This is the first section of my new book"
CONSQUENCES
Autumn leaves, their colors as vivid as feathers on a magnificent Phoenix in flight, seemed to dip and spin in perfect rhythm to the erratic tempo of the wind. Their dizzying dance swirled around Mist House; effectively transforming its hard-edged brick walls into a soft pastel blur yet the frenzied motion failed to obstruct the view of its Eastern windows. These glassy surfaces, as observant as dark pupils of human eyes, watched as the Grant family and their unusual visitors relaxed around the stone-ringed bonfire burning in the meadow below. At the same time, windows on the Northern side of the house directed curious stares into the silent woods but with no way to warn the family; they could neither remind the Gazer that she’d forgotten to repeat the binding spell, nor were they capable of intervening in the scene playing out beyond their reflective gaze.
Mist House could only wait as it had for almost two hundred years — in silence.
Bare limbs and branches stood out in sharp contrast to one extraordinary shadow as it detached from the base of a tall ash tree. For a few minutes, the amorphous shape slithered restlessly back and forth just inside the tree line and then, as if throwing a temper tantrum, it swelled into a seven-foot monstrosity. Seemingly infused with a roiling substance resembling filth-engorged oil, the specter thrust upwards from the ground, its dark silhouette twisting and jerking like a thing gone mad.
Then with a mighty lunge …
As the sun fell from the sky, primal instinct alerted the immortal that this new Gazer, a foolish young female, had forgotten to repeat the binding spell. No longer held against its will by words of magic, it glided across tree roots into thick grass…after two hundred years, the Mindcatcher was finally free…no longer held prisoner beyond the dark edge of the woods.
INTRODUCING THE GRANT FAMILY
Mist House had held the same regal pose since the Victorian era, its Eastern windows watching as each new dawn poured morning colors into the rushing stream below. Although built on property dropping away in a manicured slope, a hundred acres of old-timbered woods still edged its back and side yards in a broad arc. Its thick outer walls and four tall chimneys were composed of time-faded red brick while pale limestone lentils arched above each window like inquisitive eyebrows, perhaps contemplating what the future might bring.
An overhead canopy shadowed the filigree fanlight above the front entrance and keeping with that century’s tradition the door was built wide enough for a casket to pass through its doorframe without touching either side.
Decorative plaster carvings of ribbons, classical figures and urns adorned the upper walls and ceiling of the two-storied foyer. To the left, eight-foot pocket doors introduced visitors to twin parlors while on the right, an ornate stairway climbed in a graceful curve to the second floor. The long narrow foyer led into a formal dining room that connected to the brick-walled kitchen by an oak-paneled butler’s pantry. Antique oriental rugs floated vivid color and pattern over polished hardwood floors that stretched throughout the sixteen-room interior.
In the west parlor, eleven-year old Adain Grant cavorted before the center bay window like a court-trained jester summoned to perform before the king. Unaware of the pitch-black form flowing as silently as a shadow up the wide staircase, he pressed his chubby face against the glass in an attempt to attract his sister’s attention. Adain found it incredibly amusing that “Miss Perfect” was the one being punished for once — instead of him. Although his sister acted so goody-goody to everybody else, she never hesitated to clobber him — hard — whenever they were alone so he felt the silent pantomime was completely justified. Gesturing and posturing wildly, he continued trying to provoke her; something he wouldn’t dare do without the protective glass between them. Despite predicting the painful consequences of his actions Adain, true to his nature, couldn’t resist this rare opportunity for whenever he was in the same situation; Micah never missed a chance to make fun of him.
Upstairs, Ella Grant twisted and turned in the rumpled sheets of the canopied four-poster bed. An outstretched hand, appearing translucent in the warm glow of lamplight, griped the satin ivory border of the top sheet as if seeking its thin protection. Unable to come fully awake, she moaned in terror for her dream-self still fled through another of the nightmarish landscapes she’d traversed since childhood and because her dreams were always filled with threatening dark specters, she too, remained oblivious to the unnatural intruder.
Slithering onto the second floor hallway, the dark entity bypassed the master bedroom and although conscious of the woman’s presence behind the door, primordial instinct guided it purposefully along the corridor; this was not the female it hunted.
Next door in his studio, John Grant, brushed finishing touches on his latest oil painting and even though the silent interloper now surged along the antique hall runner like thick black ink, he was unmindful of its passing. His attention was focused solely on his newest canvas — the gray-shrouded representation of Mist House.
The unobserved intruder left no trace as it moved towards the room at the end of the hallway and only once was it necessary to move high on the wall to avoid a patch of bright sunlight. Reaching the end of the hallway, it oozed through the crack beneath the door and instantly transformed its inky appearance into the translucent form that allowed the creature to hide in plain sight. Stretching over the intricate design of the rug, it now looked no different than other non-threatening shadows scattered around the room. Long ago, this creature had compelled one of its captives to steal a child from this very room and since time had little meaning for
one so ancient, the Mindcatcher waited patiently — waited for the new daughter of Mist House.
In the backyard, sixteen-year old Micah Grant’s red sneakers, and the rake dragging behind, burrowed through dried leaves like miniature plows as she trudged to the edge of the yard. It’s not fair! I was only defending my friend, she stewed, feeling unjustly put-upon by this unfair punishment.
In an attempt to forget her misery, Micah stopped raking to gaze into the thick tapestry of autumn foliage, dark bare limbs, and branches. She took notice that the majority of trees appeared strong and healthy while others looked rather pathetic. Most of the sickly ones were dogwoods, their raggedy trunks wearing a greenish scale-like fungus. Gazing upwards, she also noted that in the taller hardwood trees, many of the higher limbs looked ragged as if the wind enjoyed playing energetic games of Twister among them while twisted branches and twigs, scattered around the trunks below, gave the macabre appearance of broken bones. Although she and her father had spent most of the summer clearing away underbrush, thick poison ivy vines and multi-flora rose bushes, some of the young saplings had new vines twisting around them in strangling chokeholds.
Micah had first noticed the sorry state of the woods shortly after moving into Mist House and wondered why the trees were so badly neglected. Upon learning that her ninety-year old grandmother had lived in the house alone, until her death, she guessed that chore had been delegated to the slipshod handyman her father had fired shortly after moving in.Turning away, Micah was amazed she could even work up enough energy to care about a bunch of stupid trees when her family was being torn apart. Often, when she really felt down, it was easy to equate her circumstances with the most wretched trees… sorrowful…broken. If, over the years, no one had cared enough to dutifully watch over these trees, it was reasonable that some looked so appalling. It was really sad — but why should she even care?
