Fear, p.42
Fear, page 42
“Is that so?” asked Drewer, interested. “And how did that happen?”
Cy chuckled. “Well, John told me that Lester claims it was some collard greens he found growing in his garden. He dug ’em up, cooked up a mess, and ate ’em for two or three days. After that, the pain in his chest stopped and that confounded cough of his simply disappeared.”
“And collard greens was what cured him?” asked Bill. “Bullsh—” He cast a glance Jeb’s way. “—shovels!”
“Speaking of cancer, I heard that Thelma Martin’s got it,” said Mr. Drewer.
“The teacher over at the elementary school?” asked Cy, raising his bushy gray eyebrows.
“Yep,” said the barber. “Heard they found it in her titties. Both of ’em.”
“Now ain’t that a shame,” said Bill Brownwell. “And I know for a fact she ain’t over forty years of age.”
“I reckon it can hit you anytime, no matter how old you are,” said Mr. Drewer. He finished up with the electric clippers, and then brushed the fine hairs off the nape of the boy’s neck with a talcumed brush. “There you go, Jeb,” he said, unloosening the stranglehold of the cloth with an experienced jerk of a string.
Jeb hopped down out of the chair and dug three quarters from his pocket. “There you go, Mr. Drewer,” he said, dropping the change in the man’s waiting hand.
“See you next month, Jeb,” said the barber. “And tell your daddy I said howdy. He don’t stop by and chew the fat as much as we’d like him to.”
“He’s been working a lot lately,” Jeb told him. “He’s plowing today. Says he’s going to plant tobacco and corn next season.”
“Well, much luck to him,” said Mr. Drewer. He turned his attention back to the line of chairs around the walls of the barber shop. “Next?”
Jeb stepped out in the bright July sun and shielded his eyes with his hand. The day was sweltering hot and he knew it would be even hotter once August kicked in next week. The sidewalk scorched the soles of his feet and he quickly jumped into a pool of shade in the mouth of the alley.
The boy looked across Main Street and saw his dog stretched out in his favorite sleeping spot beneath the apple bin. “Buckshot!” he called. “Let’s go, boy.”
The hound opened an eye, and then closed it again, acting as if he hadn’t heard his master’s command.
Jeb considered going over and dragging him from beneath the bin by his collar, but dismissed the notion. He had a few things to do there in town, so he’d come back and get the dog before he started the long drive home.
As he stepped out of the shade and hopped up on the seat of the Sweeny’s mule-drawn wagon, Jeb saw Mandy Rutherford and her mother leaving Thompson’s Shoe Store across the street. He summoned a big grin and waved. “Hi, Mandy!” he yelled out.
The girl looked his way, but didn’t answer. She clung close to her mother and followed her down the sidewalk to the drugstore.
Jeb tried not to be discouraged, but it was difficult. Mandy still didn’t remember him or the feelings they had felt toward each other that week of the Fourth of July. None of the snake-critter’s victims seemed to recall much about their former lives. Ed North had suffered more than any of them. Due to his forgetfulness, he had been relieved of his position as Mangrum County sheriff. These days, he made his living sweeping sidewalks and doing odd jobs around town.
The farmboy finished his sucker and tossed the stick into the street, which would soon be paved, thanks to a vote made by the city council a few days ago. For a moment, he sat on the wooden seat of the wagon and thought about what Mr. Drewer had said concerning Mrs. Martin.
But, strangely enough, the news didn’t make him feel as sad as it should have. A sly grin crossed his freckled face and he stuck his hand in the side pocket of his overalls. His fingers groped through the clutter of junk until he found what he was searching for. He shook the silver snuffbox and smiled even more when he heard the rattle of magic inside.
As Jeb headed for Holt’s feed store to pick up a load of supplies, he figured he would take a moment and stop by Thelma Martin’s house on his way home. And, while he was there visiting, he might just sneak out back to her vegetable patch and plant a few seeds.
