Jenna put her hand on his shoulder. “It’s getting spooky, and way out of my comfort zone.”
He shrugged, gave a slight laugh and asked, “What can I get you to drink?”
“Oh, no, I left the wine on the bridge railing.” Watching him get up and start toward the doorway, she asked seriously, “Surely you’re not going back out there?”
“I’m not even considering it,” he laughed. “You couldn’t get me back out there tonight.” He added, “There’s plenty of wine in the kitchen.”
Jenna was a few years younger than Ben and both her youth and good looks made her extremely appealing, especially desirable on a rainy night such as this. Whatever it was that had happened to them had brought them closer together and it was a relationship both seemed anxious to move forward.
With rain still pelting the house, the long arms of a nearby oak tree swept against the windows with each new gust of wind. These intermittent gritty sounds were fingernails, scratching, scraping urgently—the anxious fingers of the demon night trying to get inside the house. In the windows, the sky blanched white with lightning. Claps of thunder in long deep crescendos were jagged ruptures in the cold autumn rain.
Though the storm continued to be intense, both tried to relax in the comfortable surrounds of the library. Manning had poured two glasses of red wine and set the bottle on a table near the desk. Jenna, her hair pulled into a loose upsweep, looked at rows of old books. “So many books,” she mused.
“Most were in the house when I bought it.”
She walked across the room and stood for a minute looking at a shelf of books directly behind the desk. “Have you seen these titles?” she asked as Ben stoked the fire.
“I don’t remember paying much attention to any of the books. They’re just there, taking up space.”
“It seems someone had a keen interest in the paranormal.” She leafed slowly through the pages of a book as she spoke. “I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised, especially when signs of the paranormal are all over this house.”
Manning walked over to Jenna and looked for a few seconds at some of the titles. “One thing’s sure, those left on the shelf have been there for a while.”
She blew dust off the book she was holding. “They certainly have.”
Jenna’s presence in the house was increasingly appreciated by Ben, who found her a charming companion. In the beginning, their relationship had been casual without any expectation of something more. If any experience had brought them closer emotionally, it was what happened an hour earlier near the bridge. There was agreement that each was involved with something strange, something surrealistic; but neither fully comprehended the extent of their involvement, or how deeply they would become embedded in the supernatural. Atwood House had a hold on them—and so they waited for the inevitable to happen.
It happened later that same night. Power failure. Except for light from the fireplace, Atwood House was entirely in the dark.
Chapter 14
Dr. Adrian White spoke with Professor Jeff Trafford on the phone. Their conversation was frequently disrupted by the stormy night. White repeated the same thing several times before he was finally convinced that Trafford understood most of what he was telling him.
“Yes, I recognize some of the symbols,” Trafford said, “though it took time to remember where I saw them.”
“You know what they are then?”
“Three, maybe four of them,” Trafford answered with a clear note of authority.
“I don’t mind telling you that our research came up empty.”
“It was coincidence that I recalled them at all.”
“I see,” returned White. “Well, we’re definitely anxious to know what they mean.”
“I hesitate to bring this up at all, especially when it has already received so much notoriety.”
Dr. White nodded, as if Trafford could see him, “Regardless, we need a place to start . . . something tangible so we can push ahead with what we’ve discovered at Atwood House.”
“Roswell,” said Trafford sharply, the word sounding alien to both men.
“Roswell?”
“Yes, you heard me correctly—Roswell.”
“I don’t understand. How could any of this connect to Roswell? I thought all that had been settled years ago.”
“That depends on your perspective,” declared Trafford flatly.
“About the only perspective I have is what the military has published,” Dr. White said.
“Jesse Marcel—that’s where I remember seeing these symbols,” Trafford went on, with the intention of getting to the point quickly, “the famous Roswell I-beam hieroglyphics.”
“You’re saying this thing we dug out of the ground in Newburgh, Indiana has some relevance to Roswell, New Mexico—1947 Roswell?”
“I don’t know. What I do know is that those same symbols, at least some of them, can be seen transcribed in shades of lavender on what Marcel referred to as a piece of debris that his father showed him in 1947, telling him it was from a crashed UFO.”
“Wasn’t all that attributed to the crash of a top-secret weather balloon?” Adrian asked. “There have been a dozen television documentaries and numerous books, even an Air Force investigation that concluded Roswell had nothing at all to do with a crashed UFO. It’s the others, MUFON and other UFO organizations that still perpetuate that myth.”
“Yes, like many others who know the narrative, I remain skeptical. Call it weird improbable coincidence if you want, but the symbols you found in Newburgh match at least some of those described by Jesse Marcel,” persisted Trafford.
There was a pause before White spoke again. “Coincidence or not, there has to be an explanation.”
“Quantum physics,” declared Professor Trafford. “The symbols are very similar to the various forms of electron clouds found in hydrogen atoms—and could be modifications or variations.”
White admitted, “You’re losing me here.”
