Black Stump Ridge (9 page)

•

Fred lay on his back, eyes closed, his body climbing to wakefulness in slow jerky stages. His headache had already started, a dull pounding behind his eyes as an unseen vice threatened to crush his temples. A burning sensation filled his nose. A noxious, fuzzy carpet covered his tongue. The back of his throat burned.

His stomach weighed in next as a sour belch worked its way up and out. He felt the building of another, this one threatening to carry more than gas with it. His distended bladder informed him of its urgent need. His bowels offered their own liquid concurrence to the overall protest. With a groan, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He sat there for a moment, holding his head against the wildly gyrating sensation that threatened to drop him to the floor. When the room finally stopped moving, he stood and staggered to the bathroom. He barely made it to the toilet. He sat there, his shorts around his ankles and his head in his hands, as his body emptied itself.

“Damn. Looks like I lived through it again.”

As the tank refilled behind him, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. Grimacing, he brushed his teeth to rid himself of the furry growth. As he rinsed, he debated whether to shave or not. Since the president wasn’t stopping by today, he decided it probably wasn’t necessary. He turned, opened the door, and stopped. He stared at the bed for a long time as he tried to remember what had happened the night before. Try as he might, all he could recall was crushing out a cigarette and flipping the remote to some TV show.

So, why was there a woman lying on his bed?

•

“You gave me quite a turn, you know,” Fred said around a bite of biscuit and gravy.

When Amanda first suggested that they go somewhere for breakfast, Fred had declined. Just the thought of eating anything made his stomach recoil. As he sat there, however, with a large glass of tomato juice inside of him and a platter full of scrambled eggs, biscuits, gravy, sausage, and hash brown potatoes before him, the idea gained merit.

“I apologize, again, Mr. Kyle.” Amanda sipped at her coffee. “When I came over last night, I only intended to drop off some food and go back to my room.”

“What changed your mind?”

Amanda took a bite of egg as she considered how to answer. “I started to leave. All at once you sat up in the bed. You were talking and screaming. It sounded like you were having a nightmare. I didn’t know what else to do.”

A chill washed over him. He looked at his plate for a moment. “What was I saying?”

“Most of it didn’t make any sense.” She shrugged and then took a bite of egg. “Something about tentacles.”

Fred sat back, looking at her intently. “Tentacles?”

She nodded. “And then you called my dad’s name. You shouted for him to look out.” She stopped eating and peered back at him. “Then you started crying and asking what had he done to him. What did you mean by that, Mr. Kyle? What had who done to my father? And, who is Michael?”

Fred looked down at his plate. “I don’t know. I don’t remember dreaming anything last night.”

Amanda stared hard at him. Finally, she looked back at her plate. “You went back to sleep. I decided to wait to see if you said anything else. I guess I just fell asleep.”

“Did I?”

“Did you what?”

“Say anything else.”

“Not that I remember. If you did, I was already asleep and didn’t hear it.”

Fred nodded. He turned his attention back to his breakfast. The silence between them grew until, finally, she broke it.

“What’s it all mean, Mr. Kyle?”

“Mean? I don’t think it means anything. It was a dream – pointless, aimless, and totally without purpose. Dreams are like that, you know.”

“Everything has a purpose. Somewhere there’s a meaning, even to this. And, I don’t just mean the dream or the nightmare or whatever it was. I mean what happened to you and my dad and the others.”

He shook his head. “You’re young, Amanda. That’s why you look for meaning in the things life throws your way. When you get older, like me, you’ll discover that life is random. Things happen. Sometimes terrible things. There’s no rhyme, no reason. No great conspiracy. No grand scheme. It all boils down to one thing: shit happens. When it does, you wipe your face and then you deal with it the best you can.”

“Your way is to hide in a bottle and pretend it isn’t there.”

“Don’t knock it. The view’s much better from there.” Fred raised his cup of coffee in a mock toast. “And, the alcohol kills the pain.”

