Dark Corner (19 page)

"Researching your family history can be enlightening,
but it can also be a challenge, David. The oral tradition runs
quite strong in the African-American community. The best
way to learn about your family is to sit at the feet of an elder
and absorb his stories. Unfortunately, you don't have that
luxury."

"Yeah," David said. "There were my grandparents on my
father's side, but my grandmother died before I was born,
and my granddad ... well, I saw him only twice, and the last
time was over twenty years ago"

David didn't mention that he'd seen his granddad's ghost.
Franklin would think he was crazy.

"And Richard did not have any siblings," Franklin said.

"He's always had a small family," David said. "I don't
have a lot of resources to draw on for this stuff."

"You'll do fine," Franklin said. He patted David's hand.
"Please don't hesitate to ask for my assistance, at any time.
The study of history is my passion."

"I'll remember that," David said. "Thanks"

"We'll have to make good on our plans for dinner, sometime soon. My wife is concerned that you're getting by on
sardines and crackers"

David laughed. "Definitely, let's do dinner soon"

"How about tomorrow evening?"

"That works for me. Can I bring a guest?"

"Ah, the beautiful young lady, Miss James" Franklin winked. "Word travels quickly in a small town, son. Of course,
she's welcome to come"

David blushed. "I've got to get used to this place."

"See you tomorrow, then," Franklin said.

As David watched Franklin return to his home, he thought
about the professor's suggestions. Photographs. Jewelry. Artwork. Antiques. Journals. Letters. Books. Legal documents.
Bibles.

He put his hands on his waist, looking around the living
room. It was full of stuff, just like all of the rooms in the
house. He had no idea where to begin his search.

Start at the top, then, he thought.

In the second-floor hallway, a square panel in the ceiling
granted access to the attic.

Standing on a stepladder that he found in the garage,
King lying on the carpet and watching him curiously, David
slid away the panel. Dust plumed out of the opening. He
coughed. The dog sneezed.

After the dust had dissipated, he climbed into the attic.

He switched on a flashlight, panned it around. Cardboard
boxes were scattered across the floor. Heaps of clothes.
Stacks of moldering books.

Obviously, no one had been up there in years.

But he started looking. Ten minutes later, he made his
first noteworthy discovery in a sagging box packed with old
science-fiction paperbacks.

A large, leather-bound Bible.

At the kitchen table, David examined the Bible. It was
old, there was no doubt about that. The red leather was
worn, the gold letters on the cover were faded, and the
pages were stiff and yellow. He handled the book carefully, afraid it would crumble into dust.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for. A sheaf of pho tos stuffed between the Old and New Testaments? Notes
scribbled in the margins?

He opened the book. He found an ink sketch on the inside
front cover. A family tree?

Actually, it wasn't much of a tree. It was a line drawn in
the center of the page; rectangular boxes were spaced at various points along the line, and names were written inside
each box.

David recognized the names from the snatches of conversation that he remembered from years ago. At the top of the
line, "William Hunter" was scribbled. Then "Robert Hunter,"
followed by "James Hunter," then "John Hunter," followed
by "Richard Hunter."

The box at the bottom read, "David Hunter."

An electric current seemed to snap through David's body.

Who had written his name in this book, and when? Had
his father done it?

He rubbed his chin, continuing to stare at the bloodlinethat was the only thing he could think to call it.

There was only one child born in each generation, he
noted. The child was always a male.

It was weird, especially considering that in the old days of
the South, families tended to be large, so the children could
help work in the cotton fields.

He couldn't make sense of it. He began to turn more
pages.

Various passages throughout the scriptures had been underlined. He read a few verses. They meant nothing to him
that he might apply to his family.

He continued to search.

It was an illustrated Bible, evidently. Interspersed between
books, he found skillfully drawn black-and-white sketches.
He assumed they were depictions of Biblical stories. Interesting.

Leaving the book open, he poured a glass of apple juice. King padded up to him and dramatically lowered his snout
to indicate the empty water bowl sitting on the floor. David
laughed and gave the dog some fresh water.

Sipping juice, David leaned against the counter, letting
his mind chew over what he'd seen.

His gaze happened upon an oil painting done by James
Hunter, his great-grandfather. The piece hung on the opposite wall, beside the doorway. It colorfully portrayed black
sharecroppers picking cotton, under the glare of a red sun.

David frowned. He'd never paid much attention to the
painting before, but now, he stepped closer to it.

His great-granddad's distinctive looping signature was
scrawled in the bottom right-hand corner of the canvas.

"Oh, shit," David said.

The glass of juice dropped out of his fingers and crashed
against the floor.

King, lapping water from the bowl, yelped in alarm.

David rushed past the shattered glass, and hunched over the
Bible. He flipped to an illustration. It was a sketch of a broadshouldered black man, dressed in overalls, leaving a hovel that
resembled slave quarters on a plantation. The man gripped a
long knife. Behind him, a woman took refuge inside the shack.

The name "James Hunter" was scribbled in the lower
right-hand corner of the drawing.

Hands trembling, David turned to another sketch.

The male character from the previous drawing stood at the
head of a crew of similarly dressed men, leading a charge
against a mob of people who were swathed in shadows. James
Hunter had created this sketch as well.

Years of Sunday school had familiarized David with the
Bible. These were not scenes from any Biblical tales that
he'd ever read.

In another sketch, the same male figure, along with two
other black men, and two white men, approached what looked
like an Indian encampment. The men were bedraggled and
empty-handed, as if seeking help.

