A Desolate Hour

by Mae Clair

  Eve regarded her steadily. “You could always come by the café. Quentin will probably grab dinner there. He did last night.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes, mentally kicking herself for ever taking a Ouija board to Eve’s sleepover last fall. “I’m babysitting Sam for Katie tonight. Ryan’s taking her to Gallipolis for dinner.” Katie’s eight-year-old son was a delight, but she would have steered away from Eve’s suggestion regardless. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy the River Café as a spot to grab dinner, but she saw no reason to rub elbows with Quentin. Worse, she didn’t want to encounter Shawn. He’d likely badmouth Suzanne for giving her the stuff in the first place.

  Eve heaved a sigh and nodded. “Another time maybe.” She dropped her hand on top of the carton. “So, what is all this stuff anyway, and when are you going to tell me what you found out about Obadiah?”

  “It’s just papers and photos. Some old books and a few newspaper clippings.” She thought of the oblong box and her fingers strayed to her necklace, a reflex action that made her wet her lips. “I found this odd wooden case, too.”

  Eve appeared intrigued. “What’s odd about it?”

  She’d sound silly explaining how strange it made her feel when she touched it, so she went for something more concrete. “It’s locked, but I couldn’t find a key. Not that I’m sure I’d want to look inside. There’s an etching of a spider on top, and the whole thing is kind of creepy.”

  “Wow.” Eve appeared poised to dig into the carton. “Maybe I should check it out.”

  Sarah stayed her with a hand on her arm. “I packed it tight.” She’d taken extra care to bury the case on the bottom, as far away from her as possible. “Besides, I thought you wanted to hear about Obadiah.”

  That did the trick. Eve quickly dismissed the box and refocused. “Shawn’s always bragging about him being at Fort Randolph. What did you find out?”

  “It looks like he was telling the truth, but I didn’t get very far.” There was only so much digging you could do before you encountered a blank wall. “I found a lot of records you’d probably find boring. Deeded property, militia ranking, that sort of thing. The one interesting tidbit I discovered had to do with Obadiah’s wife. I came across a passage that I think someone must have transcribed from an older letter. Most of the original was missing.” She shot a quick glance at her watch, gauging the time when she had to be back at the courthouse. What she wouldn’t give for a longer lunch break. She hated to rush, but now that Eve had asked about Obadiah, she was determined to share her findings.

  Rifling through her purse, she searched for a folded sheet of paper. “I made a photocopy. I think the passage must have been hand-copied in the mid-1800s, but the original letter would have predated the Revolution. It references Virginia as a colony.”

  “Wow.”

  Sarah smoothed the creases from the paper and passed it to Eve. “Take a look.” The writing was spidery and faint but legible. “I’m sure it was part of a longer letter, but this was all I found in the carton.”

  Eve’s gaze dropped to the missive. Holding the paper with both hands, she read the words aloud.

  “I would be grateful for your visit, Mama. Charlotte and Alton have been most kind to me, but I cannot impose upon my dear sister and her husband forever. I am undone since losing my beloved. Even this rugged colony of Virginia, with its towering mountains and majestic trees leaves me feeling empty without my intended.

  “Mama, despite all I have said, I beg you not to worry about me and Charlotte. We are well protected by the soldiers of Fort Randolph. Charlotte’s brave husband, Alton, is a highly capable and respected Captain, and all the settlers are well guarded. Without Jonathan, I suffer bouts of homesickness, but I feel I must stay. For my beloved and the life we would have led together.

  “Sometimes, I am taken aback by the strangeness of this new land.

  “The other day I strolled by the river and saw a most unusual thing. I was a good distance away, so I question my vision, but it appeared to be a man with wings crouched upon the bank. I encountered Mr. Preech shortly thereafter. When I told him about what I saw, he grew very pale and said I must never speak of it again. He was so stricken by my tale, I continued to prod him until he confessed that he too had seen the winged man in the past. He said it was a fiend with glowing red eyes, an abomination conceived of the devil—forgive me, Mama—and that it had claimed the soul of his wife.”

