House of Dead Trees Read online

  This book is copyright 2011 by Rod Redux

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental

  First Trade Paperback Edition

  Published by Cobra E-books

  Metropolis, IL

  ISBN-13: 978-1478272359

  ISBN-10: 147827235X

  Also by Rod Redux

  The Oldest Living Vampire Tells All

  The Oldest Living Vampire on the Prowl

  The Oldest Living Vampire In Love

  Menace of Club Mephistopheles

  Mort

  Hole: A Ghost Story

  Indian Summer

  For Angela Babb,

  Who loves a good spook story,

  And

  For Evan Roy,

  For his encouragement and advice.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: Tanka, 1392 A.D.

  Part I: The Fearless Ghost Hunters

  Allen

  Billy

  Jane

  Cypress

  The House

  Interval: Traweek

  Part II: The Belly of the Beast

  The Thing in the Road

  Departure

  Francis Fontaine, Psychic Investigator

  Robert

  Establishing Shots

  Last Supper

  Investigation

  Interval: Oy’he

  Part III: Kobold

  Awake in the Dark

  Revenants

  Missing Persons

  Hell House

  Addendum

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Tanka

  1392 A.D.

  1

  Before there was a house, there was a forest.

  Weary and disgraced, the warrior Tanka ran until he came to the land of the Onemara, the wooded region his people shunned as haunted. Only then, after the shadows of the forest had swallowed him, cooling the sweat upon his flesh, did Tanka stop to rest... and begin to consider that he might escape with his life after all, and what he should do with the remainder of it.

  Rugged wilderness surrounded him, dense with pine and hickory and oak. A thick carpet of rotting leaves covered the stony, steeply sloping hills. High ridges, some of them bare rock faces, loomed in every direction, but he tromped forward anyway, looking for a place to stop and rest his aching feet.

  Surely his brother would not pursue him into these dreadful hills, he thought. Although Tanka did not believe in spirits, good or bad, his brother Oy’he did.

  No! Oy’he would come this far and then no further. His brother would realize that Tanka had fled to the land of the Dreaming People-- which is what “Onemara” meant in the tongue of his tribe, the Poha-- that he had vanished into their wooded hills like a stone plunging into a bottomless pit, and he would turn back, vow or no vow, all his fury and hunger for vengeance turned to quaking knees and watery bowels.

  Tanka grinned as he collapsed onto the exposed roots of an ancient oak tree. He put his elbows on his thighs and waited for the burning in his lungs to abate.

  Flecks of sunlight, filtering through the dense canopy of leaves overhead, crawled insect-like over his body. Tanka listened to the treetops shift and creak. Normally he was soothed by the rustling sound of wind in the treetops, but a little voice inside his head-- the nagger that guarded him from the back of his skull-- whispered that something in his surroundings was amiss. His people called that voice Ahet, the watchful spirit.

  As he sat, trying to catch his breath, Ahet whispered to him: Be on your guard, Tanka! There is something wrong with this wilderness!

  He tilted back his head and sent his senses stretching out, attempting to pinpoint the source of that inner voice’s alarm.

  As if rousing from a daydream, he became aware of the forest’s stillness, and he squinted at the trees overhead, his lips curling back from square white teeth.

  No birdsong, he said to himself.

  That was strange!

  It was a warm midsummer afternoon. The forest should be deafening with the gabble and screech of birdsong and the flutter of their feathered flight, but sitting on the knuckles of the great oak’s exposed roots, Tanka heard little aside from the sough of the wind in the treetops. It was a hush that spoke to his instincts of danger.

  Despite his exhaustion, Tanka rose and scanned the surrounding woodland. All was dense black forest, still but for the shifting of the branches overhead. He could not see far because of the looming hills, but he spied no threats to concern himself with, nor did he hear the pop and crackle of any large predator creeping through the undergrowth.

  Why, then, should he be so uneasy?

  A shadow passed over him, and he heard from high overhead the echoing Screeeeee! of a hungry raptor. A hawk perhaps, or an eagle.

  Tanka relaxed his guard.

  A bird of prey, gliding on wind currents high above. That was why the woodland was so quiet. The creatures of the forest knew when they were being hunted.

  As did Tanka.

  2

  Despite his weariness, Tanka forced himself to move on. He had seen the smoke of his brother’s fire when he awoke this morning, its dark smudge on the horizon proof that Oy’he still pursued him. Might his brother not gather his courage and push into the Onemara highlands, too? It was a certainty if Oy’he believed his enemy was near! Tanka still trekked the outlying hills of the Dreaming People’s territory. He wouldn’t be safe until he was well within its shunned embrace. Oy’he might even pursue him this deep into the forbidden wilderness to avenge his beloved Anatissa, but not much further.

  Surely no further!

  As Tanka trudged on, wiping the sweat from his brow, he summoned to his thoughts the visage of Anatissa, Oy’he’s wife. Young and lissome, with unblemished brown skin. Round cheeks and eyes so dark and grave they made a warrior want to sink into them as into a restful sleep.

  Tanka cursed her in his thoughts: Foolish woman!

