Authors: Edward Lee
The Minotauress (27 page)
"Shut up," Balls smirked, then rammed his bootsole against her rump and sent her toppling across the room. "And quit whinin' else I'll sit on yer face'n shit in yer mouth while's I'se crankin' holes in yer belly with my manual drill."
Dicky blurted a laugh.
Once the Writer had lit a dozen or so candles, all eyes roved the sitting-room, in awe.
Someone said, "Shee-it my drawers."
The room's candle-lit darkness seemed alive with glittering. Several chandeliers hung overhead, catching the light, while from nooks and shelves sat more crisp-cut crystal. Many of the candlesticks were of silver and gold, and much of the furniture—hundreds of years old—was inlaid with more shiny gems. Even some of the Iranian throw rugs were stitched with myriad gemstones.
"It's all of Crafter's hair-looms," Dicky whispered.
"Just like Tooler said was here... "
Even Cora, dragging herself up with her hands behind her back, looked stunned at all the treasures about the room.
"This Crafter man," said the Writer. "He's quite a collector." He stooped to inspect a William and Mary table, and several armoires and rare-wood chairs. Many pieces were crafted from inlaid satinwood, mahogany, and teak. Half-tables and vase stands sported neoclassical motifs and fine hand-carved traceries. A serpentine settee that should've been in a museum sat mid-room, and along the walls were window seats with scrolled arms and tiny servant bells dangling. "Most of the furniture's Hepplewhite and Sheraton. There's a fortune in this room alone," and next the Writer perused more of the busts and paintings. "Hmmm."
"What's that, Writer?" Balls asked.
"Just like outside. Alexander Seton and Phillipe Marquand are in appropriate company. Two different portraits of Cagliostro, one of de Sade, busts of Ludwig of Flanders and Cristoph Vocolai—all well-known practitioners of the occult arts: satanism, black magic, sorcery."
Balls frowned through the following hush, which was then severed by still another loud whine on the part of Cora, "Let's get out'a this shitty place! It looks haunted."
Balls pointed a finger. "Cora. If'n ya say
one more thing,
I'll punch ya in yer peter-sucker."
one more thing,
I'll punch ya in yer peter-sucker."
"But—"
WHAP!
Balls' fist smacked Cora right in the lips. She squealed and went reeling.
"That means
keep
it shut."
keep
it shut."
Dicky's big pumpkin face looked around with some apprehension. "This joint
is
kind'a creepy, Balls."
is
kind'a creepy, Balls."
"You, too? Shee-it," Balls smirked. "I don't give a rat's dick 'bout a bunch'a paintings'n statue heads. Let's git ta work, and you—" He reached down toward Cora. "Git off yer ass and help."
Cora lay dazed and bloody-mouthed at the foot of the fireplace. She kind of flopped there with her hands behind her back, but then Balls grabbed one of her tit-flaps through her halter and, using it as a handle of sorts, lifted her to her feet.
Cora squealed again.
"Guess we should check the rest'a this floor, then look upstairs."
"And out back, too, I'd advise," the Writer said, peeking out a heavily draped window. "Looks like a garage in the back property and, well, naturally a creepy-looking graveyard."
"A...
graveyard?
" Dicky muttered.
graveyard?
" Dicky muttered.
Balls' glare seemed to even take the scowling portraits aback. "I don't care 'bout no graveyards or no creepy houses. All's I want is a nice paycheck fer a night's work. Dicky—you and the Writer go check outside—" The girl mewled when Balls pinched her nipple and twisted hard. "I'll keep an eye on this stringbean with a pussy, and check the rest'a down here."
Cora opened her mouth to object, then thought better of it. "Come on, Writer," Dicky said and shoved the Writer toward the back door.
They both stepped out into the night. The moon was so bright they scarcely needed their flashlights.
Now's my chance,
the Writer realized.
I can brain this ignoramus with my flashlight and head for the hills,
but then he laughed to himself.
Who am I kidding? I'm a writer. Writers don't have balls like that...
Now's my chance,
the Writer realized.
I can brain this ignoramus with my flashlight and head for the hills,
but then he laughed to himself.
Who am I kidding? I'm a writer. Writers don't have balls like that...
"So's yer a writer, huh? What'cha write? Like, books'n shit?"
The Writer gave his stock answer. "I'm a speculative novelist. I infuse relatable modern fiction scenarios with charactorial demonstrations of the existential condition. Allegorical symbology, it's called, rooted in various philosophical systems."
Dicky nodded with approval. "That's what I thunk. I read a book once, see? They made us in school. It was kind'a dumb though. A retard watchin' golf balls or some shit."
The Writer nearly howled.
Absalom, Absalom!
Absalom, Absalom!
They wended through tilted gravestones, some with crudely etched dates going back to the late 1700s. Toward the rear of the yard, near the treeline, a newer building, like a garage, grew larger.
"Maybe Crafter's got a bunch'a fancy cars in that there garage," Dicky speculated.
"Perhaps. But what do you know about this man Crafter?"
"Nothin'. Just that he's some old weirdo who's got a house full'a ‘spensive junk."
"I wouldn't call him merely an old weirdo." The Writer looked at Dicky. "He's an old weirdo who also happens to be a student of the black arts."
