Adoration, A Horror Novelette by Framen Stewart

ADORATION
-A Novelette by-
Framen Stewart
Framen Stewart – Adoration - Page | 2
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This eBook is a work of fiction; names, characters, places, and incidents either are
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This is an electronic document of the author’s and is unpublished at this time. You
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Images: (Cover) Attribution (CC-By-James Emery), 2008. Used under the Creative
Commons License. Some Rights Reserved.
(Back) Attribution (CC-By-Robert Sproule), 2007. Used under the Creative Commons
License. Some Rights Reserved.
DELIA PRIDE had waited for nine years, and for nine years, she was
disappointed. She was not disappointed with herself, nothing such as that. How could
a nine-year-old child be disappointed with, of all things, themselves? There were too
many other curiosities to hold her interest and attention at this age. She seldom spent
time thinking of what she was, or was not, to be disappointed with herself.
She was at the age of discovery. With each passing day, her bright future could
impart anything of her choosing. It could always be something fresh, something new:
a doctor, a painter, an airline pilot, or possibly even a banker (that is, if the mood
struck her in a way to be a dullard, wearing grays all the daylong). Young Delia
changed her mind like the wind shifting directions in a flowing thicket of trees. The
leaves of which rustled the bows of the now seasonal holly hung about for decoration.
Her youth afforded her the luxuries of change. Although, she was not yet aware that
such things existed in the world. At nine-years of age, everything is a necessity, not in
any means, lavishness.
In lieu of her juvenile contentment, her unmitigated, childish variances, Delia
was in fact, disappointed with Christmas. The dissatisfaction with the time of year had
become something that she did not understand in herself. Nonetheless, she felt it just
the same. It gnawed away at her as a puppy would a well-worn set of house slippers.
For her, there appeared to be something profoundly missing from the holiday season;
something that she could not quite put her finger on. In spite of all the wonderful
decorations, gifts and foods, it felt somehow hollow and empty for her. It was as if she
knew that there was something missing from the holidays for her.
-0-
Christmastide often made Delia giddy with an electrified excitement. At times,

she wondered who could not be ecstatic over receiving gifts. Delia thought one would
have to be daft not to be wound-up over the possibilities for what the holiday might
bring to them.
“Some of the presents, I want,” she thought to herself, thinking of the gifts she
received in her short-lived life, “Some of them, I really want.” She smiled in a cheery
recollection of the dolls she had received over the years. “I love them all,” she spoke
with a hushed awe when the words left her lips. A cascading shiver moved up her
spine. Her smile widened.
This time of the year held a deep-seated magic in the unknown for her, one
that she hoped would never leave her, as she grew older. She enjoyed the expectations
and wonderment in her rewards for being a good girl the entire year-round. “The
mystery in it is what makes it so thrilling Delia,” her Aunt Sharon said to her one year
at her grandmother’s home, during a holiday get-together. Her loving, yet strange
aunt had a keen knack for telling her what she already knew or had figured out. There
was a taboo for Delia in the expectations of the unknown. Small, frail hairs prickled
high within goose-bumped flesh upon her forearms to the thought. She rubbed each
arm through the velvet sleeves of her new Christmas dress, scratching at the feeling of
her flesh. The deep green fabric rustled to the friction. She felt itching swell-up over
her small body as the sound grasped her attention from her daydreaming thoughts.
Delia celebrated each passing holiday season with her father, Christopher, in
their modest home in upstate New York. The town of Redhook was a perpetual winter
wonderland in late December. The Hudson River Valley became a snowy playground
that children dreamed about for Christmas. She thoroughly enjoyed the small-town
atmosphere, with plentiful decorations scattered around by the local townsfolk.
“This,” she thought of the town outside her living room windows, “was home.”
Her mind began drifting with the falling snow outside the windows.
Her home, located at one-twenty-four Chestnut Lane, gleamed brightly with
warm, all-white strands of Christmas lights. The appearance of low-lit icicles hung
around the front of her home. She saw their reflections twinkle in the cold winter air
just outside the double-paned glass of the windows in front of her. The simple vinyl
casements moaned in disapproval to short-then-long gusts of wind pulsing against

