tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52708860270078967902024-03-13T08:51:37.811-07:00Susan Buffum- AuthorSusan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.comBlogger652125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-78793321512337293812022-03-13T11:02:00.001-07:002022-03-13T11:02:20.527-07:00Writer's Block has Ended!<p> After the sudden and unexpected death of my husband on Monther's Day in May of 2021 I was creatively blocked due to grief and being overwhelmed by loss, and then the slow process of getting my life back on track. </p><p>In February 2022 an idea sparked in my head and I began writing. After two attempts I stopped and regrouped, took a deep breath, and started the new novel for the third time and am now 47,000+ words into it. Hopefully I'll be able to finish it this month or next month and self-publish it at the end of April or early in May. </p><p>Curiously, my art didn't suffer like my writing did...maybe because writing takes more cerebral activity than drawing does for me. Drawing is also a comforting activity whereas writing can lead to places down dark alleys you don't want to travel to, and bring thoughts into your head you don't want to deal with.</p><p>I'm relieved that after 9 months the writer's block let up and I'm able to write for a few hours at a time.</p><p>The new novel is the fifth in the novel series set at or near bodies of water (<i style="font-weight: bold;">Whisper Lake, Bolt's Landing, Camden Lake, Dalton Cove </i>being the first four books in the series.) The tentative title is <b><i>Rosemont Reservoir</i></b>. This novel follows the romance/suspense/crime path of the previous four but is darker as a serial killer stalks a peaceful small town in the hills of the Berkshires, targeting virginal young women. </p>Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-35992486767349473822021-10-27T06:32:00.001-07:002021-10-27T06:32:06.345-07:00NaNoWriMo 2021<p> I have not been writing much this year as my life continues to level out after the loss of my husband, however I've had several requests for the past two or more years for the next book in the Amberton Paranormal Investigation series (ghost hunting) which began with <i style="font-weight: bold;">The Fairlawn Investigation</i> and then continued in <i style="font-weight: bold;">The Victoria Wayfarer Investigation. </i></p><p>During the month of November I'll write the new book in the series, <i style="font-weight: bold;">The Lakeside Manor Investigation</i>, as my 10th NaNoWriMo novel. It's still difficult for me to believe that in 2012 I wrote my first novel and today I have 26 novels, 21 anthologies, 7 novellas, and 1 chapter book to my credit. In addition, daughter Kelly and I have a writer's social and support group that just celebrated it's fourth anniversary this past June and has over 100 members, some scattered from east coast to west coast! This October marked the fifth year that I have donated written pieces and art to the local Friends of the Columbia Rail Trail's annual Glow Walk during the full moon in October. </p><p>I still work full time as a medical administrative assistant in a busy 7 provider medical office, but writing and drawing remain my favorite hobbies. </p><p>To view my books in print and ebook format visit Amazon.com, select books and type in Susan Buffum and they come up. To view my art visit etsy.com and type BicycleCityArworks in the search box and my available art prints come up. I'll be adding some new prints soon...hopefully before the holidays officially kick off.</p><p>Meanwhile...I'm preparing to write a new novel in 30 days beginning November 1st and ending November 30th! I love a good challenge!</p>Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-8706648870307860942021-10-27T06:17:00.001-07:002021-10-27T06:17:03.883-07:00October 2021 News<p> While still working my way through the sudden loss of my husband of 37 years I have been trying to keep myself busy. I managed to proof read and revise a book originally titled<b style="font-style: italic;"> Dawg</b> but recently self-published with the title <i style="font-weight: bold;">The Value of Jade</i>. I wrote the book about three years ago and wasn't completely happy with it, so it sat idle in a binder. With corrections, continuity issues dealt with, and revisions made I self-published the story of a struggling NH farmer whose dog finds a young woman who's been recently assaulted in a muddy corn row on his farm. The farmer takes her in and does his best to help her, including lying to a man who shows up at the farm after the storm is over looking for her. He calls on the local pastor's wife for help. Although Jade has had a difficult past James and his lab/retriever mix dog, Dawg, do their best to help her as she recovers from her injuries and tries to figure out what to do as she moves forward in her life. The pastor and his wife also step in to assist her. After James is attacked and injured by the man hunting for Jade she runs away, but the kindness and protection she's received from James and the pastor and the congregation of the church draw her back. She loves the farm, she loves Dawg, and ultimately, she's fallen in love with James and he's developed feelings for her. Together they work toward a future that will bring them both the stability, security and happiness that has been lacking in their lives. It's a gentle romance story. </p><p>I also had a new ghost story/paranormal/light horror story anthology started with a planned release date of October 2022. I had started a story called The Lilac Teddy Bear while on a short get away vacation to Cape Cod with my husband in mid-April. About two months after my emergency surgery at the very beginning of May and his sudden passing a week later on Mother's Day I managed to finish writing that story. I drew a few stories from past books such as <i style="font-weight: bold;">Miss Peculiar's Ghost Stories, Volume I, 13, </i>and<i> </i><b style="font-style: italic;">Miss Peculiar's Haunting Tales, Volume III </b>to round out the new stories written to make up the third anthology to accompany <i style="font-weight: bold;">The Hanging Man and Other Stories, </i>and <i style="font-weight: bold;">Only BOO, and nothing more. A Haunting We Will Go</i> was published at the middle of September 2021. </p><p>Both new books are available on Amazon in print format and in the Kindle store as ebooks. </p><p>Several readers have already asked when the sequel to <i style="font-weight: bold;">The Value of Jade</i> is coming out! I hadn't planned one, but am now considering it.</p><p>A quote from the beginning of <b><i>A Haunting We Will Go</i></b> sums up the new anthology: <b>"Come and sit down," she said. "I've saved you the best seat in the house. I call it the uneasy chair."</b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-88972825696342772712021-05-30T10:53:00.004-07:002021-05-30T10:53:34.250-07:00May Has Not Been A Good Month<p>While <i><b>Whisper Lake</b></i> (formerly titled The Subtlety of Light and Shadow, but revamped as the first book in the lake series which includes <b><i>Bolt's Landing </i></b>and <i style="font-weight: bold;">Camden Lake) </i>and the new book in the lake series, <i style="font-weight: bold;">Dalton Cove </i>were published on time and available May was not a good month for me. On May 1st I landed in the ER after 5 days of increasing stomach cramps and abdominal pain and loss of appetite and general malaise. I had emergency surgery for a small bowel obstruction on the morning of May 2nd. I was released on the 4th and my husband was taking care of me as I had post surgery restrictions (no lifting, running up and down stairs, etc). On Sunday May 9th John, my husband, passed away unexpectedly while working in the garage. Thanks to daughter Kelly who moved home for an entire week to help out, and family and friends who came and helped with everything from funeral arrangements to cooking and cleaning, I made it through that second week post surgery fairly well. The third week everyone went home, but Kelly and her friend Galen have been coming to do heavy lifting for me for the past two weeks, and mowing the lawn, etc. I'm finally to the point where I need to go back to work although it's only been 4 weeks since my surgery. I need to be around other people and get back to doing my job in the office where I work.</p><p>On May 23rd Kelly and I did participate in the WhipCity Wordsmiths Authors on the Green Book Show in Westfield, MA. This was our event and had been in the works since January of 2021. The city permit was in place, all the authors were lined up and had ordered books by the time I landed in the ER and then lost my husband, so I felt we needed to move forward with the show. Luckily we had help hauling heavy items and the day was sunny and hot, but with cooling breezes and winds. The rain help off until after the show was over! All the authors who had signed up (23 total) attended and we all sold books and met new readers and our following fans. It was a nice day and a wonderful chance to be with fellow authors and friends, so I'm glad we didn't have to cancel the show which would have been a huge disappointment for everyone.</p><p>I've reread a partial manuscript that was near completion, but have mostly spent my surgery recovery time reading books from my stacks of to-be-read books. Revere and Riley are my constant companions. I've also worked on a short horror story called The Lilac Bear I started writing while vacationing on Cape Cod with John in mid-April, a trip I'm now really glad we got to take considering all that happened within the following month. I also had an idea for the longer story that will complete the nearly finished volume of ghost and supernatural stories <i style="font-weight: bold;">A Haunting We Will Go</i> that I hope to have ready for publication in October of this year. This would be the third ghost stories anthology with <i style="font-weight: bold;">The Hanging Man and other stories</i> and <b><i>Only Boo, and nothing more.</i></b></p>Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-18930594280443531522021-04-26T18:08:00.001-07:002021-04-26T18:08:22.507-07:00Whisper Lake is Available<p> Over the past two years I've written several books set at various fictional lakes in New England and NY state- <b><i>Bolt's Landing</i></b>, <b><i>Camden Lake</i></b>, and now<b><i> Dalton Cove</i></b>. It occurred to me that in 2015 I'd written the predecessor of these romance with danger and suspense novels with <b><i>The Subtlety of Light and Shadow</i></b> which is set at a fictional Adirondacks Lake. Last week I pulled <b style="font-style: italic;">The Subtlety of Light and Shadow </b>(unpublished it) and revamped it, downsizing it to the 5x8 format and giving it a brand new cover. The new version, <i style="font-weight: bold;">Whisper Lake</i>, went live today on Amazon. I can't create the ebook version for 90 days, but the print book is available on Amazon. </p><p>This book is about young Lucie Palmer who ands her dream job in public relations for a prestigious Adirondacks art gallery. The gallery is owned by the dark, difficult, damaged Rex Royce, a renowned local artist. Three other artists have studios there and display their work in the gallery. Lucie's out of her element at Perspectives but trying her hardest to put her best foot forward. She is constantly finding everything ,from her clothes, her small apartment, and her work being criticized or ridiculed, yet she continues on trying to do her best. Told to avoid Royce, she finds that difficult to do when he seeks her out for typing his personal correspondence, giving him a lift into the village. Whenever she's with him things get uncomfortable and go terribly wrong, yet she finds him intriguing and he keeps breaking his own rule to keep himself separate from staff by finding excuses to be near her.</p><p>Artist Sebastian Rose is jealous of Royce and wants Lucie for himself. He is all about conquests and he wants to spoil her sweet innocence and ruin her for Royce. Rose finds himself banned from Perspectives. Lucie finds herself suddenly thrust into the manager's position. With Lucie's life placed in danger by Royce's dangerous adversary Lucie is torn between throwing everything she does have away in Whisper Lake and fleeing home to the Albany area she's originally from. Tensions build and the fragile relationship Lucie establishes with Royce is threatened and nearly destroyed when he accuses her of lying and trying to trap him with the oldest trick in the book. </p><p>Now Available on Amazon!</p>Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-58157463092233833132021-04-26T17:51:00.005-07:002021-04-26T17:51:45.474-07:00Dalton Cove moves Closer to Publication<p> I went away to Cape Cod for five days mid-month and managed to do all the edits I needed to do in the print manuscript of <b><i>Dalton Cove</i></b>. When I got home I finished writing chapter 19, wrote a brief chapter 20 and the book was finished. I formatted the book on Tuesday, uploaded the manuscript on Wednesday, finished designing the cover and ordered a proof copy on Thursday. The proof arrived on Saturday. I'm now reading the printed book nd making additional revisions and edits, plus catching any typos, grammar issues, etc that still remain. With luck I'll be done reading tonight and can begin the corrections and changes to the computer file tomorrow, and upload the revised, polished manuscript by Saturday. Hopefully, next week if all goes well <i><b>Dalton Cove</b></i> will go live on Amazon- and then I'll tackle the ebook version!</p><p>Dalton Cove is about a young woman who'd moved to the lake to help out her widowed grandmother at the diner she owned with her late husband. Casey Leger's remained there, feeling obligated to help and to keep her grandmother company as she continues grieving for her husband. Next door to the diner is Frost's Boatyard and Repair Shop. Casey's known Dylan Frost for years, since she used to visit her grandparents at the lake and help out in the diner during summers when she was still in school. </p><p>One night Casey witnesses a crime being committed at the Frosts' business and calls the police, however the man sees her and then flees. Shortly afterwards a series of disturbing crimes are committed against Casey an the Frosts. Despite that Casey and Dylan's relationship blossoms into love. Together they try to puzzle out who has a vendetta against them and what set it off, since they'd only been friends when it'd started.</p><p>So- <i>Coming Soon!</i> </p>Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-82593098169098168202021-04-06T16:53:00.000-07:002021-04-06T16:53:13.423-07:00Drakes Fall Manor<p> This story was originally published in <i><b>Miss Peculiar's Haunting Tales, Volume I</b></i></p><p><i><b>copyright 2015 by Susan Buffum</b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>DRAKES FALL
MANOR by Susan Buffum<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p> </o:p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Mr. Needy lives between the walls of our house. He
says there are secret passages and narrow staircases allowing him access to
every floor, every room from cellars to attic. He emerges from secret panels
when we are asleep in our beds to prowl about in search of tidbits and odds and
ends which he either eats or steals away, tucking things into the many pockets
of his great frock coat. He uses a barrette of mine, stolen from a dainty porcelain
dish atop my dresser when I was a mere four years old as a lapel pin. I’m
fourteen years old now, a full decade having passed since he took it. The
barrette is tarnished and the hinge is wonky but he cherishes it so I am
disinclined to ask for its return.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I first saw him when I was still a small child. He was
a dark shadow stitching the moonlight coming through my curtains one warm late
spring night. I lay on my narrow bed watching him move back and forth across
the pale beams of moonlight, unable to make out his features but thinking he
was my father come to kiss me goodnight after one of his lengthy journeys and
indecisive about whether or not to wake me. I thought I was solving his dilemma
by abruptly sitting up in bed and crying, “Give us a kiss, Papa!” I only
succeeded in startling Mr. Needy who in his haste to be away stumbled over my
dollhouse wreaking havoc within that miniature microcosm with upset furniture
and figures tumbled rudely from their beds as if some cataclysmic event had
just occurred that would forever change the playscape of their lives.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Blast and damnation!” came the curses from the
darkness. It was hardly anything that would pass my erudite father’s lips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Therefore, I did what any small child would
do when waking to find a strange man in her bedroom- I threw the covers aside
and leapt out of bed, racing across the room, small fists flailing to pummel
the figure cowering against the wall, pale, bony fingers scrabbling to find the
secret lever that would open the panel through which he would make his escape.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">I caught glimpses of him that night. He’d finally
pushed me aside and made his escape. My mother, still struggling to find the
left sleeve of her dressing gown, had found me kneeling in front of the wall
beside my closet knocking on the paneling begging him to come back and play
with me. Mama had called for Nanny who slept like the dead in the very next
room, and demanded an explanation for my being out of bed and behaving like an
inmate of Bedlam in the middle of the night.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Beggin’ your pardon, Missus. It must have been the custard
at dinner. Too rich for her, not settin’ well on her delicate belly. I’ll give
her some bicarbonate of soda, rock her until she’s feelin’ more like herself and
then tuck her up into bed. She’ll be right as rain soon, she’ll be. Say
goodnight to your Mummy, Tessie, there’s a good girl. Nanny will fix you up
good and proper.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">Nanny had stuffed a stocking in my mouth and paddled
my bottom red as an apple then tucked me so tightly into bed I have been
terrified of being restrained ever since is how Nanny fixed me up good and
proper, if truth be told. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">When Nanny had her heart attack in the orchard when I
was eleven years old I may have taken a rather meandering route back to the
house to ask Mrs. Mossman, the housekeeper, to summon the doctor. I believe it
took me four hours, thirteen minutes and forty-seven seconds to walk from the
orchard to the service door at the rear of our house, a distance of perhaps
five hundred yards. I blamed my tardiness on very short legs and very tight
shoes that pinched and gave me an unusual gait.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">Nanny was laid to rest in Portsmouth Cemetery beside
her Talbot ancestors. I was the one who tucked the old feather duster into the
casket, a little something to remember me by as she began her journey into the
afterlife. How she had tormented me with that thing, waving it under my nose
when she perceived me to be misbehaving, making me sneeze until my eyes and
nose ran in equal measure. I made sure the tips of the feathers touched her
nostrils before personally closing the top of the casket and giving it a gentle
pat. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">Only Mr. Salter, the elder, had seen me do it. He’d
given me a solemn wink of a rheumy blue eye as I’d passed by on my way out to
join my family who had given me a few moments to say my private goodbyes to my
dear Nanny.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">It was about that time that I first found myself face
to face with Mr. Needy. Without Nanny’s rhythmic snoring from the other room I soon
discovered I was an insomniac. As such, I was often wide awake in the dead of
night when the rest of the household was sound asleep, dreaming of magnificent
events that can never be, for the majority of us live only grandiosely in our
dreams while managing to live merely mediocre lives while in our waking state. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">I did not like being confined to my bedroom as if the
house suddenly became off limits to my ambulating about in it after a certain
hour every night. I had a curfew of nine o’clock by which time I was supposed
to be in my room preparing for my nine thirty bed time. My mother, usually the
only parent in residence with my father still an active and frequent business
traveler, would come promptly as the grandfather clock at the end of the
hallway would be striking the half hour to place a dry peck of a kiss dead
center on my forehead and wish me a goodnight.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">I shall pause here in my narrative to describe my home
for then when I say ‘I dashed through the gallery connecting the main house to
the north wing’ you will have a clearer picture in your mind as to my escape
route. Drakes Fall Manor was built in the late 1870’s during my paternal
ancestors financial zenith. The main house is a paean to architectural excess
in the Second Empire style with a five story tower thrusting upward at the
center of the façade as if the designing architect was overcompensating for
what we shall euphemistically label his possible short-coming. The mansard roof
is slate tile. Occasionally I will hear the slither of a loosened slate sliding
out of place then, after a brief span of time, crashing through the thicket of
thorny rose canes before thudding solidly into the mossy earth. I have seen
them from time to time during my sojourns about the grounds jutting crookedly
like ancient weathered tombstones behind the roses. If I stand by the old
fountain, its basin cracked and full of the detritus of several autumns past,
and turn my face upward toward the third story where the eyebrow dormers curve
above the sightless stare of dingy window glass, I can locate the wounds from
which these scab-shaped slates have sloughed away. There are wings to north and
south, something builders seldom do nowadays in New England as our storms rush
at us out of the north causing wood rot and weather damage, leaks around the
windows and sagging foundations. The wings are connected on the first and
second stories by means of twenty-foot long galleries lined with tall windows
every four feet leaving wall space to hang rather dismal, glum-faced ancestral
portraits, if one so desires. My mother’s family so desired. There are stern,
somber, scowling faces, mostly male, expressing their displeasure at a child
racing through the galleries from main house to wing and back.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">This house has thirty-seven rooms on three floors, not
counting what I refer to as demi-rooms which are not true rooms but merely
pass-through areas or exceptionally large walk-in closets. By demi-rooms I mean
the butler’s pantry which is basically a passage with a soapstone sink ,
cupboards, cabinets and counter space, that connects the kitchen from the
formal dining room; or our dressing rooms where our clothes reside but we
merely run into and out of them without lingering for extended periods of time.
