CARVED IN STONE
Part 3
By
R. Peterson
Sheriff
Walker called for backup and then took a hand-held spotlight out of the trunk
of his patrol car. The last thing he wanted to do was go down the dark creepy
stairs alone but he thought he’d better at least have a look before his
deputies arrived. Slowly, he descended the stairs; with every step the darkness
seemed to absorb more and more of the already feeble beam from his flashlight.
At the bottom, he found the floor littered with dust and chunks of stone. This
was where Mr. Hill cut the grave-markers and did the engraving. By now the flashlight
was almost worthless but he could tell the basement was not just one room but a
vast labyrinth of passageways, most leading north into Motha Forest. Whatever
frightened Kenworth Hill most likely came from one of the forbidden entrances. The
strict laws regulating the Momett Preserve explicably stated absolutely no
entrance into the forest and that precluded planes from flying overhead and people
digging tunnels beneath the iron-like trees. He would need a court order to
proceed farther. Gonna need a bigger torch, too, he thought wryly, as he
retreated back up the stairs to call off his deputies – for now.
Over a heated telephone conversation, Judge
Herman White said he would not even consider signing a search order for the
tunnels without consulting the trust administrator. Sean O’Brian was one of the
most powerful men in the United States, possibly in the world. To go against
him in any way was to court disaster. John remained at the stone house until it
was taped off as a possible crime scene and the coroner left with Kenworth’s
body. It was late as he drove into Cloverdale, to talk to Melania Descombey and
the sky had already started to darken. When he parked just beyond the corner of
Main Street and Garlow black clouds had begun to roll across the stars. No rain
yet … but it was coming.
Cloverdale’s
resident witch had been in poor health for some time and John wasn’t surprised when
her young nurse, Allison Weatherbee, answered after he knocked three times on
the elaborately carved door with a cast iron gargoyle. “I’m sorry to bother
you,” the sheriff said holding his hat in his hand. “I was wondering if it
would be possible to speak with Mrs. Descombey?”
Allison led the sheriff past portraits of felines …
some of the paintings looked to be centuries old. John had the impression that
their eyes followed him as he moved … but when he turned there was nothing.
“Melania is way over one-hundred years old, and she was
never married, so technically it’s Miss
Descombey.” Allison turned and smiled.
“But please sit down sheriff. I’ll
pour you a cup of coffee while I see if my guida
is up to instructing guests.”
The
inside of the mansion smelled of lilac and lavender, a precise mixture that was
both exhilarating and intoxicating. The coffee was just the right temperature
and it went down too easy. Somewhere, a clock chimed nine o’clock and for a few
seconds it sounded as if a flock of birds were flying about an adjoining room.
The
sheriff was surprised to hear someone playing passionate chamber music in the
parlor but when he got up from the kitchen table and went to look … the music
stopped. There was no one there and the floor was covered with blue marbles all
rolling toward a drain-pipe worked into the parquet floors under an antique
piano. Allison returned just as he finished his second cup of coffee. “She’s
been expecting you.”
A clap of thunder shook the house just as Allison
opened the upstairs bedroom door. Melania lay on a king-size bed under a quilt
of finely woven Eiderdown. Heavy curtains blocked the windows and the room was
as cold as an ice-house. The room was also as large as a small house. The
sheriff stared about in wonder. One part of the lantern-lit chamber was a vast
library with leather-bound books and a large reading table. Rain suddenly poured
like a river from the cedar-shake roof and it was as if they were meeting
behind a roaring waterfall. Cloverdale’s founding-mother
was still breathtakingly beautiful … only her eyes counted the ages. Delicate fingers rose from the bed-cover and
beckoned the sheriff to come closer. Her voice was no more than a sigh. “John
Walker,” she whispered. “I knew your father your grandfather and his father …
each was a lawman and every one named John. Does it take a Momett witch lurking in the shadows to bring you to my house?”
‘I
was always afraid of this place,’ the sheriff told her. “This is the house the
kids all ran past when we were trick-or-treating.”
