Scary Creek (13 page)

 At the top of the stairs, I gazed down the corridor. 
The hall I assumed was uncluttered for Elinore’s benefit. The first room I wandered
in was nearly empty save for a single bed, a dresser and floor lamp. Unwanted
overnight guests were never a problem for the Ryders. I continued to the next
room, which was larger than the other. Unless I missed my guess, it was Samuel’s
room. I sat on the wrought Iron bed. There were rows of books in a walnut case
near the bed and a size thirteen shoebox full of correspondence.

I examined a few books for authors’ names and titles.
A two volume set of
Isis Unveiled,
by Madam Helena Petrovna Blavatsky;
The
Phoenix
, by Manley P. Hall;
Books of Essays
by Eliphas Levy; A
Book
of Scottish Rites
; Appolonius of Tyana; Pythagoras; Trithemius;
Hynerotomachia
Poliphili
and five books by Ignatius Donnelly:
Atlantis,
The
Antediluvian World
,
Ragnarik,
The Age of Fire and Gravel
, and
The Great Cryptogram.

The titles told me too much about Samuel. Once they
were the forbidden repositories of banned and dreaded secrets. The more polite members
of society in the Gay ‘90s viewed them with shock, horror and sometimes
amusement. I could not keep from risking a smile. They were all scholarly books
of unbridled imagination and fanciful speculation. I knew a few more details about
Donnelly than I knew about other figures from the past.

The governor of Minnesota at the age of 28, Donnelly served
in the House of Representatives before a political quarrel blocked a fourth
nomination. His passion for espousing pseudo-scientific causes forced him to
set aside a political career for one less luminous in letters. By 1882, he was
one of the most frequently discussed literary figures in America. His crypto-analyses
of Shakespeare’s plays were famous among those who believed that Francis Bacon
was the true author of those works.

I vacated the room with the shoebox of letters under
my arm and continued down the hall. There were other rooms, but I was looking
for Elinore’s boudoir. The next room was small with dusty bare floors. Cherry
boards paneled the walls. Except for the paneling, there was nothing
extraordinary about the room. In fact, it was plain. Elinore was blind; she would
require nothing in the way of visual diversion. What she would have enjoyed were
things stimulating to the sense of touch and smell. The window overlooked the
spoiled gardens and invited scented breezes. A brass bed, tables and chairs accompanied
a closet and a marble-topped chest of drawers.

I wondered about the house and furnishings. Is it possible,
despite Virgil’s convictions, the house was not safe from compromise? I was
proof of invasion. I was beginning to feel disappointment. I did not experience
the terrifying events I'd been led to expect. I should have felt grateful, but
I needed affirmation that the other side was a reality, not a work of
imagination.

I returned to the landing near the top of the kitchen.
A narrow door led to the attic. I knew I would find the vestiges of those who
had lived in the house. According to Amy Taylor, it was the room where Elinore spent
long periods of her youthful life. I tried the front door key, but it did not
fit. I slipped a credit card from my billfold and pressed it against the latch
and the door swung open.

Chapter Ten

  The Appalachian Mountains are much older than other continental
landmasses. They were the first peaks of jagged earth to rise above primordial
seas, and those barren slabs of rock became a dwelling place for strange creatures
that knew not of human life, and could never embrace it.
They do however occasionally touch our lives and
influence us in ways we cannot explain. I knew I had discovered such a strange place
when I opened the
attic
door
. A
gust of warm and fragrant air almost sucked the
breath from my lungs.

The high spiral stairwell was double-planked with wooden
treads. Dust lay thick upon a net of cobwebs, where spiders managed to accomplish
their finest work. In the light that filtered through louvered attic window
screens, I could see old boxes and barrels, packing crates and things I knew
would reveal answers. The attic, however, was not silent. I could hear breezes
sweeping in through the eves, whispering enticements to the cartons, flirting
through the rafters and running across the floor, playing with the flapping
ends of cloth and curtains. I started up the stairs feeling my way. I did not
want to run into the specter of Elinore, or anything, or anyone else.

The attic was as I had imagined: stacks of cardboard
boxes brimming with books and magazines, wooden chests and steamer trunks,
suitcases and storage bags, lamps that didn’t work and worn out appliances.  All
the worthless memorabilia that is impossible to give or throw away. The few
things I did not see or find were a child’s clothes or toys.

A small maple desk sat in a corner. I knew it was
Elinore’s desk. She would not have required light to practice her letters, to
transcribe personal notes or keep a diary. I raised the wooden desktop and was
surprised to discover several notepads, a magnifying glass and a three-sided prism
for bending light rays and making rainbows of light, all arranged inside the
desk.

Protected from dust, the notebooks looked as if the
final entry had been made only hours ago. I randomly opened one notebook. The
words, scrawled on the page, were running together and sometimes overlapping, but
always written indifferently to a reader’s eyes. I read:

“Dear diary; the sad lonely cries of the people in the
ground howl like wild dogs. Nothing can make them stop, not books or music, not
even magic. They come in the night like dreams and take me down to the dark and
smelly place, where the children with glowing eyes have set the earth on fire.”

I was aghast! I couldn’t believe I was reading the
musings of a child. It was only a single entry in one of several notebooks, but
it made me question  why a child
with
failing
sight might spend every day and
night filled with frightening terrors. I picked up another notebook. It was
older, the pages had yellowed and the printing was large and undisciplined. The
spelling was wrong; Page after page of misspelled and backward letters.  I
suspected that it belonged to a young
or
disturbed
child. I replaced it with
another, and the notes continued:

“They come into my room at night and whisper
frightening tales of the Klikouchy. I cannot see them clearly. They are like
shadows dancing on my walls, walking on my bed. Oh, please, let me help them
get away and I will never doubt your power again.”

