CHAPTER TWELVE I
“There’s no gray area here, folks,” the minister said. “You can’t get more cut-and-dry than the Ten Commandments. There’s no interpretation necessary to understand Christ’s Golden Rule, ‘Do to others as you would have others do to you.’ When Jesus said on the Mount, ‘Blessed are the merciful for the merciful shall be shown mercy,’ we don’t need a literary analyst from Harvard to tell us what that really means. The Word of God is simple. It’s like boiling rice. If you follow the instructions on the bag, it works. God’s Word works, too, but our problem is we don’t really listen. We may try to, or we tell ourselves that we’re listening, but we really aren’t because as humans we exist in error. We’re unworthy in the shadow of our sin…”
Collier felt inhibited throughout the service, as out of place as a Washington Redskins jersey in a Dallas sports shop. The minister reminded him of the Skipper on Gilligan’s Island but was bald as Telly Savalas. He interestingly mixed fire and brimstone with lackadaisical good humor: “We’re all premeditated sinners worthy of nothing but hell, but God’s a pretty cool guy and he cuts us slack if we earn it. He knows we’re all screwed up but he loves us anyway! He doesn’t want heaven to be full of nothing but stone-faced boring pilgrims and monks who haven’t cracked a joke in their entire lives!” Collier figured heaven would indeed be Dullsville if exclusively populated by such folks.
Dominique held his hand through the entire service, save for intervals for hymns. She as well as most everyone there listened to the minister with the same attention that Collier had paid to those Girls Gone Wild commercials: with rapt veneration. Maybe that was the difference.
The minister pointed his finger at the congregation, like an accuser, then slowly aimed it at himself. “My friends, there really are seven deadly sins: wrath, lust, pride, greed, envy, sloth, and—my personal favorite—gluttony…” He stepped away from the lectern and hoisted a considerable belly beneath his vestments, which summoned laughter from the pews.
“But the other day I was thinking that maybe that’s why God put seven days in the week—a day for each sin. Why don’t we reserve each separate day to atone for one, and stick to it. Monday can be pride, Tuesday can be envy, Wednesday can be sloth, and so on. And today? Sunday? Let’s assign greed to Sunday, and use the Lord’s day to try to redeem ourselves of this sin. Let’s remember Jesus’ story of the widow’s mite, how a destitute woman gave her last two leptons to the offering box—only a fraction of a cent. That’s not much money but to Christ that woman’s selfless sacrifice was worth more than a mountain of gold.”
Collier grew suspicious. Here it comes. Open up your hearts and open up your wallets…
“Let’s remember that for every dollar we give, we get back a hundred in spirit. Let’s remember the word of James: ‘Every act of giving, with every perfect gift, is from above,’ so that when we give in the name of God, we become like God. And the words of Matthew: ‘Freely we have received, so freely we must give.’ Just go out and give—let’s do that today instead of watching TV or washing the car—”
The collection plate’ll be making the rounds any minute now, Collier thought.
“—and for you wise guys out there who think I’m just pumping you up for the collection plate, I’m asking you to not give a penny to this church today. Give it to someone else instead—”
Collier frowned.
“—and if you’ve got no money, give your time. Or maybe we can follow our best examples”—he pointed to someone in the pews—“like Mr. Portafoy who spends every Friday night helping terminal patients at the hospice, or Janice Wilcox who runs the local clothing drive, or Dominique Cusher who prepares a hundred meals before her restaurant opens and drives them all the way to the Chattanooga homeless shelter every Sunday—”
Collier looked at her…then wondered if he’d ever given anything as charity in his life…
“Let’s be like those wonderful people, and also remember Corinthians: ‘God loves a cheerful giver.’” Next the minister stepped away from the lectern again, hoisting his belly. He seemed to be looking right at Collier when he said, “And for you wise guys out there wondering what I’m going to give? I’m not going to eat today, but instead I’m going to go drop a hundred dollars on pizzas and take them to the Fayetteville soup kitchen. I’m gonna drive those people at Domino’s nuts…and I’m not even going to snitch a slice for myself. I swear!”
More chuckles from the crowd.
“Go to the hospital and give a pint of blood! Go to the underpass and dole out a backseat full of Quarter Pounders! Go online and throw some of that MasterCard at the Red Cross, or fill out that organ-donor form and drop it in the mail. You’re not gonna need your liver when you’re dead, are you? So go on and do it!” Then he scanned his finger across the pews and barked like a game-show host, “And until next week, go in peace to love and serve the Lord!”
Everyone said “Amen” while they were still laughing, then a jazzy organ kicked in to signal the final procession.
“Wow,” Collier whispered. “Church has changed.”
“When was the last time you went?”
“Ah, you would ask. I’m too ashamed to say. When was Oliver North shredding documents for Reagan?”
Dominique chuckled. “Being here is a start, isn’t it? And, yeah, Father Grumby gets a little gung ho sometimes but he’s a great pastor.”
Collier’s throat felt thick when he noticed two young girls in white dresses filing out behind their parents. Couldn’t be, he thought. He still wasn’t sure if he’d really seen the girls or if it was a booze-triggered phantasm.
Then his belly twitched again when he recalled the other mirage: the four small hands playing with him…and the dog…
“Let me ask you something,” he said on a completely inappropriate lark. “Does Harwood Gast have any descendants?”
“Nope.” She smiled at him. “Why do you ask?”
“I bought a bunch of books from Mr. Sute but I haven’t read them yet. Isn’t it kind of curious that the Gasts never had kids?”
“Oh, they had kids, two of them, two girls.”
