Homeplace

A young artist moves to the isolated farmhouse she inherited in order to jump-start her painting career, only to find that something, or someone, doesn't want her there, and that the locals believe the artist's ancestor was a self-proclaimed witch.

CHAPTER 19


When she was sure they were all dead, Charlene gathered the rabbits up in her bath towel then took them to the backyard and burned them.

The rabbits were possessed. To break their necks on my door like that, they had to be possessed. The deer, too.

Stop thinking like that. Charlene shook her head to clear the thoughts. She picked up a stick and flung it onto the crackling pyre composed of rabbits, scrub brush, and a few logs from the back porch. Ash and sparks burst from the flames and flew into the air.

Maude said Charlene’s family was never to sell this place. What if something here at Homeplace really was angry that she didn’t plan on keeping the land?

Damn, would you just stop this? If someone else were here to bounce those thoughts off, like Ryan, Mary Jane…or Andrew…then you would see how silly they sound.

Beside her on the ground were three buckets of water, ready in case the flame was blown from the bald patch of earth into the weeds. But there was no wind and it did not spread. She stood, arms crossed against the chilling air and her own trembling. After ten minutes she doused the flames and left the blackened, skeletal remains to the elements or to wild scavengers.

By five o’clock the appliances had not arrived. Charlene called to ask what the holdup was but only got a busy signal. Come on! Who has busy signals these days? Don’t they have call waiting? Or at least a second line? What’s with these guys?

By five-thirty, still nothing. She tried to call again, but their answering machine picked up, “Rider Street Appliances close at 5 p.m. Please call us again during our regular business hours between…” Charlene jabbed the end button on the cell.

Damn it! I want my appliances.

She picked up her camera, flashlight, and bolt cutter, and tromped to
the Children’s House, casting a sidelong glance at the flattened, charred pile of rabbits and wood, getting another shiver from the idea of what they had done on her porch and what she had done to their little bodies. But back to the task at hand. She might have knocked herself out last time she was in the cabin, but that wouldn’t happen again. She would get into the attic. She would take pictures. If she couldn’t paint the mill yet, she would paint something else. She would paint the mysteries of the cabin’s attic. Artists had to press on through the mire if they were to get anything done. Neither this place nor worries about it would control or hold her back. Besides, she now had a bolt cutter.

It took several good, hard squeezes with her knee braced on the handle to slice through the old padlock on the trapdoor at the top of the steps. Once the lock was dislodged, Charlene pushed the trapdoor open and crawled into the blackness.

The flashlight cut a pale ribbon across the cluttered attic floor. The roof was too low for Charlene to stand, so she crawled forward through the thick dust, praying that black widows would hide from the light. She discovered a scattering of old medicine bottles with water stained and illegible labels, rotting leather children’s high top shoes and empty, mildewed haversacks. She sneezed and her eyes stung.

I should have bought a paper mask for this.

She reached a small straw-stuffed mattress, covered with scraps of what must have been clothing at one time. She trained the light along the length of the mattress. Mice had chewed chunks out of it, leaving huge sores from which the brittle guts protruded. Putting the flashlight down, Charlene carefully reached beneath the mattress, and turned it over. It struck the floor with a soft thud, sending more dust into the air. Charlene covered her nose and mouth until it settled. She picked up the flashlight. There, in the center of the ticking, was a large brown, stain.

It was blood.

What happened here?

A tingle ran down her back and across her shoulders. She sat back on her heels, gathered her camera up, and took a number of flash photos of the mattress. Then, bracing the flashlight between her knees, she snapped photos of the items near her, catching the bottles and the shoes, the leather bags, an old shotgun, a mildewed saddle and rusting stirrups. The flashlight loosened and fell from her knees to the floor with a clack. Charlene aimed the camera where there was no light at all, and continued to snap photos.

The flashlight suddenly snapped off. Charlene spun about on her knees and felt for it but came up short. It clicked on again, throwing its beam across the jagged mounds of litter in the attic.

Then, on its own, it began to roll.

Slowly, like a child’s toy with a wind up spring, it moved forward across the uneven floor, thumping up and over the thumb switch with each revolution. There was no sound in that attic, not the creaking of boards or the shifting of winds outside against the roof, only the slow, rhythmic thack-thack-thack of the flashlight as it propelled itself along. Charlene stared at the light, unable to move toward it or away from it, held in place by terrified revulsion.

Thack-thack-thack-thack. The flashlight inched its way purposefully across the attic floor, over papers and shredded socks, books, and string.

Then it ran into the base of what looked like a big box. The flashlight’s glow grew dim then, as if rolling had drained the life from it. But the puddle of illumination it cast allowed Charlene to see that it had indeed struck an old trunk with a canvas cover and scratched metal corners.

