Black Water

by Jon Fore

  “You’re not a chicken are you?” Chris taunted.

  Abby heaved the wheel over and started the Nova down the rutted trail, bumping and jogging the car savagely.

  “This is not how one fixes an alignment,” Chris said around an “are-you-nuts” chuckle.

  “Slow it down a bit, babe,” Ethan counseled.

  Abby eased up on the gas a bit and began avoiding the deeper pits. She aimed towards a pair of ancient pick-ups rotting alongside the dilapidated house, and brought the car to a whining stop.

  “Hey, check out Aunt Jemima,” Chris said softly.

  Next to the back of the house stood a plump black woman in an old sundress wrapped in a full-length white apron, her hair fixed tightly to her head with a red kerchief tied in the back. She was well-aged and weathered, much like the house.

  The foursome climbed from the Nova and stretched out their kinks. “Afternoon, ma’am,” Abby said towards the old woman.

  “Miss,” The old woman replied softly. “You all fixin’ on visitin’ the Heart house, is ya?”

  Abby and Ethan approached the old woman as Abby replied, “Yes, ma’am. I’m writing a book about the house and its history. Do you know—?”

  “Keep yourself from dat place, hear me? There ain’t no good up there, ain’t no good come from up there. You just stay away!”

  “I think she’s lost it,” Ethan whispered to Abby.

  “You mind me, young mastah: keep yourself aways!”

  “Can I help you young people?”

  Ethan and Abby turned in unison to find an older man in coveralls and flannel shirt considering them thoughtfully from the sagging porch. Farmer-style stains adorned his knees and his face was one earned from many days spent in the fields.

  “Ah, hi, I’m Abigail Conner; I’m looking for Mr. Brighton…Thomas Brighton,” Abby said more like a question.

  “Well, Miss Conner, you’ve found him. Why don’t you and your friends there come on in for some lemonade afore heading up? Gotta get ya the key and all.”

  “That would be great! Can I use your bathroom, mister?” Madison asked.

  “Ah yeah, sure, young miss. It’s right over there.” He pointed to a small closet-like structure a few yards from the side of the house, a quarter moon shape cut into the rickety door.

  That was when Abby realized that Aunt Jemima was gone. She did not wonder on this long, every town had a crazy who liked to talk to strangers.

  “Uh, thanks,” Madison tried to sound appreciative but failed miserably.

  The farmer, his hair a wild mass of grey straw, chuckled softly to himself. “I’m just joshin’ on ya; it’s inside. Follow me, if ya please.” He turned and held the door open for them.

  The inside was much nicer than the out, but everything—every picture, every stick of furniture, even the rugs and the old cabinet-style television—were as old as Abby’s grandparents were. It was neat, tidy, and mostly free of dust, many antiques positioned around the room in what appeared to be no specific order.

  “Bathroom’s right in there, missy.” The farmer indicated a direction with the end of his index finger. “The rest of ya, make yourselves at home. There are some printouts over there on the TV about Heart House. Please mind the old things here, though; some are fragile, ya see. Now for some lemonade,” he finished as he lumbered into the kitchen.

  Abby decided quickly that she liked the old man. He was a classic country gentleman and as hospitable as no one else was back at the university, or her home for that matter. Madison headed towards the bathroom as the rest of them eased their way into the outdated room filled with antiques.

  Shelves displayed the expected artifacts: old shackles clearly broken by hammer and chisel, lanterns and bits of clothing, a smattering of ancient jewelry and documents, even oddly enough, muskets and musket paraphernalia. Abby would have thought that a more modern rifle had been in use during this time, and not the black powder, round ball shooting musket.

  The oddest pieces were near the back of the room, leaning against the wall near the old television. Long iron poles stood silently against the wall, on the ends of which were cup-like clasps. She wondered if they were for holding brands to light canons from a safe distance—but why would canons be part of a collection of antiques designed to highlight the Underground Railroad?

