Hauntings

by Lewis Stanek

  “We'll see,” Clara said making her way for the door. “I better get going before its too dark to see my hand in front of my face as they say,” Oswald followed her to the door carrying the lamp, he held the door open for her, and then walked her to her car.

  “You are always such a gentleman, Oswald. You're like a man out of time,” Oswald smiled at the thought and watched as Clara climbed in her car and drove away down the dark rutted dirt road though the woods.

  Once Clara was out of sight, Oswald walked back inside, cleared the kitchen table, putting plates, utensils, pots, and pans in the sink. He decided to put off washing the dishes, that could wait until morning. The book had been calling to him and he had ignored its call as long as he could. Clara may think he is losing his mind, that the pressure the townsfolk have tried to put him under was too much for him, but that isn't the issue. That isn't his problem. She doesn't understand that he is on the verge of discovery. Perhaps rediscovery is more accurate, after all the Sauk knew, maybe the Druids knew. Only modern man has forgotten.

  He grabbed a can of beer from the ice box, popped the tab open and sat at the desk. He placed the lamp at the corner of the desktop, adjusted the light so that it would best illumine the Druid tome. Then he took a swig of his beer and opened the book.

  Again the runes began to dance before his eyes revealing a poetic logic too sublime for human understanding. This text was not meant for man, but for the gods. The Druids may have kept this knowledge safe for the day of their return.

  ”Who are they?” Oswald asked out loud. His question reverberated in his mind. Nephilem? Ancient gods from a world long ago? Creatures from another universe? Oswald's head ached. His vision blurred. He got up from his seat, but a little too fast the and room swam around him. He saw at first only purple, then nothing. He fell unconscious to the floor. He hit his head on the corner of an old end table, cutting his scalp. The cut wasn't deep, but it bled copiously as head wounds tend to do. Oswald lay unconscious on the hard wooden floor taunted by fitful dreams of another world.

  Men, women, children, and creatures unknown crept from under the circular concrete slab covering their graves. Silently they climbed the ladder, forced the trapdoor open and scurried out across the wooden floor to Oswald's unconscious form. They caressed him, they stroked his brow, they gestured for him to join them. Although unconscious at some level deep below reason Oswald was aware of the phantoms presence and took solace from them.

  Hours passed. In the east the sun broke the horizon and kissed the night sky. Slowly rising above the treetops gently casting light through the cabins east windows. In time the light came to cast it's warmth on Oswald's bloody head.

  He slowly awoke. His head ached. He reached to touch his forehead and pulled his hand away sticky with blood. Oswald groaned as he pulled himself up from the floor. He sat to rest momentarily on the couch before trying to go any further. It took a moment for Oswald to get his bearings. He squinted against the bright morning sunlight. He placed his hand on the armrest of the couch to steady himself, then pushed himself up to a standing position.

  He staggered like a drunkard, slowly making his way to the kitchen, where he pumped some water into the sink. Oswald wet a rag and then gingerly dabbed the blood from his brow. The bleeding had stopped while he lay unconscious. He took a knife from a drawer and opened the ice box. He used the knife to chop a piece of dry ice off of the block. He wrapped the dry ice in another rag and held that to the purple the lump forming near his temple.

  He went to the bathroom, put the dry ice down, looked in the medicine chest, and finding a bottle of aspirin, shook a few into his hand then dry swallowed them. Picking up the dry ice and holding it to his head, he returned to the kitchen. Oswald took the last beer from the ice box and threw the dry ice back in the icebox, before sitting down at the kitchen table. Oswald gulped the cold beer down, hoping the alcohol would steady him. He wanted the book, so he walked to the desk and sat down before the book and waited for the aspirin to do it's work.

  The book lay open on the desktop. He peered at the runes with blurred vision, the runes no longer dancing, no longer alive, only symbols indicating the proper way to cut out someone's heart and to use the blood to persuade the old gods to return to this world. The Druids sought to open a portal, the Sauk sought to keep the portal closed. Why so different?

