What would you do?

Do you ever do something and then later doubt whether you made the right choice? I do this all the time. Split second decisions, lamented for days, sometimes weeks afterwards.

Here is the set up:

Black Friday-
Waiting in Aeropostale to buy a pair of jeans for oldest son who won't stop growing and can't keep a pair of pants longer than six months. Sorry to blather about my growing boy... Anyway,

back to the subject at hand: There are two checkers and they are both helping other people. No one else is in line, so I stand at the front, but get distracted with one of those jewelry turn tables just to my left. I probably spent one minute admiring all their really cool necklaces.

I turn around and realize that while I was being distracted by dazzling silver and gold, four or five people have found their way into the partitioned line and I have edged myself almost out of the line all together. I panic, thinking that they don't know I am in line. The line gets longer by the second. The lady in front of me is still at the checkout, but I don't know if the other lady at the checkout is the same one from before.

And I'm hot. My coat has added about ten degrees to my body heat and I've got a list a mile long to get through. I stand there mulling over whether to go to the back of the line or if I am still considered in line. The girl behind me is the same one I was behind in Old Navy. She took forever! Seriously I watched the other checkers go through three or four additional people in the time it took for her to check out! I'm not thinking it's payback time, but I AM thinking I do NOT want to get behind her again!

A checker is free. It’s time to pony up or go to the back…

Now I want to hear what you think I should do next. What are the etiquette rules for standing in line? If you are not religiously watching the checker are you out? If you miss your turn and someone goes in front of you is it back to the end of the line for you? If someone gives you a dirty look did you break etiquette or could they just be having a bad day? I want to hear your ideas. Some of us weren’t born with white gloves on and have to learn it the hard way.

Counting on your wisdom to guide me along...

Let's Talk Turkey...

Thanksgiving is just around the corner, and that's all good and fine, but what I really want to talk about is what you all think about this "Friend" business on Facebook.

It goes like this. You add a friend, say a few pleasantries and three months later you have a little picture of your new friend on the side of your wall saying you should be friends because you have a bazillion friends in common. You think to yourself, "But we are friends, aren't we?" And then you type in their name and sure enough you are locked out,shut off and banned from friend-dom. Is this a phenomenon that happens only with me or have any of you had this experience?

I can only think of a couple reasons to "un-friend" someone. They are offensive, rude or annoying. Any other reasons? Maybe you want to keep the number down below 200 and suddenly you find you are at 201 and somebody MUST go. Do you play eenie meenie minie moe, or just delete someone randomly? Or perhaps more commonly,you didn't want to be friends with this person in the first place. However, under laws of social graces you said yes, waited a week or two, and then when they weren't looking, cut them off cold. Hmmm. Sounds probable. Don't get me wrong; sure it hurts momentarily, even when its done by someone you have no desire to play scrabble with on Friday night, let alone say hello on their wall, but there are no hard feelings on my side. I get it, really. My husband does it all the time. Says he didn't ever really know these people and doesn't need to be friends with them now. But I can't help but wonder if it wouldn't just be better if you denied them from the beginning. No false pretenses, no fingers crossed behind your back, just out and out I'm not interested in swapping status's with you, or looking at the many family photos in your album. Wouldn't that be a more honest way to let people down? Anyway, it's just a thought. But just so you know, if I say yes to you I promise not to unfriend you behind your back. One thing I've never been accused of is being a fake friend. I tell it like I see it. Get's me in trouble sometimes, but I sleep better at night for it.

It's New Moon Premier Week!

It's finally here!

That’s right folks, it’s New Moon premier week! I have to admit, and I’ll do it proudly, that I have been a Twilighter longer than most whippersnappers. I picked up the books three years ago and practically inhaled them. It was like they were a drug and I was an addict. I started the first book on Friday, read LATE into the night and into the morning and then was forced to go to a Super Saturday crafty thing, and read with the book hidden on my lap between painting clocks and making chocolate covered pretzels. Pathetic I know, but I couldn’t help it! It was too good to put down.

