Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois by Pierre V. Comtois, Charlie Krank, Nick Nacario

yesterday and he died last night. I’m sorry.”
    “What!” Darlene was genuinely shocked. She had called to tell her uncle that she was coming up only a few days before. “How did it happen?”
    “The doctor said it was a heart attack, that your uncle died in his sleep,” said Whitney. “You can ask him more about it at the wake tomorrow.”
    Oh
,
crap
, thought Darlene. She’d forgotten about that. There would have to be a wake…and a funeral. She was rapidly beginning to regret not throwing her uncle’s letter in the trash as she’d first intended. Just the thought of going to a wake, and having to mingle with her relatives, was enough to make her want to get in the car and head right back to New York. But she was here now, and it was too late to turn back in any case.
    “Oh, and there’s something else too,” said Whitney. “Your uncle was expecting an important guest to arrive any day. He was coming from really far away as I understand, maybe Asia or something.”
    “Great. Is there any way to contact him? Does he have a cell phone?”
    “I’m afraid not, or at least, none that I know of. Your uncle seemed quite anxious about his coming. I think he had it in mind that part of the reason for his inviting you was to add a touch of domesticity to the visit and to help him keep his guest company. Your uncle was confined to a wheelchair, as you’ll recall.”
    Rolling her eyes, Darlene had to admit that it made sense.
    “When is this person supposed to get here?”
    “Any time now,” said Whitney. “Your uncle received a notice of his impending departure from London only a few days ago.”
    Sighing deeply, Darlene began lifting her things from the trunk. She’d think what to do about the situation after she settled in.

    That night, after Whitney had left for the evening, Darlene sat in the living room, sipping at a cup of coffee. She’d forgotten how cosy the old place was with its darkened rooms, old knickknacks, bookshelves and big, paned windows. A fireplace dominated the living room, now cold for the summer. Nowhere was there a “woman’s touch,” there not having been a Mrs. Cobb in years; but if Whitney’s guess was correct, it had been her uncle’s intention that she fill the role of woman of the house. She smiled to herself. Well, so what? What was an old widower to do?
    Getting up, she went to the kitchen and set her cup in the sink. Deciding on a breath of air before bedtime, Darlene stepped out the back door. Outside, the heavens were filled with stars (she’d forgotten how crowded the sky was with them since moving to the city) and on the air, her nose picked up the scents of the surrounding woodland, now heavy and very noticeable as the atmosphere cooled from the day’s heat. Something fluttered across the stretch of open sky between the close-crowding trees: a bat! She hadn’t seen one of those in a long time either.
    Stepping off the big, flat stone set beneath the threshold of the door, she let the storm door spring shut and wandered into the rutted driveway that came up before the garage. Wary of mosquitoes, she decided to stroll down to the road as far as the mailbox. She’d almost reached it when she noticed something peculiar in the hills behind the house. Was it her imagination, or was there a glow at the top of one them? She couldn’t be sure. It might have been light pollution cast from the more populated eastern portion of the state… Just then, a firefly caught her eye and she followed it as it made its erratic path across the yard, it’s light winking on, then off, then on again. By the time it disappeared from view, the mosquitoes were really getting to be a pain, forcing her back inside the house at a pace that was a good deal faster than the one she used upon first coming out.

    The next morning, Whitney prepared breakfast and Darlene had had time during the night to decide what she was going to do next. Her better nature had triumphed, and she’d decided to