Dark South: And Other Strange Tales

By William T. Stewart

In the mysterious dark South, strange old ladies, killers, hucksters, deceivers, and the unhinged lurk in the shadows where they are forced to confront inexplicable forces they do not understand.

After a couple books a room in the famous Hotel Le Grande in New Orleans, one of them disappears, leaving the other to follow a bizarre trail to a sealed room where a gruesome murder took place some fifty years earlier. Uncle Poot, who has always been strange and eccentric, transforms after a board hits him on the head. Now he is a harbinger of death who sees entirely too much. A great swamp in Louisiana holds secretssome beautiful, some sinister. But when two boys enter a forbidden, treacherous portion of the swamp, they face a crisis of conscience when they discover a serial killers treasure. Aunt Lootie, already known for her oddities, believes fireflies signify a bad omen. No one believes heruntil her predictions begin to come true.

Dark South shares a collection of mysterious tales that offers an unforgettable look into the minds of the odd people who inhabit a world that appears to be what it is not.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491730508

William T. Stewart

William Stewart is an educator who works for National University and Brandman University. He earned a bachelor of arts degree in history from the University of Texas and a master of arts degree in speech/drama from Sacramento State University. He is the author of two reference books. William and his wife, Vita, have two daughters and live in Fair Oaks, California.

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Copyright © 2014 William T. Stewart.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-3049-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-3050-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014907270

iUniverse rev. date: 4/29/2014

Contents

The Man In The Yellow Suit

The Undead of the Mariana

Uncle Poot, Harbinger of Death

Lake Serenity

Bastet le Chatte

The Mystic Clan

Saltair Blues

The Trace

Hidden Things

A Gathering of Cats

The Mummy’s Revenge

The Secret

May Time

A Million to One

Timmy

The Bully and the Wraith

Aunt Lootie and the Fireflies

Pally and the Quack

The Whirling Dervish

Medicine Show

The Nightwing

The Lost Key

Double Dating

Double Homicide

Harvey Shook

Six Clues to Marilyn Schaeffer

Great Easter Egg Heist

The Banshee

The Pin

Jobe

The Crew

The Party Line

Millrot

The Ides of March

Hoot Farley and the Chickens

Uncle Henry’s Hogs

The Shavetails Murder Case

Ebenezer and the Spooklight

Frontier Fiesta

I Write the Songs

The Stone

Cousin Owney

Madame Lazare

Aunt Gray

The Battle of Sassafras Flats

The Dixon Diamond

The Bright Side of the Moon

The Lost Squad

Cheap-Mart Follies

Murder at Brentwood

Dark River

The Murder Tree

The Seance

Angels

The Wrestler

Thicke and Thinn

The Man In The Yellow Suit

I t would be a glorious honeymoon. Carla and I were booked into the famous Hotel Le Grande in New Orleans from which we could daily venture to see the sights of the Crescent City. Fine restaurants, entertainment, and excursions were arranged by Mrs. Brown, our travel agent in Houston. Like children at the circus we were wide-eyed and staggered by the lush décor of the century old hotel. For an entire week we could laugh and love in a honeymooners para dise.

I’ve always wanted to come here, Carla said. Voodoo, ghosties and ghoulies. Pirates and buccaneers. What an exciting history.

But we just want a peaceful week, right? I answered.

Oh, don’t be a fuddy-dud, she laughed.

After we’d unpacked in our impressive rococo quarters I kissed Carla and told her I had some business to take care of in the lobby and would meet her at the bar around 3:00.

As I was about to begin writing my e-mails I noticed an odd looking man in a bright yellow suit watching me from the opposite side of the lobby. His face was indistinct, but his attire made him stand out like a circus clown. I shrugged and proceeded to work.

Three o’clock came and went and I thought perhaps Carla had taken a nap and missed our appointment. At three-thirty I called the room on a house phone. No one answered. I immediately went up to our room on the third floor. No one was there. Nor was there any note. Thinking I’d missed her since she often liked to use the stairs, I returned to the lobby. I didn’t find her, but I did notice the man in the yellow suit. This time I had an eerie feeling. He seemed to gesture at me and then immediately got on the elevator. I watched the numbers as it rose, stopping on the fifth floor. Worried that his gesture meant he knew something about Carla, I also caught the elevator to the fifth floor.

When I stepped out into the corridor I thought I got a glimpse of a yellow suit at the far end. Otherwise there was no other person around. I hurried to the end of the corridor and found the last room, number 511, completely sealed off. A barrier had been set up in front of the room and several large locks were attached to the door. But there was no sign of the man in the yellow suit.

I then tried our room again, but found no one. At that point I decided to tell the desk clerk of my dilemma.

The effete clerk listened carefully, then called the manager. Both looked at me suspiciously but also said they’d send out all the hotel boys to search the twelve floors.

As I waited anxiously in the bar I thought I glimpsed the man in the yellow suit again. He gestured then proceeded to the elevator where he again traveled to the fifth floor. This time I raced up the stairs. As I reached the fifth floor I saw a flash of yellow clothing at the end of the corridor as before. But again no one was there – only the sealed room. I felt a suffocating sense of unease.

When I returned to the lobby the clerk caught me and informed me his people hadn’t discovered my wife anywhere.

