Trunk to Trunk By P.B. Yeary

    The seed that fell from the heavens did not belong where it was planted.  It was carried in a pebble from some distant star. Its cosmic shell burned away to reveal a crimson bauble like none seen on this world.  A curious wind toyed with it, carried it over fire, ocean, and stone, only to drop it in its new home.  By chance where it landed, under the shade of trees as tall as mountains, the soil was soaked in blood.   

In the darkness a baby bull elephant struggled to be born.  His impatience did not give his mother the chance to seek the comfort of her herd.  She was forced to pause here, alone, in this wild thicket under the cover of a canopy of branches that blocked out the moonless sky.  He fell into this world in utter darkness, knowing only her touch and the sweet fragrance of the mud where he landed.  

By morning he could stand to his feet to reach his mother’s breast.  When they were able to move the mother guided her calf away from the thicket and on to meet his herd.  

The little seed had been pushed into the blood rich soil by the struggle of life.   Where mother and baby met, the ground now formed a catch pool for the rain.  Where the mother had braced for support, now a single beam of sun was able to cut through the gloom to reach the ground. It was not much, but it was enough to bring forth a second life.  The small plant suckled on sunlight; its roots fanned, feathered, and spread.   

In time the sapling rose from the mud and breathed deep the humid air. She awakened surrounded by strangers.   The native trees did not welcome her.  They tried to curtained the sun from her.  Their big thick roots soaked up the water.  Beneath the soil they cursed her.

“Little weed. Unwelcome spawn.  Soon you will feed us!”   The little plant wept for fear of the growing shadows.

The bigger trees called to the vines “Come!  Choke out this little weed!  She seeks to steal our riches!”

The vines, which grew much faster, raced towards the little plant.  They rose up the trees and blocked out her sun.  They covered the soil and damned off her water.  They choked her trunk to stall her growth so that she’d never reach the light.

 
 

The little plant wept certain that she would die from this slow suffering and that her body would become food for this mean jungle.  

A little way off the baby bull elephant grew stronger among his herd.  His mothers and aunts had shown him how to forage for safe food, and clean water.  His sisters and cousins marveled at his long and impressive trunk.

One day his grandmother, the Matron, announced to the herd that they would be moving on soon.  The young calf had not heard her.  He was distracted by a sweet smell coming from the bush.   He followed his long impressive trunk into the tight thicket, seeking the sweet lovely smell.  There he found vines covering the ground like a cage of serpents.  Without fear he ripped and tore at the vines.   He trampled and tossed them about. He crowned himself with their roots and threw their leaves around.   He almost missed the little plant underneath it all until he caught the scent of her sweet, deep purple, leaves.  

“Oh, spare me friend.”  The little plant whispered.  “Spare me and one day I will return the favor.”  

The baby elephant did not understand her.  He was only having fun ripping and tearing with his impressive trunk.  Beneath the vines he’d uncovered big piles of fruit.  The monkeys in the trees above had dropped a feast.  With delight the baby bull ate his secret discovery and relished in the hearty sweet smell of this lovely place until his mother called for him.  He left carrying the seeds of the bigger trees away in his belly and wearing his crown of vines over his head.  

The little plant could breathe again.  Her light and water fell were restored.  Though she’d always be crooked now, she stretched her branches wide and sang thanks to the little creature that had saved her.  

Ten years passed and the little plant grew into a small twisted tree with a silver trunk and deep purple leaves.  The vines tried again to drown her out at the behest of the taller, stronger trees.  After the eleventh year, they succeeded.  They choked her branches and blocked out the sun.  They covered the ground so she could not drink the rain.  

For the first time in eleven years the little tree wept her sweet tears.  Bright red flowers perfumed the air as she cried for her life.  Her flowers attracted birds and insects but none of them could help her see the sun.

In the spring, a herd of elephants traveled through the bush.  A young bull lumbered restlessly beside his mother, the new Matron of their herd.  He said 

“I smell something.  Its sweet and familiar.  How is that?”

“This is the forest in which you were born, my son.  You might just be remembering your happy youth.”  He breathed in the sweet smell with his big impressive trunk.   He followed the scent as he’d done as a baby, pushing into the thicket of vines to the place where he’d once been happy - unburdened by the knowledge of age and hunger and death.

