Hindsight

  HINDSIGHT

  By Ronald Kelly

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Copyright 2013 / Ronald Kelly

  This novel was originally published by Zebra Books in 1990.

  The novella "Potter's Field" was previously unpublished.

  Copy-edited by: Rick Maynard

  Cover artwork by: Alex McVay

  Cover design by: Zach McCain

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  Ronald Kelly was born November 20, 1959 in Nashville, Tennessee where he was raised a Southern Baptist. He attended Pegram Elementary School and Cheatham County Central High School (both in Ashland City, Tennessee) before starting his writing career.

  Ronald Kelly began his writing career in 1986 and quickly sold his first short story, "Breakfast Serial," to Terror Time Again magazine. His first novel, Hindsight was released by Zebra Books in 1990. His audiobook collection, Dark Dixie: Tales of Southern Horror, was on the nominating ballot of the 1992 Grammy Awards for Best Spoken Word or Non-Musical Album. Zebra published seven of Ronald Kelly's novels from 1990 to 1996. Ronald's short fiction work has been published by Cemetery Dance, Borderlands 3, Deathrealm, Dark at Heart, Hot Blood: Seeds of Fear, and many more. After selling hundreds of thousands of books, the bottom dropped out of the horror market in 1996. So, when Zebra dropped their horror line in October 1996, Ronald Kelly stopped writing for almost ten years and worked various jobs including welder, factory worker, production manager, drugstore manager, and custodian.

  In 2006, Ronald Kelly started writing again. In early 2008, Croatoan Publishing released his work Flesh Welder as a standalone chapbook, and it quickly sold out. In early 2009 Cemetery Dance Publications released a limited edition hardcover of his fist short story collection, Midnight Grinding & Other Twilight Terrors. Also in 2010, Cemetery Dance is planning on releasing his first novel in over ten years called, Hell Hollow as a limited edition hardcover. Ronald's Zebra/Pinnacle horror novels are being released by Thunderstorm Books as The Essential Ronald Kelly series. Each book contains a new novella related to the novel's original storyline.

  Ronald Kelly currently lives in Brush Creek, Tennessee, with his wife, Joyce, and their three children.

  Book List

  Novels

  Blood Kin

  Father's Little Helper (to be re-released as Twelve Gauge)

  Fear

  Hell Hollow

  Hindsight

  Moon of the Werewolf (re-released as Undertaker's Moon)

  Pitfall

  Something Out There (re-released as The Dark'Un)

  The China Doll

  The Possession (to be re-released as Burnt Magnolia)

  Timber Gray

  Novellas

  Flesh Welder

  Collections

  After the Burn

  Cumberland Furnace and Other Fear Forged Fables

  Dark Dixie

  Dark Dixie II

  The Sick Stuff

  Twilight Hankerings

  Unhinged

  DISCOVER CROSSROAD PRESS

  The Online Store

  Subscribe to our newsletter

  Visit our blogs for news on Books and Audiobooks

  Find and follow us on Facebook

  HINDSIGHT

  To Mama and the little girl who knew things.

  Hindsight

  Prologue

  1936 was a bad year for the tobacco farmer in Tennessee.

  There had been rough times before, failed crops due to circumstances beyond human control. Weather, insects, and disease . . . all had a hand in doing their fair share of damage in the past. But now they faced a new menace, one that the common dirt farmer could not fight using horse sense and elbow grease. The Depression had its thorny claws in Bedloe County. And, Lord help them, money was one thing they could not cultivate from a mixture of sweat and precious earth.

  Men, rawboned and aged from long years of laboring in sun and snow, now stood silently at the break of day. They listened to the distant crowing of the rooster and stared forlornly, some bitterly, at land that no longer belonged to them. The rich, fertile tobacco land that had provided for their fathers and their grandfathers before them was now in the hands of the banker. Deeds had been signed over, heritages traded in for a handful of greenbacks — money to pay bills and buy food, with barely enough left over to buy the children their winter shoes come September. Many had moved northward to the pressing crowds and vague promises of factories and mills. Those who chose to remain hunted steady work at poor wages or sought out odd jobs wherever they might be found.

