Nightcrawlers

22

Years back, when her sister Mae was still above the ground and not out feeding the worms at the county cemetery, Elena Blasden would get together with her and a few of the other old girls—Mamie LaRoche, Dorothy Palequin—once a month and have themselves what her mother had long ago referred to as a “tea luncheon” and her father had called “a hen party.” Elena always figured it was less of the former and more of the latter because before they were done, the private lives of just about everyone were pecked to death and no dirt was unexposed. Little sandwiches were served, tea and coffee drank, and the local situation was discussed in some detail. When Elena was feeling particularly charitable, she sometimes even invited Renny Fix, but not often because she was of the mind that Renny was a fool as all her people were fools.

Somewhere during the proceedings, the subject of the Ezrens usually raised its somewhat well-worn head and oft-repeated tales were repeated yet again and usually in low voices as if the ladies were afraid of being overheard. Whenever Renny was present, she would repeat the same story her grandmother had told her so many, many years before when there was still a bloom of girlhood in Renny’s cheeks. You stay away from Ezren field if you know what’s good for you, little miss, Renny would say, recalling her grandmother’s words and imitating her intonation the best she could after those many long summers and longer winters since her girlhood. Those from below come out under the light of the moon like nightcrawlers after a good rain. They’re always looking for children to take down below into their lairs and barrow pits. See that you’re not one of them or you’ll become like them… creeping in the black earth and feeding on dead things. If you see ’em looking in your window some windy night, do not meet their eyes or they’ll take you with them and you don’t want that, now do you?

That was the story she would tell as Elena held court and the old women listened, mouths pursed and eyes wide, the children within them scared again as they had been scared so long before. It was a cumulative effort. Once the subject was broached—Elena figured the only reason she invited Renny was because she was fool enough to broach it every time—it was added to, built upon, framed and finished with a combination of twice-told tales, local gossip, and utter fabrication.

Mamie would practically drool over every deranged and grisly detail, while Dorothy would need to step out for air because her heart would be hammering so painfully and her head reeling with dizziness. That was to be expected, Elena knew, for she was every bit as dramatic at seventy-four as she had been at fourteen.

Somewhere during the proceedings, once the cycle of rural myth had grown dull with repetition, all eyes would be upon Elena. Mae would insist that she share those things she knew of and Elena would happily oblige. My grandmother said it still used to happen when she was a girl, usually during long, dry summers when the ticks were bad and the moon grew orange as a pumpkin on clear nights. One of them would be born to a normal family and very often the mother did not survive the birthing. It was a bloody and horrifying affair. My granny said she had caught sight of it one time, just the one time. She had been where she was not supposed to be and looking upon those things she was not supposed to see. Being a farm girl she was not so naïve as city girls were about the birthing process. She had seen plenty of foal, calves, and piglets brought to term and had been present at the birth of two of her sisters. The mystery of life is no mystery to a girl on a working farm. So she peeked in a window where one of them things was being birthed and what she saw set her to running. I asked her what it was she saw and she told me what came out of that poor woman was more of a grub than a human baby. In those days, such things were handled by the midwife, a woman named either Starnes or Sterns, I can’t remember which. When one was born that was more of below than above, it was taken by her at sunset out to the Ezren field and left there. Soon enough, its cries would bring the others up from their holes. Like calls to like and blood calls to blood.

Long after the sheriff and Kenney had left, Elena sat there thinking on things. Though she was old, very old, and her time left on this earth was short, her memory was still as sharp as her tongue. Those tea luncheons were now fifteen years gone and she was the only survivor of them. Mamie LaRoche had died in a nursing home over in Ashland ten years before, and Dorothy Palequin had preceded her three years before that after suffering a stroke while picking raspberries. Mae had passed six years ago now, going peacefully in her sleep.

There was just Elena now, aged and tired, so god-awful tired, who spent her days remembering things lost past and faces long gone to ghost. Her body pained her something terrible these days and today her chest felt very tight. Too much excitement maybe and maybe it was simply time to close her eyes.

Either way, she was accepting of it.