I
"And
you found no cause?"
"Nossir,
found nuthin,'" Gerald Bishop said and spat a stream of tobacco
juice, leaning slightly to miss his substantial gut. "She just up
and caught fire, like spontaneous combustion, ya know? All of 'em
been that way."
Robert
Orson stared at the Fire Marshal, as much surprised at the man's
knowledge of either spontaneous or combustion as he was taken aback
by his seeming incompetence. Buildings do not just catch fire because
they're bored, he thought. "How many fires have you had?" he
asked.
The
man looked to the horizon in strained contemplation, rubbing his
forehead just below the brim of his John Deere cap. "Well let's
see," he spat again, the spittle causing tendrils of dust to rise
from the ashen cinders littering the concrete pad on which they
stood. "The Mutton place, the old church house, here, the Greyson
place, Wellington House..." He continued listing names and counting
fingers for several minutes before coming up with a number. "I'd
say 'bout twenty-two this year, give or take, startin' with the
old church house last spring."
"Jesus,"
Robert huffed, and kicked the remains of a pew over to its side,
blackish dust puffed into the air. All around them the remains of the
fire baked beneath the Mississippi sun; pews and beams turned to ash,
the concrete foundation looked like a canvas painting of the night
sky, and stray sheets of hymns fluttered, singed at the edges.
"Don't
tell Fortner, but I don't think Jesus has much to do with Wilson
these days." He said and wiped sweat from his brow. Sticking his
hands in his pockets he added, "A house-trailer burnt up last
month, killed four kids. The parents climbed out a window with the
baby and ran over to the closest trailer in the park a'yelling 'the
kids are burning.'" He spat and shook his head.
While
Robert had searched the scene the Marshal remained thankfully silent,
and he wished now the man would go back to his quietude. But he
continued on.
"And
a week or so before that Wellington House, the old folk's home
caught fire. Six died in that one. Four bedridden patients and two
nurses who ran back in to wheel them out."
"And
you
found no cause in any
of the burnings?" he felt beyond shocked. True that he did not find
the fire starter during his inspection of the First Baptist Church of
Wilson, but this was a week and a half--and two thunderstorms--after
the fire. Bishop's entire job was figuring how fires started and
he'd actually been inside the building when the blaze began. Robert
shook his head in disgust, how did this jackass get this job to begin
with?
"Nope,
no suspects and no causes. Just fire and death, all's here now,"
He shook his bland sunburned face in Robert's direction. "And
just a little advice: this town isn't nice to outsiders. I was you,
I'd hurry my investigation up and head out asap."
Small
town politics, Robert decided was the only way this guy got the job.
"What about Mrs. Mutton?" he asked, ignoring the Marshal's
cryptic warning.
The
big man shrugged, "She was a nice, old lady, kinda weird though. In
a bag-lady type of way."
"Anyone
have issues with her?"
"Well
she quit the church not long after Mr. Mutton died a couple years
back." A car horn interrupted Bishop, and he smiled and waved at
the passing car, a beat up Toyota trailing black smoke. "But, uh,
yeah. Miss Gertie got into weird stuff, kinda like scientology or
reincarnation or something, ya know? Anyway, just harmless crap, but
folks kinda shied away from her after that. We don't live in the
bible belt for nothing,' ya know?"
Growing
weary of jawing with the town's good ole boy Fire Marshal, Robert
skimmed his list of questions to the bottom of the page. "What
about her cousins?"
"They
left town right after the fire. Left no contact numbers."
Robert
nodded and sighed, then lowered his clipboard and thanked the Marshal
for his help.
As they shook hands before parting Bishop said, "Remember what I
said. Wilson can be a good place or a bad place, but it's no good
for strangers." Afterward, as Robert was climbing behind the wheel
of his rental car Bishop called to him, "If you talk to Sheriff
Manning ask about Mutton's statue."
He
nodded and smiled as he slammed the door and started the ignition,
feeling the man's final statement made about as much sense as the
rest of the interview. Gotta love small town America, he thought,
specifically small town Southern America. He waited for the Marshal's
jacked up F-350 to grumble onto the highway before backing up and
pulling onto the blacktop himself--the rented sedan feeling
miniscule by comparison.
Driving
through the impoverished ruins of Wilson, Robert thought back over
the file, over the testaments of the townsfolk submitted to the
company.
Gertrude
Mutton's funeral was the first, and consequently the only, held in
the new church. There had been six weddings in the church's year and
a half existence, and regular worship services were also held. In
fact, since the new one opened the old church building was used
exclusively for funerals, Rev. Fortner not wanting to soil the
cleanliness of the new church with the dead.
