Out of the Mist (23 page)

The next year, on the July day Joules had said we’d
always be together, I got up early. I planned to start some bread,
then pick a bumper crop of sugar snaps in the cool of the
forenoon.

“Hey, what’s going on, here?” There were no lights
in the kitchen, no red numerals on the stove, no hum of the fridge.
The rest of the house had power—the kitchen was dark. I put off
making bread, telling myself,
Hansen’ll fix it
, and went out
to pick the peas.

“I can’t find anything wrong,” he said when I
returned, consternation written across his tired face. “Let’s go to
the cottage for your birthday, Ruby. This’ll all be here when we
get back.” We wrapped the fridge and freezer in blankets to save
the frozen food and headed to the Lake. The next morning, we
returned to a kitchen bright with lights and a glowing burner on
the stove. Unaccountably, all the clocks had kept perfect time.

A year-to-the-day later, we woke to the same scene:
power everywhere but the kitchen. With hesitation, Hansen said,
“When this happened on your birthday last year, I got to thinking.
Joules re-did the wiring in that kitchen for your birthday,
remember? Said an electrician’s house ought not blow a fuse when
the microwave and toaster are going at the same time. ‘Sorta like a
cobbler’s kids going shoeless,’ he said. Remember?”

I did, and I remembered,
We’ll always be together
on our Day, Mum. I’ll make it happen
… Could it be? Just a
coincidence? Hansen couldn’t find anything amiss either time. The
blackouts occurred, and lasted, only one day a year. The clocks
never lost time that day either.

I phoned Rudie and told her what her dad and I had
been talking about. “Oh, sure,” she said, “I thought that the first
time you told me, Mom. Somehow he’s always with us; it’s no
coincidence. I feel him now. I can’t wait ‘til next year when we
can test the theory, can you?”

I didn’t know what to say, and when I did I wasn’t
sure. “I can’t speak for your father, Rudie, but… I’m
not
planning to be home on my next birthday. There’s
no theory to test. I’m satisfied knowing what I know….”

Postscript
:

