Midnight’s Warning

By Dana Lindsley

An idyllic shoreline town.
A mysterious contagion of anxiety.
A shockwave of suspicion, violence, and desperation.
Everyone is affected.

As the small Connecticut town of Whistling Rocks descends deeper into chaos, its residents face today’s all too common issues: how to live during a time of multiple crises and how to adapt to a dangerous, changing world. Midnight’s Warning is filled with memorable characters. JJ, a young man with autism has uncanny intuition. Three teenagers believe their morbid discovery in a park is causing the town’s contagious anxiety. Ricky, a drifter, turns to violence to relieve his angst and fears. And a psychic foresees calamities to come.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Mar 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781480898158

Dana Lindsley

Dana Lindsley’s debut novel, Secrets in the Storm, is a romantic story set in seventeenth century Dutch New York after a massive hurricane. His professional experience and novels explore how relationships and communities are affected by disasters and how they build personal and communal resilience in their aftermath. Dana lives with his wife on the Connecticut shore.

Book preview

Friday

OCTOBER 15

O f course, JJ was the first to notice the vibrating, sinister energy in the air. JJ had autism but was not a savant with an astonishing skill like telling time without a clock or reciting the endless number of pi. Instead, he had a sixth sense, a highly developed ability to pick up vibes. He knew, for instance, the moment his mother and father had the slightest tiff between them and when their neighbor’s teenage daughter was upset. He knew when the town horn was about to sound the alarm for a fire at one of the old wooden vacation cottages along the Connecticut shore or when there had been a personal injury accident on the interstate.

JJ’s primary activity was going for walks by himself along the shoreline. He walked stiffly, leaning forward on the balls of his feet. He never talked to anyone. He couldn’t speak.

He first noticed the unnerving change Friday morning while examining the wood swirls of the varnished front door of the Beach Club. As he turned to continue his walk, he sensed it in the air. He momentarily froze, closed his eyes and tilted his head. A profound unease entered him, making his body twitch. He wildly flapped his hands, walked hurriedly on his toes toward home and howled as his anxiety grew in intensity.

JJ entered home through the garage door. His father heard the familiar and unwelcome flapping of hands and the high monosyllabic screech of the letter e from his son.

What’s wrong, JJ? Calm down. Everything’s all right; you’re home now. Mark examined JJ to find an injury—a twist in his belt or stone in his shoe—something that might be bothering him. It was frustrating when JJ was like this. Anything could set him off: a stomachache or a headache or, God forbid, something dire like kidney stones or cancer. Maybe something terrible happened to him on his walk: school kids taunted him or a car narrowly missed hitting him or (please let it not be) he was molested. Mark followed the still flapping and screeching JJ around the house, worried that he might injure himself, knock over a lamp, or butt his head against a wall. He’d done that before, and the walls of his bedroom still bore the circular dents.

Sherry came home an hour later after training new volunteers at the women’s crisis line. The atmosphere in the house was all too familiar: JJ had another tantrum, something less frequent now that he was in his twenties.

What’s wrong? she asked Mark.

I don’t know. He came back from his walk acting this way. I’ve looked him over, but I can’t figure it out.

Sherry repeated the examination and found nothing.

Have you put him in the armchair and given him that plastic keyring he likes so much?

Sher, I tried everything, exasperation in his voice.

Let’s distract him with a warm bath, she said. I’ll skip my yoga class. She’d lost count of the number of plans she had to change because of JJ. She loved him deeply, passionately, but that didn’t make it any easier. Her heart had been broken so many times when her son was in pain or unhappy, and she could do nothing to comfort him. But she was his mother, and she would never give up trying to make his life as soothing and happy as possible.

He won’t like it, Mark predicted. It’s out of pattern.

What have we got to lose? We can see if he has any bruises. Poke around to find if he hurts somewhere.

The bath revealed nothing. JJ was agitated throughout.

I’m going to fix oatmeal. Maybe he’s just hungry.

But he had oatmeal for breakfast, Mark said.

He would eat it three times a day if I gave it to him. You know that’s the only food he really likes.

Once cooked, Sherry slathered the oatmeal with thick gobs of butter, liberally sprinkled with brown sugar, and whole milk. Not skim milk or 2 percent, just whole fat. She’d read in a magazine that children with autism benefit from an extremely high-fat diet, something about helping the synapses between nerve endings.