There are thirteen full bathrooms and five lavatories. On the third floor are
servants quarters and storage rooms. In the tower on that floor is a wrought
iron spiral staircase leading up to a trapdoor in the ceiling that, when opened,
reveals a tiny room, the trap door being in the center of its floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another spiral staircase leads up to the very
top of the tower with its oval windows on all four sides. It is like being in
the crow’s nest atop the tallest mast of a ship. You can see all the way to
Heaven from up there, and all the way to the lake to the east, the river to the
south and the town to the west. To the north is a dark forest and beyond the
trees the majestic mountain upon which clouds frequently stumble in their
journeys across the sky.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">We have a ballroom, long unused, on the second floor
in the south wing. It is a huge room full of shadows and echoes with a
musician’s balcony above a raised dais at the far end. The balcony is too frail
these days to support even a phantom’s weight and is therefore off limits, its
narrow curving staircases at either end roped off with thick maroon cords. There
are sheer curtains laced with cobwebs and furred with dust pulled back on each
side of the balcony. In bygone days these curtains could be closed to sort of
shield the sweaty musicians slaving away over their instruments from the
elegantly attired dancers swirly in a myriad of billowing skirts and flying
coat tails on the polished wood floor below.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">I adore the kitchen. This is the cavernous room where our
hump-backed cook stirs huge cauldrons of soup on a stove hot as Hades while
half-pigs roast in the ovens beneath. There is a long, wide, scarred wooden
table where she pummels pallid dough balls the size of human heads, beating
them into submission before using a knife the size of a machete to hack off
segments, dropping them into tin loaf pans then patting the dough almost
affectionately before slathering on egg white with a shaving brush. Then into
the ovens these loaves go, filling the house with the fragrance of baking
bread. Nothing says home more to a hungry child than a thick slice of hot from
the oven bread spread with yellow butter and smeared with raspberry jam full of
tiny seeds that can be ground between ones teeth.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">There is a matching carriage house, four stalls for
horses, the bays where coaches once stood now converted for the storage of
motor cars, the dirt floor stained with dark oily patches as if someone has
snuck in and stuck daggers into the very hearts of these mechanical monsters
whilst they slumbered. On the second floor is an apartment where our chauffer
Lieb lives. He whittles and carves in his free time. His carvings are grotesque
and disturbing- snarling trolls, frowning wizen-faced gnomes in peaked caps,
gargoyles, satyrs, devilish looking beings with horns and hooves. If Mama ever
saw these things she would oust Lieb. Papa has always been the shield between
Lieb’s hobby and Mama’s discovery of same. He has whittled me charming little
creatures to give my mother the illusion that he is a kind-hearted man, a
gentle soul. I only know the truth of how things are with him because Mr. Needy
tucked an exquisitely carved, nasty little rat-faced creature with long curved
talons beneath my pillow one night. I recognized the work as Lieb’s by the
curious pock mock he carves into the bottom of each piece. I hid the thing in
the back of my bedside table drawer where no one ever looks because the only
other thing in the drawer is my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lives of
the Saints</i> book with its gruesome images of suffering men and women, gifted
to me by a nun who’d told me it wouldn’t hurt me any to strive to be more
saintly in my behavior and attitude.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">On the grounds of Drakes Fall Manor there are other
structures such as a gardener’s shed, a gatehouse, a pool house and a shrine;
but the shrine is empty, the niche that once held a statue now the home for a
nest of field mice. There are red glass chimneys on tarnished brass bases with
the pale waxy remains of candles gummed inside to either side of the niche. The
ceiling of the shrine is painted a midnight blue with golden stars. The paint
is faded and the stars flaking and peeling but still one can imagine being out
in a field under a starry sky searching for the Star of Bethlehem to guide ones
steps toward the Messiah. There is no Star of Bethlehem in our shrine. All the
stars are the same. They do not even form a constellation.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">There is a pool but the water is only two feet deep
and resembles a Louisiana bayou swamp in color. I always run past the pool,
terrified that alligators will lunge up out of the murky water to grab my legs
in toothy jaws and drag me down into the muck to be devoured alive.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">That said, I shall continue my narrative. It was about
the time of Nanny’s demise in my eleventh year that I came face-to-face with
Mr. Needy during one of my nocturnal perambulations through the corridors and
rooms of Drakes Fall Manor. I had just finished enjoying a jam tart in the kitchen
by the soft glow of a nightlight always left burning when, emerging from the
pantry where I had rinsed sticky jam from the heel of one hand, I found a
strange man bending over the table examining some crumbs I had not swept onto
the floor. “What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded, hands on hips. I
thought it might be the new houseman Mama had hired, Westerman having abruptly
handed in his notice of departure after Nanny’s funeral in which he duly noted
that I was an intolerable and impossible child whose behavior he could no
longer tolerate. As if!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">The man slowly rose to his full height of perhaps five
feet five inches. He was a skinny fellow, and as he turned toward me I soon saw
why. He was skeletal- literally. His flesh was sere and clung to his bones as
if he had been mummified without the wrappings. His thin lips were barely able
to conceal his prominent teeth. His nose was collapsed and partially rotted
away at the tip leaving him with huge nostrils that faintly whistled as he
breathed. His pale blue eyes protruded from sunken sockets, his eyelids as thin
as tissue and near devoid of lashes. He wore an old-fashioned frock coat with
deep, flapped pockets, trousers, a white shirt yellowed with age and a blood
red cravat wound about his withered throat. On his feet were old felt carpet
slippers, much worn with small holes at the great toes all frayed about the
edges. To me, he looked exactly like a corpse sprung to life from another age.
My hands flew up to cover my mouth, to trap the scream that threatened to rush
out on soaring wings of sound. I stared at him through wide disbelieving eyes,
my mind momentarily stalled by shock.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“’ush!” he said, a bony finger rising to lie across
his bloodless lips and yellowed ivory teeth. “I mean you no harm, Miss Tessie.”
I shook my head ever so slightly. His pop-eyes held mine so that I was
completely spellbound. “We’re old friends, you and I, ain’t we, Miss?” He
nodded as he spoke. “I ain’t never done you a bit o’ ‘arm, ‘ave I?” I shook my
head again. “I can trust you to keep a secret, can’t I?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">I slowly lowered my hands but my fingers curled into
fists reflexively, just in case, and whispered, “Yes, I’m very good at keeping
things a secret.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Good, because I’ve lived in this ‘ouse a good long
while. I don’t want to be ‘avin’ to look elsewhere for new lodgin’s. I’ve grown
accustomed to Drakes Fall ‘ouse. You mustn’t go tellin’ anyone that I’m ‘ere.
Promise, Miss?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Do you have a room here then? I’ve been in every room
but I can’t imagine which one could be yours.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“I live in the walls, dear ‘eart.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Oh. Sometimes Mama hears a sound in the wall and she
says we must have rats in the attic or cellars and she should have Westerman
summon the rat catcher before we’re simply overrun. I hear you sometimes, too.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">He shakes his head, wispy dry hair the color of corn
silk floating about his head. “Not me,” he says quietly. “The others.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“There are other people living in our walls?” This is
difficult for me to conceive of. One curious fellow who says he lives within
the walls of our home is quite enough for a child’s mind to grasp. If you
factor in others, it has the potential to derail logic and sense fairly
rapidly.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Not people, no. Now, don’t you go troublin’ yourself
about them that don’t concern you. That’s my job, Miss. That you’ve seen me,
that we’ve exchanged a few words between us, will be troublesome enough.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Are you a criminal then, hiding from the law? A
fugitive? An escapee from Rockdale Penitentiary?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Nay, not that at all.” He looks appalled I should
even think such a thing.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Do you have a name I can call you by?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Nay, Miss. I don’t.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">I nod, and that’s when I notice my old barrette that
has been missing for seven years hanging from his breast pocket. The metal is
severely tarnished but the little amethyst gems gleam. He must have needed a
stick pin for his coat and that was all he could find. “I shall call you Mr.
Needy, if that is all right with you.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Mr. Needy,” he says slowly, as if sampling the name
on his tongue like a fine wine. “Aye, that’ll do nicely, I should say.” He
brushes the crumbs from the table into his palm then makes me a bow. “I must be
off now, and you should be gettin’ on up to your bed to chase a dream.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Will I see you again? Are we friends now?” I ask,
following in his wake as he heads through the butler’s pantry into the dining
room.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">He goes to the paneled wall beside the fireplace. It’s
near dark as pitch in here but I hear a faint click, sense the movement of a
panel swinging outward, pushing the air toward me. “Aye, Miss, I’m sure we’ll meet
again, you and I.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Well, goodnight then, Mr. Needy.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“G’night, Miss.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">And he is gone, leaving me alone in the dark dining
room with my racing thoughts, aching curiosity, and my lonesomeness curling
about my ankles like a tabby cat wanting to be picked up and held close. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">Finally, I turn on the lamp, approach the wall and run
my fingers all over the paneling as if I am blind and trying to read the flat
wooden face of a mannequin, believing it has something to tell me. My left ring
finger brushes the switch and the secret panels softly clicks open, exuding
musty air with a vague hint of mold and decay from the darkness beyond.
“Hello?” I whisper into the darkness. I lean closer and am startled witless by
the appearance of a fierce dark face with a bone clenched in its jaw held tight
by glistening brown teeth, red eyes gleaming above a broad nose. I freeze in
terror as it drops the grisly bone so that it rolls toward my toes and stops
dead. I glance down at the bone that looks suspiciously like a human humerus
and the thought occurs to me that this situation is entirely humorless. I
slowly raise my eyes to see the beast about to lunge, slavering jaws ready to
tear out my throat. I have no voice. It is trapped like a cork in the bung hole
of my throat.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">The beast yelps piteously, when Father’s best
silver-headed walking stick comes smartly down upon the thing’s skull with a
loud crack. It whimpers and vanishes into the darkness. And then a pale, sere
hand emerges from the dark to pull the door closed. As it’s about to shut a
voice comes drifting out to me, “Be a love and dispose of that gnarly old bone,
would you, Miss? And if you know what’s best for your continuin’ state of good ‘ealth
you’ll not be tryin’ to follow me again.” The panel merges with the paneling,
becomes invisible to the naked eye once more.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“But I want to go with you into the walls,” I say
softly while nudging the bone with its glistening sinews and bits of pink meat
with my toe. I want to explore the other side of the walls of this dark and
drear house.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">Two full years pass before he grants me permission to
accompany him into cavities and crevices, the secret passages, and narrows
staircase that hide between our walls. He’s come to visit me occasionally in
the dead of night. We’ve played checkers and draughts by the flickering light
of a tallow candle while sitting on my bed. He’s told me so many tales about
the others who reside inside the walls as well that I feel as if I have known
them all my life. He is sort of their Overseer, and it is highly uncommon for
an Overseer to make any sort of contact whatsoever with any resident of a house
like Drakes Fall Manor. But he knows my suffering and the depth of my
lonesomeness so he has bent the rules for my sake. And just recently he
confided that he finds me a rather headstrong and formidable young lady,
opinionated and determined. I don’t quite understand what he means by that so I
merely nod and say, “Yes, I am all that, and ever so much more. But I shan’t
tell you anymore about myself because it’s more fun to leave some mystery to
ponder in stray moments. I worry my brain about you at times, when the weather
is gloomy like this. I’ll sit near my window gazing out at the lashing rain
beating the poor brown leaves into submission and I’ll think, ‘Well, that Mr.
Needy is certainly a remarkable fellow but I daresay, he’s quite bound and
determined to keep me on this side of the walls and for what reason I cannot begin
to fathom, other than he appears to have a vicious brute of a beast who gnaws
on the odd limb now and again, so maybe it’s because he feels protective of
me.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">Mr. Needy runs a dry hand along his brittle jaw
creating a rasping sound, his protuberant eyes downcast as he studies the
checkerboard. He’s said he’ll teach me to play chess but so far we haven’t met
in the game room downstairs to begin my lessons. “Your father is seldom in
residence,” he says. “Perhaps your need for me to assume the role of surrogate
father leads you to believe I’m a fatherly sort of bein’, therefore I must be
brutally truthful with you, Miss, and confess that I’m little better than my
faithful ‘ell’ound. I’d ‘ave no qualms about rippin’ off your pretty little
foot and gnawin’ the flesh from its bones, although I’m myself not particularly
fond of feet as there are too many bones and nasty toenails. I could bite off
your delicate pinky then leave the wee little bones and nail on your mummy’s
bedside table beside ‘er drinkin’ glass. I should be inclined to leave your
dainty ring there as well. What do you think she would say to findin’ that upon
awakenin’ tomorrow mornin’?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">I shrug a thin shoulder, pull up the collar of my
nightgown then turtled my head down inside, gazing up at him through my ginger
lashes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If I were a bolder, braver girl
I would hold my hand out right now for you to bite off my finger just so that
in the morning we will both discover how Mama responds to the mutilation of her
only child. I will hazard a guess and tell you that I think she would most
likely scream the house down. She can be somewhat of an hysteric these days.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“He’s left ‘er for good this time, ‘e ‘as,” he says.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Papa?” He nods. “How do you know such a thing?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“I’ve the letter ‘e sent via ‘is attorney right ‘ere
in me pocket. Swiped it from ‘er escritoire where she’d stuffed it into a
pigeonhole to fret about later.” He pulls the crumpled envelope from his right
hand pocket. “Says ‘e finds country life entirely unstimulating. ‘e wants to
travel ‘round the world a dozen times or more and explore its people and
places. ‘e feels stifled in Drakes Fall, as if the walls are closin’ in on ‘im.”
Here he glances up from the page he is paraphrasing from to make an aside. “The
walls, I assure you, are not closin’ in about ‘im. I ought to know. I’m their
caretaker from within.” He folds the letter and replaces it in its envelope,
then slides the whole into his pocket. “What now? What are them tears about?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">It is just that I am sitting on my bed in my home, the
only home I have ever known for I was born here in a room on the other side of
the nursery and shall probably one day die here, but it’s not the fear of death
troubling me, it’s the mere fact that Papa will never come home any more. I
shall never see him again until I am old enough to track him down like a
bloodhound and demand an explanation for his abandoning us. I shall inform him
that I award him very low marks as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pater
familia</i>. I will recite to him a litany of the disappointments he has caused
me to suffer. Then I will return every gift he’s ever given me, washing my
hands of him for all eternity. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Your well rid of ‘im, Miss Tessie,” he says, placing
a finger atop a black checker and systematically jumping nearly half my red
checkers in a dazzling display of pattern finding. “’e beat your mother
senseless once, when she was young. This was afore you was born. ‘eed this
advice, never marry a man who is ill-bred, prone to violence and actually
enjoys goin’ off to sea. It will not bode well for your future.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“I shan’t do so,” I reply. And then I raise my own
eyes to meet his. “For I’m going to marry you.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">His eyes widen and one actually regurgitates from its
socket, dangling by the optic nerve. He fumbles awkwardly about for his eye
then replaces it tidily in its socket, blinking a few times to settle it into
place. “You’re much too young to be thinkin’ of marriage, dear ‘eart, although
I’m flattered by your youthful spirit and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">joie
de vivre</i>.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“I hardly find much joy in life,” I sigh. “Just one
bitter disappointment after another.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“You’ve not met the right fella.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Oh, please! Boys are so immature!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“One day…”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">I narrow my eyes and he stops speaking at the
expression on my face. “One day, I will wed you,” I say with finality, as if
settling the matter once and for all.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">He stares at me for the space of ten heartbeats then
looks away. “I ‘ardly be the marryin’ sort.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Have you ever been married before?” I counter. He
shakes his head. “Well, there’s always a first time. We’re not going to rush
into this marriage. We’ll continue to take our time, get to know one another
better, become best of friends before we become lovers.” He jumps up off the
bed scattering my captured checkers over the bare wood floor. Some roll under
my bed, some in the other direction toward my bedroom door as if fleeing from
the rejection about to be hurled my way.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">I stoically sit straight-backed on my bed, chin raised
ever so slightly as I regard his continued distancing of himself from me.
“You’re but a child, Miss, really!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“I am <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thir</i>teen
years of age. I am no longer a child.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“On the cusp of womanhood,” he murmurs. “I should not be
spendin’ so much time with you. It’s given you peculiar notions.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">He leaves me. I sit staring at the wall into which
he’s vanished yet again. I am familiar now with how to open it yet I never do.
I still see his hound in my mind’s eye, my pretty pallid arm dangling from its
bloody jaws. So I sit and think about my father who has walked away from Drake
Falls to pursue a life free of Mother and me and all this burdensome
responsibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is Mother’s
ancestral home so I feel comforted in that he shan’t be evicting us. However,
the thought runs through my head that mother, who is still a young woman at
just thirty years of age, may find another man. I shudder at the thought of
some strange man in the house sullying the air with his cigar smoke and the
odor of bay rum. I’ve grown accustomed to an absentee father figure.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">Sliding off the bed, I gather the scattered checkers,
stretching a hand beneath my bed to feel for one that rolled beneath it.
