A Desolate Hour

Book 3: Point Pleasant

by Mae Clair

Genres: Ghost; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Sins of the past could destroy all of their futures . . .

For generations, Quentin Marsh’s family has seen its share of tragedy, though he remains skeptical that their misfortunes are tied to a centuries-old curse. But to placate his pregnant sister, Quentin makes the pilgrimage to Point Pleasant, West Virginia, hoping to learn more about the brutal murder of a Shawnee chief in the 1700s. Did one of the Marsh ancestors have a hand in killing the chief—the man who cursed the town with his dying breath?

While historian Sarah Sherman doesn’t believe in curses either, she’s compelled to use her knowledge of Point Pleasant to uncover the long-buried truth. The river town has had its own share of catastrophes, many tied to the legendary Mothman, the winged creature said to haunt the woods. But Quentin’s arrival soon reveals that she may have more of a stake than she realized. It seems that she and Quentin possess eerily similar family heirlooms. And the deeper the two of them dig into the past, the more their search enrages the ancient mystical forces surrounding Point Pleasant. As chaos and destruction start to befall residents, can they beat the clock to break the curse before the Mothman takes his ultimate revenge? . . .

Release date: July 18, 2017

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 250

Sample

 

October 10, 1777

Point Pleasant area

 

Dusk.

It came early with autumn, the high grass browning sluggishly, the woods ripe with the odor of decay. Pockets of mist coiled awake prelude to the coming night. In the distance, the last ruddy rays of the sun were swallowed by the horizon.

Leaves and twigs crunched beneath Obadiah Preech’s boots as he threaded his way through the trees oblivious to the bats flitting overhead. Fort Randolph fell away a good mile behind him. He’d waved a greeting to the sentries when he’d passed through the gates, ignoring their warnings about how quickly night fell. After carrying a musket in Lord Dunmore’s War, he had no fear of the physical realm. Only of what lurked within the woods.

His heartbeat quickened and his palms grew damp with sweat.

He would kill the demon, but not tonight. Tonight was for weaving incantations to empower the dagger, a blade destined to spill the blood of the Indian chief, Cornstalk. The redskins had summoned the creature through the use of foul magic, thus by black witchery would the abomination die. Willa’s death would be avenged.

Locating a clear patch of ground, Obadiah used a branch to sketch a crude pentagram on the forest floor. The soil was soft, moist from recent rains, and turned easily beneath the crooked stick. Two earthworms wriggled through the upturned sod, dark as coffin loam.

A favorable sign when the forest blessed his work.

He plucked them free, then hunkered to gather leaves and twigs for kindling. When he had enough, he lit a small blaze in the center of the pentagram. A kettle went over the flames. Old and pitted, it had seen better days but would suffice for the task at hand.

Casting a hasty glance over his shoulder, Obadiah strained to listen. An owl hooted in the distance and a small animal scurried through the underbrush. Safe from prying eyes, he breathed easier.

It wasn’t discovery he feared so much as failure. Practitioners of the dark arts were shunned, but he would risk that and more to slaughter the demon responsible for his wife’s death.

Turning back to the cauldron, he dragged a hand across his forehead. The air was sticky and close, unusual for fall. Squatting, he added a handful of herbs to the bubbling kettle. Most of the plants were used in healing, but moldy mushrooms and rotting seeds altered the properties of the brew from light to dark. Grimacing, he dug a bloody mass from the rucksack at his waist. The heart was still warm; the carcass of the stray dog he’d lured with a piece of boiled pork attracting flies and scavengers half a mile behind.

He chanted as the old woman had taught him, spitting sounds that made his skin crawl. Flushed and dripping with sweat, he lowered the heart into the pot.

A twig snapped.

Obadiah spun.

Jonathan Marsh stood frozen behind him. A young man, barely twenty-two, he’d been gone several days, scouting for signs of Indian unrest to the north. With a single glance, he took in the crudely etched pentagram and the witch’s pot. Blood drained from his face and his eyes widened with horror.

