Chapter 17: The Woman in the Woods

  The cold air stung Lester’s cheeks, and his fingers felt frozen.  Even so, he gripped the handlebars of his bike firmly, training its small light on the white painted line marking the edge of the pavement.  Somewhere in the darkness to his right lay a steep roadside ditch, and he was careful to steer clear.

  Amanda and Mae rode beside him, the three of them taking up the entire southbound lane to the double yellow line.  There was no need to worry about oncoming traffic.  The sun wouldn’t be up for another half an hour, allowing the headlights of any cars to be seen long before they arrived.  Additionally, as it was the weekend, there would be no buses shuttling kids to school or adults going to work.  At most, they might encounter a slow-moving tractor, driven by a local farmer, up early, rushing to get the season’s last cutting of hay into the barn before the rain they could smell on the air arrived.

  Lester loved this time of day.  It was one of the reasons he liked having a paper route.  Soon the town would wake, and people would start to go about the mundane tasks of everyday life.  But right now, in the moments before dawn, the possibilities were endless.  Lester could let go of everything that would seem so important just a few hours from now; school, his family, his future.  Some days, he felt he might keep riding and never go back.  However, he knew that once the sun came up, the weight of the world would return.  Still, it was fun to pretend.

  “Seriously, Lester?” Amanda said, her breath showing in the air as it blew out from the scarf wrapped around the lower part of her face.  “Can’t you just tell us where we’re going?  It’s freezing out here.”

  “Turn!” Lester yelled in reply and veered off the pavement onto a dirt track.

  Mae and Amanda followed, their bikes rattling as they rolled up and over several rollercoaster-like humps.

  While most of Giles Hollow sat atop the hill, a few random houses were scattered among the deep woods of the valley below.  These were connected to the main village by a series of unpaved lanes that saw little to no attention from the town.  During the spring months, the rain and melting snow could render mud so thick that many of these rustic routes became impassable.

  “Wee!” Mae squealed as they picked up speed and passed through a dip that made Lester’s stomach drop.  She wore a wool hat with a rabbit’s face knitted onto the front.  It had matching grey and pink ears that flapped behind her as she sailed along.

  They continued to descend, the trees growing thicker and taller as they went.  Gnarled limbs intertwined above them, reaching out from either side to create a dense canopy that transformed the narrow road into a woven tunnel.

  From the bottom of the valley they heard a long low whistle, followed by a rhythmic clacking.  If they kept going, they would eventually come to the river that marked the county’s edge and the freight trains that wound their way along its banks.  

  Lester brought his bike to a stop, and Mae and Amanda did the same.  The sun was rising.  Its rays filtered through the mist that hung in the air, casting a gray haze around them.

  “You do realize we’re going to have to bike back up all of that, right?” Amanda said, pulling the scarf from her face.  “This had better be worth it.”

  “You can judge for yourself,” said Lester.  He removed an oversized postcard from his delivery bag and passed it to Amanda.  “You know the symbol from the paper in the alley?  I knew I’d seen it before.”

  “Come to the annual Giles Hollow Historical Society’s fundraiser,” Amanda read.  “What’s this got to do with anything?”

  “Turn it over,” said Lester. 

  The front of the postcard showed an old black and white photograph of a small cemetery, surrounded by a shiny wrought iron fence and thin maple saplings.

  “Oh.  That is interesting,” Mae said, leaning in close.

  “What is?” Amanda asked, squinting at the image.

  “Look past the cemetery,” said Lester.

  Beyond the fence and gravestones, sticking out from behind a tree, stood a black mailbox with a red metal flag.  It was a standard model, the same one most people in town had in front of their own houses.  What set this one apart, however, was the bright white hourglass symbol someone had painted on its side.

  “The newspaper had me deliver one of these cards to every stop on my route last summer,” Lester said.  “I searched our garage for nearly an hour last night and finally found one behind a bunch of bins.  Good thing recycling is Bernard’s job.  He just chucks it all in a pile in the corner.”

  “So who’s mailbox is it?” Amanda asked.

  “No idea,” said Lester.  “It’s impossible to make out the address.  And did you know there are nine cemeteries in Giles Hollow?  The historical society has a map of all their locations, though most are no longer in use.”

  “Really?” Mae said, sounding legitimately interested.

  “Really gross,” added Amanda.  “No longer in use because they’re full of super old decaying bodies.”

