Black Stump Ridge

By John Manning and Forrest Hedrick

For the past twelve years, Fred Kyle has wrapped whiskey-drenched clouds around him while hiding in a cheap motel in Austin, Texas. A knock on the door reveals a face from the past, and suddenly all of the horror and death of an ill-fated Thanksgiving hunting trip over a decade ago is swirling around him.

Amanda Carlyle has been searching for Fred, her fathers former best friend, for two years. Not sure of what she expects to find on the other side of the motel room door, Amanda knocks, knowing she must face Fred in order to uncover the truth about what killed her father nearly twelve years ago. Was it really a hunting accident as Fred had told the police? Or was it something so evil that Fred has been crippled by the horrific memories ever since? But Amanda needs to knowone way or the otherand demands to know the real story behind the fatal events.

With Freds reluctant retelling comes hints of a heritage he has tried to ignore, the pull of the fiddles, and the realization that he must finally send back the evil he and his friends accidentally released long ago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450289177

John Manning

Author and editor John Manning was born in the Detroit suburb of Wyandotte, Michigan, on October 31, 1947. Although his early years were spent in the Midwest, he grew up all over the United States. Aside from his military postings (he spent nearly twelve years in the US Army), most of his adult life was in Texas. Although he discovered his love for writing at an early age, it was not until his first novel, Black Stump Ridge (cowritten with his longtime friend Forrest Hedrick), was released in January 2011 that his dream started to bear fruit. It went on to place tenth in the Editors & Preditors Readers’ Poll in the category of Best New Horror Novels for 2011. It was also considered for a Nebula Award but did not make the final ballot. Instead, it was placed on the 2011 Nebula Recommended Reading List. He followed with eight short stories and one poem published in various collections. “Disclaimer” (Lawyers in Hell, released in July 2011), “Showdown at Brimstone Arsenal” (Rogues in Hell, released in June 2012), and “Just Dessert” (Dreamers in Hell, released in July 2013) are part of the Heroes in Hell anthologies edited by Janet and Chris Morris and published by Perseid Press. John’s fourth short story, “Asylum,” appears in the third book of the Michael H. Hanson and Ed McKeown anthology, Sha’Daa: Pawns, released by Perseid Press in November 2012 and rereleased in June 2014 by Moon Dream Press. His fifth story, “Mr. Bass Man” will appear in the fourth book of the Sha’Daa series, Sha’Daa: Facets. “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do” appears in What Scares the Boogeyman? released by Perseid Press in February 2013. His last two stories, as well as a poem, are part of Klarissa Dreams, a collection of stories and artwork assembled by Elisha Fraser (artwork by Klarissa Kocsis). As editor-in-chief and owner of Fantom Enterprises, he edited What Scares the Boogeyman?, a collection of horror and dark fantasy. He is also working on nine more anthologies: Heroes All, Dark Corners, Discontinuum, Dark Love, Nightfangs, Shamblers, The Nameless, Unhallowed, and The Uninvited. Terror by Gaslight is his second anthology and the first in his Night Chills series. John now lives near Chattanooga with his wife, De Anna, and their Italian greyhound, Speedy.

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Black Stump Ridge

John Manning

&

Forrest Hedrick

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

Black Stump Ridge

Copyright © 2011 by John Manning and Forrest Hedrick

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-8916-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-8918-4 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-8917-7 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 01/20/2011

With Deepest Gratitude to

Teddi, Carlynn, John

And

Martha and Thomas

And, to John William Steakley, Jr.

1954 - 2010

A Gentleman’s Gentleman

An Adventurer Par Excellence

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act I, scene 5

We would like to acknowledge all of those whose love, encouragement, and understanding helped to keep us going throughout this process especially when it would have been just as easy for us to set this project aside, unfinished, and move on to other things.

To Jackie and Carol and Sandy and Tommy and Edith; to Stormy and Thony and Beth and Ogre and Alaura and Jeff and Krystal; and to all of our other friends and family. We thank you for listening patiently, reading enthusiastically, and being ready with kind words, hugs, or whatever else was needed from you at the moment.

To the fine people who maintain the Cherokee Nation websites (Cherokee Nation and Cherokee North Carolina) for the wealth of source material regarding a wonderful and under-appreciated people. If there are any mistakes in anything presented in this book they are most likely ours and not theirs. We invite all readers to visit the websites and to read their electronic newsletter, The Cherokee Phoenix. The Legend of Red Bear is not one of theirs, although we did our best to make it feel like one.

