Keepers Of The Gate Read online

  Normal? Hardly. If they could hear what she hears, they’d believe as she does, “Twilight Ends has ghosts,” confirmed as a box falls from the top shelf with a rattling jingle to the floor. She stiffens, unafraid but concerned she’s disturbed both paying and invisible guests. Though she knows that’s impossible, given the size of the home – no one can hear her fumbling around in the cellar.

  Sky lifts the timeworn cardboard box and climbs steep stairs on silent, bare feet. Nudging the cellar door closed with one elbow, she pads through the peaceful inn filled with sleeping guests and family. In the kitchen, Charlie moves around preparing breakfast with earbuds streaming old tunes in his ears.

  Beyond the main hall, the dim dining room and parlor brim with spectral energy in her peripheral vision. The closer she grows, the louder their vibration. After visiting the parlor at dawn several times in the past and leaving with a splitting headache, she seldom visits before daybreak unless it’s essential. Sky often wonders if paying guests sense unusual events as they recline next to spectral patrons in the parlor. But she’s not bold enough to ask.

  Through the narrow butler’s pantry, she continues to the family office at the rear of the house, overlooking the veranda and backyard. Just as she enters, the Seneca Drums boom in the distance, the thunderous anomaly that haunts the Finger Lakes region. Most dawns the mysterious cannons resonate unheeded in the vicinity. But this morning, the rumble grabs her attention. Placing the ornaments on the desk, she traipses toward the bay window and gasps loudly. “A snowstorm wasn’t in the forecast.”

  In the yard, a few feet from the inn, a silhouette on a dawn-lit canvas stands like a frozen Fata Morgana. Sky blinks twice, closes and opens her eyes to a steadfast image in the backyard. She’s not a guest at Twilight, but she looks familiar. Wiping the foggy windowpane with her pajama sleeve, she peers hard through the glass, hoping she will turn and faces the inn. Do I know her?

  Untouched by falling snow, the woman faces the slate gray lake stiller than a statue. Sleeved arms at her sides, bare legs exposed to the storm, only her back exists, reminding her of Christina in Andrew Wyeth’s painting, except she’s standing, not sprawled on the ground. The only movement is her dark windswept hair and dress beating fast against her legs.

  “Maybe she’s in trouble or lost,” Sky mumbles, wiping the cloudy pane again, hoping the woman would turn and show her face. But after watching a few minutes, the woman remains motionless showing only her rear view.

  She’ll freeze to death! Is she disturbed, wandering around without shoes or a coat?

  Ignoring a troubled soul is heartless. If she or her daughter were in danger, she’d be grateful for someone’s help. Besides, she’d never forgive herself if she freezes to death on her property.

  The woman drops to her knees beside mom’s maple tree.

  Is she looking for something?

  Visible distress shows as her shoulders heave and hair trembles around her face. Leaning over, she brushes the ground.

  What the heck is she doing?

  Concerned for the woman’s safety, Sky slips into her rugged snow boots, throws a parka over her flannel pajamas, and saunters to the door.

  She’d underestimated the storm’s strength from the window. When Sky strides on to the wrap-around porch, an arctic blast shoves her backward. At once, she zips her coat when icy fingers snake under her pajamas, shuddering her shoulders. She pulls the door behind her, moves to the porch edge, and stares across the white yard.

  Atop the hill where Twilight Ends sits, the blizzard obscures the lake and town in the distance. Sky sweeps the fur-lined hood over her head and stares at the terrain, recalling last winter’s painful tumble and the nasty bruise it left on her hip. With caution, she tests the ground with a timid step, descends the treacherous snow-covered knoll with a shuffle toward the kneeling woman beneath the bleak maple tree.

  Wary of startling her, Sky halts before she reaches her, puts her gloveless fingers in her pockets and calls, “Miss?”

  The whistling breeze mutes her voice. So, again in a louder tone, she asks, “Miss, are you OK?” The question dwindles, snatched away by a wintry blast. She trudges closer and yells, “Miss, you shouldn’t be out here. It’s too dangerous. You’re welcome to come inside and warm up with a hot cup of coffee. Miss?”

