Eternal Vermont

A Ford Model T passed by at too fast a speed, and it pushed a wave of icy water over the top of John’s boots. He tried to lift his feet out of the way, but there was nothing to be done. The cold water splashed up over his ankles and dampened the cuffs of his trousers before seeping through the leather of his boots and into the wool socks beneath.

He cast a frown in the direction of the retreating vehicle but he didn’t bother to shout or swear after the driver. That wasn’t really his way. John stood just over six feet tall and already needed to shave daily at the age of eighteen, and although he had been called a brute when it came to sports, in daily life he was a quiet man. He just continued to stand there in the sleet, his feet quickly growing cold.

The sign in John’s hands read “Abigail”. He wasn’t sure if the girl he was waiting for went by a shortened version of the name, nor what her last name was; he had only just learned of her a month prior. His guardian, an enigmatic man named Wilbur Sparrow, had shown up out of the blue at the end of John’s first semester at Boston University. John had received word amidst a blizzard that Mr. Sparrow was in the city and wished to meet his ward for dinner. It had been an even colder day than this one when John tramped through the snow to meet Mr. Sparrow at an upscale Parisian style restaurant. It wasn’t the type of food John preferred, but he owed his education and many opportunities besides to Mr. Sparrow, so he said nothing as they sat down to eat.

Mr. Sparrow was a man with a stern disposition, a nearly bald head, and a long nose. He had taken John in as his ward when he was eight years old, yet over the past ten years they had only seen each other less than a dozen times. Why Mr. Sparrow had chosen John as his ward was a complete mystery; the man had never explained anything he did, and John thought it improper to ask. Dinner was a quiet affair, with stiff questions about John’s studies and the weather and such. As Mr. Sparrow stood to take his leave he simply said, “you will need to take next semester off. I’ve arranged for the family to spend some time in Vermont at an estate I recently purchased.”

This simple statement had floored John. Not only that he should be expected to drop his studies and end his hockey season, but because in their ten years of acquaintance, Mr. Sparrow had never mentioned the word “family”. John knew that Mr. Sparrow had a rather pretty wife; he had seen outdated pictures of her hanging about the townhouse in Boston. While John was polite to a fault, his curiosity had compelled him to ask the housekeeper about Mr. Sparrow once or twice, but she’d provided little to no information aside from to say that Mr. Sparrow was a very successful international businessman, and that he primarily lived just outside Washington D.C. with Mrs. Sparrow, and wasn’t John just the luckiest boy who ever lived to be sponsored by such a great man.

John considered himself bright enough, but he had always been slow with words, and before he could respond to Mr. Sparrow’s sudden statement the thin-faced man quickly mentioned that the rest of the details would be arriving by mail in the coming weeks, and oh, don’t forget about Abigail.

Of course, John had no idea who Abigail was.

A week later a package arrived with directions to the estate in Vermont, two train tickets, and a letter that simply explained that Abigail was Mr. Sparrow’s ward who lived in England, and that John was to meet to meet her ocean liner, the RMS Samaria, at the pier on the given time and date. And so, John stood in soaking wet boots, waiting for a girl whom he knew nothing of.

When the Samaria docked he waited with his sign, his cap pulled down low to keep the sleet from his eyes as he scanned the disembarking crowd for a girl travelling alone. He imagined she would be young; perhaps the age he was when Mr. Sparrow had taken him in. It was for this reason that he was quite shocked when a beautiful young woman cleared her throat to draw his attention, and pointed to his sign.

“Are you John?” she asked, amusement dancing in her light brown eyes. Her accent was melodic, and he was embarrassed when the cold weather caused his own voice to come out raspy upon voicing the affirmative. “I’m Abigail, everyone calls me Abi though. I suppose Wil didn’t bother to tell you that though. If I had to guess, Wil didn’t bother to tell you much of anything.”

It took John a moment to sort out that Wil was in reference to Mr. Wilbur Sparrow, and though he’d only known Abi for mere seconds, he already felt like a dull lunk of a man in her presence. “Do you have any luggage?” he asked when he found his tongue.