To Sarah Disbrow at iUniverse. Thank you for making the editorial experience less intimidating and more helpful and educational for us. You are a gem.

CHAPTER ONE

Amanda Carlyle brushed an errant wave of black hair away from her forehead with a well-manicured hand. She looked through the windshield at the horseshoe shaped alcove of bleached blue facades that stared back at her from three sides. Her hazel eyes darted here and there as she took in the scene around her. Evenly spaced stairways yawned shadowed mouths onto the dusty caliche parking lot. The white, stony-clay surface threw back the late afternoon sun like a mirror. The car’s windows magnified it until it overcame the air conditioning despite the heavily tinted glass. Amanda had forgotten just how intense a Central Texas summer could be.

Two small, black-haired Hispanic-looking children played in the scant shade in the far right corner. The boy – at least, he looked like a boy – crouched low, his bare knees just above the dusty gravel. His chubby fingers scrabbled in search of something among the tiny stones. His Spider Man tee shirt sported gray dust like a powdering of confectioner’s sugar. The girl wore a lavender Hello Kitty jumper over a faded yellow tee shirt. Both wore torn and faded flip-flop sandals on their tiny feet. Amanda estimated their ages at four and five but which was older she could not guess.

Nettles, dandelions, and tall, thick-stemmed weeds struggled to survive in corners and cracks along the base of the building. Windows, some with sun-bleached curtains, some with slanting and battered blinds, and a few with no covering over the streaked and filthy glass, stared down from the second floor. Small air conditioning units jutted from the lower half of each window. Open carports stood like square cinderblock caves below many of the windows. Condensation dripped onto the cars and trucks parked within the shadowed slots and streaked the white dust that covered most of them. Many of the vehicles shared space with torn and sagging box springs and mattresses. A few of the empty carports held large refrigerators, their dented doors still attached. Amanda glanced back at the children and shuddered. Hopefully, the doors would open easily from the inside should a child climb inside of one. Still, her business did not include whistle blowing for appliance safety.

Amanda glanced down at the hastily scribbled note on the tablet lying on the center console:

Fred Kyle

Del Mar Motel

3300 North Capitol Avenue

Room 26

Austin

She sighed. According to the ancient, battered sign out front this was the Del Mar Motel. Some motels descended into hourly rate hideaways for hookers and pimps. Some became shooting galleries for addicts and dealers. Still others became resident motels, crash pads for panhandlers, drunks, and families too poor – or too illegal – to afford better. This one looked like it shared all three fates.

Amanda looked at the shadowed openings with their partially hidden stairways leading up to the apartments. Metal numbers eight inches high, some partially covered with chipped and faded paint, hung from the cracked frame on either side of the doorways. Her eyes followed the progression clockwise: seven and eight, nine and ten, eleven and twelve, until she found the pair bracketing the doorway on her right, twenty-five and twenty-six.

Her stomach knotted. The end of two years of searching waited at the top of those stairs. All she had to do was to put the gearshift into Park, turn off the engine, and walk up the steps.

Her hands gripped the steering wheel until they cramped. The engine continued to idle. She blinked. Why was she frozen in place? What Gorgonic force turned her muscles to stone, unable to make the final, simple movements that would end this part of her quest? She took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out slowly, relaxing as the air hissed between her lips. It was only nerves; fear of the unknown. She moved the shift lever into P and shut off the engine. Sweat immediately beaded her temples and the back of her neck beneath her thick hair. She grabbed her purse from the passenger seat and, after taking another deep breath, opened the door and stepped outside.

The fierce afternoon heat gripped her like a scorching fist. Her breath hissed through her tight lips. She inhaled reflexively. Hot air dried her throat as her lungs expanded. She squeezed her eyes shut as she waited for her glasses to compensate for the sun’s harsh brightness. After a few seconds she opened her eyes.

Gravel crunched beneath her shoes as she lurched to the waiting stairway. The tiny stones under her leather soles made her stagger like a drunk. Her ankles protested as she struggled not to break one of her three-inch heels. Only four steps away from the car and she already regretted the not-so-sensible pinstriped navy jacket. The cream-colored silk blouse that looked so chic in the mirror back in her motel room now felt like wet plastic wrap clinging to her skin. Her legs grew slick inside her pantyhose. How had she forgotten about that? She stopped and tried to smooth her skirt as she looked upward into the shadowed stairway. Her glasses, darkened by the sunlight, intensified the shadows. Fog covered the lenses. Despite this, she made out the landing above. On either side was a closed door. The person she sought should be behind the door to the right. An old TV game show, Let’s Make a Deal, flashed through her mind.