She just can’t disappear, I said.

Maybe she decided to take a stroll outside, the clerk answered.

I know her – that’s not likely.

Well, Sir, we’ve searched everywhere.

Could we start looking into rooms?

I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible. Besides it would be very upsetting to our guests.

Can’t you see this is upsetting me?

I’m sorry. I…

What about the sealed room on the fifth floor? Can we at least open it?

That’s impossible. No one’s been in that room for decades.

I have a hunch she might be in there.

That’s pretty farfetched. For one – no one can get in there. I don’t have a key.

How about the manager. Ask him.

No one’s in there.

I could detect a tone of annoyance in his voice.

Have you noticed a man in a strange yellow suit hanging around the lobby?

No. And If I had – so what?

He may know something. He’s the one who led me to room 511.

An older man who’d been eavesdropping approached.

You sure you saw this man? he asked me.

Yes, Sir. Several times. And he gestured twice for me to follow – to room 511.

Let me handle this, George, the older man said to the clerk.

Okay, the clerk said, frowning, and after shaking his head, departed.

It’s hard to get good help these days, the older man said. They have no patience. I’m Toll Kenton, house detective. I just came in, but they told me they’d searched the hotel for your wife.

Yes, Sir, I said.

He looked to be around seventy. I marveled that he was still working.

Is there any way we can get into that room? I asked. I’m telling you – there was a man in a yellow suit.

I don’t know how anyone could get in there. Even I’ve never been.

Why do they keep it sealed up? Isn’t that rather bizarre?

Come in here, son. I’ll tell you a story.

He led me into a room filled with easy chairs and sofas. We sat across from each other.

Some fifty years ago, about ten years before I started here, there was a very gruesome murder in that room. The killer mutilated and even eviscerated certain parts of the victim’s body. He was caught of course, tried and executed, but the hotel’s owners were so embarrassed by the ensuing publicity, they sealed the room in perpetuity. And the heirs have kept it closed.

So why would the man in the yellow suit lead me to that room?

Mr. Kenton shook his head.

Can you get me into the room? I asked.

Kenton’s visage darkened. I don’t know – it might cost me my job.

But you’re saying you could do it.

Maybe your wife will show up and then we violate protocol for nothing.

Please, Mr. Kenton, I’m desperate.

I do have a master key which should unlock most everything.

I began to sweat.

If you can, I’ll be very grateful. I’ll see you’re rewarded.

Don’t worry about that….All right – let’s wait till 7PM when the current clerk goes off duty. Then we’ll see.

After calling our room and getting no response, I ordered a Manhattan and watched the clock tick off the minutes. For an imagined splendid week this one was turning into a nightmare. My hopes for a memorable time were being dashed by forces I hadn’t contemplated. At one point I thought I saw the mysterious man in yellow, who as before gestured towards me and went for the elevator. This time I didn’t follow. Perhaps I should just call the police – but then again not enough time had elapsed. I ordered a second Manhattan.

Sure enough at 7PM after the fussy clerk had gone, Mr. Kenton showed up and motioned me towards the elevator. Neither of us spoke as it rose to the fifth floor.

Again no one was in the corridor including the man in the yellow suit. Mr. Kenton pushed aside the barrier to room 511 and tried his key in the lock. Oddly enough it worked. As for the others he’d brought a bolt cutter and began to snap off the ancient locks. Now we were ready to enter. He looked at me expectantly then we pushed in the frozen door. Once inside the door swung shut.

Then in a horrifying moment we both realized it was freezing cold in the darkened room. The temperature had to be well below zero. In addition there was no oxygen. It was as if the cold had sucked out the breath of life. We both began to gasp for breath. After tugging in vain at the closed door Mr. Kenton crumpled to the floor and I grabbed the wall to keep from fainting. I had to get us out quick or we’d both die from the cold and asphyxiation. Mr. Kenton’s breaths were becoming more labored and so were mine. At that moment I saw the man in the yellow suit standing a few feet away. His visage was ghastly – unearthly. He held up a manuscript which read ‘The Lower Depths". With no air and freezing I felt my life ebbing. Then suddenly the door cracked open. With my remaining strength I grabbed Mr. Kenton and pulled him out into the hall. The door to room 511 then banged shut.

I sucked in the air, then began to give Mr. Kenton CPR.

Wake up! I cried.

Finally he heaved once and began to breathe again. I sat beside him waiting for us both to return to normal. He opened his eyes and sat up.

That was close, I said.

How’d you get us out? he asked.

I don’t know – the door just opened again.

I never experienced anything like that in my life, Kenton said. It was like being trapped in a meat locker.

How do you explain it?

I can’t.

I saw the man in the yellow suit again. He looked like a zombie. And he held up a manuscript called ‘The Lower Depths’. Do you believe me?

I can’t fathom it – you’re the only one who’s seen this man – but after what we just went through, I’m inclined to believe anything.

What was he trying to tell me?"

’The Lower Depths’…beats me.

Wait – I remember there was a play by a Russian dramatist named Maxim Gorky – ‘The Lower Depths’.

How’d you know that?

I had to study Russian literature in college.

Well – let’s go downstairs. I don’t usually indulge, but I think this old man needs a drink.

