Crawlspaces
“Remember how some people, mainly children, used to fear that someone or something would reach out from under the bed and grab them by the ankle? The readers of this work will likely have outgrown that fear. But what about one’s home? What if something beneath the house grabbed you? Childhood dread would become an adult reality of the horrific sort.
-The Modern Annals of Mackenson Institute by Williamson, et. al.
Dr. Robert Williamson left a monthly Mackenson Institute staff meeting on a chilly day during the rainy season. He was fortunate, he reckoned, that he had taken the time to wear his rain gear, for though he was walking to his office beneath a (normally) dry porch or veranda, the rain was blowing sideways. The roof wasn’t doing much good.
As he finally departed the company of the rain and entered into his office, he nodded a greeting at his secretary, Ms. Taylor Bridges. She looked up when he entered and then spoke. “Doctor, it’s been quiet except for one thing. Around 3 P.M. I took a message from Mr. Wallace Harrison. I told him you were in a meeting, and he said he’d call back.”
“He didn’t say anything at all?”
“He did say that he wanted to talk about something that pertains to your work. Other than that, I got the impression that he didn’t want to talk to me at all. Understandable, I guess.”
“True enough. He hasn’t been quite the same since Ella passed away last year. Thanks for the message. I’ll give him a call tonight or tomorrow.” Taylor nodded an affirmative and then the doctor spoke again. “Unless you’re doing something you want to finish, you can go home.”
“Thanks, Doctor, I won’t be much longer.”
Dr. Williamson more or less forgot about his exchange with Taylor until later on that evening. After dinner, he rang Mr. Harrison (who was well known to him and most of the town). The men agreed that they would meet for dinner the following evening.
The next day, after work, the doctor found his way to the agreed-upon location, Sam’s Bar. The establishment lay exactly one block south of Mackenson Institute, just across Obelisk Boulevard. Dr. Williamson entered the bar—which was so much more than a bar—and, as normal, received a “thumb’s up” greeting from Sam himself. Sam was behind the bar polishing some glasses while chattering away with a couple of locals. As usual, the establishment was furnished with plenty of customers and light. Sam always professed to like light and wooden interiors, and this was made obvious in the design of his bar. Williamson himself enjoyed fine woodwork and light; Sam never disappointed.
Almost immediately, Dr. Williamson was met by Ms. Kallie Elson, a young woman who was nevertheless a long-time server at Sam’s Bar. She led the doctor to a corner table and asked what he would like to drink. Williamson declared that he wanted a mineral water until his companion arrived, and then he would like a margarita, heavy on the salt. With a nod and a smile, Kallie spun on her heels and headed toward the kitchen area.
Kallie returned to the table a short time later with a mineral water. She also led a limping Mr. Wallace (“Wally”) William Harrison to the table. The doctor stood as he approached the table, and Harrison said, “Keep your seat,” before shaking the doctor’s hand and sitting in an empty seat. After sitting, Mr. Harrison propped a walking cane next to his chair.
“Do you already know what you’re going to order?” Kallie asked, holding two menus in her hand. “Or do you need some time?”
“Fish and chips for me,” said Williamson. “Plus that margarita.”
“Same for me,” said Mr. Harrison. “Double tequila in my drink, please.”
“Kallie,” said Dr. Williamson, “I forgot something. I want a mozzarella and onion ring sampler plate, for two, as a starter.”
“Yes sir. And I’ll be checking on y’all all evening. Call me from across the dining room if you need something.”
“Thank you,” both men said at the same time.
“It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, hasn’t it? How have you been?” Wally Harrison asked, just as Kallie returned to the table bearing a bottle of water for him as well as the sampler platter that Dr. Williamson ordered. “Your orders will be out shortly, gentlemen,” she said, and once again disappeared toward the kitchen.
“Sadly,” said Dr. Williamson, “we haven’t seen each other since the week that Ella passed away. That’s about one year. I suppose I’m not much of a friend.” He paused to examine and then bite into an onion ring. Swallowing, he continued, “As to how I’ve been, the business of teaching never ceases and doesn’t grow tiresome. I teach two elective classes in the theology department. My, or rather our, other pursuits really picked up late last year. October was fierce—we had trouble at Chapel Hill. Late December was just as bad. We had even more trouble at Pine Hills Mounds. I guess I really shouldn’t say much more. How about you? How are you doing? My secretary tells me that you want to talk about something that pertains to my field of expertise.”
Just then Kallie returned to the table with platters of fish and chips, which she sat before each diner. The meal was served with pinto beans, onions, coleslaw, and hush-puppies. “Here’s tartar sauce and ketchup,” said Kallie. “And the salad bar is now open. COVID-19 couldn’t keep it shut down forever. I’ll be back in about five minutes with your drinks. Enjoy!” She flitted away once again, this time toward the front doors where a couple had just entered into the establishment.
“Well,” said Mr. Harrison, “I was doing better since Ella passed, but then something happened. That’s why I tried to call you at the office. Doc, what do you know about my work and the accident that I had three months ago? And your family owns Chapel Hill, don’t they?”
