Katherine's Prophecy Read online

  KATHERINE'S PROPHECY

  by Scott Wittenburg

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011 Scott Wittenburg

  Original Paperback version ©2005 Scott Wittenburg

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters and events of this book are entirely the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, or to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER 1

  At six o’clock sharp, Emily Hoffman closed and locked the door to her antique shop. The unexpected snowstorm was raging now as she trudged down Peekskill Lane and spotted her old beige Volkswagen bus parked halfway down the block, covered by three inches of freshly fallen snow. When she reached the bus, Emily opened the door on the passenger side and took out the ice scraper lying on the floorboard. Working quickly, she began scraping the windows and observed the ease with which the powdery white stuff came off. Perfect skiing snow, she thought to herself as she finished the windshield and started clearing the windows on the driver’s side.

  When she was done, Emily slid onto the cold vinyl seat and turned the key in the ignition tentatively, making a silent prayer that the battery wouldn’t be too cold to turn the engine over. The starter whined hesitantly at first—as if being aroused from a deep sleep—then sped up suddenly, long enough for the little engine to come to life with the distinctive putter-putt-putter sound that only a VW engine can make. Breathing a sigh of relief, Emily threw the gearshift lever into first and pulled away from the curb.

  The interior of the bus was absolutely frigid and would remain that way for the entire duration of the three-mile drive to her house. But she loved the old bus in spite of its anemic heater and other shortcomings. It handled well in the snow and had plenty of space inside for hauling her antiques. She cleared away the frost formed by her breath on the windshield with the back of her hand and shivered to herself as she made a left-hand turn onto Hudson Street.

  After driving ten blocks or so she reached the edge of town where Hudson Street became Route 17 and abruptly widened into a four-lane divided highway. Emily sped up to forty-five and found herself staring blankly at the two shafts of light emitted by her headlights as they sliced through the wild frenzy of blowing snow. Her mind was devoid of all thoughts save one—arriving at her house where it would be warm and cozy inside.

  Emily drove a little over a mile and a half on the highway before turning left onto Mountainview Road. A quarter of a mile further the road forked as she bore right onto a narrow unmarked road and slowed down to a complete stop beside her mailbox. She reached inside and pulled out the mail and a newspaper, tossed the parcels onto the passenger seat then pulled away.

  Within forty yards or so, the road began its steep incline up the mountain. Emily accelerated briskly to ensure herself enough momentum to negotiate the climb, being careful not to get the rear wheels spinning excessively and possibly cause the bus to sway sideways. There was a three-foot deep drainage ditch running along the left side of the road and a steep embankment to the right. Although the bus had snow tires, Emily knew that coming to a near stop at any time would most likely result in disaster—her fate dependent upon which side of the road the bus happened to slide toward at the time.

  About two-thirds up the mountain the road leveled off for a short distance before resuming its ascent. When Emily reached this portion, she glanced to her right and could see the faint glow of lights coming from her house through a partial clearing in the trees. She unconsciously sped up a little in anticipation of arriving soon at her warm home.

  Moments later, Emily pulled up beside her house and shut off the engine. The three story Victorian was well lit from the outside by several floodlights she had recently installed and the added illumination now played upon the falling snow and the surroundings, creating a wintry scene that looked like something out of a fairy tale. Breathing a sigh of exhilaration, Emily grabbed her mail before getting out and making her way over to the side door. As she stuck her key into the lock, she heard the excited barks of a dog coming from inside. She opened the door and was immediately greeted by a frisky black and white springer spaniel, its tail wagging furiously in response to the arrival of her master.

  “Why hello there, Cassie! And how is my little puppy doing? Have you missed me today? Mommy sure has missed you! And I’ll bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?”

  Emily knelt down and received a barrage of puppy kisses from Cassie, causing her to laugh out loud.

  “Why thank you, girl! I love you, too!”

  She stood up and held the door open long enough for Cassie to scamper out into the snow to relieve herself then called her back inside. Cassie followed her through the foyer into the spacious, well-appointed kitchen and waited impatiently for Emily to pour some dog food into her bowl before wolfing it down hungrily.

  Emily removed her coat and slung it over one of the kitchen chairs. Stepping out onto the porch, she knelt down and gathered up a few good-sized logs and carried them back inside. With an exhausted grunt, she strode through the house to the den where she placed the logs in a pile on the massive stone hearth.

  With Cassie at her heels, Emily led the way upstairs to the bathroom. She stepped over to the ancient four-legged cast iron bathtub and got the water running then went down the long hall to her bedroom. After removing her clothes, she grabbed the terry cloth robe lying near the foot of the bed and threw it on before retracing her steps back to the bathroom.

  Cassie was curled up on the tile floor by the tub as Emily closed the door and sampled the water temperature. After sprinkling in some bath oil beads, she stepped over to the full-length mirror and removed her robe.