I checked my room and the front desk and there was still no word from Carla. My panic was increasing. Could the sign from the man in the yellow suit indicate anything?

As we calmed ourselves with a libation I could see Kenton’s mind working.

’Lower Depths’…downstairs…There is a basement no one goes into much anymore, he said.

My eyes widened. Can we….?

Yes – follow me.

We took some stairs in the back. The basement was dark and dank so Mr. Kenton began to shine his flashlight around. The room was full of rubbish and broken floorboards.

They used to store stuff down here, but it’s been years.

Fifty years?

He smiled.

We poked around the large room for what must have been an hour. More and more I was distracted by fears over Carla’s whereabouts.

I need to get back up there, I said. Maybe call the police.

I heard a tinny clunk.

Come here, son.

I hurried to where he was pulling a large metal box from under two broken floorboards. He dusted it off then began to pry it open with a screwdriver.

We both shrank back by the sight. In a plastic bag was a shriveled organ – to be exact a human heart. Underneath was a yellowed letter.

Since you stole my girl and broke my heart, it said, I am placing yours here forever separated from your miserable body.

I think we’ve hit the jackpot, son, Kenton said. One of the organs removed from the victim fifty years ago was his heart.

Could…could the man in the yellow suit have been the victim?

Kenton stared at me unsmiling.

That’s speculating in things outside the pale, he said.

Maybe he just wanted his heart back so he could find rest, I mused.

Come on, Kenton said, picking up the box, I’ve got an old newspaper article in my room.

I followed him up the stairs. Inside his room was a large folder filled with newspaper articles. He leafed through it and put his finger on one.

Joseph Remley was convicted today of the murder of Isaiah Cummings. He admitted he did it out of revenge, but refused to disclose the whereabouts of the body parts he’d removed from the corpse.

I guess that settles it, I said. Now we just need to bury this heart with its owner.

I suppose I can arrange that, Kenton said.

When I returned to the lobby a smiling Carla came over to me.

Where have you been? she asked. I’ve been waiting for you.

You’ll never believe it. Maybe I don’t either. I grabbed her in a long embrace.

You’ll press the life out of me, she said.

Just like what almost happened to me.

What?

After you hear my story I think you’ll have had enough of ghosties and ghoulies.

After the victim’s heart was placed in the crypt with his body I asked Mr. Kenton if we could go back to room 511. He immediately knew what I wanted.

He opened the door again anticipating the worst. But as I suspected the temperature was normal for New Orleans – hot and steamy. And there was plenty of oxygen, although the air was musty.

We returned to the lobby and mused on our adventures.

So this was a ploy by the man in the yellow suit to get me to find his heart so he could be reunited with it and find closure. And he somehow hid Carla from me to give me motivation.

If you believe that, Kenton said.

Don’t you?

Maybe I do – it’s all crazy.

Carla approached. You’ll never believe this – but I found out the victim, Isaiah Cummings, was a distant cousin of your mother’s.

He waited fifty years for me to show up. Now do you believe me? I asked Kenton.

He smiled weakly and headed towards the bar. I think I need a drink.

The Undead of the Mariana

G ray, miasmic fingers of fog swirled and twisted round the pylons at the dock. Our departure had been delayed due to boiler problems. So as the sun set, anxious, impatient passengers stood or paced the squeaking boards in front of the ticket office. We were a motley lot: five nuns from the St. John order being transferred to Chicago; several families – a few with children – on their way home; a dozen soldiers full of anticipation going home for the first time in three years. I was among the latter. I’d been here in New Orleans ever since its capture by Farragut. Now that the war was over I’d received orders transferring me to New York. Then there were three that drew my special attention. The first was a very beautiful young lady standing alone. I caught her eye and she answered with a faint demure smile. I knew in that instant I’d have to make her acquaint ance.

The other two standing way to the side were to me very puzzling. Pale, very pale, with sharp unusual features. Attired in black clothing, they stared intently at each of their fellow travelers. There was something unholy about their gaze.

Finally the purser announced to our relief that we could now board the packet Mariana, a paddle wheeler that had plied the Mississippi for five years. This particular trip was the money losing one. The river was at flood tide and cargo was limited. The ship might pick up a few passengers at Natchez and Vicksburg, but not enough to break even. The money making trips were always down river with the tide.

I opportunistically offered to carry the young lady’s bag up the gangplank. She let me so I figured it was a good sign. I’d saved enough to rent a cabin, which luckily was only three down from hers. She agreed to meet me in the dining room/saloon for supper. Unfortunately we had to share our table with two other men, both of whom seemed to exhibit a marked interest in my new friend.

Her name was Sarah Caldwell from upper New York. She’d come to the Crescent City in 1860 to be married to a young banker named Todd. When the war broke out the following spring, the wedding was postponed after his induction in the Confederate Army. When he was killed at the battle of Shiloh she was stranded but was sustained by her job at a local hospital. When the Yanks took the city she continued to work there. Now that the war had ended she decided to go home and try to start over.

The South’s loss is the North’s gain, Silas Beerbohm said in a stentorian voice. He was rumpled, balding, around 40. A drummer, he made his money selling food to the army. He was northward bound to complete another order.