Collier felt a twinge. “But you just said he didn’t have any—”
“No descendants, that’s right.” She seemed to stall on a thought. “But his two daughters died in their teens, during…the war.”
Collier watched the backs of the two girls. One was dirty blonde, the other drably brunette. Just like…
Before they exited the nave, they turned for moment to wave to some other children. Collier saw that it clearly wasn’t them.
“Did…Gast’s daughters have a dog?”
“Justin, how would I know that?”
“Well, you know a lot about the legend. How did the two girls die, exactly?”
She nudged him. “I don’t think church is the best place to talk about Tennessee’s version of Ivan the Terrible. If you insist on obsessing over it, go ask your friend J.G. Sute. He’ll tell you all the facts and all the B.S. you want to hear. If anybody’s more obsessed with this stuff than you, it’s him.”
Collier felt foolish now, but what she’d said spiked him. Maybe that’s what I’ll do today—give Sute a call. Suddenly he felt intent on learning about Gast’s two children.
He followed Dominique out as she spoke briefly to acquaintances. Outside he said, “So I take it you’re busy this morning.”
“Yeah, like the man said, that’s what I do on Sundays before work.”
“It’s quite a gesture.”
“No it isn’t—it’s no big deal. I use all the leftover side dishes from Saturday, then make some kind of meat dish with overstock or specials that didn’t sell. It’s actually kind of fun. One time I made chimichurri pork tenderloin with a banana-pepper drizzle and wasabi mashed potatoes for a hundred homeless.”
“I’ll bet that made their day,” Collier said.
“They loved it. Another time my supplier was trying to get rid of eight-count sea scallops, so I bought a bunch on the bulk discount and did them up over penne quill pasta with truffled cream pomodoro sauce. It was a riot. The only real hassle is driving all the way to Chattanooga and back.”
Collier felt a stab of obligation. “Let me help you. I’ve got nothing big to do today.”
“No, no, it’s something I do by myself. You heard Father Grumby; you’ve got to choose your own manner of charity.” She grinned. “You’ll think of something.”
Collier felt relieved beneath his falseness. The last thing he’d actually want to do is cook for homeless people hours away. But at least he felt like less of a schmuck for offering.
He pulled on her hand and stopped her. “I hope I can see you later.”
“Of course you can. Anytime after five at the restaurant, but I’ve got to run now. Today I’m taking chicken marsala and saffron rice to the shelter.” She kissed him briefly but not so brief that she didn’t have time to run the tip of her tongue across his lips. Collier tried to retrieve her for a longer kiss but her arms pressed him back.
“If you keep messing around with me you’re only going to wind up pissed off and aggravated,” she said with a coy smile.
He already knew what she was clarifying. “How do you know I don’t like being pissed off and aggravated?”
Her smile dropped down a notch. “Justin, I’ve already told you, I’m never going to have sex out of wedlock. I don’t put out. Get it?”
“As a matter of fact, I received that impression very distinctly last night—”
“If you’re looking to get laid, you’ve got the wrong girl.”
“How do you know I don’t like not getting laid?”
She shook her head, amused. “What I’m saying is I’ll understand if you don’t show up tonight.”
“Great. I’ll see you tonight.”
She kissed him one more time, then pulled away. “’Bye…”
He watched her traipse off in the morning light; he was speechless. Even in the distance, her beauty poured off her. He watched after her until she disappeared around the corner.
Collier considered his plight. Over the past few days I’ve turned into a hell-bent, primo-perverted, lust-obsessed sex maniac…and I’m falling in love with a girl who will never have sex with me.
“Oh well,” he muttered aloud. He started back to the inn, to retrieve the phone number of Mr. J.G. Sute. II
Lottie had dreamed she was being raped in the dirt by soldiers in gray uniforms. “Don’t bust her belly,” one of them laughed. In the dream, Lottie was very, very skinny but also very, very pregnant. “Keep the baby in the bitch ’fore we get her up the hill…”
She’d been shorn of all her body hair in a strange barn full of boiling vats, and though she wasn’t sure, she thought she’d been naked for several months. Outside, the men took turns raping her on her hands and knees, while the rest of the prisoners were packed back into the wagon. “Give that bastard baby some Tennessee jism to swaller!” one guffawed, hoisting up his trousers. “Ain’t gonna be no milk waitin’ fer him when he comes out!”
The soldiers all laughed. When they were done, they squashed her back into the evil-smelling wagon with the dozens of others. Lottie could see through the slats that the wagon was taking them up a winding path, to a great smoking hill.
The sound that throbbed from the wagon was a crush of children’s sobs and desperate prayers. Lottie looked down at herself and saw that she was little more than a skin-covered skeleton but with a big, tight stomach sticking out; she could feel the rape-baby kicking in horror from within. Many of the other women there looked identical to her, but the worst sights were the children, who looked like smaller versions of herself, and some just as pregnant.
The sound of rifle fire cracked down the hill. What was happening? In between volleys, she heard shouts, then more volleys. The distant rifles fired for a long time, then sputtered out.
That’s when the wagon stopped.
Lottie and the other prisoners were dragged out and forced into a line. They now stood before a compound formed by a great wooden fence, and spiring above the top of the fence was a brick-and-mortar structure that tapered to a tepee shape, at least forty feet high. Lottie knew this was a blast furnace, but she’d never seen one this big.
