I’ve often been asked how my novels match the reality of the actual events. My reply has been that the essence of the narrative matches the actual events which took place. As with any other creative endeavor, I try to create a plot which is gripping as a suspense writer, while at the same time preserving the integrity of the story as I recorded it in my notebook.
In the final analysis, what unfolded from a short two-week visit filled me with foreboding and actually foreshadowed the terrifying and unbelievable events that took place in this remote location months after my departure.
I learned in those few weeks in Susan and Fred’s ancient home that the village was situated at least thirty miles from any sizable village or town. It was an island in the middle of a vast forest of ancient trees and ponds which dotted the landscape. Groceries, apart from the local butcher and patisserie, meant a long stretch of lonely road which wended for miles uphill and downhill and past deep woods. I hoped and wondered about the integrity of Susan’s vehicle, a French sedan of sorts.
On my first trip through this primeval stretch, Susan took me out grocery shopping in a town which had a busy train station and downtown area with about six streets, all told. Market day was a Sunday in this particular village which was a welcome relief for my hostess whose village did not have a market day. It was too small and out of the way for merchants. Without the welcome commerce of market day, Susan’s village led to more remoteness and for the first time in my visit, I sensed her feelings of isolation. I also sensed Fred’s deep need for male companionship which consisted of visits once a month to a local bar about an hour out.
The road which appears to stretch forever finally gave way to a roundabout, which finally connected to a busier one. I stepped out, glad to finally see a semblance of civilization as church spires and a castle just steps away signal the cultural richness of the area. The heady scents of potpourri mixed with the culinary delights of French cuisine assailed my senses and I eagerly trod on with my host at my side who regaled me with her version of a tour. We traversed the square of vendors on foot as Susan pointed out one shop after another, stopping to purchase some soap and then an apron with a sprig of lavender embroidered on the front.
Quaint, ancient but thoroughly practical were the streets replete with market sellers like days of yesteryear. We ended the trip with the supermarket and restocked supplies for her kitchen. That evening, we feasted on fresh pork and vegetables such as rutabaga, cabbage, carrots, parsnips and olives. Enough said with the domesticity of Susan and Fred’s home. The following day, Fred left to go fishing and promised to return by sunset with his catch. Alone in the ancient house with Susan for company and the occasional neighbor’s cat, Susan intimated by the glow of the muted television screen with a French program and the wood stove aglow with burning wood, how she felt about the inhabitants of the village.
The familiar feeling of strangeness coursed through me as I listened to Susan retell her encounters with the inhabitants of her village which for privacy I will name Laroche.
This is where my story begins and ends several months after I hear from afar the unraveling and series of bizarre events that visited on Susan and Fred.
I will check in again in two weeks to share a Christmas story… an unusual one.