them.
Snow fluttered in the cold air, on its slow decent to the piles and sheets before
her eyes. Each one tumbled toward the ground of what was the front lawn in warmer
weather. She thought that there was a near deliberate nature in their gentle, diving
dance. As they floated in the dampening light of the dusk, settling over the world
outside, Delia marveled at the sight.
She lived here with her father for her entire young life. She thought that the
surrounding neighborhood, now beckoning to her through insulated plates of glass,
sung to her a song of Christmas cheer so loudly, that she could do little else apart
from listen to it. Her large, pale-green eyes glazed over as she stood inches from the
window’s face. Her breath condensed upon the much cooler surface of the glass before
her, shortly obscuring her outward view. She unconsciously shifted her body to a
much clearer vantage point. Delia sensed a heat radiating in the coldness outside from
each home along the lane lit by tiny, multi-colored lights. The strands ran-on for as far
as she could see down the lane, into the distant neighborhood.
“The nighttime rainbow,” Delia thought. This was how her father would
describe the colors of the Christmas lights when she was younger. She could
remember riding in her father’s car around the town during Christmas time as a
toddler. She would ride in her small child seat in the back. Her father, in the front,
drove them through each neighborhood with slow care to view every decoration,
every winking light bulb. They viewed the Christmas light spectacles on each home, to
her wonder-filled delight. The glee she felt during those rides was magical for her she
recalled.
Delia sighed at the memory.
Lights washed over her face, as cars drove upon the lane outside. Each one
came to a halt in front of her home. She did not see the headlamps as they teased her
periphery vision. Her eyes, gazing upward, toward the rooftops and eaves of the
nearby homes did not see them moving toward her. She did not register much of
anything at that moment, apart from what she wished to see—Christmas lights.
-0-
DING-DONG!
The doorbell rang out its herald and plea for access at the front door of the
home. Delia awoke to her senses from her daydream of Christmases past, to hear
muffled voices and creaking wooden planks outside on the front porch of the home.
Dusk slowly yielded to night before her eyes. Silhouettes and shadows moved in small
herds from cars parked along the snowy roadway. Delia could make out the tops of
the vehicles over the dirty, wobbling drifts of frozen snow piles at the edge of the road.
The thumps and thuds of closing automobile doors helped awaken her further to the
realization that her extended family had arrived at her home for the Christmas Eve
family dinner. She and her father would be hosting the festivities tonight, and her
nervousness began with the site of people moving toward the house along the
shoveled walkway. This was the first time she and her father would prepare the meal
for the family. Delia thought, “Twenty or more people in this tiny place.” The thought
began a feeling of claustrophobia within her mind that made her edgy and instantly
fatigued.
Delia became nervous and the palms of her hands began to moisten as she ran
over a mental list of everything she and her father had done in preparation for this
evening’s events. She could not think of anything that they had missed in their
readiness for the dinner.
THUD!
Delia gasped in a surprised moan, as an open-palmed hand thumped against
the window’s glass before her face. For a moment, she saw the sweat-soaked skin slid
about on the opposite side of the exterior-side of the window. A plump, reddened face
of a young boy thrust itself into view in the faint porch light. Bundled from head-to-
toe, in thick winter clothing, Richie Mann pressed his plump face against the spot
where Delia’s breath froze upon the glass only moments before. His mouth pressed
against the window as he breathed in large puffs against the transparent surface,
exposing the pinkish mess of his tongue and gums holding onto small, yellowish
teeth. His young facial features contorted to become a hideous caricature in her sight.
Delia grimaced at the boy’s actions. She thought that his grotesque face reminded her
of an overweight puffer fish.
“Only uglier,” Delia muttered.
“Richie,” Delia said in a louder voice. She shook her head from side-to-side in
exasperated disapproval of the boy. “Stupid, this isn’t Halloween. You’re not supposed
to scare people for Christmas,” she said in a stern, near motherly voice at the snow-
dotted image in the window. Her cousin, from her mother’s side of the family, looked
in through the window at Delia with an innocent, sheepish stare. A puzzled
expression melted from his thick features as he shrugged his shoulders at Delia in not
understanding her. Delia wondered if all boys were as crude as this one. She thought
so, and backed away from the window where she stood. Richie then moved away from
the windows and toward the front door. Delia could hear Richie’s mother scolding
him for what he had done to Delia at the window.
Behind her, she heard her father’s large shoes shuffle across the hardwood floor
toward the large, red-painted slab of wood with a polished brass handle. The doorbell
chimed its pleasant beckoning once again. “Delia dear, the family is here honey. You
should answer the door and not simply stare out at them as they arrive in the cold,”
her father chided her with a gentle chuckle within his statement.
“But I …” Delia began to protest, then thought better of it. She watched her
father’s tall frame walk across the living room floor, his gate slow and lanky. She
thought of how ungraceful the man truly was when he moved.
POP!
With a gentle turn of the doorknob, a mild creaking of the old, cold hinges of
the door sang out a disagreeing tone. The doorjamb crackled to the action as its
frozen joints relaxed to allow access to the home. The rustling of the evergreen wreath
bumping against the exterior of the door, as it swung open, was dwarfed by the howl
of wind that came rushing in through the now open doorway. Delia saw snow fly into
the entryway and melt into a wavering mist upon the hardwood flooring. An audible
mumbling followed with people fumbling inward from the cold exterior. Delia turned
her body to face the entryway of the home. The scuffing sounds of snow-moist feet
entering the warm foyer near the front door mingled with seasonal salutations, well
wishes, and praise from the family.
Delia paused next to the family Christmas tree in the living room as she
watched her aunts, uncles, and cousins enter their home. She caught a glimpse of her
father towering over most of the family members. His broad, bright smile gleamed in
the warm interior light as he hugged and shook hands with everyone who entered
their home. She smiled in wide wonder over how much more graceful the man was in
social occasions, compared to his movements in walking.
Delia loved her father in a deep, almost feverish manner. For her, the stars were
hung in the nighttime sky by the man she called “Dad.” Her grandmother Aide told
her once, “Delia, my dear, anyone can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a
Dad.” She believed the older woman whole-heartedly, and embraced the statement as
a mantra for her relationship with her father. “He’s special, very special,” Delia
mumbled just below her breath as she gazed upon her father in the growing tide of
coat-wearing family members filing into the foyer.
The feelings that she felt for her father, were of course mutual she thought, as
he doted over her with exacting precision and care. In her childlike, girlish manner,
she hoped and prayed that one day she would find someone exactly like her father.
“Someone as special as him,” she thought, “Wouldn’t that be great?”
Delia smiled at her answer.
-0-
As Delia’s family poured into the house like cool water down a parched throat,
she politely greeted everyone who entered. Her smile beamed as each person
complimented her on how she looked, how much older she appeared, and how
wonderful the home was decorated for the holiday season.
The crowd of voices rattled within the walls of the home. It became difficult to
hear much of anything that was not right in front of her. Richie walked up from
behind Delia, and shouted out, “BOO!”
Delia closed her eyes, leaning forward to the harsh sound of her cousin’s voice,
as it rang in her ears. Her teeth ground inside her jaws. The muscles within her mouth
contracted in tight lines, showing upon her young face. Delia turned her head in a
sharp motion toward the direction the sound came from. Delia opened her mouth to
tell the boy what she thought of the prank. Richie stood defiant before her. “Richie
Lynn Mann, you leave Delia alone this instant,” Sharon Mann, Richie’s mother yelled
out after the boy from a nearby crowd of adults from behind Delia.
Delia’s mouth closed, her aunt had straightened the boy out for her. A sly smile
whisked to her face as she gazed at her cousin who was again in trouble for his
actions. She noticed Richie’s face grew sorrowful in his capture by his mother for his
practical joking.
Sharon approached Delia from the behind her and said, “I’m very sorry Delia.
He still thinks that the two of you are three-years-old, making mud pies, and eating
grass together.”
Delia’s smile changed to a serious expression as she turned her head toward her
aunt. “That’s alright Aunt Sharon. I’ve gotten used to it,” Delia replied. A slow grin
curled upon her lips for her aunt.
“The monkey can’t help it,” Delia thought.
“You’re very gracious Delia, just like she was,” Sharon said as she appraised
Delia standing before her. Delia felt her aunt’s gaze walking over her body. She
shuddered in a slight spasm that she could not control.
Sharon pretended not to notice, but grinned in spite of herself to the girl’s
reaction. “That’s a very nice dress dear. You look lovely,” Sharon continued in a
musing tone. Before Delia could answer her, the woman ran her right hand along the
left temple of Delia’s head, brushing her jet-black locks of hair back and away from
her face in a gentle motion. Their eyes locked for a moment, two sets of green irises,
each staring at the other.
Delia blinked first.
Her eyes felt dry, dusty and suddenly in need of moisture. She became aware
that she felt uneasy with the comparison to her departed mother. Her aunts made
these types of appraisal of her often, referencing her mother simply as ‘she’ or ‘her,’ in
brief evaluations of Delia in comparison. Family events always annoyed her for this
reason. She wondered if her aunts knew that she was old enough now to figure out
just whom they were talking about when they said such things. Sharon, her mother’s
sister, was always the worst offender in the comparisons of Delia to her mother.
Delia’s mother, Katrina, shared many physical similarities with Sharon. This
made Delia somewhat uncomfortable when she saw her aunt. She could clearly see
those similarities in old photographs of her mother, and her four sisters. There was
something recognizable inside all of the Cain family women. Delia saw the same
likenesses in herself.
For Delia, it was almost like peering at a ghost when she looked upon any of
her aunts. Sharon, Karen, Beth, Katrina, and Margaret had all been very close growing
up. In looking through family albums at her aunt’s homes, it was difficult to tell what
photographs had which girl in it. They all favored one another in many ways that
made it troublesome for Delia to tell them apart at a glance.
“They’re the worst type of ghosts,” Delia thought to herself, “because they’re
family.” Delia pulled back from the specter, the woman, her aunt in a gentle sway of
her upper body and said, “Th-thank you Aunt Sharon. I, um, I need to go help out in
the kitchen, excuse me.” Delia shuffled her feet in a confused, hurried manner. She
moved away from the haunting apparition known to her as Aunt Sharon. A stark
expression washed over her face as she turned to walk toward the kitchen, and the
safety of the presence of her father.
“I hate that,” Delia muttered as she walked toward the kitchen. She felt her
eyes begin to swell with bubbling tears. She chocked them back, wiping the edge of
her eyes with her green-velvet sleeves. The crushed fabric refused to hold much of the
fluid. The emotional turmoil Delia felt in any reference to her mother at family get-
togethers was troubling for her. She thought that it was because she never knew the
woman she knew to be her mother.
She swung in through the kitchen doorway, the door self-closing behind her.
The swish of her skirt rustling through the air against the wood of the door sharpened
her focus. A gust of fresh-cooked scents pelted her nose as she entered the kitchen.
Her father stood over the stove’s facing. His nimble hands worked both cookware and
flatware with honed precision. The clack and clatter of the pots, pans, and plates made
her feel more at ease somehow.
She sighed in the relief the noises brought to her.
Delia stood to the far side of the room, before opening the refrigerator door
and extracting a bottle of water. She unscrewed the plastic bottle-top, cast it onto the
counter nearby, and stared at her father. She then drank her water in deep, greedy
gulps, before setting the bottle down on the wooden cooking island between her and
her father. She gasped in an attempt to catch her breath after drinking the water in
such a hurried fashion.
Christopher turned his head in a slight motion over his right shoulder, and
said, “Hey babe, how are things going? Does everyone have enough snacks to tide
them over? The dinner is almost done. Chris Cringle it’s hot in here.”
Delia felt at ease once again, now that her father recognized her presence in the
room. “Yeah Dad, everyone is having a good time I think,” Delia, replied. “There’s
more than enough snacks out there,” she continued. Her expression melted into that
of a reflective solace.
“Dad? Sharon compared me with Mom again,” she stated in a blank tone. Her
eyes wandered to her father’s back, facing her from the stove.
Christopher stood straighter at the mentioning of Delia’s mother. His
shoulders heaved upward and Delia heard his deep breath turn into a laden sigh as he
exhaled. Delia thought the creases and wrinkles within the fabric of her father’s dress-
shirt made an interesting pattern on his back as he did so. Without turning his body
toward her, he said, “Well, Sharon was very partial to your mother, you know? They
were very close dear; it is only natural for her to see her in you. My brother tells me
often that I remind him of your Uncle Bruce.”
“Yeah, I know Dad, but I feel weird when any of them say it. I mean, I didn’t
even know her,” Delia said as she hung her head and shifted her small body’s weight
from one leg to the other. “It’s just strange for me you know Dad?” She began to tap
the plastic water bottle on the hardened, food-covered wood of the kitchen island.
As an anxious silence floated between daughter and father, Delia began to
think upon her mother. She remembered when she was five-years-old, she began to
notice that other children had their mothers to pick them up from preschool,
kindergarten, or daycare. For Delia, it was always her father.
One day, while waiting at an after school daycare for her father to fetch her to
travel home, a young, redheaded girl named Mary Tabor, asked her, “Where is your
Momma Delia? Don’tcha got a Momma to pick you up?”
Delia closed her eyes tight to the recollection there in the kitchen. Her heart
ached at the memory as she breathed in deep whiffs of air. The smell of turkey,
dressing, and pies wafting upon the air in the small room did little to calm a
sickening, queasy feeling welling up within her. She could still feel the empty pit in
her stomach as she realized for the first time that her family did not have what most
families had; a mother. At five-years-old, she began to feel that she was in some way
abnormal, compared to the other children whom she knew.
She was motherless.