“Yes, of course” she smiled, and she pointed to where the luggage was being unloaded so that John could have the driver bring the car around. It turned out she had two very heavy trunks that John had to help the driver strap to the back of the car, and it wasn’t until they were settled warmly into the train’s passenger car that he learned she was studying at Oxford University and she simply couldn’t bear to be so far away from all her books.

Once on the train she launched into a flurry of information; how Wil had taken her under his care when she was six, how she had mostly spent her time in boarding schools, how she had never been to the United States before. For the most part, John had just nodded along mutely. His wet socks made his feet itch and it wasn’t until they switched trains in Springfield that he had the chance to change into something dry.

Feeling a bit more confident he endeavored to say, “so, how do you like Oxford?”

She gushed for a while about all of her studies (she seemed to be studying just about everything), and then concluded by saying, “and don’t say anything about it being peculiar for women to study at University. Oxford has admitted women at full membership since 1920.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort,” he insisted. “Boston University has had female students for over fifty years… since the 1870s I believe.” She looked surprised by this and he was elated to know something that she did not. He had a feeling that moments like these would be a rarity as he got to know her.

Not wanting to ruin his intelligent moment he proceeded to look out the window as they rolled into the scenic Green Mountains. The sun was setting as the train chugged through the valleys, and it was the perfect New England winter sunset; brilliant shades of yellow and orange melting into snowy peaks as dark pine trees flitted past the windowpane. He glanced over to see that Abi had gone silent as well, her eyes wide as she took in the scenery. She caught him looking at her and she smiled and seemed to blush, but that might have been a trick of the light.

The sun had set behind the mountains when they arrived at their stop, and the stars were starting to appear in the deep purple sky overhead. The town they disembarked at had nothing on the hustle and bustle of Boston, but it wasn’t sleepy either. Trucks piled with thick logs rumbled into town, rowdy granite miners poured into a local restaurant, and the smell of smoke from wood stoves filled the air. A car and a driver waited for them, and John once more assisted with securing their belongings before they took off to Mr. Sparrow’s estate.

It was quite dark as soon as they left the town’s center, and the roads were so bumpy that at one point they hit a hole so hard they were nearly launched for their seats. Abi reached for John’s hand, but quickly withdrew it when she realized they were not going to die, and she diverted her embarrassment by asking the driver where precisely, they were headed.

“Oh, the Ballard Mansion is a good ways out of town” the man said, his accent a peculiar dialect that reminded John of some Canadians he played hockey with.

“Mansion?” Abi asked, excitement clear in her tone.

“Ay yup” the driver responded. “The Ballard family built the mansion back at the turn of the century. They made their fortune off the granite once the trains finally made their way up here.”

“Where are they now?” Abi asked. 

There was a long pause and then the driver said, “we’re almost there.” The cheery tone with which he had spoken before had vanished, and even in the dark John could see Abi give him a confused look.

They crossed a wood covered bridge, and emerged from the forest and into a clearing on which a massive home was erected. The pale moonlight cast shadows across the steep rooftops, and white smoke against black sky emanated from several chimney stacks. Gas lamps flickered from the pillars of the front entrance, and the car pulled up to a set of double doors constructed of wood so dark they appeared to be nearly black. This time, John did not need to assist with the luggage because two young men seemed to spring out of the night air and hurriedly assisted in delivering the trunks into the house.

John and Abi entered into a main foyer with wood paneling as dark as the front doors, and although a gas-lit chandelier provided light, it somehow did not seem to reach the shadowy corners of the room. John found himself gravitating towards the fire, which blazed in a nearby hearth. It’s just the cold mountain air he told himself as a chill ran up his spine.

“You’re right on time!” exclaimed a cheery voice with an accent similar to that of their driver. John glanced up the grand staircase at the shadowy end of the foyer and a plump woman with grey hair pulled back in a tight bun was descending towards them. She had a hearty look to her, like one who had learned to survive many a harsh winter, but there was merriment in her dark eyes. “I’m Mrs. Emerson. Allow me to show you to your respective rooms, and then the dinner table will be set. The rest of the family is already here.”

