Love was the
last thing Glenn Springer expected to find after exchanging the rat race of the
city for the country life, but that wasn't all, there was mystery and horror
too...
BLURB
Glenn Springer
could hardly believe his good luck. After moving to Maine to escape the Boston
rat race, he bought a farm, was successful, and became the envy of his
neighbors. Then, he fell in love with the beautiful and bewitching Grizelle
Beaumarchais. Was his good fortune all due to a locket he found inside the
walls of his old farmhouse? And why was Grizelle so interested in it? Could it
have anything to do with her being descended from an Indian shaman? Why were
there things about herself that Grizelle wasn't telling him? Was his love for
her genuine or was he being subtly manipulated? His luck, it seemed, had its
price, and as Glenn began to realize, the bill was coming due.
EXCERPT: Talismanic
Chapter Eight
Introductions
Hands in his pockets,
Glenn left Town Hall and began walking down Main Street. Hoping to avoid
meeting anyone else on the street, he rounded the corner at Founders Way and
slowed down. He looked at the numbers as he passed various storefronts even
though he knew exactly where Tucked Away Antiques was located. The fact was he
was as nervous as a schoolboy working up his courage to ask a girl out on a
date.
He didn’t understand why
that should be. He’d had relationships with a number of women in the past. He
knew the routine. So why was his heart pounding to beat the band? Was this
love, real love, not simply romantic adventure that he’d experienced in the
past? Again, he pictured Grizelle in his mind, and again, unbidden feelings of
desire welled up in him, and not just of desire, but of the need to hold her,
protect her, care for her. Feelings he never really had before with other
women. Was this what love at first sight was like? Otherwise, what he was feeling
just didn’t make any sense.
His musings were
interrupted by his arrival before a big plate glass window with the words
“Tucked Away Antiques” emblazoned upon its upper surface.
He stopped and sort of
leaned forward a little to peek around the edge of the window into the store.
But the glare of the outdoors threw the interior into darkness and he couldn’t
tell if anyone was present.
In the lower corner of
the window, “Est. 1998” indicated when Tucked Away Antiques opened for business
and behind the glass, a display area showed off some of its wares, including
dark stained furniture with carved woodwork filled with acorns and leaves,
filigreed jewelry, books, and sundry other items typical of an antique shop.
But still, there was no
evidence that anyone was present deeper inside the store.
Half hoping for an excuse
to turn back, Glenn moved toward the entrance and was disappointed to find a
sign hanging there that declared “Yes! We’re open.”
Steeling himself, he
pushed the door inward setting an overhead bell to ringing.
“I’ll be right with you,”
came a feminine voice from somewhere inside the cluttered shop.
Uncertain if he
recognized the voice as that belonging to Grizelle, Glenn decided to kill some
time by walking around the floor space. Not an easy thing to do. All around
were large pieces of old furniture stacked with every manner of knick-knack,
bric-a-brac, old fashioned lamps and jewelry boxes. Picture frames, some with
paintings still in them, hung from the walls and leaned in corners. Glass display
cases near the back were crammed with old shoes, battered books and magazines,
glass patent medicine and soda pop bottles, quill pens and ink stands, and rare
coins.
A doorway led to a second
room and, looking inside, Glenn saw even more furniture; this time piled
carefully one piece upon another. They appeared to be more battered than those
in the front room and an odor of turpentine suggested that somewhere, someone
was working to refurbish items for sale.
Moving among the stacks
of dressers, lampstands, highboys, and dining room tables and chairs, he moved
from colonial and Victorian era household goods into an area containing items
of considerably older and less civilized make.
Curious, he approached a
dim corner of the room and was surprised to find leather and beaded items that
looked to him to be of Indian make…or was it “Native American” these days?