Instead, my fingers encounter an unfamiliar object, small and rough. I grasp it
and pull it out, get up and hold it toward the candlelight, unfurling my
fingers to reveal one of Lieb’s grotesque carvings. This one is a horny little black-painted
demon with a malicious grin whose mouth he has painted yellow and whose bulging
eyes he has painted blood red. It’s a horrid little thing and I wonder how it
got there. Had Mr. Needy dropped it in the recent past? Or, perhaps three weeks
ago, when Mama had taken me shopping in the town and she had directed Lieb to
carry parcels up to my room when we’d returned so that Mrs. Mossman could
unpack my new frocks, as I had grown two inches over the summer, he had tossed
it beneath my bed then? But why?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">I frown, carrying it to my dresser where I open the
carved box in which I keep an assortment of treasures- a bent nail like a
crooked finger, a piece of quartz that once held a rainbow in its heart four
summers ago, a broken robin’s egg shell, the other little carved figure of
Lieb’s, a small empty tin that had once held Father’s fragrant pipe tobacco, a
broken hatpin with gilded wings raised to frame a shimmering glass peacock’s
eye orb. I drop the little demon into the box then close the lid on its leering
face. I do not know whether he’d dropped the carving accidentally, or if he’d
deliberately tossed it beneath my bed, perhaps thinking it would bring me bad
dreams and restless nights. Ignorant man, that is the norm of my nights so it’s
had no ill effect on me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">Before I lie down to sleep I cut seven inches from my
very long hair and carefully braid and weave it into a talisman of my own that
I shall hide in the carriage house and then we’ll see whose magic is the
stronger.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">That morning, I use the remaining locks of hair to
weave another talisman in the shape of a flower with a heart at its center. I
risk unlatching the secret panel in the nursery wall and tossing it quickly
inside the dark space behind. Quickly I close the door before anything can come
to investigate or attempt to escape. I hope Mr. Needy finds this token. I want
him to carry it in the pocket of his great frock coat. I want him to think of
me whenever he slips his hand inside his pocket, whenever he rubs his fingers
along the smooth bumps of flame red hair shorn from my own head and know that I
am his forever more.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">Mama calls in a local man because she is convinced
that with all the upheaval in the home I have attracted a poltergeist. This
man, Reynard Fox, is tall and fills out his suit impressively. He has slicked
back pale blonde hair, a pallid complexion and gray eyes. His moustache is
pencil thin and he sports a small goatee upon his chin. His coat is purple with
a black velvet collar and cuffs. His trousers are black with a black satin
stripe down the outside of the legs. His boots are black and polished to a high
sheen. He reeks of cologne and wintergreen and is addicted to snuff. A pale
lock of hair falls across his brow and he invariably gives his neck a sharp
twist to move it out of his eye. He pretends to be a concerned, helpful and
friendly man but I can sense the undercurrent of deceit and distain which are
the true driving engines of his personality. I do not like him. I do not like
how he pets my hair then lays his large hand firmly on my small shoulder and
smiles down at me. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">What he is and what he can do to free me from the alleged
poltergeist that in actuality does not exist because I am not plagued by any
otherworldly mischief I have no idea. I am not pinched or poked. Objects from
my room do not go missing but tend to appear (thanks to Mr. Needy). My dresser
drawers are not opened and the contents flung about with abandon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This all actually happens to my mother, but
how can I tell him how and why? She is the one plagued, but there is no
poltergeist involved. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Mr. Fox has
convinced her that poltergeists plague young girls on the cusp of womanhood.
His gray eyes gleam when he says that word, ‘womanhood’ and I have to muster
every ounce of will not to shudder from the revulsion he causes me to feel.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">Mama has invited him to stay with us until he can find
a way to free me from my tormentor. He suggests his sister Reyna join him in
his quest, and she agrees. Reyna is a tall, slender young lady about seven
years my mother’s junior, with hair as white-blonde as her brother’s and eyes a
soft purple in color. She wears a purple and black striped gown, black boots.
Her smile does not ever reach her eyes, but sometime I see a fire burning in
their depths when she is not aware of my watching her. This happens when she
looks at her brother. It leaves me feeling uneasy and troubled.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">On their fifth night at Drakes Fall Manor I awaken to
find a dark figure in my room. I think it is Mr. Needy and feel great relief
that finally he has come and we shall be able to discuss my apprehensions.
“Where have you been, Mr. Needy?” I hiss, throwing off my covers, leaning over,
reaching for the matches to light my candle with. “I am half out of my mind!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Why do you say that, Tessie?” comes a voice that does
not belong to Mr. Needy. It is the voice of Reynard Fox.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">I gasp, shocked and outraged that he dares to enter my
room in the night. “You do not belong here!” I say, managing to strike a match
although my hands are shaking. I light the wick of my candle and shake the
flame from the match before discarding it in a dish on the bedside table. “It
is highly improper for a man to enter a lone female’s bed chamber, especially a
young lady’s room, in the dead of night! I shall call for my mother if you do
not leave this instant, sir!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i> an
uncommonly high-spirited child. Cook, Mrs. Mossman, Jakes, Lieb…they’ve all
more or less remarked upon your striking nature. ‘No shy violet, she is, Miss
Tessie,’ they’ve all told me. However, you have been quite demur in your
behavior since my arrival. There has been no unusual activity manifested. Are
you the one responsible for the strange goings on in this house? Be truthful
with me. Are these tricks your doing to torment your mother for some slight? Some
offense? Do you seek to punish her for being unable to hold onto your father?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“My father is no concern of yours!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Your mother is a lovely young woman. She has suitors
calling upon her now, does she not? Are you afraid she will marry another man
and he will not want you here, that they will send you away to a boarding
school?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“My mother would never send me away!” I shout at him
vehemently.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Shh! There is no need to shout.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“You are infuriating me! You come into my room and
wake me up in the middle of the night, questioning me and speaking absurdities!
I was asleep, Mr. Fox!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“May I inquire as to who Mr. Needy is? Why did you
seem relieved when you thought I was he? Is there a man who sneaks into your
room in the night? That, as you have already mentioned, is quite improper,
Tessie. How does he get in?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">I leap out of bed, furious and frightened now. “There
is no one! I was dreaming! You caught me in the twilight place between
wakefulness and dreams! I thought you were someone else. No one sneaks into my
room at night but you!” I fly to the door and wrench it open. “You frighten
me!” I flee into the broad hallway, running toward the north gallery door.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">I dash through the gallery connecting the main house
to the north wing. Behind me I can hear the thudding boot falls of Mr. Fox as
he pursues me. The ancestors scowl down disapprovingly upon me in the
moonlight. I reach the door to the north wing and twist the knob. At first I think
it is locked and my heart lurches with panic. Twisting it in the other
direction it protests shrilly but gives and the door opens. I slip through,
closing the door and leaning against it for a moment to try to gain my
bearings. I have not been in the north wing in some time. A vision of lacy
cobwebs drifting across the hallway, fat spiders with dancing limbs anxious for
me to become ensnared in their webs runs through my mind. But behind me I hear
the hollow thud of his approach through the echoing gallery. Gasping, I dash
ahead, one arm rising to sweep aside anything obstructing my escape. My heart is
a drumbeat within my ears and my breath is audible in the absolute darkness.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">Behind me I hear the door open. “Tessie! Stop this
nonsense before you hurt yourself! Come back now! I mean you no harm!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“The ‘ell ‘e don’t,” growls a voice so close beside me
I can feel the scream rising from my toes. A sere hand clasps across my mouth.
“This way,” Mr. Needy breathes into my right ear. I let him guide me through a
narrow open doorway. He keeps his hand across my mouth as he crowds in behind
me. A moment later I hear the soft click of a latch. “’ush! Not a sound! Don’t
move at all!” I nod my understanding. The air I am breathing in through my nose
is musty with a hint of mold. I know where I am and am too stunned to move nor
make a sound for fear his great black beast will come and make a tasty rare
roast of my flank. “I don’t like this ‘un much at all,” Mr. Needy whispers in
my ear. “’e’s after sumthin’.” He presses closer and his next word sends cold
water through my veins. “You.” He feels me react to that and locks his other
arm around me, not allowing me to move at all. I am shaking like a leaf with
horror and anger, emotions suddenly roiling within me. “”Your mother wants you
sent away. Not to a boardin’ school, Miss, but to an asylum. ‘e’s the ‘ead of
the place and ‘is sister is in charge of the young ladies ward.” I nibble at
his dry fingers, biting off flakes of papery flesh. “’old still!” he says
sharply. “’e’s lookin’ for you still, ‘e is. Don’t know where you’ve gotten
yourself to.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">We wait. I can hear Mr. Fox in the hallway, trying
doorknobs, calling for me to come out, to return to the main house with him
where he’ll rouse Cook and have her make us some nice hot tea. I hear his hand
slide along the wall, catch a very faint whiff of the sulfur of his matches as
he lights one after the other as he strides back and forth in the hallway,
trying his damnedest to find me. I pray he does not discern the hammering beat
of my heart.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">It seems an eon passes before he retreats. I am now
too well aware of the cold in this wing for I have nothing on my feet and did
not pause to grab my dressing gown before fleeing my room. My gown is thin and
provides little protection. I am shivering, my teeth chattering when Mr. Needy
finally lowers his hand. I draw in a breath through my mouth and cough as
flakes of his skin fly into the back of my throat from my lips. “How can she do
this to me?’ I cry.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“That Carver fellow, the one she met at the church
social?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“What about him? He’s a fat old toad!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“He’s a rich toad.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Mama does not need his money!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Aye, Miss, she does. I’ve seen her account books.
Your father took ‘is share, ‘e did.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“But she’s bought me new dresses and stockings and
shoes! She’s bought herself fine new clothes as well!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Window dressin’. You can’t sell somethin’ that looks
shabby as ‘igh priced goods, now, can you?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“She never would!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“She’s got no choice but to find a rich man who can
support ‘er and this ‘ouse.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“No!” I cry, but I know he would not lie to me. I am
just not able to accept this terrible and terrifying news yet.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“What a man don’t want is another man’s children when
he marries a pretty young wife. ‘e wants to busy ‘isself makin’ ‘is own ‘eirs
with ‘er. That’s why she’s so anxious to be rid of you.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“But I’m not insane!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">He chuckles low in his narrow throat. “No, but try to
tell that Mr. Fox you aren’t. Young ladies don’t go about deliberately allowin’
their nannies to perish in the orchard. Nor do they go about their ‘ouses in
the dead of night consortin’ with strange bein’s only they can see.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“You’re not invisible! Mama would see you if you came
out in broad daylight to bow over her hand!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“’as anyone else seen me, Tessie?” he asks.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">With a sudden sinking feeling I have to confess that
no one I am aware of has ever seen him but me. “But I can see you plain as day.
I can feel you. You can’t feel ghosts or phantoms, only the cold space their
spirits occupy in this realm!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“I not be a ghost nor a phantom,” he says. “I’m real
enough, to you.” I sense movement within the walls and he tenses. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Come with me,” he says tersely. He begins guiding
me through the narrow gap between the walls. Beneath my bare feel I can feel
grit and dirt, the odd bit of plaster, a sharp nail. “Keep movin’.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">I don’t know where we are, where we’re going. It is
black as pitch and I have lost all sense of direction. Finally we reach a place
where there is an opening. It is a narrow staircase and he directs me upward. I
stub my toes a dozen times before we reach the next floor and he pushes me down
another passage. Finally he stops me, fumbles ahead of me in the darkness until
he finds the latch and the door swings open. I pass through to find myself in
one of the storage rooms in the attic of the north wing. I can see shadowy
objects- trunks, packing cases, the odd piece of furniture, faintly illuminated
by starlight through the tall windows.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">He moves past me to rummage about, finally producing a
dusty wool great coat somewhat moth-eaten and an even more moth eaten woolen
blanket. I drop down into a creaky rocking chair, huddling inside the too big
coat that still exudes a faint fragrance of pipe tobacco and peppermint. I
drape the blanket across my knees and bury my icy toes into the folds that lie
upon the floor. “What am I to do?” I inquire.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">Before me I can make out his thin form pacing, hear
the rasp of his fingers against his jaw as he ponders my predicament. “You’ve
always been a resourceful girl,” he replies.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“I’ve had some successes, but I’ve also had myriad failures.”
This is the truth.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“You’re more clever than you give yourself credit
for.” He stops before me, reaches down and extracts my hand from the pocket of
the coat. He presses something into my palm. I need my other hand to identify
what he has given me. And when I do I am heartbroken for he has returned my
hair talisman, the flower with the heart at its center.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“But I made this for you,” I say. He does not respond.
“I wanted you to have it.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“For what reason?” he asks.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Because you are my friend,” I reply.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Am I?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“You are,” I insist. He has been a part of my life for
as long as I can remember. “We’ve played games together. We’ve spent long hours
of the night talking! I can’t believe….!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“No, Miss, your trouble is that you believe too
strongly.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“I have no other friends! My parents have kept me a
virtual prisoner here! You’ve been my only friend! My truest and dearest friend
and now…now….you…” Pain constricts my throat so that I cannot speak. Tears
scald my eyes. I suppose my face is terrible in its contortion of betrayal and
heartache. “I cannot believe you are doing this to me!” I finally manage to
cry.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">must not</i>
believe,” he says.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“No!” I cry. “No! I will always believe in you! Always
and forever!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">The attic door opens and light spills in from a lamp
carried by Mr. Fox. “Here she is!” he cries triumphantly.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">I rise from the chair clutching the coat to me, my
eyes wildly searching the large room for Mr. Needy but he is no longer there!
He has vanished. I sob wrenches itself from my throat, and I fall to my knees,
the very heart torn from my breast.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“There, there, love,” murmurs Miss Fox as she assists
me to my feet. “That’s a good girl. Let’s get you back downstairs and tucked
into your bed. In the morning we’ll go and see the doctor and he’ll fix you up
right as rain, he will,” she says. And I know, I just know there will be
restraints involved tonight to keep me close.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“No!” I cry. “No! You shall not tie me down nor tuck
me in so tightly that I cannot move nor breathe! I will not let you!” I struggle
to pull free of her grasp. Mr. Fox moves toward us, the lamp held high. She
grabs the sleeves of the coat and I manage to slither out of it because it is
much too big on me and she cannot get a good grasp on me through the thick
woolen material.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Reynard!” she cries, but it is too late. I hurl
myself at him and he stumbles, thrown off balance. He falls backwards over a
trunk, the lamp flying from his hand to crash on the wooden floor, oil spilling
and the flaming wick rapidly igniting it. Still she tries to reach for me but I
am running down the length of the room toward the tall window, the blank eye of
glass revealing only a hint of starlight. “No!” she screams as I leap at the
window, pulling my arms close, drawing my legs up.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">I strike the glass, and it being so old, it shatters.
I go through the window, sharp teeth ofglass tearing at me, the cold night air
making me catch my breath. I am falling, my nightgown whipping against my skin
like a broken useless wing. I throw my arms out, and that is how I land in the
snow three stories below the broken window through which I can still hear
screaming, and see the bright flare of fire. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">Then darkness settles over me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">Something is tickling my face. I twitch my nose,
thinking it is a fly but the tickling persists. It draws me from my chaotic dreams.
I open my eyes to see a young man with coal black curls leaning over me. He is
gazing at me through eyes the color of a summer sky, a sly smile playing about
the corner of his mouth. “There you are,” he says, his voice familiar to my
ears.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">I lift my hand to grasp his wrist, to push it back so
I can see what he has been tickling my nose with. It is an ornament made of
hair, flame-red hair like mine. It is in the shape of a flower and has a heart
at its center. I am surprised that he has it for I had thought he had returned
it to me. “Where did you find it?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“In your ‘and,” he replies. “Seems you never let it go
although you tried to fly like an angel.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Poor landing?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Rather,” he says. Shaking his head, he says, “Come,
no use frettin’ about that. Time to rise from your slumber. You’ve ‘ad your
beauty rest.” He pockets the talisman, then grabs me by the wrists and pulls me
to my feet. I am in my nightgown with the embroidered red rosebuds and the
trailing green leaves on the front yoke. It has been laundered and mended but I
can still discern faint bloodstains and frown at that. My feet are bare. I look
down at myself and see no visible signs of trauma. My limbs are working well,
not failing me in the least. “Tea?” he asks.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">We pass through from the bedroom into a small kitchen
where a kettle steams cheerfully on a small range. “Where are we?’ I ask.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Where you’ve always wanted to be,” he answers.
“Within the walls of Drakes Fall Manor.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“But there are just narrow passages and steep little
staircases within the walls!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“That’s all you ever saw with your livin’ eyes. This
is my ‘ome and always ‘as been.” As he says this a great black beast of a hound
lifts its massive head to stare at me through yellow eyes. “Rex,” he tells me.
