Past The Patch Page 2

  The girl held my gaze a moment longer and then she was running out of the Halloween display and through the store. Her long black hair trailed behind her. The witch hat never wavered.

  I turned back to the aisle of exploded baby food. It looked like a monster had spewed out the contents of its enormous stomach. I walked slowly toward the mess. My brace clacked along with me. The Snickers weighed heavily in my pocket.

  Glass shards gleamed before me like a million stars upon which I might wish. There is cruelty and there is goodness too. There’s always the choice. Sometimes, however, that choice is made for us.

  I took the candy bar out of my pocket and was bending toward a particularly nasty-looking chunk of glass with its numerous sharp fangs when the woman at the candy display started screaming.

  THE JACK LANTERN

  Jack X. McCallum

  A founding member of Dark Red Press, Jack McCallum lives in Northern California. His writing ranges from graphic horror to tales for younger readers. He also writes screenplays and makes inexcusably awful short films.

  ***

  Territory Northwest of the River Ohio

  October, 1800

  “I’m scared, da,” Stephen said from the back of the wagon. “There might be haunts in the woods.”

  “Me too,” Molly said.

  “You should be asleep, young miss,” Francis said to his daughter. He lifted a flap of canvas and looked back into the covered wagon, trying not to laugh when Molly pulled a blanket over her head. “And you should be on the watch for trouble, young man.” Stephen nodded, but he was still frightened.

  Molly was six. She was easily upset. Stephen was nine. He should have been hardier, but it seemed both children had inherited their mother’s belief in ghouls and ghosts and God.

  “Be still, children,” Laura said, tucking the canvas flap back in place.

  She was sitting on the seat beside her husband as he watched the horses and what passed for a road in this uncivilized country. “You have your father’s skill and your mother’s faith to protect you.”

  Francis turned away and said nothing, having been married long enough to know that his Scottish wife’s wrath was greater than that of her God. The children were living the life of leisure. When Francis was nine he was already working, and by the age of sixteen, he was at war. That will change soon enough, Francis thought. There will be plenty of work ahead for all of us.

  One hundred acres of land. The thought was enough to make him swoon. One hundred acres, his land, land for his family and his descendants.

  Francis’ father had been a cordwainer’s assistant in Roxbury during the start of the Revolutionary War, and not a very proficient one. Francis often wondered if his father shouldn’t have lived up to the Applebaker family name and become a baker instead. His mother and father declared themselves Loyalists and British subjects. They were aghast when their son became entranced with the Patriot’s cause and enlisted in the Continental Army in January of 1776, something Francis could not have done without his parents’ consent if he had been a year younger. His father called him a damned Liberty Boy. His mother and father perished in a fire started by British soldiers while Francis had been digging trenches near the Charlestown Neck. Much older and a little wiser now, Francis realized he had been too young to grasp the greater principals involved at the time, but since he had fought for his country he had been given his reward, his bounty, a deed to one hundred virgin acres in the far western reaches of the Northwest Territory.

  This land, this freedom, had cost him six years of service and one eye.

  It was a fair trade.

  With the new century, the Applebaker family was starting a new life.

  Francis gave the reins a gentle flick and urged the horses along the nearly imperceptible ruts that corresponded to the trail on his map.

  On the side of the trail behind them was a dry jumble of bones. As the Conestoga wagon had rolled past the bones Lorna had gasped and asked if they were human, the remains of someone mercilessly slaughtered by the heathen Indians. Francis had laughed and told her and the children who were peeping through folds in the wagon’s canvas cover that they were looking at the bones of a deer. That was a lie. He had seen bodies split, gutted and flayed by cannon fire. The bones were human, but he didn’t want to worry his family. He put the shattered bones out of his mind.

  The wagon rocked back and forth on the poor excuse for a road, the wooden frame creaking softly. The trees were close and dark, growing right to the edge of the trail.

  The sun was disappearing behind a hill. The eastern sky was dark; the western sky was the color of blood and bruises. The evening air was crisp. It was nearly the middle of October. The year was growing late.