“You
and your friends should have been bolder,” Melania scowled in mock anger. “I
used to make the best popcorn-balls. A few of you might have left as frogs …
but that’s just the price of All Hallows' Eve!”
“Two
of our residents have died … under what I would call, even for Cloverdale, mysterious circumstances,” the sheriff
told her.
“This
is the strangest small town on earth,” Melania smiled. “It must be bad to bring
you here!”
“Erma Bates
was found dead in her house,” the sheriff told her. “It looked like a bird or
several birds had pecked her eyes out. I just came from Kenworth Hill’s place.
He was stone dead at his kitchen table. It looked as if something came up out
of his cellar and scared him to death.”
“Then
the time of revenge has started,”
Melania said removing the bedcover and sitting up.
“What
do you know about this Momett witch?” the sheriff asked her.
“I
haven’t seen her for years,” Melania said dangling her feet over the side of
the mattress. “And she wasn’t a witch then … just a half-burnt scarecrow child
running for her life.”
“You
know her then?”
“Her
name is Kendra but the Momett and others call her Cinder,” Melania stood up. The sheriff reached out to help her but
she brushed him away. The old woman gestured toward the shuttered window. “Only
a fool would venture out in this storm. Since you’ll be here for a while I’ll
have Allison bring us a special tea;
I promise you’ll fall in love with it. With any luck you may leave here without
hopping. I may not have all the answers you seek … but I have those you will need.”
-------2-------
Joanie Otter strolled down Townsend Avenue, dressed
for a dark and stormy night. She was alone … but not for long. Her thirteen
year old friend ran through the rain and crowded under her umbrella. “Looks
like Baby Bat slipped out her bedroom
window without breaking the glass this time.”
Marsha Heron let a dripping black leather strap
slide from one of her shoulders and tried to look bitchy. “I left hot water
running in the tub upstairs. Mom is watching some romance-movie on the tube and
she thinks I’m taking a bubble bath.”
“I’ll
bet she yells when water starts dripping from the ceiling.” Joanie raised an
eyebrow.
“She’d
think it was the roof leaking but just to be sure …” Marsha reached into her
pocket and held an object up to a street lamp. “I have the drain-plug.”
“You’re
as sly as a fox …” Joanie complimented.
“With
feathers and egg on my face.” Marsha grinned tossed the rubber stopper into a
garbage can as they passed an alley and then put a bounce in her walk. She
jumped across several puddles. Do you know someone with a boat … or are we
swimming all the way to Black Rose?"
Flickering headlamps grew brighter and a rusted 1974
Chevy Caprice pulled next to the curb. Joanie yanked opened the rear passenger
door. “What took you so long?”
Brent Hawke’s white fingers gripped the
steering-wheel of his father’s car. Jason Lynx sat wide eyed on the passenger
side. “I’m sorry Gravequeen,’ Brent said. “The old man wouldn’t pass out. I
finally had to mix cough syrup with his bourbon.”
“That’s
what a baseball bat is for,’ she told him.
“Give
me your shirt so I can use it for a towel,” Marsha ordered Jason. He pulled the
black shirt off so fast he lost a button. Baby Bat crinkled her nose and then
slapped him. “When was the last time you washed this thing?” They drove for
twenty minutes and crowded five more youngsters into the car.
Lightning flashed and it continued to rain all the
way down Vineyard Road. Just as they reached the cemetery entrance, everything
stopped. A full moon hung in the sky and there was no breeze. The storm was
everywhere … except for Black Rose. Hundreds of candles glowed as they drove
between the rows of tombstones.
“I
count six covens,” Joanie said as they slowed to a stop. “It must be a blood
moon!”
“I
hope I won’t have to do any digging,” Brent moaned.
Joanie laughed. “Battle-bats are set on fire … never
buried,” she told him. “But if this new Momett witch does not like our offering
… we may all burn.”
TO BE CONTINUED …
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