Waiting for Harvey (The Spirits of Maine) (3 page)

“What are the odds of a Game Warden showing up at the door here?”

“Highly unlikely, but anything is possible.”

“What about the wood?  Can I keep it warm in here?”

“Yes, there is plenty of wood, Sister Sally.  You can stay warm, and you won’t starve.”

“Very funny,” I looked up at him and scowled.  I had always hated it when he resorted to calling me that.  “There is nothing wrong with being prepared.”

“Everything will be fine, Erik,” he assured me.  “I had wood delivered a month ago and there is no risk of running short.  When that cold front moves through it’ll be damn cold.  Keep plenty of wood inside and the fire stoked.  The deli meats, leftover rabbit meat, and other stuff are all in the cooler down in the root cellar.  You’ll survive quite comfortably.”

“So three weeks to write, then you’ll be back?”

“I will meet you at that fallen tree at twelve noon.  We’ll go find someplace to get a good meal then head south again.  By late that night you’ll be back in your swanky New York apartment sipping champagne.”

“Beer maybe.”

“Okay, beer it is.  Enjoy your little vacation.  Make the most of this time.  In three weeks you can turn things around and get your life back on track again.  You’ll go home with a great novel in the works.”

“Is there enough power to charge my laptop today?”

“Yeah, there should be.  If the hurricane stalls over the region and there is a long spell without sun then you’ll need to be conservative.”

“Got it.”

“Okay, Sally.  No parties while I’m gone.  Get your homework done and go easy on the snacks and soda,” John laughed and stepped out onto the porch.

“Funny man,” I nodded and frowned.  I followed him out onto the porch and watched as he trekked across the wide clearing, following the animal trail.

“Don’t worry, everything will be fine!” he called back.  “Hey, my ATV is in the shed.  It’s a little beat up, but the fuel tank is full if you want to use it.”

“Thanks,” I replied.

“Gotta fly!” he called out and disappeared behind the thick pine boughs.

*

Through the afternoon, I settled in.  I charged up my laptop and made a pot of strong coffee.  Late into the evening I worked on the story that I had started and put aside.  It was a promising tale of pirates on the Atlantic Coast in the 1700s.  It had action, adventure, murder, and anarchy.  I shut down my laptop, feeling very optimistic.

Outside the wind picked up and created a mournful howl.  Listening to the creaking of the ancient pine trees, I reminded myself that they had weathered severe storms for ages.  My personal reassurances were answered with a thunderous pop as one of the trees snapped.  It crashed to the ground not far from the cabin.  Still, the weather would be far worse down along the coast so it would be wrong to complain about a little wind.

With no signal for my cell phone and no internet connection, the weather radio was the only source for information.  Hurricane Rosemary, the Alberta Clipper and the snowstorm that had dumped several feet of snow in Colorado, were all expected to meet somewhere between Vermont and Nova Scotia the next day.  The experts had been in agreement on their predictions until Hurricane Rosemary back-handed New York City and wobbled a bit. 

The new official storm warnings were calling for a category three hurricane to track north into the coast of Maine.  As the three storm fronts merged it might move out to sea, doing little damage.  It might also spin west or north and do significant damage.  The Governor of Maine ordered coastal evacuations and the Maine National Guard was on stand-by. 

Like Hurricane Sandy only a few years earlier, Rosemary was expected to cause extreme coastal flooding.  But Rosemary would bring stronger winds as well.  Erosion along the coast of Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Maine was expected to be the most severe.  From what I had heard, I believed that my Manhattan apartment fared well. 

I climbed the stairs and couldn’t resist looking down from the loft.  Gripping the railing, I looked around at the shadows on the first floor.  Minutes passed as I studied the shapes, but nothing moved.  I was sure that John had been right about my imagination.  Smiling at my foolishness, I shut off the light and went to sleep.

*

Early in the morning, Hurricane Rosemary broke to the Northeast as she approached Cape Cod, Massachusetts.  The Alberta Clipper was pushing to the east and helped to tame Rosemary.  The Midwest snowstorm had slowed considerably and wouldn’t arrive for another 12 hours, but it was also helping to push the weakening hurricane out over the ocean.

