Another can was full of desiccated newts, all missing their eyes. "Eye of newt, toe of frog," the Writer's voice echoed in the dark.
"This is right fucked up. We'se leavin'."
Back outside the Writer combed his light behind them. "Let's go look at those graves."
"The fuck for?"
"I detect an incongruence."
"Huh?"
The Writer smiled and walked over. "How curious... "
"A half-dug hole? Big deal."
Indeed, there were several areas in their proximity that had been dug down to about a foot, trenches, in a sense, about six feet long.
"What's that on the ground? Cement?"
"Crude cement. It's called tabby," the Writer explained. "You know what this place is, Mr. Dicky? It's an unconsecrated graveyard."
"Shee-it... "
"The more normal stones in the area have dates from the 17 and 1800's, but these... "
They weren't grave markers at the foot of each trench but simply splotches of old cement in which someone had inscribed a name and date with their fingers. "Back in the day, common criminals were buried in unconsecrated ground. Relatives would come in later, pour some quick tabby and render an inscription. Look at this one."
An old finger-scrawl in the cement read ELSBETH - 1689.
The Writer eyed Dicky. "Or I should say, common criminals and witches."
"Fuck... "
"Or warlocks. Anyone accused of soliciting the Devil."
Dicky gulped. "Witches'n warlocks are buried here?"
"It would seem so. And... what on earth... " The Writer strode off several yards, to the edge of the woodline. He aimed the flashlight down.
A simple wooden post stuck out of the ground about two feet, and nailed to it was a crucifix.
"A cross," Dicky observed.
"Not just one cross... " The Writer shined his flashlight to either side. The entire woodline had a similar post and cross every six feet or so. It's almost like a fence... of crosses. A... barrier...
"If Crafter's a satanist, how come them crosses ain't upside-down?" Dicky made a surprising query.
But the Writer didn't answer, for now he noticed something else. "How do you like that?"
Dicky looked down. "What's that? A line'a sand?"
"A line of salt, Mr. Dicky. Let's follow it."
Flashlights down, they followed the line of salt which oddly ran unbroken just inside the cross-mounted posts. In a few minutes they were in the front of the house, and could see the salt and crosses continuing on.
"The salt and the crosses completely encircle the property," the Writer said. He lowered the light to the driveway which, too, was crossed by a line of salt. "Now that's interesting."
"I'se don't get it."
"Ancient metaphysics, Mr. Dicky. Salt was once more valuable than gold, and it eventually became a favorite constituent in alchemy, divination, and spells."
"Spells," Dicky intoned with some trepidation.
"This Mr. Crafter fellow seems to have deliberately enclosed his property with two powerful totemic symbols."
"Totemic," Dicky intoned.
"And to respond to your previous query, I suspect the crosses aren't inverted for that very reason. Between the salt and the cruciforms, Crafter seems to be covering his bases."
Dicky made yet another astute remark. "A magical fence?"
The Writer nodded, impressed. "I think so."
"To keep bad stuff from getting in?"
The Writer lit another cigarette, and sighed smoke as he looked down at more crosses and salt. "The crosses are facing toward the house, Mr. Dicky. So it would seem that Crafter's intentions are just the opposite. He wants to keep ‘bad stuff' from getting out," and then they both slowly turned their gazes back toward the house.
««—»»
"We'se gonna be rich men, Dicky-Boy," Balls enthused when the Writer and the more globose redneck went back inside. Balls already had several boxes full of gold and silver gimcracks set aside on the William and Mary table. "The dinin' room alone's chock full."
"Cool," Dicky tried to sound excited.
Balls caught the downcast tone of voice. "‘S'matter with you?"
"Aw, nothin'. Just kind'a weird outside."
"The premise is surrounded by an occult barrier," the Writer baldly stated. "Crafter obviously has some overtly ritualistic beliefs."
"Don't know what'cher talkin' 'bout, don't care," Balls ignored him. "Now git yer writer-ass in gear ‘fore I start kickin' it. Find a box and start loadin' it up with ‘spensive-lookin' loot."
"Where's Cora?" Dicky asked.
Balls pointed to the other side of the room where, in the candlelight, Cora could be seen lying unconscious. "Punched her a tad too hard last time she started runnin' her yap again. Leave the ‘ho be. She'll just get in the way."
They made several trips to the U-Haul, depositing a few of the valuables from the dining room, but back inside, the Writer suggested, "Shouldn't we check the rest of the house first? Since you gentlemen are thieves, it might be more efficient to identify the most valuable booty initially, and that's just one reason."
Balls paused, carrying in a silver service tray. "One reason? Gimme another?"
"Well... to discern beyond all doubt that the house is, indeed, unoccupied."
Balls and Dicky traded uneasy glances but then Balls scoffed. "There ain't no one else here, Writer. My buddy Bud Tooler tolt me so."
"So this Mr. Tooler—his knowledge of the house is unimpeachable?"
Balls shot the Writer a funky look, which would be the first of many such looks. "What? Peaches?"
"What if this Mr. Tooler happens to be incorrect?" the Writer posed, "and there's someone upstairs right this very moment, calling the police?"
Balls and Dicky traded another uneasy glance. "He's gotta point there, Balls," Dicky said.
But Balls shook his head. "Look, Crafter ain't married and he ain't got no kids or reller-tives. I'se know for a fact there ain't no one else in this house."
Just then, quite loudly, a television clicked on upstairs.
"This is CNN Headline News," a woman was saying, "and this is Lynn Russell reporting on all of the nation's up to the minute headlines. In Milwaukee, Wisconsin, today alleged serial-killer Jeffery Dahmer was arraigned on six counts of capital murder... "
Balls pulled the other two aside, into a dim hall beside another door with, of all things, a cross on it.
Now here's a cross INSIDE, the Writer reflected. Crafter's obviously no Christian, so why would he mount a cross on THIS door?
Balls and Dicky weren't the least bit interested. All of their faces glowed eerily in the candlelight.
"Keep yer voices down," Balls whispered. "There's someone upstairs watchin' fuckin' television. Whoever it is... we gots ta get rid of 'em so's we can finish the haul."