Howl of a Thousand Winds

by Howl of a Thousand Winds (retail) (epub)

  Instead of a bentwood rocker bearing the frozen body of Denny Enderrin, the corner behind the door held a small table. On that table, a large framed photo of a young and bearded Jimbo Enderrin, flanked by a slender but strong woman whose hair had not yet begun to change into the color of its namesake, and a 12-year-old boy holding up a trout on a metal stringer.

  The top of the dresser held a thin layer of dust. A random spark of memory flashed through Brad’s ever-active mind, of dust in a basement and contemplations of dead skin cells belonging to occupants long past.

  The mirror attached to the dresser also contained a fine sprinkling of dust, but not enough to cloud the image of a terrified man staring out of it, eyes frantic, mouth agape.

  It took a moment for Brad to recognize himself in the reflection.

  In a previous decade, this room may have been destroyed by invading ice, the bed covered by snow, and the two occupants devoid of life beneath its frozen touch.

  But not now. This room held memories, but no bodies. And no hope of help.

  Trapped in this timeless morgue, Brad realized that it fell to him whether he lived or died. As it always does. As it always should.

  With an angry screech of furniture legs against wood, Brad grabbed the edge of the dresser and pulled it across the room. On the way, the brackets that attached the mirror to the dresser came loose, allowing the mirror glass to shatter into a thousand pieces when it hit the floor. Brad ignored the hundreds of tiny versions of himself now reflected from the hardwood floor and throw rug, pushing the dresser firmly against the door. He then pulled the now-made bed in front of the dresser, stepping on and crushing the small pieces of mirror into even smaller pieces, then piled the side table on top of the bed.

  Fresh out of heavy obstacles, Brad began looking for something he could use as a weapon. Spotting the daisies that mocked him with their cheery pattern, he yanked on the curtains, pulling down a solid wrought iron bar that served as the curtain rod.

  Barricade and weaponry in place, Brad sat down on the bed to await the coming battle.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Micah had spent a lot of miles since leaving his hotel room early that morning thinking that maybe he should have reconsidered the decision to drive the rented Jeep on unknown rural roads in middle of a severe snowstorm. The fact that he was making the trip to talk to a man who believed in Bigfoot and snow monsters made the journey seem even more reckless. But when he spoke to Mr. Berube the day after Thanksgiving, he sensed no lunacy in the conversation. In fact, the man was reluctant to talk about something that had happened nearly a quarter century before, and even seemed uncomfortable when Micah used the word "Bigfoot" during the brief conversation to get directions and permission to stop by.

  However, the instinct which had served the reporter so well over the years was screaming that this was an interview he didn't dare blow off.

  With the five-hour run nearly finished, Micah started watching the right side of the road for a hand-carved sign nailed to a tree that said "Harmony Woods," the only address marker Berube said he would see to identify the cut-in.

  When he arrived around 10 a.m., Micah found that the entrance was blocked by a four foot berm created by snow plows charged with keeping the two lane highway passable. Because of the highway department's work, there wasn't a shoulder to pull onto, so he stopped in his lane of the road to figure out what he should do. Fortunately, the weather had kept more sensible people at home, so he wasn't blocking any traffic at the moment. Because it was a rental, Micah wasn't keen on trying to blast through the snow mound, especially since he didn't know how hard packed it might be underneath. He had taken the collision damage waiver, but didn't want to put it to the test. Also, he had been raised with a respect for other people's property, even if it belonged to a faceless corporation.

  On the other side of the snow wall, Micah could see the short path that led to the Berubes' neat one story house, almost teasing him with its "near and yet so far" enticement. He figured that if he could somehow get on the other side of the berm, the nimble SUV could easily navigate the trail. After taking nearly a full minute, Micah decided to try and climb the berm, reenacting a scene from a TV commercial he had seen last year. He couldn't remember specifically and only hoped it had been a commercial for this particular model of Jeep.

