The Lady in Black

Chapter 1

He awakens on this brisk morning, strangely enough feeling hungry. In the past a few years ago, his food would already have been prepared. He sighs deeply when he thinks about the situation, but what else may be done now? His feet strike the floor as he arises, then makes his way toward the kitchen. His forehead hurts and he sways when he stumbles along. Seems like it takes forever to make it into the area where the small gas stove sits, but at long last he is finally there.

His hand, now tingling from numbing arthritis and the carpal tunnel syndrome it causes, rises to fall upon the cupboard door at his head. He removes a two gallon ice cream bucket filled with stone ground grits. Beside this bucket stands a somewhat dusty dark plastic cup. He seizes this, stabbing it down into the grits, removing a cup full, then dumping it into a stainless steel pot sitting on the stove. He fills the empty cup with water, then dumps it, repeating the process two more times.

The heat is turned up high. When the water boils, he will stir the grits, then turn the heat down to one, or low, stirring every two minutes or so. He laughs to himself when he recalls all of those people from outside the area who move in, then attempts to make real grits like these as one does oats, by simply adding in hot water and stirring.

“It tastes like shit,” these people whine with their noses turned up. “How do you people ever eat this mess?”

Well first off, he had never eaten shit, he recalls telling one of these people, who appeared very abrasive, insulting, and rude in his ignorant opinion concerning grits, the pure American culture consuming it, who gave it birth, and its people, so he could never make such a crass comparison. Second off, it takes work and a fair amount of time to prepare a bowl of grits right, at least twenty minutes, he chuckles in silent recollection as he adds in half a cup more water, then stirs, while tossing in three slices of cheese, some chunked up ham, and a pinch of salt. He breaks an egg into the mixture, then stirs it all together. Soon his morning meal would be perfect, and ready to eat.

He walks over toward his coffee pot, putting in two heaping teaspoons for each cup he would drink, and one for the pot. He measures out two drinking cups of water, then pours it into the pot. Almost soon as he turns the pot on, it commences hissing and gurgling. He turns back around facing the pot of grits simmering on the stove. He lifts the lid. His meal is done.

“Henry!,” a female voice clearly says from behind him. The voice sounds like a loud whisper, but is very clear when it calls out his name. His breath exits his body. He snaps around instantly, seeing nothing.

Is he hearing things? This type of unexplainable experience was occurring with more frequency. He questions his own sanity. It was the same experience every time. When he makes coffee this voice calls out his name.

Only three nights prior, his situation assumed a different plateau, however. It was late at night, and he came home from an adult social party. There was loads of drink and much dancing, but nothing really crazy. Around 0200 he made it back home, although he wasn’t certain how. He walks to the bathroom beside his bed in the darkness, washes his face, then flips the light switch. The light fails to come on. The power station must be having another outage, as it is doing with more maddening frequency for reasons nobody can explain; except by certain locals saying the nation was deeply indebted, and that the massive inflation caused by the applied debt installments were negatively affecting energy production and consequently, the supply chain.

He began keeping a candle by the sink because of this. He pops a Zippo cigarette lighter, then lights the large wax candle. He can clearly see his own washed face in the mirror, but he also sees somebody else standing at the opened door behind him. It is an appealing woman with full breasts and thighs, wearing an ankle-length dark satin dress decorated in white lace at the wrists, the bottom edge, and around the collar. She has dark hair and full eyes gazing directly into his own as he glares back into the mirror. A ruby red smile suddenly streaks across her perfectly clear pallid face. He snaps around suddenly, and to his astonishment, nothing is there. Had he lost his mind?

He sits down to eat as he shakes these thoughts from his mind. From the front door of his Victorian era home in the small town he lives in, his work at the local library was only a small distance. If he doesn’t ride a ten speed bicycle, he walks to work. He loves his employment as a bottom level administrator at the library.

The sun is shining brightly and the day is clear, so he will walk to work. He buckles his dress pants, and buttons his shirt while gazing in the bathroom mirror. He buttons his color tightly, then proceeds to wrap his tie. When the final loop on his diamond knot is made, he combs his hair back on the sides in a part, smiling proudly to himself as he does so. Once his black cotton socks and dress shoes are on, he steps toward the door, carefully grabbing his Fedora from the wooden hook on the wall beside the door.