JJ reverted to eating the oatmeal with his fingers, something he hadn’t done in years. He scooped it up, making a mess of everything.

Sherry sat beside him, her arms crossed and clutching her chest. She stared blankly at the wall.

It’s not fair. Why is it so hard for him? she asked.

And why is it so impossible to help him stop? Mark said. He was analytical to a fault, determined to solve whatever problem faced him. The unexplainable wasn’t an option. But JJ’s agitation wasn’t solvable.

I don’t know, she answered. Sometimes, life is just that way. Things come and go without rhyme or reason.

I’m calling Dr. Bauer, Mark said with determination. Maybe he’ll find an answer.

Their family physician was as much at a loss as they when it came to diagnosing JJ. But it was worth a try. Mark made an appointment for four-thirty and left a note for Jason, JJ’s younger brother, about where they were.

The doctor’s office was twenty minutes on the highway. Sherry insisted that Mark join them. It often took the two of them to physically move their son out of the car and into the office. He never resisted getting into the car. He loved the hum of the tires on the road and the gentle swaying of the moving vehicle. But when they reached their destination, he sometimes made his legs rigid and locked them beneath the front seat. More than once, Mark had wrenched his back trying to pull JJ out of the car.

In the back seat, JJ began calming down. The further they drove from home, the less agitated he became. He stared out the window at the blurred trees passing by, and when they reached their destination, JJ was sound asleep in the back seat. His head rested awkwardly on his shoulder, his left arm splayed out at his side in complete relaxation.

Mark and Sherry sat in the parked car, looking at the glass doors of the medical building in front of them. Mark’s clammy hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. His staring eyes didn’t focus on the building or the trees or the other patients going into the building. Sherry sat silently beside him, her heart beating fast, unable to take a deep breath. She fiddled with the buckle on her purse.

They were not wondering whether to wake JJ or whether they should keep this appointment. No, their worry about him had been replaced by something else. Something dark and unsettling. Neither could put a finger on why they were tense and panicky.

Whatever agitated JJ, now infected them.

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Trina walked the short distance through the trailer park to visit her psychic in the 1974 Airstream. She could see it up ahead: the one painted black with the word Midnight in puffy yellow lettering. If the beaded curtain was in the doorway, Midnight would be there, waiting at the card table. Trina was desperate to talk to her. Last night was a nightmare. For the first time in their three months together, Ricky tied her spread-eagled on the bed, loosely, of course, so she was comfortable and safe when he did his things. She didn’t mind if it pleased him. There was a thrill in it for her, at least at first. Then everything went south, and Ricky got angry when she wasn’t more responsive. He was hurtful, way past her tolerance, like a shark that gets a scent of blood and goes into a blind feeding frenzy. His savage eyes zeroed in on her as though she were prey. Today she hurt everywhere, especially between her legs and her nipples which were chewed raw.

Last night was unlike him. He had drifted into her Whistling Rocks trailer park from somewhere north of San Antonio, wearing scratched up leather boots and a plaid shirt with pearl buttons. He was tall and lanky, with a drawl that turned her on with his first word. Trina was a Gunsmoke, Bret Maverick, Have Gun—Will Travel kind of girl. Annie Oakley was her hero, and someday she was going to take lessons with the pistol she kept in a kitchen drawer. An ex-boyfriend had given her a boxed set of DVDs of old Westerns, and Trina played them in the background all day long. When Ricky walked into her life bragging about riding his horse on the Cimarron Trail and sleeping alfresco in Big Sky Country, she fell for him faster than Annie ever shot her gun. They’d been together ever since.

Now, as she hobbled down Palm Avenue toward Midnight’s trailer, she wondered how much she knew about him. If last night was what he was like … No, she was too much in love with him to believe that. He was not his usual self. Something upset him, and it was her job to find a way to soothe him, bring him back to his senses, restore the tenderness between them. But he wasn’t a talker, and last night after he was done with her he was sullen and silent. She could tell he was bothered and preoccupied. When she asked, he only grunted and said he was going to the shooting range to kill me some pigeons.

Isn’t the range closed at this hour? she had asked, glancing at the bedside alarm clock. It said 10:37.

When he didn’t respond, she begged to go with him.

He sharply said, No deal, and left in his old red Chevy Malibu.

