The Girl in the Wych Elm (VI)

 

VI. The Red Hound & the Man Bound (re-upload)

Two nights later…

 

Alexander’s paternal grandmother, Philomena Hightower, was often regarded as a superstitious woman by the family. However, to her youngest grandson she was nothing more than a batty old woman who was at the end of her life. In the final three years leading up to her death, Philomena would wander the halls of Old Cahawba like a ghost that had died a long time ago but hadn’t realized it just yet. People who came upon Philomena reported seeing her rambling nonsensically and arguing with the air as if someone stood in front of her. Hightowers who suffered from severe mental illness or decline were often sent away to outside facilities to avoid embarrassment. Since Philomena (at the time) was the mother of a sitting patriarch, she was left to her own devices. No one was allowed to disturb her. While life inside and around Old Cahawba moved on, Philomena was left behind.

Alexander lit a candle in his grandmother’s memory and made the Sign of the Cross. She passed a decade prior when he was around twenty-five. “I guess you weren’t a senile old crone after all, Grandmother Philomena.” The absurd superstition he once heard Philomena muttering came to his mind.

“If a knife drops to the floor, a man will come to visit. If it’s a spoon, then a woman will come.” A fork on the ground meant the visitor was neither man nor woman, but something else. A visitor not of the Mortal Plane.

"I always believed you were nothing more than a stupid nursery rhyme. Just like my grandmother and her superstitions, I was mistaken as well.” Alexander addressed his grotesque uninvited guest.

The ghastly revenant hung from the tree outside the window. Their face was covered by a dark hood with the rope bound tightly around the neck. Their hands were locked inside metal cuffs that dug into the wrists. The body swayed back and forth in the wind like a macabre pendulum.

 

Where is the Bound Man?

Where is the Bound Man?

You see him in that tree?

He’s swinging in the tree!

 

His ropes are bound so tightly.

His ropes are bound so tightly.

So, no one hears his screams.

They’ll never hear him scream!

 

Here comes the Bound Man.

There goes the Bound Man.

He doesn't make a sound cause

His feet don’t touch the ground!

 

We better run away!

You better run away!

If he catches up to you,

You’ll hang with him too!

 

The morbid rhyme of the Bound Man became associated with the High Families over the years due to their history of excessive violence. As children, Alexander and his three older brothers used to sing the rhyme all the time, ignorant to its disturbing lyrics and symbolism. Their father, Thaddeus, despised the rhyme and lashed out at his sons whenever he heard them singing it. For the longest, the brothers could never figure out why their father reacted so negatively towards the Bound Man’s rhyme. They always thought he overreacted too much. When Thaddeus was on his deathbed only then did Alexander uncover the reason.

 

Dorian snapped his fingers in Solomon’s face, rousing the man from his thoughts. “Solomon, what’s wrong? What’s outside?” Dorian strolled over to the window. “What are you looking at?” He scanned the courtyard, trying to find what his brother was so fixated on. Solomon’s expression darkened. Dorian asked again what was wrong, only for Solomon to ignore the question. Dorian was persistent about the answer, however.

“Solomon?” Horatio knocked on the door which saved Solomon from his brother’s irritating pestering. He and Christian were given permission to enter. “Thank you for coming to my suite so last minute. I know you’re both busy men.” He apologized for interrupting their evening but promised he wouldn't keep them long. Solomon motioned to the armchairs. One was already taken by Dorian.

"When the patriarch calls, we come without question.” Horatio replied, claiming the seat beside Dorian. “It’s not a bother. Also, may I?” He asked for a glass of Solomon's high-quality rum. Solomon nodded.

With one chair left open, Christian opted to stand. He thought it was disrespectful to take the last seat from the family’s head. “I’m fine, Christian.” Solomon touched the man’s shoulder. "I've been sitting all day. I need to stay for a while." He insisted Christian have the seat. The man expressed his gratitude and settled in the armchair on Dorian’s other side. Christian was welcomed to a drink as well.

Solomon had summoned the men in regard to the body found in the tree on Alexander’s property. He had yet another task for Horatio and Christian. Solomon wanted information on that body. “I want everything you can find on her: name, her family, and how she died.” He perched on the arm of Horatio’s chair.

Dorian asked why he was even interested in the body. "She's probably a nobody like Alexander said." He raised his hands nonchalantly.