  Land stretched barren across the county; unplowed, empty, and useless. On some of the acreage stood the tobacco barns — huge hulking structures once used to fire-cure the leaves before grading and marketing. One such structure, the largest in Bedloe County, stood alone amid the neglected acres of one Harvey Brewer. It had not been used since the day Harvey's wife, Norma, died of a stroke back in the summer of 1928. On that day, the old man had given up all interests, farming included. He had chained and padlocked the huge, double doors of the barn, left his entire tobacco crop to rot and wither in the field, and confined himself to the house he and Norma had shared for fifty-seven years. There he remained, unwilling to leave its darkened rooms, except for an occasional stroll into town for a few meager supplies.

  Meanwhile, the tobacco barn stood sentry at the edge of the Brewer property, seemingly impervious to the effects of time. Built of sturdy lumber and capped with eaves of corrugated tin, the structure observed the events of passing years. It witnessed the crashing fall of the economy and the hardship that followed. There had been prosperity and happiness in the past, but those memories had now lost their luster. Times were hard and full of hopelessness. Bitterness, anger, and grief spread across the southern land, all born from one sorry state of widespread misfortune . . . poverty.

  Perhaps it was the old gray-wood barn's detachment from hard times that made it a secret haven for a select few, a cool oasis amid a burning desert of utter despair. Loose boarding gave access to the dark interior where solitude reigned. Inhibitions were left outside, and therefore, sin was spawned. Oh, it began with small, insignificant transgressions at first: the smoking of an adolescent's first hand-rolled cigarette or the passionate petting of two love-struck teenagers.

  But it would not end there, for small sins would surely blossom into those of a darker and more unsavory nature. In the murky confines of the old barn they would be nurtured. The rafters would echo with the rasp of dirty laughter, and the air would grow tainted with the stench of cheap liquor, until, one night, a great evil would be committed in the belly of that abandoned structure… a terrible and unspeakable evil.

  And there it would be concealed, buried and forgotten, until the prying eyes of a single child revealed the very nature of its horror.

  Part One

  Bloody Spring

  Chapter One

  "Now, ain't that just the cutest thing?" said Vera Mae Holt. The perky mother-to-be peeled back the brown wrapping paper and held up her third and final gift, a tiny nightshirt of blue cotton flannel.

  "I used the same pattern for little Jason's first nightie," Clara Jones smiled proudly. She bounced her ten-month-old son playfully on her knee. Clara's prowess as a seamstress was well known thr
oughout Bedloe County. Between four children of her own and those of neighboring families, her old Singer foot-pedal sewing machine had no chance whatsoever of gathering dust.

  "Well, Clara, I surely appreciate it." Vera Mae beamed. She delicately folded the tiny garment and placed it beside her rocking chair, along with the other gifts.

  It was the twelfth day of May, a bright and balmy day painted brilliant with wild flowers, greenery, and a cloudless blue sky. A light breeze drifted through the peeling posts of the Holts' front porch and swept comfortably around the women sitting there. The warm current was as gentle and fresh as the wakening breath of a newborn infant, which was appropriate, for the gathering on the porch was a baby shower for the expectant Vera Mae.

  The group was a small, close-knit one, just a few of the neighboring ladies who lived along the rutted dirt stretch of Old Newsome Road. Accompanying them was a scattering of fidgety youngsters, all of whom would much rather be out playing than standing idly about on the porch of the Holts' small, three-room farmhouse.