I think Miss Caldwell would brighten any port of call, Major Garret Hussman added. He was in his late ‘30’s sporting a garish handlebar mustache. He was being transferred to Chicago for work in ordnance. I instantly disliked him. What do you say, Captain Dawson?

Caught off guard, I stammered: I agree with both of you.

What did you say would be your assignment in New York? Hussman asked.

Demobilization, I answered. I plan to study for the law.

Hmph, Beerbohm remarked. Like we need more lawyers.

I think it’s a noble profession, Sarah Caldwell spoke in my behalf. My uncle’s an attorney in Boston.

Er…I didn’t mean anything negative, Beerbohn gulped.

So you worked in the Judge Advocate General’s Office…no combat, Hussman sniped.

I did after I was wounded at Vicksburg, I said very coolly. Still got a limp. How about yourself?

His smile faded. I was on Butler’s staff.

So you didn’t see combat, I pressed.

I’d say you had a softer job than the Captain, Beerbohm taunted.

What about you? Hussman, turning red, shot back. Did you pay for a substitute?

No, Sir. I’ve got chronic lumbago. Oh, I tried to enlist, but they didn’t want me.

I’m sure this is all very boring and tedious to Miss Caldwell, I said. Her tale is the saddest of all.

We all looked at her.

It’s hard, she said bravely, but you have to move on.

She lost her fiancé at Shiloh, I explained.

Too bad, Beerbohm shook his head. Where was he from – Boston? New York?

From New Orleans, she said looking him straight in the eye. He was a lieutenant in the Confederate Army.

There was a moment of silence.

Well, uh, I ain’t got nothin’ agin’ the Rebs. They thought they were right.

If you’ll pardon me, Gentlemen, Sarah said, I think I’ll return to my stateroom. It’s been a long day.

I rose. I’ll escort you. I said.

She nodded. The other men frowned.

Couple of blowhards, I said as we made our way to our cabins.

I’ve seen their types before, she said.

I hope they didn’t spoil your dinner, I said as we reached her door.

Not as long as you were there. Good night, Captain.

Breakfast?

As long as it’s not too early.

Maybe Hussman and Beerbohm will be done by then. We both smiled.

As I went back to my room I caught a glimpse of one of the two strange men I’d observed on the dock. He was there and then he wasn’t. I though my eyes were playing tricks on me.

The next morning I escorted Sarah to the dining room. Luck was on my side – Beerbohm and Hussman were absent.

Because of the dangerous currents the Marianna traveled slower than usual. We could see trees and other debris lurching along beside us. The pilot was adept and experienced however and was able to steer past most of it.

Upstate New York, I said. Why don’t you stay in the city?

Actually I might go on to Boston and live with my uncle there.

But there’s more to do in New York, I urged.

Maybe, but I’m not seeking a life of excitement. I just want peace. Can you understand that?

Maybe you’re right. The War’s changed everything.

Suddenly a harried looking man burst into the saloon.

My brother, he said in a raised voice. I can’t find him. I’ve looked all over.

One of the ship’s officers approached the man and put his hand on his shoulder.

Please be calm, Mister. We’ll try to find him. Maybe he’s sleeping in the baggage compartment or somewhere.

I’ve checked that. I’ve got to find him, he yelled – his voice rising.

Please, Sir, you’re disturbing the diners. Let’s talk about this out on the deck. He grabbed the man’s arm and escorted him out.

That’s unfortunate, Sarah said. Poor man.

I hope they locate him, I answered.

There was a thorough search when we reached Natchez, but the man wasn’t found. Also there was a rumor circulating that the boiler was acting up. This was very disconcerting since so many of these paddle boats had gone down due to explosions. I didn’t want the Mariana to be one of them.

I approached the pilot.

I’ve heard about the boiler. How serious is the problem?

Don’t worry. If we have to we’ll repair it at Vicksburg.

By the time we got there it was certain – there was a problem – a persistent leak. The usual repairman was ill so the Captain was forced to hire two local blacksmiths to do the job. The officer had a worried look on his face.

We were allowed to tour the city since the work would most likely take the entire day.

Halo, a familiar voice called out. It was Beerbohm. Mind if I join you?

We couldn’t very well say no. So the hapless salesman huffed and puffed up and down the almost vertical streets. Naturally we were forced to stop once or twice at a local restaurant to let him catch his breath.

When the day drew to a close we received a jarring shock when we returned to the boat. It was loaded with soldiers. Most were haggard – many had crutches, some were amputees. We learned that a deal had been struck to transport a few hundred Northern prisoners who had marched from nearby Southern camps at war’s end to travel North and home. I’d never seen so many people crowded on the deck. The prescribed legal load was around 300. The three of us had to squeeze through the mass of humanity to get to our cabins. Hussman spotted us.

Isn’t this marvelous, he said. All these men. It’s like a transport to battle.

Or a transport to hell, Beerbohm commented.

I looked for you, but somehow missed you this morning, Hussman said.

That’s too bad, I muttered.

The sun had set before we embarked. Sarah and I stood on a balcony and watched. Right before they raised the gangplank I noticed the two pale men clamber aboard. I wondered how they’d spent their day.