Pouches and moccasins and was that a piece of wampum? All of them darkened and
rumpled with age, indicating that they were the genuine article, at least so
far as his untrained eye could tell. Looking further, he found a collection of
arrowheads, doubtlessly collected by generations of eager boys dreaming of
Indian Wars and adventure; iron cooking pots, bone knives, fur hats, and
leggings. Also, among the artifacts were less identifiable items, including
masks made out of bark, numerous pieces of wood, some carved in the likeness of
men and others less so, painted and feathered pipes, painted stones, medicine
bags, and other trinkets.
If they were genuine, the
store had some interesting stuff here.
Impressed, Glenn wondered
why such things weren’t stored in the town’s Historical Society museum. Was
there a market for such things? And if there were, how much money was involved?
Maybe he should reconsider giving the things he’d found at home to the Society
and sell them instead.
“Those are not for sale,”
said Grizelle, as if having read his mind.
Startled, Glenn spun
about, at first missing the owner in the gloomy storeroom.
“You must have read my
thoughts,” he said, waiting for his eyes to adjust themselves.
“Oh! Glenn Springer! From
Bed, Bath & Beyond.”
“You remembered. I’m
flattered.”
“Who can forget Bingham’s
local celebrity?”
“Oh, please, don’t remind
me!”
They shared a laugh
before Glenn decided to compliment Grizelle on her business.
“This is an interesting
place you have here,” he said, nodding in the direction of the crowded room. “I
wouldn’t have guessed you had so much room from outside.”
“I wish I had more,”
replied Grizelle. “I have a habit of buying faster than I can sell.”
“So you don’t specialize,
I take it.”
“I gave that up a long
time ago. I found that there was too much interesting stuff out there to turn
anything down.”
“Do you rely on people
coming to you or do you go to auctions and such?”
Grizelle shrugged.
“Sometimes. But there’s not much profit in buying merchandise at auctions.
Mostly I rely on what people bring in or if I’m offered first dibs on junk
stored in someone’s basement or barn.”
Glenn sniffed. “And you
refurbish the stuff you get?”
“Not everything. Only
items I feel are worth it. Most of the stuff in here I’ll sell as is. C’mon.”
She led him on a zig zag
path along the narrow spaces between piled up bureaus, wing chairs, and hope
chests, to a back room where the smell of stain and lacquer was heavy in the
air. Harsh fluorescent ceiling lights threw the space into sharp relief along
with a long work table covered in sheets of newspaper and cluttered with paint
cans, brushes, dirty rags and bits and pieces of carved wood.
Empty picture frames hung
crooked on the walls and screwdrivers, hammers, chisels, and carving knives
rested in half empty racks. At the moment, a two tiered, multi-drawered dresser
sat waiting for the glazer’s attention.
“My current project,”
Grizelle said, indicating the dresser.
“Do you have any
employees? This rehabilitation stuff must be time consuming.”
“It is, but I get by.”
Suddenly, the doorbell
tinkled signaling that a customer had entered.
“I’ll be right back.”
Looking around, Glenn
could hear the mumbling of voices from the front of the store and presently,
the jangle of a cash register drawer.
“Well, I can eat
tonight,” Grizelle said, stepping back into the room.
“You work that close to
the bone?” asked Glenn.
“Not that close, but
sometimes I worry.”
“Ever think of getting
out of the antique business?”
“Uh, uh! I opened this
store twenty years ago and I mean to stay with it for the long haul.”
“Like what you do, huh?”
“Love it! I’ll admit
there’s not much money in it but I find the work satisfying. I always was
interested in history, especially local history. Not wars and politics, but
domestic history; the history of the household and family and farm life.
Working with old furniture and heirlooms makes me feel closer to the people who
once used them.”
“I get it,” said Glenn.
“But I couldn’t help noticing before that you do keep track of current
politics.”
“How so?”
“When you jumped on Cindy
Turner in my defense the other day.”
Grizelle laughed. “Oh,
that! You don’t have to pay much attention to politics to be sensible.”
“Maybe, but you sure
seemed familiar with Cindy’s political leanings.”
