Solom

by Scott Nicholson

  Something stirred outside, low sounds arising from the small cemetery. Mose leaned the broom against the lectern and picked up the hammer, comforted by its weight in his hand. He wasn’t exactly afraid of Harmon Smith, but the Lord helped those who helped themselves.

  The preacher walked down the aisle, as slow as a reluctant groom. He could use this fear in his sermon tomorrow, drum up some dread and paint an image of the everlasting lake of fire, where those who didn’t accept the Lord as savior were doomed to be cast forever. Yes, fear was important, but bravery was a key part of the whole deal, too. The “valley of the shadow” and all that.

  “Do not lead us into temptation, but deliver us from evil,” he said. Beyond the open door, the night was clear, stars winking on the horizon, those higher up fixed like holes in a black curtain. The trees that crowded the cemetery stood against the wind, leaves scratching at bark. In the gaps of the forest, lesser patches of shadow moved among the trunks. A low fog had arisen, laying a moist gray wreath along the tops of the grave stones.

  The mist had a peculiar quality and was different from the usual autumn fogs. Each fall, mountain folks counted the number of late fogs and used them to predict the number of snows due in the coming winter. But fog was supposed to be gray-white, and this one had coils of black smut in it. The air stank of rotten eggs.

  The fog appeared to be confined to the cemetery, as if laying down a cover so bad business could take place. It was thickest over the spot where pieces of Harmon Smith were buried, the Free Will congregation’s share of its long-ago shame and triumph. Except Harmon’s murder had been a triumph for the Lord, and worthy of rejoicing. Why, then, was foul smoke seeping up from the crazy old preacher’s grave?

  Mose wasn’t afraid. Harmon was back in Solom, as regular as a cicada, and he was making the rounds. Only God could say whether Harmon was looking for his horse or going around visiting his final resting places. And God wasn’t telling, at least not yet. In Mose’s sixty-five years on His good green Earth, God hadn’t shared a whole lot of the whys and wherefores.

  All God wanted was belief and faith, and sometimes it didn’t seem to matter to Him how he kept his people in line. Natural disasters, famine, the painful deaths of innocents, all could be argued as miracles instead of tragedies. The wayward ambling of Harmon Smith’s soul was no less a mystery, but just as befitting. The Devil walked the pages of the Bible through all the human generations, after all.

  Mose felt a calling to visit Harmon’s grave. Maybe this was one of God’s tests of faith. Same as when he’d bypassed the chance to adulterate with Ginny Lynn Rominger a couple of decades back, or pushed away the bottle when it was offered in his teens. Same as when he took no more than twenty dollars from the collection come Sunday, though he was the one who tallied the bank account. Same as when he’d knocked over a road sign while speeding and had returned the next day and put it back good as new. He hoped he’d passed all his tests of faith, because he wanted to reach the Pearly Gates with a perfect score.

  He waded into the fog, and though he told himself he wasn’t afraid, his fist clenched around the hammer handle. The grass was spongy under his feet, the sweet green aroma battling with the cloying stench of the fog. He was midway through the cemetery, somewhere among the Harper and Blevins families, when the animals came out of the woods.

  Goats.

  White with black and tan spots, the goats marched like they had a destination. Their strange eyes sparkled in the celestial light, horns curved. Mose almost laughed. That was what had given him a fright? The herd must have busted out of a pen somewhere and smelled the thick grass, flowers, and shrubs of the churchyard.

  He watched as the goats circled the cemetery, spreading out in formation. Mose was within ten steps of Harmon Smith’s grave, but he’d momentarily forgotten the Circuit Rider in the wake of this new oddity. The goats were quiet, heads up, ears pricked and stiff as if hearing a command from an unseen source. When the circle was complete, cutting Mose off from the sanctuary of the church, a dark figure stepped out of the woods.

  “Harmon,” Mose said, loud enough so that God could hear, so He would know old Mose stood firm. “You got business, have you?”