As we steered into the river, Joe, a soldier I’d served with in combat who was now a ship’s stoker, came up to me.

Did you hear about all the hubbub in town? Two young girls were found murdered. I hear maybe their throats were cut.

That’s horrible, Sarah said.

Meanwhile the boat was struggling to make mid-river due to the surging mass of passengers on board.

"What’s the meaning of all these extra men? I asked.

The pilot told me an army officer made a deal with Captain Binns – offered him so much money he couldn’t refuse. Particularly on a money losing trip. But I say there’s too many. This steamboat’s never carried this amount of people. He shook his head. Well – I’ve got to get down to the engine room. My shift’s about to begin.

I don’t like the looks of this, I said. We’ll be lucky if we make Memphis.

Hussman approached. Well it’s like I’m back in the saddle. Captain McIllihenny’s going to let me advise him on the treatment of the men.

Well – you’ve got a real job this time, I muttered.

Later at supper, joined again by Beerbohm and Hussman, we discussed the day’s events. Of the four only Hussman seemed pleased.

Just think. He said. This voyage is glorious. All these Union troops traveling through a conquered land.

I hope they make it, I said. If that boiler goes, so will most of them…and us.

You are a pessimist, Captain, Hussman narrowed his eyes at me. Or maybe just afraid.

Concerned, I answered. Just like you should be.

Suddenly the two strange men approached our table. Up close they looked even odder. Like figments of imagination.

The tallest bowed. I am Baron Zelix, and this is Hendrix, my batman. We’ve been here as observers to your late war. Now that it’s over we’re going home by way of New York. May we join your group?

We all glanced at each other.

Certainly, Sarah said. You’re very welcome.

Thank you, lady.

Did you observe any actual combat? Hussman asked.

Yes – Vicksburg, Atlanta.

So you’ve been here awhile.

Yes – but it’s time to return to Rumania.

You have a family? Sarah asked.

I’m not married and neither is Hendrix.

It was difficult to ascertain their ages. Baron Zelix had alabaster skin, but one could detect traces of little spider web lines in his cheeks and forehead. The other man looked almost like a twin.

Rumania sounds so romantic and faraway, Sarah said.

You must visit us, Miss Caldwell. Your beauty would enhance our ancient vistas.

I noticed you barely made it aboard, I said.

Yes, Zelix said soberly. We were delayed.

Did you hear about the murder of two girls?

No – I haven’t. His words were like ice. It’s been enjoyable, friends. But we better get some rest. Hendrix is very tired.

I also noticed he never spoke.

After they left Beerbohm said, Strange ducks. You believe their story?

Why not, Sarah said. I’m tired too. After walking around all day.

I’ll walk you to your cabin, I said.

No need, she answered in a strange voice – almost as if she was hypnotized. I was surprised and hurt.

After she’d gone, Hussman smiled like a Cheshire cat.

You seem to have lost your touch with the lady, he sneered.

Maybe – maybe not. I rose before I struck him and risked a court-martial. I went directly to my cabin and brooded.

About an hour later I was awakened by what I thought was a woman’s scream. I immediately went to Sarah’s cabin. There were sounds of a struggle.

Sarah? I called. No one answered. I turned the knob. The door was unlocked.

Hussman was on top of her. She was fighting him off as best she could. I grabbed him and struck him in the face. He fell backwards over a chair.

You’ll pay for this you bastard! he yelled.

No – you will.

He ducked out the door and was gone. I cradled Sarah in my arms.

I’m so sorry, I said. I’ll report that piece of slime to the Captain.

No - please don’t, she said. I don’t want to cause trouble.

Trouble? He’s the one causing the trouble.

I don’t know, she answered.

What do you mean?

‘I was lying here trying to fall asleep when I felt a presence in the room. There was a man – but it wasn’t Hussman. He was coming towards me, lowering his head to my neck. Then Hussman came in and the other man just disappeared. When Hussman saw me in my nightgown he attempted to make love to me. I rebuffed him and we struggled."

Another man who disappeared…how can that be?

She shook her head.

I went to the door and peered down the corridor. About three doors down one was ajar. I immediately hurried there. Sarah followed. When I peeked in I saw a woman – one of the nuns – lying still with eyes open. There were two small puncture wounds on her neck.

Don’t look, I said to Sarah. Go get a ship’s officer.

Later Captain Binns interrogated us.

This is monstrous, he said. A murderer here on the boat. With hundreds aboard, how will we find him?

Because of Sarah’s insistence I kept my mouth shut about Hussman. I felt even though he tried to rape Sarah, he wasn’t the killer. I’d deal with him at a later time.

I took her out on the balcony to get some air. The night was black and oppressive – no stars, no breeze. It was if we were traveling across the River Styx.

I’m sorry I was so rude at the table, Sarah apologized. Something came over me – it was as if I was being controlled by an outside force.

You did shock me, I said.

Those men – Zelix and Hendrix – there was something malevolent about them. I can’t put my finger on it.

I felt the same.

Joe appeared.

I don’t know all the facts, but the Captain’s pulled a couple of us off duty to help search the boat. All we found was that two soldiers were unaccounted for.

Disappeared? I asked.

Don’t know – their officer can’t locate them.

