Destination Unknown

By L. Chambers Wright

"Destination Unknown" is a collection of 8 short stories and novellas taking the characters, and the reader, through the outskirts of life and the supernatural.

In "The Black Gash," Ash Sensabaugh volunteers for extra credit over the summer, but never bargains on encountering an ancient evil or the centuries-old conspiracy to hide the curse that has lived among them. Madeline Ramsey believes she may just have an honest-to-God normal life in, "Moonshine," however that hope is abruptly stunted by a strange darkness that seems to engulf the world. The collection also includes, "Evermore," "Misery Hall," "Walnut Lodge," "Tanagwa," and "Taint."

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Black House Books
• Release date: Sep 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781476240558

L. Chambers Wright

L. Chambers-Wright also writes as Laura Wright. She grew up surrounded by Appalachian folklore and ghost stories, many of which find their way into her material. She currently lives with her family in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She has had many books published, and continues to prolifically write fiction, as well as non-fiction history. She is the primarily caregiver for a number of relatives, several pets, and an unknown number of wild animals. Her interests include photography, music, and casual gaming. Her personal website is Laurawrites.net [http://laurawrites.net]. She runs the Virginia Creeper Appalachian History and Folklore website [http://vacreeper.com], as well as Appalachia Obscura, an obscure history and folklore website [http://appalachiangothic.com].

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Destination Unknown

By: L. Chambers-Wright

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Copyright 2011, L. Chambers-Wright. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Published by Black House Books [http://blackhousebooks.com].

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Author's Note on Stormy Weather: The singer Sophia Bragg is entirely fictitious, but the song Stormy Weather was written in 1933 by Harold Arlen. This tune is available at the National Archives: [http://www.archive.org/details/HaroldArnold-StormyWeather1933].

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Table of Contents:

Chapter One: Stormy Weather

Chapter Two: Misery Hall

Chapter Three: Evermore

Chapter Four: Walnut Lodge

Chapter Five: The Black Gash

Chapter Six: Moonshine

Chapter Seven: Tanagwa

Chapter Eight: Taint

Chapter One: Stormy Weather

1.

Nathaniel had prepared for the trip into Tennessee all week, but the beautiful day outside distracted him. He couldn't take his eyes from the office window. The welcoming sun made it difficult to remain indoors. He toyed with a pencil as he tried to force himself into work. He loved numbers, it wasn't usually so problematic to focus on them.

He hated business travel, but the new Lexus promised a luxurious ride. It had arrived earlier that week and he anticipated an extended, leisurely drive on the open interstate. He had nearly lusted for one those beautiful cars for over a decade. The meteorologist forecasted a gorgeous day of sunshine and cool breezes. It was the perfect opportunity to see how the car handled at high speeds.

His accounting and bookkeeping service worked with a Southeastern branch of the FDIC. Reports of questionable pecuniary activity had surfaced in Northeast Tennessee. Financial institutions with dubious practices always seemed to be popular, perhaps their ruthlessness made their ascent easy. Embezzlement tempted the most dedicated of bank staff. He would perform an audit, examine the accounts and create the formal documentation on the activities. Banks held power over people, sadly the shady institutions knew it.

The clang of the coffee canister resounded through the reception area. After a slight groan of aggravation, Bonnie yanked paper towels from the dispenser. Out damned spot. She was a gem of an assistant, but even more of an asset. Her maternal appearance softened the hard, corporate lines of the office and made it homier. The decades of experience she'd gained made her thoroughly professional and efficient. Often, he truly believed she knew more about his job than he did. She came to the threshold of his office wiping a spot of spilled coffee from her shirt. She silently watched him gather paperwork. He knew what she was going to say. She warned, You'd better be ready for rain.

He laughed to himself a moment, he was good at predicting her warnings. It isn't going to rain, Bonnie. I heard the weather report five minutes ago. It’s supposed to be clear throughout the weekend.

She rolled her eyes and chuckled. They don't know everything. Besides, I know by my aches when it will rain. I have for twenty years. I may be your secretary, but I do know a little about the weather.

He playfully answered, Yes, and you're a walking barometer. He finished with a cackle, but she laughed harder than he did.