  Other, more obscure implements were on display here as well: clamps and straps, things with barbs and pointy protrusions. Abby was not sure of their purpose, but she thought that somehow all of these things were used to cause pain. She got the terrible feeling that the dark coloring on them was blood. She heard faintly, deep in her mind, the unbridled screaming of men bearing unimaginable pain and suffering. The screams echoed through her soul, and she began to feel a distant fear…of what, she did not know.

  “Here we are,” the old man said as he placed a tray containing a neatly arranged set of glasses and a matching pitcher filled with ice and lemonade on a square table against the wall. “Help yourselves as you like,” he said gently before retiring himself to a worn easy chair in one corner conveniently aligned with the television.

  “Thank you,” Chris said as he poured himself a glass.

  “What are these…things here?” Abby asked, still a bit frightened by her musings.

  “Those are wicked bits, aren’t they?” the old man replied without standing.

  “Yes, they are,” Abby said.

  “Where?” Chris asked curiously.

  “There next to the television,” Abby replied. “What were they used for?”

  “Well, the Heart House is very old, built to house guards and a warden for the prison hidden beneath. It was used to hold prisoners durin’ the War of Independence. Now, which is the case in most wars, captured prisoners have information. These tools were used by the warden to get that information from ’um.”

  “They tortured them?” Abby asked, already sure of the answer.

  “Tortured who?” Madison inquired as she entered the room.

  “Why yes, young lady. For years, prisoners were brought to the house—they called it ‘The Hill’ back then—to have information extracted. It’s a horrible thing, what they did, but some say that them deeds is what won the war for us.”

  “Still…” Ethan trailed off.

  “This stuff is sick,” Chris commented.

  “Where?” Madison asked excitedly as she rushed over to see. “Ah, this is so cool!”

  The old man raised an eyebrow as the warm smile drained from his face.

  “She’s a horror film nut,” Chris explained.

  “I see. Well, when you’re done with the lemonade, I think you should be going. It’s a day’s hike up the mountain, and I don’t have enough beds to keep ya here overnight.”

  “We brought camping and hiking stuff with us. Is there running water at the house?”

  “Yes, miss, there is water. The Graybar family had it put in back in the forties afore they left. No electricity, though.”

  “Is there anyone living up there now?” Ethan asked.

  “Oh, no, not since the fifties. I put a generator up there some time back, but the gas probably turned to varnish by now. Not much gas left, if I remember correctly, so don’t count on it workin’, but you’re welcome to try. The key is there on that hook.” The old man pointed to a cottage-style key hook next to the front door. “Now you young folk stay out of the cellar up there. Nothing in there but trouble, and no help can get to ya for a long spell. Just hang your car keys on that hook as you leave.”

  “What is this?” Madison asked holding one of the long black poles.

  “That’s a burnin’ pole; they put embers in the cup on the end and used it to burn prisoners from the other side of the bars. I think they called them ‘singe rods’ or ‘cinder sticks’ or some such.” The old man said dryly, clearly unsettled by Madison’s fascination with the macabre.

  “Oh,” she said as she put it back.

  “We’ll be back here in two days,” Abby info
rmed Mr. Brighton as she traded keys with the little hook.

  “You all be careful up there now—and stay out of that cellar.”

  “We will,” Chris promised as they passed through the front door and into the late afternoon chill.

  Chapter 2

  After collecting their gear from the Nova, the group gathered to look up the side of the mountain and into the forest growing there. “I really didn’t think it would be this hard of a climb,” Abby admitted softly.

  “Think it looks tough now? Wait till we actually get to the base of the mountain,” Chris said under his breath.

  “I know you can make it, Abs. It will be tough, but I’ll help you,” Ethan comforted.

  “Hiked a mountain before, have you?” Chris asked.

  “Yeah, a few: in the Delaware Water Gap and the Poconos.”

  “Well, there’s not much in the way of mountains in Florida, so why don’t you lead, then?” Chris could be rather quick with his tongue, but he always gave way to experience.

