Where the Devil Says Goodnight (Folk Lore #1) - K.A. Merikan Page 0,5
to startle you. I’m looking for the church.”
The store owner’s eyes narrowed, and she put the keys into the pocket of the pink pants she wore with a matching blazer. The small lamp above the entrance softened the lines of her face, but it was impossible not to notice that even though she carried herself in a way that suggested middle age, her face was devoid of wrinkles under the thick makeup. It was the appearance Adam associated with socialites in Warsaw, not small-town businesswomen, but she still looked normal. No pentagrams. No runes. And unless her smooth features were the result of sorcery, not Botox, Mother’s stories about Dybukowo were grossly exaggerated.
When she didn’t respond right away, Adam cleared his throat. “My name’s Adam. I’m the new priest to assist Pastor Marek,” he said, eyeing the modern black SUV parked by the store. In weather as bad as this, she’d surely offer to drive him to his destination. It only made sense to honor a new shepherd and welcome him with more warmth than the pastor had so far.
She frowned and pushed back the short curls on top of her head. “I thought you were supposed to arrive on Saturday. I guess timetables aren’t as important in Warsaw.”
So she did know about him. That was a good thing. The negative comment about his big city background—not so much. He’d expected some pushback from his new parishioners, but getting slapped in the face with it at night, while a storm raged in the sky, hurt him more than it should have.
“Oh. It’s probably a misunderstanding. I guess I better arrive at the parsonage as soon as possible.” He let the words hang in the air, but when the woman hadn’t taken the bait, he offered her a wide smile. “Would you mind giving me a ride?”
Her brows lowered. “I’m sorry, but I am already late to pick up my grandson. You need to go straight down the road until you reach the church. You can’t miss it,” she said and opened an umbrella, leaving him stunned as she jogged to the car.
Where was the famous countryside hospitality? Maybe he’d need to address this issue in his first sermon? Then again, since he was an outsider, locals would surely see that as an insult. He could choose a different route—making a grand passive-aggressive thank you that just one person would understand.
He scolded himself for both ideas. That wasn’t him at all. He was friendly and didn’t hold grudges, even against a lady who drove an expensive-looking car and refused to help him out in this horrible weather. He stood still, watching her back lights disappear from sight in the darkness only lit by the windows of homes scattered over the landscape as scarcely as morsels of meat in a thin soup.
The sky was an asphalt-gray above two chunky hills ahead, but that was where the woman had told him to go, so he pulled on his hood, closed the jacket, and started walking, hoping the way was as straightforward as she’d claimed. His cell phone had lost signal way before the bus had rolled into Dybukowo, so there would be no help from Google Maps.
With shoes full of water—and he’d worn the nicest ones to make a good impression on his hosts—he trudged down the narrow road, taking in the wooden houses on either side. Some had barns or sheds attached, but there were no rustic decorations, fake wells, nor elaborate flower gardens in sight. This was real countryside, too far away from ‘civilization’ to become some city’s bedroom community, and still inhabited by native highlanders.
Water splashed in twin ditches running on either side of the asphalt, but Adam’s ears picked up on the eerie quiet despite the hiss of the storm. A man briefly appeared from behind a curtain when his dog alarmed him of someone passing through the village so late at night, but he left Adam to his thoughts as soon as he saw him.
Fair enough. Nobody was obliged to ask a traveler whether they needed any help, even if said traveler was soaked to the bone.
Adam kept up a fast pace, and realized he was about to leave the village behind only a couple of minutes into the trek. He stopped by the local notice board, looking back at the collection of buildings that constituted Dybukowo, but when wind pushed him forward, he decided a local woman couldn’t have been wrong about the directions to the church