“I do remember this place,”  He said.  “I remember finding food here.”  

“Careful son, the jungle is full of plants that would trick us with a sweet but deadly lore.” He fanned his ears at this.   He was growing into a strong impressive male.  He had no fear of his own mortality.  He went into the thicket and ripped away the vines.  There he found a tree with deep purple leaves and crimson flowers that glowed in the sun.  

“That one looks dangerous!”  Said his aunt.   She pointed out a monkey who lay dead under the tree.   Its mouth was as red as the flowers it had eaten.  However, underneath the unfortunate animal there was fruit which had fallen from the trees above.  The bull remembered and assured his family that the fruit on the ground was safe.   His sisters, mothers, aunts, and cousins joined him in ripping away the vines that blocked the fruit as they ate their fill. When they left they carried the competitor’s seeds away.

“Thank you, friend.”  The little tree whispered.  The elephant looked up having at last understood her.  But he did not know what he understood. He felt warmed and welcomed here in this strange, sweet smelling, place.  The tree wept her gladness. The elephant rested his head on her trunk.  Together they were at peace.

The vines were dead.  What few remained did not attempt to grow around her again.  In their absence she grew to her full height.  The little tree with the silver trunk knew now that she would never be as big as her bullies, she’d always be trapped under the cage of their branches.  

Many years passed and the sprouts of her competitors began to take root and grow underneath her.  The bigger trees hissed:

“Fall away you weed! Let our progeny grow! The light we leave is for them.  You don’t belong here!  Go!”

  But she would not simply lie down and die.  She blocked their sun as best she could, but they were adapted for such competition.   In no time they were her height.  Their roots were stealing her water from the soil.  They taunted her day and night.

“Shhee-shee ugly weed.  Feel our sting.  See you bleed!  We will haunt you.  We will beat you! Soon enough we will eat you!”

The saplings grew quickly.  They had help from their sires who used the fungus network that connected their roots to form a cage beneath the soil they.  In this way they could pull the nutrients away from the strange little plant to feed their own. As the young trees grew stronger, the strange plant grew weaker.  The little tree wept.  Her crimson flowers filled the air with the sweet perfume of her tears.  

In the rage of a stormy night a great beast came crashing through the jungle.  His massive head knocked back branches.  His impressive trunk cleared the path before him.  

The great bull had left his family in search of a life of his own.  He’d made friends with other bulls his age and together they’d traveled in search of mates.  

This night though they’d run into a nest of humans -  Face Hunters.  The Face Hunters had gleamed his impressive trunk and the even more impressive tusks beneath it.   He ran for miles, but the Face Hunters road a monster that roared without breath and did not tire even as the sunset brought a storm that pushed against them.  He ran back to the jungle wishing for cover from their fire sticks.  As he ran he created a path that was easy for the Face Hunters to follow.  He could not run forever.  Soon his heart would give out.

Then his impressive trunk detected a familiar scent.  In all his travels he had never found another place that smelled so sweet.  If he was going to die tonight perhaps it was fitting to return to the place where he’d been born.  He dove into the bush.  He came upon the twisted little tree, now as tall as himself, with her bright red flowers and deep purple berries.  He pushed past the other plants to nestle beside her.  Sheltered now from the rain beneath the trees silvery boughs he rested.  

Her  perfume lulled him to sleep.  He dreamed sweet elephant dreams.  Where water from the rain slipped from the dark purple leaves onto his skin, the injuries from the fire sticks cooled and stopped bleeding.  

The Face Hunters entered the thicket.  In the dark they did not see the bull they hunted.  They did, however, see the strange glowing

flowers of the tiny tree.  They saw her glossy purple leaves, and her sweet-smelling berries.  Such fruit that smelled so sweet had to be tasted.  The berries were good, sweeter than palm sugar, sweeter than honey.  As they ate they felt lustful joy.  They gorged themselves until their bodies were as purple as the berries.  

