Jon Fore: Black Water

Madison giggled in reply and Chris tossed out another of his dazzling smiles.

“Well, we are going to stop, right? We didn’t come all the way out here to get creeped out and go back, did we?” Chris asked.

“No, I need these pictures for my project.”

“You have reached your destination.”

Abby brought the Nova to a stop next to a battered mailbox fixed to the top of a weathered length of wood. Next to this was a dirt path leading toward the house. It was puck-marked with scattered puddles and lined with nothing. Everyone in the car sat silently for a moment, considering the house some hundred yards down the dirty trail.

“You’re not a chicken are you?” Chris taunted.

Abby heaved the wheel over and started the Nova down the rutted trail, bumping and jogging the car savagely.

“This is not how one fixes an alignment,” Chris said around an “are-you-nuts” chuckle.

“Slow it down a bit, babe,” Ethan counseled.

Abby eased up on the gas a bit and began avoiding the deeper pits. She aimed towards a pair of ancient pick-ups rotting alongside the dilapidated house, and brought the car to a whining stop.

“Hey, check out Aunt Jemima,” Chris said softly.

Next to the back of the house stood a plump black woman in an old sundress wrapped in a full-length white apron, her hair fixed tightly to her head with a red kerchief tied in the back. She was well-aged and weathered, much like the house.

The foursome climbed from the Nova and stretched out their kinks. “Afternoon, ma’am,” Abby said towards the old woman.

“Miss,” The old woman replied softly. “You all fixin’ on visitin’ the Heart house, is ya?”

Abby and Ethan approached the old woman as Abby replied, “Yes, ma’am. I’m writing a book about the house and its history. Do you know—?”

“Keep yourself from dat place, hear me? There ain’t no good up there, ain’t no good come from up there. You just stay away!”

“I think she’s lost it,” Ethan whispered to Abby.

“You mind me, young mastah: keep yourself aways!”

“Can I help you young people?”

Ethan and Abby turned in unison to find an older man in coveralls and flannel shirt considering them thoughtfully from the sagging porch. Farmer-style stains adorned his knees and his face was one earned from many days spent in the fields.

“Ah, hi, I’m Abigail Conner; I’m looking for Mr. Brighton…Thomas Brighton,” Abby said more like a question.

“Well, Miss Conner, you’ve found him. Why don’t you and your friends there come on in for some lemonade afore heading up? Gotta get ya the key and all.”

“That would be great! Can I use your bathroom, mister?” Madison asked.

“Ah yeah, sure, young miss. It’s right over there.” He pointed to a small closet-like structure a few yards from the side of the house, a quarter moon shape cut into the rickety door.

That was when Abby realized that Aunt Jemima was gone. She did not wonder on this long, every town had a crazy who liked to talk to strangers.

“Uh, thanks,” Madison tried to sound appreciative but failed miserably.

The farmer, his hair a wild mass of grey straw, chuckled softly to himself. “I’m just joshin’ on ya; it’s inside. Follow me, if ya please.” He turned and held the door open for them.

The inside was much nicer than the out, but everything—every picture, every stick of furniture, even the rugs and the old cabinet-style television—were as old as Abby’s grandparents were. It was neat, tidy, and mostly free of dust, many antiques positioned around the room in what appeared to be no specific order.

“Bathroom’s right in there, missy.” The farmer indicated a direction with the end of his index finger. “The rest of ya, make yourselves at home. There are some printouts over there on the TV about Heart House. Please mind the old things here, though; some are fragile, ya see. Now for some lemonade,” he finished as he lumbered into the kitchen.

Abby decided quickly that she liked the old man. He was a classic country gentleman and as hospitable as no one else was back at the university, or her home for that matter. Madison headed towards the bathroom as the rest of them eased their way into the outdated room filled with antiques.

Shelves displayed the expected artifacts: old shackles clearly broken by hammer and chisel, lanterns and bits of clothing, a smattering of ancient jewelry and documents, even oddly enough, muskets and musket paraphernalia. Abby would have thought that a more modern rifle had been in use during this time, and not the black powder, round ball shooting musket.

The oddest pieces were near the back of the room, leaning against the wall near the old television. Long iron poles stood silently against the wall, on the ends of which were cup-like clasps. She wondered if they were for holding brands to light canons from a safe distance—but why would canons be part of a collection of antiques designed to highlight the Underground Railroad?

Other, more obscure implements were on display here as well: clamps and straps, things with barbs and pointy protrusions. Abby was not sure of their purpose, but she thought that somehow all of these things were used to cause pain. She got the terrible feeling that the dark coloring on them was blood. She heard faintly, deep in her mind, the unbridled screaming of men bearing unimaginable pain and suffering. The screams echoed through her soul, and she began to feel a distant fear…of what, she did not know.

“Here we are,” the old man said as he placed a tray containing a neatly arranged set of glasses and a matching pitcher filled with ice and lemonade on a square table against the wall. “Help yourselves as you like,” he said gently before retiring himself to a worn easy chair in one corner conveniently aligned with the television.

“Thank you,” Chris said as he poured himself a glass.

“What are these…things here?” Abby asked, still a bit frightened by her musings.

“Those are wicked bits, aren’t they?” the old man replied without standing.

“Yes, they are,” Abby said.

“Where?” Chris asked curiously.

“There next to the television,” Abby replied. “What were they used for?”

“Well, the Heart House is very old, built to house guards and a warden for the prison hidden beneath. It was used to hold prisoners durin’ the War of Independence. Now, which is the case in most wars, captured prisoners have information. These tools were used by the warden to get that information from ’um.”

“They tortured them?” Abby asked, already sure of the answer.

“Tortured who?” Madison inquired as she entered the room.

“Why yes, young lady. For years, prisoners were brought to the house—they called it ‘The Hill’ back then—to have information extracted. It’s a horrible thing, what they did, but some say that them deeds is what won the war for us.”

“Still…” Ethan trailed off.

“This stuff is sick,” Chris commented.

“Where?” Madison asked excitedly as she rushed over to see. “Ah, this is so cool!”

The old man raised an eyebrow as the warm smile drained from his face.

“She’s a horror film nut,” Chris explained.

“I see. Well, when you’re done with the lemonade, I think you should be going. It’s a day’s hike up the mountain, and I don’t have enough beds to keep ya here overnight.”

“We brought camping and hiking stuff with us. Is there running water at the house?”

“Yes, miss, there is water. The Graybar family had it put in back in the forties afore they left. No electricity, though.”

“Is there anyone living up there now?” Ethan asked.

“Oh, no, not since the fifties. I put a generator up there some time back, but the gas probably turned to varnish by now. Not much gas left, if I remember correctly, so don’t count on it workin’, but you’re welcome to try. The key is there on that hook.” The old man pointed to a cottage-style key hook next to the front door. “Now you young folk stay out of the cellar up there. Nothing in there but trouble, and no help can get to ya for a long spell. Just hang your car keys on that hook as you leave.”