Spook Lights: Southern Gothic Horror (8 page)

The woman smiled, and slid her leg over his, situating her body upright on top of his prone one. James groaned as she lowered herself onto him, sheathing him in a pulsing grip. She rode him firmly, head thrown back. He watched her rhythmic gyrations, holding his groans back as best he could until he saw the ceiling above them change.

Solid white faded into cloudy, swirling whorls of water. The woman panted in her exertions as the churning water thickened into a maelstrom, her tentacled hair waving wildly. For a moment, the storm cleared and James saw his house, his bedroom, saw Stacy as if he lay on the floor of a clear lake and looked skyward. He gaped at the sight of his lover’s tentacled hair growing longer and thicker before the stalks shot upward, out of the dream and into his life. He struggled to right himself, to sit up and do something—anything—but her grip was too strong.

Hush, my love.  I’ve almost…got it. There…

James screamed.

***

Stacy returned home the next morning, sated and more than a little sore. She was careful to remove the satisfied smile from her face. That radiant afterglow? She planned to tell James she’d been to the gym and had doubled her workout. The words to her story prepared, she walked into the house.

She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and took a long gulp before wiping her fingerprint smudges off the stainless steel.

“Hey, James, I’m home.”

In the dining room, she glanced through the mail and found nothing but coupons and other junk.  “James?”

Silence answered her. James’s car was in the garage. She went upstairs, yelling his name every few steps. All of his clothes were in the guest bedroom closet. His bed looked slept in. Stacy jogged back downstairs to look for the note he must have left. The kitchen and the dining room tables were bare. Her cell phone had no voice or text messages and James knew she hated e-mail. Her calls to his office went directly to his answering service. Where was he? 

Her heart jumped and began to rattle her ribcage like an angry prisoner. She opened the French doors and stepped onto the deck and scanned the beach for her husband. She expected to find him as she sometimes did, staring out over the ocean, his lanky frame stooped against the chill of the early morning wind. In one direction, the sun rose on an elderly couple as they walked hand in hand at the water’s edge, smiling at the children as they squealed and ran from the incoming waves. In the other, a man jogged with his dog, both of their tongues lolling out. No James.

The clicking of her sandals echoed as she crossed the marble kitchen floor. She climbed the stairs again, unsure of herself for the first time in recent memory. Stacy pressed a few buttons on her cell phone and waited to hear James’s voice. Her puffy lips twisted. No matter how plausible his explanation, she wouldn’t accept his bumbling apologies. Then she’d leave an issue of Harper’s Bazaar open to the jewelry section on the dining room table. When the box arrived, all would be forgiven.

A faint, familiar buzzing sounded in the quiet house. She followed it to the guest bedroom where James slept. His phone, still in its holster, beeped and vibrated on the en suite bathroom counter. Stacy hung up, confused. She picked up a squat bottle made of thick glass from the countertop. The cologne smelled like autumn wind, fresh and cool and crisp. Alone in the empty bathroom, surrounded by the scent of her husband, she trembled.

A glint from the bed caught her eye. She perched on the edge of the comforter and placed her palm against the rumpled sheets. They were soaked and the sun shone off what felt like flecks of sand. If James had walked on the beach and gotten into bed wet and gritty, she was going to—

The bed beneath her began to rock and sway. The pillowy surface of the mattress darkened and sloshed like the ocean in a windstorm. Her feet came up off the floor as her bottom sank into frigid water. She screeched and flailed her arms, windmill fashion, to gain enough forward momentum to break free of the roiling waves.

The bed was now a whirling dervish of foamy sea. Stacy fell forward with a grunt of effort and a gasp of pain as her hip struck the hardwood floor. On her hands and knees, she crawled toward the bedroom door, icy water dripping from her clothes. Her hands slid out from under her in opposite directions and her chin hit the polished floor with a crack. She lay there, moaning, until she heard a sound that made her scramble with renewed vigor.

It was the sound a hand makes when it slaps the surface of a pool. The sound a body makes, curled into a cannonball, striking the water. The sound of something from the bed searching for her. She scurried across the floor as quietly as she could manage. She reached for the door handle and winced at the loud scrape of her heavy jeweled bracelet. 