She grew serious again, At least I can make a decent pot of coffee.

Touché.

He enjoyed his job the most when executives weren't present. He and Bonnie teased one another to pass the time, discussed their lives and what they hoped for the future. It seemed to keep them both in good spirits and lessened the monotony of routine. As much as he loved numbers, having a jovial office was a necessity.

He had everything filed and prepared for the trip into the next state. He looked at the clock and sighed. The minutes continued to crawl by. He was marooned inside until four, with still half an hour to go. He couldn't leave until after hours, he had to verify no further developments emerged regarding the bank in question. His days weren’t hectic, yet his position demanded his presence. He couldn't even leave for lunch breaks. He angled the screen away from his door and visited the web site for Weekly World Sleaze. Bonnie would never let him live it down if she knew how much he read trashy tabloids online. He couldn't help it, it was a bizarre compulsion that could only be satisfied through tales of the fantastic and the unbelievable. It was far more compelling reading material than the Wall Street Journal.

They had to anticipate any sly calculation from bank management. They were clever enough to request he arrive on a Saturday after business hours. That typically eliminated any unpleasant rumors among customers or talkative tellers. Hopefully the strange hours would also prevent destruction of potential evidence. He had uncovered so many corrupt institutions it was often difficult to believe them innocent until proven otherwise. The facilities they were called to didn't fare well. Estimates dictated that around 85% of those institutions engaged in some kind of dishonesty.

People lost their businesses, their houses and their lives to banks. The worst companies reigned in smaller towns where the residents weren't particularly aware of their rights and even the tellers seldom knew. The local officials weren’t always ready to lose such generous contributors to simply blot out corruption for the common good.

Four o'clock finally came with no further instruction from regional headquarters. He grabbed his briefcase and his jacket out of his closet. The car contained his overnight bag and the huge case with his laptop and files inside. He would gather the information over the weekend, analyze the figures and have any issues documented by Monday.

Bonnie looked concerned as she watered the ferns on the sofa table. Remember to take an umbrella and don't try to drive over Sam's Gap if the rain gets heavy. I don't want to attend your funeral next week-

Bonnie! He didn't want to hear the gloom and doom. Sam’s Gap was an infamous stretch of road connecting North Carolina and Tennessee. The high altitude was notorious for accidents and poor driving conditions. Its elevation made it susceptible to ice, rain and hard winds. But, he was a careful driver and it was the middle of July. What did he possibly have to worry about? Rain? He could simply pull over if it got that bad.

Well, it's true. She grew dire, the trace of worry had developed into near apprehension. I have a bad feeling about a storm. I'd rather tell you now and justify it as old age, if I’m wrong. Be careful.

Okay, Bonnie. He didn‘t like that stark change in her demeanor. I promise, if it gets heavy, I'll pull over till it passes.

Her actions had subtly changed as the day ended, but he had pushed it from his mind. He wasn't just imagining things. She was very upset. She had been right many times before when the forecasters weren‘t. He didn't know much about female intuition, but Bonnie was a logical and calculating woman, no fantasy or folklore shook her. She looked harmless enough, with a lovely complexion and deep, dark blue eyes. Underneath, she was still a hard professional. She wasn't swayed by superstition or omens. He had to assure himself as he left… She worries too much.

2.

He trudged to his car with his bags. Bonnie waved good-bye with an odd sadness on her face. He couldn’t think of that. He couldn’t wait on the weather when people were being destroyed. He scheduled business trips around the rush hours, sometimes it seemed like there was too much traffic on the highway even then. All those angry drivers seemed to think the same thing: even if it were just to the gas station, by God, they deserved privileges just for being on the road. Everyone else just had to deal with it. As long as they got what they wanted, they would be happy.

He cleared the main areas as he went through western North Carolina. The four-lane became a highway as he neared a roadside diner named Sally's. His stomach growled with the thoughts of food. Not the tuna sandwich he had for lunch, but hearty, substantial food. He needed a good meal before that long drive over the mountain.

He pulled in the gravel lot. He parked between a blue pickup and a white Impala. His legs cramped as he kicked to stretch his taut muscles. It really would be a long trip. He doubted his choice to drive as he walked towards the entrance. Maybe he should've flown. The drive may be pleasant, but would take hours. An airplane would only take a fraction of that time.