“Don’t send these in yet,” a soldier barked. “We gotta let Mr. Gast’s men finish up…”
Finish up what? And who was Mr. Gast? In the dream Lottie didn’t know…
Next, a soldier who seemed to be in charge ordered, “Send a couple’a these ’un’s in to collect the boots’n clothes.” And then Lottie and several of the women less close to death were pushed through the fence gate by more soldiers with bayonets.
Inside the compound, she could not comprehend what she saw. The base of the furnace had to have been a hundred feet wide, and into various vents shirtless black men shoveled coal. But in the compound’s open areas dozens and dozens of more black men lay moaning while their clothes and boots were pulled off by still more slaves. The heat was so hellish, Lottie almost lost consciousness.
Baskets were shoved at Lottie and the others. “Collect it all up and pile it by the gate,” they were ordered.
The floor of the compound was like a field of dying men—all black slaves. Lottie could see they’d been shot, and at the far wall stood several dozen white men with big rifles. They weren’t soldiers, though. They looked like rail workers.
Lottie stalked between the fallen slaves and gathered up their clothes. At one point she noticed a well-dressed man in coattails looking on with the rail workers. Their eyes all seemed to have a yellow glaze.
Someone shouted, “one’s got out! Don’t let him get away!” and then several soldiers ran to a window. Lottie got one glimpse outside as she hauled a basket: she saw a black man running in the distance, then—BAM!—a soldier on horseback dropped him with a pistol shot.
When all the clothes had been gathered, Lottie helped transfer it all outside, where another wagon waited.
That’s when she began to hear the screams.
They didn’t sound human; they sounded like rough animals.
Lottie and several of the other younger women were raped yet again by more soldiers. She wished she could die now, but she sensed that there was something here—something in the air—that wouldn’t let that happen.
Then a solider grabbed her from behind. “Here’s some payback fer Fort Donelson,” he said, and then began to sodomize her. That’s when Lottie passed out.
When she regained some facsimile of consciousness, she was back inside the compound, but she noticed that all of the fallen slaves were gone. Shrieks and chuckles fluttered about like birds. Then her head lolled to the other side. She stared for a moment and thought, I’m in hell…
With pitchforks and bayoneted rifles, soldiers were feeding the other naked prisoners into the furnace. One young pregnant girl caught a pitchfork in the belly, was raised for all to see, then pushed back-first into one of the fiery openings. Several other soldiers skewered bloody babies with their bayonets, then heaved them in. When numb fingers touched her stomach…it wasn’t there anymore. That’s when Lottie noticed that her belly had been sliced open, the fetus pilfered and similarly incinerated.
“Here comes the next load,” a voice called out. “Don’t forget that ’un there.”
Steam, blasting heat, and a smell like cooked pork hung like fog about the compound. Two fingers popped Lottie’s eyeballs, then began to drag her by the sockets toward the furnace…
That’s when she awoke in her bed, shivering in sweat. Had she screamed her way out of the nightmare? She thought she’d heard a shout from Jiff’s room, too.
Yes, every now and then she had nightmares that were utterly horrific. She knew about the history of the town, and Harwood Gast, and she also had an idea what the power of suggestion was. “Everybody has bad dreams,” her mother had told her in the past. But the one Lottie had suffered through last night was positively the worst.
She felt as though her entire body had been sucked by something vile; even her sweat felt evil. She showered desperately, scrubbing herself raw…
“The hell’s wrong with you?” Jiff asked her later. She sat glum on her bed, still shaking a little.
“Huh? Looks like someone shot yer dog, and you ain’t even got a dog.”
Her eyes felt bloodshot when she peered at him. Bad dream, she mouthed to him.
Jiff’s upbeat demeanor faltered when he read her lips. “Yeah, well, join the club. Last night I had me the worst of the bunch.”
Lottie had no qualms about sitting naked before her brother. As gay as he was, why should she…just so long as he wasn’t horny and there were no pictures of handsome men around. It’s the house, she mouthed.
“Huh?”
The house. Sometimes I hate this HOUSE!
“I know, Sister. Like Ma told us a long time ago. Everyone has bad dreams here sometimes. Always been that way, since…back then.” The low mood in the room felt dense as the summer humidity outside. “But check this out.” Jiff tried to change the temper; he whipped out a check. “J.G. laid a hunnert on me. Kinkiest trick yet, but, shee-it.”
Lottie sat limp in a lotus position and shrugged.
“You seen Mr. Collier this mornin’?”
Lottie shook her head.
“Still don’t know what to make’a him. Yesterday he’s drinkin’ it up in the Spike with half’a my tricks, and now Ma tells me he borrowed her truck to take Dominique on a date—”
Lottie smirked.
“Still don’t rightly know if he’s bi, queer, or straight.” Jiff chuckled. “A’course, he’s got another think comin’ with Dominique. Poor bastard’ll need knockout drops and a crowbar to get into her Holy Rollin’ panties.”
Lottie errantly diddled her fingertips through the bedsheets. It’s my day off, she mouthed. What are you doin’ today?
“Ma tolt me to weed the whole motherfuckin’ garden out back.” He popped a brow at her. “How’s about givin’ your brother a hand?”
Sit on a gerbil, she mouthed.
“Funny. Come on, I’ll give ya…ten bucks.”
Eat a pile of corny shit, you homo whore!
Jiff glared. “Yeah, yeah—hey, Lottie, don’t talk so loud. Someone might hear ya.” Jiff ripped out an uproarious laugh, slipped out of the room, and slammed the door in her face.
