Lindsay Bellaire

Thank you for joining me in this strange small town in northern Ontario. My name is Lindsay Bellaire. If this is your first time visiting, I’ll be your guide; if you’re a familiar face, it’s good to have you back. The town embraces newcomers and old friends alike, but be warned: it doesn’t easily let you go.

So dim the lamps, settle in; welcome to Dark River.

The wind blew hard against the side of the car, tossing a cloud of snow up over the hood and across the windshield. Naomi held her breath as she steered through the curve in the road, doing her best to stay away from the edge, though it was down to a guess where that was.

Gregory Alan Isakov taunted her with visions of California sunshine through the speakers; before that, it had been Fleet Foxes. She had turned off CBC a while ago; they had been repeating the weather report every half hour since she’d left Toronto, and she thought it redundant to hear once again that it was snowing.

The wind kicked up another sheet of white and she was forced down to 40 km/hr. This drive was the exact reason she hadn’t been home in so long. It was a soulless twelve hours over highways, not an intimate amble through backcountry lanes.

For three years in a row Naomi had been scheduled to work Christmas morning at the restaurant, and had not been able to visit her family up north. This year, with enough seniority on the team, she was able to put her foot down and get the holiday off in exchange for working the breakfast shift on Christmas Eve. That pushed her drive back a little, but she planned to do 120 all the way and at the very least would make it home around midnight to wake with the family on Christmas morning.

However, as it always goes, there’d been a rush and they were short staffed. By the time Naomi merged onto the 400 it was well past two pm, and by then the snow had started to come down just north of the city. She’d missed her tiny window of time to get up and around Georgian Bay before the snow set in. Although it was not yet late into the evening, it was now well past dark and she was only a few hours from Toronto. She’d thought that maybe she could avoid some of the lake effect snow by cutting up past North Bay, then across through Timmins to meet up with the Trans-Canada in Wawa, then finish out the short drive from there, just where the highway cut away from Lake Superior.

If the weather on the Great Lakes was worse than this, as it often was, she knew there would be no chance of passing through until the snow ploughs cleared it in the early hours of Christmas morning.

Yet she could still make it long before then at this point, if she kept on steady and avoided the lakes.

A clear patch opened up and she was able to see the road for a stretch. It did seem as though the once-steady snow had turned to squalls, which allowed her to speed up and gain some ground in places where the snow drifts weren’t so bad. She pressed her foot to the gas.

The car didn’t speed up.

There was a moment of confusion and her brain lurched towards the simplest explanation: she hadn’t pressed hard enough. So she gave it more pressure.

Nothing. 40 km/hr, read the speedometer.

She floored it, and immediately regretted it. The car sputtered briefly, the speedometer began to drop rapidly, smoke appeared in the rearview mirror, and Naomi had just enough presence of mind to steer the car to what she guessed was the side of the road before it died completely. The lights on the dash remained for a moment, then blinked out, leaving her in total darkness.

Her first instinct, of course, was to turn the ignition off, wait a moment, and then turn the key to see if anything would light up. She hoped -- in the way a person does when they’re not ready to accept their situation -- that the engine would turn over and she’d at least be able to backtrack the 100 meters or so to the last exit she’d just passed. Maybe then she could coast her way into a town and get help.

She held her breath and turned the key.

Nothing.

Her nerves already tight from hours of white knuckle driving, she hit the steering wheel in exasperation, hard enough that her hand tingled as she lifted it to her face. I’m never going to make it there, she thought, and believed it. It seemed like forever since she’d been home, since she’d smelled the aroma of fresh holiday bread baking in the oven -- she guessed it was fruit cake, or chelsea buns, or whatever she wasn’t a baker. It smelled like home, anyways, and she missed it.

What does one do when stuck on the side of the road with a smoking car? In the middle of nowhere. On Christmas Eve. She sniffed the air, eyes darting between the rear view and side view mirrors, searching for the fire she was sure was about to engulf her. But there were no flames and the smoke, which she could now see was actually coming from under the hood, was thinning quickly. She picked up her cellphone, remembered that she hadn’t renewed her CAA membership, cursed, and hit the wheel again. 

She pulled up Google Maps and searched for a tow truck company, the closest one she could find. After three rings, a voice answered: “Yeah?”

“Uh, is this JP Towing?” she asked. Why couldn’t these kinds of companies hire a receptionist or something, or learn how to talk to people?  

“Yeah, what d’ya need?”

