“Dear God Almighty! No!” My screaming appeal to the heavenly powers was one of pure terror and instinct.
“It's too late!” My visitor gasped, eyes wide with fear. There was a mad scramble as myself and my visitor bolted from our chairs and rushed toward the door frame. The coffee table was bumped, sloshing our drinks, papers were scattered but we cared not for the danger that the spilled fluids presented to them. We lunged toward the doorway but it was too late.
FWAP! FWAP! FWAP! The sound was loud and let us know that disaster was upon us. My comrade slipped in the confusion, going down hard. I propelled myself forward with no regard to the man left behind, my mind was focused on but one goal, one mission. I must reach the doorway. FWAP! FWAP! FWAP! How loud the sound was, how long the seconds seemed to stretch. I gave my all with a final leap and an outstretched arm.
I did it, I reached the light switch and ceiling fan control, slapping them both off, cutting the electricity, but like my guest had said, it was too late. FWAP! FWAP! Fwap! Fwap! Wap! Wap! Bop! Bop! Clunk, clunk....clunk....thud....thud........thud. The ceiling fan stopped spinning. The two of us looked up at the ruins of a mylar helium balloon whose long string now wrapped around the light fixture and fan blades. Dust bunnies floated in the air, disturbed from their rest atop the fan blades and all was quiet.
“Aw geez, I'm sorry about that! Last thing I expected to happen!” My guest pulled himself up, regaining his feet, gazing at the sad remains of a once happy gift.
I too, gazed at the almost poetic destruction, the balloon wrapped in a last embrace of death with the instrument of it's destruction. “It's alright, doesn't seem to have damaged the fan. I'll get some scissors and get it out.” Within minutes I had the wreckage cleared, happy that the plastic string hadn't damaged the motor of the fan. I shooed away a few more dust bunnies, vowing to clean a little better next time I tidied up the room. My guest moved to the coffee table, rescuing papers from spilled drinks. I moved to join him, picking up our plates which bore the remains of cupcakes and frosting. “Lemme grab some paper towels from the kitchen.”
I came back quickly and cleaned up. My guest arranged the shuffled papers. “Well, happy birthday, Reed. The last thing I wanted to do was give you a mess as a present!”
“It's all good, my friend, all good. Just glad you're here, man. These papers you've brought is all the present I need!” We settled back into the chairs, pushing aside the scattered ruins of the dust bunnies which had now floated down to their earthly rest.
“I knew you would appreciate them!” Nicholas Calafair was a good friend and regular correspondent. He had recently left a long term job as caretaker to an antebellum mansion and now worked as consultant to a salvage and restoration company. He had come to me because of his current project, more salvage than restoration. An old property about thirty miles north of the interstate highway and south of the Chattahootchee State Park, left with a fire damaged wreck of the main house and time worn ruins of outlying buildings. Nicholas had been to explore the property to see if period materials could be gleaned for restoring other buildings managed by his company. On the property he had found a metal box, and wrapped in a waxed cloth were the papers he now showed me. We went back to our study of them now that the balloon crisis had passed.
They were old, the ink and quill lettering upon them showed the distinctions of an educated hand. Spots of discoloration threatened to obscure some of the words but Nicholas had photographed the originals, printed them and used digital techniques to enhance some of the smudged or unclear letters. He pointed out where they had been found with some shots of the charred interior of the main house's shell. There were some nice aerial shots courtesy of the drone provided by his company.
“I wasn't really doing a full survey, just checking, to see if a crew could come in. It was late afternoon, I was just looking around, you know?”
I nodded my head. I did know. The thrill of exploration, the excitement of a historical edifice, to walk where no other has tread for a hundred years. Yes, I knew.
“I walked in thinking we could get some beams out of the thing at the very least. I was focused on walking on the floor joists - see here this whole section is rotted, when I came to a section of hardwood flooring that seemed alright. It was almost looking good enough to recommend for salvage. I was wondering if it were oak, actually, then I passed a broken down bit of a wall, and there was a box, in the wall. So I reached in and grabbed it.”