Again John wondered, what family? but he said nothing as he followed her up the stairs and down a hallway lined with large portrait paintings of sour looking individuals. Once Abi had been shown to her room they arrived at his own a few doors down; a large bedroom with a four post bed, a maple wood desk, and a fire already roaring in the hearth. He quickly unpacked his belongings into an overly large armoire, and then proceeded to clean up and dress for dinner.

On the way to the dining room he got lost several times, despite Mrs. Emerson’s explicit directions. The house was a maze of barely lit corridors and seemingly endless staircases. As he turned a corner he found himself in yet another passageway so dark that he needed to run his hand along the wall to keep from bumping into anything. Feeling a strip of molding beneath his hands he walked cautiously at first, then picking up pace as he felt certain he heard breathing coming from the darkness. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he half jogged towards the dim light at the end of the corridor, and then his fingertips brushed against something warm and alive.

His heart hammered against his chest with fright, but when he heard a scream he stopped himself from flailing out blindly into the darkness. “Abi?” he asked of the silhouette standing just feet in front of him.

“I’m here” she said, but her voice was not coming from the shadowy figure in front of him; she was standing behind him. John reached his hand out ever so slowly towards the unmoving silhouette before him, his fingers turning icy cold the closer they reached out into the darkness. He felt Abi grasp his elbow and he dropped his hand, turning to face her in the darkness. When he looked back again, the figure was gone.

“Maybe I’m being silly, but this place is a bit… disconcerting” Abi said, now slipping her arm through his so they could proceed down the hallway side-by-side.

“It gives me the creeps” he admitted, and she laughed. At the end of the hallway they were greeted by light, and he looked to her to see why she was laughing. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No, not at all!” she responded, looking aghast. “It’s just the way you said it… your accent I mean.” He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. As a child he’d had a rather notable Boston accent and he’d tried to tame it over the years, but it still slipped out. He imagined it sounded thuggish next to her refined British accent, but she added, “I like your accent. It’s rather cute.”

They entered the dining room, and already four people were seated at the overly large table. At the head sat Mr. Sparrow, and at his right hand was a woman who John immediately recognized from the pictures as Mrs. Sparrow. She now had many grey streaks through her raven hair, but she was still quite beautiful. Across from her sat two children, a boy and a girl, perhaps four or five years old. They were dressed very nicely for dinner; the little boy had the serious demeanor of an old soul, but the little girl tugged at her braid and looked eager to be done with dinner and go play.

John took a seat next to Mrs. Sparrow, who smiled at him, but the smile did not seem to meet her eyes. He became caught up in her sad gaze for a moment, when Mr. Sparrow said, “Greetings” in a tone as dry and unaffected as ever. He introduced everyone; the little boy and girl were called James and Helena. 

Dinner commenced; a delicious feast of turkey and roasted vegetables. There was a pudding for dessert, and nobody spoke much except to note that travel had gone smoothly and there was a storm to be coming in. “You’re unusually quiet Abi” Mr. Sparrow said after the dishes were cleared away.

Abi attempted to stifle a yawn. “I suppose it’s been a long day. I woke up at sea just this morning, and now here I am in the mountains! The marvels of modern travel.”

“Quite” Mr. Sparrow said with an inclination of his head. “Mrs. Sparrow, I’d imagine you’ll want to take the little ones off to bed as well.” Mrs. Sparrow said nothing, simply nodding, and the children rose as well, with little Helena running to the door and James giving the room a final, concerned look before following. John stood to rise as well, but Mr. Sparrow said, “I’d like a word with you before you retire son.”

John gave a start at the use of the word son, but nodded in consent, and Abi gave him an unreadable look before following the rest of the so-called family out of the room. “Are those your children?” John asked after the silence welling up beneath the crackling of the fire became too much to stand.

