[Castlewood]

Part 3 of 4

III. Storm. Sinclair. Separation.

You see, the storm didn’t want to stop. It insisted on thundering and raining the entire night. Lightning flashed through the sky, shining through the windows, but there was a different light that suddenly shined into the log cabin home, something brighter, something that wouldn’t go away. As I walked closer to the front door, listening to Bobbi breathe heavier than when we fucked a few minutes ago, I discovered what this majestic illumination was. Shining its headlights into the house, a red pickup truck sat with its engine on and its horn honking. I opened the door as Bobbi stood behind me in panic, holding onto my shoulders for dear life. It was an old truck, maybe from the seventies, and it wasn’t long before my trembling girlfriend and I watched the driver get out to say hello to us.

“Howdy folks!” he said cheerfully with a southern twang. He was a big man who had hands covered in black grease from working, jean overalls with holes in the knees, and a plain red ball cap. His beer gut looked like a ticking time bomb, and his rugged old face had enough craters to stage another moon landing. “I done saw your car parked down the road... thought you guys might need a hand. That is your car, right?” He stood without care as rain poured on him while Bobbi and I stood dry in the doorway.

“How did you know we were in here?” I asked with slight hesitation.

“Oh, I was driving by and saw you two through the front window, figured you’s needed some help. My name’s Hank.”

Finally, I shook Hank’s hand with a smile on my face. “Boy, are we glad to see you. We’ve been waiting it out in this place ever since we got the flat. The storm came and we got caught... we had no choice.”

Hank’s cheery face disappeared as he stepped closer to us. “I wouldn’t stay in this here house much longer. I wouldn’t if I was you. Come on, I’ll give y’all a lift to your car. I got me a donut in the back of my truck. Might fit on there. I’ll fix y’all up.”

Bobbi tapped me on the back in excitement as we both ran outside in the rain. “Thank God,” she yelled. “I thought we’d spend all night in this dusty hellhole.”

We followed Hank to his truck and hopped in. “Opus 17” by Franki Valli and the Four Seasons was playing along with static on the radio. I smelled spilt coffee and noticed a Penthouse magazine hanging from the driver’s side visor. I sat in the middle of Bobbi and him, and just before the big man switched gears to reverse, I brought up the topic that made his face sour. “If you don’t mind me asking, what were you talking about when you mentioned the house?”

“What do you mean?” Hank asked, watching the rearview mirror as he backed up.

“Well, you said you wouldn’t stay there. What exactly is wrong with it?”

Bobbi poked me in the side as if to say, “Don’t piss him off.” After all, he was bigger than both of us combined.

“Place is evil,” he simply said.

“Evil?” I asked, suddenly intrigued. “Well, I’m a sucker for scary stories. Care to tell us more?”

“If y’all insist.” Hank was driving extremely slow in the storm; it would’ve taken ten minutes to get to the car. “Happened thirty or so years back. Guy named McGill. Oliver McGill, I reckon. Quiet guy. Never left his house. Had a shit load of cats.”

I looked at Bobbi as her eyes got a little wide. “Did you say cats?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am, had about twenty or so. Nobody in the area really liked him, always was rude when we tried to talk to him. All he cared about was the cats. Had some weird ass names for ‘em too. I was working on his house a couple years before it happened, painting the outside, and he would call for them. Scrapper, Lexi, I reckon one was called Midnite. But Sinclair was his favorite... he said that one was the leader of the others. I reckon he was the oldest one.”

“What did he look like?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t remember too clearly. I think he was big and white... like a big cotton ball with a tail.”

Bobbi and I looked at each other in an uncomfortable manner. That description sounded a lot like the cat we ran over earlier in the night.

“Um, if you don’t mind, what exactly happened to McGill?”

Hank shook his head as he kept both greasy hands on the wheel. “Boy, I reckon you’s askin’ for trouble. You don’t wanna know. Trust me.”

“What if I had to know?” I asked.

“Fine, boy. But don’t blame me if somethin’ happens. Couple years after I painted his house, nobody really heard anything from him. He just wanted to stay in that there house with all his cats and just be left alone. One night, he apparently went crazy, killed all of his cats with a butcher knife, went outside and hung himself out back from a tree. Cops found him hangin’ there in the morning. They went inside the house and saw all twenty cats chopped up to pieces all over the damn place, even Sinclair. They didn’t even tell that whole story in the papers... too gruesome. The only reason I know is because Deputy Richards is a good friend of mine. Anyways, people drive down this here road and talk about strange shit going on. One guy died on this road a couple years back. His face was all slashed up like claws got to him. They say Oliver was into some scary shit, with séances and voodoo dolls and potions... they say he done put a curse on all his cats, like when he died, his spirit would be in all the cats, and an evil fuckin’ spirit it was, too... and once he was inside all the cats, the cats would never be able to die. They just live forever.”

“That’s strange,” I said, looking at Bobbi. She looked extremely discomforted. “Do you believe that story, Hank?”

“I believe it enough to avoid this here road at all costs.”