In The Falling Light Read online

  IN THE FALLING LIGHT

  by

  JOHN L. CAMPBELL

  Wild Highlander Press © 2012

  These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  IN THE FALLING LIGHT Copyright © 2012 by John L. Campbell

  Wild Highlander Press ® is a registered trademark.

  All rights reserved.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The following were previously published in another form; “Avoiding Miranda” & “Pet Shop Tarantulas” at SNM Horror Magazine, “Muse” at Static Movement,” “Eater of Stars” & “Zero Tolerance” at Death Head Grin, “Lyme Disease” at Deadman’s Tome, “The Houe on Mohawk” in Conceit Magazine, “Chained,” “Trophy Wife,” “Ten Rules of Walter” & “Salty” at Necrology Shorts, “Wildfire,” “Texas Rising,” “Of Crimes and Crows,” & “King of the Monster House” at Schlock! Webzine UK, “Courageous Little Philomena’s Wondrous Bait” in Gargoyle Magazine, “Barringer Road,” “Trail of Breadcrumbs,” “Someplace the Wind Blows Through,” “Embracing Neptune,” “Taillights,” “Jack’s Folly,” “Rejection,” & “American Tragedy” at MicroHorror, “Corn of Cortez” in Timeless Worlds.

  Cover design and illustration by Keith Haney/[email protected]

  For Linda and Daniel, the center of my world.

  Special thanks go to the following people, who made this collection possible; Albert Carlos, who took the time to explain the inner workings of a prison, and corrected me when things didn’t make sense; Keith Haney, for his magnificent artwork, unvarnished feedback and eternal patience with artistic revisions, and to his wife Laura for letting me steal away his time; James Polisky, whose art I fell in love with at a street festival, and whose piece, “The Town Secret,” inspired me to write about Courageous Little Philomena; To Al and Ginny, for enduring rough draft readings without my glasses; To my wife, my primary reader and most important critic, who not only supports my endless keyboard tapping and dares me to dream, but who also provided the title for “Corn of Cortez;” And to the readers and editors, both online and print, who gave me their time, their criticism and encouragement. Thank you all.

  Additional titles by John L. Campbell

  Red Circus: A Dark Collection

  The Mangroves

  CONTENTS

  Chained

  Playthings

  Barringer Road

  Texas Rising

  Rejection

  Muse

  Avoiding Miranda

  Lyme Disease

  Taillights

  Wildfire

  Trail of Bread Crumbs

  Zero Tolerance

  Trophy Wife

  Pet Shop Tarantulas

  Embracing Neptune

  Courageous Little Philomena’s Wondrous Bait

  The House on Mohawk

  Someplace the Wind Blows Through

  Rising Sun, Setting Sun

  Girl on a Platform

  American Tragedy

  Salty

  Grand Central

  A Ranch in Nevada

  Eater of Stars

  Of Crimes and Crows

  Society

  Jack’s Folly

  Corn of Cortez

  Ten Rules of Walter

  King of the Monster House

  CHAINED

  It was one of countless failing farms in the West Virginia hill country, fields lying fallow and gone wild because there was no money for planting, a rusting tractor sinking into the earth because there was no money to fix it. The barn had collapsed in the center, looking like an old swayback horse, and hadn’t been rebuilt. A pickup which only ran when it wanted sat in the weeds beside a two story house with peeling paint and plastic stretched over those windows missing glass. In the dooryard, a small dog harried a clutch of scrawny chickens.

  A quarter mile behind the house a line of elms straddled a narrow stream, and a large, time-worn rock jutted out of high grass at the base of one old tree. It was here that father and son sat side by side in the shade, looking out at the sun-warmed meadow between the creek and the house. Dragonflies flitted and hovered over grass and wildflower which were still in the unmoving air, and blue skies sailing overhead.

  Leo McClellan was rolling a cigarette – he couldn’t afford store bought, couldn’t afford much of anything these days – while his son Matthew watched. Matthew was twelve.

  “McClellan’s have been on this land since my great-granddaddy’s day.” Leo waved vaguely towards the overgrown fields, the house which was falling apart. “It wasn’t always like this. McClellan’s have grown up in that house for over a hundred years. I’d hoped you and your sister would do the same.” He looked down at his worn out boots for a long time. Matthew said nothing.

  When he looked up, Leo squinted into the bright sky and rubbed a hand across the rough whiskers on his chin. “Lots of things happened here. Right here, in fact.” He slapped the rock they were sitting on. “Like Earl. I tell you about Uncle Earl?”

  “No, Daddy.” His voice was cautious, respectful.

  Leo grunted. “Well, it ain’t the kind of story you tell a boy, but I suppose I should. You deserve to know. He was my great uncle, lived in a little shack out past the barn. It’s long gone now. He helped my daddy with the farm.” He was silent then, staring out at the meadow, then softly said, “We take care of our own.” He looked back down at his boots, and Matthew thought he might not tell the story after all. Then Leo looked at him and smiled with bad teeth. There was no money for a dentist, either.