  The figure approached, tall and lanky, the silhouette of a hat revealed against the black background. He was as silent as the goats, and his footsteps made no sound. The air was still, and the fog grew thicker around Mose’s waist. The preacher looked back at the rectangular light spilling from the church door. Would God forgive him if he showed just a touch of weakness, if he bolted for the safety of the church? That wouldn’t be as bad as Judas’s betrayal, or of Peter’s denying Jesus, or Pilate’s washing his hands. There were a hundred worse failures in the Bible. And Mose was human, after all.

  Except what kind of protection could a church offer? Harmon could walk through walls. The entire Earth was God’s church, and Mose was in as good a shape out here in the fog as he was in the biggest church ever built. Faith wasn’t a place fixed in the real world, it was a golden patch in the heart of a good man.

  The dark figure moved forward, steady, graceful. It was just behind the row of goats now.

  Mose summoned his courage to speak again. “I say, Harmon, wonderful night we’re having. Fog’s a little chilly, but the sky’s as clear as creek water.”

  The figure didn’t answer. It moved between two goats and entered the cemetery.

  Something was different about the shape of the hat. Harmon’s was rounded on top, the brim wide and stiff. This one was flattened and frayed around the edges. The clothes weren’t solid black, either. Harmon had worn a coarse, white linen shirt, but this creature sported a darker fabric. Did restless spirits have any need to change clothes?

  Something curved from the thing’s right hand, pale and wicked as a goat’s horn.

  Mose eased back a couple of steps, bumping against a grave marker. It tumbled over, crushing a bouquet of plastic flowers.

  “All right, Harmon, you made your point,” Mose said. “I’m not as brave as I’d like to be.”

  The figure moved past the goats, and the fog seemed to swirl around it, as if caressing its skin. Mose could make out more features now: Harmon’s face was covered with a cloth of some kind, and had bone-colored buttons over his eyes. Straw protruded from the sleeves and collar of the shirt, and the hat was a beat-up planter’s style, woven with reeds.

  And in the thing’s gloved hand was a reaping sickle.

  The cloth mask moved in the area where the lips would be, though a dark stitch was the only mouth. “No one can serve two masters,” the thing said, in a voice as dry and old as dust.

  Mose forgot all his brave talk and tests of faith. He spun, looking for a path through the grave stones, but the fog had grown thicker and obscured the trees. The goats no longer circumscribed the cemetery. He turned back to face the thing and the hat and clothes finally triggered an image in his mind.

  Scarecrow.

  A scarecrow in a cemetery.

  One that talked and carried a sharp thing.

  A curl of bone poked up from the fog to Mose’s left, then another flashed to his right. The goats were coming beneath the fog, as silent as sharks closing in on their prey.

  The scarecrow was close enough that Mose could count the holes in its ivory button eyes. The choking aroma of chaff crowded the sulfurous stench of the mist.

  “Why?” Mose asked, and the question was as much for God as for the scarecrow.

  Neither answered, and the sickle rose and fell.

  ***

  Jett had the blankets pulled up to her chin, but still she shivered. Katy put a hand to her forehead, a typical Mom thing, but Jett didn’t have a fever. Unless you counted boogieman fever. She had that big-time.

  The man in the black hat was bad enough by himself. Now he had the scarecrow creature on his side. She closed her eyes and saw the cheesecloth face, the stitched grin, the button eyes, the wicked curve of the sickle. Worse was awakening among the goats, who h
ad milled about her sprawled body, nudged her with their horns, and pressed wet noses against her flesh.

  “Sure we shouldn’t take her to the emergency room?” Mom asked Gordon, who stood in the doorway as if he were late for an appointment.

  “No bones broken,” Gordon said, speaking with the authority of a former Boy Scout. “And both her pupils are the same size, so she’s not concussed.”

  “I feel okay,” Jett said, though she was tempted to feign some sort of internal injury so she could get out of the Smith House and into the relative sanity of a hospital. But that would mean Katy would eventually wind up here alone with Gordon. And with the man in the black hat, the goats, and the scarecrow creature. And with whatever else had been bothering Katy lately. Jett needed to stay and watch over her.