  She stood there for a few moments, observing her body in a critical manner. She examined her skin—still soft, smooth, and youthful in spite of her age. Her muscle tone was still good—firm, no fat, and no sags. And her figure had maintained its youthful schoolgirl appearance; slim waist, slender hips, and small but well-rounded breasts. Emily resented her shortness of stature, but had learned to live with it—making up for her lack of height by her outward strength, which was considerable for her tiny size.

  But Emily’s physical appearance was of no real concern to her; so long as she didn’t somehow let herself get fat or out of shape. Her mind and state of mind, however, were a different matter. She was more than adequately intelligent with an inherent thirst for knowledge and an insatiable appetite for learning that had to be constantly challenged and nurtured. She possessed a keen interest in the past—to learn all she could about given historic events in an attempt to relate their significance to the present and determine why things have come to be the way they are. She’d had this almost obsessive interest in the past for practically as long as she could remember—even as child—but in the past several years it had become more defined and focused. This was because she had since become obsessed by more than just the past per se. She had in fact become all but consumed by a particular family’s past to be more concise . . .

  That of her own family.

  Emily turned away from the mirror and stepped into the bathtub, gingerly eased herself down into the steaming water. With a long sigh, she lay back in the tub and closed her eyes, feeling her muscles relax and her skin respond
ing to the hot oily water. She remained that way for a full ten minutes, reveling in the sensual pleasure that a hot bath afforded on a cold wintry night, totally oblivious to the snowstorm raging outside.

  Having finished bathing, Emily toweled herself off and slipped into her robe. She returned to her bedroom and sat down at the antique vanity long enough to comb out her hair, then put on her house slippers and headed downstairs to the den.

  The den was large and cozy with knotty pine walls and hardwood floors. Huge wood beams ran the length of the room, lending to it a rustic, natural ambiance. Virtually all of the furnishings were antiques: a sofa, a matching pair of bent wood rocking chairs, a coffee table with meticulously carved and etched legs, and an overstuffed Victorian chair which sat directly in front of the hearth. An oak bookcase containing numerous volumes of books, periodicals, and two different sets of encyclopedias sat on one side of the room and took up nearly the entire length of the wall. On the opposite side, an enormous picture window offered a panoramic view of the tree-lined side yard, now bathed in light from the floods.

  Emily placed a few logs in the fireplace and stuffed a bunch of old newspapers under the grating before igniting the paper with a match. When she was certain that the logs would catch, she went back into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. Moments later she returned to the den and stoked the fire a few times with a poker before plopping herself down into the comfortable chair.

  Emily took a sip of coffee and stared vacantly at the burgeoning fire, her legs crossed and her elbows resting upon her knees. She started thinking about the house—how empty and quiet it seemed now; more so than it ever had before. She glanced down at Cassie lying on the braided rug and realized with a sudden pang of remorse that no one other than herself and her faithful companion had been inside the house since her father’s funeral six months ago. Tears began welling up in her eyes but she shut them tightly, stifling the impending urge to cry.

  Although Emily regretted her father’s death, she didn’t miss him in the least. She only wished things could have turned out differently than they had. If only he would have moved away and left her alone, she thought. Then she would have been freed and could have a clear conscience now. That’s what bothered her the most; the fact that her father’s passing was the only reason for her liberation from him—as opposed to a kinder alternative which might have yielded the same result.

  Now she felt guilty. She knew in her heart that if she had to do it all over again, she still wouldn’t have done anything any differently. There simply had been no other alternative. The plain and simple truth of the matter was this: Charles Hoffman had been a selfish, uncaring, manipulative bastard. He had cared about one thing and one thing only: himself. Had he ever cared about anyone besides himself?

  Her mother had always tried so hard to smooth things over; to make things seem better than they really were. But Emily knew better, and she knew that her mother had known better as well

  Again, the overwhelming urge to cry came and passed as Emily thought about her mother. Although she had only been ten years old when her mother had passed away, the memories of her were still very vivid. She had been a remarkably gentle and loving person. And she had struggled so valiantly to try and bring her family closer together. But in the process, she had sacrificed everything—her pride, her dignity, her very person. How many times had she seen her mother with bruises all over her body from all the beatings he had given her? How many times had she seen her verbally assaulted by him—reduced to a whimpering, frightened woman stripped of her self-esteem while he stood there arrogantly blaming her for his own mistakes? That was the bitter irony of all. Her father had been so self-righteous that he wouldn’t even consider the possibility that he himself might have done something wrong. And the sickening thing was that on many occasions, he actually had her mother believing that it was all her fault.

  Caroline Hoffman’s untimely death had left Emily devastated beyond comprehension. Suddenly, she had lost her best friend and the only person she had ever truly loved. Also gone was the force that had been keeping Emily safe from her abusive father. Without her mother there to smooth out the edges and cushion the blows, Emily had suddenly found herself all but neglected in a cold, unloving home; absolutely terrified of her own father.

