The Raven's Sepulcher

By Gary Cottle

Allison, a teenage girl, is sent to live with her grandmother in a secluded colonial farmhouse in New England. After finding a chapel in the attic and a mysterious old cemetery behind the house, she learns that her family is connected to a secret and ancient cult, and she must decide if she will accept the barbaric practices and beliefs of this cult or risk her life by declaring her independence from her family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Cottle
• Release date: Jul 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311309006

Gary Cottle

Gary Cottle came into existence in the mid ‘60s in the state of West Virginia. He spent most of his life there appreciating the natural beauty of the landscape and avoiding the locals. Gary Cottle now resides in Merced, California, a town close to San Francisco and Yosemite National Park but, sadly, bears little resemblance to either. Gary Cottle is an exceptionally shy gay man and keeps to himself mostly. He has several dear friends and stays in contact with them through social media. Gary Cottle appreciates movies, novels, art, photography, forests, trees and cabins in the woods. Please look for the following forthcoming novels: The Raven’s Sepulcher A teenage girl is sent to live with her grandmother in a secluded colonial farmhouse in New England. After finding a chapel in the attic and a mysterious old cemetery behind the house, she learns that her family is connected to a secret and ancient cult, and she must decide if she will accept the barbaric practices and beliefs of this cult or risk her life by declaring her independence from her family. My High School Boyfriend In 1983, Glen Farris, a poor teenager who was bullied at school and ignored at home, believed he was destined to lead a life of loneliness and solitude until Shannon Dupree, a handsome and stylish young man from the city, moved into the abandoned house next door. Shannon lived alone because his recently divorced mother liked to travel, and the rambling old mansion near the ghost town of Thurmond, West Virginia, built with coal money by Shannon’s great grandfather, provided a refuge, a place where the boys could relax and not worry about those who would judge them. They became close during the summer between their junior and senior years of high school, and in the fall, they became boyfriends. They planned to run away together after graduation, but their dreams were almost destroyed when Glen’s father, a fundamentalist preacher, discovered they were more than friends.

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Acknowledgements

Several friends took the time to read early drafts of this novel, and they freely offered their encouragement and support. I greatly appreciate them. Special thanks to my dear friends Dagi and Susie who were meticulous proofreaders. They caught dozens of mistakes. This story languished for many years and might have eventually faded away like most youthful fantasies have a tendency to do, but Dagi persuaded me it was time to finish and share The Raven's Sepulcher. I am grateful for her encouragement.

Chapter 1

I am not dead yet, so my story is not yet complete. I'm still young, so hopefully my life will have many more chapters, but, in any event, I need to start telling my story now. If there is more to add later, I'll just have to worry about it then.

You're probably wondering why it's so important that I do this now, so early in life. Ordinarily, when people take it upon themselves to tell their own stories, they wait until they're old to do it. That way, they can start at the very beginning and go so close to the end that their obituaries can stand as their last chapter. But the stories old people tell usually aren't the truth, not the whole truth anyway. At the end of life, we bathe the past in pale nostalgia, but what I have to say shouldn't be whitewashed.

So be forewarned, what I intend to do here is to take a cold, hard look at what really happened. It's not my objective to lift anyone's spirits with silvery observations. I don't want to be that artful or whimsical. Everything from the scrubbed, clean surface to the slime and grit underneath, that's what I'm after. That's what will liberate me. And who knows, maybe the awful truth will set you free, as well.

June, 1996

It all began with a dream. It was, in fact, a nightmare of sorts, but I was still too naïve to accept it for what it was. That night, before I went to sleep, I heard Mom talking on the telephone for more than an hour. This was unusual in that she hardly ever talked on the phone for more than a few minutes and almost never late at night. I pressed my ear against the wall hoping to hear some of what was being said, but I couldn't make out any of her words. I could, however, tell that Mom was upset.

At long last, there was silence coming from her room. That's when she came to me with the news. I could tell she had been crying the moment she came through my bedroom door. She told me in a sad, apologetic voice that she had to send me to my grandmother. I was to live with her for a while.