Why would anyone go overboard in the flood? Sarah asked.

Joe shook his head. Also that new boiler plate they welded into the old was a mistake. It’s too thin. It’s gonna blow for sure. I’m almost afraid to go back down there.

A ship’s officer waved at us. Come with me.

We followed. A soldier was lying on a large bale of straw. He had those same two telltale marks on his neck.

The killer struck again, the officer said.

But nobody’s seen anyone suspicious? I asked.

His buddies say he left to relieve himself and when he didn’t return, they went looking for him – and found him here.

We’re on a death ship, Joe shuddered.

The following day was quiet but foreboding. We ate breakfast with Beerbohm, as Hussman was lying low in his cabin.

I think we ought to get off at Memphis and catch another boat, I said. This one seems doomed.

It’s your imagination, Beerbohm said. There’s got to be an explanation.

The murders only occur after dark, Sarah said.

Maybe one of those soldiers has gone crazy, Beerbohm said.

I don’t think so, I said. The first disappearance was before they came aboard – remember?

Well I’m going to sit outside on the deck, Beerbohm said. And surround myself with people.

After he’d left I studied Sarah. She seemed preoccupied.

I have a proposition, I said. Let me stay in your room tonight. I’ll sit in the chair and guard you.

She grinned. Is that proper? she cooed.

No – but you need to be protected.

That evening at supper Sarah and I dined alone. We figured both Hussman and Beerbohm were locked in their rooms.

As we were about to go to Sarah’s cabin Baron Zelix and his man appeared.

Are you retiring so soon? Zelix asked.

Yes – we didn’t get much sleep last night.

He came near. His eyes seemed to bore into mine. I began to feel nauseous.

Well – have pleasant dreams, he purred.

We went to Sarah’s room. I strapped on my revolver and sat ready in her chair. The darkness was soothing and I began to doze off.

Suddenly there were two men in the room. I hadn’t seen them come in – they just appeared. One went over to Sarah’s bed, the other came directly at me. I could feel his hot breath drawing near. I was frozen, unable to move. I could see his red eyes and sharp fangs but could do nothing to prevent the inevitable. My mind was whirling, confused.

And then there was a tremendous blast. I was thrown against the wall, Sarah from her bed. Within seconds we smelled smoke from fire. Only partly comprehending, I picked up Sarah and staggered into the hall. Other passengers were reeling and shuffling along, trying to get outside.

When we reached the outside deck I saw the tragic aftermath of the boiler explosion. The boat had been almost torn in half. Debris was everywhere. Carcasses covered the decks. I saw Silas Beerbohm lying dead. He must have been directly over the boiler, been blown into the air, and rained back down like so much flotsam.

Joe saw us and staggered over.

I told you – I told you, he said.

Get control of yourself, man, I ordered.

I had a premonition and left the boiler room around five minutes before it blew. All my fellow workers are dead.

Many of the soldiers and passengers were gathered at one end of the boat. Since no one tried to put out the fire, the flames were now out of control and blowing towards us.

We’ll have to jump, I said.

I looked down into the dark water and saw heads bobbing. Soldiers were leaping over every minute, landing on others, grabbing them, dragging them down.

Come over on this side, Joe said. Grab some debris for ballast. Maybe we can find a large piece of blown deck in the water.

I picked up as large pieces as I could manage. I looked at a frightened Sarah.

We’ve got to jump. Else those flames will find us.

I grabbed her with one arm, holding the boards in the other and jumped. Joe followed. We bobbed up and held onto the wooden pieces in the water. We began to float down river away from the burning hulk. The water was cold – I knew we couldn’t last long. The shore was invisible, but I knew it had to be about a mile. We couldn’t swim that far.

Look! Joe called. Here comes a big piece. Go for it!

A large piece of deck was coming right at us. Joe and I stopped it and the three of us climbed on.

Paddle towards the shore, he said. The three of us began to paddle with the boards we had. Slowly we began moving away from the middle of the river.

As we struggled I saw another large piece coming close. One man was on it. It was Garret Hussman. He’d spotted us first. In his hand was a revolver.

Now you die, interfering pig! he yelled.

Just before he fired, Joe moved in front of me. The bullet hit him in the chest.

I remembered I had a revolver tied to my belt. I took it loose, aimed and fired as Hussman’s raft came near. The bullet hit him square in the middle of his forehead. He tumbled backwards into the dark water.

You shouldn’t have taken that bullet, I said to Joe.

You saved me once – remember. He closed his eyes in death.

Damn Hussman, I muttered.

We drifted closer and closer to the Tennessee shore. I could make out tops of trees.

Let’s make for those. We’ll hang on till daylight.

I maneuvered our raft in between two trees where I hoped it would stick. Sarah was shivering so I held her tight. As we watched the burning Mariana drift towards the opposite shore another raft bore down on us.

It was Hendrix, Baron Zelix’s man. He didn’t speak, but pointed his arm at me.

What do you want? I asked.

He slammed his raft into ours. His eyes were balls of fire.

Don’t come nearer, I said, aiming my revolver at him.