“My dog. You’ve met.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Mr. Needy…”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">He shakes his head. “Jinks,” he says. “My name be
Jinks.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Mr. Jinks…” Again he shakes his head. “All right
then, Jinks,” I say. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Although I’ve kind of grown fond of Mr. Needy. Jinks
Needy,” he muses. Then he makes me an exaggerated bow. As he stands upright
again he gives me that wry smile.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“You certainly look different.” He is, in fact, quite
dashing.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“Perceptions are altered here. I look how you want me
to look, like you look how I want you to look.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“I certainly don’t want your dog looking like that!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">He laughs. “Then perceive him as a cuddly puppy with
soulful eyes, Mrs. Needy.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“He must have been a huge pup…, excuse me! What did
you just call me?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">He nods toward my left hand. I frown, lifting my hand
and am stunned to discover a gold band encircling my ring finger. I recognize
it as my Grandmother Talbot’s ring. “It’s what you wanted, to be my wife
forever and ever. The walls heard you say it. There’s no takin’ it back.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">I cannot deny that I said that. I remember quite
clearly. “You are real then? You aren’t someone I made up! I wasn’t out of my
mind, was I? You are real?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">“I am real, to you. Isn’t that what matters most?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">Is it? I do some quick thinking and decide that I have
exactly what I wanted. Mama cannot have me committed. I am away from that
wretched Lieb and his strange carvings, and the oogling eyes of the new
houseman, Jakes. I will not suffer being locked away at the Foxes’ asylum like a
sad bird in a barred and locked cage. “Yes, that is what matters most,” I
reply.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">He winks. “Then you and I, we’re goin’ to ‘ave a long
and ‘appy life together, we are.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-54106730795401869432021-03-15T16:54:00.005-07:002021-03-15T16:54:41.351-07:00Dalton Cove Coming Soon!<p> Following on the heels of <b><i>Bolt's Landing </i></b>and <i style="font-weight: bold;">Camden Lake, </i>the third book in the Lakes series, <i style="font-weight: bold;">Dalton Cove</i>, grew in another marathon of writing this past weekend after stalling while I did a reading of what I'd written so far to snag loose ends to tie together, and back fill some story, and mention one of the three suspects to all the nefarious deeds going on since this third character had not even been mentioned yet, although he was a note on a legal ad all along. Interestingly enough in the next WhipCity Wordsmiths meeting we'll be touching on rewrites and revisions- the bane of every writer.</p><p>I tend to breeze along and just write from out of my head. It's only recently I've trained myself to at least write character names and some vague characteristics down as I go so I don't have to change hair colors or fix names when I'm done writing. I just have to concern myself with everything else!</p><p>I'm writing the final fifth of <i style="font-weight: bold;">Dalton Cove</i>, shooting for around 125,000 words. I'm in the wrap it all up phase...the finish line coming into view. Looking toward an April publication date- fingers crossed!</p><p><br /></p>Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-22367275376409763162021-03-03T16:33:00.001-08:002021-03-03T16:33:21.387-08:00Severed Links- a New Ghost Story<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Severed Links by Susan Buffum<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I stand with my hands shoved deep into
the pockets of my gray hoodie, a cold drizzle trickling through my
short-cropped hair, my cold, white fingers gripping the icy chain link fence as
I stare at the twisted wreckage of Lucas’ mother’s small SUV. If I didn’t know
it was her car, hadn’t known what I was looking for, I wouldn’t have recognized
it. It’s crushed like an aluminum soda can from having tumbled down into a
ravine. The roof is pried back like the lid of a sardine can. Three of the four
doors are missing, probably stacked elsewhere behind the fence. The cargo door
is smashed in. There is starred and crackled glass in what’s left of the
windshield, and dark smears that send a deep shiver down my spine. It has to be
blood. It cannot be anything else but blood. The interior spaces look too
compacted to have ever given anyone leg room, elbow room, or head room. It
looks as if an irate giant lifted the car and crushed it in his fist and then
cast it aside, disappointed by how fragile the metal, fiberglass, glass, and
bits of chrome were.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I draw a shuddery breath, the cold links
of the fence biting into my fingers, but I can’t let go. If I let go I may very
well drop straight to the wet ground, curl up in a ball and cry like a baby.
Lucas, Charlie, and Lisa died in this vehicle two nights ago. We’d all been together.
Micah’s parents had gone to a convention over the long weekend, so Micah had thrown
a party and invited everyone. Lisa had been the one to convince me to go with
her, Lucas, and Charlie, the boys being brothers. Lucas had been Lisa’s date. They’d
been going together for a couple of months already. I’d been Charlie’s date for
the night since he’d just broken up with Brenna. He hadn’t wanted to go stag
and look like some sort of loser, so Lisa had begged and pleaded with me to go
as his date. I’d never been much of a partier, but she’d worn down my
resistance. Finally, I’d agreed to go.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And this is how it ended—in a wreck. It
had been raining that night, too, a downpour. The roads had been wet, the
puddles deep. Lucas had nearly lost control of the SUV halfway to Micah’s
house. Somehow he’d managed to fight the wheel and correct the skid, regaining
control of the vehicle. I’d buckled my seatbelt then, earning an eye roll from
Charlie who had been sitting in the back with me, Lisa riding shotgun up front.
“Seatbelts save lives,” I’d mumbled.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“So do life jackets, but I don’t see any
in the back or I’d offer you one. Raining like a bastard out there. Wouldn’t
want little ol’ you to fall in a puddle and drown.” He had been more of a jerk
than his brother by far. The longer I’d been in his presence the more I’d
understood why Brenna had dropped him like a hot potato. I’d thought I might
like to find a dark corner to hide in once we arrived where no one would notice
me or bother me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lucas, Lisa, and Charlie are dead. No
one survived the accident. The SUV had hit a huge puddle on a sharp curve
coming down Mountain Road. The car had slid, at too great a speed, against the
guardrail which had been damaged the previous winter and had already been
leaning toward the ravine before the SUV broadsided it and then tumbled over
it, plunging down the craggy rocks into the gulley below where a steady stream
of water flowed—run off from the torrential rain.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I don’t know how search and rescue had ever
gotten down the steep face of the ravine, or how they’d even gotten their
equipment down there. I can picture the scene in my mind lit from above by
searchlights, huge shadows everywhere, the men’s own shadows like big, black bugs
moving over the wreckage. I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like to respond to
an accident scene like that and know there’s nothing you can do to help anyone
trapped inside a car all crumpled up like an aluminum foil ball with sharp
edges everywhere, broken glass, and the smell of gasoline strong in your nose.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I suppose a tow truck had winched the
wreckage up the rugged, stony face of the unforgiving cliff, or maybe they’d
had to get one of those big construction cranes. The guardrails are probably still
down, a row of orange barrels providing a rather pathetic barrier between the
road and the dead drop beyond the neon orange and shiny bright reflector bands.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When I was a child I liked to go
mountain climbing and hiking with my parents and kid brother. I was always the
fearless one who’d liked to stand on the edge of a cliff, arms outspread, a grin
spread across my face as I gazed out over the land below and beyond my perch,
imagining myself with wings, imagining myself taking a few running steps,
flapping those huge wings and suddenly having nothing but empty space beneath
my feet and only air and wind currents beneath my wings.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In seventh grade, when my safety harness
had failed due to it being improperly secured by a supervising adult and I’d fallen
off a climbing wall and broke my collar bone my love of heights had pretty much
disappeared. I’d begun to appreciate the ground beneath my feet more from then
on, much to the disappointment of my kid brother and father who still enjoyed
hiking and mountain climbing. Mom had broken the bones in her lower leg in a nasty
fall when I was twelve and had given up the family climbs, but she’d still
loved going to the beach and swimming.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I don’t know why I’m thinking about my
family right now. I should be thinking about how devastated Lucas and Charlie’s
family is, how shattered Lisa’s family must be. I wonder if there’ve been
repercussions for Micah, who was the host of the party where everyone drank to
excess, smoked pot, and did God only knows whatever else was being surreptitiously
passed around. I’d had a beer, given to me by Charlie as if he’d been presenting
me with a challenge I could not back down from. I hadn’t wanted him labeling me
a baby or a killjoy, so I’d opened it and sipped it over the next hour. He’d
brought me another, again holding it out to me as if offering a challenge, a
gleam in the depths of his eyes. Either it was a gleam or he was already pretty
drunk, or possibly high. I’d tried to find another place to sort of hide in,
but he’d found me and shoved a third bottle of beer at me, and then stood there
while I drank it down in long swallows because he’d wanted me to prove that I
was drinking the beer and not pouring it out into the potted tree I was half
hidden behind.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I know my parents would be destroyed if
they lost me, or Kip, my brother. They’ve always been proud of us, always been
supportive of us, and have always shared their love of life with us, including
us in everything they enjoy doing. Unlike a lot of teens, I love my parents and
like spending time with them because it’s never boring. We go places, do
things, and have adventures. I have a huge scrapbook in my room on a shelf
above my desk that’s chock full of pictures, things I’ve written about our
adventures, pamphlets, brochures, and little mementoes I’ve collected, like
beautiful feathers, a snakeskin, a skeletal rodent tail, pieces of mica and so
forth, anything that could lie fairly flat between the pages. Beside the
scrapbook is my treasure box. My father made it for me in his workshop behind
the garage. It’s just a basic, rectangular box with a hinged lid and a clasp
that he stained a warm honey-gold and reddish-brown. He’d carved Kat’s
Treasures in an oval cartouche on the lid. The box is crammed full of pretty
rocks, seashells, and other bits and pieces of nature that have followed me
home.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It gives me a quivery, hollow feeling in
the pit of my stomach to think about how heartbroken my parents would be if I
died in an accident like this one. Lucas should never have been driving. He had
been stupid drunk, or high, laughing and brushing off any concerned remarks,
saying he was perfectly fine. Charlie had been practically comatose. A couple
of seniors had had to stuff him into the backseat, tucking his limp legs inside
before swinging the door closed. Lisa had been giggly and acting silly. Kyle
had leaned into the passenger seat and given her a kiss that had left people
wondering whether or not he’d have a black eye on Monday when Lucas showed him
how he’d felt about that lip-lock. Doors had been slammed shut, merry voices
had chorused a slew of goodnights and safe rides home! And off Lucas had sped
into the raw, wet night.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Precious cargo. Had anyone thought about
the precious cargo he’d been carrying in that SUV? I think about it now as cold
rain dribbles down my cheeks. Lisa had been the apple of her parent’s eye. She
had been an honors student, a shoe-in for valedictorian. She had already been
looking at elite colleges, knowing she could pretty much get into any one of
them that her heart desired. I’d been starting to look at local colleges, too.
I was smart enough, but felt I didn’t need to go to a big name university or
school, that local was good enough for me. I hadn’t chosen a major yet, but
thought something in chemistry or physics would suit me best. I was a geek
girl, after all.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s now just past dusk. The yard lights
look hazy up around the lamp portion, shrouded in misty rain down the poles and
into the spheres of light pooling on the shimmering ground. I should go home,
but I can’t seem to pry my fingers loose from the cold links of the fence. I
feel almost melded to the chain link. “I need to go,” I murmur.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“We all need to move on,” a voice says
from inside the yard, startling me badly. I shift my eyes from the glowing,
shimmery lamplight to the dark hulk of the wreck before me on the opposite side
of the fence. A dark figure is standing on the far side. The gate is padlocked
so I think it has to be one of the guys who works here, that’s he’s noticed me
standing at the fence looking at the wreckage of the SUV. It’s like the bulk of
a dead bear devoid of fur, all carcass, shattered bone, and torn tissue.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’m going,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The figure is moving from the far side
of the car, coming around the back side of it. Backlit, I can’t make out his
age, but he sounds young, not much older than I am. “Let’s go,” he says, making
a motion with his arm. “Lisa, Charlie, come on. Kat’s here now. We can go.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lisa? Charlie? It jolts me to realize
this guy’s voice sounds familiar to my ear. He sounds like Lucas! But how can
that be? No one could have survived that accident! Not Lucas. Not Lisa. Not
Charlie. Not… “No!” I cry. “No!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“It’s time. We’ve been waiting for you. We
didn’t feel we should leave you behind.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It comes back to me like a stuttering
film segment about to spin off the reel, me climbing awkwardly into the rear
seat behind Lucas, practically sitting on the arm rest of the door because
Charlie had toppled over across the seat and I hadn’t wanted his head in my lap
when he started vomiting during the ride home. Charlie hadn’t had a seatbelt
on. I hadn’t been able to pull mine around me and get it behind his bulk to
latch it. I’d just gripped the handle above the door window and held on for
dear life as Lucas had sped off into the night.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I had been in that car.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Let go of the fence, Kat,” Lisa says,
her voice quiet and gentle from just behind me. “You got thrown out of the car.
You’ve been in the hospital, but now you’re free to move on with us.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I don’t want to go!” I cry. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Behind me, Charlie chuffs a quick snort
through his nose. “None of us do. But, it is what it is. Let’s go.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lisa’s hand comes around me. She
struggles to pry my white fingers loose from the links. “Let go now,” she urges
softly. “It’ll be all right.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">No, she’s wrong. It’ll never be all
right. I’ve destroyed my family. I’ve broken them into a million pieces,
shattered them, and thrown them into the abyss. And for what? For what?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I can’t…” I say, my voice a whine of
agony. “I can’t!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The fence bulges slightly, rattles
softly, and Lucas is now on this side of it with the rest of us. “Kat, we hung
around and waited for you, but now it’s time for all of us to leave. There’s
nothing here for us anymore. So, come on, let go of the fence and let’s move
on.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I tilt my head back, looking up into the
rain, into the dark sky above. There are no stars. There is no moon. There is
nothing there anymore. “All right,” I say, my voice bleak with sadness, raspy
with regret. A hundred thousand apologies rattle back down my throat before I
lower my head again. Useless apologies. It’s pointless to ask for forgiveness.
I sincerely doubt my parents will ever forgive me for being so stupid. “Let’s
go,” I say more roughly, more resentfully than I mean it to sound. In the back
of my mind I’m desperately hoping that these are not the people I’m doomed to
spend all eternity with. They would never have been my choice. I want to be
with my family, but they’re still here on earth and very much alive. Nothing
holds me here any longer except my own stubbornness and selfishness. “Let’s
go!” I cry, pushing past Lisa and Lucas, shoving Charlie aside as I stride by. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I walk past the auto salvage and
collision building I see glowing forms in the windows, moving like we’re
moving. The thought runs through my mind that the building is haunted by the
ghosts of all the victims of accidents, all the people who died in the wrecked
vehicles hauled to this lot. Fleetingly, I think I want to stay and join them
in a mass haunt, but now that I’m moving there’s a sense of being drawn toward
something. It’s coming from somewhere in the middle of me, my center point or
core, I suppose. It’s like there’s a compass and the hand has spun around and
set me on a new course. I just have to trust it to get me to where I’m going
next.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This is like a terrible and frightening
adventure, I try to convince myself, this walking into the unknown. This time,
I’m heading off without any of my family with me. It is a bitter blend of
despair and regret I feel. The loss of them is tremendous, however, the more
steps I take forward, the less sharp the sting of loss becomes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I am fading from this world, materializing
in what lies beyond but, although I’m not okay with it, I do understand. I made
my last choice as a living being that night. I have no choices remaining to me.