“You are all my children in a manner of speaking” Mr. Sparrow said, fixing his dark eyes on John. “But no, they are not our biological children. You see John, many years ago there was a terrible tragedy in our home in DC. A fire. And my wife… well, she was growing old to start a new family, and was too heartbroken besides. I, however, missed the sound of children’s laughter, and so I took you and Abi under my wing.”

John was dumbfounded by this statement. The sound of children’s laughter? even when he had been young enough to be considered a child, Mr. Sparrow had never been in his presence long enough to witness him laugh or play. He’d never even seen one of his sports matches.

Mr Sparrow continued. “But then, just a few months ago, Mrs. Sparrow had a sudden change of heart. She lamented her quiet life in Virginia, and said she wanted to be a family once more. So we adopted little James and Helena, and I purchased this property, and now we can spend some time, all together, as a proper family. Abi is about a year older than you, but as the eldest brother I hold it to you to keep an eye over all of your siblings. Keep them safe.” These last words came out dark and nearly menacing and this time John was certain that the chill up his spine had nothing to do with the cold mountain air.

“Yes sir” was all John could manage, his head whirring. These people were not his family; he had no family. He had been born an orphan, and this was all madness. Yet he did owe Mr. Sparrow a great debt, so he supposed playing family for a few months in beautiful Vermont wasn’t the worst thing the man could ask for in repayment.

The next few weeks passed with a deep tension. Elaborate meals were had in the dining room, but the rest of the day involved everyone retreating into their separate corners of the mansion. The short winter days did nothing to ease the unsettling energy about the household; while the sunlight was out John found he could enjoy a few pleasant hours snowshoeing the surrounding property or reading a book by the fire. But then the darkness would return and the shadows seemed to swallow up any joy that could be found in the household. And the nights were the worst of it all.

The first night, John had been unable to sleep. A storm kicked up and had the wind howling at the shutters of his bedroom, and at times there seemed to be a nearly human moan mixed in with the noise. The children had both wailed that night, but when he went to them Mrs. Sparrow was already there, soothing them back to sleep with that same sad, empty look in her eyes. When he returned to his bedroom he had nearly fallen asleep when the scratching sound began.

At first it was faint and could hardly be heard over the wailing of the wind, but then it escalated and he realized that it was coming from inside the armoire where he had stored his clothing. Sitting up in bed he stared into the darkness, the dying embers of the fire providing just enough light to make out the shape of the bulky piece of furniture, and yet he was sure that not only was there scratching, but the doors were rattling as though something was trapped inside. Steeling his nerve he jumped from the bed and flung the doors open, prepared to find a mouse or perhaps a rat, but when he opened the armoire nothing was inside but his neatly hung clothing. When he closed the doors once more the sound stopped and he finally rested, but it would happen again nearly every night.

It was a cold but brilliantly sunny day when he discovered the ice skates hanging in the mansion’s recreational shed. Four pairs; two in adult sizes and the other two made for children. Spurred by a wonderful idea he shoveled clear the swimming hole in the backyard, which was frozen solid. His efforts yielded a perfect field of ice, and he ran back to the house, first rousing Abi.

Abi had grown increasingly quiet since arriving at Ballard Mansion, only leaving her room to attend family meals. She had become somewhat pale and quite unlike the excitable woman he had met in Boston. After rapping on her bedroom door, Abi dully gave him permission to enter, and he found her in an armchair by the fire, her feet tucked up beneath her as she read. She pulled a woolen shawl close around her shoulders and gave him a quizzical look as he explained about the ice skating opportunity he had put together.

“I’ve never skated before” she responded, but there was a light in her eyes once more as he promised to teach her. It was quite easy to convince Helena to don her winter wear, and although James seemed less convinced of the idea he came around to it.

Once outside John was thrilled to be back on the ice, and he skated a few quick circuits to warm up as Helena and Abi cheered him on. He helped James and Helena get their skates fastened and led them out to the ice, and even James showed a rare smile at the experience. Once they were off on their own, sliding about in a mostly safe fashion, he turned his attention to Abi, who was stagger stepping out onto the ice was a fierce look of determination on her face. He guessed she was the sort who had never failed at anything before and refused to do so now. She took a few tentative glides and seemed to be getting the hang of it when she hit a rut in the ice and pitched forward. Fortunately he was nearby and caught her easily, and while he’d expected her to tense up at his assistance, she instead wrapped her arms around his shoulders and tossed her head back, laughing to the clear blue sky above.

