Chapter One of Heirline
CHAPTER 1: Excerpted from Heirline by Thomas Knight
Landon Hall
Lake of Bays, Canada
IT WAS A DARK, FOUL, wintry Friday, January 24, 1992. The wet wind riding in on the leading edge of the front made it rotten cold. Drizzle turned to fat, sloppy globules that splattered the windshield, then to flurries as Alison headed further north. The droning rhythm of the road had a hypnotic effect and lulled her into daydreaming of it—whatever “it” was—could all be about.
Alison shifted in the driver’s seat, leaned forward, worked the knot out from between her shoulders, and settled back more comfortably, feeling the fatigue of the long trip wash over her. She was alone, driving the last leg of a journey prompted by the letter she had received two weeks before. “Please come as soon as you are able, Alison,” the note had directed. “I need to see you as soon as possible regarding an important family matter.”
Alison telephoned to try and find out why Great-Aunt Gertrude wanted to see her, but with the coy old fox feigning deafness and repeatedly saying, “When? When are you coming to see me, dear?” she resigned herself to the fact of travelling and gave her the date of her arrival.
Suddenly, Alison sensed something seemed different, almost imperceptible, but different. A subtle change, as if the car was running better somehow.
Refocusing while becoming alert, she took in the roadway and, in turn, looked into the rearview and sideview mirrors; everything seemed OK. She quickly scanned the dashboard gauges; everything appeared to be normal. After a long moment, with apparently nothing untoward, Alison began to relax again.
Outside, the temperature dropped and the headwind died, while a brooding mountain range of towering thunderheads boiled and churned its way rapidly toward her.
Alison stared blankly ahead as she glided through the dead calm, responding automatically to the gently changing way and bevel of the road, drifting back to wondering again about the reason for her visit. An important family matter, she mused. What in the world has the old gal got going, she asked herself, the itch of the enigma becoming an ache. Alison coasted through the still air, then slowly accelerated as the leading edge of the storm front drew in more draft from below, pulling her toward the insatiable development of its vertical sheer. The instant Alison realized she was being drawn forward at uncontrolled speed, the savage fury of the weather bomb hit and detonated around her, and the car momentarily left the ground.
Hurricane-force winds backed, veered, and backed again, buffeting the car, while serpentines of drifting snow slithered erratically across the quickly blanketing highway.
Shaken out of her reverie, Alison stiffened and slowed, fighting the wheel, eyes searching, straining to see within the flood of her headlights as the tempest stormed out of the darkness, hurling itself toward and around her.
The car rental agent at Toronto Airport mentioned snow was on the way, but now the radio announcer interrupted Flashbacks at Six with a special weather bulletin: “. . . and this just in: Environment Canada meteorologists are tracking a severe winter storm capable of producing powerful wind gusts exceeding 110 miles per hour within our region. A snow squall alert—squalls violent at times—is now in place as the squall lines move through our listening area for the next ninety minutes. Temperatures will continue to fall, and blizzard conditions with strong, sustained winds accompanied by heavy snow are expected throughout the evening. If visibility is reduced while driving, slow down, watch for taillights, and be prepared to stop. Accumulations are expected to exceed eighteen inches.” The announcer added, “Please be extra careful if you are out on the roads tonight, folks; this storm is going to make driving hazardous out there.”
“No kidding,” Alison whispered to herself, continuing to creep her way along.
Driving conditions were becoming slippery and treacherous, and Alison was pulling over to wait for the blizzard to subside when a signpost ahead came into view. Squinting through the hazy blur, past the undulating sheets of blowing snow, she was just able to make out Auburn Lane. “Thank God!” she said aloud, relieved, knowing she was close to the end of her trip. She cautiously drove to the corner, turned, and glided to a stop. On both sides, the narrow road was lined with tall, mature stands of spruce, maple, and pine. In front, the snow-laden branches arched overhead, forming a domed passageway tunnelling into the night. Here, the wind died abruptly. A veritable sanctuary from what raged behind.
Alison switched on the interior lights and rechecked the directions: Taunton Rd. -- right -- Auburn Lane -- left (approx. 1.5 miles) -- third driveway on right -- mailbox Perdue.
Switching off the interiors, she started again, hearing the crunching, moaning creek of the tires as she eased her way through the undisturbed powder. Slowly. Cautiously. Alison followed the winding, craggy track toward the entrance of the estate.