  “Well, we’d better keep you out of school tomorrow, just in case,” Katy said.

  “You should have been more careful,” Gordon said.

  “The barn was dark,” Jett said.

  “I was hoping you’d be able to pull your weight around here. You’re a Smith now.”

  “Gordon, she’s just had a bad fall,” Katy said, defending her daughter for the first time in weeks. “No need to be mean.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if she was out there doing drugs. Maybe that’s why she lost her balance.”

  Katy’s voice rose in pitch. “That’s your answer for everything, huh?”

  “Well, you knew how I was when you married me.”

  “No, I didn’t. Not at all.”

  Gordon glowered, shook his head, and faded back into the hall. Katy stroked Jett’s cheek. “I’m sorry, baby. Things aren’t going too well right now.”

  “Something’s happening, Mom.”

  “I’ll have a talk with Gordon—”

  “No, I mean something weird is happening here in Solom. With you. With us.”

  Jett sat up, letting the covers slide from her shoulders. She was dressed in a nightgown and a black tube top. She didn’t really need a bra yet, but liked the black accessory, especially at school. But now, with the whole world gone doomsday freaky, the whole Goth thing seemed a bit silly. Jett fought a hand out from under the blankets and gripped Mom’s wrist.

  Mom scooted to the edge of the bed and faced the window. The world outside was silvered by the moon, the light rimming the dark and silent walls of mountains. “I’m being haunted,” Mom said.

  “Like, by a ghost?”

  Mom nodded. “I think so. Sometimes I think the ghost is me.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going nuts, too? No wonder Gordon’s pissed off at you.”

  “And I saw a man at the top of the ridge yesterday, standing by the fence near the Eakins property. He was just standing there, looking over the valley. The goats had gathered around him.”

  “Was he wearing a black suit? And a hat that was kind of rounded, with a wide brim?”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “Twice, at school. And today I saw him outside the house, just before you got home. I was so scared, I hid in the attic, only something was up there. Some kind of creepy scarecrow. And he was in the barn, too. He had a sickle, and he chased me, and that’s why I fell—”

  “You sure it wasn’t Odus? Maybe he hired somebody new.”

  “But this guy isn’t new at all. He’s like two hundred years old. His face looks like somebody melted candle wax over a skull.”

  “Hmm. Maybe you hit your head harder than you thought.”

  “I swear, Mom. I wasn’t doing drugs.” At least, not much.

  “I believe you, honey. But none of this makes sense.”

  “Like, you think ghosts are real but my weird trips are all in my head?”

  “I can’t think here. I should go to the kitchen.”

  “Fuck the kitchen, Mom. What’s happening to you?”

  The expletive caused Katy to blink. “Don’t cuss, Jett. It’s not ladylike. You’re a Smith now, and we need to behave like Smiths.”

  “But I’m not a Smith. Neither are you.”

  “That’s not what she says.”

  “She who?”

  “The woman in the pantry.”

  “Jesus, Mom, are you on pills or something?”

  “She’s nice. She wants me to be happy and take care of Gordon, just like she did.”

  “Hell-O. You’re scaring me as much as the scarecrow did.”

  “The scarecrow is a Smith. He’s been in the family for generations.”

  Jett waved her hand in front of Katy’s eyes, but Katy was nearly catatonic, staring at her reflection in the window. “Mom. You’re not hearing me. Solom is going goat-shit crazy.”

  “The best thing is to get some sleep. I’ll talk to Gordon about it. He’ll know what to do.”

  Sure, Gordon, always knows what’s best. That’s why we’re one big fucking happy family, getting through it together, fighting the good fight.

  “I love you, sweetie.” Mom hugged her, and the embrace reminded Jett of how things used to be, back in Charlotte before marijuana and the divorce and the first stirrings of puberty. Jett held on as if the universe were crumbling away beneath the floor, and the bed was the last tiny island of sanity and hope. Warm tears ran down Jett’s cheeks. Everything was going to be okay, as long as they stuck together.