“The papers were in there?” I prodded him to go on with the story as he paused, there was a strange tension about him as he spoke.
Nicholas nodded the affirmative. “There was a voice, a laugh. What a laugh – God! I can't think about it, the sound is just crawling through my ears. It was the most...sinister sound I think I've ever heard.” Nicholas's face had gone slack and pale, his eyes wide and staring into nothing. “And then the voice said – something like– walk on the shaded path. Damn! I can't remember! I hear the sound but the words slip away.” He glanced at me like a wary forest creature. “And then the voice said my name. Thats when I ran.”
He sank his head into his hands, elbows resting on his knees. It was pitiful. What had been an enthusiastic discovery was now revealed to be a frightening incident. Nicholas was shaken to his core. He had driven four hours to get to me, gone through the motions of normality and pretended to be okay. He was not okay, he was scared. “Oh boy, that's quite a...situation.” I gave him a hearty shake on the shoulder, showing my support through contact. “I believe you.”
He met my eyes. “Really?” Pulling his head from his hands, he gestured to the papers. “Because I hardly believe me and I was there. It's just impossible.”
I shook my head in response. “I seen a lot of stuff that's impossible. I don't explain it, I just deal with it.”
“What do you think we should do?” I could see some color creep back into Nicholas's cheeks, some note of control come back into his voice.
“Tonight, we will forget about it. We will get drunk, celebrate my birthday and worry about it tomorrow.” Thus, because I spoke it, all of the above came true.
The next morning brought birdsong and a mild headache. I stumbled from my bed into the living room where Nicholas still sprawled across the couch cushions on the floor. There had been an attempt to pull out the sofa-bed, but it had been abandoned as a bad plan when we quit drinking somewhere after midnight. I let him lay, thinking sleep would cure the stresses of his recent adventure, and got myself an ice cold glass of sweet tea. Oh the sweet convenience of modern technology and it's crowning glory – the refrigerator. The morning was warm already, the ceiling fan was still turned off and the living room air was a bit stale, it would be another hot day. I poured a second glass and shuffled to my armchair in the living room. The bundle of papers was on the coffee table and I picked them up to have a close look. There was a mixture of old and new, Nicholas had been busy digging up what internet records could tell him.
The property had been a pecan plantation, with large groves now given over to wildlife. The jungle-like conditions had crept right up to the shell of the mansion, a few trails indicating where old roads might have been. From the overhead shots I got a sense of what it had been like in it's glory days. Further in the stack of papers was a printout of a microfiche file, it was a picture of an engraving of the property showing the original architecture and a date of 1889. I counted window frames, there were six on the side I could see. Photocopies and prints gave way to the original papers, the ones from the bundle found by Nicholas. I assessed them again without reading them, looking for the signs of authenticity. They seemed genuine enough but I was struck by a smooth, uneven edge – I could only presume the pages had been sliced from a bound book, perhaps a journal. I turned my attention to their contents, once again noting the well made letters and even spacing of lines.
Though scattered by the events of the previous day, I was able to line up the edges of the paper, making sense of the sliced side and the dog-ears of the whole side, following a stain from heavy to light along the bottom corner. I felt I had the pages reasonably in order when I began to read in earnest. They seemed to have been written by a lady, (mistress of the house?) and expressed excitement at having just returned from the Exposition Universelle in Paris to the lovely home that was newly complete in it's construction. The only thing to mar this lady's happiness was a “house-girl” who went by the name Cora. This lady complained of the girl's surliness, her sly eyes and general attitude of sinister intent. There was a letter half stuck to a page at this point of the narrative, a response from a preacher to a letter we did not have. It was a letter saying there was nothing to be done about the “personal matter” but the house itself could have a blessing as soon as the preacher got all the participants to agree on a time, being as the house was somewhat remote.
