“But whether it’s literary inspiration of historical documentation, there is an abundance of both buried in the folklore and legends of this place. Be that as it may, there’s one thing you must always keep in mind: Friar’s Island is by no means a typical Vermont town. It is enigmatic. A world unto itself.
“The people here are… different. They are not the rock-ribbed, able-bodied Yankees of a thousand clever anecdotes. They are standoffish couples, or they are loners like you and me and our friend Miss Wells. There is no real society on the island. People are content — possibly even trapped — within themselves. That is the one thing that has made historical research so damnably difficult.”
“What are you trying to tell me, Professor? To mind my own business?”
The old man smiled amiably, looking Harrison in the eye. “Not so much that,” he said. “More, I think, just to be careful of what you say, and to whom. Be careful what you ask. If you plan to live here and to fit in as comfortably as possible, don’t give certain of these folks the impression that you’re nosy or a meddler. Your sobbing woman, and your lake monster — these are things folks would just as soon not talk about.”
“For Heaven’s sake, why? They can’t be that tight-lipped, can they?”
“Yes, indeed. I found that out the hard way.” The professor sipped his brandy. “Ever since I retired and bought this place, I’ve been interested in the old monastery on the northern cliffs of the island. I am also interested in the spiritualists who were the last people to live there. But perhaps most of all, I’m curious about why no one at all has lived there since.
“You know, of course, that a few years ago some summer folks wanted to promote and capitalize on the island’s tourist appeal. They wanted to restore the old place as kind of a resort hotel. The plans were forgotten, and no one will say just why.”
“What do you think happened?”
“To be truthful, I have no idea. The point is, I’m sure the developers got the same kind of cold shoulder that I got when I started asking questions about it.
“People here just do not want to talk about some of the very things we outsiders find so fascinating. That monastery is a perfect example. And the spiritualists are an especially taboo topic with the natives. No one will admit to knowing anything at all about the colony. But I believe at least one person still living on this island not only knows about the spiritualists, but may actually have been an active member of the group.”
Harrison leaned forward in his seat. He felt his eyes widen. His thoughts scanned the elderly people he knew for suspects: Abner Mott, the old men at the general store, the retired policeman…
Professor Hathaway’s voice grew more excited, “Perhaps the individual in question was born right there in the monastery, perhaps never having left the island in seventy or eighty years. Not once!”
“Do you know who that person is?”
“Well, let’s say I have a suspicion. If it is who I think it is, it will be almost impossible to get any information.” The professor lit a cigar; Harrison began to fill his corncob. Pungent-smelling smoke quickly filled the book-lined room and both men fell into a contemplative silence.
Harrison wanted to ask who the professor suspected, but he held his tongue. The older man’s mind-your-own-business lecture had made him cautious. If he waited, perhaps the professor would volunteer the information on his own. Instead, Harrison finally asked, “Did you learn all this from those papers you found at the historical society?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“What else did you learn from them?”
“That they are incomplete. The missing papers — if they still exist — may very well be in the possession of the person I believe was a member of the spiritualist group.”
“What do you suppose you might learn from those papers?”
Professor Hathaway raised both eyebrows noncommittally and exhaled cigar smoke.
Harrison decided to press a little. “I mean those spiritualists must have been up to something pretty appalling if the locals won’t even discuss it after what? — eighty or more years!” Harrison held the professor’s gaze.
“I think you’re right in concluding they were up to something a little out of the ordinary. For one thing, they apparently were not allied with any of the major branches of the spiritualist movement that were so conspicuous at the time. They wanted nothing to do with anyone or anything that might gain them publicity. That’s why they chose to isolate themselves in this remote area. It’s as if they had a secret that they didn’t want to share, so they hid out up here.
“Lord, can you imagine how desolate this island must have been in the 1880s and ’90s? Certainly it’s bad enough now, but then! Heavens, it must have been like another world. Remember, the intent of many groups at the time was to draw attention to themselves. They wanted to recruit new members, not drop completely out of sight, as these people did. Our group apparently strove to gain further isolation through certain studies and rituals.”
“What kind of rituals? Devil worship?”
“I don’t think so, not exactly devil worship. I don’t believe God and the Devil were especially important to these folks. This is just conjecture, you understand, but my theory is that they were seeking a kind of harmony with nature, a primitive, elemental kind of harmony that we modern folks have completely lost sight of. It was closer to witchcraft — Wicca, as they call it — than Satanism, I believe. But it wasn’t identical.”
Harrison puffed his pipe as the professor continued.
“If I may rather simplistically discuss good and evil as ‘forces,’ for want of better terms, I postulate that they were seeking a specialized environment in which to operate, an environment that was somehow insulated against these forces. Good and evil were concepts of no importance whatsoever to them, concepts that would only get in their way. They wanted nothing at all to do with them.
“This island was reputed to be conducive to that insulating effort. Possibly the earlier monks — or ‘Black Catholics,’ as they were called — settled here and built the monastery for the same reason. And possibly the belief system goes even farther back. As I told you and Miss Wells, there is reason to believe that even Indian legend held that this was a special — if not exactly evil — place. Remember I told you that Indians never settled here? There must have been some reason for that. We’ll probably never know for sure.
