Letters Home, Section 3, June, 2000

June, 2000

With new and fierce intensity, Lisa fought the possibility of Henry gaining ownership of The Oak, avoiding his presence to maintain her hope and trying to block out the sound of his voice as memories of things he had previously said and done returned to her mind like reoccurring nightmares that would appear at whim. “Don’t listen,” she would tell herself, sometimes aloud, as she tried to push his voice away. “Be strong, just hold on,” she would whisper so that only she could hear. At moments, she would look out the window, being reminded by the beauty of the house garden of the power of kindness, of caretaking, and the walls about her seem to lighten somewhat. Though the shadow continued to appear in The Oak, following her at times, the distance it kept was greater than before, as if hope was a serum that would destroy him.

Lisa tried all that she could think of, but her phone calls to the governor, the county commissioner, and old business acquaintances of Christina had gone unanswered, and the letters written would never reach their destination before the deadline. Before realizing that she had lost track of time, Henry had called together a gathering of Oak employees to the grand entranceway.

Looking about the room, Lisa only saw a handful of employees, people who had not yet decided to walk away from Henry, from what The Oak had become. In the chairs lined beside each other to face the staircase, Lisa saw young Mary Hawthorne who had helped to clean the house for the past few months, barely nineteen and sending most of her check home to her mother to help care for the infant son of whom Mary had lost custody. Then, there was Danny Price, who had tended to the animals for over thirty years, his wife having died just last year from cancer, his children grown, his son and daughter-in-law having left the Oak in the earlier exodus. And, old Bob Thompson who was still checking on the fields after being at the Oak for over fifty years, a person of great knowledge on how to tend to the crops, childless and alone since his wife had died in childbirth and the babe was stillborn, but someone who had been content here at The Oak until this year. But, amongst the small group, she did not see Mr. Gates. Lisa ran outside before Henry arrived to address the group, wondering if Mr. Gates was still in the garden and to make certain he realized the time, noticing more than ever the darkness that had settled within the structure and how it differed from the brightness of the house garden and the sun that shown above it.

“Aren’t you coming,” she asked him as he tended to the garden.

“No,” he calmly and casually replied, shaking his head a bit as he watered the roses, “I have no desire to go into his house. If he has anything I need to hear, he’ll come out here to this beautiful garden to tell me.” Christopher smiled at her. “But, I can’t tell you what to do, Lisa. You have to choose for yourself.”

Lisa reached her chair just before Henry positioned himself at the top of the grand staircase like a god standing on top of a darkening world. “Well,” he began, raising his arms and extending them dramatically, “welcome to my new kingdom.” Henry laughed as he put his right hand in his pocket and began to descend the staircase, its luster no longer apparent, its shine gone. “I’m sure all of you are wondering what this is about and I’ll get right to the point. As of,” Henry looked at the watch on his left wrist, “two hours ago, all papers were filed and legalized to make me the new owner of the Oak, every weed, every timber.” Henry noticed the small group looking a bit confused, save Lisa who simply looked defeated. Henry smiled. “The State could no longer make any money off of the property,” he said, “so they sold it to me.” Henry noticed the vacant chair. “Where is he, Lisa,” he said, pointing to the chair.

“Tending to the garden.”

“Oh, well, I’ll deal with him later. As for the rest of you, you have a few choices to make. Danny, old boy, all of the animals are to be sold by the end of the week. If you know someone or can find someone who will buy them that quickly, then I’ll give you a couple of days to make that deal for me. If you can’t, then all of the animals, the cows, the horses, the chicks, all of them, will go to slaughter.”

“I’ll find someone,” Danny said urgently, knowing that they were good animals that other farms in the area would be lucky to have.

“Good. I want top price for them. I’ll leave that up to you. Check in with me tomorrow morning on how it’s going. When I say the end of the week, I mean I want all of the animals gone, paid for and off the property by then.”

“Yes, sir,” Danny replied, his favorite old, worn Chicago Cubs hat in his hands and sitting on his lap, a questioning expression turned to Bob.

“Now. I have no intention of farming this land. So, there won’t be any more animals to take care of, Danny, but I will have some other work if you want it. Bob, this is where you come in, too. Whatever has been planted in those fields, I want it stopped. Do whatever you have to do to prevent the seeds from sprouting or growing or whatever it is they do. Then, if you two men are up for it, the property needs some places to be cleared of trees and the land needs to be prepared in other places so that building can occur on it. I’ll need your answers by the end of the week as to whether or not you want those jobs.” Henry continued to circle around the line of chairs, patting a shoulder now and again as if trying to choose, but landing his hand on Mary’s shoulder. “The Oak, the house that is, will be torn down. I expect that process to begin this month. The other structures on the property, the barn, that restaurant the State built, the worker’s quarters, all of it, will be destroyed. I had first thought I’d just put all the rubble in that lake so that we’d be rid of it but may be I’ll actually keep the lake there. It’ll draw people to the area. But, in either case, by the end of next month, none of this will be here.” Looking in the direction of the garden, he muttered with contempt, “And, that damn garden will be gone too. So,” he said looking at Lisa and Mary, “I won’t have any need for housekeepers. Now, if you wish to remain in my employ, I’m sure I can find other things for you to do for me.”

Lisa shuddered, the sound in his voice both repulsing and worrying her, and she worried about Mary.

“Now,” Henry addressed the group, “if you join my team, there will be good wages and a few other benefits. But, and let me make this very clear,” his voice became stern, “I’ll have no talk or reference to the Allgood family or the Oak. Ever.” He paused and looked them over. “You’re dismissed,” he said, wondering why he had bothered. “Remember, the end of the week. I will have your answer by the end of the week or you’ll be terminated.” Henry turned and walked back up the stairs. “I might actually miss this staircase,” he said, on his way to returning to his office.

Lisa exhaled, amazed that her strength had held up as well as it had although she was worried that it might not, and Mary began to cry. Bob fatherly put his arm about Mary’s shoulder, reassuring her that it would be alright. Danny moved his chair, followed by Lisa, so that everyone could face the others.

“I don’t know what to do,” Mary cried. “I’ve hated working for him but I can’t afford to quit. I have a child to support.”

“I’m a little confused myself,” Bob added, nervously adjusting his suspenders holding up his dusty work pants. “I was born here at the Oak, lived here my whole life except when I went to war and for a while when I went to live on the coast after my Mrs. died. But, I always came home to The Oak. Always.”

“I don’t really think I have any place else to go,” Danny added to the conversation. “My kids are grown; they have their own lives now and I’m not sure there’s room for me.”

Lisa inhaled slowly, trying to reclaim her strength again, reminding herself it would all be alright, it would all be okay. “I don’t think we should be talking in here. Let’s go to the garden.”

Sitting on the benches in the sunshine, in the company of the colors and fragrances and the life, life seemed easier.

“Is this little one okay,” Mr. Gates asked as he put down his water hose and knelt beside Mary.

Mary shook her head, trying to dry her tears and compose her spirit.

Mr. Gates exhaled, “Doesn’t sound like it went so well in there,” he asked Lisa as she sat on the bench beside Mary.

“He’s destroying everything. We all, this includes you, we all have to let him know by the end of the week if we’re going to leave or work for him.”

“That’s a mean man,” Bob added, sitting on the bench to the other side of Mary while Danny sat on an adjoining bench.

“Well, folks,” Christopher began, “it seems that there are some decisions to be made.”

“I have to stay,” Mary said. “My mom doesn’t want me around, thinks I’m evil or something because I had my baby. I guess I disappointed her, wasn’t the daughter she wanted me to be, and I’ve got to keep money coming in. But, I hate it here since he moved in the house,” she continued. “He’s always making little comments and looking at me in ways that make me uncomfortable. He hasn’t done anything. I just don’t like it. And, the house is just so different, like it’s watching me.”

Lisa, not one to usually find herself nurturing, put her arm around Mary. “Go home,” Lisa gently said, the compassionate tone reaching Mary’s soul. “Go home. I’ll help you. I have some money saved to help you get there. I’ll talk to your mom and make her understand that you shouldn’t be here. It’s not healthy here. This place isn’t good for anybody anymore.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“We can all help,” Bob added.

“Sure we can. And, Bob and me here are so old that we should make good references for you when you get a new job,” Danny said.

“You’ll be safer away from here, Mary,” Lisa added. “If you stay, your spirit will go into ruins right along with this house.”

“What about all of you,” Mary asked. “What will you do.”

The old men looked at each other. “Well, if we’ve lived this long,” Bob began, “we’ll figure it out.”

As Bob and Danny took Mary back to the worker’s quarters to begin calling her mother and making arrangements, Lisa turned to Christopher, still kneeling beside the bench.

“And, you, what about you,” Christopher asked of Lisa.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know yet. And, you, Mr. Gates? When will you leave?”

Mr. Gates smiled, “I’ll leave when it’s time. Don’t you worry about that,” he playfully winked at Lisa. “I know where I’m going. But, you, well plans still need to be made for you.”

“I don’t know anything but this place and, even with the changes, I’m scared to leave. Whatever is out there on the other side of those front gates, well, it just seems a bit overwhelming. It’s the unknown factor, you know. What if whatever is out there, on the other side of those gates, is worse than what’s in here?”

“There’s nothing worse than what’s in that house, Lisa,” Christopher said. “Sometimes, you have to face your fears and turn away from what you know before you can find something better. Life’s never easy, but, like a house, you can build your life, make it into what you want or you can let others build it into what they want for you. Sometimes that’s a good thing and sometimes it’s not.”

Lisa felt a strange sensation when Mr. Gates mentioned building, knowing that he knew nothing of her return to her hidden box of dreams of architecture. “What do you think will happen to The Oak, Mr. Gates?”

Christopher adjusted his hat and looked up to Lisa. “Evil always destroys itself, Lisa, in time. Oh, people don’t always realize it because they see other people with fame or riches or big houses, they know of people who break laws or hurt others in one way or another to get ahead, and they don’t get caught and it looks like they’re living the lives that dreams are made of. But, in time, evil always destroys itself, and the dream will become a nightmare. Evil will always destroy itself because of exactly what it is, a destroyer of life, of hope.”

By the middle of the week, more changes had occurred. Danny found homes for the animals at nearby farms, saving them from Henry’s wrath. Then, Danny found himself a new home with his son in another state, packing and saying goodbye once he knew the animals were safely relocated. When Danny left The Oak, he took with him Mary, transporting her back to her son and to her mother, back to a safer life where she would be away from harm, and with heartfelt, thankful prayers that Mary’s mother was understanding of Mary’s situation and willing to work things out between them.

After watching Danny and Mary drive away, Lisa sat on the front porch, studying what was before her and what used to be and watching the birds that would fly nearby sit and stare into her eyes with questions. Shots rang out repeatedly, taking away Lisa’s breath with surprise as she turned toward the front oak doors to see Henry firing a shotgun at the birdhouse outside the office window. “Fly,” she thought, wishing the birds on to safety as she saw several fall, “fly.”

Lisa pounded her way over to Henry. “What do you think you’re doing? They’re just birds. They’re not hurting you.”

“I told you,” he said, continuing to fire until the birdhouse was destroyed, “they’d be gone.”

“I’m not gonna sit by and watch you destroy this place anymore.”

Lisa tried to take the gun away from Henry, the two struggling over the weapon. “Let go,” Henry said, “you think I won’t shoot you too?”

Lisa tore the gun out of Henry’s hands, the force swinging the gun through the air until it landed on the ground, one final explosion exiting the barrel and marking the fence.

Lisa, breathless, turned to Henry. “Do you realize how evil you are or do you just not care?” And, with those words, she walked off towards the fields.

“Do you really think you’re any better,” he asked in a sincere tone, just loud enough for her to hear as she was walking.

And, the words rang through Lisa’s brain.

Lisa walked for hours, up part of the mountain and across part of the valley where she had never been. “Mr. Bob,” Lisa asked as she saw him standing alone in a field. “Sir, are you alright,” she asked, putting her hand gently upon his arm.

Tears filled his eyes. “They are only plants, but I just can’t do it, Lisa. I can’t destroy these little seeds like he wants. I tried,” he paused, looking down towards the Earth, “but I can’t just do it. These little seeds just want to live. That’s all. And, I’ve spent my whole life trying to grow life, not end it.”

Lisa remembered how Bob used to be, his voice confidently talking about the seasons and the crops, his eyes bright when it came time to plant or harvest or when he was watching the plants change, grow. And, Lisa saw his eyes now, tearful and downcast, vacant and almost hollow, a look she had been before.

“I have no other place to go, Lisa,” he said, almost without emotion, without hope.

“There’s always a place to go, to turn to. We’ll find a place for you, Bob. We’ll work together on it. You can’t stay here. If you stay, he wins. You’re a good man. You don’t belong here. There will be life for you on the other side of those gates.”