  Oswald knew the Druids were forbidden to record their sacred knowledge in written form, however someone, a renegade priest no doubt wrote this tome. He flipped through the pages reading, not always understanding, looking for any mention of a gathering of sparrows, opening portals and what may lay beyond.

  Deep in the book he thought he may have found the knowledge he sought. Sparrows were thought by the Druids to accompany and guard the souls of the dead on their way to the afterworld. There is a common element here he thought, crossing over a threshold, crossing through portals. One watching out for the dead while they cross over and one warning of someone or something crossing over through the portal. Sparrows are spiritual gatekeepers of sorts he thought. Oswald read further jotting down points of interest as he went.

  As he studied a temptation arose. “

  `What if I performed one of the rituals described in these pages?” He wondered aloud. Reading further into the text, seeking a deeper understanding.

  “But what of the sacrifice?” Oswald asked himself. Each ritual contained a blood sacrifice, presumably human. The druids could always abduct some poor soul from a neighboring tribe, but nowadays, people going missing raise all sorts of alarms. Just think of how upset they were at Sam & Ella's yesterday when they didn't know where Clara had gone. Of course Clara frequently goes off on her own for long periods of time. She's one to be out seeing the world, not one to be satisfied living her life out in some little farming community like Dixon. Clara could go missing for months, even years and no one would think anything of it. If her parents complained long enough and hard enough the sheriff might list her as a missing person, but would he put together a search party? Not in his wildest dreams. After all Clara is an adult and is someone who they know leaves town and family on a whim to be gone for long periods of time. He just doesn't have the manpower to waste searching for someone who doesn't want to be found.

  Timing is important in these types of activities. One doesn't just perform a human sacrifice on a whim, one must consult the stars.

  “An equinox would be required, I suppose” Oswald spoke aloud his excitement at the idea building within. “But perhaps not, perhaps one could follow the sparrows to the correct site. If not the correct time.” Oswald closed the book, went to the bathroom to bathe and shave before leaving the cabin for the day. Perhaps a walk in the woods to the clearing where he saw the sparrows vanish, A closer look wouldn't hurt. It might just explain a few things. Oswald thought while he sprayed canned shaving cream into his palm. He evenly spread the shaving cream across his face, then pumped enough water to fill the sink before he took the razor to his beard.

  Oswald looked at his reflection in the mirror. He looked more than a little crazed, unshaven disheveled hair, a purple lump at his temple. He could pass as a street person and make a few bucks wiping windshields if he were in a larger town. In Dixon, they'd run him down as soon as look at him. He smirked at the thought, His snobbery is showing it's ugly head. He had wondered how long he could last without ridiculing the natives. Now he knows. Oswald drew the razor across his cheek, feeling the pull of his whiskers as it slid through the shaving cream. He shook the razor in the water in the sink shaking off the white soapy cream and his whiskers before bringing the blade again to his face.

  When he completed his shave he drained the sink and then pumped in fresh water. He splashed the cold water in his face, took his toothbrush from the cup in the medicine cabinet squeezed a bit of toothpaste on the bristles then vigorously brushed the film from his teeth. He spent a little time inspecting his wound, the purple lump looked worse than it felt, but he thought he should co
ver it anyway. He found some plastic bandages. He peeled away the paper from the adhesive then plastered one bandage then another across last night's wound hiding the purple bruise and protecting the newly forming scab from any further chance of infection.

  Satisfied with his morning hygiene, Oswald walked to the kitchen checked the stove's firebox to see if there were any embers he could stir to life. He was in luck he added a couple pieces of wood and used a poker to stir the embers from last night into fresh flames. He dumped the cold coffee left from yesterday morning down the sink, shook out the coffee grounds from the basket in the peculator out the door on the ground. Back at the sink he pumped water first into the coffee pot to rinse out the stale grounds form the basket, then rinsed out the pot itself, before scooping in coffee and filling the pot with fresh water to brew his morning coffee.

  Before he starts his trek to find what the sparrows know he would at least have some hot coffee. Oswald placed the readied peculator on the wood stove and waited for the water to boil. He went to the druid's book held it in his hands the human leather felt warm to his touch.

