Pagan Story/The Visit
From Torg Adventure
From the doorstep, the house looked normal for the area -- a two-story house with decent, though plain, siding. It looked pretty old; it probably had nice woodwork inside. The heavy wooden inner porch door opened and an attractive, middle-aged woman with short brown hair and glasses stepped out to the screen door and opened it. "Hello, can I help you?" she said with just a hint of a East Coast accent, perhaps New York. She was wearing a green sweater and brown corduroy pants, warmth for the chill October weather.
"Hi, my name is Tom Russell. This is going to sound weird, but when did the columns go up?" I looked the woman straight in the eye.
She didn't flinch or react in any other way. She simply said, "What columns, Tom?"
"The columns on each side of your yard and surrounding the house. They weren't there last week." I hoped she didn't call the cops. I wasn't crazy. Aetheric (or astral or some weird shit) Greek-style columns had appeared around this house over the weekend. Somehow my brain pulled 'Doric' out of a high school history class.
She smiled a tiny little smile that I almost missed. "My name is Beth. Why don't you come in?" she said, opening the door wider and moving out of my way. Her arm gestured toward the open inner door.
I stepped in, taking my stocking cap off. A short turn into another door led into the living room of a first-floor duplex apartment. It was furnished with a futon couch and a couple of overstuffed chairs. A small upright piano stood in the corner, covered in books, papers, and a girl's art project. A dining room opened off to the right, with a sunroom to the left. The place was rather cluttered, epsecially the sunroom, but very homey and lived in. It was a comfortable room. I took off my coat, stuffing the gloves and hat into the sleeves.
Beth closed the door behind me, saying, "Would you like some coffee or tea? It's pretty cold out there."
"Tea would be great."
"Black, herbal or green?"
"Um, black. Lipton if you've got it." I grimaced a little. One side of her mouth turned up. "I know. It's like the worst tea. I don't care. I love it. My grandma used to make it for me."
"I understand. I love liver, but only when my mother-in-law makes it. I've got Lipton. I'll put on the kettle." Beth disappeared into the kitchen. Jack heard running water, and then the click-click-click of the electronic pilot and the woof of the gas igniting. She walked back into the room.
"Okay, have a seat. Make yourself at home. It's not every day a sensitive knocks on your door out of the blue."
"A sensitive, ma'am?" I was being overly formal, because I was uncomfortable, in spite of the welcoming attitude and homey surroundings. I usually don't ask complete strangers about magical stuff going on in their yard.
"Please, it's Beth. Yes. Someone who can see stuff that shouldn't be there. Do you often see things other people don't, Jack?"
"Um, well, ... Yeah."
"What made you walk up to my door and ring the bell?"
"I'm not sure. You don't see Greek columns every day. I thought someone who lived here must know what's going on. It's too intentional."
Usually when I'm walking in the woods, like over at Minnehaha Falls. Or in gardens. And one time I think I saw my other grandmother hovering over her coffin.
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Milk and sugar?"
"Yes, though I usually go British and use cream and sugar.