The skating experience brought about a change to the feel of the mansion, at least during the daytime hours. Abi and John took to assisting Mrs. Sparrow with teaching the young children, and dinners became far more lively, with even Mrs. Sparrow laughing on occasion as the children shared stories about what they had learned. Mr. Sparrow’s affect did not change, but he would nod his head and listen intently before retreating to his study, as was his habit whenever meals were not being shared.

The nights, however, were still filled with frightening things. Once, in hushed tones, Helena told John about a little boy who would sit at the foot of their bed every night, crying. John would have excused it for a child’s imagination gone wild, but the somber James corroborated the story. John made passing mention of this to Abi, and she set into a flurry of activity, determined to learn more about the house’s history, and of the family who had lived there before. She tried to ask all of the groundskeepers about the Ballard family, and of course she did her best to quiz Mrs. Emerson, but everyone remained as tight lipped as the driver had been upon their arrival.

When spring came and the snow melted, John realized he had become quite stir crazy, and while he wouldn’t be due back to school until the Fall he had a need to get out of the house. Abi felt quite the same, and weaponizing her best sweet-talking tactics she convinced Mr. Sparrow to allow them to to take Helena and James into town for an afternoon to see a Charlie Chaplin film at the theatre. However, when they got to town she left John to mind the children and took off on her own, determined to learn something about the Ballard family.

When the movie ended they met up at a nearby diner for a treat, and Abi looked pale faced and troubled. “What’s wrong?” John asked her while the children were occupied picking out which type of pie they wanted.

“I’ll tell you later” she mumbled, and then proceeded to push a piece of cake around her plate for the next half hour while the kids regaled her with Charlie’s on-screen antics.

When they returned to Ballard Mansion, John wanted to get her alone right away to ask what she had learned, but Mr. Sparrow had dictated that there would be afternoon tea and nobody was to skip out. During tea, Mr. Sparrow seemed to be exceptionally vigilant as his dark eyes darted from Abi and John to the children, and then back again.

Even after tea time had passed, John was unable to get Abi alone, and he didn’t see her again until dinner. She still looked distraught as they ate their meal, but if Mr. Sparrow noticed he made no comment. He did, however, insist that John join him for an after dinner smoke, even inviting him into his office, which nobody had been allowed to enter up until that point. Abi gave John a nearly panicked look as he acquiesced to the invitation, but he wasn’t sure what else she’d have him do.

The inside of Mr. Sparrow’s office was elaborate; bookshelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling, and each stuffed with so many books that John was certain Abi’s eyes would pop out if she saw. At the front of the room, a massive, marble encased fireplace held roaring flames, and before it sat two wing-backed armchairs. They each took a seat, and John noticed that above the mantle hung a portrait of Mrs. Sparrow, depicted in dark, heavy strokes of paint.

“Mr. Sparrow” John said slowly. “If you don’t mind me asking, do you have any pictures of your children? I mean the ones you lost. I should very much like to see them.”

“I don’t keep such pictures around anymore” Mr. Sparrow said in a dour tone. “It upsets Mrs. Sparrow’s frail disposition.”

“Oh, of course” John replied, but it still struck him as fairly peculiar. Despite whatever tragedy befell them, it seemed unnatural to want to hide away the memory of their own children.

“Are you happy here John?” Mr. Sparrow asked suddenly, handing John a cigar.

“Of course” John answered quickly, not wanting to seem ungrateful. “I mean, I look forward to returning to my studies this Fall, but this has been an enjoyable respite from the city.”

Mr. Sparrow flicked a match against a striker with such force that for a moment John thought the man might mean to burn him with it. But slowly he pulled the flame back and lit John’s cigar. “I should like to ask you to stay here until the end of the year. James and Helena have grown quite attached to you, so Mrs. Sparrow tells me. And I think if you stay a little longer, you could really learn to love a place like this. So serene. So silent.”

