Page 3 of Jacob Michaels is Dead

“Don’t let it bother ya’ none.” The man winked at the boy. “Bloody Bones ain’t comin’ for you, Robert. And, if he does, I’ll fight him off for ya’.”

Robert thought about this for a moment, and then a brilliant smile split his face. Leaping up, he gave the man a wave, and then he was running back towards his family home in the clearing in the woods, away from the shores of Lake Erie. The man watched as Robert ran gleefully towards home, allowing a passing smile to adorn his face. When the boy was swallowed up by the darkness and shadows of the woods, the man’s smile disappeared, and his eyes went to the fire. Shadows danced all around him as the flames licked towards the canopy of trees overhead.

“Ya’ know,” The man started at the sound of a woman’s voice, “no one really believes that story anymore. Which is a problem.”

“Who’s there?” The man’s head whipped around, looking for the sound of the voice.

“The ground can be shakin’, and the wolves can be prowlin’. The moon can turn to blood, and the lake can boil…but that story is no more than a myth anymore.”

“Who’s there?” The man repeated, clutching the book to his chest.

His eyes landed on the spot where little Robert Wagner, Jr. had been swallowed up by the shadows. A woman, old in visage but spry in body, stepped out into the light of the campfire. The man’s eyes grew as the woman, a stranger to him, sauntered out of the shadows and towards the campfire, coming to stand on the other side of the flickering flames.

“Where’d you come from?” The man asked, unnerved by the sudden appearance of the woman he had never seen before.

“Here and there.” The matronly woman shrugged as she peered into the man’s sparkling eyes, not yet dulled by age. “Mostly here.”

“Who are you?”

The corner of the woman’s mouth turned upward slightly as her eyes lingered on the man’s a moment longer. Then her eyes were on the book.

“That book doesn’t belong to you.” She said.

With a flick of the woman’s hand, the book flew from the man’s grasp into the waiting, outstretched hand of the woman. She smiled at the man and promptly tucked the book under her arm. Without another word, she turned and began to step away from the campfire.

“Huh-who are you?” The man demanded, rising from the tree stump.

“Well,” The woman turned back to the man, “I’m Esther Jean Wagner. Or I will be. After a spell.”

She winked.

Horrified, the man jabbed a shaky finger in her direction.

“You aren’t Esther Jean Wagner.” He demanded. “Esther Jean Wagner died in childbirth years ago.”

Esther Jean Wagner smiled.

“What people don’t know won’t hurt ‘em none.” She winked again. “It’s amazin’ what people will believe with a little magic, ain’t it?”

“What?”

For a few moments longer, the woman stared at the man. Suddenly, the man lowered himself to the tree stump again, his eyes slowly moving to the flickering flames of the fire.

“Esther…Jean…Wagner.”

“That’s right.” The woman nodded. “That’s who I am. You’re good about tellin’ stories. Tell anyone you want about me if it suits you fine.”

The man’s head nodded up and down like a balloon on a stick.

“But you ain’t never heard this story before.” She shook the book at the mesmerized man. “That’s one story you can stop tellin’. We don't need you goin' around, spoilin' the endin’.”

“Why?” The man asked robotically, his eyes still on the fire.

“These kids ain’t the only folks listenin’.” Esther Jean Wagner’s brow furrowed as the ground rumbled underfoot for the briefest of moments. “Tellin’ stories is dangerous, Jackson Barkley. Some things are best left to be forgotten. For as long as they can.”

“Why?”

Esther Jean Wagner’s eyes moved from the ground to the canopy of skeletal tree limbs overhead. The chilly autumn breeze blew through the woods once more, ruffling her hair and threatening to extinguish the fire.

“It might already be too late.” She said, mostly to herself, before turning her eyes to Jackson Barkley. “He’s comin’. I don’t doubt that you’ll meet him.”

And, with that, Esther Jean Wagner disappeared back into the shadows, the book of stories tucked under her arm. Jackson Barkley sat before the fire, staring into its slowly dying flames.