberately hit the next one, then the next. His laughter continued until he rocked back and forth, smearing chocolate all over his face as he tried to eat, bounce, and laugh all at the same time. His laughter was infectious, so Ellen joined him. Seeing his glowing eyes and chocolate-covered face made her feel good for the first time since her return to Cotton.
They bounced across the creek that fed into the river, down the narrow road where the brush had rubbed the paint on Windy's truck, and into the yard where the old mansion had once sat. It was now a pile of smoking rubble. She saw Mrs. Atwater and Henry in front of the barn. She drove slowly toward them, coming to a stop beside the police cars.