|
 |
||||||||||
|
|||||||||||
|
|||||||||||
Something in the Water
by Bruce Buchanan
"So what do you think, Mr. Dodson? Isn't this a cozy place?"
The blonde real estate agent spoke through a smile she scampered up the stone walkway, door key in hand, to the front porch of the whitewashed cottage.
Marcus Dodson ground his cigarette butt into the gravel driveway and shrugged his shoulders. “Sure - if you’re Jed Clampett,” he said. “But not for what I have in mind.”
Suzanna knitted her eyebrows in surprise. “Really? But you asked for a 50-acre parcel with easy highway access and a mountain view, Mr. Dodson. This house fits that to a T – and all of this land is yours,” she said, waving her manicured hand at dense cluster of spruce and white pine trees surrounding the house. Beyond the trees, fog-shrouded mountains loomed over the modest home like scolding parents.
“Oh, I’m buying the land; you’ll get your commission, sweetheart,” Dodson chuckled. “But take a picture of this old house, 'cause it's bulldozer fodder by the end of the summer. That means we can save the grand tour."
Dodson enjoyed the uncomfortable look his words gave the young realtor. She obviously was a local; he could tell by the way she mangled "yeah" and "well" into three-syllable words. For all he knew, she had her first drink of moonshine or made out with her cousins in this old shack.
But it's not like he cared. The pursuit of profits, not fresh air or fishing, brought Dodson from Miami to Bear Creek, a rural community deep in North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Mountains.
When he examined the tract of mountain land, he saw condominiums. Lots and lots of condominiums, with blue-haired sunbirds in pastel polyester pants driving shiny white Cadillacs to the meat-and-two-veggies cafeteria in town.
He knew the rich old geezers from south Florida would trade their favorite grandchild for a summer place in the North Carolina mountains, where they could suck up the cool air and folksy charm by the lungful. And who better to sell it to them than Marcus Dodson, Miami’s top young real estate developer?
“That’s certainly your decision as the property owner,” Suzanna said with a forced smile. “But you at least can use the home for a few days, if you like. The previous owners left all of their furniture inside.”
Dodson fished another cigarette out of the front pocket of his Dockers. “Really? What happen to ‘em? The banjo boys from ‘Deliverance’ drop by?”
Suzanna ignored the comment and looked away, into the woods. Her smile was gone for the first time that day. “Mr. Dodson, did you see that pond about a quarter-mile back in the trees?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Dodson replied. “What does that have to do with the previous owners?”
“Those owners, a Mr. and Mrs. Bishop, were…loners, I guess you would say," she said. "They operated a saw mill out of their barn and other than that, they didn't have much to do with anyone else. But the neighbors used to see them out by that pond late at night. They lit bonfires and chanted in a language no one around here has heard before."
Suzanna leaned closer to Dodson. "These were rituals, Mr. Dodson. Dark rituals. Now, I believe a person's religion is his or her own business. But there are some things that shouldn't be messed with, you know?"
"One of those rituals took place a week ago yesterday. This time, though, the neighbors heard screams from the pond. The next morning, we received a letter from the Bishops' attorney stating that they had left the house and were selling it and its contents at below market price." Suzanna straightened up and smiled again. "Not that this has anything to do with you or the property, Mr. Dodson. But it sure is a strange story, right?"
"Um, yeah. Okay," Dodson said, not quite suppressing a laugh. "Hey, could you give me those keys? I think I'll stay the night, like you said, maybe do a little work while I'm here."
Dumb hick, he thought, as Suzanna drove away. Wonder if they left anything of value behind?
#
Dodson peeked out the kitchen window into the vast backyard. He couldn’t see the pond through the black, misty woods, but almost could sense it out there. The realtor's story sounded like something ripped from an Ozzy Osbourne song, but part of Dodson wanted to check it out.
“What the hell?” Dodson grinned broadly and grabbed a flashlight.
The nighttime air gets cool in Bear Creek, even in May. Dodson rubbed his hands against his bare arms. He regretted not grabbing a jacket, or at least a long sleeved shirt.
He stopped at the edge of the water. It was still and quiet, save for a few crickets grinding out their tunes.
Mostly, it was just dark, darker than Dodson had ever seen before. Out here, there was no ambient light from cars or homes or streetlamps and on a cloudy night like this, the pond appeared to extend endlessly into the surrounding trees. By comparison, Dodson felt small and insignificant - a rarity for him.