“No, I’m an old man and there’s nothing left for me,” he said, patting her hand where it rested on his arm. “Nothing. Henry was right when we talked. There’s nothing left for me anywhere. No one will want me. I have no other choice other than to stay here and help him kill this life I’ve planted.”

“Well, sure there’s another choice. Look at all the knowledge you have. That’s valuable information that any farm would be proud to have access to.”

Bob almost laughed. “I thought I’d retire here, you know, near these fields. Christina always saw to it that people who worked here could grow old here and be taken care of. But, all that’s changed now. I’m too old for anyone to hire me, and I’m trained in the old ways.” Bob gently removed Lisa’s hand from his arm. “This is all I know and there’s no time to learn. It’s the end of the line for me.”

“No, no,” Lisa repeated. “We’ll figure it out together. We will.”

“Lisa, please go back to the garden.”

“No,” Lisa said, her voice worried. “I won’t leave you alone.”

“Please. If it’s the last thing I ever do…”

“No. Come on,” she put her arm around him. “We’re going back to the garden.”
He said not a word as she eased him back through the fields and up towards the living quarters though she continually tried to remind him of brighter days, of possibilities, reassuring him of positive outcomes, relating his experience to the fields. Refusing to sit in the garden, its colors a disbelief to his dimming eyes, Bob returned to his quarters where Lisa watched over him until he fell asleep.
In the moonlight, Lisa sat upon the porch outside Bob’s cabin, basking in the white beams of light. In the moonlight, she could remember the Oak as it used to be, the angels upon their perches blessing the people within and the animals that lived about. She could remember the prisms of light that would shine in through the windows and how the sun would display light upon the roof of the house as if sending The Oak its own special spotlight. And, she could remember her dreams of building houses just as special. When sleep came, she remembered the white rabbit and the letters as her mind reviewed the magazines in the plastic box.

The morning came quickly, and Lisa awoke with the sunrise. Peaking in on Bob see how he was doing, she found him beside a note he had written in the night that simply said I have no place else to go, an empty prescription bottle in his hand. Lisa checked, but he had no pulse, no breath, no life left in him. Henry had won that battle.


Lisa spent most of the morning in the garden, nothing said between herself and Christopher as she thought of all that had passed, watching Christopher pull the weeds from between the plants and give them a little fertilizer here and there. Sitting there on the bench, Lisa felt the need to draw, to sketch, to create a world of lines that was something more than what she knew now. And, in the loose soil beneath the white roses, Lisa found herself drawing, her finger a pencil, the Earth a canvas, drawing walls and ceilings, welcoming floors, open windows that let in the light, and rooftops that embraced the structure like a mother. Sitting there in the garden, she felt her hope restoring, her spirit breathing again. Though she ached from the losses, there was peace in the garden that gave itself to her, a peace that she wished back to it like a kiss blown on the breeze.

In the afternoon, Lisa wondered through the valleys and up into the mountains, sitting at times beneath the trees and listening, feeling soothing music played about her by the leaves that was carried upon the wind, across the mountain and through the valley. There was a gentleness about the mountain that she had never noticed, a gentleness that spoke to her without words. Realizing, there was no one left now at the Oak but herself, Mr. Gates, and Henry, Lisa contemplated what to do, knowing that she had to decide for herself. In a blend of hope and confusion, she closed her eyes and whispered for guidance, and she began to smell wildflowers drifting on the breeze. Upon opening her eyes, Lisa looked about the mountainside, some of the limbs seeming to take on the form of structures while others seem to hold wands that pointed to the structures like a teacher pointing to a chalkboard, the tangled roots almost appearing as people inside, and the leaves sounding, from time to time, as if they were speaking of corners and angles. Through her hair, a warm breeze would blow, whispering into her ears happy songs of smiles and laughter.

And, at the tree line was the white rabbit with blue eyes, sitting comfortably on a tree root and looking at Lisa like a friend in need. “Come here,” Lisa whispered carefully, and the rabbit hopped to where she sat, sensing no danger. “What should I do,” Lisa whispered. And, though the rabbit only looked into her eyes, Lisa understood. “Yes,” she whispered, “yes.” Gently, she picked up the rabbit, cradling it in her arms. And, though it was she holding on to the rabbit, Lisa felt a loving embrace about her body and a comfort within her soul.


Lisa opened up the suitcase, first taking the books from the nightstand and placing them in the corner. She took her favorites pieces from the closet, folding them neatly on the bed before packing them alongside the books. In cardboard boxes she packed up her life, piece by piece, clothing and romance novels and pictures from the wall, stationary and colorful writing pens and ceramic mugs, greeting cards and letters she had received and saved, old family photo albums, and all of those little things that add up over the years. The plastic box holding the reminders of her dream of architecture sat alone and added to the box for their own protection were portraits of her parents. Though before her she saw the material objects that she thought had added up to her life, she now knew there was much more.

A call to her cousin on the coast who worked for Katrina’s children and grandchildren provided her with a temporary destination and a job, and the plastic box before her was the beginning of her plan. Carefully she had completed the application for college, using Savannah as the return address, attaching the appropriate fees and transcripts they had requested before mailing it from town. An architect she had wanted to be and an architect she would work towards becoming. After all, as long as there was time, it was never too late.

“You don’t have to go,” Henry said, his voice more calm than Lisa had ever heard it before as he stood at her door.

“Yes, I do,” she simply stated, calmly but with certainty as she continued to pack.

Henry suddenly seemed nervous and alone, uncertain and unsure of himself, qualities Lisa had never known him to express.

“You know that you can stay as long as you want, you can even come back. We’d make a good team, you and me. I’d like to have you on my team.”

“I don’t want to be on your team and I don’t want to be in your house or on your property. Don’t worry,” she told him, “you’ll make your fortune and live,” she stopped, considering the next word, “well, ever after.”

Henry looked over his shoulder, the black shadow standing there, watching him, Henry swallowing hard at the feeling of cold hatred that he was now receiving regularly from a dark shadow with no eyes, no soul, no body, but with a mighty clutch. “You know,” Henry said sincerely, “I know we’ve never really gotten along, but,” he paused, “maybe we could learn to,” and paused again, a lengthier pause than before, “everyone has gone.”

Lisa stopped, turning to look at him, seeing something of fear in his eyes, or was it regret? “What did you expect,” her voice remained calm, her hope helping her to hold back the tears. “People at the Oak were once happy. This was their home. You’ve done everything in your power to change all of that. Almost like you set out to hurt everyone, like you enjoyed their hurt, their anxiety, their loss.”

“I,” he stopped, looking towards the floor and then about the room. Then, the familiar Henry surfaced. “You know what, I’m better off without all of you. You’re all a bunch of losers with no ambition to get ahead, no ambition to make any money. You all just wanted to sit on your lazy butts and stay at the Oak. Certainly, not the kind of people I want working for me. Besides, it’s not like I’ll be alone. There will be plenty of people keeping me company.” Henry almost turned around, but returned his gaze to Lisa, “Frankly, I did you all a favor and you should all be grateful. You owe me.”

“Not you,” Lisa responded with an uncommon calmness. “I owe you nothing.”

And, Henry walked away, the dark shadow following him.

After the car was packed, Lisa went to the garden to say goodbye. “When will you be leaving,” she asked Christopher as he stood from pulling weeds and tucking in flowers.

“When it’s time,” he nodded. “Don’t worry.”

“I’ll miss this place,” she said, looking only about the garden.

With one final embrace, Christopher whispered, “Don’t look back, Lisa. Just go forward with your life.”

And, with tears in her eyes, she said in a voice barely a whisper, “I’ll miss you.”

Pulling a rose from the garden and placing it in her hand, Christopher nodded in response. “I’ll always be here…tending to the garden. Now, you go on,” he gently stated, “your future awaits.”

As she slowly turned to leave, she felt a pull to turn around one final time, to look into his blue eyes and feel encouraged that he wouldn’t fall to Henry’s power. Yet, as he had instructed she repeated to herself, “Don’t look back. You must never look back.” And, swallowing hard, she got in her car, tears of excitement and fear, hope and remembrance streaming, holding the rose in her hand against the steering wheel, and driving away from the Oak and into a new life.


Christopher Gates looked into the skies above, seeing the blue skies with white dotted clouds happily sitting above the garden, the sun shining brightly, smiling upon the roses. He saw the rays of light that circled the grave sites of Kevin and Abigail, of Katrina and, yes, of Christina, too. The wind playfully coursed a path through the oak trees and up the mountain, collecting messages of history from all living beings to be shared with all who would listen as the wind made its way around the world. The birds sang songs of joy from their lofty perches in the oak trees and about the garden. And, as he always had, Christopher tended to the garden, watering and weeding and nurturing and praying.

“Yes, the time should be soon,” Christopher said to the white rabbit with crystal blue eyes sitting atop a stone platform amongst the roses of red and white, pink, purple, and blue. Christopher continued to water the flowers, the roses and daisies and lilies, the flowers of all shapes and sizes, colors and styles, each one receiving his special attention.

The white rabbit extended his foot, touching Christopher’s arm as they looked above the Oak. A black swirling tunnel of dark winds and angry clouds, energy, pouring from the sky to the house like a sheet of black rain engulfing the roof, the walls. In one moment, they saw a bright light from the sky shine into the house through a window, but it disappeared just as quickly. The outer walls of the Oak were becoming as black coal and the windows as black as tar, as hard as nails. The Earth upon which the Oak had sat for over a century began to soften, the brown soil turning to ash, emitting sounds of creaks and moans, separating, splitting, opening.

“Yes, soon,” Christopher said to the white rabbit. “The time should be soon, old friend.” And, together they looked up into the glory of the sun.


Henry passed by the mirror in his office, adjusting his collar and admiring the fit of the tailored suit, his head strong upon his shoulders, his eyes fixed to his own reflection. You’ve done well for yourself, Henry, his mind whispered to himself in a voice slightly different from his own. Very well, indeed. Henry straightened his tie and checked his hair. Think of how far you’ve come, how hard you’ve worked. People with less, people who haven’t done so much, they just don’t understand. Do they? Henry did not notice that as he turned from the mirror, part of his reflection remained.

“No, they don’t,” he answered himself aloud, thinking that the words seemed to echo in the silence of the room. A sigh exited his nose as he looked about the office he thought of now as his own, the office that came with a price, but with the dignity, power, and the status he had craved since childhood. Upon the walls were priceless pieces of art and on the shelves were hunting trophies of pure gold. So what if he hadn’t won them, though he felt that he had earned them. The ceramic angels of blue, pink, white, and crystal Henry had thrown out with the trash, except for those few that Lisa had earlier found and saved, placing them throughout other parts of the house so that the grouping would not be so noticeable on the tours that were led through the house at the time. The furniture was covered in fine leather, real leather that Henry would slide his hand across each time that he sat upon it. Priceless editions of literature still lined the walls since Henry had decided to allow their value to increase before selling them, but some of the antique ceramics he had already sold, using the money to purchase rich Cuban cigars and fine whiskeys.

Sitting down at the oak desk, looking out across the property that he had acquired, his mind again began to speak to him. Quite a piece of property. The land deal will make you millions.

“Maybe even billions,” he said aloud, kicking his feet on the desk and pulling a cigar proudly out of the box, smelling the rich scent of the tobacco before lighting it.

That’s right….matches, not lighters. You’ve learned so much. You’re so different now from that little boy you used to be. Henry always hated these moments, the moments he found himself unable to entirely erase his memory. Most of the time, Henry was strong-willed, able to repress years and force experiences into a little box, tuck it away in the back of his mind, and forget about it. Then, once in a while, there were moments like this, moments he felt out of self-control, moments when the past came back to him like a violent boomerang determined to find its sender. That’s right, Henry, remember, remember, remember. Henry tried to focus on other thoughts, the Oak, the money, his future plans, the dream house he would build for himself. No, Henry, don’t fight it. Let the memories return, and remember it all, the pain of the punches. So many times and you were such a little boy. Remember, Henry. Remember the blood? It was yours. Do you remember the smell of the sweat and the blood, the sting of your tears? Good, don’t forget any of it. The knife, be sure to remember the knife, Henry, and how it looked when he stabbed her in the chest. And, why, always remember why, Henry. She was trying to stop him from hitting you. It was all your fault, Henry. Do you remember hearing your mother’s final whispers, the blood spilling from her mouth? ‘Make something of yourself,’ she had said, Henry. The gunshot in the bedroom, Henry. Remember that sound. Yes, remember how it rang out. Remember what he looked like, Henry, lying there. Remember your parents carried out by those men in white. Remember you and your brother going to live with your father’s brother. He always set you straight, just like your father, didn’t he? Yes, he told you how it was, that it was all her fault, didn’t he? Yes, remember it all. Let it come back and swirl around in your heart. Remember the pain, Henry, remember it all.

