The Altar. James Arthur Anderson
up the road a half mile or so from Erik’s house where Farmington Road joined Route 102. He stopped several times along the way to post his “Lost Cat” posters to utility poles, and to stuff them into rural mailboxes. Then he pulled into the plaza, parking in front of Dockside Cleaners, his first stop.
The brand new plaza was cut from the forest like a frontier fort, and contained four small stores, each with large front windows. Just behind the plaza on the Farmington Road, he noticed a small cemetery, also cut out of the forest, with what appeared to be a brand new sign: Rhode Island Historical Cemetery #6613, Cheponaug.
He looked at the cemetery for a moment, then went into the dry cleaners where he hung up a poster. His next stop was the pizza shop. He decided to save the convenience store for last, since he needed a gallon of milk, so he went into Annie’s Antiques store next.
The antique store looked out of place in the new plaza. A bell rigged to the door signaled his entrance. An old woman nodded to him from a rocking chair behind the counter as he quickly surveyed the assortment of collectibles that included everything from Victorian furniture to what claimed to be authentic Indian arrowheads.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked?
He looked around quickly and decided that he might like to browse around in the shop some day when he had more time. A large bookcase filled with old volumes caught his eye, and he wondered what treasures might be hidden there.
“Ah...yes,” he said, still looking around the shop. “Could I please hang this poster in your window? I’m new in the area and our cat is missing.”
The old woman got out of the rocking chair and hobbled over, leaning on a cane that looked even older than she was.
“You’re welcome to hang it,” she said. “But I suspect more people would see it in the Dairy Mart next door.”
“Thank you,” he said and taped it to the window. “I’d planned on hanging one there, too.”
“Of course, I don’t expect it’ll do much good.”
He looked at her curiously.
“Why not?”
She sighed. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s pet has disappeared into these woods. Strange things a-goin’ on. Ever since that guy got run over by his bulldozer about a year or so ago.”
“What?” Erik was beginning to think this old woman was senile.
She laughed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spook you none. I’m just an old lady with too many memories and too many stories to tell. Name’s Annie Jacques.”
“Erik Hunter,” he said, and shook her hand. It was cold, frail, and bony, but it radiated friendliness.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hunter.”
“You live in the area?”
“Bout a mile up the road on route 102.”
He nodded. “So, tell me this bulldozer story.”
“Happened a little over a year ago,” she said. “Last summer. When they was putting this road through. Farmington Road didn’t exist last summer, you know.”
“That’s what the real estate guy said.”
“Anyway, they was clearing the wood and the dozer ran into something. The driver got out to see what it was. Then, somehow, the dozer ran right over him. Squashed him like a pizza.”
“He must have left it in gear.”
Annie shrugged. “I don’t know. But the darndest thing—the dozer’d hit a headstone—one of the ones just beyond the plaza,” she said, pointing in the direction of the historical cemetery. “There was a whole graveyard buried there in the woods and nobody even knew about it.”
“Hmm,” Erik said. “That’s interesting. How old is it?”
“Dates back to the 1700’s. Roger Williams’ time. The road was supposed to go right through here. But they had to change it because that was a historical site.”
“I didn’t know this area was settled that long ago.”
She nodded. “No one did, I think. Or at least no one wanted to remember.”
He frowned. This woman was definitely strange.
“But the darndest thing about the graves isn’t how old they are,” she continued.
“What is it, then?”
“It’s the headstones themselves. One’s made out of real weird stone. One of them professors from the University was here studying it and he said it’s made out of a meteorite. A stone from outer space.”
“That is interesting. A headstone made from a meteorite. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“It’s weird. But it ain’t the only weird thing.”
“What else is there?”
“The headstones. They all have strange markings. And some have weird sayings on them, too.”
“Epitaphs,” Erik said. “Some of those old headstones have strange ones.”
“And there were shells and Indian things all around the cemetery, too. The professors think the people in the graves might have been killed by the Indians.”
“That’s quite a story.”
She nodded again. “And the Indians surrounded the place with charms and things, quahog shells and other unusual things. The bulldozer disturbed a lot of it when it ran into the stone. See, I have a few here.”
She went behind the counter and brought out a necklace of polished shells, streaked with blue-violet and white. It had a striking resemblance to the charm Dovecrest had given them, the one Vickie had hung on their back door.
“Course the string was all rotted away,” she explained. “But the shells were like new.”
“Interesting,” Erik said. “How did you wind up with it?”
“I own the land,” she said. “Course I can’t use half of it because it’s a historical landmark. But I did pick up a few things that the professors and the historical guys missed.”
“You’ve lived in the area for a long time?”
“Lived in this town all my life and I’ll be 86 next month. When the road went in I built the plaza and opened my store. The store don’t make no money, mind you, but the other tenants pay the bills and it gives me something to do. The Dairy Mart does quite a business. And the pizza place, too. That’s where I’d hang my posters if I were you. ‘Course, like I said, I don’t suspect they’ll do much good.”
“So you say strange things have been happening ever since they found the graves?”
“That’s right. Pets disappearing. People hearing voices. Weird noises in the middle of the night.”
“What do you think it is?”
“There’s a curse upon this place,” she said in a firm voice. “And the dozer done disturbed those graves and woke up the curse.”
Erik laughed nervously but she cut him off immediately.
“Don’t you laugh until you know what you’re laughing at, young man,” she said. “You just go look at the graves for yourself before you make fun of an old woman, and then you tell me if you don’t feel the hairs rise up on the back of your neck. You just go look, and then you tell me.”
“I’m sorry,” Erik said. “I didn’t know if you were being serious or just joking with me.”
“I’m not joking.”
Erik nodded. “Thanks for letting me hang the poster, ma’am. And when I get a chance I will look at those graves.”