  “True,” Lester said cheerfully.  “Like the one from that postcard.  Which happens to be located just around the next corner.”

  Rising like rows of gray teeth from the earth, the headstones were the same, but the once small trees from the photograph had grown substantially.  Lester could have wrapped his arms around one without his hands being able to touch on the other side.  A deep green moss covered the ground, and scaly brown rust had slowly crept its way up the iron fence, leaving only the spikes on top in their original black.

  Though it too showed evidence of the intervening years, the mailbox still stood.  It leaned forward on its post like a tired sentry, guarding the end of a long driveway.  The strange painted symbol on its side was faded but intact.

   Years ago, the surrounding grounds must have been almost regal.  The gravel drive once meandering its way through a lush orchard before disappearing over a slight rise toward what was surely a stately home beyond.  Presently, however, tall grass grew up through the crushed stone in random clumps, and the orchard’s trees, neglected for too long, poked unpruned branches out at sharp angles.  The overly sweet smell of rotting fruit hung heavy in the air.

  “Okay, what’s the plan?” Mae asked.

  “There’s no name on the mailbox,” Lester said.  “So, I guess we have to go see if anyone’s home.”

  “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. so-and-so,” Amanda said in mock conversation. “We were wondering if you could tell us anything you might happen to know about an ancient war between The Dark and The Light.”  She rolled her eyes on the off chance her sarcasm had gone unnoticed. 

  “That’s why I brought this,” said Lester holding up his newspaper bag.  “We knock on the door and say we’re selling subscriptions to The Giles Hollow Mosquito.”

  “And?” Amanda asked.

  “And — we see what happens,” said Lester.

  “Wow.  Did you stay up all night working that out?” asked Amanda.  “Are you sure it’s not too complex to pull off?  Too many moving pieces?”

  “I think it’s quite a good plan,” said Mae.

  “Thank you, Mae,” Lester replied, giving Amanda a look.

  “Even if it is a little light on details,” Mae added.

  “Fine,” Lester said.  “Do either of you have a better idea?”

  “Nothing that doesn’t involve me going back in time and staying in bed this morning,” Amanda muttered.

  Several minutes later, they stood with their backs to the overgrown orchard and gazed up at a massive stone staircase, sitting atop a string of elaborate arches.  It climbed into the air with an elegant curve, the last step ending two stories up at nothing.  While the staircase rose alone like an ancient monolith in the clearing, there were still faint signs of the home that had once enveloped it.  Beneath the blanket of freshly fallen orange and red leaves, a sunken depression outlined the remnants of a large foundation.  A cracked and broken front path led to a granite threshold.  It was easy to imagine a pair of broad double doors opening onto a large ballroom, the indomitable staircase, clean and new, flowing down from the upper floors. 

  They had pushed their bikes up the drive and through the trees in silence, trepidation and excitement increasing with every step.  Along the way, each had quietly hoped one of the others might suggest they turn around.  Now, staring at the staircase that led nowhere, Lester wasn’t sure if he felt relieved or disappointed.  What had happened to the people who’d lived here?  Why had they painted the symbol on the mailbox?  Was it a fire that had destroyed their stately home and caused them to move away, or were they buried under the stones in the nearby cemetery?  If no one was left to tell the tale, where would Lester and his friends find the answers they so desperately needed?

  “What’s that?” Mae asked, pointing.

  Beyond the ruins, at the far edge of the clearing, sat a small cottage.  Judging by its location and size, it had once been the caretaker’s quarters for the main house.  Weathered and gray, it was nearly invisible beneath a camouflage of twisting vines and branches that reached out from the nearby forest.  If not for the thin wisps of smoke rising from the dilapidated dwelling’s small stone chimney, they might not have noticed it.  

  The steps creaked as the three friends carefully made their way up onto the cottage’s rotting porch, eyeing the dark windows for signs of life. 

  “It’s not made out of candy if that’s what you’re thinking,” a silky voice said.  “But by all means, feel free to give it a lick if you don’t believe me.”

  Lester, Mae, and Amanda yelped in surprise, jumping and clutching at each other to keep from toppling over.

  In the far corner of the porch, hidden among the shadows, a woman gently swayed back and forth on a wooden rocking chair. 

  “My apologies,” she said, feigning sympathy.  “I didn’t mean to scare you.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  I did, but I suppose it’s polite to claim that I didn’t.”  She leaned forward into the sunlight, and as her face came into view, she winked.