“She wears them on her
sleeve, like most leftists. You’re not a liberal or anything are you?”
“Me? No!”
Mostly, Glenn didn’t pay
much attention to politics, but of necessity, while working in Boston, he’d
gone along with the crowd and made the proper noises about evil Republicans.
But if it helped his case with Grizelle, he was glad to hint that he leaned
conservative.
“Methinks you protest too
much!” laughed Grizelle.
Her good humor, thought
Glenn, only intensified the attraction he felt for her. Even in the unforgiving
light of the workroom, her features appeared smooth and featureless and a
smudge of stain on the side of her nose only made her more adorable in his eyes.
She wasn’t tall, but she
was well proportioned for her height. She wore a man’s shirt with the sleeves
rolled up past her elbows revealing slim arms and a tight pair of jeans
confirmed that her legs weren’t bad either.
Overall, Glenn continued
to find himself enchanted with Grizelle, so much so that he failed to pick up
on her next comments.
“I’m sorry, what did you
say?”
“I was asking how you
ended up here,” repeated Grizelle, with no indication of impatience. “Just
window shopping or what?”
It took a moment for
Glenn to reorient his thoughts and remember what he’d come in for.
“Oh! Yeah, right.” He
reached inside his shirt and pulled out the locket. “It’s about this.”
“Ooo, let me see that,”
said Grizelle, stepping close.
Glenn was intensely aware
of the nearness of her body. He could smell the scent of her hair, the soapy
freshness of her skin…it was Ivory Soap.
Taking the locket in her
hand, she angled it toward the light for a better look.
“Here, let me slip it
off,” said Glenn as he was pulled by her tug on the necklace.
He slipped it from around
his neck and placed the locket in her hand.
“I showed it to Archie
Finister over at the Historical Commission and he got it open. Look, I’ll show
you.”
He ran a fingernail along
the edge of the locket and it sprung open.
“Careful,” he said, “I
don’t want to lose whatever it is that’s inside.”
Grizelle didn’t reply
right away but did show obvious care in handling the locket. She kind of shook
it a bit in order to jog its contents some before snapping it shut again and
examining its outside more closely.
“Archie didn’t know what
that stuff was on the inside and couldn’t date the locket. He suggested I come
here to ask you about it.”
Grizelle continued her
silence, by now having found a magnifying glass for closer inspection.
“I found it inside the
wall of my house,” continued Glenn. “It was built by Nathanael Winsor in 1821.”
“I’m familiar with it,”
said Grizelle suddenly.
“The house?” For a
moment, Glenn wasn’t sure if she’d heard him and was talking about the locket.
“Yeah. I heard what
you’ve been doing with it. I admire you for that.”
“Thanks,” said Glenn,
still not convinced she was really paying any attention to what he was saying.
“I’m pretty sure the
locket is early colonial,” she said at last. “Maybe even came from England.
It’s the insides that puzzle me. Unless I miss my guess, it looks to me like
the fine bones of a bird of some kind, mixed with some dried leaves and maybe
some seeds. Not the usual stuff you’d find in a war veterans’ locket.”
“Leaves and bones?”
questioned Glenn, moving closer to look over her shoulder at the locket that
was still cupped in her hand.
“Mm. More like stuff
you’d find in an Indian’s medicine bag.”
“Medicine bag? Afraid I’m
not up on my native anthropology.”
“Some native peoples used
to use them. Small leather pouches they’d wear on their persons holding bits of
ephemera they thought were important to them personally. It was common belief
that they connected a person to their personal totem which would protect them
against disease or in battle.”
She handed him the locket
back.
“It’s strange then that
articles usually found in one of these medicine bags is held in a locket that
no Indian would likely own.”
“It is.”
“Then…Nathanael Winsor
went native maybe? How else to explain his carrying around these bits of leaves
and bones in his locket?”
“Or it belonged to
someone else? Just because you found it in his house, doesn’t mean it was
Winsor’s. Maybe it belonged to someone else in his family; someone who hid it
in the wall to keep anyone from finding out about it.”
