The Haunted House On Raven’s Roost

The frail old woman stepped through the open door into the crisp autumn night. She shivered as an icy wind knifed through her clothing. Clutching a large shawl around her head and shoulders with one hand, she pulled the shawl ever more tightly with each gust of wind. The kerosene lantern, held in her other hand, cast an eerie glow around her. The autumn night was dark and the air was crisp. The full moon hanging above the horizon to the east accented the night’s darkness. It was a typical autumn night for those who lived along the Atlantic Ocean coastline. The light cast by the swinging lantern, the moonlight haze, and the wind shifting the leafless trees created writhing contorted shapes and dancing shadows upon the ground. The witch like figure moved the lantern back and forth seeking something in the darkness. Abruptly she stopped the lantern’s movement. “Ahhh, there you are,” she said. In the coal black darkness, two green eyes glowed like emerald orbs. “Come Sinbad,” she murmured softly. “Come on in now. It’s too cold for you to stay out tonight.” For a moment, the glowing green eyes disappeared; then, suddenly a huge black cat sprang into the ring of light that danced at the old woman’s feet. The cat arched her back as she brushed thick black fur against the old woman’s legs. The cat’s tail stood straight up in the air, moving back and forth in a snake like motion, and then, without even a whisper, the cat passed like a shadow through the ring of light and was gone. The old woman knew exactly where the cat had gone. “She’s headed for her warm spot behind the stove,” she thought. Only then did the rustle of chains draw the frail woman’s attention to a time worn shed outside the rim of her lantern’s light. She lifted the lantern higher to better pierce the darkness. In the partial light of the lantern, the old woman could see an enormous Bloodhound moving in and out of the shadows. As the frail woman moved towards him, he pawed the air and shook his powerful body. Just as he threw, back his head and started to howl the old woman spoke to him. “No, Scrimshaw, no howling. Your voice carries much too far on these cold nights.” Groping slightly in the half-darkness, she examined the lock on the shed door and it held firm. The shed held her food stores for the coming winter and the masked bandits, the Raccoons, would surely steal her blind if she did not keep the shed locked and out of their reach. She turned and unfastened the chain from the dog’s collar and Scrimshaw charged into the night. The big Bloodhound moved with power and speed even for his age but he only went a short distance before stopping. When he was younger, he ran and hunted all through the hills with his young master. He missed those hunting trips. Even though his master had been gone for some time, Scrimshaw never stopped looking and waiting for him to return. He constantly sniffed the air for his scent. In the meantime, the old dog would be happy if only there were children, any children, to play with him again. The charging Bloodhound had hardly gone 30 yards when he turned and trotted back to the old woman who stood waiting for him. She knew he would be back. His nose told him exactly where to find the old Lady at every moment and he hardly bothered to look in her direction as he moved through the tangle of weeds and brush surrounding the house on the hill. Scrimshaw approached the old Lady, but immediately froze and wheeled and began searching the vast darkness for a faint and distant sound only he heard. The old woman knew the dog sensed something, something she had not seen or heard, and for sure, it was something unexpected by the dog. He focused on the valley to the East and a little North. “There’s nothing in that direction,” she thought. Her eyes searched the night in the direction where Scrimshaw remained riveted, towards the West Valley Road. She saw nothing but the shadows cast by a reluctant moon trying to climb higher into the sky. Lowering the lantern, she shortened the wick transforming the lantern’s light from a ring of fire into a glowing ember. A few moments passed before her eyes adjusted to the darkness. “What is it Scrimshaw? What are you sensing?” she urged the dog as if he could tell her. The old dog whined and returned to her side to rub against her legs. As she was about to turn for the house, she spotted two small daggers of light piercing the night down in the valley. “Oh Scrimshaw,” she said, “just a car on the West Valley Road.” The old woman, however, could not help but wonder who might be driving into the little town of Raven’s Roost so late at night.