duck hunting season was particularly cruel. Every now and then in the fall you’d see a lone duck, quacking. Calling. Waiting for its spouse. And for the rest of its life it would wait.
Were the duck parents waiting now? Waiting for their babies to return? Did ducks believe in miracles?
‘Still, it must have scared the crap out of all of you,’ Olivier laughed, imagining Ruth at the window.
‘Fortunately Clara here was on top of the spiritual crisis, repeating an ancient blessing,’ said Gabri.
‘More drinks, anyone?’ Clara asked.
‘Bless O Lord,’ Gabri began and the others joined in, ‘this food to our use, and ourselves to Thy service.’
Peter sputtered with laughter and felt Scotch dribble down his chin.
‘Let us be ever mindful of the needs of others.’ Peter looked her directly in her amused blue eyes.
‘Amen,’ they all said together, including Clara, who was herself laughing.
‘You said grace?’ Peter asked.
‘Well, I thought I might be seeing my dinner again.’
By now everyone was laughing and even staid and proper Monsieur Béliveau was letting out a rolling, deep guffaw and wiping his eyes.
‘Ruth’s appearance sure put paid to the séance,’ said Clara after she’d regained herself.
‘I don’t think we’d have been successful anyway,’ said Jeanne.
‘Why not?’ Peter asked, curious to hear her excuse.
‘I’m afraid this place is too happy,’ said Jeanne to Olivier. ‘I suspected as much as soon as I arrived.’
‘Damn,’ said Olivier. ‘That can’t be tolerated.’
‘Then why’d you do a séance?’ Peter persisted, certain he’d caught her out.
‘Well, it wasn’t exactly my idea. I’d planned to spend tonight here having the linguine primavera and reading old copies of Country Life. No mean spirits around.’
Jeanne looked directly at Peter, her smile fading.
‘Except one,’ said Monsieur Béliveau. Peter tore his eyes from Jeanne and looked at Béliveau, expecting to see the kindly grocer pointing a crooked Jacob Marley finger at him. But instead Monsieur Béliveau’s hawk-like profile stared out the window.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Jeanne, following his gaze but seeing only the warm lights of the village homes through the lace curtains and the old leaded glass.
‘Up there.’ Monsieur Béliveau jerked his head. ‘Beyond the village. You can’t see it now unless you know what to look for.’
Clara didn’t look. She knew what he was talking about and begged him, silently, to go no further.
‘But it’s there,’ he continued, ‘if you look up, on the hill overlooking the village, there’s a spot that’s darker than the rest.’
‘What is it?’ Jeanne asked.
‘Evil,’ said the old grocer and the room grew silent. Even the fire seemed to stop its muttering.
Jeanne went to the window and did as he instructed. She lifted her eyes from the friendly village. It took her a moment, but eventually above the lights of Three Pines she saw it, a spot darker than the night.
‘The old Hadley house,’ whispered Madeleine.
Jeanne turned back to the gathering, now no longer lounging comfortably with each other, but alert and tense. Myrna picked up her Scotch and took a swig.
‘Why do you say it’s evil?’ Jeanne asked Monsieur Béliveau. ‘That’s quite an accusation, for a person or a place.’
‘Bad things happen there,’ he said simply, turning to the others for support.
‘He’s right,’ said Gabri, taking Olivier’s hand but turning to Clara and Peter. ‘Should I say more?’
Clara looked to Peter who shrugged. The old Hadley house was abandoned now. Had been empty for months. But Peter knew it wasn’t empty. For one thing he’d left part of himself in it. Not a hand or a nose or a foot, thank God. But things that had no substance but fantastic weight. He’d left his hope there, and trust. He’d left his faith there too. What little he had, he’d lost. There.
Peter Morrow knew the old Hadley house was wicked. It stole things. Like lives. And friends. Souls and faith. It had stolen his best friend, Ben Hadley. And the monstrosity on the hill gave back only sorrow.
Jeanne Chauvet floated back to the fire and dragged her chair closer to them so that she was finally in their circle. She placed her elbows on her thin knees and leaned forward, her eyes brighter than Clara had seen them all night.
Slowly the friends all turned to Clara, who took a deep breath. That house had haunted her ever since she’d arrived in Three Pines, a young wife to Peter, more than twenty years ago. It had haunted her and almost killed her.
‘There’s been a murder there, and a kidnapping. And attempted murder. And murderers have lived there.’ Clara