Fucker! Lottie thought. III
“Thanks very much for making the time, Mr. Sute. I’ll be over in a half hour,” Collier said and hung up. His eyes swept the bedroom for a reason he couldn’t identify, and he quickly felt chilled, but the chill magnified when he looked at the bed and recalled not only the noxious nightmares he’d had on it, but the obscene hallucination last night. Nergie, he recalled the detestable mutt’s name.
“Oh, hey there, Mr. Collier,” Jiff greeted the instant Collier stepped into the hall. “How’d that inline handle?” “Inline?” Collier asked, miffed.
“My ma’s inline 235—her old Chevy pickup. She tolt me ya borrowed it. Bet there’s a million miles on that baby. Like to see them Japs do that with one’a their Toyoters.”
“It ran great, Jiff.”
“Anything I can help ya with?”
“No, thanks. Right now I’m on my way to Mr. Sute’s—”
Jiff looked at him weird.
“—to look at one of his book manuscripts,” Collier finished. He’d mentioned Sute on purpose.
“Oh, you mean one’a his books about Hardwood Gast.”
“Right. Don’t really know why but I’m becoming intrigued by the whole town legend. I’ve even had a couple of nightmares about it.”
Another weird look. “That so? Well, funny as it might seem, I’ve had a few myself and so’s my sister. It’s mainly just ’cos this house seems a lot creepier once ya hear all them stories.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Collier said. “But I’m still really fascinated. What do you know about Harwood Gast’s children?”
“Aw, his kids? Nothin’.” But the question clearly knocked Jiff off center. “I don’t know that much about it. I gotta get started pullin’ weeds out back…but have a great day,” he finished and rushed off.
Collier smiled at the reaction he’d come to expect by now.
A leisurely walk took him back through town, which seemed to brim with more tourists than ever. Much spun through his head during the trek—the dreams, the mysteries of the Gast legend, his outrageous sexual ponderings—but most of the thoughts invariably returned to Dominique.
God. What I wouldn’t give.
She contradicted his most apparent motivation—lust, essentially—or could it be true that Sute’s cryptic impressions were more on the mark: that many folk who stayed at the inn experienced a rampant upsurge in libido? Can’t be true. Ridiculous, he thought, yet a few minutes later he found himself matching the address on the business card to the numbers on the transom of a handsome Federal-period row house right in the middle of Number 1 Street.
“Come in, please,” the globose man greeted with a handshake. Sute wore, of all things, a crimson smoking jacket and white slacks. “Don’t mind the mess. I’m not known for my tidiness.”
“Not many writers are,” Collier said, instantly looking around. “Fascinating place.” The living room was dusty and a bit unkempt but full of fine antiques, wall tapestries, and polished stone busts.
“Upstairs is a bit nicer, and that’s where my manuscripts and sundries are.”
Collier followed him up, wondering how many male prostitutes had done the same. Ahead of him, almost face-level, Sute’s backside left little play on either side of the stairwell.
The upstairs was mostly master bedroom, plushly carpeted and walled with books. More stone busts on pedestals adorned the large room, along with sumptuous old oil paintings.
“Would you care for a drink?” he asked, opening a wide liquor cabinet.
“No, thanks. I’ve been doing a little too much of that lately, but feel free.”
Sute poured himself something in a tiny snifter. “Mind if I smoke?”
Collier laughed. “Of course not, it’s your place.” He quickly regretted his answer when Sute whipped out a big pipe and began packing it up. “On the phone, you inquired about Gast’s daughters—I guess I neglected to mention them when we had lunch.” After a few gaseous puffs he handed Collier an opened box full of paper. “Here’s one of my unpublished books, which details the children. But like most of this tale, it’s a very unpleasant one, so be forewarned. Page thirty-three.”
“Are there any pictures of them, photo plates?” Collier asked, flipping through. “Didn’t you mention you had some old-style photos—ferrotypes, or whatever they were called?”
Sute sat down in an oversize reading chair, toking the nauseatingly sweet pipe. “No photographs of the daughters are extant, I’m afraid. Just some daguerreotypes of Mrs. Gast.”
“Isn’t that strange? Gast goes to that considerable expense to photograph his wife but not his children?”
“Normally that would seem strange. But Gast didn’t like his daughters. They were very much mama’s girls; they took after Penelope exclusively, and this I mean in some regrettable ways.” Before Collier could ask for elaboration, Sute continued, “And it must also be said that Harwood Gast was very suspect of them.”
“Suspect in what way?”
Sute pursed his lips. “Gast suspected that neither girl was necessarily sired by his loins.”
Collier nodded. “The element of promiscuity. I almost forgot.”
Sute leaned back, puffing. “If I may, why an interest in Gast’s daughters?”
Collier half laughed. “If I told you, Mr. Sute, you’d think that I was a California loony.”
“Please. I’ve indulged you, haven’t I?”
The man was right. I’m not gonna be here much longer anyway, so what difference does it make what he thinks? “All right. Since I’ve been staying at the inn I’ve been experiencing some…things…that I’m hard-pressed to explain.”
“But I told you at lunch, so have many of the inn’s guests.”
“Right, but, specifically? I’ll just go ahead and tell you. You can laugh me out of here, and I’d deserve it, but…”
The mass of flesh that was Sute’s face creased from a smile. “I’m listening.”
“There have been a few times when I swear I’ve heard children’s voices at the inn—two young girls.”
“And according to Mrs. Butler, there aren’t any children staying there,” Sute presumed.
“Exactly.”
“And if you heard the voices of the children, you must’ve heard the dog as well.”
Collier thought his face had just hardened to the density of the Caesar bust.
“The dog is heard more at the inn than the children.”
“Was it brownish, sort of a dark mud color?”
