Читать книгу: «Faerie Tale», страница 3
• Chapter Five •
Sean tried to settle deeply into the bunk bed. The smells were new to him. Old feather pillows had been dug out of a closet when it was discovered the boy’s familiar ones hadn’t been where they were expected to be, and despite the clean pillowcases, they had an ancient, musty odour. And the house made strange sounds. Creaks and groans could be faintly heard; odd clutters and whispers made by creatures of darkness had Sean burrowing deeply below the heavy comforter, peeking out over the edge, afraid to relax his vigil for an instant.
‘Patrick?’ he whispered, to be answered by his brother’s deep breathing. Patrick didn’t share Sean’s fear of the dark. The first night Patrick had tried to bully his brother out of the top bunk – they had both wanted the novel experience of sleeping that high off the ground – but Mom had prevented a fight and Sean had picked the number closer to the one she had been thinking. Now Sean wondered at the whim of chance that put him in the top bed. Everything looked weird from up high.
The moon’s glow came through the window, and the light level rose and fell as clouds crawled slowly across the sky, alternately plunging the room into deep gloom and lightening to what seemed almost daylight. The dancing shadows had an odd pattern Sean had come to recognize.
Outside, an old elm tree rose beside the bedroom, its branches swaying gently in the breeze. When the moon was not obscured, the tree shadows became more distinct, making their own display. The thick leaves rustled in the night wind, casting fluttering shadows that shifted and moved around the room, shapes of ebon and grey that capered in mad abandon, filling the night with menace.
Sean watched the play of shadows with a thrill of danger that was almost delicious, a sweaty-palm-and-neck-hairs-standing sort of feeling. Then something changed. In the blackest part of the gloom, deep in the far corner, something moved. Sean felt his chest tighten as cold gripped his stomach. Moving in the wrong rhythm, against the flow of greys and blacks, it was coming towards the boys’ bunk beds.
‘Patrick,’ Sean repeated loudly. His brother stirred and made a sleepy sound as the shape began to slither along the floor. It would move a beat, weaving its way across the carpet, then pause, and Sean strained his eyes to see it, for when it was still, it would vanish. For long, agonizing moments he couldn’t see any hint of motion, then just when he finally relaxed, thinking it gone or an illusion, it would stir again. The maddeningly indistinct shape approached the bed slowly, at last disappearing below the foot of the bunks, out of Sean’s view.
‘Patrick!’ Sean said, scooting backwards to the corner of the bunk furthest from the creeping shadow. Then he heard a sound of claws upon wood, as something climbed the old bedpost. Sean held his breath. Two clawlike shapes, dark and terrible in their deformity, appeared beyond the end of the bunks, as if reaching up blindly for something, followed an instant later by a misshapen mask of terror and hate, a black, twisted visage with impossible eyes, black opal irises surrounded by a yellow that seemed to glow in the gloom. Sean screamed.
Suddenly Patrick was awake and shouting and an instant later Gloria was standing in the doorway turning on the lights.
Phil was a moment behind, and Gabbie’s voice came through the door of her room. ‘What’s going on?’
Gloria reached up and hugged Sean. ‘What is it, honey?’
‘Something …’ began Sean. Unable to continue, he pointed. Phil made a display of investigating the room while Gloria calmed the frightened boy. Gabbie stuck her head in the room and said, ‘What’s going on?’ She wore the oversized UCLA T-shirt she used as a nightgown.
With a mixture of contempt and relief in his voice, Patrick said, ‘Sean’s had a nightmare.’
His brother’s tone of disdain caused Sean to react. ‘It wasn’t a dream! There was something in the room!’
‘Well,’ said Phil, ‘whatever it was, it’s gone.’
‘Honey, it was just a bad dream.’
‘It was not,’ said Sean, halfway between frustrated tears at not being believed and a fervent hope they were right.
‘You just go back to sleep and I’ll stay here until you do. Okay?’
Sean seemed unconvinced, but said, ‘’Kay.’ He settled in and began to accept the idea he had been dreaming. With his mother nearby and the light on, the black face seemed a nightmare design, not a thing of solid existence.
‘Broth-er,’ said Patrick in disgust. He rolled over and made a display of needing no such reassurance.
Gabbie’s grumbling followed her back into her own room as Phil flipped off the light. Gloria remained, standing patiently next to Sean’s bunk until he fell asleep.