They dreamed.  They were taken to distant colorful places, far off lands where the trees were silvery white, with crimson leaves pressed against gray skies.  They danced in sunlight that was cool and poured off their faces. They sang familiar songs with green hued apes that smiled at them, then pulled the stomachs from their bodies.  Crimson seeds blossomed from their throats to pour onto the ground at their feet - how they shined, how they sparkled.  The men bathed in the rich colorful stones they’d created.  They barely noticed the Great Golden God, with the head of an elephant, rising up behind them. 

  They reached for their guns but found only the branches of the silver trees in their hands.  This filled them with laughter, though their green ape friends were gone now.  The God fanned his great golden ears.  He raised his purple tusks, and pressed his great weight into the first of them.  Each man laughed as the God, one by one, popped their friends like delightful balloons.  Each man exploded into a pool of color, as his friends watched on helpless from the humor of it.

  When it was done, the great bull bowed his head to the tree and whispered “Thank you, friend.” 

And the tree answered him “No.  Thank you, my friend.”  

He gave a deep guttural purr of understanding, for he had understood her.  However, he did not understand why she, whom had saved him, was also grateful.  He did not know about the threat of the saplings which were now damaged from his battle; some of them were killed, others were merely pushed so that they would forever grow sideways against their mothers.  He did not  notice how the small tree’s seeds had been planted by the humans, whom had eaten her berries then retched the seeds onto the ground.  He didn’t know how their blood enriched the soil to feed the seedlings’ roots.  All he knew was how she’d given him cover to take his enemies by surprise. But he did not think on it.  The sweet aroma of home, and the reality of another day of life, had made the stars shine brighter in his mind.

  In the years that passed the strange little tree cultivated a family around herself.  When the bigger trees hissed at them, she sang songs of her impressive friend.  When she became old her daughters all rose up around her, and sang to her with sweet smelling songs from their red flowers.  

One night, an impressive old bull entered their clearing.  He moved with care past the smaller trees to the old twisted trunk in the center.  Her dull white bark shone in the moonlight, though it was knotted in places now.  

“My old friend.”  Said tree and elephant alike.  “I see you have grown a forest` here.”  Whispered the bull.  “Your lovely smell has followed me around the world and has led me back here to my birthplace.  I have sired a hundred bulls, and a thousand cows.  They are all my kin so they are as impressive as I am.  They have killed Hunters and been killed by Hunters.  They have mated and died and given birth.  Many of my daughters are matrons of their own herds.  Many of my sons hold vast territories.  I am proud of them all.  Now I am old, and wish to rest in the only place I’ve ever called Home.”

“My friend.  We shall rest together - here where the sun warms gently, and the rain falls but never pours.”  The great impressive beast leaned his head against the old tree, trunk to trunk.  Where he lay no fruit could fall from the taller trees.  His body fed the strange red saplings’. 

     The old tree wept for her friend and curled her roots around him so that when she too was a hollow shell, none could separate wood from bone.  Her daughters sang his song sweetly for generations to those with the ears to listen.  

Photo by David Bartus from Pexels

                                                END

Published May 30, 2023

By The Drabblecast

Episode: 473

 

 Download the audio version from the Drabblecast.org on your favorite podcast catcher.  

Willow Manor by P. B. Yeary

 

Ada Willow stood at the top of the stairs looking down at Issac.  The fall had broken his neck.  All the other details - the disjointed shoulder, the heels on the banister, the gurgles of blood spouting from his mouth - were theatrics.  She thought he might stand up from it with all that thrashing about.  In the end, though, he lay quite still in a wine red puddle.  Ada had always wondered if a man so dark would bleed as red as a white man.

  Isaac had been Ada’s servant since she was a child.  She’d brought him to Willow manor when she married.  He’d always towered over her even now that she was grown.  He would smile and tip his hat when she was kind.  But when her temper showed he’d cross his great thick arms over his chest and frown down at her in disappointment.  Even in old age he’d been such an opposing figure.  She never imagined a little shove could do so much damage.  

There came a thump-knock as Patrick approached the atrium.  He thumped the wall as he left the kitchen, and knocked the door of the great hall as he entered the vast space.  His blunt, blank face gasped like a fish in grass.  His small head bobbed searching with his ears for a trace of his papa.  As he drew closer to the corpse at the foot of the stairs, he reached forward - swimming like an ink black seal in a sea of shadows. Before his toes could reach the gore Ada barked:

“Boy!  Ain’t you got chores?” 

