Chapter 7A Chapter by CLCurrieBeware the night knocks.John Sproul had spent almost all of his life in these
mountains. His father’s father cut out a lot of land along the hillside,
building up the house over the years and was the very place he called home. No
matter the harsh winters or bitter storms, the Sprouls dug their roots deep
into the earth. During the war against the Red Coats, they used the house and barn
as a scouting fort, letting some hunters stay here while the British marched. Again,
the house and barn were used during the Civil War, sometimes by the Confederacy
and other times by the Yankees. In that war, the Sprouls tried their best to
pick no side, but like good old Lee, they wouldn’t fight against their statemen.
When John
was of age, he did what all the Sproul men did and joined the army. He had no
idea the Great War would break out across the pond, as the Red Coats put it,
but he never got a chance to set foot in the old world. He was out of the army
by then, losing his leg to the Mexicans, the Aztecan elves, during the second
Mexican war. The
army wouldn’t call up an old man with a metal leg like him. He wouldn’t be any
good for them anyhow since his fighting days were all used up, but his sons
were sent over to the old world where two of them died in those battles. The
other two went up north to New York City trying to make a living and getting their
wives to bear them some children, while his last son waited for John to kick
the bucket so he could take over the land. Timothy was about to have his fourth
son and wanted to raise his boys on Sproul land. John
hadn’t told Timothy yet but would clear out more trees to build him a house. He
wanted his family around before he left this world. He could feel it in his
bones, the way he could feel the rain coming or the snow about to fall. The
dull agony of age. The slow bleed of time worked against his body. He was
dying. We
were all dying, John would often tell himself while lying in bed at night
staring at the ceiling watching the lone candlelight dance, but my time is
close. I feel him coming for me. He wants my other leg. He
would never blow the candle out and never forget to light it at sundown. It was
burning to help find any hunters lost in the woods; lost spirits could also use
it to get out of the darkness, and it kept away the devils hidden in the trees.
He went downstairs to the old chair
his father built, sitting by the fireplace and rocking it. He waited for the
sun to come up, dreaming about his wife, Sarah, who was long gone from this
world, and missing her deeply. His
father died of a broken heart right in front of John. He didn’t need any doctor
to tell him why his old man went to the other side to be with his mother. John
was hoping he would do the same thing. Sarah
would find him in the chair, never asking what woke him, and make him a cup of
coffee. She would hum the whole time doing it. John would sit there listening
to her little songs, making him smile, but there was no music in his house
these days. There was nothing but the slow rock of the chair, leaving John
alone in the dark. Tonight
was going to be no different, he believed. Tonight was like all the rest; it
was one more bitter hour closer to the grave. He
listens to Oonawieh Unggi, the Great Old Wind from those Native stories, knock
against his door like the old god often did at night. He had been told he had
some Injun in him, which was the reason he was good at hunting. It was why the
army made him a sharpshooter during his time there. His
mother like to practice some of the old Injun’s ways. She also made friends
with them in these parts. But the Great Old Wind brought John
comfort no matter what was on his troubled mind. He had always loved listening
to the old wind sing at night. The
wind hit his house with great might like something had run right into the door.
John stopped rocking, looking back at the door dumbfounded as he waited for
something else to happen. “Help
me,” a girl yelled, beating on the door. “Please, help me, for the love of God,
help me.” John
had to blink a few times before the door handle started to move, and the
beating kept going on as he grabbed his hunting rifle over the fireplace. He
checked it to ensure it was loaded, seeing the round resting in the barrel. “Help
me,” the little thing cried. “Someone, anyone.” “Who be
there?” John roared back, rushing for the door but stopping before he got to
close. He thought about what his mother would whisper to him. Be careful of
the night knocks, Johnny; there could be witches. “State
your name?” he growled, “And what’s your business here?” “Evangeline
Arks -, uh, Ark, and some, hm, God, some people kidnapped me, sir. Please, help
me. Please. I’m so scared.” “Who snatched
ya, girl?” “The,
uh, the Duke Boys.” “Those
little demons,” John gasped, rushing for the door and opening it. Evangeline
came pouring into the room, falling over herself and landing on the floor. John
glanced at her and then looked into the night before shutting the door again.
His mother might be right about the night knocks and the witches in these
woods, hags hiding from the world for their father, the devil. Still, he had
also read his Good Book, and God said, “Be not forgetful when entertaining
strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” © 2024 CLCurrie
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Added on September 15, 2024 Last Updated on September 15, 2024 Tags: #adventurestory #steampunk #hist AuthorCLCurrieHarrisburg, NCAboutI am a storyteller who comes from a long line of storytellers. I literally trace my heritage back to some Bards (poets and storytellers) of England. My family, in the tradition of our heritage, would .. more..Writing
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