Blairsden... Nun Worthy

By RT McDermott

In 1968, two young boys, Andy Gratton and Clay Ortmann discover a horrific, dark secret about an order of creepy, clandestine nuns they deliver groceries to. After a frightening caveat to stay far away from the ominous Blairsden on the mountain from the deranged, weird town recluse; "Thatcher". The boys take no heed, and witness a heinous evil that would change their lives forever. Soon after, twelve (12) kids mysteriously drown in the large, murky lake behind the estate. The eerie nuns cryptically vanish. Generated from his hands-on revelation, Andy cooks up a scary campfire story more so to impress a girl amidst their fire blazed circle. A story that would become a popular NJ urban Legend, even 36 years later in the high school he's now a well-liked history teacher at. Nightmares prompt needed closure for the tormented emotionally plagued Gratton, he ventures to the semi-dilapidated estate with 5 of his students, an erudite professor of parapsychology (Dr. Amy Kwon) from N.Y.U. And a renown Native American psychic (Santoz Hawksblood) in what is disguised as a textbook history field trip.

Upon their arrival at the sinister stately villa atop the mountain, the strange and the paranormal escalate, starting with psychic research, left behind abhorrent, cursed clues of unfinished human sacrifices, a hypnotizing unearthed opened portal on the back property that reeked like rotting corpses, demonic dreams, diabolical delusions, and the manifestations of trapped spirits (good and evil) come to life to those who have the supernatural sight. Overwhelmed by his telltale fable unraveling right under his nose, Gratton confides with his long-lost buddy, Clay Ortmann (now a local cop) who had vanished in the scotch bottle depths of sorrow and anguished memories of which he kept dead bolted deep in the recesses of his dampened cranium.

Gratton finally reveals that he maybe the original author of the legend of Blairsden that he so methodically concealed since that harrowing day at the front gate. To the group's soul-busting shock, meshed with perplexed dubious astonishment, Dani (psychic goth phenom student) also divulges her paranormal communications with a young, aquatic apparition, possibly one of Gratton's childhood friends, who just might be the last (12) drowning victims from 1968.

The teacher's nightmares hint that the Superior Sister Angela might be his biological mother - but how? And how does his very words, near verbatim, have the power to come to pass? Students begin to disappear in the most bizarre, mystifying ways, but are they truly gone or just mistaken? Andy grows a psychic, prophetic sense, but will it help or only facilitate the gruesome demise of all his students and guests? The satanic ritual that began in 1968 (The birth of the original satanic bible) pledged for the blood of its' own. Sealed with the twelve (12) sacrifices of the most sterile, innocent blood - also mimicking the number of Christ's disciples - but whose blood is required? An epic battle near the end fulfills a form of biblical prophesy from the books of Joel, Daniel, and Revelation, and the absolute realization and evidence of the spiritual power around and within us... starting in the flesh -

• Language: English
• Publisher: RT McDermott
• Release date: Mar 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311334176

Book preview

Classified File 42:42: June 6th 1979 <Bureau Archive copy> IN 1979 - REFORMED SATANIC CULTIST; CHARLES ‘CUKOO’ STRYKER OF THE CLANDESTINE CULT: ‘THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE BLACK RAM’ TESTIFIED BEFORE A FEDERAL APPELLATE PANEL THAT THE TRUE PHYSICAL CHASM OF HELL IS ON AN EQUIVELENT GEOMETRICAL AXIS WITH NEW JERSEY AND VANCOUVER POSSESSING THE GEOGRAPHICAL TERRESTRIAL PORTALS. Occult and Phenomenon Unit (O.P.U.) – F.B.I. File#42:42 (For Department and Official use only)pic1968

Flap – Snap - Flap— The clothespins clamping the arched, worn baseball cards against the spoke tires of their speeding bikes clicked a common flapping rhythm for the streets of Gladstone, New Jersey, especially once school got out, the bicycles’ recurrent clapping cadence plucked daily. It evolved in measurable notability as their seasonal signature existence along Main Street. Odd jobs and little league, they conquered. Clay Ortmann had two years on his eleven-year-old sidekick, Andy Gratton. Clay’s rep wasn’t normally keen on hanging with someone younger, but being close neighbors and divvying some common ground, kind of sealed that.

