A Matter of Time

By Carol Wakefield

It is the summer of 1973. Eight-year old Terry McClassen disappears on the way to her cousin’s house one evening and, despite massive searches, she is never seen again. The case goes cold – and every mother’s nightmare begins.

Haunted by this case, and hoping to shed some light on the child’s whereabouts, Samantha Foster, her sister, Donna, and brother-in-law, Jack, look to a Ouija board to provide some clues. They know it is just a bit of a game, but the police have no answers, so what harm could it do?

“Concentrate,” Donna whispered. “Ouija, tell us, do you know where Terry McClassen is?” How could they know that this episode nine years in the past would herald the panic that Sam and her daughter would face in the present?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carol Wakefield
• Release date: Feb 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781777490843

Carol Wakefield

As far as biographies go, I am probably like you, the reader - a suburban housewife, who loves a good read to pass some spare time. If you want to know my whole story, go to www.carolwakefield.com but the short version is I live a pretty ordinary life in Richmond Hill, Ontario, with my husband and son and a whole lot of cats and I love to write about adventures that I hope I never experience for real (except for the fact that I really wish I could do the things Catt does).

Book preview

A Matter

of

Time

A Matter of Time

Published by InkWorks Press

32-40 Castle Rock Drive

Richmond Hill, Ontario L4C 5H5

[e-mail]

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1982/2021 by Carol Wakefield

Cover design by Jeff Wakefield

Cover photo by Jeff Wakefield

ISBN 978-1-7774908-4-3

For my family

A Matter

of

Time

PROLOGUE

He had to hand it to her. The timing was impeccable. He supposed he really should have known, should have suspected something was up, from the moment he arrived home, on time for once. Her car was parked on the street instead of the driveway, and there were no cooking smells when he entered the house. The downstairs was empty, but he could hear her rummaging about upstairs.

I’m home! he called up the steps.

There was no reply, and at first he felt worried and then, as he climbed the stairs, angry. He was tired and hungry. And he knew she’d heard him.

Where are you? But he already knew. A rim of light ran under the bedroom door. He strove to make his voice calm, not demanding, and pretended not to hear the distress in it. What are you doing?

Her back was to him as he entered, and she did not turn around, but continued folding the blue dress on the bed before her. As though she didn’t know he was there, filling the room with his tenseness; as though she hadn’t perceived the brittle agony in his question. He cleared his throat nervously. Still she ignored him, her hands making little tucking and patting sounds as she set the dress to one side. A half-filled suitcase spread out at the foot of the bed, and two more, full and ready to go, sat on the floor. The closet was empty.

Leaving.

The word shocked him more than the sight of the suitcases. At first he thought she was joking, but when she failed to respond further, and continued to extract more clothing from bureau drawers and place them folded on top of the blue dress, an unbearable spasm of fear grabbed him. It sprinted through his body and by the time it had reached his brain it was full-blown, sparked with anger. Sharp gnats of unreason buzzed his head.

Wait a minute! he yelled, reaching out and dumping the open suitcase on the floor. You can’t do this!

Without answering, she calmly knelt and began scooping the fallen clothing and replacing it in the suitcase, not bothering to refold everything. Her face was determinedly aloof and a chill spread through him. Goddamn, this time she really meant it!

His disbelieving eyes followed her as she zipped up the bag and laced it beside the other two. Without a glance in his direction, she moved to the dressing table and gathered up her toiletry items, her brushes and mirror, leaving the expensive cologne he had given her for Christmas. The other items she tucked into her canvas carryall bag, where they clinked discreetly as she slipped it over her shoulder.

Panic gripped him. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t really be happening. He thought about begging her to stay, but the look on her face stopped him. Instead he snatched at the bag, but she wrenched it away from him and stooped to pick up the heaviest of the suitcases.

"No!" he roared, kicking the bag out of her hand. It skidded across the floor and came to a stop against the bureau. For a second, they glared at each other like gladiators, before she regained her calm and retrieved the suitcase. She stared stonily as she swept past, and he was surprised to find his rage meekly abated.

Where are you going?