Patrick froze, his ears strained, his nostrils flared.  He turned his blunt blank face up towards the top

of the stairs.   His useless gray eyes popped out of the darkness.    It seemed to Ada, for one cold horrifying second, that the he could actually see her through those chalky orbs.   

“Get back to work,” she hissed.  Like a dog catching a sent Patrick’s head thrust again towards his father. 

“Stop boy!” Ada said. “Go find me some men!  Do as I say!”

Ada didn’t dare step towards Patrick.  Despite his  stupidity he was lean, young, and muscular.    He’d never done a bit of violence but with his Pa hurt, Ada wasn’t sure what he’d do.  

Isaac had been Ada’s last good man.  The end of the war had taken the rest.   Her husband and all her wealth was the first to fall.  She’d expected to have some compensation for the Master Willow’s death in the war between the states.  But when she inquired on it she’d  learned the truth. Her husband was a coward.  He’d deserted the Confederate army – fled up north somewhere and left her with nothing. When the slaves on the property got wind that the Union had won, half of them ran to join their soldiers in freeing their kin.  The rest had waited until news of the Confederate surrender was confirmed.   

Ada had tried to stop them.  She’d found her husband’s hunting rifle in an upstairs closet and tried to make them stay. But that ham-handed field boy, Peter, had snatched the rifle from her.  The rest of them ungrateful brutes had ravaged Willow Manor. They ran off with everything they could carry.  She’d hidden from them in the hall closet, afraid they’d ravage her too.

   When she came out only Old Isaac and his idiot son were left.

Isaac, at least, had some brains.  He was too old to run off  North.  What did he know of the world outside of Amberstead or Willow Manor?  What did any of them know of the real world?  None of them could read or write.  None of them could calculate figures.  What were they planning to do without their masters to look after them?  The Willow servants had not even been permitted maps or travel outside of the town of Amberstead.   Issac, as driver, had been allowed to the marketplace, but no where beyond it!

It wasn’t enough for him that Ada had allowed him to stay on in her home.  Oh no.  His being the only man in the house had gone to his head.  Ada had woken up this very evening to his bellows at the top of her stairs. 

“What did I tell you, boy?” Isaac had called out. “We is free! This house is ours! Ain’t no one gunna check in! Ada too mean. We runs the place, don’t we? You see this? We keeps them animals fed. We keeps them fields tended. We keeps tha Manor runnin’ ! We don’t need no master!  I is Lord of the Manor House now!  I is Master!  And I’ll have the Massa bed tonight!”

Hearing this, Ada supposed she’d lost her temper.  Now Isaac was dead.  And she was left alone with his goblin son – who’s useless gray eyes looked up at her as though he could see.    

Patrick just stood there breathing his horrible raspy breaths which kept his lips dry and scaly and his tongue white as paste.  

“How you get up there, Miss?” The boy asked.  

Ada shivered.  The ache in her stomach grew cold and sharp.  Patrick barely ever spoke.  When he did the youthfulness of his voice always disturbed her.  He was near about twenty but he spoke like a child.    

The blood reached his tar toned toes.  He didn’t look down. Instead he tilted his ears as though to hear what was touching him.  His head began rocking.  He reached down with  nimble fingers to feel the face of his father  and found the bulge in his neck.  Patrick let out a long horrible sound.   It sent a chill through her stomach. 

“Fine. If you won’t go get some men then you can clean him up yourself,” she said.  She stepped back determined not to flee.  Patrick was rocking and wailing – making a real show of it.  She retreated slowly, bravely,  to the sanctuary of her room. 

When she emerged again the next day, Issac’s body was gone and Patrick was back on his track.  He continued his daily routine as though nothing had changed.   He woke before dawn and performed all his chores in order as though nothing had changed. Ada listened to the sound of Patrick thump-knocking his way through the house as he dusted, or polished, or swept.  It was a habit he’d developed to avoid knocking into the other servants - when there were other servants.  He knock on the threshold of a door as he left a room, then thumped the same as he passed through.  This way no one bumped into him.   With no one else in the house, and  no instructions he continued to do his usual routine.

