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Journal Entry 4
Some of those revelations would turn out to be confessions of crimes, though the evidence would never make it into a court of law.
August 6
Were you to notice the dates of my writing, you’ll see significant gaps. That’s due to my personal struggles, resulting in large part from the consequences of this misadventure. There are days and nights when I’m simply unable to do much, and writing, however easy that might seem, becomes a herculean task. At the same time, I realize I won’t always be able to record these events, barring a miracle, so I will continue attempting it as best I can.
To say I was hungry by the time we headed to the lodge for dinner is an understatement. I hadn’t eaten anything that day other than a bag of cashews I bought at a gas station outside Easton. Other than that, my only fuel had been four cups of coffee—I admit to having a caffeine addiction that, if not fed regularly, gives me crushing headaches. I even travel with my own small percolator and can of coffee. It has proven prescient on more than one occasion.
We had been told to arrive by three p.m., which was after lunch. It seemed like the standard check in time for a hotel, so I had assumed it would be much like staying in one. I was wrong. There was no one at a front desk—no front desk at all—and only signs posted on the driveway saying ‘Men’s Cabins’ and ‘Women’s Cabins’ with arrows pointing us in the directions of them.
I ignored the sign at first and went directly to the lodge, only to find it locked. How strange, I thought. Had the retreat been cancelled and I hadn’t been notified? Then, of course, I noticed the other cars. There may not be anyone in the lodge, but there were certainly people in the cabins. I made my way to the men’s quarters, met the other gentlemen, and found the note on my mattress. Five mattresses, five notes, four men—which meant, of course, I was not the last to arrive. It was only later I would find out I had been. The mysterious fifth man, whose bed remained empty and whose fate would be revealed before the end of this misadventure, would never be encountered.
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Journal Entry 3
Your life is the chapel, and the thousand small details in the painting are the events of your life.
July 21
I’m not in a hurry to write this, as you can tell. It needs to be told accurately, in its own time. The events I’m describing at the retreat were ultimately not as significant as what happened afterward—to the others and to me. It’s a kind of remarkable tapestry, terrifying to behold, with its woven images of demons and the vast dark unknown, that has to be viewed patiently. Imagine yourself standing fifty feet beneath a painting at the top of a chapel you might see in Rome. Your life is the chapel, and the thousand small details in the painting are the events of your life. Past, present, and future.
You cannot comprehend its whole without examining each small part. I am, ultimately, a small part of it all, as is everyone who was there, with the possible exception of Philip. He was more than just a storyteller. He was a bridge from what came before … to me. I am what you’ll find on the other side of it all, should you survive the journey. An ending that begins, and a beginning that will eventually end, but not yet.
Dinner was waiting for us later as promised. But first I wanted to shower and change my clothes. The summer was hot, and the drive from New Jersey had taken longer than expected. The traffic gods were either determined to trouble me, or to try and stop what was coming. They could be cursed in either case, for their success and their failure.
The cabin was small but solidly built, with dark log walls sealed by tar, and small windows cut into each wall. There were five beds, two on one side and three on the other, each with a plain quilt and a rough wooden frame that looked hand-built. The three men who’d gotten there before me had already claimed their beds. I saw suitcases on two beds, one with a duffle bag beside it as if the guest had planned to stay longer. A third suitcase was under another bed, leaving me two to choose from.
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My Article ‘Beyond the Page Margins: How Writers Can Expand Our Reach, Impact & Income’ Featured in Mystery Writers of America Newsletter
I was asked to write an article for the Mystery Writers of America’s newsletter, The 3rd Degree. It’s out, and I’m so pleased. It’s about how writers can take our experience and skills and offer them ‘beyond the page margins,’ from workshops to one-on-one coaching. You can read the entire newsletter here.
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Devil’s Wood Cover Reveal
After a couple hours looking at fonts, sizing, changing the brightness … I think this is it.
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Journal Entry 2
We are, in the end, drops of water from on ocean that awaits our return. Until then, we seek.
July 18
I had not expected to spend a sleepless night. Ghost stories told around a fire, which is what this at first appeared to be, are the stuff of childhoods and the easily frightened. We were adults—three women and four men, one of whom had done his best to scare us all with a preposterous tale.
I didn’t know any of them. The retreat had been arranged for seekers, such as we were, not for a group who knew each other. And while I place myself firmly in the agnostic category, I will admit now that I belong more in the believer column, though it’s not a belief that comforts. It’s a belief in the malevolence of things we don’t understand and are better off not examining. The whole experience has confirmed my conclusion that the human species is not the pinnacle of evolution, but it’s most tragic mistake.