The cabin — or whatever it was — had one room, about ten feet by twelve, with a dozen or so benches in the middle, most of them arranged in two banks with an aisle up the middle, a few overturned. Some kind of meeting house, I figured. The still, frigid air, the inky black at the edge of the pool of light cast by the flashlight, the shadows that stretched away from me across the floor and up the walls combined to create an eerie atmosphere.
I stood by the door and played the light around the room. The side walls had two large windows each, made up of square panes. At the far end of the room was a table, and in the corner lay a broken lectern. The wall showed the faint outline of a large cross. Now I knew what kind of meeting place it was.
I said a silent Hooray when I caught sight of a small stove and a stack of wood in the corner. My footsteps thumped hollowly on the wooden floor, my breath formed frost clouds before me. As I neared one of the windows I took a look outside.
A hooded figure stood out there, watching me.
The flashlight crashed to the floor and rolled away, the light beam wobbling crazily until it came to rest, sending a streak of light up the wall where the cross had hung. I stood frozen to the spot, heart hammering.
The window was dark again and I saw nothing. I side-stepped slowly over to the flashlight. I stayed clear of the beam so whoever was out there couldn’t see me. When my brain began to function again I realized that whoever it was would need to come in.
But who was he? What was he doing, on foot, out in the storm? I bent slowly and picked up the flashlight. “Who’s there?” I called out. Then, louder, “Is there someone out there?”
No answer, only the sighing wind. I crept slowly to the window and, summoning my courage, raised the light to the glass. He was still there, motionless. Terrified again, I forced myself to examine him. He wore an anorak with the hood laced under his chin.
“You idiot,” I said out loud.
The flashlight had turned the window into a mirror. I was looking at my own reflection.
Muttering angrily at myself, feeling foolish but unable to shake the sense of uneasiness, I dragged two benches to the corner and spread out the sleeping bag, shaking it to give it loft. Then I opened the stove door and shone the light inside. It seemed functional. Beside it was a wooden box containing kindling and newspaper, and beside that a small stack of split wood. If I was economical, it would last the night. I set paper and kindling in the stove and heard the roar of flame and smoke sucked up the chimney and away by the wind.
I kicked off my boots, shrugged out of the anorak and climbed into the sleeping bag. Soon the warmth began to make me sleepy. The next day the snowplows would be out. I’d walk the road until I came to a house, call for a tow truck to pull the van out of the ditch, drive home, get some hot coffee into me, have a long, hot shower.
The wind howled along the walls of the old church, moaned at the eaves, whined at the window ledges, fistfuls of snow rattling the glass. As it warmed, the building creaked and cracked.
My thoughts turned to Raphaella. I pictured her standing in class during the debate, her pale skin and dark eyes, the plum-colored mark on her face and neck. I saw her walking down the hall, her long black hair swaying to and fro across her back. Her willowy body. She carried herself with a confidence and grace I hardly ever saw in other girls. She was intelligent and articulate and wasn’t afraid to show it.
No wonder I was in love with her. I ached to see her again, close-up this time. But how could I manage it?
I got up and put another small log on the fire. I scrunched down into the sleeping bag and, with her face in my imagination, fell asleep.
Once, a few years before, I had a vicious case of bronchitis that brought with it a high fever and bizarre, terrifying nightmares that left me breathless and sweaty. In the church, with the blizzard raging outside and hard benches under me, I slept fitfully, slipping in and out of troubling dreams. Though I couldn’t recall it, each dream left a residue of dread that seemed to build as the night wore slowly on, until finally I was awakened by the rasping of my own rapid breathing.
Around me the rushing wind shrieked and moaned. The comforting crackle of the fire had died away. I swallowed on a dry throat, fumbled for the flashlight and checked my watch. It was just after two o’clock.
Gradually, like a theme emerging in a piece of music, a sound borne by the wind began to separate itself from the background howl. I strained to identify it, scarcely breathing, rigid with concentration. An insistent grumble, like a crowd makes in a movie or a play.
The grumbling intensified without being louder, became more human, the voices of men, at least half a dozen, double that at most. Their distant murmuring carried tones of anger, determination, fear. The sound swelled, stronger, more insistent. Then, like bubbles rising to the surface, one at a time, and bursting, I heard eighty wish … now … go back!… no!, each distinct word floating on a rumbling tide of rage and terror and, finally, hatred.
Eighty wish … go back!… no! Then, Stone … stone.
It was as if the men were passing outside the church on their way somewhere.
The voices receded into the roar of the storm. I was half free of the sleeping bag, propped on one elbow, straining after the terrible sounds. I lay down again, trembling. I began to reason with myself, word by unspoken word regaining confidence. I was imagining things. A gusty wind like that could make strange effects, play with my mind. There were no men. How could there be, in a storm like this in the middle of the night? My nightmares, the stress of the day, loneliness and isolation had gotten to me. Hadn’t I thought I saw a man in the window a few hours before?
I took in a long breath and let it out slowly. Be reasonable, I repeated to myself. I wanted to go back to sleep, but in a way I was afraid to. There’s nothing to fear, I told myself. Don’t be a fool.
Three times that night the voices returned. By the time a weak grey light diluted the darkness at the windows the wind had ceased its assault on the cabin, and I was a wreck.
When the light had risen enough to illuminate the inside of the church, I got up, made sure the fire in the stove was out, packed up my stuff and pushed open the door. The driven snow had been sculpted into ridges like frozen waves alongside and behind the building. In the flat light of early morning I saw that the log structure stood at the intersection of the Third Concession and the Old Barrie Road. Nearby was a stone monument, and on its far side rested the van, its left front smashed in.
Unable to stop myself, I searched the drifts around the church for footprints. I found nothing. Coiling my guide rope, I plowed my way to the van and stowed my gear behind the seat.
The engine started immediately and, with the heater pumping warm air into the cab, I tried once more to back out onto the road. No luck.
An hour or so later a county snowplow came by, snorting diesel smoke into the cold, still air, the blue light revolving on the top. The driver was happy to pull me out of the ditch. I followed the plow into town, glad to see the red streak of the rising sun in the trees beside the road.