He sighs deeply as he removes his key to seal the bolt in his lock, turning to face the sidewalk and the street. The light breeze feels so good on his face and body as he walks forward along, with the rising sun at his back. In the distance he can barely make out the breezeway of the library. As he walks along there is a placard laying directly on the street with his name written on it in large old English lettering. The writing, strangely enough, seems to be that of a female. What is he to make of this phenomenon? Now his situation was more tangible. No longer was it one of mysterious voices and faces in a mirror. Who is she? What does she want with him?

He lays the tin placard down, ambling on toward the county library. In spite of all these mysteries, he feels like a million dollars, smiling broadly as he moves forward. He imagines that he is slowly floating through the air, when he places one foot before the other. He senses locals who pass him as he ambles along are very jealous of his work, his convenience of living so closely, and the Victorian era home he restored back into mint condition so well. Making neighbors jealous was never the reason he did so, however. The reason he did so was simply his own intention of following his heart’s natural passion, be it whatever it might. Those who are jealous, are simply people who are angry at themselves for not doing so.

He feels elated as he ambles through the large wooden double doors of the county library. They had a sensation of years, since obviously it was once a large two story estate. His inner spirits picked up more as he secured his place among books written by Ann Radcliffe, Chateaubriand, Poe, and many more. A spiritual quality from the era almost possesses him as he stands behind the customer service counter.

His job is taking books in and checking books out. He is retired, so he is employed only part-time. Any benefits not covered by his retirement are picked up by the government, who has begun servicing the interests of elders after so many years of placing the burden of doing so onto the shoulders of individual people.

He smiles broadly at those who enter, greeting them, saying hello, asking how he might give assistance. Often he notices himself in the mirror donning high dollar double breasted suits, with fancy laced sleeves and collars. Combined with the high fashion perfumes he wore and his style of combed hair, obviously his mannerism is worth far more than any found out on the streets all around him. Deep down he always had despised being average. This was a secret he kept carefully sealed away under careful lock and key.

As a young man he bitterly resented his middle-class circumstance. His family on his mother’s side hailed from nobility. He was well aware of his own family history. They originated in Norway, and were known as Johann-son. When the Vikings conquered Normandy, France, they divided the land up into a series of chateau- estates. The king of Norway opened up this new land to his closest right hand assistants, who then offered shares up to those of their own. His family were some of those people.

He still had family in the Norman government. His great uncle, Philip, who was stationed in Normandy during World War Two told him all about it growing up. When the Normans took over Great Britain in 1066, the same phenomenon occurred, and his family divided, with half of them getting on with that. His great uncle Philip had met some of these people in Normandy and Great Britain.

Truth is, the only place on earth his family ever lost out was in America. Several of his family members held huge estates in Northern Ireland. These people divided, with one half accepting an offering of immigrating to America as some of the Lords Proprietors. They once held a massive plantation estate of several thousand acres and owned a twelve bedroom bi-level house. They owned real silverware and crystal punch bowls, crystal chandeliers with golden trim, and other lavish furnishings.

When the US Civil War ended, the southern half of the nation was levied a horrendous land tax, seeking to wrest land from the plantations and hand it over to the incoming corporations. His family, like so many others, was compelled to either hand over the land, or strip their homes of all gold, crystal and its other wealth, for the purpose of paying this tax. The family also lost its cherished position in the US government, consequently its status, and then its wealth. It kept its land, however, along with its hope for a new rise to the top. Here it was one hundred fifty years later, and his family still held to this hope. He himself held rightly to this hope, vowing since childhood to resurrect his long lost gilded heritage.

He went to university, securing employment in government at the municipal level, working his way up into a county manager’s position. After his retirement he was employed as a librarian’s assistant. He was content. He had taken his grand tour, and had experienced loads of adventure along the way. He had written his personal discourse. He was a man of letters, an accomplished person in his own right. His work earned a spot on a low level Amazon best seller’s list. He had written and published maybe fifteen volumes, not to mention his poetry being published in a variety of literary journals. He hunted big game out on Salinas beach in South America, and buffalo in North America. He once lived off the land in hidden cabins, and traveled to lands afar. He was a man of accomplishment, in his own right.