  “It was June, 1967. I was seven years old. No one could say exactly when it happened to him, or how long he had it before it started to show. I hear it’s different with everyone. But I remember it. Some things you can’t forget, no matter how much you’d like to.” Leo finished rolling his smoke and took a long, measured moment digging a wooden kitchen match out of his pocket, striking it on the rock and holding it to the tip. Cheap tobacco smoke hung around him in the still air.

  “Uncle Earl got himself bit. Raccoon or fox or some such, we never did find out. Most likely a coon. Earl wasn’t too particular about where he dumped his trash, and the little bastards was always nosing around. Anyway, he got bit on the arm and caught the rabies. You know about the rabies.”

  Matthew nodded. Farm kids were taught early on about the dangers of wild animals, what warning signs to watch for, and were told that if they ever had to shoot an animal they thought might be infected, not to shoot it in the head, so its brain could be tested. In school they learned about the effects, learned that it drove a person crazy before it killed them, but that shots at the hospital could save your life.

  Leo squinted at the sky again, not seeing the sweep of white clouds over the startling blue field, seeing only his childhood. “I was pretty young, don’t recall everything that led up to what happened, but I remember Uncle Earl was sick a lot, and some days he had so much pain he couldn’t work the fields. You better believe that made my daddy plenty mad. Lazy don’t sit well with McClellan’s.

  “Earl got worse. He started shuffling around the dooryard like he was lost or didn’t know where he was, or he’d sleep a
lot. When he wasn’t sleeping sometimes he’d just up and scream for no reason, or flap his arms like a frightened hen. I remember thinking he was funny, but my daddy told me to keep away from Uncle Earl or he would blister my ass. He and my mama, they knew what was happening.”

  “Didn’t anyone take him to the doctor, Daddy? They could have fixed him.”

  Leo looked sideways at his son. “Doctors. Bunch of damned bloodsuckers looking to get rich off poor folk. Besides, my daddy didn’t have a pot to piss in.” He looked at the fallen barn, the shabby house. “Like us.” He smoked and watched a touch of breeze catch the little cloud and carry it away. “McClellan’s take care of their own.”

  There was another long silence, and Matthew shifted, uncomfortable on the rock. The tree had actually grown around the big piece if field stone, the thick trunk curving slightly, and Matthew settled his back against its bark. His daddy didn’t seem to mind, and he was thankful for that.

  “Wasn’t long before things got even worse for Earl. Instead of sleeping, he was up all night, walking around the outside of the house and carrying on, yelling and pissing himself, talking to people that wasn’t there, jumping like he’d been goosed. By that time I didn’t need daddy’s promise of an ass blistering to keep away from him. He scared me. One afternoon I was out by the barn, playing with a little truck in the weeds, and I turned around. Earl was standing not three feet away in nothing but his underwear, standing real still, arms hanging at his sides, not saying a word but smiling all big, like something was funny. But his eyes didn’t say funny. His eyes said he wanted to do something bad. Something really bad. See, he’d started getting sneaky, moving real quiet. That was worse than all the noise. It meant you never could tell where he was.”

  Leo looked at his son. “He’d gone crazy. You understand?”

  Matthew nodded slowly.

  “I told mama what happened by the barn, and then it wasn’t just me scared. That night I heard mama and daddy whispering in the kitchen. They said Earl was dangerous, and something had to be done.”

  “Did they call the sheriff, Daddy?”

  Leo shook his head. “Ain’t you been listening? I told you we take care of our own. We sure don’t hand family over to the law, or ship them off to a pack of doctors. Earl was family, and there’s nothing more important than that. My daddy, he was a good man, and he did what he did to protect mama and me.” He crushed out his smoke. In a softer voice he said, “Daddy didn’t have no choice.”

  Neither one spoke for a while, then Matthew asked in a small voice, “Did grand-daddy…kill Uncle Earl?”

  Leo didn’t answer, just went back to squinting at the sky. “Daddy didn’t have no choice,” he repeated, and Matthew couldn’t tell if he was speaking to the past or trying to convince himself.

  “At the end of it, Earl was scared of water. Couldn’t drink it, throat closed right up, and near pitched a fit any time daddy tried to give him some. Thirsty as he was, he wouldn’t touch a drop.”

  “Hydrophobia,” said Matthew. “We learned it in school.”

  Leo turned and grinned, ruffled his son’s hair. “You’re a smart boy.” Then he tipped his face back to the sky and closed his eyes. “No, daddy didn’t kill Uncle Earl. Killing a man goes against God. What daddy did was chain old Earl by the neck to this tree right here, the one you’re leaning on. Earl used to sit on this very rock like we are now, raving mad and yanking on his chain and screeching like a cat in heat. I guess daddy never figured what it was doing to Earl, being so close to the creek and all.”

  The stream rippled past within arm’s length of the tree, sunlight dropping through the leaves to dapple the water.

  “Daddy chained him to this tree so he couldn’t hurt no one. Then he let the rabies run its course.” He opened his eyes, and tears began trailing down his weathered cheeks. “Earl lasted three days, and I don’t think he was quiet once during that time. Screamed until he could only make little raspy noises, thrashed about and rolled on the ground, tore his hair out of his own head. Wouldn’t go near the creek, though. And the unholy things that came out of his mouth, sweet Jesus. I had nightmares for years. Sometimes I still wake up in the house and think I hear him back here, crying and cursing and begging and wishing all manner of hate and death on my daddy. He would have torn us all apart with his hands and teeth if daddy hadn’t been such a strong man, hadn’t made that hard decision.”