Author’s Note
After all these years, the darkness of Fear County continues…
The Seedling is a tale not so much about the evil and depravity present within the heart of that black region, but of its influence on those outside its borders… or those unfortunate enough to live smack-dab on the cancerous edge of its county line. In the mid-forties, the threat was the dreaded snake-critter and its riverside cave of horrors. In present-day Tennessee, the atrocity is one born of both Fear County’s warped nature and an innocent man’s simple, self-indulgent act. In any event, when Fear County gives birth to macabre offspring, it is the kind that would best be cinched up in a tow sack and drowned in the nearest river, rather than the kind to be nurtured and loved.
There is one interesting point about the story you about to read; it introduces a new character to the Fear County legend. Hot Pappy aka Jeremiah Spangler is an elderly black man who has fallen on hard times, doing odd jobs around town and collecting aluminum cans by the side of the road for a little spare change. He also happens to be the grandson of the good witch known as the Granny Woman, and he possesses the knowledge and the magic necessary to combat the evil of Fear County, if it should ever spill over into the normal world.
This story of horrors from the great outdoors might be a good one to read while sitting on the front porch or relaxing on the back deck. But if the long shadows of evening fall and you hear something rustling in the branches of the trees overhead, I suggest you head on into the house and lock the door behind you… just to be on the safe side.
— RK
This story is dedicated to
James Newman who ignored the horrors of Fear County time and time again… until those cocooned young’uns on the front cover finally allured him to step over the county line into the darkness of the unknown.
The Seedling
Something had nagged at Roger Perry the entire week they had been in Florida; something that he had forgotten before they left. An unplugged iron, an oven left on in haste, or maybe an unlocked door? Whatever it was, it remained a mental burr in the back of Roger’s mind the whole time.
It wasn’t until they rolled into the driveway late Saturday night, that it suddenly dawned on him. The trash. He had left the lid off the can out back.
Roger helped his wife, Trish, tote two sleepy kids into the house, then crossed the kitchen and stepped out onto the back deck. The night was dark and moonless and more than little humid, which was to be expected in mid-July. The second his foot hit the boards of the deck, the security light winked on, bathing the rear of the house in halogen brilliance.
He had been correct. He had left the lid off the trash can. Roger remembered that the last chore he had performed before hopping into the van and heading for Florida had been tossing the kitchen and bathroom trash into the big galvanized can at the far end of the deck. Trish had honked at him, impatient to get going – she was six months pregnant, so her patience was about as thin as a piece of toilet tissue – and he had completely forgotten to fasten the lid securely on top. They’d had trouble with raccoons and squirrels since buying the house in the rural subdivision near New Middleton, and if they didn’t keep the trash locked up tighter than a drum, it ended up being rummaged through and scattered halfway across the back yard.
Strangely enough, his forgetfulness hadn’t brought about any such disaster this time. The lid was off, but the garbage hadn’t seemed to have been disturbed at all. Considering they had dined on lasagna and garlic bread the night before their trip and the scraps of their meal were buried at the bottom of the can, beneath the trash from the full and half bathrooms, it was a wonder some hungry raccoon or possum hadn’t dug every bit of trash from the can to get to the food underneath.
But, no… the trash was right where it had been when they had left. Puzzled, Roger grabbed the lid from where it leaned against the back wall of the house and prepared to clamp it down on the mouth of the can.
Something lying in the center of the trash can’s contents stopped him, however.
What the hell is that? he wondered, examining the thing in the glare of the security light overhead.
It was a dark pod or egg of some sort, lying there amid scraps of wadded tissue, an empty toothpaste tube, and a couple of cardboard toilet paper rolls. It was about the size of Roger’s fist and, from the textured surface of its leathery brown skin, sprouted several long hairs.
He didn’t know exactly what possessed him to do so, but he reached out and touched the unidentifiable object. It was strangely warm to the touch… like the skin of a child in the throes of a high fever.
Roger was about to withdraw his fingers, when something inside the pod twitched.
“Damn!” he said, jumping back a couple of feet. He stood there and stared at the thing in the trash can for a moment longer, then hurriedly clamped the lid back on the can.