He stepped up to the cluttered entrance. There were no people around, but the sidewalk was congested with aged newspaper and drink machines. He glanced at the headlines, but nothing caught his eye as he breezed past. The glass door was covered with stickers and advertisements of all kinds: mobile homes for sale, lost pets, found pets, cars for sale, garage sales, there were a hundred stories just within the signs.

He stepped inside and paused, it wasn’t exactly what he expected. He walked across the tattered carpet and sat in an empty booth. The dim interior had a few lights suspended from the ceiling with a black shade above each. The shades forced all light on the floor and tables, but the ceiling was nearly invisible. In the illuminated areas of the room, the tables were scarred and scratched. He had a momentary doubt about eating here. Food poisoning would not speed up his drive.

A pleasant-looking waitress walked by his table and he changed his mind. She carried a platter of fries and a burger that resembled a thirteen inch tire. The food looked deliciously decadent. His empty stomach growled further and he decided to remain. The white platter underneath sparkled as she walked under the suspended light.

She wasn't unattractive, certainly not a stereotypical backwoods type he expected. Her shoulder-length, blond hair was pulled back in a loose bun. The style framed her square face. Her skin was lightly tanned, and even in the dim interior, she had a bright, pretty smile. Her eyes were clear and dark. She winked at him and he felt like a schoolboy trying not to blush.

What would you like today, hon? She smiled. She eyed his clothing and Rolex, Sorry, we don't serve caviar.

I'll have what was on the platter you just took by my table and an iced tea.

Shock crossed her face, Aren't you worried about cholesterol? High blood pressure? Saturated fats?

I laugh in the face of danger. He would feel better after a good meal. Traffic would be minimal and the night would be free of cares.

The hungry-man's special, huh? I'll bet you even smoke socially. The sarcasm in her voice, the playful glint in her eyes reminded him of Bonnie. He laughed, Almost a pack a week.

Goodness, I am impressed. she said, and playfully rolled her eyes. I'll have it out to you in a minute, hon.

She returned to the kitchen and he lit a cigarette. The air in the room held rich smells of grilled meat and an underlying hint of fried chicken, a sign beyond the billiard table announced it was the special of the day. The soft country music allowed his mind to drift. He still couldn't forget Bonnie's dire tone. I have a bad feeling.

He couldn't tell her, but he'd felt the hands of some unknown chill grip his stomach as soon as he woke early that morning. He couldn't say anything in the office or she would've worried. Something loomed in the distance, but he couldn't tell what it was. Procrastination was not an option, evidence could be destroyed and criminals would walk. Worst of all, they would strike again and he might not be able to catch them before another family lost everything. In his work, there were no real off days, only slow days and good days.

Maybe he was being foolish to listen to mere feeling. That was the hallmark of idiots and superstitious people, not him. Not a professional. Logic and reasoning demanded his attention, not dreams and nightmares. His meal came faster expected, the waitress winked again and he blushed. He suppressed a laugh when a mammoth truck driver, with tattooed arms and thick black stubble, reacted as sheepishly as he did. The burly trucker was bashful towards the waitress.

It might've genuinely been the food or maybe it was his hunger, but it was one of the best dinners ever. The well-done hamburger had layers of fresh toppings and the fries were golden brown. It was a plain meal which tasted like something exotic. He was a glutton and his stomach ached from overeating.

He lit another cigarette when he finished and looked around the shadowy dining room. He wouldn’t smoke in his car so he wouldn’t be having another for some time. He expected to see the crowd glare at him because he was the only clean-shaven man in the establishment with hair that was trimmed. The absence of a baseball hat made him stand out even further. He didn't have blackened hands from auto work or a red tan from working outside. In spite of the conspicuousness he felt, no one paid attention to him.

He lifted the flannel shirt that had been tucked into his faded jeans. When no one was looking he undid the top button of his pants, he could breath again. A casual set of clothes and a nice car made his day was complete. He was ready for some serious auto trekking upon the highway.