Outside the boys’ bedroom window, something dark and alien slithered down the drainpipe and swung onto the nearest tree branch. It leaped and spun from branch to branch as it descended, dropping the last ten feet to the ground. It moved with an unnaturally quick, rolling gait, a stooped-over apelike shape. It paused near the gazebo, looking back over its shoulder with opalescent dark eyes towards the boys’ window. Another movement, in the woods, caused it to duck down, as if fearing discovery. Bright twinkling lights flashed for an instant, darting between boles, and vanished from view. The dark creature hesitated, waiting until the lights were gone, then scampered off towards the woods, making odd whispering sounds.
• Chapter Six •
The house became a home, slowly, with resistance, but soon the odd corners had been explored and the ancient odours had become commonplace. The idiosyncrasies of the house – the strange little storage area beneath the stairs next to the cellar door, the odd shed in the back, the way the pipes upstairs rattled – all these things became familiar. Gloria considered her family: Gabbie wasn’t happy but had ceased brooding, and the twins shared their secret world, seemingly content wherever their family was. Gloria had been most concerned over their reaction to the move, but they had shown the least difficulty in adapting. The most positive aspect of the move had been in Phil’s attitude. He was writing every day and seemed transported. He refused to show Gloria any of his work so far, saying he felt superstitious. She knew that was so much bullshit, for she had talked out story ideas into the night with him before. She knew he was simply afraid she wouldn’t like what he was writing and the bubble would burst. All in good time, she thought, all in good time.
Seventeen days after Jack Cole’s visit, a note was delivered by the mailman. It was addressed to ‘Philip Hastings and Family’. Gloria opened it while Phil scanned a letter from his literary agent. ‘… look forward to presenting your newest work. Several publishers already have expressed interest …’ Phil read aloud.
‘Read this,’ Gloria instructed as she handed him the note.
He scanned the envelope and frowned. One of his pet quirks was about Gloria’s opening letters addressed to him, something she loved to do. ‘It said, “and Family”. That’s me,’ she said with mock challenge in her tone.
Phil sighed. ‘Defeated before I begin.’ He read aloud, ‘ “Mrs Agatha Grant invites Mr Philip Hastings and family to dinner, Sunday 24 June. Cocktails at 5 p.m. Regrets only.”’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means RSVP only if you can’t come, you California barbarian.’
Gloria playfully kicked her husband. ‘Barbarian! Who was it who called the town “La Jawl-lah” the first time he propositioned me?’
‘I did?’
‘You most certainly did. It was at Harv Moran’s house, at the wrap party for Bridesdale. You came sliding up to me while my date was over getting drinks – Robbie Tedesco, that was who I was with. You and I had just met at the studio the day before and you said, “I’ve got an invitation to spend the weekend at a friend’s beach house in La Jawl-lah. Do you think you could get away for a couple of days?”’ She spoke the lines with a deep voice, mimicking his speech patterns.
Phil looked only mildly embarrassed. ‘I remember, I still can’t believe I did that. I had never asked a near stranger to spend the weekend with me before.’ Then he smiled. ‘Well, you did come with me.’
Gloria laughed. ‘I did, didn’t I? I guess I just figured someone was going to grab up this eastern square and it might as well be me.’ She playfully grabbed a handful of his greying hair and pulled his head down, kissing him quickly. ‘And La Jolla was beautiful.’
‘So were you … as you still are,’ he said, kissing her deeply. He felt her respond. Playfully nipping at her neck, he whispered, ‘We haven’t pulled a nooner in years, kiddo.’
Then the phone rang, and Gabbie shouted from upstairs, ‘I’ll get it!’
Instantly they heard the sound of the screen door slamming as the boys tromped into the kitchen. ‘Maaa!’ shouted Patrick.
‘What’s for lunch?’ inquired Sean in counterpoint.
Passion fled. Leaning against her husband, Gloria shook her head. ‘Such are the prices of parenthood.’ With a quick kiss, she said, ‘Hold that last thought for tonight, lover.’
Gabbie came running partway down the stairs, holding the phone at the limit of the cord’s ability to stretch. ‘It’s Jack. He’s back. We’re going riding this afternoon, then getting a bite and a movie. So I won’t be home for dinner. Okay?’
Phil said, ‘Sure,’ as the boys came marching in from the kitchen. Gabbie dashed back up the stairs.
‘Mom,’ said Patrick, ‘what’s for lunch?’
‘We’re hungry,’ agreed Sean.
Gloria shrugged regretfully towards her husband. Putting her hands on her sons’ shoulders, she turned them around and said, ‘With me, troops.’ Suddenly she was gone, heading for the kitchen to feed her small brood. Phil could still smell her clean scent in the hall air and felt the deep stirrings that contact with her always brought quickly into existence. With a sigh of regret at the moment’s being gone, he returned to reading the mail as he walked back towards his study.