Dicky remained silent. When an owl hooted, he flinched. The garage was unlocked. They both went in, flashlights beaming. No cars were in evidence, but there was a riding lawn mower, various tools, and a dozen tanks of liquid propane. "Check that barrel there," Dicky ordered in a feeble attempt at authority. "Might be full'a gold or jewels."
Greedy of filthy lucre,
the Writer quoted the first letter of
Timothy.
He pried off the barrel's lid and found it curiously full of—
the Writer quoted the first letter of
Timothy.
He pried off the barrel's lid and found it curiously full of—
"No gold or jewels, Mr. Dicky. Just... salt."
"
Salt?
The hail?"
Salt?
The hail?"
"Not table salt, either." The Writer tasted it. "Uniodized. It doesn't snow this far south, does it?"
"Naw. Why's the old coot gotta a barrel full'a salt?
"I couldn't guess. And that's quite a load of propane. I didn't see a grill out back anywhere."
Next the Writer looked in a metal can.
"What'cha got there? Jewels?"
The Writer shook his head. "Try dead frogs."
Dicky looked in. "Yer shittin' me!"
The can was full of petrified bullfrogs. The Writer noted an even odder anomaly. "It looks like all of their toes have been cut off. Then they were just tossed in here to die."
"Shee-it... "
Another can was full of desiccated newts, all missing their eyes. "Eye of newt, toe of frog," the Writer's voice echoed in the dark.
"This is right fucked up. We'se
leavin'.
"
leavin'.
"
Back outside the Writer combed his light behind them. "Let's go look at
those
graves."
those
graves."
"The fuck for?"
"I detect an incongruence."
"Huh?"
The Writer smiled and walked over. "How curious... "
"A half-dug hole? Big deal."
Indeed, there were several areas in their proximity that had been dug down to about a foot, trenches, in a sense, about six feet long.
"What's that on the ground? Cement?"
"
Crude
cement. It's called tabby," the Writer explained. "You know what this place is, Mr. Dicky? It's an unconsecrated graveyard."
Crude
cement. It's called tabby," the Writer explained. "You know what this place is, Mr. Dicky? It's an unconsecrated graveyard."
"Shee-it... "
"The more normal stones in the area have dates from the 17 and 1800's, but these... "
They weren't grave markers at the foot of each trench but simply splotches of old cement in which someone had inscribed a name and date with their fingers. "Back in the day, common criminals were buried in unconsecrated ground. Relatives would come in later, pour some quick tabby and render an inscription. Look at this one."
An old finger-scrawl in the cement read ELSBETH - 1689.
The Writer eyed Dicky. "Or I should say, common criminals
and
witches."
and
witches."
"Fuck... "
"Or warlocks. Anyone accused of soliciting the Devil."
Dicky gulped. "Witches'n warlocks are buried here?"
"It would seem so. And... what on earth... " The Writer strode off several yards, to the edge of the woodline. He aimed the flashlight down.
A simple wooden post stuck out of the ground about two feet, and nailed to it was a crucifix.
"A cross," Dicky observed.
"Not just one cross... " The Writer shined his flashlight to either side. The entire woodline had a similar post and cross every six feet or so.
It's almost like a fence... of crosses. A... barrier...
It's almost like a fence... of crosses. A... barrier...
"If Crafter's a satanist, how come them crosses ain't upside-down?" Dicky made a surprising query.
But the Writer didn't answer, for now he noticed something else. "How do you like that?"
Dicky looked down. "What's that? A line'a
sand?
"
sand?
"
"A line of
salt,
Mr. Dicky. Let's follow it."
salt,
Mr. Dicky. Let's follow it."
Flashlights down, they followed the line of salt which oddly ran unbroken just inside the cross-mounted posts. In a few minutes they were in the front of the house, and could see the salt and crosses continuing on.
"The salt and the crosses completely encircle the property," the Writer said. He lowered the light to the driveway which, too, was crossed by a line of salt. "Now
that's
interesting."
that's
interesting."
"I'se don't get it."
"Ancient metaphysics, Mr. Dicky. Salt was once more valuable than gold, and it eventually became a favorite constituent in alchemy, divination, and spells."
"Spells," Dicky intoned with some trepidation.
"This Mr. Crafter fellow seems to have deliberately enclosed his property with two powerful totemic symbols."
"Totemic," Dicky intoned.
"And to respond to your previous query, I suspect the crosses aren't inverted for that very reason. Between the salt and the cruciforms, Crafter seems to be covering his bases."
Dicky made yet another astute remark. "A magical
fence?
"
fence?
"
The Writer nodded, impressed. "I think so."
"To keep bad stuff from getting in?"
The Writer lit another cigarette, and sighed smoke as he looked down at more crosses and salt. "The crosses are facing
toward
the house, Mr. Dicky. So it would seem that Crafter's intentions are just the opposite. He wants to keep ‘bad stuff' from getting
out
," and then they both slowly turned their gazes back toward the house.
toward
the house, Mr. Dicky. So it would seem that Crafter's intentions are just the opposite. He wants to keep ‘bad stuff' from getting
out
," and then they both slowly turned their gazes back toward the house.
««—»»
"We'se gonna be rich men, Dicky-Boy," Balls enthused when the Writer and the more globose redneck went back inside. Balls already had several boxes full of gold and silver gimcracks set aside on the William and Mary table. "The dinin' room alone's chock full."
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