  Ada poked her head around the kitchen corner to see if he  even stood beside the dining table as he had during meals.  There he was,  in his same position in the corner, waiting for instructions.   In a blink his cold gray eyes shifted form the ceiling to the door where Ada hid. She retreated back to her room and tried not to cry.  At night the cleaners and kitchen slaves would fold into the basement.  Bedroom attendants slept on the floor upstairs were they could be reached at all hours - Patrick was not one of these.   Ada waited until she heard the heavy door of the basement open, the whine of the stairs, and the dull bump as the door closed behind him.  At last, she could relax.  

Two hours later she stirred again from the faint creek of uneven floorboards whining.   Patrick’s tell-tale thump announced that he was leaving the kitchen.  The knock reported his presence in the atrium.  He was moving fast.g!   

He was coming for her!   

She waited to hear where he would go next.  But he’d stopped.  She stood at the top of the stairs and raised her lantern high.  The lower-level was a just a sea of darkness.

“Patrick!” she hissed.  His body shifted.  He’d been so close to her, just at the bottom of the stairs.  His head was shaking in rhythm to the grandfather clock.  Besides that, he did not move.  He did not even turn to face her - just kept shaking his head ‘no’ at the grandfather clock.    This insult burned her fear away “Patrick!” she hissed again.  

His head froze.  Slowly he tilted an ear up towards her.  The light of her lantern caught those opaque  eyes like fog over a black sea.  His raspy little breaths became shallow and quick. 

“That you, Miss?”

“What are you doin’ up at this hour?” she demanded.

The boy just stared at her.  His breath was so hot it it curled in the cold air. “Miss?” he asked.

“I hear you up once more I’ll beat you!  Now go ta bed!”

“Yes’am” Patrick withdrew. His skin melted into the darkness. She only knew he’d walked on by the sound of his knuckles counting the doors back through the kitchen.  It was only after he’d gone that Ada considered what he’d said.  He’d called, “That you?”  Who the hell else would it be?  

The next morning Patrick continued his ritual.  Ada listened from the top of the stairs as he set places at the table. He’d come back in an hour and put them all in the sink, then he’d go outside to continue his walks.  She wondered at what point does he take the dishes from the sink and put them away?  For that matter . . . where was he getting the feed for the chickens and the hay for the cows?  

That night Ada was roused again to the thump-knock of her servant boy walking around in the dark.  Thump-knock into the kitchen, thump-knock out of the kitchen, thump.  Ada crossed the halls.  She tip-toed and paused at the head of the stairs.  She listened for him.  Patrick was simply walking the circle of the manor’s lower floor, knocking his way from the kitchen to the dining hall, from there into the atrium, around past the stairs into the living room, and back into the kitchen again.  

She raised her lantern and caught the movement of him walking past the stairs in the dark.

“Patrick!”  He stopped. “What have I told you about keeping me up nights with your pacing?” 

“I hears ya, Miss.”

“Course you hear me!”

“I hears Pa too, Miss."

“You don’t hear nothing! Now go back to bed!”  Obediently, he turned and walked back into the darkness knocking the kitchen wall as he passed.  

The next night Ada woke to the knocking much closer.  Patrick was on the banister of the stairs.  And for every step he struck a knock.  At the top his flat palms let out a dull thump. 

Ada lit her lamp.  She flung open her door. 

Patrick was crouched on the stairs, hugging the banister.  He was looking down into the darkness beneath them.  “What are you doin’ outta yah room, imbecile?” she snapped.  

Patrick held his breath and closed his eyes. He couldn’t look up for the shaking of his head.     

“What’s the matter?” Ada whispered, searching the stairs for a clue.  Patrick sat holding the banister.  “I say what’s gotten into-“ In the darkness something on the stairs interrupted her light, something solid and black.   There was another hand on the banister.  An old strong hand was connected to a deep brown muscular arm -  a broad, familiar shoulder, and a body taller and leaner than her own.  It was dressed in a white shirt and blue overalls.  She wouldn’t look at the face.  For the barest moment, the idea of that face, his face, so close to hers took her breath away.  She felt for a moment that she was touching the thin membrane between sanity and madness.  To see that face would be to puncture that fabric.  Was there movement beyond it?  A shuffling of bodies in the blackness below them? Yes, dozens of greedy, laughing, black bodies milling about beneath her.    She felt a sickness in her stomach; a draining in her head.

