The Seeker A Novel (R. B. Chesterton) Read Online Free Page B

the next Stephen King. I like a good ghost yarn on a cold winter night.”
    “I could recommend a few. ‘The Turn of the Screw’ is one of the scariest stories I’ve ever read.”
    His eyebrows shifted up. “I read a bit of Henry James when I was younger. I once thought I might be a scribbler myself. Have to say I like the new breed of writer. They get to the point and don’t use a lot of ten-dollar words.”
    Everyone was a critic, but I was pleasantly surprised. McKinney’s honesty was refreshing.
    “If I see any children, I’ll let you know.” It was late, but I had more writing to do.
    “I’d appreciate it. Young’uns don’t always understand the capricious nature of the weather and how deadly it can be.”
    “I hear you.”
    “Joe told me you’re hiking the pond trails. You take care, too. When the snow covers the ground, it’s easy to step in a hole or trip over a vine or limb. Grownups freeze just as readily as a child. You want me to drive you back to the cabin?”
    “No, thanks. I need the exercise. I grew up in the mountains. I’ll take care.”
    He put his smoky hat back on and left. I followed him, ready to get back to work.
    I entered a warm, comfortable cabin and set immediately to work. By midnight, my neck was cramped and stiff and my shoulders aching. Putting aside my writing, I turned off the computer, swallowed a mild sleeping pill, and took Bonnie’s journal and a glass of wine to bed.
    Sipping the wine, I read from the middle of the journal. I’d perused it front to back numerous times, and now I liked to let the pages open on their own. The section dealt with Bonnie’s abilities—and Thoreau’s interest in the supernatural.
    Strange dreams have always attended me. Some forecast the future, others seem untethered to any time or place. My most recent dreams involve the child, Louisa May. She is a precocious young lady with an active mind, and a will of her own. She is not a spirit who will be forced into the constraints of a corset and a marriage.
    In my dreams, I see her surrounded by numerous children. Vivacious girls. There is laughter and tears, as there would be in any household. And Louisa is writing at a desk beside an open window that gives a view of the orchard.
    These are not her children. Perhaps she is a teacher, like her father, and these are her future pupils. She loves them greatly, each for their individuality. They will bring her happiness.
    With the clarity of hindsight, I knew Bonnie was describing the March family, the literary children who would sustain the entire Alcott family. Jo, Meg, Beth, Amy, Laurie—I recognized them. Bonnie would never have, though, because Louisa May Alcott was still a child. She hadn’t written the first word of Little Women .
    But there was another passage I sought. The police chief’s visit brought to mind a mention my aunt had made of finding tracks near the cabin at Walden. It had been only a brief mention, more of a curiosity than anything else. I had come to believe that my aunt longed for a child.
    As I found the place and began to read, dread caught me. This was not the way I remembered it. I had read the journal repeatedly, and though I knew of Bonnie’s and Thoreau’s attempts to speak with departed spirits, I didn’t remember this dark account. I held my breath and read, more and more concerned that I had no recollection of my aunt’s words.
    I’m reluctant to put these words on the page. This morning, before he went to attend his surveying chores, Henry asked that we attempt a communication. He sorely misses his brother, John. Though I was reluctant to do this, I yielded to Henry’s impassioned pleas.
    I should have heeded my instincts. The session was a disaster. I haven’t honed my abilities to bring forth the dead, and what I brought into our cabin was not his brother. The creature, for I am sure it had never been human, was racked with horrid spasms. It gasped for air and thrashed about. Though it tried to