Reading further into the journal portion, I discovered a growing hatred for Cora, a fear. After the journal pages there was a printed map of the Exposition with marks upon it that may have detailed favorite attractions. It was not immediately significant except to add to the point that the lady had been abroad in Europe while the house was being built. After the map there was a letter, written on a different stock of paper in a different handwriting. It was again, a reply to something which I did not have before me, but also again, authored by a Baptist clergy man. This letter urged an end to “unsanctioned” secret meetings of the house staff and field hands. There would be dire consequences, the letter warned, for those who walked the “Shadow Path”, those same souls who “did revel in shameless dance” thinking the cover of night would hide their sins from “the eyes of God's servants”.
The last letter was badly burnt and had suffered some damage from the spill on the coffee table. I could make out something of a reference, “the contract is binding”, “the spoken word”, and the names of the signatories. Mrs. Annabelle Bailey was one, witnessed by Cora Zime – the house maid. The lawyer seemed to be Mr. Horatio Lawrence, Esq. It intrigued me greatly and I cursed the paper's misfortune. I logged on to the internet and began making use of my established resources. I was engrossed in this labor when Nicholas regained consciousness. By the time he got coffee going, I had discovered some interesting things.
“Guess what?” I baited Nicholas with the question as he straightened the couch up.
“I can't imagine. Portal to another dimension, something, something, sight and sound, something, something, light and dark?”
“Not that neatly wrapped up in thirty minutes.” I handed him my notepad of findings.
“Let's see. Lawrence law firm still in practice. Same location since 1865. Mrs. Annabelle Bailey, widow of Lucas Dumont Jackson Bailey the third. Lived at Shade Oak plantation from 1889 till 1890, the house goes to the husband who scandalously marries the house maid. She outlives him, presumably dies lonely. Odd, but not unheard of.” He finished the paper trail. “And then it burnt down all together in 1972, has been abandoned ever since.”
“Until your company got the sale from the county for unpaid taxes. Who else except you has been there?” I was curious if anyone else had experienced phenomenon there.
“I suppose I am the first. From the company, anyway. Everything else was pulled from public records and satellite images.” He shrugged. “Thought I finally got to have an adventure, but it wasn't quite fun.” Nicholas sipped his coffee, lost in memory. “Hang on, how does this relate to the papers?”
“That's we need to find out when we visit that lawyer's firm, after we go see the property, of course.”
Nicholas agreed and in due course we dressed, breakfasted, packed his car and drove up the interstate, on our way to Shady Oaks. It would take close to an hour to get to the turn off and I voiced my thoughts as Nicholas negotiated traffic. “Who was Cora Zime before she became the house maid? Where'd she come from?”
“Chances are pretty good she was local. Maybe some peanut farmer's daughter?” Nicholas knew the history of the area and was not trying to be funny.
“Pretty good handwriting. Means there might be a school record or something about her we can find.” I was on my phone and searching the internet as we sped down the road. I wanted to see the property and find a motel to check into before it got completely dark, somewhere around eight in the evening at that time of year.
It was about eleven-thirty when we turned onto the final stretch of road that led to the property. The pavement gave way to dirt ruts as we got deeper into the pine woods. Nicholas stopped the car in front of a swing bar type gate and popped out to unlock the heavy chain that secured it. I could see beat down grass and weeds from the last time his car had come through, but nothing more recently crushed. It seemed no one else had brought a vehicle this way. I strained my eyes to see anything of footprints, either animal or human, but found none.
We slowly rolled toward the shell of the mansion, wary lest some obstruction in the bracken pose a threat to the tires. I saw the blackened walls covered in subtropical vines and obscured by saplings seeking to reclaim the spot. It seemed ominous and decayed, like we were unwelcome, somehow dark even in the strong daylight. “Damn,” said Nicholas.
“What?” His expression set off my alarm bells.
“I forgot to bring the drone. We can't scout it out from over here, now.”