When he left the deck and entered the kitchen, Trish was there at the table in the breakfast nook, preparing herself a peanut butter and raisin sandwich; a peculiar snack she had acquired a craving for during her fourth – and she claimed, last – pregnancy.
“Come here, sweetheart,” she called to him. “Butter Bean’s awfully active tonight. Feels like the Rockettes are doing a chorus line in my tummy.”
“Let me wash up first.” Roger walked over to the kitchen sink and scrubbed his hands with some anti-bacterial soap Trish had bought at Bath & Body Works – Country Spice or something like that. It took a moment of washing before the oily residue left by his handling of the mysterious trash can pod was neutralized. He dried his hands with a paper towel and then walked over to the table.
He leaned over and snaked his hand beneath her nightgown, which read DANGER! PREGNANT LADY! LOADED & DANGEROUS! His palm ran along the curve of her belly, nearly straying downward to the waistband of her panties.
“Don’t get yourself all worked up, honey,” she said softly, reaching down and guiding his hand back to the bulge of her stomach, just above her belly button. “You know what the doctor said.”
Roger nodded. An awkward look passed between husband and wife. Trish had been pregnant eleven months ago and had lost the baby. Although she had never blamed him, Roger felt like the miscarriage had been his fault. It had taken place after a particularly vigorous session of lovemaking. With this new pregnancy, Trish’s OB-GYN had suggested that they refrain from sexual activity, just to be on the safe side. And, so far, they had followed that advice to the letter.
Trish smiled shyly and guided his palm to a particular spot. “Here. Wait… there it is.”
Roger felt the bump and flutter of the baby inside his wife, pushing for a second against the wall of Trish’s womb, then retreating almost as quickly.
“What’s the matter?”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
Trish frowned. “You usually grin like the Cheshire Cat. This time you looked a little… disturbed. Or scared.”
“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I guess I’m just tired… you know, from the long drive home.”
Trish patted his hand lovingly and then went back to constructing her sandwich.
Standing there, Roger Perry felt like a bald-faced liar. His reaction hadn’t been caused by fatigue, but rather by an inexplicable revulsion.
The sensation of the baby kicking had reminded him, for an uncomfortable instant, of the twitching of that strange pod-like thing that was nestled amid toilet paper and refuse in the trash can outside.
Later that night, Roger stood in the bathroom, regarding himself in the mirror.
Crap… I’m getting old! he thought to himself. Roger was forty-six, still four years away from the big 5-0, but lately he had felt tired, run-down, and painfully aware of his mortality. He wondered if he was suffering from some sort of mid-life crisis, but dismissed it as too much stress in his life lately; his recent promotion at work, planning for their trip to Florida, and, of course, his wife’s new pregnancy.
He sighed and brought his face closer to the mirror. Yes, he was definitely losing his boyish complexion. Enlarged pores and wrinkles showed clearly around his eyes and nose, and he spotted a few gray hairs mixed with the dark brown ones. Absently, he ran his hand through his hair and a strand came loose, clinging between his thumb and forefinger. Looking at it, he was reminded of the few strands of hair that protruded from that strange object in the trash can. As a matter of fact, those hairs had been the same color as Roger’s hair. The thought made him shudder.
Exactly what is that thing out there?
He nearly jumped out of his skin when two hands, pale and slender, snaked across the top of his shoulders. His alarm faded when he felt the bulge of Trish’s belly against the small of his back and saw her pretty, pixie face with its wreath of curly blonde hair peeking past his right ear.
“I’m sorry. Did I startle you?” she asked.
“No. I was just engrossed in thought. Taking inventory of my rapid physical deterioration.”
Trish’s hands linked and she gave him a hug. “Nonsense. You’re just as virile and manly as the day we married. Except for maybe a few gray hairs. And some crow’s feet. And maybe those adorable little love handles of yours…”
Roger laughed. “Okay, I get idea.”
