Page 77 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
Perliett shoved back in her chair, her body colliding with empty air that somehow felt occupied by something or someone. Her feet tangled in her nightgown and she fell to the floor, the chair overturning with a clamor. The candles were snuffed, plunging the room into blackness. Maribeth’s scream rent the air with a nerve-shattering impact. Rolling to her knees, Perliett fought against her clothes.
“Mother!” She grasped the edge of the table, squinting in the darkness. “Mother!” When Maribeth didn’t answer, Perliett stumbled to the doorway and ran her palm against the wall until it met with the switch to ignite the gaslights around the room.
When the lights flared to life, her gaze landed on Maribeth’s form, slumped over the table, the pencil rolling until it fell off the edge and landed with a clatter on the floor.
Her smelling salts didn’t revive Maribeth. Perliett had propped her mother’s head on a pillow as she sprawled on the study floor.
“Mother, please,” Perliett urged as she rummaged through her apothecary chest. She pulled out a bottle wrapped in a small velvet bag. “I’ll pour you some of this.” Talking to Maribeth gave Perliett hope that she’d soon regain her senses. A small glass was tucked in her box. Perliett lifted it and poured some brandy from the bottle. She held it to her mother’s lips, but the alcohol dribbled down her chin, running onto her neck. “Mother, you need to drink this. The brandy will help.”
There was no response.
Perliett patted her mother’s cheek. “Please.” When there was continued silence, Perliett emptied her box in a panic. Bottles of this and that, powders, tablets, and syrups. Her chin quivered, and she swallowed down tears. Tears that now strangled her more than the invisible hands had.
“God help me.” The impulsive prayer did nothing to lighten the room. Nothing to strike her with medical inspiration. She had reached the end of her paltry knowledge. Perliett had a moment of disdain for herself. For her pretense and pride that she could pretend to be anything more than someone with home remedies. That she could compete with the knowledge of George Wasziak and the medical field. Her mother was comatose, lying on the floor beside her table that was the bridge to the other side, and Perliett was helpless to care for her!
She needed assistance. Immediately. Perliett shoved bottles away from her, and they rolled on the floor. Useless. Useless treatments when it truly mattered!
Perliett leaned close to her mother’s face, holding her finger beneath her nostrils to assure herself that the woman still breathed. “Mother, I’m going for help.”
There was no reaction. No blinking of her eyes. No trembling of her lips.
“I’ll be back,” Perliett whispered, smoothing Maribeth’s hair from her face. Scurrying to her feet, Perliett’s hip bumped the table. She glimpsed the stationery.
Who’ll make the shroud?
I, said the Beetle,
with my thread and needle,
I’ll make the shroud.
Who’ll dig his grave?
I, said the Owl,
with my pick and trowel,
I’ll dig his grave.
The Cock Robin nursery rhyme.
Terror flooded Perliett. The sort of panic that sent reason warring with unadulterated fear. She spun and ran from the room.
The moon was full and thankfully shed its luminance across the road, dancing on the tops of the cornstalks in the fields that bordered it. Perliett ran, wishing she had at least put on her slippers. Stones cut into the bottoms of her feet. Her nightgown twisted around her legs, and she hiked it up with her hands.
Should-haves raced through her mind. She should have stopped long enough to hitch the horse to their buggy. Originally, it seemed it would take too long, but now the tradeoff of time to hitch up the horse showed her foolishness that she now ran on foot. Her father’s choice to live outside of town was a curse tonight. That George Wasziak’s home bordered the town was a blessing. He would know. Hehadto know how to revive her mother.
But the circumstances replayed in her mind, circling and taunting her. The candlelight going out. Her mother’s shriek.The feeling of being strangled. The nursery rhyme penned almost supernaturally across the page.
It was too eerie, too unexplainable. Tooparanormal. George would not approve. She could see his glower now. His deep dislike for all things her mother did. But he wouldn’t deny her care. Care that she—as Maribeth’s daughter—shouldhave been able to give. She stumbled and cried as she ran down the country road. Helpless. Alone. Thoroughly and completely broken of any vestige of pride.
This was not right. The summoning of Eunice. The murder of Millie. The messages of omen in the form of a child’s nursery rhyme. Birds. Just creatures fictionally grieving over a dead robin. A dead robin that had showed up on her porch. Jasper Bridgers getting anonymous messages at his room. The newspaper receiving a taunt it was all but coerced into printing. Mrs. Withers convinced she was hearing from Eunice. Warning them. Trying to communicate—
Perliett cried out as her foot slammed onto a sharp stone. Her ankle twisted, and she skidded to the ground. Her knees scraped across the hard-packed dirt. Tears broke through her resolve, trailing down her face as Perliett pushed against the ground with her torn palms.
“Help. Please help.” Her voice shook as she cried to no one. To nothing. To the abyss that was the sky, filled with only a moon that stared down at her as if intoxicated by what might happen next. At what might happen under the spell of its glow that should comfort but instead was shifting across the earth as though tempting evil to come out to play.
Perliett willed herself to her feet, reaching out with her left arm to find something sturdy to stabilize her. She wobbled, the bottom of her foot bruised. She couldn’t run now, only limp. She needed to get help. George was too far. The Withers farm. It would be closer. Perhaps Mr. Withers could take a horse and go fetch George.
