Lovecraft Country Read online

  The silver car remained in the crossroads. In a moment it too had disappeared behind the dust blowing across the road, but before it did, Atticus saw it flash its headlights, just once, as though it were winking at him.

  A childhood bout with polio had left Letitia’s brother, Marvin, with a withered left arm, but he insisted on carrying her bag inside for her. The little house smelled pleasantly of a stew that had been simmering since noon, and hot bread, fresh out of the oven. Within minutes of their arrival they were seated around the kitchen table, saying grace, and the first taste of the food lifted their spirits so much that when Marvin asked how their trip had gone, they all burst out laughing.

  They told him the story of their adventure in Simmonsville, George and Atticus both praising Letitia for her cleverness in releasing the mare. “Like having our own Indian scout,” George said. “And a lucky thing, too.”

  “Now, now,” said Letitia, blushing.

  But by unspoken agreement, they did not mention the silver car or the wreck of the fire truck. And Atticus, knowing his and George’s journey wasn’t over, never fully relaxed. When Marvin brought out dessert—homemade blueberry pie and vanilla ice cream, every mouthful of which sapped the will for further travel—Atticus began casting glances at the clock on the wall. It was already after four.

  Marvin took the hint. Leaving his own pie and ice cream unfinished, he went into another room and came back with a notepad. “So I did that research you asked,” he said. “I’d heard stories about Devon County before, but I never realized just how strange a place it is.” Consulting his notes: “The county seat, Bideford, is named for a town in England where they held one of the country’s last witch trials. That was in 1682—a woman named Temperance Lloyd was convicted of having intercourse with the devil, who appeared to her in the form of a black man. They hanged her, along with two other women.”

  George raised an eyebrow. “You’re not saying Bideford, Massachusetts, was founded by witches, are you?”

  “More like the witch hunters. A number of the families who settled Bideford in 1731 were related to the prosecutors in the Temperance Lloyd case—and proud of it. The town developed a reputation for being unusually backward-looking, even by eighteenth-century standards. During the War of Independence, the citizens of Bideford sided with King George, and in 1795, the mayor of Bideford was arrested by the state militia for continuing to hold slaves more than a decade after the Massachusetts Supreme Court declared slavery unconstitutional. Then a few years after that, the state tried to consolidate Devon County into Worcester County. Most of Devon went along, but Bideford and three other neighboring towns refused to be assimilated, and eventually the legislature threw up its hands and decided to let them be. Ever since, it’s been like the land time forgot—inbred, insular, clinging to the past tooth and nail.”

  “And they don’t like Negroes,” Atticus said.

  “They don’t like outsiders, period,” said Marvin. “But yeah. I found a lot of stories in our news morgue about travelers getting attacked in Devon. Lot of missing person reports, too.” He looked at George. “That stretch of highway your friend Victor was on? Not a healthy place for a colored man to be driving, day or night.”

  “What about Ardham?” George said.

  “Ardham’s more of a mystery. It was settled around the same time as Bideford, but none of the local histories say by who, or who lives there now. I couldn’t find any news clippings on it at all. I was going to call the registry of deeds and see about property records, but they aren’t open on weekends and I have a feeling the Bideford office might not be all that helpful anyway.”

  “Never mind the property records,” said Atticus. “Can you tell us how to get there?”

  “I think so. Here, reach me that map tube from up on the refrigerator.”

  They cleared the dishes and unrolled the map of Devon County on the table. The centers of Devon’s four towns formed a rough box around a forest called the Sabbath Kingdom Wood, with Bideford at the southwest corner. The unincorporated community of Ardham was a fifth point near the top of the map; it was nestled in a small open area bounded on the north by nameless hills and on the south by the Connecticut River tributary, identified here as the Shadowbrook. A bridge crossed from Ardham southeast over the water and a road led into the Wood on the far side, but within a mile the road faded out, as though the mapmaker’s pen had run dry. Seven or eight miles to the southwest, it reappeared, crossing Torridge Creek into Bideford.