Then Patrick stood up.   Ada had forgotten about him.  His crooked eyeballs were aimed in her direction.  His mouth was chapped and the skin of his lips were peeling.  Ada stepped away for he was real, and solid.  What did he want to do to her?

  “You ok, Miss?”

  She stepped backwards towards her room, trying not to scream.  Something interrupted her steps so that she tripped.   Her husband’s hunting rifle was tangled around her ankles. She picked it up and aimed it at Patrick.   He stopped.  His ears flexed like a foxes, his nose tasted the air.  He couldn’t see her!  It was all a lie.  He reached for the closet door at the top of the stairs.  “Get away from there!” She barked.   He opened the door.  The gun clicked.  There was no ammunition left.  Patrick ran anyway.  He dove down the stairs, back into the darkness.  Ada dropped the gun, closed the closet, and went back to bed.  

The next night Ada listened for Patrick to return to the basement.  Once she was satisfied that he was down for the night she swiftly crept from her perch, and through the kitchen.  She slid the iron bolt lock that sealed the door to its frame.

Before she reached the stairs she heard the faintest squeak as the iron hinges of the basement door whine.  The door held firm.  There was a thump, then a slam on the other end as bare flesh beat the thick oak door.  But it would not budge.  She imagined the boy’s crooked little face twisting in frustration, unable to understand why the door would not move.  

Ada waited to hear his terrified screams.   She imagined his glossy black body beating at the door, howling like a wild animal. She imagined he would cry like the brutes near the T.A.T. ships, who beat their knuckles bloody against cage bars.  She waited. But Patrick didn’t utter a sound.  He yanked the door three times, then nothing.  

“Stay put.” She said.

“Miss?” She heard Patrick’s small childish voice call through the door.  She didn’t answer.  “Why do you hate me, Miss?”  He asked.

“Ungrateful bastard.” She sneered.  Her slaves had been born in the warm safety of captivity; they’d never known the cruelty of growing up in the wild.  Patrick might have been killed when he was born blind and soft-headed.  Here he’d grown up to adolescence doing the Lord’s good work.  But was he grateful for the food and protection she’d given him all these years?  Were any of them?   No!   

“She don’t hate ya, son.”  Isaac’s voice answered.  “She scared ov ya.  Because you see who she is . . . . And where she’s hiding.”  

Ada stood in the the cold open space. She became aware that she was surrounded by quiet blackness.  She shivered waiting Issac to say more.  She placed her ear against the basement door. 

A low deep voice was singing a comforting song.  She knew that song.  Issac had sang it to her as a child. She could not recall words, but the melody - or perhaps the memory -  filled her with terrible despair.   

She pushed away from the door.  She flew back up the stairs and hid where no one could see her crying.  

“Patrick!  Here boy!” Ada called from the top of the stairs the next morning.   An icy belch of stale moldy air greeted her.  “Lazy little bastard.”  She called again.   “Patrick! Get up here and light the furness!”  She’d tried to do it herself, but she didn’t know how.    The slaves had always handled the fire.  Minutes passed without a stir from downstairs.  She gathered her robes about herself and descended.  

The basement was cold enough to store uncured pork, yet the mildew festered in the wooden planks, the stone walls, and the already moldy floorboards.  A powerful stench took Ada by surprise as she stepped into the darkest part of the basement where the house slaves slept.  Without the warmth of the adults, Patrick had gathered all the sleeping mats together into one big nest.  At the center of this nest is where Ada found him.  

His cloudy eyes were open and staring up at her.  Outraged by his gall she grabbed his shoulder.   He was frozen - dead.  She fled from the basement in silence.  She bolted the  door then tore up the stairs to her room.   She just hid in her room with the memory of those cold, dead, foggy eyes.  She tried to forget them.  But she couldn’t.  She was too busy trying to deny the figure of the tall man that stood next to him in the shadows.    

