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James sometimes allowed himself to cry to sleep at night. As the spring nights warmed, he left the bedroom windows propped open in hopes he’d hear the demons of the night that were destroying his precious vines. He had visited the neighboring vineyards but no one had reported inconsistent growth. His neighbors, his competitors, both were thrilled with their bursting vines. James figured nearly 20 percent of his property was insufficient. It was so scattered it was difficult to calculate. How would he make it through the harvest? Nothing made sense. What was happening to Redwood?

On some nights he could feel its presence in the shadows, in the darkness. He would awaken with his arms wrapped around his pillows and his legs curled up tightly. He tried to muffle his whimpering, but found muted cries coming from his lips. “Mother. Mother. Mother.” He was alone. He had no warmth, no comforting embrace. It was on these nights he’d try to open his mouth to cry out loudly but his cries were stymied. His body would quiver and all he could do was focus on his breathing and wait for the sunlight to break through the darkness. He missed his mother. He hated the nights. He cursed Autumn from the hidden recesses of his mind.

How many months had it been? Six? No Seven. When had she died? How long ago? James ran the questions through his mind as he sat quietly and heavily breathed in the aroma of his cigar at the end of another difficult day. He slumped further down in his chair, his hand reached out as his fingers fumbled to grasp the delicate stem of his wine glass. The vintage from two years ago tasted bitter and burned as the red liquid lit up his tastebuds and flowed down his throat. James sat in the dark with the glow of a faint candle flickering in the corner. He hated this spring. He hated the slow emergence of his vineyard. He hated her and what she had done to him. His mind began to sway back and forth with visions and thoughts. There she was. She was laughing at him. He smashed the cigar and dropped the wine glass; he crushed his hands against his ears. He tried to block her voice, her laughter, her mocking. “Damn you Autumn,” he drunkenly muttered. James grabbed the corked bottle of wine and focused his eyes on the staircase to his room.

He stumbled to the corner and softly blew out the candle; its smoke swirled above him and hung in the humid air. James tightly held the wine bottle in his right hand and stumbled towards the staircase. He was tired. It was a quiet evening. The frogs were croaking and the stars were casting their silver glow across a blackened sky. James let the sturdy coolness of the oak railing guide him up the stairs. He didn’t bother trying to see. He counted his steps. Usually, it was fifteen steps from the top of the stairs to his bedroom door. If he turned the other way it was about twenty-one steps to her turret room. He kept quietly counting, "ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen," and stopped. "Only thirteen tonight," he remarked in a huff. He turned the knob and tossed the bottle on the bed. He felt for the oil lamp and struck a match. Finally the light, which made each night a little less troubling, lit up the room.

James noticed the cork had slightly loosened and a slow trickle of red was staining his bed covers. He rushed to the bed and straightened the bottle, he set it firmly on the bedside table and worked to loosen his shirt buttons. His shirt was damp and clung to his waist and inner thighs as he pulled it loose from his pants. He fumbled with his pants and then let them drop to the floor, he leaned back and extended his legs on the bed; his mind continued to sway and swirl. He reached for the wine bottle, plucked out the cork, and let it fall. James lifted the bottle and let his mouth tightly suckle its smooth, round opening. The wine no longer burned. Its fluid warmed his throat and softened his aching mind. James let his eyes dart around the room. His hand reached back and caressed the bedsheets. She had laughed at him in this bed. She had died in this bed. He had ignored his mother’s suggestion he remove the bed and sleep in another room. James decided as the man of the house he would reclaim his bed. He wouldn’t be run out of his room like a frightened little boy.

He continued to consume the wine until all he consumed was air. He let the bottle drop and roll under the table. He fell back and turned on his side. The sheets felt cool against his naked body. He focused his eyes to where she had lain. He remembered her slender form. The curve of her hips. The gentleness of her breathing. She was only gentle when she slept. Why couldn’t she had been a gentle wife? Why did she have to taunt him? He reached over and took her pillow in his hands and cradled it. He pulled it securely to his body and fell asleep.

James slept deeply in a terrified state. Moving back and forth between slumber and lucidity. He was a child again. The dark shadows were taunting him. “Mother!” a young boy’s voice cried out in the night. “Mother!” but this time the cries were of a grown man. “Go away! Go away!” He could see it now more clearly, its darkness was lingering in the corner watching him. James continued to roll in the bed. Each movement an attempt to wrap his bedsheets tightly around him; a feeble attempt to create a protective shield against danger. But now the shadow was dancing erotically about his room. It was moving like her, it was...