  Leo sighed. “And daddy stayed with him through it all.” He pointed to an old stump fifteen feet away. “Sat right there keeping watch, keeping Earl company, talking when the man would listen. You don’t walk out on family, Matthew, not ever.”

  “What…what happened to Uncle Earl?”

  “One morning he was quiet, so I walked out here, thinking he must’ve gotten better. Daddy was sitting on the stump, crying. The only time I ever saw him cry. Uncle Earl was dead.”

  Matthew looked at his father, anxious. “He died from the rabies?”

  Leo shrugged. “In a way, I guess. Uncle Earl bashed his own head apart on this rock.” He set a palm down on the grainy surface. Matthew’s eyes went to his father’s hand, then back to his face.

  “Madness can make a person do near anything, son. That’s what the rabies is, madness. So now you understand, don’t you?”

  Matthew started to cry. “Daddy, doctors can fix rabies.”

  Leo shook his head. “Not when it’s so far along. I’m sorry.”

  Matthew jerked at the chain that was padlocked around his neck, the same chain that then encircled the tree and was secured with another padlock. He tried to grip the collar of links, but it was so tight his fingers could barely get between flesh and steel. He pulled at the chain where it met the tree, but it held firm. “But Daddy,” he wept, “I’m not bit.”

  Leo stood and moved a few feet away, watching his son yank uselessly at the chain. He rubbed his hands at the tears which wouldn’t quit, the skunk bite on the back of one rough hand a pink, infected bloom. “The rabies is making you crazy, Matthew, just like Earl. I’m so sorry, son, it’s the only way to keep you from hurting anyone.”

  “Daddy!” Matthew strained against the steel, making a wheezing sound. “Doctors can fix it! I’m not bit! None of us are!”

  Leo blinked through his tears and looked at the two adjacent trees, staring as if he was seeing them for the first time. His wife Emma was neck-chained like her son, sitting splay-legged with a dazed look on her face, uncomprehending. Locked to the next tree over was Jamie-Lynn, nine years old, slumped and sagging, only the chain holding her up. Jamie-Lynn’s face was purple, her tongue was thick and sticking out, and her eyes looked like cloudy marbles. Her chain collar had been locked down just one link too tight.

  “The rabies makes you think things that aren’t true,” he told his boy, tapping the side of his head with a finger. “Even make you think you don’t have it.”

  “I’m not bit!” Matthew pulled again and again at the chain. “I’m not bit! You are! You are you are YOU ARE DADDY!”

  Leo’s heart was breaking to see his son like this, for what he was about to go through. But his own daddy had been strong and so he would be strong too. But dear God, it hurt so much. He walked to the stump and sat down, resting his hands on his knees, his left eye beginning to develop a tic. He didn’t like the sound of the creek, didn’t even want to look at it, and certainly wasn’t going to go near it. The creek was a bad thing, though he wasn’t sure why.

  “Daddy, please!” There was more screaming and rattling of chain.

  “Gonna stay with you through this, Matthew. Ain’t gonna walk out on you, gonna stay right here.”

  Leo wiped at his mouth.

  His hand came away wet with foam.

  PLAYTHINGS

  The woman was old. Ancient. Like a collection of dried, dead leaves held together in a hunched, human shape with straggles of long white hair. If the heat kicked on, that first rush of warm air would cause the leaf-person to blow apart with a crackle and disin
tegrate into tiny, fluttering pieces.

  How old was she exactly, Cesar wondered? The agency said it didn’t know. Close to a hundred, if not more. She looked more like a thousand, like a mummy in a faded black dress, with an old afghan over her knees.

  Rosalyn Acre sat in her rocking chair, feet barely touching the floor, curved so far forward by osteoporosis that her head was closer to her knees than the back of the chair. Her skin was cracked and lined like a desert mudflat, and her eyes were runny and pale with cataracts. She wore high, pink hospital socks with white strips of rubberized tread, and diapers which required frequent changing.

  Cesar watched as she raised her cup and saucer to pinched, lined lips, making crude smacking noises with her tongue in a mouth where teeth had not resided for three decades. The hands holding the saucer, spidery and veined blue, trembled and made the cup rattle against the china, slopping out tea. She slurped. Cesar was careful not to let his disgust show.

  “Toys go mad when they’re not played with,” she announced into the tea, her raspy voice sounding hollow and thin against the china.

  “Right, Mrs. A.”

  “May I have a cookie?”

  “They’re on a plate right next to your chair, Mrs. A.” Cesar pointed, and the old woman slowly turned her head to look. Slow, he thought, the seasons move faster than this old broad. She set the saucer in her lap and began to reach for a macaroon, her twig-like arm extending in excruciating inches. Cesar didn’t have the patience to watch, and sighed as he rose, stepped to her side table and handed her a cookie. She made the same, sticky smacking noise as she dipped it into the tea until it was soft enough to gum, then crammed it into her toothless maw.