We had a hen house that housed a few Bantam chickens that looked sort of like poodles. Raising the fancy chickens was my mom’s hobby, and every year she’d take them to the county fair and collect some blue and red ribbons. Sometimes she’d even take them to the state fair, and she had a few trophies to show for it. My mom also raised a small garden with tomatoes, cucumbers, and pumpkins. In the fall I loved watching the pumpkins grow, and I’d select the best one to carve into a jack-o-lantern when it got close to Halloween.
My dad ran the family business he had inherited from my grandfather: Haynes Realty and Auction. I made my allowance by helping out on Saturday mornings when there was an estate auction. Part of the money I made I would spend on fun stuff like a GI Joe or comic books, the rest I’d put into savings. My mom would drive me to the bank after I got paid. It made me feel important to deposit a check like a grown person. Sometimes I’d also have rolls of change to deposit. I would collect change and fill up paper coin wrappers until I thought they looked full enough, not thinking to actually count the change.
After I got home, I went to my bedroom and dug through my closet until I found the wooden gingerbread man Mrs. Huffman had given me a few years earlier. Examining it carefully, I noticed painted details that I had paid little attention to before: a little red bow-tie, bright yellow buttons, blue trousers, and dark eyes that seemed to stare at me from any angle. I placed the grinning creature in the top drawer of my dresser. The gingerbread man still seemed pretty silly and something I might have enjoyed more when I was two, but Mrs. Huffman was pretty cool, and anything she had made and given me was probably worth keeping. Mrs. Huffman, I was learning, was one of those people who really are as nice as they seem.
My mom didn’t fix supper early as I had told Stephanie. I guess that was one of those little lies I shouldn’t have told. In fact, when my dad got home that evening, we went to eat at Mariah’s Restaurant in Bowling Green. Located inside a very old and historic home, Mariah’s was my mom’s favorite restaurant, but it was a little too fancy for my young taste. I didn’t talk a whole lot that night, and my mom kept asking me what was wrong. I told her it was nothing, another little lie, thinking it was best not to bring up the subject of Stephanie stealing. I figured I might possibly want to play with Stephanie again, and I was pretty sure my mom would forbid it forever if I told her about the incident at the store.
That night the wind blew through my partially opened window and whipped the curtains violently. I got out of bed to shut the window and saw Bruno trotting across the back yard. His light coat glowed softly in the moonlight. He had what looked like a dead snake in his mouth. I whistled for him. He stopped, dropped the strange object, and headed towards my window. I shut the window and went back to bed, thinking about Stephanie, Mrs. Huffman, the gold switch plate, and Bruno. Eventually, I drifted off to sleep. I dreamed of the police coming to my bedroom door and telling me Stephanie had been arrested. I heard a scream and looked out the window. Stephanie was standing in a cage in the back yard. I tried to run and save her but tripped and awoke with a start.
Chapter 2
For breakfast the next morning, my mom, Vicky, fixed blueberry pancakes and bacon. She was wearing a pink housecoat with pink house shoes, and her hair was up in curlers. She sat across from me at the table, sipping on coffee and nibbling on a piece of buttered toast. A few years earlier she would have been smoking a cigarette instead of eating toast. She gave up smoking after the doctor told her the cigarettes weren’t helping her chronic bronchitis. I think she also got tired of coughing her lungs up.
“I saw Bruno carrying something strange out back last night,” I said, taking a big bite of blueberry pancake.
She sipped her coffee and said, “There’s no telling what that dog might drag up. He had a possum the other day that was about as big as he was.”
“It looked like a dead snake.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it for a minute. I’m going to be dragging me around a dead dog if he don’t quit digging up my flower beds.”
“Oh, you couldn’t do something like that.”
“Well, you just keep him out of my flower beds.
