With a blighted touch, p.20
With a Blighted Touch, page 20
How was it that she cared about his aimless, unlucky life? He had nothing to offer, yet she’d risked a lot to get the journal for him. Could it be possible that she saw him as more than just damaged goods? Could someone like her see beyond his failures and find something to redeem? What had she said a moment ago?
I just want you to know that there’s nothing wrong with you.
“I’ve got to go,” she said, pulling him from his thoughts.
“Sure. Thank you for this. I mean it. I’d never have imagined anyone would do something like this for me.”
“Well, like I said, just find something useful in there.”
He stepped back as the window hummed shut. She offered a quick wave and drove off. Kit carried the journal under his arm as he hurried back inside the store. Upstairs in his room, he slid it beneath the ugly sofa.
Scotty Dunley looked up as Gabe Beecher pulled into the parking lot of the vacant grocery store. The building lurked behind him like a set from a postapocalyptic movie. The late afternoon sun on the asphalt made the cracks look like black veins from which tall weeds sprouted.
Gabe stopped his mud-splattered Ford F-250 beside Scotty’s truck and rolled the window down so they were face-to-face. “What’s up?” he asked before spitting into a soda bottle.
“It’s gone,” Scotty said, as if that told Gabe everything he needed to know.
“What’s gone?”
Scotty’s wide-set blue eyes narrowed and glinted like ice on a razor. “My journal, asshole! It’s been stolen.”
“Say what? Ain’t nobody who’d steal from you. You must’ve misplaced it.”
“I didn’t lose it!” Scotty bellowed. Gabe flinched.
“The fuckin’ thing was right here in the truck!” Scotty dragged a battered camouflage cap off his head. The front said IF YOU DON’T KNOW WHETHER TO SHIT OR GO BLIND, CLOSE ONE EYE AND FART. Running a hand through his long brown hair, he growled, “Some motherfucker is gonna pay!”
“Any idea who took it?” Gabe asked, spitting in the bottle again.
“If I did, you think I’d be here asking you? Speakin’ of which—who you been mouthin’ off to about it?”
Gabe shook his head. “Me? I ain’t said shit to nobody!”
“You had to! Ain’t but the two of us who knows about it, and I sure as hell didn’t tell anybody!” Scotty replaced his cap and rubbed the mustache that drooped into a goatee beneath his hooked nose. “Who you been talking to?”
Gabe looked through the windshield to avoid Scotty’s baleful gaze. He had told no one about it. The journal, the cave, everything they had done—that was strictly between them. Nobody else knew. Nobody else could know. They would spend the rest of their lives in prison—if they didn’t fry in the electric chair first.
“I can’t think of nobody, Scotty,” Gabe said with an earnest shake of his head. “Seriously. I was just with Misty last night at Marty’s Jo—” His face froze, mouth open.
Scotty watched Gabe’s eyes widen. “What is it?”
Gabe grimaced. “Oh fuck.”
“What the hell is it? Who’d you talk to, asshole?”
“Aw, shit, Scotty. Last night…last night I—”
“Spit it out!” Scotty roared, leaning out of the window of his truck.
Gabe winced and offered a scalded expression. “There were these two guys. Last night at Marty’s Joint. I got wasted.”
“What guys?”
“I don’t remember. They bought a lotta drinks though. One was from Nashville, I remember that. He’s some kind of musician, I think.”
Scotty’s eyes were slits of blue fire. “Why the fuck were they talkin’ to you?”
Gabe shrugged. “I dunno. They was just asking about local legends an’ shit.”
“Damn it, Gabe! They got you shit-faced and pumped you for information! And you told ’em about the journal,” Scotty snarled through clenched teeth.
“No! I didn’t say nothing about the book—” He stopped, then added mournfully, “Least I don’t think I did.”
Scotty flung himself back in the seat. He hammered the steering wheel with both fists as he glared through the windshield. “You stupid, ignorant fuck! You got any idea what you’ve done!” It wasn’t a question.
“Shit, Scotty, I wasn’t… I just thought—”
“You didn’t think about nothin’ except gettin’ wasted like you always do! You asshole! If you fuck this up for us—”
Gabe threw up his hands as if to ward off an invisible enemy. “Hey, chill out. We can find out who took it.”
