Monster's Ball :Shadow In Time (3 page)

At that moment the room seemed to brighten, and a man dressed in a long white robe, with long, white hair appeared.

Struggling to keep his heavy eyelids open, Gavin tried desperately to focus one last time, wondering if the apparition was an Angel sent from Heaven. Seeing the man had the clearest, most piercing blue eyes he had ever seen, he decided he must be an Angel. Opening his mouth to beg for the return of his beloved Knorr, no words came out.

“Calm yourself. I mean you no harm.” the 'Angel' spoke, touching Gavin's chest and instantly calming him.

“Help me...please...and my Knorr.” Gavin croaked.

“I cannot save your earthly body, nor your lover's soul, but I CAN keep your soul from being joined with hers.” the 'Angel' intoned, nodding in the direction of the dying Mariotte. “She will be banished into the darkness, and you shall remain here.”

Blue eyes seeming to glow, the 'Angel' began chanting:

“Blessed be, thou creature made of art.
By art made, by art changed.
Thou art not wax.
I name thee Gavin St. Cloud!
Thou art between the worlds!”

With his last earthly breath, Gavin's scream echoed throughout the plantation, the plantation he was now bound to.

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Chapter 2
                              
Abingdon Virginia (formally Wolfs Hills), October 27, 2009
                                                        Willow Run Apartments

Rena Williamson sighed as she climbed the last flight of stairs to her apartment floor, thankful to be off work from the Poor House Diner. At the moment she wanted nothing more than to climb into a hot bath, then slip into her favorite pj's and sleep. But, like clockwork, her neighbor yelled her name before she could even fit her key into the lock of her front door.

“Rena! Child, you wore out, ain't ya?” Ms. Fern Skeet (her neighbor) shouted from the couch in her living room. The woman always left her door open during the daytime, claiming she liked the fresh air blowing off the mountains, especially in the fall. No matter how many times she had tried to tell the old woman such a practice was not safe in this day and age, her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. The woman claimed to be protected by some powerful mountain mojo, and no one would or could do her harm. But deep down, as silly as it seemed, Rena actually sensed that what the woman said was true, because she always felt safe and at peace in the apartment.

Smiling, she turned and walked into the woman’s open apartment. “Tired? Yeah. But got to earn that money. I feel lucky to even have a job, especially since the lumber mill shut down, not to mention the Eastman Kodak plant in Kingsport Tennessee. A lot of people from here were employed there, as you well know. The Kodak plant, I mean.”

“I know, child. I've know many a man and woman who worked there over the years. Never thought a plant that size would fall on such hard times.”

“Jobs just aren't that plentiful.” Rena sighed. “I have a degree, and can't do any better at the moment than my job as a waitress. I know most people my age have left the area, but I love it here, too much to leave.”

“Well, that's touching, dear.” the older woman smiled.

Not wanting to think about the hard times the town was facing, she smiled and held up a big greasy paper bag. “Elric made this just for you. Chicken fried steak, heavy on the gravy, scalloped potatoes, collard greens with a ham-hock, and top it off, peach cobbler.”

Eyes lighting up, Fern's always friendly smile widened to a grin that stretched from ear to ear. Part of The Poor House Diner's charm was the greasy paper bags, which were a deliberate appeal to blue collar tastes and habits. And it worked. No matter how hard times had gotten for everyone in the small town, people still managed to somehow set aside a little extra to eat there, just as they always had. The place was always filled to capacity at both lunchtime and dinner, by people wanting a good meal at a fair price.

Taking the food into the kitchen and putting it in the woman's refrigerator, Rena's thoughts wandered. Ever since moving to the quiet apartment building years before, she and the old woman had formed a strong bond. Maybe it was because they were both alone. Rena's parents had died her senior year in high school, when a drunk driver had plowed into their car head on, and Ms. Skeet had told her the only remaining family she had had left (a sister) had died decades earlier, though she declined to elaborate on what manner of death it had been. But one thing was for certain, the older woman did indeed give her a much needed sense of family and belonging. “You have a good night last night? I saw your light was on late, when I came in from my shift. I would've knocked on your door, but I was tired myself, and figured you had fell asleep reading again. I didn't want to wake you up.” she called as she strolled back into the sparsely decorated living room.

Still smiling, the old African American woman laughed. “Don't you worry about me. I'm 87, and woke up this morning. That alone made it a good night. Shoot, I got two good eyes, my back is straight, and if I set my mind to it, I can walk from here to the store, so I'm blessed. Sit yo' self down, child. Made some fresh Jasmine tea for us to enjoy.” she said as she poured the freshly brewed mixture into two old porcelain tea cups. “I was just reading about the big whoop-dee-doo up at the Whitman Plantation. You know, the Ball.”

“The Ball?”

“Uhhh huhhh.” she murmured, then took a sip of tea and nodded at the local newspaper spread out in front of her on the coffee table. “Seems the media's frustrated they aren't allowed to cover the event in person. So some of the reporters are resorting to the lowest common denominator, hinting that scandalous goings-on may be afoot there. Big surprise, that, huh?” she finished with a dry chuckle.

Picking up the paper, Rena glanced at the picture of the grand old mansion, letting out a wistful sigh as she thought about the rumors she'd heard over the years about the lavish event. “I heard the guest list is so exclusive it's actually kept under lock and key, and people have offered big bucks trying to buy their way in. Last year someone even tried to auction off counterfeit tickets on EBAY. I'm sure the media spreading the rumors of these wild goings-on are just to sell more papers.”