I was about to read another entry when a subtle breeze
from the window stirred the particles of dust gathering on the floor. They
looked like ants on the march. The longer I watched them; a form was slowly taking
shape. It was a kind of dust devil that looked like a large ant. with a horny carapace.
There were also mandibles and spider-like eyes looking in various directions. It
was gliding slowly, a foot or so from the floor. I watched as the swirling particles
gathered in greater density. I closed my eyes and gave my head a shake to clear
my thoughts, but the particles of dust acted as if they wanted to join me. I
thought my mind was playing tricks on me, but I could not believe what happened
next. I could feel the mandibles scurrying upon my chest, until they began to
squeeze as if they were tongs. They lifted me toward a broken window. I could
not believe my good intentions were destined to end this way. A long, low groan
escaped my lungs. My head bumped against the rafters. I was conscious of a cry inside
my head, but I could not say with certainty it was coming from me.

My thoughts were searching, sifting for the chant,
which I found difficult to recall. I tried to loosen the grip of the mandible
that held me, but it became as shapeless as smoke. My head collided again with
the window casing and I spoke her name, “Elinore!”

My body trembled and I heard a growl, though I am not
sure where the voice originated. The claw gripped me tightly. I heard the sound
of bones crumbling. I was fearful that they might have been mine, and breaking!
When I thought my skull was going to crack, I shouted … “Tza ba di jia!”

*

.For several moments, I lost conscious. When I suddenly
awoke, I was no longer bothered by the dust devil. I knew instinctively the sun
had set and I needed light to navigate the stairs, but I had none. I stumbled
over the box containing Samuel’s’ letters. I gathered it up and started
walking, like a blind man, each step rattling through my spine. I was angry and
indignant, but trembling too fiercely to think straight. When I stepped into
the hall, I sensed something had changed. My mind, I suspected, was not yet fully
conscious. As I moved, the stench of wood rot, mildew and decay filled the hall.
The wallpaper appeared to be peeling and hanging off in dry stained clumps. A darker
than dark  shadow gathered on a distant wall.

 I began to discern another form taking shape. I could
only see its outline … and its eyes. I turned toward the figure, but it quickly
vanished and then suddenly reappeared, it was a shifting apparition … of sorts.
It was about the size a large dog sitting on its haunches, at the end of the
hall. It looked, at times, as if it was just an outline. It had a pendulous
stomach, and a ferocious face. It was like a spreading inkblot growing all the
time. An expression of savagery in its eyes. The thing was visible in the
shadows, yet it was a shadow, and it was staring steadily at me. To run, I could
see, would be hopeless. The thing could and would appear when and where it
chose. The victims of the house were no longer a mystery. I wished now that I’d
been spared the sight.

The creature extended a shadowy arm, as if beckoning.
I took a step forward and the ‘thing’ rested, its other arm resting upon its
knee. I could see the scaling wallpaper pattern through the creature, even
though it possessed dimension. Its crude head and darkened eyes continued to glare,
while it assessed my progress. As I approached, I stood opposite the creature.
I was a few feet from the stain that defined it. It could have reached out and
touched me, which it tried to do. I quickly took a step down the stairs. I
could hear the sound of its breath and I heard a muffled growl.

“Tza ba di jia!” I whispered, and studied it as I descended
the stairs. The thing, now the size of an ape, moved and I thought it looked weary.

A car horn blared when I reached the bottom of the
steps. I was relieved to know Virgil had returned. I had no idea how long I’d
been creeping and crawling around the house and stairs, and still remained conscious.
It might have been an hour. I tried to walk, but my neck ached.

The headlights of his car were shining like distant
beacons through the trees. I felt safe when I reached the periphery of those
bright beams. I tried to raise an arm to signal, but I could barely lift my
hand above my head.

I was elated when the car horn stopped blaring. He
could only be drawing more attention to me and I was not yet off the grounds.
He gunned the engine. I heard tires spinning in the dirt and saw red lights
backing up, moving away, and preparing to speed off and down the road!

‘The worthless bastard is leaving!’ or so I thought. He’d
seen me coming through the trees and suspected I was one of the house's 'walking
wounded’. I tried to shout, but the words were lost beneath the engine’s roar.
I waved and whistled. The noise stopped. He waited and stood alongside the
wall, while I dragged my body over.

“You look like death warmed over,” he said. “What
happened?”

“I think I qualify now as one of the initiated.”

“You can’t say you weren’t warned,” he replied. I
wasn’t in any shape to argue. “Are you all right? Are you going to make it? Do
you want to go to the hospital?”

“I think there is something wrong with my neck,” I
said. “It might be broken.”

“You wouldn’t be walking around if your neck was
broken,” he replied. I was not reassured. “Unless…” I kept waiting for the
other shoe to drop, but it never did. He stared at me with a stricken look in
his eyes.

“I’m trembling; I feel like I’ve been flash frozen.”

Jerking the car into gear, he roared off. He was
silent for a moment, but his curiosity was too great.

“Tell me what happened,” he said.

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“I’ll try,” he said, convincingly enough.

“You’ve been telling me all along the house is
haunted. Well, I’m here to assure you, it’s true. I believe you.”

“Yes, but I was hoping I was wrong,” he said. “Coming
from you, and looking like you do, it doesn’t leave much room for doubt.”

I eased back into the seat. “I’ve got
news
for you.
There is something in that house. I’ve seen it and I’ve felt it, but I don’t
know what it is. And it means to do someone harm.”

He continued to stare and I continued to gaze out the
window at the dark structures plastered against the side of the hills, the dwelling
places of Elanville’s gentry.