  He, Tanka, had every right as Elder Brother to “borrow” Anatissa from her husband until he could procure for himself a new mate. His own wife, Muoie, had died the previous winter attempting to birth their first child. The baby, a boy, had come feet first, and both mother and child had died that snowy eve, the wind shrieking outside as if to mock his wife’s agonized cries.

  It was not fit for Eldest Brother to be wifeless while his younger siblings all had mates. It was a terrible embarrassment, but none of the eligible women in his tribe wanted him after Muoie perished, calling him Unlucky Cock behind their hands. They all blamed him for Muoie’s terrible death, wanted nothing to do with him-- even Hunda, who was like unto a wild hog, whiskery chin and all! He would never have stooped to pursue such an unattractive woman, but even Hunda had fled from him, dodging through the passages between the earthen mounds they built their lodges on as if she feared his unlucky cock would strike her dead, even from a distance!

  It was humiliating.

  So out of pride, and with an angry, jealous heart, Tanka had asserted his right as Eldest Brother, and invoked a rarely practiced custom among his people, a tradition called Tor’ll Tat. Compelled by custom, his married brothers had lined their women up so that Tanka might take his pick, and borrow one until he could win another woman for himself.

  The consensus among his people was that Tanka should choose Ionea or Hett, one of his brother Taroa’s two wives. That would be the most reasonable choice, everyone had agreed, if Tanka insisted on being such a domineering Eldest Brother. Neither were the most fetching of the women he had to choose from, but they had both born children for Taroa, and Taroa could make do with just one wife for a little while, even if he was as demanding as his wives complained. All the brothers would the
n have one wife apiece. A perfectly fair solution!

  But Tanka was not interested in what his people thought was fair. Muoie’s death had embittered him, and he envied the comforts his subordinate brothers enjoyed.

  And should he not, as Eldest Brother, have the most desirable mate? That was how these things should be!

  Tanka had inspected Ionea, and then he inspected Hett. Both women met his gaze without embarrassment, though neither looked particularly eager to be chosen. Ionea had chewed on a fingernail, bored, while Hett looked Tanka up and down with a smirk.

  Taroa, his brother, watched with arms crossed as Tanka paced… and pretended to debate.

  A crowd had gathered in the avenues between the great earthen platforms their people constructed their lodges upon. Tor’ll Tat was invoked so rarely that the event had piqued the interest of the entire tribe, even those who disdained such tawdry household affairs.

  The village women watched with avid curiosity, whispering to one another excitedly. Some of the braves had placed bets on which wife Tanka would chose. Even the possibility that the four brothers would come to blows over the matter. Vulgar jokes passed around the crowd as the older women made light of the situation, wondering aloud whether Tanka’s chosen one would be happy or disappointed with her temporary husband’s lovemaking equipment.

  This, of course, embarrassed and infuriated Tanka’s brothers even further.

  But despite his pretense, Tanka already knew whom he was determined to take.

  Anatissa had protested the Tor’ll Tat, protested so loudly, in fact, that her husband was in danger of losing face among their tribesmen. When the wives of her husband’s brothers came and dragged her from their hut, she had writhed and cursed and shot Tanka looks of such hatred that a lesser man would have withered in their heat.

  She knew from past gropings that Tanka desired her. He had desired her since she came of age, and was furious with jealousy when she married his younger brother. Anatissa was so sure he intended to pick her, in fact, that Tanka almost considered choosing one of the other women, just to be contrary.

  Oy’he had approached him as the women lined up for his inspection. “Please, brother, do not do this,” he had whispered into Tanka’s ear. “I beg you! Show compassion for the hearts you hold in your hands!”

  Tanka had brushed him aside with a haughty sniff. He had always been jealous of Oy’he, who was their parents’ favorite son. Brash, handsome Oy’he, who had always taken his pick of the village’s unmarried females. Oy’he, who had managed to win the love of Anatissa, when all she ever did was turn Tanka from her door, saying that he was too old. What she really meant was he was too ugly!

  He looked them over. He pretended to debate. A hush fell over the assembly as he tapped his finger to his teeth.

  Never in his life had he commanded such attention. It puffed his chest with pride. Made him tremble with excitement. He set his fists on his hips and smiled, then shouted his decision.

  “I choose Anatissa!”

  Oy’he cried out in despair as a great gasp rose up from the crowd. Anatissa tried to flee, but the wives of their two other brothers, relieved they had not been chosen, seized her by the wrists and elbows and pushed her, kicking and screaming, into the arms of her new husband.

  “Stop squirming, rabbit!” Hett huffed.

  “It is only for a little while,” Ionea soothed.

  Oy’he had leapt forward, intent on stopping Tanka from claiming his new wife, but their tribesmen intervened, determined to enforce their customs, even though most of them had spoken uncharitably of Tanka for invoking the Tor’ll Tat.

  Tanka had seized Anatissa, and with the help of his friends, had dragged her to his hut. He planned to take her quickly, thinking it would be better if he broke her spirit from the outset.

  He had thrown her down on his sleeping furs and jerked away the cords that held his breechclout in place, his lance quivering with lust already, but Anatissa did not submit. She thrashed and howled until finally he had no choice but to beat her.

