Category: Mystery/Suspense Publisher: Write Words, Inc.
ISBN-10: 1613861281
Type: Fiction
Pages: 288
Copyright: November 1, 2012
ISBN-13: 9781613861288
Reluctant psychic Stefanie Durant returns to Windsong Lake and the house she inherited from her uncle who was killed by lightning. Soon, her psychic gift, the Ken, tells her he was murdered.
Artist Stefanie Durant never expected trouble on her return to Windsong Lake after her Uncle Hank was killed by lightning, making his house in the small town hers. As soon as she arrives, clues indicate that Hank had feared for his life and he had developed an interest in weather and mysticism. She also learns two of her old friends have adopted a pagan religion and dabble in magic. The connection is impossible to ignore, especially in light of the Ken, the psychic ability Stefanie had suppressed for more than twenty years and kept secret from everyone. It tells her something very wrong surrounds Hank’s death when she begins doing “sleep pictures,” crude sketches she never remembers drawing that foretell of danger. Although she would rather keep her secret, the Ken becomes increasingly difficult to control as danger arises out of Stefanie’s search for answers about her uncle. Who killed Uncle Hank and why? Was it the friend who has embraced dark magic, or was it the builder of the mysterious altar-like structure in the woods behind Hank’s property? And will releasing the Ken help solve the mystery or will it drive Stefanie to the brink of madness?
Excerpt
Chapter 1
I fall backwards slowly through eternal darkness. Above me, a point of light grows ever smaller until it is a mere pinhole through velvety black. I am enveloped in cold. It closes all around until I cannot breathe, cannot hear, cannot see, and then even the perception of cold is gone. Yet my mind remains active, receiving what cannot be known by the physical senses…
* * *
The sequence played inside my head in only an eye-blink of time, and its occurrence surprised and distressed me. It foreshadowed trouble and more visions to come. I caught myself toying with my locket and forced my hand into my lap.
In the real world, I stared at Uncle Hank's house through the car windshield. Nothing about the hilltop brick ranch suggested anything amiss even though its last occupant had died after being struck by lightning. The only indication of abnormality was the falling vision, and I could not talk about that.
"It looks just the same," I said. It seemed a normal sort of remark to make and served to cover any hint of trepidation.
"Pretty good condition," Paul said in the same bland tone. Bright sunshine beating on the car windows had heated the air around us, and he lowered one of them to let in a stream of relative coolness. "It should fetch a good price."
His response came from the script of ordinary conversation we began to follow when he learned of his last-minute business trip, the first since the disastrous events of ten months ago, the Janey Incident. Beneath his everything-is-normal front, I read Paul's deeper fear that his departure would launch another descent into hell.
"We haven't seen inside yet," I reminded him. "He lived alone for twelve years. God only knows what sort of housekeeping habits he had."
"Hopefully, it's not more than you can handle."
Did he mean more work than I could handle or something else? I could neither look at him for a sign nor ask him because then the subject would be officially opened and we would no longer be able to pretend.
Paul checked his watch. "I thought the police chief was supposed to be here with the keys."
"He's probably just running late," I surmised. "If you want to head to the office, I can sit on the porch till he gets here."
"Traffic on a Monday at this time shouldn't be bad. I can wait a bit more." He cut a sidelong glance at me. "Bad memories? Good memories?"
I forced a smile and devised an answer to uphold the illusion of normalcy a little longer. "Some of both, I suppose. The summers I spent here were the happiest of my life." I turned to smile at him. "Until I met you, of course."
He offered a hesitant smile in return, and for a moment, I feared he might break into honesty and probe deeper into uncomfortable subjects.
Instead, he looked past me at the house. "I still wonder why he left it to you. You hadn't seen him in years."
The same thought had been rolling around in my mind since hearing of his death three weeks ago. "We sent Christmas and birthday cards," I said, saddened by Hank Wilkens' solitary life--retired, a widower, children grown and gone. "Will's in Germany and Barb's in California and neither of them needs another house. I guess he had no one else."
Paul made a sympathetic smile. "I know. It's sad." He studied me for a moment. "Sure you'll be all right here alone?"
There it was--a direct question with only one possible meaning. I focused again on the house which had always been a happy place for me. Even Uncle Hank's gruesome passing could not take that away. With extreme effort, I kept my voice even and calm. "I'll be fine."
He placed one of his big hands on the back of my head and lightly rubbed my hair. "I know how you are when you spend too much time in here."