Nobody else viewed the world through his own eyes. He was born with his own thoughts, his own mind, his own convictions, his own perceptions. What he had was his, and his alone. He possessed the heritage, the knowledge, the skills, and this fact alone demands proper compensation and accommodation. Either his employment would offer a special liberty or wealth building potential, he long informed himself. Mere dull drudgery while lacking either, simply wasn’t worth his time.

“Mr. Johanson,” a feminine voice suddenly thundered. “Could you give me a good query summary for The Pilgrimage of Childe Harold?”

He suddenly snaps from being absorbed into a waking dream stream of deep intellectual pondering.

“You are aware of what a query is there young lady?”

“Of course,” the lady loudly exclaims, “it’s a summary of the work in question.”

“Well yes and no,” he proceeds to inform her. “Certainly it’s an entire work, an entire book, no matter how many lines or pages, summarized into two quick paragraphs.”

“Wow, is it really possible to do, sir,” the lady asked.

“It happens every day, but there is more. One of these paragraphs must hook the reader, preferably the first one. The second one continues on with more compelling details to draw the reader in. The final paragraph is simply intended to mention the biography of the author as it relates to the work in question.”

“All of that sounds very complicated,” the lady tells him.

“It’s not that complicated, but surely not that simple as many might believe.”

“How does such a project relate to The Pilgrimage of Childe Harold?,” the lady continued to ask him.

“Have you read the bloody poem, for crying out loud here, young lady?,” he asks her through a narrowing face.

“Why certainly I have,” the lady fired in reply, sounding a bit agitated.

“Well, in your own words what is the thesis of the poem, then?,” he asks her.

“It’s about a world-weary young man who is questioning his own personal convictions, and his life choices.”

“That’s a fine beginning,” he says to her. “Now summarize it all into a single paragraph, like you are trying to sell the dumb thing. Make the person reading it want more. This is called a hook.”

“Wow, how do you know that Mr. Johanson?”

“Because I am the librarian’s assistant,” he informs her.

“I bet the librarian doesn’t know that,” she fires.

“I have no idea,” his widened eyes and face speaks to her.

“Why not, is that not part of your job?,” the lady fires in reply.

“Part of my job is to know her job, you are asking? Never, I tell you!”

The young lady explodes into laughter.

“If you look up on the J book case, underneath the letter L, there is a book up there on the forth shelf known as Lady in the Shadows. Have you ever heard of it?”

“Never have,” the lady replies.

“Get that book and many of your questions about everything may be answered.”

“I’ll investigate it. When was it written?”

“Two years ago, maybe,” he replies.

“Who was the author?,” the lady asks him.

“Not sure,” he replies as he busies himself with papers on his desk.

“Are you married, Mr. Johanson?,” the lady asks.

“To my job and my freedom,” he tells her.

The lady leans forward toward him, whispering loudly.

“Is there a lady in your life Mr. Johanson?

“Too many, I say,” as he continues shuffling papers, stacking cards, and punching keys into a computer screen, ” far too many women, I am literally surrounded by women all day long!

The woman explodes into laughter, while glancing all around her, then leans forward again, whispering loudly.

“No no, Mr. Johanson, I mean do you have a lover?”

“Oh my, oh my, do I have a – what? What did she say just now?,” he says as he gazes off into space.

The woman explodes into laughter, then turns and races away, suddenly pausing to glance backward.

“Thanks Mr. Johanson, nobody anywhere could have ever told me the things you have today?

“Oh me, oh my, what? What? What?,” he replies in astonished sarcasm. “You’ve committed the unpardonable sin, now young lady! You are aware of that, aren’t you?”

The lady turns and races toward the children’s section of the library.

He sighs deeply, “at long last,” he whispers underneath his breath. Such situations occur frequently. It’s the life of a librarian. It’s a love-hate relationship he maintains with the incoming patrons, but it is part of what he does. Time passes quickly as he shuffles a stack of papers before him. In what feels to be a flick of time, he and the librarian are alone, and the land surrounding the library was enveloped in a heavy blanket of darkness.

The chief librarian is a cold hard woman who wears her spectacles sagging down upon her nose. She stays in her office all day, seldom coming out unless its contractors on the ground examining a new construction project, the top county managers, or some type of disciplinary problems she needs to deal with. To Henry she appears dried up, with the bones of her face protruding through the flesh. She constantly licks her lips that must be dry as her entire body appears.