  “This is the most detailed map I could find,” Marvin said. “Most don’t even hint at a road through the forest, but it exists. It’s unpaved, and it loops and branches and dead-ends, but it’s drivable, and it will get you to Ardham eventually. Or so I’m told.”

  “Told by who?” Atticus said.

  “A friend at the state census bureau. Devon County’s reputation being what it is, I thought he might have some stories, so I called him at home this afternoon. Turns out he’d spoken with the census taker who visited Ardham in 1950. It was kind of a to-do: On his first try, the census taker turned back halfway through the woods because he thought he was being stalked by a grizzly bear. He came back a week later with a park ranger from Mount Holyoke.”

  “Did he say what Ardham was like?”

  “The census taker compared it to a medieval farm village. Big manor house up on the hillside, cottages and fields down by the water. Pretty as a postcard, but the residents weren’t any friendlier than the people in Bideford. At the manor, no one would come to the door, and the folks in the cottages threw rocks at the car.”

  “Well,” said George. “I’m sure Montrose will have them won over by the time we get there.”

  “What about that sheriff?” Atticus asked.

  “Oh, yeah.” Marvin flipped open his pad again. “Eustace Hunt—he’s only been sheriff a few years, but the NAACP’s got a thick complaint file on him. Forty-five years old, unmarried, former Marine drill sergeant from North Carolina. He moved to Bideford after he was discharged.”

  “I thought they didn’t like outsiders.”

  “He’s a special case, sort of a prodigal son. The Hunts were one of Bideford’s founding families, but in 1861 a bunch of them got secession fever and went south to sign up with General Lee. Sheriff Hunt is descended from one of the survivors of Pickett’s Charge.”

  “And proud of it,” Atticus guessed. “You sure there isn’t some other way into Ardham? Like maybe a nice quiet back road over those hills from New Hampshire?”

  “Not that I know of,” Marvin said. “Sorry.”

  “So what do you want to do?” George said.

  “Well, I don’t know about you,” said Atticus, “but I’ve had my fill of rednecks for one day. And from what Marvin says, it sounds like it doesn’t matter whether we go before sunset or after. Either way, the sheriff’s not going to be happy to see us. So maybe the smart move is not to let him see us.”

  “You mean go after dark?”

  “I’m thinking early morning. Say we leave here around two a.m., roll through Bideford around three while the witch hunters are all sleeping. Once we get in the woods, we’ll see what that road is really like, and either keep going or find a spot to hide from the grizzlies until sunup. Knock on the manor door for breakfast.”

  “Sure,” George said, and laughed. “That’ll work.”

  Then Letitia said: “I’m going with you.”

  She’d been quiet so long they’d almost forgotten she was there.

  “What?” said Atticus. “No.”

  “Definitely not,” said George.

  But now Marvin was laughing. “Uh-oh!” he said. “Somebody just got a message from Jesus.”

  Letitia scowled at him. “Now why would you want to go and say a blasphemous thing like that? Why? And you . . .” She turned to Atticus and George. “Didn’t you just get done talking about how lucky you were to have me with you today?”

  “We did, and we were, and we’re grateful, honey,” Geor
ge said. “But—”

  “And didn’t I tell you the Lord would keep me safe? You really think it’s just luck you’re the beneficiary of that?”

  “Oh, here we go,” said Marvin.

  “You really think it’s an accident I just happened to need a ride to Springfield?”

  “Accident or no,” Atticus said, “you don’t need a ride to Ardham, and you’re not getting one.”

  “Atticus—”

  “No, Letitia. It’s bad enough George and I have to go. This isn’t just some racist backwater, it’s . . . weird.”

  “All the more reason not to refuse a gift of Providence.”

  “‘Gift of Providence,’” Marvin said. “And I’m the blasphemer.” He started laughing again, sliding his chair back when Letitia tried to kick him under the table.

  But Atticus and George weren’t so easily moved.