  Jefferson came out from the back of the wagon. He was a young gray and white tom cat who liked to sleep among the sacks of cornflower and bundled clothing. He spent most of his waking hours peering under a flap of canvas in the rear of the wagon. Strapped to the frame were four cages holding a rooster and three hens. They kept a tether on Jefferson. They didn’t want him wandering until they reached their own plot of land. A log cabin was an open house for mice and other vermin. Jefferson would have to earn his keep.

  Francis had checked his map an hour ago and thought they were quite close to their new homestead. He was to look for a clearing near the edge of the road. His acreage would be indicated by a whitewashed wooden stake bearing a number. The entire family would have to work quickly to build a shelter before the snow came, but a simple cabin was all they needed as they had supplies to see them through the first winter, and there was a stream on their new land.

  It was so quiet here; there were no sounds but the calls of night birds and the croaks and chirps of frogs and crickets. The stars to the east looked like a handful of salt spilled on black velvet.

  Jefferson slipped under the flap of canvas, returning to his bed.

  Francis glanced at his wife, his lovely, pious wife. She and Molly had golden curls and pale green eyes. Stephen took after Francis, with eyes like gray flint and dark hair. Lorna had a smudge of dirt on her left cheek and her eyes seemed to hold the fading light of day.

  The first time he had ever seen her unclothed, her pale green eyes and porcelain skin glowing in the golden light of an oil lamp on their wedding night, he had whispered, “Blessed Jesus.” Lorna had smiled at that, and after they lay together she had gotten down on her knees beside their bed and prayed the Lord forgive her husband for taking His name in vain and to forgive her the sin of pride when she took pleasure in his admiring gaze.

  Lorna was a Scottish Presbyterian who had been raised in an almost Puritanical faith. Francis was a godless American who had become mad with arousal when he saw her kneeling naked and asking for forgiveness. He never told her that. She probably would have chopped off his manhood instead of laying with him a second time.

  “It’s you who’ve done that to the boy’s head,” Francis said. “Filling it with all that tripe about spooks and witchery.”

  Lorna was uneasy, having never been this far from civilization, but she cocked a defiant eyebrow at her husband. “Don’t let pride lead you by the nose and steer you into damnation,” Her voice was sheer music with an Edinburgh lilt, even when she snapped at him. “You may have served well in the war and been granted a fine parcel of far-flung land, but there are no armies and little government in the Northwest Territory, my love, and the only one watching over us is the Lord God.”

  Francis said nothing. He wouldn’t be surprised if the cat or horses spoke up next. He ground his teeth. At this rate he’d have no teeth left in his final years. Not that he had many years left. He was forty years old, after all.

  Forty! His life was more than half over and he was only now building a homestead. Madness.

  Yet he wouldn’t let Lorna know how afraid he was, afraid of starting a life in the wilderness and leaving behind a comfortable house in Pennsylvania, and afraid of failing his family.

  F
amily! It seemed like only yesterday he was an eager sixteen year old signing up to march with the Continental Army against the English and their King. Now he had a family, and sometimes he worried late into the night, debating every step he should take along this road they were on. If Lorna knew of his fear she would have him in on his knees asking for guidance, and the only thing he ever received from prayer was splinters.

  They had to take this chance. They had to. Far from the noise and the crowds, the corruption and violence of city life . . . far from any reasons for war. Their new home would be a haven.

  They passed a faded sign made from two planks, large words of warning writ in whitewash.

  BE WARY AT NIGHT

  TIL OCTOBER IS DONE

  KEEP A FIRE AT NIGHT

  JACK LIKES IT NONE

  Lorna leaned close to Francis and he wondered how she could smell so sweet when he smelled of sweat and grime and tobacco. “Have you heard talk of the Horror of the Territory?” She was whispering now. “They say it is out there, roaming the woodlands. That beast, that abomination created by Satan to turn nature against us.”

  Francis pointed down the rutted path and brought the horses to a stop.