“I’m saying that we’re dealing with very sophisticated quantum mechanics, and,” after a pause, Trafford added, “they show up on something you dug out of a patch of ground in Newburgh, Indiana. How did they get there and why? And is there any connection at all to what Marcel said he found in Roswell?”
“Well, it’s certainly something to think about,” agreed Adrian White.
“I’ve done some checking into the adjacent property around Atwood House, and if you’re not too busy tomorrow afternoon, say around three o’clock, I have some things here at my office that I’d like to show you.”
At a few minutes after three the following afternoon, Adrian White sat with his legs crossed, staring across three feet of glossy walnut at 65-year-old Jeffery Trafford. On the desk in front of him was a thick folder, which had not yet been opened. Adrian continued to watch and wait, while Trafford tapped his fingers on top of the folder.
“A few years ago, maybe seven or eight,” he began, “Larry Collins brought these papers to me. He said they were declassified documents of a military presence on Newland property, that property that adjoins the southeast part of Atwood House property which begins at the woods beyond the creek.”
“Yes, Collins mentioned that when we met last week. He said the Air Force had gone away with something on a flatbed truck. Apparently, everyone involved remained very quiet about it.”
“My field of study is ley lines, you know, the apparent alignment of specific land forms significant to the ancients.”
White nodded, a slightly skeptical look on his face. “I’m familiar with the term, but my comprehension of ley lines is limited.”
“Like some others out there, I’ve devoted my entire professional career to locating and plotting them.” He tapped the folder again with an index finger before continuing. “And what I have here will verify how extensively property adjacent to Atwood House h
as been investigated by the Air Force . . . and reasons why.”
Adrian nodded his understanding. “I’m sure you can imagine how anxious I am to learn what you have.”
“Let me begin by pointing out the authenticity of the papers. Though they are revealing in many ways, they do not offer a complete narrative of everything the Air Force discovered. But there is enough to indicate that something of significant importance took place on that particular property.”
“These ley lines you mention, what are they exactly? I’ve heard them discussed briefly but would certainly like some clarification on their significance.”
“Alfred Watkins first mentioned ley lines in a book titled, Early British Trackways, published in 1922, I think. His primary focus was on alignments of manmade structures, and to some more recent extent, he combined the study to include mystical arrangements of land forms.”
“I’m somewhat familiar with literature describing how Britain has numerous archaeological sites, mounds, Neolithic structures, graves, and sacred places. Some researchers, for whatever reason, have shown how many of these sites can be connected to one another in straight lines. I assume there must be some valid significance in that research.”
“Yes, Dr. White, and because of the high densities recorded at these various sites, the studies were heavily criticized as little more than wishful thinking. What many of Watkins’ contemporaries failed to consider was that he did not claim these lines had any kind of supernatural powers. They were at best ancient pathways used for trade or religious and other cultural practices. The supernatural ideas all came later when researchers like John Michell connected Watkins’ ley line theories with Chinese mystical concepts of Feng shui. And then there were others who made subsequent assertions that ley lines produced a kind of powerful spiritual energy.”
“So, these ley lines have taken on entirely different meanings from what Watkins intended?” suggested White.
“Definitely,” remarked Trafford emphatically. “In fact, there are increasing numbers of researchers who proclaim these ley lines to be maps of hot spots, magnetic vortexes, where earth energies are extreme.” He continued after a slight pause, during which he passed his fingers through sparse white hair before opening the folder. “One of the more controversial conclusions is that ley lines cover the entire planet and that several of these sacred sites have a high concentration of UFO activity.”
“You’re talking about this ancient astronaut business now?”
“To some extent, yes, but there’s something more, something that until recently has not been too seriously considered.” Thirty seconds later a map was unfolded on the desk in front of White as Trafford came around to where Adrian was sitting. “Here’s what I wanted you to see.”
The map, old, and folded several times, had declassification notices stamped at various locations. Heavily creased, slightly soiled, and brown from aging, the map showed all seven continents distinctly. Most noticeable were numerous straight lines overlaying the entire surface. Some lines were deep blue and others red or black and were clearly not as old as the map. It was obvious to White that they had been added recently, probably by Dr. Trafford. Indicated were parallels of latitude, meridians of longitude, along with the names of many major cities.
Guessing at the significance of the many lines, Adrian suggested, “These indicate ley lines?” He glanced at Trafford, who nodded.
“The red lines indicate places of frequent UFO activity, places like Sedona, Arizona, Dulce, New Mexico, and here in the Hudson Valley of New York State.”
“Yes, I see.”
Trafford cleared his throat before speaking again. And laying a somewhat shaky index finger on the map, he said excitedly, “Look at these two red lines, one of only three places on the entire map with two heavy red lines.”
“Okay,” Adrian replied, waiting for an explanation that was slow to come.
“Do you notice anything a bit unique about the pathway of these two lines?” He traced the path of the lines with his finger as he spoke.
Standing up, then stooping to get a better view of the map, White ran his hand alongside the two red lines, stopping near the bottom of the map. “They pass through the Midwest.”