He knelt at its rocky edge. He put his hand inches from the pond’s black surface, but drew it back before touching the water.
He mumbled an obscenity to himself. “It’s just a stupid pond,” he whispered, although he couldn’t explain why he didn’t speak up. “There’s not any devil mojo or demon cooties in there. It’s just water.”
Using a large rock as a stool, Dodson unlaced his right tennis shoe and forcefully stripped off his sock.
“I’ll prove it,” he said, again not raising his voice above a mutter.
Dodson stuck his bare foot into the water. It was cold – much colder than he expected. He shivered, but resisted the reflex to pull it out. Instead, he swished his toes around in a circle, proving to himself they were fully submerged.
“There,” he said, stuffing his foot back into his shoe. "No incubus bit it off. Nothing pulled me into the water. It's just a stupid pond."
#
Dodson slept restlessly that night, as rain pelted off the home's bare tin roof. The cacophony of city life never bothered him. But for some reason, the sharp, almost violent, sounds of raindrops smacking the tin were like a snare drum inches from his face.
Groggy, he pushed back the covers, hoping the home's previous owners had left something microwavable for breakfast in the freezer.
"Ow!" he cried, as he stepped out of bed onto the hardwood floor. Four large, weepy blisters covered the top of his right foot, near his toes.
Those weren't there yesterday, Dodson thought. He winced when he flexed his toes; the blisters hurt.
Dodson's heart beat a little faster as he looked back at the red sores. The water! What if…what if that realtor was right about there being things you shouldn't mess with?
No. He shook the thought out of his head.
"That hillbilly hokum is getting to you," he said to himself. "It's just a blister. You aren't used to walking in the country and your shoes must've rubbed your foot wrong."
Yeah, that was all. Dodson limped to the bathroom and found some medicated ointment and slathered it all over his right foot.
Dodson resisted the urge to pull off his shoe and sock the rest of the morning. He tried to focus on his work - he walked the property and sketched out a possible layout for his condos on a yellow legal pad. He noted where the land would need smoothing out and where roads should be cut. And that pond; it will have to be drained, he thought.
He returned to the house for lunch, pleased with the progress he had made. At this rate, he thought, I should be finished by mid-afternoon. And then I can get the hell out of this backwater. Dodson didn't like Bear Creek when he got here - his idea of wildlife involved
Bacardis and black mini-dresses. But he detested the place after his overnight stay and couldn't wait to leave.
Lunch was a ham-and-cheddar sandwich, which he placed on a white china plate. Before he sat down, he kicked his right shoe off and, before he could think better of it, pulled off his sock.
The plate shattered into a million white icicles when it hit the floor. Frantic, he looked away, but there was no mistaking what he saw.
Four small humanoid heads, each the circumference of a dime and about a half-inch tall, grew out of his foot, where the blisters had been. Each of the perfectly round heads had a vestigial nose and mouth, which neither smiled nor frowned.
But their most horrifying features were their eyes. Dull, blue eyes, covered in a milky film. The faces didn't move; Dodson didn't think they were aware of him. At least not yet.
Covering his hand with a kitchen towel, he mashed the sores. He expected them to burst, but instead, they just stretched a little. He pulled away the towel; the faces still were there, undamaged and undisturbed.
He jerked shelf after shelf out of the kitchen cabinets, scattering their contents on the floor until he found what he wanted: a long, sharp knife. He sawed the head-like blisters at their base. The knife should've sliced his flesh easily.
But it didn't. He tried again, harder this time, poking the blade's sharp end into the blisters. Again, nothing. He kicked the wall hard with his right foot. The impact nearly caused him to lose his balance, but it didn't register with the silent faces.
Dodson screamed. He ran from the house, not bothering to put his right shoe on.
He barely kept his black Porsche 911 on the curvy mountain roads as he squealed into town. "Ohgod! Ohgod!" He thought, more in panic than prayer.
"Please! Somebody help me!" Dodson shouted when he got to the Bear Creek Urgent Care Center, a doc-in-the-box clinic on the main drag through town, right between the Hardee's restaurant and the Mountain View Video and Ice Cream.
"Just take it easy, son!" Dr. Cliff Burleson said, stepping past the startled receptionist into the lobby. "You've got to calm down so I can help you."
A Bear Creek native, the gray-haired Dr. Burleson had treated everything from bee stings to chainsaw accidents with calm and compassion. He was, in short, a pro who knew that the first step in treating an injured patient was keeping them from hurting themselves any further.