Delia put the same question that young Mary Tabor had asked of her to her
father on the drive home that winter’s day four years ago. Her father did not reply to
her on the drive home that day. He waited until they reached their home on Chestnut
Lane. He sat her in his favorite chair in the living room, and told her a story about her
mother. He explained that she had passed away when she was two-years-old, that she
loved her, and that she was overjoyed in having such a beautiful and wonderful
daughter in her life. Delia could recall crying for what she had only then realized was
the loss of her mother in her life.
“Three-years too late,” Delia thought herself in the silence in the kitchen.
Delia missed her mother in a fashion, but in trying to recall her, she realized
that she never truly knew much about her. The thought of this saddened her from
time-to-time. Vague memories and fragmented recollections always danced at the
edge of her mind when she would attempt to recall specific things about her mother.
Nothing about the mysterious woman was clear in her memory. She felt as if the
collection of what she could recall taunted her, teased her, as the bratty Billy Jenson
did when she was in school the week before the holiday break.
“Alright dear, I’m almost done here, if you would go out and tell everyone that
it’s ready, I’ll get the food out to them in a few minutes,” Christopher said to Delia.
She was used to the dismissive nature of her father when the subject of her
mother came up in conversations. She noticed that he would usually pretend the
mention of her never happened, and continue with whatever he wished to discuss.
She finished the remaining swallow of her bottle of water and threw the plastic
container into the trash near the end of the kitchen island. The thudding sound
exclaimed her frustration with her father’s shifting of the subject matter.
“Alright Dad, you want me to help you take the food out there,” Delia asked in
an almost disappointed manner. She once again felt cheated by her father’s lack of
discussion about her mother. She supposed that it was due to the pressures of having
to host the family dinner tonight.
She moved toward the door.

“No, that’s okay honey; I’ve got it, but thank you very much for asking. We’ll
just have everyone come through the kitchen to prepare their plates before sitting
down to eat,” Christopher said.
“Okay Dad,” Delia said. She shuffled through the door and into the sea of
family milling about her home. She peered around in the crowd, gauging just how
much volume to put behind her announcement. She took a deep, cleansing breath
before announcing the meal was ready to eat. She then motioned her family toward
the kitchen doorway to begin the line to prepare their meals for the evening.
-0-
Family members began to shuttle into the small kitchen, and then into dining
room of Delia’s home. Sharon brushed by Delia and stated, “My, the food smells
scrumptious.” Others sniffed the air in deep heaves, nostrils flaring and agreeing that
the meal smelled very inviting in the warm air around them.
Chatter rang out in the rooms from all directions, making it difficult for Delia
to hear any one conversation between family members. Just inside the living room, a
set of small, folding card tables sat to accommodate the overflow of bodies within the
cramped dining room. Eight people would sit around these small tables. However,
Delia knew that this was to be the section for the children to sit. She quickly counted,
seven other kids present, and fourteen adults in the house.
“This is where I’m going to sit,” Delia thought, following the flow of people
toward the kitchen’s doorway. She chose the seat at the head of the two card tables
butted together. She noticed that the far-end of the tables was set flush near the end
of the living room sofa and an end table.
“No one will be sitting there,” she thought, “It’s only fair, since we are hosting
the dinner here. I should sit at the head of the table.”
“I call this one,” Delia said aloud.
“Whatever, I don’t care,” Richie stated, located two people ahead of Delia in the
line snaking into the kitchen. She looked around the adults in front of her to see a
spiteful snarl scrawling across his face at her.
“Yeah, me neither. Mom, I want some pumpkin pie,” Darla Pride, a younger
cousin, stated from behind Delia in line.
“You have to eat all your turkey and dressing first young lady,” Marcy Pride,
Darla’s mother said in an absent, dismissive manner. Delia turned her head to see the
two standing behind her in line. She noticed that Darla carried a small, dirty doll.
Delia brushed her hand over the metal seatback of the chair she would be
sitting in as soon as most of the family filed through the kitchen to obtain their
holiday meal.
“Cold,” she stated in a surprised voice.
“I’m sorry about that Delia. I forgot to get them out when we got here. They’ll
warm up soon enough,” the deep, husky voice of Nathan Mann said to Delia’s
statement. Delia peered around her aunt Sharon, who was directly in front of her, to
see the large, weathered man before her. That large man stood beside his annoying
son with one hand upon his shoulder. Sharon’s husband brought in the metal folding
chairs that staggered along either side of the plastic-topped tables from outside, only
moments prior to Delia’s announcement that the Christmas meal was ready to eat.
She liked her goofy uncle and smiled at him in reply.
Noticing that her Aunt Sharon was in front of her, with her irritating cousin
Richie, Delia began to feel on edge once again. She did not wish for any further
mentions of how similar she was to her mother from her aunt. Nor did she wish any
harassment from her cousin. She moved with careful stealth out of the food line. She
turned, and walked back toward the middle of the living room, toward the end of the
line. She nodded politely to Marcy, Darla, and her father, Uncle Darby. She stood with
one leg bent outward from the other at her knees. An awkward, almost wilting stance
gave away her distressing feelings over the situation.
“You alright dear, you look confused.” Aunt Marcy asked.
“Oh yes, I’m fine. I just thought that it would be rude for me to not be last in
line with my Dad for the food,” Delia responded. She thought to herself how well the
fib sounded to herself.
“Oh now, we all know just how irritating that Richie can be dear. No need to
explain,” her Aunt Marcy exclaimed. Delia’s expression morphed into that of a
disappointed child who has conceded a victory to an adult.
Marcy recognized the look, and decided to help Delia save face in front of her
younger cousin and uncle. “Well, that is very nice of you to do dear. I’m sure that your
Dad will be very happy that you’ve done so,” Aunt Marcy said.
“Yeah, it’s not every day you see such a graceful hostess as you’ve been this
evening,” her uncle Darby said with a grin upon his thin face. There was a twinkle in
the man’s eyes when he talked. It told Delia that he meant what he said to her. Her
father shared this look with his brother.
“Thanks Uncle Darby, Aunt Marcy. My Dad put a lot of work into cooking. I
helped him a little. I hope that you like it,” Delia said and turned her head away from
the sprawling line that was plodding along toward the food.
“I’m sure that we will. I hope my brother’s cooking has gotten better since our
college days,” Darby said with a chuckle. Delia tuned her uncle’s voice out, and did
not hear the rest of what Darby was saying. She was sure that he was simply telling
her yet another story about her father, and their brother Bruce, when they were all
much younger. Delia knew that she had heard it before, and let her thoughts idle.
Her mind became blank as she looked around the now empty side of the living
room. Darby’s voice became a drone of mumbles in her ears as the line drifted away
from her and into the kitchen. She faced away from the crowd of her extended family
behind her, to face the front windows of the living room. The Christmas tree seemed
to hum with its glowing beauty. She stared at it intently, until the lights blurred in her
periphery. The motion of snowfall beyond the windows mesmerized her into an
almost hypnotic state. She became lost in reverie over the decorations. After a
moment, she was looking at everything in the front of the room, and then nothing in
particular. The windows came into sharper focus as her mind fumbled its way into
gear again, after disengaging seconds before.
-0-
Out of the corner of Delia’s eyes, she caught a glimpse of a swaying motion in
the form of a thin silhouette, just outside the front windows. Turning her head in the
direction of the movement, she saw it more clearly. The shadow was outside the
window, moving forward and aft in a constant motion. Delia tilted her head in a
puzzled fashion at the sight.
“What in the world,” Delia asked aloud. She squinted to adjust her vision, to
make sure she was truly viewing what she thought that she was seeing.
“Someone’s out on the porch in the rocking chair,” Delia said in hushed
amazement. She watched the rocking motion for a few moments longer, and then
decided that she needed to investigate the situation firsthand.
“I guess that I didn’t let everyone know that dinner is ready,” she whispered to
herself. She began walking toward the front door of her home. She immediately
thought that one of the adults in the family must be outside smoking a cigarette, and
did not hear her announcement about dinner.
“I better go out there and tell whoever it is that the food is ready,” Delia said a
bit louder as she began to move. She walked to the foyer to obtain her coat from the
