A Dead Ringer For A Black Fox: Part 1
Written by Brian WarfIt was in the year of our Lord, eighteen-hundred and forty-two, three days after Christmas, that I, Errol Sheridan, came to be in the service of one Henry Lee Blankenship. However, it was only after his unfortunate demise on the Lord’s birthday. Mister Blankenship was a shipping magnate that had amassed a great fortune over his lifetime and died all alone on a Virginia estate of two-hundred acres. Though Blankenship lived to be near ninety years old, he had never married in all his years and never had any children and thus no heir or heiress other than the state of Virginia who had promptly hired me to be a partial caretaker for the estate in the winter of 1842-43.
Henry Blankenship was rumored to be a homosexual, but I was never one to indulge wholeheartedly in gossip nor did I find unscrupulous glee in it. If the man fancied other men the same way I fancied women, so be it. Though I did not understand it, it was none of my business nor my concern. My only concern was in making sure I received the other half of my payment from the state of Virginia. I myself, being in my thirty-third year at the time of this writing, have never had time for a wife or children, though I do enjoy the company of women.
I assumed that most people that worked for Mister Blankenship whilst he still lived also cared not about his sexual desires so long as they also accrued their own monetary payments whilst keeping their mouths closed. Blankenship, though, was a bit of a miser and he employed no in-house staff in full-time positions, nor did he have ‘round the clock groundskeepers. Even unto his old age I heard that he himself did most of his own cooking as well as the cleaning and upkeep of his mansion. Only several times a year would he hire temporary staff to do those things for him.
‘Twas by coach that I arrived at the Blankenship estate from Richmond. The ride was drafty and cold, for it was snowing profusely. Though, as chilled as I was, I imagined the driver was more so as he sat bundled atop the front seat like a figurehead on the bow of a ship slicing through wind and snow in a determined search for a destination. I wondered then, as I do now, if one ever truly gets used to those most unfavorable of conditions.
As I stepped through the grand doorway and into the foyer of the main house, I was assuredly taken aback, for I could see that Mister Blankenship had done no cleaning, nor had it done for him, in some time. A year or more it had been I presumed, for it was heavily-laden with cobwebs and there was visible dust everywhere one looked.
Mister Blankenship’s attorney, one Reginald Duncil, met me at the door and was my introductory host for close to one and one-half hours. He first showed me the grand fireplace in a wall of the parlor, crackling with soothing warmth. I must admit that for the ten minutes or so we stood in front of the fire, I heard very little as he yammered on about this and that as my mind was preoccupied with the elation of feeling the heat. I was intrigued by an oil portrait of Blankenship, from fifteen years before, that hung above the fireplace, for I had only ever seen one rather poor sketch of him, several years before, that accompanied a newspaper article about his shipping business.
After Mister Duncil showed me around the house and my quarters, which were in Blankenship’s bedroom, we went outside to my silent dismay. He was a bit of a rambler, this Mister Duncil, as he pointed things out amid the snow. I made note of the firewood and coal and as he droned on, I noticed a rather large cemetery off in the distance of a great field. It lay just on the other side of Mister Blankenship’s property line.
Mister Duncil explained to me the boundaries of the estate, for it seemed to sprawl to the horizon in every direction, and that the nearly full cemetery was not a private one, but was owned by the county of Westmoreland. It was the final resting place of Blankenship himself who had been put in the ground there the day before.
It was late in the afternoon when I’d first arrived and by early evening before sundown, Mister Duncil was well on his way to his own homeplace by way of horse. As I watched him ride away, I felt a bit of sorrow for him because of the relentlessness of that winter’s day and the fact that he had not arranged for himself a coach. Part of me though, a great part, was glad to see him go, honestly. If I’d had to listen to him tell me more about the origins of a certain wallpaper or where a particular rug came from and how much it cost, or who melded together the dining room chandelier, I think I would have died then and there. On a humorous note, if I had not expired, I may have jumped through a window and ran away, snow or not, to escape the choking confines of his verbal grasp. As a caretaker, and a highly reputable one I might add, my job was simple: watch over the great, empty house and grounds until the first day of spring when it would then pass from my hands.
As night fell, I loaded up the cook stove with coal and made myself pan biscuits and porridge. The cupboards in the kitchen were very well-stocked of dry goods, however, a stipulation of mine was that I wanted Mister Blankenship’s weekly goods delivery from the town’s general store to continue at the expense of the state and with my picks of course. I had not a horse, but with steed or not, I did not wish to venture several miles into town on a weekly basis in the freezing cold of the winter months.