His question floated down the stairwell, but the only reply was the rasping of the screen door swinging closed. He ran to the window. She was already stowing the bags in the back of the car and turning again towards the house. Fleeting hope stirred within him until he realized she was simply returning for the other two suitcases. He pressed his head against the window frame. Blood throbbed in his temples. His throat felt dry, his mouth sour.

He heard her footsteps coming up the stairs. She came into the room as though he was no longer present, not even glancing in his direction. Briskly she picked up the remaining bags and left the room.

Wait! Wait a minute!

He ran to the top of the stairs. She seemed to pause briefly in midflight, the light from the open door catching in her pale hair. But, before he could speak, she changed her mind and ran down the last few steps.

You can’t go! You can’t!

His voice had a strained and strangled sound. The tightness returned to his head. He raced down to the lower landing. She was struggling with the door latch, another one of those things he was supposed to have fixed long ago but had never gotten around to. She jiggled it awkwardly, both hands encumbered by the suitcases.

He needed to talk to her. If only they could sit down and talk this out. It would be okay, he knew it would. It wasn’t too late.

He grabbed her elbow to restrain her. The look she flashed was more distant than angry, her mouth set in a straight line, her eyes bold and defiant. He released her.

Why? was all he could think of to say. The sour taste in his mouth persisted. He was perspiring slightly. "Tell me, why? Please? Why?"

He hated the needy, pleading tone in his voice. Hated that she made him sound like this. Made him feel stupid. Not in control.

Instead of replying, she turned and strode out to her car, careful not to slam the door behind her. Her hair fluttered in the mild breeze, waving farewell.

"Why? he howled through the screen. Why-y?"

Fury swept through him as her car turned at the corner and sped out of sight. He found himself yelling uncontrollably.

"You bitch! You get back here!"

Across the street, curtains moved against the windows. He slammed the door and smashed his fist on the door jamb. His head was aching in earnest, and his hand throbbed where it had come into contact with the wood. The fleshy pad on the outside of the palm was bluish and swelling slightly. He viewed it dispassionately for several seconds as though it belonged to another person and he could not recall nor be held responsible for how it happened.

The house was silent except for the distant hum of the refrigerator. The day’s mail lay stacked neatly on the hall table, three window envelopes and a flyer. He ran a quick eye over the living room but there was no note, no envelope addressed to him, no Dear John letter. Nothing.

The kitchen too was eerily quiet, apart from the refrigerator and the hushed ticking of the wall clock. The dish drainer held the dried plates from breakfast, two cups, two saucers, two plates and cereal bowls. Two of everything. As it should be. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. Frustration surged through him and he swung out his fist and sent the drainer crashing to the floor. Dishes skittered across the room, smashing against cupboards. A juice glass rolled off the counter onto a heap of broken crockery, sending thin shards of glass showering about the room.

"Fuck you!" he screamed at the mess.

He didn’t feel much affinity for the kitchen. He supposed this was because he rarely entered it; he rarely had to. She had always been there, would bring him what he wanted. That was her job, dammit. Still, he found it slightly disconcerting that he didn’t know where to look for anything. Couldn’t even cook a can of soup, not that it really mattered. His appetite had dissipated, his stomach was sore with tension.

He found an almost full bottle of scotch in a cupboard beside the sink and took it into the living room. But the décor, the furniture he had never really liked because if reflected her taste more than his, overwhelmed him, so he went instead to his den.

When consciousness overtook him again, the bottle was nearly empty and the sun was low in the sky. Dusk had brought with it an aura of gloom that was becoming suffocatingly depressing. He stood up stiffly, his joints sore from sitting so long on the floor – what was with that? – his headache increased by prolonged tension.

It was her fault. Everything was her fault.

He found two aspirins in a bottle in the medicine cabinet. By the harsh glare of the fluorescent light, his face seemed ghoulishly pale and his eyes bleary. He stifled a giggle. He realised he was probably very drunk and, for some reason, this idea made him giggle again. For an instant he wanted desperately to share this vital information, but he knew that the only person he wanted to tell was her, and she wasn’t there. She would only put him down anyway. She never liked his drinking, never liked the way he became. Never liked him. That was it, wasn’t it? Besides, it was all her fault. Everything. All her fault. All. Her. Fault.

