PINELIGHTforkindle

by Jillian Peery

“What did he do?” Jean asked as if she already knew.

  “I found one of the pages in his jacket pocket. Apparently, he’s been going through my things—stealing my entries.”

  “Oh. My. Gosh.” Jean pulled off the highway and parked in her usual spot on the dirt road. “What did he say?”

  “It’s hard to say—I think he threatened me.”

  “What did Alice say about all of this?” Jean looked more and more worried with each question.

  “I haven’t told her,” I said.

  “What? Jeez, then promise me you’ll tell her.”

  I sighed for a second, thinking about the reaction she would have after I explained to her that I was threatened. I knew that I should have told her about it, but I had hoped to avoid it altogether. Alice already had too much on her plate to worry about.

  “Promise me,” Jean insisted again.

  I shifted in my seat to unlock my seat belt—a little hint that I was ready to leave.

  “All right. I’ll tell her.” I stepped out of the car. “Can I get a ride tomorrow morning?”

  “Sure thing. I’ll be here. Just make sure you talk to your aunt.”

  I gave her a smile and closed the door, mouthing good-bye from outside the passenger window.

  -4-

  UNUSUAL

  Alice was placing two bowls of her famous four-hour gumbo on the table when I walked through the door. The house was filled with a seafood smell mixed with the spicy scent of simmering onions, celery, and bell pepper. You could almost taste the gumbo by sniffing the air.

  Any other day I would have been excited about spending time with my aunt. I would have been excited about eating gumbo and catching up on the town’s scandalous gossip, possibly sharing a few laughs over the pecan pie—but tonight I was hoping to find a way out of talking. Hoping to share a meal in silence.

  Aside from the usual hello, we went through the motions of setting the rest of the table without speaking. From what I could tell, something was weighing on Alice’s mind as much or more than what was on my own.

  We finally sat down to eat. We talked about the weather mostly. Alice did ask a few more questions about Fergus and the Swamp Tour business—I asked about the hospital and when her next day off might be. That was pretty much it. It was a dinner filled with small talk. We finished the main course, and to my surprise, Alice still had not asked about Erik or school.

  It was during dessert that things got awkward.

  I had just swallowed my first bite of pie when Alice said something that completely caught me off guard.

  “Anything unusual happen to you in the last few days?” She asked as if it were an assumption, as if she already knew the answer and was waiting for me to explain.

  Unusual? It was an odd question, one that was very hard to answer considering the recent events that had transpired with Erik. That was unusual, indeed, but hardly something to pique an adult’s interest. And how did she even know? I had only told Jean, not even an hour ago. Guess there was no way out of telling her about Erik’s warning.

  Alice asked again before I had time to reply. “Anything possibly out of the ordinary?”

  I told her the story from the beginning. It was modified, leaving out the fact that Erik snuck into the house while I was in the shower, but it was still a pretty accurate version of what had happened. Threat and all.

  At first I was stuck on figuring out the look she gave in response to my confession. Her expression wasn’t a disappointed one or an angry one. It was more of a frightened look. Surely she didn’t believe we were in any kind of immediate danger.

  “I should have told you sooner, but I didn’t want you to worry over something like this,” I admitted. “How’d you even find out?”

  As if her brain was still processing everything, she replied mechanically, “I didn’t. I received a call from your school today. You cheated on your Spanish test.”

  “Oh.” I had been preparing for the wrong speech. I had completely forgotten about the Spanish test.

  “Erik threatened you?” Her body tensed as she spoke.

  I nodded. “Yeah, but I think he was only doing it to get to me.”

  I was instantly bothered by her reaction. It seemed completely out of character. She seemed on edge and not the least bit interested that I cheated in Spanish.

  “How would you like to get out of town this weekend? We could leave after you get home from school. Take a road trip. What do you think?”

  Her on-call cell phone, the one that sounded every time the hospital needed her to fill another shift, rang. She almost jumped out of her chair.