“And we’ll probably never learn much more about the first group of monks, either. But the spiritualist community — that is a different story. If that survivor I mentioned is still on the island, well—”
“I can see why you’re so eager to find out about them,” said Harrison, his curiosity now thoroughly piqued. But he was growing impatient. It was as if the professor were being evasive, as if he were not disclosing something important.
“Why, of course! Aren’t you eager, too? I’m sure we agree that it’s fascinating. And you never know, Harrison, all this may somehow relate to the noises you heard in your house. One way of looking at what you heard is that it may not — I say, may not — be an entirely natural phenomenon. But it may not be a haunting, either. Maybe the best way to investigate is not through direct question and answer.”
More confused than ever, Harrison had become convinced the professor’s circumlocution was a deliberate evading technique. The old man, once so open and congenial, now seemed to be hiding something. “Wait a minute, Professor,” Harrison said. “You’re saying the sounds in my house may be related to the spiritualists who were in the old monastery a hundred years ago?”
Harrison knew he looked incredulous — so what? He helped himself to some more cognac.
The professor cleared his throat. “The two could be related, I don’t know. I have my suspicions. Remember, if I’m correct, we’re investigating a system of beliefs that promises to be remarkably different from anything else on record. If I’m right, what those people practiced does not conform to any cult or religion recorded in t
he history of Europe and the New World. Think of it! Something totally occult, hidden, undiscovered. Why, we even need to borrow a vocabulary to discuss it.”
“Borrow a vocabulary? I don’t follow.”
“I’m sure the people at the monastery didn’t speak of ‘spiritualism,’ or ‘good and evil,’ or the Devil, or God, or anything like that. They had their own self-contained belief system, and perhaps their own unique vocabulary to discuss it. But as different, eccentric, and nonconforming as they were, suppose” — he held up a finger — “just suppose they were actually onto something.”
“Like… ?”
“Well, they were a small group and never became a formal movement. Their total historical impact was either wholly unobserved or simply too insignificant to be remembered. Keep in mind they didn’t even recruit new members. When people dropped out or died, no new people were brought in. Their order didn’t grow or renew itself. If there is one survivor, as I believe, then that person is the last of a kind.”
Privacy be damned, Harrison thought, his patience exhausted. Struggling to sound casual, he asked, “Will you tell me who you believe that person is?” His pipe was out but remained clenched in his teeth.
Professor Hathaway looked at him as if pondering a life-or-death decision. At last he nodded. “I believe it is Mrs. Abigail Snowdon, your nearest neighbor.”
3
Nancy sat at the kitchen table, correcting social studies quizzes from the day before. The class had been studying a unit on Vermont history, and so far the test scores were good. The kids found Ethan Allen and the Green Mountain Boys’ takeover of Fort Ticonderoga almost as exciting as an episode of MacGyver.
With Vermont Public Radio playing in the background, Nancy tapped her red pencil in time with Dvorak’s New World Symphony. From time to time she’d hum along.
Sometimes her mind would wander and she’d think of Harrison. What would it be like to be with a man on the island? When she had come here, she had actually planned to be lonely. She’d wanted to take a stand as an independent, high-principled loner, to gradually earn the respect of a community that still held education and learning in high esteem, a community that still showed old-fashioned respect for the local schoolteacher.
Being caught in — or merely suspected of — an indiscretion could quickly get her ostracized, labeled as unfit to teach the island’s young. Her predecessor, Miss Deborah Swain, had recently died an old maid. During her tenure of forty-five years, Miss Swain had given the whole community a definite impression of what a schoolteacher should be. It was a tough act to follow, a difficult role model to live up to.
And there was something else on her mind, a dark thought that intruded from time to time. It had to do with the state policeman she had overheard talking to Abner Mott. Hadn’t he asked Abner for a character reference on Harrison? Did that mean he suspected Harrison of something? What could Harrison possibly have to do with the disappearance of the Pelletier family?
No, damn it, she was just being suspicious, almost paranoid. Harrison was new on the island. Locals are always suspicious of newcomers. She’d experienced it herself.
And yet, what did she really know about Harrison? What was the real reason he’d come to the island? He had no job, no apparent source of income. Could his entire purpose be exactly what he stated: learning all he could about the Lake Champlain Monster?
Oh, come on, Nancy, Harrison’s okay. You’re just getting tired.
That was it. Sure, she was tired.
She stood up and stretched, thinking it might be a good idea to go to bed. She would get up bright and early to finish the papers.
As she turned off the light over the kitchen table, she thought she saw motion at the window by the door. The curtain moving in a draft? The reflection of the swinging kitchen light?
Maybe she’d better lock up, just to be sure. Humming along with the FM, she crossed to the kitchen door just in time to hear a faint tapping on the other side.
Her first thought was of Harrison. Then, for some reason she thought of Eric.
Could Eric have found her?
She took the cold knob in her hand and started to turn it. Then she hesitated.
“Who is it?” she asked.