I rolled my eyes in response, ready to cut him with a retort but at that moment, the full ruin of the house came into view and demanded all my attention. It was a evil, shabby hulk of broken columns, dank, clogged ponds covered with mosquito clouds and jungle-decay. Golden orb weaver spiders as big as my face spun massive webs across the undisturbed spaces between broken pillar columns in the front garden, dirty and half hidden in leaf piles.
Silently, we approached the black line marking where the front wall used to be. Only a portion of it stood, off to the left and barely high enough to indicate there had once been a second floor. We mounted limestone steps which retained a scrap of the balustrade and lathe-worked spindles. The front porch was fraught with holes so I joined Nicholas in carefully negotiating my way over the brittle planks that remained. Once inside, I adopted his technique of just stepping on the exposed floor joists as much as possible. These seemed to be solid enough and I could agree with reusing the old timbers for restoration on other plantation homes. The entrance hall took us toward the usable bit of hardwood flooring Nicholas had mentioned before, and the broken wall separating front of house from back. Here, he stopped, looking back at me hesitantly. “Go on ahead, I'm right behind you.”
With a butterfly in my stomach, I stepped ahead of Nicholas. I rounded the wall to see no room at all, nothing but the flooring littered with leaves and debris. I was going to call to him, just on the other side of the wall. I'm sure that I had a witty remark to say. I can't tell you what it might have been because at that moment, something grabbed me. I felt clawed hands grasp my ankle and before I knew it, I was down on the damp, leafy surface being dragged toward a dark gaping hole in the wood. I flipped from my face on to my side and caught sight of two things that are burned into my memories. The first is looking upward at Nicholas' astonished face peering from around the wall. The second is looking downward to see a bony, grasping hand wrapped around each ankle, the arms disappearing under that section of flooring. Human in shape, monstrous in detail, the kind of hands that Halloween props are modeled after. Later Nicholas would tell me I screamed, but I don't remember it in the moment. I do remember kicking and flailing and grasping at Nicholas who pulled me from the other direction with all his might.
He saved me, I am sure of it. The hands let go, we scrambled away, hopping beams with the fear that a creature would come up out of any one of those dark, dismal holes in the floor. We sprinted to the car, slammed ourselves in and accelerated back to the paved road. After some minutes of panicked driving, we slowed to normal speeds and dared to look in the rear view mirrors, just to make sure no creature followed. My breath was ragged, my heart thudded painfully. I almost still felt the bony fingers on my ankles, I rubbed them to get circulation back.
“You ok, man?” Nicholas was still processing the situation. “Geez, Reed, something tried to freakin' get you. What the Hell was that? Not some hobo camping out, that's for sure, that was freakin' unnatural, some kind of boogeyman or something!”
“You're right, that wasn't a hobo.” I tried to let the adrenaline subside with a short mindfulness exercise. “Let's just get to the motel at Pine Springs. I need electricity and hot water, maybe some new boxers.” Nicholas tried to smile on my behalf, but it mostly failed. We just drove. It wasn't yet safe to talk too much about what had happened. We just drove down the state road headed into Pine Springs, which used to be a big Indian trading post back in the old, old days, before the Civilized Tribes were rounded up and marched to a far away land.
The motel had been built in the 1950's and was fit for the setting of a vintage television show. The only important thing to me was the clean rooms and free wi-fi. Modern technology in almost the middle of nowhere is a miracle in itself, one for which I will always be grateful. It took all my self control not to kick at the memory of those clawed hands, I could still feel their impressions on my flesh. I had to sit in the car while Nicholas confirmed our reservation of two rooms near the office. We bolted ourselves into the first and finally were able to breathe freely. I bee- lined for the shower, desperate to get the sting of the scratches clean. My skin was welted but unbroken and hot water did a world of good to soothe my very sore muscles. You have to believe I gave my everything to not be dragged under the floor, yet if Nicholas had not been there, I would have lost to the hideously strong, grasping, arms.
