by SH Livernois
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Slip
Thanks For Reading
About the Author
SLIP
S.H. Livernois
Copyright © 2016 S.H. Livernois
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
Slip
Harriet and Arthur Bloomsbury were hopelessly lost.
As their Cadillac traversed a rutted dirt track, Harriet's eyes darted between the map on her lap, the road unfolding beneath a blazing blue sky, and her husband's smiling, unconcerned face behind the wheel.
"Are you quite sure you didn't take a turn somewhere?" she said.
"Yes, my darling, I'm quite sure," he purred.
The car plunged into a new pothole with a creak, releasing a plume of dust that floated inside the car to sting her eyes. There seemed to be more ruts than road, and it was barely a road at that. Verdant empty land unfurled to either side of it, not a house or human in sight.
"We should've made it through Old Westbury by now," Harriet said, lips shrewdly pursed. She swept a lock of hair off her forehead, freed by a sticky breeze fluttering in from the window. "Perhaps the road forked and we took the wrong side?"
"Harry. We're not lost," he said, his voice soft and placating.
Yes, indeed, they were. That was Harriet's only conclusion, but she swallowed the argument. How else could one explain a paved, two-lane county road transforming into a smear of dirt no wider than a hiking path? Or the fact that they'd followed directions, and their map, to the letter and ended up lost anyway?
Arthur reached across the front seat and softly pinched her arm with warm fingers, smiling that broad smile he got when amid an exciting adventure. Harriet knew her husband well: he wasn't sure at all, but he didn't mind.
"There's no such thing as being lost." His voice rose an octave and squeaked. "Only discovery! We're exactly where we're meant to be, my dear."
Harriet hated discovery and adventure. After three weeks crisscrossing New England without an itinerary, she was ready to go home to her own bed, fire crackling in the fireplace while her Corgi snuggled in the crook of her legs. She'd endured it all for Arthur. But when this trip was over she'd have to give him the bad news.
Her aching bones had no more adventure left in them — the arthritis had taken over. After three hours in the car, her bones throbbed and a hot circle of white pain stabbed her lower back. She couldn't do it anymore. The dozen or so trips left on Arthur's post-retirement list would have to be canceled.
She brought the map up to her eyes and followed Route 3 with a mauve-polished fingertip as it cut through two small towns.
"Arthur, this is impossible," she said, scanning the landscape outside her window. She saw rolling green hills, stretching to a horizon of robin's egg blue. Trees whose green leaves rustled in a haze of humidity, the air still and tinged with a ghostly yellow hue. But no towns, just unbroken land and dense forest.
In fact, Harriet hadn't seen a road sign or another car for miles, and that, too, was odd. It made no sense. Harriet hated enigmas more than adventure.
"What's impossible, Harry?" Arthur said.
"We should've passed Old Westbury a long time ago."
Harriet suppressed a groan and shifted her weight in the seat to stretch her short legs. She turned away from Arthur and winced out the window. The sun shone through the muddy yellow haze, searing her eyes; she closed them and breathed deeply, drawing in the scent of earth and the sweet odor of manure.
"I've stuck to this one road for an hour, just about," he said cheerily. "And I followed the directions to a tee. You alright?"
"Fine, darling." To conceal her agony, Harriet fussed with her sculpted and sprayed hair in the side-view mirror. "Maybe his directions were wrong. There's another town about five miles from here — Downing — and I suspect a hotel. Why don't we stop and get some rest?"
"Rest?" He raised a hand to the sky outside the windshield. "It's barely past lunch! And what a gorgeous day! There is so much exploring left to do!"
She couldn't help but smile at his excitement — his eyes wide behind round glasses, wisps of brown hair mussed, dress shirt wrinkled and askew.
"Relax, Harry. And put down that blasted map," he said with a smile. "Planning ruins adventure!"
Harriet folded the map and set in on the dashboard.
"That a girl, Harry," Arthur said.
