Scary Creek by Thomas Cater Read Free Book Online

absently.
    A brick wall studded with rounded river stones jutted
into view. Virgil slammed on the brakes and brought the car to a n abrupt stop.
    “The wall is where the property line begins.”
    It was, to say the very least, without equal. The
stones were composed of round interlocking blocks of gneiss mortised tightly
into place by some adept of a distant culture. The fruit of man’s labor was
finite, unequal to the test of time and bound to crumble. This wall however was destined to endure . It also looked vaguely familiar.
     Virgil resumed his drive down the narrow gravel road.
Inside and beyond the wall was a tangled mosaic of vines, brush and trees.
Rabbits would have had trouble negotiating that throttle of jungle green
vegetation.
    “That wall is impressive,” I said. “Not a stone out of
place. If the house is built like the wall, I’m sold.”
    “The front yard is not as wildly overgrown,” Virgil
said. “It once consisted of a few acres of well-groomed grass and flowers. Even
though her eyes were failing, Elinore liked to get out and smell the roses.
Statues and markers helped her get around the yard.
    “Samuel Ryder built the wall to keep her from
wandering off the grounds and into Scary Creek, or so I’ve been told.”
    Through the trees, the house came partially into view.
It was a magnificent old structure, more like a temple than a house. Crumbling
statuary and trees with a hundred years growth also surrounded it. Several
small ponds were choked with water lilies and decaying cattails, while old
flowerbeds were overgrown with weeds and bracken. In the middle of the cobbled drive,
new growth had taken root and concealed the house from view. It was there that
a black subtle hole sucked the surrounding light and energy into its dark
vortex.
    “This place is not slightly overgrown, it’s a jungle,”
I said, and the voices of tribal people living in Asian jungles echoed in my
mind.
    “ There are
ghosts of kings and queens and elephants back there, where the tigers howl and
gibbons swing from bough to bough.”
    Outside the gate, there was nothing too terribly
formidable about the place. In fact, there was something fragrant and
stimulating in the air, something that made me keenly aware of the place. My
spirit soared toward the house like an errant child responding to the call of a
parent, eager and anxious to explore the property further.
    “It’s an intriguing piece of property!” I said. “I
wonder how many different kinds of hymenoptera live there.”
    “Kinds of what?” Virgil replied.
    “Hymenoptera, I’m an amateur myrmecologist.”
    “What is that … some kind of religious belief?”
    “No, it has to do with watching ants at work and
play.”
    “Ants?”
    “Wood ants in particular: rufa and fusca.”
    “A happily wedded couple?” Virgil inquired.
    “Two different types closely related.”
    “I imagine there are enough here to keep you
occupied.”
    “The trees are green and healthy,” I said. “That’s a
good sign.”
    “What’s that got to do with ants?” Virgil asked.
    “Everything is related,” I said. “Not just Earth, wind,
water and rain, but everything from the birds in the top branches of the trees
to the grubs in the ground. The trees look healthy because the ants are taking
proper care of the aphids on the leaves.”
    “I don’t understand,” Virgil said.
    “Aphids produce a secretion called ‘honeydew.’ It
makes up about 50 percent of the ants’ diet. If ants do not harvest the
honeydew, it collects on leaves. A sooty mold forms and turns the leaves black,
lowering the photosynthetic power and the general health of the tree.”
    “I see you’ve spent some time with the little
buggers.”
    “They are not buggers,” I said. “They’re hymenoptera.”

Chapter Four
      We parked beside the wall, climbed out of the car
and stood outside the wrought iron gate gazing in. The paint had scaled on the
lance-like pickets and covered them with rusty