Henry felt the sadness, the anger, the loss, and the numbness, but tears no longer came. He would tell himself that enough time had passed so that it bothered him less, but it wasn’t the truth. To no avail, he tried to push the memories away, trying to find other areas of life upon which to dwell, but there was no fighting it when it came to Evelyn.

Remember her, Henry, such a little tramp, she was, wasn’t she? Always giving you the eye and telling you how much she loved you. She didn’t mean a word of it, did she? Telling you that you were the only one. She was lying, that little whore. Remember her perfume, Henry, remember it well, how it would be ever so slight. And, that chestnut hair, Henry, remember how soft it was to the touch? Be sure to remember.

Evelyn was her name, a beauty with chestnut hair and hazel eyes from a good family in town. It was Henry’s intelligence in the classes they shared that had attracted her, and the broken spirit she noticed in him and from which she wished to save him kept her with him. Their love was true, but not always strong as Henry’s doubts born in the past would revisit his heart and cause difficulties between them. Through their last year of highschool and most of college they had remained together, sharing hearts and passion and secrets. It was Evelyn who had encouraged Henry to go to law school, to fight for kids like he had been. And, the goodness in him had sent in the applications, dreaming of days of using the law to fight so that no other kid had to suffer the evil that he had. And, in other dreams, he dreamed of Evelyn, a house, a family, and a life where he would be so different than his own father.

Remember, Henry. What did she say, Henry? Remember it now.

“I love you,” Henry whispered to no one. And, Henry remembered.

Remember. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ that’s what she said when you asked her about it. ‘I didn’t do anything,” what a pathetic little excuse. Yet, your own brother told you that he had had her. Why would he lie? He never liked having that tramp around anyway. She looked down on all of you is what he always said, that girl from the good side of town, the side with money. He couldn’t stand to be around her. Remember. Remember when you drove her out to the woods, that favorite spot by the pond, that final argument? Be sure to remember how she was crying, just repeating the same words over and over again about how much she loved you and that she didn’t know why your brother was lying. Feel the anger, the rage like you did then. That’s right, Henry, feel it all. Remember how good it felt, how powerful you were when you knocked her down? Remember how strong you were when you picked up that large stone? It was a big one, wasn’t it, Henry. So little effort it took from you to throw it against her head. Remember the blood, Henry, and those final little words of hers, ‘I love you, Henry.’ She was a tramp. Remember, Henry, she would have just gotten in your way, wanted you to do other work than business. If she were with you, you wouldn’t be where you are now.

Henry remembered Evelyn lying there, helpless, the love of his life dead and gone by his own hands, the shiny pendant that she always wore, the one he had given her with their initials inscribed, still lying against her chest.

But, you messed up, didn’t you Henry? Didn’t realize that Spike had followed you out there. And, him just a little kid at the time. Saw the whole thing, he did. Didn’t he, Henry? And, you explained the whole thing, going on about what your brother had said, explaining why you had to kill her. But, Spike, well, he had a different story to tell you, didn’t he? A story about having heard your brother laughing, planning on telling you all of that just to get rid of that little tramp because she was always looking down on all of you.

“She never said a word,” Henry said to himself.

Oh, come on, Henry, get the story right now. She was from the other side of town, and everyone on the other side of town looked down on all of you. Everyone, Henry. And, you had been working so hard to get through school, working at night at that little pharmacy with the creaky floor to put yourself through school. No one helping you, was there, Henry? But, this wasn’t your brother’s fault, now was it? No, couldn’t be. It was that little tramp. It’s all her fault. She deserved it. Remember the smell, Henry, of the blood and the sweat as you and Spike dug the hole and put her in it. It was a better burial then she deserved, Henry. You know that. Remember that. And, Spike wouldn’t tell a soul as long as you helped him out from time to time, when he needed it. Spike was probably lying about your brother’s plan anyway. You can’t trust any one. Remember that, Henry. And, that body, well, it still hasn’t been found. Better that way, Henry. You’ve got a reputation to protect now, a career that you’ve built. You don’t want that little tramp coming back and taking it all from you, now do you?

“No,” he said, in a voice barely audible and with lips that barely moved, the cigar hanging loosely from his fingers, its weight feeling too heavy to lift.

Come on now, don’t get sentimental on me. We can’t have that. Not now. We’re so close to having everything.

Henry dropped the cigar, never noticing that it had burned through his slacks and seared his skin. Henry looked out through the window, looking about the property again, lifeless.

Don’t back out on me now, kid. We’ve got work to do.

Henry remembered Evelyn’s hair, the way her eyes sparkled in the sun, the truth in her smile.

I need a little reassurance from you, Henry. You’re making me doubt your loyalty to the plan. Are you going to stick with me here, or do you want to lose everything you’ve worked for, everything I’ve helped you to get?

Henry straightened his back and picked up the cigar, laying it gently over the edge of the ashtray. Returning his gaze to the mirror, he saw the dark shadow in the glass.

Well, will you come with me, and I’ll make sure you continue to live in all this glory. I’ll make sure that you have all this and more, all you’ve ever dreamed of, all you’ve ever wanted. What do you say, Henry? You can’t find a better business deal than that.

Standing up from the chair, Henry smiled and began to walk towards the mirror. Then, a bright light shown through the window, catching Henry’s attention, the glare causing him to turn around to see what was happening, and in the light he heard a voice. And, Henry laughed at the light. “I’m a businessman,” he said, walking towards the mirror and continually speaking to the light, “you’d have to come up with a better offer than that.”

The mirror turned black and the light disappeared. Henry addressed the dark shadow in the mirror. “Money, prestige, everything. I want everything that I’ve got coming to me.”

And, though the shadow had no specific features, Henry saw it smile. As you wish. In the space of a heartbeat, a dark tunnel of wind forced itself through the house, lifting Henry from the ground, breaking him through the glass window, and crashing him into the ground, a piece of window glass piercing his skull in the same location where he had crashed the rock into Evelyn’s head.


He made a noise as of clearing his throat, but he didn’t have to. Christopher knew he was there, standing at the edge, just outside of the garden in the entranceway to the house.

“You killed him,” Christopher said, already knowing the answer.

“Yes,” the shadow simply replied.

Christopher leaned on his hoe, the white rabbit sitting beside him.

The shadow pretended to have a gun aimed at the rabbit. “I’ll be glad when that thing is gone.” The shadow continued to stand at the edge of the garden, in the doorway of a black house.

“You’ll never be able to kill truth. You’ll never be able to kill hope, not completely,” Christopher said, “no matter how hard you may try.” A sincerity, a truthfulness remained in Christopher’s eyes. “Why don’t you come into my garden,” Christopher invited, sensing that it would never happened but his heart remaining open to the possibility. “Here, you may find a beauty you’ve forgotten, a sanctuary you once knew and can know again, if you’re willing.”

“You never came into my house, Christopher.”

“No, not your house. I never went into your house. But, the light was always in there, trying to find souls in the darkness that would listen. The light never surrenders, though it does have to accept that final answer. And, I’ve always been right here, waiting to encourage the spark that the light brought within. Many who have walked through your house have seen the light and followed it out here to the garden and beyond.”

The dark shadow looked upward at the dark, swirling skies above the house and below at the ashy Earth. Christopher remained calm, the light of the sun still above the garden, the oaks, the graves. And, between the two worlds, a thin veil of choice.




This work is entirely fictional. Any resemblance to situations or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

Letters Home, Section 3, May, 2000, part 2 of 2

“Oh, things are really good. Do you remember that I have two kids now. You’ve met my daughter, but we have a seven-year-old son named David now, too. We’re happy. And, knock on wood, we’re all healthy. My family, my daughter, my son, and husband and I, we make time to spend time together each week even though we all have busy schedules. We’ve been doing a lot of camping and bicycling and just enjoying the sunshine whenever possible. I’m still working at the crisis center, but I’ve been working on opening my own clinic since I earned my counseling degree. My daughter, Faith, is doing well. She’s about ready to end this school year. She’s a teenager now, and she’s got camp and swimming and all sorts of plans on how she wants to spend her summer. And, my husband, Matt, is finishing up law school this semester. So, he’s studying hard. Oh, listen to me going on and on. What about you? How are you doing?”

Lisa provided the standard answer for those not knowing the answer to that question or simply not wishing to reveal the answer, “Fine, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but you sound a little strange.”

“I’m fine,” Lisa repeated, “just a little surprised by your call. We haven’t heard from you in so long. I guess the last time you called was, uh, around Thanksgiving. I know I can always expect to talk with you then. Everyone here at The Oak has always enjoyed hearing from you each year, especially Christina. Those calls meant a lot to her. Oh,” Lisa remembered.

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Hope began before being interrupted.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Hope. I forgot that we call you every spring, every Easter, and I didn’t try to contact you. I’m so sorry. I forgot all about it.”

“Don’t worry about it. From what I’ve been hearing, you’ve probably had a lot on your mind. Can we just call it even and start over?”

“Yeah,” Lisa exhaled with relief. “That sounds like a good idea.”

“Should I start with, ‘Hello, I’m Hope?’”

The ladies chuckled, tension melting into ease.

“Really, how are things there,” Hope asked.

“I’m beginning to think they’re hopeless, no pun intended.”

“There is no such thing as hopeless, not if we don’t want there to be. Hope is all around us all the time. We just have to want to hear her words. Now, tell me what is going on there?”

Lisa went into detail about the tourists, the new buildings, the deaths, the shadows, the changes in the appearance and atmosphere of The Oak, leaving no stone unturned for Hope as Lisa searched for explanation, for salvation. “They actually had all those letters printed up into books to sell.”

“I heard about that,” Hope said.

“Don’t worry. I haven’t read them but, from what I’ve been told, last names and other identifying information were removed to protect both the innocent and the guilty. After all, Christina’s letters alone spanned a decade and Abigail’s letters were written over about three months, and names were mentioned.”

“Still, it sounds like the changes really took a toll on The Oak.”

“Something did,” Lisa’s tone weakening further, “something dark and dangerous. It almost feels like a battery that is charging, but it is charging on negative energy. I don’t know how to explain it. That probably didn’t make any sense.”

“I wish I knew what to tell you to do. Do you think you need to get away from there for a while?”

Lisa took the phone from her ear, looking at the receiver with a confused expression as if she could see Hope through the phone before returning it to her ear. “Uh,” she stuttered, “no, no I don’t think I need to get away. I don’t really know what I need, but I’m not prepared to leave.”

“Then, you have to be prepared to fight, or whatever is draining you of your energy will continue to do so until there is nothing left of you. It will whisper into the pits of your soul until you are as unhappy, as dark, as it is.”

“But, how do I fight this?”

“You fight darkness with light. You fight the negative with the positive. You fight sorrow with hope. It’s all related. It’s like a circle. You’ll receive back whatever vibes you give because what people are given, they will give to others.”

“But how does that explain what happened to you? You didn’t deserve that, no one ever does,” Lisa said, her voice rising in anger.

“True. You’re right,” Hope began, her voice remaining calm and steady, a soothing, nurturing tone about it. “But, people who are given hurt and violence their whole life until they know little else will give that to others, even to people who have never hurt or been violent towards another. It doesn’t excuse anything, just sort of explains it a bit. The world isn’t perfect. This isn’t some Eden where bad things never occur. Pain, violence will happen. Darkness will fall. Bad things will happen to people who don’t deserve them, many of them events that are undeserved by everyone. But, will we let it rule our lives? I could have let it ruin my life. I could have let the entire experience kill my spirit and darken my thoughts and I could have let it turn me into something negative, maybe even something evil. But, I chose not to, and I had enough love and caring and hope and, well, even forgiveness, that had been given to me in my life before that ever happened that I was strong enough to fight that evil and not let it destroy me or my hope. Can you say the same? You know, hope, forgiveness, it's never about condoning anything that's happened in the past; it's just about letting it go so you can heal your own self.” She paused. “What about a year from now? Will you be better then if you remain as you are? Sometimes, Lisa, you can overpower darkness and turn it into light. God, hope, goodness, they all hold incredible powers. But, sometimes, you have to know when to break the chains tying you to the anchor that’s pulling you down.”

Again, Lisa’s eyes were drawn to the roses, her mind repeating Christopher’s words, “I like it out here in my garden….Hope…,” as if he was whispering her in ear.

“Lisa, are you there,” Hope asked.

“Yes,” Lisa said, turning her eyes back to the table before her, “I was just thinking.”


Lisa sat in bed, reading a letter or two from one book and then switching to the other, sometimes setting a book down for a short period for feeling that she was reading the private thoughts of people who had lived in the house. The letters were full of nature, full of personal events, and opinions on life, written in manners in which Lisa did not consider life.

