Pamela K Kinney
Keri Watkins moved to Obsidian Bay, Maine to escape the pain her former life held. But the village by the sea was disturbing. The residents all had dark eyes. Even the sea seemed dark at times. But still, the place was perfect for her. As was the man she met, Phelan Obsidian. Even his dark eyes that were like the others' were perfect.
Or was it all too perfect?
Obsidian Bay. A perfect name for a place where someone could live whose life had been dark and full of pain. I had moved to this village to make a new life for myself. A year ago I discovered my husband having an affair with a co-worker. My world had shrunk, filling with betrayal and pain, and I�d divorced him. I received our home in the divorce settlement and hid there, avoiding family and friends. During that year, I became a new person, one who found she could paint and bring to life on canvas the interesting faces of people and landscapes. The pain, in short, brought forth a latent talent.
The memories of my old life made living in my house overcrowded, so I put it on the market. The real estate who sold the house for me mentioned in passing an old house in Maine, he had been asked to sell for the former owner who had moved out here to San Diego. But I wasn�t sure at that time and checked over several other areas, most much nearer than a continent away.
It was a week later that I had a weird nightmare. The night was warm and I kept the bedroom window open, hoping for a breeze so I could fall asleep. I don�t remember when I did fall asleep, but I did and the dream came not long after.
Disturbingly, all I could remember was the eyes; dark�all of them staring at me. I ran from them and ended up splashing into the ocean. Not the Pacific, but one bone-chilling, washing its waves onto an empty beach. I stood in the water, waist-deep, and suddenly felt as if I had come home. Something splashed heavily behind me, and I whipped around...and woke up.
I sat up in bed, my body and face covered in sweat. I climbed out of bed and stood at the window. The breeze drifted in and I enjoyed its fingers cooling my fevered skin.
In my mind�s eye as I stared at the night. I remembered the real estate agent�s brief mention of the house in Maine, and I visualized lobsters, old fishing villages and empty beaches with splotches of snow here and there on the sandy dunes, a world
apart from the people-filled, sun-drenched beaches of California, one that would separate me from an old life of painful memories. Perfect for a budding artist, too.
A definite change in the cards for me.
I stood in front of the old house. Rambling, and with dark gray paint and blood-red trim, it suited me like a set of new clothes. The back overlooked the white dunes of a sandy beach and the Atlantic Ocean. The front faced a country road that snaked its way to the small village that was within walking distance.
The key gripped in my hand, I unlocked the front door and flung it open. I grabbed a couple of my suitcases and stepped inside. Because the former owner had left them, I saw heavy, dark furniture in the living room from the foyer as I had put down the suitcases. Leaving my luggage, I strolled into the living room. Natural light filtered through the large picture window, bringing some light to the room. I stared through it at the sea, tossing and churning, reaching out with grasping fingers of foam onto the beach.
A perfect setting for the painting I planned to do. This entire area seemed fantastical in itself and my imagination drummed up the reality of mermaids, ghostly pirates ships and sea monsters calling from the sea. Suddenly, it seemed as if a shadow blotted out the sun and covered the scene before me. The sea had turned black as ink. I put my hand to my chest, right over my pounding heart. When it began to rain, I realized I might have imagined it all.
I laughed and shook my head. What an imagination. This was just an ordinary beach. As for the village nearby...
My laughter faded.
Ordinary? No, the village and its inhabitants were strange. To tell the truth, both Mr. Cork, the mayor, and Jim Bummer, the owner of the small grocery store, gave me the chills. Even the children in this place seemed odd, not at all like normal kids. They didn�t seem interested in video games, riding bikes outside, or TV. No, they stood on the playground at the school or on the streets when I drove by and simply stared at me with their round, dark eyes.
And that was odd. I swore that every child and adult I met had those same dark eyes. There had never been any deviation with blue, pale gray, brown, or green. Just a repeat of the shade of night.
Creepy. Really creepy. I shuddered, and then forced myself from the gloomy thoughts. I spent the rest of the day unpacking and settling in.
|�Reviewer||�Short review with link to full review|
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