Waiting for Harvey (The Spirits of Maine) (23 page)

I turned from one road onto another, determined to find a way out of the woods.  I tried to recall the routes I had taken previously and avoid them.  My stomach grumbled and my feet were going numb, but I no longer smelled the smoke.  Sure that the worst was over, I stopped to lean against a tree and take a short break.  I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, feeling calm and relieved.

When my eyes popped open again, I fully expected to see Harvey standing in front of me.  Anxiously, I looked to the left and right.  There were no coyotes, no wolf, and no Harvey Cloutier.  I was alone and I was free.  Smiling, I moved forward along the road.

Walking as fast as my limp would allow, I veered onto another side road.  Whistling cheerfully I tried to ignore my shivering.  I was surprised that trembling could be so painful and amazed that freedom could feel so good.  I had always taken it for granted.  Months of Harvey’s control left me with a new appreciation for my life.

The pain in my feet lessened as the cold numbed them.  It was a welcomed change.  I didn’t want to feel any more of the throbbing or aches.  The duct tape used to patch my boot had peeled back and fallen off in the snow.  The shivering worsened and I wondered if I should be more concerned.  There seemed to be no point without any other options available.  Using the walking stick, I forced myself to move forward.

I nearly fell to my knees when I stopped at the end of the next road.  As I looked to the left and the right, the road was paved!  It wasn’t another dirt road, it was asphalt!  It was the first paved road that I had seen in more than five months!  My heart soared and I carefully considered which direction to take.

To the left, the road appeared to be brighter.  To the right, the trees crowded the edge of the road.  It narrowed slightly near a curve less than a half a mile away.  The left seemed more promising.  I took it and walked on. 

The pavement continued down an easy slope.  At the bottom, the road leveled out again and crossed over a culvert that funneled the icy brook water.  Gingerly, I maneuvered down the steep embankment to the brook.  I knelt in the snow and drank deeply. 

On the way back up to the road, I fell twice.  I scraped my knee on a sharp rock, tearing my jeans and cutting open the skin under it.  A trickle of blood ran down my leg as I grabbed at the limbs of the bushes and pulled myself up.  When I was able to stand, I moved on.

Up ahead I saw something shiny.  It appeared to be a glint of light on metal or glass.  Curious, I passed the next turn-off and continued straight along the road.  My feet had gone completely numb and I shuffled my feet like a cross-country skier.  With the walking stick I dug into the snow and used it to help pull me forward.

A deer ran across the road less than fifty feet ahead.  It was the first animal I had seen in at least an hour.  Startled, I staggered backward and nearly fell again.  I listened intently, sure that I heard a man yelling somewhere not far away.  Yet the air was still and quiet.

As I approached the shiny thing, I realized it was a portion of a chrome bumper sticking up from the snow.  It had apparently been discarded along the side of the road over the winter.  I grabbed the end and shook it, knocking the snow loose around it.  I slid my gloved hand along the length of it, revealing a bumper sticker.  My heart beat wildly as I realized it was one of the custom stickers that advertised John’s business.  Only a handful of them had been ordered, and one had been pasted to the bumper of his truck.

I rocked the bumper upward and it stood up on end.  When I let go, it fell out into the road.  Anxiously, I bit my lip and edged down into the ditch at the edge of the road.  I waded through the tall strands of dead grass and weeds.  No more than twenty feet ahead I saw the truck.  It sat at an odd angle, and I knew immediately that it had gone off the road and struck the tree hard.

There were no new tracks, but the accident could have happened earlier in the day, before the latest round of snow began falling.  I shuffled along as fast as my numb feet would allow.  Minutes passed before I finally touched the back of the truck bed.  I gripped it and side stepped forward to the cab.  The driver’s door was pinned closed by another tree.

Slowly, I eased my way back around the truck bed to the passenger’s side.  In my heart, I was sure that John had climbed out and gone for help after the accident.  I considered hurrying up to the road, fearful that I could miss him when he returned with help.  Still, I had to look inside to be sure.  When I confirmed that the truck was empty then I would move on again.

I gripped the door and jerked it open.  It moved only an inch or two.  I pushed it closed again, squeezed the handle and yanked with everything I had.  It squealed noisily as it opened.  I stared down at my brother.  No, not my brother, only his remains.  I guessed that his body had been there through the winter.

I remember nothing more from that day.  My mind went blank and I fell to the ground.  Crumpled in the snow, beside John’s mangled truck, my will to survive was gone.  My eyes closed, and I surrendered to death.   

