Midnight Grinding (8 page)

Nothing lay on the dewy grass but shredded curtains and shards of glass. I was beginning to think the awful critter had made its escape, when a noise caught my ears. It had come from the chicken coop.

The walk I took across that dark barnyard that night was the longest one of my life. When I reached the henhouse, I found the door open and heard nervous clucking and rustling inside. I gathered up my nerve, jacked a fresh shell into the scattergun, and, holding the lantern ahead of me, stepped inside. After a few moments, I realized that, except for the regular inhabitants, the coop was empty. Just bins of hay-filled nests bearing frightened chickens. I was turning to leave, when the trap was sprung.

It came through the open door, so tall that its fleshy comb scraped the top of the doorframe. If it had been knee-high, I would have said it was a rooster. But since it was well over six feet tall, I could only describe it as being something horrible and demon-like. It strutted into that henhouse with an arrogance that reeked of pure evil. Its wings and tail feathers were oily black, like that of a crow. In fact, it was pitch black from head to toe; the comb and beard, the scaled feet, even the beak was dark as sable. Only its eyes glowed in contrast, burning like red-hot coals. Its fury was unmistakable, as was its intent.

It came for me as I backed toward the far wall and, this time, its aim was more true. It struck savagely, the long spur piercing the muscle of my left bicep, pinning my arm to the weathered boards of the shed wall. The pain was horrendous. The lantern slipped from my fingers and shattered on the hay-strewn floor. The flames spread quickly and, soon, the henhouse became an inferno.

With a hoarse crowing that signaled its triumph, it reared back with its other talon, intending to pin my skull to the wall. I remembered the shotgun then and, raising it one-handedly, stuck the muzzle into that hellish rooster’s belly and pulled the trigger. It lurched backward with the blast and the spur withdrew from my arm, releasing me.

I knew I had to get out fast. Flames lapped at the walls like dry tinder, catching the hay of the nests afire. Soon, the whole damned coop would go up. So I fired again and again, driving the horrid thing back into the far corner with a hail of buckshot. It slumped to the ground, flapping and hollering, but I didn’t take any chances. I left the henhouse, bolted the door behind me, and stood a good distance away to watch.

The boards of that old henhouse were bone dry and the structure went up quickly. I could hear the demon bird inside, shrieking, battering against the locked door in desperation. But my buckshot must have weakened it, for the door held firm. I watched as the coop became a bonfire, completely consumed in flame.

I figured that was the end of the evil thing, when the corrugated tin roof exploded skyward. Like a great Phoenix that devil cock rose. Its feathers were ablaze, its crow of agony shrill enough to shatter a man’s nerves and drive him to madness.

I raised my shotgun, but did not fire. I watched as the fowl climbed into the dark twilight as if trying to penetrate the very heavens. Then it swung off course, heading over the peak of the barn and toward the open pasture. I ran to the split-rail fence and, before my eyes, it seemed to disintegrate and break apart into a million tiny cinders. They drifted earthward like crimson fireflies, then vanished before hitting ground.

With a flashlight from the truck and my scattergun in hand, I searched the field over that night. I found nothing…nothing but a few scorched feathers.

And, by morning, they too were gone, like ashes upon the wind.

BLACK HARVEST

The rural South is steeped in tradition. Some of those traditions are observed solely within the confines of family gatherings, while others can encompass an entire community.

The tradition of finding the first red ear of the harvest dates back a hundred years or so, before John Deere and the concept of industrial agriculture turned the autumn harvest into something sanitary and impersonal. Back in those days, folks would come from miles around for a square dance and a corn shucking. It was a time of fellowship among friends and neighbors; a time of celebration.

And, every so often, it could also be a time of sacrifice.

Well, there it is fellas,” Elliot Leman said, gesturing toward a waist-high pile of newly harvested corn. “Get it done by midnight and we’ll have us a late supper and a barn dance that’ll ring long and loud throughout these Tennessee mountains!”

It was an old-fashioned corn shucking just like they’d had back in the olden days. In fact, there hadn’t been a decent shucking in Cumberland Valley for nearly fifty years. But Elliot’s yield had been so plentiful that year that he figured, what the hell, might as well make a celebration of it for the entire township. The Leman family had done it up right, too, orchestrating the gathering to the most authentic detail. The menfolk wore flannel shirts and denim overalls, while the ladies came in knitted shawls and ankle-length dresses of calico and gingham. Coal oil lanterns hung from the barn rafters, casting a warm glow over the nostalgic proceedings and putting everyone, young and old, into the mood for the hoedown to come.

Elliot stepped aside and the men lit into that pile of dried corn. They sat and peeled the shucks from the hard-kernelled ears, which they then tossed into a sturdy crib constructed of hand-hewn logs. Some of the women joined in, too, to speed the pace, while the rest prepared for the feast that would await at the end of their work.