Mom had been having a difficult time, so I wasn't surprised by her decision to send me away, and I didn't put up a fuss about it either, but I went to bed knowing that I had to leave the very next day, and that disturbed me. I guess that's why my sleep was so restless.

In my dream, I was awakened by the sound of a clock striking. I sat up in bed, and across the room stood a large grandfather clock. It had no hands, but it was striking just the same. Over and over again, it sounded. Its thunderous clang was not declaring the hour but calling me forth. I felt compelled to get out of bed and go! When I stepped out of my room and into the hall, I could feel air brush across my face, and I went toward it. Somehow I knew Mom wouldn't be disturbed, so I wasn't quiet with my walking. In fact, I marched with some unknown purpose. I went into the living room and found that the wind was blowing because the French doors were open. My hair was swept up off my shoulders as I grew closer, but this didn't deter me. I pushed through the wind and walked through the open doors, out onto the balcony. I didn't care that I wasn't dressed. It seemed natural. I climbed up onto the concrete banister. And I jumped! It was four floors down to the ground, but in my dream, I knew I wouldn't fall but fly. I had not dreamed of flying before because I had been a child and had no need for wings before then—my mother had always taken care of me—but that night, when I sailed through the wind and flew away from my home, it seemed organic, like it was the next logical step. I wasn't startled, nor did I question the reality of my experience. I felt truly free for the first time, and I was confident that my wings would sustain my escape into something new.

I first flew over the things that were the most familiar: nearby apartment houses with white stucco walls and red terracotta roofs, the hospital where Mom had worked ever since we had moved to Los Angeles five years before, my school, my best friend's house and all the other places that were fixtures of my daily life. I then passed the boundaries of my neighborhood and made my way to the ocean's edge. The whole tableau was beautiful from my bird's-eye point of view. I had seen the Pacific many times but never from above. The water kissed the sand time and again...languidly. There was no need to rush. The beach was deserted except for a young couple making out long after they had been expected home. I flew lower and lower until I could almost touch the lovers, but they remained unaware of my presence. When I made my way inland, I began to gain altitude. I was flying high when I was over the gleaming new Getty museum, but I went higher still. I must have been sixty floors up when I flew among the downtown skyscrapers, but then I swooped down low again when I was over the gilded estates of Beverly Hills and Bel Air.

That night, I saw the town I had come to call home in a new way. I didn't just look down and see the physicality of the place. From my vantage point, I saw a larger vision...beautiful things intermixed with darker aims. They were so close together it was impossible to separate them. Then it came to me! They had to be together. They worked together. Life and death, anger, frustration and love, ignorance, insanity and little children laughing were all sewn together to make up some kind of crazy quilt of reality that was bigger, and greater and more grand eloquent than anything anyone dared dream while earthbound. But this vision was like a flash, and it was over just before it truly made sense. Then ahead of me was the Hollywood sign. I flew up along the curve of the hill and over the sign, and everything went black.

I was still flying, but nothing was visible to me. It was like the darkest night with no moon or even stars. I could no longer tell in which direction I was flying, but I kept going with blind faith that I would get to where I was going.

It seemed as though I was in the air for hours, and the only thing I saw was a thick fog rolling in around me. I was becoming tired and thinking of giving up when I saw the light far away. One single light. A speck on a carpet of nothingness. I thought if I could just get to that light, everything would make sense again.

It was still hours more before I finally got to that light, my light. It turned out to be a street lamp that illuminated a deserted main street of a small town. The light had been enough to keep me going, and when I reached it, a powerful sense of relief flooded my being. I had not realized how scared I was that I wouldn't make it. I landed on the sidewalk by the lamp. The pavement felt rough against the soles of my feet, but I was happy to be on the ground.