He considered phoning her and telling her this. Better yet, he could phone her friends, see which one of them put her up to this and was now protecting her. Like she needed protecting. She was such a liar. Her friends would be too. He could already hear their carefully solicitous words, No, I’m sorry, I don’t know where she is. If I do hear from her, I’ll tell her to call you, hear the slightly smirking quality of their goodbyes and good wishes. He didn’t need that.

He splashed cold water on his face and rubbed it dry with the towel. His head was very muzzy and he no longer felt giggly.

The darkened house depressed him, made him feel hemmed in. He wandered restlessly from room to room, not bothering to turn on lights. As he passed through the living room, the phone on the hall table began to ring and he started to reach for it, before he stopped himself. No, if that was her, he didn’t want to talk to her. Let her worry. Bitch.

It rang twice more before he made up his mind.

It stopped ringing as he drove away.

* * * *

The girl was somewhere between eight and nine, and she carried the paper bag with what she assumed to be the cool hauteur of adolescence. It was an ordinary brown paper bag, stuffed with the few things she would need, her pajamas, change of clothing and toothbrush, and some things she wanted to bring, her newest Barbie doll outfit, a couple of comic books and, lastly, her teddy. Teddy’s brown furry ears poked out of the top of the bag, making it appear that the bag had ears, and she giggled.

Traffic was not heavy on her side of the road since she was travelling south, and the bulk of the traffic was on the other side of the road, heading north to cottage country for the weekend. Still, she picked her way carefully along the gravel shoulder, mindful not to get too close to the sweltering macadam. On her right side, the shoulder dropped off into a weed-filled drainage ditch, along the top of which ran a barbed wire fend marked with occasional signs reminding trespassers that they would be prosecuted. She had no idea what the word ‘prosecuted’ meant, but she thought it must have something to do with the word ‘electrocuted’, which she did know, because the two sounded so much alike. At any rate, she had no intention of trespassing, which she knew was a very bad thing. Besides, the woods beyond the fence were murky and close, even on the clearest of days, and she had always been a little afraid of them.

As she walked along, she played a little game she had invented which involved kicking a stone and then running after it to see if she could catch up to it before it stopped rolling. It was easy when she was kicking the stone uphill because gravity impeded its speed, but now she was going down an incline, so it was trickier.

She paused for a moment, as she always did, on the crest of the hill, and tried to see if she could make out the outline of the tallest buildings in the city. Sometimes, when it was very clear, or early in the morning, it was possible to see almost all the way down to the waterfront, and she knew that to be very far away because she had once asked her Daddy if she could walk there and he had laughed, and said that it was much farther than it looked, and that even in the car it would take almost an hour to get there. And she knew that an hour car trip was a very long distance to go.

The sun was just beginning to set, balanced delicately on the edge of the horizon, sending shards of dying light across the land, and all she could really make out was a thick brownish layer of smog that blanketed the city. She shrugged and continued on her way, wishing that the muggy weather didn’t make her T-shirt stick

to her back,

She kicked at a large grey stone and chased after it, the brown paper bag bumping against her legs. For a minute it seemed as though she would beat the stone but, just as she got close to it, it stopped. She tried to stop too, but she was running downhill and the worn treads of her sneakers slipped on the gravel, pitching her forward onto the ground. The paper bag flew out of her hands, spilling its contents onto the roadway.

She cried out in alarm as two cars travelled over Teddy, the first missing him altogether, but the second flattening his legs and midriff. The sound of a third approaching car made her scramble to her feet, and she was just about to disobey her parents and run out into the road to rescue Teddy when she realised the car was slowing down. It swerved around the bear and came to a stop on the shoulder. A tall man got out, scooped up the girl’s belongings, and ran back off the road.

I don’t think he’s beyond repair, the man assured her as he held Teddy out. But I think you’ll need a new bag.

She nodded, clutching the bear to her, and looked at the jagged rip down one corner of the bag. It would never hold all of her things now. Tears gathered in her eyes.

Hey, don’t cry – it’ll be okay, the man said, but there was an odd tone in his voice and she didn’t know whether or not to believe him. Adults sometimes said things that weren’t exactly true. And she wasn’t sure she liked the way he was staring at her, so she kept her eyes on the ground. Her face felt hot and sticky. …Terry, isn’t it?