Scotty arched an eyebrow. “You can’t even find your dick with both hands and a set of directions.”
Gabe fumed as he turned away and stared out the passenger window.
“I’ll find it,” Scotty stated. “I’ll…contact her. Uyaga will tell me who took it. And you”—Gabe glanced over at him—“you’re going to get it back.”
Monday, June 13, 2011
Kit went to check on his father after work. He hadn’t heard anything from Albert since he’d left the house. That wasn’t surprising. As a teenager, he and Albert had often gone weeks without speaking.
Albert was fine, and Kit did not linger. He picked up a fried chicken dinner and a six-pack on the way back to the store. He had been tempted to go by the liquor store for a bottle of tequila and had almost given in. His brief visit with Albert had resuscitated all the old feelings. They had gone at each other without missing a beat. Kit’s frustration had segued into self-pity and from there to depression. He should’ve gone to the liquor store—hell, he would have any other time—but not now. Maybe Courtney was having a positive effect on him.
He still found it hard to believe that she had risked so much on his behalf. There were few people in his life willing to go to such lengths. His mom. Troy. And now Courtney. Yet his feelings seesawed. He felt good knowing that Courtney saw him differently than others did, but Albert had reminded him yet again of how disappointing his life choices had been. Kit wondered if he was destined to be miserable. Guilt and shame poured back in, drowning the glimmer of Courtney’s influence.
He returned to the furniture store, pouty and morose. He let himself in the back door with the key Vince had given him and climbed the creaky wooden stairs to the office. He fiddled with the old television antenna while he ate, trying to bring in a signal. Occasionally, there would be snippets of conversation through the hissing snow, but he could never manage a picture. Kit browsed through social media on his cell, grateful for at least a few inches of video, but his gaze repeatedly drifted to the sofa.
It was just after 7:30 p.m. The sun’s rays poked over the tops of the western mountains as if desperate to cling to their claim on the day. Kit cracked a second beer and shut off the television. He reached beneath the sofa, pulled out the journal, and sat down beside the lone window he had opened. An oscillating fan circulated the air in the office, and birds chirped in the distance as dusk approached. Cars drove by in front, making a ssshhhwwmmm sound that drifted between the buildings. He heard laughter from somewhere, and a horn honked. The evening breeze crept over the sill and nudged his hands. Taking a drink, he pushed the remains of his dinner aside and sat the journal on the table.
The discolored buckles came undone smoothly, no doubt because of Scotty’s recent usage. Kit undid the straps and opened the cover. His eyes wandered down the page.
The Journal of Edgar Dunley
October 5, 1894
It was written in a loose, angled script, not quite a doctor’s chicken scratch, but neither was it calligraphy. The ink had dulled to sepia, worse in some places than others. The book smelled of wintergreen and dirt, but beneath those scents, Kit detected the singular odor of rot. Of blight. He found himself repeatedly wiping his fingers on his pants.
The initial entries told of Edgar’s discovery of a cave on October 3, and his subsequent explorations in the days thereafter. There seemed to have been little of interest in the cave, crushing Edgar’s hope of hidden treasure. He wrote of Louise, his wife, who was seventeen to his twenty years when they married in 1881. Children quickly followed, and Edgar had recorded their names: Daniel Dunley, born January 24, 1883—
Kit shivered. That’s who wanted to play hide-and-seek!
Twins Lena and Janet—Lena was the girl who had tried to leech the blood from Kit’s arm—arrived on February 12, 1884. Virgil Dunley, April 2, 1885. Alfred Dunley, September 17, 1887. Penelope Dunley, August 25, 1888. A second set of twins, Stanley and Glen, arrived on April 14, 1890. Alan Dunley, December 6, 1892. Leroy Dunley, October 30, 1893.
As Kit read, an image formed in his mind of an uneducated, cruel, duplicitous man who drank profusely and whose handwriting grew larger and sloppier when enraged. Edgar had worked at various times as a trapper, logger, grave digger, railroad repairman, and general day laborer. Judging by the entries, he seemed to care for his wife in his own peculiar way, although Kit shuddered at the vivid entries that recorded his abusiveness.