I’ll take door number two, Monty, she grimaced as she resumed her slow voyage. Her shoes rapped hollow echoes on the worn and faded stairs as she finally left the parking lot behind her. The dry wood was scalloped from the up and down march of decades of soles. The curved surfaces beneath her shoes’ slick leather made her ascent treacherous.

Amanda stopped before a scratched and battered blue door. She raised her fist, ready to knock, and then hesitated. What was she doing here? What did she really expect to find on the other side of this panel? Answers? Understanding? Closure?

What about rejection? She hadn’t seriously considered that possibility until this moment. Suppose he simply ignored her knock? What if he slammed the door in her face without so much as an acknowledgment? Was she ready for that?

Doubt filled her mind. Her hand slowly fell to her side. What right did she have to intrude on this man’s life? Although he’d been one of her father’s best friends – he was with her father when he died twelve years ago – did that give her any right to be here, in front of this door, ready to bring back that memory?

The stairwell was hot and claustrophobic. A bead of sweat itched as it slid greasily between her breasts and down toward her belly. A single naked bulb burned in the cracked ceiling above her.

She looked down the stairwell. Sunlight reflected back at her. Her car was down there. Freedom was down there. Sanity? Yes, that, too. She could give up the quest. She should give it up. Just walk down the steps, get into the car, and drive away. Just leave this dreary place. Drive straight to the airport, hop on the next plane to anywhere, and get as far away as she could. Let the questions remain unanswered.

Her father’s face appeared before her. She saw his smile and the tenderness in his eyes. His laugh, so full of life and joy as they watched Saturday morning cartoons, filled her mind. The smell of his Sunday morning breakfasts welled up from her memory, meals filled with the love he lavished on her, her mother, and her younger brother.

Amanda stepped toward the edge of the landing. She staggered as twelve empty years without her father washed over her. The steps blurred. Tears filled her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

No, she couldn’t leave. She had to see this through. If she left now it would be a complete betrayal of those memories. She needed to know the truth of what happened on that horrible weekend trip to Tennessee. The answers were here, the mere thickness of a door away. Amanda turned. This time – before her doubts could interfere – she knocked on the door and waited for Fate to respond.

Neither Fate nor Mr. Kyle responded.

She stood in the shadows and waited. She counted to ten. Her mind raced. Confusion and doubt threatened to overwhelm her. What if he wasn’t home? How long was she prepared to wait? If she had to leave, would she be able to gather her courage to go through all of this again?

She knocked again, this time louder. The silence grew. Despair and frustration slowly rose within her.

Suddenly, she heard faint sounds from the other side of the door – protesting springs, an old man’s groan, the shuffling of approaching feet. The peephole in the center of the door darkened and then cleared.

Whoizzit? The voice was rough, sleep laden, and querulous. Whaddaya want? Ain’t s’posed to be no one botherin’ folks aroun’ here.

Amanda’s voice caught in her throat. She swallowed. M-Mister Kyle?

Who wants t’ know?

My name’s Amanda. Amanda Carlyle. My father was Johnny Carlyle. You used to be friends.

Silence. Then, Johnny?

Yes, sir.

More silence.

Just as Amanda thought there would be no more conversation she heard a heavy sigh followed by what sounded like a sob.

What do you want from me? I done told the cops an’ everyone else all I had t’ say back then. Why you botherin’ me now?

I just want to talk to you.

What if I don’t wanna talk to you?

Amanda hesitated. Rejection once more raised its scaly head. What if he did refuse to talk with her? Was she ready to leave all her questions lying unanswered on the worn doorstep and walk away?

You were my father’s best friend. You were with him when he died. More tears slid down her cheeks. Please, Mr. Kyle. Won’t you talk to me?

Silence. No words. No scraping or shuffling.

Amanda turned away from the door. A sob burst from her throat. Her shoulders slumped as the weight of her defeat threatened to crush her. She took one slow faltering step, and then another. Her heels rapped a slow and funereal drum beat on the wooden steps.

