Candles on the Water

By Joan Schubert Yohr

Mitchum Sloan swore he would never return to Wolfcrest. Now, some twenty years later, 1990, he's back for a funeral, reuniting with his childhood friends: Lauren, Jim, Pat, and Andy. As misfit kids they became blood brothers in the summer of 1961. They launched a board with five candles impaled on nails. Those candles on the water carried drops of their blood along with their hatred and the need for revenge against those who hurt them. Now they've been back together for a couple of days and people start to die, to disappear, just like in the summer of `61. They begin to realize that from those candles on the water, something was born of fire and blood, and has walked with them into adulthood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joan Schubert Yohr
• Release date: Feb 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393102540

Joan Schubert Yohr

Joan Schubert Yohr began writing poetry in high school only later to realize a poet she was not. She revised the poems as prayers and psalms and sold to: Christian Writer’s Showcase, The Compass, Sunday Digest, Writer’s Opportunities, Ego Trips, and Penned from the Heart. Later, she put all the prayers and psalms together in book form and self-published, Praise Through the Seasons. Her mother often told stories about the family that inspired Joan to research the family ancestry. Many years later the family history was written into a book, When Lilacs Bloom, that Joan also self-published. Writing the family book, and her love for fiction, turned Joan’s attention to become a novelist. She is a secular writer with a Christian world view and has written many genres such as Sci-fi, Historical Time-travel, Biblical Fiction, Psychological Thrillers, and Mysteries. Her favorite authors are: Ted DekKer, Dean Koontz, C.J. Box, J.A. Jance,  Terri Blackstock, Karen Harper, and of course, Linda Wichman. Joan was born and raised in Wisconsin. She and her husband live in a quiet little village near the Fox Valley. They are the parents of two grown children and grandparents to one grandchild. They share their home with an eight-year-old Corgi, who will never grow up and leave home.

Book preview

Prologue

Wolfcrest, Wisconsin 1990

Aware.

Hidden.

It waited.

The old Bram house, an ideal place, stood quiet and empty, chosen because the river ran close to the south end of Wolfcrest Ridge, well away from occupied homes on the rise.

Even while the widow Bram lived, the entity had been by itself, had never let itself be seen unless provoked. Alone now because old lady Bram had died years ago, it waited, tucked in a small corner of the attic.

Dark tentacle-like mist rising from the river would soon glide in to offer comfort, companionship. Maybe this time, riding on the water, would come the fire and blood that gave birth to it so long ago; ominous flames calling it from hibernation. It was eager to be summoned, be loved and accepted. To become complete.

Now the night.

Fingering mist. Companionship in darkness.

Aware. Waiting­­­ for—

Candles on the water.

CHAPTER 1

Wolfcrest, 1990

Ruth Hunter always wanted to die in her own bed.

She got her wish.

Lauren sat beside the bed where her mother lay with a trace of a smile on her lips. The doctor had covered her mom’s face, but Lauren wasn’t ready for that, so she pulled the sheet back down to her mother’s neck.

I thought I was prepared for this, she wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, but I’m not, she whispered. With Dad there wasn’t time to prepare. Car accidents will do that. All of a sudden he wasn’t with us anymore. No last hugs. She wiped the wetness from her cheeks. But we made it through together, didn’t we? Lauren tried to focus on the gentle face where a ray of sunlight caressed unfeeling skin. But you know what? No matter how ready we think we are to say good-by, we really aren’t. A burst of tears flooded from her eyes before Lauren got control of herself.

I’m glad it’s over for you, Mom. Now you’re in a better place. But I’m going to be a selfish forty-year-old and miss you. My life will be less without you. An acute sense of loss gripped her heart.

Death had come and gone, taking with it the cancerous veil that had filled the bedroom, the same room that used to be hers where many times her mother came to comfort her, to tell her how much she was loved no matter what mean things others said to her.

After Ruth found out she had incurable cancer she changed the midsize room from a teenager’s to a woman’s space where she would spend her last days on the main floor. Gone were the mom-made, floor-length curtains with lilac prints, replaced with white Priscillas that gave the room sophistication. The once blue painted walls were redone with wallpaper of teacup-size red roses with a pale yellow background.