•

They sat in Fred’s room much as they had the day before: Amanda on the chair; Fred on the bed with his back against the headboard. The empty Jim Beam bottle stood on the long table. Next to it was a quart bottle of Kentucky Driver. It’s twin rested on Fred’s lap, seal broken but the contents, as yet, untasted.

“I’ve read all of the reports, of course.” Amanda held a foam cup half full of coffee. The coffee was cold and bitter.

Fred’s eyebrows rose. “All of them?”

“Well, not all of them. I couldn’t get your psych evaluations. Medical privilege and all that. I did get all of the newspaper accounts I could find and transcripts of the grand jury that no-billed you. I had to hire a lawyer to help me get that and some of the police reports.”

“I’ll bet that made exciting reading. The papers got it wrong. You know that, don’t you? They had no clue.”

“They hardly ever get anything right. It’s all slant and innuendo and guesses, really. The grand jury stuff was pretty dry reading and I ended up with more questions afterwards than when I started.”

“Not surprising. They refused to accept the truth, even when the results of all of their forensics made no sense otherwise. The only answer that fit was the one answer they couldn’t – wouldn’t – accept.”

“Can you blame them, Mr. Kyle? I mean, really. A monster in this day and age? It sounds like a bad horror movie.”

“Demon.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a demon, not a monster.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A monster can usually be killed. Sometimes it takes a lot, but it can be done. A demon can only be contained or restrained, usually by magic. Or banished, if you believe the shamans and priests.”

“I see. What do you believe?”

“I don’t know anymore.” He smiled and grabbed the whiskey bottle by the neck, holding it high. “I believe in this.” He uncapped it, took a deep swallow, and replaced the cap. “I believe I’ll have more before the day is over. And, if there is truly a Hell, then I believe I’ll see this thing again. Or, others like him.”

“Did you actually see him?”

Fred paused. “I don’t know. I think I saw him. I saw something. I saw what he did. Enough to make me believe.”

“Believe what?”

At first, she thought he wasn’t going to answer. He sat on the bed staring down at his hands. When he finally began to speak, his voice was low. She leaned forward, straining to hear. His words surprised her. Instead of talking about the demon, he’d returned to the story.

“The guys loved it, of course. It wasn’t really a cabin, but a house. Three stories built into the side of the mountain. A huge deck behind the third floor. A three-car garage with adjoining laundry room, storage, and rec room on the bottom floor. The second floor had the kitchen, dining room, living room, four bedrooms and two bathrooms and a deck overlooking the front yard. On the third floor was the master bedroom and bath, two guest bedrooms with another bath, and a family room and wet bar dividing the master bedroom from the guest rooms. Sliding glass doors opened onto the back deck from the family room as well as the master bedroom. It was fantastic. Like a resort. Throw in the satellite TV and it was the perfect hideaway for five guys looking to have a great hunting trip. Best of all, it was free.”

“Is it still there?”

“What?” Fred thought for a moment. “Yeah, I think so.”

“So, who owns it now?”

“Who owns it now?”

“Yeah. After everything that happened, did your mother sell it? Or, does she still own it?”

“Oh. I see.” Fred opened the bottle and took a couple of swallows. He re-capped it and set it back on his lap. “No, she didn’t sell it. Actually, she died a couple of years ago. I own it, now. I have the keys around here somewhere. Sometimes I want to sell it. Sometimes I want to go back and blow it up. Level it. Bury it under tons of rock and dirt. Spread salt over the whole thing.”

“So, no one lives there?”

Fred shuddered. “No, not now. Nothing human, anyway.”

“What do you mean by that? Nothing human? Are you talking about the demon, again?”

Fred looked at her and then looked quickly away. “No, not really. I mean it’s probably full of skunks, possums, raccoons, that sort of thing. No people.”

Amanda noted the furtive movement, but chose not to pursue it. He’d given her a glimpse. The rest would come. She just had to be patient.

“So, everyone loved the place.”