The desolate road seemed perfect. Fewer cars meant fewer maniacs, safer roads and better mileage. The first sign of the mountain was a gentle slope upward. The climb became more gradual as he took in the scenery. His muscles refused to ease. The cramping seemed to remain in his calves and ankles. His muscles restricted more frequently. He had to stop half-way up the mountain. He stepped out of the car to walk for a few moments and get his blood pumping. He couldn't believe it had been that long since he’d taken an extended drive. His legs shouldn't be so tense.

He stretched his arms and noticed angry dark clouds swirl in the far distance. Shit. He didn't like the idea of a violent storm on top of the mountain. I have a bad feeling. With one final toe-touch, he returned to his vehicle. He would stretch his legs on the incline, or even better, when he was off the mountain.

After a deep breath of clean mountain air, he shut the door and fired the car up. He wasn't afraid to drive in bad weather, but he didn't want to be on the summit of a tall mountain when it hit. High altitude and the absence of hills or valleys would make it hell to drive. He crested the peak in time to see a fat drop of water splat on his windshield. Damn it, he slapped his hand on the steering wheel. Soon more droplets came and he swore at the speed of the storm.

By his calculations, he should've been on the downside when it came. The wind didn't gust; the storm didn't approach with great speed. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t any wind when he was stretching. The storm had lazily hovered when he had stopped, but now it came and it hit hard. He grew nervous as he drove across the mountaintop. I have a bad feeling. Anxiety would betray his judgment if he allowed it to. If he drove too fast, he would hydroplane and skid off the road. If he drove too slowly, he might be out off of the mountain by morning and in no condition to do his job.

Torrents of wind and sheeting rains proved obstacle enough without the additional struggle with panic. He pulled the Lexus onto the gravel shoulder of the highway. He couldn’t see two feet beyond the fender. He frantically pushed buttons on the radio in an attempt to find a weather report. If this had sat in for the night, he would be marooned in his car until morning. He only found static on the FM band. He jabbed the switch to AM. There was nothing, at first, but static for most of the dial.

An old song suddenly blared, Jesus! It was an old tune called, Stormy Weather. In another situation, he may've liked the blues and the soft lyrics, however he was in no mood for song. He considered turning the radio off, but at least it wasn't silence. He tried his cell phone. Nothing. Perhaps the nearest cell tower had fallen or been struck by lightening. He searched his jacket for his Blackberry and attempted to find some kind of connection with it, but the device was as dead as the other was. Alarm washed over him while Sophia Bragg crooned, Keeps rainin' all the time…

He searched the road for any kind of overhang or shelter. Lightening rapidly flashed across the sky when the sporadic light brought an answer to his prayers. Between the torrents, he noticed something ahead, a break in the foliage on the left side of the road. The opening was barely visible through the overhanging trees and thick weeds. He hesitated; it might just be an illusion from the storm. The erratic lightening and shadows could play tricks on him. It could just be a dent in the vegetation. As a chunk of hail slammed against the windshield, he decided to attempt it. At least the overhang would break the hail's momentum because that last chunk of ice almost cracked the glass.

He inched off the lane and to other side as the next gust shook the car. It was definitely an opening of some type, the path was clear despite being overgrown on the sides. If it were private farming land, he'd just have to pay the trespassing fines. He stopped beneath the cluster of trees and looked ahead. He could see a highway, an old one, but a highway nonetheless. The antique pavement was worn and craggy, but it was something better than a field. The storm wasn't relenting and he had to consider the possibility that it might become much worse before it blew over. If there were a tornado, even a small one, no simple overhang would help at this elevation.

Another pattern of lightening zigzagged across the violet sky overhead. The illumination revealed the road widened ahead, almost as wide as a highway should be. He moved forward and gritted his teeth as strong, unyielding branches scraped the paint on both sides of the vehicle. The large bushes and branches popped beneath the car as it passed over. He finally arrived onto the solid pavement. The road dramatically improved as he proceeded. It would be even better as he put distance between his car and the storm. The road had to lead somewhere. He drove onward for fifteen minutes and a sign appeared ahead. The archaic post swayed and teetered with each gust of wind. The ancient metal had seen better days. While once blue, the paint coating the sign had faded to a dull gray. The large dingy letters were brown with decay, the faint message barely recognizable. Some areas of the sign had corroded completely through and other parts were too sparse to decipher, lost forever to time and the elements.

