by T L Barrett
The Night Library
T. L. Barrett
Copyright © 2012 T. L. Barrett
All rights reserved.
This is a collection of fiction. Any similarities to any real world people or situations are entirely coincidental.
To Sandra Lea:
In the darkest of nights, as shadows stream,
and all troubles and evils seem to teem,
your spirit comes like as dawn's warming gleam,
and I would never waken from this dream.
Contents
To Sandra Lea: iv
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS. ii
The Reservoir. 1
In the End, We are like our fathers. 21
The China People of Oz. 25
Mr. Klein’s Cancer. 44
Texas Thunder. 56
Uncle Silas Sat around the Campfire. 72
Three Months during the Lycanthropy Epidemic. 76
The Way of Nature. 89
Don’t Sit under the Apple Tree. 105
The House on Dearborn Street. 121
The Scholomance on Spring Street. 129
The Secret to Survival 150
The Ghost-Eater. 154
England, the Bad Dream.. 170
Fair Time. 184
Number Seven was Empty. 186
Arthur Penniman, Private First Class. 199
Neighbors. 212
Ninja Blade. 219
The Writing Program.. 228
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank my beautiful wife, Sandra, for encouraging me to write and listening to all my stories (the good and the bad). I’d also like to thank the many small publishers that gave some of these stories a chance.
Special thanks goes to my good friend, Mr. Curtis Hale, who allowed me to use his beautiful painting of the St. Johnsbury Athenaeum and helped me format it.
To see more of his wonderful work or to contact him, please visit:
http://www.curtishale.com
.
The Reservoir
Charlie Caldwell never wanted to go to the Pattenville Reservoir. He most certainly never wanted to go to a church picnic at Pattenville Reservoir; and the idea of going to a church picnic at Pattenville Reservoir with his mother and her boyfriend, Michael Beck, made the twelve-year old sick to his stomach.
First off, Charlie’s father, Rob, had told him the Pattenville Reservoir was haunted. Whenever away from the prudent regard of Grace Reimer, Charlie’s mother, Rob regaled his son with all kinds of spooky tales. These usually gave Charlie a couple of difficult nights of sleep, but he still asked for them. He loved his Dad; this was just one thing they shared along with a love for monster movies, the Red Sox and fishing. Rob told his son about the reservoir’s history on a late afternoon, a month or so into the divorce, on the Connecticut, poles in hand. The story had stuck.
In the 1950’s Central Vermont Power won the rights to a hydro-electric power dam in the northerly stretch of the Connecticut River. Pattenville became the preferred spot among the many petitioned places. Inconveniently, a religious cult had bought up most of the land in a tiny farming village called Pattenville. In the last three decades of the village’s existence, the Church of They that Sleep had managed to scare away any of the locals that hadn’t been happy to sell their land and move. In that time, many people had gone missing, some of them children. When the Essex County sheriff went to investigate, nobody knew anything. With great enthusiasm the sheriff and his men drove out to give the citizens of Pattenville their notice and promissory notes of financial restitution. The village appeared empty. Eventually, the state’s attorney declared Pattenville abandoned. The dam was finished. Some claimed to have watched the flood waters rise up around the barns, houses and the village grange. They said the cultists appeared hand-in-hand, chanting to their obscure gods as the waters rose over their legs and bodies.
To this day, what remains of that strange village lies at the bottom of the reservoir. People do not linger there after dark. Occasionally, a tourist disappears in the environs, and inevitably, the power company representatives would find a Saab or a Volkswagen abandoned near the shore with sun tan lotion bottles lying on the seats.
The second reason that Charlie was less than enthusiastic about the outing was that it was a church picnic. Charlie’s mother had become ever more religious since Charlie had scarlet fever when he was nine. She had met Michael at such a church picnic. She said it was after the divorce, but Charlie knew better. Rob Caldwell had not been a religious man, and had not understood Grace’s sudden and intense re-conversion to her childhood faith. In Charlie’s mind it had been the church that had driven his parents apart, and he wanted nothing to do with it.
Even now, the music from a Christian radio station was flooding through the SUV speakers as Michael drove them toward their dreaded destination. Charlie watched the houses thin out as they headed out on Route 13 into Pawanic Township. As a woman shrilly declared her devotion to Jesus in song, Charlie remembered another time when he had heard such a song in their kitchen. Charlie’s Uncle Joel had been visiting from Santa Fe. Charlie loved Uncle Joel, who would make up for his daily absence from his nephew’s life with spending cash, activities, and a constant stream of funny commentary that would have Charlie and his father doing spit takes at the dinner table. Grace hadn’t joined in on much of the laughter. She had a reserve around her brother-in-law which Charlie had assumed was held in protectiveness of Charlie because of Joel’s infrequent visits. But as time went on, Charlie understood that it was because Joel liked to date boys, and Grace did not approve.