“Obadiah. What have you done?”

He’d heard. Surely he’d heard the incantation.

Obadiah’s heart skipped a beat.

Jonathan took a faltering step forward. “For the love of Heaven, what evil have you summoned?”

Obadiah gripped the knife clipped to his belt. He would kill tonight after all.

 

 

 

July 1982

Point Pleasant, West Virginia

 

Do you believe in curses?

Quentin Marsh dropped his forehead against the steering wheel, his hands clasped at two and ten o’clock. Why the hell had he said yes? If he’d written Penelope’s ramblings off as crazy, he’d be home in Rhode Island instead of sitting in the parking lot of the Parrish Hotel. His sister had a way of wheedling him into doing almost anything and her pregnancy-induced emotions hadn’t helped.

Twins in the Marsh family had rarely fared well through the generations. He was proof of that jinx, right down to the ugly scars on his hand. No matter how much physical therapy he did, he’d never regain the dexterity to play concert halls.

The Marsh curse in action.

Leaning back in the seat, he listened to the soft patter of rain against the windshield of his Monte Carlo. Twilight had preceded him into Point Pleasant, the bulk of the old hotel standing out starkly against a cloud-swollen sky. Three stories high with a sprawling covered porch and ornate double-door entry, the solid brick building dominated the square of Main Street. Bright blue awnings shaded the windows of the two upper stories, an addition that would look cheerful on a sunny afternoon, but now carried a dismal air with rain dripping from the corners. At least it wasn’t pouring—yet.

Quentin popped the door, then headed to the trunk for his luggage. Overhead a flash of lightning warned of a coming storm.

Do you believe in curses?

Hell, yes.

The problem was breaking them.

* * * *

A distant flash of lightning made Sarah Sherman pause as she packed a stack of papers into the large plastic carton on her desk. Rain drummed on the roof of her rented trailer. Already the wind kicked up, an eerie moan that made her bite down on her bottom lip. Instinctively, she clutched the opaque blue stone suspended from a silver chain around her neck.

Run from the thunder,

Run from the rain,

Lightning can’t hurt you,

The wind is in vain.

The rhyme had been her mantra since childhood, a verse she’d clung to ever since the night her parents’ car careened off a slippery road in the TNT. Neither her mother nor father lived to see the sunrise, but her mother’s necklace and the singsong stanza acted as a safety net whenever her fear of storms churned to the surface.

Shuffling her anxiety aside, she moved the carton to the floor. Most of the contents amounted to old documents and photos, but there were a few random items tucked among the hodgepodge of history that belonged to Shawn Preech. Sarah had found a small Bible with a faded list of family milestones—births, deaths, weddings—and a 1920s hymnal that had once belonged to Gertrude Preech, Shawn’s mother. There was also an oblong wooden case etched with strange symbols. She loathed touching it, but still had to pack it away.

She’d be glad to get rid of everything, especially the case.

Suzanne Preech had given her the entire kit-and-caboodle months ago, hiring her to delve into Shawn’s ancestral tree. She’d made a fair amount of headway, her passion for genealogy fueling her research before Suzanne’s marriage recently imploded. Afterward, Suzanne had told her to dispose of the documents as she saw fit. She had no intention of ever speaking to Shawn again unless it was through her lawyer.

For his part, Shawn was clueless Suzanne had even found the carton in their attic. He’d often bragged his family roots could be traced back to the time of Fort Randolph, but Sarah doubted he had any true knowledge of, or even interest in, his lineage. More likely, the claim was something repeated in his family through generations, a boast that had become gospel.

The intrusion of the phone startled Sarah from her thoughts. She wasn’t certain if it was the storm or the box with the odd markings that had her on edge.

Snatching up the receiver, she dropped into a seat behind her desk. “Hello.”

“Hi, Sarah. It’s Eve.”

Her oldest friend. “Hello, Mrs. Flynn.” She smiled, glad to focus on something pleasant as the name rolled off her tongue. “Are you still floating on the joy of being a newlywed?”

