Read Online Harbinger in the Mist (Arms of Serendipity) by Anabell Martin - Free Book Online
Authors: Anabell Martin
Tags: Horror
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first thing I grabbed,” Lindsey reasoned.
“What were you going to do if there actually was someone in the house? Suck his face off?” Maddie joked.
“Well, it sure puts a new meaning to beating the crap out of someone,” Michelle smirked.
The house was silent for the rest of the night. The girls fell asleep a little after two in the morning, all three of them crowded on Lindsey’s bed, the credits of another DVD rolling silently in the background.
The alarm on Lindsey’s phone woke them the next morning. The twins went home after inviting Lindsey to spend the night in the barn to help them watch Wind Dancer. Lindsey agreed – she wasn’t too keen on spending the night alone in the house yet. She knew it was silly, but she’d take a cold, hard concrete floor in a barn over a soft, comfy bed in a spooky house tonight.
Aimee called and said she’d be a little late getting home. She was going to breakfast with a couple of the women from work. She was tired, but it was a good way to bond with her new co-workers. That was fine with Lindsey because she wasn’t sure how she was going to tell her mom about the incident the night before, at least not yet.
Lindsey drove into town to meet with Karen, the director of the Artisans Center. The road leading into town was in desperate need of repair. The pot-holed asphalt, yellow line long faded, was flanked on either side by a mixture of trees. Some were healthy and plush, bright green leaves and pine needles crowded their limbs, each stretching and bending to reach the sunlight shining down on the canopy above. But others were naked and skeletal looking, not a bit of green on them. Their bare branches reached out to the road like gnarly, dead fingers. She passed two reflective yellow, diamond-shaped signs with the image of a leaping deer on it. It made her wonder what other kinds of wildlife called this area home.
She reached the Artisans Center in less than ten minutes. It had once been a small, one-story home, but had been converted into a store that sold artwork from South Carolina artists. As she pulled her car into the small driveway, Lindsey spied a long table sitting in the small patch of grass in front of the Center. A middle-aged black woman sat in a wicker chair weaving a large basket. On her table sat an assortment of hand-made, woven items – hats, planters, and baskets. The weaving was intricate and beautiful. She’d never seen anything like it. A rack held intricately carved wooden bracelets and multi-colored bead necklaces.
Inside, there were unique paintings, sculptures, framed photos, hand-made jewelry, note cards, bookmarks, and even hand-dipped candles. Another table sat near the cash register that held woven items like the ones the lady was making outside. Along one wall, books about art, South Carolina history, and the like were packed willy-nilly into bookcases. Somewhere, a fruity candle burned, filling the air with an inviting aroma, and a CD played delicate piano music in the background.
“I just love Yiruma. He has a gift, that man,” Darby said, stepping out from behind an easel that held a large, framed painting of a baby sea turtle at the ocean’s edge, the frothy Atlantic just a hair’s-breathe from its front flippers. She pointed at the little grey CD player on the counter when she spoke.
“Good morning, Ms. Darby. What are you doing here?”
“Good mornin’ to you, too, sweetheart. I’m looking at the new things Karen got in today. Did you see these hand-painted note cards? Anyway, how are you doin’? How’s that house treatin’ y’all?”
“It’s … nice.”
“Oh, you’ll get used to it soon enough.”
Lindsey picked up one of the baskets. “These are so pretty.”
“Ms. Yalunka made those. You probably saw her outside. She drives out here all the way from the Gullah settlement on Warsaw Island three times a week.”
“Gullah?”
“Oh, yes, honey. You’re not from around here so it makes sense that you
“What were you going to do if there actually was someone in the house? Suck his face off?” Maddie joked.
“Well, it sure puts a new meaning to beating the crap out of someone,” Michelle smirked.
The house was silent for the rest of the night. The girls fell asleep a little after two in the morning, all three of them crowded on Lindsey’s bed, the credits of another DVD rolling silently in the background.
The alarm on Lindsey’s phone woke them the next morning. The twins went home after inviting Lindsey to spend the night in the barn to help them watch Wind Dancer. Lindsey agreed – she wasn’t too keen on spending the night alone in the house yet. She knew it was silly, but she’d take a cold, hard concrete floor in a barn over a soft, comfy bed in a spooky house tonight.
Aimee called and said she’d be a little late getting home. She was going to breakfast with a couple of the women from work. She was tired, but it was a good way to bond with her new co-workers. That was fine with Lindsey because she wasn’t sure how she was going to tell her mom about the incident the night before, at least not yet.
Lindsey drove into town to meet with Karen, the director of the Artisans Center. The road leading into town was in desperate need of repair. The pot-holed asphalt, yellow line long faded, was flanked on either side by a mixture of trees. Some were healthy and plush, bright green leaves and pine needles crowded their limbs, each stretching and bending to reach the sunlight shining down on the canopy above. But others were naked and skeletal looking, not a bit of green on them. Their bare branches reached out to the road like gnarly, dead fingers. She passed two reflective yellow, diamond-shaped signs with the image of a leaping deer on it. It made her wonder what other kinds of wildlife called this area home.
She reached the Artisans Center in less than ten minutes. It had once been a small, one-story home, but had been converted into a store that sold artwork from South Carolina artists. As she pulled her car into the small driveway, Lindsey spied a long table sitting in the small patch of grass in front of the Center. A middle-aged black woman sat in a wicker chair weaving a large basket. On her table sat an assortment of hand-made, woven items – hats, planters, and baskets. The weaving was intricate and beautiful. She’d never seen anything like it. A rack held intricately carved wooden bracelets and multi-colored bead necklaces.
Inside, there were unique paintings, sculptures, framed photos, hand-made jewelry, note cards, bookmarks, and even hand-dipped candles. Another table sat near the cash register that held woven items like the ones the lady was making outside. Along one wall, books about art, South Carolina history, and the like were packed willy-nilly into bookcases. Somewhere, a fruity candle burned, filling the air with an inviting aroma, and a CD played delicate piano music in the background.
“I just love Yiruma. He has a gift, that man,” Darby said, stepping out from behind an easel that held a large, framed painting of a baby sea turtle at the ocean’s edge, the frothy Atlantic just a hair’s-breathe from its front flippers. She pointed at the little grey CD player on the counter when she spoke.
“Good morning, Ms. Darby. What are you doing here?”
“Good mornin’ to you, too, sweetheart. I’m looking at the new things Karen got in today. Did you see these hand-painted note cards? Anyway, how are you doin’? How’s that house treatin’ y’all?”
“It’s … nice.”
“Oh, you’ll get used to it soon enough.”
Lindsey picked up one of the baskets. “These are so pretty.”
“Ms. Yalunka made those. You probably saw her outside. She drives out here all the way from the Gullah settlement on Warsaw Island three times a week.”
“Gullah?”
“Oh, yes, honey. You’re not from around here so it makes sense that you
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