This morning she pulled on her usual stretch jeans. They were tight in the crotch, given her tenderness down there. Almost all her pants were close-fitting, and she wasn’t about to be seen in sweats that looked like she was wearing diapers. So it was the jeans and the form-fitting pink top that perfectly accented her breasts. Her one concession to her battered condition was to wear her most comfortable bra that protected her sore spots. Halfway to Midnight’s, she pulled her jeans downward to relieve the pressure. She wished she had brought more than a thin sweater to ward off the mid-October chill.

Midnight’s trailer was one of several in a park founded years ago by some old dude who raised horses and dreamed he lived in Florida. At the entrance to the trailer park was a gaudy sign that read, Hialeah Gardens. Stately fake palms twenty-five feet high flanked the sign. They looked ridiculous covered with snow in the Connecticut winter. Somewhere back in time, The Committee, a bunch of self-appointed residents, decided if anyone ran a commercial business out of their trailer, they had to locate themselves in the business district. It was at the far end of the trailer park, where Palm Avenue dips downward and ends at the river. Supposedly, in that distant place, the businesses wouldn’t be detected by the police who would demand they obtain commercial licenses. It flooded down there every year or so, but it was the price to be paid for having a business. It was called downtown by people from the trailer park, even though it bore no resemblance to the real downtown several miles away where there were proper stores: a CVS, a couple of gas stations, the post office, and the library. Midnight’s neighbors were: Ned’s Convenience Store selling cigarettes, milk, eggs, newspapers, and day-old coffee. Mother’s which billed itself as a place to get baby supplies, but really was a bootleg liquor and drug store, and Nick’s and Knacks specializing in trinkets, costume jewelry, plastic flowers, fireworks, cheap hardware, skin magazines, and the like. Anything you ever need can be found downtown, people said with a wink. They were pretty much right.

The beaded curtain was up, thank goodness. Trina glanced at the golden stars and crescent moons stenciled on the trailer near the door. They reminded her of last night’s terrors and confirmed her decision to seek Midnight’s reading about what was going on. The crinkle of the beads announced her entrance, but Midnight wasn’t at her table. The familiar sign was there: Soul Companions Welcome Here. Those words always made Trina feel better from the start. She had had a lot of companions over the years: men that shared her bed, girlfriends with sad and hard stories, neighbors willing to help fix a leaky faucet, and of course, Adam, her son. He was a teenager seeking his own way in life, so they weren’t nearly as close as they used to be. But a soul companion, someone who knew you through and through, who had walked with you up and down the mountains and valleys of life was a treasure. For Trina, that was Midnight whom she had known for sixteen years since they moved into Hialeah Gardens about the same time. Trina wasn’t the only one who valued Midnight, everyone did. Midnight knew the fears, habits, wounds, and dreams of almost everyone who lived in the park for any length of time. Many residents couldn’t afford the exorbitant prices of doctors, but they could go to Midnight because she asked them to pay only what they thought her advice was worth to them. She accepted with gratitude any amount, sometimes a handful of loose change, sometimes a frozen chicken or a can of beans, and she insisted they come back for a follow-up.

Trina sat down on a folding chair at the card table where readings were done. The rest of the trailer was behind a purple and yellow tie-dyed sheet hanging from a flimsy curtain rod. Trina looked at the ceiling bordered by a continuous row of cabinets painted black. She heard a toilet flush and a moment later the soft sound of new-age music, probably a Stephen Halpern piece, coming from well-hidden speakers.

It’s Midnight time, Trina heard the lilting, optimistic voice from beyond the tie-dyed sheet say. Her most favorite person in the world was about to enter the room.

Midnight poured into the room. Everything about her flowed like thick smooth oil. Her silky black hair decorated with a dangling feather cascaded from her head like a waterfall down her back. Her black, crepe skirt covered with sheer, star-studded chiffon, draped loosely to the floor. She walked as though floating, her bare feet treading softly on the floor. But what most struck Trina were her pearl white arms and hands both long and thin. Set off against her black skirt, they swayed easily like ribbons dangling from her shoulders.

With one long graceful movement she slid into the chair opposite Trina. They smiled at each other and placed their hands automatically on the tabletop. Trina’s fingers were rough from handling clothes at the dry-cleaning shop and laundromat where she worked fifty hours a week. Trina was envious of the soft skin of Midnight’s hands. A brief image flashed through her mind of Midnight’s fingers toying with the hair on Ricky’s chest. He would go crazy for that. She simply must take better care of her skin and stop thinking about such things.