  Eve paused, clearly shocked. “Do you know what this means?”

  “Finish reading it,” Sarah said.

  Eve’s attention returned to the letter.

  “I shudder to imagine such a thing. Can demons walk in flesh upon the land? Am I marked too, as Mr. Preech’s late wife, for having seen the creature? Oh, Mama, come quickly. Despite all the beauty of this place, I fear there is evil here.”

  Eve’s voice dropped into silence. She wet her lips, her fingers white where they clutched the paper. “I’d like to share this with Caden.”

  “Keep that copy.” Sarah nodded to the note in Eve’s hand. “I made several.”

  “Are you going to tell Shawn about this?”

  Sarah shook her head. “If he doesn’t know what’s in that box, it’s up to him to find out.” She thought of the wooden case and the uneasy feeling it gave her. Hopefully, some things would never be brought to light. “I have to get back to the courthouse, but let me know what Caden says about the letter. And thanks for getting that stuff to Shawn.” Another nod for the box. She could almost relax knowing the strange case was out of her possession.

  Almost.

  * * * *

  Caden used a flashlight to pick his way deeper into the woods. He’d ended his final shift of the week and decided to do one more sweep of the TNT before heading to the hotel. He’d agreed to meet Eve for a late dinner and a drink. Twilight was still settling over the woodland, but within the tightly congested tangle of trees, night had already fallen. There were few people brazen enough to venture into these woods at night, but he had little to fear. He’d stood in a deserted weapons igloo, conversed with a disembodied voice, then been violently battered by the being’s fury. He’d already encountered an alien named Lach Evening and Evening’s frigidly distant father, Indrid Cold.

  Absently, he rubbed the scars hidden beneath the sleeve of his uniform, marks he had carried since his eighteenth year. He’d been driving home from Gallipolis, stuck in traffic on the Silver Bridge when the whole structure abruptly collapsed into the frigid waters of the Ohio River. Trapped in the wreckage, lungs ready to burst, he’d hovered on the brink of unconsciousness. He would have breathed his last had the Mothman not dragged him from the prison of crushed metal. He owed his life to the creature.

  Caden paused. Around him, the woods pulsed with the chattering of night insects and the burbling croak of tree frogs. Fireflies flashed between the leafy branches of oaks and elms, nothing to indicate a seven-foot winged creature lurked nearby.

  Walking slowly, he swept the beam of his flashlight through the undergrowth. Clusters of toadstools, moss-covered rocks, and pockets of ferns sprang to life in the cone of illumination. Decades ago, the army had cut dozens of footpaths through the woods. He followed a barely discernable trail overgrown with weeds and brambles. The ragged path corkscrewed through the trees, ending at the weapons igloo where he’d encountered Indrid Cold.

  The black bulk of the bunker loomed before him, the heavy metal doors at the entrance weathered and seasoned by time. Battered and streaked by rust, they stood slightly ajar. Tall grasses and trees crowned the top of the structure, making it invisible from the air. Had an enemy plane broached U.S. airspace during World War II, the munitions storage shell would have appeared as a natural part of the woodland.

  Pausing by the doors, Caden twisted to pan the torch behind him. Shadows fled from the light, leaping into the trees. Crickets and other night insects continued their noisy chatter, a symphony that would have ceased had the Mothman
been nearby. Last fall, Caden had promised Cold he’d look out for the creature, ensuring its safety as best he could. He closed his eyes and waited a beat, reaching out mentally. But if there’d been a channel between them, that channel no longer existed. Before, he’d been able to sense the creature’s presence like a whisper on the fringe of his consciousness. Now there was nothing. Could that be why the welts on his arm had changed color?

  Stepping into the bunker, he inhaled the heavy odor of must. A denser cloak of blackness settled around him. The dome was windowless, suffocating in some respects. Caden played the beam of his flashlight over the walls. Bits of graffiti jumped out at him. A few stray beer cans and candy wrappers littered the corner. Teenagers often came here to hang out and party. He’d done the same before the Silver Bridge fell. After that life changed. Or maybe, he did.