  In the distance was a homestead in a clearing. It was a long log cabin.

  firelight glowed behind the oiled paper covering the windows; no one could afford panes of glass in this wilderness. As Francis watched he saw a brighter light bobbing outside and heard the creak and rattle of wooden shutters being secured.

  He urged the horses down the road, and by the time he reached the path leading to the homestead a man was standing there with a lantern at his feet and a rifle slung across one arm.

  “Greetings,” Francis said. “I am—“

  “Francis Applebaker, no doubt.”

  “Yes,” Francis said, hopping down from the wagon and slipping on his eye patch. He was uncomfortable with anyone but his family seeing the five-pointed star of scar tissue which was all that remained of his right eye.

  “Michael Fish,” the man said, extending a hand. He was a big man with a big belly, and a white fringe of whiskers along his jaw. “I am a fellow veteran. I’m to let you know that your parcel is just a few miles further down the road. It’s an enviable location. You’ve been treated well.” He laughed and said, “You must have shot balls through many a British skull.” And they returned the favor, Francis thought, shaking his head. “No, I’ve simply been touched by fortune’s grace. We’ll be neighbors then?”

  “Aye,” Fish replied. “One of the few good things to come out of the war, a plot of land away from all the hogwash in the east.” Fish looked west and watched the last of the light fade from the sky. “You’ll want to stay with me tonight. I have five children and a wife, but I’m sure we can all squeeze in together. Safer, you see.”

  Francis was surprised by the offer. He was told that settlers could be hostile, preferring their isolation. “We would not want to impose. We can pitch a perfectly serviceable tent with our wagon canvas and—“

  “Nonsense,” Fish said. He looked into the dark woods nearby.

  “You’ve not heard of the Punkin Man?”

  Francis heard the wagon creak behind him and turned to help Lorna out of the carriage. He saw that the children were peeking out from behind the canvas flap.

  “Lord, you’re a fine one,” Fish said.

  Lorna blushed. “What were you saying about a pumpkin?”

  “The Punkin Man,” Fish said again, lowering his voice. “Come every October he walks the woods in the dark of night, wandering near and far, filling his belly to sleep through the winter, some say. He’s called Big Jack, the Punkin Man. A horrible Pagan beast sired by the cold seed of Satan himself. And Jack don’t just have a taste for the white man, no, he’ll eat any savage in his grasp, from Chickasaw to Kickapoo.”

  Lorna gasped and pressed one hand against her bosom. Francis hid his sudden laugh with a cough, covering his mouth with one hand like a powdered dandy.

  “Sir,” Francis said, “I would ask you to not speak of such things. My children have sharp ears.”

  “They should know what walks the land at this time of year,” Fish said. “I’ve seen him myself. Tall he was, with limbs as strong as the roots of an oak, and a great round punkin for a head.”

  “Of course,” Francis said. He turned and took Lorna’s arm. “Thank you for the offer of creature comforts, sir, but we will manage fine with our tent.”

  Lorna was horrified. “Francis Applebaker!” Of Fish she asked, “Sir, do you speak of . . . the Horror?”

  Fish nodded.

  Francis’ patience was waning. “I’m not going to let this fellow cause the children to suffer fits of the imagination with his fables of—“

  “Fables!” Fish was instantly enraged. “I’m trying to save their lives, you buffoon! I’ve seen that creature attack, seen it with my own eyes. I saw him tear a dozen Missouri Indians to pieces! He consumed their legs and hind parts, leaving nothing but naked bone below the waist, and then he tore apart their remains like a mad dog. If the heathens had been white men I would have given them a Christian burial. I can show you their remains if you need proof. If it wasn’t for my lantern shedding light like the wisdom of God that fire-fearing thing might very well be attacking now. ”

  “Enough,” Francis said. He gave Lorna a gentle push toward the wagon, but she had planted her feet like a stubborn mule. He wanted to swat her rump to get her moving. Instead he lifted her up onto the seat of the wagon.