A sudden burst of sunlight filled the room while a late morning breeze, through the open window, carried the sweet scent of autumn rain.

The day should stay dark and damp. Doesn’t it know what it’s lost? The sun should hide its face at the passing of this kind and loving mother, she thought.

Lauren felt glad she was able to care for her mom and be with her at the end. Ruth suffered with a lot of pain, but held a brave front to spare Lauren any helplessness to do more for her.

Though you hid it well, Mom, I still knew. Bless you for trying to protect me. You were always understanding, always knew unspoken things. Maybe that’s where I get my sixth sense. Thanks for being a mother, first and last to me, and the others.

The others.

The thought of her childhood friends brought a measure of comfort. She went to the window, her dark eyes fixed on the weathered playhouse where it stood on a patch of land between two ribbons of water, flowing into Wolf’s Pond a few yards away.

Little had she known, never sensed it like other things that the playhouse was where it would all begin. Where she, Mitch, Patty, Jimmy and Andy, would be drawn together in the summer of 1961, to survive the storms of childhood, to become blood brothers and stand up for each other against the cruelty of others.

That same year things began to happen in their little town like accidents and disappearances. But through it all they stuck together, remained free from becoming victims. Though the five of them lost touch, they’d stayed linked through her mom who remained in contact, never telling them about her illness.

Lauren turned from the window. You know, Mom, the four of them would want to know, even come if they could. They always thought of you as their second mother.

She half expected her mom to open her eyes, turn her head, and say, Don’t bother, dear. They have their own lives, so let them be.

She walked to the bedside, took her mother’s bony hand, bent and kissed Ruth’s still warm forehead. Thank you, for all your love. Lauren made a decision.

She opened the door into the kitchen where Mr. Row waited with Pastor Burrow. One had come to claim the body, the other to pray for her soul.

CHAPTER 2

Hillsdale, New York

It used the cover of darkness to find Mitchum. The black centipede-like thing dug razor sharp feet into his flesh and rippled up his arm. Fear ignited in him. The thing had come to kill him. He tried to move and a scream froze in his throat. His heart pounded at the walls of his chest, wanting out.

Far away a faint light pierced the darkness. Mitchum saw a woman dressed in a white, flowing gown. Though he couldn’t see her face, he realized she came to help him.

The black thing leaped up from inside his arm, onto his chest and started to burrow toward his heart. The woman wouldn’t reach him in time—

Mitchum’s icy fear jerked him awake. His sudden movement triggered the motion lamp at the end of the sofa. He let his heart slow down before swinging his legs over the edge of the couch. He wiped the sweat from his face then ran his fingers through his brown hair. He wasn’t ten-years-old, but a mature man, trying to forget the boy who feared the dark. Thanks to his self-righteousness, abusive, old man, Mitchum fought to overcome his fears and lack of self-worth. In the long run his dad hadn’t won. The more the old drunk told him he was no good, that he’d turn out bad, the more determined Mitchum became to prove him wrong.

You should see me now, Hank Sloan, he said, his lips tightened. But knowing you, you’d find something wrong with being a top-notch criminal judge who deals with your kind every day. I’m quite happy with who I am, no thanks to you. Mitchum felt drained, always did after a nightmare. He didn’t want to think about it anymore.

He glanced at his watch. It was 4:30 a.m. He had driven the two and a half hours from his apartment in Manhattan and gotten home late. He’d eaten a sandwich with a glass of wine and fallen asleep on the sofa. It would be daylight soon, so no reason to turn in now. He stood and stretched to get the kinks out, then headed for the shower.

*   *   *

With coffee mug in hand Mitchum leaned on the upper deck railing. The sun felt warm, the scent of pine hung thick in the crisp air. He loved this place nestled on a mountainside, away from the busyness of Manhattan. Built in 1972, the house that sat on six acres had been a bargain when he bought it four years ago. The spacious home with walls of windows, took advantage of heart stirring views in every direction of lakes, valleys, and mountains. The upper living area with an open concept, displayed cherry floors, beamed ceilings, a fireplace, and a dream kitchen. His bedroom and bath were on this floor too, with the same magnificent view. 