As she read, Lisa tried to see the world through Christina and Abigail’s eyes, but Lisa did not think of life as fluidly as them. When Lisa saw a tree, she simply saw a tree and thought not of the meanings or communications of winding limbs or intertwined branches or rustling leaves. There were no crying winds or speaking ripples of water in Lisa’s life, rather only things that she could see or touch, things that she could prove. In facts rather than mystery was where Lisa preferred to dwell. Either the dishes were done or they were not done, either an object was dusty or it wasn’t, but the warm sudsy water or the stirrings of dust held no messages within.


Lisa was in her mid-thirties, but she had never really held any lust for life outside of the Oak. The day after she was born at a local hospital, Lisa was brought home to the Oak, her parents employed there, and, except for brief outings for school or short trips about town, she had never had any interest to be elsewhere or to explore the world, no real ambition in any particular subject, no desire to marry or bear children. At least, none that she remembered.


Born late in life to older parents, Lisa’s mother had been the head housekeeper at the Oak, as generations of women in the family had previously been, and her father worked in the fields, tending to the land. It was her mother who had taught her of the history of the Allgood family and of The Oak, the home in which her mother had been born and raised, a home that she respected and kept as her own. Though her mother would sometimes speak of the house like a member of the family, Lisa never gathered the impression that her mother thought the house was a living entity. Lisa’s father taught her of the value of the weather, of the timing of planting, but did not speak of the fields as spirits that could, at times, be moody and particular.

Lisa’s childhood was a somewhat simple one, yet happy and content, watching the tasks that her mother and father would complete during their days and often reading in her room or in the flower garden, watching it tended by Mr. Gates. Though she enjoyed being outside, she felt no great admiration for walking through the fields, though Christina would often encourage her to breathe in and respect the beauty of the property.

Christina and Lisa had a relationship of distance in Lisa’s younger years, the two getting along when in the same room but never truly talking or getting to know one another. But, not until Christina’s death did Lisa begin to remember the words of encouragement, the words of hope that Christina would try to give her. Not until the Oak began to die did Lisa began to remember sitting on the porch as a child and listening to Christina talk about The Oak, about it being built from hope, about how hope could change the world. Even as a child, Lisa thought it unlikely good advice if coming from someone who did not even speak to her own sister.

Lisa did well in school, a smart girl who, encouraged by those living at The Oak, studied hard and seemed successful in extra-curricular school activities. Yet, still in high-school when her father died, Lisa found no interest in pursing college or even vocational school. And, at only twenty years of age when her mother died, Lisa fell into her post at The Oak, keeping the home she thought of as her own and guarding the family legacy.

Lisa continued sorting through the letters in the books, overwhelmed by the reoccurring theme of hope. Some of the events written about in Christina’s letters were events Christina had felt comfortable enough to share with Lisa in the final years, while others were sentiments that Christina had never expressed or secrets that Christina had never shared.

The gun, the bloody clothes, hidden in the walls decades earlier by Christina and Betsy, had been found in the house by the State shortly after Christina died. Though turned over to the sheriff with the original hand-written letter, too many years had passed to prove anything. Yet, Lisa felt uncomfortable about her family’s involvement in the matter, even though it was long before her time. And, the letters written by Kevin Allgood on behalf of Betsy, an attempt to locate the child she never knew, letters which had been shared with Lisa prior to being returned to their location in the wall, were found by the State and put on display due to the signatures of influential people of the time. It bothered Lisa, family history being on display like a china cup from France.

Some of the letters reminded Lisa of her own childhood, of listening to Mr. Gates speak about how to care for the garden, of being allowed to help plant the roses in the spring. There were the times that her father would show her the right time to pick a peach or the time to pull an ear of corn, telling her jokes as they walked along the rows, or showing her how to milk a cow without getting kicked off the stool. There were the days that her mother would talk about her own childhood at The Oak or how food was cooked in the early days, showing Lisa how to bake the family’s prestigious sourdough bread.

Then, Lisa came across the letter about Steven, a letter that reminded her of a situation that, on good days, she was able to forget for a little while.

She had only been seventeen, walking from school to the local co-op where she was to meet her father, often there picking up supplies for the Oak, to travel home. The air was cooling, the autumn settling in, the leaves changing from delicate greens into bright, crisp reds and yellows. It was only Monday, yet her backpack was heavy with texts and notebooks, folders and homework assignments. Second semester finals were coming, and she had to be prepared.

The co-op was just a short walk down the main road from the school, both locations on the only highway through this quaint, little mountain town. As she walked down the sidewalk, waving at the occasional passing car of someone she knew, she kept reciting historical information from the major wars, trying to commit to memory the who and when and where of all the major battles.

“Get in!”

The voice took her by surprise, her mind focused on the Battle of Gettysburg. Then, she turned her gaze to the rusted-out Charger edging forward beside her, the young man with the greasy, long, blond hair driving and holding a gun towards her.

“Get in, now!” He said the words again, looking forward quickly and then returning his stare to Lisa. “Or, you’re dead,” he added.

Lisa looked about, but the street suddenly seemed quiet, vacant, and she didn’t think she’d reach the co-op a couple blocks up the street without being shot first. Not knowing what to do, her pulse quickening, Lisa stepped in to the car.

Though she did not know him, she knew of him. Spike, people called him, though she had never known why. Spike was from a bad family known well to the law. His reputation was bad, reality worse, and Lisa knew enough not to try and fight with him.

“Close the door,” he yelled, “now!”

Lisa held her backpack in her lap, wondering what to do as the car turned away from town and began to speed off down the highway.

He drove, the gun remaining in his hand as he grasped the wheel. “Just sit tight,” he said as she heard the electric locks engaged, locks he had wired into the car for occasions just like this. “We’re gonna go for a ride.”

Lisa remained quiet, looking at the evergreen air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror behind an old, rusty, metal railroad spike. Or, was that not rust but dried blood?

He noticed where her eyes were focused. “Yeah, they call me Spike and I’m about to show you why.”

Lisa wasn’t entirely certain what came over her, but a calmness engulfed her like an embrace and she sensed words coming to her mind. Gently, she placed her hand on Spike’s shoulder and, in a calm voice, nearly whispering, said, “Someone must have hurt you very badly when you were little.”

Spike swallowed hard and, as tears nearly came to his eyes, he punched the brakes, spinning the car part of the way through the highway. “Get out,” he said, almost calmly but nearly breathless, his stare focused straight ahead, his hands, the gun, still on the wheel, “before I change my mind.”

Almost before he disengaged the electric locks, Lisa was out the door, dropping her backpack to the ground and running as fast as she could back towards town, back to the co-op and the security of her father as Spike sped off, heading out of town.

Her father took her to the sheriff’s office before going home to The Oak, but they were told that charges would probably not be brought. What harm had come, the officers asked. Her father died shortly after that, the stress too much for his health. A few months after the incident, Spike was charged with driving under the influence and carrying a concealed weapon without a permit, but years would pass before Christina and Lisa learned that it was Spike’s uncle, Henry Stevenson, who had gotten the charges dropped. And, since Spike was dead, suicide by hanging the paper had said, years had passed, and Henry had been with the Oak since before the incident, Lisa and Christina decided not to terminate Henry’s association with the Oak. Yet, before Christina’s death, they both spoke of regret of that decision.

Lisa read through the letters about hope, about speaking out for those who can’t, about early life at The Oak. For hours, she read about taking chances, being happy, finding joy in each day, and about two sisters, dressed as one, running through fields of wildflowers, laughing. And, little by little, she grew to understand the Christina that was and the Christina that came to be, and she grew to understand more about her own past, her life.

Lisa held on to the book, drifting back and forth between letters, reading some of the letters two or three times, studying them, searching for what she felt was written between lines and within words. Dreams are paths to follow the letter read, and as Lisa lowered the book she thought about those words, their meaning, her life.

“Your destiny,” Lisa’s mother had told her when Lisa was young, “is not necessarily to be here at the Oak, but to be happy. Where you are or what you do, whatever it is that makes you happy, well, that may be here at the Oak or it may not.”

“Now, you know your mother,” Lisa’s father had told her repeatedly, “honors the family legacy of working here at the work. You need to stay. You’ll be taken care of here and it’s safe at the Oak. You won’t have to worry about anything.”

Lisa, only seventeen at the time, had been walking around the corner of the drugstore in town, on her way to pick up a prescription for her father shortly after the incident with Spike. She was unaware that Henry Stevenson was having a final chat with a client outside his office door located, at that time, by the drugstore. Lisa stopped short of the corner when she heard his voice and her name mentioned. Lisa stopped, hiding, unseen beside the corner wall, listening to what Henry was saying, listening to him refer to her by name, calling her a tramp, and saying that Lisa had made up everything about Spike, adding that Lisa deserved to be punished, saying that Lisa had asked for trouble and deserved it.

Once the voices had ended and the door was heard closing, Lisa walked past Henry’s office and into the drugstore. The drugstore was old, with wooden floors that creaked slightly with each step. The cashier was not at her post at the front of the store as Lisa walked to the pharmaceutical counter in the back and requested the prescription. After being told it would still be a couple of minutes, Lisa spent a few minutes looking through the small selection of magazines against a corner wall.

“He did, Mr. Michaels fell ill about that same time,” she heard a voice an aisle over say. “People are saying that he just couldn’t handle all this, his daughter being kidnapped or not, depending on who you believe.”

“Well, that Spike never has been any good to anybody,” a voice answered. “I don’t know anything about that Lisa girl, but if she’s hanging out with Spike she can’t be any better.”

“What I heard was that she was just walking, and he propositioned her and she agreed,” the first voice responded.

“Guess it doesn’t really matter what happened,” the second voice answered, “because I’ve heard that whatever happened has upset Mr. Michaels so bad that his health can’t handle it. It’s gonna kill him.”

Lisa gently put back the copy of the architectural magazine that she had been leafing through, pretending not to have heard a word from the nearby aisle when she heard the pharmacist clear his throat.

“Here you go, Lisa,” the old man gently and quietly said as he bent over the counter and handed her the small brown bottle with the label affixed to the front. “Pay them no mind, young lady,” he said, whispering as he nodded for emphasis.

Yet, before long, Lisa was standing over her father’s grave, and a part of Lisa blamed herself.

Lisa put the book of letters on the table, easing out of bed, and slowly walking to the closet, brushing her hair behind her ears, uncertain if she wanted to reopen the past. Moving aside shoes and a couple of other boxes, Lisa reached for the plastic box in the back and pulled it outside of the closet. Slowly, she removed the lid, though she remembered what was inside. The box held magazines, lots of magazines, two years worth, in fact, her entire subscription, and, texts and notebooks as well.

Architecture. Lisa remembered reading everything she could about the subject, memorizing line and form, styles, angles. When they had the time, Lisa would talk to the workers at The Oak who knew construction, asking about how to piece together frames and strengthen structures and build foundations. When the barn would need to be patched or when a new cabin was built for a worker, Lisa was there, watching, sketching, hammering, measuring, listening, learning. Math and geometry, she studied, and in a spiral-bound sketch pad she had poured her ideas, writing in the margins about distances and heights and degrees. Lisa had wanted to design, to build, to be able to create something as beautiful and as strong as The Oak.

But, that was before Spike, and before the incredible feeling of safety that rushed over her when she passed through the gates of the Oak on that day that her father drove her back home after leaving the sheriff’s office. It was before the death of her father, when the light of her heart dimmed a little more and she boxed up her ideas, her dreams, packing them away into a dark corner of the closet in protective plastic just in case she wanted them to see the light again. It was before the death of her mother, when staying at The Oak and fulfilling a family legacy seemed the perfect excuse for not moving on, for not taking a risk.

Lisa leafed through a few of the magazines, smiling as she remembered the Antebellum, the Greek Revival, the Modern. But, exhaling, she put the magazines back and snapped the lid back on.

“What’s the point,” she thought, her hand upon the plastic lid as if protecting whatever was left of the dream. And, then, the light shown in through the window, a new dawn had broken illuminating the room with an old familiar golden breath. “What was it the letter had said? Every day is a new opportunity,” she thought.


Henry had rung for his morning coffee, and Lisa did as she was told, making her way up the staircase more quickly than he expected.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he said to someone on the phone, Lisa standing next to the wall just outside the door. “Trust me. It just takes time.” He paused for the voice on the other end to answer. “I’ve done it before,” Henry reassured before another pause. “Trust me. By the time I’m through, she’ll be leaving on her own and we won’t have to worry about making up some excuse to fire her. Take my word for it. I’ve done it before. I’m good at this. It’s a talent,” he laughed and sighed self-righteously before another pause, followed by a short, “um-huh,” and another pause. “No, it’s in the bag. Between that freak accident with the porch, which, frankly, was just plain lucky for us, and a few strings I pulled, there will be no complications. I’m set to sign the papers the day after tomorrow, and the Oak will be mine and we’ll be counting all that money from that development deal.” And, another pause. “That’s right. Serves the old bitty right too, losing this place to us. So, what do you say, Ben, old man, you’d better start thinking of what you’re going to do with all this money.” And, he hung up the phone.

