I wish, to this day, I’d never turned west. Of course west of Pancake Rock squatted the old abandoned farmhouse that belonged to the old abandoned cow pasture. Even from way up there I noted its deserted state of disrepair. True saw it too and pulled out his sketchpad. Hives materialized across my arms as I watched his pencil fly smoothly over the contours of that old farmhouse.
I sometimes speculate that if it hadn’t rained that day, I could have talked True out of investigating that place.
In fact, when rain pelted our bare arms with increasing ferocity and True said we’d just go inside to find a dry corner until the rain let up, I didn’t even argue. I scratched at my itchy wet arms, grabbed my bike and followed him inside the barn.
Broken warnings echoed from just behind my ears. Bad floors . . . Strange things . . . Danger . . .
We leaned our bikes against a rusty old tractor that hunkered inside of the weathered barn, and then raced through the rain onto the house porch. It creaked like an old lady’s rocker.
Continued in the next post