Farmer's Grove Page 2

the woods and they discussed it. Ron would amend our original offer and present it to the owners in the morning.

  The owners accepted our offer, and a date was set for closing. We were homeowners - or we would be in six weeks. Boy, those six weeks flew. We applied for a mortgage and waited for appraisals and inspections. My work was put on hold as I packed and cleaned. We ordered a rental trailer and received weekly update calls from Ron.

  Six

  At the closing, we met the sellers, a plain looking middle-aged couple. Mrs. Johnson talked incessantly about the kitchen and laundry amenities in the house, like she was still trying to sell me on the house. Mr. Johnson sat absolutely still whenever he wasn't signing his name to the endless pile of papers. It was odd. I never heard him speak, just an occasional nod of his head.

  As the lawyers passed papers back and forth, and around the table for our signatures, I noticed with a start that Mr. Johnson was missing the tip of his left thumb! My mouth hung open until Tim nudged me with his elbow, sharply in the ribs. "Sorry," I mumbled, signing the next sheet, on the line beneath Tim's signature.

  Was it just a coincidence? It had to be, right? Just a strange happenstance.

  We finished the mountains of paperwork and we were given keys to the house. I was still distracted, my eyes darting from finger to thumb, and back again. I saw Tim glaring at me, and we all rose, the men shaking hands.

  Tim took me in his arms as we left the building. I kissed him quickly, my mind racing. "Did you see? Another missing digit!"

  "What? Missing digit? What are you talking about?"

  "The man - Mr. Johnson - his left thumb is missing the tip!"

  "Katie, you're getting all worked up. Aren't you even excited about the house?"

  "Of course, but I couldn't help noticing he's missing a digit just like Ron. Well, not just like Ron, it's his thumb and the other hand, but…" Tim cut me off before I could finish.

  "You need to relax about all this missing digit stuff. We just bought our first house. We should be celebrating."

  "I know, I know, it's just weird."

  We drove back up to our apartment and picked up the packed rental trailer, heading back down to Farmer's Grove. We stopped for fast food at the gas station on the way to the house.

  We sat on the fireplace hearth of our new home and ate burgers and fries. Tim pulled out a bottle of champagne and popped the cork. "Oops, I forgot about glasses. We'll just have to improvise," he said, taking a swig right from the bottle. He passed it to me and I took a sip.

  "Yummy, but we have a lot of unpacking to do."

  "I know, but we had to toast our new house. I'd like to celebrate in another way too, but we'd need to find a blanket somewhere in that truck," he said with a wink.

  "I think we need at least a mattress," giving him a little push.

  "In front of the fireplace? A mattress?"

  "Hmmm, I guess blankets would do, but I'd like to at least get that trailer unpacked while we have some daylight and energy."

  "You're right, Katie, but I hope you know we'll need to christen every room in this house."

  "Tonight?" I laughed.

  "Maybe not tonight, but soon."

  Seven

  We were moved in for the most part after a few days, still putting little things away each day. My studio was usable, and Tim had his office set up enough to work. We had just finished breakfast and I was cleaning up when I heard a knock on the door.

  I opened it to find a man around our age holding a large fruit basket. "Welcome to the neighborhood," he said, pushing the basket towards me.

  "Well, thank you. Please come in."

  "Oh, no, I couldn't. I’m muddy from the field, but my Mrs. wanted me to get this over while the fruit was fresh." He took off his baseball hat and introduced himself. I yelled for Tim to come down, and we introduced ourselves. His name was Craig, and as he put the ball cap back on his head, I noticed with horror that he was missing the tip of his pinkie finger! I felt a little weak in the knees, a little light headed.

  "He seemed like a nice guy," Tim commented after he left. Tim took the large basket from me, and we went back inside.

  "Did you see?" I whispered.

  "What? Why are you whispering?"

  "His pinkie. Did you see?" I repeated.

  "His pinkie? What now, Katie?"

  "His pinkie was missing the tip."

  "So?"

  "So, something is going on here, Tim. Something not quite right."

  "Come on, Katie. You're being dramatic. I'm sure it's pretty common for farmers. They work with lots of dangerous equipment."

  "I'm not buying that. This is no coincidence. Three men that come from the same area, all missing finger parts!"

