Scary Creek (25 page)

“Virgil, this is George Thacker, a friend I met last
night. He wants to see the Ryder house, too.”

Virgil offered a professional but cautious hand, a
steady easy pump and then a slow release.

“I think I see another ghost buster, eh, Charles? Well,
the more, the merrier.”

“George is a retired attorney,” I said.

Whatever it was that had fanned the flames of
familiarity in Virgil’s heart quickly died out. He conveyed sufficient displeasure
in even being in the same room with George.

“You plan on starting a practice in town, Mr.
Thacker?”

 George shook his head and divided his attention
between the two of us.

“No, I’m retired from the practice of law,” he said.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Virgil said. “This town needs
another lawyer like it needs another poisoned well.” He laughed.

George grinned and gazed at me as if he were seeking
my permission to speak.

“If you’re ready, we are,” I said.

He gave me a quick once-over.  “I see you’re wearing
your murdered man’s suit.”

I picked a piece of lint from the lapel. George’s face
sagged and his eyes got misty.

“You bet,” I replied. “I got a pocketful of fresh dug
grave dirt and I’m wearing my magic slouch hat,” I patted the left front pocket
of my pants.

Virgil excused himself and asked us to wait in his car
while he changed. When he reappeared, he was dressed in full battle gear, with
an antique M-1 slung over his shoulder. George stared in shock and awe. Virgil
stuffed the weapons in the wagon’s bay and slid behind the wheel.

“Party favors,” Virgil said, “in case things get out
of hand.”

George sat in the back on the edge of his seat, primed
and ready to jump if Virgil even looked as if he were going to ask questions.
When he did, it happened fast.

“Are you planning to invest in Vandalia real estate,
Mr. Thacker?” Virgil asked.

George rested his chin on the back of the seat and
smiled. “No, I’m retired,” he said, as if the two were related.  "Are you
from here?”

“Pittsburgh,” George he replied.

“Visiting relatives?”  Virgil asked.

“I’m here professionally,” said George.

Virgil gazed out the window thoughtfully.  “I thought
you were retired?”

“Retired from the law,” George affirmed, “but not
from…can I say it, Charles?”

I said it was okay to mention it, but only once.

“Preaching!” He shouted. “I’m here on an errand of the
Lord.”

Virgil cleared his throat roughly and gazed out the
window.

“Did you recruit him for this job?” Virgil asked in a
whisper.

“You wouldn’t understand,” I said. “It happened to me
and I still have doubts.”

“Not about the house, I hope.”

“He came looking for me, but now I think it would be
good for Constance to run his name through the computer to make sure he’s never
been a guest at the hotel.”

He wanted to know more about Constance. I told him
what I knew.

“She’s helping with the files. It would take a dozer
to plow through the paper over there.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

  Silver, sugar and mountain maple wrapped in flaming
funereal
pulchritudinous patches of crimson and gold leaves rustled in the wind.
The air was warm and intoxicating. I was anxiously anticipating a trek through
the woods. The adrenaline was bubbling like spring water.

We stopped in front of the iron gate. Now that the property
was mine, I did not hesitate to give a violent yank to the steel chains that
secured the lock.

George slipped out of the car before I knew what to
expect. He was on his knees in front of the gate reciting a string of oaths for
protection. I felt embarrassed by his piety, but did not think it proper to
disturb a man at prayer.

 Virgil stood by and watched. “Is he all right?”

“Righteous as rain,” I said, but I was uneasy.

In a strange way, George made me think I was participating
in a holy war.

My knees sank into the soft grass; I could feel my
kneecaps vibrating against my stomach. I wondered if universal harmony was
palpable.

“What are you doing?” Virgil shouted.

I stood and wiped the dirt and dead leaves from my
trousers.  “I just wanted to feel useful.”  I said.

Virgil did not appear interested in getting George off
his knees. I shook the thoughts from my mind and shouted, “Are you ready,
George?”

 “I’m ready to meet the evil forces,” he said.

It was a disquieting comment, especially since George
was doomed and Virgil was beginning to flounder.

Virgil suited up and strapped a helmet liner to his
head, wrapped a knife and cartridge belt around his waist, and swung the M-1 on
his shoulder. Then he stopped at the gate and his knees turned to jelly.

“I don’t know,” he said.

I could see his conviction wavering. “Come on,” I said.
“You only live once. Besides, you’re carrying enough fire power to level a
brigade.”

His mouth clenched and his eyes grew misty.

“I promised your mother-in-law nothing would happen,”
I said. “I mean to stand by my word.”

I assured him we were not trespassing into the house,
and I was wearing a qualified dead man’s suit.

“I just want to open one little grave.”

He was still unwilling to commit.

“How are we going to do that?” Virgil asked. “We
didn’t bring shovels.”

I tried to put his mind at ease. “There’s a gate house
at the cemetery. I’m sure we’ll find enough shovels there to complete our
nefarious deed.”

Had I seen a gatehouse? I wasn’t absolutely sure, but
I could recall seeing a brushy overgrown and weedy cemetery with a lone
concrete crypt annexed to the wall.

“Come on; let’s get it on,” I said.

I grabbed the slouch hats from the back seat and gave
one to Virgil. My knees were trembling as we mounted the wall. I kept expecting
skeletal hands and feet to appear. I l stepped next to Virgil in the event skeletal
limbs appeared up and grabbed hold of me. Fortunately, they were not
operational, or other factors had to be in effect before they appeared.

“Are you feeling strong and righteous?” I asked
George. His thick glasses made his eyes appear larger than normal.

“I’m feeling the power,” he said smiling and regaining
his composure.

“Don’t go overboard with that feeling,” I said.