Alerted to her position, a tentacle shot out from the bed and coiled around her legs. She twisted onto her back and tried to kick free, but the grasping appendage tightened its hold. She looked in horror at the undulating mass of pale green tentacles as it rose from the center of her husband’s bed. She screamed when the aquatic limbs stretched toward her, the tough webbing that connected them spread open like a gaping maw. A cold tentacle snaked around her waist. Her terrified wail was cut off by the dripping slap of another limb across her mouth. Suckers constricted around her jaw until she heard a resounding crunch. Then red, searing pain.

The frigid tentacles dragged the struggling body away from the door, further and further from escape. Dragged it along the wet floor, up over the footboard and down, down to its final rest beneath the frothing waves of the sea.

Night is the time when

Yellow Sun becomes Blood Moon

Evil comes to play

Darkness hosts the game

Tree branches like dried fingers

Indicate the starting line

There are no time outs

While you live you must join in

Last hope for this race

Come! Sit in the swing

When he pushes your back, feel

Breath full of cold heat

Leap off and tumble

Run and hide He is counting

The time you have left

Cold hands Touch of ice

He has found you Game over

Until tomorrow…

1655 - Fifteen years before the establishment of the English colony of Charles Towne, along the banks of the Combahee River in what is now Beaufort, South Carolina, the home of various indigenous tribes descended from Mvskoke Indians

Aponi stood at the edge of the settlement and watched her life-mate walk away toward the salt marshes, knowing she would never see him again. Or if she did cross paths with Chief Tyee, neither of them would know it.

During the Eagle ceremony to protect the kin-tribe, all of the men danced around a blazing bonfire, their arms and heads draped in white feathers. Black clay covered their eyes, raccoon-like, to show their lack of knowledge of things to come, their leaps and spins in time to the frantic drumming filling the village.

Most of the women sat in a wide circle around the men. They were clothed in fine beaded dresses, their sleek braids wrapped in bright cloth as they sang, shaking gourds filled with dried beans to accompany the dancers. A few of the women, Aponi among them, stood outside the circle at its edge, away from the others. These women wore their hair loose, restrained only by the chips of bone and shells woven into their tresses. Their voices did not join the song.

Tyee had given his name at the calling place in the middle of the sweat-laced dancers, and since there was no visible opposition from He-Who-Never-Dies, the Chief left with a promise to return with the one thing that would prevent a war between the lands. She’d seen the determination and fearlessness in her life-mate’s black eyes and knew death would find him quickly. The urge to cry out a warning rose up, but it stuck in her throat like a dried husk and she swallowed it down with effort. Inside she felt full of holes, dug up, hollowed out.

So it is with Those-who-see.

She stood on the soft ground, head straight and back proud. Even at her age, her skin was dewy and unlined, except for that on her feet. That skin was tough and held a grayish cast, but once Tyee departed it did not stop the other men’s glances from being full of open curiosity.

Aponi watched until the winds erased the Chief’s footsteps before she blinked away the thick smoke of burning sage and white oak and gathered her moccasins from the pile. She walked toward home, the sounds of the Dance behind her throbbing in her ears as she placed one small bearskin boot in front of the other to make the journey longer.

Haparak, her sight sister, joined her. “Be glad you have a son,” she said, her hair lashing her face like whips.  “He will live in ignorance and be happy for it.”

The sight sisters continued the walk in silence, because it is one thing to know another’s pain. Quite another to speak it. Haparak was in mourning herself, her mate having died of fever a season before. She had removed her eyebrows with boiled sweetroot, as was the custom, and it gave her eyes a desperate, pleading look. Her hair fell to her shoulders, straight and black.

Aponi’s blood held more of the dark Ancestors and her mane rolled down her back in deep waves like the night sea, although now those waves were streaked with grey. They each counted their steps until they passed out of the main village.

Only one sight sister Aponi knew of went mad. Before Aponi was born, it was said Nahmana had tried to put an end to her gift by removing her own eyes. But her sacrifice did nothing save increase her powers. Without the distraction of real eyes, her sight reached far, far into the world. Nothing past or future was beyond her. The People said she had lost what-was-real. The old woman told crazy stories and spoke to invisible persons. None ventured near her without fear.