Harriet peered out the window and through that odd yellowish hue to the folds of green land pasted against the sky. The scenery reminded her of her childhood home. Those thoughts led her to newer ones, of her and Arthur's long life together, their travels. He would be sad when she told him, but he would accept going home, having smaller adventures, and be happy. They always found a way to be happy.
Arthur hit a particularly deep pothole with a crash; the car lurched. The knot of pain at her back broke loose and sliced up her spine. Harriet bit her lip to silence a small scream.
"Good heavens, this is quite a rough road," Arthur said with a clucking laugh.
"Be careful, my dear. We're apt to get stuck."
Suddenly, the green fields vanished into a stretch of thick trees. A soupy fog descended over the road, erasing Harriet's view.
"Are you sure you're alright, Harry? You're awfully pale."
"I'm quite alright," she said as the fog thickened, branches of obscured trees poking through the haze. She offered him a reassuring smile. "Just keep your eye on the road, darling."
Arthur nodded, leaning forward until his nose almost touched the steering wheel. Harriet clenched her hands as drizzle pattered the window. She expected to be stuck at any moment, in the middle of nowhere. For distraction, she took up the map again.
"Oh, look, it's clearing!" Arthur called.
The fog began to dissipate in milky strands and the road reappeared. Trees thinned once again to open fields, and the dirt track, now mud, crawled up a small hill into white cloud. They crested it as the fog waned and a driving rain pinged the car.
Goose bumps rippled across Harriet's flesh with a surge of tingling nerves. The blue sky and green fields were gone and now stretched brown and damp to a low gray sky.
"Arthur, look," she said, pointing outside the window at the barren landscape. "What on earth?"
"A blight, perhaps? That's weird."
As he studied the scene with awe, the car careened at the bottom of the hill with a bounce. Arthur pressed the gas pedal but the car stayed put, tires screeching in muck.
"Good heavens," Arthur muttered. "Now I've gone and done it, eh?"
Harriet patted his arm. Arthur tried again, but the car only lurched in place. He put the car back in park as the wind gusted and the raindrops became a thousand pelting bullets.
"Let's see what I can do."
Arthur thrust the door open and a brisk gale whistled inside. He crossed in front of the car, his breath puffing from his mouth as white mist. Harriet twisted around to watch her husband bend down over the back tire.
As he worked, she rifled through her purse for her pills, desperate to dull the throbbing. The bottle evaded her. Arthur yanked the door open, thrusting in his head, strands of drenched hair pasted against his balding head.
"My goodness, Arthur! Get in here, you'll catch pneumonia standing out there in the cold rain." As she said the words, they struck her as odd. Cold wind, white breath, driving rain — in August. It was an odd pocket of weather.
"We're in luck, Harry!" he said in a breathless voice.
"We're unstuck?"
> "No, that's hopeless." He pointed behind him to a drab house, emerging behind sheets of rain atop a hill. "We can take shelter there."
"Shelter? With strangers? I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not? I'm sure they're friendly, Harry. Let's go. It's freezing out here!"
Harriet sighed, but didn't protest further. She opened her own door, unfolded her stiff bones and creaked herself up to standing. Pain pulsed in every joint, but it felt good to stand. A frigid wind pierced her cardigan and blouse and she shivered. Arthur busied himself at the trunk as Harriet trekked up the hill to its peak. She felt her hair grow sodden and shapeless in the rain and the ache melt away from her lower back and hips as she moved.
The landscape was a somber one. Folds of sepia disappeared into a distant fog tinged with yellow, dark gray clouds dragging across the land. Harriet found no twinkling lights in the view, either from a house or distant town, and no road signs down the length of the muddy scar that was the road. Wind shoved her body like strong, massive hands. Though fierce, she heard it only as a dull thud against her ears, like they were filled with water.
Her silly feelings, the ones she usually ignored, told her something was wrong.
"Harry!"
Arthur's head craned around the car. Bringing her arms up to hug herself, Harriet met him at the trunk. He had two large suitcases in his hands.
