A Nest of Nightmares

‘I guess so. I remember the few times Anna and I came out here as kids we could never find a way to get inside. We made up stories about the ghosts of the mad horses still being inside the barn. But because they were ghosts they couldn’t be held by normal walls, and roamed around at night. I can remember nights when we’d huddle together, certain we heard their ghostly neighing . . .’ His eyes looked faraway. Remembering how much he had loved his sister, Marilyn felt guilty about her reluctance to take in Anna’s children. After all, they were all Derek had left of his sister.

‘So this place is haunted,’ she said. trying to joke. Her voice came out uneasy, however.

‘Not the house,’ said Derek quickly. ‘Old Uncle Martin died in the barn.’

‘What about your ancestors who lived here before that? Didn’t the Indian curse touch them?’

‘Well . . .’

‘Derek,’ she said warningly.

‘Okay. Straight dope. The first family, the first bunch of Hoskins who settled here were done in by Indians. The parents and the two bond-servants were slaughtered, and the children were stolen. The house was burned to the ground. That wasn’t this house, obviously.’

‘But it stands on the same ground.’

‘Not exactly. That house stood on the other side of the barn – though I doubt the present barn stood then – Anna and I used to play around the foundations. I found a knife there once, and she found a little tin box which held ashes and a pewter ring.’

‘But you never found any ghosts.’

Derek looked up at her. ‘Do ghosts hang around once their house is burned?’

‘Maybe.’

‘No, we never did. Those Hoskins were too far back in time to bother with, maybe. We never saw any Indian ghosts, either.’

‘Did you ever see the ghost horses?’

‘See them?’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I don’t remember. We might have. Funny what you can forget about childhood. No matter how important it seems to you as a child . . .’

‘We become different people when we grow up,’ Marilyn said.

Derek gazed into space a moment, then roused himself to gesture at the wall of books behind him. ‘If you’re interested in the family history, that little set in dark green leather was written by one of my uncles and published by a vanity press. He traces the Hoskins back to Shakespeare’s time, if I recall. The longest I ever spent out here until now was one rainy summer when I was about twelve . . . it seemed like forever . . . and I read most of the books in the house, including those.’

‘I’d like to read them.’

‘Go ahead.’ He watched her cross the room and wheel the library ladder into position. ‘Why, are you thinking of writing a novel about my family?’

‘No. I’m just curious to discover what perversity made your ancestor decide to build a house here, of all god­forsaken places on the continent.’

Marilyn thought of Jane Eyre as she settled into the window seat, the heavy green curtains falling back into place to shield her from the room. She glanced out at the chilly grey land and picked up the first volume.

James Hoskins won a parcel of land in upstate New York in a card game. Marilyn imagined his disappointment when he set eyes on his prize, but he was a stubborn man and frequently unlucky at cards. This land might not be much, but it was his own. He brought his family and household goods to a roughly built wooden house. A more permanent house, larger and built of native rock, would be built in time.

But James Hoskins would never see it built. In a letter to relatives in Philadelphia, Hoskins related:

‘The land I have won is of great value, at least to a poor, wandering remnant of Indians. Two braves came to the house yesterday, and my dear wife was nearly in tears at their tales of powerful magic and vengeful spirits inhabiting this land.

‘Go, they said, for this is a great spirit, as old as the rocks, and your God cannot protect you. This land is not good for people of any race. A spirit (whose name may not be pronounced) set his mark upon this land when the earth was still new. This land is cursed – and more of the same, on and on until I lost patience with them and told them to be off before I made powerful magic with my old Betsy.

‘Tho’ my wife trembled, my little daughter proved fiercer than her Ma, swearing she would chop up that pagan spirit and have it for her supper – which made me roar with laughter and the Indians to shake their heads as they hurried away.’

Marilyn wondered what had happened to that fierce little girl. Had the Indians stolen her, admiring her spirit?

She read on about the deaths of the unbelieving Hoskins. Not only had the Indians set fire to the hasty wooden house; they had first butchered the inhabitants.

‘They were disembowelled and torn apart, ripped by knives in the most hungry, savage, inhuman manner, and all for the sin of living on land sacred to a nameless spirit.’

Marilyn thought of the knife Derek had said he’d found as a child.