*

Death did not claim me that day.  Often I wish that it had.  John’s chrome bumper saved my life.  A Game Warden driving along the road saw it and stopped to investigate.  I was transported to a hospital.  Among my most serious issues was the frostbite.  In the week after my rescue, the toes were amputated from both feet.  I lost the four fingers and thumb of my left hand, as well.

When my condition improved, I was moved south to Maine Medical Center in Portland.  My room was filled with flowers and balloons.  More importantly a guard stood outside the door to keep out reporters and other curiosity seekers.

Neither John nor I had left any word of our plans to go up to his cabin.  It seemed like such a simple plan back in November.  In the wake of Hurricane Rosemary, a State of Emergency had been declared.  There were thousands of people missing and dead along the coast.  John and I were counted among them.  There was no reason for anyone to look for us in northern Maine. 

I spoke little in the early months, as I recovered.  I slept in the light of day, desperately believing that the guard at the door would keep me safe.  At night I remained awake and vigilant.  Surely Harvey was biding his time until he could force me to return.  He was growing stronger too.  In time, he would come for me with a vengeance.

I had burned down the cabin and defied him when I left the woods.  The parade of worries continued through my head both day and night.  Summer brought warm, sunny days.  Eager to cheer me up, a young nurse opened my hospital window to let in the fresh air.  My hysterical screaming chased her from the room and brought a doctor with a hypodermic needle.

At last, I tried to tell my story.  The doctors concluded that I had suffered a trauma and complete mental breakdown.  They couldn’t believe my tale.  I was the crazy man raving about ghosts and vengeful spirits.  They promptly moved me to a mental hospital.

I didn’t mind being locked in my room there.  I felt safer confined to the small space.  From the single window, I looked through mesh encased in safety glass.  The trees were close enough to keep an eye on, yet not so close that I feared them continually.  I knew none of the animals or birds could break into my room.  I felt safe in my new prison.

My agent came to visit, dragging my publisher along.  They were eager to free me and return to New York with me.  My accountant had been paying my bills in my absence, and my apartment was waiting for me.  They expected me to slide back into my former life as if nothing had happened.

They eyed my withered left arm as it hung at my side.  I saw how uncomfortable it made them as they began examining the bland green walls and the uneven ceiling tiles.  Without looking at me, they assured me that the world was eager to hear my story.  The only stipulation was that it would be published as a work of fiction.

“It’s a great story,” my agent declared.

“We are anxious to get a contract signed,” the publisher announced.

It was simple enough.  All I had to do was lie and tell them that it had all come from my imagination.  Well, that and the thought that I would have to leave the safety of the mental hospital.  Terror blossomed in my heart and flowed through my veins.  My mouth flew open and a blood-curdling scream shook the air. 

Months have passed, but they haven’t returned.  There is no book deal on the table.  That’s fine by me.  I am content to spend my days reading and watching the trees outside my window.  The rich colors of autumn provide a cheerful disguise for the perilous woods. 

Winter is coming again.  If you’re determined to go out into the woods of northern Maine I must warn you, Harvey is still there.  He is likely angrier than he was before.  When the whispering begins it may be too late for you, but you should still run.  Just run for your life.

As for me, I plan to stay here in the hospital through the winter months.  It is the only way to preserve my sanity.  I am growing stronger and in the spring I will leave this place.  Until then, I will be watching the tree line and waiting for Harvey. 

Watch for the sequel, ‘Lilies in the Clearing’ coming later in 2014!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lydia North is the pen name of Maine author Kim Scott.  She was born in South Carolina but grew up in Scarborough, Maine. She currently lives near the coast in Southern Maine.

Ms. Scott is the author of the following historical fiction novels:
The Ruth Chernock Series
1.Regarding Ruth, 2. In Ruth's Memory, 3. On Grace's Shoulders & 4. Pink Sky
& Mourning

The Manning Family Series
1. What Happened to Alex Manning?, 2. Shuttering the Manning House

In 2014, look for 'Waiting for Harvey', published under my pen name Lydia North.
Additional titles coming in 2014: ‘Lilies in the Clearing’, 'Forgive Me Mattie', 'A Solitary Grave in the Maine Woods' & 'The Talking Walls'.

Kim Scott’s
Contact Info
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https://www.facebook.com/RegardingRuth
&

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lydia-North/434008500078794

W
ebsite:
http://www.kimscottbooks.com

Email
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Twitter:
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Goodreads:
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6450594.Kim_Scott