  "Ok, drama queen, you let me know when you figure out the big mystery. I've got work to do." He went back upstairs.

  I tried to do some work myself, but I couldn't get the images out of my mind. I was working on a sketch for a portrait, but found myself drawing hands. Hands that were missing digits.

  Eight

  We settled into the house over the next few weeks, making it our own. We painted a few of the rooms, removed some wallpaper, and I planted some bulbs around the yard. We decided to have some carpeting installed in two of the bedrooms, so I called Ron to see if he could offer a referral in the area. He seemed to know everyone, and gave me the phone number of a friend that did flooring.

  Ron's friend offered to bring out samples the following day. He arrived promptly, and started measuring the rooms as we looked through the carpeting swatches. Tim left the final decision to me, and went back to his office to work. As the young man wrote up our estimate, I found myself studying his hands. He saw me and glanced down at his left hand. "You noticed, huh? I forget that it's not there anymore, it's been gone so long."

  I didn't know what he was talking about until he raised his hand and wiggled his fingers. His index finger was unusually short! I didn't answer, and he went on. "Yep, it happened when I first got into flooring. Got a little careless with the saw when I was cutting an oak floor."

  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare," I said, still staring. My hands were shaking.

  "No problem." He handed me the estimate and gathered the bulky carpet sample books. "Give me a call if you want me to do the job. I can start next week if you're ready."

  Now I knew something was wrong. This was no fluke. Tim came downstairs for dinner and noticed my agitation.

  "Tim, it's no coincidence."

  "What's no coincidence?" he asked.

  "The carpet guy too."

  "What about the carpet guy?"

  "His finger. It was missing a digit."

  "Are we back to that? Katie, I think you're obsessing."

  "He told me it was an accident with a saw."

  "You asked him?"

  "No, he just told me."

  "Right, he just told you."

  "Well, maybe he saw me looking."

  "Great. My neurotic wife was checking out his hands."

  "Tim - something is going on. This guy makes four!"

  "Katie, he told you how it happened. Do you think he's lying? That it happened out in the woods one night? Part of some secret farmer society initiation?" He gestured air quotes around secret farmer society.

  "I don't know - and don't make fun of me. I can't help it."

  "I'm sorry, but you need to relax. Stop worrying about this."

  Nine

  I stayed up long after Tim went to bed that night. I opened a bottle of wine, and started a fire in the fireplace. I looked through seed catalogs, getting ideas for the flowerbeds, trying to forget about fingers. I put another log on the fire and thought I heard noises outside. I went to the window and peered out into the dark. I strained my ears, but heard nothing. I gave up and went back to my wine and catalogs, and again there was the noise. It sounded like voices chanting, the deep tone echoing in the surrou
nding hills.

  I finished my wine quickly, and hurried up the stairs as fast as I could. I felt like when I was a little girl, racing up the stairs. Like something was going to grab at my ankles. Tim was snoring away, sound asleep in bed when I bolted into the room. I nudged him. "Did you hear that?"

  "What? Katie?"

  "I heard something outside, like voices."

  "Probably coyotes. They won't hurt you. Go to sleep."

  "No, Tim. Coyotes yip. This was like chanting."

  "Chanting," he said, rolling over.

  "Yes, chanting. Like deep voices that echoed."

  "Come to bed. I'm sure it was coyotes."

  He just didn't get it. Something was amiss. I got ready for bed and turned off the light. Before I got into bed, I glanced out the window towards the woods. I saw a flickering light! Like a flame. That was odd. Who could be in our woods? "Tim!" I called out, but he was already back to sleep. I watched as the flame disappeared deep into the woods.

  Ten

  "There was someone in our woods last night," I mentioned to Tim at breakfast.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I saw a light - like a torch or something. And I heard voices."

  "Coyotes."

  "No, Tim, coyotes don't carry torches. I told you, I heard chanting and saw a light going into the woods."

  "How much of that wine did you drink," he asked gesturing to the empty bottle on the counter.

  "Two glasses. I wasn't drunk, Tim. I know what I saw and heard!" I could tell that he didn't believe me. This was no joke. I was getting scared. What was going on around here? Maybe there was some kind of secret farmer society - or something.

  "I don't know what you saw and heard, but I'm sure it wasn't chanting men with torches."

  "How do you know? You didn't see!"

  "Because it's