Scary Creek (49 page)

I stopped in front of the iron gate. The headlights
from the van knifed through the trees and brush to the house. Dark looming
shadows leaped over the wooded landscape. The house lay nearly concealed
and
secure
beyond the tangle of overgrown brush and trees. I was in too much of a hurry to
drag the coffin out of the van and carry it to the Ryder mausoleum. It was more
than 30 yards from the gate to the house, and another 20 from the house to the
cemetery. Most of the distance was uphill. Besides, it didn’t’ fit in with my
plan.

The road was not clear enough to provide the necessary
traction needed to push through the weeds and brush. Unless I had to breech the
gate and take the overgrown drive to the abandoned railroad bed behind the
house. The moment I had been waiting ffor was at hand. It was time to test my plan.
I turned the
amplifier on, removed the
speakers
from the van and positioned them
near the gate. I climbed back into the van, turned on the tape deck and the
amplifier. I switched on the music. The sound of the Scottish bagpipes filled
the night with a terrifying wail. The woods seemed to come alive, to jump back
and away from the gate and the loud blaring sounds. The gates literally swung
in on its hinges and I saw rock dust flaking from the pillars.

I climbed back into the van and started pressing a
steady rhythmic blast on the twin diesel horns. A squalling super-charged
lullaby howled in time to the sound of the bawling bagpipes; they were deafening,
‘Amazing Grace.’ The gates began to sway. The lights dimmed on the van
registering a power drain on the battery. I accelerated. The van’s diesel horns
began to blare and the music was ear-splitting. I lifted my voice and sang as
loud as I could with the shrill notes of the horn and the wailing bagpipes:
“Amaaaazing Grace, how sweet the sound!”

As the sounds of the pipes grew monstrous, I cranked
up the amplifier as high as it would go. I kept my hand on the horn and my foot
on the accelerator. The sound of the engine, the horn and the bagpipes were booming.
I could see strange things happening around the trembling gates. The stone mortar
was beginning to flake and crumble. I saw pieces of the pillar shatter and fall
to the ground. The wrought iron gate began to shudder and one end sunk into the
ground. I continued to press on the horn, blasting away as if it were a kind of
weapon. The mortar for the bricks in the wall crumbled, while the hinges,
imbedded in the concrete pillars supporting the gate, popped out scattering rock
dust everywhere, and then the gates slipped from the columns and fell flat on
the ground.

I released the horn, turned off the music, waited and
watched for a second in disbelief, and then stopped accelerating. The night was
deadly still, but something else was about to happen. There can only be a partial
explanation for what occurred next. I got out of the van to see and hear more
clearly. The night, for the moment, was incredibly still. The sounds of my
footsteps were so clear and distinct they could have been mistaken for those of
a frightened animal creeping through the brush. The air was so motionless I
could have heard a squirrel fart in the highest treetop, if one had been so
inclined. The air had also grown warmer, too warm for the time of year and the
time of night. It was also muggier than it had ever been before on any of my previous
trips. Sweat was beginning to stand out on my forehead and neck.

Near the house, I could hear wind rushing through the
treetops
,
hissing like a steaming pot
and
heading in my direction. They were coming, I
suspected, to greet me. I climbed over the gate and stood in the center of the
overgrown drive, another mistake. The sound of the wind through the treetops
was unlike any I had ever heard. It swirled around my ears and tried to tear my
hair out by the roots.  It could only have been the Klikouchy; there could be
no other name for it.

From that moment on, the screaming wind did not abate.
I covered my ears with both hands. It made shredded rags of my clothing, pelted
me with broken limbs and branches, blew dirt and gravel into my lungs and eyes,
and into the pores of my skin. I could feel the skin on my face blistering, and
the hair on my head was standing straight up. I fell to my knees and took
refuge clinging to the bars of the fallen gate.