Mitchum knew if he didn’t love being a judge so much, he’d leave it all, never go back, just live a quiet life right here in the Hudson Valley.

Back inside, he rinsed his cup and put the breakfast dishes in the washer. Finishing in the kitchen, Mitchum remembered he hadn’t checked the mail yet. He went over to the glass-chrome table next to the front door where his housekeeper always put it. 

Mitchum began sorting the envelopes when the phone rang. He decided to let the machine pick up. After all, it was the beginning of his two-week vacation and it was his plan to relax, maybe get some fishing in. 

I’m thinking of you, Sharon’s silky voice said. Why don’t you pick up? I know you’re home.

I don’t think so, he said to himself, hearing her hang up.

Three months ago he had broken it off, trying to be as nice as he could. He’d found Sharon’s sultry personality attractive when he first met her at a friend’s party two years ago. She had fed his ego by the fact she was a little in awe of him, something he’d never encountered in a woman before. But for the past year Sharon’s need for him, in thought, word and actions, became a smothering delusion on her part. He wanted someone in his life willing to give him room. Someone who didn’t have to be the center of attention all the time. Sharon drained the life out of him, and he’d ended it, so he thought.

The last envelope caught his eye. He left the rest on the table and took the plain looking letter with him to the sofa. The envelope had no return name on it, only the Wolfcrest postmark. He didn’t recognize the writing. Opening it, he pulled out a news-clip and unfolded an obituary. The name shot out and hit him square in the heart.

Ruth Hunter, age 65, died Friday after a short battle with cancer. The showing will be Monday at Row’s Funeral Home, Wolfcrest, from 4:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m. Services will be held Tuesday at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church at 2:00 p.m. Interment will be at Wolfcrest Cemetery.

Stunned, Mitchum read it again, then closed his eyes. Grief dug into his heart, the sense of loss too painful for tears. If only he had known, he would’ve gone back, tried to be a comfort to Ruth who had given so much love.

Today is Sunday. Not much time. At least I can be there for the service. He was glad he wouldn’t have to clear his docket, but decided to call Madge, his secretary, to let her know where he’d be if something came up. He called the airport and got an afternoon flight out for tomorrow. He just hung up when the phone rang again.

Pick up Mitchum. I want to talk to you.

He sighed with determination, and picked up the phone. Talk about what, Sharon?

Why don’t you call me anymore? I need you so much.

Sharon, I told you, it’s over. There’s someone else out there who can give you what you need. I am not that person.

You are, and you know it. You just can’t leave me after all the words, all the love we had. I won’t give up on our being together. You love me, I know it in my heart.

I’m sorry, Sharon, if I hurt you, or led you to think we could make it work.

I’m coming up there. You’ll―

Don’t bother. I won’t be here.

You can’t run from me. It’s someone else, isn’t it?

Good-by, Sharon. He was sorry he ever got involved with her. He hoped this would be the end of it, but at the same time, knew he’d have to confront her again.

He sat at the kitchen counter and read the obituary again. It had to be from Lauren. That’s why the writing on the envelope was different. No note. Would the others be there? He dreaded going back, back where all the memories lay in wait. Yet, for Lauren’s sake, he’d go.

Mitchum put the obituary face down on the counter, and that’s when he noticed it. At the bottom of the paper was drawn a piece of wood. He picked it up to get a better look. On the wood were five candles with red flames. 

CHAPTER 3

Mitchum had sworn he’d never return because he wanted to forget, but here he was after twenty-some years. Yet he reminded himself it wasn’t about him, but about saying good-by to a woman who had been like a mother to him. Looking back, without Ruth’s subtle influence he would most likely be serving a sentence instead of handing them out to men so like his old man. He remembered her sense of caring like the time he was in Whiteman’s General Store and Mrs. Whiteman accused him of stealing a jackknife. He explained he hadn’t taken it, but saw Johnny Cutler take it then hightail it out of the store. She wouldn’t believe him, saying no son of a schoolteacher would ever steal, then threatened to call the police. That’s when Mom Ruth stepped in to verify what Mitchum had told her. The woman didn’t want to believe it, but let him go, telling him never to come in the store again. 