“Johanson is the area cleaned and all check ins and outs inside their proper place?,” she bellows in a crass voice from inside her office area with its door now opened.

“Yes Madam Crenshaw,” Henry replies.

“Well if that is the case, then it’s time to clock out,” she tells him.

He can hear papers shuffle and chairs moving. He knew she would be out in the area soon. Before she made her exit, he made one final round through the shelving areas where the books were. Standing between the Y and Z shelves far to the rear of the library, there is a woman donning an ankle length black satin dress, with lace on the low edge, the sleeve area, and the collar. Her neatly brushed and styled jet black hair plunges down her neck, and splashes upon her shoulders.

“Mam, it’s past time for all patrons to exit out. I must insist on asking you to leave now. Checkout time is 2000 hours. The library closes at 2100 hours!,” he announces to her.

She turns suddenly, and her pallid clear skinned face meets his, with its smiling ruby red lips. The breath leaves his body to the point it hurts. He forces himself to draw another, and as he does so, she fades away gradually, almost as if she is melting. A lump forms inside his throat.

“What did you say Henry?,” asks Madam Crinshaw.

“Nothing important, nothing important,” he replies.

“I heard you speak in an affirmative voice. Certainly something aroused an interest to respond,” she says.

“I’ve had a long hard day. A single man has little ways of neutralizing stress. My stress level is way too high, I suppose,” he replies, hoping she will drop the requests for more information.

“I don’t know how to take that, Henry,” she tells him.

“About a long hard day, you mean Miss. Crenshaw?,” he asks.

“No, about a single man not having many methods of relieving stress,” she says to him.

“Well, I go home and it’s only myself and I, that’s all. Nobody to vent everything out to,” he informs her.

“Tell me about it. I’ve been single now for twenty years. Feel free to drop by my place and speak a bit anytime, should the need ever arise. Part of being a person’s coworker is also part of knowing he has others to rely on during the hard times,” she smiles slyly as she speaks.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” he says as he snaps the lights out, and both step into the library foyer.

He had known Mrs. Crenshaw for twenty years, and he had never known her to speak like that to anybody while he was around. When she locked up the doors, she turned toward him nervously.

“Remember what I told you now. If you ever need me anytime, feel free to knock. You know where I live out here on block 40, Blankenshire street, house 424. Drop me a note in the office during the day saying we need to talk, and I’ll know to be home, if possible,” she says to him with a low, straining, almost whispering tone of voice.

“I surely will,” he says with a smile, “I’ll keep that thought close to my heart and tucked away neatly until later.”

“Later,” she says as they part, she heads toward her car, and him down the sidewalk on the street heading toward his place.

He can’t believe what his ears have been hearing and his eyes are seeing. Was he really losing his mind? First it’s this woman in black satin. Now it’s Mrs. Crenshaw. What is he really to make of it?

He had heard some things over the years, but hearsay has only a grain of truth at best. He forced himself to see it in Mrs. Crenshaw, but never could. Back in her day, however, she must have had some smooth edges. He had noticed that much often as she pranced away with her nose heisted high in the air. He never had seen her laugh, smile, or pause and converse with anybody, ever. She never had time for such. Tonight was a very different situation, to his astonishment.

She wears a business dress coat and dark skirt and white blouse, with a scarf type of feminine neck tie. While this all season dress appears tight, now he can readily discern where it very tactfully veiled some delicate , if not eloquently endowed curves. He had never noticed to the degree as he did this evening, when he thinks backward over the years. Then again, maybe he was truly going mad.

As he walks down the front street a full moon glows brilliantly to his right side. It seems lower and larger than usual. The feeling is unusual. He can’t recall when he saw it so large and hanging so low before in the past. This moon slowly shades from golden to deep red.

He pauses, with the breath nearly exiting his body. He is a lifelong student of history. His second degree is in history. Spirits are about throughout the earth when the moon transforms into blood. It has been a sign of universal war from the earliest days of man, possibly carried abroad by Indo-European adventurers moving southward all across Asia. Vehicles pause all up and down main-street watching this bizarre spectral. Finally he begins moving forward down the sidewalk before the shuttered storefronts.

