He retrieved the tray and returned to his host.
Chapter 3
Patricia's Journal—Friday, April 12, 1912
The church bells from St. Thomas's rang today. I knew something bad was happening. The bells only rang on Sundays unless something bad happened.
When mother and I arrived in the town common, most everyone was there. Daddy was away on business, so we walked. It would have taken longer to hitch the buggy, and only Daddy drives the motor car.
I wish Mother would learn to ride a horse.
Just as Mother and I stepped up, Constable Morgan climbed atop Mr. Wilson's buckboard and made an announcement.
Timmy Wilson has gone missing.
The whole town spent the day searching the woods. The only sign of Timmy was a shoe and some blood. Constable Morgan suspects bears.
"It wasn't bears took that boy, I'll tell you that much," Patricia said. "He was found the next day. A terrible sight it was. Have you ever laid eyes on a dead child, Roland?"
"Only once, my cousin's boy was hit by a car when he was eleven. The whole family took it very hard."
"Well, I saw young Timmy Wilson lying in the underbrush. His eyes…" She turned away. Roland knew enough from experience with distraught people to let her be while she gathered herself. After a minute or two, she looked back to him. "His eyes," she continued. "They stared at us. We knew without having to examine him he was dead. His beautiful olive skin had turned a dull grey, and his face looked drawn as though every ounce of youth had been taken from it in the snap of a finger. His eyes…to this day, I wake seeing Timmy's eyes, looking at those eyes looking back at me." Her head was shaking slowly, as if she hoped the gesture could stop the boy's gaze from seeing her.
"Were they able to determine the cause of death?" Roland asked.
"That's the funny thing," she said. "Doctor McKinney said the boy had been all but drained. Not a drop of blood left in his little body. Now, I have lived my whole life here, Roland, and back a hundred years ago bears managed to kill a few citizens. Especially in the spring when they were starved from the winter hibernation, but a bear never did that."
"I'm sorry to be insensitive, Patricia, but how is this relevant to your longevity?" He hoped the impatience he was feeling didn't come through in his voice.
"Evil," she whispered. "Evil is what killed the boy." She tapped her index finger to her heart again. "That same evil lives in here."
Roland's lips curved up slightly, in spite of his greatest effort not to show his amusement. Patricia had already let him know that she didn't have time for skeptics. If he decided to hear the rest of the story, after she finished her explanation of the evil within, then he had to keep his attitude in check.
"I know, you young people today only believe what you see and if you don't want to hear this story then tell me now. Because, dear, it's a long story and if I don't tell you the whole thing, without skipping any of it, you'll leave here thinking a crazy old woman wasted your whole day."
Patricia looked into his eyes. The smile had left his lips, but more importantly, it was gone from his eyes.
"Well?" she said, studying his reaction.
He gave her a nod of agreement and said, "I am terribly sorry, Patricia. Please continue."
Patricia's Journal—Monday, April 15, 1912
Daddy is still not home. Oh, I do wish he would come back, but he isn't due for another week.
Timmy Wilson's funeral was today. The whole town attended. Even that sour Mrs. Murtry from the general store. Timmy looked like he was sleeping in that coffin, and I wanted to stop them when they closed the lid. He didn't look dead the way he did in the woods.
After the funeral, Pete Laurier from the telegraph office rushed to tell us some big ship sank in the north sea, and hundreds were dead. We were sad to hear it, but mostly I was sad about young Timmy.
"Titanic?" Roland asked.
She nodded. "Dreadful that was. All those poor people freezing to death in that cold water."
"Arrogance is mankind's deadliest trait," he said.
Patricia nodded, but the Titanic wasn't what she wanted to discuss.
"You couldn't believe how Timmy Wilson looked in that coffin. He was still pale, sure. His face still hollow but his color had come back some, and his skin had, I don't know. Relaxed? Yes, it had relaxed."
Roland lifted the pitcher of iced tea, his hand steady as he poured her a glass, the ice cubes clinking as they fell in. He placed the glass in her hand, folding her fingers around it, and held them in place until he was sure her grip was firm.
"You're sweet, Roland," she said.
He poured himself a glass, and they drank in silence. Him in big gulps and Patricia with sips so delicate it seemed she would not ever finish.
"Roland, would you mind if we walked some? It is a lovely day."
Chapter 4
Shuffling alongside Patricia to the front walk, Roland anticipated a five-minute stroll around the yard. She may not have looked her age, but how far could a person that old walk? To his surprise, Patricia led him the length of the driveway and out to the road.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"There is something I think you need to see. Are you okay to walk, Roland?"
He couldn't help but laugh. This tiny ancient person was sincere in her concern that he may not be up for a slow stroll through the country.
"Yes, I was worried about you," he said.
"You needn't be. I have been walking this same path near every day for a hundred years."
She pointed to his left. "Over there is the steeple of St. Thomas's. It isn't the same bell that rang the morning we went looking for Timmy. That summer the church burned to the ground along with a great deal of the town. But they rebuilt it as if from a picture. If I hadn't told you, you would never know."
"Do they still use it as a distress signal?" he asked.