Without moving his head, Mitchum shifted his eyes from the bronze coffin covered with a large spray of yellow roses, to side-glance at Lauren, who kept dabbing tears. His friendship-sister of summers long ago, stood beside him, the span between childhood and maturity pressed down on them. She had grown into a beautiful woman. Curved ends of her dark brown hair, touched with auburn, almost reached her shoulders. Her coffee-colored eyes still held the same depth, her beauty more pronounced with maturity. The only thing gone was the small birthmark on her lower, right chin. The grief etched on her features told him he had been right. None of this was about him, or his past demons. It was about him and the others helping her get through this.

The grave-side service ended and some people lingered as Lauren thanked many personally before they headed back to their cars. Mitchum found himself walking toward the family plot further up. He stood in silence at the foot of his mom and sister’s graves. The bottom of a rounded hollow held their resting place as if in loving, cupped hands. His gaze locked onto his sister’s stone and the engraved words:

Sarah Edith Sloan

Born: May 20, 1949

Died: June 12, 1961

June twelfth. The smell of river water and mud, the sound of his old man’s demanding voice, of Sarah’s cries for help, reached from the past to pierce his heart. After a few seconds his sister’s cries slipped back beneath black stillness and left Mitchum standing in the autumn day to reckon with hot tears. I’m sorry, Sarah, I couldn’t reach you in time. That I didn’t stand by you like I should’ve.

To break the spell he tilted his head back, his gaze toward the tree tops. The scent of ancient pines throughout Wolfcrest Cemetery rode on the breeze, their symphony whispers from conducting branches tried to comfort him. Mitchum struggled to harden his emotions.

He hadn’t intended to let the images of that long ago time escape. But sometimes, when he least expected it, they would reach across time to knock on the door of dark wood, where on the other side Mitchum huddled to protect himself. They came, like sirens, beckoning him, penetrating the hard wood.

They enticed him with a sound, or a voice like his sister’s. To kiss him with the innocent fragrance of Sarah. To recall her favorite perfumes that were their mother’s, Blue Waltz and Radio Girl. Those memories would draw him with their soft edges and bring him through the door and there he would stand in the sunlight with them to call back stolen times. Those rare moments when happiness seeped through the gloom of their obscure lives. Best times, come to chisel on Mitchum’s wall of self-preservation so artfully shaped by his old man. At times he would surrender to them like old friends. Other times he would chase them away, content with his rough armor, and his fear of being vulnerable.

Mitchum heard a soft sound behind him, but before he could turn he felt an arm around his waist.

Where are the others? he asked Lauren.

In the car. They’ll wait. They know you have to say hello.

I’m saying good-bye.

What about the other one? She nodded toward the other grave-site a few yards away.

Mitchum allowed himself to glance in the direction where Hank Sloan lay buried next to his brother, his drinking buddy.

He thought he had buried the demons with his old man, cast them beyond the depths of his own liquid soul where they couldn’t possibly find their way back. But he was wrong. Often they would spiral up from the abyss and feed on the anger, the hate he felt for the man who had called himself Father.

Why didn’t Mom take us and leave him?

It wasn’t done back then. You know that.

Yes. And I see the results coming through my court every day. A long line of wife beaters, rapists and child killers.

But your mother was a victim too.

Maybe, but she allowed it to a certain extent, bent by living a poor existence with a man who saw no good, found no worth in anyone but himself. Because of him, I was robbed of growing up with my sister.

Let go, Mitch. Don’t let his evil cling to you.

He locked eyes with Lauren’s and in that split second the years fell away, the two of them connecting like when they were kids. Mitchum felt the demons recede. It’s harder than you think.

What? Her face split into a wide smile and two dimples appeared as if loving fingers had squeezed her cheeks. Nothing is too hard for Mitchum Robert Sloan. Don’t you know that?

Says who? 

Says me.

He allowed a small smile to reach his lips, permitting himself to fall under her positive spell. "Hot damn, I thought I was here to keep you from heights and deep water. Here you are, cheering me up."

