Spirits of the ‘Cane
The air pressure dropped like a waterslide at a deranged theme park.
“Get down!” shouted Sean, and he dove for the floor just as the first window blew in. The concussion was immediately swept away by a roar of mindless violence—the chaos named Norbert was now upon them, rendering any imagined ferocity pale in contrast. Wicked shards of glass slashed overtop the barrier where Sean tried to mold himself flat to the floor, and he darted his panicked gaze to the blurry image that was Ben.
His friend sat curled into a ball, rocking, knees pulled tight to his chest.
The remaining windows on the eastern wall of the dining hall burst in rapid succession, banging in like a gunslinger fanning his revolver, followed by exploding glass on the lee-side. The storm roared through, all raging wind and horizontal rain, flinging and tumbling everything in its path, and the massive buffet counter they huddled behind began to slide, shoving them bodily across the wet, lacquered floor.
Norbert, a Category Five hurricane, had laid claim to the 3rd floor dining room of the Port Mayaca Lodge.
a few days prior…
Sean raised his head and blinked his eyes twice, three times—unsure as to where, or momentarily even who, he was. He rolled onto his back, wincing at the too-loud rustle of the pillow into which his face had just been planted. Groaning and leveraging himself up onto his elbows, he squinted around the room.
Now he remembered.
He ran a tongue over fuzzy teeth and his lips curled up in disgust. His breath would be of the living dead, or worse. With a moan he pushed to his feet and stood on rubbery legs, head banging and eyes narrowed, and he surveyed the scene.
The Frat House was a disaster—nothing out of the ordinary. But sleeping downstairs on a couch? Most likely he’d had a few too many and had simply fizzled out, as had the small but dedicated storm-watch party.
He nodded agreement to himself, immediately regretting the motion as his head spun like a cotton candy vortex.
forward to Norbert…
It took both hands to twist the knob straining against the wind, and when it finally released the door tore out of his grip and slammed hard against the inner stairwell wall. He pushed silent Ben inside and braced to shoulder the door closed, convinced that he’d be unable to do so but favored by a momentary lull—just enough to force the door against its jamb and re-engage the bolt. He moved to the head of the stairs and peered down into the gloom and Ben followed slowly, woodenly, as though he walked in his sleep. Frowning and wishing the image of a B-movie zombie had not just come to mind, Sean began to ease down the stairs, feeling his way with his toes, praying that he didn’t encounter the Monster From the Second Floor lurking in the shadows below.
The stairwell was not lit, nothing was. If this nightmare is still ongoing come the full dark of nightfall…
He gave a shake of his head, forcing his thoughts elsewhere.
He glanced back to Ben. His friend was reaching out for him, his fleshy, pallid form looking like a harkening ghost or a freaking nightmare in the dim stairway, and Sean leaned back out of reach.
“Hold tight to the stair-rail, Ben,” he whispered hoarsely. Ben’s gaze was blank and devoid of emotion, almost as if he looked through whatever his gaze was directed at, but there must have been some cognition behind those dull eyes, because Ben’s outstretched hand slowly fell to grip the railing.
Sean gulped down air and swiped a hand across his sweat-streaked face. He feared his friend now, or more accurately feared whatever it was that Ben had become. When he touched Ben he felt a chill, a penetrating coldness that somehow carried a horrid, irreversible truth. And there was another sensation, even more disturbing—a sort of yearning, an emptiness needing to be filled.
A shiver coursed through Sean and he bit down on his lip, shaking his head. He had to get his mind back to the immediate crisis. They couldn’t stay here in the stairwell—too enclosed, too easy to be trapped. They’d have to go back to the second level and try to wait out the storm there. Once they’d reached the lower landing Sean pushed the door open a crack and peered out, scanning the dim hallway. Some of the doors stood ajar, slowly creaking with the slight stirring of mostly dead air. Very different from the beast that raged without.
Sean’s scan froze. There he sat, hunched in a bentwood rocker at the far end of the hallway, his bony knuckles closed around a knobby cypress cane.
Old Mr. Delane.
Sean could just make out the smile; some teeth missing and others gold-capped and glimmering in the shadows.