Halfway down she heard a loud click. The door scraped open above and behind her. She stopped. Her breath caught in her throat. She resisted the urge to turn around.

You’ve grown, girl.

She waited.

The last time I saw you, you were just a teenager still in high school. You’re taller, now. More like your mother.

She slowly turned and looked upward. Fred stood in the doorway, one foot inside the apartment, the other on the landing. He was just as she remembered him: black hair graying at the temples, smiling blue eyes set in a pleasantly rounded face, lips slightly parted with a hint of a smile.

She blinked. The image rippled, disappeared. A stoop-shouldered old man in faded workpants and a white, stain-covered undershirt – a wife beater some called it – replaced the picture. Gray hair cut in a flat top receded from a deeply lined forehead. Creases and furrows criss-crossed a sallow, beard-stubbled face. She expected him to look older – both he and her father were barely forty when her father died and twelve years had passed – but the man on the stoop looked to be at least seventy, maybe older.

I – I think I’ve made a mistake, she stammered.

Fred shook his head. No, child – I mean, Amanda. You’re not a child anymore. He chuckled, a mirthless sound, and shook his head. There’s no mistake. I’d know you even if you might not recognize me. Too many trips to the bottom of the bottle for me, I guess. And time. They’ve all taken their piece o’ me. It’s me. Fred. Or, what’s left of Fred anyhow. As for how much of a friend I might have been to Johnny, well, that’s prob’ly open to debate.

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Thoughts, questions, and memories tumbled through her mind. A maelstrom of emotion threatened to carry her away.

I’ve been looking for you for such a long time, she finally blurted.

Not what you expected am I?

It’s not that. I mean… Her face grew warm.

I know how I look. What I’ve become. Just a minute. He ducked inside the room for a moment and then returned. He closed the door behind him. Let’s go down to the bottom of the steps. I don’t like to smoke in my room. It’s small an’ everything ends up smellin’ like shi – crap, I mean. Don’t know who it would bother. Certainly not the whores. Only things they can smell are crack an’ dollar bills.

Amanda turned away and continued down the stairs, the better to hide her amusement. He saw her expression before she turned.

I might look old an’ rickety, but everything still works. I wish it didn’t, sometimes, an’ most times Rosie and her sisters are enough. Sometimes a man, even one like me, gets lonely. Too lonely.

Amanda felt the heat return to her cheeks.

Times like that even rented comfort is better than bein’ alone, he continued. I don’t expect someone as young as you t’unnerstand. In fact, I hope your life never gets so bad you have to find out.

They reached the bottom of the stairs.

Mr. Kyle … she hesitated, uncertain of what to say or how to say it.

He held up his hand as he sat on the second from the bottom step. Don’t worry ’bout it none, girl. I’m not offended. You gotta have pride to be offended. That’s somethin’ I can’t afford no more. Mine got stripped away a long time ago. Fred tilted a flattened, crumpled pack of cigarettes and shook it gently. He deftly plucked one of the three that appeared and stuck it between his lips. The white cylinder was bent in two places. He gently straightened it. The curves returned though not quite as pronounced. He shrugged, a what the hell expression on his face as he flicked the wheel on top of a yellow disposable lighter, stuck the end of the cigarette into the small flame, and inhaled deeply. As he exhaled, he set the nearly empty package and the lighter on the step beside him.

Looks like it’s almost time t’get another pack. Probably a new lighter, too. That one’s gettin’ low.

He drew deeply on the cigarette, leaned his head back, and exhaled slowly, his eyes closed. Okay, he said. You wanted to talk to me. Here I am.

Amanda looked at him as her mind raced. So many thoughts; so many questions. What to ask first? Her mouth opened and closed several times. Finally, she simply said, Tell me about my father. About that weekend.

Fred took another deep pull on the cigarette and exhaled slowly, his eyes still closed. Thought it might be somethin’ like that. What do you want to know?

"I want to know how he died. How he really died."

He looked at her, shrugged, and looked away. Something on the far side of the parking lot seemed to hold his attention. He finally looked back at her. I told the cops it was a hunting accident.

She frowned. Yes, that’s what they told me – told us. If that was true, then why was the coffin closed? What kind of hunting accident would require that?

Fred said nothing for a long time. He stared into the distance, his cigarette burning between his nicotine stained fingers. His mind returned to that horrible night. How do I tell a man’s daughter that her father was torn in half right in front of me – that there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it? How do I explain the existence of something that shouldn’t exist?