  “Cold.” His voice bounced in the empty shell of the igloo. The sounds of the night didn’t intrude here. Caden turned in a circle. “I’ve tried to do what you asked, but the creature has vanished.” Was it possible the Mothman was gone for good?

  No answer, not even the sensation of frost that preceded Cold’s presence. Maybe the best thing to do was forget the commitment he’d made. It was impossible to fulfill a pledge if the object of that pledge eluded him. For all he knew, the Mothman could have crawled away somewhere and died. Every time he’d encountered the creature he’d been blasted by sensations of desolation and melancholy. In some warped way, the thing wanted to die. Maybe death had finally claimed it.

  Around him, the silence stretched and grew. He counted off several minutes, but there was nothing to indicate another presence in the igloo. Giving up, Caden returned outside and was immediately bombarded by a sensation of rage. A din grew in his head and the wind turned savage with the whistling bite of a switch. The thunder of wings buffeted him. The clatter in his head swelled until it splintered behind his eyes.

  He craned his neck and squinted up at the sky. The creature’s enormous wings blocked stars and clouds from sight. Ducking his head, he staggered backward as the Mothman swept to the ground. The creature towered above him, its flesh the dark gray of wet ash. It had no discernible face, the glowing orbs of its eyes the only indication of where its head should be. Large and bloodred, those hypnotic eyes were nearly impossible to look away from. A being of char and chaos, the Mothman projected and fed on emotion, using the element of fear as a weapon and defense.

  Unlike others who encountered it, Caden had never been subject to terror. What the creature routinely broadcast to him was a sense of bleakness and deeply rooted misery, a longing for something it couldn’t attain. But it was fury that pummeled him now. A primal thirst for vengeance. Hatred so deep it left him gasping.

  “Stop.”

  It wanted death. Craved it. Not for him, but something centuries old and foul. An enemy that stirred listlessly awake, slithering to consciousness after a long, dark sleep.

  The sensations and images bulleted rapid-fire through Caden’s head. Bending double, he pressed his palm to his temple. “You have to…stop.”

  The brutal punishment ceased as abruptly as it began, the sudden void leaving him dizzy after a flurry of physic bombardment. He sucked down a breath, straightening slowly.

  The creature stood before him, unmoving, wings arched high above its back. Then in a burst of motion it shot into the sky, the roar of its wings rolling over him like thunder.

  * * * *

  Will Hanley settled into his easy chair with an appreciative sigh. After a long day riding his tractor he was grateful to relax for a few hours before calling it a night. He still had ten acres to plow in the lower forty, but for now he was content to unwind with the latest episode of Mama’s Family and a cold Coors. Tomorrow was Sunday, which meant he could grab a few extra hours sleep. He’d enjoy the luxury then head for ten o’clock service at the Good Fellowship Bible Church. Pastor Fred had promised a picnic afterward, putting Will in charge of making sure the long tables in the rectory were moved outside. June Sweeting had promised to make her famous Dutch apple pie and he looked forward to complimenting her baking. It had been three years since Grace passed away and he was starting to get lonely.

  The thought of his late wife induced an unexpected wave of melancholy. Pastor Fred had been lecturing him to find a hobby. Something besides haunting the dirt track to cheer on sprints, or camping out in front of the TV. In his younger days he’d enjoyed fishing, but Grace had always tagged along. From their silly Saturday afternoon dates to weekend trips after they were married, it had been their special way of relaxing. Once Grace passed, he couldn’t bring himself to go alone. Too many memories.

  His thoughts tumbled away, scattered by a shrill whine from the TV.

  What the hell?

  The banter between Vicki Lawrence and Ken Berry was muffled by a loud clicking noise. Will was halfway from his chair, grumbling about the faulty reception, when the set suddenly went black. On the back porch, his dog, Misty, launched into a wild frenzy of barking.

  “Misty!” Beer can in hand, he stomped through the kitchen. It wasn’t like her to put up a racket. “Misty, what’s going on?” He yanked open the rear door to find the collie at the top of the steps leading to the yard. Trapped in the square of light from the open door, the hair on her back stood bristled to attention.