She crawled hesitantly toward it, refusing at first to touch the flashlight but then holding her breath and snatching it up. It did not burn her. It did not come alive in her hand and try to bite her or to leap away. The floor must be at a tilt. It was gravity that pulled it along.

It’s mojo, Charlene. The floor is flat.

She unlatched the rusty buckles with her thumb and pushed the lid up. More dust and years’ worth of stink lifted from the trunk. Charlene shone the flashlight about, revealing piles of more old newspapers and magazines. Removing the top tray and putting it aside, she peered at the contents in the bottom.

There were baby mittens and christening gowns, browned with age and eaten through by silverfish. Silver teething rings lay amid lace collars and hand-crocheted bibs. There were loose sheets of paper, tattered on the edges, and written in fading pencil by a child’s hand. A small leather journal, still in tact and stitched with thin lacing, was tucked in one corner. Charlene pulled it out, wiped the cover with her sleeve, and opened it. The first page was inscribed in ink “To God. From Opal Alexander. 1821.” Beneath the heading was, “Shhh. Don’t Tell.”

There was a thump on the roof directly over Charlene’s head, and she flinched and cried out, nearly dropping the journal and the flashlight. But then more thumps came, with increasing speed and rhythm, and she realized it had begun to rain. As carefully as she could, she backed to the open trapdoor with the journal in her hand and the flashlight in her teeth then eased out onto the steps.

She raced across the yard through the downpour, and once on the porch stripped from her shoes and wet jeans. As she shook the jeans to make sure there were no spiders in them and draped them over the firewood pile to dry, she glanced out at the spot where the bonfire had been.

The rabbit skeletons were not there. There was only the charred spot where the fire had been.

Those scavengers are quick about their business. I wonder what picked them up? A fox? Maybe a skunk? They’ll eat about anything.

It didn’t matter. They were gone.

She tugged off her socks and padded down the hall to the living room. On the sleeping bag she wiped rain from her face with her bath towel and pulled the journal from her shirt.

“Dear God. From Opal Alexander. 1821.”

Opal must have been one of Phoebe’s daughters.

Thunder rumbled outside the house. Charlene pulled the rubber band free from her hair and ran her fingers through the strands, untangling a few rain-matted clumps. More thunder. The room darkened. She got up to turn on the overhead light. It blinked but went on. Rain blew across the front porch and batted the closed window.

I hope the electricity hangs in there.

She flipped through the journal, trying not to break the fragile edges. The first three quarters of the book were filled with writing. The last quarter of the pages were blank. Each entry was brief, and inscribed a large, juvenile, but careful cursive.

The first page: “May 14, 1821. I was caught. I didn’t mean to but I broke it. I am in here until I am forgiven, if I am forgiven. God forgive me.”

Another page, deeper in the book. “June 23, 1821. I am sorry I am sorry. I am sorry. I will say it until I am believed. So many days counted on the walls. I am sorry.”

Poor child. What was she sorry for? What had she broken? Although she had no idea of the age or face of this child, she imagined herself in the girl’s situation. Frightened. Alone.

How sad.

She turned a number of pages. She stopped on July 2nd. The handwriting was particularly unsteady. “July 2, 1821. Help me Jesus. Help me God. Help me or I shall die! Save me from the hands!”

The hands. What hands?

A chill clutched at Charlene’s shoulders. Were the dreaded hands Phoebe’s hands? Did this little girl truly fear for her life? Were the stories Maude told based on truth, that the woman called Phoebe Alexander was a witch in the way she hurt and terrified her children? That the Children’s House was not one for play but for banishment and punishment?

“Did Phoebe threaten to kill Opal?” Charlene whispered to the walls.

Charlene’s hands trembled madly, making it difficult to turn another page. The next entry was so garbled that it was almost impossible to trace one letter to the next, as they traveled not on a straight line but up and down.

“Ju…ly 3, 1821. My…ey..es…are….g…one…..T…he h…a…nds ar…e coming for me…soon soo…n…no no no Ple..as..e God…no no no….I don’t wan…t…t.o…..g…o……”

Sickened, Charlene threw the journal toward the fireplace. It smacked the sooty wall beside the hearth and fell, open, on the floor. She could see the tiny scrawls of horror… “The hands…are coming for…me!” She got up, kicked the book shut, and then slid it under her suitcase. She didn’t know exactly why she did that, except that the book terrified her. She had no idea what had happened to the little girl (Yes, you do, her mother blinded her and threw her down that ghastly well God rest her terrified little soul!) and didn’t want to dwell on it. The mere presence of the book was too disturbing. Maybe it would be best to burn it like she had the rabbits.

But it’s a piece of your family, Charlene. You wanted to find something.

Snatching up the journal, she took it to the kitchen and put it into the icebox. It would be safe in there. You’ll be safe with it there.
She returned to her easel, her hands balled into fists, her stomach twisted in knots. “Paintin’ time,” she said, belting out the words like Big Tom in Gone With the Wind, loud and strong to belie her dread. “Paintin’ time, Miz Scarlett. Now get your Southern ass in gear.”