Lisa knocked on the door before entering. “Here you go,” she said as she put the coffee down on the desk as Henry always wanted.

“Have a seat. I want to talk to you.”

Sitting in the chair facing away from the window that Henry had positioned by the desk, Lisa tried to remain calm, her eyes already red from reading, her mind fatigued from being up most of the night.

“I’ve been watching some of the house staff’s performance and wanted to know what you think of it.”

Lisa paused, thinking, trying to figure out what it was he wanted, trying to determine what to say.

“Well,” he asked, his voice with a shaper edge to it than earlier.

“I’m thinking,” Lisa answered.

“What’s there to think about,” Henry yelled, his face turning red and wrinkling at the eyes and mouth with anger.

Lisa swallowed hard, finding herself unable to say anything.

“Get out of my office until you can grow up and stop acting like a three-year-old,” Henry barked at her as Lisa nearly ran out of the room.

Back in the kitchen, Lisa wondered what to do, knowing that soon Henry would have control over the Oak, over her. But, then, he already had both, didn’t he? Lisa was familiar with people like Henry, those who did as they pleased, no use for rules, no room for others, no consistent ethics or principles unless it suited their need. Yet, somehow, people like Henry always seemed to get what they wanted, as if they wished it to themselves with sheer determination of will. Truth never mattered to people like Henry, people who believed as they wanted and, somehow, had the power to convince others of the same. And, now Lisa felt that she was the prey Henry had in his sights, and she knew not how to save herself.

With tears in her throat and pain in her heart, Lisa poured herself a cup of coffee, so distraught that she forgot the cinnamon stick she always added. Turning to the door when it seemed to call to her, Lisa saw the shadow, a figure in black growing more specific with each passing day as if growing, feeding, coming to life. The cup fell to the floor, splashing coffee about the room and drawing her eyes to the floor. And, when she looked towards the door again, the shadow was gone.

“Sleep, dear, you need sleep,” Christopher said to her after Lisa had made her way to the garden bench. “Just close your eyes and rest for a while,” he said, gently rubbing her temple in such a way that Lisa didn’t even seem to notice as she laid down on the bench and fell into sleep under a blue sky dotted with white clouds.

And as rest soothed her tension and the scent of roses filled the air, Lisa began to dream. “Don’t make the same mistakes I made,” she remembered Christina telling her as the old lady sat at the old oak desk, staring with regret across the fields of clover. “Fight,” she heard Hope repeat in urging, “fight, Lisa.” In her mind, she saw Monica sitting on a deck, laughing and eating ice cream, Monica’s face turning to Lisa and saying, “You can have this too. You can be happy.” Lisa’s body felt light, as if her spirit were taking flight, flying to the top of the mountain and sitting, listening to leaves rustle and crunch, listening to the birds sing. And, in her mind she heard Christina’s voice again, “It’s the closest thing I’ve ever known to hope, to God.” And, as her spirit sat there on the mountaintop, she saw the white rabbit with crystal blue eyes sitting there watching her protectively, trying to tell her something, but what? Lisa saw the Oak as it was, with gentle hands and soothing hues about it, protecting it, caring for it. And, as before, her attention was turned toward the Oak as it is now, with dark hands clenching at its sides and fists pounding at its roofs with threatening storms above.

When Lisa awoke, lying there on the bench, her eyes slowly opening to the beauty of the garden, her eyes were drawn to the white rose bush before her. “Could it be,” she thought as she looked into the crystal blue eyes of a white rabbit. Sitting up and rubbing her eyes, she looked again, and found only white roses.

“You awake,” Christopher said from the other side of the garden where he was pulling up weeds.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Gates.” Looking towards the sun, Lisa could feel the warmth of the rays on her face, feeling as though they were entering her soul and cleansing her.

Mr. Gates made his way over to Lisa, sitting beside her on the bench. “You okay now? I was pretty worried about you a little while ago.”

“Yes, I feel much better now. What time is it?”

“Well, it’s about two. Don’t worry, I kept an eye on you.”

“Mr. Gates, you didn’t happen to see a white rabbit running around here, did you?”

“Not lately, but there is one that’s supposed to live on the property. Supposed to be tens of thousands of years old.” He laughed a bit.

Lisa gave him a confused expression.

“Ah, you’ve never heard that story?”

Lisa shook her head.

“Well,” he cleared his throat, “let me see if I can recall. If I remember correctly, it goes like this. In the early days of time, God liked this little piece of land here, and God blessed it and the land became sacred. Blue skies and light reigned, the seasons lived in peace, and the rain fell with joy. It was here where the angels came to renew their spirits when they began to lose faith in the world, and the hope about the land would restore their faith in all living beings. While still in favor, God sent Lucifer, the angel of light, to watch over the land and protect it, to guard it and bless it with the light. Then, Lucifer began to crave power and boundless freedom, wanting the land for his own, cursing God and doing as he pleased. And, Lucifer fell out of favor with God. When the two battled, a drop of God’s blood fell to the Earth, and the oaks grew. And, Lucifer was banished to the Dark Well of Lost Yesterdays, the Well of Sorrow. But, the damage was done, the land was like Eden no more, and sorrow had found its way to the land, a mixture of voices of hope and despair riding upon the air leaving a choice to be made by all living things about which voice they would follow. And, though hope remained prominent, the rain often became like Heaven’s tears and the storms came. So, needing a guardian for the land, God asked Aphrodite, the angel of fertility to watch over the land. Aphrodite was a good guardian, and she blessed the land with roses. It is said that where Aphrodite touched, a rose would bloom, and where she walked, the oaks would flourish, and hope, again, ruled the land. But, humans began to worship Aphrodite instead of God, and a jealous God he can be, so he summoned Aphrodite back up to the stars and, in her stead, God sent a white rabbit as his messenger. Since that time, the white rabbit has watched over this land. It is said that those who are visited by the white rabbit are receiving a message from the angels, or from God himself, if they are willing to hear it. But, the message can only be heard by those with an open heart, a heart open to hope, to the Heavens.”

“Wow,” Lisa whispered.

Christopher chuckled. “Well, it may just be an old dramatic wise tale, but there is a moral to the story.”

“What?”

“God could have just given up, just turned the land over to Lucifer and took the losses, but he didn’t. He fought. He fought with the greatest weapon anyone can ever have.”

“What’s that?”

“Hope, goodness, whatever you want to call it. But, look around,” he motioned with his hands, “the oaks and the roses still flourish here on this land. And, before the last few months, so did the people who lived here.”

“But, what about the house? What about now?”

Christopher looked at Lisa with tender eyes of explanation, “Choices were made.”

Lisa looked about at the roses, still unclear in her train of thought.

Christopher gently placed his finger beneath Lisa’s chin, turning her eyes back to his own and repeating in a voice that sounded as if it came from within Lisa instead of without, “Choices were made. But, there is still time for choices to be changed.”

And, Lisa suddenly noticed Christopher’s eyes of crystal blue.


Lisa returned to her room and finished reading the letters written by Abigail and Christina, periodically looking towards the window and noticing how the rays of light were floating in through the window, shining onto her body, the books, and a ray that directed itself toward the closet door. She felt a peaceful quiet about the room, a comforting cool like a fresh spring day that awakens the senses and brightens the soul.

Returning to the closet, again she pulled out the plastic box from the back corner, sitting in the floor, opening the box, and looking through the memories once more. There was strength in those buildings and atmosphere about the structures and certainty within the lines, those were the things that had drawn her to architecture. She liked studying the graceful flow of angles that would lead one corner into another and enjoyed the continuous breath that seemed to pass from room to room.

“We were put on this old Earth to be happy, to live,” Lisa remembered her mother telling her, “not just to die.”

As she turned the pages, reading the articles and studying the faces, she remembered dreaming of designing homes that would reflect the family, their mood, their love for another, their love of art or music or a certain type of wood or color. Lisa had wanted to design houses for lovers of music that would carry a flow between rooms as if the walls were whispering a rhythm in four-four time. She had wanted to design abodes for painters and sculptors that would have angles uniquely their own, masterpieces drawn from inspiration with the intention of inspiring. She had wanted to design homes for the masses that were affordable, but more interesting, more personable, than the homes often built at the time, a single design sitting upon every lot in a neighborhood, each house differing only in the color of its shutters. Lisa had wanted all of that. And, she still did.

Leaning against the bed and looking into the light, Lisa remembered Christopher’s story and the white rabbit with blue eyes. Drifting in on a beam of gold, a memory returned that had been stored away in a dark corner of her mind. Yes, she had seen the white rabbit before, once when she was young.

“There’s one, Daddy,” Lisa mouthed, a child of nine pulling excitedly at the arm of her father’s jacket and pointing. It was the first time she had been allowed to go hunting with her father, her mother not keen on the idea of her only daughter being in the woods with guns during hunting season.

He raised the gun and looked through the scope, seeing a white rabbit hopping away, the crystal blue eyes periodically glancing back at him, and he immediately lowered his gun and smiled.

Lisa could not remember seeing a live rabbit not housed in a cage prior to that moment, and she reveled in the beauty of the snow white fur that ran bouncing through the trees, hopping from root to root. “It’s okay, Daddy,” she said, “there’ll probably be another one come along soon. Wasn’t he pretty?”

“Yes, he sure was.” Kneeling beside Lisa, her father settled on to one knee so that he was eye-to-eye with the child. “Now, let me tell you something,” he said with a smile. “I’ve been hunting in these parts a long time and I don’t think I’ve ever seen that rabbit. You must be my good luck charm.”

“We’ll get the next one, Daddy.”

“Well, maybe, maybe not,” he continued. “You see, that rabbit you just saw. Well, that’s no ordinary rabbit.”

“Why?”

He looked to the ground and then back to his daughter, “A white rabbit with blue eyes, well, he’s pretty special around here. If you see him, he’s supposed to be good luck. So, no matter what, you never, ever shoot at the white rabbit with blue eyes. And, if you happen to catch him in a cage, you let it go. And, if you find that he got caught in one of these traps around here, you be sure to help him out. ‘Cause that’s a special rabbit. Yep, a very special rabbit.”

Sitting by the bed in the rays of sun streaming in, Lisa smiled at the memory she had forgotten. And her mind remembered more.

It had been an overcast day, the late summer heat of her twenty-first year threatening from time to time to erupt in storms. The dreams of architecture had been returning to her mind, the strength of the tangled roots of trees beginning to bring questions to her mind, possibilities for strengthened foundations and, perhaps, a fanciful treehouse or two. Lisa walked through the fields, walking to where the trees reached their branches up to the Heavens over intertwined roots and limbs. And, Spike stepped out from behind a tree, not hiding but hidden by a trunk as he tried to maneuver the tangled roots sitting atop the ground.

Lisa screamed, the trees rustling their leaves in response but with no one else about to hear.

“It’s okay,” Spike said, the liquor making his walking unsteady, his speech slightly slurred but still clear enough to understand every word. “I won’t hurt you, not you.”

Lisa stood there, unable to move, frightened, but noticing the greasy blond hair streaked with dirt and pulled behind ears, the face stained with soil and the tracks of old tears and, in an occasional moment, new ones. The man she thought of as a criminal, a hardened heart, or someone with no heart at all, sat down before her on the tree roots and, now, to her seemed broken. Lisa said nothing.

“I won’t hurt you. I won’t,” Spike repeated.

“What do you want,” Lisa stuttered, her voice sounding her fear.

Spike’s only response was a stream of tears.

“Are you alright, are you hurt,” Lisa couldn’t believe she heard her own voice saying the words.

Spike laughed, laughed the laugh that everyone does when they don’t know how to answer, when the question seems overwhelming and overpowering. Finally, he swallowed another drink from the bottle in his hand, looking down to the ground with hollow eyes and a lost soul, exhaling what little bit of strength he had left within. “You’re the only person who’s ever asked me that. You’re the only one who ever seemed to care.”

But, Lisa did not understand. Feeling Spike was not an immediate threat, she walked away, saying nothing more. And, turning back once when she felt far enough away to do so safely, she saw Spike sitting there where he had been, crying, his head supported by his knees. Then, turning back again, he was gone, and she assumed he had walked back from whence he came.

It was only a couple of days after that when the papers wrote of Spike’s death. Lisa somehow felt responsible, feeling pain, confusion, and regret instead of safety, but not knowing why, packing away her dreams again and submitting herself completely to life at The Oak.