coat-rack mounted onto the nearby wall. She put the coat on, but left the zipper
undone, she would only be outside for a moment anyway, she thought.
“I bet its cold out there,” Delia mumbled in gloomy anticipation of what the
weather really felt like outside her home. She grasped the doorknob and began to pull
the door open.
Near the coat-rack, on a series of waist-high, oaken shelves, sat a hand-painted,
ceramic nativity scene. She put the art piece out weeks earlier when she and her father
began decorating for the holiday season.
She studied it in a quick glance. Something was missing from the scene.
Puzzled by the sight, Delia took a quick inventory of the pieces. After further scrutiny,
she noticed that the baby Jesus was missing from the delicate structure. She stiffened
her arms in agitation inside her coat sleeves, “Oh, that mean Richie Lynn. Wait until I
tell his Momma about this,” she said in a huff of anger. Delia thought that it would be
just like her mischievous cousin to take something like the small ceramic figure and
hide it elsewhere inside the house.
“Who would take the baby Jesus from there? It has to be Richie. He really
makes me angry,” she stated in a flat tone that echoed within the foyer.
Delia grabbed the handle to the front door, and with a hard pull opened it. A
pulsing wind whipped into her face, causing her eyes to tear as she pressed forward
into the cold, snowy outside of the front porch. The mingling air of the warm interior
and colder exterior made small snow eddies atop the metal threshold. Delia gawked as
they danced their spinning jig before fading away as she stepped outside.
-0-
Upon stepping through the door, Delia realized the front porch light was not
on. Before closing the door behind her, she reached for the light switch just inside the
doorway. She moved the toggle up-and-down, only to find that the light would not
illuminate the night for her.
“It’s blown out. That’s great,” she muttered and ventured her body back
outside, closing the door behind her with a solid, but quiet pull of the exterior brass
door handle.
The Christmas lights along the eaves of the porch lit the area in a faint,
warming glow. The silhouette continued its motion in a steady, rhythmic rocking
sway to her immediate right. Delia could see the figure more clearly as her eyes
adjusted to the weaker light. The outline of a hunched woman sat in the snow-covered
chair as it moved back-and-forth.
“Hey, um, the diner is ready if you’d like to come inside,” Delia said in a
pleasant, welcoming voice. The shadowed figure continued rocking in the chair. No
answer came from the far-end of the porch.
“Ma’am? Did you … did you hear me,” Delia asked.
Delia moved her feet along the snow-covered boards beneath her with care. “I
don’t want to fall on any ice in these shoes,” she thought. The rustling of the snow
beneath her feet met her ears, as the pillows of soft ice piled against the exposed skin
of her tender feet. The thin stockings she wore provided little protection from the chill
of the icy piles. Her feet began to throb within the black patent-leather dress shoes.
She shook her feet, one at a time, to remove the snow from the toe-tips.
“A fat-lotta-good that’s going to do me,” she thought.
Delia grimaced to the cold, swallowed, and said, “Excuse me ma’am,” she
guessed at what her eyes were telling her of the figure’s gender, “The Christmas dinner
is ready if you would like some. Everyone is inside and about to eat.”
The creaking of the cold wood beneath the rocking chair was all that Delia
could hear coming from the northern end of the front porch. She took one more
stuttering step forward, and then thought, “This is crazy, if she wants to freeze out
here, let her. I’m cold and hungry. I’ll just tell Dad that she’s out here. He can get
whoever this is.”
Delia moved back toward the front door once again, the crisp sounds of
crunching snow under her feet echoed under the overhang of the porch. The padding
sounds made by her feet, softened with every careful footfall by the powder below
them. She moved both hands up to her mouth, breathing on them to warm her
cooling skin before touching the outside door handle. Her right hand moved out to
grasp the chilled brass apparatus to reenter the house. As she depressed the thumb-
latch and began to push the door inward, she heard a hollow groaning from the
porches end, now to her left.
At first, Delia thought it was from the door’s cold hinges as she began to press
upon the door to gain entry. However, as she took a quick look downward, she saw
the door still shut before her. She paused at this realization before placing her hip
against the door to open it into the warmth of the house’s foyer. With a swift jerk of
her head to the left, she looked to where the sound had come.
“It came from her,” Delia thought, and released the door handle. The
silhouetted figure stopped rocking in the chair at the end of the portico. She could see
it sitting more erect in its seated position. The head appeared to turn slowly toward
Delia. Her eyes grew wide, as one eyebrow shot upward in a comical inquiry.
Nervously, Delia asked, “I’m sorry, did you say something?” She was hoping
that there would be no response. The sounds she just heard from the end of the
overhang made her nervous. She suddenly noticed that her lips were devoid of
moisture. She shot out her tongue in a wiping motion to wet them. Delia noticed that
she was holding her breath. She exhaled in a quick puff of air and felt relief from the
tension pressing outward in her chest. It condensed into a cloud at her lips.
-0-
“De-Delia? B-Bless my soul; is that you Delia Pride,” The voice asked in a
garbled tone that became clearer as the sentence flowed out. Delia’s brow furrowed in
a puzzled expression to the way the voice carried on the surrounding winds. She
released the door’s handle and moved a step away from it. The sounds of the voice
warbled to-and-fro, as if it were being moved close to a microphone, then pulled away
to create an echoing effect. Delia also heard in the words spoken a shifting, much like
when she ran through television channels with a remote control, trying to find
something interesting to watch.
Delia straightened her back, cocked her head to her left, and said, “Yeah, um,
it’s me. Ah, who … Who are you?” She shuffled a step forward in an attempt to gain a
clear sight of the person’s face. She noticed that she failed and paused, “Sorry, the
light is so low out here that I can’t tell whose there,” Delia said as she squinted her
eyes in a forced, straining effort. The lines within her forehead become deep ruts in
her confusion.
“I made it then didn’t I? I’m here …” The figure’s voice seemed to become more
feminine somehow with the vocalization. Delia noticed the voice faded toward the
end of the statement. She thought of a cartoon she had seen once where a character
fell over a cliff to his funny demise.
Delia’s expression relaxed and then turned to that of faint recognition as she
heard the voice on the cold air. The quality of the sounds did not shift about in her
ears this time. Delia paused at the strangeness in the question, and to the voice that
she was hearing.
“I know that voice,” she thought, “Where have I heard it before? It’s so
familiar.” She tilted her head back and closed her eyes tight in an attempt to help her
brain recall the information inside her head.
She opened her eyes; the cold air began to cool them with its sharp tang of
winter. Delia took two steps toward the figure and halted a few short paces to the left
of the seated person. Tilting her entire body toward the forward railing of the porch
decking, she made out the shape of a woman’s face. Details eluded her in the faint
glow of the holiday lighting. The woman’s head appeared wrapped in a thin scarf,
obscuring a clear view of her face. A thin coat draped most of the woman’s body.
Delia’s head began to swim in the exercise of seeing.
“This is so strange. Who is she? Oh, wait …” Delia, thought on the voice she
heard speak to her a few seconds before. She once again tilted her head back, trying to
think of whom the odd, but recognizable voice belonged. It was so familiar to her, but
one she had only heard a few times in all of the family get-togethers that she could
recall attending.
Delia’s mind raced back to a Thanksgiving when she was five-years-old. She
saw a clear picture in her mind of a small, lovely woman who knelt before her. The
woman praised her appearance with a soft tear in her eye and hugged her with such
strength, that Delia remembered gasping for air. A voice rang in Delia’s mind as she
heard the woman tell her, “Your Aunt Treeny will always love you my dear.”
“Aunt Treeny; is that … Is that you?” Delia asked with a stammering edge of
hope in her young voice. There was no reply from the person before her. The cold air
wisped about her head.
As Delia lost herself in her memories, she could only recall seeing her wayward
aunt twice in her young life. However, that was when she was much younger, and it
might have only been once, she could not be certain. What Delia could recall was that
the woman who she remembered was bright, fun, and full of life—nothing like the
cold shadow of a woman sitting upon the frozen porch deck now before her.
She recalled having the fondest affection for the way the woman treated her,
when she had seen her in the past. Delia stood straight once again and advanced
closer to a nearby bench, close to the strange, silhouetted figure of the woman.
-0-
The shadow-clad woman shook in a slight, jittery motion as Delia moved in

