Dark Lightning

by Mary L. Farmer

  At the top of the hill, the rain let up somewhat, and she was able to recognize the low stone walls surrounding Miss Crosby’s property. She cut the wipers down and pulled between the stone pillars. Then she breathed a sigh of relief as the Mercedes bobbed over puddle-filled depressions in the driveway, rolling toward the farmhouse and its warmly lit windows.

  Haven instantly felt better knowing Victor was inside, working in the kitchen. She was looking forward to being alone with him. I could always ask Victor to come with me out to the barn…he won’t tell anyone about the key.

  Grabbing her messenger bag, Haven held it over her head as she sprinted to the front door. She let herself into the entryway with Venimer’s keys and shook the rain from her clothing. “Victor?” she called, walking back to the kitchen. “I’m here. Ready to get something to—”

  She stopped. All of the cabinet doors yawned open, the empty shelves inside lending the room an appearance of having been ransacked. Bins full of Depression glass, mixing bowls, old china, and other knick-knacks were lined up in tidy rows in the middle of the floor. A cluster of small appliances stood on a 1950s-era Formica table; Victor’s neat handwriting was visible on all of the price tags.

  But she saw no sign of him.

  Haven walked back to the entryway. “Victor?”

  She couldn’t see any lights on the second floor. “HEL-LO? VICTOR?” she yelled loudly up the stairs. She opened the door to the cellar, but that too was dark. “Dude, where are you?”

  Only the thunder answered, crackling loudly and echoing through the floorboards beneath Haven’s boots.

  Haven went over and peered out the narrow window beside the front door. The storm had regained some of its vigor now, and the rain was coming down in torrents. She could barely see the Mercedes parked out front. The gusting wind blew against the 250-year-old house, pushing air through the cracks in the doorframe and creating a low, howling noise. Haven shivered—she was starting to feel as though she were an actor in a horror movie. Any moment now, the Headless Horseman is going to come galloping up the drive with a flaming pumpkin.

  She really didn’t want to go to the barn all alone. So where could Victor be?

  Haven took out her phone and dialed his number, but the call went right to voice mail. Hanging up, she tried Brian’s phone. After only one ring, the call dropped. She looked at her readout: one measly bar of service. “Shit,” she muttered.

  The brass floor lamp next to the fireplace was on, so she went into the living room and sat on the settee. She typed Victor a text: HEY. BACK FROM NEWTOWN. WHERE R U?

  A tone sounded and Haven looked down. MESSAGE NOT DELIVERED.

  “What? Come on,” she whined. She tried Brian next: AT THE FARM, CAN’T FIND VICTOR. DID HE CALL U?

  Brian didn’t answer right away, so she opened her messenger bag and took out the handkerchief from Miss Crosby, running her finger over the initials embroidered onto it. A.M.? Who was that? Haven was dying to know what the woman had put inside. She deliberated for about three seconds, then began picking at the knot. If I’m going to risk my neck out in the storm to get to the chest, I want to know what’s so damned important to this woman.

  In the center of the lace hankie lay a gold locket and a brown glass vial with a yellowed piece of paper wrapped tightly around it, neatly secured with two pieces of string.

  What in the world…?

  “Really?” Haven muttered. “That’s it? A necklace and a note?”

  She slumped on the settee, feeling bitter. God, what a totally miserable night. Why had Victor stood her up? He’d seemed so excited to take her out—but now he wasn’t here. It didn’t make any sense.

  Haven looked up at the portrait of Robert W. Hall and sighed. His silent gaze was strangely calming to her. “Hey there, Rob…too bad you can’t come down from there and take me to dinner.” Haven mused, rewrapping the items into the handkerchief. “That would be really interesting,”

  The rain outside abruptly diminished to a gentle patter; at least the storm was letting up. Her message tone sounded. A text from Brian popped onto her phone screen: NO MSG FROM VICTOR. DID U CHECK OUT BACK? TRIED TO CALL BUT COULDN’T GET THRU. CELL TOWER MIGHT BE DOWN.

  Haven stood. Brian had a point—maybe Victor finished with the kitchen and went out to the sheds to take another look at the old Buick.

  If not, she’d have to go out to the barn by herself.

  Back in the kitchen, Haven briefly thought about just tossing Miss Crosby’s little hankie into one of the estate sale bins and going home—it wasn’t like the old lady would ever know if she didn’t put it into the chest. But Haven recalled the old woman’s tearful plea for help, and a pang of guilt coursed all the way through her.

  That just wouldn’t be right. A promise was a promise. Even if the task seemed stupid to her, it had clearly been important to poor Miss Crosby.

  Haven went to grab a flashlight off the kitchen counter and froze when she noticed a bright red smear on the linoleum floor. On the counter near the sink, she also noticed several drops of what looked like blood. Haven swallowed. It’s probably nothing…Victor must have cut himself on a knife or some glass while he was packing the bins.

  She took a deep breath and yanked open the back door. “I only hope someone is this nice to me when I go senile one day, Miss Crosby…” she grumbled, switching on the flashlight.

  ***

  Haven shined the beam down the weedy path, shivering as she trudged across the wet leaves. Her thick wool sweater was damp against her skin, and she was tired and hungry. She checked the sheds on her way to the barn, but they were empty. She didn’t find him in the old garage, either.

  Damn…where’s Victor? He couldn’t have left the farm—he didn’t have any way of getting home. Haven frowned. They were supposed to have their first date tonight. He waited all this time to ask me out, so why isn’t he here?