The answer exploded in an avalanche of sound and motion. The heavy door burst inward, thrust open from outside. The impact sent her reeling backward against the kitchen table.
She cried out in surprise.
A large, swaying shape stood framed in the doorway. Nancy’s frantic mind fought to recognize the man. He wore a woolen shirt, blue jeans, and a yellow hat.
Now his heavy work boots thundered on the wooden floor as he crossed the kitchen toward her.
The back of her right hand jerked to her mouth as she leaned away from him, cowering.
“Wha… what do you want?” Her voice was abnormally shrill.
The man reached out, grabbed her biceps with strong, hairy hands. Squeezing her hard, he pulled her face close to his. The smell of beer was strong on his breath. It assaulted her in short nauseating blasts as he panted. When he began to kiss her, violently, his wet lips slid across the skin of her face, his whiskers scratching painfully.
Wrenching free with a strength born of panic, Nancy darted behind the table, crying, “Get out of here, leave me alone!”
She wanted to scream, but she refused to show him her terror. Besides, she knew there was no one close enough to hear.
Yet her shrill voice and defensive posture seemed to animate him more. With one forceful motion, he upended the table, sending papers and pencils into the air and around the room.
Her protective barrier gone, Nancy bolted for the bedroom. If she could slam the door and lock it… If she could find something to hit him with… If she could run…
The man grunted obscenely, then quick-stepped after her as she made for the bedroom.
She heard a grating sound as a pencil spun under his boot. He lost his footing.
“Fuck!” he growled.
She glanced back, saw him down on one knee as she slammed the bedroom door and groped frantically for the lock.
She knew what the sound meant: the man had leaped at the door, kicked his heavy boot against the spot directly below the doorknob. With a deafening crack, the door sprang open as if it were the lid of a jack-in-the-box.
The man almost fell into the bedroom. Staggering, he tried to recover his balance. His head rolled maniacally from side to side as he searched for his prey.
Nancy closed her eyes.
God no, this just can’t be happening.
Cliff breathed deeply, more steadily now, and something in him relaxed.
He saw her there on the bed, lying provocatively on her back, long black hair spread like a fine silken cloth on the white pillow. In her eyes there was a distant, lost look. Like a little girl.
As he watched, he saw her eyes — half closed and dreamy — shut all the way. The firm mounds beneath her sweater rose and fell rhythmically as she panted, out of breath. Her hips gyrated sensuously, making slow hypnotic circles with her pelvis.
Caressingly, her hands explored her body, cupped her ample breasts, pushed them together, then moved on to find the V of fabric at her neckline. With almost superhuman strength, she tore away the sweater, exposing chalk-white flesh and her dark, hard nipples.
Cliff watched, not believing. He panted, too, out of breath and excited. He felt his manhood pushing hard against the inside of his jeans. His privates sparkled with electricity.
His mind reeled with anticipation; this was his dream, his fantasy!
He approached her bed, arms extended like those of a sleepwalker. His fingers spread as they descended to her breast. His lips found the secret, deliciously scented pocket between her shoulder and graceful neck where he kissed her wildly. His passion mounted as her undulating hips beckoned him to the magic spot between her thighs.
Wantonly, she wriggled and squirmed beneath him, thrusting her wild pelvis at his, forcing he
r breasts against his greedy, sweat-slick hands.
She spoke to him softly, in a strange yet familiar voice. She said, “You may do what you want.”
“Now go home…” she said when it was over.
Chapter 11 - Keeping Watch
1
The morning air was as chill as a mountain stream. Bolts of bright sunlight, working their way from behind dense gray clouds, offered no real warmth.
The ink-black lake rose and fell, shooting icy tentacles across the sand and between the rocks near where Harrison sat. Behind him on the snow-covered ground, peaked shadows of pine trees were huge arrows pointing west.
His bottom felt cold, its warmth drained into his stone chair.
With elbows resting on his knees, he tried to steady the binoculars. Slowly, very slowly, back and forth, he scanned the surface of the water. He could see south, past Grand Isle State Park, all the way down to South Hero. There were no boats to obstruct his vision. Their owners, even the diehards, had taken them in for the winter.
The only movement was the tossing of the water and the twirling snowflakes that danced in the wind.
How badly Harrison wanted to see that sleek black head break the surface and look around at the earth and sky. In his mind he had seen it clearly many times, but in reality the lake remained like an empty movie screen.
The play of the sun on the water, reflecting like millions of tiny mirrors, had a hypnotic effect. Harrison forgot about the cold, the hard rock, and his general discomfort.
Instead, he concentrated on the ever-changing patterns of light and dark revealed in the limited panorama of his binoculars.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” The gravelly voice, thick with mucus, came from behind him.
Harrison jumped. He jerked the glasses from his eyes and whirled around. The half-silhouetted face of an elderly man was interposed between Harrison’s eyes and the bright morning sun. “You scared me,” Harrison said with a smile.
“Didn’t mean to sneak up on ya. Kinda hard to hear, so close to the water.”
A Haunting of Horrors: A Twenty-Novel eBook Bundle of Horror and the Occult Page 333