Nahmana sat in the darkness outside her hut made of hewn logs and thatched palmetto leaves. On the ground in front of her, a friendly fire crackled. Her thin body shivered despite a thick covering of furs and hides. Firelight baked her skin while she swayed, entranced by voices only she could hear, her chants and moans so much rhythmic nonsense.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” Haparak asked, her long crane-like body already poised for flight.

“No, wait for me in my hut. I will not be long.”

Relieved, her Sister squeezed her shoulder and scurried off.

Aponi approached the edge of the hut and kneeled, silently asking permission to join her elder. Despite what she told Haparak, she was prepared to kneel until the day rose from its slumber. But the old woman waved her over, her song approaching its climax. Her wrinkled lids were shut, but as the song faded, she opened them to reveal dark, empty spaces the light did not reach.

“Wounds,” the old woman said in a voice like the crunching of long-dead bone. “Deep. Running red.” Her hands looked almost youthful as they fluttered around her craggy face. “Taste thunder and live.”

“Grandmother,” Aponi addressed her with respect, her hands open and relaxed, palms up, receptive to whatever the woman might say to help guide her decision.

Instead of responding, Nahmana pulled an egg-shaped vial made of earthen pottery from beneath her robes and removed the rubber tree cork with a flourish. From the jar, she extracted a short stick and flung her whitened hair back. Two fat drops of liquid fell into each empty eye cavity. Aponi watched, horrified, as dark moisture slid down the old woman’s cheeks and gathered under her nose. It ran like the Combahee after a thaw. Her tongue came out, a long red thing, and licked away the drainage. Aponi shuddered.

“Have you tasted thunder?” Nahmana asked. “First it burns, then it drips sweet onto your tongue. And the knowing leaves. For a little while.”

Aponi didn’t answer. She had already pushed herself to her feet when the old woman spoke again, stopping her.

“Is the path dark to you? Yes. You cannot see yourself. Should you follow your foolish man?” She tilted her head and leaned forward as though listening to a secret. Then she giggled. “Or should you wait for war to come?”

Nahmana’s body shook as though the Ancestors had walked on her grave. “Or is there another way? Take the drunken path. It weaves this way and that, calling to you with the promise of lies. There you will find an answer.”

Brother Fire was dying and neither woman attempted to save him. The old woman’s lids drooped and she mumbled nonsense again, all coherence lost to her. On hands and knees, she crawled into her hut and tucked the thatched flap closed.

Aponi rose from the fire, her knees crying for relief. Where the wild woman once sat, the egg jar lay on the ground, catching the last flickers of light. The letters painted on it were not of the Mvskoke. Even the jar itself seemed out of place, its pale color unusual. The clay the women made here was from red mud and held a rusty hue once baked.

Over the years, their tribe had welcomed all others into the walled village with arms open. They had shared their ways of building huts, fishing, and making cheeses from deer milk. Taught them how to grow pumpkin and melon and how speak the language of the saltmarsh. Even spoke of what it is to see without eyes. And what had that achieved? It had brought them to the brink of war.

Aponi looked down at the container, no longer than her first finger and she kicked it away. The jar slid across the black dirt, hit the edge of the log doorway and ricocheted off. It spun and rolled and came to rest against her booted foot.

The war chief’s wife stared at the hut, where slow, even breathing now emerged. Without thinking further, she scooped up the jar of thunder and left for home.

Haparak was waiting for Aponi when she returned and she placed a cup of sweetgrass tea, fragrant with honey and herbs in Aponi’s hands.

“Can you gather the sisters at first light? We must visit the elders,” Aponi said.

“I have already asked,” Haparak replied.

***

Sun was slinking into the sky when the sisters of the kin-tribe gathered outside the large square council house of elders. Aponi knelt at the wide opening with Haparak at her side.

“Tyee is dead and the People need a new chief.”

Faces softened by time looked at the each of the sisters in turn. Aponi believed that to the old ones they seemed like a group of wild animals, manes flying in the breeze, shell and bone clicking like hooves. “You have seen this?” The eldest among them, the old chief, spoke.

“It is seen and known.” The sisters answered as one.

