Children Lost on The Darkest Of Nights:
The Legend of Peg Powler
(A Sewing Box Mystery)
Chapter 1: Friday, November 1, 1991, 1:51 am
Chapter 2: Saturday October 29, 2011, 11:37 am
Chapter 4, Monday, October 31, 2012, 8:01 am, Halloween
Jean stared at the package. It was odd. How had it arrived? Who was it from?
There was no return address, no postmark, nothing… it wasn’t even addressed to her. She brought it into the house. It was a small, nondescript, cardboard box held closed with an odd strip of ribbon and an honest-to-God, actual wax seal, as in olden times, used to seal letters. Jean had never seen anything like it, ever.
At first she wondered if it might be drugs. But, no, no drug dealer would go to the bother of sealing a box with ribbon and a wax seal. Maybe she should simply keep an eye out for the postman and give it back to him?
The tea kettle began to whistle on the stove. She placed the package on the kitchen table and rushed over to flip off the burner before retrieving her coffee mug from the cupboard. Once her old Norelco coffeemaker had given up the ghost, Jean had decided not to replace it. Her doctor had been after her for years to give up the hard stuff, anyway. Herbal tea was now more her style. She’d noticed that by reducing the amount of caffeine in her diet, she seemed to have more patience during the day – something which came in exceedingly handy when dealing with a crabby adolescent, as Missy was on occasion. Jean was also sleeping better at night. Well, deeper, anyway. There were still the dreams to contend with. The ones about Jack Arneson continued to cause her the most anguish, but they weren’t all bad.
Recently she’d begun to dream of a beautiful waterfall. Sometimes she was standing beneath it, watching as the water cascaded down. Other times, she was at the waterfall's top, in the water, being hurled over jagged rocks until hitting the smoothed stones below. It was exhilarating to be swept away in such a manner. And certainly beat the way she felt in her other dreams.
Her fingers moved through the box of tea. It was a variety pack, given to her by Missy in honor of Jean’s last birthday, number sixty-one. Just think, if only she’d worked for a living she could be retiring from somewhere with a nice, fat pension. Instead, she’d managed all these years, squeaking by on the meager pension and social security her husband Tom had left her. She should write a book, she thought; ‘How to Survive Your Spouse on Just Pennies a Day!’ She would hawk it on Oprah’s show and make a mint. Surely, she was not the only woman left in the same situation. Thank God, the house had been paid off.
And her granddaughter? Well, that stretched her monthly budget to the point of breaking. New shoes, for example. Or rather, a million excuses for why Missy didn’t need new shoes. Field trips, extra-curricular activities, allowance, food, clothing, holidays… it just never ended, and the list of demands seemed to grow every year. Jeanette helped out when she could. Dorie, on the other hand? No help at all. In fact, Missy was lucky to hear from her mother once a month and saw her once in a blue moon.
Jean felt her heart race. It was early in the day. Why dwell on things that upset her? In light of her mood, she chose chamomile; just the thing to soothe and calm. She plopped the bag into her favorite mug – one inscribed “World’s Greatest Grandma” (another gift from Missy), walked to the stove, and poured the steaming water over it. This was her favorite time of the morning. She called it her ‘Steep Time’. While seated at her kitchen table, waiting for the hot water and tea bag to work their magic, Jean would mull over whatever dream she’d had the night before. It was also during this time that she’d record various details about the dreams. Sometimes it was just a list. Or the name of a song. Sometimes it was a description of something in her dream that had captured her attention.
This morning, there was nothing new to report. She’d gone back to that dank place, in search of the little blonde boy, Jack Arneson. But he was nowhere to be found. So, instead, she’d simply wandered about, looking at the things which populated the place; things she'd examined in detail for a number of years, now.
Instead of revisiting all that familiar ground, Jean turned her attention to the newly arrived mystery box. What was in it? Who'd left it?
She picked it up and shook it. Whatever was inside was not heavy. She examined the red wax seal that held the strip of black ribbon in place. It was odd. The seal was imprinted with some kind of symbol; an animal, Jean thought, but she couldn’t be certain. Was it a dragon? A horse? It was crudely executed and held in a circle. In that same circle, along with the creature, Jean could make out a small cross floating above the animal and some kind of little squiggly shape sitting beneath its belly. She tried her best to remove the ribbon without breaking the seal, but that proved impossible. The wax tore apart, despite the care she took. Oh, well. Best intentions.