Nicholas had run a bedbug check and it looked clear so we brought our bags in. We had just cracked open notebooks and laptops when there was a knock at the door. We looked at each other in surprise, expecting no one. I crept up to the door and put my eye to the keyhole. It was a gentleman in a tastefully tailored suit, carrying a briefcase. There was a small smile on his face as he waited on the door. I made sure the chain was snug, then opened the door a crack. “Can I help you?”
“Hello there, my name is Howard Lawrence of the Lawrence Law Firm. I'd like to speak to you, Mr. Two-Horse and Mr. Calafair as well.” The gentleman had a deep twang and slow intonation. His smile got bigger. “Please.”
“About what? How do you know us?” I took a hard second look at him. No, I had never seen him before.
“ I'm here about the property Mr. Calafair was sent to survey. I'm so sorry about the confusion but this matter has only just come into my hands. May I come in and discuss the particulars, or perhaps you would feel more comfortable meeting me somewhere more public, such as the diner?”
I looked over my shoulder at Nicholas. We certainly didn't need strange eyes on our research even if we had been planning on going to the firm. This preemptive meeting seemed strange in light of our narrow escape. “We'll meet you at the diner in five minutes?” I nodded to my feet. “gotta get some shoes on.”
“I'll get us a booth.” He turned away and I shut the door.
“This is getting weirder.” Nicholas. I had to agree with him.
At the diner we joined Mr. Lawrence who was tucking into a waffles and chicken platter. We ordered sweet teas and sandwiches from the waitress who promptly appeared with a couple of menus. Mr. Lawrence dabbed his mouth and cleared his throat. “Now, allow me to introduce myself a bit better. I told you this matter had just come to my attention. My father has recently left practice and my review of his cases had to be taken over in order of urgency. I apologize for not getting word about the property to your company sooner, Mr. Calafair. It's a shame they sent you out to that jungle, unaware of it's dangers.”
Nicholas and I glanced at each other. “Dangers?”
“Snakes and such. Gators, even. I don't think they should have sent just one person, alone I mean.” He paused as our food was delivered, smiling at the waitress. “And Mr. Two-Horse comes in with no boots or safety gear...well, nobody wants an accident to happen. Tetanus is an awful thing to contract, My purpose is to inform you of an offer to buy back the land from your company, and that you should refrain from further visits until the matter is settled.” He took a bite from his plate and spoke around the mouthful. “Because the liability, you understand. Rusty nails, loose boards, hidden wells and such.” A big swig of tea followed. “Just not worth it, getting hurt and all.”
“How'd you know where we were staying?” Something about him was unsettling. I couldn't pin down my suspicions.
“We're a small town. Only a couple of places you could be staying. Easy to make a phone call and ask.” He waved a hand dismissively.
“What can you tell us about the property? From your files?” Nicholas pressed for some answers. “We have some information your firm is connected with the property from way back in the day.”
Mr. Lawrence beamed a smile upon us. “So it has. There was a trust fund set up and my father administered to it. Unfortunately, in his later years he let a few matters slip and the trust fund was, well, let's say a bit financially strained. However, I have reinvested the funds, restored the trust and would now like to rectify the tax situation, purchasing the property back into the estate.” He took a bite. “The estate is eager to remain intact and undisturbed. The will of the original family members is quite insistent upon it.”
“Why? It's a wreck.” I wondered why no maintenance had been done if there were provision to keep the land.
“The property is more than the house, Mr. Two-Horse. Acreage, nature preserve, wild life habitat. The family were quite fond of the place, their intention is to preserve it until such a time as the living family member wishes to restore the former glory.”
“What living family member?” Nicholas and I spoke the line in unison.
Mr. Lawrence smiled. “Just a name on a paper, an old woman who doesn't want to be bothered.”