  A cold shiver ran down both of Lester’s arms.  “I know you,” he said, pulling his coat tighter.

  They hadn’t spoken the morning the fog and cows had caused the accident, but the face of the strange old woman peering out from behind a tree had visited more than one of Lester’s nightmares. 

  “And I know you, Lester North, son of Edward and Patricia, brother to Bernard and Mathis-s-s-s,” she said, extending the name into a snake-like hiss.

  “Who’s Mathis?” Mae whispered to Amanda.

  “Not now,” Amanda whispered back.  She quietly took Lester’s hand in hers. 

  “Are you a friend of my parents?” Lester asked.  Seeing the woman up close for the first time, he realized she wasn’t old at all.  Her light blonde hair had appeared almost white in the shade of the forest.  But looking at her now, he guessed she was probably about the same age as his mother.

  “Friends?  No.  Are these your friends?” the woman asked, nodding towards Mae and Amanda.

  “We were wondering if we could ask you some questions?” Lester said, abandoning the ruse of selling newspaper subscriptions and cutting straight to the point of their visit.  He kept his tone light, as though they were researching a report for school.

  “Is that so?  A North, a Gray, and a Cambion,” the woman said, eyeing Lester, Mae, and Amanda in turn, “want to ask me questions?”  She tapped the end of her chin in fake contemplation.

 “Yes,” Lester continued, “about the symbol on your mailbox.”

  “Oh — I see.”  The woman eyed Lester with a satisfied smile as though he’d just confirmed something she’d been thinking.  “In that case, I’ll make you a bargain, son of Patricia.  You may ask me questions if I may do the same?  Do we have a deal?”

  “Do it, Lester, and let’s get out of here,” Amanda whispered.

  “What was that, Cambion!” the woman snapped, her placid face hardening into a glare.

  Lester felt Amanda stiffen beside him.  “She was just saying what a lovely spot you have here,” he said, gesturing to the grounds.

  Amanda made a show of brushing dust from her pants and shot the woman a stern look of her own.  “Yeah,” she said.  “It’s delightful.”

  A quiet moment passed as the two stared at each other.

  “Why don’t I go first,” Lester suggested before either of them could say anything else.  “Can you tell me about the symbol on your mailbox?”

  The woman’s attention slowly drifted back to Lester, the smile returning to her face.  “No.  I cannot.”

  “You can’t, or you won’t?” asked Lester.

  “Tut, tut,” she replied, wagging a finger at him.  “That’s another question.  Someone’s not taking turns.”

 “Quite right,” Lester said.  Biting back his frustration, he took in a slow breath and gestured for her to ask him something.

  “How old are you?” the woman asked.

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  Lester was surprised at the simplicity of the question.  Anyone in town could have discovered this without much effort.  But then again, he’d never seen her in town.  

  “Eleven,” he said.

  “Very interesting.”

  Eager for a second try, Lester quickly asked, “Do you know what the symbol on your mailbox means?”

  “No.  I do not.”

  Lester glanced at Mae, who shrugged.  He’d just have to keep going.

  “When is your birthday?” the woman asked.

  “August twenty-seventh,” said Lester.

  She let out a small chirp of excitement and clapped her hands.  “Now, this is fun!”

  “Who painted the symbol on your mailbox?”

  “Ah, better.  Maybe you’re smarter than you look.”

  “Well?” Lester asked, ignoring the slight.

  “Father painted it years ago.  Happy?”

  “Yes,” Lester said, truthfully, finally feeling like they were getting somewhere.

  “Do you have any younger siblings?” the woman asked next.

  “No,” answered Lester.

  “I see.  I see.  Last of three,” she mumbled to herself while holding up three fingers.

  “Why did he paint the symbol on your mailbox?”

  “I don’t know.  Father was the linguist.  You’d have to ask him.”

  “And where is he?”

  “Third stone from the gate,” the woman said with a wry smile and pointed in the direction of the cemetery.

  “Fine,” Lester said, unable to mask his irritation.  “Since you don’t have any useful information, we’ll be going.”  He turned to leave, Amanda and Mae already walking down the steps in front of him.

  “Wait!” the woman called, getting out of her chair.  “You play a good game.  Don’t you want your prize?”  She shuffled towards him across the creaking boards, her gait unsteady.