When the ember came close to burning his skin he tossed the butt into the parking lot. He sighed and looked at the cement stoop between his feet.

It’s been more than twelve years since that weekend. His voice was a rasping whisper. I still wake up nights wonderin’ if I screamed out loud or just dreamed I did. It’s bad enough that I go back there ’most every night. I don’t think I could stand to do it during the day for someone else. He shook out another cigarette. His hands trembled as he lit it.

Ask me something else. He looked up at her. Tears rimmed his eyes. His lower lip quivered. Ask me anything else. How’s your mother? What’s Kevin up to these days? I’ll bet he’s tall like your daddy was. Tell me what you’ve been doing with your life since I last saw you. Just don’t ask me about that weekend.

"That’s the only thing I want to hear about. I didn’t spend all that money on private detectives and Internet searches just so I could stand here in this god awful Texas heat and do family chitchat."

How’s your mother? he repeated.

What? My mother? She stared at him in disbelief. Are you even listening to me?

I heard she got pretty sick after Johnny passed.

She died, Mr. Kyle. We buried her about two years after Dad. The doctors said it was an aneurysm, but I knew better. It wasn’t a blood vessel that broke. It was her heart. She never got over Dad’s death.

And, your brother? How’s he doin’?

He dropped out of school after Mom died. He lost interest in everything. He went through some rough times. He was arrested for drugs a couple of times, once for dealing. He did a little jail time. It was bad, but it could’ve been worse. He finally got through it. He earned his G.E.D. the last time he was in jail. Now he’s got a decent job driving a forklift for some company. The last time I talked to him, he was thinking about going back to school. Junior college, I believe. Maybe one of those trade schools you see on TV. He’s seeing a really nice girl. She seems like someone who can keep him in line. I think he’s going to be okay.

What about you? You’re dressed pretty sharp. That suit didn’t come off any rack at WalMart or Target. That your car?

She looked at the black Impala and laughed. No, it’s a rental. I did get the suit at WalMart. Not the blouse.

Rental car. Private dicks just to find me. You seem to be doing a bit better than okay.

She shrugged. It was hard. I’m not going to sugar coat it. First Dad died, then Mom. Then all of Kevin’s problems. She sighed. I think I got through it for them. I earned a Bachelor’s degree. Then a Master’s. I majored in Advertising and Marketing. I do all right.

Johnny’d be proud of you. He loved you and your brother both, but I think you were his favorite.

She couldn’t stop the tears. That’s why I have to know — to know the truth.

"I know you think you do. Everyone thinks they want the truth, but no one really does. Fred sighed, this time so deeply it made him shiver. I just don’t know if I can give you the truth. I don’t know if I can go there again, even in my mind. And, if I do, I don’t think you can handle it."

Then, it wasn’t just a hunting accident was it?

He remained silent.

Please, Mr. Kyle, I have to know.

He leaned back and shut his eyes. Why can’t you just let it rest?

I need some kind of closure.

Whoever came up with an asinine idea like closure? What the hell kinda word is that? People die. It happens. Used to be that those who were left just dealt with it. Some did better than others, but that was life. There wasn’t any closure crap. People died and life moved on.

Please, she was still crying and no longer cared. Please tell me.

He said nothing for a long time. The silence stretched until she could almost see it, like a wall of clear taffy – shimmering and impenetrable – standing between them.

Fred opened his eyes. His voice trembled. How long you gonna be in town?

I guess that depends on you. I can stay a week, maybe more, if you tell me the story.

He nodded. I’m assuming you got a hotel room somewhere in town. He waved his arm, encompassing the Del Mar Motel in its sweep. I can’t see you wanting to sleep here.

Actually, it’s a motel room, she laughed. "I’m not doing that well."

All right. Go back to your room and get a good night’s sleep. I need time to think about this. Come back, say noon tomorrow. I can’t promise my answer will be different. I just need time to think about it.

Amanda studied his face. His skin was waxy beneath the gray stubble of his beard. Pain and something else – fear? – haunted his expression. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then nodded. Thank you, Mr. Kyle. I’ll come back tomorrow.

Don’t thank me, yet. I just said I’d think about it.

I know, and I think I understand.

He stood and turned to go up the steps.

Mr. Kyle.

He stopped, his postures that of