The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(43)
When it was his turn, Eddie didn’t hold back. He told me all about the newsletter he produced at home. How it pushed buttons and asked hard questions and made people think—those who actually read it, that is. Its position was blatantly atheistic, spouting philosophies borrowed from real Satanists throughout history. It was very disturbing to me. Despite my loss of faith, my church upbringing prevented me from buying into such a thing. I asked him straight out if this was what he truly believed.
“Are you kidding? This is a way to make money,” he answered. “I don’t believe any of this shit. Really. It’s all an act. You’ve heard of the Internet?” I nodded, since at that time the web was becoming the next big thing. I’d been advised by my publisher to create a website for myself, something that would happen in the near future. “Well, pretty soon my artwork and writings will be seen all over the world. If being successful means also being controversial, then so be it. I’ll be the next Aleister Crowley or Anton LaVey. It’s LaVey’s work that really inspired me. You should read his Satanic Bible. Enlightening stuff.”
He explained that he had cleaned up his act with regard to drugs. “I don’t do them anymore. I’m under too much scrutiny by the police and the media. I can’t give them a reason to arrest me. Alcohol—that’s another thing. It’s legal. I do still enjoy an alcoholic beverage or two. Or three or four. I’ve really gotten into wine.”
I was glad to hear he had stopped his illegal drug use. I had, too, ever since I was married. The seventies was a long time ago.
Eddie told me about his stint in prison. “It was pretty horrible,” he said, “but I managed to maintain a semblance of self-respect. I wasn’t raped, and I didn’t get involved in fights. There was a white supremacy skinhead gang that protected me, although I didn’t join them. I’m no neo-Nazi, and I like my hair. I think most everyone else was afraid of me because of my reputation as a Satanist. The word got out that if I was harmed, the devil would exact revenge. They nicknamed me ‘The Warlock.’” He smiled at that, almost as if he believed it himself.
How I managed to stay sitting at the table after hearing all this is a question I continue to ask myself. Red flags were flying. Of all the things to pretend to be, he had to pick a Satanist? It was shocking and strange. But I remained, because, I think, I was fascinated. I knew nothing about the things he was saying. As an author, I ate it up. Yes, I was disturbed by it all, but I was smart and curious enough to want to learn more. Perhaps it was material I could use in a novel.
He told me about his mother’s stroke—something I hadn’t known before seeing him. “Is that the real reason you haven’t left Limite?” I asked.
“No, I like it here,” was all he would say. He then suggested I come and “see the old neighborhood” and say hello to her. “She might remember you, but she can’t say hello. I can tell if she’s happy or sad by the expression in her eyes. She can nod and shake her head and grunt, but otherwise, I’m taking care of a living vegetable.”
His terminology disturbed me, but I answered that I’d like to see her. After we finished the coffee—I offered to pay and Eddie accepted—I followed him to Chicory Lane. It was bizarre seeing that house I knew so well painted black. Talk about sticking out like a sore thumb. No wonder he was ostracized by the neighbors. Across the street, my former home looked the same. When we got out of our cars, I gestured to it. “Who lives in our old place?”
“Oh, some young couple with a toddler,” he said. “They’re afraid of me.” We went inside. Incongruously, the interior of Eddie’s house appeared unchanged since I was last there. Some furnishings were different, but you’d never know the place was a “warlock’s home” from the inside. It was further indication to me that what Eddie was doing was an act. He had converted one bedroom into an office where he produced the newsletter. He gave me some old issues “for my entertainment,” as he called it. A young man with red shoulder-length hair was busy at a desk, stuffing newsletters into envelopes. Eddie introduced him as Wade and said that he was an employee and fellow Satanist. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Eddie had found like-minded believers to help him. It was difficult to imagine more than one warlock residing in a town as small as Limite.
That was facetious. Eddie was no warlock. I knew that, even if no one else saw through his facade.
In the living room, Mrs. Newcott sat slumped in a wheelchair in front of a television. Eddie brought me in and said, “Hey, Ma, look who’s here. It’s Shelby Truman! Remember her, from across the street?”
Her eyes darted to me and focused, but I didn’t see any recognition in her gaze. I didn’t see anything behind those irises. They say that the eyes are windows to the soul; if that’s the case, then Mrs. Newcott’s soul was dead. Poor woman. It probably hadn’t helped that her son had become a “heathen” and was bringing strange people into the house to help out with his business. I told her it was nice to see her and I was glad Eddie was taking good care of her. No response.
Next, Eddie took me to the backyard to show me his “sanctuary,” and I braced myself. There was a large padlock on the steel door. He fished a key chain out of his pocket, found the right key, and unlocked the device. I was hesitant to go down into the bomb shelter, but he said, “I still like to sleep here every once in a while, but it’s not my ‘room’ anymore. Come on, you should see what I’ve done to the place.” So I did. Curiosity got the better of me. Those Satanic masses that the media thought went on in his home? They were actually more likely to be conducted in the bomb shelter, which had been decked out in a pretty creepy fashion. The walls, floor, and ceiling had been painted black. The double bed was no longer there; instead six small pews sat on one end of the space, facing a large altar adorned with an upside-down pentagram. A pentagram had also been painted on the floor in front of the altar. An inverted cross hung on the back wall.