A soft chuckle. “Sheer bliss, but Caden’s on patrol tonight.”

“One of the downsides of being married to a sheriff’s sergeant.” Eve had snagged a wonderful husband in Caden Flynn.

“Fortunately, I can arrange my shifts at the hotel to match Caden’s for the most part,” Eve said into her ear. “That way we’re off together.”

“Hmm. A perk of being the owner.” The Parrish Hotel had been in Eve’s family for as long as Sarah could remember. Her friend had returned to Point Pleasant last summer after a fifteen-year absence, taking over the running of the establishment. She’d become a newlywed only last month.

“Another perk is getting to see the guest registry.” Eve sounded amused.

Sarah’s brows drew together. She stole a look out the window as the wind kicked higher. No lightning, and she’d yet to hear any thunder. “Why should that matter?”

“I thought you might be interested in the name of someone scheduled to check in today.” Eve paused, allowing Sarah to absorb the thought before continuing. “A man by the name of Quentin Marsh.”

“Um…” Sarah tried to think. “Why?”

Eve laughed. “You don’t remember? Last fall, the sleepover I had. You, me, Katie, wine, and a Ouija board?”

“Oh.” The light dawned. Katie Lynch was the manager of Eve’s hotel and a good friend. Together, the three of them formed a tight-knit group. “That was such a silly thing. As if a game could really tell me the initials of someone I’d become involved with. Q.M.” She scoffed at the idea.

“And no one in Point Pleasant we know has those initials.”

Sarah shook her head. “Eve, it was a Ouija board.”

“Which you insisted on bringing. Plus, the predictions it made about Katie and Indrid Cold all came true.”

Sarah fidgeted, not certain she wanted to think about Cold or the strange events that had taken place last fall. She’d only been on the fringe; Katie and Caden’s brother, Ryan Flynn, at the center. And Caden, of course. In her opinion, he was the one around whom everything revolved. “So did the mysterious Q.M. show up?”

“Not yet. I’m hoping he gets here before the storm kicks in.”

A distant rumble of thunder.

“Speaking of storms…” Her grandmother had insisted lightning could travel through phone lines during an electrical storm. The thought only added to her already heightened anxiety.

“I know. I won’t keep you. I just had to tell you about Quentin. Nice name, huh?”

“Odd name. Hey, would you mind if I dropped something off at the hotel for safekeeping tomorrow?” She eyed the plastic tub on the floor. “I told Shawn Preech about the stuff Suzanne gave me. He sounded like he couldn’t care less, but I don’t want to hang onto anything that belongs to him. He said he was going to be at the River, so I thought I could leave it for him to pick up.” The River Café was part of the hotel, a regular hangout for locals, and a casual pub/eatery to accommodate the hotel’s guests.

“Sure, no problem.”

“Great. It’ll save me a trip driving out to his place. I want to wash my hands of it.” Her gaze strayed to the flat oblong case perched on the end of her desk. She wondered if Suzanne even knew it had been buried in the carton.

“I thought you liked snooping around old documents and building genealogy charts?” Eve’s voice brought Sarah back to the present.

“I do.” She glanced at the case again. The wood was dark and weathered, infused with the lingering scent of oak. An elaborate faceplate with an old-fashioned lock held the lid secure, but she’d been unable to locate a key in the carton. Part of her was grateful to never know what the box contained, the other part curious. Squiggles and lines resembling hieroglyphs had been carved along the top, offset with the crude etching of a spider. Sometimes when she looked at the case her stomach turned over, a feeling that grew worse when she touched it.

“I just don’t want Shawn coming back and saying I have his property.” She tried to explain her reluctance. Thunder grumbled, closer this time.

“Is it because of Obadiah? You told me you’d discovered something disturbing about him.”

“Not him.” Obadiah Preech was the first of Shawn’s line to settle in Point Pleasant. Sarah had confirmed he’d taken part in Lord Dunmore’s War of 1774 and had been present at Fort Randolph when Chief Cornstalk was killed. But that wasn’t what bothered her.