closer. Delia could not tell whether her eyes were playing tricks on her, or if her Aunt
was shaking from the brutal cold. Delia brushed off the seat of a wicker bench beside a
small table, between the rocking chair and bench, and sat down with a careful, slow
movement.
“Yes dear, it’s me,” Treeny said with a tired and somewhat exasperated quality
in her voice. Delia thought that the woman’s voice no longer sounded strange to her.
The wavering quality to her words had disappeared.
“It’s good to see you Aunt Treeny,” Delia said. She was uneasy, and tried to
stifle her shaking. She failed as her teeth began to chatter.
Delia sat on the near-end of the bench, close to the rocking chair, and her aunt.
Despite her clearing of the snow on the bench, the cold crystals remaining in the
fabric of the wicker’s wood soaked into the fabric of her velvet dress—onto her
buttocks, stockings, and legs. She shivered as her body warmed the fluid of melting
snow into damp patches upon her dress. She could imagine it spreading out into the
fabric as it seeped into it. The cold puddles warmed themselves against her skin. Her
teeth clattered louder to the cooling sensation.
“It’s good to be seen,” Treeny said after a brief pause.
“Aunt Treeny, what are you doing out here? I didn’t know that you were
coming to our Christmas dinner. Nobody said anything to me,” Delia said with
disappointment in her voice.
The woman appeared immobile to Delia in the coldness. Delia veered her gaze
skyward for a moment to see what she hoped was the Christmas star overhead. She
noticed how bright the reporting light from the star beamed at her. The dot in the sky
seemed to twinkle with passion in its notification that it was hanging in the heavens
above. Delia then looked in the direction of her aunt. It appeared to Delia that Treeny
must be thinking over how to respond to her previous question.
“Yes, well, I suppose they are just used to me not being around for most
holidays. But, I’m here now. How are you Delia-dear? You look wonderful, as usual,”
Treeny asked.
Delia noticed that the woman’s head turned to the left, toward her, with a
small, gentle motion. The turn was slight, almost unnoticeable if Delia was any further
away from the figure than she was now. Delia attempted to look at the woman’s eyes,
but only saw the deep shadows of her brows beneath a scarf. It appeared to Delia that
the older woman might have a stiff neck, as the movement in her neck turning was
forced and miniscule. “Maybe she injured herself,” Delia thought.
“I’m okay Aunt Treeny, thanks. We’re about to eat inside. Would you like to
come in and join us,” Delia asked. No immediate reply came from the woman once
again. In the awkward silence following Delia’s question, a shifting vibration blurred
the figure of the woman seated near her. Delia shivered as she witnessed the shape
appear to fade, then solidify after its brief shuttering. Out of the corner of her eye, she
noticed the star over the horizon throb with a pulsing light.
Delia’s eyes bulged at the sight. She shook her head in disbelief, and then
swallowed a deep gulp of saliva as she sat on the edge of the bench. She was ready to
stand up and reenter the warmth of her home, away from the disconcerting shadowed
woman—who she now knew to be her estranged aunt.
“You must be cold Aunt Treeny, why don’t we go inside,” Delia asked in a
hopeful tone.
There was no reply to her question.
She became unsure if the woman had heard her speak, and she asked again,
“Why don’t we go inside Aunt Treeny?”
Delia studied the woman more closely in the extended silence after her plea to
go into the house. A chiffon scarf wrapped around Treeny’s upper body, covering most
of her face and head from Delia’s full view. The features of the face, hid in the
darkness of the scarf, were only vague plains of highlights and shadow in the night.
Delia sensed, more than witnessed, a placid expression upon the woman’s face.
A thick, wool coat concealed most of Treeny’s body. Delia looked over the
woman, from head-to-toe, the dullness of the dim lighting made it difficult for her to
see what the woman truly wore. Delia saw hands wrapped in mittens, cupped together
in the woman’s lap. She thought that they looked as if they were holding onto
something with the space between them. As she looked downward, she noticed that
her aunt’s legs were protruding from beneath a three-quarter length wool coat. The
navy-blue fabric of the coat, almost showing as if it were black in the haze of the soft-
white Christmas lights, appeared dampened. Delia thought that it accented the pure
whiteness of the woman’s clean-shaven legs below the lower hem of the coat.
Delia thought, “I can’t tell where her legs stop and the snow starts.” She gave a
second glance to make sure that the woman’s legs were in fact there beneath her.
-0-
“I’ve been inside dear. It’s just a bit too difficult for me to face some of the
family these days,” Treeny said. Her voice rolled out of her as if it were dancing over
hills and valleys that were nearby.
“Oh,” Delia blurted out. The sudden statement in the quiet of the outdoors
startled Delia. The unexpected timing of her aunt’s response caught her off guard, and
she blushed with embarrassment. Delia rocked herself forward in her seat upon the
frozen bench and put her elbows to her knees. She heard the wicker beneath her
crackle with her shifting weight. She cradled her chin within her hands, and felt the
cooling of her skin against her fingers. She took a deep breath and faced her aunt, her
head cocked to the right as she did so.
“You were inside? I um, well; I didn’t see you in there. Are you sure about that,”
Delia asked with reluctance. A perplexed expression jumped over her face as she tried
to recall the mental list of the family members she could account for. After a few
moments of thought, she was positive that she had not seen her aunt inside the home.
Delia decided to change the subject, and attempt to get her aunt inside with
her, “Are you sure that you aren’t cold Treeny? I can go and get you a jacket or a
heavier coat if you want. There are plenty inside,” Delia continued.
The temperature underneath Delia’s backside began to bite at her buttocks and
legs. She wiggled her toes within her shoes, but they registered no feelings of the tight
leather that encased them. As she peered toward Treeny’s face, awaiting a reply, she
could see the plains of the woman’s lips moving. Delia thought that Treeny appeared
to be whispering to herself. However, as Delia’s ears strained, there were no audible
sounds coming from her Aunt. She heard nothing.
“That’s weird, maybe she’s gone crazy or something,” Delia thought. In more
than a few overheard conversations, Delia remembered how her aunts spoke of
Treeny, “She’s crazy, loony as a fruit bat in the way she acts, and what she’s done,”
Beth had flatly stated in a huff at her seventh birthday party.
The silence outside grew, like the distance of a ship leaving the shoreline
departing for an open sea. Delia became uncomfortable once again in the chilled air.
She looked at her aunt’s face once again. In profile, the nose, sharp chin, and crest of
the woman’s high cheekbones were all she could see within the open-face of the scarf.
She thought about how similar her features resembled her aunt’s own.
Delia’s breath clouded around her head with each exhale. The crisp air burned
her lungs as she inhaled, and she began to take shallow breathes to compensate for
the sensation within her lungs. She discovered that the method was not working well
enough to stop the tingling feeling all together.
“No, I don’t need a jacket dear; I’m fine as-is. Yes, I was inside dear-girl, just a
few moments ago. I see how happy everyone is, and it’s wonderful. You’ve truly
outdone yourself this holiday season. The decorations look wonderful. I tried to talk
with Sharon, and others. But, nobody responded, and I came out here,” Treeny said.
There was a touch of bitterness in the woman’s voice as she spoke.
As Delia heard the words, a static sound buzzed in the air. Delia thought of the
first groan she heard her aunt make when she first entered the porch to talk with her.
The channel-changing noise clicked from her aunt’s direction once again when she
spoke. The sounds faded away with a faint hissing.
She looked at the woman’s face, and frowned in a moment of empathy for her
statement. The profile vantage point gave Delia limited access to the woman’s
expressions. Delia leaned forward to obtain a better view. However, the shadows
covering her aunt’s figure were too deep, no matter her line-of-sight.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Delia said in an apathetic tone. She was at a loss
for how to approach such an adult subject like this with her aunt. Although, she knew
how it felt when others overlooked her. She grimaced to the thought of it, and decided
to attempt to make her aunt feel better.
“I’m sure that it was a misunderstanding Aunt Treeny. It’s Christmas, we
should all just have fun you know,” Delia asked with a frail glint in her eye that she
hoped her aunt could see.
Delia looked out past her aunt, down snowy Chestnut Lane. She could see the
line of cars stretching out before every home on the block. Her gaze peered straight
out in front of her, and she began to marvel at the sight of the Christmas lights
mounted to the rooftops once again.
She caught a glimpse of the star winking brighter in her field of vision as her
aunt began to speak to her.
“Yes, I suppose you are right dear. Your father appears to be enjoying himself.
Dressed so smartly, and being ever the gracious host,” Treeny said.
Delia thought for a moment as she stared outward at the holiday neighborhood
surrounding her on the front porch of her home. Her father made each Christmas
special and unique for her in ways that some children might not experience. She knew
that he would always find the magic in every holiday that they spent with one
another. She loved him for that, for his efforts.
“Yeah, he’s really into the Christmas spirit Aunt Treeny. He loves this time of
year,” Delia said.
There was no reply from her Aunt, and the rocking chair slowly creaked back