  Fortunately, not long after her mother’s death, her grandfather had suddenly entered the picture and managed to make Emily feel a little more optimistic about things. Up until then, Warren Hoffman had pretty much remained in the shadows, rarely visiting his son’s family at the mountaintop house that, ironically, he himself had built and lived in while raising his only child. Furthermore, Charles had all but forbidden Emily to visit Grandpa Warren in the past, thus making it virtually impossible for her to get to know him throughout her young life. Emily hadn’t known why at the time, but her father and grandfather had virtually estranged themselves from one another. In fact, with the exception of business matters at the mill, they had rarely even spoken to one another.

  Emily had once asked her mother why her father and Grandpa Warren didn’t like each other and had been told that it only seemed that way because the two men had differing opinions on how the mill should be run, which had put a strain on their relationship. But, her mother had gone on to say, they truly did like each other in spite of how things appeared. Emily sensed that her mother was hedging the truth, and it wasn’t until many years later that she finally discovered the true reason for the animosity between Charles and Warren Hoffman.

  During the summer following her mother’s death, Emily began visiting her grandfather frequently and eventually grew very fond of the kind old man. She also became quite close to Miss Rutledge, the elderly woman who had lived with him. She hadn’t been sure of their relationship at that time, only that Miss Rutledge had been a close friend to Grandpa Warren’s deceased wife, Katherine—the grandmother Emily had never known who had passed away many years ago.

  Her grandfather mentioned Grandma Katherine from time to time and Emily could tell by the way he spoke—his voice often shaky and filled with emotion—that he missed his wife and must have loved her a great deal. He told Emily that she reminded him of her and on one day had shown her a photograph of Katherine which had been taken when she’d been around her own age. Emily had stood there in utter disbelief when she saw the picture—the resemblance was uncanny. As a result of this incident, Emily suddenly found herself wanting to know more about this long-deceased relative who had so much resembled her.

  Although her grandfather had seemed hesitant at first, Miss Rutledge finally managed to persuade him to answer some of Emily’s questions. In the process, she learned that Grandma Katherine had been raised by Miss Rutledge’s mother, who had become her legal guardian after Katherine’s parents perished in a house fire while she was still an infant. Miss Rutledge had been a few years older than Katherine, and the two had been just like sisters to each other.

  Years later, Grandpa Warren had fallen in love with Katherine while she was still quite young and the two had gotten married. Her grandfather had built this house on the mountain because Katherine had wanted to live near her parent’s ashes, which had been scattered over the site of their fire-ravaged home.

  Emily had never heard of cremation before so she asked Miss Rutledge why Katherine’s parent’s bodies had been cremated instead of placed in coffins and buried in the ground. Miss Rutledge explained that her mother had been a close friend to Clem and Nancy Porter, Katherine’s parents, and had felt that they would have wanted it that way. She went on to say that many people believed that their souls entered their next life sooner by being cremated, as opposed to having their mortal remains buried in the earth.

  When Emily asked her grandfather exactly where on the mountain the Porters’ house had been, he had looked at Miss Rutledge peculiarly, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not to answer her. Miss Rutledge had answered for him. She told Emily that the remains of the Porter house could be found further up the mountain fr
om her own house, and suggested that she ask her father to take her up there sometime.

  When Emily had returned home that day, it suddenly occurred to her that her father had only rarely mentioned his mother in the past and that there weren’t even any pictures of her anywhere in the house. This, she decided, seemed very odd and she wondered why it was so.

  Later that evening, she had approached her father and asked him why he never talked about Grandma Katherine. He’d balked for a moment then replied that he’d never known his mother since she had died shortly after giving birth to him. Emily asked him why there weren’t any pictures of her in the house. He appeared to be very uncomfortable with this question and had simply replied that his father kept all of his mother’s pictures.

  Then she asked him if he thought she looked like Grandma Katherine. His face had turned beet-red and he just stood there glaring at her and offered no response. In spite of his mounting anger, Emily had asked him one final question: would he take her to the old house where her great-grandparents’ ashes were scattered?

  To this he had snapped back, “How in the hell did you find out about that?”

  Then he had slapped her hard across her face and stormed out of the room. Moments later she could hear him yelling at someone on the telephone and she knew that it was her grandfather on the other end of the line.

  After this incident, Emily had found herself even more intrigued with her grandmother and her past. She suddenly had a suspicious feeling that there was a lot more to all of this than she was being told; taking into account her father’s defiant behavior and angry reaction to her questions. She also became aware of something that had only fueled her curiosity even more. Her grandfather and Miss Rutledge had suddenly refrained from discussing her grandmother the next time she visited them. This, she knew, was because her father had ordered them to do so.