Though, a regular smoker I am not, I enjoy a good smoke every now and again as long as the tobacco is fresh. However, I do not enjoy the smell of inside pipe smoke nor cigarettes nor cigars, having always preferred to step outside to indulge while wishing my colleagues would do the same. I bundled up and went out onto the rear veranda with loaded pipe. In good spirits I was and was not minding at all that the snow was still falling.
I struck a match and lit a hanging lantern. I then held the tiny, flickering flame to the top of the small heap of tobacco in the pipe’s bowl and watched as it lit up a twinkling orange as lucid as a candle-lit pumpkin carved up for the devil’s holiday, All Hallow’s Eve. As I savored the taste of the finest cherry-amber plug money could buy and smelt its sweet aroma before the wind robbed it of me, I heard a series of crunching sounds from the midst of the hollow darkness before me.
It was the unmistakable sound of a small animal’s limbs breaking through the crest of fresh-fallen snow. Then I saw the shape of it just outside the semicircle of the lantern’s light and it looked to be a small dog or half-grown wolf. Blacker than the night it was and it darted from a hedgerow of dormant bushes to a wood pile. Against the backdrop of snow, which had a nightly, bluish tinge, the canine showed up rather well and I saw that it had a great, bushy tail. I then realized that my uninvited visitor was a fox.
I reached up for the burning lantern and held it up high before me. Peculiar, I thought, that the fox would run toward me rather than away. As the light hit its eyes, they glowed red as twin embers. Hoping for a better look, I eased forward a step with the lantern.
The black fox uttered a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a low yelp. A chill ran up my spine. My first reaction was to promptly straighten my posture and stand steadfast. Even then as the fox ran off, it seemed to have a firm grasp on me, for I could not move for at least a half minute’s time I am sure of it.
As the fox disappeared, I lit my pipe for a second time as it had gone out. As I stood there in the cold darkness, savoring the pipe smoke, staring out into the blackness of the night, it occurred to me how rare it was for one to see a black fox. I did not recall ever hearing of anyone else seeing one.
It was not long until something else interrupted my solitude. ‘Twas the low ringing of a far-off bell, clanging profusely in succession several times. I suspected it was not the wind that made it do so, for the wind was still rather light at the time. It was not the sound of a large bell, such as a church bell, but was instead the rather faint sound of a small bell. A hand-held one perhaps.
There were a few clusters of these clangs in a span of several minutes until the clanging stopped and the whispers of the wind filled my ears once more. I saw no more of the black fox on that first eve, nor did I again hear the bell.
It was the next afternoon that I became slightly acquainted with the dry goods deliverer of the town’s general store. I say ‘slightly’ because he seemed nervous and was very addled. He was a boy, really, and a simpleton at that. He was no more than nineteen or twenty years I imagine. To save him from embarrassment as I relay this story to you, dear reader, I will refer to him as ‘Archibald’ rather than reveal his true name.
Though the snowfall had stopped sometime in the night, the sun did not penetrate the bleakness of the gray, overcast sky for the whole of the day. In the afternoon I gathered stumps from the wood pile and began chopping them into smaller, less cumbersome pieces.
At near three o’clock I saw that Archibald was riding in the seat of a small dray being pulled by a horse up to the front of the house. I’d only had two servings of porridge so far that day. I looked forward to a supper of vegetable stew with ingredients I found on hand supplemented with ingredients I’d ordered. As I went ‘round to the front of the house I saw that Archibald was about to climb back into his seat for a hasty retreat.
“You there, young man,” I said to him and introduced myself.
He told me his first name and proceeded to tell me what was inside the small, wooden crate he’d left on the front doorstep: oats, flour, carrots, onions, soap, and so forth. There was also a complimentary bread loaf for me in being a first-time customer. It would go well with my stew. Upon hearing that my order had been fulfilled, I inquired about the odd occurrences of the evening before.
“Do tell, Archibald,” I said, “do you know of any bellringing in the early hours of dark in these parts? Just last evening I heard what sounded to be a small bell clanging from seemingly nowhere. Nowhere but the middle of this great field that is.”
Archibald’s eyes grew wide and he looked to me foremost with fear and then concern.