  As Lester watched her approach, he thought she moved as though she’d been injured.  Whether it was an old wound or something more recent, he couldn’t tell.  Then her foot slipped, and he found himself reflexively reaching out to catch her as she tumbled forward into him. 

  “What was unknown is now known,” she whispered in his ear, her warm breath brushing his neck as her hand clamped down on his arm.  “Watch yourself, North child.  For they are coming.”  She pressed something into Lester’s palm and closed his fingers tightly around it.  Then she spun to face Mae and Amanda.  “Boo!”

  Both girls screamed and fled.

  Lester, choosing to skip the steps entirely, leaped to the ground and raced to catch up with his running friends.

  It wasn’t until they’d reached the crest of the hill marking the edge of the orchard that they dared to stop and look back.  By then, the strange woman was gone.  Her vine-covered cottage had resumed its chameleon-like trick of blending into the surrounding trees.  The only sign of its sole inhabitant was the faint sound of muffled laughter coming from somewhere inside.  

  “I hope she chokes on it,” Amanda said, glancing over her shoulder as they turned and walked back down the long driveway toward the road.  “What a miserable crone.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Mae, “but at least it was worth it.”

  “How do you figure?” Amanda asked.  “We didn’t discover what the symbol means or why it was hidden on the paper from The Mortician’s Eye.  She didn’t tell us anything, not even her name.”

  “No, but she did tell us how to find it,” Mae said and held out a small spiral notepad.

  “You were taking notes?” asked Amanda 

  “A good psychic investigator always keeps records,” Mae said, matter-of-factly.  “When Lester questioned why her father had painted the symbol, she told us we’d have to ask him ourselves.”

  “Of course!” Lester said. “The gravestone.”

  “Exactly.”  Mae flipped a page in her notebook.  “Let’s see.”  Her finger scanned down the paper.  “She said it was the — third stone from the gate.”

  Hurrying back to the cemetery, they counted two graves and stopped.  

 “There’s nothing here,” Lester said, looking down at the empty space.  He turned and began scanning the surrounding trees, half expecting to see the woman from the cottage laughing at them from behind one.  “I’ve had enough of this,” he said, feeling stupid.  He’d wasted everyone’s time listening to the ravings of a mad hermit, with nothing to show for it but a long uphill ride home.  “Let’s just go.”

  “Give me a minute,” said Mae.

  She began slowly walking back and forth, eyes on the ground.  Moving to the iron fence marking the cemetery’s border, she turned and retraced her steps, quietly counting them off.  Her sneakers sunk into the thick moss that ran between the stones, creating a grid-like pattern of footprints.  Reaching the space where they’d expected to find a grave, she stopped and tapped her toe.  She moved to one side and tapped again, then back in the original spot.  Each time she did, she listened closely to the sound it made.  

  “I think there’s something here,” Mae said, bending down and peeling back a chunk of moss.  Tossing it to one side, she brushed away the thin layer of dirt beneath.  As she did, she exposed the corner of a smooth piece of granite and the small hourglass symbol carved into its surface.

  Without a word, Lester and Amanda knelt beside her.  The three of them excitedly uncovered the rest of the stone.  Then, using water bottles from their bikes, they washed off the last bits of earth, revealing the marker’s inscription.

  “Oh, hell,” Amanda said, gazing back in the direction of the cottage.  “You have got to be freaking kidding me.”

  

The way back home was long and nearly entirely uphill.  Their bikes weren’t much use as they climbed out of the steep valley, and they pushed them along, regretting their weight.  Despite this burden, Amanda was walking so quickly that Mae and Lester had to break into a slow jog to keep up.

  “It could be a coincidence,” Lester said, breathing heavily.  “The Pooles have lived in Giles Hollow for as long as the Norths.”

  “Right,” Amanda replied.  “Another family of Poole’s, whose grandfather had the same name as mine and died in the same year.  You saw what it said, Richard B. Poole, husband to Sylvia, father to Jennie and Daniel.”  

  “Why don’t you just ask your parents?” suggested Mae.

  “Sure, and when they want to know why we were down here in the first place, I’ll explain how we found a clue in a journal we stole from The Council.  While I’m at it, why don’t I ask if they’re members of a secret order called The Dark?” 

  “Okay,” Mae said, “point taken.  But if that’s the grave of your grandfather, wouldn’t that make the woman from the cottage —”

  “My father’s sister,” finished Amanda, nearly spitting out the words.