Solomon's attention had briefly returned to the window. “You didn’t notice how guarded Alexander was when I brought up the topic?” Dorian's face lit up with embarrassment. “Alexander has never shied away from his crimes. And yet, the mention of that body had him on the defensive." Solomon noticed a brief trace of distress in his counterpart's eyes.  He thought he was mistaken at first until he replayed the interaction again and again over in his head. Solomon was certain that Alexander knew more than he was letting on. An innocent man had nothing to hide. But then again, Alexander was the furthest person from innocent. The man was damn near evil incarnate to Solomon.

Horatio poured another glass of rum. He swirled the dark liquid around before he took a sip. “Maeve Sinclair has a girl, Jade, who’s relatively popular among the lowborn men of the Crimson.” The lowborn men of Crimson Hightower were not allowed in Maeve’s brothels as ordered by Alexander. He knew some of them were loose lipped with family information when it came to alcohol. That rule, however, didn’t stop the men from sneaking around. Horatio learned through a contact from Jade that the body was stored in the Old Cahawba crypt under heavy watch. “Only a select few are allowed downstairs in the crypt.” The guards that watched the body were specifically picked by Alexander.

Christian gripped his chin. “Now why would our dear mayor go to so much trouble over a meaningless body?” He suspected the girl was connected to someone of great importance. Someone above the High Families. “You don’t think-?” Christian abruptly stopped mid-sentence. “Uh, Solomon?"

“S-sorry…” Solomon's attention had again strayed from the conversation over to the window. The three men turned and looked but saw only the darkness of night. Dorian had never seen Solomon so distracted before in his life and died to know what troubled his brother. Sadly, Dorian knew Solomon would never say. His older brother kept a lot of his personal life private from him. “Anyways,” Solomon cleared his throat, “back to the matter at hand. My father told me after the Hightowers split, one of the Silver Hightowers took the blueprints of Old Cahawba with them.” The stolen blueprints were used in West Eden's construction. Their estate was built in the mirror image of Old Cahawba.

The three men were astonished by the new information. "So, where are these blueprints at?" Dorian asked, propping his feet up on the table. Christian thumped the side of his head, telling Dorian to put his feet down and behave like a Silver Hightower. "Next time use your words." The man grumbled, complying with Christian's demand.

The Old Cahawba blueprints were supposedly stashed away in West Eden’s library. Solomon had no idea where in the library the blueprints were, but he would find out. "Have Bianca, James, and Willow search for them." Solomon addressed Horatio and Christian specifically. Dorian once again found himself left out of important matters, though he hoped Solomon had saved him something important to help with.

Christian squinted at Solomon. “So, we're going to break into Old Cahawba and steal the body?” The question earned a sideways glance from the patriarch.

“No. We’re men of Hightower, not lowly dogs of DeSanguis.” B&E was uncouth for men of their status. “We get the swine to do our dirty work.” The swine was the Sinclair family who Solomon recently established a partnership with. “Maeve and Angelo weren’t pleased with the Rosenheims’ nomination. So, they came to us with an offer.” Solomon resembled Alexander with the devilish smirk on his face.

"You're welcome, by the way." An unappreciated Dorian said to Solomon.

Christian leaned against the armrest. “Maeve Sinclair…She was Alexander’s whore at one point in the past, right?” The irony had him tickled. “The Rosenheims have turned against the DeSanguis, and now Maeve Sinclair against Alexander, no less.” He called the current series of events entertaining.

While the West Eden staff searched for the blueprints, Solomon would squeeze every bit of intel out of Maeve’s women until he uncovered Alexander’s Trojan Horse. “We need to find out how many men at a time Alexander has watching that crypt and when they trade off shifts.” Solomon stressed discretion and precision. Failure would not be tolerated. The men’s tasks were of the greatest priority and importance. Horatio and Christian gave Solomon their promise.

“I’ll pay Maeve a visit tomorrow and see what’s new.” Horatio finished his rum and sat the glass on the tray. Someone would come by and collect it later. Christian, on the other hand, would oversee the search for the Old Cahawba blueprints. The men bid Solomon and Dorian goodnight then excused themselves from the suite.

“You were right on the nose about your theory, Solomon.” Dorian stared down into the empty glass. “I heard from a liaison the Claibournes paid Old Cahawba a visit as well.” The demise of the Grand Families was inevitable. Soon, Solomon could refocus his attention back on the Crimson Hightowers. “I want more responsibilities, Solomon.” Dorian finally manned up and expressed his feelings of frustration to his brother. He was told in the nicest way possible to stay out of Christian’s and Horatio’s way. They could take care of things without his assistance. The reply got under Dorian’s skin badly.