As soon as I escaped the craft thingy I bee-lined it for the nearest bookstore and bought book two and three. (Eclipse had just been released the previous week). I rushed through New Moon thinking, "Edward. Must have more Edward," and finished Eclipse on Tuesday. Hungry for more, it was like you couldn’t fill me up. I won’t even go into what this did for my bedroom life, but lets just say, husband dearest would occasionally sit the books on my nightstand--just in case I wanted to read them again.

Now I understand there are two types of camps:you devoured Twilight like me, or you really don’t get it. Just like we have a two party system, we must have two opinions about Twilight. And that's okay, just don't ever try to convince me that she is not a brilliant writer. Seventy million books and a bazillion dollars later,I'd have to beg to differ.

I will spend this next paragraph trying to explain the phenomenon to those that don’t get it. In a nut shell: first, Stephenie NAILS the feelings of first love. There is something so intense about ones first love that you never forget it, or them. Secondly, she gets the big break-up thing and the sometimes physically painful experience it can be. It doesn’t matter if you are seventeen or seventy, heartbreak hurts. Mixed with the allure of the all powerful love triangle and you have yourself the basics for a good story. Thirdly, Stephenie understands what women want, and it has little to do with the physical, though we do like the very slow-- like four books slow-- approach.:) What we DO want is a man to love us unconditionally; have us as their whole world. Listen to us, ask questions about us, be curious to know everything about us. Let us talk about ourselves, and act like there is no where else on earth they'd rather be than listening to us talk! Sigh... See why this could only happen in fiction? How do I know I am right about this? The millions of women and girls from twelve to seventy all over the world screaming Edwards name, that's how.

So here’s a question for you. What team are you on? Team Edward or Team Jacob and what was your experience like reading Twilight? How many times have you read the books and do you have tickets to the midnight show come Thursday night? Not to brag of course,but my sister, Love her! Got me a ticket to a 5:00 show on Thursday. I don’t know how she did this, nor do I care. I’m just glad to see it before two in the morning. Can’t wait!

We’ll see ya at the movies fellow Twihards!

A soldier,and a dream to keep us free

Happy Veterans day!



This morning I was rummaging through the front closet, searching for my flag. There were too many coats and backpacks taking up space, and like a jungle safari, I had to cut through the growth to find it buried in the back. Today I will fly my flag in honor of all those who serve our country. I am forever grateful for those who are willing to sacrifice their time, families, and often careers to serve in the military. I am no respecter of divisions. Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force, they are all needed.



To be perfectly honest I haven't known a lot of "military" in my life. My father, Grandfathers', and brothers' all missed major conflicts. My husband's father and his grandfathers' were in the Vietnam war and World War II respectively. But I had a dream a few years ago that really changed my attitude towards those that wear the uniform and made me feel like I knew what it was like to be deep in the trenches, if for only a few minutes.



A forewarning and a promise: I have a lot of dreams. And they are usually weird, but I vow not to dig them up and display them on these pages unless they are poignant. This one is poignant. Really.



So I had this dream one night that my family and I were at a restaurant, say something like Texas Reds, and we were talking and laughing, and eating (of course), and having a great time. I looked over my shoulder and spied two Army guys dressed in fatigues silently staring into their beers at the bar, and I wondered what it was like for them to return from combat and be thrown back into a normal society. And like an answer to a question I was suddenly whisked into their world.



And it was scary.



Really scary.



Not ghost and goblins scary, but like my life might end with one wrong turn-- the unknown lurking just around the corner-- scary. And it felt so real! A dusty hot street in Afghanistan, an old rusted out car careening down the dirt road, windows broken, garbage strewn, a fowl smell of burnt garbage in the air, a few turban wrapped men following me, and fear thumping in my ears so loud I couldn't hold a normal conversation. I don't know when I've ever been so vulnerable. Fear gripped me so real and so raw I believed there was no way out. Granted I hadn't had any of their training, and that could be where my fear stemmed from, but all I can say is I wanted out of there and fast! I pulled a Henry Fleming from Red Badge of Courage and hid in an empty building until I found an elevator, and was quickly whisked back to the USA. It led me to a parking garage of a shopping mall. Women with their bags of treasures, laughing and talking leisurely with their children or friends, unaware of the dangers lurking on the other side of the elevator. The change was jolting.