I’ve become a statistic in this world—traffic fatality; and left profound
sadness as my legacy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">copyright 2021 by Susan Buffum </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-75859657920807628522021-02-28T13:18:00.004-08:002021-02-28T13:18:29.587-08:00Camden Lake Released<p> I have not been hibernating this winter, I've been writing!</p><p><b><i>Camden Lake</i></b> was released December 13, 2020. Readers have already asked for a third in the "Lake" series, which I hadn't intended to be a series (the first was apparently <b><i>Bolt's Landing</i></b> published May 2020, although <b><i>The Subtlety of Light and Shadow</i></b> published in June 2015 is also set at a lake), so <b><i>Dalton Cove </i></b>is half written. Dalton Cove is it's working title so it may change, but for now it works.</p><p>I'm also writing a companion novel to <i><b>Black King Takes White Queen, Black Knight White Rook,</b></i> and <b><i>White Bishop Among the Pawns.</i></b> This spinoff focuses on an elite group of warriors for King Romney Sharpe known as The Bowmen, and a young female potions master whose life is endangered when a madman seeks to kidnap her and extract all her inherited potions knowledge (including the most dangerous potions known to all and kept top secret) so he can mutate them to serve his own nefarious purposes. This one will be titled <i style="font-weight: bold;">The Bowmen</i> and will be the story of Bowman Ardis Locke and potions master Marabe Breton. Characters from the <i style="font-weight: bold;">Black King Takes White Queen </i>series appear in The Bowmen but not as central characters.</p><p><i style="font-weight: bold;">Rookdale</i>, a book about witches in Maine, is still on the drawing board, already partially written as is the romance novel set at a grand resort hotel on the coast of Maine titled <i style="font-weight: bold;">Spindrift.</i> I've also been writing and adding ghost stories and eerie little tales to the upcoming third ghost stories anthology <i style="font-weight: bold;">A Haunting We Will Go</i>, tentatively scheduled for release by Halloween 2021.</p><p>I continue to work full time in a busy medical office where we're all trying our best to deal with COVID fears and now the urgency to get everyone vaccinated. It certainly has not brought out the best in people. I'm incredibly grateful to have my writing to turn to after a stressful day of being yelled at by people who think their primary care has all the questions when it's the state that is regulating the distribution of vaccines and who can get them and where. Our state is particularly chaotic right now with most of our area told to find sites 45 minutes away that have already been booked solid for a month, and might not have enough vaccines for all those who have already obtained them to receive their second dose before many have even had their first. Very frustrating for everyone!</p><p>So, a writing I will go, escaping into the world of fiction where I can control what is going on in the worlds I create! </p><p>Keep reading! Hopefully the real world will level out and we will all either go back to normal or adapt to the new normal-whichever way it goes, reading is a great way to relax and escape from day to day worries and frustrations.</p>Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-67025317528558981052020-11-30T17:04:00.002-08:002020-11-30T17:04:37.236-08:00A New Christmas Ghost Story<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
Christmas Tree </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">by Susan Buffum<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The wide floorboards creak and crack
beneath the worn, faded wool carpet, its pattern barely perceptible. Raw wintry
air seeps beneath the weather-bowed sash. There is nothing but moonlight
beyond, passing through wavy panes of glass, stretching tendrils of pale light
toward the dark corner where an ancient Christmas tree tilts,
slouch-shouldered, defeated, brown needles in a ring on the floor beneath its
skeletal branches. A tin star droops from the top most branch, waxen tears from
the candle within having adhered it to the bough, brown needles jutting through
the now age-tanned wax. Shards of broken glass ornaments litter the floor, dull
glinting blades poised to cut and pierce the tender flesh of unshod feet.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But the feet that trod these boards,
this rotting carpet, feel nothing anymore. Their steps are more a glide, a
drift, a draft of smoke or bank of fog in motion. They are silent, yet the
floorboards protest as if a living soul strides forth toward the corner where
the relic of Christmas past stands forlornly, its memories of a holiday long
ago shattered and shed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The faint laugh of a child fills the
room and then fades to silence. A woman’s voice comes from another corner near
the crumbling fireplace, the hearth spattered and stained by the droppings of
birds that have found their way down the flue and vainly sought the ascending
pathway toward freedom to no avail. Small piles of feathers and bones litter
the floor beneath the windows where the promise of sunlight had drawn the
trapped, winged creatures, where the cruel glass had broken fragile neck bones
and bodies had fallen. A man’s voice calls from another room, his words
muffled, unclear.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The wisps of mist drift nearer the tree,
yet nothing that lies in that magical circle of brittle brown needles, dully
glinting glass shards, and rigid droplets of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>hardened wax is disturbed by the small feet, formed and visible now
beneath the mist.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">From the swirling mist a child’s legs
and torso take shape and then its arms. The head is next and a circlet of mist
drifts in a lazy spiral around it, obscuring any facial features that may have
appeared. One arm rises. Clutched in a tiny fist formed of denser fog there is
a small candle, the flame having burst into bloom, a dancing orange and yellow
lily of light that shines upon the barren boughs, its light just reaching the
wall behind. The light wavers as the child appears to light candles that no
longer exist in this world.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The woman’s voice exclaims. Near the
doorway, a man clears his throat. The child’s laughter is a musical peal of
delight and excitement. And upon the desiccated branches small spheres of light
begin to glow.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Invisible arms lift the phantom child,
its misty form moving here and there, more spheres of phosphorescent light
illuminating as if fireflies have landed upon the needleless branches and
settled in at some unspoken command. A woman’s gasp, the sudden clap of hands
as the light reaches the top most branch of the forlorn tree.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For one shimmering moment the tree is
there in its corner, standing tall and proud, aglow with the light of dozens of
candles, ornaments glinting among the boughs. A brief glimpse into the past and
then the ghostly child coughs harshly, the candles shiver in their holders
among the boughs. The child of fog and mist begins to dissipate as the spheres
of light blink out like stars at dawn as the sun rises above the sea.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There is nothing there in that corner
any longer but the skeletal remains of a tree shrouded in shadows that drape
around it like a pall. The pale tendrils of moonlight recede. The room grows
darker. The wind moans beneath the sash. The room grows colder still.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The floorboards crack and creak, and
then a door opens, aged hinges protesting against the unwanted separation of
warped door from weathered jamb. Cold air rushes into the hall while outside
the soft, crisp, crunch of footsteps in frozen snow retreat from the granite
stoop and fade. An owl hoots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The moon
slides from behind a cloud to reveal faint fractures in the snow, the gaping
maw of the door as it stands ajar.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then, from inside the house, a soft
clattering sound, a gentle sighing whoosh, as the Christmas tree of yore at
long last succumbs and falls to the floor amid the scattered debris of its
former glorious self. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-3201826710096454682020-11-03T16:17:00.002-08:002020-11-03T16:17:35.581-08:00MEDINA RELEASED WITH NEW COVER!<p> I was finished all the corrections and revisions to <i><b><u>Medina</u></b></i> and was about to release it in its original rather bland blue marbled cover when author friend Melissa Volker surprised me and totally blew me away with a brand new cover for the book. Her design was eye catching and only needed a bit of tweaking before it was perfect. This cover now graces the newly released 590 page <u style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Medina.</u> I had a cover for the ebook that I had designed that was okay, but not very exciting. So Melissa jumped right in and resized the new cover for the ebook version. Book versions are available on Amazon. </p><p><u style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Medina</u> is an epic novel about three men all in love with the same young heiress. I wrote it back in 2006 and finished it in 2007. It was supposed to be a surprise birthday gift for my friend Darlene. The surprise was it took 13 years to put a copy in her hands!</p>Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-83478939263123417532020-10-04T13:24:00.000-07:002020-10-04T13:24:11.297-07:00The Haunted Hayride<p> Here is this year's Halloween story!</p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The Haunted Hayride </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">by Susan Buffum (Copyright 2020 Susan Buffum)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It was just supposed to be a fun thing
to do, the six of us heading out to Blackburn Farm for the haunted hayride. The
school bus drove us past the farm all the time. They grew pumpkins there. There
was an orchard to one side that went up a slight rise. At the top of the rise
was an old windmill made of brick that had fallen into ruin, its sails
tattered, the skeletal framework of its blades broken in places. In the fields
across the street they harvested hay.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It didn’t seem strange that there were
just the six of us who climbed into the wagon. It was a raw night with a lot of
ground fog. Grisly old man Blackburn, with his straggly, long, gray hair, had
hitched his team of big, shaggy, black horses to the wagon. He was all dressed
up like an old-fashioned undertaker with top hat and tails. His son, Creepy
Charlie, we all called him, hung a lantern on a pole on the front corner of the
wagon and then gave us a maniacal grin, wishing us a “Safe journey through the
orchard,” before stepping back into the shadows near the barn.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I was sitting on a bale of hay behind
old man Blackburn who was perched on the driver’s seat. The others were
scattered in the wagon, sitting on hay bales like I was. Tom was at the back as
the wagon rocked and creaked along the rutted road. Soon, a heavy bank of fog
came from out of nowhere. I thought they might have a fog machine, but it was a
weird, almost viscous fog that seemed to cling. I had to wipe it off my face.
It felt slimy. Somewhere a dog howled, most likely one of the hounds back in
the farm yard. There was a strange thud, the wagon rocked. I threw my arms out
to the sides, but there was nothing to grasp onto. I fell off the bale into
loose hay on the wagon floor, scrambling to get back onto my seat. When I
looked up, Tom was gone. “Hey!” I cried, but no one paid any attention to me.
They were taking pictures of one another on their cellphones and laughing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Jenny disappeared next. Old man
Blackburn shouted, “Heads down!” and we all ducked. At least I assumed we all
had. Low branches scraped and scratched across the sides of the wagon making an
awful sound that set my teeth on edge. Jenny was gone when I sat back upright on
my hay bale.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“We lost another one,” Ronny grinned.
“This is so cool!” An eerie yellow light seemed to be bobbing toward us through
the twisted, stunted trees. It looked vaguely human in form, but then it
suddenly came at us fast. I ducked as it swept right over the wagon. When I
looked up, Ronny was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sandy, Kayla, and I looked at one
another. They shrugged and then they smiled. “It’s a haunted hay ride, what do
you expect?” Sandy remarked.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Up in the branches over our heads there
came a rustling and flapping sound. I peered up through the now wispy fog and
saw hundreds of crows settling into the tree tops. “Ya know what that’s called,
don’t ya?” old man Blackburn cackled raspily. “A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">murder</i> of crows.” Great.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The crows made those freaky, ratchety
sounds. A number of them cawed raucously. I put my hands over my ears. If Kayla
shrieked when she disappeared I don’t know because all I could hear were those
crows!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Who’s next? You or me?” Sandy asked,
leaning toward me, an almost crazed glint in the depth of her eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“It’s not going to be me!” I cried as we
reached the rise, the abandoned windmill right there in front of us. I threw
myself face down in the hay at the bottom of the wagon bed. From there I heard
the creaking and clattering of old wood, the flapping of torn, deteriorated
fabric as the blades began turning rapidly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">When I dared pick myself up off the
floor, Sandy was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Ya enjoyin’ the ride?” cackled old man
Blackburn.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I sat back down behind him without
saying a word as the wagon began the slow and twisty descent down the backside
of the rise. There was a rutted dirt lane that would circle back behind the
orchard. It ended at the barn. All I could do was sit and wait…wait to join my
friends wherever they had gone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-49883531604344678712020-09-29T10:26:00.005-07:002020-09-29T10:26:47.167-07:00Medina<p> The first novel I ever wrote and wrote and wrote...you get the idea, will finally be out on Kindle this week, but I need to warn you, it has a staggering 170,000 plus word count (and this was after cutting it in half!) The title of the book is <i style="font-weight: bold;">Medina</i>, which is the name of the main character, a young heiress of Irish-American descent.</p><p>Back around 2007 or so what I wrote it I knew nothing about writing a novel. I'd written poetry and short stories. I'd tinkered with writing a novel, but never really accomplished anything. I decided to write a romance novel for my best friend for her birthday. She finally got a proof copy of the novel 10 years later, an epic 585-page love story about one young heiress tasked with renovating and restoring the sprawling Graham family estate while recovering from a near fatal accident. Basically, as a teenager she was exiled to the family estate in Galway after she shocks and angers her wealthy, snooty family by having a scorching one-night fling with a rock singer/guitarist pick-up in a bar. Seven years later she's put in charge of restoring Greenhaven. A young man with a lot of piercings and tattoos she meets at the local supermarket deli directs her to his older brother who has his own renovations and restorations construction business. Although she has some misgivings and a volatile relationship with Giancarlo Murphy, she hires him for the work. Giancarlo is jealous and bothered by his kid brother Sebastiano's friendship with Medina. And then there is the suave, polished family retainer, Seth Sheridan, himself from a monied family, trying to change Medina's mind about having hired Murphy. All three men are attracted to the fiery redhead. Giancarlo and Sebastiano have a difficult relationship that is strained by Sebastiano's closeness to Medina and Giancarlo's company rule about not fraternizing with the clients. Then there's Seth who is also interested in Medina. The big problem is that Medina is engaged to a writer in Ireland who wants her to come home.</p><p>A lot of things happen as relationships grow, shift, and change throughout the book. Despite all the men surrounding her, Medina cannot find true love and it is a bitter disappointment to her when her friends meet, fall in love with, and marry members of Murphy's crew. There's deceit and treachery shadowing her as the restoration work progresses. Her family contests Cathryn's Graham's will, causing a prolonged court battle. She's attacked by the man she's come to rely on at Greenhaven...or was she? And then, just when she's about ready to give up, the man she has realized she loves the most shows up n the doorstep and the past and the present are reunited.</p><p>That's a very brief nutshell version of the novel. I'm working on the print book still, but the Kindle book is going to be in the Kindle store by tomorrow.</p><p>Overall, about 11 years in the making, her is my very first novel following close on the heels of my 23rd novel, <b><i>Minx Marvel</i></b>.</p>Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-89513924726452073082020-09-29T09:52:00.006-07:002020-09-29T09:52:51.867-07:00Minx Marvel<p> The print and Kindle ebook versions of my new novel <b><i>Minx Marvel</i></b> are now available. <b><i>Minx</i></b> started out as a novella, but then bloomed to over 64,000 words so had to be classified as a novel.</p><p>This book falls into the same category as <i style="font-weight: bold;">The Worth of a Woman</i>. Both books deal with the sexual exploitation of young females. In <i style="font-weight: bold;">The Worth of a Woman</i>, 15-year old Jade is sold at auction to the highest bidder and basically becomes that man's sex slave in a dystopian future society. Jade just cannot be untrue to her own self and constantly angers and frustrates her owner. In being her own self she discovers a plot against him at the risk of her own life, which doesn't go unnoticed. Not knowing what else to do with her, Archer sends her away to learn the healing arts. He discovers the worth of a woman in Jade.</p><p>In <b><i>Minx Marvel</i></b>, Minx is the now twenty-three year old daughter of a controversial but talented artist. She returns home from studying art and painting in England, renting her former family home while she plans the path into her future. Only a man shows up wanting paintings her father had made of her when she was a child. The shocking details of her childhood, when she was sexually abused by her father and other adult men between the ages of three and eleven, rocks the town. Minx never intended any of the past to be exposed, but when the man is killed in an accident on the property the stain of the past begins to spread and threaten her future with the one man she has ever fallen in love with, the one man she trusts, a book shop owner. Child pornography and the sexual abuse of children is not an easy subject to write about. It saddens some, it angers and fills others with outrage. This is Minx's story, a work of fiction. She's been victimized by men in the past, and is again victimized by the public as a victim of that abuse. As she begins to confront the shadows and demons of her past she finds a safe home, a new family who loves her and supports her. As shocking crimes against other young women who were victims of the same child pornography ring further rock the community Minx finds out who her real friends are. In order to move on, she needs to deal with the past. And as a result of staying, not running away and going into hiding, she discovers what her path in life will be.</p><p><i style="font-weight: bold;">Minx Marvel </i>will not be for everyone. I tapped into my criminal justice background for this one.</p>Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-62229769644120894702020-08-15T19:25:00.002-07:002020-08-15T19:25:34.471-07:00The Lakeside Manor Investigation, Book 3 in the Amberton Paranormal Investigation Society series is in the Works!<p> After rereading <b><i>The Fairlawn Investigation</i></b> and <b><i>The Victoria Wayfarer Investigation</i></b>, the first two books in the Amberton Paranormal Investigation Society series I went searching for the partially written third novel in the series, <i><b>The Lakeside Manor Investigation</b></i>, and found it in the files! I've just finished reading what I've written so far, so the next step is to go back and take some notes from Fairlawn and Victoria Wayfarer and what exists of Lakeside Manor and then continue the novel. What I forgot about this third novel is that I'm borrowing characters created by my daughter Kelly in her first paranormal novel <i style="font-weight: bold;">Parapsychology, </i>having her characters join my characters in this investigation of a very haunted mansion in St. Albans, VT. </p><p>We'll see how this goes, as I might have to reread her novel again to get the voices, descriptions of Milo, Holly, and Jacob, and their mannerisms to match.</p><p>I believe she gave my characters from the Kensington Research Center at Hawthorn University in Burlington, VT where the Amberton Paranormal Investigation Society is located a passing nod in her novel, or it could have been in that novel's sequel, Empathic Touch. </p><p>It promises to be interesting merging our characters in our separate series!</p>Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-65430193314452295872020-07-22T19:53:00.001-07:002020-07-22T19:53:22.263-07:00I Had a Nightmare!I seldom have nightmares, but I had one last night.<br />
<br />
In this nightmare I was shutting off lights and checking doors prior to going to bed. I turned off the living room light, then walked through the dark dining room and then into the kitchen where there was just a nightlight burning across the length of the room beside the refrigerator. This was my totally familiar present day house looking exactly as it looks every day and it all seemed so very real.<br />
<br />
I always check to make sure the kitchen door is locked before I go to bed. I looked at the knob and saw that it was locked, but then noticed that the door was not shut tightly, there was a little gap. I murmured, "That's strange," then approached the door and pushed it closed. Almost immediately I got a weird feeling, as if something was on the other side of the door on the deck, and I began to back away from the door.<br />
<br />
In horror, I saw smoky dark "arms" come through the closed door, reaching toward me. Shocked and scared, I backed away from them. My mind was struggling to comprehend what was going on. I'd never seen anything like this before. I was backed into the corner, the microwave cart to my left, the farm table to my right, the cat food bowls on the floor behind me. I had nowhere to go! The arms kept getting longer, kept reaching for me. I could feel the tendril like fingers brushing against me.<br />
<br />
My mind was reeling. I was telling myself in my head- you have to say something! You have to cry out! You have to try to wake up John (who was already in bed at the far end of the house.) I had to struggle to get my voice out. First I said, "No..." in a very weak, terrified, breathless voice, so unlike me. And then I managed to get the words, "Help me," sort of rasped past the constriction in my throat, but again they weren't very loud as I could barely speak.<br />
<br />
However, it was loud enough to wake me up, and I was still saying, "Help me..." and "No," as I laid there in bed trying to figure out what had just happened, the dream still vivid in my mind, but now I was struggling to understand how I could be in bed and not in the kitchen. I reached over and touched John's arm and asked, "Did I wake you up?" but he has a CPAP, and we had a fan on which is on the dresser on his other side and he hadn't woken up.<br />
<br />
I just lay there sort of stunned by the fact that I'd just had a nightmare. I hadn't spoken loud enough to alarm the cats who were asleep in the living room.<br />
<br />
This morning I was still a little rattled by the nightmare. And tonight, when I found the kitchen door unlocked at 10:13PM I was actually nervous about locking it and made sure I had a clear path away from the door so I didn't get trapped in a corner again!<br />
<br />
So- what do I think caused the nightmare? The last nightmare I had was a few years ago when I used a muscle relaxer for low back pain and muscle spasms from sacroiliitis. (I dreamt I was a tiny entity huddled in one corner of my own coffin, and a voice entity was speaking to me from the far opposite corner...and it terrified me because A.) I am severely claustrophobic and I knew my coffin was buried with me alive in it underground, and B.) I knew I was trapped in that coffin with whatever it was for all eternity!)<br />
<br />
Anyway, I had a right shoulder issue for a few days with pain and muscle spasms down to my right elbow so when it got really bad I took a different muscle relaxer I'd been prescribed recently, one I've used before without any problem....and I had a nightmare.<br />
<br />
Well-the smoky dark arms reaching through the closed door will most likely find a way into a future ghost story, so there's that to say for medication side effects anyway!<br />
<br />
This, by the way, I solemnly swear, is an entirely true account. Although I could make up stuff like this easily enough, I certainly didn't make this up! Real and true, this happened last night...and I am avoiding the kitchen for the rest of tonight because of it!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-33863013761219748202020-07-21T16:17:00.000-07:002020-07-21T16:17:32.039-07:00New Ghost Story- Purple Girl<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">copyright by Susan Buffum, July 21,2020</span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Purple
Girl</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
by Susan Buffum<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cody
was lying on the sand on the little stretch of beach near his lakeside cottage
watching the night sky for comets. It was August and he’d heard that there
would be comets visible during the month. He’d seen only one comet in his
relatively short existence which spanned all of twenty-five years. He was
renting the cottage from his Uncle Dave who had won it in a nasty divorce from
his wife, Cody’s former Aunt Paula. The only reason Paula hadn’t wanted it was
because it was small. It only had two bedrooms, a galley kitchen, a small
bathroom, and a living room/dining area combo. There was a screened in porch at
the front, but the path to the lake was rather overgrown which blocked the
view. The house was at the less affluent end of the lake, the camps and cottages
more crowded together here. It was also much noisier. There was more traffic on
the narrow lanes, but Cody didn’t mind any of that. He’d needed a place to
live. The rent Uncle Dave charged him was quite fair. He liked the lake. It
wasn’t that far of a drive to the distribution center where he worked as a
delivery driver. This summer he was taking another online course as he slowly
worked his way toward a business degree with the hopes of one day opening his
own small business. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Aww,
screw this,” he muttered as he sat up, giving up on the heavens for the night.
