Tom Stratton sat looking at the home on the hillside. In the dimming evening light, he could just perceive the details of its structure, giving subtle and warm life to its outline. As the sun dipped below the tree line, the home began to vanish into the warm night air. It was a special place, indeed.
Tom was an ordinary man, who did extraordinary things. For fifteen years he had been a United Nations Relief Worker in some of the most besieged and strife-ridden parts of the globe. From the middle east to Central America, he had spent nearly half his life helping those whom without him had next to nothing. Tom never allowed his work to infiltrate his ego; in all things, he was level headed and kind. He took pleasure in helping those less fortunate.
Throughout his experiences in conflict-ravished nations, Tom had always had one major responsibility. He, along with a number of others like him, had always lead civilians and children out of combat zones. After Desert Storm, he helped treat wounded Kuwaiti citizens; In Chechnya, he helped evacuate civilians from Grozny during the Russian siege. Through all of this, he had seen the cost of human greed and hunger for power. He was a wiser man because of it.
After fifteen years of helping those without hope, he felt it was time to stop--at least for now. He had no doubt that he would return to his work one day; yet there comes a point when in helping others, oneself can be left neglected. This is why Tom bought the house.
The next day he scribbled his signature on the deed, and felt the jingle of the keys as they dropped into his palm.
“Enjoy, Mr. Stratton. Its a lovely home,” the realtor chuckled. Something in his voice almost sounded sarcastic.
“Yes, its beautiful.”
There was a silence. The realtor fidgeted at his desk, twisting a paperclip. Tom’s eyebrows raised.
“Is there...something wrong?” he cautioned.
“Wrong? Why, whatever do you mean?”
He gathered his thoughts, choosing his words carefully.
“Well, its like this. Ever since I’ve been looking at the place, you’ve been acting strangely. Hell, everyone has been acting strangely. I mentioned it to the woman at the diner down the street, and she gave me a look that would fry an egg!”
The man swallowed hard.
“People just get a bit nervous in these parts about newcomers, thats all.” His voice was sincere, but his eyes said otherwise.
“Is there something your not telling me, Mr. Donaldson?” Tom looked at his signature on the deed. There was no way out of it now, anyway.
“Its just that...that house. Its...”
“Its what?”
“Its just a little...special. Thats all.” Mr. Donaldson exhaled slowly. He seemed relieved.
“Special. Yes, I know its special, thats why I bought it. But I don’t think we seem to have the same definition of special.”
Donaldson looked up suddenly, his eyes helpless and confused. He stared for a moment, then hurriedly began to gather his things.
“Look, I’m sorry Mr. Stratton, I should never have even mentioned it. The house is special, like I said,” he began shoveling papers into his briefcase.
“I assure you, you will enjoy the house immensely, its a fine property for a fine price. Now if you will excuse me, I must be off!” With that he was out the door and down the stairs before Tom could get another word in.
Two days later, he was fully moved into his new residence. Tom’s work had taught him to move quickly and efficiently, and this carried over conveniently into his personal life. In the dim evening light, he sat on his back patio reading. The deep Virginia sunset cast rays of orange and red onto the sides of the house, making them come alive as though an invisible painter were splashing brushes of gold onto a brick canvas. The mist crept down slowly along the hills, tainted red and orange by the evening sun. He looked up from his page. The world seemed motionless, suspended but for a moment in a peaceful orange mist. All seemed well. Tom breathed a contented sigh, deep and powerful, as one breathes deeply before holding one’s breath. As he exhaled, the valleys and hills seemed to breath in unison with him; the world seemed ready for sleep.
And then, it happened.
As he glanced back down at the book, he heard a faint tapping on his door. At first, it was barely perceptible. He looked up quickly, waited with bated breath, then returned to his page. Yet, again, the knocking returned, this time loud enough that he was certain it had not been the wind. Who could be knocking at this hour? He rose to the door, and as he approached, he could see the outline of a person in the small peep hole. He swung the door open.
There, bathed in the light of the setting sun, stood a little girl. She could not have been more than six.
Tom was startled. What could such a young child be doing all the way out here, alone?
“Hello, sweetheart--what can I do for you?” he smiled.
