Midnight Grinding (6 page)

He watched as Henri Larousse began to row back up the channel. The flashlight bobbed crazily in its suspension, throwing light upon the retreating boat. Larousse totally ignored Price’s pleas for help. He didn’t even turn around. He absently removed his cap to scratch his balding head.

The shimmering glow of the battery-generated light revealed two deep indentations on the back of the old man’s skull. Two ugly marks that seemed to sink clear past the bone to the brain, yet that had healed over many years ago.

Douglas Scott Price screamed loudly and fought furiously with the spiral of viscid silk that imprisoned him. But, of course, there was no escape. As the darkness swallowed the old Cajun and his boat, Price was keenly aware of movement in the trees above. When he finally saw the things creeping down the web toward him, as big as pit-bull terriers, his mind snapped and he began to shriek madly.

“Bon Appetite,”
called old Larousse from out of the night.

But the young man was beyond hearing him. Only the
Sanguinaire
acknowledged his well wishes, before they resumed their feeding.

THE CISTERN

Every small town or rural community has some particular point of interest that is native to that region. It may be a natural landmark or a man-made dwelling, like a home or church. Many are based in solid history and tradition, while some have grown murky and mysterious with the passage of time. In the town of Liberty, Tennessee, not far from where I live, there is a painting of a mule fifty or sixty feet up on the face of a stone cliff. No one recalls who put it there or why. And when it grows faded, it somehow becomes magically repainted. No one knows who is responsible for that act, either.

The good folks of Jackson Ridge weren’t sure how the stone cap of the old cistern came to be. But, as they were to find out, it was not only a local landmark, but a barrier that separated good from evil…

Surprisingly enough, it was the same as he last remembered.

Well,
almost
the same. Of course there would have to be changes after twenty years. The old Ridgeland Theatre had been replaced with a new grocery store and the solemn gray-stoned front of the Cambridge County Trust & Loan now sported a thoroughly modern automatic teller. But everything else was there, unchanged and constant. It matched the vivid memories of his boyhood like a photograph that had somehow remained true in the passage of time, retaining its brilliance instead of fading to a disappointing drabness like he had dreaded it would.

Jackson Ridge, Tennessee had been Jud Simmons’ hometown from birth until age twenty-one. He had spent a happy childhood in its peaceful, picturesque setting. But, like many had before, Jud left its comfortable niche of tranquility and had plunged headlong into the urban rat-race and a vicious cycle of stress, anxiety, and potential coronaries. In fact, Jud hadn’t even thought of stopping in Tennessee on his way back from a business conference in Atlanta. He had been cruising down the interstate when the sign had loomed before him. NEXT EXIT—JACKSON RIDGE. Nostalgia had gripped him unexpectedly and he had turned off the exit, driving down the two-lane rural road, across the old bridge, until he was finally there.

Jud cruised slowly past Chapman’s Feed CO-OP and the low brick building of Jackson Ridge Elementary, marveling at the sameness of it all. He drove along the shop-lined street until he reached the grassy expanse of town square with its ancient oaks, two-story courthouse, and tarnished bronze statue of the Reverend Caleb Jackson, the Lutheran minister who had founded the town in the early 1700s.

The main thoroughfare was unusually quiet, even for a small town, but the sidewalks were lined with cars as far as the eye could see. Jud was lucky to find an empty parking space directly in front of the courthouse. As he cut his engine, he sat wondering if
it
was still there: the one point of interest he was most anxious to see again. But of course it was. It had always been there and always would be.

He left his Lexus and walked to the eastern end of the grassy courtyard, enjoying the crispness of the autumn afternoon. He approached a wide slab of smooth stone and mortar that lay beneath a state historical marker. The old cistern…there as it had been since the founding of Jackson Ridge in 1733. It had been no more than a simple underground reservoir that had collected rainwater for the few residents when the little town was no more than a trading post for those settlers brave enough to venture into the wilderness south of Virginia.