“I’ve got a pot of hydrangeas on the back porch I want you to take over to Miss Green today. She always tells me how pretty mine are every summer, so I thought I’d give her some. I would take it over there myself, but you know how she likes to talk so much. And I don’t think my head could stand it today with the headache I woke up with this morning.”
“Do I have to? I hate going over there.”
“Now, why do you say that? Miss Green’s a nice woman.”
“She’s pretty nice, I guess, but she just seems scary.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“Can I at least go over to Charlie’s after I take the flowers?”
“I suppose, if you behave yourself.”
I cleaned up my place at the table and went outside. The wind from the night before had slowed to a breeze, and the sun shone brightly in the clear blue sky. I found a small dead garter snake in the backyard close to Bruno’s doghouse. Bruno walked over to the dead snake, sniffed it, and stared up at me. I found a stick and used it to throw the dead snake over the fence towards the henhouse. It landed in the midst of some of the Bantam chickens, who fled in all directions, cackling in confusion. I picked up the hydrangea plant off the back porch and headed towards Miss Green’s, walking because it was too awkward to try and carry the plant while riding the bike. Bruno followed close behind me.
Miss Green was rumored to be very wealthy. Her house was less than half a mile down Pawnee Lane at about the midpoint between my house and West Cedar Street. She lived in an old two-story Italianate house that was painted in various shades of green and trimmed in yellow here and there. It had obviously once been a beautiful and stately home but had since fallen victim to years of neglect.
I was apprehensive about visiting Miss Green. The thing that scared me most about her was the stories people told about her being a psychic. I had a fear that she would tell me I was going to die or some other horrible thing. There were plenty of rumors about her that floated around town and made their way into ghost stories on warm summer nights around campfires. Some of the more superstitious townsfolk even believed she was a witch. The fact that she had four dead husbands lined up in a neat row at the local Promise Land Cemetery was not an argument in her defense. Her fifth and last husband disappeared one day. She told everyone who asked that he had left her for another woman, moving to another state. Some people didn’t believe her story, but since he didn’t have any known close relatives, no one bothered to investigate. She never married again after that episode.
As I slowly walked up the slightly inclined drive, the house seemed to tower above me. I imagined her peeking through one of the upstairs windows, a spider waiting for its prey. Once on the porch, I twisted the old-fashioned bell on the tall, imposing front door, hoping no one would answer. Just as I was about to set the flowers down on the porch and take off running, the door squeaked open.
“Well, hello, Brian,” said Miss Green, standing there in a long black dress that almost touched the floor, and a pearl necklace that went almost to her waist. Her black dress made me think of a witch, but she also somehow looked stately and sophisticated. She was a tall thin woman who walked around slowly with a black cane that was topped by a silver horse’s head. I found the horse’s head to be terrifying for some reason.
“My mom sent me over to bring you these flowers.”
“How wonderfully kind of her, and of you, for bringing them.
Come on in. I just made some lemonade. I must have somehow known company was coming. I haven’t made homemade lemonade in forever. I only use real lemons, you know.”
It was already starting. She had made me some lemonade before she even should have known I was coming. I sat the hydrangeas on the porch and walked cautiously inside, afraid that declining her offer would offend her and give her a reason to but some kind of
curse on me. A Siamese cat ran out the doorway, and Bruno started barking.
“I can’t stay long. I’ve got to go over to Charlie’s,” not mentioning the real reason I was in a hurry to leave. I didn’t tell her that I believed her house was probably haunted. Neither did I tell her that I had my own secret doubts about whether or not she really was a witch, and that I was wondering if one of her kitchen cabinets held a half-empty box of the cyanide poisoning she had used to knock off her five husbands.
“I really appreciate your mother sending me these flowers,” she said, nearly losing her balance for a moment. “Her flowers are always so pretty. There’s nothing like having good neighbors. Not everybody’s as kind to me as your dear mother.”
