There is a part of me that believes this choice was uncharitable. However, it doesn’t take long for the memory of the many uncharitable and downright wicked acts of the Coldwaters against my family to remind me that they are owed no favors.
So, when I found these items in the yard earlier today, I put two and two together, and deduced that they were placed there by Candace, perhaps when she bent down and disappeared briefly from my sight. I did find them in a spot close to where I had seen her walking.
A potential fallacy of my deduction is that she was naked; if she had been carrying them, it would have been obvious. I have given this some thought, though, and I believe that, seeing her through the kitchen window from a distance, I might not have noticed them in her hands. Or, she might have placed them before I detected her.
Anyway, how else can I explain it?
They are round, about five inches in diameter, with soft hair that curls out from their edges, disappearing back inside their shape. Quite odd, and of a material that I cannot discern.
The hair, however, looks exactly like Candace’s, and I wonder if it is hers.
- - -
I had the most unusual dream last night, and wanted to write it down before it left my memory.
A woman, dressed in some kind of animal skin – like an Indian – was moving through the woods, trying to find her home. She had a basket of fish in one hand; I remember seeing perch and trout. She was climbing through a trail in the brush, anxious to get away from something following her. At times during the dream I was behind her, watching as she hurried, and at other times I could see through her eyes, scanning the trail ahead.
She came to a clearing where people were standing; dozens of people, all frozen in place, all staring in the same direction. They frightened me, looking exactly as I imagine ghosts might appear. She kept running as though she didn’t see them, and I watched as she continued to hurry, passing through them with her basket, causing their forms to come apart and dissolve a little. As she made her way to the other side of the clearing, entering a trail that continued on, I remember turning to look back at the figures. They were still there, reformed, facing me, looking angry at the disruption. I had the feeling they might attack me in some way, and it scared me to the extent that I forced myself awake from the dream, sitting up in bed, gasping.
I always keep a glass of water on my nightstand, and was grateful for it, sipping at it until I felt myself calm down.
Hal, of course, remained unstirred, sawing logs as if he were a lumberjack.
- - -
Amy said that today all hell broke loose.
She was cleaning on a side of the Coldwater mansion near Candace’s rooms, when the entire house shook as though it had been hit by something. Paintings fell from the walls, and several vases toppled, falling and breaking on the floor.
At first she thought it was an earthquake, but she said it began and ended so quickly it didn’t remind her of any of the earthquakes we’ve had before. It was one sudden, massive bombshell, knocking the house nearly from its foundation.
Two others on the staff found her, and the three of them began to speculate on what the massive jolt could have been.
It was then that the smell appeared. Amy said all three of them detected it at the same time, a horrible odor that smelled worse than rotten eggs. They held their noses, wondering what might cause such a stench.
Then they heard yelling in the distance. Mrs. Coldwater was shouting, yelling, screaming about something. As they heard her approach, the other two left Amy to return to their assignments, not wanting to appear idle to the matron, as she was known to be highly critical of their work.
Mrs. Coldwater’s voice grew louder, and the stench grew more intense. Amy was moments from leaving, wanting to go outside to get fresh air, when the matron rounded the corner from the hallway. Her hair, normally a dark brown, now looked a light grey, and spilled from her head, disheveled. She was wearing her nightgown, which was torn in a couple of places; her hands alternated from wild gesticulations in the air, to grabbing at her own clothes and rending, giving Amy the impression that the tears were caused by the woman herself rather than some other person.
But, as odd as the entire scene was, Amy said the most chilling part was the words coming from Mrs. Coldwater’s mouth: her lips seemed to move rapidly, and a strange, guttural language came from her, phrases Amy couldn’t understand, which the woman shouted and screamed, looking up at the walls and the ceiling as she yelled, as though she was cursing the building with a bizarre, heathen tongue.
Amy found herself glued to the spot, even though she wanted to run. The matron walked right past her, screaming and ranting, her arms flying about rapidly, tearing at her clothing and tearing at non-existent shapes in the air in front of her, not acknowledging her in the slightest. Amy watched as the woman continued out of the room and into the next hallway, and she could hear her friend, Maria, gasp in horror as Mrs. Coldwater passed by her, too.
Finally, she broke from her spot, scared to death by the bizarre behavior, but wanting to check on Maria, to see if she was alright. She found her friend standing in the drawing room, a hand at her mouth, with a look of shock similar to her own. Mrs. Coldwater was just leaving the room, continuing on her path through the house, screaming and yelling. Amy stood next to Maria; she said her friend was so terrified, she wanted to cry. She suggested to Maria that they go outside for a moment to get fresh air, and the two of them walked back into the hallway, the opposite of the way Mrs. Coldwater had gone, not wanting to run into her again.
The door to the outside was mid-way down the hall that ran back to Candace’s room. Lining the hall on one side were windows that faced east, usually making this section of the house a bright, cheery space during the daytime. At the opposite end of the hallway they saw movement; a dark mist was coming toward them, roiling like fog, moving rapidly, absorbing the sunlight as it went.