Though Dorian Hightower wasn’t woefully incompetent, he wasn’t wholly competent either. The younger brother wasn’t as goal-oriented or driven like Solomon but always distracted and consumed by his own pleasures and desires. Dorian was regarded as a liability rather than an asset like Horatio and Christian. Solomon reminded his brother it wasn’t personal; it was business.

Infuriated, Dorian smashed the glass against the table. Shards of glass scattered everywhere. “What all will it take for me to prove my worth to you? I’m your brother and yet you treat them better than me. I’m-I’m not a doll on a shelf you can pull out when it suits you.” He was incredibly hurt by Solomon’s treatment and indifference towards him. Dorian only wanted to be useful to his brother but felt like Solomon wouldn’t let him.

The judge crossed his arms and looked down at Dorian disapprovingly. “Yet here you are, throwing a tantrum and breaking things like a spoiled child who didn’t get his way. You can sit there until you’re red in the face screaming, ‘I can do this. I can do that,’ but it won’t ever mean anything to me if your actions don’t reflect your words. If your behaviors don’t change.” Solomon elaborated on the difference between Dorian and Horatio and Christian. They were committed to Solomon’s cause, no matter what it was. They were always willing to serve. Dorian wasn’t and had never been. “You never were because you never had to be, Dorian. They gave you everything and never made you work for anything. That’s why you can’t take things seriously.” Solomon was disgusted by his brother’s lack of self-awareness. “I had to work for everything. I had to work for all of this. I had to prove myself while you were allowed to be mediocre.” His hand slapped loudly against his palm.

The relationship dynamics among Solomon and his two siblings had always been troublesome and chaotic. The brothers’ older sister, Gianna, was the first child and only daughter. Solomon was the first son but the middle child. He was often overlooked by his parents in favor of his sister and brother. Gianna had been chronically sick since birth and required around the clock attention and care. Dorian being the baby of the three was naturally doted on and spoiled. Solomon adored his sister Gianna but never cared too much for Dorian. On the other hand, Dorian admired and idolized Solomon but was envious of Gianna due to the attention his older brother gave her.

Solomon’s position as patriarch was supposed to be Dorian’s destined birthright. But their great-uncle Prospero, the proceeding patriarch, chose Solomon in favor of Dorian, to their parents displeasure and anger. He saw much of himself in Solomon and also knew he was the most competent candidate to lead the family. Solomon’s ascension to patriarch caused a deeper rift between him and his parents. They refused to accept their oldest son as the family’s head, to Solomon’s dismay.

Dorian felt like an incredible jackass when looking back on his parents’ constant mistreatment of Solomon and their favoritism for him. He apologized to his brother, begging for forgiveness. The painful reality was like an impassable kidney stone. Solomon was right about everything he said about Dorian. “I know words mean little to you compared to actions, but I mean this from the bottom of my heart. I’ve taken in everything you said just now, and I plan to work on a better version of me.” He promised he would prove his usefulness to Solomon. Dorian’s greatest fear was being cast aside by his brother. He would get serious and work on becoming the right-hand man Solomon could call upon.

Dorian, hanging his head, wished her brother goodnight and excused himself. But as he trudged past his brother towards the door, Solomon pulled him into his tight embrace and kissed his forehead. “Have a goodnight, Dorian.” The unexpected affection raised Dorian’s mood. Though Solomon rarely showed it, he did love his brother to some capacity.

When Dorian shut the door behind him, Solomon walked over to the window. It began to rain. "Do you know what Alexander is hiding from me?" The patriarch asked the Bound Man who dangled in the rainy wind. He leaned against the windowsill, unbothered by their presence as Alexander had also been. Neither Solomon nor Alexander were aware the other had been visited by the Bound Man that night.

Solomon’s very first encounter with the phantom was in one of his nightmares. Since that first nightmare, the Bound Man appeared to him again and again. Eventually, the Bound Man began appearing to Solomon during his waking hours, no longer confined to his nightmares. They quietly stalked the judge around West Eden and Wych Elm at every turn of the corner. The Bound Man’s presence disrupted Solomon’s peace, which he found a nuisance.

The Bound Man and the girl discovered in the tree seemed connected somehow. Solomon realized the entity manifested not too long after the body was initially found. Trees were the common denominator between the two. That was Solomon’s hypothesis, and he staked everything on it. He needed that girl’s body as soon as possible. Solomon believed she was the key to ending the Bound Man’s haunting of him.