A king bull moose, more than a ton of him, stood majestically at the precipice of an outcropping high overhead, silently watching down through the gloom as Alison’s car growled and snaked its way through the rock cut far below. The droning sound of the engine moved off into the night. The heavy snow continued to fall.
* * *
Pulling through the gates, Alison travelled the full length of the drive, rounding into the forecourt, and parked. Tired but thankful to have arrived at her destination, she gathered additional strength, bundled herself against the cold, grabbed her overnight bag, and stepped out of the car.
The storm endured. A biting wind howled as it blew in off the lake, driving sleet and snow with such brutal force that it stung Alison’s face. She turned downwind, closed the car door, and braced herself as a strong gust knocked her temporarily off balance. Shouldering the harsh wind and shielding her eyes while holding her coat’s hood in place, she pulled the collar more tightly around and, sidestepping, labored her way toward the entrance of the limestone mansion.
* * *
Unscathed from a thousand storms, the manor stood in quiet splendor. Pointed and true. Fortress strong. Built in 1843 with hand-chiseled limestone and mortar joints blended with generous helpings of ox blood added for strengthening during the mix, helped to ensure the twenty-one-room former Governor’s summer residence lasted for at least another 150 years.
Light streamed from tall, mullioned windows and glowed from bedroom casements, reminiscent of a bygone age when a younger manor welcomed Upper Canada gentry, accommodating their weekend getaways of leisure and sport. Tonight, bathed in former glory, the enchanting home still gave Alison a breathless sense of awe and wonder, as it awaited the reception of an unsuspecting heiress and an out-of-the-ordinary visiting grandniece.
Alison climbed the snow-covered steps and, having reached the protection of the front porch, somewhat relieved, stamped her feet against the wet and cold, brushed away the accumulated frosting of snow, and continued to the front door. She took hold of the large brass knocker, bringing it down with several sharp, repetitive blows, pushed back her hood, tidied her hair the best she could, and waited.
After some time, she reached up to knock again when she heard the soft, muffled pad of footsteps approaching from the other side. With a rattle and clack, the heavy door moaned open to life. An eye peered from the crack. “Yes?”
“My name is Alison Palmer, and I believe Mrs. Perdue is expecting me?”
The safety chain scraped and jangled, sliding out of its keep, and when the heavy oak door opened its full travel, the Scottish lilt that greeted her was thick, warm, and inviting. “Aye, we have been expecting you, but we dinnae thin’ you were going to make it through. Come in! Come in! And get the cold out of ya.”
Alison crossed over the threshold and moved quickly inside. “Thank you!”
“Aye, and welcome back to Landon Hall, Alison.”
Once in the foyer, as if advancing the wheel card of a View-Master to its next frame, Alison clicked from the present to the world of the past. Her past. A montage of memories flooded into her consciousness. Scenes from her youth. Images of happy, carefree, less complicated days, innocent days. She felt as if she were twelve again. She was twelve again.
The garbled voice brought her back from within, “. . . and it’s getting tae be a wee bit of the nasties out there then, isn’t it?”
“Y-y-yes. . . ” said Alison, slowly surfacing from the past. “Yes, it really is!”
“It’s as though the devil himself is trying to blow his way in!” said the stout Scotswoman clad in a white starched tunic as she finished closing and securing the door and turned.
She was fiftyish. Short but large. Thick-necked with a pudgy, red-cheeked face that held warm, friendly eyes that complemented an infectious, radiant smile. “My name is Lillian. Lillian Thompson.” Her nonstop motion carried her toward Alison as she continued, “I’m hired in most days a week, then, Alison, tae help out round the place; you know, kind of like homemaker and such.”
“Pleased to meet you, Lillian.”
“The pleasure’s mine, ma’am. The missus has told me a lot about ya. Here now, let’s get you out of those wet things, then, lassie.”
“Yes, thank you.”
As Alison unbuttoned and slipped out of her winter garb, Lillian studied the new arrival. Alison Palmer appeared to be in her late twenties, dressed smartly and well-groomed. First impressions lent to the conclusion that she was confident and self-assured without being arrogant. The high cheekbones and angular facial features hinted at a Slavic ancestry, while the thick, curly mane of golden-brown chestnut hair framed an unblemished oval face, then cascaded down onto her chest, shoulders, and back. But her most striking characteristic, by far, was her alluring, if not mesmerizing, sea-foam green eyes, which seemed to hold the onlooker spellbound until they were released from their gaze. On her slender, five-foot-seven-inch frame, she wore a plain white cotton blouse buttoned to the neck under a figure-hugging burgundy cashmere sweater, complemented by form-fitting jeans that accentuated her hourglass figure. She’s a looker, Lillian thought; Must have a wee bit of bother with the boys.
