Ghosts of Black Bear Mountain Page 3

  He did all this like nothing had happened, like it was just another ordinary day. What the hell?

  I started to leave but stopped. I'd lost the address on the bridge. "Eddie?"

  He whipped his head around and lifted his chin with a questioning face.

  "Don't shoot me for asking but...can you tell me where Thornbrook Lane is?"

  "Oh? You really do have a meetin'?" He raised his chin higher. "Who's it with?"

  "Um, Franklin Mullis? Fourteen Thornbrook—"

  "Sixteen Thornbrook Lane," he corrected. "Frank told you to meet him up there? Wow. That's wild. Okay, well, Thornbrook's the last street up the hill." He pointed toward the dirt road lined with shops. "That's Main Street. Just go to the end of that, then turn right on Windy Hill Lane, ’cause that's the only way you can turn, then follow Windy Hill up, and there's Thornbrook."

  "Last street up the hill. Thanks."

  "Sure thing. Givin' directions is one of my jobs, too." He smiled, then turned back to the wall.

  I stared at him for a moment, wondering what he was watching for.

  * * *

  The whole valley was like a medieval castle with the stream running along one side of the town like a moat, the railroad tracks circling half and the mountain behind it like a castle wall, and Eddie, the Knight, guarding the bridge. All Middwood needed was a dragon and it would be set. All hail, Macbeth.

  I wanted to ask him if I could walk back across the bridge to get my car, but since he had a gun and was possibly unstable, I decided to walk away. At least the trek would help me get acquainted with the town.

  I continued onto the dirt road that was Main Street. Lots of dirt here, I thought.

  I didn't know when Middwood was founded, but it looked temporary, like an afterthought.

  Directly across from the bridge and over the stretch of road sat a humble Catholic church. I'd never attended a Catholic church, but after my recent near-death experiences, lighting a candle for myself seemed like a good idea, even though I wasn't sure what the candles represented.

  The first storefront on the right was a small diner called the Bucket, which was good since I didn't cook. Next to the Bucket was the First Bank of Middwood. It was the first display of money I'd seen since I crossed into Kentucky. The outside walls were covered in sheets of polished stone. A young man about my age stood on the other side of the glass, staring at me with enough of a sneer on his face for me to return the look. He turned his head and called back to someone further inside. I glanced back at the gas station. From the door of the bank, anyone could have seen my exchange with Eddie. Less than five minutes in town and I was already getting looks like that.

  On the left side of the street, across from the bank, was a small pharmacy, Bill's Pills. Other than one or two other businesses, Main Street was a row of blackened windows. At first, I thought it was dead because it was cold out, but then I noticed several yellowing "For Sale" and "Going Out of Business" signs.

  The last storefront at the end of the street on the right was Magnolia's, a small grocery store. A woman in a simple dress carrying a quart of milk and a can of something had just stepped out. She wasn't wearing makeup, but she had a semblance a bouffant hairdo like Jackie Kennedy’s. The style was a few years behind, but it was still a classic look. Maybe the town was too far behind after all.

  After less than seventy-five yards I came to the end of Main Street. The road was so short they didn't even have a stop light. I glanced back down the street and blinked. At least there was a street lamp, located next to the bank. I didn't have time to dawdle any longer.

  I turned back to the end of Main Street and was greeted by Jesus and the First Methodist Church. I turned right, and as I continued, I peered up Windy Hill Lane to see if yet another church anchored it. Instead, the First Baptist Church of Middwood sat up the steep hill on the left, beyond a large four-story building.

  The church was shaped like a traditional country church: the double-door entrance, stained glass windows, and a tall, stretching steeple. But it was its burnt orange color that set it apart. It was made from large, rough, orange clay bricks.

  Three large churches, all in the smallest town I'd ever seen.

  Not many places for a sinner like me to hide, I thought.

  I took a deep breath and looked at my watch. I hurried my stride and began the climb.

