Molly lifted her eyes and caught sight of Hannah in the distance. Hannah stooped down slowly, her age showing in this simple motion, and she seemed to be clearing leaves from the ground. She shifted her body, swiftly looking from side to side. She walked forward and turned, dodging tree limbs and bushes with agility that could only come from familiarity. Poking at the ground with a long branch, she stooped again.
A volunteer approached Hannah from behind and tapped her on the shoulder, startling her. She stood too quickly, and her stick fell to the ground. Hannah took a few steps backward, as if to cover the spot where she had been investigating. They talked for a few minutes. The volunteer picked up Hannah’s stick, and together they walked back toward the park, passing Molly on their way.
“Are you going back already?” Molly asked Hannah.
“Some things are better left untouched,” Hannah said.
Confused by Hannah’s comment, Molly turned back toward the forest, and readied herself for the pressure that was sure to come. She moved forward with determination. The pressure waned. She was left feeling little more than uncomfortable and bewildered. She eased deeper into the forest, over broken twigs and branches, pushing through thick, prickly bushes. She caught her foot and tripped, catching herself on a small tree. A pain shot through her palm. Shit! Sucking in air between her clenched teeth she inspected the wound. The gash was deep. Blood dripped down her wrist. The cut formed the letter T.
Pastor Lett plodded up the gated-off, overgrown driveway towards the old Perkinson House, mumbling under her breath, “You better be there. Please, Lord, no trouble this time.” It was just after dusk, the sky gray with few clouds, the brisk air stung her cheeks. The center of the drive, a long mound of earth between two ruts from tires gone by, seemed to go on forever. The grass on either side was knee high. Pastor Lett walked with her head down but keenly aware of her surroundings, making certain she was alone. Her dark hair poked out under a knit cap, the ends making a C that turned out just below her shoulders. Her left hand, shoved deep in her coat pocket, held an open bag of sunflower seeds like a security blanket. She thought about the search that was likely still taking place and ignored the shame that flushed her cheeks. She couldn’t quite calm the guilt that wrapped around her as she thought of Molly. She’d heard her calling her name, even seen her running in her direction, but worried that if she’d stopped to chat—with Molly it was always more than a brief chat—she’d run out of time. I do what I can, she rationalized.
The Perkinson House had been strategically built atop a wooded knoll and expertly camouflaged behind enormous oak and elm trees. Only one turret was visible from the main road, and to see it one would need to be in just the right location when the trees were bare. The private yard sloped gently toward what used to be Ten Mile Creek, until it was dammed and the man-made reservoir had swallowed the valley and the few houses within it. Many residents didn’t even know the home existed, much less that the Perkinson House had been entrusted to Pastor Lett some twenty-seven years ago by Chet Perkinson, the sole living family member, who some say was lucky to have escaped the home’s deadly curse.
Pastor Lett slipped into the thick woods as the driveway curved toward the train tracks and became visible, only momentarily, from the road. Fatigue and regret filled her body, as it always did on her nightly journey.
She approached the Victorian house cautiously, concerned about the possibility of vagrants and curious teens. She stood at the edge of the woods until she was sure she was still alone. She stepped quietly out of the woods and onto the leaf-covered grass, taking note of the hanging shutters, loose boards on the wood siding, and the broken window upstairs on the left which winked mysteriously in the sunlight.
She started toward the ivy-covered stone walkway, sighing deeply at the thought of what lay ahead. The two entrance stairs cried out for repair with cracks in the second riser and a non-existent handrail save for the posts. Dwarfed by the looming trees, she turned, heading down the path that led around the side of the house, and moved swiftly to the rear cellar entrance. The smell of wet leaves hung heavily in the air. She quickly brushed the leaves off of the old wooden doors. The sound of twigs snapping caught her attention. She cocked her head to the side and listened intently. Squirrels.
She knelt close to the familiar wooden doors, her knees sunk into the cold, moist ground. She perspired under the weight of her thick coat. Taking one last look around, she removed a key from around her neck and unlocked the thick chain that held the wooden doors closed.
Cold damp air brushed Pastor Lett’s face as she pulled the doors open. The musty smell hung in the air as she walked down the narrow, stone stairway and into the pitch black cellar. She ignited a lighter, pleased to see that nothing was out of place. The dirt walls of the small chamber sent another rush of culpability through her body. Lord, please forgive me, she prayed.
A claustrophobic pressure engulfed her as she became accustomed to the darkness and silence. She lugged the cheap metal shelving unit from the far end of the chamber into the center of the room, the old tin cans and few tools that were spread on the shelves knocked and clanked against the cold metal. She slid the marred plywood away from the dirt wall and moved it to the side, leaning it against the shelving unit. Sweating despite the cool air and feeling every day as old as her fifty-seven years, Pastor Lett worried about the day that the plywood would become too heavy for her to move alone.
Her body sagged as she tucked her head to her chest and moved slowly through the hand-dug hole and into the next chamber, where she could stand her full height of five feet nine inches.
Small battery-powered lights sat on an abused end table. An unlit candle lay tilted on the floor. Tucked into a nook in the dirt wall was a mattress, a cream comforter thrown haphazardly off the edge. An old, stained sofa sat an angle, inches out from the wall. The chamber was silent—too silent. Pastor Lett’s heart pounded against her ribs. She stared at the black hole behind the sofa, calling out in a sweet voice, “Honey, you in here?”
Worry grew in her heart as she moved through the empty chambers, then retraced her steps back to the main chamber. She replaced the plywood and shelves, roughly arranging the tins and tools, her face tight with frustration. She left the cellar, locking the heavy chain securely in place.
Pastor Lett paced the back yard, worrying. She looked up as a shadow moved past the window of one of the upstairs bedrooms. Mumbling under her breath, she fumbled with the keys, unlocking the thick wooden door that led from the back porch into the butlers’ pantry. I’ve got you.
“Ow, shit!” Molly grimaced at the pain in her palm as she lifted the spaghetti pot from the hot burner.
“Baby, let me get that,” Cole said as he walked into the kitchen and saw his wife struggling. “What happened to your hand?”
Molly backed onto a white kitchen chair and laid her arm across her thigh. “Did you lose your pager today?” she asked, annoyed. “I tried to page you all afternoon.”
“No. It was crazy, seeing patients, doing procedures. I must have forgotten to put it back on.” He set the pan back on the stove and knelt in front of Molly. “I’m sorry, baby. What happened?” He kissed her bandaged palm, “Let me see that hand.” He unwrapped the bandage. “Where are the pups?”
Molly had almost forgotten about their dogs’ earlier escape. She shrugged, “They jumped the fence again. I’ll get them later.” She sat back in her chair, exasperated, and looked down at the crown of his beautiful dark hair, her frustration beginning to subside. “I had a terrible day,” she sighed, “well, not terrible, but scary and confusing to say the least! Did you see the paper? The story about the little girl who’s missing?”