City Infernal Page 4

  He gestured toward the Cadillac. “Take the car.”

  “No, I want to walk.”

  “But it’s ten miles!”

  “It’s three miles, Dad. I want to walk. Besides, my fragile urbanbred constitution craves all of this stagnant, searing, mosquito-infested country air.”

  “Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it? It’s just like D.C.—only with no buildings.”

  She squinted at him, disapprovingly. “What’s that in your top pocket?”

  He guiltily covered the pocket. “Just a box of ... Altoids.”

  “Yeah, right, and I groove on Frankie Goes To Hollywood. You told me you quit smoking, Dad. Two heart attacks aren’t enough?”

  He sputtered, caught cold. “Look, I don’t give you crap anymore about your Kool-Aid-colored hair and your Maryland Mansion clothes. So don’t give me crap about a few cigarettes a day.”

  “Fine, Dad. First of all, it’s Marilyn Manson. Second, next week when your aorta explodes against a cork of cholesterol deposits and you fall down kicking and gasping and clutching your chest and your heart stops beating because blood can’t get to it anymore and you’re foaming at the mouth and swallowing your tongue and your face turns the color of beets and you friggin’ DIE ... do I inherit this giant eyesore of a house?”

  He smiled wide, parted his hands like a prophet before a congregation. “One day, honey—all this will be yours. Have a good time in town!”

  “Bye.”

  He lumbered off down the trail, stumbling in his clunky hip-waders; Cassie chuckled after him. He’s such a dork... but a good dork.

  Since moving here, for sure, they’d both changed for the better. No more awful arguments over conformity and hairstyles. No more blow-ups about her black clothes or his cold conservatism.

  I’m all he’s got left, she realized, and he’s all I’ve got left.

  Cassie rarely felt encouraged about anything, but she genuinely was encouraged by how well things seemed to be going. He was making a diligent effort to compromise about her ways, which made it so much easier for her to do the same. However square, her father was a good man, and now he was trying to fix himself up for them both. She and Lissa had blamed him terribly when their mother had left; it was a natural pre-pubescent over-reaction. Daddy’s always at work and he doesn’t care about us or Mommy anymore. That’s why she left us.

  The truth was her mother was an uptown gold-digger, and she’d left them all cold for another—even richer—man. Cassie knew that now. She only hoped that her father’s retirement would finally help him be happy. After all the tragedy in his life, he certainly deserved that.

  When she stepped off the front stone steps, the portico’s shade retreated. She’d dressed light today—a sheer black sarong and cotton tank top, and good old fashioned flipflops—but after only minutes outside, the heat was basting her. Get used to it, she thought. Never had a suntan in my life—now’s my chance.

  Halfway down the front hill, she looked back up at the house. It loomed before her, immense, brooding and Dickensian even in the high sunlight. But she laughed when she looked at the south dormer wing: her father had ridiculously placed Washington Redskins plaques in all the windows, and another sore thumb was the bright-white satellite-tv dish on the highest parapet; her father could live without the routine of a big city, but he couldn’t live without SportsCenter, Crossfire, and E! Channel. It was funny how he pretended to be paring down his life, as if to turn away from previous indulgences. Once he’d come back from the general store, where he’d bought a bag of dried pinto beans. “Only thirty-five cents a pound,” he’d bragged. “Am I cutting down or what?”

  “Yeah, Dad,” she’d agreed, “you’re really tightening up the budget. Good for you.”

  Then a knock had come at the door, and her father had rushed off. “It’s the FedEx truck. I special ordered some fresh New Zealand lobster tails and Ossetra caviar....”

  Yeah, he’s cutting down, all right.

  Now Cassie appraised the massive edifice a moment more, then nodded contentedly. This is my home now. she realized. And she liked it.

  She slid on her earphones, cranked on some Rob Zombie, and started walking toward town.

  She never noticed the face peering down at her from the oculus window in the estate’s highest garret.

