Stoker's Manuscript by Royce Prouty

cameras. I showed her my empty hands, but she still looked away.
    At the east end of town, just before crossing the small river, there stood an old wooden church with a tall steeple topped by an Eastern cross. Inside a solemn priest stared through faded windows; he, too, blessed himself.
    Once past the church and over the wooden bridge, I found a lone house that stood separated from the others, the only structure east of the water. It seemed an ordinary dwelling, notably more Western in design, all white with a porch and a simple cross on the front door. Its grass was neatly trimmed, and a healthy herb and vegetable garden flourished behind a wooden fence. Walking by, I saw a woman sweeping the porch. She had middle-aged Roma features and dressed in the traditional way of wool aprons, or, over a black skirt and covered with a light wool jacket. I noticed her boots, the medieval
opinci
, leather laced to the leg around wool felt. Our eyes met, but rather than turning away, she did a double take and pushed her head scarf back behind her ears. I was far enough away that I could not read precisely her features, but she looked to be concentrating on me.
    Suddenly uncomfortable, I turned away. As I did so, I heard someone call out,
Can you hear me?
    Granted, I know I had not slept much the night before, but this spoken message seemed soundless. By that, I mean that it came into my head without entering through my ears. Without question it was a woman’s voice. I stopped and looked around for whoever spoke to me, but no one was within earshot.
    Go back where you came from.
    I looked back to the village. The street was deserted except for the priest who had come out of his church and stood praying as he looked at me. In my mind, an image flashed of looking back after crossing the Acheron. I wheeled and looked again for the Gypsy woman on the porch of her isolated house, but she had disappeared and her front window was now shuttered.
    I had overstepped reality’s boundary. That voice you take for granted in your head is your welcome friend . . . right up until the time it has a companion. I stood waiting for another message, looking for some woman nearby. But finding no one, after a suitable silence, I turned toward the forest. Just two miles from my destination, I told myself, I could not turn back now.
    On a two-rut path I walked, the absence of footprints in the mud suggesting this was not the locals’ direction of choice. As best as I could I stayed to the bisecting hump between the ruts. Deeper into the forest, the trees—beech, oak, and sycamores—clasped their tops together to form a canopy and filtered the leaning afternoon sun. Continuing east, I caught glimpses of the ambling river to my right, and took several side trips to the waterway to scout ahead. Across the water the land rose to a series of rocky cliffs obscured by fog.
    Can the monastery be on the hill hidden by clouds?
I wondered.
    My GPS suggested otherwise, and I continued east. An hour passed as the path steepened and the river churned from an elevation change. Finally I reached the end of the two-lane path as it circled back on itself like a cul-de-sac before confronting a rock barrier. Carved into the rock were a dozen steps, flanked with a flimsy wrought iron railing, suggesting civilization ahead. I figured the monastery must be close.
    Again I walked to the river’s edge to scout ahead, but only saw dense forest lining the banks and an impassable canyon wall beyond. I looked up at some commotion and saw flocks of birds flying straight east. With the incline came more dense fog, now hiding the treetops. I caught sight of my first pine trees and realized it must be a thousand feet higher than the village. No wonder I was tired, for I had been climbing. The GPS coordinates now told me I had reached my destination.
    Just a little more,
I thought,
then get back before dark.
As soon as I stepped foot on the first rock I heard the sound of an animal scurry