  Since he had engaged the four-wheel drive soon after starting the trip, Micah didn't have to spend time fiddling with buttons and switches. Checking the highway in both directions, he backed up a few feet, then swung wide into the other lane to allow him to line up the front of the vehicle exactly perpendicular to the mound. Because of the Jeep's length, he was currently blocking both lanes, and would be a juicy t-bone target if a fast-moving car happened to come along at that moment.

  Once the front of the SUV was pressed against the berm, he applied a little more pressure to the gas pedal, careful not to rev the engine and spin the tires. He heard a scraping sound as the underside of the plastic bumper gouged the top layer of snow, but continued to keep a slow and steady pace. The front tires found purchase in the mound, and the front of the vehicle began to angle skyward, much like the angle Micah enjoyed during an airplane's takeoff. He continued to creep forward, the deep treads of the nearly new tires biting deep into the not yet frozen surface.

  As the front of the Jeep neared the summit of the small hill, Micah braced himself for the expected bump when the front tires would peak and drop to the downward side, hoping the top of the berm would be flat enough to allow the back wheels to catch up before the snow reached the vehicle's frame.

  Unfortunately, a sudden jolt told him his four wheeling luck had run out. Although it was only snow, the grinding sound underneath the body of the SUV announced that the front wheels had lost contact and the vehicle had crunched down on the top of the mound. Micah instinctively goosed the gas pedal lightly, hoping a little more power to the back wheels would be enough to push the Jeep the rest of the way over the top. Instead, the vehicle's body bogged down deeper, the rocker panels disappearing into the bank of snow while all four wheels began spinning in undriveable air. The SUV was high-centered and stuck on top of the berm.

  "Damn!" Micah yelled at the innocent steering wheel. He knew that putting the Jeep in reverse would be useless but tried it anyway with a desperate faith in physics he didn't understand, hoping the change in tire revolutions would have some sort of gyroscopic effect on the vehicle's balance atop the triangular fulcrum of now hard-packed snow. Obviously the Pythagorean gods weren't smiling, as the wheels remained impotent in the air, and the Jeep was hopelessly stuck.

  Micah put the SUV in park, undid his seatbelt and started to open the door, intent on evaluating the problem from a different angle. He quickly found that the vehicle had settled deep enough that the snow was about eight inches above the bottom of the door, holding it shut.

  With the engine still running, he climbed over the center console into the passenger seat and tried that door, finding the same result.

  Running out of options, he decided to try crawling into the back seat, hoping the added weight would tilt the SUV enough that the back wheels might come back down and gain enough traction to pull the Jeep back out. Before making the move, Micah put the transmission in reverse, then made his way through the cleft between the bucket seats. As he moved, he could hear the sound of the snow as the vehicle settled deeper. What he didn't know was that the SUV had been designed for off-roading, and was equipped with skid plates underneath that covered areas that might have otherwise left little caves and places the snow could escape. Instead, the skid plates worked like a spatula, smoothing the top of the snow berm into a flattened plateau.

  When the move to the back seat didn't result in any tilt, Micah continued backwards, climbing into the luggage compartment all the way in the back. At 160 pounds, he wasn't heavy enough to offset the weight of the engine in the front of the SUV. Instead of causing a tilt, the weight movement simply pushed the back of the SUV deepe
r into the top of the snow mound.

  While in the luggage compartment, Micah switched tactics and tried to find a hatch release so he could at least get out and assess things from the ground. As he feared, there was no release from inside the vehicle. Moving into the back seat, he found the back doors were wedged as tightly shut as the front doors.

  He returned to the front seat and put the Jeep in park. Running out of options, Micah decided it was time to enlist some help from the caretaker he had come to see. He pulled his backpack from the back seat and took out his cell phone. He pushed the button at the bottom, only to discover that the Pythagorean gods had apparently parlayed with the gods of AT&T; the upper left corner of the iPhone read "No Service."