He leaped from his raft to ours. I fired my revolver but it didn’t stop his advance. Desperate, I saw a long piece of wood with a sharp end lying nearby. I picked it up and just before he reached me thrust it as hard as I could into his chest. He let out a frenzied, inhuman shriek and seemed to melt in front of us. His clothes blew off into the water. Sarah and I were completely horrified and dumfounded.

Where did he go? she sobbed.

I…don’t know.

What was he – a man or what?

Something malignant. Not alive or dead. Undead.

In the morning rescuers picked us up and rowed us into the nearest little river town, Muddy Bend. We then traveled to Carstairs, a town north of there where we got transportation to Memphis.

Still in shock from the ordeal we’d been through we were mostly silent – preoccupied with conjectures. I’d heard of vampires, but never gave it much credence. But what other answer was there.

Eventually we made it to New York City, where I convinced Sarah to linger awhile and reconsider her plan to join her uncle in Boston.

The air was fresh that morning. Our troubles seemed to be behind us. I opened the New York paper and read to myself:

As if the tragic explosion and sinking of the paddle steamer Mariana which took several hundred lives wasn’t enough, a strange plague or outbreak is now killing many citizens of several river communities in Tennessee. It started in Muddy Bend, then moved north into Columbine and Carstairs. No one knows the nature of the sickness, but the victims all display puncture wounds in the neck and are very pale to the sight. Officials in Memphis are naturally very concerned.

Zelix is moving northwards, I muttered.

Sarah opened the window and breathed in the air.

Isn’t it wonderful to put the past aside now that the worst is over.

It isn’t over…yet

Uncle Poot, Harbinger of Death

T he trouble started when a board in the barn came loose and struck Uncle Poot on the head. Uncle Poot, a tall, gangly man with a somewhat worried countenance, had always been strange and eccentric, but something other-worldly took place that day.

Philip Baker had grown up with my father and another brother on a small farm in middle America. His father grew wheat on the few acres he owned. When Dad, more robust and amiable than Poot, became a juvenile he left the farm and struck out on his own. Eventually he was able to buy some land and his luck turned when oil was struck on the property. From that time on, he became a businessman in the county where we resided. He was able to bring Philip, who was called Uncle Poot for a reason nobody remembered, to live with us. Dad converted a barn into a dwelling for his brother. Poot was unable to hold a job, so he spent his time doing chores around the place and fishing in Muddy Pond. His only true possession was his coveted honorary fireman’s badge he received for helping put out a large grass fire.

I was with him in the barn when the rafter came loose and hit him. The impact drew blood, and Mom had me take him to town to be examined by Dr. Rawlins. The doctor bandaged the wound and then released Uncle Poot.

It’s nothing serious, Rawlins said. The cut should heal in a week or so.

Mom had given me some money to deposit in the bank, so we went inside the First Sooner National to take care of it. As I was waiting to talk to a teller Uncle Poot stiffened and his eyes sort of glazed over. When Mr. Williams, the bank president, walked in front of him, Uncle Poot grabbed his arm and in a loud voice said:

Make peace with your maker – you’re gonna die today!

Everyone in the bank turned to look in astonishment. Williams, not knowing if it was a threat or what, brusquely removed Uncle Poot’s arm.

Get away from me, you loony, he said, and then went into his office..

Uncle Poot stood frozen with gaping mouth. I quickly took his arm and escorted him outside.

What did you say that for, Uncle Poot? Nobody wants to hear talk like that.

Don’t know, he mumbled.

You wait out here while I deposit Mom’s money.

He nodded.

Afterwards I took him home and told him to lie down awhile. When I told Mom what had happened she shook her head.

I wish your father had never brought him here. He’s an embarrassment.

Aw, he’s not so bad, I said. He’s just…different.

You always defend him – just like your father. But what do you know about people – you’re only fifteen. Now you better get busy with your chores.

Yes, Ma’am, I answered.

My mother had never felt comfortable having Uncle Poot on the premises. She came from Oklahoma City and thought of her background as refined. She tried to raise my sister and me to counter my more rough-hewn father, who happened at this time to be away on a business trip.

Later that evening the phone rang and Mother answered.

No, she said. Oh – that’s terrible. No, he’s out in the barn. Yes, Sir. Goodbye.

She looked worried and dumfounded.

That was Deputy Hawkins. He says banker Williams had a heart attack at supper and fell over dead.

That..that’s what Uncle Poot said would happen.

What a strange coincidence, she said. But I don’t like it one bit. I’m going to have your father send Philip to Mack, his younger brother. Let him deal with him.

‘But it’s not Uncle Poot’s fault, my younger sister, Betty, said. Maybe he just had a premonition."

We don’t need anyone around here making these kind of predictions, Mom said. Now – I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

I didn’t know how Dad would take the incident. But as the days went by things quieted down. I had to go into town again. Uncle Poot, whose head was healing, asked if he could accompany me.

Yeah, come on, I said. But don’t cause any ruckus.

I promise, he said.

We walked down Main Street headed towards the General Store. Uncle Poot wore his usual half-smile. Suddenly when James Richardson, a local insurance man, passed us, Uncle Poot froze in his tracks, pointed at Richardson and said:

Put your affairs in order. You’re gonna die today.

Richardson shook his head in bewilderment and immediately crossed the street, almost running. A few other passers-by began gossiping and pointing at Uncle Poot.

