The Ridgewood Story, 13

Myers Ridge, 1972, Fourth Visit

ARC was scheduled to play a Fourth of July gig at The Roundhouse, the old roller rink now owned by Vree’s parents. On paper, I played better harmonica and rhythm guitar than in real life, so I wrote myself as a visiting member of the band.

Vree liked to sit inside the walk-in refrigerator before performances so she would stay cooler longer on stage. I sat with her.

Changing the Future

One

Minutes before ARC’s Fourth of July gig at The Roundhouse, Vree had just left the refrigerator when I closed my eyes and listened to the muffled sounds of teenagers filling the dining hall beyond the kitchen, coming to hear us play on the stage now ready with pre-tuned instruments and pre-checked amplifiers. I didn’t hear the refrigerator door open and close, or the old woman take a seat on the stool next to the shelves of lettuce and tomatoes. My mind was on my music when she coughed.

My eyes flew open and I sat up on my stool.

“Are you Steve Campbell?” she said, then sniffled and took a Kleenex from her white sweater wrapped tightly around her, and brought it shakily to her blue nose with a wrinkled, blue-gray hand. Her nails were painted a bright red; the color matched her lipstick. “Of course you are,” she said between dabs with the Kleenex. “It’s all in the book.”

“What book? Do you mean the stories I’m writing?” I asked.

“Don’t think me insane,” she said. “You are my father.”

“What?” I’m pretty sure I yelped.

“It’s true.” She shivered for a second from the refrigerator’s cool air being circulated by a large, slow-moving fan overhead. “My name is Nancy Pennwater Stephenson. My father, the man who raised me, was a physician—Henry Pennwater, from Pittsburgh. He was vacationing at Ridgewood in 1904, at a cottage at Alice Lake, and was hiking along a ridgeline behind the lake when he discovered a young woman injured and in shock. She went into a coma before he could get her to the local hospital. He later transported her to a private facility in Pittsburgh where she resided in a coma for nine years. That young woman’s name was Verawenda Erickson.”

My brows knitted. “Is this a joke?” I glanced at the door, waiting for someone to enter and yell “Surprise.”

“It’s no joke.” Nancy returned the Kleenex to her pocket, then pulled a large, black leather purse from the floor and placed it on her lap. “Before I show you this book, I need to explain who I am and why you must believe me.”

I glanced at my new Timex wristwatch with the two-inch brown leather band. It was nearing seven o’clock. The band would be taking stage in five minutes.

“Your parents gave you that watch on your fifteenth birthday,” Nancy said. “Or, that’s what Vree told me.”

“How do you know Vree?” I asked.

“I told you. She’s my mother.”

I said nothing for a moment. Ridgewood was a weird place, but this was too weird.

Before I said anything, Nancy said, “During her first months while comatose, it became obvious to the hospital staff that their mysterious Jane Doe patient was pregnant. I was born seven months later via caesarean delivery.” She took a black leather book from her purse and held it to her breast. “Henry took me in and raised me. He took Vree in, too, after she awoke from her coma. She suffered amnesia until last year while she was dying.”

“Dying? Wait a minute—”

Nancy held up a hand. “I wrote down everything she told me when her memory returned. It’s all here, just as she described it to me, including how the two of you used to sit in this very same refrigerator before your band went on stage.”

How did she know these things?

“Who are you?” I asked.

Nancy held out the book. “The answers are in here. Please read it. I’m trying to save her life. She must stay away from Myers Ridge.”

“But she lives there.”

“I know. Please read the book.”

When my hesitant hand finally took the book, a hard slap of static electricity stung my fingers and shot pain through my hand, down my arm and into my shoulder. I recoiled from the offering and dropped the book. Tears actually welled in my eyes.

“I have to go,” I said, no longer interested in being a part of this woman’s craziness.

“I’m sorry about the static,” Nancy said. “It’s all about electrical fields and time travel—things I don’t understand.”

I spun and hurried out the door. It banged against the outer wall. The kitchen was empty of Mrs. Erickson’s usual staff. They were in the dining hall serving sodas and popcorn at the bar.

“There will be lightning and an earthquake,” Nancy called out. “Vree said there was an earthquake before she fell.”

I dodged past the stainless steel table with pots and pans hanging overhead. I rubbed at my shoulder as I went.

“It’s going to happen again, unless you change things,” Nancy said as I charged into the busy dining hall. “Change the future for us all.”

Published by

Steven Leo Campbell

I am an artist and indie-author. I draw and paint wildlife, draw cartoons, and write mostly paranormal fiction featuring Vree Erickson and a strange Pennsylvania town called Ridgewood.

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