"I don't think so," she said. "Why? Is something special on television?"
Tommy shook his head and pointed at the kitchen floor. "I just don't like the faces looking at me. They're spooky."
"No spookier than our face," Megan said, stepping past her brother to enter the kitchen.
"They're not faces," Mike said, sliding his chair back and taking a seat at the table. "They're stains. That's all."
"They look like faces to me," Tommy argued.
"They may look like faces, but they're not," Holly said, trying to reassure her son. "Honest. Now, come eat before your food gets cold."
Tommy remained standing in the doorway. "But I don't want to step on them. They might bite me."
Mike made a point of looking at his son's feet. "You're wearing shoes. If they try to bite you, just give them a good stomp."
Holly shot Mike a quick look of warning, but what he had just said to Tommy obviously worked. The boy entered the kitchen and took a seat at the table, being careful not to step on any of the stains in the process.
Wanting to change the subject from spooky-looking stains, Holly hinted that Mike might go into town and see about getting a satellite dish antenna for the television. Such a suggestion delighted the kids and turned the talk to all of the television shows they would soon be enjoying.
After breakfast Mike helped to clear away the dishes and then went into the library. He was about to select a book from the shelf when he noticed that all of the kachina dolls had been turned back around to face the wall.
"What the hell?" He stepped closer to the shelf. Each and every one of the statues had been turned. None had been left untouched. "Who the hell did this?"
Angry, he crossed the room and stepped into the hallway. He started to go back into the kitchen, but entered the living room instead. A quick glance around the room showed him that all of the kachina statues in the living room had also been turned to face the wall.
"Holly! Kids!" he yelled, never taking his eyes off of the statues. "Come in here a minute."
"What is it, dear?" Holly entered the room, wiping her hands off on a dish rag. The children followed her.
"Is this someone's idea of a bad joke?" He pointed at the collection of kachina dolls lining the shelf. Turning to the children, he asked, "Did you guys turn the statues around last night while we were at the dance?"
Tommy shook his head. "I didn't do it. Honest. I can't reach up that high."
"How about you Megan?"
A look of hurt flowed into the girl's eyes, followed by a flash of anger. "I didn't do it. I was upstairs all night. Ask Tommy. Maybe the baby-sitter did it."
"Why would the baby-sitter turn the kachinas around?" Mike asked, not entirely convinced his daughter was telling the truth. He suspected she had turned the statues around to get back at him and Holly for hiring a baby-sitter. Perhaps she and Tommy were both in on the prank. Such a thing would not surprise him, although he had never known Tommy to tell a lie.
Megan shrugged. "Maybe she didn’t like than looking at her."
Megan's answer surprised Mike, and made him consider a possibility he had not thought of before. Perhaps his daughter was right. The baby-sitter might have been a little unnerved at having several hundred frightful statues staring at her, especially in an old farmhouse late at night. Even so, it seemed an unusual course of action, for it would have been far easier just to ignore the kachinas than climb up on a chair to turn each and every one of them around.
Holly was also suspicious that her children were playing a prank, but she could not scold them without adequate proof. Wanting to take the pressure off of the kids, she said, "Well, it looks like someone went to an awful lot of trouble just to play a joke. Megan might be right. Maybe the baby-sitter didn't want the statues staring at her. Can't say that I blame her. I wouldn't want them staring at me either.
"We can turn the statues around later," she said. "After we get back from church."
Still wanting to be accepted into the new community, Holly had decided to take the children to the Methodist church for Sunday service. She wasn't a regular churchgoer, but she did like to attend services once in a while.
Mike declined to go with them, wanting instead to stay home and work on his new novel. He hadn't touched the story in almost two weeks and was afraid of it growing cold on him. Besides it would be good to be alone for a while to get the old creative juices flowing.
* * * * *
The BraddockMethodistChurch was an impressive red brick building on the corner of Main Street
and Ashmore Drive
. It was one of only two churches in town: the other being the First Baptist over on Mission Street
. Catholics had to drive all the way to Warrenton to attend service.
Sunday service was just beginning when Holly pulled the van into the side parking lot. She cast a quick glance into the rearview mirror to make sure her hair and makeup looked presentable, then climbed out of the vehicle and waited for the children to join her. Having locked the van, they crossed the parking lot to the church.
Truthfully, Holly was not that strong on religion and did not regularly go to church. In the last year she had only attended services twice, and then only because she had gone with someone else. She considered herself a Christian, because she believed in God, but she didn't think it was necessary to attend church to be saved from the eternal damnations of Hell.
Not that she really believed in Hell. Or the Devil. She suspected that both were made up by religious leaders in an attempt to scare the masses and fill the collection plates. The Devil was probably nothing more than the religious equivalent of the bogeyman, something to tell to naughty children and half-senile old women.
She climbed the stone steps leading up to the church and opened one of the massive wooden doors for Tommy and Megan. Her children didn't enjoy church services, another reason why Holly never attended them on a regular basis. She wanted them to have a working understanding of religion, all religions, but she didn't want to shove it down their throats as most parents did.