  (II)

  Blackwell Hall existed in an odd uncharted rurality jammed into Virginia’s southwestern-most tip. Cassie, deciding to cut through the wooded acreage rather than take the road, found herself half-lost pretty quickly, the short journey into town turning into an hours-long march through stifling heat and brambles. Twice she saw snakes, and ran away in alarm, and when she’d turned onto a thin trail, she’d nearly walked right into a fattened woodchuck. It stared back at her, with huge yellow teeth, and in the distance, she heard wild dogs snarling.

  Needless to say, she wasn’t enthused about the wildlife.

  But she found herself slowly favoring the natural landscapes and robust woodlands to the cement and asphalt of the city. The environ reminded her of the Faulkner she’d read in school, people and places so far removed from mainstream society, untouched by anything that could be called modem. It’s like walking into a different world, she thought.

  It was late afternoon by the time she actually arrived at her destination. Ryan’s Comer could hardly be called a town at all: an intersection bereft of a single stoplight, sprouting a hodge-podge of ramshackle shops, a Grey-hound stop, and a postal annex not much larger than a mini-van. Several miles north an actual municipality could be found—Luntville—which seemed nearly as desolate but at least they had a grocery store and a police department. The nearest real city would be Pulaski—a hundred miles away.

  Cassie sweltered at the intersection. She squinted, astonished, at a wooden sign that read WELCOME TO RYAN’S CORNER, HOME OF THE BEST POSSUM SAUSAGE IN THE SOUTH.

  You gotta be shitting me, she thought.

  Beyond, sporadic trailer homes seemed to wend their way through trees up into the foothills, many without power lines, and the exclusivity of out-houses made it clear that public sewage and domestic water lines weren’t taken for granted. Cassie couldn’t imagine people living in such extremes. In these parts, poverty and simply doing without were the status quo. It almost shocked her.

  “The Boondocks lives,” she muttered to herself. “This place is a cliché.” Decades-old pickup trucks sat tireless atop cinder-blocks. A flop-faced old hound dog loped lazily across the street, tongue hanging. Ancient men in overalls sat fixed in store-front rocking chairs, ringing spittoons with expertise or puffing on corn-cob pipes, as they creaked another day away. This place makes Petticoat Junction look like Montreal, she thought. When she crossed the street, the old men all looked up at once, their empty-sack faces leaning forward as if two buses had suddenly crashed in front of them. Even the dog looked at her, barked once very feebly, and loped on.

  HULL’S GENERAL STORE, read a creaking swing-sign. After the long hot walk, a Coke sounded like a good idea. Inside, a crag-faced old man in suspenders glared at her from a chair behind the counter. It took him almost a minute just to stand up. Looks like Uncle Joe’s movin’ kind’a slow....

  “What the hail are you?” the man said, gaping at her hair and dress.

  Here we go. “I’m a mammalian biped known as homo sapien,” Cassie curtly replied. “Ever heard of it?”

  “The hail you talkin’ about?”

  Suddenly an agitated fat woman with her hair back in a bun came in through a back room. “Gawd, Pa! It’s one of them tranvesterites, I reckon. Like we seen on Springer!”

  “A what?”

  “From the city! They call ‘em Goths! They listen to devil music, and half of ’em are really fellas tryin’ to look like gals! ”

  The old man stroked his chin, which looked like a pair of arthritic knuckles. “A transvesterite, huh?”

  Oh, Jesus, Cassie thought in mute anger. In a place like this, she didn’t expect to be well recei
ved, but this was too much too soon. So I’m a transvestite now? She faced the woman and, without really thinking about it, she raised her sarong and yanked up on the waistband of her black panties, stretching them tight across her pubis.

  “What do you think, Aunt Bee? Does it look like I’m hiding a penis anywhere down there?”

  The woman brought horrified hands to her lined face. “Good gawd!” Then she clumped hurriedly away.

  “The hail you want here?” the old man said.

  Cassie readjusted her sarong. “Just trying to buy a Coke in a free country.”

  “Ain’t got none. Get out.”

  Cassie just shook her head, smiled, and left. Now that’s what I call a first impression, she thought. Cassie Heydon, welcome to the Deep South.