  Feeling plenty of frustration but no real panic at the idea of being trapped, Micah returned his phone to the backpack and put it on his lap. He pushed a button on the door, which lowered the driver's side window. Once the window was all the way down, he turned off the car, grabbed the steering wheel and the headrest, and easily climbed out. Once on top of the victorious berm, he took a moment to assess the vehicle's situation.

  "Well, at least the ass end isn't hanging out into the road," Micah said, observing that the rear of the SUV was clear of the highway. He reached back in and grabbed his backpack, slung it over his shoulder and headed toward the Berube house.

  Micah kicked his way through the foot-high snow on a 15-minute trek that would ordinarily take less than five in better weather. As he approached the front door, he noticed a set of elongated boot prints heading left from a side entrance where someone had kicked their own way through the snow and deeper into the woods.

  Reaching the front of the house, he climbed the three steps and pushed the button, but didn't hear the welcoming melody of the doorbell. It was then that he noticed the opaque button was unlit, and that there were no lights on in the house.

  "Don't tell me nobody's home," Micah whispered to himself. He opened the storm door and knocked on the wooden door inside. After waiting what he thought was a respectable time, he knocked again, this time a little more insistently.

  For the first time, Micah felt a tiny bite of concern. He was stuck a long way from what most people would call civilization. It had been miles since he had seen a house or structure along the highway, and not a single car had passed in the half hour since he had made the first doomed decision to try and drive the Jeep over the berm. Without a cell phone, he had no way to call for help, and with no answer at the front door, his only shelter would be to climb back through the window of the Jeep and wait it out until someone came along. He began to wonder if the heat of the engine and exhaust pipes under the Jeep might eventually melt the berm down to a manageable size if he got back into the SUV and kept the motor and heater running.

  As he let go of the storm door and headed back down the concrete stairs, the inside door opened. Standing partway behind the wooden door was a small, frail woman Micah estimated had to be at least 200 years old, dressed in a thick bathrobe and heavy blue sweatpants. The woman held the door with one hand while holding the top of her robe closed against the cold with the other.

  "Mrs. Berube?" Micah ventured. The woman with timid eyes nodded. "I'm Micah Roaz, with the Associated Press. I spoke to your husband yesterday. He was expecting me?"

  The woman pushed the handle to the storm door, the nonverbal version of "come on in." Micah kicked the snow from his boots and pants, then followed Mrs. Berube inside.

  In the corner of the living room, a wood stove showed flashes of orange through the grating while putting off enough heat to make the room and the adjacent dining room warm enough to enjoy with short sleeves. One wall was covered with a large tapestry adorned with a forest scene of deer feeding from a covered wooden trough. Photos of what he assumed were Mr. and Mrs. Berube at various ages adorned the other walls.

  "Paul isn't here," Mrs. Berube said, settling into a worn blue rocker recliner. "He went over to check on the Enderrin place a while back. In fact, he's been gone a good while. He rarely uses the front door, but I was sort of hoping it might be him pounding on the door."

  Micah stood at the wood stove, warming hands that he hadn't realized had gotten so cold until they were in front of the heat.

  "I appreciate you letting me in," Micah said. "I managed to get my Jeep stuck in the snow, which means I'll need a second favor on top of his favor to meet with me."

  "Paul's good at that sort of thing, getting cars unstuck," Mrs. Berube said. "Course, he doesn't drive much himself anymore, but knows how to deal with the snow. Likes to walk to the other houses he takes care of around here, except for the Barkley place about six miles from here."

  "Is the Enderrin house nearby?" Micah asked, making conversation.

  Mrs. Berube didn't answer right away.

  "It's about a mile up the road, a little closer taking the shortcut through the woods," Mrs. Berube finally said, staring past Micah at the wood stove's glowing grate. "Even a mile is too close to suit me. Wish he would have given up that one years ago."

  "Not fond of the people?" Micah asked.

  "It's not the owner. It's the cabin," Mrs. Berube said, still staring at the stove. "There's something wrong with that place. Has been ever since Mr. Enderrin and his boy were killed there years ago. I've only been there once since then. Won't be going back."