The little girl looked into his eyes, as though she were searching for something. He stood, transfixed for a moment, as he waited for her reply.
She continued to stand there, motionless, speechless. Her small blue eyes nearly leapt into his own, swimming through his thoughts and searching his heart. Somewhere in him, a flicker; a sudden memory flashes and then is gone. Like the blinding light of a flashbulb in the darkness, something pulsed within his mind. He let out a startled gasp.
And finally, she spoke. Slowly, deliberately, sweetly.
“Do you know the way?”
He blinked. For some unknown reason, hie eyes began to moisten. He felt as though he were no longer of this earth; a great void stood between him and the world.
He cautiously spoke, unsure of what to say.
“The way...to what?”
The little girl cocked her head slightly.
“You must know. Do you know the way?”
He stood motionless. His mind was blank; he could find no words.
Something behind him crashed, sending a pulse of sound through the house. He jumped, heart racing. Turning towards the kitchen, he noticed it was only a pan falling from the rack. He turned to the door.
The girl was gone. He was suddenly afraid. He raced out the door, down the long wooded driveway, and spun in circles, searching every bush and tree in the dim light. She was nowhere to be found.
Tom did not sleep that night. Each time he closed his eyes, he could see her searching his mind, her eyes stepping into his soul. And each time the heavy darkness began to overtake his lids, that same flashbulb memory pierced his eyes until he was thrown wide awake, trembling.
The next morning, he made his way into town. He stopped at the Sheriff’s station.
Opening the door, he peered into the small office. Behind the desk sat a tall, skinny man hunched over a desk. As the door shut, he peered up at Tom through a pair of half-glasses.
“What can I help you with today, friend?” he drawled kindly.
“You the Sheriff?” Tom queried, though he was not convinced.
The man chuckled. “Naw, just a deputy. Name’s Vince, Vince Martin. Have a seat, I’ll get the Sheriff for you.”
Tom sat, taking in the rustic nature of the station. Off to the side, a door opened. An older man with gray, thinning hair stepped out. Tall but heavy set, he looked as one would expect a country sheriff to. He smiled.
“Hello there, friend. I’m John Watson, Sheriff around here. Have we met?”
Tom smiled back, “I dont believe so. My name is Tom Stratton. I just bought the old Southerland house.”
The Sheriff and the deputy exchanged a quick glance. A momentary silence followed.
“Well, pleasure to meet you Tom. Glad to hear you find our little town so pleasant. Please, have a seat. What can I help you with?”
Tom sat. “Well, I hope you don't think what I’m about to say sounds crazy or anything. I promise, I’m not nuts. You see, last night I--” Vince handed him a steaming mug of sweet-smelling coffee. “Thanks. As I was saying, last night I had a rather strange experience.”
The same look was again exchanged.
“How so?” the Sheriff moved his chair closer.
“Well, round about nine-thirty, I got a knock on my door. Naturally I was quite surprised to have anyone visit me at all, considering I just moved here, but I was especially surprised to have a visitor that late.” He sipped the coffee. “Thats good. Whats in this?”
“Just a bit a’whiskey, makes everything better. Anyway, continue.”
“Well as I was saying, I got a knock on my door last night. When I opened it, it was, if you’ll believe me, a young girl. She couldn’t have been more than six!”
Tom detected the slightest flinch from Vince and the Sheriff.
“Really now?” John stroked his beard. “Go on,” he seemed interested.
“Well,” Tom took another sip to steady his mind, “she hardly spoke. And as soon as she was there, she vanished. I ran down the road; looked everywhere. She was nowhere to be found.”
The Sheriff seemed surprisingly unfazed.
“What I’m asking, sir, is if anyone has gone missing recently. This girl could have been lost, for all I know. Hell, my home is so remote, I don't know what anyone would be doing out there that late, let alone a six year old child.”
The Sheriff took a deep breath.
“We’ve had no reports of any missing persons, Tom. Now I’m guessing that maybe it was a group of local kids playing a prank on you. Maybe some teenagers out camping with their little sister decided to have a some fun with the new guy in town. I wouldn’t worry about it too much. If I hear anything though, I’ll let you know.”