  Vera Mae sat in the straight-backed rocker, her freckled face glowing with maternal anticipation and her belly just as prominent. The girl was barely eighteen, and this was her first child. She and Winston Holt had married less than a year ago, but her sudden pregnancy had not really shocked the ladies of Bedloe County. Since the age of fourteen, Vera Mae had developed something of a reputation in the town of Coleman, Tennessee. She had been pegged as a brassy girl, a loose young woman who enjoyed strong drink and dancing. Why, she had even been seen on several occasions, staggering drunk at the Bloody Bucket, a local beer joint. But then she had met Winston at a church supper, and he seemed to be able to keep a handle on her. Since marrying, she had tamed most of her improper behavior, but still possessed a fair amount of sassiness. That morning she seemed to flaunt her pregnancy as much as she had once flaunted her questionable morals.

  The others on the porch were all good neighbors. Behind Vera Mae stood her mother, Eliza Reeves, a frail woman with silver hair and thick spectacles. Nearby sat Stella Longcreek, a petite woman in her forties, and of course Clara and her bouncing boy Jason. On the porch swing sat Maudie Biggs. Maudie was a hefty woman in her late thirties. Her round face was pretty, but drably plain, her dark red hair showing streaks of premature grayness. Beside her on the pinewood swing sat four-year-old Sammy, a dark-haired child rather tall and gangling for a boy his age. To Maudie's left, leaning with her back to the tarpaper wall, stood Cindy Ann.

  Cindy was the sort of child some folks noticed right off, while others neglected to notice at all. She was an overly shy girl, small for going on ten, and frail to the point of boniness. The two things that made her stand out the most were her hazel green eyes and her orange-red hair, both undoubtedly inherited from her mother's side of the family.

  After the gifts had been opened and the small talk had dwindled, the women sat in the shade and grew silent. The pause in conversation was awkward, but understandable, for further talk and gossip would only bring up the inevitable subject of hard times. All five women were the wives of farmers, mostly of tobacco. Their men had all suffered the plight of the Depression; all had had to give up farming temporarily until better times made the growing of their particular crop profitable again. Winston Holt and his father-in-law, Jasper, worked at a sawmill over in Galbreth County. Stella Longcreek worked at the post office in town, her no-account, drifting husband having left her years ago. Norman Jones had bid farewell to Clara and her children last March to find a .steady job up north in Michigan, hoping to settle there and send for them later. As for the Biggs family, Maudie's husband, Clayburn, made a few dollars weekly doing odd jobs and mechanic work for some of the more fortunate citizens in Coleman.

  Vera Mae started to break the silence by commenting on Stella's prized flower garden, when she felt a strange sensation. Her words faded, and her eyes widened slightly.

  "What's the matter, Vera darling?" asked her mother.

  The young woman smiled with a mixture of wonderment and pride. "The baby just kicked," Vera said, toying with a strand of curly blond hair. "I do believe the little fella's gonna be some square dancer, the way he's been carrying on this morning."

  "They really let you know they're there the last few days," Clara volunteered, putting her two-cents' worth in as far as child bearing was concerned. "I'd say you'll be due before the end of the week."

  "Yes, ma'am," agreed Vera Mae. "Shouldn't be long." The blonde turned her eyes to the red-haired child who stood near the porch swing. "You sure have been awful quiet this morning, Cynthia Ann."

  The nine-year-old nodded and offered a polite smile.

  Maudie Biggs glanced apologetically at the other women. "Cindy just ain't had much of anything to say since her bout with the fever."

  Stella leaned forward and talked in a low, confidential tone of voice. "Well now, that's perfectly understandable, Maudie. I mean, a child her age shut up in the hospital with typhoid for nearly six months, well, it must've been quite a fright. She'll get her spunk back now that she's out of that awful place and back home with her family."

  Maudie Biggs wasn't sure. Cynthia Ann had always been a shy, introverted girl, one who was more content with listening than talking. Maudie's older daughter, Polly, was just the opposite. The feisty twelve-year-old could talk the ears off a corn stalk.

  Vera Mae Holt placed her hand on her bloated stomach and blushed. "My, the little booger's sure giving me a time of it today." She stretched her free hand out toward Cindy. "Child, do you want to feel my baby kick?"