I had not walked more than a few steps when I heard a sound behind me. I turned to look, and in the spot where I had come down was a large black bird. I felt naked for the first time, and I covered my breasts with my arm. The bird only made its croaking sound again and flew off into the night. When I turned again, I caught a glimpse of a plaque on one of the storefronts. I moved closer. It read, A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

I was suddenly awake. I sat up in bed with a jerk. I was in my own room again. Everything was familiar, and that calmed me, so I laid back and closed my eyes, but I didn't sleep.

Chapter 2

I was still awake when I heard my mother's alarm clock. It was seven AM. I had to be on a plane for Boston in a few hours.

Most of that day was spent in a rush. Both my mother and I ran around the apartment deciding what I needed to take with me. It seemed as though every time I determined I needed a particular thing—a green sweater, an umbrella—Mom would assure me that I would soon return and that it would be better if I packed light.

Of course, I managed to sneak in a call to Miranda while Mom was busy taking a shower. I told my friend all about the dream I had the night before and how I flew over her house. When Mom came out of the bathroom, she insisted that I hang up and continue with my packing, but before we said our goodbyes, Miranda and I agreed to keep in touch by exchanging letters. When I asked Mom for her mother's mailing address, she seemed a little reluctant to give it to me at first but yielded when she realized it was the fastest way to get me off the phone.

It was late by the time we finished packing. With some effort, we had stuffed an enormous amount into two midsized bags and a carryon. After fastening the last bag, we looked at the hour, grabbed my impedimenta and bolted to the car. We sped toward LAX, weaving in and out of lanes of traffic. Somehow, we got to the airport without being pulled over by the police.

I boarded the plane panting. We had run from the parking garage to the terminal. At some point, I noticed that Mom had stopped, allowing me to run on ahead. I looked back. There was just enough time to smile and wave.

That's how my life with my mother ended. I would see her again months later, but by then, everything had changed. I wish there had been time for one of those teary farewell scenes like you see in the movies. I now know that you have to tell people the important things before it's too late.

There was no time to think about Mom when I boarded because fear came over me. I had never been on an airplane before. I managed to get to my seat and put away my carryon without much bother, but I was sure everyone could tell I was terrified. Because I had boarded so late, the plane started to pull away almost as soon as I sat down. It was then that the large bald man in the chair to my left asked me if it was my first time flying. My dream notwithstanding, I indicated that it was and asked how he knew.

You're clutching the armrests so hard your hands are turning white.

I looked down and realized he was right. I began to blush.

Now don't be embarrassed. It's just that most people who are afraid to fly either don't or know to take something to settle their nerves before they get onboard. Half the people on this plane have had more to drink in the past two hours than they did last New Year's Eve, and they'll keep on drinking once we're in the air.

As the plane made its way down the runway, the man took my hand in his. My first instinct was to pull away, but the plane began to move so fast, and then I could feel it leave the ground. I squeezed as hard as I could.

My neighbor's sympathetic grasp was warm and comforting, but once we were in the air, he let go. So I, once again, clutched the armrest even as an unexpected sigh of relief escaped my body. It was good that the takeoff was over at least.

The bald man shook his hand and then patted mine. That's quite a grip. You're stronger than you realize. He reached into his inside coat pocket and brought out a small silver pill box. He opened it, and with just his thumb and index finger, he removed a little blue tablet. He handed it to me and whispered, Xanax.

I took it without the aid of water.

I was on that plane for more than seven hours, including the nearly two hour layover in Chicago. My new friend was with me the whole time. We talked all the while. So when we got to Boston, we had become familiar with one another, establishing the kind of quick intimacy reserved for strangers traveling together. I felt sad when we said our goodbyes. He had been especially kind.

When he started to walk away, he turned to me once more. You may think I'm a silly old man for saying this, but I just wanted to remind you that the world can be a dangerous place for a young woman like yourself out on her own. Take care of yourself. You know that you have to watch out for the bad guys, but what you may not know yet is that even good people can sometimes do crazy things.

I didn't know how to respond, so I hugged him. We then went our separate ways.

