Spider Lines Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  A Fox Lane Book

  Copyright © 2018 by Terry Trafton

  All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  LCCN: 2018947117

  ISBN: 9781619848443

  First Printing August 2018

  Printed on Acid Free Paper

  Printed in the United States of America

  [email protected]

  For my mother and father

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Acknowledgements

  Throughout the writing of this book, it was always apparent how significantly the contributions of others mattered. I am grateful to those at Gatekeeper Press whose suggestions and patience were invaluable, Tony Chellini, Rob Price, who worked closely with me during every aspect of this project, and my editor, Wendy Thornton who corrected the mistakes I missed. Always polite, always positive, and always willing to provide constructive feedback, the publishing team at Gatekeeper Press was excellent.

  Thanks to the visionary thinkers unwilling to bend to those who refer to their ideas as too impractical, too radical, too far from mainstream academic thinking. These are the bold independent thinkers unafraid of ridicule. They are the critical and creative thinkers who will not stay silent.

  Special thanks to Dr. Virginia Grabill, Michael Foltynewicz, and Paul Berlanga for their exceptional friendships. There are those whose names I have forgotten, the silent ones that influenced to a large extent both the dialogue and characters in this book. Although research was necessary in the writing of this story, in the end, it remains a work of fiction. The author is responsible for any inaccuracies, omissions, or other egregious errors.

  Finally, I express my gratitude to my own family, especially to my wife Joyce whose constant encouragement motivated me to write, even on those days when the sentences came together awkwardly and when paragraphs were not so easily conceived. Her interest in my work was not without criticisms, which, after consideration, I realized were perceptive suggestions intended to make the writing stronger.

  Author’s Note

  The powers of ley lines are not to be underestimated or disregarded. Unusual and unexplained phenomena occurring at places where there are high concentrations of earth’s energies have been documented and continue to be regarded as highly credible accounts of things unexplained. Life is not always neat and orderly. It is often messy, chaotic, enigmatic and even unsettlingly creepy. We observe the beauty and symmetry of lines in a spiderweb without ever realizing the mysteries that exist in all those empty spaces. This is where imagination lives—in that realm of unknown possibilities, a place where coincidence makes the impossible achievable. There are no walls, no parameters or restrictions, but plenty of open space in which to experience, not only illusion, but also truth. Like the spiritual energies of ley lines, the pathways of spider lines will take each of us on a journey to those blank spaces in our own lives, and it is there that we will realize the profound magic and fascination of the human psyche.

  T.T.

  Chapter 1

  As a rose-colored moon began to fade pale and small, an extraordinary event was taking hold of this bizarre and remarkably uncommon night. Without warning, sharp slashing claws lacerated the sky, ripping and shredding the very fabric of space and time. Lightning flashed. Thunder was so loud and intimidating that words spoken among the crew were too indistinct to be fully comprehended. In this freakish eerie chaos, a gaping mouth belched fire, before its flaming lips snapped shut with tremendous force. The beast was alive—its gluttony rapacious as it devoured the starry night. An enormous rupture—bulged increasingly wider, until reddish-black walls resembling molten rock appeared. The craft was being compressed, squeezed on all sides, sucked into a violently–churning vortex. As it was hurtled deeper into space, a heavy metallic fog clung tenaciously to its exterior skin.

  The sky, an explosion of vivid surrealistic colors, was becoming increasingly hostile. A thrashing bludgeoning force so devastating and maniacal, it had the power to extinguish starlight and obliterate entire constellations. As a whirlpool of unbridled energy spun insanely into a funnel of concentric circles spinning counterclockwise, stars wobbled loosely on their cosmic axis. It would not be long before the sky became a debris field of untethered floaters, a wasteland of macabre images contorted grotesquely into an impossibly real nightmare.

  Smoke! A rancid burning sensation filled their nostrils. White billowing smoke, increasingly intense, made it difficult to see the navigation screens clearly. Extreme vibrations in the controls, discernable malfunctions and failures in the instrument panels, as spikey red lines convulsed into heavy black circles across each screen. Other monitors showed a series of thin configurations resembling cobwebs. As seconds passed, as the spidery lines scrambled erratically into meaningless data, resignation took hold of each crew member—its grip severe, unrelenting. There was no attempt to conceal what each was thinking.