What the hell do you think I need? was what she wanted to say, but she knew better. “Um, I need a tow. I’m stuck at the side of the road and my car won’t start. I think the engine is dead.”

The man on the other end asked her where she was and she made a vague and useless attempt to orient herself by looking around.

“I don’t...in the middle of nowhere, I don’t know, some small town or something, let me see, one sec.” Google maps again.

When she found her location she hit the speakerphone button. “It looks like I’m just outside a town called Dark River, on Highway 11, just past the turnoff for Black Trout Road. I’m right on the side of the road in a grey Honda Civic.” Civics are reliable, she’d been told. The engines never die, she’d heard.

“Dark River, eh? Alright, let me see what I can find. I can tell ya right now, with the weather we’re having, it’s gonna be awhile. You got extra clothes or some blankets or something?”

“Seriously?” She heard the edges of a whine in her voice and felt stupid. “How long do you think it’ll be?”

“Oh, probably three or four hours and I’ll tell ya no one else is gonna be able to get to you any sooner than that. We get a lot of folks sliding into ditches n’ stuff when it snows like this and they come up here with no winter tires ‘cause they’re from the city. An’ I’ve got fewer guys on the road tonight, it bein’ Christmas Eve. Ok so, what’s your name, I don’t think I got that.”

“Naomi Hudson. I’m in a grey Honda Civic on the side of Highway 11 just past Black Trout Road near Dark River,” she repeated.

“Yeah, I got that. Alright, Mrs. Hudson, one of my guys’ll be there as soon as they can make it. You know where you wanna be towed?”

She hadn’t thought about that. “No, I have no idea.” She replied. “I’m not from here. Where’s the best place?”

“Ah, you’ll wanna go over to Rennie’s place, then. I think he’s probably gone home for the night, but ya know here’s what I’ll do I’ll give ‘em a call an’ see if he can’t pop over to the garage when you get there and hopefully it’ll be a quick fix and get you on your way. I can’t promise or anything, but I’ll give ‘em a call. Anyways, that's the place we’ll drop you off. You alone?”

She stiffened. Right, she was alone. The uneasiness that women know too well began to stir in her chest and her muscles tightened. “Yes, it’s just me,” she confirmed.

“Ok good, you’ll be able to ride in the cab with the driver. N’ hey, it’s a cold night and it’s gonna get colder. ‘Sposed to go down to -30 tonight. Make sure you put on extra layers n’ stuff while you’re waiting.”

She looked to the back seat where her suitcase was stored and thanked him absently.

“Oh and Mrs. Hudson, you stay in your car, alright? Don’t go walkin’ down any roads or anything. Just stay put, alright?”

She couldn’t be sure, because instincts can be so quiet when they speak, but she had the feeling that he was warning her.

She dismissed it as a concern of frostbite or freezing to death and reassured him. “I’m not leaving the car.”

“Good.” He replied. “If you need anything else, or something...don’t matter if it’s strange, give me a call back. My name is Joel.”

Again. Yeah: weird.

“Ok, Joel. Thank you,” she said, and pressed End.

The instant she hung up, the silence roared. She’d forgotten how quiet it could be out here, especially after a snowfall, when most people had already made it to their destination for the night, or had been smart enough not to leave in the first place. 

She turned around in her seat and reached for her small suitcase, where she’d packed a couple extra sweaters. Grabbing the one that zipped up, she threw it on under her coat, then slipped off her shoes and pulled on an extra pair of socks. She knew that the heat would slowly dissipate in the car, and once she was cold she wouldn’t be able to get warm again until the tow truck driver showed up.

There was nothing for Naomi to do but sit in her bitterness. She’d done everything right: gotten the time off, taken an uncomfortable pay hit (the tips at Christmas were the best of the year, aside from maybe New Years), driven through a horrendous snowstorm, literally risked her life...all to end up on the side of the road for Christmas Eve. She wondered if she would wake up to the smell of fresh buns and a turkey in the oven (her mother always put it in early), or numb toes and the sight of a disgruntled tow truck driver knocking on her window.

One thought led to another, and soon Naomi had drifted off into her memories. She followed a trail of thoughts all the way back to her childhood and the small northern town she’d grown up in. The town had been just big enough that she didn’t know everyone, but small enough that she couldn’t go anywhere without knowing someone. She appraised most of her childhood at about average, just the same as many others who grew up in small towns across Ontario, except for one thing: Christmas was an entire month-long affair in her family. [Christmas bells or something?: ] From December 1st to New Year’s Day, there was a strict schedule of holiday cheer, ranging from decorating to baking to craft making; gift buying, and present wrapping; carol singing and games; parties of all sizes. It was all-consuming, and although she’d resisted -- even resented it -- in her teenage years, it had now become an annual sadness, a longing that showed up near the end of November.