Lisa sat leaning against the bed and looking into the light, holding a magazine in her arms, close to her heart. “What could he have meant,” she wondered. “Why would he think I cared?” The light seemed to carry her back and remind her of her tender words, “someone must have hurt you…”

Through the window, Lisa watched the setting sun, deep shades of magenta and amber and blue gliding through the sky, helping to transition the day into the night, the sun’s phase into that of the glowing moon. Within the changes, Lisa began to feel her own transition, her strength growing as well as the peace within her spirit, her dreams returning, and her hope filling up like a well that had been empty of water too long.






This work is entirely fictional. Any resemblance to situations or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

Letters Home, Section 3, May, 2000, part 1 of 2

May, 2000

“I read the letters,” Henry paused, the voice on the other end of the phone responding. “Yes, seriously, I read every last one of those stupid things. Worthless use of paper, really.” He paused, putting his feet on the desk and pretending to shoot at the birds sitting on the ledge of the birdhouse outside his office window. “Well, what is that they say about making certain to know everything about the enemy.” Another pause occurred. “Well, whatever. I did learn quite a bit in those letters about this house. For instance, the old broad hid money in the walls,” he laughed. “And, I’ve found some of it. Unfortunately, it’s an early version of money and completely worthless. Oh, well. And, she also wrote a letter about a box in the middle of the house, had a bunch of trinkets in there. The State never found it, but I did.” And, another pause. “Yeah, it was just behind a wall. It was easy to get to when the place was closed. So, I took it out and then put the board back. Nothing to it.” And, another. “Some old pictures and stuff,” Henry said as he sifted his hand through the oak box with a silver clasp and red lining, “a necklace that looks like it’s probably worth less than the box, a bible,” he laughed again, “and some notes. Nothing really here.” And, another. “I’ll tell you what I plan to do with it,” Henry said as he began putting the photos and the papers through a shredder, then dumping the box and the rest of the contents in the trash, covering the items with various papers from his desk, “nothing.”

Hanging up the phone, Henry pulled a file out from the drawer, studying the contents, the wills of the Allgoods and the contracts with the State. “There’s got to be something here,” he thought to himself, “there’s got to be a way.”

“Thomas,” a voice seemed to whisper, though there was no one around.

“Hum,” Henry uttered to himself. “Must be one of the tours getting too loud.”

The tours continued through the house and over the grounds, strangers coming to hear the story of the Allgood family, to walk along the same corridors where people of wealth and prestige had walked, to stand in the same room where historical events had occurred, secretly wishing that they had been there to see it all happen. From time to time, furniture and objects would be rotated out of storage in the attic to be put on display while others items were packed away for safekeeping or taken to a new building on the property for delicate cleaning or restoration. And, also on display, were a few of the items Christina mentioned in her letters that the State had actually found here and there, bits of the money, the rag dolls, and the items within the time capsule buried on the east side of the house.

The Oak was changing. The trees, still tall and proud, hung their branches a bit lower, grieving for the loss of their sisters and brothers, acres of trees near the gate that had been plowed down and turned into a concrete field, acres near the lake that had been cut down to build the restaurant, and single trees here and there that had been cut down for one reason or another. The grass, though still green and lush, still waved to the morning sun, but often turned its head away from the visitors, looking instead towards the lake for guidance, for light, as the lake pooled the tears of the living things on the property. And, the wind took every opportunity to voice the cries of the land, carrying messages about the property, and knocking at the doors and windows of the Oak demanding an explanation of the horror.

But, no answer was received.

The deer that had once come to drink from the lake, the small woodland creatures that would run about the property, climbing trees, playing hide-and-seek in the flowers, or simply frolicking in the sunshine, were no longer seen about the grounds. The workers no longer saw or heard the animals playing about the fields or wooded areas, though an occasional creature would be seen on the farthest side of the property, usually running as if frightened by something of harm. Many of the trees became silent of birds when many of the winged messengers left The Oak, leaving only a few to remain. The birds that remained did not often fly about the property anymore, choosing instead to remain close to the safety of their abode. Yet, even the songs of the birds, songs that had been cheerful in the past, carried a tune of sorrow and warning, a song of danger.

The gentle horses remained in the fields, offering to the visitors hour-long guided rides through the property. The horses that were not deemed appropriate for the riding business were used to lead carriage rides or in various demonstrations of early twentieth century farm work. Many of the cows were slaughtered, the restaurant proudly stating that the beef in the restaurant was home-grown, although some were maintained for future restaurant need, for display of prize-winning cattle, for demonstrations, for milk, and as a petting zoo. And, the chickens continued to lay the eggs for the restaurant as well as becoming part of the Tuesday night special.

Visitors of all sorts came through the gates to The Oak in droves, men proposing on sunset carriage rides and new couples marrying in the pavilion built by the State, children being taught to milk a cow and mothers enjoying the beauty of the house flower garden, taking gardening tips from Mr. Gates. The visitors would tour the house and walk the paths across the property, lay flowers on the grave sites of the Allgood family, and talk about all they had to do when they returned home.

And, the house grew darker, the angels guarding the windows developing what appeared to be tear-stained faces and the angel in the attic gazing upward for direction, for hope. The drive that had once been a cheerful invitation to the house now had a menacing indifference about it, people drawn to it in the same way people are drawn to a mystery or a haunted house, questioning what’s inside, curious. The walls, outside and in, darkened, losing their luster, their heart missing, their light dimming.

The workers had become more distant from their home, leaving The Oak much more often than before, trying to get away from the confusion, hoping that they would return to find that it had all been a nightmare that was suddenly over and that they would find that hope had been restored to their home. Mr. Gates tended his garden daily, silently watching the changes about the house and grounds like a shepherd waiting for the appropriate moment for action. Lisa went about her daily activities of house cleaning, moving between house tours like a dancer who had learned timing, becoming more distraught with the changes at The Oak and trying to deal with Henry Stevenson who was gaining more control with each passing day.

Lisa approached the office door with Henry’s coffee, as he had requested, but stopped short of opening the door when she overheard his voice inside.

“Yep, that’s right.” There was a pause. “That’s right, we’re talking millions a year if I owned this property privately.” And, another pause. “Well, that’s to be determined.” And, another. “Are you kidding,” he laughed, not realizing Lisa was listening, “it’s a loophole in the will and in the contract they signed, a big loophole. The State has the right to operate the Oak as they see fit as long as certain conditions are met. But, nobody ever said anything about the State not being able to sell it, especially if they weren’t making money. And nobody said that any conditions had to be met by any owner other than the State.” And, another. “What do you mean?” And, yet another. “If I can get this land from the State, tear all this down, and sell the land in that development deal, I’ll be set for several lifetimes.” And, another. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it. I’ll find a way. I’ll call in a few more favors and, if I have to, I’ll remind a few people of a few secrets. Just be prepared to handle all of that money, old man.”

Hearing the phone land hard against the receiver, Lisa entered the office, placing Henry’s coffee on the oak desk. “Busy day,” she asked.

“Well, of course. Got to take care of this place, don’t I,” he said, placing his feet back on the desk.

A hummingbird steadied itself in front of the large window, looking directly into Lisa’s eyes as if trying to send a message before fluttering off.

“By the end of the season,” Henry said, making certain Lisa had turned her gaze to his intimidating stare, “those birdhouses will be gone.”

Lisa turned to look behind her, somehow thinking she caught a glimpse of a dark shadow behind her as she began to take a chill. But, there was nothing there, and she was still getting used to the air conditioning unit being on all the time.

Walking out through the gardens to get some fresh air, Lisa began to feel a bit more at ease. “Hello, Mr. Gates,” Lisa smiled as she passed.

“Well, good morning,” he responded as he looked up from sitting upon the ground, gently tucking plants in to their new home.

Though only mid-morning, the tours had already begun and people were walking about the property. Lisa visited the gravesites at the base of the mountain. “What would you think of all this, Ms. Abigail?” But, hearing a tour coming, she walked beside the trees until making her way to the old oak tree by the lake. Leaning down, brushing the stones with her hands, Lisa began to cry. “What do I do? How do I protect this place?” Her gaze was then drawn to the head of Christina’s grave where, suddenly, a snow white rabbit with crystal blue eyes sat, staring at Lisa, trying to communicate. Yet, after being distracted by people nearing, she looked back to the top of the stone and found the rabbit gone, and when she looked about she could not see any creature running nearby.

“Thomas,” she thought. “Thomas may be able to help.”

Returning to the kitchen, Lisa looked through the kitchen phone list, hoping that there was someone named Thomas on the list and hoping that it was the same banker. When finding a Thomas listed with an office number scratched out, she dialed the remaining number immediately. “Thomas Alexander, please,” she said into the phone.”

“That would be my grandfather,” a male responded. “One moment, please.” His voice could be heard turned away from the phone, “Grandpa.”

“Yes,” Thomas answered in to the receiver.

“Thomas, sir, this is Lisa Michaels from The Oak. Am I speaking with the former banker of Christina?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I just wanted to make sure. As I said, I’m Lisa, the housekeeper at the Oak and I was hoping I might be able to talk to you.”

“Yes, I’d like to speak with you too, I’ve heard discouraging things about the Oak lately, but I haven’t seen it since the tours began again.”

“Things have greatly changed,” Lisa said, looking about the walls of The Oak that now seemed older, dingy, dying, as opposed to the bright walls that used to support the house, the bright walls that would embrace the sun and warm the heart. “And, not for the better,” she added, muttering as if the walls could hear. “Could I meet with you, sir?”

“Of course. I shall come to you. I’d like to see The Oak for myself.”

Arrangements were made and, on the following day, Thomas was wheeled into the house by his grandson.

“It’s okay,” Lisa told Mary Alice as Thomas came through the front doors. “He’s with me; he’s not on the tour.”

Lisa took the handles of the wheelchair from Thomas’ grandson and pushed Thomas about the house, pointing out the differences in the amount of light that shown in, the appearance of the walls and the furniture, and how even the former smiles of the Allgoods in their family portrait seemed to be fading into frowns.

“And, that,” Thomas said, seeing the shadowed black torso appear before quickly vanishing in the dining room mirror as he passed. “Did you see it?”

“No, sir, but I believe you. Strange things have started happening around here. Nothing specific, really. Nothing that I have proof of. Just things that don’t seem normal.”

He pointed towards some picnic tables at the edge of the trees. “Take me out there, will you, Lisa? I’d rather not talk in the house if we don’t have to. My grandson will be okay walking around the Oak for a few more minutes.”

“Now, tell me more,” he said once they reached the picnic table.

“It’s hard to know where to start.”

“In times like that,” Thomas advised, “it’s best to start anywhere, otherwise you’ll never begin at all.”

“Well, the dark shadow that you saw in the mirror. He’s being seen in the house quite a bit, but only by me and Mary Alice. No one else has seemed to notice it, or at least they’ve never said anything. When the State started taking over, it was like the Oak began to wither away, like it lost its hope, its reason for being. But, what I called you about, what I’m really worried about is something I overheard yesterday.”

“Okay.”

“I think Henry is planning on taking over the Oak from the State. I don’t know how. Then, he wants to destroy the house and sell the land for development, some big money deal. And, I don’t know how to stop him.”

“You actually overheard him say this.”

“His part of a phone conversation, yes, sir.” Thomas leaned back in his wheelchair, contemplating the options for a moment, and Lisa continued. “And, well,” Lisa seemed hesitant to say it, “it seems like anyone who tries the protect the old Oak, the way The Oak used to be, well, strange things are happening around here.” Lisa swallowed hard, wondering if the old man would even believe her. “One of the field workers came into the house one day and we were talking about how the Oak used to be farmed. He doesn’t like the changes happening at The Oak, and I think he was frustrated because he just kept going on and on about them. Then, out of nowhere, a coffee cup that was sitting on the counter just flew across the room toward his head. He just happened to move before he even realized what was happening, and the cup broke against the wall. It could have killed him.”

Thomas’ expression left no secret of his curiosity.

“Then, there’s the times when I go down to the laundry room or especially if I go down the hallway on the second floor, I feel like someone is watching me and following right behind me, but there’s never anyone there. And, whatever it is, always makes me feel frightened, like I’m in danger. Sometimes, I turn around and I catch a glimpse of that shadow.

“Then, there’s the problems with the plants inside the house.”

“Can’t Mr. Gates help, dear?”

“We’ve tried that. He can’t figure out what’s happening either. We’ve always had living plants in the house. Now, we bring a healthy plant inside and within two days, it’s completely dead. It’s strange. We experimented once, brought in a healthy plant. Within hours, it had faded. By the end of the day, it looked like a goner for sure. So, instead of letting it die overnight, we took it back outside into the house garden. And, it was blooming the next morning just as bright as ever. It’s like the house is dying and can’t stand for anything inside to be happy or living.

“I know houses settle, but the Oak is making noises I’ve never heard before. One night I laid in bed thinking that the house sounded like it was breaking in certain places, like it was sinking slowly into a well and the whole thing wouldn’t fit inside at one time.”