  She should’ve known better than to come down here. Back out on the store front, she ignored the hateful glances from the other old men. As she walked along, she noted that most of the stores along the strip were long closed, unoccupied, easily, for years. Cobwebs had adhered to the insides of the front windows. The heat began baking her again; the locket with her sister’s picture inside grew hot on her chest. Rich little Goth girl’s first day in Ryan’s Corner—a bust. Can’t even get a bottle of Coke in this hillbilly hell-hole. It seemed wisest to just go back to the house.

  But then she thought: The house.

  She’d really hoped to be able to ask someone about Blackwell Hall, but after her first official welcome at the general store, the prospects didn’t look good. Several blocks down the street, she noticed a tavern—CROSSROADS, the sign read. Hmm, a redneck bar. Bet I’d get some real funky looks in there. That would even be a bigger mistake, and even if they served her a few months short of her twenty-first birthday, she knew she didn’t need to be drinking. She hadn’t had a beer since the night her sister died.

  “Hey, girl....”

  Cassie turned at the comer of the last shop. An old red pickup truck was parked there; she hadn’t realized until just now that someone was sitting in it.

  Another cliché. From the driver’s seat, a sun-weathered man in a ZZ Top hat was staring at her. No shirt beneath the overalls, a couple of days since his last shave. He raised a can of beer from between his legs, sipped it. Cassie frowned when she noticed the brand: Dixie.

  “Bet old man Hull shit hisself when you walked in,” the man said. “Folks in these parts don’t take too kindly to strangers.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Cute tatt, by the way,” he commented of the tiny half-rainbow tattoo around her navel.

  “Thanks.”

  “I gotta coupla tatts myself, but believe me, you don’t wanna see ’em.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “My name’s Roy. Can’t shake hands proper, well, on account....”

  That’s when Cassie noticed that his right arm was missing. It was just a nub. Then she saw that the pickup was a stick shift.

  “How, uh, how do you drive?”

  He grinned. “Practice. See, I joined the army ’bout ten years ago, thought it’d get me out of this cracker town. All they did was send me right back a bit later, left my arm in Iraq. Goddamn Saddam. Oh, I got some of his boys, though, yes sir.”

  I’m sure you did, Cassie thought.

  “Lemme guess. You take one look at me and think I gotta be just another piss-poor drunk redneck on welfare. That why you’re not tellin’ me your name? You don’t seem like the type to hold somethin’ against a fella on account of the way he looks.”

  “My name’s Cassie,” she said. “I just moved here from Washington, D.C.”

  He laughed over his beer. “Well you sure picked a dumbass place to move to. Ain’t nothin’ out here. Aw, shee-it. I’ll bet it’s you who moved into the Blackwell place, huh?”

  “Yes, with my father,” she said and instantly regretted it. Smart, Cassie. You just told this PERFECT STRANGER where you live. He seemed nice, though, in his own hayseed kind of way, and she felt sorry for him about his arm.

  “Yeah, I know this guy who works up there with his ma. Jervis. His ma’s all right, but you keep an eye on Jervis. He likes to peek in windows’n such. Did thirty days in Luntville jail for peepin’ on little girls at the middle school.”

  Charming, Cassie thought and frowned.

  “Oh, I don’t mean to scare you none. The county court makes him take some fancy drug as part of his probation. Keeps his mind off things like that. Just stick a wad of paper in your keyhole, if ya know what I mean.”

  “I appreciate the sound advice.”

  “Now, if I was you I’d be more worried ’bout the house itself. That place just has some bad vibes.”

  The comment perked her up. “Let me guess. It’s haunted, right?”

  “Naw,” he said and sipped more beer. A moment passed. “It’s a damn lot worse than just being haunted. You know. On account of what went on there.”

  “All right, you’ve got me hooked now,” she admitted.

  “Come on, let’s go fer a ride. I’ll tell you all about the place if ya like.”

  Cassie just looked at him, and thought, I’m really not stupid and naive enough to get into a pickup truck with a one-armed half-drunk redneck I just met, am I?

  “Okay, Roy. Let’s go,” she said, and got in.

  (III)

  It turned out that Roy could drive a stick-shift better than she could. The flash of his left hand to the stick only took a second before it was back firmly on the wheel.