to life in a slow fit of movement. Delia looked once again toward her aunt to see her
lips moving without sound. Delia shook her head in an attempt to figure out what the
woman might be doing when she did this. She came up blank with any notion that
might be plausible.
“She can do that, but not answer me right away when I talk to her. Maybe Aunt
Beth was right,” Delia thought.
Delia’s mind then began to drift as she waited for Treeny to reply to her. She
had heard many a story over the years about her distant aunt, and they were always in
hushed conversations between other family members. The rest of her aunts would talk
about how Treeny had left Redhook the year Delia turned two-years-old, in order to
see the world. “The town must be too small for someone like her,” she thought.
She ventured a glance toward her shadow-soaked aunt. The time she could
recollect seeing her before this night flashed into her mind. She thought of how
beautiful the woman was then. Long, flowing black hair, curling in a spire atop her
head made Delia think of a church steeple. Piercing green eyes blazed with a devout
spark of life and love. Then, there was the hug, accompanied with the crushing feeling
of security and warmth.
As her thoughts careened, she recalled her Aunt Sharon saying once about
Treeny, “The girl has always had the wanderlust; it’s in all of us Cain women. She just
got the worst of it is all.” Delia overheard this when she and her father attended the
past Thanksgiving dinner. She was not completely sure what wanderlust meant, but
she had an idea that it meant a need to travel.
From time-to-time, while Treeny traveled the world, she would receive
postcards from exotic places like London, Amsterdam, and Paris. There would always
be something written upon the back of each one. In a delicate, flowing script that
reminded her of black ribbons, “All my love from across the world. Thine, Aunt
Treeny.” None of the other cousins received such attentions from this mysterious
aunt. The trinkets of affection made Delia feel special, wanted, and loved. She would
collect them, placing each one into an empty doll’s box from a long-ago gift, hidden in
the back of her closet. She could picture them all now as she looked out over the
snowy front yard of her home.
“He always did love this time of year. I can remember when I first met your
father you know? He was a striking young man, full of life, same as his brothers. It was
at a Christmas party that we met. Did he ever mention that to you,” Treeny asked.
Delia moved her head toward her aunt and shook it in a negative response.
“No, he never mentioned that to me Aunt Treeny,” Delia said, with a slight stammer
due to the cold weather. Numbness began to overtake her fingers. She pushed them
deep inside the pockets of her thick jacket. The satin fabric within made a wisp sound
as she thrust them into the lining. She sighed at the relief of warmth building up
inside her pockets.
-0-
Delia peered back, over her left shoulder, into the living room window of the
home. She could see the warm glow of the interior lights beckoning her inward. She
noticed that the end of the line for the meal was now gone from her sight. Leaning in
the direction of the front door upon the wicker bench, she could see Richie and her
other cousins seated around the card tables. Richie’s rounded face puffed bright pink
as he gabbed boastfully with other kinfolks and stuffed himself full of turkey,
smothered in gravy.
“He’s sitting in my chair,” Delia said, begrudging her elder cousin for his lack of
manners in doing so.
“I think the line’s gone down Aunt …” Delia began to say. She did not finish her
statement, as Treeny’s voice cut her off in mid sentence.
“I bet there are a lot of things that he has never told you Delia dear,” Treeny
said. Her voice sounded edgy, with a tinge of strain hidden in it. Delia thought that
the woman sounded like she was struggling to speak, as if it were too difficult for her
to push the words past her lips.
“What do you mean Aunt Treeny? Dad tells me a lot, we talk all the time,”
Delia said with a curious expression on her face.
She looked at her aunt as she stood upon her feet once again. She shifted her body in a
bouncing fashion to generate body heat. Reaching down to the hem of her jacket, she
fastened the zipper with her numb fingers in front of her. As she moved the zipper
upward, she noticed that she could not feel the metal tongue of the zipper against her
skin, moving to her neckline.
She shook her hands to the numbness.
“I met him at a Christmas party, much like the one you are having inside now,”
Treeny said. “Bruce, with his brother’s Darby and Christopher, what a set of handsome
fellows they all were back then. Oh my, I was so in love with that man,” Treeny said
with a whirling drone of recollection and fondness.
“You were in love with my Dad,” Delia asked. Her eyebrows raised in high
arches above her green eyes. There was no reply from her aunt to the question. She
breathed in a deep breath as the rocking chair halted once again.
Delia’s expression changed to one of stark confusion. Her breath puffed into
tiny clouds, dissipating as they fell away from her rosy face. Delia glanced through the
haze of the condensing breath at the figure of her bundled aunt. The silhouetted
shape began rocking in the chair once again. The boards moaned beneath her as the
wind blew through the porch. She noticed no such clouds of breath in front of
Treeny’s face. She took a tiny step backward at the realization and swallowed with in a
nervous gulp, unsure of what she was witnessing.
“There’s something wrong with her,” Delia thought, “Something’s not right,
maybe she’s sick.” She scooted her feet back toward the door in two slow steps.
Treeny continued speaking before Delia could move back any further, “It was
the winter of nineteen ninety-three. I remember that it was a great year for all of the
Cain family. Sharon gave birth to Richie, Karen graduated from Vassar, and Beth
became engaged, albeit it for the third out of four times. But, she finally got it right
with Marcus now didn’t she?”
As Treeny spoke, Delia felt herself compelled to stand where she was and listen
to her. Frozen on the snow-strewn planks, the words that met her ears seemed to
swim into her head. Delia could not tell if they were audible words, or a mind trick as
they poured into her. She took two shuffling steps forward, toward the bench, and
reseated herself where she had been only moments before.
Treeny continued, “I was in love with Bruce Pride, not your father, Christopher.
No, I like Chris, but his older brother, Bruce was the one for me. He was so wonderful.
He cared for me like no other person on earth ever has.” Delia thought that she heard
a laden sigh come from her aunt, but could not be sure. The sound faded into a buzz
of what she thought was static.
“Well, I’m sure … I’m sure that he loved you Aunt Treeny,” Delia said, almost
under her breath. She paused, and realized that she did not truly know what she was
saying to her estranged aunt. She coughed in a nervous way to hide her
embarrassment. At her age, she knew that she did not understand much about grown-
up love, and she regretted her statement to her aunt. She heard many stories about
her Uncle Bruce, especially the one about how he died at a young age of a disease
called leukemia, before she was born. Delia thought to herself that she would have
liked to known him before he passed away. He seemed to her to be a very interesting
man from the family tales. If he was anything like her father, then she knew that she
would have liked him.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m saying Aunt Treeny. It’s cold out here, aren’t
you cold,” Delia asked, trying to play off her awkward feelings about what she had
mentioned to her aunt about love. She knew now that she would not receive an
answer from the woman any time soon. She waited with her patience frosting over
within her for her aunt’s reply.
-0-
“He loved me, I know that he did dear girl, but somehow—it just doesn’t seem
right—like he was cheated. He passed away so suddenly, we thought he had more
time, but then don’t we all? We were married within a month of the Christmas party
that I mentioned. Everyone said that it was too soon, and not to rush our feelings, but
we did, and I am so glad. The poor girl—Beth never forgave me you know—her
younger sister beating her to the altar and all that,” Treeny said as a crisp wind blew
over them. Flakes of snow sputtered through the air before settling with the ebbing
gust.
Delia felt mesmerized, entranced by the family history that was unfolding. She
wished for Treeny to confide more to her of the story, “So, you knew my Dad when he
was younger, before I was born,” Delia asked. The wind surged once again, twirling
snow up into her eyes from the surrounding, snow-swept yard. She rubbed her face
clear of the crystals clinging to her high-set cheeks. She ventured a glance above her
aunt’s head as the spray of ice melted at the edge of each eyes with a wipe of her coat
sleeve. As she peered toward the bright star hanging in the nighttime sky, it winked in
bright vibrations.
She heard Treeny begin to speak once again, the sound washed into her ears
like a wave, “Yes, Chris, he’s a good man. Just like his brothers, just like my husband. I
miss him so incredibly much. You’re father …” Treeny’s voice trailed off and halted.
The light from the star dimmed as the woman’s statement ended. Delia began to
wander if the periodic twinkling as her aunt spoke to her might be a coincidence. “It
has to be, doesn’t it,” Delia asked herself in an attempt to understand what was going
on in connection with her aunt and the star overhead.
“Maybe I’m just imagining it,” Delia thought, “Maybe there’s no connection,
but it’s just weird. She halted her contemplation for a moment, and then continued,
“Nah, that’s just crazy. There’s no connection, there can’t be.”
Delia blinked her snow-moistened eyes and focused again on the shadowy
figure of her aunt. She noticed the woman’s hands, covered in thin wool mittens, still
cupped together in her lap. Delia could see a slight motion, as the hands began
ringing about in a slow, deliberate motion. She leaned forward, in an almost