"I'd be alone at home if I hadn't come here," I countered. What I wanted to say was, please, Paul, let's not talk about it again. If we did not speak of our fears, perhaps they would not come true. A voice in my head said, but it's already begun with the falling vision. Something is wrong here.
"At home you have people you know around, neighbors," he reasoned.
Neighbors, yes, but not friends. I knew them, spoke with them, but I would never dream of sharing my innermost thoughts and fears with them. A true friend would know all about me and accept me in spite of my differences. I had no one like that other than Paul.
"Maybe I can hunt up some people from the old days for company."
The original plan had been for Paul to meet with his boss at corporate headquarters north of Chicago and then take vacation time to help me go through Uncle Hank's house and decide what to do with it. While planning at home in Cincinnati, I had begun to look forward to returning to Windsong Lake, but then, at the last minute, Paul learned he must take over a sensitive project in New York after his meeting.
He sighed. "I wish I didn't have to leave you here alone. You could have postponed."
"But we had everything set up with Hank's attorney already," I argued. I had almost believed there would be no repeat of the terrible events of last November until the falling vision. I reached for his hand and pressed it to my lips. "Don't worry about me, my love. I can handle it."
His hand curled around mine and squeezed gently before he pulled away to check his watch again. "Perhaps I should get underway." He popped the latch on the trunk.
We both went to the rear of the rental car where he pulled out my suitcases and I grabbed my art case, and then we carried them across the shaded porch. The coolness brought goose bumps out on my arms as we put them down by the hanging swing.
Paul and I hugged each other. His chin rubbed the top of my head, and his big, powerful frame and strong arms gave me a sense of being enfolded, protected. We held the embrace for a minute and then pulled back to stare into each other's eyes.
"Four days," I said bravely.
"Four days." He cupped his hands around my face and bent to kiss me tenderly. "I'll call as soon as the plane lands." But then, he always called.
"Be safe," I told him, as I always did. We never used the word "goodbye" when we parted.
He raised a hand in a wave as he walked to the car. The swing appeared clean enough, so I sat on it and watched my husband settle behind the wheel, adjust his seatbelt, and dutifully check the mirrors. Mr. Methodical. Finally, he started the engine and waved again as he backed down the driveway. I watched until his car disappeared around the bend, already missing him, although an inner tension over addressing our fears eased away once he was gone.
A faint scent of damp wood came up from the cedar mulch around the towering maples near each side property line. Across the lawn, across the road, tiny ripples on the surface of the lake sparkled in September sunshine. On the opposite shore, an outboard motor started, stopped, and started again, alternately purring and backfiring and sending plumes of blue-white exhaust over the water. Windsong Drive encircled the lake, a big rectangle with rounded corners, and Uncle Hank's two-acre lot sat smack in the middle of the northern leg. The thirty-odd original properties around the lake were about the same, also little changed by the passage of years. I closed my eyes, breathed in fresh country air, and wandered down memory lane.
I had spent my summers here, starting when I was eight and ending the year I turned thirteen. During the rest of the year, I went to a special school at home in the suburbs of New York City, but a therapist told my parents I needed a chance to experience normal childhood, to make friends and have fun. Uncle Hank and Aunt Ginnie were happy to take me in during the summer break since both my cousins either were away at college or married then. A memory of Uncle Hank made me smile; a skinny man with frizzy gray hair who resembled Albert Einstein and who enjoyed puzzles and games.
Other than my uncle and aunt, no one in Windsong Lake knew the reason for my visits. My summer friends never knew about my other, complicated life and treated me like just another kid. To keep those memories pure, I cut ties with them when complicated turned into nightmarish after the visions first came and the summer visits stopped, twenty-seven years ago. If they only knew…I opened my eyes half-expecting to see the three girls pedaling their bicycles up the driveway to greet me for another summer of fun.
Instead of young girls on bikes, a white sedan eased into the sloping driveway and parked at the bottom. It bore an official-looking decal on the door and a bank of emergency lights mounted in the rear window. A man in a khaki uniform unfolded himself from behind the wheel and proceeded to lumber up the drive. My immediate impression was he might be of Native American descent--tall and sturdily built with jet-black hair, deeply tanned skin, and hawk-beak nose. He appeared to be in his late forties and might have actually cracked a smile or two over those decades. As he crossed the porch, he removed aviator eyeshades and tucked them into his breast pocket, making his shield-shaped badge glint in the sun.
The Reed’s faith, a mystery to some, will be tested like never before. Will it hold? Mark’s love for his wife and their intimate romance is shattered by Brandy, a barmaid.