Eileen Andrich and a flock of her perky-cute girlfriends exited Dewey’s Ice Cream Parlor, perfect timing for Clay to expose his long dirty blonde locks by removing his baseball cap, and waggling two quick head shakes he fastened his Met’s cap on backwards, and peeled his locks behind his ears with his poised fingers. He was cool all right, and the girl’s just gravitated towards him. That’s what Andy knew, and often tried to emulate his style… but it proved somewhat futile. Heck, Andy didn’t care much; he breezed content in his own nearing adolescent skin.

Andy peddled and glared at a certain Sarah Kimble on the sidewalk. He knew Clay was older, tougher, and cooler and— maybe better looking, but just a little. His wait for puberty ran confident. He also idolized him.... but that was slowly fading as their real friendship came to fruition, as did the discovery of Clay’s living condition; His absent father, older brother on the front lines in Nam, and his scotch-chugging mom.

Nevertheless, Clay was a great kid, and a true best bud to Andy despite his tarnished upbringing. On the outside, Clay took it as a champ. A popular chick magnet, socialite, and baseball slugger that always toted a wad of green in his pocket. Primarily for his own status… and a helping hand to his inebriated mom, or mom’s happy hour that started at nine AM daily.

All the girls smiled in Clay’s direction— except for Sarah. She stared at Andy, swiftly wavering through the smile, and then the perplexed look of anger and distain— as any pre-teenager with a puppy-dog crush would mask their pretentious, swaggering display of affection.

Whoa… He thought nearly aloud, unable to control his transfixed gazing smile, even after passing her, his head involuntary rotated to her location.

A parked car door swung open directly in Andy’s path.

Ahead, Clay shouted— LOOK OUT!

With a second to react, Andy skidded his gold Schwinn Stingray inches from the opened 1964 Ford Falcon’s inside door, flattening it out to the handlebars. Almost comically the sight of Andy’s head gradually arose just enough for his abashed eyes to observe the hysteric girls giggling from the sidewalk.

Embarrassed and aghast, gulping down his last virulent of acetylcholine lodged in his trachea. He quickly straightened upright on his bike, regaining his composure, and spied Sarah’s reaction. Her smile radiated in relief that he remained in one piece, and it packed enough punch to silence his ears from the chagrined humiliation still echoing from her peers.

All three hundred pounds of Ms. Petuto wrestled to exit the vehicle.

Just the young men I’ve been meaning to talk to... Her smokers’ cough rasped, waggling a Lucky Strike cigarette glued by globs of red lipstick at the corner of her jowls. She poked and prodded her outdated beehive hairdo in the reflection of her car window.

You boys forget to weed my back garden last week and... I know there’s some poison ivy in there but just wear some—

Gloves... Clay interjected, holding up his ivy-ridden forearms.

Oh my... I guess you’ll need longer gloves. That looks horrible, Clay. Dab some peroxide on that... and calamine lotion. Oh and don’t forget to pick up my mail next week. I’ll be gone Tuesday through Thursday, just put it in the milk box on the porch. She wobbled towards the pharmacy.

Sure thing, Ms. Petuto. Andy assured.

Yea no problem, Ms. Potato, Clay added quietly. After all that’s what they called her.

That water buffalo nearly killed you. Clay laughed, looking over at the girls rounding the near side street. Maybe if you had eyes on the road and your hands upon the wheel. He tried his best Morrison, singing with a goofball look. Andy laughed mirthfully, nearly snorting at Clay’s ability to contort his face.

Odd jobs from lawn mowing, painting, and car washing were just to name a few. They kept busy as young entrepreneurs, but their top account was delivering groceries and supplies to the reclusive order of nuns at the large estate named ‘Blairsden’

that accommodated thirty-three sisters, a security man on horseback, and a small orphanage for children. No one truly knew the numbers concerning the children.