  Even bloodied and beaten, she would not submit, so Tanka raped her, and he continued to beat her and rape her, endeavoring to break her spirit, for the next two days.

  When he finally could guard her no longer, and his lance was flaccid as a rope, Tanka fell into exhausted slumber. Anatissa waited until he was fast asleep, and then she slipped from the cord with which he’d bound together their wrists, and she threw herself upon his spear.

  Tanka had awakened at her cry, and she’d spit her last breath at him: a curse.

  “May your spirit have no rest, Tanka, in this world or the next one!” she had hissed at him, grinning with bloodied teeth, and then she had died. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets and her head drooped forward, and her body slid slowly down the shaft she’d flung her heart upon.

  3

  Tanka did not believe in curses, nor did he believe in spirits or an afterlife. Though the other members of his tribe insisted on their existence, spinning colorful tales around the campfires at night, he had never encountered evidence to make him think that ghosts were anything other than the wishful thinking of old fools who feared death. And curses? The fantasies of the powerless.

  Still, he was horrified by Anatissa’s suicide. He knew how judgmental his people could be, how self-righteous and tradition-bound they were, every one. Even knowing this, their ire, when news of Anatissa’s suicide spread through the community, surprised him. They blamed him for Anatissa’s death, just as he had been held accountable for the death of his wife Muoie. It was not fair!

  Shortly after the woman threw herself upon his spear, a group of warriors came to his home.

  “You have broken the trust of your tribe and outraged the gods,” they told him. “We’ve come to take you before the elders, Tanka, so they may decide on a punishment suitable for your crime.”

  His abductors had marched him across the village as the people sussed him and shouted insults.

  “Cast out?” Tanka cried in horror when the council pronounced his sentence. Lashings, censure, those he could accept, but exile? Where would he go? How would he survive?

  But Oy’he, his brother, was not satisfied with his penalty. He leapt to his feet, enraged by the elders’ leniency.

  “Exile? For the life of my woman?” his brother howled. “Exile is not punishment enough for what he’s done! Look upon my eyes, brother! I swear this to you upon my honor. I shall take your life, just as surely as you have taken mine!”

  Tanka fled from the jeering mob that had gathered to observe his trial, dodging their stones as best as he could. He fled through the fields and the outlying settlements. Into the wilderness, and the open plains beyond. He ran without stopping, ran until his lungs were on fire and his legs threatened to collapse beneath him. Only then did he rest, but only for a little while, and then he climbed back to his feet and ran some more.

  He knew he could not rest. Not until he was ready to surrender his life. Their kinsmen had restrained his brother so that the council’s judgment could be carried out, but they could not guard Oy’he forever, and as soon as they released him, Oy’he would follow in pursuit. His brother had sworn an oath, and he would chase Tanka unto the ends of the earth, if need be, to satisfy his need for vengeance.

  Then you must flee beyond the ends of the earth! Tanka said to himself. You must flee to the land of the Onemara. Oy’he has a superstitious nature. That is the one place he might not dare to venture, not even for the honor of his beloved Anatissa.

  4

  Traveling through the Onemara’s lands was an arduous undertaking. The landscape was a seemingly endless series of high rocky ridges and shady troughs. As Tanka trudged forward, he mused that some giant must have gathered the earth between his hands sometime long ago and crumpled it all together. Tanka climbed and descended and climbed and descended until his entire body was dripping with sweat and the big muscles in his thighs quivered at the edge of failure.

  Deeper and deep
er into the forest he journeyed, yet the woodland maintained its unsettling hush. Though Tanka had spied a couple rabbits and a snake near the boundary of the forest, he hadn’t once spotted any arboreal life: there were no birds and no squirrels, no raccoons or opossums.

  Very strange, he thought, then slapped his neck with a grimace.

  Plenty of insects, though!

  His unease flew from his thoughts, however, when he heard the burbling of a brook.

  Excited, he followed the sound of running water until, in one of the wilderness’s shadowy troughs, he came upon its source: a deep and rapidly coursing stream.

  Thank you, Great Spirit! Tanka rejoiced, though he did not really believe in a Great Spirit. He only believed in things which he could see, like the gushing rill winding its way beneath a corridor of arching white birch, or feel, like the cold embrace of the racing water, or taste.

  Throat parched, Tanka scrambled down the rocky hill, stumbling breathlessly moments later onto the rocky bank of the stream. He sat on a large slab of stone and peeled off his moccasins, then stood and shucked off his breechclout and leggings. Hanging his clothing across a tree branch, Tanka sloshed out into the deepest part of the swirling water and sank into its bracing chill with a groan.

  The water coursed around him, icy and invigorating. He opened his mouth and drank, then submerged his head and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair.

  He emerged with a gasp and whipped his hair back, then spied a blackberry bush nearby and had to laugh at his good luck. He splashed through the water and began stuffing his mouth with the berries.

  He pricked his fingers once or twice on the thorns of the bush, careless in his hunger. He paid little attention to the stings, however. It had been more than a day since last he had eaten, and the pangs in his belly more than offset the pain in his fingertips.

  “Perhaps my luck is changing, Muoie,” he muttered.