Blackwater (12 page)

Now I know better.

There are things that can live in the smallest of shadows. The dark is not ours. It never was. It has always belonged to things we can't understand.

I run through the woods along the path, like I have practiced. I could run it blindfolded if need be. My slippers make no sounds against the old dead leaves and dirt. The farmhouse is a mile away. When I reach it, I feel a sense of relief wash over me. It stands alone in a huge wheat field surrounded by forest. Even my momma doesn’t come here, only Emily, our daddy and me. We are, were, the only ones who ever came here. No one knows about it, not even the help. It's always been our momma's greatest embarrassment, beyond the childhood she's hidden away.

The wheat strands scratch against each other, whispering into the black night. I let my fingers brush the itchy wheat strands, as I run through it almost silently. My feet make no sounds climbing the front porch of the white weather-beaten farmhouse. I slip through the storm door and lock it once I'm inside. I close the huge wooden door and lock the several locks. It might not keep them out, but I'm willing to take a chance on a lock; it'll at least make a noise when they're through it. I don't look around. I know nothing is inside with me. Not yet. They were still eating when I left. A gagging sob leaves my throat when I think about it.

I run up the stairs to the bedroom with the peeling wallpaper that I can't see in the dark, but I know it's there all the same. I smile seeing my house from the huge window. If I look hard enough through the overhanging willows and black walnut trees, I can see the pillars of the old dance floor. It glows like the ruins in Rome against the black sky and dark trees. The mist and smoke lie low along the ground, blanketing the forest and fields. The mist moves as if it's searching for something, someone.

I watch the field and listen to the whispers of the breeze tickling the wheat. Everything sounds as it should. When I relax, my memories take over where my instincts have been. Sliding my back down the wall to sit on the old musty carpet across from the huge window, I try to get control of my brain again and remember everything.

If I close my eyes for a second I can hear the music. Nina Simone singing about the birds and sun and the sky. She was singing about feeling good and the way love brings with it a new dawn. I love the song Feeling Good and I love her version the best.

I keep my eyes closed and try to remember the details I still can't fully access.

I relax and let myself remember it. I whisper the words to the song into the dark lonely room. Instantly I can remember it.

I was leaning with my back against the pillar. I was hot and sticky from dancing. The heavy air was filled with the sickly sweet smell of cigars. It rolled around me. I wiped my glistening face and looked around for him. We had been avoiding each other. Or rather, I had been avoiding him. I didn’t want Martin to see us together. Or worse my momma.

Whit wanted to tell me something but Martin was still too sober and watching my every move. I waited for the moment when he was too drunk and I saw him slip off into the forest. I only got a glimpse of the black dress on the girl he dragged in there. The night was too misty and the air was too dense for me to see clearly. I remember I felt sorry for her, whoever she was.

I took the opportunity to seek out Whit.

His eyes caught mine from across the garden that was filled with smooth jazz. The lanterns were placed strategically, revealing only the fractional details we wanted seen and allowing the dark to hide the rest. The warm light hit his smile from across the weathered dance floor that my daddy was determined to replace next summer.

Whit's chestnut hair seemed darker with so little light touching him. The shadows played on his handsome face, making impressions of different people dance upon it, as he crossed the dance floor to me. He placed his big hands on either side of me, trapping me to the pillar. The warmth of them made the air seem heavier. Scotch swirled in his breath in front of my face. My eyes darted nervously for anyone looking at us, even though we were hidden in a shadow.

It was all too exciting. Forbidden love mixed with the right amount of lust.

He smiled his lazy grin and whispered into my nape, "Meet me inside in ten minutes. I need to show you something before we leave okay? I love you."

He kissed my neck, massaging it with his warm breath. I shuddered. He pushed off the pillar with a grin but I saw something in his eyes. It was panic.

He turned his back and disappeared into the crowd of dancers, who were feeling good with Nina Simone.

I didn’t see the people laughing and having fun. I noticed the cut of his beige linen pants and the small trickle of sweat that had soaked into the back of his white dress shirt. I noticed the way he entered the dark path, to go back to the dark house. I noticed the way Nina Simone sang Feeling Good. She felt what I was feeling in that moment. You can't sing with that kind of sexual tension without knowing that feeling.

I push the memories away and realize I'm crying alone in the dark where I'm leaning against the peeling wallpaper. As much as it's his fault that my heart is destroyed, I have never wanted him more. I stop my memories before they get too far. Something is not right in my mind. He has done something to me. That panic that was in his eyes has me not seeing everything.

I wish the night had stopped there. I wish that I had watched him walk away from me and then an asteroid had hit the earth and destroyed everything. My last memory woulda been a mixture of the back of a beautiful man and the curiosity of the thing he wanted to show me. It would be minus the horror of the truth in his words. So many words that seemed innocent at the time and now feel sullied by whatever memories I can't quite make out in my brain.

I'm crying and listening to the sounds of the field when I notice the wheat sounds different. Something has changed. I glance up at the moon hovering in the air over the abandoned mansion. The way it's hidden behind the clouds makes the night seem darker than normal. Perhaps it’s the dark deeds that have made the night seem worse.

I hear it again. The wheat tickles against someone. I hear the person walking through the massive field. Their steps interrupt the way the wheat dances with the breeze. I close my eyes. I shouldn’t be able to hear it and yet I am.

I fight my mind, as it attempts to betray me. It wants me to run to him.

My heart closes off and I wait. I wish, for the first time in my life that the icy whispers would return and talk sense to my heart.

I hate waiting in the dark for them, him.