Tom couldn't be sure, but he thought he noticed the Sheriff’s hand tremble, almost imperceptibly, as he reached for a pen.
“Here’s my number, if anything ever happens again, don’t hesitate to call me. Like I said though, I wouldn’t get too bent out of shape. Kids here sometimes like to have a little fun at someone else’s expense. God knows there isn't much else to do around here.” The Sheriff and the deputy laughed. Tom tried to smile, but felt confused.
Before heading home, he stopped at the small store to buy a few things. At the counter, the kindly looking older woman began to chat with him.
“My name’s Marsha, and my husband Bill and I own this store,” she said proudly.
Tom smiled, “It’s a fine establishment. My name is Tom Stratton. I’m a bit new here; just bought the old Southerland home.”
The woman, who was placing groceries in a bag, jolted slightly, dropping a small jar of cherries which shattered on the floor. Her face went slightly pale.
“Oh my, I am so sorry! I just get a little clumsy sometimes,” she moved to clean up the mess.
“Let me,” Tom offered.
“Oh, how nice of you. I’ll go and get you another jar.”
As he drove up the densely wooded road to his new home, Tom’s mind began to drift to the night before. Out of the corner of his eye, behind a tree, he thought he perceived the faintest movement. The shadows, he thought, are getting to me. The sun is setting, after all, and thats the time when the mind plays tricks.
Later that evening, as he sat in the cool evening air, his thoughts again continued to wander. The flashbulb memory which had struck puzzled him. Try as he might, he could not place it. Yet he knew it was rising somewhere within him, trying to be let out and recognized. Something in the child’s eyes had stirred it within him; had awakened a memory deep within his mind. Yet he still could not place it.
Sleep, shallow but satisfying, slowly overtook him. He dreamt of the past, of the places he had been. The people he had known. The lives he had touched.
Somewhere in the night, long after the deep orange rays hid behind the mountains, he awoke startled. The living room was dark and still; the only light came from the flickering candles he had lit on the mantle. A cool breeze swept through the open french doors leading in from the deck. He breathed out a deep sigh. It was the epitome of the stillness and silence of the dead of night.
The candles flickered.
As his eyes became heavy once more, and as the breeze fluttered past his face and neck, something stirred. A voice, a whisper, floated in on the wind.
Guide me.
His eyes widened, searching the room. In the darkness, broken only by dim candlelight, something stirred. At the base of the wide, curving staircase, a shadow shifted and sighed.
He sat up, slowly, eyes fixed on the base of the stair. The tall window behind let in the dim moonlight, providing a faint silver illumination to the spot where the shadow stood. As the clouds moved past, the light grew brighter.
There, at the base of the stairs, stood the faint shadow of a woman, her figure framed from behind by the fractured silver rays of the moon. Only her outline was visible.
She stood, arms limply crossed around her, her head tilted towards him. Her hair, which was only a flowing dark mass, tumbled around her shoulders. Though he could not see them, Tom knew her eyes were on him. A breeze once again flowed through the room.
Guide me. The shadow shifted slightly.
Tom moved to his knees on the couch, cautiously inching closer to the arm, as though he were approaching a bird. He spoke, slowly.
“What are you?” his voice trembled.
Please, guide me. You must know the way. Her shadowy arms moved towards him as she sank to her knees. She stretched out a hand, dark and vaporous. As she reached, he sat with bated breath, moving his hand slowly towards hers.
Use the gift you know you possess--guide me once more to that safe haven.
He moved nearer to her now, and as her hand reached him, it brushed his cheek. Warm and tender, like a gentle wind on a summer night, it flowed past him. Her outline moved away.
“Please, don’t go,” he begged. The shadow became faint. Her outline wavered, her flowing hair rustled in the breeze. As the air moved faster, the clouds began to move once more and cover the moon. The light began to fade.
Use the power you know you have. The moonlight flickered one last time.
As the clouds finally blocked the silvery rays, her shape fell into a puddle of shadow, ran along the floor, enveloping him in her grace and gentleness, and finally rippled out of the room into the night. The wind died out.
Tom sat on the floor, trembling, tears in his eyes. He wept until the light of morning pierced the house.