  Cindy took a reluctant step, then turned her eyes to Maudie. "Mama?"

  "Go ahead if you want to," Maudie said with a wink. She had never believed in keeping the subject of sex and the miracle of birth a mysterious taboo as far as their five children were concerned. No confusing tales of midwives toting infants in satchels or babies discovered beneath cabbage leaves; just straight forward answers whenever that delicate curiosity arose.

  Cindy walked timidly across the dusty boards of the porch until she came within a few feet of Vera Mae. She gave the woman her right hand. As Vera lowered the girl's open palm to the bulge of her midsection, Cindy felt her nervousness rise to a heart-thumping crescendo. Her young mind reeled, her senses seeming to tingle with excitement. But it was not the mystery of pregnancy that scared Cynthia Ann. No, it was something else… something extremely difficult to explain. She was frightened of what she might think or, rather, feel when her hand made contact with the young woman's belly.

  Vera Mae laughed incredulously as the red-haired girl resisted her grasp. "Don't be frightened now, Cindy Ann. It ain't gonna jump out and bite you!"

  The blonde pulled her hand a few inches closer, and suddenly the flat of her palm was there, pressed against the curvature of her abdomen. Just as abruptly, Cindy felt a peculiar warmth engulf her. It was a safe, unthreatening warmth, not a burning, dry heat like the fevers she had run for days during her long stay in the Nashville hospital. The warmth that engulfed her now was soothing, a liquid sensation almost like that of lying in a tub of warm water.

  "You just wait a second and you'll feel it. You'll feel him kick."

  Cindy did not answer. The feeling of warmth was spreading past her physical being, washing across her thoughts, dominating them like the coming of a deep slumber. She knew she should be frightened, terribly frightened, for what she now experienced was far from normal. But the sensation felt all too pleasurable, too safe to pull away from. She let her mind drift, let her senses focus solely on the life within Vera Mae.

  She sensed darkness around her. Her mortal eyes still saw Vera Mae's glowing face and the pretty flower print of her dress, but her inner senses, the stronger senses, saw nothing but dull blackness. The absence of light did not frighten her. There was still the warmth, the sensation of floating safely in bodily fluid. It was a feeling that echoed strangely from Cindy's own past, years and years ago. Although the child could not pinpoint the elusive memory, it w
as deeply rooted, forever imprinted upon her subconscious. What she now experienced was the security of fetal existence, the dark liquid warmth of the womb.

  "Do you feel it kicking?"

  Vera Mae's voice came to her from a hundred miles away. She felt the kick, but it was as if it were her own and not that of the unborn infant. The jerk was involuntary, the unconscious impulse of newly developed muscle and bone. Her bare foot struck out, but instead of hitting the wooden boards of the porch floor, it seemed to strike a cushiony wall. A living wall of soft membrane.

  "There, did you feel it just then?"

  Cindy didn't answer. She could not. She was so involved with her strange experience that nothing else mattered, nothing but the surge of warmth and darkness that engulfed her.

  "Cynthia Ann . . . what's wrong?" Her mother's voice, muffled and distant.

  Abruptly, the pleasant state of contentment vanished. An electric jolt of alarm rushed through her as something brushed her face, something unseen in the darkness. It was long and pliant, weaving like a snake around her head and shoulders. She began to jerk spasmodically as the length of cord slipped around her throat. Cindy felt the elastic rope close tighter and tighter, choking, strangling the very life from her.

  "What's wrong, girl?"

  "For heaven's sake, Cynthia Ann, what's the matter?"

  Tighter the cord bunched, constricting the tender muscles of her throat, cutting off the precious supply of blood and oxygen from her brain. She felt dizzy, as if she were about to pass out or . . . die. The sudden realization snapped Cindy out of her panic, and she knew at once what she must do. Pull away, screamed her thoughts. Pull away now . . . before it's too late!