  Panic! The craft could not survive much longer. They prepared for the inevitable. There would be no change of course. For them, home would soon be nothing more than a swarm of cruel and mysterious shadows. But when the images swirling around them began to melt into a stony-gray haze, the craft steadied momentarily. An uneasy calm set in long enough for them to distinguish pinwheels of green light, which resembled deformed eyes slowly converging into one enormous unblinking eye.

  If it was the eye of God, in its gaze was fierceness, and no hint of absolution. Unable to escape the gaze of the horrible and foreboding eye, each knew what had happened was a catastrophic breach of the space–time continuum, an aberrant twist of fate that waited to apprehend their identities. Impossible as it was, the three travelers had been transported to another time and place. They had entered
a hole in the sky, a deep black hole filled with new and exotic starlight.

  With the beast finally gorged and glutted, and a tumultuous sky caving in behind them, they brushed smoke from their visors, in a desperate attempt to see what was ahead of them. As frightening as their thoughts were, the possibility that they might survive the crash brought a momentary sense of hope. Descent was coming too fast. Still, the open space beside the water might be large enough to make a controlled landing.

  Then, without warning, a church steeple—a monolith that stretched high into a crisp moonlit sky. There was a devastating sound from deep below. The church steeple! The craft had collided with the church steeple. Then, as the craft struck the ground, strange vivid images of things to come.

  A large mysterious house built near a church.

  A stone foundation under which a sinister black shape was interred.

  A stone bridge across a blue stream.

  The portrait of a young woman without eyes.

  The sky was noticeably off—stars blinking in the wrong places, constellations broken and scattered across an alien sky. The years were wrong. They had moved backward in time, and as they stood beneath a sky on fire with flaming stars, each searching among these stars for their place in the firmament, they realized again the impossibility of going home.

  Chapter 2

  It was a 30-minute drive on a sunny fall day to the law offices of Whitman, Whitman, and Burke in downtown Evansville, Indiana. Heading west on Riverside Drive, past the Casino Tropicana, or Aztar, as it was still referred to by many longtime customers and supporters of riverboat gambling, Ben recalled the time when he hit a large jackpot on one of the quarter slots. Ben Manning was a man who took chances and on that rainy July afternoon, with no specific place to go, he felt lucky. As he was leaving the casino, he dropped one last quarter into another slot. That’s when, much to his amazement, the lights started spinning. Later that same day, he deposited his winnings into a savings account at First Trust and Savings.

  The Whitman, Whitman, and Burke offices were on the top floor of the Mason Building. From there the scenic view of the Big Bend in the Ohio River was stunning in the morning sunlight, and from this height the Kentucky landscape, with its long bean fields and cornfields, looked deceptively near. On the sandbar, just off the Kentucky shoreline, boats were anchored and people waded and splashed in the shallow water.

  As he entered the office, “Mr. Manning?” asked a young woman politely, coming out from behind her desk to shake his hand.

  “Ben Manning,” he replied.

  “Jenna Newland. Rikki is expecting you.”

  Her handshake was firm, and when she spoke, her smile was warm and genuine. “So, we’re going to be neighbors.”

  “Really?”

  “My father owns the property south of Atwood House beyond the woods.”

  Before he could reply, Rikki Whitman appeared in the doorway of the conference room. “Ben, won’t you please come in? Max is waiting, so let’s get the paperwork completed and get you back outside into that glorious sunshine.”

  Rikki was in her late 30s, expensively dressed, and with an air of urgency, she led him into the conference room where realtor Max Palmer was seated. The scent of perfume was heavy, or was it cologne? At length, he decided it was perfume.

  “Afternoon,” Max said, looking up from the papers in front of him.

  “How are you, Max?”

  “Right as rain, as they say.”

  Rikki gestured him toward a chair next to Max, then went around to the other side of the huge rosewood conference table. The perfume seemed to hang in a cloud around him, and for a moment he thought the heavy smell would trigger his asthma. As seconds passed, the sweet smell slowly dissipated.

  “Well, gentlemen,” she began, “as you know this is more of a formality than anything else. Ben, all the paperwork is in front of you. I’ll go over it and you can sign as we go through it. I’m sure you’ll find everything as we previously discussed.” Then following a slight pause, she added, “I’m happy to answer any questions at any time.” She poured a glass of water, took a sip, and then ran the polished fingernails of one hand through her dark hair.

  There were no questions. After the papers were signed and notarized by the perky secretary, copies were appropriately distributed and Max handed Ben three keys on a plastic key fob, saying, “It’s all yours, Ben. Good luck with it.”

  “I certainly hope I’ve made the right decision on this one,” smiled Ben.