“Sir, the only nearby bells I know of are those that are placed directly above some of the graves with rope and pulley,” he said shakily, “over at the graveyard there. Some folks around here have a fear of being buried alive and request to have a thin rope attached to a small bell that runs down into the casket with them on a pulley contraption. If they are not truly dead and they wake up a day or so after burial, they can yank on the bell string for help. If after seven days no one has heard any bell ringing from a grave, the bell and pulley system is removed and the grave is completely sealed forever.”
“Do you speak the truth?” I asked, dumbfounded. “That is the most preposterous tale I’ve ever heard.”
“It is true, sir,” he replied with voice still shaky, “every word. Superstition runs rampant in this little town, sir.”
I gave Archibald a look of skepticism, clear disbelief, though I am not sure whether he could tell or even cared.
“Mister Blankenship is the most recent of persons in these parts to pass away,” Archibald said and pointed, “and he’s buried right up there. I heard that he was buried with one of those bell and pulley systems. Perhaps it was he that rang the bell.”
“Really, boy,” I said with a chuckle. “Please.”
“I am only telling you things I’ve heard, sir.”
“What of black foxes?” I asked. “What can you tell me of them if anything? In the light of my lantern I saw one running around here last night, as black as a raven it was, not long before I heard the bell.”
Archibald’s eyes grew even wider.
“Perhaps I should go,” he replied. “I think I’ve told you enough.”
“You haven’t told me hardly anything at all other than something about a silly superstition.”
“If they should find out I’ve said something to you, they could – “
“They? They who?”
“I should go.”
Archibald turned to climb up in the seat of the dray.
“At least tell me what you know of a black fox.”
“Black foxes are a rare sight. They are a sign of witchery and bad things to come. This – this place is cursed, sir. The town, but especially this house and its grounds are cursed. I – I can say no more.”
Archibald then secured his place in the seat of the dray, shook the reins, and the horse pulled away at a rather brisk pace.
I took the crate inside and with herbs and potatoes on hand; along with the addition of carrots and the onion from the crate, I proceeded to make myself a nice stew that simmered until well after dark.
As I lay in bed on that second night, just before I drifted away to slumber, my rest was interrupted by the familiar sound of a small, ringing bell. The tootling came in several, sporadic successions at first, much like a series of impatient door knocks.
I lay there hoping that the ringing would cease. When it did not, I found myself looking out the window into the moonlit night whence the ringing was coming. As much as I yearned to clamor at whomever was ringing that confounded bell, I of course saw no one to clamor to in the dark.
My common sense had already enlightened me, blatantly telling me that I would see no one and nothing. Yet there I stood, peering against the glass with hands cupped around both eyes as if I were a boy eyeing a display of ladies’ undergarments through a store window. I needed not to even see the origin of the bellringing at that time, for the low sounds of it to my ears was more than enough to entice my curiosity and prod a compulsion to go out into the cold dark of night to see just who dangled a bell and shook it about in the dead of winter.
I soon found myself with an overcoat, trousers, and boots over my sleeping gown whilst holding a glowing lantern above my head as I crunched across the snowy tundra. I headed the way of the cemetery since the bell sounds seemed to be coming from that locale. I thought it an immoral prankster to do such a thing at a graveyard. Not only was this person disturbing the eternal rest of the nearby dead, but everyone else’s rest that was within hearing distance. A real nuisance this person was I thought.
I came to the cemetery’s gate as the bell rattled on. To my surprise, I saw that the gate of the wrought-iron enclosure was ajar. I noted that the latch was old and so well-worn that a strong wind could have opened the gate. Lowering the lantern a bit, in the snow I spotted the familiar, patterned holes of the paw impressions of a canine going up to the gate and beyond to the inside of the cemetery. I stepped past the gate and lifted the lantern ever higher, shining the light over the vastness of the gravestone-laden grounds.
The ringing ceased to my bemusement. I lowered the lantern and was compelled to follow the paw prints in the snow. I walked past row after row of tombstones; some standing tall and fanciful whilst others lay lowly and simple on the ground. It was a stark reminder to me that no matter how much money one had, or how little, death charges us all the same.
I came to an abrupt halt when the pattern of paw prints I was following suddenly went about haphazardly from left to right and back as if the animal that laid them had suddenly found itself in distress. Upon raising the lantern to shoulder level, I saw that the tracks continued onward in a curved line to the other side of a tall, slim tombstone. As the light from my lantern bobbed up and down the closer I drew to this tombstone, I saw that it was newly erected, for there was nary bearded mold nor mildew on its back side.