“I've lived here most of my life. Only time I lever left was when the sideshow went on the road, working the mountains of Virginia, Tennessee, and around Kentucky, but that's another story to be told another time. But I'll tell you this much, all my life I've heard folks talk about the evil in that Whitman Plantation. Stories passed down by word of mouth, you understand. The one irrefutable fact is this: The mistress of that place went mad one night and murdered nearly all her slaves, all because a handsome, wealthy business man broke her heart.”

“Huh, I've heard some of those stories.” Rena replied with a faraway look in her eyes.

“Yep...killed almost all of them slaves in one night. Now as for the possible yarns, folks said some of the bodies looked like wild animals had ripped them apart, and the ones who were still in one piece had a look of horror frozen on their faces, like the doors to Hell had been opened and they had got a glance at what was inside.”

Spellbound, Rena remained silent, listening intently.

“I was in there as a young girl, once. It was on a school field trip, where we were visiting local historical landmarks. Well, me and my young boyfriend decided we wanted to explore the library on the second floor, so we snuck off on our own. From the moment we stepped in there it felt like someone or something was watching us, then, with God as my witness, I felt a hand touch my face. Child, let me tell you, I screamed like a banshee, so loud that that wimpy boyfriend of mine peed himself and took off running without me. I was right behind him though, and ran so fast I was halfway home before my teacher caught me.”

That said, they both broke out in peals of laughter.

It was true that Rena had heard some of the stories, but as was wont with most people, the stories always grew wilder with each retelling, until a person was unsure if any grain of actual truth remained. She was inclined, however, to take the tale she had just heard at face value. She herself had always wanted to visit the Whitman plantation, but the owner had stopped letting people come on tours after a still-at-large thief had stolen a valuable old painting there. This had happened when she was just a young girl. As she had grown older she'd hoped that somehow, some day she would receive one of the mysterious annual invitations to the Ball. Only a select few were ever invited, and no one had ever spoken about what went on there every Halloween night. In fact, she had never known anyone (personally) who had been invited, nor knew anyone who KNEW someone who had been invited
. Just forget it, anyway! Fat chance an overweight, working class black girl would ever get an invitation to something so grand!
She thought.

“Drink your tea, I want to read your leaves. I haven't read yours in a while.” Ms. Skeet said, interrupting her thoughts.

Taking a sip of her own tea to hide her smile, Rena decided to humor the woman, again. From what Rena had learned, Ms. Skeet had been a bit of a local legend in her younger days. She'd been a side show fortune teller, one so good (supposedly) that folks would stand in line fifty-deep to get their tea leaves read by her. She'd even conducted readings for several reputable politicians. Nowadays (on weekends only), Ms. Skeet's one bedroom apartment would often be filled with lonely, sad, desperate people, hoping to hear there was light at the end of the tunnel.

Taking one final sip of her soothing brew, Rena handed the teacup to the old woman, watching as Ms. Skeet narrowed her eyes, focusing on the distinctive drops of tea leaves in the bottom of the cup as she mumbled and slowly swirled what little was left of the liquid.

Turning the handle towards Rena, she mumbled, “This is interesting.” Angling her crooked pinkie finger towards a clump of leaves, she mumbled again, a slight tinge of wonder in her voice. “The symbol of an ink-spot, a letter’s coming for you.”

“Hmmm.” was Rena's only noncommittal reply as she glanced inside the cup, seeing only a clump of green tea leaves much like any other.
“This letter will change your life. A world that you never knew existed will be revealed to you.” the old woman intoned.

Yeah, RIGHT! ME get a letter that will change my life? More like an unexpected bill or something!
Rena thought dryly, but nodded and smiled to humor her friend.

“Now the leaves here...” Ms. Skeet said, pointing to a clump to the left of the handle, “These indicate the past. I see a handsome man, a strong man, with the seven stars together crowning his head.” Clucking her tongue in seeming frustration, she continued. “I can't see his face clearly, but....he's suffered and grieved terribly. He dwells in a large building, he has a great fortune waiting for him.”
Pointing to an even smaller clump right below the previous one, she said, “The symbol of the cat. This is a warning. Be very careful, there's a treacherous person who wishes to steal your soon-to-be love away from you before it ever has a chance to materialize. But I see a candle also. This means someone will protect you from evil.”

“Really?” Rena said, hoping she still sounded interested.

Suddenly the old woman gasped in surprise. Head jerking up, a look of shock (and possibly fear) was etched on her weathered features. “Here at the bottom, this represents things to come, the symbol of a lock. You must overcome your own disbelief in order to find your love, and...”

“And..and what?” Rena asked, more alarmed at the older woman's sudden change in demeanor than she was with the actual reading.

Shaking her gray head uneasily, Fern muttered, “A sacrifice has to be made. You must give of yourself if you want your love to live.”

Well that's downright depressing!
Rena thought as she rose to her feet. “Well, thank you for the reading.” She said politely. Although she had never placed too much stock in her friend's readings, the sessions had always been fun and lighthearted. That was, until today. And they'd never been so specific. Usually they were so general a believer could point to any event and claim the reading was correct.
“Tomorrow is meatloaf special at the diner. I'll bring you some with the iced tea you like.”

“Thank you, you're a dear soul, child.” Ms. Skeet smiled fleetingly, then was wearing the same troubled frown she had been wearing moments earlier. “Remember Rena, to free your love...your destined mate...you will have to make a sacrifice. When you come tomorrow I want to give you something special.”

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                                                                          Chapter 3
                                                               The Poor House Diner
                                                            October 28, 2009 2:14PM