Untitled Blues Horror Fantasy Thing

Here's a segment from my first, glorious, failed attempt at writing a whole novel. While I didn't finish, I still hide behind the death of my laptop as an excuse, not admitting to myself I was already running out of steam when it happened. 

The Story involved Demonic Possesion, 1930's Blues Musicians, Punk Bands, North Korea and Time Travel, it was essentially several ideas mashed together to make something I could conceivably string together up to novel length. I won't finish it in it's current form, but may reuse some of the ideas in future things. 

Anyway this is the first, and probably best, bit that I wrote, It is presented in it's original, unproofread form, for added stream-of-conciousness authenticity.

The rain poured hard against the windscreen of the model t ford as it bumped and rattled down the highway, the wipers ran madly in a futile attempt to keep the screen clear of water as more and more fell from the sky with each passing moment, the man at the wheel hunched over and squinted into the feeble glow of the headlights trying to see his way through the rain and the gloom of the storm. The man kept his foot firmly on the gas though, and the model t hurtled on regardless, on to its destination and to hell with any risks or consequences.

The Ford bumped down into a puddle and kicked up a great splash of muddy water, squarely over the head of Son House, as he squelched along the grass verge on the side of the road, sticking his clothes to his skinny body and drenching his fedora hat so that it flopped down over his face and eyes. Another person might have cursed and raged and shook their fist impotently at the driver and vehicle as they sped around a bend in the road behind a tree, but Son simply gathered his coat around him, sighed and trudged on, beginning to shiver. His preachers collar began to chafe him in the damp so he removed it and put it into an inside pocket, just after this he moved the carpet bag he was carrying from his left hand to his right, for a more comfortable grip.

He had been walking all day, except for a break for lunch by the side of the road, others might have tried thumbing a lift from one of the cars that passed along this route, but Son preferred his own company and in any case he knew very well how easily any person could be turned from righteousness to casual sin, to the outright diabolical, something he was out to address this very day. And now was nearing his destination, and this sudden downpour was not about to deter him any, especially since he would not be surprised to learn that the man he was travelling to confront could well have had a hand in its creation.

Some minutes after the car had given Son its ungracious soaking ad made off into the night; House rounded the bend himself and saw his destination, a Shotgun house a little way back off the road. A light was on to one side of the door and smoke curled from the chimney, firewood had been piled up on one side of the house to such an extent that the pile was taller than the house itself.

Son House considered how best to approach the house, considering the welcome, or lack thereof he was likely to get, the rain had stopped and would no longer mask his approach as he had hoped it would, he was tempted to try and sneak around the back and try to gain entrance there, surprising his quarry and muttering the catechism as quickly as he could before escaping, the chances that this plan would work seemed low, but walking straight up to the door seemed even less promising.

The decision was taken from him in any case, because as he approached what had initially appeared to be mere shadows on the front porch resolved itself into a figure, leaning back in a rocking chair, feet resting up on the rail at the front of the porch, with a guitar across his lap. Stupidly, Son froze, all options gone as his adversary stared straight at him, smiling, it would be foolish to run now, so all that was left was to go straight in, as mad as that might be. Son stood up straight, adjusted his hat, which had gone from soaked to merely damp and recovered some of its shape and strode over to meet the enemy, who turned his head and spat before speaking,

“Good evenin’ preacher man, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon after our last meetin’, though you seem to have grown a little raggedy since then.”

Son stopped in front of the house and dropped his carpet bag to the floor, reaching inside he pulled out a small book, and a wooden crucifix. The man on the porch chuckled,

“Oh my goodness! Am I supposed to recoil in terror from that symbol?”

“Be quiet boy,” Son growled, his voice rough from the whiskey he had drank to give him courage on the last stages of his journey, “Keep you silver tongue behind your black lips, you shall not frighten me!”

“No, I expect you’re too drunk to be scared o’ anythin’ much right now ain’tcha buck? You wanna keep an eye on that Son, too much Dutch courage and you’ll start needing a drop with your breakfast even.”

Son ignored this taunt, He had wrestled with the bottle much of his life and this obvious ploy would not rattle him. Though he knew this man could throw much worse at him and in all likelihood he would never walk away from this house, that knowledge gave him a kind of peace. His life had been, by and large a struggle between the two halves of himself, the sinful side winning out more than he’d like to admit, but at least if he were to die today he could die doing the lord’s work and saving the soul of the man in front of him, a young man who had been his friend.

