Homestead Horror

Moaning and shivering, I slowly realized the uncomfortable lump under my ribs was the nightgown I hadn't put on before collapsing across my bed. I rolled over and grimaced toward the unseen air conditioning vent that blew too hard on my freshly shaved head. I realized that, in addition to being bald, I was covered in a sheen of sweat. No wonder, given the dream I had just awakened from. Scenes from the dream flashed through my mind, and I shivered again.

A chemo-fog shrouded my brain, and I smacked my lips, wishing I could wake without a metallic taste in my mouth. I scooted to the edge of the bed and sat up. Only the faint glow of a neighbor's security light penetrated my bedroom. I peeled off the sports bra that had developed a stranglehold on my chest, and goose pimples flashed down my arms. Stumbling to my dresser, I fished a long sleeved T-shirt out of the third drawer.

Is this red or black? I waved the shirt toward the window to see it better, but that didn't help. Then I looked down and stroked my thigh. Apparently, I still had on yesterday's khaki shorts. I guess it doesn't matter. But I think this is red.

A silhouetted figure gazed back at me from the mirror and ran a hand across her bald head. I gave her a wan smile, remembering my sister's heartbreak at shaving it for me.

"I can't cut off your beautiful auburn hair, Jillian," Jennifer had said, her voice cracking.

"Do it," I told her. "I don't want to have to gather clumps of it from the shower when it starts falling out."

That was a lifetime ago, at the beginning of last month, when I had more strength. I grabbed socks and glanced out of my bedroom door before sitting down to put them on. The sun hadn't even begun to kiss the periwinkle curtains hanging at the east-facing front windows of my tiny house. I shivered again, slightly. I must have adjusted the thermostat downward by several degrees, not just one, when I woke up sweating a few hours ago.

That was about midnight, I think. What time is it now? I tapped the snooze button on my clock, and the blue backlight framed large black digits. 4:43 a.m. I hate waking up this early and not being able to get back to sleep.

The AC system decided it didn't have to actually make icicles in my bedroom and stopped blowing. I still needed to adjust the thermostat, though, before it came back on.

My cell phone vibrated loudly on the bedside table, startling me. I glanced at the caller ID and answered.

"Hey, Gregory." I tried to sound moderately cheerful rather than sick and disoriented.

"Hey, Jillian. Hope I didn't wake you."

"Surprisingly, no. I'm wide awake—and dressed. I woke up out of the freakiest dream and couldn't get back to sleep."

"Did you?" Gregory sounded interested though unsurprised.

"Yeah, and your new BMW was in it. It started out normal enough, even nice." I paused, trying to draw the fading dream out of the recesses of my mind. "We both managed to earn some time off, so we decided to take one of our day trips and explore a part of central Florida we hadn't seen before. You picked me up here, and …"

* * *

"Wildlife officials say they don't know the cause of the fish kills in several area lakes, but they decline to link it to last week's unusual meteor shower," the radio newscaster droned. "And a spokesman for the state's health department stated that, although there have been scattered reports of people displaying unusual symptoms—"

Jillian interrupted the broadcast with the press of a button. "I don't want to listen to news today."

They left the interstate and the four-lane state highways behind, picking a narrow two-lane county road at random. A faded, cracked blacktop with barely discernible double yellow lines wound its way around and between stands of slash pine trees that rose out of a thick undergrowth of palmettos.

"Slow down. That looks interesting," Jillian said. She read from a white, carefully stenciled sign at the edge of the right-of-way. "Almost there! Turn left in two miles to visit the Historic … Too fast, I missed the rest of it."

Gregory grinned at her. "I guess we'll see what it is in a couple miles."

"Did you know there was something out here? Is that why we came this way?"

"Nope," he replied. "But we always find something new and interesting, don't we? There—what's that sign say?" He took his foot off the accelerator and coasted.

"Turn here. Historic Wellman Homestead and Living History Museum, one and a half miles," Jillian narrated. "Never heard of it. Want to check it out?"

"Of course." He signaled despite not having encountered another vehicle for the last twenty minutes and turned onto a recently graded dirt road.

Southern Live Oaks draped with Spanish moss reached across, shading the way ahead. A pair of cows stood near another stenciled sign, as though waiting to welcome visitors onto the property.