She opened her water jar. Her thumb slipped through the palette and held it at the proper angle near her hip. Her brush swiped back and forth against the hardened hues, mixing together the colors of early fall and cool shadows.

“Just do it,” she hissed at the brush, and raised it to the paper. Her hand was instantly cut through with a hot, stabbing pain at the point of the tiny splinter. She growled and then put the brush in her left hand. The smarting in the right subsided immediately.

“Like I’m going to paint anything with my left hand. I can barely unlock the car with it.” She put the brush to the paper. Instantly, as if on its own accord, the hand moved lightly and easily, creating unfamiliar vegetation along the lower quarter of the paper.

What…?

She didn’t recognize the lacy, overlapping leaves, but she stood still and let the work emerge. One plant by one plant they appeared, the hues vibrant and shimmering. Charlene held her breath, afraid that by moving she would break whatever spell had her back on track….

What is this? I’ve never painted this plant…

…and she would find herself right back where she was, unable to paint a single, worthwhile stroke.

The brush moved from paper to paints to water to paper to paints to water. Charlene watched, silently, detached, carried along.
And then the plants were complete. Deep in color and dotted with specs of yellow light, they filled the bottom of the paper. Charlene stared at the lifelike renderings, feeling the sway in the leaves and the pulse of the forest floor…

Wait. I do recognize that plant. When I was a Girl Scout we learned wild flowers. I learned wild geranium, arrowroot, May apple, all sorts of stuff. This plant is bloodroot.

Suddenly, she felt odd, woozy. She shook her head and blinked, hard.

She dipped the brush – no, the brush dipped itself – back into the water jar, rinsed off the greens and yellows, and then collected a blend of oranges and corals. The brush moved to the center of the paper. She watched as it made a slow, curving downward stroke. Then several other strokes beside it, with slight angles out and back. Charlene’s eyes blurred and she couldn’t refocus. But she didn’t care. She was painting. Maybe this was how impressionists did it. Maybe they went into trances and painted even as the world around them seemed to shrink and disappear, even as the floor beneath them seemed to rock back and forth, ever so slightly.

I’m dizzy I don’t feel so good…

The brush gathered more paint, dark browns this time. Smaller strokes, oval in shape, leaving tiny white slices to either side of the brown. Nausea gathered at the base of her throat.

I’m dizzy oh shit I need to sit down…

The brush made tiny detailed impressions in the oval, bringing black to the center and then working small black slashes beneath it.

That’s an eye.

Charlene’s vision refocused.

A human eye.

She pulled the brush back from the paper with conscious effort and dropped it to the tray.

She had painted the side of a face, an ear and a patch of sunburned skin. And staring at her from the flesh on the paper, watching her with near-black, perfect concentration was the eye.

It winked at her.

Charlene flipped the paper around against the backboard then stood with her fists to her chest, her heart thundering against her ribs, staring at the spot on the blank paper back where the eye had been.

The cell phone rang.

I painted an eye!

It rang again.

It winked at me! Oh my God!

The phone rang a third time, a fourth. Charlene hurried to the mantle and snapped it open. It was Ryan.

“Hi there, sis. How’s it going?”

Charlene looked at the living room window. A few loose maple leaves were plastered there on the glass. Thunder pounded in the distance; the storm was moving away. “There’s a storm…it’s almost gone…I can’t see that any trees were damaged out front.” She didn’t want to talk to Ryan. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. It was too hard to gather her thoughts. Her head was fuzzy, her vision uneven. She wanted to be alone.

Alone with that eye?

“Yeah, I saw you on the Weather Channel. Nelson and neighboring counties. Scattered thunderstorms through 8 p.m., mid-50’s, clearing tomorrow. See, I’m keeping an eye you, sis. Ha ha.”

Charlene looked at the easel. She could feel the eye watching her, even through the backboard.

“Charlene? You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah…yeah.”

“You sound scared.”

“What did you say?” As she watched the backboard, the visible top edge of the paper rippled as if in a breeze.

“I said you sound scared. Are you okay there by yourself, Charlene?”

“There’s nothing….” The paper’s edge rippled again, harder, peeling up off the backboard and then settling down again. Charlene’s heart lurched.

Stop it, I don’t want to see that eye…!

“I was wondering if you got the check I mailed? It should have gotten to you today. I wish it could have been more but I hope it will help some.”

“The…what…? Yes, I got it.”

“That’s good. Charlene? Are you still there?”

The paper blew up and off the easel, spun in the air, and landed face up on the floor near Charlene’s foot. The dark eye gazed up at Charlene.