I stood there telling them about my harrowing experience. It wasn't just the dangers that I wanted to warn them of, but the utter poverty and despair amongst the people.

Images seered into my heart.



They smiled politely, but did not listen. I gave up and returned to the restaurant, this time standing alongside the two military personnel, my feet rooted to the floor, unwilling to leave their sides, like I understood now. It was a dark feeling. A lonesome feeling, and as I glanced around at the hoards of happy people, I wondered if they had any idea the price that had been paid for their freedom. Then I turned inward. Did I have any idea? What gratitude had I shown these men and women? Had I ever thanked any of them? Didn't I take our wealth and prosperity for granted also?



I know it was a dream. But I have never looked at those in uniform the same again. Honestly. I don't mean to talk out of my neck, cause I recognize that I don't really know what it is like, but for some time after my dream, I felt a common bond with them. "Hey I had a dream I was in Afghanistan last night. I know just how you feel." Hmmm. Okay, maybe not so much, but it was as close to it as I've ever come.



So on this Veterans day I wish to say God bless our Military, God bless the U S of A and God bless each of us that we will be worthy of his guiding hand.



Do you have an experience you'd like to share? Some one you'd like to honor today? I'd love to hear your comments!

Eyes of the Beloved Part 3 of 3

It's time to add the last installment of my story "Eyes of the Beloved". If this is your first time reading check out the links on the top right of the blog and click on "Eyes of the Beloved" it will take you to all the posts regarding my book. You must start at the beginning if you are joining us for the first time.


And now the last installment of my newest story "Eyes of the Beloved"

““She is here Madam.” A somber voice called from the doorway. It was Mrs. Croft the housekeeper, her face expressionless, her hair still tight in a bun. Mrs. Gates stood stiffly from the chair that she had but occasionally lent herself from in nearly twelve hours. “Oh sweet mother Mary” She whispered in gratitude. Darling Esther had returned and brought the old woman with her. A small glimmer of hope warmed her icy limbs. Throwing her hands through her matted and loose bun, she sighed deeply and headed towards the door. Esther, red-faced and out of breath from the cold October night air, met her mother in the hallway.

.

“She is outside on the front porch. She refuses to come in until arrangements are made.”

“Fine.”

“She has one other stipulation.”

“What does she want?” Caroline asked resigned.

“She asks to be alone with Lillian while she works.”

Caroline Gates stopped short. She opened her mouth in a vehement objection. “Absolutely not! I will never let that ogress alone with my eldest daughter. I will never agree to it!”

Suddenly Mr. Gates appeared at the top of the stairs and slipped one arm around his wife’s waist while grasping her hand in his.

“Caroline, remember,” He whispered softly into her ear. “There is nothing else for us to do.” The feel of his hand and heat of his breath softened her. She pursed her mouth in frustration. Her eyes pleaded with Michael and then Esther. Finally she nodded in agreement,

“If that is what she requests, then we shall oblige her willingly.” Her voice was controlled, though the ringing of her hands gave away a deep apprehension. They walked down the curving staircase. With a nod from Mr. Gates, Mrs. Croft opened the large wooden door.

The withered woman, draped in a black cloak and nearly invisible in the darkness, stood hunched and done-in. A gust blew across the porch and the black hood flitted in the breeze exposing the yellow of her deeply sunken eyes. Caroline stepped back instinctively. Her husband, who had been standing silently behind her, grabbed her arm and squeezed it. She forced herself to meet the ancient eyes, and as she did coldness ran through her veins, sending an icy chill through her.