There were too many clouds drifting around up there obscuring the stars. “It’s
just not a good night for star gazing or trying to spot a comet.” Getting to
his feet, he brushed sand off his olive-colored cargo shorts, jammed his feet
back into flip-flops, grabbed his t-shirt that he’d bunched up and placed under
his head, shaking it out, but not putting it back on. Giving a cursory glance
across the water he saw lights in many of the cottage windows. They seemed to
twinkle. A string of colored lights marked a private dock. He could make out
the dark hulks of canoes and sailboats here and there bobbing gently in the
water. There was music coming from further up the opposite shore, the distant
sound of voices, the occasional shriek of a female, most likely being
threatened with a dunking in the lake, men laughing, the faint clinking of beer
bottles. “There’s always a party somewhere on the lake,” he said aloud as he
trudged up the path, swatting at random branches. “I really need to cut these
back,” he thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
yard was nothing much, just patchy grass. There was a gravel parking area near
the side of the house. The rest of the driveway was rutted, compacted dirt. He
could smell smoke. Someone was burning some kind of sweet-scented wood. Through
the brush running alongside the lane he could make out the flickering, dancing,
orange flames of a fire pit. That would be Nick and Ella. They always had that
fire pit going. Shaking his head, he grabbed the handle of the screen door,
tugging it open, stepping up onto the porch. A ceiling light illuminated the
area in a yellow glow. He swatted a mosquito that had followed him inside. “I
don’t need you biting me, you little blood sucking vampire.” He flicked its
mangled body onto the wood floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As
he reached for the door knob to let himself into the house he heard a female
voice say, “Help me!” It hadn’t been very loud, but it had been loud enough to
stop his hand and make him turn his head. A slight frown creased his brow. Had
the voice come from across the lake, maybe from that party? Or had it come from
the lane? Or from one of the cottages to either side of him?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Turning,
he walked back to the screen door and peered outside. It was rather dark in the
yard. The yellow light didn’t do much to illuminate beyond the immediate porch.
He could make out the brush blocking his view of the lake, the narrow, lighter
strip of sand that marked the path through the brush. “Hello?” he said in his
normal voice, not really wanting to get involved in anybody else’s problems,
but curious to know if someone needed his help. Maybe a visitor had taken a
walk or a swim and gotten lost in the dark? Or perhaps a car had broken down on
the main road and the stranded motorist was wandering down the lane searching
for someone who might be able to help. “Hello?” he repeated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Help
me….please.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">His
eyes narrowed as he looked again toward the path. As he watched, a form seemed
to materialize out of the darkness. Judging from the size and shape of it he
realized it was a female. “What’s wrong? Are you lost?” He watched her as she
stepped from the path onto the poor excuse for a lawn that he had. She was
barefoot, dressed in dark-colored shorts and a light-colored t-shirt. Her
clothes seemed wet. They were clinging to her. “Did you fall in the lake?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She
hesitated, looking around for a moment as if trying to get her bearings, and
then stumbled a few steps closer. “Off a boat,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You’d
better come in,” he replied, pushing the screen door open for her. “Come on. It’s
all right. I’ll help you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“That’s
kind of you,” she said, slowly making her way to the two wooden steps and
climbing them. “I’m hurt.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cody
had noticed the cuts on her legs, the bruises and abrasions on her wrists.
There were marks on her face as well. Her dark hair was damp and tangled. She
stared at him through large brown eyes. “Okay, then, let’s see what I can do for
you. Is there someone we can call for you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“My
father…”she murmured as she slipped past him onto the porch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Sure.
You can use my phone. Come on in. The lighting’s better inside.” He moved ahead
of her to open the door, letting her precede him into the dining area. The
living room area was to the left. “Have a seat here.” He pulled out one of the
dinette chairs, turning it sideways. Obediently, she sat down, bending forward
to look at her legs which she had stretched out before her. “Those cuts look
nasty, but they aren’t bleeding too much. Let me go get a few things. You stay
put.” He walked to the kitchen counter, grabbed his cellphone off the charger,
and brought it to her. “Here, call your father. Let him know you’re all right.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Where
am I?” she asked as she studied the phone in her hand, a frown on her face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Pine
Cove Lane, number seventeen.” She glanced up at him, shaking her head. “Where
do you live? At the other end of the lake?” The quality of her clothing seemed
nicer than what people at this end of the lake wore. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“No,
I’m from Windsor,” she replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Really?
What are you doing way out here at the lake? Were you partying with friends out
on a boat and you fell overboard?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How
could they not notice?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She
shook her head. “No, I was at a cottage first.” Her eyes returned to the screen
of the phone. It seemed to mesmerize her. Her face was bluish-white in its
glow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Let
me get the first aid kit. You call your old man and tell him where to come get
you. I’ll get you patched up while we wait for him to get here. I can give you
a dry shirt to put on, or a blanket to wrap up in. You have goosebumps. The
lake is always cold. How long were you in the water for?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She
shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know. A long time, I guess.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He
went to the bathroom where there was a wicker tower with five shelves for
towels and toiletries. Crouching down, he dug out the first aid kit from the
back of the bottom shelf, giving it a quick dusting off with the hand towel
before carrying it back to the dinette table. He set it down and then went into
the living room to grab the buffalo plaid throw from the back of the couch. He
shook it out as he crossed the room. She looked up again as he wrapped it
around her shoulders. “That should help warm you up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Thank
you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Did
you call your father?” She shook her head. “Why not?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I
don’t know how.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He
looked at the phone in her hand. The screen was dark. “Here, give it to me.” He
took it from her. It felt cold just from being in her hand. “Look, bundle up in
that blanket. You’re chilled to the bone,” he instructed as he swiped the
screen to wake the phone. “What the hell,” he murmured, swiping it a couple
more times. “Did you turn it off by mistake?” He checked to make sure it was
on. It did not respond. “How can it be dead?” He’d just taken it off the
charger. “That’s weird.” Walking back to the counter, he put it back on the
charger. It began charging anew. It was at 3 percent. “The damn thing is as dead
as a doornail!” She looked up at him, her eyes wide at his raised voice. She
looked frightened. “Hey, sorry. I just charged this damn phone. I don’t understand
how it can be so completely dead.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Do
you have another phone?’ she asked, sounding anxious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“No.
This one will be okay in a little bit. Let me get your legs cleaned up and
bandaged. It looks like the boat’s motor blades got you. Is that what happened?
Did you fall off the back of the boat and get hit by the blades?” These were
clean lacerations, not the sort of injuries she would have gotten banging into
underwater rocks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I
don’t know. I can’t remember.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You
told me you fell off a boat.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I
went over the side.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Did
you hit your head, too?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I
don’t know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You
must have swum here. You came up from the beach.” She shrugged, shaking her
head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Well,
it doesn’t really matter. You’re safe now, so just relax and rest while I clean
up the cuts and bandage them for you, and then we’ll worry about how to contact
your father.” She remained huddled in the blanket in the chair as he went to
wet some paper towels in hot water. Coming back, he knelt on the floor and washed
the blood off her legs. He noticed that she had chipped, plum-colored polish on
her toenails. “You like the color purple?” Her shorts were the same color as
her toenails.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“It’s
my favorite color.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I
like blue.” He looked up, his eyes meeting hers. She really did have big, brown
eyes. She was a pretty girl. “How old are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Fifteen.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You
parents must be worried sick about you. It’s late.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She
wasn’t very talkative, but he figured that she was cold and tired after her
fall into the lake and having to swim to shore. He taped the roller gauze
around her slim lower legs and then asked to see her wrists. They’d looked
abraded to him, raw, but she shook her head. He asked if she wanted something
to eat or drink. Again she shook her head. He stood up, replacing the unused
supplies in the kit and snapping the cover closed. “All done. I’ll put this
away and then we’ll try the phone again.” He stopped at the counter. “What’s
your phone number?” She gave it to him and he wrote it on the notepad near the
phone charger. “Look, go lie down on the couch. Try to rest and warm up. I’ll
call your father and give him directions so he can come and take you home.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He
went back into the bathroom to replace the first aid kit and wash his hands.
When he returned to the kitchenette he glanced toward the living room. A corner
of the buffalo plaid throw was lying across the arm of the couch. He couldn’t
see her, but figured she was lying down as she’d been told to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Grabbing
his phone, he glanced at the number on the pad and keyed it in. His eyes fell
on the clock. It was quarter of eleven already, late to be calling anyone, but
he figured her father would be happy to know she was all right and that she was
safe. “Who is this?” asked a gruff, almost angry voice. Cody thought he’d woken
the man up. Maybe he wasn’t even aware that his teenaged daughter hadn’t come
home. Maybe she was with friends at the lake and he’d gone to bed assuming she
was safe enough. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“My
name is Cody Taylor. I live on Pine Cove Lane out at the lake. I have your
daughter…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Is
this your idea of a sick joke?” barked the man. “How dare you call me like
this, wake me up, and try to play this cruel and thoughtless charade on me!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’m
sorry…I don’t know her name, but she’s resting on the couch. You should come
and get her. She fell off a boat and she got hurt.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Young
man, I am writing down your phone number and I am calling the police!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“But,
sir… she’s here. I’m not fooling you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“My
daughter is dead! She was kidnapped in nineteen eighty-one by disgruntled
employees and held at a cottage at that damn lake. They did horrible things to
her, and then they rowed her out into the middle of the lake and dumped her in.
Her hands were bound behind her back. She was still alive when they pushed her
over the side. She died a terrible death. She drowned in that lake! How dare
you call this house and pull this sort of terrible thing on me!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“But…but…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Vanessa
is dead! I’m calling the police to report you, young man!” The phone went dead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Shaken,
Cody stared at the phone for a few long moments before setting it back on the
charger. Had she given him the correct number? Maybe he’d misdialed?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He
walked around the counter, stepping into the living room, slowly moving cross
the carpet until he could see the entire couch. The buffalo plaid throw was on
the couch, one end draped over the arm, but there was no one on the couch. Cody
stared at the empty couch and then he spun around, his eyes searching the long
room. No one was there. The dinette chair was still pulled out and turned
sideways to the table. She had sat there while he’d washed and then bandaged
her legs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Quickly
he went to the door, pulling it open and stepping out onto the porch. “Hey!
Hello! Where are you?” he called. “Where did you go?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“What
the hell! Are you drunk? Shut up! We’re trying to sleep!” shouted a male voice
from the other side of the shrubs bordering the driveway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cody
stared out into the darkness, the path barely visible. The clouds had
thickened. The air felt heavier. He was out in the yard pacing when a vehicle pulled
into his driveway, the headlights catching him as he returned toward the house
from the head of the path. “Cody Taylor?” a male voice asked as a flashlight
was shone in his face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yeah?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Did
you call a Mr. Thomas Banks in Windsor about a half hour ago?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I
called a number a girl had given me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Is
that girl still here?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“No,
she disappeared. I don’t know where she went to. She came up the path earlier.
She was wet and she had cuts on her legs.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Can
you describe her?” He removed the light from Cody’s face as he approached. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I
guess. A little below average height, slim, brown hair just past her shoulders.
Big brown eyes. She was pretty.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“How
old would you say she was?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’m
not good at guessing girls’ ages. In her teens, I’d say. High school age.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Did
she say what her name was?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“How
was she dressed?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Um…a
light colored t-shirt. I really don’t remember, maybe a sort of pinky-purple pastel
color. And purplish shorts. Darker purple. Like plum colored. She was barefoot.
She had the same color polish on her toenails, but it was chipped up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“What
were you working from? A newspaper article? A rehash story in a local magazine?
There were some color pictures of the Banks girl published at the time of her
disappearance. So do you want to tell me what kind of a prank you were trying
to pull tonight? You’ve upset Mr. Banks and he’s quite angry.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I
thought he’d be happy to know that his daughter is all right.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Son,
this is not funny. Vanessa Banks was kidnapped when she was fifteen years old.
This was back in nineteen eighty-one. The kidnappers demanded a half a million
dollars ransom. Mr. Banks is the owner of a large business in Windsor. He’s
quite wealthy. He tried putting together the ransom back then but it took
longer than the kidnappers were willing to wait. They abused Miss Banks whom
they were holding hostage at a cottage here on the lake. They tied her up, put
her in a boat, and then dropped her overboard in the middle of the lake where
she drowned. Her body has never been recovered due to the depth of the lake at
that point. Her friends reported that she was wearing clothes exactly as you
described on the day that she disappeared. Therefore, if Mr. Banks chooses to
file charges against you for harassment I will be coming back here to place you
under arrest.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“But…Officer,
she was here. She came up the path just after ten o’clock asking for help. I
took her inside. I washed her legs and bandaged them for her. She had cuts on
them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yes,
she had knife wounds on her legs apparently. One of the kidnappers stated that
as they were tying her hands behind her she began kicking at them. They had
knives and they slashed at her to get her to stop.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“The
men were caught?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“They’re
serving time in prison. You see, Mr. Banks did manage to get the money together
a day later. The greedy kidnappers were arrested when they went to pick it up
at the drop location. They confessed to their crime, but for nearly a year they
refused to tell where Vanessa was, what they had done with her.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“She’s
really dead then?” He felt sick. Who had that girl been then? How had she known
the Bank’s home phone number if he had woken the man up like he had?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yes,
she is. Residents in this area began reporting seeing a teenaged girl in purple
wandering around asking for help about a year after she disappeared. Her
description matched that of Vanessa Banks. Photos were shown around and people
stated that the girl was her. They reported she appeared to have injuries to
her wrists and lower extremities. She was also wet, as if she had been in the
water.” Cody was nodding. “Is that what you saw tonight, son?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yes,”
he replied, barely able to speak.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“And
you say she spoke to you?” He nodded. “What did she say?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“She
said she was at a cottage here at the lake, and then she went over the side of
a boat. She said she was in the water for a long time.” He was shaking his
head, goosebumps having crept up his spine and down his arms. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Did
she say anything else?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cody
began to shake his head, but then he remembered something. “Yeah, she said
purple was her favorite color.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
officer stared at him for a long time before he nodded. “Yes, her father
reported that. Vanessa liked purple.” He slid his flashlight into the holder on
his belt. “Son, I believe you had a visit tonight from whom the folk out here
call the Purple Girl. You had a spectral visitation.” He turned, heading back
to his SUV cruiser. “I’ll call the Windsor police and report this was a ghost
sighting, a rather unusual one at that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“She
gave me that phone number. I wrote it down on a notepad.” He remembered that
his cellphone, fully charged, had been dead in her hand. A shiver ran down his
spine. He’d heard that apparitions could draw energy from batteries and other
power sources. Had his cellphone provided her the energy for an extended
manifestation? “She gave me her father’s number.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’ll
note that in the report. You’d best go inside and try to get some sleep now.
It’s late. I don’t think Mr. Banks will want to press charges as long as you
don’t contact him again.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’m
sorry. I didn’t know. I’ve only lived here a few months.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Goodnight,
son.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cody
went back inside as the officer backed out of the driveway. He locked the door
but left the porch light on. After turning the chair and pushing it in he
walked to the couch, grabbed the throw and shook it out before folding it.
Something fell on the floor at his feet. He looked down and saw the gauze pads
and roller bandage that he had wrapped her legs in. “She <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> here,” he said, his voice sounding too loud in the room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He
tossed the folded throw onto the back of the couch, bent and scooped up the
bandages, carrying them to the trash. The paper towels he’d used to clean her
wounds were in the wastebasket. He pulled them out. They were damp, but there
was no blood on them as there had been earlier. He couldn’t get his mind to
accept that he had touched a ghost girl, that she had felt real to him. How
could that be? If she had been a ghost wouldn’t his hands have passed right
through her?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After
discarding the bandages, he turned to the counter, looking at the number
written on the notepad. “She gave me her home phone number. How would I have
ever known a thing like that?” Pushing the pad away, he looked again around the
room. She had been here in the cottage. He had spoken with her and she had
replied to him. It had all seemed a little strange, but nothing had alerted him
to the fact that he was in the presence of a ghost. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Leaving
the lights on, he made his way to the bedroom. He was twenty-five years old.
He’d been living on his own for several months now, having moved out of his
parent’s basement to this cottage. He’d never seen a ghost before in his life,
hadn’t even believed in them. But tonight he was afraid to turn out the lights.