Hot damn, ain’t it the truth?

Don’t let Patty hear you swear.

I don’t give a rip. She hooked her arm through his. Come on. Take a walk with me.

Where?

To get a view of our hometown.

It’s getting late. He glanced at his watch. He didn’t want to view the town, to remember. What about the luncheon in the church basement?

I’m breaking tradition. She started to guide him along. Anyway, I talked to just about everyone out here. They know how to eat without me.

You think our pals would like to come along? He threw a glance at the only car left, a few yards away.

I’ll check. She let go of his arm and headed for the car.

Mitchum didn’t wait but ambled up the slope in the opposite direction. Behind him he heard Lauren call out. Car doors slammed, followed by voices so familiar to him, even in maturity.

Autumn clouds with white crowns and gray underbellies skimmed overhead. Mitchum had forgotten how Wisconsin could be in the fall with smells of harvest and fallen leaves.

At the top of the hill the others joined him, and as in reverence, they walked in silence through a towering copse of pines. The brown needled floor, soft beneath their shoes, muffled their steps.

The five of them stepped from the piney cathedral that stood back from the ridge, and when they did the breeze became stronger. They stood close together at the top of a grassy brown rib where it angled sharply into a farmer’s field. From here, a two miles away, Wolfcrest was nestled in a little valley.

Wolfcrest had grown from an Indian settlement to a logging town in the mid-eighteen hundreds. The Crest River, black waters of immeasurable depth, snaking through town had been an ideal highway for logging. When the industry died out, the town became a farming community of potatoes and cabbage.

From the start the people worked hard, helping each other to make Wolfcrest a nice place to live. But with each succeeding generation that goal gradually slipped away and Wolfcrest became a place of divided classes.

Poorer people lived south of the railroad. The more successful folks resided north of the tracks where a great portion of Main Street existed. People with money lived on Wolfcrest Ridge, looking down on the rest of their fellow beings.

Wolfcrest reached its peak in the 1950’s and remained a six-tavern, three-church village, never to exceed nineteen-hundred people. By early spring in ‘61, Wolfcrest became a place where people lived, worked, paid their taxes, and who died not far from the place they started. People with their own dreams and desires. People who were touched by scandal, who harbored deep fears and profound secrets. The same kind of secrets Mitchum still carried.

I don’t know if I love or hate it, Jim said. Never did.

All his old pals had changed. Jim’s sandy hair had grown dark and he didn’t wear glasses anymore, his lazy eye normal.

At least you had a happier home life than the rest of us, Pat commented. She wore her gold-brown hair like she always did, long with a wave. Her liquid brown eyes were still filled with kindness. You had two whole parents.

It does not make a happy family when Mother and Father are at each other’s throats, Jim answered.

It was some of the people in town I didn’t like, Andy said.

Andy had lost most of his childhood chubbiness and had his teeth straightened. His sand-colored hair, still abundant, kept with his youthful look. Mitchum envied him that; time would never conquer his cocky, boyish face. Though Andy looked young, he dated himself, dressed in a dark brown polyester suit left over from the disco era of the ‘70s. He tried to give the impression he worked for a big corporation in Milwaukee. Mitchum figured if he did, it was probably in the mail room.

Remember old Mrs. Whipper? Andy went on. What a self-righteous old bag she was, always poking her busybody nose in other people’s lives. My mom always pretended not to be home when she came knocking on the door.

I remember Mrs. Bram, Lauren said.

Everybody in town thought she was a witch, Andy commented.

Not everyone. Only some of the kids, Lauren replied.

She wasn’t a witch. Mitchum caught Lauren’s eye. They both knew the truth about old, Mrs. Bram.

She was weird. I think she put a curse on the town that summer of ‘61 with all the strange things that happened, Andy finished.

The breeze grew to a raw wind, and the dark clouds rushed overhead.

Lauren shivered, but said nothing. Mitchum was the only one who noticed. He wondered if she sensed something like she did when they were kids. He hoped she hadn’t, praying that whatever came to town the summer of ‘61 was long gone.

Well, we came and saw. Pat hugged her arms to herself. So much for our hometown. She