"I…it's my foot! Get 'em off! Please!" Dodson started to cry, but held back when he saw the gentle, reassuring look in Burleson's face.
"Have a seat; let me take a look." Dodson sat in a lobby chair, while Burleson stooped down. "Say, you aren't allergic to anything are you?"
"No; I'm not."
"In that case, I'd say you have a positively awful case of Toxicodendron radicans," Burleson announced as he stood up.
"Wha…Is it…?"
"Poison ivy. You have poison ivy," Burleson said.
Dodson looked down. The faces on his foot - they were gone. In their place were four normal-looking blisters, smaller and less red than they had been that morning.
"It's nothing serious," Burleson said, reassuringly. "Just keep it clean and don't scratch it. I'll have my nurse get you some medicated lotion. Oh, and you might want to put on a shoe before you step on a rusty nail. Then you'll really have foot troubles!"
Poison ivy? But I swear…the doctor was right, though, Dodson thought. There are no faces there; never were. It must've just been a bad dream. Or maybe I got too much sun. Or maybe the thin air and ghost stories are getting to me.
"Thanks, doc," Dodson said quietly. He handed the nurse a $50 bill for the lotion and was so embarrassed that he didn't wait for his change.
Although relieved, Dodson decided in the car he was leaving Bear Creek immediately. He could come back to finish - or better yet, hire a surveyor. He would quickly grab his things from the house and head on to the Asheville Airport and a flight home to Miami.
His foot started aching as he stepped onto the front porch. This time, the pain was agonizing, as if someone held a burning candle to his skin.
Dodson took off his shoe; the faces had returned. This time, though, they were fully developed, with pointed ears, bulbous noses and sharp, slanted ridges above their eyes.
Their mouths churned in a silent growl. Dodson thought he could see fangs inside. And their blue eyes, now bright and alert, most definitely watched him with sinister intent.
He then realized what was happening. Whatever demons the Bishops conjured at the pond had infested his body. And they were about to hatch.
Dodson's throat squeaked at this grim realization. He knew then what he had to do.
He limped to the barn and flicked on the electric breaker. The rotary saw sputtered, then roared, to life. With shaking hands, Dodson undid his belt and strapped his foot to the top of a wooden sawhorse - and pushed the saw forward.
Dodson didn't know how long he had been out: seconds or hours. He woke up on his stomach and reached down in the hay.
He picked up something sticky and warm but no longer alive. Dodson looked at his severed foot. The faces now appeared angry; they snapped and hissed at their former host. Gathering all his remaining energy, he threw the foot into the tall weeds just outside the barn.
"Just 'nuther second…I'll get up…lemme rest just…."
#
"Any word, Charlie?" Sheriff Frank McKinney said, as he stood in the open barn door. "Are we looking at an accident here?"
"Oh, it's definitely self-inflicted, but this wasn't an accident," Charlie Hamrick, the local medical examiner, replied.
Hamrick was a short but stocky middle-aged man and his knees creaked as he stood up from his crouch. "This poor soul cut his own foot off deliberately with this saw. I'm not sure which killed him first: the shock or the massive loss of blood."
"A suicide?" McKinney scratched his bearded chin. "But why? Suicides don't normally buy a 50-acre plot the day before they die. And why do yourself in like that? It had to hurt like the devil."
"Who knows? Never had the urge to commit suicide myself. Maybe he heard one too many of Suzanna's ghost stories," Hamrick replied. He took a deep drink from a bottled Coke. "But there is one thing that puzzles me. We found his foot over in those weeds," he said, gesturing a few feet away.
"It's like he was trying to get rid of his own foot. But I took a look at it and it's perfectly healthy. Not even as much as a blister."
"Too weird," McKinney said, shaking his head. "City folks; who the hell can figure them out?"
© Buchanan, 2007
Bruce Buchanan has been a professional writer since 1996. His first book, a non-fiction account of urban school superintendents, was published in 2006 by Rowman & Littlefield. His short story "Wildcard" is featured in the Summer 2007 issue of A Thousand Faces, a quarterly magazine of superheroic fiction. Bruce currently is working on several comic book projects. He lives in Greensboro, N.C., with his wife Amy, son Jackson and dog McCoy. Learn more about his various writing endeavors at http://www.comicspace.com/brucebuchanan/.