Moving slower over the cold water, Rosemary churned the waters of the Atlantic.  The Isles of Shoals, only six miles off the coast of New Hampshire and Maine, were battered with 45 foot waves and 90 mile per hour winds.  The air was white with the driving spray of the sea foam.   

By sunrise, the hurricane had been downgraded to a tropical storm that bumped along the shoreline to DownEast Maine.  As the backside of Rosemary slapped at the Maine coastline, she moved into the Bay of Fundy.  Nova Scotia suffered extreme flooding and wind damage. The last of it fell apart over the water before it reached Newfoundland.  From New Jersey to Nova Scotia there were more than 2,500 known to be dead or missing.  Billions in property damages were estimated, and the snow storm hadn’t yet arrived.

In the wake of Hurricane Rosemary, new warnings went up for the Alberta Clipper and the snowstorm.  As temperatures plummeted by as much as 45° in only a few hours, gale force winds whirled over northern Maine.  By evening snow was falling, and began accumulating rapidly.  The monotone voice on the radio announced that Aroostook County, Maine was expected to receive upwards of three feet of snow overnight.  Still reeling from Rosemary, southern Maine would likely see 10-12” inches of snow capped with a crust of ice. 

I exhaled slowly and shutdown my laptop.  I put on my jacket and went out to the shed to find a shovel.  With two big loads of firewood inside, I was done for the night.  I walked up the stairs to the loft and fell into bed.  I burrowed under the heavy quilt and listened to another night of howling wind.

*

Sometime during the night I woke to the squeak of the hinges on the front door.  I sat up and felt a blast of cold air on my face.  The door closed gently.   I knew I had locked it after I brought in the last load of wood the night before.  I had double checked it before I turned off the lights and went to bed.  The floor below creaked as someone walked across the room. 

“John?” I called out as the heavy footsteps moved back toward the kitchen area.  I was confused by his unexpected return.  He didn’t respond immediately, and I shouted louder.  “John, what are you doing back tonight?”  The only response was the unsettling howl of the wind.

Annoyed that he refused to answer, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and leaned to feel the wall in the dark.  I reached for the small lamp with a 25 watt bulb.  It provided a soft glow that allowed me to find the flashlight beside the bed.  I pressed the button three times and banged it hard against my palm before it cast a beam of light up at the ceiling.

“John!” I hollered and moved slowly down the steep, crooked stairs.  I was surprised that he hadn’t replaced those steps already.  I knew it would be one of his priority projects by spring.  “You’re ticking me off, John!”

Standing on the bottom step, I swept the flashlight around the open space.  There was no sign of anyone there.  Feeling confused, I crossed the room and flipped on the light switch.  There were few places where a person could hide successfully, and a big man like John would be seen easily with the lights on.

The door was still locked securely.  I tested the lock and it held fast.  Clearly, I had been dreaming, and my imagination was working overtime while I slept.  It was a good sign that my writer’s block was gone at last.  In the morning, I would be busy writing.  With the clock reading 3:11 A.M., I decided to go back to bed.  The story I was writing would wait a few more hours.

I turned the lights off and hurried back to the stairs.  Near the steps, I felt something cold and wet through my sock.  I directed the flashlight beam down at the floor, and my heart stopped.  Snow!  There was snow on the floor.  A simple pattern left by the tread of a man’s boot.  My heart thumped wildly against my ribs, and I flipped the light switch on again. 

It took only seconds to search the cabin and root cellar thoroughly.  There was no intruder.  The snow on the floor had begun to melt into a small puddle.  I stepped toward the front door and unlocked it.  Warily, I tugged at the heavy, old door.  It protested with a loud squeal but relented at last.  Snow swirled in the frigid night air, and the wind shook the pine trees mercilessly.  I was surprised to see that the late November storm had dumped more than two feet of snow.  