Amy told me she felt a chill race down her spine at the sight: fog, inside the house?
Considering the sequence of bizarre events that had just occurred, she didn’t stop to wonder why it was there, or why it was barreling toward them, cutting off the doorway that led to the courtyard. Instead, Amy grabbed Maria and pulled her back to the drawing room, choosing instead to exit the way Mrs. Coldwater had gone, deeper into the house. There was a back door through the kitchen that they could use, provided Mrs. Coldwater wasn’t there.
Although she could hear the matron yelling and screaming as they hurried, Amy found the route clear and soon they were both standing on the cement of the driveway at the side of the house, taking deep breaths. They could both still smell it, the rancid odor somehow leaching out from the house, but the forest air helped dissipate the stench.
Maria pointed to one of the windows on the second story above them, and Amy looked up. It was completely black, as though the glass panes had been painted over. They watched as other windows that appeared normal, exposing curtains hanging just inside, slowly turned opaque and eventually darkened.
Amy said it looked like a deadly disease spreading through the house, and Maria agreed.
They decided that neither of them would go back into the house that day. Amy scribbled a quick note explaining their need to go home due to an emergency, which she left on a counter in the kitchen entryway, and grabbed her and Maria’s coat that hung from pegs just inside the door. The two left the property, watching as more windows darkened.
Due at my home for cribbage, she came straight here, surprising me by being an hour early. Naturally I was at the edge of my seat as she related the events. I forgot to drink the tea as a result, and it became cold before either of us touched it.
I asked if she intended to return to work tomorrow, and she said she wasn’t scheduled until Monday, but even then, she wasn’t sure if she would or not.
I told her she had every right to resign, even though I knew if she were to do so, I’d lose my spy within the house. She seemed conflicted
, saying the pay was excellent and that she’d have to think about it.
Then we both speculated on what might have caused the series of events. Since Mrs. Coldwater came from the direction of Candace’s room, we decided something must have happened at that end of the house. Amy agreed, confirming that the fog she saw in the hallway was coming from that direction, consistent with our theory, as was the order of the darkening windows.
I quipped that perhaps the house was now infected by something horrible, and Amy chastised me gently, saying she hopes it isn’t true – due to her need of a job – but that it sure seemed like that is exactly what had happened.
Chapter Eighteen
Mrs. Hughes closed the book.
“My father,” she said, “knew, of course, about the enmity between our families; it was a dynamic that was unavoidable growing up when he did, and it permeated our entire experience living on the mountain. However, he discovered my grandmother’s diary only after she died. According to my mother, when he first read his mother’s accounts, he began to gradually change, ultimately becoming obsessed with the Coldwaters. It bothered my mother greatly, because she didn’t know about any of this history before she married my father, and just wanted to ignore it all and move on, try to live a normal life.
“However, Jack – my father – couldn’t let it go. Having read my grandmother’s diary many times myself, I understand why. Not only were the events it describes mysterious and incredible, my grandmother was skilled at instilling a sense of family pride through her writing, a rallying cry to defend our name and stand up for our rights against another usurping family that frequently tried to demean and bulldoze over them. I still feel that way now, myself.”
“Not surprising,” Ron offered.
“So, as I said, my father was obsessed with the Coldwaters, and as obsessions often do, they ruin the lives of the people around them. When I was still small, his focus drifted from his work and career to studying and analyzing the Coldwaters, trying to learn if my grandmother’s conclusions were accurate, and digging into the mysteries she hadn’t figured out: what caused the events at the house, the smell, the fog, the windows darkening, Mrs. Coldwater’s bizarre ranting. The strange items my grandmother found in the yard. All that.”
Ron swallowed, knowing now was the time to speak up. “I found one of them. I think.”
Mrs. Hughes, who had been relating the story in a calm, unhurried way, suddenly looked up at him, alarmed. “One of what?”
“That item you read about in your grandmother’s diary. The one with the hair along the edges.”
“You did?”
“It was inside a dresser I found in the house when I moved in.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jake asked.
Ron shrugged, not wanting to get into his reasons while Mrs. Hughes was still providing information.
The woman opened the other book, flipping through pages until she found the one she wanted. She turned it to Ron. “Did it look like that?” Her finger reached over the top of the page, pointing to a drawing near the bottom.
“Kinda,” Ron replied. “Your grandmother wrote that it was five inches in diameter, but the one I found was much smaller.”
“Do you have it?” Mrs. Hughes asked. “Can you show it to me?”
“Uh,” Ron replied, wondering how to word his next thought. “Well, no. I mean, I have it, in a way, I suppose. It…uh…”
“Sunk into you?” she asked.
He looked at her, trying to translate what she had said into the experience he remembered from a few days before. “Well, I don’t know if that’s what you’d call it, exactly. I was holding it…”
“…and it disappeared into you,” Mrs. Hughes said, cutting him off.