Mr. Sparrow seemed to fall into a trance, puffing his cigar as he watched the flames dance in the hearth. John was thankful for the quiet opportunity to try to string some words together. This whole trip was already preposterous, but the idea he should spend the entirety of a year so far from his home, his education, his hockey; that was utter lunacy. He was about to tell Mr. Sparrow as much, good manners be damned, but then he thought of Abi. Would she be staying here until the year’s end? While he wanted to go back to his old life, the thought of leaving her behind pained him somehow.

“I’d like a bit to think upon it if you don’t mind” John said, and Mr. Sparrow just gave a curt nod, his black eyes unblinking as he gazed deeper and deeper into the flames. When John extinguished his cigar and made his excuses, Mr. Sparrow did not even seem to notice.

John practically ran back to his room, his heart racing. Something was very wrong, and while part of him had known that from the moment he stepped foot inside the Ballard Mansion, it was only really setting in now. He paced his room until he was certain he must have worn a pattern in the rug, and then a knocking came on his door. He jumped at the noise and reached for a fire poker as a weapon before he could even register what he was doing. The door flew open.

Abi raced inside, closing the door shut in her wake and wrapping her arms around him. She was shaking ever so slightly, and he held her, not certain what to say. As usual, she spoke first to fill the silence. “John, the family who lived here before, the Ballard’s… they murdered their children and then killed themselves.”

A cold chill seeped through his bones. “I knew something felt just… wrong about this place” he responded, and despite the vagary in his response, she seemed to understand what he was saying. He told her about the scratching sounds coming from his closet, and she told him about a woman’s voice that whispered from the chimney just before dawn, singing a sweet lullaby and weeping before fading away. Abi shuddered when she finished recounting the tale, and he pulled a quilt from his bed to wrap around her shoulders.

“There is no doubt that this place has a bad energy. And Mr. Sparrow wants me to stay here until year’s end,” he told her, feeling indignant once more.

“He asked the same of me” she frowned, standing beside him as he stoked the fire. “I wanted to leave to return in time for summer studies at Oxford, but he told me it wouldn’t be possible to arrange my passage home until year’s end. Oh, and he added,  wouldn’t I like to stay a while longer anyhow?” She let out a short, humorless laugh. “So he’s basically got me trapped here until further notice. I have no means of returning to England on my own.”

He felt heated at this; Sparrow had no right to keep Abi his de facto prisoner. At least John could leave whenever he wanted; he had enough money to take the train back to Boston should he need to make his own way. But he would not leave Abi there alone, and he told her as much, and to his great surprise she turned to him and kissed him.

“Can I stay here tonight John?” she asked, her eyes hopeful. “I’m frightened.”

He kissed her as way of response. 

And so summer came to pass, and while the darkness inside the walls of Ballard Mansion did not disappear, it did abate somewhat. The days were longer, and despite the unprecedented amount of rain that came that summer, there were still many sunny Vermont days to be had hiking through the forests, learning to drive about the grounds, going fishing with James, and cooling off in the swimming hole at the end of it all. And then, at night, and he had Abi, and that was so wonderful that the unnatural chill that ran through the house did not affect him as cruelly as it once had.

As the leaves changed color and a splendid Vermont fall settled upon them, John and Abi resumed discussions about leaving Ballard Mansion. He wondered at his options of studying abroad in England, and she thought perhaps she could see what courses Boston University had to offer. As the days grew shorter and colder, their desire to leave became almost frenetic, and John found himself counting down to the end of the year.

November came upon them, and the rain poured down worse than ever. Dinner that night was a somber affair; the relentless pattern of rain against the windows seemed to have everyone’s nerves on edge. When Mrs. Sparrow suddenly asked Abi to join her in the parlor after dinner, John thought nothing of it. He suspected Mrs. Sparrow and Abi would discuss arrangements for Abi’s safe return to Oxford. But when he passed the parlor on the way to his room, he heard raised voices and he paused to listen.

