The Patience of a Dead Man Reviews

Book One Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE: Henry’s demise
November 29th, 1965The sun was low in the sky on another perfect New Hampshire day. Henry Smith had just washed and brushed his favorite horse, Fiona, just inside the old red barn. He led her back to her stall and made sure there was plenty of hay to munch on, and then tossed the bucket of soapy water outside into a patch of lawn. The work day was over. Farming was not nearly as stressful as his previous job as a banker, but it was much more physical. Because of the daily exercise on the horse farm, he hadn’t had a night of insomnia since the day he and Annette moved in, and his heart was on the mend to boot.

Things were different here, in a good way. The air, the noise, and the way time passed were off the clock; life was much simpler away from the city. The animals all had their timely needs, like food and water and sleep, and they, along with the sun, did the timekeeping for you. It was remarkable how accurate their body clocks were. If by chance you tried to sleep in, the geese would show up at the front door honking at 7 A.M. sharp looking for their breakfast.

Every minute on the farm was about working together. In a little more than a week he would take Fiona to Concord to be auctioned off. His little horse breeding hobby had taken off; he was beginning to gain a reputation not only around the town but also the state as a competent, up and coming horse breeder. This hobby had become more than enough to pay for their happy lives in Sanborn, without even tapping into the banking nest egg of their previous life.

He shook the excess soap and water off of his hands, and wiped them on the back of his jeans. It was getting close to dinnertime so he headed for the side door to the house. Just before he turned the knob, something caught his eye…something out beyond the pond, way out in the field. He let go of the knob and walked toward the front of the house…maybe it was nothing. He stood there for a few seconds, scanning the tree line where he thought he might have seen her.

It had looked to Henry like the woman they would see from time to time at the corner of the property, cutting across the field into the woods. Dusk was an odd time of day for a walk for anyone, never mind someone that could not possibly live nearby. The closest neighbors were more than a mile away. Henry knew them, and this woman did not look familiar.

Henry and his wife Annette had even speculated that the woman could be a friend or relative of…well, somebody nearby, but they really didn’t know; they were grasping at straws looking for answers. The truth was there was no explanation why the woman made frequent appearances way out here for the past few years. All of the neighbors had their own meadows full of wild grapes and blueberries, not to mention pumpkins. Why come here? It would be a heck of a walk home.

Tonight was a cool November evening, just after Thanksgiving, and they had all enjoyed a nice family weekend together, all in all. Both kids (and their spouses) were able to make it to New Hampshire for the holiday. Now that the extended family had eaten their fill of farm fresh vegetables and free-range turkey and gone back home, it was time to select the annual Christmas tree; Annette had even reminded him to keep an eye out for one just yesterday. Now, as he stood staring at the field and the forest, he thought: Why not kill two birds with one stone?

Henry went back to the barn, grabbed the hatchet and set off down the front lawn past the stone wall and the pond, headed out toward the far left corner of the field. Just past the now seasonally bygone garden, was the meadow…and beyond that, the woods. The horses grazed out here for about half of every day. As he walked across their beautiful piece of property he reflected on how fortunate they were to have it, and to live here. One hundred yards later he turned left into the forest.

He had known about the overgrown grove since they bought the place, but he was still enamored by it. Damn shame. If this grove had been tended to over the years I’d have my tree already. I’d have my pick. I’d just saw it right down, and after a relatively short drag back to the house, I’d be done. I could even sell a few to the neighbors and the townspeople.

The grove was an abandoned Christmas tree farm that started about thirty yards into the wild forest, fully on Smith property. The Christmas trees gone wild had become towering spruce and of course, too far gone for holiday use. They were all at least forty feet tall, more or less, and grew in perfect symmetrical rows.

In and around the grove in odd spots were random wild spruce that could pass for Christmas trees if you looked hard enough. The ones in the middle of the aisles were so out of place it was obvious. The ones just outside the grove were slightly harder to spot because of the chaos of Mother Nature. Trees could be in clumps, and therefore hard to inspect from all sides, and nobody wanted a Christmas tree that looked uneven, like it had been in a windstorm.

Henry made his way through the first few yards of the wild forest and as always, all at once the chaos of random trees ended and the grove opened up in front of his eyes. He was fond of this place. It gave him a chill for no particular reason. It was hidden, and then it was in your face. And if you were here, it was yours and yours alone to enjoy, kind of like being lost in the hallways of an empty mansion. It was peaceful and quiet. He rarely had the time to make it out here, however. Who had time for leisure walks on a fully-functioning farm?

He angled his path to cut through the twenty to twenty-five rows of grove moving diagonally to the right, deeper into the woods. Where was she? She was making better time than he was…probably because he was doing double duty trying to find a suitable tree to please Annette. Maybe he could meet the trespasser some other day; the tree was more important given the coming sunset.

He passed more rows than planned, and before he knew it he could see the man-made symmetry coming to an end at the border of the congested wild forest. More and more rogue trees had claimed odd spots in the last rows; it was a near-even mixture of man and nature. At the edge of the grove began wild plants such as scrub brush, briars, poison ivy and several species of vines. The forest floor here wasn’t just spruce needles like the rest of the grove; leaves from all sorts of trees had drifted over the years, leaving piles of natural mulch.

