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 3: Sunday October 30, 2011, 10:30 am
Chapter 4, Monday, October 31, 2012, 8:01 am, Halloween
Chapter 9: Thursday, November 1st, 1991, 3:00 am
It was now three in the morning. The snow was still cascading down. Visibility: zero. Seeing the giant drifts which had formed in languid waves, Jean was not looking forward to digging out. It was her body. She was beginning to really feel her age. At 62, things that she’d taken for granted, such as shoveling the walk, were beginning to catch up to her. She stared at her hands. They ached. They were the hands of her mother. God rest her soul.
She walked over to the large bowl of candy and picked out a caramel. No trick-or-treaters this year. Missy had gone to bed disappointed. She was at that age where she felt she was too old to go trick-or-treating, but still enjoyed dressing up. This year, Janet Jackson. “Cute”, Jean had said when she saw the outfit, though she didn’t understand it. It looked like a tight, black military outfit. Missy had been working on it for weeks, diving deep into the recesses of the local thrift shops. She’d even spray painted a navy cap black, but with the storm, there was no way she was going to get an opportunity to show it off, so Jean, being her only audience, gave it an enthusiastic reception.
Things between Jean and Missy had returned to what they used to be. That child sure knew how to roll with the changes. If she harbored any hopes of moving to Buenos Aires with her mother, she didn't let on. As for Dorie, Jean had not heard from her since she’d left, which was fine, for now. Jean hoped that Dorie would change and, going forward, be in touch more frequently. Last time, a whole year had gone by without a word from her and, other than this Paulo person, her daughter had shared nothing of her life; where she’d been or what she’d been up to. Was Dorie hiding something? Was that what Jeanette had on her? Jean hoped it didn’t have anything to do with drugs. That was such a dangerous world and if that were the case, then it would be best if Dorie stayed away. Jean would not be doing her duty as a grandmother if she allowed Missy to get messed up in a world like that.
As for Missy, she seemed to take her mother’s silence in stride. It was typical Dorie-behavior, something her granddaughter had come to accept as ‘normal’. Jean recalled a time when a much younger Missy had been fascinated with a children’s book titled, Are You My Mother? It was about the adventures of a little bird that had fallen from its nest. The little bird was young, confused, and so lacking in identity it had to ask various farm animals if they were its mother. Night after night, at bedtime, the book had become a regular feature. Eventually, it prompted a discussion about the differences between a grandmother and a mother. Jean did her best to avoid casting Dorie in a negative light, but at the same time wanted to explain the role typically filled by a mother, and why Missy’s life was so much different from those of many of her friends. Apparently, Jean had done an adequate job for within a week Missy became enamored with a different book. As soon as this occurred, Jean banished Are You My Mother? to a box in the basement, where it has sat to this day, growing mold and full of mildew.
Grandmother and granddaughter had also run into issues regarding identity at church. Being Catholic, Jean had made all her girls go to church every Sunday and the family had become quite well known among the other parishioners. For many years they were quite involved, but as the girls grew older, one by one, they stopped going, as did Jean. However, once Missy was in the picture, she decided it was a tradition worth reviving. Going back, Jean couldn’t believe how different things were; not only had the congregation changed, but so had the priest. Everyone they met assumed Missy was her daughter. At first, Jean would take the time to explain, but after a point she decided to let people think what they wanted. It didn’t hurt anyone, and Missy didn’t seem to mind. In Jean’s way of thinking, the most important thing was that her granddaughter felt like part of a community, part of something bigger than herself and her family.
Jean stared out the front window again. She considered going down to the basement and retrieving the old transistor radio from the laundry area. With the cable out, she felt out of touch. Perhaps getting some kind of update regarding the weather would put her mind at ease enough to go to sleep. But then, the idea of walking down those steps into the cold and dark did not appeal to her in the slightest. In fact, just the thought of it made her feel more fearful, more anxious.
And she was. She was afraid.
And it wasn’t only the storm, or the isolation that was causing it. It was also a matter of sleep. Sleep which led to dreams - dreams she did not want to revisit.
Last night, she had returned to the river. The moment she saw the glow, she opened her eyes, astounded to find herself floating in a giant, cavernous mouth. Above her, rows of great glowing fangs threatened to consume her. And she was not alone. Floating in that abyss? A number of what appeared to be dolls; their bodies stiff, their faces waxen. They were each dressed differently, as if from various eras. One of them, a boy, loomed close enough so that Jean could look into his eyes. They were wide, vacant, and white. Then his lips began to move. He was trying to say something, to tell her something, but of course, there was no sound. In the distance, Jean could see that a few of the dolls were trapped, caught among the sharp, jagged teeth. She knew she should be terrified. But she wasn’t. Odd, she thought - all she felt here was a kind of calm, as if there was nothing to fear, no threat present. The only other sensation she experienced was the cold, for it was mercilessly cold, bone-chillingly so. Yet, for whatever reason, she didn’t feel the need to try and escape. Perhaps that was because she knew that whatever had dragged her to this place was still out there, writhing and malevolent. At least here it was quiet. And peaceful; there was nothing that felt violent or destructive. With the dolls drifting aimlessly about, it struck Jean as a kind of limbo. Given what she’d experienced elsewhere in her dreams, this was certainly a gentle, preferable alternative.
It was in the field, encircled by the angry mob that she had felt the most fearful. There, violence seemed to permeate the air, threatening to erupt at any moment. Jean knew the mob’s intent; those stones they held in their hands, they were meant to hurt. Jean didn’t understand the young woman at the center of it all, why she didn’t protest, or try to escape. Was she drugged? Drunk? It appeared she’d been crying... the whole scene, upsetting to be sure. However, there was one tiny detail that shook Jean to her core; something she’d only noticed last night - the woman’s dress, the pale blue fabric?
It was the same fabric worn by the kitchen witch that sat atop Jean’s fridge.
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