THE CHRONICLER

“Do you smell that?” Nancy quizzed, searching for the odor’s source. “Smell what?” her husband mumbled unconcerned, dropping an armload of sticks beside the rosy hearth. Brushing bark and snow off his deerskin jacket, he speculated, “Maybe you caught a whiff of smoke from inside the chimney. December’s wind is playing havoc with the draft above the fire.” “No, the odor doesn’t smell like smoldering wood,” she frowned. “The nasty stink is more like… rotten eggs and burning sulfur.” “Tarnation,” the mischievous fellow grinned. “I reckon you ought to pray because that sounds more like Perdition’s brimstone. And since you smell it… not me, God might be telling you to repent of your sins.” Angered by the insinuation, Nancy failed to see the humor of his devilish taunt. “Now, Richard,” she scowled and slapped him, “don’t you mock God about serious matters such as Heaven or Hell. I simply won’t stand for it. Do you hear me?” “Yes, Dear,” he squirmed. “I’m truly sorry. But that still doesn’t answer your question. It’s only the first of December, and the skunks ain’t out courting yet. So, that’s no polecat taint.” Snubbing her ornery husband, the woman shrugged perplexed. Yet, the noxious scent was only the first alarming enigma the family shortly faced. Sometime, deep in the night, the hounds rallied from beneath the homestead’s granary to raise bloody hell! “What’s going on?” Richard groused, crawling from the warm quilts to snatch his loaded rifle hanging above the mantel. Stumbling across the floor, he released the wooden latch and flung the cabin’s plank door open to hail one of the dogs. “Rascal, what’s wrong?” The pack’s main male glanced sideways at the human and then emitted one of the most ferocious rants the man ever heard. Pointing the business end of the long muzzle loader into the pitchy gloom, the fellow froze. Silhouetted in the opening with only his homespun union suit, he choked on his words trying to speak. Ignoring their master, the enraged Mountain Curs continued howling and screaming. “Honey,” Nancy edged from the bed, “what is it?” He hissed, “I reckon you best see for yourself.” Cowering behind her husband, the woman peeked over his rigid shoulder. “Oh, Jesus, what are they?” “I suppose your guess is as good as mine.” Hardly heard above the beasts’ ferocious din, Woolsey mustered his courage and bellowed, “You in the woods, declare yourself! Who are you and what’s your business here?” Dismissing the order, the mysterious visitors continued trespassing as if he hadn’t spoken. “Give heed,” Richard warned. “I’m a good aim, and I’ll sure enough shoot you, if I must!” Still the deaf interlopers continued, defying the defender’s threat. “Alright, I told you… fair and square,” he faltered, shouldering the heavy gun. “You had your chance!” The careful fellow targeted one of the unearthly strangers before squeezing the trigger. The ponderous cock slammed the frizzen, showering the pan with minute sparks of flint. The burning powder ignited the charge in the barrel as two noxious clouds of smoke erupted, accompanied by the muzzle’s fiery blast. A thunderous roar reverberated, rending the midnight timber. But the unexplained intruders never flinched in their weird vigil. Undisturbed, the pulsing orbs of ghostly light continued among the trees. Moving in and out, the specters hovered near the ground before floating into the bleak branches, only to settle once again. After the gunfire, the family’s dogs had enough, slinking back to their lair beneath the corncrib as if beaten. Growling and whining, the retreating animals would have otherwise fought a bear or wild boar. But ethereal phantoms were not on their list of customary prey. Taking his cue from the hounds, Richard withdrew as well. Barring the door, the confused man stood inside the cabin’s crowded confines to confront the puzzled expression of his wife and children alike. “Daddy, what is it?” “I don’t rightly know,” the father shrugged. “Are they ghosts?” his wife muttered. “Well, I ain’t seen one before and can’t rightly say,” Woolsey frowned. “But if their work tonight is haunting, then I reckon we best mind our business and leave them to it. Yet, if those floating lights intend to cause trouble, the dogs will sure enough warn us.” Returning to the scant protection of their beds, the sleepless family listened to occasional barks from the timid Curs. The disgruntled beasts hunkered below the nearby granary till dawn’s faint glimmer lit the east. With morning’s first advent, tranquility returned to Copper Creek as if nothing ever happened... except for several strange signs left in the wake of the troubled night. “Richard!” the woman squawked, bursting through the cabin door ahead of her breathless son. “I found the stink!” Plopping a dripping bucket on a crude shelf shouldering the fireplace, she held a brimming dipper of water, “Here, drink this!” “Lord, I don’t need to taste it,” her husband balked. “I can smell the vile stuff from here. Where did you draw that… out of the barnyard?” “Down where I always do,” Nancy spat. “But overnight, the entire creek soured and is not fit for human use!” “There’s more, Pa,” Rick vouched. “Come see the low pasture.” “Why?” the worried father asked. “Where the mineral springs gurgle from the base of the ridge, the ice has melted away and the puddles are steaming in the cold morning air.” “Huh,” the man grunted, “that is purely a genuine puzzlement.” “And what’s worse,” the sixteen-year-old continued. “Where the field drops away into that old sinkhole, the bottom is flooded by a nasty pool of...” The impatient mother interrupted, “What are we suppose to drink during this ungodly plague?” “Well,” her husband shrugged, “we can always scoop up snow and melt in a bucket by the hearth, at least until the creek sweetens. Maybe by then, we’ll know what’s going on.”