"No, with television and radio, and all them people with phones that do near everything but make your dinner, there isn't a need to use a church bell. Now it only rings on Sunday morning."
"It must have been a comfort to the people of the town to have the church back the way it was," he said.
Patricia shrugged, then pointed down the slope to her right. "About a mile that way is where we found Timmy. Most of the trees are gone now, but this whole area was thick forest back then."
It was slow going. Roland found himself stopping every third stride to let Patricia keep up. If she noticed, she didn't seem to care.
After about twenty minutes, Patricia made her way to a bench in the grass at the side of the road. She sat with the same grace she did everything. Roland marveled at the fluidity of her every motion, still unable to believe she was so old. She let out a slight "whoosh" when she settled on the bench and patted the seat next to her.
Her cheeks looked flushed a bit, but as far as Roland could tell, she was not out of breath nor fatigued from the walk.
"I had the bench put here about ten years ago. I was starting to get tired on my walks. I decided I was getting too old."
Roland hadn't noticed Patricia carrying the journal until she sat on the bench and placed it in her lap. Now she brushed the cover as if trying to smooth out the pages inside.
She didn't say anything, just sat looking out across the field that bordered the opposite side of the road. Roland looked in that direction but saw nothing that might hold her attention. He took two steps to the bench and sat beside her.
She flipped open the cover and turned to the page marked with a ribbon. Running her palm over the words as though trying to conjure spirits from her past, her gaze returned to the field across the road for a moment, then she read aloud.
Patricia's Journal—Tuesday, April 16, 1912
I walked to town with Mother this morning. She was quite melancholy. Partly because she misses Daddy, but I think she is frightened by what happened to Timmy.
Mrs. Scully was in the common, so we went to say hello. That's when we
found out that Mr. Wilson was missing and Mrs. Wilson has taken to her bed in grief.
She started telling Mother about that ship that sank, but Mother just excused us and spirited us home.
I really wish Daddy were home.
Mother is so scared.
Patricia closed the book, again running her hand over it like she might be petting a cat or small dog. Without warning, she stood and motioned for Roland to join her. He stood beside her, and they continued to walk. The click of Roland's Italian shoes on the pavement and the breeze rustling the tall grass at the edge of the road made the only sound.
"They found Mr. Wilson the next day," she said, breaking the silence. "Most people were saying he was overcome with sadness and ran off."
"Mother said they were wrong. He was so fond of that boy, and Mrs. Wilson too. They told Mother that Mr. Wilson looked the same way as Timmy. The townfolk said it was some strange sickness, and likely Mrs. Wilson would be next. Nobody would go over to the Wilson place to check on the poor woman."
Being the true gentleman Roland considered himself to be, he said, "Patricia, let me carry that for you." He reached for the journal. She released it without protest, and he tucked it under his arm.
"Was she next?" he asked.
"Not next, but it did get her. It got many of them."
"What did? Was it a plague, or some epidemic?"
"It was evil, plain and simple. Do you remember what I told you about evil, Roland?"
"It never dies," he said in a whisper. He wasn't buying into her tale completely, but she was definitely creeping him out.
Chapter 5
They walked in silence for a while, open field on their left and a row of tall cedars on the right. A gap in the trees revealed the Kings Shore Cemetery. Patricia walked to a stone bench just inside the gate.
"Roland, I want you to walk around and have a look. Come back when you're finished, and we'll go back for another glass of tea."
"What am I looking for?" he asked.
"Dear, if you don't find it, maybe you aren't made out for this reporter business," she said, grinning up at him.
He returned the journal to her waiting hands, smiled back, then turned and walked among the headstones. He took a pad and pen from his breast pocket. He didn't know why until he got to the Wilson grave. Timmy, April 12. Thomas, April 16. Myra, April 21. The biggest marker read Owens, Robert, June 6 and Louise, June 9. Patricia's parents. He didn't know for sure, but he was fairly certain.
"Jesus," he said under his breath. Then he looked next at the Bergeron marker. Bergeron, John, April 16 and Jennifer, April 17. All of them in 1912.
So it went. Roland found forty-three headstones dated April through June of 1912. He shuffled back to the bench where his host still sat. His swagger had drained; somehow he felt aged. He dropped onto the bench beside her, his hands on his knees to keep him upright. This whole time he wanted to write this story off as the ramblings of a lonely old woman seeking attention. Although the headstones didn't prove anything evil, Roland was starting to believe in Patricia Owens.
"What happened to them?"
"It was like a wagon rolling down a hill, once it gets to moving, it either has to coast to a stop at the bottom or crash," she said. "In Kings Shore in 1912, the wagon made it to the bottom, but it crashed anyway. Do you understand that, Roland?"
"I understand that some God-awful event took place here. What it was or what stopped it is a mystery to me."
"God-awful. That's about right. God-awful." The last one she dragged out, giving her a southern hillbilly tone.
She opened the book to where she last placed her ribbon.
Patricia's Journal—Saturday, April 20, 1912
Constable Morgan dropped by today. He said he knew Daddy was not home and he wanted to make sure we were fine.
Mother thanked him and told him that our hand was here, but his thoughtfulness was accepted with gratitude.
