Alex Bledsoe - Wisp of a Thing

“We need to go,” Bliss said abruptly. She took his elbow and pulled him out of the chamber, pausing to lock the door behind them. She was silent until they reached her kitchen.

“What happens now?” Rob asked.

“I don’t know. Nothing else tonight. Just go back to the motel and wait. I’ll catch a ride in the morning and pick up my truck.”

“I don’t want to—”

“Just do it !” she exclaimed, and glared at him. “Jesus fucking Christ, can’t you let something go for one night? I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow and we’ll figure out what to do, okay?”

He stared at her, his own anger rising. “Okay. Thanks for the interesting evening.”

“You’re welcome,” she snapped back.

A wave of utter weariness hit Rob as he opened his car door. His shoulders ached, his eye throbbed, and his stitches itched maddeningly. He wanted nothing more than to be asleep in his own apartment back in Kansas City, with the old box fan providing white noise.

His eye was drawn to movement on the lake. Something like an upside-down canoe momentarily broke the surface, and ripples outlined by moonlight spread from it. That made sense, he thought; a place where fairies played fiddles probably would have a monster in every pond.

He shook his head and was about to climb into the car when he looked up. Curnen perched on the top of the car, hunched down on all fours, her face level with his.

“Yah!” he cried, startled. He had neither heard her nor felt the car shift under her weight. She immediately put her finger to her lips. Rob glanced back at the house, but the lights stayed off and Bliss did not emerge.

Curnen wore the same tattered dress, and her hair was matted with leaves. In the moonlight, her eyes appeared all pupil, with no visible white. Her fingers tapped softly and impatiently on the car’s roof.

He swallowed hard and whispered, “Hi. Don’t take this personally, I like you and everything, but under the circumstances, I really don’t want to get in the middle of things between you and your sister.” Or you and your father, he thought but didn’t say.

Curnen scooted forward until he thought she’d fall onto him, but she maintained her balance. Then she began to hum. Rob recognized it at once: “Wrought Iron Fences.”

She made a scribbling motion with her hand, as if she were writing something on a piece of paper. She stopped, and gestured to indicate the bottom of the imaginary page. Then she mimed cutting off that section. She cocked her head and waited for him to respond.

His eyes opened wide. He looked back at the house to make sure Bliss wasn’t watching, then whispered urgently, “You know where I can find the final verse?”

She nodded.

“Where?”

She jumped off the car onto the gravel. Her feet crunched no louder than a squirrel’s might. Then she took his hand and gently tugged, indicating that he should follow her into the woods.

He recalled the last time she’d dragged him through the forest. “I’ve heard some weird stuff about you, Curnen. You promise this isn’t a trick?”

Curnen stepped close and looked into his eyes. He saw the resemblance to Bliss now, in the line of her jaw and the way her eyes suddenly locked on his. Curnen’s gaze was different, though, and not in the way he expected. Bliss had mystery in her eyes; Curnen’s were wide open and innocent.

Or, damn it, was that a trick as well? Part of the Tufa’s so-called enchantment?

Curnen nodded once, seriously. So now it was up to him; did he trust her, or not? “Please don’t lie to me, Curnen,” he said softly, with all the honesty he could summon.

She made an X sign over her heart with one long finger.

“Then what the hell,” he muttered, and let her pull him across the yard toward the dark trees.

The forest felt more like a jungle, deep and overpowering. Once they were far enough away that Rob could no longer see Bliss’s house behind them, Curnen tightened her grip and yanked him along as she’d done before. He ran blind, unable to guess what direction they traveled, worried only about keeping up with her. She was silent as a viper; he made more noise than Metallica.

After several minutes, they abruptly stopped. Winded, he leaned against the nearest tree and waited until he caught his breath. The cool air made him shiver, even though the exertion drenched him in sweat. He tried to recall what he’d learned of hypothermia. Curnen stood very still, her eyes on something up in the trees.

He followed her gaze, but saw nothing in the shadowy branches. He recalled the strange shape in the lake, and wondered what other bizarre nocturnal creatures might roam these woods. “What is it?” he asked softly.

Suddenly an owl’s high, trilling wooooooo came from the branches above them. He recognized the sound, yet a shiver still ran up his damp, bruised spine. Curnen ripped a foot-long strip of cloth from the hem of her ragged dress and frantically tied it into a row of knots. The owl hooted once more, and Curnen threw the knotted cloth in its direction. She made a series of quick rapid hand gestures, and in the silence Rob heard the heavy wingbeats as the owl flew away.

He couldn’t see her face, but her body visibly relaxed. He thought owls were considered good luck and signs of wisdom; evidently to her, though, they carried a darker meaning.

She took his hand and again pulled him after her. They emerged from the woods onto an untilled field, nestled in a narrow stretch of flat ground. Old plowed furrows were now overgrown with weeds and saplings. To their right, the moon illuminated a small cabin; smoke rose from the chimney, and lights blazed in every room. A small satellite dish was clamped to one corner of the roof, and a weed-choked, skeletal tractor filled the side yard. Several cars and trucks were parked in the dirt driveway.

Their path took them toward the house, and Curnen slowed as they neared it. Rob heard voices inside, and thought this might be their destination. Then Curnen yanked him to the ground and slapped a hand over his mouth. She pointed.

The door opened with the protest of wood against wood. Rob heard the sounds of wailing and weeping from inside. A man’s voice called out, “For God’s sake, Viney, shut up. The dead can’t sleep when their kinfolk holler too loud.”

“You won’t burn that feather crown we found in his pillow, will you, now?” a woman sobbed. “The devil’ll get him for sure.”

Another woman stood silhouetted in the door, a plate of food in her hands. “Feather crown ain’t from the devil, Viney, it’s from the Christian Lord. You got it backwards, you ain’t never had it right.” She placed the plate on the ground and stepped back inside. The door closed and audibly locked.

Rob looked questioningly at Curnen. She pointed.

A shambling figure emerged from the trees. At this distance, it looked approximately human, but moved in a slow, foot-sliding manner. It reminded Rob of all those zombie films he’d watched as a teen. The figure went straight to the shack, picked up the plate of food, and disappeared back into the forest.

Curnen, obviously relieved that they weren’t noticed, pulled him along much more slowly this time. They reached a small clearing that sheltered another tiny graveyard. Unlike the Swett family plot, this one was completely neglected; the iron fence had fallen in places, and weeds hid all but the tops of any tombstones that hadn’t fallen or crumbled to pieces. Incongruously, a fresh pile of dirt indicated a new, open grave. Curnen guided him around the edge of the clearing, toward the narrow trail opening he saw on the opposite side.