There were many large lavish estates in Gladstone, Far Hills farming area, but none of them could compare to splendor of Blairsden.

Mostly for the mere fact that not many had really seen it because it hid up a near mile long pathway atop the mountain overseeing Blair Lake, or Ravine Lake. And the stories from the folks who’d seen it, bounced around town were architecturally astonishing, plus a little suspicious from the busybodies whom second guessed the privy and strange nuns.

Autumn allured the only invitatory time you could get a far, but obscured viewing of the mansion through the barren trees off Lake Road behind the estate. The many towering chimney flutes stood high above the trees. Opposite the immense estate’s back hilltop, the front entrance gates on Main Street was where the Mother Superior Sister would hang a scrolled shopping list for the boys covered in a small, tanned weatherproof pouch tied by a once white handkerchief, that recently altered to red so the boys would easily see it.

‘Why red?’ Andy once thought. ‘We could spot that scarf even if it was black.’

Strangely enough, the hanging red pouch became less frequent, not normal for their bi-weekly deliveries, and the last time they encountered Sister Angela was two weeks ago and she was not by any means acting or looking like her normal self. It kind of left the boys with an uneasy spooked feeling, nothing they couldn’t brush off due to their hectic schedules and distractions, at least for Clay. Andy had a few nightmares meshed with some anxiety that lingered with him, but he was no worse for the wear. Things were still the same... Just something that took a few days to dissipate. Maybe a little more for a timorous, daunt kid like, Andy.

This morning they picked up the long awaited shopping list now folded over in Clay’s tattered blue jeans pocket. Earlier, they strapped the baskets to their bikes and were headed one more block away to William’s Market, where all the locals shopped because the nearest supermarket was four miles from town. As they peddled, Clay stared over at Andy,

You’re not thinking about the last time are you?

Hell no, Jimmy Dean. Why should I be? Andy smirked, and then quickly recalled, Jeepers... I did shit my pants a tad... He thought.

Clay popped a wheelie.

Well I know it scared you—maybe if your mom didn’t make you get crew cuts and you grew your hair like mine, might help you grow some bigger balls— can’t do nothing bout those glasses, but heck they make you look smarter.... Besides, we’re business partners now and we should look the part, dig?

Andy caressed his brown sprouts and stiff cowlick.

It’s growing in... And I’ll definitely work on that, Captain Retard. He grinned, knowing he was the brains and Clay the brawn.

Andy’s home life was something that Clay did admire; two loving and devoted parents, maybe a bit overbearing on little Andy. His dad made a nice salary working for N.J. Bell telephone while Mrs. Gratton kept busy a spotless house, P.T.A. president, and helped improve the local little league as treasurer. And Clay sure did enjoy her chocolate chip cookies... He didn’t get that sort of catering at home... But he knew how to channel his envy of the Gratton homestead respectfully. By all means Andy wasn’t Beaver Cleaver... but not far from it. And Gladstone was much like Mayfield in a sense. Quaint rural house-to-house roads, Main Street merchants, above average schooling, and seasonal patriotic festivities to name a few. And the middle class was shrouded by the extremely wealthy. In turn, the commerce and community flourished especially for the two young hustlers.

Andy skidded up to Williams General Store; they set their kickstands in unison. The rustic bells clanged as they entered through the old heavy, paint-chipped door.

The song The Weight by the Band, tunneled from an old transistor radio in the back left corner of the store where storeowner Fred Williams calmly peered over his bifocals hidden behind his slightly shaking newspaper. He always sat there reading the daily paper, answering the phone, and shouting out orders to his two employees: Butch and Rusty. Fred had bloodlines to that store since it first opened in 1930 he was manager then, and the man had seen everything from both War Worlds and then some. He knew everything and anything. If it wasn’t from first hand experience than it came from his trusty daily newspaper.