It was then that I began to feel the earth beneath me undulate.
It was like a woman in labor about to disgorge its unholy child, rising and
falling, and the morbid fetus within its womb punching and jabbing, exploding
beneath the dark loamy skin with pustulating nodules of earth and rock. Gaping
black holes and mind shuddering moans began to emanate from the darkness, while
a horrible stench seeped out of the ground in bilious green clouds. It wasted
the bark on the trees and the cool and damp green moss turned black.    

It was a horrendous orgy of earth and air, fire and
water, coming from within the earth and spending itself upon the land. It was
as if a great rushing, a forced evacuation through the bowels of the earth and
the fallen gates were taking place.

I got to my feet and stood in the middle of the path,
in the lich-way of escape. As the wind screamed and tore at my hair, the spirit
of those things imprisoned in the earth for so long poured through the flattened
gate and raced to the sanctuary of whatever heaven or hell dared provide.

It
seemed a long
time
before the wind began to die down.
The screams faded and the breezes soughed kindly through the trees. The earth
stopped buckling and steaming and some semblance of order restored. I could
hear once again my own thoughts. I hurried back to the van, put it in gear and
drove through and over the fallen gate. I glanced in the rear view mirror and
saw my tousled hair, which had turned shockingly white.

“Something that doesn’t like a wall,” I said echoing a
forgotten poem. My voice was shaking and choking with fear.

 “It walks in shadows, or so it seems to me.”

 The density of the foliage kept the headlights from
penetrating beyond the trees and shrubs. The van crawled over the deep grass
,
ruts and
fallen limbs, bouncing roughly, spinning in the moist dew and dropping into
soft and hidden excavations. The wheels however kept turning and the van kept
climbing over the ruts and dead foliage and passed the steps of the front door.

I kept the van in low gear, started around the house,
across the once neatly tended lawn, and passed the gazebo to the path that led
down the hill to the cemetery. Before the incline became impassable, I turned
the van parallel to the side of the hill. The cemetery was less than 30 yards
farther
down the
hill. I could easily carry the coffin that far. I pulled it out of the RV and
lowered it into the tall grass.

 I returned to the cab of the van for the flashlight
and shovel. I carried them both back to the coffin, loaded it up on one
shoulder and proceeded to the graveyard. I positioned the box close to
Elinore’s grave and paused. Elinore’s casket, I suspected, would not be as
shallow. It would be buried six-feet deep. Since there were no more experiments
after her operation, there would have been no need for more unauthorized
interments.

I propped the flashlight on a stone, focused the beam
upon the grave and began to dig. Time passed swiftly and each shovel full of
dirt seemed to grow lighter. Twice I caught myself grinning and drooling like a
ghoul.

I tried to take control by talking to myself: “Easy,
Charlie. Two graves in one night; if you’re not careful you may become a jabbering
idiot before you finish.”

I thought I heard someone else laugh, or perhaps it
was … me. Yes, I was laughing and talking to myself, but I still couldn’t be
sure if I was sane or not.

Nearly an hour
passed
before the shovel finally struck wood. Fortunately, it would not be necessary
to remove the coffin from the ground. I planned to stack the baby's coffin on top
of Elinore, its mother. Then I began to wonder if that would actually solve the
problem. Instead of putting one coffin on the other, I could remove the child’s
skeleton, and place the remains inside with her. In death, she would be able to
succor the child she had never known. Yes, it made more sense to do it that
way.

I removed enough earth from Elinore’s coffin to open
it, then climbed out of her grave and pulled the child’s coffin close. They
would both be easy to open. The coffins had begun to deteriorate around the brass
hinges and the wood parted easily. I opened the small box slowly so as not to
disturb the child in its unending sleep. It seemed quite oblivious to my
presence, or so I thought.

The ragged remnants of the swaddling cloth were
clinging to its
tiny
bones. There was a smile, a toothless, infantile smile
masking its tiny skull. The skeleton, although infinitely smaller than I had
imagined, was in a state of total repose. I knew that Elinore would appreciate
what I was doing for her. I believed she would leave the house and me alone, once
she reunited with her child.

