Vestavia Hills

The reverend used to wait for the arrival of his congregation on the lawn. He always had a welcome smile for everyone, sincere handshakes, and a few kind words for the children.

Elizabeth, his wife, did not always participate in the welcoming ceremony of the congregation, but when she did, she stood out for her courtesy, even more than her husband did. It was impossible not to like her and love her as pleasant and graceful as she was.

"Reverend Abblepot! What a pleasure to see you again among us! "

"Thanks, Jim. I, too, am happy to be back. Especially when there is someone like you who greets me so affectionately, the pleasure doubles."

"Did you see that I arrived on time, Reverend?"

"Well done, Stuart, I am pleased. Now you have to try to pay attention to the service too! "

While exchanging these pleasantries, the reverend saw, behind the last boy with whom he spoke, Evelyn Archer arrive, followed closely by her nephew. The two had an agitated pace and pouted air. They looked like they had just argued.

The reverend had always thought that Mrs. Archer was one of the kindest people in Vestavia, but there were times when a dark shadow covered her face. Abblepot would never have dared to say that she had an evil look, but when it darkened, Evelyn Archer's face gave a feeling of unease.

No one should enter the church angry with others, Abblepot thought. And a reverend had to do everything to bring his congregation on the right path. Therefore, he immediately went to meet the two.

Martyn had stopped at the edge of the fence, while the old aunt carried on walking towards the church entrance.

Abblepot greeted her: "Good morning, Evelyn," he said as kindly as he could "is everything all right?"

"Good morning, Reverend," replied the old woman seeming lost in thought. Then, with a sudden change of mood, she said, smiling: "It's a beautiful Sunday morning, isn't it?"

Abblepot was almost more troubled by that quick transition to friendliness than from the aggressive mask of just before. He was almost about to continue, trying to investigate the possible causes of Evelyn Archer's anger when a sparkle in the woman's eyes dissuaded him. He was not at all convinced that her excellent humor was sincere, even if it did not seem at all disguised, but this very fact left him speechless.

He felt as he was standing in front of a used-up actress, or even worse, in front of two different personalities trapped in the same person that manifested one after the other. This feeling disturbed him, not just a little, and the mysterious light at the bottom of Mrs. Archer's eyes almost knocked him back.

He moved away and let the old woman pass, who soon after disappeared into the church.

There was still the young Martyn, who continued to stand on the edge of the lawn.

Abblepot remembered the scene from the previous afternoon when, right near the church, he had met him while the boy had pretended not to see him. Could the two events be linked?

Martyn Trischer was stealthily looking towards the vicarage.

Abblepot raised his arm in greeting. This time the young man replied, waving at him and did what he tried to be a smile. Then he lowered his eyes again, pushing his hat a little more down on his head.

That there were disagreements in the community was not new. How many times had the reverend been a peacemaker? Now there seemed to have been an argument, or at least some trouble between the young man and Evelyn: probably everything would be okay soon without the need for anyone's intervention. But Johnathan Abblepot was like that: he could not be entirely at peace if he could not do something to solve a problem.

Now, however, in that situation, he felt as if invisible tentacles forbade him to take a step forward. The reason for his concern was precisely that feeling of discomfort he felt with those two people, something that had never happened to him before.

He decided to take time, also because it was now time to get ready to start the Mass.

He turned and headed for the church. Elizabeth had appeared at the window of her home.

Abblepot did not want to worry her, so he tried to remove the concerned expression he probably had from his face.

He smiled and greeted her.

His wife did as well from behind the window.

When Johnathan Abblepot entered the rear of the church reserved for the reverend, he did not notice that his wife had remained at the window and that Martyn Trischer was still leaning against the fence.

The looks of the two had crossed.

4.

Vestavia Hills, 1859

Nicholas Abbot opened his eyes. It was Tuesday morning. The scent of wood filled the room up.

He lived in a not very large but well-kept house, which his wife appreciated for its quietness.

A slight sticky feeling bound his tongue to the palate. He didn't know what could have been the cause.

The night before, he had gone to bed early enough and slept with a dreamless, deep, but strangely restless sleep.

It must not have been that early, judging by the light that entered the room through the door, which his wife, who had already got up, had left open.

Nicholas staggered in the day room, searching for his wife with bleary eyes.

"Good morning to my dormouse!" Anna greeted him cheerfully.

"Good morning, what time is it?" Nicholas asked, his voice strangely clear and not pasty.

"It was time to wake up!"

Annabeth was particularly cheerful that morning, and that already set the right tone for the day. The disagreements between them a few months ago seemed to be going away gradually.

Nicholas loved her: he liked everything about her, mainly how she tolerated him and how she knew how to be sweet and attentive. He was delighted with her cheerfulness, which was always ready on every occasion. Even though it had been tough for them the previous year, he never stopped experiencing these feelings.

They had been married for four years and had not been able to have children yet, but they didn't let it be an issue, even if it wasn't a comfortable situation.

Nicholas Abbot was a detective. He tried to give a name and an explanation to the tragedies that occurred daily in Vestavia Hills like in the county as in every part of Alabama.

Annabeth had never particularly loved her husband's career: Nick had to deal daily with violence and with people who were indeed not the cream of society. Nevertheless, over the years, she had become used to it: she had never intended to question the profession that her husband loved so much.

After all, nothing serious had ever happened to him in so many years. Not that Nick hadn't been in potentially dangerous situations, but he was cautious enough and very smart. Moreover, his colleagues had always given him a big hand.

"Honey, can we throw this newspaper away?" Anna said, picking up a newspaper that was on the kitchen table.

"What? Oh, no, wait, leave it there. "

"But it's two days old, what are you doing with it? Maybe it there was at least something interesting in it."

Nicholas did not reply. Instead, he asked for breakfast.

The newspaper reported the news of a child found dead not far from Church Yard. The misfortune had affected everyone in the community. The monster's hunting had already begun, but there were those who, as the article said, hypothesized an accidental death.