Year's Best Horror Stories XVIII Part 20

"Suhl-ca-la," corrected Monica before the old man could answer. "It's some kind of local woods spirit or demon. A shape s.h.i.+fter."

He'd heard that term in the movie on HBO the other night -- either Wolfen or The Howling -- he was always getting those two mixed up. "You mean, like a werewolf?"

"No," said Monica with pedantic patience. "More like the Algonquin manitou. It can take on the form and personality of anything it wants to -- the deer you've spent half a day tracking up a mountain, the black horse you find in your stable at night, the strange woman you meet on the road. Even people you know."

Mr. Walkingstick nodded. "In some stories, it can look like them and talk like them and tell you things only they could tell you."

"Oh, like a Cherokee version of The Thing."

Monica looked pained, as she always did when he mentioned the things he knew about. His enthusiasm for popular culture clearly embarra.s.sed her.

Sometimes he thought he embarra.s.sed her. One day he meant to have a talk with her about that. After all, it was not his hobby, it was his field, for Christ's sake, a field just as valid as hers. He never made fun of her for studying old folklore.

Mr. Walkingstick interrupted his brooding. "If you're interested in the Tsulkala, I know another story about the critter."

Monica smiled that peculiar smile that changed her face from horsey to striking. "Yes, please. Turn the tape back on, Steve."

"It's getting late. Your parents will worry."

"Let them. My dissertation is worth it."

Knowing better than to argue, he put a new ca.s.sette in the machine.

"Not long after the war they fought to free the slaves," began Mr.

Walkingstick, s.h.i.+fting back into his formal, story-telling mode, "there was a white family that lived down on the creek that runs through what they now call Callie Hollow. One evening, when the cicadas were first singing and the air was starting to get cool, they were just sitting down to supper when there was a knock at the door, and in walked the local circuit preacher, all tall and thin and wearing his black suit and big black hat. They weren't glad to see him, not being terribly G.o.dly folk, but they made him a place anyway, and he took a seat, all without a word or a nod or even a tilt of his head.

"And there he sat, not taking off his hat, or speaking, or eating the food they pushed in front of him. Figuring he was touched, they went about wolfing down then- stew, and were just pus.h.i.+ng their plates away when the door busted open and a cousin came running in.

"It seems some neighbor had found the Reverend's trap wagon up on the ridge, with his black suit on the seat all in tatters, and pieces of the Reverend in the tatters. So who was sitting in front of them, looking like the Reverend and dressed like him, and wearing his hat at table?

"Right then, the stranger cleared his throat, and looking at him, everybody found they couldn't move, that they were as fast in their seats as if they'd been nailed there, as stiff as the sparrow when the black-snake looks him in the eye. And the stranger stood up, stood up taller in the firelight than the Reverend could ever stand, so tall his big hat brushed the roof beams, and his eyes were glowing like the eyes of a bobcat in a birch tree when you s.h.i.+ne your lantern at the branches. And this is that he said: " 'Here you all are, with your bellies fat and full of food and my belly empty, and what shall I have for my supper?'

"Couple of days later, a traveling man found the door open and no family in the cabin, just bits of cloth and chewed bone all over the floor, and under the table, all their shoes, with all their feet still in them."

Mr. Walkingstick leaned back and shut his eyes like a musician waiting for applause. "Y'know, Monica," said Steve, not bothering so much to whisper this time, "I think I prefer the stories you used to get, the ones about buried treasure, and skeletons in the graveyard, and black horses with red eyes at the crossroads at night, and ghost trains, and the devil showing up at poker games. All those stories are Disney material compared to this."

She actually moved closer to him and gave his thigh a squeeze, rea.s.suring him for once. "Don't be a wussie," she said, but the gesture cut the harshness out of the words.

Getting up, she stretched her lanky frame before the fire. "Thank you very much, Mr. Walkingstick, for the stories. It's material I don't think anyone has collected before."

The old man rose somewhat unsteadily out of his wicker-backed chair.

"Well, I thank you and your friend for the visit, Missy -- I don't see many people anymore. Do they really study old tales and such down at the University?"

Monica shook his hand. "Oh, yes, they study all kinds of things these days.

They're even letting Steve write his thesis on old comic books and movies."

Steve winced, although he should have gotten used to her jibes by now. "Not just comic books and movies. It's an overview of popular culture."

The old man nodded as if he actually understood what Steve was talking about. "You want to hear some more stories, you come on back up here any time."

He took Steve's hand. His grip was dry and firm and surprisingly strong, and for a moment Steve thought there was going to be a contest to see who would stop squeezing first. "Sure you young people won't stay for supper? I'd be glad to have ye?"

