Snow came early this year. Early and deep. I sat for the better part of the last three hours watching footsteps appear in the new fallen snow, footsteps that had no figure to make them. They appear to be prowling around the very foundations of this place. Around and around in a ragged circular pattern except in the
North. There, in the Northern part of the estate, the footsteps trail off into the trees and up the steep hillside towards the old stones that jut up into the cold, raw sky like broken teeth. They say that those old stones are haunted, but so far no one's proven anything. A couple of years ago, some old dowsing-expert came up from Iowa to see the old stones. They had just published a
book on dowsing. They were so full of themself, arrogant and reeking of self-satisfaction, and after putting on a lot of airs and making quite a fuss over himself and his custom-made
pendulum, and they went up to examine the old stones. I never found out what exactly happened up there, but the dowsing expert ran out of here in such a hurry that they left their precious
pendulum behind. I have it now. I keep it in an old mason jar, just as I learned from that
smelly old guy who used to visit blind Clarence up until he died last year. I think he might have been a
clergyman of some sort, but I never asked. Sometimes I ask the
pendulum in the jar questions. Often it answers me, spinning and whirling and whining and creating a humming voice for itself, or just pointing, pointing at one or another letters, symbols and hieroglyphs that I've placed around it, as it has directed me to do. It seems to have definite
opinions on those things I consult it upon. It whispers to me on cold, dark nights. It teaches me things I've never read of in any book.
But the
pendulum refuses to tell me anything about those strange footsteps that go up to the old stones and back again, circling round and round the very foundations of this place, making a circuit in the still falling snow, and filling me with a sensation of dread that makes my blood run colder than the dirty icicles forming on the crumbling eaves.
They're calling to me now. It's time to go down for supper. I'm not hungry, but I had best get moving before they come for me.