"For some reason," Gregory said as they crept up the driveway, "I was expecting something a little bigger, like the Gamble Plantation, or at least a Florida cracker house, not just a rustic cabin."

"The sign said homestead, not plantation." Jillian contemplated the front of the cedar shingle-roofed dogtrot log cabin. Several guest parking signs stood to either side of the broad steps that led up to the wide porch. "It looks interesting. They have a nice garden over by the chicken run."

"It also said museum. How much of a museum can that hold?"

Jillian shrugged. "Let's find out. It said living history, so maybe there's more here than meets the eye." She peered around Gregory at the half-enclosed pole barn.

He maneuvered the sedan into one of the empty packed-sand parking spaces.

As they got out, a girl's voice rang out from nearby. "Dad, Georgianna, someone's here!" The speaker stood up from behind her spinning wheel in the breezeway between the two sections of the cabin and waved at them. "Welcome to the Wellman Homestead!" She brushed a wisp of light brown hair out of her face and came to the head of the steps, where she smoothed her high-necked calico dress and offered a shy smile.

"Welcome to the Historic Wellman Homestead," echoed a masculine voice. A forty-something man emerged from a low, rough-hewn outbuilding between the barn and house followed by an older version of the young teen on the porch. Both wore leather blacksmith's aprons. "I'm Jacob Wellman, and these are my daughters, Georgianna and Virginia."

"You can call me Ginny," the girl on the porch said.

"It looks like we're interrupting your work," said Gregory.

Jacob loosened his apron and replied, "Job one is welcoming guests and teaching about homesteading. Job two is … all the other jobs around here. I never run out of work. Hang these aprons up for now, would you," he asked, handing his to his older daughter.

He turned back toward his visitors, his eyes reflecting fatigue that suggested a break might be welcome.

Something dinged on the porch, and Ginny exclaimed, "Oh, my bread is ready to come out! Would you like some fresh, butter-melting bread?" Without waiting for an answer, she pivoted and hurried into the cabin, allowing the screen door to slap the frame behind her.

"She makes good bread," said Jacob. He walked stiffly to the base of the steps, where he leaned lightly against the rail and took a deep breath before ascending.

"I love fresh bread!" Jillian said.

They followed Jacob into the breezeway and turned into a doorway flanked by tall display cabinets full of 18th century tools and artifacts. In the kitchen, cast iron pans dangled between the fireplace and a large brick oven. An enticing multigrain aroma washed over them as Ginny pulled out a golden loaf and placed it next to others on a sturdy oak table.

The teenager cast a concerned expression at her father when he slumped into a chair and gestured for his guests to sit across from him. "Dad, are you okay?" she asked, placing bottles of water on the table beside the trenchers she had set at each place.

"We don't need bottled water," Jacob snarled through pallid lips. "I already told you, the well water is fine." Color drained from his face, and he slapped splotchy hands on the table top as he stood.

Ginny recoiled at her father's outburst, and Georgianna appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"Drink the water, Ginny. It's fine." Georgianna gazed at her younger sister through colorless irises.

"Oh, my God," Ginny gasped. "What's wrong with your eyes, Georgianna? Dad, your face!"

As the visitors stared in amazement, the pigment disappeared from Jacob's skin, leaving it a clear gel membrane over his sinews and teeth. Moments later, Georgianna's coloration also began to fade.

Ginny pointed at Jacob's hands, her pitch rising. "Dad! I can see your bones!"

Without taking his eyes from his younger daughter, he poured water from a ceramic pitcher into a tin cup. Then, with only a glance at Jillian and Gregory, he filled two more cups.

"Something's seriously wrong here," Gregory exclaimed. "We've got to go—now."

Ginny cast a panicked expression at Jillian. "Don't leave—help them! Call 911!"

Jacob took several deliberate but wobbly toddler-steps to the kitchen counter and pulled a butcher knife from a drawer. "Drink the water," he insisted.

"Drink the water," echoed Georgianna. Her jaw muscle almost glowed red through her increasingly translucent skin.

"Run!" Jillian grabbed Ginny's wrist, shoved the older sister out of the way, and flung open the screen door. She dashed into the breezeway, turning only to make sure Gregory was behind them.