Surprised, she nodded. How did you – And then she recognized him. Oh, hi! I didn’t know it was you at first.

The funny look was gone from his face and he smiled at her, a wide friendly smile.

Well, I wasn’t quite sure at first, either. He gave her a tissue to wipe her nose. Hey, that’s quite a scrape you’ve got there.

For the first time, she saw that her left knee was bleeding, bits of gravel and dirt deeply imbedded in the wound.

Does it hurt much?

She shook her head bravely. Not much.

Well, just the same, I think we’d better have it looked at, don’t you? The man straightened up, but kept his eyes on her. At first this made her uncomfortable, but then she reasoned that since she did know him, it must be alright. Where do you live?

Back there. She indicated with a wave of her hand. On the third concession.

Hmm. He considered her words gravely, with a glance towards her teddy and the clothes he had retrieved from the road. That’s quite a ways.

It’s not that far. I’m just going to my cousin’s – Emily? I do it lots of times.

Oh, really?

Sure!

He didn’t answer immediately, but continued to stare at her, his brows forked across the bridge of his nose, his eyes dark and intense. It was almost as though he couldn’t see her, or worse, that he was looking right through her, and it started to make her restless. She reached out her arms for the rest of her belongings. He did not appear to notice, and she bit her lip.

I’ll take them, now, she ventured and took a step forward.

What?

My clothes. I think I can carry them. I gotta get going.

No, I don’t think so.

She felt a tremor of fear and instinctively shrank back.

No, wait! The smile was back on his face. What I meant was that I think I should drive you wherever it is that you’re going.

Well…I don’t know. She remembered her parents always telling her not to accept rides from strangers. But then, he wasn’t really a stranger. She looked into his face but all she could see was friendliness. He was still smiling.

I think it’s better for your knee, he reminded her, and the very words seemed to spark a resurgence of pain in her leg.

The blood had stopped flowing and had begun to crust over, and it wasn’t until she tried to bend her leg that she realised that he was right. She wasn’t sure anymore that she could walk that far. Especially carrying all of her things without a bag.

What do you say?

She bit her lip again before smiling shyly at him. Okay, I guess.

Good girl!

She climbed into the front seat beside him and he showed her how to work the seatbelt before he started the car. Her clothes and toys were spread across the seat between them. She clutched Teddy tightly to her chest and looked curiously around. She had never been in a car like this before; its very opulence awed her. It had nice plush seats, kind of like teddy bear fur, and the windows were rolled up because there was air conditioning. She hadn’t realised this at first, and had asked him how to roll down the windows because all she could see were little square push buttons where the handles should be, and when she pushed them nothing happened.

Oh, don’t worry about that, he had said. We need the windows up anyway so that the air conditioning will work.

She had been suitably impressed by that and hadn’t bothered to inquire further as to why the buttons didn’t work. But then, she supposed it didn’t really matter. Air conditioning was more fun, and this was the very first time she had ever ridden in a car that had it. Kind of like riding in a polar bear, she thought, and the idea made her giggle.

What’s funny? he asked, turning his head slightly to grin at her. She shared her joke with him and he laughed too, and in the confines of the closed car, she noticed that there was a funny smell on his breath. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell and she recognized it from the times her daddy had gone out with Uncle Harry at night.

At the thought of Uncle Harry, she stiffened and looked out the window. In her excitement at riding in the car, she had forgotten to tell the man where she wanted to go. Now, in the rapidly dimming light, she could not seem to get her bearings or recognize where they were.

Were you running away?

His question surprised her. His tone was casual, inquiring, but there was something underlying that began to make her nervous.

No, I told you. I’m going to Emily’s. Remember? And Uncle Harry’s, she added. The car purred along the road. Bands of heat lay like welts across the asphalt. She bit her lip again. I’m going to stay overnight.

Where does your uncle live?

On Brock Road. Near the big water tower. She twisted around, trying to locate it, but it wasn’t until she was looking almost directly out the back window that she thought she glimpsed an edge of its familiar rusted white bowl. And they were headed away from it. Stop! It’s back there! We’ve missed it!