The
devil, however, had found a way to burn the ninety-three year old
First Baptist to the ground. It was race related; the elder members
of the small community were certain. This was Mississippi after all
and everything was somehow race related. And poor old Mrs. Mutton
passed just two weeks after the old First Baptist building was
reduced to smoldering embers. Wilson had no funeral parlor, and now
just one church--The new First Baptist Church.
Gertrude
Mutton's only living relatives arrived the day after her passing,
three cousins (although no spring chickens themselves): Sarah,
Sheryl, and Joan Kincade (Mrs. Mutton's maiden name). Sarah,
Sheryl, and Joan arrived promptly at noon, and drove their station
wagon straight to the deceased's home. No one except Mrs. Mutton had
been inside the house since the passing of Mr. Mutton, and the entire
town was alight with rumors and gossip as to the disposition of Mrs.
Gertie's house. In the two years following her husband's passing
Mrs. Mutton grew increasingly eccentric and reclusive, and her
cousins seemed to fit perfectly.
The
day following the discovery of the body Sarah, Sheryl, and Joan met
with Rev. (or Pastor, Robert couldn't remember how Baptists refered
to their God spokesman) Fortner to discuss the details of the
ceremony. With plans set, the trio returned to the Mutton house,
pausing briefly to accept condolences from several townsfolk.
That
night the entire town was shaken from its slumber by the roar of
flames and the wail of sirens.
Built
by Mr. Mutton's father over a hundred and thirty years ago, that
the ancient electrical wiring would fail was no surprise to anyone,
not even Fire Marshal Gerald Bishop. And so when it came time to file
the report that's what he filled in the blank. Regardless of
dubious cause once the blaze ignited there was no slacking the flames
as they lapped up the old, dried wood of the house quick as kindling
in a fireplace, and the cousins just made it out alive, singed hair
and all.
The
funeral being the next day, the Muttons rented a room at the
dilapidated Sands Motel, planning to leave town the following evening
and continue their lives. Truth be told the town was ready to be shed
of them--feeling as creeped out by the cousins from Out-of-Town as
they had about the deceased.
And
the Muttons did in fact leave the next evening, but after giving
their statements to the esteemed Gerald Bishop instead of after the
funeral. By all accounts mid-eulogy smoke began billowing into the
chapel from the rectory and panic ensued, including a fight for the
exits--Mr. Fire Marshal himself being among the fevered rush for the
door.
The
church burned down along with Mrs. Mutton's remains as most of the
town watched on in horror, heavy smoke choking the sky above.
Statements were taken, the Mutton cousins left, and over the course
of a week the claim was filed, sending Robert to Nowhereville to
access damages and estimate payment.
Wilson,
like many small towns across the south, prospered during the times of
independent farming and small business, but during the reign of
multinational conglomerates and tech-savvy high school millionaires
the town slowly withered--dying slowly beneath the blazing sun of
progress without a swallow of water to wet their drying gullets. Many
of the crumbling brick structures along Main Street were dark, and
"Closed" or "For Sale" cardboard signs duct taped the forlorn
windows. Traditional southern hospitality waned; people hustled about
their business and went home with few smiles or greetings.
Robert
grew up in a town just like the one into which he now drove and his
stomach turned. As far as he felt, if a town couldn't cope and
adjust to change and progress it deserved to die; Wilson included.
Smoke clogged the compartment and he cracked a window, cursing
himself for having to drive an hour and a half south of his home in
Tupelo. Hell, the town sat only forty miles from the Alabama line,
for God's sake.
And
driving through the town proper he felt content to let the rest
follow the church. Cracking the window wider and lighting another
cigarette, he thought the town's Main Street looked like cardboard
cut-outs made for a middle school play and discarded into the
elements to rot thereafter.
Chain
smoking after leaving the sheriff's office, he turned the rental
south out of town and prayed Sheriff Manning's directions led him
to the preacher's house and not a rotten cotton gin. His statement
being equally unenlightening as the Fire Marshal's, why should his
directions prove accurate?
Only
two pieces of information gathered from the sheriff offered the
slightest hints of benefit: the three Kincade's hailed from
Gertrude's hometown in Washington state, something that sounded
like Sunset Valley--not as good as an address but better than the
Marshal's info.
The
second nugget of information while ultimately unhelpful towards the
claim was satisfying in answering some curiosity Robert felt toward
the woman herself. Around the time she left the church Mrs. Mutton
received a package from backhome Washington: a moss green statuette.