The boys walked up to the register, he snapped down his paper with excitement. Well, kill me two fat calves for the return of my prodigal sons.

It’s not like we’ve been gone that long, Mr. Williams. Clay grinned.

Fred raised his bushy gray eyebrows.

Two weeks and counting. He peered at his antiquated wristwatch then shaking it. Let’s see... Your hat is on wrong or your head is backwards? He eyed Clay’s cap, and then gave it a spin. There you go, now I recognize you. Clay smiled and pulled the shopping list from his back pocket.

Fred quickly squinted.

Ah ha... Rusty, come on out here— Clay and Andy are back in business. Fred reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out two packs of baseball cards and handed them to the boys.

Wow thanks, Mr. Williams. Their overlapping voices said. He then threw them each a pack of M&M’s from behind the counter. They both snared them like Major Leaguers.

M&M’s! Cool. Andy smiled wide and whipped one to the back of his mouth.

Well I know your motto by now. Fred beamed.

Yeah, M&M’s— Mays and Mantle! Clay exclaimed, tearing open his pack of cards.

Had those cards in my pocket for over a week— Let’s hope they’re in there this time. Now, did you boys go off on holiday, or did the Sisters? Fred asked.

Clay gnawed on the hardened gum from the pack of cards.

Beats me. We haven’t seen nothing until this morning.

Yeah, we just picked up the list fifteen minutes ago. Andy added, thumbing through his baseball cards like an eager sleuth.

Fred pondered.

Hmm, and I thought—

Rusty walked up and interrupted—

They took their business to Stumpy’s. (Fred’s only competition a few miles away.) The tall red headed employee patted his boss on the shoulder, and then turned to the boys. Say boys?

Hey Rusty. They mumbled, engrossed in shuffling through their chalky cardboard.

Fred held up the shopping list to his failing eyes.

Sure isn’t a big one— you know that convent is one of my best customers... You don’t suppose anything is wrong there up the mountain? He spied their reactions. Andy shot Clay a worried glance, and then discovered a ‘Willy Mays’ card.

Yes! Mays! Got him— Um, what could be wrong with a bunch of nuns in the biggest brick mansion in the world? Andy stated, enamoring his prize card.

Fred gladly nodded at Andy’s frenzy of his long awaited Willy Mays card, but then raised his brow scanning the list, and muttered under his breath for a moment.

Well, for one they’re not eating as much, not much laundry, no stationary— and so forth... Say, has anything struck you as strange or different up there, Clay? Fred stared at the older boy.

Clay ceased his haste of flipping through his deck, darting his eyes about like he might have some sort of reply.

Fred angled his austere, glassy stare like spit it out, boy. For a second Fred turned, passing the shopping list to Rusty, allotting Clay a trice to cast Andy a brief inconspicuous eye flash. Their motion didn’t quite evade the old man.

Hmm… seems you boys may have a little classified info?

Clay faltered hesitant.

Well... now that you mention it.... the last time we delivered— Sister Angela had this weird veil covering her face, and she didn’t say much at all...

Andy’s oscillating, round eyes tried to remain affixed on his shuffling baseball cards. He had gone through them enough to have them memorized, but for some reason, maybe he wanted no part of this confession. And then.

Yea, and don’t forget that Olympic silver medal around her neck. He lifted his eyes. With the Pope with horns in the middle...

A grimace spawned from Clay.

It wasn’t the Pope—— it was a goat... or something.

Rusty paused, balancing the groceries against his chest, peeking his bewildered face from beyond the shelves.

Fred frowned confused.

Black veils— goats? He questioned, downing a silent gulp that was barely visible beyond his saggy chicken-skinned throat.

Clay nodded.

She didn’t talk much either like she usually does... The strange thing about it was she kept her back to us the whole time. He slid his cards into his back pocket with a hint of disappointment. No Mays, no Mantle, but gotta a Nolan Ryan League Leader.

Andy peered over. Might want to trade you for that....

Fred grew persistent.