Chapter 3

I had to spend the night in the city alone because Grandmother didn't live in Boston but in a small village about a hundred miles west. I would go there on a train the next morning, but this was fine with me. I felt adult and independent. I could do anything I wanted. I even entertained the idea of going out, but it was dark by the time the taxi delivered me to my hotel, I didn't know the town and I thought that Mom, or perhaps Grandmother, might call. So I decided to celebrate my freedom by ordering something alcoholic with dinner.

I was hungry. I hadn't eaten anything on the flight, and before I left, I had only an apple, so I ordered a sandwich, fries and not just one beer, but two. Almost an hour later, room service delivered a tray to my door. I half expected to be asked for ID, but my server turned out to be a grinning, freckled-face boy no older than myself, and he only wanted to know if I was eating alone. I told him I preferred to eat alone. I got the sense that he might have been mocking me in some way, or flirting or maybe both. At that point in my life, I felt unsure of myself around boys my own age. I didn't know what they thought of me. I had learned that the best way to keep the upper hand was to stay cool, not react. I looked at him blankly when I gave him his money. He thanked me politely, and he was gone. He continued to smile broadly even as he left the room.

After dinner, I turned on the TV. There was a pallid movie playing that matched the spirit of the hotel decor. I turned off the lights, got into bed and leaned against the headboard. I sipped from my remaining bottle. I was full, and the beer made me feel warm and tingly. My mind started to wander as I began to get sleepy. Oddly enough, I began to think about a fairy tale, Sleeping Beauty or Briar Rose as my English teacher, Mr. Graves, would call it. At Mr. Graves' direction, my classmates and I spent much of our junior year reading fairy tales, parables and mythology. We were already familiar with most of the stories assigned, but Mr. Graves wanted us to have a fuller understanding of them. It was Sleeping Beauty that sparked my interest the most. ...or was it Mr. Graves' interpretation of it? Ever since that rainy afternoon in April when our teacher reintroduced us to the princess, I had thought of her almost every day. We had been going over the works of the Grim brothers, Anderson and Aesop for months, and I was ready to read something more grown-up. Little did I know that Mr. Graves thought of Briar Rose as a very grown-up story.

Knowing of Rose's experiences should be beneficial for all of you, but it's the young ladies in class who should pay special attention, he stated suggestively.

According to him, the prick of the spindle that precipitates Rose's fall into slumber marks the beginning of menstruation. The girl has become an adult, biologically speaking, capable of reproduction. Physically, she is ready for a man, but she is not yet prepared psychologically. So the princess sleeps, protected from would-be suitors by the thicket surrounding the castle. The thicket symbolizes Rose's hymen.

No one should appreciate the princess sexually until she herself wakes to her own womanhood. The completion of her metamorphosis is up to her. She will decide when she is ready. Men who find Rose attractive should respect this natural process. They should respect Rose and wait.

Simon Graves was brought up in Australia, that is until his American mother divorced and returned to California with him in tow. So he spoke with an accent, and his voice was deep and melodious. At thirty, he was still in good shape. He was handsome, and I found him to be exotic and exciting. I liked to imagine that he told us about Sleeping Beauty because he wanted to send me a signal; he would take me when I was ready. I could see myself slipping him a note as I handed in my homework, telling him to meet me after school, but I knew that if he was really sending signals, it was to any girl who would listen, not just me.

Chapter 4

The next morning, I was awakened by a telephone call. It was the desk telling me it was time to get up, which I did. I felt irritable, mainly because of jet lag, I guess, and maybe because of the after effects of beer—I wasn't used to drinking—but I was also starting to become anxious about meeting my grandmother. I had never so much as talked to her on the phone. Mom simply wouldn't speak of her family...or her past. All I knew was that she left home when she was pregnant with me. So I had no idea what to expect, and I began to fear the worst. What if Grandmother was a hateful bitch? There had to be some reason why Mom felt she had to leave. Surely the old woman wasn't so strict that she would throw her own daughter out into the streets just because she was pregnant and unmarried.

