I’m basing it on what I thought was a story length piece, but is actually only 1500 words. At first I was a little disappointed there was so little to work with. However, when I read it over I realized that while it kind of failed as a story, it wasn’t bad as an outline for a longer piece. I’d stripped so much of the detail away from the original, that I was left with what amounted to a laundry list of events.
Bad for the story, good for me to turn it into something longer. But still, there was something missing. It was supposed to be a creepy story, with vaguely otherworldly or supernatural undertones. So then I got all caught up in an introduction to set the tone of the tale, which really bogged me down until I realized it wasn’t necessary.
I ditched the intro, discovered what the core of the story was, and started over. Whether it turns out as creepy as I’m hoping remains to be seen because I did not have time to plot the whole thing out.
Without further ado, for better or for worse, here’s the first installment of my new online serial, The Pond.
Chapter One
No one was sure where they Anton family had come from. Nicholas Anton, born Nikolai Antonovich, simply appeared one day and had a massive house built, set back in the woods. Built of heavy timber and quarried stone, the house was every bit as imposing as Nicholas.
He was a tall, barrel chested man, with black hair and a bushy black beard, and habitually wore a scowl on his face. Those who worked for him claimed he was stern, but fair. Still, no one wanted to get on his bad side.
But if they had a healthy respect for Nicholas, the respect was fueled by fear for his wife Izolda. She was tall and thin, sharp featured, and her titian hair was worn in a severe bun. There was a room in the top floor of the house that she kept locked – no one was allowed in there, not even to clean. Sometime strange light could be seen flickering in the single window of the room.
This, of course, had rumors flying as to what she could be up to in that room. No one dared voice the word “witch” lest she overhear and take offence. But looks passed between the matrons and men made the sign against evil or crossed themselves when she passed by.
Safer speculation was where their money came from. Bit by bit Nickolas had bought up the land along both sides of the North River, right to base of Mount Saint Ana. He held the rights to a sliver mine, and one of copper, and built a mill on the banks of the Northern River. Gradually the village of Sweetwater grew up around it.
There was a fortune to be made in timber, but Nickolas refused to allow the old growth forest to be touched. Villagers were free to haul away the deadwood for their fires, but they were not to cut the trees themselves.
A man from a logging company came to Sweetwater, and was invited to dinner at Briarwood, the name Nickolas gave to his house. One of the serving maids reported that the man wanted to form a partnership with Mr. Anton, and start cutting down the massive trees.
Nickolas refused.
“Why not?” the man asked, obviously both surprised and angry. “With so much land, you’d hardly miss a few hundred trees.”
“The trees stay.”
“Transporting them would be simple with the river right here.”
Nickolas slanted a look at Izolda, who sat there stone-faced. “The trees stay,” he said, with a voice of finality.
Izolda said not a word to the logging man. Not a word of greeting, not a word of farewell, nor did she respond when he tried to engage her in conversation.
“If you could have seen the way she looked at him,” the maid said with a shudder. “I don’t know why, he seemed rather pleasant. But there was something about him seemed to fill her with rage.”
A light flickered in the locked room that night, but no one gave it a second thought. They’d long ago become used to the strange doings in Briarwood. But when Izolda put in an appearance the next morning, the serving maid couldn’t help but notice how pale and drawn her mistress looked.
A few weeks later, word reached the village that the logger had died while cutting wood further up the mountain. He apparently misjudged the angle of the tree he’d been cutting and it fell on him, crushing him.
By a strange coincidence, Izolda chose that moment to announce she was with child.
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