“I’ve never been so glad to have arrived anywhere in my life, Lillian,” Alison said as she surrendered her topcoat. “I’ve never seen weather this bad, let alone driven in it.”
“Aye. You must have just made it through, Alison. We’ve just heard they’ve closed the main highway—and more snow is expected! We’re in for a doozy, we are! We’ve already got two feet on the ground and another foot or more expected from this one before it’s done with us. Glad you made it in safe and sound.”
As Lillian bent down and picked up the overnight bag, she said, “Alison!” Her voice took on a sense of urgency as she headed for and, with deliberate determination, mounted the staircase and started the ascent. “I dinnae want to seem rude, lassie, but I have her ladyship in the tub right now. So, if you dinnae mind making yourself at home, we won’t be two shakes of a lamb’s tail. It’s bonny in the study by the fire, Alison.”
“Thank you, Lillian, I’ll be waiting in there,” replied Alison.
“Aye, you know where it is. I’ll put the things in your old room,” Lillian said over her shoulder as she hit the upstairs landing and briskly padded down the hallway until she was out of sight.
Alison turned, slowly making her way along one of the three long corridors radiating from the central hall, passing familiar portraits of former landlords, an enormous tapestry depicting a battle scene of Wolfe defeating Montcalm on the Plains of Abraham, and several elaborately carved hall tables and chairs before entering the study.
The room was large. Panelled and cased with cherry. French doors with sidelights opened a view to where the storm raged beyond, and although the room was particularly well-appointed with big game wall-mounts, it was the nine-foot-wide, seven-thousand-year-old Irish Elk antlers suspended over the fireplace that still commanded her attention.
She moved toward the fire when her gaze dropped and rested on a chocolate-point Siamese cat sitting on the deep pile carpet not five feet away. She warmed, bent down, and, leaning forward, offered her hand in a friendly hello. “Here, my pretty baby. Come here, my precious bab—!!”
In a flash, the cat lunged airborne, sounding an unholy caterwauling screech, leaping at Alison’s eyes. At almost the same instant, Alison reeled up and lurched back, with the beast missing its primary target but finding a secondary, pouncing on Alison’s thighs. The cat instinctively went into spasm, sending razor-sharp claws deep into meaty flesh, drawing blood with each incision, and, in only a moment, clawed and tore its way up Alison’s body until reaching the taut, strained sinews of her neck.
With reflex only, Alison jerked into action, grabbing at the base of her throat, sinking frantic fingers into the cat’s writhing body in an effort to try as best she could to stop the attack. Howling in protest, the cat set its claws deeper, refusing to give ground, flailing from side to side, gnawing and biting with all of its might as Alison ripped it from its stay and hurled the beast away, shrieking, “Noooo!”
The cat flew spasmodically across the room before hitting a library baluster with an explosive wail, righted itself, then fell to the floor on all fours as soft as thistledown. Pinky-red waves of blood surged within the whites of its eyes as it crouched into a pouncing stance, growling and hissing with its eyes riveted on her.
Alison gulped for air and tasted bile in the back of her throat as the adrenaline continued to pump through her system. Her heart knocked hard enough, perhaps to be heard. Get out! Get out! she thought, but apoplectic with fear, she stood paralyzed, waiting for another attack.
Alison heard footsteps from behind and quickly glanced around to see Great-Aunt Gertrude coming through the doorway. “Heavenly day!” she said with fright. “Are you all right, Alison?”
Lillian, close on Gertrude’s heels, said, “Good God, Alison, we were almost ‘ere and heard the commotion.”
The pounding in Alison’s chest slowed to a diastole as she went from quick, shallow breaths to deep inhales that started to calm her. “Yes, I’m fine, I think, but I don’t know about that . . . the cat. I bent down to pet it, and the next thing I knew, it was all over me. I had to throw it off.”
“The little stinker,” Gertrude said with some feeling. “She’ll not have the chance to do that again.” She headed over to where the cat lay, growling, and yanked it up.
“Alison!” Lillian said vehemently. “Your hands and neck are bleeding, and we cannae wait to cleanse the wounds, lass. Hurry along with me, and we’ll get ya right as rain.”
