Halloween and Other Seasons

draw her away from the window. “Best not to think about it.”

“Why not?” Mary replied quickly.

“It’s just that, there’s nothing to be done about it now,” the man said, smiling.

“When we found this cabin,” Adam said, “we saw that the dust that had come down from the mountain was in some way impeded from coming into this valley. You must have noticed it, you came down that way. Is there some sort of natural wall or outcropping up there that’s holding it back?”

“No,” the man said simply. “But I really don’t think you should worry about it.”

“The dust can’t come pouring down on us?” Mary asked.

“It hasn’t yet, has it?”

Something was ripped from the roof and whipped away by the wind.

“Come,” the man continued, “have something hot to drink. It will calm you.”

Mary was staring around, over the ceiling and down the walls. Adam couldn’t help following her eyes with his own as another loud rip sounded somewhere up above.

“What were you doing outside?” Mary asked. A subtly suspicious tone had crept into her voice. Adam almost scolded her, but held his tongue.

He spread his hands wide. “This all belongs to me.” He held out his hand to Mary again, but she stared at it and he gently lowered it.

“I don’t like this,” Mary said, turning to Adam. “I grew up here, and I know this cabin was not here.”

“Mary!” Adam said, shocked. “How can you talk that way? The man lives here. This is his home.” He was suddenly aware of his social obligation again. “Please forgive—” he began, turning to the man.

“It’s nothing. Please.” He gestured toward the steaming tea, set neatly at the table.

Mary stood with her arms folded staring out the picture window as Adam sat uneasily at the table, with the two girls in dainty chairs to either side of him.

Mary said quietly, “I read a story once, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, about a visitor to an inn on a mountainside. During the night, there was an avalanche, and everyone ran out and was killed. The inn was left untouched.” She turned her head slowly from the window to face the four figures sitting at the table. Adam was staring at her as though she were mad.

“What do those signs out on the road mean—G, and 2, and 7?” she asked sharply.

“Mary—”

“Like I said,” she continued, “ there never was a cabin here. And the more I think about it, the more sure I am that there wasn’t even a valley here.” She turned back to look out the window. “I think this cabin is a trap.”

The cabin’s owner smiled evenly. “Then what about your story? If you leave, won’t the dust come down on you in an avalanche and smother you?”

“I think if we stay that’s what will happen.”

“What if I told you it made no difference?”

Now Adam looked at the man, who only shrugged, smiling enigmatically. “Hawthorne was something of a philosopher. I’ve always enjoyed philosophy. It tries to explain so many unexplainable things.”

There was a tentative rip at the roof above them, which cut off as the wind suddenly wound down a few notches. The dust storm was not beating quite as hard on the picture window, which now showed the first tints of a sallow dawn.

Mary turned back to look outside.

“The dust is moving,” she gasped, terrified.

“Is it?” the man said, still sitting at his table, smiling.

Adam got up. He could not be sure, but it did look as though the wall of ash was closer, roiling up, looming larger.

“I don’t know—”

“We have to get out of here now!” Mary insisted.

She made a sudden movement toward the children, who began to cry. She thrust them into their coats.

She pushed the children toward the front door and opened it. Though it had abated, the dust storm was still fierce; the wind that met her nearly drove her back into the little bungalow.

“Mary, don’t!”

But she was outside, the two howling, frightened girls in tow.

Adam looked at the man, who hadn’t moved from his chair.

“You said it made no difference,” Adam said, making it a question.

The man, who looked older, browner, larger and at the same time less distinct, said, “Your wife fears it has to do with this valley. It’s much more than that. Read her Aunt Clara’s bible.” He added: “The G is for Genesis.”

His smile was gone, replaced by something truly unreadable.

At his wife’s sudden cry out in the storm, Adam turned toward her. Night had given way completely, the sky was filled with a sickly yellow cast, and he could see that she had fallen. The two girls were struggling to help her up.

“I have to go—”

When he looked back into the cabin it was empty.

He turned back into the storm, and soon reached Mary, who was back on her feet. Lucy had charged ahead, toward the fallen Windstar, whose headlights stabbed out of the swirling dust.

“My Harry doll!” she cried.

Mary gasped, “Catch up with her!”

Adam forged ahead, with Mary and Cindy close behind.

Lucy had mounted the van’s grill and was climbing up toward the open sliding door, which now faced the sky.

Adam grabbed her, but she wriggled away from him and dropped into the interior.

As Adam tried to hoist himself up after her, he felt Mary’s hands dig into him like claws.

“Oh, God, Adam! Look!”

Her voice held a note of terror he had never heard in a human voice before.

He turned toward the mountain, and gasped with disbelief. Nearly on top of them, moving like a tsunami, was a monstrous wall of dust. As it grew closer it grew higher, and there were things swirling in it that broke apart as they watched.

“Lord God Almighty…”

Mary was already pushing Cindy up and into the open door of the van, and now Adam helped Mary to follow. The ground began to tremble, and there was a sound like a freight train bearing down on them.

Adam pulled himself into the opening, and then struggled with the sliding door. The wall was right on top of them. Debris began to swirl in, dust and what looked to be bits of brittle bone, and just as Adam slammed the door shut the Windstar rocked as if a wave of water hit it. It nearly rolled over onto its roof, then slowly settled back into position on its side.

It became very dark in the van, and Adam switched on the interior lights.

Lucy was in the back seat, nestled next to the blanket chest they had bought for the hall, which was broken, holding her Harry doll, rocking it tightly against her, her eyes closed.

“Do you think—” Mary began.

“Find your Aunt Clara’s bible,” Adam said, leaving no room for discussion in his voice.

Mary looked at him for a moment, and then made her way into the back seat to rummage in the box of keepsakes they had taken from her Aunt’s home.

The radio was still on, low, though there was no longer light rock playing. A voice was droning, and Adam, his fingers shaking, turned up the volume.

“Can we go home soon?” Cindy asked, with a young child’s innocence bordering on incomprehension.

“…the entire planet,” the voice on the radio was saying in a monotone. It sounded very tired, or drunk. “Reports from every corner of the globe of massive dust storms…”

Mary held up the bible. “What—”