He’s humming, I can hear it even over the wind. The mother of all hurricanes rages just outside, and he hums…
Unconsciously, Sean’s grip tightened around the bat. He bounced it in his hands, feeling its weight.
back…
The tepid shower went cool fast enough—as cool as it gets in central Florida in August, anyway. At least there was water pressure—a little. A handful of Ibuprofen and a long shower had cleared his head a bit, though he could not shake off the grinning imp on a jackhammer at work behind his eyes.
The power was off; had been for a while if the rising smell from the fridge was any clue. Though the Frathouse fridge was a bit a HazMat zone even when the power was on. Of course he’d tried the land-line phone—dead as a water-logged stump.
Water logged—ain’t that right. He peered out the windows where he’d opened the shutters, shaking his head. The parking lot was a shallow lake. Old-growth oak lay tumbled and broken, roots ripped from the soil. Debris was scattered everywhere, even vehicles strewn haphazard—crumpled under trees, shoved up against houses and through fences. The roads looked impassable. His cell was picking up nothing; losing its charge and with no place to re-up. Even his effing ipod was dead.
Sean grinned his clever grin; he had a plan.
He clomped as noisily as possible up the stairs. Almost all his frat brothers were gone—evacuated before the storm, before the ‘hurricane party’. The few others in attendance yesterday had apparently stumbled back to wherever before the storm made full force last night, but Sean knew where to find one accomplice, be he willing or not. He swung open the door of his friend’s room, banging it against the wall, and stout Ben Vinson shot up in bed, eyes wide and out of focus. Ben’s disoriented gaze came to rest on Sean, and he snorted.
“What the hell you doing, waking me this ungodly hour!?”
“It’s almost noon.” Sean pulled open the blinds, letting the light flood in through translucent shutters. “Rise and shine, birdbrain, all the worms are spoken for...”
Ben picked up the empty doughnut box that sat between them and tilted it back, pouring the last few crumbs into his mouth. “So what’s the plan?” he grumbled. “We’ve got no power, no food, no phone—and I don’t trust that dribble of water from the tap. All we’ve got is warm beer.” He walked over to the keg and poured a cup, regarding it dubiously. “It’s going flat,” he announced, tossing it down and belching.
Sean scowled. “Stay the tap, man, we’ve got a mission.”
“A mission of your making? Ha—I’m out.”
“What’s your plan, then, Ben-boy? How long before we get power back? We’ve got a half box of Apple-Puffs, a couple cans of beans, and a quarter keg of warm beer. How much cash you got?”
Ben held up a circled thumb and forefinger, and rose to rummage through the cabinets, returning with the Apple-Puffs. “So? You’ve pretty much just written us a bad check. What’s your brilliant plan, Doctor DoWrong?”
Sean smiled knowingly. “You heard the reports. Melinda confounded all the computer models. South Florida evacuated en-masse, but she skipped ‘round the Keyes and up the Gulf Coast to cross the peninsula from the west—the worst of it was north of us, even.” Sean slouched back with a smug expression, and Ben looked at him blankly.
“I’m still waiting.”
Sean leaned forward to whack Ben with a roadmap.
“Hey!”
“Whattaya think, puff-boy? We head south. There’s no damage there, and only the hard-core would’a stayed put. You said your folks have a lodge near the Big O— maybe we’ll have the whole place to ourselves for a day or three.”
“Huh. My old Beetle’s sitting in three feet of water, probably never to run again—not that it was running so well anyway—and the roads are virtually impassable. How’re we gonna get there, the breast stroke?”
Sean pointed at Ben. “Think, college boy.” He swung his finger toward the rear of the property. “The shed. What’s in the shed, on high ground out back, Ben-O?”
Understanding dawned across Ben’s face. “Ohh… I dunno, man. What about fuel, supplies?”
“You know damn well our dual-sports sit there gassed up, ready and prepped for our still-born adventure.” Ben opened his mouth to protest, and Sean held up a palm. “Don’t go weaseling out on me again, Rotundo—we don’t have much choice this time.” He pointed at the empty cereal box lying on its side in the middle of the table. “You’ve already finished off most of our food, and you’ve only been awake forty five minutes. Throw some jeans and t-shirts into your bike’s panniers. It’s not much over a hundred miles to Okeechobee. With the auxiliary tanks we can make it without needing to refuel.”
forward…
“C’mon, Ben, pick it up.” Sean hissed, glancing between his lumbering friend and the slumped form of Mr. Delane. He’d stood crouched in the stairwell for nearly an hour, peering out, until he’d seen Delane’s head sag forward—apparently nodding off. He now released a breath as they turned the corner off the main corridor, out of Delane’s line of sight.