“No references to its color, coat, or breed. It was the girls’ pet. Its name was Nergal.”
Nergie. Nergal. Collier sought a link to logic but could find none.
“Peculiar name for a dog, but when you consider that the farthest extremes of the Gast lore are founded in demonology, you have to wonder. The name ‘Nergal’ is referent to a Mesopotamian demon. A devil of pestilence and perversion, though I don’t put much credence in that.”
Collier had to ask the next question right away. “Were the girls named Mary and Cricket?”
“Yes.”
He’s lying. He’s jerking me around for fun.
“But of course someone else could’ve told you their names,” Sute added.
“No one did.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“I swear.”
Sute pointed to the box of paper. “Look on page thirty-three.” Collier turned to it and saw the heading.
CHAPTER TWO
DAUGHTERS OF DARKNESS: MARY AND CRICKET GAST
“Cricket, of course, was a nickname. The birth certificate cites Cressenda. She’s described as dark-haired and mildly retarded. She was fourteen when she died, while Mary was chubby—more squat-bodied—and blonde. Four years older than Cricket. They both died on the same day, incidentally. April 30, 1862. And, yes, they were murdered by Harwood Gast. Their bodies were discovered on May third by the town marshal.” Sute’s eyes thinned. “Where did you see the girls? In the hotel?”
“I never said that I did see them,” Collier commented, feeling sick.
“I’ll be blunt, Mr. Collier, if you don’t mind. My impression is that you’re a very intuitive man…but your face is easy to read.”
“Great.”
“The girls’ ghosts are typically only heard inside, but they’re usually only seen outside. Where did you see them?”
Collier could only peer at the man. “You’re talking about ghosts as though you personally believe in them.”
“Oh, I do. Very much so. And though I may not have been totally honest with you during our lunch, I very much believe that Mrs. Butler’s inn—the Gast House—is full to bursting with ghosts. I believe that it is permeated with the horrors of its original owner. A moment ago you were confident I’d be ‘laughing’ you out of here, but as you can see, I’m not laughing.”
Collier rubbed his brow. “Well. At least I don’t feel so idiotic now.”
“No reason to. You see, Mr. Collier, it’s pure human nature. Even for those who don’t admit it, human beings love a good ghost story.” Sute smiled. “The only problem is that some of them are true.”
Collier sighed in a strange relief.
“And some people are more susceptible than others—you for instance. But I’m most curious now. I take it you saw them outside the building somewhere?”
“In the woods,” Collier admitted. “There’s a creek. And the dog was there. But I was really drunk, so—”
“You doubted your perceptions—a normal reaction, I’d say.”
“But I guess the question I have to ask most”—Collier could refrain no more—“is…was the room I’m staying in either of the daughters’ bedroom?”
Sute nodded. “It was both of theirs.”
I knew it. “But at least they didn’t die there,” he said, relieved.
“I guess I should tell you now what I deliberately neglected to mention previously. Both Mary and Cricket’s dead bodies were found in that same room on May 3, 1862.”
Collier fumed. “You told me no one died there!”
“No one did. Gast murdered them on the property, on April thirtieth, then had some of his men transfer the bodies, to their beds.” A low chuckle. “Don’t fret. The bed you’re sleeping on isn’t one of them. The original beds were burned.”
Collier felt accosted now by sickness and confusion. “Why would Gast kill them somewhere else and then move their bodies to their beds? Where exactly did he kill them?”
Sute pointed again to the manuscript. “It’s the absolute worst part of the story, Mr. Collier. But you can read it there. Flip to the account in italics. It’s the marshal’s. But if you’re certain you want to do so…then, please, let me advise that you have a drink. Something stronger than beer.”
Collier slouched. It’s not even noon…“Sure.”
“What’ll you have?”
“Scotch on the rocks.”
Sute lumbered up to the cabinet, while Collier’s eyes flicked down to the dusty manuscript. Several paragraphs down on page thirty-three, he found a transition heading: EXCERPTED FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF MATHIAS C. BRADEN, TOWN MARSHAL, MAY 3, 1862. But before he could begin, Sute brought him his drink. “Thanks,” Collier said after the first cool sip.
“Those papers there in your pocket,” Sute noted. “It looks like alkali rag.”
Collier had no idea what he meant.
“A lot of printing paper during the first part of the nineteenth century was part rag pulp mixed with wood fibers. An alkali-soda base was used in the process. It bears a distinctive appearance.”
“Oh, these, yeah.” Collier reached to his breast pocket and withdrew the checks he’d discovered in the desk. “I brought them to show you. I found a bunch of them at the inn. They look like paychecks—from Gast’s railroad company.”
Sute examined the ones Collier had brought. “Oh, yes. Mrs. Butler has one of these on display, doesn’t she?”
“Right.”
“And you say you found a lot of them?”
“Yeah—fifty, sixty, maybe. They were stashed in an old writing desk, probably overlooked all these decades.”
“I’m sure they were. I’ll have to ask Mrs. Butler to let me examine them all, for the various names.”
“Gast’s employees, you mean?”
“Exactly. To cross-reference them with the other sources in my archives.” He held one up. “See here, this man here? N.P. Poltrock. He was Gast’s chief of operations. And Beauregard Morris—the crew chief. These men probably killed themselves on May second or third. Gast himself was already dead by his own hand—on April thirtieth—but it may be that Morris and Poltrock forestalled their own suicides to finish up a few of Gast’s final requests, and to have a last hoorah in town. They both died in one of the parlors.”