crouching position, seated upon the wicker bench. She saw between the gaps of her
aunt’s thumbs within the mittens. A faint shine reflected from the low, warming
Christmas lights on a small object held within them.
“What do you have there in your hands Aunt Treeny,” Delia asked in a timid
voice. She was unsure of what to expect in the way of a response. None came from the
seated woman in the rocking chair. Delia felt the chair’s motion as it swayed with a
mechanical rhythm.
Once again, a flutter in the edges of the shadowed figure danced in a slight
wavering in the girl’s eyes. Delia’s mind raced in an attempt to figure out if her aunt’s
shivering was from the cold, or for another reason that she did not understand. In a
quick shift of her head, she witnessed the star above begin to pulsate. The shifting to
her aunt’s figure became darker, “More solid,” Delia whispered.
“Your father was a great man Delia. So brazen and energetic, I know that he
would have loved to meet you now if he could have. He would have loved seeing you
as you’ve grown.”
Delia shifted in a nervous twitch upon the bench. “Did she just say, my father
was a great man,” she thought. Her confusion washed over her face to Treeny’s
statement. Her head tilted skyward, the star sputtering out its rays of light in the
chilly night. “There it is again,” she thought, “What is that? Why does it only happen
before I hear her voice,” Delia asked within her racing, jumbled mind.
She opened her mouth to ask Treeny what she meant by the statement. Before
she could utter a word of her query, her aunt continued, “Christopher has never
mentioned much about your mother to you, has he,” Treeny asked. Her voice began to
sound hollow, distant in the frigid December air.
She shook her head, and then thought that her aunt’s head had not turned fully
to meet her gaze throughout their strange conversation, so she stopped. “No ma’am,
he hasn’t,” Delia said.
“He’s told me her name was Margery, and that,” Delia stopped herself before
she became too emotional, “And that she passed away when I was two,” she concluded
with a sigh.
“Don’tcha got a mommy to pick you up,” she could hear Mary Tabor’s small,
echoing voice within her memory.
“Other than that,” Delia paused, “He hasn’t told me much about her. I think
he’s afraid that it’ll hurt me or something.”
From the corner of her eye, Delia checked the star, but there was no
inadvertent pulsating any longer. She noticed that she began to feel disappointed in
not seeing the dot in the sky winking at her in awaiting a response from her aunt.
“Do you know my name girl,” Treeny asked. It came quicker than the previous
replies from the shadowed woman. The voice was soft, but firm.
Delia thought for a moment, biting upon her lower lip, perplexed by the
question. She replied, “Yes ma’am. You’re Katrina, but almost everyone calls you
Treeny.” She felt the blustery air press against her coat. The fabric fluttered in the
breeze with a zipping crescendo. Delia shivered and began to move toward the front
door. The freezing air pushed her along, and her hair whipped around her like an
angry arrangement of thin snakes. A deep ache overtook her body from the exposure
to the cold gusts. “I’ll go in and tell Dad that you’re here. You can come back in if
you’d like. I’ll make you some hot cocoa,” Delia said. She thumbed open the latch to
the front door. She felt that her body had all it could take of the brutal outdoor
weather. Her hand ached against the brass handle as she grabbed hold of it. A
cracking pop announced her entry as she pushed hard against the wooden slab. As she
closed the door behind her, she heard her aunt’s faint voice in the wind, “That’s right
dear. Katrina Margery Pride.”
The door thumped closed with a jolt from Delia’s hip.
-0-
Inside, the warm air felt foreign to Delia. She breathed in and let the
temperature warm her lungs. She stood for a moment, confused by the name she
heard the woman say. She shrugged at the thought, and then moved into the living
room from the foyer. The air became even warmer to her away from the doorway.
Delia picked up speed in her gaited steps as she moved into the dining room.
The crisp crunch of melting snow faded with each step that she took. Seated at the
head of the children’s table, Richie reached out and attempted to grab her arm as she
passed by him. She anticipated his grasp, and pulled her coat sleeve sharply from it.
The fabric hissed out of the boy’s chubby hands. He yelped to the burning from the
friction the coat sleeve made upon his skin. Delia trod into the dining room with
concerned determination upon her face.
“Dad, Aunt Treeny is outside,” Delia announced, her voice loud and strong. She
heard the deafening dip in the mood of the room, as everyone turned their attention
toward her. For a second, Delia felt queasy and disturbed by the view that she held.
Fourteen heads, twenty-eight pairs of eyes, all focused upon her flushed face. She
could feel the wash of blood flowing back into her cheeks from the warming
temperature. Her fingers began to thaw. They burned from the brittle fire raging
inside them. She gulped a warming pool of saliva within her mouth and stared at her
father.
“Well, let’s go see her,” Christopher said flatly. Delia got the impression that he
did not believe her. She could hear her aunt Sharon saying something, but she ignored
her and walked out with her father to the foyer. Immediately, Delia’s attention jolted
toward the area of the front window where she first spied Treeny sitting in the rocking
chair. It was no longer rocking, and it appeared to be devoid of her aunt. As
Christopher pulled his coat off the racking near the door, Delia opened the door.
Christopher could feel her urgency swelling as she did so, and he stepped out onto the
porch with her. His coat, not completely pulled over his shoulders, flapped in the
wind. He struggled against the cold breezes and finished placing it on.
“Delia, there’s no need to rush. I’m sure Treeny isn’t going anywhere,”
Christopher said. He stood behind his daughter as she halted a few paces from the
rocking chair. It sat there, cold and jittering to the winds, but empty.
“She was, she was right there Dad. I’m sure, I’m,” Delia said with a whimper.
Christopher could see the young girl’s body go slack with disappointment. He
inspected the chair and porch decking from behind her. He could not see any
footprints before the rocking chair. A snow pile gleamed it reflections from the
wooden seat. As far as he could tell, there was no sign of the woman in their yard, or
their closest next-door neighbors. His eyes became slits as he perused the surrounding
neighborhood.
“I don’t see anything dear,” he said apologetically. He moved closer to Delia,
and placed his hands in a caring fashion upon her shoulders. She did not shy away
from his comforting touch. She sighed in a deep, saddened gasp.
“I don’t understand Dad. She was right there,” Delia said, pointing with her left
hand toward the rocking chair. She could see no disturbance in the snow on the chair,
or before it.
“Well, if she was there honey, she’s not there now,” Christopher said. He sighed
and then shuddered at the cold.
“How long were you out here,” he asked her.
“I don’t know, maybe twenty minutes I think. You don’t believe me do you,”
Delia whined in embarrassment over her father’s disbelief. She turned to see most of
the family from the holiday feast standing around the Christmas tree, in front of the
large living room windows. She could see the disappointment in some of their faces,
wonder in the rest of them. The group turned away, one by one, and made their way
back to their meals.
One lingered behind. Richie Mann stuck out his food-coated tongue at her in a
devious taunt. “You’re crazy,” she saw him mouth to her. His fingers looped around
either ear in a circular motion. It was in conjunction with his mouthed phrase. His
eyes crossed as he finished his teasing of her. He then returned to the task of stuffing
his face at the children’s table.
“I wish they’d stay like that,” Delia thought in a bitter moment of frustration
while looking at the boy.
-0-
“It’s not that I don’t believe you dear. What did you two talk about,”
Christopher asked while buttoning his coat. His tone sounded concerned as he spoke
to her. Delia wondered if he might think of her in the same manner that her cousin
Richie just stated to her. She tilted her head in tired angst over the thought. She
replayed the scene with her aunt over in her mind.
Delia muttered, “She told me that she came inside, but no one would speak to
her. So, she sat out here.” She was unsure of whether she believed what she
remembered of the event.
She continued, “She also said that her name is Katrina Margery Pride. You
never told me her middle name before.” Her tone, accusatory in nature, made her
nervous as she said it to her father. She went on, “She was married to Uncle Bruce
right?” The gears within her mind began to churn over the name the woman spoke to
her, the man her aunt was married to, once, years ago.
“Margery is what you told me my Mom’s name was,” Delia said, almost to no
one but herself. A contemplative expression slid over her face. Her father saw this, and
coughed a nervous cough. Delia witnessed her father’s eyebrows arch in a curious,
near fearful awe of her. His demeanor appeared to her to become rattled, fidgety, and
somewhat shaken. He began to move in a tense fashion in the chilly night air. He
began to bounce about in order to warm his body. He chuckled and accentuated his
shivering for Delia to witness. She thought that he might be trying to hide his
uncomfortable nature with what she was saying to him.
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. She was married, to your Uncle Bruce, my brother.
Honey, he passed away before you were born. You know all of this, let’s go back inside
huh,” Christopher suggested, his voice edgy as it met the cold breeze.
Delia’s mind chased his words around in her mind like a dog in pursuit of its
tail. “He didn’t answer me about the name,” she thought, “What is he hiding?” She
began to feel numb, yet in a way excited. All of the conversations about her aunt from
her extended family played themselves out within her head.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Delia mumbled under her breath. She began to walk
toward the front door, to enter their home. “Or, does it,” she finished.
Just as she reached the red door, a set of headlights beamed down Chestnut
Lane. They glowed, as they made their way toward the direction of the house. As the
vehicle pulled closer into view, both could see a large, heavy light fixture of red, white,
and clear lights, seated atop the car. The front panels of the automobile showed deep
black in the pale exterior lights. A separation fell along the doors of pale white, almost
gray to Delia’s vantage point. The end of the car repeated the black pattern, and Delia
recognized it as it halted in front of the house. A large emblem of the New York State
Troopers emblazoned upon the driver’s side door, shown in the faint glory of holiday
lights in a weak whisper. The decal, covered in dirty road-grime from its travels in the
cold night, spoke of trouble to Delia. Her forehead furrowed to the sight of the
vehicle. “Dad, the cops,” Delia moaned.
A tall, uniformed trooper exited the car and began venturing toward the porch
of the home. The driver of the patrol car stayed put within the warm confines of the
vehicle. Christopher shifted his stance, and then began walking onto the steps of the
porch decking. Delia followed him, her steps hesitant, her face worried.
“Is there a problem officer? I’ve told my family to keep the noise down,”
Christopher said with a smile and chortle within his voice. The two men met midway
upon the frozen concrete walkway. Delia stood at the edge of the porch, afraid of what
the trooper might have to say to her father. She felt her pulse began to quicken as they
faced one another.
“Are you Christopher Pride,” the officer asked.
“Yes, yes I am. How may I help you officer,” Christopher asked. His hands
moved to his pockets to fight the chilling bite in the surrounding air.
“Are you a relative of Katrina Pride sir,” the trooper asked with a cool, business-
like demeanor. His fully brimmed hat began to collect snow upon its outer, plastic
covering. Delia thought that it looked like a shower cap to her. She could see the
man’s glasses fog over as he spoke with her father.
“Why yes, I am. Can I ask what this is about,” Christopher asked in an
escalating, troubled voice. His body teetered upon his long legs as he stood before the
officer.
Delia felt her legs wobble as she overheard the patrol officer tell her father of