He had no plan, really; he was just running, praying he could keep them away from Delane until escape was possible. The ravaging storm held them captive in the lodge and the first floor was flooded and especially dangerous. Ben’s step-dad, for reasons Sean didn’t know and didn’t care to ponder, had left before shuttering the third floor, but the second floor was battened down tight. Hopefully secure from the storm, if from nothing else. Ben lagged behind, his eyes unfocused, and Sean carefully tugged at his sleeve without actually touching him. “Ben! C’mon.”
A raspy cackle came from behind, and Sean spun around. Delane! Reacting before thinking he leapt backward, banging into the soft mass of Ben and sending the pair of them to the floor.
“Hellooo, boys. Ya’s come back to make us right, now has ya?”
Sean scrambled to his feet, backing away and shouting. “Get up, Ben! Move!” He snatched up the bat and took a step toward Delane, cocking it over his shoulder.
“Heh,” Delane chuckled, his eyes glowing luminescent green. He cocked an imaginary bat and swung it slowly through. “An’ what’re ya gonna do with that, boy? Kill us?”
Sean raised the bat higher, circling its tip like the tail of an angry hornet. His heartbeat hammered and he could actually smell the fear in his sweat.
“I may not be able kill you—I have doubts you’re even alive—but I can sure bust you up good!”
A cold light flashed in the old man’s eyes, but still he smiled. He spoke in a reasoning tone. “Be puttin’ that down, boy, an’ come on over.”
“Like hell I will, you bastard! Stay clear or I’ll bust your skull wide open.”
The old man smiled wickedly, his gold teeth glimmering. “Ain’t it funny that ya speaks o’ bones…”
Sean understood immediately, and he spun back around. Three skeletal figures closed on he and Ben, their bony fingers grasping.
back…
The place sure looked empty, and when Ben put his hand on the knob the door nudged in. He pushed it open and glanced at Sean. “This isn’t right. Pops never leaves anything unsecured, not here.” He stuck his head in. “Ma! Pops!” No one answered, and Ben frowned and waved Sean inside.
The first miles had been a challenge—lots of flooding, broken limbs and uprooted trees blocking the roads—in places the sand had washed so thick across the road that it felt like riding the beach at low-tide. South of Orlando the storms’ affects had faded, and they had wondered at the absence of traffic. One would think the evacuees would be returning by now, though in truth most of the roads to the north were still impassable by automobile.
Now they sat at the kitchen table, wolfing down provisions scavenged from a well-stocked refrigerator that had never lost power, and their big dual-sport thumpers—crudded-up from their transit through the challenging post-storm damage—clicked and pinged as they sat cooling in the empty parking lot.
“Like I said, everybody turned tail and bailed north.” Sean spoke around a mouthful. “The forecasts all showed Melinda making landfall south of Palm Beach, and after the bitchin’ storms of recent years everybody in the southern half of the state was scared shitless and got the hell out.”
“I dunno.” said Ben. “It’s like a ghost town here.”
“It’s not exactly Grand Central even at its busiest, right? We’re in the boonies here—black muck, sugarcane and swampland.” Sean winked. “Yaz Sah!”
Ben frowned. “As usual you border on crude, but it’s true that it’s fairly rural here. Still—this was Pops pride and joy. I can’t see him just packing up and leaving.”
“Fear for one’s life can change a person’s way of thinking.” Sean gestured at the wall, covered with framed newspaper clippings. “What did you tell me once about your step-dad wanting to start some kind of museum? This doesn’t look the part—more like an apartment building with way too many vacancies.”
Ben nodded. “Yeah, Pops was kinda off his thinking there.” Ben nodded at the clippings. “Those’re old, from the late 20’s. When I was a little kid we lived on the coast, Delray Beach. One day Pops saw this documentary on TV, about the 1928 hurricane. It devastated south Florida, flooding the towns around Lake Okeechobee, tearing apart the cities on the coast. Survivors were recovered miles away from where the storm caught them up—sometimes clinging to branches up in trees where they’d been washed by floodwaters. Thousands were killed, mostly around the Lake.”
