A McTrite Horror Mystery

By Walker Jackson

"Eat Your Heart Out Stephen King."

Hi Walker,

I'm about half-way through Blood Trust and am enjoying it thoroughly!  While I didn't find McTrite as engrossing -- as I'm not much for the genre -- it, too, was well-written.  The very idea of Blood Trust is interesting, and you capture the characters well. Keep up the good work; it's obvious that you truly enjoy writing. Best, Mike

I met Mike at a writing forum. He expressed an interest in reading this  horror mystery. I sent it to him. He emailed me the above.

~ Author's Introduction ~

Since Edgar Allan Poe's after-spirit is an honorary member of 'Blood Trust', a brief excerpt taken from his 'The Devil in the Belfry', seems a befitting introduction to this nefarious tale of emetic horror. His narrative, I find, is moderately frightening, but fiendishly foreboding. It offers, however, an excellent tutorial for one of the don'ts that many contemporary literary scholars teach: nay, preach. Never allow description to bring your story to a halt. I avoid this literary sin like the plague, but I lack perfection: a commonality that we all share. If I occasional fly-off on a tangent, please forgive me. And, if my images seem beyond belief, accept them as intended, to entertain.

"The good people of the borough had scarcely a chance, however, to get their eyes thoroughly open, when, just as it wanted half a minute of noon, the rascal bounced, as I say, right into the midst of them; gave a chassez here, and a balancez there; and then, after a pirouette and a pas-de-zephyr, pigeon-winged himself right up into the belfry of the House of the Town Council, where the wonder-stricken belfry-man sat smoking in a state of dignity and dismay. But the little chap seized him at once by the nose; gave it a swing and a pull; clapped the big chapeau de-bras upon his head; knocked it down over his eyes and mouth; and then, lifting up the big fiddle, beat him with it so long and so soundly, that what with the belfry-man being so fat, and the fiddle being so hollow, you would have sworn that there was a regiment of double-bass drummers all beating the devil's tattoo up in the belfry of the steeple of Vondervotteimittiss."

Oh heavens above, what about that second sentence? Do you think it's too long? Personally, I think he could've halved it and rendered it kindness. I'm sure Mrs. Bennett, my tenth-grade English teacher, would have given him no more than a D-minus.

Aye! But what beautiful imagery and such originality? And it thunders with sadistic humor. You just know the continuing prose will sparkle with mayhem and machination.

Maybe today's teachers should rethink their standards? Or perhaps people need to slow down and smell the petunias. Without description, a flower is naught. Colorful adjectives breathe life into its bloom. The hue is heightened or dulled by adverb modifiers.

Though my skin color is chartreuse and scar tissue desecrates its onetime sacredness; my head is cone shaped and turned one hundred and eighty degrees from normal; and blood gushes from conspicuously disarranged orifices around my head; and I have no arms and three eyes, one topaz, one pink, and one the nuances of the rainbow that  change colors continuously, don't fear me. I am merely a storyteller anxious to share the secrets of the dark.

As this sickly story unfolds, I admit that I'm enjoying my hell-bent compelling to frighten you senseless. By all means, keep a change of underwear handy. Cliché yes, but timeless. You could even be overcome with those uncontrollable nervous giggles that obsess the mind when fear invades the psyche. Nay! Don't be alarmed. It's merely your over-active imagination playing games with your mind.

Aye-e-e-e! Did your blood curdle? Mine turned to clabber. Because, I know the evil scream blasted straight out of hell. Ah! I alone know what lurks in the encroaching shadows?

Grab several barf bags then head for your bedroom. Sprinkle some scare-away voodoo dust around your bed, torch several purple candles, polish and kiss your talisman, check under the bed, now the closets. If all is safe, or seems normal, climb between the sheets, pop in earplugs to muffle the screams and strange night sounds.

Do you own eye blinders? Don them if visions of grotesque spooks unnerve you.  Is your pulse beating faster? Are you having misgivings about reading this book? Don't be a fraidy-cat. I triple-dog dare you. S-l-o-w-l-y, turn the page. Stop! Quickly, now, run check the shower. And be sure to peek under the sheet for creepy-crawly things before you climb back into bed.