Boys.... A little more detail please. He looked dubious.

Don’t know, maybe she was hiding a bad case of the zits? Nuns get pimples too ya know. Andy grinned, triggering a chuckle from Rusty and Butch, who were checking in a delivery from the back of the store.

Was that before or after you got the Hershey squirts? Clay smirked.

He knew? Andy thought. Never happened... Remember it was a false alarm.

Yeah right, Gratton, maybe the sister ripped ass than because I smelled it. Clay laughed.

That would be ‘Holy Shit’... almost. Rusty grinned; placing two half filled brown bags atop the counter. Fred smiled at the boy’s exhilarated, comical squabble and nodded, but the countenance of tasking concern still shadowed his aged mug.

Well, I guess the sisters of the cloth can have their moments too, but that medallion doesn’t quite sound like a Christian symbol to me.

Billy Fenwick told me it was a devil sign.... but I told him to plug it. Andy popped a bubble snap from the hardened gum.

Fred rolled his eyes.

As you should. Billy Fenwick should bite his tongue and stop filling his head with all that God awful rock & roll. Fred stretched out his wretched frame and grabbed the bags from the counter. That is rather strange... but than again what isn’t strange around here… By the way, I added a few extra items to their list at no charge. Now, don’t you scouts go asking them sisters about their business— it could hurt our business. Anyhow, do tell Sister Angela to phone me, and maybe we could find out what’s going on. He slightly groaned, escorting the boys through the cluttered store. He pondered again, devil symbol... sure does sound like it.

pic

The loud bells chimed as they exited to the sidewalk.

Roger that, Mr. Williams. Clay assured.

Fred handed off the boys the bags, and limped for the soda machine near the front door.

Some pop for you boys? Mighty hot out today.

The boys loaded their baskets.

Gee thanks, Mr. Williams, Andy obliged.

Thanks, Mr. Williams. Put it on our tab. Clay smiled.

Fred wrestled against the heavy, antiquated soda pop machine, and then delivered it a swift but weakened kick, and surprisingly the mechanism rattled operation.

Never lost my touch, he boasted, handing them the cold bottles.

The duo boarded their bikes flipping the kickstands up.

Suddenly, out of nowhere— a large clamp of a hand firmly latched onto Andy’s shoulder from behind. Andy gasped! And instantly pivoted. The hand was attached to the weird town recluse named, ‘Thatcher’ A.K.A ‘The Grave Robber.’ He glared at Andy, piercing a deranged, possessed countenance...

Know what’s best for you boys... Stay away from that place up there—— Stay far away from that evil! He vehemently warned, as his hand pressed harder on the shaking boy’s shoulder. Andy froze in fear, unable to even utter a sound except intense laboring breaths and gasps. The man that clung onto his shoulder was the weird monster that him and Clay feared for real.

They had heard all the chilling strange stories of the odd old man, and seeing him on occasion— but never up-close like this. A glimpse of Thatcher was rare... and always a bit disturbing.

Nobody in town knew much about him; maybe that he was a throw back from some psychiatric hospital, who was about seventy-five-years old, but looked more like ninety. His tall frame angled gaunt and hunched, garbed with well out grown rags that of a vagabond, and his tattered, stained tuxedo tailed jacket matched his dented 1920’s black derby, that he held in his opposite hand while clutched to Andy with his other.

His thinned yellow-gray hairs wired atop a repulsive, bald oblong head, inches below swirled evil-arched thick gray bristled eyebrows that draped his beady opaque, clouded eyes that sank deep behind an eminent, crooked and hooked nose. His semblance proved hideous from a distance. But having the evil-looking decrepit creep that up-close to Andy even prompted Clay to peddle a good ten feet away.

Andy slowly stepped his bike forward as Fred cut in annoyed.

What the hell you doing, Thatcher? You trying to scare the kid half to death?!

Unresponsive, the decaying ghoul continued his creepy stare on the boys, and then released his grip, turned and flaccidly staggered away. Intermittently glaring back at the shaken boys. Thatcher upset Fred, but it would take a lot more than a bizarre, crazed recluse like him to scare the hard-nosed military vet.