Come on, I said, grabbing his arm, we better get out of here.

I half dragged him home and put him in the barn. I decided not to inform Mother about the happening. I dreaded the possibility of a phone call informing us of Richardson’s demise. I hoped banker Williams’ death was just a fluke. But deep down inside I felt that Uncle Poot might be right.

Later that evening Dad returned. He had a worried look on his face.

Got some bad news in town, he said. Jim Richardson of Brinks Insurance was struck by a car as he was crossing the street.

I cringed. Dad squinted his eyes and looked directly at me.

Did your uncle say anything to Richardson today?

I blushed. Yes, Sir….he did.

Well?

He told him he would die today.

Oh, Lordy! Mom said. Just like with Mr. Williams.

I heard about that too, Dad said. He eased into his favorite chair. This is all mighty peculiar. I can understand it happening once. But twice…

I don’t care what’s happening, Mom said. I want that man to go. Send him to Mack.

Cora, Dad answered, you know Mack can’t take him now. He’s having financial problems.

Well – send him to the Wheeler Hospital. That’s where people like him belong.

I..just can’t. He’s my brother. As long as I can afford to, I have a responsibility to look after him.

People around here will start treating us like pariahs, she answered. I…just can’t handle it.

It’ll blow over. Philip didn’t cause those men to die.

Then how did he know they would?

I…can’t answer that. Maybe nobody can…But I will take him to the city and have him examined. Maybe a psychologist can give us an answer.

Can I go too? I asked. School’s out.

I suppose so. We’ll go tomorrow.

Mother shook her head. I think it’s a waste of time.

The next morning Dad called a Dr. Beeman, a psychologist he knew in the capital, and arranged to have Uncle Poot looked at.

It was a relief to escape the disdain of the locals – including Mom. The drive was carefree and pleasant. Uncle Poot seemed happy to get away for the day.

As we entered the city’s outskirts we were slowed by the traffic next to a construction site. Suddenly Uncle Poot tensed. And so did I.

Those men, he pointed at three workers on a scaffold, they’re gonna die.

Hogwash, Philip, Dad said, glancing at the men. They’re…

Before he could finish the sentence, the rope holding up one side of the scaffold snapped and the men plummeted to the ground.

Oh dear, Dad said. He got out of the car and hurried over to where the men lay. Other workers and citizens joined him. I told Uncle Poot to stay inside the car.

We waited till an ambulance arrived. But it was no good – the men were all dead. Dad got back in the car and silently drove to the Center Hospital.

After telling Uncle Poot’s story to Dr. Beeman we all sat transfixed. The Doctor examined Uncle Poot and asked him a few questions, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Joe here says it all started after a rafter fell on Philip’s head, Dad related. But that doesn’t explain this supernatural business.

No – it doesn’t. And I can’t explain it either. I’m a rational man, John. I’ve always debunked these kind of claims. But it seems something unnatural is occurring. What – I don’t know.

What should we do? Dad asked. If these manifestations continue we’ll be chased out of town.

Keep him home, Beeman said.

I can’t lock him up like a prisoner. What if he has more premonitions? Should we warn the victims?

Maybe it only happens if he sees them, I interjected.

Could be, Beeman said. Or not.

Suddenly Uncle Poot tensed. I bit my lower lip.

Doctor Fenton will die today, he said in a monotone.

Dr. Beeman trembled.

How..does he know Fenton? he asked.

‘I don’t know, Dad said. As far as I know he’s never seen nor heard of him."

Look, Beeman said, I’m going to go to his office and check him out. You wait here.

We all sat on pins and needles, waiting for his return. Finally a somewhat relieved Dr. Beeman came back.

He’s okay right now. He’s only thirty-five and healthy. I can’t imagine him falling down dead. I told him to drive carefully going home. I told him….

Then a noise like a gun sounded. We all stared at Uncle Poot, then Dad and Dr. Beeman ran out of the office. Outside Dr. Fenton’s office a security guard was holding an agitated man.

I shot him! the man screamed. I had to. He was playing around with my wife – a patient of his.

Dr. Beeman and Dad hurried into Fenton’s office. His body lay across the floor. Beeman checked his pulse, then shook his head.

It’s no good, he said. He’s gone.

Uncle Poot, standing beside me, looked lost and bewildered.

I don’t…understand, he muttered.

After discussing our alternatives it was decided that the most prudent action was to return home and try to keep Uncle Poot in the barn. But Fenton’s death illustrated the larger, more frightening scenario: Uncle Poot could predict someone’s demise even though he couldn’t see them – had never seen them. What to do? We couldn’t sit in the barn with him 24 hours a day. And if he did predict someone’s death there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

Maybe if he’s locked away somewhere in the city where he’s isolated, then if he does say someone will die, nobody will know about it, Mom said. Nobody wants to know.

Dad shrugged. But that’s cruel, Cora. Philip’s done nothing wrong. He can’t be imprisoned that way.

Why not? her voice rose. I..we..can’t go on living with this horror.

Uncle Poot sat in a straight chair, oblivious and impervious. I felt deeply sorry for him. I sensed that Mom was right. Would I want to know when I would die?

"I suppose …if Philip stays in the barn and we