Monica looked at Steve as if she found the idea attractive. You never knew what might appeal to her. "Well...."

"I shot a possum last Monday. Still got most of him in the icebox. It's really tasty with collard greens and sweet taters."

Monica didn't need Steve's imploring glance. "No thanks. We couldn't impose."

"We're on a diet," Steve added weakly.

Mr. Walkingstick nodded. "You diet, boy?"

"Yes, sir."

"What color?"

The old man cackled like a chicken. "That's a joke, son." Steve made himself smile. The calculated folksiness was beginning to grate.

Mr. Walkingstick followed them to the door. "You take good care of this young lady, son."

Somewhat reluctantly, Steve shook his hand again. "Don't worry. I intend to."

Monica laughed. "Actually, I usually have to take care of him."

Mr. Walkingstick shook his head and looked suddenly solemn, like a contemplative turtle. "That's just because he's a stranger here. You go back north with him, to the big cities, and he'll do the looking after you."

Steve smiled. "I don't know about that, but thank you. Right now, I've got to get her back to her parent's house before they have a heart attack." Taking Monica'a arm, he stepped through the doorway and out onto the gravel path. Mr.

Walkingstick shut the door behind them.

Outside, the air was surprisingly cold. The car was a dark shape on the pale river of the dirt road, with the elms and birches a darker ma.s.s behind. Something moved on the gravel, causing Steve to recoil. "Jesus, a snake!"

Monica calmly took a penlight flashlight out of her purse. "Where?"

He pointed. The light picked up a thick shape with a blunt head and raised snout coiling on the flinty pebbles. Monica walked to it.

"Careful," he warned, "It might be poisonous."

She kneeled and poked at it. "It's a hognose, out looking for toads. They're not poisonous; in fact, they never even bite. Watch." She poked it again and it rolled limply on its side. She picked it up.

"Instead, they play dead. See? It's like the poor thing's fainted."

She advanced with it and he took a step backwards, almost off the path. "Put it down or I'll faint, too."

She laughed, but not meanly, and put the snake down. "Steve, you are such a wimp," she said, walking toward him.

They embraced. "I love it when you call me names," he said, just glad that she was touching him. A gastric rumble interrupted their kiss.

She pulled away. "What the h.e.l.l was that?"

"My stomach, mad that I skipped lunch."

She pulled him close and bent her head to kiss him. "Poor baby. We'll just have to get you something to eat on the way back."

"Do we have time? You parents...."

"Can worry all they want. You need to be fed." She kissed him again and he was happy.

The neon sign atop the diner advertised: PIZZA MOUNTAIN TROUT.

Steve wondered if it was a single dish -- fried fish on pizza crust with tomato paste and mozzarella cheese, maybe with black olives in the eye sockets. He hated the way all the little restaurants on the parkway served rainbow trout with the head still on and the eyes looking at you. Inside, he ordered a burger.

There was a gla.s.s case full of imitation Cherokee artifacts beside the cash register, while the walls were decorated with folksy sayings like "Chief Redman says: Don't speak evil of your neighbor until you've walked a mile in his moccasins." The red Formica table had several old mustard stains on it.

"Mr. Walkingstick is a very accomplished storyteller," said Monica, sipping her Diet Pepsi. "Maybe too accomplished."

"What do you mean?" He absentmindedly squeezed the bottle of ketchup, which was shaped like a squaw in a blanket, a Cherokee Mrs. b.u.t.terworth. A bubble of the thin red liquid appeared atop the figure's head, making her look as if she'd been scalped.

"His stories are too polished, almost literary. That means they may not be authentic folk tales."

"Really?"

She nodded. "I remember once when I was Dr. Corum's graduate a.s.sistant.

He was doing a book on Appalachian 'jump tales,' and I was helping him record them. There was one old preacher up near Boone who told this great story about a mean old man who was looking for a buried treasure that was supposed to be sunk at the bottom of this abandoned well. The only trouble was, the well had some kind of demon guarding it."

She lit a cigarette, which annoyed him, as she'd once again promised to quit.

"Okay, at the climax of the story, the old man was out by the well at midnight, pulling on this wet, slimy rope that went down into the water, and feeling something heavy on the other end. Just then the moon went behind some clouds, and he couldn't see anything, but he kept on pulling. Whatever it was at the end of the rope got stuck under the lip of the well, so he reached down and got his hands under what felt like a big, wet canvas bag, full of mud and maybe something else.

He'd just got it up to the level of his face when the thing that felt like a bag reached out and put its arms around his neck."