Thomas motioned to Lisa that that was enough, though it wasn’t nearly everything. Barely getting started, she hadn’t even mentioned the door that shut on its own and refused to open, locking one tourist guide in Abigail’s bedroom until the field workers could pry it open, or the chandelier that fell, nearly hitting a security guard who was closing up for the night. Nor had she mentioned that breads baked in the oven as they had been for decades would no longer rise or the unidentified soft roaring noises that would occur from time to time, noises that were becoming louder and more frequent, and were beginning to sound as though syllables were within.

A quiet spring breeze began to blow through the property, gently rustling the leaves of the trees, their branches reaching up high to the Heavens.

“I believe you,” Thomas said, repeating himself, “I believe you.” Leaning forward in his chair, Thomas continued. “We must do something or, at the rate it’s going, The Oak will destroy itself by the end of the year.”

“But, what, how?”

A wren landed on the picnic table, looking back and forth between Lisa and Thomas, singing a quiet, sad refrain.

“I’ll have to think on that a bit, Lisa,” Thomas said, looking towards the bird. “Oddly, I think the bird knows and is trying to tell us. Hum. I never really believed in things like that before. But, then, I’ve never seen any place like the Oak before.”

Days later, Lisa received the call that had been promised. “I think I may have an answer for you, Lisa,” Thomas said. “I’ll be there this afternoon to explain it all.”

“Is it complicated,” Lisa asked, uncertain of the plan. “I don’t know if I have what it takes to fight city hall, so to speak.”

“Well, there are some important people who will have to be involved, but, together, I think we can tackle it. It’s worth a try, at least, to save the Oak. I’ve read the letters Christina wrote over the last ten years, and I think they actually hold a few clues. And, I know a few people that can help, people with some power.”

Lisa hung up the phone with a cold feeling over her shoulder, turning to find nothing there but a vanishing sign of darkness, and, immediately thereafter, Henry entered the kitchen.

“In-between tours are we,” he gloated.

“Something like that,” she said, turning to retrieve her coffee from the counter and nervously playing with the cinnamon stick.

“Yep, the only certainty is change and I think we’ll be seeing more of that here at the Oak.” And, with those words, Henry poured a cup of coffee, let out a self-righteous sigh, and turned to leave. “Yep, many changes and it’d just be a waste of time for anyone to try to get in the way.”

“What does that mean,” Lisa asked in anger.

Henry held one hand on the door as he said his final words before returning to the office. “I simply mean that change is inevitable and everyone knows that the player with the best cards doesn’t always win. Sometimes, it’s the player with the best gamble, the best poker-face, that takes the pot.” He winked as he left, and Lisa shuddered.

In the early afternoon, when clouds were hiding the sun from the Oak and threatening storms and rain, Lisa saw Thomas being wheeled up to The Oak by his grandson, an umbrella overhead in case of a downpour. Lisa went down the drive a ways, explaining that the tours weren’t near the back of the house at the moment and it would be easier to get the wheelchair around the crowds if coming through the back.

Going through the house to unlock the private entrance in the rear, Lisa began to notice how odd The Oak suddenly felt, vacant, hollow, feeling as though she was making it around the crowds too easily, as if the crowds had been diverted like a stream around a dam. Traveling through the laundry room, she felt the cold, harsh stare of no one behind her.

Thomas and his grandson made their way to the rear of the house, noticing how quiet it seemed and how the crowds didn’t seem to walk about this part of the house. Up the ramp, they went, until sitting on the rear porch and waiting for Lisa to unlock the door.

Lisa, breathlessly ran from the laundry room to the back porch, unlocking the door as quickly as possible, wanting to leave the Oak, frightened of the nothing following her.

“What is it dear,” Thomas asked with great concern as Lisa ran out the door, grabbing the porch railing and looking back towards the house with an expression of terror.

“I don’t know,” Lisa cried, trying to calm her breathing.

“It’s okay,” Thomas said. “Why don’t you go down to the rose garden and walk around a bit. It’s very relaxing there and you’ll be able to calm yourself. I can find my way to the kitchen, and I’ll meet you there in a bit. Don’t you worry. We’re gonna beat this thing.”

Lisa jumped from the porch to the ground, and then slowly began to walk towards the house garden.

“Are you alright,” Mr. Gates asked, dropping his water hose and running to Lisa. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Ooh, I probably shouldn’t say that too loudly,” he said, helping Lisa to an oak bench to sit down for a while, “that’s just what these visitors want to hear.”

Lisa exhaled. “I’m okay. I’m just being paranoid. That’s all. It’s nothing.”

“Hum,” Mr. Gates mumbled, not actually believing her.

“Really, Mr. Gates…”

“Why don’t you call me Christopher? Everyone does.”

“But, I’ve always called you Mr. Gates.”

“Yeah, well, things change,” he said as he sat beside her. “We’re kind of getting to know each other a little better. Kind of like these flowers. The more I get to know them, the more I see each one as an individual. You see that yellow rose there on the end? Well, that one lowers her blooms when the sun gets too hot, but the red one three bushes down lifts her blooms in the middle of the day like she’s trying to get a tan.” He laughed, hoping it would help to soothe Lisa. “Call me whatever you’re comfortable with, Lisa. I’ve known you since you were a little girl and, like these flowers, I can tell when you’re troubled.”

“I just had a fright. Nothing actually happened. I’m fine now. Thank you,” she said, her breathing back under control and the color returning to her face.

“Let’s just sit here for a moment,” Thomas explained to his grandson when Lisa was out of sight. “I feel a bit out of breath myself. Just give me a minute before we go any further.”

Thomas sat on the back porch, the quiet making him uncomfortable and giving him a tight feeling around his heart, as his grandson sat on the railing. The air didn’t seem to move, stale, and carried upon it the strangest sense of unease. Nothing creaked. Nothing moved, until the roof over the porch suddenly caved in. A beam hit Thomas’ grandson in the head, killing him instantly, and the boards of the roof fell with such force that they pushed Thomas and his wheelchair over the side of the railing. And the Heavens began to cry.

Mr. Gates and Lisa, having heard the commotion, ran to the back porch. Only one section of the roof had fallen, that single section where Thomas had been waiting.

“He’s dead,” Mr. Gates said after trying to find the pulse of Thomas’ grandson. Respectfully, Christopher took his own windbreaker and placed it over the head.

“Thomas,” Lisa asked. “Can you hear me?”

The old man was bleeding profusely from the ears and nose. Lisa took the handkerchief from the old man’s pocket and held it against the head wound, knowing not what else to do while Christopher called for emergency.

“Can you hear me?”

Thomas could barely open his eyes, mumbling only one word before his life ended. “Hope.”


The tours were stopped. And, almost as quickly, the lawsuits began, visitors suing the State for possibly having been in life-threatening danger when touring the house, for their children enduring emotional distress as the ambulance rushed across the property, sirens blaring, to reach the victims, and for having to be on the property when two people lost their lives.

Rumors began, leaving with the visitors that exited the gates and traveling until reaching all four corners of the country. Christina, they said, had returned from the grave, angry at how The Oak was being used, angry at an old colleague who would dare to encourage such a venture. Others simply said that it was an old house that the State did not inspect properly, weakened timbers taking two innocent lives because of neglect. Still, other rumors began that other people had died at the Oak, deaths not revealed to the visitors by the State, deaths caused by dark apparitions seeking energy, by sagging, unsupported beams that would fall upon the heads of the unexpecting, and by murderers who would hide in the fields waiting to prey.

The State closed the gates as they, along with the sheriff, investigated the cause of the scene and construction workers repaired damage to the structure, everyone hoping for some sort of explanation. The State employees were placed on leave and told not to return to The Oak until requested, uncertain if their future held a job at the Oak, uncertain if they wanted it to. And, for some of the workers who had been with the Oak for years, some of them belonging to families that had worked at The Oak for decades, calling it home, sharing its hope, the two deaths were a warning solidifying the unease they had been feeling, convincing them to exit the gates with the visitors, never to return.

And, The Oak became quiet, the property free of people, save a worker here and there who felt a loyalty to their home to remain, though it no longer looked or felt like the home that they had known. And, the house became darker, the walls breathing heavily at times as if thinking, planning.

Lisa sat in bed looking at the book, but not opening it. The front cover was a copy of the painting, The Oak at sunrise, the gentle hues raining over the house with a quiet happiness, while the back cover was a copy of the Allgood family portrait. The Deathbed Letters of Abigail Smith Allgood was written in bold lettering at the top of the cover. Lisa tossed the book across the bed to the nightstand, the book landing on a corner and balancing so as not to fall off. Exhaling and picking up the other book beside her, she looked at its title, The Oak: The Letters of Christina Allgood, written in bold letters at the top while in smaller letters just below the title were written the words, Heiress to the Allgood Fortune. The front cover carried photographs of Christina as a baby as well as in her coffin, while the back cover carried a copy of the professional sketch of the Oak. Lisa let out a grunt of disgust, throwing the book over to the nightstand, knocking the first book off onto the floor.

“Hope,” she whispered to herself. “What was Thomas trying to say? What did he plan to tell me,” she wondered. She looked toward the nightstand, remembering what Thomas had said about the books but finding herself unable to open them, seeing only attempts at profit and disrespect of the dead on their covers. “Hope,” she mumbled as she laid down to rest, “hope?”

Into dreams she fell, sleep easing her discomfort, her sorrow, as it showed to her images and colors and gently whispered words she could not understand. Swirling tunnels of blue and white, she saw, peaceful colors meant to soothe that melted into flight through mountains and over The Oak as it used to be, a soul carried upon the wind through beautiful valleys of greens and browns and blues, fading into the quiet sound of the sun upon the ripples of the water. At the edge of the water sat a white rabbit with crystal blue eyes looking towards Lisa, explaining in words with no form. And, in her dream, her attention was drawn to the Oak in the current form, a darkness engulfing the house with violent, crushing hands, the windows becoming angry eyes and the front door a voice for blood-curdling screams that tore through the soul and wrecked havoc on the heart.

The sound of hammers and gasoline-powered blades awoke her, her eyes opening in noisy confusion and, through a blurry haze, she saw the two books of letters stacked one atop another, neatly positioned at the corner of the nightstand.

“Sleeping late,” Henry asked in that familiar tone as Lisa made her way to the kitchen.

Lisa saw Mary Alice sitting at the table. “Now, before you say anything, I know I was sent home, but I just felt the need to come for a visit. I’m just not sure why.”

Lisa patted Mary Alice on the shoulder as she headed for the coffee. “It’s good to see you back here. I thought you may have been like the others, scared off forever.”

“Ain’t nothing to be scared of,” Henry said. “Just some stupid beam. Nothing else.”

“I wonder if The Oak will ever reopen?”

Henry laughed, and the two women looked to him for explanation.

Henry cleared his throat and began after taking a sip of his coffee, “I have it on good authority that the State doesn’t feel they’ll be able to recover from this little situation.”

“So,” Mary Alice’s tone asked for elaboration.

“Well, now I could tell you the rest of it,” Henry began, “but then I’d have to kill you.” He laughed again and left the kitchen, taking a cookie with him on the way. “You’ll see.”

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Lisa said, staring at the door Henry had walked through. Lisa sat at the prep table with Mary Alice, stirring her coffee with the cinnamon stick.

In a serious tone, Mary Alice began, “The house is even worse now, isn’t it? I can feel the difference.”

“Yes. I can’t decide if I think the house is feeding off of something negative or if something is feeding off of the house.” She paused, looking up from her coffee. “I’m sorry, Mary Alice. That sounded insane.”

“Not really.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, think about all the houses you’ve ever visited. They reflect the personality of the people who live there, right?”

“Usually.”

“So, houses with people who are typically happy are houses that seem bright and cheery, open, welcoming,” Mary Alice said, talking with one hand while the other held her coffee. “Whereas, houses where people who are depressed or angry live, well the house takes on a closed feeling, the light doesn’t come in well, there’s something about it, even the outside of it so that even before you get out of your car and go knock on the door you just get that feeling that something is a little off.”

“Yes. I know what you mean. Mary Alice, I don’t mean to be mean, but why are you wearing your tour jacket when you’re not going to give a tour?”

Mary Alice smiled. “I guess I just like this jacket and, when I’m in this house, I feel like wearing it is a sign of respect to the Oak. It’s always felt like an honor to be able to come in here and tell people about this old house.” After drinking of her coffee, Mary Alice continued, “And, speaking of the house, how are you and Henry getting along?”

Lisa’s eyes grew angry. “That, he, I, ugh,” she struggled before calming herself. “I’ve had more than I can stand of him,” she whispered. “He is an obstacle, a problem to this house. I blame him for part of the trouble The Oak is having.”

“Hum,” Mary Alice delicately began. “And, you’ve told him this?”

