Charlene’s face grew rounder, her eyes wide. “Oh my god, yes, we did!”
“I failed that miserably.”
“Me too. Not a single child between the two of us, and we’re twenty-six. We screwed up big time!”
More laughter filled the house. I couldn’t help but think my grandmother would be happy to know it wasn’t all tears and sadness after her passing.
“Now, where to first?” I asked, stepping outside. The air was already quite warm against my skin, a foreboding of the heat that was forecast for later. “Maybe the historical society? I met a Mr. Crane at the funeral. He might know.”
“We could,” Charlene said, in that tone that suggested she would go along with my idea but had one of her own.
“All right, out with it. What are you thinking?”
“I was thinking we should go visit Mrs. Anderloss.”
I grimaced. “Really? Why? She’s kind of a nut.”
Charlene bobbed her head in agreement, heading for the passenger door of my car. We hadn’t talked about who was driving, but it looked like she was going to let me.
“She’s definitely a bit eccentric, but she’s a member of the OLS senior council …” Charlene looked up. “I know. I know. But she’s our resident nature nut. Your grandmother’s letter mentions darkness and the forest. If anyone is going to know about it …”
I sighed, dropping into the seat. “It’s Mrs. Anderloss.”
“It’s Mrs. Anderloss,” Charlene echoed. “Desmond Crane is a good fellow, for sure. But nothing about the letter, or that guardian, sounds overly historical. I don’t think he’s our best bet. Not at first.”
“That makes a lot of sense,” I admitted. “All right. Off to Mrs. Anderloss’s … house.”
Which was technically the truth.
But when I pulled into the driveway outside of Agnes Anderloss’s Place of Nature, it was impossible not to feel it was stretching that selfsame truth.
On the outskirts of the other side of town, the Place of Nature, as the sign called it, was a haphazard assortment of nature “landscaping” accidents waiting to happen. Trees grew at wild angles. Stones piled high to mimic waterfalls were perched precariously. Wild bushes with razor-sharp thorns grew in the middle of the front walk, ready to prick anyone who wasn’t paying particularly close attention.
Here and there, water stood stagnant in pools, uncleaned and untouched, just as nature intended. They smelled that way too. Animals frequented the overgrown grounds, with many smaller varieties calling it home-from squirrels and raccoons to rodents and even the occasional deer depending on the season.
The house itself wasn’t much better. Rumor had it that Agnes kept the windows open year-round, so all manner of creature could come and go as they pleased. It was rumor because the rest of town avoided her if at all possible. The smell was, as one news article put it,incredible. According to Agnes, the human concept of “smelling fresh” was not one that mattered in nature.
I braced myself for the odor as we carefully picked our way past the thorn bushes and ducked under a tree that looked ready to fall at any moment, crushing whatever was unfortunate enough to be beneath it when it did. After avoiding three of the four piles of animal feces and scraping what I could off my shoe from the one I didn’t miss, we were finally at the front door.
“You’re sure about this?” I asked, trying to keep the skepticism from my voice.
Charlene and I had been best friends for years as kids, but that had been a long time ago. She was defensive about her OLS friends, and I didn’t want to offend her. It was nice to have the companionship at a time I was feeling more alone than ever.
Being the last living member of your family sucked.
“Yes. Agnes and your grandmother spent a lot of time together at the OLS meetings. She’ll be able to tell you more.” Charlene reached out and grabbed the large bronze falcon-shaped knocker, lifting and hammering it against the door twice. Deep echoing gongscould be heard from the other side. Not unlike a super-bass version of the grandfather clock at my grandmother’s house.
It took nearly a minute before Agnes opened the door.
“Char!” she exclaimed, her dark eyes lighting up with a glow that looked positively violet. It was an unusual coloring of the iris, and yet another reason Agnes was rather ostracized.
Though the sticks protruding from her hair and the leafy birds nest she wore atop it may also have played a part. Just a guess.
“Hello, Agnes. It’s good to see you.”
“Mrs. Anderloss,” I added. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Hi, Sylvie. It is very nice to see you. I’m so very sorry about your grandmother. I would have been at the funeral, you know, but Charlie got into the porcupines again.”
“Charlie?” Charlene asked, stepping inside as Agnes stepped aside. “I thought he moved out.”
Agnesclucked in disapproval. “He did. But he stuck his snout where it didn’t belong and got a face full of quills for his pleasure. Several of them were close to his eye. I didn’t feel right turning him away. He’s upstairs resting.”
“Poor little dude,” Char said. “Those raccoons never learn, though.”
“No, they don’t. Do they?” Agnes laughed.
Apparently, Charlie was a raccoon.
“Mrs. Anderloss,” I said, stepping around decaying forest debris as we followed her deeper into the house. “I was hopingto show you something and get your impression. It’s concerning my grandmother.”
“About Helen? Of course, of course. In here.” Agnes pushed open a door, and we entered what could only be described as a s?ance room. It was kept clean and clear of floraand fauna, which was a nice change. Four large high-backed wooden chairs surrounded a heavy-looking table, stained black and accented with orange and red lines throughout.
I had no idea what it was for, but given the array of shrunken heads, jars of liquid withthings in them, and other objects arrayed on shelves nearby, I didn’t plan to.
“Sit, sit,” Agnes said, gesturing to chairs as she planted herself in one with padding under the rear. “These old bones need a little extra cushioning lately.”
I smiled awkwardly, handing the letter across the table to her. “It’s datedafter she died,” I said, sitting back to let Agnes read it.
“How bizarre.” Agnes scanned the contents. “This is her handwriting, though. I would recognize it anywhere.”
“Exactly my thoughts. But it’s weird. Wouldn’t you say?”
Truthfully, I had no idea what was weird to Agnes. To me, the half-acre surrounding us was all weird. To Agnes Anderloss, it was her life. Again I wondered if perhaps I should have been more insistent we go to see Mr. Crane. Surely he would know more?
“Very weird indeed.” Agnes looked up. “Is that it?”
I blinked. “Well, there’s also the contents of the letter. It doesn’t sound like my grandmother at all. Talking about the forest like that. The darkness.”
Agnes smiled. “That’s not weird at all.”
“It’s not?” I was thoroughly lost.
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