“It’s not right, it’s not natural” Mrs. Sparrow was saying. “He’s your brother.”

“He’s NOT my brother!” Abi replied, a tone of incredulous laughter in her voice. “We are not related by blood, or even by law! None of us here are actual family, however much you might like to pretend it. John and I are leaving at the end of the year. If Wil refuses to honor our agreement, we’ll make our own way.”

There was a loud slap and now John was racing towards the parlor. He threw the doors open in time to see Abi tussling with Mrs. Sparrow. He moved quickly to intervene, but he was not quick enough. Abi pushed Mrs. Sparrow off of her, and the older woman staggered back, her head slamming against the side of the hearth, and blood spurting from the wound instantly. Her blood hit the embers of the fire with a sickening sizzling noise.

Abi let out a strangled gasp, realizing immediately that Mrs. Sparrow was dead. John drew Abi to him, and just then Mr. Sparrow entered the room. Seeing his wife’s prone body by the hearth, a look of shock crossed his face, and it was the most expression John had even seen from the man. But just as quickly as it was there, it disappeared.

“Well, this changes things” he said in almost a bored tone, and John unconsciously placed himself between Mr. Sparrow and the now-weeping Abi. “I was going to wait a bit longer, but tonight is as good as any night.”

“It was an accident” John said, and he was relieved to hear confidence in his tone.

Mr. Sparrow paid him no mind, and he passed by his wife’s unmoving corpse to grab a fire prod from beside the mantle. Inspecting it, he said, “My good friend Joseph Ballard built this mansion. A month or so before he killed his family, and himself, he told me that the house was special; that it can trap spirits within its walls forever. How wonderful, he thought, would it be to ensure that one could keep their family together forever. Then Joseph shot the children while they slept, and his wife jumped from the rooftop. Joseph chose to hang himself in his bedroom’s armoire. Naturally, I thought he was mad. And yet, having lost my own children so tragically, I could not stop thinking about it. How wonderful indeed, to be able to keep your family together forever. It’s too late for my first family. But this new family I have built… we can all share eternity.”

Mr. Sparrow turned quickly, swinging the poker in a wide arch that John narrowly dodged. Hurling himself at the older man the two of them fell to the floor, wrestling in Mrs. Sparrow’s still-warm blood. “Run!” John urged Abi, and he barely managed to choke the words out; Mr. Sparrow was far stronger than he looked.

Their fight seemed to go on for an impossible amount of time, the poker pressed between the two of them and Mr. Sparrow’s spittle flying into John’s face as he put his every ounce of energy into pushing John off of him. But John pushed down, harder, and harder, until slowly the metal poker was resting against Mr. Sparrow’s neck. Still John pushed harder, and the man’s long face began to turn purple. His black eyes bulged and he began to twitch. Even still, John pushed down harder and there was a crunching sound from within Mr. Sparrow’s throat and the twitching stopped.

Abi was screaming his name and he looked up, in a daze, the world spinning around him. Abi was in the foyer, helping the kids hurry into boots and coats. When she saw him she choked back a sob of relief. “We need to get out of here, John” she said, her voice frantic. He grabbed the car keys from their peg, threw his feet into galoshes that didn’t even belong to him, and led them out into the pouring rain.

The rain was coming down in sheets, battering against the muddy, soaked ground in a vicious assault. John’s boot sunk down into the mud and stuck so bad that he could not pull his foot free. For a panicked moment he felt certain the Earth was about to suck him down into its mucky soil; to devour him alive. But he pulled his foot free of the boot, and with only one boot on he splashed over and got the car started, helping get the children seated as expediently as he could.

He worried that the car might get stuck in the mud, but it powered through, and although it was pitch black, and although rain obscured the windshield, they moved quickly across the property and towards the covered bridge.

1,285 bridges would later be reported as having been swept away by the Great Vermont Flood of 1927, but John had no way to see that in the darkness, and as they tipped over the edge and plummeted into the black river beneath, his last thought was that at least his eternity would include Abigail.