Nov. 1, 1894
Strange dreams last nite. She called to me. Shewed me things. Didnt wanna look but couldnt help it. Promussd me powr. Sed I could be a god like her. Woke with a fever.
Nov. 2, 1894
I dun woke her up when I went in the cave. More dreams last night. Injuns runnin from her. Fightin her. They put her in there in the pit.
Nov. 17, 1894
She ken come out with blud. Wants me to bring sum. I ken do that.
Nov. 25, 1894
DAMN THEM KIDS. THEY BROKE TH
Dec. 12, 1894
She gose way back. Long time. The land is hers. Injuns tride to take it. Stoopid thing to do. Shes a god, lotsa powr. She shews me things at nite, things she sez I ken do with her powr. All I have to do is bring the blud.
Kit finished off the beer and opened another. He switched on the jade-glassed lamp on the desk. He heard fewer cars out front. Insects replaced birdcalls as he continued to read.
Edgar had not written every day. Sometimes there were long intervals between entries, and Kit tried to piece together people, places, and events as best he could.
Mar. 21, 1895
Got anuther gurl. Named her Viola. Louise feels puny after burth. Daniel still coffn.
May 3, 1895
Daniels got the consumpshun. Coffn up blud. Aint enuff for her tho. Animals blud dont work neether. Needs to be humun. Lots of it.
June 7, 1895
WHY DONT IT WURK? I TUCHED THE VARGAS GIRL AND SHE GOT BETER! WHYS WONT IT WURK ON DANIEL?
June 20, 1895
Shes the Black Urth Spirit.
Hen’yehmoak taan! Uyaga! Uyaga!
The fools in Black Rock talk, say I struk a deel with the Devil. Wont come neer to me when I go for things. I heer them whisper thet Im a warlok. Yet the mountn peeple bring their sick and ailin. I fix them.
Hen’yehmoak taan! Uyaga! Uyaga!
July 6, 1895
Daniel getting wurse. Tomorrow I’ll put him in the cave. Best thing fur him.
July 17, 1895
Uyaga! Uyaga! Why cant I heel Louise? She aint well. What do I do? Furst its Daniel, now my wife. Why wont you help me? I bring you blud. I do what you sez. DONT YOU CARE?
Sept. 1, 1895
I see now. Beter than before. What crossd the span of nite brung slivers of understandin and the open places reech for signs. In dim ways without the songs of the Injuns, Bastershurn-Kal screems in silence. I go into squares that peel and cry and when I see that long black medvor’alblaso I laff and laff and laff. Hen’yehmoak taan! Uyaga! Uyaga!
Throughout the autumn and early winter of 1895, Edgar’s ramblings grew lengthier as he attempted to explain the things that were taking place in his family and on the mountain. Some of the words Kit had never seen before. Those made him feel fuzzy and cold when he read them, as if he were lost in a foggy, frost-covered field of glass. It had to be the third beer and the strain of deciphering Edgar’s pale scrawls and atrocious spelling. The more pages Kit turned, the more ragged the writing was. Strange symbols and horrific drawings began to appear in the margins. Random sepia blobs, where Edgar had apparently started to write or draw something and then scratched it out, became prevalent. It mirrored Edgar’s mental state.
Christmas Day, 1895
Louise died yesterday.
Tragedy struck again in the new year. Edgar raged about Lena’s “fits.” Epileptic seizures, obviously, but a frightening thing to witness without the benefit of medical knowledge. Not knowing what else to do—his unique ability to cure others by touching them denied to his own family—Edgar put Lena in the cave with the corpse of her brother and covered the entrance.
For two-and-a-half years, Edgar’s entries ranged from maniacal ravings that made no sense to placid reports about his livestock, the weather, and family happenings. He had developed an utter loathing for the town and eventually stopped going there altogether.
Kit’s eyes burned from the low light and from squinting at the rangy words. He went to the bathroom and walked around for a few minutes to stretch his legs and get the blood flowing again.
Blood. For her.