"What do we need those for? We're not asking to spend the night here, are we?" Harriet squinted at the house and dread curdled in her chest; an icy gust raked her neck, slicing the tender skin.
"Just in case," Arthur said. His glasses were spattered with raindrops.
"That town isn't far away by now, we could walk it." She heard the selfish words and felt guilty.
"Don't be silly. That place looks cozy. It'll be fun!"
Harriet sighed. There would be no convincing him now. He was already walking away and down the road to a muddy driveway. Harriet started to follow, but on her way, glimpsed the hole that had laid up the car.
Not a pothole. The corners were neat and square and leaves and sticks were scattered around the tire. It seemed someone had dug it and hid their work.
"Arthur!" Harriet called, but her husband was too far away to hear. She chased after him to the strange driveway, where cold black sludge sucked at her kitten-heel shoes. Arthur wouldn't think anything of the pothole, so she kept the discovery to herself. Her dread was simply making her paranoid.
She walked alongside him. "This will be quite a story to tell when we get home, eh?" he mused.
Harriet opened her mouth to answer but sucked in wind instead and sputtered for breath. She trudged on, head bent down; the torrent stinging her face.
The house hulked atop the hill, an imposing thing covered in gray clapboards and surrounded by black mud. Smoke rose from a central chimney, the gray curl disappearing into leaden clouds. Something much colder and more frigid than the rain and wind pierced Harriet's heart.
"They call that salt box style, Harry. Classic New England."
Despite his shivering, his eyes twinkled at the adventure.
"Looks like they're those 'off-the-grid' types. No light poles, barely a light on in the house. Can't be they have electricity." He turned his nose to the air and smiled. "But they're cooking something. Do you smell that?"
The scent curled into her nostrils and down her throat; Harriet's stomach turned. Its tones were familiar: beef and pork, perhaps, but coppery, metallic. The cold in her heart spread and a primal instinct, gaining strength in the back of her mind, rooted her feet to the spot.
Don't be silly, it's a normal farmhouse. Perhaps the eccentrics inside were cooking a meat she'd never tried before. Harriet sighed: she hated trying new foods.
"I'm starving! Come on Harry!" he yelled over his shoulder.
Harriet watched Arthur slog forward, dress slacks coated with mud to his knees. He so easily fell ill, even in the middle of summer. Chronic sinusitis, the doctor said. He needed to get inside, get warm, or he'd be dreadfully sick. And she wanted a bed, too. It would have no roaring fire, no Egyptian cotton sheets, and no electricity perhaps, but it was something.
So she swallowed that cold dread, forced her feet forward. She owed him a few more adventures.
It'll be fun, Harriet. Just relax.
"This place is gorgeous," he said when she caught up.
Orange light flickered in one window. She spied a fenced garden, now a smear of dead plants. Barns in the distance, fronted by a collection of small outbuildings, tree stumps, a low stone wall. And in front of her, a small brown door.
On the front step, the strange meat odor washed over Harriet like a giant tongue.
"Arthur, I don't know about this."
He turned to her with rain-speckled glasses and a questioning scowl.
"This is rude. Turning up on someone's door, begging for shelter and expecting dinner," she said. "I don't feel right about it."
"I know, Harry, but we're stranded, it's freezing. I'm sure these people will take pity on us and help." He squeezed her arm. "Don't worry. People are nicer than you think."
People were never nicer than she thought.
The roof of the farmhouse pinged with sleet now; sometime during their hike up the rise, it had mixed with the rain. That was impossible. She gazed up to the sky, dark and heavy enough to envelope her like a blanket, the yellow hue deepening to a thick smog. Arthur rapped his knuckles against the door with relish.
Harriet squeezed her eyes shut and breathed deeply. The strange dread remained. She tried to calm herself.
It was the ache in her bones, the strange and gloomy weather, and this imposing gray house in a sea of mud. That was all. An overactive imagination could lead one into all kinds of imaginary fears. The dread melted, her heartbeat slowed.
Harriet opened her eyes and saw something flick past a black second floor window.