  The nearer she grows, the more unreal the woman’s form. A presence dropped in this place from a warmer climate, wandering lost, unaware of her surroundings. What from the window she’d thought was a dress is an Indian beaded-hide smock.

  The hum spikes, warning Sky of what she’d just perceived. When a second boom explodes from the water, the woman rises from her knees. The tunic beats at her still frame, falling motionless around her bare calves. Her head pivots with a crooked tilt, the lake and trees visible through her translucent skin. A piercing roar erupts from her mouth, rippling and distorting her face. A crude letter V etched in the maple blazes beside her.

  Terror sends prickly needles across Sky’s spine, iron clamping her feet to the ground when she tries to turn and run.

  The woman wails louder, shriller.

  “Ahhh!” Sky moans, clasping her ears as the razor-sharp vibration pierces her eardrums, electrifying every synapse in her skull. Squeezing her eyes shut, she clamps her teeth, and cups her hands over her ears, groaning a deep, long, “Ahhhh,” to drown out the excruciating noise. The unbearable trill dwindles, hollowing her senses with ensuing nausea. Smoke strikes her senses, burning timber and charred food fill her nostrils, making her more nauseous.

  She opens her eyes to the woman wading into the lake, sinking below its still surface. The pristine patch of snow leading from the tree to the lake confirms what she suspected. No footprints – she’s not real. Sky watches with growing unease and pounding heart, expecting her to resurface, then a crack beneath the maple tree catches her attention. An object’s risen from the ground where the woman stood.

  Sky pushes through her fear on trembling feet and moves toward the maple. Leaning over the opening, she notices indistinct soil-covered objects wedged between the tree roots. When she brushes dirt from the items, at once she recognizes the Iroquoian three-dot-triangular-shaped face imprinting the tomahawk’s wood handle, symbols she’d seen in textbooks, on museum relics, and at archaeological digs.

  Beside the tomahawk, a ribbon of pelt curls around a gnarled tree root, skeletal-finger rhizomes, crumbling open, disintegrating into a spontaneous cloud of dust. Never in all her years on archeological digs has she seen skeletal remains vanish to nothing before her eyes. Picking up the tomahawk, Sky hacks through withering roots with the dull, ancient axe as if it were an archeologist’s trowel. After two strong whacks, the tree releases its grip, revealing a soiled native-American bone choker.

  Sky stands straight and stares at the tree ablaze a moment ago, running her finger across a crude letter V and bird notched in the bark. She’s never noticed these before but she has never examined the tree this close.

  At once, she clenches her teeth when an intense vibration pierces her ears. Something’s close. She spins around, scans the bordering trees and yard to the lake’s edge. The unbearable drone drives her from the spot. Sky places the artifacts in her pockets, covers her eyes from icy snow, and races toward the inn with flurries twirling an abnormal pattern around her. Then she hears it, a woman’s voice, keen and limpid, calling, “Pilan!”

  Snow whips from the ground, funneling around, and stinging her eyes shut. Voices throng everywhere, men hollering, women and children screaming in terror, as thunderous hooves shake the ground. The smells of scorched food, flora, and timber smother the air. Sky exhales an odoriferous breath from her lungs, opens her eyes to orange skies, thick with billowing smoke.

  Phantom horses’ ghostly riders toss bright red torches, and yell distant words even though they’re right beside her. A flare hurls toward her, exploding white ash in her face. She wipes snow from her eyes and stiffens when a man on a horse charges at her, pointing a bay
onet. A scream chokes in her throat just as the images evaporate on a loud, powdery gust. Skylar heaves a strangled breath, places her hand on her heart, and squints through snow-crusted lashes at a changed scenery. The snow vanishes. Black plumes swirl from a fire-engulfed Twilight and a blistering blaze races in her direction.

  “It’s not real,” she mumbles. They’re past remnants… The fire isn’t real.

  Again, she closes her eyes, sensing fiery flames upon her. When flurries brush her face, refuting the torrid dawn, she opens her eyes to the storm and unscathed three-story Victorian.

  It’s happening again, heart-pounding images and intolerable headaches she suffered on archaeological digs, the reason she abandoned the field for the classroom. Mirages appeared whenever her team stumbled on relics.

  “Pilan!”