She smiled from the bottom of this thread of memories, but was interrupted by a burst of frustration that jerked her back to the Christmas she was missing now. Again, because she could do nothing but wait, she attempted to pacify herself with the knowledge that no matter what time she got in, before being allowed to retire to bed she would be ushered to the Christmas tree where she would find three ornaments on the coffee table next to it, ready for her to hang. She let this memory pull her gently back down.

The first ornament would be a large bulb with the words “Naomi’s First Christmas” inscribed on it: a relic of their trip to Brauners in Frankenmuth, a tiny Christmas town in Michigan. Her parents had insisted on bringing their brand new baby girl, despite the distance from home. She had no memory of the trip, being less than a year old, but it held a magical place as a vivid memory for Jess, her older sister.

The second ornament was a handmade mini-stocking, no bigger than the palm of her hand (although it had seemed a lot bigger as a child). Her grandmother had knit it, carefully stitching the letters of Naomi’s name into the tiny cuff. Although she had long since passed away, her recipes still endured, and the simple smell of a pudding in the oven, or brandy butter on the stove, brought her back for Naomi, if only for an instant.

Her grandmother had always baked things with alcohol in them at Christmas, and she wouldn’t have dreamed of keeping it away from the children. Her food was for everyone, booze and all.

The third ornament had been glued together several times over the years, more worse for wear than the others. It was a plaster angel she’d made as a child, and since then it had lost both wings several times. Each time the wings were glued back on, the visible cracks got wider. There had once been tinsel attached too, but that had long since been eaten by the cat, who must’ve had his own guardian angel, as he’d most definitely racked up more than nine lives.

Back in the car, Naomi’s forehead wrinkled and her throat tightened. Why was it necessary to live so far from home? It didn’t make sense and it wasn’t fair that she should be pulled in two different directions at once. Was only seeing her family at Christmas really worth it? Was her life in Toronto all that important? These were questions that arose from a heart that missed home; terrible, but temporary. Nothing more.

She looked at the clock and realized it had been an hour since she’d called for a tow. Congratulating herself on her impressive patience, she wondered if she could get a better timeline at this point. She lifted her phone from the passenger seat and dialed the towing company.

“Oh, I’d say probably three more hours, give or take. Weather’s been real bad and people are in a rush today.”

She decided she hated Joel and his casual attitude. Of course it was no problem for him, he probably lived a short walk away from his work, or maybe even next door or upstairs. He’d be drinking eggnog or mulled wine or beer or something with his family before settling into his own cozy bed for the night. What did he care how long it took to get her a tow?

For the second hour, she amused herself by playing games on her phone while texting with her family, reading about all the fun things they were up to. She allowed her complaints to run rampant -- a Christmas luxury -- typing her messages as quickly as her fingers and auto correct would allow. Her family expressed their disappointment, but tried their best to keep her spirits up.

Another hour ticked by. It had grown cold in the car. The extra socks were doing nothing to keep her toes from turning icy, and no matter how many sweaters she put on, her shivering continued. She’d been forced to put her phone away, her fingers too cold to do more than send short messages.

She knew that waiting a few more hours in the car in -30 degree weather (or was it colder now?) with no source of heat was less than ideal. For the first time, she felt the creepings of worry. Was she in danger? Surely not. 

But maybe?

Again, she called her new friend Joel, who informed her that there’d been no change in the ETA. Three more hours, two if the snow let up a bit. It did look pretty clear where she was, just a gentle snowfall at this point, great big flakes landing on the windows and piling up in the cracks of the car, on the hood, on the roof.

By the time they get here they’re not going to be able to find me under the snow, she thought, and she wiggled her toes again. She could no longer tell if they responded.

Seeking to get some blood flowing and generate a little body heat, or possibly just for the hell of it -- a bleak entertainment option -- she opened the car door and stepped out into the night, tucking her cellphone into her pocket and pulling on her gloves.

It was so...still, the snow blanketing everything in sight. She doubted the tow truck driver would be able to see the road signs, and they’d have to be looking for her car to notice it.