Jud walked around the vast slab of stone. The cistern…a source of legend and fantasy for young and old alike, a thing of mystery. SEALED IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD—1765 was chiseled into the great, flat lid that the townfolk had, for some unknown reason, secured over the pit of the well long ago. Everyone had their favorite stories for exactly why the cistern had been sealed. Some said it had been covered when a typhoid epidemic poisoned the town’s water supply, while others claimed that bodies were buried there: the remains of a French trapper and his nine Indian wives, violators of the Reverend Jackson’s strict moral code. Almost every kid in town was sure that buried treasure had been stashed there—precious jewels and golden doubloons as big around as the face of Grandpa’s pocket watch.

As Jud finish reading the historical marker and looked down at the gray expanse of ancient stone, he was shocked to find that, during his long absence, a long fissure had split the heavy lid. The crack was a good two feet across, musky darkness gaping from the depths within. He felt a sinking disappointment grip his heart as he crouched to examine it better. “Now what the hell happened here?” he muttered.

“Joe Bob Tucker got drunk the summer before last,” came a child’s voice from behind him. “Ran his four-wheel-drive up onto the grass and hit the thing a good lick. They tossed him in the county jail for a whole month just for putting that crack down the middle…I guess because it was a historical thing and all.”

Jud turned and regarded the boy. He must have been around nine or ten, a short fellow in faded overalls, a striped T-shirt, and worn sneakers. He was a cute kid, all freckles and bright red hair. From the drabness and ill-fit of his clothing, Jud figured the boy must belong to one of the poor families who had always lived on Esterbrook Road, another unchanging constant in the little hamlet of Jackson Ridge.

“Joe Bob Tucker, did you say?” grinned Jud in fond remembrance. “I went to school with a Joe Bob Tucker…kind of lanky fella with buckteeth and a scar across the bridge of his nose?”

The boy nodded. “Yep, that’s him all right.” He studied the stranger with interest. “So you were from around here once, mister?”

Jud walked over and extended his hand. “Yeah, a long time ago. My name is Jud Simmons. I live in Chicago now. And what is your name?”

The boy took his hand proudly, delighted to be shaking with a real grownup. “Name’s Calvin…but everyone just calls me Chigger.”

Jud laughed good naturedly. “Well, it’s mighty nice meeting you, Chigger.”

The youngster beamed. “Same here.”

The businessman cast his eyes along the street he had just traveled. “You know, I don’t believe I’ve seen a single person since I drove into town. Where is everybody?”

“They’re all down at the fairgrounds, mister.” Chigger pointed to a colorful poster in a storefront window that proclaimed CAMBRIDGE COUNTY FAIR, SEPT. 8th-12th.

For the first time since his arrival, Jud heard sounds drifting over the wooded rise beyond the courthouse. The peppy notes of a circus calliope, the thunder, rattle, and roar of the rollercoaster, the steady hum of voices and loud pitches of the barkers on the midway.

“So how come you’re not over there joining in the festivities?”

Chigger’s smile faded. He stared down at his scuffed sneakers in shame. “On account I ain’t got no money.”

Jud frowned. “Not even enough for the fair?”

“I ain’t got
nothing
! Papa says he can’t afford to give me an allowance like the other kids, so I can’t go.” Then with a sudden burst of enthusiasm, he raised his eyes hopefully.

“That is, unless
you
treat me!”

Jud couldn’t help but grin. “Well, I wasn’t planning on staying long…”

Chigger was suddenly tugging at his hand. “Come on, mister…
please?
We’ll have a real good time. There’s all kinds of neat things going on down there. Mayor Templeton is judging the pie-baking contest, there’s gonna be a tractor-pull, and after dark the Fire Department is having a big fireworks show. Come on, will you, mister? Please?”

Jud knew there was no need in arguing. “Sure, Chigger, let’s do that fair up right!”

He took the boy’s small hand and, together, they climbed the rise that overlooked the fairground. They were greeted by the sights, sounds, and smells of a genuine country fair. Swapping boyish grins of anticipation, man and child descended into the swirling activity of break-neck carnival rides and colorful sideshow tents.