He felt suddenly guilty, as though he might be perceived as part of the enemy by the woman. “I didn’t mean to. It just kind of…happened.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she replied, detecting his alarm. She held up her hand, showing him her palm. “I’ve had several.”
“Pardon me,” Jake interjected. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Pardon his French,” Ron added.
“Swearing doesn’t bother me,” she replied, lowering her hand and looking at Jake. “Do you know what a nazar is?”
“No idea,” Jake replied. “Never heard of it.”
“In some cultures, they believe that a curse can be cast by a simple look. You’ve heard the phrase ‘evil eye’?”
Jake nodded.
“Well, some people take it very seriously. They make talismans to ward against it.”
“This is a nazar?” Ron asked, pointing to the drawing in the book.
“Not precisely,” Mrs. Hughes replied. “Similar in concept, but very different in conception, behavior, and results. Have you seen anything odd since it entered you?”
“Entered you?” Jake asked, turning to Ron.
“Yeah, I was holding it, and it just kind of…dissolved. Into my palm.”
“And you didn’t tell me about that?”
“There was so much other shit happening,” Ron replied, then turned to Mrs. Hughes. “To be honest, there’s been so many weird things going on the past few weeks, it’s all odd to me. It’s hard to identify any specific thing.”
“Think back. When did you find it? When did it dissolve in your hand?”
“Yesterday. No, day before.”
“Go back through what happened since then.”
“Ah,” Ron replied. “The neighbor. He showed up just after that.”
“The neighbor?”
“He said he lives on the other side of the ravine.”
“What, the ravine by your house?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no one living on the other side of that ravine.”
“I figured as much,” Ron continued, “when he drugged me. Wanted me to have a conversation with something that lives in one of my bedrooms.”
“That dark thing!” Jake chimed in. “That thing we saw! You talked to it?”
“He said his name was Ezra,” Ron replied.
Mrs. Hughes raised a hand to her forehead, rubbing it gently. Then she dropped it to rub at her face, as though she was waking herself up. “Damn.”
“Damn?” Ron repeated. “What?”
“I have no idea who that might be.”
Jake interrupted. “Would someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?”
Mrs. Hughes took the book back from Ron, placing it in front of her. “I told you my father became obsessed with the Coldwaters. At first it was mild, but as the obsession grew, he became more bold, seeking information he decided he could only obtain by infiltrating their mansion. How he managed to protect himself from them has always been bewildering to me, but also a source of admiration. Whereas my grandfather thought of them as annoying neighbors, and my grandmother considered them enemies, my father took it further. He felt that their mansion was a source of evil, destined to infect the mountain and destroy everyone on it. He took what had been a series of obnoxious neighbor disputes and escalated them into a full-fledged war, justified by the idea that he was on a righteous mission to cleanse things, to eliminate evil. In light of his perspective, he considered all options to be on the table, including robbery.”
She reached for the book and lifted it a few inches from the table. “He stole this from inside the Coldwater house. Although a lot of it reads like a puzzle, it, more than anything, offers an explanation of what had happened there.”
She put the book back onto the table. “And before we go any further, I should tell you something important. My father’s war with the Coldwaters was long and violent. I said all options were on the table in his mind, and that wound up including everything you can imagine. Amongst the various events that occurred in my father’s war, one was particularly devastating. When I was fifteen, our family home – the house that my great grandfather originally built on the mountain, and that had belonged to my grandmother,
and of course my father – burned to the ground. It was such a hot fire, nothing was left standing but a pile of ash. We were a family of six, and all escaped except for my youngest brother, Marshall. He was five years old. We found teeth in the ash; the rest of him was incinerated.”
“I’m sorry,” Ron offered.
“That burning escalated my father’s war into a series of events that ended with the brutal murder of Mr. and Mrs. Coldwater. By my father. He was executed for their deaths. It brought an end to the active war my father waged, but didn’t cleanse this area of evil.”
“Wow,” Jake muttered. “He murdered them?”
“Yes.”
“What about their daughter?” Ron asked. “Candace?”
“Disappeared.”
“How did he do it?” Jake asked. “Kill them?”
“He was found by my mother and the local police in the drawing room of the Coldwater mansion, bathed in blood, the body parts of the Coldwaters strewn around the room where he had tossed them. He protested innocence, but it was obvious that he had done it, and the fact that he seemed delighted with the result didn’t help the authorities believe his account. By this point, my father had experienced so many unusual and bizarre things at the hands of the Coldwaters, his unfiltered retelling of the events to the police made him sound like a mad man. A jury thought so, too, but in those days, they weren’t so willing to consider mental evaluations, and much quicker to execute. They hanged him in Walla Walla.
“My mother forbade discussion of it. We were allowed to visit him in prison before the hanging, but the subject of the Coldwaters and his war with them was off the table, strictly enforced by her. I was never able to learn from him, directly, what he had gone through.
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