Even Weeds Don't Grow in the Pet Cemetery

     To my regular visitors who may have tuned in to read one of my annual Halloween stories, I apologize, I wasn't able to pull it off this year. I'm living my own drama at the moment, plus I have two articles past due, so writing for fun will have to wait. In the meanwhile, you can create your own stories from these photos I took this summer in Salida, Colorado. The pet cemetery is just outside of town, and Sherpa Girl K and I found it while on an early morning exploration. There was quite a bit or roadwork going on, and she got dirty looks from a highway worker when she quickly pulled to side of the road to indulge the photographer.

The Road to Little Egypt

   

     Despite pulling a double, Vanessa drove straight through the night from Philly. Turning onto the familiar dirt tract, the sun was barely rising, but it gave her enough light to dodge the deeper puddles left by the last high tide. It had yet to sink in that she was here, especially after the last visit. It had been almost 15 years since she’d been in Little Egypt, and only then to attend her grandmother’s funeral.  After the train wreck that turned into, Vanessa couldn't imagine ever wanting to see the place again. But a phone call she was too busy to answer had set this trip in motion. After she’d gotten to all of her patients, there was time to sit and check her voice mail.

 “Hey Nessie, this is Treena. I know you probably don’t give a damn, but they say the old bastard will be dead before Thanksgiving, that ‘zema is kickin’ his ass good. If they be anything you wanna say, you better come say it soon.”

     He was awake earlier than he wanted, surrounded by his tubes and his tanks, listening to the numbing sounds of the air conditioner. Though it was late in October he still needed it to cut the humidity and ease his breathing, but the machine’s constant whir made it difficult to tell what was going on in the rest of the house. He couldn't remember if Treena had come home last night or not. She had given him his pills and then headed to the club. She may not have gotten her mother’s good looks, but she certainly got her taste for stepping out, as well as her taste for the bottle. She was his only child still living in Little Egypt, and despite her flaws, he was glad to have her around. The rest scattered as soon as they were able, ungrateful all of them. He didn't like to think about how much worse his boys would have turned out if he hadn't tried to show them what hard work was, and if he hadn't beaten at least some of the wild out of them.  After his wife ended up in the creek, he did what he could to teach the girls what women were for, but they didn't make it easy. His children couldn't care less with what he had to put up with all those many years just so he could keep a roof over their heads and food on the table.  He was a man, and those rich white bitches spoke to him like a child. All the while he stood there feigning a smile, hat in hand, saying nothing but yes ma’am so they would crack open those purses and begrudgingly throw a few hard earned dollars his way. They, their bridge clubs, prized azaleas and yapping little dogs, could all go to hell.

     Knowing it had never been locked, Vanessa came in through the kitchen door. She was greeted by the smell of stale cigarettes, and the sound of the faucet dripping on yesterday’s dirty dishes. Moving through the cluttered living room, she wasn't sure if that was the same worn out furniture she remembered, now covered by leopard and zebra throws. The floor creaked and gave a little as she walked down the hall. Pausing in front of her father’s door, where a no smoking, oxygen in use sign had been tacked up, she briefly closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then grabbed the doorknob.

     His sour train of thought was broken by Treena coming through the door, and none too soon. He needed her help getting to the bathroom before he wet himself. But this wasn't Treena, it looked like his wife, but how could that be?  She’s been dead for years, was she here to take him with her? Not that they needed an excuse, but the shock caused his lungs to let loose with a powerful round of coughing and spasms, and his bladder emptied anyway. It wasn't until she opened her mouth did he recognize his daughter Nessie.

     On the long drive south, Vanessa had plenty of time to rehearse everything she wanted to say. How he left so many scars, internal as well as external, on her, her sisters and her brothers. How his idea of parenting left a trail of stunted human beings, drug addicts, alcoholics and yet another generation of abused children. How what he referred to as father’s privilege, was known as child rape and incest everywhere else.  How if he wanted to know why only one of his children still spoke to him, and why none of his grandchildren knew him, he need look no further than his own black heart. As if having him as a father was not scary enough, he wove terrifying tales of child-eating monsters in the woods and marsh surrounding their house. But she wanted him to know that he was the only monster to have ever to set foot in Little Egypt.

