Scary Creek by Thomas Cater Read Free Book Online Page A

cankers. The thick carpet of
dead leaves and the proximity of the creek kept everything damp. In this moist climate,
everything made of wood was destined to die an early death of moldy
disintegration.
    Two elaborately detailed birdhouses, scale models of
the mansion, crowned the stone pillars that anchored the gate. Stone, brick,
and a slate roof peered through the trees. From what I could make of the house,
it had successfully weathered the inclement elements and encroaching
wilderness.
    “Houses were built like temples in those days,” Virgil
said.
    All that was lacking was the raucous chatter of
Capuchin monkeys, birds with bright plumage…and snakes.
    “They’re in there,” Virgil said, and when I turned to
meet his eyes, he added, “Snakes, lots of ‘em; watch where you put your feet.”
    I wanted to see the house, inside and out. As if he
had read my thoughts, Virgil shook his head; he was like a buffalo standing at
a watering hole driving away annoying flies.
    “I can’t let you go in there alone,” he said. A faint
trace of sulfur seared my nostrils. I saw a change occur in Virgil’s face; it darkened
as if with dust and his eyes widened.
    “Then go with me,” I replied, focusing and re-focusing
my eyes. The illusive odor and the sudden changes vanished.
    Conviction drained from his eyes. He fished the key
from his pocket and pitched it wordlessly. I snatched it out of the air.
    “I can’t stop you from going in,” he said, “but I wish
you would reconsider.”
    I had stood at the edge of jungle haunts in the past
and considered my reasons for going in; they were always preferable to staying
out and living with regret.
    “I own the place,” I said. “What choice do I have?  Maybe
second thoughts are for those who give a damn, or never wanted something bad
enough.”
    He shoved both hands into his pockets and stared at
the ground. In his camouflage fatigues, he looked like a well-rooted plant
    “I feel bound to tell you, I think it’s a mistake.”
    Mistakes were so elementary to my way of life they
hardly seemed worth thinking about. I examined the key and the padlocked gate,
waiting for one to invite the other.
    “You’ll have to climb the wall,” he said. “I don’t
have a gate key. It hasn’t been opened in a dozen years.”
     The wall was only four feet high. I boosted myself
up, legs dangling, and sat on the ledge.
    “You will wait?” I asked. My concern was not for
safety, but for the convenience of riding back to town.
    “Forty-five minutes,” he said. “If you’re not back by
then, I’ll call the sheriff.”
    Responsibility is so easy to delegate. If we feel
powerless, we ignore or give the problem to others, a universal response. I
swung both legs over the wall and dropped onto the ground. Stunned by my haste,
Virgil tottered backwards.
    “My God, you’re going in!”
    Nothing so far had been as frightening as the sound of
his voice at that moment. I made a snickering sound intended to be a
contemptuous laugh, but it caught in my throat and I gagged.
     I could feel my toes eager to take root in the soft
earth. Virgil ran to the wall, removed the machete from its sheath and tossed
it flat in the air to me.
    “You might need this,” he said. “That brush and cane
in there looks thick.”
    Within the confines of the wall, I could see that
animals frequently traveled across the land. Footprints and pathways bisected
the yard. I concluded that if some degree of primitive innocence was required
to survive in such an environment, I stood as good a chance as any creature of
the wild.
    It was an intensely beautiful day. The air felt warm
and gentle, while the setting sun tried to angle its way through the branches
of the trees. An eye-slaking blueness in the sky thrilled my senses to look at
it.
     I felt confident as I crept slowly and carefully up
the overgrown drive to the house. I followed a clearly marked path through
weeds neatly cut by the hoofs of deer and other small