“Go along right away, Alison, and I’ll see you after Lillian’s finished. I’m so sorry, dear; she’s never done anything like that before.”
“I’m fine, Nan,” Alison said, using her schoolgirl nickname for her great-aunt. “I’m just a little shaken, that’s all. I’ll freshen up and see you shortly.” Alison looked at the wildcat coddled in Gertrude’s arms: its nostrils flared, its chest still heaving, its eyes glued to hers as she quickly followed Lillian out of the room.
The wounds were more extensive than originally thought. Her thighs, stomach, and chest were also cut. Only small nicks on her legs and torso, but she was still bleeding from the gashes on the exposed flesh of her hands and neck.
After Lillian cleansed the wounds, Alison went to freshen up in the bedroom en suite, and it wasn’t long before a hot toddy appeared on one of the nightstands. Enjoying the concoction, she finished her “bird” bath and changed into some comfortable, loose-fitting clothes before rejoining her great-aunt downstairs.
* * *
The lively fire was a perfect backdrop for the burgundy leather chairs that sat on either side of the hearth. The blaze gave the entire room a soft, warm glow.
“How do you feel now, dear?” asked Gertrude as she rose to greet her.
“I’m fine, Nan. Really, I’m fine. Lillian has taken very good care of me. I’m sorry it took me so long to come down.”
“Not at all, dear. I’m only glad to see you’re still in one piece. I still don’t know what got into that nervy little devil.”
“I can assure you, Nan, that I only have love in my heart for all animals. Normally, dogs and cats tend to be attracted to me, and I would never do anything intentionally to harm one.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing you’ve done, Alison,” Gertrude said, then patted the arm of the chair beside her. “Now, please come and have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”
Alison made her way over and sat, settling deeply into the overstuffed wingchair. Gertrude sat in the other, and they studied each other for a moment. They were both pleased with what they saw before Alison said, “It’s so nice to see you, Nan. You look great. You haven’t changed a day since the last time I saw you. What’s your secret?”
“Oh, just staying out of the poolroom, I guess,” Gertrude replied with a grin. “And look at you! You’re all grown up now.” Her voice took on a more sombre tone. “I was so sorry to hear of your parents’ awful car accident, Alison. I was in the hospital, as you know, and wasn’t able to make it to the funerals. I’m sorry, dear . . . I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Alison swallowed hard, and it was a moment before she was able to continue. “It was a shock to all of us, Nan. I’m still a little numb but slowly coming to terms with the whole thing. It’s been a while now, and everyone’s been so great.”
Lillian wheeled into the room, pushing a full-service tea cart, which included clotted cream and jam for the scones, homemade cookies, and shortbread biscuits. She said, “Now here’s some hot tea tae be warming your insides with! Steeped three minutes, Gertrude, just the way you like it. And there’s something here for the sweet tooth, too, if ya like. Milk or cream, whichever ya prefer, Alison. And how would you be feeling, now, me wee spider?”
“Just great, Lillian. Thank you. The freshening up―and that hot toddy,” she nodded and smiled. “How did you say it before? Got me right as rain.”
“Aye,” Lillian said, nodding and smiling back with a wink. “Nothing like a good wee toddy to be getting you back in the pink. I’m glad you’re feeling better, lassie.” She stepped back. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen, ma’am, so just ring me if you’ll be needing me for anything else.”
“Thank you, Lillian,” replied Gertrude.
“Aye. Thank you, ma’am,” Lillian said as she gave a curt nod and strode from the room.
Gertrude poured the tea and asked, “Milk or cream, Alison?”
“Milk, please,” Alison said, admiring her great-aunt’s bright eyes, which sparkled with life.
As the tea progressed, they discussed some grand old times, but it didn’t take long before Gertrude brought the conversation round to the reason for the visit and said, “Alison, I can only assume you are anxious to find out why I’ve asked you to come.”
“I had forgotten all about that,” she replied. “It’s been so great catching up. But now that you mention it, I was concerned it might have something to do with your health, Nan. Are you OK?”
“Yes,” Gertrude said with a chuckle. “I’m fit as a fiddle. It’s not that much to do with me, dear. No. It’s about a letter written to me by my older brother, Denis—Din, we used to call him—while he fought in Belgium during the First World War. It’s an enigma, really.”
