Chapter 7

Beware the night knocks.

John Sproul had spent almost all of his life in these mountains. His father’s father cut out a lot of land along the hillside, building up the house over the years and was the very place he called home. No matter the harsh winters or bitter storms, the Sprouls dug their roots deep into the earth. During the war against the Red Coats, they used the house and barn as a scouting fort, letting some hunters stay here while the British marched. Again, the house and barn were used during the Civil War, sometimes by the Confederacy and other times by the Yankees. In that war, the Sprouls tried their best to pick no side, but like good old Lee, they wouldn’t fight against their statemen.

                When John was of age, he did what all the Sproul men did and joined the army. He had no idea the Great War would break out across the pond, as the Red Coats put it, but he never got a chance to set foot in the old world. He was out of the army by then, losing his leg to the Mexicans, the Aztecan elves, during the second Mexican war.

                The army wouldn’t call up an old man with a metal leg like him. He wouldn’t be any good for them anyhow since his fighting days were all used up, but his sons were sent over to the old world where two of them died in those battles. The other two went up north to New York City trying to make a living and getting their wives to bear them some children, while his last son waited for John to kick the bucket so he could take over the land. Timothy was about to have his fourth son and wanted to raise his boys on Sproul land.

                John hadn’t told Timothy yet but would clear out more trees to build him a house. He wanted his family around before he left this world. He could feel it in his bones, the way he could feel the rain coming or the snow about to fall. The dull agony of age. The slow bleed of time worked against his body.

                He was dying.

                We were all dying, John would often tell himself while lying in bed at night staring at the ceiling watching the lone candlelight dance, but my time is close. I feel him coming for me. He wants my other leg.

                He would never blow the candle out and never forget to light it at sundown. It was burning to help find any hunters lost in the woods; lost spirits could also use it to get out of the darkness, and it kept away the devils hidden in the trees.

He went downstairs to the old chair his father built, sitting by the fireplace and rocking it. He waited for the sun to come up, dreaming about his wife, Sarah, who was long gone from this world, and missing her deeply.

                His father died of a broken heart right in front of John. He didn’t need any doctor to tell him why his old man went to the other side to be with his mother.

                John was hoping he would do the same thing.

                Sarah would find him in the chair, never asking what woke him, and make him a cup of coffee. She would hum the whole time doing it. John would sit there listening to her little songs, making him smile, but there was no music in his house these days. There was nothing but the slow rock of the chair, leaving John alone in the dark.

               

                Tonight was going to be no different, he believed. Tonight was like all the rest; it was one more bitter hour closer to the grave.

                He listens to Oonawieh Unggi, the Great Old Wind from those Native stories, knock against his door like the old god often did at night. He had been told he had some Injun in him, which was the reason he was good at hunting. It was why the army made him a sharpshooter during his time there.

                His mother like to practice some of the old Injun’s ways. She also made friends with them in these parts.

But the Great Old Wind brought John comfort no matter what was on his troubled mind. He had always loved listening to the old wind sing at night.

                The wind hit his house with great might like something had run right into the door. John stopped rocking, looking back at the door dumbfounded as he waited for something else to happen.

                “Help me,” a girl yelled, beating on the door. “Please, help me, for the love of God, help me.”

                John had to blink a few times before the door handle started to move, and the beating kept going on as he grabbed his hunting rifle over the fireplace. He checked it to ensure it was loaded, seeing the round resting in the barrel.

                “Help me,” the little thing cried. “Someone, anyone.”

                “Who be there?” John roared back, rushing for the door but stopping before he got to close. He thought about what his mother would whisper to him. Be careful of the night knocks, Johnny; there could be witches.

                “State your name?” he growled, “And what’s your business here?”

                “Evangeline Arks -, uh, Ark, and some, hm, God, some people kidnapped me, sir. Please, help me. Please. I’m so scared.”

                “Who snatched ya, girl?”

                “The, uh, the Duke Boys.”

                “Those little demons,” John gasped, rushing for the door and opening it. Evangeline came pouring into the room, falling over herself and landing on the floor. John glanced at her and then looked into the night before shutting the door again. His mother might be right about the night knocks and the witches in these woods, hags hiding from the world for their father, the devil. Still, he had also read his Good Book, and God said, “Be not forgetful when entertaining strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”