Holly's mother had once been a stout Baptist, forcing her to attend church on a regular basis in an attempt to brainwash her into believing everything the preacher said. Those beliefs had been shattered when their minister was caught being serviced by a local hooker in a two-bit motel. It was hard to believe in the righteousness of a congregation leader who had been caught with his pants down around his ankles and his penis in someone's mouth.
No. The children would make their own decisions when it came to religion. Intelligent decisions based on their own reasoning, not based on the influence of family members. And if they chose no religion at all, then Holly would stand behind them one hundred percent.
Entering the church, she led the kids down the side aisle until she found space in one of the pews. Once seated, she picked up a program book from the holder in front of her, gave it a quick glance, and then turned to admire the architecture.
Above her a lofty vaulted ceiling of polished redwood had been carefully constructed to draw one's gaze upward in spiritual contemplation. The roof and beams supporting it acted as a sounding board for the organ, sending vibrations bouncing throughout the building like the ominous voice of the Almighty. Four large stained glass windows were set in the walls that ran parallel to the pews, each depicting a famous biblical scene.
Wood was put to good use at the front of the church in the form of beams, paneling, and the altar's decorative rail. It all seemed to glow under the light cast by the fixtures suspended from the ceiling. As the choir finished their opening hymn, the minister stepped forward to start the day's sermon, offering first messages of condolences to congregation members who were sick and injured.
Holly settled back to enjoy the service, only having to remind Tommy twice not to talk while the minister was speaking. The two times he said something he had kept his voice to a whisper, but she knew even whispering could be very annoying to those around them.
As the service progressed, she noticed several congregation members cast glances and stares her way. At first she suspected they were just curious about the new arrivals, especially those who were obviously strangers to the religious community. But some of the looks she received were outright hostile, making her feel that her presence was less than welcomed. Remembering how she and Megan had been similarly treated in the supermarket, she wondered if the looks and stares had anything to do with the newspaper article about her husband.
I'll sure be glad when some other celebrity moves to town so they'll quit looking at us.
Service ended without any embarrassing mishaps. Megan didn't fuss too much about having to endure the ceremony, and Tommy fidgeted no more than was normal for a boy his age. Nor did he try to sneak a quarter from the collection plate as he had once done during midnight mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral. All that remained was the customary shaking of hands with the minister and other church dignitaries as they filed out of the building. Since she was new, Holly made a point of introducing herself and the children as she shook the minister's hand.
"Oh, I'm quite aware of who you are, Mrs. Anthony," Reverend Mitchell replied, a frown touching the corners of his mouth. "I'm also familiar with your husband, and the things he writes."
Holly knew by the tone of his voice that Reverend Mitchell was going to say something negative about Mike's books. It would not be the first time a religious leader had said such things; after all, Mike wrote horror and dark fantasy novels. Even in this day and age, many people considered him in league with the Devil. She wanted to walk away from the reverend, get in her van, and just leave. Instead, she asked, "You've read some of my husband's books?"
The minister shook his head. "No, I haven't, and for good reason I might add. Neither I nor my congregation approve of such books. Nor do we like it that your husband has chosen to use this fine community as the setting of several of his witchcraft stories."
Holly was taken aback. "There must be some mistake. Mike has never used this town in any of his books."
The minister smiled a patronizing smile, which infuriated Holly. "He uses different names, makes some minor changes to enhance the story, but anyone familiar with Braddock will easily recognize it as the same town described in several of his novels."
"He may have borrowed a few things from this town — a street or two, the name of a road, even the description of a cemetery or a cave — but all writers do that," Holly argued. "They write about what they know, and for Mike this town was an important part of his childhood. His roots are here. If he puts a little bit of Braddock into his stories, I assure you he does so as a way to honor the town, not to embarrass the people living in it."
"Mrs. Anthony, the novels your husband writes have made many of the people in this town quite angry. They don't want to be associated with works of literature about witchcraft and Satanism. My congregation feels very strongly about this matter, as do I; therefore, I feel it would be in the interest of all if you and your family found another church to attend."
Holly felt a flush of anger creep across her face. It was all she could do to keep from swearing. "Reverend Mitchell, you said you have never read any of my husband's books. Is that correct?"
He nodded. "That's correct, but—"
"Then how can you possibly judge him or what he writes fairly? Mike's books aren't evil. If anything they're a warning against the dangers of evil. His last novel, Pentagram Dreams, was the story of a father fighting to save his child from a Satanic cult. It was a story of good versus evil, with good winning in the end. Surely you can't think badly of a book that warns others about evil. Can you?"
"It doesn't matter what I think of your husband's books, Mrs. Anthony," Reverend Mitchell replied, speaking to her as if she were a child who didn't understand. "What matters is what my congregation, and the town of Braddock, thinks of your husband and his books. And I have already told you what they feel about the situation."
