Southern Gods (36 page)

“What do you mean?”

“Franny came back. She was gone, but now she’s back. How could that happen if there wasn’t no such thing as a soul?”

“I don’t know.”

“Shee-it. I can’t imagine what that must be like for her.”

Sarah remained quiet, thinking. She had an idea of what it must be like.

“Sometimes…” Sarah couldn’t cry anymore. Word had come the day before that Jim had died of asphyxiation. He’d choked on his vomit. Sarah planned on leaving Franny with Alice and the kids to attend the funeral.

“Sometimes, I almost wish I hadn’t… I hadn’t brought her back.”

Alice gasped. “Shut your mouth. Never say that. Never.”

“No, Alice. She remembers it all. Every bit of it. The rape. The murder. Beyond maybe, I don’t know. How can you live after that?”

“Just like she’s doing. One day at a time. She’s just a little sad, maybe. Shocked, like them war vets. Like Bull was.”

“No.” Sarah sipped at the coffee. “But she does smile occasionally, with the kids. Never to me. I can’t say I blame her.”

“You brought her back. You brought her back from the…” She trailed off, uncomfortable speaking of it.

“Yes. But I didn’t keep her safe to begin with. And she knows it.”

“That’s a load of horseshit. You was fighting with… gods. Gods, goddamnit. How can you contend with that?”

“I’m her mother. I’m supposed to protect her.”

“Shit.”

Fisk jumped up and ran back in the water. He splashed for a while, then turned and dove into deeper water.

“Fisk! Stay close to shore now, you hear me?”

He dove underwater and disappeared. When he resurfaced, he had two hands full of mud. He put them on top of his head, and Lenora squealed with laughter. Franny hugged her knees and smiled.

“Boy, don’t you got no sense?” Alice yelled. She stood up and went to the car, retrieving a large picnic basket. Her breath whooshed out as she sat back down on the blanket.

“Kids, it’s lunch time. We got meatloaf sandwiches!”

Fisk jumped up and raced over to the blanket. Lenora stood and, taking Franny’s hand, pulled her to a standing position. A faint seam ran from the hollow of Franny’s throat down her chest, disappearing into her bikini bottoms.

When she sat down, Franny put her hand on Sarah’s leg, gave a little squeeze, and leaned into her mother.

Sarah swallowed, put an arm around her daughter, and ran her fingers through white hair.

***

The black thing came out of the forest wearing the shape of a man. It stood in the clearing nearest the dark wood, behind the old peafowl house.

Franny rose from her bed and went to the window. She cocked her head and looked at the creature.

I can make you powerful.

She put her hand on the window.

“I’m already powerful. I don’t need your promises.”

I will make you wise and strong beyond imagining.

The girl shrugged, making the hem of her nightgown swing.

The black thing didn’t move, but she could feel its anger growing.

I will rip down this house. I will devour everything and everyone you love.

She snorted. Her shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“I am the doorway now. You cannot pass.
He
cannot pass. You can’t do anything to me that hasn’t already been done. So go away, and leave us alone.”

She watched it disappear into the wood. Then Franny smiled, turned, and climbed back into bed with her mother.

***

Acknowledgements

Writing is a solitary pursuit.

Publishing, however, is not. This book might have been conceived by me, but it was brought to term and born into the world through the steadfast friendship, love and support of many people. To you I give my thanks.

Thanks to my wife and children who remain excited for me even on those days when I am not; to my agent, Stacia Decker, for accepting me as her client—it’s a good thing we both have great taste; to Jeremy Lassen and Ross Lockhart, my publisher and editor at Night Shade Books, respectively, for their guidance and forbearance to a young author if not young man; to Dr. Terrell Tebbetts of Lyon College for instilling in me a wonder and joy at the English language—and for reminding me to murder my darlings; to Joe Howe, for unflinching, reasoned and well-thought advice and pep-talks; to John Rector, whom I hated at first, but who I have now come to hate like a brother; to Erik Smetana, Kevin Wallis, and C. Michael Cook, Steve Weddle, Shanna Wynne, Stephen Blackmoore, Ronald Kelly, Doug Winter, Gary Braunbeck, Kate Horsley, Christopher Ransom and all the folks at the K.A.O.S. board. And of course, Lewis Dowell, my brute of a friend without whom Bull Ingram would never have been born.

Each of you, in your own ways, have guided and encouraged me.

***

About the Author

John Hornor Jacobs has worked in advertising for the last fifteen years, played in bands, and pursued art in various forms. He is the cofounder of Needle: A Magazine of Noir. He is also, in his copious spare time, a novelist.