She slammed the car door shut, knocking powder off the sides. She made sure she had her keys -- aware that she was stepping into a place where mistakes like locking yourself out of your car could be fatal -- and turned back towards the sideroad she’d passed earlier. The snow on the shoulder was deep in places, but the road was blown bare in others. As she climbed up a third snowdrift and descended down the other side, her heart picked up pace and she felt a small trickle of sweat run down her back. It felt good to warm up a little and her fingers and toes wiggled happily as they defrosted. Within a few minutes, she was turning the corner onto the sideroad, which offered a little more shelter from the wind.

The woods on either side of her were a silhouette of treetops, barely distinguishable from the dark sky, the shadows unnerving, alluring. The road was probably gravel, although it was hard to tell. The trees held as much snow on their branches as they could stand, hoarding it from the ground. They bent and drooped under the weight, but still refused to give up the load. The tallest ones swayed a little in the now gentle wind, but most were still and silent, holding their peace.

She did not intend to go far down the road, only to see if walking would bring some feeling back to her feet, and it did. But it was so cold out, and there was a slight dampness in the air. That’s the problem with Ontario winters, especially near the lakes. In Edmonton they say it can be -35 and you barely feel the cold, except on your face when the wind blows, and provided you are bundled up sufficiently. In Ontario, the cold is damp and sends a chill right to your deepest places.

Despite the cold, Naomi slipped off her glove and, holding it in her other hand, reached into her pocket to confirm that she’d brought her phone. She remembered slipping it in there, but we all have this tendency, don’t we? A brief moment of panic where we just need to touch it, making sure we aren’t actually, truly alone.

Her glove was no longer in her other hand. She bent down, thinking she must have dropped it while preoccupied and it would stand out against the snow. No such deal. It was a dark night, the moon clouded over by storm clouds, impossible to see something grey in a sea of grey. She ran her fingers through the powder, thinking that it must be resting right on top, but somehow she kept missing it. Reaching into her pocket again she pulled out her phone and turned on the flashlight feature. Pointing it down near her feet, all was white.

Her fingers began to burn with cold. It was already getting hard to hold the phone, so she switched hands, tucking the naked one into her pocket. She broadened her search area, cursing quietly, expanding out further, turning up nothing. She was so focused on finding her missing glove that she failed to take note of where the road plunged into a ditch that ran along the side. 

Had she been more aware, the rest of her life may have taken a different course, but who can tell? It’s difficult to reason around these things. Regardless, when her abrupt sideways slide began, her body did what startled brains tell them to do: she gasped and threw out her arms to catch her fall. Her hand opened up, launching her phone into the ditch where it cut neatly through the snow and disappeared.

Words flew from her mouth, things that should not be repeated in most company. 

Who knows how long Naomi searched for her phone, digging through the snow. All she knew was that she could no longer use her hands, nor feel her toes, and an insidious chill had crept  deep within her by the time she found the sense to give it up. Her body had begun to shake, her teeth clacking with the shivers. She was still able to suppress them when she tried, but being a northern girl by birth, she knew it was time to climb back up to the road.

She had just stomped the snow from her boots and was about to turn back towards the shelter of the car, the cold burrowing deeper as a breeze brushed her legs, when she spotted a light through the trees a little further down the road.

Strange, I didn’t see that before, she thought. She looked down at the snow and saw that it was illuminated slightly by the glow of the light. She must have made her way a little further down the road than she’d realized, while she’d been searching for her phone. She looked up again and squinted to see through the trees.

She’d been mistaken before: there were several lights burning in the darkness. They appeared to be flickering, tiny little flames dancing for her. They looked so warm and inviting that she breathed a sigh of relief, her breath floating away into the night. Without thinking, without even really knowing, she began to make her way towards them. If it’s a house, she thought, maybe I can get warm for a while, just stand in the mudroom, who would say no?

The whole thing felt strange, although she couldn’t explain why. This just wasn’t something she would ever do and she felt a witness to her own thoughts, on the outside, answering some call of invitation. She knew she should go back to the car. Yet as she neared the lights, trudging through snow and trembling with cold, the form of a porch began to appear out of the darkness, and the walls and windows of a house came into focus. A chimney pumped smoke into the night air and the whole place was aglow with warmth. A sound drifted over the snow banks and through the trees, and she was filled with the most irresistible, overwhelming sense of joy -- and what she imagined must be wonder, although she realized in that moment that she’d never felt true wonder before. The sound was a Christmas carol, being played ever so quietly, and laughter, barely audible above the wind in the trees. She could almost hear a fire crackling, feel its heat driving the cold from her bones.

