DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Acolyte, v. 2, issue 1, whole no. 5, Fall 1943

Transcribe
Translate

Acolyte, v. 2, issue 1, whole no. 5, Fall 1943

Page 10

from beneath a tangle of dirty white hair. Maybe it was his quaint old dialect, and the way he seemed to be secretly enjoying something at our expense.
"Lost yur way, hev ye, young fellers? I seed ye drive up out there, an' I reckoned as haow thet war the case; ain't many outside uns[[?]] has call ter come thissaway, ceptin' them as takes the wrong rud back at Naorth Eaton." He peered closer at us and chuckled. "Them as does, allus comes cleer on ter Vecra, acause thur ain't no other way they kin come."
I glanced nervously at Bruce, but saw that he was listening with intense interest to the old man's archaic speech. After another evil chuckle, he went on:
"Naow, as I war sayin', folks as gits up ter Vecra in daylight most allus goes back ter Naorth Eaton. An' them as gets up here by dark...they be mostly skeered ter travel back afore mornin'." He leered at us with yellowish, blood-shot eyes. "Which ye be?"
"I guess we'll stay over for the night," I said hurriedly, "if there's someone who will be kind enough..."
"Yep! Reckon Eb Corey kin fix ye up fer the night. His place be easy ter find--the big haouse daown't end o' the rud. Tell Eb thet Lyle Wilson sent ye."
As we went out the door I looked back and saw the old man still leering at us. Although I couldn't hear him, I imagined he was chuckling evilly again.
"I don't like him," I said to Bruce.
Bruce chuckled, and it didn't sound much better than the old man's. "I do. He's certainly a queer old bird. I think i'll come down here tomorrow and have a longer talk with him."

We found the Corey place without any trouble. Eb Corey, a tall, gaunt, slow-speaking man, received us stolidly. However, I imagined his wife was vaguely perturbed. There was something tragic about her, especially in her eyes, as though she had been haunted a long time ago and had never quite forgotten. She served us a plain but substantial meal, and we ate appreciatively. The room was large and appeared to me as definitely nineteenth century, including the smell; it was lighted by only two or three oil lamps, and shadows clung to the far corners. The room seemed full of dozens of children of all sizes, though we learned later there were only five. As their mother sent hem upstairs to bed, they peered back at us curiously through the stair banister.
"Many outsiders up this way?" Bruce asked at last, when we had finished the meal.
"Last was a few months ago," Corey replied. He seemed reluctant to talk.
Bruce lit his pipe and blew a wreath of smoke at the ceiling. His next words were so abrupt and inventive they startled even me.
"I hear you've got some mighty queer land hereabouts. I'm a government soil inspector--sent up from Boston." I gaped at the lie, knowing he was nothing of the kind; but he sent me a silencing look.
About land, especially about his land, and most particularly about what was wrong with his land, Eb Corey was more than willing to talk. For an hour or more they talked, while I smoked cigarettes in silence and listened amazedly to the technical knowledge of soil that Bruce displayed. He was a professor in languages at Boston College, a far cry from an expert in soil conditions; but then, I had learned always to expect the unexpected from Bruce Tarleton.
Before retiring, we went out to move the car. We came back in time to hear Mrs. Corey remonstrating with her husband; it seemed to have something to do with our sleeping quarters. Corey was shaking his head stubbornly, and Mrs. Corey retired from the a rgument as we entered.
"It's that room in the back wing upstairs," Eb explained as he led the way up the worn wooden stairs, lamp in hand. "There's been some tale about it for more'n fifty years--Martha's made me keep it locked lately. My grandfather built this place, added the wing later.
"Not haunted, is it?" Bruce asked with a show of jocularity. I noticed the falseness of his tone, the suppressed excitement, but Eb Corey did not.
"Naw!" he said. "The story's got something to do with a funny kind of dream people sometimes have when they sleep in that room; I don't know what it is. Martha
-- 10 --

Saving...

from beneath a tangle of dirty white hair. Maybe it was his quaint old dialect, and the way he seemed to be secretly enjoying something at our expense. "Lost yur way, hev ye, young fellers? I seed ye drive up out there, an' I reckoned as haow thet war the case; ain't many outside uns[[?]] has call ter come thissaway, ceptin' them as takes the wrong rud back at Naorth Eaton." He peered closer at us and chuckled. "Them as does, allus comes cleer on ter Vecra, acause thur ain't no other way they kin come." I glanced nervously at Bruce, but saw that he was listening with intense interest to the old man's archaic speech. After another evil chuckle, he went on: "Naow, as I war sayin', folks as gits up ter Vecra in daylight most allus goes back ter Naorth Eaton. An' them as gets up here by dark...they be mostly skeered ter travel back afore mornin'." He leered at us with yellowish, blood-shot eyes. "Which ye be?" "I guess we'll stay over for the night," I said hurriedly, "if there's someone who will be kind enough..." "Yep! Reckon Eb Corey kin fix ye up fer the night. His place be easy ter find--the big haouse daown't end o' the rud. Tell Eb thet Lyle Wilson sent ye." As we went out the door I looked back and saw the old man still leering at us. Although I couldn't hear him, I imagined he was chuckling evilly again. "I don't like him," I said to Bruce. Bruce chuckled, and it didn't sound much better than the old man's. "I do. He's certainly a queer old bird. I think i'll come down here tomorrow and have a longer talk with him." We found the Corey place without any trouble. Eb Corey, a tall, gaunt, slow-speaking man, received us stolidly. However, I imagined his wife was vaguely perturbed. There was something tragic about her, especially in her eyes, as though she had been haunted a long time ago and had never quite forgotten. She served us a plain but substantial meal, and we ate appreciatively. The room was large and appeared to me as definitely nineteenth century, including the smell; it was lighted by only two or three oil lamps, and shadows clung to the far corners. The room seemed full of dozens of children of all sizes, though we learned later there were only five. As their mother sent hem upstairs to bed, they peered back at us curiously through the stair banister. "Many outsiders up this way?" Bruce asked at last, when we had finished the meal. "Last was a few months ago," Corey replied. He seemed reluctant to talk. Bruce lit his pipe and blew a wreath of smoke at the ceiling. His next words were so abrupt and inventive they startled even me. "I hear you've got some mighty queer land hereabouts. I'm a government soil inspector--sent up from Boston." I gaped at the lie, knowing he was nothing of the kind; but he sent me a silencing look. About land, especially about his land, and most particularly about what was wrong with his land, Eb Corey was more than willing to talk. For an hour or more they talked, while I smoked cigarettes in silence and listened amazedly to the technical knowledge of soil that Bruce displayed. He was a professor in languages at Boston College, a far cry from an expert in soil conditions; but then, I had learned always to expect the unexpected from Bruce Tarleton. Before retiring, we went out to move the car. We came back in time to hear Mrs. Corey remonstrating with her husband; it seemed to have something to do with our sleeping quarters. Corey was shaking his head stubbornly, and Mrs. Corey retired from the a rgument as we entered. "It's that room in the back wing upstairs," Eb explained as he led the way up the worn wooden stairs, lamp in hand. "There's been some tale about it for more'n fifty years--Martha's made me keep it locked lately. My grandfather built this place, added the wing later. "Not haunted, is it?" Bruce asked with a show of jocularity. I noticed the falseness of his tone, the suppressed excitement, but Eb Corey did not. "Naw!" he said. "The story's got something to do with a funny kind of dream people sometimes have when they sleep in that room; I don't know what it is. Martha -- 10 --