He was afraid to close his eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He
lay in bed staring toward the doorway, half expecting a shadowy figure to
materialize there. “Think about stars. Think about comets, and planets, and the
moon,” he tried to tell himself, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Vanessa,
the girl in purple. Her body had never been recovered from the depths of the
lake. She was still down there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And
she would continue to haunt the residents around the lake for a long time to
come.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-22708910831629943382020-07-10T15:29:00.003-07:002020-07-10T15:29:52.572-07:00Taking a Break from Art and Back to WritingI was banging around my house the other day, feeling bored and restless, and realized that there are quite a few binders with partially written stories lying around in the office and the dining room. That made me remember that I had started a companion novel to the Black King/White Queen series awhile ago. It took me a little while to unearth it. I was pleasantly surprised to find I'd written over 62,000 words of the novel.<br />
<br />
I took a weekend to read through and refamiliarize myself with what I had written so far of this novel. And yes, I actually took some notes which is highly unusual for me. Over the past week I have been adding to the story nd it's about 2/3 written now with the rest of it mapped out in sketchy one line notes to myself where I want to go and what loose ends I need to tie up before the conclusion.<br />
<br />
Although I love drawing, my right hand has developed some neuropathy and joint pain which is new. So, I am setting the ink pens aside for the moment and concentrating on writing (as if typing and scrolling with the mouse will do my hand a world of good, but it has been good for relieving the boredom of a COVID environment. I've always been good at entertaining myself in my head by telling myself stories. I remember putting myself to sleep telling myself stories while lying in the dark. Nowadays I need to remind myself to stop and go to bed because I have work in the morning! Sometimes it's not easy to get the freight train of creativity to pull into a station called REST!<br />
<br />
Yes, sometimes I probably do walk around during the day looking like the living dead!!! Haha!<br />
<br />
I expect <b><i>The Bowmen</i></b> to be finished by the end of summer. Some characters from the Black King/White Queen series appear in this novel but they are not the primary characters, just supporting cast.Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-69827359800850267582020-05-24T08:44:00.000-07:002020-05-25T17:29:59.121-07:00Post Pandemic: A ghost storyAs a cast member of Ghost Stories Live! I've been asked to write a ghost story for a video GSL! that will be recorded next Saturday and most likely put on YouTube. I was told to make it a post pandemic ghost story, so here it is for the first time. I wrote it Friday night, May 22nd and just finished editing it this morning:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">POST
PANDEMIC by Susan Buffum</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Somewhere
inside me I still possess a shred of decency. I know this only after the fact,
as I’m crouched down beside the greenish water of the river trying to wash the
blood and gore off my grimy hands. I beat a lame, feral dog to death with a
brick. I just kept bashing its head with the brick. It yelped and tried to
wriggle away but some other animal had ruined three of its legs. It had one
white paw. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I'd said each time I’d struck it. “I’m
sorry.” I avoided looking into its eyes. But I can’t avoid looking into my own
eyes as the bloody, agitated water flows away and I catch my reflection on the
surface of it. I reach up and shove my hair back, barely recognizing the
shadowed eyes, the hollow cheeks of the face staring back at me. I can’t
remember when I had a haircut last. My clothes are torn and filthy. I wear them
now until I can’t stand the stench of myself any longer. I’ve been reluctant to
jump into the river ever since that day I was bathing and saw what I thought
were tree branches, birches, drifting toward me. It turned out to be a tangled
mass of rotting corpses, their skin the white of a fish’s belly, bloodless
wounds gaping. Just a tangle of arms and legs riding along the surface, the
bodies a jumble beneath the water. I’d screamed like a girl, paddling and
splashing my way back to the river bank, shivering as I’d hauled myself out of
the water, terrified that I’d become infected by the virus that had killed
those people.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Jesus,”
I said, shaking my head as I stood up, eyes scanning the hulking mills across
the river. I’d lived in one of those mills last year for about three weeks.
When Lou died, I got out of there. I found another place to camp, alone. It was
still a little difficult back then to find someplace safe. Now, you can pretty
much walk the streets and not see another living soul. It’s a ghost town. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
don’t know if there are others still alive. I sometimes glimpse figures through
grimy panes of glass, shop front windows that survived when looting became the
means for survival. The only reason to break into a travel agency, a nail
salon, or a massage parlor was to find a clean place to sleep. You busted the
window out of the back door and got in that way, not by breaking the glass in
the front windows. That glass was a barrier between you and them. You hid in
the basement and prayed all night that no one else would break in. People
carried a hammer and lots of nails in their backpacks back then so they could
grab whatever scrap boards they could find to cover over the broken door
windows, to keep others out.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
don’t go into town much anymore. I wander around the fringes. I sometimes see
dark figures just standing in the shadows of buildings, trees, on porches of
houses where there are no signs of life. If I blink, they vanish; just melt
away into the shadows. I don’t know if these figures I see are real people or
phantoms. I don’t really want to know, but they’re always watching me. Maybe
they’re just biding their time waiting for me to join them. But I’m still
breathing, still surviving. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
do what I have to do to survive. Like killing the feral dog. I’m hungry. But
right now I feel sick after beating the dog to death. I don’t want to deal with
skinning it, gutting it, hacking it up, building a fire, roasting chunks of it
over the flames, eating it. The thought of that makes bile rise up the back of
my throat.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Right
now, I need to walk among the ghosts. Some of them, I’m pretty sure, are people
I knew back before this all started. My geometry teacher seems to haunt the
open garage of his house on Washington Street. I heard something metallic, like
a wrench fall on the concrete floor once. It made me jump and then run. It’s
better not to know, believe me about that.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
pause to sit on the steps of the church across from the bank. I’m tired. I
really need to eat something and then get back to my current burrow. That’s
what I’m calling it, a burrow. I don’t like being inside places anymore.
They’re all haunted by something or someone. I’ve heard footsteps, whispering
voices, sudden groans and cries, things being dropped or dragged. Every shop,
every building, office, church, house…every place ever constructed for human
occupation is now haunted by the dead. Tens of thousands of dead people.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sometimes
I think I’m losing my mind. Maybe I am. Stress. Watching your loved ones die.
It’s probably post-traumatic stress. Making street friends and watching them
die. Dodging something you can’t even see, something microscopic and deadly,
never knowing if it got on your clothes, your skin, in your nose, or mouth, or
eyes. It can drive you crazy with worry.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
saw street brawls over hand sanitizer, people half crazed, armed with knives,
boards with nails driven through them, baseball bats, whatever they could get
their hands on, beating on one another over something they considered a prize,
an item of salvation. I saw the bloodied, battered winner holding their prize
close as they staggered away from the groaning, moaning tangle of bodies they
had emerged victorious from. Less than two weeks later I was steering clear of
the winner’s body lying in the hallway of a long abandoned doctor’s office. I’d
gone in there to see if there was anything left to treat an infected blister on
my toe. I needed new sneakers. These were too small now. I’d found the body by
stench alone. I got out of there fast, afraid that the virus was hanging in the
air. I worried myself sick thinking I was going to die. But I didn’t get sick. I’m
still here.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
blink sweat from my eyes, brush hair away from my face, and lock eyes with a
woman standing across the street. I don’t know where she came from. It’s like
she just materialized out of thin air. There’s a breeze. It doesn’t touch her
clothes. It doesn’t run its fingers through her long hair. She’s static. Just
staring at me. I flip her the finger. No reaction. A cold shiver runs down my
spine. I turn my head because she seems to be staring not at me, but at
something behind me. From the corner of my eye I see a dark form. With a yelp
of terror, I leap up and try to jump off the steps to the sidewalk, but
something grabs me by the shoulder and I can’t move.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Let
go!” I cry, my heart beating so hard I’m afraid it’ll bust. “Let go of me!”
I’ve already lost it and am screaming, writhing, twisting, trying to wrench
myself free of the hand gripping me, holding me in place. How can something so
thin, so bony and so much like a talon with long, yellowed nails possess so
much force? </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
twist my head around, look up, and yell in terror. It’s a man with thinning gray
and white hair that falls nearly a foot past his narrow shoulders. He’s like a
skeleton dressed in a black robe. “Be still. I am merely offering you
sanctuary,” he says in a deep but soft, raspy voice as if he’s just walked
across the desert. “Come inside. She can’t touch you inside.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I
need to go. Please! Just let me go!” I cry, slanting my eyes sideways only to
find that the woman has moved. She’s now on the island between the east and
westbound lanes of the avenue. Closer, I can see the ravages of the virus
carved into her gaunt face. Her mouth gapes open. She’s missing teeth. “Are you
real?” I ask. “Are you a real person?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I
shelter the children, I keep them safe. Come with me.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She’s
drifting into the travel lane now, edging closer. Her eyes look as if they’re
filled with fog. As she steps up onto the sidewalk I nod. “Don’t let her touch
me! Don’t let her take me!”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m
hustled up the granite steps and although I am resisting, distrustful, balking,
I find myself being pushed ahead of the man into the foyer of the church. He
lets go of me and I stumble a few feet further inside, then spin around to be
sure she hasn’t followed me in. He’s slammed the heavy, red door shut, turned a
huge, brass key in the lock that he removes and slides into a deep pocket in
his black robe. Then he lifts a long piece of timber that looks hand hewn and
jams it behind heavy metal brackets to barricade the door. There are just tiny
windows in the doors with glass panes laced with diamonds formed by lead that give them a
medieval appearance.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He
turns to me. “Go into the sanctuary and sit down.” I shake my head,
apprehensive now. I don’t like being locked inside a building. “You’ll be safe
enough there.” He is staring at me. I can’t tell if he’s angry or if it’s just
the lines suffering has carved into his face that give him that look. “There’ll
be bread and soup shortly.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Food.
My stomach is gnawing itself with hunger at the moment. I haven’t eaten in over
two days. Desperation made me kill the dog. That and the fear of starvation
drove me to kill it. “I killed a dog,” I say. He blinks. Ghosts don’t blink.
They just stare at you through dead eyes. “It was crippled.” He continues to
stare at me. I squirm, aware that it’s a sin to kill. “It was suffering. It
wouldn’t have been able to survive. It couldn’t hunt.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Go
and find a seat. I’ll be with you shortly.” He turns, goes through an arched
doorway, closes the door and I’m suddenly alone in the foyer. I hear a
scrabbling, scratching sound on the other side of the front doors. That makes
me back up into the next room. It’s like a hall of sorts with a fireplace. I'm
still facing the secured front doors. To my left, through paned glass doors I
see another fireplace, couches. It’s like a granny’s living room in a big old
house. I turn my head to the right and see open, arched, double doors with
windows similar to those in the front door. There is an aisle, pews down either
side, an altar, a stained glass window straight ahead, a cross. I hear
whispers, scuffling. There’s a quick giggle, a shushing hiss. “Hello?” I say as
I slowly approach the open doors. “Who’s there?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“The
children,” says a woman’s voice from behind me. I spin around. At first I think
it’s the ghost that’s gotten inside somehow, but her eyes, although circled in
purple and gray, are not clouded over. “Go wash your hands. Bathroom’s in that
hall back there. Water runs. Doesn’t get hot though. Come back here after and
take a seat. Food’s coming.” She turns. I have to follow her a ways to where
she’s told me the bathroom is. She goes down a staircase. I catch a whiff of
something that smells like food before turning the corner into another hallway.
There’s a row of doors on the left, two open doorways on the right. I open the
first door on the left and find it’s a rest room. Slipping inside, I walk to
the sink and twist the cold tap. Water gushes out. It’s mesmerizing. I suddenly
remember brushing my teeth, washing my face and hands before going to sit down
for dinner with my family. My family. I bend over the sink gasping, feeling as
if I’ve just been punched in the gut. Whatever happened to my family? I can’t
remember!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
hold my hands under the tap. Water flows over them. There’s no soap, so I just
rub them together as hard as I can while wishing the ingrained grime to go
away. I'm always filthy. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
twist the tap off, shake droplets of water from my hands. They look a little
cleaner. There's nothing to dry them on, so I just keep shaking them, droplets
of water falling onto the tile floor as I walk to the door. As I reach for the
handle to tug it open I hear voices approaching in the hallway, a woman and a
man; the man in the black robe whose voice I recognize, but it’s not the woman
who told me to wash my hands.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“He’s
scrawny, but he should feed them when he’s boiled down into a nice soup. Let him
have a bowl of broth and a slice of bread with the others, then I’ll bring him
downstairs, tell him he’ll be bunking in one of the classrooms. He’ll be more
agreeable with food in his belly. He’s an antsy one.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Their
voices fade as they turn the corner. I stand behind the door, my heart lurching
around. My mind is reeling, but I do know one thing and that one thing is that
I’m not going to stick around and let them boil me down into a broth to feed
whatever is in that sanctuary that they’re keeping alive.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A
minute passes. I can't wait forever. I saw an exit door at the end of this
shorter hallway. I slip out of the bathroom as quietly as I can, walking as
silently as possible on the tile floor toward the door. There's a window in
this door with wire embedded in the glass. “Boy? Where are you? Come along now!
Come eat your supper and then we’ll find you a nice bed for the night. Boy!
Let’s go!”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
voice is drawing nearer. He’ll be coming around the corner into this hallway in
a few moments. I bolt to the door, bang against the bar but it doesn’t budge, however it’s made a loud noise. The man in the black robe appears at the end of the
corridor near the bathroom door. “Stay away from me!” I cry, pushing again on
the bar, slamming my body into it. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You
don’t want to go out there, boy,” he says, slowly approaching me. “They’re out
there waiting for you.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I
have to go.” He’s shaking his head, coming nearer. Behind him I see something
short, closer to the floor moving and I think it’s some sort of gremlin creeping on all fours behind
him. I’m close to freaking out, close to full blown panic. I’m going to die. I
know I’m going to die right here in this building, that I’m going to be boiled
down to soup and fed to…to…I don’t know what!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And
then the gremlin leaps. The man staggers and stumbles. I yelp, slam harder against
the door because I’m trapped and have nowhere else to go. The bar clicks and
the door suddenly opens behind me. I hear snarling and growling as I’m turning,
ready to bolt outside. But what I see freezes me in place for a long moment. I
look into the large, brown eyes of a mangy mongrel, a snarling, feral dog. It’s
not a large dog, but it’s pinned the man down, one paw on the back of his neck.
The paw is white. I blink. The dog stares at me. Its eyes are clear. It just
stares. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
could not look into its eyes when I was killing it, when my heart was breaking
because I didn’t want to kill it. “Good dog,” I think before turning and running
out the door, down the long ramp and into the parking lot. I see shadowy forms
coming from around both sides of the church, a swarm of them. I don’t stop, I
just keep running.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m
shivering, my teeth chattering as I stare into the embers of the fire outside
my burrow. I’ve buried the carcass of the dog, unable to bring myself to cut it
up and roast pieces of it. My supper was a gasping fish I’d found on the river
bank. I don’t know if it was diseased or not, a carrier of the virus that’s
about wiped out this town. I haven’t seen another living soul in over a week.
I’m not sure if the man in the church was alive or not. He seemed to be. The
women also seemed to be. But I don’t really know what they were.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
word ghouls runs through my brain and I shudder. The town is haunted by shades,
shadows, ghosts, phantoms, and now ghouls. And I’m scared. I’m more scared than
I’ve ever been before.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
poke at the embers with a stick. Beyond their red glow I see something dark moving
slowly. I warily watch it, thinking it’s a wild animal come to scavenge the
fish skin and bones, the head and tail I’d hacked off and thrown aside. But it’s
now slinking around the stones I've stacked in a circle to contain the fire. “Go
away,” I say, my voice low. A soft whine comes in response. “I’ve got nothing
for you,” I say. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And
then it comes further around and I see a flash of white. A white paw. “Oh,” I
say. The feral dog I killed has come to tear my throat out. That’s the thought
that goes through my head. It’s followed me and now it’s going to kill me. “I’m
sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.” I am sorry. Even though it had been
suffering and would have died of starvation, I’d had no right to take its life.
I’d become no better than a wild animal preying on weaker animals. “I’m sorry.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
dog crawls on its belly to me, its eyes on mine. It whines softly in its throat.
In its eyes I see a need as huge as my own, a longing to belong again to
something, to someone. This dog saved my life. Ghost or not, it had appeared in
that church and taken down the man who’d intended to have me made into soup to
feed his…his what? His flock?</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“It’s
all right,” I murmur. The dog presses itself close. I can feel it. It feels
real enough, solid, but maybe it’s just because I’m so tired. I’m so damn tired
that I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m dreaming this. I throw my arm around the dog
and snug it closer to my chest. There seems to be some warmth to it. “Are you
tired, Ghost?” I ask. “I’m ready to sleep.” I run my fingers through its matted
fur. It’s as bony as I am. Flesh drawn taut over bones. Fur. Hair. Real?
Phantom? Imagination? Or the manifestation of guilt, fatigue, and hunger?</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
ate a fish. I’m ready to sleep. I would have been dead by now if Ghost hadn’t
found me and bought me the time I’d needed to get that door open, to escape. I
want to sleep, but I need to say this. I need to say it aloud. “Good dog.” The
rasp of a rough tongue across the back of my hand makes me smile as I close my
eyes. “Good dog,” I murmur.</span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
This story is copyrighted and cannot be used without the author's permission. Contact me through the blog or via email at sebuffum415@gmail.comSusan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-14222831241564420222020-05-21T16:52:00.001-07:002020-05-21T16:52:15.526-07:00RE:The Clockmaker's Son It was time to revisit The Clockmaker's Son, my werewolf/lycanthrope novel set in a small New England town which was published by Inklings in May of 2018, two years ago already!! Time flies!<br />
<br />
I still love this novel.<br />
<br />
So, yes, authors do read their own books and while we read with a critical eye toward errors, or weak spots, we also enjoy our own books even though we know what's going to happen!<br />
<br />
The Clockmaker's Son is half horror novel, half love story, and about friendships and relationships in a small town that has seen many animal mutilations. Rumor is that there is a wolf or a pack of feral dogs prowling the woods and swampy areas of the town, preying on farm animals and wildlife. And then a few human victims begin to turn up. Charlotte Rumford walks into her mother's antiques shop and has a too close for comfort encounter with a wolf that walks upright like a man, and then discovers her mother's friend and employee torn to pieces. Charlotte knows what she saw but everyone is writing it off as shock and improbable. Only, it's not.<br />
<br />
The Clockmaker's Son is available on Amazon.com and as a Kindle ebook. It's a page turner!Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-83447771108140427162020-05-21T16:39:00.002-07:002020-05-21T16:39:36.161-07:00Bolt's Landing Released!Bolt's Landing my new contemporary romance novel as released on May 12th. It's available at Amazon.com and on other book seller sites, and is also available in the Kindle ebook store.<br />
<br />Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-9709594055681411352020-05-05T16:45:00.000-07:002020-05-05T16:45:36.901-07:00Bolt's Landing in Proof StageA new novel will be coming out later this month. Bolt's Landing is in the proof stage where I've done the editing and review for grammar, typos, punctuation errors, spacing, and such. At this point I indulge in a printed proof copy and read it through for continuity issues I may have missed and story flow. If I need to make any fixes from the proof it usually goes quickly. Here is the back cover copy:<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><b><i>Artist Jesse
Oakes returns to the Adirondacks where he grew up after the death of his
actress wife in California. Disillusioned by the lifestyle he’d led in LA, he
opens a gallery on Bolt Lake, joins the local hockey team, and lives a quiet
life until wealthy society scion Sebastian Archer commissions him to paint a
portrait of his youngest daughter upon her engagement to rich playboy Jared
Rhys-Bowen. Archer’s arranged the marriages of all his children to the rich
sons and daughters of his business associates, thereby increasing his own
fortunes. The Archers do not marry for love they marry for money, Jesse soon
finds out as he gets to know the unhappy subject of the portrait he’s painting.