  “I better take this upstairs—I’ll talk to them about the time off. Can you pick up the kitchen?”

  “Yeah, that sounds great. I’ll clean up.” I motioned for her take the call.

  Little did I know—we would never make that trip.

  -5-

  SHADOW

  Only in Red River Parish would a public library sandwiched between an antique mall and a fried boudin stand be considered a popular destination on any given afternoon. I sighed at the very thought and slowly marched up the steps of Coushatta’s historic library.

  As I opened the heavy door to the library entrance, I inhaled the air that was trying hard to escape. I always enjoyed the smell that occupied the halls of the library. The smell was enchanting. Every book seemed to radiate this particular scent. It was the scent of adventure.

  I walked to the very back of the library, passing all of the interesting sections, to the dreaded poetry aisle. There was a small one-person desk conveniently set up facing the wall at the end of the aisle. I almost sympathized with the desk—it sat trapped between the walls of old, forgotten poetry. At least by the end of the night, I would be escaping from this dungeon.

  Now it was time to focus. I shook my head as I recalled the look of pure excitement when my English teacher announced our paper would be on our favorite poem. Any poem. Any century. I let my eyes wander up and down the dimly lit shelves, skimming the names of the greats. Edgar Allan Poe. Langston Hughes. Charles Dickens.

  Then I noticed something unusual. A small collection of books was wedged into the corner of the bookshelf, where the side of the desk met the shelves. Underneath was a bronze nameplate with the words: For our sweet Clara, with love.

  For our sweet Clara, with love. I immediately gave my full attention to those six words. I knelt down beside the desk and pulled out a thin leather-bound book. I smiled at my discovery as I placed it against the splintered desktop.

  The book had a weathered appearance, but this didn’t surprise me, considering the amount of rain Coushatta received yearly. The cover was wrapped tightly with a thin piece of leather. My fingers danced over the leather cover, until they reached the bottom right corner. My ring and index finger were now resting on what appeared to be a burned marking of the letters CC.

  “Clara Calahan,” I whispered to myself as I traced the letters with my fingers. I stared at the markings for a few moments, hearing only the slight tapping of rain rolling off the library roof.

  After a few moments of hovering over the desk and gazing at this newfound treasure, I slowly sank down into the attached chair. As my back slid against the form of the chair, I began to remove the leather band from the book. After the strap was loosened, I picked up the small book and let the leather piece fall into my lap. I carefully pulled back the front cover—a beautiful sketch was revealed.

  It was relaxing to gaze upon the image. The pages were a dark crème color freckled with light and dark spots—but the design was flawless. One thick line flowed down the center of the paper, while a smaller one ran horizontally to form a cross. On top of the bold cross were three interconnected triangles drawn in perfect proportion. A vine of words circled the triangles, reading: The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen. A Trinity. The entire design was sketched in a dark black ink, but the longer I gazed at this page, the more I doubted my initial observation. I lifted the book from the
desk to catch a stray beam of light peeking through the shelves. I almost thought I saw the drawing sparkle in the light—as if the medallion was only pretending to be a drawing. I lightly touched the cross one more time before turning to the next page. On the back side of the first page, was a handwritten prayer.

  Father, please grant me the strength to spread your light. Please give me the courage to spread truth to the darkest of lands so that every shadow may be engulfed in your light. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen.

  I read the prayer several times, noticing the beautiful cursive writing—the undeniable honesty behind the words. This prayer seemed very familiar to me, as if I had read it before. I unintentionally repositioned myself in the uncomfortable wooden chair while my eyes darted to the next page.

  Finally be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power…

  I hovered over the book, but before I could finish the sentence, the library went completely dark. I carefully helped myself out of the chair and turned around. I found myself facing pure darkness.

  I reached out to the front and side of my body. I felt nothing but cold air. I carefully put one foot in front of the other, easing down the dark aisle. I had never been scared of the dark, but for some odd reason, I was on edge. Frightened. Alarmed.