She realized she’d been carried away only when she came back to herself. She was climbing the steps of the porch, illuminated by lanterns that hung along the front of the house and on either side of the door. The boards creaked gaily under her feet, announcing her presence with relish. Excitement stirred within her. It was the feeling of arriving home after a long absence, anticipating the sight of the most beloved faces beaming with greetings.

Again she was struck by her own boldness. How rude this was, dropping in on strangers on Christmas Eve, interrupting their merry-making, an uninvited guest. I should be getting back to the car, she thought for the third time, watching as her hand reached out and touched the brass doorknob of the ornately panelled front door. She’d forgotten to use the hand that still had the glove on it, but the handle gave off a heat that felt good on her palm. Warm light shone through the coloured stained glass and the muntin bars that adorned the windows of the entryway. She was transfixed by it. The urge to be inside amongst cheerful company dissolved her last sense of politeness and reason. She turned the handle [Door opening: ] and opened the door.

If your ancestral roots in Ontario date back to the early 1900’s or before, you probably once had a farmer in your family. Somewhere along the line, an old victorian farmhouse stood in patient loyalty, a refuge that echoed through generations of togetherness, of celebration in the good times and comfort in the hard times. And boy could times get hard!

The scene that greeted Naomi tapped into those deep ancestral memories, the ones that hide within you and are only coaxed out by particular sights or smells. She’d grown up in a Victory House, a cookie-cutter home built in the 40’s from government-provided floor plans, for the soldiers returning from war. But suddenly, out of nowhere, a vague image surfaced and she remembered that her grandparents had owned a farm, a large piece of land with a modest but welcoming old home in the middle. She’d been young when they’d lost the farm, but the scene before her brought back a glimmer of nostalgia: homecoming. She stepped through the front door.

She was standing in a foyer. A large staircase greeted her, curving as it ascended to the second floor, and an oil lamp chandelier hung from the ceiling, cherubs worked into the frame surrounding the porcelain dome, which was painted with delicate blue flowers. A piece of holly hung from the bottom, and sprigs shot out in brilliant pricks of red along the garland that wound its way up the thick bannister. To her left was a parlour cluttered with chairs of many kinds: Edwardian, Victorian, some oval back, others plain, made from walnut or oak, all mismatched and set about the room, as though a great party were in progress. The only uncluttered patch was reserved for a small spot in front of the fireplace, where two armchairs were turned towards the mantle. There was a Heintzman against one wall, and a fir tree set on the opposite side of the room, decorated with paper links, apples, dried flowers, paper angels, and lit candles that stood out from its boughs.

The Christmas carol, and the laughter, had stopped.

To her right was a sitting room where a grandfather clock stood in the corner, stoically marking the time with grave importance. Naomi’s feet shuffled across the embroidered rug that led to the dining room beyond.

A long farmhouse table -- simply made and lacking the adornments of hand-turned legs that others may have been able to afford -- stood in the center of the room. It was set with a fine lace cloth and brass candleholders, offering a holiday bounty that brimmed with excess. She gasped with unbridled glee as her eyes took inventory: mincemeat pies, puddings, and shortbread biscuits surrounded a roast goose. Further down the table were baked potatoes, fresh rolls, and a fruitcake. The smells brought back a rush of half forgotten memories, and suddenly she was standing in her grandmother’s kitchen.

She saw herself on a step-stool in front of the counter, hair carelessly pulled back in a scrunchy. She was probably about nine or so, and clearly not a natural baker: her arms were straining with the effort of rolling a ball of pastry, hot frustration burning her cheeks. She pushed hard on the rolling pin and the stupid pastry tore in half. She was about to throw the whole thing back in the bowl and storm off to the couch, defeated, when she felt her grandmother’s hand, firm but gentle, settle on her shoulder.

“You have to enjoy it, dear,” she said. “It may tear, or not do what you want it to. It might not even be pretty when you’re done. But by gosh, if you have fun, that joy will make its way into your food and they’ll say ‘that’s the best pie I’ve ever had!’” She reached over the counter, pressed the torn edges of the dough back together, sprinkled some flour on top, and held out the rolling pin.

Her anger, so scorching only moments before, dissolved. That was the first time she realized she had a choice in how she responded to the world. Later, when her finger went straight through the pastry as she tried to press it into the dish and another part of it crumbled onto the counter as she tried to lift it, she told it firmly to behave, patched it up, and got on with the joy of feeling the pastry in her hands.