The big car did not slow down and the man drove on, not appearing to have heard her. Fear edged her heart.

Don’t you hear me? she wailed. You’ve gone past it. It’s back there!"

This time he did look at her and under his gaze she shrank back against the car door. His eyes were cold and glazed with anger and, when he spoke, his words were even and frightening.

You were running away.

No! She started crying in earnest. No, I’m not! I’m going to Uncle Harry’s!

You’re all the same. His voice, like a sneer, pierced the air. "You all just run away!"

No! she snuffled. It’s not true.

Don’t lie to me! He swung out his arm and slapped her, the force of the blow causing her head to smack into the window. She gave a gasp of pain and slumped whimpering against the glass.

"You’re running away. I know it! You dirty, lying little bitch!"

He swung onto a side road and drove into the dying sun.

I’ll teach you! His voice stretched into a snarl. I’ll teach you to run away!

* * * *

Oh, come on! Don’t be such a spoil sport!

Donna held a wine glass out to her. On the table between them waited the Ouija board, innocently impotent. It was steamy in the kitchen, the windows flung wide open to entice an early evening breeze. Jack settled back in his chair and smiled in amusement at her.

Don’t worry about it, Sam, he said. Donna does this all the time. It’s just a little bit of fun. It’s not like it actually works.

That’s not what I’m worried about, she told him, but she felt foolish saying it. The fact was she didn’t like the idea of it. It creeped her out. Even if it was just a harmless game, as Jack maintained. There was something spooky about it, something not quite right. Tampering with the forces of evil. If you believed in the forces of evil, that was. Sam wasn’t so sure she didn’t.

Don’t be silly! Come on! Donna took her arm and propelled her into a chair. There’s nothing to it. It’s fun!

But the purpose you’ve got in mind for it isn’t, Sam reminded her.

Donna’s face sobered momentarily, then she grinned again. Yeah, well, you know what Jack says – it never works anyway, so you have nothing to worry about. Right?

When Sam didn’t answer, she went on. "Besides, supposing it did work? Supposing we found out something valuable, something the police could use. Wouldn’t you want to help? She paused, peering earnestly into Sam’s face. Think about that poor little girl. What if she was your daughter?"

Sam grimaced inwardly and then laughed in spite of herself. Stop! I’ll do it. I’ll do it!

Has she always been this persuasive? Jack asked.

Always, she agreed. But then, you should know that.

Ah, but I’ve always wondered if it was something new she picked up when she met me. I didn’t realise she’s always been a bully.

Donna kicked him under the table.

Some people just need a little encouragement, that’s all, she said sweetly.

They began by asking simple questions, birthdates and a lot of questions requiring a yes or no answer, as Donna said, to ‘warm up’ the board. The upturned wine glass dutifully slid over the surface of the board, spelling out months and years, and Sam wondered if the answers stemmed from the knowledge of the questioners, or if there really was something else to it.

Okay, Donna said. Pink spots of excitement were beginning to colour her cheeks. I think we’re ready!

Sam’s stomach began to crawl with unease and she thought of coming up with some excuse for not proceeding, but she knew from the anxious brightness of her sister’s eyes that she couldn’t, wouldn’t, let her down, especially over something that would probably prove to be a silly parlour game. She nodded and replaced her finger tips on the inverted wine glass.

They had agreed to use only their left hands; it was closest to the heart, Donna maintained, and therefore would be more accurate. A trickle of nervous anticipation clung unexpectedly to the air. Outside, a motorcycle zipped loudly past with sudden shocking clarity. Donna flinched. Then she blushed.

All set?

Sam nodded and Jack grinned at her from across the table but said nothing. Donna’s brow creased in concentration as she took a deep breath before addressing the board.

Ouija, do you know Terry McClassen?

The wine glass didn’t budge. Donna frowned.

Concentrate, she whispered. Ouija, tell us, do you know Terry McClassen?

Sam was never sure if the glass moved by itself or if someone had given it a slight boost, but it began to slowly move across the board in fits and starts. Initially it seemed confused as to its destination, jerking towards the ‘YES’, and then swerving back towards the ‘NO’. It came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the board and refused to continue. Sam met Jack’s eyes across the board.

