Stones Read Online Free PDF Page B

picked up the flashlight. “Who’s there?” I called out. Then, louder, “Is there someone out there?”
    No answer, only the sighing wind. I crept slowly to the window and, summoning mycourage, raised the light to the glass. He was still there, motionless. Terrified again, I forced myself to examine him. He wore an anorak with the hood laced under his chin.
    “You idiot,” I said out loud.
    The flashlight had turned the window into a mirror. I was looking at my own reflection.
    Muttering angrily at myself, feeling foolish but unable to shake the sense of uneasiness, I dragged two benches to the corner and spread out the sleeping bag, shaking it to give it loft. Then I opened the stove door and shone the light inside. It seemed functional. Beside it was a wooden box containing kindling and newspaper, and beside that a small stack of split wood. If I was economical, it would last the night. I set paper and kindling in the stove and heard the roar of flame and smoke sucked up the chimney and away by the wind.
    I kicked off my boots, shrugged out of the anorak and climbed into the sleeping bag. Soon the warmth began to make me sleepy. The next day the snowplows would be out. I’d walk the road until I came to a house, call for a tow truck to pull the van out of the ditch, drive home, get some hot coffee into me, have a long, hot shower.
    The wind howled along the walls of the old church, moaned at the eaves, whined at the window ledges, fistfuls of snow rattling the glass. As it warmed, the building creaked and cracked.
    My thoughts turned to Raphaella. I pictured her standing in class during the debate, her pale skin and dark eyes, the plum-colored mark on her face and neck. I saw her walking down the hall, her long black hair swaying to and fro across her back. Her willowy body. She carried herself with a confidence and grace I hardly ever saw in other girls. She was intelligent and articulate and wasn’t afraid to show it.
    No wonder I was in love with her. I ached to see her again, close-up this time. But how could I manage it?
    I got up and put another small log on the fire. I scrunched down into the sleeping bag and, with her face in my imagination, fell asleep.
2
    Once, a few years before, I had a vicious case of bronchitis that brought with it a high fever and bizarre, terrifying nightmares that left me breathless and sweaty. In the church, with the blizzardraging outside and hard benches under me, I slept fitfully, slipping in and out of troubling dreams. Though I couldn’t recall it, each dream left a residue of dread that seemed to build as the night wore slowly on, until finally I was awakened by the rasping of my own rapid breathing.
    Around me the rushing wind shrieked and moaned. The comforting crackle of the fire had died away. I swallowed on a dry throat, fumbled for the flashlight and checked my watch. It was just after two o’clock.
    Gradually, like a theme emerging in a piece of music, a sound borne by the wind began to separate itself from the background howl. I strained to identify it, scarcely breathing, rigid with concentration. An insistent grumble, like a crowd makes in a movie or a play.
    The grumbling intensified without being louder, became more human, the voices of men, at least half a dozen, double that at most. Their distant murmuring carried tones of anger, determination, fear. The sound swelled, stronger, more insistent. Then, like bubbles rising to the surface, one at a time, and bursting, I heard
eighty wish
…
now
…
go back!
…
no!
, each distinct word floating on a rumbling tide of rage and terror and, finally, hatred.
    Eighty wish
…
go back!
…
no!
Then,
Stone
…
stone
.
    It was as if the men were passing outside the church on their way somewhere.
    The voices receded into the roar of the storm. I was half free of the sleeping bag, propped on one elbow, straining after the terrible sounds. I lay down again, trembling. I began to reason with myself, word by unspoken word