The briars were thick, and behind them, undisturbed forest. Nestled inside the briars and brush were two high mounds of leaves that had collected for years, perhaps decades. They seemed artificially high, as if they covered something. At first Henry thought it might be a section of stone wall, but the stone wall in this forest also happened to be the property line, and he was sure he was still a ways from that.

The sun was sinking, ticking down the last minutes of the day, and Henry had to squint his eyes to choose a pathway through them to the mounds in the brambles. He chose carefully, albeit slowly, making his way forward, folding over the bases of the closest thorns with his boots to disarm the long gangly arms. He wished he’d brought his gloves, but it was too late for that now.

As he closed in, he realized the two piles were each nearly waist-high. A section of gray stone peered out from under twisting vines that had caught years of falling leaves, revealing something several shades lighter than anything naturally occurring out here.

Gravestones, he recognized. Thirty-one years living here and I didn’t know I had…neighbors. He looked down at his hatchet, wishing it was a pair of pruning shears. The briars proved well prepared to protect their long-held secret, but Henry’s curiosity was powerful. He forged ahead, hacking and flattening the bases of the sharp plants so that getting back out wouldn’t be the same battle it was coming in. Even though he took great care, he got hooked a few times on his clothes and on his skin.

The hazardous patch was larger than he had estimated; roughly twenty feet from the starting point to the main objective, and time was now a serious factor…the sun would be down in minutes. The Christmas tree plan was definitely off now, even if he happened to stumble into the perfect one on the way out. Dinner could very well be on the table already and he hadn’t told Annette where he was going; this excursion wasn’t supposed to have taken this long.

As soon as he broke through the last of the thorns he put down the hatchet, dropped to his knees and began to clear the dead leaves and ivy. He took care not to disturb the stones themselves in case they were weakly anchored. They were crooked from years of heaving frosts, but remained steady as he worked. There was a large one on the left, and a smaller one on the right.

His mind buzzed with questions, not the least of which was how the hell did I miss this? It was twilight now, the sun had set and only the glow from it beneath the horizon remained as a light source. He would have to call it quits soon or it would be hard to find his way out in the dark.

There was so much moss on the headstones they were illegible. Concentrating on the left one, he scraped gently at the space he estimated the epitaph would be, taking care not to dig too hard into the marble or granite itself; the stone might be soft. After three or four moments of gentle effort, he had cleared the top two engraved lines. The first, in smaller letters read: “Here lies”. The second line, where the person’s name should appear, was taller than the first…but he couldn’t quite make out the inscription.

Then, a twig snapped. He looked around attempting to focus in the dark; it must be her; time to meet the stranger. Henry had his doubts, but hoped it was true. He looked back, down the near perfect aisle of spruce pestered by the forest. It was all shadows; night had fallen. He squinted and took off his glasses trying to catch a better glance. Someone approached.

She stood there in the dark; the mystery woman in the long dress. All he could make out was her silhouette; her pale white hands were holding what might be a bouquet of flowers, and her hair was pinned up, worn away from her neck. It was as unkempt as the woods behind her, strands and bunches pushing out in odd directions.

The rest of her features were lost in the dark but he knew it was her. Why hadn’t he taken the time previously to introduce himself before this awkward moment? Nobody should be in the middle of the woods when night falls, blueberries or no blueberries. Were there even any blueberries left this time of year? He searched the ground for his hatchet.

“Hello,” he said. “My name is Henry Smith. We’re neighbors, aren’t we?” The woman stood still and silent and he couldn’t judge her reaction without seeing her face. He stood, and his knees cracked. His back needed an extra moment to straighten.

“What’s your name? Do you live around here?” She must be a Simmons, Henry thought. That family has a reputation for being slightly…off.

Making contact was not going smoothly but he wanted to break the ice with small talk before asking her to leave, so he took a step forward, continuing the effort. He continued his approach as he talked.

“Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?” Still no response. “Where do you live, down the road? Are you one of the Simmons clan?” She stood silently in the shadows. What’s her deal? Halfway to her he opened his mouth to continue the spiel and then held his tongue, suddenly at a loss for words. She was ten feet away. There was a glint in one of her eyes from the twilight, but the rest of her face was still cloaked.

And there was a smell.

There are many unpleasant odors on a farm but Henry recognized this as the smell of something unmistakably dead. Like the time a mouse died inside the wall of their bedroom. It was decay, and it was coming from her.

She was shaking slightly, as if upset. Henry hesitated while he reassessed. Her shoulders were pulled back, and the flower arrangement she was carrying dropped to the forest floor. The left hand shifted across her body and passed something to the right hand that Henry could not see. Then her right arm turned outward and the silhouette of Henry’s hatchet became clear.

He looked down around his feet in a panic, knowing he would not find his dropped hatchet; she had it now. How the hell…? His hopes sank as he realized the time for talk had passed; this was not a neighbor, or even a living person….the smell was not only strong, it was overbearing. This was a being with an agenda he couldn’t pretend to imagine.

She dropped the hatchet into the spruce needles and lurched forward, reaching him nearly immediately, grabbing his face. All Henry heard was a small pop, but he felt nothing. A gray static washed down over his open eyes, as his nervous system shut down; lights out. Gray turned to black; he barely had the time to regret leaving Annette behind…unaware.