“Not just the Midwest, Adrian. These lines pass directly through Indiana . . . Newburgh, Indiana. They bisect an area near the 37th latitude. That’s Atwood House property.” He pointed to a spot where two red lines were circled.
Adrian lowered himself into the chair slowly, staring hard at the map and then looking up at Jeff Trafford who was smiling. “Are you absolutely sure about this?”
Jeff nodded. “I’ve had it checked and double-checked.” Then after tapping the location on the map with his middle finger, he added, “Do you understand what I’m showing you?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Something important happened out there, something the government tried to conceal.”
“I don’t know,” returned Adrian hesitantly. “It just seems much too improbable.”
“Not when you consider how invested the government was in locating what was buried either on Atwood House property or on adjoining properties.”
White sat shaking his head. Finally, he thanked Professor Trafford for the information. As he got up to leave, Jeff took a picture out of the folder and laid it down in front of Adrian.
“What’s that?”
“One afternoon about 20 years ago, Larry Collins snapped this picture from the woods northeast of Atwood House. He said the Air Force had at least some interest in whatever was there.”
“Looks like part of a wall, one heavily damaged,” stated White.
“Or, and I know this sounds more ridiculous than controversial—a portal,” said Professor Trafford evenly, one the Air Force overlooked or disregarded for one reason or another.
“What if it’s nothing more than what remained of an old wall or building?”
“That’s possible,” answered Trafford, “but why so much interest in that specific area?” Pausing momentarily, he added, “Whatever it is, there’s a good chance it’s still there.”
“I’ve been out there with Ben Manning and we’ve seen nothing at all on that part of the property.”
“According to Collins, there used to be a structure somewhere northeast of the house.”
“There’s a section of brush out there, probably nothing to get excited about. I suppose the stones could still be in the weeds,” decided Adrian.
“Maybe—I’m only passing along information that might have some relevance,” concluded Trafford.
Chapter 15
One night, after several rainy days, Manning went outside for some fresh air. It was a stinging cold night. Millions of silver stars looked like specks of white paint on a black canvas. A crescent moon was a sharp incision—precisely cut into the eastern sky, and on the Ohio River, the sparkle of star fire reflected off the calm surface of the water. Rain clouds, earlier crowded on the low horizon, were moving west and taking with them the threat of more rain.
Although the night had become daytime muted to shadows, its sounds were distinctly different. The soft sound of water splashing against rocks, the incessant croaking of bullfrogs near the stream that flowed beneath the stone bridge, the scraping chatter of the crickets, the distant hoots and screeches of an owl, all were distinguishable sounds in the night. Most noticeably missing were the cheery sounds of songbirds that had settled for the night deep in the foliage of the oak and chestnut trees, the high-pitched bark of the squirrels, and the traffic noise on the French Island Trail highway.
With his head laid back to regard the stars, Ben Manning realized once again that he was not a man who would ever comprehend those profound mysteries above his head. He was convinced that the possibility of other intelligences in the billions of galaxies had to be enormous. The Drake Equation had been revisited often in recent ye
ars, lending further assurance that the people of Earth were not alone in the cosmos.
When he was young, his mother had told him at bedtime that fairies did their play at night. Often hiding among the flowers and shrubs, they waited for the deep hours of night when the grass was damp with dew. This was the time when they washed the dust from their clothes. “You have to wish to see fairies. If you believe, the chance of seeing them some moonlit night is always possible,” she had said more than once. As a boy, he’d looked for them many nights, and on one magical night he was sure he’d glimpsed a white dress in a glimmer of moonlight, as one of the fairies scurried across the yard into his mother’s flower garden.
Standing on the large patio at the back of Atwood House, Manning looked across the lawn toward the woods. He heard movement, clumsy at first, then gradually stealthier and more carefully measured, as though whatever it was had realized it was being observed. Deer often grazed long into the night near the edge of the woods. Often during late evenings, he had watched as they made their way along the perimeter of trees, always careful to stay concealed as much as possible in the heavier shadows. Deer moved their heads to regard their surroundings, and, if threatened, always disappeared into the deeper woods where their movements were no longer noticeable. The movements that had caught his attention were the movements of something walking awkwardly, breaking branches, a thing unfamiliar with the woods at night, and it stayed fastened to the long shadows, making it impossible to recognize with certainty who or what it was. But, Ben Manning was convinced it was not deer that were making the noise.
A flash of light. Then another. He caught the silhouette of what he was sure was a person. It was the realtor Max Palmer who had told him that Andy Shanklin owned most of the woods farther north and that his sons Ray and Kevin liked to hunt and were often in the woods at night coon hunting. Manning had seen the men once or twice in late evening, walking in and out of the trees with two dogs. He thought little about it at the time. Even though more than three acres of the woods was Atwood House property, it had long been a hunting site, and Manning had done nothing to stop the hunters, even when they encroached on his property. He knew people fished the pond that was farther back on Shanklin property. Strangers usually came as they pleased, using an old dirt access road that ran along the edge of the woods, a road that Ben felt sure crossed property lines.
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