  For the first time since coming inside, Micah realized that the rest of the house was dead silent save for the quiet sounds of combustion coming from the stove. No radio or TV, no ticking clocks, none of the normal sounds that eventually become unheard background for the occupants but are the quickly cataloged signs of life to a visitor.

  "Power's out," Mrs. Berube said, her eyes still zeroed in on the stove. "Phone too. Been out since last night. 'Spect the electric's out at the Enderrin's, too. Don't know why it's taking so long for Paul to get back."

  "How long has he been gone?" Micah asked.

  "Better'n three hours," the old woman replied.

  While continuing to warm his hands, Micah heard a fresh sound in the silent house. It was Mrs. Berube, crying.

  "Is there anything I can do?" Micah asked, turning to really look at the woman whose limbs were almost as thin and reedy as the breaths currently struggling to leave her chest.

  "I'm an old woman, Mr. Roaz, eat up with cancer and trying to make it through my last winter on this earth. All I really want is to have my husband here."

  Without needing to be asked, Micah picked up his back pack and slung it across his shoulders before heading for the door.

  "If I follow his footprints, I should be able to find him, right?" the reporter asked.

  "He's the only man hardheaded enough to be wandering the woods in weather like this," Mrs. Berube said, taking a moment to daintily blow her nose. "The tracks will be his."

  Micah headed for the front door and stepped from warmth into bitter cold and swirling snow that had calmed to little more than flurries. He didn't think about the inconvenience, or attribute his unspoken offer of help to being "just part of the job." It was just a natural, reflexive response, like saying "Bless you" after someone sneezes.

  Heading around the side, he took up the tracks and began following Mr. Berube's trail through the woods. After 20 minutes, the collection of barren trees had thickened. Devoid of leaves, the forest had a lifeless feel to it, as if left standing in the aftermath of a tragedy that had eliminated every life form from the planet. The only sound was the crunching of his boots kicking their way through the snow. Micah tried matching the strides of the holes in the snow, attempting to step into the divots created by the older man's journey, but it was still a tiring effort.

  After another 10 minutes, Micah saw the first signs of the cabin's roofline. He also smelled smoke, and could see a small finger of dark gray rising against the paler gray of the overcast sky.

  Off to his right, a noise interrupted the silence. Micah stopped and cocked his head, straining to hear and identify the sound. The woods wen
t quiet again, offering not even the sound of a turning leaf, the wind having temporarily gone still. He listened so hard, at one point he thought he could even hear the sound of the now-heavy snowflakes landing on top of their grounded white brethren. Without realizing it, he had even stopped breathing.

  The sound returned, suddenly too close and too loud. It was the sound of hoofbeats from a heavy beast of burden moving fast. Micah swiveled his head to try and see the source of the sound, his frozen knees now feeling as if they were going to melt like a stick of butter left too close to a hot stove. For the first time, he felt the sharp intestinal ripple of fear, despite the fact that he couldn't see a threat.

  This time, noise didn't come from a particular direction, but seemed to come from every direction, hints of it carried on every snowflake like a million surround-sound speakers. A horse's whinny ripped through the falling snow, a sound that was now strong enough to make a harmonic vibration in Micah's chest. The neigh was accompanied by a powerful burst of wind that shook the barren wooden sentinels that stretched leafless toward the sky, making them almost wiggle in a motion that looked like kowtowing disciples in the presence of their deity.

  For a flash of a moment, Micah thought he could see a white horse rearing wildly before him. Then an unexpected gust of a tornado-force wind lifted Micah out of the knee-high snow, casting him nearly 10 feet until his backwards flight was interrupted by a collision with a naked elm tree. A muffled crack reverberated from somewhere within the folds of fabric behind him, and he was suddenly unable to move.

  The stunned reporter tried to hold on to consciousness, but the snow's whiteness slowly dimmed until his mind's blackness took hold. In his last moment of cognition, the sound of a horse's powerful snort found its way through the blur and wind, followed by the sound of powerful hoofbeats walking away.