It seems we have an unwilling participant, he remarked dryly.

"Quiet! Donna hissed. Sam, startled by her tone, flashed her a sharp look. She was perturbed by the strange paleness of Donna’s face, the fierceness of her expression. It won’t work if you don’t believe!"

Hey, it’s just a game, he reminded her. Remember? Why don’t we start again? Maybe it would help to rephrase the question. Maybe it didn’t like what you asked it.

Now who’s taking it too seriously? Donna grinned, but none of them had missed the change in attitude, the underlying perception of the Ouija as a distinct personality, an acknowledged participant in this strange affair. She hesitated and, when she spoke again, her voice had taken on a slightly deeper intonation that made Sam think of county fair charlatans, Madame Zenovias chanting phony predictions to gullible patrons. Ouija, what can you tell us about Terry McClassen?

The wine glass began moving immediately, but not towards any particular destination, instead circling aimlessly about the board, picking up speed with each rotation. Suddenly it shot straight across the board and stopped abruptly in front of Sam.

"What does that mean?" she laughed shakily, afraid of what she thought it meant. Donna’s reply confirmed her fears.

"I don’t know. It’s never done that before. Maybe it wants you to ask it questions."

What difference should it make who asks the questions? Sam protested.

Maybe, Jack leaned back in his chair, keeping his eyes level on her face. His expression was unreadable and for some reason this frightened her. Jack was always the sensible, voice of reason type. "Maybe it only wants to talk to you."

What? That’s ridiculous.

Oh, come on, Sam, Donna urged. "You said you’d play. What’s the big deal? It’s only a game. Just try it once, okay? It probably won’t answer you either."

Well…

Hey, if you want to stop, it’s okay, Jack said, but Sam could see that Donna wanted her to continue. Sure, Donna’s right, she told herself, it’s only a game. But deep within she couldn’t shake the ominous sensation that there might be more to it, that somehow the rules had changed. She took a deep breath.

Okay. But you’ll have to tell me what to ask it.

This time she used both hands, fingers poised lightly on top of the glass. Before Donna had a chance to open her mouth, the glass skittered off across the board, stopped at the letter ‘d’, then the letter ‘e’ and reversed itself to the beginning of the alphabet. With a gasp of shock, Sam jerked her hand away and the glass fell over and rolled in front of Jack.

Did you see? It was spelling something!

I’ll be damned! Jack swore softly under his breath. He made no move to pick up the wine glass.

Did you see that? Donna’s voice rose to a high squeak. It was spelling the word ‘dead’!

Now, wait a minute. It only spelled out ‘d-e-a-’. It could have been going to say ‘dear’ or something like that.

Why would it do that?

I don’t know, he admitted. But that doesn’t prove conclusively that it was the word ‘dead’.

He’s right, Sam agreed, wondering why as she did so. She was plenty freaked already. Would verification really help settle her nerves? Or would she just be, as Donna had complained earlier, a spoil sport? She sighed inwardly. Let’s try it again, just to be sure.

She picked up the glass and replaced it on the board. This time it moved smoothly and deliberately, almost as though it knew that its credibility was in dispute. But, in the end, everyone was in accordance. The Ouija had spelled out the word ‘dead’ three times.

Well, I guess that settles that, Donna announced, though Sam detected an undercurrent of dismay in her hushed voice. It occurred to her that perhaps Donna had not really expected to get results or, at least, unsolicited replies. That had served to move the entire episode into the realm of the spooky. At any rate, it was rapidly becoming clear to all three that the game was over. Donna moved to take the glass but Sam stopped her.

No. Her voice was surprisingly calm and detached. You were right earlier when you said that if we could uncover something of value to the police, it would be worth it. I’m not sure how much credence they would give to a Ouija board, but I think we should go on.

She waited, heart thudding against her ribs, as the silence deepened. At last Jack cleared his throat and reached out to touch his wife’s hands.

She’s got a point. If this thing is correct – and we’re not just projecting our own fears through it – if there is any possibility that somehow we’re receiving some kind of message… He held up his hand in protest. "I know that sounds crazy…but something