Sean whistled low. “I never knew that.”
“I didn’t either, until Pops saw that show. Then he became obsessed, reading and collecting everything he could. He bought this land and built here, saying he was going to put together the Hurricane of 1928 Historical Museum.”
Sean snorted. “A museum about a hurricane? Way out here, so far from everything?”
Ben nodded. “Yeah. People told him—family, friends—everybody said it was a dumb idea. But he went on with it anyway. Of course it never got off the ground, and he finally had enough sense to convert the place to a boarding house. He and Ma scrape by. But he still doesn’t regret it, as best I can tell. It still consumes him.”
forward…
The closest skeleton moved in on Ben, fingers groping, and Ben stood mesmerized, leaning in toward it. Sean cursed and stepped into his swing, blowing the skeleton apart like a cherry-bomb set off in a plastic model. Standing poised with the bat and breathing fast he heard a scuffling noise and looked down. He stared in disbelief—the bones were skittering back together, nudge by nudge, across the floor. The skull rolled over to fix its vacant eye sockets on him, and Sean felt a raw power there. The same thing he sensed from Ben—seductive, enticing—this thing somehow had the power to tug at his mind.
Sean turned stiffly toward the cackling Delane, confused; his thoughts a jumble.
“We’s jus’ gettin’ stronger, doesn’t ya see? Ya cain’t fight us forever, boy, why doesn’t ya jus’go on and give it up, yeah? We’ll be all the stronger once you and Benji joins us—able to go out from the house. C’mon now, Benji’s most of the way home already.”
Sean started to nod, thinking it was a fine idea to be done with this conflict, when his mind cleared. “No!” he screamed, and he raised the bat and turned to run toward the once-men who clacked and clattered past dull, accomodating Ben.
back…
Sean awoke from a dead sleep, startled by the sound of the shutters banging in their frames. He pulled on his jeans and ran upstairs, and, staring out the wall of windows in the dining hall, his mouth fell open.
“Jeezus Christ,” he whispered.
Moments later Ben lumbered up, rubbing his eyes. “What’s the hell’s with this wind? The freakin’ hurricane passed through two days ago—it was clear skies earlier today.”
“I don’t know. Damn! We got zonked and watched recorded stuff last night—why didn’t we listen to a network station?” He waved toward a wall switch. “The power’s out now, so we can’t check any weather or news channels. How the hell are we—” He smacked his forehead. “Batteries, Ben! Do we have a battery-powered radio?”
They huddled over the old weather-band radio, and Sean spun the dial. He cursed softly. “It’s just noise.”
Ben reached in. “I know some stations, Pops played with this a lot.” He fiddled, and a crackly voice emerged from the white static.
—very fortunate that a large portion of the southern coastal population evacuated when Melinda was thought to be a threat.
Doctor Phillips, Hurricane Norbert, fast on the heels of Melinda, was expected to skirt the Carolina coast and possibly make landfall in New England, is that not correct?
That’s correct, Donald. The models favored by noted specialist Dr. Willhelm Debray will likely be recalibrated based on these two anomalous storm systems. Interestingly enough, a computer model championed by Dr. Farus Afree, of the NOAA, but held in disfavor by the majority of the meteorological community,— ”
Sean smacked the radio. “C’mon, just give us the bottom line!” Ben held a finger to his lips and dialed the frequency back in.
“—now predicted to come ashore on a track very close to what was originally forecast for Melinda. Landfall is expected to occur at 9 AM, just north of the Boynton Inlet. This is a very slow, wet storm; we expect tidal surges and extensive flooding. The center of the storm is projected to cross Lake Okeechobee, from the vicinity of Canal Point across to Lakeport, and the hurricane, possibly by then lessened in strength to Category Four, should enter the Gulf of Mexico somewhat south of Tampa. Tampa Bay area residents are advised— ”
Sean pressed the power switch, rubbing a hand over his bristly jaw and speaking softly. “OK, my friend… looks like we’re in for it big time. You’re from around here, what do we do now?”
Ben shook his head, fear plain in his eyes. “I… don’t know. It’ll be here, full-force, in just a few hours.”