We were standing in a large foyer with an imposing oak staircase that led to a dark abyss. Hanging on the wall to the left was a large clock with a slowly ticking pendulum. The ornately wallpapered walls were covered with old sepia-toned photos, inside thick gold-painted frames, of frowning people, people who I could only imagine had looked the same, sepia-toned and always frowning, when they were living.
“Have a seat, and I’ll get you some of that lemonade I promised,” she said, leading me into a large parlor on the right.
She left the room, and I sat down on an ornate chair that was part of an elaborate parlor set surrounding a marble-topped table in the center of the room. This was no lacey feminine parlor, the furnishing being very masculine and heavy. Over the black marble fireplace mantle hung a giant moose’s head that seemed to stare down at me. The curtain rods over the two windows looked like crossed spears. And there was a humidor displayed prominently on a table in front of one of the windows. Centered on the mantle was a black clock trimmed in gold with a statue of a Roman soldier sitting on top of it. The clock started gonging, and I jumped, already on edge. In spite of my anxiety, I found the house to be fascinating.
Miss Green returned shortly carrying a tray with two glasses of lemonade. She placed the tray on the coffee table and sat down on the couch across from me.
“There are people who are afraid of me, you know,” she said in almost a whisper, as though afraid of being overheard by one of those people. “They think I’m a witch.”
“I can’t imagine who would think such a thing as that,” I said, trying to appease her so she wouldn’t use her witch powers on me.
“Well, I’m not a witch,” she said, resuming her regular voice. “And I’m proud that you don’t think such a thing. If you had of, you wouldn’t have been brave enough to bring me those beautiful flowers. There aren’t many kids today as good as you are. Kids today are selfish; they don’t think of others. They’re too busy listening to devil music on their eight-track players to think of anyone else. It’s the end of chivalry. I don’t get out much anymore, but I know what’s going on in the world. I see it all on the television. And that’s another thing: when I was your age there wasn’t such a thing as a television. We had to create our own entertainment, and I think we were a lot better off. Kids today are too busy with all this modern technology to help an old woman like me. But you’re different. You’re not like a lot of other kids these days. Most kids would have tried to get out of it, had their mother asked them to bring flowers to a lonely old woman like me.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling a little guilty. I took a sip of the lemonade that really was very good.
“You should come over here sometime, and I’ll make a strawberry shortcake. Do you like strawberry shortcake?”
“I like it pretty good,” I said.
“You’ll like mine. I make my cake from scratch. Store-bought cake just won’t do it. You could use those old spongy store-bought cakes to clean a bathtub. I grow my own strawberries too.
“Did you know that if you break a double strawberry in half and give half of it to someone you like, you’ll soon fall in love? You remember that next time you find a girl you like.”
“I never heard that before,” I said.
“You see, I’m just full of all kinds of wisdoms. I guess that’s why some people are afraid of me. They’re afraid of things outside of what they consider normal. I’m just gifted; that’s all. We’re all born with talents, so I’m no different than anyone else. My talent just happens to be the ability to see things that lie ahead. My nanny told me a long time ago that I was born with a veil over my face. Anyone born with a veil over their face has the gift. Now let me see your hand, and I’ll show you what I mean.”
I had no idea what she meant by being born with a veil over her face, but I figured it was something I should already have known about and didn’t want to embarrass myself by asking questions. Besides, it sounded like something that would give me nightmares if I did know what it meant. I sat my glass of lemonade down on the marble-top table and reluctantly held out my right hand. This was the first time I’d actually sat and talked to Miss Green for very long, and she didn’t seem as mean as I was expecting her to be, so I figured it would be okay. With both of her long, skinny hands, she grabbed my hand and looked it over carefully.
“Although there is a worrisome circle here, you have a very long lifeline. Your palm is oval shaped, indicating you are introverted and emotional, also sympathetic.” She let go of my hand and looked into my eyes. “I see a lot in your eyes, more in your eyes than I could ever find on the lines of your hand. Oh yes, I can see that you are a very sincere honest boy. But you are afraid. You are afraid of me, but you are too kind a person to let me see this fear. You are therefore both brave and kind. You are also intelligent, yes, very intelligent. You do well in school. Am I correct?”