He is standing before his own Victorian era home all too soon. As he fished for the key in his pocket, a different kind of feeling swept over him, a feeling he had never felt before. There was also a thick darkness enveloping his home. He finds the key, pushes it into the deadbolt, then opens the door. As he steps inside, he reaches to the left of the door, switching on the light. He closes the door behind himself, happy to discover everything exactly as he left it, and in its proper place.

He steps over to his refrigerator, grabs a cold beer, then walks back over toward the couch, collapsing on it as he snaps the can open. Beer certainly felt good going down, after a hard day’s labor at an active library. He reflects on his experiences over the past day, week, and month. Where is his life headed?, he thinks in silence to himself. He feels like shutting off the lights and lighting up a candle. He often does this, silently anticipating some sort of spiritual awakening.

On numerous occasions he sits staring at the candle flame, attempting to put himself into a trance. As of yet nothing ever occurred worth bragging about. Once the candle flame suddenly leaned over toward his left, as if something walked up, but that much was it. This time the flame only stands erect, dancing slightly, then resuming its prior stance. Might some unseen presence be lurking nearby? He knows he shouldn’t play with these types of phenomena, but he is compelled to do so for reasons he can’t explain. He swallows hard. His heart races with a flush of excitement.

“Is there any presence here? Make yourself known,” he speaks aloud in the room.

A small metal chess piece of a Confederate army soldier suddenly plunges from a book shelf. His breath exits his body in a gasp of disbelief. It isn’t the wind because there was none.

“Show me another sign. I am not certain about that one!,” he speaks aloud.

A sound from the bookcase stirs, then another plunge is heard. He reaches down to pick up another metal army man from the chessboard. This time the piece is a representation of Grant, the Union General during the US Civil War. This reality is certainly a sign of an intelligence to be found in this force, or was it only coincidence? A cold wind puffs that he can feel with absolute certainty. From whence did this wind originate? “Have I stirred anything?,” he asks aloud. He gazes around attentively. There is no reply.

He sits hoping for another sign, but after some time, upon finding none he arises. He walks over toward the sink, fills a glass with water, then makes his way over toward the bedroom. Its pitch black night and all he hears are the frogs and the night bugs. There is a light crunching sound making its way around his home. It pauses at the wall beside the window of his bedroom as if it somehow knows he’s there. Is this sound and materialization all in his mind? Gradually he fades off to sleep.

As he slumbers away during the night, he finds himself enveloped inside a world of floating vapor-like mist. The vegetation is one of palms, dates, and orchids. Parakeets scream and flutter about, while iguana’s crawl around oblivious to everything surrounding them. Where is he? Is he part of the earth, or visiting some scene inside another distant realm in the beyond?

Carefully he walks through the thick vegetation growth. The dense cover breaks after maybe twenty minutes of walking. The slow moving tinkle of a rather large and deep creek is heard flowing to his right hand side as he walks. The terrain of the landscape begins to rise into a roll. Obviously he was moving into hills, or even walking among mountains, his instincts informed him. Soon the forest breaks and he finds himself looking over a vast mountainous ravine. He must be at least a half mile up. No wonder he feels slightly tired and worn for wear. He stands mesmerized in absolute shock as he gazes across this deep rolling ravine with the enchanted misty bottom, toward a massive stone Bastille wall higher up on a mountainside toward his right hand side. Who else might be around here?

He tactfully remains inside the shadows as he turns back into the forest canopy. He cannot shake this castle from his mind, even though he struggles to do so. Who might be the owners of this land? Would they mind him being around? These were all serious questions well worth pondering.

Carefully and quietly he moves through the forest canopy. Though he could not see the castle anywhere near him while in the woods, he could feel that it stood in the nearing distance immediately outside of his sight line. His heart began to race at this prospect for new experience and thrilling adventure. Honestly, it had been such a long time since his last.

A massive dark stone wall abruptly appears from inside the forest green. The leaves from the trees surrounding it gaped enough that he could view the clear blue sky as he gazed upward. The battlement atop the wall seems to almost touch the clouds as he stands gazing upward. Any person or camera gazing directly downward could easily spot him, he thinks in silence to himself. He had to observe more of this grand spectacle. Fear of being found out fled from his mind at this point.