She shivered. The chime of the Grandfather clock interrupted the otherwise silent exchange.

The old woman spoke first. “Well…what is my payment to be if I save your daughter’s life?” She demanded bluntly.

Michael stood shocked in the hallway, looking from Mrs. Gates to the housekeeper and then to the old woman. “I’d rather discuss this in private. If you please step into my office I’d be happy to discuss-”

“You damned old fool. I don’t play your games. I have a mind to walk away right now. Your daughter is lying near death and you want a private meeting.” She spat roughly on the porch floor. The other three stood staring at the puddle of phlegm, wrestling the urge to wipe it up.

Her black eyes bored into Mr. Gates “I want thirty pounds in gold. In advance.”

He stood staring at her in shock. “How will I come up with that kind of money?”

She cut him off. “ I believe you know exactly where you will get it. Do not be fooled. Your daughter will be dead within the hour if I do not help her.”

His eyes became cold and dark. Finally he spun around and disappeared into the library. The grandfather clock’s tick-tick continued to fill the empty silence. Caroline avoided the old woman’s eyes but the old woman never stopped watching her.

Finally the old woman asked. “Are you going to leave me out here in the cold?” the frozen air swirling from her mouth like an obscure cloud of smoke.

Mrs. Croft glanced at Caroline who gave a quick nod. Mrs. Croft motioned stiffly for her to enter. The old hag struggled up the threshold, grasping the door casings for support, her breathing heavy. She pushed by Caroline, carrying a velvet, paisley bag that seemed too light to be of any consequence. Caroline’s heart pulsed with a foreboding as she imagined the contents, disturbed at the look, the feel, the presence of this old, morose and ancient looking woman— worried about what she was planning and what cost they would pay.

She lifted the candle box up to illuminate the way, cupping the flickering light to prevent it from blowing out as the door closed loudly behind her. Just then the door to the library slid open and Mr. Gates appeared, carrying a brown cloth bag, heavy with gold.

“I was certain coming up with the money wouldn’t be a problem.” She coyed, stealing it from his hands and poking her nose into it. She grunted, “Well then, lead the way.”

Mrs. Croft held a candle up to lead the way. The flame reflected off the elaborately papered walls casting eery Shadows that danced erratically as they climbed the curving staircase. The old lady grunted and gasped as if each step might be her last behind them. Upon reaching the second floor Caroline stopped in front of the first bedroom on the left. Esther, who had been watching from the top of the stairs, stayed frozen in place. The old shrew pushed past Mrs. Croft and Caroline, “No one is to enter this room while I work.” She demanded harshly before slamming the door shut. The echo of the slammed door reverberated through them. This thing they were doing felt so appalling that avoidance of one another seemed the only thing bearable. Mrs. Croft, ever the dutiful servant, was the first to go, disappearing through the hall and down the servant’s staircase. Esther followed after her and then Mr. Gates, with a slight grimace to his wife, disappeared down the sweeping staircase from which they’d come. Lillian’s mother stayed near the door, pacing— with one eye on it at all times, determined to be nearby in case something happened. She strained to hear what the old crone was up to, but all was quiet on the other side.

Esther— relieved to be home and still alive curled up in her favorite quilt next to the parlor fireplace and closed her eyes. But sleep failed her. For try as she might—she could not erase the awful picture of that woman from her mind. She also remembered her words. She had meant what she had said when she’d told her that she would sacrifice her life for her sister’s. But all the same she stayed hidden in the parlor, waiting and listening; straining to hear any noise, but there was only an unsettling silence filling the dusty corners of the house. She pulled the quilt up around her ears and stared into the smoldering fireplace; waiting for something to happen.

