mystery – The Astral Pages

Even More of Chapter Four

Even More of Chapter 4

Chapter 4 picks up after the following

“Maybe the guy on the ground jumped up,” said Heavy.

“No, he wouldn’t have had time. I’m telling you, though, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. The mystery is, what really happened, and why? Not only that, but the guy whose head was on the stump…I think he is still alive, but paralyzed.”

We looked at him without speaking.

“There’s a man named Johnny Cox,” he continued, “in the Hansburg Nursing and Care for the Disabled. He can’t move his arms or legs. Quadriplegic. The story is that he was paralyzed in a car wreck, but there are holes in the story. I think the axe was really dull but it broke his neck. He became a special project for the Mayor, to raise money to build a better hospital.”

“And why,” I asked, thrilled at my own voice, “do you think he was the axe victim?”

“Two days after the newspaper article about the Gregg house, that same Police officer showed up on TV at the scene of a traffic accident involving Johnny Cox. There was only one car involved. Johnny had drove at high speed into a concrete pylon that was holding up a bridge.”

“A pylon?” I asked.

“There was pylons holding up the overpass. He supposedly crashed into one.”

“Supposedly?” Should I be taking notes, I wondered.

“There is some reason to doubt it. First of all, there are fences and guardrails between the car and the post.”

“Post?”

“Pylon. It is highly unlikely that a car, at any speed, could get through the safeguards. And even supposing it did get through, it would be slowed down enough to crack the pylon, maybe, but for the pylon to collapse? That’s bullshit. Then, there are the lack of injury to other parts of his body. People who were close to him said he couldn’t have escaped broken bones, blood, and carnage from the broken windshield and metal crunched like an accordion onto a large concrete pole. His only wound was a gash on his neck. The gash veered from the back of the neck to the left side of the neck. Like the blade hit the bones hard enought to break his spinal cord, but too dull to sever his head. There are other things, too. I’ll remember if I quit trying to remember. Rhonda?”

“Yeah, it was something about the time line,” said Rhonda.

“This poor fellow, Johnny Cox,” I said. “Can we visit him? In the nursing home? May I have another dash of wine?”

“Of course,” said Rhonda. She smacked her cigarette pack to make at least one cigarette pop out. She caught the one that popped out the farthest in her lips and lit it with the Zippo. “To both questions. All in good time.”

“Sooner than we expect, I bet.” I couldn’t stop talking.

Tamper II, the end of Chapter 4

Wallace Breen leaned back, removed the toothpick from his mouth, drank from his beer bottle, and sat there with the beer in one hand and the toothpick in the other, elbows on the armrests, and I sensed that he held the floor.

He said, “I’ll tell you what happened and I’ll tell you what didn’t happen. I was taking a shortcut through the woods that night in 1949, after leaving the VFW. I had an open bottle of Boone’s Farm Apple Wine I was drinking from. I came up behind the house, which was usually dark and deserted and I always walked on by, but that night was different. Two people in the back yard were just silhouettes in front of the bright porchlight. I didn’t even see the guy laying down at first, it was dark. I stepped closer and knelt down on one knee behind a shrub. A tall man, it seemed, had an axe handle resting on his shoulder, blade visible in profile behind him. A shorter man was leaning forward, looking down. When my eyes adjusted to the light a little more, I saw that he was pressing a rifle barrel against someone who was on his knees in front of a tree stump. The man with the rifle said you can either put your head on that stump, or I will shoot you in the back. And, the taller guy said This is a dull axe! If it doesn’t kill you, then you’re free to run! And run fast you son of a bitch or he’ll shoot you in the ass and then the head!”

“Oh, my God,” said Evie. “It’s horrible.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Between poking the rifle against his back and kicking the dude’s feet out from under him, they forced the dude’s head down to rest on the stump, and he shouted don’t do it! Don’t! and Wait! he said. But the guy swung the axe and said run !

“I was scared. I carry the guilt. Of not helping that man, but one guy had a rifle!”

We all looked at him silently, waiting.

As though he felt the pause had lasted long enough, Wallace said, “I think what happened is, the man with the rifle got scared. He freaked out. I think he dropped his gun, jumped over the tree stump, and ran off into the woods. When the axe came down, I cringed you know, and blinked my eyes reflexively. I opened my eyes, I swear he looked like a headless silhouette, for just the brief moment, the position of the porch light, just off to one side of his head.”

“Maybe the guy on the ground jumped up,” said Heavy.

Tamper II, Chapter 4: Back to the House in the Woods

“The fog is so surreal,” I said to everyone in the car, but mostly to Rhonda, who sat beside me in the dark back seat of Heavy’s car.