Charlene cried, “I don’t want to see that fucking eye!” She kicked the paper over with her bare feet. She stomped on it and pulled it in opposite directions, tearing it into chunks. She could hear Ryan shouting, “What eye? Hey, what’s going on there?”

Charlene scooted the paper pieces into the fireplace. She tossed Ryan onto the mantle, then lit a long camping match and set the paper chunks on fire. The dented fireplace screen was shoved over the hearth so the paper couldn’t drift back into the room. She bared her teeth at the burning pieces, and feeling at once terrified and triumphant.

“Charlene!” came the tinny voice on the mantle.

She picked up the phone. Her mouth was dry. “It’s the damn picture I painted. It had an eye, and…” Don’t tell him, he shouldn’t know. It will be bad if he finds out.

Why will it be bad?

“Charlene, hold it! What is wrong? I’m worried about you!”

Don’t tell him, Charlene!

She counted her heartbeats. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. Then, “Don’t worry…about me… I’m all right. I just got a little startled. Something I painted surprised me, that’s all. Don’t worry…please.”

“I do worry. I’m going to come down there and check on you.”

“There’s no need to. I’m okay.”

He can’t come.

Why can’t he come?

It would be dangerous! He’ll get hurt!

Why? What is happening here?

“I don’t think you’re okay, Charlene. You sound kind of messed up. You’re not doing some kind of drug, are you?”

“Drug? No, no drugs. Of course not.”

“I want to see you face to face, to make sure you’re all right.”

The fire peaked in the fireplace. The paper curled inward, black and crisp. Then it died down as quickly as it had flared, leaving carbon crumbs behind the screen. It was gone. Good.

Good.

“Do you hear me?” insisted Ryan.

“I hear you.”

“I mean it. I want to see you.”

Whose eye was that? “Ryan, listen to me. I’m fine.” Why did it wink?

“Haven’t you ever jumped at shadows?” It wasn’t a shadow it was an eye.

“I’m still going to come visit you. All right? Not quite sure when but as soon as I can get out from under some of this work. Next week, maybe? You’re my sister…”

Your stepsister.

“…and I care.”

“I know you do. But please don’t come.”

“Charlene.”

“Ryan, I’m all right. Don’t come.”

“But I’m…”

“Please. I have to do this on my own. I’ve made my bed and I have to get used to it.”

What bed, Charlene? Don’t you mean a sleeping bag on a hard living room floor?

“Well, all right, but I still feel wary about you being there alone,” said Ryan.

“I don’t want you to come here just yet.”

“I hear you. But some other time, and not too long from now, okay? Now why don’t you brew yourself some tea, go out to a movie, watch a goofy television show…”

I have no television. And there are no movies to go watch. But there is something watching me.

“…get some fresh air. Just relax. You’re an Earth Mother hippie now, right? Do some yoga or meditate on something.”

“Okay.”

And then Ryan was gone.

Charlene went to the hall and faced the door, putting her fingers on the old wood, feeling the chill seeping through. Her head was hot and her hands were ice cold. The back of her throat was raw, as if she’d swallowed a cup of ground glass.

Suddenly, up the stairs, there was a crash. Charlene whirled about, crying out. The tarp across the top of the steps flapped outward, like a hand reaching for her, billowing high, revealing for the briefest second the boarded up door in the shadows, then settling back down. Something’s in that room up there! What is in that room?

She crushed her hands over her ears and screamed, “Stop it! Please please stop it!”

She listened. She waited. There were no more noises. Slowly, she lowered her hands.

There was silence upstairs.

Wind, it was just wind. Wind knocking an old house senseless. Wind blowing down the hall from one of the bedroom windows.

“That’s all. That’s all it can be.” Her voice quivered.

She turned again to the front door, and tugged it open. Oh, God, fresh air. Ryan was right. That feels good. The storm was gone, leaving flattened weeds and scattered twigs in its wake. The night was heavy, weighing the air down with sounds of cicadas and crickets and other frantic creatures of the night. She stepped onto the wet porch. One bare foot came down on wood, the other on something that felt like a slippery beanbag. She lifted her foot immediately, then stepped back over the foyer to flick on the porch light.

There, in a tidy and hideous pile were the burned rabbits, eyes melted away, bones contorted at bizarre angles, little white teeth protruding from blackened jaws. The leg of one dead bunny twitched, slightly.

Charlene pulled herself back inside, slammed the door, and twisted the key in the lock. She braced her cheek against the wood. Oh god oh god the spirit of the witch put them there to threaten me!

“No, a fucking fox dragged them up here! It wanted to eat them out of the rain!”

A fox wouldn’t drag dead rabbits to a front porch and lay them in a neat pile. They don’t do stuff like that.

“I don’t know shit about foxes! Maybe foxes do!”

But maybe they don’t.

She listened through the door, half expecting to hear only the wind ebbing and flowing through the porch, half expecting to hear the chatter of little dead rabbit’s teeth.