The Horror Megapack_ 25 Classic and Modern Horror Stories ( PDFDrive )

But she had overlooked her own loveliness. Connell was staying.
“I’m Walt Connell, and I think you’re mistaken,” was the retort. “Let me talk
to your men. One of them might know about him.”
That play was better than making a liar of Ducoin by mentioning Plato’s
flivver, half concealed in the shadows.
For a moment Ducoin’s eyes flared with a light that Connell was certain could
not be the reddish sunset glow; his aquiline features tightened, then suddenly he
smiled and amiably agreed.
“Do that in the morning. Too late now. This plantation reaches all the way out
to the bay, and most of my crew is quartered at the further end. Take us an hour
or more to go out, and it’s getting dark. Make yourself at home—there is plenty
of room here, and you can look in the morning.”
A grim-faced black woman served dinner in a vast, high-ceiled room facing the
west. Fried chicken, Creole gumbo, rice, and corn bread. All tastily seasoned,
except for an utter lack of salt. Connell, reaching for the only shaker on the table,
then noticed it contained only pepper.
“Sorry,” apologized Ducoin, “but we’ve run all out of salt. It’s rather primitive
down here on the Delta. We shop only once a week.”
Dinner, despite Ducoin’s easy cordiality, was a decided strain. Connell was
wondering at the absence of the lovely girl who had warned him.
“Working many men?” he asked.
“A dozen or two,” Ducoin carelessly answered. “Haitians, mostly—sullen,
stolid brutes, but good workers.”
He changed the subject. Connell was relieved when the woman served them
night-black, chicory-tinctured coffee, and a pony of excellent brandy.
Ducoin remarked, “We turn in early here. Plantation hours begin before
sunrise. Aunt Célie will show you your room. In the morning, you can make the
rounds with me.”
Connell followed the grim-faced woman down the hallway. Her morose, stolid
demeanor confirmed Ducoin’s comment on the temperament of his workers; yet
Connell was distinctly perturbed. And as the door closed behind Aunt Célie, he
received a distinct shock.
The moon was rising, casting a shimmering, silvery glow over the black expanse
of open fields. Men were at work, digging and hoeing. Utterly unheard of,
a night shift on a plantation. Connell heard the thudding blows of their implements,
but not a murmur, not a spoken word.
There wasn’t an overseer, yet they toiled on, methodically, as though motor