However, Mr. Williams’s blood pressure vacillated his arterial reddened scotch snout.

Don’t you boys listen to that weird old coot. Everyone knows he’s crazy including myself. He grimaced, placing his hand to his chest like he had a pain.

Well than, you boys should shove off now. Don’t want to keep the sisters waiting. He waived a salute, entering back into the store.

That was the Grave Robber... Andy whispered in a shallow breath.

Clays nodded. No shit, Sherlock... and right in your face... Man, he sure is freaky.

Andy peered down the sidewalk, as Thatcher became a vanishing blur.

I’ll say.... That guy freaks me out... His voice turned low.

They peddled away both turning their heads back a few times, making sure Thatcher was long gone. Clay began thinking about the incident two months ago when the ghastly man crossed the railroad tracks as the train sped by, that train had to hit him, but how could he survive?

Andy eyed Clay as they passed beneath the small local movie theater that read above: Now Showing: ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ and ‘Valley Of The Dolls.’

He’s a ghost...that’s why. Andy spontaneously replied.

Clay’s eyes gaped wide, slowing his pace.

You did it again— How did you know what I was thinking?

They both slowed their bikes to a halt. Perplexed, Andy wrestled with the coincidence. Clay’s mien of intent demanded a quick answer.

Andy pushed his glasses higher on his nose

What? —— I just figured you were thinking that. He confessed.

Thinking what?? Clay fired.

Nervous, Andy hesitated. Um— about... Thatcher I suppose...

Clay moved in closer grinding an angered low voice.

You finished my sentence, retard.... just like the other day— what gives, Gratton? You freak me out sometimes... What exactly were you thinking?

Reluctant, Andy stammered.

Just about... the time behind the train depot... when we watched Thatcher walk through a train—

Clay eyes grew even wider. I knew it! You’re a mind reader, Gratton!

Andy urged Clay to lower his voice, looking around at the now busier Main Street.

No I’m not! We always think alike...that’s what best friends do. I wasn’t reading your mind, Orts, just thinking the same, now clamp it would you? He peddled off.

Clay followed, thinking, he could be right, but I know he’s a mind reader too.

The older boy caught up.

You could be right, but it’s just too weird— you finished a sentence in my head. Maybe you have a gift or.... you’re from another planet, ya know like an alien encounter or something? He suggested.

Andy rolled his eyes.

Yeah sure.... just like Thatcher and Ms. Potato. He laughed, waggling his crew-cut noggin at his over analytic friend... or more so, dead accurate.

They were now out of the bustle of town. Clay head-gestured to the Murphy residence where they viewed Tommy Murphy (who just turned eighteen) toting a duffle bag and donning a military uniform. Andy knew Clay would immediately think of his older brother, ‘Jimmy.’ They slowed, watching the young man hug his parents on the porch.

The war in Vietnam was an enigma to the boys. Of course they were patriotic, but a lot of the local families had sons over in the ‘Bush’ not particularly defeating the so called ‘Charlie’, and the news spread fast when a casualty occurred. They looked on somewhat sympathetic as the Army escort honked from the driveway.

Familiar but strange to Andy’s ears, the song ‘The Weight’ emitted out of the escort’s car speakers. Tommy and his folks gazed at the boys exchanging waves.

We just heard that song at Fred’s...Andy thought.

I’ll look after your brother, Clay. And we’ll be back soon enough. Tommy shouted.

Clay nodded. You do that, Tommy— and I’ll look out for Jake. He assured.

Jake was Tommy’s little brother, the same grade as Andy, and the catcher on their undefeated baseball team.