• Chapter Seven •
Gabbie stood in mute and pleasant surprise. At last she said, ‘All right!’ slowly drawing out the exclamation.
Jack smiled as he motioned for her to come and take the reins of the bay mare he had led. It was a beautiful, well-cared-for animal. Gabby took the reins. ‘They’re terrific.’
‘Mr Laudermilch raises Thoroughbreds and warm-blood crosses. He’s a friend of Aggie’s and I’ve helped out around his farm, so he lets me borrow one every so often. He used to race Thoroughbreds, but now he’s into jumpers.’
Gabbie admired the animals, noting the curve of the neck and the way the tail rose up, and the slightly forward-facing ears. ‘These have some Arabian in them,’ she declared, as she took the reins from Jack.
Jack nodded with a grin. ‘And quarter horse. These don’t compete. They’re what Mr Laudermilch calls “riding-around stock”. Yours is called My Dandelion and this is John Adams.’
She hugged the mare’s neck and patted it. ‘Hi, baby,’ she crooned. ‘We’re going to be buddies, aren’t we?’ She quickly mounted. Settling into the unusual position of the English saddle, she said, ‘God, this feels weird.’
Jack said, ‘I’m sorry. I thought you rode English.’
Gabbie shook her head as she spurred her mount forward. ‘Nope, cowgirl. I’ve ridden English before. It’s just been a long time.’ She waved at her foot. ‘Acme cowboy boots. I’ll pick up some proper breeches and high top boots in town. My knees will be a little bruised tomorrow, is all.’
They rode out towards the woods, Gabbie letting Jack take the lead. ‘Watch out for low branches,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘These paths aren’t cleared like riding trails.’
She nodded and studied his face as he turned back towards the path. She smiled to herself at the way his back moved as he reined his horse. Definitely a fox, she thought to herself, then wondered if there was a girlfriend back at the college.
The trail widened and she moved up beside him, saying ‘These woods are pretty. I’m more used to the hills around the Valley.’
‘Valley?’
‘San Fernando Valley.’ She made a face. ‘Ya know, fer sher, like a Valley girl, totally tubular, man. I mean, like bitchin’, barf out, and all that shit.’ She looked irritated at the notion. ‘I grew up in Arizona. That image grosses me out.’ Suddenly she laughed at the slip and was joined by Jack. ‘LA’s just reclaimed desert. Turn off the garden hose and all the green goes away. It’s all chaparral – scrub, you know – on the hills north of the valley. Some stands of trees around streams. A lot of eucalyptus – nothing like these woods. It’s mostly hot and dry, and real dusty. But I’m used to it.’
He smiled, and she decided she liked the way his mouth turned up. ‘I’ve never been west of the Mississippi, myself. Thought I’d get out to Los Angeles once a few years back, but I broke my leg sailing and that shot the whole summer.’
‘How’d you manage that?’
‘Fell off the boat and hit a patch of hard water.’
For a moment she paused in consideration, for he had answered with a straight face, then she groaned. ‘You bullshitter. You’re as bad as my dad.’
‘I take that as a compliment,’ he answered with a grin. ‘Actually, some fool who thought he could sail put the boat around in a gybe without warning any of us, and I caught the boom and got knocked overboard. Smashed my leg all up. I spent the next day and a half with a paddle for a splint while we headed back to Tampa. Spent nine weeks in a cast, then six more in a walking cast. The surgeon was great, but my leg’s not a hundred per cent. When it gets cold, I limp a little. And I can’t run worth spit. So I walk a lot.’
They rode in silence for a while, enjoying the warm spring day in the woods. Suddenly there was an awkward moment, as each waited for the other to speak. At last Jack said, ‘What are you studying?’
Gabbie shrugged. ‘I haven’t decided. I’m only a few units into my sophomore year, really. I’m sort of hung up between psychology and lit.’
‘I don’t know much about psych.’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘I mean, what you would do when you graduated. But either means grad school if you want to use them.’
She shrugged again. ‘Like I said, I’m barely a sophomore. I’ve got a while.’ She was quiet for a long time, then blurted, ‘What I’d like to do is write.’
He nodded. ‘Considering your parents, that’s not surprising.’
What was surprising, thought Gabbie, was that she had said that. She had never told anyone, not even Jill Moran, her best friend. ‘That’s the trouble, I guess. Everyone will expect it to be brilliant. What if it’s no good?’
