Maiden's Peak
Between the Lines Publishing
Published by Between the Lines Publishing (USA)
as Liminal Books (imprint)
410 Caribou Trail, Lutsen, Minnesota 55612, USA
www.btwnthelines.com
Copyright © 2019 Between the Lines Publishing. All Rights Reserved
Cover artist: Suzanne Johnson
Editor: Tamara Beach
Maiden’s Peak
Paperback: 978-1-950502-09-7
Also available in Ebook format
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded or otherwise), without the prior written consent of the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper, broadcast, website, blog, or other outlet.
Other Books by Kristy E. Carter
Greene Fields Mysteries (Available on Kindle)
The Narcissist in the Daffodils
Ghost in the Pumpkins
The Saint in the Holly
A Banquet of Trouble
The Tyrant in the Tree
The Fool at the Feast
Complete collection available in paperback as:
Greene Fields Mysteries Complete Series
Morning Valley Mysteries (Available on Kindle)
Seven Years Bad Luck
A Ghostly Bridesmaid
ONE
A solitary scrap of paper was swept from the cold pavement by the updraft. The gust of wind lifted my hair and ghosted a frigid breath across my neck, causing the hairs there to stand on end. I’d come to this small town chasing a dream, but not the kind that beckons a person to great things. No, the dream that had brought me here is the kind that leaves you huddled in a corner, quietly sobbing.
Two months had passed since the nightmares began, and I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since. Even as I thought about it, flashes of the nightmare came to the front of my mind, and I quickly veered my thoughts away to keep the images at bay.
Somehow, I thought coming here to Carver’s Corner would make it better. This place was featured in the nightly horror show that my dreams had become. Being here didn’t make the dream come into clarity or logically fall into place. I had never been to this town and probably would not have missed its presence in /my life if I hadn’t been beckoned here by the insistent dreams.
My grandmother insisted that we had some cunning folk in our family tree. Cunning folk, in case you’ve been blessed with ignorance, is another name for wise men and women who heal and help others through both natural and magical means.
That might not seem so bad, but at seventeen, I rebelled with every fiber of my being. I wanted so much to be like everyone else. I tried so hard to pretend that I wasn’t plagued most nights by dreams that were seemingly not my own.
Sometimes the dreams came true; sometimes they merely taunted me. The embarrassment of misinterpreting a dream was something one truly had to experience before you could appreciate it. The looks on people's faces when they had deemed you unbalanced was something you never got used to. The straw that finally broke the proverbial camel's back came at a party in my junior year of high school. For weeks, I had dreamed of a fire at that party. It was the only reason—other than my then-crush, of course—that I had gone. As it turned out, I’d read the signs wrong, and the dream was more my anxiety than anything else. Needless to say, Betsy Stevens didn’t appreciate me ruining her party by screaming about a fire that never came to be.
A couple weeks after the incident, I left and went to live with my dad, who was on the East Coast—far away from talks of cunning folk and prophetic dreams. The move had worked in many ways. My dreams even stopped for a time, but as with all good things, it did not last.
During my senior year in college for an English degree—which I’d wanted since I was seven so I could write the next great American novel—I had started having nightmares about a cold, dark alley. They plagued me so much that I let my grades decline. My dad thought I was on drugs, and no matter what I did, I couldn’t get him to understand.
Three weeks before the end of the term, they found a small girl—no more than 12 years of age—strangled in an alley that looked eerily familiar. The nightmares stopped, but sleep evaded me, as all I could see behind my eyelids was the face of that little girl. Guilt weighed me down. I got kicked out of college because of my grades and then took a job in town walking dogs.
Four years later and at the ripe old age of 28, I had a decent enough life, even if it wasn’t the one I’d imagined as a boy. I had managed to publish some independent books and do some freelancing work on the side. I kept the job with the animal center, because my writing didn’t pay the bills by itself. One day, though, I kept promising myself, my writing would be my sole focus. Until the nightmares started, that was.
A car honked its horn, bringing my eyes up with a start, even if I did try to recover quickly. A dog had darted in front of a red sedan that looked like it had run into more than a few things along the way. The dog, however, managed to escape and gave the car a look of disdain as he trotted around the corner.
I took a deep breath and turned around to look at where I was. A woman, who had to be at least in her mid-40s, came out of a store that I had stopped in front of.
Her friendly smile was curious as she said, "Good morning."
I nodded and mumbled a greeting back, hoping I was faking a smile well enough. It must have been good enough for her, as her eyes moved past me as she raised a hand to someone across the street. I glanced around and saw a gentleman return her gesture.
I took another breath and made my way into the store. Trying to remember what my bank account balance was, I looked around for something that would work as nourishment. The coffee machine beckoned me, and I answered its call by making myself a cup. I had just snapped the lid down when a police officer came in, and the clerk struck up a friendly conversation with her.
"Any news on the Sanderson case?" the elderly clerk asked, leaning across the counter with intent interest.
