by David Elder

Created on: June 07, 2008   Last Updated: July 15, 2008

The Visitor

The house on the end of Mariner's Lane sat isolated and private behind a high hedge that shielded it from its nearest neighbor almost a mile away. Weeds choked the once neat flower beds and the fence had fallen into disrepair. When the wind blew, the hinges on the gate would squeal in protest as it swung, as if announcing passage of some specter navigating the broken sidewalk. The brutal sun of summer and the bitter cold of winter conspired to strip the house of dignity, exposing glimpses of weathered pine beneath peeling flakes of tortured paint.

It was known locally as the Windsor house after the family who had first lived there. It had been built in 1835 and had proven to be unlucky from the first moment nail was put to wood. One would think that because of its location at the end of the road, and the panoramic view of the crashing surf hundreds of feet below, that the house would have been highly prized. Instead its legacy was one of sorrow and loss.

It was assumed that the disappearances in the area were unrelated, and that all were the result of natural circumstances. Still, the numbers of those missing should have drawn the attention of local authorities, but such was not the case. The fishing village of Anchor Bay had no resident police force, and relied on the county sheriff's department to provide occasional law enforcement as needed. If a wife left her husband, or a child ran away, it didn't necessarily draw any attention.

A well worn path wound its way past the house along the edge of the cliff, where passersby would come to watch the seabirds or eat a picnic lunch. Most would pay no attention to the hulking old Victorian, to their eternal good fortune. Some though would ignore the battered No Trespassing sign that hung precariously on a rotted post near where the path passed on its way out to the point. They either didn't believe the rumors, or their youth conveyed a feeling of invincibility that conquered reason.

And then of course there were the drifters, men or women of no means who held signs at intersections, receiving handouts from more industrious souls who may have been touched by one of their small prevarications.

*
Clara and Ralph had been drinking all day. Any day that the booze held out and it didn't rain was better than most. They even had some hotdogs for later if they could find any wood to burn. Tomorrow they would have to be moving on. The town was pretty much played out. The ones who had stopped to offer a buck or two now

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