Jack looked at her with a serious expression on his face. ‘Then it’ll be no good.’
She reined in, trying to read his mood. He looked away, thoughtfully, his profile lit from behind by the sun shining through the trees. ‘I tried to write for a long time before I gave up. A historical novel, Durham County. About my neck of the woods at the turn of the century. There were pans of it that I thought were fine.’ He paused. ‘It was pretty awful. It was difficult admitting it at the end, because enough of my friends kept encouraging me that I thought it was good for a long time. I don’t know. You just have to do it, I guess.’
She sighed as she patted the horse’s neck. Her dark hair fell down, hiding her face, as she said, ‘Still, you don’t have two writers for parents. My mother’s won a Pulitzer and my father was nominated for an Oscar. All I’ve managed is some dumb poetry.’
He nodded, then turned his mount and began riding along the trail. After a long silence he said, ‘I still think you just have to do it.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ she answered. ‘Look, did you keep any of the stuff your friends told you was great?’
With an embarrassed smile, he said, ‘All of it. The whole damn half novel.’
‘I’ll make you a deal. You let me see yours and I’ll let you see mine.’ Jack laughed hard at the school-yard phrase and shook his head. ‘What’s the matter? ’Fraid?’
‘No,’ Jack barely managed to croak as he continued to laugh uncontrollably.
‘Scaredy-cat,’ Gabbie mimicked, plunging Jack into deeper hilarity.
Jack finally said, ‘Okay, I give up. I’ll let you read my stuff … maybe.’
‘Maybe!’
The argument continued as they crested a small rise and vanished behind it. From deep within the woods a pair of light blue eyes watched their passing. A figure emerged from the underbrush, a lithe, youthful figure who moved lightly on bare feet to the top of the path. From behind a bole he watched Gabbie as she moved down the trail. His eyes caressed her young back, drinking in the sight of her long dark hair, her slender waist, and the rounded buttocks as she held a good seat on the horse’s back. The youth’s laughter was high-pitched and musical. It was an alien sound, childlike and ancient, holding a hint of savage songs, primitive revelries, and music-filled hot nights. His curly red-brown hair surrounded a face conceived by Michelangelo or a Pre-Raphaelite painter. ‘Pretty,’ the young man said to the tree, patting the ancient bark as if it understood. ‘Very pretty.’ Then, nearby, a bird sounded a call, and the youth looked up. His voice shrilled with inhuman tones, a whistling whisper, as if a mockingbird imitated the call. The little bird darted about, seeking the intruder in its territory. The youth shrieked in glee at the harmless jest, as the bird continued to search for the trespasser. Then the youth sighed as he considered the beautiful girl who had passed.
High above, among the leaves, a thing of blackness clung tenaciously to the underside of a branch. It had watched the two riders with as much interest as the youth. But its thoughts were neither merry nor playful. An urgent need arose within, halfway between lust and hunger. Beauty affected it as much as the youth. But its desires were different, for, while lust was the youth’s driving motivation, to the black thing under the tree branch beauty was only a beginning, a point of departure. And only the destruction of beauty allowed one to understand it. The fullness of Gabbie’s beauty could be realized only by a slow journey through pain and anguish, torment and hopelessness, ending with blood and death. And if the pain was artful, as the master had taught, such torment could be made to last for ages.
As it contemplated its alien dark thoughts, musing on the simple wonder of suffering, the black thing realized a truth. Whatever pleasure the girl’s destruction could produce would be nothing compared to the elation that could result from the destruction of the two boys. Such wonderful children, still innocent, still pure. They were the prize. Lingering terror and pain given to such as they would … The creature shuddered in dark anticipation at the image, then stilled itself, lest the one below take notice and make the black thing feel just such pain in turn. The youth stood another moment, one hand upon the tree, the other absently clutching at his groin as he held the image of the lovely human girl who had ridden past. Then, with a move like a spinning dance, the man-boy leaped back into the green vegetation, vanishing from mortal sight, leaving the small clearing empty save for the reverberations of impish laughter.
The black thing waited motionless after the youth vanished into the woods, for despite his youthful appearance, he was one to be feared, one who could cause great harm. When it was satisfied he was gone, and not playing one of his cruel tricks, it sprang with a powerful leap away from the tree. Its movements through the branches were alien, the articulation of its joints nothing of this world, as it hurried on its own errand of dark purpose.
• Chapter Eight •
‘What’s your mother doing?’ asked Jack.