Opening the flaps of the cardboard box, Jean’s nostrils were assailed by the strong odor of incense. It was a rich spice smell, heavy and smoky, and it reminded her of church. She was relieved to see that in the box there was nothing more than a small doll. With great care, she removed it. The doll was oddly-shaped and appeared to be homemade. Dressed in a pale blue dress with a matching head wrap, Jean couldn’t tell what the rest of the doll was made of – perhaps some crude type of muslin. It sure had an ugly face. And the eyes… they looked like dried berries.
For some reason, it made her smile. But who would send such a thing?
Jean resisted the temptation to give the doll a name. However, she did give it a home; right on top of the fridge. Maybe that’s what it was… one of those kitchen witches. With Jean’s track record in the kitchen, she sure could use the help. Yet, as much as she wanted to believe that the doll’s presence was meant to bring good tidings, there was something about it that made her feel uneasy. She sat at the kitchen table, sipping her tea, looking at the doll, who stared back at her from its perch atop the fridge. Those eyes; they made her think of voodoo dolls.
Jean felt a chill roll through her body. Maybe it was nothing more than a Halloween decoration.
The doorbell rang.
Jean practically jumped out of her skin. Who in the world? At this hour? On a Sunday! Her mind raced. Maybe it was Missy? She’d spent the night over at Tracie’s, a friend of hers, for a slumber party or something. Maybe she woke early and decided to come home. Maybe she’d forgotten her key, again. Frowning, Jean rose and made her way to the door. She was still dressed in her flannel nightie, but, thankfully, she also had on her old chenille bathrobe. She closed the robe around her and held it tightly in place as she opened the door.
On the stoop stood a pale, petite-looking woman with shoulder-length red hair. The cut was very sophisticated; carefree, with peak-a-boo, fly-away curls. The overall effect was extremely feminine, like a 1940’s femme fatale. She was exquisitely overdressed for a Sunday morning, wearing a sheer, midnight-blue top over a black bustier and tight black leggings, all enveloped in a long, dark, expensive-looking, oversized coat. The woman's make-up, pale skin with dramatic, dark eyes made her look like an actress or a model. The finishing touch? A collar of pearls - three rows, tightly encircling her neck.
The woman stood and stared coquettishly from beneath lavish, curled eyelashes, waiting for Jean to recognize her.
Speak of the devil...
It was Dorie.
“Oh my word…” Jean could not believe it. She unlatched the door and her daughter swept past her with a rueful smile on her face. Taking off and flinging her coat and clutch with a flourish onto the living room sofa, she spun around and froze in place for further inspection. She appeared so carefully put together, so sculpted.
“Hello, Mother,” she purred. Her arms spread open, stiff, just wide enough to receive a hug. As Jean pressed in, she couldn’t get over how tiny and thin Dorie felt. Stepping back, Jean suddenly felt that she was the one out of place, not Dorie. Her eyes did a quick scan of the living room. Everything seemed so shabby. If Dorie noticed she didn’t let on. “Surprised to see me?” Without waiting for an answer she strode purposefully into the kitchen, moving directly to the cupboard that held the coffee cups. Removing one, she looked over her shoulder, coyly, and said, “Everything, just as it’s always been.”
Jean leaned a hip against the doorway her daughter had just breezed through. “Not quite. There’s no coffee. I drink tea now. Kettle’s on the stove. Tea bags in a box on the table.” Uncocking her hip, Jean made her way back to the table and sat down. Dorie soon joined her. Her daughter perused the selection of teas and chose something called ‘Red Zinger’.
Jean took a sip of her tea and, over the rim of her cup, took in her daughter’s dramatic appearance once more. Last time she’d seen Dorie, the girl was in the midst of something called ‘a hair-metal phase’. All told, Jean preferred this look. She had hated all that big, ratted hair (the hairspray had made her choke), the vaguely satanic-looking jewelry, and black leather trappings. “So…” asked Jean, setting her cup on the table, “what brings you to town?”
Dorie tilted her head and looked Jean directly in the eyes.
“I’m here for my daughter. I’ve come to take Missy home.”
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1 comment:
Wait what?
She's gonna take Missy home? Where?
And is that the same doll they had before that the lady at the home freaked about????
I have questions!!
XOXO
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