steep for a moment. Then she made her way to the laundry room, moving slowly—it wouldn’t do to slip and break her hip in the darkness—and checked the fuse box by the light of a match. Everything seemed normal. None of the fuses were blown.
“Esther,” Myrtle Danbury called from the sitting room, “do you need some help, dear? Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine,” Esther said, coming back into the kitchen.
“The electricity is out.”
“That’s strange. It’s not storming.”
“No, it’s not. Maybe somebody crashed into a pole. Or maybe a tree branch knocked down one of the wires. Just give me a moment to call the power company.”
Esther reached for the phone, but when she tried dialing, she found that the phone lines were out, as well. She placed the phone back in its cradle, went to the kitchen drawer and pulled out a pink flashlight. When she thumbed the button, nothing happened. Either the batteries were dead or the flashlight was broken. Shaking her head, she picked up the teacups. They rattled softly against the saucers as she carefully carried them into the dark sitting room.
“It’s chamomile,” she said, sitting the cup and saucer down in front of her guest, “but I’m afraid we’ll have to drink it in the dark.”
“That’s okay,” Myrtle said, her voice cheery. “I like the ambience.”
“You would. My flashlight isn’t working.”
“When was the last time you changed the batteries?”
“I don’t know.”
“I change mine twice a year, just to be sure. You can never be too cautious.”
Esther frowned. “Just let me light a few candles.”
She moved around the room, lighting a series of votive and decorative candles that were scattered among the knickknacks on various shelves and end tables. Soon the sitting room was filled with a soft glow and the competing scents of honeysuckle, strawberry, cinnamon, vanilla and peppermint. Sighing, Esther took her seat, and after an experimental sip, pronounced her tea too hot to drink. ***
“What did the power company say?” Myrtle asked.
“Did they give you any idea how long it would be?”
“I couldn’t get through. The phone lines are down, too.”
“Well, that’s odd.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Should we check on your boarder?” Myrtle asked. Esther shook her head. “No, I’m sure he’s fine. I imagine the poor man is asleep already. He said he’d ridden all day in that buggy. He was pretty tired when he checked in, and he asked not to be disturbed. You saw for yourself.”
“I know. But still . . .”
“You just want to bother him with questions, Myrtle. Be honest.”
“Well, don’t you? You can’t tell me you’re not just as fascinated with him as I am.”
“Sure, I’m interested, but I don’t intend to bother him about it. Not tonight. He’s worn out. And besides, it’s not like he’s the first Amish person we’ve seen. There’s a whole colony of them up near Punkin Center.”
“I thought those were Mennonites?”
“Aren’t they the same thing?”
“I don’t think so.” Myrtle shrugged. “People from the Mennonite faith can drive cars and trucks. Only the Amish still insist on riding around in horse-drawn buggies. I think they are different facets of the same faith. Like Methodists and Lutherans.”
Esther frowned again. She’d been a Presbyterian all of her life and had little interest in other denominations, especially when they were incorrect in regards to interpreting the Lord’s word.
“But that’s my point,” Myrtle continued. “It would be fascinating to talk to him—to learn more about his faith. The Amish are a very spiritual people, you know.”
Esther tried her tea again and found that it had cooled. She took a sip and sighed.
“You’re forgetting,” she said, “that when he checked in, and you asked him, he specifically stated he
Myrtle waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Then how do you explain his clothes and his beard? And why else would he show up in a horse and buggy? Mighty odd to be going around like that if he’s not Amish.”
“Lots of people have beards. And I daresay he’s not the only person around here to use a horse.”
“When he checked in, what did he list for his address?”
“That’s personal information, Myrtle. I can’t tell you that.”
“Oh, nonsense. That’s never stopped you from gossiping in the past.”
Esther’s frown deepened. Myrtle was her nextdoor neighbor and, she supposed, her best friend. Even so, she didn’t appreciate being spoken to like this—even if Myrtle was right.
“Marietta, Pennsylvania.”
“I know that area,” Myrtle said. “I wrote about it in one of my books. Powwow magic was very big there at one time.”
“Oh, here we go. You and your New Age books.”
“Don’t you scoff. I make a living from them.”
Myrtle sounded slightly offended. Esther considered apologizing, but then decided against it. She knew all too well that Myrtle’s self-published volumes barely made enough money to break even. In truth, Myrtle lived off the life-insurance policy left behind after her husband’s death three years ago from the sudden and massive heart attack he’d suffered while turkey hunting. Esther suspected that the books were Myrtle’s way of dealing with his death.
“And anyway,” Myrtle continued, “powwow isn’t New Age. It’s sort of like what we call hoodoo around here, but based more in German occultism, Gypsy lore, Egyptology and Native American beliefs. It’s uniquely American—a big old melting pot.”
“Well, it doesn’t sound very American to me. Germans and Gypsies and Egyptians and Indians? The only American part of that is the Indians, and Lord knows that didn’t work out so well. Sounds occult to me.”
“Oh, you’d like it. It’s a mix of folklore and the Bible, with a little bit of white and black magic thrown in. Sort of like potluck supernaturalism.”
“Hoodoo isn’t magic.”
“Well, sure it is!”
“My mother could work hoodoo,” Esther said, “but she’d have struck you down if you’d called it magic. Her abilities were nothing more than the Lord working through her.”
“You say tomato. I say—”
“Listen.” Esther held up one hand and sat upright in her chair, head cocked to one side. “Do you hear that?”
Myrtle was quiet for a moment. “Dogs? It sounds like all the dogs in town just went crazy. Maybe there’s a deer running through the streets or something?”
“Maybe.”
“Anyway,” Myrtle said, “we got off track. My point was that Marietta—where this man is supposedly from—is in Lancaster County, which is the heart and soul of Amish country.”
“That doesn’t prove anything. West Virginia is full of rednecks. Does that make us rednecks?”
“Of course not. But this is different. There’s no doubt in my mind that the man upstairs is Amish, no matter what he says.”
Esther murmured her consent, but in truth, she was barely listening to her friend. Her attention was focused on the howling outside and the darkness in the room. It suddenly felt to Esther as if her entire bed-and-breakfast was holding its breath. She shivered.
“Is it me,” she whispered, “or has it gotten colder in here?”
“It has,” Myrtle replied. “I didn’t notice it until you mentioned it, but it definitely has. Do you want me to get you a shawl?”
“No, I’m okay. I hope the lights come back on soon.”