It was almost midnight as the flat-black ’67 Camaro carried us under and through a moving canopy of trees and fog. Evie rolled down her window because Rhonda had lit a cigarette sitting directly behind her. Rhonda gave me a funny look, holding her cigarette like a commandant.

“It doesn’t bother me,” I said.

Between the rolling fog and the occasional clearing of branches, I watched moonlight dart across Rhonda’s face. She went from old to young and back depending on how the light hit through the fog and branches. A thousand tiny wrinkles grew sharp and she looked like an old witch with one eye closed more than the other one, which frightened me. My head tingled. But then she looked classically beautiful, a shining Joan of Arc before the window. Or was it just me?

“Is this where you saw the owl?” asked Evie, in the front passenger seat.

“Wait until you see the owl in the mirror!” proclaimed Rhonda as she cracked open another miniature whiskey.

“The rear-view mirror?” asked Evie.

“No, on the dresser.”

The road carried us up a steep hill until Rhonda and I leaned back in our seats like astronauts fighting G forces. The headlights beamed upward onto an empty tree limb for a couple of seconds, then levelled out. We drove past the row of rickety mailboxes and Heavy eased the car to a stop. A light was on inside the house, on the first floor.

Heavy moved first, out the door, and around the front of the car, opening Evie’s door.

“Fat boy moves fast,” said Rhonda, cigarette in mouth, looking back at me while she exited the back seat.

I drank what remained of the whiskey in the little bottle and followed her out the door on her side of the car. She walked past Evie and Heavy and led us to the door.

The front door opened, and there stood Wallace Breen. Dark hair with gray streaks, pomaded and combed back, greaser style. Toothpick in his mouth, which he removed just long enough to say “come in” and he turned away. He wore a gray mechanic shirt, with a sewn-on name patch. When he turned away, I saw Westside Head & Block on the back.

I didn’t expect the house to look so pleasant on the inside, because the outside was so plain. It was like entering a cabin-style Air B&B. The living room had a vaulted ceiling with wooden beams and arches. To my left, I saw an entertainment center loaded with stereo components and a television. I saw a turntable, a reel-to-reel tape deck, a radio receiver/amplifier, two big speakers and two small speakers, and what was obviously his listening chair – a recliner with headphones on top of the backrest, connected by a black coiled cord plugged into the amp.

The coffee table was glossy lacquered wood with rough, uneven sides. To my right, I saw a bookshelf, couch, grandfather clock, and a door.

Wallace looked at me sullenly, removed the toothpick from his mouth, drank from a bottle of beer, turned and went to his chair and we all sat down. Rhonda acted as host, asking who wanted something to drink.

“Beer or Mountain Dew. The water from the faucet smells like rotten eggs.”

“Mountain Dew?” asked Evie.

“The pop, not the moonshine.”

“Do you live here, too?” asked Heavy.

“Nobody really lives here,” said Rhonda, pulling a cigarette from the pack with her lips. “The bedrooms are full of boxes and furniture. I own the house,” and she lit the cigarette.

“You own the Gregg house?”

“Mr. Gregg sold this house to my father in 1960. He lets us use it to hang out.”

“Incredible,” I said. “My name is Whit, by the way, and I’ve been wanting to talk to you about what you saw.”

Wallace Breen leaned forward to set his beer down on the coffee table, then leaned back and removed the toothpick from his mouth.

He said, “Hi, Whit. I appreciate your interest. I’m going to tell you one story that will disappoint you, and another story that will mystify you.”

About

Tamper II, Chapter 3: The Propeller

(still 1969)

Heavy Turner had a key that could open almost any padlock. I called it a skeleton key, but he said it was properly known as a bump key.

“On a bump key,” he said, “all the notches are cut equally deep as allowed by regulations. You insert the bump key into a padlock and tap on it with a hard object, all the pins line up and the lock pops open.” He used it to open the beer cooler behind The Propellor nightspot. We didn’t want to steal the beer, but we weren’t old enough to be served at the bar.

The Propeller was a cool nightspot, four miles outside the city limits, on the road to Radford. It catered to a combination of students from Radford College and youngish blue-collar workers, known collectively as hippies. If you were over 18, you could buy 3.2% draft beer. If you were over 21 you could buy beers with 5% alcohol or more. Heavy and I weren’t supposed to be there at all, but the owner knew Heavy’s dad.

Heavy drove Evie and I to the Propeller on a Friday night. Evie sat in front with Hev, of course, and I sat in the back. After he parked the car, Heavy turned to look back at me and said, “If anyone offers you bennies, just say I’m good, thanks.”

“I don’t think they walk right up to you,” I said.