  “Peel me off one’a them beers there if ya don’t mind,” he asked, “and help yerself to one too.”

  “No, thanks. I quit two years ago.” She pulled a can from the styrofoam cooler in the footwell, opened it and passed it to him.

  His knee kept the steering wheel in place when he took the can. “Bet‘choo ain’t even drinkin’ age and you’re already on the wagon. More power to ya, I say. You’ll find out soon enough, though. Ain’t nothin’ to do in this town ’cept drink and sweat.”

  Cassie was already figuring that out. She grimaced over each bump in the road; the pickup’s suspension was shot, and by the sound of it, so was the muffler. Riding in style, came the sarcastic thought. Gee, this puts Dad’s Caddy to shame. He took a long narrow road up behind the row of shops. Soon they were in dense woods.

  “All’a Blackwell Hill, see, is cursed so they say. Let me ask you something? When you and your daddy moved in, most of the furniture was still there, weren’t it?”

  “Well, yes,” she admitted, and she also had to admit that it was a strange fact.

  “After all this time, a lot of it probably looks like junk, but let me tell ya, there are some quite pricy antiques in that house.”

  “I know. We kept most of it. My father had it cleaned up by some refinishers from Pulaski.”

  “And don’t that strike ya as odd?” Roy cut a side-glance at her, sipping more beer.

  “A little. It is a lot of furniture.”

  “Ain’t no one lived in that house for about seventy years. All that expensive stuff sittin’ in it, but in all them years nobody pinched a single piece. Any other place—shee-it. The rednecks in this burg’d clean the place out in one night.”

  Cassie thought about that. “Yeah, I guess it is pretty strange. I wonder why nobody ever ripped the place off.”

  “It’s ‘cos you can hear the babies cryin’ at night. You heard ’em yet?”

  “Babies? No. I haven’t heard anything funny. And what’s with the babies?”

  Roy’s head tilted. He seemed to be pausing for the right words. “It was Blackwell. Everything south of town’s called Blackwell something. Blackwell Hall, Blackwell Swamp, Blackwell Hill, like that. ’Cos there was a guy—Fenton Blackwell; he’s the one who bought the original plantation house back before World War One, then built all them crazy-lookin’ additions.”

  Great, Cassie thought. The wing that I live in.

  “Blackwell was a satanist,” Roy said next. “Bigtime.”

 
; “Come on.”

  “It’s true enough. You can go to the Russell County Library’n read all about it. They still got the old papers on some micro something-or-other. See, right after he had that funky part of the house built, some local gals disappeared a might quick. ‘Bout ten of ’em all told, but nobody paid it much mind on account they was just hill girls. Creekers, we call ’em.”

  Cassie loved ghost stories, and this was sounding like it had all the makings of a doozy. “What about the babies?” she urged him.

  “I’m gettin’ to it. You seen the basements?”

  She remembered them well: long, narrow brick channels beneath the newer part of the house, not like typical basements at all. “Yeah. Big deal,” she said.

  “Well, it was Blackwell who snatched them hill girls, and it was in those basements he’d keep ‘em chained up. He’d—you know—he’d make ’em pregnant.”

  “And?”

  “And then he’d sacrifice the babies lickety split. Soon as the gals gave birth, Blackwell’d take that newborn all the way upstairs, to that room with the funky window—”

  The top garret, Cassie thought. With the oculus window.

  “—and then sacrifice ’em to the devil.”

  Cassie slumped as if let down. She didn’t believe a word of it, but she at least had hoped for a ghostly folktale that was more original that this.

  “Then he’d bury the dead babies on the back hill. They found a few, dug ’em up, but it’s for sure that there were lots more all told.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Roy didn’t miss a beat. “ ’Cos they caught him doin’ it, the local cops. They busted into that place and found the women chained down there in the basements. There were ten women, all still alive, and they’d been missing for ten years. The few that were still able to talk, said Blackwell had been doin’ it to ’em steady the whole time. Figure it out. Ten women, each havin’ a baby once a year for ten years? That’s a hunnert babies he killed’n buried up there.”