I was still contemplating what I was in for on the train. Mom and I had traveled by train several times, so the experience was nothing new. I didn't pay much attention to my surroundings. I was lost in thought until an old lady came and sat beside me. She was chatty and told me all about her grandchildren. That day, I was no longer in the mood to make new friends, but I listened courteously anyway. It kept me from brooding at least. Luckily, it wasn't long before we arrived at my destination.

You're not getting off here, are you? The old lady seemed truly disappointed that I was getting up to go.

Yes ma'am, this is my stop.

When the train pulled out, I was left alone on the platform, having been the only one to get off at Derby. So feeling a little abandoned, I walked over to the station house door with my bags in hand, but it was locked. I looked through a window, but I saw no one inside. Grandmother was nowhere to be found, nor was anybody else, so after muttering an expletive, I resigned myself to waiting in the open air. This wasn't such a bad thing really. It was a pleasant June day. There was a wooden bench on the platform painted a pale shade of green that matched the color of the clapboards of the station, so I sat on this bench and put my things beside me.

The station was just what I imagined I'd find in a little New England village. It was old, probably the original structure put up in anticipation of that first train coming through town, but it was by no means decrepit. Far from it. It was carefully maintained and, no doubt, looked much as it did in the nineteenth century.

Across the way was a small shingled cottage. It was in all likelihood almost as old as the train station and just as well maintained. Outside was an elderly woman in a white blouse and a denim skirt. She wore a wide brimmed straw hat that she undoubtedly used as a gardening hat. She was mowing her lawn with a push mower. Because of the distance, the motorized hum was reassuring rather than earsplitting, and the air was filled with the aroma of freshly cut grass; a smell I have always loved.

I waited a long time, long enough for my humor to change. I knew Mom had sent me to this place under almost desperate circumstances, but I found faith in her reasoning nonetheless. I believed she would not have sent me to Derby if she thought I would be unhappy. I was born somewhere in Massachusetts, I knew, and I had for a long time wanted to return to that part of the country. My earliest memories were of New England. I remember looking at snow fall through the kitchen window in a little house in Vermont. I was so young then that I didn't know what to call snow. I remember going to kindergarten somewhere in Maine, but soon after that, we were in Pennsylvania. Mom and I had lived in many different places over the years. We gradually made our way west until we found ourselves in L.A. The ocean stopped us from going on from there, but you can't move around like that while you're growing up without it getting into your blood. After arriving on the West Coast, Mom was happy to finally stay put, and I liked where we lived, too, but after five years without seeing so much as one strand of excelsior, I was ready for new digs. So there was a part of me that loved the fact that I had pulled up roots again, and I was excited to be back where I started. I was, however, sad that I had to leave my mother behind.

Mom was only eighteen when she had me. She had been out on her own ever since then. My father, for reasons I was never told, was out of the picture. It had been just the two of us. I knew it was going to be hard not being with her, but since I was about the same age as my mother had been when she left home, I thought that maybe it was time for my own private adventures to begin. Mom was always telling me not to grow up too quickly as she had done. Do as I say, not as I do. But I have to admit, I had been itching for something to happen to me, and while waiting for my grandmother to pick me up, I thought that maybe this was the turning point of my life.

I was beginning to think I had been forgotten when I was startled by the blast of a horn. I looked over to see that a vintage black Mercedes had pulled into the parking lot beside the station. Behind the wheel was a young man with dark sunglasses. He stared in the direction of the cottage across the tracks. When he honked the horn again, he looked over at me, but only for a second, and then turned his head forward.

I walked over to the car, trying my best not to appear timid, but once I got there, I couldn't think of a thing to say. I merely looked at the stranger curiously.

Get in.

What?

Get in!

But I...

Are you Allison Proctor?

Yes.

Well, get in.

I was taken aback by his surly attitude.

What about my stuff?

I'll get it.

He got out of the car and walked past me and toward the bench where my bags lay. He was lanky and probably three or four years older than me. The way the sun was reflected by his short, dark hair was more salient than anything.