He doesn’t know the path up the stairs. He, or whoever is coming up the stairs, steps in the middle where the boards creak.

My heart races. I wonder how long it will beat for?

The door is rattled.

I crawl along the floor to the closet. My daddy built the old farmhouse after the war, when I was a girl. He was obsessed that it wasn’t really over. Hell, in the South none of the wars ever really end.

I push on the back wall where the wallpaper seam is. The wall clicks. I push it open and step into the dark. I close the closet door and then the opening in the wall. I turn the latch on the wall and pick up the thick beam from the floor. It feels lighter than it did when I was a child. I place it across the door that locks the wall in place. It's impossible to get through.

The secret room was built in case the Germans or Japanese made their way into Louisiana, even though they had surrendered when he built the damn house. At one point, Daddy got so paranoid he forced us to run the path he'd made from the mansion to the farmhouse. He never believed the war was over. Like I said war doesn’t end in the South.

It was the one flaw he had that momma endured for over twenty years. His paranoia always had the better of him. I thought he was crazier than a shit house rat. Now I'm grateful.

I smile bitterly. If he could see me now, using his safe house, he would be prouder than a peacock. He would know he'd built it for a purpose.

I think about all of the things I've feared in my life. The things outside testing the locks on the door don't feel scarier than a German invader, even though they are. Perhaps, because I've been trained for nineteen years to fear Nazis more than anything. Perhaps, it's because the things outside of the house don't feel real to me.

They shouldn't be real. They are the frightening characters in the tales Grandmamma spun to scare Ramón and I. They are the things I've long believed to be a figment of Grandmamma's imagination. Ramón and I would laugh at her.

Who's laughing now? Ain't me laughing. Not with any sanity anyway. I might laugh in a bit when they find me, but that will be all madness.

I flinch when I can tell the first lock is gone. I hear the wood buckle under the strain of their strength. It's greater than I imagined possible, even for a monster from a story.

I can still smell the cigar smoke on my dress. I can see his lazy grin. I can taste the scotch on his breath. I can feel his fingers brushing the sides of my body. It all wants me to go to him. He's using my own mind to call to me. Thankfully, the smell of mothballs inside of the secret room takes over, reminding me why I need to be afraid.

I slide down the wooden beam across from the door and wait.

They'll smell me out. They're animals.

I doubt my decision to run to the old farmhouse.

I should have run away. My legs are strong. I'm the fastest runner I know. I can outrun any boy. I outran Ramón every time.

The last lock snaps with a smash. The house trembles and I imagine them ripping the door off the hinges. In my mind they snarl. All the best creatures snarl. They sniff the air. They smell the cigar smoke on me, no doubt.

I shiver.

I don’t know if it's out of fear or anticipation.

I want him to find me.

If I'm honest with myself, I can forgive him anything and that scares me. The sight of the blood in my fractured memory tells me everything I need to know about him, and yet I can't fight what my heart fills with when I'm around him. The way he lights my skin on fire.

No one knows about the farmhouse. No one knows my daddy built it. No one knows about the secret room. I wish my family had run for the safety of the farmhouse. I wish Em and daddy were here with me. The sight of them fills my mind in a flash of horror and blood spray. They never had a chance. They were shocked by what they had seen. I can see their shocked faces if I let myself relax.

I hear a sound and push away the memories. I need to focus on surviving now. Not that there is anything left to survive. By the sounds they're making, I know they are on the stairs. I can hear the boards creaking under their weight. I imagine they weigh more than an average man. They are more than the average man.

They speak, but the secret room keeps the sounds muffled. My daddy milled the wood for it himself. He used the thickest boards for this room. I believe it could withstand any attempts at getting inside, beyond burning the house to the ground.

Their murmurs fill the silence.

My breath whispers from my lips, like a breeze slipping through a crack. I have nowhere to go.

The closet door opens. I feel the vibration of it being tugged hard against its frame.

I expect them to smell me.

I expect him to sense me.

I do not expect the knock that vibrates the wall in front of my face.

I don't breath.

Another knock. Like a knock one would do politely on the door of a neighbor to borrow some sugar.

A heavy breathing mouth is pressed against the hidden hinges and words are spoken into the corner of the closet, "Little pig, little pig, let us in."

They know about the room. They know where I am, but it's not him speaking.

Words sit in my traitorous throat. I want to call to him but my lips refuse to open. They refuse to allow breath in, for fear the words will slip into the dark night.

Terror is lodged with the words in my throat.

A loud bang fills the small room. I jump.

Several loud bangs knock against the wall. They are testing the strength. I can hear when their hits land against the beam across the door.

Horror has crippled me. I imagine it will be as it was for my family. I imagine my blood spraying across the peeling wallpaper and old carpet.

I want to scream. I don’t want to wait for my death any longer. If I had full use of my body I would open the door, but I do not.

I'm stuck, frozen.

I shiver against the wooden beam as the wall is beaten with a percussion session, the wall separating me from my death.

The banging and noise stops. I hold my breath trying to guess where they are. Are they listening against the wall? Are they wondering where in the room I am, as I wonder where they are?

"Let me in." His voice starts my heart again. I hadn’t noticed it stopped. The jolt of the electricity his voice causes, shocks a gasp from me. "I can hear your heart beating. Let me in." He whispers softly. I want to believe I can let him in and that once again his warm arms will be the ones to save me.

Tears trickle down my cheeks. I don’t know what hurts more - his being on the other side of the wall - or the vision of his hand swiping at my daddy's throat, spilling his blood against the shockingly white sculpture in the foyer of my home. His fingers that created such heat in my skin only hours before, took the lives of my family.