  6

  I tried to focus as I rushed up the incline. There were too many questions I needed to avoid, or at least give answers that were heavily sugar-coated. I was in the middle of a question-and-answer scenario when I noticed the houses up on the right. Across from the Baptist church and the large building, were two-story homes that were much better maintained than what I'd passed driving in. The houses were simple, clean, and had a certain charm. I let out a breath that I hadn’t known I was holding for most of the climb.

  Past the Baptist church, I turned right onto the last street off Windy Hill, Thornbrook Lane. I passed two more houses on my left. Then I stood on the dirt road in front of a picturesque two-story, pale-blue house with teal shutters. Sixteen Thornbrook Lane sat on a slight hill with a porch that ran the length of the front of the house. At the base of the road was a weeping tree of sorts; it looked like someone had planted the bones of a large mangled umbrella.

  Regardless, it was a beautiful older home. All the setting needed was someone to erase the ugly mountain behind it, put an old rocking chair on the porch, and it would be perfect. However, instead of a rocker, there stood a scowling, older man with a curved back waiting for me.

  The white-haired man on the porch was easily in his early to mid-sixties, dressed in wrinkles and all shades of brown from his beige slacks to his tan cardigan to his light tan, button-up shirt. I couldn't help but think he resembled an old English bulldog guarding his food bowl.

  I stepped onto the brown grass of the yard that curved up to the house. As I approached the porch, I hoped I wouldn’t have to face another shotgun.

  "You must be Mr. Christian?" he asked.

  "Yes, I am." I grinned. It was time to try and turn on the charm. I had to make a good first impression.

  "You're late," he said with a scowl.

  That didn't take long, I thought.

  "I had a blowout. I apologize for—"

  "I heard. Glad to see you Atlanta boys at least know how to change a tire."

  A sense of confused embarrassment came over me. My tire blew less than an hour ago. How did he find out so fast? Was it the shit-head that drove by?

  "I heard a blue Ford Falcon with Georgia license plates crashed coming down Black Bear Mountain. I figured it was you. Speaking of that, why did you park outside the town?"

  "I couldn't find the way in, so I parked on the highway." I cocked my head, "Who told you about that?"

  He ignored my question. "You couldn't find the way in?"

  I held my composure. "I only saw that little old bridge, and after what happened to my car I didn't want to take any more chances."

  "Mr. Christian, that bridge is the only way into the town proper."

  "I didn’t know that. But anyway, that's also why I look like such a beat-up mess—the wreck." I swallowed, and I could still feel Marbert's fist in my gut. It was an extreme coverup, but my ordeal on the mountain masked everything.

  He took his time staring into each of my eyes. I felt like a math problem he was trying to solve.

  "What is it, Mr. Mullis?"

  He held up his hand. "We will deal with your car later. Let's just get on with the interview."

  I couldn't believe it. The old man ignored me again. Everything inside me said I should leave, but I didn't have anywhere else to go, not yet anyway. My shoulders bowed in defeat. I reminded myself I could always get in my car and leave at any time. Then again, I only had fifteen cents to my name. I took a breath. If nothing else, I could use my first paycheck to get out of here. Until then, surely, I could play along. I was always good at that.

  Franklin pulled a set
of jangling keys from his pocket. "Your car issues have put us behind schedule, and one thing you will find is people here are very particular about time, especially when the moon is rising. The blowout was understandable since you don't know how to hold a hill, but I'm sure you won't make a habit of needing excuses for punctuality."

  "No, sir."

  "Good," he said, flipping through the keys. He growled as he pushed on the door. My guess of his age kept getting higher.

  "Do you need some help, Mr. Mullis?"

  "No," he grunted. "You'll see the doors here are heavier than they look." He gave another shove, and the door opened.