an accident upon a nearby county roadway. There was a traffic collision, involving an
automobile and a tractor-trailer, no more than three-miles from their home. She
shuddered as she heard her aunt’s name spoken in the quick-paced, New York City
accent of the trooper. She noticed no emotion crept upon the officer’s face as he told
the tragic news to her father. She could tell that the man was well versed in reporting
such news to families. For a moment, she pitied anyone who could become so
desensitized. She felt her stomach quiver as she began to understand what the badge-
wearing man was saying to her father.
“Aunt, Aunt Treeny is dead,” she gasped. She felt her unstable legs turn to the
consistency of boiled spaghetti beneath her. She moved quickly toward the bench
where she sat when she spoke with her aunt. “No, not my aunt, but she was, wasn’t
she,” Delia asked herself. She began to rock in her first moments of grieving for the
passing of someone whom she knew.
She glanced over at the rocking chair seated beside her. A split-second glimmer
caught her eye in the heap of snow still accumulating in the base of the wooden seat.
Reaching over the armrest of the chair, she shoved her hand deep into the crusting
powder and removed a smooth, hard item from its resting spot. Her eyes marveled at
the item as she brushed off the remaining, clinging bits of hardened snow. She held
the object with gentle fingers at the tips of her hands. As she recognized what it was,
she gawked at it in disbelief.
“There you are,” she said with a soft breath. “I was wondering where you had
gotten off to,” she continued, “She was inside. You took it, not Richie.” Delia’s eyes
widened to the revelation. “She was telling me the truth,” she gasped in wonder. She
caressed the smooth object in her grasp and held it tight within her small, delicate
hands. She felt the pulse of her heart pound in her hands as she held it close to her.
Delia heard the trooper say his condolences to her father, and then a thump, as
the patrol car’s door closed with its authority. She was uncertain of how much time
transpired between that and the sound of large shoes crunching the snow beside her.
She peered upward to see the gentle face of a man she knew her entire life. She saw
his concern, caring, and above all else, his love for her. It made the pains that she felt
worse.
“Why didn’t you tell me,” Delia asked. Her voice was a choked whisper in the
wind. “She—she was my, my—,” she let her statement fall away from her mouth
before finishing it.
“You told me your wife’s name was Margery,” Delia said in a stinging
intonation. Pools of tears welled up at the corners of her eyes. “You never married
anyone by that name. You never married at all, did you,” Delia spat the words out in
stunned recognition at the ideas within her own words, to the man she knew as her
father. Delia stared at the rouse upon the man’s left hand. The wedding band that he
wore all of these years seemed pale and shabby in her sight now.
Christopher’s face swelled with grief and stricken embarrassment. “I, I was
going to tell you when I thought that you were old enough,” he paused. “When I
thought that you would be able to understand,” he said. “I guess I just had poor
judgment on when that time would be. I’m—I’m sorry Delia,” he continued. He bowed
his head before her.
Delia sniffled through her nose, which reddened with the passing time in the
wintery outdoors. She looked down at her hands and moved them to her chest as she
held onto the object she recovered from the rocking chair. She looked away for a
moment, toward the sky and the stars. She could no longer tell which star in the
heavens was her star. She sighed in disappointment and let the tears build up, then
flow from her eyes. They trickled down to her coat before fading into the thirsty fabric
below her pouting chin.
“Look-it, you know that I love you sweetheart, and you did—NO—you do have
the right to know about all of this. What happened, why she left, and why you are
with me. I’m—I’m just very sorry that it had to be this way. I should have had more
faith in you,” Christopher stammered. He moved toward her another step and knelt
down before her. Delia wiped her eyes upon her coat sleeves and gazed into his thin,
long face. She saw the affirmation of his genuine feelings for her in his deep-set,
brown eyes.
“I,” she started, but bit back a sob in the process of trying to say anything to the
man before her. Her mind fought a tide of ideas as they beat themselves against a
mental dam.
“I understand,” Christopher said. A tear streamed down his rough cheek as his
eyes grew red to his heartbreak. He stood from his knees. Snow soaked into the fabric
of his khaki slacks before Delia’s eyes. “We can talk about it when you want. But,
know this: I love you, and I did what I thought was right, what I thought would be
best for you,” he said with a somber quality in his declaration. Delia snuffled in
through her nose.
Christopher turned from her to reenter the house. He felt the compulsion to
tell the rest of the family what had happened to Katrina on her trip to join them for
their festivities tonight. She was their family as well. “A surprise visit, just like her,” he
thought to himself. As he began to step away, he felt a small, cold hand grab his
fingers upon his left hand.
“No,” he heard Delia’s young voice intone. It met his ears with a sweetened
pain he had never heard before. He turned to see Delia gazing upward at him with a
blazing look of hurt in her doe-like stare. He saw one hand clutched against her chest
in a firm manner.
“She’s holding something,” he thought, “wonder what it is.”
“I, I know you did it for me,” Delia said. Her cheeks appeared raw and pink as
the moisture saturated them. She pulled his hand toward her, turning it over, palm up
toward the ceiling of the overhang. Moving her clutched hand from her chest, she
placed the small object she held within his much larger hand. It felt cool in his palm.
She then closed his hand, with her smaller one over it. His hand became a loose fist,
around the item she placed within it.
“What’s, what is this,” he asked. His eyes enlarged as he looked at Delia. He
opened his hand. Inside, a small ceramic figurine from their nativity scene sat, now
wet from the snow. The baby Jesus glowed in the reflected light cast from the front
windows of the house. His brow furrowed in a lack of understanding. He coughed in a
light burst of air.
“Where did you,” he began. “I, I, ah, don’t,” Christopher muttered as his head
shook back-and-forth. His mind attempted to grasp what Delia’s meaning was in
giving him the tiny object. A tear of frustration poured out of his eye as he stared at
the figurine in his hand, then the girl seated before him.
He felt Delia squeeze his opened hand in a reassuring manner. “It's okay, it’s
okay,” she said in a voice of reassurance she had heard him use with her most of her
life. “I’m not the first one to ever be adopted you know,” she said, her voice frank and
clear. “I, I know that you love me, I do.” Her eyes became larger as he gazed into them.
“No matter what happened to get me here or who my parents are, or were … I am
here, with you. I, I love you too … Dad,” she concluded. Her eyes flared with an inner
light that he knew to be truth.
Christopher felt a wave of understanding rush through his mind in a flourish of
thoughts. Through a teary haze, he smiled at her, knelt once again, and embraced her
in a strong, fervent hug. She gasped at the pressure that he exuded upon her. “Just like
she hugged me,” Delia thought. Christopher realized what he was doing to the girl
with his embrace, and released it while pulling back from her.
“Oh—sniff—sorry for squeezing you too hard honey. I, ah, better go inside and
tell the others,” Christopher said. “Thank you Delia-dear. Thank you very much. Merry
Christmas sweetheart.”
“Merry Christmas Dad,” Delia said. The word played over-and-over within
Christopher’s mind as he looked into the girl’s soft eyes. “Dad—Dad—Dad—Dad …”
He smiled at the thought.
Christopher stood once again, turned, and headed to the front door. The door
popped and then creaked. A rush of light, combined with warm air, fell outward into
the night. He entered the house with the door pushed shut. Delia stood, and took
hold of the banister next to the rocking chair. She looked down into the seat, the snow
made a rustling sound as a breeze blew through it. She firmed her grip upon the
railing and peered into the nighttime sky once again. Straining her eyes as she
searched the multiple points of light, she caught a glimpse of one star twinkling more
vibrantly than the others were.
“Is that, is that you,” Delia asked. “If it is, I’m glad to have seen you and talked
with you here tonight,” she said. Her gaze and thoughts focused upon the star with all
of her mental and emotional might. She closed her eyes tight, and felt her body strain
in the cold. Every ounce of energy that she could muster in her nine-year-old body,
she sent upward, to the stars. Exhausted, Delia opened her eyes. They glittered in
reflection upon the crest of her retinas.
“Merry Christmas,” Delia whispered.
“I adore you. Who you are, and who you will become, my dear, sweet
daughter,” a soft voice rang in her ears. The words rolled, and swam through her. She
shivered once again to the feeling. She thought for the first time, the word daughter,
felt somewhat alien, and yet welcome at the same time. In an expulsion of emotion,
the disappointment that was brewing within her over the holiday season left her. A
smooth, substantial peace began throbbing within her heart and mind. She peered
into the blackness of the sky, directly at the star she had looked upon when Treeny,
Katrina, had sat in the now stagnant rocking chair. It blazed in Delia’s eyes with a
bright, intense fire.
She sighed in relief.
A snowflake tumbled before her eyes, landing squarely upon her cheek as she
inhaled. “I love you too … Mom,” Delia said in a loud volume. The last word floated
upon the air before her with her vaporous breath. A lone tear met the snowflake upon
her face. They mingled together, and then melted into a single stream upon her
young, smooth skin.
-0-
-THE END-
Author’s note: The story within this novelette is one that came to me during
the holiday season of later 2009. I have children, four to be exact, all estranged to me
by divorce and different locales. They live in various areas of the country, making it
difficult for me to see them all. I thought that it might be nice for me to write a story
for them. In a way, it is a gift of sorts, from me to them. A gift that I hope echoes
through the years of sporadic visits, and phone calls. Since I am unable to be present
at one particular family holiday over another, this story is my way of saying, “I’m there
with you.”
Some I suspect will be able to relate with a kind of separation anxiety one feels
during the holidays, especially when not with one’s own children, or other family
members you may be closest to. In a way, that feeling is one that I have inverted, and
then placed upon Delia’s character, albeit not revealed to her until late in the story.
The distance in time can leave an indelible mark upon the heart. A family is
harboring the other members’ secrets; be they good, bad, or for one’s own protection.
These were the ideas that came to me at the beginning of writing Adoration. I thought
that it would be interesting for a child’s world to be shaken up during a family holiday.
Shaken by a lack of knowledge that (for whatever reason) is realized far too late for
actions to change. Although in real life, we rarely receive a gift, in the form of a visit
from a departed family member to tell us what we needed to hear. However, it might
be nice—don’t you think?
Thanks: A special thanks to all of my Facebook friends who offered up their

fondest memories of Christmas when they were children. I truly appreciate your
input, thank you very much everyone.

Adoration, A Horror Novelette by Framen Stewart

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Adoration, A Horror Novelette by Framen Stewart

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ADORATION

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Christmastide often made Delia giddy with an electrified excitement. At times,

casements moaned in disapproval to short-then-long gusts of wind pulsing against

She was motherless.

She moved toward the door.

The shadow-clad woman shook in a slight, jittery motion as Delia moved in

ringing about in a slow, deliberate motion. She leaned forward, in an almost

Thanks: A special thanks to all of my Facebook friends who offered up their

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