“I do pretty good in school,” I said. “But I’m not afraid of you.”
“You are much too kind,” she continued. “You will have a great future… No, wait,” she said, clasping my hand again.
“Wait? Wait for what?” I asked, becoming even more nervous.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, letting go of my hand and standing up. She looked visibly shaken and appeared even paler than she usually did. “Let’s just enjoy our lemonade. I’ll go see if I can find a nice snack to go with it.”
“What did you see?” I asked, terrified. It was too late to turn back now. I had to know what she saw. Not knowing would surely be worse than knowing.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It was a mistake for me to do that. Now let’s talk about something more cheerful.”
“You can’t just leave me hanging,” I said, scared and angry.
“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “If you must know, I saw the eyes of a serpent.”
Serpent? It was the most horrifying word I’d ever heard. Jumping up from the chair, I asked, pleadingly, “What do you mean by that?”
“I’m not sure what it means. I’ve never had that premonition before. It’s just something that came to mind. It’s probably nothing. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“You really are a witch!” I shouted and ran crying out the front door and down the long driveway. Bruno followed enthusiastically. I glanced back, afraid that she would be chasing me with a knife. She was standing on the front porch, her long black dress more menacing than ever.
“Come back,” she shouted. “We’ll straighten this whole thing out. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m terribly sorry.”
About halfway down the long driveway, satisfied that she wasn’t chasing me, I slowed to a fast trot, my heart still racing. She could have said anything besides serpent. Serpents dwelled in nightmares.
Chapter 3
Charlie Caldwell lived about a mile north of town, off of Highway 31W, towards the city of Bowling Green. His house was a very interesting octagon-shaped house that had been built before the civil war. According to legend, during the Civil War, after Bowling Green was abandoned as the Confederate capital of Kentucky, as many as twelve thousand retreating confederate soldiers, on their way to Shiloh, camped on the grounds surrounding the home. Generals Breckenridge, Hardee, and Johnston spent the night inside the house. The
home’s owner, Andrew Jackson Caldwell, a slave-owning confederate sympathizer, welcomed the confederate troops. After the confederates left, the federal troops moved in and confiscated whatever they wanted, as the property was considered enemy territory. The family’s favorite cow, Spot, was killed and thrown into the drinking well, contaminating the water for months. Some of the able-bodied slaves abandoned the estate and joined the Union Army. Throughout the years, the home and land had somehow managed to stay in the Caldwell Family. The Caldwells were still a very prominent family in the community. The Caldwell land included a two thousand acre cattle, corn, and tobacco farm.
My racing heart had finally slowed down by the time I approached the house. I found Charlie outside swinging on a tire swing suspended from an ancient oak tree. He had short, brown curly hair and a few freckles. He was ten, two years older than me, and was about an inch taller. I walked over to the tire swing. Bruno ran off into the field with Charlie’s German Shepard, Ranger.
“Hi, Brian,” he shouted, waving and swinging high to show off.
“Hi, Charlie. Where’d you get the tire swing?”
“My dad put it up Sunday. How do you like it?”
“Yeah, that’s real neat. Can I try it?”
“I guess, if you promise not to tear it up.”
“I won’t tear it up. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. How would I tear it up: take a knife out and cut the rope? I said this morning I sure wish I had me a tire swing, so I could cut the rope.”
Charlie laughed and got off the tire swing, and I climbed onto it. Pulling the swing back as far as it would reach, I let go, and the tire flew like an eagle. I leaned back, letting go of the grass rope, and landed flat on my back, losing my breath for a few moments.
“Help,” I said finally. “Go get some help--I can’t breathe.”
Charlie was laughing so hard he started coughing. He had an infectious laugh that often made me laugh before I even knew what was funny.
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