  Sky jerks her head around at snow taking shape, advancing up the knoll. With the swift-moving entity on her tail, she races up the hill as fast as her legs can carry her. She slides across the steps, catching her balance, dashing on to the porch and inside the house, slamming the door shut.

  The hum grows faint, and a migraine creeps between her eyes. Gasping for air, she walks toward the window, clutching her rapid rising and falling chest, afraid she’ll see the woman again at the tree. She leans into the window, peeks around the corner, scanning the porch and yard.

  She’s gone.

  The storm strengthens, and Sky imagines spectral energy raging against the house. Why are the apparitions that have always been merely audible at Twilight Ends now visible?

  Why now?

  6

  Phantom Smoke

  “MOM, WHAT’S WRONG?”

  “Don’t you smell food burning?” Panicked, Tessa jumped from the parlor sofa and rushed toward the kitchen. Minutes later, she returned with a grin crinkling her eyes and burnt food scenting her clothes, although nothing had cooked in the oven that evening. “Your ancestors are at it again,” she’d said, much calmer, joining Dad on the settee.

  Sky had no clue what her mom’s comments meant years ago, but not anymore. The mysterious smells, subtle sounds, images, and auras, strange events Mom and Dad experienced, were real. And she’d just faced every frightful sensation. She’d never doubted them, though, never experiencing every sensory manifestation, only preternatural chatter.

  Sky recalls occasional guests complimenting the sweet smell of apple and strawberry pies wafting from the kitchen, though none were being baked. Nonplussed, a comical frown and grin appeared on Tessa’s face as she’d responded, “Oh, thank you.” Then, as soon as the guests had left her side, she’d rush to the kitchen and ask Cora to add pies to the menu. No one ever determined the origin of the aroma and, as usual, Dad suggested, “We should let it be.”

  Sky pulls the soiled artifacts from her pocket, lays them on her desk, thankful she hadn’t imagined them or lost her mind. Her numb fingers thaw with painful tingles as she lifts the parka to the coat peg, leaving a smear of dirt on the winter-white hood. Rubbing and blowing on her hands, she rushes into the powder room, placing them under warm water.

  Caked dirt slides from beneath her fingernails into the basin as the throb subsides to a slight sting. Sky lifts her gaze to the vanity mirror, finding eyes glazed from spectral visions, and skin and lips tinted crimson and deep wine from frost. She gathers her hair to one side, cups her hands under the faucet, and splashes her face with warm water. Preternatural images bounce around her mind, evoking her father’s lecture on Sullivan’s Expedition. He’d explained that during the Revolutionary War, soldiers torched Seneca longhouses on the property. The horses, soldiers and fire? Did she experience the flaming destruction of the Iroquois village?

  Sky grabs two hand towels from the linen cabinet, dabs her face and leaves the powder room. At her desk, she places the soil-encrusted choker and tomahawk on the cloths and stares in awe at her discoveries. Whenever she found artifacts in the past, she’d imagine aboriginal owners and ponder their fate. Were they holding or wearing the items when they died? Did they perish during the war with their village? Sky reflects on the moments outside, realizing the fiery slaughter happened after she found the relics. With an archeologist’s astute gaze, she examines the choker’s intricate weaving, animal sinews, and tapered-cylinder-hairpin bones, picturing it around a native man or woman’s neck, surprised the choker is still intact.

  “Remarkable.”

  Knock-knock-knock.

  “There you are,” Charlie exclaims, entering the office dressed in a long-sleeve crewneck T-shirt and jeans. A Twilight Ends black apron, embossed with a blue TE logo, hides the recent paunch he’s grown, assisting the inn’s chef often. He approaches, sets a plate of scones, a silver carafe filled with French-roast coffee and two mugs on the desk, and kisses her on the lips. The minty scent of toothpaste and aftershave lingers on his breath and cheeks.

  “You OK?”

  No! I’m not! The words sound in her mind, unspoken to her unsuspecting husband. She wants to tell him what happened but, at the moment, she’s too overwrought with emotions to deal with his cynicism. With a forced smile, she strokes his clean-shaven jaw and says, “Just another migraine starting.”

  “Your fingers are freezing,” Charlie says, pouring her a cup of coffee.