They stood in inch-deep water in the kitchen while the storm built outside. “Sean, when I talked with Pops several days ago, when they still thought Melinda was heading for south Florida, he was really worried about Lake Okeechobee. Water levels were at a record high, and though the Water District was back-pumping some of it out to sea, they didn’t want to overfill the coastal canals—where most of the population is—when the storm made landfall there. We’re just a few feet above sea level here, and less than a mile from the lake.” He stared at Sean, his face pale. “Thank god this is one of the few three-story buildings inland—we may need the upper floors.”
Sean splashed a foot in the water. “Where’s this coming from? It’s raining like hell, but there’s no serious flooding outside—not yet anyway.”
“It’s the water table. South Florida is mostly porous sand or muck or limestone, with a water table so near the surface you could probably take a shovel and dig to it in just a few hours. The ground is now thoroughly saturated, and this floor, slightly belowground, is leaking. That’s another of Pop’s quirks—he wanted a basement, even though there’s no such thing in south Florida.”
“Like a leak in a boat’s hull, water’s coming in from below?”
“Mostly from here,” Ben gestured for Sean to follow. He swung open a door on the north end of the building and Sean peered in.
“There’s a sump pump in there, if we had power. This room is lower than the rest, with a dirt floor even—Pop’s ‘root cellar’.”
The dark water lay still as death, and Sean sniffed at a pervasive, rotting smell. “Ben, are there fuel or chemical tanks in there? What’s that gawd-awful smell, and what’s that film floating on the surface?”
Ben shook his head. “No fuel, this was just a store room. Or that’s what it was supposed to be. It didn’t get used because it leaked water all the time—there’s nothing in there.”
“You know how gasoline or oil looks kinda shiny when it’s floating on water? Whatever this is, it’s like it’s glowing. Greenish—like those old-fashioned watch dials. And what’s that stuff floating at the surface? There.” Sean pointed.
Ben lifted the big flashlight and played the beam over the water.
“It… it looks almost like bones.” The beam swept past a larger piece and Ben snatched it back to focus there. The beam quivered in his shaky hand.
“Jesus Christ!” Look at that! It’s a skull!”
“Damnation! A human skull? Sure looks like it to me!” Sean splashed back from the doorway and Ben pulled it shut. Ben spoke in a husky voice.
“One thing I didn’t tell you about Pops—it’s kinda spooky. Some of the old-timers from this area—a few of them had been little kids when the 1928 hurricane came through. Survivors. They raised a fuss when Pops built this building, saying it was smack dab on top of a mass grave. Hundreds, thousands of people were killed by that storm, and they couldn’t identify most of the bodies. They kept finding them, bloated and decaying, up in trees or under piles of debris—days or weeks after the storm.” He shook his head. “Pops scoffed at that, saying there wasn’t any grave here. But I always wondered if that’s why he built way out here—out of the way even for the Glades. Pops was weird about stuff like that.”
A voice came from behind them.
“Oh, they’s here all right…”
Sean’s heart leapt into his throat. He spun to face the strangely disembodied inflection—each raspy word sounding like a page torn from a book. A small man, ancient, hobbled toward them. Time had so faded him that Sean took a long moment to decide he was a man of color. Thin patches of white curly stubble stood out from his dusky temples; dim light shone off his bald pate and sparks glistened from gold-capped teeth interspersed behind thick lips. He held a stub of a cigar, unlit, clamped between his teeth, and he dribbled eerily glistening water in his wake—he was wet to the chest.
“Yas, Master Vinson done knowed the truth, even if he din’t admit to it.”
Sean swiped a hand down his face and willed his heart to slow its staccato hammering, relieved that their surprise guest—strange as he might be—would appear to pose no great threat. For the moment the worry of the storm was off his mind, and he felt a bit silly to have been frightened by a feeble old geezer. He huffed.
“Who the hell are you, old man!? And where did you come from?”
Ben pushed past Sean. “Mr. Delane?” He glanced to Sean and spoke quietly. “The caretaker—Pops let him stay on past his useful time; he had nowhere else to go.”
The old man’s eyes went wide, yellow-white in his dusky face.
“Ben-ja-min!” He moved faster than Sean would have believed possible, and he wrapped his thin arms around Ben. “Benji! You’s grown even bigger—used ta be I could reach all the way ‘round you!”