Charlie and Joel had been making cookies in the kitchen when a young man singing an ode to Jesus had come over Grace’s radio.
“…I feel him above me. I know he’s inside me. He fills me with his love…”
“Somebody has got the hots for Jesus,” Uncle Joel jibed, elbowing his nephew. Charlie let out a bark of outrageous laughter.
“Get out of my house!” Grace said from the kitchen doorway. Uncle Joel tried to joke his way out of it, but Grace had been adamant. In the end, Joel had left the house with a kiss on Charlie’s tear-stained face. Charlie had screamed and slammed a lot of doors, but it wasn’t until Rob had gotten back from work when things really heated up.
It was the first real loud argument Charlie had heard his parents have. Both threw things about the house. His father swore quite a bit. It shocked Charlie how few of these fights occurred before Charlie’s mother and father sat him down in the living room and gave him the talk that he had guessed was coming.
The final reason for Charlie’s growing dread was Michael Beck. A hotel manager for the local Comfort Inn, Michael (He insisted on Charlie calling him Mike; Charlie refused.) had tried to insinuate himself in every aspect of Charlie’s life. In everything he did there was the insinuation that he had to make up for what Charlie’s father had neglected to do. Most of this had to do with football and Christianity, about both of which Charlie cared nothing.
“Hey, Chuck, Mr. Sanders said he would be bringing his new Jet Ski to the picnic. That’ll be fun. I’ll talk to him about giving you a try on it. How does that sound?” Charlie had been silent since he lost the argument for coming and returned to his bedroom to find his turtle statuette gone. He had managed to ignore his mother’s attempts at communication, but he wasn’t about to let this stand. Only his father was allowed to call him by that nick name.
“My name isn’t Chuck.”
The radio announcer explained what fine weather God had provided for the listeners that afternoon.
“No. You’re right. Your name is Charles. I can call you that, if you would like, sport.” Sport, Big Guy: Charlie shuddered. Michael used these epithets
regularly. He was the kind of guy that patted other guys on the bum.
“You shouldn’t have taken my turtle,” Charlie said. There, it was out. Rob’s girlfriend, Ramona had given it to him. Ramona, a willowy woman and a few years older than Charlie’s father, wrote poetry and liked skinny dipping and monster movies, which gave her at least one bonus in Charlie’s book. Charlie’s father lived with her in Montpelier. One evening, Ramona had brought Charlie with her to a dinner party at some hippy friends of hers. They had taken part in a guided meditation to discover their spirit animal. Charlie had been surprised and delighted to find a great turtle surfacing from the deep of his imagination during the meditation. Ramona and her friend had clucked with approval at that. They told him it represented grounded power, imagination and compassion. Later that night, the hippy’s daughter, a skinny girl with beautiful eyes, chased him into a firefly-strewn field and gave Charlie his first kiss. Ramona had given Charlie the turtle to commemorate the magical night. The statuette was five inches long with runic symbols etched under its glazed finish. Charlie had placed it on the corner of his desk, near the head of his bed. He touched it every night before he fell asleep.
“Your mother and I talked about that. We don’t have a problem with turtles. We just don’t like the idea of that woman introducing satanic practices into our house,” Michael said. The first thing that registered was that woman. He had heard his mother use the same words to refer to Ramona. Charlie understood that beyond satanic practices, whatever that meant, Grace saw Ramona’s gift as an attempt to insinuate herself into her son’s heart.
“It isn’t your house,” Charlie said.
“Now, Charlie,” Grace spoke up, “we’ve talked about this. As soon as Mikey can get the settlement in the divorce, we’ll get married, and it will be Michael’s house, too.” Michael often complained about his ex-wife. Charlie wondered what had caused the divorce. He found it hard to believe it was all the fault of the ex-wife. He suspected religion hadn‘t ruined Michael‘s marriage. Charlie had seen how Michael whipped a garbage-raiding stray dog. He had been wary of the man ever since.
Charlie grunted and reached into his pocket. He pulled out his cell phone and cued up his friend, Mark, on the contact list. Mark had gone to the movies last night, but it had been an R rated movie; thus, Charlie had not been allowed to accompany him. Charlie would see how the movie had been and make sleep-over plans, allowing for this stupid picnic to be blessedly short.
Michael signaled and turned off Route 13 onto a dirt road that wound through a tunnel of birch, spruce, and maple trees.
“Charlie, I want you to promise me that you will at least try to be social when we get there,” Grace said. “There will be other kids around your age there, good kids. I want you to promise me you won’t talk about any of that weird stuff around them, okay?” Charlie did not answer. His thumbs flicked over the keypad of his phone.
Michael reached back and snatched the phone from Charlie’s fingers.
“Hey, give it back! Mom, make him give it back to me!” Charlie ordered.
“Gracie, the boy was being rude,” Michael said.
