Tucker’s Grove (14 page)

“
This is private property, young lady
—
and I don
’
t
take kindly to people who refuse to respect that.”

In her mind, all the stories she had ever heard about Clinton Tucker became real: the man who lived in the haunted house of Tucker
’
s Grove, alone up on the hill, a violent man, a monster. Children dared on
e another to run up at night and touch the side of his house….

Elizabeth Billings struggled to break free of the man
’
s grip, but his fingers were entangled in the fabric of her dress. As she jerked back, the cloth tore in a long gash, exposing one of her s
mall breasts.

The Harvest Moon emerged from the wispy cloud cover, shining down on the garden with its wan light, sharpening the features on Tucker
’
s face, glinting in his eyes.

Elizabeth fumbled with the torn cloth, trying to pull her dress back up to cov
er herself, but Tucker grabbed the material and ripped it farther. He looked at the green print, seemed to reco
g
nize it, and smiled.

She stared down at his hand, confused and very afraid. He slapped her across the face with enough force to knock her into t
he mounds of the pumpkin patch. Prickly leaves folded over her, seeming to swallow her up in their jaws. She thrashed in an effort to stand again.

Tucker leaned over her, but he seemed to be seeing something else, as if she had walked into a nighttime rev
erie, serving as a prop for him to act out his memories under the stars.

“
You are my wife, Angela, and I will do with you as I please!”

The moonlight penetrated the splayed pumpkin leaves, eager to watch. Tucker undid his trousers, slid to his knees in fro
nt of her.

“
You
’
re lucky you came back, else I might have gotten angry at you.”
His breathing came rapid and shallow. “
You know how I get when I feel
angry
.”

Elizabeth whimpered, tried to squirm away from him. Pum
p
kin vines scratched at her bare skin, and
a round orange pumpkin pressed hard against the small of her back. Tucker yanked her dress completely off.

“
You
’
re not being very cooperative
—”

She felt the scream exploding out of her throat, but he slapped her again and settled on top of her, prying her
legs apart. Then he grabbed her shoulders and thrust into her, digging his dirty fi
n
gernails into her skin. She couldn
’
t make a sound. He pushed again and again; his eyelids didn
’
t close tightly enough to hide the line of staring white as his eyes rolled u
pward. He went rigid, uttering a long, low sigh. Then he opened his eyes to look at her.

And saw a fourteen-year-old girl.

Tucker withdrew quickly, backing away, stumbling and loo
k
ing down in horror. She couldn
’
t control her ragged s
obs. A thin line of blood clung to the insides of her thighs, running slowly onto the ground.

But Clinton Tucker saw her for only an instant.

The light of the Harvest Moon struck the blood on the earth, and Tucker became a boy again, trapped under the woo
den wa
g
on-bed as the wolves prowled about. The full Hunter
’
s Moon shone down on his mother
’
s blood. He saw her move again
—
her shoulder jerked and jerked, striking the wooden wall as the wolves tugged her body. Clinton
’
s terrified heartbeats pounded in his
chest. He longed for something to protect himself with, felt something hard in his hands
—
he wanted to strike at the wolves, kill them! But terror locked his muscles. Something called him, a compulsion, forcing him to turn, to bring his eye over to the kno
t
hole, to look directly into the demon
’
s eye of a wolf staring back.

He screamed.

She screamed.

And the wolf
’
s eye became the bulging eye of Elizabeth Billings. The handle of the pitchfork still quivered in his hand. By the light of the moon he saw the pitc
hfork thrust through her chest, one tine through her heart and two others through her lungs. Droplets of red stained the large green leaves, the orange pumpkins.

Panic tore at him with sharp teeth. What should he do now?

Confess? Tell someone? Maybe they
would forgive him.

Forgive him? They would crucify him! Destroy his farm! Burn his house!

His farm, Tucker
’
s farm
—
all he had left. He couldn
’
t lose it! He wouldn
’
t let them take it. No
—
he had to hide her. Som
e
where.

Only temporarily. Until he could thin
k of something else.

Think!

His barn! He had old, dry straw ten feet deep up in his loft!

He
had
to kill her!

He could bury her there, in the straw.

She would have told everyone!

She would keep in the dry straw. No one would ever find her.

Ruined him!

Fore
ver.

Forever!

Someone rapped on his door, timid and yet insistent. Scow
l
ing, Tucker moved through the dim kitchen. At the window, he recognized the pinched face of the Methodist minister, Malcolm Litch. Tucker sucked on his teeth to swallow away the bad t
aste in his mouth.

He flung the door outward, almost hitting the minister, not unintentionally.

“
Ah, good day, Mr. Tucker!”
Litch beamed. The voice held a false tone from years of practice talking to people who didn
’
t particularly like him.

Tucker frowned
at the hawk-faced man and said nothing.