Sean tilted his head curiously; Ben had jerked at the old man’s embrace, as if he’d taken hold of an electrical cord stripped of its insulation. Ben slowly pushed Delane back and looked down upon him oddly, saying nothing. The old man gestured to the door of the flooded room.
“I come in from my cabin at the back of the pro’pity, when the rainin’ got heavy. It ain’t so sturdy, ya knows—might jus’ up and blow away in a storm like this’un. I went on in to the flood room to start up the sump, but I’s getting’ old, I forget it won’t work wit’ no ‘lectrical.”
He bared his teeth in a broad smile. “You knows ‘bout ‘em yet? In the sump house, tha’s when I learnt. About the Lost Folk. Hun’erds of ‘em, and they’s ready to come on back. They was happier to see me than nobody’s been in a year o’ worship days. They ax’d me to join ‘em, even as old as I be—an’ since my time weren’t no more than a mostly used-up candle anyways, I joined right in.” He cackled. “My time ain’t so short no more now, though. Oh no, now I be one wit’ the Lost Folk. They see through me rheumy old eyes, breath through me t’baccy lungs, and they’s set on makin’ good this time ‘round.”
Sean glanced at Ben, who looked dazed, then back to Delane. “What are you talking about, old man? What nonsense is that—as one with the lost folk?”
Mr. Delane chuckled and pointed toward the flooded room. “There, boy, they’s in there. Din’tcha see they’s remains, comin’ back above? There be power in they numbers, an’ this storm be bringin’ ‘em back to where the ol’ mother stole ‘em away a long lifetime ago.” He stepped closer and Sean watched him warily—something was definitely wrong here.
“They’s joined wit’ me, but I ain’t enough, don’t ya see? There be so many of ‘em—they needs more than one old man to hold all they mem’ries, all they thoughts.” He peered sideways at Sean with a coy grin. “They’s excited. They feels the young life-spirit amongst ‘em—they’s ready for you and Benji.”
Of a sudden Sean was not so amused with the old man, and he grabbed Ben’s shoulder and pulled him out of the man’s reach. He would have sworn the temperature in the room had just dropped twenty degrees.
“No! You keep your distance.” Even Ben now felt cold to the touch, and a queasy knot formed in Sean’s belly. At the front of his mind he felt foolish to fear this old man, but at a deeper level he understood that he was right to do so.
The old man cackled as Sean pressed Ben away, down the hallway.
“Ya just be wastin’ yer time, boy, ya cain’t stop it now. They’s tellin’ me they can hold them bones tight once’t I gathers ‘em together.” The old man raised his voice as Sean hurried away.
“Take a little time, if that be your druthers. We’ll be comin’ ta make parley soon.”
forward…
There was a brittle chatter as his bat blew through the second skeleton, breaking it in half below the rib cage, but he was horrified to realize the third skeleton had managed to take hold of him, its fingers tugging at his shirt. He ducked away, tearing the skeletal hand loose from its arm, and he shrieked, flailing his arms, trying to shake off the bony fingers that closed into a fist in the fabric of his sleeve. He swatted at it, and he dropped the bat and ripped the shirt off, flinging it at the still-advancing skeleton.
It stopped, rotating its empty eye sockets to the shirt, and in a bizarre twist began to push a bony arm through the sleeve.
Sean barked out a sound half a maniacal laugh and half a scream, and he snatched the bat up from the floor. He looked on dumbfounded as the arms of the first skeleton dragged the upper torso across the floor to the pelvic assembly and diligently worked to bind the halves back together, while the other skeleton, now a freakish parody wearing Sean’s floral-printed shirt, pried its bony, disconnected fist from the sleeve and fumbled to snap it back into place.
Mr. Delane stepped forward, not nearly so stooped as before, his eyes glowing a pale green. “Come boy, are you not yet ready? You’ll live hundreds of lives by joining us.” Sean cocked his head, feeling a tinge of insanity flirting at the edges of his mind.
“You’ll be revered as the savior of so many lost souls,” continued Delane, “and your mind will be the aggregate of us all. No single mortal could ever hope to match you, and your life will span hundreds of generations.”
Mr. Delane spoke as a coll