~ Prologue ~

A young couple, Frances and Charles Taylor, married only two days, perished when their Porsche rolled three times on State Route 26, two miles west of Hobgoblin, Mississippi. They were passing through on their way to a Biloxi honeymoon. The speedometer was stuck at 101 mph reported Officer Jim Smith after their mutilated bodies were torched from the wreckage and taken to Higgenbothem's Mortuary. A close-up picture of the flattened-mangled Porsche was there on the front page of Crypt News to provoke readers to the verge of regurgitation.

Wednesday, one day later, young Ben Somers, home from Harvard for spring break, died when his Ford convertible veered out of control on Suicide Curve and rolled thrice. At the time, he was attempting to break the speed record of 95 MPH set by Claude Vann three years earlier so said Tim Conners a friend of Ben's. Somers' lifeless, bloody, fractured body was taken to Higgenbothem's Mortuary. Tim Conners, who miraculously escaped injury, told police that Ben was drinking excessively. It was widely known that Ben was an exemplar and this fact shed considerable doubt on Conner's revelations. And his death was quietly being investigated.

The timing of these gruesome accidents was perfect, considering the first meeting of Blood Trust convened sharply midnight Saturday at historical Chimerical Manor, a haunted mansion owned by Benson Ballard. Residents of Hobgoblin had avoided this demoniac mansion for sixty years. Absolutely no one, except members of the Blood Trust, who would learn in time that their pseudo courage was enormously inadequate, one weird relative, ignorant strangers, and Ballard's freaky butler James Fry, whose hair had turned from black to white after his first week at the mansion, would voluntarily venture within one block of this spook shack. Looking gothic, mystic, grossly menacing, it rose three stories above terra firma, casting evil shadows upon the Garden of Deadly Delights out back near the family burial grounds.

City streets surrounding this haunted manor were devoid of homes. Benson's Grandfather George Ballard once farmed the many acres of land surrounding the Manor. As the Town's population grew, George subdivided, developed the land, and became quite wealthy. Avarice became one of his many middle nicknames. Swindler was often used. Now, lots on the block could be purchased for one dollar, but they weren't selling like hot cakes: not one had sold in the last fifteen years.

Though handsome, George was an effeminate, fragile man, ethereal may better describe him, but he gave an outward appearance of heterosexuality that convinced even the more cynical citizens. Certainly, after he married and was elected a deacon in the Hobgoblin First Baptist Church. Silvia, his wife birthed Thurman Ballard, Benson's father. Twin girls were prematurely born two years later, but they were dead. Nearly expiring during their birth, Silvia decided to have a hysterectomy. Afterwards she became frigid and Thurman started seeing other women on the sly. And rumors had it that he visited several male lovers when he traveled. Silvia died two years later of mysterious causes that were never discovered, and she was buried next to the two deformed girls in the family cemetery in close proximity of the garden that became known as the Garden of Death.

Perhaps a short explanation of this lethal Garden would prove interesting? Grandfather George Ballard hated the wildlife that came and mooched from the growing fields. But in time the garden provided the demented lineage another service: namely, a source for hard to detect poisons after assimilation by the body. Unfortunately for George the wild animals were too smart to partake of the Garden's delights. George was obviously out of touch with nature. But he grew to admire the variety of flowers the poisonous plants produced.

Well, let me name a few of the deadly delights. The Solanaceae family, including nightshade, henbane, jimson weed, mandrake, tobacco, and the leaves of tomatoes, are poisonous. They contain toxic alkaloids.

Cyanide sources also grew in the garden. Rosaceae, a member of the rose family, contain compounds called cyanogenic glycosides that liberate cyanide when broken down in the body. The lethal dose is one part to a million by body weight. He also cultivated one each wild cherry, peach and pear tree, which are all kin to the rose family. Their seeds contain the toxic glycosides that are fatale in large dosages. And he cultivated many poisonous mushrooms too numerous to mention without boring.

Most notably he cultivated yew, which is known as the bastard killer. The poison is an alkaloid named taxine, which first causes gastrointestinal upset and then convulsions. Finally, after much pain, the heart stops beating. And usually you expire. This ornamental shrub was once used as an abortifacient, but unfortunately or fortunately, depending upon one's viewpoint, it kills the mother as often as it kills her fetus. Some suspected that Benson's mother was fed this poison during her pregnancies with Benson's stillborn sisters. These are but a few delicacies awaiting you at Chimerical Manor. Please help yourself. Especially -- Well, you know who you are.