  Unless the scarecrow dragged his scratchy sack of straw out of the barn and came calling on the house. The September wind picked up, whistling around the window frame, and bare branches clicked against the side of the house. Or it could have been the point of the sickle, tap-tap-tapping, probing for an opening.

  “Will you sleep in here, Mommie?” Jett hadn’t said “Mommie” in years.

  “A wife’s place is by her husband,” Katy said, staring out the doorway into the hall.

  “Mom?”

  Katy stood and walked across the room like a zombie in an old black-and-white movie. She paused at the door, blew a kiss, and turned off the light. “Pleasant dreams, Jessica.”

  “Mom!”

  The door closed, throwing the room into darkness. Jett, panicked, fumbled for the bedside lamp, and flipped the switch. She huddled in its glow as if it were the world’s first campfire keeping back all the beasts of the night. Every rattle of a leaf outside became the footfall of a straw man, every creak of the wind-beaten house was a straining bone of the man in the black hat, each flap of loose shingles was the fluttering wings of some obscene and bloated bat.

  Mom had gone over. Jett couldn’t rely on her. So much for getting the fuck through it together. She waited a few minutes until she was sure Katy had gone into her own bedroom. The she tiptoed to the door and cracked it enough to check the hall. It was dark but empty, as far as she could tell.

  Jett tip-toed to the staircase. She was passing by the linen closet when she remembered the access hole and the scarecrow’s box in the attic. Maybe it slept away the day there, like a vampire in its coffin. She quickened her pace, socks slipping on the wooden floor. She descended the stairs so quickly she couldn’t recall touching any of the treads.

  In the den, the banked fire threw a throbbing orange glow across the room. The phone was by the sofa, and she plopped down and dialed. The trophy heads on the wall glared down at her with glass eyes that seemed animated in the firelight. On the third ring, Dad answered.

  “Hello?” His voice was cracked with sleep. He was an early-to-bed type, especially when a woman was around.

  “Dad?”

  His voice cleared. “Jett? What time is it?”

  “Nearly midnight.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Mom. She’s losing it and everything’s going to hell.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “She just told me she was a ghost.”

  “Shit.”

  “We need you.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “Badder than bad. But I can’t talk now. Gordon might ca
tch me out of bed. But please come.”

  He sounded fully awake now. “Okay. I’ll get there first thing in the morning, if you think you’ll be okay until then.”

  “Maybe,” Jett said, listening for cold fingers trying the front door handle.

  “Solom. I guess it’s about time I paid a visit, anyway.”

  “It’s a real happening place, Dad. Maybe too much.”

  “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  “So I keep hearing.”

  They talked for a minute more, then said their good-byes. After Jett hung up, she knelt before the fire and stared into the pulsing embers, waiting for the soft touch of boots on the front porch or the whisper of straw-filled sleeves in the attic.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The sun came up on a brisk, clear Sunday. Frost laid a sparkling skin across the ground, but quickly melted where touched by the autumn light. Odus had slept uneasily, visions of the Circuit Rider galloping across his eyes whenever he happened to drift. He tried to remember what Granny Hampton had said about the Circuit Rider, if the old-timers had some means of warding him off. Didn’t seem likely, because even after all these years, Solom was still a stopping point for Harmon Smith.

  The other mountain communities on Harmon’s original rounds had probably all seen their share of mishap and death. Odus would bet that anybody following the histories of Balsam, Parson’s Ford, Windshake, Rocky Knob, and Crowder Valley would see a trail marked by bloody hoof prints, at least every seventeen years or so. Seventeen years seemed to be the gap between Harmon’s visits, for whatever reason.

  Odus didn’t have a head for numbers, and he couldn’t parse out any reason why seventeen would be special. But Rebecca Smith’s death was generally attributed to the Circuit Rider, and that had only been five years ago. The Circuit Rider had a lot of territory to cover, stretching into East Tennessee and Virginia, and even a man on a hell-driven horse could only cover so many miles in a day.