Cruelest Month

‘But it’s there,’ he continued, ‘if you look up, on the hill overlooking the village, there’s a spot that’s darker than the rest.’

‘What is it?’ Jeanne asked.

‘Evil,’ said the old grocer and the room grew silent. Even the fire seemed to stop its muttering.

Jeanne went to the window and did as he instructed. She lifted her eyes from the friendly village. It took her a moment, but eventually above the lights of Three Pines she saw it, a spot darker than the night.

‘The old Hadley house,’ whispered Madeleine.

Jeanne turned back to the gathering, now no longer lounging comfortably with each other, but alert and tense. Myrna picked up her Scotch and took a swig.

‘Why do you say it’s evil?’ Jeanne asked Monsieur Béliveau. ‘That’s quite an accusation, for a person or a place.’

‘Bad things happen there,’ he said simply, turning to the others for support.

‘He’s right,’ said Gabri, taking Olivier’s hand but turning to Clara and Peter. ‘Should I say more?’

Clara looked to Peter who shrugged. The old Hadley house was abandoned now. Had been empty for months. But Peter knew it wasn’t empty. For one thing he’d left part of himself in it. Not a hand or a nose or a foot, thank God. But things that had no substance but fantastic weight. He’d left his hope there, and trust. He’d left his faith there too. What little he had, he’d lost. There.

Peter Morrow knew the old Hadley house was wicked. It stole things. Like lives. And friends. Souls and faith. It had stolen his best friend, Ben Hadley. And the monstrosity on the hill gave back only sorrow.

Jeanne Chauvet floated back to the fire and dragged her chair closer to them so that she was finally in their circle. She placed her elbows on her thin knees and leaned forward, her eyes brighter than Clara had seen them all night.

Slowly the friends all turned to Clara, who took a deep breath. That house had haunted her ever since she’d arrived in Three Pines, a young wife to Peter, more than twenty years ago. It had haunted her and almost killed her.

‘There’s been a murder there, and a kidnapping. And attempted murder. And murderers have lived there.’ Clara was surprised how distant this list sounded and felt.

Jeanne nodded, turning her face to the embers slowly dying in the grate.

‘Balance,’ she finally said. ‘It makes sense.’ She seemed to rouse herself and sat up straighter, as though moving into another mode. ‘As soon as I arrived here in Three Pines I felt it. And I feel it tonight right here, right now.’

Monsieur Béliveau took Madeleine’s hand. Peter and Clara moved closer. Olivier, Gabri and Myrna inched together. Clara closed her eyes and tried to feel whatever evil Jeanne was sensing. But she felt only –

‘Peace.’ Jeanne smiled a little. ‘From the moment I arrived I felt great kindness here. I went into the little church, St Thomas’s I think it’s called, even before booking into the B. & B., and sat quietly. It felt peaceful and content. This is an old village, with an old soul. I read the plaques on the walls of the church and looked at the stained glass. This village has known loss, people killed before their time, accidents, war, disease. Three Pines isn’t immune to any of that. But you seem to accept it as part of life and not hang on to the bitterness. Those murders you speak of, did you know the people?’

Everyone nodded.

‘And yet you don’t seem bitter or bound by that horrible experience. Just the opposite. You seem happy and peaceful. Do you know why?’

They stared into the fire, into their drinks, at the floor. How do you explain happiness? Contentment?

‘We let it go,’ said Myrna finally.

‘You let it go,’ Jeanne nodded. ‘But.’ Now she grew very still and looked Myrna directly in the eyes. Not challenging. More imploring, almost begging Myrna to understand this next part. ‘Where does it go?’

‘Where does what go?’ Gabri asked after a minute’s silence.

Myrna whispered, ‘Our sorrow. It has to go somewhere.’

‘That’s right.’ Jeanne smiled as though to a particularly gifted pupil. ‘We’re energy. The brain, the heart, run by impulses. Our bodies are fueled by food that’s converted into energy. That’s what calories are. This’, Jeanne brought her hands up and patted her thin body, ‘is the most amazing factory and it produces energy. But we’re also emotional and spiritual beings and that’s energy too. Auras, vibes, whatever you want to call it. When you’re angry,’ she turned to Peter, ‘can’t you feel yourself tremble?’

‘I don’t get angry,’ he said, meeting her gaze with cold eyes. He’d had just about enough of this bullshit.

‘You’re angry now, I can feel it. We can all feel it.’ She turned to the others, who didn’t comment, out of loyalty to their friend. But they knew she was right. They could feel his rage. It radiated off him.

Peter felt set up by this shaman and betrayed by his own body.

‘It’s natural,’ said Jeanne. ‘Your body feels a strong emotion and sends out signals.’