How was any of this possible? It was unbelievable—like a low-budget horror movie that shows up in the Walmart discount bin. Caves and curses, dead children, and draining blood to feed a Cherokee myth. It had to have been the extreme isolation. Edgar’s family lived on the slopes of Blackpoint Mountain and had minimal contact with the outside world. Given their overall lack of education, the legends and tales that thrived in the twilight hollows, and what had to have been a complete mental breakdown, it was no wonder Edgar had written what he did. Yet Kit had the unmistakable sense that Edgar had believed every bit of it.
Scotty had this journal. He’s read it. Maybe he believes it too.
Fourth beer in hand, Kit returned to the journal and immediately wished he hadn’t. In 1899, Edgar’s other twin daughter, Janet, who was fifteen at the time, became the subject of his deranged fancy. The more Kit read, the more his stomach soured. He wanted to take a drink of beer to flush the threat of bile back down, but suddenly, its smell sickened him. As Kit’s eyes passed back and forth across the page, he put his hand over his mouth.
The entries grew explicit. Vulgar. Debased. Kit thought about skipping a few pages but was afraid he might miss a vital piece of information. So he gutted it out as Janet gave birth to Jack Dunley on June 22, 1899, and to Lydia Dunley on November 9, 1902. For reasons unexplained, Edgar put thirteen-month-old Lydia into the cave as well in late 1903.
Jan. 1, 1905
Uyaga bids, I do. Sounds come from everything yellow. The sun screems all day. Hen’yehmoak taan! Uyaga! Uyaga! Carbak en dideyaw as is rite and tru. When all is black, stars shew colors and she calls in my dreems. My children R in there. To much, the mind, fells, a’barha
Feb. 23, 1905
IS IT WHY—LOOSE—THERE IS A WAY I HAVE SAW IT! SHEDON’TKNOWSHEDONTKNOWSHEDONTKNOW! No, no, no. I am seed by all among that evul conclave. I will write it, but not heer. Ill keep it on me. dont look please let it be why. is no come the shapes I for that empty. a key for the lok.
Apr. 27, 1905
who does I am
She looks over my sholdur
i dont know where i was last nite. did he do it? take me somewhere
what i have saw black urth spirit dwellin dwellin
Ub’sekketh Uyaga—blud—deth in the stars. talk to me Louise
Mustmustmust destroy cave
Gunpowdr. i got sum. enuff to blow up the cave. blow it to hell.
seel it off forever
June 11, 1905
Last chance. mind sum beter. cLear. musT do lok. MUST! No 1 else no 1 else shuld see or kno about ANY of ThIs. ends it all. got Key got Lok got Gunpowdr. blow it all to hell. SINS! SINS! By God I am judged eternal n doomed, for this is rite and just. sEEl it all off. how? HOw? did I let it come to this
July 20, 1905
time is runnin OuT—mUSt act soon. there is no forgivnuss for such like me—only sufferinpaindeth. SHe brung—made me do aweful things Uyaga! Uyaga! dam be you dam be you dam be you! oNlY 1 way—only way—the keY is here.
Aug. 4, 1905
tmorrow. i ends it. i goes away. sorry. forGiVE fORgIvE. pleese god dont let no 1 else find her. got to seeL the cave. nObOdy neVernevEr go in the black beeyond furst cave WhERe i put them kidS. LEt this LaNd fall on me wIth the BOOM. i am wrong, deserv deth. sEeL iT ofF. END
TMoRro w
Kit closed the journal. It felt like spiders were skittering across the backs of his eyeballs.
He shoved the journal across the desk, knocking over the half-finished sixth beer, and ground his fists into his eyes.
It was not just the words. It was also those deranged pictures in the margins. They were like doodles at first, spirals and geometric shapes and what might have been a cave, but as Edgar had degenerated, so too did the images. Circles within circles, filled by strange symbols. Solid black blotches, like ink spills, from which Edgar had written words in a language Kit had never seen before. They weren’t Latin or Arabic or even Chinese, but some bizarre merger of all three that made Kit’s eyes feel like they were being peeled from the inside. Edgar had also drawn mouths with sharp teeth. Dozens upon dozens of mouths, different shapes and sizes, in every margin and sometimes over top of the entries. There were drawings of a cabin—presumably Edgar’s—animals, and intricate mazes of interlocking chains. Kit guessed those alone must’ve taken days to complete.