“
Making it
Happen” is based on a real family with a “real” paranormal
experience, including the son’s death as described and his yearly
“visitations.” I was told this story in the nineties. I have taken
literary license to make a story shell for this amazing sequence of
facts, commonly held to be true. Names are contrived.

~~~***~~~

In Good Company

Janet Doleman

Scene 1 – Date
Night

As the crow flies, the
Mount Pisgah Cemetery is less than a quarter-mile from Andy
Murray’s farm. To get there by car, one has to take the main road
for about a half-mile and turn onto the tree-lined lane leading
into the cemetery, which is set back in a clearing in the woods.
Mount Pisgah is a pleasant enough place in the daylight, with
stands of birch and maple accenting groups of headstones, and
grassy lanes running in between. A sharp turn at the front of the
cemetery requires the large, hulking hearses to do a three-point
turn to navigate the corner.

Behind the farm, a dirt road leads to a
small, abandoned quarry, deep and filled with water. It lies in a
hollow where the road ends at a large shelf of granite known as the
Big Rock. It’s a popular spot for impromptu picnics or just lazing
on the sun-warmed surface. The rock and quarry are surrounded by a
mixed brush forest of spruce, fir, and hardwoods, with one huge old
oak tree standing above the rest, having withstood the winds of
coastal storms and generations of climbing children. Neighbourhood
kids hang out there. It’s their swimming hole in summer, skating
rink in winter, and the site of innumerable games of
hide-and-go-seek, or King-of-the-Castle. The rules laid down by
parents state they are never to go there alone, and to always be on
the watch for snakes, which might be enjoying their own sun baths
in the crevices of the Big Rock.

***

This cemetery is pretty
enough in the daytime
, Jimmy thought, as
he geared down and turned into the tree-lined lane. He’d been to
Mount Pisgah before to visit his grandfather’s grave, so he was
familiar with the neat groupings of gravestones separated by narrow
grassy laneways and shaded by the occasional tall spruce, sturdy
maple, and white birch.

Jimmy also knew it was a favourite place for
guys to bring their girlfriends on Friday nights, slipping the
chain off the gate ahead of time, and dimming the headlights as
they drove toward the secluded glade. Tonight, with Marie finally
agreeing to go out with him, here they were, doing exactly the same
thing.

Marie sat on the far right
of the front seat, hands demurely folded in her lap. She was the
second-prettiest girl in his class; the first was already going
steady with Kenneth Colson. As he drove up the lane, he glanced her
way and was rewarded with a shy smile. When they reached the
cemetery grounds, he carefully navigated the sharp turn and
proceeded along a lane, stopping near a grove of birches. It was
perfect timing: the sun had gone down and the last light in the
western sky had faded to nothing. The only light was from the car
headlights.

“
This is a real nice place
at night, with a great view of the stars,” began Jimmy.

“
Oh, do you come here
often?” asked Marie, innocently, it seemed to Jimmy.

“
Ah, well, no...some of
the guys have been here…,” he haltingly said, “and I’ve really only
been here with my folks to see my grandfather’s grave. It’s over
there, past those trees.”

“
Mmmm,” she strained to
see. “I can’t really see much past the car lights. Maybe we can
come in the daytime,” she suggested. “Maybe you could show me where
he’s buried sometime...if that’s all right with you.”

“
Sure, sure…anytime.”
Jimmy was eager to grasp another opportunity to spend time with the
lovely Marie. “I’d just have to see about getting my dad’s car.” He
paused. “But at night, when you turn off the lights, you can see
the stars, millions of them. Want to try it?”

“
Um…well, okay, but just
for a few minutes. I have to be home by ten o’clock. My folks are
pretty strict about that.”

Jimmy turned off the engine, left the lights
on for a minute longer, then dramatically turned off the
switch.

“
Ooh! I’m scared!” Marie
said with a giggle. She inched a little closer to Jimmy. He
wondered if she’d been here before.

Blackness closed around the car like a
cloak. The streetlights along the main road were too far away to
cast even a faint glow. It was very dark. The car’s engine noises
died away, and the only sound was their breathing and the squeak of
Jimmy’s leather jacket as he raised his right arm and laid it along
the back of the seat.

“
Um...can you see the
stars?” asked Jimmy.

“
Not really,” said Marie.
“It’s so dark, and there’s kind of a fog or mist or something. I
don’t remember seeing a fogbank this afternoon. It usually comes
inland around suppertime.”

Hmmm
. Jimmy noticed wisps of mist in front of the car, just
barely discernible in the dark. It seemed to get thicker. There
were no stars visible, nor anything else. Where had this fog come
from?

“
Maybe we’d better go,”
suggested Marie, with a slight tremor in her voice. “I don’t think
there are any stars out tonight.”

Jimmy sensed her nervousness and reluctantly
withdrew his arm. “I guess you’re right. It’s getting late and I
wouldn’t want you to be grounded.” He didn’t say that he hoped
they’d go out again soon.

“
Why don’t we come back
another night, and bring chairs or a blanket, and a thermos of hot
chocolate, when we know it’s going to be a clear night?” said
Marie. Jimmy could hardly believe what he was hearing.

“
Good idea, I’d really
like that.” He tried to keep his voice neutral. He reached for the