“I suppose that makes
sense too.”
“So, what do you want to
do with it?”
Glenn rubbed the back of
his neck. “Don’t know. Keep it for now I guess.”
“Want to sell it?”
“You interested?”
Grizelle shrugged. “It is
an antique. I deal in that stuff. I’m not sure how much it’s worth but I’ll
make you a decent offer.”
“Hm. I did sort of
promise Archie that if I decided not to keep it, I’d donate it to the
Historical Society museum.”
“Sort of?”
“I mean I could change my
mind. I don’t know. Guess I’ll keep it for now.” He slipped the necklace over
his head and dropped the locket inside his shirt.
“It’s your call. But I’m
interested in anything that smacks of Native American lore. You saw my little
collection over there. So if you decide you need a few fast bucks, I hope
you’ll keep me in mind.”
“I’ve been keeping you in
mind for some time now,” said Glenn boldly. Where
did that come from? But he was glad he’d said it.
“Oh, really?” replied
Grizelle, placing her fists on her hips. A stray lock of dark hair fell across
her face. Glenn found the resulting look enchanting.
“Uh, you made a good
impression on me at the mall,” he ventured.
“So?”
“So I was wondering if
you’d be free for dinner one of these days.”
Grizelle smiled and
considered him a moment before replying.
“Not any time soon. I’m
pretty busy as you can tell.” She waved a hand vaguely indicating the work room
around them.
Glenn was crestfallen.
“I’ll tell you what, the
Grange is going to hold its annual harvest dance in a couple of months, why
don’t we meet up then?”
“Well, I was kind of
hoping…”
“I’m not in a rush to get
involved with anyone at the moment,” explained Grizelle, relaxing. “And by
then, who knows? You might have forgotten all about me.”
“Not hardly,” blurted
Glenn, instantly embarrassed.
Grizelle laughed then,
turning him around and gently shoving him in the direction of the door.
“You better get going. I
hate to see a grown man blush!”
Author Bio:
Pierre V. Comtois has been the editor and
publisher of Fungi, the Magazine of Fantasy and Weird Fiction since 1984
and has had a number of books released by numerous publishers including Goat
Mother and Others by Chaosium Fiction in 2015, A Well Ordered Universe
by Desert Breeze Publishers in 2016, and Marvel Comics in the 1980s: An
Issue by Issue Field Guide to a Pop Culture Phenomenon by Twomorrows Pubs
in 2015. Earlier volumes include Marvel Comics in the 1960s and
1970s. In addition, Comtois has contributed fiction to many other small
press magazines over the years including Haunts, The Horror Show, Thrilling
Tales, and e magazines Planetary Stories and Liberty Island
Magazine. Comtois’ fiction has also appeared in various magazines for
Cryptic Publications and Rainfall Books as well as such collections as Lin
Carter’s Anton Zarnak: Supernatural Sleuth, Eldritch Blue, and various
Chaosium Books anthologies. The author has also written a number of books
including novels such as Strange Company and Sometimes a Warm Rain
Falls; non-fiction such as Our Lives, Our Fortunes, Our Sacred Honor;
and short story collections such as The Way the Future Was and The
Portable Pierre V. Comtois. Comtois has also found the time to contribute
non-fiction articles to such magazines as World War II, America’s Civil War,
Wild West, and Military History, many of which were collected in Real
Heroes, Real Battles, a book published by Sons of Liberty Press. Also from
Sons of Liberty is River Muse: Stories of Lowell and the Merrimack Valley,
to which Comtois has contributed a personal recollection entitled “I Was a
Teenaged Bibliophile.”
KEYWORDS
Wendigo, Cthulhu Mythos, horror, shamanistic, Native
American
SOCIAL LIINKS
Website URL:
www.pierrevcomtois.com
Facebook page:
https://www.facebook.com/pierre.comtois.18
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