Scary Creek by Thomas Cater Read Free Book Online Page B

animals. For hundreds of
years, the dark earth had been recording the prints of everything that had passed
this way. As I penetrated deeper into the estate, into the cool shade of
overhanging trees, the air filled with curiously sweet odors emanating from local
trees and plants.
     Ruined remnants of marble statues, stone benches,
ponds, trellises and a crumbling gazebo peeked discretely through the thick and
tangled growth. They were all that remained of a lost way of life. The statues
may have survived the ravages of weather, but not the mischief of man.
    The deer path left the drive not far from the front of
the house and cut a wide circle toward the back. It appeared as if even the
animals were trying to avoid passing too close to the house.  Little dead birds
and tiny fragmented skeletons of other small creatures were lying on the ground.
The entire area, I realized, was deathly silent. Such an area should have been
bustling with bird and insect chatter.
    I stepped out of the narrow rut and picked my way
through the trees, vines and greenbrier to the front of the house. Its size was
not its most impressive feature. It had a steep roof, pointed arches and a
porch with fancy wooden balustrades. The paint on the banisters and trim had
weathered away, but the wood was still intact with no signs of mildew or decay.
The stone foundation was solid and unbroken. Ensuing rows of bricks, one atop
the other, were positioned with a master craftsman’s touch.
    Generations of clinging vines had worked their way
into and through the mortar and died. Birds, which had once nested among the
vines, had abandoned them and left it looking like a vacant slum.
    It was an incredible house, a monument to its builder,
but it would take money to restore the outside to the splendor it had known. The
disreputable hovels however surrounding the land on both sides of the road
would continue to diminish its value. It was a bargain and it would be foolish
to ignore.
    I heard a door slam, which I thought was peculiar
under the circumstances. The sound sent a chill rattling up the back of my
neck. It was as if whoever occupied the house were announcing my arrival. A
foolish notion, but the house did seem to awaken. Myra believed I had a rare
gift for waking sleeping houses that were better off if they were not disturbed.
    The trees began to stir anxiously and the air became cool
with a blend of unpleasant odors, especially those emanating from houses that
stood empty too long. The sun vanished behind a cloud passing above that
primeval wilderness. My purpose, I decided would be better served if I returned
tomorrow. The sun’s rays would more easily penetrate the shadows and
overhanging leaves around the house.
    As I prepared to leave, I saw something from the
corner of my eye. I turned and faced a serpent dangling from a limb. For a
moment, I thought I was once again in Cambodia. We gazed at each other, its
forked tongue savoring currents in the air. My fear, I knew, was filling its
olfactories with a tantalizing fragrance. Sweat had begun to seep from my pores
and my fingers tightened around the machete.
    The serpent’s head swayed to the left. I swung the
knife quickly with one smooth stroke. The head separated from the body and fell to
the ground. Blood was glistening on the knife, but the decapitated head
vanished in the tall grass. Its scaly patchwork body still dangled from the
tree, but turned quickly into a fungus-laden branch.
    My adrenals continued to infuse my body with alacrity.
I bolted abruptly from the house. I felt a sting on the lobe of my ear. I ran
through the tall weeds and brush waving the machete over my head, segmenting
leafy limbs and vines. I hit the narrow deer path in a smooth stride and
exploded through the brush.
    It felt good to run and leave doubt and anxiety behind.
I had l ot s of practice running from things: angry women, jobs I detested,
responsibilities of all kinds. I could on occasion sense the presence of