Naomi smiled to herself as she looked down at the baked goods, appreciating the delicacy of the ornamental work, the details in the pastry leaves and the perfect crimping along the sides. Every bit had been made with joy and she could feel its radiation.

It dimly occurred to her how strangely lonely it was in the house, its warm embrace not hiding the fact that there was no one here when there ought to be. The Christmas carol, now loud and close, started up again and she noticed that she was shaking. A sludgy kind of dread entered her as she came to a slow realization: there’d been no one at the piano. No one to play that tune.

A moment of clarity, just one brief moment, came and went like a passing shadow. For a flittering second she felt mortified by her own brazenness, having caught herself at the table of a stranger’s home, about to help herself to their dinner, like a stray dog. Terrified at the thought of being discovered where she stood, she turned back towards the foyer and ran on tiptoes towards the door. Panic slowed her limbs, making it difficult. She nearly had her hand on the door handle when something about the Christmas tree caught her eye: little pieces of stamped tin dangled from the limbs, spinning and swinging gently in a soft breeze that slipped down her collar as she approached. She thought that maybe her teeth were chattering, but she couldn’t say for sure. The carol played behind her with no one there, and the fire popped in the hearth. The strangeness of it was now lost on her as she simply took in the room, a sense of contentment falling over her.

She was about to turn and cross towards the fire when she noticed something hanging from a branch at the back of the tree. She reached her hand in and pushed the front branches out of the way to get a closer look.

It was a stocking, no bigger than the palm of her hand, the letters N-A-O-M-I stitched finely into the tiny cuff.

She stumbled backwards, clumsy and disoriented, landing on a solid tuscano armchair, which sat facing the fire. Weariness washed over her and she slipped to the floor, her stupor dissolving into a sense of peace. As she stared into the fire, she thought about her life in Toronto and how far away it now seemed. She thought of her small PR firm, and how hard she’d worked to get it started. How many early mornings spent at the computer or making calls before packing it in for her shift at the restaurant, or to catch a bus to the office that paid her minimum wage for minimal hours. Life doesn’t have to be so hard, she thought as she delighted in the lightness of her body, the carefree gentle spinning in her center, like a spiral slowly uncoiling, floating freely, uncommitted to any destination, up or down or anywhere at all. She cared little for anything but the warmth of the fire, and an increasing drowsiness that pulled at her eyelids, coaxing her into the quiet darkness.

She came back to the world in a slow trudge, at first aware of nothing but an all-consuming coldness, like a thing that had crept inside while she’d slept and, now disturbed, had begun to claw its way out. Fear was the next sensation, as her mind tried to make sense of the sounds in the distance. There was a muffled garbling, like someone talking, but it made no sense. Now some new feeling, that she was somehow moving. Confusion as her mind scrambled to put the pieces together. She could feel her arms pinned against her chest and she couldn’t remember…

Well, she couldn’t remember much at all. Although she struggled to latch on to anything that made sense, the acute, gnawing chill permeated her groggy mind, cutting through the fog and taking her to the surface of consciousness. Her body shook violently as the cold fought for purchase.

When she opened her eyes there was a blinding light and she turned her head away. Hadn’t she been waiting for someone? A memory began to stitch itself together: yes, for a tow truck. Really? Why? Well she must have... 

Then she remembered leaving the car (stupid decision, she now thought) to stretch her legs, or warm up, or deal with boredom or something -- she couldn’t remember why on earth she’d left that car. She saw her phone fly into the snow and felt the cold returning to her fingers as she remembered digging, digging, and digging. And the lights...glowing stained glass...a Christmas carol and feeling of home, her grandmother’s hand on her shoulder, the taste of butter tarts…

Then nothing but peace, the kind that she would long for the rest of her life, that steals fear from death for those who come close enough to face it.

Her leg gave a violent jerk and she came fully awake in a sudden flood of bright lights, a rocking sensation, and the crunching of snow. She felt her heels hit the ground and she looked up into the face of a stranger.

It was a man, with a round and friendly face, attractive. He was wearing a green toque and a look of...astonishment? Or maybe embarrassment. Either way, there was an air of purpose to him, urgency in his eyes. 

And he’d just dropped her.

Joel introduced himself immediately and, much too quickly for her muddled brain to follow, explained that he’d grown worried for her safety, it being such a frigid night, and had jumped into his Ford F-150 to check in on her when she hadn’t answered his calls. “I live just in town, 10 minutes away,” he finished, helping her back to her feet.