The sign announced the town of Last Chance, Tennessee. It was founded in what appeared to be August of 1756. He sighed in relief as the pavement evened out. The cracks on the asphalt still felt the size of fissures, large weeds had taken root in several deep furrows, but it wasn’t the small boulders and miniature trees that he’d crossed earlier.

The road darkened, became more pronounced and soon a long black ribbon of pavement stretched out before him. There were no lines or markings. If there ever had been places to pull off or turn around, they were gone now. He noticed a sparkle in the black beyond. There were faint lights ahead, could it be civilization? The rain had slowed to a steady pitter-patter and he could see again.

He wanted a hot shower and a good night's sleep. There had to be a motel somewhere along the seemingly forgotten stretch. The road was more maintained here so there had to be something on it. Battling the unexpected cloudburst had drained him of energy. He was so tired, as though he’d completed a marathon. His body reacted with aches and sore muscles as if he had the flu.

It begged the question: why was the road in such disrepair nearest the Interstate, yet perfectly maintained a mile away? Someone locally should've considered how crazy that factor was. The town council should be ashamed to know the entrance to their town was broken and shabby. Of course, he could be wrong. There could be a major highway elsewhere and he didn't know about it. He wasn't familiar with the territory. Some small towns did have abandoned roads that no one used any longer; they just left them to age.

3.

The road proved his assumption correct. The cracks ultimately vanished and a white line appeared in the center of the road. The tarmac changed from faded brown to wet-slick ebony. His heart raced when he noticed a building in the distance. Civilization, people, houses and all the things he never thought he'd find before morning. He had made it through the storm and survived, a wave of optimism pushed him onward. He got his second wind and sped the car up.

An abandoned gas station stood alone. He pulled the vehicle over and parked a moment in the old gravel lot. He studied the tiny structure and tried to guesstimate how old the place was. Disappointment gnawed at his second wind and his optimism. He was so certain he could find help. The gas pumps were from a Norman Rockwell painting with worn black hoses and massive glass bulbs on top. The only illumination came from two bare bulbs, naked and swinging from a black wire on either of the building's sides. Occasionally, they blinked and flickered, the shadows seemed to change each time the light did. The ancient clapboard siding needed a coat of paint and the garage door was as rusted as the town's sign. There were no vehicles anywhere nearby. I take it business has been better. To his dismay, not even a soda machine or a payphone was within sight.

He drove on, he berated himself as he went further. Why didn’t he listen to Bonnie? Just once, why didn’t he stop to consider the possibilities of being caught in a storm on the mountain? If he’d listened, he would be home, or at least in civilization. Glittering lights from something sparkled in the distance. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, not after what he just found. Possibly two buildings. Not just one, but two whole and separate structures. Maybe even another sign.

The tension left his shoulders and he smiled. He found what he was looking for. The small street had closed for the night, and unlike the gas station, this street appeared to be in use. Shops and boutiques aligned both sides of the main strip. There was Lydia's House of Style, a clothing shop with floral cotton dresses in the widow. Granny's restaurant, had a huge hamburger and an ice cream sundae painted on the windows.

A three story building bore the sign Last Chance Medical Plaza. The edifice at the end of the strip dominated the row of quaint stores. He laughed at the irony of the title.

He drove passed, Here-A-Piece There-A-Piece Fabric Store, and Bullet's Comics, Hobbies, and Collectibles. He screeched his brakes when he noticed the window of the comic store, the first issue of Superman was propped up in the window. The price below the comic read, 5 cents. He grinned, someone was indeed a serious collector and even had the original displays. I'm checking that out tomorrow, he whispered to himself.

The edge of exhaustion peaked with his aggravation. It didn't matter how many buildings were in the town, none of them were open. Even the medical plaza was deserted. He kept himself awake only by doing a bad mimic of a tour guide: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the lovely vacation spot: Last Chance, Tennessee. You guessed it, your last chance for just about anything. We passed the Geezers’ Gas and Go, where Elvis himself once took a leak just before entering the bustling metropolis. We passed the Medical building, notice the Art Deco influenced