     Vanessa entered the room knowing clinically what to expect from the final stages of emphysema, but she was stunned by her father’s appearance, and thoughts of any confrontation gave way. Here lay the man who has loomed so large in her head, whose decades ago actions still color every facet of her life, now small and weak like some unfortunate hatchling. Under the white sheets he was all barrel chest and stick legs, waving a thin brown arm erratically through the air in her direction. After her father fell into a horrible bout of coughing, she turned on the table lamp, and rooted through the contents of the nightstand until she found an inhaler.

“Good morning daddy, it’s Nessie. Let me try to get some of this in you, then I’ll go get something to wipe that mess off your face and get these sheets and your clothes changed. Maybe when you’re feeling better I’ll get you some tea and see what might be in this house for breakfast.”

You can read my other Halloween fiction here, here and here.

Still Sleeping

     Even when they no longer had to be, Sonny and Melinda were early risers.  She was always up to make sure Sonny had some breakfast before he headed to the creek to pull a meager living from the water.  What little money he did make was given over to Melinda who added it to the more considerable sum she collected in rent from the farms her daddy left her.  Finances held no interest for Sonny, and he was perfectly happy to let his wife handle them, as well as all other details of their life. 

     In the past few years, keeping track of Sonny took up most of Melinda's time, and to her friends, seemed to also be taking a toll on her health.  More than once, concerned neighbors called to say they saw him walking down the county road towards the docks, even though his boat was gone now, Melinda having sold it.  He walked because she also sold his truck after the sheriff warned her about ever seeing Sonny behind the wheel again.  In the house she found that keeping the television and radio off helped keep Sonny less agitated.  Except for the ever-present wind and Melinda's soft humming, things were kept mostly quiet now.

     The day things changed, Sonny came downstairs to no breakfast or coffee on the table, and no neatly rowed string of pills Melinda had been laying out for him.  He was able to find some cornbread from last night's dinner on the counter.  Sitting there most of the morning occasionally picking crumbs off the shirt he slept in, he listened to the wind outside and to the sounds of the house.  The phone rang about mid morning, but Melinda didn't answer it, and Sonny had stopped using the phone.  When it rang these days it was usually their daughter calling from across the bay, always at the same time, always with the same questions.  He once looked forward to her calls, but this changed as memories of her faded in his shrinking world.

     When Sonny's stomach told him it was time for lunch, but there was none, he went looking for Melinda.  He found her upstairs still in bed from the night before.  It was unlike her to nap, let alone sleep-in.  He was awfully hungry and needed her to wake up, but even calling her name she would not stir.  Sonny crawled into bed with Melinda thinking he could tickle her special spot and maybe wake her, but her arm was in the way, stiff and cold.  A disappointed, confused Sonny went back downstairs to eat the last of the cornbread, never thinking to open the pantry door or to look in the fridge.

     Early in the afternoon the phone rang again breaking the house's silence, but this time it didn't stop, and to Sonny felt as if the ringing was in his head.  Wishing the noise would stop, he finally picked up the phone, and on the other end there was a voice he thought he should know.

"Momma? Momma?  Momma are you there?"

"Hello. I'm Sonny Belote."

"Daddy?  Daddy, where's Momma?"

"Who?

"Where's Momma?  Melinda, where's Melinda?"

"She's still sleeping."

You can read my other works of Halloween fiction here and here.