Hours passed.  The sun sank. Ada drifted in and out of a dreamless slumber. 

 

Thump. Knock. Ada opened her eyes. How long had that sound been forming?    Perhaps it was just the creaking of a tired old house. Nothing to get worked up over. 

Thump. Knock!  But it’s moving. Tired old houses don’t move.    

Thump. Knock. It was inside of the kitchen.  

Thump.  KNOCK!   Outside the kitchen.

Thump!  the bottom of the stairs.  

Thump. went the banister.  

Squeal went the stairs.”  Someone was in her house!  Someone she hadn’t let in was in her house!  

But that knock!

  She grabbed her lantern.  

“Thump-squeal. Thump.” The lantern wouldn’t light.  It had run out of oil.  

“Thump-squeal.  Thump-squeal.”  

“Knock . . .” The top of the stairs.  

“THUMP!” Outside of the hall closet.  

Silence.  She sat in darkness her ears straining to hear something. Anything!     She heard the rattle of air being pulled in past thick scaly lips into raspy lungs.   A sour familiar oder filled her space.  She felt, rather than saw, the presence shift in the darkness near her.

“You, you can’t come in here!”  Ada hissed.  “You ain’t allowed!” 

With a shaky hand she struck a match.  The firelight washed over a smooth black face of a young black man crouched next to her in her closet.  His skin, as dark as the fresh soil, absorbed the light.  But his eyes, white as the fog reflected her yellow fear back to her.  

“I found you, Miss.” Patrick said.

  Above him stood his big, black, angry daddy.  Issac rose above his son, his arms across his broad chest.  Ada couldn’t help but see his face now - both old and young, ghastly and familiar.    Within his belly figures moved - black bodies danced like wild fire.  They flowed from Issac, all around them into the darkness.  They filled her space with their wild laughter.

“Please.”  She whispered.  “Ma- Ma-.  Mercy!”  The fabric of her sanity tore like wet paper. A cold sharp pain in her stomach grew as blood poured fresh and hot from the wound Peter blasted into her months before.  She wept reaching for Patrick.

“Ma—ss-taaa!” She moaned.  Patrick’s face remained calm.  He ran his tongue across his lips and blew out the light of her candle.  

It was Spring before anyone bothered to check in Old Lady Willow.  She was such a mean old cuss few people spared her a thought, what with all that was going on in the world.  Word had traveled of her husband’s desertion from the cause so folks cared even less.   But in the warmer weather people’s hearts thawed a bit.  They hadn’t expected to see her at any society clubs, but Old Isaac was missed in the markets.  

Finally, a group of women from the church went up to Willow Manor to pay her a kindness - or more likely to gather some gossip. There was no answer at the door.  One lady spotted a figure through the window.

Men were sent to check on things.  When there was no answer to the door they broke in and called for her. 

Issac and Patrick were locked in the basement.  Isaac’s neck was twisted badly, and Patrick was an evident victim of the cold.  Their bodies were huddled together in a peaceful  embrace. 

They found Old Lady Ada Willow curled up in the hall closet at the top of the stares.  The state of her was so bad that men fled the house - sick with terror.  They returned with priests.    

   Ada had been shot in the stomach - the gun was nowhere to be found. Her face was frozen in a horrified continence, the sockets of her eyes, long-emptied by rats, were tilted upward in a terrible scream. 

But what really curled the men’s blood was the state of her.  Her body was hollow.  She’d been eaten from the inside out by fire.  Her cloths and skin were untouched, but everything beyond the surface was blackened to coal and ashes.   She’d been dead months longer than Issac or Patrick yet her bones were still warm to the touch.  

 

END

 

 

      This story was a personal assignment.  I have myself the prompt to write a horror story where the fear was built up by a sound.  I also wanted to write something where a black child was the "monster".  Patrick was originally much younger, but in order to try and sell the story I aged him up.  Story still didn't sell.  Oh well.  

Images:

https://americanexperience.si.edu/historical-eras/civil-war-and-reconstruction/pair-lord-is-my-shepherd-old-mistress/

Information about the Reconstruction: https://www.fasttrackteaching.com/ffap/Unit_1_Reconstruction/U1_Reconstruction_Policies.html