  Chapter Seven

  On one hand, Oswald was anxious to get started, yet on the other hand, he knew starting off unprepared was the worst mistake one could make. How exactly does one prepare for phantom sparrows? Oswald laughed at himself, this after all is no great expedition into deepest darkest Africa, nor is he starting a trek to the South Pole. Then again, this may just be just as much of an an expedition into the unknown.

  The peculator started bubbling and the aroma of fresh coffee gradually filled the room. Oswald put the book down on the old wooden kitchen table, then got up and pumped some fresh water into his cup to rinse it out before pouring himself a cup of fresh coffee. He sat down at the table, added sugar to his cup of coffee to suit his taste. He took a sip and let the hot fluid fill is mouth and cleanse the taste of last night's sleep from his mouth. Oswald took another sip and then a gulp of the coffee. The thought of breakfast crossed his mind, but he had no appetite. He was too excited thinking about exploring where the sparrows vanished. After finishing his coffee, he set the cup down on the table and left the cabin. From the porch he glanced around looking for the path he followed that first day. He couldn't be sure If he'd recognize the same path, but he was sure of the general direction.

  Oswald entered what may have been an animal trail and back tracked his steps from the other day as best he could. He hoped that even if he did select the wrong path today he would be able to find his way back to the cabin. Worst he would simply try another path, another day. It felt colder today than it did yesterday, winter is rearing it's ugly head Oswald thought. He reconsidered starting just now and went back to the cabin for a jacket, once inside he picked up a knit cap and a pair of gloves too, just in case, and was then off on his quest for the sparrow's portal as he had come to refer to it in his own thoughts.

  The path Oswald selected felt familiar, and honestly out in the woods one path looked pretty much like every other path, but he didn't let that thought distract him. He would follow his nose if nothing else and find what he came for. He must have walked for miles before he came to a widening of the path. Now this did look familiar, Oswald doubled his pace eager to find the clearing somewhere ahead. The path at first little more than an animal trail, where the brush continually struck Oswald at almost every step, now was comfortably wide, two could walk abreast comfortably. The thought of walking this path with Clara by his side crossed his mind. If he finds the right path, the right clearing, then maybe he will walk this path with Clara someday, but not today. Oswald checked the sky, but saw no birds.

  He continued his trek deeper into the woods, until he found what he sought. Ahead lay the clearing where he witnessed the sparrows do their dance in the sky. He eagerly continued into the clearing glancing up to the sky every now and then hoping to spot sparrows. Not a bird in sight, but, there was something grayish white in the distance that caught his attention. If this is what he suspects, this must be the spot, he ran to the center of the clearing. There stood an ancient stone altar. Grooves carved into the top along the sides designed to collect the blood and dispense it at the four corners where it could be collected from stone spouts carved in the likeness of birds with their beaks open affixed to the four corners of the altar. Oswald ran his hands over the smooth stone admiring the craftsmanship, imagining what it must have been like to participate in the rituals.

  This must be the sacrifice rock the townsfolk mentioned, Oswald thought. When he had first heard it mentioned he had thought that it would be a natural outcropping of rock, a creation of nature, but this altar was the creation of a skilled artisan's hands, laboring for months smoothing the stone, and then chiseling the channels for the blood and finally affixing the carved spouts. In it's own way, Oswald could see that this was a work of love.

  Mentally, Oswald compared this stone altar with those he had seen in the past. Aztec altars, Mayan altars, Egyptian altars, even pagan Roman altars and this one reminded him of nothing more than an ancient Druid altar. Imagine that a Druid altar smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Thrilled with his discovery, Oswald glanced again to the sky hoping to find sparrows overhead, but nothing. He rubbed his right hand over the smooth stone of the altar once again before turning to return home.

  It had gotten noticeably colder since he left the cabin this morning. He realized he would need to get fresh wood for the fire to keep the cabin warm tonight. As he got closer to the cabin he began to gather dry sticks and branches as he came upon them along the path. A dry stick here a dead branch there, not much, but enough to help start a fire once he got home. He knew he would eventually have to find the ax and split a few logs to keep the place heated tonight. Approaching the cabin he noticed the ax leaning against the wall of the cabin near a small stack of wood left behind by the Dyers.