I finally managed to ask, Who are you?

Belasco. Adam Proctor Belasco, your cousin, he answered without looking back.

I walked around the car and got in as I watched him return. His movements were quick but also apathetic. When he got near the car, I could see that he was watching me watching him, so I turned my head forward as he opened the trunk. A few seconds after slamming the trunk shut, my cousin got in beside me, started the car and backed out onto the road.

So people call you by your last name and not your first?

That's right. Everyone except Mother dear...and Grandmother.

He stated this with so much sarcasm, I thought he was joking, but when I laughed, he didn't.

I was expecting Grandmother. How could I have expected him? I didn't even know of his existence until he ungraciously introduced himself.

Sorry to disappoint you, but she sent me. I guess I might be a little late.

Before I had a chance to say anything else, he turned on the radio. Blaring rap music filled the interior of the car. He obviously didn't want to talk, so I looked out the window and did my best to block out the noise.

Derby was a classic northern colonial town with a tree shaded green surrounded on three sides by wood-framed shops. At the far end stood a white clapboard church that dominated the square. I took in as much as I could. I saw an antiques store, a small grocery store and a little building that past as city hall. I would have liked to look more, but we drove by in a flash.

Houses lined both sides of the street beyond the church. They were big, beautiful houses. Most were Georgian and Federalist in style. Those that weren't brick were painted cheerful, inviting colors. They all had large, green lawns with big, mature shade trees, and they were all just as well cared for and well preserved as the train station and the cottage beside it.

I hoped we would pull into the drive of one of these houses, but we kept on going, and soon there were no more houses, just trees. After going a couple of hundred yards, the car slowed to a crawl. We then pulled onto a gravel lane, and my cousin turned off the radio.

We're here.

He pointed to a sign on my side of the road. It read, Witch Haven Farm. I looked at the sign and then to him questioningly.

It used to be a working farm, but there aren't any more cows or chickens.

What about witches?

You'll have to find that out for yourself. Finally, a faint smile crept across his face.

We drove on for a minute. The lane cut through woods, so we were shielded from the sun, but then suddenly we were in the open and the light nearly blinded me, causing me to squint. And then I saw it, the house, a big rambling retreat of advanced age. It was in some way bewildering in appearance, maybe because there were several gabled and lean to additions, but it was stately in spite of everything. The earth-colored stone walls caused the place to look dark and somewhat doleful. There was moss growing on the roof here and there. And there was a large barn that was almost as big as the house off to the left. The barn looked shabby and rundown because most of its paint had peeled away.

We stopped in front of a door that led into one of the additions at the side of the house. I got out, and so did Belasco. I continued to look up at the large edifice in front of me as he removed my bags from the trunk and sat them beside me.

Without saying another word, he got back into the car and drove away. I looked at the car as dust rose around it. For a moment, I was stunned. If my cousin wanted to make an impression, he succeeded. Belasco seemed to be the type who did what he had to do without letting emotions get in the way. He was in control of himself.

When the car was out of sight, I walked toward the door in front of me.

Chapter 5

Going into a house through the kitchen seemed natural enough to me, but the short, round woman wearing a maid's uniform wouldn't hear of it. She insisted that I was at the wrong door and pointed to the one at the center of the house. She said I must go in there. I understood there was no use arguing with her. Her mind was made up. She took my bags and went back into the kitchen.

I walked over to what I assumed to be the main entrance to the house. This door was made of heavy oak and had raised panels, and it was flanked by sidelights. At the top was a fanlight. My knock on this more impressive door was hesitant. Maybe there was a part of me that knew what was going to happen to me on the other side—maybe I could feel the danger—but it was a warm, clear day, just a little more than a week before the official start of summer and if there was some secret part of me that knew I was in the eye of a storm, it wasn't talking, at least not so as I could hear it anyway. I was only consciously afraid of the unknown. I told myself not to be apprehensive, and I knocked louder. I barely had time enough to take my hand away before the door opened.