“Yes, we do. As far as your work and accident, I must admit that I probably don’t know too much more than anyone else. If anyone is looking for a certified or licensed plumber, carpenter, or electrician, you’re the man to call. If something’s wrong with the air conditioner or heater, you’re the man to call. Basically, you do everything. Your shop is out on Highway 73, situated behind your house. You’ve lived there for years, along with Mrs. Ella, until last year when COVID sprang up. You employ several people and operate a number of service trucks. In fact, you started with one truck and now you run six or seven. Finally, I know what the newspaper wrote about an accident you had three months ago at the Oakley house. Something happened while you were working out there, and the house exploded. I’m certain that I read that there was a propane explosion and Palmer Lewis died in the accident? You yourself didn’t escape without injury—you lost part of your right foot, if I’m not mistaken? Other than that, now that I think about it, you’re probably a fairly wealthy man for this part of Texas. But you don’t act like it, and anyone who heard you talk about yourself would probably conclude that you’re a poor man.”
“I lost my whole foot and a portion of my lower right leg. Blown right off, or so the doctors say. That’s why I have this cane and why you surely had to see me limping over here when the young lady brought me to the table. I wear a prosthesis. Otherwise, you more or less have it correct, but you don’t have some details that I have not revealed. Yes, I’m a tradesman. I’m qualified and licensed for just about anything a poor man can’t get rich off of, and I’ve operated out of Mackenson County all of my life. My father was a plumber, and I became a plumber too. Like you said—but more,—I’m also an exterminator, an HVAC specialist, a carpenter, and an electrician. I’m even a beekeeper—occasionally someone will find bees taking up residence on their property and call me to come remove them. With the exception of the latter, I have a license for every trade I pursue. In Texas there is no requirement for a beekeeper to have a permit.” Harrison paused for a sip of water just before Kallie returned with two massive margaritas in attractive deep green glasses. They looked like they could be antiques, but Harrison couldn’t be sure. Judging antiquity had always been Ella’s bailiwick.
“So,” Mr. Harrison continued. “All that is true. It’s also true that a propane explosion occurred, and that Palmer passed away. Well, supposedly he passed away. They never did find his body. I told the authorities that he was in the house, but in reality, he was not. He and I had been beneath the house that morning inspecting the joists and foundation walls. We were looking at everything we could see, doing a very thorough inspection because the Oakley’s had been good friends to Ella and me.” He cut and ate a bite of fish after dipping it into ketchup.
“It’s very good,” he said, before continuing. “Now I need to go back to the beginning, and fill you in on some things that pertain to your work. After I finish speaking I will presume unto eternity that I don’t have to worry about anything, for I have turned it over to the specialists. And I will not speak of it again. Let me also make it clear that I tend to ramble, so please don’t interrupt or we might be here until closing time.”
“Go ahead, Wally,” said Dr. Williamson. He sipped the margarita. “What’s happened?”
“My tale begins with events that took place before the explosion of the Oakley manor, the beautiful Queen Anne that sat not too far away from my house. It is, or rather was, the ancestral Oakley home. You’d think the family would hail from Port Tenby instead of the Clarkston area, but they do not. All of the family’s prosperity comes from the sea, and all the Oakley men have been sailors.”
He continued, “But I don’t want to get off track. About four months ago, Mrs. Abby Oakley passed away from COVID-19—just like my Ella did the previous year—and Captain Oakley left home for awhile to go to sea and clear his mind. Did you know that Mrs. Abby’s real name was Abha? Captain Oakley once sailed down to Mexico and he came back with a wife. She was full blood Mayan, and she had a mean streak. Ella and I had dinner with the Oakleys on many occasions, mainly because Abby liked Ella. From listening to her speech, I was glad that I was on her good side. At any rate, before she passed away she had instructed Thomas, their household steward, to complain to me of low water pressure and a suspected issue with mildew beneath the house. There was also water under the house—it stood in a visible puddle every time it rained and it could be seen standing beneath the house by the crawlspace entryway. We were going to see what we could do about it, if anything, and I really planned on doing a bit of earthwork and installing a plastic vapor barrier beneath the house. The barrier prevents moisture and condensation from building up beneath the house. You have to lay it on the surface of the ground in the home’s crawlspaces.”
“Well, fate arranged it so that the Captain was about to start a contract with a cruise line, his first such experience, and he was in Tenby waiting to go to work. Thomas had returned to Brooklyn to visit his family, and Abby was of course in the cemetery. Thomas had left the house keys at my office before he returned to New York.”
“To begin with, I sent Palmer Lewis and Carter Lee Crandle Jr., son of Carter Crandle Sr., to take a look at the home. I’m fairly sure that you know the Crandles. If you don’t know the son, you surely know Carter Sr. He and his family occasionally eat here on the weekends. Carter Sr. drives that red log truck for Amson’s Timber, and he doesn’t live too far from both me and Captain Campbell Clarke, out north on 73. That’s also where Amson’s Timber is located.”
© 2023-2025 Ren Adama