Collier tried to fix a chronology. “Gast hanged himself on the last day of April—”
“After he murdered his wife, his maid, Taylor Cutton, and his children.”
The sickness continued to churn. “Do you know how the first two guys killed themselves? Morris, and the other guy?”
“It’s in the same account by the marshal.” Sute gestured the manuscript again. “Morris cut his own throat, and I believe Poltrock shot himself in the head.”
The awareness thumped in Collier’s blood like a slow heartbeat. He recalled his nightmare: he was a prostitute named Harriet. The guy who raped me…Wasn’t his name Morris? He remembered the dream all too vividly. Harriet never reclaimed the money he owed her. She’d seen his body in the parlor. With his throat cut.
I can’t tell Sute that, I just can’t!
“They look like paychecks…”
“The system was a little bit different back then—the workers were always paid in cash, often on the job site, but, yes, that’s essentially what these are. Once it’s endorsed it becomes a receipt for payment. I’m sure the company’s treasurer kept these to maintain an accurate accounting. That’s this man here—” Sute’s stout finger tapped the bottom of a check. “Windom Fecory.”
“The guy the local bank’s named after.”
“Yes.” An expression of amusement touched Sute’s face. “If the current bank president had known more about the real Windom Fecory, I suspect he’d have chosen another name.”
“Why?”
“You’ll recall the more abstract elements of our discussion—the supernatural element—”
Collier tried not to smirk. “Gast selling his soul to the devil, you mean.”
“Not necessarily the devil, but possibly an adjunct to the same entity. That would indeed be Fecory. He produced a seemingly limitless flux of cash without ever once depleting Gast’s personal account. That’s how the more far-fetched extremes of the story go, at least.”
“You just said you believe in ghosts. Do you believe that?”
“I can’t say,” Sute replied, still eyeing the checks. “But I must mention, if only in passing, that the name Fecory bears a suspicious resemblance to what you might think of as a demonic acolyte or serf, if you will. The archdemon who guards Lucifer’s netherworldly treasures is called Anarazel, and his acolyte is called Fecor.”
“Fecor, Fecory.” Collier got it. “But I don’t buy the demon stuff, it’s too hokey.”
“I agree, but say that it’s true. Windom Fecory was Gast’s paymaster; it was his job to remunerate cash in exchange for services. The demon Fecor can be likened to Anarazel’s paymaster, to remunerate Satan’s treasure…to those worldly men who serve him.”
Collier tossed his head. “Fine.”
“And I’ll add that there is no accounting for Fecory after April thirtieth, not only the day that all these checks have been dated but also the day that the railroad was officially completed, and Harwood Gast came home for the last time.” Sute maintained a clear interest on the checks. “Ah, and here’s one for Taylor Cutton, the foreman.”
“Don’t tell me he knocked himself off, too…”
Another smile sunk into Sute’s face. “You’re not very attentive, Mr. Collier. I’ve already informed you that Taylor Cutton was murdered in the house—”
The memory sparked. “The guy Gast drowned in the hip bath.”
“Yes. Also on April 30, 1862.”
Collier couldn’t help but recall the gurgling sound from the bath closet last night, and the gnawing sound…I’ll just have out with it. What the hell? “Look, Mr. Sute. Since I’ve stayed at the inn, I’ve had a—”
Sute interrupted, “An accelerated sexual awareness, yes. You’ve implied that. Certain people have experienced the same thing while staying there.”
Collier probably blushed. “Yeah but I’ve also had several nightmares where I’m someone else. Two nights ago I dreamed I was a Confederate sentry. I was guarding prisoners who were being deloused in a converted barn. It occurred to me that these people—civilians—were being processed for something—”
Sute didn’t seem surprised. “Indeed they were. They were being processed for their extermination.”
The word struck a black chord. “Extermination as in incineration?”
“Before I answer, tell me exactly why you ask.”
“The nightmare,” Collier implored. “The detainees were all naked and malnourished, and their hair was all cut off. Then they were packed back in a prison wagon—a wagon that departed from a nearby train depot—and taken up a large hill. In the dream, I couldn’t see what was at the top of the hill, but I saw smoke, a steady, endless plume of smoke. Like they had a big bonfire up there.”
“It wasn’t a bonfire, it was the former Maxon Rifle Works, once the largest blast furnace in the South. It was closed down in the 1820s after superior facilities were built in North and South Carolina, but before that time, Maxon produced more rifle barrels than any other metal works south of the Mason-Dixon. It was a technological marvel during its heyday—the coal bed was fifty feet in diameter, and it possessed a high-efficiency bellows system that was operated by a water wheel.”
Collier’s mind filled with confused murk. “So the detainees were slaves, laborers forced to work at the furnace?”
“No,” Sute informed. “It was Gast who refired the barrel works, but not for weapons production. He built an entire railroad to Maxon and refired the furnace solely to incinerate the innocent.”
Collier felt tinged with evil. In a sense, it explained everything he didn’t know, all at once. If…
“Why would he do that?”
Sute sat back down, fingering the old checks. “Either because he was insane, or because it was part of the deal. Riches in exchange for service. Mr. Collier, ritual atrocity and the sacrifice of the innocent are nothing new in the history of the occult. An oblation to the devil by the spilling of innocent blood is a powerful brew. Maxon was the Auschwitz of the Civil War…and almost nobody knows about it. The furnace’s obscure location kept it in operation even for weeks after the war ended. How’s that for evil, Mr. Collier? How’s that for Satan protecting his flock?”
Collier wanted to leave. He’d heard enough. If it was all true, or all bullshit, he was done.