He follows on cat-like feet around the edge of the great wall for what feels like hours, watching for security cameras, windows, or sudden doors, but finds none. The only sounds he hears are the birds, and buzzing dragon flies, and an owl of sorts, on occasion. Suddenly he comes to a deep and wide ditch filled with crocodiles. Across this ditch stretches a drawbridge. He fully expected a motorcade or a military carriage escort of some sort, but found none, no sounds of anything, no people, nothing.

He eases along toward the draw-bridge. When he gazes inside, the door is open, yet no person is there to stop him or question the reason why he is there. He stands at the outside end of the drawbridge peering inside. The golden inlaid on virtually everything, and emerald covering on every seat virtually mesmerizes him, almost calling him inside. Gems of every type from pearl to onyx and ivory, to ruby, and more, seem to hang from every thread. The air inside the place was that of wisteria and hydrangea.

Gently he creeps across the drawbridge without making a single sound. Soon he finds himself standing before the first gold covered chair with the emerald covering. The breath flees from his breast. He glances backward toward the open draw-bridge. The spear-like spikes of the gate almost grin like fangs as they hang. Suddenly he hears a noise like chains dragging, and the gate suddenly falls, biting hard into the stone of the floor. The draw-bridge eases up, snapping shut up against the wrought iron gate. He is trapped now. What is he going to do?

The inside of the castle is lit by a dancing flicker in likeness to that of candle flame. What was going on? Who trapped him inside? Surely whoever owns this grand-house knows he is inside! He glances around. The gold shines even brighter in the dancing light. The gems seem so much brighter. It seems he is floating as he so carefully and quietly moves along.

A winding staircase seems to reach into a misty realm on a higher floor. Next to the railing on the topmost floor, he spies the lady dressed in the ankle length black satin dress. She gazes over the iron hand rail directly into his eyes. His heart sinks when the thought strikes him. Is she the one to motivate and design his capture? What were her intentions?

“Henry!,” her voice loudly whispers seemingly on the air within the huge Bastille mansion.

He quickly turns and walks away towards the mansion interior. He absolutely must find his way out somehow. He resents being trapped inside, yet finds her form increasingly appealing. He searches for the answer to the question as to why deeply within himself, but finds none. Was she even real?, he kept on whispering to himself over and over.

On the edge of the huge interior chamber a lone rocking chair creaks, moving backward and forward. He could hear vivid sounds of a baby sobbing. He could perceive the pat of a loving mother’s hand upon the baby’s back, yet could see nothing but a rocking chair moving back and forth before him. He walked closer, slowly, almost as if some instinctive fear suddenly gripped him. As he nears the moving chair he beholds a female form with her back turned toward him, patting the back of a baby she has placed over her left shoulder. He nears the form slowly, swallowing hard as the babe’s wincing face becomes clearer. His jaw sags in utter grotesque astonishment.

“Who might the mother be?,” he utters aloud as he gasps for breath.

Slowly he makes his way nearer toward the female form, sitting inside the chair with her back turned toward him. He seizes the chair on either side with both hands, twisting it around, beholding the knurled face of his long deceased wife.

“Angelina!,” he gasps as he swallows hard.

He attempts to seize the form with both arms, hoping to draw her nearer toward him, but the rocking form only melts away into thin air.

“Our child Evelyn, what happened? Why? Where did you both go?”

He covers his face with both hands, weeping bitterly at his loss.

“Henry!,” the whispering voice says.

He removes his hands from his face, and beholds nothing.

“What is going on here? What is this, your idea of a joke? Well, I’m not laughing, confound it!. How could you hurt me so badly?,” he speaks into the air aloud.

There is no reply.

“Why do you have me trapped here? What are your intentions? I’ve had enough. I only want to return home.,” he says into the air.

“You know me, Henry!,” the voice whispers again.

Anger begins to rise inside of his body.

“I know you alright!,” he says aloud with emotional emphasis.

“I’ve been watching you,” the voice says.

“I’ve seen you a few times,” he says in return. “I don’t know what to think yet.”

“Look, on the white stone wall,” the voice says to him.

He turns his head to gaze upon the white granite stone. The stone seems never fazed by the passage of time. Suddenly he sees a rather small cabin sitting upon the wooded side of an open, freshly plowed soy bean and corn field.

“Hey, that’s my old place,” he says into the air.

“Look, and watch!,” returns the whispering voice.