Thurman Ballard, Benson's father, increased the family's fortunes with profits from family owned sawmills, which were located advantageously around the pinewoods of Mississippi. Not that the world will care appreciably but Thurman was bisexual. Though he leaned more towards women than men and kept several mistresses, but men also visited the Manor. Lucky for Benson, Miss Claudia Frick, a beautiful, voluptuous blonde and Thurman's favorite mistress, committed the sin that conceived Benson. The poor little rich boy was born a bastard. And he blamed his mother for her loose behavior. In time this demeaning stigma twisted his mind, turning him against women, and ultimately pushed him to homosexuality. But more likely his family genes are a more plausible explanation for his abnormalities.

Through the years, three of Thurman's mistresses met their demise in hideous ways. Perky and pretty Caroline Oliver was decapitated. Her long beautiful curls were first sheared from her head.

Dorothy Peacock, a stunning brunette, was split in half by the ripsaw in the basement.

And Louise Dobb's, a delightful thespian with a nightingale's voice, throat was slit and her breasts and uterus surgically removed.

These heinous crimes went undetected because the women's bodies were concealed in crypts in the basement dungeon: a secret place accessible only through a door disguised as a panel section located in the library.

Alas, it wasn't until Thurman was bludgeoned to death that Benson learned of the secret and found keys to the dungeon and the secret passage where he found the women's nude bodies. He was only eighteen at the time. Personal shame and embarrassment for his father drove him to keep the murdered women a secret.

The Police, after years of investigations, charged Doctor Earnest Forel, a surgeon and frequent male guest at the Manor, with the bludgeon death of Thurman. But a clever defense attorney used the lack of eyewitnesses and false evidence, from a scoundrel paid to testify that the evil doctor was elsewhere when the crime was committed, to obtain a not-guilty verdict. The doctor was killed in an accident years later and justice was served. The gas truck he struck head-on exploded, burning him beyond recognition, negating the need for his cremation as decreed by his will.

Claudia Frick, Benson's mother, dearly loved both him and his father. For years she pleaded with Thurman to marry her and finally lost all hope. One morning quite early she went to the garden of death and consumed water hemlock. When the pain in her abdomen struck like a knife stab, she fell prostrate on the ground urinating uncontrollably.

In minutes she was seized with convulsions and lost all of her senses. Her mouth clamed shut like a vice: so tightly she could not open it to scream; she could only groan. She grated her teeth; her eyes twisted strangely and blood flowed from her ears. A swelling the size of a cantaloupe grew in her abdomen. She hiccuped frequently, and at times tried to vomit, but she could force nothing through her mouth. When the convulsions ceased momentarily, she had second thoughts and tried in vain to scream for help.

Momentarily, convulsions returned with increased violence. Soon, her strength and will to live were gone. Turning pale she gasped her last breath. Immediately, green froth started spewing from her mouth and continued even to the hour of her burial. It was wiped away frequently by Benson her grieving son. This traumatic experience served to further twist his mind, and he never forgave his father for not marry his mother. He did, however, insist that his mother be buried in the family cemetery. He'd celebrated gleefully when he learned of his father's brutal murder.

This baseborn and despicable family wasn't the only weird creatures abiding in Hobgoblin, Mississippi, but they were the most infamous and freakish. And the Manor wasn't the only haunted place in this spooky town. It'd become a Mecca of true horror fulfillment and people came from far and near to be frightened out of their hides. Bed and breakfasts with names like Horror Inn, Ghost Aplenty, and The Laboratory offered discounts and gift certificates to customers who stayed the entire night. And in the morning for breakfast they were served glasses of tomato juice symbolic of blood and scrambled eggs with hog brains mixed in. Little horror shops were everywhere. Visions and thoughts of death were inescapable.

~ Chimerical Manor ~

At eleven-thirty p.m., cars started arriving and parking around the circular drive: one Cadillac, one Lincoln Town-Car, One Mercedes Benz, One beat-up old red Ford truck, and two Honda Accords. James Fry, Benson Ballard's butler, met each arrival with a grim smile, a foreboding gesture, then offered instruction...

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