And then from above and in the attic, we heard those stealthy, though steady footsteps of someone or something moving across the floor again. To this we had reacted with little thought, making our way to the stairs and quickly and quietly going straight up!
I had taken the lead as we made our way onto the third floor, passing through the entrance and shining my light in through the little hatchway door. The beam traveled through a stream of clouding dust, the particles reflecting a shimmering veil that slowly settled all about. As we moved inward and found no print or proof, I turned on an overhead light, and something suddenly moved!
There was a clatter and commotion as it scurried behind a clutter of old wooden crates! We had rushed forward. Seizing a hammer from an old trunk, I readied to face the nightmare! Rich had looked to me, gripping the crates edge, and prepared to draw it away and reveal whatever had hidden there. But as he had done so and I had raised the hammer, the figure had faded and only shadow now remained! We had stood for many minutes and just watched every nook, corner and cranny. But nothing stirred, and no sounds were made as we stood alone in the empty and now silent attic.
“Something was there—it was in the little girl’s room.” Rich had whispered as we turned and moved from out of the room, “It was waiting in the hallway—until we came up here.”
“If this is some kind of haunting—then it’s nothing like anything that we have ever experienced before.” I crept quietly and ever so cautiously down the attic stairs and onto the second floor, “I think that we might find a clue in the translation of that inscription—or possibly even a curse.”
“Then we better be very careful of how we read those words--,” Rich slowly eased back down into his wing-back chair, “Because the last thing that we need to do now—is summon something else.”
“In which case we should write the letters down in single lines, rather than their entirety--,” The thought had come to me and I said, “I would rather not involve father Delaney any further than necessary—much less anything of this nature.”
“I’ll see to that first thing in the morning--,” He promised, “I’ll write them into my notebook—on separate pages, of course.”
“Well, we definitely know one thing for certain--,” I groaned while sinking into my chair and peering into the blackness above, “Whatever is now creeping around in this house—and is after that little girl, is desperate—and trying even harder to get to her now….”
“What makes you so say that?”
“Because it tried to take her right out from under our noses--,” I whispered, nodding toward the darkness of the landing above, “And on the first night that we arrived. Although I can’t see it—I can sense—and know that it’s still there. Crouching in the shadows and watching from somewhere at the top of that landing, from just beyond view….”
He had gazed silently into the long and creeping blackness above, and it would not have taken a clairvoyant to imagine his obvious horror.
“Well—then it will have to come through us first—before it gets anywhere near that little girl.”
“Don’t be too surprised when it does--,” I swallowed hard, still staring into the night, “Our only hope for the moment is to wait out the dawn.”
“That something else that I wanted to point out--,” He directed my attention with a finger he raised, and slowly shook in thought, “Have you noticed that as time has passed, things seem to happen faster and faster around us?”
“What exactly do you mean?”
“At Camp Fleetwood B and Woodlands Asylum—it all happened so fast. And even here, tonight—what just happened to the girl. Do you realize that this type of phenomena rarely ever occurs, much less to the degree and speed that we seem to experience it all?”
“It’s possible that it happens more often, and isn’t noticed or reported. Through our involvement with preternatural things, we may have become some type of catalyst. Quite possibly, just even through our mere presence, aggravating and inducing an immediate reaction from the spirits or elementals.”
“The proverbial thorn in the devil’s ass--,” He swallowed hard, “I hope that we’re not there when he scratches…”
“On the contrary--,” I corrected my friend, “That is the sole reason that we are here….” Swallowing hard and looking into the darkness of the overhead railings, he whispered, “I feel like a very small worm on a really big hook.”
We had settled quietly into our chairs, waiting, watching patiently from the foot of the stairs. The night had become deathly still, not even the furnace or the restful sounds of sleepers could be heard in the house. It seemed that we had sat there for hours, speechless and just watching the shadows at the top of those stairs, imagining, fearing, expecting some hideous and murderous fiend to come silently creeping down.
There had been several occasions when, my eyes having grown heavy, I had been startled to wakefulness by the sounds of the furnace! One instant, I even thought to have seen pale and glowing eyes peering down from above. Something patiently waiting watched from the darkness as we nodded off. I had sat upright, propping my head upon a wrist, and stared into the blackness of the stairs. Somewhere during the very early morning hours, Rich had fallen into dark and disturbed dreams. He twitched, his features twisting as he uttered whimpers and sounds of apparent fright. I had managed to keep vigil, continually forcing myself to sit upright and not become too comfortable in the chair.
I had thought on several occasions to have seen movements and heard whispers in the blackness, but all of these things faded as the world grew absolutely still. And as the night gave way to a dull winter dawn, my senses failing, I helplessly drifted into darkness as well…
Chapter Thirteen
Tuesday, November 5, 1974.
10:45 a.m.
