Three Heart Echo

Chapter One - Iona

You'll love me for forever? His voice echoes through my brain as my fingers tighten around the steering wheel. Are you sure?

I'm sure, I promised him with a smile.

Promise? He said as he traced his fingers along my cheekbone before tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.

Promise.

I rest my elbow on the door of the car beside the window and run two fingers over my lips. One conversation after another rushes into my mind, making it difficult to focus on the road passing beneath my tires.

The day is dim, another chilly day, the first of February. Clouds hide the sun, casting the world in an icy gray hue. I turn the dial for the heater up a touch more, chasing away the cold.

I left the nearest city behind twenty minutes ago, and an old map navigates me far away from the rising buildings, gas stations, and all sense of familiarity. I left home nearly two hours ago, with another twenty minutes until I reach the destination that is more of a rumor than a reality; a place without even a name to the modern world.

The Appalachian Mountains loom ever closer as I cut across the landscape of West Virginia, my home state from day one. It's familiar rolling hills, dotted with endless oak, maple, and beech trees. I race toward the base of the mountains, cutting across an old highway that would certainly be considered the road less traveled.

A speed limit sign is the only indicator that I am arriving anywhere at all. A decrease from fifty-five to thirty-five. My eyes drift down to the map again and there's a note written on it to take a left in a quarter of a mile. With not another car in sight, I take the left when it arrives. The highway continues onward, just minutes from climbing the mountains. But I turn onto what looks to be an abandoned road, taking the bumps and potholes carefully in my Chevy Corvair.

Old growth trees loom over the road, blocking out most of the light. The farther I get down the road, the rougher it gets. My heart races faster the deeper from the highway I get. Considering I couldn't find the town on the map, I had to go by word of mouth directions.

I'm not certain I'm in the right place.

Until, finally, there's a break in the trees, letting in a rare ray of gray sun, and there's a sign.

Roselock.

Established 1762.

It's a sad sight. The wood rotten, sloping greatly to the right. Rust from the nails trails down the chipped white paint.

I roll past it.

Leaves dot the ground, stuck to the earth in wet, soggy messes. The trees only bear the last few survivors who braved the winter.

A house looms to the left. It's obviously old, with a stone exterior, a collapsed roof. No one has lived there in a century I'd venture to guess. Another house suddenly appears on the right, not in any better shape.

Another dozen homes line the road before I hit a roundabout. Standing at the center of it is two trees, both of them dead. A crossroad branches off from the intersection, breaking off to the west. Looking down that road, I see a few more homes, in various stages of disrepair, every one of them abandoned.

What are you doing here? my heart pounds. You're crazy. You're crazy.

But I can't stop. I won't turn around.

I continue straight and as I crest the hill, climbing in elevation to the base of the mountain, a steeple comes into view. Quickly I'm granted further view of the old church.

A cross sits atop a small steeple. An old red, metal roof spans the entire building. A big, broad porch sits off the very front of the building.

It's large, bigger than I think would have been necessary for this tiny, failed township. Off from the main area juts two wings, one to the east, one to the west.

Climbing all up the sides of the building, there are vines stretching long and massive. But despite the cold weather, despite the time of year, brilliant, blood red roses bloom all along the vines. Huge blooms, smaller buds, oblivious to the season.

A gravel parking lot sits beside the church, devoid of a single car. I pull into it and put my Corvair into park.

I've anticipated arriving here in Roselock for two weeks now, made the necessary arrangements to get work off. But the reality of arriving leaves me questioning my sanity.

You love me, right? the voice from the past echoes.

It's all I need to toss logic aside and step out of my car.

I pull my jacket tighter around my shoulders, the moist air instantly clinging to my skin. My boots splash into a small puddle I didn't see to the side of my car.

Looking around, there's a graveyard behind the church, circling around to the sides, surrounded by a broken down fence that can hardly hold that title any longer. Grave markers rise out of the ground here and there, each of them looking just as old as the homes that occupy the town. But there looks to be far too many graves for how few homes there are.

I look forward again, only a dim gleam catches my attention from the damp ground.

A line of pennies cuts right across my path. It stretches to my right, heading into the graveyard, and to my left, toward a house, cutting behind it.

My brows furrowed, I step over it, careful not to disturb the strange sight.

The smell of smoke brings my attention back to the church, and I look up to find a small trail of it coming from the chimney. The first sign of life I've yet seen in this place.

I stand in front of the decaying porch for a moment, taking a deep breath.

I don't want to be here. I feel crazy coming here. But I can't keep living like this.

I need closure.

One last, great pull of air, and I take the first step up the stairs. Carefully testing my weight on each one, I make it to the porch and to the front doors.

I knock.