Ange said.
“Our first foray into Dogwood,” Julie said, putting mock dreaminess in her voice.
“Hillbilly Heaven. Hold me back.” Angela jumped up and bounced off to her room.
Julie sat down at her laptop and limbered her fingers. Rain ticked against the window. A flash of lightning illuminated the gathering of angels in the garden below. She shivered pleasurably.
* * * *
Liza Leatherwood sat in her rocker before the cold fireplace and listened with dead ears to the ringing silence of the room. The deep quiet made her feel as if she were not fully in the world. Her loss of hearing heightened her remaining senses, sharpening them against the surrounding silence. She no longer clearly heard the familiar sounds of summer night on the mountain. She didn’t hear the wind moaning around the eaves of the house or hear the rain pattering on the roof. She could feel the bone-deep vibrations of thunder but she heard them distinctly only in her memory. She felt the creaking of the wooden rocking chair but she scarcely heard it.
She regretted the incremental loss of her hearing and it made her sad to know that the remainder of her allotted time on the mountain would be spent in virtual silence, but she also felt a sense of triumph. The shrill call of the beast would fall impotently on her partially deaf ears. She would not be pressed against her will into the service of evil revelry and brutal slaughter. A woman her age probably wouldn’t survive the Helling anyway and therefore wouldn’t have to live with her evil deeds, but now, being immune, Liza no longer had to fear for her soul.
She unscrewed the metal lid, turned the jar up to her lips and sipped again of the strong spirits. Then she opened the leather-bound book in her lap and began to read another Hawthorne story.
She heard the great man’s words in her mind and they resonated within her breast. Hawthorne’s deathless voice soothed her for a time. Then her eyes grew tired and she shut the book and wiped away a tear with a lacy hankie.
* * * *
With a delicious shudder, Alfred Thorn smoothed the photocopied pages of Reverend Waller’s journal on his desk. His small office was a bubble of security, a cozy cubbyhole on this stormy summer night. He was the only person in the building, according to Sam Bellows, the nightshift campus security guard.
Thorn packed his pipe and fired it up, savoring the taste and aromatic tang of Prince Albert tobacco—the same brand his grandfather had smoked most of his life. There was no smoking on campus, but there was no one here to catch him at it and complain. He read the first line of the entry he hadn’t let Sharyn see, but his mind wouldn’t stay focused on the words. He kept seeing the fear in Sharyn’s eyes and in the worry lines around her eyes’ corners—fear he’d added to by showing her Waller’s handwritten words and bringing up the subject of Pan. Now he wished he hadn’t done it. He should’ve kept the visit light and just let her know he was there for her, but he’d let the excitement of discovery get the better of him and he had foolishly brought her into his search for the secret of Widow’s Ridge.
“The Secret of Widow’s Ridge,” he said aloud, thinking it would make a fine subtitle for the scholarly article he intended to write for
The American Journal of Anthropology,
once he got to the bottom of the folkloric mystery. Then he once again saw Sharyn’s fear-constricted face and he winced. He shouldn’t have indulged in such speculative fantasy in front of her. What the devil had he been thinking? He’d inadvertently provided her with raw material to feed her near-delusional thinking about some demon of the dark wood calling to her. How could he have been so insensitive? He didn’t know much about bipolar disorder, but he knew that when the body chemistry was out of whack, the typical manic-depressive was prone to delusional thinking. He damned well should’ve known better than to
“Our first foray into Dogwood,” Julie said, putting mock dreaminess in her voice.
“Hillbilly Heaven. Hold me back.” Angela jumped up and bounced off to her room.
Julie sat down at her laptop and limbered her fingers. Rain ticked against the window. A flash of lightning illuminated the gathering of angels in the garden below. She shivered pleasurably.
* * * *
Liza Leatherwood sat in her rocker before the cold fireplace and listened with dead ears to the ringing silence of the room. The deep quiet made her feel as if she were not fully in the world. Her loss of hearing heightened her remaining senses, sharpening them against the surrounding silence. She no longer clearly heard the familiar sounds of summer night on the mountain. She didn’t hear the wind moaning around the eaves of the house or hear the rain pattering on the roof. She could feel the bone-deep vibrations of thunder but she heard them distinctly only in her memory. She felt the creaking of the wooden rocking chair but she scarcely heard it.
She regretted the incremental loss of her hearing and it made her sad to know that the remainder of her allotted time on the mountain would be spent in virtual silence, but she also felt a sense of triumph. The shrill call of the beast would fall impotently on her partially deaf ears. She would not be pressed against her will into the service of evil revelry and brutal slaughter. A woman her age probably wouldn’t survive the Helling anyway and therefore wouldn’t have to live with her evil deeds, but now, being immune, Liza no longer had to fear for her soul.
She unscrewed the metal lid, turned the jar up to her lips and sipped again of the strong spirits. Then she opened the leather-bound book in her lap and began to read another Hawthorne story.
She heard the great man’s words in her mind and they resonated within her breast. Hawthorne’s deathless voice soothed her for a time. Then her eyes grew tired and she shut the book and wiped away a tear with a lacy hankie.
* * * *
With a delicious shudder, Alfred Thorn smoothed the photocopied pages of Reverend Waller’s journal on his desk. His small office was a bubble of security, a cozy cubbyhole on this stormy summer night. He was the only person in the building, according to Sam Bellows, the nightshift campus security guard.
Thorn packed his pipe and fired it up, savoring the taste and aromatic tang of Prince Albert tobacco—the same brand his grandfather had smoked most of his life. There was no smoking on campus, but there was no one here to catch him at it and complain. He read the first line of the entry he hadn’t let Sharyn see, but his mind wouldn’t stay focused on the words. He kept seeing the fear in Sharyn’s eyes and in the worry lines around her eyes’ corners—fear he’d added to by showing her Waller’s handwritten words and bringing up the subject of Pan. Now he wished he hadn’t done it. He should’ve kept the visit light and just let her know he was there for her, but he’d let the excitement of discovery get the better of him and he had foolishly brought her into his search for the secret of Widow’s Ridge.
“The Secret of Widow’s Ridge,” he said aloud, thinking it would make a fine subtitle for the scholarly article he intended to write for
The American Journal of Anthropology,
once he got to the bottom of the folkloric mystery. Then he once again saw Sharyn’s fear-constricted face and he winced. He shouldn’t have indulged in such speculative fantasy in front of her. What the devil had he been thinking? He’d inadvertently provided her with raw material to feed her near-delusional thinking about some demon of the dark wood calling to her. How could he have been so insensitive? He didn’t know much about bipolar disorder, but he knew that when the body chemistry was out of whack, the typical manic-depressive was prone to delusional thinking. He damned well should’ve known better than to
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