 

 

The head Sheriff of Wych Elm was Ishmael DeSanguis, but he was commonly referred to by his infamous moniker, the Red Hound of Hightower. The people of Wych Elm bestowed him that epithet because of the way Ishmael trailed after Alexander like a wet, clingy puppy desperate for his master’s attention, praise, and love. His undying loyalty towards the mayor as his right hand enforcer was unshakable. Ishamel, however, abhorred that dreaded nickname. People knew better than to utter that name within and around his presence. A fearsome man with a violent temperament, Hell’s wrath was nothing compared to Ishmael’s when he was irate. Sometimes, it couldn’t be helped though. If Alexander told him to jump, Ishmael replied, "How high?" If Alexander told him to dig a hole, he asked, "How deep?" If Alexander needed him to kill, Ishmael simply replied, "Who?" He was just like an actual dog, an obedient hound to his master. A foolish, obedient hound with no sense of autonomy when he was around Alexander. Ishmael’s obsessive and overprotective nature when it came to Alexander disturbed everyone in Wych Elm alike.

Second, only to the Hightowers, the DeSanguis family was once feared a long time ago, but their reputation became tarnished after Ishmael ascended to the head of the family. They found their existence forever tied to the Crimson Hightowers, which left sour tastes in the mouths of many. The family was collectively known as, "The Hounds of Hightower" at intervals. The DeSanguis became the laughingstock of the High Families to the people of Wych Elm. Ishmael might have been a symbol of authority and the patriarch of the DeSanguis, but to his family he was an embarrassment. A stain on their reputation. Too naive and incompetent to see that Alexander had the Red Hound strung up tightly on his puppet strings.

"Christ, Ishmael! We're using a woodchipper to do this, seriously?" Hector was horrified and disgusted by the sight of the bloody machine. Ishmael had started on the disposal ahead of their arrival. Poor Samuel couldn’t stomach the gruesome desecration and opted to dismember the bodies instead.

Ishmael ridiculed the brothers, calling them soft. "You've been involved in worse." He shoved a severed woman's arm down into the machine. Blood splashed onto him and Hector. Samuel hurried behind a tree and vomited. The crooked sheriff bellowed with laughter at his reaction. "Just weak..." Ishmael commented, lighting a cigarette. “Next time, bring Hannah and leave Princess Plum with the women.” He told Hector. “We should probably get him a Ginger Ale or something.” The night was going to be exhaustingly long for the men. They still had eight more bodies that needed to be dismembered and shredded.

Once Samuel finished vomiting, he shuffled up to Ishmael and Hector. The man looked like a walking corpse. "Hannah and the women are finished with the second house. They're moving on to the next one." He informed the men in a gloomy tone before shuffling over to the stack of bodies wrapped in tarps.

Ishmael, amused, erupted into laughter again. "Maybe my new disposal method went a little too far." He watched as Samuel vomited a second time. "I don't remember him having such a weak stomach when we were kids. This can't be the same Samuel that blew up rabbits, mice, and squirrels with firecrackers."

"Yeah, well, there's a difference between blowing up Bambi's woodland friends and making minced human meat in a woodchipper." Hector pushed a man's leg down into the woodchipper. "Why didn't we just stuff their bodies in drums of acid and dump them out to sea?" That was their usual method of disposal which Hector preferred. It was a simple process that involved less blood and... macabre measures.

Ishmael informed the man he had cut ties with the supplier for the drums of acid. "He started asking for too much money." He inhaled his cigarette.

Hector leaned against a tree, looking at Ishmael with a doubtful expression. "You killed the man, didn't you?" The sheriff raised his hands; he was guilty.

"It was a shame too." Ishmael grabbed another woman's arm from the pile of body parts. "I really liked the guy, but he started getting too greedy for my liking. Started charging a leg and an... arm for drums of acid." Ishmael cackled at this corny joke. He tossed the severed arm at Hector. The man stepped out of the way, allowing the limb to strike the tree. Hector glanced down at the fallen limb then back at Ishmael. “By the way, congratulations on your membership into the High Families.” He said with the cigarette clenched between his teeth. Ishmael grabbed two severed hands and clapped them together. “I really hope the news has found its way to that dumbass by now.” Ishmael and Orion hated each other. He itched to rub the loss in the man’s face. “The little bitch is probably somewhere kicking up dirt right now.” Ishmael spat out his cigarette. “That pansy should have never come back here.”

Hector picked up the limb Ishmael had thrown at him and tossed it inside the machine. “There’s got to be some kind of mental illness he’s suffering from.” He couldn’t wrap his head around Orion’s decision to return to Wych Elm after what happened to his family. It was an enigma despite Orion’s “reasoning.” Hector, under no circumstances, would have aligned himself with people who robbed him of everything.