  We stepped inside, and inches away from the reach of the door was a set of stairs that led to the second floor. The main level opened into a small, cream colored plastered entryway. The foyer ran along the ten feet of the wall that masked the stairs and ended at the open kitchen door. The opposite side of the foyer's width was marked by the arrangement of furniture. To the right, the living room was separated by a small, thin table that sat behind a purple sofa. My eyes continued to the right to a chunky, dark, purplish-blue armchair with ruffles that looked more than a decade behind the times.

  Groovy digs.

  A faded rug on the hardwood floors centered the space. It was cozy, like going to your grandparents', except my grandmother wouldn't have gone without a TV. In the living room, facing the front yard, was a large, floor-length window with impressive, ivory-colored plantation shutters. They were nice, but they didn't match the rest of the house. Through the open door on the far side of the living room, I saw the dining room at the back of the house, and it also had two of the same impressive windows and shutters.

  I crossed to the living room window and opened the shutters. "I love the windows. I bet the view of the mountains is great." The view was the homes across the road, Main Street, the town, and the seemingly endless sea of mountains.

  The four two-story houses were all different colors: yellow on my far right, the two in the middle were light coral and pink, and the one on the far left was a bright hue of green. The colors were whimsical, and that was the trend with the shanties across Looney Creek as well. On the highway the houses were basically shacks, but off Windy Hill Lane the homes would be considered beautiful even if they had been located in Atlanta. They were nice, but they didn't compare to Mr. Mullis's home. Not only did he have prime real estate and a view of the entire valley, but he also had an armed guard watching over them at the only bridge into town.

  I turned my eyes back to the massive mountain. My smile diminished. "There's a lot of rock here."

  "In front of you is the highest point in the great state of Kentucky. Middwood was built in its hollow."

  "What's a hollow?"

  Mr. Mullis rounded the sofa. "Lowland between two mountains."

  "I see," I said dryly.

  The old man grunted out a laugh. "Black Bear Mountain is over four thousand feet tall."

  "Four thousand? Jeez. No wonder I felt so small. Back home, Stone Mountain is only about a quarter of that."

  Mr. Mullis joined me at the window. "And we aren't even on the valley floor."

  "Where is the bottom?"

  "Not far from here. Over the creek and the railroad tracks." See that cut there?" He pointed straight out over the houses and beyond the town.

  "Cut?"

  "Well, there used to be even more mountain here. We had to blast our way in to lay the tracks for the train." He peered at me over his glasses, looking for a sign that I was following him. He must have been convinced because he continued, "Well, beyond that cut, the valley drops a good three hundred feet."

  "Jeez. That’s huge."

  His hand floated to the right. "About five miles that way is the new mine." He faltered, "Well, we call it that, but it's almost thirteen years old now. You'll hear the whistle every morning and every afternoon. It's better than a rooster or an alarm clock."

  "It's a charming town." It wasn't a complete line. From this angle and height overlooking the town, it was "quaint," as my Rose-Mary Grand would say.

  Franklin grunted. "Well, folks didn't come here for the view."

  "For the coal, I assume?"

  "For the money, Matt," he corrected.

  "It's a completely different world here."

  "Lots and lots of money."

  I tried to smile. "Well, I'm a teacher, not an adventurer."

  "We'll make an Appalachian out of you yet." He patted me on the back and crossed from the living room window into the dining room. "Besides, the town isn't what it used to be."

  "You mean the coal mine?"

  "Coal mines. The town opened up a new small operation about ten years ago." His mouth twisted, and his chin bounced with slight nods. "It was lucrative once, but...Well, the Lord giveth and the Lord—or someone—taketh away."

  This conversation about the past made me nervous. I was worried he was using the story of the town as a segue. I didn’t want to jeopardize the only job offer I'd received in six months. Following behind him, I changed the subject. "The house is beautiful."

  While I focused on the bald spot on the back of his head, his chin nodded in appreciation. "The house is a historic site in Middwood. It was one of the first houses in town to have running water. She's much older of course, but still a looker. It was modern for its time, and some parts of it still are. As you see you can enter the kitchen from the living room or the dining room, two doors. I always thought that was nice."