“Toward the end, the coal stores gave out,” Sute went on. “Union troops were only a few days away, but there were still a hundred or so detainees awaiting incineration. So with no way to burn them, a slaughterfest ensued…”
Collier stared at him.
“It was a grim scene indeed that awaited the federal forces. They discovered locked prison wagons that had been set aflame with their charges still inside. But children had been pulled aside and beheaded, the heads left in neat piles for the troops to find. Dozens more were pitchforked to death, or simply hanged. Heaps of bodies were found rotting in the sun. It was a celebration of evil, Mr. Collier. Truly the devil’s jubal.”
Collier finished the strong drink, craving a good beer now, but before he could bid a curt farewell, Sute asked:
“But back to your nightmare. Is that the only nightmare you had at the inn?”
The recounting of atrocities made Collier forget the actual reason he’d come. “Well, no. You don’t seem surprised or suspicious that I’m having dreams that detail past events that I was previously uninformed of.”
“I’m not surprised,” Sute said as baldly as his pate. “I’ve spoken to many people who’ve had similar experiences there. Transpositional dreams are commonplace in haunted-house phenomena, Mr. Collier…if you believe the technical mumbo jumbo that’s often affixed to it.”
Collier tried to synopsize in his head: Gast burned innocent women and children to death in a giant blast furnace…to pay his debt to Satan…
“One thing I forgot to mention,” Sute intervened, “is how Gast spiced up his supposed reverence to the devil. The railroad was finished on April thirtieth, and even minutes after the final spike was driven, the first contingent of captives were transported to Maxon. Before Gast and his men returned to town, however, there’s the matter of the slaves who worked so devotedly for him.”
“You’re going to tell me that the slaves sold their souls, too?” Collier couldn’t help the sarcasm.
“Not at all. Gast promised them their freedom when the job was complete, but he executed them all instead, a fitting final touch. His security team opened fire on all the slaves at once, firing low body shots so they’d be incapacitated rather than killed on the spot. He wanted them alive for the furnace. It’s ironic that the slaves who built the railroad were among the first into the coal bed, Gast’s first payment to his benefactor.”
Collier sat numb. He felt as though he were sinking into a morass of distilled putrefaction.
“Sorry, I’ve strayed,” Sute admitted. “You were going to tell me about another nightmare?”
Collier had no good judgment left. “Last night I dreamed I was in the house. I was a woman—I was a prostitute.”
“One of Bella’s, no doubt. Bella Silver, but nobody knows her actual last name. She was the madam at the town bordello.”
Collier nodded, gulping. “I went up to the house, and the marshal was there—”
“Braden.”
“—with a deputy. We were the first to discover Gast’s body hanging from the tree out front—”
“Then this would be May third.”
“That’s exactly the day, and I know that because I saw it on a calendar at Bella’s—” Collier wheezed choppy laughter, knowing how mad he must appear. “There was a hole in the front yard, and shovels, and anyway the marshal ordered me to help him search. We were searching for Mary and Cricket Gast.”
Sute sat large and immobile, listening.
“You told me about Cutton yesterday, and how Penelope was murdered, and also about Gast hanging himself,” Collier continued almost breathlessly, “so that part of the dream could’ve been suggestion, but I didn’t know about the other two suicides—”
“Poltrock and Morris—”
“Yes, yes, but last night I dreamed what you told me today, and I’m positive I hadn’t heard it elsewhere.” Now Collier’s fingers were digging into his thigh. “In this goddamn nightmare I went inside and saw the same thing—I saw Morris with his throat cut and I saw Poltrock with part of his head blown off, and then I went upstairs and I saw Cutton in the washroom where someone drowned him in the fucking hip bath, and then I looked in another room and saw Penelope lying naked on a blood-drenched bed with an ax in her privates—”
Sute looked alarmed. “Mr. Collier, relax. These kinds of tales can get under anyone’s skin. Let me get you another drink to calm you down.”
“I don’t want another damn drink,” Collier harped. “I want to know what was in the children’s room, the room I’m renting now. In the nightmare I went to open it and it was locked. So the marshal’s deputy kicked it open, but they wouldn’t let me look! Mary and Cricket were in there dead, right?”
“Correct.”
“But they weren’t killed in that room—you already said so. So where were they killed? And why were their dead bodies moved to that room after the fact?”
“For an obscene effect, I’m sure.” Sute’s voice seemed to vibrate in a grim suboctave. “It was Gast. He wanted horror. He wanted the children to be found, don’t you see? Read some of the excerpt…”
Collier’s eyes surveyed the italics:
. . Gast and his first team had already arrived back in town a week ago, according to the station master. There was no difficulty in discernment, after I’d spoken to Richard Barrison, a plowman, who testified that he saw several of Gast’s men digging a large hole next to the front court. Not thirty minutes later, when returning, Barrison reports that he saw the same men refilling the hole. This was shortly before one o’clock in the afternoon. Further deliberation was hardly necessary when we discovered the bodies of those poor girls…
Collier rubbed vertigo from his eyes. “My God…You mean he—”
“Gast buried his two daughters alive, then went about the business of murdering Jessa and seeing to the gangrape and sequent ax-murder of his wife. Cutton was murdered sometime after one in the afternoon as well.” Sute diddled with another drink. “Just before sundown, he ordered Morris and Poltrock to exhume Mary and Cricket’s bodies and place them in the bedroom. He closed the door, and locked the dog in with them. He knew that it would likely be days before the bodies were discovered. He wanted them to rot down a bit first, which is why he closed the windows. And the dog, of course, having nothing to eat…”
“The dog ate the girls’ bodies,” Collier droned.