key to start the engine, then turned on the lights.

Suddenly, Marie screamed. Jimmy’s mouth
dropped open, but he couldn’t make a sound. Marie scooted up
against him and clutched his arm tightly.

The headlight beams shone
directly at, or through, two figures in front of them. Jimmy’s
first and only thought was to get out of there, fast. The next
thing he knew, he’d gunned the engine, and shifted wildly as the
tires spun, lurching the car around the awkward turn at the front
of the cemetery. Little pings rang out as gravel hit the two
tombstones near where they’d been parked.

As the red taillights receded, the two
figures remained, wavering and fading in the mist. One was wearing
a type of uniform, the other in regular work clothes. They gazed at
the grassy area below their feet, where two tombstones stood side
by side. The mist thickened and swirled about until they were no
longer visible.

Scene Two – The
Call

The usual Saturday night
supper was baked beans and brown bread at Jimmy’s house. Charlie
and Eva Spencer and their four children clustered elbow to elbow
around the kitchen table, busily eating and passing dishes back and
forth. The telephone jangled harshly, one long ring followed by two
short.

“
That’s OUR ring!” piped
up five-year-old Judy. She was not yet allowed to answer the phone,
nor could she reach the brown wooden telephone box mounted in the
front hallway.

Charlie got up to answer the phone. Eva
could barely hear his muffled comments. “I’ll be there as quickly
as I can.” He replaced the receiver, pausing briefly before
returning to the kitchen. His eyes told Eva that something serious
was happening, but he merely said, “That was Andy. He needs me down
at the farm. Could be a while.”

He reached for the old plaid jacket he wore
in the woods and at grass-burning time. He shoved his feet into
rubber boots and grabbed his work gloves. “Jimmy, I need you to
stay here and help your mother with the younger ones.”

Charlie glanced at his wife. “Maybe keep the
kids inside after supper, Eva?” The tone of his voice telegraphed a
note of concern to her. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The door banged shut behind him. They heard
the gravel crunch. Jimmy resumed eating, restlessly glancing at the
clock. He would have to call Marie and cancel their date.

Scene Three – At the
Farm

The engine groaned as Perley geared down to
urge the old truck up the steep grade. The tires slipped on loose
stones and gravel, and the wood-slatted sides rattled as the
vehicle jolted over the larger rocks. Ahead, at the end of the long
dirt drive, squatted a small white frame house, partially hidden by
huge sheltering chestnut trees.

“
This here section washes
out every rainstorm,” Perley announced knowledgably to his two
passengers. There was no reply, nor any further
comments.

The truck’s bench seat barely contained the
three occupants. On the right, his forearm resting on the open
window, sat Joe Peary, a large man wearing dark suit pants and a
rumpled white shirt. His necktie was loosened. Joe Peary was the
local magistrate and part-time sheriff. His commanding presence
struck fear and respect into the trembling, hat-in-hand penitents
who appeared before his bench.

In the middle perched the slight form of Dr.
Johnson, commonly known as the Doc. He clutched the handles of his
black bag so tightly his knuckles appeared white, as if he was
afraid it would be snatched from his grasp. Long experienced with
local house calls to tend expectant mothers, feverish children or
bedridden elderly folk, Doc suspected that all of his professional
training might be called to bear before the night was through.

At the wheel, Perley Smith concentrated on
steering and shifting, his eyebrows pulled down in a frown.
Although stocky in build, agile Perley was adept at any odd job
that might be asked of him. He could deliver your groceries, pick
up a large parcel at the Post Office, mow, rake or trim lawns, and
could take in-laws to the bus depot at a moment’s notice, all for a
modest fee. Despite the rattling from the back end, Perley’s truck
was his pride and joy. He kept it in good running order, because he
never knew when he’d be asked to do a job that only he and his
truck could handle.

“
Drive ‘round back,”
ordered Joe curtly, after they crested the hill and followed the
dirt lane past the house. Late afternoon shadows stretched long
across the yard, as the sun dropped behind a stand of dark spruce
and pine. Whispering leaves stilled as the breeze died. Wooden pins
lined the empty clothesline, the sheets, towels, socks, and pants
long-since gathered into baskets before the evening damp threatened
to coat them.

The truck pulled up next to the long, low
building housing the chick hatchery. Andy Murray, farmer and deacon
at Zion Baptist Church, waited. He nodded at the three men.

“
Well, Andy?” asked Joe as
he opened his door and got out.

“
Just waitin’ for Charlie
to get here. We might need his help,” said Andy in his measured
drawl. “Called him a few minutes ago.”

The four men stood
silently near the rough-shingled wall of the outbuilding, while
they looked at the disused wooden hay cart and at the red tractor,
but not at each other. Perley scuffed one toe in the dirt and
jingled coins in his pocket, but abruptly stopped when a glance
from Joe cast a judgment that even that frivolous noise was
unnecessary, perhaps flamboyant, while waiting for their task to
begin. They knew Joe would fill them in on the details of why
they’d been summoned, but only when Joe was good and
ready.