  “That okay with you, Abs?” Ethan asked as she snapped some photos of the mountain with her Canon EO1, a gift she bought herself when she changed her major to Photo Journalism—with Ethan’s technical advice of course.

  “Fine with me; I’ve never been hiking in my life.”

  “Well, we should get a start. We don’t have much daylight left and we need to be about halfway up by the time we make camp. Everyone ready?”

  No one answered—they just looked at him—so Ethan began walking across the empty field toward the forest’s edge and the beginning of their assent to Heart House. They crossed the field quickly enough, considering the soft sand-like soil, and entered the scrubby forest.

  The mountain began as a gentle rise, which grew steeper with each step. The sun began to hide itself behind the summit, which made the vibrant fall leaves glow like uncut gems. Abby began snapping photos all around her as they walked, clearly fascinated with the scenery. It was obvious that she was seeing the wonders of the wild forest in person for the first time in her life. Abby’s photo snapping was slowing them all down a bit, but there was no real schedule to keep, so none of the others mentioned the lack of progress. Madison and Chris where holding hands and chatting softly with each other, making promises to one another of favors to be made after they stopped for the night. Ethan was a bit surprised to see that Chris was holding a beer. They had brought quite a bit for a hiking trip, each of them sporting two six packs, but to be ascending a mountain and drinking beer seemed stupid to him, but it was Chris, after all.

  As the light began to fail, Abby stowed her camera in its bag, lens cap securely in place. “I got about a hundred shots. Can we put them on your laptop when we stop?” Abby asked Ethan.

  “Sure. We need to mind the battery, though; if the generator does not work, we’ll have to use the solar charger, which takes freaking forever.”

  “That’s fine. I can see the pictures on the camera, and damn if they all don’t look really good. I just want to empty the memory stick.”

  The sun had hidden itself completely behind the top of the mountain, and everyone’s legs were beginning to weaken. They had made it the better part of halfway up, and each of them wanted to stop though none of them mentioned it.

  “Did anyone else hear that?” Chris asked with Madison peeking out from under his arm. They were a good ten feet behind Abby and Ethan and thus, a few feet below.

  “Hear what?” Abby asked.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Madison said up to him, sounding a little frightened.

  “I thought I heard a dog barking. There it is again—listen!”

  They all strained to hear, holding perfectly still, their breathing shallow. The breeze made a light rustling sound through the trees and a distant owl called out to the encroaching darkness, but nothing else.

  “I guess I was imagining it. I could have sworn I heard dogs barking…”

  “Maybe you burned a fat cell from freshmen year,” Abby shot at him playfully.

  Chris smiled big, “Yeah, baby, you know me.”

  “Should we go ahead and stop here? If we made it this far in four hours, I am sure we can make the rest before dark tomorrow.” Ethan calculated.

  “That sounds good to me. I’m starved; we still haven’t eaten yet,” Chris reminded them.

  “I’m hungry now, too,” Abby added.

  Chris dropped his backpack on the ground as an answer. “Should we setup the tents? It doesn’t look like rain, and I would prefer to be close to the fire.”

  “Nah, let’s just get the fire going and cook up some dinner,” Ethan replied.

  They all set to work, Chris and Ethan collecting wood and starting a fire, the girls gathering the cooking equipment. When the girls finished their task, they brought out their sleeping bags and snuggled to each other underneath, their heads poking out to watch the antics of the boys. Ethan thought this was a favorite hobby of women, passed down in their genes and not something taught them by their mothers: watch the men, share with each other the reasons why they were doing it wrong, and conceal the laughter.

  As the men of the group erected the small cooking grate over the fire and set water to heat to mix with the dried food packets they had brought, the girls began to join the sleeping bags together by way of the zippers.

  “Anyone want some coffee?” Chris asked, favoring the girls with a smile.

  “Do we have enough water for some?” Ethan asked.

