Deliver Us From Evil

Chapter One

The breeze teased the grass, which in turn cowered in fear. At last, the wind turned away, to torment the tree boughs instead. The cat blinked twice, all four paws perfectly placed atop the fence post, its tail curled in a most dignified manner. It looked down serenely at the foot of the mountain. At last, it jumped off, landing gracefully on its toes, before strolling away with a gentle purr rumbling in its throat.

The little girl, walking along the fence, watched the cat, who in turn, watched the birds. Her hair swung as she lightly walked. The wind blew wisps of brown hair free from her braids and into her face. The longest of these persisted in tickling the end of her lightly freckled nose. The red dress the child wore complemented the emerald colored grass and caused her to appear like a giant flower to a far-off observer. In one hand, she held a small, pink suitcase, with small flowers printed on the fabric.

Looking over the fence, first fearfully, then wistfully, she swung one leg over, tossing her bag into the grass. Jumping over with ease, she approached the small cabin.

The cabin belonged to a woman by the name of Phoebe Brooks. She was an elderly lady and an outcast by nature. Not that she minded either. Besides the fact she was very practical and looked upon growing old as a needed part of life, she was a sort of lone wolf, who was not all too fond of people. It was quite a shock to the people of the village when a young man and a little girl came to their sheltered little town and demanded to know the whereabouts of their sheltered town's outcast.

They directed the young man towards the looming mountain, scarcely a mile distant, and he set off, holding the child's hand in his own. Half-way to the cabin, he stopped, stretching his lanky arms and glanced at his watch.

"I should really be getting back," he addressed, half to himself, half to the girl. "Can you walk straight up the path to the cabin?"

"Of course, Jackie," she replied, stooping to pick a bright, golden dandelion.

"Don't call me Jackie," he said in a frustrated voice. "Now be a good little girl and run along up there. Your aunt is expecting you."

With that, he turned away, whistling an air he himself had composed and walked back down the path towards civilization.

That was twenty minutes ago. Now the little girl was standing on the doorstep of the small, rustic cabin. Knocking, she waited a moment. No response. After two more tries, the door opened.

"Margaret!" The lady exclaimed, crushing the child to herself in a fervent embrace. "It's wonderful to see you."

Margaret responded in like manner, hugging her aunt in return. She buried her face in the mauve colored blouse, breathing in the faint scent of rosemary and lavender. It was a sweet smell that seemed very motherly and inviting.

Upon entering the cabin, Margaret looked around in awe. Despite the rustic and woodsy environment, the inside might as well have been a Victorian living room. The curtains were vintage lace, all the furniture and carpets looked like something one'd find in an old, out of the way, antique shop. The air was fresh and sweet, though a bit cold. The entire house was filled with the scent of lavender.

Margaret walked forward slowly, letting her feet drag so that she might have time to take it all in. The house was beautiful, though perhaps a bit odd. Besides the many photographs of family members aligning the walls, there was an inordinate number of mirrors. Vintage mirrors, to be perfectly precise, of almost every variety. It was rather disconcerting; upon walking into the living room, one was confronted with a figure standing in a new hallway. After a moment of speculation, the person would laugh and brush the incident off after discovering it was their very selves, portrayed in polished glass.

The small girl felt something rub against her legs and starting a bit, glanced down. The cat from outside had entered through the opened window. A quick glance around the room confirmed that she was indeed alone. Aunt Phoebe had gone into the kitchen after murmuring something about seeing to dinner.

Margaret dropped down onto her knees and examined the cat closer.

The gray and white creature grinned, that is if cats can do that. This one certainly seemed more than able to. She started and pulled away, brushing off her crimson skirt.

"Everything alright, dear?" Aunt Phoebe called as she breezed past, carrying various objects outside. She returned back in quickly, shutting the door tightly behind her.

"Yes ma'am," she said a little dully. A day of walking and a cousin who was unaware that small girls need proper meals had begun to take their toll upon her. In fact, the only food she'd consumed that day was half a bag of over-salted peanuts.

"Come into the kitchen, Margaret."

Bent over her task, Aunt Phoebe was working, vigorously stirring a pot. The metal spoon clanged loudly as she worked, somewhat like a gong, announcing the arrival of the most important person in any home; the person who is cooking the meals. Margaret stood awkwardly, watching her aunt work, while maintaining her silence. She shifted her weight back and forth, uncomfortably watching her aunt for a signal on what she was to do.

Phoebe suddenly looked up and burst into laughter. "Gracious, child," she exclaimed chuckling, "Sit down. There's a chair right there."

"Thank you, ma'am," Margaret said gratefully, sitting down and swinging her legs while humming to herself.

Within half an hour, her aunt had dinner prepared. The meal consisted of a thick soup with biscuits and apricots that had been picked off a tree outside. Phoebe attempted to make conversation with Margaret.

"How has school been this year?"

"Fine," she replied, her voice slightly muffled by chewing.

Phoebe, however, refused to be discouraged, so she asked another question.

"Do you have a favorite subject?"

This caught Margaret's interest. Setting down her biscuit, she began to speak rapidly. The subject interested her, as could be known by the gleam in her brown eyes.

"I love my art class. My teacher said I'm her best student by far in it. The other kids just mess around and ask stupid questions. One didn't know the difference between Northern Renaissance art and Southern. Can you imagine that?"

"I can't," Phoebe admitted, though she herself was unaware of any difference.

Margaret shook her head, her facial expression betokening that anyone who could not understand this simple difference in art styles was worthy of being damned to Hell.

"I prefer most Native American art though," the child finally said. "I copied a lot of their drawings in my art book. I'll show you."

She dropped her fork with a loud clang. Running off before her aunt could reply, she brought her bag over to the table, rummaged through, then pulled out a notebook full of loose papers, handing it to her aunt.

"They aren't very good," she admitted nervously as Phoebe looked over them.

"I think they're marvelous," her aunt said with a smile, "There's a Native American artist down in the village. I'll take you to see him sometime."

Margaret's eyes glowed. "I'd love that," she breathed.

Just then, the gray and white cat leapt gracefully onto the center of the table. Phoebe's face hardened.

"Hakan!" She cried, brushing the cat away, "Get off!"

With an offended meow, the cat stalked off down the hall, stopping to admire his reflection in one of the mirrors. Phoebe realized the day had long left an it was now well past ten.

"You should be getting to bed now," she said to the girl. "I can show you your bedroom. It's in the loft."