The police officer shook her head at the older man. "Cyrus, you know I can't discuss ongoing cases." Her tone held a hint of humor, as if she’d had this conversation many times with the man.
Cyrus gave her a helpless gesture with his hand. "Never hurts to try."
The officer gave him an indulgent smile as she asked for a pack of cigarettes whose brand was unfamiliar to me. I did not smoke, so that was not surprising. The older man ragged at her about how she needed to give up the vile things.
To my surprise, she agreed with him. "I wish I could. Got some of those patches, and the damn things broke me out in a rash..."
I stood a respectable distance away, listening carefully. The talk of a case had piqued my interest. Perhaps it had something to do with my dream. My mind was already running wild with the possibilities.
I offered, "My father had good luck with that nicotine gum."
The officer glanced at me, seeming to give me a once-over before she spoke. Her voice was light. "You know, my Mam keeps after me about that. Said she saw it on a commercial."
I nodded. "It worked for him. Doesn't cost that much, either."
"I just might look into it." She sounded as if she really might. "These cigarettes are too expensive with two little girls wanting ballet lessons," she then confessed.
I gave her a smile, nodding again. We all mumbled
various goodbyes as the officer left to get back to her shift. After Cyrus had rung up my order and tried to learn my whole life history in the deal, the quiet of the outside street was welcomed.
Carver's Corner was a small town in the sense that it barely merited acknowledgment on Colorado's state map. I supposed it was a nice town. It was definitely picturesque.
I noted a man at the far end of Main Street picking up litter, and I turned toward the bed and breakfast where I had gotten a room for the week. There were no chains of hotels in Carver's Corner, unless you counted the shifty highway motel near the access point from the major highway.
The area seemed like a perfect tourist destination, yet I’d seen very few visitors since my arrival a couple days prior. The woman who ran the bed and breakfast with her husband was nice enough, if a bit nosy.
Then again, most everyone I had spoken to in Carver's Corner was exceedingly curious as to why I had chosen to visit. I merely implied it was for writing inspiration, which usually pacified them.
I cupped my hands around the paper cup of coffee as I cautiously navigated the rustic brick stairs that led up to the front door of the quaint bed and breakfast. The owner, Mrs. Morton, gave me a friendly smile as she sat sewing up what looked like a shirt. I did not inquire; if engaged, the woman tended to be long-winded, and I just wanted to get back up to my room. I returned her smile but ducked through the front door before she could even greet me.
The stairs were narrow and barely wide enough for one person to go up. It was a feature about the house that made me wonder how the couple had ever thought of turning their home into a B&B. My room, on the other hand, was spacious and comfortable, even if covered in a far-too-cheerful daisy pattern that made me dizzy if I stared at it too long.
I took a sip of my coffee as I opened my laptop. The screen came alive to the blank page of what was to be the first draft of a novel. I’d stared at it for what seemed like hours last night before finally closing the laptop in frustration.
Right now, the taunting white page wasn’t my concern. I clicked the writing software closed, tapping on my web browser. While it loaded up, I shrugged off the warm brown coat that I had pulled on against the mountain chill.
The browser loaded up to a search box. I set the cup of coffee on the little desk and took a seat in the old-fashioned wooden desk chair. I typed in a query about the Sanderson case and was rewarded when a couple headlines from the area came up in the search results.
The first headline caught my eye, and I clicked the article open. I read the first line and then sighed in dismay. The Sanderson case was, apparently, a case of destruction of property between two feuding neighbors. I closed the laptop in frustration, sighing up at the ceiling.
Sitting silently for a moment I thought back to the nightmare. Just what had I seen? The images flashed through my mind as I tried to recall them. They were distorted and jumbled and seemed to only get more so the longer I was awake.
The sign on the outskirts of town flashed in my mind. It was what had brought me here to begin with. It was the only part of the dream that I could recall with any clarity no matter how long I’d been awake.
I had taken a picture of the sign on my way into town as if to have proof that I wasn’t crazy—not this time, anyway. I pulled it back up on my phone and stared at it. I had to figure this out or else I really would become crazy. I noticed a message alert in the corner of my screen. I clicked it open warily, finding that it was one of my co-workers at the animal center telling me to be safe on my trip.
I had told my boss at the animal center that I was going to visit relatives out here, but that wouldn’t necessarily give me an indefinite amount of time to work out what the nightmares meant. I'd have to figure it out as quickly as possible if I hoped to still have a job when I got back.
Mrs. Morton's voice from downstairs alerted me to the fact that she’d made some brunch. Groaning, I grabbed my phone off the bedside table. I had no intention of eating brunch. The woman's food was fine, but the conversation drove me away. The prying questions and open curiosity put my nerves on edge.
It had been drilled into me from an early age by my grandmother and mother that some people would never understand you, so there was no need explaining yourself to them. It wasn’t worth the headache and would only cause needless drama.