“No. It’s bad enough around here without me telling him what I really think of him.”

“Remember, Lisa,” Mary Alice said calmly, “your anger, spoken or not, if he senses it, could be driving him on, encouraging him, adding to the darkness of the Oak.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Lisa, what you say is only part of the equation. Words have power. But, the house, people, will also sense what is unspoken, what is in your heart. And, anger will only feed the darkness, lessen hope.”

“What am I supposed to do? He’s destroying my home!”

“You’re helping him destroy it,” Mary Alice continued, her voice calm and soothing, steady. “Whatever made him into what he is today, it wasn’t you, but you will have an effect on what he is now and what he continues to be, and you’ll effect yourself as well.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“If you can sincerely feel it in your heart, send him messages of hope, of forgiveness.”

Lisa laughed, lost somewhere between confusion and humor and anger at the sound of the conversation.

“If you can do that, Lisa,” Mary Alice said, “you’ll find greater peace within yourself and you may even sense a greater peace within him.”

Lisa thought for a moment, still uncertain if she understood the meaning behind the words. Lisa’s eyes were drawn to the silver hanging beneath Mary Alice’s neck, the only item in the kitchen that seemed to attract and reflect the light through the window. “What a beautiful crucifix, Mary Alice. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed it before.”

“I usually wear it close to my heart, under my blouse. I figure my private thoughts are mine alone.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lisa said urgently. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay,” Mary Alice smiled as she interrupted. “I know you didn’t.” Lifting up the necklace to show Lisa, Mary Alice continued. “I received this necklace from my grandmother when I was just a little girl and I’ve worn it nearly ever day since then. It’s my greatest source of hope, Lisa.”

“Well, it certainly is very pretty.”

“Do you know what hope is, Lisa?”

Lisa stuttered, a bit confused by the question. “Well, I thought I did.”

“Hope is the strength it takes to take a single, tiny, little step forward into the next moment of life. That’s why people who commit suicide are said to be filled with hopelessness; they’ve lost the strength to take even one more step.”

“Do you think The Oak has lost hope?”

“I think the people who pass through these walls with hope have become much fewer in number than those who pass through without it. It’s like the houses, dear. An angry person cannot survive in a happy home. They will either leave or, unknowingly, will find themselves becoming less angry, more happy, more hopeful. And, a happy soul will not remain happy in an angry house. It’s too uncomfortable, and, if they do, they will find themselves becoming more angry. If hope built this house and hope lived here for a century, then what is occupying the house now that has caused it to darken, even to kill?”

“But, how do you fight darkness?”

“With happiness, with light, with hope.”

Mary Alice hugged Lisa goodbye at the front oak doors, whispering in her ear before leaving the embrace, “Hope, Lisa, hope.”

“Where is your car? You could have driven it up to the door now,” Lisa said, noticing the drive empty of a vehicle.

“It’s a pretty walk on a pretty day,” Mary Alice said, her eyes sparkling. “Goodbye, Lisa.”

And, Lisa, stood in the doorway, watching Mary Alice walk down the drive. Looking to a somewhat cloudy sky above, then looking about a mysteriously vacant property, a property no longer holding brilliance about it, Lisa wondered what Mary Alice could possibly be looking at.

“Is she gone,” Henry came up from behind and asked.

“Do you ever do anything,” Lisa, unlike her usual self, angrily said, turning to face Henry with a look of disgust.

“Oh, I’m always up to something,” he said with a smile, slowly turning to head back upstairs, adding, “I’m glad she’s gone. I didn’t like her either.”

Lisa leaned her shoulder against the door, turning her attention back to the drive, but Mary Alice was out of sight. “How did she make it down the drive so quickly,” Lisa thought. “There’s no way,” she said to herself, stepping out and walking down the drive, thinking that Mary Alice must have tired and sat hidden behind an old oak or something.

All the way to the parking lot, Lisa walked, looking behind trees and looking out towards the wooden areas. Reaching the guardhouse, Lisa asked if Mary Alice had made it out alright, but the guard knew not what she was talking of. “Mary Alice,” Lisa asked the guard, “older lady, green jacket, would have come through here just a few minutes ago.”

The guard checked his books and shook his head. “No one has been in or out of these gates except for Henry Stevenson since the day before yesterday when the accident happened.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I was on duty all day yesterday and this morning since six. And, there’s no other names on the sign-in log except his.”

“I really don’t understand,” Lisa muttered, mostly to herself.

“That really was a bad accident,” the guard commented. “Made the front page of the State paper again today.”

Lisa took the paper and began looking over the photographs on the front page There was one of The Oak, another of the public relations person giving a speech about the accident, and a picture of Thomas sitting at the bank desk where he worked for so many decades before retiring.

And, in the lower left hand corner was a picture of Mary Alice. Oak Claims Third Victim the headline read above an article that explained that Mary Alice, driving to her home after the closing of the Oak, had had a single-car accident when she lost control of her vehicle, colliding with a pole on the highway, losing the battle for her life in the middle of the last night.

Lisa handed the paper back to the guard, saying nothing.

“You know people are saying that The Oak is evil now,” the guard began, but Lisa was not listening, walking back towards The Oak with tears in her eyes, her head spinning, her thoughts unclear.

“Hope,” Thomas’ voice kept repeating in her mind.

“Hope,” she continued to hear Mary Alice whisper.

Lisa walked toward the garden, seeing Mr. Gates bending down, tending to the plants.
“Hello,” she said more like a question.

“Well, good morning,” Christopher said as cheerfully as ever. “How are you this morning?”

Lisa sat on the bench, looking at the dying house and then to the beautiful garden, alive and thriving. “How do you keep these flowers looking so good?”

“Well,” Christopher began, looking up towards Lisa, “I keep them watered and give them a little fertilizer now and then. And, I talk to them,” he laughed, “and play them a little music from time to time. Classical,” he said, “they like the classical music.”

Lisa smiled. “Really,” she said, almost laughing.

Mr. Gates, comfortably, sat on the bench beside Lisa and continued. “I like it out here in my garden. I give the plants some of my time, attention, a little TLC, and,” he motioned to the garden, “look at what they give me in return, beauty, wonderful smells, joy. Now, it is kind of funny, but there really is something to be said for a few kind words or some inspirational sounds.”

“Do you really think it works?"

“Yes, I do,” he said, removing his hat only to brush his hands through his gray hair and put it on again. “Plants are living things and all living things need some kind words, some tender gestures to keep up their strength and stand tall, face each day, keep their hope up.”

“Hope,” Lisa asked.

“Well, sure,” Christopher continued. “What else do we have to get us through the hard times but hope? If I didn’t have hope that these flowers could grow, probably never would have planted them. If I didn’t have hope that watering them would help, probably wouldn’t bother with that either. And, then, without a doubt, they would die. Hope matters. Hope can be the difference between life and death.”

Lisa sat quietly, studying the flowers and contemplating the word she had heard so much lately, hope, and wondering if she truly believed in it.


“Hello,” Lisa answered while drying her hands when the kitchen home phone rang.

“Lisa,” the familiar voice asked.

“Monica?”

“Yes,” Monica laughed. “It’s me. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately and thought I’d call and see how you were.”

“I’m fine,” Lisa said, still a bit shocked at the call and sitting down on a stool near the prep table. “How are you?”

“Things are going well for me here. I’ve made the move to Massachusetts now so I can be near my sister. We talk on the phone a couple of times a week and every Tuesday night we get together on her deck and watch the sunset while we eat desert. It’s really nice getting to know her again. I’d forgotten some of the things I’d always admired about her.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“And, we’ve actually begun writing down our memories so our family history, our lessons learned, can be handed down to her kids and mine if I ever have any. Yeah, and I’m taking care of another elderly woman, but the woman I take care of now gets around pretty well on her own. Like Christina, though, she can be quite independent,” Monica laughed, “but she has some wonderful stories to share and it seems like I learn something every day.”

“Wow,” Lisa said, her voice dimming as she listened to an excited Monica while looking around a dying kitchen. “I really am happy for you,” Lisa uttered, meaning it somewhere deep inside but unable to make it sound that way.

“How is everything at The Oak? I’ve been hearing some really unbelievable stuff on the news and the papers are writing something about the Oak every day, even way up here.”

“Well,” Lisa’s voice quieted, “things are certainly not what they used to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“Um, well,” Lisa tried to find the words. “I’m not sure you would recognize The Oak anymore, Monica. It’s not the same place anymore. It’s, It’s, just,” she stuttered, “It’s just not the same place. As crazy as this sounds, try to imagine the evil parallel of The Oak and that is what this place seems like now, like we’ve all been cast into some parallel universe where The Oak is downright creepy.”

Monica paused, uncertain what, if anything, to say.

“There aren’t many people here anymore. The changes in this place have scared them off. It’s just, I don’t know. It’s just not the same.”

“Are you alright,” Monica gently asked. “You don’t seem yourself.”

“I’m okay. The Oak is just not a very happy place to be right now. It’s just getting to me, I guess. Did you hear about Thomas Alexander, his grandson, and Mary Alice?”

“Yes, I heard. The newspapers up here are making fun of it, blaming it on ghosts and such.” Monica’s disapproval of the disrespect could be heard in her voice.

“They don’t know the half of it,” Lisa mumbled.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. I, I was just, uh, thinking out loud. So, what have you been doing for fun these days,” Lisa said, trying to sound happy but not able to summon the energy.

“The country is beautiful up here. So, when I’m able, I try to see what’s around here. I make the time. I’m learning to enjoy life, each day. And, when she’s able, I try to take Ms. Deidre out for a drive through the countryside.”

“Who,” Lisa quickly asked.

“Oh, Deidre, that’s her name, the lady I take care of now.”

“Oh.”

“May be you’d like to come for a visit, get away from The Oak for a bit? It sounds like you could use it.”

“No, I’ll just stay here. I just can’t leave The Oak.”

“Or, you won’t,” Monica asked. “If it’s making you so unhappy, why not get out for a while, get a new perspective, and then, if you still want to, go back to The Oak. Think about it Lisa, okay? Besides, to quote the old familiar, if you had only six months left to live would you really want to continue living the way you are now?”

Lisa thought for a moment, not finding enough energy within to become angry or to brainstorm ideas of what she might do with that time.

“You don’t sound yourself, Lisa. You don’t have that energy in your spirit anymore. I’m worried about you.”

Lisa’s tears began to swell. “I don’t even know the difference anymore between what’s real and what’s not. I’m even wondering if you’re real, if there is actually a living, breathing being on the other end of the phone.” Lisa inhaled to calm herself. “I’m just really tired. That’s all.”

“I’m not convinced that that’s all,” a concerned voice commented.

“Well, you know, may be I’m being punished or something for things I’ve done or said or thought. Get what you give, I guess,” she mumbled.

“No,” Monica said, “you give what you’re given.” Monica repeated herself, “You give what you’re given, Lisa. Think that over. It’s the reason how people effect each other, effect our environment. We give what we’re given. It doesn’t explain everything in life, but it explains quite a bit.”

Lisa drug her hands across her face to dry her tears, prepared to tell Monica that her words were ridiculous when Lisa found her eyes drawn toward the window, looking out into the garden and seeing Christopher tend to his roses.

“Lisa,” Monica asked after a lengthy pause. “Are you okay? Are you still there?”

Lisa walked to the window, the phone in her hand falling to her side as a breeze brushed her face and she heard recent words repeated as if a nearby ghost was whispering in her ear.

“Hope. Hope. Hope,” the words seemed to overlap each other in a chorus as Lisa heard the whispers. “You get what you give. You give what you’re given. Speak up,” the words floated through her mind.

“Lisa,” Monica cried a bit louder. “Are you okay? Are you there?”

Lisa pulled the phone back up to her ear. “I’m here. I’m here. I’m sorry,” Lisa rushed to get the words out. “I thought I heard something,” and Lisa looked again to the decaying walls, darkened and avoiding the light, “but it must have been my imagination,” Lisa quietly said, her eyes dimming a bit.


Shortly after hanging up the phone, again it rang.

“Hello,” Lisa said, trying to sound cheerful.

“Lisa?”

Lisa cleared her throat. “Yes, this is Lisa.”

“You may not remember me. It’s been a while since we’ve visited. This is Hope.”

Chills ran down Lisa’s spine and arms. “Hope,” she asked for clarity.

“Yes. I really wish I hadn’t waited so long to call or write or visit or something. I heard about Christina,” Hope said. “You do remember who this is, don’t you? I call every fall. You and Christina helped me about fifteen years ago when I walked up to the Oak after I had been raped.”

Lisa remembered well. “Yes, yes I remember you,” she said, still struggling from the surprise and taking a seat again at the prep table to steady herself. “How are you.”




This work is completely fictional. Any resemblance to situations or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and completely coincidental.