Preview Chapter
(A Sewing Box Mystery)
Chapter 1: Friday, November 1st, 1991, 1:51 am
Jean stared at the snowy television screen. It mirrored the view outside her front window to a ’T’. Odd, to have so much of the white stuff so early. Unprecedented, said the reporter on the evening news; one of the worst storms in Minnesota history. With the snow having arrived so early, Jean supposed they were all in for a rough winter. She sure wasn’t looking forward to all that shoveling. The city had come to a complete standstill with people stranded throughout the metro area. Cars had been abandoned in the middle of streets clogged with snow drifts and other vacated vehicles. It felt bleak and made Jean feel .. vulnerable.
The cable had been out for only a few hours, but it felt as if she was completely cut-off from civilization - right there in the middle of north Minneapolis.
It was late, close to 2:00 am. Missy had gone to bed hours earlier. Her granddaughter was currently going through a phase where she was spending more and more time in her room. If the girl was not such a cheerful soul, Jean would have been more concerned, but it seemed part of a natural progression; a young lady of twelve exerting her independence, defining herself by separating from her prime parental figure, a role Jean had filled since the day Missy was born.
Missy’s actual parent, Jean’s youngest daughter, Dorie, held the title of ’mother’ in name only. Dorie had always been a wild one and seemed to get even more out of hand once her father, Jean’s beloved Frank, had passed away. Not even the birth of a child out of wedlock had slowed her down. On the other hand, it seemed to have brought Jean’s world to a screeching halt. Not that she minded. It was nice to have someone in the house, even if it was an adolescent girl with nothing more on her mind than the latest pop sensation (Marky Mark’s name was mentioned frequently at the dinner table, as was a group called 'Men Who Are Boys', or something like that), popularity in school (according to Missy she was ‘no- wheres’), and, of course, boys. Jean had assured Missy time and again that she would have plenty of time to be concerned about boys later, but Missy wasn’t buying it. Jean held her breath, praying that this would not turn out to be a case of like mother - like daughter. In fact, Jean would only be too happy if the apple fell so far from the tree that it became an orange. Fingers crossed.
Still, as many issues as she had with Dorie’s lifestyle, Jean did envy her daughter all the travelling she got to do. In fact, being almost anyplace else in the world other than Minnesota given current circumstances sounded like a good idea to Jean. She’d lost track of all the strange and exotic places Dorie had visited, usually as the guest of some man. She’d also lost track of the names of all the men who footed the bills for those trips. Much to Jean’s chagrin, Dorie was a charter member of the 'man of the month' club. It must have been a generational shift that Jean had missed out on, for she certainly didn’t understand where her daughter’s attitudes about sex and love had sprung from. Yet, Dorie was the only person Jean knew whose passport actually had stamps inside it. That was something to be proud of, right?
She rose and shut off the television. No sense in wasting the electricity. She would have headed off to bed, but Jean dreaded the thought. Too many dreams: three new ones, each one a little uglier than the last. Yes, she was still visiting the place where Jack Arneson, the boy who had been kidnapped back in 1987, was being held. No, wait, that should be ‘had been held’, for Jack no longer appeared in those dreams, hadn’t for quite some time, and now she seemed to go to that place only once or twice a month.
No, her current nights were filled with a new horror; little blue-hued dolls’ heads floating in a dark mouthful of sharp jagged teeth, their eyes frozen wide with terror. One of them kept trying to speak to her, to tell her something, but there wasn’t any sound and Jean, having never mastered the art of reading lips, hadn’t a clue what the doll was trying to say. In the dreams, Jean would find herself floating among the dolls, each one dressed in an outfit from a different era. She would reach out and try to take hold of them, but so far they always managed to slip from her grasp.
And the cold, so real, it would permeate her bones. When she’d wake with a start it would be hours before she’d begin to feel warm again.
Other nights she would find herself standing in a flattened field, part of a large circle of people. It was night, but the moon was full, the sky clear - so she could see fairly well. Her eyes would dart from face to face, searching for some trace of kindness. Instead, all she could find was hate, loathing and fear. Again, the clothing all seemed to be from a different era, but this time it was the same one, some time in the mid 50’s, Jean thought. The clothing, it all seemed so terribly conservative, bland, and almost identical in style, fabric and cut. All the angry June and Ward Cleavers clasped something in their hands as they moistened their lips in anticipation. Despite the cool temperature, perspiration formed on their foreheads as their breath clung in the air. Something was about to happen, something big.
The circle parted, allowing a man to walk to its center. He was wearing a tan fedora with the sleeves of his starched white shirt rolled to just below the elbows. His tan pants sported a crease that looked like it could cut through diamond. Somewhat older than those who populated the circle, he held himself with an air of authority. He brought with him a woman, cowering and frightened. Her dishwater, shoulder-length hair was a mess, snarled with briars and her blue- patterned cottage dress ripped and hanging from one of her shoulders at an odd angle.
The man hurled the woman to the ground in the middle of the circle. He pointed at her and spoke in the style of a fundamentalist preacher; his condemning words, muffled to Jean’s ears, seemed to incite the crowd. As he spoke, the crowd crept closer and closer, closing in on the woman. As they did, the air became electric; Jean could feel the flesh on her arms go all prickly with fear and then she would bolt awake.
These two dreams alternated with a third scenario where Jean would find herself lost among tall reeds along a river bank. She would move through them, like some kind of animal, her eyes scanning quickly right and left; always on the run, as if being pursued by something or someone. The terror would grow until Jean awoke with a scream. Sometimes, mid-run, she would peer over her shoulder and catch sight of someone, or something. She hadn’t yet identified what or who it was, but she knew instinctually that, whatever it was, it meant her harm.
Jean dreaded the night it would catch her. For she knew only too well, that it was possible to feel pain... even in dreams.
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1 comment:
Ohhhh
That scenario with the preacher? Scary!!!!
Marky Mark! Good sensations!
XOXO
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