  “My friend,” Fish said, “Forgive my temper. I am only concerned for your safety. You must not be in the woods at night at this time of year. We should be inside now that night has come. Please, reconsider and stay with us.”

  Francis drew a breath and thought a moment. He could be rude to this man or make him a friend. In the Territory, a good neighbor could be the difference between life and death.

  He put a hand on Fish’s shoulder. “Thank you, sir, but we must go on.

  At first light we need to begin clearing land for a cabin which I hope will be as fine as yours. But I promise you that at the first sign of trouble we will come to you for aid.”

  Fish was not pleased with this decision, but he could see that Francis’

  mind was set. “Very well, but keep your horses ready, keep a watch, and keep a fire burning in the hearth. The Devil’s bastard hates fire, he does. Be safe, my friends.”

  Francis climbed up onto the wagon and gave Fish a wave and then the Applebaker family continued traveling down the trail.

  “He had a huge belly,” Molly said a moment later.

  Stephen laughed so hard he fell over onto a sack of corn meal, that corn meal acting as a preservative for their limited supply of eggs. This caused Lorna to refresh her son’s memory on the torments of Hell suffered by inattentive and destructive little boys.

  Francis was laughing as well.

  “If you ever get so overstuffed I don’t know what I’ll do,” Lorna said, rubbing Francis’ firm stomach with a warm hand.

  “Stop that,” he whispered, “I’ve got to keep my attention on the task at hand.”

  Lorna gave him a mischievous smile, and then climbed into the back of the wagon to light a lantern. They set the lantern on a pole and soon saw the numbered sign for their tract of land.

  Francis and Stephen quickly set up a small tent on level ground, using the canvas from the wagon and two of the arched ribs that held up the canvas. Molly was already asleep on a bed of folded blankets by then.

  Lorna started a fire; their late meal was cornmeal mush fried in bacon grease. Thinking of Fish, Francis started a second fire thirty feet from the first. He wasn’t worried about bugbears in the woods. He was worried about Indians. Some were friendly. Some were not.

  He carried his longrifle in one hand and a lantern in the other as he looked for the stream on his land. He found it beyond a heavy overgrowth of trees. The water was cold and sweet. When he returned he saw that Stephen ha
d dug a shallow hole and hung a blanket on a branch as a screen for their privy.

  Later, as Lorna, Stephen and Molly slept in the partially covered wagon, too unnerved by what Fish had said to sleep in the tent, Francis sat by the fire sipping coffee. As a boy he had never acquired a taste for the tea his mother and father drank. It was in the Continental Army that he first sipped the national drink. It was his only vice. “Better to have you drinking that than stinking of tobacco,” Lorna had once said. There was no moon, and the stars overhead were magnificent. After a while Francis dozed, sitting upright by the fire.

  The next morning he awoke to the smell of oatmeal and more coffee.

  Stephen was off getting fresh water. Lorna was quizzing Molly. Francis admired his wife for schooling the children at every opportunity, and he knew the children detested it. “I won’t have my son cleaning stables or toting a gun to earn his keep,” she once said, “and I won’t have my daughter raised as a pampered simpleton fit only for marriage, the kitchen and the nursery.”

  The thought that his children might one day write their own correspondence and read books from cover to cover filled him with pride.

  Francis knew his numbers, but he was nearly illiterate. Perhaps that’s why I’ve no time for the Bible, he thought. I can’t read the damnable thing.

  “What document led to this former colony becoming a country?” Lorna asked Molly. “And be exact, young lady.”

  “The Declaration . . .” Molly said, writing the words on her slate with a stick of chalk, “of Independence.”

  Lorna checked the slate carefully, looking for any misspelled words.

  The only words on that slate I know how to spell are the and of, Francis thought. If the boy doesn’t inherit Lorna’s brains I’ll have to make sure I teach him how to use his hands.

  He saw Stephen then. The boy was waving to him, out of sight of his mother and sister. When Francis joined him Stephen whispered, “In the stream, da.” They moved through the overgrowth of trees together.