The woman suddenly standing at the threshold took me into her gaze for a moment and said, Allison, we've been expecting you all morning. She looked over my shoulder and asked, Where is Adam?

He dropped me off then drove away.

As she made way for me to come in, she stated, I must apologize for my son. He can be rude when he wants to be... Where is your luggage?

A lady down that way took it. I pointed in the direction of the kitchen. Belasco let me out in front of that door, so I knocked on it first.

Oh, I see Adam is being prankish today—he's even got you calling him Belasco—but enough about him. The woman you met at the other door is Esther, and I'm Helena, your aunt. Adam and I live here with your grandmother.

Helena extended her right hand for me to shake as she closed the door with her left. She was tall and blond like Mom and had on a tailored, light gray suit. The skirt was just above the knee, and her hair was neatly pinned up in a French twist. She immediately reminded me of Mom and of Tippi Hedren in The Birds, a movie Mom and I had watched several times. She was cool, even aloof. Mom hadn't told me anything about her having a sister. It didn't come as a shock, not after meeting my cousin, but I did wonder what else Mom had failed to mention.

Where's Grandmother?

As I asked this, my eyes darted back and forth, taking in as much as possible. The entrance hall was small—you could say confining with two people standing in it—and the stairs behind my aunt were narrow.

You will meet her at dinner. Please come into the library.

She led me into a room to my right. Its beamed ceiling was low like that of the hall. There was an overstuffed chintz sofa in the middle of the room, and there were several chairs. One wall was covered with built-in book shelves. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands of leather bound volumes. When I sat on the sofa, the fireplace was in front of me. I could see the bricks in the firebox were blackened with many years of use. Over the fireplace was a painting of a young man no more than twenty years of age wearing a red coat and a black cap. With one hand, he held a riding crop, and the other was on his horse.

That is an English forebear of ours, she stated with some pride as she joined me on the sofa. The way she sat was very poised.

We chatted for a while. She asked about Mom then about me. She wanted to know things like what subjects I was good at in school and whether or not I had a boyfriend. I learned that she was a widow, like Grandmother, and had been for many years.

She told me that the house was over two hundred and fifty years old and that it was built on the site of another wood-framed house that had stood for many years before burning to the ground. The new house, as she called it, was constructed of stone in the hopes that it wouldn't burn so easily. I asked her about the name, Witch Haven Farm, and she explained that several women who had fled Salem after being accused of witchcraft had ended up in Derby.

The Proctor family wasn't caught up in the hysteria of the time, so the refugees came here and were taken in. She marched through this anecdote as though she had done it a hundred times but was glad to have a chance to do it yet again. "By the mid eighteenth century, the women who had stayed on the farm were old and gray, and most of the panic of earlier times had died down by then—superstition was giving way to a more scientific viewpoint—but some still resented the spinsters having been given safe lodging here. A few of the locals still saw them as a threat. It was rumored that it was one or more of these locals who set the old house ablaze...in order to root out evil in their midst, I guess.

Before construction of the house we're in now was even complete, the sign was put up in defiance of backward thinking villagers.

Chapter 6

Our conversation had gone on for more than half an hour before Helena said it was time she showed me to my room.

I'll give you a quick tour, and then we can go right up.

But before we left the library, she pointed to a closed door at the front of the room and said, That is the study. That's where your grandmother and I conduct family business. I'll have to ask you not to disturb us while we're in that room. If you need anything, tell Esther...or Adam if he's around.

I indicated my willingness to accept this stipulation. While we talked, my aunt had demonstrated that she was the take-charge sort, and I found myself passively giving in.

We went into the entrance hall, and as we walked through, a clock struck one. I looked behind me and saw a grandfather clock in the corner. I had somehow missed seeing it when I came in. My aunt didn't take notice of the hour. She went on into the dining room, and I followed with the wide planked hardwood floor creaking underfoot.