Naomi was seized by another bout of shivers and couldn’t unclench her jaw long enough to answer. She just looked at him. When he offered to drive her to the garage in town to wait for her car in a warm place, and pulled a couple of warm blankets out of the back of the truck’s cab, she could only nod and climb up into the passenger seat where she wrapped herself in every possible layer and waited for the shivering to stop.

By the time they reached the garage Naomi was trembling in little fits and starts, but the worst had passed. The shop was colder than the truck, but there were space heaters around and Joel set one in front of her.

She sat as close to the heating element as she could without burning herself. “How did you find me?” she finally managed to ask. She remembered the embarrassment she thought she’d seen in his eyes earlier and it made her feel better about her own, enough to start wondering about the missing pieces.

He told her how he’d found the car empty on the side of the road, and had an “uneasy kind of feeling.” He’d followed her tracks to the sideroad and seen that they’d continued around the corner. So he’d returned to his truck and followed along to where they disappeared into the ditch. “You couldn’ta been out there for too long,” he said, “or your tracks woulda been covered up. Judging by how cold you looked, it was long enough though.”

Growing up in a northern community, you learn not to mess with the cold. She knew she’d done something stupid, and she’d almost paid a hefty price. She wanted to curl up into her blanket and disappear.

“I know better,” she confided from behind the safety of the blanket, which was now draped over her head and pulled up across her face, muffling her voice. “I knew not to leave the car. And I meant to turn back, but then I saw the house and thought it was better to wait inside where it’s warm, I guess, I don’t know, it’s kinda fuzzy now. I remember walking up onto the porch, and just letting myself in for some reason. I never do that, I would never just walk into someone’s house! But I remember doing that! Then it’s all just...weird after that. I think I must have been dreaming? But I don’t remember meeting you, and I woke up and you were carrying me and I was so cold. I’m so confused! God, I’m such an idiot!”

She knew that people who freeze to death will reach a point first where they start to hallucinate. They’ll see things that aren't there, hear music that no one is playing, even have entire conversations with an imaginary person. If she’d been that far gone, it would account for all the strangeness.

“I just don’t see how it’s possible that I could have gotten that cold that fast,” she said. “I really wasn’t out that long.”

Joel had been looking at the floor the whole while she’d been talking, and as she finished he raised only his eyes to look at her. There was a graveness in them, compassion, and...anger. After a moment, he spoke.

Thank you for listening thus far. In a moment, we'll return to the garage, but first, I’d like to let you know that we have new original stories coming every 2 weeks, so please subscribe on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you listen to your shows. You can also find us on Instagram @darkriverpodcast. And if you know someone else who might like to experience this strange small town, tell them about Dark River and where they can find it. It’s always welcoming new travelers. But now, let’s drop back in on their conversation.

Joel had been looking at the floor the whole while she’d been talking, and as she finished he raised only his eyes to look at her. There was a graveness in them, compassion, and...anger. After a moment, he spoke.

“I came out lookin’ for ya ‘cause I had an idea it might try to take you. When your calls kept comin’ through every 45 minutes or so I decided not to worry, even with you sittin’ there so close to that property. But then I didn’t hear anything for almost two hours and I got this awful feeling, so I grabbed some blankets and got in my truck, just to make sure you were still in your car and maybe wait with you for a while, it being Christmas Eve and all, I thought that would be a nice thing to do. But then I got to the car and saw you weren’t there and I knew right away what was goin’ on.”

He kind of shook his shoulders then, maybe it was a shudder, and raised his head and took a breath, like the first one he’d taken in a while. He seemed to relax a little, and a little smile tugged at his lips. It was unsettling. Naomi shifted uncomfortably.

Then a detail shook loose. “Wait, sorry, you said something about the house?” She pushed the blanked down and squeezed it around her shoulders.

“There’s no house there. It burned down, oh, back in the 30’s? I think it was the 30’s, or maybe the 20’s, I’m not sure. But it’s not standing anymore. The foundation’s still there, and part of the brick wall that used to be the fireplace, but that’s all. The family who lived there, I can’t remember their last name, but the story goes that they were out at midnight mass on Christmas Eve and the whole damn place burned down. They came home and it was ash. Talk about a Merry fricken Christmas, eh?”