  “As you know, the house has been unoccupied for several years, so it’s going to need some work,” Max stated.

  With two feet of polished rosewood between them, Rikki and Jenna sat across the conference table from the two men. Ben looked from one to the other before speaking again. “It’s the location I like . . . private, but still close to town.”

  Before he left the office, Jenna handed him a business card, which read, Klassy Kleen, and said, “I do weekend work.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked before reading what was printed on the card.

  “Housework. It’s good supplementary income. My mobile number is on the card, so if you need help with that big house, please give me a call.”

  “I will. Thank you, Jenna. I’m sure there is much to be done, so I’ll definitely be in touch.”

  He went back outside into the sunny day, thinking Jenna would work out fine. To say that he’d not had second thoughts about buying Atwood House would be an understatement. But as he had told them at the closing, he liked the location with its lofty view of the Ohio River, and five acres of wooded property offered plenty of privacy. It would be nice to leave behind the cramped quarters of the apartment in which he had lived and worked the past 12 years.

  At 35, Ben was just beginning to experience some significant success as a landscape artist. Commissions were strong, and he had several profitable exhibitions behind him. Beyond that income was the $200,000 his uncle Keith had left him. There would be renovation money available, and if the paintings continued to sell, he’d be fine financially.

  The door creaked, and creaked . . . and creaked a bit more, until it was open wide enough for him to enter a large foyer with a dusty pastoral scene hanging above a mahogany table. Slowly, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw white sheets draped across furniture in what he knew had been used as a parlor. When he had seen the house that first time in late August, he was very much intimidated by its size. It was considerably more house than he needed, and the high ceilings gave the rooms an even more spacious impression.

  The faded velvet curtains covering the tall parlor windows, and the even taller library windows, were heavy and kept out sunlight. The velvet was worn in several places. When they were new, these curtains would certainly have given the rooms an expensive ambience. They would have to go, though.

  Electricity and water had been restored over a week ago. He’d contact Indiana Bell next week. Cable was an easy installation, so he could arrange for that next week as well. Getting the house back together would take time, but with some hired help, he hoped to have most of the work done by Christmas. Although he could do minor carpentry work, the more extensive renovations, like ceiling and roof repairs, and plumbing, would have to be done by professionals.

  It was too soon to think about decorating the entire house. Ben had decided to keep some of the upstairs rooms closed until he knew what to do with them. Previous owners had left behind several pieces of furniture, which were included as part of the closing transaction. Max had told him that most of the furniture had been there since William Gilbert Atwood owned the house. Despite the extraordinary walnut library table, an early 20th century parlor set, mahogany bookcases, a mahogany bedroom set, a couple of couches, and miscellaneous tables and chairs, the house still looked miserably empty.

  In the car, Ben had a bag of groceries, an easel, acrylic paint
s, and three blank canvases. It would be a working night and a chance to convey some further impressions of Atwood House. Although he’d been through the house several times, it was the library he liked most. One architectural feature that stood out was the ornate built-in bookcases with their heavy beveled glass doors and flashy brass pulls. Several boxes were stacked in one corner of the room, and after opening the first three, he decided these were books that had been left behind. He’d find time to sort through them later in the week.

  For a few minutes, Ben’s first night in Atwood House seemed about to begin, until he realized he hadn’t brought an inhaler. Though his asthma was completely controlled and hadn’t bothered him during the last few years, he always felt more at ease when he had an inhaler. There was a drugstore no more than 15 minutes away. He’d get the prescription refilled, pick up some other things he needed, then return to spend his first night in Atwood House. When he returned an hour later, there was a car in the large circular drive and a young woman standing on the stone porch steps. It was Jenna Newland and she was holding something in one hand.

  Coming down the steps rather hurriedly when she saw him , she yelled out a shaky, “Hello.”

  “Jenna,” he answered.

  “Rikki asked me to drop this off. She forgot to give it to you this afternoon.”

  “What is it?” he asked, taking an unclasped folder and briefly glancing inside at what looked to be photocopies of newspaper articles.

  “She didn’t say . . . just said she thought you would find these interesting.”

  “Thank you.”

  “When I knocked on the door, it opened, but no one was there. Then I saw your car approaching.”

  He could tell by her expression that she was slightly shaken, and before speaking again, he glanced at the front door which was open slightly. “I can assure you there’s no one in the house.”

  “I heard footsteps,” Jenna said deliberately. Before he could say another word, she was waving to him as she got into her car.