Chapter One

It’s summer. I’m kicking up dust on this lonely stretch of road. Seems this time of year everything’s dirty and everything stinks a little from sweat. Clothes stick like skin; mouths are dry and eyes squint from the glare of the burning sun. There’s no breeze in these unrelenting Northern Plains. The beauty is in the vistas, the gigantic sunsets and the cloudless blue of the open sky. But not on this road, this desolate road. The truck rocks along the ruble of dirt, past the iron gate that leads to the Gothic mansion Breckenhurst—an odd curiosity anywhere and especially here in the middle of nowhere. I round the bend and spot in the distance, maybe a half mile down the road, the figure of a woman, walking toward town. I say the ‘figure’ of a woman because she looks transparent, like a mirage, like something only half there that could easily disappear on a gust of wind.

The closer I get the more I see she’s real. A loose thin dress hangs limply on her body, floating against her skin as she moves, like a curtain ruffled by the breeze.

I stop the truck beside her and she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Hey there!” I call to her. “You need a ride?”

She finally looks my way, dazed, then surprised, as if she’s waking up. “Yes, sure …” But she doesn’t move.

“Come on,” I wave her around as if she needs direction. A cattle prod might work easier.

She finally starts to move, prancing like some nimble sprite to the passenger door. She opens it with some effort and slides onto the seat, while lifting her skirt. I see her bare thigh as she does, and her dusty bare feet. Remarkable. Unless she’s wearing a thong — which I doubt — she’s not wearing panties.

The thought of her naked cunt pressed against the leatherette truck seat gives my body a welcome jolt. Her light hair is wispy brown, her face pleasant and open, and what I can see of her body, her breasts are small, though their nipples stick out prominently through the material of her dress, erect and alluring. I try not to stare.

“I’m Annabelle,” I introduce myself.

She stares back at me, wistfully and disconnected. I feel like I need to lead her.

“What’s your name?”

“Sylvie.”

“And what are you doing on the road like this, alone? You’re barefoot.” I stare at her dirty feet in amazement.

“I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. But you’re awfully far from anything.”

She turns around, craning to see through the truck’s back window, which isn’t easy.
“I was at Breckenhurst.”

“Really?”

“And you’re what? Leaving there?”

“Yes,” she nods, “yes, I’m leaving.” All like I’m making this up for her.

“You sure I shouldn’t just take you back?”

“No, no. Um. There’s a town not too far. Right?”

“Yeah, that’s where I’m headed, about five miles due West.”

She smiles and sits back. So, I guess that’s my cue to get on our way.

We collectively jiggle along the road’s rough surface. It’s hard to talk with the noise, but my curiosity is eating away at me.

“You mind my asking why you’re leaving?”

“Mind? No. But there’s little to say ‘cept it’s time for me to leave him.”

“I see.” She stares so aimlessly, her mind already having drifted from me to something else that seems to haunt her. I’m pretty good at sensing troubled people, probably because I’m one myself.

There are stories of Breckenhurst. Its current owner is simply known as Hurst, a cold, abrupt and crude man. He’s not handsome by anyone’s standards, but he stands tall, with a strong build and an imposing character that has a certain seductive allure. It must. It’s