“It wasn’t so much about Obadiah, as others. There are references about him in a letter I found. I made a copy to show you. I’ll bring it tomorrow, but right now I want to get off the phone.” A trickle of sweat broke out on the back of her neck. The rain had stopped but an oppressive weight hung in the air, warning of a brewing squall.

“Okay.” Eve understood her fear. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Sarah breathed a sigh of relief when she returned the phone to its cradle. Lightning severed the sky in a white flash and zigzagged to the ground. She counted the seconds until thunder rattled the windows. Storms always seemed worse in a mobile home, but the rent was reasonable and the timing had been right when she’d taken it over.

Her attention shifted to a framed photo on her desk. Her grandparents, arms around each other, smiling back at her. They’d raised her after the death of her parents, but each had suffered fatal illnesses within the last five years, leaving her on her own. A bittersweet smile curved her lips as she touched her fingertips to her mouth, then the photograph. “Miss you guys.”

Time to finish packing the items for Shawn. She put the remaining documents in the carton, most newspapers and items that had been saved from the 1920s and ’30s. There were a few tin-type photographs dating back to the Civil War era, letters exchanged between family members during World War II, and the snippet of the letter she’d told Eve about.

A letter that mentioned Obadiah and something that still induced a chill when she thought of it—a towering winged demon with glowing red eyes.

* * * *

Quentin stepped into the lobby of the hotel and shook rain from his hair. The place was open and inviting, with thick braided rugs over a hardwood floor. A large fireplace dominated the far right wall, the left taken up by a row of towering windows with deep sills and built-in seats. Woodwork, floorboards, even the turned staircase with its thick landing newels and deep risers reflected the construction of a bygone era.

A woman with shoulder-length brown hair stood behind the reception counter. She looked to be close to his age, somewhere in her mid- to late twenties.

“Hi.” She smiled a friendly greeting.

“Hi.” Quentin approached the desk and set his duffel bag on the floor. Despite booking his stay open-ended, he’d packed fairly light, hoping to wrap his business within a week. “Checking in. I’m Quentin Marsh.”

The woman gave him a quick once-over while trying to be unobtrusive. He knew he looked bedraggled, his wavy brown hair plastered to his neck with rain, his jeans faded and worn at the knees. He’d grabbed his most comfortable pair for the drive, knowing he’d be stuck in the car for hours.

“I see you beat the storm. At least the worst of it.” The woman’s smile stayed in place as she flipped a ledger around for him to sign. “It looks like you’re planning on being with us for a while, Mr. Marsh.”

“Quentin.” He scribbled his signature where she indicated.

“Oh my.” Her breath hitched at the sight of deep purple scars road-mapped across the back of his hand.

He should have been prepared. The accident was over two years old, but the reaction of others still caught him off guard. “It’s all right.” His mouth stretched in a jaded grin. “It’s a normal response.”

“I’m sorry.” She flushed, clearly embarrassed. “I didn’t mean…”

“No problem.” He came to her rescue by shoving the offending hand into the pocket of his jeans. “Unfortunate accident. Looks worse than it is.” There was nothing like ending your career with a single careless blunder.

She fumbled to locate his room key, spots of color bright on her cheeks. “I’m glad you chose the Parrish Hotel for your stay, Mr. Marsh—uh, Quentin.”

“No problem.” If he’d wanted lodging in Point Pleasant, there wasn’t a choice. The only other hotels were located across the river in Gallipolis, Ohio. “Any thoughts on where I can grab something to eat?” He sought to deflect the awkwardness they were both currently feeling.

“That’s an easy one.” The question seemed to help her relax. She pointed across the lobby to a hallway tucked beneath the staircase. “If you follow that hall it connects to the River Café here in the hotel.”

Quentin nodded, following her direction. Wide and imposing, the staircase sheltered a short hallway beneath it. “Looks like this place has been here for a while.”