Virgil suddenly pushed passed me, flexed his arms as
if he had found new strength and strode forward. “I’ll be the point man,” he
said and bolted up the path leading to the house.

The dry and brittle branches beneath our feet crunched
noisily. The vines were more tangled and the ground hard. The grass was bedding
down for winter. I wondered if I would be living in the house before the first
snowfall. I imagined myself sitting in front of a blazing fireplace while white
snow piled up in darkness.

I wondered if the gas wells were still producing, if
the furnace worked, or would I have to mine my own coal for the fireplaces like
the barons of the past. The thought of buying fuel to heat the house made me
angry. That kind of expense on top of everything else would be catastrophic.

Virgil kept marching toward the house. George walked
at my side. I heard him whimper, so I stole a quick glance. A look of agony
covered his face.

“You’re not getting sick, are you, George?”

His eyes were glaring at the back of Virgil’s head.

“No, I’m just worried about Mr. Virgil.”

Virgil strode toward the house like a surveyor pacing
off rods. I could hear him humming a tune. It sounded like some ancient Celtic
ballad far removed from his
ancestry. From behind and amid the shadows, his
clothes appeared covered with coal dust. Instead of a rifle, he seemed to be
carrying a pick over his shoulder.

“Where’d he get the pick?” I asked.

George strained his neck and eyes to see more clearly,
and then he whined again.

“Maybe he brought it with him,” he said, but neither
one of us had seen it near the car. We exchanged anxious glances.

“That is Virgil, isn’t it?” I asked.

George did not respond, but his eyes narrowed as if he
were trying to block out some odious vision.

Virgil was near the steps leading to the house when I
called out. He stopped, dropped his weapon, or the pick, and turned. Then he
ran up the steps and into the house. I cursed softly and ran after him, afraid
of what may have lured him away.

At the steps, I lifted the rifle off the ground and
held it in my hands. It was covered with coal dust. I placed it on the ground
and motioned for George.

“George, I want you to stay here and work up a few
prayers for Virgil and be serious about it. I’m going after him. When I come
out, I want to see you on your knees doing what you do best, do you
understand?”

His head and entire body were trembling fiercely and
his knees were sinking deeper into the thick matting of grass.

Virgil’s footprints were easy to follow. Dark smudges
of coal dust and dirt led me into the house. I followed them through the open
door and down the hall. In the kitchen, they were less discernible, but led to
the basement door. Halfway down the stairs they disappeared. Ground level
windows in the basement let in a little light. At the bottom of the stairs, I
could hear a moaning sound.

The basement was as large as a limestone grotto. Black
glistening walls of coal opened to dark underground tunnels. Sandstone pillars buttressed
bearing walls against floor joists near seams of coal.

An immense furnace occupied a corner of the basement
adjacent to a bin filled with tons of coal. A dark tunnel, six feet wide,
vanished into the seam. It reached to within a foot of the floorboards. A wire
gate stood in front of the passage. Beyond, I could see a steel door built into
a concrete wall. There were no rails leading into the mine; they were gone.

I could hear Virgil somewhere near the furnace. I
moved cautiously in that direction. The basement opened to several cavernous
extrusions, which had once served as storage areas, but were now empty.

Virgil was standing near the furnace clawing at a stonewall.
At least, I thought it was Virgil. Upon closer examination, I saw an
unrecognizable figure covered with black dust. He stood facing an old tunnel
entrance sealed with blocks of concrete.

“Are you all right?”

He ignored me and kept trying to walk through the
wall. I put a hand on his shoulder and he stopped. At the same moment, the coal
dust appeared to vanish from his clothes. His eyes opened and blinked rapidly
as if he were waking from a dream. He looked anxiously around the basement.

“I thought you said we weren’t going into the house?”

I tried to hide my confusion.  “I couldn’t keep you
away from here.”

He complained about the strange things that were
happening. He wanted to blame me, but decided instead to blame the house.

“This house is no good,” he said, and shook his head
dolefully. “Let’s get out of here. I’m never coming back again.”

I took his arm and turned him once more toward the
wall. “Look at this. It looks as if it may have been a mine entrance. Why do
you suppose they sealed it up? Take a look at the stone work; it’s identical to
the wall.”

“I don’t care if it’s identical,” he said. “I just
want to get out of here.”

I placed my hand close to an opening in the seam near
the stone and could feel a strong draft.

“So what?” He replied. “So they closed it off. Maybe
they ran out of coal, or got too far in and decided to quit. So what?”

I placed my finger in the narrow hole and something
bit it.

“Damn!” I shouted, “Must be a spider in there.”

Blood was flowing from a small cut that looked as if made
by a sliver of glass or metal. A sucking, slurping sound came from the wall and
I stepped back.

“Sounds hungry,” I said, but when I turned, Virgil was
halfway up the stairs.

I spotted two shovels propped against the basement
wall; it was as if they were there for my benefit.

George was still on his knees chanting when we
returned. He didn’t open his eyes until I touched his shoulder, and then he
nearly fell over in a faint.

“Come along, George, your prayers worked.”

“Thank God!” He shouted joyfully. I could only agree.

Chapter Twenty-Three

  Virgil took the lead again and we walked around the
house. We had to chop our way through a thicket of briers and brambles to reach
the cemetery. It was larger than I had imagined, about the size of a tennis
court. The gatehouse was crammed full of worn-out digging tools. Few gravestones
were standing upright. Nine or ten were leaning akimbo, the rest were lying on
the ground or covered with weeds. The inhumation dates were barely legible. There
were few legible names. I was looking for Elinore’s grave, but not with the
thought of exhuming her body. I believed it would make me more comfortable if I
could see where she was resting