We had been awakened to the smells and sounds of a late breakfast. We had fallen asleep in our chairs and with stiff necks and backs, stumbled into the kitchen where all had gathered. It was an average scene as the family sat down to the morning meal. You would never have assumed anything bad would, or could have ever happened here. They had all appeared cheerful, and quickly invited us to our seats, with Laura serving us breakfast, coffee and tea. All had seemed quite normal, until my attention had curiously fallen upon little Colleen. The eldest had resembled her father to a greater degree, the two youngest appearing more like their mother, blonde, blue-eyed and fairer of skin.
But as I now glanced down at the middle child, she seemed by far paler, her eyes darker and revealing something frightful, sinister and even wild. It could have just been the light that morning, or maybe the terribly late night? But something about her just seemed foreign and completely out of place. I had considered the child’s terrifying experiences and infection and saw that her wounds had not quite healed.
In all regards she bore physical semblance to all, but in general character seemed nothing alike. She had noticed me looking and turned a watchful eye. The dark reflection of which caused me to turn and quickly look away. I’m not exactly certain as to what I had presumed to have seen, but I had the distinct impression that there was something dark lurking and hiding just behind those innocent eyes….
Breakfast had passed quite quickly and as the girls assisted their mother with the chores, I had shared hot drinks with Gregory and Rich before the hearth.
“Are you sure that you’ll be alright if we just run into town?” Rich had fidgeted nervously, his attention seeming occupied with an old painting above the hearth.
“We will all remain here on the main floor--,” Gregory assured us, “And stay together at all times until you return, just to be certain.”
The painting had now also caught my eye. Gazing upon the work, I felt strangely bothered as well. Bordered in an old wooden and gold gilt frame, it was the representation of a young girl watching over a flock of sheep in a peaceful little vale. It had all the charm of Victorian style, the flowers bright and flowing, pastel colors of pink and purple design. The
image of the young girl was so realistic that you felt as though she might just reach out and touch you. But it wasn’t the actual sight of the young shepherd or her flock that had touched my soul, but the shadow of something dark, which, appearing barely visible, came creeping up from behind the hill.
“Laura never cared for it either--,” Gregory took notice of my distraught expression. Leaning in to observe the work, he paused briefly before saying, “There’s just something disturbing about it and strikes one as not being quite right.”
“Is that Mary, Papa?” Little Paula had appeared from out of the kitchen.
He had taken the child gently into his arms, softly kissing her cheek, and sat her upon his lap. “Indeed, she might be, my love.”
“Then why isn’t she scared?” The question had come harmlessly enough, but caused us all to falter. The little girl, having noticed our expressions, had simply pointed and explained, “Something is coming—it’s just over that hill.”
“That might just be her father--,” Gregory had smiled, winking at little Paula and turning her from the painting, and said, “It might be her birthday—and he’s coming to surprise her with a present!”
She had looked between us all, seemingly appalled with our absence of awareness, and then shook her head slowly in reply, “No, Papa—it’s the wolf and he’s coming to kill her.”
Distraught with the comment, her father had just gawked! Her mother having overheard the statement rushed from the kitchen, taking the girl, and held her close, “Now where on earth did you hear of such a thing?”
It was at that moment and as while all had fallen silent, that I noticed little Colleen watching us from out of the kitchen doorway. There had been no expression, no visible or conscious reaction to what had just occurred. She just stood there like a statue, a stranger in her own home and lost somewhere in thought.
Paula had looked to her sister as we had all turned in question as well. But she said nothing in reference to the comment on the painting, or the source of her apparent dismay.
“Colleen,” Her mother had kindly called, “Do you know where she came up with this idea?”
Trudy now appeared from behind the little girl, gently embracing her from behind and kissing her cheek, “I’m sorry, Mama, but she has been so very tired. She says very little—and I’m sure that she really has no idea.”
“I wish that you would just be done with the horrid thing--,” Laura muttered to her husband in passing, taking little Paula back into the kitchen, and nervously glanced back, “There is something plain wrong—evil about that painting….”
“If you would be interested--,” Rich politely inquired, “I collect unusual art, oddities and curios. I would be prepared to buy this from you—if you gave me some idea of what you might want?”
“I wouldn’t hear of it--,” Gregory had moved from his seat, and removing the painting from the wall, kindly offered it to Rich, “Payment is unnecessary, I would just be grateful if you would take this horrid thing and get it out of my house.”
Rich had appeared absolutely enthralled with the gift, taking it up in his hands and closely observing the finest of details. It appeared far larger when removed from the wall. The hefty and carved wooden frame proving to be quite heavy, he groaned and gently set it down at his legs.
“It came with the house when we bought it--,” Gregory explained, “According to the realtor and father Delaney, it has always been there. It’s actually quite a lovely piece, until you look closer. I suppose that the only reason it has remained here through the years has been due to antiquity’s sake?”