“I’m good, thanks,” he repeated.

Getting out of the car, Heavy moved fast for his bulk, rounding the car to open Evie’s door, bowing like a maître de. Evie stepped out of the car holding Heavy’s left hand. He led her out, still bowing, and released the back seat adjuster with his right hand. I pushed the passenger seat forward and climbed out of the two-door. A local band played Jimi Hendrix’s Hey Joe inside. No one else was outside to see us, so Evie went into the Propeller through the usual front door while Heavy and I darted around back to the beer cooler.

The beer cooler was like a walk-in refrigerator with a padlock on the door handle. Hev popped the lock deftly with his bump key and opened the door. Stacks of cases of cold beer greeted us. Budweiser, Carling Black Label, and Miller High Life. We each chugged a can of Carling, but Heavy finished his first and started on another one. He took a frothy gulp from the second can and set it on a convenient stack of cold boxes. He loaded the bulky pockets of his red jacket with more cans. I finally finished my beer. We re-locked the cooler and headed for the far side of the building, where metal double doors opened behind the stage, so bands could bring in drums, amps, and other equipment.

In the meantime, Evie ordered three large Cokes that came in paper cups with straws. They gave her a cardboard thing to carry the drinks. When the band finish playing “Hey Joe” Heavy opened one of the metal doors behind the band, just a crack, and whispered, “Lee…Lee.”

Lee the drummer turned around and recognized us. He smiled.

“Come on in guys.”

Anyone paying attention would have figured Heavy and I were just two more of the band’s cronies or roadies or whatever. Most of the employees couldn’t see us because the building was L shaped with the smaller section where the band played and the larger section for the bar. Both sections had booths. Heavy and I sat with Evie in a booth near the band. She had a full cup of Coke for herself and two empty Coke cups. Heavy stealthily poured two beers from his pockets into the Coke cups so we could drink beer without being noticed.

“We’re going to take a moment to tune up,” said the guitar player.

The place erupted with applause and cheers.

“The place is really hopping tonight,” said Heavy enthusiastically.

He was right. The Propeller was packed, with loud competing conversations, darts hitting a dart board, laughter. People coming and going. Cold beer. A young woman brought us a large basket of french fries. Salt and pepper shakers were on the table, and ketchup in a red squeeze bottle. Hev and Evie sat on one side of the booth and I had the other side to myself. Heavy picked up a big glistening fry, squirted a line of ketchup the entire length of it, sprinkled pep per on it and popped it into his mouth. “Nom nom, eat up.”

Wallace Breen’s aunt swung open the front door and walked in. She was a tall Biker in black leather, one who had kept in shape even as she became a grandmother at age 55. She held her helmet in one hand and high-fived the bartenders with her other hand. Evie caught her attention by waving, and I stood up as she approached.

“Keep your seat,” she said. I slid back into the booth and she sat beside me.

“Hello, Evie,” she said with a mannered smile.

“Miss…” said Evie.

“Call me Rhonda. Or Aunt Rhonda. Lots of people call me that.”

“This is Heavy Turner, who I told you about, and this is Whit King.”

“Pleased to meet you both.”

Up close, Rhonda conducted herself like someone familiar with social events and mannered conversation. It was an abrupt change from her catwalk by the bar.

“Whit,” she said, “I understand you publish a newspaper dedicated to the paranormal.”

“Yes. The Astral Pages. We’re working on increasing circulation.’

“And how is that going?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure what to do.”

“I would like to discuss that with you. You know, my real nephew Wally Brean, saw something that still cannot be explained. I think there is a story in it. It is legendary. And if we do it right, we may finally identify the axe murderer and his accomplice.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Say, Whit, I don’t suppose you’re interested in some bennies?”

To be continued

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Tamper II, Chapter 2

Tamper II: Dark Evening Wings

Chapter Two: Evie the Librarian Copyright by Bill Ectric

Evie the librarian told Heavy Turner about the axe murder, and he told me. Evie was a recent high school graduate. She wore those Harlequin eyeglasses with little rhinestones lining the frames, and the corners pointed up like horns. She worked at the Hansbury Public Library, a two-story wood frame house, on the corner of Main and Poplar, converted into a library in 1957. The building was painted white with blue trim. It had a porch with an overhanging roof supported by two white columns. Inside, beyond the front desk and white oak card catalog were several interconnected rooms full of books on shelves. Books labeled “mature” were on the second floor, and the stairs creaked.