Her Mother's Voice

The wind often kept her awake at night, words from the past echoing through the vacant rooms and through her head.  A branch from the black walnut tree scraping against the bedroom window like her dead mother's screeching voice.  Her mother's voice saying she was too fat, too slow.  That seam was crooked, the cake dry, the floor not clean enough.  Her mother's voice in praise of one sister's talent at the piano, and the other's beautiful hair, porcelain skin. The two brothers both clever and strong certain to make fine husbands. Her mother's voice telling her she would never marry and seeing to it that she didn't.  A lifetime later her mother's voice calling out to collect the breakfast tray, calling out to change soiled sheets, calling out for her red pills.

One morning soon, she would have that tree cut down and would finally stop listening to her mother's voice.

The House on Indiantown Creek

Aaron and Elizabeth Deale were married shortly after his return from the war. Though the rest of the state lay largely in ruin, the people on this side of the bay remained mostly unscathed with an optimistic eye on the future. As a wedding gift to his son and new daughter-in-law, Moses Deale built a house on a bit of high ground overlooking Indiantown Creek. The elder Deale was famous on both sides of the bay for his boat building skills, and it was with these talents he built a simple yet sturdy house that despite wind and tide still stands today.

Shortly after moving in Elizabeth turned the new oak, pine and brick into a warm home filled with beautiful, but modest things. She surrounded the house with bountiful gardens that provided much for her pantry, as well as frequent bouquets for the alter at church. She was proud of her home, but was the talk and envy of many village women. Marriage suited the young couple well, and they soon found themselves anxiously expecting a child. As far as first pregnancies normally go, this one was unusually easy and Samuel Deale entered the world without incident. By all accounts he was a delightful baby, and everyone said he was the spitting image of Aaron, who could not have been prouder.

Elizabeth was not so fortunate with her second pregnancy and suffered through most of the months. Twin girls, Martha and Mary were born after an agonizing labor that nearly took the young woman's life. For the next few months when the twins weren't sleeping, they were crying. Elizabeth's body was slowly healing, but most said her soul never did. The house she was so prideful of became cluttered and dirty, and the garden was overrun with weeds, and vegetables rotted in their rows. Even during the daylight hours Elizabeth kept to her bed, and when her eyes were indeed open, they remained vacant. She could barely nurse the twins, and her affections for Samuel and Aaron were absent. The family would not have eaten or had clean clothes to wear if it had not been for the tireless efforts of Elizabeth's younger sister.

Elizabeth spent most of the summer in this depressed state, but rose abruptly from bed one cool October morning and began cleaning the house, and that evening she bathed the children. The next day she began cutting back the overgrown garden and dismissed her sister, thanking her and bidding her to return home. Aaron was deeply encouraged by this change in the wind and knew that the time spent on his knees in prayer had not been wasted. Later that week he came home from his day's work at the boatyard, and as he entered the clean kitchen noticed a full dinner plate covered with cheesecloth on a table set for one. He called out to Elizabeth, but the house remained quiet.

Aaron mounted the stairs leading to the bedrooms, and nearing the top he noticed Elizabeth's wrist hanging limply from the bed through the open door. A fallen spoon rested on the floor just out of reach of her fingers. Her skin was blue, her lips stained red brown and her body was cold. An empty bottle of laudanum sat on the night stand, glowing in the last of the day's sun. Samuel was in the bed as well, his skin and lips similarly colored. Martha and Mary lay smothered in the crib they shared in the corner by the window. Aaron ran from the house wailing like a stuck animal for all the village to hear, never to return.

After sitting vacant for several years, Moses Deale eventually rented the house to tenants for his absent son. No family ever stayed there more than a few months before moving on. Several of the tenants, especially the women, mentioned enduring bouts of incredible sadness while living there. One family was regularly awakened by the sound of falling silverware hitting the floor, only to search in vain for nothing amiss. One poor woman ran out of the house screaming in the middle of the night, tormented one time too many by the sound of another woman singing. Years passed and eventually the house was simply used for storage as no one would ever live there. The house still stands, but is covered in wild vines, glassless windows exposing the house to weather. Villagers claim that on still moonless nights you will occasionally hear the clang of a spoon hitting the floor or a mother's voice singing lullabies to her children coming from the old Deale house.