  Oswald dropped the wood he was carrying on the ground, grabbed the ax, felt the heft of it in his hands. After years of living the life of an academic physical labor such as this wasn't one of Oswald's strong suits, but necessity challenged him to give it a try, actually demanded it of him if he wanted to stay warm in the cabin tonight.

  He put a log upright and swung the ax down hard on it's upturned end, hoping the log would split in two, as he had seen it done in old westerns on television. The blade struck the log and stuck in it. Oswald lifted the ax again, the log stuck to it's blade, then he brought it down hard, with all of his strength, the log hit the ground and split in two pieces. Oswald grinned like a boy at camp, pleased with his accomplishment. Then took one half of the log he had just split and stood it on end. He took another swing of the ax, this time the wood split on the first try. He took the other half and once again the wood split at his swing of the ax. Four pieces of wood was a good start, but he knew that wouldn't last the night. He took another log and stood it on end. He took a swing with the ax, and again the blade stuck in the wood and the log remained in one piece. Again he raised the ax with the log stuck to it's blade and again he brought the ax down with all of his might hitting the log into the cold earth. The log split in two. Oswald then split these two halves just as he had the other two and stopped his labors.

  He was exhausted, his shoulders and arms ached at the unfamiliar strain, yet he was pleased with himself at being able to split wood at all. He leaned the ax back where he had found it, then gathered the logs and carried them inside. Two he left in the kitchen by the wood stove, the rest he took to the fire place. He went outside to bring the dry wood he had carried back from his walk, he laid half of this on the kitchen floor next to the wood stove the rest he placed in the fireplace's firebox. He looked around the room for some paper to use as kindling, he saw his yellow legal pad and ripped a couple pieces off from the back, not wanting to burn the notes he had taken regarding the runes in the Druid's book.

  A rudimentary translations of the runes at best, how does one translate the language of the gods into English? How does one put into words wha
t there are are no words to describe? Oswald crumpled up the yellowed line paper and placed it under the grate, then placed the dry wood over the paper, last he laid three pieces of the split logs onto the iron grate over the paper and dry wood. He took a match from his pocket struck it against a convenient stone of the fireplace. The match lit in an instant, Oswald held it to the crumpled paper and watched it light into flame. In Time, Oswald had a roaring fire warming the living room.

  A knock at the door brought Oswald from the fire to see who had come. Of course there was only one person in town who would step onto this property of their own free will besides himself and that was Clara.

  “Clara, come in. I've just started a fire.”

  “What happened to your head? You like like someone went at you with a club.”

  “Nothing that dramatic, I just must have had a stumble last night. I woke up on the floor other there. He replied pointing to the living room floor. Blood from last night still lay sticky on the floor, where he had neglected to wipe it up.

  “Oh, Oswald. Maybe you should give up staying in this cabin and find a room in a motel somewhere.”

  “After I've got such a nice fire going? Never, besides I split those logs myself!”

  Clara took a rag from the kitchen wet it with water from the pump and began to wipe up the coagulating blood from the floor.

  “It looks to me like you need someone to take care of you, Ozzie.”

  “You don't need to do that, Clara. It's my mess I'll wipe it up.” He protested.

  “If you were going to wipe it up, I wouldn't have seen it in the first place, now would I?”

  “Never mind about that, right now, let me tell you what I've found.” Oswald's excitement was contagious, Clara smiled, and asked. “What did you find?”

  “From my trip to Sterling, and the research I've done translating the Druid's book as best I can, I've found striking similarities in the beliefs and practices of the Sauk and the Druids along with some major differences in intent. That in itself could be the crowning achievement of my career, but that is not all. Did I tell you about the sparrows? No matter, I retraced my steps from where I had seen a gathering of sparrows on my first full day here. I did it on a hunch after I learned what the Sauk believed about sparrows. It was only a hunch, yet it paid off!