Squinting against the blowing snow, I saw no sign that anyone had approached the cabin.  The trail that led to the porch was buried under the thick, white blanket.  I drew in a breath of the frigid air and coughed as my lungs protested.  I braced myself and aimed the flashlight down at the floor of the porch.  Boot prints began only inches from the top step and continued toward the door.

I stepped back and slammed the door closed.  My fingers fumbled with the lock, and it eventually snapped back into place.  Confused and frightened, I stood with my back pressed against it.  Maybe the storm had covered the tracks leading to the porch, I considered.  Maybe John had come in and left again.

The lock was undisturbed, the voice in the back of my mind called out.  I begged it to be silent.  In the early morning hours, I needed to believe that there was a simple explanation for everything.  Sleep was waiting for me to climb the stairs again and settle into the big bed.  But it would demand reassurances.  Terror and sleep have always been bitter enemies.

John did have a key to the lock on the cabin door.  He was a strong, resourceful man.  He could have traveled along the animal trail, even in the storm.  With the howling wind, it would have been difficult for him to hear me call out to him.  He must have forgotten something and didn’t want to wake me when he returned for it.  The wind and blowing snow would have camouflaged his trail quickly.

But… that persistent voice began.  Inside my head, I screamed for it to shut up.  The whole thing was so simple, and I wouldn’t let it be blown into something that was too big to handle.  John would certainly return in the morning with his massive snow blower.  We would end this mini vacation early, and I’d go home to my apartment.  It was as simple as that.

Reassured, I shut off the lights and climbed the stairs again.  I pushed the button on the flashlight and the light faded.  I stretched out on the bed and closed my eyes.  Listening to the raging storm, I pulled the heavy quilt up to my chin.  The voice that questioned everything sat in the corner of my mind, sulking over the ideas of being silenced.  Relieved, I lay in the dark, waiting for sleep to return.  Minutes ticked by, slowly melting into hours, but sleep refused to come back to me.

*

Hour by hour the storm calmed and the wind quieted.  As the sun broke over the horizon, the blinding light spilled through the window in the loft.  I sat propped against the pillows, with my back to the corner of the loft.  For hours, I had been contemplating the incident involving the front door.  I pushed back the quilt and shivered.  Outside I heard birds chattering as I rushed downstairs to stoke the fire.  While I waited for the woodstove to throw out more heat, I pulled on a sweatshirt and a pair of wool socks.

If the events I recalled from the night before had actually happened, there was no sign of it.  No trace of snow on the wood floor.  As I peered out the front window I saw no footprints on the porch.  The whole thing had been nothing more than a dream.  Writing through the evening with the howling storm outside had fired up the creative part of my brain.  It was in good working order, and that was a gift I was grateful for. 

Thoroughly reassured at last, I put the old coffee pot on top of the wood stove and began cooking breakfast.  In an hour I had showered, shaved, dressed and eaten.  With my second cup of coffee, I made myself comfortable on the couch and began working.  The creepy sensation was gone, and I felt at ease in the old place again.

*

Days passed as I continued writing and enjoying the tranquil feel of the place.  The apprehension I felt when I first arrived was gone.  The weird incident with the footsteps and snow on the floor was forgotten.  I hadn’t experienced such peace and quiet since I made the move from Maine to New York City.  I regretted not making the trip sooner.

Brewed in an old coffee pot, on top of the wood stove, the coffee was not of the quality I had become accustomed to.  Aside from that, everything was great.  Daily, I created 12-16 pages of quality writing.  The long dry spell was over.  I was relieved to be working again.  In a couple of weeks, I would be home again, and I was confident that the story would continue to flow.  My agent would be thrilled to hear the news!

The bitter cold spell continued for close to a week before it pushed off to the north.  A welcome breeze from the south brought warmer temperatures and rain.  The ice and snow melted rapidly.  The only concern was a muddy trail that might complicate my departure at the end of the week.  Still I had John’s ATV in the shed and I was sure if I couldn’t make it out to the fallen tree then John would make his way in.