  They reached the crest of the current hill they were climbing and sat down on an old stone wall to catch their breath.  Lester passed around the last of the water, and he and Mae listened as Amanda told them the story of her estranged aunt, Jennie Poole. 

  After years of trying to have children, Richard and Sylvia Poole had been doubly blessed with a pair of twins.  Jennie, the oldest by four minutes, was clever, energetic, and fearless.  An early walker, she was quick to get into mischief.  Once, after a frantic search for his daughter, her father had found her fast asleep on one of the rafters high up in their barn.  He’d had to use a ladder to get her down and, for the life of him, couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten up there in the first place.

  Easygoing and thoughtful, the Poole’s youngest, Daniel, was in many ways Jennie’s opposite.  Because of this, however, he was often overlooked, his parent’s energies entirely consumed with trying to slow down, subdue, or corral his sister.  So much so that as a baby, Daniel had been forgotten in a grocery store parking lot.  His mother loaded the bags and his screaming sister into their car and accidentally drove off, leaving him behind.  By the time she’d realized her mistake and raced back to the store, Daniel was covered in an inch of snow from the storm that had started in her absence.  Still, true to his nature, the baby had simply cooed and babbled happily up at his mother from the empty shopping cart as she dusted him off.  

  And so it went throughout most of their childhood.

  Despite their differences, or perhaps because of them, the two siblings were devoted to one another.  They insisted on doing everything together.  Even after they’d graduated from high school, with Jennie going to work for The Council full time and Daniel heading to college, they stayed in close contact.

  However, all of that changed during Daniel’s final year of school.  Barely a month before he was to come home and take his place in the family business, Jennie went to visit her brother for the weekend.  Her work kept her busy, and it had been nearly six months since they’d seen each other.  Of course, Daniel knew better than to ask, but judging by the string of postcards from places like Egypt, Romania, and Scotland, his sister spent most of her time traveling for Mr. Noxumbra.

  Unfortunately, their reunion was to be short-lived.  Within minutes of Jennie’s arrival, they found themselves in a rare heated argument.  What began as a disagreement quickly turned to shouting, devolved into insults, and concluded with the slamming of several doors.  Amanda’s parents had never revealed the cause of the fight, but whatever it was must have been serious because it resulted in a rift that had proven irreparable.

  Jennie immediately returned to Giles Hollow and, insisting she could not work with Daniel, abruptly quit her job at The Council.  Weeks later, when her brother returned home and moved back into their parent’s house, he found her room empty.  Jennie had packed her things and gone without a word to anyone or leaving so much as a note.  Neither twin had seen or spoken to the other since.  

  For her part, Amanda had never met her wayward Aunt.  The few times her father had been willing to broach the subject, he’d given her the impression that his sister now lived somewhere overseas.  So accidentally bumping into her had not been an eventuality for which Amanda was even remotely prepared.

  “When I was little,” Amanda said, “I used to imagine she lived alone on a rocky island in the middle of a frozen sea.”  She turned the empty water bottle upside down and watched the last few drops fall to the ground.  

  Lester recalled Mr. Poole arriving at their house for a mid-winter dinner party.  He’d come through the front door, shaking snow off his jacket and blowing on his freezing hands.  When he’d joked about it being colder than Aunt Jennie’s cauldron on a Halloween Night out there, Mrs. Poole had given him a sharp look.  Lester hadn’t paid much attention to the comment at the time but now thought he understood. 

  “Wait, if she’s your father’s twin sister, why does she seem so much older than him?” Lester asked.

  “You thought she seemed older?” said Amanda.

  “Yes and — no.”  Lester was trying to reconcile the image of the old woman from the woods with the one they’d left back at the cottage.  Something felt off, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  “Whatever her age,” Mae said, “I think we’d be wise not to believe everything we saw today.”

  “What do you mean?”  asked Amanda.

  “Well, for starters, the whole feeble hermit business.  Did you see how quickly she moved when she wanted to?  Then there were her questions.  They seemed almost rehearsed, as though she’d been expecting us.  It’s as if the entire encounter was staged for our benefit.  A fairly convincing performance, I’ll admit, but I suspect an act all the same.”

  “Why would someone go through all that trouble to fool a few kids?” Lester asked.

  “The same reason anyone lies,” said Mae, “to hide something.”

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