Alison cocked her head to one side and gave a smiling, attentive look as Gertrude leaned over and opened the drawer of the leather-topped drum table that sat between them—logs settled in the fire, and the blaze roared anew, sending a gang of sparks up the flue—as she carefully removed a thick, faded envelope, a single sheet of paper, and what appeared to be an unusually shaped key. Placing the items in her lap, she said, “I will start by telling you, Alison, that in all your days, you will not come across such a mysterious and disturbing letter as that which you are about to read. If something were to have happened to me, your father would have been next in line to receive it and pass it along to you when the time was right. This goes directly to you now, for whatever it means. I was sixteen when my brother, your grandfather, wrote this letter to me.
“Before my brother left for Europe, I asked him to send me a letter of my own telling me what the war was really like. His words, contained within it, are not for the faint of heart. He describes some of his experiences during the Battle of Passchendaele in Belgium toward the end of the First World War. He goes on to describe a chance meeting of sorts, which will settle on the reason why I’ve asked you to come. This was his one and only letter to me. He died on October 8, 1918, on the first day of the Battle of Cambrai, just forty-two days before the end of the war. He was twenty-two years old. The letter is self-explanatory.”
As Gertrude handed Alison the envelope, she pointed to the postmark: Belgium, 11 Nov 17, Passchendaele, and solemnly stated, “In Flemish, the word Passchendaele means the valley where God died.”
Alison reverently took hold of the envelope, gently took out the contents, and carefully unfolded the faded parchment. She moved to the edge of her chair, glanced over at Gertrude, then leaned toward the Tiffany lamp and began to read.
Ypres, Belgium
November 10, 1917
Dearest Gert,
Greetings from the front. How are you? I trust this letter finds you well. As you can see, I’m keeping my promise and sending you a letter of your own. To tell you what war is really like, remember? I only hope you genuinely want to know.
I’ve made some great chums since joining up, it’s true. But war is not a pleasant thing. I remember the troop trains steaming out of Toronto station with all of us young soldiers hanging out the windows and cheering as we headed off to war. To the privilege of serving. The honour, the glory.
It’s different now. The average life expectancy here at the front is twenty-one days. I haven’t taken my clothes or boots off for seventeen days. Three thousand big guns have pounded continually, shaking the earth twenty-four hours a day, not stopping for even one hour during that whole time.
We live in a network of open trenches that have been dug from a sea of mud and are overrun with rats. The temperature hovers just above freezing, and a chilling rain is present more often than not.
This morning, two minutes before zero hour, all of our guns ceased to fire at the same instant. The silence was blood-curdling. Then, at exactly 05:30, three thousand of our big guns opened up simultaneously, creating a cacophony of noise that was almost overpowering. Finally, after standing for thirteen hours in the attack trenches, with much of that time in icy water halfway up to our knees with gobs of rats and a full 50-pound battle kit, the biggest battle of the war began. At this moment, 170,000 souls, save one or two, made peace with their god, and we went over the top into the porridge-like battlefield morass, all under the relentless rain of exploding shells.
I must admit there is fear before you start out, but once you get going, you are callous to everything. You see your best chum killed right in front of you, but that does not stop you, for you keep on going, never thinking that you might be the next.
I witnessed a Highland Pipe Major, wounded in the throat, still marching in step, turning aside for nothing, skirling his pipes bravely, as fallen men refused to notice their wounds and rose up on their knees and elbows to cheer him on. I dove into a crater to miss an incoming shell, and after crawling out through the remnants of my comrades, I was back on the battlefield and found myself running a step with a headless man.
Alison looked up misty-eyed and, catching Gertrude’s gaze, said with feeling, “Oh, my God. Those poor young men. I had no idea how hideous it was for them.”
“By all accounts, it was the most harrowing of times,” Gertrude replied.
Exhaling deeply, Alison looked back down and continued to read.
A fellow by the name of Percy and I were the only ones from our separate units to make it to our objective. We jumped into a foxhole that had a machine gun, which we knew nothing about, and there we were, holding the front line.
We won this day, but out of a company of men 140 strong, only fourteen of us remain to help deal with the sweet, sickly stench of the dead men, horses, and mules.
No, Gert, war is not a pleasant thing. But it was amazing to see what men can do when put to the supreme test. We are told this victory represents a decisive turning point in the war and that the Hun may very well foresee and dread their approaching doom. I can only pray to God that it is so. This is what war is really like, Gert, and more.
