The Fiends in the Furrows by David Neal & Christine Scott

Author:David Neal & Christine Scott
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Folk Horror, Folk Studies, Horror, Rituals, folklore, Ceremonies, Legends
Publisher: Nosetouch Press
Published: 2018-09-23T04:00:00+00:00

* * *

It was dark when I woke in bed, having slept not at all, and dawn when I arrived at the wooded banks of the Nolichucky, dreading what must be done: I gathered with Pa and the others to hunt down the basilisks.

Twenty or so Whaleyville men were there, though Wright wasn’t among us. I doubt he even knew how to hunt, and his bulk would’ve given him a heart attack anyway, walkin’ a quarter mile in those brambles. He was all talk in more ways than one.

I knew most of the others by sight: Philemon Talbot, Joe Halverson, Jameson Lightspeed, Luke Holder, Harv Ridout, Carter and his father, and a dozen more. Only one man I didn’t recognize, and he moved among us with purpose and quick words, carrying a rifle and a pack made from ‘coon pelts. Though I’d never met him, I’d heard more legends concerning Lilac Zollinger than any other superstition.

He was short and stumpy with a drawn, sallow face carved by hard lines like a mining expedition hacked across it looking for precious, pretty things, of which they found none. He was the oldest man I’d ever seen but he moved like a moonlit whisper, in fleeting darts and cloaked by shadow.

“You’re Lizzie’s kin,” he said, eyeing me while ignoring Pa. “I can tell by the hook nose and way your shoulders slump. Always told her to keep her head high, but she didn’t listen.”

Took me a moment to figure he was talkin’ about Great-Granny Lizbeth, who was granny to Ma.

“Didn’t listen either when I said Micajah would do her wrong,” the old trapper continued, though his loud voice fell quiet. “That duel ’tween us, my gun misfired. Should be my blood runnin’ in your veins, not his. But tell her my regards still remain.”

“She died before I was born, sir.”

“That don’t matter,” Lilac shot back. “Don’t matter t’all to tell her.”

I didn’t know how to reply, so cleared my throat in response. Some claimed Great-Granny Lizbeth died mid-life of a lingering sadness, while others said it was no more than Micajah’s drunken fists. A fortnight later, Great-Grandpa Micajah got his throat mysteriously slit while sleeping in bed, and that was that.

“Ready to bag some basilisks?” Lilac asked to no one in particular. The other men grunted and hollered and raised their rifles in the air like a group of pale savages, he their elder chief.

“Whatever you do,” Lilac said, “don’t look in their eyes.”

He unshouldered the ‘coon pelt pack and pulled out small plates of reflective glass, explaining only, “Mirrors.”

Holly Barber replied, “Pastor Wright said quotin’ Old Testament scripture outta do the trick as well as anything else.”

“Wright’s got less sense than a filled crapper,” Lilac snapped, passing out the small mirrors.

“What in Hades we need these for?” Curtis Merriweather asked. “Ain’t gonna shave out here.”

That got a laugh from the others who were in higher spirits than myself. Most treated the morning as a festive occasion like the annual buck tourney, wagers laid on who’d return home with the highest count.

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