A wolf-crocodile hybrid creature, the sculpture appeared a mish mash
of Asian terracotta and American Indian totem styles, and Mrs. Mutton
carried the thing around like a baby, often whispering to it as she
walked. The community believed it an idol to some ancient deity that
escaped eradication when the Europeans first settled across the
country, adding to their indignation at the elder woman's sudden
occult fixations.
Inquiring
as to the piece's whereabouts Robert's frustration grew upon
hearing it was the only memento the cousin's carried home with
them; actually the single item they rescued from the flames of the
deceased's home. While not central to the investigation Robert's
fascination of American Indian lore rose within him and he silently
cursed the town of Wilson again at his inability of examine the
artifact. Crocodilian totems are common to tribes in the south where
alligators are native, but it would be a rare sculpture indeed to
come from Washington state depicting such an animal.
Driving
now into the tangled wilds surrounding the town he smoked and wished
for the chance to hold the sculpture, until regaining himself and
attending to the route at hand--all he needed was to get lost in
bumfuck Mississippi a couple hours before sundown.
Propagating
in the sub-tropic climate, vegetation could take hold and swallow an
area if left alone for a blink--give an inch and kudzu will take a
mile...and more. So, as is typical in the area, after turning off the
highway he could easily see signs of plant life retaking its lost
territory from humanity, and the darkened, crowed roads became mere
paths through a jungle.
Between
smokes he crunched Aspirin to alleviate the throbbing above his eyes;
a whole morning wasted on two fruitless interviews, a face of ash,
and a hastily thrown together file. After nearly an hour of driving
gravel roads outside of town he finally arrived at the Fortner
residence, nearly swerving into a ditch at the sight of the place.
The
magnificence of the house stood out from its dilapidated neighbors
and the subdued scenery like an eyesore. Wilson was a small town,
very poor, and the houses reflected this. Creeping kudzu almost
wholly smothered the natural flora. In the midst of such desolation
Fortner's home was nothing short of a mansion; seemed the Lord paid
his servants well.
Sweat
beaded the reverend's brow and stained the underarms of his
buttondown shirt, he met Robert in the dooryard with tie loosened and
sleeves rolled to his elbows. Despite wiping his palms on his pants,
the hand he offered Robert was slippery, and Robert wiped his own
pants after shaking.
"So
Mr. Fortner, did anyone in town have any grievances against the
Church? Hold any grudges?" he asked after the introductions.
"Lord
No," he screeched. "No, No," he settled himself. "The Book
states the Word is the Law and in this town everyone believes such."
"Everyone
except Mrs. Mutton?"
Robert
thought a streak of anger flashed over the man's countenance, but
as quickly as the grimace flashed a grin spread over it. "Everyone.
That's why there is only my denomination here, because everyone
believes in my ministry."
"Alright.
What about you?"
His
brow furrowed, "What about me?"
"Think
of anyone holding a personal grudge against you?"
"Of
course not, I'm merely a servant of the Lord. Why would anyone have
a problem with me?"
"With
all due respect Pastor, after seeing the town, your neighbors, and
then your house... your circumstances might instill envy in some."
"Sir,"
he spoke slowly and Robert felt certain he hit a nerve. "My
circumstances are due to inheritance. I devoted my life to the Lord
in hopes of earning my privilege; everyone in town knows as much. I
was raised here and raised with the people here; they know me. There
is no envy."
"Then
what about Miss Gertrude Mutton? She left the church, anyone take
offense to that?" he asked. As before with the mention of Mrs.
Mutton lightning streaked across the reverend's face before being
smothered by controlled meekness.
"Ah,
Mrs. Mutton," he began. "She was a dear, sweet woman, but sadly
she turned from the path-"
"She
was practicing witchcraft? Had to rankle some feathers her ceremony
taking place in the church."
"So
you've heard some rumors?" he continued, unfazed by the claim
adjustor's interruption. "I believe she fell to the black arts
soon after Mr. Mutton passed, considering her background. It's sad;
she was such a Godly woman. My Sunday school teacher as a boy, and to
see her condemn her soul to hell..." he sighed, and Robert could
not tell if he was genuinely moved or wearing a fade. "I tried
to help her, but she refused. Said she knew everything the Book had
to teach. Very sad." He fell silent and shook his head at the
ground.
"What
about the townsfolk?"
"They
were frightened; both by and for her. At my request they treated her
no different. The easiest way to push someone away is to condemn them
to their face. Until the end I held out hope, but..." he trailed
off and the men stood in silence."
"Everyone
respected your wishes as far as Mrs. Mutton?" Robert asked after a
moment.