“Speaking of father Delaney—we should be getting along, if we hope to sort things out.” I had politely interrupted, “We shouldn’t be too long, just a quick visit, that sort of thing.” Having not intended to frighten or alarm the children with our plans, I waved for Rich to follow, watching curiously as he picked up and carried the old painting toward the front door. His passion for such things even rivaled my own. In this particular case, I found myself wishing that he had just left that ghastly old painting alone….
“Did you need anything--,” Rich offered as he slipped into his boots and coat, “While we’re in town—we don’t mind picking up supplies, or anything that you might want?”
“If it wouldn’t be too much bother--,” Laura produced money from a sweater pocket and offered it in thought, “We could use a gallon of milk, bread and maybe some eggs?”
Rich had refused her offer of payment and agreed with a smile, “I’ll see to it—no worry about money—we’re guests here as it is.”
And thus we had set off without another word. It had become bitter cold and as we trudged through the knee deep snow, I looked into the heavens and all about. The clouds were dark, heavy and preparing without doubt to deliver another snow-fall.
I had watched as Rich opened the back door, wrapping the painting into a woolen blanket, and carefully packed it away. I had recently refrained from pursuing such things, much less bringing them home, bit this had only been a recent development and only after considering the distinct possibilities of danger to Caitlin, Eva and dear old Norm. For some reason that statue of Pan and the Maiden now came to mind. We had moved it into my office at Eva’s request, but she still avoided it, dreaded to look upon the thing even when bringing the afternoon tea.
It was in that moment, and after much deliberation, that I had decided there would be changes when I returned home. I would remove anything of a questionable nature or possible threat to my extended family. The property was large and would accommodate a small guest house. I would create a small museum, a secured and hallowed place to store these things….
We had climbed back into the truck and, after warming the engine, slowly made our way back down the long drive-way. Our original path had vanished beneath the snow that had fallen through the night, our journey beginning slow but steady. It was apparent that nothing less than a tractor would make it in or out of town in this weather. I could only be thankful for my friend’s talents and all-terrain truck.
“If this weather keeps up--,” Rich had grumbled, “We’re all going to be snowed in before we know it. I doubt that old NR1 will even be moving through this for much longer.”
“The way that things are going at the moment—the snow is the least of our worries.” I began fidgeting with the page held protectively in my gloved hand, “I don’t like the look of that little girl. Something about her seems--,”
“Like something else has already taken hold of her.” He completed the thought. “I certainly hope that we’re wrong, for everyone’s sake.”
“In regards to that painting--,” The thought still haunted me, “Knowing what we already do about this place, are you absolutely sure that you want to hang that in your home?”
He just looked to me and suddenly laughed! Slowly shaking his head, he adjusted his glasses and said, “I wouldn’t bring that thing anywhere near Maya—much less into my house. I only took it out of their house to preserve some semblance of sanity. It was obviously distressing everyone. I’ll put it in the vault back at the warehouse just as soon as we get back. Which brings me to another question—something that I was going to ask you earlier, but somehow forgot. What if we were to build a secured structure, a museum for all of our things and then have it blessed? Your property is bigger than mine and you don’t have any neighbors close by. The forest would prevent any concern about prying eyes. Let’s face it, no one is getting over that ten-foot, iron-spiked fence. It would be our private office. We could install a security system and lights.”
“Sometimes you really surprise me. I was just thinking the same thing--,” I admitted with a laugh, “I was just considering something very similar while watching you load that painting. We would have to clear it with Caitlin, though. I’m not so sure of what she might think?”
“Her exact words on the idea--,” He quoted to my shock and sudden surprise, “It’s a delightful idea, and it would be nice to get some of those f
rightening things out of our house.”
“You have already spoken to her on the matter?”
“Well—I wouldn’t exactly call it spoken to her--,” He shrugged with certain embarrassment and shame, “But I did mention it to her in passing—and over pie and coffee one afternoon.”
“All the same, I do agree with Caitlin and think that it’s a brilliant idea. I couldn’t possible agree with you more.”
“We can disguise it as a guest house--,” He continued, “And keep our most questionable items and objects in a secured vault in the basement. Maybe even have secret passages, so as not to draw attention from the authorities—if you know what I mean?”
“Absolutely fantastic--,” I slapped his shoulder, “Where on earth do you come up with these ideas? Have you been watching old mystery movies, reading up about haunted houses and all those sorts of things?”
“Well, not exactly--,” He chuckled, admitting “I was resting on the couch the other day and caught a few episodes of the Green Hornet and Batman. They incorporate a lot of the same things. Just a little exaggerated of course.”
“Alright, fair enough--,” I had agreed, “Let’s get some plans drawn up for the guest house. But don’t get any silly ideas about any strange cars.” I could tell by the look in his eye that he had either done or planned something, which he had not presently shared with me. We exchanged odd glances. There was an awkward moment and then he changed the subject. “If you get the building permits and gas and electric company sorted out, I’ll get started on the designs for something that resembles your house. We can make it look like it was always there, and no one will ever know the difference once we’re done.”
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