Dead Ends Read online

  Dead Ends

  Stories from the Gothic South

  Edited by

  J.T. Ellison

  Contents

  Foreword

  The Perfect Buyer

  Women and Zombies

  No Truth to Tell

  The Death Doula

  The Gentleman’s Magicians

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Fortunate Sons

  Stone Angels

  The Body Electric

  In Home Visit

  The Perfect House

  Sleeping Angels

  Catwood

  Looking for the Lost

  Enjoy these stories?

  Contributors

  Jeff Abbott

  Helen Ellis

  Patti Callahan Henry

  Amanda Stevens

  Paige Crutcher

  Dana Chamblee Carpenter

  Laura Benedict

  Bryon Quertermous

  Dave White

  Lisa Morton

  David Bell

  J.T. Ellison

  Ariel Lawhon

  Foreword

  For years, I’ve been telling people (new writers, especially) that while everything is derivative—there are only seven plots, after all—what makes their story distinctive is voice. The treatment a writer gives their novel or short story will always be unique unto them. Their voice, their experiences, their vocabulary, their writing style, all will converge to make even the most tried-and-true plot trope unique.

  Said more simply, if you give thirteen writers a photo and ask them to write a story, you’ll get thirteen completely different stories.

  I’ve seen this happen when I teach. I like to use visual aids to help the writers in my classes, to give them a jumping-off point. A kick start. I think it’s a fun, stress-free way of starting a story. I show them a man, a woman, a setting. Something, anything, so they don’t have to conjure up a tale from total scratch.

  I’ve been using this example for so long, and so often, that when I came across a photo in an article I was reading, I knew I had the perfect opportunity. The photo showed a man in a dusty black suit, his back to the camera, standing in a roiling mist at the ornate gates of a broken-down gothic mansion. There was longing in his stance; though his face wasn’t visible, the lines of tension running through his body were clear. I immediately wondered: What was his story? What was this place he stood before? What was the house to him?*

  With this evocative photo in hand, I approached my publisher and posited an idea: Let’s create an anthology of stories based on the house in the photo. I mean, why not put my money where my mouth is, right? I handpicked a group of writers whom I thought would do a great job at showcasing (and proving) my theory—that no two writers will approach the page the same way. We had only two requirements for them: that the house appear in the story in some way, and the theme of the story was Southern Gothic.

  These talented writers did exactly what I thought they’d do—they created wildly diverse stories about, in, and mentioning the house that are in turns chilling, haunting, and downright scary. From writers going mad to demons inhabiting young girls; ancient caves to ancestral feuds; gardens of stone angels to evils seen and unseen—the stories you’re about to read cover the gamut of the best themes of Southern Gothic fiction.

  They clearly had so much fun with it that I had to join in.

  And so, I give you DEAD ENDS. My brilliant friends and I have cooked up thirteen original, never-before-published spooky tales for you to enjoy this Halloween season. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as we did writing them. But be sure to lock the doors and windows first... you never know what the road ahead might bring.

  J.T. Ellison

  Nashville

  2017

  * * *

  *For legal reasons we can’t include the photo here. But if you’d like to check it out, visit twotalespress.com/the-house.

  The Perfect Buyer

  Jeff Abbott

  “It just needs the perfect buyer,” the real estate agent had told him in a bright and chirpy e-mail, and Paul thought, There is no perfect buyer for this horror. None at all.

  He’d agreed to go take a look because Catherine had phone calls with film producers the entire morning, desperately trying to get her career back in order, and looking at houses was better than sitting in Starbucks and pretending to write. So he’d driven a couple of miles outside the city limits of Fort Sheldon, North Carolina, to where this Gothic pile stood. The real estate agent was running late, and Paul walked through the sagging, broken iron gates and surveyed the overgrown gardens with a stare of dismay and then amusement.

  It was wonderful and awful.

  He could almost imagine the e-mail to his agent: Viv, you won’t believe it. I’ll only be writing horror novels from now on. I know that’s an abrupt change but wait till you see our new house. It’s as if Dark Shadows and The Shining had a threesome with The Haunting of Hill House. I’ll send you a link to the Zillow listing, be sure and do an exorcism before you open the web page.

  Paul double-checked the address on his phone; how disappointing if this was the wrong house. But it was. There wasn’t another house in hailing distance, not even across the road, where a huge field of some sort of produce—he had no idea what, he was a city boy—grew.

  He slowly walked up, watching the windows facing him, half-hoping he would see a ghost, a shade, an echo of a lost child, a lost bride, a vengeful father… what an odd thought.

  He texted Catherine, although she hated when he tried to contact her when she was talking with film people: just a perfect place, ha ha. She probably hadn’t even looked at the original e-mail or link. You pick the house, darling. It’s only fair. I’m the one dragging us back to my hometown, you should get to pick the house.