“Oh, yeah. Everyone loved it. What wasn’t to love? And, it was Thanksgiving. It was great. It was perfect. It was the kind of place and time that dreams are made of…”

 CHAPTER NINE

Fred stood on the front deck, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. From here he could see the upper half of the barn and a bit of the satellite dish as they rose ghostly from the early morning fog. Farther away, the treetops marched up the mountainside in dark gray ranks, vanishing quickly into the smoky haze that gave this region its name – the Great Smoky Mountains. Although the front door was closed, the aroma of frying bacon wafted onto the porch. Fred’s stomach rumbled. He smiled and sipped his coffee. It was as fine a morning as any of them could have wanted.

He heard Johnny in the kitchen preparing his trademark Thanksgiving Day breakfast of thick, maple-cured bacon, fat sausage links, eggs – fried and scrambled – with huge fluffy buttermilk biscuits. He could imagine the gravy boat filled with peppered white gravy flavored with bacon renderings and the steam rising from the hash brown potatoes fried with chopped onions and diced bell peppers and topped with shredded sharp cheddar cheese. Thick fluffy buttermilk pancakes made from his secret recipe rounded out the fare.

On Friday morning apples fried in bacon renderings, brown sugar and maple syrup served over biscuits would replace the pancakes. Saturday’s breakfast would feature huge fluffy omelets made with diced ham, onions, chopped bell peppers, shredded sharp cheddar cheese, mushrooms, and crushed potato chips.

Sunday was always the grand finale — a fantastic baked surprise. To hell with the cholesterol! Arteries be damned! Who wanted to live forever? There would be no heart healthy, city slicker, metro-sexual breakfast served on this testosterone-rich weekend. Leaves, twigs and grasses? That’s what food eats!

Fred sipped at his coffee, wincing as the hot liquid burned his lips and tongue. He savored the rich, dark flavor. Johnny didn’t skimp on the coffee, either. This was no mass-market grocery store blend. It was a nutty, earthy brew that had to come from a high-end gourmet shop. Fred didn’t know how Johnny did it every year. They all kicked in a certain amount for food and left the shopping to Johnny. Somehow they always ended up eating like kings. Johnny had to be putting in more of his own money to cover the extra cost, although he never complained or asked for more.

It was funny how each of them had gravitated to certain tasks. Johnny was the cook. No, that wasn’t quite right. Calling Johnny the cook was to do him a disservice. He might be an IT man for a local corporation during the rest of the year, but on these trips, he was the master chef.

Charlie was the organizer. Not only did he create and maintain the lists, he also made certain that they had their licenses, permits and any special game stamps. He ordered all of the non-food supplies. He maintained the first aid kits and manuals, making sure that they had the latest and greatest supplies available.

Fred and Dave were the driver/navigator team. With the aid of on line mapping they prepared primary and alternate routes for the trip to and from the cabin. They followed road construction schedules and downloaded the most current weather forecasts available.

Peete was the loadmaster. No matter how much equipment they brought or how many supplies, he not only found a way to pack it into their single vehicle, but also managed to do it in such a way that they had room to ride comfortably. Amazingly, he always knew exactly where every item was located whether inside of or on top of the vehicle. After the first two or three trips they gave up testing him. He
always
knew.

The door opened. A fresh blast of breakfast aroma washed over the deck as Dave joined him, a steaming mug of coffee in his left hand.

“I see why they call these the Smokies,” he said as the door slammed. “They’re beautiful in a ghostly kind of way. Seeing them reminds me of that Stephen King story — the one about the mist. I think that might’ve even been the title.”

“I know the one you mean. I never read it, but I saw the movie. I’m sure glad there’s nothing like that out here. It can get pretty spooky in these hills without monsters, especially after dark. Wait ‘till the fog burns off. The mountains are incredibly beautiful even now with all the leaves gone. You should have seen it this past summer though. When I was up here with Mom everything was green and full. It was, well, awesome.”