  “Quiet now.” Despite the command, her baying grew more aggressive. Frowning, he reached for her collar. “Is something out there, girl?”

  She wouldn’t carry on over a rabbit or a cat, but a raccoon or skunk might have wandered in from the fields. Maybe a fox. That would set her off for sure.

  Switching on the porch light, he blinked against the white blast of illumination. The clothesline where Grace had hung his dungarees every Saturday stood empty several feet from the porch. Tipped on its side, the wheelbarrow he used to haul seed rested abandoned by the footpath to the barn.

  Misty gave a strangled yap and backed up until her hindquarters butted against his legs. The night fell quiet. No crickets, no locust. The dog uttered a small ruff. He kept his hand hooked through her collar, but her strange behavior worked on his nerves. She’d bullet after a raccoon or a skunk, not stay hunkered against him.

  Will set his beer can on an overturned flowerpot. “Come on, Misty.” Releasing her, he trotted down the steps. Immediately, she bolted ahead and disappeared into the darkness. He was still thirty feet from the barn when she snarled. Cold fear crawled up his back. “Misty, come here.”

  A low drone rolled from the sky. Growing in volume, the throbbing pulse set his teeth on edge. It reminded him of an angry swarm of bees, a scratchy vibration that made his skin crawl. Misty’s growl morphed into a whine nearly as loud as the screech from the TV.

  Something moved in the shadows. Will’s mouth went dry.

  “Who’s there?” Dread jackknifed through his gut and into his throat. Fighting panic, he took a faltering step backward. A patch of fluid shadow loomed in front of the barn. Something large and monstrous towered over him, blocking his view of the structure. Two crimson spots bled through the soot of night, rooting him in place. Paralyzed by fear, he gazed up into a pair of malignant red eyes.

  It took a second for the fear to slacken its chokehold enough for him to scream.

  Will spun and bolted for the house.

  Chapter 3

  Quentin glanced at the clock in his room. It was late, going on ten, but not too late to hit the River Café. The place kept longer hours on Saturday nights, and he hadn’t eaten since noon. He’d spent most of the day doing a fruitless tour of the town that had netted little usable information. He also owed his sister a call with an update on his progress. A night owl, she’d be up until midnight at least.

  Without bothering to turn on the lights, Quentin walked to the window and pushed the curtain aside. His room faced Main Street, an eerily deserted stretch that had little to no traffic this time of night. The hum of passing cars and the flash of head
lights could be seen a block over heading for the Bartow Jones Bridge. All that traffic had once run through Main Street, but the flow had changed with the fall of the Silver Bridge. No wonder many of the businesses on Main Street saw so little trade.

  He was about to turn away when a glint of movement caught his eye. A sleek black Cadillac rolled down the street, a Fleetwood if he knew anything about luxury sedans. A few of his father’s clients liked the prestige that came with the pricey vehicle, but it was an oddity in a town of midsized cars and pickups. Even more unusual, the Cadillac’s headlights were off.

  The car stopped shy of the hotel and sat with its engine idling. Quentin counted off twenty-three seconds until it resumed a slow glide down the road, streetlamps reflecting off its glossy black paint. When he could no longer see it, he switched on a lamp. Whatever the driver’s reasons for prowling in the dark, it was none of his business. He had enough worries juggling Penelope and his family curse.

  The thought of his sister made him move to the bedside table and the phone. While he waited for the call to go through, he glanced around the room. It wasn’t bad, all things considered, though too old-fashioned for his taste. A standing wardrobe, walnut sleigh bed, and writing desk dominated one side; a small medallion-backed sofa and oval coffee table the other. A full-length mirror with clawed wooden feet stood in the corner and a tasseled lamp occupied the edge of the desk. The décor was strictly Victorian right down to the paisley rug over the hardwood floor and the green damask wallpaper.

  “Hello?” Penelope’s voice traveled over the line, tinged with a note of worry.

  “Hi, Pen. It’s Quentin.”

  A rush of breath echoed in his ear. “Thank God you called. I was getting so worried. Do you know what time it is?”