In 1969, Evie hung an egg-shaped wicker chair from the porch roof. She sat in the egg every day, reading magazines and books, eating apples, and drinking Fresca. Sometimes she folded her legs comfortably inside the egg; other times, she swung them out and down, primly together, until her black & white saddle shoes almost touched porch floor. People walked in and out of the library on the honor system. When somebody rang the call bell, Evie sprang nimbly from the wicker egg chair and click-clacked inside to serve the patron.

Heavy’s flat black ’67 Camaro rolled past the library, went around the block, rolled by again more slowly, turned left onto Poplar Avenue, and into the parking lot behind the library.

Heavy and I got out of the Camaro. Heavy always wore a red nylon windbreaker, which he called a racing jacket, with an STP patch over the breast. We walked around to the front and climbed the three steps up from the sidewalk onto the porch.

“Those shoes are perfect,” said Heavy.

“Beg your pardon?” she said.

“My sister had to wear those at the school she went to,” Heavy said, “and now she hates them, calls them square. But you wear them well.”

“Ironic,” she said, stretching her whole body until her feet made contact with the floor.

“After you, gentlemen,” she gestured with her hand.

Evie followed us inside.

We followed her into a back room.

Eight musty stacks of old newspapers covered most of the surface of a wooden table.

“We’re having all these microfilmed,” she said. “It’s called microfiche. Our little library is getting modern. The 1949 stack is right here.”

“You haven’t looked at it?” said Heavy.

“I’ve already seen it.”

I like the smell of old books and magazines but unfolding the aged newspapers made me sneeze.

“God bless you,” said the librarian. “Please don’t sneeze on the papers.” And then she told Heavy, “Not so rough, you’ll tear them.”

“Here it is!” said Hev.

He spread the newspaper on another table and carefully turned the pages.

Evie and I leaned in. A black & white photo of a smiling cop, made pale by the flashbulb, and a single column of newsprint. The article, “Police Find No Murder at the Gregg House,” told about a drunken homeless man who claimed to see a beheading. He had stumbled into the police station, scared out of his wits. But the policeman on the scene looked like he was enjoying himself. “Just another night on the beat,” he was quoted, joking, “I would call it the graveyard shift but we got no bodies.”

“There was nothing to it,” I said, disappointed.

“But look,” said Evie. “Look behind him.”

The corner of the house was visible in the left of the photo, lit by the residual light of the camera flash. The trees in the background were dark. Directly behind the officer we could clearly see a vehicle with a police logo. It was a black van with high walls and smooth corners, but silvery in the camera flash.

“That is a 1948 Ford Mobile Crime Lab,” said Evie. “One of the first evidence vans.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“I read and I listen,” she said. “But the real question is, why was forensics there if they didn’t find something?”

“Maybe they drove it, just in case,” I said.

“No,” she said. “They didn’t have an evidence van here in Hansburg. Somebody drove that thing all the way from Roanoke, fourteen miles away. Roanoke was the only city in the county that had a mobile crime unit.”

“Then the evidence van must not have found anything,” I said.

“But why were they there?” asked Heavy. “It’s like Evie says. Why were they there?”

“You know,” said Evie. “the guy who saw the murder it is still alive.”

“The drunk guy?” I asked.

“Well, he says he wasn’t that drunk, but yeah. His name is Wallace Breen. I know his aunt, sort of.”

“She told you about it?” asked Heavy.

“The beheading story is not such a big secret to the older folks in town. They just don’t care. Nobody knows for sure what really happened, and the whole thing just faded away, like everything, with time.”

“It hasn’t even been that much time,” I said.

“I told Evie about your paper,” said Heavy.

“Your newspaper sounds neat,” said Evie. “The Astral Beat? I want to read it. Would you like to meet Wallace Breen’s aunt?”

E. F. Benson: Campery and Dark Psychology

Photo from Harper’s Weekly, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Over at Wormwoodiana, a guest post by John Howard begins:

“E.F. Benson (1867-1940) is probably best known today for his tales of supernatural horror and the six novels, dripping with campery and back-biting, portraying the rivalry between Elizabeth Mapp and Emmeline Lucas (‘Lucia’). Benson was a prolific and efficient writer, producing books of all kinds and qualities, including history, biography, memoir, and current affairs – as well as many other novels of social comedy and satire. A number of these blurred genre labels and could perhaps be described as explorations into dark psychology, terrible secrets, and obsession, with touches of the gothic and sensational, sometimes crossing further borders and venturing into the supernatural. Many also contained strong homosexual or homoerotic elements. Several of Benson’s novels in this vein were reprinted in paperback during the 1990s by publishers specialising in gay literature. Among them were The Inheritors (1930) and Raven’s Brood (1934); others were Colin (1923) and its continuation or sequel, Colin II – which was first published one hundred years ago in August 1925.”

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