“Since the early 1900s.”

“Amazing. Did you by chance grow up here?” She might know something about the curse of Cornstalk.

The woman hedged. “I left Point Pleasant after the Silver Bridge fell and only returned last year.”

He’d been a kid at the time of the catastrophe, but it had made national news—forty-six lives lost when the bridge connecting Point Pleasant and Gallipolis plunged into the Ohio River a few weeks before Christmas in 1967. “Bad memories?” He had more than a few of his own.

Her gaze dropped to the registration book where he’d scrawled his name with a flourish on the Q. “My father died in the bridge collapse.”

“I’m sorry.” Idiot. Now it was his turn to feel stupid. “That was thoughtless of me. Of course, I’ve heard of the tragedy.”

She managed a wan smile. “I guess we both bungled a few things.”

“Maybe we should start over.” He held out his hand. “I’m Quentin Marsh.”

She grinned and accepted. “Eve Flynn. And I believe I owe you a key. You’re in room twenty-eight. Second floor, facing front at the end of the hall.”

Quentin looked at the ornate skeleton key she passed him. “This is an old place.”

“Part of the charm.”

He hoisted his duffel bag. “I’m sure I’ll find that’s the case. Right now, I just want to unpack, then grab something to eat.” The drive had been long, and even with a few stops interspersed along the way, he was overly tired and hungry.

“My cook does a great beer-battered fish sandwich.”

“So you own the place?” He should have realized. Small town, family-owned hotel.

She nodded. “It was built by my great-grandfather Clarence in 1922. Flynn is my married name.”

She’d be a good source of local information with her family history, but right now he couldn’t wrap his head around the curse, or the promise he’d made to his sister. When he wasn’t coming off an eleven-hour drive, he’d think better.

“Thanks, Eve.” He gave her a parting smile and headed for the stairs. His family had been cursed for centuries. Waiting another day to get to the bottom of that plague wouldn’t matter. And it certainly wouldn’t change his misfortune.

 

 

 

It was dark, pitch black with heavy cloud cover by the time Caden’s shift ended and he made it home. He parked his Capri along the street and killed the ignition. Lights glowed through the front windows of the large house on Pine Creek Avenue. Eve was still up, probably waiting for him. He would have been home earlier if not for a detour to the TNT. Over the last few months she’d gotten used to his forays into the place. Once an ammunitions site during World War II, the area had been reduced to a labyrinth of abandoned weapons igloos, ponds, wetlands, and the crumbling shells of a few old buildings scattered over 3,600 acres of woodlands.

Or as most people in the area had come to think of it—the home of the Mothman.

Caden stepped from the car to the smell of wet asphalt and damp grass. They needed the rain. It had been a dry summer, unusual for a town that sat on the confluence of the Ohio and Kanawha Rivers, and had sustained horrible floods through the decades. Old-timers said those floods had been the curse of Cornstalk in play. Maybe the unusual summer was too.

“Hey.” He smiled as he stepped through the door, catching sight of Eve on the sofa. She sat with her legs tucked to the side, sipping from a cup he guessed held hot tea. Chamomile by the scent. Her face lit up when she saw him. Within seconds she was across the room, arms wrapped around him to bestow a kiss.

“Missed you.”

“Missed you, too.” He kissed her back. Their marriage was just over a month old, both still flush with the glow. “Sorry I’m late.” It was hard being away from her, but she understood the pledge that kept drawing him back to the TNT. Thankful to be home, he set his hat aside and un-holstered his gun. All part of the uniform. The bullets came out before he put the weapon in the drawer of an end table by the door. “I took a drive through the TNT.”

Eve’s eyes grew wide. “Did you see anything?”

He shook his head. The creature was lying low. Mothman sightings historically played out in spurts, the most recent last fall. There’d been few reports in between. He’d personally encountered the creature once or twice, but for the most part the thing had gone into hiding. Despite the promise he’d made to Indrid Cold, he hoped it stayed that way. Far better the Mothman keep off the radar.