  On my third step, my hand hit something firm. I froze while I moved my hand up the obstacle. In a matter of seconds, something grabbed my wrist. I did not move, and I couldn’t make a sound. I was telling myself to say something, but nothing could escape my lips. My heart began to beat hard and fast—trying to jump out of my chest. I tried to jerk my wrist away, but the grip became tighter. I lifted my other arm to aid in the rescue—the shadow figure grabbed it without warning. I looked up and squinted my eyes peering into what I thought was a face.

  He had long, dark hair, but I couldn’t see his face—only darkness. I opened my mouth to scream, but again there was no sound. An eerie feeling came over me as I felt the shadow figure leaning toward me. A thick scent of smoke and incense exuded from the man in the shadows, making it difficult to breathe. I closed my eyes and concentrated on pulling away—on breaking free. I heard a loud explosion and then opened my eyes.

  -6-

  LAST TRAITEUSE

  I opened my eyes to find myself tangled in the sheets of my small bed. Relieved that I was only having another nightmare, I rolled to my side to watch the rain beat against the window. I gazed into the belly of my room, watching the lightning flicker through my window and parade across the ceiling. The sound of rolling crackles and loud explosions followed the display of light. The storm was somewhat comforting to me now. The lightning had rescued me from a horrible dream; therefore, I was very thankful.

  Since the fight with Erik, the nightmares were becoming worse. The dreams were sucking me into a world of frightening images and leaving me to wonder in confusion. It had become increasingly hard to determine what was real and what was not.

  I rolled over to peek at the alarm clock; it was only a little past one, barely a new day. In an effort to avoid another nightmare, I flung the covers off and slowly rolled out of bed. It was time to talk to Erik. I hesitantly crossed my room, on a mission to call him. The pale yellow phone that was placed perfectly square on the corner of the desk seemed like a foreign object as I raised the receiver to my ear. I never enjoyed talking on the phone—tonight would be no exception. I started dialing while my eyes ventured off to my bedroom window. I had a perfect view of the house in the cemetery, his house.

  419–255–373…

  Before I could dial the final number, I noticed a small light oozing from the cemetery, from his house. Perfect. He couldn’t sleep either. I could just go over there and confront whatever this feeling was. Better yet, I could interrogate him—find out what he knew about my past—and find out what was going on between him and Lydia.

  The window in my room opened to a tiny fenced veranda. The veranda had been built close to a century ago as a sunporch for blossoming flowers and ivies, but since the cypress and willow trees now shaded that half of our house, my aunt never bothered to set out any plants. Given that the wooden patio was always empty, I simply considered that area as my reading loft on a sunny day or escape route on a sleepless night. Right now it was my escape route.

  I quietly slid into an old black T-shirt, faded shorts, and my red rain boots and then unlocked the latch of the window. It was the same outfit I was wearing the night I had met Erik. As I pushed the weighted windowpane up, warm rain immediately began to pool on the inside ledge. I wasn’t excited about getting wet and muddy again, but I had to talk to him. I couldn’t wait any longer.

  By the time I crawled through the opening and slid the window down, my hair and clothes were plastered against my skin. The raindrops were the size of nickels and were flying horizontally in the night air. I looked up, and between twisted branches I made out the faint glow of the moon covered in black clouds. This was going to be a nasty storm, but that didn’t matter. I had to do this, and I had to do it now.

  I stepped to the edge of the patio and wrapped my fingers around the largest branch on the tree. The wind continued to rip at the branches and moss as I descended down the belly of the old cypress. I had made this climb many times before with no problem, and I usually made the climb with a heavy bag filled with charcoal and paper, but tonight the limbs and bark of the tree fought against me.