Mr. Gates sat in his large wing back leather chair in the library. Perplexed how the old woman knew of the gold he had stashed away, he crossed his leg, lit a pipe, and took two or three puffs. As the sweet smell of tobacco rose he felt his shoulders begin to loosen. His jaw relax. There was a hostile feeling ripe throughout the house; a reeking to this business that he could not shake from his thoughts, like the stench of over-done manure. He took another couple drags and peered intently into the fireplace, waiting for sound. For being such an old unhealthy ogress earlier; she seemed surprisingly light on her feet now. It seemed she could walk and not give away so much as a creak to expose her movements.

Upstairs Caroline continued to pace. It had been several minutes and still not so much as a noise from the room. Red-eyed and sick with worry Carline stopped and stood at the door that was a locked gate to her. How much longer would they have to wait? span>

After several more minutes of unreeling silence, wisps of smoke began seeping through the door cracks. The air was filled with a medicinally pungent scent while slithering its web-like fingers up and across the sides of the wall.

Caroline inhaled the bitter smoke and staggered as the fumes clouded her head. She breathed in deeply, unable to control the urge. Everything around her began to ripple in a dance-like motion. She grabbed at the walls to steady herself.

Smoke now billowed through the cracks and the strange aroma nearly overpowered her. She coughed sporadically as she struggled for more air. The walls began to shudder, swaying to some soundless resonance. A ringing pierced her ears and everything around her acted as if it might swallow her whole. She opened her mouth to cry out, but the intensity of the funnel was too great and she finally succumbed, dropping heavily to the ground.

Eyes of the Beloved Part 2 of 3

Happy Halloween week!

At the end of my last post we left thirteen year old Esther Gates standing at the rotting door of a strange old witch’s hut; sure her life is about to be snuffed out.

Hopeful that the old hag has the power to save her beloved sister Lillian, and unyielding in her quest to help her, she resists the urge to bolt and instead stands firm in her tracks, ready to face this demonic and sinister old woman and ask for a miracle.
Just in time for Halloween, let’s join them now and see what happens to sweet innocent Esther, her sister Lillian and the menacing witch. Enjoy part two of “Eyes of the Beloved” and again, “Thanks for reading!” Becky,

A voice smoldered coarsely in the darkness.

“What feeble minded imbecile hopes to sneak upon me?” It snarled.

Mustering all the courage in her thirteen-year-old soul she cleared her voice and managed somewhat insecurely,“I am Esther Gates. My Father is Michael Gates. We live at 521 Camden Lane…” Her voice weaker than she had meant.

The old woman cut her off sourly, “I know who you are and from where you come.” She growled severely. “What shameful thing has that idiot father of yours done now? Sending his child through the woods in the middle of the night? Does he have no care for your welfare?”

Esther prayed silently for strength to calm her shaking knees.

“My sister Lillian is very ill.” She offered between shallow breaths. “The Doctors’ do not believe she will live through the night.” She swallowed, trying to keep the lump in her throat down.

“So what— all must go down into the earth when their time is past. What have I to do with it?”

The moon once lost, now glowed brightly through a hole in the sky, exposing the old woman’s sagging face; her stretched jowls hovering beyond the tip of her rounded chin and wide, but sunken eyes that seemed exposed, as if she was missing all her eyelashes.
Something reflected in her hands. It was a long rusting knife. Esther shuddered and finished in one breath.

“My father begs of you to come. We have nowhere else to turn and are desperate for your help.”

“Desperate, eh?” She cajoled while coyly playing with the edge of the jagged and rusty knife with her grey coated tongue before pointing it at Esther. “And what do I get in return? A warm welcome into town at dawn in celebration for my heroic deed… or a witch burning at sunset?” She mocked, exposing her yellowed and rotting teeth—edging the knife at Esther’s thin white neck.
“I believe my father will reward you for your kindness.” She believed.
“Please come. You are our only hope.” She begged.

The old woman, in no hurry to go anywhere or to help anyone and whose heart was cold and calloused, felt only slightly amused at the child’s pleadings.