“Have a seat and I’ll get you a beer.” Eve motioned to the couch.

Nodding his thanks, Caden sank into the cushions while she disappeared into the kitchen. He heard the refrigerator snick open and closed. It had to be somewhere after eleven, but he was still wired from work. He’d be rotating off shift soon and could enjoy two days of downtime before going on daylight.

“We got a new guest at the hotel.” Eve returned with a can of Miller.

Caden popped the top and took a drink as she settled in beside him. “That Quentin guy you were waiting on?”

Eve nodded. “Quentin Marsh. He’s not what I expected.” She wrapped her hands around her teacup and leaned against him.

Hooking an arm around her shoulder, he made room for her to nestle closer. The radio played in the background, something soothing and melodic, likely tuned to the station for her plants. She pampered them as if they were pets.

“I hope he didn’t show up dressed in black.” Caden wasn’t entirely joking. He took another swig of beer.

Eve laughed. “No. He’s nothing like the Men in Black from last fall.”

Point Pleasant had been inundated with mysterious men in black suits who arrived with little explanation, their sole intent to warn anyone who’d claimed to have seen a UFO to be silent. Given the town had experienced a UFO Flap in October, that was close to half the population.

“But he is odd,” Eve continued. “Oh, nothing like Lach or those other men,” she added when he sent her a sharp glance.

Lach Evening was someone he wasn’t sure he’d ever see again. Caden waited a beat but she didn’t say anything further. “What’s so odd about him?”

“I’m not sure.” Eve pressed her lips together, considering. “When I asked what brought him to Point Pleasant, he evaded the question.”

“Why is that so strange? It’s no one’s business but his.”

Eve made a pffing sound. “Most guests chitchat, Caden.” The concentrated look on her face indicated Marsh’s reluctance to talk was only half of what was troubling her. “I told him about my great-grandfather building the hotel, and it got me thinking about him and my grandparents.” She swiveled to face him, her eyes wide and probing. “Did I ever tell you what happened to them?”

Something told him he should already know.

A buried memory stirred awake in the back of his mind. His father shaking his head, talking in hushed tones to Caden’s mother. A tragedy.

“There was a fire at the hotel,” Eve continued before he could answer. “I was four when it happened, so I only know what I’ve been told.” She rubbed a thumb over the diamond ring on her left hand. “The fire broke out on the third floor. No one knows what started it, but they were all up there together—my grandfather and grandmother with my great-grandfather, Clarence.”

“Yeah.” Caden’s voice dropped. “I remember now. I was ten. I remember walking down Main Street the night after it happened. The brick on the third floor was black in the front where the flames shot through the windows. My parents went to the funerals.”

“That’s when my parents took over running the hotel, along with Aunt Rosie.”

Caden tensed. Rosalind Parrish had died over a year ago, taking a secret to her grave that still made him bitter. He lived in the house she’d bequeathed to Eve but wasn’t certain he’d forgiven her. “This is old history, Eve.” His voice sharpened, a knee-jerk reaction to Rosie being mentioned. “Why bring it up now? Because some guy asks about how long you’ve lived here?”

“Yes.” Eve gripped his hand. “Quentin has me thinking. I grew up hearing about that tragedy and about grandparents I don’t remember. Daddy said they never did find the cause of the fire.”

Caden drained the last of his beer. “Old wiring. That’s what I heard.”

“That was speculation, but my father would have known. Do you know what my mother said?” Eve’s gaze held challenge, but she hurried ahead before he could answer. “She blamed it on the curse of Chief Cornstalk.”

Shaking his head, he stood. “Everything that happens around here gets blamed on Cornstalk’s curse. Wayne Rosling’s dog got hit by a car yesterday and he blamed it on Cornstalk.”

“Oh, no.” Eve looked stricken. “Is Brisket all right?”

“He’s fine.” Caden headed for the kitchen and another beer. “Broke his leg, but otherwise he’s going to be okay.” Rosling, a senior deputy with. . .