GRIM Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

I S A A C

FELLSMERE, VIRGINIA

MAY 24, 1893

8:16 P.M.

            It always fascinated me just how fragile the forest is.

            Comprised of such wonders of creation, a system of never-ending life that all fits together in a multitude of pieces, each one playing a part in the continuation of the woods. The trees, the birds, the insects, the light, the dark. And how many mysteries they all hide.

            “So tell me what the wind told you today.”

            June settled beneath he bed sheets, pulling the thick wool covers up to her chin and peering out at me through the dim light. Her young, curious eyes were ones I wished I still had.

            “Well,” I began, my voice soft, just barely audible in the dark room. The only light came from a small candle, which had been burning for so long it was almost completely melted. “I heard very little from them today. But they told me one thing: that time has no meaning.”

            She looked intrigued. She was always fascinated with the stories of the winds and what they told me.

            “What do you mean?”

            “The winds told me that time is not in a regular order,” I told her, and she gazed on with wonder. “Instead time is a continuous course of events, all happening at the same time.”

            “I do not understand.”

            “I am afraid that I do not either,” I whispered. “But I shall sleep soundly tonight, and maybe it will come to me.”

            I leaned in and kiss her on the head, bidding her goodnight and excusing myself from the room.

            The truth is, the winds did not speak to me. But I do not know who did.

           

.     .     .

            As I lay in bed, my eyes on the wooden boards of the ceiling, I listened.

My window had no shutters, only a thin translucent curtain that waved slightly and reflected the moonlight onto the floor.

All was silent. Any sound would have disrupted my focus on listening.

            Every night, I hear voices. They come through my window, whispers as soft as the wind. I am not insane, for people would have discovered so by now. The only person I can tell of them to is little June, my sister, who believes anything I say. But the frightening part of things is that I have not a clue who whispers to me.

            I turned over, facing the direction away from the window and closing my eyes. It is always when I am not looking that the voices come. And sure enough, they did then.

            “Mr. Lawrence, do you remember?”

            A soft whisper, like the sound of wind moving through a hollow. Ever so eerie. Almost inhuman. I did not know of what it speaks. But I did not continue the conversation. I never do.

            “Mr. Lawrence, in not too long, you are going to meet a girl, one who thinks like you and acts like you but is not from your…area. When you do, remember her.”

            The voices do not usually tell me more than a few sentences. Unusual.

            “Some time tomorrow you must leave a note on the old forest road for someone, and you must write it on the stone. You are to engrave these following words: ‘Under the wheel.’ Make the stone visible. Good night, and do not let the darkness hinder you.”

            That is the voices’ usual closing. And with that, they were gone.

            The next day I was to leave a visible stone command on the old forest road. Why, I did not know. But it was new to receive directions from the voices. It was then that I knew I was not insane.

c. Taylor Ward 2013. All rights reserved.