“Charlie, I don’t want you to be texting everyone else in creation while people are right around you. It’s rude. I just saw a report about a study on adolescence…” Charlie sighed and turned to the window. Michael Beck had taken two things away from Charlie in a span of an hour. Little did Charlie know, how important the latter theft would matter after the sun went down.
***
Charlie was surprised at how many religious nut-jobs had shown up for this picnic on the Pattenville Reservoir. Cars filled the parking area to the left of the dirt road. For a moment Charlie hoped there would be normal people here, too. A quick inspection of all the bumper stickers declaring Life is Precious, Got Faith, and God is my Co-pilot, squashed that hope instantly.
Beyond the people barbecuing and the couple of boats waiting near the launch and the dock, the Pattenville reservoir sparkled in the rays of the early evening summer sun. The area was largely uninhabited. Across the water, Charlie noticed a few forested islands, the wooded banks of the New Hampshire side of the Connecticut and the darker blue rise of the White Mountains against the azure horizon.
A man in an apron came up to the car as they were getting out.
“Michael, Grace, you made it. We can finally begin,” he said this with a toothy grin and a grand gesture. “And I see you’ve brought your little one, Grace. Billy, is it?”
“It’s Charlie, Brett. And it’s good to see you. Did Pamela come?” Grace said, accepting a hug form Brett Sanders and stepping aside for the two men folk to shake hands.
“Oh, you bet.” Sanders turned to Charlie. “Say, Michael here, tells me you’re a fishing man. We’re going to get the boat out after prayers. Did you bring your pole?”
“No,” Charlie said.
“I was telling Charlie that you brought a Jet Ski. I told him you might let him try it.” Michael said. Sanders frowned at that and eyed Charlie critically.
“Well, I don’t know about that. The boy seems a bit on the smallish side to me. But, hey! There are a lot of kiddos running about the place. Mine are in the commotion somewhere. I’m sure they will be glad to have a new playmate.” With that, the two men wandered back to where the smoke rose from the barbecue grills.
“Remember, Charlie, be social,” Grace reminded and trotted to keep up with the long-legged men. Disconsolately, Charlie walked down to the shore. He eyed the kids in attendance. Some older teens lounged near the edge of the clearing under some trees. They gave him a sullen inspection and looked away. A slew of smaller kids splashed between the rocks at the water’s edge. Only one girl looked to be about Charlie’s age. She wore glasses on her round face and wore a dress that looked like it belonged in an old episode of Little House on the Prairie. From the way that she breathed out of her mouth and twisted her fingers in the side of her dress, Charlie guessed she must have been at least mildly delayed. Her eyes fell upon him, and widened with joyful expectation. Charlie slumped his shoulders and looked out at the sparkling water.
From this vantage point Charlie could see south to the power dam. Looking north he could see where the river gradually narrowed back to its normal size. He tried to imagine what the area must have looked like before the dam, when the river wound through the farming village. The grass on the river’s edge leaned sideways in a little breeze.
Charlie spied an old notched barn beam washed up against the rocks. Big cracks ran up its side from decades of soaking. Charlie leaned over the water to regard it. He put the tip of his sneaker against one end to swing it close against the rocks. Instinctively, Charlie did not want to touch the water itself.
Something had been deeply engraved in the side of the barn beam. It was faint, but Charlie had good eyesight. After inspection he decided that the carving was actually a picture of some kind. It appeared to be of the head of a squid. Did squids have heads?
A chubby tow-headed kid splashed up to him.
“Hey, that’s ours. We found it first. We claimed it,” The boy sneered and bent to take hold of the beam.
“That’s fine,” Charlie said and pushed the beam off with his foot. The boy waded deeper to straighten the beam, then made motor boat sounds as he pushed it toward his siblings and friends who played further up the shore.
“Prayer time, everybody!” Sanders shouted. Everyone obediently headed to the grassy spot above the shore and barbecues where the minister waited, a bible in hand. Charlie couldn’t remember if the gray-haired scarecrow of a man with ice-blue eyes had come from Alabama or Mississippi.
“Charlie!” Grace called to her son. Charlie pretended he didn’t hear her.
“He’s fine, Gracie,” Michael said. This was not meant to excuse or ingratiate Charlie, the boy knew that. Michael didn’t mind Charlie being out of the circle. Soon everybody held hands; their heads bowed as the minister stepped just inside the circle and began to lead them in a liturgical pray
er.
“Oh, Father who art in heaven…” the minister began. The rest of the world seemed to be filled with a heavy silence. As the church members droned on in response, Charlie had the sense of being watched. The notion that having a prayer, here, in this awful place, wasn’t right struck him. It would draw the attention of something that was here. Charlie looked into the deep below the sparkling water and took a couple of steps away from the beach.
After the last blessing was cast, and the last Amen was said, the people returned to their preoccupations. One of the women mentioned that they were going to see that the old folks had their share first, and wouldn’t it be a good idea if Brett or a couple of the men folk wanted to take some of the younger kids out on the boat for a few minutes.