I repositioned the flashlight to illuminate her
casket. I took the pick into Elinore’s grave and worked its sharp point into
the lock and seal. It split separating easily the cover from the coffin. The
rank odor of putrefaction billowed out. I held my breath and tried to prepare
my senses for what lay within. Elinore had been dead for too many years.
Depending on how well the mortician had done his job, it was possible the
process of decomposition was not complete.

I worked my fingers beneath the lid and pried open the
top. I could feel the soft
satin
that lined the coffin. The odor grew stronger. I
raised the top swiftly and stood back. The sickening odor swam passed, its vile
poisons invading my nostrils. I turned my face away and held my breath.

The flashlight only partially illuminated the coffin’s
interior. I could see one arm, one thin bony arm with the barest suggestion of
dry cankerous flesh still clinging to the wrist and hand.

I scrambled out of the hole and grabbed the light.
With my feet on firm ground, even this ground, I felt secure. I passed the
light slowly over her corpse. Her hair lay in a knotted grey pile beneath her
skull. Her scalp had deteriorated and the flesh and vomer had fallen from her
cheek and nose revealing the ethmoid, a jagged hole that once covered her nose.
 What passed for lips had retracted back over her teeth and exposed a grimacing
skull. A ragged remnant of scarified epithelial tissue clung to one cheek and covered
her remaining bones.

Her eyebrows had grown to an astonishing length and
there were closed leathery lids covering her eyes. I focused the beam directly
on her eyes and noticed that despite years in the grave they were intact and
still sewn tightly shut! It seemed an irreconcilable cruelty to me that even in
death, Elinore’s eyes were closed by heavy lids; heavier than any I had ever
seen before. They only appeared to be heavier because they had not begun to decompose
like the rest of her flesh.

I searched my pocket for the nail clipper that dangled
from my key chain. I opened it and tested its cutting edge on a nail. The clipper
seemed more than adequate to do the job. I stepped back into Elinore’s grave,
kneeled down on the coffin and held my breath. Cautiously, I sniffed the air
for lingering traces of decay. The odor, I noticed, was not as offensive as it
had been. There was instead a peculiar fragrance of cloves coming from the
coffin, a strange refreshing scent amid the mold and mildew.

There was a one inch-long stitch in each eye. I
inserted the clipper’s point between the threads binding her eyes and slowly,
one by one, cut them, grabbed the loose ends and pulled them through the
leathery flesh. Each one came out easily. Her lashes had grown several inches
in length. I cut the stitches from the other eye. After I finished, I moved the
light over her face. Her eyes remained closed, as if in sleep. I speculated on
the remote possibility of her eyes surviving the silent retribution of years in
the grave. I focused the light on the lids. They were keenly rotund, as if
something existed beneath them.

I closed the clipper and gazed upon her empty skull.
With my right hand, I placed two fingers on her lids and pushed them back to
reveal her eyes. The glowing orange orbs were incredibly alive. The fiery pupils
stared directly into my eyes and sent a bone-chilling fear churning through my
mind. Eyes that should have ceased to be were growing bright with a hideous
orange light! Before I could climb out of the grave, I heard her scream … that
long terrifying scream that silenced everything else in the world. It filled my
mind and drove me shrieking out of the grave.

She came howling out of the coffin. It sounded as if
she would never be silent again. I staggered back and away from the grave, but
she rose up and came after me. I stumbled over the child’s coffin and struck my
head against a gravestone.

 Before my eyes closed, I saw her rising above me like
a flame, coming down upon me, screaming and screaming until the sound of her
voice was like an ice pick driven between my eyes, separating the imagined from
reality and my mind from consciousness.

*

It was midmorning when I awakened. A cloudless blue
sky stretched endlessly above. I marveled at the depth and beauty of its color.
Balancing my weight on one elbow, my eyes delighted in the explosive brilliance
of fall: the green conifers, the flaming reds and yellows of maple trees, the
varying shades of dying weeds and grasses, and the dark earth tones of the
soil.