Yet another drawing showed the broad-shouldered character leading a posse of men toward a cave that was guarded
by a slavering pack of huge dogs. The seven-member teaman assortment of blacks, whites, and Indians were armed
with rifles, handguns, and bows and arrows.

If these illustrations had nothing to do with Biblical text,
then what did they represent, and why had his great-grandfather created them?

The telephone rang.

Annoyed at being interrupted as he teetered on the edge
of a breakthrough, David snatched the telephone handset off
the wall.

"Hello?" he said.

A soft, feminine voice said in a whisper, "David Hunter ...
you are"

God help him, it sounded like another ghost.

He stood as rigid as a rod. "Who is this?"

"You are ... responsible," the woman said in her unearthly voice. "You must prepare"

"Responsible for what? Prepare for what?"

"It is being revealed to you ... you must believe ... and
be strong"

"Who are you?"

The phone clicked.

The caller had hung up.

"Dammit!" David said. He had neither Caller ID nor Star
69 included on the phone service. His father had no use for
such modern technology.

Was it a call from the Beyond? Or was there a more ordinary source?

He remembered the psychic who lived on the outskirts of
town, whom his father had visited: Pearl.

Nia, too, had told him a story about her experience with
the psychic. The woman had phoned Nia to warn her about dating her colleagues and not long afterward, Nia had been
stalked by a fellow teacher.

It is being revealed to you ... you must believe ... and be
strong.

A raw chill seeped into his bones.

If Pearl was the one who had called him, why had she
done it? What was she talking about?

He looked at the old Bible.

You are responsible ...

Was he living in a bad dream, or what? What the hell was
going on?

He paged to another drawing.

In this one, a Goliath with blazing eyes and massive
hands curved like claws loomed over the ever-present black
man, and the man, whoever he was, appeared to be afraid for
his life.

Although Kyle had learned patience in his long life, he
wondered how much longer he could stand waiting for his
father to awaken from his Sleep.

Diallo had not opened his eyes once. He had not stirred.
His breathing was regular, his skin was warm, and his eye
movements indicated intense dreaming, all of which were
encouraging signs. But he had not awakened.

Kyle paced the mansion, roaming from one candle-lit
room to another. Each day, he grew more restless.

He was eager to leave, but he had to wait until his father
awakened. It was not safe to move Diallo. He was certain
that his father was slowly arising from his Sleep, and to disrupt the process might plunge Diallo back into the most profound depths of his slumber. They had to wait.

Mamu relaxed in the living room, a chess game arranged
on the table in front of him. His agent was characteristically
calm, but he had every reason to be. Mamu's father was not
the one at risk.

A faint sound reached Kyle's sensitive ears. It came from
the basement.

He snapped his fingers, capturing Mamu's attention. "The
cellar."

Mamu got up so abruptly he knocked over his chair. But
he was not nearly as swift as Kyle. Within a human's blink of
an eye, Kyle had raced across the corridor and down the
basement staircase.

The sound reached him again. A low groan.

Kyle approached the bed.

Diallo's head whipped back and forth across the thick pillow. A moan grumbled from his chapped lips.

"He is awaking!" Kyle shouted. He clutched the bed railing.

Mamu watched from the opposite side of the bed. His
eyes were bright. "Yes, monsieur. It is happening."

Diallo screamed.

His mouth contorted into a rictus of agony, saliva running
from his fangs in thick strands. Veins stood out on his neck
like steel cables. His strong hands, clenched in fists, ripped
the bedsheets into shreds.

Hearing his father's cry almost caused Kyle to collapse to
the floor. He gripped the railing, desperately, to remain
standing. Mamu's eyes were enormous with fear.

Diallo's shriek lifted to an octave that made the windows
tremble, and then his scream pitched into a thunderous growl
that came from deep in his massive chest.

Finally, he fell silent.

And his eyes opened.

' - ou don't look good," Nia said to David when he
opened the door. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay." He smiled weakly.

He'd made a dinner date with Nia earlier in the week, before the surreal incidents had thrown his life into a tailspin.
After he discovered the Bible earlier in the afternoon, a sickening dread overcame him, and he'd spent the rest of the day
napping, as if he could escape his fear by burrowing into
sleep. But bad dreams followed him. There was no sanctuary, not even in slumber.

He'd considered canceling his date with Nia, but he hated
to be a flake. At the sight of her, he was grateful that she had
come. She was a balm for his troubles.

"Are you running a fever? Let me check" She pressed her
palm against his forehead, her brow furrowed with concern.

"Really, I'm fine," he said. "I can prove it: I cooked dinner."

"I thought I smelled something burning."

"Ha, ha, very funny." He kissed her lightly on the lips. "Do
you mind if we eat now? I'm starving." He had prepared a simple but tasty meal: chicken parmesan, pasta, broccoli,
and Texas toast. He opened a bottle of chardonnay and filled
glasses for both of them. They dug into the food with gusto.

"I'm so impressed," Nia said, slicing a piece of chicken.
"I've found a man who can cook. I bet you can clean, too"

"My mama raised me well," he said. He sipped the rest of
his wine, then refreshed his glass.

"Thirsty?" she said.

"I want to sleep like a log tonight."

"What's bothering you? And don't tell me it's nothing. It
was obvious something was wrong the second you opened
the door."

He pressed his lips together. He decided that he would
tell her what was happening. He would share a few things,
but maybe not everything. Keeping all of his emotions and
thoughts bottled up was threatening to make him implode.
Getting drunk would provide only a temporary solace.