The Black Train

Her thigh was between his legs, and when she’d said that, she moved it off because his penis had gone hard at once.

I love you, I love you, the words in his mind seemed to flicker up the walls with the candlelight.

He should say it. He knew he should say it.

“I…”

But she’d already fallen asleep, her head on his chest.

The thunder and lightning had at least subsided enough that he didn’t quake with each flash. Sleep was inviting him within minutes, but images and words kept snapping him back to a tense wakefulness: his dream of the whore named Harriet, “Dirty dog!” the scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch as a young blonde girl shaved her legs and, presumably, her pubic hair in the brook, “Gast buried his two daughters alive, then went about the business of murdering Jessa and seeing to the gang-rape and sequent ax-murder of his wife,” horses hauling caged wagons toward a plume of smoke, “I heared they killed all the slaves when they was done. Near a hunnert of ’em,” an irate man with a gold nose scribbling checks, “He built an entire railroad to Maxon and refired the furnace solely to incinerate the innocent,” a daguerreotype of a beautiful nude woman with a shaved pubis and a single freckle an inch above the clitoris, “Rumor has it that the dog escaped, never to be seen again. But you can be sure…it escaped with a full stomach…”

Collier audibly groaned at the imagery, eyes pressed shut. But more details focused. In the room to my left, some guy was drowned in a hip bath and got his dick spat into the toilet, and in the room to my right, Penelope Gast got an ax between the legs.

And in THIS room…

Collier could feel bubbling in his belly. All of Sute’s stories and all that beer was suddenly boring a hole. The muskrat sausage probably hadn’t helped either.

Even with the thunder, he could hear his own heartbeat along with Dominique’s, and he could even hear his watch ticking. When he closed his eyes he couldn’t shake the idea that a mutt was in the room, and when he opened them, the patterns on the wallpaper seemed to shift into something like train tracks. Go downstairs and get something to eat, the idea came to him. Something bland might settle his stomach.

But did he really want to cross that big portrait of Harwood Gast? Or what if he saw Windom Fecory scribbling on checks at the writing table?

Jesus…

He knew it was his imagination when he thought he smelled stale urine.

Collier carefully slid out from under Dominique, hauled on his robe, and slipped out of the room, candle in hand.

It was late now, but certain sounds in the hall comforted him: voices of guests, television chatter, even some bedsprings creaking from the Wisconsin woman’s room. Some rumbling followed him downstairs—he didn’t look at the portrait or the desk—then he crossed the dining room to the kitchen.

There were no lights, of course, and the candle made the long kitchen seem cubby-size. Collier helped himself to a piece of shortcake from the fridge, took one bite, then—

Shit!

—dropped it.

He’d heard a dog bark from somewhere deep in the house.

Bullshit. I didn’t hear anything…

He was staring into the black entryway, which led to the back wings. The voice of a little girl said in a cattish, snippy tone: “…ritual atrocity and the sacrifice of the innocent are nothing new…”

Then the patter of bare feet running away.

It was no mistake. I heard that…

Sute’s words from earlier, but definitely not Sute’s voice.

Collier’s eyes bloomed as he held the candle out and walked through the entryway.

The hallway felt like a catacomb. The dim candlelight wobbling on the walls lent the impression that the hall was moving past him rather than he through it. A window at the far end lit briefly from a throb of lightning. He could barely detect the dark paintings along the walls, and a row of closed doors.

Collier came to a dead stop.

Another voice, just a whisper: “…an oblation to the devil…” and then a trailing laugh.

Not a child’s voice this time but a mature woman’s, with a rich, wanton Southern accent.

What followed was the most complete silence he’d ever experienced.

Hands snapped out of the dark, grabbed Collier’s robe collar, and yanked him into a suddenly open doorway —

Collier bellowed. The candle flew out of his hand and extinguished.

“Come in here!”

The terror jolted his heart in time with the next flash of lightning. He fell over on a bed with whomever had grabbed him. His fear sealed his throat.

It was Mrs. Butler who shuddered next to him. She put her arms around him, in sheer terror.

“Jesus, Mrs. Butler! You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“Mercy, I’m so scared! The lightning…”

Collier, infuriated, tried to calm her. “Just take it easy. It’s only a storm…” He looked around at what was obviously her bedroom, done up nicely with antiques. Candles wavered from each corner.

“Mrs. Butler. Did you say something when I was in the hall? Something about the devil?”

“The—Mercy, no!” Her arms tremored around him. “But someone else did…”

“You heard a voice?”

Sweat adhered the cotton nightgown to her bosom. “It was her…”

Her. She heard it, too, Collier thought. “Her? Who?”

The woman rose, her gray hair astray to her shoulders. Something forced Collier’s eyes to fix on the old woman’s breasts and belly printing against the damp nightgown.

She walked dreamily to the window.

“Mrs. Butler?”

The next lightning flash framed her crisp silhouette in the window. “I just love these storms…”

Collier frowned. “Mrs. Butler, are you all right?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Collier.” As the words ran out of her mouth, she flipped off her straps, peeled down the nightgown, and stepped out of it. A moment later, she stood right before Collier.

Collier stared at the candlelit flesh glittered by sweat.

No…

“It’s just…the house is all,” she drawled.

“What?”

Her fingers laced behind his head and urged forward as she leaned over slightly, till a nipple was in his face.

Without thinking, he took the nipple into his mouth and sucked.

“Aw, yeah, just like that…”

He let his face and mouth revel in the midst of her breasts for several minutes before he twinged from an inner jolt and thought, What am I doing!

You’re priming this old sleaze for a GREAT roll in the hay—that’s what you’re doing, you moron, his bad side answered.

But Collier knew he couldn’t continue, even with his own arousal more than apparent. Dominique, he thought.

To hell with that highbrow frigid ho, damn it! Now be a MAN and GIVE IT to this old bitch!

Mrs. Butler sighed, then straddled Collier’s lap and pushed him back. “Suck ’em harder now, hon. I know ya been dyin’ to, since that night you was watchin’ me through the peephole’n jerkin’ yerself.” She slid upward and pressed her breasts more deliberately in his face.