Mr. Lawrence excused himself, leaving money on the table and the two of us to our thoughts. Nicholas thought it best to call his office. I finished my sandwich about the same time he finished his call. “Whelp, I'll stay off the property until it's settled. Can't say I wanted to go back.”
Once again in the motel room, we returned to the papers and notations. “Gets weirder and weirder.” I sat down to make notes of what the lawyer had said. He had all but admitted there was a living relative, a manager of the estate who cared enough to reclaim a swampy tax burden of a property just to keep a family tradition going. Who had inherited the property? Cora, the house maid. There had been no children from the first marriage. Mrs. Cora Z. Bailey must have had children to pass it to. Had she remarried? Public records would be worth searching. Knowing not everything could be or has been uploaded to the internet, I made several phone calls, getting an appointment with the court archives first thing in the morning.
The archives were in a converted warehouse whose only indication of being anything other than industrial was a tiny sign attached to the entrance door. Once inside, it was like entering another world for the corrugated tin siding and heavy steel rails gave way to polished floors and ergonomic computer stations. Large drawers housed the survey drawings, land plat books and architecture plans. My guide through all of this was a comfortable lady in her fifties who sported elaborate rings on almost every finger. Mrs. Henrietta Gage had been working for the court since before there were computers and she was a master archivist, I was in good hands. She typed with blinding speed and had an uncanny way of getting the computer to tell her the things I wanted to know. The problem was that there had been so little to do with the property, there just weren't a lot of records. It cost me a good bit of time to finally get the print outs of the original house plan, county survey and tax payment stubs, but it was so worth it. I was pleased and filled with anticipation when Mrs. Gage handed me the bundle of papers. “Alright Cora Zime, it's time we found out your secrets!”
Mrs. Gage looked at me, the smile dropping from her face. “What did you just say?”
“Oh, the name. Cora Z. Bailey was originally just Cora Zime.” I couldn't imagine why my words had distressed her.
“Oh! Are you sure? Korazim is a where not a who.” She smiled tentatively. “It's a town, a ruins actually, in northern Israel. You know, from the Bible – Mathew 11:20 – 11:24? The cursed town. My granddaddy used to tell us kids ghost stories about how you had to go there if you wanted to sell your soul to the Devil. My, he'd have us so scared! He swore there was a witchy woman out in the woods who would come get us if we were bad. When I got older I wondered why would any witch want to come back here? I'd bet a dollar it was because of that lady's name, right there. Isn't it funny how stories get built up that way?”
“Well I'll be! Hadn't thought about that before.” I was impressed with her recollection of scripture.”I'll have to go over that verse when I get some time, later on.” I settled my bill for the copies and wished her a good day, then headed back to the motel. On the drive I thought about the story of cursed Korazim, the city forsaken in the Biblical tale for not turning to the path of righteousness. Mrs. Gage was right – it is funny how stories get built up, stories with a grain of truth to start them spinning. Cora Zime, Cora Zime, was she the witch? Had she been to the dark stones of Korazim to trade her soul for power, perhaps immortality? Were those her hands reaching up from the darkness of the gaping floor?
I barged into the room, impatient to share my news with Nicholas. I was surprised to see him sitting at the table, face drawn in unhappily, in the company of Mr. Lawrence, who smiled beatifically in my direction. “Well, you're just in time, Mr. Two-Horse, just in time.”
“For what?” I felt immediately defensive. The look on Nicholas's face did not speak well of Mr. Lawrence's attentions. I had to do a double take when I saw that my laptop, Nicholas's laptop and our bundle of papers were piled in a box. Mr. Lawrence pushed a paper on a clipboard across the table.
“Just sign here, Mr. Two-Horse. It's to acknowledge that you consent to our...confiscation of your computer until we determine there is no information related to our client, our client's property or photographs of the same. It will be mailed back to you, after we clear out any offensive files.”