‘I don’t know. Last I heard she was off someplace in Central or South America, writing about another civil war or revolution.’ Gabbie sighed. ‘I don’t hear from her a lot, maybe three letters in the last five years. She and my dad split up when I was less than five. That’s when she got caught up doing the book on the fall of Saigon.’
‘I read it. It was brilliant.’
Gabbie nodded. ‘Mom is a brilliant writer. But as a mother she’s a totally lost cause.’
‘Look, if you’d rather not talk about it …’
‘That’s okay. Most of it’s public record. Mom tried writing a couple of novels before she and my father moved to California. Neither of my folks made much money from writing, but Mom hated Dad’s getting critical notice while she was getting rejection slips. Dad said she never showed much resentment, but it had to be one of the first strains on their marriage. Then Dad got the offer to adapt his second book, All the Fine Promises, and they moved to Hollywood. Dad wrote screenplays and made some solid money, and Mom had me. Then she got politically active in the antiwar movement, like, in ’68, right after the Tet Offensive. She wrote articles and pamphlets and then a publisher asked her to do a book, you know, Why We Resist.
‘It was pretty good, if a little heavy on polemics.’
Gabbie steered her horse round a fallen dead tree surrounded by brush. ‘Well, she might have written bad fiction, but her nonfiction was dynamite. She got her critical notice. And a lot of money. Things were never very good for them, but that’s when trouble really began and it got worse, fast. She’d get so involved in writing about the antiwar movement, then later the end of the war, that she’d leave him hanging all the time. Poor Dad, he’d have some studio dinner to go to or something and she’d not come home, or she’d show up in a flannel shirt and jeans at a formal reception, that sort of stuff. She became pretty radical. I was too young to remember any of it, but from what my grandmother told me, both of them acted pretty badly. But most folks say the breakup was Mom’s fault. She can get real bitchy and she’s stubborn. Even her own mother put most of the blame on her.
‘Anyway, Dad came home one night and found her packing. She’d just got special permission from the Swiss Government to take a Red Cross flight to Vietnam, to cover the fall of Saigon. But she had to leave that night. Things hadn’t been going well and Dad told her not to bother coming back if she left. So she didn’t.’
Jack nodded. ‘I don’t mean to judge, but it seemed a pretty special opportunity for your mother, I mean with Saigon about to fall, and all.’ He left unsaid the implication that her father had been unreasonable in his demand that his wife remain at home.
‘Ya. But I was in the hospital with meningitis at the time. I almost died, they tell me.’ Gabbie looked thoughtful for a while. ‘I can hardly remember what she looks like, except for pictures of her, and that’s not the same. Anyway, she became the radicals’ darling, and by the time the war was over she’d become a pretty well-respected political writer. Now she’s the grande dame of the Left, the spokesperson for populist causes all over the world. The only journalist allowed to interview Colonel Zamora when the rebels held him captive, and all that junk. You know all the rest.’
‘Must have been rough.’
‘I guess. I never knew it any different. Dad had to put in pretty rugged hours at the studio and travel on location and the rest, so he left me with my grandmother. Anyway, she raised me until I was about twelve, then I went to private school in Arizona. My father wanted me to come live with him when he married Gloria, but my grandmother wouldn’t allow it. I don’t know, but I think he tried to get me back and she threatened him.’ She fixed Jack with a narrow gaze. ‘The Larkers are an old family with old money, I mean, serious old money. Like Learjets and international corporations. And lawyers, maybe dozens all on retainer, and political clout, lots of it. I think Grandma Larker owned a couple of judges in Phoenix. Anyway, she could blow away any court action Dad could bring, even if he had some money by most people’s standards. So I stayed with her. Grandma was a little to the right of Attila the Hun, you know? Nig-grows, bleeding hearts, and “Communist outside agitators”? She thought Reagan was a liberal, Goldwater soft on communism, and the Birchers a terrific bunch of guys and gals. So even if she considered Mom a Commie flake, Grandma didn’t want me living with “that writer”, as she called Dad. She blamed Dad for Mom becoming a Commie flake, I guess. Anyway, Grandma Larker died two years ago, and I went to live with Dad. I lived with the family my last year in high school and my first year at UCLA. That’s it.’
Jack nodded, and Gabbie was surprised at what appeared to be genuine concern in his expression. She felt troubled by that, somehow, as if she was under inspection. She felt suddenly self-conscious at what she was certain was babbling. Urging her horse forward, she said, ‘What about you?’