Trina, you’re worried. I see it on your face, Midnight said. Her voice was soft, encouraging, with a slight Eastern European accent, which was just enough to make her sound exotic but not foreign. Her parents immigrated to Connecticut when things got nasty and violent in Poland. By the time she reached high school, she was as American as any of her classmates. However, she was an easy target for bullies because of her accent, her gangly appearance, and her lack of interest in partying.

Is it about Ricky? Midnight asked as she watched Trina twirl her bracelets on her left wrist. She knew about Ricky. He was loud and brash, and since he didn’t seem to have a job, he strutted around Hialeah Gardens telling stories of the Ol’ West, as he called it, stories that seemed more unlikely than real. Of course he was always the hero. Not one of Midnight’s favorite people.

Tears welled up in Trina’s eyes. He went off his rocker last night, and I love him so, and …, she pulled a Kleenex from the box on the table. And oh, Midnight, he hurt me. It’s not his fault. I probably said something to tick him off. I don’t remember. I know something’s bothering him and he won’t say what. He went to Jefferson’s with his rifle and hasn’t come back.

You want to talk about it or have a reading? She’d done Trina’s readings many times during her moody and roller coaster life.

Midnight’s interest in psychic readings began during the Quija Board phase of middle school. Once she tried it on her own, sitting cross-legged on her bed, her long fingers lightly placed on the cursor. Who will I fall in love with? was her question. It was a full minute before the cursor began to move. She watched it point to letters: G-I-R-L-S. She was horrified, shoved the board on the floor and stared at it. No, it couldn’t be. She didn’t want it to be. But something deep inside her lit up, and she felt relieved. The Ouija Board revealed a truth she didn’t dare to face on her own. The experience convinced her of the power of the psyche to uncover hidden things.

On a family trip to Atlantic City just before her high school graduation, she snuck away from the beach and went to a small shop on the boardwalk displaying a neon sign with the word Readings inside a lighted hand. Inside was a woman dressed in bangles, beads and glittery clothing, all of which Midnight found mysteriously attractive.

Midnight was astounded by how many choices there were for a reading. There was no Ouija Board. But there was a crystal ball, two stacks of cards (one with geometric symbols and another with medieval castles, knights, and weapons), a bowl of water and crystals of various colors and shapes, and on the wall behind the woman was a shelf of runes and a chart of the stars. She was overwhelmed with the choices, so the woman chose to read her palms and do a Tarot reading. What Midnight heard was so accurate and plausible, she went to the Whitestone Library when she got home and checked out every book on psychics available.

Ever since, she did readings for people and expanded her repertoire of tools and skills. But how does one make a living out of that? She did, barely scraping by and with the help of a bank account filled with money won by her father in a one-time lottery win. Even so, she longed for something better for herself than being a psychic: a career or real job, for instance.

Midnight had an active dream life and a remarkable ability to remember dreams and relate them to real life. Occasionally, she would take a ‘shroom to expand her mind’s eye to see what was going on and where it was headed. In her diary, she described in detail the dreams and was convinced she had a psychic gift herself.

Trina launched into a lengthy recitation of all the ways she loved Ricky and the wonderful things he had done for her. Midnight had heard it all before. Trina was infatuated with one boyfriend after another, always convinced this one was her soul mate, or the chemistry was just right, or her prospects with him were unlimited. They always ended badly, and Midnight was Trina’s safe haven and the only one who really understood her.

What happened last night? Midnight asked when Trina seemed to have exhausted her superlatives about Ricky. Out came the story about the objects he had forced into her and the pain he inflicted upon her as his rage and arousal heightened.

I can take it now and again if it helps him, she said. But he was shitty this morning. I’m afraid to go back.

You don’t have to take it, Sweetie. It doesn’t have to be this way. I hate seeing you get hurt.

I know, I know. I’m just not at that point now.

You can always stay here, Midnight offered. It wouldn’t be the first time Trina stayed the night in Midnight’s trailer. Many women sought refuge there from a battering husband or a knife-wielding boyfriend.

Thanks. Let me see how it goes the rest of the day. Maybe he’ll get it out shooting his rifle. I’ll call you if I need help, and you can send the posse.

You want a reading? I’m glad to do it. Might help.

Naw. I feel better, and I know what I’m going to do.