The room we entered was more sparsely decorated than the one we had left. There was a built-in china cupboard in the corner painted the same light blue as the plaster on the walls. There was a long, rectangular table in the center of the room with a brass chandelier hanging low over it, and around the table were several Windsor chairs.

We didn't spend much time there before going on into the kitchen, but before we left, Helena turned to me and said, We will have dinner in here at seven. And don't expect your cousin. He never eats with us even when he's home.

Esther was down on her knees cleaning the oven when we came in, and she didn't say a word as we passed through. Helena didn't linger but led me from the kitchen into a dark corridor. I caught only another glimpse of the kitchen. It was out of step with what I had seen of the rest of the house so far with its 1950s look. There was a cast iron sink with a floral curtain around the bottom, an old-fashioned refrigerator with rounded corners and the table had a red Formica top. I looked over at Esther as I left, and she gave me a nod of her head and continued with her work.

We walked past a couple of closed doors. These rooms are used by Esther and Adam. If you ever need Esther, and she isn't in the kitchen, you might try looking for her here. Helena pointed out one of the rooms as she walked on toward a stairway even more narrow than the one in the front hall.

Helena didn't bother showing me the room at the foot of the stairs, but I peaked in anyway as I went by. It was a sun porch that jutted out from the back of the house with three walls of windows—square panes of glass separated by white muntins stacked from floor to ceiling all around. This had the effect of flooding the space with countless squares of bright light. With its white wicker furniture and leafy green plants, it was easily the most serene spot in the house, but I didn't have time to enjoy the setting for long. Helena was already on the fifth step looking back at me with impatience.

My room turned out to be at the top of the stairs. I found my bags there on the bed, opened and ready to be unpacked.

I hope you like this room, Allison. It was your mother's. You'll have to excuse me, but I have to leave you now. The rest of the afternoon is yours to do with as you please. If you're hungry, I see Esther has already brought you lunch. Helena pointed to a tray on a dressing table. And if you wish, she'll put away your things for you. I'll see you at dinner.

Chapter 7

I was relieved to be alone. I was curious about the house, and I wanted to explore it more, but Aunt Helena made me feel uneasy somehow. Although she was outwardly civil, I got the impression she had a condescending attitude toward me, so I preferred to look about some other time without her.

I sat on the stool in front of the dressing table and exhaled deeply, allowing the tension in my body to escape. I looked at the plate on the tray but didn't look under the cover. I wasn't hungry. I then looked at the room's reflection in the mirror. Two windows provided a good deal of light, and the massive four-poster bed made of mahogany was more impressive than any bed I had ever slept in. There was a highboy between the windows that was more than adequate for the clothes I had with me, and there was a big comfortable looking wing chair by the fireplace. I was sure it would be a great place to read or just sit and think. The mantel was simple and understated, as was the wainscoting all around the room. This was in keeping with the rest of the house.

What dominated my new room was the portrait over the fireplace. I couldn't help but turn my head to meet the eyes of the woman in that portrait. They were big and sorrowful, but their expressiveness was all the more effective because the rest of her face was so cold and emotionless. I must have focused on those eyes for more than a minute, and as I studied them, what struck me was how much this woman resembled both my mother and Helena. I knew she was probably a relative, but I was also sure the painting was very old, maybe as old as the house. I didn't realize that family traits could so effortlessly reach across generations, but as I continued to look into those eyes, I knew that beautiful women must have populated the Proctor family for many years.

I returned my gaze to the mirror, but this time I examined myself. I had already figured out what it was that made my mother and women like her exceptional. They're blessed with large eyes, full lips, high cheekbones and other characteristics that when presented in the right combinations make the world stand up and take notice.

I was sure I didn't have one of those fortunate combinations. I wondered how I could come from such a prodigious gene pool and still not hold a winning number. It wasn't that I was ugly. It's just that I was sure that I somehow missed the mark. The girl looking at me from Mom's mirror was not as tall as she or her sister. She was thin, almost skinny, and didn't have much of a chest.