  In the distance, near the foot of the mountain, a lone and empty baying floated up to them. Abby immediately thought of an old movie she had seen about a prison break where the dogs tracked down the escaped convicts.

  “Did anyone else hear that?” Chris asked, smug in his knowledge of everyone’s answer. He always liked proving himself right.

  “Was that a wolf?” Madison asked nervously.

  The howl drifted up the mountain again; this time it was more than just one, a chorus of many dogs.

  “It sounds more like bloodhounds,” Ethan ascertained.

  “I think they are bloodhounds,” Abby agreed.

  “Are you guys sure?” Madison asked, still sounding nervous.

  Chris turned to her and smiled. “It’s the Ghost Wolves of Cedar Creek,” he said jokingly, mentioning a favorite horror movie of hers.

  Madison smiled back at him. “Okay, no need to make fun. I’m not used to being in the woods at night.”

  “Don’t worry, Madison, neither am I, and that was pretty spooky,” Abby comforted.

  The baying came again, this time more distant and less sorrowful, closer to dogs at play.

  “It’s probably someone duck or pheasant hunting or whatever you would use a pack of hounds for,” Ethan reasoned.

  Chris brought the small pouch of food over to Madison and climbed into the sleeping bag with her. They began to share the food with small camping forks. Ethan brought his to Abby and did the same.

  “Is there anything else I should know about sleeping in the woods; anything else that’s going to be so freaky?” Madison enquired around a mouth full of wet food.

  “Well, small animals will be all around us and in the dark, they sound huge,” Chris advised. “My first night in the woods alone, I was fourteen and I thought there was a pack of bears all around the tent, digging and grubbing. I just sat in my tent waiting for them to begin tearing it apart; all the while, I had to piss so bad my eyes were beginning to float.”

  “What’d you do?” Abby asked with a sly grin.

  “Well, I opened the tent just enough and leaked out the door. Just hung it out there in the wind,” Chris smiled.

  “Did you piss all over the tent?” Ethan asked.

  “Not with his dick,” Madison said almost under her breath. She quickly covered her face. “I can’t believe I said that…”

  “Not like you’re lying,” Chris added seriously, and Abby began to laugh. “It’s true,” Chris said defensively, and they all began to laugh, Chris being the last
to join them.

  “Oh, hey, guess what I brought?” Madison dug through her pack. She quickly produced a bottle of Wild Turkey and a large tin, the kind that holds those curiously strong mints.

  “I’ll take some of the Turkey,” Chris said as he reached for the bottle.

  Madison lifted the tin and popped the top open. A number of hand-rolled cigarettes popped up, bristling on one end.

  “Hmm, and what would that be, my dear Madison?” Abby asked slyly. Madison’s party side never failed to produce the finest vehicles for escape.

  “Some of the finest and I brought plenty.” She smiled.

  It was becoming difficult to see very far, but not so that Abby missed the joint proffered her. She took a burning branch from the fire and lit it, passing it back to Madison. Chris just sat there taking hard pulls from the Turkey.

  Ethan chose not to partake of any of Madison’s gifts, but sat and watched the fire closely. Even though these were the mountains of Pennsylvania, there were still bears and cougars about. If they were close, at least one of them should be sober. Since he seemed to be the only one among them that had even thought about this, he decided it should be him. Plus, he did not tell any of them he was carrying a weapon, something he did not like to share, and Turkey always seemed to make him want to.

  When the doctors had finally cured him of his hallucinations after many years of intense therapy, they had not taken his paranoia. A child of age four could not even know to tell them he always felt threatened; like that dirty street man was lurking just beyond his reason. The doctors had never really convinced him until much later that the bum was not real, but by then, it was too late, and Ethan was always prepared for some form of eventuality, some type of horrible threat that others would be oblivious to. This is why, at a very young age, he started carrying a gun.

  He was excited though; Abby was a bit more ravenous when she was stoned, more eager and willing to put things in her mouth. All he had to do was be patient and things would be rather interesting for him as well.