Which was OK for Midnight. She was never entirely sure of her psychic ability. Sometimes her readings seemed spot-on. Other times they came out as pure bullshit. Only she knew it, of course, but in her honest moments she attributed her success to a highly developed female intuition and her ability to listen deeply to her clients.

Trina rummaged around her faux rattlesnake skin purse and drew out three one-dollar bills, two quarters, and a nickel. It’s not much, but it’s all I have right now.

Oh, you don’t have to, Midnight said. I didn’t do much.

Trina insisted, and they parted with a long hug.

Midnight continued to sit at the folding table. Trina would not be the first woman to visit her today. Midge would come in forty-five minutes, then Marion, and in the late afternoon, Rebecca. All three had been abused the night before.

Abuse was common in the trailer park, but there was something else that nagged Midnight about these three visitors. Something uncannily wrong, beyond the usual. She closed her eyes, trying to sense what was going on, if there was a pattern, or cause for three such incidents at the same time. Slowly something crystalized.

She was walking along the main street of the park as dawn was breaking. Seeping toward her under the first glow of the sun was a dark, rolling fog. It enveloped the trailers around her with a strange aura, surrounding them with nervous tension. The more she looked, the auras grew and sent long tendrils snaking toward her. Her insides twisted with fear and she turned to run away. But her feet were leaden, unable to lift off the ground. She exhausted quickly from the effort. The deadly aura caught up to her and, with bony fingers, encircled her throat from behind. She screamed, but nothing came out of her mouth. She couldn’t breathe …

She awoke, filled with a dread that wouldn’t go away.

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Excuse me, Chief. It was Julie, Vernon Register’s secretary, who quietly knocked on the Chief of Police’s office door.

What is it, Julie?

It’s your wife, sir. On the phone.

Tell her I’ll call back later. I’m in the middle of something.

She said it’s urgent.

It was always urgent with Ruth Ann. When something bothered her, she worked herself into a lather and called him. She saw danger everywhere and imagined lurking evil in the most innocent of situations. Two days ago, she thought she saw an intruder in their backyard by the tool shed. So, she locked the doors, pulled the shades, and when she heard a sound upstairs, she knew he had entered the house and was coming after her. She called Vernon when he was giving a breathalyzer and insisted he come immediately home. He was nowhere near, so he called dispatch to send a cruiser. Turned out, nobody was there, but Ruth Ann was angry he didn’t come himself to rescue her.

It’s Vicki, Vern, Ruth Ann said into the phone. She’s sleeping in again and won’t go to school. She refuses to get up.

You know I’m at work.

She snuck out last night and didn’t come home until early this morning.

How do you know that?

I just know. Call it mother’s intuition. She went over to that boy’s place in the trailer park, I’m sure of it. It wouldn’t be the first time. Vicki and Adam had been an item for six months. Vicki didn’t share a whole lot with her parents, she was sixteen, after all. But they knew about the hand-holding, texting, and long phone calls between them. Ruth Ann was shocked three weeks ago when a text photo dinged on Vicki’s iPhone that her daughter had left in the kitchen. The photo showed a boy’s buttocks with the text: I no how much u 60608.png my tan lines 60610.png

Ok, tell her she’s grounded, and I’ll talk to her when I finish here.

You can’t ground a sixteen-year-old, Vern.

Why not? You were grounded when you were sixteen.

Welcome to the twenty-first century, Vern. Things are different.

What do you suggest?

Can’t you threaten the boy with statutory rape or something?

You think they’re doing it?

Of course, they’re doing it, Ruth Ann said, her voice rising. Don’t you get how serious this is?

I know, I know. It breaks my heart to think of it. She’s still my little peanut. But, it’s not rape, Ruth Ann.

She’s our little girl, how can she give consent?

It’s Romeo and Juliet.

What’s that supposed to mean?

It’s an exemption in the law. Sex between two minors close in age is not a chargeable offense.

Yeah, but they don’t know that. You should put the fear of the law into them.

That’s not appropriate, Ruth Ann, and you know it.

Something’s got to change. What are we going to do about her missing school?

Her grades are all right. She’s smart enough to get along fine.

Oh, you exasperate me!

It’ll be okay, Ruth Ann. I gotta go. We’ll talk tonight.

Vernon turned back to his desk to fine-tooth-comb the proposal for next year’s budget. He was hired two years ago to clean up the Whistling Rocks police department roiled by corruption and lawsuits. Two officers had been found patronizing a prostitute in Middletown during working hours. They were