It started, as so many stories do, with my flailing around for an idea. The first line appeared suddenly, courtesy of some previously unconnected synapses. After that, the idea of composing a story around some small portion of Robert Frost’s poetry seemed like an interesting exercise. The conflict in the story is a common one in fiction and did not come from Frost.

These, in no particular order, are the Robert Frost poems alluded to in “A Late Walk”:

A Late Walk
The Road Not Taken
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Mending Wall
Desert Places
Never Again Would Birds’ Song be the Same
The Tuft of Flowers
The Death of the Hired Man
The Need of Being Versed in Country Things
The Sound of the Trees
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Birches
Acquainted with the Night
Fire and Ice
Canis Major
Home Burial

Two roads diverged in the woods, and Warren could not tell which one his errant dog had taken. There had been a frost the previous night; it had hardened the ground against footprints, and the leaves seemed equally trodden upon.

Warren was unconcerned. He often came to these lovely woods with his little dog. They belonged to a friend who lived in town and didn’t mind people stopping by. In the summer, the woods had been filled with monarch butterflies, flitting from one tuft of flowers to the next. With the approach of winter, of course, they could not stay.

He stood and listened to the sound of the trees as the wind flowed gently through their bare branches. His right hand, of old, unvanquished habit, clenched around an invisible mate, and then it tightened into a fist.

Warren had often brought Amy here. They stood in this spot and held hands, admiring the birches and the phoebes and each other.

But Amy had gone back west to care for her ill mother. And across the distance, as so often happens, she had met someone else and never returned to Warren or the woods.

Warren had ambled the city’s streets late into the night after that, beyond the furthest city light, numbly exploring the vast reaches of the growing desert place inside himself. At times his heart burned; other times it was as though ice had taken over. But he eventually returned to the natural world; he had already given up love and the future he had wanted, and even though the birds’ songs would never be the same, he refused to give up his precious walks in the woods.

Never mind that, he told himself with a sigh.

Night began falling fast. Warren whistled once, and then again, as loudly as he could. A bark answered him, and he looked down the left trail. Robert raced into view; he danced upright for a moment before coming to a stop at his master’s feet.

“It looks like it might snow,” Warren told the dog. “I’ll have to take you in tonight.”

Warren led Robert back toward the edge of the woods where the car was parked. They came to the short rock wall that Warren’s friend tried in vain to keep in repair. A squarish rock lay on the ground, and Warren was almost certain it had been on top of the wall when he and Robert first passed by only an hour before.

Warren opened the car door; Robert jumped in and went directly to the passenger seat. Warren slid in behind the wheel and started the car.

Robert looked out the window and yawned. Warren scratched the dog’s ears.

“Only a few miles to go, and then you can sleep.”

Tinywords is edited by the well-known poet Dylan Tweney, whose wise words I have posted here previously.

Yay, me!

If I see something worth sharing at someone else’s site, I’ll do so in an Author’s Note, but that’ll be scattershot, not scheduled (although I’ll do it scattershot on a Monday if I’ve got something). When I a) get accustomed to everything on my plate, or b) clear something off my plate, then I’ll get back to writing the Pen to Paper essays.

Thank you for your understanding.

Vyckers couldn’t help himself. He crept quietly through the halls of the ruined mansion, one step carefully placed after another. He was quite certain he was alone, and he suffered no fears about ghosts that might find his presence objectionable. But something about visiting the ancient Barthston home in the middle of the night called to his inner self to do so with a minimum of noise.

Still, he stopped occasionally to sneeze; dust had taken over the manse, and Vyckers’ nose was sensitive to it.He swung his large, intensely bright flashlight up and down the walls and across the floor in front of him. The mosaic pattern of the marble hallways had not held up well over the decades; many of the tesserae were chipped or missing. Likewise, although he knew what the mural in the grand gallery depicted, it had been defaced beyond recognition.

Stories had naturally grown up around the Barthston manse after the last of that line succumbed to the rigors of a dissipated life. The locals told of pitiful screams that could be heard on occasion if one were near enough – screams that would have rendered a human throat raw.

And then, of course, there were tales of a fortune in jewels and gold hidden on the premises. Vyckers believed those rumors, and he had studied diligently for three years to uncover where in the mansion such a horde would be located. Two previous visits to the mansion had gone unrewarded, but Vyckers was certain this time would be different.

Another turn brought him to the spacious master bedroom. The cast iron bed had been stripped of its fine sheets after the last Barthston died there, and the monstrous frame stood alone in the center of the room. Vyckers walked around it, frowning at the ugly piece, and went to the bookshelf on the west wall. Dust drenched the remains of the collection, and Vyckers took care not to touch the old books.

He let his beam come to rest on a large pineapple carved from oak. The ornament had been crudely fashioned, doubtless accounting for its continued presence when so much else had been looted. The pineapple, too, was dusty, and Vyckers took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and used it as a glove. He pulled on the pineapple, which tilted toward him without leaving the shelf where it sat.

Unseen pulleys squealed and a heavy section of the wall slowly opened toward Vyckers. He laughed over the din of the groaning portal.

When the noise ceased, there was an opening just wide enough for Vyckers to slip through, and he did so. His flashlight caught a brief glimpse of a piece of paper flitting to the ground, disturbed by the air rushing into the inner chamber. Vyckers ignored it as the light played across piles of golden and bejeweled treasures.

The room was twice as big as the master bedroom. It appeared to be stuffed with the treasures of kings and maharajas. Vyckers scarcely knew where to look first.

That issue was settled for him when he found the first skeleton.

He made a little squeak of horror but regained his dignity presently. He studied the clothing that draped the dead. It was not yet out of fashion, not significantly different from what Vyckers himself wore. There was no obvious indication of the cause of death, and Vyckers frowned.

From where he stood, he moved his light about and found four more skeletons. Some of the joy of finding the great treasure of the Barthstons was fading. Looking down, he found at his feet the piece of paper that had fluttered about when the door had opened. He reached down and picked it up. It, too, was dusty, and Vyckers sneezed once more.

After plying his handkerchief, he held the note in the light.

“For the love of God,” it read, “secure the door or you will be trapped as we were in our time.”

Vyckers’ stomach turned to ice. He spun in place and took a step toward the portal. He tripped on a stray ruby and fell. Even as he picked himself up, the pulleys that had opened the door released their burden, and the heavy stone shot back into place with a resounding crack.

Almost immediately, the townspeople added to their store of barely heard screams emanating from the old Barthston mansion – heartrending screams that would have torn the tissues from a human throat.