  "You could run laps through the place," I grinned.

  * * *

  Mr. Mullis furrowed his brow, and my grin subsided.

  He let out a little huff in a curious sort of laugh. "Plenty of other places to run around in circles. Do you cook much?"

  "I know a few basic things, but I guess I'll be eating out mostly for a bit."

  Franklin turned his head giving me a curious stare. "And where will you be goin’ to eat?"

  "I think I saw a diner on Main Street? Is it any good?"

  "The Bucket. Decent place." He nodded. "Mediocre food, but they serve up some pretty good corn fritters. And you can't really screw up coffee, can you?"

  I gave a gentle laugh. "No, you can't. Any other good places around?"

  "Nope. Mr. Christian, you'll be needin' to learn to cook," the stoic instructed. He nodded and completed the circle back to the living room.

  He returned to the large window and looked down over the town with his hands behind his back. "Now, let's get the biggest question out of the way."

  My eyes widened and my body tensed. Mr. Mullis was going in straight for the kill. He was about to ask me about Darlene, the drugs. Even though I planned out responses to those questions, my mind went into a non-verbal stutter. "Well, I. . .really need to go to the bathroom.” I nodded. “It was a long trip.”

  “Yes, of course, just up at the top of the stairs.”

  “Thank you. Excuse me.”

  It wasn’t a complete lie, I hadn't gone to the bathroom for over five hours. I lowered my eyes to my zipper as I spun to face the toilet.

  I met a demon's blazing eyes.

  7

  I jerked back, ramming my shoulders into the wall.

  The gruesome, snarling face of a devil hung over the toilet. It was painted in thick strokes of various reds and black. "Good grief.”

  Pushing my glasses up my nose, I leaned in to examine it better. Sticking out of the paint were bits of dried straw, and the color was mixed with dirt and chips of rock.

  Franklin called from downstairs, “Everything okay up there? Did you drop your pecker?”

  “Yes. I mean, no... Just the ... painting gave me a fright,” my voice bounced around the tiled room as I replied.

  “Well, clean up any of the fright that may have gotten on the floor,” he said.

  I zipped up, quickly rinsed off my hands, and checked my shirt pocket. I dug out the small, white pill and I kept a watchful eye on the painting as I dropped my face under the faucet and to
ok a slurp.

  I stood, making a sour face. The water’s taste was almost as bad as its thick mineral odor. I dry heaved and spit out the contents of my mouth. The pill bounced off the top of the basin onto the floor. I bent down to pick it up. It was wet and covered in dust, but there was no way I'd let it go to waste. I wiped it off the best I could, snarled my lip at the thought of it being on the floor, but popped it in the back of my throat and swallowed it dry. I thought about wiping out my mouth with toilet paper, but I was just stuck with the lingering taste of tainted water and chalky dust.

  As I stepped out of the bathroom, Franklin stood at the base of the stairs. “I suppose you are wondering about that painting?”

  “Yes. I’ve--”

  He filled in the words for me. “Never seen a painting of the devil above a toilet?”

  “No.” I was starting to get a headache. “It’s a different kind of choice than I would have made.”

  He leaned back and stretched. “Actually, everyone in Middwood has a similar painting.”

  “Why?."

  "Mr. Christian, it's just a painting. Something that caught on with the locals, mainly to support a dear, local Shawnee lady."

  “I see.”

  “Are you superstitious, Mr. Christian?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Are you Baptist or part of the frozen chosen?"

  I stopped. "The what?"

  "Methodist. Are you Baptist or Methodist?"

  My brain still fumbled, "I have to choose?"

  "Or are you one of those Mormons?"

  "No." I let out a relaxed, nervous laugh. "Honestly, I haven't been to church in a while."

  He furrowed his eyebrows so much that his eyes were almost closed. "Do you feel guilty about it?"

  "Um... Yes?" I answered, confused.

  "Then you must be Catholic? Plenty of Catholics, first church you see when you drive over Keeper's Bridge."