When he nodded in acknowledgement, Aponi said, “I place my feet in his steps.”

There was only the sound of fire in the square as the elders passed the pipe. Each one drew deeply of the heady green earth-scented smoke. Two rounds of the circle were complete before the old chief spoke again. “You are a woman. A woman has never led the People during war.”

“What of Godasiyo?” Haparak spoke, barely keeping the irritation from her voice. “It is said that for a time we were once all together under her laws.”

“A legend only.” He refilled the pipe and puffed again. “What of your son?”

“Sixteen winters is not enough when the scent of war is so strong.” Aponi gazed into the fire, her head filling with visions heightened by the rich tobacco smoke. She closed her eyes. “His head is still in the wind and he heeds no words but his own.”

Grunts of agreement preceded the words the women knew would come. “We will wait, sisters; the Spirits will bring the answer to us.”

Haparak opened her mouth to speak again, but her sister stopped her with a hand on her arm.  To the elders Aponi said, “I understand and accept your wisdom.”

They departed the square silent, leaving only the sound of hooves fading into distance.

Back in her hut, Aponi spoke freely to the sisters about the meeting with the elders. To Haparak she said, “I give you this task, most trusted of women.”

Haparak did not respond and kept her eyes turned away while she pulled the soft deer skins close around her thin body.

With a sigh, Aponi continued. “Tell the others where I have gone.”

Tears gathered in Haparak’s pleading, desperate eyes. “Wher
e
ar
e
you going?”

“To walk the path as I was told.”

Haparak’s eyes widened, but she remained silent, rivers streaming down her bronze cheeks as she embraced the older woman.

“I am only doing what I must. Do not be afraid of what you see for my journey.”

“No, it is not that,” Haparak said. “I am afraid because I can see nothing.”

***

Day was still sleeping and cool dewy mist lay upon the early morning air when Aponi followed the path her mate had taken seven moons before. She walked and walked, watching the morning rise above the treetops. When Yellow Sun was high atop the trees, the path before her split into three. She had come from the south and a path curved off in each of the other directions.

East, trees and bushes grew thick and dense, covering most of the muddy footpath with low-hanging branches. Along the West path, rocks the size of bear heads rolled along a dry dust road alongside tiny pebbles. The North path was clear. It could not be the one Tyee took. Too smooth and simple.  Aponi turned East.

On the East path Aponi had to crouch and crawl to keep true. She followed it as best she could, pushing away scratchy bug-filled moss and snapping apart the sweet smelling wisteria vines in her way. The path continued until the trees disappeared behind her and the blue-gray of the sea beckoned. Her knees ached and her feet were hot and sore.  More than anything, she longed to remove her boots and cool her feet in the rolling waters. But she held her pack tight against her chest and skirted quickly as she could down the shore path, determined to reach its end before taking a rest. 

But no.

Aponi realized she was back at the crossroads where she started. Confused, she looked down each path again as far as she could see. Then she closed her eyes and opened her mind, to allow the sight to bring what knowledge it pleased.

But there was no answer.

Her head began to beat like the drums from the Dance. Soon, she reasoned, White Sun would be chasing Yellow Sun from the sky and all would be dark. She decided to rest and begin again at first light.

But night never came. She rested under the shade of one of the East’s dense trees. Aponi, weary and frustrated, drank from her water skin as she stared at the West path. This must be the way Tyee went. Movement came from a thin bush lining the North path and her hand went to her knife belt. A small rabbit came from the bush and sat in the middle of the clearing. She watched it watch her, its nose and ears moving as though it wished to speak. To her astonishment, the rabbit’s mouth opened and a screech filled her ears.

A red hawk swept in, clutched the frightened animal in its claws, and flew off with its meal. Droplets of blood lay on the dirt where it once stood. She covered her mouth as she watched the bird rise into the warming air, circling up, up, with the limp, furry body.

“Does it disturb you, Sister?” The mocking voice was close to her ear, the words hot and moist, and she jumped. “The true and honest taking of life?”

A man, younger than she, leaned against one of the large rocks between the North and West paths. He was dressed for hunting in deerskin shirt and breeches. His face was narrow, his nose long and beak-like, his lips thin. Of the People, but somehow not.