The mansion’s gates were just a quarter mile ahead, a few more greetings from the locals along the way, and they braked at the estate’s entrance. The near twenty-foot tall arched iron gates pierced the sky, brandishing steel arrowhead tips entangled with wild vines, creeping in an espalier formation. The stone-grey pillars shrouding the enclosed rustic gate doors stood even taller, exhibiting chipped, weathered concrete ram heads nesting high above. Green moss-stained devilish gargoyle-like faces etched in eerie detail stared you down from the supporting walls overcome with invasive ivy and bishop’s weed.

It was ominous to say the least, but common to the boys. On each side of the cracking walls, the fountain basins sat in front. On the right side, the moiety-operating wellspring’s basin spilled green stagnate water, and the opposite fountain barely gurgled the same slimy water. In a gothic font, semi-hidden behind the bosky foliage, the effigy of ‘Blairsden’ was artistically chiseled in the left wall.

Through the vine raveled gates the boys scanned the long path that disappeared into the thick four hundred and twenty five acre parcel, but the abbess was nowhere in sight. Clay checked his watch, shaking his wrist.

We are right on time— where is she? We never beat her to the gate before.

Apprehensive, Andy set his kickstand slowly.

Clay stared at him. C’mon...What gives?

Andy shrugged. Not sure— this is the first time this place really gives me the creeps... that’s all.

Instantly, a few robust gusts of wind whipped through the property, more than mystifying for the hot stuffy day.

Chapter 3

The agitated and growing anxious boys immediately gazed at each other. Amazed at what they just experienced, and then Andy lurched his head in the direction of Clay’s blown off cap. It drooped dead center in the slime-ridden fountain. Clay expelled a disgusted look.

Just great… my best hat. I think we just experienced a small tornado. He hastily shook the algae from his cap repeatedly.

I don’t have a clue, but I could swear it sorta lifted me off the ground. Tornado my butt... Look around, there’s nothing but blue skies above, and I haven’t felt a breeze all day. But… when we’re here— it always gets windy, lately. Andy glared at him.

Clay twitched his askew brow, submitting a brief sneer and rolled his eyes, but knew his pal had a valid point. He refused to encourage fear, and humored Andy instead.

That’s because of the giant fanged monsters that live in the trees... They breathe heavy when they hear little boys around... You know don’t be such a chicken because some loony like Thatcher——

Andy interrupted.

There she is! He pointed, accompanied by a slight frail pang of the fortuity of losing control of his bowels. Not now… please, God, sped through his cranium.

Pulling an old, rusty Radio Flyer wagon, the sister slowly carved through the loose gravel from two hundred yards away.

See... just little ole Sister Angela and her trusty wagon. Clay confirmed, concealing his gulp.

She accelerated her pace from the steeper incline of the dirt path. A crow suddenly landed on top of the gate, cawing loud at the boys almost like in a cacophonic warning, or to incite more fear.

Either way, it startled them, compounding their all ready fired up consternation to a muddle of panic. Andy swallowed the lump in his throat, glancing over at— a now uneasy Clay.

Not normal.... not normal... Andy whispered in a melody.

The large noisy bird remained until the faint oncoming sounds of the shrilling wagon, and another wind gust, shooed it away. The boys knew that squealing sound ever so well, now drawing closer. They also realized something else— she was still wearing her mysterious veil.

I think we should go... Andy nervously murmured.

Superior Sister Angela, late-thirties and rather pretty for a reclusive nun, tightened her grip on her veil as the gusts peculiarly seemed to dissipate once she arrived. She shuffled, fifteen yards away from the cryptic gate. Clay stood persistent.

Just stay put... and don’t act scared... everything will be alright.

Oddly shaking, and out of breath, she tried to insert the key into the chained padlock which secured the gates. She pivoted, making sure to cloak her covered head obscured from the boys. They looked on silently, both discovering she was now wearing long black gloves as well. They were quick to exchange a concerned glance.

Clay motioned to stay cool. Andy nodded; applying whatever extra effort he had in his emotional tank to harness his anxiety. But it was futile, his heart raced like an exerted greyhound.

She finally unlocked the gates as the chains rattled, and slid intermittently down to the ground. The boys watched, affixed to it as though it was a loud