A wispy white figure, staring down at her and Arthur. It lifted an ethereal arm and the window flew open, the shape taking form as a thin old woman dressed in an old, dingy white dress. A high-pitched trill hissed from a toothless mouth. Harriet put a hand to her ear and the woman repeated it.
"Leave this place!" she said. "Leave now or you never will!"
Distantly, Arthur's knuckles rapped again. The old woman shut the window and slunk back into the shadows behind the glass.
"Arthur…"
"Yes, darling?"
The front door burst open. A stout woman stood silhouetted by a fire roaring somewhere inside. She was homely, made homelier by an unfriendly scowl, but her blunt nose, narrow eyes, and puffy cheeks did her no favors. A heavy dress hung from square shoulders, a faded brown thing with a wide ruffled collar and long sleeves; an apron, splashed with dark stains, covered it.
"Hi there," Arthur said. The woman stared at his extended hand. "I'm Arthur and this is my wife Harriet. We got stuck on the road back there and saw your house. Can we stay here till the weather clears?"
The woman studied their sodden figures, but said nothing. Harriet would've bristled at her rudeness if she wasn't so uneasy.
"Or, perhaps, someone could help dig us out, or drive us to the next town," Harriet offered. The old woman's voice still rang in her ears.
"Let these nice strangers in, Ma," said a growling voice from within. Ma obeyed, leaving the door frame so Harriet and Arthur could enter. The voice belonged to a man now making his way down the entry hall with a ponderous gait, leaden boots thudding like a heartbeat against wood floors. A pipe, ornately carved and golden, hung from his hand. "We have plenty of room. Come in, come in!"
The man beckoned them to follow. He was dressed strangely in a plain, rough shirt and slacks. Arthur patted Harriet on the back, urging her forward.
Leave this place! Leave now or you never will!
Harriet's feet didn't want to move. She forced them, telling herself she imagined the old woman and that the dread was just discomfort for inconveniencing strangers.
Th
e man's slumped frame led them down a shadowed hallway to a dining room. Harriet sniffed the air: wood smoke mixed with sweet tobacco and the earthen musk of dirt. The air was still, every dust particle frozen mid-air, every edge smudged and soft.
"Stuck in the mud, I imagine?" he called on the way; his voice was muffled, distant.
"Yes, just terrible," Arthur said.
Harriet pictured the hole, its neat corners and the scattering of sticks and leaves.
Three figures met them in the dining room, furnished with a long trestle table, hutch, hearth, and mismatched prints and mirrors on the wall. Ma and two young adults sat inside and all stared at Harriet and Arthur, as though caught in the middle of something private. Harriet froze and her skin prickled, as if unseen, cold fingers probed her naked skin.
Maybe she wasn't quite willing to endure another adventure.
Pa flopped down in a chair next to a trestle table strewn with clutter and newspapers. Ma found her place next to the entrance of a kitchen. The young woman, dressed just as oddly in a slightly prettier brown dress, floated next to her father. Her face was angular, with a long, square nose, heavy eyebrows, and high cheekbones. She gazed at Harriet and Arthur with dark, curious eyes. The young man leaned with an arm propped against the hearth, dressed plainly like his elder. His stare unnerved Harriet. The eyes were light, his skin pale, his hair light blond. A muscle in his whiskered jaw twitched, like a bug was trapped under the skin.
"My daughter, Zelda, and her husband, Zeke."
Arthur dropped the suitcase with a thud and rushed forward, hand first.
"Very nice to meet you both," he said, shaking their cautious hands vigorously. "Your house is astonishing! What a remarkable restoration!"
Four faces regarded Arthur with scowls. Heat rose to Harriet's frozen, clammy cheeks, as it always did when people were unkind to her husband. She turned to the old man, who had taken up his pipe again and filled the room with tobacco. It stifled an unpleasant fog of sour, stale sweat.
"Listen, Mr...?"
"Pa. Call me Pa."
He grinned, blowing smoke from between yellow teeth.