One of the display cabinets crashed to the floor, blocking the kitchen entry, and then Gregory pushed Ginny onto the porch, almost toppling Jillian.

"Go, go, go," he urged.

"We have to call 911," Ginny pleaded. "My dad is sick!"

"Get in the car—we'll call from the road," Gregory said.

Jillian shepherded the teen into the BMW's back seat and slammed the door before jumping in the front. "Yeah, we're not sticking around while he's brandishing a knife, and neither are you."

Gregory backed out the long driveway onto the dirt road. He narrowly missed running over a group of people coming toward the entrance to the homestead property.

"Hey, don't go in there," Jillian called out. He's got a—" Then she noticed the grizzled man stumbling ahead of the pack.

He extended translucent, bony hands, proffering a glass jug of clear liquid.

The car fishtailed and spat gravel at the people.

"Those are some of our neighbors," said Ginny. "But they look—oh, no!"

Jillian checked the passenger's side mirror.

The man halted in the middle of the dirt lane. He stared dumbly at his now-cracked, leaking jug and the growing wet spot in front of him. A cloud of dust rose behind the sedan, obscuring her view.

Jillian dialed and tapped her cell phone's speaker mode.

A flat, emotionless voice answered after the third ring. "911, what is your emergency?"

"We were just threatened by a knife wielding man at the Wellman Museum and Homestead—"

"Historic Wellman Homestead and Living History Museum," corrected Ginny.

Jillian nodded and continued, "And we were almost attacked by a mob as we left!"

"Is that where you are now?" the dispatch operator asked.

"No, I just said we left. But you need to send police there!"

"Tell them to send an ambulance! My dad and my sister are sick!" Ginny pulled herself forward and gestured between the front seats. "Turn left at the road. Town is about three miles that way."

"And send an ambulance," Jillian relayed. "Two people are very sick, and there may be more."

"Police are already on the scene, ma'am. They will determine if an ambulance is necessary."

"No, we just left. There aren't any police. I'm talking about the road that goes to the Wellman Homestead and Living History Museum—what road is this, Ginny?"

"Mossy Lake Road."

"Yes ma'am, you need to go back to the homestead and speak with police there. Also, Mr. Wellman is very concerned that you abducted Ginny. If you return now, you won't be charged."

"I'm telling you, operator, there are no police there. And Wellman is the one who tried to attack us with a knife!"

"You must take Ginny back. She is very thirsty. She needs to drink water."

Gregory yanked the handbrake, and the sedan skidded to a stop at the edge of the blacktop.

Chills ran down Jillian's spine as he gazed at her, wide-eyed. "Hang up now," he said.

She clicked her phone and looked left and right along the empty county road. "There aren't even any police coming," she declared, and Gregory shook his head.

"What did she mean I'm very thirsty? How could she know that," asked Ginny. "And I'm not."

"I don't know, but I'm not going into that town to find out," Gregory said. "I'm taking you back to the city, and we'll iron this out with authorities there—or the FBI. The fact remains, your father threatened us with a big knife. Including you."

"I don't want my dad to go to jail!"

"He may not have to. But we need to find out what's going on before we just take you back there."

Gregory turned right without signaling and accelerated toward the four-lane that would take them home.

* * *

"Just a minute," I said. "I'm freezing. Who would've guessed my hair had kept me so warm?" I put down the phone and snatched the first scarf that came to hand. While I tied it, my phone hummed on the dresser as though Gregory was saying something in response. I quickly wiggled my feet into my tennis shoes before picking up the phone.

"… and then we can figure this out," Gregory concluded.

"I didn't hear everything you just said. I'm still freaked out by that bizarre dream. There was more to it, but it's all lost in a fog now. I hate chemo! And it makes all my joints ache." I smoothed my scarf and walked into the blackness of the living room.

Four loud knocks at the front door broke the silence, causing me to jump and yelp into the phone.

"It's not even 5 AM yet," I said. "Who would be at my door at this hour?"

"It's me, babe. Open up. We brought you jugs of water," Gregory said.

"Not funny." I reached for the deadbolt. "Wait—what do you mean we?"

I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, and then I lurched into a wall as a form on the sofa sat up.

A tremulous voice spoke out of the darkness. "Don't open the door. I think it's my dad."