“Your parents are fools.” She licked her over sized lower lip with her slithery tongue. “I should slice both their throats as they sleep in their beds.” She sniffed disgustingly— put out by this annoyance. She knew the kind of business that Michael Gates dealt in dark alleyways and behind closed doors. It would serve the old miser right to suffer for all his under the table transactions that were drudged about in the dark circles she occasionally lent herself to. She felt justified in slamming the door on this young girl with the pleading eyes and innocent face. But as she began to step back the blue eyes stopped her.

There was something pure and truthful in them. Her features were simple. And brave. Undoubtedly brave to come all the way here in the midnight hour to the shadowy abode of a witch. Not possibly more than twelve or thirteen and yet here she stood waiting for an answer.

“Why should I help your sister? Do you love her?”

“Oh more than anything in the world.” Was her breathless answer.

“The only way for me to save her… the only way she will survive is that another be willing to sacrifice their life. Are you willing to do that?”

“If it would save my sister, yes I would. She is more beloved than I ever will be.”

The old woman stood in shock, staring at this young child with the pure face. Her love for her dying sister was unparalleled to anything she had seen in half her life time, which was, as near as anyone could tell, nearly as long as the trees.

Intrigued, a tight smirk spread across her gnarled purple lips.

Eyes of the Beloved Part 1 of 3

My latest story, Eyes of the Beloved, is an urban romance that whisks us away to a dark,stormy October night in 1889 with Lillian Gates on her death bed. Her parents, desperate to save her life, summon an old witch in hopes that their daughter may be saved. What happens behind those closed doors is unknown as we flash forward to the present day when Architect Tom Dylan is commissioned by his sister and her husband to restore their recently purchased and run down, nineteenth century Victorian mansion in Black Creek, Virginia. He is immediately inundated with the unexplainable: a sealed attic door, strange noises in the middle of the night, and acts of violence directed at him, making the rumors of the house being haunted seem true. Amid all this he comes across a portrait of the beautiful Lillian Gates, the woman believed to have died in the house over a century ago, and he sets out to discover the deep rooted mystery surrounding Camden House, Lillian’s death, and the mysterious presence behind the attic door

This was a fun story story to write and a great read for October. So enjoy my first installment of "Eyes of the Beloved" PART I

Until next time,happy reading! Becky

October 13th marked the beginning of the end for Lillian Gates.

From the commencement of the red- skied morning to the distant thunder grumbling across the blackening sky, one servant projected to another that both were bad omens for the Gates family. The head servant, a Mrs. Croft, shuddered while whispering that last she checked, Miss Gates was still and white as a ghost in her bed.


Lillian indeed lay in her darkened bedroom, her breathing shallow, her pulse weak. She had laid there unconscious for three days, and today the despair hovered like a murky fog over the house.

When Doc Barrett exited the bedroom, Lillian’s younger sister Esther watched him from behind the banister, his grave shadow hunched and bloated upon the wall. Drawing his spectacles with one hand and rubbing his blood shot eyes with his other; he whispered in a low, hoarse breath that “Sweet Lillian was in God’s hands now.”

Lillian had been her father’s pride and joy—his angel; the daughter every father wished for and like prisms held up to the sunlight, she radiated like a colorful rainbow—flowing auburn hair and eyes that shined like emeralds. When Lillian walked down the street with a sun umbrella in one hand and yellow dress in the other, every eligible young man paused, lifted his hat and nodded in admiration. Little girls wanted to be like her, old women envied her, and her little sister Esther worshiped her.


After the Doctor disappear down the lane in his black top carriage; mud flipping erratically from his large wooden tires, a strange grief settled over the great house and Michael and Caroline Gates stared absently into the black night. All servants, excluding Mrs. Croft were dismissed and Esther shushed herself into a silent corner. It felt cold and damp—as if nothing could warm the soggy air. Not even the undersized and lifeless fires smoldering in the Library and parlor could tepid their bones.