"Of
course," a haughty expression replaced the one of sadness. "My
flock loves the Lord and wants the best for all His children--even
the wayward."
"Sir,"
he was nearing the last of his questions and surprise, surprise was
no closer to finding answers. "What do you make of the unexplained
fires?"
"In
the Book, Job was stricken with much tribulation and yet remained
faithful to the Lord. I am confident Wilson will do the same."
"So
you believe God is causing the fires? Some kind of test?"
"Yes,
I do," his eyes seemed to sparkle, wholly in his element now--and
Robert didn't need three guesses to know what came next. "Mr.
Orson, have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?"
Robert
parried the question, and had the reverend walk him through his
account of the funeral and fire. Reverend Fortner recounted the same
basic story Robert had read in the police report and claim file, and
he found himself going through the motions. Afterward the men said
their goodbyes and he left the preacher standing in his yard. Head
pounding harder than ever, he drove slowly down the winding path back
to town, itching to wrap the case and leave Hickville for good.
II
He
returned to town, and parking just off of the crumbling Main Street,
unwrapped the sandwich he'd packed before heading out that morning.
Eating slowly, he leaned against the car's hood and lost himself
reviewing the case file.
"You
that insurance fella?" an old man asked, shaking him back to
reality.
"That's
me," Robert introduced himself and extended a hand.
The
old man, who now appeared ancient, leaned on his scuffed cane, the
tip of which was splintering. He looked from Robert's hand to his
face then back to the hand, then turned and spat a long string of
tobacco juice onto the pavement. "Investigatin' the fire up to
the church?"
Robert
placed his hand in his pocket, and confirmed that he was
investigating the fire.
"Get
outta town," the elder gruffed.
"Excuse
me?" he asked, taken aback.
"You
heard me; there's nothin' you can do."
"So
you, like Mr. Bishop, believe the fire was accidental?"
He
cackled and swayed on his cane. "Jerry Bishop is a mooncalf.
Doesn't have the smarts to pour piss out a boot before tryin' it
on."
"D'you
know something about the fire, or just wasting my fucking time?"
Robert asked, beginning to feel like the butt of a joke to the whole
town.
"Son,
I know there's some shit goin' on that don't concern you, and
that you can't fix"
"Mrs.
Mutton?"
The
old man glanced away for an instant; just a blink but long enough.
"She was old. She died." He shrugged. "That's what happens."
Then looking dead center he added, "Sometimes before old age
arrives."
A
chill crept over Robert but he pushed it away, "Was she a witch?"
"A
witch?" He cackled again, but this time it lacked the force of his
previous laugh. Just below the surface fear swam like brim in a fetid
lake.
"Yeah,
a witch; that's what the rumor is anyway. What about her
unexplained death; lot of rumors about that too."
"She
was an old bat, and she died," he repeated. "A small thing will
put old bodies to sleep."
Robert
fought to conceal his grimace--another
dead end.
"I have an appointment to get to," he lied, and turned away.
"Good talk." Not.
With
surprising strength the old man grabbed his arm and jerked him around
until they were face to face, stale tobacco smell wafted out between
blackened nubs of teeth. Eye to eye, inches away the man said, "Get
outta here. We can handle our own."
Robert
wrestled from the elder's grip and walked--hell, nearly
sprinted--down the cracked sidewalk. Looking back, he stood near the
rental leaning on his cane and watching, but several steps later when
Robert turned again the old man was gone.
Ducking
into a mom and pop coffee place, he found himself in another informal
interrogation, this time a young woman sipping a latte spoke. After
hearing a new twist on an old wives' tale he excused himself and
made for his car two blocks away. According to Lindsey Garrett, many
in town believe someone from the church started the fire in order to
burn Mrs. Mutton's remains--prevent the witch from coming back and
haunting Wilson's christian inhabitants. Of course it didn't help
that Mrs. Mutton died the night of a full moon. God, how many
superstitions could these people cram into one funeral, he wondered.
Either
everyone in Wilson was completely off their rockers or he'd been
the subject of a town wide practical joke, so in exacerbation he
drove to the Mutton house remains, feeling determined to kick around
the ashes to prove nothing supernatural existed before returning home
and denying the church's insurance claim. These assholes wanted to
play jokes, they could eat crow.
The
charred remains of the house leaned ominous and black in the red
sunset as Robert parked the rental beneath singed branches
overhanging the deceased's driveway. Despite inspecting countless
burnings throughout his career his steps were slow and tentative as
he moved among overgrown weeds to the cinderhouse, feeling oppressed
by the foul air engulfing Mrs. Mutton's land plot. A dingy white
fence surrounded the area and seemed to withhold fresh air as if he
and the remains were encased beneath a dome designed to keep the
death stench from escaping into the world.
