The Quill and the Quire (3)

Part three of a macabre tale of prognostication that asks, "What if one were to write about fictional tragedies of the future ... and they came to pass?" The discovery of an ancient artifact sends Vance Henderson on a terrifying race against time to save the present and all that he holds precious.

To read from the beginning click HERE.

Yes, I'd felt its allure even then. With consequences no less deadly, I had been drawn to it like a moth to the flame of a candle. What I'd first thought to have been a valuable treasure was surely an instrument of the devil.

While the seconds between the lightning and thunder appeared to be widening, outside the storm was a producing a different sound. The rat-a-tat of dime-sized ice crystals upon the house drew me once again to the window. The hail stones were being driven sideways by the persistent wind. The fluttering leaves and creaking smaller branches of the fallen treetop swayed and danced to the force of fierce gusts of wind.

My plight more desperate with each passing minute, I couldn't wait any longer. I had to get out of that house. I had to get to the lake.


Stepping onto the sidewalk outside the shop was like entering another world. It was as if I'd been plucked from one dimension and set down in another. I stood transfixed for several moments studying the scene before me. What only twenty minutes earlier had been desolate streets, had become a teeming community. The inhabitants had spilled out of their darkened homes, thus resuming their lives with the departure of the fog.

Although I experienced several furtive glances from passersby, my walk home up the hill was without incident. The warm morning air was clean and refreshing, thousands of miles removed from the urban atmosphere of Boston. I decided to take further advantage of the pleasant day when I spotted a lofty shade tree by the side of the road. I sat down on the soft grass and leaned against the tree, anxious to enjoy a quiet respite of contemplation.

Even with my eyes closed, the presence of my recent purchase could not be ignored. I picked up the object and began to wipe away the fine dust upon its surface. My nervous fingers pulled at the leather binding holding it closed so that I might view the contents of the case. Despite the coating of dust that been brushed away and its apparent age, I was surprised by its pristine condition.

Inside, lying in carved niches were an ink receptacle and a quill pen. Those two items were in a sectioned compartment below a large leather panel. My eyes settled on the magnificent crafted feather quill pen. It had a fine precision crafted nib, a unique etched body in intricate scroll and a marvelous peacock plume to compliment its length in grand fashion. Never had I seen a feather crafted into such a lovely writing instrument. Picking it up, I carefully weighed it on my fingertips, pleased with its perfect balance.

Returning the pen into its niche, I removed the ink receptacle and found it to be nearly full of the black viscous liquid. I next pulled at the tab on the large panel which swung open to reveal an ample supply of paper with a parchment-like texture. I was amazed at how crisp and fresh the paper had been maintained. Of course, in the case's alleged three hundred years of existence, the paper would have been replaced many times over.

As I was closing the case, it occurred to me that a sudden chill was present in the air. Looking down the rolling hill upon the town I saw that everything there was in shadows. A glance skyward revealed that a front of storm clouds had moved in while I'd been occupied with my prize. It was fortunate that I was only a short distance from the cottage, and as such my dash there had me at the front door only moments before the first of the rain drops began to fall.

Entering the front hall I glanced at the prominent clock on the mantle. It displayed ... three o'clock? Stunned, I turned to my wrist watch only to discover the same hour. Like a drunkard awakening from a weekend carousal I stumbled to the parlor sofa. Somehow, I had wiled away nearly five hours. Mentally retracing my steps and actions since the morning hours, I could not account for all of five hours!

It could not have taken more than a half an hour to and from the cottage. I'd spent no more than another half hour walking about the fog-laden town before coming across the antique shop. Certainly no more than twenty minutes or so could have possibly passed while I was in the shop. Maybe I'd sat under that tree for another fifteen minutes or so. At best, the total of the those events could not have exceeded an hour and thirty-five minutes. Give or take a few minutes here and there, I was unable to justify the passage of another three and a half hours!

Still in my hand, I lifted the case and stared at it. What had the shopkeeper called it? Oh yes, she'd called it a quill and quire. Moving to the desk, I decided that I would more closely study my new possession. Perhaps being occupied with it there might come to me a flash of memory to explain the hours I'd lost.

Setting aside the quill pen I reached for the tab to open the panel when something struck me as quite odd. Retrieving the quill pen and holding it close to my face, I saw that there was a dark discoloration upon the nib. I was certain that it hadn't been there earlier, and yet there it was - dried ink! How did it come to be stained in ink? When? Viewing it under the tree, it had been clean. Only I could have possibly used it, but I knew I had not.

Again I was haunted by the missing time. Could I have fallen asleep under that tree and used the pen? It made no sense whatsoever, and I'd never been prone to sleepwalking, let alone sleep-writing. I looked up at the ceiling in a fruitless attempt to clear my head. Supposing I might have used the pen, what would I have written and what would I have written upon - the quire?

I could feel nervous excitement building as I reached again for the tab of the panel. My eyes widened in wonderment as I flipped the panel open to expose the paper underneath. The top sheet had been written upon and in my own handwriting! I would have sworn on my mother's grave, God rest her soul, had I not seen that sheet, that I had not written upon it.

What was it that I could have written without my recollection of having written it? With slow deliberation I began to read the lines that appeared to have been written in the fashion of a news article.

"Woman Dies From Lightning Strike"

My eyebrows steepled upwards on my brow and I struggled to catch my breath when I read the next line. While no name was given, the article identified the victim as the proprietor of an antique shop.

What could have ever possessed me to write such morbid fiction? Had I chosen the proprietor of an antique shop because of my recent contact with such an individual? The article, bearing the current date stated that the incident had occurred at four o'clock P.M. Glancing at my watch, I noted that it was less than one minute before the time cited.

Abruptly in a split-second that seemed like an eternity, a brilliant flash of light and an ear-splitting roar emanated from outside. If I live to a hundred, I'm sure that I would never again experience the foreboding terror that I had sensed in a trice.

I knew that is was absurd, but I was compelled to grab my jacket and to race out into the pouring rain toward the small town. Surely, my imagination had to be running faster than my feet. I was trembling as I ran down the hill and I stumbled a couple of times. It had to be my lack of stamina, borne of years without a regimen of exercise, for I was struggling to maintain even a steady trot.

Why was I feeling guilt ridden? I tried to reason with myself. It was only an article, and a fictionalized one at that. It was mere coincidence. The article didn't cite any name. There was no mention of the town. There must have been at least one antique shop in practically every town in Scotland. People were struck by lightning all the time.

The smell of ozone permeated the air as I neared the shop. Ahead of me were the sounds of excited voices chattering at once. My pace slowed by necessity to a stagger, I edged myself into the ring of townsfolk milling about across the street from the old antique shop.

By the time the town's only emergency vehicles, a firetruck and an ambulance had arrived on the scene, the gathered crowd had grown and had begun to spill from the sidewalk onto the street. A local policeman was frantic in his efforts to keep the gawking throng on the far side of the street.

Through the sea of heads between me and the street I caught a glimpse of the far sidewalk in front of the entrance to the shop. I gasped as my eyes fell upon the charred remains of a body, that of an elderly woman.

I felt suddenly ill as if I was about to faint.


(To be continued ... Part 4.)

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