  He stood there and thought, There’s a book in this house. I could write one about a couple trying to save their marriage and remodel the house.

  And then the better idea came, clear and golden.

  Us redoing this could be an HGTV show for a whole season. Maybe that would help with the costs. And Catherine could probably handle being on camera that much; it would be different from the strain of being in a movie. It would be easier. It would show the world a different side of her. Perhaps he’d mention it to her agent before he mentioned it to Catherine.

  He reached the door and touched the front door knob, and the door swung open.

  Well, the last real estate agent to show it was careless. He stepped into the large foyer. Dusty, but he could see the tile was good. The rising staircase seemed like something out of a film set from a period piece. Sheeted paintings hung on the wall.

  He walked toward one of the paintings. He yanked on the sheet and it slid free, like paper from a birthday present, and beneath it was a portrait. A family. A father, a mother, a boy and a girl around twelve, a younger boy of three. It was only after he stared at the painting for a full ten seconds that he realized someone had cut out the eyes of the children in the portrait. He gasped and took a step backward.

  “Oh, was it unlocked?” said the bright cheery voice of the real estate agent. Her name was Melody and it suited her—she always sounded like she might be about to break into song. “Hi, Mr. Duvalier, how are you?”

  “I’m... I’m okay. This house is a bit overwhelming.”

  “Is it not just amazing?” Melody said. “I know it looks a little Addams Family from the street, but there is no house in the greater Fort Sheldon area with more potential. And size.” She peered around. “Oh, is Ms. Manning here?” People were always disappointed when Paul sho
wed up without Catherine. He thought perhaps he should put her Oscar award in his pocket and produce it for the times when Catherine didn’t show. It might allay their disappointment.

  “She has some conference calls. New film in the works. Or new TV. I can’t keep track.” He smiled.

  “Oh, how exciting. Maybe something they’ll film here? They did a movie here with Sandra Bullock, oh, like, ten years ago. So fun!”

  “Not sure. We just want a house where we can spend most of our time... we’re tired of Hollywood.” Or Hollywood is tired of us, or Catherine can’t decide what she wants to do and she’s scared she’s losing everything so she wants to run home, where she will always be a big star even if no one is sending her scripts right now. He almost said all this aloud and instead he looked up at the painting. “This portrait looks like it’s been vandalized.”

  “Oh. Unfortunate. Well, as you might guess, this house has a colorful history. And sometimes kids dare each other to stay here.”

  “This is the local haunted house.”

  “Oh, it has a sad history. I’m sure your wife told you, being a Manning and all.”

  “Maybe you could tell me while we tour it. Catherine’s not so good at storytelling.”

  She looked at him like she didn’t believe that Catherine Manning was bad at anything. So they started a slow walk, through a grand parlor and living room, a spacious kitchen, ground-floor library and bedrooms, all in need of repairs and updating, and she talked.

  “Since the town was founded, the two big families in Fort Sheldon were the Mannings and the Pallisters. Both wealthy, both established. In 1857 there was bad blood between them, though, as the oldest son from each family quarreled over a girl, and they held a duel. Right out in front of the house.”

  “Who won the duel?”

  “The Manning boy won. The Pallister boy died as soon as they carried him into the house. He wasn’t even badly hurt, they said, but he died as soon as he crossed the threshold.” Her happy voice turned to a sad one.

  “A murder on the doorstep,” Paul said. “You really want to sell this house.” He laughed.

  “You’ll hear the stories sooner or later if you buy it,” Melody said, and for the first time he saw her as a slightly tougher negotiator than he’d imagined. “I’d just as soon you hear it from me. That way you can’t say I held anything back.”

  “I appreciate the honesty. So it’s haunted by the poor young duelist?”

  “Oh, it gets better,” Melody said. “Think of how gorgeous that kitchen could be with an island range and new cabinets.”

  “Yes,” Paul agreed.

  “Of course the Pallisters wanted their vengeance on the Mannings, even though it was a fair duel. So, years later, a drunken Pallister heir kidnapped a Manning daughter. He brought her back to this home, intending to, um, defile her so as to force a marriage out of respectability.”

  “I didn’t think the Mannings would go along with that,” Paul said.

  “I didn’t say the Pallisters were really bright,” Melody said. “But as he attempted to ride here into the yard, the Manning girl grabbed his gun and she shot him through the throat. He staggered into the house and he died on the spot.”

  “That front door has issues.”

  “Oh, every local legend needs the common element,” she said. “You put off yet? You want to see the upstairs?”

  “Yes, please.” He wasn’t put off. The house was in disrepair but the bones, as they said, were good. He could guess that some rooms had seen more recent use than others; whoever had lived here last had limited themselves to only a few rooms: the kitchen, the dining room, the library, a study, a downstairs bedroom he suspected had once belonged to the housekeeper.