Jack caught up with the walking horse and said, ‘Not much. Old North Carolina family. A many-greats-grandfather who chose raising horses instead of tobacco. Unfortunately, he bred slow racehorses, so all his neighbours got rich while he barely avoided bankruptcy. My family never had a lot of money, but we’ve got loads of genteel history’ – he laughed – ‘and slow horses. We’re big on tradition. No brothers or sisters. My father does research – physics – and teaches at UNC, which is why I went there as an undergraduate. My mother’s an old-fashioned housewife. My upbringing was pretty normal, I’m afraid.’
Gabbie sighed. ‘That sounds wonderful.’ Then, with a lightening tone, she said, ‘Come on, let’s put on some speed.’ She made to kick My Dandelion.
Before she could, Jack shouted, ‘No!’
The tone of his voice caused Gabbie to jump, and she swung around to face him, colour rising in her cheeks. She felt caught between embarrassment and anger. She didn’t like his tone.
‘Sorry to yell,’ he said, ‘but there’s a nasty bit of a turn in the trail ahead and a deadfall, then you hit the bridge, and that’s tricky. Like I said, this isn’t a riding trail,’
‘Sorry.’ Gabbie turned forward, lapsing into silence. Something awkward had come between them and neither seemed sure of how to repair the damage.
Finally Jack said, ‘Look, I’m really sorry.’
Petulantly Gabbie responded, ‘I said I was sorry.’
With a fierce expression, Jack raised his voice slightly. ‘Well, I’m sorrier than you are.’
Gabbie made a face and shouted, ‘Ya! Well, I’m sorrier than you’ll ever be!’
They both continued the mock argument for a moment, then rode past the deadfall and discovered the bridge. Gabbie’s horse shied and attempted to turn around. ‘Hey!’ She put her leg to My Dandelion as the mare attempted to jig sideways. As the horse began to toss her head, Gabbie took firm rein and said, ‘Stop that!’ The horse obeyed. Looking at Jack, Gabbie said ‘What?’
‘That’s the Troll Bridge.’
She groaned at the pun. ‘That’s retarded.’
‘Well, that’s what the kids call it. I don’t think there’s a troll waiting under it for billy goats, but for some reason the horses don’t like to cross.’ To demonstrate the point, he had to use a firm rein and some vigorous kicks to get John Adams across the bridge. Gabbie followed suit and found My Dandelion reluctant to step upon the ancient stones until Gabbie put her heels hard into her horse’s sides. But as soon as the mare was halfway across, she nearly bolted forward, as if anxious to be off.
‘That’s pretty weird.’
Jack nodded. ‘I don’t know. Horses can be pretty funny. Maybe they smell something. Anyway, these woods are supposed to be haunted –’
‘Haunted!’ interrupted Gabbie, with a note of derision.
‘I didn’t say I believed, but some pretty strange things have gone on around here.’
She rode on, saying, ‘Like what?’
‘Lights in the woods, you know? Like fox fire, but there’s no marsh nearby. Maybe St Elmo’s fire. Anyway, some folks say they’ve heard music deep in the woods, and there’s a story about some kids disappearing.’
‘Kidnapping?’
‘No one knows. It happened almost a hundred years ago. Seems some folks went out for a Fourth of July picnic one time, and a couple of kids got lost in the woods.
‘Sounds like a movie I once saw.’
Jack grinned. ‘Yes, it was the same sort of thing. These woods can get you pretty turned around, and it was a heck of a lot rougher back then. No highway a mile to the west, just wagon roads. Pittsville was about a tenth the size it is today. No developments, or malls, only a few spread-out farms and a lot of woods. Anyway, they searched a long time and came up with nothing. No bodies, nothing. Some think the Indians killed them.’
‘Indians?’
‘There was a reservation nearby. A small bank of Cattaraugus, Alleganies, or some such. They shut it down a long time ago. But anyway, a bunch of farmers marched over there and were ready to start shooting. The Indians said it was spirits got the kids. And the funny thing was the farmers just turned round and went home. There’s been a lot of other stuff like that over the years. These woods have a fair reputation for odd goings-on.’
‘For a southern boy you know a lot about these woods.’
‘Aggie,’ he said with an affectionate smile. ‘She’s something of an expert. It’s sort of a hobby with her. You’ll see what I mean when you meet her. You’re going next Sunday, aren’t you?’
She smiled at his barely hidden interest. ‘I guess.’
They cleared a thick stand of trees, then suddenly found themselves facing a large bald hillock. It rose to a height of twenty-five feet, dominating the clearing. Not a single plant save grasses grew on it, no tree or bush.
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