She looked at him and grinned, waiting for a reaction. He smiled. "It was the demon and it killed him."

"Right. It was also the climax to some old ghost story by someone named James -- not Henry, someone else. The preacher told the same story. In fact, the ending was almost word for word. It turned out they had several collections of cla.s.sic ghost stories in the Sunday School library."

The waitress brought his hamburger and fries. Despite the bright orange dye in her hair, she looked almost seventy years old. "You want anything, honey?" she asked Monica.

"Just some water." While she was getting it, Steve took a bite of the hamburger. It tasted like a charred hockey puck. He decided he might have been better off with Mr. Walkingstick's leftover possum. Monica began to steal his fries, but he didn't say anything, even though they were the most edible thing on the plate.

The waitress came back with the water. "Sure you don't want anything, honey? We got some nice pie in the icebox. Some cobbler, too."

Monica shook her head. "No thanks, I'm on a diet." He wondered how she could say that with a straight face between mouthfuls of his fries. "Besides, we have to eat and run -- we're due back in Boone by nine thirty, and it looks like we're going to be late." Fine thing for her to be worrying about that now, he thought.

"You can make it," said the waitress, "if you take the short cut."

"Short cut?" asked Monica. "I didn't know there was one."

"Sure. This highway out here loops around the valley, but old Callie Road cuts right through it. Once you get down the mountain, there aren't any lights, of course, but turn on your high beams and you'll be okay."

"Old Callie Road?"

The waitress nodded. "Take the ramp right here beside the diner -- that turn off between us and the Sh.e.l.l station. Look out for potholes, though. It'll take you straight across the valley, then ends in a dirt road that goes up the far ridge. It was supposed to cut across the edge of the Reservation, too, but there was a big set-to between the county and the tribal council and the federal people, and it never got any further. It was one of those C.C.C. roads Roosevelt's people were building back in the Depression." For a moment, she looked embarra.s.sed. " 'Course, that was all before my time, so I don't know much about it."

Monica nodded gravely. "Maybe I will have some of that pie after all," she said, taking Steve's last French fry.

Outside, bats were swooping through the parking lot lights and the cicadas were singing in the trees. Sure enough, there was a road winding down the mountain to the pooled darkness of the valley. Beside it was a railing with several telescopes, a picnic table, and a lighted sign showing a bonneted old lady pointing and the words CALLIE SAYS: WHOA BUD, THIS VIEW'S TOO GOOD TO MISS.

"Why is the sign lighted?" asked Steve. "You can't see anything at night."

Instead of answering, Monica walked to the railing and stared down at the disappearing line of lights. "Callie Hollow, like in Mr. Walkingstick's story."

Steve nodded. "Right. It's probably full of spirits and demons."

"It could be." She sounded like she took the idea seriously.

"Are you afraid?"

She sat on the railing, already seeming to have forgotten about the need to be back in Boone. Steve wondered what she would do if she didn't have him to herd her around and see she got places on time. "No, I'm not afraid," she answered, still sounding as if she thought his question had been a serious one. "Are you?"

"I'm a city boy, remember?"

"Some of the most superst.i.tious people I've met have been city boys."

"Well, I'm not one of them." An idea struck him; she was always accusing him of being too timid and earnest. "But I know how to deal with spirits and demons."

He jumped up on the picnic table and began to intone, trying to sound like an actor in one of the outdoor dramas so popular here in North Carolina. "Spirits of the mountain, hear me!"

"Steve, don't," she said softly.

He ignored her, determined to carry this through without her making him feel embarra.s.sed. "Hear me, O Spirits of wood and stream. Hear me and give us safe pa.s.sage through your lands. Leave us unharmed, that we may buy rubber tomahawks and rock candy at the tourist shops of your people, that we may purchase their leather goods at outrageous prices, and get our pictures taken with the Chiefs in the fibergla.s.s teepees on main street, and pay homage to the Live Bears at every service station."

The echo faded, and with it his sudden burst of high spirits. He looked down, feeling stupid again, hoping for a smile but not really expecting one. But Monica wasn't looking at him at all. Her face wore an expression of intense listening. "What is it?"

"All the cicadas and crickets and the rest -- they just stopped."

He listened. The insect chorus was as loud as ever. "No they haven't."

She shook her head. "No, just for a minute, while you were chanting that stuff. It was like there was a break in the rhythm, or it was all on a big record that skipped a groove."

"I didn't notice." He jumped down and put his arm around her. At least she wasn't mad at him for acting like a clown. "C'mon, we do need to get going." She gave him one brief kiss before she slipped back behind the wheel.