  “The house became empty two years ago. The last of the Pallisters—old Hank Pallister—lived here, alone. He could hardly afford the taxes, but he stayed.”

  “Let me guess, insane old hermit type who would chase off the kids?”

  She laughed. “Try much beloved English teacher at the high school.”

  “So the Pallister money is gone?”

  “It’s all in the house. And there are no more Pallisters, at least with the surname. Hank never married. His will left the house to three distant cousins of his in Charlotte… they only agreed to sell now.”

  “Did any more Mannings kill off any more Pallisters other than the two you’ve told me about?” They were now moving up the stairs.

  “Oh yes, but neither of the first two Mannings were prosecuted, obviously. Two more chapters to the story. In 1919 a Pallister girl got pregnant by a Manning boy and died in childbirth—here in the house, of course. The baby died, too, and according to local lore was horribly misshapen. I know it’s not the same as murder, but at that point if a Pallister got the flu and died, you’d say he caught it from a Manning. And then…” She stopped.

  “Yes?”

  “1946. That was the worst one. The final rift between the families. Hank Pallister’s father, Adam, had gone into business with Joseph Manning. Joseph cheated Adam and bankrupted him, and Adam came home and he picked up a knife and he killed his family... except for Hank, who hid from him while Adam searched the house. But he killed his wife and his two other children, and then cut his own throat.”

  Paul could say nothing. It was horrible. What a story. He could imagine the TV series now. And maybe a novel to follow. Exposure and money, to put them back on top.

  “I know. Horrible. But that’s all the past. You and your wife could give this house such a bright future.”

  Paul arched an eyebrow. “Even though she’s a Manning?”

  “It’s just a name. And this is just a house. I can’t afford to scare you off... there are not many buyers around who could afford the renovations and then the upkeep. It’s had a few looks from a couple of software millionaires out of the Research Triangle who might want to play at country squire. But you and Ms. Manning are the first who might be able to afford it and who could live here nearly full-time. And it would be a wonderful place to write.” Melody smiled. “Obviously I’m a fan of your wife’s, but I want you to know I’ve read your books and I’m a fan of yours, too.”

  “I appreciate that.” People said this and he was never sure how much to believe it.

  “Think how great this house would look behind you as an author photo.”

  He laughed. For all its tragic and bloody history, he didn’t feel particularly scared or repulsed. The inside was grand. And there must have been happiness here as well to balance out the darkness. Generations of Pallisters had lived here for decades; tragedy was inevitable, and it was part of life.

  “I almost feel sorry for this house,” Paul said, touching the wall. “It’s just a house. Tile and brick and wood. What did it do wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Melody said. Her voice was now almost a purr. “Nothing.”

  They walked around the property. A distance from the house there was a small graveyard. Perhaps twenty graves. A pall of Pallisters, he thought, then silently chided himself for insensitivity.

  “I suppose we could have those moved,” Melody said. “It would be expensive.”

  “No, I wouldn’t want to disturb them,” Paul said. For a moment he scanned the graveyard and realized the rows were all filled, except for the last row, where there was room for two more graves. Don’t be morbid, he told himself, and he increased his pace past the tombstones. He and Melody continued to walk; the cleared land gave way to a thick growth of pine and oak. The air felt fresh and clean. He thought with excitement of what his schedule would be like here: brisk walk in the morning, coffee, working in the study with its window view (if that was not too distracting), then five daily pages written. The library he could stock with the books he loved. Hollywood money would go far here.

  Her money. Not so much yours.

  He pushed that thought away. Of course, if Catherine didn’t like it they wouldn’t buy it, that went without saying.

  The TV show, with Catherine�
�s family past... it could be great. Just what she needed.

  And it was a place full of stories—writerly catnip. No, he wasn’t scared. He was intrigued. This could be a fresh start for them both. He was careful to keep the excitement off his face.

  They were back in the foyer when Catherine called him. “So what kind of house are you looking at?”

  “I’ve heard all about how awful your ancestors were,” he said, smiling at Melody. She excused herself into another room.

  “What?”

  “It’s the old Pallister mansion.”

  Catherine fell silent. “You are not at that house.”

  “I am. I think you should come see it.”

  “Have I not told you the legends?”

  “I’ve heard them already. That’s overblown history. It’s a great house.”

  “Um, all right.”

  “How did the script calls go?”

  “Not well. Not well. No one is hiring me right now.” Her voice wavered.

  “I have an idea.” And he told her about remodeling the house as a TV show that would star her. She said nothing for several long seconds. Then she said she’d think about it.

  His phone rang again a few minutes after he hung up with Catherine, while he was pacing the house’s library (it had an actual library room; it made his chest thrum). He glanced at the caller ID—Catherine’s aunt Josie, her oldest relative still here in Fort Sheldon. Paul always thought of her as a preview of what Catherine would be like in old age. He realized, from her age, it must have been Josie’s father who cheated the last Pallisters.