“My grandma loved me. She tried to protect me by making me see the otherworld. She was right. Afterward, I saw and heard spirits and those other things in this world. This has kept me away from evil and has helped me see good. Did you know there are forest spirits living right behind our house? Ehh, anyway, my grandma loved me, so she made me see. I drank the tea then slept for almost two days. When I woke, I could see.”
My head felt woozy. Images on the screen melted into a strange haze. I reached out for my grandmother.
“You sleep now. I’ll go close the fence and bar up the doors. It has already begun,” she said.
“What has begun?” I asked drunkenly. The room spun, and I felt like I might be sick.
“The harvest,” she said. I heard the front door open and close, and then everything went black.
Chapter 4
When I woke, the zong, zong, zong throbbing in my head felt like it would never stop. I’d once dragged Ian on a winery trail tour. I’d drunk my weight in Merlot and woke the next morning with a similar mix of sour mouth, blaring headache, and nauseous stomach. I could not believe my grandma had drugged me—oh wait, yes, I could.
The alarm on the fire hall had stopped blaring, but the bell on the Catholic Church was now clanging, making my head ache even worse. To top it off, I had just awoken from the strangest nightmare. In my dream, a robed figure invited me to join him at the harvest. Excited, I picked up a vegetable basket and went with him. Much to my confusion, he led me to a graveyard. I asked him, “Why are we here?” The hooded figure turned toward me, showing me his skeletal face. He extended his boney arm, brandishing his sickle across the tombstone vista. “Why, we are here for the harvest,” he said in reply. I shuddered as I remembered his words.
“Grandma?” I called as my feet hit the hard-wood floor. There was no reply.
I went to the living room to find the T.V. on, but the screen was buzzing static. I clicked it off. The smell of burning bacon assailed my nose. I went into the kitchen, which was full of smoke, and turned the heat off. I threw the pan, the bacon burned black, into the sink. It hit the water with a sizzle. I cracked the window to let the smoke out.
“Grandma?” I called again.
I poured myself a glass of water and checked the rest of the house. Grandma was nowhere to be found, but the radio in her room was on. The announcer was listing names of cities now under quarantine. He might as well have said the entire United States.
I went back to the living room. The front door was unlocked and unbarred; apparently, Grandma had gone outside. My head aching, I slipped on a pair of jeans and t-shirt. There was a chill in the air, so I grabbed my vest, pulled on my hiking boots, and headed outside.
The driveway gate was closed but not locked. The church bell continued to ring. Its sound was shrill. I couldn’t find Grandma anywhere. Knowing her, she was in the woods digging up more mushrooms—we needed to have a serious talk about that. Strange she’d forgotten about the bacon.
I checked the barn. She wasn’t there, but I spotted the binoculars I’d picked up at the hardware store. I grabbed them and headed to the back of the property. I scaled the fence and walked into the woods. A trail behind the cabin led in two directions; one direction led into the National Forest, and the other, if you scaled the mountain, led to the Point. The Point was the old Native American look-out on the mountain top. It looked over the town and across the lake.
I climbed up the side of the hill. How many times had I fled to the woods and hiked to the Point? It was an escape. It was a peaceful place. I wound through the mountain laurel and over the mossy rocks up the side of the hill. The fallen autumn leaves, warm under the sun, provided the effervescence of decay. I felt the grainy grit of limestone and tree bark as I grabbed for hand-holds to pull myself upward. Finally, I got to the top of the hill. Now all I needed to do was scale the boulder that capped it. I had done it a hundred times. I knew every foot-and hand-hold. I pulled myself toward the top.
I was treated to a vista of autumn leaves. The cool wind whipped hard, blowing my hair around me. I looked toward town, but it was a long ways away. With the naked eye, I could easily make out the streets and rooftops. I could see people in the streets, but something seemed off. It looked like the Jamesons’ house was on fire.
I pulled out the binoculars, making some minor adjustments, and looked down. The Jamesons’ house was on fire and so was the flower shop next door. There were people all over the streets. Most of them were not moving. I could not see their faces clearly, but they looked sick. They were pale and bloody. I scanned over to the Catholic Church. The bell was still ringing. A few people stood outside looking at the building. The pandemic had come. How long had I slept?