One of those who took to shucking was Elliot’s eldest son, Curtis, a strapping boy of eighteen years. Curtis was a senior at the local high school, a straight-A student and athlete who had hopes of winning a football scholarship and going away to college. He was an intelligent boy, Curtis was, but he had never begrudged his father his eccentric ways of farming: planting by the signs and such as that. No, Curtis enjoyed the ways of simple country living. He cherished the fellowship and warm feelings that abounded in his papa’s barn that night as most of the tiny township of Cumberland Valley sat around the corn heap, just shucking and spinning yarns and tall tales, some of the men smoking cob pipes and chewing Red Man tobacco.

Halfway toward the midnight deadline, Curtis yanked the brittle husk off an ear and, much to his surprise, found the kernels along the cob to be a brilliant crimson red.

“Well, will ya’ll lookee there!” called out their neighbor, Charlie Walker.

Pete, the youngest of the Leman clan, laughed in delight. “Look, Papa…Curtis found himself a red ear.”

“Let me take a gander at that, son,” Elliot requested. He took the ear in hand and held it in the light of the nearest lantern. He turned it slowly and a big grin split his face. “Why, it surely is…a pure red ear. No spotted pokeberry corn there…it’s plumb blood red, through and through.”

“You know what that means, don’t you, young man?” asked Grandpa Leman with a wink.

“Yes, sir, I sure do.” Curtis blushed as red as his newfound ear.

“Tradition has it that you get to kiss the prettiest girl at the dance later on.”

“Who’s it gonna be, Curtis?” pestered Pete, nudging his big brother in the ribs. “Louise Varney or Emma Jane Betts? All the Abernathy girls are here tonight, each one of them prettier than the one before.”

“It’s my red ear, brother.” Curtis grinned, sticking the corn into his overalls pocket for safekeeping. “I’ll do the picking myself, if you don’t mind. Anyway, we’ve got a heck of a lot of shucking to do till we get to that bottle underneath.”

“Amen!” echoed several of the menfolk and, in anticipation, they continued to shuck and toss.

It was a quarter till twelve that night when Elmer Baumgartner let out a hoot and a holler. In triumph, he withdrew a gallon jug of corn liquor from the midst of the dwindling pile. The jug was passed around until the very last ear was shucked clean and the celebration began. Everyone grabbed a china plate and piled it high with fried chicken, sugar-cured ham, and plenty of homemade fixings.

A few of the guys were warming up with fiddle, guitar, banjo, and mandolin, ready to pick a little bluegrass for the big barndance, when Curtis finished his meal and joined a couple of his friends near the hayloft ladder. He surveyed the impressive abundance of pretty young ladies who gathered at the far wall, waiting to be asked to dance. He tried his darnedest to determine the loveliest of the bunch, but was constantly perplexed by the next one he laid eyes on.

Suddenly, he saw the one who fit the bill. She stood alone beside the open double doors, a shapely girl near his own age, dressed in blue calico trimmed in lace. Her complexion was like creamy alabaster and her long, waist-length hair was of a silky, raven blackness.

“Hey, fellas…who’s that gal over yonder by the door?” he asked, mesmerized by her beauty.

“I don’t rightly know,” said Hank Tyler. “Never seen her before. She ain’t one of the Harrison twins, is she?”

“Naw, both those girls have hair as light as cornsilk,” informed Teddy Dandridge. “That gal looks like she might have a touch of Cherokee in her.”

“Whoever she is, I’m going over to ask for a dance.” Curtis felt in his pocket for the lucky ear, then started across the spacious barn for the open doorway. Pastor Jones began to call a square dance, his baritone voice rising to the rafters. Most everyone there grabbed a partner and began to shake a leg to the tune of “Turkey in the Straw.”

Curtis Leman mustered a charming smile and made his way through the milling crowd. The girl noticed his approach, however, and perhaps guessed of his intentions. She quickly ducked through the barn door and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

“Hey, wait up!” Curtis called out and followed. Stepping out of the warmth and activity of the autumn celebration and into the chill, motionless night was like crossing over into another world. He hesitated at first, thinking maybe he should find another girl from whom to receive his rightly-won kiss. But her dark loveliness haunted him. He continued on through the empty barnyard, past pickup trucks and cars, until he saw a fleeting movement ahead. The girl’s playful laughter ran across the tattered ruins of his father’s cornfield. He watched as a pale flash of calico flitted among the skeletal stalks, then vanished.