  “Yeah,” she mumbles, wrapping her fingers around the hot mug and lifting the trembling cup to her lips. She hadn’t realized how rattled her nerves were until now. She grips the cup to conceal the trembling from Charlie.

  “Working late and three hours of sleep, I’m surprised you can hold up your head.”

  “I’m fine,” and a tad spooked, she thinks. “I couldn’t sleep so I posted holiday and bridal promotions on the website.” She studies his eyes, forcing thoughts of ghosts away. His smooth-looking skin tempts another stroke. She’s always preferred a trace of beard to soften his prominent square jaw. In his thirties, he’d worn a scruffy beard until his forties, when hairs started graying in patches on his chin. He claims stubble irritates his skin, but she suspects he sports a hairless look to disguise scant telltale grays salt-and peppering his face.

  “That’s Twyla’s job.”

  “I know, but there’s no harm in helping her. We’re a team. Besides, I needed to update pricing on the upcoming bridal promo.”

  “I still think you should let her handle it. You’ve got enough on your plate…”

  “Speaking of,” Sky interjects, nodding at the plate on the desk.

  “Oh, Cora prepared Teresa’s strawberry cornbread scones before she left last night. I heated a batch for our remaining guests’ breakfast,” he says, lifting one from the dish with a hungry bite.

  Teresa… Charlie’s the only one in the family who uses her mother’s formal name. Family and her closest friends called her Tessa, a name that suited her personality better. “Oh, I love these scones. It’s a traditional Indian recipe Tessa used to make for Dad.” She misses her mom’s cooking. Thank heavens Cora kept Mom’s family recipes on a computer file. The notebooks were faded and stained with ingredients from years of use.

  “They’re tasty,” he says, raising the sweet, golden-crisp bread to her lips.

  “I’m not hungry,” Sky says, shaking her head. “I’ll try one later.” Strawberries… is that what she smelled burning in the yard? No, it was a mixture of burnt odors. Charlie devours the scone and wipes his hands on the apron. Although he has gained a few pounds around his middle and after 23 years of marriage, she’s still attracted to this man, who irritates her more than anyone. For years, he’d eaten as much as he wanted without gaining a pound. But now, in mid-life, mindless nibbling has widened his waistline. She’s not complaining because she prefers a touch of weight on her men. Charlie’s far from chubby and can carry a few extra pounds on his athletic six-foot frame. Besides, it looks adorable on him.

  After six months of helping Cora prepare meals, she wonders if he’s ready to throw in his toque. “Tired of the rigmarole yet… early mornings and long workdays?”

/>   “Are you kidding? I’m just getting started, babe.”

  Sky was sure he’d abandon the kitchen when the ritual grew stale. Against her better judgment, she allowed him to reduce Cora’s schedule. She thought the moment he perceived the intricacies of menu planning, he’d change his mind and relinquish the kitchen to Cora. But determined and with a load of ideas, he’d said, “We need to broaden the inn’s menu.” Who knew he’d settle into the role so effortlessly and enroll in cooking classes?

  “Early rise and late to bed don’t faze me. My old man was a baker and rose at dawn every morning. It’s in my blood.”

  She believes him. In the kitchen, she’d caught Charlie several times standing over the stove, savoring ingredients as if they were fine wine. He’s never been this rapt with cooking. She swears ghosts of Twilights’ past chefs invade his senses when he enters the kitchen. She snickers inwardly, imagining his retort if she’d said that to his face. He’d smile sardonically and reply, “Nonsense.”

  “Where did you go earlier? I peeked in a few minutes ago, and you weren’t here.” He sniffs the top of Sky’s head, lifts a strand of her hair between his fingers with another sniff. “What’s that smell?”

  “What smell?”

  “The reek of a smoky grill. You burn food in the kitchen again?” He asks with a chuckle.

  Pulling a strand toward her nose, Sky sniffs, then lifts her arm. Her hair and sleeve smack of phantom smoke, scorched foods that engulfed her outdoors. “Charlie, I had a weird experience in the backyard.”

  “Outside… you went outside during a storm in pajamas?”

  “I saw something odd near the tree.” She pauses and considers mentioning the ghost. No, he won’t believe a word of it. “Did you catch the Seneca Drum earlier? It boomed three times. Isn’t that odd?” She asks, mute about the spectral woman.