Mother didn't know I was listening through the door. Constable Morgan told her that Sam Pierce is going around telling people he saw Mr. Wilson last night.
What a mean thing to say, with Mrs. Wilson grieving so.
"I can see the doubt in your eyes, Roland," she said. "Before you set your mind firm against what you are hearing, I ask you to please, hear it all. Can you do that?"
Roland stared off into the distance while he did the math in his head. "Patricia," he said in a tone that indicated he just found a hole in her story big enough to drive a truck through. "Wilson died on the…" he flipped open his pad. "Sixteenth, that entry was dated the…"
"Twentieth," Patricia interrupted. "Four nights after he died, Sam Pierce, who until that day was considered a good man in Kings Shore, one of the most reliable, claimed he saw Tom Wilson walking along the road toward his farm."
"Did he speak to him? Sam, I mean. Did he speak to the guy? The man he claimed to be Tom Wilson."
"If you saw a man you knew to be dead and buried walking down a deserted road at night, would you try to strike up a conversation, Roland?" Her answer was so acute, it seemed almost scripted. It was plain to Roland that Patricia expected him to ask the question.
"I suppose not," he answered. "I didn't see Sam Pierce's name in the graveyard." It wasn't a question, but Patricia answered it anyway.
"That's because he isn't there. He packed his belongings into a wagon and left before the end of the week. He was one of the smart ones. He may have lost his home and his friends, but he kept his life."
"Did anyone else leave?" Roland asked.
"It was a small town, and most didn't have much, but what they had was here, so they stayed. Mother and I couldn't leave. We had to wait for Daddy to get back. I wished so that he would come home. I wished it so much, and by the time he did, I wished he had not."
She stood, and began to walk back toward the house. Roland followed in silence. This was Patricia's dance, and he was content to let her lead. She held the book to her bosom, and this time Roland chose not to offer to carry it. She held it to her like a child holding a doll. If the book gave her comfort, then good on her. They walked without talking until the old woman sat on her bench. Not at all leg weary, Roland found himself silently thanking the person who installed this bench. His mind was trying to process a great deal, and he found the experience taxing.
"Do you know why I put this bench in this spot, Roland?" she asked, placing the journal on the bench beside her.
"I figured it was halfway," he said.
"No," she said. "We're much closer to the cemetery than we are the house."
"I couldn't even offer a guess then."
She pointed to a barely noticeable path directly across the road. He turned, squinting into the shadows of the tall grass and trees along the path.
"What is down there?" he asked.
"It's better if you just go see. Along that path, you will see the ruins of an old farmhouse. It's not much more than a stone foundation now. It's about five hundred yards in. Another hundred yards or so beyond that is the remains of a silo. Was a barn too but it's long gone. Just behind that is a big rock. You can't miss it. It's near as big as a VW."
"What's special about a rock in the middle of a long-gone farm?" He looked at her, but Patricia just stared down the path.
Without saying another word, Roland stood, and after making sure the way was clear, he crossed the road. At the mouth of the path leading into the shadows, he turned back to the bench. Patricia just shooed him away as though he were a bothersome child. With a shake of his head, unable to believe what the old lady had convinced him to do, he stepped along the path.
Chapter 6
One mosquito bite on the back of his neck told Roland he had had enough of this. The old lady was a master of intrigue. She would draw him in, then set him adrift. Draw him in and set him adrift.
When she had his attention, she owned him. Then he would come to his senses, like now, and want nothing more than to get back on the road to Toronto. Yet he didn't. He f
ollowed her directions, swatting at bugs, and cursing the brambles that tugged at his trousers.
The stone foundation rose up from the grass just as Patricia described it. He scanned the area behind what was once a house, and hiding half behind a sickly pine was the rubble from a long-destroyed silo. He struggled his way through the shrubbery, grass, and weeds.
When he got to within fifty feet of the silo, he saw the rock. As Patricia said, it was the size of a VW. It wasn't the size or shape, or even wondering how the big rock got there that captured Roland's curiosity. It was the surrounding dirt.
The rock, stark and white, surrounded by a ring of black, barren dirt, looked like a pearl in a black oyster. Nothing grew in that ring of soil, not grass, nor weeds or even moss. By contrast, the white VW-sized rock looked almost luminous in the middle of the dull black ring.
Mesmerized by the oddness of it, Roland inched closer, his steps tentative. A chill ran through him as his foot touched the dead ground. Make no mistake, the ground encircling that rock did not support life of any kind.
Sweat dripped from his face. A few drops fell to the dirt making even blacker spots on the surface. In seconds the moist spots billowed up from the ground in tiny puffs of vapor. Roland crouched at the line where the grass ended and the barren circle began. He held his hand over it, and goosebumps erupted from his hand, up his arm, to his neck.
A shiver ran through him, and he lost his balance. Roland placed his hand on the dirt to steady himself. Immediately he cringed as his abdomen clenched and a gorge of nasty erupted from his mouth. A puddle of hot vomit stained the ground, and the smell rising in a cloud of putrid mist caused him to retch again.
Evil Never Dies Page 2