With a nervous grin, Curtis climbed the fence and entered the dark field. He pursued the sound of her footsteps and soft giggles through the maze-like rows, tripping over broken stalks and autumn pumpkins in his haste. A full moon etched the drooping, brown leaves in silver luminance, while the rutted rows of turned earth were swallowed in the shadow of the Smoky Mountains. The high swells of the range had always seemed to cradle Cumberland Valley like a babe nestled in the bosom of a protective mother. But that night, the mountains seemed cold and distant.

He had reached the center of the forty-acre cornfield, when he stepped into a parallel row and there she was. She stood as pale as a ghost, waiting for him.

Curtis was again stricken by her beauty, but the tedious hunt had sapped him of most of his bravado. He approached her, forcing the smile now. She did not turn to flee this time. She merely stood and regarded him demurely as he cleared his throat and stepped forward.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, miss,” Curtis apologized. “I just wanted to talk to you for a spell.” As he grew closer, he marveled at how porcelain-smooth her features were, like the face of an antique china doll. Her eyes were dark and striking despite her apparent bashfulness. For a moment, they appeared as deep and bottomless as the black of her wind-swept hair. But, upon further inspection, they returned to their former hue of soft earthen brown.

“You did not follow me out here to talk,” she said, almost in a whisper.

Curtis grinned clumsily and produced the red ear from his pocket. “If you’re not familiar with the tradition…” he began.

“Oh, but I am…quite familiar,” she told him. She eyed the crimson cob as if it were the jeweled key to some wondrous treasure. “In fact, it was my people who originated the custom, long years before this valley was even settled.”

The boy’s apprehension eased a little at that assurance. “Then you’ll grant me my kiss?”

A cloud passed overhead, obscuring the moon, leaving her only in silhouette. “Most certainly, Curtis Leman.”

He was surprised. “You know my name?” he asked. “I’m sure that I don’t know yours. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you here in the valley before.”

“
Who
I am does not really matter. It is
what
I am that is most important this night.” She extended pale hands to draw him closer. “For you see, I am the maiden…the maiden of the Black Harvest.”

What do you mean by that?
he wanted to ask, but held his tongue. He didn’t want to spoil receiving his intended kiss by asking stupid questions. A lot of the mountain girls were odd sorts, possessing a strange sense of humor that usually went completely over his head. But that didn’t bother him as he started forward and took her dainty hands in his. All that filled his mind was her dark and almost savage beauty. He moved in closer, embracing her, staring deeply into the liquid pits of that strange girl’s eyes. He found none of the shyness she had displayed before. Instead, there flared a sultry flame of total abandonment.

“Kiss me,” she whispered, her lips lush and irresistible. “You’ve won the right…now claim your prize.”

Curtis intended to do just that. He swallowed dryly and brought his lips in close proximity to hers. The hoopla of the fall celebration seemed to be a thousand miles away. It was a mere distraction in the wake of this lady’s hypnotic charms.

When he found her lips icy cold to the touch, Curtis knew something was horribly wrong. He grabbed her slender waist to push her away, but the fullness of her calico dress seemed to crumple, as if the flesh beneath were slipping away. His fingers ripped through rotting cloth and slipped through the empty slots of her exposed ribcage. His knuckles scraped painfully against the pitted hardness of flattened bone, wedging there, denying his escape.

“Kiss me.”
Her lips moved like slivers of dead meat against his own.

Curtis tried desperately to pull away, but skeletal fingers clutched at him, dragging him nearer. A moan of horror rose in his throat as the lovely face of porcelain white seemed to yellow and crack with a hundred tiny fissures. The skin began to shatter and fall away like broken crockery, revealing stark white bone underneath. The sparkling brown eyes that had once smoldered with desire were now gone. Empty sockets glared at Curtis with an emotion akin to hunger, as the wretched thing pulled him closer.

Suddenly, he knew the meaning of her cryptic words. When Grandma Leman had fallen sick and passed away the previous year, Grandpa had sat before the hearth and, in a low, trembling voice, had said “The spring has bled into summer and the coming of autumn has brought upon us a black harvest.”

Curtis had never been able to figure out what Grandpa had meant by that…until now.

The Black Harvest marked the finality of one’s existence; the crop of youth planted, tended to maturity, and eventually reaped, the same as a field of summer corn or a base of Burley green tobacco. There is a balance between Man and Nature, equilibrium. And when the scales tip too heavily in one direction, compensation must be made.

“Kissss meeee,”
rasped the skeletal wraith. Her bony jaws clutched his lower face in a horrid kiss of eternal love.

Curtis began to scream wildly, his terror echoing through the hollow of ancient bones and the wind-whipped stalks of the deserted cornfield. But no one heard him. The sound of dancing feet and the rapid-fire staccato of banjo-picking drowned his weakened cries as the maiden lowered him to a bed of withered leaves and began to reap the ripened crop of that darkest of seasons.