October is a great month to read scary stories, but what about one that is truer than you may think. Here's a few sample pages to whet your appetite:
The autumn leaves blazed a trail down the mountainside, spilling into a
pool of cornfields outside of town. Mesmerized by nature’s beauty and mulling over the letter’s contents, Margo missed the stop sign. A car went speeding through and nearly crashed into her. She jumped and slammed on the brakes. Her car skidded to a stop.
The driver shook an angry fist. “Watch where you’re going, you idiot,” he yelled out the window.
Margo’s leg shook as she slowly pressed her foot on the gas. Could this be a warning? Perhaps she should just forget about the letter and go back to the studio. Yet an unseen force compelled her. Dear
God, protect me
and show me the meaning of this letter.
With no time to waste, she raced up the steps of the old stone library, determined to find the truth—or at least one more clue. She reached to open the heavy wooden door and slipped on some pebbles on the landing.
Her foot skidded across the stone and her hair whipped in
front of her face. She couldn’t see and nearly lost her balance.
Another close call.
She brushed aside her long honey-brown tresses and took a deep breath.
I need to slow down and pay attention. First the stop
sign, now this. Margo, get a grip! She tugged at the oversized door, but it didn’t open, so she knocked.
Still no answer.
Just my luck. She peered into the window. A lone librarian sat at
her desk, filing cards. Margo tapped on the aged glass that made the figure inside appear somewhat distorted, almost dreamlike. Surprised, the old woman looked up from her work, squinted, then hobbled forward.
Hurry up. I don’t have all day. Margo twisted her hair. Her multilevel strands of thought turned to her previous computer research concerning her missing relative, part of the family secret. It had proven somewhat successful, but not complete. After that, nothing but dead links—frustrating. So she’d abandoned the search for a while, until now.
She just happened to be looking for a picture in the attic and rummaging through a box of her mother’s overlooked belongings when she discovered the letter—tucked in a box of old photographs. It certainly shined new light on the subject, but not enough.What she needed lay behind those four walls.
If only she could get in.
The door creaked open and a blast of musty air assaulted Margo’s nostrils. It brought back memories of her grandfather’s collection of old books. For
a moment, Margo stood mesmerized and envisioned a nineteenth-century woman with her hair tied
up in a bun, velvet hat and muff, long trailing coat with petticoats and bustles—similar to the portraits she knew hung in the foyer. Could one of them possibly be…? She fingered the paper in
her purse.
Margo crossed over the threshold. She had hoped to avoid the librarian, but it didn’t look good.
The old woman smiled, and her wrinkles deepened. “Good morning, dear. Haven’t seen you in a while. Looks like you’ve been working at the studio.”The librarian looked down at Margo. “Oh,that…”She brushed off the dried
clay on her work jeans.
The gray-haired woman stared at her.“So what will it be today, my dearie—the world of the River Valley artists or a Victorian mystery in the drawing room perhaps?”
Margo let out a long breath. She knew no matter what she would tell her she’d prattle on about this book and that, pouring out her wealth of wisdom and knowledge in a ten-course diatribe that left Margo’s head spinning. She decided to take a chance.
“Truthfully…I’ve been researching my family tree.”
“Oh, how exciting.” The elderly woman clasped her hands together.
Her pause gave Margo just enough time to slide past the rolltop desk and into the hallway.
The librarian called after her, “Just let me know if you need any help. My father was the local historian and he knew…”
Her voice faded as Margo disappeared. Maybe she should ask the librarian, but then again, she might suspect something.
No. Better do the research herself…then maybe her recurring nightmare would make some sense.
She entered into a network of small rooms crammed with leather-bound books but bypassed these for the moment. The next room narrowed, and on the walls hung the aging oil paintings. Though she knew the paintings here, she’d never studied the names before.They were darkly rendered portraits of the founding fathers and their families, stark and rigid. She read their nameplates—Hasbrocks, DuBois, and Eltin—but none with the name in the letter.
On the opposite side hung one woman’s portrait that looked unlike the others. She’d never seen it before. Her hair was not pinned up in a bun, and the corners of her lips turned up just a little. Margo read the engraved brass plate, “Sarah E. Dubier, wife of Colonel Louis Dubier.” The letters flashed recognition. Dub——just like the note.
Margo’s legs wobbled as she came one step closer to the truth.
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