  Letitia slept in Marvin’s room that night, while Marvin took the living room davenport and George and Atticus grabbed a few hours’ rest on a pair of spare mattresses in the basement. George went straight to sleep, but Atticus stayed up reading till almost midnight.

  When the alarm woke them at quarter to two, Marvin was already making coffee. Atticus sat in the kitchen while George went to run his checklist on the car again.

  “Letitia’s awake,” Marvin said, unprompted. “I heard her moving around. But I don’t think she’s coming out to say goodbye.”

  “Sorry if we got your visit off on the wrong note.”

  “No, that’s my own fault, for teasing her. She’s here to borrow money from me,” Marvin explained. “She hasn’t said for what yet, but I know it’s going to be for something the Lord wants her to do, which means He wants me to make the loan, right? Trouble is, I’m a cynic who mocks divine Providence, so I think now she’s got it figured that helping you is the price God wants from her in exchange for softening my heart.” He shook his head. “It was Momma who taught her to think that way. Letitia’s more sincere about it than Momma was, but still, it annoys me . . .”

  Atticus, not knowing what to say to this, drank his coffee.

  “Anyway,” Marvin concluded, “she’ll get over it as soon as she figures another angle. God’s will is flexible.”

  George came back in. “Ready as we’ll ever be,” he said.

  “You want a cup before you go?” Marvin asked.

  “Nah, that’s OK, I don’t think I’ll have any trouble keeping my eyes open. And I’d rather not have to pee in the woods.”

  “All right, then,” Marvin said. “Stay safe. Stop by on your way home and let us know you’re OK.” He looked at Atticus. “Letitia and I will be praying for you.”

  George drove. Their route north took them through white Springfield, and as they were stopped for a light near the city limits a police cruiser drove up alongside them. George kept his eyes on the road ahead and Atticus did likewise. When the light changed, the cruiser waited for them to go first and followed them to the city line. Once it was clear they were leaving town the cruiser turned back without stopping them, but given their rationale for being abroad at this hour, they couldn’t help taking it as a bad omen.

  “Bideford’s a lot smaller than Springfield,” George suggested. “Police night shift is probably just a deputy with his feet up at the station house.”

  “Yeah, that sounds good,” said Atticus, feeling foolish. “Keep saying that.”

  The highway was deserted and they made good time. Around quarter to three they passed the turnoff for New Salem. George abruptly killed the headlights and pulled onto the shoulder.

  “What?” said Atticus.

  “Could just be the willies,” George said, “but I feel like there’s still someone behind us.”

  They sat in the dark looking back at the road junction, which was illuminated by a lamp strung on a utility pole. No other vehicles appeared. “The willies,” George affirmed, not sounding terribly convinced.

  A few more miles and they came to a sign announcing DEVON COUNTY. At a crossroads a few miles after that they turned onto King Street, Bideford’s main thoroughfare. From Marvin’s map they knew it was possible to reach the Torridge Creek bridge without passing through the town center, but they’d decided it was better to take the most direct route rather than risk getting lost on some side road.

  Once again they found cause to question their reasoning. Whatever other aspects of progress the citizens of Bideford had rejected, they clearly had no problem with electricity: Floodlights on the front of the town hall, county courthouse, and several other buildings turned a two-block stretch of King Street bright as day. The intersection at the center of this bright zone featured Bideford’s only traffic signal, which turned red as they approached it.

  They sat waiting at the light feeling horribly exposed, even though, as on the highway, they seemed to have the road to themselves. George drummed his fingers on the wheel and nervously scanned the empty sidewalks. Atticus peered up at the darkened windows above a corner barbershop; lowering his gaze to the shop itself, he spied, taped to the inside of the glass, a faded campaign poster for the States’ Rights Democratic Party, with the stern white faces of Strom Thurmond and Fielding Wright giving him the evil eye.