Holly wanted to argue the matter, but the minister dismissed her with a slight wave of his hand.
"Good day, Mrs. Anthony. We will pray for you and your family."
Holly took a deep breath and smiled, suppressing the anger about to overtake her tongue. "And I will pray that you, and the rest of your congregation, be saved from total and complete ignorance. But I'm afraid it's much too late for that."
With that parting remark Holly turned away from Reverend Mitchell, leaving him red-faced and sputtering. Steering the children through the crowd, she didn't look back until she had reached the van. The reverend still stood on the sidewalk, staring after her. She thought about flipping him the bird just for the hell of it, but decided against it. No sense dropping to the level of others when she didn't have to.
"Mom, we won't be coming back to this church, will we?" Tommy asked, looking up at her.
Suddenly realizing she had been holding her breath, Holly breathed out, releasing some of the tension seizing her. She looked down at Tommy and smiled, patting him on the top of the head. "No. We won't be coming back here."
Tommy thought about it for a moment, then smiled. "Good. I didn't like this place."
"I didn't like it much either." Unlocking the van, she climbed in and started the motor. She waited for the children to climb in and slip their seat belts on, then backed out of the parking space and started down the street. Reverend Mitchell continued to watch her as she drove away.
12
The empty computer screen stared at Mike, challenging him to fill its gray brightness with words. The cursor flashed mockingly. He stared back at the screen, typed a few words, then changed his mind and deleted what he had just written. He turned to look at the clock sitting atop his desk and frowned.
An hour had already gone by, yet he had nothing to show for it. No visions of a literary masterpiece had floated up from the deep dark recesses of his mind. Not one page. Not a paragraph. Not even a single line of dialogue worth keeping. Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and wondered where his talent had gone.
Oh, sure, he could blame his lack of creative flow on the unfamiliarity of his new office. He could even ascribe it to the newness of the house, or a mental drain brought on by the move. That wouldn’t be the truth, however, because his flow had stopped weeks before he even thought about moving from New York.
Writer's block.
Mike shook his head. No. No. No. He dared not even think such thoughts. Writer's block was the dreaded curse of the literary world. It came without warning or reason, robbing an author of the inner voice that guided him through lonely nights and countless blank pages. Writer's block could last for months, even years, ending the career of even the most talented author.
I do not have writer's block!
If he did have writer's block, there had to be a reason for it. Maybe the pressure of writing had finally taken its toll on him, planting the seed of doubt deep in his mind that his talent was all used up.
He knew the critics were just waiting for him to make a mistake, hoping his next novel would not be nearly as good as the one before it. Like lions at a watering hole they were waiting to pounce, dragging him down into the world of bad reviews and warehouses full of unsold books. No matter how much he chose to deny it, the pressure was on and Mike knew it. The next novel had to be as good as those before it or he was finished as an author.
He had hoped moving to the country, away from the domain of publishers, agents, and critics, would take some of the pressure off of him and loosen up the old creative juices. But from the look of things, his mind was just as stopped up in the country as it had been in the city. He only had three months to complete the first draft on the novel he was currently writing, and he was less than halfway through.
Think happy thoughts. Or gory thoughts since this is a horror novel. But write. Damnit. Write.
Maybe a walk would help loosen up the old creative juices. He really hadn't had much of a chance to get out and walk around the property,
so maybe now would be a good time to do so. Besides, the house was kind of spooky when it was empty; he kept getting the strange feeling he was being watched. He also kept catching movements out of the corner of his eye — small shadows that seemed to flit and dart across the room —but whenever he turned his head to look, nothing was there.
Deciding a walk was exactly what he needed, he exited out of the word processor he was currently using and switched off his Gateway 2000. He stood up and pushed his chair back under the desk, then covered his computer and turned off the lamp.
He went upstairs to grab his house keys and a pair of sunglasses. Pinky, who had been napping at the top of the stairs, followed him when he came back down.
"Want to go for a walk, boy?" The big cat rubbed against his legs as he unlocked the front door, and then quickly shot past him when the door was opened. Slipping on his sunglasses, Mike stepped outside and locked the door behind him.
As he circled around the house to the apple orchard, Pinky ran ahead of him, stopping to sniff a strange scent or chase a bug through the tall grass. Grasshoppers proved to be an obvious delight to the feline, and he took great pleasure in stalking them in his best jungle cat fashion.
Only about half of the trees had apples on them; the rest were leafless and looked to be the victims of some form of disease. Mike wondered if the disease could spread to the other trees, and made a mental note to find out from someone who knew about such things. If there was a chance of the disease spreading to the healthy trees, then it would be best to hire someone to cut down the diseased trees before the entire orchard was wiped out. No reason to lose a supply of fresh fruit if he didn't have to.
Beyond the orchard the forest grew thick and wild. For the most part the trees were elms and oaks, but there were several places where strands of tall pines reached for the sky. Noticing the straightness of the rows, Mike realized the pine trees had been carefully planted by someone.
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