I felt instant rage. How dare he think he could waltz in and grab my personal laptop? I felt my blood pressure rising and had some harsh words on my lips. Then I glanced once more at Nicholas. He gave his head a tiny shake – no. There was something odd about his posture, something that told me he was scared. I looked back at Mr. Lawrence who smiled at me. This time, it was so sinister that a shiver of ice water fear slid down my spine.
“Now don't be unreasonable, Mr. Two-Horse. It's for the best and your property will be returned to you. After all, it was Mr. Calafair here who actually stole personal possessions from the property. I assure you, Sheriff Jeffrey is anxious to see this matter resolved as amicably as possible. It seems Mr. Calafair's company...well, let's say, overextended themselves with the purchase of the property. My law firm's partners have made the appropriate motions and regained the property to the estate, nullifying the purchase. My client, the estate, wishes to be made whole in the matter of the property and wishes, in lieu of damages, to simply ensure that no images or information of the property shall be disseminated.”
I signed the paper, just like that. I can't describe to you what I felt. It was no overwhelming compulsion, no fight against something I didn't want to do. It was almost as if signing the paper was the easiest thing to do. So easy I didn't even have to think about it. I was done scribbling before I could even register the movements of my hand.
“Good, good.” Mr. Lawrence snatched up the clipboard and slid it into the box. “So glad you are cooperative, both of you. I would have hated to get the Sheriff involved. I hear Judge Vinsdale wouldn't be back to hear your case for several days, at least and I would hate for you to have to pass the time in the county jail with every drunk around here for ten miles. By the way, that signature is also an agreement to abide by a gag order. You won't be discussing this outside of yourselves.” The feeling of danger and menace increased as he eyed us with a stern look. He picked up the box and saw himself to the door, which I had left open. “Good day, gentlemen.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and watched Mr. Lawrence place the box in the back seat of a dark sedan. He drove away while we stared after him. “You know what?” I looked at Nicholas. He shook his head in the negative. “I don't think I want to spend any time in the county jail, either.” He shook his head affirmatively.
“Think we'll get our stuff back?” Nicholas seemed to be in a bit of shock. I nodded. It thought it would be so.
“What did he say to you?” I wondered what had rattled Nicholas's cage so badly.
“I don't know how they knew. While you were gone, the Sheriff came. Took me down to the station. Said there had been a complaint, a robbery – from the property. Described the papers, the box I found them in.” He looked at me with wide pupils. “Reed, what was that...thing that tried to grab you?”
I told him the story of what I had found out from Mrs. Gage, the story her granddaddy had told her. I didn't mention the papers I'd printed out, I didn't want him any further involved in whatever the people of the town and Mr. Lawrence were hiding.
“You know what Reed? I got a call from the boss. He said I cooperate in any way possible. He was scared, Reed, and so was I.” Nicholas rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “What kind of legal power do you have to have to move so fast and scare so many people. Who do you think Mr. Lawrence knows?” He glanced at me. “They reversed the sale, made it like it didn't happen. Took those papers and our research like it didn't happen. Threatened us with a jail we might not come out of. They did it overnight. A matter of hours, really. Who are these people?” He stared at the tabletop. “That Sheriff, I never want to run into anyone like that again. He had those sunglasses, the mirror ones. I had a crazy thought that if he took them off there would be no eyes behind them.”
We left and drove and didn't look back. We drove without stopping for food, straight back to my house. When we got there we had a restless night filled with self-doubt and bad dreams. The next morning I tried to elevate the mood with a pancake breakfast, but the results were mediocre. Nicholas left some hours later, returning to his home with a somber face and heavy heart. We haven't spoken of the place since then. I still have the papers, the blueprints of the old burned out mansion but I never look at them. Let their secrets lie undisturbed by me. I don't want to go back, have no reason to go back. Whatever, whoever, lies beneath the floor can stay there with Mr. Lawrence, the Sheriff and the Judge. No, I won't go back.
Submitted May 18, 2017 at 09:18AM by Jargonterms http://ift.tt/2qvfeSt nosleep
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