He falls in love with Ellisan Archer, but soon the horror of her life, shielded
by her family and generous payouts of cash to buy silence, is unveiled. Jesse’s
love offers her a lifeline out of the nightmare she’s ensnared in, but will she
find the strength to grasp it? Can he save her before it’s too late?</i></b></span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><b></b><i></i>Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-1782112635970109032020-04-22T08:53:00.004-07:002020-04-22T15:38:22.541-07:00OUTBREAKI wrote this in 2002 and just thought about it today and had to go searching for it on the PC. Crudely edited and formatted as this was from eighteen years ago...<br />
<br />
<br />
<h1 style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">OUTBREAK</span></h1>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">To Meg O’Malley, Doctor Brian Hunter seemed more like a college student
then a full-fledged MD with a degree in communicable diseases and another in
hematology.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had the sort of boyish
good looks that would keep people mistaking him for a much younger man all his
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His naturally wavy, sandy-blond
hair was flyaway and shoulder length, combed haphazardly back away from his
face and more or less contained in a stubby ponytail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were always stray, wispy strands of
hair standing out around his head forming a delicate aura that shone white in
the sunlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He seldom bothered to shave,
but would never allow a full beard or moustache to grow in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wore small pewter-framed glasses for close
work. His eyes were a startlingly clear blue, very piercing when he was at his
most intense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this equatorial climate
his standard uniform was a black t-shirt, khaki cargo shorts, an old pair of
Nikes and his white lab coat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every time
she saw him in the camp’s clinic or lab she was jolted by his youthful
appearance and his boundless energy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sometimes he seemed to fairly vibrate, even when he was sitting still,
hunched over his microscope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Often he
could be seen rushing around the compound, the tails of his lab coat flying in
the still, torpid air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He spoke as
rapidly as he moved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was disconcerting
to work with someone like Brian Hunter, but he was brilliant and dedicated, so
they all more or less had gotten used to his presence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Here are the blood sample slides you
wanted,” she said, setting the rack of slides down on the counter to his
left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was left-handed.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Thanks, Meg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was quick,” he replied, pausing to push
his glasses up in order to rub his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He had been peering into the microscope since dawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now his stomach growled loudly as he glanced
at his field watch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“One o’clock
already!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked stunned, then
flashed a lopsided grin at the pretty Irish lab technician.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Suppose you’ve eaten already.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Over an hour ago.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She pulled a cheese sandwich from one coat
pocket, a can of Coke from the other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I
thought you might be too busy to eat.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That’s what I admire about
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re a thinker.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He took the sandwich and soda <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>setting them on the counter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What’s the latest?” he asked.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Three more have died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seventeen more have been brought in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Four of those appear to be in an advanced
stage as they exhibit signs of liver and renal failure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pat is preparin’ some slides of blood samples
drawn from the new patients right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ll bring them to you as soon as they’re ready.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Has the little girl died?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s still hangin’ in there.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“When you get a chance draw
another sample.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three tubes should be
enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m going to be running some
additional tests later today. Her case is progressing differently from all the
others. It’s the same virus, but her body appears to have the ability to
sustain a prolonged counterattack on whatever it is that has invaded the blood
of these people. I’m trying to find and isolate an antigen in her blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I can do that then perhaps we can develop
an antibody or a vaccine and offer these poor people some hope and relief from this
thing.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’ll draw the blood myself,
but I’m not sure I can get three tubes out of her.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Do the best you can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And no slacking in barrier technique,” he
warned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His blue eyes met hers briefly.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During those few seconds he
looked straight at her Meg was rocked by the sudden realization that Brian
Hunter had feelings for her beyond those of a co-worker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How had she missed all the previous signals
he must have sent in the past few weeks- or was this something new, something
only he’d just become aware of himself?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Her heart skittering in her breast, her mind trying to reconcile itself
to this unexpected but not unwelcome revelation , she went out into the
corridor and immediately collided with a technician, masked, gloved, and
goggled, who was carrying a rack of test tubes containing freshly drawn blood
from the isolation ward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The two
technicians staggered and stumbled trying to regain their balance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The test tube rack tilted and the tubes fell
to the floor and shattered, sending up a spray of fine shards of glass and
blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The masked technician had thrown
his arm up to further protect his face, but Meg, completely caught off guard, was
struck in the face by sharp glass and drops of blood.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was leaning against the
wall, her right hand over her right eye, stunned, when Doctor Hunter came rushing
out of the lab.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked from the mess
on the floor, to the masked and safety-goggled technician, then to Meg who only
wore latex gloves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His face was very
pale, his blue eyes wide with shock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“No, Meg!” he cried as the tip of her tongue darted out to lick the
droplet of blood poised dead center on her lower lip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Spit it out!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With horror she did exactly
that, and then felt her stomach roil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She struggled not to vomit as Doctor Hunter came closer, his eyes on her
face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“God Almighty,” he murmured, a
note of near panic in his voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
grabbed her by the left wrist and pulled her away from the wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Come on!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hurry!”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the lab he leaned her over
the sink and splashed water on her face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Leaning hard on her shoulders he forced her under the faucet, turning
her head to let the water wash directly over her face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re drownin’ me!” she cried.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Hold your breath!” he
snapped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meg thought for sure he was
going to kill her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Don’t just stand
there!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Go get Doctor Rosen!” he shouted
wildly at the other technician who must have followed them into the lab.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She could not see. Her injured eye was still clamped
shut protectively and her left eye was full of water and tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Come on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Open your eye for me,” he said in a more soothing tone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Meg, open your eye and let me see what’s in
there.”</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It hurts!”<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I know,” he said quietly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gently
his fingers probed around her still closed eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Is it glass then?” he asked.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I think so.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Damn,” he swore softly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“All right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Easy now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m going to blot your
face dry.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meg stayed bent over the sink
while he blotted her face with paper towels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She felt the draft caused by the lab door swinging open quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What’s happened?” Doctor Rosen’s voice
demanded brusquely.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She collided with the other
lab tech in the hall and was splashed with blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We think there’s a bit of glass in her eye
from one of the broken test tubes.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She’s been contaminated?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doctor’s voice held a note of shock and
horror. </span></div>
<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Meg began to
shake.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes,” Brian Hunter replied, a
curious quaver in his response.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Then she’s as good as gon…”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Doctor, will you kindly
examine her eye and treat her injury.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Doctor Hunter’s voice was suddenly clipped and authoritative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He put his gloved hand on Meg’s blood
splattered sleeve. “Do you want me to go with you?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She nodded.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meg lay on a cot in the
isolation tent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Insects buzzed
incessantly around her head, but she was too weak to swat at them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her body was wracked by a persistent burning fever.
Her head ached.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her throat was
sore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was extremely thirsty, but an
hour ago she had been unable to hold even an ounce of water down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The IV irritated her left hand and they had
tied her right wrist to the cot rail to keep her from pulling it out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the disease didn’t kill her first she was
going to die of starvation and dehydration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Already her fingers were so thin that she had lost her school ring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brian had found it, getting down on his hands
and knees to search every inch of the floor until with a cry of triumph he’d
held up the ring. She had seen a glint of gold, but hadn’t been able to see the
ring clearly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her injured eye was
bandaged. The vision in her good eye was disintegrating.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she lay in the hot tent her
thoughts ping-ponged tiredly from her family to her cozy little Galway flat, to
Brian Hunter hunched over his microscope searching desperately for answers that
would come too late for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wanted
to cry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was trying so hard to find a
cure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every time he came to see her his
face behind the mask looked more gaunt and haggard, his boyish appearance
rapidly being replaced by the bleary-eyed visage of a fanatic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least his voice was the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He still sounded warm and caring.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Doctor Hunter stood beside the small girl’s cot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was all he could do not to grab her and
shake her, to scream at her to give up her secrets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d seen so many people die already.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meg was dying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could deal with the deaths of strangers,
of patients, but not Meg’s imminent passing. She’d come to this distant, hot,
nearly primitive country to help these people, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>not to die from whatever it was that was
decimating the villages in this immediate area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Why was this child still alive?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Why hadn’t he been able to successfully isolate the antigen in her
blood?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why were all his tests
failures?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dead ends?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time was running out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was rapidly, irrevocably running out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For all of these people…for Meg.</span></div>
<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He clenched his fists as he turned and
strode quickly away.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Meg sensed someone nearby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
could not open her good eye, but she turned her head very slightly with great
effort toward the left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s me, Meg.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“…thirs…ty,” she whispered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He dabbed her parched lips with a wet
cloth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few drops of water trickled
into her mouth causing her to retch violently.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Shh!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shh!” he soothed, stroking
her hot, dry cheek.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m…dying.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m sorry, Meg,” he said, his voice hollow with despair and defeat.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Bri…an….I”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don’t speak.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I…love…” She heard him bite
back a sob.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Send…ring…home…to Mum.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I will,” he whispered.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Tell her…tell…her…I…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meg could not speak any longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her strength was gone.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’ll tell her you love her.
I’ll take care of everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll see
that you get home.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He bent and pressed
his masked lips against her cheek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I
love you,” he whispered at her ear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A flicker
of a smile at the corners of her mouth just preceded a terrible seizure
mercifully cut short by the sudden arrival of death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meg’s ravaged body sank wearily into Death’s embrace.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brian looked at her for a few
moments longer then he walked outside into the sultry twilight.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Less than a week after Meg’s death Doctor Hunter was hurrying across
the compound when he happened to notice a small boy of about nine years of age
carrying a bundle of sticks and boards toward the pit where the bodies of the local
victims of the wretched disease were being burned. What caught his eye were
pieces of weathered board with something painted on them in black and
yellow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Hey!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wait up!” he called.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy, startled by his shout, dropped
the bundle and fled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brian crouched
down, grabbing the narrow, flat slats, pulling them free of the bundle of
sticks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Flipping them all painted side
up he put them together like a macabre puzzle, his heart thudding, his stomach
roiling. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My God!” he cried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh, my God!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He stood up, looking wildly about him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The boy was long gone, but Brian knew he must have found the weathered
boards somewhere nearby.</span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He turned his eyes toward the
boards again and the words were like a knife plunged straight into his heart-
“U.S. GOVERNMENT BIOLOGICAL WARFARE WEAPONS TESTING AREA-DANGER-DO NOT ENTER!” </span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5270886027007896790.post-63747478648461741742020-04-22T08:01:00.001-07:002020-04-22T15:57:29.925-07:00COVID Hit Close to Heart and a WarningAlthough I am an author and an artist my full time job is as a secretary in a medical office with multiple providers and a fairly large staff. COVID ran through our office which caused a rapidly changing series of events that saw me first moved into a more quarantined area, then sent home to work from home for nearly two weeks before finally being allowed back into the office last week as one of only <i>four</i> office staff/front desk girls allowed in the entire first floor of the building at this time.<br />
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One woman, a few years younger than me, had the most serious case of all our office members, providers, and staff. She was hospitalized nearly a month ago and had to be sustained on life support. Updates on her condition were few and far between because of the chaotic manner in which we were working to keep the office running and the patients' needs met with only a handful of employees able to work from home and providers doing televisits from their homes or, if allowed back into the office after being cleared, their offices in the building with limited access to other areas. All any of us could do was pray for her recovery and keep our fingers crossed that she would have the strength and determination to pull through. It was deeply disheartening and saddening to read the daily obituaries and recognize many patient names on those pages. We truly do care about our patients and have known many of them for decades. It was both stunning and sobering to comprehend just how pervasive and widespread this virus is, how invasive and insidious it is, and how rapidly it spreads...and how devastating the outcome can be, especially for the elderly and those with preexisting health conditions as noted by health experts.<br />
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Yesterday, the four of us currently working in the office watched the video of our co-worker on our cell phones as she was released from the hospital, in a wheelchair, on oxygen still and behind a mask. But she waved. The hospital wanted to send her to rehab after being in a hospital bed for nearly a month but she defied them, got out of that bed and walked from it to the bathroom with the help of a walker because she wanted to go home that bad and COVID was <i>not </i>going to stop her. In the brief image of her as she approached the family member recording her departure from the hospital one can see the fatigue and the toll this virus has taken on her, and we could understand the long road still ahead of her as she recovers her strength and former vitality. All four of us cried. All four of us wanted to hug and reassure one another that one day in the future we'll have normalcy back in our lives, but even though the four of us are healthy, feel well, and display no symptoms, we go back out into the world, to our homes and families, out in the community to buy essentials, use the ATM, pick up food at the drive thru, etc...and could be picking up the virus and carrying it around. So while we are allowed to work together, we have to stay as far apart from one another as we can get, wear masks, and gloves, if touching common surfaces the others touch, such as the fax machine, doorknobs, etc.<br />
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We're thrilled and relieved that our coworker has survived and has been allowed to go home to start her rehab after such a life-threatening experience with COVID, but we also know it's going to be a long time yet before all of us can work together again and the office will be back to a more normal flow.<br />
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Through this whole COVID crisis I've seen two coworkers land in the hospital, the previous one only hospitalized for about a week, and others who were sick for one to two weeks with milder symptoms, and am aware of several still testing positive and some testing negative. Your fellow employees are like your extended family. After so many years of working together you know a lot about one another, and you care about everyone to varying degrees. You don't wish ill upon any of them- yet you are suddenly seeing your workplace deeply rocked by a pandemic that there are people out there denouncing as a hoax, not as serious as the experts are making it out to be, and saying things need to get back to normal quickly. A workplace is a microcosm of the real world. We were hit hard. We very nearly lost someone, could have lost another, and had multiple others sick with varying degrees of illness, some of whom are still recovering at home. The number of us in the office is close to the number in a standard classroom. If we all walked back into that classroom right now, there would be some of us exposed to this virus who would get sick, take it home and perhaps make our family members sick. If we have elderly family members, or family members with health conditions in the home or that we are going to visit and take supplies and food to then we could potentially sicken them, or even be responsible for killing them if we knowingly go to a place where the virus has run rampant. Even with taking precautions you cannot see the virus, so you cannot be sure whether or not you're carrying it home on your skin, your clothing, your jacket, or lunch bag. It should be a cause of concern and not dismissed as "it can't happen to me, I wash my hands and wear a mask...etc." A virus is microscopic. It lives for hours on surfaces. You can potentially bring it home from wherever you go.<br />
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I nearly lost not only a fellow co-worker, but someone I care about and consider a friend after 13 years of working together. We've celebrated many occasions in her family, watched her children grow, I've been to her home, celebrated when her granddaughter was born. As I mentioned before, you spend a lot of time on a daily basis with your co-workers, more time with them on an average weekday then you spend with your own family. This could have ended tragically. I'm happier than I can actually express that it had a good outcome for her and her family.<br />
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Please be careful and think about what you are at risk for losing if you are too hasty in your pursuit to return to a more normal life. You could be placing a beloved family member, a friend, that friend's family, an acquaintance, that acquaintance's family, and your co-workers at risk. Just stay safe, stay smart, and don't be swayed by ignorance and impatience. Listen to your own common sense, make your choices carefully and considerately. If able, help those who need assistance during this time. If you need help, reach out and ask and don't be embarrassed about it. There are good people in the world; there is help out there.<br />
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And thank you to those who are selflessly helping. You are doing something positive to get as many of us as possible through this COVID pandemic. I'll admit right here, I am not particularly religious. I do believe in a higher being we call God. I do believe He does hear your prayers even if you sit quarantined in your home, socially distancing in the office, or while in your car at a red light. He hears what's in your heart. So, simply pray in place, not just for yourself and your family, but for all of us.<br />
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He answered our prayers for our co-worker and gave us all a sign of hope which we needed after being hit so hard. If you haven't experienced a close to the heart hit from this virus, then bless you and yours, you're lucky. Our office is just a tiny representation of the entire medical field out there battling COVID on a 24-7 basis. I truly admire those on the frontlines in hospitals and cannot begin to fathom the strength, bravery, and determination powering those health care workers through this crisis. It's too grand a scale to imagine. I'm just thankful that they're there fighting to save lives and sitting with the ones losing their battles who would otherwise be alone.<br />
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I wish more people would think before they speak. If you're healthy and your family is healthy it's because so many others are working and struggling to follow the rules and guidelines to keep as many of us as possible safe and healthy. If you're in a big hurry to get back to the way things used to be then be aware that more lives will be lost. Take a long look around you and you may see the face of the next virus victim sitting at your table, lounging on the couch, shooting baskets out in the driveway, asleep in their crib, or coming in from a walk to get some fresh air. Those are the lives you're impatience and lack of understanding is placing at risk, not to mention just your own.<br />
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<br />Susan Buffumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11990568439547883252noreply@blogger.com2