“
Um, it
’
s almost Hallowe
’
en, you know, Mr. Tucker…”

A long pause. “
So?”

“
And, uh, it
is
traditional
—
the Hallowe
’
en barn dance. Of Tucker
’
s Grove?”

“
You can
’
t use my barn this year, Mr. Litch.”

The minister looked flustered. “
But your wife always
—”

“
I have no wife, Mr. Litch. She ran off…
or don
’
t
you
r
e
member?”

The minister seemed to swallow his lips as he fidgeted, then he steeled himself and wrenched the conversation back to his business. “
Plea
se, Mr. Tucker
—
yours is the only barn around that isn
’
t being used.”

Tucker narrowed his eyes, guarded. “
And what makes you so sure my barn is empty, Mr. Litch? Have you been out there, snooping around?”

“
Why, no!”

Tucker continued to glare at him. Litch s
huffled his feet. “
The dance
does
bring in some money, Mr. Tucker…
if that makes any difference to you. The town council has decided to let you keep half of it this year, for allowing us to use your barn, as usual.”

Tucker snorted. The minister filled his e
yes with a plea that somehow lacked sincerity.

Tucker suddenly wanted to get rid of this man, this parasite. Make him leave. “
All right, Mr. Litch, but you damn well better clean up your mess! And don
’
t let me see you around any more than I have to.”

Litch
beamed. “
And the pumpkins?”

“
What pumpkins?”

“
It is also traditional for the Tuckers to donate the pumpkins for the Jack-o
’
-Lanterns. The children, you know. I
’
m sure your wife…
uh, I
’
m sure you have some planted in your garden.”

“
You can have the damned p
umpkins! Send someone around with a wagon tomorrow and we
’
ll load them up.”
Tucker drew in a deep breath of disgust. He stood in the door frame, but the minister seemed reluctant to leave.

“
Is there anything
else
, Mr. Litch?”

The minister pursed his lips,
as if trying to put himself at ease. “
A shame about Elizabeth Billings, isn
’
t it?”

Tucker leaned back into the shadows. “
A girl from town, is she? What happened to her?”

Litch shrugged. “
Nobody knows. She just vanished. Her pa
r
ents came back from Bartonvil
le one night two weeks ago, and she was gone! Young Timothy Miller is almost frantic
—
he says he spent time with her, secretly, at sunset. Then she left for home…
and nobody ever saw her again!”

Tucker frowned in distant thought. “
Maybe the wolves got her.”

“
Wolves? But there haven
’
t been wolves in these parts since
—”
Litch suddenly looked alarmed, uncomfortable.

“
Good day, Mr. Litch.”
Tucker slammed the door and stepped deeper into the house, watching through the curtain as the mini
s
ter stood confused for
a moment, and then left.

That night the first frost of autumn struck Tucker
’
s Grove. It crept up from the ground, snaring the fragile roots of plants. It emerged from the air, etching its signature on window-panes. A portent. The year was nearing its end.
Things would die soon.

Hauled by one old horse, the wagon creaked as it passed down the dirt path to Tucker
’
s garden in the bright, cold mor
n
ing. Pastor Litch rode with the owner of the wagon, a burly farmer named Wilson. Clinton Tucker sat in silence, gr
ipping the wooden edge of the wagon-bed. He didn
’
t like wagons much.

The edges of the plant leaves curled together from the shock of the frost. Tomato stems drooped, potato plants looked stunned.

Wilson drove the horse up to the pumpkin patch. The mound of
giant leaves had fallen in upon itself, a tangle of crushed, w
a
tery vines. Wilson pulled the horse to a halt and left the beast to stand placidly, looking tired, or maybe just old. The three men climbed down from the wagon and went to pick the pumpkins.

“
Hey! Look here!”
Wilson snapped the stem of the first pumpkin and held it up.

Splotches of bright red covered the shiny orange skin, like fresh, wet bloodstains.

Tucker
’
s mouth gaped. It couldn
’
t be! He had checked, cleaned, straightened everything. It had
been three weeks.

Wilson brushed through the large leaves, and Litch searched with him. “
Funny! Every
one
of
 
’
em is stained like that! Never seen such a thing!”
Wilson ran a thumbnail into the reddened skin of the pumpkin. “
It goes deep, too
—
ain
’
t just a
stain.”

Litch broke a pumpkin off the vine and handed it to Tucker, who stood motionless beside the wagon. “
No matter. The chi
l
dren are going to carve them up anyway
—
they won
’
t care if the pumpkins got blight.”

Tucker took the pumpkin and set it in the wagon. He felt numb. This wasn
’
t real. It couldn
’
t be. He tried to rub the red off with his own hands; but the stain held its own, mocking him. All the pumpkins. The other two men began to pick, and Tucker loaded
t
he wagon-bed.