Plus, I had this fear that somehow they’d put two and two together about my dreams and think I was crazy. It was a silly fear, as they had no way of knowing unless I told them. And I certainly wasn’t about to tell them.
Downstairs, I made a show of being in a hurry. As I rushed by the couple seated in the charming dining room that adjoined the kitchen, I said, "I'm running late for an appointment."
I picked up a roll that was stuffed with something green, lifting my hand in a wave before making a beeline for the door. As the door clanked closed, I heard her inquire whether I'd be back for lunch, but I pretended to be out of earshot.
While heading down the steps, I saw a police car drive by at a leisurely pace. I glanced around and checked my phone but found no new messages waiting. I had checked the obituaries the day before as well as keeping my ears out for any news that sounded familiar. As of yet, nothing had yielded even the faintest idea that there might be something nightmare-worthy here.
I made my way toward the library. The wind had died down now, but I could see white, billowy clouds pooling around the mountain peak that loomed over the town. My footfalls stilled as I looked up at the mountain whilst experiencing a sudden flash of white and then feeling the most bitter cold.
I staggered as the world tilted under my feet. Cursing, I put my hand out to brace for the impact of the concrete as I lost my footing. Instead of the concrete, I collided with a body.
"I'm sorry," I muttered immediately, regaining my balance as the world stopped spinning.
Then the sensations were gone as if they’d never been. I was left staring at a tall man whose long, blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail. The dark green overcoat he wore moved as he let his hand drop. He'd caught me when I fell, I realized. My pride took a bit of a hit, and I felt foolish.
"Little early to be drinking," the man ventured.
"I don't drink," I said quickly while extending my hand. "I'm Victor. Thank you for bracing my fall."
The man eyed my hand before grasping it in a firm shake. "Thorn."
I couldn’t quite tell whether he meant his first or last, but I nodded acceptance of his name. We then let our hands drop awkwardly. After standing for a moment, he dipped his head to me as if taking his leave.
I tried to keep my voice conversational. "Know anywhere around here where I could see the topography of the area?" A local might have a better idea than I did.
Thorn's alert gray eyes regarded me briefly before replying. "Try the library." His glance went over my shoulder, and I spun around to see that we had collided right outside the building. I hadn’t realized I was at the library already, and I puzzled for just a moment.
He took the moment of my inattention to walk on past me, and I turned around to see his retreating back. Shrugging, I went into the library; I’d been going there anyway, after all.
Inside, the building smelled of books and a sickly-sweet smell that reminded me of breakfast rolls. The smell was soon explained by a scented candle in a seating nook that showed cinnamon rolls on its label.
Pondering whether it was wise to have a lit candle in a building full of books, I approached the large, imposing desk at the far corner of the room. The paisley carpet under my feet made the whole room feel like my grandmother could’ve decorated it.
As I walked up to the desk, a tiny thirtysomething woman with a crisp, neat braid of brown hair called, "What can I do for you?" She gave me a pleasant smile, which I returned uncomfortably.
"I was wondering if you had any topographic maps or pictures of the surrounding area." I tried to sound confident while mentally preparing an answer for the nosy questions I typically got fr
om everyone in this town.
To my surprise, she merely nodded. "We have plenty of them in the resources section, and the computers in the lab over there have some lovely online applications to help you find pretty much any location you want to study!" The woman pointed out the computers that were visible through a large window in the next room. I must have looked confused, because she then asked, "Was there something else?"
I quickly shook my head. "No. Thank you."
I breathed a sigh of relief, walking in the direction she’d indicated. Just before I got to the lab, I saw a door to the right marked "RESOURCES." It also had a polite note to sign out any materials at the front desk. Behind the door was a set of stairs leading down.
"Great..." I muttered to myself as I trudged down the stairs.
The resources room was well lit. Regrettably, however, it was lit with harsh neon lights that made my eyes water after a short time. Most likely, my eyes were also aggravated by the dust. Clearly, this place wasn’t used that often. Taking comfort in that fact, I relaxed and started searching earnestly for topographical maps.
In one corner, I found a section labeled "LOCAL HISTORY." I lost track of time as I browsed through the dust-covered books. After two hours, I was aware of the town’s founding during the gold rush era and had gathered enough trivial facts that any fifth grader would’ve been in absolute awe of me.
I put the last book back and sighed. Glancing around, I saw a map in a back corner and made my way toward it. It took little time to locate the local terrain. I studied it, and then I noticed a name: "MAIDEN'S PEAK." Feeling a sudden cold chill run down my back, I grabbed the desk, but the world stayed firmly in one spot.
When I recovered, I decided that I needed to eat. My stomach reminded me that I had missed lunch, and I figured I’d better eat before I passed out. When I left, the librarian smiled, which I soon returned with minimal effort. She’d been a nice change from the constantly prying locals. They obviously needed to get more visitors around here.
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