“Robert Johnson! If you are still in there, know that I mean to bring you salvation tonight my son!”

Son then opened the book and began to read aloud the words, which were Greek and meant little to him, though he was glad of the money he had spent paying a scholar at Old Miss university to transcribe the words phonetically into this notebook, ready for this moment, sometime country preacher and occasional drunkard Son may be but he was also nobody’s fool.

As Son began to read, Robert Johnson stood up from his chair, put aside his guitar and walked into the light for the first time.

He had dressed himself in a fine new double breasted suit and hat, paid for with the money he made playing guitar in bars, clubs and juke joints as well as the occasional classy hotel if the rich white clientele felt like slumming it by partaking of some race music. He had grown in stature as well from the boy Son had known back in Robinsonville, Mississippi, and now seemed to radiate confidence in such magnitude that it approached, or even became, arrogance.

When Son Had first met him as a youth on the cusp of manhood, Son himself was drifting into middle age, his pastoring days behind him and more well known in the delta as blues musician and a band mate of Charlie Patton, which was perhaps why Robert had sought him out. He had been a skinny little boy with a guitar over his shoulder that he could not play for love nor money, though he did blow a mean harmonica in those days. He had wanted Son to teach him, but Son had been too wrapped up in his own guilt at the direction his life had taken to impart anything to Robert beyond a lecture about ‘The Devil’s Music’, something which Robert seemed to have taken to heart in a most unexpected way.

As Son continued to read from the book, and Robert moved to walk up to the preacher, the clouds in the sky began to thicken and the wind picked up, swirling about the two men madly. Robert, started to stagger, crouching slightly with a pained look on his face. Son raised to his voice to be heard over the sudden wind, still reading the meaningless text and hoping like hell it did what it was supposed to. Robert was moaning now, pained, clutching his belly and crying aloud,

“Stoppit Son! I can’t take no more boss! Please have a little mercy!”

“You done brought this on yerself boy!” Son hollered back, breaking his chant for a moment. This was all Robert needed, As the power of the incantation waned, he jumped up as if a great weight had fallen from him, and lay the preacher low with a haymaker punch strong enough to fell an ox, and seemingly one that could only have come from a much stronger man. Son fell face first into the mud, losing book and cross in the process, as he turned back over he found Robert standing over him, seemingly ready to deliver a killing blow.

“I’m sorry boss, I wish you hadn’t seen to making a quarrel with me, I would have left you well alone.”

As he lifted his foot to stomp in the older man’s head, Son reached into his pocket and pulled out his last resort, a .41 Derringer, as unnaturally strong as Robert had become, this was still likely to hurt, perhaps long enough to buy Son time to escape.

The first round hit the younger man in the chest, and should have punctured a lung, a killing shot all on it’s own, though if Robert noticed this he gave no indication and took another step forward. The Derringer had another three rounds loaded and Son fired them all, two bullets hit in the trunk with no more effect than the first. The final round, more by luck than judgement, hit Robert Square between the eyes, blowing of his hat and lodging in his brains. Johnson sank to his knees, blood dripping down off the end of his nose and staining the stiff collar of his shirt round the back of his neck. He looked at Son and opened his mouth to speak, but only a garbled nonsense came out. Son stood up, soaked again and covered in mud, he looked down at the bloodied man

“I’m sorry i had to do this boy, I hoped you could be saved, but it seems you done and gone too far mixed up in this foolishness to be brung back out. May god have Mercy on you.”

Robert looked back, still mumbling gibberish until the light went from his eyes and he fell to the ground.

While Son was burying his body, Robert Johnson woke up with a great intake of breath and a piercing scream of agony. Son caved his head in with the shovel he had been using to dig the grave.

Opting instead to burn the body, Son dragged the nearly headless corpse into middle room of the shotgun house, found a bottle of liquor in the kitchen, smashed it on the floor and set light to the whole mess, then stood outside and watched the house burn to the ground. As the rafters began to cave in, Son glimpsed some movement in the woods behind the back yard. A burning figure had lept from the back door and was now running through the trees, some way away, Son made to give chase but back luck lead him to trip on a root and knock himself out cold not ten feet into the forest. When he came to nothing remained of the house but ashes and of Robert there was no sign.

Those were the first three times Son House killed Robert Johnson.