As we cleared and secured the area, I came upon a German officer lying in the mud, trying to hold in his guts. I cautiously approached and knelt beside him as he strained to raise an arm and hand to me what I have enclosed. He said in thick, German-accented English, “Wittlich, Deutschland. For your children’s children. Do you understand?” I didn’t really understand and took his words as delirious muttering, but it appeared he wasn’t long for this world, so I said I understood. “Promise me.” “I promise,” I said. That’s when the bayonet came over my shoulder and into the German’s chest, killing him instantly. I looked up to see an Englishman grinning down at me, and as he stepped on the body to pull out the blade, he said, “The only good German is a dead German, mate.” And away the Englishman went.
I will leave the key in your good hands and sign off for now. You will get the better parts of my experience over here through my letters home to Mom and Dad.
Take good care of yourself, and hope to see you soon.
Your loving brother,
Din
* * *
Alison slowly shook her head, and as she carefully refolded the letter and slid it back in the envelope, said, “How can we be so cruel and heartless to our fellow human beings? That day must have been the absolute worst for anyone to have lived through.”
Gertude nodded, “The official record states two-and-a-half bombshells fell for every square foot of battlefield that day, and a soldier could not literally stand still, or he would be killed. I still miss my brother dearly. He was a happy and hardworking fellow. It was fortunate he had a son, your father, before he went overseas. As you have read, this key was enclosed with the letter and goes to you now,” she said, offering Alison the key.
Alison took hold of the key, looked closely from front to back, and said, “The key has such an unusual shape. Stamped DEUTSCHLAND on one side and DB315 on the other. What do you think it may have been used for?”
“It certainly is different to have three bits running down both sides of the thin shaft, said Gertrude. “I’ve not seen one like that before. Deutschland means Germany. And the numbers, no doubt, correspond to the numbers stamped on whatever it opens. It could be used for anything, such as a storage locker at a train or bus station, or something like that. More likely, with the account mentioned in your grandfather’s letter, your father and I leaned toward a bank safe-deposit box. My safe-deposit box key is thin like that, but we just don’t know for sure.”
“Please don’t get me wrong, Nan, it’s truly fabulous being able to come and visit like this, but why have me come at this specific time?” Alison asked with a puzzled expression.
“Good question,” Gertrude said, moving to the edge of her chair. “My brother Denis was a very honourable man. Like his father and his father before him, his word was his bond. He made a promise to a dying man on the field of battle, and nothing would have dissuaded him from honouring his word. Your father and I respected this. We decided I would keep these items, and your father would give them to you soon after your twenty-eighth birthday, which you have just recently arrived at, and,” she said with a smile, “the fact that I’m ninety-two and you never know when God wants you for a moonbeam.”
Gertrude took a sip of tea before continuing, “Your father gave me $5,000 in trust for you to help unravel this mystery, should you wish to do so. Here is a certified cheque.” She placed the cheque on the table. “The money is yours, whether or not you wish to proceed with finding out what it’s all about. At the very least, your father and I thought it would be a trip to Europe, and at twenty-eight years old, you would have your wits about you and should be able to keep yourself out of harm’s way.”
“As luck would have it,” Alison eagerly replied, “I negotiated two weeks’ vacation when offered the position at City Hall and have booked off the first two weeks of May. I haven’t planned anything during that time, and I’d love to go to Europe, especially since you and Dad thought I might like to go. How could I not with such a fascinating mystery?”
Gertrude nodded and replied, “That’s what your father and I thought, that it just might be an exciting adventure. I’m happy you’re going to give it a go.”
* * *
In the morning, as Gertrude and Lillian waved farewell to Alison as she pulled away from the front of the manor, Gertrude asked, “I wonder why the cat attacked Alison like that?”
They say the wee beasties can sense the supernatural, Lillian said to herself. No doubt it was fear. Not from a person, the cat was gentle with people, but an abnormal threat from an invisible hitchhiking companion that entered the room with Alison, that went beyond the laws of nature. A harbinger warning the approach of an impending death—a screaming banshee. But all she said was, “Aye, ma’am, I wonder.”
******
Thomas Knight was born and raised as an inner-city kid in downtown Toronto. Coupled with a career in international sales, travelling to the US, the UK, Europe, and South Africa, Thomas brings an extraordinary range of insight to his work and a glimpse into previously closed realms. Thomas is married and lives with his wife in Kingston, Ontario.
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