  I jumped to the ground as soon as I was close enough to land softly without hitting the parked Coupe. A spear of lightning pierced the black sky, and with its blue streak of light, I saw the scratches the tree left behind on my skin. Hopefully I wouldn’t run into Alice in the morning. She would have a cow if she knew I had been out tonight. Thunder rolled from the heavens; then another jagged spear of lightning ripped the darkness.

  I sprinted across the soggy field and didn’t stop until I had reached the wall of the graveyard. I was strangely calm once I toppled over the crumbled ruins of the stone fence. Most people my age would have probably been scared out of their wits. Tonight the cemetery looked like it came straight out of a Stephen King novel. A canopy of trees protected the graves from the harsh flow of rain, but a light blanket of fog had swept in to take its place. The cracks of thunder seemed to echo under the trees, and the constant flash of lightning animated the figurine headstones. For the first time, it looked like a dark place.

  I wondered what I would say once I saw Erik. Should I throw my arms around him and apologize for being irrational? Should I kiss him? I really just wanted him to hold me again and to tell me that it was all one big horrible joke. Or maybe I wanted it to be real. My mind flipped from one scenario to the other. If everything he said was true, if he had the answers to my missing past, then I had to see him. I had to know the rest of the story.

  I stopped in front of the dark porch of the house in the cemetery. The fog had covered the entire entrance to the house, leaving only the two small windows under the porch visible. The flicker of light that I’d seen from my bedroom window still danced from inside the house. I inched forward and carefully felt for the two large steps that met with the wooden deck. I had never been this close to the house. For some strange reason, I had never had a desire to see inside, and once Erik and his father moved in, he insisted that we keep our distance, that his father liked his privacy. The wood creaked below my feet. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

  As I continued to inch toward the door of the old house, my nerves started to waver. What if Erik refuses to talk to me? What if his father answers the door? And what would I say? I wasn’t prepared for rejection, from either one of them.

  A light wind scurried over my boots and around my knees while I stood and stared at the rusty doorknob. I wanted to see Erik. I wanted to see him so badly that I had thrown out all common sense and good judgment to stand on a porch in the middle of a cemetery during a massive thunderstorm. And for a moment, I was paralyzed by that thought. I wasn’t scared of the dark night, the ragi
ng storm, or the ominous graveyard; I was scared about my sudden feelings for Erik. I had made such a mess of things, and I had no idea how to get things back to the way they were, or if I even wanted things to go back to how they were.

  The sound of wood bending under a heavy foot cut through the wood of the door in front of me. Then the light that poured from the right window of the house wiggled, before abruptly dimming. Someone was watching me from inside. I tapped lightly on the door, two soft taps that were just loud enough to hear over the storm. No answer. I tapped two more times, slightly louder. No answer. I heard the wood bend on the other side of the door again.

  “Erik? Is that you?” No answer. “Mr. Galway? I know it’s late, but I saw a light on…If I could just talk to Erik for a minute…” Only the roar of angry clouds responded.

  I was becoming impatient. I knew that I had no right to knock on someone’s door at Lord knows what time in the morning, but then again, Erik had no right to ignore me the last few days. He had no right to talk to Lydia about me. I treaded my rain-filled boots over to the nearest window, then pressed my face to the damp glass. A minute spider scurried to a glistening web in the corner of the window while I peered inside the house.

  I could see a dark figure moving in the shadows. I could hear the boards creaking, one after the other. Why wouldn’t he answer the door?

  In seconds the door flew open. My eyes darted to the doorway to catch a surprise. Standing in the shadows was a tall, rounded woman with a deep scowl on her face. Lightning flickered behind me, enough to highlight her deep-colored skin. Another flash illuminated the sky. I noticed a brown scarf tied around her head, leaving only the ends of tube-like hair visible in the night. With the grimace plastered across her face and the poor lighting, her hair looked like black snakes trying to escape the confines of the hair scarf. The frown on her plump lips did not waver as I tried to change my frightened expression to a polite smile. I had a feeling she could see that I was more than surprised.