As afternoon passed into evening and the evening into night, Jud and Chigger had the time of their lives. They rode all the hair-raising rides, played all the midway games, and gorged themselves on junk food. But, as the sun went down, Jud began to feel a little uneasy despite the excitement of the festivities. It was the people who milled around them that conjured the sensation that something was basically wrong. He found himself noticing their faces. Instead of the cheerfulness and joviality that should have been there, he witnessed only tension and underlying fear. But why? He could not understand why they would feel such a way in such a festive place. He recognized a few folks from his distant past and tried talking to them, but they merely nodded and moved on or did not acknowledge him at all.

And there were other things, like the vendor at the concession stand. Jud had been in the process of buying himself and Chigger a foot-long hotdog and an orange soda, when he glanced up and saw—or
thought
he saw—the vendor’s face change slightly. One moment the man appeared normal enough, pudgy and middle-aged, and then the next his features seemed to be creased by some horrid torment, the flesh seared and blistered as if by some great heat. Then, abruptly, the puzzling sight shifted back into reality, returning the man to his former appearance.

“What’s the matter, mister?” Chigger asked.

“Nothing,” Jud told him. “Nothing at all.” But there had been something and, from Chigger’s sly grin, he gathered that the boy was somehow privy to it also.

They continued on down the bustling midway, Jud’s suspicions growing stronger as everyone began to prepare for the big fireworks display. His apprehension came to a head when Chigger wandered from him for a moment to watch a parade of cavorting clowns, some riding unicycles, while others sprayed the crowd with seltzer bottles. Jud was standing beside a tent, when a woman’s hand took his arm and drew him into the privacy of the fortune teller’s booth. The gypsy who confronted him stared at him with the same expression of anxiety. “You must leave this place now,” she warned gravely. “While you still have the opportunity to do so.”

“But why?” asked Jud. Instead of being irritated at her rudeness, he regarded her with an interest born of creeping dread. “What could there possibly be here that could cause me harm?”

The fortune teller’s fearful eyes stared out the open doorway. “The boy…the one called Chigger. Believe me, he is not what he appears to be.”

“You’re insane!” said Jud. “He’s just a little kid.” He turned and glanced absently out at the midway.

The dancing clowns were gone. In their place was a procession of naked humanity, writhing and wailing as they ran a gauntlet of hot coals and broken glass.

Jud turned back to the gypsy, his eyes questioning, then again looked outside. The clowns were back, walking on their hands, bombarding passersby with cream pies.

“I do not have time to explain,” said the woman, pushing him toward the rear of the tent. “Just go. Get back to town as fast as you can, get in your car, and drive as far from this place as possible. And never return.”

Jud was about to protest, when Chigger’s voice came from out on the midway. “Mister? Mister, where’d you go?”

Jud almost answered, but caught himself before he could make that fatal mistake.

There was something peculiar about that youthful voice, some dark intent hidden beneath the innocence and boyish charm. And, for one fleeting second, Chigger’s small form flickered like the waves of a desert mirage, giving a subliminal hint of some awful presence in his place. Something ominous and beyond human comprehension.

“Quickly, through the back way. You haven’t got much time!”

Without hesitation, Jud took the fortune teller’s advice, ducking through a flap in the canvas wall and making his way swiftly along the back lot of the carnival grounds. He ignored little Chigger’s inquisitive calls and made it to the wooded rise undiscovered. His heart pounding, Jud topped the knoll just as the first of the fireworks shot skyward, filling the starry night with bursts of heavenly brilliance.

He looked back down at that swirling maelstrom of shows and rides and fun and felt as if he had just been had.
You’re nothing but a damned fool, Jud Simmons!
he told himself.
You’re just letting your imagination run away with you. There’s nothing wrong…not with this place, not with these people, and certainly not with sweet, little Chigger!

He was just about to go back down and rejoin his little friend, when he happened to glance over his shoulder at the town behind him. Jud’s panic flared anew and he leapt down the steep rise, running toward the collection of quaint buildings that he had lived among so many years before.

In the eerie light of the skyward explosions, Jud witnessed what truly existed before him. The town of Jackson Ridge was in shambles. The picturesque storefronts were now dilapidated and decayed, their windows hanging in jagged shards. The paved streets were littered with debris and fissured with deep cracks. What few vehicles stood on the street were no more than rusted hulls, while the grass of the square was scorched an ugly brownish-black.