A
dollar store flashlight illuminated the ruins enough to keep him from
stepping on an exposed nail or bashing his shins on an overturned
beam, but the sickly yellow light helped little more and the feeling
of descending into an abysmal sarcophagus itched at the nape of his
neck. In one room's remains several large shapes were arranged in a
circular pattern, and upon inspection he found them to be stones
roughly the size of travel chests. Wondering at how a little old lady
could have sneaked these into her home without someone noticing, he
brushed loose soot from the top of the nearest stone and inhaled in
surprise at the myriad of arcane symbols etched into the rough
surface.
The
sight of the runic symbols brought back his conversation with the
pimply woman from the coffee shop. In hopes of seeing her deceased
husband again Mrs. Mutton called up something from beyond, and when
she couldn't control what she summoned it killed her. Or so the
woman said, speaking between an expansive gap in her teeth that
Robert concentrated at not staring throughout the strange
conversation.
While
inspecting the marks, a huffing sound behind him like a giant taking
deep controlled breaths startled Robert. Whirling the weak flashlight
through the remains, he at first detected nothing, but then a small
tendril of dust floating into the last rays of the setting sun drew
his attention toward the rear of the house.
Flashlight
shaking, he held his breath as he eased through the fire's
leavings, flinching at each crunch of cinder underfoot. Finally he
reached a hole in the floor half obscured by a surprisingly unburned
plywood board which when moved revealed the hole to be a stygian pit
beneath the house's foundations. Few southern homes had basements,
and below the floorboards the depression looked more like a large
sinkhole than anything else. No ladder or steps led into the black
basement, and only the singed and frayed remains of a coil of rope
hung into the darkness.
The
rhythmic inhalation/exhalations were coming from within the pit and
he called down, "Hello?" The breathing abruptly ceased and only
his calling echo answered.
Just
before turning away, a faint scuffling crept to his ears followed by
a graveled voice that seemed more felt than heard. "Your kind shall
say 'surely the light will protect us. And fires will burn
throughout the night, and then the dark will be as day.' But the
darkness descends and even the daylight is shadowed, for the darkness
is the light for us who come to the feast."
A
scream clogged his throat and Robert felt as if he would choke before
the black pit. Finally words stammered forth. "Who's down there?"
"I
am one who lives not as you have lived, and will not die as you shall
die," the deep blackness below said. The voice seeming to contain a
great gulf of night within itself, as of a thousand whispers coming
together to form audible words.
At
hearing the thing from below Robert's pulse quickened, and he
staggered amid the wreckage of the Mutton house. He felt as if he
were standing on the edge of a great precipice, a dark void that had
swallowed many men before him and would swallow many after. Not the
physical hole before him now, but one that would change everything he
knew about the world, the universe, and himself, and now he found his
addled mind cursing him for investigating the ruins, for pushing too
far. Robert Orson wished more than anything he could unhear the
voice, and above all else, that he never hear it again. Whatever
knowledge it would impart, however horrible or beautiful, he wished
not to know. Before either he or the disembodied voice from the pit
could speak again someone called to him from the front yard.
"Insurance
man!" a male voice called again, and he half jogged and half
stumbled to the blackened stoop where he froze in surprise.
Standing
in the knee high grass of Mrs. Mutton's front yard was some-thirty
odd townsfolk, headed by the speaker, Sheriff Manning, holding a
flashlight in one hand and his service revolver in the other. Several
others among the throng held flashlights, and he saw a few shotguns
as well. From behind the sheriff came a mumbling of prayers.
"Its
time for you to go, Mr. Orson," The sheriff stared long and hard at
Robert shaking on the stoop.
Without
a word Robert walked toward the crowd which blocked the path to the
rental car. As he neared, the people of Wilson stepped aside, forming
a human hallway through which he could reach his waiting car. The old
man Robert encountered earlier leaned against the tree next to the
driveway and, shaking his head in Robert's direction, laughed
between asthmatic wheezes. Reverend Fortner seemed not in attendance.
In
the rearview mirror Robert watched the flashlight beams move into the
house as he pulled away. With that he left Wilson for good, chancing
running out of gas in order to fill up one town over in Highland
City. A month later, after Robert's investigation closed and upon
his recommendation, the city of Wilson, Mississippi received a
settlement check from the insurance company. Paid in full. No follow
up required.
|