Trish studied his eyes in the mirror. “Are you going to tell me why you’ve been on edge lately? Even on vacation, you just didn’t… well, seem yourself. I know it can’t be the dry spell the doctor put us on.” She grinned slyly. “I know what you’ve been doing in the bathroom, behind locked doors. Ogling those scantily-clad ladies in the underwear section of the Sears catalog.”
“Not since I was twelve!” protested Roger with a grin. His ears blazed red with sudden embarrassment. “I’ll just be glad when we can, you know… be together again.”
One of Trish’s hands snaked down the front of Roger’s white t-shirt to the fly of his pajama bottoms. “Well, we don’t have to wait for that. I can make you feel good right now.”
Roger shifted uncomfortably from one bare foot to another. “Trish… please.”
His wife looked a bit puzzled. Her husband’s “please” had not been the sexually pleading kind, but a definite “leave me alone” please. “Well, imagine that. Roger Perry turning down a free hand-job. What’s going on, sweetheart?”
“Like I said before… just tired, that’s all. Twelve hours cooped up in a van with two kids shrilling ‘Are we there yet?’ or ‘He’s touching me, Dad!’ can fray your nerves to a frazzle.”
“Yes, it was exhausting. My back’s absolutely killing me.”
He turned and gave her a kiss. “I’ll give you a nice back rub. Then we’ll get us a good night’s sleep… in our own bed.”
“Sounds good to me.” She turned back toward the bedroom. “Don’t be too long.”
“Just gotta pee and brush my teeth.”
When Trish was out of sight, he looked at himself again in the mirror and saw an uncomfortable expression on his lean face. Again, he had been lying, both to his wife and himself. His lack of desire in the face of Trish’s loving gesture wasn’t due to exhaustion at all.
For some odd reason he couldn’t put his finger on, he had felt strangely guilty when she had made the teasing remark concerning his extra-curricular activities in the face of their medically-imposed abstinence. He had suddenly felt like an adolescent boy who had forgotten to lock the bathroom door and was caught whacking off to a Playboy he had sneaked out of his father’s underwear drawer.
To tell the truth, he had felt that way during the entire week of their vacation… like his self-indulgence had been akin to cheating on his wife. He knew it was silly to think that way – Trish certainly wouldn’t have – but, still, that vague sense of unfaithfulness remained to nag at him.
He looked down at his right hand. “It’s not like that at all, is it? We’re just old pals, aren’t we? I’m not going to buy you candy and roses and suggest a weekend trip to the mountains or anything like that.”
“What did you say?” Trish called from the bedroom.
“Nothing, honey. Just thinking out loud.”
“Well, stop thinking and come on. I’m ready for that back rub you promised.”
“On my way, sweetheart.” Roger turned off the bathroom light and went to attend to his husbandly duties.
The next morning, they skipped church services.
Normally, Trish would take Tyler and Cindy to Sunday school, and Roger would tag along later for the regular service. Yesterday’s grueling drive from Florida to Tennessee had taken its toll on them all, however. It was already eight-thirty and Trish and the kids were still sound asleep.
Roger decided to let them rest. Besides, he had some chores to take care of that morning; cleaning out the van, putting away some folding chairs and sand toys they had taken to Pensacola Beach with them, and making an appointment with his pal, Jack McCall, for a round or two of golf later that afternoon. He hoped his consideration would be rewarded rather than condemned. His wife would either be grateful or seriously pissed-off over missing church. He never knew how she would react, what with her recent mood swings.
He tidied up the Grand Caravan first; picking up snack wrappers and sweeping stray crumbs into a Wal-Mart bag he had liberated from Trish’s stash of neatly-folded grocery bags in the kitchen pantry. Then he went out back to stick the makeshift trash bag in the garbage can.
He was a little aggravated to find the lid off the can again, laying a couple of feet away on the floorboards of the deck. “Dadblamed raccoons!” he muttered.
But when he reached the can, he wasn’t sure that raccoons had anything to do with it. Lying atop the garbage was the strange, leathery pod… except that it wasn’t the same as before. Its oval body was split open, from end to end, revealing a dark, empty pouch inside. If anything had occupied the ugly thing, it was gone now.