  The traffic signal turned green. George goosed the accelerator, the squeal of the Packard’s tires too loud in the three a.m. stillness. They rolled past a squat brick fort on which the words DEVON COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPT. were illuminated by yet another floodlight, George and Atticus both shrinking down in their seats until the building was behind them.

  King Street ended at the creek. They turned right onto Bank Street, a narrow lane that ran behind a pair of small factory buildings. A white man loitered by the back door of one of the factories, having a smoke. When he saw the Packard come around the corner he tossed his cigarette and stepped out into the middle of the lane, raising an arm to shield his eyes. “Wakely?” he called. “That you?” George and Atticus sat frozen as if they were the ones caught in the headlights. “Wakely?” the man called again. He came towards them, slipping a hand into his trouser pocket. “Who is that?” He started to walk around the driver’s side and George goosed the accelerator again, the man crying out “Hey!” and stumbling back against the guardrail that ran along the creek bank.

  They almost missed the turn onto the bridge, which was unmarked and unlit, but Atticus saw the gap in the guardrail and said, “Here.” A tap of the brakes, another squeal of tires, and they were passing over the creek in a wooden tunnel. The road on the far side was blacktopped for the first dozen yards, but then like the ink trail on Marvin’s map the blacktop faded out, leaving a rutted bed of dirt and stones. While rocks pelted the Packard’s undercarriage, tree limbs swung out of the dark to swat the roof and windshield. “Jesus,” Atticus said, but he was more relieved than not to have Bideford behind them.

  The road curved sharply left and for a moment they could see the lights of King Street again, shining faintly through the tree branches. Then they turned right and went up, George hissing as the track got even rougher. But at the top of the rise, as though they’d passed a test, the road smoothed out significantly and the trees stopped pounding on the roof.

  “Tell you what,” George said. “After all this, Montrose had damn well better be there.”

  “Yeah,” said Atticus. “Be funny if it turned out he was in Ardham, Minnesota, wouldn’t it?”

  They rounded another sharp bend and saw a barrier up ahead: a barred metal gate between stone posts with a sign reading PRIVATE. George eased to a stop in front of it. By the headlights they could see that the gate wasn’t chained or padlocked. A simple lift-latch secured it.

  They sat in the car, listening for grizzlies. And shoggoths.

  “I’ll flip you for it,” George said finally.

  “No, that’s OK, I’ll get it,” said Atticus. He added, laughing, as he reached for the door handle: “You were right about the coffee.”

  A fury of light and sound engulfed them. The pa
trol car had been hiding in the trees back at the bend and had crept up from behind even as they sat listening. The sudden stab of its high beams served as a signal to the men in the bushes beside the gate; they ran up on the Packard in a pincer movement, using the butts of their guns to smash in the side windows. Atticus recoiled from the spray of glass. George bent forward and was about to reach under the seat when a stronger instinct of self-preservation forced him back; he thrust his hands in the air even as a shotgun muzzle floated into view outside his shattered window.

  The next few moments unfolded with a grim familiarity: They were ordered from the car; struck; screamed at; searched; struck again; and finally marched to the back of the Packard and made to sit on the rear bumper with their hands behind their heads and their feet crossed in front of them.

  Sheriff Eustace Hunt stepped in front of the patrol car’s headlights like a malevolent body eclipsing a sun. His two deputies, lesser satellites, orbited into view beside him. All three lawmen had shotguns, the sheriff’s double-barreled, and Atticus noted they were careful to stand back, out of reach of any desperate lunges.

  “What did I tell you, Eastchurch?” the sheriff said, addressing the deputy on his left. “Sometimes you can just feel it: someone who doesn’t belong, trying to sneak in the back door when they think you aren’t paying attention.”

  “Yeah, but you’d said they’d be gypsies, Sheriff,” the deputy replied.

  “We-e-ell, that was a little poetic license,” the sheriff said. “Nothing wrong with that, as long as you’re correct on the main point.” Nodding at the license plate: “They are travelers, that’s for sure.”

  “Unless the car’s stolen,” offered the second deputy.