Naomi had the feeling that he was teasing her, playing a trick and trying to scare her, probably because she wasn’t from here. Beyond rude when only half an hour ago she’d been freezing to death. “That’s impossible,” she retorted. “I was in the house, I’m not that confused.”

Now he did smile. “I’m not sayin’ you were confused, I know you saw it. I know you went in and saw the holly and the paper decorations, and there was something baking and you smelled it. I believe you, I’m not sayin’ it didn’t happen. It’s just that it wasn’t real.”

She tossed the blanket off and stood, saying something or other in protest, her fury rising at his insistence on playing out this stupid little joke.

Joel backed off to give her some room, took the smile off his face. “Listen, just, there’s a legend in Dark River that says that house burned down under strange circumstances, no one knows why it happened. And ever since, every Christmas Eve if you get too close... I tell ya true I found you curled up in front of that pile of bricks that used to be the fireplace, you were cold, and sound asleep. If someone hadn’t of found you…”

Maybe out of sensitivity, he didn’t finish.

Naomi was about to tell him where he could put his story and thanks anyways for your help when a tow truck pulled up out front, her car hitched to the back with only its rear wheels on the road. She thought it looked kind of pitiful and wrong, like seeing a part of someone you weren’t supposed to see.

“Here’s your phone,” said Joel, holding it out for her. “I found it when we were walking back to the truck.”

She swallowed her annoyance, flashed him a look of gratitude as she took her phone, and stepped out into the cold to meet the driver, instantly beginning to shiver again.

A few hours later, just after midnight, she was rattling her keys as she hopped into her car. The mechanic had gone out of their way to call a friend who had a brother who had the right part, and he’d been able to get Naomi back on the road in less time than it had taken to get a tow. She was so relieved that she had momentarily forgotten the entire incident in the woods, overjoyed to be on her way again. With another heartfelt thank you, and a quick text to her family (which ended with “I love you,” as many conversations would from now on), she turned out onto the road that led back to the highway. By now it had received a pass from the snow plough and, although she still had a long way to go, she felt her spirits lift.

As she neared the familiar spot where she’d spent those few hours waiting for a tow truck, she felt the tug of curiosity. If she turned right up ahead, and drove down a bit, she’d pass the beautiful Victorian house decked out for Christmas, lit by lanterns in the spirit of the season. A merry crew, visible through the front window, would be singing songs and drinking wine by the fire. Small town people always had legends to tell. It made them feel like they belonged to something special, so she told herself.

Yet she needed proof.

She hit her blinker and turned right.

Once on the road, she proceeded slowly, expecting to see it almost right away. It had been so brightly lit, and such a grand house, that she knew she couldn’t miss it.

Funny. She slowed to a crawl, went on for a bit, stopped. Definitely should have seen it by now, she thought, knowing for sure that it couldn’t be any further up the road.

She did a three point turn and made a second pass.

No house.

Not even the shadow of a house.

She hit reverse and backed slowly down the road until something caught her eye in the side view mirror: the tracks she’d made when she’d slid down into the ditch. It was unmistakable.

She put the car in park and got out, walked to the edge of the road, and peered through the trees. She passed up and down that road, on foot, over a hundred meters in each direction. Nothing. There was no house.

Except that wasn’t totally true because she could see something, just beyond the tracks she’d left in the snow. She backed slowly towards the car, refusing to run, staunching her panic. When she reached it though, she flung the door open and retreated to its safety.

Standing out there on the side of that deserted road, moonlight flooding the landscape like a pale sun, her eyes had adjusted quickly and she’d been able to make out a clearing, set back from the road. It was a place where the snow laid flat and level, except where a pile of stones rose up and an old chimney lay partially toppled but still visible just above the snow.

People react in funny ways when they brush up against the unexplainable. Especially when death makes its presence known.

As Naomi drove away she resolved to quit her job at the restaurant. She pulled out her phone, set it on the passenger seat, and chewed on the inside of her mouth for a moment. 

She reached out a hand and hit the dial icon. A few rings, then a voice that sounded at once concerned and baffled, but also slightly amused.

“Hey Joel,” she said. “I’m passing back through here in a couple of days and it’s a long drive. I’ll need to take a break. Would you grab a coffee with me then?”

This has been a tale from Dark River, written and performed by Lindsay Bellaire. This episode is directed and edited by Phillip Psutka, who also arranged and performed the music. Podcast artwork by Chris Psutka. Thank you for stopping by, and Merry Christmas.

Copyright © 2020 Lindsay Bellaire