Brandon Massey - Dark Corner

To my mother who made it possiblein more ways than one.

lthough William Hunter had lived his entire life as a slave ion a plantation in the Mississippi Delta, he had never experienced anything like the horror he was about to face.

His muscles ached. His hands were sore and dark with gunpowder. Blood not his own-soiled his ragged shirt and pants.

Killing was hard work.

But they weren't done yet. The worst was still ahead of them.

He was part of a group of four men. One was a black man, a slave from the same cotton fields on which William had once toiled; one was a young white man, their slave master's son; the last man was a warrior from a Chickasaw Indian tribe.

They were an unlikely team, drawn together to battle a common enemy. Only an hour ago, there had been seven of them. Two had been killed; the other, unable to endure the terror, had run away.

"We don't have much time till dusk," William said, looking to the edge of the forest, where the orange-red sun steadily sank into the horizon. "We must finish what we've begun."

The men grunted. Their faces, sweaty and spattered with blood, were grim with resolve.

William knew that every one of them was as frightened as he was, but they were determined to conceal their anxiety. True courage was doing what you had to do-without giving in to fear.

Almost as one, they shifted to confront the cave. The ragged mouth was large enough to admit three men. Sharp stones jutted from the ridge of the maw, like teeth.

Like fangs, William thought. A shiver rattled down his spine.

The fading sunlight did not penetrate the thick blackness that lay beyond the entrance. Stepping inside the cavern would be like plunging into a deep Mississippi night.

He hoped that their weapons would be sufficient. He was armed with a rifle. The Indian warrior had arrows, the heads wrapped in kerosene-soaked cloth. The other black man gripped a shotgun, and the white man had a revolver-and a supply of dynamite powerful enough to shatter the cavern walls, if need be.

All of them carried whiskey bottles full of kerosene. A cotton rag dangled from each lip, a poor man's fuse.

They'd done the best they could with the wreckage they discovered at the ravaged plantation, the place that, only yesterday, had been his home.

William had fashioned a torch from a broken broom and a towel. He struck a match and lit the makeshift wick. The fire sputtered, then strengthened into a healthy flame.

He advanced to the front of the group. Holding the torch aloft, he looked at each man.

They were brave men. He did not understand how he'd become their leader. He did not understand much of anything that had happened since his old life had ended last night. He walked on instinct and faith.

"One day, our children will thank us for this," he said. "Let us pray that they never have to follow in our footsteps"

The men nodded and murmured their agreement.

William Hunter turned to face the cave's mouth. This close, the stench of death wafted from inside like a dense fog.

He whispered a prayer, for himself and his men.

Then, he led them into the darkness.

Evil knows where evil sleeps.

-Ethiopian proverb

One who enters the forest does not listen to the breaking of the twigs in the brush.

-Zambian proverb

Not to know is bad; not to wish to know is worse.

-Nigerian proverb

t sunrise on Friday, August 23, David Hunter drove away from his town house in Atlanta with a U-Haul trailer hitched to his Nissan Pathfinder. The trailer contained clothes, two computers, books, small pieces of furniture, and other assorted items that held sentimental or practical value. He had left behind everything else at the town house, which, in his absence, would be occupied by his younger sister and her roommate.

In the SUV, David had a road map, a thermos full of strong black coffee, a vinyl CD case full of hip-hop, R&B, gospel, and jazz discs, and his four-year-old German shepherd, King. King lay on the passenger seat, looking out the window as they rolled across the highway. David tended to drive with one hand resting on the canine's flank.

They made excellent time. Traveling Interstate 20 West, they swept through Georgia and entered Alabama within a couple of hours. It was a fine day for a road trip. The morning sunlight was golden, and the cloudless sky was a tranquil ocean blue. Traffic was light and flowed smoothly.

After three hours on the road, sixteen miles outside Tuscaloosa, Alabama, David pulled into a rest area. He kept King on a leash as they walked along the grassy sward of the designated pet walk, but the dog was well behaved and didn't wrestle against the leash or try to force David into a run. King handled his business near a tree with the solemn dignity that befitted his name.

David was returning to the truck, planning to let the dog inside so he could go back and use the rest room himself, when he saw the man.

He leaned against a white Cadillac DeVille. Slender and brown-skinned, perhaps in his mid-fifties, he wore a green shirt and tan slacks. He talked on a cell phone, checked his watch.

From a distance of about thirty feet, the man looked like David's father.

David stiffened and stopped. King, brought to a halt, looked at David questioningly.

Although the day was warm and humid, a chill fell over David.

As if sensing David's attention, the man turned. He met David's eyes briefly, then looked away, continuing to chat on the phone.

The man was not Richard Hunter, his father. Of course it wasn't him. His father had died five months ago.

David sighed, went to the SUV, and let King climb inside.

I need to stop this, David thought, as he walked to the rest area washrooms. I'll never see my father again. I have to accept it.

He used the rest room, then returned to the parking lot. The man who resembled his father was gone. Whoever he had been.

David got behind the wheel of the SUV.

His cell phone chirped.

"Hey, it's your mama. Where are you?"

It was just like his mother to call the moment after he experienced an episode of weirdness.

"Hey, Mom. I'm right outside Tuscaloosa, Alabama. I passed the big Mercedes-Benz plant a little while ago"

"You're driving too fast. You shouldn't be that far already."

Although David was twenty-nine years old and had traveled extensively throughout the country, by air and by car, Mom never hesitated to dole out travel tips and cautions.

"I've been cruising at seventy-five. Traffic has been light." He paused, then added, "I'm at a rest area. I just saw a man who looked like Dad"

"Oh," Mom said. A note of melancholy crept into her voice. "Remember how the same thing happened to both of us, when your granddad passed? For a while, it seemed that once a month we'd see a man who looked exactly like him."