  Reaching the barn, Haven opened the Dutch door as wide as it would go and dragged a rock against the bottom to prop it open. She then crept into the blackness.

  The Barbary Company chest sat exactly where the men had left it earlier, under a piece of oilcloth near the front of the barn. Weak, gray light filtered in from the hole in the roof, giving the barn interior an eerie blue cast. Haven’s eyes darted around as she approached the chest with her heart pounding.

  Oh, God—what if there really is a body inside? Haven shuddered, wishing Brian had never mentioned that warehouse in Philadelphia.

  She moved closer, plagued by the feeling that someone was watching her. Calm down, no one’s here. Haven reached out a trembling hand and pulled the tarp off the chest. Just get this over with and go back to the house. She pulled the key and the knotted handkerchief out of her messenger bag.

  A loud screech echoed throughout the rafters. Haven looked up, startled to see the brown eagle float down from the roof on outstretched wings and land on the edge of the hayloft. It screeched again and she winced—the piercing cry hurt her ears.

  “What are you doing back here, bird?” Haven said to it. “Shoo! Go away!”

  Lightning crackled above and the eagle shrieked once more. Haven’s breath caught in terror as the jeweled eyes of the animal head figures on the chest started to glow a brilliant red. Moving back, Haven was about to flee the barn when the weird feeling from her dream suddenly seized hold of her, and she found she could neither run nor scream. Haven watched helplessly as some kind of force took control of her hand and inserted the key into the elaborate lock on the front of the storage box.

  The key began to glow as bright as an ember, the hot metal searing the skin on her fingers like a brand. Haven felt the bile rise in her throat. The pain was so bad she thought she would pass out, but she felt as if she were frozen. She couldn’t remove her hand from the key. Haven lifted her tear-streaked face to see the eagle staring down at her.

  Please…this hurts so badly…

  “Why is this happening to me?!” she screamed at it, suddenly furious. Wh
at had that crazy old woman gotten her into? Haven still clutched Miss Crosby’s handkerchief in her other hand. She looked down at the chest.

  If I open it and put the handkerchief inside, maybe the pain will stop.

  Haven recalled Crosby’s words…turn the key three times.

  “Agghhh…”

  Her hand was on fire. Haven felt sure the key had fused with her bones now. The pain shot straight up her arm and was spreading fast into her shoulder. She couldn’t think—was she supposed to turn it clockwise, or the other way?

  What did it matter, so long as the chest opened?

  Haven rotated her wrist to the right.

  CLICK.

  A loud hiss emanated from somewhere inside the chest. Outside, the storm had picked up once again—wind howled, thunder boomed—but the sound was insignificant to her now, like the hum of an air conditioner or the drone of city traffic. Again.

  Haven turned the key once more.

  CLICK.

  Something mechanical whirred and ticked inside the chest, like a grandfather clock getting ready to strike the hour. A brilliant blue mist came pouring out of the keyhole and from under the lid of the chest, spilling onto the floor of the barn, swirling around Haven’s feet.

  Oh my God, what’s going on? What the hell’s in that thing?!

  Haven’s vision wavered and time slowed to a crawl. She couldn’t hear the storm, the wind, the water dripping from the roof. She heard only silence, except for the sound of air moving very slowly in and out of her lungs. Standing within the vacuum of sound, Haven noticed her hand had stopped throbbing.

  The key suddenly emitted a brilliant white light, illuminating the bones of her right hand. Transfixed by her glowing fingers, Haven felt peaceful, weightless even, as tendrils of blue mist wound their way up her body. She was aware only of the chest, the key, and…the eagle.

  The great bird now flew in slow motion around the barn in large sweeping circles, calling out to her, and she understood at last.

  YOU ARE CHOSEN. HELP HER. YOU ARE READY.

  Haven was aware that something significant was happening. I’m going somewhere. She hadn’t a clue where this journey would take her, but she knew that in a moment, she would be gone.

  Tiny specks of light materialized in the air around her. Very faint at first, they grew brighter and slowly gained momentum. Haven stood mesmerized while the microscopic dots of fire gathered themselves into a maelstrom, spinning toward the sky like fine golden glitter. She shivered. The blue mist had crept up to her neck now.

  One more time.

  CLICK.

  Time resumed its frenetic pace.

  Planks of siding ripped away from the wall, shingles peeled off the roof. The remaining windows in the barn exploded inward. Wind and rain blew at Haven from everywhere at once, small shards of glass slicing into her clothing.

  Then the mist coalesced and melded with the golden lights, spinning into a towering vortex that rose through the hole in the roof and into the raging sky above.

  The sound was deafening.

  CRA-A-A-A-CK.

  In an instant, the mist transformed into an ethereal blue cloud and evaporated, sending a searing jolt of pain up the length of Haven’s arm. The unseen force suddenly released its hold on her hand.

  Haven screamed in agony: For a split second, every molecule of her body felt as though it were drifting apart until she was no more than a vapor. Then she was violently sucked into the ground.

  TO BE CONTINUED IN PART TWO

  If you enjoyed Part One of Dark Lightning, consider rating it!

  About the author:

  Mary L. Farmer lives near Chicago and holds a BA in Anthropology. When she’s not writing or taking care of her family, you might find her lurking in museums or antique shops for inspiration.

  Connect with Mary Online:

  Website: www.marylfarmerwriter.com

  Twitter: @MaryLFarmer1

  FaceBook: Like Mary's Facebook Author Page

  Dedicated to the memory of my father,

  Charles T. Ptacek, Jr.