Sute looked a bit sick himself now. “Not…just that, I’m sorry to say…”
“What do you mean?”
The obese man pointed again to the manuscript in Collier’s lap. “Perhaps it’s best that you not read anymore. An abridged version might be less offensive.” Sute cleared his throat. “The girls were pregnant when Gast put them in the hole, probably considerably so.”
“He buried them alive and they were pregnant?” Collier almost shouted his outrage.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Rape-related pregnancies?”
“Hardly. See, these young girls weren’t so innocent themselves. With a mother like that for a role model? They were notoriously promiscuous and quite willing, at least according to the plethora of letters and resident diaries. And what you’re not comprehending is this: Gast wanted their punishment to be rich. After several hours under the ground, the girls were dead and the fetuses miscarried. The corpses were then exhumed—four of them, mind you—and lain in their beds. Hence, the dog’s first pangs of hunger were satisfied by the fetuses and afterbirth, and when there was none of that left…it started on the girls. That’s the scene that awaited Marshal Braden and his deputy when they forced open that door, and no doubt the same scene you would’ve witnessed in the nightmare had you looked in the room.” Sute sighed. “Rumor has it that the dog escaped, never to be seen again. But you can be sure…it escaped with a full stomach.”
And all of that, Collier regarded, happened in the room I’m staying in now…
Was Gast simply a man gone mad, or was it really something worse, something which, for all intents, was impossible? The silence that followed made the room seem darker; Collier’s brain felt like nerveless meat. I’m some kind of an antenna, he thought, and the inn is the power source. But did he really believe it was a power source charged by the evil of the past?
He felt older when he pushed up from the chair. “I have to go now.”
“It’s a harrowing story, Mr. Collier. But now you know all of it. Of course, knowing what you know now, you’re probably sorry you ever asked.”
“It’s my nature.” He tried to laugh, and handed back the manuscript.
“You’re sure you don’t want to borrow it?” Sute asked.
“No. I wouldn’t be able to hack it. I’ll be leaving soon anyway.”
Sute rose to put the manuscript up; then he returned the checks to Collier. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope it’s not the town’s ghastly history that’s sending you away.”
Collier lied. “No, no, I’ve got to get back to L.A.” There was a discomfort that continued to itch at him. What did it matter what Sute might say when he was gone? Nothing, he realized. Still, he didn’t want anything getting back to Dominique, even though he realized that he’d probably never see her again after tonight.
“Mr. Sute? Please don’t tell anyone what I’ve said today—the nightmares and all.”
Sute stood half in shadow now, a smoking-jacketed hulk. “It’s all in confidence, Mr. Collier. As I said before, you’re an intuitive man. You don’t want me to repeat what you’ve told me. And as with any agreement between good gentlemen, I trust that you’ll keep my secret as well.”
It was the first time that Collier had noticed the five-by-seven framed picture of Jiff, on the nightstand. I guessed that one right, too…
“I understand. It was nice meeting you—” Collier shook hands. “Thanks for satisfying my curiosity. It’s definitely killed this cat.”
“It’s only a story, Mr. Collier.” Sute tried to sound jovial.
“But one that we both know is true…”
Sute shrugged with a smile.
As Collier made to leave, his psyche felt like a watch spring that had popped. I’m not the Boy Who Cried Wolf, I’m the Boy Who Asked Too Much. But he knew this: he’d heard more than he could stand, and now he was going home with his tail between his legs—
“Not just yet!” Sute was back at a bookshelf, and slid out some heavy folders. “You wanted to see these.”
“What…are they?”
“The daguerreotypes.”
A rigor seized Collier.
“Mr. Collier, I know you’ve had more than your fill of the local lore…but after hearing it all, can you really walk away without ever seeing the only existing photographs of Penelope Gast?”
You bastard, Collier thought. He remained unresponsive for several more moments, then said, “All right. Let’s see.”
Sute carefully slid some metal sheets from various protective folders. “Take care to only touch the edges,” Sute requested.
Collier found the first stiff sheet obscurely bordered in black; within the border the image seemed to float. Ghostly was the best description of what Collier’s eyes fixed on: Penelope Gast gazing askance in a ruffled French-style bustle and petticoat. The embroidered bodice piece hung unlaced down the front to reveal a plenteous white bosom, starkly nippled. Collier gulped. Even in the grainy photograph, she was infinitely more beautiful than the modest oil portrait at the inn.
“Genuine daguerreotypes were hard to come by,” Sute explained, “and outrageously expensive for private citizens.”
Collier thought of Hollywood producers who had professional sculptors cast their wives’ nude torsos and hang them on the wall. This was the same thing for rich men of the mid-1800s. Putting one’s wife on a pedestal.
“Tintypes were more common during and after the Civil War, but the images were inferior and tended to lose detail after time. Gast spared no expense to immortalize the image of his wife.”
And then have her gang-raped before he dropped an ax between her legs…Collier looked at the next, this one even more racy. Mrs. Gast stood poised with a togalike garment snaking up one leg, between her legs, then around her neck. Her legs were model perfect. The toga covered one breast; her right hand cupped the other. The light long curls of her hair seemed to illuminate about her head. Did he detect the faintest freckles in her cleavage?
He never saw it coming. The next sheet showed Penelope Gast lying totally nude across a reclining settee like an odalisque in a Turkish harem. The detail was shocking, as well as his ability to make out a single freckle just above the clitoral hood. And the woman’s pubis had been completely shaved.