The skies grow dark, severe lightning flashes in heavy blue streaks, the rains begin to hammer as the thunder rolls.

“I remember that night,” he speaks into the air.

The wind howls, and the thunder roars and rolls. A fire commences to burn at the side of the cabin.

“Oh my gosh! Oh my! Angelina!,” he yells nearly to the point of tears.

“Watch Henry!,” the nearly echoing voice whispers.

The door of the cabin is open. On the inside a baby screams very audibly. The baby’s arms seem to be caught between the bars of his cradle.

“Where is the man of the house?,” he screams into the air.

A gaunt young man races through the door into the rain, running into the barn. He appears in a minute with a large hunting knife.

“You idiot! Go back inside with the woman and the child. What are you doing?”

The flames leap up higher. When the man returns he can’t reach the woman and the child because of the flames and part of the wall collapsing between them. The baby and the woman are screaming at the top of their lungs.

“You good for nothing idiot! Hack your way through. Allow nothing to stand in your way!,” Henry screams toward the strange unsettling pictograph.

When this man finally makes it through, the limp child has wormed his way out somehow. He seizes up the child, taking him outside. He returns back inside, dragging the limp body of the woman onto the outside. He screams both of their names as he glances around at the home, now totally engulfed in roaring flames. He gently slaps both of their faces with the opened palm of his hand. The reply was nothing. What on earth could he do?

Both hands cover Henry’s face as he weeps bitterly, shaking his head gently from side to side, muttering to himself.

“If I had only remained inside. If I had only remained with them. May I be damned for all eternity, since I exited the house without them,” he muttered to the air around him in between heavy sobs. “My father always called me good for nothing. His words have proven me right.”

“Henry!,” the feminine whispering voice spoke as it rode upon the air within the mansion home.

He removes his hands from his face, beholding this female form donning the black satin dress standing before him. Strangely her form seems as if he can see through it.

“Why must you break my heart with these scenes?”

“It happened Henry, so it happened,” she told him.

“I fight with myself on a daily basis to put this fact away from my mind.”

“Why the struggle, Henry?,” she says to him.

“I could have saved them. Had I made the proper moves they might be here with me today, woman, don’t you see?”

“Would they really want to be here?”

“I’m sure if they had a choice in the matter they would say yes,” he rages to the hazy lady in lucid black satin.

“What if they are happier on the other side?”

“If I only knew,” he snivels at the lady.

“If they were, would you still hate yourself Henry? If they were, did you curse them or do them a favor?,” the lady asks him in somber earnest.

“I robbed them of their lives here by my stupidity and inconsideration,” he screams to the lady in black.

“Or introduced them to a better life unintentionally,” she replies to him.

“If only I could know,” he gasps.

“Behold the wall,” says the lady in black.

He gazes back upon the stone wall. The moving picture scene returns, but it is one inside a type of tropical paradise. There is his wife, their son, his mother and her father, and many more family members he had seen in old hundred year old black and white photographs and portrait paintings that he didn’t know personally. His child was playing in cool tall grass growing by a freshly plowed field. Standing in the backdrop is a magnificent two story mansion house, with six gigantic highly decorated marble columns. His wife was socializing, talking, laughing merrily, while angels donning ankle length white togas with a glittering dulcimer in both hands across their laps, played music all around them.

“What is your conviction now, Henry?,” the lady in black asks him.

“I see them. I hear them speak, lady! If only I could be with them. I long for nothing else.”

“In time, Henry. Why rush it?,” the lady shrugs her shoulders as she calmly implores him.

“Maybe I could choose to end my time here, and then I could be with them, woman,” he says to her.

“Maybe she wouldn’t be happy with that choice.”

“Why would she not be?” he asks the lady in black.

“Because your experience on earth has not ended. Your assigned tasks haven’t been completed,” the woman tells him.

“What else must I do? What more tragedy and disappointment must I endure? How much drudgery and cruelty must I tolerate?” he rages to the lady.

“You make it whatever it shall be,” the lady tells him as she smiles.

“And circumstance determines what calculation does and cannot decide,” he mutters to the lady in black with a firm emphatic face.

“Only if we choose to believe it,” she warmly smiles as she says. However, her final words left Henry with a sensation of subtle dark sarcasm being intended in her voice.