“Yeah… it’s called being delusional.” Ishmael painted the ground with his spit. “And stupid.” He then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Enough about that asshole.” The Red Hound changed the topic. He had something important he wanted to ask Hector now that he was a member of the High Families. Ishmael needed to know if Hector and his family had really intended to go against the High Families with the Grand Families. “And don’t lie to me either.” He said, warning his friend.

Hector hunched over, laughing. “How do you think those whispers around town started?” Ishmael was satisfied with the answer. He called Hector a cold-hearted son of a bitch.

“So, you never planned to be loyal to them from the start?” Hector shook his head no. Ishmael wanted further information. “What’s your end goal now?” He leaned against the woodchipper.

Hector said with a smile, “to be rewarded.” Ishmael raised his brow at the vague answer. Hector revealed to Ishmael that he had always despised his family’s “business” since the day he became aware of how they made their money. It was a life he was forced into against his will. A life he never wanted any parts in and still didn’t up until that moment. Hector spent years searching for a way out of that business and found it by accident when he learned of the Grand Families and joined them. Hamona had vineyards and olive groves. Jerome had a meat farm. Hell, even Maeve’s business was a little more reputable than his. As the head of the Rosenheim family, Hector only wanted a better future for his family and for his descendants. “Don’t get me wrong, Ishmael. My family is forever grateful and indebted to yours for what you all did for us.” He meant every word, despite Ishmael’s occasional mistreatment of him.

The Rosenheim and DeSanguis families had deep ties that dated back over a hundred years. Hugo Rosenheim was falsely accused of a crime and almost executed. Ishmael’s family pleaded the man’s innocence to the High Families and had Hugo’s life spared. He repaid the DeSanguis family by serving as their “cleaner” which as a result, bound his descendants to the DeSanguis like vassals.

“Hmm…? Well, I can’t fault you there.” Ishmael replied, lighting another cigarette. He was content knowing where his childhood friends’ loyalty lied.  

“But truth be told, Ishmael, I never anticipated joining the High Families.” Hector carried an arm full of body parts over to the woodchipper. One by one, he dropped them down into the vat. “Don’t get me wrong, I have no complaints. This will be a nice adjustment.” Hector kept the loud part silent from Ishmael. He didn’t care for the High Families. Hector’s new status as a member meant little to him. Everything he did was for his family’s benefit, not theirs. Any vote or decision his family made would always align with the decisions Ishmael made. That’s how little he cared about the politics of Wych Elm and its High Families.

Ishmael bumped elbows with Hector since their gloves were covered in blood. “Don’t worry my friend. You’ll be rewarded extensively.” The sheriff winked at him.

“I do have one other request.” Ishmael threw a curious glance over his shoulder. “When the High Families destroy the Grand Families, leave Fabio for me.” The Red Hound’s cackling echoed through the dark woods. He asked Hector what their beef was about. The Rosenheim man simply told him that he just really hated the guy. “He’s a dick.” Ishmael gave Hector his word. “I won't lie. I do feel some level of guilt over what I'm doing." Hector admitted that he liked some of the alliance’s members. He didn’t that Marvin, Jerome, and Elissa, her especially, would be caught in the crossfires. Unfortunately, it couldn’t be helped.

“A wise man, probably a psychopath or someone, once said, ‘You don’t get ahead in life without stepping on top of some people.’” Ishmael stared down at his blood-soaked gloves. That quote resonated with him heavily. He then picked up the last batch of body parts and dumped them wildly into the woodchipper. “All the world’s a stage, Hector. Some of us were given better roles in the play than others.” Ishmael told Hector that he did nothing wrong. He merely accepted a role with a better part because it was offered to him by the directors. The role of a pawn, as all of them were (even Ishmael) on the Hightowers’ chessboard.

“I see…” Hector lowered his head. He tried to hide his guilt-riddled expression from Ishmael, but the Red Hound noticed. Ishmael told his friend it was okay to feel some guilt, but not to be dissuaded by it. He had goals, aspirations, and dreams like everyone else. Because if Hector or his family ever double crossed the High Families, they would all meet their ends headfirst inside a woodchipper too.

Author's Note: I made some name changes again (I apologize for the ADHD/indecisiveness). The Rosenbaums are now the Rosenheims. Tristan is now Hector. Arrien is now Orion. Also, the Bound Man's rhyme is sung to the tune of Frère Jacques.