“What is to be done Michael?” Caroline had whispered as she buried her face in her hands. The house was still, the air dead. Michael sat his chin on his fist and stared into until something resembling a surge of hope brought him back to life. He nudged Caroline’s arm. They spoke not a word, but communicated as only two who have been together for what might seem like a lifetime can— reading every microscopic facial gesture, every hesitation or raised eyebrow. The way Caroline always knew when Michael was upset, or irritated—his lips a thin line, his eyebrows burrowed ever so faintly; an easy read.



She followed him to the library. He promptly closed the door behind them, leaving Esther in the hall slumped against the wall, her knees hugging tightly into her chest. There they whispered urgent words. Words that fell short of Esther’s childlike ears, who— too stunned to cry— stared at the closed door until the swinging of the pendulum arm and the late hour lured her into a light sleep.

When the clock chimed midnight Esther was startled awake. At that very moment her father stepped into the hall and in a pressing manner, called out to her. Obedient, she tiptoed across the hall, the parquet wood floors cold against her bare feet and slipped silently into the room. As if on cue distant thunder grumbled across the sky. A streak of lightening flashed across her father’s cold white face. A shiver ran down Esther’s spine. And then her father began to speak.

Dressed in a black wool overcoat and bonnet, Esther now slipped across the dank open fields like a ghost in the shadows, all lost to the darkness except a telltale swirling moisture that rhythmically rose as she breathed. At thirteen, Lillian’s younger sister of six years was athletic, with liquid blue eyes, freckles that dotted her unremarkable face and blond, nearly white hair in long braids. Her agility had never served her well until now when her parents had no other choice, but to send their youngest daughter out into the darkness. Esther summoned courage from within and set out immediately on a journey that would take her nearly three miles on foot.

She cut across an open field; her breathing strong, her legs fast and sure. Damp sheaths of underbrush thrashed against her skirt causing the wet hem to cling to her stockinged legs. The moon was beginning to peak through the dark clouds, shining its light on an inky black spot just ahead of her. With no time to think she attempted to jump the puddle. Her boot caught an edge, splattering muck across her legs and skirt, but Esther kept running — ignoring the dripping cold mud that was now oozing down her leg and seeping into her boot. With only the moonlight to guide her, and the howling winds to carry her on she inched closer to saving her sister.


Eventually shadowy beginnings of an ominous forest—much like a towering fortress against a blackened sky, came into view. The path wound around a dry creek and then veered left. Each additional step stretched her: lungs and throat burned, blood pulsed, as her legs brought her closer to saving her sister. It was here she must go right, as her father had instructed. There would be no path, only tall grasses that disappeared beneath the soaring trees. Dark tales of witches and ghosts swirled threateningly in the wind. Esther remembered Lillian and pulled her chin up, her wet eyes shining in the cold and then stepped into the darkness.

The moonlight was snuffed out. Her knees threatened to buckle, and she contemplated turning back all together. Only once had she been this close to the forbidden hut; it was when she was but eight years old. She had given in to a dare all because of that frog-faced Herbert Lixson who couldn't stop his relentless teasing about her being too afraid to enter the woods on her own. She had held her head up high and had done it. But this night, this midnight hour, surrounded only by the whistling trees and the darkish veil of night, the realization that she was completely alone terrified her.

Just as she was about to turn back a small dilapidated shack rose out of the mist. The hut was nearly enveloped in shadow excepting a single waft of smoke that plumed tellingly out of an iron stack chimney. The roof was rotting and sparsely shingled. There was something sinister in its position, as if it were alive, watching out its two filthy windows and breathing thin, sickly breaths through the chimney. She became frozen in place as fear coursed down her legs and out through her toes.

“As God is my witness, I am going to die this night.” She chattered through her teeth.

At that very moment the door creaked open, echoing through the empty night, its sound cutting into her spine. Just a sliver of light shown through, but Esther felt the old Lady watching. All bravery gone, her already shaky legs turning to soft butter, she could neither speak nor move...

Visit next week when I post part two of Eyes of the Beloved.